The Nautical College Pangbourne: 1957-1961

Introduction

As my Preparatory School ‘career’ drew to a close it became clear that my Common Entrance results were unlikely to guarantee access to such alleged seats of learning as Charterhouse or Harrow. Thus it was by force majeure my parents first stumbled across the Nautical College Pangbourne (NCP) and Kelly College in Tavistock. The latter was smartly removed from the menu after my Mother took an instant dislike to the Headmaster in juxtaposition with Press revelations of gangs of pupils operating a sophisticated robbery scam that targeted all the sweet shops in the town. So from a field of two, NCP became the choice.

My Common Entrance results were, as prophesied, dismal which was an early sign of my eagerness not to disappoint. In retrospect it was ironic that the two best marks attained were in Divinity and Latin; the former being largely irrelevant while the latter was not even an option at the NCP.

Of course the initial NCP pre-joining requirement was to buy the uniform. In meeting this need my cost conscious father who, as a Naval Officer had long before decided that Gieves offered an over-priced option, drove me down to The Hard in Portsmouth in order to buy a bargain price uniform from his old tailor – Jack Goode. Having tried on a few jackets the tailor selected the ‘perfect fit’ and started to compose an Invoice at which point my father said rather wanly “What about the trousers” to which Mr Goode replied “Trust me, if the jacket fits so will the trousers”. There the matter ended for the time being and it was merely a question of waiting for the parcel to arrive; odd that we left without even asking why we could not take the uniform with us. As a subsequent event was to show the reason was that there were no trousers and Jack needed a few days to knock up a pair.

As part of the background to this contribution three other observations are offered. First, as near enough an only child (my sister was nearly 9 years older and therefore more of a second mother - as if one was not enough!) I craved the companionship that NCP offered; so, in a way, it I was a willing patient, only too prepared to like the place.

Second, I most assuredly did enjoy Pangbourne which should be borne in mind when certain critical observations are offered. I had a number of ‘sticky moments’, as did my father, when Hugh Skinner’s successor took over, quickly branding me as an ‘undesirable’. Further, there were certain obvious oxymorons, for example when the College talked of such matters as education and culture. Indeed only recently did I receive an e-mail from a fellow contemporary OP who described the place as “an academic desert”.

Third, no claims of historical accuracy are made in this contribution. The events, the ambience and the ‘players’ are as I remember them. History is, happily, always a matter for debate which is probably why I never really took to Mathematics or any other subject that dealt in absolutes.

The First Year

The most indelible initial memory at Port Jackson (Croft House) surrounds my first attempt to have a crap. Like any sane new boy it made sense to keep a low profile on the seat furthest from the door. However, new boys did not know that the cubicles were rank ranged and within seconds of sitting down, I was dragged off by somebody much more senior than me and placed in the one nearest the entrance for all to see. In all this was a very undignified process but it offered a practical warning about the need to know the rules.

In the blur of the commonplace such as metal bunks, haircuts, boxed beds, Reveille by Bugle call, there are more significant happenings deserving of a mention whether regular or one off. The most indelible regular activity was the morning run, the distance of which seemed to depend on the mood or character of the Cadet Leader (CL) whose task it was to cycle through the early morning mist some distance away from Croft House; the CL and his bicycle then acted as a buoy for us to round. The run’s distance of course varied and CL Crawford preferred subjecting us to a marathon rather than to a sprint. On completion of the run we were individually hosed down with cold water by another member of the Cadet hierarchy while being asked questions on the Morse Code and/or Semaphore. Four conclusions could quickly be drawn from this chain of events. First, we tried to learn the Morse Code and Semaphore very quickly. Second, there was little merit in running fast if it was not backed by relevant knowledge – another imperative to learning. Third, the fastest and most knowledgeable runners were in and out of the showers first. Fourth, cold water diminishes one’s male prowess at a stage in one’s life when such considerations assumed significant relevance.

On reflection the obligation to be subjected to frequent haircuts proved to be a constant irritation. That said, I lacked the courage to take the same resolute stand as the author Simon Raven. When at Charterhouse he bravely responded to Matron’s instruction that he should report to the barber with the message “Tell Matron that I like it long and she can bloody well mind her own business”. Cuts were his reward.

