OFF PISTE

One of the most enjoyable aspects about being a public relations officer with 2 Division of the British Rhine Army was covering the annual ski meeting in Bavaria. Not only did I enjoy myself, but I was able to take my wife and children along with me. We used to travel by car from our home in Lubbecke, North Germany during the first week in January and head for Oberjoch in the Algau Alps, a journey of about 500 miles. After the first year (1967) when we battled through blizzards to get there, the following two years - though no less horrific in weather terms, were made somewhat easier by being travellers on a familiar route.
The whole village was taken over by skiers of 2 Division for two weeks. This was convenient for us and beneficial to the local economy, public relations were excellent without any effort on my part. My job was to provide photographs and stories about soldiers taking part in winter sports for local newspapers in the United Kingdom. In addition, my team used to make short TV films for provincial TV stations. In those days we had to work hard to attract young men and women to join the Army and this sort of publicity was considered useful.
One day, my cameraman and I were on the slopes looking for suitable photo opportunities, when I heard a shout. I looked up and saw a heavily built figure on skis heading towards me. Being ski-less and unable to move out of his way, I was relieved when the person narrowly missed me. In his effort to change direction, he lost his balance and collided with a tree. Dropping my camera equipment, I floundered through the snow to see if he had hurt himself.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "No, I'm not bloody alright," he replied, "neither would you be if you'd hit this tree." The skier was obviously British and, by the sound of his voice, was an officer of considerable seniority. I grabbed his arm and attempted to get him on his feet, but he yelled: "Put me down." Within a few seconds a trio of experienced skiers skidded to a halt and took over. I soon became aware that the person who had hit the tree was Lieutenant General Sir John Mogg, the Corps Commander and that he had broken a leg. I could see that I was not in a position to help and, anxious to protect my identity, I struggled to put as much distance as I could between the General and myself.
It is not often in one's career that an opportunity presents itself to incapacitate a corps commander! I realised I had committed the unforgivable sin of crossing the piste without skis and that this would not be dismissed lightly.
It became common knowledge in Oberjoch that the public relations officer had caused the trouble and my own General (of 2 Division) asked me why I had to pick on the Corps Commander when there were many other people available. I tried to explain that I did not 'pick' on him. If anything, he had picked on me as there was plenty of room on the mountain for him to go skiing.
For the next two days General Mogg was confined to bed in the local hospital with his leg encased in a large plaster cast. On the third day he felt fit enough to walk around the town on crutches. I was coming out of one of the souvenir shops near the bottom of the ski lift when I nearly collided with him again. There was an explosion when he recognised me and I beat a hasty retreat for the second time in three days.
Things are rarely as bad as they seem and the Corps Commander was soon able to dispense with his plaster and crutches. I used to meet him quite often at his headquarters in Bielefeld, North Germany and he would glower at me and mutter something about 'bloody pedestrians'. We both moved on, he to greater heights and me to a recruiting/publicity job in Wales. We did not see each other for quite some time.
The Commanding Officer of the infantry training camp in Crickhowell, South Wales in the mid '70s' was a fellow who had gained a reputation for unusual ideas. He was talking to my wife at a cocktail party when the name of General Sir John Mogg was mentioned. My wife told him what had happened at Oberjoch about eight years previously and this gave him an idea - which involved me.
The following day, he checked the accuracy o what my wife had told him and then asked if I would like to join the top-table for lunch in two weeks time when the General would be visiting the camp. I was pleased to accept.
A week later, I found there was a price to pay for having lunch with my old Corps Commander; the CO told me what he had in mind: "When the General arrives at the mess, I want you to stand in the hall dressed in Arctic combat clothing, carrying skis and wearing snow goggles. I will bring him over to you and say: 'I believe you know this officer, General' - that will be the signal for you to remove your goggles." I was struck dumb for a few seconds while I digested the high explosive content of what the CO wanted me to do. When I recovered, I replied as courteously as I could that I would rather put my head in a lion's mouth. The Commanding Officer pressed me hard to change my mind but I stood my ground. I thought the invitation to sit at the top-table would be withdrawn, but it was not and we all had a pleasant time.
General Sir John greeted me like an old friend and asked me if I had been skiing lately. I told him I had never been much of a skier - skating on thin ice was more in my line.