Down Among the Weeds

by Harry Beaves

  I quickly got to know the ropes, quite literally, and found it all very much to my liking. Working days were packed full of action, almost always outdoors, and I was surrounded by the sort of fit, energetic people that I liked. I was very much down among the weeds and the only thing missing was the ‘khaki component’. I also discovered how much I enjoyed teaching.

  In my first winter several of us on the staff were sent to the Scottish National Outdoor Training Centre at Glenmore Lodge on a Winter Mountain Leader Training Course. The course culminated in a three-day expedition in the Cairngorms, sleeping overnight in snow holes.

  My ‘buddy’ was Eric Woolley, a Sergeant in the Royal Engineers and a good friend. The snow was very deep and we were able to dig into a bank and tunnel out a large comfortable cave in which to sleep. Outside it was snowing hard and conditions were dreadful, but we cooked our meal and settled down in our bags, as warm and comfortable as you can ever be in a snow hole.

  Normal practice in a snow hole is to leave a candle burning at all times as it has a similar purpose to the miner’s canary and will go out if there is insufficient oxygen. I never sleep well in such circumstances and woke several times during the night, each time feeling a little sick. At some stage, I suppose, the candle must have gone out, but in my sleepy state I just thought it had got damp or was just ‘a useless bloody Army candle.’

  Eric and I woke early. You never feel great after a night in a snow hole, but the headache and feeling of nausea that I had was really bad. Eric felt the same way, but we began to prepare a breakfast of instant porridge. I struck a match and the phosphor head ignited, but straight away it went out. ‘Bloody Army matches have got wet.’ After a dozen or so matches we managed to light my little Gaz Bluet stove, but that very quickly went out. ‘Gas has run out, just what you want on a day like this.’ Eventually we lit Eric’s stove and it burnt with a weak flame. I sat on the sleeping bench staring glassy-eyed as a pan of snow melted and slowly started to simmer while Eric sat beside me saying nothing.

  Suddenly he stood up, pushed past me and forced his way through the exit. I stood up to follow him and knocked the pan of near boiling water, emptying the contents down my back. I was wearing waterproof over-trousers, the normal function of which is to keep water out. In this instance they very effectively kept the scalding water in and channelled it neatly between my buttocks.

  Outside, I found Eric face down, retching in the snow. Resisting the urge to jump up and down and grab my burning backside, I rolled him over. Fortunately the weather was calm and the cold clean air quickly brought us both to our senses.

  He was OK and we began to realise what had happened and how near we had come to disaster. The heavy snow during the night had drifted over the entry to our snow hole sealing us in. Our breathing had used up much of the oxygen and, when the candle went out, we had been too dozy to notice the significance. Our efforts to cook had used even more oxygen and probably created carbon monoxide as well. The headache and nausea are typical symptoms and our wits were so dulled by the lack of oxygen that it was impossible to think clearly and realise just what was going on. I can’t say how much longer it would have been before we collapsed in the snow hole, but it had been a very lucky escape.

  I sat Eric up in the snow. He was now looking much better. ‘You OK, mate?’

  ‘Yeh. I think so.’

  ‘Right. Let’s get inside then. I think you need to look at me.’

  I lay face down on the sleeping bench in the snow hole, baring my backside to the icy ceiling while Eric applied liberal quantities of ‘Brulidine’ from his first aid kit. He then found our instructor, Stevie Mitchell, and told him what had happened and asked if we could have a bit more time to get ourselves sorted out. Stevie asked me if I wanted to go back to the Lodge, but, probably spurred by the adrenalin surge that accompanied my recovery, I didn’t feel too bad so I decided to carry on. A little later than planned, we began a long day of winter navigation practice on the snow-blasted plateau of Cairngorm. At 4pm we returned to our snow holes and prepared ourselves for our second night out. I slept on my stomach in considerable discomfort, but was happy to take every advantage of my injured state. Each time I woke up I would nudge Eric and persuade him to get up and make sure the exit was clear of snow so that we could enjoy a much safer night.

