September 1967 to August 1969

Kent School, Hostert

e spent the August moving between Chester and Accrington, no doubt boring many friends with our films of Singapore, although probably to our immediate families it was more interesting. One could not help but feel some kind of superiority, considering all the things that we had done during the past three years, when hearing of the exploits of our peers. They all seemed so parochial, having had high spots like a holiday in North Wales or having re-decorated the spare bedroom. It was an unfair attitude to take, and one had to learn to conceal such thoughts and at the same time try to avoid the label of ‘know-alls’ - but in comparison to the activities of some we did feel that we had “been there, seen it all, done it all.”

My folks had moved from Thornton to the suburbs of Chester, at Vicar’s Cross. It was a difficult but wise decision for them to take; the house and grounds at Thornton really did require all their attention, and gave them no time for relaxation. Now in a comparatively small house and with a small garden, they could enjoy the literal fruits, vegetables and flowers of their labours.

etails reached us of my posting to Germany, and the strong recommendation that I travel unaccompanied, until accommodation had been found. We did not mind this, and I wrote to indicate my agreement and to confirm my date of travel. Air tickets duly arrived for me; I was to fly from Luton to RAF Wildenrath. Now we did not even know where Wildenrath was. Our small school atlases did not offer much help, and it necessitated a visit to Accrington Library to search in a larger version. A neighbour had heard of it, and was able to confirm that it was definitely in Germany. However, the location of Hostert - and Kent School - eluded us. Curiously, I was not all that bothered. I certainly did not lose any sleep over it. I had this ingrained philosophical approach that the military would have it all sorted out, and didn’t need me to worry on their behalf.

Therefore, with appropriate cash and travellers cheques I set off to London to report to the Air Trooping Centre somewhere near Euston Station. From there, I was taken on a Services coach up the M1 to Luton. I had not realised that Luton was the main air base for HM Forces to depart for the Continent. The trip across was about one hour, and with watches adjusted to the time difference, we landed at Wildenrath.

I was eventually segregated, together with two or three other passengers, and taken to the Kent School mini-bus waiting outside. We were all teachers, and were told that we would now be taken to the school to meet the Bursar and the Headmaster, and then to learn where we were to be accommodated. It was now that I learned that I was a teacher with the British Families Education Service (BFES), and that Kent School was a large comprehensive, which had been opened for just a year. This explained why my colleagues out east had not heard of it.

Hostert was just a few miles from the Dutch border, like Wildenrath.

ent School occupied the premises of an old nineteenth century building, and had been a former lunatic asylum. After the war it became a British Military Hospital, indeed it had only just finished being so, and when I eventually saw what was to be my new woodwork room I was rather disturbed to see that it had been the morgue, and had the marble slab still in place. Of some interest, at a later date, was the apparently rather fidgety mother, who spoke to me at a parents’ evening. She had been casting her eyes all around but not looking at me (which I find very annoying) whilst I was talking about her son. Finally, she said, “Darren was born in this classroom!” She then explained that the upstairs corridor, now with all its specialist teaching rooms, had been the maternity wing.

he Bursar gave us our accommodation details; the singles were to be in the Kent Mess, which I knew straight away could only be good news, and I - as a married - would be in a small hotel in the village of Hardt just a couple of miles down the road. This did not exactly excite me, but there was nothing I could do about it.

I then met my head of department, Mike Arlow, and he took me to his married quarter, just round the corner from Kent School. Later he dropped me off at the hotel, which was now to be my first experience of trying to communicate with foreigners who did not have the slightest Colonial-like inkling of my language.

The one saving grace was that I was introduced to Ream & Audrey Plant who had also just arrived in Germany; they were in the hotel next door. We immediately found that we had a lot in common as Ream had done his national service in the education corps; and they had also just spent the last six years in Malaya. Most frustratingly for me, was the fact that they had brazened it out, and had arrived in Germany together, and with their own car. All the well intended advice I had received in Singapore, about not taking your car to Germany, or you would have problems importing it because of NATO rules, and that it would be useless on the fast German autobahns - it was all crap. Here were the Plants, having exported their car in June, and two months later re-united with it, at no expense to themselves. Moreover, they arrived together in Germany, when I had been strongly advised by the authorities to travel unaccompanied. Twaddle! They had merely said, “We have nowhere for my wife to stay, none of the relatives or family can possibly put her up.” So they came together and were booked into a double room, for as long as it would be until they were allocated a married quarter. I was annoyed, and felt not a little cheated.

