All Creatures Great and Small

A great story here from Nan’s Farm. Well worth a read – and a follow!

Nan's Farm-Inside Out

Part One – The Sheep

The sheep minus the lambs

We’ve all done those trips down memory Lane haven’t we?  My own trips often include the cast of ‘All Creatures Great and Small’.  Sheep, pet lambs, goats, ponies, cats, dogs, chickens, rabbits, hamsters and a couple of parrots that all became part of our family.

Right now, it’s the beginning of August and as usual at this time of year, the lambs have been separated from the yews and have been moved a mile up the hill to fresh grazing.  I enjoy watching the lambs grow and still feel a twinge of sadness when it’s time for them to move on, their mothers however, appear to get over it in less than twenty four hours!

When our children were young we all looked forward to springtime and the new lambs. It was a time when if we were lucky, we would have the opportunity to bottle feed the pet…

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Spitting image

This morning I was talking to my brother in law about my time in the army. It’s not a thing I do very often. When I do, I recall all sorts of odd facts that have been filed in the back of my memory bank.

This afternoon I saw a youth spitting on the pavement, a filthy, dirty habit I abhor, BUT, it did remind me of something I witnessed as a very young trainee soldier, at the age of 16 or 17.

A couple of lads were marching (we were not allowed to walk!) past the drill square (you stepped onto it at your peril, unless undertaking drill practice). One of them spat onto the square.

Immediately there was a terrifying roar of the Regimental Sergeant Major’s stentorian voice.

“You there! PICK THAT UP.”

And he did!

 

From that idle thought this poem popped

 

My mouth is full of spittle and I care no jot or tittle

I am going to spit it out upon the floor.

As my juices flow I find my spittle starts to grow

and, as time passes there is more and more

I know not why it is but my spittle starts to fizz

It is spilling from my mouth and from my nose

So beware if passing by for I’ll spit right in your eye

as I’m covered all in spit from head to toes!

Dead or Alive?

I always thought, when I was young, I wouldn’t live to forty.

My Mother said I wouldn’t do if I was always naughty!

Yet here I am, a pensioner, exceeding expectation

and, now that I’ve passed 69, I look back with elation. 

 

I never thought that I would be a great success in life.

I only wished to have a job, and, maybe, take a wife.

Well, some successes came along, as husband, and as Dad

and very nicely my whole life has left me rather glad.

 

My Mum, of course, was always right; she often told me so!

Her all surrounding love was great , it gave a warming glow.

She’s now long gone, and so has Dad, and even my big sister.

But memories they linger on, and my, how we have missed her.

 

So, when I wake up each new day I thank my lucky stars.

I’m happy with my wrinkles, and with my many scars.

My Mum was right. She always was, as I’ve already said,

but wait a bit! I just woke up. Well, bugger me – I’m dead!

A child of the Army of the Rhine

Read all about this young man pointing in the right direction. You will laugh. Money back guarantee!

Broadsides

Viersen. It must have been a small agricultural village at one time. Set in vast acres of open fields of sugar beet and potatoes which ran all the way to the Dutch boarder. It became a satellite village, or a town, to Monchen Gladbach but I suspect it retained its primary agricultural nature until the coming of the railways. A major permanent way was built across the fields to the south east of the village, with sidings and sheds and workshops and a very handsome bahnhof. The rail line ran all the way into Belgium and Holland and North to the industrial Rhur. It was undoubtedly this that attracted the attention of the occupying British forces at the end of the second world war. It became, with its easy rail access to the ports at Antwerp and Ostend, the perfect place to locate a forward supply depot for the Army…

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Traffic Warden Hancock and the Union

A great tale about Traffic Wardens here, and it’s not The Beatles Lovely Rita.

Broadsides

jk3Traffic wardens can be rather grumpy sods.  It’s a job that attracts the grumpy.   In the early days, and it probably still is the case, they were employed by Police Authorities.   Which is almost certainly why they adopted the blue military style uniform.    Being grumpy sods they often had more grievances than the norm.   And therefore, for trade unions, they were fairly easy to recruit and to unionise.   Trade unions also attract the grumpy sods of the world.  they also, of course, attract committed labour activists, good socialists and defenders of the working class.  Like me.  But there are quite a lot of grumpy sods in the unions as well.  The employers of the traffic wardens, usually local Chief Constables, were not quite used to dealing with uniformed grumpy trade unionists making grumpy demands.  Relationships were therefore often quite fractious.

