The Autobiography of John Manning

“I had a strange dream last night” is a terrible conversation opener, interrupter or ender because you know that the next few minutes you are going to be subject to broken, meaningless and largely incomprehensible pudding mix of cloudy recollections. When I hear those words I just wish that the ground would open behind the speaker and that they’d step backwards.

Likewise, recalled childhood memories are for the most part like dreams in as much as they are excruciatingly tedious if you’re on the receiving end, unless there happens to be a link that you recognise. And yesterday I was struck by a teleporting link, out of the blue.

Since the lockdown I’ve been shopping for a few friends and acquaintances in isolation. They either send me an email list of what they need, or phone. Their tastes quickly become evident and what began as a tiresome and time consuming chore has become fairly straightforward as I don’t have to double-think their list of requirements any longer, (“Tsk, no, no, not Sainsbury’s, I want the Tesco Crispy Rolls, crispy on top. Sainsbury's Crispy Rolls are soggy.”) and can go straight to the shelf.

Yesterday Brian called. He only needed these items, “Eight bottles of Peroni, a small bottle of TCP, it must be TCP, don’t bother with anything else if they've not got. And a block of lard.”

That’s an interesting list. I don’t think I’ve eaten or physically come into contact with lard over the past 50 years. Brian’s request transported me back to the parlour at 14 Asfordby Road ion Melton Mowbray, sitting at the table crumbling lard into a bowl of flour for Grandma while she busy at things in the kitchen, and being disappointed that it did not taste sweet.

Lard was a staple in our house, in yours too I expect, and not only for cooking. I do remember Grandma rubbing it on my scrapped knee as a first aid treatment, with the promise that it would stop hurting in a few minutes as long as I did not touch it.

Lard followed us from Asfordby Road to Scalford Road, and then to Bulawayo where, unsurprisingly, it was also a staple in British colonial homes.

At 17 I left home and never heard, spoke of or thought about lard until 1974 when I was living in Victoria Falls working for The United Touring Company. I shared a mess with Jules from the Crocodile Farm, Harry, a bank teller, Marc the hairdresser in The Casino and two girl croupiers, both gorgeous, suave, sophisticated, hugely desirable and totally untouchable. One of the girls was a recent immigrant from the UK and carried in her luggage a Monty Python LP.

I think most people living in Rhodesia had never heard of Monty Python. There was no cinema in the village, no television signal within about 300 miles and sanctions had largely severed cultural influence between The Mother Country and Rhodesia, so English publications were few and far between.

The LP, a collection of the sketches that are now written into our history (I wonder if people will be singing The Lumberjack Song in 2023) was passed from home to home to be met with a mix of shock and incredulity, amazement, delight and disgust.

Its presence in the village was reported to the police who briefly seized the record which they investigated, before returning it to circulation declaring that it was not subversive as it did not appear in the Government Schedule of Banned Publications.

Our mess loved it. Each time the LP found its way home we would listen repeatedly, memorising every word and inflexion. This is when lard resurfaced, to stay with me forever.

One of the sketches, in which a Python answering the phone on behalf of another, says to the caller, “… hang on a moment, he’s just putting some lard on the cats’ boils …”

I know, I know, it does not sound that funny but if a Python says it, it does. I know a timeless killer line when I hear one. It is still my favourite telephone pause and is used at every opportunity.

There you have my story of an underrated cooking ingredient. Lard definitely has its place. I don’t know what Brian uses it for.

It does not often come up but a recent radio programme mentioned ‘Armstrong Siddley’, a famous car marque from the first half of the last century. Strange as it may sound my father, then a young, poor, struggling provincial newspaper reporter in the early 1950’s, owned an Armstrong Siddley. Family myth holds that he bought it from a bloke he met in a pub, for £50 which he borrowed from his my mother’s Dad.

An Armstrong Siddley was a poor man’s Rolls Royce, and this particular vehicle was a very poor man’s Rolls Royce. Father had limited motor experience and no licence but things were different in those days. My Grandfather, who had no car, little experience and no licence, taught Dad to drive

Experience taught us that this particular Armstrong was virtually an irrecoverable wreck but Grandpa was a clever engineer – he could make anything mechanical work - and managed to repair and maintain it. To us kids was a wondrous car, in which we would head out to pubs, picnics, and pubs at weekends.

