Since I left Harrogate  by Tony Bunclark

A very, very brief potted history since I left Harrogate.

I was first posted to Germany for about three years, the first posting I cannot for the life of me remember where, but I cannot forget the last place, it was a god forsaken place called Hohne, right in the middle of miles and miles of tank training ground, and only a couple of miles from Belsen, I remember a dive called the "Snake Pit" don't know if any of the guys have ever been there.

From there I was formed in to part of a roving troop of Royal Signals, and then was attached to the Royal Artillery, the object being to teach the gunners radio, Morse etc, I was sent to Malacca in Malaysia, and attached to the 25 Medium Regiment (RA), we were based with Kiwi's, Aussie's and Gurkha's, and believe me we had a few fair old scraps with the lot of them, I was always a gobby little sod, so guess who nearly always started the trouble, but we always after a few battles all finished up as mates.

I was there for about three years I think, but then I picked up a nasty little infection that affected my hearing very badly, I was sent to the military hospital in Singapore, had a few operations, but it did not cure it, it was that bad that I could not tell the dots from the dashes and sometimes did not hear them at all, you can imagine what that did for the aiming of the big guns, anyway, they had no choice and I was finally sent back to the UK for a medical discharge.

I did all sorts of jobs since then, mostly in sales (no point being gobby for nothing), but I finally finished up being a professional photographer, and I now run my own wedding photography business, only a one man band, but always have plenty of work on, I have my own web site, and if any of the guys are interested they can view it at tonybunclarkphotographic.co.uk. There will always be a good discount for any of the lads.

I have been married and divorced three times, and currently am dating a lady from Northern Ireland, don't know where that will lead, always was a randy old b...... Hence the three marriages.

One Night at 22  by Phil Crone

It wasn't long after arriving at 22 that I felt the horror of Weissenburg beer, the local brew of Lippstadt. I can taste it now. In my room, there was a bloke called Ernie Reid. Sober, nicest bloke you could meet. Drunk? Lethal.

One night in the dead of winter, he and I went for a drink down town at the Keller Bar. That was a kiss of death. Dressed only in squaddy attire, slacks, shirt, light jacket, we staggered out of the bar at god knows what time o'clock, couldn't get a cab, and started walking. On the way, we passed the local church which was having renovations done to it, with a tower crane alongside. Ernie, the sod, dared me to climb the tower, and like a fool, I did, with Ernie a close second.

Unbeknownst to us, two local boys in green had seen us scaling the tower and drove over in their nice warm VW, and stopped at the bottom of the tower, just waiting for us. We didn't know they knew, so there we stayed, waiting for them to go. They never did of course.

After about 20 minutes, with the local change getting smaller and the rest of us getting stiffer, we struggled down, thinking "watch your fingers" when they took us back to Churchill Barracks. As we went up to them, one of the Polizei just rolled his window down, asked if we were cold, told him yes. All he said was guten nacht, and drove off. Still no taxi and we had to walk. I have never been so cold in my LIFE. And needless to say, I never went out with Reid again. Good ole 22.

How Well I Remember  by Gats Gatenby

How well I remember the main entrance to the barracks and the incongruous wooden hut just inside on the right. Standing to attention at the window while the duty reptile asked for a number and checked you back in.

I had the dubious pleasure of residing in said hut after one of my indiscretions and was subjected to the RP school of thought, where in you were rifted everywhere at the speed of sound in a world that has no right turn just a swift three left turns. As you remember the RP staff was mostly a collection of Jocks with no rank other than that of policeman to the unwary.

On the day I passed of the square I dressed in the uniform that sported the one stripe of a lance jack and went down to the guardroom. The reptile squad was obliged to spring to their feet and looked at me preparing for a (return) bollocking but I just bid them farewell and wandered off. Smug Git !!!!!

I was out by 1969 and worked for the Mod (Navy) before going to South Africa with Siemens, eventually returning to work for Ericsson, and Motorola with whom I travelled variously to Africa, Russia, SE Asia, which included a trip back to Aden - which was by then a greater bog than it was for the two years I was there before. North and South Yemen was pretty much the same and as an 'infidel' was treated with suspicion. Had a little excursion to Angola which was interesting but as crappy as you would expect.

Now I am off to Jakarta in November to look for a post to teach English as a foreign language (who would have thought) so if you come across an Indonesian who speaks like a Pompey Mush, then they are one of mine.

