Sergeant Gregson's War

by Jim Gregson

The warrant officer considered this, then shook his head. ‘You’re a witness, Jim. They’ll have to listen carefully to what you say, same as they would any other bugger.’

  ‘Maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe they’ll have to accept that George was just obeying orders.’

  But even as I said the words, I knew that it wouldn’t be so.

  *

  I was summoned to the education centre on Monday morning. Major Barker glared at me as if I were a criminal. ‘A senior officer was shot on Saturday night, Sergeant Gregson.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Major Tarleton, sir. Shot by Staff Sergeant Armstrong, who was orderly officer in charge of the overnight guard at the time.’

  ‘You’ve heard about this.’ Barker seemed surprised and deflated that I should know not only of the incident but the names of the parties involved. ‘It’s a bad business, a very bad business indeed.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This Armstrong is for the high jump.’

  I’d already heard that phrase used in the mess. It shook me more than it should have done to hear it coming from these very different lips. I should have shut up and offered Barker nothing. But I was foolish enough to say, ‘We shall have to wait and see, sir, won’t we?’

  ‘Wait and see? What the hell do you mean by that?’

  ‘Wait and see what the exact circumstances were. No doubt it will all come out at the court martial, if there is one.’

  Major Barker bristled. I seemed to induce that reaction in him. I would have rather enjoyed it, if the context had been less serious. ‘Major Tarleton was a senior officer, sergeant. A much respected senior officer.’

  ‘I see, sir.’

  ‘What do you mean, you see?’

  ‘I do not wish to enlarge upon that, sir.’ I found that I was standing to attention. It was almost as if I had wandered into a comic sketch, when the reality was tragic. Farcical, but tragic. Whatever was being said here, a man had been killed and another man was in prison and charged with his killing.

  ‘You will enlarge if I tell you to enlarge. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I bit my lip, threatened by the eruption of an unseemly hilarity. I’d never heard of anyone being ordered to enlarge, and I fancied from the puzzlement on Barker’s increasingly pink face he hadn’t either.

  ‘When I described the late Major Tarleton as a much respected officer, you appeared to have reservations. Explain yourself.’

  ‘I met Major Tarleton only once, sir. He was – well, I fear he was not quite himself on that occasion.’

  ‘Explain yourself, sergeant.’

  ‘He was very drunk indeed, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure you exaggerate.’

  ‘One of his fellow officers used the phrase “pissed as a newt” to describe him, sir. That was the orderly officer on the night when I was orderly sergeant, sir. I am aware that this phrase, though vivid, carries no technical status. I can only say that it seemed to me to be an accurate summary of Major Tarleton’s condition on the night in question.’

  This was insolence. Not even dumb insolence, but insolence in words. And both of us knew it. I’d allowed this Blimpish buffoon to get under my skin, when I should have resisted temptation. It is a fault that has stayed with me through life. I am passive for far too long in the face of insulting behaviour, but when I do react I become too trenchant for my own good. I hadn’t in 1957 recognised that weakness in myself.

  But Major Barker didn’t react as I expected him to react. Perhaps some obscure instinct warned him that this young upstart might be better with words than he was. There was a long pause before he decided not to pursue the matter. ‘I’m told that you might be called as a witness in any enquiry or court martial. I can’t think why that would be.’

  I could, but I wasn’t going to discuss it here if I could avoid it. Some senior figure whom I had never seen must have suggested to this overpaid buffoon that he should put pressure on his young sergeant. I wondered who that might be. ‘Maybe I won’t be called, sir. I only met Major Tarleton on that one occasion.’

  ‘Yes. Well, if you are called, remember what I have told you today. He was a much respected officer.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But on the only occasion when I had dealings with him he was highly inebriated. I may have to tell the court that, sir, if I am questioned about that occasion.’

  ‘A respected officer. That is what you must remember and report.’

