I was sent home on leave for a fortnight. It was summer, my father had bought me a motorbike and I got to know Kath very well indeed. Life seemed pretty good.
However, there now loomed the four-month officer cadet training, which would not only be rigorous but also have the sword of Damocles hanging over it in the form of being RTUed. Being ‘returned to unit’ meant you had absolutely no chance of ever being commissioned.
My officer cadet school was no less than the Duke of Westminster’s stately home, Eaton Hall in Cheshire, which was only a short distance from the depot at Wrexham. Having sent my luggage ahead in an army truck, I rode there on my treasured Francis Barnett motorbike.
The journey only took 20 minutes. It was Sunday and it was pleasantly quiet. Arriving at Eaton Hall, I saw a huge red-brick Victorian building with some huts in front of it. I wasn’t sure where to park my bike, but then I saw an area of tarmac beyond the huts, so I accelerated towards it.
Suddenly I found myself in a vast open space. I had ridden onto the parade square! This was the ultimate sacrilege. It was forbidden to even step on the square unless it was for an official duty. Worse, a sergeant was drilling a squad on it, and before I could stop myself I had ridden straight between them. Sergeants prided themselves on the strength of their voices and demonstrated this by standing as far away as possible from the squad they were drilling, so riding between them was easily done.
Utterly panic-stricken, I roared away with the sergeant’s stream of abuse ringing in my ears.
You’ve done it this time, Roache, I thought. You’ll be RTUed on your first day!
Finding somewhere to park my bike at last, I went into the main building. I was told where my room was and to take my battledress uniforms to the camp tailor to have the officer cadet’s white collar tabs sewn on. I wondered whether it was worth it.
‘There will always be problems while you are on Earth, because your world is where you learn your lessons.’
As I was unpacking, an awesome figure marched into my room. It was the sergeant. I now realized he was from the Coldstream Guards. These were a very different breed of soldier from the one I was used to. They were immaculately dressed, ramrod straight and quite intimidating.
‘Officer Cadet Roache?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘You had the audacity to drive your infernal machine across the square while I was on it, didn’t you, sir?’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
‘Be at the company office at 09.25 tomorrow morning for company orders.’
‘Yes, sergeant.’
On his way out, he turned back. ‘Bloody good start to your training, isn’t it, sir?’
I had never heard the word ‘sir’ used quite so effectively as an insult. I was absolutely certain that the very next day I would be returning to my unit.
At the company office the next morning the sergeant was waiting for me, along with the company sergeant major. The CSM marched me in, and there was a major, sitting at a table with a dog by his side. The CSM explained the charges. I stood there expecting the worst.
Then the sergeant himself was brought in.
‘Right, sergeant,’ said the major. ‘Tell me what happened.’
‘Yes, sir!’ the sergeant shouted. He gave all his evidence at full blast, finishing with: ‘Never in all my time in the army have I witnessed anything like this, sir! It showed disrespect for me, the army and all that I believe in, sir! I felt humiliated, sir! My authority was undermined, sir!’
The major seemed slightly pained by all the noise. He dismissed the sergeant and said simply, ‘Well, Roache, what the devil were you doing?’
My hopes rose. I explained briefly and apologized.
The major leaned back in his chair. There was a definite twinkle in his eye. ‘You’re not going to make a habit of this, are you, Roache?’
‘Definitely not, sir!’
‘All right, you’d better stay in camp for a week. Now off you go, there’s a good chap.’
Someone was looking after me.
Now I know that in fact we all have guides and helpers around us all the time. At Eaton Hall I was a long way from this realization, though. I just had to focus on what I was doing. The work was hard and if you fell behind you were jumped on severely, but everyone appreciated the need for this and gave their all. We were well aware that in future we could be making decisions upon which the lives of 40 men depended.
There was relentless pressure on us to keep up to the mark and with the ever-present threat of being RTUed, the stress was palpable. There had been two suicides from the intakes just before ours, there was one while I was there and I heard of another after I had left. The cadet who committed suicide while I was at Eaton Hall had in fact been offered a commission but not in the regiment he wanted and he could not face the ‘shame’ he had brought on his family.
At the time I felt saddened by the suicides, but other than that I didn’t think too much about them. All through the army it was almost as if I was dreaming my way through life. I lived through things but did not enquire into their meaning. I have since read that the early part of your life can be a recapitulation of something that happened before, and it may well be that I had a past life at some time in the army. Whatever the reason, I know it was all meant to be. It was often a pressurized life as an officer cadet, but it was part of the life that I had chosen before I incarnated.
People often ask why we choose to experience pressures and difficulties. I believe that you’re never given more than you can bear. But sometimes spirits are very eager to learn and move forward and when they choose the circumstances and events of their lives, they will load themselves up a little too much and push themselves a little too far. Suicide is a case in point. All it means is that someone has given themselves a test and it has been too much for them. That’s all. There’s no punishment for that. It’s ridiculous that the Church says that suicides can’t be buried on sanctified ground. All that has happened is that they have given themselves too much and haven’t been able to cope with it. So in their next life they’ll be given more help and will be presented with those challenges in a way that they can manage. If you fail an exam, you’re given extra tuition, and for a suicide it’s the same. They’ll be given extra help and extra love.
