I was actually quite ill by then and had to stay in bed for two days. But I’d done it.
That’s what I was like then – if there was something I really wanted, I wouldn’t think about the consequences or the legalities, I’d just get on with it. In some ways it was completely reckless.
In other ways, though, I was quite shy. I did once summon up the courage to ask one of Beech House’s maids, a girl called Gwendoline, to meet me behind the school pavilion, but we just spent all our time talking about when we could see each other again. I wasn’t helped by the fact that two of my friends were hiding behind nearby bushes and sniggering. I never did date Gwendoline again, though she always smiled at me in the school corridors.
My fears and unanswered questions apart, the last years of Rydal were enjoyable. I was a prefect and head of house and played for the school at cricket and rugby. Most of the time in my last year of sixth form was spent playing canasta, which was all the rage.
I had also developed a passion for the cinema. Every Saturday night in the winter term at Rydal films would be shown in the school hall. Abbott and Costello, Laurel and Hardy, Will Hay and Old Mother Riley were my favourites – all the old films of the ’30s.
When I was in the sixth form, most afternoons my friends and I were able to go out to the matinées in Colwyn Bay. We were only supposed to go four times a term by special pass, but we were never caught. Of course it all mounted up and wasn’t cheap. Often we would club together to buy a single ticket and one of us would go in, nip to the loo and open the fire door to the rest of us. Anyone seeing one boy go into the toilet and six come out would have wondered what was going on, but we were never caught at that either. I probably saw more films in those two years than I have in all the years since.
The film that excited me beyond measure was The Jolson Story, a musical about Al Jolson’s life. There was one scene where as a young boy he suddenly stood up in a theatre and started to sing. He had a beautiful voice and I remember thinking, My God, if I only could stand up and sing like that… I recognized then the exhibitionism involved in acting – the showman side of it, the showing off. It’s a very immature thing really. But I walked out of the cinema absolutely enthralled with his performance. Jolson was a great showman – he was the first entertainer to have a causeway constructed in the theatres where he appeared so he could go out and get right amongst his audience. He would take any song and hit it beautifully, just punch it over to the audience, and all you could do was take it and enjoy it, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. That was the impact of that man and I absolutely loved him. I bought not only every record of his I could lay my hands on but also the sheet music, which I would hammer out on the piano and play on the trumpet.
Later of course I found out that he was an absolute monster – a horrendous guy! He would take songs that people had written and give them virtually nothing for them. He would insist his name was put on them as joint writer… But to be like that, to have that confidence and that dash, you’ve got to have a sort of arrogance, I suppose.
I thought that all actors were full of confidence. That’s why, in spite of the acting I’d done and the prize I’d received, I thought I’d be no good at it. Actors seemed to have lots of self-confidence and personality, and I was very shy. So, although I longed to be an actor, I thought it was an unrealistic ambition, just a dream. I didn’t tell anyone about it.
By then my sister had left school and gone on to agricultural college. There she met a fellow student and they got married. My father helped set them up in a little 40-acre farm in Markfield, Leicestershire. They bred pigs and it was a pretty tough existence, but they managed to keep going.
I was taking chemistry, biology and physics in the sixth form and the idea was that I would follow in the footsteps of my father and grandfather and get a place at St Bartholomew’s. Although my heart was not committed to medicine, my august predecessors were a persuasive presence.
I disliked chemistry and physics, but enjoyed biology. It was taught by Mrs Olive James, who was a war widow, I believe. She gave me extra tuition at her house in Llandudno and I liked her very much. She also liked me, but I didn’t have the confidence to take anything further. However, I got a good grade in my biology exam, though not in physics and chemistry. I would have to retake those before I could go to Bart’s.
Then fate intervened. During the summer holidays I received my call-up papers for National Service.
Part II
Army Dreaming
‘Welcome the challenges that Earth has to offer.’
CHAPTER 4
Training to Kill
‘Every problem is a challenge not only to be met and accepte but also to be overcome. Thus the indwelling spirit grows and unfolds.’
National Service would last for two years. Registering for the army from school would mean joining one of the Welsh regiments, the most likely being the Royal Welch Fusiliers, as their HQ was in Wrexham. We were still at war with North Korea, which was showing no sign of ending, and the RWF were very much involved.
During my last year at school I saw boys leaving and going into the army and a lot of them coming back as officers in their smart uniforms. They looked pretty impressive. I thought, I wonder if I’ll ever get commissioned? I remember sitting at my sixth-form desk during the summer term and thinking that in a matter of weeks I could be out fighting in Korea. It was a sobering thought, but strangely I was not afraid.
War still seemed very distant to me and I never really thought about what it involved. It may sound naïve, but I never thought about the army being a killing machine. It was just something you went to from school. You had to enlist and I did it. It was a process that was happening, something that was inevitable, so there was no point worrying about it.
‘Worry is bad for you. It blocks the channel by which help can come.’