  Back at Glenmore Lodge the following evening, I unpacked my rucksack and took a shower. Immediate medical problems at the Lodge were looked after by an advanced first aider, a secondary role for one of the admin staff. It just happened that the person responsible at that time was an attractive dark-haired girl of about twenty-five, right in my target zone, so I was quite looking forward to going sick.

  ‘Yes, what’s the problem?’ she smiled.

  ‘I’ve spilt some hot water down my lower back. Could you look at it for me, please?’

  I lowered my trousers revealing an area of weeping flesh and blistered skin. The distinct shape of trickles of water began below my belt and disappeared between the cheeks of my backside.

  ‘Good grief! When did you do that?’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  ‘It’s terrible. You should have seen me straight away. Why on earth did you leave it so long? You should have…’ she launched into a tirade of very sensible medical chastisement.

  ‘Because we were out on the hill,’ was my disarming reply.

  Then came the part I was looking forward to, the re-application of the cream, a far nicer experience than Eric’s horny old Sapper hands. Sadly the pleasure was short-lived when I realised the painful depilatory effect that would happen when I removed the Elastoplasts that secured the huge dressing that she later applied.

  For much of the remainder of the course I stood up.

  Another great friend and fellow instructor at Tywyn was Sgt Tom Rose of the REME who shared with me a liking for unusual cars and was the proud owner of a Mini Moke. The Moke was a Jeep-like vehicle built on the Mini chassis, but Tom, being a REME man, had changed the standard 850cc Mini engine for a 1275cc Cooper replacement. The result was unbelievably exhilarating, seriously fast and even more difficult to insure than the Buggy!

  Tom was a keen long-distance canoeist who particularly wanted to complete the Devizes-to-Westminster Canoe Race. Known as the ‘D-W’, the race is traditionally run on Good Friday and in 1973 competitors paddled two-man canoes with a minimum of food and equipment to allow them to survive overnight. The route starts at Devizes and follows the Kennet and Avon Canal to the Thames, finishing at Westminster Steps, a distance of 125 miles. It also includes seventy-seven portages, where the teams have to take the heavy canoe from the water and physically carry it round canal locks.

  In the back of the stores at Tywyn was a scruffy old tub of a two-seater touring canoe. We made it serviceable and with unfounded optimism declared it suitable for the event. Fortunately Tom and I were very fit as our workload gave almost no time for any special training before the event. I travelled down from Tywyn the night before in the Buggy and true to form, blew the engine up at 55mph. I abandoned it in a layby just outside Devizes and hitched the rest of the way to the campsite where I met Tom with his family, who would follow us in a transit van and act as our support party.

  We paddled away from Devizes Wharf at about 8am the following morning and began our epic journey. By midday it was snowing (on Good Friday!) and I was feeling shattered, but that was only the beginning. The weather cleared, but the journey was never ending, on and on and into the night. Paddling in the dark was very frightening as balance became difficult and with the ever increasing fatigue, our reactions slowed and our strength decreased. I have recollections of paddling through Windsor as the dawn was rising in a surreal semi-conscious haze. Mercifully when we reached Teddington the tide was on the turn so we had to stop for a couple of hours until it began to fall. Starting again with stiff limbs was absolute agony, but somehow we splashed and paddled on to the finish at Westminster by County Hall. Tom’s father and broth
er hauled us out of the canoe and helped us up the steps to the South Bank. I have never felt so completely exhausted and I can honestly say it is one of the most physically demanding things that I have ever done. We had completed the course, but had taken thirty-six hours, compared with the winners who had done it in about seventeen hours.

  With Tom Rose in the Devizes to Westminster Canoe Race 1973.

  Tom and I slept in the back of the transit van as we headed off to his home in Oxford. Just outside London we stopped at a pub, the support party eager to celebrate our successful completion. I remember sitting at a table in the pub with Tom, red eyes staring into the distance as his father brought a couple of pints over, but my arms were too tired to lift the glass. I slurped the top off before I eventually managed to raise it with two hands, but even then my shoulders and elbows were so stiff that it hardly came off the table. With our limited training and preparation and the equipment that we had, to finish at all was a very worthy achievement.

