miles of string used to hold it together. Repacked, after a fashion, we boarded the train to Chester; more khaki lorries and equally loud NCO's; then on the double, marched to our billets then drew out our bedding. Besides we bods from Egypt, there were lads from Korea and other hot spots around the globe, so the order that we were confined to barracks sounded like a challenge to us, especially as we were gagging for an English pint after a dosing of Stella

for two years, and there were girls out there. As we all staggered back late that night, the RP's trying to find our names on their lists and receiving alternative ones, Frankie Laine appeared more than once, and big Ammo's pseudonym Marilyn Monroe didn't ring true, we made our way to bed after great night out. Next morning the, fools, they tried to get us on parade so we assembled outside the billet in a disorderly three and a half ranks,

a pall of fag smoke hanging over us. I doubt if two blokes were dressed alike, some in tropical dress, some in khaki drill, a variety of footwear including plimsoles. We shambled down to the parade ground and stood on one side of it, still with the attendant fag smoke, watching all the sprogs marching onto the self same parade ground, arms swinging shoulder high [were we once like that?]. Troops assembled, on marched the RSM, back stiff as a ramrod, pacing

stick under his arm, surveying his troops when his eyes alighted on that pile of old clothing, a murmer of conversation issuing from it. As an artist, I admired the RSM's ability to change colour so quickly, but it was some time before he managed to issue, in not very polite terms, the request to GET THAT BLOODY SHOWER OFF MY PARADE GROUND. From that moment to actual demob we were assigned the duty of collecting litter on the outskirts of the camp, and leave more or less when we asked for it!!