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THE FOUNDATION
Born in England,
my father, after seafaring from the tenderest age, became a coal miner
on the remote wild West Coast of the South Island of New Zealand.
To him and thousands like him the outbreak of World War One was a
heaven sent opportunity to escape from long hours of hacking at coal
faces deep in the primitive pits. Far from the truth to imply that
in joining the colours Dad was not mainly motivated by patriotism.
His rendering of "Land of Hope and Glory" always hushed
an audience, the quality of a magnificent tenor voice enhanced by
the obvious sincerity which inspired his singing. The Mounted Rifles
sailed from Wellington late in 1914. Via the Gallipoli campaign, the
incapacitated survivors, my father among them, arrived and were hospitalised
in England, a contribution to the Anzac war effort. The painful cost
was a stiffened right leg rendered partially functional by a caliper
splint. His waist was girded by a leather truss to which were fastened
two iron bars, one on each side of the afflicted leg. These bars culminated
in holes set in both sides of a large black surgical boot. For years
as a young boy the sight of this boot with its high heel to compensate
for the shortening of the leg was strangely depressing.
During convalescence in London, my
father married a raven-haired girl from Devon, a Trevethan. I appeared
on the scene late in 1917, being born during a zeppelin raid, according
to family history. The circumstances did not register at the time.
In later years I came to appreciate the attractiveness of my Mama.
Also came a realisation of some of the qualities my father must have
possessed a disabled stranger, to capture this beautiful woman. Mama
was a good pianist. Dad's voice and her music may have been the base
which founded a long and happy marriage. A couple of years after me,
my sister Eileen arrived, black-haired like her mother.
We were by this time living in London
and Dad, in spite of a stiff leg had started a business. He maintained
the family by selling milk in one of the poorest of the city's suburbs.
Every day of the year he rose at three in the morning and limped to
a shed where a few churns of milk from a wholesaler were delivered.
The contents of the churns were dispensed into small cans which hung
in clusters round the sides of a three wheeled barrow. The balance
of the milk remained in a highly polished brass churn set majestically
on a platform in the centre of the barrow. From a tap in this churn
flowed milk into jugs and other receptacles presented by housewives,
alerted by Dad's cry of "Milko!" as he pushed the barrow
and its liquid cargo through the streets. After an early start Dad
came home after lunch for a well deserved nap. We all remained loyally
quiet. The head of the household had earned his rest. We lived in
the dingiest of streets where every home was attached to the one next
door in squalid rank. There was a front room, a kitchen-cum-scullery
with a sink downstairs and two small bedrooms upstairs. The lavatory
was in the tiny backyard, very cold in winter. There was no bathroom.
A zinc bath hung in the scullery, which my sister and I occupied on
alternate evenings before being tucked up in the back room. Dad always
sang to us before we fell peacefully asleep, secure and happy in an
atmosphere of affection. His "Goodnight, here comes the dream
man — now you children run up the stairs, put on your nighties
and say your prayers", was sung beautifully, full of kindness
and good humour. His family adored him.
The business was successful and expanded.
Dad no longer pushed a barrow. Two or three men looked after that
side of the enterprise leaving him with time to tend a retail dairy
opened in the main road at New Cross in south east London. We lived
at the back of the shop in quarters not much superior to those we
had just left. There was still no bathroom, but the toilet in the
backyard was not so exposed to the elements as the previous one. It
was a peaceful little shed for reading and wrestling with the written
word, and much quieter for an eight year old to concentrate in, than
was the parlour behind a busy shop. While the dairy was open, which
was until late every evening except Sunday, the noise of passing trains,
which shook the building to its foundations, was deafening. That part
of London was a sprawl of grimy rundown shops and houses with dirty
windows exuding a general air of neglect while waiting for the inevitable
final decay.
Our shop stood out. My parents painted
the front a dazzling white and a man came once a week to clean the
large front window. Our backyard stood out, too. For as far as the
eye could see it differed from all the other miserable backyards.
In it grew a tree. Not some stunted smog choked bush, but a magnificent
full blooded healthy pear tree which reached right up to the sky.
From my window in the tiny back bedroom upstairs I could not look
down on it. When we first moved to the back of the shop the tree was
bare. Sparrows huddled in the naked branches, puffed up to combat
the winter's chill. I felt something in common with them, waiting
perhaps to be spirited off to a better life, far away. I am still
very fond of sparrows, a fully equipped practical little bird, the
cockney of the feathered world. With the warmer weather of early spring
a wonderful transformation took place. The buds on my tree had swollen
quite plainly with faint glimpses of green bursting to escape the
winter concealment. But what was this strange and thrilling sound?
I was long accustomed to the language of the sparrows. The branches
were scanned for the creator of a new, fascinating and oft repeated
song, to behold with joy and wonder a most memorable sight. A cock
chaffinch, resplendent in pink, green, blue, brown and white was announcing
to the world his love of life and a yearning for someone with whom
to share it. His invitation was accepted and my spirit leapt to the
little bird's side and flew off with him into the beckoning wide and
wonderful world.
The tree was soon a mass of white blossom
as if covered with snow. To its branches came other beautiful feathered
visitors. Blue tits, starlings and goldfinches touched down in transit
to give an admiring and attentive boy his first taste of the delights
which surely abounded beyond the enveloping grime. A love for all
Mother Nature's children which has never waned, has provided much
enjoyment and it is nice to think that a grand old pear tree, the
lone survivor in a London slum, was a spark which ignited one of the
nicer fires at such an early stage of an evolving boyhood. Not only
has this interest in all creatures been a constant pleasure, it was
instrumental in sharpening powers of observation so important in the
years ahead. A disinterested person on a ramble down a hedgerow might
register an absence of wild life, while those with eyes that searched
through leaf and branch, opened for themselves a new dimension in
knowledge and stimulated the powers of observation. Used thus constantly,
the eyes develop a talent for focusing in depth. Faces are more readily
picked out of a crowd. The passengers in the back seat of a passing
car as well as the driver, are instantly scrutinised. Without recognition
there is no reaction. The split second recognition and reaction I
was to need desperately to survive the future, had got off to a fortuitous
early training.
