Promotion Prospects

I had been in to see the Adjutant about something or other and was turning to leave when he said: "By the way, you have to sit a promotion exam in six months time." I turned around and said: "I beg your pardon, what did you say about an examination?" He repeated and expanded the unpalatable information by reeling off a list of subjects I would have to study and satisfy the examiners if I wanted to wear three pips on my shoulder. I had already been wearing the badges of rank of a captain for a year and I had not been aware that I would have to pass an examination to keep them. Besides, it was 1951, I was serving in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and killing bandits was the top priority.
There was not much one could do about studying for examinations at that time. We were in a lonely place surrounded by jungle and the only books on military subjects were a few old pamphlets, a manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations which the Adjutant kept in his tent. I discovered that the examination, for which I and three other officers of the battalion had been entered, was the first one to be held in post war years.
Prosecuting the war in Malaya under that most energetic High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, was a full time job for everyone, at least that was our excuse. It was not until we were within two weeks of the examination that the subjects we had to study began to occupy our minds.
With two days to go before E-Day, the four of us boarded the Commanding Officer's 4x4 Humber command vehicle and, escorted by a pair of Ferret scout cars, we set off for Kuala Lumpur. Each of us had been able to get a copy of the manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations. The Adjutant had provided his copies, brigade headquarters had loaned another two sets and a local rubber planter, recently retired from the Army, provided the remainder.
The examination, even after all these years, is a painful memory relieved only by the counter balance of a few nights in the bright lights of the nation's capital city. Our lack of preparation was certainly responsible for much pencil sucking and early orders for cold Tiger beers in the mess. We returned to our unit in a sombre and dejected state convinced we had failed in all subjects.
A few weeks later, we received small brown envelopes which, when opened, informed us that we had failed in all subjects except military law. This was a surprise because just before we were given the military law question papers, we were told that reference books were not allowed. They were collected from our tables and stacked on the dais occupied by the invigilating officer. In one way, it made things easier for us as we could not possibly quote chapters and paragraphs; I remember recommending the death sentence for some of the more tricky questions. However, we congratulated ourselves on not disappearing completely down the plug hole, but learnt a few weeks later that the reason for our limited success was because of the error of the invigilating officer who had deprived us of our books. It seemed that everyone had passed irrespective of how well or badly they had done.
There was another occasion when I was stationed with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Luneberg, Germany in 1956. Along with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Mike Dyer and one or two others I had been entered for the captain to major practical examination to be held in Hameln.
The others went ahead of me and it was not until the early evening that I collected my suitcase and books and boarded an Austin Champ. In those days they did not issue doors for Champs and, as we were well into autumn, it was a cold ride.
I arrived in Hameln at about 9pm and it was not difficult to find the officers' mess where I had been booked to stay; Military Police signs covered every route. Making sure that my driver had a meal and a bunk for the night, I was dropped off at the mess. I was still protected from the cold night air with my British warm overcoat and a huge scarf twisted around my neck three times.
A trio of lieutenant colonels greeted me like a long lost brother. "Good to see you at last," said one. "What would you like to drink?" said another. "A whisky and soda would do very well," I replied. "I'll get your supper fixed," said the third. I really could not have expected more hospitable treatment than I received from those kind fellows and I felt a surge of confidence for the morrow when such splendid directing staff would ease us through our tasks.
With a large whisky in one hand I started to peel off my clothing. As I did so, I became aware of two sets of eyes, both belonging to lieutenant colonels, looking at my epaulettes which carried three pips. The third half-colonel came from the kitchen area and said: "Supper's on the table," then he became absorbed with my badges of rank. Their hospitality vanished in an instant and I was given a chit pad to sign for my drink.
What happened was that they had mistaken me for the fourth member of directing staff who had not arrived. I have always looked older than I am and even as a member of the school combined cadet force, wearing a trench coat, I was often saluted by serving soldiers. It had been fun then, but in Hameln on that cold night in 1956, I became aware of the hazardous situation I had created.
