Sergeant Gregson's War

by Jim Gregson

  I had in fact little experience of hotels. I’d only been in boarding houses with Mum and Dad – these hadn’t yet acquired the less accurate name of guest houses. My one night in a real hotel had been that of my honeymoon in Chester, and the human furnishings had been much more important to me than the fixtures and fittings there.

  I crept downstairs at twenty-five past six. I checked furtively on the ground-floor rooms as I moved past them. There was an extensive bar, with a snooker room next to it. The table in there had the newest and most vivid green baize I had ever seen. This was long before colour television, so that my only comparison was with the faded and shiny cloths on the two snooker tables in the Catholic club in Blackburn, where I had played occasionally with Dad. There was a card room with several small tables and a well-used but presently deserted darts area. This was a world away from the transit camp.

  The dining room was at the end of the complex. I moved into it as unobtrusively as my height allowed and sat down at the first unoccupied table. I was joined by two cheerful sergeants from the Lancashire Fusiliers and a Pay Corps sergeant. They covered my military history in sixty seconds, then told me how they came to be here. They’d been transferred here from Egypt several months ago, as part of the original agreement for British forces to pull out, before the advent of Nasser and his seizure of the Suez Canal. All three of them were old hands, experienced fighting men. They were jubilant about the collapse of the Suez adventure, because it had protected their ageing skins from dangerous action.

  That was their personal reaction to events. But they saw no paradox in maintaining the cheerful fiction of an army thirsting for action, which had been prevented from giving Nasser a bloody nose by our pusillanimous politicians. The important thing for me was that they made their junior very welcome.

  The dining room was about half full and men were still coming into it when there was a loud bang from somewhere on my left. It was some distance away and it sounded to me like a door slamming in the wind. The other occupants shuffled to their feet and departed in the direction of the noise. I hesitated, then continued to eat. It plainly wasn’t my business to discipline whatever unfortunate soldier had dropped a tray or left a door to slam.

  I was RAEC, not a real NCO. And I was intensely conscious that I was not only new but very junior here, in this splendid sergeants’ mess. My role must be to maintain the lowest profile possible. I must remain inconspicuous until I had worked out the unwritten military protocol that would control my actions here. It would be much better to keep my distance from the disciplining of some wretched kitchen skivvy.

  I finished my main course, toyed with my cutlery, and sat dumbly awaiting events. I wasn’t used to being served with food. The transition from scruff in training to newly fledged sergeant had been very abrupt, and the sergeants’ mess at the transit camp had been overcrowded and untypical. You’d gone to the counter and collected your own food there. This was the first real sergeants’ mess I’d encountered and I needed to proceed carefully.

  No one emerged from the kitchen to serve me. The previously brisk action seemed to have been eerily suspended and there was now a strange silence.

  The men who had left me so abruptly returned in ones and twos, moving slowly and thoughtfully. My three companions rejoined me. I raised an interrogative face, but said nothing: words could get you into trouble. The Lancashire Fusiliers looked at me with surprise and puzzlement. The Pay Corps sergeant said as he resumed his seat, ‘Well, you’re a cool customer, and no mistake! Jim, you said, didn’t you? Well, I take my cap off to you, Jim!’

  I suspected some obscure leg-pull. This must be something that would emphasise my greenhorn status and end in roars of laughter at my expense. I grinned as knowingly as I was able to do and held my peace, waiting for my tablemates set up my embarrassment. But these experienced campaigners seemed strangely shaken. Gradually, from the phrases they dropped to each other, I assembled the details of what had been happening off stage.

  The noise had not been that of a minor accident. It had been that of a bomb exploding. It had blown the doors off a food store outside the mess and flattened a nearby garage. But there had been no loss of life. Other than this material damage to military premises, the only effect had been to establish the newly arrived Sergeant Gregson as a man who was cool under terrorist fire.