A singular event that took most of us by surprise was Mr Hooper (Hoops) introducing his glamorous American wife to the House. Even now it is not clear to me why it should have been a surprise after all people do get married. Perhaps it merely reflected our view that Hoops was Hoops and that is how it always would have been – a conservative and unimaginative bunch we must have been. Soon after the nuptials the House of Hoops was built on the lawn at the back of Croft House,

Hoops did not have to undertake the solemn task of breaking the news of the Munich air crash. This fell to Cecil Rogers during Evening Prayers. For some reason that proved to be another indelible event maybe because it offered an insight into the reality of death and the bigger world outside the confines of the NCP. That same venue of the Assembly Room in Croft House also hosted more pleasurable events. For example, I certainly witnessed at least one Concert Night and vividly recall Cadet Ali singing a song about lying and justice – the moral message being the triumph of good over evil.

Before returning to the issue of uniforms, mention might be made of the musical coup brought about by Roger Slater whose father - John Slater – played leading roles in TV dramas, notably Z Cars. Father John had secured an acetate copy of a record called The Story of My Life sung by Michael Holliday. And so it

was that Croft House knew this Number One Hit before it had even reached the airways. The tragedy was that the record producer had fiddled with it and the finally released version never lived up to the acetate version - my first realisation that ‘the best is the enemy of the good enough’.

Back to the tale of the uniform - at my first Muster Parade the Captain Superintendent, Commander Skinner immediately spotted that Mr Goode’s trousers were not only a different material to the jacket but also, in the sunlight, clearly a different colour. “New uniform” was his reaction which, at a stroke eliminated any savings from our foray to Portsmouth. This offered no reason to feel ‘hard done by’ since there was a degree of sartorial snobbery in that anybody who bought their uniform from the unfashionable Miller Raynor & Haysom was pressured into re-clothing themselves with Gieves, much to the delight of Mr Cracknell who represented the latter on weekly term-time visits.

Macquarie

My posting to the Senior College took me to Macquarie whether by accident or design I know not but can guess that the individual preferences of a Cadet would be roundly ignored (akin to the Army as I later discovered). I guess all three options were similar although Harbinger might have offered ‘a place in the country’ feel to it. In discipline terms Macquarie seemed a reasonable option since the Housemaster, Max Findlater was not widely perceived to be fond of the cane. However, as I was later to find out, Max regarded cuts as a useful disciplinary option.

Whatever the merits or otherwise of cuts most of us, I suspect, travelled the same route of coping with the pain barrier. Receiving one’s first ‘three’ I felt that coping with ‘four’ would be beyond me but I eventually reached ‘six’ at Max’s hand and not a tear was shed! How anyone coped with ‘twelve’ is beyond me but they did.

In a sense little changed with the move. The bogs were still door less, Reveille to the Bugle continued and each of us was allocated a small desk/locker in the Ante Room. The only change of note was the presence of a Library. Now there may well have been a Library in Croft House but, if so, it passed me by. In truth the Macquarie Library has no claim to be memorable – it was little bigger than a cocktail cabinet and bedecked with books by Hammond Innes and John Buchan which, doubtless, were regarded as essential inspirational reading for teenagers of those times.

Since Macquarie offered little more than a place to rest one’s head and the occasional lashing from Max, it seemed more appropriate to consider life at Pangbourne within functional headings. So, let the River Thames be the first port of call

The River

Except for the Sailing, and later Rowing, Tops the run-of-the-mill visit to the River amounted to a double period of Seamanship once a week. Such periods presented the opportunity of escape from the confines of the College and idle afternoons doing very little other than scoffing Admiralty weevil biscuit surpluses and pottering around in cumbersome clinker built boats both sailing and rowing. As a Cricket Top, I welcomed these irresponsible escapes that really equated to a half holiday necessitating minimal

thought – so much better than a classroom and certainly a break that other schools eschewed in favour of Latin or Greek or even subjects of more contemporary relevance. Yes, we were indeed very fortunate and not too far away from the innocent joys that Ratty and Toad experienced.

‘Innocence’ is an interesting word when I consider the regular ‘trips round the harbour with Pat Pattison at the helm of another Admiralty throwaway – the Whaler. As we rowers leaned back on the final pull of the oars, Pat would jolly us along by saying that he could ‘see our dusters’. A duster is a euphemism I have not heard before or since but I guess, even to us innocents, the matter in hand (if that’s the right expression) was well understood by all.

The King George Vth Fund For Sailors annual swim always proved to be a significant College event. All Cadets walked from the NCP Boat Yard to the bend in the River, an alleged distance of exactly half a mile. We walked, and subsequently swam passed, the 7 Seven Deadly Sins as the row of grimly imposing Victorian roadside mansions had been titled. As the busy main road to Oxford we must surely have also confronted traffic but I have no memory of that – the cocooned world of the NCP extended to the River. Once at the bend all Cadets were obliged to enter the water and then swim the half mile back to the Boat Yard. For the privilege of taking part in this event each Cadet parted with his Bursar’s Bob – probably the cost of a Wagon Wheel so it did not seem a good deal at the time.

