Down Among the Weeds

by Harry Beaves

  While one of us stayed alert, the others got established and eagerly ate the ‘Meals Ready to Eat’ (MREs) that we had traded with the Americans for our compo. MREs could be eaten hot or cold and were preferable to compo as they required less water. We were physically shattered and keen to rest when suddenly we began to hear a scratching sound. Something was pushing through the scrub. Was it an animal? The hairs on the neck stood up as the noise slowly got closer and with our rifles in our hands we prepared for a quick bug-out. Through the scrub we could make out a pair of dark brown eyes, then a small hand as a young boy hauled himself into our LUP. He knelt smiling at our pointed rifles as he hauled a sack behind him. Out of it rolled six of the biggest watermelons imaginable.

  ‘You want?’ he asked.

  We each had two litre-bottles of water which we had rationed through the heat of an arduous day. The villagers had obviously seen us move in and if we could be found by a ten year old it was safe to say we were compromised. Military training said that we should get out at top speed, but what did it matter? It was only an exercise and, at the end of a hard day, watermelons were an irresistible temptation.

  Bdr Charlie Ede, my deputy, threw the boy a couple of compo chocolate bars from his bergan and the smile grew bigger. He then shuffled backwards into the scrub and was gone, leaving us to decide what to do. By now it was dark so we moved to the OP position and set up a hide, hoping we would not have a steady stream of small boys seeking us out with melons.

  Summit of Mont Blanc summer leave 1975. The mountains of Italy gave the best backdrop, but involved shooting into the sun, hence the halo and obscured face.

  At 0300 we established radio contact with the Amphibious Operations Room on board Bulwark and as dawn broke we were greeted by the amazing sight of the approaching NATO task Force. Aircraft roared overhead in simulated bombing and thousands of troops swarmed ashore from helicopters and landing craft, a hugely impressive sight which involved more than 20,000 men.

  With the first phase of the landing complete around midday, we were tasked to join a company of US Marines, equipped with armoured personnel carriers – far better than marching with the Royal Marines! We stayed with them for two fascinating days learning the unique US Marine style of doing things. We then re-joined 40 Commando for the remainder of the exercise, before finally re-embarking on Bulwark.

  With the exercise over, there was a real ‘end-of-term’ feeling on board with little to do but clean and tidy things in preparation for the voyage home, but before that the British element would pay a port visit to Istanbul while the US 6th Fleet returned to Naples. The afternoons were spent playing games and relaxing on the flight deck. As we approached the Dardanelles the Captain tasked the ship’s Education Officer to describe on the ship’s PA system the various landmarks connected with the Gallipoli campaign that we were passing. He began as we crossed the seas from which the battleship HMS Queen Elizabeth and others had bombarded shore targets that were still twenty miles away.

  We anchored in the waters off Istanbul, a city well able to cope with the huge number of British servicemen and their inevitable confusion over mischief and trouble. We still managed to visit plenty of the ‘wrong’ places, despite the fact that it was Ramadan. Istanbul was truly fascinating and I remember, on one occasion, 40 Commando’s MO asking me if I wanted to go ashore with him. When I asked how long he was going for, he replied, ‘Just until the dysentery sets in!’ Many a true word…

  Daily RAF flights from Istanbul were taking certain members of staff directly to the UK after the exercise. I was booked to fly out on one of the first of these as I was due shortly to start a long career course at the School of Infantry, but I managed to switch to a later flight and stay to enjoy the glories of Topkapi Palace, the Blue Mosque and the Grand Bazaar for what can loosely be described as ‘veni, vidi, visa’ (I came, I saw, I did some shopping). As we reported for the flight home on the fifth day I noticed an additional RAF aircraft standing by. It was the early flight, that I should have returned on, that has ‘gone U/S’ before departure and was still being repaired. For some reason, when an RAF manifest (passenger list) is complete those people stay with the aircraft come hell or high water until it reaches its destination. Among those waiting, bored and frustrated, was the chap who had swapped flights with me. I reported to Warminster, suntanned and buzzing with my recent experiences, to begin one of the most boring courses of my career and he arrived home the day after.

