In The Beginning
62 Party; 27 Training Squadron; No 1 Trg Reg't; Southwood Camp; Cove. Autumn 1966. Was it really all those years ago? It seems like only last week. What's worse, I still remember most of their names, or at least their nicknames. I saw precious few of them after basic training. I wonder what they're all up to now.

Rear Rank l - r: - Blossom; Nigel Jennings; David Keele; Harry Darling; Eddie Tocher; Alex Guy; Edúard Klak.
Centre Rank l - r: - Phil Fleming; Sid Scarfe; N/K, Brian (Brummie) Jones; ?Keane; Edward (Ted) Wells.
Front Rank l - r: - Duncan McCallum; N/K: Tony Foote; Cpl Geo Black; Jock Blair; Fred ?; Wallie Llewellyn.

 The Rear Rank
I can no longer recall Blossom's real name. It was our Party, Sgt, Dave Crichton, who christened the poor soul "Blossom". As I recall, he earned this sobriquet because he unfortunately spoke with a decided lisp. He really was, however, an innocent and charming young man. I believe that he came from a good family, albeit a slightly posh one. Off duty he was always clad in leathers and drove a massive motorbike. A truly incongruous sight to behold. He was also into heavy duty rock.

Nigel Jennings was from Shepherds Bush, a gentle giant of a man. Nigel always had a happy grin on his face, and a wicked chuckle. For obvious reasons he was known as Snowball by Sgt Crichton. My lasting memory of Nigel was of him returning from a weekend leave at home, and regaling us with the saga of how his mates knew all about how 3 policemen had been murdered by a gang of hoodlums who's car they had stopped. One of the gang was named as George Sewell.  It was all over the news of the time.

Dave Keele came from Ilford in Essex. Dave and I were muckers. I remember being invited to his home one weekend during basic training. Dave's hobby was karate. We were finally posted to Osnabrück together. He went to 7 Fld sqn, whilst I went to 37 Fld Sqn. Dave left Osnabrück with shiny 7 in 1968 when the squadron was posted to Ripon. I last saw him about 1970 on a train journey north. I was going on leave, he was returning to Ripon.

Harry Darling was a Glasgow boy, he was muckers with Wally Llewellyn. When we finished basic training they were both involved in pre-para training for 9 Sqn. I never saw either of these two chaps again.

Eddie Tocher, originally came from Invermoriston in the highlands.  Eddie went on to become a Plant Operator. He has settled in Glenrothes, a town just up the road from where I live. Eddie is now retired.

Alex Guy, was another Glasgow boy. Decidedly more voluble than Harry, he had an inexhaustible supply of stories about his experiences in the dance halls of Glasgow, and the unfettered thuggery that apparently was common fare within the confines of these establishments. Where it was apparently De-rigour for the ladies to smuggle their paramour's knifes, or cut-throat razors, together with their half bottle of whisky, or fortified wine into the establishment. These items were usually concealed within the folds of her clothing, or in her handbag. I understand that the Glasgow youth of the period were bodily searched before entry, but the ladies, were denied this fleeting pleasure. This oversight by the security staff ensured that the loving couple could both indulge in a bout of mindless mayhem during the evenings jollifications. Alex took particular delight in holding court in the barrack room. Where he could usually be found surrounded by a group of wide eyed and open mouthed gullible innocents from some English county shire town or home counties stockbroker community, all hanging on his every word. The poor souls believing all this hard man propaganda and bravado. Given the degree of bullshit that went on during Alex's story telling meetings, it is little wonder that certain sectors of the English population have such a low opinion of the Scot and his way of life. I don't know where Alex went to after basic training. 

Then there's me Edúard Klak, at the right rear of the rear rank. I'll save that yarn for the squadron website.

