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It was a normal Sunday lunch that was
disturbed by the sounds of a band marching up the High Street
prior to the arrival of the procession. Helen, sister of the
famous commis chef who is now driving his taxi around Lynn,
Helen’s job on a Sunday was in the Washing Up Department. She
was solely responsible for making sure that all the plates,
cutlery, pots and pans returned spotlessly clean back into the
kitchen. Often she arrived on a Sunday morning only to be
greeted by a mountain of dirty pots and pans, but as I told her
to be in charge of an important department at her age was in
anyone’s eyes quite an achievement and surely a feather in her
cap. But on this warm summer’s day she was given a more
important mission to take on board - she was entrusted to be the
one to leave her post and stand looking up the High Street and
report back to the other staff when the first sight or sound of
the carnival was heading our way.
The sound
of a snare drum heard in the distance, triggered off Helen to
report with post haste back to the staff and for them to inform
the customers the news: the procession is on its way. It is
at that point there is a stampede as the customers decide to
leave their tables and either head off outside or gather in the
windows to get a good view. It happens every year - the
restaurant comes to a grinding halt. It’s as if you shout out
“Hey someone's giving away five pound notes in the car park!”
Once the
carnival procession has passed things go back to normal. Lets
face it a plate of prime roasted local beef, with a large crispy
batter pudding, drizzled with pan made beef gravy is waiting for
the customers as they head back to their tables. The kitchen
staff start cooking again and more importantly, Helen returns
once again back to her mountain of pots and pans.
On the way
home, I thought about the fact that the British people love the
sight of men and women marching specially in step to a good
band. It brings tears to your eyes when watching the telly and
it shows a procession coming up The Mall in London. It makes
you want to be there and, of course, for some reason nobody, but
nobody can march better than the British.
The first
time that I was introduced to keeping step I suppose was when I
joined the cubs and scouts, but the real bit of being shouted
at: “Rushmore get in step boy”, came when I joined the ATC - the
Air Force’s way of giving young lads an introduction into the
real thing and what the RAP was all about.
The officer that oversaw our weekly meetings was a slightly
portly gentleman with a large well groomed hairy lip. He was an
officer and a gentleman to the core. The meeting place was held
in a large room on the second floor in Paradise Road, Kings Lynn
in the late 1950s, and there were around twenty boys that
attended each week for drill practice.
Drilling young lads aged around thirteen and fourteen was
without a doubt too much sometimes for the officer, so he looked
around for a likely lad to help him. And me being the tallest
one there, it came to pass that I was the chosen one. All this
was taking place when there was a bit of trouble out in the Far
East and, for some reason, he had twenty lads worried that we
may be required to be sent to fight - especially when one night
he produced an old 303 rifle and we were told that we were all
going to Marham to learn how to shoot.
My
promotion was short lived as I had a problem at the time; the
problem was that my arms and legs swung at the same time. To
explain - as my left leg went forward so did my left arm. This
came to light one night when we had a visit from a high ranking
officer whom found it quite funny as he watched me attempt to
march up and down the hall. To correct this small problem they
came up with an idea. “Put your left hand in your pocket old
chap and lets see you march on your own. By the left, when your
ready old chap”, and reluctantly I stepped off. By George it
worked, but only to revert back again when I removed my hand
from the pocket. After a few minutes the top brass had decided
that I was not officer stock after all and I returned to the
ranks.
The great
day arrived when we all arrived by bus at R.A.F. Marham and
mixed with real airmen. We had a trip around the camp in the
morning and were shown how parachutes were packed. Then we had
the chance of a lifetime - we were escorted into a Vulcan
Bomber. All Top Secret at the time and in the cockpit most of
it was covered in sheets of brown paper. I gather the reason
was so us lads didn't see anything and report back to the enemy
or - as we all decided - it could have been placed there just in
case young Smithy (or “Sniffly” as we called him due to the fact
he always had a cold) a lad who’s Dad came from some country
that nobody had ever heard of or had never been to may well have
been the real reason.
As we left
the Bomber the next stop was lunch in the mess. What a treat
was in store for twenty lads that were starving. We had never
seen a spread like it, roast meats roasted potatoes and fresh
vegetables were there for you to help yourself to. “Tuck in
chaps - eat as much as you like.” And so we did, only to nearly
choke on a roast potato when a guy around ten foot tall marched
over to us, inhaled a large amount of air, and what came next
sounded like an air raid warning: “When you lot are finished
eating in the next two minutes you will stand in line outside
the mess ready to march to the shooting range.” I noticed all
the lads had sadly lost their appetites all at the same time.
The march down to the shooting range didn’t go without the
officer noticing me bobbing up and down as I tried to get back
in step due to the old problem coming back - maybe brought on by
the thought of things to come. “When you joined Sniffly did
anyone say anything about shooting?"
As we
arrived at the shooting range we were all given a 303 rifle and
five clips of bullets. Once shown how to load the gun we were
told to lay down on a coconut mat making sure that the butt of
the rifle was tucked well into our shoulder. Once done, we
picked out our target and slowly pulled the trigger. Apart from
the sound of a gun going off just a few inches from your face,
to a young lad of only fourteen it had the kick of a dam mule.
I don't think that any of us hit the target but Sniffly told us
later that all that shooting had cleared his head of the cold,
but unfortunately now he was deaf in one ear. “Join the club”,
I said.
A few years ago we had a reunion. Smithy
was there, complete with the sniffly cold. After a few drinks
it was suggested that it would be a cracking idea if we all
lined up and had a march. Maybe it was the effect of a bottle
of Cotes du Falling Over Water or maybe the fact that I was
never any good at marching - I will never know, but fortyeight
years later, once again as I set off my left arm lifted the same
time as my left leg. Heacham Twirlers I need your help!
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