Reflections on a young life
Why on earth would anyone in his right mind set out to compose an account of his life from birth to the age of 21, not only in verse form but in rhyming couplets? Well, some friends have suggested one obvious answer, namely that I was not in my right mind.
My meagre preparation for this monumental task was to have written many pieces of verse, of variable length and quality, over the years. I had also read and enjoyed the late Poet Laureate John Betjeman’s autobiography “Summoned by Bells”, to which there is an oblique reference in Part 2 of my narrative verse. But Betjeman’s work was written in free verse, so my challenge was assuming an extra dimension of difficulty. I am of course making no comparison here. It may indeed be an impertinence to mention my work in the same breath as that of an acknowledged master of the art (though he was much maligned by some of his peers), but there it is.
Or rather here it is. If by any chance you have the interest and the stamina to read on, I hope it may give you some small pleasure.
1. EARLY DAYS
A major war was just a year away
When on a balmy early autumn day
Into a world of mounting strife
I came unheralded to life
Atop the western edge of town
By glorious grassy Clifton Down
Its spread unchecked till grey sea wall
Is all that guards the steepling fall
To the river sauntering far below
The mud-brimmed Avon loitering slow
Beneath the bridge that Brunel threw
Across the gorge by nature hewed
Twelve months we lived in a ‘garden flat’
Euphemism for basement, it was just that
A picture shows me sitting in the sun
Innocent of coming bullet and gun
My first year unremembered passed
War was declared, the die was cast
The Knights moved east to countryside
There the next full decade to reside. 20
Father no longer being away at sea
Meant time at home with the family
He worked six years on a factory floor
Making weapons to fight the war
The house we took cost seven and six to rent
Each week the landlord’s agent duly sent
To collect in ready cash the money due
For a house that shrank as the family grew
Three beds for five was just alright
When five became seven a trifle tight
At least it was a house, that’s true
But a house without an inside loo
Poor as it was, the place to us was home
With fields to front and back for us to roam
In rural scenes our lives were set
The German bombs our only threat
That flattened much of Bristol’s heart
And in our lives played frightening part
As nightly we were carried down
To shelter huddled underground. 40
The walk to school a mile away
Gave opportunity to play
At marbles, five-stones, kicking balls
And grazing knees from frequent falls
My classroom recollections are of smells
Lady teachers, school books, desk ink-wells
Glass-bottled milk to drink at break
For health if not for safety’s sake
The village church with modest spire
Called us on Sundays to the choir
To sing with gusto favourite hymns
And chat through sermons as gaslight dims.
At war’s end US trucks rolled down the hill
Soldiers armed with guns that would not kill
Threw packs of special yankee chewing-gum
Into the playground to the waiting scrum
The dawn of peace we villagers would greet
With lavish outdoor parties street by street
Including fancy treats so long denied
To those who feted victory with pride. 60
In back field we played cricket
On a bumpy rough-mown wicket
With hardly any kit at all
Three sticks, a bat and just one ball
Among the woods across the field
Were wood pigeons whose fate was sealed
As with my air-gun I took aim
Though not one clean hit could I claim
By contrast front field was so steep
In winters when the snow lay deep
We raced down on our home-made sledge
Stopped only by Farmer Warner’s hedge
We thought of old man Warner as the foe
Looking to foil us when we dared to go
Scrumping his apples and his pears
Always hoping to catch him unawares.
Was winter forty-seven the worst?
We were just one of many families cursed
With the effects of never-ending snow
Which brought such devastation in its tow 80
Yards-high drifts, temperatures plunging
Unheated houses cold as a dungeon
Cold as fit to freeze the blood
After the thaw there came the flood
Nothing arrested the rushing tide
Which brushed all obstacles aside
It flooded the house to the second stair
Delivering mud, mud everywhere
The only way to remove the mire
Was a hot tin tub in front of the fire
Which warmed the limbs turned scarlet blue
From a hurried trip to the outside loo.
Then forty-nine and everything changed
My whole life now was rearranged
A move of house, a move of school
Friends drawn from a different pool
Aged ten I took the 11-plus
Did I wonder what all the fuss
Was about? Did I have no fear of failing?
And was it really such plain sailing? 100
Yet looking back I could not guess
That I would win a scholarship, no less
For top marks in the county my reward
Would be to go away to school to board
Two suits from County Hall came down
To interview me in my dressing gown
Somehow I must have come up trumps
Sympathy for being swollen-faced with mumps?
That’s when the offer of two schools occurred
Of neither of which we had ever heard
The choice was: get to one by train or bus
To the other by car, impossible for us
So complete with trunk we took the train
Steaming out of Temple Meads in pouring rain
Mother trying to hide her agitated state
About to lose a son to unknown fate
If I was calmer, it was not inside
And when we parted had we cried?
I suspect that once back on the train
Mother’s tears were given full rein 120
The pain of parting perhaps hurt less
Distracted by our change of address
From east to west, from rus to urbs
The stress of moving strong emotion curbs.
The change of house did not mean much to me
Though not true for others in the family
Who thrilled to find the extra space
Unconcerned at the house’s charmless face
My memory of moving is very slight
As two days later I spent my first night
In a twelve-bed room, the junior dorm
Strange, but soon to become the norm
Quickly my school became my base
Our new house an unfamiliar place
Where I would merely pass the holidays
Far from friends who’d gone their separate ways
In Bristol I knew not a single soul
So boredom quickly took its toll
I missed the company of others
Despite a sister and two brothers 140
Whose early interest in my situation
Proved of relatively short duration
Since they had found their own new ways
Of occupying non-school days
With local friends I did not share
For I had made my own elsewhere
Whereas their interests lay at hand
My own dwelt in a far-off land
Cheltenham was just an hour by train
But was to me another world again
There I would spend the next eight years
For family home I spilt no salted tears.
