Early Memories – Philippines I Let The Pirate Bumper Pass

Author Taking the Plunge - February 1983

After leaving school I went out to live with my parents in Hong Kong. Just before leaving my parents took advantage of Chinese New Year and we went on a diving holiday with a group of friends. We ended up in Cebu in the Philippines on a 61 foot trimaran which came complete with a crew and an unexpected group of German tourists. The Trip was memorable for a number of reasons, not least the fantastic diving, the superb weather and of course the rum.

The following poem recalls an event which took place one morning which highlighted the fact that even in the most idyllic places in the world there are people who are prepared to do almost anything for cash.

The title is a line from Gilbert and Sullivan's Pirates of Penzance.

Early Memory – Philippines I – Let The Pirate Bumper Pass

We were on a diving holiday
on a charter from Cebu.
Every day we dived a bit
and sunbathed and rested too.

The food was horrendous
curried eggs at every meal.
But the local rum - called Añejo
made the evenings pass real well.

The swig of rum, a slurp of Coke
then shake the head and swallow,
then pass the bottle on
to some other fellow.

Now pirates ply their evil trade
in the South China Sea;
and unbeknown to all of us;
the yacht had an armoury.

Every night a guard slipped out
and took up his position.
Carrying an AK 47
as he embarked upon his mission.

I didn’t know he was aboard,
until I awoke one morning,
with a rum induced fuzzy head
and my bleary eyes screamed warning!

For there; a few inches from my head
was the barrel of a gun!
and a chap that I’d not seen before;
a lump formed in my tum…..

My mind raced with thoughts of pirates
taking us hostage or worse.
But he left me with my hangover
……..Wishing he’d been a nurse.

John Carré Buchanan
24 April 2012

Early Memories - USA I Renewable Energy

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During the mid-80’s I served in the Parachute Regiment. I was lucky enough to spend a period on exercise in Fort Lewis, Washington State working with the US Rangers. The Rangers are one of the USA’s elite units and as such were considered to be almost as good as the Paras.

The US troops were extremely well equipped, but they tended to be body builders rather than athletes, a little gung ho and being totally unaware of things that were not American, a little naive. This coupled with their propensity to shout ‘hoorah’ at every opportunity meant that on the whole the visiting Brits saw them as slow, loud and a bit dim.

Differences in procedures made things even more interesting. The Rangers were bussed back to camp at night whilst their trenches were prepared by engineers using backhoes; the Paras, on the other hand, spent the night digging in.

The scene was set for some great wind ups and pretty spectacular banter.

One evening on a company scale exercise in which we had to attack a platoon size defensive position my Corporal whispered “Fix Bayonets” in a rather loud stage whisper just before our assault went in. There was a flurry of activity and the words “these f….g Brits are crazy’ were clearly heard drifting on the cool night air; by the time we arrived on the position there was no one there.

The exercise was hard work and rewarding. Both units benefited from the experience. My lasting memory was born out of a practical joke I played on one PFC which really took off; the following poem explains all;

Early Memories – USA I - Renewable Energy

It was morning in the forest
And the troops were dug in well
British and American
the aim to help us gel.

There’d been a lot of banter
In the preceding weeks
As we’d competed and compared
our differing techniques.

I reached in to my Bergan
and removed an electric razor,
I was ready for some fun
I’d thought up a real teaser.

I stabbed my bayonet into a tree
to make a small incision,
then slipped a lead into the hole
and started my ablution.

The Ranger who shared our scrape
could not conceal his glee
as I shaved my face with a razor
plugged into a tree.

He asked me to show him
this great ‘British’ invention;
and he begged to swap near all he had
for it was beyond his comprehension.

It quick became a standing joke
As we plugged things into trees
and not one of us would trade one
..... or tell of batteries.

John Carré Buchanan
23 April 2012

Early Memories - Mauritius I Mimi's Anchor

Mr Louis-Alexandre Anselme - 2011 (Source)    John Buchanan, Mark, Mimi, Me, Alan Gawith Circa 1976 (Buchanan)    

It is lovely when research leads you to discover the unexpected. I was looking for a photo to go with the poem below and discovered an interview conducted in 2011 which was made with the very gentleman I had just written about (See Photo Source above). I remember Mr Louis-Alexandre Anselme as ‘Mimi’. I had the pleasure of diving from his boat in 1976 when I was thirteen. Back then he told my father that at 50 he considered himself old, I am glad that the years in between appear to have treated him kindly.