An abiding memory I have of the Armstrong Siddley is set in Lincoln, en route to holiday in Mablethorpe where Grandfather Manning lived alone in a house equipped with the very bare necessities of a bachelor life. So for any visit longer than a day trip, and this was to be a week long holiday, equipment and provision had to be made.

As well as bedding for three small kids, clothes, food, toiletries, et al had to accompany us in the car. I recall being very excited by our novel seating position for the journey, which was several inches higher than usual atop mattresses and bedding.

At eighty miles the drive would always take a torturous half a day to complete, a lengthy and ever increasingly uncomfortable journey for kids. On this occasion, as on every trip to Mablethorpe, Tim would throw up and then fall to sleep. Becky and I almost willed him to throw up so that he would shut up and sleep. He did, sandwiched between my sister and myself.

Always a relief to reach Lincoln, it was the halfway break point and regarded as the watershed of the journey. But as we approached the railway crossing that divided the main road through that town there was a howl of distress from Timothy, not a feigned cry but one of true terror. He was screaming and kicking, his head trapped.

Dad abruptly pulled on to the pavement of the busy shop lined street and four of us jumped out.

Tim’s screaming continued unabated, his legs flailing the air with his head somehow, magically, in his sleep and unnoticed by anyone, jammed in the cavity created by the opened centre armrest which, face down, he straddled.

There was panic and confusion. Tim’s screaming increased as Mum attempted to release him, and crowds gathered. Bystanders helped with the hurried unloading of the car contents to allow a grip to be gained upon the writhing body.

One helper, a-man-who-knew-about-these-things, suggested that the best way to release the head was to access the rear of the seat from the boot. The contents of which, with the enthusiastic help of many hands, shortly joined the bedding on the pavement. But the rear of the seat was solidly sealed, there was no access to the armrest cavity.

Mother, The Engineers Daughter, had a brainwave.

“Lard”!

Naturally, we carried lard amongst the provisions.

Boxes already unloaded from the boot were decanted onto the pavement and the block was found, opened and liberally smeared onto and around my brother’s head.

As I guarded the small mountain of possessions heaped upon the pavement I wondered at the fact that our single most valuable possession, our silver engraved teapot, had found its way to the very top of the pile. I watched the teapot until an even more awesome distraction took my attention – the arrival of the fire brigade. I was agape. There was my favourite toy, full scale, here. For us.

Firemen jumped out of their truck, pulled my father bodily from one side of the car, and mother, with her weeping Timothy in her arms, from the other.

The second half of our journey to Mablethorpe is a bit of a blur but I can recall that everything felt a bit greasy.

"Good old Smitty", or, ‘How I became a sharpshooter.'

With an exactness that could be expected of a military train, at 2318 hours precisely the Llewellyn Barracks Express began it's crawl out of Gwelo Station. It was a Brief Encounter moment as the newest Gwelo contingent of national service conscripts, about 75 of us, waved and called goodbyes to parents and siblings, a few girlfriends and the odd wife. Mother was mimicking the other mums on the platform - sobbing into the hand clasped over her mouth. In the harsh strobe of the platform lamps it was hard to make out if she was gagging with sadness or relief. I could only guess. We hadn't got on with each other for years.

Twenty seconds later the bend swung us into the blanket darkness of an African night. I pulled hard the shiny leather strop which raised the panorama window. Even though it was stifling hot inside the compartment it was an understood convention that when in motion, a closed window was preferable to sitting in a compartment buzzing with mosquitoes and moths, and cinders from the giant Garrett engine clanking along at an impressive 20 miles per hour.

Rhodesia had a single continuous rail route through the country, an extension of the line from the Mozambique port of Beira in the east, exiting the country into Botswana in the west. This train had begun its 400 mile journey to Llewellyn Barracks early that day in Umtali near the Mocambique border, collecting conscripts from the capital city Salisbury and small towns and sidings along the way. Our rail warrants would take us to the Llewellyn Barracks siding, a few miles outside Bulawayo.

Army service was a rite of passage for all young white and mixed race men in Rhodesia. A replenishing stream of new soldiers was required to fight terrorists/freedom fighter incursions from nationalist armies gathering in Zambia and Mocambique.