2. AWAY AT SCHOOL
Junior School
Not every child finds boarding fun
But if it’s not for everyone
For the naturally gregarious
There are just so many various
Activities of body and of mind
Adventurous boys will always find
To occupy their waking hours
With challenges to test their powers 160
Straight away at boarding school I found
That opportunities for sport and games abound
Team sports had suddenly become
A part of the main curriculum
Like classroom lessons we were taught
The basic skills with which we ought
To reach a standard where we could compete
With rival school teams we would shortly meet
We played rugby and hockey in winter time
And it was almost deemed a crime
To miss a tackle on the rugby pitch
But I’d already got the raging itch
The itch for cricket most of all
More than a game of bat and ball
Demanding flair and high technique
Hand/eye coordination at its peak
The lovely grounds the school possessed
Were nothing but the very best
Pitches such as I had never seen
Flawless as the finest bowling green. 180
Though it was great to play team sport
We also learnt, at least were taught
New languages, some live some dead
Latin and French were dinned into our head
‘Amo, amas, amat’ we’d confidently chant
Or fluent French with ‘la plume de ma tante’
We surely felt we’d made a solid start
Though this was hardly Ovid or Descartes
If sometimes English grammar might confuse us
Our teacher ‘Harry’ Harper would amuse us
By tying round his arm a piece of string
And, flexing his bicep, burst it with a ping
Or ‘Billy’ Harwood, hearing the slightest sound
While writing on the blackboard would whip round
To aim the duster at the boy he thought
Was paying less attention than he ought
Only to resume without a single word
Combining the eccentric and absurd
In Latin classes we would dare not speak
Unless we were addressed first by the Beak 200
A false word one would instantly regret
For he was a ferocious martinet
Avoiding him was one of our main goals
He put the fear of God into our souls
This was the Beak but he was also Head
His every look would fill the boys with dread
The nickname Beak described his nose
But this was not where fear arose
His eyes, I swear, could pierce a door
And nail a miscreant to the floor.
Thankfully other staff were less severe
In fairness I should make this clear
If Beak was sharp his wife was mild
Not quite a mother to every child
But always ready nonetheless
To comfort boys with homesickness
Then there was Miss Griffiths, a Welsh girl
With a winning smile and a wild blonde curl
Glamorous and generous, a ray of sun
Sister, matron, housekeeper all in one 220
I wonder, would Miss Griffiths fail to blush
To know that all her boys had such a crush
In any case her eyes were set on Harry
Mr Harper, whom she soon would marry
To live a long fulfilling life
As a dedicated master’s wife.
At school our lives were highly organised
After classes prep was supervised
Weekly we sat down to write our letters
To parents, siblings, elders and betters
This was a duty we could not shirk
Just another scheduled job of work
Though each week what I found to write
Remains a mystery; perhaps it might
Have been ‘Dear Mother, weather’s sunny
Please send me some pocket money’
Some boys received a veritable host
Of letters and parcels in the post
I was not among those favoured few
Lucky to get one every month or two 240
When father wrote a lengthy screed
It took five weeks for me to read
His execrable hand as if in rage
Green ink scrawled across the endless page.
From Saturday lunchtime we were free
In any case that was the theory
We had limited time to let off steam
Or visit the shop for a rare ice-cream
But compulsory chapel on Sunday meant
That half the day was already spent
Doing things we’d rather not do
And the afternoon was planned for us too
The Head insisted on country walks
Bombarding us with nature talks
A tall man with a lengthy stride
He was both our leader and our guide
Pointing out insects, flowers, shrubs and trees
Describing the lives of common birds and bees
So even on Sunday, our day of leisure
The business of learning outranked pleasure. 260
Strangely at Dean Close royalty was seen
Less than a year before she was our queen
Princess Elizabeth on Big Field alit
As groundsman Bill Mason nearly had a fit
Thinking only of his hallowed cricket square
To land a chopper there could drive him spare
How dare she? Though she could of course
Coming to inspect the school cadet force
Parading for her sake on verdant Chapel Close
Headmaster Gilkes her most attentive host
But why on earth was she there at all?
A question to which answers always stall.
Senior School
In the year of nineteen fifty two
So much happened, so much was new
King George died, a new queen came to rule
At fourteen I arrived at Dean Close School
In some ways this was no great stride
Just crossing Big Field to the other side
But in each and every other sense
Quotidian changes were immense 280
To start with, it was easy to get lost
In labyrinthine corridors where the cost
Of taking a wrong turning could be high
Around each corner dangers might well lie
Doors through which prefects alone could pass
Lawns where they alone could tread the grass
Hands in pockets were strictly forbidden
While bicycles could not be ridden
Within the boundaries of the school
Though outside was a different rule
Our school ‘cap’ was a mortar board
Which meant that we could ill afford
To be caught bare-headed in the town
Another crime to bring one crashing down
(You may think ‘dabbers’ more than rare as hell
But other Cheltenham schools wore them as well)
There seemed a thousand ways we could transgress
Such sins could land us in a pretty mess.
