ACT IX – Germany

November 1978 to March 1982

Scene 2 – Ratty & Messy Days

 

 

 

he chairman of Rats, for the past couple of years, had been Brigadier Peter Dietz. He was the Chief Education Officer (CEO) for BAOR. One of his last efforts for Rats, before posting in a few months time, was to produce The Recruiting Officer. I was a member of the cast, as well as a stagehand. My on-stage role was that of Bullock, ‘a country clown.’ I had a few lines to say, in an appropriate village-idiot kind of way, and spent most of my time in the wings, changing scenery. It was a good period play, and went down well with the audiences.

            It was in the dressing room that I had a chat to Peter about his next posting. He was close to retirement age, for the army, and as one of the six brigadiers in the RAEC, and in the most senior brigadier posting, he stood every chance of being made the Major General. It must be hellish for these brigadiers; every two years one of them, and only one, will make it to the top. The rest are finished with. There is no second chance, two years later. The whole system is geared to retirements. As Peter said to me, “I’m either up or out.”

            Well, he was out, probably with a good enough pension not to have too many worries. I liked Peter and got on well with him.

            A few years later he returned as the adjudicator to BAOR for the inter-services drama festival! I think that was a mistake, actually, particularly as Rats came away with some trophy or other. The folks up in the sticks could smell a rat (a real one), although I am sure that Peter adjudicated fairly, and was uninfluenced by his former associations. Nevertheless, it cannot be easy.

            Funnily enough, I had once asked Peter Dietz how to become an adjudicator, and he told me it was very easy. “I could recommend you,” he said, “And all you have to do is to stand up and adjudicate a play, and I know you could do that. In fact, Dave, I think you would make a very good adjudicator.” Apparently, they just want to see if you are capable of talking to an audience. I declined his offer to supply me with an application form, saying that my ignorance of Shakespeare would let me down. All true thespians know their Shakespeare - and I don’t. It was my ignorance of Shakespeare that stopped me from pursuing this line of interest.

 

 newcomer to Rats was a retired Lt Col called Leif Welton. His first name was of some Scandinavian extraction, and was pronounced ‘lafe’ as in ‘safe.’ For the next few years his name caused a lot of talk with newcomers, adjudicators, chairmen of societies, and so on. They would ask me how it was pronounced. Generally, and by no means absurdly, the nearest they could get was ‘leaf.’

            Anyway, when the chairman of Rats announced his imminent departure, the question of the new chairman came up. Since the inauguration of Rats in the late forties, the Chief Education Officer (later Americanised to ‘Commander Education’) BAOR, had been the honorary chairman of the society, along with such posts as Chief Scoutmaster; these came with the rations. Now, for reasons that escape me, his successor just did not want to be chairman (I’m surprised that he became a Brigadier, if that was his attitude), and so Peter Dietz had appointed Lt Col Tony Rees to succeed him.

            Well, Leif just did not like that. “Don’t we have a vote?” he asked. This was his first meeting, remember, and so no one really knew who he was. “No,” said the brigadier, “The chairman of Rats is a Chief of Staff (COS) appointment, and I have recommended Tony Rees.” Yummy! I thought a battle of the ranks was about to take place, but Leif was too wise to enter the ring, and merely had the last shot about democracy.

           Over the coming years Leif, and his wife Rosemary, were to become pillars of the society. They were into everything, Leif was particularly talented as an actor, a producer, a set designer and constructor, and just about everything else you can mention. Like me, he had done every job except that of wardrobe mistress. However, he was much more dedicated and skilled than I was, and he seemed to have few other interests in life. In addition, he used his camera a lot, which meant that I was now able to start my dramatical collection in earnest, something visual, to keep the programmes company in my scrapbook.

 

he time came for Jock Hamilton to leave as manager of No1 Mess. We gave him a good send off, with a dinner party, a cheque, a signed certificate of honorary membership, the lot. I gave my speech, starting “With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge,” short pause, then I parodied the Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner for, remember, Jock was an ex-matelot; “It was an Ancient Manager….” Well, I have to boast and say that the start brought the house down, and all the many gags thereafter were received with much laughter.

            We were all sorry to see Jock go, and at 7.0am on the Monday morning a small, quiet, funereal group of us stood at the door of the mess to bid farewell. Ed Sullivan and Russell Mozeley had made it in from their married quarters, and we all had a soft drink in the bar; coke, tomato juice, orange juice and so on. As Ed said, “A pact, gentlemen; we must not tell the members what we had to drink this morning, or our reputations will be in tatters.”

            A few days later the replacement mess manager arrived. He was a tall, angular chap called John Bartley; a prim and proper sort of person, of indeterminate sexuality. He had been heralded as ‘A very experienced manager - just the sort that No 1 mess requires.’

“We’ll see,” I thought.

            In fact, John seemed a very sociable sort of person, and I was ready to listen when he asked to be co-opted onto the mess committee. “I’m very surprised that I’m not automatically on the committee,” he said, “It’s the first mess I’ve ever come across that doesn’t invite the manager onto the committee.” He would continue. “In fact, this is probably the only mess that doesn’t invite the manager onto the committee.”

            This all made me feel rather inadequate, particularly as his reasons were so convincing. For instance, if there is a question regarding food, he would say, then the food member has to wait until the next day to discuss it with the manager, but if the manager is there, he can probably deal with the query on the spot. Likewise with the wines member; why wait for at least twenty-four hours to discuss things with the manager, when you could get an immediate answer?

            I put the idea to senior member John Kell. He looked at me aghast. “What a fucking cheek!” he said, “He’ll be telling us how to do our jobs next!” John had no love for the Naafi.

            Anyway, because I pushed it the outcome was that the manager came to our next committee meeting. As we all trooped into the committee room holding our drinks, John was sat there, all prim and proper with note pad and pencil at the ready. He was viewed with suspicion right from the start; John Kell sat there positively scowling at him. I knew that something would give before long, but did not know what. Eventually someone said “Should we really be discussing this in front of the manager?”  Silence. The manager then defended his position. We continued cautiously, nobody really happy. We had a pause for a drink to be collected from the bar - one of my early innovations, with expenses on the mess. It was then that a compromise was reached; on committee nights, the manager would wait in his office in case we wished to consult him. However, for routine matters ‘we would not waste his time.’ End of story. The manager was never consulted, soon gave up the idea of waiting in his office, and never mentioned the subject again.     And the mess committee blithely continued, sans manager, in its own unique way.

 

here was a little bit of local excitement, as the BBC radio programme Any Questions was to be held in the garrison theatre. However, as it was a Friday night I decided to give it a miss and, indeed, had forgotten all about until some time after eleven o’clock when there was a ripple in the bar and some-one shouted to me “He’s here, PMC!” By that stage of the evening  I hadn’t a clue who they were talking about, until I saw David Jacobs, who was something of a radio and television personality. I went over, hand outstretched, and Albert Riley introduced me. I bought a drink, for our guest and his entourage, and had a general chat.

            I was able to ask Albert, a mess member and Nato interpreter, “What made you bring these suspicious-looking people to our mess?” He told me, in front of David Jacobs, that after the C-in-C left they were being directed towards their driver and thence their hotel. As it was so early in the evening, for a Friday that is, he thought a bit of No 1 mess was the order of the day. It was only some time later, when I asked David Jacobs if he would like another drink that he said “Well, I’d better see what my producer says.” I was amazed that some one of his renown should have to comply with the orders of some younger person, a female, with straggly hair and a mouth full of horsy teeth. The answer was negative - they were off. I saw them to the door and waved farewell. We all continued with our Friday night, but I just could not get the hang of the name of that female. The chaps in the bar were full of it, and were most animated. I felt that this female positively did not endear herself to one. Apparently, she was someone called Esther Rantzen, but as I had been away from UK for something like fifteen years, her name meant nothing to me. 

 

t was now time for Ed Sullivan to finally retire as NATO Accounts Supremo; we gave him a good send off from the bar. I made the official speech and in return - only a fool would try to attempt a better speech than Ed Sullivan - Ed spoke about the various characters in the mess, and appointed me as his successor, as ‘The President of the Lower Deck’. Some members later said that the Rev Norman Daniels was disappointed, thinking that he was the favoured one. Ed then proceeded to explain that he was naming a horse in his son’s stud after us. The horse was thus duly named, and some time later a large framed photograph of him adorned the bar wall, bearing the name “The Lower Deck.”

