JAMES STIRLING

                                     " Have trombone, will travel"

                           Copyright ©  2008  by          James Stirling             All rights reserved.

                                    Published by Lulu.com   ISBN 978-1-4092-3709-9

   (George Bernard Shaw supposedly said ‘If God plays a musical instrument then surely it is the trombone’)

 Excerpt from Chapter 1

“Ef ‘ight, ‘ef ‘ight, ef ‘ight – GET IN STEP STIRLING!!” The voice of our mentor boomed across the parade ground.

   Sergeant Crowther was our Drill Instructor and a fellow Scot and didn’t like me at all. I was sure of it. Because I was a lanky lad of 6ft.5ins I stood out like a flagpole above the other recruits.

   “Squaa-d……HALT!” He roared; the letter ‘T’ ending as a high pitched squeak.

   It was November of 1951 and I had just arrived at the Royal Marines School of Music as a boy recruit. Now I was wearing a very itchy and oversized blue serge uniform, along with service issue thick khaki woollen socks inside huge hob nailed boots that hurt my feet, because they were made of stiff new leather and had rubbed the skin almost off my heels. Added to this discomfort was the fact that we were standing on a parade ground exposed to the elements on a cold and frosty morning.

   Just a few days before my arrival in the small Kentish coastal town of Deal, I had celebrated my sixteenth birthday at home with my mother in Walsall, an industrial town in the midlands of England. I had told her how much I was looking forward to becoming a Royal Marine. As I gazed across the vast expanse of the parade ground of the Royal Marines Barracks, I was wondering what I had let myself into.

   My feet hurt, and my heart was thumping like a jack hammer as I observed the formidable bulk of Sgt. Crowther rapidly marching towards me, swinging his right arm skywards as he held his chest out like a prize cockerel.  

   The polished brass plate on his pacing stick under his left arm gleamed like a diamond in the morning sunlight, and the razor sharp creases in his trousers plus the prominent three stripes of rank on the arm of his immaculate tunic, stated his position in life, or more to the point, my life and that of my fellow recruits for the next three months.

   His hat was precisely in the middle of his shaven head and his steely eyes missed nothing from beneath the highly polished black plastic peak that glistened like a mirror. I could feel my knees trembling as he finally stopped abruptly in front of me and bellowed in his thick Glaswegian accent “Stirling! – you long streak of pish - what the hell do you think you’re doin?”

   I could hear the other recruits trying to stifle a sniggering laugh.

   “Shut up the lot of ye!” he bellowed, still in my face. He had not moved a muscle as his voice ascended to a banshee scream. He couldn’t have been more than six inches away from my chin and I could smell his garlic breath.

   “You’re marching like a bloody pregnant duck! This is not an ‘oliday camp! You’re here to become a Marine - do you understan’ me?”

   “Yes Sir” I said in a weak and nervous voice that I did not recognize as mine.

   I honestly thought he was going to have a seizure, for his face turned a bright purple as he drew himself to his full height and roared “Don’t call me Sir! I’m a non commissioned officer and that means you address me as Sergean’. DO YE UNDERSTAN’? Sergeant Crowther rarely pronounced words correctly that contained the letters  ‘T’ or ‘D’.

   People walking their dogs on the seafront half a mile away must have been able to understand. I gulped and blurted out “Sorry Sergeant, I didn’t know.” I felt like crying at any moment. He walked away to bellow at another unfortunate who had the audacity to speak through the corner of his mouth to the recruit next to him.

   The other lads who had arrived a few days before me had already experienced Sgt. Crowther, saying he was a real terror, and under no circumstances should you ever speak to him unless he asked you a question, and even then your life could be made a misery if you did not chose your words carefully.

   I had a feeling of dread that our little one sided tete-a-tat was not entirely over, for the good sergeant started marching briskly back towards me and we were nose to nose once again. The tone of his voice suddenly changed down to a lower gear as he said softly “An’ I promise you this laddie, you will be a Marine by the time I’m finished with ye!”   He stepped back and said in a matter of fact manner “Extra parade for this man.”