Though many rules could claim no rhyme nor reason
On boys who broke them it was open season 300
For prefects wielding ultimate authority
Granted them by their natural seniority
Masters kept their distance by and large
Leaving the prefects to show who was in charge
The model was that prefects ran the show
While masters taught and kept their profile low
Being in general kind and sympathetic
In matters social, intellectual and aesthetic
Yet, fair to say, we quickly got the score
Avoiding the grass and any mystery door
Knowing our lowly place as junior boys
And finding other inoffensive joys
But junior status did not last for ever
So through no particular endeavour
We passed the ‘middle’ and ‘senior’ stage
Merely by virtue of increasing age
Until at last a school prefectoral role
Might see one atop the so-called greasy pole
I was myself appointed to that set
One of the privileged few who met 320
Whatever criteria were deemed right
To give a boy such powerful oversight.
Despite the normal lengthy working days
There were yet many and various ways
Of having fun in our own free time
For some this meant that sport was prime
Lawn tennis or a game of Dean Close fives
Could brighten our otherwise mundane lives
(the rules of Dean Close fives were most obscure
Unlike those of Eton or Rugby which endure
Our own fives courts were long ago destroyed
And no such trivial pursuit is now enjoyed)
Though sport was mostly organised
So actual choice was rarely exercised
And for those whose last wish was to play
A game of rugby really spoilt their day
Boxing at school had a brief inglorious history
One that to most is something of a mystery
For the captain of boxing there was a catch
Namely, cancellation of the only school match 340
So he led a team that never raised a fist
He was captain of a sport that didn’t exist
For me sport was the stuff of dreams
Making my way through age-group teams
Playing for the Colts was just a start
But gave one a chance to make a mark
And next year gain selection for the school
One of few in an elite sporting pool
Whose members, winning ‘colours’, wore a tie
That set them apart from other lesser fry
Luckily for me I drew a winning ticket
Representing school at rugby, hockey, cricket
In the latter eventually captaining the team
Thus achieving more than a mere dream.
More athlete than aesthete but nonetheless
Enjoying the pleasures of sporting success.
For some whose preference was reading
There was no need of special pleading
To find a restful, reliably quiet place
The well-stocked library was the perfect base 360
To explore the pleasures of the printed word
Or simply doze in the calm that it conferred
For those whose taste was musically inclined
At the Tovey Society they were sure to find
The best of listening and the chance of learning
Under the expert guidance of the discerning
David Lepine, organist and master of the choir
Whose life prospects, unknown to us, were dire
Coventry Cathedral, newly designed by Basil Spence
Welcomed Lepine with justified confidence
In the performance of sacred music he aspired
To a pinnacle of excellence much admired
Sadly he worked himself to an early death
Not yet fifty when he drew his last breath
But music had always played a major part
At Dean Close School it was at the heart
Of an active and extensive cultural scene
Still thriving now as it has ever been.
If reading, sport or music failed to engage
Some took enthusiastically to the stage 380
Performing Shakespeare in the open air
In the splendid natural amphitheatre
Where audiences of hundreds could delight
In performances of Hamlet or Twelfth Night
More modern plays were equally acceptable
The minimal stage being endlessly adaptable
(One might think Waiting for Godot risked disaster
But Samuel Beckett was a friend of the Headmaster)
If the bill of fare was predominantly classical
Standards were high under the sometimes irascible
Though always brilliant stage direction
Of a master who demanded near perfection
A classicist whose theatrical reputation
Spread far beyond the world of education
I was never once tempted to tread the boards
Since other interests brought their own rewards
Although it would be more honest and true
To concede that as actor I had not a clue.
There was a studio for painting and drawing
Another for practical types more into sawing 400
And alongside carpentry a metalwork shop
Where they made clever things, but God knows what
Me, I didn’t set foot in any such places
I steered well clear on the simple basis
That with books, sport and music I had quite enough
To keep me busy without all that stuff
I can say that as far as the arts were concerned
The evidence suggests that many had learned
Enough to excel in their specialist field
With high professional reputations sealed
The young Francis Bacon started painting at school
Like him or not he was clearly no fool
His works sell for millions, deserved or not
The agonised figures just don’t hit the spot
For those who prefer something more realistic
Or figurative with a touch of the mystic
James Elroy Flecker was a poet of some note
His drama Hassan among works one could quote
Like his Golden Journey to Samarkand
Written while a consul in a Middle East land 420
When he died young his mother, Headmaster’s wife
Went into black clothing for the rest of her life
In acting Emil, brother of composer Gustav Holst
Had a fruitful Hollywood career, alongside most
Of the best-loved stars that filmgoers knew
Dietrich, Gary Cooper and Bogart to name but a few
There were many more who excelled in the arts
On canvas, in books, music or theatrical parts
There was even a Junior School boy, Brian Jones
Who was later a member of the Rolling Stones
In archives the cause of early death is unrecorded
But in his memory a music cup is annually awarded
Which demonstrates unquestionably how
Not all school music had to be high-brow.
They say that public schoolboys, if landing up inside
Take horrendous prison cooking in their stride
On the basis that their previous schooldays had
Trained them to eat what’s served, however bad
Very little of school food do I now recall
But my suspicion is that it wasn’t bad at all 440
Never mind the grub, the maids were young and pert
So older boys would seize the opportunity to flirt
Succumbing to advances, a maid might get the sack
But after the Ladies College, she would soon be back
With shortage of staff the school had found
There were benefits to this merry-go-round
One dubious privilege of a prefect’s life
Was lunch at table with the Head and his wife
I felt there was an onerous expectation
Of a level of intellectual conversation
To which I was able rarely to aspire
The less I said, the more my prospects dire.