 

or the living-in member’s Christmas dinner, my well prepared speech not given. Stan Paterson, who so nearly made me want to resign a couple of years previously, was so intoxicated that he became the centre of attention all evening. It was all quite humorous, actually, and I didn’t mind Stan being naughty, climbing on top of the table and crawling underneath, but I was damned if I was going to be pilloried by trying to make a speech. It would have been out of the question, actually, as with all these antics no-one would have heard it, and it would have been pointless to try and call the party to order!

            I was sorry only because I thought my speech was quite funny, and it had included at least one favourable mention of everyone at the dinner party. I seem to remember that the entertainment’s member read it the next day, and proclaimed it a work of genius (obviously, she was still under the influence), but I never took up her suggestion to make it available for general reading.

 

t was during the second half of the year that Queens school started to consider ways of celebrating its 25^th Anniversary during the following January. I remember floating the idea of a first day philatelic cover (FDC), to be met with the rather dull response “Yes, we’ve already thought of that, but it’s a bit too complicated - and anyway, we don’t think we would be allowed to.”

            Now in Civvy Street when any organisation has an anniversary, you can do anything legal - but you cannot have a FDC to commemorate it. In the services, however, because of the link with the crown, a FDC is quite the normal thing to have. The lucky part of all this was that not only was I keen to be the one to design something, but in Rats we had a member of the Postal & Courier Services, namely Major Barry Cash. I put the idea over to him on a club night, and he could see no problem. I could design anything suitable, to a certain size, and submit it for official approval. We could then print the envelopes with the accepted design, and there was our FDC. The FDC could then be issued with GB stamps, and stamped on a first day of issue basis. They would do this for us. In addition, but at a small cost for the die, we could submit our own design for the cancellation ‘chopper’ bearing, again, any suitable slogans.

            So, I had the go ahead from the ‘posties,’ and by the next day the all clear from school. I then started on my designs, and finally came up with a shadow-silhouette of the school, the inspiration coming from a recent aerial shot. It worked beautifully, I think I can say, and the colours of black and gold were quite striking. The circular cancellation die bore the legend ‘Queens School Rheindahlen - 25 years.’ We decided to print 1000 envelopes, to be numbered from 0001 to 1000. We advertised through the usual military channels, and received quite a response. The new issue on 16^th January 1978 was of British Birds. There were five or six new issues during the year, and I am one of just a handful of people who received the ‘first day of issue’ with the correct date stamp, on my FDC, each time.

            Naturally I had wanted envelope number one, but later on Jim Lovegrove came to me and said “Dave, do you mind not having number one?” He then went on to say that he had plans to send a ‘loyal address’ to the Queen, with each form in the school sending a signed card. The highlight, together with photographs, would be the FDC.

            So HM has number 0001. The reply said “Her Majesty is pleased to accept your first day cover, which will be placed in the royal philatelic collection.” Still, it means I will always have a tale to tell, by having number 0002.

 

t was also in the snow of January 1979 that one, physically small teacher arrived and proceeded to unpack her car. We viewed all this from the mess windows, passing comment that she ought at least to come into the bar and fortify herself. It looked so cold out there, and we were all so warm and cosy in the centrally heated bar.

            I learned later that this newly arrived teacher was called Marjorie Graham. She was shortly to take over as head of the Infants’ school.

 

he annual panto this year was Dick Whittington. The sponsors this time round were Ariel. I helped with set construction and painting, as well as being one of the stage crew for the run. Such a lot of work goes into these shows, but at least with pantos we usually had a ten-show run, so that tends to bring in a lot of audience, and quite a useful profit. Rheindahlen pantomimes were always geared up for young children, with lots of audience participation, shouting ‘He’s behind you!’ and so on. We used to get all the guides, brownies, church choirs, play-schools, and so on from within a 50-mile radius. In later years, we even had an interest shown by the local German audiences who wanted to see a traditional British Pantomime. However, they were the kiss of death, as they sat expressionless throughout the show, not really understanding the humour. And the man dressed as a woman, and the leading lady dressed as a man, well, that was beyond their comprehension.

 

n the February of ’79, Worms decided to do Gilbert & Sullivan’s Princess Ida. I was approached to help with the set, and to be a member of the stage crew. Indeed, Worms never gave up asking me to be their SM, when they hadn’t got anyone else capable of doing it, but I always (truthfully) said that I couldn’t commit myself with my own school productions, as well as the Rats involvement. John Loring was to produce it, and he first asked me, then Tom McMahon, a WOI in the army, to be his stage manager. I let John know my reluctance to work behind the scenes with Tom - only because he frowned on tins of beer backstage, and made one feel a heel for drinking it. In addition, he did not even supply the stuff to his crew, which he should. As I said to John, “He just hasn’t got the knack of keeping his own troops happy.” Well, John spoke at last. “Dave, if that’s all that’s worrying you, then let me tell you that things have changed - as of now.”

            Consequently I went along to help build the set, and the beer was flowing from the first night of set construction, to the final curtain on the last night. I can see now that Tom would have been on his own, without a solid (beer-swilling) crew behind him. We all learn.

            Alan Roach had painted the scenery, which was acclaimed by the local theatre critic with the words ‘The set was magnificent - surely the best tribute to this splendid effort, both from the view of construction and lighting, was the spontaneous applause with which the audience greeted the opening curtain’.

 

he head barman in No 1 mess was Günther. I had first seen him in operation in the USOC some years before; always on the ball, quick - and smart. He had a beer belly of outlandish proportions, and a wild, straggly beard. The fact that he smoked British cigarettes concerned him not one jot, and we were too wise to ask how he obtained them. The packets of these cigarettes bore the unmistakable legend ‘Naafi - for HM Forces - not for re-sale’. However, Günther was kept on the payroll, because he was good at his job.

            Günther used to love playing liar dice with us, and although the bar officially closed at eleven in the evening, he would carry on until twelve and even later. I once went to his house in a nearby village, for Karneval, and it was great seeing everyone in fancy dress; I wore my top hat and tails, bow tie, dress shirt, white gloves. It was a great atmosphere, and a non-stop boozy day. That’s how karnevals should be enjoyed.

            News leaked out that Günther was leaving - to open his own pub! I went along for the opening, with Jim Sollars - a civilian who worked for HQ 4 Signals Group. We were the first to arrive, to visit what turned out to be a little hovel of a bar; one room above somebody else’s kitchen, in a back street. We couldn’t see this venture working, but naturally made appreciative noises to our host, who was chuffed to bits to have some Brits giving him official recognition.

It was during the small talk, with Jim Sollars, that the subject turned to freemasonry. He was a member and, by the end of the evening, he had me signed up as a candidate. Funnily enough, this all came to nought - at the time I assumed I’d been black balled - because Jim’s marriage was breaking up and he was soon to be tour-ex anyway, and so my application was not processed in the normal lengthy way. It was to be another two or three years before I realised all this.

 

he next production for school was Annie Get Your Gun; a delightful show, with over seventy kids and as many as six ASM’s to help me! I had used pupils, of course, and a good rapport was built up. The theatre critic said “…a bouquet must go to stage manager Dave Hunt and his band of ASM’s …” So we were all chuffed that we had been recognised.

            If only as many people turned up on the Sunday, to clear up, as seemed to be there on a Saturday night at the after-show party.                 

 

t was now time to consider Rats’ next production - for the BFG Drama Festival. The trouble was, everyone was going to be away on a crucial service exercise for some weeks, and that would leave very few back at base to form the production team, as well as the cast. Eventually the talk turned to who would produce, and the chairman, Brigadier Peter Dietz - who was now packing his cases, prior to departure from BAOR, nominated me as someone with experience, and so on. I said that I would be capable of producing only a comedy, or something light. A show that would not require any ‘interpretation’. I ventured the title Charley’s Aunt. All were agreed that this would be an excellent choice (because they wouldn’t be there to help in any way), but I had my doubts about who would be in the cast, and who would help build the sets.

