How Britain Kept Calm and Carried On by Anton Rippon Page A

for two bob a day!’
    H. Walls, Highams Park, London

    During the war we were stationed at a place for training and living under canvas. Most of the chaps were a happy-go-lucky bunch and shared alike. That is, if one had cakes or a
cake sent, they shared it with their mates in the tent. Anyhow, in my tent we had one very tight-fisted bloke. Now this particular afternoon the post clerk came and gave him a parcel. Most of the
chaps were either writing letters or cleaning up. We all waited in anticipation and behold – out came a homemade fruit cake and a large pot of strawberry jam. Now, he cut a slice of cake for
himself, put the rest of it back in the box. To make it worse, he kept going on about this cake and, eventually, I got very cross and told him: ‘If you don’t shut up about that damned
cake, I’ll come over there and wrap it around your neck!’
    The NCO in the tent told us to ‘pack it up’ and the incident passed. Teatime came and as we filed into the dining room, lo and behold, there was this chap with his knapsack. Out came
the cake and the jam. But then he dropped his knife and as he climbed under the table to retrieve it, I grabbed the jam and passed it down the tables to my comrades. When he came back up and
realized the jam was gone, he looked straight at me. At that exact moment, the orderly officer and sergeant were making their rounds. When we were asked if we had any complaints, the tight-fist
said: ‘Yes, sir. Woodham has pinched my pot of strawberry jam!’
    ‘Have you got his jam, Woodham?’ said the officer with a big grin.
    ‘No, sir!’ I said.
    The sergeant was about to burst and the officer said: ‘Put this man [the tight-fist] on extra weekend guard for making a frivolous complaint!’
    The tight-fist complained that this particular weekend he had a pass, but the sergeant told him that unless he could get someone to stand in for him, his leave would be cancelled.
    He had a special occasion lined up, it seemed, and he was desperate to be able to use his pass so he came into the tent trying to persuade someone to stand in for him. There were no takers. Then
he offered me five shillings to do it and I said: ‘Not on your Nelly! Make it ten shillings and we’ll go to the RSM and sort it out!’
    The RSM agreed to postpone his duty until the next weekend and, as we were leaving, he called me back.
    ‘How much did that cost him?’
    ‘Ten shillings,’ I replied.
    ‘Not bad!’ said the RSM.
    A good result all-round, but I never did find out what happened to that pot of jam!
    Mr A. E. Woodham, Slough

    We were stationed at Chesterfield. On our evenings off, we stood about on the street corners, doing nothing particular, only to be moved on by the MPs, or Redcaps as they were
better known. By September 1941, my mate and I had a medical board and were eventually discharged. Awaiting the usual formalities – train tickets, coupons for civvy clothes – we decided
to take a last stroll through the town, minus cap, no gaiters, jacket undone and hands in our pockets. We walked straight into the arms of two Redcaps. We decided to pull their legs, refusing to
button up our tunics and not standing to attention. Eventually we showed them our discharge certificates and to their credit they took it in good part and actually shook our hands, wishing us the
best of luck.
    F. G. Jones, Shotton, Deeside

    While I was waiting for my demob group to come up, I was sent from my depot at Lowestoft to a small naval overflow camp at Hopton-on-Sea that, before and after the war, was a
holiday camp. I was caught for colour guard. The camp had no band, so for ceremonial occasions we had to rely on a gramophone record. We were fell-in on a parade, some 500 or so, then brought to
attention and given the order: ‘Royal salute, present arms.’ But instead of the strains of the national anthem coming over the tannoy, all we got was Judy Garland singing ‘The
Trolley Song’ complete with clanging