The Life and Times of The Random Rambler - Alistair Martin

[Soner]

I found the personal memoirs of Alistair Martin most interesting, Kathy had sent to me and agreed that I may post it on the forum. She has only recently read the last part about his life in the war, which she found the most difficult to read - He wrote it about 3 years ago and Kathy had never read this, as Alistair said: ''Oh you can read it one day''.

Alistair was born in Stockport, Manchester, on 19th August 1947. He and his family emigrated to Rhodesia in 1957. He was a soldier in the ''war'' against terrorism in Rhodesia - not National Service as in UK!.

Kathy and Alistair met in September 1974, started dating in July 1975, moved in together (shock horror in the mid-seventies) before getting married on March 27th 1976 (would have been their 40th next year). Their daughter, Sasha, was born in June 1977 and we left Rhodesia, due to the unknown future, in August 1978. Alistair worked for Air Rhodesia as ground staff, doing load sheets etc.

They lived in Hastings then moved near Gatwick - Alistair worked for Dan Air - back to Hastings in 1984 after Kathy's mother died to look after Kathy's father. When Dan Air were bought out by BA in 1992 Alistair joined the Child Support Agency, a job he hated, but it paid the bills. Also, having moved his Pension from Dan Air, meant that from the age of 60 he had an index-linked pension!



MY LIFE AND TIMES - Alistair Martin

When I began this, it was just meant to be a general account of my life. However as it progressed I felt overwhelming urges to asperge about the social, political and domestic changes that occurred during my life. As such there I have hardly mentioned my lovely wife Kathy and daughter Sasha, now married to a wonderful man (Jon) and their lovely son Alex.

Regarding my life in Rhodesia I have used the terms “blacks” and whites”. There are two reasons, firstly, quicker to write, secondly there were many 2nd and 3rd generation “white” Rhodesians who regarded themselves as “African”, not “European”

How to begin? Well, the beginning I suppose……..

First I was born. This was on 19 August 1947. The year is important as the first two (and only ones ever used in anger) atomic bombs were dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima in August 1945, thus ending World War II in the “Far East”. This allowed my father to eventually come home from the army in Burma and I appeared sometime later. A cynic might say that my existence was brought about by the sudden deaths of tens of thousands if not millions of Japanese civilians.

At first sight of me, my parents swore a terrible oath and vowed never to sleep together again. It had to have been a terrible oath as war had just ended and everything was in short supply and/or rationed.

Rationing.

After the World War II American aid (the Marshall Plan) was poured into the defeated countries (mainly Germany and Japan). Given this “free” money and technical aid, the economies for these countries recovered very quickly. The dominance of German and Japanese cars, motorbikes and electronics in the latter half of 20th century bears witness to this.

However Britain was not given this advantage. Britain had been (for a long time) dependent on imports of food and raw materials for industry and was in a dire economic and industrial state because of the war. Thus money and foreign currency for trade was extremely limited. “Luxury” items such as cloth for (non-essential) clothing, sugar for sweets etc had a very small allocation. I remember that (later while living in Romily,) we got “food parcels” from Canada (relatives?) just before Christmas. I remember the important items; a tin of condensed milk, which my mother used to make “tablet” –a type of fudge – “Royal” milk pudding mixes, and a tin of ham!

The winters of 1946/7 and 1947/8 were “the coldest since records began” – though I don’t remember anything about them. With hindsight they were possibly “nuclear winters” caused by atomic fallout – the primitive atom bombs (although small and weak by later standards) would have been (in modern parlance) very “dirty”.

My earliest childhood memories start when we lived in Romily, a village near Stockport. We lived in a bungalow in an area of about 6 houses called called “hilltop”. Not surprisingly, this was indeed on the top of a hill. I had a pedal car. It was easy to go downhill, but when I turned the car to go back uphill, I overturned it and was thrown out, my head hitting a stonewall. The postman found me and took me home, my head dripping blood. I needed two stitches. This was in the days before we had a car so we had to walk about two miles to the doctor’s surgery. My mother’s hair started to go grey,

Sheila, my (6 years elder) sister and friends had “found” a rope. This was in the days before nylon, so it was a thick rope; the type found now mooring biggish yachts. They made it into a swing by tying it to the branch of a sturdy tree and creating a “hangman’s noose”. If you are unfamiliar with the term it is a slipknot and used (capital punishment was still in force) to hang criminals. A gibbet is set up, a trapdoor falls, the criminal drops and the neck broken by force of gravity. I was not allowed to play on it. However…. When no one was around I climbed the tree, crept along the branch, pulled the rope up, put my body inside the noose - and fell. I was not hung as one of my arms got caught against the side of my neck. I cried for help, but unfortunately for me, my friend Nicky and I had been crying “help” in the area for no reason (apart from trying to worry the adults of course), for some time. However, someone eventually came and the swing was cut down. My mother’s hair became greyer.

One day I was determined to meet my sister from school, so off I trotted the mile or so, across a main road. I was waiting outside the school gates where the village policeman spotted me. He took me home while my mother was frantic with worry about my disappearance. My mother’s hair became greyer.

My first day at school was somewhat eventful. I had been presumably told on the previous day that “tomorrow morning you will be going to school”. That was fine by me. The morning passed, lunchtime came and we all went to the “rec” (recreation ground/playground) that was next to the school. After a while the “rec” emptied and I was left alone to play on the swings and in the sandpit. My absence was noticed at school, so Sheila was sent home (about a mile and a half/two kilometres) to see if I was there. I wasn’t. I was eventually found and put where I belonged. If only someone had explained to me that school was not just a morning thing, my mother’s hair might not have become greyer.

My only other memory of Romily Council School was of my best friend Boyce and me finding a florin. This was a coin worth 2 shillings, 24 old pence or later 10 new pence. Sweet rationing (yes I remember that) was no longer in operation so we went to the local sweetshop. We bought “lashings” of ginger beer, chocolate, crisps etc. The purchasing power was probably the equivalent of £20.00.today. We made ourselves very, very ill! The following day during assembly the headmaster asked if anyone had found a florin the previous day. Boyce and I put up our hands and we were taken to the headmasters study and were each given 3 strokes of the slipper for spending it! Never trust an adult when he or she asks a seemingly innocent question!

