Arborfield Old Boys Association
AOBA
Arborfield Life
My paris caper ...
John Maddox 44B
Tales of 'derring do' have figured a plenty in recent copies of OBAN. I really cannot compete with the globetrotting escapades of so many Old Boys but, without travelling to the ends of the earth, I too have 'had my moments'. Although I never saw the sort of action that so many others experienced, my own military endeavours were not without a certain degree of personal stress.
You may say, "What on earth is he blathering on about?" Well, I will now tell you!
It all began when, as a none-
I must confess that reading Company notices was not a regular pastime of mine but,
on this occasion, my eyes were drawn to the magical word 'Paris' and my natural curiosity
made me give it my full attention. It was to the effect that vacancies had occurred
for a junior NCO and several Privates, on the Headquarters staff of the Benelux nations.
This was the military alliance, which preceded both NATO and SHAPE, and which included
Great Britain, France, Belgium, the Netherlands (well, all right then, Holland) and
(would you believe it?) -
My name was duly put forward and, after
the usual interminable wait, I was sent to London for an interview. Oddly enough,
a civilian and an American Army officer conducted this. They asked me questions about
my politics, which I told them were non-
Luxury travel indeed,
as the other occupants of my reserved compartment were two Colonels and a French
Army Captain. They politely asked me what the hell I was doing in their compartment
but, on production of my travel documents and ticket, they actually became quite
chatty. I discovered that they were going to the Embassy in Paris, but learned that
I should take a taxi across Paris to the Gare de l'Este, from which I would get the
train to Fontainebleau. On explaining that I had no French currency (indeed all I
had in my pocket was a couple of quid's worth of change), one of the Colonels handed
me a 500 franc note. Now that seemed to me a great deal of money, but I later found
out that the rate of exchange was 980 francs to the pound!
In the event, I successfully
travelled across Paris, to find six other Riflemen waiting for the train; they had
come from BAOR. We all travelled third class on the Fontainebleau thunderbolt, which
had narrow wooden slatted seats and no toilets. To cover the forty miles took a little
over an hour and a half, just a mite slower than the Golden Arrow. We arrived at
Fontainebleau at about 2100 hours, to a deserted station. On reconnoitering outside,
I collared an ancient local and enquired politely, "Ou est le Chateau des Fougeres,
sil vous plait?" He looked at me with a blank expression, leaving me wondering if
my French was not as good as I had hoped. It turned out that he was as deaf as I
am now, but on showing him the address in writing, he told me that we were only about
300 metres from our destination. So, lugging all our kit, we wearily wended our way
to this very imposing building, outside of which stood a tall, stiffly starched and
beautifully blancoed Military Policeman. "Is this the Chateau des Fougeres?" I enquired?
He grinned (not a pretty sight on an MP) and said, "No, this is only the entry lodge,
the Chateau is at the end of this driveway". The said driveway rose before us at
an angle of about 1 in 10 and seemed interminable.
Upon arrival at the building, a
RASC Sergeant told us that we were not expected for another week and that there was
no accommodation. After hunting around, I managed to get all the Riflemen settled,
but sleeping on the floor. The Sergeant then conducted me to my sleeping quarters,
on the top floor, which was situated up five flights of stairs. He opened a door
and said, "There is a folding bed in here, you can use that for tonight".
On entering, I found myself faced with the said folding bed, minus a leg, plus a
row of ten bidets, all neatly arranged along one wall! He then explained that, during
the German occupation, the Chateau had been occupied by German Officers and was,
in part, conducted as a bordello. The 'ladies of the night' had occupied the top
floor of the building, where I would now rest my weary head.
The following day, the
new arrivals were paraded before our new CO, whose name I am ashamed to admit now
escapes me. The unit CSM, a Coldstream Guardsman, told us that he was definitely
the man in charge and, thereafter, I seldom ever saw the CO. The function of the
British soldiers at the HQ was to supply clerical staff, batmen for the British Officers,
and a couple of drivers for everyday transport. I, for my sins and having boasted
of my linguistic abilities, would be in charge of local purchases, shoe repairs,
laundry, liaison with local tradesmen and the collecting of fresh supplies from Les
Halles, the Paris equivalent to our Covent Garden at that time. It turned out that
I was the only junior NCO, all other NCOs being either Sergeants or Staff Sergeants.
They were all in the RASC or Pay Corps and operated in the offices spread throughout
the Chateau. I was then given a billet in the general stores, responsibility for
which was also thrust upon me, and off we went.
Under Monty's supervision
The whole
shebang was being commanded by Field Marshal Montgomery, who occupied a large office
on the first floor of the Chateau, while we 'odds and sods' were accommodated in
what had once been the servants' quarters. These were a couple of hundred yards from
the main Chateau and we saw little of the Officer establishment, other than 'Monty'
himself who, when actually at Fontainebleau, took a daily walk around the grounds.
He was always civil, always spoke when saluted and often enquired about the health
and general well being of the squaddies on site. Monty already had a KRRC batman
and a KRRC driver and had apparently requested that his regimental and supernumerary
staff should also come from the Corps. "Why?" I never found out.
My week was spent
in running around the countryside, dealing with the locals, and collecting bread
daily from the local French baker. He baked our bread to an English recipe, using
flour supplied by the Army. The bread was good but the baker said he didn't know
how we could eat such rubbish! The shoemaker repaired boots for us, using leather
soles, studs and heel plates, which I supplied from the stores. I found that, for
two extra pairs of leather soles, he would repair my civvy shoes 'free of charge'.
