RUMOURS:
A MEMOIR OF A BRITISH POW IN WWII
By Chas Mayhead
Copyright ©2002 by Chas Mayhead
Pleasure Boat Studio: A Literary Press
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2002 Chas Mayhead
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form, except by reviewers, without the written permission of the publisher.
Mayhead, Chas
Rumours: A Memoir of a British POW in WWII / Chas Mayhead
ISBN: 1-929355-06-8
First Printing
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Sharon Lee Ryder
For Roy Smart
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Rumours:
A Memoir of a British POW in WWII
Chas Mayhead
Prologue:
Before the War
Chapter One:
Life as a Soldier
Chapter Two:
The Middle East
Chapter Three:
Italy
Chapter Four:
Germany
Chapter Five:
End of the War
Chapter Six:
Back in England
Epilogue:
Change in Attitude
A Pleasure Boat Studio Book
Someone says, “I hear there’s a train coming in with food supplies.” And immediately there’s electricity. Wow. A train. A train! It was never true, ever, not once while I was there, but it kept you going. Or you’d hear there was an air raid, that the Americans or the British or someone got through. Every day you'd hear something like that. Hopeful news. None of it was true. You believed it, though, because you needed to. Prison camp life was all rumours. Constantly. You lived on rumours. Especially food rumours.
THE DESERT
We thought we’d made it. Dawn had crept in and finally we could see the desert, what there was of it to see. Mostly hillocks of sand colored rosy and golden from the sunrise and shaded by the passing night, occasional clumps of vegetation off toward the horizon. We pulled off the road onto a knoll capped by a few scrub trees, climbed into the open back of the lorry, and downed a biscuit or two. We took turns keeping awake since of course we couldn't travel during the day. German aircraft flew overhead, but if they spotted us, they must have thought we were Germans. I suggested we stay put until it got good and dark again. The others agreed.
That evening, we drove away in the direction we thought was right. I was at the wheel. At around one or two o’clock in the morning, I saw something in the distance I could barely make out--a mass of black silhouettes dead ahead. It appeared to be a military camp but I couldn't be certain at that distance. On the other hand, I was too close to them to turn away—that would have been a giveaway. Still, I was afraid they were Germans. I woke the others and told them what was up. I thought we should take our chances and keep going. We didn’t really know who they were, and I didn't think we really had much of a choice. The others agreed, and we went on, very nervously. I'm surprised I could even keep the lorry going in a straight line. It didn't take long to discover that our fears had been realized: They were Germans, a Panzer group. Tanks. I don’t know how many tanks there were, but there must have been more than a hundred, all lined up and spread across the desert. There was one main pathway down the middle. We headed for it.
We knew we were in trouble, but on we went. What choice did we have? It was dark as ink, so we thought we just might make it. We inched our way right down that pathway. A guard or two stood near every few tanks, but no one called out to us. We’d taken our hats off, of course, and our tropical gear didn’t look much different from the German gear, so they obviously thought we were Germans. The lorry was pretty much nondescript, particularly in this darkness. Nobody among us was to speak no matter what happened. That was the rule. Nobody. Act like you’re asleep. I drove very slowly, as though we were tiptoeing along in an attempt to be as quiet as possible. I was so scared I could taste steel deep in my throat. My mouth was dry but my brow was wet with perspiration. We could see the silhouettes of the German soldiers sleeping and occasionally we could see the guards. They didn’t expect us to be British, of course. What kind of crazy British soldier would drive right down through the middle of a battalion of tanks?
I don’t know how many guards we passed, but I knew one of them would say something. I had decided to say nothing if they spoke to me or else they would have known in a second that I wasn’t German. I tried to act as though I was dead beat and just going forward by momentum. Some of them waved, sort of half waves. I waved back, shook my head, and moaned very softly, acting as though I was just going through the motions, trying to stay awake. That’s all. But it seemed to work. I told myself we couldn't win; before long someone will say something and we won’t be able to answer. But it didn’t happen. Unbelievable.
We got to the end of the line. It was probably fifteen minutes, but I swear it seemed like an hour or more. It was near 4:00 a.m. by then, and we just kept going. None of us could believe we’d made it through. After we were out of sight, I finally stopped and said to the others, “We’ve made it. And by god, if we made it through that line, we can go anywhere!” We felt terrifically relieved. Of course we wondered why those tanks were all stationed there, so close together, and we knew something big was going on. But at least we'd made it through. I got in the back of the lorry to relax and let someone else do the driving for a while. I just wanted to get to our company and tell about the tanks we'd seen.