   The Corporal that lurked in the background of our DI was a little man of Welsh decent named Alyn Lloyd, who repeated the instruction in his soft and pleasant accent. “Extra Parade for Stirling”. He smiled at me as he continued “You will enjoy this one Jock, for it is in the drill shed where it is nice and warm, and you will be in full back pack at 6pm. I advise you not to be late or you will make the NCO in charge very cross.”

    He walked away a couple of paces, writing something into his notepad then casually returned to me with another big smile on his face as he announced with some degree of satisfaction “Sorry Jock, didn’t I mention it? Sergeant Crowther will be taking the punishment parade tonight.”

   My heart sank. Not because the dreaded Sgt. Crowther was taking the parade. That was worry enough, but what really hit home was the fact that 6pm was Dinner time and it finished at 6.30, which meant I would get no food until breakfast the next morning. This life as a Marine did not seem anything like the vision I had seen of the Massed Bands of the Royal Marines performing at the Royal Tournament in the Earls’ Court Exhibition Centre in London. They were smartly dressed and played marvellous music. I knew straight away that I wanted to join the Marine Band and become a musician, just like those men I had seen on that day when we were taken there by Mr. Rask, the Bandmaster at my old school.

   My mother had agreed to let me join, and I was accepted as a boy recruit and would continue with my school studies and be trained in the Junior Wing in the East Barracks of the Royal Marines School of Music until my eighteenth birthday. Then I would be transferred over to the men’s barracks and start my service life for real in the Royal Marines Band Service.

   After Sgt. Crowther had finally dismissed us we returned to the warmth of our dormitories, and there was much laughter at my encounter with the DI. Charlie Tomkinson, who billeted in the bed next to mine, said “Well you sure made a pal today!”

    “Aye Jock, ye sure did!” and lots of exaggerated ‘occhs’ and other guttural sounds came forth from the many mimics trying to do a Scottish accent.

    “Take no notice of this lot Jim, for they are no better than you or me.”  The comforting words came from fellow recruit Cyril Beamish, who had been appointed our room lance Corporal.

    The name Cyril took me right back to my childhood and the wonderful days with my little brother on a Scottish Farm.

   On any other night in the tranquil surroundings of Dodridge Farm we would all be tucked up in our beds fast asleep. But on this particular night my little brother Cyril and I had been rudely awakened by a deep and ominous droning sound.

   I had only just turned seven, but I took hold of my six year old brother’s hand and we shuffled through the kitchen in our pyjamas, turned the latch lock key on the back door, and stood in our bare feet on the back steps of our cottage sleepily staring up at the clear night sky.

   A carpet of stars spread across the heavens and the air was sweet with the scent of newly cut wheat standing in stookies (stacks) in the fields surrounding the farm. Then we discovered the source of the rumbling sound, for the sky was full of aircraft approaching Dodridge Farm from the South East. Of course we did not know it at that time but they were Heinkel He 111Bombers; and the Civil Defence searchlights had trapped a small group of them in their bright crisscross of piercing light as the planes weaved their way through the sky towards Edinburgh and Glasgow docks.

   The anti aircraft, or ‘ack-ack’ guns as they were nicknamed by the public, opened fire from the defence artillery installations situated at strategic points around the countryside. We could see the results of their futile efforts as the shells exploded harmlessly in mid air, completely missing the aircraft as they continued relentlessly on their way to deliver their cargo of death and destruction.

   It was 1940 and the Nation did not know it at that time but the Luftwaffe raids on the major Scottish ports were just a tiny part of German Air Marshall Goering’s plan to destroy the urgently needed food and supply ships arriving from the United States and Canada, that had managed to escape the U-boat attacks in the Atlantic Ocean.

   Glasgow and Edinburgh were not the only docks to get a hammering for London, Liverpool, Manchester, Hull, Bristol, Cardiff, Portsmouth and Plymouth also got the full treatment. In addition to this, munitions and weapon manufacturing factories in cities like Coventry and Birmingham, Glasgow, Cardiff and Newcastle were heavily bombed night and day immediately the initial air raids had started on London.