My sister and I attended a school some
ten minutes walk from the shop. To get there and return it was necessary
to run the gauntlet of a busy main road. Until I was ten years old
and deemed capable of escorting my sister, we were seen across the
road in the mornings and met at school's afternoon closing by one
of the girls who worked in the now much enlarged shop. The school
was of the elementary or lower grade administered by the London County
Council, a dreary structure of red bricks and concrete. In later years,
when passing by a prison, thoughts wandered back to my first association
with education as prescribed for the poor. I cannot remember imbibing
much knowledge at this first school, suffice that the rudiments of
reading and writing were instilled and thus equipped, everything I
could lay my hands on was avidly read. Books on animals and birds,
the sea, pirates, Billy Bunter, whatever the subject, my voracious
interest devoured the written word. In 1927, when only ten years old,
I sat the Junior County Scholarship examination. The London County
Council gave pupils from poor homes and schools an opportunity to
establish their promise, and having done so, qualify for Council financial
assistance to attend a seat of higher learning, peculiarly named a
public school. Everybody knows that a public school in Britain is
private, yet reference is always made to a public school. This is,
of course, one of the many things which distinguish the English from
the less enlightened world.
The examination took place one Saturday
morning in a large hall in South London to which my mother escorted
me. During the whole of the tram journey she unceasingly emphasised
that I was to try my best and what a wonderful opening would ensue
were Ito be successful. What kind of opening she referred to was not
clear, although the life and death importance attributed to the impending
test was completely unnerving. Arithmetic and English were the two
subjects involved. With the former I had no problem at all, although
it was with the English paper that exceptionally good fortune was
enjoyed. Its main feature was the writing of an essay about the Royal
Navy. Books on pirates and the Spanish Main had always absorbed me.
Morgan, Drake, Raleigh and Frobisher filled my daily dreams. It was
easy to write with enthusiasm of those long dead heroes who hacked
a way to fame and fortune for England and founded the traditions which
fortify the people of Britain and will inspire Britons forever. A
pass resulted in both papers and I won a Junior County Scholarship.
Ever since that day at the scholarship examination my path through
life has been guided by a lucky star. An optimistic attitude is more
prone to success than a background of pessimism and uncertainty, and
one should always proceed confidently geared to win. It is essential,
however, to make as sound a preparation for victory as circumstances
permit and to carry a plentiful reserve of ammunition ensuring that
it remains dry.
The intrusion into public schools of
scholarship boys whose fees were paid by the Council was an innovation
not easily digested by the sons of the well-to-do, who, until then,
had been the exclusive paying occupiers of the type of school to which
free admission was now available. Parents of the new scholarship winners
unable to meet the cost of uniforms, clothes and other compulsory
expenses were eligible for an additional financial subsidy from the
Council, available after a form of means test. My father looked a
little apprehensively at the costly list of paraphernalia essential
to equip his son for attendance at the new school. With a note of
some pride he announced that his income was too high and precluded
a money grant from the Council for clothing. Although later on with
growing prosperity my parents would have been able and willing to
pay for such higher education as I was now about to receive gratis,
I was lucky at eleven years old to enter a new and entirely different
world. My gratitude to the humanitarians among the city fathers who
made possible a passage to a fuller life, is tempered by compassion
for those not fortunate enough to have been inspired by a pear tree
in their backyard and condemned to be reared only by the gutters of
London. Eleven was about the right age to escape. Old enough never
to forget the previous existence, yet young enough to be remoulded
and assimilate the developing new future.
Being a scholarship boy at a public
school caused a few upsets during the first year or so. Some of the
pupils, especially the older ones and some masters too, nursed a desire
to preserve an attitude of social superiority towards the subsidised
intruders. After the passage of a few black eyes and split lips this
atmosphere evaporated, certainly as far as I was concerned. Dad's
rising prosperity may have eased matters. Our first old secondhand
car had been succeeded many times by more glamorous models which occasionally
arrived at school to make a predictable impression on those with snobbish
tendencies. The ownership of a car marked a turning point in my father's
life. Since the war, his injured right leg had been enclosed in a
metal splint which kept the limb strictly rigid and driving necessitated
mobility in the affected leg. The splint and the obnoxious surgical
boot were discarded. I lost track of the splints but sometimes the
big black surgical boot would turn up, no longer a menace and no longer
did it gloat, my father's silent jailer. He had broken out and right
had triumphed over evil, or so it seemed to me.
Over the next few years the three "R's"
of elementary schooling were supplemented with chemistry, physics
and other complicated pursuits for which any enthusiasm was hard to
raise. How pointless it all seemed to try and force a young mind to
digest so much knowledge for which I had little aptitude or appetite.
This negative situation was fortunately balanced by something positive.
All boys were obliged to study two foreign languages. My choice was
French and German, discarding Latin. With a good ear, an ability to
mimic accents and tones, gratifyingly high linguistic standards were
enjoyably attained without the necessity of irksome, disciplined effort.
Not realised at the time was my fortunate assimilation of a public
school accent, as opposed to the previous London street jargon. In
extreme cases of affectation, the spoken English of the upper classes
can be as nauseating as the dialect of the slums, but there is no
doubt that society in Britain has self imposed stratas of social standing
and acceptance, defined rigidly by a variety of modes of speech. Broadly
speaking, to be penniless and articulate in English, is far less restrictive
than a barrier imposed by being wealthy with a cockney accent. Sports
played a leading role in my life and joyous regular participation
in cricket, boxing and rugby football, especially the latter, helped
in one way or another to shape the school leaving product. We moved
into a private house, a reflection of Dad's steadily growing prosperity,
and the days of living at the back of a shop were far behind. Sister
Eileen, a beautiful girl, had long left the elementary school for
higher educational planes and a new life for both children pleasantly
unfolded. Most of the school holidays were spent with Dad's mother
and father in Shakespeare's Warwickshire near Stratford-onAvon in
the heart of a glorious countryside, where our grandparents had a
roomy cottage in a charming, unspoilt village. We roamed the picturesque
rural area indulging to the full our love and interest in wild life.
The acquisition of a shotgun introduced me to hunting and its attraction
remains to this day. Later on during the war, in a somewhat perverse
and complicated way, I hunted the most thrilling quarry of all, man.
It was even more exciting when the quarry in turn hunted me, all of
course, a thrilling part of the great game of life. Remaining alive
and unwounded is an essential and permanent requirement to continued
enthusiastic participation. My interest in Mother Nature continued
to grow. Although many pheasants, partridges, ducks and rabbits were
gunned down during these country holidays and sent to friends in London,
the situation of love on the one hand and killing on the other seemed
by no means incongruous. The thought that the victim was going into
a friend's tummy was probably a palliative. Anyway, some culling is
good for all species, sometimes man, provided of course that one participates
as a culler and the number of victims does not get unsportingly out
of hand, or possibly include oneself as in war.