06 January 1970, 0500hrs and the train slowed to a stop at the Llewellyn siding. With trepidation we squint into the headlights of a convoy of trucks and jeeps parked facing the carriages. As the carriages clatter to a stop a squad of scowling red hats board and move along the corridors, banging on the doors with truncheons (quite unnecessarily) and shouting for us get our bags, get off the train to form an orderly line. The bottom step is four feet above track level so we have to drop our luggage and jump down, then try to form a line in the confusion of dazzle and shouted commands.

From the siding we were taken directly to the canteen and given a surprisingly hearty breakfast. There we were introduced to ‘Army Tea'. I don't know what it was made of but there appeared to be no tea leaves involved in the brewing. (that was not ‘first impression' tea – it was Army Tea. In my entire military career I never did see evidence of a tea leaf. From day one we were convinced of the truth of the rumour that the tea contained bromide, a chemical believed to curtail sex drive.) We were then herded by ‘staff' (instructors), or ‘marched' in very ragged form, to a draughty reception hanger where at endless desks unhappy NCO's were sat ready to begin the registration process.

The queue was shouted from desk to desk in a blur of questions and instructions and form filling. At one point I was allotted a number and rank, from then on was no longer identified as "YOU", but ‘74365 Rifleman Manning, John J'. That number stays with you until you die. And death, we were assured in a later pep talk, was the only way out.

Name, address, D.O.B. marital status, education, languages, experience and religion. There was no mucking about with religion – if you couldn't think of one, you were CofE. When I told the staff clerk I was ‘Congregationalist' his already sullenly unsmiling face curdled into a terrifying grimace. If I'd declared, "Your mother is a whore", he could not have looked more furious. I feared he was going to physically strike me. So I quickly changed it to CofE.

Moving on, I was issued with my Dog Tags, our ‘DTs'. Following signature (everything had to be signed for) these were handed over, or ‘tossed' to be accurate. My DT's comprised two discs, each the size of an old fashioned penny, both drilled so they could be threaded on the accompanying neck chain.

The polished metal disc was described as indestructible other than by intense heat while the red asbestos one, we were told, would survive a phosphorous fire. Both discs would subsequently be stamped with army number, name, blood group and religion (I'd have needed huge dog tags for ‘Congregationalist'). We were all left in no doubt that DT's were to be worn always, without exception and the penalty for ever being seen without them would be terrible.

The medical assessment section was distinguished by its discreet positioning two yards from the queue of conscripts still filing into the hangar. A corporal sporting a red cross on white armband was seated at a desk, ticking names and handing out forms to be completed. He wore an expression of terminal boredom and disinterest. I subsequently learned he patented this look and it is now licensed for use in GP's Receptionist Training Centres throughout the English speaking world.

Barefoot on the cold concrete and stripped down to underwear we were given heart, lung, and blood pressure checks before being instructed to enter the ‘tent', an area shielded in privacy by a single, white, diaphanous flapping curtain where an officer sat at a desk. Pointing at a line chalked three feet in front of the desk the orderly indicated I should stand there.

"Stand still! Face the desk."

The officer starred at me, made a note and then, raising a finger, nonchalantly drew a half circle in the air.

The orderly shouted, "Turn around, drop your pants. Spread your legs bend over and hold your ankles … I said SPREAD them … alright, stand up and face the desk … I DID'NT say pull ‘em up!"

The officer, presumably a doctor, stood and came around the desk. Nose to nose he held my testicles in his frozen hands.

"Cough", the officer said.

"COUGH!", the orderly echoed, quite unnecessarily.

"Pull your pants up. Turn around. Walk six steps forward, turn, and return to this line."

Making a mark on my record the officer, without looking up, said,

"Flat footed. HQ company. Go."

‘The Lines' (the foot soldiers) would go to the front. Headquarter Company soldiers were the administrative and supply department that ran the management of stores and supplies, transport, military police, medical, catering, finance etc etc.

That afternoon we were called to our first ‘parade' which was in fact a haircut parade. Everyone, however smartly they'd presented themselves that morning, was obliged to take the cut, which cost 1s 6d. I felt that charge very unjust given that each conscript spent exactly 3 minutes in the chair.

