Boys Behaving Badly. Scenes from Life as a Boy Soldier by Mudsailor

8/14/2019 Boys Behaving Badly. Scenes from Life as a Boy Soldier by Mudsailor

1/52

Boys BehavingBadly

Scenes from Life as a BoySoldier

Mudsailor


2/52

Boys Behaving Badly

Scenes from Life as a Boy Soldier

This is an account of life at the Duke of Yorks Royal Military School in England

which I attended between 1951 and 1957. The school was for sons of men who had

entered the Army as private soldiers. Many of the boys fathers had been killed on

active service, had fallen on hard times, or just gone AWOL. On Sundays, we wore

our fathers regimental badges in the lapels of our khaki uniforms. I wore the pick

and shovel of the Pioneers, a labour corps which had employed men and women from

every corner of the globe including two thousand Germans. The memories are

presented as a compilation of separate tales with no specific or chronological order.

Mudsailor


3/52

Victor Ludorum RIP

Within a few days of my arrival at the military

institution that was to be my home for six years, the

new boys were given a conducted tour of the schoolbuildings and grounds. I should add that it was the

kind of place that if you absconded, you were severely

beaten so we were quite apprehensive of the rather tall

head boy who was our tour guide. In the dining hall,

he paused under an imposing painting of orphans

marching through the main gates and delivered a short

history of the school. Invariably our attention began to

wander and several of us noticed a panel on whichwere listed winners of the Victor Ludorum Trophy.

Who was Victor Ludorum? piped up a small voice

from the restless throng. The head boy stared coldly at

the youngster for several seconds and then replied, Victor was a boy at this school

who passed away under tragic circumstances. He was very popular and his

heartbroken mother donated this trophy which is awarded each year in his memory.!Try to remember him in your prayers.! We gazed in awe at the trophy before beingushered away to view the toilet block and the chapel.! As the days passed, however,some of us recalled the tour, and, needing to satisfy our curiosity, enquired about poor

Victor and his untimely ending.

Though memory fades, I think I was told that Victor had been searching for a

masters favourite dog on the cliffs overlooking the bay.! Stumbling around in thedarkness on a wild, wintery night, Victor had fallen several hundred feet down the

cliffs onto the shingle beach below.! His last resting place was in a nearby village.The dog?

!Sound asleep in its kennel the whole time.

!I had made friends with Joe, aboy who was later sent to work on a farm in Australia. Oh, how we envied him!

When I!told him about Victor, he looked puzzled and said that there was no grave.During a particularly violent gale, Victor, with no thought for his own safety, had

jumped fully clothed into the local harbour to rescue another boy who had fallen from

the pier. Though the rescue was successful, poor Victor himself had been swept away

and was never seen again. Some onlookers were sure they heard him singing the

chorus of the school song until it faded away, drowned out by the howling wind.

Play the Game, Play the Game, Play the Game.

1


4/52

Somewhat puzzled, we shared our versions with another friend who said that we were

both completely wrong. He told us that during World War 1, brave Victor had rushed

to the rescue of a German fighter pilot whose plane had crashed on the sports field.

Having been dragged from the burning wreckage, the pilot stood up, pulled out his

luger pistol and shot poor Victor through the heart. Curse those dastardly Huns! we

cried in dismay.! But it gradually dawned on us that we had been duped and, with thepassage of time, yesterdays gullible newcomers were to become tomorrows artful

storytellers.

Indeed, the ways in which our hero met his unfortunate end were limited only by the

imagination of those whom the newcomer consulted. For example, you could hear

how he had missed the bus from town and, not wishing to be late for prayers in the

chapel, had taken a short cut through a tunnel and been run over by a goods train

laden with pig iron. A 1936 Silver Jubilee Locomotive - type 4-6-0 to be exact. You

might even have heard how he had perished whilst rescuing members of the wealthy

and well-connected Ludorum family who were trapped in a hotel fire. Unfortunately,

the ladder caught fire just as he hopped out onto the top rung.! Then there was thesad tale of how he had taken the wrong turning during a cross-country run, lost his

way in the snow and, not only missed his tea, but died of hypothermia within sight of

the schools gates. They would have been locked, anyway.

Victor Ludorum?

Sometimes, the causes of his premature departure beggared belief but the audiencewould listen spellbound. Apparently, Victor was keen on making large kites and was

always willing to demonstrate their flying capabilities to the younger boys. One gusty

afternoon, during such a demonstration, he and his magnificent kite were lifted by the

wind and carried some distance away. Cheering his maiden flight with enthusiasm,

the young lads ran after him and then watched in horror as he plunged to earth and

was impaled on spiked railings which bordered the schools southern boundary. You

get a great view of the castle from there. Or, whilst suffering pangs of hunger, he

crept out of the dormitory one night and broke into the kitchens where he choked on astale piece of bread. Or did he fall into a vat of porridge? Anyway, whatever the

cause, he met his maker that night. Alone and in his nightshirt.

2


5/52

My own contribution was quite modest. One wet afternoon, he had engaged in

horseplay with friends and had accidentally been crushed. Unfortunately, no one took

his cries for help seriously. He was a very good actor for his age and would have

made a superb Hamlet. The unfortunate fellow died in agony trapped between two

iron bedsteads. By a strange coincidence, the scene of his tragic departure was always

the very dormitory in which the story was told. Which two beds? Well, to be honest,!its yours and that one next to it

" " " " " Victor Ludorums?

Was there a photograph of young Ludorum to be seen anywhere? There were literally

dozens of them. Almost any boy in an old school or sports team photograph would

do. Victor could be extremely tall or very short,! fair or dark haired, light or darkskinned,! exceedingly good looking or utterly repelling, studiously intellectual orgrinning like an idiot. As sweets were rationed, a sharp lad could easily boost his

weeks supply by offering to point out Victors desk, coat hook, favourite library

book, seat in the dining hall, or even the euphonium he played in the school band,

Such a wonderful musician. Had he lived, he could have played!for the RoyalPhilharmonic.! For an additional contribution, you could be taken to the exact spotwhere Victor fell.! Some attention to detail was required here; not much use showinga disused railway line to those eagerly anticipating a rusty spike.

Had anyone seen his ghost? The ghastly third verse of the school song guaranteed it.

And though our lonely grave be dug in some far distant land.Our spirits will return again and hover close at hand.

And the boys will hear us whisper and the boys will understand.Play the Game! Play the Game! Play up Dukies!

It used to give me nightmares. It still does.! Many a newcomer must have spent anuncomfortable night foregoing the call of nature than risk seeing Victors spirithovering close at hand. Oddly enough, though Victor generally departed on a wild

3


6/52

and stormy night, he never contemplated suicide. I dont think the poor lad ever had

the time to consider it.

Victor Ludorum?

And so, as the years rolled by, more newcomers arrived at the school and were taken

on the grand tour. Another head boy would stand in the dining hall paying homage to

the memory of our heroic lad, and more tales of his brief but busy life would unfold.

I sometimes wonder just how many painful and tragic endings the poor lad suffered

since that day nearly sixty years ago when I stood under the portrait of the marching

orphans and gazed in wonder at the trophy. An award which we all eventually

discovered was presented annually to one particular student: the schools athletics

champion, the winner of the games, or as they say in Latin, the Victor Ludorum.

Now there is a curious twist to this stale. Years ago, I received a letter from an old

school friend. It was from Joe, the one who had emigrated to Australia to enjoy life

on a farm in the warm sunshine. Unfortunately, it wasnt quite the paradise that heimagined it would be. For all the beatings he received, he might as well have stayed

at the school. Anyway, he had returned on holiday to England and had visited the

place for old times sake. Later, he went exploring the fields and villages of our youth.

In a churchyard, he discovered a sad little row of long-forgotten graves. The stones

were barely visible amongst the ivy and undergrowth, but he had managed to clear a

path to them. To his surprise, he found they were the final resting place of boys who

had died at the school many years before we had arrived there. Gently brushing away

the lichen, he found he could just about decipher some of their names and ages. Thelast one in the row was a lad called Victor Ludorum. For some reason that escapes

me, I didnt believe him.