            After many false promises of support, I advertised audition evenings, although my vibes told me that we couldn’t build three period sets, with period costumes, and a cast of something like a dozen. Well, we couldn’t. Only Major Robbie Dobson turned up for an audition. I sent my signal to Peter Dietz “I can’t do it - it’s too much when we are at full strength, let alone in the middle of a military exercise”.

            So the outcome was that he, and his wife Vivien, decided to share the load and produce a one-act play each. As Peter said to me later, "We had to do something. I just would not have been able to look my colleagues in the face if I, as chairman of the drama festival organising committee, had to say that my own society cannot put anything on this year because of the exercise.”

            Anyway, he managed to find many more available people, young officers from ‘B’ Mess, than I would have been able to do. He Produced Tom Stoppard’s After Marguerite, which was pretty lousy. Vivien produced The Real inspector Hound, which was brilliant. Sorry about this, but I was in the latter play. My co-star was Robbie Dobson, and we were a perfect partnership; several times the audience applauded at our repartee. The theatre critic said “ … We saw from some of the ‘old timers’ very polished performances. Two, however, were outstanding: David Hunt, who didn’t put a foot wrong, and Robbie Dobson …”

 

 short time after this, Rats launched into yet another production, that of I’ll Get My Man. I contented myself just with helping out on the set for this one - I mean, what with school plays as well, there were times when I was just saturated with plays. But whatever happened, I always managed to do whatever I said I would do. I never missed the run of the show, either helping behind the scenes generally, and sometimes front of house. The last night party was, of course, the time for self-indulgent congratulatory talk, but everyone enjoyed themselves.

 

t school, we were always being plagued to help the annual Rheindahlen Fête. In the days before my arrival, my predecessor had kept the workshop technician fully engaged, for two terms, making coffee tables. Not only did these take an inordinate amount of timber, but also the market for them was diminishing somewhat. They were also lacking in current stylish design and were not a perfect example of the sort of work that we’d like people to think we were doing. Therefore, I banned them - much to the dismay of Herr Dahlems, who’d been making them for years.

Instead, I had him make cheese boards - made from multi-coloured strips of timber, glued together - with a wooden mouse at the end. These hit the fête by storm, and we were forever after receiving requests for them. So we made them, for years, and they did not seem to date like the heavy coffee tables (and all married quarters had a nest of three coffee tables, anyway). The cheese boards were useful gifts to take home to UK as presents. There must be thousands of these boards in existence, each with a little mouse in the corner.

 

he Rev Norman Daniels came up to me and said “Dave, I’m going to produce the next school play - it’s called Bonaventure. Will you be my stage manager, and, er, I have already appointed your ASM, Father Bill Boyd.”

What a trio, as some said. Obviously, the ecclesiastical element in the play had brought the two clerics to the fore. Actually, Norman was the thespian, but Bill was more than happy to help in an advisory capacity. Bill was in his element with the cast, having various pictures taken with the ‘nuns’ - fifth and sixth form girls.  On showing these to his Abbott, some time later, Bill recounts how he was told “It’s time you came back into the monastery, my boy.”

 

ill and Barbara Spencer now arrived back at Rheindahlen. He took over Ed’s job with NATO. Consequently, we were able to continue our friendship of previous years, and in due course have a taste of RAF mess life, when invitations to various functions came along. In due course Bill and Barb were to buy a house in a nearby village, and this was great for barbecues but, even more importantly, for his kellar bar - which had just the right atmosphere. Many a good session has been enjoyed at Schlöss Spencer.

 

ne of the duties of the PMC was to sort out other peoples’ problems; noisy neighbours in the corridor, that sort of thing. I always remember Janette Walsh coming to me with her problem, that of being semi-accosted by a married member who was temporarily living in the room next to her. Nothing had happened, but he was very drunk and made his desires very plain. It was obviously an unsettling incident for a young lady, particularly when she felt so vulnerable in the room next to him, in a quiet corridor.

            It’s so difficult to sort out things that happen very late at night, when alcohol has played a part. I mean, did I speak to the bloke, or did I go to his superior officer? As I said to Janette, “What if he denies it?” Whilst full of sympathy for Janette, who was rather troubled, I said “He could say that you encouraged him. How would you answer that, which we both know to be untrue?” Anyway, as there had been no physical involvement, we agreed that I would make a note of the date of the incident in my official desk diary and that, should there be any kind of a repetition or follow up on his part, then I would intervene. I’m happy to say that was the end of it, and he soon moved into a married quarter and was never heard of again.

 

owards the end of ‘79, Capt Barry Wells agreed to produce the next Rats Pantomime - The Sleeping Beauty. I was quite early on designated as his dame, in the part of Queen Coke, and Leif Welton was to be his stage manager. It was a good enough production, but I felt that it lacked a bit of ‘Oomph!’ Possibly, this was because my opposite number, as the King, was an absolute pain in the rear. He was a major in the army, with no acting experience, and he just got in my way on the stage. Thick. I’m convinced that some of these people realise they are being passed over for higher promotion, so they climb out of their armchairs and start to take an interest in things where they will be seen as useful members of the service community.

            Amateur dramatics was an obvious choice, so was being a sideman at the garrison church. I understood there was a long waiting list for the latter - you see, the C-in-C turned up from time to time, and to be the sideman who escorts him down the aisle, because he doesn’t know the way, is a tremendous boost to one’s ego. Bill Boyd tells the tale of the major who telephoned the chaplain one Sunday morning to ask “Will the C-in-C be there?” and the chaplain replied “I don’t know about the C-in-C, but I know that God will be there!”

Back to the panto. I had one such major, and he was clueless. In fact, some of his responses were so slow that I used to say his lines for him. I would prefix such interference with the words “I bet I can guess what you are going to say next; I bet you are going to say ….” Then I would say his line for him. He never really understood the reason why I occasionally did this. Fortunately, I got on extremely well with the producer, and during the drinks session after every rehearsal we would go over everything, including my little local difficulties. We all used to have a good laugh at the way Bert (the major) always used to look so confused when I said his lines for him, not quite knowing what to make of it all.

            I had one friend, in the Rheindahlen Bulletin theatre critic. This person, as ever, was anonymous, although the hobby of most amateur dramatists is to spend hours analysing the crit, trying to spot some saying, or some style that will reveal the identity of the author. On this occasion I didn’t really mind, as the comment was “….Dave Hunt, as Queen Coke, made a welcome return to a stage where he has rarely failed to please. It’s a pleasure to see this busy actor who can have few equals when audience participation is the order of the day, and this performance was equal to that he gave a couple of years ago in Cinderella.”  How nice.

 

or some reason I can actually remember that it was a Monday evening, when Marj and I suddenly, unexpectedly, and most certainly unplanned, got to know each other. Before that, we had only chatted generally, and passed the time of day. It was in January 1980. It was getting on in the evening, and there were just four of us in the bar; then there were two. The others had gone to watch a serial on television, and Marj announced that she was going to watch it on her own telly. That would have left me alone in the bar, which would not have been unusual. So, I said I would come and watch television with her. Now that was unusual.

            And so our acquaintanceship developed, and became something stronger. Actually, it was at the time that Marj was starting to move her gear out of the mess, into a hiring, and consequently it was some weeks before anyone realised that we were ‘walking out’ together.

            The first joint invitation that Marj and I received was to a birthday party in B Officers’ Mess. One of the young female army Lieutenants, Maggie Bagshaw - whom we knew from Rats - was born on February 29^th and so this was her Leap Year Party. The invitations were ‘Come to my Fifth Birthday Party’ and so we did, all suitably dressed up for the evening. I wore a St Trinians outfit and it was quite something, entering an army officers’ mess, to see majors in nappies, and lieutenant colonels in romper outfits, for Maggie’s fifth birthday.

            The drink was orange juice (heavily laced) which we had to drink through a straw, and the nibbles were things like smarties. The food was appropriate little soldier-fingers of paste sandwiches, little cakes with cherries on the top - and of course the birthday cake itself with five candles. We all sang happy birthday, and Maggie blew the candles out. Games included ring-a-ring of roses, blind-man’s buff (the colonels liked that one) and postman’s knock (popular with everyone), and we danced to The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.

