The Banker (Part 3) - The Drill Hall

No sooner had the Union of South Africa declared war on Germany than young men started to show up to enlist. 

The Union Defence Force (UDF) was wholly unprepared for the administration of such a process. Without formal orders having been issued permitting a volunteer force to mobilise, the UDF bureaucracy was caught flat-footed as queues began to form. The Drill Hall in Twist Street became a hive of activity – outside prospective servicemen, inside clerks scurrying about, chasing their own tails, as it were.

Scores of eager young men were turned away to await official announcements regarding a call to arms. The Defence Force had to get its house in order and the mindset had to change from neutrality to a war footing. The permanent force was itself split on the issue. Many were not willing to sign the Africa Oath for active service on the continent. 

For some months Findlay wrestled with a conundrum that young fellows throughout the Union struggled to resolve. Plausible arguments swirled around him, tugging him in both directions. He was split between commitment to advancing his career and facing inevitable risks as a combatant in the service of a cause that he genuinely believed was worthy. His friends and family were also divided. Peer pressure, too, was significant. Those leaning strongly towards joining the Africa Oath volunteers intimated that not serving was tantamount to a dereliction of duty and cowardice. The choice was, to Findlay, more than simply a political statement. In dealing with his conflicting feelings, it became an issue of “character.”

By late 1939, Findlay had made up his mind. The machinery of recruitment was finally beginning to catch up with the surge of volunteers. It was not without a tinge of trepidation that he joined the queue outside the Drill Hall, though.

The queue!

Findlay was a sharp dresser. This had become part of the warp and woof of his persona, in keeping with his role as a banker. This was the way he pitched up to join the other volunteers. Others showed up in very formal attire. He encountered a diversity of characters – a motley crew, ranging from businessmen to working men in their overalls. Some were  educated and well read, others not. The cultured banker was jolted by a barrage of coarse remarks about the staccato progress of the line.

The queue snaked from makeshift cubicles inside the Drill Hall, out the doors and around several city blocks. The shuffling recruits edged forward relentlessly. Inside the Drill Hall standing gave way to sitting on uncomfortable plywood chairs. As the administration proceeded, gluteus maximus after gluteus maximus shifted inexorably from seat to seat. Findlay could not suppress a wry smirk. 

At long last he found himself engaging with military bureaucracy one-on-one.

The next phase involved registration and a plethora of forms. Names. Birth dates. Birthplaces. Nationality. Address. Then another room for medical classification. Medical examination. Vaccinations. Weight. Measurements.

Then “A1!” was belted out by a corporal recording classification.

Each man was catapulted by a barked order to the next bureaucratic station. Medically fit, he could then attest that he was committing to war service. That was the legally binding moment that would begin to strip away successive layers of civilian life.

Administratively, Findlay was now a soldier. He was given instructions to report for training. At his assigned unit he would be issued with the kit that would immerse him into a new, unfamiliar world – one in which a sharp young banker from Johannesburg would learn to become a soldier.

©Paul M Haupt

The Banker — (Part 3). A visual interpretation of the queue at the Drill Hall. Image generated with AI for this story.