大象传媒

By this time demobilisation was well into being, everybody having been allotted a group number according to age and length of service. Roughly, the first in were the first out but, being a Regular soldier, with time to do, this didn鈥檛 apply to me as I would be going at the end of my enlistment, which was about nine months off, but the unit had been run down dramatically until there was just the C.O., a section in Hamburg and myself left in it, and he sent for me and said that he was going shortly and if I like to choose a Public Relations team to join he would see that I went there as their photographer. Without hesitation I asked for Hamburg for a month and then Berlin until I was time-expired.
True to his word I joined the lads in Hamburg and what a lovely set-up they had got there, as I knew they would. Our H.Q. was a very nice mansion, overlooking the lake but well away from the Military H.Q. and by this time the non-fraternizing ban had been lifted. This non-frat, as it was called, meant that we couldn鈥檛 mix with the Germans socially and only during the course of duty. It was a silly regulation as the British way is to try to make friends with people and this was impossible if we had to ignore them.
The boys had already made friends with the artistic gentry; well, as most of them were in the picture industry it was only natural for like to attract like, so we had the corps de ballet as regular guests, also the local film crowd, plus the musicians from the ballet and the Hamburg orchestra. All talented, likeable people, with no axe to grind and, like ourselves, glad that the war was over, and the parties that we held were the last word and an invitation was much sought after.
But there had been a much grimmer side to Hamburg before I got there; a system of rationing was instituted with ration cards to be distributed but with a difference! A film had been made of the horrors of Belsen and I believe it was entitled 鈥楬orror In Our Time鈥� and it didn鈥檛 pull any punches; it was the real MacKay and the 鈥榩owers that be鈥� decided that as most of the German population disbelieved that the concentration camps were so bad, made it a condition of receiving a ration card that they would have to see this film in its entirety.
The Army Kinema service (we took them - they showed them) set up shop in a large cinema and the population of Hamburg, every single one of them, sat through that showing. They were being sick, fainting and trying to get out of the cinema, but they were told 鈥榮ee it - or no ration card鈥� and it was truly a much-chastened audience who left, having been shown the truth of their evil masters at last.
It was whilst I was at Hamburg that the lads decided to hold an initiating ceremony for the admittance of new members to the 鈥楥ardinal Puff鈥� Society. Strictly speaking, it was a test as to your ability to hold your liquor and perform, in its entirety, a set of movements with fingers, hands, feet and head and voice without making a mistake, as a mistake meant that you started all over again with a new batch of booze and of course, the more mistakes, the more booze, and the more booze the greater likelihood of making a mistake.
A failure to qualify usually meant that you finished up paralytic on your back. If you passed you were just paralytic.
For the benefit of those who have never undergone this ceremony here is a description of it: You chose your own drink but whatever it is it has to be a full measure, i.e., a double whiskey or a pint of beer; in my case I chose pints of champagne. A fearsome drink the next morning!
The ceremony is in three parts; sitting at a table with your chosen drink in front of you, you say
鈥楬ere鈥檚 to Cardinal Puff鈥� for the first time and pick up your glass with one finger and thumb, take one sip, put it down once on the table then nod your head once, tap with one finger of the right hand on top of the table once, then ditto with the left, tap under the table once with the right finger and the same with the left. Tap each foot alternately once, stand up and sit down once. Sounds easy, doesn鈥檛 it? But wait, the second part consists of doing exactly the same again but the drink is picked up with two fingers and thumb, two sips are taken and put down on the table twice, then it is as before with everything done twice. Two fingers of the right hand tap the top of the table, ditto the left and so on but everything must be in twos.
Having got this far the rest must be simple. We will see. The third and final part is in three鈥檚
鈥楬ere鈥檚 to Cardinal Puff, puff, puff for the third and final time. Three nods of the head, three fingers and thumb to pick up the glass, three sips of the drink with the last sip emptying the glass, put down on the table three times, nod the head three times, three fingers to tap the table as before, three taps of each foot and stand up and down three times. If you make a mistake during any part of this you must finish your drink and start again with a fresh one. A very good game for seasoned boozers, but if you are not, don鈥檛, on any account, try it. Especially girls - be warned!
It was a lot of fun in those days, sort of 鈥楾o the victor belong the spoils鈥� - all good clean relaxing fun. Just before I left Hamburg I was invited to talk about Arnhem from a cameraman鈥檚 point of view, on the Radio programme called 鈥業n Town to-night鈥� and considered this a great honour, but, to me, a bit more frightening than the campaign.