  Life in 148 Battery was tremendous fun, lived at breakneck speed and during my three years I don’t think I spent more than fourteen nights consecutively in Poole. Moreover we tended to go on long deployments to countries – like Turkey, Norway, Brunei, Hong Kong, Belize, Cyprus and Sardinia – that in those days few Gunners were able to visit. This was one typical example of the many exercises we did, but I could probably fill another book with dozens of similar yarns from those happy days.

  In April 1975 I was posted to Malta to take over 3 Troop of 148 Battery who were based there with 41 Commando, Royal Marines.

  Observing live artillery fire on the ranges at Hjerkinn in the Norwegian Arctic. Left to right. Bdr Dave Abbot, L/Bdr Austin Gannon, Gnr Topsy Turner, Me.

  Chapter 27

  Malta

  After 170 years Britain was finally about to withdraw our troops from Malta. Feelings on the island were mixed as the recent history of the two countries had been so closely connected; in particular the island of Malta had been awarded the George Cross by King George VI for the courage and fortitude shown by the people in response to the intense German bombing raids of the Second World War.

  Now, to bolster Maltese independence, Dom Mintoff, the Prime Minister, was making friends with and seeking assistance from countries like China and Libya with whom Britain had little diplomatic contact, and the confused Maltese people were being encouraged to think that all things British were ‘bad’. There were five thousand Chinese workers billeted in the former British barracks at Tigne who were bussed daily to work on the Malta dry-dock. On Sundays groups would be allowed out on carefully escorted historical tours, all wearing identical navy blue ‘Chairman Mao’ suits.

  Libya was providing help in other ways and a Libyan community occupied the Gzira area. One Saturday morning I took a local bus, its driver’s area bedecked with the customary rosaries and images of the Madonna, to Valetta to do my weekly bachelor shopping. Republic Street (formerly known as ‘King Street’) was unusually full of people with hundreds of school children carrying little red-and-white Maltese flags. A small procession of vehicles approached from a distance and, to my amazement, standing in the back of an open Land Rover waving to the cheering crowds was Colonel Gaddafi himself. It was quite remarkable as there appeared to be no additional security and I found myself standing in the crowd ten feet from the passing Land Rover, so close that it would have been very easy for someone to lob a grenade at the convoy had they wanted to do so.

  The role of 41 Commando was to provide a British military presence in Malta and be prepared to react to events around the Mediterranean and North Africa. It was a traditional garrison existence and life for the British serviceman could hardly have been more laid-back. Although we did several major exercises during the year that I was there, it was all very relaxed. In summer we worked a tropical routine, starting work at 7am and finishing at 1pm in order to avoid the heat of the afternoon sun. We then usually spent the rest of the day at the services beach club soaking up the hot sunshine that the tropical routine was intended for us to avoid! I still managed to get away on some good exercises including Jungle Warfare Training in Brunei (during which I found time to climb Mount Kinabalu in Sabah), a mountaineering expedition to Norway, and several visits to Cyprus and Sardinia.

  The Officers’ Mess of 41 Commando sat high on a hill in St Andrew’s Barracks with magnificent views over St Julian’s Bay. I was, by now, one of the older bachelors living in the Mess and I remember, one evening during my first few days, holding forth on the
fun and games that we had with the service schoolteachers in Germany. I was ‘Joe Cool’ and my stated intention was to trap a teacher with a car, get her to show me round the island through the winter months, so that I knew the ropes. Then I would buy a car myself, ditch the teacher in the summer and have a whale of a time with the tourists when they arrived – easy!

  About a week after I arrived we were all invited to a ‘Harvey Wallbanger’ party that was being given by an Irish girl who worked as a secretary at the Australian Embassy in Valletta. I got a lift with a Royal Marines chum named Tom Taggart. The flat was packed, someone gave us drinks and, unable to get in any further, we started talking to two girls from Folkestone who were standing in the doorway. One of the girls was a tall, slim and deeply-tanned primary schoolteacher. The other, much shorter, was her cousin, out on holiday from UK. Tom was much taller than me, and, try as I might, I couldn’t work it so that I was talking to the shorter girl, so I spent the evening chatting to the big brown one, while we all downed generously-sized Harvey Wallbangers.

