Chalk, Baked Beans, and Bog Rolls

By Mike ‘Maj’ Jenvey

This autobiography seizes the past seventy years by the
scruff of the neck and nostalgically frolics down memory
lane in South Africa, Rhodesia, Zimbabwe, Mozambique,
and England. Plentifully laced with humour, possessing a warmth
of love for humanity, spiced with a wide ranging set of anecdotes, it
encompasses the free range days of living in southern Africa. Whilst
fi lled with the nuances and aromas of that continent, it expresses
the joy of life and a ceaseless zest for living, set against an ever
changing, diverse backdrop of the military, education, and retail.
It dwells within a wide panorama of loving family and friends, and
it touches on spirituality, philosophy, history, theatre, and travel
whilst off ering several messages to its readers. It resonates with the
assorted emotions that make humans so fascinating. Th is story
line compels one to recall past experiences, both happy and sad
memories, and above all, it off ers a beacon of steadfast hope.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491876251

Mike ‘Maj’ Jenvey

Michael Jenvey was born in 1942, in Pretoria, South Africa. Initially schooled in both King Edward Preparatory and High School in Johannesburg, he completed his education at Chaplin High School in Gweru, Zimbabwe (then Rhodesia). Tertiary education included teacher training at the Teachers’ College, Bulawayo, and a year’s business study at the University of Zimbabwe. In between teaching, two deputy headships, two headmaster roles, and an appointment as schools’ inspector, he served as an officer (rising to the rank of major) in the Rhodesian Territorial Army during the Rhodesian Bush War. When Zimbabwe gained independence, he joined the whirlwind environment of retailing and became an executive within TM Supermarkets, part of Zimbabwe’s largest retail chain. Happily married with a delightful family of a son and four daughters, he and his beloved family relocated to England after he retired.

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© 2013 by Mike ‘Maj’ Jenvey. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/29/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7624-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7575-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-7625-1 (e)

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

The Military Era

My Early Life

Tying up Loose Threads

Further Education

Tying up More Loose Threads

Death Eras

Tying Up Even More Loose Ends

The Early Years of Teaching

The Premarital Era

Tying Up Loose Ends Once More

The Giving Years

Still More Loose Ends to Tie Up

The Headmaster Years

The Final Era of Education: Bindura

Tying Up Educational Loose Ends

The Retail Era

The Barlow/Landman/McCallum/Jenvey Clans

An Era in England

Spirituality at Seventy

Thank You!

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Dedicated to my loving family, who now lives in England, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Australia, and Canada.

I gratefully acknowledge Meikles Africa Limited, Zimbabwe, who kindly sponsored the printing of this book.

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Prologue

The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate. Oprah Winfrey

Do you ever stop and think back to a past era of your life?

An era, you ask?

For me, I classified my eras as early childhood; school days (both junior and high school); a time of further education; my life experiences as a twenty- to thirty-year old; and then my forties, fifties, sixties, and seventies. Scattered through those eras were my work life, social life, family life, married life, death in life, military life, friends throughout life, and retirement life.

That is what this story is all about: a celebratory journey through South Africa, Zimbabwe (formally Rhodesia), Mozambique, Europe, and England. Through family, friends, love, and humour, it tells how my soul was pulverised, soothed, humoured, rewarded, elevated, and hopefully made replete. Throughout my lively sixty-five years of recalled human interaction, I always wondered if others felt what I felt. Am I normal? Do I want to be normal? Why am I here? Was this all God’s doing? Does God exist? Do angels guide us? Have I been here before? Have I done this in a previous Life? Why is this so familiar? Why me? Do others wonder and question as I do? Whilst acknowledging individual uniqueness, are we all the same?

These questions aside, the objective of this book is to evoke a range of emotional responses that resonate empathetically with you, the reader. We will live this as one, together.

I lived through the war-baby era and the baby-boomer era, from my cradle in 1942 to 2013’s global village, from telephones cranked by hand to cell phones, from typewriters to computers, from bi-planes to Boeings, from conquering Mount Everest to moon walking (not the Michael Jackson version, either). Seat belts in cars were unheard of. Children were free to roam their neighbourhood and climb trees. There was no nanny state, no Health and Safety regulations to govern my life. Music was recorded on scratchy vinyl records that played at three different speeds. Today, I have a collection of CDs and Blue-Ray DVDs.

