Scopolaust

By Saffron

Saffron is a Vietnam veteran who not only performed a vital role in keeping Australian troops mobile but approached all his encounters with compassion and sincerity. His deep religious faith, sense of humour, unconditional love of his pets, and marriage to a good woman have carried him through the hard times, which inevitably touch us all.

Saffrons book is not only about Vietnam; however, I am sure you will enjoy reading about his varied and interesting life. Saffron now lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and lives quietly, with moments of laughter and good company during his regular dog-walking escapades.

Saffrons book is easily read and highly entertaining. I recommend it to you. Enjoy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543407457

Saffron

Watch out, Dave Barry, Douglas Adams, and Dean Koontz, Mark Carlson is coming up behind you! His overnight success only took twenty-five years. Mark Carlson, 60lives in San Marcos, California. Blind, he works with advanced technology and travels with his second Guide Dog, a Yellow Labrador named Saffron. He is a freelance writer and aviation historian. He is a member of several aviation, maritime, historical and veteran organizations. A contributing writer for over a dozen national magazines, his articles run the gamut of topics from aviation, military history, classic film and television, dogs, humor and essays. He is noted for his humorous and narrative style even when writing about history and serious topics. He started by writing stories about his first Guide Dog, Musket and later, about his work at the San Diego Air & Space Museum. This led to having more than two hundred articles published in major aviation, military history and pet magazines. Confessions of a Labradiva is his fourth book.

Book preview

Copyright © 2018 by Saffron.

Library of Congress Control Number:    2018902894

ISBN:                    Hardcover                978-1-5434-0747-1

                              Softcover                  978-1-5434-0746-4

                              eBook                       978-1-5434-0745-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/27/2018

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CONTENTS

Glasgow

Catterick Camp, 1950

Bielefeld, 1951

Düsseldorf

Benghazi In Libya, 1959

Paris (And The Rifle Tower)

Addendum

Back To England

Paris Round 2

National Service, Here I Come

Royal Australian Electrical And Mechanical Engineers (Raeme)

Raeme Training Centre Bandiana

Vietnam

First Armoured Regiment Light Aid Detachment (Lad) In Puckapunyal

4 Base Workshop Battalion Raeme In Bandiana

Discharge From The Army

Mount Mary Hotel (A Dump With A Licence)

Johannesburg In South Africa

Back Home At Last

The Holiday Of A Lifetime . . . Or Not

On Toilets (Specifically German Ones)

French Toilets

Service Persons Support Network (Spsn) And The Sea Of Orange

Members Of Our Committee

On Trading In Commodities And Currencies – Brokerage Firms

How Many Times Has The Joke Been On Me?

On Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Ptsd)

On My Philosophy (Or What I Think)

On Music

Literature – On Books And Poetry

Money

On Insurance Companies

On Gardening

On Veterans

On Sex

Friends Who Have Made A Difference Over The Years

Special Mention – Magna Cum Laude

Personae Non Gratae

Recipes (Or How To Make Good Food Just Like Mum Taught Me And How Maggie Showed ME)

Useful Internet Links

Epilogue

O K, let’s get this show on the road.

Writing a book is no mean feat; it takes planning and willpower. Now everybody who knows me knows that I’m one of the laziest people around, so writing a book means that I have to make an effort. That means getting up in the morning and tying my shoelaces. Anyway, I’m sure you get my drift. And as for willpower, I’m a bit useless in that department too.

I’m going to start at the beginning, of course. ’Makes sense, doesn’t it? I’ll finish at the end, if that’s OK with you. The thing is I’ve been told to write this by friends who think that I’ve got a story, and indeed I have, and I’m going to tell you all about it, warts and all.

It all started when my mum decided to give birth to my good self. It was 3 August 1948. At the time, Glasgow was still on coupons, so stuff was hard to get. My mum, being Polish, was used to hardship and thought that coupons were a godsend. People used to marvel how well she managed and always complimented her on how well dressed her little son was. Little did they know that my dad was pilfering everything he could from British Rail, where he briefly worked after serving in the army. He got caught, so he re-enlisted and was sent to Catterick Camp to do butchering.