4


7/52

The Great Escape

Of all the crimes that a boy could commit at the school, there was nothing worse, and

nothing carried a more severe punishment, than that of running away. I am not talking

about being absent for a few hours but the act of escaping, doing a bunk, going awol.Today, in similar circumstances, a boy would be brought back by a kind master, given

a nourishing meal by his wife, and then provided with several counselling sessions to

help him manage the reasons for his unhappiness and explore strategies to overcome

his difficulties. But not in the 1950s. The police, and any armed forces stationed in

the vicinity of the school, were asked to keep an eye open for a boy in military

uniform. Having no other clothes to wear, and dressed like an advert for the army

surplus stores, he would have stood out like sore thumb as he attempted to hitch a lift

from an occasional passing lorry on the road from Dover to London.

Apprehended, he would be brought back to the school and immediately interviewed

by the Commandant, a crusty old colonel who had probably served in the Raj, on the

Western Front, in the Boer War and at Waterloo. Boy, do you realise that you have

let the school down? Indeed, you have let me down, you have let the memory of your

brave father down, you have let your country down and you have let your Queen

down. From the commandants office, it was a short walk to that of the Regimental

Sergeant Majors. Entering the doorway, the lad would notice a rack of canes

displayed above the RSMs desk and possibly wonder which one he was soon to

become closely acquainted with. The ungrateful reprobate would then remove his

shirt from inside his trousers in case any protective

textbooks or thick sheets of cardboard were secreted

therein. Then, bending, or held down, over the RSMs

heavy oak desk, he would receive six strokes of the

cane across his buttocks. Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!

Swish! Swish! The punishment was usually prefaced

with something like This is going to hurt me, lad, far

more than it will you. or similar twaddle. The school

medical officer was usually in attendance at the flogging. I wonder if he brought

some salt with him? The boy would leave the administrative block and head for his

house with tears streaming down his face. It would have hurt him a lot more than the

ancient khaki clad warrior who administered it, but later he would proudly display the

painful blue/black wheals across his backside to his pals in the dormitory. After

lights out, he would whisper how his adventure had unfolded and would probably

embellish some of the facts that surrounded his short-lived bid for freedom.

5


8/52

Another punishment would await him at the end of the week when the official weekly

orders were printed and distributed around the school. On them, he would see his

name, his crime, and his punishment posted as a public announcement. If he were a

pension boy (a euphemism for an orphan), he would discover that he would forfeit a

dodger or good conduct chevron from his uniform and one penny a week from his

state provided pocket money. In addition, he would be confined to the school grounds

for the rest of the term. In eight houses, boys would gather round to read the notices

and discuss the flogging with bated breath. Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!

Swish!

Though there were two or three Great Escapes each year, I can hardly recall any of

the boys who took the short walk to freedom. There are, however, two who had an

interesting experience and Ill call them Little and Large. Large, as you can imagine

was rather overweight and clumsy, whereas Little was just a small underdeveloped

waif. They were the best of buddies and I knew them well. When news broke that

they had done a bunk, it was the talk of the school, for, of all the boys who might be

tempted to escape, they were the least likely, and least promising, of candidates. Yet,

one night, they had somehow mustered the courage to get up and go. Those heavy

army boots were made for walking.

What is remarkable about their absence is that it lasted for over a week, a record by

school standards. Indeed, after a few days, boys were exchanging wagers (bags ofrationed sweets) on how long would elapse before the two were either caught or

handed themselves in. How far had they got? Where were they living? How were

they surviving from day to day? Would we ever see them again? Even the masters

began to show a keen interest in our deliberations, though we knew they were just

trying to glean information about the escapees whereabouts in order to curry favour

with the schools senior administrators. Artfully, we led them astray. Last week, I

heard them whispering something about Folkestone, Sir.

Well, all holidays must come to an end and they were eventually returned to Dover

looking none the worse for their experiences. It appeared that they had hitched their

way to London and had spent several nights sleeping in parks or churches, which

were rarely locked in those days. By day, they scrounged food from market traders

and probably helped themselves to a few goodies too. Eventually, needing some hard

cash, they did a most curious thing. Though it showed some initiative, I think today

we would call it a no-brainer, They stood on the steps of St Pauls Cathedral and

collected money from the handful of passing tourists using a tin marked St Pauls

Collection. Perhaps their military uniforms gave them an air of respectability; it

would not have been their spelling or writing. They seem to have been quite

6


9/52

successful and had collected enough for two bacon rolls when who should appear on

the steps of the cathedral but one Rev. Chad Varrah.

Chad Varrah was a padre working for TocH, an international charity aimed at easing

the burdens of others. Indeed, that organisations iconic symbol of a brass lamp has

made an odd contribution to the English language; we occasionally refer to someone

as being as a dim as a TocH lamp. Chad, who was in the process of setting up the

Samaritans, had seen the two boys working the crowds near the cathedral and asked

them about their money raising mission. It didnt take him long to realise that they

were just a couple of hungry runaways and he organised their return to the school that

evening. I doubt whether he had any idea of the kind of reception that would be

awaiting them when they reached the schools administrative office. Little and Large

knew only too well what to anticipate and they took their punishment manfully

before hobbling back to the dormitory to satisfy our inquisitive demands. We listen

enthralled to their description of the back streets of London and the odd characters

they met, but we never really discovered why they did it. Perhaps it was just for the

sheer hell of it, but they really rocketed in our estimation as a result of their record

breaking escapade.

Years later, I heard that one of the two pals had joined the Medical Corps as an

orderly and was believed to have died whilst serving in the Malayan jungle. If he had

once let his school, country and Queen down, well he certainly made up for it. But Ishall always remember him as one of the lads who actually made it all the way to

London. Their lamps have never dimmed.

7


10/52

An Expulsion

Expulsions from the school were few and far between. This one concerns a boy

whom I remember well for I inadvertently contributed to his downfall.

Sam was a tough little Eastender. He had a round face,

a shock of jet black hair and dark piercing eyes. We

joined the school together and were in the same

dormitory. Within a week, Sam started to bully the

smaller, weaker boys and became very unpopular. The

housemaster entered him for the junior boxing

tournament in the hope that some of this aggression

might be knocked out of him. Unfortunately, this did notwork, for Sam won the competition and became even more disruptive. He could now

push the other kids around with a certain amount of swagger.

Then things started to disappear from our lockers. Some of the boys found that

packets of sweets or small amounts of money were missing. There were no locks or

security devices in the house for we were encouraged to trust each other, but there

was clearly a thief in our midst. A trap was laid with the help of a marked Mars bar,

the popular chocolate treat which in 1951 cost about 5d (2p). As soon as it was

known to be missing, the boys told the housemaster and he made everyone leave the

dormitory while he inspected their lockers. The empty and crumpled but marked

wrapper was found in Sams.

Although there was always a possibility that the wrapper had been placed there by

someone else, some money that Sam couldnt account for was also found, and he was

given a severe warning. It didnt seem to worry him one bit and he just carried on as

if nothing had happened. Thereafter, although items kept disappearing, no trails led

back to him, and boys became mistrustful of each other.

On 6th February 1952, I was walking along a path when Sam came strolling in the

opposite direction. I was always wary of him and wondered if he might punch or

push me off the path as he passed by. He stopped in front of me and said, Got any

sweets, mate? Ere dyou know the King is dead? I expressed my sorrow at the news

which was just starting to leak out around the school. Well, it doesnt bother me, he

said and carried on down the path. When the Kings wife had visited the East End

during the Blitz, Sams mum was probably one of those loyal subjects who stood inthe rubble of their homes and shouted God Bless you Maam. Youre one of us.

8


11/52

During the Kings funeral, we were made to sit in the large day room and listen to a

radio broadcast of the service, described in poetic detail and with bated breath by

Richard Dimbleby. We all tried to look deeply moved and upset by our monarchs

untimely departure, but in reality we were rather bored and started to fidget, so were

given serious books to read. Had it existed, Wheres Wally? would not have

featured in the selection of approved literature.

In Westminster Abbey, the Kings coffin had been lying-in-state and guarded by four

soldiers. They stood like living statues with their heads bowed at the four corners of

the raised platform or catafalque. My dads one of those soldiers, announced Sam

suddenly. Hes in the Life Guard regiment and thats his job. The Life Guards were

certainly on duty that day but whether they included Sams dad, we shall never know.

