Christmas Capers

I recently attended a reunion with some former colleagues from a specialist unit we were all once members of. Most of us don’t see one another for years at a time, some for over a decade and some, well, some have passed on and are remembered in the stories and tales we recall and regale them with. One of my friends had begun working with another agency, still very much in the same vein of his former employment but with far more reasonable working hours, which got us to discussing how much time we’d spent away from family in the name of dedication to the work we did. Which in turn made me think about the Christmases I’d missed or been deployed far from home and how that had made me feel at the time and how I felt about it now, all these years later.

I won’t moan about being deployed away from home for so many Christmases, after all, most of that was down to my choice of wanting to be operational, doing the job for real. And back way back when, we didn’t have the connectivity of instant communications with friends and family. Actual letters, a phone call from a landline telephone (if you had access to one), or, in some cases, a radio call patched through to a UK landline. The latter still makes me chuckle at how archaic that sounds in this day and age. And how frustrating it was trying to teach my partner at the time to say ‘Over’ when she had finished her sentence. So, I think maybe back then, there was an element of not missing Christmas so much as we didn’t have immediate access to be able to watch in real time, our loved ones enjoying their day.

My first Christmas away from home was spent as a young Royal Marine in South Armagh, Northern Ireland. Bandit Country, as it was referred to. At the time I was single and not much of a homebody so the impact upon me was minimal. A Christmas dinner was cooked and those of us who weren’t on guard in the sangars sat down to enjoy the turkey, potatoes, and veg our Royal Marine chefs had cooked for us. The officers, as was the tradition, served the Christmas meal to us common types and I remember thinking at the time that it showed them in a more human light, rather than just our leaders and superiors. Good banter and high morale had by all but immediately after, it was back to work as usual, switching with the guys on guard to let them come and have their meal. I didn’t think too deeply about things at the time but when I look back now at my peer group of 19 – 25 year olds sleeping in a single man room with six bunks in each, donning helmet, radio, weapon and ammunition and looking at a rain drenched village in South Armagh where locals went about their own Christmas, visiting family, exchanging gifts, cooking the dinner, the contrast between our experience and the general public couldn’t have been more stark.

Another Christmas some years later, again as a Royal Marine, and again in the lashing, horizontal rain, saw me standing yards from a nuclear submarine guarding it against intruders. Faslane Naval Base, Helensburgh, Scotland, home to the UK’s nuclear deterrent and a target for CND protesters, Russian spies, and intrusive media. As a single man posted to Commachio Group Royal Marines, it was inevitable that I would pick up the Christmas deployment to stand in the driving rain for hours at a time while the rest of the country sat with swollen bellies snoozing through The Queen’s Speech. I came off my stint on the jetty just after four in the morning and was rudely awakened at six in the morning by pounding on our accommodation door. Bleary eyed, exhausted, and a tad ill-tempered, I opened the door and blurted out ‘What the f*** do you want?’ Before realising that the damp, uniform-clad individual before me was my Commanding Officer; the CO, a Lieutenant Colonel and about the highest rank a young Royal Marine would ever be exposed to. Before I could stammer out an apology and retract my words, he held out two bags and in the most joyful, plummy, posh accent bellowed ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS ROYAL MARINES!’ He deposited the bags into my hands, spun on his heel and departed, leaving me bewildered as I stared at a bag of tangerines and a net of walnuts. I recall shaking my head as the realisation came to me that the upper class were well and truly different from the rest of us.

