C
Colin Richards
Guest
Sobering Thoughts
{Reminiscences from 1956}
Clad in heavy greatcoats; with the large collars pulled up in an attempt to combat the driving sleet; the three young guardsmen marched off into the early evening darkness towards Krefeld town centre. Reaching the crossroads they stopped alongside the bomb damaged tram depot with its empty blackened windows staring sightlessly across West-park, an area of cultivated grassland, with tree-lined paths. Through the blinding sleet Cliff pointed out the lights coming from the small isolated bar that nestled in its centre. Rather than endure the long walk into town, the trio made their way through the park towards the beckoning lights.
Pushing open the heavy half glazed door, its small opaque glass panels giving nothing away of the interior.
The welcoming mixture of strong Turkish tobacco, spilt beer and wood smoke drove deep into the young men’s lungs. Bob being the last to negotiate the open door had to lean heavily on it to combat the elements that also tried to force entry into this small room. The low ceilinged bar appeared empty at first glance, until they noticed, huddled in front of the roaring log fire, in the high backed winged wooden chair the elderly man in rough working clothes, smoking an ancient meerschaum pipe its pale wood stained with age. The watery rheumy eyes gave the young trio a disinterested glance before returning to the clear liquid in a tiny glass.
A large breasted middle-aged barmaid appeared from the small door at the rear of the bar, absentmindedly polishing an empty litre glass. The young men quickly removed the wet greatcoats and began their drinking session with “Dri Bier Bitte”, which was about all the German they knew. The barmaid spoke very little English, but soon grasped the plan, that they intended to sample as many of the collection of spirits that ranged across the rear of the bar. Before long she was lining them up before the orders were called.
Some three hours later all they had left was a small pile of low denomination Pfennig coins. The barmaid laboriously counted them before sweeping them into the pocket of her apron She returned minutes later with two small beers and a glass of lemonade.
The three drunks ceremoniously toasted the now smiling woman before struggling into their greatcoats and stumbling out of the warm room into the freezing darkness of the park. The ice-cold air failed to have a sobering effect on the trio, and Colin unable to see properly, tripped and fell headfirst over the low rail marking the path to the roadway some sixty yards away. The earlier sleet had now turned to torrential rain, and Cliff coming to the aid of his friend also fell over the rail landing heavily on top of Colin. Giggling inanely and slipping on the wet grass they struggled to get up. Bob incapable to be of any help wandered off towards the road.
Despite their condition, they retained enough sense to realise that they were too drunk to be seen on the main road back to camp. So huddling together they conspiratorially agreed to go the longer but safer route. With arms draped around each other, the three friends laughing and staggering made their way back to barracks through the ill lit German Streets.
Cliff suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh shit!” He wailed pointing with a wavering finger towards the Military Police barracks. The usual sentry complete with red cap and waterproof cape stood miserably inside the red and white sentry box, in a vain attempt to keep out of the driving rain. While Cliff and Colin stopped against the wall pondering this new dilemma while Bob, incapable of coherent thought kept blissfully moving forward. Without the support of his comrades, he tripped down the kerb. Cliff made a desperate lunge to save him, and managed to grab hold of his greatcoat epaulet, which stayed firmly in Cliffs hand while Bob continued his downward motion, crashing noisily face down into the rain filled gutter.
Seeing the sentry look across, endeavouring to see what the commotion was all about. Colin and Cliff dropped belly down into the same water filled gutter, hardly daring to breathe. Finally when the sentry’s head disappeared back into his refuge, all three continued to crawl past the watching redcap, who had now been joined by a grinning Corporal from the guardroom. Once clear they staggered to their feet, and now soaking wet, they tried to run and laugh at the same time.
Nearing their own barracks, reality was instantly restored by the booming falsetto voice of the dreaded Sergeant Baker, harassing some poor unfortunate guardsmen. This sound had a distinctly sobering effect on both Colin and Cliff, who immediately attempted to make themselves as presentable as possible. Bob however was still too befuddled, and just fell about laughing. It was then that Cliff realised that apart from the torn greatcoat; Bob had also lost his hat. Knowing they couldn’t leave their friend on his own outside the barracks, and at the same time, not wishing to be seen with him either. They decided to send him into the guardroom first, in the faint hope that the drunken, wet, hatless soldier, with a torn greatcoat, would at least by comparison make Colin and Cliff’s wet and muddy appearance, look a little better.
The two now virtually sober pair had to practically push the unfortunate Bob through the guardroom door. They quickly stepped back out of the lighted doorway, and with bated breath, waited. The few seconds seemed an eternity, and they physically cringed as the thunderous roar of Sergeant Bakers voice tore into the uncaring Bob.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” He bellowed, his face inches from Bob’s.
“Out for a drink, Sarge?” Slurred Bob, grinning idiotically at him.
“How many have you had?”
“Just the two, Sergeant.” Lied Bob. Who like the others had lost count after the fourth?