Pheasants, partridges and the like
were all very well, but somehow the scallywags of the feathered world,
the crow tribe of rooks, jackdaws, jays and magpies were my favourites.
Their entertaining naughtiness was attractive to a degree, indicating
preferences which were to lead down unusual paths. On one ramble a
large hawthorn tree was encountered in the middle of an extensive
private wood, the boundaries of which were liberally decorated with
'Trespassers will be Prosecuted' notices, an open invitation to visit.
Here was the domain of some grand person who employed gamekeepers
with fierce moustaches and shiny leggings to hunt boys like me, terrific
fun. Hawthorns are common in Warwickshire, but the one just mentioned
will never be forgotten. Cautiously wending a way along a woodland
track, keyed and alert for enemy ambush, a deep buzzing sound as if
some giant bee was hidden in the undergrowth could be heard. Approaching
the direction from which came this disturbing noise, a dense and sickly-sweet
smell invaded my nostrils. Controlling a desire to flee, I edged forward
along the path, to a clearing in which stood a gigantic hawthorn.
The reasons for the buzzing noise and for the dense, repulsive odour
were all too shockingly apparent. The tree was an aerial cemetery,
the last resting place of hundreds of my special bird friends. I stared
aghast. The victims had been shot or trapped, their bodies thrown
onto the tree, impaled on its sharp spikes, to rot and decay, hosts
to myriads of wasps and flies. The reason for the noise and stench
would never have crossed my mind had I not seen it with my own eyes.
There is only one place for a dead creature and that is in the ground.
Some years later this smell was experienced again, although then the
source was human and not bird corpses. The exposed bodies were protesting
at not having been confined to mother earth. Beautiful magpies, jays
and jackdaws, dead but a day or so, drunkenly draped the tree in macabre
company with their friends in progressive stages of decomposition,
whose bodies had been tossed onto the tree at various times before
them. Revulsion, akin to terror gripped as my young ears, eyes and
nose reacted to the horror. An increasing feeling of rage was directed
at the perpetrators of so vile a crime. Pheasants are often prevented
by members of the crow tribe from reaching maturity to face a charge
of shot, but such murderous desecration aroused an indignation against
injustice in general and gamekeepers in particular, yet to subside.
Man has a lust for rampant killing and seizes every opportunity, no
matter how slight, to justify and excuse his sadism. As it was in
the beginning at a hawthorn tree, so it still seems to be in a world
without end, and the cruelty of man to beast, and man to man.
By fourteen, sport had become an important
part of my life. Representing the school in various teams of differing
grades, guilty of neglecting studies other than those of French and
German, little strenuous effort was required for continued enjoyment
and wellbeing. Came another of life's turning points when a school
friend, whose family had a fine boat, introduced me to sailing, a
contagious disease against which there is no antidote. Many boats
of all shapes and sizes have I sailed and loved since the first fourteen
foot pride and joy, a present from my parents after a most solemn
undertaking to be the best of good boys. Promises as to hard work
and immaculate behaviour were deeply sincere, and who would not barter
such noble desires, genuinely felt, for the ownership of a sailing
dinghy. It is perhaps worthy of note that where promises, treaties
or undertakings are deemed necessary between two parties, persons
or nations for that matter, the grounds or conditions which lead to
an eventual breaking of the undertaking always seem to have been much
stronger than was realised, prior to the agreement being called for.
Associations of genuine trust and friendship have no call for non-aggression
pacts and the like. One can understand the Nazis signing a treaty
with the Soviets, but between Britain and the United States such formal
mistrust need never be registered.
Not far from home, old father Thames,
dirty and brown, wended his way up and down from the sea. Amongst
the warehouses and docks which crammed the banks was an occasional
stretch of tidal mud from which direct access to the water was possible.
Near Greenwich was just such a spot, aptly named Bugsby's Hole, whoever
Bugsby might have been, home for my little ship. On every possible
occasion I biked furiously to the Hole, hoisted sail and pushed off
into the busy river. Single handling was tricky. The contrary winds
of England gusted round wharves and treacherous air funnels were created
through the buildings which lined the murky waters. Many were the
capsizes and, of dire necessity, was an ability to reright the boat
after each ducking. Much lurid language rent the air as the passage
of the numerous large and small craft which ceaselessly plied, hooting
and fussing, up and down the busy waters was inadvertently hindered.
Good clean fun, the more so while exercising loudly a democratic right
in both word and deed that sail had right of way over power.
As these extra-curricular activities
grew, my interest in school waned even more, though with few unpleasant
personal consequences. My prowess at the school's favourite sports
made for tolerance and an easier passage with the teaching staff than
would otherwise have been the case for someone who was paying less
and less attention to serious study.
Nothing remains constant and to this
hitherto carefree and untroubled existence a most unpleasant menace
was introduced. This menace was known as the O.T.C., short for Officers
Training Corps. Although previous contemplation had left me with no
favourable impression of this institution, it was not until I was
fourteen and forced to join, as was every boy on reaching that age,
that earlier forebodings proved true and more than justified. A web
of martial discipline engulfed me. Every Wednesday the whole school,
except the children under fourteen, donned uniform. The transition
from the comfort and freedom of blazer and long trousers to khaki
was in itself shock enough to the system. No comfortable, form-fitting
battle dress had as yet graced the military wardrobe. Instead a uniform
was worn which first came to notice from photographs of staff officers
in the First World War. Studies of shiny boots, puttees, breeches,
Sam Brownes and polished brass buttons, all in mint condition had
been taken far distant from any fighting or dirt. Puttees were an
even worse problem than the beastly brass buttons and leather belts
which all required tedious effort to fit them for critical inspection.