My parents were convinced that I was not a “normal” child, but thought that I would have a chance to get a scholarship at a public school. I sat exams for Stockport Grammar and Macclesfield Kings. I failed Stockport, but passed Macclesfield. (How different my life would have been if it had been the other way round!).

Macclesfield was about an hour train journey from Romily. So at the age of 7 years old, I would walk the mile or so to and from the station – this was summer and winter, in daylight, dark, rain and snow. Presumably we had no perverts in the area, although Myra Hindley and Ian Brady (the infamous child killers) lived in Hyde, a village five or ten miles to the Northeast of Romily

Macclesfield Kings. My only lasting memory is of being bullied and beaten up by an older boy (Norris – I still remember his name!). However the following day I stood up to him and won the fight. However I got 3 strokes of the slipper for wearing a torn shirt at school! I think Norris got 6 strokes probably because his clothing was in a worse condition than mine. From that day on I was known as “that plucky little nipper” throughout the school – Nipper became my nickname.

The Slipper. I can’t leave Kings without describing this! The junior classes were held in a square building. There were 4 classrooms around the sides with one stone wall and a wood and glass partition parallel to the stonewall, so that there was a hollow “square” in the centre. The hollow square and classrooms had a wooden floor. Every boy wore metal “clegs” on the heels and toes of their leather-soled shoes to save wear and tear– man-made soles had not yet come into being. The slipper was kept on the desk of the teacher of the top junior class. To get the slipper I had to get up from my desk, “clomp” across to the “top” classroom and ask for the slipper. Imagine/picture this – all is quiet, then everyone in the building hears “clomp “clomp” across the wooden floor. Then I had to knock on the door….”Come in boy, what you want?” “Please sir, can I have the slipper?” “Sorry boy, I can’t hear you, speak up” “PLEASE SIR CAN I HAVE THE SLIPPER?” By this time everybody in the building knows 2 things (1) I wanted the slipper, (2) it was very unlikely that I wanted it for a friend! I then had to “clomp” to the teacher’s desk, pick up the slipper and “clomp” back to my classroom. In my classroom I was given the slipper (the “whacks” echoing throughout the building) and take the slipper back. I then had to “clomp” back to the top class, knock on the door, “come in boy, what you want?” “Please sir I have brought the slipper back”. “Pardon me boy, but I can’t hear you, speak up!” “PLEASE SIR, I HAVE BROUGHT THE SLIPPER BACK”. “Thank you boy, put it back where you found it”. “Clomp” Clomp” and then “Clomp” Clomp” back to class. Any tears throughout the performance would have been regarded as “girly”.

I was an avid “train spotter” – this was before anoraks were invented and steam (living, breathing, beautiful) locomotives were the mainstay of the railways. One afternoon, while returning home l leant very far out of the carriage window to see the number and name of a passing locomotive. All would have been well, except my train went under a bridge and my head hit the insulator of a telephone wire post. I was thrown back into the compartment and the only other occupant had the presence of mind to reach up and pull the emergency cord before he fainted. The guard (whom I understand from Sheila later got an award from the Queen) kept me alive until an ambulance arrived and took me to Stockport Infirmary. I was in a coma for 2 weeks and it was a further week later before I could recognise my parents. Any colour left in my mother’s hair gave up and she went totally grey.

I had a very pleasant childhood in Romily, but I was not allowed to invite my friends from the village to my 10th birthday party in August 1957. I don’t think that this was intended as a punishment; although it is probable that I had had done something wrong. With hindsight the main reason was that we had emigrated to (then) Southern Rhodesia in June 1957.

Before leaving UK we were to have hired a car (this was in the days when there were very few private vehicles, indeed in Romily, one of the farmers still used a horse and cart to deliver milk), and drive round Scotland and England to visit and say farewell to various friends and relations. However, the Egyptian president (Nasser) nationalised and blocked the Suez Canal by sinking ships in it. Europe woke up the fact that all oil was imported from the “middle east” via the Suez Canal. Petrol was in very short supply and rationed. As a result our “holiday” was not to be.

We (my father, mother, sister and I) sailed to South Africa in June 1957 on the Union Castle Line ship “Winchester Castle”. It was a 14-day voyage from Southampton to Cape Town. (Here begins my first asperge). In those days “everyone” travelled by sea. Air travel was still in its relative infancy and due to costs, available only to the rich. This was because an aircraft with the modern capacity to seat 100 passengers would only have about 30 seats. Mind you, it would also have 30 beds, large galley, bar and (probably) a piano!

The sea voyage was (from memory – I was 9 years old) boring. I can remember one night of “fancy dress”, with me appearing as “bath night” in my dressing gown and holding a sponge, I cannot remember any other entertainment. Except …. “Crossing the Line”! The swimming pool had been “opened” a few days after leaving European waters. The top of a hold was removed and a 2 metre deep canvas “bucket” of the same dimensions placed there and filled with seawater. A pole was placed over the water and people would sit on this, facing each other and try to knock each other off using a pillow! When the Equator was crossed Neptune “rose from the deeps”! I thought it was a sailor in make-up who had appeared round the corner of the superstructure, but I may have been wrong! The end result was we children were “shaved” with ice cream and then given it to eat.

On the subject of holidays (and leisure), this was before “bucket and spade” holidays in the Mediterranean were the norm. It was only in the jet age when major airlines disposed of propeller aircraft very cheaply for charter airlines to come into being. Leisurewear (for men) only appeared in the 60’s. Look at any old photo taken on the beach in the late 50’s. Children and youngsters in swimwear, mother in a floral print frock, but father! He would be in long flannel trousers, rolled up to his shins, and a shirt with a collar! He had a tie he would be (almost) dressed for “the office”! The first “package” holidays were at Butlin’s. After WWII Billy Butlin bought/leased ex-military bases, gave the barracks a coat of paint and called them chalets. He was probably the first post-war entrepreneur! Other holidays were caravans, also bed and breakfast. As few people had their own cars, public transport, British Rail and coach companies ran “holiday specials” to and from holiday resorts. Sorry, I didn’t mean to asperge.