The next couple of weeks were spent settling in at the school, making a few trips around the countryside, and visiting nearby townships like Möenchengladbach and Rheydt. I was glad to have the Plants, to take me around. I had bumped into Dave and Kay Wells straight away. It was exactly three years since we had first met in Singapore, and they took me for my first ever trip into Holland, to the border town of Venlo. It was Dave who took me around car showrooms, trying to persuade me that I needed a second hand Mercedes. But I wasn’t convinced, and had made up my mind that a new Volkswagen ‘Variant’ was to be the one. It was an estate car and would be useful for prams and push chairs.

alerie had by now confirmed that a little infant was on the way. We had always planned to have children, so this was good news.

t was in the very early days that I learned that a married quarter was out of the question - certainly a year’s waiting list - and we would have to take a hiring. These were of variable quality, and generally so far away or difficult to locate that they could be regarded as almost inaccessible. Eventually, I was persuaded that a ground floor flat, within walking distance of the school, was a good deal and worth accepting. It was full of army furniture, and would cost me nothing, but the only disconcerting thing was that the German family, whose large house it was, lived upstairs and we all therefore used the same front door. We would be completely self contained, with our own bathroom, bedroom, lounge and kitchen, but how would it work out?

Hans and Ruth Dahmen had been renting out the lower part of their house, to the army, for a number of years. It was very much an Officers’ Hiring, with officers’ crockery, furniture, curtains and so on. They lived with their two small children and a formidable mother, known as grandmother to the children, or ‘Omah’ to us all. She was delighted that I had moved into the hiring, as she hadn’t liked the previous couple who had come to look at it. They were another newly arrived couple at Kent school - a couple, please note, with their own car, which they had brought with them from Cyprus.

Anyway, the Dahmens were a delight. Not a word of English between them except for 9-year old Martina, so we managed to communicate, but with difficulty. Martina would have her German-English dictionary, and we would all wait whilst she looked up the appropriate word. Omah generally took the initiative though, and the day they were inviting me upstairs for a cup of coffee and cream cake, and I was vague, not understanding a word, she merely grabbed hold of my arm and said “Kom mit!”

alerie arrived at Düsseldorf airport in October 1967, and the Dahmens were thrilled that she was expecting, and would give advice about taking plenty of rest in the garden, and so on. Our car arrived in the November, it was silver metallic, and we could use their garage when they went away for the weekend. They took a liking to us, and we were invited to go away with them and stay the night at her sister’s house, somewhere in the forests of Germany. We went, met the family, and spent the evening in a German pub. It was good fun, but such hard work on the language side that really we all spent the weekend just nodding, drinking, smiling at each other, and speaking our own languages.

We were able to reciprocate and take Hans and Ruth to the Kent Mess in Möenchengladbach, when there was a special function laid on. That was much better for us all, as there were many teachers who could speak varying levels of German. Our guests, including Ruth’s brother and sister, were amazed at our duty-free drink prices. In fact, we were able to help them out when we bought coffee beans and butter for them at the NAAFI; these items were so expensive in Germany at that time. The rate of exchange was then DM11 to the £-Sterling, although in November 1967, due to devaluation, it dropped to DM9.40 to the pound.

We also took them to the United Services Officers Club at Rheindahlen, which was the base for HQ BAOR. This club, USOC (pronounced by everyone as ‘you-sock’), was the place to go on a Saturday night, when there would be entertainment and dancing. One would then have the buffet supper during the evening, either cold meats and salads, or schnitzels and chips, or curry and rice which was always a popular alternative choice at such functions. Everyone liked the USOC, which cost extra to join in addition to one’s own mess fees. It also had facilities like a hairdressing salon, boutiques, and a bowling alley.

e returned to UK for Christmas. A number of younger people tended to do this, the older ones being wiser stayed put. The favoured form of sea crossing in those days was driving to Rotterdam and taking the overnight ferry to Hull. You must remember that the journey from Dover to Accrington, via central London, would have taken some ten or twelve hours. The M1 was the only motorway in the country, about 70 miles long.