It was ages before new recruits could bind on one of these long strips
of coarse khaki cloth into anything like fitting or resembling the
shape of a leg. The horrible material starting at the ankle, took
a long time to adapt to the required form and the necessary skill
took even longer to acquire. Cadets of over a year's standing were
able to manage puttees quite well, but for newcomers they were a vicious
and embarrassing hurdle to negotiate. Confidence in binding was an
absolute prerequisite to the elegant wearing of a puttee and an observation
by a regular force drill sergeant from a Guard's regiment, that my
puttees put him in mind of an elderly lady with drooping drawers,
added to the frustration of it all. The cadet battalion often participated
in ceremonial parades of one sort or another through London. Sometimes
the battalion was at full strength of four companies, marching behind
a magnificent drum and fife band in the Lord Mayor of London's parade,
a slight compensation for all the discomfort inflicted by a military
career to that date. Maybe the cheering onlookers precipitated a happier
frame of mind. Casting around for a plan to avoid the unpleasantness
of playing soldiers every Wednesday, a solution tried for a time,
worked quite well. To play truant as a day boy was much easier than
for somebody boarding at school. Our house, Victorian style, had no
garage and the family car was kept in company with others of the neighbourhood's
elite, a short distance from home in one of a group of horse stables
whose former four legged boarders had been displaced by four wheeled
ones. In the garage were secreted a sports jacket and trousers. After
breakfast and a pupil's farewell, I would sneak into the stables where
the clothes were hidden for a quick change act, a few moments later
to emerge a working lad. To the thrill of being constantly alert to
avoid detection was added the vision of a new world delightfully empty
of people at a time of the day, when most beings were at work or study.
Boys away from school were obliged on return to produce a parental
letter of explanation to the school secretary, sickness being the
prevalent and readily accepted reason for absence. I skipped an O.T.C.
Wednesday without hitch and a carefully forged letter laying claim
to a severe earache was accepted without comment on a Thursday morning
at the office. Success followed success. Careful not to overdo it
and thus inspire a request from the secretary for a doctor's certificate,
attendance at school was avoided on many Wednesdays. Our lady secretary
was very sorry about my constantly recurring earaches, especially
my being occasionally obliged to miss school for a whole week at a
time. During stolen weeks, a bus ride took me daily to the bird watching
delights of the many commons and open spaces of suburban London, which
still abounded prior to the concrete explosion to come. This new world
of freedom crumbled in my fifteenth year. Some contemporaries had
caught on to the idea and set up in similar business and, as often
happens, the market was flooded and collapsed. All the miscreants
were caught after a personal visit of enquiry by the school commissionaire,
to the parents of the boys whose health had shown such steady deterioration.
Thus ended my formal schooling. There was no public expulsion but
a discussion between my parents and an offended headmaster ended in
an understanding that perhaps the school would be better off were
my absence to be permanent and not confined to the odd fraudulent
day or week. Some unkind inference about being a bad influence on
the other boys comes to mind. School days ended just before I was
sixteen, in time to scramble through School Certificate with credits
in French and German. Poor Mama did not take kindly to this exposure
and treatment of her darling's behaviour and I was truly sorry to
have upset her. Dad was by no means as annoyed as he made out. A later
acquired knowledge of the New Zealand West Coast and its inhabitants
from whence my father hailed, convinced me that like a true Coaster,
he secretly enjoyed such promising early signs of initiative and rebellion.
My sister, reflecting the same blood perhaps, regarded it all as a
bit of a lark. I started work as an office boy cum junior audit clerk
with a large firm of chartered accountants in the city and although
clerking was of little appeal and not quite my kettle of fish, a couple
of years on the outer fringe of commerce was instructive and rewarding.
Of general benefit was the introduction to the complexities of bookkeeping,
profit and loss accounts and balance sheets. The ability to interpret
figures and their messages should be encouraged for everyone and not
confined only to the field of business. Much of the first year as
a clerk was spent on errands for my employers, of a varying nature,
throughout the city. Dear old wonderful London. Many a message or
letter by hand was delivered at break-neck speed with a sole aim of
being able to wander slowly back to the office and digest some of
the atmosphere of the world's most wonderful metropolis. Oh, for the
tradition and history of England! The great architect of the universe
saw fit to arrange a permanent departure from the place of my youth
often sad to accept.
Life at home continued to be comfortable,
full of fun and might thus have progressed indefinitely. I played
rugby on Saturday afternoons, careered around in a small sports car
and was developing a strong normal interest in the opposite sex. To
get on well with females is a blessing, rewarding far beyond the normal
conception of relationships between the sexes. I invariably seemed
to evoke a maternal response from both young and old ladies to whom
court was paid in the required degree. At troublesome times during
the war, to be cosseted and fussed over as if by a mother, was preferable
to other forms of relationships which spring to mind. Without wishing
to appear mercenary or deceitful an association combining all features
was the most desirable, and on this target an occasionally successful
bead was drawn. Do not judge me without imagining the very tight shoes
I constantly wore.
Under the influence of my apparent
stability in a city office, Mama saw in her only male offspring the
raw material suitable for conversion to the exalted sphere of chartered
accountancy. The profession presented a vision of social and economic
respectability, a view not to be quarrelled with considering the opposite
conditions she had endured at my father's side during the first ten
years or so of married life. Negotiations were begun with my employers
to bind me for five years as an articled clerk to one of the firm's
most eminent accountants. The necessary formalities were under way
when a shocked family heard a flat refusal to proceed with the idea.
Little counter argument could be mustered against the plan, in face
of the favourable aspects expounded by both parents. Obstinacy carried
the day. I was going to sea. Calling personally on all the major shipping
companies in the city. I procured a cadetship in the Merchant Navy
without much difficulty, small wonder considering the working conditions
and monetary reward. My father betrayed his attitude by graciously
footing a substantial bill at Monnerys, the naval outfitters. Mama
wept at Euston, or was it Kings Cross station, seeing off the train
to Glasgow, home port for the motor vessel 'Pacific Grove' of the
Furness Line.
Arriving at the ship late on a bleak
Glasgow evening, I was directed to a small cabin, and dog tired after
a long journey, the strange noises and smells did not prevent a deep
sleep, broken early the next morning by a friendly cup of tea. Carefully
dressing in the winter uniform of black and brass I wandered along
the companionway to be eventually directed to the Chief Officer's
cabin. First mate Cogle was kindness itself, full of consideration
for all who worked under him and an early formed respectful liking
for him never waned. Formalities over, he looked a little askance
at my full dress appearance, giving an impression that such clothing
was unsuitable for the occasion. Within minutes dungarees had replaced
the posh uniform.
The Captain sent for me. There was
only one cadet on the ship and to fit myself for the social duties
required of an officer and a gentleman, I was to eat in the dining
saloon with the officers and about a dozen passengers the ship invariably
carried. Thus began an introduction to the world of finger bowls,
fish knives, gateau forks and a whole range of eating machinery and
behaviour, although it would have been preferable to have eaten aft
with the crew. In the saloon, full uniform, either black or tropical
white, with spotless clean linen was required, and after working on
deck, the transformation from a soiled dungaree-clad lad into somebody
presentable as an officer and a gentleman, took many minutes of pressure.
