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Pull Up A Sandbag
Sandbag Reminiscences of Adam Lockhart Sandbag
Over The Wall!
I remember the night we all went over the wall, it was not pre-meditated but just came to us in a flash of ingenious inspiration like contemplating the golden lama fluff in your navel. We on that said night gathered in the one block and decided that the British army would no longer be allowed to treat us with disrespect etc. Some of the lads got cold feet at the death and bailed out, if my memory serves me well we paired off and split into two groups one to go north and the other south. I managed to get the pick of the bunch a lad called Gaskell (can't remember his first name) a nice bloke, but as thick as your grannies pudding basin and some (hope he reads this). We went north following the railway lines and took shelter for the night in a deserted chapel just south of Barmouth. Some of the lads used the road and were very soon picked up (silly buggers).
The 'Plank' and I could hear landrovers passing by our hideout several times throughout the night. At dawn we made our way over the bridge and through Barmouth, the rest of the journey is a bit of a blank, but we managed to get to my aunts scotch pie shop in Glasgow. I told her we were on an escape and evade exercise and we stayed the night at her house in Riddrie (a rather nice suburb of Glasgow).
The Plank and I left rather quickly the next morning partly due to the fact that my aunty Jean had put national security to the rear and phoned my mum to say how nice it was to see me and of course my pal the Plank. We headed west because I fancied a bit of sea air (as one duz). Tired, hungry and truly miserable ten miles from the coast we spotted a brown paper parcel in the ditch, ripping it to shreds in the hope it was full of bedsheet fivers (remember them) we found a set of whalebone corsets and a packet of ham salad sandwiches I gave the Plank 1st choice and he ate the corsets. Eventually we hit the briny at Troon and made our way to the open air swimming baths, as one would in the depths of winter - believe it or not they were shut, so we broke in in search of food but to no avail, nothing, ziltch, bugger all, not even a one eyed haggis to be seen That was when we decided to throw ourselves on the mercy of the courts and proceeded to the local police station. We were treated with complete indifference by the said rozzers who made it quite plain that our escape from Stalag 69 was not their concern, so we bid them farewell and tried to leave. No chance, before we could finish our mug of steaming haggis broth a couple of surly haggis bashing Scots Guards came to take us to their permanent address at Prestwich barracks in Ayr just 5 miles away. We were put up in the 4 star guardhouse along with a load of scary Scottish criminal types, the ones that make your bagpipes stand on end. By the way in German that's 'Doodlesac'. Anyway did you know that the Scots Regiments march at 180 to the minute, we, the plank and I, soon bloody found out, thank god the cookhouse was only 180 paces from our hotel.
The next day was spent trying to decipher the local lingo and dance the Highland fling (or is that flung). Then a very rude awakening, L/Cpl FAGG was upon us in taxi dress to keep us company back to woolyback land. Swapping one jail for another, that's the Army for you.
Next week I'm gonna bore you all shitless with a day down Cadre Idris.
Best Wishes and God Bless,
Adam
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