How I Won the War Read online

  “They dropped him by parachute, mate, dressed as a ruddy nun.”

  “Jonah, that’s what he is. Bad luck Jonah. And please Gawd send Twelve Platoon a bloody great whale.”

  It seemed another excellent opportunity for Sergeant Transom to show whether he was officer material, so I left him to carry on. That civilian spy was waiting for me up on the road once more. This time, I decided, I would have to arrest him.

  “Evening,” he said. “Going to dig them up on top now, eh?”

  “Yes. Now I warned you last time …”

  “You should’ve dug them up there in the first place. Hopeless on the undercliff. Blue slipper clay, those cliffs are. Runs like pudden in the rain. I could have told you when you first started that they’d only close up in the autumn.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “You wouldn’t let me.”

  I was about to change the charge and arrest him for withholding information likely to be of assistance to the military authorities when I noticed Private Drogue picking up his rifle and pointing it our way. I had not yet had opportunity to check whether he was fully trained in the use of the safety catch, and deemed it wiser to leave the matter till another day and beat it for dead ground.

  Chapter Six

  From him I learned the value of really imaginative training…. Exercises organized by Wavell were always a challenge and a joy, never a bore. There was one, for instance, in which our 5th Brigade was sent to protect the Golden Fleece—of all things!

  LT. GEN. SIR BRIAN HORROCKS A Full Life

  The 6th Brigade were custodians of the Fleece—a genuine sheepskin dyed yellow—which was hidden on the Surrey-Sussex border. The Argonauts were represented by 4th and 5th Brigades…. Wavell had given strict orders that every man in the Division must have the legend of the Golden Fleece explained to him so that he could take a real interest in what was going on.

  BRIG. BERNARD FERGUSSON Wavell: Portrait of a Soldier

  THROUGH THE DARK DAYS of 1940 we stood with our backs to the wall, manning the beaches and ever ready to hurl back the Hun from the green hills of Dorset. Then as the peril passed and production flowed, military minds turned to thoughts of the offensive. Our division was withdrawn to strategic reserve and set upon a series of exercises infinitely more arduous and fatiguing than actual war. Umpires possessed of inexhaustible reserves and ingenious cruelty lurked at every cross road, food was but rarely allowed to break through and sleeping at all, even though it be blanketless in the snow, was a mark of dishonour.

  The divisional commander, Major General Trugg, was fond of recalling the privations of his own Army youth and assuring us that the exercises he was now setting were but garden parties compared with the maneuvers of total peace. As was his custom before each exercise, he gathered all his officers together in a cinema one morning in the autumn of 1941.

  “We’re going to have an exercise,” he chirped from the stage, silhouetted before a giant diagram. “A real exercise, too. One of the good old good ones. Finest and toughest exercise ever held between the wars. Conducted by General Wavell when he had Second Division. Exercise ‘Golden Fleece.’ Something that’ll really catch the imagination of the men. The legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece. We’ll have a proper fleece dyed yellow and it’ll be hidden in Hurt Wood on the Surrey–Sussex border and the Argonauts’ll have a week’s fighting before they get there …”

  And with imperious pointer and timed intervals for coughing, he conducted us on his monster chart through the basic steps of our company purgatory.

  A week later, after marching for two days and a night back and forth across the North Downs, the Fourth Musketeers dug in on the Surrey–Sussex border. C Company was in reserve, earmarked for the attack next morning as the first wave of the Argonauts. Major Arkdust was finishing his order group when a dispatch rider swung into the farmyard.

  “Special message, sir,” he said. “For immediate action.”

  Captain Croker, second in command, opened it.

  “Addendum No 8” he read aloud, “to Exercise Instruction No. 44. The Divisional Commander has given strict orders that every man in the division must have the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece explained to him, so that he can take a real interest in what is going on. Umpires will be questioning individuals about the legend and company commanders will render personal certificates by 06.00 hrs. that the story of Jason has been explained to all ranks.”