            I stayed with Marj that night, and next day had to return to the mess wearing a pair of Marj’s jeans, which of course didn’t fit me, with a suitable towel nonchalantly held in front of myself. No one saw me, and I was able to get properly dressed. What a night - what a brilliant party.

 

he RAF (Germany) Annual Art & Craft Exhibition and display took place, and I was a judge along with other colleagues from the design suite. My area was the craft side, and I had to pick the first three, in order of merit, along with something like three special commendations. Obviously, this was very important for the competitors, as those selected would go forward to the UK finals of the RAF Annual Competition.

            So we all took it very seriously; the difficulty for me, being the range of traditional crafts alongside such things as marquetry. One could ask how it was possible to compare a solid oak fruit bowl, made on the wood turning lathe, with a picture of the Cutty Sark in a stormy sea. Not easy, as they both take time and require skill. They can both look pleasing to the eye, but one finally remains aesthetic whilst the other becomes functional. I remember explaining this problem to Group Captain Cartwright, the chief of education in RAF Germany; he and his wife eventually went to Berlin, and Marj and I put them up when they came back to Rheindahlen to visit. For the record, my sympathies would go to the wood turner, every time. However, I feel that you can only judge like-against-like, and that there should be separate categories for all of these different skills.

            Eventually I received a letter of thanks, together with a small remuneration. I gave this to the Bursar to put into an appropriate school account, as I felt that as the judging had all been in school time I shouldn’t take any extra payment. I do not think any of the other judges did this. Anyway, I never received any thanks for this gesture, and I regretted doing it ever after.

            I did, however, receive a letter from the very keen Squadron Leader Education Flight. She said “You will be interested to know that all prize winning exhibits travelled safely to UK by Hercules aircraft last week; it will be fascinating to see how Germany exhibits fare in the main competition at Hendon.”

 

t was a worried Janette who came to me again, saying “David, can I speak to you in private, please?” It was about the mess manager, John Bartley. Apparently John, a bachelor, used to go on a bender over the weekend and by Monday morning, he was pretty useless. Nothing wrong in that, I would say, but he would wander around the kitchen in his bare feet, leaving a trail of blood from his mangy, scarred feet. The kitchen staff didn’t like it, and neither did the office staff. They said it happened regularly. The treasurer, a married man, who was in the office every day, sniffing around the mess clerk, supported Janette’s complaint, and said he did not know what to suggest. I said that I would throw the ball to the Senior Member, John Kell of PSA.

            This I did, next morning. John Kell was like a bull in a china shop. Invariably he would answer any bit of adverse criticism that I had received, and which I passed on to him, with the words “Who the fuck does he/she think he/she is?” Then he would give me ‘his advice’, which I always received with appropriate awe. “You write and tell the little fucker that as long as you are the elected PMC of this mess you are going to do things your own fucking way. Say that you will accept any reasonable suggestion, but you won’t take any fucking criticism. Tell ‘em to leave that until the general mess meeting, when they’ll fucking have me to answer to.” I would thank John with solemnity.

            Anyway, on this particular morning I said my piece over the telephone and, knowing John’s general loathing of the Naafi I put in my oar about having enough on my plate keeping tabs on some 500 members and 50 associate members, without the added problem of a Naafi manager.  That did the trick. John breathed heavily and said “Leave it to me.”

            He was as good as his word. When I arrived in the mess at 5pm, there was John, together with the mess manager, his big chief Clive Hall, and an even bigger chief whom I did not know. The outcome was that the manager left, on ‘recuperative’ leave, and eventually finished up at the Düsseldorf mess which had just 20 members. I never actually disliked John Bartley, and in fact, he came back to visit us once or twice. He had a rather precise, clipped sort of way in which he said ‘Daaavid,’ and the fact that he was tall meant that I always had to look up to him, and that really did piss me off.

 

he next school show in the spring of 1980 was called The Down Going Of Orpheus Hawkins. I again had some half dozen ASM’s to help. Well, they all liked the cuedos of being an ASM, and they could tell the younger children what to do, which gave them an added authority. The play itself - where does Sue manage to find them? - they are always delightful, musical, and full of action and mime. However, they require so much effort in the way of costumes, for such a large cast, and with much scenery and many props.

 

ot for the first time, we had problems in the mess. The relief manager was Keith Miller, whom I had known in Münster days. I did not really approve of his authoritarian style then, and my views had not changed. He decided to restrict all living-out members, concerning the cigarette allowance. He said that “HQ were getting a bit uppity, and the auditors were sniffing around at the number of cigarettes being sold by No 1 Mess; I must therefore abide by the rules.” This was a synonym for “I’ve arrived, and I’m going to make a name for myself.”

            Mess managers are truly amazing. The best sorts, like Jock, are pissed off with the loafers, and love the mess members. They enjoy their work. Then you have the sort who loathe their jobs, and all the people whom they have to serve. Keith Miller gave the impression of being one of these.

            Now the rules were that living out members would take their ration cards, and go to the Naafi to purchase their allocation of 200 cigarettes per week. To save time, most people obtained their supply from their messes. They could do this twice a week, on ‘cellar nights’, when ales, spirits and tobaccos could be duly signed for. So into the bar, would come staggering the chaps, straight from the cellar, with two crates of beer and 400 - sometimes 600 - cigarettes on top. “Just come for a quickie,” they would say cheerily.

            Now, under our new regime, they came into the bar, with their usual two crates of beer, and just two tiny packs of twenty on top. “That’s my allocation,” they would sniff, “as I am a living out member I can’t have any more from the mess. I have got to collect my ration from the Naafi.”

            They appealed to me for action. Well, I tried my best, but came up against the rulebook. The next day I telephoned my old friend John Kell, who was a heavy smoker himself.

“Leave it to me,” he said, without even letting me finish, “I’ll sort that little fucker out.”

And that was the end of the cigarette episode. As Keith was only a relief manager, he was back on the road by the end of the day, and we had a new chap in place. I must say, this swift action gave me a lot of cuedos with the members, and also with the new manager, who arrived almost immediately. He had obviously been told to watch it, and not to cross my path.

 

eif Welton was to produce the next Rats play - for the drama festival. That well known farce, so difficult to understand, A Flea In Her Ear. For this show I did a lot with the set, design and decor, but managed to have something of a change by being Front Of House Manager (FOH). This meant seeing that we had enough booze for the audience to consume both before the curtain went up and during the intervals.

            My only claim to fame was greeting the C-in-C, General Sir William Scotter, and introducing him to the adjudicator, as well as the chairman of Rats (Tony Rees), and also the chairman of the organising committee - Brigadier Dennis Ryan. It is ironic, when you think about it, that I was the only one who would recognise him. True, he arrived in his official car, with ADC in attendance, but as I had seen him at various functions, including my school, I could confidently go up to him, tell him who I was, and then say “Allow me to introduce you to Brigadier Ryan,” and so on. When I showed the Chief to his place, I noticed one of his plain-clothes bodyguards sitting a few rows behind, and I gave him a wink. He was a WOII in the RMP, and I knew that he didn’t normally carry a small hand-size leather pouch…..!

            The show was spectacular in presentation, scenery, lights, costume, but was an absolute bore to watch. A couple of teachers came up to me at the first interval, and asked when the final curtain was due to fall. I was able to tell them, and at the same time say “You lucky swines, have one for me will you?”  I knew they were off to the mess for the next hour and a quarter!

            The outcome of the show was that Rats got the Best-Set Award, so we were all pleased with our efforts. I do not think anyone in that audience, from the whole of Nato, Berlin, Holland - you name it - could have denied Rats that trophy. But what a droll, dated, French farce.

            Dennis Ryan was the new Commander Education, and he was the one who could well have been chairman of Rats. He was a nice chap, and I learned that the reason he did not take over as chairman was quite simply because he thought it was incompatible with his duties as chairman of the organising committee. In fact, his new SOI Education was on the telephone to me quite a lot, asking for information about drama festivals generally. When it was all over, I had a nice letter from Dennis thanking me “ … for your help and guidance with the drama festival …. particularly in helping to look after the official guests”. Dennis Ryan later went on to become the major general in the education corps, the DAE - director of Army education. He made it, where Peter Dietz failed.