The laundry visits always meant sharing a large glass of local red wine with Madame
Hamard, the patronne, while stealthily eyeing up the female staff.
On Monday and
Thursday mornings, I rose at 0330 hours, had a quick rinse and headed down to the
cookhouse. There, I usually had a large mug of coffee, with maybe just a hint of
cognac, plus a steak or double-
Then it was
down to business. First of all, potatoes then fresh veg, then fruit followed by fresh
eggs. Haggling was at first a problem, as the market traders didn't speak the French
I had been taught and which served me so well in Fontainebleau. No, they used the
local equivalent to Cockney slang and it took me quite a while to get my tongue round
it. Nevertheless, we always managed to get what we needed -
Suitably
fortified, we then wended our way through the chaotic Paris traffic, with one hand
on the horn all the way, just like every other Parisian motorist. On one occasion,
we had been told to detour to the British Embassy to collect an officer's kit for
delivery to Fontainebleau. On leaving, we made our entry to the Place de la Concorde,
where the driver turned left instead of right onto the roundabout. This was not a
good move, as we found ourselves faced by six lanes of traffic, hurtling at speed
towards us and honking furiously! After much profanity and not a little sideswiping,
we managed to get free of the crush, but my driver swore he would never use that
route again.
One of those moments
At the beginning of this tale, I said that I had 'had my moments'
-
Another thing about the market,
the eggs were never more than half the size we are used to in England. So our allowance,
which was numerical rather than by weight, didn't go very far. Our cook told me he
needed twelve eggs to make a decent omelette. I did, after filling in reams of paperwork,
manage to get this allowance doubled, but often wondered was it worth the effort.
I also found that our duty-
The French National Servicemen, who were paid the princely
sum of seven francs a day (one old shilling a week), were issued with forty cigarettes
every two weeks, when they were paid. These were of the Gauloise Troupe brand, made
especially for the Forces. They consisted of nothing but tobacco dust and, if you
lit one and inhaled, the flame would run the length of the cigarette and burn your
nose. The art of smoking one was to angle it upward in the mouth, light it and withdraw
the light before inhaling. The 'upward' tilt was to prevent the tobacco simply falling
out of the end! National Servicemen in France were paid so poorly to encourage them
to sign on, when their pay went up to about 500 francs a day. Of course, the snag
was that, as soon as they signed on, they were shunted off on the next draft to Indo-
Another of my many duties was to prepare the
drinks and supervise the waiters at Monty's monthly cocktail party. This was held
at his residence, the Chateau de Courances, some distance from the Headquarters.
I would be given three French waiters and three of our British squaddies to serve
the drinks while I, being bilingual, acted as supervisor. The other part of my duties
was to mix the drinks. As about 100 to 120 officers and ladies would be in attendance,
I chose to mix the drinks in a sunken marble bath, situated in that part of the Chateau
not in normal use. What went into the 'potion' depended entirely on what I had been
given by Monty's cook on the particular occasion. There could be cognac, red and
white wines, gin, Pernod, Martini and, sometimes, a bottle of best malt whisky. Whatever
it was, I mixed it all in with a large wooden paddle. The resulting mixture was then
ladled into large enamel jugs, from where it was served into the glasses. Monty himself
always attended, precisely at 6pm, circulating among his guests and departing precisely
at 7pm. He did not imbibe my 'magic potion', but a waiter followed him around, bearing
a glass of pure orange juice, freshly squeezed, on a silver salver -
The tales to be told would fill a large tome, but one last incident I thought funny
needs to be related. At a conference, while supervising the doling out of tea and
biscuits, the bar was approached by a very tall, athletic looking American officer,
a Captain I believe. Although America was not a partner of the Benelux Agreement,
it was American money that funded it and so 'observers' were often present. Anyway,
behind this giant figure, pushing through the crowd, came a tiny man, but wearing
the uniform of an American Air Force General and the biggest peaked cap imaginable.
On his reaching the table, the Captain picked up a plate of biscuits and said, "Hey
General, would you like a cookie?" I almost poured hot coffee over myself, as this
big, big man owned the highest pitched falsetto voice I have ever heard! The General
replied, in a really deep, out-
Ooh la lah! We're English!
During my first Christmas in France, a party of ORs, about
thirty in number, arranged to visit the Follies Bergere in Paris. This cabaret show
was reputed to be the 'only show in town', with scantily clad dancers and -
During the interval, as is the French custom, everybody
tripped off outside as, even in those days, 'No Smoking' was the strict rule in cinemas
and theatres across France. We all met in the foyer of the theatre, where the dancers,
now offering trays of expensive mementos for sale, paraded around. Upon their seeing
a clutch of British uniforms, we were suddenly surrounded by these nubile young ladies
who, to my great surprise and without exception, turned out to be English! Most of
them were 'Brummies' and they explained that the reserved French girls would not
strip or wear the flimsy outfits on stage. Needless to say, we really enjoyed the
experience (and the show as well).
There are many tales told about Monty, how he was
a 'martinet', who hated smokers and drinkers etc. But Jackson (his driver) told me
that, when on a long journey by road, Monty would order him to stop about every hour,
then dismount from the car and take a walk. Jackson enjoyed a cigarette and Monty
knew it, so the breaks were to give Jackson the chance of a quick 'spit and a drag'.
Monty didn't drink alcohol, so when the Humber Company presented him with a custom-
One day, an order was issued that
all we odds and sods would parade for a cross-
CSM Hughes, our Coldstream boss, also decided that we Riflemen
needed smartening up and so it was decreed that, as he knew nothing about Rifle drill,
I should be the one to take a one-
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