Sorry to have missed the reunion but I had dropped off the radar and didn't hear about it.

Good luck to all and remember "faint heart never f****d a chocolate pig".

Gats

Memories of Harrogate  by Dave (Tojo) Ray

Why did I join and what are my memories of Harrogate Army Apprentices School back in the autumn and winter of 1961?

I grew up in Wood Green, Tottenham in North London. I made the mistake of passing my 11+. My father had recently worked for Hornsey Borough Council as a painter and decorator and was involved in painting the Stationers' Company's School, one of these direct grant grammar schools. He was impressed with the school and put it down as my first choice. It was out of the borough I lived in required a bus journey and all my mates went to local schools. The masters at Stationers' all wore gowns and mortar boards, something I had only seen up till then in the Beano and Dandy comics! There had been only 3 headmasters over 100 years since it was founded by the guild of stationers. Detention featured regularly for me and the threat of canning wasn't far away. I hated it and searched for some way of quitting. I saw an advert about joining the Army as a boy apprentice and wrote off for more information. Two recruiting sergeants turned up in quick time, arriving one evening when Coronation Street was on the TV (black and white with Ena Sharples - in its first year?). Not sure if that had any impact on my father agreeing but I went off to Albany Barracks near Great Portland Street to complete various educational and intelligence test papers and then a medical in May 1961. This was followed by a visit to the Millbank Eye Hospital to see if my eye sight was OK. They said I was short sighted and that I would have to wear corrective lenses for life (it took till 1995 to prove them wrong with laser surgery) and then on 22nd August 1961 in Kentish Town I was signed up, sworn in and put on unpaid leave until the 5th September 1961.

I travelled up from London on the train from Kings Cross. I met another new apprentice who may have been Roger Courtney but I am not sure. I vaguely remember being taken in a 3-tonner, with others, to Hildebrand Barracks and being issued with 'kit'. We were told to put the kit on, alright for those ex-cadets etc., who knew how web belts went together, but for me a little confusing and I was totally bemused by "drawers cellular" and what I called "short long johns". The day after arriving I signed an Official Secrets Act declaration.

I remember the nightly flesh inspections both to check that we were washing ourselves and also not smoking. Smoking was banned during the first 6 weeks of basic training and against the law if you were not yet 16. I had been a chain smoker since I was 11! I remember the first time being allowed out to Harrogate and going to the cinema after buying a packet of fags (Bachelors?) and then lighting up in the back row. I immediately felt extremely sick and have not smoked since - must have saved me a fortune. For me basic training was marching around with your arms going up to shoulder level and that, together with the white shoulder tabs, clearly identified you as a rookie. Larry Freeman was our permanent staff platoon sergeant, a decent guy but boy did we frustrate him at times, particularly on the parade square.

Learning to bull boots using a spoon handle heated by a candle to flatten the pimples and then hours of spit and polish to try and get a deep shine. I seem to remember Pete Godley was really good at that but my efforts left a lot to be desired. I also burnt the impression of the spoon handle into my finger ends on several occasions! Bulling chin straps with brown boot polish left you with nicotine like stains on your fingers - a problem with the flesh inspections. What about the haircuts! I remember Larry Freeman going down the lines on parade shortly after we had arrived barking HAIRCUT, HAIRCUT, HAIRCUT until he came to me. As I had recently had a crew cut I had very little hair on my head. There was a pause and then he barked HAIRCUT at me. No breaking the habits of a lifetime! I seem to recall spending my entire army career trying to get away with long hair. Once I was out there were no restrictions so the hair was allowed to grow to extreme lengths - see the Scotland 1970 photo. To digress, I once went to my daughter's 5th term boarding school open day (one of my few UK visits) in a dark suit, dark glasses and a pony tail, arriving in a white Mercedes looking like a member of drugs cartel. She tells me that actually went down quite well with her classmates.

Anyway back to Harrogate. How about pay? Was it 2 guineas a week, did we get a pound one week and 10 shillings the next with the rest going into a post office savings account? I seem to recall most of the 10s went on polish Blanco and Brasso.