   Goering was paving the way for his master Adolf Hitler, to implement his grand plan to break the British Nation’s spirit before his storm troopers strutted into England, and spread the black swastika over the whole nation to seal the final stage of the Nazi domination of Europe.

   Cyril and I thought it exciting to watch those planes droning overhead, for we thought they were Royal Air Force aircraft. Being of such a tender age we had no idea they were the enemy, and certainly had no comprehension of the pain and loss of life that was about to happen within the hour, when those aircraft unloaded their deadly cargo of incendiary bombs on the docks and surrounding workers homes.

   There must have been over a hundred bombers, and as they came ever closer to our cottage the noise of the engines became deafening, and as we stood with our mouths open looking up at the planes we suddenly felt the pain of Dad’s hands clipping us both around the ears.

   “Get inside!” he roared “What on earth do you think you are playing at? The kitchen door is wide open and they must be able to see the light – do you want them to drop a bomb on us?” Still mumbling, he hustled us both through the door, and the one solitary bulb that had illuminated the kitchen like ‘Blackpool Illuminations’ according to Dad, was hastily extinguished.

   “Silly little monkeys!” he shouted.

   Our little hearts sank as Mum suddenly appeared from out of the bedroom. She had lit a candle instead of switching on the electric light, and there was a remarkable resemblance in her shadowy appearance to that of a lady from the Victorian era, for she was wearing a long white nightgown and floppy nightcap comically stretched askew over her old fashioned metal hair curlers. “What on earth is going on?”

   Father told her. With a stern look on her face she hissed, “Get to bed now. I’ll deal with you two in the morning!” Happily for us she had forgotten all about the incident by breakfast time. In those days we kids did as our Parents told us without question. It was not that they were unkind, for on the contrary, they were both caring and loving parents. They were strict, in the same manner their own parents had brought them up.

   They just wanted to do the right thing and teach us to avoid the mistakes they had made when they were young. In reflection, I now know it did me a lot of good to respect my folks and other elders, for it taught me values seemingly lost to so many of the youngsters of today.

   John Stirling was a taciturn man most of the time and good natured to everyone, including his family. I never ever heard him use bad language and he was polite and respectful to others at all times. But like any other father, if either of us boys went over the top being silly, he would be firm and start to unbuckle his thick leather waist belt to administer retribution if need be.

   Thinking about it, both my parents must have had the patience of Job with me; for as we grew up I became more boisterous, and although Cyril was a relatively quiet lad, I was, to be frank, a real handful. In today’s terms an apt description of my behaviour in those days would be ‘Dennis the Menace’ for I always seemed to be up to some mischief.

   Rightly so, I was punished a couple of times when I deserved it, with Mum trying to intervene by placing herself between us shouting to my Dad “Don’t you hit him!” but her pleas were not always successful, and I would feel a tinge of pain from that leather belt as it made contact with my backside. I recall such an occasion when I felt the width of that belt. It was when the farm kids decided to play a ‘dare’ game and yours truly came up with the brilliant idea of shoving my head in between the cross bars of a gate, only to get it firmly lodged.

   Of course all the kids were roaring with laughter, me included. It was only when I began to panic that little Cyril took the initiative to go and get help. He brought back Mum, carrying a half pound of precious lard which she used to grease my neck and sides of my head, but to no avail for I was stuck fast.

   You can imagine the look on the Farmer’s face when he had to drop everything he was doing to bring a saw and cut the gate spar so I could be freed. He was not amused, and took the cost of replacing the sturdy wood spar out of my father’s wages for that week. In return, I felt the wrath of my dad and his leather belt and was grounded for a fortnight with no pocket money. It certainly taught me a lesson not to show off in front of the other kids without first thinking of the consequences.

   Although he had served as a Cavalryman in the Royal Artillery in WW1, Father was not selected for service in 1940 because he was considered too old at fifty one. He was graded as an essential farm worker, and was one of only three men allowed to stay and work with the owner on Dodridge farm; one of many in the Scottish Lothian’s that supplied milk, grain, beef, mutton and pork to the national food chain.

