Down Among the Weeds

by Harry Beaves

  I apologised profusely and staggered out of his office dazed and confused. I passed John Andre in his office, sitting at his desk, smiling.

  John Andre was a man who only knew one way, straight up the middle, so there was never any doubt where you stood with him and I thought he was tremendous. He was from the Devon and Dorset Regiment and during the summer he led an expedition to the Swiss Alps which included me and several other members of the Tywyn staff. It was my first real introduction to Alpine mountaineering and I learnt a huge amount. During the fortnight we climbed the Dent Blanche, the Matterhorn and many other peaks.

  Me on the summit of the Matterhorn on JSMTC staff training 1973.

  At that time I was enjoying life to the full. I had found the candle again and set light to both ends. On one occasion we were running an Outward Bound course, but I did not have direct responsibility for a patrol of students. After a late night with the staff of the civilian Girls Outward Bound School, just down the coast from us at Rhowniar, I slept through my alarm. I jumped out of bed in panic and rushed to the hangar where I tried to look casual and pretended that I had been preparing kit and loading the vehicles for some time. But John Andre had spotted me and when we came back in at the end of the afternoon he called me over. ‘This morning you were late and badly shaven. You will take the Gurkhas round the Final Expedition.’ End of conversation.

  Through that summer we had two soldiers from the Royal Nepalese Army staying with us to learn a little English and familiarise themselves with some of the climbing techniques they might need on the Army Everest Expedition that they would be involved with in 1976. They were typical of their country, small and wiry, very polite and incredibly fit. The culmination of the Outward Bound courses for the students was an arduous three-day unaccompanied expedition that followed a circular route across the hills and mountains near Tywyn. Taking the Gurkhas round it would not be difficult, but what made it annoying was that the Outward Bound courses were eighteen days of intense activity for all the staff as well as the students and the one period when the staff could draw breath was the three days when the students were undertaking this expedition on their own.

  I resigned myself to losing my down time, but I had a plan. On the night before the expedition I visited the two Gurkhas in their room to supervise their packing. Their kit was laid out on their beds with rucksacks by the side. The first thing I did was to pick up two days of their Composite Rations (compo) and throw them in their locker. ‘Too much food. Travelling light,’ I said.

  They looked at me not understanding. I then took their heavy tent and threw that in the locker. ‘Too heavy. Three of us in my little tent. Travelling light.’

  They nodded, their brows furrowed. Then I went through their spare clothing and threw much of it in the locker alongside the tent and rations. ‘Too much clothes. Travelling light,’ I said. They nodded. ‘Travelling light,’ came the reply. They were catching on.

  They now knew the words, but the look of worried confusion remained on their faces. I had pared their kit to the minimum and it was time for me to leave. ‘OK. Breakfast at seven then walking.’ I held up seven fingers then made a walking sign with the first two. ‘And remember, travelling light.’

  ‘Yes, Sahib. Travelling light.’ And I left.

  The weather forecast was excellent and at 8.30 we began our walk. I knew the route well and we set off at a brisk pace with me at the front and the two, chatting in their own language, happily behind me. It was a glorious mountain day and we paused briefly for a sandwich around lunch time then pressed on until about 6pm when we stopped and ate the cheese and biscuits from our compo. The Gurkhas knew the normal routine for that time of day and looked at me. ‘Camp sleeping, Sahib?’ Palms together against his cheek.

  ‘No, no, travelling light, onwards.’ I pointed to the distance and we resumed our normal speed.

  Our pace hardly slackened into the evening and my two friends still chatted happily in the rear. Each time I stopped to check the map it was, ‘Camp sleeping?’ And each time the reply was the same. The questions stopped some time after midnight when the concern on their faces suggested that they were beginning to wonder if we were actually going to carry on like this for three whole days.