Other than memories of dead farm animals floating through our ‘swimming pool’, only two other minor memories of the River are recalled. First, Mr Radley (?) who oversaw the whole riverside operation was ever present and, more importantly exuded calmness. Second, sliding seat rowing was introduced at some stage in my time at the College but, even as a Cricket Top, I can remember being immensely proud when we won the Princess Elizabeth Cup at Henley with a Rowing Top of only some 75 after only two years in the game.

Sport

My options appear to have been: I did not excel at sport or I was a late developer or success had to wait until so many had left the College that there was only Nicholson left in the selection frame. In order to represent the College above my true ability, as well as escaping from the place, I joined the Cross Country Team. In the event, packed into Mr Stewart’s trendy Austin A40 Farina, the Team actually visited such grand adult institutions as Reading University. This gave us the warm, largely fictitious glow, that we were not only punching above our weight but very nearly grown-up. (Mr Stewart filled the post of Deputy Housemaster, Macquarie and had been a member of Dr Vivian Fuch’s Expedition to the Antarctic in the 1950s. Not much more to be said really!).

Concussion arising from a game of Rugby that led to much parental panic and a 48 hour stay in the Sick Bay persuaded me that Hockey might be the safer winter sport option. Applying the principle of playing above your true worth by filling an unpopular slot, I opted not only to play on the Left Wing but also to use the reverse stick. This allowed me to break into the First Eleven squad bringing with it such consequential goodies as escapes into the outside world and Easter Break Hockey tournaments at Oxford.

Breaking into the First Eleven Cricket Team proved to be breathtakingly simple. As the regular Team scorer I happened to be present when a wicketkeeper was not; seizing the opportunity, I volunteered for the post and held it for two seasons – well one and a half anyway. The speed of Joe Sievier’s bowling could be slightly scary and Robin Knight’s leg spinners broke so far that tidy wicketkeeping often proved a real challenge. That said, perhaps the trickiest bowler to handle was John (?) Cornish, whose chunky build and short stature allowed him to generate a lot of pace off a short run. His medium fast deliveries delivered from such a low height, made tracking the flight of the ball a real challenge – happily the batsmen felt the same way.

Cricket also allowed for two memorable tours to Cambridge in successive years – so I guess 1960 and 1961. These tours that allowed us to play cricket on some delicious College grounds but also on the famed Parker’s Piece and, happily, required minimal administrative effort since Mrs Eugster organised everything; this she had done for some years in memory of her son who had drowned while a Cadet at the NCP.

Cricket offered two additional joys that lived in a schoolboys memory pack for ever. First, Big Side has to be one of the most beautiful self-contained cricket grounds in the land and to play on it proved to be a joy and a privilege. Second, we faced some classy opposition from Admirals to leading Politicians of the day. In combination I guess these two elements made for an awesome experience.

Run by Hoops Squash offered another great escape option and sometimes to places that other teams did not frequent. As I recall Rodney Pattisson played at Number 1 and I struggled along at Number 2 (at Founders’ Day 2011 Rodney denied this, adding that he did not even remember me at all so perhaps my memory does me another disservice). Away matches at The Oratory always provided a memorable experience not least because the school only had one court so that a closed fought team contest meant for a very long evening. The court was all wood and housed chickens that had to be cleared out before the contest could begin. For all its apparent disregard for progress The Oratory led the way in school drinking for as we weaved our way down the corridors to the Squash Court to our left and right stood 6th Formers with glasses of beer in their drinking hands.

Sport offers a further miscellany of memories including 1st XI visits to Radley where the post match tea always consisted of hand grenades masquerading as currant cake and lemonade powder a derivative of which a few years later I used to burnish my Mess Tins for inspections at Sandhurst (with the consequential ingestion of aluminium there might be scope for determining whether Army Officers are more prone to dementia than other equivalent groups in society). While the NCP contingent wore uniform, the umbrella fulfilled that function for the boys of Radley, many of whom strode up and down the touch line shouting “Wally Wadley” (rather than “Rally Radley” for some reason).