In fact, from going through a period of enquiry, I went into a period where I put my questions on hold and just dealt with whatever life presented me with. Although the purpose of life is the unfolding of the spirit, we only become aware of this when we are ready. Before we gain this awareness, we grow by overcoming the experiences that life puts in front of us. That’s the process I was about to go through.
My first day in the army is still clear in my mind. It was Thursday 3 January 1952. My parents put me on the train to Wrexham with just a small suitcase containing the basic requirements. I had no idea what to expect. I left my watch and fountain pen at home because I was afraid they might be stolen. I was to arrive at Hightown Barracks any time before but not a minute after 16.00 hours.
The train arrived at Wrexham at around 2 p.m. and as I walked up the platform I quickly became aware that I was part of an easily identifiable group. There were about five other white-faced 18-year-olds wearing raincoats and carrying small suitcases.
Standing by the exit to the station was a sergeant wearing a red sash. With him were two fusiliers and behind them on the road stood a three-ton truck. This was the reception party to ferry the doomed to the barracks. I did a smart left turn into the refreshment room and waited until they had gone. Determined to enjoy my last moments of freedom, I ordered a cheese and onion roll and a cup of tea. After this I sauntered around Wrexham, found the barracks and, at five minutes to four, took a deep breath and walked nervously past the guard and into the unknown.
‘With open eyes, an open heart and courage flowing freely, turn to face your fear.’
Luckily, I was more prepared than I knew. In a way it was almost like starting school all over again. I’m quite sure being at public school helped me in the army. I was already used to being away from my family and fitting in wherever I went. This time, though, I was known as 22626311 Fusilier Roache rather than Fish. And we had to do everything at the double.
The six weeks of basic training were tough. The new boots were a particular nightmare until they had been broken in, and then they became my best friends – except when they had to be ‘b
ulled up’ for a parade.
What amazed me more than anything else about the army was the language. Previously, rude words had been whispered with a giggle and surreptitiously looked up in the reference library. Now the NCOs were shouting them at us all the time. That was a sort of convention, though, and didn’t actually seem offensive. It was as if the NCOs were playing a part. But my fellow fusiliers swore all the time. At first this really took me aback. I was not only staggered by the number of rude words but also how they were used – not to be rude or to emphasize something, but simply as part of everyday speech. After the first few days, though, even this became part of my new life and passed unnoticed.
First of all we were taught how to fall in, stand to attention, stand at ease, march with a straight back and arms and turn to the left and right. It wasn’t long before we were able to dress, march and salute like real soldiers, so we were allowed out of barracks in our spare time. The uniform was very smart and good for going out in the evening and I was already beginning to feel very different from the schoolboy of only a few weeks ago.
The advanced battle training in preparation for Korea was looming. This was to be done in Brecon, South Wales.
The accommodation at Brecon was a bit of shock, as it was a large wooden hut with a concrete floor. The only heating was a potbellied stove, and the ventilator at one end of the hut had been knocked out. Flurries of snow were coming in through the hole. The first night we slept in all our clothes, including our greatcoats.
At Brecon we were taught to fire the 303 rifle, the Bren gun and the two-inch mortar, and to throw hand grenades and do bayonet charges. The charges involved running towards a suspended sack of straw and thrusting the bayonet into it, then pausing, twisting, withdrawing the bayonet and running on. We were told to shout while we did it.
We were being trained to kill, but it all just seemed like a big game. Firing on the range at targets was like a grown-up fairground, throwing hand grenades was a bit dodgy but fun, and the bayonet charges made us laugh because of all the shouting. We never considered the real end result of these activities. We were like schoolboys at play.
‘A fool laughs at he knows not what.’
But all too soon it would be real. The platoon with which I trained eventually went to Korea and four of my colleagues were killed.
That young men, not long out of school, should die in a distant land for some remote reason is an abomination. I believe there is no such thing as a just war. If the United Nations could become more powerful and more honourable, then it would be able to deal with rogue nations and settle disputes between countries, and war would become obsolete. Providing countries abided by the rules and did not act unilaterally, of course.
I did not go to war with my fellow fusiliers, as on arrival at Brecon a few of us were taken out and put into a potential leaders’ platoon. We were considered to be possible officer material. The reason for this, among other things, was that we had passed the school certificate.
There was an amusing incident when we were all standing by our beds and a corporal was going round checking our educational qualifications to make sure we were eligible for the platoon. To him, the school certificate was the ultimate academic achievement.
Eventually, arriving at the last bed, he said to the fusilier standing there, ‘Have you got your school certificate?’
The fusilier answered, ‘Well, actually, corporal, I’ve got a first-class honours degree in English and history from Cambridge University.’
The corporal shouted, ‘Don’t try to get out of it! Have you got your school certificate?’