In Rhodesia I got the nickname “Scruffy”. I would start the day freshly scrubbed, neat and tidy. I would then end the day (even at the end of the dry season) covered in mud, cuts and scratches and with torn clothing.

My education started at Alfred Beit for the few months that we lived in Mabelreign, then Marlborough Junior School, and finally Ellis Robins senior school. At Ellis Robins I was a member of the chess club and from 3rd form to 6th form a member of the debating society. I freely admit that my reason for joining the debating society was not to debate whether something was right or wrong. It was that this was the only school activity that included GIRLS SCHOOLS! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah memories. (All senior schools were single sex). Sports, I was into swimming (Inter-schools standard) tennis and rugby. During my last 2 years at Ellis Robins I was captain of the 3rd rugby team. I was 2nd reserve for the 1st team and 1st reserve for the 2nd team. The 1st and 2nd teams were very serious about their games – “honour of the school” and all that sh**. While we in the 3rd team went out for 90 minutes of fun, win or lose, and (hopefully) get a beer or two on the way home from a friendly landlord! Being in rugby kit and on bikes it was not easy to claim we were over 18 years old! I was the only 6th former who was not made a prefect – something to do with my having insufficient regard for school rules and authority – according to friends who were prefects. By the way, they were not brave (or foolish) enough to try to discipline me.

The employment situation in Rhodesia. I am not going to defend the situation. Indeed (later in my life while working in the Child Support Agency) I overheard a work colleague say “I cannot defend the indefensible”. I was a “white” in a white run country. To explain the situation in “colonial” Africa, there were approximately 70,000 whites and 7,000,000 blacks in Rhodesia. The blacks were regarded with scorn by the whites, as they “had not even invented the wheel”. They did not need to, they were “hunters and gatherers” still living in the Iron Age. They lived in a veritable Garden of Eden. They grew crops, (the woman’s work) kept a few cattle and goats (herding was the children’s work), if they wanted meat the men would pick up their spears and hunt. When the crops failed due to the soil being leached, they would move a kilometre or so away and start again.

When the whites came, they took the best farming lands (or areas rich in mineral resources) and created “reserves” for the blacks. Blacks – with the exception of house and or garden “boys” were not allowed to live in “white” areas. The “boys” were not allowed to have their wives living with them.

There were no schools for the blacks, except a few mission schools where only the basic “3 Rs) were taught. As a result, no blacks worked in offices. White electricians, plumbers, builders etc had a black “boys” (men) who did the actual work, the white boss merely supervised. If I wanted to work (in almost any job) my employment was “guaranteed”. When I left school I had insufficient qualifications to go to university. . Anyway I could not afford to go to university. There were no such things as grants, student loans etc. All fees, the cost of books, “digs” etc had to be paid “up front.” A slight digression, but when I was a trainee surveyor (later in life) one of my lecturers (university graduate) said that he had to wait until his mid forties before he became (in real terms) better off than a friend of his who left school and immediately started work. He based his theory not only on the cost of fees, etc as mentioned above, but also on the 3 years “lost” income while his friend had progressed up the promotion/seniority/salary scale at his place of work and had gained “practical” experience.

To continue the employment situation in Rhodesia (and probably all “colonial” Africa), there was no legal reason why a black could not rise to the rank of commissioner in the police. However, to get promoted to Inspector (the first commissioned rank) one had to be live in Morris Depot during the training course. This was designated a “whites only” area, so no black could attend the course.

To continue, both blacks and whites joined the police as constables. The only differentiation was there were African constables (a/c’s) and European constables (e/c’s). The e/c’s were on a substantially higher pay scale than the a/c’s. In the mid sixties the a/c “union” complained about the pay difference. After a while the police board agreed that this was indeed unfair. A document was issued on the lines of: (paragraph one) – With effect from (say) 1st April all constables will, irrespective of race, colour or creed, be on the same pay scale. This excited the a/c’s as the e/c’s would hardly accept a substantial pay cut! However, (paragraph two) stated – With effect from April 1st all e/c’s will hold the rank of Patrol Officer!

I joined the BSAP (it paid £395 a year – more than a pound a day- before tax!). This was on “old” currency, £1 was 20 shillings, 1 shilling was 12 pence - £sd (not the mind expanding/blowing drug that was to appear in the 60’s). To put things into perspective, beer was 10d in a public bar, or one shilling in a saloon bar. I spent 6 months in Morris Depot in Salisbury (learning law, court procedures, rifle range, stables/horse riding, spit and polish, how to get into trouble etc.)

During stable/horse riding we were obliged to put together a stripped down harness and bridle blindfolded in under 3 minutes. You have no idea of the numbers of the royal family, their friends and relations and indeed the whole of the “horsy” set who would come up to me in the dark to ask if I could put together their bridles and harnesses!

I then spent 6 weeks at Bulawayo driving school. (Land Rovers,- off road driving, cars – skid pans motorbikes ,on and off road riding, how to get into trouble etc). I then became a “bush pig”, mainly in Mount Darwin, but later Bindura. I contracted malaria in Mount Darwin, the symptoms became apparent while a friend and I were hitchhiking to Salisbury for a rare weekend off.” “Quinine cures malaria” said my friend so I spent the weekend drinking gin and Schweppes quinine tonics! While returning to Mount Darwin on Sunday evening I collapsed near Mazoe police station. (Can one overdose on quinine? Yes I am sure that one can!) The Mazoe police rushed me to Bindura hospital, where I spent 2 weeks.

After leaving the police I joined the Ministry of Roads as a trainee surveyor. This meant a lot of messing about with levels, theodolites, measuring tapes, working out the squares of hypotenuses etc. I was stationed very near Fort Victoria (now Masvingo) as the Shabani strip road was being upgraded to being a 22 foot wide tarmac road. I had a very nasty boss who kept picking on me. Eventually we got into a fight. I won the fight but lost my job.

Then I joined Air Rhodesia. I spent a few months in Salisbury in the cargo sheds, then was transferred to Victoria Falls. About 6 months later a vacancy arose for a cargo officer at Bulawayo. I applied and was successful. After a short while I was promoted to being a traffic officer on the passenger and aircraft handling side. I was soon promoted to duty traffic officer, or shift leader.