The Centre Rank
Phil Fleming another of my chums, Phil was from Perth, I can't remember what Phil did before joining up, but I do recall one particularly icy cold and moonlit winter's night during basic training. We were doing a demolition exercise in the dark and it was bone chillingly cold. We were fairly close to Southwood Camp, in fact, just across the road from the main camp. It was here the regiment had a small training area, literally backing onto the REA at Farnborough. There was a 25 metre range and several other training facilities located here. Phil together with some others from our room was tasked to complete a det-cord ringmain around the girders of a Bailley Bridge located over a wet gap. On this particular bitterly cold night, there was a sheet of ice atop the wet gap. Essentially, Phil lost his footing on the parapet of the bridge and promptly fell off the bridge, through the ice and into the icy cold water. Howling in agony from the shock and the cold he finally managed to steer his way to the edge of the water, where amidst a great deal of schadenfreude, merriment and laughter, from those he thought were his chums, he was unceremoniously dragged out of the water and left panting and shivering on the bank. He asked if he could return to barracks to get dried and change his clothes, and was firmly told, NO, you , just get on with the job.
Following basic training, Phil became an R.E. postie. He is now back living in Perth and working as a security guard at a local garage.

Sid Scarfe was an Anglian boy. Sid came from either the small town of Saffron Walden or Bishop's Stortford in Essex. With the passage of time I'm no longer quite sure just where Sid came from, both towns figured large in his stories. Sid had more than a touch of the cheeky chappie about him. With very blond hair and a small button nose which always seemed to be sunburned, Sid was usually uncomplaining and hardworking. Sid would patiently listen to everyone else's moans, and grumbles, shrug, agree that "life really was a right bastard", roll his sleeves up and get on with the job. I suppose, if pressed I, as a Scot would describe Sid as the epitome of the stolid English yeoman. Steady, uncomplaining and a good man to have at your side in a difficult situation. I don't know where Sid was posted to after basic training. I'd dearly like to hear from him again.

N/K To my eternal shame, I can't remember the next chap's name. I do recall that he was a Scot, and that he had been in either the RAF or Army cadet force as a boy and I believe that he came from the west of Scotland. Possibly from somewhere around the Dunoon peninsula region.

Brian (Brummie) Jones  was obviously from Birmingham. My lasting memory of Brian is that, whilst in basic training the name of his girlfriend back in Brum was Charmaine. At the same period, there was a well known trio of Irish Crooners of the day who called themselves, The Bachelors. They had a massive hit with a song entitled Charmaine. Brummie played that bloody record morning, noon and night in our barrack room. I think that we were all just about demented by the time basic training was completed. I also recall that during training, we had all to enter the boxing ring in the camp gym, where we were to pair off with a chum and go through an exercise of sparring, which the army referred to as milling. Brian and Phil Fleming who were chums, paired off, entered the ring, adopted a sparring pose, then following a little fandango and fancy footwork, Fleming swung a hay-maker at Jones head. It was bang on target. The punch connected directly with Brian's chin, his head snapped back and he promptly slumped to the canvas, out cold.
The accusations of treachery and counter protestations of aggrieved innocence, accompanied by the plaintive call of, "Ah didnae mean it pal", were a joy to the ear.
I don't believe that particular friendship ever fully recovered from that momentary slip of the fist. Brian was posted to 1st Field Squadron at Nienburg following basic training.
I saw him only once ever again. that was very briefly when I witnessed him manfully sitting atop a mobile time bomb during one Hameln Bridge Camp.  I shall explain thus; One evening, just about dusk, I together with some of the other chaps from the squadron were  seated outside our tent, enjoying the evening, when we became aware of a steadily growing high pitched howl, which was accompanied by a deep, earth trembling rumble. All eyes eventually turned toward the direction from whence this cacophony emanated. There, amidst a dense cloud of exhaust fumes and outlined against the setting sun glittering on the river like burnished copper, a column of leviathans hove into view. We had no idea what the hell these beasts were, they looked a bit like a column of FV432s, but they were unlike any FV432s we'd ever seen. As they drew nearer, the howl from the engines, became almost unbearable to the ear, and we all noted and commented on the uncomfortable observation, that the exhaust silencer boxes and almost the whole length of the exhaust pipes of these vehicles, were all glowing a bright red, almost white hot. They were in fact a column of old petrol engined Mk1 FV 432s. The sight of these brutes certainly concerned all those foregathered outside our tents, especially when we later learned that their twin fuel tanks were located on the exterior rear of these vehicles. in fact they were in the same location, either side of the rear entry door, where the later Mk2, diesel engined version had twin metal lockers located. The realisation that the undoubted reason for the men were all sitting atop the vehicles looking decidedly grim-faced and uncomfortable, instead of being securely and safely ensconced within, was clearly in the interests of self preservation. We later learned that 1st Fld sqn had been one of the first units to be issued with these vehicles. This had been on a trials basis. Events and technology had moved on somewhat, but they had been left with these death traps. I understand that there had been several previous fatalities caused when vehicles had careered into the rear of one of these Mk1 vehicles. On a slightly different and more cheerful tack, I heard some months later that Brummie had won some money on the football pools and had bought a partnership in a racehorse. I don't know if he remained  in the army or returned to civvy street.

