I WAS MONTY’S DOUBLE Page 8

  The last time I had met him I was only two years old, so that I had no memory of him. With long, sleek hair brushed straight back, and a brightly coloured tie to match an equally bright pair of socks, I was no doubt dressed in very bad taste, but I enjoyed the train journey, fancying myself a smart man of the world.

  These delusions of grandeur were soon dispelled when I reached Honiton station. There, waiting for me, watch in hand as if he were ready to tick me off for coming late on parade, was a short, dapper man with sharp grey eyes and a well-trimmed military moustache.

  I went up to him, but before I could speak be barked out: “So you’re Meyrick? The first thing you can do, my boy, is to get your hair cut!”

  A governess cart was waiting outside the station. As we drove off I ventured, “A nice-looking pony, sir.”

  Colonel James merely stared at me. “Get those damned socks off,” he said. “Dreadful colour.”

  As we drove along the country lanes he frequently took off his hat and nodded to the people we met. His close-cropped hair was pure white, contrasting strangely with the big blue patch of skin high up on his forehead. Every time he removed his hat I could not help glancing at it.

  “What the devil are you staring at?” he queried sharply. Without waiting for a reply, he added, “If you want to know, I’ve been stung.”

  “Stung, sir?”

  “Yes, sir, stung. By my favourite bee, Roger.”

  Good heavens, I thought, is the old man crazy? But when we arrived at our destination, a lovely old house standing in its own grounds, I saw a row of bee-hives at the bottom of the garden; and before I was even allowed to unpack he told me that this was Honey Collecting Day and that I was to assist him in this task, which I soon saw he intended to carry out in the manner of a military operation.

  “Wait outside,” he ordered, and presently he appeared from the house wearing a long coat, a straw hat and veil, leather gauntlets and top boots. I, of course, had no defensive armour at all.

  The Colonel marched briskly down to the hives, and gave me the Order of the Day.

  “Now, sir, when I say ‘Tops off, whip off the tops of the hives smartly.”

  I stood there nervously, wondering how many bee stings it took to kill a man.

  “Are you ready?” I nodded uncertainly.

  “Righto. Tops off!”

  I advanced at the double, lifted the tops off two of the hives, and then retreated in disorder as two angry swarms rose into the air. Standing his ground, the Colonel puffed smoke at them from a large smoke-gun, and then to my amazement he shouted orders at the bees as if they were a pack of hounds.

  “Tommy, Tommy, steady, my boy! Back, Ernest, back, sit! Down, Jacky, get down!”

  He turned round to me. “Don’t stand there like a fool. Get the honey out, man.”

  Somehow I managed to do as I was told, and after receiving only one sting I heard the welcome order to retreat.

  I fancy he wanted to test my mettle, and I was just congratulating myself on having come through the ordeal not too badly when I was dismayed to hear that I was expected to go otter hunting with him on the following day. He told me this at dinner, an uncomfortable meal during which he asked me searching questions about my progress at school until I managed to divert the conversation to his military exploits in the field.

  Next day I rose unwillingly at dawn and left the house most unsuitably dressed in my new town suit and thin shoes. The Colonel had already gone on ahead.

  Arriving at the rendezvous in a village four miles away, I saw a crowd of red-faced men in knickerbockers and big boots and horsy-looking women with strident voices. Each of them carried a long pole, and as I approached them they stared at me as if they doubted that I was British.

  Presently one of them blew a loud blast on his horn and off started the hunt at a good swinging pace, leaving me standing there in my urban finery, an object of wonderment to the village children. There was nothing for it but to follow at a jog-trot. I have always had tender feet and I had not gone a quarter of a mile before my tight shoes began to hurt me. Along with some stragglers I left the road and plodded across a sodden ploughed field. We jumped ditches, scrambled through hedges and climbed over five-barred gates. Soon I was so far behind that I lost contact with the last of the laggards.