Somehow, theatre has stayed a constant; just the themes change to reflect the times we live in. The honourable rules governing sport have been upheld, although we thought of diving as something done off a high board, not on a soccer pitch. Thank goodness for the reveal all, scanty Speedos, and bikinis worn by twenty-first-century swimmers. I recall my father wearing a woollen, shoulder-to-thigh swimming costume. The media consisted of Beano comics, newspapers, The Woman’s Weekly, and of course short wave and regular radios. The media was muzzled by convention and pride in the British Empire. Heroes of many walks of life were created larger than life. The media did not then do its utmost to rapidly repudiate their reputations. I recall when PC meant police constable, not politically correct. I was allowed to gaze freely at women’s breasts and relish my male sexuality. Miss World was stunning as she stood tall and proud in a swimming costume. I would walk on the left side of the pavement to protect my female companion from drivers whose motto was Keep death off our roads, drive on pavements! Similarly, I would open doors for women and stand back for them to pass through first. Dating was live, not via the Internet. Men were bold on a first date; but we seldom made it past the neckline.

As a teacher, I could impulsively hurl a piece of chalk at an irritating pupil without fear of being sued. As a prefect and later as a headmaster, I was empowered to administer corporal punishment without being jailed. I could smile at or even hug God’s greatest gift to humanity, a small child, without fear of being labelled a paedophile. Those adults kind enough to assist in our school’s extramural activities did not require criminal clearance. Trust existed. Christian churches were filled weekly by a cross-section of people of all ages, not just the aged hoping for a late entry card to gain access to heaven. I am proud of my British roots, my heritage; I recall vividly the jubilant scene when King George VI, the Queen Mother, Princess Margaret, and Princess Elizabeth visited South Africa. I have shared the communal glow of pride, been pumped by pomp and ceremony, witnessed the splendid spectacle of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee river pageant from the banks of Mother Thames, and seen the golden Gloriana. I am content with this life; it is ever changing, ever fascinating. The only constant is change.

Have I adopted a philosophy in life? Yes! Simplistically speaking, I believe in fun, family, and friends, with an outgoing, out-reaching, all-inclusive, forward thinking, and positive approach to life. In fact, this book is a celebration of life.

I recall my greatest friend, Rob Cappuccino Hounsell, often encouraging me by repeating one of my favourite sayings: Bring more people; may the party never end! On the other side of the coin, I seemed to spend my life frustratingly searching for a deeper meaning, but in between that, I discovered the joy of life and living in sharing each scenario with others.

If this appeals to you, read on.

Let us journey together through this karmic record of life’s highs and lows set in the sun-kissed countries of South Africa and Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe), with the final chapter encompassing a return to family roots in England.

The Military Era

Let him who loves his country… follow me. Giuseppe Garibaldi, 1882

I loved my army life in Rhodesia. Our army principles were entirely based upon British military systems and traditions. It was simple; it worked.

Without the F word, the army could never exist. The word was used as a prefix, adverb, and adjective, possibly as a noun too. It was liberally added to names, places, things, events, and commands: Stand f— still, or Are you a f— spastic? or This is your f— rifle; this is your f— gun! One is for firing, one is for f— fun! These sentences were barked at my friend, a nervous rookie, who had never fired a gun before.

As a teacher, I was Royal Game, employed in so-called essential services and thus ineligible for military territorial service. On 4 January 1966, this rule was rudely shattered, and I became one of the first batch of educationalists drafted in for territorial training in Depot, the Royal Rhodesia Regiment, A Company, Intake 79. In 1960, I had been a second lieutenant in School Cadets at Chaplin High School in Gwelo (now Gweru) in the Midlands of Rhodesia. I thought I knew it all; I was an old hand. Thus on the first day of call-up, I was severely offended when loudly I was called a wanker (schoolboy jargon for the noble art of masturbation) as I gently lowered myself from a steam-belching train to be confronted by the steaming company sergeant major (CSM), fondly called Bushpig or Bushy (with a short U, as in butter). I was to remember that flowing, distinguished, burgundy moustache below piercing blue eyes for months to come.

