Memories come mostly at random and in isolation. They do not follow a neat chronological order, nor do they tend to include previous and subsequent events. For this reason, these tales from my time as an international helicopter pilot follow no sequence – each vignette is a memory plucked at random as they have appeared.
A boxing calamity
Shortly after entering Sandhurst both I and the Academy realised that it was not a good decision. At the end of my first month I was summoned into my college commander’s office to be told I had absolutely no officer-like qualities and – unless a miracle happened within the next three months – he would be recommending my expulsion.
I knew that my mum would be bitterly disappointed and would feel hugely let down, which was the very last thing I wanted to happen. So I decided to make Herculean efforts to stay and looked around for advice. I knew, through the family, a senior cadet and cornered him on his way out from the breakfast hall one morning.
He could not have been kinder and took me aside into an empty classroom. He listened carefully and then explained that the most important factor in assessing cadets was the almighty ‘Character Grade.’ How it was categorised, he said, was a mystery but it was rumoured that all was well if your character grade was five or above out of the maximum ten.
“Clearly Nick you have to somehow up your grade.”
“How on earth do I begin to do that Jim?” I asked.
“Well,” he replied, “It’s a gamble but I am told that if you represent Sandhurst at boxing, two marks are automatically added to your Character Grade. If that is true, it might be enough to put you in the clear.”
My heart sank but I had no choice but to follow his advice.
Entering the world of boxing
My entrance into the boxing world coincided with the arrival of a new Academy coach – an ex-professional with unbounded ambition and a total disregard of the welfare of his students. One of the very first matches he arranged was with Oxford University.
Not only was it vital that I performed well but its importance was magnified as university matches in those days were held in public. We arrived early and sat down as a team opposite the main entrance and waited for the arrival of the opposition. My nervousness rocketed as I watched them file into the hall. They were all huge. However, second from last to enter was a friend I immediately recognised. I got up from my chair and intercepted him before he entered his team’s dressing room and asked him to point out to me the person I would be boxing.
“What weight are you, Nick?”
“Welterweight”
“Nick, you are very lucky. The star of our team is our welterweight and he’s gone sick at the very last minute so we had to scramble for a stand-in. Come with me and I’ll point out your opponent.”
He opened the dressing-room door a couple of inches.
“There – the chap in the red shorts.”
Facing my opponent
I saw a thin, delicate and narrow-shouldered 20-year-old.
I was elated.
In my imagination I would smash him in the first round, earn congratulations from my Bluebeard coach and start a stunning career on the way to becoming a general.
I almost danced back to re-join my team. However on the way I passed two young girls sitting in the front row. One was an angel of a blonde and – to my disbelief – gave me a wink and a thumbs up.
I was in heaven.
I was on the eve of a spectacular career and an association with the most beautiful goddess.
I couldn’t wait for my turn to fight.
At last, at last my time came up.
I sprang into the ring and, with a heroic eye contact with my divinity, completed a couple of squats in my corner.
I heard the referee call “come into the centre and shake hands!”
With one final glance at her wonderful, wonderful smile, I swung round to face my doomed opponent.
There in the other corner was the biggest gentleman I had ever seen. His stomach was like an accordion, his triceps were almost as big as his biceps – he shone.
And I fainted.
Of joy and of misery
(Content warning – this tale contains accounts of abuse that are hard to read and may trigger some readers)
My father died of wounds sustained in the Battle of Knightsbridge in North Africa when I was just five years old. Although my mother spoke rarely of him I do remember her telling me of his desperation at seeing the two-pound shells from his tank bouncing off the heavily armoured German tanks. The only clear memory I have of him was watching in fascination as he covered his face in soap and shaved.
We lived in Sussex which was on the path of German bombers on their way to London. Walking to primary school I remember watching the dogfights between the German and British fighters. My brother and I were able identify the sounds of every aeroplane both German and British. Exciting days.
Two memories have particularly stayed with me: the sound of the air raid warning siren and the silence of the flying bombs as their engines cut out.
Boarding school experiences
My mother took in paying guests and opened one of the first launderettes in Britain to support the education of myself and my brother. So, at six years old, I was sent to boarding school in Worcestershire where I spent seven wonderfully happy years.
It was paradise. Set under the Malvern Hills, the Quaker school offered its boys so many activities. Carpentry, pottery, nature studies, music, singing, art and five or so different sports.
It even had a miniature railway on which boys with engineering interests worked. Every Sunday we were given long walks accompanied by teachers informing us of the names of the plants, insects, birds and butterflies we came across. The relationship between teachers and students was underscored by both politeness and respect on both sides. The only negative time I remember was having to queue every morning to receive a spoonful of nauseating castor oil.
Too soon it was time to leave and I was sent to boarding school at Shrewsbury. I have never been so unhappy. Teachers and school boy ‘prefects’ ruled with total power and without redress. It was possible to receive a caning for the tiniest of misdemeanours and homosexuality was endemic. When new boys filed into chapel on their first day, should one or two be good looking, they were identified as ‘tarts’ and were considered fair game.
Ritualistic abuse
The ritual for being beaten was pre-historic. Once you were told by a teacher or boy prefect that you were to receive a caning no action was taken until after you got into bed that night. Then you had to await a senior student coming into the dormitory and announcing in front of the rest of the members that you had to put on your dressing gown and go downstairs. Once downstairs, you had to stand outside the prefects’ room – sometimes for over ten minutes – before being summoned to bend over a chair to receive your punishment in front of all the assembled prefects.
Prefects were known by the efficiency of their caning. The worst beating I received was from the captain of the school squash team. He hit me backhand eight times in precisely the same spot.
Prefects also had the power at a whim to summon newcomers to carry out menial tasks such as cleaning shoes, football boots or his study. All they had to do was to stand in the corridor outside their study and shout ‘fag! All juniors then had to run to him and the last to arrive would have to do the job.
Should a newcomer be seen not to comply, it was an automatic caning offence.
Abuse of a different nature
My form master was a priest and one of the subjects in which he specialised was Latin – a subject I found particularly difficult. One morning he told me to come to his rooms that evening and he would help me catch up on my homework. When I arrived he apologised that he had no chair for me and that it would be best if I sat on his lap. I fled the room after he started to undo my trousers. I wrote and told my mother who protested to the Headmaster whose judgement was that both the priest and myself would have to leave the school forthwith.
The thought that I would never ever have to return was just wonderful.
Join us next week as we continue the tales of our international helicopter pilot!