y technical colleagues at school had encouraged me to apply for a ‘grade B’ head of department job at Windsor Boys’ School in Hamm. This was a very high post in our subject and I protested that I was not ready for such a jump. However, they convinced me that the job was being re-advertised because no-one good enough had applied, and that I, as new blood in the Command, might be just what they were looking for. So I sent in my forms and, within days was invited for interview. This was held locally, in Rheindahlen, at ‘the Big House.’ This was the actual nerve centre of HQ BAOR and not only did one have to go through several security and document checks but finally, on reaching the correct reception desk a telephone call was made to the appropriate office, and one was collected and signed for. This was how I met another chap who followed shortly after me. I heard him ask for the same office and department as I had been instructed to do, and whilst he was waiting we nodded and smiled and I said “Are you here for an interview, as well?” He replied, “Er, yes, sort of. My name’s Wiley by the way.” I introduced myself.

We were collected at that very moment and taken along the myriad of corridors. What I found incredible was that half way down any one corridor, where another joined it at right angles, was a floor to ceiling iron grill with locked doors, and a sentry either side. These were apparently the more sensitive areas, which required further checks.

“Mr Hunt, would you wait in this room please, and Mr Wiley, will you follow me please?” Our guard and guide segregated us, and I sat down alone and waited. After just a very few minutes I was called forward to meet the formidable Eric Lowe, Director of Education, (a retired Colonel from the RAEC), his Deputy, and the Headmaster of Windsor Boys’ School - Mr Wiley! He nodded, smiled as before, but said nothing. The interview went smoothly but I was, as I felt even then, completely unprepared for such promotion; my answers were not challenged but I knew that I was not up to it. They thanked me and said that the Board (as they called themselves) would be coming to a decision within a few days.

Of course, I received the expected negative letter shortly afterwards. I suppose I can say that I was not disappointed as I had not really been considering applying for it in the first place. The only embarrassing thing about applying for jobs as an attached member of HM Forces is that everyone, including the cleaners and the gardeners, know that you have applied. And so, they all know that you have failed. As for Mr Wiley, I was to sit and listen to him speak on matters educational some 15 years later. This was to the Senior Academic Team of Queens School, when I was a Head of Faculty and he was an HMI.

ave Wells and I had agreed that after the Christmas hols we would set about forming a German Branch of the NAS. Imagine our surprise on receiving a circular letter in January from a like-minded colleague in a junior school. So again, I found myself at an inaugural meeting, but was determined not to get too involved this time. Dave eventually became treasurer of the society, although he had resisted by pouring metaphorical syrup over me, by saying that I would make a better official than him, and that I had previous experience. However, I countered by saying that he, as a mathematician, would be more reliable, and this carried the day.

e had a good half-term in the February of 1968 when we went with Ream and Audrey for a tour along the Mosel and Rhine Valleys. We had learned that this was Carnival time when the German people started to be very happy, and in our landlord Hans’s case very drunk. It was the norm for him to go on a binge for one week - just this one week of the year. It was his birthright, as a German male. No wonder he was so compliant for the remaining 51 weeks. We were involved on the two occasions when he arrived home about six in the morning, together with the local revellers and a highly intoxicated band. They were all in their leather shorts and plumed hats, and played outside the house appropriate Germanic drinking songs. There were no complaints of course, either from the family upstairs, the ground floor residents (that was us), or the next door neighbours.

Anyway, off we set for the Mosel- possibly in the hope of a little peace and quiet. There had been a lot of snow and the picturesque, mediaeval, half-timbered town of Mönchau looked an absolute dream - straight out of a story book; time stood still. We went on spec to all the places without booking, stopping at the Post Hotels and easily gaining accommodation. German double beds are made up of six small mattresses, which is a bit disconcerting; and they had only eiderdowns to sleep under - no sheets or blankets. We were soon told of our faux pas, and so we experienced for the first time the duvet - which, let’s be fair, had not crossed the Channel at that time.

It was on this short break that we discovered the true joys of the German Karneval; fancy dress parades, beer tents, non-stop drinking, music, raucous singing, dancing, bratwurst stalls, and so on. It was an infectious experience and endeared us all to both the seemingly simplistic wine-growing life of the people of the Mosel valley, and also to this annual event of joie de vivre.

major part of our entertainment, on Friday or Saturday night, took place in the Kent Mess. This was in an old mansion in Möenchengladbach, requisitioned by the military at the end of the war. The mess had its own committee, with the headmaster as the Senior Member. In this role he notionally had no active part in the running of the mess, but merely oversaw the decisions of the committee. He was responsible to the Civil Secretary, a major-general rank given to the highest civilian in BAOR. The mess had a problem in that the outgoing treasurer, Emlyn Whitley, was urging members not to take on his job. He claimed that it was unpaid, made him unpopular, and anyway should be undertaken by a member of the Civil Secretariat. There was something of an impasse; no-one really wanted to take it on, but the headmaster - wearing his senior member hat - made it clear that the only thing the Civ Sec would do is to close the mess.

