A Date With the Dirty Dozen

Dear Simon,

I had a friend back in the 1960s who was one of the kindest souls I ever knew.

Eric was an engineer by trade but also a mechanic and a “jack of all trades”. His specialty was mending television sets deemed unusable by friends and storing them in his shed. He’d spend his spare time getting the useless TVS to work and his charity was to go to folks who were retired or hard up and give them one of his working TVS and clear away the one not wanted.

I was sitting alongside Eric in his van one Sunday, returning from one of his house visits, when he suddenly pulled up by the pavement and huge wall surrounding the old clubhouse and grounds of Hendon Aerodrome.

“There shouldn’t be any American band music being played in there, that’s for sure. Let’s go and have a look.” He quickly whisked his van to a different area and we got out and were soon inside (using a secret entrance). There was plenty of activity going on. “They’re making a film over there,” said Eric. “Let’s go and have a look.”

We were soon at the heart of the action, watching soldiers in American uniform marching up and down. However, there was no band with the stop-start American band music being supplied by tape machines.

I was completely absorbed watching the marching going on when suddenly I received a very heavy shoulder charge that sent me spinning to the ground. For a couple of moments, I had no idea where I was, until I turned my face around to the side where a gently spoken American voice was asking me: “You all right, buddy? You all right buddy?”

Still on the ground but gathering my wits, I looked into the face I recognised instantly as that of Lee Marvin. He helped me to my feet and steadied me. “You gotta watch these things,” he whispered. “They can be dangerous.” He was referring to the mobile platform which had been used during the filming and which I had been oblivious to. A short chap, it would have descended on top of me, and I would have been seriously injured or worse.

“You saved my life,” I told him. He gave me a tiny smile. “Do you think I could have your autograph, please?” I asked him. Not only did he agree, he added: “You could get theirs as well,” and indicated where we could find them.

I moved towards Clint Walker – a positive favourite of mine. He was as relaxed as ever he could be, lying on a hammock while reading a cheap paperback cowboy story. After a conversation, we moved on to Stuart Cooper and then Trini Lopez of If I Had a Hammer fame, which had been top of the hit parade. He was also lying on a hammock while playing a smallish-looking guitar. He was friendly, something which we noted they all were.

As we left this scene, we did wonder what the name of this film was. It turned out to be The Dirty Dozen, to be played and replayed on television, such was its popularity. Every time I see The Dirty Dozen advertised I always think of Lee Marvin – not the star but the man who saved my life.