Like most schools, Athletics seemed to be a one-off annual event, part of the tick box culture for a school prospectus perhaps. Hugh Skinner always proved to be the star attraction at these events because he spent most of his spectating time watching the high jump, lifting his right leg as each competitor leapt. Needless to say dozens of Cadets stood behind the Captain Superintendent mimicking his actions, mistakenly thinking they were being extremely amusing.

Golf provided a less regular, but non-the-less exhausting, outlet. Golfers were mini-bussed to Goring & Streetley GC whose terrain seemed mountainous to a growing boy. Our sustainment for the day took the form of a truly disgusting packed lunch that would probably have been rejected by Oxfam.

Sport also brought privileges, the most sort after of which was membership of Paravicini. In terms of glamour and status Paravicini far outweighed being in the 6th Form which in, academic retrospect, may have been a pity. It offered a private club room within which were mountains of McVitties chocolate biscuits (verging on black market status) and the facility to make coffee. The icing on top of these fabulously rare privileges was the opportunity to buy the smartest striped blazer in the world (that status did not persuade my parents to buy one). Perhaps Robert Graves more eloquently expressed the overriding importance of sport:

Oh, we are the bloods of the place, We shine with superior grace At the goal or the wicket, at footer or cricket, And nothing our pride can efface. The worms of the Sixth we despise... We count them as dirt in our eyes.

Unlike Graves, Cyril Connolly in The Fate of an Elizabethan saw some merit in learning:

“What matters is getting popular and winning colours, tasting the joys of power for the first time, acquiring knowledge and avoiding punishment; in fact, growing up”

The camaraderie sport offered was embellished by the coach journeys back from away matches. After a short exchange of topical jokes the coach would descend into singing The Quartermaster’s Stores. Having a totally untrained mind (see under Education below) remembering the words of this song is now beyond me which is probably just as well.

For me sport ruled and NCP certainly punched above its weight. With Jeremy Ainslie playing Stand Off for the Royal Navy while still a Cadet Captain, Les Byrne turning out for Blackheath while at the College or very soon after he left, and the Eight triumphing at Henley we were a force in the land. [Since writing this Robin Knight has reminded me of yet more achievements that I had forgotten. For example, Jerry Ainslie and Les Byrne both played for England Schoolboys (Under 18) Rugby and Garth Morrison played for the equivalent Scottish team before going on to captain Cambridge University Golf Team. Garth and Robin both had England schoolboy hockey trials and the latter played minor country-level cricket. Further, of course, there was Rodney Pattisson not to mention some other notable sailors like his younger brother and Reg James and Tim Le Couteur (round the world sailors) although John Ridgway was before our time]

Discipline System/Parades

As functional areas discipline and parades have been lumped together for the very good reason that errant behaviour on a parade could easily lead to a disciplinary ‘offence’ – a philosophy that held true at

Sandhurst when I was awarded my first Extra Drill for having ‘an idle end’ (a piece of hanging thread from a uniform).

The daily parade treats were Morning Divisions and the evening/sunset parade (for me the latter always engendered an emotional reaction as did the singing of Eternal Father Strong To Save at every chapel service). Prior to the former, Cadets crammed into Stitch’s office in the North Wing of the Bursar’s Nissan hut to grab a brush and dowse themselves in Dabitoff in preparation of a spotless presentation for the forthcoming parade inspection. Those who had the time devoured the social page of the Daily Mail that was crafted by the mysterious Paul Tanfield who later transmogrified into Nigel Dempster.

The parade itself potentially presented fertile recruitment for the Catholic Church since at an early stage the Executive Officer ‘Scabby’ Hoyle would shout: “Fall out the Roman Catholics”. From there on the RCs played no part in proceedings thereby avoiding a succession of dull CofE (the default religion) Prayers and being first at the next activity without having to rush.

In all this mayhem there were rare sightings of the Bursar - Major Harris - who sported double-glazed spectacles and had never been known to engage in conversation with anyone let alone a lowly Cadet. Unlike the Bursar of today he seemed to send out the Mess Bills on the last day of term and then take leave.

Other than the set-piece Founders’ Day Parade and Sunday Divisions, the Muster Parade offered the only other inconvenience on the Quarter Deck that might lead to disciplinary action. As I recall the process was:

The Division (perhaps only applying to Port Jackson) fell in in Column of Threes and turned to face the Captain Superintendent

The leading Cadet of the Front Ranks when so ordered stepped forward two paces to halt in front of the Captain Superintendent. Simultaneously, without orders, all those behind in that front rank took one pace forward

The luckless Cadet in front of the Captain Superintendent, having halted, saluted and stated his name

If the Captain Superintendent did not engage him in conversation or bollock him (like “That boy needs a new uniform”) the Cadet would salute turn to his left or right and double smartly to the back of his rank

The process continued until each Cadet in all the ranks had been subjected to the nerve racking experience of revealing their name to God (Hugh Skinner)

Many OPs I have talked to over the years have suggested that NCP had a culture of bullying. I do not EVER recall being bullied or indeed of hearing about it and unlike the goings-on in many schools of that era, I have no memory of initiation ceremonies. I do however retain a clear memory of a twin

disciplinary structure namely – that imposed by the Cadet hierarchy and that imposed by the College Staff both uniformed and, in the case of Housemasters, civilian.

