The Brigadier
David Lewis Pogson
©
Copyright 2019 by David Lewis Pogson
|
 |
This story describes
characters known to me and events as experienced by me. The
part relating to 1963 is taken from my direct personal involvement.
The part relating to 2001 is taken from extensive coverage of events
which, whilst not involving me directly, were happening on a daily
basis within the locality of my home and work and were well reported
in the media. I became aware of a direct correlation between
those early and later events. Other than my own name, I have not
given the full names of any character as those individuals would
likely be embarrassed by this accolade but anyone wishing to know
more can undertake the same research as me via the Internet. This is
a tribute to those who saved my life. Anyone doubting the
seriousness of the risks only needs to check it against the record of
the deaths from exhaustion and exposure of professional soldiers
training in the Brecon Beacons in recent years. I have no
complaints about what I experienced as that was the standard of the
time and I made my own decisions. However I expect that the
health and safety of cadets attending such camps in current times is
now even more rigorously monitored to modern standards of
compliance.
It
was a cold, damp
night in March as the Brigadier strode purposely across the car park.
His polished boots clipped the glistening tarmac surface with every
regulation stride, each sound echoing back from the blank walls of
the nearby buildings. Everything about him was measured and
purposeful; he was in no particular hurry. He didn’t want to
arrive early at a meeting that he hadn’t been invited to. He
scanned the soulless Auction Mart, its dimly-lit roads leading off
into blackness on either side, with the empty pens of the cattle
market seemingly more deserted now than they’d ever been. Even
the car park, its spaces full of rain-spattered vehicles caught in
the lights from the pub, was empty of people. Whatever life existed
in that part of town none of it was on the streets that night.
Through
the pub
windows he could see that the main bar was empty. This didn’t
fit with the number of vehicles in the car park. He followed the
sound of raised voices up the metal staircase to a meeting room on
the first floor. Years of man-management in tense and difficult
situations helped him to sense the mood. Desperation hung in the air
like the thick tang of cordite.
He
entered quietly
and stood behind the crowd. Those pressed inside were too intent on
shouting each other down to notice his bulky frame, even in its full
uniform, as each jockeyed to be heard above the din. A couple at the
back turned to glance at him, registering only mild surprise upon
their faces, before returning their attention to the fray. The
Brigadier selected a side chair that afforded a rough line of sight
through to the opposite end of the room, sat down and studied the
occupants. He already knew the purpose of the meeting.
The
problem was
common knowledge. The media were releasing frequent updates on the
worsening situation. An outbreak of Foot and Mouth disease was
sweeping the north-country, devastating farming, crippling tourism
and causing concern within the community. Current efforts had failed
to contain it. Ministry Vets and slaughter-men, culling every
affected beast, had succeeded only in stockpiling a backlog of
150,000 carcasses. These now lay rotting in the fields where they’d
been killed, open to the elements spreading the disease and with no
means of disposing of them. New cases were being reported daily,
faster than they could be slaughtered. Frustration was breeding anger
as livelihoods were threatened with no apparent end in sight. The
Brigadier suspected that there may be a danger of civil unrest. It
was a time for assessment, decision and action – the basics of
his training.
Coming
to the end of
an impressive army career, he was on a farewell tour of his troops in
the north of the county. With only eight days to go to early
retirement, in his mid-50s, he didn’t need one last military
challenge. He’d nothing to prove, least of all to himself, but
he couldn’t just switch off as retirement approached. Curiosity
had led him to that pub. Integrity, character and an overwhelming
sense of duty made him think that he could be of some use to these
desperate people. Sheer bloody-minded determination, a roughly-hewn
quality cultivated over a lifetime of solving problems, would see him
carry it through if they were desperate enough to need him. It
seemed that they were. None more so than the Prime Minister, on a
flying visit, sitting at the centre of the three tables facing that
angry crowd.
*****
Birtie
was destined
for a military career.
Someone once said that a public school education is
character-forming. I’d agree. I’d agree also if that
same person had said the same of a back-street, inner-city
comprehensive education. Either way you’d end up with a
character. My character was formed somewhere in the middle of those
extremes, in a city grammar school that took boarding pupils. That’s
where I met Birtie, at the age of eleven, as he was forming his
character. Whilst his character turned out differently to mine,
without him I might not have turned out at all.