If I did not dance with a dining hall maid, then
The same was not true of a Ladies College maiden
From time to time a deal was done, by happy chance
To bring a bevy of young Ladies to a dance
Though some of the jiving, whirl and catch
Bore more resemblance to a rugby match
To claim that we danced the night away
Would be a slight exaggeration, shall we say 460
For the girls were always under the beady eye
Of a team of chaperones ready to defy
Any attempt by boys at questionable behaviour
Since they were appointed as the Ladies’ saviour
But nonetheless we tried our level best
To set these guardians the sternest test
By conspiring to escape out of their sight
To savour the forbidden pleasures of the night.
Once a week we played soldiers in the corps
Some were quite keen, others found it a bore
Parading in all but the foulest weather
We took guns apart and put them back together
Did this give rare insight into the hows and whys
Or was it a thoroughly pointless exercise?
I think I reached a three-stripe sergeant’s rank
And fired some guns, though the shots were blank
Some questioned the sense of those who were willing
To waste several hours in marching and drilling
But many of us were stood in good stead
For life in the British army lay not far ahead. 480
Specifically the results of any old boys’ search
Reveal achievements greatest in the church
The names of countless bishops are unfurled
Serving here and in missions around the world
The late Jim Thompson was at school with me
Though he escapes my boyhood memory
Perhaps, like John Betjeman, summoned by bells
He was called to be Bishop of Bath and Wells
In whose fine cathedral hangs a shining plate
Upon which my paternal grandpa’s fate
Is remembered for his death in the Great War
For he was a man of Wells, and is for evermore.
3. IN THE ARMY
So there it is, my schooldays’ course was run
My life beyond them under the starter’s gun
Awaiting the call from Her Gracious Majesty
I pondered little on my future destiny
Finding a job in a local department store
Doing next to nothing on the lower basement floor
Despite my labour sadly being dirt cheap
The few pounds earned still helped to earn my keep 500
If hardly an auspicious start to my career
Yet an experience that I should hold dear
For it prepared me for the barrack room
In which I’d take up residence all too soon
Where conversation was not worthy of the name
Limited to what they call the beautiful game.
‘The War Office’, not then the current M.O.D
Appeared on the envelope so that I could see
That inside there would be no real surprises
Except that it instructed ‘Report to Devizes’
Whereas like the nursery rhyme’s Dr Foster
I had expected to be going to Gloucester
Le Marchant Barracks was the unlikely name
For the place where I would start the game
Of playing at soldiers for the next two years
Might it be fun or would it all end in tears?
No-one expected to be wrapped in soft crepe
We knew we were due to be licked into shape.
Almost from the moment that we arrived
We were rudely and summarily deprived 520
Of every single thing in our possession
In one deflating, calculated session
First things first, we swapped our civvie suits
For scratchy uniforms and clunky boots
And piles of kit not yet familiar to most
Nor yet in any state of which to boast
Then off to the sadistic barber where
He delighted in leaving us almost no hair
If these early events were a shock to some
They gave no hint of the horrors to come
It’s said that national service invariably gave
Self-confidence to Tommy, Mick and Dave
And every other innocent raw recruit
Who ever donned a British army boot
Well, only time would tell if this were so
For the moment spirits were extremely low.
In fact they did not stay that way for long
Our wills were quickly bent, however strong
To non-stop duties, activities designed
To test our stamina of body and of mind 540
When not being drilled upon the square
Then we were being chased elsewhere
On imaginary battlefields we crawled about
Left by our corporals in no earthly doubt
That manoeuvres we were carefully crafting
Would ensure that the enemy died laughing
We were by far the worst recruits they’d seen
Except, of course, for all those who had been
Conscripted into their tender care before
To a man incapable of waging proper war
They cursed us roundly, rubbed our noses in the dirt
Their primary motive surely was to make us hurt
But when the order came to fall out for a smoke
The corporal nearly turned into a decent bloke
Chameleon-like he changed his attitude
Almost friendly, though never less than crude
Give him his due, his energy was huge
Rejoicing in the name of Corporal Trooge.
If all our working days were painfully full
Our evenings, far from free, were full of bull 560
Which, being translated, meant the nightly task
Of cleaning webbing, shining boots and all our brass
To a state at which we overcame our fear
That punishment for poorly presented gear
Might follow at next morning’s inspection
When nothing was passed short of perfection.
On occasions we’d sneak an hour at the NAAFI
A sort of cross between military club and café
Subsidised it was, but we could ill afford
Much from our weekly guinea plus board
There was a bar, but nights were not boozy
Rather were they filled with ‘Wake Up Little Susie’
Played over and over on a cheap gramophone
Which simply made me long to be alone
Away from the sound of this mindless pop
That no amount of protest was enough to stop
Sometimes I was engaged to write letters home
But these were to loved ones not my own
Rather to those of my barrack room mates
Who sought my help to express their fates 580
To those who simply did not comprehend
The alien life their men were forced to spend
To girlfriends too, who must have wondered how
Their boyfriends penned such letters now
Unlike any overtures previously made
By lads who would have called a spade a spade.