Before we get carried away with my dear old dad, I must tell you how he met up with my mum. Mum was born in Odessa in 1917. She was one of three daughters of an aristocratic Polish family. (That’s right, I’m an aristo.)

The Russian revolution was in full swing, and the Communists were eliminating people with an aristocratic background. My grandfather was a victim, but my grandmother escaped with her three daughters. They were disguised as peasants and managed to get to Vilnius, Lithuania. They lived there quietly until World War II broke out.

Mum studied medicine and was later put in charge of a clinic. That was probably what saved her when the Nazis swept into Poland and Lithuania. The Russians were fighting the Germans on the Eastern Front, so Mum’s family split up and fled to other parts of Poland. It was all very tragic, and everyone was struggling to survive.

My mum ended up in Germany. She believed that it was preferable to falling into Russian hands. She spoke German well and also Russian, but her qualifications in medicine led her to a little German township of Hafelse, near Hameln of Pied Piper fame. She soon found out that the rats were big in town. Everybody was looting and scamming just to survive.

At one stage, she was working with some British soldiers who wanted to buy some sort of contraband. That was when she met the biggest scammer of them all, my dad, who had a real gift of the gab. He promised her all sorts of things, including nylons and cigarettes. What more could a poor Polish woman want?

Dad was soon posted back to Scotland for leave and managed to get Mum to follow soon after. She could only go if he promised to make an honest woman out of her. Mum decided to accept. Surely, life would be better in the UK with a husband to provide for her.

GLASGOW

M arried life started well. Dad went to work at British Rail. The work was hard and didn’t pay that well, so after a few drinks at the pub, he decided to re-enlist into the army. Smart move.

In reality, he should have taken another course, but Dad being Dad knew everything and was never wrong. It didn’t take him long to learn how to drink, smoke, and gamble. He liked everything that included booze and more booze.

Glasgow was a nice city, but it had its shady spots. Dad liked them all, but Mum started to notice his nasty temperament and told him to stop boozing. He stopped for a while.

He took us to the fair that the school put on. We needed to take the underground train. I stood on the platform between Mum and Dad when the train came screeching in. It frightened the shit out of me. I stepped back and fell over while my dad ridiculed me, calling me scaredy pants. From then on, I never liked my dad that much.

We lived in a house we shared with another Polish family. My mum was very close to her Polish lady friend and her husband. They had a daughter, Danka, born a day before me in the same hospital. Mum joked that the two babies came at lunchtime and were never late for a feed thereafter. At least Mum and her friend had a sense of humour.

One day they put us on our potties and left us in the room alone. Suddenly, the girl put her hand in the potty and smeared her face with the excrement. Yuck! I said with disgust that it was horrible and that she should clean herself up. She just laughed.

Our mothers walked in half an hour later and saw the mess. I was in a state of hysterical laughter. I couldn’t stop. I was secretly delighted that this little girl was in trouble. She got a good spanking and I didn’t. That, in itself, was a source of great pleasure for me, and I have never forgotten that little episode. I can still see Danka with shit all over her face, looking very sheepish and silly.

CATTERICK CAMP, 1950

P utting it politely, Catterick was a dump. The married quarters were pitiful with no hot water and no heating. My mother hated it and cried a lot. What had she gotten herself into? Luckily, it didn’t last too long. Dad miraculously got himself promoted to corporal and was sent to Bielefeld, Ger many.

My mum didn’t speak English, and my dad didn’t speak Polish, but they both managed German pretty well. My first language was Polish, and my second was German but no English. That needed to be remedied. I was to go to kindergarten as soon as we hit Deutschland. I didn’t know about his dastardly plan and went about being a playful kid.

We had lots of Polish friends in the UK, and Mum kept in touch with all of them regularly. She loved writing letters and giving them all the gossip. There was one episode I remember well. We were invited to a kid’s birthday party and were asked to bring a Polish dish. Mum took golabki, which were cabbage rolls in tomato gravy. Everybody thought they were delicious except me. I lost my cool and threw them on the floor. It was a mess, and my mother went blue with embarrassment. My dad glared at me and said he’d kill me when we got home. Meanwhile, the other kids were laughing their heads off. It was no laughing matter. My mum, crying, started to clean the mess. Boy, was I in the shit!