  ‘Respect has to be earned, sir. We were reminded of that when we were hoping to become sergeants. I expect they said much the same sort of thing at Sandhurst.’ I wasn’t sure how much Barker had seen of Sandhurst, but I was baiting him now. I felt I was defending George Armstrong.

  ‘I’m not sure I like your attitude, Sergeant Gregson.’

  ‘I’m sorry if it offends you, sir.’

  I thought afterwards that this was one of the strange things about the army and its rigid rank system. Both of us knew that I was offending him and both of us knew that I wasn’t sorry about it. I was being as vile as I could be, and yet ostensibly deferring to Barker’s superior status.

  Thirteen

  The days were lengthening and the sun was getting higher now, but we were still not allowed out of camp. Thick battledress was folded away for the winter and shorts with long khaki socks and shirt became the order of the day.

  Men’s knees and thighs in a vast variety of shapes and sizes appeared around the camp, a stern threat to all who would threaten British sovereignty. They were at first stark white, then pink, then acceptably brown. ‘Get your knees brown!’ was the soldiers’ jibe against those with little overseas service. The phrase was bandied about freely as shorts were donned again, the British tommy not being noted for originality.

  In Athens, the Greek premier welcomed Archbishop Makarios and openly supported his stance on Cyprus. On the island itself, the huge sum of ten thousand pounds had now been on offer for a year to anyone giving information leading to the arrest of Colonel Grivas. That had produced nothing. Whether through fear or admiration, the Greek-born leader of the EOKA guerrilla fighters had the loyalty of the Greek Cypriots. Posters in every town and village proclaimed the offer above a fearsome picture of George Theodorus Grivas. Informants were promised not only the payout but protective custody and a safe passage to ‘anywhere in the world’. There had been no takers.

  There were rumours that the state of emergency was to be relaxed. Though we heard little about it, secret negotiations were being conducted. They had scant chance of any early success. The Turkish government announced that it was very pleased with British rule in Cyprus and wished it to continue. In London, the British politicians waved that statement as enthusiastically as if it had been a union jack. Some of us on the spot were looking for something more conciliatory to end hostilities and get us off the island; flag-waving seemed to us depressing rather than helpful. The hardened cynics of the sergeants’ mess said they’d believe in a solution only when they saw it in writing.

  However, the top brass in Cyprus declared that troops should relax wherever possible. They should enjoy themselves and improve their morale by whatever local means were possible. In Dhekelia there were good facilities, so a week of sport was decreed. ‘Sport’ was to be widely interpreted; it would include all sorts of competitive recreation. Wherever it was possible, all should be involved, including British civilians.

  This was code for women. The married quarters for both officers and other ranks were still fully occupied. It was a great privilege to be accorded such accommodation and people did not vacate it lightly. But the women living there were in most cases even more bored with their presently restricted life than their men folk. The order came now that we should involve them in the week of sporting relaxation as much as possible.

  I remembered the old sweat’s injunction that one should never volunteer and declined to devise activities, pleading my scanty experience of such things. But I was under pressure from Percy Bishop and others to display my youthful athl
eticism. So I agreed to take part in events others had set up. I won a mixed egg and spoon race with such impressive ease that I threatened to take up the event professionally. In the euphoria of this triumph, I agreed to take part in the mixed three-legged race.

  A sergeant in the light infantry selected me as a partner for his diminutive wife on the basis of my egg and spoon form. Bert, the sergeant in question, had no reputation as a coach and it was soon evident why. He had selected me on the grounds of my youth and fitness, which was reasonable enough. My snooker prowess, which he also cited, seemed a more dubious recommendation. And Bert had overlooked the most key fact of all for this event.

  Any three-legged partnership needs at least an approximate match in height, if it is to display rhythm and pace in the crisis of the race. I wasn’t the quickest off the mark, but I had a reasonable turn of pace once I hit my stride. Hetty, my designated partner, was dauntless of spirit but short of leg. I was now twenty-two and six feet four; Hetty was forty-one and four feet eleven. A few early-morning training gallops would have revealed the deficiencies in our pairing, but we came into the event very lightly raced.