 

very three months the mess had an official inspection by the garrison commander. The PMC was expected to attend, of course, and introduce any of his committee who was around. The mess manager also listened in, for all the bricks and mortar aspects, as it was his duty to take the necessary remedial action.

            I always loved the official programme for that Friday morning, when the garrison commander was going to visit us. It was always arranged to get the serious stuff out of the way first, then as the morning progressed, the itinerary would noticeably relax. Thus, he would start at one of the primary schools, probably in their assembly - good for PR, so the kids could all go home and tell their folks. Next would be a visit to the education centre, or the command library, watching people in action and asking all the usual questions. Then he would be at the flower club, or the wives club for a cup of coffee and a chat - trying to show every interest. Then onto the garrison stables, or the garrison horticultural nursery, and finally to the nominated mess - arriving at twelve noon sharp, in time for the bar opening.

            I greeted Keith Wintle on the doorstep of the mess.

“Good morning, Colonel, may I introduce the mess manager?” and then, “Shall we go into the lounge, or shall we relax in the bar?”

He would then say, looking at his watch, “Er, yes, I think we’ve just got time,” without specifying which, “have we got much to discuss? Any problems?”

            And so we would be in the bar having an appropriate snort. I always remember the first time that Keith Wintle came to the mess, It was a ‘first’ for both of us, and he stayed in the bar with me for one-and-a-half hours. His entourage were getting a bit jumpy at the time, so he told them all to go home, as he had finished now “Write it all up for me, will you?” he would say.

            Every weekday lunchtime, not a teacher would be seen in the mess bar - for all the obvious reasons. However, the chaps from PSA, Civ Sec, and so on could all come into the bar and have a couple of pints and a toasty sandwich. They then go back to their offices for the afternoon session. A hard core of them liked to play Black Jack, on the bar counter. However, on the garrison commander’s visit, he and I were stood at the bar chatting for most of the lunchtime. When I finally escorted Keith Wintle to the front door, and to his car, I gave him the formal wave of farewell and went back to finish my drink. The chaps were already occupying the spot we had just left, playing their game - and my drink was on the far end of the bar counter! “We’ve only got a few minutes left!” said one of them sourly.

            I was alright for time, because Martin Baker was going to cover for me during the afternoon. I had a light timetable, and Martin understood my ‘social difficulties’ as PMC.

 

 had a telephone call from the Garrison Adjutant. He told me that a rugby team of civil servants was out here, but this very Friday evening they had nowhere to go. The problem was that some of their members were of non-officer status. You can guess the rest. He assured me that they would be well behaved, as they were all responsible civil servants. I agreed that they could use our facilities, and he expressed his gratitude.

I made a special point of being in the bar well beforehand. I alerted the mess manager, as well as the bar staff. Then I saw this crowd of chaps, about fifteen of them, slowly walking down the approach road to our mess. I greeted them at the front door, pointed out the toilets and the bar entrance, making it clear that the rest of the premises were for residents only.

Well, they were a friendly lot and I was chatting – and drinking – non-stop. At some late hour the evening ended, as far as I can recall, and I chalked up in my mind another great Friday night. However, unbeknown to me, some of these visiting chaps had gone on the prowl upstairs. No unpleasant scenes were reported to me, but many members felt that this was an intrusion. There had also been a great deal of raucous singing outside the front of the mess, in the early hours. A demand was made that they be barred from the mess the next night.

            I had to agree. The next evening, at the same time, someone said, “Here they come, PMC.” Sure enough, down the road came the same gang. They had no doubt had a good afternoon playing rugby, and were looking forward to a good session in the mess. I went out of the front door, and met them on the approach road. I put my case, and gave my orders, with my regrets. I knew that some fifty pairs of eyes were watching me from the mess windows. To my delight, there was no argument, merely expressions of apology. We shook hands, and they departed. I felt really sorry for them. However, I was the hero of the hour back in the bar.

            A week later I received a letter of thanks from their chairman, and a civil service rugby club tie. I regret that I never had the nerve to wear it, particularly in the mess.

 

 was asked to help with Worms’ next production - G & S’s Patience. They always ask me in the middle of one of my exhausted periods - and when I’m busy planning the next school or Rats venture. Nevertheless, I helped them with the construction and painting of their sets, and worked FOH for them, busy on the downstairs bar. I always regret that, apart from rehearsals, I never made time to watch a complete performance of Patience. Perhaps, in retrospect, I could have done, but at the time I made excuses to myself and didn’t. It’s not that I idled my time away, but I was always involved in something or other - in the bar, maybe, but it was always (to me) important.

 

t would have been in the summer of 1980 that I finally decided to stand down as PMC. I had been at the top for 2½ years, and I felt that not only was the role flagging a bit but also that perhaps I ought to jump rather than be pushed. Also, the mess itself was beginning to change, with many members now taking up the option of moving out into private accommodation, for which they received a rent allowance. Last, by no means least, and not to blame for any decision I made, I was now paying more attention to Marj than I was to the mess - and Marj was now living out. So after five periods of office, I let it be known that, this time, I would definitely be standing down.

 

owever, I became more involved with Rats than ever, if that is possible, with Marj helping me with everything I did - as well as driving me everywhere. This meant that I did not have to worry about the drink-driving situation. The first play on which we worked together, and Marj was involved with me for all the garrison productions from now on, was The Peaceful Inn,  which Leif was producing. The unreal thing about Leif, from what we could all gather, was that he lived in the past and only produced plays that he had done before. This play relied on the supernatural. Now if it’s one thing I have learned about amateur dramatics, it is that whereas sloppy panto gags and routines are quite acceptable to audiences, and comedy and farce are even looked forward to, so that they can be criticised for lack of timing, ghost scenes just do not work. I think the reason is that, whereas your work colleague, who knows you well, can accept you in drag, in silly costume, in any zany role - he just cannot accept you in a supernatural scene. Pretending that you have just seen a ghost does not work.

            The theatre critic summed it up by saying “What a lousy play to choose!”  This was a pity, because the set was my best ever - a beautiful Olde English Inn with half-timbered interior; we created this by having three-dimensional polystyrene ‘beams’ which helped the lighting boys tremendously when it came to creating sinister shadows! Marj was there, many evenings of the week, helping me cut out the beams with a small polystyrene ‘hot-wire’ and then painting them. The work was done, for the first time, in the new Little Theatre, which was at last, but slowly,  replacing the Little Hut. It was great, with plenty of floor space, a bar, rest room, the lot. The other chaps let us get on with the set whilst they were renovating the interior of the Little Theatre. 

 

or some time the Wells’, Spencers’ and Whittles’ had been asking Marj and I when we were going to settle down. I even wrote out a proposal of marriage on a bar chit, but then tried to burn it in the ashtray. The charred remnants were saved, and we still have them. All the above friends witnessed the act, and when I said that I did not have time to go and get an engagement ring, Barb said that she would go with Marj. So they did, the next day, leaving me in the bar!

            So, Marj had the ring, a solitaire that she wanted. We agreed that I would present it to her, in the mess bar, during Sunday lunchtime. That night there was a function on in the mess, so we all spread the word about the morrow, leaving members to draw their own conclusions.

            The bar was packed, and at one-thirty, I rang the bell. Silence. I stood on an empty beer crate and explained that for the first time I was ringing the bell as a private member. The penalty for this, everyone knew, was to buy a round of drinks. I said that “If Marj will accept this ring,” (I held it up in its box for all to see), “then I will be pleased to declare a happy half-hour.” Marj came forward, standing on another beer crate, put the ring on and held her hand up. There was a cheer, much talk, excitement, and much happiness on the part of Marj and me. Pam Beckett even produced a card ‘Congratulations on Your Engagement.’ So the word went round Rheindahlen, and next morning on my blackboard at school a pupil (whose parents we knew well) had written “Everyone loves butter, but Mr Hunt loves marj.”

ueens school next put on Billy Liar, which Sue Shaxon and Norman Daniels co-produced. The striking feature of the static set was that we had a large staircase that went ‘upstairs’ - so that Billy could be on the top landing fantasising, whilst his family were in the lounge below.

