Fast and Louche

by Jeremy Scott

  I woke early the next day and with some difficulty secured the house whose address I had given. Another problem was that I owned only one suit, which I had worn the night before. Moving fast I borrowed a varied range of costume during the morning. There was no time to be selective and the collection was wide, very wide indeed.

  Even now, fifty years later, I experience an involuntary shudder, a flush of embarrassment, when I think of those clothes, those photographs, and the article which accompanied them with its toe-curling quotes: Frock coat, cigarette holder, curly brimmed bowler, white tie, green carnation, top hat, tailcoat and a swordstick – the caption underneath read ‘I only drink champagne’. Worst of all, the kimono: ‘In the evening I generally slip into something louche …’ Inadvertently I had invented unisex, which in the early ’fifties was hardly good. But just how bad I didn’t discover until later.

  With illustrations of the two required uniforms I paid a visit to my tailor in his cramped room in Soho. A tiny, wizened man in a golden toupée, he worked seated cross-legged on his bench, eyes narrowed against the smoke of a hand-rolled cigarette stuck permanently to his lower lip.

  ‘Ever such a nice look,’ he said in a cockney accent as he studied the drawings. ‘Yes, very theatrical. Don’t know about the swordbelt, though, I’ve never worked in leather.’

  I explained that I would buy the correct belts, buckles, engraved buttons, insignia etc., and accessorise myself.

  ‘I do like the yellow stripe slashing the evening trousers and fitting over the riding boots. Chain mail’s a good touch. Spurs are clever.’ He picked up the other drawing. ‘Now this safari suit …’

  ‘Service dress,’ I corrected him.

  He pursed his lips, angling the illustration to the light. ‘You can see what they’re getting at, of course, but they haven’t followed it through. Look at the width of those trousers, so loose in the bum. Oh dear, oh dear … wouldn’t suit you at all.’

  I agreed that the trousers were unfashionably baggy. It was an old drawing.

  He nodded confidently. ‘Just you leave it to me, I know what you want.’

  Time passed. I went for a final fitting. ‘I’ve done you proud, you have to grant. You look like you stepped out of a bandbox,’ said my tailor.

  I studied my reflection a little doubtfully in the full-length mirror. The effect was striking, though the chain mail and sword took a little getting used to.

  My leave drew to its end. I’d run out of money and was quite glad when one day a telegram arrived inviting me to join my regiment.

  I reported to Goodge Street Deep Underground. Twelve hours later my Dakota transport touched down on the military airfield in the British Canal Zone. Two years later President Nasser would nationalise the Suez Canal and, after a brief, disastrous military action, the Brits would be kicked out for ever. But for the moment we were still hanging in there, and I had come to help. Our role was a traditional one: subduing the natives.

  Along the noxious, flyblown, eighty-mile length of the canal a series of fortified tented camps contained a garrison of 80,000 men and 33 female telephone operators. Beyond the perimeter of razor wire a barren desert wasteland stretched to the horizon. It was insufferably hot.

  The Royals – soon to become the Blues and Royals, the Queen’s household cavalry – had pitched their camp apart from all the rest. Indeed, they never spoke to all the rest – they considered themselves of a different order entirely. Inside this floodlit and guarded compound a group of rich young men were kept in close confinement. Killers of foxes, flingers of bread rolls baying at the sound of breaking glass, corporal restriction was nothing new to them; they had been to Eton.

  It was a world of elaborate formal ritual. The night of my arrival we dressed for dinner in ceremonial blues uniform, riding boots and spurs, to eat courses of tinned disgustingness while seated at a long polished table so overloaded with monstrous artefacts – the Regimental silver – that it was almost impossible to see across.

  I could not help noticing that nobody spoke to me throughout the meal. At its end a stranger approached. His form-fitting tunic decorated with chain mail had three pips on the epaulettes. ‘Bradish-Ellames. I’m the adjutant,’ he announced in a strangled voice. ‘I’ll see you in my office at 9 am.’

  I visited him next day. The previous evening I’d worn my blues uniform, now he met my service dress. The trousers were the ultimate in fashion, so narrow and tight it was impossible to sit down – not that I was invited to sit. The arrangement of pockets, epaulettes and buttons was roughly similar to his own, though the material was of lighter weight more suitable for the local climate, and any impartial observer must have agreed that my choice of a subtly different shade of khaki was an improvement.

