This story is not funny, but simply serves to illustrate the diversity of human nature with which we all come into contact in our daily lives.
It was September 1954 and I had been in Germany only three weeks when I was told that I was to be attached to the Medium Machine-Gun Platoon. This was to be in the role of driver to the platoon sergeant, one Reg Suter. Accordingly I signed for an Austin Champ and 1/4 -ton trailer. This assignment was to be for the duration of an international exercise, Battle Royal, which involved forces from many nations. As well as British armoured and infantry divisions, there were American, Canadian, Dutch and I think, French armies, totalling 130,000 troops. This enormous undertaking lasted ten days and it must have seemed to the German population as though the war had returned.
I recall being shocked, even as an 18-year-old at the total absence of respect for the homes, farms, fields and property of the civilian population, and this was nine years after the war!
We were operating as a small unit of about thirty men, transported in about eight Champs, the British equivalent of the Jeep. One evening we pulled into a farm-yard and dispersed our vehicles in and around the farm buildings. We then set about finding places to spend the night, in the hope of avoiding the chore of erecting our two-man bivouacs. We occupied barns, wagon-sheds and outhouses, while a few of us, myself included, passed an extremely noisy and smelly night in a cowshed. The noise, commotion and smell being caused by the fact that a cow was calving in the building!
Earlier, when we descended on this bucolic idyll, the farmer and his wife had been genuinely friendly. We were given milk and the use of their outer wash-house and toilet. The farm was tidy and well-kept and we did as little as possible to spoil it. We stayed only overnight, then went on to continue our war-games, leaving the farm pretty much as we had found it.
About a week later, we were passing back through the area so decided to call at the farm, to pay our respects.
The 2nd Royal Tank Regiment had been there! The farmer was in no mood to extend the hand of friendship to any English “Tommy”, and we could quite see why. The farm-yard had been reduced to a sea of mud, fully four-feet deep, by a squadron of fifty-two-ton Centurions. Buildings had been demolished, an orchard destroyed and fences turned to matchwood. One tank was almost hidden from view in the tangled remains of fruit trees whilst another was to be seen in the middle of a meadow, the track marks leading to it, becoming deeper and deeper. We left.
To return to the story I intended telling. I parked my Champ at night in a line of others on the right-hand side of a fairly narrow track. I was a short distance away from it when a column of American half-tracks came past. One of these lumbering beasts managed to get its track entangled with the front wheel of my Champ but didn’t bother to stop! There didn’t appear to be any significant damage until I tried to turn the steering, whereupon the steering-wheel spun round and round but with no corresponding movement at the front wheels. This was duly reported and next morning saw the arrival of a very surly and aggressive sergeant of The Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers (R.E.M.E.).
I explained the problem and he tried the steering, which now worked properly! He became abusive and told me I had wasted his time, because there was nothing wrong with the steering. I called Reg Suter, the platoon sergeant, who very soon put him straight about the fault and he reluctantly agreed to take it to Field Workshops, about ten miles away, for repair. He thereupon climbed into the driving seat and motioned me to get in beside him. I protested that it was not safe to drive the vehicle and it should be transported. I was told that I was bloody stupid and to stop arguing and get in! I had no alternative, owing to his rank and attitude. He drove at full speed, with no regard whatever for the fault which I knew had not repaired itself.
At some point on the journey we came to a left-hand bend on a narrow tree-lined road, doing about 50 m.p.h. He turned the steering to the left but nothing happened and we went headlong towards a large tree. He braked violently and the front wheels locked and dug deeply into the soft soil of the verge between the edge of the road and the tree. The front bumper acted like a snowplough and pushed a bank of earth ahead of us and up against the tree, which we hit head-on at somewhere between 15 and 20 m.p.h. Fortunately I wasn’t hurt. Unfortunately he wasn’t either! He said nothing, but just reversed away from the tree, leaving the imprint of the front of the vehicle in the earth against the tree. He then waggled the wheel until the steering caught again and completed the journey in the same reckless manner. We reached the sparsely wooded area known for the duration of the exercise as “Field Workshops”.
Now the fun would really start! On instruction from this lunatic N.C.O. I jacked up the right-hand side of the vehicle. The vehicle jack was used for this job. This device needs some explanation. It was about two feet tall and took the form of a somewhat elongated capital “A” with a long threaded rod down its vertical axis. A horizontal protrusion of about six inches long, with an internally threaded block at its inner end moved up or down when the threaded rod was turned, by means of a handle at the top. This protrusion fitted into a jacking socket located half-way along the vehicle chassis. When this device was used the vehicle was jacked up to one side, lifting the front and rear wheels on that side clear of the ground. There was, of course a similar jacking point on the other side.
The sergeant then removed the right-hand front wheel and began to look for the fault. He then told me to get another, similar jack and lift the other side. I pointed out that this was not good practice but he became angry and told me to “Just do as you’re fucking-well told”. Accordingly, I found a jack from another Champ and jacked up the other side. He was sitting on the ground at the right-hand front corner with his legs under the suspension and feet under the engine. “Take off that other front wheel”, “But…..” “Don’t fuckin’ argue!”. So I took off the other front wheel. Soon after came the order to remove the right-hand rear wheel. I knew better than to argue so I did as I was told. If you’ve been counting you will realise that this vehicle is now balanced precariously on two flimsy side-jacks and the left-hand rear wheel!
He was still sitting with his legs underneath when he said “Take that other wheel off!” I just couldn’t believe this and said “But if I do that it will fall down”. “Don’t fuckin’ argue with me” he roared. “I’ll put you on a fuckin’ charge, you insubordinate bastard”. So I didn’t argue any more but just went and unscrewed the wheelnuts and shouted a warning as I pulled the wheel off. The Champ teetered for a moment then fell to the ground. He just managed to get his legs clear in time as he scrambled out! He turned on me in a murderous rage. “You tried to kill me, you bastard. I’ll put you in close arrest. I’ll have you inside”. Needless to say, I was petrified and shaking with fright when up came a R.E.M.E. corporal. “Sergeant” he said “I have been watching and listening to everything that has gone on here. This was all entirely your fault and if you make one more threat to this soldier I will call the M.P.s and have you arrested, and I will give evidence against you”. Then he said to me “Go over to the cookhouse and get yourself a cup of tea. This bastard won’t bother you any more!”. This incident took place nearly fifty years ago and I am no nearer understanding it now than I was then.
Note: For the benefit of the technically-minded, who might be wondering why the steering might behave in this erratic manner, I will explain. Before leaving the “Field Workshops” it was explained to me, by a more reasonable fitter, that the steering was of rack and pinion design, in which the pinion was located at the end of the steering-column by means of a taper and a woodruff key. I had probably parked the vehicle with the steering not quite straight ahead. The half-track had hit the front wheel with sufficient force, that the steering-rack was moved laterally, sharply enough to shear the key between the pinion and the steering column. Clearly, at times the broken surfaces would transmit the steering forces, and at other times not!