The Cadet hierarchy disciplinary process I believe taught an important lesson to those in authority over their peers, in other words the Cadet Captains (CC) and the Chief Cadet Captains (CCC). Defaulters conducted within this area were done so in accordance with Naval principles of justice in that evidence was needed and had to be presented, witness could be called and all actions – including the punishment awarded – were recorded in the Defaulters’ Book that rose through the chain of command to the Captain Superintendent. The whole process was evidence based and monitored by the uniformed chain of command. Few schools at that time were blessed with such a civilised system. (As a possibly provocative aside I have to say that the general immediacy of corporal punishment was a much better prospect than lines or being gated. Simon Raven took the view that cuts were a soft option: “Yes, it hurts – but not for long. Whereas to spend the whole afternoon doing some frightful chores like vegetable digging, that was really not to be borne”)

As I recall CCC corporal punishment rights were pegged at 6 cuts. As for the CCC of the College I have it in mind that he was permitted to deliver 12. Right or wrong, in my time, there were at least two occasions when twelve cuts were awarded. CCC of the College Orders were solemn occasions and heralded by a bugle call as well as the loss of the canteen since that was the venue in which the ‘trial’ took place. Anyone who had received 4 or more cuts must surely have felt for the accused bearing in mind that the outcome invariably involved a punishment that exceeded the powers of a mere CCC. Conveying convincingly the impact of these occasions is beyond my powers but the lead up to the 11 o’clock bugle call was certainly like that eerie quietness that precedes any predictably special event like a storm or the launching of a space craft.

The contribution of Housemasters to the corporal punishment scene has already been mentioned. While Max Findlater may have caused some pain that was as nothing compared to other Divisions. The Housemaster of Hesperus for example had been awarded the soubriquet of ‘Brutus’ or ‘The Brute’ in recognition of his caning skills.

The termly Doctor’s parade offered a less painful experience. For this event all Cadets paraded in the Gymnasium wearing nothing but the issue blue PT shorts. At the front of this human snake the leading Cadet descended into the PTI’s Office to see Sister, armed with a wooden spoon for reprimanding any sexually aroused boy, and Doctor John Thomas who was, in turn, equipped with a hurricane lamp that allowed him clearly to examine and feel the genitalia of each Cadet. En passant any reader might wish to know that at this time The Lady Chatterly’s Lover Court case was dominating the news and that the book’s euphemism for a penis was – a ‘John Thomas’ which added a certain frisson to these occasions.

Although we were never told the purpose of the Doctor’s mission, every term John Thomas examined hundreds of genitalia and to relieve the tedium he would lighten such contacts with such remarks as:

“My how you’ve grown” (as if he could remember one among so many)

“You have had a busy holiday”

As suggested above those Cadets who found this a stimulating experience received a sharp rap from Sister’s wooden spoon.

Extra Drills were without doubt the worst senior Division punishment on offer. These events took place on Saturday after lessons while others were ‘off duty’ and that was the first element of the punishment. The punished parties paraded in Drake Hall under the attentive eye of ‘Tiger’ Knights the College PTI (the very man whose opening remarks to new Cadets at the first PT period memorably said: “In this place you don’t walk, you don’t run, you bloody well fly” and, as befits all in that speciality, his words were delivered in a rising falsetto voice).

Equipped with two heavy RN issue Indian Clubs the Cadets under punishment formed a large circle before running repeatedly round the Hall holding the clubs in various positions but usually above one’s head. After a while this proved to be a painful experience and I am told that BRNC Dartmouth had already banned this practice following the death of a Cadet.

Lifting weighty clubs reminds of one particularly unpleasant peer imposed punishment that involved holding a cobbler’s Last in each outstretched hand. The Lasts had to be held parallel to the shoulders which, with the demands of gravity, soon became exceedingly painful. I think this punishment was confined to Port Jackson and, for the life of me, I cannot remember the penalty for failing to hold them thus.