True to his promise I was sent to Berlin to join the Staff of the Army Public Relations section stationed there. Travel was via the autobahn and when we got to Helmstedt, which was the British/Russian sector frontier post, I saw my first Russian soldiers and a right suspicious lot they were; you would have thought that they had been fighting us as well as the Germans, the way they sorted out our jeep and contents; however, we were passed through and were left alone during the two hour ride to Berlin, where we were stopped again and then passed through to go to our sector in Berlin.
The City was an oasis in the Russian part of Germany, under four-power control, the Russians, the Americans, the French and, of course, the British. I wondered what genius had failed to put the road connecting West Germany with Berlin under four-power control as well. Because of that stupidity we eventually had the Berlin airlift. Do they never learn?
Berlin was a city in utter ruin, except for a few streets here and there; we were in Charlottenberg and had decent digs in a hotel there in KaltStrasse. The PRS HQ was on the Kurfurstendam, which ran parallel to it and not too far away, and the WO鈥檚 and Sergeant鈥檚 Club, whose name escapes me, was close on the same street; all very handy.
My job was to accompany any notables visiting there, as photographer, such as General Smuts, Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin and so on, and was also expected to be knowledgeable as to where Black Market cameras were to be obtained. Also the four power sector Commanders met once a month to discuss the supply of various things to the civil population and was attended by myself as British photographer. A more boring detail there never was. Everything that was suggested the Russians vetoed it with a loud 鈥楴iet.鈥� Sheer obstructionists.
The black market was colossal; the mark was fixed at a value of six (old) pence and one cigarette had a trading value of five shillings and you could spend German currency in the NAAFI and its associate clubs, but mainly for drink and meals.
Cigarettes, chocolate, etc. were issued to units on a rationed basis, obviously to try to kill the black market in these commodities. There was a flaw, however (there always is!) as troops could receive 200 cigarettes a week from home, which the sender purchased duty-free and the tobacco firms despatched them to the addressee. Thus there was an unending supply of cigarettes on the market; consequently nobody ever gave cigarettes away, they were money and really had superseded cash.
A beautiful racket grew up out of all this black market dealing in cigarettes, troops had loads of German marks and the only trouble was they could only be spent in the NAAFI, until someone exploited the fact that 拢2 in foreign currency could be changed at the Army Post Office for 拢2 in postal orders, British currency. So every day, blokes spent 80 marks (8 cigarettes) and made 拢12 per week to send home as a nest egg for their demob. This lovely legal racket went on for ages until one embittered war correspondent wrote an article about it and had it stopped. Why he did it I will never know; after all, the blokes were only getting a little personal reparation for their part in the war! Nicht Wahr!
The R.A.F. were very good to the survivors of bombing raids on Berlin and sent them to us, to show them around the City and see the damage their bombs had done, and, of course, to show them where to sell their cigarettes! All strictly illegal, of course, but who could deny these men. Bomber Command lost 50,000 men in raids over Europe; surely the survivors were entitled to something?
One day I was given a detail that was right up my street; it was to accompany the British General in charge of the Military Police, who was invited to go to the Russian Sector to meet his Russian opposite number. As none of us was keen to go into the Russian Sector on his own to do a bit of sightseeing, due to the peculiar little ways that the Communists had of locking you up as a spy and I certainly had no desire to become a Diplomatic Incident. This was different) the Red Carpet would be down and we would be honoured guests and nothing untoward would happen.
Driving from West Berlin into their Sector was like going from Brighton to a depressed area, huge Russian females were doing traffic direction, the people slunk about, grey-faced and shabby and the whole area had the look of decay and devastation but with lots of Russian banners, exhorting the populace to do this and that as all Communists were loving brothers. What a load of bullshit.
When we arrived at the Police HQ we were made welcome, the vodka was poured out and we had a drink or two. Just imagine it, two Generals, one Russian Captain and me, all beaming at one another like old pals. I took the usual picture of the two Generals, shaking hands and smiling, for the record. I wonder what their thoughts were? I am not sure but I鈥檓 almost certain that the British General counted his fingers, to see if they were all there, after the handshake. The Russians were such noted thieves.
