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I don’t know for how
long I’d thought about it. ? But, somewhere in 1947ish, I decided
I’d had enough. I’d been in one home or the other all my life, and
all I ever wanted was to be a member of ‘the outside’. !! We were
‘inside’ and the rest of mankind was ‘outside’.
So, this professional
coward decided to give it a go. I was going to ‘do a bunk’. - No
plans about what would actually happen. No thought given as to how I
would survive. I just had to get away. - Silly really. I was
slightly better off than most of my fellow inmates. I played
table-tennis for the school, I swam for the school, and occasionally
I played football for the school. - All of which meant, that on away
match dates, I was given a whiff of the outside world. So I don’t
really know why I finally came to this decision.
I wasn’t a ‘smoker’.
The ‘toilet trading post’ for such goods, was never a place I
frequented. But, if I’m to be seen outside, as a professional 16year
old, I’d better look the part. - Which is how I came to visit the
den of iniquity (the trading post), and via the good fortune of
saving various meals for trading purposes, managed to acquire my
first ever packet of 10 X Craven ‘A’. - These would be my passport
to normality. My first ever fags.
I can’t quite
remember the details of how I managed to become an escapee, but I do
recall that I made directly for the gorse bushes of Hertford Common.
(I think). - Here, I not only escaped the beady eyes of any
potential searcher, but also settled back to try my first ‘drag’. I
can honestly say now, that this was ‘the first major mistake of my
young life’.
I’d hardly started my
tour of freedom (perhaps a couple of hours), and here I was –
vomiting – spewing – groaning - moaning, and feeling very very sorry
for myself. Why. ? Because this young idiot attempted to smoke the
entire packet of Craven ‘A’. All in one go. Silly boy. My downfall
of course.
I was so carried away
with my living hell, that I hardly noticed the people creeping up on
me, capturing me, and hauling me back to Stalag 17. Terrified of the
retribution that would follow.
In fact, I always
thought I was one of Joe Patch’s favourites. I was a good gymnast,
always did well in the gym, and was a bit of an all-round sportsman
and athlete. For some odd reason, which escapes me even now, my
regard for Mr Patch, and his perceived regard for me, seemed to be
totally overlooked by him! It seemed that he had this foible, of
intense dislike of all those who did bunks! He had the odious
task, of punishing people who didn’t seem to have his regard for
relishing punishing people!!
He also had ‘an
animal’, and ‘a stick’. He seemed to think we boys loved both. ! So,
to reduce my punishment to a more acceptable level, he firstly made
me hang from the wall-bars (in the gym), with his animal (I think
it’s name was ‘Wolf’), keeping me company, to ensure that I didn’t
fall and hurt myself. !!! I think this went on for 4 days. Or was it
1 hour ?
This pleasant
pastime, was interspersed with a jolly little caper in the ‘Rec’
hut. - There was I recall, a double-sided bench, that ran along the
centre width of the hut. It was comparatively easy to jump onto the
bench, climb over the top, jump down the other side, crawl
underneath, and then start the procedure all over again. - But, for
2hrs. !!! I can’t actually
remember for how long I did this. But, I wanted to ‘please’ Joe. He
‘asked me’ if I’d do it, and I obliged. !!! He was delighted, and
promised to punish me again if I so wished. !
The rest of my total
punishment escapes me. Probably bread and water for a week, and
other privileges taken away from me. However, whatever the total
payment was, I resolved that perhaps after all, the ‘outside’ world
wasn’t really what I wanted! Here I was, the world’s first
successful failure. I’d made a hash of it all, and paid the price.
Doing a bunk was
obviously not my cup of tea. Although it did have one tiny bit of
momentary happiness. - At the ‘request’ of Mr ‘Pinhead’ Wheatley, I
visited his study. We had a chat, which resulted in something nasty.
But, standing there quivering, I was able to cast my eyes upon the
piano in one corner of the room. - To me, this was magic. I always
longed to be a musician. A pianist in fact. And whilst ‘sir’ droned
on in the background, I was already in the Albert Hall, brilliantly
playing Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto in C min. - Reality soon came
flooding back however, and yours truly was made to pay.
So there you have it.
I never attempted such a foolhardy adventure again. Somehow, I was
‘influenced and persuaded’ to retain my status of captivity. And, to
appreciate it. (all in retrospect of course).
Cheers,
Colin ‘the bunk’ Leaney.
THE REAL THING – NOT A REHEARSAL This is Colin's story of
the homes he found himself in and through his working life.
Click here to read >>>>>
Colin Leaney. © 2001
- 2006. |