by Jim Gregson
A few months earlier, I would have mocked the very idea of helping senior NCOs. Now I desperately wanted them to succeed in our surreptitious educational enterprise.
And succeed they did. I reckoned from what we’d been told at Beaconsfield and after a perusal of previous papers and tests that the standard required of them was about O level. The three subjects involved were English Language, Mathematics, and Map Reading. Most of the men who sat like obedient schoolboys in front of me were capable enough. But they had sketchy school experience and had received virtually nothing in the way of guidance since then. Their greatest disadvantage was their own low rating of themselves and their abilities.
The group swiftly grew to sixteen as news of its existence passed around the large and sprawling camp. Every new man threw at me that mournful old cliché about old dogs not being able to learn new tricks. I grew more tactful with experience. You couldn’t airily dismiss such entrenched notions as rubbish, as you might have done with teenagers. You had to demonstrate to these men what they could do; you had to allow them to surprise themselves.
The maths was largely advanced arithmetic. I had always enjoyed that myself, despite my literature degree. I took the men through the processes of solving problems and found they picked things up very quickly. They were very willing to help each other where there were difficulties, which helped me and made progress more rapid. After five weeks, I risked letting my veterans tackle a previous paper under exam conditions. They did even better than I had anticipated they would and the experience did wonders for their confidence.
Map reading was simple to teach and, as a practical subject, should have been easy for these very practical men to learn. But we had one great difficulty. That was in devising the exercises which were necessary to cement the theory. The object was to negotiate your way around whatever terrain you were operating in by the use and interpretation of accurate map references. You learned how to convey your own position accurately and to compute where your colleagues and possibly a theoretical enemy were from the references that were given to you. It was simple and logical, and would normally have provided no great problems for experienced soldiers like these.
The snag was that you weren’t allowed out of camp except on duty, because of the danger of Greek Cypriot snipers. Wide-ranging practical exercises were impossible. The simple deployments which would have both demonstrated and sealed their knowledge of maps and how to use them were impossible for us.
I did what little I could to solve the problem. The Dhekelia camp was itself extensive. It was the size of a small town, with playing fields, an extensive outdoor fuel store (I already knew far too much about that), electrical and mechanical workshops, churches, an armoury, a cinema, a gymnasium, and barracks for thousands of troops, from a Royal Artillery battery to the Pioneer Corps. I devised a series of map-reading exercises which extended to the outer limits of this complex – my research took me to parts of it I had never seen before.
Snow was now visible on the peaks of the distant Troodos mountains and temperatures had dropped, but on Saturday afternoons sergeants, staff sergeants and even a Warrant Officer Class 2 could be discovered with maps in hand and compasses at the ready, crouching near the limits of the camp, learning the possibilities and the limits of what was possible when you had a map and various map references in your hands. It wasn’t the open country the examiners envisaged, but it was the best we could do under the circumstances of the emergency.
I was glad that map reading was one of the few exercises I had enjoyed on the sergeant/instructor training course at Beaconsfield. Those movements across the pleasant country and gentle slopes of the Chilterns were useful to me now in this very different context. Navigation had given me no difficulty then and it was easy for me now to interpret exactly what the ACE Class One tests in map reading would require from my group. Many of them already knew from experience what was required of them; those who didn’t swiftly filled in the gaps in their knowledge. Their moves in the winter twilight merely boosted their confidence, though they were absurdly grateful to me for my efforts in devising these practical Saturday exercises.
The most difficult subject to teach was English. Apart from brief written reports in army jargon, most of these men had not written anything apart from the odd letter home for many years. Their daily language was peppered with army obscenities and would not transfer satisfactorily into the printed word. The demands of the exam weren’t great, but it was difficult to convince men who were afraid of making fools of themselves of that. I worked hard to help them to write straightforward English and to get them to understand what was required for a simple, correct sentence. Most of them thought that something more elaborate was required of them. I hammered away at the mantra I had devised: simple and direct was always better than complex and suspect. They appreciated that and were relieved by the thought. Their whole lives and their progress through the ranks had been based on not making mistakes, rather than on offering imaginative suggestions.
Teaching the little group at the school in Larnaca had been delightful; both the children and I had enjoyed ourselves. But teaching these earnest and able men to clear their final educational hurdle was indisputably valuable and enormously satisfying. It was the only sustained and successful piece of teaching I achieved during my RAEC service and it gave me an enthusiasm for adult education which has remained with me for sixty years.
It seemed oddly appropriate that it was entirely unofficial and without any formal sanction from my controlling officer, Major Barking.
*
As if to remind me of the idiocies which were more typical of the army system, a bizarre experience beset me one night during this period. It had more far-reaching consequences than I foresaw at the time.
It occurred whilst I was taking my turn as overnight orderly sergeant, in charge of the guard at the entrance to the camp. As soldiers were not allowed out of camp except on duty, nights were largely uneventful. Four vehicles which had driven to various parts of the island on military business checked in without incident during the evening. Little was said, but there was always relief when drivers and passengers returned to base without incident.
