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To be quite honest, I was not looking forward to Christmas at all, because it was my first time away from my family and as it was for most of the lads of the battalion as well. No matter how one tried, there is no substitute for being at home with your loved ones and this message was plainly written on my comrades’ faces. I was in Bamenda Camp with (S) Company over the Christmas and New Year period while (A) Company were at the patrol camps and everyone had to try and make the best of it come what may. I had brought out to the Cameroons, some small Union Jack flags, that my brother Frank had somewhat mysteriously obtained, on a night out in Barrow a few years previously. Thanks to our Frank they certainly came in very handy, because we must have had the best decorated tent in the Cameroons. One thing was sure, I certainly wasn’t going to do what Miss McNaught did in 1945. As a seven-year-old boy in my second year at Vickerstown Junior School, I was in a class where my teacher’s name was a Miss McNaught. She had been to teachers training college with my Aunt Kitty who was also a teacher and they were good friends of long standing. This did not work in my favour though, because she had no favourites whatsoever and this suited me fine. Although of small stature, Miss McNaught could and was quite fiery. If she caught anyone misbehaving, which was often, one could expect a very hurtful rap on the knuckles with a 12-inch rule and I can definitely vouch for it hurting! Christmas 1945 was a time of profound shortages of just about everything and at times things were quite ridiculous. While other classes were cutting up crepe paper to make class decorations, Miss McNaught had other ideas. She made the class from November on, collect silver milk bottle tops and with these milk tops, small imitation bells were made. The milk top bells were strung on a length of string one-foot apart and in between each bell, a piece of cotton wool was attached, these were then crisscrossed around the room. I, along with my fellow classmates, was very disappointed we couldn’t have proper decorations, but not Miss McNaught, she thought they were marvelous. Do you know, the sickly smell of stale milk, was in our classroom well into the New Year of 1946, so definitely there was going to be no cotton wool and milk tops in our tent. My brother Frank’s mysteriously gotten Union Jack flags did the job perfectly. The Cameroon’s climate at Christmas was well into the dry season and of course the dry season brings excessive heat. The weather did not seem to bother (A) or (S) Company a great deal, because we were quite acclimatised now. Also in our favour was the height of the camp above sea level, which was 5000 feet and therefore kept the temperature a little cooler. One only does so much in the midday sun and it was perfectly true in the song, “ Mad dogs and Englishman goes out in the midday sun.” It all seemed so strange that that it was Christmas time and the weather being so warm. It took some sinking in, because since I was old enough to remember it had always been freezing cold at Christmas time and to coin a phrase, “ It’s not the same.” I got to know quite well, a Lance Corporal named Ray Harbon, who was a shrewd, but likeable lad. He would at risk to himself, go nightly to the out of bound areas of Bamenda Village, where he would swap and barter any things he could lay his hands on. Ray had eyes like a Bombay beggar, when it came to personal items in the camp tents that were supposedly not wanted. Major Nash, prior to his leaving for the England, he gave me a pair of old jungle boots, which I couldn’t distinguish which was the left or right boot. Forever on the look out for goods to barter, Ray spotted these, and said he could sell them down in Bamenda, but for his troubles he wanted half the profits, to which I readily agreed. Setting off down the hill to the village that night, already counting his profits, he was soon out of sight. Three hours later, around about Midnight, all the occupants of our tent were awakened by a sweaty, puffing Ray Harbon. Bounding across the tent, he threw the boots in my direction and shouted in colourful language from the top drawer. “ Fucking hell Parky, you set me fucking well up there, didn’t you, they are fucking two left feet. Although the air was blue with Ray’s colourful adjectives, of how he was chased out of the village compound. He explained to roars of laughter how the headman of a compound had put the boots on and because of the boots being two left feet, no one could tell which way he was going to walk. All the lads in the tent were just rolling over with laughter on hearing Ray’s wasted trip to the village. I don’t think Ray ever forgave me for setting him up that night, but there was one consolation, he never asked me