And so to the memories;

Mimi would meet us on the beach in his boat and there would normally be considerable jocular discussion about how many fingers of rum had been consumed the night before. Once the boat was loaded we would set off for one of the many dive sites around Trou aux Biches. I remember he called one; ‘Jenny’s Place’ after my mother.

My lasting memory was of his laugh lined face staring across the bay while he lined up the marks, perhaps a tree with a house or some other prominent feature in the far distance, he would then order the release of the anchor which was in fact a stone on a rope. On submerging we would invariably find the rock sitting plum centre on the dive site.

When it came time for us to leave Mauritius we had a final dive at Trou aux Biches. After the dive Mimi invited us back to his tiny house where he offered our whole family large beakers of Advocaat which at the age of 12 and 13 my brother and I found much too much to handle. I seem to remember the two of us slipping them to my Dad, and Mum having to drive us home.

This poem is about Mimi’s anchor which being improvised sometimes fell short of the bottom.

Early Memories Mauritius I - Mimi’s Anchor

Mimi was a fisherman,
he owned his own pirogue.
He used to take us diving;
according to my log.

Mimi was a master,
he knew every local mark.
When he dropped the anchor over
he knew exactly where he’d parked.

Mimi’s anchor was a rock
tied to the only rope he owned.
When we were out diving
his goats were sure to roam.

Sometimes on the deeper dives
you’d hear his propeller turning
and if you didn’t spot the rock
your head would soon be burning.

For hanging ten feet from the bottom
the rock would hurtle round
providing that vital anchor line
that keeps divers safe and sound.

John Carré Buchanan
18 April 2012

Early Memories - Sark IThe Woodsmen

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As a child I used to spend many of my holidays staying with my grandmother in Sark. There was a beautiful valley called Happy Valley near to my gran’s guest house. The valley had steep slides and ran down to a very dangerous, near vertical crumbly, cliff face which fell a couple hundred feet to a beach below.

The valley was used by clay pigeon shooters and my cousins, brother and I used to collect the unbroken clays and return them to supplement our pocket money. Once our bike baskets were full of clays we would often spend time playing on the wooded slope pretending to be woodsmen, building hides and traps and generally larking about.

This poem celebrates the time we spent building “Man traps” which in those days was one of my favourite games

The Woodsmen

Dappled green light,
bird song,
muffled voices.

Vine across path,
twisted upward
into branches.

Log hangs high.
Notched stick
bears weight.

Stick pokes vine
Log falls
Woodsmen laugh.

John Carré Buchanan
07 April 2012

Early Memories - Guernsey VII The Tuck Box

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Early Memories - Guernsey VII - The Tuck Box

We each had a tuck box,
they mostly looked the same;
some were red, others blue,
with studs along the sides
and the all-important lock
to keep the contents safe.

Henry’s box was the finest
he’d made it for himself.
The dove tails were immaculate,
the brass hinge and locks inset
and gleaming French polish
bought out the oak’s tight grain.

My box was just a normal one
but I’d customised it in style
and covered it in carpet cuts
saved from my parents’ house
It looked pretty different;
like a block of soft brown fur

Each of us kept our treasures
confined in our tuck box.
They contained all we had;
our toys, sweets, comics,
pictures of heroes and
letters from Mum and Dad.

To us each box was sacred,
they were our only private space,
a place no one else would enter
where our secrets could be held safe
Save from the house masters;
who’d rummage and pry within.

My tuck box was covered in carpet
and my treasure were kept therein
but it wasn’t the only box I had.
Like Henry I’d made others
as strong as his oak box
but these were in my mind
and they were tightly locked.

John Carré Buchanan
30 March 2012

Early Memories - Guernsey VI A Lighter Side

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One teacher we had was a tiny man, dwarfed by the tallest first years, he seemed to have one of those characters that are associated with small people. He was a bully, who liked to shout and would often start a lesson by giving the whole class detention.

