3.1: Authority: triumphing through adversity

It was March 1952, and the Life Guards had taken over from The Royal Horse Guards in Wolfenbüttel Barracks as part of the British Army of the Rhine. Life was different for us out here in Germany in that in that we were now largely deprived of any extra-mural social activities. Personally, I never received a single invitation from any German family to enter their home, during the entire period that I was out there. So this meant that we were all far more reliant upon each other's company than we had been at Combermere. There were more occasions when we were all just sitting there in the officers' mess, with a gin and tonic in hand and nothing in particular to do, but with an increased chance of getting on each others' nerves. But I had a very nice room of my own, as indeed had all the subalterns. Wolfenbüttel Barracks had been built to house one of Hitler's elite SS regiments, so we lacked no luxury - double glazed windows and everything else. I sometimes wondered what the character of my predecessors in that room my have been like. Not that it troubled me greatly!

The initial weeks were spent in getting our vehicles ready for action - taking them out to get a look at the local German countryside, which was splendidly open, and scattered with small agricultural villages. The new replacements that I had in my troop were a pleasant crowd, so the relationship between us got off to a good start. There was Rose as the one remaining from the old batch, and he had now been joined by Macdonald, Ward, Winthrop, Callan, Hitchcock, Rich and Turner. An additional bonus was that Cpl Alexander had now been posted to temporary duties elsewhere within the squadron, which removed from my presence what had perhaps been the main source of disrespect. I was still left with Cpl Guilliland; and CoH Dodson was back at long last on duty with the troop, having finally completed his series of courses. And the difference was immense in having a Corporal-of-Horse who was competent to take in his stride much of the troop's administrative organization. A huge load of responsibilities was immediately lifted from my own shoulders, so that I marvelled how I had coped for so long without such assistance.

With the troop's administration now in competent hands, I was at far greater liberty to absent myself from their presence during days when we were in barracks. I had my own activities to preoccupy myself within the privacy of my own room, and this will be discussed shortly. But I was discovering that the more I absented myself from the scene, the easier it became to maintain constantly good relations with my troop while we were out on trek. It all felt like progress.

But I still didn't feel satisfied with the prospect of spending the final nine months of my National Service cooped up in Wolfenbüttel, deprived of any opportunity to make a real start in my courtship of [X] - or of anyone else for that matter. And I was aware that I couldn't really be counted as a popular young subaltern with my peer group in the Life Guards. (Not un-popular I daresay, but certainly not one of those who were fully at their ease when sitting in the mess.) And in any case, we were all looking for our own individual pretexts for getting posted back in England for some portion of the London season; although it was the applications of those who ranked higher than myself which were the most liable to succeed. There were so many applicants who had put down their names for all the more traditional courses - like radio communications, or gunnery, that I knew I wouldn't have a chance in those fields. But there were some other courses which evidently appealed to no one at all - namely parachuting, and boxing. So I put my name down for both of those, and then had to wait to hear if I'd been accepted.

Well the answer came back to the Adjutant that they weren't interested in taking on any National Service officers for the parachute course. I'd have to sign on before they would consider me for that. But my application to attend the boxing course went through without any hitch. That meant that I could look forward to a brief spell at Aldershot - which was near enough to London - in October. And in the meantime I'd just have to take care of myself as best I could.

In the event, it turned out that things did begin to go better for me. It was largely a question of cutting corners, and being less attentive to matters of detail. And it was also a question of Nipper appearing less of an ogre in my eyes. The image of him as a newly married man, quite well controlled under Maureen's thumb, made it seem curious to be snapping to attention at his bark quite so alertly as I may formerly have done. And there were a couple of days on a wireless exercise, when Nipper was obliged to share a tent with Christo Phillipson and myself, who proceeded to drink rather too much; and we upset Nipper, keeping him awake with our inebriated giggles, which arose from the series of schoolboy pranks that we were playing on him. But the sight of him lying there complaining, but virtually impotent, with his sleeping bag pulled up over his head, did rather mean that his authority was slipping. Or that he was becoming humanised, was the way I judged the matter.

This might be an appropriate moment to interject a story about Nipper that was told to me by Brigadier Ferris St George, who was visiting the Regiment around this time. He was chatting with me at some cocktails that were being given in his honour, and he must have sensed - or heard - that I was experiencing some problems with my squadron-leader. Anyway he told me that the image of Nipper which he himself always recollected was from the days when he had first joined the Regiment, during the course of the campaign out in Normandy. He had initially felt dismayed at his decidedly youthful appearance. But his respect had quickly been earned when he saw how those boyish features remained unflinching in the turret of his armoured-car, when they suddenly came under fire. In other words I was being advised that I should hold him in greater respect than was in evidence at the present time.

