I suppose, like most of my comrades, I could have soldiered at Southport for the duration, but soon sinister rumours began to spread of another move to a camp somewhere out in the wilds, and for once the rumour proved to be true.
Early one morning the entire brigade entrained for Bettisfield Park Camp[1], and after a journey lasting all day, with infuriating delays whilst we were shunted into sidings to make way for other troop trains bound for more important destinations, we were ultimately unloaded at a tiny, wayside station in the heart of the wilderness. We were then told in the gathering darkness, to get ready for another route march.
The weather had broken during the day, and as we marched through the camp gates ankle-deep in viscid mud, the leading files struck up with the chorus: “When you’re a long, long way from home.” Its real implications were just beginning to dawn on us.
The camp was still in process of construction; all the huts were new and the moment one stepped off the macadam road leading to headquarters one was knee-deep in slush. For some obscure reason the site chosen was a sort of amphitheatre sloping down to a small lake, the huts being erected at various stages up the slope.
We were surrounded on all sides by an impenetrable jungle, an extensive pine forest where I at least spent many happy hours studying the habits of jays and red squirrels.
LEISURE MOMENTS
As we were miles from the nearest village, there was little else I could do in my leisure moments, as the canteen and recreation-room had little attraction for me.
Of course, as an alternative I might curl up on my bed in the hut with a book, providing I could close my ears to the interminable games of “housey-housey” (which I am given to understand was the prototype of “Bingo”) or “Crown and Anchor”, which last was the cause of many a barrack-room argument, often terminating in a free fight.
But, by and large, life at Bettisfield Park bored me to distraction. The same old bugle-call announcing Reveille day after day, the hasty gulping down of a steaming decoction said to be tea but known as “gunfire”, the same old half-hour of physical “jerks” on the parade -ground and then breakfast, followed by hut inspection and muster parade.
After a close scrutiny by an eagle-eyed sergeant-major, who looked behind our buttons for traces of “soldier’s friend” and searched for traces of unshaven beard on faces that had never felt a razor, we broke up into detachments under our respective instructors.
Two incidents from this period stand out in my mind. The first arose from the cancellation of all Christmas leave by the colonel as a disciplinary measure for some lack of smartness on parade, which resulted in a mass exodus of determined camp-breakers.
They swarmed out after darkness and stowed away aboard slow-moving goods trains which passed nearby. Some were absent without leave for over a fortnight and not a few returned under escort.
There was some talk of courts-martial, but ultimately wiser counsels prevailed and defaulters’ drill and confinement to barracks was the extent of the punishment meted out by our commanding officer, more in sorrow than in anger. Probably he realised he had given the men some justification for mutiny.
The second incident was provoked by a very youthful and callow second-lieutenant who had obviously just been posted, and was airing his uniform for the first time. At regular intervals, he would emerge from the officers’ mess, stroll importantly past the guard-room, acknowledge the guard’s salute with an airy wave of his cane and then retrace his steps. This went on until the corporal of the guard could stand it no longer.
“Aw’ll learn yon mon a lesson he’ll not forget in a hurry,” he declared.
“Who the ‘ell does he think he is, Kitchener?”
“What’s on your mind, corporal?” I asked. I was doing my first two-hour stretch at the time.
“Never thee mind, lad,” he said, with a sinister wink, “Just give me th ‘ griffin when tha sees him comin’ again.”
Sure enough, a few minutes later the dapper little figure emerged from the front of the officers’ mess and headed majestically in my direction. I gave a discreet whistle.
“Guard, turn out,” roared the corporal, and as the abashed youngster drew level he gave the order: “Present Arms.” I have never seen a man so embarrassed in all my life as was that unfortunate second-lieutenant.
He blushed scarlet, stared wildly at the imposing line of staring eyes and rigid rifles, muttered something about a mistake in his rank and then fled.
“Slope arms; dismiss.” said the corporal, solemnly, and after that all was peace.
[1] Bettisfield Park RFA training camp was constructed in the Deer Park of the mansion called Bettisfield Park, Flintshire, a home of the Hanmer family. It lay between Whitchurch (Shropshire) and Ellesmere.
Remembering the First World War 