'BALLS,' I said; and I think now that it was
the only truly brave utterance of my life. Like most brave acts, it was not of course at all consciously brave at the time, just completely spontaneous.
We were riding — at about 90 mph — in a huge Austin Princess limousine in about September of 1956 from the headquarters in Nicosia of the Flag Officer Middle East, Rear-Admiral Tony Miers, VC, to his residence, Admiralty House, on the south coast of Cyprus near Limassol. In front rode three identically shaven necks of armed marines, protecting the Flag Officer from the feared attentions of Eoka terror- ists — and I swear those necks bristled in unison.
Behind sat the Admiral and two three- or four-ring staff captains and comman- ders, whose jaws hit their chests with synchronised thuds. On the jump seat perched Temporary Acting Midshipman Jay, RNVR.
`Gaitskell's volte-face on the canal was typical politician's cowardice,' had said the VC. 'Balls,' said the Midshipman. Luckily for him the Flag Officer loved nothing more than a furious argument, which then raged hammer and tongs as the great car swerved and roared down to the sea. Later the Admiral became a generous patron and protected the Midshipman from a richly deserved court-martial, after he had suc- ceeded in firing the barrels of one of Her Majesty's guns several hundred yards into the sea.
As a matter of fact, at the time of the great row I had just received a most imperious message from Gaitskell, trans- mitted through Douglas, my father, re- minding me in sternly Wykehamical terms of the duties of those who wear the Queen's uniform, whatever their personal opinions may be. This — and the Navy's strong tradition of personal independence of opinion combined with strict discipline in performance — suited me well.
It enabled me both to denounce the whole business in passionate prose in my Midshipman's journal, earning a surprising 'Fine stuff' comment from my liberal- minded commanding officer, and to enjoy the matchless schoolboy fun of the opera- tion itself.
Actually, I was not strictly speaking 'at Suez' — nobody got that far. We were left behind in Cyprus to patrol that beautiful and benighted island entirely on our own, hundreds of miles of coast line at great speed and to absolutely no useful effect. But after a few days of this we were summoned to join the fleet at Port Said, where we had ample opportunity to be- come brilliantly adept ship-handlers de- livering mail and potatoes to the fleet that was anchored off the harbour. As Belloc said, 'Not war, perhaps; but how sublime!'
In short, the entire affair seemed just what it was, from Eden's portentous broadcast listened to at anchor in a bay on the north coast of Cyprus down to that special blend of chaos and farce that is the essence of arms, namely pure pantomime, disgraceful in its conception and hilarious in its execution.
Peter Jay
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