Traffic warden Hancock was the very essence of the grumpy…

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My life #14 – A late Valentine

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Not just a little late, but over 45 years since I first wrote this in a Valentine’s card. I can’t find the copy I wrote at the time but I have remembered it for all these years. Don’t know what that says about me!

It was sent to my long term, off and on, teenage, and into my twenties, girlfriend whom I shall love for ever!

If you don’t see my name, look at it acrostically.

Prolific enterprises turn eventually recumbent. My attribution turns to hieroglyphics, excogitate what’s said!

I was rather pleased with it at the time!

My life #12 – My blog before blogs

When I first joined the Army, in September 1964, I started a journal, of sorts, that I called “Special thoughts and feelings”. I would lie in bed at night and write myself into another world, well away from the stresses and strains of Army training.

I jotted down a few poems, a few thoughts, a few hopes, a few dreams.

I listed the words to “House of the rising sun”, and made a list of songs that I could play on guitar.

unspecified-25I rewrote the collection on Sunday 19th March 1967 and retitled it “Private poems and prose by Pete + thoughts in words in writing”. Unfortunately, at that time, I omitted some of my earlier work, thinking it unworthy of record, or not wanting to be held to account. I regret that!

The book I used for the rewrite was a hardcover indexed book issued by Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, S.O.BOOK 345.

unspecified-24 I made the mistake of writing CONFIDENTIAL , in red, at the top and bottom of the book.

Because I was in a job that dealt with matters confidential, and higher, the next time I went through Customs I was stopped, and held for some considerable time, while the book was scrutinized in depth!

At that time I was madly in love with Susan. I had been since the age of 14 when she had moved to my nearest village, when her father became Head of a nearby Secondary School. I recall that she had previously lived in Preston, Lancashire.

A lot of content, therefore, revolved around thoughts of Susan.

unspecified-26 I intend, over time, to share the content of this “Blog before Blogs were invented”.

I shall record the entries exactly as they were written, but may add comments viewed from a “few” years distance!

There are odd scraps of paper in the book with some complete, some incomplete, and some “what on earth is this meant to be” scribblings. There’s also a “work of art”.

There is one particular poem, titled “Or is it?” that I should have copyrighted. The first line is “Walk in the air……….” I’m sure I could have argued the case for some rights to “The Snowman” song!

Having whetted your appetite, I’m not holding myself to any timetable.

My life#11 – The Army – Northern Ireland

“The Army” series, came about through my Niece, Penny, requesting some information on my Army days. She was doing some sort of project that required a “behind the scenes” view of military life, so I started to jot things down.

I got a little carried away!

After my initial burst, as documented  in the previous few “The Army” posts, I was asked about my time in Northern Ireland.

This is the result. It was written in 2011.

For more like this click on the Tag “My Life”.

A bit about our time in Northern Ireland – Omagh, County Tyrone

[This is our particular experience. Procedures were constantly changing depending on the risk at the time, hostile activity, whether families accompanied or not and the length of tour.]

Prior to going we had to register our car with NI plates. This is done via DVLA who have special arrangements to ensure that there is not a “block” of numbers that are all forces!

We were told which ferry to use and numbers of military personnel, per ferry, were restricted.

Military personnel did not acknowledge each other on the ferry, even if they were well known to each other.

We were given a choice of 2 routes to use within NI and were not allowed to deviate. This ensured that the routes could be swept by military personnel at all times. (Panel vans were often used with one way vision rear windows). We had a specific time in which to complete the journey.

If we encountered any military check point, at any time, I had to show my ID card below the window line such that it could be seen by the soldier but not by anyone else.

On entering the barracks, all cars proceeded through a chicane of blast walls so that any risk was minimised. (Omagh barracks had a car bomb driven in and detonated shortly before we arrived!) We were checked by a single soldier close by with a second soldier covering him from a distance.

Once into Lisanelly Barracks we were given the keys to our house and, later that day, our belongings and furniture arrived.

Some houses, on one particular side of the camp, were left empty, because they had been damaged by fire bombs thrown over the perimeter wall. These were probably incidents performed by youngsters. Nice thought!

I had to regularly go into town to the bank, often carrying large sums of money. I wore civilian clothes and always tried to be discrete and to talk as little as possible. That’s fine until one of the cashiers says, at the top of her voice, “Are you from the Barracks then?”

When parking the car, I tried to ensure that I could view it from a distance with as few obstructions as possible. This helped when it came to returning to it. I could check for anything suspicious whilst approaching and I became very adept at tying my shoelaces and doing press-ups very quickly without too many people noticing. It became routine to do this and to check under the seats before getting in. I still check round my car but now for tyres and bumps!

