Colin White's Military Honours

Badge of Honour

If you want directions to some obscure location with military precision, then who better to turn to than a member of the said military. 

“Down the A303 in an easterly direction, until you see Stonehenge on the left,” said Staff Sergeant Dave Smythe of The Royal Signals. “Take the next left onto the A345. Past the Larkhill Camp on your left and village of Durrington to your right. 3.5km further on and there’s a track crossing the A345 with two ‘Give Way to Tanks’ signs; one on each side of the road. Turn onto the left track and follow it straight into the base.”

So, I’d turned left at the two traffic warning signs (while wondering why anyone would need telling to give way to two great armoured-tracked cannons), and I was now rumbling down the dried, impacted mud track, grateful it had been scorched hard by the previous two-week heatwave. I was heading towards a large copse of deciduous trees, otherwise known as ‘the base’. 

As I approached the canopy of trees, just to the right of my track, I saw a head in the field. A human head. It was wearing a helmet. Then another head appeared next to the first. This head was smoking. Then, on the side of the track to my right, two more heads. It was only as I drew adjacent to the head collection that I realised they were all safely attached to their own personal torsos and, in fact, standing in human-deep trenches arranged either side of the track. The entrenched soldiers were guarding the entrance to the encampment. Up until this point I had naively thought that trenches were only a First World War artefact; but apparently not.

Entering the copse was rather like crossing a wormhole into some alternative universe,  filled with khaki, camouflaged trucks, trailers, armoured land rovers, tents and cabins. Army personnel were everywhere, walking in all directions, but with purpose. A tall soldier with a clipboard approached my car as I drew to a halt. I opened the window. “Morning, Mr White, Sir. If you could please drive on and pull into that clearing on the left. Sergeant Smythe will meet you there. I believe you know him.” 

And so I did. He had come down to my laboratory in Paignton some weeks earlier to arrange these tests ‘in the field’. Dave had stayed a few days in the bay. We had gone out together in the evening, eaten together, drunk a ‘bevvy’ or two together and I’d shown him the sights of Torbay and South Devon. We had got on very well, and here he was in the clearing, waiting for me. This was the first time I’d seen him in full army fatigues. Hands shook, and then his military efficiency kicked in.

‘PRIVATES JONES AND SAVAGE. UNPACK THIS VEHICLE. And, thanks to the two Privates, all my gear was out of the car and into the back of my mobile laboratory truck, in about five minutes flat. I mention this because it had taken me at least two hours at the Paignton end to load the car. Not only was all my equipment now in the van, but by some mind-reading feat, the pair seemed to know exactly where best to place it all for my convenience. Once done, Jones and Savage received their next command. ‘Cammy the car, lads’. And with that, they threw a camouflage net over my hired Sierra Estate (air con and electric sunroof) and secured it down in the corners with pegs.

So, now that I’ve safely arrived at the army base, I can give you a little background information.

I was here on the camp to carry out tests using rugged military, blast-proof, test equipment, as opposed to the standard, delicate, commercially available gear I’d been using back home. The field soldiers would typically be on camp for a continuous six-week period, sleeping under canvas, with, perhaps, a rare evening escape to, perhaps, a local hostelry, if they were lucky. Food and drink were provided by a well-equipped servery van, bathroom facilities were two larger Portacabin-style vans on the far side of the camp, and which I was earnestly warned off, ‘unless an absolute emergency’.

“Just find a bush away from anyone,” Dave advised me. A thought occurred to me. “What if….?” Dave was ready with the answer. “Toilet roll in the left cupboard next to the aircon unit and, most important: REMEMBER TO TAKE THE BLOODY SHOVEL CLIPPED TO THE DOOR WITH YOU! There’s soldiers out there on exercises that may involve crawling around on their bellies.” 

I privately vowed to arrange my routine so I wouldn’t have to utilise said shovel. I, unlike all my army colleagues, was not staying under canvas, but at The Bear Inn in Devizes where, not only did they serve a full English each morning, but their en-suites had flushing latrines with no requirement for a shovel.

Now we come to the long-awaited technical details concerning what I was actually doing on the camp.

My job was to instruct the soldiers on the testing and repairing of a microwave SHF Transceiver with High Density Bipolar and Engineering Order Wire channels. The software used to test the transceiver was an object-oriented event-driven package. 

Next, we turn to some of the quirks and enigmas I discovered in this frankly, quite weird universe I had found myself in. But first, a word of warning. You too may have some questions about this military field-camp environment. Sadly, simple answers are not always forthcoming. I am not alluding to any issues of national security here: more that sometimes the answer provided can create a whole series of follow-on queries, which, in turn, can lead to a veritable avalanche of conundrums. More than once I was given the, 'I don't understand what you’re asking. I don't see your issue.' retort.

Take one example. “Dave? Why do some of the soldiers carry pickaxe handles everywhere?”

