|
 AFTER
A COUPLE OF YEARS OR SO at the Paston School Albie had never been able
to live up to his parents’ expectations. The lad had shown much initial promise,
but although he tried so hard during term time – gaining good marks that
usually put him in the top ten – when it came to the end of term exams he
always ‘fluffed’ them ending up in the low twenties. With many caustic
comments written in his report book, declaring him to be a dreamer with no sign
of any improvement, it seemed a stern lecture from the Headmaster was inevitable.
Although there was something Albie was good at that just might stand
him in good stead...
THE
HEADMASTER,
Lieut-Col. K N Marshall, was very keen on discipline to ensure ‘his’
boys would always obey orders without question – or that was the general
idea! To this end, he had his own ‘private army’, or Combined Cadet
Force as it was called, although he couldn’t take all the credit as the ‘CCF’
had been founded several years before he took over the headmastership of the Paston
School. Albie,
as it turned out, was good at something it seems, for, not only was he an enthusiastic
member of the Army section, but he was actually quite good at it too, almost ‘officer
material’, and by June 1954 he was proudly displaying his lance-corporal’s
stripes, together with a marksmanship badge for his achievements on the 25-yard
indoor rifle range. He
enjoyed marching in the School Yard, that doubled as a parade ground, and especially
liked the ‘slow’ march as performed on sombre ceremonial occasions.
Then there was the rifle drill: ‘order arms’, ‘present arms’and
finally ending with the command: ‘slope arms’, and, ‘stand easy’!
But,
what Albie loved the most was the ‘field day’, usually held in July,
a chance to go on manoeuvres with the entire CCF contingent. Early
one Friday morning, the bugle sounded ‘reveille’ and Albie and the rest
of Army cadets quickly assembled, under the trees, on the edge of the parade ground. THE
CALL TO ARMS  “Company,”
shouted Lieut. Mercer, the Officer-in-Charge, “get on.. parade!”,
and the contingent marched to their designated positions on the parade ground.
“No.
1 Platoon,” shouted its NCO, “Halt – Left... turn!”
The platoon, as one, turned to face the direction of the Officer-in-Charge. Whilst
the other platoons were marching into position, the sergeant in charge of No.
1 Platoon gave the order to ‘right dress’. On this command, Albie raised
his right arm to touch the cadet on his right, whilst the others in his platoon
followed suit. Soon, the entire company stood smartly, ‘at ease’, on
the parade ground. “Carry,
on, Sar’nt Major,” said Lieut. Mercer, delegating command to the NCO.
“Company will come to attention!” bawled the Cadet Sergeant-Major on
the parade ground, with little or no shade from the unforgiving summer sun. “Atten...
wait for it!” “Atten-shun,”
he barked, spraying saliva in all directions. The
massed ranks of six platoons, each with thirty of the youngest flowers of the
county, sprang to attention as one, like a well-oiled spring. Then followed the
roll call, swiftly and efficiently taken. “Number
One, Platoon,” called the Sergeant-Major, “Any absentees?” “All
present and correct, Sir!” shouted the sergeant of No. 1 Platoon.
The same procedure was followed for the remaining platoons until the roll call
was completed, and, apart from the razor-sharp commands, all was deadly silent
amongst the ranks. By
now the Commanding Officer, Lieut-Col. Marshall, had arrived to inspect his ‘personal
army’, accompanied by his deputy, Captain Couper. Lieut. Mercer, known as
‘Joe’ to Albie and the boys, marched quickly up to the Commanding Officer
and, springing smartly to attention, gave the Lieut-Colonel the official salute
– long way up, short way down. The
Headmaster glanced impatiently at his watch, eager to get on with the manouvres,
no doubt. “I
do hope transport will arrive soon,” he said, turning to Captain Couper,
“we’ve got a battle to win, y’know!” Captain
Couper, in turn, said to Lieutenant Mercer: “Best get the men kitted up,
Lieut. Give the order to issue small arms.” The
next in the chain of command did as he was instructed and passed on the order
to the sergeants in charge of each platoon. SMALL
ARMS ARE DRAWN FROM THE ARMOURY “Fall
out, men,” shouted the sergeant of No. 1 Platoon, and Albie did as he was
told and fell out. “Go to the Armoury and draw your rifles.” Albie,
and the rest of the ‘troops’, marched in orderly fashion towards the
Armoury at the far end of the School Yard, where George Ward, the Armourer-cum-school
caretaker, stood behind the counter unchaining rifles and dishing out .303 ammunition. “Everythin’s
allus chearned up ’cos o’ th’ IRA threat,” explained George.