It was at Bulawayo airport that I met Kathy. Apparently some of the staff had us “married off” before we even met! Kathy had started at the airport as an “Avis girl” while I was on holiday in Britain!

The original Senior Traffic Officer (Carl Gadney) was promoted and transferred to Salisbury as Assistant Traffic Manager. No one got on with his replacement (Nobby Dean) who was an idiot. Eventually (and this was while Kathy and I were going out) I resigned. The following day I got a phone call from Carl. He asked if I could talk – presumably without anyone hearing my side of the conversation. I said that I could. Carl then asked if my resignation had anything to do with Nobby, to which I replied “yes”. Carl then said that if I withdrew my resignation he would have me transferred to Salisbury as a Duty Traffic Officer as I would be a loss to the airline. On the way back home that night with Kathy I told her about this and said it was a pity as I felt that I could spend the rest of my life with her. She then said “Go on then, ask me properly”“What”“ Will I marry you?” “OK, Will you marry me?” “YES!”

So I was transferred to Salisbury and at the same short time later Kathy was transferred there by Avis. Although we lived in Salisbury most of our friends were in Bulawayo, so we got married there. Although Kathy was a (very lapsed) Catholic her father was a very strict Catholic and insisted (though he lived in England) on a church wedding. So, to get married in Bulawayo Catholic cathedral I had to promise to bring up all children in the “one and only true faith.” I have met a few “reasonable” Catholic priests, but the one I made the promise to was a bigoted blinkered person, probably frustrated that he did not live in the age of the crusades when he could stick his sword into a few Muslims! Nevertheless Sasha was brought up (not very strictly) in the Catholic faith, as both Kathy and I felt that any religious basis in life is a “good thing.”

Shortly after our marriage I was offered a transfer to Victoria Falls on promotion. I jumped at the chance, as I had not been happy working at Salisbury airport. Kathy, (then pregnant with Sasha) gave up work and we drove to Vic Falls. The dog box for our dog (Streak) was too big to fit in a Viscount aircraft hold, so he travelled Salisbury/Johannesburg/Vic Falls on a Boeing 720 aircraft. Acting on our vet’s instructions, we tranquillised him, took him to the airport and then we drove to Vic Falls. We picked him up at Vic falls airport, he greeted us boisterously ran around a bit and then went to sleep for 2 days!

Life at Vic falls was very enjoyable (disregarding mortar attacks and the constant threat of terrorist attacks) but although we could “exist” on my salary, we could not “live”. Kathy was offered and took up the position of manager at the newly opened Avis office at the airport. Money was no longer a problem! Sasha went to work with Kathy. She had a “walking” training device on wheels with which she used to “whiz” down the baggage ramp onto the apron! The security guards were kept occupied by bringing her back inside the building with many an “Ah madam, she is very naughty!”

We returned to the UK, to live (for a time) with my parents-in-law whom had a 5 bed roomed house.in a village near Hastings. Getting a job was not easy. I had no “paper” qualifications, and at that time these were regarded as necessary. I had no employment history in the UK. At 30 years old, I was too old to be a “junior” and too young to be a “senior”. The airline industry in the UK was becoming computerised, a field that I had no knowledge in. I tried the police, and would likely have been accepted if I had not been colour-blind. This I knew, as I was accepted into the BSAP only because I could recognise the primary colours. However, in the UK the “coloured dot” cards with letters or numbers that were “hidden” to me were used. Eventually – in desperation – I became a labourer at a breezeblock manufacturing plant near Hastings. The only enjoyable thing that I can remember is driving a JCB – lots of shovels and buckets! However I was (very much) a square peg in a round hole. I had nothing – nothing at all- in common with my workmates. I didn’t do any of the following: follow a football team, play darts, have any interest in horse racing, but I could read and even correctly pronounce words with 2 or more syllables! So lunch and tea breaks were lonely times for me. Indeed I was soon excluded from all general chitchat at work.

My next job was as a counter clerk at a travel agency some 50 miles away from Hastings. The pay was not as good as labouring, but at least I could hold a conversation with my colleagues and customers! It was during this time that Kathy got accommodation for us, as she was a sort of housekeeper for an author who was recuperating from an operation near to my place of work.

At this time we heard about the Scorpion Society. This was an organisation set up by ex-Rhodesians to help ex Rhodesians. I contacted them, gave my CV and was advised to contact someone in Dan-Air (Archie Monk) an ex Air Rhodesia engineer. I was told that Dan-Air was looking for a “Charter Liaison Officer” and strongly advised to apply. This was a newly created position – I was to sit in Operations and liase with the head offices of charter companies using Dan-Air in the event of flight delay/disruption. The job and responsibilities increased, I worked at Geneva airport during the skiing season, Faro (Portugal) during the “sea, sand and sun” season. During strike days in Spain and Greece I did “turn-rounds” – travelling out on an aircraft, doing the baggage handling, passenger check-in, return flight plan etc. In short I became a both a dogsbody and trouble-shooter.

During my time in charter liaison Dan-Air was given the “Airline of the Year” award by Intasun, then the largest Tour Operator in the UK. Harry Goodman (the Intasun chairman) told me that it was not because of our punctuality record – in fact ours was one of the lowest – it was because of the work done by my department. I also have a letter from the queen’s equerry (on headed notepaper) addressed to me thanking Dan-Air in general, but me in particular for the help and assistance given to Prince Phillip’s relatives when they returned to Germany after the Charles and Di wedding. This was a long story but I managed to sort a lot of problems out.

Sometime later, I got a phone call from the passenger Service manager (Dermott Mulveigh). He asked if I had seen the latest issue of the (internal) airline newsletter. I said no, I hadn’t, he told me that there was a job vacancy on the back page and suggested that I should apply. The first result was that I became Customer Services (Scheduled Services). The second result is that in November 1991 I made myself (and all other Dan-Air staff) redundant. Which? Airline magazine issued in 1991 named Dan-Air as the “Best UK Scheduled Service Airline Within Europe”. The UK flag carrier - British Airways- could not cope with this – so Dan-Air was bought out!