Response: “There are two things soldiers must be in possession of at all times, on threat of instant court martial: their cap, and their rifle.”

[Pause - thinking time] “Are there not enough rifles to go around, then?”

Puzzled response: “'course there are. They wouldn't be carrying them everywhere if there wasn't, would they?”

I soon learnt to just leave it there and move on.

Nicknames. The generic term for a soldier of any rank is a ‘pongo’. It is thought to have derived from air force or navy personnel who considered that their ground-based fighting brothers must, for some reason, be smellier. Firstly, even though they lived here for up to six weeks with nought but a hand-pumped shower and chemical loos, I can confirm this is demonstrably not true. The second point is that soldiers happily use the term as a collective description of themselves, without a jot of disrespect or affront. 

These field encampments also had nicknames. For example, this one was unofficially called Camp Lanky. No one knew why, except some say they may remember an especially tall Corporal ‘Lanky’ Lantry who had been billeted here many years previous. Most soldiers had nicknames. Some seemed meaningless, (Dobbo); some obvious, (Geordie); some with possibly derogatory connotations, (Ginge). To be fair, it has to be said that, by today’s standards, some might be considered somewhat ‘un-PC’. Many didn’t even know, question or care how they first acquired their own nickname. But again, they were never used pejoratively, and were utilised during moments of informality, at least to some extent, irrespective of rank. So, if a Private needed a toolbox, he might ask, 'Sergeant. Can I borrow your Whitworth kit?' But five-minutes later, 'Chip, I'm heading for the canteen. Fancy a coffee?'

I, of course, did not qualify for a nickname as I was an outsider/civilian. Plus, Camp Lanky already boasted a ‘Chalky’ and a ‘Whitey’. So, I was ‘Colin’, ‘Col’, ‘Mr White’ or ‘Sir’, depending.

But watch this space….

I, of course, got to go home at weekends. Into my third week, and I arrived back on camp on the Monday morning and, having ‘cammied’ the car (I'm learning), I headed over to my van. I noticed in the next clearing, a new arrival. And it didn’t look terribly military. It was one of those large double-axled luxury caravans; the ones with a bay-window at one end and frilly curtains visible through the windows. When Dave arrived with the coffees from the servery and to ask how my journey from Paignton was, I asked the question. Not for the first time his response was not an answer; not as you or I would know it, anyway.

“Oh, yes. You’d better take Wednesday off. We’re scheduled for our annual troop inspection then.” I waited, wondering if silence would do the trick. 

“Colonel-in-Chief? Inspecting troops? It’s only a ceremonial formality, so no civvies.” Silence as a tactic had run its course and didn’t work again.

“So, the caravan?”

“Well, I guess that’s in case she gets caught short or needs to powder her Majestic snout or whatever…”

“And “She” is?”

“Oh, Princess Anne is our Colonel-in-Chief.”

Now, one advantage of being a ‘civvy’ in a military environment is that you can do slightly naughty things without fear of court-marshal. Like, for instance, nipping inside the caravan when you think no one’s looking, and having a quick gander about. There was a plush couch at the bay window end, a well-equipped kitchen area, and yes, I’m sure you’re ahead of me here; the Royal Throne did not disappoint. Don’t worry. I didn’t dare use it. Well, at least not until the Thursday after my day off and after ‘The Royal’ had long since left the field of combat. It wasn’t that I actually needed to go, it was more that, well, it’s something to tell the Grand-Kids, isn’t it?

Quilted! Yes, quilted with pink flower motifs on it. But, bear in mind, this was the Seventies when supermarkets sold soft loo paper, and the only alternative available at the time was what the pongos used: glossy Izal. In those days, the term quilted was a term reserved for quilts and maybe other soft-furnished items; but loo paper? So this was my first and never-to-be-forgotten use of the now ubiquitous quilted paper. Here. On a military encampment. In the middle of Salisbury Plain. Princess Anne's.

Then came the familiar tell-tale throbbing of a Chinook. Quite a common sound in and around the camp. But it got louder. My mind is now mentally tracing the route of the track, from the camp entrance to the present position of the caravan I was currently and illegally sitting in. Could they have physically towed it down the narrow and winding track between the trees? The kitchen appliances start rattling. Then I remember the clearing of the tree canopy directly above the caravan. The panels of the caravan start pulsating in synchronicity with my ribcage.

Forced to curtail my sampling of the 'Royal Quilted', I quickly secure my non-combatant trousers and escape, sprinting from the ceremonial caravan to the shelter of the nearby shrubbery.  Looking back, I see four solders attach lanyards from the helicopter to the four corner fixings of the Stately Rest Room, and it’s whisked away into the wild blue skies, high above Salisbury Plain.

Nobody knew. Nobody needed to.

