by Jim Gregson
The corporal issuing the books was unimpressed. ‘Bloody traitor, that bugger Wodehouse was, you know!’ he said as he stamped a date for return inside it. He seemed proud to display this literary knowledge to a man with RAEC tabs on his shoulders.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have responded in this situation, but I did. ‘Wodehouse was an innocent, caught up in a world he did not understand,’ I said airily. I felt very much like that myself, as I carried the shabby book back to my tent and noted the intense but incomprehensible activity around me. The activities of the idiotic, absurdly privileged Bertie Wooster and the Drones Club seemed an appropriate escape from the mad world of the transit camp.
Billy Beecham flicked through a few pages and remained unimpressed. He wasn’t much of a reading man and the ironies of Jeeves and the richness of the language escaped him. He shut the book with a sigh and said, ‘I’m going into the town tonight. Want to come?’
I was vaguely aware that I was being offered some sort of privilege. I was being taken into the confidence of my young friend, who knew much more about the local attractions than I did. I looked at my bed and my book and said, ‘I don’t think so, Billy. Thanks all the same.’
‘You come with me and get your end away, sarge. You deserve a good shag after being covered in shit by that whirlybird.’
I smiled and wondered what to say. I didn’t want to tell him that although I missed Joy terribly, I had no interest in releasing my sexual longings in the brothels of Nicosia. That would make me sound like a prig, but I couldn’t think what else to say. I offered a limp, ‘Isn’t it dangerous?’
‘Not if you know the ropes it isn’t. Not if you go to the right knocking shop.’
‘You’ve been before?’
‘Only once. But a regular showed me the ropes. You don’t hang about on the streets and you go to the right brothel. There’s lots of them, but you want the one friendly to us Brits. They’ve got the best women there, too. Young as you like. Dark hair, olive skin, great big eyes. Long legs, lovely arses.’ He sounded as if he was reciting a list issued to him by the regular, who was no doubt a more experienced man. ‘And they know their business. They’ll give you a hell of a ride.’
I thought for a moment of the young women I’d seen at the road block, with their huge, dark eyes, their shy, beguiling smiles and the hidden treasures they concealed beneath their long skirts. But I shook my head firmly. ‘Not for me, Billy. And I think you should think hard about it before you go. Things are getting worse here, you know. It will be more dangerous tonight than last time you went.’
I had no idea whether this was true, but I felt a powerful urge to protect my new friend.
‘No danger, sarge. Not when you know the ropes. And bloody cheap, for what you get. Believe me, sarge, you’ll thank me when you see the tarts in there.’
I smiled at him, trying not to seem too much of a killjoy. ‘I’m not going, Billy. Enjoy yourself! But be bloody careful.’
‘Piece of bloody cake, sarge!’ It was one of the army conventions that whilst I called him Billy, he always addressed me by means of my senior rank. It was safer for both of us that way. ‘The driver drops us off at the edge of the British zone. We walk a quarter of a mile, half at most, to the right brothel. You have a hard on all the way, when you know what’s waiting for you!’
‘You be bloody careful, all the same.’
‘Oh, I’ll be careful. They give you rubber johnnies. And there’s a sink to wash yourself in, if you want it.’
‘I didn’t mean that sort of careful. I was talking about what you do afterwards. You get back here pronto. Don’t hang about in Nicosia.’
‘I’ll be back, sarge. I’ll wake you up and tell you all about it. Beats wanking every time, believe you me!’ He departed with his eyes bright with anticipation, a boy trying hard to turn into a man.