We all knew that the chances of murderous violence were statistically very small. But when they did come, attacks on British army vehicles as they moved through Greek villages or towns were sudden, well planned and usually fatal. The cheerful obscenities exchanged between returning drivers and the members of my overnight guard were evidence of relief as well as camaraderie.
It was almost 0200 hours and completely quiet when Major Tarleton drove up to the barrier at the camp entrance. Every orderly sergeant knew about Major Tarleton. He drove a distinctive Standard Vanguard car which was the only one of this model to be seen in the area. And his movements followed a regular pattern. He drove out on most nights to spend a few action-packed hours with a woman who had quarters just outside the camp. Rumour declared that it was Tarleton who had directed her soldier-husband to perilous action in the north of the island, though I doubted that. Rumours thrive on invention and grow in the telling, and bored soldiers love to embellish a tasty piece of scandal.
At two o’clock in the morning, I wasn’t speculating about the actions of the lubricious major. I wanted to be able to report a quiet, uneventful night as I handed over next morning. And I had by now accepted the army doctrine that you didn’t worry about what you couldn’t influence. The conduct of Tarleton might be reprehensible, but it was totally outside my control. Much better to apply my energies where they had some chance of success – to the Army Certificate of Education Class One, for instance. Nothing was going to alter the military system, but each of the sergeants’ mess colleagues I was trying to help was worthy at least ten Major Tarletons.
The privates on duty pointed their rifles at the Standard Vanguard and demanded the password for the night, as standing orders directed them to do. There was no reply. I moved cautiously to the driver’s door and confirmed to my s
atisfaction the identity of the vehicle’s single occupant. Tarleton rarely remembered the password of the day. When he now wound his window down, it was evident that he was very drunk. Too drunk to drive, in fact. His first attempt at speech failed and his eyes would not focus on me. But it was only a couple of hundred yards from here to his billet and the road was deserted.
I said with what I hoped was a pleasant authority, ‘Just wanted to confirm that it was you, sir. Pass through, but drive carefully please.’
He glared up at me. Perhaps it was my height that annoyed him. More likely it was my youth. Or perhaps it was the combination of the two which exacerbated his already foul mood. ‘You’re a bloody disgrace, sergeant! I want your name, rank and number!’
I was still very inexperienced, but I knew a little about drunks. Indeed, I hadn’t survived three incident-packed years at the Victoria University of Manchester without learning quite a lot about drunks. Ninety per cent of them became maudlin and harmless as they got more pissed. They could be tiresome, if you were yourself stone cold sober, but they intended no real malice towards you. The other ten per cent became aggressive and needed careful handling.
Major Tarleton was one of the ten per cent.
I ignored his tone and said quietly, emolliently, ‘We’ve now checked that you rather than a possible terrorist are the driver of this vehicle, sir. You are now free to drive on to your quarters.’
‘I want your name rank and number, sergeant! I’m putting you on a charge for delliret – for dereliction of duty.’
I articulated slowly and carefully. That was necessary, with men as drunk as this. ‘Dereliction of duty, sir? What have I neglected to do here? You were challenged and you failed to reply. Because I recognised the car, I approached and confirmed that you were driving your own car and that you carried no alien presence within it. I then gave you permission for you to pass on into the camp.’
Tarleton flung open the door of his car like a missile; I had to be quick on my feet to avoid it. ‘You’re on a charge, sergeant! Come with me into the guardroom. I shall serve you with a two five two.’
Ever soldier knew the number for a charge document and my guard members had all heard his outburst. The drunken idiot was serious and determined. He spilled out of his car, leaned against it for a moment, then lurched towards the guardroom. He would have fallen if I had not intervened. He shook me off roughly and with harsh expletives, but I had to catch him twice more in the guardroom before I could set him in the chair at the table.
Perhaps it was this assistance that saved me from further trouble. More likely it was the unpredictable mood switch of the deeply drunk. Tarleton stared darkly at the table. He said after a long pause, ‘You’re a bloody disgrace, sergeant!’
I sensed now that this was no more than a ritual repetition of his previous opinion. I wondered if he was far enough gone to slump forward into happy insensibility at the table.
But Tarleton had more stamina than the young intellectual drunks of Manchester. He eventually looked rather puzzled to find himself sitting at the guardroom table. Then he felt constrained to explain himself. ‘You should have challenged me, sergeant. You should have demanded the password.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s exactly what my men did, sir. When you failed to deliver the appropriate password, I advanced and checked that it was indeed you in your car, sir.’
‘When I did not give you the correct password, you should have shot me, sergeant. We are in an active service situation here and you should not be taking chances. You should have bloody shot me, sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir. But I did ascertain—’
‘Aschertain my arse, sergeant! You should have bloody shot me.’
‘That would have been rather an extreme reaction, sir, when I knew you were one of our own officers.’
‘You should be on a charge. It’s only because I’m a soft sod that you’re not on a charge. Is that clear, sergeant?’
‘It’s very clear, sir.’