  My father towed the Buggy back to Salisbury; we found an engine from the local ‘scrappy’ and we fitted it in no time. On Tuesday, hands sore and blistered and limbs still aching, I drove down to Cornwall, careful at no time to exceed 50mph. Here I met other instructors from Tywyn and we spent a week climbing on the sea cliffs of Sennen and Bosigran.

  JSMTC (W) was commanded by Brigadier (Retired) Jack Marchant, a lean, jolly, weather-beaten man in his late fifties. He had quite a reputation, but I liked him and we always seemed to get on very well. He was the same age as my father, with two sons of about my age, and he looked after my interests like a stern Victorian uncle.

  For ten weeks of my second winter Brigadier Jack ‘lent’ me to JSMTC (Scotland) to run downhill ski courses. We were accommodated at the Royal Barracks at Ballater and skied at Glenshee, which was fantastic fun as I was my own boss with three instructors. Twenty-four students at a time went through a ten-day course of instruction. Consequently my skiing ability improved immensely.

  At Easter, when the ski season at Glenshee finished, Brigadier Jack led an expedition, which included most of his staff from Tywyn, to the Alps to ski the High Level Route from Chamonix in France to Saas Fee in Switzerland, which is known colloquially as the ‘Haute Route’. Skiing in the wide-open spaces of the high mountains was fantastic and very exhilarating, but it was very physically demanding. Being Brits we had to do things the hard way, or ‘properly’ as we would have preferred to say, and, although we skied from Alpine hut to Alpine hut, we carried huge rucksacks containing all of the necessary safety gear.

  I returned from the Haute Route Expedition to find my pigeonhole overflowing with mail. The Northern Ireland Honours List had been announced and I had been Mentioned in Dispatches for my work in Andersonstown. I was the only person in the Regiment to receive an award and was extremely proud to be recognised in such a way. Brigadier Jack announced it at our morning staff meeting and offered warm words of congratulation. We opened a bottle at lunchtime, but the next course assembled that afternoon so it was a very subdued occasion.

  That evening I decided to celebrate with one of the other instructors in the Red Dragon Hotel on Tywyn seafront. I was in a very happy mood, but for some reason, my chum seemed determined to take on the locals and there were plenty of them who were willing to oblige. The evening ended with him being pulled away from another young chap. I tugged my mate outside through one exit while the local lad was dragged out of a different door by his mates, but unfortunately we all arrived outside on the Promenade together. The two protagonists made a beeline for each other and my mate swung a haymaker as the local lad was still taking his coat off, and laid him spark out.

  It was time to go – fast. Confusion reigned as we ran for the Beach Buggy, but, not surprisingly, the starter failed to operate so the two prime suspects had to push-start the getaway vehicle, which just happened to have a thundering exhaust and be the only car of its type for miles around. I think I can safely say that this escapade didn’t fall into the ‘mischief’ category. Fortunately, we heard no more about it, but it was a long time before we went near the Red Dragon again.

  I gave up with the Buggy at the start of my second winter and replaced it with an old grey minivan which was far more practical, but only slightly more reliable than its predecessor. In this case the problem was with the braking system. When you pressed hard on the brake pedal it continued to go down to the floor as brake fluid seemingly escaped through one of the seals. Like the Buggy’s starter, I never quite got to grips with the problem as I found that you could keep going if you just kept topping up the brake fluid level. (Don’t try this at home, kids.) Asked about the van, I would say. ‘It does forty miles to the gallon and sixty miles to a can of brake fluid.’

  Around that time many of the outdoor education centres liked to equip their staff in a uniform sweater to identify them with the organisation to which they belonged. JSMTC (W) chose to do likewise and we had recently been issued with sweaters in the unit colours, dark green with two narrow bands of maroon across the chest and sleeves. We all thought these sweaters were the tops and wore them as a fashion item whenever possible.