So there I was, jobless (and still with no “paper” qualifications) aged 44. I was now too old to be a senior and certainly too old to be a “junior”. Fortunately a neighbour (we were then living back in Pett following the death of my mother-in-law) managed an employment agency, and she managed to put some “temp” jobs my way. In December 1991 the (yet to be formed) Child Support Agency advertised for staff to start 2nd April 1992. I applied, was successful and worked there for 2 years until I was headhunted by and ex Dan-Air colleague to work for a tour operator at Gatwick airport. After 6 months I was again made redundant as the company was taken over by a larger tour operator.

So there I was, jobless (and still…..etc. etc) aged 47. I re-applied to the CSA, but was rejected. To pass the time (and enjoy myself) I used to go with my binoculars and bird book to the nearby “ponds on the levels”. These were RSPB managed ponds that would attract migrating and local birds. I would allow myself one (yes ONE) beer a week at the nearby Ship Inn. The dole (unemployment benefit) was then £44.00 a week; beer was £1.80 a pint. One week I overheard that a barman was required, I said, “will I do?” a couple of harrumphs later I was asked if I could start (on a trial basis) the next day. Could I?………I would have started there and then!

And so began possibly my most enjoyable and satisfying summer! I became bar manager – indeed the only bar staff after the other 2 left (with someone else’s car, and the money in the charity boxes. The other left because he could make more money in the building trade. It was the height of summer in a tourist resort; any “available” bar staff would only be “available” for reasons of dishonesty etc. So I worked mornings and evenings, my only day off being my birthday. Still it gave me/us a bit of money and I had made a reputation for myself.

But, with the onset of autumn, trade dropped off and the landlord could no longer afford to give me the hours or a living wage. The mother of one of the regulars owned a schools cleaning company, and he said that he would have a word with his mum. I was offered (on an hours notice either way) a job as a driver/cleaner. I had to get up at 3 am (yes that time does exist!) drive from Hastings to Maidenhead (50 – ish miles, pick up 2 cleaners and then go to Surrey (Guildford area) – another 50 ish miles - and clean schools before they opened. As a driver I had to go round schools during the late morning/early afternoon replenishing cleaning stocks held by the janitors, and return to base to collect the cleaners. We would then clean schools after they closed and return (via Maidenhead) to Hastings – getting there at about 11 pm. I did this five days a week between November and March. As it was winter, the roads were frequently icy and occasionally covered in snow, which made driving interesting!

One day in February in a supermarket car park I met a friend of mine who still worked for the CSA. In the general conversation….”how are you doing?” Etc., I told him. He told me to apply to the CSA as they were “crying out for staff” - we had worked together in 1992/3 so he knew my capabilities. I said that I had, but been rejected. He told me to send my CV to him and that he would take it to Personnel himself. This I did. About a week later, I had to bring some broken vacuum cleaners from Surrey back to the “head office” near the Ship Inn. As I had about an hour to spare I went home for lunch. I had just finished when the phone rang. It was the CSA asking if I could attend an interview the following day. I was on an hours notice so I said “YES”. The following day at the interview (for casual staff on the call centre client help line) one of the interviewers took a hard look at me and said “I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” I replied that I was one of the staff who was on the original pilot “accounts help line”. A few hours later she called me to say that I had got the job.

I started as a “casual” on 0900-1700 basis, but on applying for re-instatement on a permanent basis was told that this could only be done if I worked “twilight hours (1200-2100). I agreed and became deputy manager of the twilight team. There was so much mis-management by senior management and disregard for staff welfare and morale on twilight that I had my work cut out! After about 6 months I had succeeded in all my aims, but the mental pressure was too great. One evening I when I got home I burst into tears. Kathy would not let me go back to work until I had seen a doctor. When I walked into his surgery our doctor (an acquaintance) took one look at me and said, “Good God, what have they done to you?” – he knew I worked for the CSA! I said I wanted a week off “to re-charge my battery.” He said he would give me a month at the least. We finally settled on a 2-week “stress and depression” sick note. As I left he said that was insufficient and that I would be back for more. He was right, I eventually took 6 months off (on full pay!) The new senior manager of CHL had known me for a couple of years before her promotion; which happened just before I “cracked-up.” She was also one of Kathy’s Weight Watcher clients, and so a discreet communications channel was set up. Apparently she told CHL (day and twilight) that in view of the previous management it was not surprising that I was off sick, the surprising thing was that I lasted so long before doing so!

While I was off, Mick D’Arcy, one of the landlords of my local (The Robin Hood) wanted some shifts covered and as I was available (and in CSA eyes was getting “therapy”) offered them to me. I took them. In fact, after I had returned to work fulltime at the CSA he asked me if I could take a week off so that I could run the pub while he was away on holiday, which I did.

I returned to the CSA, initially working mornings only for 6 months (on full pay), then fulltime on the day shift. Although on medication, I was still very easily upset and my sick record was appalling. At least in management’s eyes!

When our friends (David & Clive) invited us here (Kibris) for a holiday in March 2005 we saw that we could afford to retire here (Spain was now out of our price range). They visited us (in St Leonards) in August 2005. After they left Kathy turned to me (she was also stressed and depressed and on medication due to her work conditions) and asked, “when can we go there to live?” I thought for a second or two and said “March next year.” So we did! My index-linked CSA pension is now up and running. It is insufficient to live on in the UK, but here lets us live a very comfortable lifestyle. Now we are in our paid-for flat (we only have to pay “ground rent at £40.00 a month, including the use of a communal swimming pool!) and as I am now over 65, so have my UK State Pension, we are living comfortably.

There was a book on pioneering/early settler days in Rhodesia called “Next Year Will Be Better.” we are now living “The Next Year!”

War stories.

The terrorist war in Rhodesia began in 1967. From then until we left in 1979. I probably spent a total of about five years “in the bush” on active service. From 1976 “call-ups” were 2 months in and 2 months out. I had a number of close shaves, some of which are related below. Read on if you want.