An hour or two later, with dawn approaching fast, we started talking about finding some cover for the day. Suddenly—Pop! Pop! Pop!—machine-gun fire. Someone was shooting at us! We got out of the lorry immediately, scrambling out like someone had just dropped a bomb in the truck. But then we were in the open with nowhere to hide and, to make matters worse, we didn’t know where the gunshots were coming from. I tried to tell myself it might be the British firing at us, might be our own men who hadn’t been able to identify us. But I didn’t really believe it. We squeezed under the vehicle to escape the shooting, but that didn't really work very well. We then made a run towards a dry river bed and got down low. We were like rats forced to scatter from their nest.
In no time at all, voices in English called out to us: “Tommy! Hey, Tommy!” This was a reference to “Tommy Atkins,” a name the Germans had used for the English in WW1. It wasn’t used in this war, though, so we knew these were Germans.
PROLOGUE:
BEFORE THE WAR
We all knew there was something going on in Europe, especially in Germany, at that time, and of course rumours abounded regarding an imminent war, but I had seen in England the antics of Oswald Mosley and the men around him with their marching and saluting, so I didn't pay much attention to it all. I suppose I thought Germany wouldn't go into another war after their defeat in 1918. It seemed crazy. But I didn't realize at the time that Hitler was a madman.
Nobody believed in the possibility of war. In fact, Neville Chamberlain, our prime minister, told the country there was no problem, it would all be straightened out. He traveled to see Hitler in order to avoid a war, and he came back and said, “I have it here, the word of Adolf Hitler: No war.” And we were all pleased about that because nobody wanted to see another war. Chamberlain managed to avoid war for a year, but it became ridiculous. Hitler and his entourage were monsters.
I was living at home at that time and earning only a small wage. That's the way it was. I was an office boy sitting on a stool and told to write "thick and thin" in a ledger of sorts, an old pen-and-inkwell job. I felt like something from a Charles Dickens story. About as well off, too! Well, the money I earned was paid to me on Friday, and I gave it to Mum right away; then she gave me a small amount back. Still, I managed to pay my own expenses, put some on the "never-never," and pay for an occasional big evening at the local cinema (the price being sixpence with a bar of nougat for one penny). I looked forward to that, an evening with the lads and girls.
It wasn't a bad life. Where I lived everyone seemed to share the same lifestyle, all in rented property known as "The Buildings," well known, actually. Nobody could afford to buy a flat or a house. That was a dream. I couldn't see myself getting away from where I was, breaking out, much as I wanted to. The future looked hard. Still there were few real complaints from my friends and neighbors. We all got on with life. I ate at home, Dad worked hard, and the rent was less than a pound a week, eighteen shillings six pence, that is. And the cigarettes were ten for six pence. We got by.
Not far from where I grew up—at the Elephant and Castle District in London— stood a tailor shop called Levy's. It was really a modern tailor shop, even had hand-sewn lapels. You could easily see their suits were well done. That was the real thing to us: a well-made suit. We’d grown up old-fashioned, and I was expected to wear clothes like my father wore. But I wanted to be like one of the boys, not old-fashioned. I wanted one of those modern suits, stylish and up-to-date. And this particular tailor shop was so good, in fact, that they once had Max Baer come by just to be photographed in one of their suits. Max Baer. He was the champion. He happened to be in town to fight a bout, and this shop invited him to come in. And he did it, too. Of course he was a handsome, well-built man, and I'm sure he sold a lot of suits for that shop. I saw him standing outside the shop in the suit they'd fixed for him and I've got to say that alone was an inspiration to buy a suit there.
I often saw well-known people, movie people, around London in those days, in the early thirties, people like John Wayne and Frederick March and Stewart Granger. I was a lad who liked to spot things which I knew weren’t really so important, but I was just interested. I used to go autograph hunting. I liked the idea. I was always aware that I was living a fairly hard life and had very little money. But although that didn’t seem to bother many people around me, it always bothered me. Not because I was ashamed. I figured I was as good as anyone else. But I wanted my life to be better than it was, that's all. Perhaps most of the fellows my age were thinking like me. I don’t know. Maybe. But I knew what I wanted. I wanted to make some money, wanted to buy a home in the suburbs for Mum and Dad and to give them holidays. That was my dream. And I wanted to own a good suit.