  Seated at his desk, the adjutant was breathing heavily and appeared to be in the grip of strong emotion. He tore his gaze from me, rose abruptly and made for the window, where he stood rigid with his back to me. Suddenly he wheeled about, stepped to the desk, tugged open a drawer and from it extracted gingerly a disgusting, dog-eared, much fingered magazine, sweat stained and soiled. He dropped it on the desk in front of me, averting his gaze. ‘You might as well know. This arrived in the mess two weeks ago.’

  It fell open naturally at the oft-read page, the photographs, damp, grubby, avidly pored over. I stared, hypnotised, at the poised figure in the photographs holding the nine-inch cigarette holder, languid eyes half closed in supercilious irony. ‘I have to tell you that while you are here none of us wish to speak to you,’ the adjutant informed me.

  It proved to be the case.

  ‘It’s just not on,’ Rodney whispered to me in my tent. ‘Honestly, those uniforms … simply not playing the game!’ But in the mess he avoided me like everyone else; I had been sent to Coventry.

  I did not feel comfortable in my exclusion. What swine they are, I thought, pompous, conceited and stuck-up. But it was no use telling myself these people were despicable, I only knew it hurt. And wasn’t I a bit ridiculous myself, with my penniless affectations and preposterous uniforms? Yes I was, but they were still swine.

  But if there was pain in my situation, there was also compensation. The hostility of my brother officers made me acceptable to my men.

  There’s a duff troop in every regiment, composed of drunks, the psychopathic, the ornery and the troublemakers no one wants under their command – least of all in a shooting action. Voted shit of the year, it was fitting I should be given that troop to lead. I had nine men under me. Their previous troop leader had been invalided back to England when a turret hatch slammed shut on his hand, amputating three fingers; the question of who had unlocked the hatch to cause the accident remained unanswered. I came to the job with considerable unease, but a fortunate event changed everything.

  Scouse Rae, my Daimler’s gunner, who came from a Liverpool family of petty criminals for three generations, broke into the NAAFI one night, drank an entire bottle of gin at the bar together with incalculable pints of beer, then left the spigot running to fall asleep in the growing lake of pale ale which expanded to flow in a river across the floor and beneath the hut’s front door to cause his arrest, rather wet and smelling strongly, soon afterwards. Charged with stealing government property, he was to be court-martialled.

  He asked me to defend him. I did so against Bradish-Ellames, who was prosecuting before a court consisting of the colonel and three officers. In the Manual of Military Law the definition of theft is ‘taking away with intent to deprive permanently’. Arguing that Rae had not ‘taken away’ because he’d passed out in situ before being able to do so, I got him off to Bradish-Ellames’s visible displeasure and subsequent ill will.

  But the verdict’s effect upon the morale of my troop and my relationship with them was enormously encouraging. Pincher, the Daimler’s driver, became my devoted batman, stealing lightbulbs, lavatory paper, soap, razor blades, equipment and stamps from other officers’ tents to furnish my own.

  His thievery and my
relative comfort went undetected, for no one visited my tent. In the mess my brother officers continued to cut me, and in time I think they came to find my presence there as inhibiting and awkward as I did myself. I was sent away frequently to man the Eskine Line (an imaginary line drawn across the desert twenty miles away) to watch for the enemy who might come pouring over it to seize the canal at any moment.

  The idea of seeing hordes of hysterical, out-of-control Arabs charging over the horizon towards me was unnerving. I asked what I should do if they appeared.

  ‘Fire one shell at them, radio their position and pull back,’ I was told. The armoured cars could do 50 mph, both forwards and in reverse. I learned to my surprise that the role of the cavalry in war is to run away at first sight of the enemy.

  Of course, there was never any real likelihood they would appear. We loaded up the armoured cars with food and water for a week, then drove on to the desert, navigating by compass, to pitch camp more or less in the right spot in an empty, featureless landscape of wadis, rock and ochre-coloured sand. Over the radio I’d report my position to the regiment, calling them every few hours to say no sign of the enemy yet, actually.