I watched him go with a sickly grin, then went for a rum and coke in the sergeants’ mess. At a tanner a time, you could afford plenty of rums. But as a schoolie I kept a low profile in the mess, which meant that I couldn’t claim a seat and regular companions in that overcrowded and constantly changing place. I went back to the tent and spent the next hour writing a bowdlerised and anodyne letter to Joy about my latest experiences
I mentioned the ruthless Soviet tank action against the democratic rising in Hungary, because I knew I was on safe ground there with any censor. We hadn’t been told about Kruschev’s threats to release the latest rocket technology against British forces in Cyprus if the British did not back off in Egypt, which was giving my mum hysterics. After considering the matter for some time with the end of my pen in my mouth, I wrote about the guard of honour and the military helicopter, because I could picture Joy laughing delightedly at my story. But I didn’t say that we had been greeting an important civilian visitor. Nor did I make any reference to the invasion of Suez, though I was desperately anxious to have the latest news on that.
The other two occupants of our tent, who had been with us now for three days, were back and in their beds by half past ten. They were friendly towards me, in the guarded way possible for lower ranks with a sergeant. But I never found out what they did or where they were destined for. That was the way of things amidst the crowded and constantly changing personnel of the transit camp. I fancied half an hour of escape with my book into the gilded world of Wooster and Jeeves, but there was no time for that before lights out.
I awoke to the sound of drunken singing amidst the darkness. It came from about a hundred yards away, and was abruptly terminated by a raucous command from some anonymous source. My watch told me that it was just after one o’clock. There was no moon, but just enough light for me to see that the bed of Lance Corporal Beecham was still unoccupied. Billy hadn’t left until almost nine and he hadn’t given me any time when he expected to be back. It was only because of his act of friendship in inviting me to join him that I knew where he’d gone.
Perhaps he’d paid extra and stayed the night. I knew nothing of these places and the way things were organised. I couldn’t imagine ever paying for sex, either here or anywhere else. My Catholic family and my Catholic schooling made me appalled at the thought. But plenty of people must do that, I supposed, or the oldest profession wouldn’t flourish around the world as it seemed to do.
Billy still wasn’t back with us in the bright morning light. I heard in my mind his familiar, comforting Lancashire accent, so redolent of home and all the things I missed so keenly. I heard again his cheerful, crude phrases as he anticipated his crowded hour of glorious life. In his continued absence as the sun crawled higher, those remembered tones tolled like a knell in my mind.
The face that appeared thirty minutes later at the entrance to the tent as I sat alone on my bed was for once a familiar one. It was RSM Turnbull, the man who had detailed me to take charge of the guard of honour on the previous day. He looked round the empty tent but said only, ‘Report to my office at zero nine hundred hours, Sergeant Gregson.’
I had only twenty minutes to ensure that my turnout would pass muster under the fierce and revealing gaze of an RSM. I polished my shoes and my brasses and ran the iron over my restored shorts. I inspected myself as best I could in my small shaving mirror. It wasn’t impressive, but it would have to do. I marched with a heavy heart to RSM Turnbull’s office.
That exalted personage left me standing at attention in front of his desk for a long half minute before he spoke. I wondered what I had done to warrant this latest high-powered bollocking, for that must surely be what must be coming. The guard of honour yesterday had been a fiasco, but that was surely not my fault.
But when he spoke, RSM Turnbull’s voice was quiet and steady, not critical. ‘You don’t know where Lance Corporal Beecham was last night, Sergeant Gregson.’
I was about to falter out what I knew of Billy’s plans when I realised that the RSM’s words were a statement, not a question. And a warning statement, at that. I was being protected by this stern, experienced man. Because
if I’d known what Billy had planned, I should have prevented it. If I hadn’t been able to prevent him from breaking regulations, I should have reported what he planned.
I snatched a breath and said, ‘No, sir. He was in the tent when I went across to the sergeant’s mess for an hour. He wasn’t there when I got back. I assumed he’d gone to the NAAFI, sir.’ I felt like a traitor as I delivered the phrases.
‘I see. Well, Lance Corporal Beecham went into Nicosia last night. He ventured outside the British zone. He wasn’t ordered to do so.’
Billy’s in trouble, I thought. But that was something of a relief, after the darker thoughts I’d had. ‘Is he under arrest, sir?’
‘No, Sergeant. Lance Corporal Beecham is not under arrest. He’s dead.’