The war was a war of attrition, one dead or crippled “white” was worth (at least) 10 terrorists. I don’t know if you have read Wilbur Smiths book “The Sunbird”? If not I strongly recommend it.- (I read it after I returned to live in UK). If you haven’t read it, it is about various black and white characters living at towards the end of the 20th century who have doubles living towards the end of the 19th. century when a Monomatapa (supreme king/leader of a large area in Africa) type character brings white pioneers to a hilltop overlooking a river in which there is a hippopotamus sleeping. He gives a signal and 100 unarmed Africans attack the hippo, 100 die, another signal and another 100 attack, this time 99 die…etc etc until finally the hippo dies of exhaustion. and the 100 Africans live. The Monomatapa turns to the whites and says “you have superior weapons now, but when I want my country back that is how I will do it.” (or words to that effect).

Life in general during the war years

Firstly, living in Victoria Falls. This was designated as a “hot” area. 2 Mazda mini-trucks, each with a .50 calibre machine gun mounted escorted all arrivals and departures at the airport on the back. In case of ambush, Air Rhodesia issued me with a Sterling sub-machine gun with 2 magazines, each containing 30 rounds for protection on my journeys to and from the airport. Kathy (who then worked for Avis) was issued with a .25 calibre pistol by her company. On the evenings when we took Sasha for a “walk” in her pram from our flat to the Big Tree and back, both weapons were carried for insurance purposes.

On one occasion a passenger’s baggage did not arrive from Johannesburg, but was to come on a later flight. This happened (i.e. the case arrived), so after closing up the airport I took it to the Casino Hotel, where he was staying. He asked me if I would like a beer, so we went to the upstairs bar. We had only just taken our first sip when there was a loud “BANG” outside, followed by many more. Vic Falls was being mortared by 188 mm “Stalin Organs”! (I was to come across them later at Villa Salazar). Everyone was directed to the cellars, but I had a wife and child about a mile away, so I left and drove home. It was somewhat un-nerving to have to weave around exploding mortar bombs. However I made it. Kathy had my Sterling and all she could see through the veranda window was a figure racing to the door. I opened it and she pulled the trigger! Fortunately she had not “cocked” it, so I then took her and Sasha into the smallest bedroom, stacked mattresses against the window and door and we spent a few hours there.

The next week Air Rhodesia built a bombproof bunker in the garden. This was not used until about a month later when the village was again mortared. This time, however, the army had an artillery unit placed just behind the ridge on the airport side of Peters Motel. The incoming and outgoing noise was deafening.

This was the situation that I was obliged to leave when on army call-up……….which was somewhat worrying.

My anti-terrorist involvement began when I was in the police. I was one of the original members to PATU (Police Anti Terrorist Unit). When formed in the Mazoe Valley this was a “rapid response” team made up with people who could shoot (I was a marksman) and (possibly more important) could “read” the bush. To digress, when we were at The Hide in 1999 one of the guests asked a guide how he could see animals so quickly. He replied that he did not look for animals, but oddities, such as grass or a bush moving when there was no wind, or not moving in a wind. My being alive today is thanks to the same knowledge.

Military service in general.

Sleep. On active serviced there is no such thing as an unbroken nights sleep, for (in the latter years) 2 months. In base camp there is guard duty. On patrol every night is spent as an ambush, and one has to be on listening watch. During the early years we were allowed camp beds at base camp, but as the metal legs could cause injuries when a truck went over a landmine, these were forbidden. This meant that every night was spent on the ground; rocks and lumps grow under you during the night.

Catering. If there are 20 people in base camp, the cooks open 20 tins of corned beef, 20 tins of baked beans, put them in a cauldron over a fire and then call it a meal. In the bush the same from the rat (ration) packs (although usually cold)

Water. Depending on the time of the year, little running waiter was available in many areas immediately before the “rainy Season”, either purifying tablets (foul tasting water) or what could be carried………but always warm.

Hygiene. It was not unusual to go the entire call-up without a bath or shower; especially in the “hot” areas as not even a semi-permanent base camp could be established. There were always (depending on the season), rivers and streams. I have had treatment for Bilharzias (provided by the army) on a few occasions.

Bodily functions, (sorry about this, but it was true) No such thing as privacy in the bush. To prevent “being caught with ones pants down”, the rest of the “stick” (patrol) would form a defensive laager. In ambush situations in “hot areas” these were done without moving from one’s position.

Stress. (I don’t think it was recognised then). Although there were designated “safe” and “hot” areas, in a terrorist war there is no such thing as a “safe” area. Walking (or being trucked) through the bush meant that (to stay alive) one had to be constantly alert. Stress was not only experienced by the forces in the bush. Those at home (wives, girlfriends, families) dreaded the radio/TV announcements “The Ministry of Law and Order regrets……names have not been released as the next of kin have yet to be informed….”

One thing I have not mentioned above is NOISE. On my return to the UK I used to “jump” if a car backfired or someone “popped” an empty crisp packet near me. Fireworks (November 5th and all that). Our “local” pub – the Robin Hood in Icklesham had a Bonfire Society when a display was put on (and very spectacular and noisy they were), the proceeds going to village charities/good causes. Being “the best barman in East Sussex” – the opinion of 3 landlords – I used to do the outside bar. I did not cry because I was so busy. But on our final (before emigrating to Kibris) November 5th we (Kathy, Sasha, Jon, Alex & I) went to watch the display. I remember very little, except feeling absolutely terrified and being led away from it before the end with tears streaming down my cheeks.

Why did the “whites” lose the war? There was of course “world opinion”, sanctions etc., but (in my opinion) for similar reasons to America losing in Vietnam. Apart from occasional ground to air missiles, the air force had complete control of the skies. However, the majority of the ground forces were made up “of part timers”, with wives and families. All (like myself) were prepared to “do their bit” only wanted to get back home (myself included). Too few had bushcraft and walked or stumbled into situations that could have been avoided, or controlled. The army was too mechanised, using trucks to move into an area, the locals (friendly or otherwise) saw and heard us arriving and reacted accordingly. The terrorist on the other hand could walk for weeks or months living off the land and not be noticed by the armed forces. The terrorists used AK47’s, undeniably the best general-purpose rifle ever designed. It was born (like me) in 1947. It is rough and ready with no frills, works even when dirty, but there the similarity ends! The white soldier, if seen in the bush could not pass as being a “local.” Also many (like me) did not believe that we could win the war, and took the first opportunity to leave.