That evening we spent with Ream and Audrey, and we discussed the whole issue at length. I was of the opinion that the job was well within my grasp, and as there was a local full-time clerk who did all the donkey work, I could not see the problem. Ream said that it would do me a lot of good if I volunteered, so I asked him why he didn’t volunteer. His reply was the old standby army response “I never volunteer for anything!” We shared lots of humour like this. The issue was quite serious, however, and we felt that us ex-servicemen and jungle trekkers could show some of these village yokels a thing or two. The outcome was that I saw the President of the Mess Committee (PMC) and volunteered my services. He obviously rushed to contact the head with the good news, because within minutes the latter nonchalantly walked past my room and, poking his head inside said “I’m delighted to hear of your decision, Mr Hunt.”

The job of treasurer, like most other voluntary tasks, does take a bit of homework time. But it presented no insurmountable problems, and caused me no headaches. I was also able to tighten my grip on something that annoyed everyone - the late arrival, generally by about two weeks, of the monthly mess bill. Once I had got myself organised, I changed the working schedule of the mess clerk. She took some convincing, but was co-operative. From that moment, all mess bills were placed into staff pigeon holes on the second or third day of every month, and it stayed that way for the year or so that I was treasurer. You must remember that in those days, all calculations - or ‘adding up’ to be more precise - were done using a mechanical calculator. It was a slow process as it required entering the sums using little levers, and then turning a handle.

riday 10^th May 1968 was a jittery day for me - let alone for Valerie who was in Wegberg Hospital awaiting the birth of Julian. The news reached me at lunchtime, and the word was spread around Kent School “Wetting the baby’s head, in the bar, tonight!” It was a jolly occasion, I was very happy, and how the next event started I don’t recall; but Des Lacklison was the one who got me on the bar counter, took off my sock and covered the sole of my foot with blue ink. He then managed to get me standing on my hands on the bar, with him supporting me of course, and he lifted me up so that I left my footprint on the ceiling. It was then carefully dated. This footprint was to stay for some years, before the property was returned to its owners. I don’t think it will be there now.

n the August we went back to UK for Julian’s christening. We travelled around quite a bit, showing him off to anyone who wanted to have a look. Back in Germany the Dahmens were as delighted as anyone; they were really smashing and showed Val where the best place was to put the pram in the garden, and so on.

ack at school I had now been given a scale I post - my foot was on the bottom rung of the ladder for the third time in my teaching career. This one was as Co-ordinator for Extra Mural Activities. Amongst other things, this meant that I had to liaise with army transport as to the number of buses needed to take home the late participants. My piece de resistance was a vast, colourful display - filling half a corridor - which told the world what activity was on, when, where, numbers attending and so on. The head let me know that his choice in me had been well founded; Ream Plant told me it was because I had volunteered as treasurer. We shall never know.

aving got to know Ream quite well, I began to mimic his stance when he had consumed a little quantity, or so, of beer. He would stand with both hands in his pockets; we always wore jackets with shirt and tie, and he would be leaning either to his left, or right, at quite an angle. I asked him why he did it, but of course he didn’t really know. He pretended that we all looked better from that position. So whenever he did it, I would then adopt his stance and lean in the opposite direction. This of course made the pair of us look quite ridiculous, and we were leaning so far in opposite directions that we couldn’t hear each other speak. You must realise, of course, that there were often many witnesses to these events, so the word soon spread about our daft leaning positions. How I changed my mind I’ll never know, but I remember declaring that I wouldn’t copy Ream’s stance as that was his copyright, but I would lean backwards. So you must now envisage Ream leaning sideways and me leaning backwards, continuing our conversation. One needed to be very mellow to accomplish any sort of a respectable angle, as you might imagine. Thus was born ‘the Hunt lean’, which became something of a legend over the years. Anyone attempting ‘the lean’ was in effect signalling the end of sobriety; and it was quite amazing the low angles one could reach, when any fear of falling over was in inverse proportion to the quantity of beverage consumed.

uring the many quiet evenings spent in our hiring, I was busy writing a full-length 3-act play. It was a farce and designed around Brian Rix of Whitehall fame. I got the young clerk in the school office to type it all up for me; I said that I would pay her the correct professional rate as advertised in various magazines, and she was delighted to improve her typing skills. All dialogue was in black ink, and stage directions had to be in red ink.