  Hetty and I were both competitive, and when a close race ensued we gave our all. The trouble was that our all was ill-matched. My switch to a sprint in the home strait stretched my partner to the limit – indeed, it threatened her physical disintegration. The cheers of a crowd starved for many months of sporting excitement rang loud in our ears and I was delighted to find myself attached to a partner as keen to win as I was.

  The rules for three-legged racing appear at first glance to be quite simple. But Hetty and I gave the officials on that far-off day much food for thought. We were up against a strong finish from a service corps corporal and his wife, who had the advantage of connubial stabling and were firm favourites. They had a clear advantage from their many training gallops over the years and their previous successes. But Hetty was determined and I was versatile: we improvised.

  In reaction to my yelled command, Hetty sprang gracefully into my arms. With her very short left leg still tied firmly to my very long right leg, the move would have threatened rupture or worse in a less fit and spirited partnership. As it was, I held my tiny, yelling burden in my arms, contrived a sprint which no expert could analyse, and hopped the last three yards to cross the line in first place, breaking the tape with my partner’s perfectly formed calf.

  There was rapturous applause, not least from Bert, who rushed forward to give Hetty a rapid rub down as she was untied. But after a lengthy stewards’ enquiry we were disqualified. The announcement brought cheers from one side of the track and boos and laughter from the other. But the lap of honour compelled upon us by popular demand brought us the loudest and most raucous recognition of the day.

  I was offered a game of cricket two days later. I had played only once in the previous year, on the same day that Jim Laker had been taking his historic nineteen wickets at Old Trafford. This was to be just a scratch match with teams made up of volunteers from the various units at Dhekelia, since teams from elsewhere were not allowed to travel to play. It was a bonus for me, since I hadn’t thought that I would play at all in Cyprus.

  Yet cricket meant that I missed the event which turned out for many to be the highlight of that unofficial sports week. This was a donkey derby, with all encouraged to participate. There seemed to be plenty of donkeys available: I think neighbouring farmers must have been offered a handsome hire charge for their beasts. But apparently this led to unpredictability in the performances of the steeds involved. Some of them were much more used to being ridden than others.

  I was sorry to miss what was by all accounts the most spectacular event of the week. What everyone spoke of afterwards was the vivid spectacle afforded to them rather than the outcome of the race. According to all the accounts given to me in the sergeants’ mess, the donkey derby incident rivalled my splendid improvisation in the three-legged race. This mishap did not affect the result, but it was discussed at greater length in the mess than any closely fought finish would have been.

  A pair of jockeys were a source of much male attention. Two young captains, one in the Royal Engineers and the other in the Royal Artillery, brought forth from the married quarters wives of stunning and curvaceous beauty. One has to allow for the increased effect on men thousands of miles from home and deprived of the fair sex for many months, but these ladies were obviously striking. That is the word I have applied to them. Much more basic epithets, often with suggestive hand actions, were used by those who had actually witnessed the donkey derby.

  What happened was actually quite simple, though in the days that followed Rabelaisian accounts stretched towards the level of myth. It was a hot day, and the young ladies chose very sensibly to expose their splendid limbs to sun and air. They were perfectly decent, as befitted officers’ wives. But their bosoms trembled visibly beneath white cotton and the length of their skirts ensured that they kept spectators rapt as they sought out their mounts for the imminent race.

  In truth, skirts are not the most practical wear for sitting astride a saddle, but the willingness of these paragons to enter into the spirit of the day was much appreciated by the rapidly increasing band of spectators. There was no shortage of men willing to assist them into their seats – indeed, that ancient army maxim about never volunteering was instantly forgotten. The crowd around the starting line became so dense that it was some time before the donkeys could be brought into a ragged line. The starter was relieved when he was eventually able to raise his pistol above his head and issue the command to the jockeys to be ready.