At
thirteen we
enlisted into the school’s Cadet Corps, starting out as
squaddies, drilling every Monday in the schoolyard. We were issued
with uniforms and spent our Sundays bulling - Blanco on belt and
gaiters, Brasso on buckles and badges, spit and polish on boots,
steaming creases into the khaki battle-dress, steaming creases out of
the khaki shirt. When not drilling and bulling we sat in wooden huts
learning a new language - like ‘Sunray’ for ‘Commander’,
‘Roger’ for ‘OK’ and ‘Charlie Foxtrot
Niner’ for whatever that might mean. We learnt about the ‘arc
of fire’ so we could kill the maximum number of enemy when
setting up a defensive position and practised how to keep a rifle
clean and ready for action.
Birtie
adapted
readily. He came from a military family so I guess that tradition was
in his blood. My military tradition came from my Dad and was somewhat
less ingrained. He’d served throughout the Second World War
without rising above the rank of private. His approach to military
service had been to break the rules he didn’t like, do whatever
was necessary to survive and volunteer for nothing. So it was a
curious decision on my part to enlist as I had very little
constructive military tradition to live up to. I soon realised that
this was not the life for me.
Above
all I hated
the Annual Inspection on the sports field. Some guest Major with a
handlebar moustache would keep us standing to attention in the
stifling summer heat, whilst he chatted to the Headmaster, before
walking the ranks to inspect our smartness. Only then could we
shoulder arms to afford him the honour of a gruelling march past in
the wake of the Corps band. The drill practices in the preceding
weeks were mind-numbing in their boredom. On the day, the strain of
waiting, the fight against fainting in the heat, the pathetic
attempts to co-ordinate arms, legs, and heads in an ‘eyes–right’
whilst marching on springy turf only served to emphasise the whole
bloody pointlessness of it all. I could never see how the entire
Corps marching in smart uniforms in straight lines, all leading with
the same leg and all turning our heads in the same direction at the
same time once a year was going to save my life in a battle. Were the
Nazis, if they ever returned, going to charge over the hill with
bloodlust in their eyes and then suddenly draw back from sticking a
bayonet into us because we were nicely lined up and evenly spaced?
We’d all be turning our heads in the same direction on that
occasion without having to practice it. Were they going to retreat in
disarray saying “I couldn’t stick him because it would
have ruined the edge on his creases, Heinrich” or “because
I was distracted by that dazzling shine from his boots, Otto.” I didn’t
think so. So why do it? Perhaps Birtie understood the
need for unquestioning obedience in a life or death situation. My
question, after my third Annual Inspection, was why would I ever want
to do this for real and also put my life at risk in between times? I
suppose, from a character-forming perspective, we both got something
out of it. Birtie found his true vocation. I eliminated one
possible career option.
After
three years
the pointlessness of drilling and bulling heavily outweighed the fun
parts. There was no future in it for me. I had to quit. Birtie went
on to greater things.
*****
As
he surveyed the
room, he could easily pick out the factions. Most obviously the
crowded audience, in rough tweeds and with weather-beaten
complexions, comprised the local farmers. Frightened, desperate and
bordering on violence, they were only just holding their frustration
in check; standing, gesticulating and shouting in one braying tumult.
Flanking the Prime Minister, in smart lounge suits with pale London
complexions, were the politicians and Civil Servants. Concerned,
smooth and trying to exude an air of calm but unable to apply their
expertise against such raw hostility, they were failing to control
the meeting. Gathered loosely at one side table, in practical
corduroys, brogues and Barbour Jackets over shirts and ties, were the
Vets, NFU officials and Ministry Scientists. Detached, professional
and focused on their specialisms, they could offer only textbook
responses. Knowing each other, huddling together for support at the
other table, dressed similarly to the politicians but less
expensively, were Councillors, Tourism Chiefs and local government
officers. Silent, worried and totally out of their depth, they
lacked the authority and resources to offer answers to the baying
mob. The Brigadier could read the room as well as he could read a
battlefield. He noted that they all had one quality in common; none
of them knew how to resolve the problem.