Breakfast and dinner permitted ample time for cleaning and dressing,
but lunch was awkward and frightening. Nobody would start eating until
the table was complete and as I sat with two lady passengers and the
second mate, a presence on the dot, as the steward hovered, was essential.
Bosun Jensen either had a latent nasty social streak, or disapproved
in some other manner of cadets hobnobbing with passengers and officers.
He would always keep me until five minutes to the lunchtime gong,
before dismissal from what was usually a grimy sort of job. Soup was
recurringly spooned down still panting after an aspiring quick change
artist collapsed into a dining-table chair, often embarrassed by unclean
hands. To be waited on at table was a novelty quickly accepted as
normal procedure and by closely watching everybody else using the
bewildering array of cutlery, the rituals practised by people who
eat and drink more to pass the time than of necessity, were soon learnt.
After the week or so it took to get into social gear, 1 enjoyed chatting
away and can only hope that the other three at our table enjoyed it
also. One of the ladies could not have been too put off. A mature
buxom lass on a world tour, she offered me a job working on her rubber
plantation in Malaya. Though flattered, the invitation was shyly declined
and from the way she looked at me, duties other than those normally
associated with producing rubber would be required.
Long hours every day except Sunday
were spent on deck at various maintenance chores. Evenings at sea
on the bridge with the fourth officer, from eight until midnight,
were meant for training in nautical matters although most of the time
was spent listening to his experiences with the fair sex. My background
in this most interesting of subjects, at a kindergarten stage by comparison,
allowed little part in conversation, forcing me to listen in respectful
and slightly shocked silence.
The ship not uncommonly arrived in
port behind schedule. Consequently, everybody involved with cargo
worked round the clock loading or unloading to make up time. The rest
of the crew received overtime pay for the extra hours, but nothing
so demeaning was offered to a cadet aspiring to become a ship's officer.
My income remaiiaed at ten shillings a month or nearly two shillings
and sixpence a week. Had pay been supplemented by some overtime consideration
an embarrassing situation might have been avoided. Half a crown was
not much reward for an average working week of one hundred hours,
and try as I might, on arriving back in London after four months at
sea, my modest outgoings with the chief steward for beer and tobacco
could not be met by the two pounds sterling to my credit in the wages
account. A few days off was granted in London, while the ship unloaded
in Surrey Commercial Docks and on rejoining, we sailed for home port
Glasgow, via Liverpool. Before being allowed ashore, it was always
necessary for Dad to ransom an insolvent son, my leaving the ship
strictly denied until a debtor's dividend of twenty shillings in the
pound had been paid in cash, no cheques accepted. At home, a few glorious
days of fussing, breakfasts in bed and other delights ended all too
soon.
I became friendly with the ship's carpenter.
He bred canaries and other birds in the forecastle workshop, just
forward of my new responsibility, the number one cargo hold. Chippy
had no other home but the ship and rarely went ashore. Aside from
wide ranging ornithological discussions, yams of the sea which covered
the over forty years my carpenter friend had been afloat, were most
educational. In reply to a query as to why he so rarely left the ship,
it appeared that the sight of women upset him. He had been married
twice, convinced that a man who wed for the second time did not deserve
to have lost his first wife. The philosophy sounded impressive at
the time.
When in port, most sailors go ashore
for a liquid binge, but for Chippy this was unnecessary. Scotch whisky
would sooner or later have earned my favourable notice, although it
is to my carpenter friend that I am indebted for the introduction
having taken place earlier in life than would have otherwise been
the sad case. For delivery to the thirsty devotees of the Pacific,
the Furness ships carried on every voyage thousands of cases of whisky
loaded in Glasgow. While the wharfies were at lunch break, the open
hatches with their heavenly cargo were guarded by crew members. By
manoeuvre, number one hold was always my responsibility while the
Glaswegian watersiders munched their sandwiches in the dock shed,
and as soon as they climbed out of the hold and departed down the
gangplank, I descended into the depths and went to work. In those
days, Scotch was packed twelve bottles to a wooden case and case after
case was hurled violently at the steel sides of the hold. Meanwhile,
coming down through the open hatch at the end of a stout rope was
a large galvanised bucket, followed by another and yet another. The
roughly treated containers were wedged snugly into the top of each
bucket, and a good trickle of whisky running from the corner of the
case indicated a successful breaking of some of the bottles which
were now giving their all for Chippy's sake. Buckets brimful of precious
liquid were going up and down like yo-yos. There was no time to eat
my own sandwiches. As the hooter sounded conclusion of the lunch break,
the wharfies returned and supervision of the loading was resumed to
make sure that everything was stowed correctly and especially in view
of the tempting nature of the cargo, that nothing was pilfered. On
cold Atlantic days at coffee times, I often found a way to Chippy's
workshop where body and soul were heartened with copious lacings of
loot. Apart from the thrill of the chase, this was my only reward
and we were fortunately never apprehended. Old Chippy was quite sad
when I left the ship. Visiting him once when the Pacific Grove was
moored as usual in the Surrey Commercial docks at the end of a voyage,
"Never had such a good lad as you, Ron," he sighed in reply
to an enquiry as to the well being of his alcoholic enterprise.
Time rolled on and much as I savoured
and had become accustomed to the life, there seemed no worthwhile
future in going to sea. Young seamen on so many ships had already
served their time as cadets and qualified as master mariners. To earn
their daily bread in the only way they knew how, they were obliged
to sign on as deckhands and as trained seamen found it most difficult
to become gainfully settled ashore, the situation was alarming to
contemplate. After four years and qualifying as second mate, the sitting
of a mate's and finally a master's examination, the economics of the
maritime industry would put me out of a job except as a deckhand with
no dining in the saloon, a worthwhile fringe benefit of cadetship.
Dad's business continued to prosper.
There was a place in it for me and with reluctance to forsake a career
as a professional seaman, his offer of a job was accepted. A further
chapter had ended in the preparation for what lay ahead.
At work, Dad was a hard very fair taskmaster.
My sister ran the office and I worked in the yard, toiling a full
week from four in the morning until early afternoon. The heavy physical
work humping churns and crates of bottles was enjoyable, and drawing
on accounting training and a sharpness gained at sea, before long
I felt of worthwhile assistance to my father. By the time the war
broke out in September, 1939, we had formed a limited company of which
I was a junior director. More milk was being used and profits rose.
Happy days and the scent of money with its associated pleasures assailed
the nostrils.