Before completing our basic ten week ‘beating’
I was summoned to attend a USB meeting
Unit Selection Board was really an interview
With my Commanding Officer I barely knew
And who in turn knew next to nothing of me
Whose role in this case was somehow to see
If I had the potential for him to accord
Me the chance of War Office Selection Board
WOSB being a gruelling three day session
To judge one’s fitness to train for a commission
I felt his approval was less than whole-hearted
A sort of reluctant pass and then we parted
For me to contemplate my chances of success
Of gainsaying the mean pessimism he expressed. 600
So I went to Hampshire to be assessed
Knowing I would find it a demanding test
My confidence low, my mind was full of fears
Of three days’ intensive competition with my peers
Some clearly thought this a stroll in the park
Others, like me, felt the need to make their mark
Emphatically, so that their adjudicators saw
A genuine potential, even if still raw
In a sleepless night my strategy evolved
To a point where I had consciously resolved
That the approach most likely to carry the day
Was to hurl myself willy-nilly into the fray
Of course this only applied to the physical capers
While I’d trust to luck in the written papers
For three days our actions were watched and noted
By officers whose attention was devoted
To scribbling observations that might affect our fate
A fate for which we’d not have long to wait
On the evening of day three our destinies were sealed
We were gathered in a room for results to be revealed 620
And public humiliation would be the lot of some
Although for most relief was soon to come
Three words were all it took them to convey
‘Private Knight, pass’ meant I was on my way.
Never remotely did I think I’d live in style
In a famous Victorian Gothic pile
Still less did I expect to set my feet
In the Duke of Westminster’s country seat
But this was not to attend some toffish ball
Rather was I despatched to Eaton Hall
Whose elegant surroundings formed the base
Where officer cadets were nervously to face
Four months of ultra-gruelling training
Before, with luck, passing their time remaining
As officers holding the Queen’s commission
Having survived what felt much like perdition
Making basic training seem no sweat
Eaton Hall was our greatest challenge yet.
Memories of detail have inevitably faded
But how could anyone forget that we paraded 640
Every wintry morning at the bitter crack of light
Rehearsing an occasion that surely would be quite
The most dramatic and impressive to be seen
Equalling the changing of the guard before the Queen
That day five hundred officer cadets stood tall
On the final passing-out parade at Eaton Hall
Which returned thereafter to the Grosvenor estates
Private once again behind the massive Golden Gates.
There was not now much time remaining
Of our stretch of officer cadet training
Just enough for two weeks’ battle camp
Which indelibly would leave its stamp
On all who waged ‘war’ on the gale-lashed heights
Of the Brecon Beacons, one of those sights
That normally would have the viewer in awe
But we were engaged in conditions of war
With live ammunition in use every day
And the very real risk of it coming our way
In water-logged trenches and open air living
That most found intensely unforgiving 660
Still some enjoyed the games we played
A few unfortunates failed to make the grade.
Finally we passed out as commissioned men
(There were no women in the army then)
Tough as it was, it was worth the trip
To join our regiments with a brand new pip
The mark on the shoulders of military dress
That qualified us for the officers’ mess
There to be regarded as the lowest of the low
Our aching inexperience inevitably on show
Ten days at the Gloucesters’ depot was enough
I couldn’t wait to escape and to set off
For less depressing, more adventurous times
Henceforth to serve in more exotic climes.
I met a colleague, now a lifetime friend
At a Kensington hotel where we would spend
Our last night in England before flying out
To a destination we knew little about
In those days Sierra Leone was a two-day flight
So we stayed in the Canaries overnight 680
Where we drank cheap wine, more than our share
Awaking next morning the worse for wear
We were in no fit state of which to boast
As we rattled our way down the African coast
In a rackety plane we could barely trust
Turning blind eyes to the signs of rust
Arriving in Freetown in sweltering heat
We were taken to HQ where we would meet
The chaps with whom we’d work and share a mess
Neatly turned out in tropical military dress
Long puttees, khaki shorts and large slouch hat
Our new daily uniform, whatever we were at
The biggest shock was our strange new milieu
With which we must fast become familiar
English was neither spoken nor understood
By soldiers of the regiment who could
Only speak their native tribal tongue
Or a form of pigeon English used among
The different tribes making up the force
And to address the British officers of course 700
It took us weeks to start to understand
To feel that we belonged in this strange land.
Battalion HQ was somewhat sophisticated
Compared to our next move, unanticipated
As it was, for we were promptly posted to Daru
A distant jungle camp of which I grew
Quite fond, in part because we were so free
Of the mostly unwelcome, formal ceremony
Sometimes experienced at the regimental base
But of which in the bush we saw no trace
The journey by road to Daru took a day
Though a mere two hundred miles away
To call it a road is excessively polite
It was an unmade-up surface of laterite
A red track snaking its way through the bush
Defying all efforts to make a quick push
The track was blocked where trees were down
Or washed away by the rains that abound
So-called mammy-wagons were a threat
Since there was rarely space enough to get 720
Out of their path as they raced along
The chance of an accident always strong
There were several rivers that had to be crossed
A process ensuring much time would be lost
As the ferryman sought to negotiate
A charge that exceeded the normal rate
Thirteen hours to Daru was par for the course
If the weather was rough it could be worse.
So Daru’s appeal was its informality
Largely derived from its remote locality
The Colonel was a safe distance away
No miserable Adjutant could spoil our day
Our daily routine was fairly agreeable
The events ahead were mostly foreseeable
Our raison d’être was to pre-empt
Illicit diamond mining which could tempt
The most moral and upright citizen
Including our otherwise soldierly men
Who would not baulk at the nearby chance
To make a killing and thus enhance 740
Their prospects of a vastly better life
With money to spend on a brand new wife
And perhaps a plot of land at a push
As they melted away into the bush.