We also kept Martin Baker and the lighting director busy on all the special effects. It was a good technical production, and gave the cast plenty of scope.

n December, Marj and I were allocated a hiring at 17-a Steinstrasse. This suited us just fine. I was discreetly asked not to occupy it until we returned, in January, as man and wife. The question of marriage had exercised us for some time, with dear Marj, bless her, willing to go along with my every whim. I had wanted a registrar’s office wedding only for the reason that I thought it was the right thing to do, having previously had a white, church wedding.

            Ideally, I would have liked to get married in the mess bar or even on a ferry in the English Channel, but it was not possible. Eventually it was agreed that their minister in Newcastle would perform the very simple ceremony, in the United Reformed Church. My parents did not come; I deliberately did not want to invite them as I thought that they would not want to go through all this again, second time round. Besides, I was determined to keep it all low key. It was only going to be a quick ceremony, followed by an even quicker lunch at the Co-op tearoom, and then off to the boat. Likewise, I did not get Julian and Lucy involved, as I just did not want them upset, or disturbed in any way.

            So everything went the way I wanted, with us married in a ‘matter of fact’ manner and with no histrionics. Nice and quiet. Thank you Marj for allowing it to be so, on the 3^rd January 1981 as well – your birthday.

 

t was in February, once we were settled into our new way of life, that Marj and I became involved with Worms' next production, Fiddler On The Roof. We were both FOH, with me on the bar and Marj on the sweetie kiosk. This latter was always very popular. It is amazing how many people are tempted, at the interval, to tickle the palate. Marj would be on the kiosk for quite a few shows, over the coming years. The only thing that ever annoyed her, was when a new FOH manager - usually a major or Lt Col - would order totally useless confectionery for the kiosk, without first seeking Marj’s advice. After all, she was the one person in the whole of the garrison who knew what did, or did not sell. These majors would produce either something like tubes of smarties (great for kids during the panto run, but not for your ladyship for the remainder of the season) on the one hand, or five-pound boxes of chocolates on the other.

 

 was busy learning my part for a little one-act play to be put on, by Rats, in the Little Hut, together with one or two other plays as part of an evening’s entertainment. The play in which I was involved was called The Twelve-Pound Look and I starred with Jan Whittle; the only memorable thing about the whole sketch was my immortal phrase “You’ve spoilt my day!”  No matter how many different ways it might be said, with the emphasis on each word in turn, it just never sounded right. Even the cast, and the producer agreed with me, but rather than change it to something else, we persevered and I did my best. However, I was never happy with it. Subsequently, Marj and I would often use it during any domestic crisis. It kept us amused.

            Shortly after this show, I was amazed to hear that the old Little Hut had been razed to the ground. I went to check it out and, sure enough, there was a large slab of concrete where the Hut had stood.  Some time later I remember speaking to the garrison commander, Keith Wintle, (he had a daughter at my school), and he admitted that he had deliberately acted quickly. Apparently, it was a kind of military operation and, once the theatre societies had keys to the new little theatre, and all their stuff had been transferred, he gave the immediate order for the destruction of the Little Hut. His reason was simple: “Whilst it was there, Dave, I had to listen to all requests, from every single club and society on this garrison, who all wanted more space; they wanted their own premises.” And of course, the Little Hut was such a liability. It was forever a target for vandals, with electricity and plumbing problems as well, so he got rid of it overnight. What impressed me was that not only was it razed to the ground, but all the rubble was disposed of as well.

 

hen I had first joined Rats the secretary was Ray Cross, and I used to enjoy the little quips he made in his newsletter. But that was a long time ago, and for the past few years I’d seen a succession of young female subalterns hold the post for just a few weeks at a time, it seemed to me. I used to get a bit annoyed because these girls would produce a very brief, half-page, Rats newsletter on a Thursday morning, informing everyone of the entertainment that very evening in the little hut, and they would then ‘post’ it. Consequently, everyone in the Big House at Rheindahlen would know during the day, as they would receive their letters within the hour, but I would not know until I got there. In addition, my newsletter would reach me only on Friday morning.

            Anyway, even the supply of eligible secretaries dried up, and the concern was who would take over. Well, I let Barry Wells know that - assuming there was no-one else - I would take it on, citing Ray Cross as the precedent. Therefore, the chairman, Lt Col Tony Rees contacted me with delight, and I took on the job as secretary.

            My first job was to get a newsletter out, with the declared aim of producing one regularly, every month. I purchased a nice electric typewriter from Naafi to help me. Well, I have to admit that the first newsletter went down well - dammit, it was the first real newsletter the  society had seen in years. I gave the gossip, the chat, the programme of events for the next month, list of new members, and so on. I also gave the actual date of publication of the next newsletter, with a cut-off date for items for inclusion. I also managed a couple of quips. Even the outgoing secretary, to whom I had deliberately not sent a newsletter for fear of upstaging her, came and asked me for one ‘that every-one’s talking about.’

            So, I continued for the next five years, producing exactly fifty newsletters for the society. I still have my original copies, suitably bound, and I like to think that the Rats archives are still in existence. I think I can say that the newsletter was a success - because it gave the members something, and got them involved. Soon, members were asking to be included in my little gags.

            Moreover, they were not slow in asking me to include items, details of auditions, helpers required, and so on. As editor and publisher, I think I can safely say that the Rats newsletter was, above all, reliable; members knew when to expect it in the post - and it was always on time.

 

he Scouts and Cubs were forever asking me to judge their competitions for hobbies and crafts. It was always so difficult, as many of them used airfix kits. You could see those entries that had been the total work of a young child, and those that had been produced by the parent. Still, as these were only local competitions, one did not overwork ones’ conscience too much, and eventually a satisfactory result was announced.

            On one occasion I was invited, as head of the faculty of design at Queens School, to assist the garrison commander in judging the Guy Fawkes competition. Various age groups of children had made their effigies, and we had to come up with a verdict. We had the garrison photographer in attendance, as well as the chief clerk. This was a pukka military PR event. The most amusing part of the whole process, and the garrison commander himself passed a wry comment, was the amount of military clothing used in the construction of the figures – all of which would be placed on bonfires that evening. Old khaki pullovers, trousers, denims, berets, even boots made up these straw-filled models. Inevitably, the boss was able to chortle “Those trousers are better than mine, do you think they would notice if I swopped them?”

 

he next school extravaganza was called Dandelion Time, which I stage-managed yet again, with Sue and Norman co-producing - for some reason I cannot remember. The general effort went more on props than scenery, with the usual abundance of costumes. We managed to keep many of the props in the school cellars, and of course, the costumes were always kept until they could be appropriately altered for the next time.

 

t was in July ’81 that we had the Grand Opening of the Little Theatre, with a tri-society Olde Tyme Music Hall. Both Marj and I had a part, Marj on some little solo number and me with Len, Barry Cash and Barry Wells singing “The Lady’s Name Was Mentioned In The Mess.” It was a fabulous night, with every member of the audience - mostly associated with one of the three theatre groups - dressed in appropriate period costume. We were all at tables, being served by external waiters (volunteers from the army catering corps - yes! Although coerced into helping out by the commander catering BAOR, they were going to receive a small reward). Of this night, many years later, one can still recall ‘the atmosphere’ which was electric - all members of the three societies showing what they could do together when they wanted to. A good omen for the future, perhaps, when already one could sense that, eventually, they would have to combine into one large society.

 

or some reason that escapes me, I agreed to be one of a number of sponsors of a bed in the annual RAF Wegberg Hospital bed-race. This was a crazy event, to raise money, where there were beer-swilling orderlies, cheering group captains, many relatives, families and friends all circling the perimeter road to watch a substantial number of beds being pushed (at dangerous speeds - for the occupant) round the course. It was a big PR event upon which many a promotion would have relied.

            Obviously, the occupants of beds were only those patients - usually volunteer squaddies - who could withstand the strain of the physical bumps, occasional crash and even complete turnover of the bed. All patients and bed-pushers have to be dressed up - I was in my Mrs Shufflewick gold lamé dress, feeling a right prat at two o’clock in the afternoon. I was sober, that was the problem. There were four of us to push our sponsored bed, to which we had all donated a sum of money.