Part of the turn around in my own fortunes with the Life Guards must be attributed directly to my personal endeavours to sort out the pecking order. When I had first arrived at Combermere, the cards had admittedly been stacked in my favour, for the fact of there being so many Old Etonians in the mess militated greatly to my advantage. But I had let the opportunity slip, and had watched my standing quickly eroded, to the point when I was troubled by an increasing level of disrespect. And now that we were all cooped up together at Wolfenbüttel, obliged to share each others' company more frequently than at Combermere, personal irritations were more noticeable.

My first clash was with Robin Keith - from both Ludgrove and Eton, of lighter build and yet older than myself - when he threw his drink over me, for a reason that goes unremembered. For the first time in a long while, I responded with an appropriate degree of counter-aggression, hauling him to the wash-room where I held his head under a tap. It was passed off in a spirit of fun and games, but I accounted the episode as a credit on the plus side.

Then a few weeks after this, there was a clash with Simon Galway. He was always inclined to be too aggressive verbally, so he had it coming to him. In response to some such incident, I commented: "So you think you're pretty tough, do you?" And he retorted: "Yes. Anyway I'm a fucking sight tougher than you, young man!" And he gave me a shove so that I tripped backwards over a low table that was behind me. Picking myself up, I said: "I'm not so sure about that. We'll have to see." We closed into a wrestling clinch, and I soon had him pinned down on the sofa. "Shall we call it equal?" I asked. And after a moment's hesitation, Galway agreed to this description of our relative strength. But once again, I chalked up the episode as a credit in my mind's account.

The next tussle was rather more in anger, and this time it was with Ian Bailey who was now serving as the Technical Adjutant. It was quite late at night with Christo as the only independent witness. But for some reason unrecalled, Bailey threw his drink at me - still more or less in fun. I picked up a water jug and retaliated. Bailey then hurled a tonic bottle at me. I went out, refilled the jug and, on coming back, emptied it over his head. Bailey was now angry, hurling a whole volley of tonic bottles at me. Fleeing from the mess, I refilled the jug and returned to pour it over him. But on seeing me approaching, this time he flew at me and, taking hold of me by my shirt - which ripped incidentally - he tried to pour a bottle of gin over my head. We were soon in a clinch when I wrestled him to the floor. But he tried to slash out at my face, so I shoved my thumb in his eye and gouged - scratching his face in the process. I asked him if he was going to desist, and he said yes; but we separated on somewhat frigid terms.

Next morning I was in the mess when Galway remarked casually to Bailey - as if he hadn't already gleaned the full story from Christo: "Hello Ian, how did you get that scratch on your face?" "I cut myself shaving," he replied huffily. Then observing that I was present, he added: "Oh you mean this? I got that while pouring a bottle of gin over Alex's head." "And who got the worst of it?" I muttered - to which there was no reply. Galway merely smirked. But I felt pleased that it should be appreciated how I wouldn't take too much aggression just lying down.

But there was an additional episode which was even more spectacular. But some of the background information must first be supplied. My own greatest antipathy in the Life Guards was perhaps for [N] - largely because he had tapped into those feelings of disrespect for me, without any understanding at all that my prestige had once known better days. [N] was one of the first boys to be admitted to the Household Cavalry as a Potential Officer from one of the lesser public schools - which is commonplace today, but at the time represented an endeavour to broaden (just slightly) the egalitarian basis for a commission in the Brigade. I certainly didn't take against him on that score, but it riled me greatly when, from a position of relative silence on the sidelines, he made gibes at my expense to secure his own sense of solidarity with the others.

The mutual antipathy had come to a head when we were sent to represent the Life Guards at a gunnery demonstration, even having to share a room together overnight. And there came a point when [N] spoke to me thus in private, with the contemptuous tone that he had offered me too frequently in public. So it was time that I should let him know that I wasn't going to take it from him. And I did this verbally, but aggressively - so that he at least knew that he must watch his tongue if we were alone together.

Back at Wolfenbüttel however, I suspect that he must have said something about the exchange, for others to pick up on the sense of there being a store of untapped ill-feeling between the two of us - which furnishes my understanding of the sequel. And I daresay there was indeed some confusion in peoples' minds at this juncture, concerning my place within the communal pecking order. Anyway it was Victor Hoare, who (as a Captain) was probably the dominant figure over the current group of subalterns, and he may have been wishing for some personal enlightenment on these matters. We were all sitting round in the mess when he came up with the suggestion that our boredom could be alleviated with a gladiatorial bout. Two of us should be pitched against each other in a debagging contest.

