Bullshit Baffles Brains

Bombardier Bob Grice had been a sergeant then got himself busted (twice) down to the basic rank of gunner.  His great character, initiative and natural low cunning had got him promoted again.

The big gruff Yorkshireman had grown up in a succession of orphanages and foster homes forcing him to become self reliant or, as one Sergeant Major had described him: “As sharp as a shit house rat and slicker than snot on a glass banister.”  

Bob had joined the British Army in 1943 at the age of 18 and showed great promise in basic training. He had gone ashore on D day plus one with his regiment of 25 pounder field guns and fought a hard campaign. This was followed in the fifties by the war in Korea. After that he’d fought the Communist terrorists in the jungles of Malaya then, after a quiet spell in England, he’d been posted to Singapore.

This posting in 1963 was just in time for the Indonesian confrontation and he saw action in Brunei and Borneo.

Various commanding officers over the years had despaired of Bob as a soldier but greatly respected him as a man. He was a lovable rogue, always cheerful, full of enthusiasm and no one ever heard him moan or complain about anything. He showed a surprising range of skills including that of bookmaker to his unit. This was an activity much frowned upon by authority but tolerated because he was discrete and always paid up if he lost.
 
The trouble with Bob was he liked a drink and, when in his cups, saw no wrong in calling a spade a spade often using his fists to emphasize his point.

The last time he’d done it he’d punched the Regimental Sergeant Major in the sergeants' mess. The RSM, an old veteran himself, had knocked Bob senseless and put him to bed. However Bob had paid the price he was busted and posted. Now after two years good behaviour and performance he had two of his three stripes back.

It was 1967 and Bob, now serving in Germany, was looking forward to retirement. He had one year to go to complete 25 years service and hoped to make sergeant again to boost his pension.

Exercise “Quick Train” was a test of readiness in case the Russians decided to turn the cold war hot. Every year the whole of the British Army of the Rhine took to the field at short notice to run around the German countryside for three days with virtually no sleep before going home again and sinking back into their usual state of unpreparedness.

This year the brigadier had decided that the cooks would carry weapons and act as proper soldiers; the field kitchens would not be set up for the men. They would survive on 24 hour ration packs cooking for themselves over Hexamine stoves. This order of course excluded the officers who had a catering corporal assigned to their mess tent.

Cook corporal Willie Watson was suffering from a severe hangover when the troops were called out on Quick Train. He wasn't feeling much better the next morning when he cooked the officers’ breakfasts. He was finishing service when he managed to burn his hand quite severely and was sent to the British Military Hospital in Hannover.

Major John Thetford-Beavis, finding that there wasn't a replacement cook to be had was cursing his luck and thinking things couldn't get any worse. That was before he received a radio massage to say the Colonel would be visiting with the brigadier and dining with them that evening. The major was beginning to panic when he remembered that Bombardier Grice had a reputation of being an excellent hand with field rations.

‘Yes sir, certainly sir’ said the amiable Grice when told he would be chef that night. ‘If I might make a suggestion sah?’

‘Certainly bombardier.’

‘Well sir for a hundred marks or so I could nip down to the nearest village and obtain some proper supplies sir.’ He paused whilst this idea sank into the officer’s consciousness. ‘After all sir we don’t get many chances to impress the brigadier sir.’

The major thought for a moment and decided that making a favourable impression on the brigadier could do his career no harm at all. ‘You know bombardier you’re absolutely right and I suppose mess funds can stand it.’ The money was promptly found and handed over.

Bob grabbed four of his most trusted gunners and drove the major’s Land Rover down the lane. After a mile he stopped near a farm. He had spotted a golden opportunity.

‘Right two of you out and pick me those blackberries and you others into that orchard and grab some cooking apples. Look sharp now.’

Bob looked up the drive towards the farm he saw around the side of the building a hen pen. He knew a bit about chickens having been once fostered on a farm. There, strutting about in all his glory, was the most beautiful rooster he’d ever seen.

Keeping out of sight of the house Bob climbed into the pen and grabbed the prize cockerel. Tucking it under his arm he marched up to the farmhouse and knocked on the door.

‘Jah Mein herr?’ queried the farmer’s wife.

‘Sprechen sie English bitte?’ Bob asked in his broad Yorkshire accent.

‘Nein.’ She replied and then called over her shoulder to her daughter.

Helga was a bright young girl about 15 years old ‘Mother says how she can help you und vie are you holding my father’s cock?’

‘Ah’ said Bob struggling to keep a straight face ‘I'm returning it to you. It was on the road and I almost ran over it. He handed the bird to the girl with exaggerated care. ‘I can see it’s a very valuable bird. I'm so glad I managed to miss it.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Helga looking concerned.