He often came out with strange statements and we didnt know what to make of

them. We werent even all that sure if he had a father.

Spring beckoned and his brief school career was nearing its end. Each house had a

large airy day room where boys could relax, read newspapers and play billiards. It

was one of my duties to keep our day room clean and tidy. Various regiments had sent

the school framed prints of glorious campaigns or soldiers on horseback. The 3rd

Madras Light Cavalry trotting past the Viceroy of India, and that sort of thing. Each

frame usually had the regiments cap badge attached to it. In a military school, cap

badges were often collected like valuable stamps. We had quite an impressivecollection of prints and I kept them aligned on the walls and dusted. It was while I

was asking the housemaster a question about one of these prints, that I noticed its

cap badge was missing. When I pointed it out to him, he stared at the print for a few

seconds, then turned on his heels and left the room. He went immediately to Sams

locker, emptied it and found the missing cap badge hidden amongst some clothes.

It seems such a harsh price to pay for nicking a metal cap badge, but the school had

clearly had enough of Sam and his pilfering ways. He was sent to pack his batteredcase and was soon on his way to London. Many of the boys were glad to see the last

of him. Later, we often wondered what became of him. What did his mum say when

he turned up on the doorstep? Which school did he go to? Did he get a proper job or

end up in prison? There were so many unanswered questions but we never heard of

or saw him again.

9


12/52

Top of the Form

Once a month, a local barber would call at Kitchener, our school house, and cut the

hair of sixty boys. Needless to say, his visit was not a popular one. With the rock n

roll revolution, and the longer styles popular with teddyboys, long hair was in fashion and a closely-cropped

boy would stand out like a sore thumb. The barber, a

rather taciturn individual nicknamed Sweeney Todd

ignored requests such as Can you leave it longer on the

top? and sheared his way through our heads like an

Australian sheep farmer. I certainly dont recall him

holding a mirror so that the victim could admire his

work, or using that time-honoured expression Anythingfor the weekend, Sir? Working at a speed of two

minutes per head, there would have been a place for him

in the Guinness Book of Records.

A small room was set aside for his salon. As it was part of my daily duties or

fatigues to look after this room, I was responsible for keeping it swept and tidy

throughout his visit, and would also ensure that he was regularly supplied with cups

of tea. Indeed, I was quite proud of my role as his assistant and even toyed with the

idea of becoming a barber myself. Later, in the Merchant Navy, I gave a few haircuts

to shipmates but was never asked to repeat the procedure; my skills did not match my

enthusiasm. Or perhaps I modeled myself too closely on the school barber?

The barber liked to listen to a radio while he worked. There was an old wooden

wartime radio on a nearby shelf and, with some gentle coaxing and a little violence, I

usually tuned in something for him to enjoy. One evening, as he finished the last boy

in the queue, a popular quiz programme called Top of the Form came on the air. It

was a weekly battle of wits for teams of schoolchildren. Although my duties were

done and I should have been off to bed, he let me stay there to listen to it. Memory

fades, but I recall questions like What is the colour of puce?, Would you eat or

admire a mosaic?, On what date do we celebrate the British Empire? etc. I think we

both found the questions quite difficult and spent some time engaged in a mutual

exchange of ignorance. When the programme finished, we went our separate ways.

Some days later, as a break from the usual lesson, the English teacher said that he

would like to give us a general knowledge quiz. Though we liked the teacher and hislessons, we were delighted because life is too short to waste precious hours on syntax

10


13/52

and periodic sentence construction. Two teams were formed representing the left and

right hand sides of the classroom. The rules were simple. He would ask one team a

question and if they couldnt answer it, or answered it incorrectly, the other team

could have a go with the chance of gaining an extra point. Along came the first

question: What is the colour of puce?, which was shortly followed by On what

date do we celebrate the British Empire? I soon realised that the English teacher had

lifted his questions directly from the Top of the Form broadcast which both the school

barber and I had struggled to answer, and my joy knew no bounds.

The questions had originally been set for an older age group, and the boys found

them quite difficult. Even Merry, who was a complete bonk (genius), struggled to

cope, but I could still remember all the answers. All I had to

do was wait until the other team failed a question and then

put my hand up. I did this with monotonous regularity until I

realised that someone might smell a rat. So, when it was our

turn to decide whether a mosaic was to be admired or

consumed, I insisted loudly that I had once enjoyed a

delicious plate of mosaic in a fish restaurant. My wrong

answer did the trick. Despite the groans, I soon made up for it

and answered several questions effortlessly and without

raising any suspicion.

At this point, I should add that I was never one of the brightest in the form. To be

honest, although I was the eldest of 32 boys, I was usually ranked 28th or 29th in

overall academic performance. Indeed, throughout my school career, the only time I

ever enjoyed an A+ on my record was the one given for my blood group.

Towards the end of the lesson, I noticed the English teacher staring at me quizzically.

He was probably thinking Perhaps theres more to this boy than meets the eye?

Well there wasnt, but I had no intention of confessing to any prior knowledge of theanswers. In fact, I milked the situation by telling him how much we had all enjoyed

the lesson. adding Gosh! Some of those questions were quite hard, Sir. He

continued to eye me suspiciously and then we were off to enjoy two hours of Latin

where I would once again revert to being one of the class dunces. Effortlessly.

I have often wondered what it would be like to know all the answers in life, but that

was as close as I ever came. Nevertheless, there was a small bonus waiting for me in

my end of term report. Under English, instead of the usual C minus accompanied by

Could do better, the teacher commented that I had made some effort to improve and

generously awarded me a C.

11


14/52

Cross Country Running

If you are blessed with the legs of a gazelle and the lungs of a leopard, cross country

running is a superb pastime. A wonderful sport in which you pound relentlessly along

country lanes, dash across fields, leap through hedges and brambles, and hurl yourself

joyfully across the finishing line to the ecstatic applause of the onlookers. If, on the

other hand, you have an average small boys physique and a natural tendency to

avoid excessive or unnecessary exercise, than it is nothing but sheer hell.

At school, there were three cross country courses and the one you took depended on

your age. The junior one skirted the school boundary and was about two miles long.

Initially, the intermediate route followed the junior course and then branched off

along a road called Hangmans Lane in the direction of a disused windmill. Some

boys boasted that the mill provided the ideal cover for having a quick smoke before

striking for home. The senior course, which meandered across the cliffs of Dover,

remained a complete mystery to the day I left. I dont ever recall completing it.

The junior course was more of a gentle stroll and followed a pleasant grassy path

outside the school railings. Rabbits ran from their burrows and larks soared above the

fields of Kent. Today, the path has disappeared under six lanes of the A2 from

Canterbury to Dover, and is home to a fast food restaurant, a car park and a petrol

station. The intermediate course, however, followed a dusty country lane which still

remains untouched by progress. Spurred along by the enthusiasm and superior fitness

of your peers, cajoled by senior boys, and hectored by elderly masters on push bikes,

there was absolutely no escape. How anyone could find the time to light up and enjoya Woodbine on that crowded route, beggars belief. Any rabbits pausing to admire the

12


15/52

athletes would have been trampled to death. Gasping for breath, you eventually

staggered back through the school gates and collapsed gratefully onto the floor of the

changing rooms. What some of us would have done to avoid this torture.

Occasionally, two of my friends and I would discuss strategies for coping with the

intermediate course. We tried different kinds of footwear, shortened our pace,

lengthened our pace, varied our pace and so on. Nothing worked. We just werent

physically designed to perform this kind of ridiculous activity. Then, one day, a

solution gradually dawned on us. It was so obvious that you will wonder why we

hadnt thought of it before. The fact that none of us would be invited to stay on for

the sixth form, might suggest why.

Green line = Junior Course Red line = Intermediate Course

Pause, if you will, to the study the map above. Both junior and intermediate coursesstarted together at the school gates (bottom left) and coincided until they reached the

corner of the school boundary. At this point, the junior course continued around the

boundary, whereas the intermediate course had an additional three miles to the mill

and back before meeting up with the junior course again. All we had to do was find a

way of disappearing from the intermediate course, and taking the short cut offered by

the junior course, without being seen. This took rather more planning than you might

imagine.