The following morning, we received instructions to assemble at a grid reference about three miles away. I did not notice at the time, but afterwards remembered the casual way officers lingered over their coffee as zero hour for departure approached. As soon as I got up from the table and headed for my Austin Champ, everyone else fell in behind. With a one inch to the mile map on my lap, I led the way out of barracks.
We had not travelled more than 300 yards before we came to an 'umleitung' (diversion) sign. The German use of diversion signs has always amazed me. Wherever you go there are 'umleitungs' - even to the extent of 'umleitung' signs diverting you from 'umleitungs'. It wasn't long before I was completely lost in the back streets of that ancient town, with a huge snake of military vehicles behind me. Those officers who had lingered over their coffee were the first to make unkind remarks about my map reading. Others, who thought their career prospects were in danger, were looking at their watches and going white around the gills.
We finally extricated ourselves from the depths of Hameln and, eventually, like the pied piper, I led the column to the assembly point. Standing there on the cold hillside were four lieutenant colonels, including the one they thought was me the night before. "Where have you been?" said the one who had ordered me a large whisky. I gave a weak excuse about 'umleitungs', but I could see I was extremely unpopular with students and directing staff alike.
I spent a very uncomfortable day expecting low marks, but a few weeks later, one of those familiar small brown envelopes arrived with the good news that I had passed.

I am one of those fellows who turns up for written examinations with the minimum amount of kit ie. one red and one blue ball point pen, one fountain pen, one pencil, a rubber and a ruler. I have never felt that any of my successes, or otherwise, have been due to the tools I have used, but there are others who believe in fortifying themselves with a remarkable array of paraphernalia on their desk tops. Flasks of coffee, slide rules, geometry sets, travelling clocks, coloured inks and crayons, blotters and even slippers, change of sweaters and Beacham's powders are part of the stock in trade of those who take examinations seriously.
One fellow I met in Sennerlager was a lighter traveller than me. He turned up with only a blue biro and a ruler. With about five minutes to go before the starting bell rang, he ambled across to me and said: "Just checking - it was GOLD, JUNO and SWORD from west to east?" I gave him a puzzled look and said: "What are you talking about?" "The beaches in France, of course," he replied. I gave this some thought before asking him why he wanted to know about the beaches where the invasion force landed on D-Day. "So that I can answer the question if it comes up, you dummy," he answered. There were a few moments of panic before I assured myself that I had studied the correct campaign and he had studied the wrong one. I tried not to create a situation where this languid cavalry officer might fall on his sword but, with seconds ticking by, I had to break it to him we were doing 'North Africa'. When this alarming piece of news was confirmed by others around him, I took him across to Duncan Griffiths who had made some pretty little coloured maps on cardboard, rather like tiles on a bathroom wall. With three minutes to go, Duncan did his best to explain what the large curved arrows of troop movements meant. Half an hour after the starting bell rang, I watched him walk out of the room clutching his biro and ruler. He was not in the mess when the rest of us returned for lunch and the mess sergeant told me had seen him throw a suitcase into the back of his car and depart a few hours before.

I must have taken a nose dive on that examination because I found myself with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Norman Salmon and a few others in Tripoli, Libya a year or so later sitting another one.
We had flown from Benghazi where 1/WELCH was stationed and had spent a few days concentrated study in the comfortable officers' mess of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. The four days of the examination was an uncomfortable experience and it was with relief that I inked in the last full stop.
Tripoli, in those days, was a splendid place to be stationed. There were plenty of good hotels, a casino, night clubs and a flourishing nurses' mess. Some of us made use of our time in the city and as soon as darkness fell we called a taxi and sped off to the British Military Hospital and the nurses' mess.
We enjoyed the girls' hospitality for an hour or so and then most of us, with some of the girls, went to one of the excellent restaurants on the sea front. Later that night we did a round of the night clubs and finally got back to our beds as the first rays of dawn were showing in the eastern sky.