Because of the times I‘d walked past this shop, I knew he had the cut that was right for me. So I started to put money aside to buy a suit “on the never-never,” as we used to say—so much a week.
I didn’t want my suit just so I could be seen, though. My friend Bill Nash was making more money than I was, and he had two suits. He liked to be seen, and I felt a bit envious of him. I just wanted a nice suit, a really well-made suit that would make me feel good. You can’t beat that. And you can’t beat a fitting for a tailor-made suit. Fittings. I’d never had a fitting in my life. This suit would cost me ten shillings more than I’d usually pay, which would have been around two pounds fifty, or eighty bob, as we liked to say. I didn’t care. So I went to this shop and I got the kind of attention they’d give to a celebrity. That’s what I liked about it. They selected the material and laid it out. they asked me to feel it. What did I know? “Was it any good?” they asked. Sure it was. Of course. They told me what they would do, how the cut would be and how the stripes would come this certain way, and I said, “You've sold me. I’ll have the suit.”
“Yessir,” the man said. "Very smart."
We agreed on a purchase deal, and a bit embarrassed, I was measured for the suit. It would cost me three guineas and I loved it. This was living, really living. I felt like I was Max Baer. All I could think about coming home was how long it would take until I would get the suit.
I went back in a week and the tailor smiled and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll get your suit.” He said he’d like me in for another fitting. I said, “Why? Was it wrong?” And he said, “No, but this is what we do.” He told me it’ll be half finished and they’ll try it on me and see how it fits. And I thought, I’m living. This is what it's like to live.
I never told a soul. I never said anything to anyone at home. I went back to the shop for a second fitting. Sleeve, arm, “four buttons or three?” “Four!” I was getting a suit that was good enough for anybody in the West End of London. Anybody. It was about a month, but it seemed twice that, before it was ready. I went up there to get it and paid what they asked for. That suit was everything I could have expected. The quality was there, the fit was there. It was perfect. It was navy blue. And it had a small design in it. I knew what I was doing.
I took it home with a hanger they supplied, a hanger bent so the suit wouldn’t be damaged. The hanger had the firm’s name inside. I still have that hanger. And I almost didn’t want to put the suit on. I knew that anybody who wore this suit would be looking good. On Sunday I went out in it for the first time. I’d bought a James Cagney hat, or what I thought was a James Cagney hat. This was the thirties, remember, and Cagney was big. I pulled the brim down right over my eyes. The suit hung nicely. Not too tight. Just right. I wondered if Maggie, the girl down the street, would notice me now.
When I first came out in my suit, though, Dad never said a word. My sister told me it looked lovely. My brother didn’t say anything either, and I think he was jealous. He probably had it in mind that he’d end up wearing it someday. (He did, too.) Those were days when you had good friends who would say, “I’ve got a date this evening and you haven’t. Would you lend me your suit?” “Well,” you’d tell him, “watch what you do with it when you're having fun and games and perhaps getting your trousers off." The suit was important to me. I was eighteen. Nearly a man, I suppose.
One reason I'm telling this little snippet on the suit is I remember when, in 1944, I was a prisoner of war in Germany and I received a letter from my brother telling me he was wearing my suit. It was his idea of comedy, I suppose, like he was trying to cheer me up. He said he wore it to take it out "for an airing." I've got to confess it upset me, but he couldn't have realized what the double-breasted meant to me. It's enough to be angry out there, and I guessed it would be cleaned and pressed for my return home.
*****
I had purchased a bicycle for three pounds when I was about sixteen, and I often used to ride out to the parks in Dulwich and Clapham back in 1938, and I liked to sit on the grass and read a magazine. I began to look around more and wonder what I could do to improve my future and to possibly, someday, afford some higher standard of life. Maybe even buy or rent a good home in the suburbs for my own family, with a car and a real garden. Then I could go and fetch Mum and Dad and give them some of the good times they deserved. Dreaming in the park.