   Even now, after all those years have passed by, I still have a vision of my Father sitting in his favourite chair wearing his working clothes of collarless shirt and brown corduroy breeches, all held together by the aforementioned thick leather belt with that huge brass buckle securing it all to his wiry frame. Every evening he would walk wearily into the back porch after a hard day’s work, and unlacing his hob nailed working boots, he would place them near the back door ready for the following morning.

   In those days there were no bathrooms in most farm workers cottages so the whole family had to wash in the laundry room. This was quite roomy and warm enough when the boiler fire had been lit beneath the large copper pot filled with water that served for boiling the clothes, as well as our means of cleansing ourselves once it had been cleaned out for the purpose.

   Bath time for us kids was fun! I remember a white enamel bucket being used to pour the clean warm water over our heads and then Mum supervising us whilst we soaped up. Laughing and messing around as kids will, we would then get the final deluge of clean water from the second enamel bucket over our heads, and being wrapped in a large fluffy towel we would be quickly transferred from the laundry room into the house, and in no time at all be standing on the carpet in front of the coal fire in the front room. ‘Cuticura’ talcum powder was then liberally sprinkled over us both and then it was into our pyjamas and off to bed.

   On his return to the cottage and after shedding his boots, dad would enter the laundry room, and stripping off he would pick up the hard slab of red carbolic soap (the only soap I can remember from those days) and follow the same ablution system with the buckets. This routine went like clockwork every day with my mother filling the copper boiler with water and lighting the wood stove beneath it two hours before Dad was due home.

   Clean clothes were neatly laid out for him and he would then enter the house and sit down at the kitchen table and enjoy his evening meal. After some light conversation with all of us, he would walk through into the small front room and sit in his favourite chair besides the old fashioned ornately decorated radio, with its accumulator batteries supplying the electrical current, and listen to the BBC six o’clock news. Lighting up a woodbine cigarette he would then read his ‘Scotsman’ newspaper.

   Father followed this same routine day in and day out. The only time he strayed from it was when he would put on his best suit to take our mother to a dance in the nearest village three miles away on the last Saturday night of each month.

  The only lavatory was outside the house at the bottom of a very long garden. This was fine in the summer months but in winter it was like visiting the North Pole, and we spent as little time as we had to shivering in that cold and drafty little hut. We never knew why such an important facility should be so far away from the house, except, perhaps, that somebody had bungled it up in reading the plans when they had laid the sewerage pipes in the wrong place for all six cottages.

   Dodridge farm was situated in a beautiful setting of lush woodlands and countryside and reached by a narrow side road from the village of Pathead, three miles away to the East, on the main trunk road from Peebles to Edinburgh.

   From our back garden we could see a patchwork of fields with their boundary hedgerows stretching away into the distance on all sides, either lying fallow or filled with vegetables, corn, wheat, barley, or animals out to graze.

   It’s strange how you can remember some things vividly from early childhood, yet it seems other images and information just slip away. That is how it is for me, since I still can see that beautiful landscape image in my mind as clear as it was back in the 1940’s.

  The colour contrasts of trees, bushes and fields as the seasons came and went; from the bright multi colours of Autumn on the trees about to shed their leaves, to the fairyland appearance of the landscape when deep snow drifts covered everything in mid winter, to the joys of Spring and the blooms on trees, the flowers on the hedgerows, and the gradual change to the golden hue of the grain crops growing in summer right up to harvest time.

   Millions of children around a war torn World never got to enjoy the most important years of their lives, a time that should be fun packed and full of contentment. Years that I firmly believe cement the character and help to mould a kid into a stable and useful Adult.

   I am eternally grateful that I had the chance to grow up as a child on a farm in those far off days, and they most certainly were the wonder years for me.

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   Waking up one morning we discovered that the aircraft carrier alongside a jetty, and that we had finally arrived in the Royal Naval Base at Sembawang, in Singapore. It had been just over six weeks since we had set sail from Greenock.

   Gathering all our equipment together we were taken by bus and truck to our new home in HMS Terror, the land based headquarters of the Commander in Chief of the British Far East Fleet.