13


16/52

The first thing we did was observe how different boys performed along the course.

The true athletes and keen runners were well known and soon showed the rest of us a

clean pair of heels. Then, of course, there were the slow coaches; the ones who would

one day become obese lorry drivers or ruddy-faced butchers. Strangely enough, one

of them became a bishop in the Church of England. There was no point in hanging

around with them, because they would be followed by a master on a bike or an older

boy with a stick. It was the ones in the middle order that occupied our attention.

Where was the best place to position ourselves within this group so we could veer

away from Hangmans Lane and scuttle down the junior course without being seen?

Eventually, we noticed that a large gap opened up fairly quickly between the best

runners and the rest of the field. By running with the hares (who had no reason to

keep looking behind), then falling gradually back to the tortoises (who were always

looking behind), we would find a gap in which to make our unofficial departure from

the prescribed route. To put it simply, we made our escape when nobody could see us.

Mind you, running with the hares was exhausting but worth it in the long run.

Returning to the fold was a relatively easy matter because we could watch the runners

from the security of the trees as they huffed and puffed back in small groups. With

good timing, and pretending to tie our laces, we neatly dovetailed ourselves back into

thepelaton and made suitable marathon men noises as we galloped back to the school

gates for our tea.

Did it work? Yes. Did we ever get caught? No. Well, there was an occasion when we

had paused to rest and admire the field of runners making its way in the distance

along Hangmans Lane. All of a sudden we were overtaken by a group of junior boys

who threatened to inform on us. What foolish lads! They came very close to ending

up beneath the car park that now adorns the route and we had no further problems

from that direction. Had our deceit been discovered, we would have been snubbed by

our comrades. Well, it was rather incompatible with the true spirit of the school song:Play the game! Play the game! Always play the game!

14


17/52

Three Ruperts

Rupert was one of my best friends at school. Sixty years later, we still keep in touch

and I was astonished when he told me this odd little tale.

Ruperts father had been a boy at the school in the early years of the 20th century

when it was based in the Royal Hospital at Chelsea. He was also called Rupert and

had the distinction of being photographed with King Edward VII and the German

Kaiser when they came to inspect the school on a royal visit. After a career as a

military musician, he left the Army and took a post as bandmaster with the TrinidadPolice Force. Young Rupert was born in Trinidad and packed off to school back in

England when he was eleven. He must have inherited some of his fathers musical

talent because he was a very good trombone player in the school band. Although I

only recall him visiting Trinidad a couple of times, it must have been quite an

adventure for him for, during the holidays, he usually lodged in Coventry.

His father lived to a ripe old age and when he died, Rupert went back to Trinidad to

sort out his papers. Reading through some old diaries, he was amazed to discover that

he had had an elder stepbrother who was also called Rupert! After this boys birth, the

mother had refused to go to Trinidad with his father and stayed behind in England

where she eventually married another man. Living in the Caribbean, with his busy

job and his own family, Ruperts father had gradually lost contact with them. He

believed that they had all perished in the blitz on London during WW2.

Intrigued by this discovery, Rupert returned to England determined to find out as

much as he could about his stepbrother. Despite searching through birth and other

records, he drew a complete blank, and gradually gave up his quest. Then one day,

just out of sheer curiosity, he googled the boys name on the internet and out came a

reference to someone who had served in the RAF. A few days later, with the help of

the RAF benevolent organisation and a lengthy explanation, he had an address which

led to a telephone number. And who should be at the end of that number but his long

lost stepbrother, Rupert. A bomb had indeed fallen near the house in London, but

they had all survived.

It wasnt long before the two brothers and their wives met up and they all got onreally well. There was so much to talk about; so much to share. Did they have the

15


18/52

same interests, personality traits or mannerisms? Did they both enjoy music? There

were many similarities but the older Rupert confessed that his had been a very

unhappy childhood. His stepfather had been an aggressive man and the boy and his

mother suffered much from his violent temper. In the end, he ran away from home

and never returned.

After drifting around the country for a while, he ended up in Kent where he found

work with the East Kent Bus Company. He started as a bus cleaner, then became a

conductor, and eventually trained to be a driver. Like all boys at the school, the

younger Rupert knew the bus company well and asked him which routes he had

worked on. It appeared that, during the late 1950s, the older Rupert had worked as a

driver between Dover and Deal. With the school perched on the cliffs just above

Dover, it was a route which passed the school gates on the hour and every hour.

Sometimes, the conductors would let us travel for free; they would push the 5d fare

back into our hands, and move on down the bus.

As the two Ruperts sat there chatting, it gradually dawned on them that they may

have often been together on the same bus making the short journey from the school to

Dover and back. Two brothers with exactly the same names and they wouldnt have

known each other from Adam. Indeed, the older Rupert might even have given his

younger brother a free lift.

16


19/52

And the band played on........

Summer, 1980s. Five musicians stepped onstage to the roar of an enthusiastic crowd.

Strobe lights stabbed around the gym, briefly illuminating the rows of parallel bars to

which I had once clung precariously. Pausing to wave at a gaggle of girls, the leadsinger and guitarist counted the band in to its first number. What followed was just a

wall of raw noise, a cacaphony of tinnitus to older ears but I wouldnt have missed it

for the world. The band was Ollie the Squid, winners of the BBCs school rock band

competition, and, at the risk of a ruptured eardrum, I was determined to hear their

performance to the last nerve-stripping note. Well, I stayed for that first number.

Now wind the clock back about thirty years from that evening. There are five of us:

two guitars, a banjo, a washboard and a tea chest bass. A rock n roll revolution issweeping like a tsunami through the moonlight and roses world of popular music.

Elvis may be king but his music, which can only corrupt our morals, is forbidden at

the school; apart from an hour on Sundays when we are permitted to play our 78rpm

records quietly. So our band is a clandestine activity, but we managed to get quite a

few bookings with the help of a small ad in the local newspaper.

Parties? Receptions? We dig the most for the least! What on

earth was that about? But the ad worked and I recall a wedding

reception where we too were surrounded by girls, a gig in the

corner of a coffee bar, and an appearance in a variety show at

the Leas Cliff Pavillion in Folkestone. Our limited repertoire

was a selection of rock, country and skiffle, which was a DIY

mixture of folk and blues accompanied by much enthusiastic

strumming around three basic chords. And always the

ubiquitous and tuneless thud thud thud of that tea chest bass.

One Saturday afternoon, we asked a senior prefect if we could perform a couple of

numbers on the stage in the gym before the evening cinema show. Our request was

granted and we worked hard at polishing up our best songs for this groundbreaking

event. We climbed up on the stage to rapturous applause from the audience and

launched into ourpiece de resistance Worried Man Blues:

It takes a worried man to sing a worried song

Yes it takes a worried man to sing a worried song

Oh it takes a worried man to sing a worried song

Im worried now but I wont be worried long

17


20/52

As we reached the end of the song, into the hall strode the schools deputy

headmaster. Bristling with authority, he ordered us to get off the stage and leave the

building. This was meant to be a film show not some kind of noisy jazz club! Despite

groans of dismay from our fans, we had no other choice than to do as we were

ordered. Later, it was made clear to us that there was to be no repetition of this

deliberate breach of rules or our instruments would be confiscated. Although we were

amused by the thought of this high-ranking army officer seizing and struggling away

with our clumsy tea chest, it was a depressing time. As I said, that kind of music was

limited to one hour per week on Sunday evenings when you could play your records

quietly. I said quietly!

Then fate stepped in and handed us the perfect recipe for revenge. The powers that be

decided to hold an evening of culture surrounded by potted plants. A provisional

programme was drawn up. Perhaps some piano or violin solos, a reading of

Longfellows Wreck of the Hesperus, Jaspers Dance by the school orchestra, and a

medley of nautical songs from the school choir? The schools music teacher, a kindly

but gullible man, asked us boys to suggest anything we would like to include.

Several us wondered if he would like us to sing some songs from the colonies. What

a splendid suggestion, he enthused, Waltzing Matilda? A Jamaican calypso? Yes, do

work on it chaps, and Ill fit it into the programme. And so the plot was hatched.