At Eaton Hall the day of the passing-out parade arrived. This was when we would receive Her Majesty’s commission. Our parents attended the parade, as did various other members of the public and a selection of high-ranking officers. Beforehand we took our uniforms to the tailor to have our regimental pips sewn on. When we collected them afterwards we saw, with great pride, our new rank emblazoned on the epaulettes.
Now that I was commissioned, I felt I could give some thought to my future and I decided to take a short service commission for five years. I had realized that I didn’t really want to be a doctor, but I did feel a certain obligation to uphold the family honour in some way. My family history had been army, church and medicine, like a lot of families. So by being commissioned in the army I was still part of the family tradition. I’m not quite sure why that was important, but it was.
Fortunately, my parents weren’t upset about my decision not to take up medicine. They were kind people and really just wanted to make sure I was doing what I wanted. Life was changing rapidly for them too. The National Health Service was just coming in and the private practice that had been handed down for generations was now gone. My father sold Rutland House the same year that I was commissioned, 1952, to his then assistant and soon afterwards moved to a bungalow he had had built in Trowell, a village between Ilkeston and Nottingham. He paid half of the proceeds of the sale to Uncle John, who had recently retired from the army, in the hope that it would set him up. To the family’s surprise he did join Alcoholics Anonymous and manage to get a job. He rented a rather squalid room in Nottingham and took up with a prostitute, though apparently she still charged him for her services.
Back at Rutland House, the former assista
nt had some problems with alcohol and became reclusive. The garden and the house were left unattended and both deteriorated. Years later, after he had died and the house become uninhabitable, I would go there. The house was boarded up and the gates locked, but I would climb over the wall and walk about the old garden. Apart from being overgrown, it was untouched from the time when it was my childhood playground. I found the rusted remains of the swing and the remnants of the sandpit and once, pulling back the tangled branches of an overgrown bush, I found an old tennis ball. I recognized it as one that I used to hit against the house, and childhood memories came flooding back. It was like Miss Havisham’s house in Great Expectations.
By that time Michael House School had moved and had sold its premises to Weleda, the manufacturers of homoeopathic remedies. They, in turn, eventually bought up the now desolate Rutland House and, having demolished it, used the area to extend their premises. Given that my grandfather had given the land in the first place and had an interest in homoeopathy, it had come full circle.
Sadly, there is now no trace of Rutland House or the garden of my childhood memories.
Life is always changing and it is up to us to make the best of the situations in which we find ourselves. I feel that wherever you are you should look for the good, do your best and make what contribution you can to society. I always felt that I wanted to help and give in some way. I think that came from the fact that my family were doctors, so I had a tradition of service around me as I was growing up. If it hadn’t been for National Service, I’d never have considered the army as a career. But there I was, and as well as being an opportunity for service, it was a chance to see the world and learn a bit more about life.
After the passing-out parade, we rushed to the notice board to find out the regiment and location of our posting. As far as I knew, all the Royal Welch Fusilier battalions were in Korea and I was expecting to be sent there.
There was a scramble around the notice board and it was some time before I was near enough to see the list. Eventually I read:
‘Second Lieutenant W.P. Roache. Posting. 2nd Battalion, Royal Welch Fusiliers. Caribbean.’
Caribbean? I didn’t really know what that meant. Was there a war zone in the area? After a few enquiries I found to my delight that the battalion was stationed in Kingston, Jamaica.
CHAPTER 5
Cricket and Fireworks
‘God does not inflict suffering but uses the suffering man creates for himself to bring good into the individual’s life.’
I spent a final Christmas at Rutland House and reported to Stansted Airport on 7 January 1953. I was trying not to let it show, but I was feeling very nervous, as this was the first time I had ever flown and I didn’t really know what to expect. I was directed to a Nissen hut where I met my fellow travellers, mainly NCOs and other ranks. Eventually an RAF sergeant led us across the tarmac to the only plane in sight – an ancient camouflaged Hudson bomber. I knew what it was because I’d made a model of one at school. Hudsons were powered by two propeller-driven engines. My heart sank at the thought that this was how we were going to cross the Atlantic.
Inside the plane there were seats made of canvas stretched over a tubular steel frame. Our luggage was strapped down behind us. That was it. It was pretty basic.
‘The stones on the roadway from which you shrink, they are the spirit’s choice.’
We settled down and the ground crew began fuelling the plane. While this was taking place, a piece of equipment crashed into one of the propellers. This caused some consternation and after some thought one of the crew produced a hammer and hit the end of the propeller with it. The pilot climbed into the plane and started that engine. Then he stopped it, climbed back out and everyone gathered round the propeller once more. One of the mechanics reached out to touch it and pulled his hand back quickly. It was obviously very hot. They hit it with the hammer again.