            I never did find out who was in our bed because when the signal to ‘push’ came, the three big heavies in my team set off on a screeching start and left me standing there. I lamely jogged after them, but they were already fifty yards ahead and I had no chance in my long dress. I was now in the way of other beds charging behind me, and they were yelling at me to get out of the way. Therefore, I had no option but to retire to the side of the road. God, I felt an absolute prick. I only hoped that my wig was a suitable disguise and that I would not be recognised.

            I found the car where my clothes were, and rescued a beer from the boot. I watched as the early beds came round the bend and when, eventually, ‘my’ bed appeared I acted as a bit of a cheerleader. Our pushers, all rugger types, were looking impressively shagged and at the sight of me - beer in hand - one yelled as they passed “Where the fuck have you been?”

            We eventually met up in the RAF beer tent, pushers - and malingerers - patients, doctors, and beds. A good time was had by all, and the party carried on well into the evening. Photographs duly appeared in the local press, and everyone was satisfied. However, I declined to participate the following year.

 

n the August of ‘81, we had two or three weeks in the caravan with Julian and Lucy. We did Venice in only a day, as it was so smelly and had so little to offer the kids. They were more than happy when we suggested pulling out. We then toured parts of Austria, and Bavaria - the latter being a particularly photogenic sort of place, together with its history, the Eagle’s Nest and Berchtesgarten.

 

t was at this time that Alison had announced her imminent departure, and so I immediately thought about that coveted ‘mess number1’. I was a little injured, to say the least, when Ally announced that she was going to give it to the PMC to have it ‘auctioned’ in the forthcoming Mess Christmas Draw, with all proceeds to go to charity. There is no answer to charity, is there? It is the politically correct thing to be seen to do, and she had me again. I wished I’d had the guts to say “stuff charity, I want the number.” But I couldn’t.

            Russell Mozely had now taken over as PMC. What a loveable buffoon. He was a widower who lived in his large Colonel’s Quarter, near to the mess. He would often come to me and, conspiratorially, ask me for advice. He would then forget all about it, or do something completely different! Russell was a great player of liar dice, and would be up with the rest of us until one in the morning, having another go.

            Anyway, I now asked Russell about mess ‘number 1’. He said, “You should have that number, really, you know; but I can’t give it to you because Ally has stipulated that it goes to auction, with the proceeds to charity.” I let the subject drop, and tried to hide my disappointment. What a silly thing, all over one mess number.

 

n the autumn, Major Peter Story announced that he was producing Rats next play, Nöel Coward’s Blithe Spirit. I was to be SM, and Marj agreed to be prompt. We had quite a good set, and I received a lot of help from Norman Draper, PSA, with things like the curtain rail and the pictures on the walls, which had to drop to the ground unaided, on a given cue. Len and Jan Whittle had prominent parts in the play, but the undoubted star was Sue Shaxon as Madame Arcarti, she was brilliant.

            It was in the few days before opening night that Marj started to complain of occasional stomach pains. Things finally became bad enough for medical advice on the day of the final dress rehearsal - and by five o’clock in the afternoon Marj was in BMH Wegberg - minus one appendix. I had spread the word around, during the previous few hours, and on arrival at the theatre that evening we had a substitute prompt that Sue had found, a member of Ariel. The beauty of all this, after commiserating with Marj’s plight, was that the new prompt was able to follow Marj’s accurate script, well marked for pauses and hesitations, as well as cast ‘black spots.’ This meant that there were no problems for either the cast or the prompt, which is the way it always should be. It was a lesson to us all, that important behind the scenes people should always have a well-marked script of things to do, on each page, so that an outsider could take over with no difficulty.

 

ohn Loring was producing The Yeomen Of The Guard and asked me about being stage manager. As ever, I had to decline. He admitted that he wanted me, because of the spectacular set in Singapore, with the portcullis. Anyway, they managed without me, and produced a small - door-sized - portcullis that allowed the Beefeaters to enter and depart at will. They had the Royal Artillery Mounted Band (seated in the orchestra pit) and the show was well received - I always did like the music from Yeomen. Marj and I helped FOH, so we could hear the music each evening. That’s the beauty of musicals; you have something to listen, hum, or sing to, and you also know how far from the end of the act they are.

 

t was about this time that Martin Baker went to Berlin Middle School, as Head of CDT. I was so sorry to see him go as I realised that I had lost my only ally. One interesting offshoot was the question of Martin’s evening night classes in woodwork. It was only one night a week, from 6 to 8.0pm, but I was determined that I was not going to become involved. In fact, I had covered for Martin on a couple of occasions when he couldn’t make it, and like my experience in Singapore years earlier, I found that everyone knew what they were doing and needed no help from me.

            A lot of pressure was put on me to do it, indeed a lot of the members of the class asked me if I was going to take over, but I stood my ground. I said that I was far too busy with my dramatical involvement, and I certainly was not interested in the paltry payment. My other colleagues had other excuses. Eventually Jim Lovegrove said that I would therefore have to be prepared to let some-one else come into the school and use my room every week. He didn’t really mean this as a threat, he was too polite for that, but he was pointing out what could become inevitable. I told him that I was quite prepared for that, as my room - indeed, the whole school - was public property, and I would therefore accept any such intrusion without complaint. I think he was rather surprised, but that was the last word on the subject and no night classes in woodwork were ever held again at my school, and I heard no more about it.

ell, the Christmas Draw came and went. Marj and I won a couple of useless household items, and the prize of ‘mess number 1’ was not to be allocated for some reason. I had bid DM10 for it, so presumably that went to charity. Russell was no longer PMC and was already back in England, on holiday. It was all a bit mysterious. Talking to the new PMC afterwards, he said that he thought it would be best if the number was kept for the PMC of the day. I could see messy problems in that, particularly when the ex-PMC is still around, so he said that perhaps the number should not be allocated to anybody. I let the subject drop.

            It was only on New Year’s Eve, in the bar, that the new PMC arrived back from his own holiday in England. There, he had met up with quite a few people who had known me in the olden days. Russell had turned up, and the whole wretched question of that ‘number 1’ had risen again. Well, it turned out that Russell had won the auction, with a bid that was never revealed to me, but I understand that it was substantial. Russell had told them that the only reason he had bid for it, was so that he could give it to me! He did not want anyone else to have it. He said that not only did I deserve it, but that it was mine of right. And he wanted me to have it. So on New Year’s Eve, I at last had ‘mess number 1’. I buttoned the manager and told him to look for my new number on all my bar chits, with immediate effect. Now it would be D1. Still more good news, Len Whittle could have my old number of 4, so he had to watch out also for L4.

Aren’t we stupid.

 

 was to be the Dame in Rats’ pantomime Aladdin, performed during the first week of 1982. Let’s face it, many of the shows I did really stretched of my powers of endurance. We would start the first rehearsals during the previous October, at the same time I - along with a handful of others - would also be knocking-up scenery, props, special effects and the like. This would be on those nights when one was not rehearsing and learning lines, songs and moves. Marj was very much involved with me on this show, and had a major part in the chorus - keeping all the kids in line and in tune.

            Then early in December, once all the Christmas Carol Concerts had finished, we would be up to our eyes in helping move into the theatre, and erect the scenery. This together with many final, hectic, full-length rehearsals. Many times, we planned to have a ‘non-stop’ rehearsal, but we never did; it was just impossible. Ironically, it was generally a technical failure that caused the stoppage - a lighting cue, sound effect, and the like. In between all this, there would be numerous Christmas Parties to fit in - one always went, of course, even if one arrived at ten-thirty at night.

            Then we would have to have a few days break over Christmas - just too many people (would you believe this?) had to go back to UK to see the folks, and so on. Finally, by New Year’s Eve we would be rehearsing all afternoon, until something like seven o’clock when the whistle would go and that would be it - first performance tomorrow afternoon (a matinée, with all the thrills and uncertainties that brings).

            So we would return home and bathe our weary limbs, dress up into our New Year’s Eve gear, and off we would go to the mess. Somewhere along the way we would eat. Whatever we did, we really seemed to push ourselves to the limit - and I was in my element!

