The Fairbairn-Sykes Commando knife incident.
As a child, I was conscripted into Beasley Troop, a boy soldier you might say. Today it would be called a gang, but Colonel Beasley had high ideals to prepare his men through instruction and training. This required attending formal sessions for military drill, ambush, weapons, ordnance and other training he deemed appropriate, these were held at the training camp, which doubled as his dad’s garage at the bottom of his garden. Attached to the garage was a small office, as previously Colonel Beasley’s dad ran a car repair business from his home; now, he had a job in the local brickyard’s auto repair shop, and his son had free rein to run clandestine military activities from the abandoned facility.
One Saturday morning I found myself at a loose end. Usually, I had no problem entertaining myself, but this morning I couldn’t think of anything to do. The Lone Ranger was on the TV in three hours, that seemed like a lifetime away. While contemplating how I was going to survive the next few hours, it occurred to me that I might report to Colonel Beasley’s training camp to see if anything interesting was going on, an informal visit to show my enthusiasm. I made my way up Highfield Crescent and then turned North. Colonel Beasley’s dad’s garage was in the second back garden of Hill Crescent, in the lane off Ridgway Road. Opposite was a row of about ten garages that took up some of the bottom streets back gardens. These garages were rented out to people who owned a car or wanted storage space. The lane was wider here so you could park a car outside a garage without blocking the way, as not many people had cars in those days the space was generally empty; It was an area used for football, cricket, trick-cycling and other sports activities by us kids. It was also used by Beasley Troop as a parade ground and an ordnance testing facility, which proved pretty spectacular at times. I made my way up the side of the garage to the office. The door was slightly open, so I poked my head in. Colonel Beasley was sitting behind his desk with his feet up browsing a Dandy comic, he held it with difficulty as his left arm was in a sling, having broken it a week earlier following a high-speed bicycle accident.
“Ah! Private Butler wait outside while I deal with these reports”. I left him chuckling over the comic and wandered up the garden to the back of the house where there was a large patch of rhubarb. I had quite a sweet tooth at that time, but I also had a liking for sour fruit, crab apples, green plumbs and gooseberries that sort of thing. I pulled up a stick and broke off and discarded the leaves because I had been told that they were poisonous, I wasn’t inclined to test that theory, well not on myself anyway. I peeled the skin back like a banana and started chewing on the crisp bitter centre. Colonel Beasley stuck his head out of the office and shouted at me.
“Private Butler. What do you think you’re doing eating my mum’s rhubarb? Get into my office, NOW”.
I threw down the offending stick and scurried into the office. Colonel Beasley was already behind his desk preparing a charge sheet.
“Right, I’m putting you on a charge”.
“What for?”
“For eating my mum’s rhubarb. What would happen if all the troop took it on themselves to pull up my mum’s rhubarb? She wouldn’t be able to make any crumble, and I’m very partial to my mum’s crumble. You will have to spend time on jankers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you will have to clean up the garage, and don’t think you can run off because you will be locked in until you have done it to my satisfaction”.
“Well I won’t, I have to go home”.
He picked up an original Fairbairn-Sykes, brass handled, stiletto commando fighting knife and pirouetted it by its point on the desk with the ball on the handle between the thumb and index finger of his good hand.
“So, insubordination as well as stealing rhubarb, you’ll be here till the sun goes down”.
“Well, I won’t, because I’m going home to watch the Lone Ranger”.
I turned to leave the office.
“STOP”.
But I didn’t. There was a loud thud, I turned and saw the commando knife embedded on the far side of the door at about eye level. He didn’t throw it directly at me, but that was to close for comfort, I was gone. Outside, I heard the chair screech and fall to the floor, Colonel Beasley came out in pursuit. I paused for a moment looking down the pathway at the gate to the back lane. I wouldn’t make it, he was to fast for my little legs. There was a workbench by the side of the garage. Like a wild animal looking for high ground, I jumped up onto the bench, then jumped again. Just in time, I pulled myself up onto the sloping roof with a hand frantically grabbing for my ankle. I made my way to the top and sat on the apex looking back. My sense of security was dashed; injured or not, Colonel Beasley was hanging horizontal to the edge of the roof by one leg and the hand of his broken arm, trying desperately with his good hand to pull himself up. If my position had not been so dire, it would have been funny, but it looked like he might make it. Just to the left of him was a three-foot length of wood that someone had thrown up onto the roof. Overcoming my desperate terror to escape, I made my way back down. He read my intention and tried desperately to grab the wood, but it was just out of his reach. I picked it up, he stopped struggling and stared at me. I hesitated, feeling regret that I had ever thought of doing such a thing. Then came a venomous voice “Don’t you dare”.
Benevolence deserted me, I brought the wood down hard onto the hand of his broken arm. He screamed but held on. Bang, bang, bang; it took three more strikes before he let go and fell with a double thud first onto the bench and then onto the path. I might have killed him, but I didn’t wait around to find out. I raced back up the roof and down the other side to the corner overhanging the lane. I leapt forward and hit the ground running, I could have gone to seek sanctuary in the house of my auntie Mary at 12 Ridgeway road, but that would have meant running back past the gate, so instead, I shot down the lane in the direction of the shops.
In my mind, I saw Colonel Beasley closing fast behind me, his good hand outstretched like an open claw ready to take me by the neck, I ran in terror not daring to look back. Halfway down the lane, like a rabbit trying to avoid the stoop of a raptor I skewed to the left, fumbled with the latch of a gate and burst into a back garden. My brain was working fast, I can’t remember making a conscious decision; nonetheless, it was an exquisitely logical action. Mr Irvine, the owner, was a nice man and would not rebuke me once he saw my dilemma, and Colonel Beasley would be reluctant to trespass into Mr Irvine’s garden. The house was one of the few where the terraced homes were separated by a gap so you could pass from the back to the front of the property without going through the house. I shouted a greeting as I streaked past a surprised Mr Irvine. I was almost home free, but my plan had a fatal flaw, Teddy, Mr Irvine’s dog. Now, Teddy may have been a mild-mannered creature, but he was a dog, and the sight of a desperate animal in flight on his territory was too much for him, he was after me like a shot. A side gate was now the only obstacle blocking my escape, but I wouldn’t have time to open it before Teddy got his teeth into me. Fear is the key! I did a cross-country running, head over, gate vault and landed on my back, winded, on the other side with Teddy leaping at the gate, but unable to get to me. Teddy needed to lose a little weight.
I picked myself up looked left and right, with no sign of the Colonel and with Teddy guarding my back I sauntered across the street to 32 Highfield Crescent, home and safety; I still had two hours before the start of the Lone Ranger. I could wait, I’d had enough excitement for one day.