I was too busy working and playing
to have given more than a fleeting thought to the long looming conflict
when war burst upon us. The Chamberlain policies of appeasement towards
the Nazis sickened me and Dad was of the same mind. A number of friends
joined the peace time volunteer weekend army, the Territorials, and
had the memories of cadet service at school been less unpleasant,
I may well have followed suit to be mobilised at the outbreak of war
into some ill-equipped, poorly trained unit, unprepared to resist
the slaughter that was soon to follow.
The pre-war period might have been
spent playing at soldiers had not my fairy godmother carried on with
a course of training programmed for me since birth. During 1937 and
1938 there arrived in Britain from Germany and Austria, thousands
of young girls seeking employment, to be absorbed mainly in the domestic
field. Many were the reasons for the influx. Some were political refugees
from the new dictatorship, some with Jewish blood were avoiding the
concentration camps, some were possibly implanted by the Nazis. Whatever
the whys and wherefores of Anna's arrival in London, there is no doubt
that her footsteps were guided by my godmother who watched from on
high and constantly catered for the requirements of the future, enabling
me to survive and tell this tale. A close friend announced that a
German maid had come to work for them and as none of his family spoke
German and Anna spoke no English, an interpreter was required. Anna,
the new maid, and I became fast friends, and for the year or so still
to elapse before the outbreak of war, were constant companions, giving
me the opportunity to become really fluent in German. Once again my
godmother had chosen well. Anna came from a good family and spoke
her tongue without one of the many dialects which would have undoubtedly
brushed off harmfully on me. My desire for linguistic efficiency was
aroused and to supplement learning from delightful Anna, German classes
were attended at London University. Progress was good to cause unintentional
embarrassment to a lecturer unable to compete with the extra curricular
advantages enjoyed by one of his students.
Hardly had war been declared when the
sirens wailed over London. They signalled goodbye to soft lights,
sweet music and so many joys of the past. No longer would Bing Crosby
and Ella Fitzgerald inspire us to croon, and memories of Sadlers Wells
with its unforgettable Gilbert and Sullivan melodies would tweak the
heart as battle engulfed the world. So many who heard the first sirens
and gazed wonderingly skyward at the floating barrage balloons, my
sister Eileen one of them, would ever see the lights of London shine
again. An overwhelming nostalgia which afflicts me as younger days
are recalled, will pass I hope, with a brief cheering digression.
Mama and my sister took themselves
off for the first few weeks of the war and stayed outside London in
a small country cottage the family had acquired. They would stay or
return to the town house as soon as the pattern of air raids everybody
expected became clear. In the meantime Dad and I, with the help of
faithful elderly housekeeper Beatty, who had nowhere else to go anyway,
managed for ourselves. One night, I attended a function to farewell
some uniformed friends who were leaving on an overseas posting. In
between consuming far too much liquor, we had been listening with
growing interest, in view of the times which were now upon us, to
a discourse by an equally liquor affected young man, who drew attention
to the dire consequences of the blast from high explosive bombs. The
picture of the effects on the inner workings of the body was almost
sobering, and directions as to the best precautionary methods were
expounded. It all depended on equalising the pressure resulting from
the blast as between the inside and outside of the human frame. During
an air raid it was imperative to keep the mouth open and allow some
of the blast to get inside the body and act as a counter-balance to
what was pressing on the outside, thereby preventing an otherwise
inevitable collapse inwards. This desirable state of affairs was best
achieved by holding a cork between the teeth. Most impressed, I arrived
home in the early hours with a pocketful of corks acquired at the
party. Dad, already fast asleep, was woken without ceremony and attempted
to absorb the garbled description of a move which could save his life.
In spite of a lucid explanation as to the urgency of the advice being
poured out, dear Dad seemed unable to grasp the point. He was also
a mite uncomplimentary about certain things. The seriousness of the
situation prompted me to produce some corks holding one in my mouth
to demonstrate what was required. Eventually, albeit unwillingly,
my father was persuaded to get his teeth around a large cork. Much
relieved by this co-operation, I bade a fond goodnight to leave him
sitting up in bed mouth correctly open, with a bewildered and questioning
look on his face. I tottered along to old Beatty's room and gave a
repeat performance, which somehow lacked the appreciation deserved
by a kind consideration for other people's well-being.
From then on without working as of
yore for our daily bread, the combatants among us would in exchange
for risking life and limb, be fed and clothed for as long as life
or the war lasted, whichever date was applicable. The inspiration
of war does something for man's productive capacity which would make
a heaven of life on earth were times of peace capable of kindling
such enthusiastic effort. Politicians could be well advised to study
this psychological phenomenon with a form of application in mind.
Our word to come to Poland's aid were
she attacked was a bond. The country flocked to the flag, united in
patriotic fervour and a self-righteous sense of devotion to duty and
a just cause. Everybody in Britain seemed to think along these same
lines. Our family certainly did and there was not the slightest doubt
that we would join all our country folk and hang out our washing on
the Siegfried Line if it was still there. Great stuff!
My first choice for war was to fly,
not from it, but in it. At the large Royal Air Force base at Uxbridge
on the other side of London, application forms were completed and
after a fairly thorough medical examination I ended up in front of
a desk-bound squadron leader, whose uniform was not graced by the
prestigious wings of a flyer. Hearing that facilities for training
flying crew were so stretched that at least six months would elapse
before a call-up could be expected and thinking that the war might
well be over by then, I refused to sign on a dotted line, to return
home still uncommitted and a free man. The squadron leader gave the
impression of his confidence that the R.A.F. would manage somehow
without me. The navy appealed more as a service to join than the army
and presenting myself at the Admiralty I was made further aware of
the difficulties involved in trying to serve one's country in time
of war. Quite prepared to be afloat for as long as it took to win,
it was disappointing to discover that their Lordships demanded a twelve
years' service contract. I should have been quite middle-aged after
so long a time and although they may not have lost themselves a Nelson,
on that account alone the terms were declined. Disappointed at the
outcome I left the navy recruiting office to be much cheered by running
into an old school friend. He was under similar patriotic stimulus
and we retired to cry on one another's shoulders in a local bar. To
serve his country my friend had even greater hurdles to surmount.
A second year medical student at Guys Hospital barred from military
service and securely immobilised by the category of reserved occupation
into which he had been strictly pigeonholed, was unbearably frustrating.