As the saying goes, everyone has a novel in him or her, and in my case, it was in the form of a play. It is rather destructive now to say what a load of nonsense it was, with trousers falling down, mistaken identities and so on. Nevertheless, it was the genre at the time, and on the television back home the highlight of the summer schedules would be a live performance of a Brian Rix play, before a live audience. I used to love watching them, and my attempt at stardom was, of course, very much based on the humour of the day.

I had given the play the working title of “What’s In A Rank?” and it had a military flavour. I sent parts of it here, and a synopsis of it there. The outcome, after a couple of rejects from agents, was that I sent the script direct to Rix Enterprises and as the weeks rolled on, I became more and more excited. However, after my gentle reminder it came back by return - they had obviously forgotten all about it - with the usual brief rejection slip. So ended my literary career, and I haven’t looked at the script since.

t was in the autumn of 1968 that Ream Plant encouraged my interest in the Army - and the RAEC. He was always very praiseworthy with things like “You are just the sort of chap they need”. The more we discussed it, the more I warmed to the idea. Eventually it was agreed that there was no harm in my making approaches. Of course, right from the word go I always knew that my choice of teaching subjects was not really going to be of much use to them, but one could always diversify - as many did.

I made my approaches to a major in the RAEC, who was quite pleased in my interest. Eventually I was summoned back to the Big House to be interviewed at Command level by the Chief Education Officer BAOR, Brigadier ‘Ginger’ Evans. This was a low-key chat to test my social graces as much as anything - would I fit in as an officer. From here, I was invited to an interview before ‘The Board’ in London. This was to take place early in December, and then a few days later one would attend the Regular Commissions Board at Westbury in Wiltshire. I received special dispensation to have the time off school, so we had the longest Christmas vacation ever, which was very useful as it was Julian’s first.

Well, I attended the Board and realised right from the start that I had blown it. Basically, and perhaps somewhat unjustly, I was judged on what I had done since being in Germany - and the answer to that was ‘nothing.’ Living in a hiring out in the sticks, getting to know the environment in our new car, and with a new baby, had left no time or inclination for me to join any of the clubs and societies in Rheindahlen. My references to all my activities in Singapore did not impress them, and I am sure that I did not come over as the sort of material they wanted. The next day I had the telephone call advising me “That the Board, after much discussion, had come to a decision not necessarily to your advantage, and would you please return the rail warrant for travel to Westbury.” So that was it. I was quite disappointed, as I had been looking forward to it, being confident that I would walk in.

e got back to Germany early in the New Year, and no-one questioned why I had not come back to school for the last few days of term. There had been a lot of snow, and fortunately for us we had decided to travel very early in January; those teachers who left it until the last possible moment found the roads impassable, ferries held up and so on. Consequently when all the schools in BAOR re-started, about half the teaching staff were absent. The Director was furious, and blamed the teachers for being so irresponsible; pay was docked, and stern letters were sent out. Eventually a new ‘order of the day’ was issued, which said that teachers should always be back in the Command at least the weekend before schools were due to start.

e had now reached the top of the housing list and were offered, and accepted, a married quarter in Hugo Eckener Strasse in the outskirts of Möenchengladbach. The Dahmen family were most upset, and wanted us to stay in the hiring, but naturally they understood the advantages of us having our own place. For our own part, this would be our first house, with garden, and we envisaged being there for some years.

So we moved into a captain’s married quarter, with three bedrooms. All the houses in Germany have an attic or loft area, also a cellar. This latter held the boiler, which gave one the hot water and central heating. Every morning and every evening one had to go, clean out the ashes and shovel in the coke. In England we talk about the weather; in Germany we talked about boilers, “My boiler’s giving me trouble, it needs topping up four times a day.” There were always experts to give the solution, “Ah! You’ve got the flue at the back wide open; close it to half way.”