The very next day was Friday, June 21st. Summer Solstice. And a major event of the day was the Stonehenge Free Festival, just down the road from us. My army friends and I had talked about it. Long story short and I was summoned by the Camp Captain. I had permission to take some of them to the Festival so long as they were dropped back by midnight. Just one rule: no drugs. That suited me fine. I never did see the logic of ingesting anything that was less than 4% proof by volume or, alternatively, 500kCalories per mouthful. That evening, I left the camp with seven members of the platoon, cunningly disguised as civilians in one hired Ford Sierra Estate (with aircon and electric sunroof).

We took a few cans with us, bought beef burgers there and generally had a terrific time. The bands? Well, I remember Gong, Ozric Tenticles and, of course, Hawkwind. I say ‘of course’ because, during the 70s and 80s, any gathering of more than half a dozen folk would witness Hawkwind appear as if magic with their truck, and then burst into a free rendition of ‘Silver Machine’. I only really mention this little vignette of my military secondment because, unbeknownst to us at the time, this was to be the last ever Stonehenge Free Concert. Three years later, my memories of the glorious event was somewhat soured by what became known as the Battle of the Beanfield.

It was while working on my software in one of the radio repair vehicles, that four army colleagues collected me; they wanted to show me something. They took me to the edge of the copse which, like all Salisbury Plain copses, was slightly raised above the level of the plain itself. Here, there was a glorious five-mile view across the low-lying plain, roughly in the direction of Stonehenge. Just below us, maybe fifty metres away, were two Challenger tanks (don’t worry, I was told what model they were) trundling back and forth across our field of view, in opposition to each other so that, each time they crossed over, they were directly in front of us. I was mildly impressed. But this was not what they had brought me here to see.

After a few minutes, two dots appeared, roughly from the direction of Stonehenge. Within the space of two seconds, the dots turned into bigger dots, then instantly morphed, recognisably, into two planes, and finally into Tornados. They were flying ‘below radar detection’, i.e. very low altitude, and, in fact, even below the height of we five spectators, located at the copse-edge. As they overflew the tanks at a height that could sensibly be measured in centimetres, they pulled back their joysticks (or whatever their modern, fly-by-wire equivalent is), and launched their aircraft upwards over our heads, just skimming the tree-tops behind us. It was only in the milliseconds between the planes closing in on the tanks, and then flying over us, that the explosive acoustic wall from the jets’ twin turbofans hit us, swallowing up our ears and spitting them out again, replete with more Tinnitus than Hawkwind had managed the night before.

Now that was impressive! The pilots repeated their operation every ten minutes or so for nearly two hours. What they were doing was firing invisible, laser powered ‘pseudo-missiles’ at the tanks; a computer game-like simulation of the real killing cannons of actual combat. Their accuracy and precision of firing could be assessed; only without the inconvenience of having to right off expensive hardware, recompense farmers, or indeed, arrange funerals. What's not to like!

But, it was that first fly-by that did it. There were five of us watching the ‘attack’, but only one of us felt the need to duck. I don’t actually remember doing it, but I must have gone down pretty low, because I do remember getting off my knees and brushing soil from the front of my jacket, which rather implies that I was cowering with my belly in physical contact with the ground. It was then that I noticed my, so-called, colleagues and trusted friends doubled up in laughter at what they evidently concluded was a major display of cowardice on my part. One of them, and I’m not sure which, was the first to apply the term, 'Great Wet Willy'. Then, as things are wont to do in the military world, the name somehow stuck… and it promulgated outwards, arriving at many of the other army stations, throughout the NATO theatre,  before I actually arrived there in person. 

Before long, all combinations of the available abbreviations had been mined; ‘Wet Willy’, ‘Great Willy’, until,  ultimately, I was simply referred to, and recognised by all (probably including the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces), as simply ‘Willy’. My only hope is that those I met thereafter, and who might have been surprised that my real name was Colin, would assume there might be some different reason for giving the sobriquet ‘Great Willy’ to a civilian.

Finally, I take you from the sultry mid-summer, dog-days on Salisbury Plain forward some eighteen months to the middle of winter on an Army Camp in the frozen north Germany. Minus twenty and the snow is a whirlwind of dry powder on a Siberian wind. I am there to give a lecture to soldiers of various ranks. When I’m done, they all file out of the lecture room, and the last two privates are talking to each other. I catch just two words - Camp Willy. I call them back and ask them. Apparently, it’s a camp on the Brecons where they’d just completed trials. Dave’s base is now near Cardiff. Coincidence? I return to my office and give him a call.

“Dave, I’m in Camp Verden."

“Yea, I know. How’s it going?”

“Fine. Fine. Only I just overheard two guys refer to a Camp Willy somewhere on The Brecon Beacons.”

Silence.

“I just wondered….”

“Col, it’s the first ever camp to my knowledge to be named after a civilian. I’d consider it to be a badge of honour, mate. A badge of honour.”