Our main occupation was in-field work
Which the men regarded as almost a perk
They loved the mock battles that we staged
It was almost a realistic war they waged
Hurling themselves headlong into the fight
They made of themselves a fearsome sight
Though it was true that shortly after
The men would collapse in helpless laughter
Knowing it was all a bit of harmless fun
That never in earnest would they fire a gun
For it was never likely they would fight a war
A thought that would chill most men to the core
Surprisingly the activity they most rated
Was something most British soldiers hated
Marching for miles is something they like
Treating it as a pleasurable hike 760
Bowling along at a very decent lick
One suddenly saw what made them tick
Invariably they loved to sing and dance
So this is what they did as they advanced
Swinging along in rhythmic style
Singing their hearts out all the while
For most a route march was more or less hell
In West African style these men could excel.
The reasons for one of my roles were beyond me
Yet it was one I remember quite fondly
I was made officer in charge of messing
With the power to keep my colleagues guessing
As to what they might have for dinner or lunch
Though frequently when it came to the crunch
I had left the decision to my sergeant cook
A damn good chef in anyone’s book
How he acquired his skills I never knew
But generally speaking I took the view
That I would trust him and I always did
Despite a feeling there were things he hid 780
There were times when I certainly felt the vibe
That he was probably feeding half his tribe
From stuff purloined from the kitchen stock
A perk of the job I chose to overlook.
Sadly my time at Daru was to be curtailed
Because in one respect my health had failed
Frankly to me it seemed a little rough
But the medic was concerned enough
Contracting a tropical skin condition
They sent me down to Freetown on a mission
For special treatment in the army hospital
Where I recovered quickly and quite well
Under the care of a nurse called Joan
The prettiest girl I met in Sierra Leone
Though when discharged they took the view
There was no point returning to Daru
Thus was I set for a lengthy period
At Battalion HQ where pleasures were myriad.
Emerging from hospital I was very soon
Back on daily duty commanding a platoon 800
Consisting of some thirty men or more
In B Company, which was one of four
I sometimes wonder how we came to fill
Our working days apart from formal drill
That seemed to occupy a disproportionate part
Particularly in the morning at the start
Of day, before the sultry heat was such
That being on parade was just too much
To bear, despite the vital need for us to be
Fully prepared to honour a visiting VIP
Such as a high-ranking military man
Or a Head of State invariably African
We performed for President Tubman of Liberia
An occasion inducing much hysteria
As his name affirms Tubman was very fat
And topped his army uniform with a bowler hat
So his confusion and his lack of clarity
Provided us with rich moments of hilarity
To which of course we could not give full vent
For after all he was a President. 820
It fell to us to keep the peace within the nation
So we practised skills in anticipation
Of occasional acts of riotous revolution
To which we had a well-rehearsed solution
Though not one we were keen to demonstrate
Since it might involve civilians’ grisly fate
The drills of which I speak were called IS
For Internal Security as it was expressed
The plan was this: if there were riots in town
A platoon from the battalion was sent down
Which would advance to a hundred yards away
Thence to persuade the mob to cease the affray
In several tribal languages rehearsed
The crowd was warned that they must now disperse
The message loud-hailed was ‘Disperse or we fire’
The consequence of ignoring it was dire
Eight riflemen took aim while kneeling still
Their orders were precise, to shoot to kill
But only one man fired the fatal shot
The rest fired blank rounds so that he should not 840
Be known to those who would avenge the dead
The army took the blame collectively instead.
Unrelated to IS, one of my soldiers died
The cause was unknown but not suicide
As his platoon commander I had to organise
A military funeral to fully recognise
His service for his native regiment
No matter that his time was mostly spent
In relative obscurity somewhere in the ranks
In IS terms he would be only firing blanks
He was a modest man lacking in height
So I ordered a coffin I judged to be right
Thinking him no taller than a youngish kid
But some force was needed to close the lid
I detailed a team of some of my best
To dig the grave where he’d be laid to rest
The service began amid fervent wailing
Before the discovery of a further failing
The squad of diggers had prepared the hole
Too short to receive the late-departed soul 860
After a quick extension was effected
No further problems were to be expected
A guard of honour formed for the salute
Their rifles raised for a ceremonial shoot
For a short life lived we gave respectful thanks
Praising the Lord they were only firing blanks
One can never be sure where a bullet lands
And we didn’t want another death on our hands.
From Government we had a strange request
To help them fight a special kind of pest
Reports from up-country were very alarming
Of a herd of elephants that were harming
Whole villages and their vital crop
But which they had no power to stop
The army was asked to intervene
To kill the beasts or drive them from the scene
The operation had to be kept quiet
For fear of a reaction, even a riot
In effect we were strongly advised
That anything we did must be disguised 880
As a fairly standard military mission
Thus avoiding the slightest suspicion
So on the grounds it would be no surprise
We set up a simple signals exercise
The Captain of Signals, who was a friend
Asked the Colonel if I could spend
A week on manoeuvres way up-country
Where I would act as the Captain’s 2 i/c
We drove all day, our purpose thus concealed
Laden with radio equipment for the field
As well as rifles and appropriate staff
Certainly we weren’t doing things by half
The village headman couldn’t wait to meet us
Bringing all the elders out to greet us
Along with trackers who would show the way
To the elephants that were to be our prey
Next day the signalmen arranged their kit
While we made sure our weapons would be fit
For serious action first thing in the morning
When we might meet a herd with little warning 900
Yet things turned out to be quite different
Our trackers swore they were on the scent
But suddenly a movement up ahead
Meant our chances, not the herd, were dead
This was planned to be a hunt not a chase
The herd was now retreating at a pace
In truth our guides had gravely sinned
By leading the group to a point up-wind
Giving the herd full warning of our presence
When obviously surprise is of the essence
No profit now in loosing off a shot
You can’t kill an elephant up the bot
Without much hope we tried again next day
But failed, supposing they had gone away
And later, with no further action needed
In a funny way perhaps we had succeeded.