  The Big Brown Bird at St George’s Bay.

  The following day I rang her and we arranged to meet on Friday. She picked me up and we drove out to a beautiful fish restaurant overlooking St Paul’s Bay. We spent an enjoyable evening and, in the weeks to come, explored the many sights of Malta in her car. Eventually I bought a little red 1959 Austin Healey ‘Frogeye’ Sprite, which unlike the Beach Buggy in Wales, had a working starter motor and waterproof hood and was ideal for cruising round the island in the warm sunshine. Everything seemed to be going to plan. The weeks drifted happily by until one day I realised that autumn was approaching, the tourists had been and gone and I had neglected to ditch the big brown bird. Her name was Barbara and something was obviously wrong. More correctly, something was right, so we spent the rest of my time in Malta together.

  The Big Brown Bird in the Frogeye Sprite.

  In February 1976, after our return from jungle warfare training with E Company of 41 Commando in Brunei, life in Malta became even more laid-back as, in the spring, 41 Commando was scheduled to be disbanded as part of the defence cuts at that time. The unit would not be replaced in Malta and their departure would form part of the British withdrawal. On 16th March 1977 8 (Alma) Commando Battery fired nineteen guns for Earl Mountbatten of Burma, who took the salute, as 41 Commando Trooped the Regimental Colour. I stood proudly on the square with 8 Battery and the big brown bird was in the spectator stand with the huge crowd of families and locals.

  In the week that followed a group of local officials toured the camp making notes for the return of the barracks to the Maltese. When they came to our accommodation I was unimpressed by a decidedly shifty looking bunch amongst them. With no real justification, I could imagine them dividing the spoils for their own business interests.

  When 41 Commando Trooped the Colour for Lord Louis Mountbatten on 16th March 1977 prior to leaving Malta, 8 Alma Battery fired a nineteen gun salute. Leading the guns off the parade. Left Land Rover. Captain Mike Goodfellow. Right Land Rover. me. Picture 41 Commando RM.

  3 Troop’s office and accommodation was in the Old Guard Room in St George’s Barracks. On the veranda in front of the building stood two ancient naval cannons that the Troop had discovered many years previously when they were based in Tigne Barracks. I had visions of these becoming a key ornament at the front of some new holiday development and I didn’t like the idea.

  Outside 3 Troop Office of in Malta, originally the Guard Room of St George’s Barracks, with the canons. From the left. Bdr Scouse Brougham, L/Bdr Steve Burke, Me, L/Bdr Nick Allin, LRO Martin Foy. Picture 41 Commando RM.

  Outside 3 Troop Office in Malta on our silver wedding anniversary holiday in 2002. Only the waistline had changed.

  Outside 148 Battery in Poole in 1995 with the canons, brought from 3 Troop in Malta. Picture RM Poole.

  We were moving back to UK with 8 Battery so I spoke to the BC, Major Mike Holroyd-Smith, and asked him what he thought. ‘Take them back to Poole,’ was his immediate reply. ‘Speak to Bert Booth, the BK, and he’ll sort it out for you.’ We put a pair of lifting strops round the barrel of the first cannon, attached them to the bucket of a JCB tractor, provided by the local Sapper Troop, and gently lifted. The JCB then cautiously transported the heavy load to a waiting chacon (a military version of a shipping container) and lowered it inside. We did the same with the second and covered them both with dirty old camouflage nets to provide some protection if they moved in transit.

  It would have been nice to have taken the big brown bird as well, though perhaps not in a chacon, but she had to honour a contract with the Service Children’s Education Authority. I think we were both certain we wanted to stay together, but I was going away and there was just a possibility that our time together in sunshine of Malta had been like some extended holiday romance, so we made no formal commitment to each other.