"We give them this choice. Either they try to debag each other - or otherwise all the rest of us will debag them. Now to choose the contestants....." And his eye crept unsubtly round the room while we waited to hear whom it would be. "I think we'll have Weymouth and [N] ."

Under different circumstances, I might well have tried to turn the humiliation against himself, by suggesting that he was selecting others to debag me when he knew that it was a task that he himself wouldn't be bold enough to tackle single-handed. But he had picked upon two officers who disliked each other - which I suspect that he knew very well. I hold it to my credit however, that I did turn to [N] to say quietly: "Well shall we take them all on together, John?" But he gave an embarrassed laugh and replied: "I somehow think it will be easier to fight one person, than twenty!" I couldn't have wished for a more pleasing answer. So we got up and fought.

In build, he may have looked sturdier and more athletic then myself, but it turned out that he was no match for me. I quickly had him thrown to the ground and partially debagged - although the completion of such a task single-handed, was virtually impossible as I soon discovered. But I was unanimously pronounced to be the victor, and was able to resume my seat with my prestige enhanced. But I was now feeling too exhausted, it should be added, to throw the challenge he deserved in Victor Hoare's direction. Or perhaps there was no longer any need for it, for he had been suitably impressed.

"Do you know, I thought [N] was going to win that fight hands down?" he intimated. Bailey gave a chortle in the background. "I didn't, and I should know! I've had a fight with Alex myself." Victor looked at me with curiosity. "I wonder, it's possible I may have been underestimating you!" I left it at that.

I sit without the wit to cover my lap,
crapped on in cramped crevices with cretins' excreta,
bleating my protest to a deaf world, enfurled
in whirlwind problems of graver consequence.
Menstruating more than monthly, I clutch
my crutch in defensive gesture, instilling a will
in others to fill my platter full of bullshit
taunts. The dawn will reveal the man - or mouse!
Aroused with dragon's breath at the tenth hour,
I glower my warning glare from staring eyes,
sizing up potential opponents, and flaunting
a daunting garb - as macho as a Mexican bandero's.
And those who cannot beat me to the draw
shall stumble down the ladder one place more.

Perhaps the main element of all in the gradual turn around in my fortunes related to the fact that things began to go right for me over the prolonged series of manoeuvres over the summer months. It suddenly transpired that I could do nothing wrong. On the first occasion that I got the troop lost, we blundered through a wood to discover a Squadron Headquarters on the open plain below us. It was a fifty-fifty chance whether it was ours or the enemy's. Anyway I attacked; and this time it turned out that I had done the right thing. Won the day for our side, so to speak.

Even in the divisional schemes I managed to excel myself: got lost in a maze of woodland tracks, ending up (twice over) sitting on the bridge over which the enemy were supposed to withdraw. On the second of these occasions, it put the umpires in a pretty pickle, for it threatened to cut the whole scheme short by a couple of days. Naturally they claimed that I must have crossed a dozen minefields, or so. But when they inspected the areas which they assumed to have been mined, they discovered there were no indications of any such defences having been laid. (Of course there weren't, for I'd been careful to remove such indications while crossing them.)

Anyway they managed to persuade me that there had been an aerial bombardment by high altitude planes and, by a strange coincidence, the bombs had landed on my troop. This meant that we had to withdraw; and the scheme was thus enabled to continue, in accordance with plan. News of my exploits had been circulating on the umpires' wireless-net, so that congratulations began to filter down from the division, to brigade, to regiment, to squadron. I had no means of communicating my victories direct to Nipper, for my wireless had broken down. Yet by the time I got back to my own lines, he must have received his due share of congratulations, for he was actually pleased to see me. In fact he was as perky as a buck rabbit in Spring.

"Hello Alex. Glad to see you in one piece. Jolly well done. Hang around. I may have something for you later."

He was so perky that it seemed to call for a little celebration. The only trouble was that he left me celebrating for a bit too long - until nightfall in fact. I was as pissed as an owl by the time he sent for me. And he was then in consultation with a major from the infantry regiment , with whom we were supposed to be co-ordinated. We were at their disposition, so to speak. As I approached the order-group, I could hear the major saying something about: "You must send a chap who knows what he's up to. It'll be a tricky job."

At that moment I had the misfortune to trip over a haversack, so that my presence was noticed. As I clambered to my feet, the lamp was turned towards me. I stood there swaying slightly, and there was a dubious pause. Then I heard the infantry officer murmur: "Are you sure this is your best man?"