We all dreaded waking up in the morning and finding that the boiler had burned itself out during the night. That could really throw your tight early-morning schedule out. Particularly if you were getting a lift to school. There were quite a few teachers on our estate, including Audrey and Ream Plant, and so lift-sharing was common.

I always remember that the February half term, Karneval time, gave us a very deep fall of snow. So this kept us very local; indeed, the troops were sent in to shovel the snow off the streets in all the married quarter areas.

t was at this time at school that I started to make scenery for what was going to be the first Kent School play. The flats were very heavy as I’d used hardboard, but at least they were very sturdy. They were stored along the dark dingy cellars of the school. The producer of the play in fact took me for my first visit to No 1 Civilian Officers Mess, so that we could have a working lunch. We discussed the play, and it was because of this that I went along to the Little Hut on a Tuesday night to see how I liked Ariel Theatre Guild. This was one of the three amateur theatrical societies in the area, at that time. The outcome was that I helped them with some of their scenery construction and painting and, although I went a few times on a Tuesday evening, I never actually joined their club. Their play for the BAOR Drama Festival was bang in the middle of the Easter holidays, so I neither saw the play nor helped backstage as a member of the crew.

e had been making enquiries about a small touring caravan. Everyone had a touring caravan in Germany. It wasn’t a case of keeping up with the Jones’s, it was a case of doing what you were expected to do - get a touring caravan! The advice I received was to get a second hand ‘van; that’s the way to start.

So we finished up with a second-hand 10’ long Sprite caravan. It was ideal for us actually, and was easy to tow and to push into place by hand. Julian’s first Easter therefore saw us towing on the south coast of France, and we stayed at several places near to Cannes and Nice and St Tropez. The first time I tried to put my awning up was a bit of a nightmare, and with the help of another Brit, who was an expert, it still took us over three hours. His wife made her displeasure known, so on the morning we were due to leave we arose extra early, and I quietly pulled the awning down, shoving it into the caravan any old how; we then drove out without them seeing us go. We travelled through Monte Carlo, then into the top of Italy, through Switzerland, and into Germany. It was our first big holiday - now that we had a caravan - and we felt that we had joined society at last. No more were we on the fringe of gossip circles when it came to talking about “Where did you go?”

It is funny, but no-one in Germany gave a damn about Singapore, Malaya, Penang, or the Far East. Likewise, when we were out there, no-one took any interest in the travels of our ex-European colleagues. Now in Germany, we were all keen on new places to go, so we listened with interest to travel tales, stories of good and bad camp sites, and so on.

lose to Kent School, at Waldneil, there was what we would call a German Public House. On the Continent, and indeed all over Europe, they don’t have pubs as in Britain, but rather licensed restaurants with all the usual bar facilities. Some would go just to drink and socialise, but for the most part the population would have a meal there.

A group of about eight of the blokes from Kent School would go to this place, about once a fortnight, for the purpose of using their ‘keigle bahn’ - or bowling alley. This was jolly good fun, and necessitated having a statutory meal of schnitzel and frites, copious amounts of beer, and frequent rounds of schnapps. Needless to say we would all get pie-eyed and generally looked the worse for wear the next day. We all enjoyed keigling!

was still looking at the possibility of an external degree, and had read all the blurb on the requisite qualifications. Art was still out, because of the classics requirement, but it looked as though ‘law’ was possible, and in Feb ’69 I received a ‘statement of eligibility’ from the University of London, saying that I was qualified to proceed to the ‘Intermediate Examination in Law.’ To qualify to sit the finals, you had to pass at this intermediate level. I was quite pleased at this, actually, as it was the first positive response on a degree that I had ever received, so I purchased some past papers in the hope of getting the vibes. Well, I could see straight away that this subject was not for me; indeed, it would have been a hopeless task. I did not throw the old question papers away for some time, but the idea rapidly receded from my mind.

now had my first experience of a CSE Consortium Meeting. This was to be held at Windsor Boy’s School, Hamm. This was when we took all the project work for CSE, from all over BAOR and Berlin, to the one centre for moderation. I loved the night-before session. Staying in a hotel, all expenses paid for, we would have a good meal and then visit the local taverns. Many sore heads the next day, but we were united in our friendship and our mutual loathing for the consortium day itself. The fact that it was on a Saturday rankled with many; industry would not put up with this, but schools are expected to. In later years the authorities did away with the all expenses bit, except for those travelling from Berlin, and allowed only the petrol and lunch allowance; even then, you could only claim the petrol allowance if you had taken at least two other people in your car! So people with bulky art, craft, science, or geography work had to argue the case for travelling alone, but with all their projects. The battle raged on every year - and with no Friday night ‘get-to-know-each-other sessions’ - morale was pretty low. I never changed my low opinion of Consortium days.

