“So there I was, stuck in the bloody British Army.”
Oscar was reminiscing again.
“I didn’t want to be there, I hated it, but there I was. How I got there is of no importance in this context, but to stick a product of drama school with prior training in electronics into uniform betrayed a sadistic taste for the ridiculous. It took time to realise that, if one learned where the disciplinary fences were, it was possible to rampage through all the space that intervened between them and cause havoc.
“My association with military drama was not a happy one on account that military drama was to drama what military music is to music, only not so efficiently played. I soon discovered that each garrison theatre was an extension of the officers’ mess. ‘Other ranks’ (ORs) were most welcome, otherwise how else would the ruperts get their sets built and their floors swept... oh yes, and their drinks served... do I sound bitter?”
“Only slightly. Did you do anything worthwhile in that period?”
“Yes, I stole a typewriter and carried on churning out TV scripts under pseudonyms in the hope that I could make enough money to purchase my discharge.”
“You should publish your collected rejections. Now, cut to the chase.”
“O.K., you ruthless raptor. After several thwarted attempts at breaking back into practical theatre... oh I could tell some stories about the frustrations and the insults...”
“No doubt you could, but don’t. Go to where you become the hero.”
“RIGHT” (enthusiasm at last) “I got bust for organising an actors’ workshop among the soldiers under sentence in the guardroom – the RSM caught them all exercising their pets: one had a giraffe, another a polar bear and so on – and transferred to another garrison in Germany. There, I decided to put on a pantomime in the cookhouse, using ORs only, just to prove a point. Well... when I say ‘put it on’, I wrote it, designed it, directed it, did the choreography and composed some original songs, then played Widow Twanky because nobody else would dress up as a woman. Cara played Princess Balroubadour and built all the costumes from tat and imagination.
“That done, I was more acceptable to the officers in the theatre club, but not as a director, not at first. I had to help officer’s wives when it came to their turn to ‘have a try at producing’. Eventually, we reached my turn to have a try. According to my CV, it was my eighth production as Director, not including various exercises in drama school and a previous panic when a colonel’s lady gave up half way through. If I cast an OR, his guard-duties coincided unerringly with his scheduled rehearsals. My own duties were organised so that I was always available as director or teacher. In time, my services were enough in demand for me to issue an ultimatum: if they did not stop blocking the lads’ involvement, I would form an ORs’ theatre group. They didn’t, I did.
“We returned to our beloved cookhouse and became the Verden Strollers.
“Nine months (and ten productions) after we started, our entry for the rather prestigious Inter-Services Drama Festival was placed third and received the adjudicator’s discretionary award for achievement. There were 35 marks available for acting; my lads earned 35. The officers’ group did rather well, they came thirteenth.
“The time had come to demonstrate the possibilities to a wider audience. I made no apologies for wanting to show the rest of the army what could be done by motivating and training ordinary soldiers. Two army customs conspired to assist our launch into touring production: every special-interest group must have an officially appointed Supervising Officer and our Lieutenant was alright; every subaltern was required – every year - to submit a proposal for an Adventure Training exercise. Usually, these consisted of a bunch of squaddies under the command of the proposer undertaking some sort of mountaineering or boating expedition and money was available. Our laddy was smart enough to not interfere with the organisation, just to compile the proposal.”
At this point, Oscar lumbered over to his cupboard, dragged out a box of mementoes and began rooting through it. I got the impression that he was skimming over the bare bones of a period in his life about which he could write a big book. With a cry of delight, he dragged out a newspaper clipping, brown with age, and began to read.
“’Union Jack,’” he read, “(newspaper of the British Army of The Rhine), dated 27th July, 1969: ‘EXERCISE ‘LONG STROLL’ by Oscar O’West.’ God, I was 31!”
“The fight flared quite suddenly. A bony elbow thwacked into an equally bony eyebrow, gaping it open. Blood poured over the soldier’s eye, down his face and trickled onto his OG tunic, but he stood to attention, not blinking as his sergeant addressed the patrol in old-fashioned military terms.
“This was one incident during Verden Strollers’ three-week tour of Germany, Exercise ‘Long Stroll’ in which we presented Willis Hall’s “The Long and The Short and The Tall’ – a gripping play about Malaya in 1942 – to nineteen different garrisons. And it exemplified the spirit of teamwork and devotion to the job which carried us through our venture. Travelling with all our equipment in a 4½-ton truck and trailer, we took little incidents like the cut eye (it was stitched together by an MO during the interval at Herford) in our stride.
“Since no passengers, but only essential crew-members, were carried, we could not allow for drop-outs. Example: at Hohne, I received a signal that the sound technician was required back in Verden to give evidence before a Board of Enquiry. A Landrover came out to collect him after he had packed away his amps, speakers and cables, which he set up again ready for the next night’s performance at Soltau. Example: the squaddy who played the Japanese prisoner badly sprained his ankle during a football kick-about and played for several days in severe pain.