If, as I recount, the trip was one of failing
The homeward journey never was plain sailing
Until the time when darkness fell
We were progressing fairly well 920
But fate had other things in store
Considering the light was pitch-black poor
At the wheel, the Captain wasn’t speeding
The oncoming headlamps were misleading
Suggesting the vehicle was very small
Though the truth was not like that at all
Candle-strength lamp on each side of the bonnet
Gave no hint of the greater width beyond it
Behind the cab the vehicle was wide
There were no lights to mark the side
The crash was violent and the dreadful shunt
Ensured our smaller jeep would bear the brunt
Of the damage caused by head-on collision
Resulting from the lack of clear-cut vision
Mercifully for us the actual human cost
Was limited since no lives were lost
Bones were broken, bad flesh wounds sustained
Through sheer good fortune I alone remained
Almost unharmed as I was headlong pitched
Out of our Land Rover into the roadside ditch 940
Perhaps the worst thing we had now to face
Was that we were stranded hours from base
But once again good luck would intervene
For in an hour a vehicle approached the scene
Heading for Freetown a Lebanese businessman
Offered to transport us in his spacious van
Having laid out the wounded in the back
We moved our stricken wreckage from the track
And leaving a well-armed signalman as guard
We set off for the capital going as hard
As was consistent with the comfort of the hurt
Jarred by the potholes we had failed to skirt
On arrival at Battalion very late at night
No doubt we looked a pretty gruesome sight
Rousing the regimental surgeon from his bunk
Quite clearly he was completely drunk
In the blink of an eye he was up and about
And leaving no-one in any doubt
He justified his brilliant reputation
By carrying out the urgent operation. 960
The Sierra Leone Army, not from necessity
Allowed for a touch of eccentricity
The weirdest subaltern of them all
Seemed always to be riding for a fall
He kept a pet monkey in his quarters
Fed it and supplied it bottled waters
As it clung to his back on their evening walk
Not even the Adjutant was inclined to baulk
At this clear evidence the man was nuts
There was no doubting it, no ifs or buts
Yet even the Adjutant, suspicious and sly
Was knowingly ready to turn a blind eye
How on earth did this chap gain a commission?
But perhaps he got the Colonel’s permission
In which case when all is said and done
Which of them really was the stranger one?
Once a month a Mess Night occurred
Ranging from ultra-serious to the absurd
All officers were required to attend
An event no outsider would comprehend 980
Dressed in full splendid mess regalia
The evening started on our best behaviour
Drinks were served as a beginner
Before the formal call to dinner
At a huge oval table, the Colonel at its head
And marking the occasion grace was said
The kitchen had produced the finest fare
Served amid the regimental silverware
Equally the wines were of the very best
The meal would pass the sternest test
By gourmet or by seasoned oenophile
The atmosphere relaxed and all the while
Voices were raised and laughter alike
Soon we were calling the Adjutant Mike
As in alcohol-fuelled informality
We seized the chance to feign equality
Though much of this was grist to the mill
Nobody dared to call the Colonel Phil
As dinner neared its end the last resort
Was the consumption of decanted port 1000
Passed to the left in clockwise mode
Round and round the liquor flowed
Until at last the tireless Colonel stood
To signal dinner over so that we all could
Repair to the lounge for a night of riotous fun
When crazy games were lost and won
I remember mess rugby to the fore
With drunken players crashing to the floor
Whatever your personal inclination
You could not avoid participation
And not a single officer had the right
To leave until the Colonel said goodnight
If it was always a raucous drunken fest
Sunday was to follow as a welcome day of rest.
All subalterns were National servicemen
Seconded from their British regiments
Though latterly there came the first
Two or three SL products of Sandhurst
The object being to increase the presence
Of local officers ready for independence 1020
This policy was only to prove pro tem
As some found army life was not for them
No SL officers held more than Captain’s rank
Perhaps content to put some money in the bank
And lead a quiet life until the time
When we had gone and they would duly climb
To levels only dreamed of in the past
Levels to which they rose particularly fast
Since they were the authors of their own ascent
Self-promotion being their especial bent
But independence brought its usual woes
As politics and tribal rivalries arose
Death became no stranger to the regimental mess
Eliminating rivals was the basis of success
The ruling party brooked no opposition
Dealing severely with those showing ambition
My company commander, by then a general
In crossing the President signed his own funeral
Dragged from his bed at dead of night he appealed
For mercy, but by then his fate was sealed 1040
A fifteen minute trial extinguished hope
By dawn his corpse was dangling from a rope
In the African independence race
Sierra Leone was another basket case.
My time in the Frontier Force complete
A ship of the Elder Dempster fleet
Would normally have borne me back
But a friend and I took a different tack
We had decided to make our own way home
Cash for tickets gave us the means to roam
So we boarded a flight for Senegal
Whose capital Dakar would be our first call
By chance in Freetown we had earlier met
A Frenchman whom we owed a special debt
For he introduced us to a great friend
Who on our arrival in Dakar would extend
A cordial invitation to be his guests
For a few nights in his French army mess
An experience we thoroughly enjoyed
Which at the start of our journey buoyed 1060
Us up for the remainder of our trip
Of which the next leg was to be by ship
In the meantime Dakar was a revelation
Coming from Freetown, an abomination,
This very modern city was amazing
Clean streets, smart shops, night lights blazing
It was everything that Freetown wasn’t
A change we found extremely pleasant.