My first event was when our patrol returned to a road to be picked up by truck to go back to base camp. We were strung out along the dirt road – (never bunch up in the bush, it makes an easy target for a grenade or machine gun). One of the trucks front wheels stopped just next to my friend. In a one million or more chance to one this was just where a landmine had been placed. The tyre and wheel exploded. It is amazing how many basic component parts a human body can disintegrate into, except the head, and how few can be found after the event.

Villa Salazar – on the Mozambique border. Three of my friends and I were the mainstay of 10 platoon D Company 9RR, Colin, Naas & Uys. We (and a few others) were detailed to go to Villa Salazar to provide fire cover for a 188mm mortar team stationed there. While the mortars and their crews were in bombproof holes in the ground, we were to be on the surface in shallow foxholes to fire at any enemy approaching under cover of fire from their 155mm “Stalin Organs”. Mortar fire was not continuous (I think both sides were fairly short of mortar bombs), but neither was it rare. During one of the exchanges a 155mm bomb landed next to Trevor’s head, which was just above the foxhole. Trevor wore glasses, and the bomb had enough power to break them, unfortunately it still had sufficient power to break Trevor as well. Later when it was “safe” we found a body shaped like a capital “T”.

Then there was Charles – Charles weighed almost as much as his rifle. He had a concave chest, only one lung and was medically “F minus”. However, he also had the same full name and date of birth of another Charles who was “A plus” medically. He did not have to be in the army, but when he got his call-up papers he was so proud and wanted to do something for his country. He did, he died. A sniper bullet got him; Colin, Naas, Uys and I later made snipers become very disinterested in their job – although it did take us few days.

Then there was the journey home. We (the survivors) were happy we were going home – what could go wrong now? Before departure there is always a scramble for the “best” seats on the truck, I was in no hurry, my place was secure – I was the MAG gunner (see somewhere below) and as such took the seat on the back immediately behind the driver of the lead truck so that I could provide sufficient firepower to protect him. Andy (the sergeant) then said that as he had the map, he would sit there to give directions. So I took the last space, right at the back on the nearside (drivers side is the offside) of the truck. We had travelled for a while when I bent over to light a cigarette (not easy to do on the back of a lorry travelling at 30 (ish) mph) when the sky turned black. An RPG7 anti-tank missile had hit the toolbox and spare wheel housing immediately behind the drivers cab. In bending down the blast and molten metal shrapnel passed over me (except the back of my webbing was charred and blackened). This was immediately followed by rifle/machinegun fire - we had been ambushed!

In training where firecrackers and thunder flashes are used, one straightens ones webbing and climbs gracefully to the ground. However, on this occasion I hit the ground on my elbows and knees (a perfect four-point lading) firing into the bush. I was the only one off the truck, and was firing on the wrong side of the road – the terrorists were on the driver’s side of the road! By this time the second truck rounded the bend, Colin (driving it) stopped and leapt out firing, only to be killed. Naas leapt off the back and similarly was killed. Uys (on “my” truck) was wounded and could take no further part in the action that day. I was the only “experienced” soldier left standing - Indeed, the only survivor from “my” truck apart from Uys. I took 6 people from the other truck into the bush to seek and destroy. But although we found spoor and a couple of lung shot blood trails, with the exception of 3 bodies, found nothing. As I could not trust the “rookies” – no fault of theirs, but I did not know how they would react to a contact situation - I only went in for about a kilometre before returning to the truck. “My” truck was on fire, and a bullet had entered the petrol tank, fuel was pouring out onto the road below the flames. We used trenching tools to throw most of the dirt road onto and at the flaming truck, eventually putting it out.

There were 17 people on that truck (including the driver). There were 2 survivors, myself (unhurt) and Uys (wounded). The major (who had been in the 2nd truck then radioed Fort Victoria for casevac (urgent casualty evacuation by helicopter) and assistance. The air force were doing a raid on Mozambique, so no helicopters could be spared to airlift the injured to hospital, so we had to wait for assistance to come by road from Fort Victoria. This took a couple of hours.

Our medic (a Pakistani Muslim) did what he could, but he had insufficient morphine and dressings. The fit and able survivors spent the waiting hours listening to people die. We finally got as far as Fort Victoria army base and found the mess tent. Sometime later our medic turned up. He had spent the time sifting through the dirt on the back of the truck sorting out bones and other body parts to return the remains to various next of kin. He said (and I will always remember this) “I am a Muslim, I do not drink or smoke. Tonight I will not smoke, but I will get very drunk”. With our money and help (both freely given) he did.

The following day we returned to Bulawayo ( a day late – see later about Kathy). On the way we stopped at an army camp beyond (from Ft Vic) Shabani. The Major went to the signals tent with instructions that we were to remain on the (now only) truck. Uys, by then fairly mobile and I spotted the mess tent. We went into it and asked a private in a clean neat and freshly starched uniform for a couple of beers. He replied that the bar did not open until noon and he could not serve us. Neither Uys nor myself had had a bath or shower for 8 weeks, and we were both armed, me with my MAG and Uys with his rifle. However, before we could make the very brave (or very foolish) little snotty see the error of his ways, the sergeant major of the camp came and said “this is all that is left of 10 platoon, give them 2 beers each and charge them to my account”. Then turning to us he said “Your Major is coming out, I must ask him to clarify a couple of points to give you time to get back to your truck.”

We got to Bulawayo without further incident. At Brady Barracks, both Uys and I were separately sent to an army psychiatrist. I consider my interview a waste of time. Asked if placed in similar situations again would I kill again? Kill or be killed? I gave the obvious answer. I was promised a “rest” from my next camp in 8 weeks time, which would effectively give me 6 months off..

This I was happy with. True to their word the army did not call me up for my next 9RR “camp” in 8 weeks time, 2 weeks after I got back to Vic Falls I was kindly invited to join 8RR for their next outing in 2 weeks from then.

However back to the (then) present – I was a day late and Kathy could get no information about me. When she phoned Brady Barracks asking for information as soon as she mentioned 10 platoon D company 9RR there was in intake of breath and “sorry I can’t tell you anything”……..which disturbed her somewhat.

