My childhood playground was a warzone. While my classmates were likely splashing around in inflatable pools in the safety of their back gardens, I would be on my bike following tanks on manoeuvres, riding alongside battalions marching across the countryside, and waving at camouflaged soldiers hiding in trenches with guns. Occasionally they waved back! Nights were regularly punctured by the sound of machine-gun fire and exploding shells, while my bedroom curtain would be illuminated by phosphorous flares. Outside our house, tanks would roll along the street between daytime traffic. Nobody took any notice. This was all perfectly normal.
I shared a bedroom with my younger brother, his bed under the window, mine opposite against a wall. On my bedside table were: a hyacinth bulb in a square cardboard box that I had to water daily up to the line printed on a little transparent side window; a tray of watercress seeds on blotting paper for a school project; and a little transistor radio with a white earpiece to listen to ‘Radio Luxembourg’ at night. Taped to the wall alongside the bed was a world map I had sent for from ‘The Daily Express’, on which every day I plotted the position of Francis Chichester’s boat ‘Gipsy Moth IV’ on its record-breaking solo round-the-world voyage. Under my bed was a line of Easter egg boxes which I rationed so that I could eke out my daily chocolate intake until the approach to Christmas.
Hidden against the wall behind the Easter eggs was a line of anonymous brown boxes in which I stored ammunition I had collected whilst biking through the warzone. More than a thousand identical brass-coloured bullet casings stacked in neat rows and, in an odds-and-ends box, a hoard of variously shaped larger artillery shells. Nobody knew about my hobby and they never would because my mum had little inclination to clean beneath our beds. I had no understanding then, but now I realise that most of the cartridges were blanks and had a tell-tale indentation showing they had been fired, though some bullets and shells remained unmarked and were probably still live.
Our house was 180 metres from the corner of Old Green Lane where two tarmacked, fenced tennis courts were hidden from the road by thick foliage. Their gates were never locked, enabling me and my mates from our street to bike there and mess around with racquets and tennis balls ‘borrowed’ from our parents. Only once did army officers dressed in whites arrive unexpectedly and admonish us for using military facilities. That was the most trouble we encountered the many times our mothers saw us off after breakfast during school holidays and weekends, not expecting us to return until ‘tea’ at the end of the afternoon. Anything could have happened to us … but it didn’t.
Although the front entrance to Sandhurst Royal Military Academy was manned, the back entrances were open, allowing non-Army residents to wander through the grounds. Every winter, my mother and I almost froze to death standing on the shore of one of the Academy’s two lakes while my father insisted on showing off his ice-skating prowess, learned as part of my parents’ earlier, unfulfilled plan to emigrate to Canada. My mother would occasionally swim in the indoor heated swimming pool where, if challenged, she would claim to be an officer’s wife, with me in tow expected to play the part of the officer’s son. Security was non-existent prior to the IRA’s mainland bombing campaign in 1973.
Adjacent to Sandhurst was ‘The Common’, 4192 acres of wooded common land shared by Camberley locals for recreation and the British Army for war games. The land was criss-crossed by perfectly straight paths and wide unmade roads dating from Roman times, though the ‘Caesar’s Camp’ archaeological site within was eventually determined to be an earlier Iron Age hill fort. One part of this vast landscape was where my father struggled to teach my mother to drive, me sandwiched between them, terrified on the front seat of our American Rambler station wagon. It was the blind leading the blind as my father had never taken a driving lesson. Conscripted to the Suez, he was ordered to drive trucks across the Egyptian desert, which he did as fast and aggressively as possible for two years. Demobbed with a British driving licence, his style of driving refused to change. How my mother subsequently passed her driving test I never understood.
The Common seemed enormous to me, bordered by the scary Broadmoor Hospital to the west and Windsor Castle to the east, eleven miles from our house, a destination my mother said she had reached on foot as a child accompanying her father. The only human imposition evident on the landscape was a single line of electricity pylons that crossed it, whose cables sizzled as you passed underneath. This noise scared me after having seen my father thrown across our living room when he recklessly drilled a hole in the wall above our house’s electricity fuse board. Now, whenever I watch 1960’s/1970’s Hammer historical movies with horse drawn carriages speeding along straight unmade routes through thick wooded land, I recognise The Common that I came to know so well.
Having access to so much wilderness so nearby to explore was idyllic as a child. There was the ‘Star Post’ raised lookout junction where ten perfectly straight paths intersected. There were army assault courses with tyres on ropes, wooden climbing frames alongside ditches full of water if you fell off. There were small ruined buildings that we could run in and around, chasing each other. There were trenches we could hide in, hoping to frighten a passing dogwalker or biker. Some parts were densely wooded while others were covered with undergrowth, offering scope for all sorts of games. Most of all, there were long straight unmade roads where we could reach great speeds on our bikes without the worry of traffic … except for the odd tank.
Before adventuring onto The Common, we would habitually meet up with our bikes on Old Green Lane, a long, wide, tree-lined straight cul-de-sac of huge residences for senior Sandhurst staff. At the far end was a ditch perpendicular to the road marking the border with the Sandhurst estate, rather like a miniature moat. In the ditch were black stag beetles, some of which grew to the size of an adult hand. My mates liked to poke them with sticks. I was more wary of wildlife after having spotted a large snake in the tiny front garden of our house and then having hidden indoors, peeking from the front window with my mother as my father hacked it to death with a spade. On another occasion, my father having asked me to bring him a tool from a tall cardboard box on our garage floor, I reached inside and a huge spider crawled up my bare arm. I screamed … and still do.
One morning, at our Old Green Lane rendezvous, my mates’ poking angered a huge stag beetle sufficiently for it to climb out of the ditch. This scared me, I climbed on my bike and rode away at top speed down the road, followed by my mates on their bikes shouting “It’s flying. It’s on your back. It’s attacking you.” I was absolutely petrified, reached the other end of the road, pulled my shirt off to find … nothing. My mates laughed at their cruel jape. I was not amused. I never spoke to them again or joined them biking across The Common. I travelled alone after that, having learnt a valuable life lesson. As Bob Marley sang: “your best friend [could be] your worst enemy”.
Not long after, my parents announced that we would finally be moving into the new house two miles away they had spent several years constructing. I had very few possessions to pack, but what should I do with the secret hoard of ammunition under my bed? I knew my bike-riding, bullet-collecting days over The Common were to end now. Initially I considered the easiest solution was to throw them in the dustbin for the weekly rubbish collection, but then I realised that the crushing machinery inside the dustcart might prove catastrophic. I had no ambition to be notorious as Britain’s youngest mass murderer … if I survived the explosion that would have destroyed our house.
Instead, I made dozens of journeys across The Common during the weeks prior to our move, carrying a portion of my artillery hoard each time and throwing it back onto the common land from whence it had been harvested. Nobody would notice because the Army demonstrated no interest in clearing their wargame debris from the landscape. Environmental damage? What was that?
Once we had moved house, I did not return to The Common for three decades. In the meantime, it appeared to have been named ‘Broadmoor to Bagshot Woods & Heaths’. Snappy! I was now taking morning runs alongside my brother-in-law. The deer were still there. The pathways were still in the same place. The electricity cables beneath the pylons still sizzled. The occasional camouflaged soldier with a gun could still be spotted hiding in a trench. And night-time gunfire and flares continued. Somewhere in the world there is always a war for which to prepare.
[Originally published at https://peoplelikeyoudontworkinradio.blogspot.com/2023/04/life-is-battlefield-1966-barossa-common.html]
Grant Goddard : radio broadcasting expert : media analyst : writer/author 