if I had anything to sell ever again. As for the boots, I gave them to one of the houseboys for a Christmas present. If you should ever visit the Cameroon Republic and you see a man walking in never ending circles, you will know who and where he got his footwear. Thankfully I wasn’t on guard duty over the Christmas period and on Christmas Eve along with Jim Stacey from Widnes, I joined the massing throng in the Naafi hut. It was inevitable that each and everyone was systematically trying to get drunk. A lad from the R.E.M.E who once played in a top pop group a few years before his National service, did his best to give some form of entertainment, but due to the noise he gave up after quarter of an hour. As the night wore on, it became quite boisterous and rowdy with the odd scuffle here and there. No matter how much I drank, which was tins of Tennents lager, I did not feel merry at all and eventually and I called it a night earlier than expected. It must have been quite hard for some of the National Servicemen who were married with young children and probably for most, the child’s first Christmas on earth. It was also equally hard for the Regular soldier, whose families were back at Barnard Castle. I am sure, all ex-servicemen have their own particular memories of being away from home at Christmas and no doubt, the same as myself, just had to accept it, because there was no alternative whatsoever Later that night, while lying awake, listening to the noise from the naafi, my mind drifted off to thoughts of what I would be doing if I were at home. Valerie and I would have been out with my best mate Val Cumberbatch and his girlfriend Hilda Duffy, probably going first to the Preston Street Club then on to a dance for some rocking and rolling. I always made sure I had a dance with Hilda, because she was a good Rock and Roller, the good times the four of us had together, were too numerous to count and it was in those thoughts that I drifted off to sleep. On Christmas Day morning, the noise of young happy people from the surrounding villages, awakened the camp. Each young person was wearing large wooden masks, which fitted over their heads. All the masks were wood carved and must have been handed down in their families for generations. They were all in carnival mood and because of their happiness, it certainly helped to cheer everyone up considerably. A couple of weeks previous to Christmas, the lads in my tent, had given one of the house boys money to buy some silk scarves in Bamenda Village market. Consequently he never returned and it was during these Christmas Day festivities, that we noticed a lad who although wearing a mask, was similar in stature etc to the houseboy who took our money. We grabbed him, but what a struggle we had in taking his mask off. After quite a lot of pulling and tugging and of course squealing coming from the occupant’s head inside the mask. To a rousing cheer, the mask came off similar to the noise of a cork, coming out of a bottle of champagne and do you know it wasn’t the thief. Putting the mask back over a somewhat bemused boy, we patted him on his back and giving him a big clap, we sent him merrily on his way! Military tradition from way back over the years Christmas dinner is served to the rank and file, by Officers of the regiment. This was well appreciated by one and all, but the food serve up was absolute crap. It consisted of scrawny African chicken, mashed potatoes, which were probably powdered and string beans, followed by fresh fruit. It was disgusting to say the least and the only consolation was a free can of beer. I know it sounds as though I am grumbling and grousing, but it wasn’t much to ask, just for one day a good meal being served up, but alas it wasn’t to be. For the rest of my life I haven’t made a habit, of complaining about food, no matter what it tasted like. While working for Major Nash, I got to know a big lad from Fleetwood named Norman Edge. He was a very easygoing likeable lad, but quite often at the main camp at Bamenda; he would return to our tent half pissed after his nightly visit to the naafi and noisily disturb everyone. This went on for quite awhile until one day I gave him a lecture, basically in trying to help him get a grip of himself. To my amazement, he agreed to lay off the drink and behave himself. A few days later, a lad I knew who worked in the Officer’s Mess, told me he had pinched a bottle of whisky and would I like a drink. No one in this type of environment, spurns the opportunity for free drinks, although it was very risky if found out. Needless to say I got absolutely blotto, before finally staggering back to my tent and collapsing in a heap on the floor. I could only vaguely remember hearing Norman Edge’s voice when being lifted onto my bed. Having been sick all night and Norman giving me ear ache all next day, it