The red sauce didn’t go too well with the carpet, and it caused a stain as big as a dinner plate. Dad said he’d pay for the cleaning (which he never did, by the way). Anyway, everybody soon forgot about the incident, and their lives got back to normal within a week or so. In the meantime, we were packing to go to Bielefeld, Germany, where Dad was to be in charge of supplies with the RASC. He was promoted to sergeant, which meant more money and prestige. (Prestige, my bloody foot! It’s only a junior rank.)

BIELEFELD, 1951

I don’t remember much about the actual trip. I think I remember a DC-3 and an airfield, so I assume that was how we got there. Bielefeld was a nice little city with parks and nice new buildings. It was only six years after the war, but the Germans, with Western aid, rebuilt their towns at warp speed. I never saw a ruin or a bombed-out shelter or anything. The municipal building was magnificent and had German flags flying from every third window. Germany had won the p eace.

Number 8 Priessallee was to be our home for the next two years. It was a delightful house subdivided into two large apartments. The lower floor was inhabited by the owner, Herr Schwenker, an old man we only met a few times. The British army paid half the rent, and we paid the rest in cigarettes or booze. Every month, this German geezer got a ration box from my dad’s warehouse. We got one or two as well. Theoretically, everybody was supposed to pay for these rations; but in most cases, the money got lost in the translation. In short, Dad was on the fiddle. No one particularly cared as everybody got what they wanted, including us. What a lark!

I learnt to ride a bicycle and was soon zooming around the area. The neighbours used to wave to me as I passed their homes, shouting, ‘Guten tag!’ My German was good, and so was my Polish, but English was still not in my vocabulary. This was fixed by sending me to the kindy. It took a few months, but I had made it. I was spruiking English, much to my dad’s delight. The report came back from school, saying, ‘His English has a marked foreign influence.’ That meant I spoke with a bit of an accent.

I plodded on learning things as kids do. I played doctors and nurses with one of the daughters of our army friends. I managed to find some bed sheets and constructed a sort of tent. This was the makeshift hospital. I also found a syringe belonging to Mum. I filled the thing with water and gave the teddy bear injections. By the time the doctor phase passed, the bear was waterlogged and smelly. It had to be thrown out.

Danka from Scotland came for a holiday, the same Danka who sat on the potty with me. That was a hoot. We played games and went to the park with our bikes. The ice cream man used to park in the square down the road. For ten pfennigs, we got a large cone of any flavour. That was the life.

I did well at kindy and had to now move beyond that level. Primary school beckoned, and was I prepared!

New married quarters were now completed at Am Niederfeld, just a few miles from the BFES primary school. There was no choice, although Mother didn’t want to move. She liked the big apartment and the area. She even had a maid who did the cooking. Needless to say, it was a Polish lady who became our very close friend. Her name was Irena, and she had a gorgeous daughter, Genia, whom I liked a whole lot. We read Polish storybooks together and became good friends.

Irena’s husband Marian was our driver. He took us everywhere and was much cheaper than a taxi. His Ford Taunus was fantastic, and I liked sitting behind the wheel, pretending to be Stirling Moss. One fine day I discovered where the ignition was. It was a push-button affair with an on/off switch. Well, guess what happened then? Yep, I got the thing moving.

It was in gear, so all I had to do was to press the button. I was going down the street when some neighbours started to shriek. The car was driving itself they said. They couldn’t see me behind the wheel. I got a hiding for that little stunt from Mum. She wielded a mean wooden spoon. I couldn’t sit for a few days, but in the end, all was forgiven. They all laughed about it later, but I didn’t get behind the wheel until much later when I turned ten.

Once we moved to Am Niederfeld, I was ready for primary school. The army had lain on a bus, but most of us walked. It only took fifteen minutes, and in those days, it was safe. Nobody worried if we came home a bit late.