“Emergencies and accidents we could handle, but there was nothing we could do about lethargy. Sad in our memory is the performance at Laarbruch, where we set out 300 chairs for the promised audience and played to nine people because the ones who came (the theatre group committee) had neglected to tell anyone else that we were coming. The nine received the same performance that we would have given to the 300, in spite of the noise from a vastly populated discotheque next door. Quite simply, we played for the ones who came, not for the ones who stayed away. This was an isolated incident among an otherwise unbroken succession of packed houses.
“We pulled into Windsor Boys’ School at Hamm to find an atmosphere of gloom. There had been a sad and sudden bereavement; the school had lost a much-loved master, so we pulled out again and went on to our next booking a day early. To avoid disappointing the pupils and staff at Hamm, however, we returned on what was to have been our one free evening and gave them the show. And on our return, the reception from the boys was tremendous; not a cough, not a shuffle, but many laughs and tumultuous applause. They also gave us a hand with setting up and striking the set.
“At Celle, we were shepherded to the promised ‘theatre’ and were confronted by the tiniest cinema in the world. It had about twenty seats and a stage that had a 10-foot proscenium arch before about 2-foot stage-depth. But the weather was kind, so we took advantage of a natural amphitheatre outside, where the lawns sloped down to our acting area. Naturally, we had to compensate for the strange acoustics, but nature and coincidence paid us back with benefits. The action of the play stretches from early evening in daylight, through into the night, which is exactly what the natural elements gave us, but with a bonus: our lights attracted swarms of insects who buzzed and flickered in the bright beams we cast, to heighten the atmosphere of tropical jungle. We were in an infantry barracks where the tradition of bugle-calls is maintained, but we could not (DARE not, for fear of sounding corny) plan for the magic that occurred precisely as our jungle dusk fell. In the distance, the bugler sounded Lights Out
“At Rheindahlen, we had to conquer the complexities of their vast and beautiful Garrison Theatre. God bless our friends the Ariel Theatre Guild.
“At Minden, we found the gymnasium far too light, so we spread tarpaulins over the skylights. Trust you managed to get them down, lads, and please send us a bill for the window that Tom Joynes put his foot through.
“At Detmold, we played in the corner of the most awkwardly L-shaped canteen you can imagine, but would forgive the folks there anything for their hospitality.
“At Hohne, we played the Round House the week after Dickie Henderson. Standards are definitely on the rise at Hohne.
“We took our rock-solid self-supporting set, complete with full lighting and sound rig, onto small stages, big stages, no stages at all and into the open air. We played on proscenium stages, thrust stages, arena stages and in the round. It would be entirely wrong to single out any individual team-members for praise; I am proud that our lads achieved a high uniformity of performance. Nonetheless, this report would be incomplete if I failed to mention the tingle I felt all down my spine every time the rowdy opening chorus gave way to jungle creatures twittering and screeching to each other from so many different points, on-stage and throughout the auditorium to give perfect atmosphere to our patrol advancing from cover to cover through the Audience-jungle.
“As a military drama club in which the senior rank is Corporal, we are proud of the adventure, experiment, uniqueness, hard work and lust for perfection with which we approach our work. We believe that Exercise ‘Long Stroll’ has enhanced our reputation. The Long Strollers were: Sig Ahearne, Tpr Croft, LCpl Forbes, Sig Joynes, Sig Kiernan, Cpl O’West, Sig Rylance, Sig Shoemark, Sig Sutherland, Spr Vander-Linden, Cpl Watkinson and Pte Yierdley.”
Oscar removed the half-spectacles from his nose and beamed at me with a beatific glow of pride. “There!” he said and dropped the newspaper cutting back into the box. “But, do you know what made the cherry on that particular cake?”
“No idea,” I granted.
“The first and last performances were in our own garrison, the first one in our regimental gymnasium as one last setting-up, striking and loading practise. The last one was in a location chosen for the convenience with which a raucous celebration could be held after the show. We were accomplished topers. But what really tickled us pink was the trouble that NASA went to to express their appreciation of our efforts.”
“NASA?” I echoed. “What, the American space outfit?”
“The same,” he said, with a gentle smile of true modesty. “We brought television sets – the old black and white ones, of course – into the bar. During the interval between Act One and Act Two, we all gathered round to watch the historic first landing of mankind on the moon. NASA timed that event especially in our honour.”
Jonah was a very experience director, teacher and writer who sadly passed away in February 2006. He was also the author of the highly successful "Playmaker - The Craft of Directing Plays (The Way I Seen It)".