‘Oh yes I managed to get the Landrover out of the ditch without too much trouble and there’s no real damage done' he said in a tone which conveyed that the just opposite was true.'I'm just glad your bird is OK.'

Helga translated for her mother who looked from the bird to Bob her mouth agape ‘Mein liebe gott!’ she exclaimed ‘Bitte kommen sie hierein mien herr.’

‘She wants you to come in’ said Helga waving him into the large kitchen. Five minutes later, the cock having been restored to his adoring hens, Bob was ensconced in front of a blazing fire with a cold beer in his fist. He was telling Helga a tale of how he’d been ordered to provide a dinner for his officers and he’d had to scrape together a few marks to buy food for them. Would they, by any chance, be able to sell him some as the village was a good few kilometres away and he didn’t speak German.

Bob produced a pathetic handful of loose Deutsch marks and pfennigs from his pocket and proffered them his face a picture of hopeful innocence. The farmer’s wife Margot asked through her daughter how many officers had he to feed.

‘Oh only eight or so’ he said cheerfully.

Margot scurried away and produced a huge pile of wild boar cutlets plus plenty of fresh vegetables and some flour, sugar, milk, butter and eggs which she placed in a large cardboard box.

Waving away Bob’s offer of payment she explained that the cockerel was her husband’s pride and joy and saving its life would leave them forever in his debt.

Bob’s eyes reflected his deep gratitude. He smiled benignly like a bishop bestowing a benediction before finishing his beer and bowing his way out of the kitchen with many “Danky-shuns.”

His lads were sitting around smoking and looking bored having completed their task of foraging some time ago. ‘Where the hell have you been bom?’ they asked in chorus.

‘Bloody hell’ said Bob sounding aggrieved, buying food of course. These farmers drive a hard bargain lads, tight sods the lot of ‘em. Ninety eight marks the buggers charged me for this lot.’

Shaking his head sadly he loaded his ill-gotten gains into the vehicle. ‘Still it’s all fresh and there’s enough for all of us it saves us a long trip, too.’

The lads of course moaned because they’d wanted a trip to the village and the chance of a few beers. Bob on the other hand needed them bright eyed and alert to serve the meal that night.

Back at the camp Bob worked hard and produced a really delicious meal for the officers rounded off by a superb apple and blackberry crumble with lashings of home made custard.

Afterwards he made his lads do the washing up whilst he went to the mess tent to receive the congratulations due to a chef of his calibre. Thereafter Bob hung close around the back of the mess tent eaves dropping. He knew the officer clan very well and he had a sneaking suspicion of what was coming next. Well not if he could help it.
 
Sure enough his suspicions were confirmed when he heard his battery commander say 'You know old Grice really surprised me tonight I think I’ll appoint him our cook for the rest of the exercise.’ This was greeted by a wave of ascent from the others assembled.

Bob smiled wryly as he slipped away he wasn't worried for the wily old soldier had a plan.

‘Jones’ he called to the nearest gunner ‘go to the gun limber and fetch me some Swarfega and a nail brush.’

‘A nail brush Bom? Where the ‘ell am I supposed to get one of those?’

Bob thought for a moment ‘Where’s the Battery Sergeant Major?’

‘He’s gone on a reconnaissance Bom’ said Jones

That meant he’d buggered off to a Gasthoff for a few beers.

‘Right go to his tent and rescue his toothbrush ok?’

‘Yes Bom’ said Jones and hurried away.

Bob scrubbed his hands until they were immaculate his nails gleamed and the usual gun grease that got ground into the creases of his skin was no longer in evidence. The BSM’s toothbrush was duly returned and bob awaited the summons to his CO’s presence.

‘That was a superb meal bombardier the Brigadier was most impressed and asked me to thank you yet again.’

‘Oh great sir, I’m glad you all enjoyed it sir’ Bob beamed.

‘We all did enjoy it greatly so much so that we are going to let you carry on cooking Bombardier' he said in that condescending way some officers adopt.'I don’t think we’ll bother the Catering Corps for a replacement.’

‘Oh that’s wonderful news sir’ Bob enthused his face glowing with pride ‘do you know sir mixing that crumble was absolutely fantastic. I mean just look at my hands sir. That flour and butter really gets all the dirt and grime from under the fingernails sir and all the gun grease is gone too sir. It’s magic.’

The major’s smile froze on his face as he looked down at Bob’s immaculate hands. ‘Er, er.. yes, yes I see.. Well, er, we’ll talk about it again in the morning Bombardier.’

Next day it was decided that, after further consideration, the officers had deemed it unfair to put upon Bob and that he should be allowed to continue his excellent work on the guns. 