We were swiftly herded onto trucks and into the new world of wankers. One long line of bemused humanity was followed by another different line of shattered rookies, by another interminable queue of bewildered men as we were named, ranked, and numbered; inoculated for diphtheria, typhus, and possibly syphilis; and given uniforms.

You’re big. This is a f— large shirt and camouflage pants; f— take it and f— iron it.

Excuse me, sir, but I am a thirty-two-inch waist. These pants would fit an elephant. I grinned until…

"Firstly, don’t call me ‘sir.’ I am a f— corporal! Secondly, if I wanted a f— clown, I would go to the f— circus! Get the hell out."

Mess tins, eating irons, water bottles, World War II webbing, web belt, green beret, the famous Royal Rhodesia Regiment (RRR) black Maltese Cross metal badge mounted on a bottle-green flash, socks and putties (sort of khaki bandages to be wound around the leg on top of socks; each layer was wound a quarter-inch apart starting from ankle to knee; they were a throwback from when Moses crossed the desert). Next came hobnailed stick boots, soft boots, berets, parade kit, everyday kit, physical training (PT) kit, a housewife (small khaki envelope containing needle, thread, and a few buttons… Oh God! I am a seamstress as well), duffle bag, and rucksacks (small and large). Bow-legged under the weight, I staggered into the next set of bellowed commands. Thence into our new homes: long, corrugated iron buildings with dull green cement floors, on top of which were rows of severely uncomfortable black iron bedsteads, holding lattice worked wire cunningly interwoven to ensure that if one leapt upon said bed, the centre would collapse and resemble World War I barbed wire entanglements. Said wire was surmounted by a lumpy coir mattress and a thin Belsen-like pillow. Bliss.

Kitted out, out onto the parade square, assembled into three platoons of A Company, we were formally introduced by a screaming, purple-faced CSM Bushpig to our company commander, Major Ted Cutter. Fortunately, I had been well briefed before arrival at Llewellin Barracks and knew that as long as one played golf or rugby well, Major Ted would ensure that one would lead a charmed life. I had played first team school rugby, had captained the first rugby team at the Teachers’ College (Bulawayo), and had played provincial (county) under-19 rugby whilst training to be a teacher. Rugby was to prove to be a godsend!

We were informed that for the next six weeks we would run everywhere, at all times. Fine, I was super fit and thus untroubled until faced with the problem of peeing into a desert lily (a one-foot-diameter metal cone toilet, housed in mother earth). One’s corn-hued urine tended to miss the target and was liberally sprinkled on puttees and boots (one’s own and others’).

Life revolved around mind-numbing drill on a sun-baked parade square. To hear was to instantly obey. Left turn, right turn, about turn, left, right, left right! We had a few potato planters in our platoon. Poor b—s were uncoordinated, thus they swung a left arm forward with the left leg forward too! Hilarious! The drill pigs turned puce with rage. Laughter burst forth. Unacceptable! Instant punishment was given in the form of bunny hops with rifle held above the head. We looked funny, hopping around the square like rabbits, but after a while our knees and arms felt like red hot, molten liquid. Once someone dropped, we were allowed to rise and march on. At this juncture, the benefit of being an army first team rugby player became self-evident; we were exonerated from bunny hops. Privilege thankfully reared its head.

I was adjudged by the staff corps to be intelligent and swift to learn military drills; I won a marksman badge for accurate firing (to this day I am positive the rifleman next to me was a such a shit shot that he hit my target!); and I was considered a fine leader of men (I was older than most and had been head of hostel at boarding school and deputy head school prefect). Consequently I was among the first of three promoted to be a lofty lance corporal, with a stripe on my uniform. I had come of age; major general, here I come.

The army has a wondrous gift of carving one down to size. My first such lesson (I was to learn a few more later, when attending Officer Training Courses) occurred when the whole of A Company was assembled with B and C Companies on the parade square under the command of the regimental sergeant major (RSM). He was a fearsome fellow of Hulk-like proportions, surmounted by a khaki bush hat with a toilet brush-like feather pinned to the side of the brim. He was from the King’s African Rifles (the KAR, amongst others, had successfully won the first and only victorious terrorist war in Malaya). He had a harelip, so that the parade commands which emanated from his mouth were distorted. I have always struggled to decipher accents of any kind, but a harelip was the most difficult (subsequently, as a company commander, I had a 2 i.c. (second in charge) with a similar speech impediment. He was short, very vertically challenged, and thus was given the nickname of SB (in army phonetic spelling, this was Sierra Bravo), for Short Balls! I was later to master his speech patterns, for he saved my life. Enough rambling; back to the KAR RSM.