Very
versatile, was George, as well as cutting the grass on the playing field and painting
the white lines during the football or cricket seasons, he also attended to other
odd jobs around the school and was often seen with a shovel full of cinder-ash
to conceal a hastily-regurgitated school dinner!  “Thutty
rounds each,” George muttered, “no more, no less,” and continued
to dole out ancient Lee-Enfield rifles, taking the firing bolts from a separate
box. Anti-IRA precautions, deduced Albie.
Lieut.
Mercer joined them in the Armoury and proceeded to instruct the boys in the art
of camouflaging their faces. But, after all, he was their Art Master! Then he
turned to Albie who, under layers of ‘war paint’ almost resembled big
Chief Sitting Bull on the war path. “Albie,”
he said, “as lance-corporal of your Platoon, I want you to be in charge of
the Bren gun section.” “Great,”
replied the lad, jubilant at the idea of firing the weapon. “Thanks very
much, Sir!” “Here
y’are, boy” said George, handing Albie a Bren light machine-gun, a magazine
and a wooden rattle, the sort used at football matches many years ago. “Where’s
me thutty rounds of ammo, George?” asked Albie. “Yew
carn’t fire that thing,” George laughed, pointing to the machine-gun.
“Yew hatta to wave that there rattle around over yar hid an’ make a
‘rat-a-tat’ instead!” Albie
wasn’t best pleased – that was one order he would not be obeying! No.
1 Platoon’s
Bren gun section consisted of Lance-Corporal Albie in charge of the Bren, and
Hatley and Charman, both armed with Lee-Enfield rifles, to give protective fire
for the Bren position. As a result, the latter two had both been issued with thirty
rounds of ammunition each. Hatley
was the first to notice the football rattle Albie was carrying.
“What on earth are you supposed to do with that?” he asked sarcastically.
“Frighten
the poor sods to death, I shun’t wonder,” laughed Charman. “Not
blimmin’ likely,” grinned Albie, “hand over your ammo you two!” Then,
out of sight of the other cadets, the trio made an attempt to load the Bren’s
magazine with the blank cartridges. After
an hour’s journey by Black Cat ’busses, to ‘somewhere’ in
North Norfolk, the entire contingent arrived on Kelling Heath, where the platoons
were divided into two groups – attackers and defenders. THE
DEFENDERS DIG IN “Gather
round, men,” ordered Lieut. Mercer, in charge of the defenders, who deftly
drew a map in the sandy heathland soil. “The scenario is this,” he continued,
pointing to the map, “we’re to defend this important oil installation,
here, from the Viking Battalion of the Swaffham SS that, intelligence has it,
has landed at Weybourne Hope.” Then,
turning to Albie and his Bren gun section, he told them: “You will be ‘the
first line of defence’, so take up your positions on the left flank.” “Bit
like that there Siegfried line?” suggested Albie, and began singing “We’re
gonna hang out our washin’ on the Seegfreed line...” “No!”