  Feeling a keen and increasing sympathy for otters, I made my way back to the main road and walked slowly along it until I came to a little country inn. Inside it I sank into a chair, undid my shoes and buried my face in a large, cool ginger beer. Some little time later I wandered back to the house, rehearsing the conversation I should have with the Colonel when he returned home.

  “I did go otter hunting, sir, but most unfortunately I lost touch with the hunt. A stone got into my shoe and by the time I had taken it out there was no one in sight.”

  But for some reason my guardian, who I believe had never gone to the hunt at all, came back late that night, by which time I was in bed, and next morning at breakfast he merely bade me a curt good morning and retired behind The Times. Concluding his silent meal, he stood up, brusquely bade me report to his study as soon as convenient and marched out of the dining-room.

  When I reported he said stiffly: “I understand that you failed to keep up with the hunt yesterday. You slacked about, sir, and were seen entering a public house.”

  After this he told me that he had arranged for me to go as an office boy to the firm of Marsden in Cornhill at ten shillings a week.

  “You are very lucky to have such a fine start in life,” he said with a touch of complacency at his own cleverness.

  Jack Hervey had stopped talking. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked sharply. ‘You’re getting the wind up again. Is it about your meeting with Monty?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose it is.”

  “What’s there to be afraid of? He’s not like the Grand Cham of Tartary who has the Executioner standing behind him in case you make a slip.”

  “No, I know.”

  “What’s the trouble, then? It’s only the little men who are difficult to get on with, the nobodies who stand on their dignity. The big men are dead easy—unless you’ve got across them, which you haven’t.”

  We walked on again.

  “Do you know the story of Napoleon and the Swedish recruit?” Jack went on. “Whenever Napoleon saw a man he didn’t recognize he always fired three questions at him in the same order: ‘How old are you? How long have you been serving? Did you serve in either of my last two campaigns?’

  “Not being able to speak French, the Swede was coached by his pals in the correct replies, but when Napoleon spotted him, for once he put his questions in the wrong order.

  “‘How long have you been serving?” he asked. The Swede replied, ‘Twenty-three years.’ Tiens!’ exclaimed Napoleon, ‘how old are you?’ ‘Three years, sir.’ ‘Sacre Tonnerre!’ cried Napoleon, ‘either you are mad or I am.’ ‘Both,’ said the Swede.”

  Of course I had to laugh, and by the time we reached the train I was in quite good form.

  The station was very small and neat with a beautifully kept garden on each side of the line, a tiny booking-office and two small cottages housing the station staff and their family. About one hundred yards from the end of the platform was the goods siding, and there I saw Monty’s famous private train. It consisted of two thirty-foot covered trucks for the cars, a luggage truck, and four corridor coaches converted into a self-contained headquarters, with offices, messrooms, kitchens and sleeping quarters.

  At intervals military policemen stood on guard, and all the cars with their drivers were drawn up beside the train with the General’s Rolls in front. I noticed that as we approached everyone stopped talking.

  After Jack had reported, Colonel Dawnay came out gave me my orders. It sounded to me a curious mixture between a military parade and a spree. Most days, he said, we should be having a picnic lunch. I was to travel in a jeep as before and mess with the drivers.

  I found the sa
me irrepressible driver, whose name was Taffy, sitting at the wheel of the jeep.

  “’Ullo, Sarge,” he began. “How are yer? Come along to keep an eye on things?”

  At this moment the Captain and the other aide came bustling along followed by several batmen carrying hampers, which they packed into the jeeps. A third officer also appeared, and as I looked at the three of them I was struck by the peculiar way they were dressed. Ever since I had held a commission I had been under the shadow of strict discipline regarding dress, and I imagined that on H.Q. Staff the discipline would be even stricter. Yet here were officers wearing battle-dress blouses, suede shoes and corduroy slacks of many colours.

  Then I noticed an even more peculiar thing. One of the aides entered a compartment and when he came out again his blouse was bulging in front.

  Taffy caught my eye and said in a low voice: “You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet, Sarge. He’s a lad, that one.”