He bellowed forth a command for the entire regiment: Marsh past in weview order. By the wight, queeeeeeeeeek marsh! I failed to decode this order. In my panic, I turned left. Two hundred and ninety-nine soldiers attempted to march over me!

I was rewarded with Jankers. On a Friday night, one had to sprint at Olympic pace from barracks to the guard house, reporting in a different uniform, every half hour, to those on guard duty. The distance from barracks to guard house was quite far. Different kit meant changing from number one stick kit (formal, starched, parade square clothing; putties; and brightly polished, self-reflecting boots) to PT kit which was simple, to combat kit, to civilian clothing, and back into number ones. It was a blur of flurried moments made possible only with the help of barrack roommates, who could have been in the canteen, swilling a pint of Rhodesia’s best Castle Lager.

Talking of the Friday night canteen routine produces another fine tale.

We were inspected every Saturday morning for the first six weeks. If we passed muster in the sixth week and gained approval of Bushpig and Major Ted Cutter, we would be rewarded with a weekend pass so we could leave the camp and hit the nearby city of Bulawayo. Firstly one needs to grasp the implications of an inspection. One’s bed, with issued goat-hair-like blankets and ironed sheets, had to be symmetrical. This entailed cutting lengths of hardboard in three-inch-high strips and inserting them on the inside of the sheets and bed end to ensure that the bedding was box-like. On top of this, again in a regimented, prescribed fashion, one arranged one’s combat webbing, mess tins, and blancoed belt with highly polished brasses. A spot of white Brasso polish on the blancoed belt spelt a cancelled pass for all of us. If Bushy could not clearly discern his flaming moustache reflected in the mirror-like, green cement floor, disaster: no pass. And so it came about that the more disciplined of us took great care in the presentation of the barrack room. To ensure that the beds were perfect, we slept on the floor. Our uniforms were perfect, we smelt perfect (the wonders of carbolic soap), we passed perfectly the shaving test of cotton wool rubbed up against the grain of our nonbearded cheeks… no lint stuck to a blade of shaven hair.

We were a fine body of men, honed for battle!

Until Jumbo struck.

Jumbo was a rifleman of little fortitude: two beers and he was roaring drunk. He’d stagger into the barrack room and glare balefully around, his stomach would heave, and he’d deliver the contents of Friday’s fish dinner upon the lustrous floor. Unacceptable behaviour when organisational timing was so crucial! Mops, pails, and all order was restored. Jumbo was weekly tutored and trained to go to a barrack window to be sick. The night before we hoped to gain the valued weekend pass, Jumbo duly stumbled to the window, hurled, and heaved impressively. Gallons of amber bile were accurately delivered upon the floor. He nearly had it right, except he was on the outside of the window, vomiting in! We were granted the pass, thanks again to teamwork.

The six-week initial training was complete. The privileged rugby players and golfers had, however, already (but legally) broken the rule of not leaving barracks. We had gone out to play our first few matches, which we won, remaining in favour. I had had another encounter with fine army logic, this time on the rugby pitch. I had been asked what position I played and had said that I had always played front rank, tight-head prop; well, I was informed I was too tall (at six foot, one and a half inches) for that, and therefore I would play lock. Lock it was.

Our training rapidly adopted serious proportions. Riots had begun in Nyasaland. The Federation of Rhodesia and Nyasaland was dissolving. The British Labour Party had come to power and was bleating in the dark as it tested its puny muscles. The words of Edmond Burke in 1775 sprang to our colonial minds: A great empire and little minds go ill together. The decline of the British Empire was in full swing. Previously, Harold MacMillan had spoken of the winds of change that would sweep through Africa. We should have shivered but were sufficiently bold (and brainwashed) to believe that we were invincible. I should have known about brainwashing; after all, I was an educationalist.