  The day finally arrived when our kit was loaded, formalities completed and it was time for us to depart. We boarded the LSL Sir Lancelot and lined the decks with 8 Battery in a version of the Royal Navy’s Procedure Alpha. It was an irregular but fitting farewell that recognised the final departure of the Royal Artillery from Malta and the end of a long and happy association between the Regiment and the island. Upper Barrakka Gardens, which gives the most splendid view of Grand Harbour, was filled with people waving a sad farewell, and somewhere amongst them was the tall suntanned English girl. Normally on an occasion like that I would have fond memories of time spent there, but would be looking forward to the next adventure. This time it was different. I was going to miss that girl and was already looking forward to the summer when she planned to return to England on holiday.

  We docked in Devonport on a dull grey day in a gloom that matched my spirits, drove up to Poole and, before we knew it, I was back in the frenetic activity of 148 Battery. The cannons arrived with our freight some weeks later and since then they have proudly stood in front of 148 Battery lines. I shipped my little old Frogeye Sprite back by commercial freight and it arrived some months later. It was a wonderful nostalgic reminder of sunny days in Malta, but quite the wrong car for Britain’s motorways and a mistake to bring it home. It had reached the age when the minor components were all beginning to wear out and it seemed that each time I made a long journey something would fail. It was usually a pipe or hose worth pence, but recovery and repair was costing far too much. It had to go and sadly I traded it in for a boring Mini 1000.

  There was regular contact with Malta. Barbara had decided that five years’ teaching in Malta was enough, was resigning at the end of the term and coming home for good. This was great news and I drove to Brize Norton to meet her off the plane. She went home to stay with her parents and begin looking for a teaching job, ideally in south-east London close to Woolwich, which was where I was likely to go next.

  We spent most weekends together and she started to get an insight into what life with me, away from the comfort and delights of Malta, might really be like. I discovered that a water-ski course was being held one weekend at Rockley Point Sailing School, a few hundred yards from the Royal Marines’ base at Hamworthy. Barbara had taught me to water-ski in Malta and, as the course was sponsored by the Sports Council, it was so cheap that we decided to give it a go. I was able to draw two wetsuits from the Battery diving store as, accustomed to the waters of the Mediterranean, I thought they would be a wise precaution even in July.

  Poole Harbour is one of the largest natural harbours in the world, but it has had only limited commercial development because it is rarely more than a few feet deep. This makes it ideal for water sports, particularly for novices, but there is one large drawback: beneath the shallow water is a bed of soft mud, often more than a foot thick. Consequently a water-skier falling off at any speed usually gets covered in thick black goo. As a barely competent skier, the situation was made much worse for me as I discovered when I put on the two-piece wetsuit that the poppers that fastened the crotch strap at th
e front of the jacket were broken. Undeterred I carried on, the crotch strap swinging behind my knees like a beaver’s tail. When the inevitable happened and I came off at high speed, I ploughed in backside first and the beaver’s tail shovelled the filthy mud right up my back. Both of us ended the day cold and filthy and that was the last time we water-skied in this country.

  My time with 148 Battery was fast coming to an end and the postings branch had told me that my next job would be with the Royal Artillery Training Regiment at Woolwich, probably the last place I wanted to go. I was very sad to leave Poole and could look back on three fantastic years in the best bachelor posting imaginable.

  I drove away with a very heavy heart, knowing that few postings could ever live up to the times I had enjoyed in a Green Beret.

  Chapter 28

  Marriage

  For almost 300 years Woolwich was the home of the Royal Artillery; for barely two years it was mine. In Woolwich many of the street names and buildings are connected with the Royal Regiment and serve as constant reminders of the historic links between the Regiment and the town. The RA Barracks covers a huge area with, as its centrepiece, a magnificent Georgian frontage more than a thousand feet long. All around, the sports fields and squares are fringed with historic cannons captured in battles long gone. The Officers’ Mess housed the priceless collection of Regimental silver and Regimental paintings and on every wall and table there was some item of glorious historical significance to the Regiment. By contrast the surrounding area has a high crime rate, is dirty, rundown and neglected, and in 1977 was an example of inner-city decay. The local secondary school numbers amongst its alumni Jim Davidson, Boy George and the killers of Stephen Lawrence.