After more liquor and the injustice of it all, it was decided to make
an end of things. We entered an army recruiting hall and signed every
piece of paper in front of us. My school chum signed up as a labourer
while I was accepted into the Royal West Kent Infantry Regiment as
unemployed. We both went part of the war together and although my
friend got out of France in the 1940 fiasco, I regret to record his
later death in Italy. To meet on that day was an agreeable coincidence,
or at least it was at the time, better perhaps not to have gone drinking
together with alcohol a malignant spark to light and determine our
futures.
In November 1939 I reported to the
Infantry Training Centre in Maidstone about thirty miles from home.
With a war on, soldiering had some meaning as nearly every recruit
in those days was a volunteer from widely differing walks of life
and the barracks sparkled with an infectious enthusiasm. Basic training
under regular army N.C.O.'s was completed early in 1940. That winter,
one of the worst for ages, amply warranted the popular description
of an infantry soldier's lot. At a hotel function in Maidstone our
platoon instructor, a career sergeant of the old school, with long
service in India was farewelled. Baker by surname, he was known far
and wide, not surprisingly, as Doughy. It would be nice to think that
a liberal intake of refreshment had not unduly influenced Doughy as
he wished us the best of luck and complimented the platoon on being
the most competent and toughest bunch of recruits he had ever trained.
What a pity it was that so many young
soldiers, potentially ideal leadership material, were sent over to
France to be sacrificed in what, at that stage of the war, was from
the outset a lost and hopeless cause. Battalions were overwhelmed
through no fault of their own, massive cannon or prisoner of war fodder,
when faced by well led, crack German troops with ample armour and
aircraft support. The armies to come were to miss sorely these wasted
casualties of 1940 and the chain of events and the asinine management
over the years which led up to them, is sickening to reflect on. Britain
was the architect of her own disasters for the first couple of years
of war. A policy of appeasement without strength was proved to have
been the most foolish of policies to pursue in the face of blatant
dictatorial aggression.
At the approach of the end of the twentieth
century, many leaders ignore the lessons of the past. Other dimensions
have been added to the present struggle between ideologies and that
weakness still provokes aggression has been discounted to a dangerous
degree. Dictatorships heed only strength.
After completion of basic infantry
training early in 1940, I joined an N.C.O.'s cadre course in Maidstone
under a competent regular major and we were all glad to be taking
part. The pleasure was interrupted when halfway through the course,
it was disbanded and the participants posted to various other units.
My new formation the 6th West Kent Battalion was composed of Territorials
who had been mobilised at the outbreak of war. Through no fault of
its own the battalion was still largely untrained, with officers and
N.C.O.'s knowing precious little about soldiering themselves, and
blamelessly incapable of passing on any military expertise. What a
difference a few regular sergeants who trained us at Maidstone would
have made.
In the beautiful early spring of 1940
the 6th Battalion sailed for France. The Channel was crossed without
interference from U-boats or Luftwaffe, the whole force comfortably
installed later in a cluster of wooden huts not far from Rouen in
Normandy. At Cherbourg we marched off the troop ship, bayonets fixed,
to the stirring accompaniment of the ship's band playing the regimental
march, 'Wi' a hundred pipers,' very welcome visitors if the cheering
and waving of the French populace was anything to go by. A further
pleasantry was to contemplate matters other than military as the gesturings
of the excited girls were optimistically interpreted. Life ambled
pleasantly along, the most comfortable of calms without a hint of
the pending storm.
I became a Lance Corporal, a rewarding
duty associated with the new rank was to escort ailing troops to the
hospital in Rouen where healing facilities were available for cases
who required treatment beyond the capability of the battalion's doctor
in the field. For this purpose a l5cwt Morris truck was available.
After delivering sick comrades to the hospital at nine in the morning
I was free until late in the afternoon, and the swarming military
police with their distinctive red caps holding no terror for me, justifiably
on the loose, happily devoted to a study of the city and its inhabitants.
Dad kept me on the payroll at home,
amply sufficient for some extravagance. Two shillings a day from the
army hardly stretched to permit the enjoyment of wining and dining
which are the basic essentials of existence when abroad. My French
which was reasonable at school improved out of sight and many local
doors were unlocked with Gallic hospitality shown in full to a young
French-chattering British soldier, the hours of company, mostly female,
more than educational. To build on foundations laid during the day,
it was often imperative to return to Rouen in the evening and it was
rare indeed that I was unable to scheme a presence plus truck at the
desired place and time. The Americans refer to the lifestyle some
of us enjoyed at that time as having a ball. Nothing remains constant
and all things good and bad, including ourselves, come to an end.
Most inconsiderately the Germans upset all these wonderful goings
on by over running Holland and Belgium and bursting through into France
at Sedan, at the beginning of May.
Late one night, almost without warning,
the whole battalion was loaded into a fleet of Army Service Corps
trucks and driven off eastwards into the darkness towards the advancing
enemy. Came the dawn and we still rumbled on. Progress was slow. Masses
of people were streaking back from the direction in which we were
headed. As the sun came up, the road swarmed with an ever increasing
volume of traffic coming the opposite way, a great hindrance to any
forward movement. The avalanche of civilian refugees was at times
impassable with cars, horse drawn carts and prams choking the highway.
By great good fortune there was no attack from the air as we edged
defenceless to the east. A burnt out convoy of British trucks, a supply
column, a mass of twisted metal, completely destroyed was negotiated,
the blackened, contorted figures of the drivers in each cab giving
a warning of the death which could plunge from the blue skies. The
rush of refugees and units of the retreating French army grew thinner
as the day wore on. By the time the little town of Doullens on the
Somme was reached the traffic had dropped to a trickle. Doullens,
our defence responsibility, was deserted and we busied ourselves setting
up and manning road blocks on all highways leading into the settlement.
By nightfall the section which I now led, was established in the living
quarters above a grog shop, which had appealed in the first place
because of its advantageous military situation on one side of the
large Doullens square. An abundant stock of wines and spirits, abandoned
by the former occupants was of course a fortunate coincidence. At
daybreak next morning I went over to company headquarters which had
been set up in a hall at the far end of the square. West Kents of
all ranks were rushing around. As our section seemed to have been
forgotten I faded away, back to the little outpost, a home away from
home. The BBC were blaring that the Germans had broken through in
depth, with the situation fluid, but under control. The correct interpretation
of such communiques from whichever side, required experience beyond
mine at the time. Later in the war, a news bulletin couched in similar
terms, would mean that the broadcasting side had sustained a mighty
blow, were groggy, and could well go down for a lengthy count.