? Keane or Keene This chap's forename may have been Dave. After a gap of more than  40 years I'm just not sure. However, I seem to recall that he was from deepest East Anglia. Possibly a horny handed son of the soil. Like Sid Scarfe, he was a quietish chap, and held his own council. I don't know where he went to after basic training.

Edward (Ted) Wells was a West Sussex lad from Crawley. I believe that as a young man, Ted's father had been an officer in the corps during the war. It was made patently clear to the rest of we ordinarys in 62 Party, and in double quick time, that Ted was headed in the same direction. I don't recall if Ted ever actually finished his 18 weeks basic sapper training with the rest of us. I do recall however, that his bed space was directly opposite mine and that he was a terribly nice chap, if perhaps just a wee bit ineffectual. Ergo perfect officer material. You will no doubt recognise the type, "don't give him a map or a compass, else he'll get you all lost". However, Ted must have passed his OCTU course at Mons OCS, because he joined 37 Fld Sqn as a brand new 2Lt later on. I think that may possibly have been in 1968. I do recall him arriving one day whilst we were at Hameln Bridge Camp. He seemed a little taken aback and somewhat unsure of how to respond when I espied him arriving. Whilst he was approaching the Sqn Office tent and adjusting his beret ready to make an impressive entrance, I pounced on him, and bellowed out "Hi Ted, How are you, and how's it going matey"? He looked a little alarmed at seeing me there and rather sheepishly shook my proffered hand. Being aware that there were undoubtedly listening ears behind thin canvas walls, we exchanged a few brief words of welcome, as old friends do. Then I smartly drew myself to attention, snapped out a salute, wished him well and let him go about his business.
Ted later became my Troop Commander when I requested a posting to a field troop.
I was sent to work in 2 Troop as troop signals NCO/Driver with Ted and his sidekick, WO2 Brian Mellett.

The Front Rank
Duncan McCallum was from the Edinburgh area. His bed space was next to mine, but I cannot for the life of me recall anything more about him, except that I believe he had worked in the mines prior to enlisting. Where he went to from No1, I do not know.

N/K I haven't a clue about this lad's identity or anything about him. I do remember him and I believe that he was a southern chap, possibly from somewhere in the home counties. That's all folks...., If by some miracle of happenstance he finds his way to these pages, perhaps he'll kindly get in touch with me, and refresh my memory.

Tony Foote Curiously, whilst we were good chums, I can't recall where Tony originated from. i am sure that he was a wee soft southerner. (I'm only joking Tony Lad). he really was an outstandingly good egg. In fact our Tony was as sound as a pound.  I think his father had been quite a senior ranking officer during the war, a brigadier seems to stick in my mind, but I may be a little confused on that one. What I can recall with vivid clarity, was of one particular evening when Tony and I, both off duty and on the prowl, we were having a drink in the NAAFI Club in Aldershot, when we met two young ladies, nay, they were but slips of girls. QARANC recruits to be precise. For the benefit of all fresh faced sappers reading this saga, I shall ease your soldiery burden and explain that the NAAFI club was once an upmarket and decidedly august establishment located within the splendid environs of Aldershot town centre. This fine hostelry was normally frequented by gentlemen from the corps of Her Majesty's Royal Engineers and ladies of unsullied modesty and great virtue. However, this once beautifully appointed emporium of liquid refreshment and culinary delights had on occasion and from time to time fallen foul of invading hordes of badmen. These ratbags, vandals, and assorted villains were universally known throughout the land as F***ing Paras. For some obscure reason, these people thought they owned the bloody place. Furthermore, they were only too willing to demonstrate their ownership to any innocent abroad, or indeed any passing member of the Corps of Royal Military Police. However, I digress, and besides, this has naff all to do with this yarn.