  The sun was hot but the air very dry – ideal for tanning. My men sat in the shade listening to the radio and playing cards, while I sunbathed and read Anthony Powell. The nights were cool. There was no twilight, darkness came quickly. We’d light a fire and sit around it beneath the stars while Pincher ran up a gourmet meal enhanced with Fortnum’s jars he’d stolen from the officers’ tents. I provided drink – I felt it was the least that I could do.

  In the mornings I usually read for an hour or so after breakfast. Later we’d have gunnery practice, which everyone enjoyed. We’d attach an empty five-gallon jerrycan behind Coates and Tatnell’s Dingo at the end of a long wire. Coates and Tatnell would drive off and hide while we demounted the Bren guns from the cars, loaded up and made ready for them. We never knew exactly where they would appear. Suddenly they’d be racing through the broken ground forty yards away. Aiming for the jerrycan clanging and bouncing in the air behind the Dingo, we’d blast it with our combined firepower of three Brens, my .38 service revolver, and the Colt .45 and .22 revolvers I’d kept with me since Arisaig. The Brens were the best fun, for every sixth round was tracer; you didn’t aim the gun but directed it along a stream of light with runaway power rattling in your hands.

  We took turns and everyone enjoyed the game immensely. Once, when we’d become really good at it, I suggested we try it with the two-pounder in the Daimler. Rae clambered into the gunner’s seat, I took my position in the turret. Coates and Tatnell drove off as usual while Rae loaded a shell in the breech. There was a choice of armour – piercing and high-explosive; we thought high-explosive would be best.

  We tried a left and right traverse with the gun turret to make sure it ran free, and got ready. All at once I saw the Dingo lip the crest of the escarpment and come speeding down the wadi. ‘Traverse right, right,’ I shouted. The turret spun round … ‘Steady! Aim .…’ the jerrycan was leaping all over the place .… ‘Fire!’

  There was a deafening crack. It felt like two open hands smacking my ears hard. Way ahead of the jerrycan and only twenty yards behind the Dingo I saw the flash of an explosion, a burst of blue-white smoke. Boom! The shock lifted the speeding Dingo on its way, a hail of grit and stones rattled against its armour plating, chipping the paint.

  I felt a lurch of horror and dismay, it could have been a real disaster, yet everyone cheered. They thought it wonderful and wanted another go, but Coates and Tatnell wouldn’t play any more. Rotten spoilsports, they sulked and said they wanted to go home.

  The philosophy, theory, practice and day-to-day conduct of the army is based upon discipline. Discipline causes the soldier to snap instantly to attention, crying, ‘Yessir!’ Discipline is what makes him go over the trench top and charge the enemy in the face of certain death.

  I don’t believe we ever discussed the subject in my troop. It was understood that when with the regiment we obeyed the outward forms of discipline, saluting and so on, but while out camping in the desert we should not. It was not only Christ’s teaching to treat others as you wish them to treat you, in my view it’s an effective and more successful way to achieve results. But I came face to face with a problem which provided a further slant on the matter.

  A few months after my arrival in the Canal Zone there was a mutiny. It was hardly surprising it should occur. Confined to camp, without access to women or distraction of any kind, life was very boring. One evening one of the Highland regiments ran amuck and for a few riotous hours their camp became a glorious Saturday-night Gorbals in the desert. They set fire to a couple of cars, doused an officer with beer and barricaded themselves in the NAAFI where they drank everything in sight, threw up and were easily overpowered.

  A number of men were arrested. No military prison existed in the Zone and briefly three of the ringleaders were boarded out in our cells. An armed escort delivered them shackled together in chains, tiny, tough, glowering little men who looked as dangerous and unstable as wild beasts and who were clearly hungover.

  Rodney, who was duty officer, came in late to dinner that night, his face pinker than usual and smudged with black streaks. ‘They set fire to the guard house,’ he exclaimed. ‘And Corporal of Horse Grayson. Too beastly.’

  Next morning the prisoners were separated. Two of them were moved on and farmed out elsewhere. That day it was my turn to be duty officer, an event which occurred every ten days or so. One rose early, for it took longer than usual to dress. The ensemble was in blue, lavishly ornamented, and across the chest a gold and silver pouch was slung in the fashion of a telegram delivery boy. A sword was worn.

