The Firefighter Blues. Alan Bruce
was a little askew and Mum spent half her life trying to correct it.
Dad was very young when he left school and immediately went to work felling trees for a timber company; hard work for someone his age, especially during the wild Scottish winters. Further odd jobs followed until he was old enough to join the British Army. World War II was just winding down and, as an eighteen year old, he was sent to Northern India as part of the British Army’s involvement in the India Independence Act 1947. This ended British control in the region and eventually led to the creation of Pakistan.
Following World War II, Dad left the military, although he remained an active reserve, and found work in a few of the tunnels being constructed for Scotland’s new hydroelectric system. A few years later he was recalled for service, sent to training camps throughout the north of the country before being shipped off to the Korean War.
Although not an educated man, my father was intelligent, well travelled and very likeable. Like his father before him, he was a proud member of the Scottish Regiment, The Black Watch, and travelled throughout the world. It was very difficult to get him to open up about his military adventures but I know that certain events troubled him deeply. My sister and I once came across some old photos he had hidden away. We found several ghastly black-and-white photographs from Northern India of beheadings, mutilations and public hangings. He also had pictures of disfigured street beggars and other horrors. India was taking back control of the country and the Muslim population were breaking away to form what we now know as Pakistan.
One night, after way too many whiskeys, he told me of an incident in India where a young boy was being chased by machete wielding men from a rival group. The poor lad stumbled, then was hacked to death in front of my father, who at the time, was no more than 18 years old. It was a violent era and it’s difficult to comprehend the impact that would have had on a young boy from a small Scottish village.
For the most part my father seemed like a happy, good-natured, fun loving larrikin but, he was easy to anger, especially when drunk. His slightly volatile, mercurial nature was virtually undetectable when sober. I now know the horrors of his military life and possibly his own upbringing would've affected him more than he'd like to admit.
Apart from serving in Peshawar, Karachi and other British bases throughout India and Pakistan, when the Korean War broke out, his regiment spent years fighting throughout the Korean Peninsula. He was equally evasive when asked about his time spent fighting in Korea, although he used to enjoy bragging to me that The Black Watch was the last British regiment to leave Korea.
I’m sure he had many stories tucked away but very few filtered down to me, although, while pretending to be asleep one night, I did overhear him tell one particular tale. All the adults had been drinking and Dad opened up about an unsavoury event he was involved in. My father was always a very mischievous rascal but on one occasion in South Korea, his larrikinism became his undoing.
The story goes that while on leave in Tokyo, he and some army buddies had a few too many drinks and decided to ‘borrow’ a jeep for a little joy ride. They didn’t get too far before they overturned it and ended up sprawled across the road. Luckily no-one was seriously hurt but, as a consequence, Dad was court-martialled and sentenced to one month in a military prison. I overheard him saying, ‘It was the longest month of my life; the bastards wouldn’t give me anything to read.’
As part of his ‘rehabilitation’ he was given a small round tin of boot polish. His job was to sit in his cell, scrape the paint from the tin then polish it so brightly that the inspecting officer could see his face in it. When the chore was completed, he was given another tin and on it went until he was discharged one month later. You have to love British Army discipline.
After Korea, Dad was sent to campaigns in Malaysia, the Suez crisis and other hot spots where the British Government was involved. Although a fun-loving man, my father set very rigid emotional boundaries; it may have had something to do with his military life or perhaps it was just typical of that generation. He avoided emotional closeness with us, his children; he had extreme difficulty sharing his personal feelings with anyone. One day, when we were living at the East Hills Hostel in Australia, I came home from playing in the park to be greeted by my mother, who, for some reason, wouldn’t let me inside.
‘Stay oot for a wee while,’ she said.
I was confused as she was standing across the doorway like a nightclub bouncer.
Apparently my father had just received a letter from Scotland informing him his mother had been killed in a car accident. Dad was inside crying but nobody was allowed to be with him, not even his wife. His mother’s death was rarely spoken about again.
Both my parents were drinkers, as were most working-class Scots at that time. In the early years, only my father would’ve been classified as ‘a big drinker’ and Mum often told the story of Dad still being drunk after we had passed through the Mediterranean on our voyage to Australia. His farewell drink in Letham lasted for days and he kept it going once he boarded our ship.
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My mother was well educated; she topped most of her classes at school, was dux of her local nursing college and came second in all of Scotland in her final year. She wrote poetry, could play anything on the piano, spoke a little French, loved studying history and would read just about anything she could get her hands on. She was born in the city of Dundee but moved to the countryside once war with Germany broke out. Most families with children were advised by the British Government to vacate the cities and move to rural areas as the larger towns were more vulnerable to bombing raids. Her father, John Gray, a World War I veteran, died when she was fourteen, so she helped raise her younger sister, Sheena, while their mother ( Mary) was forced to find work.
As a teenager, Mum and a couple of girlfriends took to the road on their pushbikes and toured all of Scotland, staying in youth hostels and mingling with like-minded teenagers from around the globe. She also taught Sunday school and was heavily involved in the Girl Guide movement. One thing she did share with my father was her love of music. Mum was a member of a band called The Heather Loupers. They entertained audiences throughout the county of Angus for many years. Some time later, Dad who was a wonderful singer, would occasionally team up with Mum and perform at various small concert parties throughout the county. I can imagine the atmosphere in the tiny, cramped, smoke filled, village halls. Mum on piano while providing vocal harmony to Dad’s Bing Crosby-like voice. They often spoke fondly of those days.
Our house was always filled with music. It was either Mum serenading my sister and me with children’s songs and nursery rhymes or Dad singing one of their old favourites. They seemed to know hundreds of songs, mostly tear-jerkers about leaving Scotland, missing Scotland or going home to Scotland. The Scots must be notorious for leaving, coming back, then leaving again. Great fodder for songwriters, I suppose. I’d heard stories of Dad singing for beers at various pubs once his drinking money had run out. Although Mum was embarrassed, we all knew, deep inside, she also thought it amusing.
She was an exceptionally hard worker and I’ve often told friends that I have very few memories of my mother sitting down. Strange as that may seem, when I picture her, she is at the kitchen sink, cooking something on the stove, doing laundry or cleaning something around the house. She always had a full-time day job yet still managed to look after her family and would only relax late at night with a book or in front of the television. For Mum, daytime meant work time. She was a very stoic woman at times but very loving and caring towards us, her children. She seemed able to endure just about anything life tossed up to her.
Like Dad, she didn’t feel comfortable displaying certain emotions. I think she saw it as a sign of weakness, the British ‘stiff upper lip’ was hardwired into their generation. Although emotionally guarded, she was one of the kindest ladies you could meet. That kindness was usually displayed by actions rather than words. She had quite rigid moral boundaries which often clashed with my father’s, sometimes misguided, morals. I suppose opposites do attract. Even though, like most of her generation, she bottled up a lot of her feelings, every now and then the contents would overflow; she would explode and huge arguments with my father would ensue, lasting for days,