Nipper refrained from giving any reply by launching hurriedly into his orders. I was to advance into contact with the enemy, through the murkiness of a black night, and to keep in touch with them as they withdrew. A bloody ridiculous thing to expect any troop of armoured cars to perform! We'd never be able to see the enemy, unless they jumped up to sit on our gun-barrels; but there was no reason to suppose that they would oblige. Still, it didn't really matter. It wasn't as if their bazookas would be armed with live ammunition.

Roaring off into the darkness, we made our way forwards to where the enemy had last been reported. I had sent a scout-car way out ahead of me to relax in my armoured-car, hoping that my head would eventually begin to clear. But Nipper kept on coming up over the wireless, making all his usual comments, which struck me as being even more absurd than they generally did. I decided to imitate him, spluttering with laughter after every attempt. Just an occasional: "Jolly good!" or "We'd better get a move on, and quickly too!" But I felt that I was being so incredibly funny, and Nipper was becoming so excitable in his replies, that I slightly overstepped the mark. "Nip! Nip! Nip!" I cried, and followed it with the imitation of a crowing cockerel. I then switched off my own wireless set, which made me feel as if I was safely beyond the reach of retribution. But my operator, Callan, had to deal with the incoming signals, and the poor man was apologizing his head off for the next ten minutes.

Later he told me that he'd been intending to clout me one over the ear-hole if I'd come up with any more Nipper-talk. But I was saved from this act of insubordination by the fact that this had happened, for there were flashes and bangs exploding all round him, way up in front. I forgot that I had switched off my wireless- set, so it struck me that the gadget was no longer working. There was nothing unusual about that. It simply meant that I had to rely upon the power of my lungs.

"What are you waiting for? Don't just sit there. Charge!"

There was no response from any of my troop - except for some mutinous rumbles from someone in the car behind. I think he said: "Stone the crows! Can't one of you put a cork in him?"

This irritated me. "Go on!" I roared: "Charge! Get moving you idle sods, and charge. Charge! Charge!"

Suddenly the whole battlefield came to life with the commotion of human voices, and engines starting up all round. I sat there slightly bewildered, no longer quite certain about what might be happening in the vicinity. I might have been sounding a bit more plural than usual, but I'd hardly been anticipating any of these effects. The night was too dark to see more than a few yards. There were definitely vehicles on the move, and some of them were large ones, but they were now quickly receding into the distance. After a considerable pause, (now feeling definitely subdued,) I switched on the wireless and suggested that we might proceed with the advance.

By this time however, rumours of a full-scale onslaught of tanks, with infantry support, must have been circulating through the enemy lines, and they never allowed us to come within striking range a second time. As soon as the sound of our engines were heard to be approaching in the distance, their outposts were hurriedly withdrawn. I had long since abandoned such futile practices as snake-patrolling - except when Nipper was around. And this enabled me to fulfil his instructions "to get a move on, and quickly too." But the faster we advanced, the faster the enemy retreated. And by first light, there was no sign of where their armed forces could be hiding. In fact we had broken right through to a wood, where their supply column had been harboured for the night - wonderfully defenceless, and still snoring happily in their tents. Having upset all their radio communications, (twiddling the knobs and pulling out the pigtails,) we were able to awaken them with a fusillade of thunderflashes. Then I came up over the air to report that armed resistance was at an end: that the brigade was free to launch its full-scale offensive, or whatever else they wanted to do.

It took me some time to persuade Nipper that I was now quite sober; but I did so eventually, and he became reasonably polite in his retorts. Then after a little while, he even became complimentary and, later still, effusive in his praise. Somebody must have been doling him out with great dollops of congratulations, to make him so appreciative. And by the time I returned to base, he wasn't looking at me quite squarely in the eye, but there was a gigglish air of complicity in the enjoyment of undeserved praise, which made him appear more human than I'd ever seen him before.

With tedious obedience, building bridges over muddied
puddles, I'd slaved so gravely my behaviour had shuddered
to a muddled halt - till I threw this gruesome rule-book
sky high, trying instead to fly.
Bred to tread reality's sordid boards,
I'll shed those shackles for a slackened attention to facts,
and track a rainbow's train of fantasy, panning
to grand vision of heroic feats in battle.
I'll rattle a sabre in my hollow scabbard, bellowing
yells of cavalier bravado, whooping
like a stupid cowboy, with reckless disregard
for farcical, sham distributions of death.
For war is just a festival of fun
when blanks (instead of bullets) fill the guns.

