Boys Behaving

Badly

Scenes from Life as a Boy

Soldier

Mudsailor
 Boys Behaving Badly
Scenes from Life as a Boy Soldier

This is an account of life at the Duke of York’s Royal Military School in England
which I attended between 1951 and 1957. The school was for sons of men who had
entered the Army as private soldiers. Many of the boys’ fathers had been killed on
active service, had fallen on hard times, or just gone AWOL. On Sundays, we wore
our father’s regimental badges in the lapels of our khaki uniforms. I wore the pick
and shovel of the Pioneers, a labour corps which had employed men and women from
every corner of the globe including two thousand Germans. The memories are
presented as a compilation of separate tales with no specific or chronological order.

Mudsailor
Victor Ludorum RIP
Within a few days of my arrival at the military
institution that was to be my home for six years, the
new boys were given a conducted tour of the school
buildings and grounds. I should add that it was the
kind of place that if you absconded, you were severely
beaten so we were quite apprehensive of the rather tall
head boy who was our tour guide. In the dining hall,
he paused under an imposing painting of orphans
marching through the main gates and delivered a short
history of the school. Invariably our attention began to
wander and several of us noticed a panel on which
were listed winners of the Victor Ludorum Trophy.
‘Who was Victor Ludorum?’ piped up a small voice
from the restless throng. The head boy stared coldly at
the youngster for several seconds and then replied, ‘Victor was a boy at this school
who passed away under tragic circumstances. He was very popular and his
heartbroken mother donated this trophy which is awarded each year in his memory.!
Try to remember him in your prayers.’! We gazed in awe at the trophy before being
ushered away to view the toilet block and the chapel.! As the days passed, however,
some of us recalled the tour, and, needing to satisfy our curiosity, enquired about poor
Victor and his untimely ending.

Though memory fades, I think I was told that Victor had been searching for a
master’s favourite dog on the cliffs overlooking the bay.! Stumbling around in the
darkness on a wild, wintery night, Victor had fallen several hundred feet down the
cliffs onto the shingle beach below.! His last resting place was in a nearby village.
‘The dog?! Sound asleep in its kennel the whole time.’ ! I had made friends with Joe, a
boy who was later sent to work on a farm in Australia. Oh, how we envied him!
When I!told him about Victor, he looked puzzled and said that there was no grave.
During a particularly violent gale, Victor, with no thought for his own safety, had
jumped fully clothed into the local harbour to rescue another boy who had fallen from
the pier. Though the rescue was successful, poor Victor himself had been swept away
and was never seen again. Some onlookers were sure they heard him singing the
chorus of the school song until it faded away, drowned out by the howling wind.
‘Play the Game, Play the Game, Play the Game.’

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Somewhat puzzled, we shared our versions with another friend who said that we were
both completely wrong. He told us that during World War 1, brave Victor had rushed
to the rescue of a German fighter pilot whose plane had crashed on the sports field.
Having been dragged from the burning wreckage, the pilot stood up, pulled out his
luger pistol and shot poor Victor through the heart. ‘Curse those dastardly Huns!’ we
cried in dismay.! But it gradually dawned on us that we had been duped and, with the
passage of time, yesterday’s gullible newcomers were to become tomorrow’s artful
storytellers.

Indeed, the ways in which our hero met his unfortunate end were limited only by the
imagination of those whom the newcomer consulted. For example, you could hear
how he had missed the bus from town and, not wishing to be late for prayers in the
chapel, had taken a short cut through a tunnel and been run over by a goods train
laden with pig iron. ‘A 1936 Silver Jubilee Locomotive - type 4-6-0 to be exact.’ You
might even have heard how he had perished whilst rescuing members of the wealthy
and well-connected Ludorum family who were trapped in a hotel fire. ‘Unfortunately,
the ladder caught fire just as he hopped out onto the top rung.’! Then there was the
sad tale of how he had taken the wrong turning during a cross-country run, lost his
way in the snow and, not only missed his tea, but died of hypothermia within sight of
the school’s gates. ‘They would have been locked, anyway.’

Victor Ludorum?

Sometimes, the causes of his premature departure beggared belief but the audience
would listen spellbound. Apparently, Victor was keen on making large kites and was
always willing to demonstrate their flying capabilities to the younger boys. One gusty
afternoon, during such a demonstration, he and his magnificent kite were lifted by the
wind and carried some distance away. Cheering his maiden flight with enthusiasm,
the young lads ran after him and then watched in horror as he plunged to earth and
was impaled on spiked railings which bordered the school’s southern boundary. ‘You
get a great view of the castle from there.’ Or, whilst suffering pangs of hunger, he
crept out of the dormitory one night and broke into the kitchens where he choked on a
stale piece of bread. Or did he fall into a vat of porridge? Anyway, whatever the
cause, he met his maker that night. ‘Alone and in his nightshirt.’
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My own contribution was quite modest. One wet afternoon, he had engaged in
horseplay with friends and had accidentally been crushed. Unfortunately, no one took
his cries for help seriously. ‘He was a very good actor for his age and would have
made a superb Hamlet.’ The unfortunate fellow died in agony trapped between two
iron bedsteads. By a strange coincidence, the scene of his tragic departure was always
the very dormitory in which the story was told. ‘Which two beds? Well, to be honest,!
it’s yours and that one next to it’

" " " " " Victor Ludorums?

Was there a photograph of young Ludorum to be seen anywhere? There were literally
dozens of them. Almost any boy in an old school or sports team photograph would
do. Victor could be extremely tall or very short,! fair or dark haired, light or dark
skinned,! exceedingly good looking or utterly repelling, studiously intellectual or
grinning like an idiot. As sweets were rationed, a sharp lad could easily boost his
week’s supply by offering to point out Victor’s desk, coat hook, favourite library
book, seat in the dining hall, or even the euphonium he played in the school band,
‘Such a wonderful musician. Had he lived, he could have played !for the Royal
Philharmonic.’! For an additional contribution, you could be taken to the exact spot
where Victor fell.! Some attention to detail was required here; not much use showing
a disused railway line to those eagerly anticipating a rusty spike.

Had anyone seen his ghost? The ghastly third verse of the school song guaranteed it.

And though our lonely grave be dug in some far distant land.
Our spirits will return again and hover close at hand.
And the boys will hear us whisper and the boys will understand.
Play the Game! Play the Game! Play up Dukies!

It used to give me nightmares. It still does.! Many a newcomer must have spent an
uncomfortable night foregoing the call of nature than risk seeing Victor’s spirit
hovering close at hand. Oddly enough, though Victor generally departed on a wild

3
and stormy night, he never contemplated suicide. I don’t think the poor lad ever had
the time to consider it.

Victor Ludorum?

And so, as the years rolled by, more newcomers arrived at the school and were taken
on the grand tour. Another head boy would stand in the dining hall paying homage to
the memory of our heroic lad, and more tales of his brief but busy life would unfold.
I sometimes wonder just how many painful and tragic endings the poor lad suffered
since that day nearly sixty years ago when I stood under the portrait of the marching
orphans and gazed in wonder at the trophy. An award which we all eventually
discovered was presented annually to one particular student: the school’s athletics
champion, the winner of the games, or as they say in Latin, the Victor Ludorum.

Now there is a curious twist to this stale. Years ago, I received a letter from an old
school friend. It was from Joe, the one who had emigrated to Australia to enjoy life
on a farm in the warm sunshine. Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the paradise that he
imagined it would be. For all the beatings he received, he might as well have stayed
at the school. Anyway, he had returned on holiday to England and had visited the
place for old times sake. Later, he went exploring the fields and villages of our youth.
In a churchyard, he discovered a sad little row of long-forgotten graves. The stones
were barely visible amongst the ivy and undergrowth, but he had managed to clear a
path to them. To his surprise, he found they were the final resting place of boys who
had died at the school many years before we had arrived there. Gently brushing away
the lichen, he found he could just about decipher some of their names and ages. The
last one in the row was a lad called Victor Ludorum. For some reason that escapes
me, I didn’t believe him.

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The Great Escape
Of all the crimes that a boy could commit at the school, there was nothing worse, and
nothing carried a more severe punishment, than that of running away. I am not talking
about being absent for a few hours but the act of escaping, doing a bunk, going awol.
Today, in similar circumstances, a boy would be brought back by a kind master, given
a nourishing meal by his wife, and then provided with several counselling sessions to
help him manage the reasons for his unhappiness and explore strategies to overcome
his difficulties. But not in the 1950’s. The police, and any armed forces stationed in
the vicinity of the school, were asked to keep an eye open for a boy in military
uniform. Having no other clothes to wear, and dressed like an advert for the army
surplus stores, he would have stood out like sore thumb as he attempted to hitch a lift
from an occasional passing lorry on the road from Dover to London.

Apprehended, he would be brought back to the school and immediately interviewed

by the Commandant, a crusty old colonel who had probably served in the Raj, on the
Western Front, in the Boer War and at Waterloo. ‘Boy, do you realise that you have
let the school down? Indeed, you have let me down, you have let the memory of your
brave father down, you have let your country down and you have let your Queen
down.’ From the commandant’s office, it was a short walk to that of the Regimental
Sergeant Major’s. Entering the doorway, the lad would notice a rack of canes
displayed above the RSM’s desk and possibly wonder which one he was soon to
become closely acquainted with. The ungrateful reprobate would then remove his
shirt from inside his trousers in case any protective
textbooks or thick sheets of cardboard were secreted
therein. Then, bending, or held down, over the RSM’s
heavy oak desk, he would receive six strokes of the
cane across his buttocks. Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!
Swish! Swish! The punishment was usually prefaced
with something like ‘This is going to hurt me, lad, far
more than it will you.’ or similar twaddle. The school
medical officer was usually in attendance at the flogging. I wonder if he brought
some salt with him? The boy would leave the administrative block and head for his
house with tears streaming down his face. It would have hurt him a lot more than the
ancient khaki clad warrior who administered it, but later he would proudly display the
painful blue/black wheals across his backside to his pals in the dormitory. After
lights out, he would whisper how his adventure had unfolded and would probably
embellish some of the facts that surrounded his short-lived bid for freedom.

5
Another punishment would await him at the end of the week when the official weekly
orders were printed and distributed around the school. On them, he would see his
name, his crime, and his punishment posted as a public announcement. If he were a
‘pension boy’ (a euphemism for an orphan), he would discover that he would forfeit a
‘dodger’ or good conduct chevron from his uniform and one penny a week from his
state provided pocket money. In addition, he would be confined to the school grounds
for the rest of the term. In eight houses, boys would gather round to read the notices
and discuss the flogging with bated breath. Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!
Swish!

Though there were two or three ‘Great Escapes’ each year, I can hardly recall any of
the boys who took the short walk to freedom. There are, however, two who had an
interesting experience and I’ll call them Little and Large. Large, as you can imagine
was rather overweight and clumsy, whereas Little was just a small underdeveloped
waif. They were the best of buddies and I knew them well. When news broke that
they had done a bunk, it was the talk of the school, for, of all the boys who might be
tempted to escape, they were the least likely, and least promising, of candidates. Yet,
one night, they had somehow mustered the courage to get up and go. Those heavy
army boots were made for walking.