He
sat and waited
patiently. He had no idea how long it would take but judged that
eventually the storm would pass. The Farmers’ leaders needed
to show their strength of feeling, to shout their demands, to
register their anger at the failure of the people best placed to help
them. It was irrational, uncoordinated and highly charged but it had
to run its course. Desperation was the fuel that drove them but
common sense was the brake that would check them. These were not
mindless hooligans intent on pointless destruction. If no-one
inflamed them with insensitive remarks and aggressive responses then
eventually they would expend their frustration. Then reality would
set in, they would calm down, they would listen. The Prime Minister
was the consummate politician, capable of playing a careful hand. If
he survived this first salvo, resisted the urge to fire back, kept
his colleagues restrained there would come a point when he would be
able to regain control. He did not disappoint.
Gradually
the mood
changed. If the Prime Minister was acting then he was good at it. He
showed no sign of nerves. He waited and waited, saying as little as
possible. At opportune moments he oozed patience and sincerity,
concern and compassion. An oppressive calm, almost imperceptible at
first, slowly settled over the room. Shouting and gesticulating
reduced to muttering and head shaking. Desperation dissipated into
discussion and debate. Standing was replaced by sitting. Insults
became enquiries. The meeting began to take on a rough, impromptu
structure. Each man wanted his say but there was an unspoken
acceptance that it had to happen one at a time. Each telling point
levelled at the panel was still supported by a chorus of ‘ayes’,
each listed demand by ‘yes’ and ‘that’s
right’ but, at last, common interests were being found and
articulated.
Each
group of
specialists briefed the Prime Minister in turn and sensibly he kept
them to the facts. However, after an hour and a half, he had only
been given an idea of the scale of the problem but no practical
suggestions on how to resolve it. The Brigadier continued to watch.
The meeting was beginning to repeat itself. There was nothing new to
say. The Officials were drained, the Farmers’ leaders spent.
The room fell silent. Now was the time to win them over. It needed
just one man with one acceptable suggestion to seize the moment, to
unite them in one cause and to lead them forward. The Brigadier
needed the Prime Minister to sense it. He willed him to look around
the room for inspiration. Finally, the Prime Minister’s eyes
met the Brigadier’s. The Brigadier rose slowly to his feet. Everyone
present focused on the craggy features beneath the beret on
his large square head; the bayonet gaze of his blue eyes, the bent
bridge of his battered nose, the firm set of his mouth over the
central cleft of his solid, square jaw. Here was a man at the height
of his powers, experienced, confident and in total control. Looking
straight back at the Prime Minister, but addressing himself to the
whole assembly, he said,
“Gentlemen, I
think I can help you.”
*****
The
cadet camp at
the Parachute Regiment Barracks in remote Breconshire was a pleasant
surprise. From the minute we disembarked from the train and climbed
into the back of the green, canvas-topped trucks the programme was
non-stop action. The weather was fine and warm for the whole week. We
spent most days outside on open firing ranges, or ferried around in
trucks for exercises or relays over assault courses. This was more
like the army that I might have found attractive. Drilling and
bulling were kept to a minimum. What’s more, everybody went
home safely after the mock battles.
The
climax of an
exciting week was an exercise just before our return home. This
involved hiking for two days and bivouacking on the night in between.
So far my feet had withstood the rubbing boots that I was quickly
growing out of after two years. On the first morning we split into
squads of eight and set off on foot following separate routes leading
up into the Beacons. The countryside comprised small streams and
occasional bogs, fields with slate walls, copses and woods of silver
birch, rowans, oak and elm all interspersed with the ferns which grew
thick and green and tall between the trees. We trekked up into the
hills following well-worn paths and, although there was no apparent
signs of life, we were constantly warned by our NCO to stay alert. I
had no idea what for until, opening up into a clearing, we came under
fire – the crack, crack, crack of .303 rifles.
Our
reactions were
good and we hit the ground instantly, hearts pounding, eyes
searching. The enemy was about fifty yards away, two Regular
Soldiers, just showing their heads above ground level from a slit
trench. We levered our bolts home, thrilling at the chance to point
and fire at living targets. An observer walked up behind us yelling,
“Cease
fire!