  “The first thing to ask ourselves,” said Major Arkdust, the clearest-minded man I ever served under, “is Jason who?”

  I was educated on the science side myself and not well up on mythology. My fellow officers were regulars, simple soldiermen, as Captain Croker observed, who left books and all that sort of thing to the memsahibs. Grand lot of chaps to have beside you in a tight corner, mark you, but nobody knew the story of the Golden Fleece.

  “You’re responsible for company intelligence, Goodbody,” said Major Arkdust. “So get yourself some intelligence about this Jason johnny and pass it on to the men.”

  I took my literary quest to the nearest village. A lady wearing a cloth cap and smoking a clay pipe opened the first cottage door.

  “Good evening, madam,” I said. “Would you by any chance have a copy of the legend of the Golden Fleece in the house?”

  “Not today, thank you.” She spat accurately on the hearthstoned step and closed the door.

  The next three households thought I was a billeting officer and refused to open up. The door of “Zeebrugge” was opened by a retired admiral who demanded what the living hell I thought I was doing knocking people up about blasted fairy stories.

  “Damned pongoes!” he snorted. “Jackassing about the country side. You’ll lose the blasted war yet, that’s what you’ll do…. What’s your name? I’ll write to The Times about you.”

  I said my name was Dai Rees and my regiment, the Welsh Guards. The grocer wondered that a grown man like me hadn’t something better to do with my time. The first straight answer I got was from the postmaster who set the dog on me. Eventually the village schoolmaster took pity on my youth and found me a copy of the Child’s Wonder Book of Greek Mythology.

  “It’s meant for eight-year-olds,” he said, “so it should be just right for arrested adolescents who play your sort of military games.”

  It was near lights-out when I got back to the battlefield and had the company assembled in a barn.

  “What we’re going on with now,” I said, “is the legend of Jason and the Golden Fleece. The general wants you to remember the details during the exercise so that you can take a real interest in what is going on. So please feel free to ask questions.”

  “Blind O’Reilly,” said Private Spool. “Bedtime stories.”

  “Once upon a time,” I read from the book, “there was a Greek hero named Jason who sailed to Colchis to find the Golden Fleece. The Fleece came from the ram which swam from Thebes to the Black Sea with the boy Phrixus on its back …”

  Private Parkin, wireless operator from H. Q. Company, overeducated, son of an M. P., barrack room K. C., stood up.

  “Thebes to the Black Sea, sir? Four hundred miles or more? A ram, swimming, with a boy on his back?”

  “Rams can’t swim,” said Private Drogue. “They cut their throats with their front feet.”

  “This was a mythical ram,” I explained, “sent by the god Mercury.”

  “With a mythical outboard motor stuck up his backside, too, I should reckon.”

  I ignored the foolish laughter.

  “Now Jason sailed in the Argo with fifty-three warriors and one woman. She was Atalanta, the famous huntress and runner …”

  “She had to be,” said Private Clapper. “Round and round that deck all day with fifty-three randy warriors after her.”

  To such steady chy-iking I took C Company over the seas with the Argonauts to Lemnos and the menless women, past Hercules on Cios, leaving behind us Amycus broken-jawed and Phineus harpy-freed, and beating t
hrough the Clashers to landfall on Colchis. And the whole being rendered in words of two syllables.

  “And the king said that Jason must do three things single-handed before he could have the Fleece. He must yoke to the plough the terrible brazen bulls, plough a field with them and sow there the teeth of a dragon. Only then could he try to take the Fleece from the fierce dragon that guarded it.”

  “I’ll lay four-to-one on the dragon.”

  “Now the king’s daughter, Medea, fell in love with Jason and gave him some magic herbs which tamed the bulls. As he sowed the dragon’s teeth in the furrows, each one turned into a warrior. But Jason slew them all and sprinkled the magic herbs on the dragon so that it went to sleep. Then he took the Fleece single-handed and sailed away in the Argo with Medea …”

  “And they all lived happy ever after.”

  “Please, sir, can we have ‘Red Riding Hood’ tomorrow night?”