In short Footsey ended up with the ugly one, but he steadfastly refused to support his best pal by removing the said facially challenged damsel from the close proximity of her chum, or indeed from the park bench in the local park, (i.e) the location of the intended conquest. The end result, "Null Point". Nonetheless, we steadfastly remain, and were gentlemen, albeit rather naive gentlemen. We  therefore remained pals. From time to time, and in a spirit of self sacrificing comradeship, Tony would take the poor unfortunate girl to the local cinema whilst yours truly attempted to achieve the impossible with her delightful and attractively coquettish chum. I have to advise the reader, at this point of the saga, that the ugly chum appeared to be, not only clean, freshly scrubbed, and smelling sweetly, but had a delightful pair of very long and trim legs, surmounted by the torso of the Venus De Milo. Quite why brother Foote, chose to ignore and even scorn the apparent availability of this veritable cornucopia of maidenly charm, I a humble sapper at that time, can only speculate. With the benefit of 20/20 hindsight and the painful memories of being the anguished possessor of a constantly raging hard-on, I have long  considered that I must have been an utter pillock. I, the callow youth that I was, must have elevated pretty over a delectable and almost certain poke. The whole experience extended interminably over several weeks. My attempts to conquer the luscious Gill, for that was the maidens moniker, remained a lost cause. The lady remained, honour unsullied and as far as I'm aware, Virgo-Intacto. I discovered sometime later, that she was in fact a sister of one of the training NCOs at Southwood Camp. Thankfully, he had no connection with us. There is a God in heaven, I knew it all along.
I have no idea what became of Tony. Someone suggested to me some years later, that he had been posted to Paderborn. if you are out there old-man, do get in touch, I'd love to meet you once more. No of course I won't ask you to take care of her mate.

Cpl George Black - Our training NCO. George was from Morayshire, the town of Elgin i believe. He was an absolute gem of a man. Always immaculate, fair but demanding, patient and helpful. So long as you pulled your weight, George would give you the help you needed. I believe he went off to become a pilot with the AAC. I never heard of or met George again. I trust that he found success in all he sought.

Wee Jock Blair - At least that's what we called him. I can't remember Jock's forename. He was yet another Glasgow boy. His main claim to fame was that he knew the singer Lulu. I don't recall if that was from school or as a friend. Nonetheless, Jock either knew Lulu or had met her. What became of Jock, I'm afraid, I don't know. We passed off together, and he was posted out somewhere. If your out there Jock, give me a call chum.

Freddie ? - I do know this lad's surname, but have momentarily forgotten what it is. I do recall however, that he came from Rowardennan, a small village on the eastern shore of Loch Lomond. I also remember that he owned a trumpet or cornet, which I bought from him for a few pounds. This despite the fact that I had never so much as held a wind instrument in my hands before, never mind play one. I exhausted myself, attempting to coax a meaningful noise out of that appallingly difficult instrument. What became of Fred and his trumpet, I cannot remember.

Wally Llewellyn - Despite the welsh surname, I believe that Wally was from somewhere around the home counties. His accent certainly wasn't welsh. Wally was the sort who always managed to achieve an immaculate standard of kit. I personally borrowed his best blancoed belt when having to do a guard duty, or indeed on the occasion when I fell victim to a diminutive Scots Regimental Policeman for some extremely petty offence and ended up being sentenced to a straight run of 28 days C.B. This was actually a series of 4 seven day sentences. However they didn't call the punishment by that name. It had recently been changed to R.O.Ps, or to give it it's full name, Restriction Of Privileges. Trust me, when I tell you young soldiers, it was definitely C.B

That's how we made Sappers in those far off days. Dear reader, pause for a few moments thought. Of the 21 men in this photograph, almost 50% of them are Scots. With precious few prospects and fewer meaningful jobs, soldiering was still considered an honourable profession in most home in Scotland. Even in the mid sixties. Grim and sparse prospects have been a way of life in Scotland for generations. Even for the best educated amongst it's peoples. Until recent times, Scotland's best export, has been the same as those other countries which cling precariously to the fringes of the european mainland, and that is her people. Ireland, Wales, Cornwall and certain remote geographical areas of England have all suffered from the perrenial problem of being distant from the area where most of the action takes place.

This was long before the cold war ended and we got a peace dividend called Iraq and Afghanistan. Mainly through the efforts of a certain pair of religious nutters who'se names we must protect but which begin with the letter "B".

I wonder what the "B" stands for...???.

SVEJK