  The officer sidled along to the jeep like a broody hen, took a quick look round, then slid what looked like a bottle out of his blouse behind one of the hampers, tucked a rug round it and turned away.

  It may, of course, have been an innocent soft drink, but Taffy grinned and exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, “Strewf, if the ole man catches him wiv that lot he’ll get the order of the W.C. and Chain.”

  The whole thing began to strike me as a comic opera. Would they have the Corps de Ballet before the picnic? Sure enough the performance soon began: it was carried out with the same faultless precision as when I had seen it before.

  When Monty appeared on the count of twelve I understood why his Staff wore coloured corduroys. Their Chief was similarly dressed with a grey roll-top sweater and of course the black beret He gave us all a quick smile, chatted about the day’s arrangements and got into his car. We all got in too. The engines started up, but instead of moving off the procession remained immobile.

  I saw Monty glance up at the windows of the two cottages by the station, and presently several small children and some women appeared up above and began to cheer and wave small Union Jacks. Monty at once waved back at them with a gay smile, and gave the word to move off.

  Some people might have taken this for the act of a showman, of a man who loved publicity, but it did not seem like this to me. Monty is genuinely fond of children and he did not wish to disappoint the little Scottish boys and girls who cheered so shrilly from the windows. He knew they wanted to see him go, and so he waited until they were ready.

  It was a charming gesture from a great soldier.

  Chapter IX

  THE UNFORGETTABLE INTERVIEW

  The procession set off with Monty and the Brigadier in the Rolls and the precise five-yards interval between each pair of cars. Passing through some of the most beautiful country I have ever seen, we came to a cross-roads where we picked up a ghillie—who I suppose was to act as a Staff Officer for the General’s fishing—and then went on again up a long, winding road skirting a mountain.

  Suddenly another typical Monty incident occurred. Although we were, as far as I could see, nowhere near any village, we came upon a stone building standing by the road, and above the hum of our engines I could hear the sound of children’s voices singing. It was a village school. At once Monty ordered a halt. He got out, crossed the small playground in front of the building and went in through the open door.

  The singing stopped abruptly. Then we heard frantic cheering, which presently died away. A precise voice began to speak. I couldn’t hear what Monty said, but I imagine it was the sort of homely talk which you sometimes hear on speech days at school. By this time in his career Monty had grown to love young; people. Later on he installed himself at the School in Surrey where he had sent his son. He loved to he with the boys. He would sit with them at meals, joke with them and set them puzzles.

  It was certainly a strange situation, this line of cars drawn up by a remote school in the Highlands, with officers and men sitting in silence while their General gave an impromptu address to a classroom of bairns. All the more so as the world imagined him working day and night in preparation for the greatest invasion in history. He had that power of detaching himself completely from his worries and enjoying the passing moment.

  Now the singing began again. “O God, our help in ages past,” the piping voices sang. Monty came out looking happy, crossed the playground and got back into his car while teachers and children streamed out after him to cheer him on his way.

  On the spur of a steep mountain which towered into the clouds we halted again.

  “’Ere we are, Sarge,” said Taffy. “All change for the Elephant and Castle.”

  I got out and sidled up as near as I could to Monty. Everything was much more informal than it had been during the D-Day rehearsal. He was on holiday and he evidently meant to enjoy himself. There was a twinkle in his eye, and he reminded me of a friendly house-master on a day’s outing with two or three schoolboys left in his charge after the end of term.

  “Now, you chaps,” he said briskly to the younger ones, “I think it would be a good plan if you made your way over the top of that hill. We will meet you on the other side. Don’t be long—it’s getting on for lunch-time.”

  The Captain and the other aides looked at the hill which was a majestic mountain and tried to contort their faces into expressions of pleasurable anticipation.

  I have noticed that when a party of people is gathered together for an outing there is often a comedian among them who keeps up a humorous running commentary. There was one among us now, a driver named Alf with a Cockney wit and a gift for imitating the General and his Staff sotto voce.