Dinner was always at 5 p.m., and I was never ever late for dinner, believe you me. The food Mum dished up was basically Polish, but we did get bangers and mash sometimes because Dad liked that sort of tucker. There were a few things I didn’t like. Cabbage was, to me, a load of manure. I hated it. I refused to eat it one day, and Dad walloped me. I still refused, and he walloped me again. I ran out the room crying and hysterical. I told Mum to shove her cabbage up Dad’s rear passage, if he had one. Somehow I doubted it as he was always full of shit. I didn’t emerge from my bedroom until next morning. School was waiting, so there was no choice.

Every Sunday, we had to go to church. Mum took me to the Polish church because she liked the priest there. He was a kindly soul who loved everybody. The Mass was in Latin, but the sermons were in Polish. I didn’t have much of a clue what he was talking about but didn’t mind going as there were lots of nice people and also a food table with cakes and ice cream. I liked ice cream a lot.

The priest, Father Dobrzanski, was invited to our house every Sunday afternoon for lunch. He also took a bath at our place as his flat didn’t have such a facility. I’ve always wondered why he couldn’t get a place with a bath, but in those days, people took what they could get.

Soon Father D. was teaching me advanced Polish grammar, history, math, and a spattering of Latin. He was grooming me to be an altar boy.

Mother made another friend whom she met at church. Mrs Juszczak had two sons who were slightly older than me but were considered to be worthy friends. It was expected that I would associate with them on weekends. I had other ideas. I wanted to play cowboys and Indians and go roller-skating. Roller skating became an obsession, and I became quite proficient. Blow the Juszczaks. Bit by bit though, I had to make an effort to like them. Marian was the eldest, and Jan was a year younger, but both became good mates.

Marian was to go to the Polish seminary in Paris for further studies and to eventually become a priest. My mother started to have ideas for my future. ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if our George went to Paris too and perhaps even become a priest? Joy of joys.’ My mother started planning my career with the help of Father D. I knew nothing of this conspiracy at the time, but soon it became fairly obvious. I was destined for Paris, but it would take another few years to come to pass. I was still too young for seminary (boarding school). I was in the middle of primary school, for crying out loud. Mum was a beautiful lady and a fantastic mother, but she liked getting her own way, so if I had any objections about boarding school, I could forget them. Mum’s mind was made up. She didn’t care if it took a few years. I was going to Paris.

I was seven when my brother Ron was born. I took this event in my stride as I normally did. All I cared about, at that stage, was roller skating and socialising with the other army kids. Activities included football, swimming, and more roller skating.

The swimming pool was a few miles away, so the school organised a bus to take us there once a week. The pool was great and we frolicked in the water for about two hours. Of course, the change rooms were segregated. Girls had their own, of course. I noticed, on a few occasions, that some boys had different-looking penises. ‘This was a problem,’ I thought.

‘What if we were aliens or something like that?’ I asked Mum. She said that some people were born with longer skins over their pee-pees. She was too embarrassed to give me the real answer, and I believed her anyway. Mums don’t lie. It took me years to work that anomaly out.

The following year, my brother Kon was born. I took it with my usual disinterest. Another pest to look after. It didn’t occur to me that these were family and should be loved. Eventually, I grew to love them, even though they gave me the shits every second day. Both my brothers grew to be funny and good to be with, and we eventually played together.

School was interesting enough, but there were a few incidents that made me look very stupid and made me a laughing stock for about two whole weeks. It happened during class. I needed to go to the toilet urgently, so I put my hand up. The teacher kept on prattling on and didn’t seem to notice my distress. I kept on waving my hand, to no avail. This stupid woman totally ignored me. I was in dire straits at this stage and couldn’t wait any longer. Finally, I soiled my pants.

When school ended for the day, I got on the bus and got home. I was walking in a funny way, and the stench was very noticeable, and the other kids were looking at me with a disgusting leer. I couldn’t blame it on anybody except the bloody teacher. That stupid cow should have noticed my anguish. I wanted to kill her. Anyway, I got home and admitted to Mum that I had an accident. Well, did she go off her rocker! I got the wooden spoon and was sent to bed. I slept on my stomach that night. Thankfully, Mum never told Dad; otherwise, I would have been slaughtered. Mum knew what Dad was like and spared me any more aggravation. Good old Mum.