Collect up your spent cases. That was bloody awful. If they were
using live ammo you’d all be dead.”
Then
he screamed at
us,
“FIRST
RULE –
TAKE COVER! NOW MOVE OUT.”
We
moved without a
murmur.
*****
The
Brigadier left
the meeting alone and in a hurry. He needed to get back to his office
and, despite the hour, start making some phone calls. His mind was
working on two levels. The cool, experienced professional was
revising and editing a plan in his mind, adding details to the
sketchy outline that he had presented to the meeting, forming lists
of actions and timetables, contacts and equipment and men. That
level helped to suppress the other level, the one that threw up
doubts and fears and possibilities of failure. What had he taken on?
Why had he taken it on? What would happen if he failed? Could he
live with failure? What would his wife say when told that he had
postponed his retirement? That he was planning and leading a massive
logistical exercise to try and contain the spread of Foot and Mouth
disease where others had already failed; a job that was absolutely
nothing to do with him. He suppressed those doubts. He had a plan -
analyse, decide and act. Then make sure the plan worked. There was
no other way to approach it.
The
Prime Minister
had taken him aside during a short break. He desperately needed a
solution. This was a crisis of national importance and he was facing
an election. The Brigadier had thrown him a lifeline.
“
How long do
you think it’s going to take?”
“
Prime
Minister, I haven’t got a bloody clue.”
His
honest reply
must have been enough. When the meeting re-convened he was given the
responsibility.
“Just get on
with it. The nation is behind you. Whatever you need.”
*****
The
afternoon
extended our cadet training on how to reduce the chances of dying in
combat. Unfortunately my feet were starting to die on their own with
each mile that we walked.
The
next morning,
rolling out of the tent, I struggled to get my boots on. The
blisters were red raw and about the size of half-crowns on the heels
of each foot. Once the boots were on the pain dulled as my feet
adapted to fit the shape of them. When the offer came from the CO for
those with bad blisters to drop out, I made the rash decision that I
was not going to be classed as a wimp. Perhaps, at last, I was
showing the character that the school had always hoped I would. Two
years of drilling and bulling was turning me into a model soldier,
maybe even a hero. Who knew?
The
second day was
harder. We abandoned the paths and yomped across country to where a
truck would be waiting to collect us at a pre-arranged location. The
walking seemed endless. Every hill and valley began to look the
same; open moors, brown trees, clear streams, grey rocks. There was
no longer any beauty in them. The challenge faded. Scenery became
obstacles. We hardly saw any signs of life that whole day; few
farmhouses, no cars on the occasional roads that we crossed, not a
telephone box, not an aeroplane in the sky, nothing. I’d never
realised before what an empty place Wales could be. I stood in the
streams letting the water run into my boots, watching it swamp over
the tops and through the lace holes, anything to get relief to my
feet. The water cooled and numbed them for a while but soon wore
off. The blisters stuck to my socks. I couldn’t stop to
examine them. I daren’t take the boots off or I would never get
them back on again.
By
mid-afternoon I’d
stopped asking how far. By tea-time, with the packed lunch long
gone, I began to feel unnaturally hungry, as if my body had used up
all its fuel. I was cold even though I was moving and the sun was
still out. My personality was changing. Humour went first - from
normal to gallows to nothing - then focus and decision making, then
will and determination. I lost interest in everything except walking.
It came on gradually through tiredness. I was too weary to be angry
or to despair. I stopped talking, then thinking, then feeling. I
went past the pain in my feet. I was slowly shutting down. I just
kept putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling, getting up
and plodding on with my head down in silence at the back of the
squad. At around seven in the evening, with the shadows from the
trees lengthening across our path, I sat down on an embankment,
flopped backwards onto my rucksack and let the others go. My face,
which had stayed screwed up against the sun all day, relaxed. My eyes
shut. Nothing mattered any more. I had to sleep.
*****
The
fires burned day
and night. The smoke hung over the countryside like a grey army
blanket, cloaking the weak sun on fine days or blending into the
miserable rain on others. At night the sky turned a dirty, streaked
pink from the continual glow of piled carcasses being incinerated.