This man was clearly not cut out to be a teacher and I seem to remember that he did not last a full year at the school.

The poem below describes students bullying a teacher which seemed funny at the time, but looking back at it was not so laudable. That said the point I am trying to make in the poem is that sometimes when you fully expect the whole world to come crashing down on you, as by rights the two lads and those who were laughing at the teachers misery should have done, the unexpected can happen. I guess that morning the deputy head was thinking the teacher would benefit from some of his own medicine, and he did the bare minimum to stop what was happening.

I have always wondered what happened in the staff room when he was next in there?

Early Memories - Guernsey VI - A Lighter Side

The teacher was but four foot six
the juniors towered over him,
he’d scream and shout all day long,
and the boys just ignored him.

He was a vicious little man.
His pupils grew to hate him.
The other teachers tried their best
but they obviously found him grating.

One day as I walked along behind him,
two boys picked him up!
They walked along; his little body
dangling between them.

Then around the corner came Vernon,
he was the deputy head.
Strict and fair and very scary;
I thought they’d soon be dead.

He yelled; “Put that teacher down!”
and the two lads dropped him smartly.
Strangely Vernon carried on,
He did not stop to scold them.

Once they’d passed, I saw his face
light up in silent laughter;
and in that instant, I understood
how human was this master.

John Carré Buchanan
24 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey V



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When I was in the fourth form we had a common room which was split into two levels with a large under-floor space between them. The common room was decorated with hanging tie-died sheets and carpet tiles from the carpet shop sample catalogues. The common room was pretty much our own space and we were, for the most part, left alone, to do what we wanted in it.

Someone, I can’t remember who (honest), had the bright idea of making our own alcohol and we set trying to make cider. In those days there was no internet and we were boys so we didn’t do books! This left us at a slight disadvantage as we had only learned the very basics of making alcohol in biology.

The following poem is my memory of a couple of terms spent making cider. I hope you enjoy it.

Early Memories Guernsey V

In biology we’d made alcohol
which sparked the great idea;
to make our own cider
to drink at end of year.

We scrumped and crushed the apples
and collected all the juice,
which we stored in a glass flagon;
purloined for just this use.

One lad acquired some yeast
on a trip to the brewery.
A great big yellow lump of it
which made it bubble with fury.

The sugar came real easy
as tea was served at break
and pockets full of sugar
were delivered with a shake.

So juice, yeast and sugar
were mixed in a bubbling flagon
kept warm under the floorboards
by leaving an electric bulb on.

It made a murky, frothy potion
which needed to be strained,
so we made a filter with a loo roll
through which the mix was drained.

The result was pink in colour?
The loo roll without a doubt!
The first few sips drew gasps
as we choked and spat it out.

Five minutes later, our precious brew
was tipped into the gutter;
and the evil smelling pink concoction
down the drain did splutter.

The next few weeks a funny smell
pervaded the whole area.
The masters tried to find the source,
While we - kept silent - of course.

John Carré Buchanan
23 March 2012

Early Memories Guernsey IV

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I was 11 when I moved down to what we called the ‘Upper School’, the boarding school was much bigger with 65 boarders instead of 16. During the first few years we lived in ‘New Block’ which makes the corner of Upland Road and the Grange. In those days there was one large dormitory upstairs and another downstairs and each slept 22 boys with 18 inches between each bed.

The prefects or duty house master were responsible for lights out and would usually insist on silence before flipping the light switch and going back to whatever they were doing before their duties interrupted them.

It was then that the youngest boy known as the ‘KV’ (Abbreviated ‘Cave’ = Latin for ‘Beware’) would let us know that they had gone and the fun would start. This poem records one of the activities which used to happen from time to time.

Early Memories Guernsey IV

The lights went out and the dormitory fell silent,
beyond the door retreating footsteps descended the stairs.
The youngest eyes watched from the sash window
waiting for the duty prefect to leave the building.
The word “ok” was whispered.
From the other end of the dorm a sash could be heard opening.
Silently a young lad slipped clothes over his pyjamas.
Then he ducked through the first floor window.
A shadow stole along the wall to the lamp post,
It slipped silently down and disappeared.
Footfall, barely audible could be heard padding off into the night.
Using all available cover the young boy stole unseen along the road,
hiding from passing headlamps and skirting pedestrians.
His pulse pounded in his ear as he passed the old graveyard,
he hoped his racing heart couldn’t be heard.
Slipping between the bushes he passed the tower and fire station.
His objective now in view he waited behind a bush
biding his time, watching silently for familiar faces.
Then, all clear, he slipped across the road and through the door
approaching the counter, pyjamas legs showing beneath his jeans,
he uttered; “Twenty two packets of chips please!”