Then came trade training and for the first time something I could do. 100% on the first test together with Dixon, B platoon(?). Next I remember near the end of 1st term the medical check up (PULHEEMS - is that how you spell it?). Anyway the MO found a large lump (a giant cyst) on the back of my right knee. Before I knew it I was whisked off to Catterick military hospital for an operation to remove it. The rest of the ward patients were somewhat older than me and mostly much longer service soldiers. They and the nurses were a real eye opener to me in many ways which I won't go into here. The operation was done in quick time and then after a few days it was time to remove the stitches - no self-dissolving stitches in those days. The nurse came in with a pair of cutters and a pair of pliers. First she cut through the stitch loops on the surface, and then she grabbed the now loose end and yanked with the pliers. After the first one you knew she was going to do it again another 21 times. Well at least when I left the army I had a fairly respectable scar - not that many have seen it.

The operation meant that I missed the senior term graduation that term, the move up to Uniacke Barracks and the first night up there where the 8th term soon to be 9th term, had to prove they were now the new senior term. I arrived back at Harrogate in an Austin champ from the hospital after all the apprentices had left. I was given my kit bag with all my civvies in, but those clothes had been screwed up into a ball and were totally unwearable. I therefore went home in my uniform (stamped inside WD - War Department - pre 1st World War) which was virtually identical to the one worn by my grandfather in a photograph I have of him in 1899 when he was a new recruit in the Duke of Cornwall's Light Infantry. Actually wearing the uniform worked out quite well as the train from Leeds to London was full. As I boarded and was looking for a seat, a ticket inspector came up to me and asked if I was in the Army. I replied yes and showed him my ID card. He then found me a seat in the Pullman Car. I suspect he may have worn the uniform himself previously, or was it his father that it reminded him of?

Now onto my ID card. The photo was taken with me wearing my army issued spectacles with the flat, thin metal sides. I think John Lennon made them fashionable a few years later. When the ID photo was taken the sun had reflected on one of the lenses and the effect was that I appeared to be missing one eye. I had that ID card at least all of my boy service. I am not sure if it was the ID card or my general appearance that resulted in, I think, permanent staff CSM Wallder of C Company calling me Tojo. I did rather look like a Japanese army POW in the photo. This nickname followed me through most of my army service but was lost in the mists of time when I left in 1969 until it was recently resurrected recently by a couple of 61C members with long memories.

So that's really all I currently remember of the 1st term. More to follow on later years if I can recall it.

A Bloke Called Fairey  by Phil Crone

Whilst at 16, we had to go to a place called Merzig and set up comms on a small plateau on top of a VERY high hill. The wind howled continuously, so care was taken to set up the 48' masts. Remember them, walk up 36', then winch up the remaining 12? They were good kit, and they stood up to the gales well.

Our troop o/c was a bloke called, would you believe, Fairey. Who on gods earth I ask is called Fairey? Anyway, yours truly lost a halyard up the mast, so I had to go up and retrieve it. No big deal, it was safe enough with the stay plates to rest on. Until Fairey came out of his bivvy. He saw me up there, with the mast at a slight angle, and thought the thing was falling down. So he went to the pulley securing the top sections, thinking to pull the mast vertical. He loosened the wing nut, and immediately, his hand became trapped in the pulley. There was me, hanging 48' up, secured only by Faireys hand in the peg pulley. One of the lads retightened the wing nut, and I eventually got down.

His hand was a MESS, really chewed up. I went over to him, and threatened him with death if he did anything as stupid as that again. There was absolute silence from the lads, 7 of 'em. Fairey looked at me, and went off to his bivvy, and me wondering what 28 days in Colly was like. Nothing happened, but I bet he looks at those scars today and thinks about me. Ahhhh, sweet memories.

Recollections  by Keith Stanton

I arrived at my first posting, 22 Sigs, in September, having just become 18. Young, keen and innocent. I quickly realized that BAOR was not the life for me.

By January I was on my way to the UN in Cyprus. After two tours there I had learned to drink in many languages and was becoming the army's expert in escaping from the passenger seat of rolling landrovers. I was then supposed to return to 22 Sigs, but while I was on leave I took two life enhancing actions. I learnt to drive; and I went to the Signals Records Office and arranged to be seconded to the Federal Regular Army in Aden.

Aden, extra pay and an interesting time was eventually spoilt by the Brits pulling out in late 1967. Except for my T1 and a 2 month detour to 30 Sigs I spent the rest of my time within the SAS group. I also gained a very understanding wife and then 2 great children. I left at the end of 1991 and had to look for a real job.

I spent the next 17 years as a Technical Investigation Officer for the Communications Regulator. In 2008 I took the redundancy package and became a professional Grandpa, a semi professional wino, a keen planner of projects around the house and failed miserably to even register on the listings for the worlds worst banjo player.