Promising that we would turn up for the dress rehearsal, we hurried away to practise

our colonial songs, but the colony we had in mind was no longer a part of the BritishEmpire. Well, not since 1776.

The main hurdle lay in avoiding the dress rehearsal but this proved easier than we

anticipated. The music teacher, who was responsible for the event, was unwell so any

rehearsals had to be organised independently, and, as you can imagine, we prepared

our two songs most diligently. Itll be alright on the night, he reassured everyone

from his sickbed, Just make sure youre ready to go on when called. We were.

Break a leg, chaps! We didnt.

The school assembled for the concert, which was attended by the mayor and

mayoress, and other local dignitaries. The guests had cane and wicker chairs which

seemed to complement the potted plants. The Headmaster gave a short welcoming

speech, the lights were dimmed and everyone sat down to enjoy an evening of

culture. On his euphonium, Jones Senior gave a splendid interpretation of Serenade

by Drigo, and the junior boys choir sang Twankydillo followed by Bobby Shaftoe.

Bobby Shaftoe? Hell come back and marry me. Yes, it was a boys school, but thats

the kind of nonsense we had to sing sometimes..

18


21/52

Unfortunately, the wreck of the Hesperus had sunk sometime before the concert but

was replaced by something equally inspiring. Then it was our turn. In the wings, we

stripped off our khaki jackets to reveal a dazzling array of football or rugby shirts.

Indeed, I thought the blue and white stripes of my Sheffield Wednesday strip were

quite eye-catching. With our instruments tuned and ready for action, we stepped into

the limelight and onto a low stage. Several guests were intrigued by our large

wooden tea chest and clapped their hands with delight when they saw what it was for

and how it was played. Did we really perform You Aint Nothin But a Hound Dog?

To be honest, I dont recall the songs, but they would have been known to the boys if

not the staff. What I do remember, however, is the look of abject horror on the

Headmasters face as we worked through our short programme. He was a tall man

and sank lower and lower in his chair until I could only see his knees; his hands were

covering his face in embarrassment. It was truly a moment to savour and no one was

going to order us from the stage this time. Needless to say, the boys and most of the

guests loved it and cheered us to the rafters.

I think the music teacher got a flea in his ear for our inappropriate contribution and

we were meant to be reprimanded but nothing ever happened. The boys who formed

Ollie the Squid wouldnt have understood the fuss, and nor would anyone else today.

Times have changed, but thats how things were and we just had to put up with them.

Nevertheless, when I heard that a group from the old school had won a national rock

band competition, I just had to be there at their presentation.

! ! ! !

19


22/52

The School Mag

I always looked forward to the arrival of the school magazine, which was very well

produced and printed locally. It reported on the sporting activities and results against

other schools. There were reviews of school plays, information about old boys,photos and general chit chat about school life. I awaited the arrival of the 1951

Christmas edition with eager anticipation because I had a poem in it and this is it:

The Graveyard

The sky was dull and cloudyThe wind began to blow

The people in the graveyardSaid it looked like snow.

Some had come to tend the flowersSome had come to pray

Others, if they came at all,Simply came to play.

The sky was dull and cloudyThe wind began to moan

The people left the graveyard

And we were left alone.

OK, counsellor, what do you make of all that?

20


23/52

School Reports

School reports were the bane of my life. They always arrived in the middle of the

holidays and they were always disappointing. My mother would look at them, shake

her head, and say I dont know. You wont amount too much if you keep gettingreports like this. Now, what really got me about these things is that you could spend

a whole term slavishly copying stuff from the board, wiping ink from your fingers,

and struggling to conjugate Latin verbs and all you got was a miserable grade with a

brief comment: D+ Lacks interest. Ive kept a teacher in employment for a term

and thats all he can say about my loyal support. On reflection, perhaps thats all he

needed to say. Anyway, what is the point of Latin? You cant go there on holiday.

It was obvious to anyone, that a few of the teachers couldnt care less about writingreports and it really showed. On several occasions, I was graded for subjects I wasnt

studying. Did I really deserve that straight B for physics a whole year after I dropped

it? And what about that C- for swimming? Hey, Im the school swimming champion

this year, remember? Perhaps it was the result of my keeping a low profile and not

making too many waves (outside the pool).

But enough of this self pity. I still have the reports and there are some interesting

comments. Has been a very useful member of the house this term, apart from one

silly episode. Only one?What was that about? I couldnt even recall it when asked by

my mother. Was he confusing me with Mousey Drover? In fact, this is when those

phantom grades come in useful because you can use them to convince others that the

report is completely suspect. If you want to be a real bounder, get to the post first and

make some minor adjustments like turning minuses into positives. Then theres the

enigmaticHe has surprised me this term. Exactly how is not specified, but I suspect

the teacher wrote that for every boy. Perhaps we surprised him by staying awake?

But it wasnt all bad.Has been outstanding as Shylock in the school play! Applause!

Shylock in his first year

21


24/52

The ZigZag

Unlike most schools in the area, the school had a swimming pool and was able to

send teams to compete in the various county and national competitions. Naturally, thepool had plenty of rules and regulations, and times when it was off limits, so we went

for secret night swims. These were fun but you ran the risk of being caught and

banned from the pool, or worse.

Occasionally, we took our swimming togs to the

harbour at Dover and, after hobbling painfully

across the shingle and pebbles, paddled around

shivering in the oily water. Then one day,someone discovered a route down to the beach

from the cliffs which were near the school. The

cliffs contained tunnels, store rooms and lookout

posts, but with the ending of the war, these had

been abandoned by the military authorities. The

route we discovered was not a gentle stroll but a scramble down a steep zig zag

pathway with a 20 feet drop at the end to the beach. The ZigZag, as we called it,

became our private beach and we spent many sunny hours there at weekends. The

drop to the beach was a bit tricky but we managed to get hold of some rope and

scramble down as best as we could. Close to the drop, there was an abandoned gun

battery and cave which we could explore and where we could indulge our military

fantasies. It had a great echo. When returning from the beach, we often pulled up the

rope before the last person could climb it and then watch their frantic struggle up the

chalk face. This was particularly good sport when the tide was rising.

The ZigZag overlooked the last resting

place of the largest sailing ship in the

world at that time. In 1910, the 4765 ton

five-masted Preussen had collided with a

steamer near Beachy Head and, towed by

a tug, had almost made it to Dover

harbour. There was a storm, the lines

broke and the ship foundered on the

rocks beneath the cliffs. There were other

wrecks visible from the cliffs as well.

22


25/52


26/52

First aid and emergencies: Take an adequate first aid kit and make sure that anywounds are cleaned and covered quickly. Remember that mobile phones may not work inremote areas. If you have been trained, and are skilled in the use of throwlines, you maywish to take one with you. (1/10 and that!s for our rope.)

Today, our ZigZag has become a tourist attraction.

There are hand railings, proper steps, and the drop

to the beach has a safety ladder. There may even

be a rest room and a takeaway. Id like to return

there one day and go for a swim, but I may check

on those health and safety issues first. For, as

social workers like to say, mistakes were made,

lessons were learned, improvements have been

introduced, and the situation is much improved.

Skinny Dipping

Theres a place that I recall, where we would go to swim

It wasnt at a swimming pool down at the local gym.

And though the water was too deep, too muddy and too cold.

We all loved skinny dipping at the old swimming hole

We didnt have a lifeguard watching from a little boat

Just a tractor tyre that would keep us all afloat.

We learnt to do the backstroke, the breast stroke and the crawl

The butterfly was silly, never did that one at all.

Like monkeys in the jungle, we swung from tree to tree

hanging from a piece of rope and every ride was free

Leaping from the tallest rock, I did a cannon ball

and landed on Fat Louie, thus cushioning my fall

One day a stranger took our clothes, and then away did run

At first we didnt miss them, cos we were having fun.

We had to wait till sundown and all the folks were in,then sneak back home in darkness, dressed only in our skin

For no particular reason that we could understand,

A law enforcement officer told us that it was banned

We grabbed his arms and legs, and everybody took a hold

and he went skinny dipping at the old swimming hole!