Having previously stated that bullying had never been on the agenda, I have to confess to one incident that might be classified as such. For some reason Cadet Wingate had irritated the senior element of Macquarie that we decided to hold our own unofficial defaulters (in retrospect Kangaroo Court might be a more accurate designation). The event proved to be all mouth and trousers with Wingate getting a bollocking and nothing more than that.

Education

As suggested earlier Education and The NCP are mutually exclusive or oxymoronic claims. As a fellow contemporary cadet opined within a recent letter “an academic desert like Pangbourne!”. In general terms the quality of teaching then was abysmal and had I been more eager to learn, anger should have been my reaction to this. Perhaps others felt angry particularly the droves of OPs who passed on to Crammer Colleges such as Applegarth in Godalming simply to secure their O Levels. However, in the round, life was such fun that Education really seemed to be an irrelevance.

In retrospect, blame probably rests with the structure of the College in that there were two distinct chains of command, on the one hand lay the ‘uniformed’ line that represented sport, discipline, worldly experience and even glamour whereas, on the other, lay the teaching staff who, for the most part, seemed to lack either charisma or dedication. Even in those days superficial judgements counted and the Head of the academic staff – the Director of Studies (DOS)- sported a hearing aid the size of a breeze block on the front of his jacket which detracted somewhat from a growing lad’s view of a potential hero. To make image matters worse when the aid went ‘out of tune’ it emitted an ear piercing heterodyne whistle

But.................here I must place on record that I know now, and probably knew then but cared not to admit it, that the DOS - KIT Topliss - took a benevolent view of Cadets and always had their best interests at heart; indeed in my own run-in with Hugh Skinner’s successor he championed my cause. For sure, Mr Topliss who restored my self-respect not only giving me the faith to sit an A Level but also to achieve totally unpredicted high grades in the Civil Service Commissioners Examination. In that regard he deserves particular thanks for arming me with a wodge of exemption certificates for those tricky parts of the CSC examination that I would never have passed, such as Physics. This Examination incidentally, for me, took place in the Mission Hall in North Street Guildford while on the floor below the WI were holding a Bazaar. Two other memories of this examination come to mind. First, we were allowed to smoke which we regarded as a hugely exciting privilege that demonstrated to all that the candidates were truly on the threshold of adulthood. Second, latent mistrust by the examining body required us to be escorted to the lavatory and observed while there to ensure that no secret notes were being retrieved.

At the risk of being controversial, it is now time to return to the issue of the teaching staff. As a general observation the teachers were abysmal and, without any feeling of vindictiveness, I feel a sense of shock that they got away with it and were never called to account. It was, for example, widely known or perhaps safer to say ‘believed’ that three teaching lags could be found in The Swan at lunchtime every day. Even if true, at least they were imbibing in their own time, whereas a first period of the day English lesson with one Master required the Cadets to read a book while he tackled The Times Crossword Puzzle while persistently picked his nose. There were, of course, some conscientious teachers although those on the Science and Mathematics side either had no means of delivering discipline or, therefore, a learning environment or were too intelligent to explain the logic to the unintelligent. My enduring memory of Physics and Chemistry remains burning protractors and connecting the Laboratory gas supply to the water taps.

The one majestic exception to this mediocre array of teachers proved to be ‘Brutus Holland’ sometimes merely referred to as the ‘Brute’ (relating to his use of the cane as discussed above). The dictatorial approach of Mr Holland, backed by his own detailed preparation and planning, not only ignited my passion for History but also facilitated a pass in every examination I ever sat on that subject – even for the Army Staff College examination some 16 years down line. As an academic dummy I salute his teaching methods and dedication. He achieved this dedication despite suffering epilepsy and the tragic loss of his wife in a car crash. Sometimes one ponders on the unfairness of life – the most committed teacher in the College had been dealt a bad hand in life.

The Study Block (not sure if that is the right name and in my case certainly a wholly inappropriate one) had been built in the early 1950s with such avant garde features as Green Blackboards on rollers and huge windows. For the dreamers the view from these windows allowed for hours of speculation about what was happening ‘out there’ – in particular a large white building on the horizon caught one’s eye. It was some years later I discovered that the building was Hermitage – home of the cartographic branch of the Royal Engineers. The design of this Block represented another triumph of architectural ignorance – after all if you offer a boy a view from a window that will trump anything a Master is likely to offer.