I was woken within a short time by a servant with the unwelcome news that the bus would leave for the airport in thirty minutes time. It was easy to see the ones who had been 'clubbing' only a few hours before. They were the ones who could not bear to sit on the seats as the bus lurched through pot holes in the road to King Idris Airport.
I sat glumly in what was called the Airport Lounge, which could easily have been mistaken for an extension of the camel market, until a Cyprus Airways plane landed and we were called forward by the air hostess. She was the daughter of a Nicosia based brigadier and was the only bit of glamour on an otherwise dull airline. "I am sorry to say we are over-booked. I need two volunteers to stay behind until next week," she said. My right arm shot up automatically and I shouted: "Me," just in case there was any competition. I need not have bothered as there were no other takers. "We shall have to draw lots then," she said and proceeded to do something with small pieces of paper in her pretty little hat. When everyone, except me, had taken one it was found that Duncan Griffiths had drawn the piece of paper with a cross on it. I could see from the look on his face that he considered this very bad news, made worse by having to spend a week with me whose nocturnal pursuits were not in line with his own. Besides, it was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take his wife out to dinner that night.
Duncan insisted on waiting until the others were airborne, just in case someone dropped dead at the last minute. It was only when he saw the wheels disappear into their niches in the wings that he accepted the fact that he was marooned in Tripoli. We boarded the bus once more and within an hour I was tucked up in bed.
At about 10am, I was woken by Duncan who had been working on a plan to get back to Benghazi. He told me that it was our duty to try and get back to our unit. "Rather like prisoners-of-war," he said. I told him that I did not feel at all like a prisoner-of-war and, that as far as I was concerned, the enforced stop-over in Tripoli was more like a gift from heaven. He was determined to go ahead with his plan though and when he outlined what he proposed to do, I could see that questions would be asked if I was not with him when he returned to Benghazi.
Phase 1. of Duncan's plan had already been completed while I was asleep. He had telephoned someone at Wheelus Field, a large American Air Force base a few miles outside Tripoli, and asked if there was anything going to Benghazi. He was told that a DC-3 would be flying there that afternoon and if we reported at 2pm, there was a good chance of getting a lift. I must have looked as miserable as Duncan looked a few hours earlier and I was furious that he had scuppered my opportunity to have seven days holiday. I packed my bags again, had lunch and then set off with Duncan in a taxi for Wheelus Field.
The DC-3 was on the runway and we were told to climb aboard. The engines roared and we started to move forward but, instead of gathering speed, we slowed down and stopped. The door of the crew compartment opened and a large gum chewing American with a gold-encrusted baseball cap said: "I hear there are Limeys aboard - and I don't carry Limeys." Duncan and I had been looking out of the window to see why we had stopped and did not pay attention to the first announcement, but someone must have pointed us out to the pilot because he marched down the aisle, confronted us and said: "Are you Limeys?" Both of us were familiar with the expression despite never having been addressed that way before. We nodded assent and without further ceremony the big aggressive American opened the door, pulled down a ladder and said: "Get off!" Summoning as much dignity as we could manage, we collected our bags and descended to the runway. The door clanged shut behind us, engines revved to full power and off went the DC-3 in the direction of Benghazi.
Duncan was anxious to recover his pound of flesh and he set off to get redress from the base commander. But everyone had their heads down and he could not find anyone who would listen to his grievance. Finally, he bowed to the inevitable and we took a taxi back to the Royal Irish Fusiliers barracks.
My fortunes seemed to be changing for the better and it looked as if I was going to get seven days leave in Tripoli after all. To give Duncan his due, he had a few more shots at trying to get back to Benghazi via local oil prospectors' aircraft, but this time he was on his own and was unsuccessful.
A week later, the two of us once again took the bumpy road to King Idris Airport. The Cyprus Airways plane arrived on time from Malta and Duncan gave a big sigh of relief when the air hostess told him she had room for both of us.