The other day, I passed this way while on a business trip

The weather was so warm I thought Id have a skinny dip

But a restaurant and a parking lot were all that I could see

My dear old swimming hole was just a part of history.

24


27/52

Boys behaving badly

Boys confined to an institution will do the strangest things to or with each other.

Sometimes, it is just a tradition passed on from one year to the next, such as playing

pranks on newcomers. Sometimes it is horseplay which usually ends up in everyone

getting detention, but wasnt it worth it? Occasionally, bullying would raise its nasty

little head with a focus on the younger boys or the dormitory scapegoat. Fortunately,

there was not a great deal of bullying within the house system, and bullies always

discovered that, within a year or so, the younger boys they tormented had maturedphysically and were eager to return the beatings they had once received.

Newchies or newcomers. Each house had a boot room, which was a square brick

building in the backyard and housed some work benches and toilets. There were

several rows of coat hooks along one of the walls. A newchie entering the boot room

alone could be in for a nasty shock. As he placed his boots and cleaning brushes on

the bench, he might find himself lifted skywards and suspended from a pair of coat

hooks by the shoulder straps of his khaki uniform. It was a position from which

escape was virtually impossible and the luckless fellow might hang there for some

time until other boys came to his rescue. I remember one poor lad who hung

suspended from the upper row of coat pegs throughout supper. Mind you, for the

swill that was sometimes dished up, he wouldnt have missed much.

New boys were soon introduced to the legend of the headless

drummer. This was the ghost of a drummer boy who haunted

various school buildings, notably the clock tower. It was a

gospel fact that several boys had collapsed and died at the

sight of his headless corpse! Honestly! Among the many tales

and rumours surrounding the headless drummer, was his silent

march to a muffled drum beat through certain houses or

dormitories at dead of night. An inquisitive newchie would

discover that the drummers favourite dormitory was the very

one in which he now slept. That night, hearing the sound of a

drumbeat, the boy would hide in terror under the sheets, forgo

the call of nature and probably wet the bed.

25


28/52

Horseplay: During wet or cold weather, we would wear heavy army coats or

greatcoats as they were known. We marched to the dining hall and hung our coats in a

long narrow room to the side of the hall. After the meal, there should have been an

orderly evacuation of the dining hall to collect our coats. More often than not,

however, this would turn into a scrummage and we would fight our way to the

entrance grabbing any coat we could find. It was sheer mayhem. Indeed, on one

occasion, I carried a small bottle of joke scent called Wallflower and shook it over the

madding crowd. It was far more powerful than a stink bomb and the ensuing

stampede would have graced any African game reserve.

Other kinds of horseplay included wrestling in the mud on the sports field, wet towel

flicking sessions in the bathroom (not to be recommended) and maring up (aka

tossing out). To mare up successfully, one person had to stay awake until the schoolclock sounded midnight. He then woke up the rest of the dormitory and we would

tiptoe silently through the darkened house to a junior dormitory. Each member of the

invading force would take the side of a bed and, at a signal from the leader, twenty

unfortunate occupants would be tipped out onto the wooden floor. As we became

more adventurous, we ventured beyond the house and attacked the dormitories of

other houses. I loved maring up and always volunteered to be the dormitory alarm

clock. I had no difficulty staying awake, it was a skill I had honed while rousing

slashers (persistent bed wetters) from their slumbers and escorting them to the loo.

Boys love to slide; we are born that way. When the ice lay

thick on the paths and parade ground, we would form a

very orderly queue and take turns at running and sliding

along the ice in our heavy army boots. The creation of

slides was strictly forbidden as they were a danger to

members of staff, and we couldnt think of a better reason

for making them. Back in the dormitory, smaller boys

discovered a rather more comfortable form of sliding. With

their highly polished floors, the dormitories were usually

26


29/52

out of bounds during the day, but we would hide under the beds until the coast was

clear. Then, by pushing off from the end wall, we would try to see how many beds we

could slide under. One lad was very good at it and, on one occasion, slid the whole

length of the dormitorys wooden floor. It was a record and was probably never

beaten. I can still hear his head cracking against the far wall. Sometimes, the house

matron would discover us and shout Numbers 2, 6 and 54. Get out of the dormitory

immediately! In five years, I never heard her use our names; she knew us only by

our laundry numbers. In fact, several years after leaving school, I went to see her and

she greeted me warmly: Hello No 2. Are you still at sea?

Phwoah!

Bullying: The laundry numbers mentioned above were used for other identification

purposes and for one rather unpleasant tradition called beats. If you were number

54, then on the 54th day before the end of term, you were entitled to receive 54 beats

or punches on the arm. This was hard on boys higher up the numerical order. The

exception to this procedure was that the boy whose number was 2 would receive a

dorm bashing which meant that he could be punched an unlimited number of times

by boys in his dormitory. But spare a thought for boy number 1, because he wasentitled to a house bashing. In reality, within a day or two of the end of term, the

boys were so excited at going on leave that they usually forgot. I was number 2 in

my house but do not recall being on the end of a dorm bashing. Perhaps I was beaten

unconscious?

The dining hall was often the venue for some strange bullying tactics. For example, a

particularly unpleasant prefect would make us sit with our arms folded behind our

backs when we had finished eating. Clearly, this worthless turd did not see the meal

as a social occasion and we were glad to hear grace called and then escape. The

calling of grace, however, could be the signal for a rather nasty and painful prank. We

27


30/52


31/52

Every so often, we would have an individual interview to review our diaries and,

sometimes, the teacher interviewing us would ask rather awkwardly if we had seen

any strange things going on between boys. As a newcomer, I had occasionally been

made to run the gauntlet. This meant dashing up and down the dormitory in the

altogether while being slippered across the backside by older boys. I believe that it

has its origins in the French Army as a punishment for thieves. At school, however, it

was an indoor sport organised by one of the prefects and he took great pleasure in

picking on the boys who had lived abroad, for our white bottoms stood out against

our tans and made an excellent target. Consequently, I remember volunteering the

information that certain boys took an unnatural interest in our buttocks and the master

stared at me with incredulity. I feigned embarrassment so he did not press me for

further details.

My response, however, was not as artful as one of my friends. He was a smoker but

could never afford them and, tired of being taunted by his nicotine stained and

wealthier pals, decided to get his revenge. When asked the question about strange

goings on between boys, he lowered his voice and confessed to the master that he

believed that such activities did indeed take place. The master pressed him gently for

more information. My friend explained that certain rather questionable activities took

place on Tuesday evenings behind the rifle range. What took place behind the rifle

range was nothing more than a smokers club and it wasnt long before its memberswere disturbed by a posse of masters and the chaplain expecting to break up a rather

different kind of activity.

Put yer fags out lads....here come the Goons

29


32/52

The Woolworths Incident

All the boys liked Woolworths or Woolies as it was affectionately known. It had a

wide range of goods, cheap prices and pretty girls behind its long counters. It was

way ahead of its time with the introduction of self service; something that is

commonplace today. It made such a change from having to stand in an orderly queue

patiently awaiting your turn to ask for a tin of black shoe polish or whatever. In

Woolies, you just picked up what you wanted and paid the sales assistant. One person

who did not approve of this newfangled sales technique was Regimental Sergeant

Major Jones. If he could have had his way, we would all have be banned from

entering this temple of temptation. In his book, self service would only lead to, and

encourage, shoplifting. I cannot imagine what he would have thought of todays

generation of supermarket shoppers as they swept past him to grab it cheap and pile

it deep.

Theft of any kind, however, was very rare at the school and we refused to believe that

any of us would steal from the shops in Dover. The shopkeepers sometimes knocked

off the odd penny here and there from our purchases and they trusted us; it was a trust

we were determined not to lose. Then, one day, news spread like wildfire that two

boys had been seen stealing by a customer at Woolworths. I remember that we were

very upset by this and wondered if RSM Jones would now get his way and we wouldno longer be able to patronise this wonderful emporium.

Later, that week, we marched to the school dining hall for supper. The dining hall was

a large imposing building with a clock tower that could be seen for miles. At night,

the hall was ablaze with lights but the meals they illuminated did not reflect the

grandeur of the oak panelled surroundings. Supper consisted of a piece of mousetrap

cheese, a pickled gherkin, a hard biscuit and a mug of cocoa. Accompanied by a

senior master, the man who had witnessed the crime paced up and down the ranks ofseated diners in an attempt to identify the culprits.