What is remarkable about their absence is that it lasted for over a week, a record by
school standards. Indeed, after a few days, boys were exchanging wagers (bags of
rationed sweets) on how long would elapse before the two were either caught or
handed themselves in. How far had they got? Where were they living? How were
they surviving from day to day? Would we ever see them again? Even the masters
began to show a keen interest in our deliberations, though we knew they were just
trying to glean information about the escapees’ whereabouts in order to curry favour
with the school’s senior administrators. Artfully, we led them astray. ‘Last week, I
heard them whispering something about Folkestone, Sir.’

Well, all holidays must come to an end and they were eventually returned to Dover
looking none the worse for their experiences. It appeared that they had hitched their
way to London and had spent several nights sleeping in parks or churches, which
were rarely locked in those days. By day, they scrounged food from market traders
and probably helped themselves to a few goodies too. Eventually, needing some hard
cash, they did a most curious thing. Though it showed some initiative, I think today
we would call it a no-brainer, They stood on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral and
collected money from the handful of passing tourists using a tin marked ‘St Paul’s
Collection’. Perhaps their military uniforms gave them an air of respectability; it
would not have been their spelling or writing. They seem to have been quite
6
successful and had collected enough for two bacon rolls when who should appear on
the steps of the cathedral but one Rev. Chad Varrah.

Chad Varrah was a padre working for TocH, an international charity aimed at easing
the burdens of others. Indeed, that organisation’s iconic symbol of a brass lamp has
made an odd contribution to the English language; we occasionally refer to someone
as being ‘as a dim as a TocH lamp’. Chad, who was in the process of setting up the
Samaritans, had seen the two boys working the crowds near the cathedral and asked
them about their money raising mission. It didn’t take him long to realise that they
were just a couple of hungry runaways and he organised their return to the school that
evening. I doubt whether he had any idea of the kind of reception that would be
awaiting them when they reached the school’s administrative office. Little and Large
knew only too well what to anticipate and they took their punishment manfully
before hobbling back to the dormitory to satisfy our inquisitive demands. We listen
enthralled to their description of the back streets of London and the odd characters
they met, but we never really discovered why they did it. Perhaps it was just for the
sheer hell of it, but they really rocketed in our estimation as a result of their record
breaking escapade.

Years later, I heard that one of the two pals had joined the Medical Corps as an
orderly and was believed to have died whilst serving in the Malayan jungle. If he had
once let his school, country and Queen down, well he certainly made up for it. But I
shall always remember him as one of the lads who actually made it all the way to
London. Their lamps have never dimmed.

7
An Expulsion
Expulsions from the school were few and far between. This one concerns a boy
whom I remember well for I inadvertently contributed to his downfall.

Sam was a tough little Eastender. He had a round face,

a shock of jet black hair and dark piercing eyes. We
joined the school together and were in the same
dormitory. Within a week, Sam started to bully the
smaller, weaker boys and became very unpopular. The
housemaster entered him for the junior boxing
tournament in the hope that some of this aggression
might be knocked out of him. Unfortunately, this did not
work, for Sam won the competition and became even more disruptive. He could now
push the other kids around with a certain amount of swagger.

Then things started to disappear from our lockers. Some of the boys found that
packets of sweets or small amounts of money were missing. There were no locks or
security devices in the house for we were encouraged to trust each other, but there
was clearly a thief in our midst. A trap was laid with the help of a marked Mars bar,
the popular chocolate treat which in 1951 cost about 5d (2p). As soon as it was
known to be missing, the boys told the housemaster and he made everyone leave the
dormitory while he inspected their lockers. The empty and crumpled but marked
wrapper was found in Sam’s.

Although there was always a possibility that the wrapper had been placed there by
someone else, some money that Sam couldn’t account for was also found, and he was
given a severe warning. It didn’t seem to worry him one bit and he just carried on as
if nothing had happened. Thereafter, although items kept disappearing, no trails led
back to him, and boys became mistrustful of each other.

On 6th February 1952, I was walking along a path when Sam came strolling in the
opposite direction. I was always wary of him and wondered if he might punch or
push me off the path as he passed by. He stopped in front of me and said, ‘Got any
sweets, mate? Ere d’you know the King is dead?’ I expressed my sorrow at the news
which was just starting to leak out around the school. ‘Well, it doesn’t bother me,’ he
said and carried on down the path. When the King’s wife had visited the East End
during the Blitz, Sam’s mum was probably one of those loyal subjects who stood in
the rubble of their homes and shouted ‘God Bless you Ma’am. You’re one of us.’

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During the King’s funeral, we were made to sit in the large day room and listen to a
radio broadcast of the service, described in poetic detail and with bated breath by
Richard Dimbleby. We all tried to look deeply moved and upset by our monarch’s
untimely departure, but in reality we were rather bored and started to fidget, so were
given serious books to read. Had it existed, ‘Where’s Wally?’ would not have
featured in the selection of approved literature.

In Westminster Abbey, the King’s coffin had been lying-in-state and guarded by four
soldiers. They stood like living statues with their heads bowed at the four corners of
the raised platform or catafalque. ‘My dad’s one of those soldiers,’ announced Sam
suddenly. ‘He’s in the Life Guard regiment and that’s his job.’ The Life Guards were
certainly on duty that day but whether they included Sam’s dad, we shall never know.
He often came out with strange statements and we didn’t know what to make of
them. We weren’t even all that sure if he had a father.

Spring beckoned and his brief school career was nearing its end. Each house had a
large airy day room where boys could relax, read newspapers and play billiards. It
was one of my duties to keep our day room clean and tidy. Various regiments had sent
the school framed prints of glorious campaigns or soldiers on horseback. ‘The 3rd
Madras Light Cavalry trotting past the Viceroy of India’, and that sort of thing. Each
frame usually had the regiment’s cap badge attached to it. In a military school, cap
badges were often collected like valuable stamps. We had quite an impressive
collection of prints and I kept them aligned on the walls and dusted. It was while I
was asking the housemaster a question about one of these prints, that I noticed its
cap badge was missing. When I pointed it out to him, he stared at the print for a few
seconds, then turned on his heels and left the room. He went immediately to Sam’s
locker, emptied it and found the missing cap badge hidden amongst some clothes.

It seems such a harsh price to pay for nicking a metal cap badge, but the school had
clearly had enough of Sam and his pilfering ways. He was sent to pack his battered
case and was soon on his way to London. Many of the boys were glad to see the last
of him. Later, we often wondered what became of him. What did his mum say when
he turned up on the doorstep? Which school did he go to? Did he get a proper job or
end up in prison? There were so many unanswered questions but we never heard of
or saw him again.

9
Top of the Form
Once a month, a local barber would call at Kitchener, our school house, and cut the
hair of sixty boys. Needless to say, his visit was not a popular one. With the rock ‘n’
roll revolution, and the longer styles popular with teddy
boys, long hair was in fashion and a closely-cropped
boy would stand out like a sore thumb. The barber, a
rather taciturn individual nicknamed ‘Sweeney Todd’
ignored requests such as ‘Can you leave it longer on the
top?’ and sheared his way through our heads like an
Australian sheep farmer. I certainly don’t recall him
holding a mirror so that the victim could admire his
work, or using that time-honoured expression ‘Anything
for the weekend, Sir?’ Working at a speed of two
minutes per head, there would have been a place for him
in the Guinness Book of Records.

A small room was set aside for his salon. As it was part of my daily duties or
‘fatigues’ to look after this room, I was responsible for keeping it swept and tidy
throughout his visit, and would also ensure that he was regularly supplied with cups
of tea. Indeed, I was quite proud of my role as his assistant and even toyed with the
idea of becoming a barber myself. Later, in the Merchant Navy, I gave a few haircuts
to shipmates but was never asked to repeat the procedure; my skills did not match my
enthusiasm. Or perhaps I modeled myself too closely on the school barber?

The barber liked to listen to a radio while he worked. There was an old wooden
wartime radio on a nearby shelf and, with some gentle coaxing and a little violence, I
usually tuned in something for him to enjoy. One evening, as he finished the last boy
in the queue, a popular quiz programme called ‘Top of the Form’ came on the air. It
was a weekly battle of wits for teams of schoolchildren. Although my duties were
done and I should have been off to bed, he let me stay there to listen to it. Memory
fades, but I recall questions like ‘What is the colour of puce?’, ‘Would you eat or
admire a mosaic?’, ‘On what date do we celebrate the British Empire?’ etc. I think we
both found the questions quite difficult and spent some time engaged in a mutual
exchange of ignorance. When the programme finished, we went our separate ways.

Some days later, as a break from the usual lesson, the English teacher said that he
would like to give us a general knowledge quiz. Though we liked the teacher and his
lessons, we were delighted because life is too short to waste precious hours on syntax

10
and periodic sentence construction. Two teams were formed representing the left and
right hand sides of the classroom. The rules were simple. He would ask one team a
question and if they couldn’t answer it, or answered it incorrectly, the other team
could have a go with the chance of gaining an extra point. Along came the first
question: ‘What is the colour of puce?’, which was shortly followed by ‘On what
date do we celebrate the British Empire?’ I soon realised that the English teacher had
lifted his questions directly from the Top of the Form broadcast which both the school
barber and I had struggled to answer, and my joy knew no bounds.

The questions had originally been set for an older age group, and the boys found
them quite difficult. Even Merry, who was a complete bonk (genius), struggled to
cope, but I could still remember all the answers. All I had to
do was wait until the other team failed a question and then
put my hand up. I did this with monotonous regularity until I
realised that someone might smell a rat. So, when it was our
turn to decide whether a mosaic was to be admired or
consumed, I insisted loudly that I had once enjoyed a
delicious plate of mosaic in a fish restaurant. My wrong
answer did the trick. Despite the groans, I soon made up for it
and answered several questions effortlessly and without
raising any suspicion.

At this point, I should add that I was never one of the brightest in the form. To be
honest, although I was the eldest of 32 boys, I was usually ranked 28th or 29th in
overall academic performance. Indeed, throughout my school career, the only time I
ever enjoyed an A+ on my record was the one given for my blood group.

Towards the end of the lesson, I noticed the English teacher staring at me quizzically.
He was probably thinking ‘Perhaps there’s more to this boy than meets the eye?’
Well there wasn’t, but I had no intention of confessing to any prior knowledge of the
answers. In fact, I milked the situation by telling him how much we had all enjoyed
the lesson. adding ‘Gosh! Some of those questions were quite hard, Sir’. He
continued to eye me suspiciously and then we were off to enjoy two hours of Latin
where I would once again revert to being one of the class dunces. Effortlessly.