  Darkness fell and we were blessed with a wonderful starlit night which allowed us to continue to make steady progress. Crossing Cader Idris in the cool silence was almost magical and an experience I have often wanted to repeat, but have unfortunately never found the opportunity. Fatigue was making it hard for me to concentrate on the now more difficult navigation so each time we stopped I passed round a handful of compo boiled sweets just to keep us going. As dawn was breaking we were descending the eastern slopes of Cader Idris to Cader Gates at Minffordd. When we finally reached the road I threw my rucksack on the ground and looked at the Gurkhas. ‘Finish,’ I said. They had no trouble understanding that word! I checked my watch and we had completed the three-day expedition in just less than twenty-four hours.

  I had chosen to end the route at Minffordd as there was a call box there so I rang JSMTC and asked them to send transport to collect us. When I returned my friends had a can of compo baked beans warming over a stove and they handed me a cup of tea. Tea Gurkha-style is very strong, very milky and full of sugar so when it hit my stomach my eyes popped wide with the sudden energy surge. As we drove back to camp I struggled to stay awake in the front of the vehicle, but my friends in the back kept up their non-stop chatter as if nothing had happened.

  We parked up and I had just the phrase for my two fresh-faced little companions. ‘Camp sleeping. Very well done,’ I said. ‘Camp sleeping?’ was the reply, accompanied by broad grins. They shook my hand vigorously, as was their custom, and skipped off to their accommodation. I swear I heard the words ‘travelling light’ at least twice before they were out of sight.

  I heaved my rucksack on to my aching shoulders for one last time and noticed that John Andre had been standing, hands on hips, surveying the scene. ‘Morning, John,’ I shouted, in a vain attempt at jauntiness. He smiled, shook his head and went back to his office. Two words remained foremost in my own mind as I hobbled wearily to my room, ‘CAMP SLEEPING’. Cultural exchange is a wonderful thing and I slept soundly in the knowledge that if I had added two words, ‘travelling light’, to the Gurkhas’ vocabulary, the words ‘camp sleeping’ would forever have special associations for me. I had only lost one of my easy days and with blistered feet and aching limbs I was not going to be able to make much of the other two, but that just didn’t seem to matter.

  * * *

  I was dozing in my room one Saturday morning between courses when there was a knock at the door. It was Bryan Martindale, the Assistant Chief Instructor. ‘Harry, we’ve had a phone call from a local farmer. He’s got a sheep stuck on a quarry ledge near Aberdovey. Could you and Bernie do something about it?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, wondering why the married instructors, snug in their married quarters with their families, were never given these tasks on days off. I stumbled next door, nursing a hangover that would have felled an ox (par for a Saturday morning), to wake my friend Bernie Bruen.

  Bernie was the first naval instructor to serve in the Mountain Training Establishments when they became ‘Joint’. He was one of the Navy’s great characters and took immense pride in being eccentric, no mean feat within the confines of service life. I entered his room brightly and roused him from his sleeping bag on the floor (Bernie always chose to sleep on the floor rather than a bed, even in barracks) with mock urgency. ‘Bernie, quick. There’s a call-out – sheep stuck on a ledge in Aberdovey. We’ve gotta go.’

  ‘What? Eh? OK.’

  Slamming the door I rushed out, threw my climbing kit in a bag and, minutes later, met him by his van. Bernie was primarily a canoe instructor, but in all things he had boundless energy and enthusiasm and was a complete kit freak. Arranged efficiently on shadow boards mounted in the back of his transit van he had every conceivable item of climbi
ng equipment.

  We sped off down the road and met a typically dour pinch-faced local farmer by the quarry on the Tywyn side of the village. As he led us up the side of the hill, about thirty feet down the quarry face we could see a sheep in a bush on a ledge just a few feet wide. About twenty feet back from the edge was a good sturdy telegraph pole that would serve as our main strong point.

  Maintaining the air of mock seriousness I said to Bernie, ‘OK, mate, if you tie on to the telegraph pole you can lower me over on two ropes and two descendeurs.’

  As I reached the edge the sheep began to kick and struggle with alarm, but it was going nowhere as it was held fast in a thick bramble bush on the ledge. Faced with finding a solution the only sensible way was to treat the sheep as you would treat a person, so the rescue was no longer ‘mock’. The sheep wriggled as I improvised a sit sling on its rear legs and a Parisian baudrier (a form of chest harness) on its front legs and fastened the two to the second rope. It was a good eighty feet to the bottom and I reckoned it would be quicker to try and scramble back up. Bernie took the ropes in and I fought and struggled, half carrying, half pushing the sheep upwards.