   We were to be his new band; playing on all official parades and formal occasions for both the Admiral and his distinguished guests. He turned out to be a very nice man who loved music, and was most complimentary when we were required to perform.

   A few of us became involved with playing with the Singapore Symphony Orchestra, of which our Admiral was one of the patrons.

   For several weeks we had been rehearsing stolidly for the performance of Handel’s Messiah, and on the big day of the performance we discovered that a last minute order had come in for our Marine band to play for a cocktail party aboard the frigate HMS ‘Alert’.

   Our bandmaster was aware of the problem, but said duty had to come first, and he was sorry, but there was nothing he could do about it. As we sat in our chairs on the jetty in the coolness of the evening playing music for the guests mingling on the large quarterdeck of the ‘Alert’, we became increasingly more worried that we were going to miss the concert, for time was quickly passing by and we had to be there ready to play at 8pm.

   To this day I don’t know how he found out, but the Admiral appeared suddenly on the gangway of the ship and whispered something to one of his officers, who hurriedly walked down to our Bandmaster and told him to dismiss the band. Not only that, but there was a Navy bus waiting at our quarters to take us into Singapore to the Victoria Halls to play on the Concert. We changed out of our uniforms and into our white sharkskin tuxedo jackets on the way, and arrived only five minutes before the concert, much to the relief of the Conductor, for we constituted the majority of his brass section.

   We soon settled into our new home and established a routine that was to last for the duration of our stay, playing music on morning parades when the flag was raised exactly at 8am. After this we would go to breakfast, and according to whatever we had been allocated to do, we cleaned our quarters and reported to the mess hall that doubled as our band practice room.

   The barrack accommodation was excellent, having high ceilings with large bamboo shuttered doors and windows that allowed a good circulation of air, making for a comfortable sleep in the high humidity of the tropical nights.

   There were quite a lot of sailors billeted in the blocks next to ours, for the camp was also used as a transit centre for personnel arriving from and returning to the UK.  Frivolity reigned in the evenings after the NAAFI canteen had closed, along with the bar, and the aroma of Asian food bought from the enterprising locals that ran two stalls soon wafted through the air in the living quarters.

   It was not a difficult life for we did practically nothing all day, and thinking back, I believe this could be the motivation for some people to do strange things to pass the time.

   One morning there was a commotion as one of our lads entered the room laughing his head off. “Hey, you ought to see what is up the flagpole! Somebody has raised a pair of pink knickers, and the C. O. (Commanding Officer) is going berserk because they can’t get them down as the ropes are twisted!”

   Morning parade went on as usual and the offending ladies delicates were still fluttering in the breeze on the pole. Instead of facing ‘that’ flagpole we had on this occasion to look at a temporary pole and flag they had rustled up from the stores. It was several hours before they got a mobile crane in and removed the offending bloomers and restored life to normal. The outcome of it all was that they never did find out who the culprit was and neither did we, although we had our suspicions, for there were a couple of real jokers in the sailors transit block.

   We had a marvelous swimming pool in the grounds and made good use of it every day that we were free from duties. To reach it we had to walk down several pathways surrounded by long grass that seemed to grow back as fast as they could cut it. We had been warned to look out for wildlife, for there are unsavoury things like huge centipedes and other insects that can give you a nasty bite, including lizards and reptiles.

   Usually we stuck to the footpaths, but on one occasion one of the sailors decided to take a short cut through the long grass to his living quarters and was bitten by a snake. He had the foresight to remember what it looked like and described it to the camp Doctor who recognized it from a chart and administered the right antidote serum to save his life. It turned out the reptile was a grass viper, and it was lucky the lad had not been far away from the camp sickbay (hospital) and got the treatment within only minutes of being bitten.

   That was serious enough for the C.O. to call everyone into the mess halls and have the Doctor lecture us on reptiles and the effect of their poisons, and nobody strayed from the footpaths ever again.

   After a few months of getting to know the place we could name the bus services and roads that went from the Naval base into the main city centre of Singapore, and we began to explore that wonderful place to the full.

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