  I had enough sense not to disillusion them. Eight months ago as a civilian, I would have immediately declared the reality of the situation. My integrity would have been important to me then and I would immediately have declared myself a fully paid-up coward. But now I smiled thinly, shrugged my shoulders modestly, and said not a word. Fate and the army had offered me some hard knocks since March. Much better not to reject the odd slice of luck which this strange life offered.

  The story of my sangfroid grew rapidly in the telling, as did most military anecdotes. People who hadn’t been in the mess at the time retailed it, anxious to claim a connection with this latest dramatic incident. Two months later, I heard a new arrival in the mess being told of how I had remained effortlessly composed whilst windows had shattered around me and terrorist splinters had flown across my table.

  I had planned to use my new-found privacy to write an extended letter to Joy during the evening. I was looking forward to giving her the details of my new and improved situation. But my companions, no doubt impressed by my unflappable personality, carried me with them to the bar. As a schoolie among vastly experienced men, I could not refuse their conviviality. I needed all the friendship that was on offer.

  When in due course I bought my round, I was pleasantly surprised to find how cheap it was in this luxurious setting. All spirits were sixpence. After four rum and cokes, my new world seemed a pleasant place and my companions were confirmed as quite splendid men. Different from me, certainly, but in their own way definitely splendid.

  And there was really no urgency about my letter to Joy, was there? It would surely be better to write tomorrow, when I would be able to tell her about my working as well as my living environment. And I must by now be too tired to write a decent letter, after my day in the army truck and the trials of settling in here. Much better to write tomorrow. And much better to have another drink with my new friends.

  ‘Do you play snooker, Jim?’ My pleasant reverie was interrupted by Percy, one of the Lancs Fusilier sergeants who had dined with me.

  ‘I’ve played a bit, yes. I’m not very good.’

  ‘You play with me, then. We’ll assess your standard.’

  On trial again: I didn’t like the sound of that. But my pleasantly inebriated state insulated me a little against anxiety. Percy selected a cue and chalked it with elaborate care. I followed him, squinting down my cue to check it was straight, trying hard to look as if I knew what I was doing.

  You don’t get a great many shots when you play four-handed snooker, especially if your partner is good. Percy Bishop was very good. I soon realised that. Balls disappeared quickly into pockets whenever he was left with a chance. I was actually a reasonable player, but definitely not in Percy’s class. However, I played unexpectedly well in that first frame. I didn’t make any mistakes and I engineered opportunities for my partner. Percy took them with relish and we moved well ahead. Then I potted the last four colours in a row to give us an emphatic victory.

  Percy was duly impressed. ‘You’ve played this game before, Jim.’

  ‘A little. My dad’s quite good. But I probably had a sort of beginner’s luck in that frame. I haven’t played for almost a year.’

  Percy bathed our beaten companions in a huge and benign grin, which banished their more rueful ones. The three of them obviously thought that a man who was as undisturbed by bombs as this one was likely to be modest about his snooker skills. Percy, who had drunk a little more than I had, entertained no doubts. ‘Hasn’t played for a year and he performs like that! This lad’s a talent. And he’s from my part of the world.’ He flung an arm round my shoulder – not an easy movement,
for he was almost a foot shorter than me. Then he turned back to our beaten opponents. ‘We’ll give you two blacks start and play you for a quid!’

  My anxiety turned to alarm. A quid then was the equivalent of about thirty today. The other three were long-serving regular sergeants on excellent wages, but a pound was a lot to me. It was a third of my weekly wage and it would buy me twenty rum and cokes. I tried to protest that I wasn’t as good as Percy thought I was, that I’d performed above my usual standard in the little they’d seen of me. But that was taken as an appealing natural modesty in this talented young giant. I couldn’t refuse a bet when I’d only just arrived in the mess and been made so welcome. I gave a sickly grin and chalked my cue carefully, frowning my concentration on this, as the inebriated will. Then I broke off carefully, as Percy directed me to do.