On the opposite side of our driveway, there was another army family. They had two daughters; one of them was a little older than me. She was also my tormentor, teasing me and laughing at me all the time. She was always on about the poo incident and never let up. She was another one I wanted to kill.

Justice was granted a few days later. Her father was repairing his newly acquired Opel Rekord, 1956 model, when the bonnet fell down right on her fingers. She was a nosy little bitch and had to know everything that was going on. I happened to hear her screams and rushed over to see what the commotion was. I just couldn’t believe my lucky stars. What a wonderful happening! She got her just deserts. My tormentor was punished for treating me badly. I was in heaven, and I told Mum that she got what she deserved.

My mother didn’t see it my way and told me to wise up. What if that had happened to me? How would I feel? I thought to myself that I couldn’t win a trick. Next time, I would not say a word. Secrecy is the best policy.

Another incident got the whole neighbourhood in hysterics. Mrs Eccles, who lived a few doors away, decided to heat up some water. She put the plastic bucket full of water on the stove and turned the knob on high. The electric stove was ruined with water everywhere.

The camp engineer couldn’t help but laugh, but he also told everybody. Tongues were wagging for months. Poor Mrs Eccles didn’t know where to put herself. Mum felt sorry for the poor old thing but couldn’t help but giggle every time Mrs Eccles showed her face.

There was another incident which caused a huge investigation by the military police. It could have been a disaster, but happily, the colonel in charge of the camp sorted it out. It started with a rumour that southern Ireland invaded the north. Someone mentioned it in the sergeants’ mess, and it took off from there. People were wondering if they could be posted to that conflict-torn area. The colonel found out and phoned the war office in London. They knew nothing about it, so they started an inquiry. Was there any truth in it?

Everybody was scurrying around, looking for the facts. Was there going to be a bloody war? Who was going to get posted there? Finally, the war office phoned back, informing the colonel that it was a hoax. ‘Find out who started this effing rumour, and have his guts for garters. Court-martial the blighter if you have to.’

Needless to say, nobody knew anything, and nobody would dare own up. The colonel eventually calmed down and lost interest in the sorry saga. But it was all over the camp and even down at Whitehall. The corridors of power were abuzz, and the lower ranks thought it was a hoot.

Years later, I found out that it was my dad who started the rumour and got away with it. If he were found out, he could have waved goodbye to his career, and we would have all been up shit creek without a paddle. He took some chances, that dad of mine.

Sgt. Johnny Nelson and his wife Elsie were good friends our parents could rely on. They were a lot of fun and enjoyed parties and dining in nights. Their two daughters were delightful and loved coming over to our place for Polish food. Elsie loved Dubonnet, a French aperitif, and introduced it to Mum. They decided to have a few to celebrate my mum’s purchase of a new clock. Mum said it had a warranty for twenty-five years. They were both ogling at this wretched clock and giggling like little children. Obviously, the Dubonnet got to them both. I was watching from the staircase and saw them both making fools of themselves. I loved it when things like that happened. Sadly, it was not blackmailable material, and I couldn’t use it for future reference. I really couldn’t hurt my mum – she was too nice.

Life continued normally. I kept going to school and playing afterwards. I visited the Juszczaks on weekends and had a full social calendar. Things were good, with our grandma visiting us from Poland. She stayed for three months and taught me a lot, especially playing cards and how to gamble. She was a genius, played the piano and violin, and entertained us every day with wonderful music. We were all sorry when she had to go back home. She took with her presents for the rest of the family and lots of cash. In Poland, they all liked cash, and Mum supplied it along with a knitting machine, chocolates, soap, and toilet paper. Granny was pleased and her mission accomplished. Well done, Granny – a woman after my own heart.

Everybody knows that the army has its own agenda, and sooner or later, people are posted, cashiered, or discharged. The Nelsons were posted to Malaya, much to Mother’s chagrin. They were very close, and we were going to miss them.

To cheer ourselves up, Dad purchased a 1953 Opel Olympia. It was a nice car, but it only had two doors, not very practical for a family of five. He didn’t even have a licence, so what was he thinking? Who was going to drive the thing apart from me?