  Private Parkin rose again.

  “Very interesting, sir,” he said. “Might we borrow the book for tonight. So that we can study the legend and be sure not to let the major down tomorrow.”

  “Certainly,” I said, handing it over. “Most commendable outlook, Parkin.”

  We were up at dawn next morning for the advance on the Fleece. Sergeant Major Dickory came hullabalooing to the major.

  “It’s mutiny, sir. Eighty-one men are refusing to get up.”

  Private Parkin came out of the signals tent with a message form.

  “Top Priority and Personal from General Trugg.”

  Captain Croker announced it.

  “The Divisional Commander expects this day that all troops will model themselves on the glorious example of the Argonauts.”

  “And that’s all we’re trying to do sir,” said Private Parkin. “Our only aim is to keep you in good with the general. According to Mr. Goodbody’s book there were only fifty-three Argonauts and there’s a hundred and thirty-four of us. So we drew lots last night for the honour of assaulting the Golden Fleece and you’ve got exactly fifty-three volunteer heroes on parade. We wouldn’t want the general finding you with a hundred and thirty-four Argonauts on the starting line and thinking you’d never even read the story.”

  “Fifty-three Argonauts?” shouted Major Arkdust. “Is that right, Mr. Goodbody?”

  “Yes, sir, but …”

  “There’s no time for buts, we should have been away already. What the hell d’you want to give them these bolshy ideas for?”

  “I was only carrying out the general’s orders, sir …”

  Everybody shouted at me and ran around in frantic military circles. Captain Croker was all for putting the eighty-one non-volunteers under close arrest for mutiny but the sergeant major calculated that the other fifty-three would have to stay behind to guard them. Then there would be no Argonauts on the objective, a mass court-martial tailor-made for the newspapers and bowler hats flying out all round.

  “If I might make a suggestion, sir,” said Private Parkin. “It says in the book that Jason left a guard on his boat when he landed at Colchis. It’d be no good getting back to the jetty with the Golden Fleece to find somebody had nicked your Argo, would it?”

  So the eighty-one layabouts were left as nominal Argo guards to be dealt with on return to barracks, and the fifty-three volunteer heroes marched off cursing their ill-luck in the lottery. Three miles later, as we topped the ridge overlooking Hurt Wood, somebody whistled three times and they all sat down.

  “What the hell’s up now?” bellowed Major Arkdust.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Private Parkin, “but your men wish only to prevent you making a grievous mistake. We don’t want to get you in bad with the general by going any farther. The Argonauts didn’t do anything about actually taking the Fleece from the dragon.” He held out the Child’s Wonder Book. “You can see here, sir, that Jason did it all single-handed with the help of the old balsam his girl friend, Medea, gave him.”

  You could see Major Arkdust’s lips moving as he read.

  “By George! But Parkin’s dead right. That’s just what it says in the book. Where’s that ruddy Goodbody…. Ah! There you are…. If it hadn’t been for you and your bolshy lecture last night we’d never have had all this damned trouble …”

  “I only did, sir, what I thought …”

  “Single-handed, Mr. Goodbody, you got us into this mess and single-handed you’re going to get us out of it. Jason! That’s who you are. I hereby appoint you the regimental Jason. Hold out your hand.” He took out his tobacco pouch and sprinkled my palm with curly cut.

  “There’s your magic herbs. And down there are your brazen bulls breathing fire.” On the grassland below, fourteen Friesians puffed smoke on the frosty morning air. “The dragon’s teeth have already been sown and sprouted warriors.” He pointed at the ploughed field around Hurt Wood where hairy-armed Cameronians were already dug in. “So you’re on your way, Jason. Get down there in that wood and don’t come back without that flaming Fleece.”

  As I beat it over the ridge and across the field, the Jocks spotted me and set up a bombardment of clods, rocks, and thunderflashes. An assault party rose from the furrows and came after me. I just made the wood, tripped in some sort of badger trap, rolled head-over-heels down a ravine and landed on top of a soldier in a leather jerkin.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded unravelling the ferns from his face.