In 2010 I started a part time job driving the after hours GPs around Herefordshire. I figured that now I am nearly a real pensioner the more doctors that I am on first name terms with, the better. The down side is that when I finish a shift and drive off in my own car I forget that it hasn't got "Doctor", plastered all over it and I can't understand why the traffic is not so considerate.

My Nemesis  by Mick Wells

Mick Auty was my nemesis.

Four of us had returned to 30 Sigs in Blandford from secondment to 19 Sigs in Singapore. Col Piddington was the CO at 19, so he wrote us glowing reports. Unknown to us there had been a scandal of homosexuality at 30 Sigs, in our absence. And rumours had spread throughout the Corps, even without t'internet.

Mick Auty was shuttled in with us four on CO's orders in front of Col Roper. Mick went off on one, about not wanting to be posted into a regiment of queers. Col Roper went nuts and ripped up all the reports and threw us out.

That left me stuck in Blandford for the next 3 years, never doing my trade. Gerry Bannister, Jack Carpenter, and Roger Viney all found a tunnel and escaped, but I'll bet they all had problems with lack of trade experience.

Despite that I have loads of good memories of my time in the Corps, and the characters and friends I made.

The Homosexual scandal? That was a Cpl Holloway, a noted girl magnet, but with a very camp manner. He was offered a very good job in civvy street, but being a technician, couldn't buy himself out. He worked out that anyone gay would be court martialled and dismissed, but without close arrest before, or prison after the trial.

He wrote love letters to an accomplice in 2 Div, who complained and set things in motion.  The squadron clerk typing up the charge sheet thought it was a wonderful wheeze, so he joined Keith Holloway as partner in crime.

Weeks after his discharge Keith toured the camp in an E type Jaguar, with a beautiful girl alongside him.

The Great Escape - or When We All Went Diffy  by Dave Waterhouse 

Mass walk-outs are not common among soldiers, even apprentices. It's not as though we were conscripts, after all, and the military can be a bit po-faced about that sort of thing, so how did it happen, one summer's evening in 1962, that a sizeable bunch of us at Harrogate went over the wall? And more interestingly, where did we go and what did we do when we got there?

I only have some of the answers - others may care to add to this tale of wilful insurrection.

As a recruit you accept that wall-to-wall BS is par for the course, in the expectation that things will slacken off a bit after basic training and at least some of your time will be your own. And that's more or less how it was for us - B Platoon, 61c - until we moved up to B Coy and met our new A/T Corporal. I won't name him, since what I'm about to describe doesn't cast him in a particularly complimentary light. We'll just call him The Bastard, or TB for short.

Either TB genuinely believed we were a lazy, incompetent bunch who had learnt nothing, or he felt he had much to prove about himself. I am inclined to the latter view. TB had us on a regime of room inspections every day - bedpacks, gleaming floors - and stand-by-your-bed kit inspections every night, which is what recruits have to endure for their first six weeks. Once all that was over, of course, we still had to press and clean our working kit for the next day. Come the summer, power complex still unsatisfied, TB came up with the wheeze of issuing every night an extra list of kit to be pressed, blancoed, polished or whatever and left out on our beds in the morning to be inspected while we were away at trade training. So that's two kit inspections, every day, on top of everything else.

Morale hit rock bottom. By now we had been in the army for the better part of a year, and yet every waking moment outside the classroom was spent cleaning, polishing or being inspected. I think being made to bull our shoes, not a huge thing in itself, may have been the last straw. (Best boots, of course, all over; working boots, toes and heels; but shoes?)

There were altercations, and TB came closer than he ever knew to being given a serious seeing to, but eventually non-violence prevailed. I've no idea how it happened - there weren't any mass meetings or anything - but somehow it became known that we were going. And we did: one night in the second week of June almost all of us just walked out.

We'd seen the prisoner of war films, of course. We weren't so soft as to march out of the gate in a squad, but in small groups we got out of Uniacke Barracks under cover of darkness and were on our way.

Some of us got further than others. I think Vic Hayward may have taken the distance record, making it all the way to Southend, and Gats Gatenby also made it to somewhere in the South, by means best glossed over at this distance in time. They were also the last back. Others had mixed fortunes -  close to the A1, in the early hours of the morning, Mick Wells, Rob Gallagher, Gerry Bannister and John Melvin were arrested and locked up by the police. Mick still has the letter in which the company commander gravely informed his father that Mick had "absented himself from the school for five hours".