None of this improved my state of mind and I was feeling very insecure when we took off for Reykjavik, Iceland, on the first leg of our journey. I sat quietly and hoped for the best. In fact the engines were so noisy that conversation was impossible, although the pilot did walk back and shout at us a couple of times.
I was very relieved when we arrived safely at Reykjavik and were taken to the American airbase. As it turned out, we were there for five days because there was a mechanical fault with the Hudson and spare parts had to be flown out for it.
Eventually we took off again, this time for Halifax, Nova Scotia. It was cold, dark and uncomfortable in the plane and after about two hours it started shuddering more than usual. No one knew what this meant. I was terrified.
After a while the pilot came back and yelled that we were just off the foot of Greenland, but the headwinds were so strong that we were hardly moving and would have to turn back.
We spent another two days in Reykjavik waiting for better weather conditions. Then we set off again.
Once we had actually made it to Halifax, we were told that the plane had another mechanical fault. It was another six days before we were able to take off for Kingston. The flight that should have taken a few hours had actually taken 13 stressful days. After that, it was surprising that I didn’t add flying to my collection of fears.
The first thing that hit me on arrival in Jamaica was the heat. It was sweltering. The second thing was the smell, a mixture of spices and fish. It was strong, but not unpleasant.
We were met by two second lieutenants, a duty sergeant and four men. While the sergeant was sorting everyone out, one of the second lieutenants came over and introduced himself as Selwyn Hughes. He was pleased to see me because up to that point he had been the junior subaltern and now that would be me.
There is always a reason why people cross your path. It is either to teach you something or for you to teach them something, and so it was to prove with Selwyn. I warmed to him straightaway.
I was taken to the officers’ mess sleeping quarters at Up Park Camp. Nearly all the buildings were made of wood and perched on raised posts. Each room had a verandah, a large fan in the ceiling and a mosquito net over the bed. It all seemed very different from what I’d been used to but exactly how I would have expected things to be in a hot country.
Selwyn took me to the mess and we had banana sandwiches and fresh orange juice with sugar served in silver goblets. This was the usual teatime fare. I was also introduced to rum with fresh lime and sugar. This became a favourite drink, and it was a highly deceptive one, as you could barely taste the rum but would soon find yourself sliding into a pleasant haze. Getting smashed on a nightly basis was a pleasure back then but the following days’ hangovers would be horrendous. It took me years to find out you didn’t have to have one.
Jamaica was independent by then and was part of the Commonwealth. We were basically stationed there for anything that might occur in the Caribbean. We were responsible for the security of the area.
On the first morning I reported to Battalion HQ at 10.00 hours to meet my commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Johnson. He was the highest-ranking officer I had so far met, apart from the WOSBY board, and I was expecting to take immediate command of 40 men, one sergeant and three corporals.
Nothing in all the months of officer cadet training prepared me for this meeting.
I stamped to attention and saluted.
‘Hello, Mr Roache,’ said Colonel Johnson pleasantly. He was a thickset man with close-cropped fair hair. He got up and walked round his desk to greet me and I was stunned to realize he was wearing a very colourful floral shirt, khaki shorts and sandals.
‘Come and sit down, and welcome to the battalion. Do you play bridge?’
‘Yes, colonel.’
‘Good show. Now I expect all my junior officers to play polo, so report to the stables sometime this week and they will sort you out. I am sending you to B Company under Major Tolhurst, but we are very under-strength at the moment, so you won’t be getting a platoon. But I do have a sergeant for you, and there is som
ething that I want you to do. We are going to have a military tattoo to celebrate the coronation of the Queen. In a few days, £4,000 worth of fireworks will arrive by ship. They are made up of two £2,000 displays each with a 16-foot portrait of Her Majesty, but as the tattoo is to last for four days, they are to be broken down into four displays. Obviously, there are only two portraits, so I suggest that these are used on the first and the last day. As well as your sergeant you can have the full use of the battalion carpenter to make whatever devices or supports you may need. Well, I’ve got a polo game to prepare for, so you get off and show your face to B Company, and good luck.’
With that he walked out, leaving me to contemplate the organization of a firework display. It was certainly not what I had expected.
My sergeant, Sergeant Duffissey, was an old soldier who, sadly, was too fond of his beer. He had had an interesting war, though, and would tell some good stories which, even allowing for exaggeration, were fascinating.
One of them particularly intrigued me. As Sergeant Duffissey told it, he and two other men had been crossing an open field in France when a sniper fired at them from the ruins of an old farmhouse. They instantly dropped down, but there was little cover so they were left partly exposed as they returned the fire.
A few shots were exchanged and the men were wondering whether they should make a dash for better cover when a rabbit suddenly appeared on the left side of the field, between them and the sniper.
As the rabbit started to make its way across the field, a shot rang out from the sniper, just missing the rabbit. After a pause the sergeant and his colleagues all fired at the rabbit, also missing. The sniper fired again and so did they, and they all kept firing and missing until the rabbit reached safety on the other side of the field.
Soul on the Street Page 6