Devonshire Regiment - Military Genealogy

Memories of Devonshire Regiment

Devonshire Regiment, national service in 1954
Written by brian davis
Contact this person >>

"First day of National Service, March 1954, and we were told that reveille at the Devonshire Regiment’s Topsham barracks at Exeter was at 6.30. An unearthly hour, we thought. Until we were told that because there was so much to do on our first day training to be soldiers we would be getting out of our beds at 4am. At that point we would have readily accepted the luxury of lying in until 6.30. The good news was that as soon as we could show we were fast enough to get everything done in time for inspection at eight we would be allowed to remain in bed for an extra half-hour, or even as late as 5am!

And there was certainly plenty to be done. As well as preparing ourselves and our personal kit, and laying out beds and bedding in regulation order we had to ensure the room was spotless. Every surface had to be dusted and every crevice cleaned. And the floor in the recruits’ block had to be polished and shone until the room corporal was content that his beautiful face was beautifully reflected in it. By the time morning inspection arrived we felt we had done a day’s work. But the day was only just beginning.

Now there was the real soldier training. Most of us were homesick, but we didn’t have time for it. Every minute of the day was accounted for, and every minute belonged to the Army. Drill, weapon training, lectures, blanco-ing equipment, map-reading, field-exercises, gymnastics, the assault course. Change into denims, back into battledress and webbing. Two minutes to get into your vest and shorts and up to the gym. Now back into denims. We didn’t stop.

And no chance of walking to the next location to get one’s breath back. It was all at the double until an instructor — who probably himself wanted a break anyway — might say: “Okay, you can take five for a smoke.” There was usually some time to take things a little easy during meals, but even then one was always conscious that a great deal had to be done as soon as breakfast, lunch or tea was over. What I remember most about meals were the ubiquitous baked beans, the tea-chests of sliced bread which had usually been in position long before mealtime and washing-up.

A sink of water was provided into which we had to rinse our plates, mug and cutlery. The water began hot and clear. But after scores of soldiers had made use of it, this very quickly became cold, greasy and decidedly murky.

Slowly, as we grew to be more adept at our work the daily programme became more interesting — like piling into trucks and riding to the rifle ranges to learn how to kill people. Or there might be fieldcraft instruction on Woodbury Common. That was a mere six or seven miles away so obviously within marching distance! On the common we hacked trenches into the ground and then attempted to sleep in these cold holes. Next morning before dawn we would attack or be attacked. Again we were finding out how to kill people.On return to our barrack room there was feet inspection, and blisters had to be burst with a needle sterilised in a lighted match.

This was the time of the Mau Mau troubles in Kenya and the war against the Communists in Korea. So anyone who appeared not to be learning the basics of survival, or finding that using a rifle or brengun was not the easiest task to accomplish, was told he had better learn quickly because “in a few weeks you could be doing this for real.”

Eventually, after six weeks we were deemed to be sufficiently prepared as soldiers for our passing-out ceremony. The traumas of training were forgotten as we paraded in our immaculate uniforms in front of the inspecting officer and our proud parents. In a “welcome” lecture on our first day a training sergeant had told us: “You scruffy, long-haired, unfit heap of misfits are going to be turned into soldiers. There’s the easy way and the hard way. The easy way isn’t easy, and the hard way is bloody hard.”

Well, we had made it. We had become soldiers, and just as importantly, we had become a team. A group of teenagers from all backgrounds had been thrown together and learned how to work with one another. We mixed and made friends from all sections of society. Something that would never have happened without National Service. Among my contemporaries at Exeter were grammar school boys, an old-Etonian and several farm labourers. But we learned to muck in and help each another, the slower or less-adept being helped by the others. A “posh” education meant nothing when it came to ironing knife-edge creases into trousers or getting mirror-bright barrack room floors. We were all in it together, so we worked together.

After a week’s leave many of the intake found themselves on the boat to Kenya or Korea. But I was among several selected to remain in Exeter where it was felt we would be better employed helping the wheels of the depot to run smoothly."

Devonshire Regiment, Nat Service at Exeter in 1954
Written by brian davis
Contact this person >>

"As an orderly room clerk at Topsham Bks, Exeter in 1954 I managed to get myself a bunk in the postroom. I cannot remember how I fiddled this, but it meant that instead of being in a Depot Company hut where beds had to be laid out in regulation style and where inspections and checks could be made, I had hidden myself away from authority where bed-making was simply a matter of hauling the blanket up over the pillow. So this, combined with a one-week “excused boots” chitty that I managed to make last for most of my NS career, ensured that Exeter life was pretty good.

Also, as well as avoiding inspections by sleeping in the postroom, I was not subjected to the sort of pranks others had to suffer, like returning to the hut after an evening out to find one’s bed hanging from the ceiling beams. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, a bed with sleeping occupant would be quietly carried through the door and left outside. Such a laugh!These tricks, though annoying at the time, were always without malice, and paradoxically usually strengthened friendships.

This comradeship is what I remember most of all about National Service. Always it was possible to find a pal for a game of football or a cuppa in the NAAFI or simply a natter on a barrack room bed. Also among my pleasant memories are the two variety concerts I helped to produce for the barracks. National Servicemen and regulars, private soldiers and officers worked together to put on the two shows. I also played in the depot snooker and cricket teams, and was once chosen for the rugby team. But after a 60-odd points defeat by the REME at Honiton I wasn’t selected again

One of my mates was Dick Copp, and often we would spend an evening in Exeter together. Dick was an inveterate practical joker, and on one occasion as we passed the guardroom in our civvy clothes Dick looked at the young recruit on duty, and in his poshest voice demanded: “Don’t you usually salute when you see an officer, soldier?” The poor squaddie replied “sorry sir” and gave Pte Copp his best army salute.

Another of my friends was Eric Watts, who worked in the Training Company office. We used to cycle down to the youth club at Budleigh Salterton where we both found girlfriends. Dick Shorland, the orderly room WO2 used to say: “Suppose you and Watts were out with those maids from Budleigh again last night, Davis. You’re just a couple of dirty old rams.”

Though all these memories have survived 50 years, it is the music of the day that stirs the strongest emotions. I remember so well the singers and the songs that would blare from Radio Luxembourg on wireless sets that could be found in almost every barrack room — Edmund Hockridge, Doris Day, Tony Bennett, Lita Rosa. And the music from Kismet, the hit-show of the decade, which was based on the Polovtsian Dances. I never hear those Borodin tunes without being transported back into the days of khaki and blanco and marching feet.

And I remember the barrack dances in the gymnasium to which nurses from the local hospital were invited. I can’t recall the names or faces of any of the girls I danced with there. But I can still see the notices on the walls which ordered: No jitterbugging! "