I went with Bill Matthew and Bob Wringe - if there was a fourth, I'm afraid I've forgotten who it was. I'm not sure whether we had a plan but we headed north, walking through the night, and ended up in Thirsk, about twenty miles from Harrogate. I think we got a lift part of the way.

If you've been to Thirsk you will know that it's a pleasant Yorkshire town on a river. We decided to stop there, and spent several days lazing about by the river and sleeping rough: it was a warm summer and I don't remember any particular discomfort. I do remember that we dozed off in the sun one afternoon - Bill, in a string vest, got an interesting red and white lattice pattern on his chest; I slept bare-chested with a hand on my stomach and woke up bright red with a brilliant white handprint that remained visible for weeks. We lived on tinned food, biscuits and soft drinks from local shops. And there might have been the odd can of beer.

We were always going to go back when we'd made our point, and when we finally ran out of money we surrendered ourselves to the police in Thirsk. The constable on the desk was quite amused but his sergeant took a different view, had the belts and laces off us, and locked us up in the cells - the only time in my life I've ever been locked up. Eventually our Sgt Pattinson arrived in a 15cwt truck (remember those?), signed for our live bodies and escorted us back to camp.

Expecting close arrest, we were surprised just to be sent back to our billets and told when to present ourselves for CO's orders. I think they'd got the message. So far as I can remember, we were the last back apart from Vic and Gats.

CO's orders was a ritual. We got seven days RoPs from Col North, "instead of the detention you so richly deserve". As is customary on these occasions, the CO demanded to know whether we had anything to say for ourselves. The correct answer is "No, sir!", but I felt so completely stupid standing there saying nothing that I spoke up and explained why we had done what we'd done. It made no difference, of course - the outcome was decided before we even went in. And the army never admits that it's wrong, but all the stupid inspections stopped. I've no idea what was said, but I'd love to have been a fly on the wall on the first day when TB was invited to explain how he had managed to lose most of a platoon overnight.

Not too long afterwards I found myself on an NCOs' cadre course and was promoted to Lance Corporal - not something I'd ever expected, and I think other people were as surprised as I was. It's an old army trick to promote a troublemaker, though, and I've often wondered whether, because I spoke up in front of the CO, they thought I had been a ringleader. I certainly wasn't - I just went along with the rest. Still, it's an ill wind...

September 1961  by Phil Crone

September 1961. A year I'll never forget for one reason or another. The main one being joining the army. Just bear in mind, I lived at Harrogate. Anyway, I arrived at PPL, Uniacke Barracks, was given this load of stiff, mothball smelling clothing, and boots like sea anchors. I was shown to my room, and told to get changed, just like that. I hadn't a clue what to do; gaiters on upside down, a beret like a surfboard, and all those strange denims and buckles, the room smelling of disinfectant and wax polish. I kid you not, I felt totally lost; imprisoned 3 miles from home.

And to put another nail in a very big coffin, my Platoon Sgt was Taff Mann, Royal Welch Fusiliers. I used to deliver MILK to his house when I was a schoolboy, and around 6 a.m. every morning, he'd walk out of his house and head off to the wilderness that was Penny Pot Lane, after saying a cheery good morning. No more cheery good mornings after the first day. No more "Phillip's", just pure purgatory for 3 years. Years later I wondered if he pulled some strings to get me into D Platoon; he wasn't so bad, but I wish he hadn't, he knew my dad.

The next person into the room, after what seemed an age, was I think Brian Nesbitt-Clark. I must have looked like a lost puppy, but being an old squaddy, I was able to give him all the gen. All the gen; I'd only been there a couple of hours my self! Anyway you all trickled in, and by the time for "tea" we were more or less all accounted for, except the colonials - Dave Smith, Mick Nevill, and Pete Emmerson, all from then Rhodesia. Incidentally, anybody know happened to Pete??

My first meal - tea came around, and I knew we'd arrived in hell. My mum's cooking wasn't cordon bleu, but next to the slop we were given, it seemed like it in hindsight. The one person who stuck in my mind in the cookhouse was BIG LEN, a Londoner who didn't seem to give a damn about anything, but had a great sense of humor. I remember some months later, he got in a punch up with another kitchen staff member. It didn't last long. As Len took of his jacket off, had a sachet of pepper tacked inside the sleeve; he just threw the pepper in the bloke's face, punched the doodie out of him and that was it. Len got fired for that.