We were all waiting to be called for WOSBY, the War Office Selection Board, which was a three-day examination to see if we were suitable material to be turned into officers and gentlemen. We were all called up at different times and when one of the group came back he would be subjected to an intense barrage of questions as we tried to extract from him every minute detail of the process.
In the meantime the commanding officer at Brecon was an ill-tempered major waiting for retirement who found the PL platoon the perfect object on which to work out his anger and frustration. So every day started out with latrine duties, followed by whatever demeaning task he could find or create.
It was unpleasant, but I’m a great believer that if you’re in a position you have to be in, you should make the best of it. National Service was compulsory, so there we were. Of course some people did kick against it all the way through. But they got little benefit from it and were nothing but trouble for everyone else. I saw little point in making life even more difficult than it already was. So I just got on as best I could and did the best I could.
‘If earthly life were easy and everyone were materially rich and had no problems, then spiritually you would be puny weaklings.’
After a few weeks at Brecon, not yet three months into my army career, I was surprisingly promoted to lance corporal. All it meant, though, was that I was a glorified dormitory monitor who was responsible for getting everyone in the right place at the right time. There were usually about 12 of us in the platoon, mostly ex-public schoolboys, and people were leaving and arriving all the time, so you just had to keep track and make sure everyone knew the ropes.
On one of our nights off I met a very attractive girl in one of the local pubs and we met up several times before I was posted out of the area. I was still quite shy where women were concerned, but had also met a girl called Kath at a New Year’s Eve dance in Ilkeston and was keeping in touch with her. Gradually I was gaining confidence.
I had to suffer several weeks of latrine duties in the PL platoon, so I was relieved when my call for WOSBY came, although this was tempered by a lot of anxiety.
WOSBY was a very unreal three days. It took place at Barton Stacey camp, near Andover. We had to wear a tabard with a large number on the front and the back so that we could be identified at all times. I was number 42 and felt like something out of Alice in Wonderland.
There were ten of us in the group and we were given a variety of tests and trials. On each occasion one of us would be called by number to take charge, except for one trial, when no one was put in charge, as this was designed to discover the natural leaders. This became a pushing, pulling, shouting match as each person tried to dominate the group. I remained silent during this struggle, as it all seemed very undignified, but felt that I had probably lost some points.
It was a very tense time. The tests were bad enough, but there was the added stress of knowing that we were under constant observation, even during rest periods and meals.
When it was my turn to take charge of a trial, we were all assembled by two trees 15 feet apart. The idea was that there was an imaginary fast-flowing river between these trees and all the men had to cross from one side to the other, with dry rifles, using just a length of rope.
I started off by asking, ‘Who’s a strong swimmer?’
Silence. It wasn’t in anyone’s interest to help me out. I turned to one of the group who had been in the Marines for two years. I felt fairly sure he would be able to swim. It turned out he could.
‘Give your rifle to the man next to you,’ I said, ‘tie this rope around your waist and swim across. We’ll have the other end of the rope so you won’t be swept away.’
While the man was pretending to swim across the river, we tied the other end of the rope around one of the trees. Then I shouted across to him to tie his end around the other tree. I ordered all the men to put their rifles on their backs and cross the river hand over hand.
This seemed to go very well and in no time at all we were all on the other side of the river. I was feeling quite pleased with myself until the captain pointed out that the rope was still tied to the tree on the opposite side…
Group debates, map-reading, delivering a five-minute speech and a written examination all followed. Then on the morning of the third day came an individual interview by a board of eight officers. This was easily the most daunting of all the even
ts. The style of questioning was quite relaxed, but knowing that so much depended on the result made us all nervous.
I can’t remember many of the questions, but at one point one of the officers asked me whether I would be prepared to give an order for corporal punishment.
‘If I felt it was necessary,’ I said.
I didn’t add that I couldn’t imagine when it would ever be necessary.
After these interviews there was lunch and then we were told to line up outside, where we would be given our results. Instant execution.
We lined up in numerical order and the captain who had been in charge of us walked down the line handing each of us a slip of paper. On it was our name and number and three short sentences:
‘Recommended for officer cadet training.’
‘Not recommended for officer cadet training.’
‘Recommended to try again in six months.’
Two of the sentences would be crossed out.
I was towards the end of the line and watched as each of my fellow hopefuls received their slips. The results weren’t in an envelope or folded, so they could be seen before being handed to you.
The first man looked straight back at the captain and then at the rest of us. A pass. The second smiled. A pass. The third looked down at the floor. A fail. The fourth stood defiantly erect and stared into the middle distance. A fail. So far a 50 per cent fail rate. My heart was thudding. The fifth man smiled broadly. A pass. The sixth man bent his head. A fail. He was crying. The seventh looked at his paper and gave a hollow laugh. Try again.
Now it was my turn. I held my breath. As the captain approached me, I saw my paper. It had the second and third lines crossed out. Joy and relief flooded through me. I had been recommended for officer training. I think that was when I first realized that I must be quite a good actor.
Soul on the Street Page 5