I have often wondered what it would be like to know all the answers in life, but that
was as close as I ever came. Nevertheless, there was a small bonus waiting for me in
my end of term report. Under English, instead of the usual C minus accompanied by
‘Could do better’, the teacher commented that I had made some effort to improve and
generously awarded me a C.
11
Cross Country Running

If you are blessed with the legs of a gazelle and the lungs of a leopard, cross country
running is a superb pastime. A wonderful sport in which you pound relentlessly along
country lanes, dash across fields, leap through hedges and brambles, and hurl yourself
joyfully across the finishing line to the ecstatic applause of the onlookers. If, on the
other hand, you have an average small boy’s physique and a natural tendency to
avoid excessive or unnecessary exercise, than it is nothing but sheer hell.

At school, there were three cross country courses and the one you took depended on
your age. The junior one skirted the school boundary and was about two miles long.
Initially, the intermediate route followed the junior course and then branched off
along a road called Hangman’s Lane in the direction of a disused windmill. Some
boys boasted that the mill provided the ideal cover for having a quick smoke before
striking for home. The senior course, which meandered across the cliffs of Dover,
remained a complete mystery to the day I left. I don’t ever recall completing it.

The junior course was more of a gentle stroll and followed a pleasant grassy path
outside the school railings. Rabbits ran from their burrows and larks soared above the
fields of Kent. Today, the path has disappeared under six lanes of the A2 from
Canterbury to Dover, and is home to a fast food restaurant, a car park and a petrol
station. The intermediate course, however, followed a dusty country lane which still
remains untouched by progress. Spurred along by the enthusiasm and superior fitness
of your peers, cajoled by senior boys, and hectored by elderly masters on push bikes,
there was absolutely no escape. How anyone could find the time to light up and enjoy
a Woodbine on that crowded route, beggars belief. Any rabbits pausing to admire the

12
athletes would have been trampled to death. Gasping for breath, you eventually
staggered back through the school gates and collapsed gratefully onto the floor of the
changing rooms. What some of us would have done to avoid this torture.

Occasionally, two of my friends and I would discuss strategies for coping with the
intermediate course. We tried different kinds of footwear, shortened our pace,
lengthened our pace, varied our pace and so on. Nothing worked. We just weren’t
physically designed to perform this kind of ridiculous activity. Then, one day, a
solution gradually dawned on us. It was so obvious that you will wonder why we
hadn’t thought of it before. The fact that none of us would be invited to stay on for
the sixth form, might suggest why.

Green line = Junior Course Red line = Intermediate Course

Pause, if you will, to the study the map above. Both junior and intermediate courses
started together at the school gates (bottom left) and coincided until they reached the
corner of the school boundary. At this point, the junior course continued around the
boundary, whereas the intermediate course had an additional three miles to the mill
and back before meeting up with the junior course again. All we had to do was find a
way of disappearing from the intermediate course, and taking the short cut offered by
the junior course, without being seen. This took rather more planning than you might
imagine.

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The first thing we did was observe how different boys performed along the course.
The true athletes and keen runners were well known and soon showed the rest of us a
clean pair of heels. Then, of course, there were the slow coaches; the ones who would
one day become obese lorry drivers or ruddy-faced butchers. Strangely enough, one
of them became a bishop in the Church of England. There was no point in hanging
around with them, because they would be followed by a master on a bike or an older
boy with a stick. It was the ones in the middle order that occupied our attention.
Where was the best place to position ourselves within this group so we could veer
away from Hangman’s Lane and scuttle down the junior course without being seen?

Eventually, we noticed that a large gap opened up fairly quickly between the best
runners and the rest of the field. By running with the hares (who had no reason to
keep looking behind), then falling gradually back to the tortoises (who were always
looking behind), we would find a gap in which to make our unofficial departure from
the prescribed route. To put it simply, we made our escape when nobody could see us.
Mind you, running with the hares was exhausting but worth it in the long run.

Returning to the fold was a relatively easy matter because we could watch the runners
from the security of the trees as they huffed and puffed back in small groups. With
good timing, and pretending to tie our laces, we neatly dovetailed ourselves back into
the pelaton and made suitable marathon men noises as we galloped back to the school
gates for our tea.

Did it work? Yes. Did we ever get caught? No. Well, there was an occasion when we
had paused to rest and admire the field of runners making its way in the distance
along Hangman’s Lane. All of a sudden we were overtaken by a group of junior boys
who threatened to inform on us. What foolish lads! They came very close to ending
up beneath the car park that now adorns the route and we had no further problems
from that direction. Had our deceit been discovered, we would have been snubbed by
our comrades. Well, it was rather incompatible with the true spirit of the school song:
Play the game! Play the game! Always play the game!

14
Three Ruperts
Rupert was one of my best friends at school. Sixty years later, we still keep in touch
and I was astonished when he told me this odd little tale.

Rupert’s father had been a boy at the school in the early years of the 20th century
when it was based in the Royal Hospital at Chelsea. He was also called Rupert and
had the distinction of being photographed with King Edward VII and the German
Kaiser when they came to inspect the school on a royal visit. After a career as a
military musician, he left the Army and took a post as bandmaster with the Trinidad
Police Force. Young Rupert was born in Trinidad and packed off to school back in
England when he was eleven. He must have inherited some of his father’s musical
talent because he was a very good trombone player in the school band. Although I
only recall him visiting Trinidad a couple of times, it must have been quite an
adventure for him for, during the holidays, he usually lodged in Coventry.

His father lived to a ripe old age and when he died, Rupert went back to Trinidad to
sort out his papers. Reading through some old diaries, he was amazed to discover that
he had had an elder stepbrother who was also called Rupert! After this boy’s birth, the
mother had refused to go to Trinidad with his father and stayed behind in England
where she eventually married another man. Living in the Caribbean, with his busy
job and his own family, Rupert’s father had gradually lost contact with them. He
believed that they had all perished in the blitz on London during WW2.

Intrigued by this discovery, Rupert returned to England determined to find out as

much as he could about his stepbrother. Despite searching through birth and other
records, he drew a complete blank, and gradually gave up his quest. Then one day,
just out of sheer curiosity, he ‘googled’ the boy’s name on the internet and out came a
reference to someone who had served in the RAF. A few days later, with the help of
the RAF benevolent organisation and a lengthy explanation, he had an address which
led to a telephone number. And who should be at the end of that number but his long
lost stepbrother, Rupert. A bomb had indeed fallen near the house in London, but
they had all survived.

It wasn’t long before the two brothers and their wives met up and they all got on
really well. There was so much to talk about; so much to share. Did they have the

15
same interests, personality traits or mannerisms? Did they both enjoy music? There
were many similarities but the older Rupert confessed that his had been a very
unhappy childhood. His stepfather had been an aggressive man and the boy and his
mother suffered much from his violent temper. In the end, he ran away from home
and never returned.

After drifting around the country for a while, he ended up in Kent where he found
work with the East Kent Bus Company. He started as a bus cleaner, then became a
conductor, and eventually trained to be a driver. Like all boys at the school, the
younger Rupert knew the bus company well and asked him which routes he had
worked on. It appeared that, during the late 1950’s, the older Rupert had worked as a
driver between Dover and Deal. With the school perched on the cliffs just above
Dover, it was a route which passed the school gates on the hour and every hour.
Sometimes, the conductors would let us travel for free; they would push the 5d fare
back into our hands, and move on down the bus.

As the two Ruperts sat there chatting, it gradually dawned on them that they may
have often been together on the same bus making the short journey from the school to
Dover and back. Two brothers with exactly the same names and they wouldn’t have
known each other from Adam. Indeed, the older Rupert might even have given his
younger brother a free lift.

16
And the band played on........
Summer, 1980’s. Five musicians stepped onstage to the roar of an enthusiastic crowd.
Strobe lights stabbed around the gym, briefly illuminating the rows of parallel bars to
which I had once clung precariously. Pausing to wave at a gaggle of girls, the lead
singer and guitarist counted the band in to its first number. What followed was just a
wall of raw noise, a cacaphony of tinnitus to older ears but I wouldn’t have missed it
for the world. The band was Ollie the Squid, winners of the BBC’s school rock band
competition, and, at the risk of a ruptured eardrum, I was determined to hear their
performance to the last nerve-stripping note. Well, I stayed for that first number.

Now wind the clock back about thirty years from that evening. There are five of us:
two guitars, a banjo, a washboard and a tea chest bass. A rock ‘n’ roll revolution is
sweeping like a tsunami through the moonlight and roses world of popular music.
Elvis may be king but his music, which can only corrupt our morals, is forbidden at
the school; apart from an hour on Sundays when we are permitted to play our 78rpm
records quietly. So our band is a clandestine activity, but we managed to get quite a
few bookings with the help of a small ad in the local newspaper.
‘Parties? Receptions? We dig the most for the least!’ What on
earth was that about? But the ad worked and I recall a wedding
reception where we too were surrounded by girls, a gig in the
corner of a coffee bar, and an appearance in a variety show at
the Leas Cliff Pavillion in Folkestone. Our limited repertoire
was a selection of rock, country and skiffle, which was a DIY
mixture of folk and blues accompanied by much enthusiastic
strumming around three basic chords. And always the
ubiquitous and tuneless thud thud thud of that tea chest bass.

One Saturday afternoon, we asked a senior prefect if we could perform a couple of

numbers on the stage in the gym before the evening cinema show. Our request was
granted and we worked hard at polishing up our best songs for this groundbreaking
event. We climbed up on the stage to rapturous applause from the audience and
launched into our piece de resistance Worried Man Blues:

It takes a worried man to sing a worried song

Yes it takes a worried man to sing a worried song
Oh it takes a worried man to sing a worried song
I’m worried now but I won’t be worried long

17
As we reached the end of the song, into the hall strode the school’s deputy
headmaster. Bristling with authority, he ordered us to get off the stage and leave the
building. This was meant to be a film show not some kind of noisy jazz club! Despite
groans of dismay from our fans, we had no other choice than to do as we were
ordered. Later, it was made clear to us that there was to be no repetition of this
deliberate breach of rules or our instruments would be confiscated. Although we were
amused by the thought of this high-ranking army officer seizing and struggling away
with our clumsy tea chest, it was a depressing time. As I said, that kind of music was
limited to one hour per week on Sunday evenings when you could play your records
quietly. I said quietly!

Then fate stepped in and handed us the perfect recipe for revenge. The powers that be
decided to hold an evening of culture surrounded by potted plants. A provisional
programme was drawn up. Perhaps some piano or violin solos, a reading of
Longfellow’s Wreck of the Hesperus, Jasper’s Dance by the school orchestra, and a
medley of nautical songs from the school choir? The school’s music teacher, a kindly
but gullible man, asked us boys to suggest anything we would like to include.
Several us wondered if he would like us to sing some songs from the colonies. ‘What
a splendid suggestion,’ he enthused, ‘Waltzing Matilda? A Jamaican calypso? Yes, do
work on it chaps, and I’ll fit it into the programme.’ And so the plot was hatched.
Promising that we would turn up for the dress rehearsal, we hurried away to practise
our colonial songs, but the colony we had in mind was no longer a part of the British
Empire. Well, not since 1776.