On the fringes of academe stood the likes of Commander Mornement DSC RN (Retd) who had been decorated, as Navigating Officer, for bringing his damaged vessel to home port going astern for hundreds of miles, including crossing the Bay of Biscay. The Commander taught Navigation and to his credit he facilitated an O Level Pass for me which represented some 20% of all my academic qualifications. Laden with his pointed sarcasm the Commander’s lessons could never be described as joyous; his favoured dig went on the lines: “Mentioning no names but there was one appalling piece of homework but I think Nicholson might know who I am talking of”.

Other fringe activities included Engineering under the watchful eye of ‘Bodkin’ Adams (the nickname deriving from a contemporaneous murder trial concerning an Eastbourne Doctor called Bodkin Adams). Other than being, like Seamanship on the River, a pleasant double lesson distraction allowing for the manufacture of such inessential items as marlin spikes and metal book racks, Engineering was educationally valueless.

Another Naval skill that we were obliged to absorb was the Morse Code. Even now I can see Charlie Sewell frothing at the mouth from sheer enthusiasm shouting out the correct interpretation of every dot and dash that emanated from a ship’s lantern dug into the wall of Devitt House. I say ‘correct’ since the mass of Cadets had their own interpretation of the light’s activity which bore faint resemblance to the Morse Code. Charlie demonstrated the same frothy enthusiasm for Seamanship lessons in the Stable Block. It is often too easy to poke fun at enthusiasts but I retain a sneaking admiration for him and have certainly grown to revere, rather than mock, enthusiasm.

In the gymnasium we were blessed with the presence of ‘Tiger’ Knights whose genuine humanity belied his nickname. He was supremely fit and never expected us to do what he could or would not do even though he must have been well into his late 40s. All orders were issued in a falsetto voice so beloved of the PTI industry in all the Armed Forces. Jackie Finch supported Tiger in such areas as fencing although he failed to maintain the same lean mean body.

Yet further on the periphery of academe ‘Pat’ Pattison, another uniformed instructor, taught sex. It may be hard for today’s young to imagine that sex education then required a Class to assemble in a dingy room in the Stables Block and listen to an Ex CPO using an Aldis slide projector to throw images of the uterus and the mons veneris onto a large screen; these, and other parts of the female anatomy, were indicated by ‘Pat’ with the aid of a billiard cue. Such a semi clinical approach did not excite anybody’s taste buds for the opposite sex – sport was definitely a better option.

Culture

As with Education at the NCP, the cultural scene was more of a desert than an oasis. My, admittedly slightly feeble, attempts to absorb some culture led me to join the Classical Music Society. This Society occupied a curtain-less room in the South West corner of the Stable block. Blessed with a light brown linoleum floor and kitted out with half a dozen ‘chairs folding flat’ the only concessions to culture were Boosey and Hawkes posters of the cor anglais and other musical instruments draped from the dado. The stack of unreferenced LPs that offered a tenuous link to culture were, for the most part, housed in a

forbidding old wooden cupboard with the remainder piled in a heap on a chair. A Dansette Record Player similarly positioned on a chair offered a strictly mono experience.

The highlight of the classical music year proved to be an invitation to hear the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra perform at Bradfield College. So, on balance, this cultural involvement was a good thing since it offered yet another opportunity of seeing a bit of the outside world.

Live music lay in the hands of the Music Teacher – Ewart Masser who also conducted the Reading Symphony Orchestra. The kindly Mr Masser wore a goatee beard and was always impeccably dressed invariably including a waistcoat. Having badgered my Parents to learn the piano over many months, they were not best pleased when I abandoned my embryonic music career after one term. In those twelve weeks my only tangible progress had been a faltering performance of The March of the Golliwogs (doubtless renamed since those days) and The Man in the Moon. As with so much of much life I wanted to short circuit the hard work of the basics and move immediately to being a fluent pianist. In common with many, probably, I much regret giving up the piano and rather wish my parents had been more determined on my behalf – willpower by proxy.

Entertainment

Lying somewhere within culture, sport and education, entertainment also offered a fairly insipid gruel. On some Saturday evenings film nights were hosted in the gymnasium which also provided the venue for College plays. The Mikado is the only one of the latter that comes to mind and that largely because of a memorable performance as Mikado by Raymond Layard.

The rest of the cultural landscape was restricted to The Top Twenty on Radio Luxembourg and Round The Horne. The former reached us intermittently, being on the Medium Wave Band, via a small white plastic radio resting on a shelf in the ante-room of Macquarie. The latter always seemed to be transmitted in the Summer and I retain fond memories of lazing in the sun at the back of Macquarie laughing heartily.