A consequence of tactical yet misleading
information was soon encountered. On the way back from headquarters
a social call was made on another section of our platoon, also quartered
over a shop but without the alcoholic merchandise over which we presided.
The sergeant in charge of this section, a Territorial soldier who
had been a garage attendant in peacetime, was relishing a first taste
of power and while I was offering to send over a few bottles of wine,
a soldier rushed anxiously into the shop. "Serge," he blurted,
"There's dozens of Jerry tanks coming down the road."
"Don't be daft," was the lofty reply. "Not a Jerry
tank within miles of us."
"But they've got crosses on 'em, Serge."
The sergeant, with a shrug of contempt, strode out into the square
as a violent explosion blew in the front of the shop. The situation
might have been confused back at the BBC, but in Doullens it was abundantly
clear that unexpected company had arrived. I hopped over a back wall
and tore back to my section, most disturbed that war could be so dangerous.
On the higher ground outside Doullens, many German tanks, lorries
and carriers full of troops were now in plain view. A dryness in my
mouth predicted that a somewhat one-sided action might soon be upon
us. The stutter of machine guns, the bursting of shells and the scream
of low-flying aircraft brought a baptism of fire. Some buildings around
us started burning and were being devoured by the crackling flames.
As they collapsed and perished, their cries for the water which was
not forthcoming, could be felt but not heard. Armoured vehicles were
still visible by-passing the town and the increasing number of infantry
indicated mopping up operations with little doubt as to the outcome.
Matters quietened down towards evening as I went over various back
gardens to seek advice and instructions at headquarters. The place
was empty, littered with pieces of equipment, overturned furniture
but not a living soul. The back of the building was completely blown
open and my comrades had either fled or been taken prisoner.
To get out of Doullens before being
easily mopped-up was a priority. The Germans would flood the area
and splitting up appeared to offer the best chance of avoiding complete
destruction or capture. One by one, after nightfall, our section disappeared
into the darkness in an attempt to join up with our own forces. Never
to see any of them again, I was the last to leave just before dawn,
and by sunrise, having cleared the town with its still smouldering
fires I was well hidden in the thick undergrowth of a Wood, alongside
which ran a busy road. An unending stream of German war machines rolled
noisily by. Open carriers loaded with fearsome looking steel helmeted
infantry exuded an air of victorious confidence, not an encouraging
sight. The only way to go was west, making it necessary to cross the
road alongside which I was hiding as soon as an opportunity occurred,
but by mid-morning, the traffic had grown even denser. Profoundly
awed and impressed with the quantity and quality of the passing military
might, I awaited darkness to perhaps manage a dash over when the huge
flow of transport diminished the only chance. A lorry broke down and
a German soldier astride a motorcycle took charge and bawled for assistance
to manhandle the vehicle out of the way. His authoritative, rasping
voice brought me back to earth. I had almost forgotten that there
was a war on. My bullet caught him just where it was aimed. In a flash,
menacing looking Germans were off their vehicles trying to locate
and destroy the killer, although clearly unsure as to the whereabouts
of the enemy and the source of the bullet, I did not wait for them
to find out, and flew on wings of fear back into the wood. Thank God
there was no sound of pursuit. Panting and prostrate, a sense of shame
that a German had been killed in such an unsportsmanlike manner was
hard to suppress. It was certainly not cricket, but with modern war,
no participant who values his own skin and wishes to be on the winning
side can afford the luxury of a cricket approach. As the conflict
developed, such qualms of conscience ceased to exist. My rifle was
not going to get me out of the troublesome situation, so it was heaved
in one direction, the magazine and rounds in the other. Slowly and
with extreme care I went back to the side of the road. Dense traffic
still flowed. Lying concealed in a field well dotted with bushes,
nightfall was patiently awaited, the brilliant sun of this brilliant
May sinking slowly in the sky. Far too slowly. Traffic got less and
confidence perked. Later it should be easy to cross the road out of
the main enemy flow, to freedom. While thus optimistically musing
and thankfully viewing the deepening twilight, a column of tanks came
to a halt on the road. Curious as to the reason for the stoppage,
1 peered intently out of the leafy shelter. An unhappy enlightenment
promptly followed. A couple of German officers strode towards the
bush which hid me and I froze completely as they stopped a yard or
so away to examine the surroundings. Their conversation was quite
easily followed and when one turned to the other and exclaimed "Also
die Nacht hier," trouble was clearly in the offing. I had heard
correctly. The tanks were going to lager for the night. The clump
of bushes seemed very small as the monsters revved up and ground to
a halt all round me and until well after it had become quite dark,
the tank crews busied themselves with cooking and bedding down in
small pup tents. Some of the troops heeded calls of nature in the
closest vicinity, but remembering that there was a war on, I made
no complaint, kept very quiet, an unwilling peeping and somewhat alarmed
Tom. Activities slowly ceased and the unit settled down to sleep.
Loud snoring betokened time to leave. The moon had risen very bright,
often obscured by large clouds which scudded across a wind-swept sky.
A black cloud was approaching and as soon as the moonlight was gone,
I crept out of the cover, edging on hands and knees between the tanks
and towards the road on which all movement had now ceased. Just visible
in the gloom was the figure of a sentry slowly marching up and down
between the tanks and the road. He carried on out of view and hearing
and I pressed on, stomach gripping the ground in best Red Indian fashion,
to a goal which was now but a few yards away when luck ran out. Horror
of horrors, the large cloud had crossed the moon and everything stood
out in an incandescent glow. A stupid mistake. The last tank would
have provided shelter and another suitable cloud cover awaited. Motionless
on the grass bathed in what other circumstances could have passed
for romantic moonlight, that I still might remain unnoticed was a
forlorn hope quickly shattered. The moon shone and shone. The measured
tread of the sentry's footsteps grew louder as a way was made along
the road in my direction. Squinting sideways, the outline of a steel
helmet quite plain, I prayed not to be seen, but the line to heaven
was engaged on matters of a more pressing nature. In a veritable tizz,
my mind raced as the unmistakeable click of a bolt action rifle being
cocked betokened the worst. He was right alongside, eyes boring, and
the rifle barrel prodded none too gently into the small of my back.
The game up, I rolled slowly over in much anxiety as to the future
to proffer a most apprehensive "Guten Abend." The weapon
nudged me to my feet and the moon disappeared.
"For you Englander," said my captor, "the war is over."
"Kommen sie mit." Subsequent events proved him quite wrong.
  
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