John Carré Buchanan
21 March 2012

Have You Heard?

I was looking at my Facebook homepage today and saw a post that had been written by someone imagining what it must be like to be a military wife or husband when their partner is on tour. Whilst the sentiment was nice, I felt the poem had a lot to be desired, a view that, judging by the comments under it, was shared by a lot of other people.

This spurned me on to thinking about how I might address this difficult topic so I put my fingers to the keyboard and came up with the following poem;

Before you read it you should note that;

• In verse 1 ‘Op MINIMISE’ is the name of the practice of stopping deployed personnel contacting loved ones at home immediately after a major event has occurred in theatre. This is done in order to ensure that the authorities have time to tell the next of kin what has happened to their loved ones before the Jungle drums start beating.
• In verse 3 the word 'patch’ is the colloquial term for a military housing estate.

I would be most interested in your comments on this poem please.

Have You Heard?

When I dropped the kids at school
The talk was; “have you heard?”
They must be on Op MINIMISE
Because there’s been no word.

I had to do the shopping
the stocks were getting low.
I met Barbara in Tesco’s,
she asked; “Do you know?”

Back home the patch is quiet.
I crack on behind closed doors,
The radio in the background
As I do my household chores.

My mind is spinning painfully.
My emotions are red raw.
How I wish he was here with me,
not in some bloody war.

The phone’s shrill call disturbs me
My mind is suddenly blurred,
It’s Julie from down the road
She asks “Have you heard?”

“Jackie’s Smudge has been injured
He’s coming home today,
I’m going over to help her.”
I didn’t know what to say.

Relief floods in, for my Jack’s safe.
My heart leaps for joy;
But then its shattered; for young Smudge
is such a lovely boy.

It’s hard to be the partner
of service folk on tour.
When they’re away you’re left with
your own hell to endure.

You have to run a household
and tend to grieving kids
whilst guarding your own emotions
and missing them to bits.

John Carré Buchanan

20 March 2012

 

In Loco Parentis

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In my time in the Army I often saw parents who were leaving home for a while say to a child something like "look after your brother" or "look after your mother". I even remember this happening to me when my brother joined me at boarding school.

As a parent I now understand that we say this sort of thing to try and make the child feel more grown up, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to stop the child crying, or to make them feel better self-esteem. Whatever the reason, the words the adult says are different to the words the child hears. The child could be misled to believe he or she was being placed in charge which brings with it a whole load of responsibilities for which the child is not equipped. In effect the phrase is placing layers of duty on the child, and by so doing it removes elements of their childhood.

That said for many children the words may be the very last words that they hear their parent utter and the duty and responsibility become very real survival tools as they fight to find food, water and shelter for their family.

I wrote the poem with my own experience at boarding school in mind, but having written it I now look at the words and think how vital the work of organisations such as Compassion and the Tumaini Fund are. These organisations aim to help orphans who have been forced into caring for their siblings. I would encourage anyone reading this blog to look at my org's* page and follow the links to learn more about how you can help children regain some of their childhood.

If this is not for you, perhaps my poem will remind you to choose your words with care when saying goodbye to a child, remember they hear your words more literally than you may intend. If you remember that; my poem has not been wasted.

In Loco Parentis

“Look after your brother.”
The words meant well
but to the eight year old
they were a command,
and duty weighs heavy.

Many a loving parent
parts with similar words,
child placed in loco parentis
in a casual throw away phrase
and duty weighs heavy.

Eight years old
weight of the world
Father, mother,
sometimes even spouse
and duty weighs heavy.

Absent parents may never know
how their words were heard.
They meant to instil comfort
but childhood became parenthood
and duty weighs heavy.

John Carré Buchanan
12 March 2012