  It was a cold, wet, windy Welsh January night and Jim Hargreaves and I planned to travel to Shrewsbury to attend a lecture by Chris Bonington on the ascent of the south-west face of Everest. Jim, another fellow instructor, was a S/Sgt in the APTC and had no car so we were planning to make the two-hour journey in the minivan. I called round at his house and topped up the brake fluid, then, dressed proudly in our new stylish JSMTC sweaters, we set off into the night.

  The journey was very unpleasant, but uneventful and we arrived and parked with about twenty minutes to spare, just time for a pre-show pint. As we ordered our beers we noticed that the only other person in the room was a bearded individual with a very familiar look about him who was sitting at the end of the bar.

  Jim looked at me and in a very loud voice said. ‘Well, H, I reckon we should be able to guess when it’s time to go into the lecture tonight.’

  Bonington looked up. ‘Oh, you’re coming along, are you?’ Then, looking at our centre sweaters, ‘Where are you from?’

  This was just the opening we had hoped for as Chris Bonington had been an Army officer and served as an instructor at the Army Outward Bound School, Tywyn in the early fifties. He writes with affection about the time in his autobiography I Chose to Climb.

  ‘We’ve come up from the old Army Outward Bound School.’ He was delighted to hear it and we had a very enjoyable conversation over our beer, with Bonington every bit as pleasant as we had hoped he would be. But time was pressing and he looked at his watch. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I’m late. I must fly.’ He drained his glass and headed for the door, then stopped. ‘Oh Lord. I think I have left my car unlocked. It’s a Ford estate, behind the hall. You couldn’t check it for me and let me have the keys back at the interval.’

  He gave us the keys and was gone.

  Jim and I rushed off and found an unmistakeable large yellow Ford estate. It was full of attractive audio-visual equipment and, sure enough, was unlocked. Jim locked it and we reached our seats as Bonington came on to the stage. He gave a fascinating account of a remarkable expedition and at the interval came to the front to sign copies of his book.

  Unable to get through the crush, Jim shouted, ‘Hey Chris. Here’s your car keys.’ Bonington looked up and he tossed the keys to him.

  ‘Oh thanks, mate. I’m very grateful.’

  People looked round at us. We were obviously close friends of the great man and we basked briefly in the reflected glory.

  At the end of the lecture we found our way back to the minivan, topped up the brake fluid and set off on the long dark road back to Tywyn. All the way we laughed and chatted about what a good bloke our new best mate Bonington was and what a great evening it had been. We arrived back well after midnight and, with the brake pedal pressed firmly to the floor, cruised to a gentle halt outside Jim’s house.

  I sold the
minivan before I left Wales, but there was an interesting postscript to the Beach Buggy. Several years later I received an official letter from a government office asking me to confirm all sorts of technical details about it. I sent a carefully worded reply saying that I had sold it some years ago and regretted that I couldn’t remember the exact specifications. Fortunately I heard no more, but, obviously, Scouse Moore’s brother had stretched a few truths on my behalf.

  Chapter 23

  Burning the Candle

  Brigadier Jack had an interesting approach to discipline. We always believed he had a ‘little black book’ in which he kept a note of our misdemeanours. When you reached a certain score you were hauled in for a standing interview. Prepared for one transgression you were hit like machine-gun fire with five others that you thought you had got away with.

  I had been canoeing one afternoon with an Outward Bound Course in the surf off Tywyn seafront. I returned in the Buggy and as I came through the Main Gate I changed gear, revved the engine and entered camp with a mighty roar. As I walked to the Officers’ Mess the Chief Instructor (CI), Major John Andre, stood in the doorway of the headquarters building. ‘The Commandant wants to speak to you about your car.’

  ‘OK, John. I’ll just get out of these wet things.’

  ‘No, now, and don’t say anything. Just accept what he says.’

  I squelched into the headquarters and tapped respectfully on the Commandant’s door.

  ‘Ah, Harry. Bang! I don’t like your car. It makes too much noise and I would be grateful if, in future, when you come into the camp, you do so on four wheels rather than two. Bang! And last Saturday, in the Sgts Mess, I thought… Bang! And when we were climbing at Tan-y-Grisiau I noticed that you… Bang!… Bang!…