Seven a.m. on a Monday morning, I waited at Bulawayo station for the Salisbury train to arrive. The army bus that would take us to Llewellyn Barracks stood ready to collect the latest batch of young men called up for national service.
An interesting mix boarded the bus, but one caught my eye. A guy with dark, shoulder-length hair, wearing jeans, high-heeled boots, and a black leather jacket with silver metal stars and studs. Perhaps not the wisest move to catch the eye of the NCOs (sergeants and corporals) so early in the piece.
At first, the NCOs were quite civil. The shouting and verbal abuse only started once we passed through the barracks’ gates.
Soon after our arrival, they marched us to the stores to be issued with our uniforms, webbing, berets, boots and brasses. Some items required work to be in suitable condition for our first inspection the next morning. We spent the afternoon and evening shaping our berets, smoothing the dimpled leather boots, and polishing the brasses.
One rough set of brasses was for daily use, and the other for inspections and parades. The latter needed to be smooth as glass and shine like sunlight on a pond’s still surface.
On the notice boards at the entrance to our barrack room, various photos and instructions informed us how to make our beds and layout our kit for inspections. Most of the photos purported to show how Sergeant Honey’s kit and bed looked when ready for inspection.
The best piece of advice I received before my call up was to choose the second bed on the barrack room’s left side. The officers and NCOs always started their inspections on that side. They wanted to show their serious intent, so they would rage at the unfortunate young conscript in bed one, no matter how hard he tried.
They’d shout and scream and abuse the poor guy. Then they’d get to my bed, exhausted and breathless. There’d be little or no comment. But by the time they reached the third bed, they’d recovered and would vent their fury again with more abuse and insults, putting the entire barrack room on edge.
My bed and kit were no neater or cleaner than the first or third, but as they say in the real estate business, it’s all about location, location, location.
For the next several weeks, they encouraged us to aspire to be like Sergeant Honey. The NCOs even brought out more photos and showed us how he squared off his webbing pouches with cardboard or plywood inserts.
They told us only two national servicemen in training ever attained the rank of sergeant, and Sergeant Honey was one of them. He even excelled on the rifle range and in stripping and reassembling his rifle. We were in B Company, and I’m not sure whether Sergeant Honey was only a B Company legend or one for the whole of Llewellyn Barracks.
At first, I thought Sergeant Honey really existed. But later, when so many NCOs extolled his virtues so often, I had my doubts. Neither we nor anyone else I met had any hope of matching his lofty standards.
For some in our barrack room, one last cigarette before inspection proved irresistible. Sometimes, one or two smokers would leave it too late to dispose of their cigarettes before the inspection party arrived. They’d stub out the half-smoked cigarettes and hide them in their bedside lockers, which were not always inspected. Often it worked.
On one such occasion, a guy opposite me didn’t stub out his cigarette too well. No problem, until the inspection party closed in on his bed space. Then, as if on cue, wisps of smoke started coming out of his locker.
He stood to attention by his bed, unaware the inspection party gathered round, eyeing the strengthening smoke signals emanating from the locker behind him. Those of us who saw it could barely keep a straight face.
After national service, the army often called us up for a week or two, or weekend camps. One guy I knew became legendary for turning his army camps into glamps. He’d bring his own tent, cooking utensils, steaks, sausages, bread rolls and beer, and a transistor radio for entertainment. Everyone wanted to camp with him to receive a little of the inevitable surplus.
Then there was the fellow who brought his golf buggy on a weekend route march. He planned to avoid carrying all his kit. But the wheels weren’t big enough, and the strong clumps of yellow Rhodesian grass resisted, so he ended up carrying his kit and the golf buggy. He must have been an only child or son, because when we reached our destination, hot and sweaty, his father waited for us on the roadside with a crate of ice-cold Lion Lager.
I couldn’t help wondering what Sergeant Honey would have thought.
POSTSCRIPT
Soon after I wrote this story and sent it to friends on my list, I received the following email.
Hi Larry
In 1965 I was a Sergeant, and in fact a Colour Sergeant in the end, and in B Company, so Sergeant Honey did exist!
All the best
Michael Honey
Well, what a surprise! Over the last fifty-five years, whenever something reminded me of my first six weeks in the army, I wondered about the legendry Sergeant Honey. If the NCOs mentioned him in passing, I would have believed their story. But they made such a fuss, it sounded like a fairy tale.
Thanks Diana Hale and Keith Gilbert for putting us in touch.
Michael’s brother, Lance Corporal Scot Honey, served in the same platoon as Michael. He recalls a few steps they took to excel during their national service.
- Brasses looked like a mirror and these we did ourselves and then coated with clear nail varnish, so they didn’t need cleaning but kept in cotton wool for inspections only.
- Boots were not our forte they were done by the Batmen which was illegal, but no one could match their skills. Again, kept in box under the bed for inspections and used a second pair.
- Mess tins X 2. Had them chromium plated before we went to Llewellyn and never used just put out for inspection.
- Bed packs which were a nightmare as blankets and sheets had to be folded in an exact way. Bought correct size plywood; slept in sleeping bags.
- Basin Plug. Brand new and never used!
Of course, national service wasn’t only about discipline and looking good. Only an all-round outstanding soldier would have attained the rank of sergeant.
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