One morning in the spring of that year my good friend John Haysen and I had planned to go to see a football game together, but at the last minute he came by to tell me he'd made a date with a girl and wouldn't be going with me. I wasn't overly pleased about this because I used to look forward to those once-a-week outings. It hurt and I guess I was envious, but I decided to take a long walk alone just to think. I'll not forget that walk since it was then I decided to take some evening classes to try to improve myself. I enjoyed writing and wanted to learn another language than English, don't ask me why. I was going to be nineteen years old shortly and had been after many jobs, but none of them seemed to hold much prospect of a future like the one I dreamed of. So I knew I'd better get with it and stop feeling sorry for myself if I wanted to move up. Most of the fellows I knew were in the same boat I was in, but they didn't seem concerned. They were mostly just interested in girls. And why not?
When 1939 came around, I turned twenty years of age (in January), and British law had it that every man of twenty had to enter the military for six months' service. Around April I got notification from the government telling me I had to go to the nearest Labor Exchange on June 30th and sign on.
By coincidence, the firm I worked for, Stanley Sports of Syndenham, decided to have a holiday on June 30th, the very day I was to sign in—boss’s treat! We were all going to the coast at Margate in one large coach. Lots of girls, lots of fellows. And I was able to take my friend John (who had let me down the last year—you forget those things). I had my eye on one particular girl, so I was especially interested in going on the holiday even though it complicated my sign-up. I’d been told by the Law I had to sign my induction papers on that Saturday morning, and I wasn't about to ignore that responsibility. That was the way it was.
Anyone who knows about England before the war knows that coach outings were glorious booze-ups, and any felicitations from the females were bonuses. And so about halfway to Margate, somewhere along the Kent coast, we pulled in to a pub and had a pint and bought another two or three cases for the road. Also during this stop we were able to move seats around and I could sit next to this girl I'd had my eye on. She had a friend, fortunately, and John was taken by her. So things looked good. The day was beginning to shine and we were all happy.
When we got to Margate, the driver pulled next to another pub—they want your business before, during, and after the day’s outing. He pulled into a carpark next to the pub and we popped in and had another beer, and then we were taken by bus on in to the town center. I immediately started looking for a Labor Exchange office so I could sign up since I had to do it before noon. Luckily, I found one.
So I went in to find dozens of other men signing in. I didn’t live in Margate, but I told the man in charge I'd been ordered to report. He said, “What do you want to be?” I said I wanted to sign up for the air crew, and he and some other men laughed and told me the air crew are full up.
“Well, then, I don’t want to go in,” I said. "I really wanted to join the air crew."
The man I was talking to looked like an ex-sergeant-major, and he didn’t even smile. I thought I was being pretty funny, but he didn’t seem to agree. He just said, “You don’t have any choice. You’re in. Sign here.”
I was naïve, and I said, “Okay, I’ll take the other option. I’ll go into the navy.”
Another man said, “You’re too big.” (His idea of a joke.)
I said, “I’ll go back to the air crew then.”
He said, “No you don’t. You won’t get in. Besides, the navy’s also full up.”
I said, “Why are you asking me what I want to be?”
He said, “We have to.”
I said, “Do you think I could get in the army or should I go home? I’d sooner go home.”
He said, “Army? All right then. You’re in. Congratulations.” He'd known that all along.
I signed the piece of paper. Then I said, “Are you going to tell me which part of the army, which regiment, infantry?”
He said, “Whatever we can find you to do.”
So that was it. I was going into the army. Before even going in the building, I was going in the army. I went outside and John was waiting for me, and we had a good laugh about it. Then we wandered off to where the sea was rolling in, and I forgot all about the army. We started talking about the day’s future—never mind about the country’s future. He just said, “Let’s deal with today.” That was all right with me.
We went along the waterfront searching for the two girls, and we came across them before long, and I knew we’d be all right. They’d had a few beers, and everything was okay. There was a fairground at Margate and we invited them to come along with us. It had carousels, swings, high sky dive, all those things, and we did the lot. They enjoyed it and we did, too.
We retired to the nearest pub. The girls had some wine and we had some beer. It was a good time. We had to be back at the appointed place to be taken to the coach, and we went to the back of the coach with the two girls, one whose name was Marjorie, and it was getting dark so we just snuggled a little bit in the back. It really was a good day without too much worrying about the future, just being tipsy.
