Friend or Foe

Bill Doig

1951

Friend or Foe by Bill Doig

In February 1951, I was a National Serviceman finishing my time in the infantry. I had spent my service with the Gordon Highlanders in the army of occupation in Berlin (B.A.O.R.). When the Gordon's left Berlin in December 1950 to go to Malaya, a number of us stayed on in Berlin, now soldiers in the Black Watch who replaced the Gordon's. The C.O. of the Black Watch was Brigadier Bernard Ferguson, the former column leader of Orde Wingate's Chindits who fought the Japanese in the Burma campaign.

I was a private soldier in the Intelligence Section located in an office in the battalion Headquarters building wherein were the offices of the C.O., the Adjutant and the Regimental Sergeant Major. On this Saturday in February, Brigadier Ferguson was to conduct a battalion inspection when barrack rooms were examined, soldiers 'stood by their beds' in kilt dress uniform and smartness in every respect required. This last was not required of me as I was on duty in the Intelligence Office and I was dressed in denims (or 's*** order' as it was called).

The Intelligence Sergeant was a pal of the Cook Sergeant and from him our section usually got our 'elevenses', tea and sandwiches each morning. (This was not really 'legal', but it was one of army life's bonuses for us). So this morning the Sergeant said, 'Right Wullie, away doon and get our tea'.

'What!' says I, 'You're joking; Ferguson and the RSM will on their rounds!'

'If you take the back way past the M.T. sheds you'll never see them. They never go that way.'

Having been so instructed and in a great trepidation, I safely made my way to the cookhouse and collected a large Billy-can of tea, carried on a wire and a large grease-proofed parcel of sandwiches. As you will have guessed by now, just as I thought I had 'made it', there up ahead of me Brigadier Ferguson, the Adjutant and RSM Scott came out of the side-door of the H.Q. building. Panic!

Wee Willie, complete with denims and his wee round army-issue glasses was up to the occasion. Swiftly, I transferred the sandwiches from my right hand to my left hand which was also holding the Billy can of tea. I stepped to the side to let them past and crashed my feet together and gave a smart salute... when the sandwiches fell with a resounding splash into the tea and tea was running freely down the front of my trousers. I expected the C.O. to say, 'Mr Scott, take this man's name!' But no, I detected a wee smile from Ferguson, a glint in his famous monocle and he said, 'Carry on soldier'. Perhaps he was thinking, 'What sort of wee boys are we getting in the Black Watch now?' A few paces behind, the R.S.M. was glaring fit to bust and as he passed me he gave me 'advice' (as sotte voice as an R.S.M. is capable of) in language without which many an infantry man would be rendered speechless.

As for me; Bernard Ferguson, an officer and a gentleman.

It was to be a long day for me. That night, I was on guard or picket-duty; that is, patrolling the boundary wire of the camp, Montgomery Barracks, which was on the western edge of the British Sector of Berlin. Beyond the wire was the Russian Zone. One of my mates was Corporal Bob M. of the Intelligence Section. Alas, by that Saturday, he was once again a private having been 'bust' for some misdemeanour. Bob was a tall, handsome, Gallus bloke from Glasgow. Nothing fazed him. That Saturday night he was on 'C.B.'(confined to barracks) as part of which he was required to report regularly to the guardroom until 'lights-out'. Bob, however, had persuaded the M.O. that he had the 'flu and had been ordered to bed in his barrack room and given a couple of aspirin.

Nothing fazed him?? About ten o'clock that night as I patrolled the picket-line preventing the Bolshevik horde from encroaching on our barracks, a voice came to me from out of the dark night, 'Wullie, Wullie, are you there?'. Bob appeared, in 'kilt dress' without which in the city of Berlin a Black Watch soldier would be stopped by the M.P's. Bob had a German girlfriend in Berlin and to hell with everything; he was intent on visiting her. As he could not leave camp through the front gate, past the guard room, his brilliant idea was that I should give him a leg-up over the barbed-wire. Had we been caught by the orderly officer or the Guard Sergeant, we would have ended up in the Bieflefeld glass-house. Indeed, my offence would have been regarded as worse than his! Bob had great charm however and what could a fellow not do for his mate? I duly laid down my rifle and Bob, kilt and all, was hoisted over the wire. How he got back into camp in the early hours, I do not know and did not care. If there was anything running down my trouser leg that night; it was not tea.

Oh happy day. Well, happy day to look back on, now, in 2008.