Obviously, driving lessons were on the cards. The army had their own driving instructors, so Dad enlisted and started having lessons. It took him a month, but he got his licence, and surprisingly, the car was still intact. They immediately registered the thing and insured it too. It was cheap in those days, so it wasn’t a burden. The rego number was EK 75 B. The B stood for British, so if the German cops saw the number, they would ignore it if there was a traffic violation. If it was serious, the Polizei would contact the British commandant, and all hell would break lose.

Dad had the German police in his pocket, bribing them with ration boxes. These were special boxes containing booze, cigarettes, and various meats and small goods. The cops loved Dad, and he used to invite the whole Bielefeld police force to the sergeants’ mess for free grog and eats. This happened every month until Dad was posted to Düsseldorf. A farewell was organised, and the Krauts wore black armbands with their fancy uniforms. We saw a few policemen crying. I thought that they were crying because they would miss our smiling faces. The truth was a bit more realistic. They wouldn’t get their weekly ration boxes anymore. People are fickle.

DÜSSELDORF

W e arrived by Opel in Düsseldorf in late 1958. The army paid for the relocation, so all our worldly possessions were crated and sent on to the British army’s married quarters section named Hilden. The quarters were not much different from those we left behind. As we had no furniture, only a few large wooden crates with personal possessions, it didn’t take long to unpack. In those days, the army provided furniture and other bits and pieces. It all had to be accounted for on handover, but they made sure we had everything we needed on takeover. Nice system – I was impressed. I decided then and there that I would join the army. Naturally, I would start with the rank of, say, sergeant and end up a gen eral.

We settled in quite well, and soon enough, we had new friends. Mum found more Polish friends, and life continued as before. Dad started networking and cultivating new ‘clients’ with his ration boxes. The officers and their wives were delighted that an enlightened sergeant would handle all their material requirements.

It didn’t take long for Dad to have all of Hilden in his clutches. He could even get you a car if you needed one. Everything seemed legit, and it probably was, but I couldn’t help feeling he was up to something, but I never could put my finger on it. It remains a bit of a mystery to this very day. You see, Dad was a pathological liar and never told the same story twice. There were always variations to the original version, so it was difficult to discern the truth.

At school, I was doing fine. I did my eleven-plus, which I passed with flying colours. The teacher was very pleased with my progress and commented that I spoke with a cultured English accent. I could not dispute that as it was true. I have never lost that accent, and to this very day, I have a BBC voice. Anyway, enough of this banter. You might think I am bragging, and we can’t have that.

We played sport at school and alternated between football and cricket. I wasn’t any good at cricket, but football was another story. I actually liked it, and I liked it even more when I scored the only goal for our team. I was hailed a hero and given a trophy. What more could a young lad want?

In 1958, the parish priest arranged a pilgrimage to Lourdes. Lourdes was a small township in the south of France, where a little girl named Bernadette Soubirous had a vision of Our Lady. Many miracles followed, especially the curing of the sick with the miraculous waters. Ever since then, people visited and prayed for blessings and graces. A beautiful cathedral was built, and a statue was erected in the grotto where the Virgin Mary actually appeared.

Many Catholics went on these pilgrimages, and Mum decided to take me with her. We were to be away for a week, and I very much looked forward to the train trip. The journey itself was routine, and when we arrived, we booked into a hotel with all the others from our group.

Mum and I went sightseeing until it was time for lunch. After that, we had a siesta and in the evening joined the others in a slow procession, singing ‘Ave Maria’. It was very moving and spiritual. Everyone had burning candles with a holder so that we wouldn’t get hot wax on us. After the procession, there was a Mass and a special benediction. We all dispersed when the proceedings were over and went back to the hotel.

Next morning, Mum told me she saw Our Lady and couldn’t sleep afterwards. I believed Mum because she was always truthful and sincere. Our Lady told Mum that, in the future, she would suffer much, that we would all end up in a distant country, and that some of us would lose the true faith. Mum was very sad about that and cried when she told me. I tried to console Mum, but she was in another world. When we returned to Germany, she was a changed woman. The Catholic faith meant a lot to her, and she passed that fervour on to me, and for that, I will always be grateful.

Winter came with a vengeance, and we got the flu. All