ometime in June of that year a job for a head of department, Grade A in handicrafts, was advertised for Edinburgh School in Münster, North Rhine Westphalia. I did not take much notice, as I assumed that one of my senior colleagues would be applying. He was already on a Scale 2 Allowance, and this was a natural sideways move to a more senior position, although the salary was the same.

For the first, but not the last, time in my career I came across the attitude of someone not wanting to make a move, because it would mean too much upheaval. It is an easy trap into which to fall. You have a cosy quarter that you have at last managed to get decorated. You have a garage after a two-year wait. The garden is now looking nice after all your efforts. The children are happy in school. The wife is happy on the coffee morning, and flower club circuit. Who in their right mind wants to move? Eventually, and it was at our very next keigle evening, I had to ask Peter Winkles, who was effectively the 2 i/c of our technical department, if he intended applying. When he said, “No, it’s not worth it for me,” I said that I would give it a go.

I had not really given the job much thought. It was for September and, let us face it, we were quite comfortable in our new married quarter, thank you very much. Eighteen months in a hiring, and just six months in the quarter, I had no real thoughts of making a move. I was therefore somewhat alarmed when I received the invitation to attend for interview. Of course I was pleased as well, but straight away one thinks of the possibility of moving, and wondering if one has made the right decision.

Everyone I spoke to assured me that it was the right thing to do. People generally always tell you what you want to hear. I also received quite a lot of advice on interview questions. So the big day came, and with interview suit on I drove up the autobahn to Edinburgh School, Münster.

I’d been given instructions as to how to find the school, which turned out to be a series of nissen huts and prefabricated buildings within the confines of a military barracks. One had to stop at the gate and identify oneself to the sentry on guard duty, but things were quite relaxed in those days.

So I found myself in the staff room, having a cuppa, and chatting to another candidate who was much older - and therefore more experienced than me. This did not at first help my confidence, but the more I heard this chap speak, the more I realised he was the world’s number one bore. His main topic of conversation was the married quarter situation in Gütersloh, and how he would be asking the interview board how good or bad it was at Münster. That, I thought, would be a fatal question to ask an educational panel, who have no say in the allocation of quarters. A member of the staff at the school had been very sociable chatting to us, and kept the conversation going. But when the bore went for his interview he could not help but give me a quizzical look and say, very much as an understatement, “Well, I wonder if he’ll talk himself out of it?” I laughed and said I would not mind if he did.

Well, about three quarters of an hour later, he emerged. It was now my turn. I was the last one in because I had travelled the furthest distance. I was not sure that I could stand the same lengthy grilling. I heard that there had been four candidates. Anyway, in I went to meet the Headmaster and the Deputy Director of Education. The usual formalities over, they asked me the standard questions relating to the duties of a head of department. And all too quickly they were asking me if I had any questions to put to the board. Therefore, my interview was over. I had looked at my watch, and I know that my interview lasted exactly fifteen minutes.

Back I drove to Möenchengladbach, stopping for a quick lunch of bratwurst and frites on the way. It was a two hour drive, and I wondered whether to return to school; I had thought of going and letting my head know that I was back. If I have been successful, then I knew he would tell me because he would already know, but if it was a rejection note then I guessed he might profess ignorance. Anyway, I did not go back to school, but merely got myself psyched up for that night’s session in the keigling bahn.

My interview was, for a time, a major topic of conversation during the early part of the evening. I said that I felt that the interview panel realised early on that I was not the person they wanted; hence my short time being interrogated. However, my mellowing keigling colleagues thought otherwise, and tried to convince me that the brief interview was solid proof that the panel knew they had the right man.

At about 8.30 the following morning, feeling a little fragile, I was just walking away from the school car park with Ream when we saw the headmaster in the distance. I said to Ream, “If he says nothing, then it means I haven’t got the job; but if he says he wants to see me on a matter of some importance” - this being one of his favourite sayings - “then I’m in with a chance.” We both laughed and continued to walk towards the school’s main entrance. The headmaster then hailed us, “Good morning gentlemen. Mr Hunt, I wonder if I could see you for a few moments on a matter of some importance?”