The main hurdle lay in avoiding the dress rehearsal but this proved easier than we
anticipated. The music teacher, who was responsible for the event, was unwell so any
rehearsals had to be organised independently, and, as you can imagine, we prepared
our two songs most diligently. ‘It’ll be alright on the night,’ he reassured everyone
from his sickbed, ‘Just make sure you’re ready to go on when called.’ We were.
‘Break a leg, chaps!’ We didn’t.

The school assembled for the concert, which was attended by the mayor and
mayoress, and other local dignitaries. The guests had cane and wicker chairs which
seemed to complement the potted plants. The Headmaster gave a short welcoming
speech, the lights were dimmed and everyone sat down to enjoy an evening of
culture. On his euphonium, Jones Senior gave a splendid interpretation of Serenade
by Drigo, and the junior boys choir sang Twankydillo followed by Bobby Shaftoe.
Bobby Shaftoe? He’ll come back and marry me. Yes, it was a boys school, but that’s
the kind of nonsense we had to sing sometimes..

18
Unfortunately, the wreck of the Hesperus had sunk sometime before the concert but
was replaced by something equally inspiring. Then it was our turn. In the wings, we
stripped off our khaki jackets to reveal a dazzling array of football or rugby shirts.
Indeed, I thought the blue and white stripes of my Sheffield Wednesday strip were
quite eye-catching. With our instruments tuned and ready for action, we stepped into
the limelight and onto a low stage. Several guests were intrigued by our large
wooden tea chest and clapped their hands with delight when they saw what it was for
and how it was played. Did we really perform You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog?
To be honest, I don’t recall the songs, but they would have been known to the boys if
not the staff. What I do remember, however, is the look of abject horror on the
Headmaster’s face as we worked through our short programme. He was a tall man
and sank lower and lower in his chair until I could only see his knees; his hands were
covering his face in embarrassment. It was truly a moment to savour and no one was
going to order us from the stage this time. Needless to say, the boys and most of the
guests loved it and cheered us to the rafters.

I think the music teacher got a flea in his ear for our inappropriate contribution and
we were meant to be reprimanded but nothing ever happened. The boys who formed
Ollie the Squid wouldn’t have understood the fuss, and nor would anyone else today.
Times have changed, but that’s how things were and we just had to put up with them.
Nevertheless, when I heard that a group from the old school had won a national rock
band competition, I just had to be there at their presentation.

! ! ! !

19
The School Mag
I always looked forward to the arrival of the school magazine, which was very well
produced and printed locally. It reported on the sporting activities and results against
other schools. There were reviews of school plays, information about old boys,
photos and general chit chat about school life. I awaited the arrival of the 1951
Christmas edition with eager anticipation because I had a poem in it and this is it:

The Graveyard

The sky was dull and cloudy

The wind began to blow
The people in the graveyard
Said it looked like snow.

Some had come to tend the flowers

Some had come to pray
Others, if they came at all,
Simply came to play.

The sky was dull and cloudy

The wind began to moan
The people left the graveyard
And we were left alone.

OK, counsellor, what do you make of all that?

20
School Reports
School reports were the bane of my life. They always arrived in the middle of the
holidays and they were always disappointing. My mother would look at them, shake
her head, and say ‘I don’t know. You won’t amount too much if you keep getting
reports like this.’ Now, what really got me about these things is that you could spend
a whole term slavishly copying stuff from the board, wiping ink from your fingers,
and struggling to conjugate Latin verbs and all you got was a miserable grade with a
brief comment: D+ Lacks interest. I’ve kept a teacher in employment for a term
and that’s all he can say about my loyal support. On reflection, perhaps that’s all he
needed to say. Anyway, what is the point of Latin? You can’t go there on holiday.

It was obvious to anyone, that a few of the teachers couldn’t care less about writing
reports and it really showed. On several occasions, I was graded for subjects I wasn’t
studying. Did I really deserve that straight B for physics a whole year after I dropped
it? And what about that C- for swimming? Hey, I’m the school swimming champion
this year, remember? Perhaps it was the result of my keeping a low profile and not
making too many waves (outside the pool).

But enough of this self pity. I still have the reports and there are some interesting
comments. Has been a very useful member of the house this term, apart from one
silly episode. Only one? What was that about? I couldn’t even recall it when asked by
my mother. Was he confusing me with Mousey Drover? In fact, this is when those
phantom grades come in useful because you can use them to convince others that the
report is completely suspect. If you want to be a real bounder, get to the post first and
make some minor adjustments like turning minuses into positives. Then there’s the
enigmatic He has surprised me this term. Exactly how is not specified, but I suspect
the teacher wrote that for every boy. Perhaps we surprised him by staying awake?
But it wasn’t all bad. Has been outstanding as Shylock in the school play! Applause!

‘Shylock’ in his first year

21
The ZigZag

Unlike most schools in the area, the school had a swimming pool and was able to
send teams to compete in the various county and national competitions. Naturally, the
pool had plenty of rules and regulations, and times when it was off limits, so we went
for secret night swims. These were fun but you ran the risk of being caught and
banned from the pool, or worse.

Occasionally, we took our swimming togs to the

harbour at Dover and, after hobbling painfully
across the shingle and pebbles, paddled around
shivering in the oily water. Then one day,
someone discovered a route down to the beach
from the cliffs which were near the school. The
cliffs contained tunnels, store rooms and lookout
posts, but with the ending of the war, these had
been abandoned by the military authorities. The
route we discovered was not a gentle stroll but a scramble down a steep zig zag
pathway with a 20 feet drop at the end to the beach. The ZigZag, as we called it,
became our private beach and we spent many sunny hours there at weekends. The
drop to the beach was a bit tricky but we managed to get hold of some rope and
scramble down as best as we could. Close to the drop, there was an abandoned gun
battery and cave which we could explore and where we could indulge our military
fantasies. It had a great echo. When returning from the beach, we often pulled up the
rope before the last person could climb it and then watch their frantic struggle up the
chalk face. This was particularly good sport when the tide was rising.

The ZigZag overlooked the last resting

place of the largest sailing ship in the
world at that time. In 1910, the 4765 ton
five-masted Preussen had collided with a
steamer near Beachy Head and, towed by
a tug, had almost made it to Dover
harbour. There was a storm, the lines
broke and the ship foundered on the
rocks beneath the cliffs. There were other
wrecks visible from the cliffs as well.

22
The cliffs were up to 300 feet high in places and supported a rich variety of wildlife
including lizards, insects and butterflies. Skylarks rose above us in the skies and, safe
from predators, kittywakes, fulmars and peregrine falcons nested in the chalk. Apart
from the spectacular views and the birds, the cliff top also provided us with some free
confectionery. We would pull bunches of red clover florets, and suck on the ends to
taste the sweet nectar.! Later, we discovered that we were hoovering up many small
strange creatures which inhabited these flowers and our enthusiasm waned, but the
clover still tasted a lot better than plush nuggetts.

OK, but what about Health and Safety? Lets check out some current guidelines for
group participation in ‘outdoor actitivies at the water margins’ and see how we
measured up. I have awarded us a score out of 10 for each item.

Surroundings: Are there cliffs above or below

you? Could someone knock loose stones down?
How close to the edge are you? Set physical
boundaries beyond which the group should not
venture. (7/10)

Weather: Always get a local weather forecast on

the day of your visit, and know how this will
impact on your plans and your location. (5/10)

Clothing: You should take some spare clothing

and extra towels with you and keep your footwear
on at all times during the visit. (1/10)

Communications: Make sure that an adult back

at your usual base knows where you are going,
what you will be doing and when you expect to
return. (0/10)

Cut-off criteria: Identify marks which will indicate that the river or tide has risen above a
certain point. (10/10)

Behaviour: The group need to be aware that pushing, dragging or ducking others into
water are unsafe and unacceptable practices. (0/10)

Changing: If your group need to change their clothing, normal sensitivity should ensure
that neither you nor they are put in a vulnerable position. (0/10 but anyone touching us
would be chucked over the cliff edge.)

Check water quality: Water quality is important and can be affected by a number of
factors such as rainfall or hot weather. It may also be subject to contamination by
chemicals, sewage or dead animals. (3/10)

23
First aid and emergencies: Take an adequate first aid kit and make sure that any
wounds are cleaned and covered quickly. Remember that mobile phones may not work in
remote areas. If you have been trained, and are skilled in the use of throwlines, you may
wish to take one with you. (1/10 and that!s for our rope.)

Today, our ZigZag has become a tourist attraction.

There are hand railings, proper steps, and the drop
to the beach has a safety ladder. There may even
be a rest room and a takeaway. I’d like to return
there one day and go for a swim, but I may check
on those health and safety issues first. For, as
social workers like to say, mistakes were made,
lessons were learned, improvements have been
introduced, and the situation is much improved.

Skinny Dipping
There’s a place that I recall, where we would go to swim
It wasn’t at a swimming pool down at the local gym.
And though the water was too deep, too muddy and too cold.
We all loved skinny dipping at the old swimming hole

We didn’t have a lifeguard watching from a little boat

Just a tractor tyre that would keep us all afloat.
We learnt to do the backstroke, the breast stroke and the crawl
The butterfly was silly, never did that one at all.

Like monkeys in the jungle, we swung from tree to tree

hanging from a piece of rope and every ride was free
Leaping from the tallest rock, I did a cannon ball
and landed on Fat Louie, thus cushioning my fall

One day a stranger took our clothes, and then away did run
At first we didn’t miss them, ‘cos we were having fun.
We had to wait till sundown and all the folks were in,
then sneak back home in darkness, dressed only in our skin

For no particular reason that we could understand,

A law enforcement officer told us that it was banned
We grabbed his arms and legs, and everybody took a hold
and he went skinny dipping at the old swimming hole!

The other day, I passed this way while on a business trip

The weather was so warm I thought I’d have a skinny dip
But a restaurant and a parking lot were all that I could see
My dear old swimming hole was just a part of history.

24
Boys behaving badly

Boys confined to an institution will do the strangest things to or with each other.
Sometimes, it is just a tradition passed on from one year to the next, such as playing
pranks on newcomers. Sometimes it is horseplay which usually ends up in everyone
getting detention, but wasn’t it worth it? Occasionally, bullying would raise its nasty
little head with a focus on the younger boys or the dormitory scapegoat. Fortunately,
there was not a great deal of bullying within the house system, and bullies always
discovered that, within a year or so, the younger boys they tormented had matured
physically and were eager to return the beatings they had once received.

Newchies or newcomers. Each house had a boot room, which was a square brick
building in the backyard and housed some work benches and toilets. There were
several rows of coat hooks along one of the walls. A newchie entering the boot room
alone could be in for a nasty shock. As he placed his boots and cleaning brushes on
the bench, he might find himself lifted skywards and suspended from a pair of coat
hooks by the shoulder straps of his khaki uniform. It was a position from which
escape was virtually impossible and the luckless fellow might hang there for some
time until other boys came to his rescue. I remember one poor lad who hung
suspended from the upper row of coat pegs throughout supper. Mind you, for the
swill that was sometimes dished up, he wouldn’t have missed much.

