Clandestine

Chapter 4 - Induction

From 1949, National Service was compulsory for young men between the ages 17 and 21 in the United Kingdom. The expectation was 18 months of active service in the military with the obligation to remain on the reserve list for 4 years. The practice was phased out in 1960, 5 years after I stepped off the train in Inverness.

War is hell, but for me basic training wasn’t far behind. I joined the infantry as a private and endured the abuse of commanding officers that seemed hell bent on my destruction. In terms of compliance to the standard of neatness and efficiency expected by my drill sergeants I was woefully relegated to the bottom of my platoon.

The first month was the worst. My persistent bumbling led to my entire squadron being singled out for punishment. On one occasion the shine of my shoes was not up to black and as such I spent the next two days cleaning latrines. It was in the infantry that I spent my one and only stint in prison. I was ordered to the brig for falling behind on an assignment. I was to meet the company for a ride back to base at 07:00 but unfortunately I got a little lost and when I returned at 07:10 the soldiers had gone and I was left to walk the 8 miles back to camp. When I returned there was a note on my bed for me to see the sergeant. I saluted him in his office, but my charm had little effect. For my lack of punctuality I was placed behind bars for three days and put on restricted rations. These guys were serious!

I held no particular malice against the army or my captors. Had I been able to follow the rules a little bit better I would have had far less trouble. As time wore on I improved. I fell behind less and learned the rules of the puzzle that was basic training. I can’t say I enjoyed the experience but I learned to cope. The key was putting aside my over-developed internal sense of priority in order to begin to use external forces to guide my decision-making. I believe they call it discipline. Perhaps if I had been broken down before attending Oxford the study of economics would have been easier for me to complete.

My saving grace was my athletic ability. Whereas I was a pretty average soldier amongst the men in my division, I was pretty handy on the playing field. I was respected for my talent on the soccer pitch and the rugby field. In addition, my boxing capabilities were respected and provided me with some much-needed acclaim.  Unfortunately this skill was a double-edged sword. Two months into my time in the army, I won an exhibition boxing tournament against the men in my troupe. My father had taught me to slip a punch and, although I wasn’t the heaviest hitter, I could evade enough contact for 3 rounds and easily outpoint my opposition.

In December I was asked to participate in a boxing tournament against servicemen from France. I was to represent our unit as a middleweight. To say I was asked is really not the correct term; more correctly I was ordered to report -- that is as close as an army lieutenant comes to making a request. Still, it was a three-day leave pass from my quarters in Inverness and an all-expenses paid visit to London.

When I arrived at the tournament the bouts were posted on the wall of the gymnasium. I found out I would be sparring for three rounds with Francois Leduc. Jimmy Swales, our heavyweight representative, was with me as I found my name and he politely informed me that Francois was the second-ranked middleweight in Europe! I may have been undefeated in the 3rd garrison of the second division but I was in no way prepared to fight an actual pugilist. Fear crept inside me as I realised I was in well over my head.

As the matches began, the British squad was doing very well. The fights began on Saturday afternoon with the lower weight classes and by the time we reached the evening -- after the featherweight, lightweight and welterweight contests had concluded -- our team was undefeated.

I entered the ring having never fought in front of a crowd in my life, and staring at me in the opposing corner was Francois, with a most confident look on his face. I was adorned in a white set of boxer shorts and two 8-ounce leather gloves for defence. I was not an overly religious man but in the three short seconds between the time that the bell rang and I met Mr Leduc in the centre of the ring I sang every hymnal that I knew! As round one commenced I raced to meet my opponent and let fly with a right hand lead that landed squarely on Francois’ jaw. A right hand lead is never a good idea. First of all it leaves you open to a counter with a right hook, and it takes so long to reach its intended target that to throw such a punch at an accomplished fighter is to insinuate that he is so slow that you could actually hit him with it. I’m sure no third- rate army fighter had thrown a right hand lead to Francois Leduc in three years. The fact that I hit him with the punch made him scarlet with rage. Francois easily shook off my attack and proceeded to systematically tear me apart. He was quick and powerful. In the next two minutes I barely saw a punch and did not lay a glove upon him, yet he reined blows on me as if I was an old beat-up punching bag hanging in the corner of the gym. He knew every move I would make and had an answer for everything I thought to attempt. I glanced towards the time clock and saw that there were only 25 seconds left in the first round; I wondered if I would last. As he cut off the ring and sequestered me in the corner for the kill I could do nothing but try to run from the abuse. Perhaps because I was so inexperienced, I felt my only recourse was to use my elbows to defend myself, and as we clenched for the last time in the round my elbow flew and grazed his eye. With only seconds left before the end of the round, or my impending death, Francois stopped punching and I realized that my elbow was the cause. It was as if the contents of his arteries had decided to pause before realising that there was a heinous gash on his eyebrow from which the red matter could escape. Initially I saw nothing, then the wave came and blood spurted from above his eye to the beat of his heart. My opponent was not injured but he was defeated. He turned and walked slowly to his corner, exasperated at my lack of skills and the role it played in his injury. His corner men tried to stem the tide but it was to no avail; Mr Leduc could not continue and I was declared the winner.

As we took the bus back toward the hotel I remembered back to my high school days when I ended the football match against Coatbridge by injuring an opponent. The memory immediately made me think of Eleanor. It was only then that I realised that basic training had put my unrequited love completely out of my mind. Perhaps my soul had been purified.

There was only one more thing for a young battered man to do while on leave in London on a rain soaked Saturday evening. Get Drunk!