Anyway, time passed as time does, and were kicked into some semblance of military smartness, and we went our different ways in the school, Techs, Radio Telegs learning our future professions. And they tried to educate as well if I'm not mistaken. That was a foggy blur; I thought I'd left all that behind. Remember being set free on Harrogate after 6 weeks? It was ok for all you guys - I lived there, and had suffer the slings of outrageous mickey taking from my old school pals.

We had choices of hobbies at AAC, and I went into the Corps of Drums along with some of the other lads. Our boss was Drummy Hall, a great guy who I had a lot of time for, but could he hoover it down! Until then, I'd never seen a man put a pint down so quick. And beer, remember the beer? TETLEYS. If you thought the bottom was dropping out of your world, 6 pints of that stuff, (at our age), and you thought the world was dropping out of your bottom next morning. I digress.

Anyway, 2 years and 9 months passed by, and there we were, SENIOR TERM. Into the senior term block we went, trade tests, mil training, preparing for the big leap into the regular army. That was a truly hectic 3 months, and went past so quickly, ending in our Passing Out Parade. And that was it really; we all disappeared for leave, vowing to keep in touch, but we never did. Now we can change all that.

Postings  by Mick Wells

You all remember how seeing your first posting, you grabbed the nearest permanent staff member and asked them what it would be like.

Gerry Bannister, Jack Carpenter, Roger Viney and myself were posted to 30 Sigs. Everyone we asked just burst out laughing!

I had other things on my mind, I was getting married on the Saturday.

30 Sigs at Blandford Camp was where they sent the people they didn't want, or hopefully in our case, those they weren't sure what to do with. Our SSM told us to look busy and keep moving during working hours. Fortunately us four were flown to 19 Sigs on a six month secondment, me and Rog to Changi, Gerry and Jack to Kuching. That was the only time I ever practised my trade. Lt Col Piddington was posted in from Harrogate, and wrote us glowing reports. Reports that Lt Col Roper at 30 Sigs tore up in front of us and binned. Why?

I did two years of basically fatigues, painted tanks, trucks, cleaned floors, Regimental Policeman and quarterguards.

Then at last a posting, to the School of Signals at Blandford!

I retrained as Radio Relay Tech, did a driving course, blagged my way through a T2, came top in the cadre course, too easy for an ex apprentice, and made corporal in 1968. Then I spent two years driving a 3 tonner, chauffering officers on exercise. The last years I went back to 19 Sigs at Amoy Quee to look after the microwave system. I hadn't a clue what I was doing, but kept moving and looking busy. But it was a great posting socially, my family loved it. Towards the regiment's disbandment, we found excuses for parties every night.

But by 1972 I was so far behind my peers, and so weak at my trade, it was time to start anew. I took demob, and worked for 18 months in instruments in BNFL, then switched to Rank Xerox, a home for retired ex apprentices. Richard Ross, Reg Jones, Brian Bingham, Roy Theaker, Dave Wilby, Don Burns and an ex AT CSM, you of C Coy may remember, Keith Truscott 59c. If you ever pass through Aberdeen, have a look in the rail booking office, he is still working there.

Xerox was 37 happy, hard years, doing what I wanted to do.

In 2000 I took early retirement, and went back part time, as my wife's health had begun to fade. Sadly I lost her in 2006, I had known her since third term, so it was a terrible time. Fortunately I have good family and friends around me.

I still keep busy as a part time gofer for Xerox at Airbus at Chester.

I look forward to meeting you all in October and hearing what happened to you.

A career - or a series of happy accidents?  by Dave Waterhouse

Since I had to leave school anyway, I decided to join the RAF as an engineering apprentice and I sent off the form from the recruiting advert in a newspaper. Purely to placate my father, an old soldier, I sent off the army one as well. The RAF sent me a booklet a month or so later; the army had a colour sergeant from Chester knocking on our door three days after I sent the form.

Years later, in Salalah, I met some RAF technicians and realised that I'd had a lucky escape.

I was interested in radio, and I told the PSO I wanted to be a radio technician in the REME. He told me I could be a radio technician, but they didn't have those in REME so I would have to join Royal Signals. He was right, but only insofar as REME called them telecommunications technicians. A little ignorance goes a long way.

