Recollections from Ted Jenkinson

I joined the Army as a Three Year Regular on 17th March 1952. First stop Malvern for Induction and then to Cove for injections (Ouch!!), and Basic Training.

Next stop – Gibraltar Barracks, Driver Training. The Army decided I would make a good Driving Instructor. All went well until I discovered that if one of my Trainees had an accident I would be put on a fizzer. A single control 3-ton long wheel base Austin Truck, I didn’t like that idea at all, so got taken off Driving Instruction. I then spent about 3 months doing nothing but drinking tea in the various drinking establishments – NAAFI, Toc H etc.

Then came the day that was to change my life. It was Pay Parade and the OC walked by and asked if I was there. “Yes” I replied. He then asked me if I had ever been to Paris. Silly question, but I said “No”. “Come and see me after Pay Parade because that is where you are going” he said.

September 1953 saw me on my way through France in a Troop Carrier. There was a General Strike in France at the time, (hasn’t changed much has it?). Arrived at ALFCE, Fontainbleau, went on Interview and was informed that I was a mistake, (no change there then!). The Army being what it was sent me to the Hotel in Paris that the Posties lived in. I wouldn’t say that I was jumping up and down with joy, but the terrible thing was that it took 28 days to get me a posting. Now wasn’t that kind of the Army.

The game continues. I am now on a train heading for a place called Herford in Germany. I had to change trains at Cologne, which was when my luck started to run out. As we pull into Cologne Station my connection is pulling out. I finally arrive at Herford, see RTO, who informs me that my new Unit is going frantic. I thought – ‘At last, I am important!?’ The RSM himself came to pick me up, and on the way back to what I discovered was the Depot, he started to lay into me verbally. After I had finished laughing, not at the RSM, but at a mental image of me in full FSMO trying to get onto a moving train. I didn’t bother explaining, but I did think to myself ‘What the heck sort of Unit am I going to (or words to that effect!).

The next morning saw me on Interview and being told what the Unit was and did. I politely told the OC that I did not want to be a Postman, but it fell on deaf ears I am afraid. I then found myself L/Cpl in charge of Letter Floor surrounded by a horde of ageing German females.

And that folks is how I came to be a Postie. The silly thing is that when I re-enlisted, I joined Postal again. I have always wondered why?

Recollections from an unknown newspaper

If you want to catch Sergeant J .Macdonald of the Royal Engineers Army Postal Service you have to get up early in the morning. At any time after 04:30 Sergeant Macdonald, along with 14 sappers of the REPS will be busy in the Army’s travelling post office, sorting out thousands of letters which are sent home every day by service men and women stationed in Germany (BAOR). There are three teams doing this job.

The Army’s sorters spend most of their time going back and forth between Herford and the Hook of Holland in ten special carriages. Seven of these coaches are choc-a-block with parcels already made up in the Army’s main Post office at Herford for delivery to key points in the U.K. The other three carriages house the sorters. Around the walls are pigeon holes-frames-bearing the names of every town and postal district at home. It is into these “frames” that Sergeant Macdonald and his sorters slip the letters as they sort the bundles. By the time the train reaches the Hook all is ready for 109 Port Postal Unit to take over. The mail is bagged up before being shipped home. From then there is nothing for the civilian post office to do, except deliver the bags to the proper towns and break them into walks-GPO talk for streets along which postmen deliver.

Sergeant Macdonald, a tall, slow speaking Scot from the Hebrides and a peacetime Post Office employee, will point out that it takes a good deal of concentration to be an efficient sorter and good eyesight is paramount, since most peoples handwriting is “pretty grim”. Sergeant Major W. Clarke, who sees that the nightly loading of some 500 bags of mail is done speedily and efficiently, agrees that it is strenuous enough work. Lieutenant P Faulkes, a post office official who has been in the Army since 1939, says that one of the chief difficulties facing the T.P.O (Travelling Post Office), in common with other postal services is shortage of trained staff. Although a number of key officers and men have been compulsorily deferred it has become necessary for the Army to train its own postmen, mainly at Nottingham.

Sapper A. Roberts, struggling with a letter that looked as though it had been addressed with a worn out toothbrush, summed it up on behalf of the 13 others sorters this way; “what do they think we are, mind readers? Why don’t they write so that we can read the bloomin’ addresses? To which Cpl B. Latham added a heartfelt, “too right chum”.

This extract was sent in (via Alan Davies) by Mrs Ann Morris, whose husband Jeff served as a Postie from 1945 until 1948 in both HPC Nottingham and Herford, Germany.

Notes from Mailshot – In 1947 the TPO terminal port was changed from Calais to Hook of Holland and the surface mail then followed the route of the leave train from England. The TPO continued to operate until 1949.

Recollections of Chris Neill

I had fallen into the trap of letting my hormones rule my head when I had volunteered to become a ‘Postie’. The ‘Postie’ trade presentation at the Junior Leader Regiment RE (JLRRE) Dover had consisted of a couple of guys spouting off about letters and courier ‘thingy me bobs’ and some rather good looking WOMEN (who apparently outnumbered the guys at Mill Hill) who had my complete attention. With dreams of having my own harem I duly chose to join the ‘Posties’.

Having spent 18 months cosseted within the JLRRE Dover you can imagine my mounting excitement of joining ‘man’s service’ and learning a trade whilst being surrounded by and outnumbered by loads of girls from the WRAC. I had elected to arrive on the Sunday prior to my B3 course starting on the Monday. Sunday morning I got up washed and dressed in my finest mufti. I pick up my suitcase and kit bag, duly waived goodbye to my mother, got on the train and set off on my journey. It being the mid seventies the train was filthy and I spent the whole journey trying not to get dirt on or crease my neatly pressed kit. Having negotiated the tube across London I found the Northern Line and got on another tube for Mill Hill East.

It was a warm spring day and you can picture my horror on arrival at Mill Hill East to see that I had to carry my kit up that Hill. With a deep breath I picked up my kit and off I went. ‘That’s handy a pub…’ No resist temptation and keep going. Not long after I reached the main entrance, now where do I go. A quick recce and off I went to the gate. There’s a Sapper on the gate, ‘I’ve just arrived for my B3 where do I report’. ‘Don’t know mate go to the Guardroom and ask there’.

Now I don’t know if any of other training Regiments were the same but at Dover the Guardroom was a place to avoid. It was the domain of the Regimental Police and of course ‘out of hours’ Guard Commanders both of which were permanent staff ‘mans service’ soldiers. A boy soldier who was not a guard duty only went to the Guard Room if they had been ordered to go there because of some misdemeanour and it normally meant that the staff on duty could have some ‘fun’, normally at your expense. Character building stuff they used to call it, nowadays of course it would be called bullying.

You can imagine the look of horror I gave the gate guard. ‘It’s all right mate it is just over there’ pointing to a door behind the gate box. I picked up my kit and went over to the guard room. I stopped outside and checked my self in the mirror; I didn’t want to give the guard commander any excuse to pick me up for not having my shirt tucked in properly etc…

I drew my self up to my full height, pulled my shoulders back, opened the guardroom door and marched in. Two steps inside the door I neatly came to a halt and standing rigidly to attention reported, ‘24435409 Sapper Neill reporting Corporal’. Expecting and fearing the worst you could have knocked me down with a feather when the corporal said ‘calm down, calm down, we don’t do none of that here, what’s your name again mate?’