A simple, matter-of-fact statement. The grizzled warrior who sat at the desk in front of me had been through the Second World War. How many times before had he uttered those simple words? I was the one who was unprepared for this, not RSM Turnbull. I felt my knees trembling with the shock. The man behind the desk looked up at me and said unexpectedly softly, ‘You’d better sit down, Sergeant.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ I carried the canvas and steel chair from the corner of the room and set it down in front of Turnbull’s desk. ‘Was this by enemy action, sir?’
‘We’re not at war, Sergeant Gregson. Lance Corporal Beecham died from terrorist action by an unidentified member of the Cypriot civilian population.’ RSM Turnbull sounded suddenly weary of saying those words. ‘He was shot last night in Nicosia.’
‘On murder mile, sir?’
‘On the street which has become known as that, yes. We have his body. The EOKA people believe that we should be allowed to retrieve our casualties. They want to show us the evidence of their activity. They want to show us what they are able to do.’
I had no idea how to respond. ‘He was a good man, sir. It’s a waste of a good young life.’ That was unnecessary as well as inappropriate here, with this man who had seen so much death. But it was the only thing I could offer to Billy Beecham, who had come from my part of the country and who had been a good lad. How feeble those things seemed now.
‘Lance Corporal Beecham wasted his own life, Sergeant. He was a fool who chose to disobey orders. Had he not done that, he would have been alive this morning.’
‘Yes, sir. I appreciate that. I still find his death very sad, sir.’
‘That’s as may be, Sergeant. The official report of his death will state that he died as a result of terrorist action whilst on duty in Cyprus. His CO will write to his next of kin to convey his sympathy. He will no doubt wish to tell his people that Lance Corporal Beecham was a model soldier who was highly popular with his comrades and died gallantly, shot down by terrorist action. That is what will appear in the press release, but the journos who write it up will no doubt include references to murder mile. We cannot prevent that. You will adhere to the official press release and will add nothing to it. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Lance Corporal Beecham will be buried in our cemetery here with military honours, as our other casualties have been. Have you any questions?’
‘No, sir.’ I paused, looking at the sad, stern, infinitely experienced face on the other side of the desk. ‘Thank you for keeping me informed, sir.’
RSM Turnbull nodded. ‘Would you describe yourself as a friend of the late Lance Corporal Beecham?’
That simple word ‘late’ hit home as nothing had done before. It told me that this was final, not a bad dream. Billy Beecham, happy, bouncy, ever-cheerful Billy Beecham from Preston, was dead and never coming back.
‘I suppose I was a friend, yes, sir. We hadn’t much in common, really. But we came from the same part of the world and we were a long way from home and we’d shared a tent for almost three weeks. You get to know each other. I liked Billy. I think he liked me.’
It was daring, using the name Billy in this room, where rank counted for everything. But it was my gesture towards my dead friend. Surely death allowed you some relaxation of the army code. Perhaps RSM Turnbull agreed with that. He said, ‘Things are confused here. That is inevitable in a transit camp at the best of times, and this is a long way from the best of times. Lance Corporal Beecham hasn’t had much recent contact with his unit; they’ve been away on a practice exercise in the Turkish zone. Would you like to be the sergeant in charge of the funeral guard for Lance Corporal Beecham?’
‘I would consider that a privilege, sir, if it does not offend any of his previous comrades. We were both part of the guard of honour for Sir John Hunt yesterday, if you remember.’
‘I remember, Sergeant Gregson. I heard about the helicopter.’
The suggestion of a smile flickered briefly across the stern features. ‘If you are willing to be the sergeant in charge of the guard at Lance Corporal Beecham’s interment, that will help me. His unit is still away on manoeuvres and our policy is to inter fatalities as quickly as possible.’
Billy might be in the ground before his parents even know he’s dead, I thought grimly. I tried not to consider how devastated Mum and Dad would be if they got the news of my death as I said stiffly, ‘I should be honoured to undertake that, sir. I feel it is the least I can do for Billy.’
