The sergeant’s strange behaviour was finally unravelled... In the British Army infantry regiments there exists the rank of Colour Sergeant, the next step up the rank from Sergeant but below that of a Warrant Officer. Such talented individuals, with the exception of specialist platoons, such as signals and musicians, hold the appointment of Company Quartermaster Sergeant [CQMS]. Next in the non-commissioned pecking order comes the Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant [RQMS] who is ultimately answerable to the Quartermaster – usually a Major who has risen through the ranks and joined his brother Commissioned Officers.
All of the abovementioned ranks are responsible for operating and maintaining the stores that provide the equipment and provisions needed to permit the lower ranks to be clothed, fed and armed, to create as much discomfort as possible for any potential enemy. Theoretically, those entrusted with the treasures contained within the Aladdin’s Cave of the company stores are supposed to deal with the issue of commodities without fear of favour, but in reality tend to have more in common with Ali Baba and his famed forty thieves. For some peculiar reason, once promoted, a Colour Sergeant automatically assumes all that fall under his control. They become his personal property rather than that of the Ministry of Defence.
Soldiers of the 1960’s were issued with what many will fondly recall as a “housewife”. In fact this was a small bag which contained a selection of sewing needles, woollen darning yarn and a few other odds and sods to repair items of clothing. Mostly, the grey woollen yarn was used to darn socks. Those who had the privilege to watch their mother darn socks were off to a good start. Other less attentive squaddies watched in envy and admiration as the ‘Old Sweats’ plied their needlecraft. Needless to say, there comes a time when a pair of socks becomes composed of more darns than the actual sock. As a result, blistered feet were commonplace. At this juncture, the soldier is faced with two options, either to approach the Company Stores to exchange the derelict socks for a new pair or suffer in silence and hope that his blisters will eventuate in a nasty infection and necessitate a bi-lateral amputation of his feet and hasten his discharge from the Army.
The first option of seeking an exchange was fraught with danger. Invariably, the storeman chosen by the Colour Sergeant was a miserly creature who had been indoctrinated to give absolutely nothing away. Such miscreants ranked close to the regimental cooks in the hierarchy of hatred by the rank and file. All too often, despite pleading and grovelling one would be told to “p&*#” off and darn your socks yet again.
One morning a very strange thing happened at A Company stores at Minden Barracks, Penang. A crippled colleague of mine went to the stores and rejoiced that he had received three pairs of brand new socks when he had only taken one pair in to hopefully exchange. He remarked that there was a baffling change in the demeanour of both the storeman and that of the Colour Sergeant. Both men were very agreeable, appearing to be sharing a private joke as they giggled during the conversation with the said soldier. This was a complete mystery to us all. Had the stores’ ‘Scrooges’ undergone a religious conversion or had they won the Penang State Lottery? Not to miss an opportunity, I,quickly with several other mates gathered up my old socks and headed for the stores.
Lo and behold, my colleague had been truthful and after a breathtakingly convivial meeting, my socks were replaced without further ado. It seemed a little odd that both the Colour Sergeant and his head honcho had rather bloodshot eyes and there seemed to be a funny smell lingering around the counter area. One got the impression that if we had asked for extra ammunition or a flagon of Gurkha rum we would have received a favourable response.
It was a much wiser and older Corporal who unravelled the mystery. In the days when soldiers limited their vices to alcohol, cigarettes and women, it appeared that the observant Corporal detected the pungent smell of cannabis wafting around the stores. Having achieved our objective, nobody was of the mind to make any official complaint and we were later to discover that the illicit drugs had been procured from the camp Char Wallah who always seemed to have a glazed expression on his face as he made our egg and banana “banjo” (sandwich) at morning work breaks.
Sadly, this was a short-lived event. What happened next is open to question, but I guess that someone somehow had had a quiet word with the Colour Sergeant and his partner in crime. So in the fullness of time we returned to the onerous task of darning our socks, succumbing to blistered feet and continuing warfare with the men’s hosiery section of A Company Stores and our tormentors.
Ipoh Echo 