“Two! Two! What the fucking hell would you have been like if you’d had three?” Screamed the red faced demented Sergeant, his nose now almost touching the swaying Bob’s.
“I don’t know, Sarge?” He answered, smiling back at the furious face.
Seeing that his ravings were having no effect on the drunken man in front of him, he yelled in exasperation “Close arrest! Into the cells. Move!”
Bob turned and with concentrated but confused deliberation aimed himself towards the five steps, which led up to the double row of cells. He missed them completely, and walked face first into the painted brick wall. Two resting guards rose to help him, only to be screamed, to “Leave the drunken sod alone. He’ll get up there on his bloody own.”
Bob made another abortive attempt, this time he made it up two steps before losing his balance completely, and falling backwards to land face upwards, where he lay grinning stupidly, at the now totally deranged Sergeants feet.
Cliff and Colin listening from the darkness outside, decided now was as good a time as any to make their entrance, while the Sergeant was preoccupied with Bob, in the fervent hope, that they could sign in unnoticed.
Sergeant Baker feeling the blast of cold air as the door opened whirled round, eyeing the two young Guardsmen in their filthy wet greatcoats.
“Are you two with this dopey bastard?” He yelled, pointing to the now gently snoring figure of Bob lying on his back in the middle of the guardroom floor. His obvious fury completely intimidating the already nervous pair.
“Who us, Sarge?” Colin asked anxiously trying to back towards the closed door.
“Yes! Who do you think I was talking to?”
Their resolve completely gone now, admitted, “Well, er. Yes, Sarge”
“Good then you had better look after him, and take, him, with you.” Eager to obey they each grabbed hold of an arm each, and headed gratefully for the door and safety, relieved to have got away with it. Just as they disappeared through it and into the darkness. The parting yell from Sergeant Baker destroyed them.
“Your all in ‘Open Arrest,’ and make bloody sure you are on early morning defaulters.”
The feeling of euphoria they had felt a moment earlier dissolved in an instant, leaving them numb.
“Bastard!” Cliff said, much louder than he intended.
“What did you say?” Screamed the voice after the rapidly disappearing trio, who ran dragging the unconscious Bob between them. Reaching the barrack room Bob was unceremoniously bundled into his bed fully clothed.
No sooner had their heads hit the pillow, than the awful sound of the ‘reveille’ bugle tore into their still bemused minds.
Colin and Cliff were hard pressed to convince Bob that, like them he too had been placed in Open Arrest, and had only five minutes to get dressed, washed and shaved and report to the guardroom. The three bleary eyed hung-over soldiers made it with seconds to spare.
{Reminiscences from 1956}
Clad in heavy greatcoats; with the large collars pulled up in an attempt to combat the driving sleet; the three young guardsmen marched off into the early evening darkness towards Krefeld town centre. Reaching the crossroads they stopped alongside the bomb damaged tram depot with its empty blackened windows staring sightlessly across West-park, an area of cultivated grassland, with tree-lined paths. Through the blinding sleet Cliff pointed out the lights coming from the small isolated bar that nestled in its centre. Rather than endure the long walk into town, the trio made their way through the park towards the beckoning lights.
Pushing open the heavy half glazed door, its small opaque glass panels giving nothing away of the interior.
The welcoming mixture of strong Turkish tobacco, spilt beer and wood smoke drove deep into the young men’s lungs. Bob being the last to negotiate the open door had to lean heavily on it to combat the elements that also tried to force entry into this small room. The low ceilinged bar appeared empty at first glance, until they noticed, huddled in front of the roaring log fire, in the high backed winged wooden chair the elderly man in rough working clothes, smoking an ancient meerschaum pipe its pale wood stained with age. The watery rheumy eyes gave the young trio a disinterested glance before returning to the clear liquid in a tiny glass.
A large breasted middle-aged barmaid appeared from the small door at the rear of the bar, absentmindedly polishing an empty litre glass. The young men quickly removed the wet greatcoats and began their drinking session with “Dri Bier Bitte”, which was about all the German they knew. The barmaid spoke very little English, but soon grasped the plan, that they intended to sample as many of the collection of spirits that ranged across the rear of the bar. Before long she was lining them up before the orders were called.
Some three hours later all they had left was a small pile of low denomination Pfennig coins. The barmaid laboriously counted them before sweeping them into the pocket of her apron She returned minutes later with two small beers and a glass of lemonade.
The three drunks ceremoniously toasted the now smiling woman before struggling into their greatcoats and stumbling out of the warm room into the freezing darkness of the park. The ice-cold air failed to have a sobering effect on the trio, and Colin unable to see properly, tripped and fell headfirst over the low rail marking the path to the roadway some sixty yards away. The earlier sleet had now turned to torrential rain, and Cliff coming to the aid of his friend also fell over the rail landing heavily on top of Colin. Giggling inanely and slipping on the wet grass they struggled to get up. Bob incapable to be of any help wandered off towards the road.