It was the first and last time I volunteered for anything during my army service.
The military cemetery was within a mile of the camp and the last rites were conducted at twilight. Billy Beecham’s coffin was a simple wooden one, but its brass handles were burnished to a military brightness. They had ‘Made in England’ stamped upon them. Billy would have liked that, I thought, as I stood for a moment with my hand on the lid of his box. I removed the cardboard strip with its message in large black letters that the coffin was in no circumstances to be opened.
The ceremony did not take long. It was simple and dignified, I told myself, as I sat miserably on my bed afterwards. At the time, it had seemed swift and soulless. RSM Turnbull told me what to do and I followed his simple instructions to the letter. I mustered the nine mute privates who had not known Billy into neat ranks and pretended to inspect them, though I think my eyes were too moist to see much. I then reported that the funeral parade was present and correct to the waiting padre.
The padre addressed the sky above the heads of my men as they stood rigidly to attention. He told it that Lance Corporal Beecham had been a brave man, who had been promoted from the ranks because he was a good soldier. He had now died gallantly in the service if his country and was being buried with full military honours. Everyone here should know that there could be no better death than this. He nodded at me and took a pace backwards to signify that his address was ended.
I gave the correct series of orders to Billy’s guard of honour and they fired a single volley into the darkening sky. Then they stepped forward and lowered the coffin into its grave on the ropes attached for that purpose. The bugler who stood beside the padre sounded the long, infinitely mournful notes of the last post. I uttered a silent prayer for the man being consigned to this foreign earth. Then the padre spoke of dust into dust and threw upon Billy the sort of dried mud we had scraped from our limbs a day earlier.
Billy Beecham was buried on the eighth of November. RSM Turnbull sought me out in the mess and told me that I had done well. Then he said he had just been told that the UN had imposed a ceasefire upon the allied forces in the Suez Zone. Military action there had been suspended.
Seven
November 1956 was a watershed month for Great Britain. It was the month when its leaders and most of its people realised that the old order of world power had changed. The world for us would never be the same again.
For troops who had been crowded into Cyprus in anticipation of a triumphant invasion of Egypt, the month was especially strange. There was an action hiatus on the troubled island. Military commanders there, as well as politicians in Britain, waited to see what the Americans would allow us to do. In the latter half of the month, bitte
r reality demanded the acceptance of a situation which had obtained since 1945 but which many, including British Prime Minister Anthony Eden, had refused to confront.
Eden had been foreign secretary during the years of the appeasement of the fascist dictators before the Second World War. He had resigned in 1938 as he saw the futility of that policy. His experiences in those years coloured his attitude to the Egyptian dictator Colonel Nasser. In his view, it was necessary to resist aggression firmly, and counter it with force if necessary, as Hitler and Mussolini should have been countered. Nasser’s claims to the Suez Canal must be met not with conciliation but with military intervention. The Egyptian dictator’s territorial aspirations must be stifled at source, as Hitler’s should have been.
The fatal flaw in this thesis was Eden’s failure to recognise the decline in British power and influence in international affairs. He could no longer act aggressively without the approval of the USA, and this he failed to secure. For two weeks, a split cabinet argued fiercely in private, whilst emotions ran high in Parliament. Eisenhower and his American government applied not only political pressure but a cash squeeze, which made the outcome inevitable.
On the twenty-first of November, UN troops moved into the Suez Canal Zone to take over from the British and French invasion force. On the twenty-third, the British began their withdrawal from the area. Most British troops moved from Egypt to the already overcrowded island of Cyprus. There was an emergency there and they were needed to control things, the politicians said. That sounded a little less humiliating than a straight withdrawal from the Middle East under American orders.
Anthony Eden was broken in spirit and in health by the Suez experience. He resigned a few weeks later and announced his formal retirement from political life early in 1957. He lived on through various illnesses for another twenty years, a tragic and forgotten figure.