New boys were soon introduced to the legend of the headless

drummer. This was the ghost of a drummer boy who haunted
various school buildings, notably the clock tower. It was a
gospel fact that several boys had collapsed and died at the
sight of his headless corpse! Honestly! Among the many tales
and rumours surrounding the headless drummer, was his silent
march to a muffled drum beat through certain houses or
dormitories at dead of night. An inquisitive newchie would
discover that the drummer’s favourite dormitory was the very
one in which he now slept. That night, hearing the sound of a
drumbeat, the boy would hide in terror under the sheets, forgo
the call of nature and probably wet the bed.

25
Horseplay: During wet or cold weather, we would wear heavy army coats or
greatcoats as they were known. We marched to the dining hall and hung our coats in a
long narrow room to the side of the hall. After the meal, there should have been an
orderly evacuation of the dining hall to collect our coats. More often than not,
however, this would turn into a scrummage and we would fight our way to the
entrance grabbing any coat we could find. It was sheer mayhem. Indeed, on one
occasion, I carried a small bottle of joke scent called Wallflower and shook it over the
madding crowd. It was far more powerful than a stink bomb and the ensuing
stampede would have graced any African game reserve.

Other kinds of horseplay included wrestling in the mud on the sports field, wet towel
flicking sessions in the bathroom (not to be recommended) and maring up (aka
tossing out). To mare up successfully, one person had to stay awake until the school
clock sounded midnight. He then woke up the rest of the dormitory and we would
tiptoe silently through the darkened house to a junior dormitory. Each member of the
invading force would take the side of a bed and, at a signal from the leader, twenty
unfortunate occupants would be tipped out onto the wooden floor. As we became
more adventurous, we ventured beyond the house and attacked the dormitories of
other houses. I loved maring up and always volunteered to be the dormitory alarm
clock. I had no difficulty staying awake, it was a skill I had honed while rousing
slashers (persistent bed wetters) from their slumbers and escorting them to the loo.

Boys love to slide; we are born that way. When the ice lay
thick on the paths and parade ground, we would form a
very orderly queue and take turns at running and sliding
along the ice in our heavy army boots. The creation of
slides was strictly forbidden as they were a danger to
members of staff, and we couldn’t think of a better reason
for making them. Back in the dormitory, smaller boys
discovered a rather more comfortable form of sliding. With
their highly polished floors, the dormitories were usually
26
out of bounds during the day, but we would hide under the beds until the coast was
clear. Then, by pushing off from the end wall, we would try to see how many beds we
could slide under. One lad was very good at it and, on one occasion, slid the whole
length of the dormitory’s wooden floor. It was a record and was probably never
beaten. I can still hear his head cracking against the far wall. Sometimes, the house
matron would discover us and shout ‘Numbers 2, 6 and 54. Get out of the dormitory
immediately!’ In five years, I never heard her use our names; she knew us only by
our laundry numbers. In fact, several years after leaving school, I went to see her and
she greeted me warmly: ‘Hello No 2. Are you still at sea?’

Phwoah!

Bullying: The laundry numbers mentioned above were used for other identification
purposes and for one rather unpleasant tradition called ‘beats’. If you were number
54, then on the 54th day before the end of term, you were entitled to receive 54 beats
or punches on the arm. This was hard on boys higher up the numerical order. The
exception to this procedure was that the boy whose number was 2 would receive a
‘dorm bashing’ which meant that he could be punched an unlimited number of times
by boys in his dormitory. But spare a thought for boy number 1, because he was
entitled to a house bashing. In reality, within a day or two of the end of term, the
boys were so excited at going on leave that they usually forgot. I was number 2 in
my house but do not recall being on the end of a dorm bashing. Perhaps I was beaten
unconscious?

The dining hall was often the venue for some strange bullying tactics. For example, a
particularly unpleasant prefect would make us sit with our arms folded behind our
backs when we had finished eating. Clearly, this worthless turd did not see the meal
as a social occasion and we were glad to hear grace called and then escape. The
calling of grace, however, could be the signal for a rather nasty and painful prank. We
27
sat on heavy benches, five to a bench. and if one of the boys had offended the others
in some way, they would secretly agree to knock the bench over as they stepped back
over it to stand up for grace. The unsuspecting victim would then get the full force of
the heavy oak bench as it toppled on his foot. It happened to me by accident one day
and I can assure you that it was very painful and left me hobbling for a couple of
days. After that, I always checked the fall of the bench with one of my knees,
regardless of whom the intended victim was.

Suspect activities: Running a historical military institution with a strong moral and
religious ethos, the school administrators were very concerned that the boys would
not engage in any form of homosexual activity. In fact, they were obsessed by it and,
under the pretence of a sociological survey, requested that we kept a ‘friendship’
diary. In these we recorded who our friends were and the kinds of thing we did to
amuse ourselves. Most of us wrote things like playing chess and making model
airplanes from kits; we knew what they would like to see. We would also reassure
each other that we featured prominently in each other’s diaries. Having a friend in
the same year group was perfectly alright. Having a friend in a group a year older or
younger was reasonably acceptable, but having friends two years younger or older
was definitely discouraged. A younger boy once asked me to show him how to do
handsprings; the one gymnastic activity at which I excelled. We went to a quiet
corner of the playing fields and I demonstrated the basics until he could accomplish
them like a circus performer. While we were cavorting backwards and forwards, we
noticed a master hiding in a nearby copse and watching us very carefully. We stared
at him with interest and, in a clumsy attempt to depart the scene, he became
entangled in some brambles and stung himself.

I suppose we were quite a homophobic lot and made life somewhat difficult for boys
who were chosen for female parts in the school plays. One of the master’s wives had
been an actress and knew a lot about stage makeup. When she had finished her work,
it was difficult to tell the reluctant actors from girls.
They were subject to insults, name calling, gestures
and taunts, but took it remarkably well. Mind you,
there were one or two who enjoyed being ‘tarted
up’ and flaunted their new found beauty; perhaps
they are still cross-dressing. In the early years, the
only parts I was offered were that of an orphan in
Dotheboys Hall and a pirate called Snooks in
Captain Cutlass or something. So not much chance
of exploring any feminine side there.
!

28
Every so often, we would have an individual interview to review our diaries and,
sometimes, the teacher interviewing us would ask rather awkwardly if we had seen
any strange things going on between boys. As a newcomer, I had occasionally been
made to run the gauntlet. This meant dashing up and down the dormitory in the
altogether while being slippered across the backside by older boys. I believe that it
has its origins in the French Army as a punishment for thieves. At school, however, it
was an indoor sport organised by one of the prefects and he took great pleasure in
picking on the boys who had lived abroad, for our white bottoms stood out against
our tans and made an excellent target. Consequently, I remember volunteering the
information that certain boys took an unnatural interest in our buttocks and the master
stared at me with incredulity. I feigned embarrassment so he did not press me for
further details.

My response, however, was not as artful as one of my friends. He was a smoker but
could never afford them and, tired of being taunted by his nicotine stained and
wealthier pals, decided to get his revenge. When asked the question about strange
goings on between boys, he lowered his voice and confessed to the master that he
believed that such activities did indeed take place. The master pressed him gently for
more information. My friend explained that certain rather questionable activities took
place on Tuesday evenings behind the rifle range. What took place behind the rifle
range was nothing more than a smokers club and it wasn’t long before its members
were disturbed by a posse of masters and the chaplain expecting to break up a rather
different kind of activity.

Put yer fags out lads....here come the Goons

29
The Woolworth’s Incident

All the boys liked Woolworth’s or Woolies as it was affectionately known. It had a
wide range of goods, cheap prices and pretty girls behind its long counters. It was
way ahead of its time with the introduction of self service; something that is
commonplace today. It made such a change from having to stand in an orderly queue
patiently awaiting your turn to ask for a tin of black shoe polish or whatever. In
Woolies, you just picked up what you wanted and paid the sales assistant. One person
who did not approve of this newfangled sales technique was Regimental Sergeant
Major Jones. If he could have had his way, we would all have be banned from
entering this temple of temptation. In his book, self service would only lead to, and
encourage, shoplifting. I cannot imagine what he would have thought of today’s
generation of supermarket shoppers as they swept past him to ‘grab it cheap and pile
it deep’.

Theft of any kind, however, was very rare at the school and we refused to believe that
any of us would steal from the shops in Dover. The shopkeepers sometimes knocked
off the odd penny here and there from our purchases and they trusted us; it was a trust
we were determined not to lose. Then, one day, news spread like wildfire that two
boys had been seen stealing by a customer at Woolworths. I remember that we were
very upset by this and wondered if RSM Jones would now get his way and we would
no longer be able to patronise this wonderful emporium.

Later, that week, we marched to the school dining hall for supper. The dining hall was
a large imposing building with a clock tower that could be seen for miles. At night,
the hall was ablaze with lights but the meals they illuminated did not reflect the
grandeur of the oak panelled surroundings. Supper consisted of a piece of mousetrap
cheese, a pickled gherkin, a hard biscuit and a mug of cocoa. Accompanied by a
senior master, the man who had witnessed the crime paced up and down the ranks of
seated diners in an attempt to identify the culprits.

Now when you are surrounded for several years by boys wearing identical khaki
uniforms, you become very sensitive to minute differences in appearance. It is a basic
survival skill that is essential for identifying one short-haired khaki blob from another
but there are many clues to be had. For example, the way a boy holds his head,
shuffles along a corridor, hitches up his trousers, scratches his ear and so on. One
assumes that convent school girls similarly enhance their powers of observation from
the need to identify one wimple clad nun from another, particularly when they are
about to embark on some mischief and need to know who is sweeping down a
30
draughty corridor towards them. Our visitor that evening, however, may not have
benefited from a military or convent school education, and wandered up and down
the rows of boys shaking his head in utter bewilderment.

Now I don’t think that we deliberately set out to confuse him, but there was
something about that unpleasant situation that made us bond together. Perhaps it was
the herd instinct for self preservation, but the result was an identity parade of 400+
boys all smiling at him in wide eyed innocence; army issue margarine would not have
melted in our mouths. As he passed, a few of the bolder boys crossed their eyes and
slackened their jaws like idiots, but that was going beyond the call of duty. Unable to
finger the two culprits, he departed with his mission unaccomplished.

It wasn’t me guv, honest!

There were no further incidents of this nature and, despite RSM Jones’ misgivings,
we were not banned from shopping at dear old Woolies.

31
Spinning Out
After lights out, we were sometimes allowed to read or
tell stories to each other. This was known as ‘spinning
out’ and some boys were very good at it. Ghost stories
were always popular and here is one of my own
contributions to an evening’s entertainment. Read it by
the light of a torch, if you wish.