  Perhaps the trouble stemmed from the excitement of the noisy and appreciative crowd. Perhaps it was the sharp crack of the blank cartridge to initiate the race. Perhaps it was the inexperience in this context of both riders and steeds. Probably it was a combination of all three of these which contributed to the confusion and anticlimax. In all fairness, I should report that in the accounts of these events dominating the sergeants’ mess in the days that followed, the word anticlimax was never used.

  The beasts leapt forward and their inexperienced jockeys leapt forward with them. But not in unison. Everything seemed to happen very quickly, as is the way with accidents. The two ladies on whom all attention was focused moved upwards as well as forwards, screamed delightfully, and were instantly unseated. I checked carefully on every account I could obtain of what followed, in the interests of accuracy. Those who claimed that the ladies wore nothing beneath their appealingly brief skirts were quite wrong. I think the thought was the product of wishful thinking among men deprived of such sights for many months.

  The ladies who had become the unwitting centre of the day’s entertainment wore panties beneath their skirts. Any denial of that would be an insult to fair British womanhood, which was presenting its happiest aspect to a grateful public in a foreign land. But the garments in question were even briefer than the skirts which had until now concealed them. As the riders left their saddles and rolled over and over with breathless momentum, the small white barrier between modesty and revelation was desperately small.

  Or wonderfully small, according to the vast majority of my witnesses. Highly experienced men in the sergeants’ mess claimed that gussets had never been displayed more prominently or more appealingly. This was a massive claim, coming as it did from men who claimed much experience of gussets. The judgement was no doubt seriously affected by the brightness of the day and the recent rareness of such visions. But the view was sturdily maintained by men who had seen much action. Several of the experts were even prepared to offer comparisons to prove the validity of their case. I had never realised until now how important the noun ‘gusset’ was in the vocabulary of senior NCOs.

  The episode was given an added piquancy for me by the fact that my friend Percy Bishop was a key witness to it. As a keen student of form, he had positioned himself some eighty yards from the starting point of the race. When Grace and Janet – Percy even knew the names of t
hese comeliest of riders – had come to grief, he had been swiftly on the scene. He claimed he had swiftly confirmed the absence of serious injury, though he was evasive about exactly how he had done that. He did concede that he had proffered first aid at close quarters to one of the ladies, checking the integrity of her shapely legs before helping her back to her feet.

  There were more lurid accounts of what the Lancs Fusilier sergeant had done, but these were no doubt motivated by envy. There were scurrilous rumours in the mess that he had, in the technical jargon of the day ‘copped a feel’, but I am sure that they were much exaggerated. Tasked with this accusation, Percy drew himself up to his full diminutive height and declared loftily, ‘I did everything expected of a gentleman when a lady is in distress’. He reminded his irreverent listeners that he possessed the first-aid skills necessary to check carefully for any physical injury.

  Assessing the evidence dispassionately after listening attentively to all accounts, I pronounced my verdict that a man from my part of the world must surely have behaved most honourably. The remarks men kept making about Percy being a Bolton Wanderer were unworthy of them. I did note a sparkle in Sergeant Bishop’s eyes when he spoke of these events; they seemed to glitter even more brightly than on the nights of our snooker triumphs. No doubt he was much cheered by the service he had been able to offer to these stricken English roses.

  In truth, the saga of the donkey derby was a good example of a small military tale becoming tall in the telling. Perhaps such hyperbole was only possible in the Cyprus of 1957. Forty thousand troops chafed through inaction on the island. They spent far more time waiting for things to happen than in actual anti-terrorist activity. The crowded camps throbbed with testosterone; they were filled with men eager to feed upon any fragment of female exposure.

  Two spirited young English wives, as bored with life in the married quarters as any of their male counterparts, thought that it would be rather a lark to ride in a donkey derby. They were sporting enough to treat it still as a lark when they fell off their unpredictable mounts. They rolled to safety whilst giggling gallantly to cover their embarrassment. No one laid a finger where it should not have been laid as they were re-set unharmed upon their delicate feet.