QUESTION: What is the worst experience for a newly promoted lance corporal?
ANSWER: NAAFI cowboy on a Saturday night in a Suez Garrison Camp.
As Remembered By Alan Clarke ex: 30Coy RASC Suez (1953-54)
There it was, no argument, NAAFI duty in my first week of promotion to the dizzy heights of ‘lance jack’. Come Saturday, I made my way to the OR’s ‘holy shrine’.
Abdul was at the bar, wearing his white chef’s hat. A strange lad, not tall, but extremely emaciated, I wonder if he knows he looks like a pipe cleaner? Saw him the other day wearing a red fez, reminded me of Swan Vestas and instinctively offered him a Woodbine. During the day he works with the dhobi wallah and the fixed grin on his face is attributed to the amount of starch that must have passed through his teeth during his short career. Nothing fazes him however, each night he bunks down behind the O.R/’s deep trench latrine and sleeps like a baby. It’s probably quite warm in the winter.
“Saida Abdul – quiess? Anaa yatatallaba waahid (double egg and chips – pronto)”. It’s only polite to address them in their own language.
Getting busy now, groups forming in their customary corners of the canteen. Geordies are playing a darts match with Scousers, Cockneys already debating how London and the West End in particular is coping without them. In the Brummies corner, having sorted out their kitty, the first round of drinks is brought to the table, what is that orange stuff? Ah yes, Assis, that should get them going in no time. The Taffies are in, clearing throats in preparation for a choral masterclass. But who’s missing? It’s the Jocks, someone spread a wicked rumour around the camp that a collection would be taken tonight for a local charity.
Eight o’clock, getting a bit noisy, enough smoke in the place to camouflage a platoon of Gurkhas.
The Brummies table is getting boisterous, debating whether the philosophies of Existentialism and Determinism were being corrupted by the influence of Darwinism, this could get interesting. The Merthyr Tydfil lot are harmonising Saida Bint, the Cockneys debating how London and the West End in particular is coping without them.
An old sweat sits in isolation by the door, tears rolling down his cheeks, a crumpled sheet of paper before him. “Yorky” I enquire gently, “is that a ‘Dear John’ letter?” He looks up, shaking his head, “Nay lad, it’s t’ missus – she wants brass to buy a new ‘at”. I leave him, can’t watch a grown man sobbing uncontrollably.
New intake this week, fresh complexions and white knees abound. Must have a quiet word with that pair, the CSM frowns on his men holding hands on active service.
Cyril, a ration truck driver, is in his usual place, pen poised over jumbo writing pad. He spends all of his spare time writing home. We exchange pleasantries. “You seem to have made a hobby of this writing lark”. He smiles shyly, “it’s good therapy of me, Nobby, you wouldn’t believe I was dyslexic quite before I up joined” I have sympathy with his dilemma having myself struggled through a traumatic period of ‘spalking in Toonerisms’
It’s getting late now, hasn’t been a bad night – oh dear – spoke too soon! An empty Stella bottle shatters against the wall. Taffy Lewis is the target. Who threw that? It had to be him – Geordie Barlow, 6’4” tall, weighs 15 stone and built like a brick s***house. He’s upset because his best mate was aiming for double top for the match and the male voice choir put him off. Suddenly there isn’t a dry seat in the house, all goes quiet and heads turn to me to gauge me reaction. What to do? Immediate decision on my part, send for the Orderly Sergeant – why so? a) He’s paid more than me b) He likes playing soldiers c) I’m only National Service with yellow streak syndrome
Sarge is a mite peeved with me having called him out from the mess when he was holding a winning bingo card. Big Geordie holds his hands out for the cuffs to be snapped on, methinks he’s been through this procedure before, many times.
Getting back to normal now – Taffies are in full flow, Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau and weeping into near empty beer jugs. Cockneys are debating how London and the West End etc etc. The Brummies corner is still lively, much excitement when Brummy Warren espouses the theory that the origins of Structuralism are to be found in Anthropology. He’s from Walsall.
It’s been a long day, time to send this lot back to the comforts of the tent lines.
Can’t wait for next Saturday