Now when you are surrounded for several years by boys wearing identical khaki

uniforms, you become very sensitive to minute differences in appearance. It is a basic

survival skill that is essential for identifying one short-haired khaki blob from another

but there are many clues to be had. For example, the way a boy holds his head,

shuffles along a corridor, hitches up his trousers, scratches his ear and so on. One

assumes that convent school girls similarly enhance their powers of observation from

the need to identify one wimple clad nun from another, particularly when they are

about to embark on some mischief and need to know who is sweeping down a

30


33/52


34/52

Spinning Out

After lights out, we were sometimes allowed to read or

tell stories to each other. This was known as spinning

out and some boys were very good at it. Ghost storieswere always popular and here is one of my own

contributions to an evenings entertainment. Read it by

the light of a torch, if you wish.

The Crossroads at Hangmans Hill

When I was a kid, I lived in Egypt in an army camp near the Suez Canal and joined a

troop of cub scouts known as the 5th Cairo though we were many miles from Cairo.

Each year, we would camp in the desert along with scout troops from other parts of

Egypt. At night, we would lie outside our tents, staring up at the stars, and telling

ghost stories. One evening, a scout leader from Ireland sat listening to our yarns, and

when we had finished, told us this rather eerie and disturbing tale.

The scout leader, whose name was Matt, came from Dublin and loved cycling. As a

teenager, he and his best friend Jamie would often ride across the moors outside the

city to a cottage which they used as a base for a weekends cycling around thecountryside. One day, Matt set off for the cottage alone because Jamie had some

work to finish and planned to follow later. After a long tiring slog up a steep hill,

known locally as Hangmans Hill, Matt reached the crossroads at the top and was

glad to freewheel down into the valley below. When he reached the foot of the hill,

however, he had the misfortune to collect a puncture and sat by the roadside to fix it.

As he finished mending the puncture, he saw his best friend pedalling furiously down

the hill towards him. Matt was pleased because it meant they could finish the journeytogether. He stood up to greet him but Jamie did not stop. Matt shouted at him and

Jamie looked back briefly but kept on cycling and disappeared around a bend. Matt

continued on his journey to the cottage. Hed have something to say when they met

later. It was unusual for Jamie to ignore a fellow cyclist in distress, particularly at

such a deserted spot. And why did he cycle past him like a demon?

When he reached the cottage, it was deserted; there was no sign of Jamie or his

cycle. Matt assumed he had gone to the nearby village to collect some stores, so hemade himself at home. By evening, however, there was still no sign of Jamie, and as

the cottage had no telephone, Matt cycled to the phone box in the village.

32


35/52

Jamies brother answered the phone. His voice sounded strained. I think you better

come back. he said.

Why? queried Matt, Is there anything wrong?

Jamie is dead. came the shocking reply.

What? When? For Gods sake what happened? cried Matt.

The brother was brief. Jamie had been killed that afternoon whilst cycling to the

cottage. A lorry had knocked him down.

But, protested Matt, I saw him just after three oclock. He was cycling down

Hangmans Hill. I had stopped to fix a puncture and he cycled past me so I followed

him. It was definitely Jamie and there was no sign of an accident anywhere on the

road to the cottage.

It must have been someone else, said Jamies brother sadly.

No it was Jamie. I swear it was. Id know him and his bike anywhere.

But he was killed just before three oclock. You see, according to the police, he

collided with a lorry on the crossroads at the top of Hangmans Hill.

"OK that's enough for tonight, boys. Woods Junior, put the torch back in the prefect's study

and everyone settle down for the night." Just enough time to place a rubber, but lifelike,

killer scorpion on Wood's pillow and sneak back under the blankets. Here he comes now!

33


36/52

Sweating On

Throughout the world, there are countless, pointless and mindless rituals whichpeople have to observe, and we, at the school, were no exception. The school had its

own peculiar traditional rite which we were required to follow on a daily basis.

Unlike a religious observation, it did not cater to our spiritual needs or provide any

kind of emotional pleasure, unless the participant was slightly unhinged. The ritual

was that of sweating on and it took place some time between tea and supper. I

should explain that supper was not something warm and nourishing but merely a

piece of mousetrap cheese, a lump of yellow pickle, a hard biscuit and a mug of

doctored cocoa. If you are still interested, I shall now show you how to sweat on,

so please follow me to the boot room.

You will need to bring the following items:

One pair of army issue black boots or shoes

A tin of Kiwi shoe polish

A worn yellow duster

One small shoe brush

One large shoe brush

Some Plush Nugget sweets

Some Woodbine cigarettes.

1 As you enter the boot room, check that Thorpe Junior and his friends are not

waiting in the shadows to hang you by your shoulder straps from the upper row of

coat hooks as it is very difficult to get down without assistance.

2 Remove any dried mud, loose dirt or doggy do from the boots, paying particular

attention to the soles and the welts. If necessary, bang them against the walls of the

boot room.

3 Spread Kiwi polish over the shoes using the small brush, making sure that the area

underneath the boot between the heel and the sole is also covered. Incidentally, avoid

school issue Day & Martin polish like the plague. The fact that it is mentioned in

Dickens is no recommendation, and only use Cherry Blossom if there is nothing elseavailable.

34


37/52

5 Brush away the dried polish vigorously using the larger brush.

6 Cover your index finger with a smooth layer of duster and smear a small amount of

polish on it. Work your finger in small circles around each of the toe caps at about a

rate of 150 circles per minute. Pause, occasionally, to replenish the polish and add a

touch of saliva. The polish must not be allowed to stick to the duster

7 Be prepared to spend at least 30 minutes on this routine and, eventually, you will

see your face smiling back at you from the toe caps. Polish them both up lightly with

the duster.

8 Commiserate with boys who have just been issued with new boots and need to

build up thin layers of wax polish. Suggest that they bribe a junior member of the

house with Plush Nuggets to sweat on the boots for them. You could avoid stages 6

and 7 above, by doing exactly the same thing.

9 As you leave the boot room, make sure that Thorpe Junior and his friends are not

waiting to ruin your evening by stamping on your hard work. Thats why you brought

those woodbine cigarettes, remember?

A tour guide once told a party of visiting Americans that the highly polished boots

worn by the mounted sentries of the Household Cavalry shone because they weremade of patent leather. One of the sentries leaned down and shouted in her face.

Madam, You are a liar!, an action for which he was severely reprimanded.

Nevertheless, I still find it quite incredible that we wasted so many precious hours of

our young lives ensuring that a small patch of leather would reflect the sky.

35


38/52

A Darker Side

One of the less obvious advantages of

attending a school governed by a military codeof behaviour was that you were, to some

extent, shielded from certain excesses of

corporal punishment. In theory, the

Commandant was the only person entitled to

award strokes of the cane and these would be

administered by the Regimental Sergeant

Major. Retired company sergeant majors supervised us during out of school hours

and it was inconceivable that they would beat or abuse us in any way. A cuff aroundthe back of the head was to be expected now and then, but their bark was always

worse than their bite. Veterans of the first world war, they were generally kind,

caring and considerate and we were their lads.

Throughout the 1950s, with less need to cater for boys orphaned by the war, the

school gradually altered from a mixed ability setting to one with grammar school

ethos. The change to a military public school brought some rather unpleasant public

school baggage with it. Initially, there were minor irritations as when football was

abandoned in favour of rugby. The reason given was that none of the local public

schools played soccer which was considered a game for ruffians. The fact that most

boys came from cities and working class backgrounds, where football was hugely

popular, was ignored. On a more serious note, however, was the introduction of

career officers from the RAEC on short term contracts. Unlike the sergeants and

instructors they replaced, these officers were not qualified teachers but obtained their

commissions by virtue of a university education. They accepted posts at the school to

further their own careers but had no special loyalty to it. Most of these officers were

pleasant enough and made the best of their stay, but among their number were some

sadistic bullies. They were a law unto themselves, and many instances were reported

of their gratuitous brutality and other forms of abuse. Within a short period of time,

the character of the institution changed considerably. Unchecked by a weak

administration, corporal punishment and bullying crept into the curriculum.

