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By Root 83 0

arriving at a steady rate. Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O., came over to see that we were being ‘looked after’; he was really a great soldier, I for one would have followed him anywhere, preferably away from the war. He was this kind of man. Autumn morning—the early sun had melted the night frost, leaving glistening damp trees. Battery parading—small wafts of steam are appearing from men’s mouths and noses the muster roll is called—B.S.M. is about to report to Major Chaterjack: “Battery all correct and present, sir!” The roar of a plane mixed with cannon shells all over the place—M.E. 109 roof top, red propellor boss—panic—Battery as one man into ditch—not Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O.—stands alone in the road—unmoved—produces a silver case, lights up a cigarette. He is smoking luxuriously as we all sheepishly rise from what now feels like the gutter. He addresses us: “Very good you realise you did the right thing and I the wrong.” What can you say to a bloke like that?

Interval. We ditch our instruments and wander into the garden for a leak; finding a bush, we ‘ease springs’; these were accompanied by the usual postern blasts, each one greeted with cries of “Good luck!”

“Fall out the Officers!”

“Drink up! mine’s a Guinness!” As eyes became accustomed to the dark, I was horrified! five feet from us, on a garden seat, was Lieutenant Goldsmith and a bird. As we slunk away, he called out, “Thank you gentlemen, and what time is the next performance?” This was too much, we broke out into uncontrollable laughter and once started, we couldn’t stop. By the time we got to the house, I was holding my sides with pain. On entering we saw a huge fat woman, seated at the drums, making a bloody fool of herself. This finished me off. The dance restarted.

Without warning, a Canadian officer poured a beer into the bell of my saxophone—(Yes! I also played that)—which he thought funny. I threw the contents on to his jacket, something he didn’t think funny. He grabbed the saxophone. I stopped playing. “Let go,” I said, “this is a solo instrument.” Our host came over. The Canadian was told that it “wasn’t the done thing.” The dance continued and we, rather I, got drunker. Time now for what I told you was the ‘Leg Cocking’; this is an English officer gyration. The man assumes the position for a Highland Reel, and then at the sound of 2/4 or 6/8 tempo, he raises his right leg and leaps all over the room with one hand up in the air and one on his hip. We played ‘Highland Laddie’; at once the floor became a mass of leaping twits all yelling “Och! Aye!” This is where the fight started. One of the batmen serving drinks had his tray knocked flying all over a Mrs Hendricks. Captain Hendricks hit someone, someone else hit him. This became popular. The room became a melee of fisticuffs and gentlemen. “Somebody stop them,” shrieked Mrs Hendricks, as someone floored her. Our host rushed up: “Quick, play a waltz.” We launched into ‘Moonlight Madonna’. Someone hit Major Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O. His batman laid out the offender, then carried Chaterjack, M.C., D.S.O. to safety. To help it all along, Doug Kidgell threw an occasional cream cake into the arena. The addition of confectionery to the struggling mass made exotic pictures. A red-faced major, his bald head supporting a chocolate eclair, hit a Canadian sporting a jam-covered ear. Kidgell’s masterpiece: a large circular cream-topped cake that stuck to the back of a long officer’s head. For moments he stood like Greco’s Christ Ascending until a loping right felled him. The cake was picked up by a foot, which trod it all over a chest, that passed it on to a neck. In a short time, cream, jam, and treacle, were liberally distributed on the uniforms of His Majesty’s Officers. Strawberry flan up the front of the jacket, apple strudel on the lower face, plus little blobs of cream on the epaulettes was something we found difficult to salute. Someone covered in lemon-curd was hit backwards through an open window. Our host, his head split open, suddenly appeared, rising cross-eyed and smiling above the mass.