2. RAF Newton
We stayed on a short time at Waterbeach, then dad got a posting to RAF Newton, near Gunthorpe in Nottinghamshire. I was bussed to the Robert Thoreton School on the Fosse Way, which I have Googled without success. My old school seems to have disappeared from the face of the Earth. There I was taught English by Mr Whitehouse, who was one of those teachers who light fires in kids. He was an inspiring man who taught me not grammar, spelling and punctuation, but how to love the written word, whether in stories, poems or novels. In his own way he was brilliant and as a writer I owe him a great deal.
At that time my actual skills at writing something grammatical, with correct spellings, were almost zero, but Mr Whitehouse introduced me to Rudyard Kipling’s Kim and Richmal Crompton’s Just William and H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, and I was absolutely hooked. I did not stay long at Robert Thoreton, but from that moment on I wanted to be nothing but a writer of fantastic tales. I lost myself in Edgar Rice Burroughs, Arthur Conan Doyle and Robert Louis Stevenson. Admittedly some of these authors’ works came to me in the form of Classics Comics, but hey, I liked the story, not the delivery.
Mr Whitehouse also gave me a copy of my all-time favourite book, Plain Tales from the Hills. Kipling’s short stories are a masterpiece of laying fictitious experience down on paper. The short story has always been my forte as a writer and as a reader I cherish the form. It is too bad that these days it tends to be neglected by most readers, who seem to want only fat novels of 200,000 words or more. To me the small tale is incisive, keenly observed, hard-hitting and shines brilliantly.
Thank you, Mr Whitehouse, wherever you rest today.
In general Robert Thoreton School was like any other: boring, tiresome and anti-Kilworth. I was caned three or four times and still bear the scars of one of those beatings (it was for drawing fighter planes in my maths exercise book). On our honeymoon my wife asked me what the three white scars were on my bottom and I said, ‘Funny, there should be six.’ Humiliation accompanied beatings at Robert Thoreton, since they took place at Assembly in front of the whole school.
I also fell in love for the first time at RAF Newton, with an officer’s daughter named Nicola. She did me wrong. She was caught behind the bike sheds with another boy and I was taunted mercilessly by my enemies. Nicky was pretty though. I have always been a sucker for a pretty face.
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Not long after we arrived at Newton, dad was posted to Aden, in the Middle East. He went on ahead, then sent for us. I was absolutely eager to go to Aden. Other service brats had been and had told me of the great times they had had there. You only went to school in the mornings and the afternoons were spent swimming in water that was as tepid as a Sunday bath. Then there was the whole exotic atmosphere of a land which at its heart had an extinct volcano cone with a whole town inside it, Arabs on camels, sharks in the sea, oases out in the desert, open-air cinemas, and a host of other remarkable experiences.
I was then, as I am now, absolutely captivated by other cultures and the atmosphere of foreign lands. This includes Scotland, Ireland and Wales. I have visited all three of my neighbours and find their beauty and charm as remarkable as those of any other country in the world. I have already said I have Irish ancestors. Indeed, I also have Scottish ancestors. My sister-in-law is a Scot and my daughter-in-law is a McKenzie and therefore my grandchildren are part-Scottish. We are becoming, in the United Kingdom, not a box of all sorts, but a wonderful blend which includes those more recent arrivals from other corners of the globe.
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This is probably a good place to state my religious beliefs. I was raised a Methodist and in my twenties and thirties sometimes attended services with the Church of England. However, I have never been wholly convinced by orthodox religions and in my late forties I found a spiritual home with the Religious Society of Friends, better known as the Quakers. Here I intend to stay, since I have always needed to contemplate spiritual matters and the Quakers are good at meditation. They are tolerant, not requiring any sort of fundamentalism, even to the point of accepting nontheists who are prepared to honour the main principles of Quakerism. Nontheist Quakers see ‘God’ either as a symbol of human values or simply accept it as significant to others but not themselves.
At the Meeting House we have the Silence, lasting for one hour, which I find challenging, but also cleansing. There are no readings, no spoken prayers, no surmons, no liturgies, no sacraments, no rituals. There is no Quaker hierarchy of priests: a clerk, usually in office for three years, presides over the meeting. He or she is supported by elders who are also in office for the same period. They are required to oversee pastoral matters i.e. informing the meeting of any illnesses or hard times amongst the members and other such issues.
There is no vote and actually no consensus taken on issues that need a decision. After hearing the fors and againsts, the ‘feeling of the meeting’ is offered by the clerk as a decision. In nearly twenty years of attending meetings I have never yet known any dissention once that decision has been announced. In debates, a member is permitted to stand and speak his or her mind on the subject only once, thus eliminating cross-floor quarrelling and descent into heated arguments. You have your one say and that is an end to your particular input into the discussion. Again, I have never witnessed anyone leaving a meeting disgruntled. It may have happened, but not in my experience.
This may sound a very negative place to take your spirit for recharging, given all that Quakers do not have and do not agree with. In fact Friends are doers. They have the Four Testimonies to guide them: Peace, Equality, Simplicity and Integrity. With these ideals in mind – though of course they are ideals and therefore not easy to adhere to – the best of them attempt to resolve conflict by non-violent action wherever they can in the world; support the eradication of poverty as far as they are able; try to assist where there is injustice; and influence various other ‘concerns’. Quakers are not a perfect bunch of people by any means and their success in these endeavours is limited by their numbers.
One of the Quakers who attends my meeting is now in his eighties. In his time he has been instrumental in helping to bring an end to apartheid in South Africa – not from a distance, but by being there. Until very recently he has flown to the Eastern regions of India and talked with warlords in Nagaland to persuade them to lay down their weapons. These I know of, but I am aware he has been involved in many other such actions. There are more than a few like him, working in conflict resolution, in the eradication of poverty, in the fight against injustice, whose courage and determination puts my own feeble efforts to shame.
It was Mally Ross, a colleague and friend of Annette’s, who introduced us to Quakers. She and her husband, a financier and mountain climber, have been close friends ever since Annette trained alongside Mally to become a social worker. David is not a Quaker. He satisfies his spiritual needs by ascending to places with a high topography.
Having been a warrior, it may seem strange to others that I have thrown in my lot with the pacifists, but it is precisely my experience with military action that led me to them. Yes indeed, I write books about war, not to glorify it but to show it for what it is, an abomination. Read All Quiet on the Western Front or The Naked and the Dead. Of course, I’m no Remarque or Mailer, but I like to think my novels share the points of view these authors reflect.
The question as to why human beings indulge in the destruction and misery of war is one which has puzzled several philosophers and many ordinary people since Man had understanding. As an activity it is time-wasting, money-wasting and, above all, life-wasting. We seem as a species to be unable to operate without doing so within an hierarchical structure. Such organisations allow for the rise of maniacs to unassailable positions in society and once there they wreak havoc upon those who were responsible for their ascendancy to power. It is a bewildering thing that with this rigid structure we lose control of our own destiny, carrying innocents with us into the dark depths of carnage and desolation.