In the dining hall, at three adjoining tables, sat the boys of another house. They

always appeared very subdued and the house never seemed to achieve any awards.

The boys rarely mentioned their experiences but it was clear that there was somethingvery wrong going on. Their housemaster was known as Fritz and he held nightly

36


39/52

caning sessions. During his morning inspections of the

dormitories, after the boys had left for school, he made a

list of those to be caned for the most menial offences, e.g.

a toothbrush out of line when laid out on the bed for kit

inspection. Returning from school, the boys would find

the names of those to be punished posted in the day room.

The canings took place in his private quarters after supper

and before lights out. He summoned the offenders from a

queue in the lobby by shouting Next!. His wife was

well-liked by the boys and, hearing their cries of pain,

would sometimes enter the room where the beatings took

place and implore him to tone them down. Rembered with

affection by only one former pupil, the houses senior prefect, Fritz was generally

considered to be a grossly unfair and sadistic bully who should never have been left

in the care of children.

Boz was ex-RAEC and was a rather strange character. In my first year at school, as a

punishment for inattention in class, he ordered me to attend his science laboratory on

the following Saturday. At the back of the laboratory was a store room and he told

me to go in there and remove my clothes. I had to stand in the middle of the room

and, although he didnt touch me, he kept coming and looking at me through a small

window in the door between the laboratory and the store room. I had never been sofrightened in my life and, after standing there for two hours, eventually wet myself.

He then let me go and I never told anyone about it. Later, I discovered that he did this

regularly with young boys; it was an eccentricity to which no one paid much

attention. In addition to teaching science, he ran all the swimming events which gave

him ample opportunity to study little boys even more closely.

This behaviour was not the prerogative of the warrior class. Killer was a civilian

history teacher who regularly inflicted 'chap' inspections on younger pupils whowould be dressed in short trousers. This involved rubbing every boy's thighs to look

for chapped legs, though there could be no possible reason for a teacher to conduct

such an examination. Boys whom he thought had chaps were told to report to the

house matron. Killer had a fascination with mummies and was fond of demonstrating

how they were embalmed; this merely being an excuse to rub his hands all over an

unfortunate victim. He could terrorize classes with an acerbic manner and

occasionally resorted to corporal punishment using a cylindrical map holder, which

he nicknamed Percival the Persuader, as a baton. His principle teaching method

was to write the answers to essay questions on the board and get students to copy

them laboriously word for word. The method apparently worked, for he got excellent

37


40/52

results! He once accused me of stealing another boys stamp collection and

interrogated me for over two hours. I refused to plead guilty and the culprit was

eventually caught and expelled. There was no subsequent apology from Killer and I

didnt expect one. I saw him years later, but avoided him; he still made me shudder.

You would imagine that the return of a popular boy to the school as a teacher would

be a matter of some rejoicing. Initially it was.Alfmarried the school secretary and

was seen as a sporting hero. Alas, he soon adapted to the new regime and rapidly fell

from favour, indulging in behaviour that would have been considered alien during his

time as a boy. On one occasion he caned an entire rugby team for losing a game. His

party piece, however, was to get boys to form a line and lift one foot six inches off

the ground. He would then go down the line with a cane and strike any boy whose

foot was less than six inches above ground. He is remembered as a despicable man

who terrorised the entire house and individuals; a worthy successor to the lovable

Fritz who had managed the same house some years earlier. It was truly pathetic

behaviour from a man who was a commissioned officer in Her Majestys Army and

had so much to offer. He is now best remembered for invariably ending up with a

bloody nose in the annual Boys v Masters rugby match.

But retribution was not always administered in such a covert manner. There were two

housemasters who would occasionally cane every member of their house in a mass

punishment parade. By a coincidence, they were themselves on the receiving end of abeating by older boys during one of their orgies. Interestingly, they both responded

to theirNicholas Nickleby attackers by dismissing the rest of the waiting queue, and

beating a hasty retreat. Later, the boys found pornographic materials in one of the

masters desk and he was compelled to leave, but not before someone had crashed his

car into the school war memorial. The other master went on to rather more rewarding

career in the Army, achieving the rank of a brigadier and being awarded the OBE.

From records assembled by school chroniclers, these brief examples are just the thinedge of a rather nasty wedge that has come to light with the passing of the years.

Today, with increased concern for child abuse, such teachers would have been ejected

so fast that their feet would have scarcely touched the ground.

38


41/52

The Gammy Leg

During my first week at the military school, I started to get stabbing pains under my

right kneecap. Occasionally, I felt them on the left as well. After the hot dry sands of

Egypt, where we only attended school during the morning, and ran around in shorts

and sandals, the change to a damp climate, cumbersome clothes and heavy army

boots probably had something to do with it. When I asked to be excused from

marching to meals, I was sent to run around the playing fields and then made to stand

outside the dining hall in the cold. Eventually, someone with an IQ sent me to see the

medical officer.

The RAMC doctor was quite concerned about my problem. I was stretched out on a

brown leather bound couch while he asked questions and prodded around my knees.

Suddenly, from his pocket he produced a tape measure; I couldnt have been more

surprised than if he had produced a tape worm. Then he started to measure the length

of my legs and came to the conclusion that one was longer than the other, though he

didnt say by how much. I think you have a gammy leg, old chap, he announced,

and thought it would be a good idea if I were excused from drill and sports while he

held a watching brief on the situation.

On the following Saturday, the whole school assembled

for drill on the large parade ground under the watchful

eye of the Regimental Sergeant Major. Bristling with

complete authority, he bellowed PARADE...wait for

it...wait for it....SHUN! In unison, every boy lifted his

left foot a couple of feet in the air and stamped it down

next to his right, while forcing his arms stiffly to his

sides. The RSM continued: By the left, Quick March!

Keep those arms up. Thats the way. Bags of swank. I

stood to the side of the parade ground and watched the

young troops march up and down, wheel left and right,

turn left and right, turn about, double march, change

step, slow step, salute, halt, and finally stand at ease. Short of marching backwards

and doing an Irish jig, they must have performed every known manoeuvre, I had

seen soldiers drilling in Egypt so this was nothing new to me. In fact, we used to fire

our catapults at them from the safety of trees around the barracks square, but these

were children on parade and it did look rather strange.

39


42/52

I was grinning with amusement when I noticed the RSM making a beeline in my

direction. Towering above me, he demanded to know why I was excused his drill

parade. I told him and he stared at me in disbelief. He then asked me to follow him

to the centre of the parade ground where I faced 409 boys. This boy is excused

drill, he bellowed. And do you know why? No one dared answer. He tells me that

he has one leg shorter than the other! The whole of the parade collapsed in a sea of

mirth. With a prod of his swagger stick, I was dismissed and returned to my place as

a spectator feeling somewhat aggrieved at, what we might now call, his lack of

pastoral care. Right then, I could have done with that catapult, but there were no

trees convenient to the action.

After further visits to the medical officer, I was reassured that my legs were of equal

length and that the problem was some kind of inflammation. Thereafter, the pain

subsided and didnt reoccur for another three years. When it did, I had to drop out of

sports which was really disappointing. Once a week, I was sent to a military hospital

near Folkestone for infra-red treatment. These lamps are commonplace now, but, in

those days, it meant having two large metal plates clamped either side of your knee.

A corporal in the medical corps, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, would sit

reading comics and occasionally switch the current on or off until I had received the

correct dose. The best thing about these visits was that I got to travel on the bus to

town with one of a pair of attractive sisters. Their father was a PE teacher and theywere both very popular among the boys at school. My travelling companion was

older than me, but she was a friendly, cheerful girl and I looked forward to our brief

but pleasant weekly journey together. The knees soon recovered but I was in no

hurry to inform the medical authorities.

Fast forward a couple of years and it is time for the schools annual boxing

competition. I had done my bit in the past for the house team but, after two

disqualifications for low altitude punching, never expected to be called upon for myservices again. But there was my name on the list and I was up against boys who

might one day earn

Documents

Boys Behaving Badly. Scenes from Life as a Boy Soldier by Mudsailor