And so, in September 1961, I arrived at the Army Apprentices School, Harrogate. I've never regretted it. I enjoyed almost all of my time at Harrogate; I made friends; the training was good and I got a lot out of it. I got to know some ex-Arborfield apprentices later, and I think we had a much better time of it at Harrogate.

As well as all the stuff we did in barracks, of course, we also spent time out in the Yorkshire Dales, on what I think we called Outward Bound exercises. That was all very new to me, but it made a lasting impression and I've been back many times since, both on family holidays and solo backpacking.

I also met my future wife.

After Harrogate, it was off to 256/257 Signal Squadron in Dortmund, in the company of Mick Staples and Chris Strong (ex 61b), to support the army's two Corporal Missile regiments. This was my first and only Royal Signals posting. I enjoyed it - I think it's a characteristic of people who adapt to army life that you get stuck in and make the best of wherever you are - but it had a major downside: I wasn't going anywhere as a technician. Exercises were okay, but between exercises we got very little time to work on equipment. The time we did get was regarded as a concession and was resented - technicians making an excuse of their trade to avoid "proper" work, such as cleaning and painting wagons, of which we seemed to do an inordinate amount.

I did get some early experience as an instructor, however. We were among the first technicians to be taught SSB and ISB techniques, as used on D11/R230. I arrived in Dortmund at the same time as the D11, and on the Foreman's annual refresher course I found myself, nineteen years old and still wet behind the ears, teaching the intricacies of the double balanced bridge ring modulator and the like to my older, more experienced colleagues. To my surprise, I found not only that I could do it but that I enjoyed it. I picked up other technical instruction jobs in the squadron and put teaching on the list of possible future careers.

A year into the job Mick Staples and I were hauled in front of the OC, one Major Savage, and given what amounted to a bollocking. The gist of it was, "I'm promoting you both to corporal, but only because I have to - now get out." I don't think he was entirely comfortable with the concept of time promotion.

Ex 61c technicians may remember that we became eligible for promotion to sergeant after five years, in 1969, provided we were recommended and qualified. There was a bar exam for entry to T1 training and I applied to take it in 1967. I was turned down on the grounds that it would only be valid for two years and there was no prospect of my getting a course in that time. So at this early point in my career it was already determined that I would have no chance of qualifying by the due date. I was starting to learn that career planning in Signals was a joke, and making progress depended largely on being in the right place at the right time.

It fell to me to visit the local REME field workshop on occasion, and there I met technicians just like me, except that they spent almost all of their time on technical work and were getting as much practical experience in a month as I was likely to get in a year. And these lads were going to be the competition when it came to getting jobs in civvy street. I began to worry, and started looking into the possibility of a transfer. As you might imagine, the reaction was not encouraging.

Then there was a call for technicians to transfer to REME under the Odling reorganisation. I volunteered, and transferred in 1967. I don't like to seem disloyal to the corps that gave me my start in life, but that was probably the best decision I ever made and I never looked back. Career planning in REME was totally different, to the extent that when I found myself in a regiment about to go to Malaya - the last British regiment to go - I wasn't allowed to go with them because, by the end of the tour, I would have been due for promotion without having had the chance to qualify, and to the REME that was simply unacceptable.

I had a conventional career in REME, working at the job I'd been trained for, serving in regiments and workshops in BAOR, UK (including the Hebrides) and Cyprus. I made sergeant on the due date, went for artificer selection and ended up as a WO1 Radar Artificer with some time still to go for the pension. I didn't greatly fancy a commission, but I'd decided that teaching in technical colleges was what I wanted to do after the army, and the RAEC offered a year at teacher training college so I went for that.

It turned out to be another good decision. I had an OU degree by now, and as well as the teacher training the RAEC sent me to university for year to do an MSc in Computer Science. I served five years longer than I would have done in the REME, and left with a major's pension.

For me, it's hard to fault the army as an employer. I served thirty years in all, of which around eight were spent in full-time training or education. I was able to move around to meet the needs of my own career development, and I left well qualified for my second career. I think we had the best of it, though: there are no proper apprenticeships any more, and I doubt if a young technician looking to his future will find the service as supportive and accommodating as I did. It's a dangerous business these days, too - separations are more frequent, and inevitably more worrying for families.

(After leaving the army I spent eighteen years teaching computing and microelectronics at a further education college in Leicester, and retired in 2009.)