By Allan Douglas, Contributor
Jamaica Defence Force soldiers take a break after a mock skirmish at Folly in Port Antonio, in May 1995. Right: This troop practises rapid deployment when after entering the helicopter they are dropped off at various points of combat. - File
I BELIEVE that to experience a happy life one must not cling to the past, but learn to 'move-on.' Clinging to the past can engulf one in bitterness, especially if it involves unhappy experiences. On this occasion, I must depart from this philosophy to share some of my happy recollections with my readers, family and friends. I have recently completed 32 years service with the Jamaica Defence Force (JDF) and hope that in sharing some of these moments I will reclaim my happy days of service. Thirty two years is a long time, and I shared my youth with the JDF.
Military forces have their own language and jargon; the JDF is no exception. On returning to Jamaica, from officer training overseas, I quickly too experienced this. My Officer Commanding (OC) detailed me to see to 'gunfire' for an operation the following morning. I went about making the necessary arrangements. Ammunition and machine guns (GPMG) were drawn and the soldiers conducted a test firing. The GPMG is an area weapon and, considering the nature of the operation, I confess that I felt its employment excessive. This was certainly not in keeping with my training. However, I had only joined the unit in the last 48 hours and was not about to question the wisdom of the OC!
FIRE BAPTISM
The morning of the operation arrived and during the OC's final briefing I was asked, 'Mr. Douglas, what about gunfire?' Being proud of my preparations, I produced my notebook and rattled off the ammunition quantities drawn, along with the number of GPMGs, and the soldiers detailed to operate each. I further boasted that the weapons had been test fired and now looked forward to further instructions regarding employment. As I looked up from my notebook, I observed the bemused look on the faces around me. The assembled party remained silent for a while and as if awaiting the conductor's baton, burst into uncontrollable laughter!
'Gunfire', I discovered meant a hot beverage and a sandwich, which was served very early in the morning before the troops were deployed. I was forgiven that unadjustable error, despite the many growling, empty stomachs that morning! I have never understood why the soldiers didn't assign me the nickname 'gunfire.' They probably had a not so flattering one for me.
SADISTS DELIGHT
Many events were to take place between that disastrous start and my appointment as adjutant of the 1st Battalion, the Jamaica Regiment. The adjutant of a battalion is the Command-ing Officer's (CO) 'right hand' and is very much responsible for the unit's discipline. My CO was a man of great flair and he was particularly popular with the soldiers. He trusted me and left all matters of discipline to the Regimental Sergeant Major (RSM) and myself. The RSM and I therefore developed a strategy that called for me to be very stern with the young officers (subalterns). We believed that if we demanded the highest possible standards of them, they in turn, would do likewise with their subordinates. Punctuality was very important on our list of demands.
Subalterns performed the task of the battalion duty officer, otherwise known as the orderly officer. They were required to report to the adjutant by 8 a.m. on commencement of their duty. Their uniform was a heavily starched khaki jacket with shorts, worn with woollen stockings pulled up to the knees, puttees around the ankles, and very heavy leather boots. A Sam Browne belt and sword also added to their burden and made life a dream for sadistic inspecting officers! One of my duties was to inspect these officers on commencement of their duty. Subalterns dreaded this inspection, as faults could mean punishment in the form of additional duties.
Despite the dreaded extra duties, there were those who either would take their chances, or for one reason or the other, just could not consistently meet the very demanding standards. However, I was lucky to have had a very bright and ambitious bunch of young officers to deal with -- they were truly professional. There were of course the characters. Two come easily to mind: Frank and Colin. Both were trained at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. Frank was not very well organised. He was short and stocky and, despite the valiant attempts of several tailors and his overworked batman, his uniform never fit him properly. Frank was not always punctual.
KAMIKAZE RIDER
Frank was posted for duty that Monday morning and I had arrived at work at 7 a.m. to be organised for the day. At around 8 a.m. I looked up from my files and wondered what had happened to him. Why he had not yet reported? In a minute, he would be late. Two minutes later, I observed a motorbike advancing rapidly across the parade square directly in front of my office. The rider appeared strangely dressed. As he advanced, at break-neck speed, I could see that it was an officer dressed in Sam Browne with sword! Who on earth could this be, I wondered! The bike headed across the square never slowing. The rider increasingly took on the characteristics of a Japanese kamikaze pilot.
