The Banker (Part 6) – Ladysmith

Still in civilian clothes, the rookies were formed into makeshift platoons. They were then marched out of the station and instructed to clamber onto the waiting army trucks for the trip to the Ladysmith military base. The men jostled for a place on the open load beds of the trucks. Findlay found his back against the steel drop-down side of a Ford 3-ton lorry. Other recruits stepped on his legs as he shuffled into a spot for the trip to the base. The trucks sagging to one side, this would clearly not be a comfortable ride.

Once everyone was aboard, the Ford V8 petrol engines sputtered to life. Findlay’s transport gasped and coughed as the driver coaxed the overloaded lorry into motion. The driver ground the transmission into low gear and the noisy beast edged forward. The engine backfired, and the lorry lurched.

From his awkward position between limbs and smelly torsos, Findlay noted that the driver deserved full marks for not missing a single pothole en route. It was a rite of passage for new soldiers. Accelerating before hitting a rut in the road jerked the men towards the back of the matte khaki lorry. Then, braking with full force, their bodies were slung towards the cab. Indignant shouts and curses were directed at the driver and the Corporal up front, causing the two to double over with mirth.

Pummelled, “green” recruits baled out of the cargo bed of the lorry upon arrival at the base. Bellowing NCOs herded them into squads to be marched to a waiting “welcoming committee” headed by a rotund Sergeant Major Anderson. He addressed the chaps in a comical high-pitched voice that belied his massive frame and fearsome disposition. His high-pitched utterances set his handlebar moustache quivering, while his left eye twitched in apparent indignation. Findlay’s amusement remained a private affair, for fear of unleashing retribution. All the lads apprehensively stifled a chuckle.

Off the squads marched at the end of Sergeant Major Anderson’s harangue. Destination: Quartermaster’s Stores for the issuing of kit.

The stores were gigantic. Trestle tables had been set up and were manned by Privates, overseen by NCOs. These fellows were adept at processing large numbers of soldiers. A glance at a recruit would be sufficient to determine approximate uniform size. Boots were issued by a particularly skilled soldier who had the rare quirk of being able to determine boot size based on the size of the hands. Alas, Findlay’s doubts about the accuracy of this measuring technique were put to rest when he eventually tried them on. There were no fitting rooms or mirrors, mind you. Ill-fitting kit would be exchanged later... much later. Many of the troops resolved these issues by swopping amongst themselves.

The queue proceeded much like an assembly line. Thick cylindrical canvas kit bags filled up rapidly as they shuffled forward to the final “station.” There the tin trunks and webbing were handed out. The adjacent Armoury issued .303 bolt action Lee-Enfield rifles. No ammunition, though.

A few signatures later, an interminable number of forms were completed. Ushered out of hastily repurposed buildings, they were then on their way from stores to barracks. Findlay and his new buddies figured out how to help one another to carry the heavy load. Two tin trunks were stacked on top of each other. Kitbags were slung over their shoulders. They awkwardly lugged these to their sleeping quarters.

Findlay was amongst those fortunate to have been assigned to a metal bunk in a corrugated iron barracks. The overflow was accommodated in old-style bell tents. A musty smell left hanging by previous contingents of soldiers permeated the sleeping quarters.

An hour or so later, newly “minted” recruits in their khaki uniforms were marched off to the mess hall for the serious business of sampling army fare. Dixies in hand, more queuing ...

©Paul M Haupt

 

The Banker — (Part 6)  Ladysmith. A visual interpretation of Findlay Nicholson's further transition from bank clerk to soldier. Image generated with AI for this story.