            Then, the final killer for everyone in the company, after a glorious ten-day holiday (meaning non-stop scenery making and painting, rehearsals and parties), it would suddenly be ‘work next morning.’  This was most unfair; here we were entertaining the troops whilst others had sat back and done nothing. Now we were all being judged on the same shop floor as to our value in working for the Crown. I will tell you something; the people who did nothing were not even invited to parties (the ones that matter). They must have had a miserable existence - but they were great at criticising pantomimes of course.

            So, that first week in January we were all at work, as well as doing the panto run. My part was most enjoyable, and I was able to put to the test my theory of ‘planning for the unexpected.’ They are still talking about it. On my first entrance, I have to open the door of my little cottage and trip over an empty bucket that Panda (acting on orders from Aladdin) has left there. I do a wonderful arse-over-tit job, to orchestral sound effects, at the same time revealing frilly bloomers. On sitting up, I exclaim, “If I’ve told Aladdin once, I’ve told him a thousand times not to leave that bucket there.” This little stunt happens several times in Act I.

            Anyway, for a few performances there was no problem until, one night, there was consternation from the ASM (who was on the headphones, linked up with the SM as well as the lights and sound boys). “The bucket’s gone!” he said to me despairingly, a split second before I opened the door of my cottage, to sweep onto the stage. “It’s been knocked into the orchestra pit by the greys.” I understood the message perfectly; we had a large set of grey tabs (curtains) which had closed for some down stage business, whilst the full set was prepared for the next scene. On the appropriate cue, the grey curtains are opened revealing a lovely set, in the woods, with widow Twanky’s cottage. Now, if an over-zealous stagehand opens the curtains too vigorously, they will billow out - and this is what happened, taking the bucket with it.

            For some time, I had had ‘plan B’ in my sub-conscious. When things affect me personally, and no one else, I always tend to think of alternatives, and look for problems. And I can honestly say that I had actually thought about an alternative to this scene - perhaps a defence mechanism against the day that some one tried to play a trick on me. So I was equal to the crisis, opened the door of my cottage, entered the stage and started to stumble, slither, and finally fall in the appropriate panto-dame manner, to the roll of drums and crash of cymbals. I then said “If I’ve told Aladdin once, I’ve told him a thousand times not to polish that door step.” It worked beautifully, and I was the hero of the hour. The producer, Leif, told me that from the back of the auditorium he had stood, mesmerised, as he saw the bucket fall into the orchestra pit, and the cottage door open almost instantaneously, and me enter. He thought that my extemporising was excellent, but it didn’t really register with him that I had subconsciously been working on it for some weeks. Still, I was happy for him to think  that I was a genius.

            It was for this show that, amongst the ‘good luck’ cards I received, there was one from Derek Ebbage’s sister-in-law, Wendy Sturgess - a BBC Producer; she’d been here for Christmas and was quite a gal, and her quip went “To The Dame - a warm hand on your opening.” A couple of the quick, dirty-old-men in the cast got it at once, but the likes of Leif merely smiled and said ‘How nice.’

            Rev Norman Daniels had made a black-and-white video of this panto, and I finished up with the damned, twelve-inch diameter spool. Video technology (at our school) was not then up to transferring this onto a cassette, and as the lens had been fixed to wide stage shots, with no zooming, I could see little point in keeping it. Eventually it was lost. Shame.

 

traight into a school production. This one was called Star Flaws and had a smaller cast of about fifty eager little so-and-so’s. I had some six ASMs and they were essential for a large number of props, as well as the sets. I never cease to wonder how we did this on such an inadequate and badly designed stage.

 

t was in the February ’82 half term that Marj and I went house-hunting in the UK. We were quite specific, and knew exactly what we wanted - a flat, not top floor (leaking roof problems), and not ground floor (burglar problems); with garage, and perhaps with a balcony. We also knew that we would be looking in the Southeast of England. So off we set, looking around Charterhouse, Guildford, Canterbury, Worthing, and finally settling on 27 Overstrand Avenue, Rustington, West Sussex. We agreed a price of £29,500. The estate agent knew the local Abbey National people well, and had a solicitor next door, so within one afternoon we had done all the legal necessities and left, knowing that in due course the keys would be in our hands.

            We liked Rustington, and over the next four years we stayed there at holiday times, as well as having Marj’s mum and dad to stay in it. It was a nice walk along the sea front to Littlehampton and, guess what, Leif lived on the same estate in a maisonette! As life turns out, contrary to what you plan, we never finished up retiring there or even living permanently there. We can only assume that life itself is pre-ordained. However, it gave us a foot on the housing market so that when we came to sell just over four years later we realised the exciting sum of £44,000. (But you never win - by then a property we wanted, and acquired, was £60,000).

 

ou won’t believe this, but in the mess I was approached to stand as PMC. Again! Jenny, who had been holding the post for one year, and wanted out desperately, was in that awful position of not being able to find anyone to supplant her. No one wanted the damned job. Indeed, interest in the mess had changed dramatically over the past year or two. There were some good functions, which were well attended, but the overall ethos of the place had changed, for the worse.

            There had been much talk about who would, or should be next PMC. Actually, Jenny wanted to go after six months, but no one volunteered to take it on so she was more-or-less forced to say “Oh! alright, I’ll carry on then.” Now, a further six months on, she was taking it upon herself to find a successor.

            Things had been aggravated by the fact that some one had found a rule that said the PMC should be a living-in member. Now, apparently, they were changing the rulebook, which had come into existence when there were over 60 living-in members. Jenny then told me that I was the only one with any experience who could possibly hold the job, and asked if would I stand for the post. I said that I would only stand for the job if I could change the rule that disallowed children into the bar.

            The question of children in the bar had been a thorny one for years. There were two schools of thought. One said they should not be anywhere near alcohol, but they could be in the lounge, where the residents would be reading the Sunday papers. This meant that the children could generally run around, and upset everybody. Anyway, alcohol could now be purchased through a hatch from the bar into the lounge.

Then there were those - I was one - who said that the kids were better off where their boozy parents could keep an eye on them, to hell with the noise (better in the bar than the lounge), and there would be no problem. As PMC previously, I had also experienced the verbal groans, and literary efforts of those wanting peace and quiet in their lounge. They would ask me to caution those members who were not obeying the rule which demanded that parents should be with their children at all times, and should not let them run around, and so on. I’d had enough then, and relaxed the rule, to the delight of many dozens of parents, and when I had stood down as PMC they brought the rule back in. A major result was that numbers of members using the facilities of the mess dropped off dramatically. Sunday lunchtimes were becoming embarrassingly quiet.

            Anyway, Jenny said that if I became PMC I would be able to change any rules I liked. I politely said ‘piffle,’ it won’t work that way. I will only take on the job with a clear mandate from the members. Therefore, I let my name go forward. There were only about 30 people or so at the general mess meeting, and I was the only candidate for the job of PMC. Jenny had told the new Senior Member, from the civil secretariat, my conditions for standing. So I stood up and made a brief speech - kids in the bar - then sat down. After a while I stood, and suggested to the senior member that I should retire so that members could speak more freely. He agreed, and I sloped off into the bar, which was pretty empty, as everyone should have been at the meeting. Inevitably, there are one or two who slink in and say that they were too late to make the meeting.

            After a while I was called back in, told that I was now the new PMC of the mess, and that was it. In the bar later, the first thing I did was to ring the bell and shout “Happy Hour!” - that meant free drinks for the next hour, mess funds to underwrite. Len Whittle told me that he had stood up, at the meeting, when they were arguing about the kids again. It is always, but always, the people who either never go into the bar, or do not have any children, who cause the problems. I never heard of one boozer, with five kids, who said ‘no kids in the bar!’ Len had said “For goodness sake, we all know Dave Hunt; he’s been PMC for 2½ years, none of you want the job, and yet you don’t want him to change a rule that he is going to implement anyway! What’s the matter with you lot. Come on! One of you volunteer!”

            So that was it. I was not voted in on an overwhelming majority, as there were some abstentions, but I had a clear mandate to proceed, untroubled. I did just that, for the next twelve months, with no problems from the kids or the members. The subject was never mentioned again.