‘Re-badging…’
By 22466779 Pte Bird.A 1st Royal Sussex 1951/53

‘Now I reckon you lot ‘ave done pretty well for yourselves’ observed Sgt Crozier from his seat by the barrack room fire. Thus addressed, the lot in question, soldiers of some ten days service, Regulars and National Servicemen, Fusiliers and Surreys, arms still throbbing from injections, clad alike in worn grey denims, an ill-fitting, prisoner like garb which unmercifully proclaimed our martial unworthiness to all the world; sat straight-backed at the foot of our beds and wondered what to expect next. Already half regretting that moment of boyish bravado when we had rejected offers of enlistment as RAF ground crew, in favour of ‘real soldering ‘, we were soon enlightened.  The ‘shining hour’ had a two fold purpose, to bring newly issued equipment to the required standard of military smartness, and to ensure compulsory audience to blood curdling incidents from our regimental histories; twin processes calculated to instil the universal military virtues of personal smartness, and pride of corps.

We applied ourselves to the work in hand. The intricate detail on new cap badges was obliterated by the application of various abrasive surfaces, so that the smooth surfaces created would sparkle, like a shilling up a sweep’s arse’. Belt brasses originally shaped to provide tension against the pull of webbing equipment loaded with full Bren gun magazines or type 36 grenades were beaten flat and rendered incapable of their function. The oily orange peel texture of good leather boots took on the appearance of patent leather and the weatherproof potential of dancing pumps under the enthusiastic application of fire, molten boot polish and the red hot spoon.

‘You lot’, continued Sgt Crozier, contriving to take a deep draught from his white china mug of reputedly rum-laced, bromide free tea and a luxurious draw on his fag simultaneously. ‘Are a sight better off with me than with some other intakes tonight. You bigger buggers might ‘ave made the Household Brigade but where would that ‘ave got you? His audience, Cockneys to a man, had the native wit to realise the question was rhetorical, without possessing the slightest ability to so describe it. ‘Guarding the Royal Presence, the Royal presence my foot! Guarding your own ring from the biggest pack of bum bandits in or out of the British army more like. mounting outlying picquets at the ’Pakenham Pub’, those nancys count Pirbright as Foreign Service. As for you would-be tankies, or greasy gunners, ‘ow many brewed up tanks ‘ave you passed down wind of? And I’ll ‘ave you know that for every round on the infantry they fires three rounds counter-battery fire, not forgetting the misfires, the hangfires, and the constant cleaning of a bloody great six inch pipe. You lot will only ‘ave to clean your bondook. If and when I trust you with one. No, all in all you’re on a winner ‘ere with me. Ariff?

At this, our first exposure to the military mind and oriental studies, we were suitably silent. Sgt Crozier, who owed his own personal allegiance to the ‘old Buffs’, then launched into a potted history of our regiments with heavy emphasis on their involvement in the dynastic bloodlettings of 18th Century Europe. We were, he reminded us, only ‘badged’ to them at the moment and some of us, here the Surreys looked notably downcast, would in all probability be re-badged to other regiments recruited from the same catchment area, but currently on active service. In referring to these units new-fangled territorial designations were often ignored, and, following Fortesque, the old numbers of the line or nicknames were employed. A major defect of the current military situation in Sgt Crozier’s eyes was that only three of these seven regiments had battalions on active service. In his view the Chinese hordes, jungle-wise communist guerillas and Stalin’s tanks alike would have retired immediately had the Buffs been allowed to raise a second battalion for service in the Far East; or anywhere else for that matter. There was nevertheless one ray of hope. The Royal Fusiliers were to relieve the Middlesex Regiment, the old 57th Foot the original diehards, in Korea. This conjunction of two of our three Albuera regiments, (the other rejoiced in the unsavoury title of the filthy Fiftieth from the black facings on their redcoats), victors at that bloodiest of Peninsular battles against the French, could only, as with those of certain major astrological entities, be totally propitious for British arms.

Across the room, on the opposite corner bed sat Glasson the most knowledgeable member of our group. If it were possible to become an old sweat at eighteen, he had done it. The foot drill, modes of addressing superiors, even the incomprehensible bugle calls were old stuff, the heritage of a dozen enlistments in some previous incarnation. ‘Why my left arm Corp? He had queried as we lined up for our first inoculations, ‘so you can wipe your own arse tomorrow morning’ growled the orderly, unhesitatingly rejecting Glasson’s not so subtle claim to have done previous service. Glasson knew the nicknames and accomplishments of our parent corps by heart and had nodded approvingly, like a teacher hearing a perfect lesson from a promising pupil, when Sgt Crosier had recounted major exploits from the four hundred-year histories of the Buffs.  He was a proud possessor of War Certificate ‘A’ from the cadet corps, he was, he had already informed us, only filling in time before volunteering for the parachute regiment and it’s dreaded ‘P’ company. He had thus already taken a conscious decision to defer Foreign Service with its adventure and compliant native women, for the greater glory of wearing the red beret. He it was who brought this first formal evening to an abrupt end by falling from his bed with hideous bubbling howls, accompanied by a frenetic drumming of boot heels.

Hartshorn from the next bed and I leapt across to help him, but it was Sgt Crosier who scooped the tongue forward, thrust the handkerchief wrapped pencil between the jaws, and then curiously gentle, held and soothed the now trembling boy through the aftermath of his epileptic fit.

At NAAFI break next morning we learnt that Glasson had deliberately concealed his condition at his call- up medical examination, so keen was he to join the Army. Inevitability, as in a Greek tragedy, realisation of his dream had only led him on to self-destruction.  We were left to marvel at both his misguided determination and obvious contempt for the King’s Regulations.  He left immediately, without farewells and was seen no more.

 But, that evening, as we worked on our messtins, Sgt Crozier delivered his own, personal, valediction.  ‘Well that’s one of you nig-nogs what won’t  ‘ave to worry about being re-badged to no bleedin’ Fusiliers’.
 
 

Tont Bird

22466779 Pte Bird.A 1st Royal Sussex 1951/53. Radio /Op for that fight at the railway level crossing,  and for the village clearing mentioned in the news reports, B echelon operator when we went up to support the LF, subsequent service thru till march 53. Joined MN as radio officer in 1955. finished up out here in the magical land of OZ