From time-to-time we were subjected to ‘educational’ lectures from senior Cadets. These generally were part of the staple diet of certain College Societies but I can only recall one – The St Lawrence Seaway by CC Mike Matthews (I met Mike at a lunch recently and he denied all knowledge of it so I must have been a very impressionable young man although I cannot remember a single fact from his lecture).

Dancing ‘fixtures’ with/against local girl schools offered the only other quasi cultural events in that desert of the late 1950s/early 1960s. These occasions followed a standard pattern in that at 2200 both ‘teams’ assembled to witness the Captain Superintendent and the visiting Headmistress offer something on the lines: “We both think you have all behaved so well that we have agreed to an extension until 2230”. So we returned to the laurel bushes at the back of Devitt House ever thankful for the extra thirty minutes.

Miscellaneous

There remains finally a mixed bag of memories that do not readily fit into any definable functional category. Forefront in those is the Great Food Riot of an unknown year but I suspect the event took place in the Christmas Term of 1960. Each table in the Mess Hall had been bedecked with decorations and of particular note – holly with berries. There being a long pause between the first two courses our minds turned to finding amusement and the seminal moment proved to be the picking of berries from the holly and throwing them at neighbouring tables. Berries were superseded by potatoes and eventually by bread dripped in gravy. Before long the walls were awash with vegetables and various liquids, principally gravy. In the minds of management this inexplicable emotional release merited severe punishment which followed the next day when the entire College paraded on the Quarterdeck and marched round the square for some three hours.

Parental visits varied from boy to boy I guess but for most it may have been a couple of times a term in addition to major events such as Founders’ Day. There were common visitation options like tea in the Spinning Wheel in the village, The Swan at Goring/Streetley,The George Hotel Reading, The Beetle & Wedge at Moulsford and a large cinema on the Reading Road at Tilehurst (here was my first viewing of the Big Country).

As with most of our lives at NCP, Parental visits and the journey home at the end of term required us to wear uniform. For me going home by train from Pangbourne to Reading to Guildford was always the last hurrah of collective fun before holiday started in earnest. Our small travelling clique comprised Tim Edwards (who once wrote a memorable piece of doggerel that included the line “squitters in a Southdown bus does not happen to many of us”), ‘Shags’ Potter and me. The culmination of this ‘expotition’ as AA Milne would have it, was a few beers in a small pub at the bottom of North Street, Guildford (now long gone).

Dwelling on the question of doggerel my only claim to creativity was the manufacturing of this little ditty:

Marilyn Monroe has something to show But Diana Dors has many flaws

My English Master, having taken time off from completing the Crossword, rated this little offering highly and put it forward for publication in The Log but the Lawyers put a stop to that. (It was eventually published many years later but the Editor changed ‘flaws’ to ‘floors’ which rather negated the aim of the piece!)

Other uniquely NCP memories come to mind such as Bursar’s Bob – the shilling we patiently queued for once a week and the uniformed spectacle of Founders’ Day. It may have been my last Founders’ Day when a certain Captain Royal Navy arrived in full uniform with medals and ceremonial sword demanding a seat at the top table. In the hustle and bustle of the busiest day of the year his word was taken and a place was found for him with the VIPs. As the national press informed us a few days later, the man was a fraud. All credit must go to him for a harmless piece of fraudulent fun and happy to say I don’t think he was ever caught; after all he worked hard to get nothing more than a free lunch and a slice of temporary status.

The Canteen, buried in the woods, will ever remind me of Wagon Wheels whereas my lasting memory of the main food distributor – The Mess Hall – is the waiting staff. To a man, the staff wore pre-made ties whose knots, as the rubber perished, hung at half mast down the front of their shirts.

A final incident of note is offered. Cadet George Kinnear had entered a competition sponsored by Penguin biscuits and won it! His prize was to help himself to as many toys as he could in Hamleys against the clock – 10 or 15 minutes as I recall. Few boys of that age could have wished for a more rewarding prize. But the spin off to this was a Profile of George and the NCP in a magazine either Illustrated or John Bull. To this day I remain annoyed that Charlie Sewell put his bottom in the way of my face when the camera shots were being taken in the Seamanship classroom.

Happy memories even if they may be inaccurate in parts! I look back on those NCP days with the same affection as did Alf Wright (alias James Herriot) in the case of Glasgow Veterinary College. After taking six and a quarter years to complete a five-year course Alf opined:

“Though the course was out of date and inefficient, there was a carefree, easy-going charm about that whole time, which has held in my mind in a golden glow.”