A few days later, the Colonel received a congratulatory telegram from the divisional commander. (I think it was from General Harding.) Apparently we were the best armoured-car regiment that had ever manoeuvred with the Rhine army. To be strictly modest, I believe there were a few other sabre-troop leaders who had excelled themselves in other parts of the battlefield. But I was able to feel that I had wiped out a debt of honour to the Regiment, which I had incurred by my contribution to the Midhurst fiasco, amongst other incidents.

I seemed to be rising in the general esteem. Nipper came shuffling up to me one morning, after parade, and muttered something about me signing on for an additional year's service with the Life Guards. I thought he must be joking, so I laughed. And he was careful not to press me any further. It seems that he had been ordered to make this suggestion by the Colonel, who later called me into his own office - along with various other subalterns who were considered to have done well - and the suggestion was put to me more formally. I hadn't the slightest intention of letting myself in for more of the army than I was obliged, so I turned it down without hesitation. But it was nice to have been asked.

My self-confidence was rising too. There was a morning when one of the Corporals-of-Horse who currently had his own troop, (CoH Gardner to be precise,) made some comments all too publicly about some nonsense that the officers in the squadron may have proclaimed. He had been getting away with this kind of insolence for rather too long. So I called him to one side after the parade, and told him fiercely that he must watch his step. This involved an assertion of my own authority, which would have been unthinkable a few months previously. And it took CoH Gardner very much by surprise. But I knew that he respected me for it.

But I still wasn't quite where I wanted, in terms of having found my feet in the Regiment. I'd got it sorted out that I wasn't quite so low down the pecking order as some of my peer group might once have been assuming, and I had also displayed how I could bluff my way along with the best of them in the attainment of mock military advantages. But I still had to acquire the feeling that I was accepted, even liked, by the general rank and file within the Regiment. I made good headway here too, however.

I was pleased to observe how there was finally a troop spirit developing, when those under my command were actually boasting about our prowess. I heard Rose saying how he was proud to be the only trooper who had survived from the previous batch - as if there was no thought in his mind that the blame for past confusions should be attributed to myself. And I heard Fowler, who had been temporarily attached to my troop at the time when things had been going very wrong for me at Combermere, telling the others how I had once gathered the troop together to tell them that things would get better, once I had got the hang of things. And it was noticeable how I was now receiving the occasional verbal request for a transfer into my troop. This was from Nick Buckley's or Bruno Shroeder's troops, who had newly joined the squadron. Two more friends from Eton, it should be noted.

When it came to the final scheme of the Summer, I was discomfited to hear that Cpl Alexander would be rejoining the troop. And it was just as I had feared in that he began to pull the carpet of authority from out under my feet; trying to make a fool of me in the eyes of the troopers, for reasons of personal advantage in his relationship with them. Yet by now I had the measure of him, and the standing with my troop so that I could take him to task on his behaviour. I spoke to him sharply, in the hearing of all the others. And I was aware how I carried their sympathy with me, and how he had clearly lost out on their leadership. He resorted to buffoonery in declaring that he couldn't give a bugger for my reprimands, since he was due to be demobbed the following week. So it wasn't worth my while to have a bigger confrontation with him than that.

I had this boxing course coming up in the Autumn, so there was some logic in trying to revive my proficiency in that field - which led to me making enquiries through the Squadron Office to see if there was anyone interested in having some sparring practice with me. And I suppose I might have anticipated it, but the only interest that appeared was from one of the company - the trooper that I had transferred from my troop some six months previously, due to a certain degree of personal antipathy. He left word at the office to say that he'd be very happy to spar with me in the gymnasium.

So sparring we went, with each of us doing his best to bluff the other that we were more dangerous in the boxing ring than might otherwise be assumed. He was a good stone heavier than me, and I remember him claiming that he had fought several fights professionally - which I very much doubt to have been a true assertion. But when sparring, it soon became apparent that he was no match for me. I knew that I could put him down virtually when I pleased. So I took it to the point of saying that he must tell me when to desist, before starting what could well have been my final attack. I staggered him, and he was quick to suggest that we take a rest.

Gone was the cheeky insolence which had formerly characterised his relationship with me. Nor was it ever to recur. I suggested that he bring along some friend of his to the next sparring practice, and he eventually found someone to oblige. But I proceeded to take on the two of them simultaneously - landing more blows to each of their heads than I was in fact receiving. And once again I could see that I had impressed them. Moreover I was aware how stories about my boxing prowess were now circulating amongst the other ranks.

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