  I knew exactly what I had to do. I wasn’t as good as Percy thought I was, but I could support him. I concentrated fiercely, refused further drinks, and played safe. My strategy was to take no chances, leave nothing for the opposition, and wait for Percy Bishop to get the chance to make a decent break.

  On this occasion, it worked admirably. Percy cleared the table ebulliently, bought a round of drinks and announced to anyone who cared to listen, ‘Pick anyone you like for a partner and Jim and me will take you on. Three blacks start and two quid on the game!’

  Sergeants’ messes the world over are full of shrewd and experienced men. Senior NCOs scent an opportunity better than most. Two grizzled men I hadn’t seen before accepted Percy’s challenge, probably suspecting as I did that drink and success were affecting his judgement. My champion potted an imaginary black and chuckled. ‘He’s a new star, this lad! Jim’s from my part of the world, you know!’ Our two new challengers exchanged knowing smiles.

  The pattern was now established. On the best table I had ever played on, I ignored all but the easiest of pots and played safe. This time the opposition were as cagey as I was, so that for ten minutes very little happened. Then Percy made a flamboyant twenty-seven break and eliminated the generous start he had given. I continued to leave the ball on the cushion for the man who followed me through the rest of a close frame. Then, when the opponent playing in front of me missed, I was left with a relatively easy pink and black to clinch the game. Percy hugged me enthusiastically and brandished his winnings above his head.

  Fortunately, another four were waiting to play, which meant that Percy’s offer of an even more extravagant start and an even more extravagant bet could not be implemented. I bought my splendidly cheap round of drinks, commiserated with the losers, and departed as soon as I reasonably could to my room.

  This was, I decided, a good beginning. I had found this new sergeants’ mess not only splendidly appointed but very friendly. I had established a totally undeserved reputation for insouciance in the face of terrorist violence, which would help to offset my youth. I’d won what was for me a week’s wages by means of my limited snooker skills.

  And I’d only been here for five hours.

  Nine

  I reported to the education centre at 0800 hours next morning. I carried a sheaf of papers under my arm and the look of a man with a mission on my face. This was standard army practice to ensure that no one would question what you were doing or your right to be in a particular place. It was the right tactic to employ when you hadn’t a clue what was going on or what part in it you were supposed to be playing.

  Two or three senior people nodded at me as if I had been around for months. But the impressive building was as securely locked as it had been on the previous evening. I went to the nearby quartermaster’s store and used my stripes and RAEC flashes to secure a key. I spent the next hour and a half exploring the place, at first diffidently, then more curiously, and finally quite thoroughly. This large centre was neat, well-equipped and very clean. There was no evidence that it had recently been used.

  At 0945 hours, a smart new two-tone Hillman car drew up at the door and an RAEC major came into the centre. He looked resentfully at the handle mechanism on the door, then locked it carefully behind him, as if restoring the building to its rightful state. I clicked my heels and threw the man I was sure must be my new boss an elaborate salute. I was expecting to be told to stand at ease and then to receive detailed instructions about my role here.

  ‘You’re the new man.’ The major spoke as if he was giving me a key piece of information.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Ready to get down to business. I was wondering whether—’

  ‘I’ve no idea why they sent you here.’ He looked round the spacious and well-equipped room. ‘There’s no education going on here, you know. And there’s not likely to be, until the bloody Cyps see some sense.’

  ‘I see, sir. Well, I’m still finding my feet, as you can imagine. I only arrived last night. But this seems to be a very large camp and I suppose that even during the emergency there will be times when—’

  ‘I don’t recall telling you to stand at ease, sergeant.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I suppose I rather thought that—’

  ‘You’re not paid to think, sergeant. I should have thought they’d have taught you that back in basic training.’

  ‘Yes, sir, they did that. Back in the Royal Artillery, that was. But when I got my transfer and we were trained as RAEC sergeants, the officers at Beaconsfield seemed to indicate that we should occasionally think for ourselves.’