Trapped in the void between the land and the smoke, the smell of
burning meat hovered over everything as a constant reminder of death.
Country
roads were
filled with trucks, belching out diesel fumes to add to the smog,
delivering the condemned and collecting the despatched, splashing
through disinfectant checkpoints as they hauled their grisly cargo
from the farms to the burial sites. Everywhere were vets, soldiers,
slaughter-men engaged in an efficient, endless killing-exercise. And
everywhere there were innocent victims caught up in it. It was a war
unlike any other war; eerily-quiet; without the noise of battle. And
striding amongst the carcasses was a military figure, sometimes
sucking on a cigarette, sometimes making notes on the back of a
cigarette packet, sometimes wondering what the hell he’d taken
on and all the time applying bloody-minded determination and offering
leadership.
*****
I
read a short
account of that meeting with the Prime Minister in the newspaper. By
then the spread of the disease had been significantly contained and
the Brigadier’s efforts were proving effective. The Prime
Minister’s faith had been justified. It did not surprise me. I
knew the qualities of the man in whom he had placed his trust; seen
them demonstrated well before he’d developed the management
skills to supplement them; seen them at close quarters at a time when
they were more
important to me than anything else. A quotation in a newspaper caught
my eye. His description of the plan that he had formed to solve the
crisis seemed very familiarii:
‘Then I
realised that it was very simple. You had two lots of kit, one live
and one dead, and you had to pick them up and dump them somewhere
else. The basic plan I drew on the back of a cigarette packet on the
bonnet of my car.’
Once
I’d been
part of the just-about ‘live’ kit.
*****
Birtie
pulled me
roughly to my feet, stripped off my rucksack and threw it at one of
the others.
“Right Hol,
take his other arm. We’re not leaving him here. Got that? Now
walk!”
They
dragged me up
that next hill and, drawing on the dregs of my stamina, I struggled
along with their help. It seemed to take hours. The light was
fading. I don’t know how he did it or how far we walked but he
made sure that they got me to that truck. Bloody-minded determination
figured prominently.
Two
weeks later I
left my sick bed. Pneumonitis was the diagnosis. I used the rest of
the summer holidays to recover my strength. My feet healed. I burnt
the boots.
Within
twelve
months, before the next camp, I’d left the Cadets.
“A singularly
undistinguished career,” said the CO when I ‘de-enlisted’
myself.
“Better
than a
terminal one,” I thought. My Dad agreed.
*****
All
the
presentations had been made, all the hands shaken, all the goodbyes
said. The Brigadier left the room and closed the door behind him. He
was on his own. His wife and young daughters would be waiting at
home. They were the reasons for his early retirement. A chance to
spend more time with them. That was the good part. But, the Army had
been his life for such a long time. He was a part of it and it of
him. It had filled his time, been his priority - no, been his
obsession - for most of his life. Knowing that he could never return,
that he had to go in new directions, make new friends, find new
projects seemed a daunting prospect now that the moment had arrived. He
was leaving on a high note. His efforts to help the farmers had
been successful. The Prime Minister was pleased. A CBE had added to
his honours. But that was now in the past.
As
he exited the
building a young soldier on guard duty snapped to attention.
“No need for
that now, soldier. But, thanks anyway.” Then he gave his last
order, “At ease.”
He
walked across to
his car, pausing to take one last look around the parade ground,
noting its familiar features as if to fix them in his mind forever.
Then he opened the door, threw his bag across to the far seat and
climbed inside. The Army wouldn’t miss him. It would roll on as
always. His new life was about to begin and whatever new challenges
faced him he knew that he could deal with them. He had a plan,
written on the back of a cigarette packet, and he was taking his
bloody-minded determination with him.
David Lewis
Pogson is fiction writer for ACES ‘The
Terrier’ magazine, living in North Lancashire, England. He has
been published in a variety of media. Winner of the Cumbria Local
History Federation Prize, the Freerange Theatre Company's Playframe
Short Story and Microcosmsfic.com Flash Fiction competitions.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Book
Case
Home
Page
The
Preservation Foundation, Inc., A Nonprofit Book Publisher