  Once at the top, we unfastened the sheep and, before the farmer had a chance to examine it, it escaped and stood munching grass nonchalantly about twenty feet away, clearly none the worse for the experience. Back at Bernie’s van, the farmer, whose still dour pinch-faced expression, I assume, now conveyed relief and gratitude, gave us each a can of McEwan’s Export for our troubles.

  Leading Demo Route at Sennen on JSMTC staff training. Picture Bryan Martindale.

  All of the outdoor centres in Britain help out with mountain rescues, as you would expect. They are mountain people who would want to be the first to look after their own, but the Aberdovey Outward Bound Schools, in particular, made a big thing of this and most of their vehicles had the words ‘MOUNTAIN RESCUE’ emblazoned in large letters above the windscreen. At Tywyn we thought this looked a bit self-important and it made us smile. The sea breeze on the crag had blown away the remnants of any hangover and we laughed as we sped back to camp.

  I slapped the dashboard. ‘There you are, Bernie. Sheep Rescue Team – eh?’

  ‘Yeh,’ he said. Then paused. ‘Are you in a rush to get back?’

  ‘No, not really. Why?’

  ‘Mind if we nip into town?’

  We drove down Tywyn High Street and stopped outside ‘Humphrey Jones Ironmongers’. Bernie went in, while I stood in the doorway, acutely aware of the evidence of the sheep’s nervous incontinence on my clothes.

  ‘D’you have any stick-on letters, please?’ asked Bernie.

  ‘Over there,’ pointed the lady.

  Bernie went to the rack, carefully chose the letters that spelt ‘SHEEP RESCUE TEAM’ and, later that afternoon, stuck them neatly above the windscreen on his van. I smiled and thought nothing of it.

  Some weeks later I was in my customary position near the bar in the Penhelig Arms in Aberdovey along with many of the local ‘outdoor’ fraternity when I overheard a conversation.

  ‘Hey, do you know, I saw a van the other day with ‘SHEEP RESCUE TEAM’ on the front? What a good idea.’

  ‘Yeh. Great idea. We’re always getting called out for sheep. I wonder who that is.’

  I smiled knowingly. For the rest of the time he was at Tywyn, and probably much longer, Bernie drove the ‘SHEEP RESCUE’ van around the country causing comment and confusion in exactly the way he enjoyed.

  Our paths crossed several times after we left Tywyn, always in hilarious circumstances, but, if Bernie played hard, he was outstanding in his profession as a Naval Mine Clearance Diver (MCD), the Navy’s bomb disposal service. During the Falklands War he led the Fleet MCD Team and was awarded a DSC for defusing a 1000lb bomb aboard the RFA Sir Galahad. The bomb was in a precarious position and posed a difficult and delicate problem which took many hours to complete. True to form Bernie took a break every few hours during which he would go to the upper deck and play on his fiddle to settle his nerves and refocus his attention before returning to the task. He carried the fiddle in a DPM painted case throughout the war and it is now on display in the Royal Marines Museum. When the bomb was eventually removed it was lowered over the side into an inflatable boat which Bernie had thoughtfully packed with boxes of cornflakes to cushion the sensitive load. He tells the story in his book Keep your Head Down.

  * * *

  The end of my time at Tywyn was fast approaching and the postings branch rang me to ask where I would like to go for my next tour of duty. Life in a conventional Gunner Regiment in Germany, living out of armoured vehicles with little emphasis on fitness and self-reliance, had failed to provide the job satisfaction that I was looking for. By contrast, the training for and operations in Belfast were much closer to what I was seeking. At one stage I seriously considered transferring to the Infantry, but thought that having spent five years as a Gunner there would be too much to learn.

  However, the Royal Artillery had regiments that supported the Parachute and Commando Brigades which seemed to promise far more exciting opportunities. I had always fancied serving with the airborne regiment and during one of the long leaves at Sandhurst had attended a Free Fall Parachute Course at the Joint Services Parachute Centre, Netheravon, but it was not an activity that I took to and, although I completed all of the jumps expected of me, I was terrified every time. The choice was therefore to volunteer for Commando Forces.