Ream whispered in my ear “Congrats!”

In I went to see the head, and he said “The news I have is a little disappointing - er, for me that is - because I am going to be losing you next term.”

I had it!

The Head went on, “I had expected to see you yesterday afternoon, but presumably you did not get back in time. I could have told you then.”

Blast! All that worry last night, and I could have been celebrating. Of course I was chuffed to bits - Grade A Head of Department. This was certainly that bit higher than the bottom rung of the ladder. But somehow I could not help but feel how casually it had all happened, indeed might never have come about but for Peter Winkles finally deciding he was not going to bother. The thing that still gets me is that neither he, nor anyone else in the school, would have encouraged me to apply. In addition, the last thing that anyone wants is the dreaded move, but as far as we were concerned that never entered into the equation, not for a promotion.

t was during my last term that I went to the doctor’s with this recurring rash from Singapore days. He didn’t recognise it but, and this was a stroke of luck, the consultant dermatologist from BMH Münster (of all places!) was in the nearby medical centre, and he fixed up for me to visit him later that day. It’s always so encouraging when one deals with an expert. “Ah! Yes!” he said, “That looks like dermatitis herpetiformis.” So a biopsy was performed, and I immediately went on tablets to combat the scourge. They did not really know what caused it, possibly hereditary, from generations back, but there you are. Keep taking the tablets, and you will keep the rash away! However, the down side was that the tablets could cause anæmia, so an annual blood check was necessary. I went through all this, for the next twenty years. Then, as you will discover, I met a specialist who told me stop taking the tablets and go on a certain kind of diet! But that’s a long way away yet.

ust a short time later, early in July I went back to Münster at the invitation of my new headmaster, to discuss things. Reg Westcott was in his mid-fifties, and was a primary school teacher. He had been moved from somewhere with Service schools in N Africa, to Edinburgh School in Münster. At that time it was thought that this school might either become a small middle school, or would be closing down altogether. My predecessor had been angling for an increased grade, but was told that the school had no future with falling numbers. So he immediately applied for a job in Canada and announced his imminent departure. “Up yours!” as the saying goes.

Almost within days, he saw his job advertised in BAOR as Grade A Head of Department. He was not amused. The whole policy had changed and the school roll was now expected to increase. Who works out these statistics is never revealed of course, but it obviously keeps a few bureaucrats in lush offices, and gives them a good pension for loyal service. The school had around 100 pupils when I arrived, and reached its peak of over 500 during my time there.

Reg Westcott was a good old sort, and easy to get on with. His wife, Betty, was great fun and very popular at coffee mornings and dinner parties. It was then, over afternoon tea, that they told me they had got a married quarter lined up for me. Things up here were very much easier than down at HQ. They had heard somebody gossiping that it had only taken old so-and-so a few days to get a married quarter, so Reg went to the housing officer straight away (he knew them all well enough), and demanded a quarter for me. So we were to move into Captain Paul Hawkins’ MQ, and he was to be upgraded to a major’s quarter as he now had three children. We got to know Paul and his wife quite well; he was one of several doctors and dentists with whom we mixed socially when we got up there.

So with the quarter fixed up, we were able to enjoy our last few weeks at Möenchengladbach. Right at the end of term, we were all hoping to witness the first landing on the moon. It was due to be broadcast live on television at about four o’clock in the morning. We had a couple of lady teachers sleeping in our caravan, which we kept outside the front door. The one TV in their mess was unreliable. This, of course, was in the days before it was normal for everyone to have their own TV’s in their rooms. Therefore, we had a bit of a moon-landing party, nothing too raucous as we all wanted to be able to get up. And we managed it - indeed, none of us really got much sleep that night, and we were able to see this historic event.

s soon as school ended, we went to Düsseldorf airport to pick up nephew Robin coming to stay, or at least to have a European roam with us in our caravan. During his two weeks we managed to go into seven different countries, and he was able to send a postcard from each one. I made him keep a note-book recording all that we did, the places visited and the mileage covered. Even though I say it myself, he had a pretty good introduction to Europe. If he still has the scrap book, all these years later, then he might possibly be grateful that I insisted he write it up every night, but at the time he probably did not think much of the idea.