It was whispered around the camp that perhaps there would be an air invasion: British paratroopers would invade key areas. We were a key area. For weeks we were trained to hold up banners bearing messages for rioters that their activities were illegal. We had a bugler upon whose trumpet commands we turned the banner, about faced, bringing armed troops to the fore; we warned said people that if they continued to riot we would fire live rounds, said rounds were directed skywards. We were given formal battle training; we looked awesome with our camouflaged tin helmets. I was promoted to corporal, and my weekly pay was increased above the ten shilling ceiling.

Riches beyond belief!

Nothing ensued: there was no invasion. But there were rumours of impending terrorist incursions into Rhodesia. We were trained to react to counter insurgency (COIN) tactics. It was my first introduction to jungle lane shooting in the bush (countryside), whereby a staff officer accompanied an individual soldier, who clutched a rifle containing live rounds and shot, using the double tap technique (firing two rounds), aiming at both static and moving targets hidden behind trees, clumps of tall grass, and bushes (some popped up from behind the rifleman). It was the only time I was glad not to be a staff officer: the odds of being shot by one’s own troops must have been incredibly high. Talking of which, one of my favourite memories of staff officer/troopie interactions was on the live grenade throwing range. The instructor and troopie stood on one side of a four-foot-high blast barrier wall. Upon the command from the staff, one pulled a split pin out of the grenade, thus rendering said grenade active, held grenade and plunger, and then threw grenade as far as bloody possible over the wall. This particular troopie will remain nameless, however, as he threw the pin over the wall and dropped the grenade next to his instructor. We always considered a staff officer to be considerably dense; however, we were wrong! Self-preservation and lightning reaction saw the staff officer dive, grab the troopie, and land on the other side of the barrier. This was achieved whilst screaming out, You f— moron, next time pull the pin and throw the f— grenade!

The culmination of our four-month call-up was to endure a forced march over a hundred-mile route; our selected path was along the Botswana/Rhodesia border. It culminated in Plumtree, a frontier Rhodesian village. Little was I to know that nine years later, I would be married and settle in this wild frontier town, working as the headmaster of the local village primary school (named after Colonel Alan Redfern). Amazing coincidence?

Three of us set a new military record in Llewellin Barracks. We were appointed as platoon sergeants, with three stripes pinned to our sleeves; we had achieved what no other company had managed: three sarges. As a reward, we did not have to partake of the hundred-mile march. Instead, we were taken by Captain Willem de Beer, known as the Iron man, to set up a base camp from which to command the march. Oh rapture! We were treated as human beings. We wore only boxer shorts and vellies (game-skin boots) in the forty degree heat while we fished, joked, and consumed vast quantities of chilled Castle Lager. Captain de Beer had witnessed my prowess as the fittest soldier in the company. This was a somewhat dubious reputation, because in our intake we had one Ted Alexander, who was extremely fit and went on to captain the Rhodesian rugby team. However, our officer challenged me to a ten-mile run, carrying a backpack filled with bricks. Again the army rubbed my face in it! I lost the race but gained a lifelong friend. Willem later became a game ranger in Hwange Game Park; one day, a rampaging lion leapt through the window of one of the game lodges. Willem leapt selflessly through the window and punched, gouged, kicked, growled, and rammed his fist into the offending beast’s mouth. It retired, leaving Willem with many serious wounds and a semi-paralysed face, which bore the claw marks to his dying day. So the army does produce heroes!

The 110-mile march triumphantly ended with an evening party at the local Plumtree Inn, which coincidently was owned by one Anthony Grace, who happened to be one of the Three Amigos sergeants. It all goes to show what thorough planners these military chaps were!

The bar room was a good inch deep in spilt beer, as one hundred joyous soldiers swilled their libations with urgent frequency. A staff sergeant stood upon the bar to lead the singsong. We were introduced to that fine barrack room ballad entitled Balls to Mr Banglestine. Each time the sergeant sang the chorus, he skilfully hauled out a pair of the most revolting, fiery-haired testicles we had ever seen. By the end of the song, they were doused with gallons of frothy beer, and the crude song had satiated our bawdy desire to sing. Conversation adopted a Chinese influence, in that nobody had a clue what they or others were saying. Those too drunk to walk were carted by wheel barrow to the show grounds, where the company slept the night. Those with rank and privilege were billeted at a nearby farmer’s bachelor pad. He himself was a wonderful, overgrown teenager named Dudley Walton, who welcomed us with open arms. I am by nature a light sleeper. I was awoken by the sound of someone peeing. Bear in mind we were all sound asleep in sleeping bags on the lounge carpet. We had been strictly trained that whilst in a base camp (in terrorist terrain) at night, one does not move around. Thus our erstwhile, bespectacled soldier, an architect by profession, knelt faithfully at the foot of his sleeping bag and sleepily urinated across the entire lounge floor. Chaos reigned/rained!