The Crossroads at Hangman’s Hill

When I was a kid, I lived in Egypt in an army camp near the Suez Canal and joined a
troop of cub scouts known as the 5th Cairo though we were many miles from Cairo.
Each year, we would camp in the desert along with scout troops from other parts of
Egypt. At night, we would lie outside our tents, staring up at the stars, and telling
ghost stories. One evening, a scout leader from Ireland sat listening to our yarns, and
when we had finished, told us this rather eerie and disturbing tale.

The scout leader, whose name was Matt, came from Dublin and loved cycling. As a
teenager, he and his best friend Jamie would often ride across the moors outside the
city to a cottage which they used as a base for a weekend’s cycling around the
countryside. One day, Matt set off for the cottage alone because Jamie had some
work to finish and planned to follow later. After a long tiring slog up a steep hill,
known locally as Hangman’s Hill, Matt reached the crossroads at the top and was
glad to freewheel down into the valley below. When he reached the foot of the hill,
however, he had the misfortune to collect a puncture and sat by the roadside to fix it.

As he finished mending the puncture, he saw his best friend pedalling furiously down
the hill towards him. Matt was pleased because it meant they could finish the journey
together. He stood up to greet him but Jamie did not stop. Matt shouted at him and
Jamie looked back briefly but kept on cycling and disappeared around a bend. Matt
continued on his journey to the cottage. He’d have something to say when they met
later. It was unusual for Jamie to ignore a fellow cyclist in distress, particularly at
such a deserted spot. And why did he cycle past him like a demon?

When he reached the cottage, it was deserted; there was no sign of Jamie or his
cycle. Matt assumed he had gone to the nearby village to collect some stores, so he
made himself at home. By evening, however, there was still no sign of Jamie, and as
the cottage had no telephone, Matt cycled to the phone box in the village.
32
Jamie’s brother answered the phone. His voice sounded strained. ‘I think you better
come back.’ he said.
‘Why?’ queried Matt, ‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘Jamie is dead.’ came the shocking reply.
‘What? When? For God’s sake what happened?’ cried Matt.
The brother was brief. Jamie had been killed that afternoon whilst cycling to the
cottage. A lorry had knocked him down.
‘But,’ protested Matt, ‘I saw him just after three o’clock. He was cycling down
Hangman’s Hill. I had stopped to fix a puncture and he cycled past me so I followed
him. It was definitely Jamie and there was no sign of an accident anywhere on the
road to the cottage.’
‘It must have been someone else,’ said Jamie’s brother sadly.
‘No it was Jamie. I swear it was. I’d know him and his bike anywhere.’
‘But he was killed just before three o’clock. You see, according to the police, he
collided with a lorry on the crossroads at the top of Hangman’s Hill.’

"OK that's enough for tonight, boys. Woods Junior, put the torch back in the prefect's study
and everyone settle down for the night." Just enough time to place a rubber, but lifelike,
killer scorpion on Wood's pillow and sneak back under the blankets. Here he comes now!

33
Sweating On
Throughout the world, there are countless, pointless and mindless rituals which
people have to observe, and we, at the school, were no exception. The school had its
own peculiar traditional rite which we were required to follow on a daily basis.
Unlike a religious observation, it did not cater to our spiritual needs or provide any
kind of emotional pleasure, unless the participant was slightly unhinged. The ritual
was that of ‘sweating on’ and it took place some time between tea and supper. I
should explain that supper was not something warm and nourishing but merely a
piece of mousetrap cheese, a lump of yellow pickle, a hard biscuit and a mug of
doctored cocoa. If you are still interested, I shall now show you how to ‘sweat on’,
so please follow me to the boot room.

You will need to bring the following items:

One pair of army issue black boots or shoes

A tin of Kiwi shoe polish
A worn yellow duster
One small shoe brush
One large shoe brush
Some Plush Nugget sweets
Some Woodbine cigarettes.

1 As you enter the boot room, check that Thorpe Junior and his friends are not
waiting in the shadows to hang you by your shoulder straps from the upper row of
coat hooks as it is very difficult to get down without assistance.

2 Remove any dried mud, loose dirt or doggy do from the boots, paying particular
attention to the soles and the welts. If necessary, bang them against the walls of the
boot room.

3 Spread Kiwi polish over the shoes using the small brush, making sure that the area
underneath the boot between the heel and the sole is also covered. Incidentally, avoid
school issue Day & Martin polish like the plague. The fact that it is mentioned in
Dickens is no recommendation, and only use Cherry Blossom if there is nothing else
available.

34
5 Brush away the dried polish vigorously using the larger brush.

6 Cover your index finger with a smooth layer of duster and smear a small amount of
polish on it. Work your finger in small circles around each of the toe caps at about a
rate of 150 circles per minute. Pause, occasionally, to replenish the polish and add a
touch of saliva. The polish must not be allowed to stick to the duster

7 Be prepared to spend at least 30 minutes on this routine and, eventually, you will
see your face smiling back at you from the toe caps. Polish them both up lightly with
the duster.

8 Commiserate with boys who have just been issued with new boots and need to
build up thin layers of wax polish. Suggest that they bribe a junior member of the
house with Plush Nuggets to sweat on the boots for them. You could avoid stages 6
and 7 above, by doing exactly the same thing.

9 As you leave the boot room, make sure that Thorpe Junior and his friends are not
waiting to ruin your evening by stamping on your hard work. That’s why you brought
those woodbine cigarettes, remember?

A tour guide once told a party of visiting Americans that the highly polished boots
worn by the mounted sentries of the Household Cavalry shone because they were
made of patent leather. One of the sentries leaned down and shouted in her face.
‘Madam, You are a liar!’, an action for which he was severely reprimanded.
Nevertheless, I still find it quite incredible that we wasted so many precious hours of
our young lives ensuring that a small patch of leather would reflect the sky.

35
 A Darker Side
One of the less obvious advantages of
attending a school governed by a military code
of behaviour was that you were, to some
extent, shielded from certain excesses of
corporal punishment. In theory, the
Commandant was the only person entitled to
award strokes of the cane and these would be
administered by the Regimental Sergeant
Major. Retired company sergeant majors supervised us during out of school hours
and it was inconceivable that they would beat or abuse us in any way. A cuff around
the back of the head was to be expected now and then, but their bark was always
worse than their bite. Veterans of the first world war, they were generally kind,
caring and considerate and we were their lads.

Throughout the 1950’s, with less need to cater for boys orphaned by the war, the
school gradually altered from a mixed ability setting to one with grammar school
ethos. The change to a military public school brought some rather unpleasant public
school baggage with it. Initially, there were minor irritations as when football was
abandoned in favour of rugby. The reason given was that none of the local public
schools played soccer which was considered a game for ruffians. The fact that most
boys came from cities and working class backgrounds, where football was hugely
popular, was ignored. On a more serious note, however, was the introduction of
career officers from the RAEC on short term contracts. Unlike the sergeants and
instructors they replaced, these officers were not qualified teachers but obtained their
commissions by virtue of a university education. They accepted posts at the school to
further their own careers but had no special loyalty to it. Most of these officers were
pleasant enough and made the best of their stay, but among their number were some
sadistic bullies. They were a law unto themselves, and many instances were reported
of their gratuitous brutality and other forms of abuse. Within a short period of time,
the character of the institution changed considerably. Unchecked by a weak
administration, corporal punishment and bullying crept into the curriculum.

In the dining hall, at three adjoining tables, sat the boys of another house. They
always appeared very subdued and the house never seemed to achieve any awards.
The boys rarely mentioned their experiences but it was clear that there was something
very wrong going on. Their housemaster was known as Fritz and he held nightly

36
 caning sessions. During his morning inspections of the
dormitories, after the boys had left for school, he made a
list of those to be caned for the most menial offences, e.g.
a toothbrush out of line when laid out on the bed for kit
inspection. Returning from school, the boys would find
the names of those to be punished posted in the day room.
The canings took place in his private quarters after supper
and before lights out. He summoned the offenders from a
queue in the lobby by shouting ‘Next!’. His wife was
well-liked by the boys and, hearing their cries of pain,
would sometimes enter the room where the beatings took
place and implore him to tone them down. Rembered with
affection by only one former pupil, the house’s senior prefect, Fritz was generally
considered to be a grossly unfair and sadistic bully who should never have been left
in the care of children.

Boz was ex-RAEC and was a rather strange character. In my first year at school, as a
punishment for inattention in class, he ordered me to attend his science laboratory on
the following Saturday. At the back of the laboratory was a store room and he told
me to go in there and remove my clothes. I had to stand in the middle of the room
and, although he didn’t touch me, he kept coming and looking at me through a small
window in the door between the laboratory and the store room. I had never been so
frightened in my life and, after standing there for two hours, eventually wet myself.
He then let me go and I never told anyone about it. Later, I discovered that he did this
regularly with young boys; it was an eccentricity to which no one paid much
attention. In addition to teaching science, he ran all the swimming events which gave
him ample opportunity to study little boys even more closely.

This behaviour was not the prerogative of the warrior class. Killer was a civilian
history teacher who regularly inflicted 'chap' inspections on younger pupils who
would be dressed in short trousers. This involved rubbing every boy's thighs to look
for chapped legs, though there could be no possible reason for a teacher to conduct
such an examination. Boys whom he thought had chaps were told to report to the
house matron. Killer had a fascination with mummies and was fond of demonstrating
how they were embalmed; this merely being an excuse to rub his hands all over an
unfortunate victim. He could terrorize classes with an acerbic manner and
occasionally resorted to corporal punishment using a cylindrical map holder, which
he nicknamed ‘Percival the Persuader’, as a baton. His principle teaching method
was to write the answers to essay questions on the board and get students to copy
them laboriously word for word. The method apparently worked, for he got excellent
37
results! He once accused me of stealing another boy’s stamp collection and
interrogated me for over two hours. I refused to plead guilty and the culprit was
eventually caught and expelled. There was no subsequent apology from Killer and I
didn’t expect one. I saw him years later, but avoided him; he still made me shudder.

You would imagine that the return of a popular boy to the school as a teacher would
be a matter of some rejoicing. Initially it was. Alf married the school secretary and
was seen as a sporting hero. Alas, he soon adapted to the new regime and rapidly fell
from favour, indulging in behaviour that would have been considered alien during his
time as a boy. On one occasion he caned an entire rugby team for losing a game. His
party piece, however, was to get boys to form a line and lift one foot six inches off
the ground. He would then go down the line with a cane and strike any boy whose
foot was less than six inches above ground. He is remembered as a despicable man
who terrorised the entire house and individuals; a worthy successor to the lovable
Fritz who had managed the same house some years earlier. It was truly pathetic
behaviour from a man who was a commissioned officer in Her Majesty’s Army and
had so much to offer. He is now best remembered for invariably ending up with a
bloody nose in the annual Boys v Masters rugby match.