The Captain withdrew from the room, taking me with him and we went to his office, where the vodka bottle was produced once more and he asked me if I spoke German. A shake of the head. French? Yes, I could speak a certain amount on which statement he launched into the most fluent French; this was not my pre-conceived idea of a Russian officer, this was no peasant. He was a most highly educated and cultured person and chatted with me as an equal. Could I ask him some questions about the Soviet Army? Yes. How much were they paid? No pay during the war but a bonus of marks at the end. And leave? No leave while serving. Mail? No mail as we do not have an Army Post Office like you. Soldiers are for fighting and not for lazing about. I offered him a Players he declined, saying that he preferred Russian; these were long black tubes with just a little tobacco at the end, not to my taste. I said
鈥淲ould you like a present from my country?鈥�
鈥淲hat do you mean, your country? Aren鈥檛 you English?鈥�
鈥淣o, I鈥檓 Scottish.鈥�
鈥淎h yes! What is it?鈥�
I don鈥檛 know what he expected but in the jeep was a bottle of the Wine of Scotia - whisky, and begging his pardon I went out and brought it in and gave it to him. He was delighted and insisted on opening it, and to show that it was O.K. I had the first drink and then he had one and I had one, and then he had one, and so on, all the time chatting away about the war.
A squad of Russian soldiers marched past and I lifted my glass to them and said
鈥淕ood soldiers, eh?鈥� And I received my second shock.
鈥淪oldiers! They are animals, Mongols. Do you understand? We use them to subdue the Germans as they are utterly ruthless and kill for the love of it. Slant-eyed scum!鈥�
So much for all Communists being brothers, thought I and hastened to change the subject. We ended up half-cut and singing songs and when it was time to depart we shook hands and slapped one another on the back, with the two Generals looking a bit frosty. On the way back mine said that I seemed to have made a friend and I said it was Johnny Walker who was making friends that day, not Sergeant Walker.
We had to stop the Russian senior NCOs from using our Club as they quite blatantly used to bring bags with them, which they would fill up with sandwiches and booze to take outside and flog to the Germans. When they persisted in doing this after being asked not to, we had no option but to put the bar up to all Russian Military personnel. They were a lot of trouble and we were better off without them.
This is a true instance of how they carried on. I was walking back from the Club one night, all on my own, when a Russian asked me for a cigarette and, as usual, said that I didn鈥檛 have any and walked on. Suddenly there was a bang, and a shot crashed past me and, acting on instinct, dropped to the ground, turning round as I did so; there I saw this Russian, cheeky bastard, with a pistol in his hand, presumably going to hold me up and commit a robbery. Well, as it so happened, he picked the wrong bloke as, though I had no pistol showing, it was inside my blouse, where it always was at night and I pulled it out and blew one back at him. Realising I was not an easy touch he ran, and I chased him, because I was flaming mad at him for shooting at me and banged off a couple more shots to help him on his way. He ran into a derelict building and I lost him. It was probably a good job that he disappeared as he would have met his Maker had I caught up with him; I was so insulted at a so-called Ally wanting to way lay a British soldier and, in particular, a parachute Soldier.

My stay in Berlin was, on the whole, a very pleasant one and after all, who would have thought a few years back on the beaches of Dunkirk that we would ever have ended up as the masters in their Capital City, instead of them putting the Prussian heel on us in Britain.
Much water had flowed under the bridge since those days, many incredible adventures had been played out on the stage of war and an awful lot of unsung heroism had been enacted with the inevitable result of the loss of many good men and women.
I think now and again of my many mates, too many of whom paid the price and I think it only fitting to end this tale with a little ditty our boozing school used to sing; it is a fitting requiem.
Wrap me up in my old stable jacket,
And say an old buffer lies low,
With six jolly boozers to carry me,
With steps all so solemn and slow.

I don't want to go up to Heaven,
I don't want to go down below,
They say there's a place in the middle,
A place where they don't shovel snow!

THE END.

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