Tarleton twice attempted to rise and each time fell back onto his chair. This time I did not help him. He waved an arm wildly around his head and said, ‘Shtand at ease, sergeant.’
I had never been at attention, but I said, ‘Thank you, sir. I know that one of my men is qualified to drive. Would you like him drive you home?’
‘No I bloody wouldn’t! Don’t you be insolent with me, sergeant!’
He pressed both hands upon the table and lifted himself with a supreme effort. He stood breathing heavily and swaying alarmingly. ‘You’re bloody lucky you’re not on a charge. Next time, you follow orders. You shoot anyone who fails to give you the password. Is that clear?’
‘That is perfectly clear, sir.’
I assisted him back to his car and stowed him in the driving seat. We watched the Standard Vanguard lurch forward in a series of jerks into the quiet night.
I won my frame of snooker with Percy as my partner on the following night. Then I retailed the saga of Major Tarleton to our beaten opponents, extracting all the humour I could from the black farce. All sergeants took their turn of duty as overnight orderly sergeant; if you didn’t already know about Tarleton, you needed to be prepared for his likely appearance in the small hours.
One of the men whose money we’d just taken was a staff sergeant in the RASC who had only arrived recently. I’d hardly spoken to him before. George Armstrong had a scar on his forehead, the product of burns when a vehicle had burst into flames beneath him many years earlier. He’d been affable enough during our snooker and was slowly unwinding with us as the evening proceeded. But he didn’t seem to have a great sense of humour and he didn’t much like officers. The others laughed at my tale, but George asserted vehemently, ‘I’d have shot the bugger! That stupid sod deserves everything he gets!’
We all laughed at the idea. I thought at the time that Armstrong’s intensity perhaps derived from the loss of a closely fought frame of snooker.
Eleven
There was a record player in the education centre, together with three vinyl 33 rpm records, which were still quite novel. I ignored it for three months, then decided it might as well be used. On a quiet, moonless night, I carried player and records out of the centre and across to my room in the sergeants’ mess. It wasn’t stealing. As soon as there was any suggestion of a demand for them, I’d return player and records to their rightful place. In the meantime, one person at least might as well enjoy them.
I loved classical music. I played no instrument and had no technical knowledge. But during my three years in Manchester, I’d listened enthralled to John Barbirolli and the Hallé orchestra whenever time and finance allowed. These records were not ‘glorious John’ but they were music. And they were a great improvement on the scratchy old seventy-eights on which I had cut my musical teeth. You could hear a whole symphony without interruption and the sound quality was much better.
It was a pity I only had three discs. Within a couple of weeks, I knew every nuance of these performances and was asking myself a series of questions. Why did Tchaikovsky never recall or develop that triumphant opening tune in his piano concerto? Was Scheherezade really as exciting as the record sleeve told me it was, when I was hearing it for the eighth time? Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony might well be an ingenious parody of older forms, as the sleeve told me it was, but which works was he parodying?
I was both consoled and frustrated by the presence of music in my room. It made me long for the great monolithic symphonies of Beethoven, which I was sure would stand repetition much better than lesser works. If I was only to have three records, I wanted Mozart and Beethoven and Schubert, not the works of later and lesser men. I look back at the naïve figure in that room and see in him both the Puritanism and the precious innocence of youth.
I inspected my three records and decided that I had the top of the second division here, when I wanted the top of the first. But my player and my three records were an outlet, nonetheless. They reminded me of the life I had left behi
nd and told me it would be there for me again, in due course. I told no one of my musical tastes and indulged myself in private. After a day on the fuel store field with my Cypriot workers, I danced crazily round my room to the accelerating rhythms of ‘Night on a Bare Mountain’, flinging my limbs with abandon in the narrow space available, washing from my mind the images of slowly accumulating towers of jerry cans.
*
All over the island, troops chafed with boredom. I was due a little leave, but had nowhere to take it. Men who had been here longer than me told me how attractive the beaches and holiday facilities at Akrotiri and Kyrenia were. I was never to see them.
Nevertheless, I reminded myself that I was lucky to be at Dhekelia, where soldiers had permanent barracks and excellent leisure facilities on site, whilst the vast majority of men in Cyprus were under canvas and had few outlets for their off-duty energies. We had a large and popular cinema. One of the duties for sergeants was to collect the modest charges levied on those who used it. As spring approached, the duty rota determined that I had to switch the night for my class for the ACE Class One Certificate so as to take my turn in the cinema.
It wasn’t onerous. The duty sergeant sat at a table just inside the entrance, collected the money, and made sure that it tallied with the attendance figures. The cinema was very popular, now that no one could leave the camp in pursuit of the pleasures of Larnaca or Famagusta. The RSM had organised the addition of three extra rows of seats to accommodate the demand. The hall was very full on the Monday night when I took charge for the camp premiere of the latest available Ealing comedy, The Ladykillers. The film was still quite new in Britain and it was a coup for the army to have got it here so soon. It seemed that someone at home was conscious of the plight of the troops in Cyprus and anxious to help them. In 1957, Cyprus seemed a long way from Britain and the troops who were operating there often felt forgotten.