barked the lieutenant impatiently, “Not only will you hold the enemy, but
they must be driven onto the right flank, where No. 2 Platoon has set up
a ‘field of fire’!” Then,
almost as an afterthought, “There is to be no withdrawal – you
will hold out to the last man and the last round of ammunition!” With
that, Albie shouldered the Bren gun and, with Hatley and Charman, set off in the
direction of the ‘front line’. “I
en’t at’orl keen on being dispensable,” moaned Albie to the others,
“but I reck’n the enemy hev got a surprise comin’!” Picking
a suitable spot on the left flank, amidst golden flowering gorse, they dug a shallow
foxhole to conceal their position as best they could. Just big enough for the
three of them to crawl into, but, with their camouflaged faces and bits of bracken
sticking out of their berets, they certainly looked the part! “Come
on, you two,” said Albie, “give us a hand settin’ up this here
Bren!” Quickly
the trio set up the machine gun on its bipod, and soon all to be seen was a pile
of strategically-placed bracken from which protruded the ominous barrel of the
Bren, accompanied by the blunt muzzles of two Lee-Enfields. Five
minutes later, over the horizon, they spotted the Viking Battalion, in open order,
advancing towards their forward position. “Wait
’til they’re in range,” whispered Albie, as Hatley and Charman
eased back the bolts of their Lee-Enfields, preparing to open fire. “Let’s
see the whites of their eyes first, lads!” Silently,
Albie clipped the magazine in place on top of his Bren gun and pulled back the
well-oiled bolt with a satisfying clunk. Resting his right cheek on the well-polished
butt of his machine gun he squinted down the sights, made a quick adjustment to
the range, and then just waited. ALBIE
‘GIVES A FIVE SECOND BURST’! “Enemy
in range, FIRE!” he shouted – and all hell was let loose, as he let
rip with a ‘five second burst of automatic fire’! “Rat-at-tat-ratta--tat-ratta-tat...!”  As
his section opened fire with their rifles, bits of shredded bracken flew through
the air in all directions, whilst Albie, afforded the imagination of youth, advanced
on the enemy ‘firing’ his machine-gun from the hip.
The
enemy, not expecting a wall of fire, were thrown into confusion, broke ranks and
turned onto the right flank, where the trap that had been set for them. Soon,
the sickly-sweet smell of cordite hung heavily in the air, whilst, from the right
flank came the familiar sounds of volleys of rifle fire as Nos. 2 and 3 Platoons
engaged the enemy. Louder explosions were heard as well, as thunderflashes were
through to simulate hand grenades. “Fall
back, fall... back!” cried the enemy, “It’s a trap...” But
it was too late for them as they were trapped, caught in a near-perfect ‘pincer’
movement by the boys from 1 and 2 Platoons.
“Well done, you two,” said Albie, unclipping the magazine from his Bren,
“tha’s sent ’em packing!” However,
their jubilation was rather short lived as one last suicidal attack was mounted
on their position on the Heath. An attacking ‘Viking’, letting out blood-curdling
screams, threw himself upon the Bren gun section with his rifle butt raised above
his head, intent on doing them some mischief, in one last-ditch attempt to neutralise
their position. But
Hatley and Charman had seen him coming and, as one, they raised their rifles and
fired, at point-blank range. It blew the Viking’s beret clean off and left
him with a terrible ringing in the ears for the rest of the day. “Good
work, men,” praised Lieut-Col. Marshall, one of the referees, whose job it
was to decide who’d been killed or missing in action or who merited a medal
for bravery. “You’ve certainly saved the day! Three cheers for
the Paston School...” “Hip,
Hip... Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” the boys all cheered, tossing their berets
high into the clear blue sky. Afterwards,
all the ‘defenders’ and ‘attackers’ settled down on Kelling
Heath to enjoy a pre-packed lunch of corned beef sandwiches and meat pies –
thoughtfully prepared in the school kitchen. All
except those who had used the pies as hand grenades, that is, for they
were as hard as rocks!  THE
EPILOGUE
MANY
YEARS LATER,
Albie found himself in familiar territory, once again on Kelling Heath. “Those
were good days,” he said, reminiscing to his girlfriend, “the
Army Cadets and manoeuvres – here on the Heath!” But
now, sitting in the comfort of a 1960 Morris Minor, he was planning his ‘strategy’
for manoeuvres of a different kind! Photographs
by Humphrey Grantham-Hill, courtesy of the Society of Old Pastonians.
NEXT: It’s almost Christmas and Albie always loved the
festive season – or did he?
Please sign Albie’s guestbook, or if you wish to contact
me – please email:
| 