Meanwhile, back in Bulawayo, I made it to the airport on the crew bus I was still in my bush clothes, (all that I had -“smart” uniform etc had been burnt up on the truck), and had had no bath or shower for 8 weeks). The Duty Officer at the airport (whom I knew) issued me with a new (free) ticket to go to Vic Falls, then (though I did not know it) phoned Kathy who was working for Avis at Vic Falls airport. He said, “Alistair is on the flight, but he is in a bit of a state”. On boarding the flight Betty Cole (the Chief air hostess for Air Rhodesia) took one look at me and as I entered the aircraft put a bottle of Castle beer in my hand! I was given a non-stop supply during the flight, and fell into Kathy’s arms on the tarmac at Victoria Falls airport!

On my 8RR call-up the truck I was on went over a landmine. I was directly over the wheel that detonated it. Fortunately, the truck was landmine “proofed”. It had water/air mixture in the tyres (to absorb the explosive energy), conveyor belting and sandbags on the floor. Nevertheless, the truck lifted a few inches, and I (being lighter than the truck) rose a few inches more. Then gravity took over and I dropped, my full metal water bottle on my belt hitting the metal “armrest”. Water is not meant to be compressible, but it had an indentation of about an inch! The area of my kidneys ached for some time after, and I’ve suffered from a painful back for many years.

On return to Brady Barracks I became a “spare part”. I was “on the books” of 9RR – then back in the bush, - but was not down for the next call-up with 8RR As a result, I was paid, but not given my next call-up papers before pay parade. We used to get our next call-up papers before pay parade. Whilst on call-up no one could emigrate. I could then “take the gap, yellow route”, call it what you will. Kathy and I discussed this opportunity on the way back to Vic Falls. Independence was definitely going to be granted on 31st December (then 8 months away) that year, and I felt that the law of averages was now working against me – I could not continue to be so lucky or skilled enough in bushcraft to guarantee my survival. We also had (then) 14 month-old Sasha to consider, what would happen to education, medical etc? So we left.

To get things back to a slightly humorous standing, the following must be told. We went to Salisbury for the tax clearance certificate, which we needed to emigrate. The clerical work and bureaucracy could last for anything up to six weeks! During this period the army could call me up and our plans would be frustrated.

There were literally hundreds of people of all ages in the waiting area and so we resigned ourselves to a long wait. Then a man came through a door, passed me and then turned round and asked “what are you doing here Alistair?” I replied that I was waiting for my tax clearance certificate. “Oh” he said and continued on his way. About 10 minutes later he re-appeared and gave me my certificate. “Who was that?” asked Kathy I replied “He is the father of my first “serious” girlfriend – when I was 18 and she was 16 we used to go out together before I joined the police. - my first prospective father-in-law!” Not WHAT you know but WHO you know!

MAG Gunner. The MAG was/is a 7.62 calibre belt fed machine gun. It weighs 28lb (2 stone or 13 kilos without ammunition. It is 4ft 8ins/1.3 metres in length. It has a cyclic (theoretical) fire power of 780 rounds a minute – divide by 60 for the number of sharp, brutal pointy things that travel at a speed greater than the speed of sound from it’s barrel every second. It came equipped with a spare barrel, as under continuous fire, the barrel would melt! It could chop trees down quicker than a chain saw! Each patrol should have had one as in the right hands this weapon alone could win a firelight. Because of the weight, very few people could (or wanted) to carry one.

However I liked it because I could use it, and make it “sing”. I used to carry a belt of 50 rounds in the gun and a further 200 rounds in 2 belts of 100 each “Mexican bandit style”. I never carried the spare barrel and never needed more ammunition throughout my active service. I was regarded by my friends as being somewhat of a maestro with it. I was never able to conduct a survey with the enemy, they did not breath, so could not talk.

I also liked it because I was not required to carry grenades (one fragmentation and one phosphorous). The fragmentation grenade was OK, but the phosphorous was not. I only remember a few things from school chemistry, one being on the first day of term in the 6th form. The chemistry master took one look at me, bowed his head and smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand, saying “My god, Martin how did you get here?” I also remember that white phosphorous burns and eats into flesh when exposed to oxygen – the human body is composed mainly of water, and has a lot of oxygen molecules. At school I was told that the quickest way to stop phosphorous burn is to get a scalpel, cut round and under the area and remove the flesh and phosphorous as a “plug.” As white phosphorous is illegal in warfare under the Geneva Convention, these grenades were designated “white smoke indicators” I once (and once was enough) saw a soldier get what should have been a flesh wound in his shoulder. Unfortunately, the bullet must have passed through his phosphorous grenade. Whatever, he was covered in the stuff eating into his flesh – understandably; he wasn’t being quiet about it either!

Sometime during the latter years I got a medal from Ian Smith the (then) Prime Minister of Rhodesia. Well, he was busy, so P.K Van Der Byl (Minister of Law and Order – in UK he would be Minister of Defence) – was at Brady Barracks one day when I got back from the bush and he gave it to me. He muttered something about “the Prime Minister is very pleased”…….. It was something to do with (while under attack) my digging the deepest foxhole in the shortest time, or running away the fastest and furthest. Or possibly it was my rescuing 2 soldiers who had stepped on anti-personnel mines in the “killing zone” of an ambush area during Operation Repulse in 1976.

Rudyard Kipling is in my opinion one of the greatest English poets. He was a bit of a rebel and had contempt of British military high command - try his poems on the Boer War and the British army in India. Has as the last lines in “The Mary Gloster”…..”Never seen death yet Dickie…Well now is the time to learn!” My time to learn came early in my life.

[dogmeat]

Fascinating - what a life!

[jofra]

....Never read "The Mary Gloster" until now - an illuminating - but bitter(?) opus......

[treacle]

Married to the Random Rambler for almost 40 years - I am grateful to Soner for all his help over the years - Alistair REALLY enjoyed the thrill he got from coming up with a ''ramble'' every week! Thanks to all our wonderful friends here who have been so helpful since that AWFUL phone call at 12.41 on Sunday 1st November 2015!