  I heard Alf’s voice behind me: “Wot price the Army marchin’ on its stammick. This lot’ll ’ave to ’ave a belly copter.”

  Taffy blew his nose violently. Imitating Monty’s voice Alf went on: “Naow you fellers, pull your bloomers up and over Monty Blank at the double. You will report to me in ten minutes’ time for an ’igh tea of tripe and onions. Over the top and the best of luck!”

  Putting a good face on it the aides set off gallantly up the slope, while Monty and the Brigadier walked briskly along the road. To anyone passing we must have looked a strange procession. First, a small, dapper man with a roll-top sweater and a black beret marching beside a huge Scots Brigadier, and a long way behind them—in fact, nearly out of sight—a crawling string of vehicles headed by the General’s Rolls.

  Being so far behind, the drivers behaved like schoolboys when the master is out of the room. If for any reason the General stopped, the cars pulled up at once and the drivers got out and began fooling about. But the moment Monty moved on again there was a rush to get back into the cars and drive on.

  At one of these halts a driver climbed up a tree and the others began pelting him with clods of earth and fir-cones. In the middle of all this Monty’s chauffeur shouted a warning as Monty moved on again, whereupon the driver crashed down from branch to branch like, a baboon, jumped a ditch and got into his jeep just in time to keep his distance. It seemed an extraordinary thing that although Monty was so far away he could still exert such a strong influence over his men. But perhaps these monkeylike antics were more in the nature of a game. Some wag called them ‘Monty’s Musical Chairs’.

  After about an hour of this sort of thing we reached a mountain river where we were joined by the aides, who to my surprise looked as fresh and cheerful as if they had just strolled down Piccadilly instead of scaling a mountain.

  Monty greeted them with, “Had a good walk, you two?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir,” one of them replied.

  “Did you get a good view from the top?”

  “Wonderful, sir,” said the Captain.

  I heard Alf murmur, “Wunnerful view of the bottom of a double Scotch, if you arst me.”

  We moved on again until we came to a shooting lodge, where the hampers were unpacked and Monty with his Staff sat in a circle on the grass. We drivers made ourselves comfortable against a wall some
little distance off, but not too far for me to continue watching the General.

  By this time I had recorded in my memory quite a number of things about him: his characteristic walk with his hands clasped behind his back, the way he pinched a little roll of flesh on his cheek when he was thinking, his sudden movements, his habit of throwing out one hand as he hammered home his points. But now came the question, how did he eat?

  It may sound a small point, but I knew that before long I should be called upon to eat and drink in the Monty manner—for all I knew, under the close scrutiny of men who had eaten with him. A man can be watched intently when he is eating. If I made a slip it might be fatal. And so now I watched exactly how fast or slowly he ate, whether he talked or gestured while he was eating, and all the rest of it.

  After lunch Monty and his ghillie went off to fish and I was told to go with Taffy and the Brigadier. Taffy told me under his breath that we were bound for the Brigadier’s ancestral home. It turned out to he a lovely old Highland mansion with a great forest on one side of it and on the other a loch which came almost to the outside walls. His beautiful wife and children, two bonny little boys in kilts, came out to greet us. It was a charming scene made somewhat poignant by the fact that the Lord of the Manse might never see his family again.

  When I returned to the hotel Jack was anxious to know if I felt that I could pass for the General, and when I told him that I was fairly confident about it except for his voice, he asked me to give an impromptu performance.

  So with my hands clasped behind my back and my head held rigidly in the Monty manner, I walked up and down the room giving preposterous advice, issuing fantastic orders, and every now and again sacking a Colonel or a Brigadier. I explained that the Air Force would drop five million dummy parachute troops which would exhaust the whole of the enemy’s supply of ammunition, while the real striking force would march across the bed of the Channel with weights tied to their feet. By the time they arrived, Rommel and his men would be in Berlin receiving decorations from the Fuhrer for exterminating the dummy army, and so nobody would know that we had landed. We both laughed so much that I could hardly go on.