For the first six weeks we were subjected to a rigorous exercise regime. Restricted to barracks, every day was filled with drill, marching, physical exercise, cross country, lectures, and every movement we made had to be made ‘at the double'. By 2100hrs we would fall into bed for a dreamless sleep to be rudely woken minutes later – 0500 hours, but it seemed like minutes – for SSS (shit, shower and shave), make bed (hospital corners) clean toilet block and barrack room, dress for inspection, double to canteen for breakfast, change into fatigues for training and repeat the routine.

We became exhausted, drained by being on the go, constantly shouted at by the staff, physically spent by the end of day and, although the food was plentiful and delicious, always hungry. I finished the six weeks initial training aware of muscles I didn't know that I had. We were all very fit.

Over the following ten weeks we trained to use a range of weapons, the primary one being the FN rifle which we always carried. We were taught how it works, how to break it down, how to reassemble, how to clean it, how to perform field maintenance, how to load it, how to unload it, and how to fire it. And how to open beer bottles with it. (about 12 ways). We'd collect our rifle from the weapons store after breakfast, carry it at the ready all day (no shoulder sling permitted) and check it back into the armoury overnight. If at any time our trainers spotted that our rifle was further than arms reach away, we would be charged with ‘abandoning your weapon'.

As in every group of people randomly forced together there is always one mentally challenged individual, known in military terms as ‘a thicko', and Smitty was ours. Rifleman Smit was so mentally challenged that he could have been granted exemption from service but we speculated that his parents were either too stupid to apply for it on his behalf, or they were relieved to have the respite of his absence.

Smitty was always keen to apply himself but sadly he existed in a state of permanent bewilderment. Given any command or instruction Smitty's head would follow his eye rolling search for guidance ("…how … what? … where?..."). He could barely dress himself. I don't think he could read and he certainly found it impossible to reassemble his rifle. The instructors recognised his limitations and allowed him a lot of slack where individual tasks were involved, although we had to compensate while working as a group.

Save for one activity – marching. I, and others, came to actually enjoy marching. There is satisfaction to be had from the precision and symmetry. And it is an excellent cure for a hangover. But however hard he tried, Smitty could not march. He was keen but lacked any kind of co-ordination, he was all arms and legs. It was ugly to behold, so Smitty was always sent on a spurious errand immediately before the CO's Saturday parade.

Weeks of repetitive handling and firing practise culminated in a firing test when scores were recorded and added to the military record. Two levels of competency could be met, ‘proficient' and ‘sharpshooter'. On the range, with a magazine of 20 rounds of ammunition a cardboard figurine would be raised and the shooter would do his best to get as many shots as possible in the target.

A proficient shooter would score 14 hits or more. A sharpshooter would score 19 or 20 hits. The only reward for qualifying as a sharpshooter was permission to wear a boy scout style crossed rifles badge on your sleeve. No extra pay, but there was a certain cache to be had, so 19 or 20 was a coveted score.

On the appointed Firing Grades morning we (about 50 in our Company) drew our rifles and marched to the butts. Ammunition was handed out and we each loaded 20 rounds into our magazines. In blocks of 15 riflemen we lay down in a numbered row, facing the correspondingly numbered butts. Smitty happened to be in my immediate right. As always he was furtively looking to his left and his right with his expression of bewildered incomprehension, mouthing,

"What do I …. When do we… How can I … tell me… "

There was no time to help, we are focussed on the task ahead.

" RIFLE POINTING AHEAD!"

"INSERT MAGAZINE!"

At this point the targets rose out of their channel

"COCK YOUR WEAPON! SAFETY OFF!"

I can faintly hear Smitty, " which… when… now…?

"AIM! 20 ROUNDS, FIRE AT WILL!"

When the firing ended we followed instructions to "safety on …magazines out, … check your weapon … lay weapon down… stand up… walk forward to your target", where a warrant officer met us at the butts and with a special tool marked each bullet hole, recorded the hits.

It takes the best part of the morning for the company to complete this exercise and after cleaning and returning our rifles to the armoury, we assemble to hear the scores. Our platoon sergeant reads them out.

"Johnson … 15, van Heerden… 14, Davis … 11, Potgeiter … 16, Bradock … 16, Smit … 4, Manning … 22, Southern … 14, McCaan … 13, …

So that's how you become a sharpshooter.

© John Manning (2024)