  A few days later I was told there were no vacancies in 29 Commando Regiment RA, but there was a place in 148 Battery, then part of 95 Commando Forward Observation Unit. Their role was to go ashore before the main landing, usually by small boat, helicopter or parachute, and direct the fire of the Navy’s guns at shore targets. They also directed conventional artillery and controlled ground attacks by aircraft. Because of this they were an elite and to serve with them at that time you had to complete Commando selection and Parachute selection. My experience of freefall parachuting while at Sandhurst made me think long and hard, but it was too good an opportunity to miss so I grabbed it with both hands and, ironically, went on to serve in 148 Battery as a ‘nervous parachutist’ for ten years in all.

  In my last weeks at Tywyn I went to the National Mountaineering Centre, Plas-Y-Brenin to be assessed for the Mountaineering Instructors Certificate (MIC). The MIC was a high-level civilian qualification testing for which took place over five rigorous days. One of the tests I was most wary of was the ‘mountain day’ when each student walked for a day in the mountains with an assessor whose aim was to chat and discover the candidate’s attitude to the hills and his mountain ethos. The civilian mountain training establishment was then, and probably is still is, very left wing. They believed that the hills were for recreation and learning and harboured a deep suspicion of the services who wanted to use the mountains more rigorously as a testing environment to promote military leadership.

  It was a one-to-one assessment and testing me was a woman who was a well-known senior lecturer at teacher-training college. The omens were not good. We took out our maps at the start in Llanberis Pass. ‘Right, we’re here. I want you to take me to Cwm Glas, up the flank to the Horseshoe and on to Snowdon summit. Then along to Lliwedd, down to the Miners’ Track and finish at Pen-y-Pass. OK?’

  It was a clear day and I was familiar with the route, I took a precautionary bearing and did some calculations and we set off. We chatted at a leisurely pace and I was asked the simple question, ‘Would you take a group of eleven-year-olds up Snowdon today?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit breezy?’

  Not content with a simple answer, I dug myself a hole. ‘It may be, but get ’em out and give them a bit of excitement. There’s nothing worse than seeing a group of kids trek up the Miners’ Track, sit down on the rocks and their teacher say to them, “Look, there’s Snowdon.” Give them an adventure.’

  She pushed me into my hole. ‘And don’t you think for deprived childr
en who have never been out of the inner city that it is an adventure in itself just to come to the mountains of Wales?’

  ‘Well, I suppose so.’

  ‘And what do you mean by adventure?’

  This was a question I could cope with, but, with shovel still in hand, I promptly dug myself another hole. ‘An adventure should have challenge, excitement, risk… It requires courage and determination and should end with a sense of achievement…’ These were the things we sought to promote on the military Outward Bound courses, exactly the ‘gung-ho’ stuff that ran contrary to the civilian perception of the use of the mountains. In one move I had reinforced her perceived prejudices of the military and as I realised it my heart sank.

  We strolled on. ‘Where are we now?’ she asked casually.

  ‘About here.’ I replied, putting a fat finger on the map.

  ‘No, where are we exactly?’

  I was momentarily thrown. It was a clear day and we could see where we were going, so I had not been concentrating on detailed navigation. After all, this was the ‘mountain day’, the navigation test day was yet to come. I orientated the map. ‘Well, that feature is that one there and that… so I reckon we are here.’ I pointed accurately on the map with a pen.

  ‘You should always know where you are in the mountains to the nearest ten metres. What would have happened if there had been an accident?’

  With hindsight, she probably couldn’t have known where we were more accurately herself, but she sure knew how to pile on the pressure. We strode on and eventually reached the summit of Snowdon. ‘Right, let’s have lunch.’

  I was dejected and felt sure I had blown my chances, but I reasoned that things could not get any worse so I threw down my rucksack and took out my lunch box, eagerly anticipating the cheering sugar hit that I might get from a thickly spread strawberry jam sandwich. I had abandoned the shovel long ago, but my guard was down.