One year Claire was due to fly in, from school, on 12th July. Because this is the day for Orange Marches, to celebrate the Battle of the Boyne, we had to get special permission to leave the barracks to collect her from the airport. On the way we found that the motorway was closed because of a security alert and we were diverted onto side roads. Unfortunately, we ended up in the middle of an Orangemen convoy of cars with no way of avoiding them. We were stuck in the middle for some considerable time. Very unsettling! If you have ever heard of the saying “sixpence, half a crown” this was definitely such a time. (Ask a friend!)

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We were able to travel within specific areas. Other areas were a definite no go. Armagh for example was, and is, a hot bed IRA area. Our main operational area (I was with 2nd Battalion Royal Green Jackets) was the Strabane/Castelderg area on the border with Eire.

We sometimes went to Gortin glen, a really lovely area close to Omagh, and we felt almost normal at such times and were able to almost forget the circumstances of our restricted life. We also enjoyed going to the North coast and blew away the cobwebs at the Devils Causeway.

Always, at the back of our minds, were the unspoken thoughts and concerns that lots of people, who looked and behaved exactly as everyone else, would quite like to kill us or anyone else who did not fit in to their ways.

We were warned on arrival that opposite the entrance to the barracks was an office block which was constantly manned with people who were taking photographs and notes of all arrivals and departures. I suppose that intelligence gathering is a vital part of any war!

Erica “signed on” in NI and was given a fictitious address to use. However, she found it very difficult to cope with friendly ladies asking what she had been doing, where she lived, what she wanted to do. She met a young man on several visits and he appeared to realise she was a soldiers wife, she believed he was an ex policeman but neither could be open and honest.

During our time there Erica had to go to hospital in Belfast. Belfast was not a nice place to visit. She was driven by a young lady driver, was a little disturbed by the pistol on the seat beside her, and not entirely happy with all of the road blocks and paramilitary types between her and the hospital. Belfast had bunkers on the tops of blocks of flats. Most were IRA bunkers!

Our House was alongside the Helipad – a very large area where the helicopters were stored, serviced, took off and landed, apart from the Chinooks. They landed on the sports fields. Consequently, we were always aware if something big was happening. We saw the bomb disposal teams coming and going, the stores being loaded and unloaded. One night, a particularly low flying heli lifted our garden shed and deposited it 3 gardens down!

WO2

As a Warrant Officer I had to take turns to man the Operations room during the night. This involved handling communications by radio, telephone and teleprinter and acting as the link between the barracks and all patrols. It was stressful at times, especially if there was “contact” with any hostiles. You could detect the edginess, the fear and the adrenaline over the radio but felt almost helpless in that you were unable to see or hear what was happening because the radio procedure on contact was “Contact. Wait out”………………………… What the hell was happening, they were too occupied to let you know!

A lot of the equipment that is used by soldiers is dangerous. Guns, explosives, helicopters, large vehicles, bayonets, heavy objects.

In my tour of Northern Ireland more soldiers were killed and injured by accidents than by hostile action. This is probably true of all deaths in NI but don’t quote me on that.

We had a major helicopter crash  where, miraculously, only one soldier was killed. One poor young lad was very seriously injured and burned. He crawled away from the crash site and was not found immediately. Amongst other horrific injuries he lost his sight and has been a resident of St Dunstans ever since.

One young Corporal was married to an absolutely stunningly pretty and highly intelligent girl. They were a lovely couple. He became insecure and could not understand why she had chosen to marry him. He attempted suicide by shooting himself in the chest. He survived and appeared to recover fully. However, the second time round he made sure and shot himself through the roof of his mouth. What a tragic waste.

Despite all this, life went on. People got married, children were born, relatives died, gardens were created and thrived, church, shopping, parties, all of life carried on.

Whilst writing this I am brought to tears! What a tragic waste of life but how privileged I am to have experienced what the majority cannot even contemplate and how fortunate I am to have had Erica beside me.

Pause for thought

What is the difference between a bunch of lads, noisy, brash, slightly offensive, standing on a street corner and a troop of lads patrolling the streets in NI or Afghanistan?

Google facts
  • There is an almost even split between the number of British troops killed in combat situations and the number killed in non-combat situations – that is, in accidents, friendly fire incidents or from natural causes.
  • The IRA killed almost twice the number of British soldiers in one year (1972) as Iraqi insurgents have killed over more than three years.