Back at the barracks, we were endlessly drilled for the passing out parade, to which our loved ones were invited. My mother, Eve Jenvey, sat proudly in the stands as we gave an eyes right to the guest of honour. Shortly afterwards I returned home before assuming my civvy role once more as a teacher. I disgraced myself on the first evening at a refined, celebratory family dinner, saying. out of sheer habit, Pass the f— salt please.

On my return to Umtali, I was posted to the 4th Battalion Royal Rhodesia Regiment and issued the famous blue and white feathered hackle for my green beret. The highly prized hackle denoted the Freedom of the City of Umtali. I was marched before the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Peter Johnson, who had fought in the Burma campaign. Together with his brother Buster, a Marondellas farmer, who also became a officer, we were destined to share a wonderful friendship throughout our military careers. As was tradition when one left basic training, one reverted to being a rifleman. The colonel offered me a chance to immediately return to Gwelo to the School of Infantry (the Rhodesian equivalent of Sandhurst Military College, where, strangely enough, I live near to this day). I was to attend an officer’s course; if suitable, I was to be commissioned. One required lightning fast mental agility to answer this offer. It meant two evenings a week in the battalion mess, attending officers’ lectures, and indefinite service to the Territorial Army. On the other hand, as a rifleman, I would have to serve three years of ten-day active call-ups and thereafter only annual one-off call-ups. It was a no-brainer. Thank you for the honour, sir, but I politely decline.

Mistake!

The army system always wins.

A few months later, we were called up for the annual 4 RRR battle camp. We were to fight a classical war along military battle camp lines. The enemy were regulars, the fearsome Rhodesian Light Infantry (RLI), made up of young men who had developed a language of their own. I recall a crocodile was called a flatdog, a terrorist was a gook, a helicopter was a whirly bird, and the army chaplain was the devil dodger. To be captured in this exercise was a fate worse than death; scenes of torture crossed one’s mind. Thus we dug six-foot-deep trenches with alacrity; no further orders were necessary. I was posted to the Intelligence Corps (I naively thought this was because I was intelligent). Army logic; I was incorrect. It was all part of a cunning plan. Thus six of us had to dig a large Ops Room underground and cover it by felling fir trees and dragging over the hole. Hands were soon blistered from holding pick axes and shovels. I was fit, so no problems. After a couple of days, I reported the task complete. The colonel then pointed to a nearby field ambulance. Bury that! he commanded. The Air Force will soon be overhead, bombing us. My imagination ran riot until the actual event, when the Canberra bombers dropped flour bombs. Mission again accomplished. Finally, I had to dig an eight-foot-deep hole for a signaler and a TR28 radio. Mission again accomplished. The ten-day exercise was over, and I hadn’t seen action or fired a bullet in anger; I made firm friends with my shovel and no one else.

Within a few days, I was back at the Drill Hall, requesting an interview with the colonel. It was immediately granted. Sir, I intoned, I am ready for the Officers’ Course. On 9 January 1967, I attended a Potential Platoon Commander’s Course at the School of Infantry in Gwelo. I endured a genuine dose of army logic as I was drilled to view life through the eyes of an officer. This time I was to understand and appreciate the logic of its chain of command, the sequencing of events, the meticulous planning, and the exacting execution. Throughout my life, I was to successfully implement these methods in much of what I did. Its pronounced sense of discipline appealed to me. Once more, I was humbled. This time, Lieutenant P. J. Burford marked my first effort at a military tutorial. I submitted a carefully planned, sound solution to the problem; back came the marked paper with a five-letter assessment: BALLS! I was incensed and demanded an interview, whereupon he gave me the pink paper, which was the professional officer’s