The Banker (Part 4): Reporting for Training

Midday on the day stipulated for Findlay to report for training he showed up in his customary banker’s outfit. The Drill Hall was a hive of activity. None arriving that day had yet been issued with a stitch of military kit. Uniforms, webbing and a rifle would be issued at their destination training base.

Findlay duly joined a long queue, following the shouted instructions of NCOs as the new recruits dutifully filed into the precinct. Clutching his “call-up” instructions, Findlay presented himself to a lance-corporal. His specific orders were located among the rows of files stacked alphabetically behind the clerical division.

He was assigned to a contingent destined for training in Ladysmith, Natal. He was now committed to a field force for training. While he was digesting all of this new information that had clearly been determined behind the scenes at the Drill Hall Headquarters, his ears were assaulted by a cacophony of non-Commissioned Officers yelling at all and sundry. The scene, from Findlay’s perspective, was a confusing array of noises and physical movement. Corporals herded the recruits as sheep would be. Like a bewildered lamb he found himself amongst an equally perplexed troop of fellow volunteers.

The next sequence of events unfolded rapidly. A platoon commander, Lieutenant Barry, and a Corporal, whose name he had already forgotten in the unsettling confusion, gave a crash course in basic marching skills. This was to facilitate their transfer to the Park Train Station on Rissik Street in downtown Johannesburg. The technique would be acquired en route to the station as a stream of curse words honed on the slower learners amongst them.

“Platooooooon, attenshun!!!!”

The response wasn’t instant. The sound of foot-stamping by would-be soldiers coming to attention was more like that of a Vickers machine gun than a platoon performing in unison. More yells of obvious displeasure punctured the chaotic atmosphere.

“By the right, Quiiiiiiiiiiiick much!”

The makeshift platoon was on its way through the streets of Johannesburg, heading for Park Station.

Upon arrival at the station, empty carriages were already waiting to receive “human cargo.” More bellowing followed. Finally, all the troops were addressed by Lieutenant Barry.

Barry was the quintessential army officer. Soft-spoken, in stark contrast to the NCOs. He spoke to the troops in measured tones. Barry made it clear that he expected impeccable behaviour on the troop train to Ladysmith. The men were admonished to surrender any alcohol they may have been secreting away in their civilian suitcases. Drunk and disorderly conduct would not be tolerated.

Immediately after the officer had spoken, the military police on duty to oversee the troop trains searched their bags to remove any contraband. After each had been rifled through, the young fellow was instructed to board the train and shown to his compartment and bunk for the overnight journey.

Only when the train accommodated all the “citizen” troops were parents, girlfriends and wives permitted near the men. Through crowded compartment windows did the hugs, tears and kisses make their way to stoic, slightly embarrassed, fellows. Perish the thought that these men showed weakness in front of the more self-composed of their fellow-travellers. Findlay was spared this because his only relatives and his sweetheart were in Durban. His bank colleagues he had kept at a respectful, professional distance.

The loud shriek of the conductor’s whistle signalled imminent departure.

Slowly, a steam locomotive severed the emotional families from their soldier boys as it chugged its way out of the station. They were leaving behind civilian life. On board the chaps began to figure out who the strangers were who shared the six-berth compartments. Initially the atmosphere was somewhat subdued as they processed the experiences of the day. It would not take long for this to loosen and for the banter of young men to commence.

The first stop en route was Germiston – a massive railway shunting yard. It would not be the last stop on this journey. This troop train seemed to stop at every siding along the way. It was late afternoon before the first rations—rather meagre and dripping with cooking oil—were issued from the ration carriage.

Aboard, the military police kept a semblance of order in the early stages of the Ladysmith journey.

©Paul M Haupt

The Banker — (Part 4) Reporting for Training.  A visual interpretation of Johannesburg in 1939–40 and Findlay Nicholson's transition from bank clerk to soldier. Image generated with AI for this story.