He was on a collision course with my office. The engine was now at a very high pitch, as if the accelerator had been jammed. The rider was Frank and he was now in a prone position with his head tucked below the handle bar. Without slowing, the bike slammed into the building and disappeared underneath. It came to a stop, with engines still screaming directly, in the cellar under my office. The engine spluttered and then went silent.
WALKING DEAD
Having got over the initial shock, I got up from my chair and shouted through my office floor, 'Frank are you dead?' There was a pause and a very alive and conscious Frank replied, 'No, Sir, but I might as well be!' Frank eventually emerged from the cellar with a bemused battalion now amassed on the parade square as his attentive spectators. He hobbled up the stairs to the front of my office with his uniform in shreds and blood streaming down his arms and from his knees. He paid the customary compliments and declared that he was reporting for duty.
I in turn decided that the battalion should understand that there was to be no letting up on an officer, even although he was injured. I carried out my inspection without any regard for the accident, noting the dirty condition of his boots, the blood on his uniform and its torn state. He was punished for being both untidily dressed, and for being late. He saluted, turned smartly, and marched off to carry out his duty.
Frank's worries had, however, only just begun. The motorcycle belonged to a soldier, who had reluctantly handed it over to the officer when ordered. Frank had commandeered it earlier that morning when he had discovered that he would be late in reporting if he travelled from the officers' mess on foot. Frank went on to become a successful pilot officer in the JDF, retiring as a major. After retirement, he went on to fly commercially. I smile whenever I think of Frank knowing that he will less likely be late and that he will always walk away safely from his landings!
Colin was a different sort of officer - very mature and intelligent. When he joined, as a subaltern, he had already obtained a first degree. He had also trained to become a Roman Catholic priest, but after a year decided against it. He had the most dignified air about him and spoke with a very posh English accent. Colin was not easily ruffled and at times appeared fearless. He was a very popular and eligible bachelor. Living in the officers' mess, however, posed some problems for him. There were those awful and restricting mess rules that governed even the guests one could have there.
Female guests were never allowed in an officer's room. I knew, however, that there were many late hour visits by ladies to some officers' rooms and dawn departures were normal. They would depart by taxi or covered with blankets on the backseat of the officer's car. These were those aspiring female combatants of the future, who tried to make good their escape over barbed wire fences. In their haste, many left their undergarments entangled to fly from the wire like flags in the wind! I have often wondered whether the true origin of carrying colours on parade had anything to do with officers of old and their sexual escapades. Did their female companions shed their undergarments as if staking claim of real estate on which battles would subsequently be fought?
PUSSYCAT CRASH
I would regularly visit the mess in the late evening. On one visit, I heard female laughter coming from a particular officer's room. I knocked on the door; there was silence within. The door eventually opened and Colin appeared, dressed in his bathrobe. 'Oh, Adjutant, how nice to see you,' Colin greeted me with a smile. 'Do come in', he continued calmly. I accepted his invitation. The room ap-peared in order and just as the unflappable Colin offered me a seat, there was a loud crash from his bathroom. 'Oh that damned, pussycat of mine!', he declared with a very straight face. I pushed the bathroom door open and there lying flat on the floor was a naked female covered up to her neck with a transparent, plastic shower curtain.
CLINGING FOR LIFE
A startled pair of female eyes greeted mine and eventually an embarrassed smile crossed her face. I turned away and looked Colin in the eye and said, 'Some pussycat!' The young lady, for some very strange reason, had hidden behind the shower curtain and in her state of panic decided to cling to it for dear life! It, of course, broke away with her still clinging!
Colin eventually left the JDF, became a lawyer, a talk-show host, and politician. He never married that young lady and she at one time was a TV newscaster. The happy recollections are mine to keep and share when I wish. Farewell and forward!
Allan Douglas retired from the JDF as a Colonel this year after 32 years service.