A boat to Las Palmas through the Atlantic
Sounds on the face of it rather romantic
The reality though was anything but
Since you require to be some sort of nut
To elect to travel in steerage quarters
Especially in these tropical waters
Where half our cell-mates had stowed away
The authorities knowing they did not pay
We slept on bunks in tiers of three
A few dozen Africans, Roy May and me
We had no access to baths or showers
They prayed, as Muslims, every four hours 1080
Swinging their feet down past our heads
As we failed to sleep on our rock-hard beds
Our food with which we simply did not cope
Was lowered in a bucket on a length of rope
With no place for us to breathe fresh air
We trespassed on third class where we took care
To do no more than sit alone upon our towels
For fear of being returned back to the bowels
Three days at sea in steerage took an age
Landing in Morocco we felt we’d turned a page.
Yet another orderly French possession
Made an immediate good impression
Casablanca was not only clean and smart
Broad boulevards defined the city’s heart
There was a much more European feel
As we settled to our first enticing meal
Since leaving Dakar where in the army mess
We had last tasted cooking of such finesse
Still there were hopes of things getting better
For in my pocket was an important letter 1100
From a chap on the Dakar mess committee
To his brother living in this very city
On the tramcar it was but a short hop
To this brother’s haberdashery shop
When he read the letter he promptly said
‘Perhaps you fellows are needing a bed
As it happens my wife and child are away
You are very welcome to come and stay’
In the several days that we would spend
With Georges, we made a solid friend.
Too soon it was time again to sally forth
A ramshackle bus would carry us north
Via the ancient cities of Rabat and Meknès
Eschewing the detour to picturesque Fès
The following day we made it to Tangiers
A city of bandits and racketeers
Exploiting its status as a free port
Where more or less anything could be bought
Stepping from the bus young boys cried ‘Mister,
You want a room and my lovely sister?’ 1120
Such offers being easy to ignore
We found a decent place whence to explore
This fascinating city of louche charm
In which we dabbled with no real harm
Though a couple of days was barely enough
To taste the smooth as well as the rough
By the time we bade Africa au revoir
We were ready to leave the great bazaar
So we hopped on a boat to cross the strait
Where European travels would await.
Gibraltar is a pretty unimpressive dock
If you discount the dominant grey rock
From which the famous barbary apes look down
On a somewhat bedraggled English town
And on those heights were also resident
The quarters of a British regiment
Whose lofty standing could not fail to impress
Home to a stylishly comfortable mess
Offering hospitality we hardly could refuse
A chance for us to admire dramatic views 1140
Relax and breathe the new European air
Reflecting on our recent African affaire
And here it was that we would now decide
To continue our journey by hitching a ride
Initially up the eastern coast of Spain
Trusting in our good luck to maintain
A decent rate of progress on the road
Throughout the next exciting episode.
In those days before the package tourist
Whitewashed villages were for the purist
For lovers of ancient Andalucian charm
As yet unspoiled by the irreparable harm
To be wreaked by hordes of seekers of sun
In their endless pursuit of uncultured fun
We passed through such villages on the Med
Then from Malaga took a route that led
Up through the imposing Sierra Nevada
To the age-old Moorish city of Granada
Where the Alhambra palace reigns supreme
Floating above the town as in a dream 1160
To this day a great historic treasure
A cultural landmark and an endless pleasure
From here we set out northeast to the coast
Via Murcia and Alicante we could boast
Of covering 330 miles in just two days
Reaching Valencia at the end of this phase
A lovely city on the Mediterranean shore
We’d happily have stayed a week or more
‘Onward and upward’ to cover the miles
Was shelved to go to the Balearic Isles
On Majorca we met and befriended
Two Americans in whose car we all wended
Our way over the mountains to Porto Cristo
A place so charming as not to be missed, oh
So beautiful and calm that very soon
Roy would bring his bride on honeymoon
Then it was back by boat to mainland Spain
To Barcelona where we’d start to hitch again
Thumbing at the roadside all day long
We wondered what we were doing wrong 1180
Deciding to give it one last despairing try
Our spirits sank as a deux chevaux chugged by
Then thirty yards ahead we heard a shout
The Citroën stopped, the driver had jumped out
To our delight it proved to be none other
Than our host in Casablanca, elder brother
Of our friend at the French army mess in Dakar
Who had helped so much in getting us this far
He was on his way to Paris to join his wife
That lift gave us a whole new lease of life.
Incredulous at this strange turn of chance
We crossed the southern border into France
Drove on to Narbonne through Perpignan
Convenient if cramped in the tiny Citroën
There we bid farewell to our friend Georges
Resuming the thumb in our bid to forge
A route to the north of our own making
Via Avignon and the river Rhône, taking
It easy in the still warm southern climes
Conscious of having the best of times 1200
All at the expense of the British army
The very notion striking us as barmy
From Lyon onwards my memory is hazy
After so much hiking we were getting lazy
Ready to accept much longer lorry lifts
Eager for our first sight of the looming cliffs
Of Dover and the green and pleasant land
That lay beyond, where we would understand
The privilege of serving in such strange places
The wonders of mixing with such strange races
In the little known corners of this vast earth
Where we had served our two years’ worth
Who else could claim such extraordinary fun
Before the magic age of twenty one.