  My mouth was full of compost, my forelock singed by fireworks, my left arm felt broken, and I am afraid I lost my temper.

  “I’m Jason,” I shouted. “Going in single-handed with my magic herbs to get the Golden Fleece.” I showed him my handful of curly cut. He took it and filled his pipe.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “If Hitler ever hears about this military charade,” I blazed on, “he’ll die laughing. Next week, we’ll be out doing the Three Bears and mock fighting for the biggest bowl of porridge…. And who are you? The dragon?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. He took off his helmet to shake out the last of the bracken and I saw he was General Trugg. I came as smartly to attention as my injuries would allow and saluted.

  “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  “Don’t stand there like a blasted waxworks, boy. The Fleece is behind the copper beech. And there’s a dozen Jocks with pickaxe handles coming after your blood.”

  As the Scots came raging down the ravine, I dismissed myself, circled the tree, snatched up the sheepskin and hared back across the fields. Defenders came from the other side of the wood to cut me off. Flagging fast I went up the hill again pursued by two converging columns of maddened Picts. Just as the pincers were about to close upon me fifty-two of the volunteer Argonauts came whooping over the ridge and crashed happily into the Cameronians. The fifty-third hero, Private Parkin, went out to a flank firing Very lights at the rumps of the cows and sending the herd of frenzied Friesians stampeding into the rearguard.

  I cleared the crest in safety and staggered, at last gasp, up to Major Arkdust. He was sitting on his shooting stick studying the Child’s Wonder Book. I dropped the sheepskin in at his feet and collapsed beside it.

  “Mission completed, sir,” I panted. “Jason reporting with the Golden Fleece.”

  “Don’t lie down, Jason,” he said. “I haven’t told you you can stand at ease yet…. And where’s Medea? She’s supposed to be fleeing with you according to the book.”

  “Hotly pursued, too, by her father, the king of Colchis,” I said rising to my dead feet, “and here he comes now, roaring up the hill.”

  General Trugg had appeared from the wood and was plodding fast across the plough.

  “Then we’d better beat it back to the Argo.”

  Major Arkdust blew his whistle, the fifty-three heroes broke off combat and went hotfoot back over the downs. I picked up my greasy, yellow pelt and set my broken bones rolling after them.

  Chapter Seven

  … I am reminded of the time when I tried to teach Military L
aw at Sandhurst and the memory revives my sympathy with the Regimental Officer who must master the subject. It is easy to say that the Manual of Military Law contains all that need be known about it, but that is cold comfort for some of us…. There are two main reasons why an officer should be at home in Military Law. One of them, the less important, is that he may pass his promotion examinations. The other, by far the more important, is that he may avoid injustice towards his fellow-countrymen whom it is his privilege to command …

  GEN. SIR CHARLES HARRINGTON Handbook of Military Law

  I TOOK MY NEXT STEP up the Army ladder in January 1942, when after only eighteen months’ commissioned service I was made a full lieutenant. On the day my appointment was published the adjutant sent for me and I marched into his office with the maturity of a second pip shining on either shoulder.

  “Your services have been requested as defending officer,” said Captain Tablet, “by Private Juniper of B Company who is at present in the cells awaiting court-martial for being absent without leave for sixty-seven days. Have you any reason to advance why you should not accept?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then here is a copy of the summary of evidence and the rest of the papers. The court sits in a fortnight’s time. And with Goodbody for the defence may the Lord have mercy on Juniper’s misguided soul.”

  I was very pleased with my assignment. There had been no opportunity for me to practise in Military Law since I left the O. C. T. U. Fortunately my legal studies were recorded in the second volume of my notebook which had been saved from Major Arkdust and the deep, blue sea. Armed with my notes, the Manual of Military Law and King’s Regulations, I went to see my client in the cells.

  He was a little, world-worn nut of a man, a recalled reservist who had seen fifteen years’ service and possessed five sheets to his conduct record.

  “Tell me, Juniper,” I opened, “how did you come to choose me?”