But retribution was not always administered in such a covert manner. There were two
housemasters who would occasionally cane every member of their house in a mass
punishment parade. By a coincidence, they were themselves on the receiving end of a
beating by older boys during one of their orgies. Interestingly, they both responded
to their Nicholas Nickleby attackers by dismissing the rest of the waiting queue, and
beating a hasty retreat. Later, the boys found pornographic materials in one of the
master’s desk and he was compelled to leave, but not before someone had crashed his
car into the school war memorial. The other master went on to rather more rewarding
career in the Army, achieving the rank of a brigadier and being awarded the OBE.

From records assembled by school chroniclers, these brief examples are just the thin
edge of a rather nasty wedge that has come to light with the passing of the years.
Today, with increased concern for child abuse, such teachers would have been ejected
so fast that their feet would have scarcely touched the ground.

38
The Gammy Leg

During my first week at the military school, I started to get stabbing pains under my
right kneecap. Occasionally, I felt them on the left as well. After the hot dry sands of
Egypt, where we only attended school during the morning, and ran around in shorts
and sandals, the change to a damp climate, cumbersome clothes and heavy army
boots probably had something to do with it. When I asked to be excused from
marching to meals, I was sent to run around the playing fields and then made to stand
outside the dining hall in the cold. Eventually, someone with an IQ sent me to see the
medical officer.

The RAMC doctor was quite concerned about my problem. I was stretched out on a
brown leather bound couch while he asked questions and prodded around my knees.
Suddenly, from his pocket he produced a tape measure; I couldn’t have been more
surprised than if he had produced a tape worm. Then he started to measure the length
of my legs and came to the conclusion that one was longer than the other, though he
didn’t say by how much. ‘I think you have a gammy leg, old chap,’ he announced,
and thought it would be a good idea if I were excused from drill and sports while he
held a ‘watching brief’ on the situation.

On the following Saturday, the whole school assembled

for drill on the large parade ground under the watchful
eye of the Regimental Sergeant Major. Bristling with
complete authority, he bellowed ‘PARADE...wait for
it...wait for it....SHUN!’ In unison, every boy lifted his
left foot a couple of feet in the air and stamped it down
next to his right, while forcing his arms stiffly to his
sides. The RSM continued: ‘By the left, Quick March!
Keep those arms up. That’s the way. Bags of swank.’ I
stood to the side of the parade ground and watched the
young troops march up and down, wheel left and right,
turn left and right, turn about, double march, change
step, slow step, salute, halt, and finally stand at ease. Short of marching backwards
and doing an Irish jig, they must have performed every known manoeuvre, I had
seen soldiers drilling in Egypt so this was nothing new to me. In fact, we used to fire
our catapults at them from the safety of trees around the barracks square, but these
were children on parade and it did look rather strange.
39
I was grinning with amusement when I noticed the RSM making a beeline in my
direction. Towering above me, he demanded to know why I was excused his drill
parade. I told him and he stared at me in disbelief. He then asked me to follow him
to the centre of the parade ground where I faced 409 boys. ‘This boy is excused
drill,’ he bellowed. ‘And do you know why?’ No one dared answer. ‘He tells me that
he has one leg shorter than the other!’ The whole of the parade collapsed in a sea of
mirth. With a prod of his swagger stick, I was dismissed and returned to my place as
a spectator feeling somewhat aggrieved at, what we might now call, his ‘lack of
pastoral care’. Right then, I could have done with that catapult, but there were no
trees convenient to the action.

After further visits to the medical officer, I was reassured that my legs were of equal
length and that the problem was some kind of inflammation. Thereafter, the pain
subsided and didn’t reoccur for another three years. When it did, I had to drop out of
sports which was really disappointing. Once a week, I was sent to a military hospital
near Folkestone for infra-red treatment. These lamps are commonplace now, but, in
those days, it meant having two large metal plates clamped either side of your knee.
A corporal in the medical corps, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, would sit
reading comics and occasionally switch the current on or off until I had received the
correct dose. The best thing about these visits was that I got to travel on the bus to
town with one of a pair of attractive sisters. Their father was a PE teacher and they
were both very popular among the boys at school. My travelling companion was
older than me, but she was a friendly, cheerful girl and I looked forward to our brief
but pleasant weekly journey together. The knees soon recovered but I was in no
hurry to inform the medical authorities.

Fast forward a couple of years and it is time for the school’s annual boxing
competition. I had done my bit in the past for the house team but, after two
disqualifications for low altitude punching, never expected to be called upon for my
services again. But there was my name on the list and I was up against boys who
might one day earn their living as nightclub bouncers or military police. They were
all taller and heavier than me. This year, the favourite for the senior medal was a
strapping lad called Herbie and I was going to be his first victim!

Like a scaffold, the boxing ring was gradually erected in the main assembly hall.
Each time I passed it, I felt my heart sink, but knew there was no escape from the
ordeal which lay ahead. Would I be in the red corner or the blue corner, or end up in
both? There were only three rounds and each round would last two minutes, but an
awful lot can happen in that first round, or in that first minute. Actually, Herbie was a
40
really nice guy, but I couldn’t take any chances, so I did some roadwork and
skipping, and even spent a couple of hours whacking at a punch bag. All this was of
little comfort, however, when close friends offered to say prayers for me in the school
chapel prior to the contest.

The day before the competition began, all the boxers were required to report to the
school hospital for a medical. Herbie was there, as was Hobo, his nearest challenger.
They look well-matched and were eyeing each other up; possibly thinking ahead to
the final. When my name was called, I went in to see the doctor and he checked my
blood pressure and all those other important things. Suddenly, completely out of the
blue, he asked, ‘How’s that gammy leg of yours, nowadays?’ I had completely
forgotten about it, but like a true hero replied, ‘Well, Sir, it does play up now and
then. In fact it’s twitching a bit even now.’ The doctor prodded gently around my
kneecap and I winced painfully. “Mmmm,’ he mused, ‘We can’t have you going into
that ring and damaging yourself, can we?’ Actually, it wasn’t self damage that I was
worried about. The next thing I knew was that I was holding a slip of paper stating
that I was unfit for sport until further notice. As I went down the path leading from
the hospital, I had to restrain myself from skipping with joy.

I thoroughly enjoyed watching the finals. Despite being the favourite, I think Herbie
was knocked down (or out) in the third round by a swift uppercut from Hobo. In fact,
Herbie put up a rather disappointing show and, had it taken place, I might have won
the earlier match against him. Indeed, but for the misfortune of my having that
gammy leg play up again, I could have been a contender.

41
Play the Game!
High on the cliffs above Dover, the playing fields were an inspiring, if windy, setting
for nearly any kind of sport. What we too once called soccer, unfortunately, was
banned because it gave the wrong message from an institution wishing to nurture the
image of a public school. Those cliffs stretched for miles and on a clear day, you
might see the coast of France across the other side of the Channel. The fields were
also the setting for, and rather swamped, the annual Trooping of the Colour. Also
known as Grand Day, it was a parade in which a bigwig from the War Office would
inspect the colour guard, take the general salute, and tell us we were all ‘jolly fine
chaps.’ And, of course, we were.

On the western edge of the school, in this expanse of lush

greenery, there was a wooded area, a cricket pavilion and
a disused wartime pillbox. They made the perfect site for
one game that was not to be found on the curriculum but
which gave us hours of fun. Kick the Can! This
wonderful game of hide and seek required no umpire,
fancy sportswear or expensive equipment, just a tin can
or, preferably, a battered football. We could play it for
hours and the rules were fairly simple.

Kick the Can

• A home base is selected and the ball is placed there

• One player is chosen to be !It"
• Another players kicks the ball as far away as possible
• While !It" retrieves the ball, the rest of the players go off and hide.
• !It" replaces the ball at base and goes off in search of the hidden players.
• If he finds a hidden player, he races back to the ball, and calls his name.
• The captured player must remain !in jail" by the ball, but if he reaches the ball first, he
can kick it and go and hide again.
• An uncaptured player can release anyone in jail by running and kicking the ball, but !It"
has to watch out for this and never stray too far from the ball.
• If he sees an uncaptured player making for the ball, he must try to get there first and call
out their name.
• This player now becomes !It" and another game starts.

42
Right, I hope you got all that. It is a multi-skilled game requiring agility, observation,
memory and cunning. Players were usually just as happy to seek as they were to hide.
There were rarely any arguments, the game practically ran itself and was quite
absorbing. Indeed, I can only recall two events that interfered with a game of Kick
the Can. The first was the famous FA Cup Final of 1953 when Blackpool with the
immortal Stanley Mathews recovered from a 1-3 deficit to win 4-3. We had no radio
but took turns at going back to the nearest one for an update on the score.

The other incident was closer to hand and very dramatic. In the midst of a game, we
were distracted by a USAF jet fighter whining above our heads and then ignored it;
they often came over the school from the US air force base at Manston. But then we
heard the engine spluttering and, looking up, saw two parachutes descending from the
sky. The plane swerved uncontrollably in one direction and then the other, until,with
a deafening roar, it plunged directly into the ground and exploded in a huge ball of
fire and black smoke. The pilots were both safe though one sustained a broken limb.
The crash site was about two miles away and we almost abandoned our game to go
and look for souvenirs, but thought better of it.

Lacking the need for expensive hi-tech equipment, sponsors or a high altitude
training camp, Kick the Can is unlikely to feature in a future Olympics. On the other
hand, there have been some strange activities introduced over the years, e.g.
synchronised drowning by numbers, and that curious combination of skiing and
shooting which seemed ideal training for an Eastern European border guard. So, who
knows, we may see Kick the Can grace an Olympic stadium one day and, having
beaten the Germans in the final, members of a victorious UK team will return home
to be awarded their OBE’s.

Treten sie die Dose!

43
Boy Soldiers and Straw Boaters
I have often heard it said that young people should be encouraged to stay on at school
in order to mature before venturing out into the great world. I appreciate that they
may acquire more qualifications and will certainly be more physically mature and
older by the time they leave, but have doubts regarding their emotional maturity.

To some extent, this is the theme of the following tale which concerns a school
mutiny and the expulsion of the head boy. Several of my friends and I had left the
school two years before the incident occurred. It involved boys we knew and had
grown up with; members of an able year group that had made waves from the time
they had entered as newcomers. A year group that, having risen to seniority, would
be quite capable of running the school effectively or causing utter mayhem. When we
heard the story, it amused us, but we had moved on to seek our fortunes, and the boys
we left behind were still boys. Or perhaps we’d become old before our time?

Early one morning in March 1959, boys marching to the dining hall for breakfast
were met with a strange sight. Laid out across the small parade ground by the dining
hall was a complete classroom with desks and chairs, a master’s desk, a blackboard
and easel, and several cupboards. Someone had removed them from the main
teaching block during the dead of night and carefully created a classroom in the open
air. On a small neatly kept lawn, not far from where the phantom classroom now
stood, there was an even stranger sight. Balanced atop four dustbins was a Morris
Minor car belonging to Major Double-Barrel Surname, RAEC, a housemaster.