We came home tired and said good night. It was really the end of my civilian life. I was in. No war was declared, but they would probably have called us up anyway for some kind of training or national service. According to the law, the calendar year you were twenty years of age was when you would be called. If you were junior to a man by a few months, he would go in first. That’s the way it was done. I was one of the early ones having a birthday in January.
The official letter from the government soon arrived, ordering me to Aldershot barracks for training on the 16th of September. War had been declared on September 3rd. It wasn't easy saying cheerio to my mother and my brothers and sisters. They all made a joke of me asking for a measured uniform that would fit me as well as my suit. I promised to behave and told them I'd see them at Christmas time.
My mother didn’t like it, of course. There were six of children, and I was the eldest son. My eldest sister had just married. Three brothers—Albert, aged seventeen; Harry, aged thirteen; and Freddie, aged four—and one young sister, June, aged eight. They were at home. But I knew that, in a war, brothers may eventually go, too. That was a real worry.
There were already plans in Britain to have children evacuated from cities to small villages in the countryside so they could live with other children in other people’s homes and be treated as family, could go to school, and hopefully could find life reasonably enjoyable and not too upsetting away from home. It was a good scheme and a much safer prospect than to leave the children in the cities, even though children were confused. Naturally, parents were upset and disturbed, but they mostly realized it was for the best.
The local authorities dealt with the planning and locations for the children to go to, an enormous project. My parents, remembering the first war, were terrifically upset, of course. Dad had been through that one and had been gassed. German gas canisters—hard to believe.
My sister June and my brother Harry were evacuated by train to a family down in a Sussex village where the man of the house was working on a farm. I didn’t see them go as I was away in the army by then. Before I left for France I obtained some leave to go home and see my parents and family, and I went by train down there in the country to see Harry and June. They were delighted to see me and I spent a couple of hours with them, seeing the area and what they did for enjoyment. It looked good to me, and of course we spent some time with the “foster” parents and their children. They fed me, too, and I’ll always remember the large plum pudding on the table. Harry and June must have told them it was my favorite dessert.
When I had to leave them, June hung onto my hand and cried. She wanted me to take her home, and I wanted to stay and help. Harry was good and took care of June, and the foster parents understood and eased it somewhat. I didn’t tell Mum how hard it had been, but she and Dad used to go down to see them whenever they could, so I'm sure they knew.
My brother Freddie was born with a deformity in one leg, and it seemed he spent more time in hospital than at home. By the time he was fourteen, he'd had twenty-one operations on both legs. None of them worked. Because of the war, Freddie was sent away to the small county of Rutland, where children were sent who needed hospital care. The GI’s from the U.S. who were stationed up there found out about the children and took on the care of them, with permission, of course. And every child ended up with a kind of godfather. (Our family has often thanked the man who looked out for Freddie.) I never saw Freddie until I came home to England after nearly six years, and by then he’d become a young man, barely walking, the image of my mum, but with shoulders I wouldn’t argue with.
Later in the war, Harry and Albert were indeed called up.
My dad was the most upset. He wasn’t a man who showed a great deal of emotion. He was a good father, no two ways about that, but he didn’t show emotion, neither great joy nor great sorrow. But he insisted on coming to see me off—I’d packed whatever was necessary for me to take, I was in civilian clothes and took a duffel bag and a heavy coat, and together we walked toward the buses about a quarter of a mile away. I didn’t want him to come. I didn’t want that parting. But he was determined to walk with me, and as we walked he started to say things like, “Why, why—we had the First World War to save our children, and look, now you have to go. Why?” and he swore. One of the few times I ever heard him swear.
We got to the bus stop. We stood there and I thought the bus would never come. Both Dad and I were looking all over the place for words, just to pass the time. The bus finally came along and I had to say, “I’ll see you soon.” I didn’t know when. I just didn’t know. War had been declared, so who could say what would happen. I just said, “I'll be okay, Dad,” and he put his arms around me and I left.
CHAPTER ONE:
LIFE AS A SOLDIER
I went to Aldershot—a military town, soldiers everywhere. I asked someone on the street how to get to the barracks. I found the headquarters, went in and showed who I was, getting the usual routine that sergeant-majors do when you come in. They look at you as if you don’t exist. They told me to report to the stores before I did anything else and get fitted out with uniforms and underwear. The sergeant-major—we came to call him Old Jonesy—looked at me with disgust as if I were a waste of his time.
