Bulford Camp

My war experience at Bulford Camp, in Wiltshire, was very exciting for me, as I had always recognised that the Nazis would be a great danger to the democracies, and especially to my family who were Jewish. At the age of 20 I felt that I wanted to do my bit, however small. After joining the Army, I was to be taught how to drive a large Bedford lorry in the fine Regiment of the Royal Army Service Corps.

After suffering the bellows of the Regimental Sergeant Major and being literally knocked into shape for two weeks strenuous training (Reveille at 6.am), we finished the physical part (let Hitler worry). We then started to do the serious job of becoming a driver, for which I had no previous experience.

In the following two weeks we mostly sat in the back of the four ton Bedford lorry and remained there most of the day whilst the corporal driver instructor drove the vehicle. I am sure that he was just too nervous to to be a passenger while us trainees took tentative control of the lorry. When the instructor saw an oncoming vehicle hovering in sight, he would grab the wheel until all danger had passed, mop his anguished brow and reluctantly hand back the steering wheel.

After my second lesson and only two half hours at the wheel, our group was informed that we would be taking our driving test. Thankfully, we would exercise our newly acquired skills on the empty war time roads.

I can really say that all our Squad were worried about the coming test, as none of us had had any proper tuition. The whole patrol of us climbed into the back of the lorry and Cockney Joe was chosen to be the first to be tested.

After five minutes of driving, he joined us in the back, with a forlorn look on his face.

When we asked him if he had passed the test he told us that the Sergeant Instructor yelled out "Look at that lovely bit of crumpet" as we passed an ATS girl. Joe could not resist looking round. He was failed as an army driver.

The rest of us were given the same "Crumpet" test. Pre-warned, we all kept our eyes firmly on the road and passed with honours; even though none of us had any experience of reversing or indeed any of the most basic information of how to drive any vehicle whatsoever.

As most of our squad had passed the test so quickly, we had time to spend the last week learning how to ride motorbikes. After ten minutes in a field, which we all felt was fun, my bike refused to start. I was informed that the magneto had packed up and although I had protested loudly it was of no avail. I was told to get back to my hut and get some sleep in. Even though it was only three in the afternoon, like a good soldier I obeyed orders and took four days off.

All my friends had passed their test after their four day intensive and enjoyable motor biking. As there were only nine bikes in the barracks in total, I complained to the instructor that the mechanical failure was not my fault, and could I still have my bike training. You can imagine my surprise when he told me not to worry as he had passed me as well and duly entered this information in my AB64 document.

A week later I was transferred to an active Unit; a food depot in Norton Fitzwarren near Taunton in Somerset. I was assigned as their official despatch rider. I arrived at the depot at 11:30pm and was shown the unit's motor bike. I nodded professionally and made a strong vow to get some experience secretly, so as not to lose face. I fell into the bed and was asleep in two minutes. I was awakened by the duty Sergeant at three in the morning.

He told there was an important document that had to be delivered to O.C. of the supply command for Southern England in Frome, Somerset. This town was forty five miles away and in spite of my protests, I was informed that the safety of the war effort and England’s survival depended on this delivery.

I gingerly start kicked the battered Royal Enfield 350 and with fits and starts, off I went. I can still see the look of amazement on the sergeant's face as he watched my limited expertise.

At that time there were no signposts as Jerry was expected to invade at any moment and I had not the faintest idea of the way to go. I got as far as Taunton which was five miles from my new unit when the bike gave an asthmatic cough and stopped with smoke billowing from the exhaust and a heavy smell of petrol. I kicked the 'kick start' solidly for fifteen minutes, desperately trying to start the engine, all the time cursing the Army, N.C.Os., the whole war situation, and especially the bike, which by that time had fallen over. In my frustration, I aimed a vicious kick at the prostate handle bars.

God must have been watching me. For the kick returned the choke to its correct position, and the bike came to life. I was able to get to Frome at about four in the morning. The document was delivered. Britain was saved.

It was only later that I found out that the Important Document was merely an application for a further supply of toilet paper for the Officers Mess!

Most of the recruits, were between 19 to 22 years of age and my five weeks of Army training was not unpleasant. Most of us got on well, and the expected dreaded N.C.O s were reasonably kind.

I was in some trouble as I have never been able to tell my left from my right, and during parades, I was degraded to the awkward squad. This all changed when a kindly corporal advised me to wear a ring on one of my fingers which when I squeezed my hand, I had time to realise my left from my right, it was the perfect answer for me and I began to enjoy the parades.

One of the first lessons I had to learn on joining the Army was the nickname you had to earn, it all had to do with the size and shape of your private parts. We had Big Tools, Little Willies, and Big Knobs. As we all showered together and were minutely examined by the whole squad, nobody took offence. In fact the lucky ones named 'Big Tools' received a certain prestige from the envious 'Little Willies'. I will not let you know what my nickname was, as I do not want to brag!

We all thought it a great adventure as when had completed our training we were to be addressed as Driver so & so, and at that period in time to own a car, or indeed any motor vehicle was beyond the financial pockets of all the recruits.

We all received the princely sum of seventeen shillings and sixpence a week - equivalent to 80p in our modern currency. From this meagre wage, I managed to save £150 after nearly five years service. This was the capital I needed to open my intended business on leaving the Army.

For other soldiers' experience of Bulford, click BBC World War II or visit the People's War archive site

For more general information about Bulford, click Wikipedia