  Six foot two inches of ramrod martinet, the duty colour sergeant, who was dressed only slightly less gorgeously than myself, accompanied me everywhere around the camp, a gleaming, stamping, shouting machine. With him I changed the guard, checked the armoury, examined the vehicle lines and tasted the men’s lunch with a shudder.

  During the afternoon it was my duty to inspect the cells. The colour sergeant and I marched towards them in step across the beaten sand, unspeaking and glittering in the sun. There were several prisoners, a man who had stolen petrol, one who’d caused a fight, another who had overstayed his leave. Plus, of course, the mutineer. At each cell the ritual was the same. The colour sergeant flung open the metal door, screamed, ‘Prisoner, ’shun!’ followed me in and lurked attentively while I inspected. Inside, the geometric arrangement of every cell was identical and immaculate. Each item of the man’s equipment, cleaned, blancoed and polished, was laid out on the bed in precisely regulated pattern. At the head of the bed the blankets were folded to an exact rectangle, at the foot the prisoner stood quivering to attention.

  I would cast my eye over the cell, enquire ‘Any complaints?’ to which he would answer sharply ‘No, sir!’ and we would leave. There was never any deviation from this prescribed scenario.

  We came to the last cell. The colour sergeant threw back the door and I was already inside before it struck me as curious that he had omitted to shout, ‘Prisoner, ’shun!’ as he always had before. Then the view drove all thought from my mind.

  The place was devastated, an utter shambles. Equipment was everywhere – ripped, torn, mangled, pissed on. The buckled wreckage of the metal bed lay twisted against the wall and a sea of horsehair covered everything. Shaved head and unshaved chin, a beetle-browed Glaswegian mannikin squatted in the carnage wearing only his soiled underpants. Glaring at me from small red eyes, he conveyed an impression of considerable menace. ‘Any complaints?’ I heard myself ask ineptly.

  ‘Fuck off,’ he snarled.

  Nothing in the Manual of Military Discipline and Procedure had prepared me for this. I was uncertain how to act. It struck me that the best thing to do was to follow his suggestion. I turned round and strode out the cell. The colour sergeant’s boots crashed the floor in an about turn as he followed
me. I waited while he locked the cell, then together we marched down the passage into the fierce sunlight and, side by side in perfect step, commenced the 200-yard march across the desert parade ground, flashing and jangling with silver and brass and chain mail and patent leather and spurs, got up like Christmas trees with our boots pounding the sand into a dust cloud rising behind our splendid passage.

  The colour sergeant did not speak. He offered no comment, no explanation, and we’d marched a hundred yards in silence before I felt obliged to ask, ‘That last prisoner … why wasn’t he standing to attention in a spotless cell beside the bed laid out with his equipment in the regulation manner?’

  Face steadfast to the front, the colour sergeant’s answer rang out loud, clear and immediate. ‘Because he didn’t want to, sir!’

  The full force of revelation swept over me as I marched. The man had not offered violence, hadn’t protested, had not refused; he’d just made his attitude perfectly clear: No one can make you do anything you don’t want to do! I marched onward a wiser and more disobedient man.

  A month or so after this event the Royals were posted back to England en route for the regiment’s new station with British Forces on the Rhine.

  Handing over its armoured cars to the Lifeguards, who were replacing us, we travelled to Port Said in armed convoy. The men were embarked at once, but the officers passed a half day in the town before the troop ship set sail that evening. Attended by a crowd of importuning beggars, the flower of young English manhood strutted the foreign streets observing the lives of the inhabitants with undisguised contempt.

  Returning to the ship, one voice among the surrounding clamour caught my attention. ‘Psst, Spanish fly?’ it asked. An Arab beckoned from the shadow of a warehouse with a furtive gesture. As I came closer he exposed a glimpse of what lay in his hand – a round resinous ball. ‘You want make jig-jig all night all day long?’

  He had a sore on his lip, was villainous to look at, and anyway it was not a practical suggestion, the ship was leaving in a couple of hours. Again he drew the thing from beneath his robe. It had the soft consistency of plasticine and a slightly scented smell that was not unpalatable. A lunatic dream took shape.