So I went to the stores. Unfortunately, when I got there, they‘d run out of uniforms and supplies. There was a war on, you know. All they had were heavy sticks that were supposed to represent a rifle. That's the truth. They had no uniforms, the new wartime battle dress, and they had no rifles. They probably didn’t trust us with the rifles anyway; we were so green. So we were supplied with what I saw as a pick handle. That represented a rifle. It was that way at that time. I kept thinking: How can we win?
I hadn’t the uniform, and neither had the other men who had registered at the same time I had. We were all from different parts of the country, of course, with different backgrounds, and we had to report in to the barrackman, a Corporal Crockett, who told us, “That’s your bed, and that’s your bed,” and so on. I think there were about twenty of us in the room. All of us confused and none of us used to sharing a room with strangers.
We were told to settle in, put our gear in the lockers, don’t leave any money around—things like that. So we sat around, talked about what we were going to do, what we’d been doing, where we were from. We got to know each other a bit and any embarrassment was passed over pretty quickly. That’s the way these things are. Everyone in the same boat. It was quite good, really. You hear all kinds of stories about lives, guys' adventures with the girls.
Corporal Crockett returned lookikng smart in a uniform made to measure. He told us to stand by our beds at attention. I don’t think many of us even knew how to stand at attention except to pull our shoulders back. He told us we looked like a “shower of shit,” and worse. He didn’t spare any language, believe me.
Crockett told us the sergeant-major was coming and that we'd better look good; and of course Sergeant-Major Jones came in—crash! crash!—with his walking stick at his side, looking around the room with disgust—all an act—and he stomped around and stared at everybody. He couldn’t talk about the state of our beds or the state of our clothes because they hadn’t been assigned yet, but he’d walk around banging on things with his stick. He’d speak to each soldier with absolute disgust, speaking with disdain about everything: hair style, mustache—“little children’s whiskers,” he’d say, “trying to pretend he’s grown up.”
He came to me and I had longish hair because I always wanted to be fashionable, wanted to look like somebody that was a cut above normal. He stood in front of me—I’ll always remember it—and looked at me as if I was taking up space. He looked me up and down. He’d already asked some of the fellows what they did for a living, and he came to me and he stood there—and I’m not very tall—and he looked at me for at least a minute. He was six feet tall. And he looked down at me. It appeared to take him a minute to determine what he thought I was. Eventually he poked me on the shoulder with his walking stick: “I know what you are,” he said. And I thought to myself, I’m not going to say anything because whatever I say, I’ll be wrong.
“I know what you are,” he repeated. And I wasn’t going to say, “What am I?” or “No you don’t.” So I just stood there and smiled, but that didn’t work either.
“Shut your face,” he said, and I hadn’t said anything. “I know what you are. You’re a film star. That’s what you are.”
I said, “Right. You tumbled me.” That means you worked it out. I said, “You tumbled me.” And that was insolence. I was taking the piss out of him.
“One more word—in the cellar,” he said. So I shut up or I would have been in the brig until the old man came around the next morning. The company sergeant-major would have to let me out. I could be put on a charge, a 2-5-2. It means you’re up before the old man, the commanding officer, or CO. “Dumb insolence” they call it, saying nothing, but your eyes give you away. I didn’t know what he was talking about at the time, but I knew it wasn’t good.
I managed to get by with that. He could have had me put in the clink for the night. He finally dismissed us, but we were told we were confined to barracks and were to be on parade tomorrow morning at six o’clock. A lance corporal stayed with us who would see that we didn’t do anything that wasn’t right. You could go to the toilet, but that was all. That lance corporal was an idiot. He had his stripe on his arm and he thought he was a general. He was a real dolt, but we had to do it the way he said: It was all about discipline.
So the next day we were on parade at six o’clock, and I remember it was cold, raining. The corporal told us to form three ranks. We didn’t know what he was talking about. "Ranks?" What does that mean? A corporal had to show us a marching position. We just stood there. “Right dress!” We’re all looking to see if we’re level. “Front!” Then Sgt.-Major Jones came out. He looked as if he’d been in a model’s window. You couldn’t fault him—his hair was exactly right, both sides, perfect; he’s trim. It’s six o’clock in the morning and he’s magnificent. Had that stick under his arm. He always carried a stick. A classic sergeant-major.