Today, the small parade ground is a car park overlooked by a webcam and students
(boys and girls) often line up to wave and reassure their parents that they are still
alive. Traditionally, however, the regimental square represented a sacred area, a place
of remembrance for the dead in battle, and just walking across it in a slovenly manner
would arouse the wrath of a passing Regimental Sergeant Major. ‘Get off my square,
you ‘orrible little man!’ That a whole pile of classroom furniture had been dumped
there was almost a sacrilege, but no one would admit to the foul deed. It didn’t take
the boys long to work out that this was a practical joke played on the school by the
‘Straw Boaters’ from Dover College, the local public school. It was a well executed
piece of tomfoolery which deserved a response, and one was not long in coming.

Some days later, a group of third year boys decided to go for a midnight swim. They
made their way furtively along the back road in the darkness until they reached the
swimming pool. A small circular window in the building was soon prised open. For

44
the next hour or so, they swam, splashed and generally fooled about in the water,
blissfully unaware of what was taking place elsewhere.! Upon their return to the
dormitory, they made a startling and puzzling discovery. The two prefects, whose
beds lay at the entrance to the dormitory, appeared to be totally lifeless.! When the
boys checked more closely, the mound in each bed turned out to be a dummy made of
a coat and! bunched blankets.! The beds were cold; no one had slept there for at least
an hour. Where had they disappeared?! Friends in one of the other dormitories
reported the same mystery.! Baffled, they climbed into their beds and fell asleep, but
didn't stay asleep for long.

At around 4 am, the house fire alarm sounded and sixty boys jumped out of bed and
paraded for the obligatory roll call taken by the housemaster.! It seemed a fairly
straightforward fire practice.! They were well used to these drills, both by day and
night, but several of the swimmers were rather relieved that it hadn't occurred a
couple of hours earlier. There was, of course, an ulterior motive for the fire alarm on
this particular night, though its purpose was not immediately apparent. !Anyway, with
everyone, including the missing prefects, accounted for, the parade was dismissed
and the boys sloped off back to bed.

Breakfast brought a flurry of rumours around the dining hall. An overnight practice
fire drill had occurred in each of the eight houses. Prefects had been missing from
their beds but miraculously appeared in time for the drill. Two of the prefects,
however, were still missing. The rumours continued right up to lunchtime when the
real story broke and spread like wildfire, especially when the police turned up with
the two missing prefects who had spent the night locked in the cells.

In the early hours of that morning, small raiding

parties of school prefects had 'blacked up' using
burnt cork for camouflage, and secretly invaded
the campus of Dover College.! They took
different routes through the outskirts of Dover,
and converged on the grounds of the College
from different directions.! Oddly enough, the
local constabulary had been warned that a
retaliatory raid on the college was likely to be
mounted by Dover's 'boy soldiers', but the
prefects knew nothing about this.

Unlike the raid by the college students, the mischief caused by the boy soldiers
lacked a certain amount of style, and betrayed their humble origins. Toilet rolls were
strewn all over lawns and vulgar slogans were painted on prominent walls. Some of
45
the paint was splashed over a master’s car. All this was done in silence so the college
students knew nothing about it. At the end of the escapade, everyone returned safely
to base, apart from two caught by the law and they utterly refused to give the game
away. It’s that character building thing, you understand; stiff upper lip and all that.

After school assembly, Jack Hobbs, the head boy, went alone to the Commandant
and told him what had happened the night before. He apologised for the raid but felt
that, following the visit by the ‘toffs’ from the college, it was his duty as head boy to
have done something.! Incidentally, the Commandant at the time was the son of Sir
Lancelot Kiggell who had been one of top brass in WW1. Such leaders usually led
their soldiers from the safety of a mansion many miles to the rear of the front line. So
when inspecting the site of the battle of Passchendaele, he reportedly broke down
and wept,’Good God, did we really send men to fight in that mud?’ Lancelot Junior,
however, must have been made of sterner stuff for he expelled Jack on the spot.

On being informed of the expulsion, the prefects were furious and advised the
Commandant that he could run the School himself and, to emphasise the point, they
removed their badges of rank You reap what you sew and the administration was
about to experience the consequences of allowing a school to be run by boys rather
than masters. Indeed, with internal discipline left up to the prefects, the boys were
usually rather wary of them, but with instant and heavy-handed retribution
temporarily suspended, a certain amount of chaos reigned.

Seeing the Union Jack on the clock tower lowered to half mast,
several senior officers entered the Dining Hall in a rage.! The
tower was a government building and flying the flag at half mast
just wasn’t on. The tower could be seen for miles and people
might assume that our dear monarch had died. Inside the hall,
they demanded silence and tried to speak but were drowned out by
chants of ‘Bring back Jack!’.! One of them stood at the end of a
junior table and stared pointedly at the small boys sitting there.
Brazenly, they stared back at him and then began to bang their
empty tin mugs upon the table tops.! This revolt was gradually taken up by the whole
school, even the large metal teapots were banged on the tables in deafening unison!!
Eventually, the officers, furious and red faced, stormed out of the Hall to the
resounding cheers of the mob. It was the first mutiny of boy soldiers in the care of the
British Army since 1862.!

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 The Dining Hall in 1909 and 2009

The next morning, some of the national daily newspapers covered the story, and the
Times even placed it on page 4. In those days, newspapers were regularly censored
before being placed in dayrooms or the school library. Indeed, when the Soldier
magazine featured an article about Sir Lancelot Kiggell and his distress upon seeing
the battlefield mud, the item was soon snipped out. Naturally, the staff confiscated
any newspapers which covered the mutiny and sent any reporters away with a flea in
their ear, but cleaners and caretakers smuggled copies in for the boys to read.
Sometimes, you just have to laugh at the crass stupidity of the military mind.

But the mutiny was short-lived. It occurred in the last week of term with the boys
eagerly awaiting the holidays. An ultimatum was issued: No rail warrants would be
issued unless this foolish behaviour ceased forthwith. Things quietened down, the
boys got their rail warrants and the school was left in peace for Easter.

And what of Jack Hobbs? Originally accepted for officer training at Sandhurst, he
was rejected and had to enter the army through a different route. Interestingly, he
eventually became manager of the London Dungeon, but wasn't allowed to join the
Old Boys Association for many years, neither was he permitted to enter the school
grounds. In fact, it was not until the death of the long retired Commandant, 46 years
later, that the establishment finally forgave him.

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Mr Chips
When I think back on my first few days at the school, I recall waking up at 6.30 to the
sound of three light switches being flicked on in succession. Click! Click! Click! The
hand at the end of those dormitory switches belonged to Froggy, our housemaster .
He was a dapper man with a military bearing and sported an Adolf Hitler moustache.
He was always immaculately dressed with a handkerchief tucked up a sleeve of his
blazer, and had a beautiful wife called Lavinia who was a professional actress. One
role for which she was not cut out, however, was that of the housemaster’s wife. We
saw very little of her and she had a number of admirers. They had no children.

Though his first name was Neville, Froggy had several other nicknames including
Nutty Nev and Typical Tom. The reason for the former will soon become apparent,
but the latter referred to his overuse of the word ‘typical’ during his geography
lessons. Boys used to keep a count and take bets on the total. In his younger days, he
had been a keen amateur footballer and played for the Corinthians and for Hertford
Town Football Club. He often wore his old Corinthians shirt when he coached us at
football. When the school commissioners, in order to foster a closer association with
public schools in Kent, banned football in favour of rugby, Froggy didn’t put up
much of a fight. I supposes that he was reaching a stage when his football coaching
days would soon be over.

On my first Saturday, we lined up for our pocket money, which was 2 shillings a
week, or 10p in today’s money. For some boys, this was the first time they had ever
received any pocket money and we all looked forward to spending our new-found
wealth. On the table, next to the payment register, was a pile of bagged sweets called
Plush Nuggets. I was one of the first in the queue and had just taken ownership of
two shiny shilling pieces. ‘Would you like a bag of sweets?’ asked Froggy. ‘Oh yes
please,’ I replied in innocence. The next thing I knew was that he had snatched away
one of my shillings and handed me a bag of pink and white Plush Nuggets. Losing
half my pocket money was bad enough, but to discover, later, that the same sweets
could be bought cheaper in town, was too much to bear, and I never bought sweets
again at the school. Incidentally, I found the Plush Nuggets quite sickening.

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One day, when he found that a boy called Dennis Long and I had lived in Egypt, he
called the rest of the house into the dayroom. The two of us were asked to sit cross-
legged opposite each other and conduct a conversation in Arabic. I can hardly
remember it now but Dennis recalls us exchanging a torrent of vulgar abuse which
we had picked up from the soldiers stationed along the Suez Canal. We were, of
course, the only ones who knew what was going on, but Froggy and the rest of the
boys were totally captivated and warmly applauded our linguistic skills. When asked
to translate, we explained that we were just engaging in some pleasant banter and that
the dramatic hand gestures were a normal but crucial part of such an exchange.

It was in his geography lessons that Froggy showed us much of his eccentric nature.
He managed to convince the more gullible amongst us that he had a secret pay-
attention-meter, which he said went red when the class was not paying sufficient
attention. In the 21st century, with developments in hi-tech surveillance equipment, a
meter of this kind might be quite feasible, but this was 1952. Sometimes he would
ask us which country would, one day, lead the world in scientific and technological
advances. Our suggestions included the USA, China or Russia. ‘No,’ he would reply
whilst shaking his head, ‘Look to India boys, look to India.’ We would laugh but he
really meant it and he may yet be right.

One day, shortly after the Coronation in 1953, he breezed into the classroom barely
able to contain his excitement. He told us that our class had been selected from the
whole of Britain to accompany the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh on their tour of
the Commonwealth. In fact, we were to join them on their Southern Hemisphere leg
when they would be aboard the Shaw Savill liner, Gothic, and visiting many Pacific
Islands, New Zealand and Australia. Of course, it was just a cunning ploy by an
imaginative teacher to get us involved in collecting newspaper reports and photos as
the tour unfolded, but some of us actually believed him and shared his excitement.
But we were not alone, for a year or two later he managed to convince a similar class
that they were going on a trip to the Amazon jungle and that they should all write to
their parents seeking permission to undertake this arduous journey. Some of them did.

South America. Here we come!

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Later, I moved to another house and to another geography class, and saw less and less
of this quirky teacher. As he grew older, he used to stumble a lot which caused
people to suspect that he might be hitting the bottle. The truth was rather more
serious and he ended his days in a wheelchair with motor neuron disease. An old boy
went to visit him in retirement and it was clear that he was lonely and missed the
school and the boys very much. He wasn’t exactly a Mr Chips figure, for he was
sometimes rather remote or aloof, but I still recall Froggy with affection.

Some years after leaving school, I was working on a cargo ship berthed in Auckland
when the Gothic steamed in. One of the dockers said, ‘That’s the ship that carried the
Queen here.’ I recalled its contribution to the Royal Tour, the excitement in the
geography room, and smiled at the memory of our foolishness.

SS Gothic

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