was quite a painful experience I have never forgot. As for Norman Edge he went back to his ways of getting pissed nearly every night and making sure I always heard him, on his return to the tent. Who could blame him after all, I had been a fine example to follow. When Major Nash returned to England and I rejoined my old platoon. I thankfully left that tent and all the earache given to me by Norman and Ray Harbon. Even to this present day, whisky is the only spirit I don’t drink, I am sure Norman Edge knows why! Every New Years Eve without fail, I think of a former classmate of mine from my Walney Secondary schooldays, whose name was Brian Dudley. Brian was a tall lad with dark hair, who over the years became one of the most popular lads at school. His football ability was second to none and of course this was his first love. Although I never knocked around with Brian, we got on very well together at all times. On leaving school, I would now and again bump into him and have a chat, the last time being New Years Eve 1956. Unluckily for both of us, we didn’t have any tickets for any of the popular dance halls and on his suggestion; we went to an old time dance, at the Queens Hall in Ramsden Square Barrow. This dance was attended by the older age group of the Town, who all seemed ancient at the time, with Brian and I being only eighteen years of age. The night turned out quite memorable and with both of us having a good sense of humour, the laughs were frequent. The single old dears were pushing and jostling to dance with Brian and I and this made the night completely, because without those friendly old dears, the night would have been dead. Later in the early hours of the morning, after walking back to Walney Island and before going our separate ways, we shook hands and wished each other all the best for the future. Sadly I never saw Brian Dudley again, because he died of cancer to the throat a few months later. I was told minutes before he died, he shook hands with his parents and thanked them for all they had done for him, indeed he was a brave man. So while feeling sorry for myself four years later, on New Years Eve 1960, I only had to think of Brian Dudley, who never lived to see his twentieth birthday. What he would have given to be in my position at Bamenda Camp. I get strength in thinking this way about Brian Dudley, I did then and I certainly do now. On New Years Day, I went with a few friends of mine into the out of bounds area of Bamenda Village mostly known by the unforgettable Ray Harbon. The village itself was an assortment of mud walled huts, some had thatched roofs, but most were a corrugated tin. The village was also, without question an unlit smelly place; typical of the African scenario portrayed in the many films about Africa. It was while in the out of bound area of Bamenda, that I bought two ebony carved bookends, in the shape of elephant heads. I bought these for my sister Jean, who had written most appreciated letters to me, during my time in Africa. I also bought a hand carved jewellry box for Valerie and for my mam, I bought the best present of all. This was in the form of two small elephants, carved out of ivory, the best for the best. At this present day, now that my mam and dad are no longer living, I again have the treasured ivory elephants in my possession I certainly enjoyed my Christmas parcel from home, which contained the usual goodies, including a Christmas cake, baked by my mam. This was sliced up and handed round to my fellow comrades in our tent, just the same as they did with theirs. Also in the parcel, packed with other sweets, were my favourite Callard and Bowsers butterscotch. Thankfully they were each individually wrapped in silver paper and this was really handy, because of the warm weather in Africa. All parcels, due to the absence of lockers, were kept under each individual’s bed. The parcels from home, as all ex-servicemen can vouch for, are the most appreciated possession one could ever wish to have. To my astonishment, on returning to my tent early one afternoon, I caught a native stealing from my Christmas parcel. Angrily, without thinking I ran over and kicked him up the arse with my size nine boots, he flew through the air, picked himself up and ran off squealing into the nearby wood. I know it probably sounds callous and brutal, of which I am not, because I often gave freely to those poor unfortunate people. In fact all personnel on the camp were very generous to the local native population, but there is a right and wrong way, in going about things. Therefore to steal off the hand that feed’s you are quite unforgivable and this is more so, if it’s a parcel from one’s mother! To be quite honest, I along with the rest of the battalion was glad when Christmas and New Year 1960 was over |
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