  ‘Don’t try to be clever with me, sergeant, or you’ll regret it. That’s one thing you can be absolutely sure of.’ He studied me for a moment as if I was some rather unpleasant specimen under a microscope. ‘All right. At ease.’

  I relaxed my long limbs cautiously from the attention position and dropped my head from its gaze at the top of the wall. I was able to assess this important new factor in my life for the first time. I was still too young to judge ages accurately, but I thought he was probably mid-forties. He was of medium height and running a little towards that plumpness at the waist which comes from comfortable living and little exercise. His aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes gave him a manic look in this peaceful setting.

  He now looked at me as if seeking some new aspect to disapprove. ‘My name is Major Barker. I am in charge of this education centre and of everything that goes on within it. You will remember that at all times. Now, bring that chair into my office and sit down upon it.’

  I picked up the chair and followed him into a small room at the far end of the building. My exploration of the place hadn’t taken me this far and I was now certain I had been fortunate in that. There was a large desk here, with not a single sheet of paper upon it. Behind it was the most luxurious seat I had seen since I had been in the army. Barker saw me looking at it and spoke like a collector describing the latest Vermeer in his collection. ‘Made by a local supplier in Famagusta, that chair. They can do decent jobs, these Cyps, if you select the right ones and give them proper instructions.’ He planted his officer’s derriere heavily upon the leather seat. ‘Sit yourself down, sergeant.’

  I set myself primly upon the edge of the upright steel and canvas chair which I had been bidden to carry here. I was well used by now to standing to attention. Indeed, my new commander had just kept me in that rigid position for fully two minutes. Now I was wondering if it was possible to sit to attention. That was what I seemed to be doing, so upright and uncomfortable was I upon that unyielding chair. Trying to fill the silence, I said nervously, ‘Most of the Cypriots don’t seem to mean us any harm, sir.’

  ‘We’ve got two thousand of the buggers working on this site. They’re all supposed to be Turkish Cyps and friendly. But you only need one Greek Cyp to sneak in amongst them and you’ve got trouble.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I appreciate that. A bomb went off behind the sergeants’ mess last night, not long after I arrived here.’

  ‘There you are, you see.’

  ‘Yes, sir, I do.’ I watched him nod his satisfaction. ‘Why do we employ as many as two thousand Cypriots here,
sir?’

  ‘Ours not to reason why, Sergeant Gregson.’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just that—’

  ‘Don’t trust the buggers as far as you can throw them. Remember that, and you won’t go far wrong.’ Major Barker nodded his satisfaction in this liberal philosophy. Then he barked his next question – his name seemed appropriate to his delivery, as if he were a character in a Restoration comedy. ‘What’s your background, Sergeant Gregson?’

  ‘Well, I completed a BA in English at Manchester University last year.’ I paused, waiting for him to quiz me a little. Degrees were still a rarity in 1956. Perhaps I could impress Major Barker and wring some sort of admiration out of this difficult man.

  ‘Why did it take you so long to get into the army? Graduates are usually conscripted for national service as soon as they have their degrees. They’re usually in the ranks and training by September or October.’

  ‘I was found unfit for military service at my army medical, sir. The quacks said I needed a tonsil operation. I thought it better to have that operation in my local hospital than to trust my throat to the army medics!’ I smiled at him. I’d offered this rather feeble thought many times before and always received an understanding chuckle as a reaction.

  ‘That sounds like malingering to me. I hope I haven’t collected a scrimshanker. You’re not, are you?’

  ‘No, sir. I taught in schools whilst awaiting my national service. And now I’m hoping to do some useful work here. The RSM at the transit camp near Nicosia said there were lots of troops round here who needed to be occupied usefully when they weren’t on operations. I’m looking forward to some real teaching at last. It would be good to be able to achieve something.’

  ‘They know bugger all about education, RSMs and CSMs.’ Major Barker looked suddenly shifty. ‘Don’t tell the ones in your mess I said that.’