Despite their condition, they retained enough sense to realise that they were too drunk to be seen on the main road back to camp. So huddling together they conspiratorially agreed to go the longer but safer route. With arms draped around each other, the three friends laughing and staggering made their way back to barracks through the ill lit German Streets.
Cliff suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
“Oh shit!” He wailed pointing with a wavering finger towards the Military Police barracks. The usual sentry complete with red cap and waterproof cape stood miserably inside the red and white sentry box, in a vain attempt to keep out of the driving rain. While Cliff and Colin stopped against the wall pondering this new dilemma while Bob, incapable of coherent thought kept blissfully moving forward. Without the support of his comrades, he tripped down the kerb. Cliff made a desperate lunge to save him, and managed to grab hold of his greatcoat epaulet, which stayed firmly in Cliffs hand while Bob continued his downward motion, crashing noisily face down into the rain filled gutter.
Seeing the sentry look across, endeavouring to see what the commotion was all about. Colin and Cliff dropped belly down into the same water filled gutter, hardly daring to breathe. Finally when the sentry’s head disappeared back into his refuge, all three continued to crawl past the watching redcap, who had now been joined by a grinning Corporal from the guardroom. Once clear they staggered to their feet, and now soaking wet, they tried to run and laugh at the same time.
Nearing their own barracks, reality was instantly restored by the booming falsetto voice of the dreaded Sergeant Baker, harassing some poor unfortunate guardsmen. This sound had a distinctly sobering effect on both Colin and Cliff, who immediately attempted to make themselves as presentable as possible. Bob however was still too befuddled, and just fell about laughing. It was then that Cliff realised that apart from the torn greatcoat; Bob had also lost his hat. Knowing they couldn’t leave their friend on his own outside the barracks, and at the same time, not wishing to be seen with him either. They decided to send him into the guardroom first, in the faint hope that the drunken, wet, hatless soldier, with a torn greatcoat, would at least by comparison make Colin and Cliff’s wet and muddy appearance, look a little better.
The two now virtually sober pair had to practically push the unfortunate Bob through the guardroom door. They quickly stepped back out of the lighted doorway, and with bated breath, waited. The few seconds seemed an eternity, and they physically cringed as the thunderous roar of Sergeant Bakers voice tore into the uncaring Bob.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” He bellowed, his face inches from Bob’s.
“Out for a drink, Sarge?” Slurred Bob, grinning idiotically at him.
“How many have you had?”
“Just the two, Sergeant.” Lied Bob. Who like the others had lost count after the fourth?
“Two! Two! What the fucking hell would you have been like if you’d had three?” Screamed the red faced demented Sergeant, his nose now almost touching the swaying Bob’s.
“I don’t know, Sarge?” He answered, smiling back at the furious face.
Seeing that his ravings were having no effect on the drunken man in front of him, he yelled in exasperation “Close arrest! Into the cells. Move!”
Bob turned and with concentrated but confused deliberation aimed himself towards the five steps, which led up to the double row of cells. He missed them completely, and walked face first into the painted brick wall. Two resting guards rose to help him, only to be screamed, to “Leave the drunken sod alone. He’ll get up there on his bloody own.”
Bob made another abortive attempt, this time he made it up two steps before losing his balance completely, and falling backwards to land face upwards, where he lay grinning stupidly, at the now totally deranged Sergeants feet.
Cliff and Colin listening from the darkness outside, decided now was as good a time as any to make their entrance, while the Sergeant was preoccupied with Bob, in the fervent hope, that they could sign in unnoticed.
Sergeant Baker feeling the blast of cold air as the door opened whirled round, eyeing the two young Guardsmen in their filthy wet greatcoats.
“Are you two with this dopey bastard?” He yelled, pointing to the now gently snoring figure of Bob lying on his back in the middle of the guardroom floor. His obvious fury completely intimidating the already nervous pair.
“Who us, Sarge?” Colin asked anxiously trying to back towards the closed door.
“Yes! Who do you think I was talking to?”
Their resolve completely gone now, admitted, “Well, er. Yes, Sarge”
“Good then you had better look after him, and take, him, with you.” Eager to obey they each grabbed hold of an arm each, and headed gratefully for the door and safety, relieved to have got away with it. Just as they disappeared through it and into the darkness. The parting yell from Sergeant Baker destroyed them.
“Your all in ‘Open Arrest,’ and make bloody sure you are on early morning defaulters.”
The feeling of euphoria they had felt a moment earlier dissolved in an instant, leaving them numb.
“Bastard!” Cliff said, much louder than he intended.
“What did you say?” Screamed the voice after the rapidly disappearing trio, who ran dragging the unconscious Bob between them. Reaching the barrack room Bob was unceremoniously bundled into his bed fully clothed.
No sooner had their heads hit the pillow, than the awful sound of the ‘reveille’ bugle tore into their still bemused minds.
Colin and Cliff were hard pressed to convince Bob that, like them he too had been placed in Open Arrest, and had only five minutes to get dressed, washed and shaved and report to the guardroom. The three bleary eyed hung-over soldiers made it with seconds to spare.