CALL OF DUTY
Despite being denied entry to the services this columnist often finds himself in the heat of battle
Alan Cochrane defends the members of the forces he so admires
The doctor at the school medical looked quite sad and more than a bit worried when she took me by the arm and said: ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.’
Cripes, as we don’t say in Dundee, I wondered what calamity was about to befall me. ‘I’m sorry, Alan, but you won’t be able to join the Royal Navy,’ said the doctor, before adding, ‘ you’re colour blind.’
Apparently it’s all to do with being unable to differentiate between the various red and green navigation lights. Mind you, the disability doesn’t seem to have affected a friend who’s managed to sail round the world without mishap. Well, not too many.
Anyway, back then the nice lady doctor clearly thought that this was devastating news to impart to a 13-year-old but as a life on the ocean wave had never crossed my mind I managed to take it my stride. It came as no surprise to my parents as both my grandfathers suffered from the same affliction.
With a career in at least one of the armed services ruled out at an early age I threw myself into the inky trade where I’ve been ever since. Journalists are always rubbing shoulders with servicemen, sometimes in the world’s hot spots, although that was never my experience. The nearest I came to the Falklands War was in the old Annie’s Bar in the House of Commons where a silence descended on the normally merry throng of lobby correspondents and MPs when the news broke that HMS Sheffield had been successfully attacked by the Argentine air force. That was the moment when we realised that this was a ‘real’ war.
In a long career I had only one terrifying moment when Maggie Thatcher poked her head out of a Challenger tank on Luneburg Heath in Germany, whilst RAF Harriers – yes, they still had them then – helped attack a wooded hill a few hundred yards ahead of us. Those were a truly scary couple of seconds, until I remembered that the Iron Lady was on our side.
As an amateur student of warfare, I find the history of the British armed forces totally absorbing. What’s most impressive is the almost universal and selfless dedication of the officers and men down the ages in spite of being let down, time without number, by governments of every persuasion. The biggest surprise is that they keep coming back for more, no matter the continued penny-pinching over ‘kit’ and the often hopeless tasks they’re handed.
It’s not envy that lies at the root of my admiration for servicemen because I know I couldn’t hope to do what they do. I think it might be because of their tremendous camaraderie, in spite of the barbs they hurl at each other. And, make no mistake, servicemen – of my acquaintance at least – can be incredibly bitchy, just as long as there are no civilians about to hear their bon mots.
In that way they’re very like journalists and, like we hacks, they’re not averse to the odd sherbet. Many’s the bottle I’ve shared with them.
In spite of that nice doctor telling me that I could never join the Royal Navy, I did manage three weeks with the Senior Service, along with an ITN camera crew, reporting on how HMS Leander and a couple of other frigates held off the might of the Icelandic navy, which consisted of three heavily armoured gunboats, during the Second Cod War.
It is very pleasing to see that my high regard for our servicemen is matched by the esteem in which they’re held by the ordinary man and woman in the street. It more than makes up for the way they’re consistently let down by politicians.