The Famous Christmas Food Fight of Four-Five Commando: I had the ‘opportunity’ to spend another Christmas working rather than being at home with my partner. On this occasion, the Christmas dinner was scheduled for several days before the big day to allow the entire unit to enjoy it en masse before breaking up for Christmas Leave. I was a bit older and wiser by now and knew that so many reprobates attending a dinner in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster. Again, as tradition directed, the meal was to be served by the Sergeants and Officers. Even as we paraded in single file into the galley, the mood of mischievous intent was palpable as small groups of Marines schemed and plotted while giggling like naughty schoolboys. As we took our seats, the RSM, a tall, glowering figure of a man with a fearsome reputation, stood on a table and growled at us. This was a Christmas dinner and would be eaten with respect for the food and the officers and senior serving it. A food fight was NOT a tradition and anyone thinking it was would soon find out the hard way that it wasn’t . . . That last statement had barely concluded when a spectacularly large Granny Smith apple shot across the room and smacked the RSM straight in his right eye. His bellow of rage was cut short as he toppled from the table and disappeared behind it as he crashed to the floor. Then it was as if someone had pressed a button that said ‘Wild West fight now’. The entire massive dining hall erupted into chaos as every type of food became a projectile and the air filled with shouts, screams, and cackles of laughter. I watched a Colour Sergeant whose nickname was ‘The White Rat’ sprint for the safety of the solid metal serving area only to be felled at the last moment by a fast-travelling roast potato which exploded on his head, tearing his little paper crown off and causing him to drop to his knees, mouth wide in rage and shock as he yelled his displeasure. An unfortunate young Captain almost made it to the hard cover of the kitchen before he was stopped in his tracks by a turkey drumstick to his cheek, the offending item somersaulting across the room before striking its target with a satisfying smack of flesh on flesh. Bread rolls filled the air as the most abundant ammunition source, followed by the roast potatoes, chosen for their optimum weight and pleasing range, finding their targets the entire length of the room. I’m not sure when exactly the first plate was frisbeed across the battlefield but having up to this point sustained no serious injuries, I decided discretion was the better part of valour and conducted a fighting withdrawal towards the fire exit. Even as I hard-targeted between tables, the scenes of carnage all around me told me I was doing the right thing: A marine I knew from Zulu Company caught my eye and was laughing from behind the cover of a table until an entire jug of gravy was poured over his head, cutting short his guffaws. A furtive scurrying drew my attention and I watched as a lance corporal from Support Company darted on all fours between the tables, avoiding the mayhem above him until a large hairy hand shot down and stabbed a fork into his arse cheek. His back arched and his scream of shock and pain dominated the room as he threw his hand behind him to remove the offending item from his buttocks. The smashing of plates grew louder as the acceptance of this escalation of weaponry was embraced by all and I’d just kicked the fire exit door open when a barrage of china exploded against it, my escape having now been compromised. I made it outside, doubled over with laughter at the chaos and carnage I had just witnessed, then moved swiftly away from the scene of the crime. The next morning there was a half-hearted attempt by several Sergeants to identify the main miscreants and bring them to justice but with every man involved in the fracas in one way or another, it was a futile task. I would find myself breaking into giggles days later when I would encounter one of the seniors or officers with a spectacular black eye, the battle scars from the Famous Christmas Food Fight of Four-Five Commando.

In a completely different vein from the story above, while working in a special operations role in a European country, I was covering the Christmas period as part of a small standby team. At the time, I was living in a Safe House in a rural community away from our area of operations. It had been snowing heavily but the good kind of snow; that dry, soft powder you can just shake off your jacket or kick off your boots. The snow also seemed to fall mainly at night, leaving the days cold, crisp, and clear. I’d also adopted a dog at that time and she was my constant companion and as we had a lot of free time, we’d spend the days in silent forests, the only sounds the crunching of our feet and paws in the freshly fallen snow. I didn’t engage much with the locals, a nod and wave to those I passed on the road pretty much the limit. As this was a counter-insurgency situation, it wasn’t always apparent who the bad guys were or who supported them. Add to that the fact that I wasn’t fluent in the language, I would be immediately identified as ‘not local’. Of course, I had a solid cover story to explain all that but the thing with a cover story is that you want to deploy it as little as possible. One afternoon however, I returned to my house and saw a tractor sitting in the road outside with a man I recognised as a neighbour from a mile or so up the road. I already knew from research his whole background, affiliations, family etc so knew that he wasn’t a threat. As I approached, he waved at me to come over and I made my way to him. He was older than me and had the craggy, tanned complexion of someone who spends most of their life outdoors. Even though he was no threat, I was covertly armed, very well trained, and confident that I could get myself out of any difficulties that might arise. I also had to appear natural, behave as any other individual would in these circumstances. As I approached, he climbed down from the tractor and ruffled my dog’s fur, grinning as he did so. He then addressed me in English, heavily accented but very clear.

‘Why you not go home for Christmas?’

I explained that my work needed me here as a response guy for any problems and that I had gotten home the year before when I worked in a different part of the country so it was my turn this year.

‘My wife, she worry for you. You alone, only with dog. Dog okay, but people better at Christmas.’

I started to speak but he held up his hand as he smiled.

‘No. She send me to get you. You come, dog come, you eat, you drink, get fat, and sleep. You do this in UK also, yes?’

I laughed and nodded, forming the polite refusal in my head, getting the words right so as not to cause offence. The offence part didn’t really concern me as much as being remembered for rudeness and being spoken about and brought up in conversations, highlighting me as opposed to me blending into the background as Mr Uninteresting. But the bigger part of me didn’t want to turn down an offer of genuine charity from what I assessed to be good people. The silence stretched on for a moment before I broke it with a smile and a nod.

‘Thank you so much, I accept your generous offer, just let me grab a few things.’

He returned my smile and clapped my shoulder before leaping back on his tractor and turning it around in a slow circle through the snow. I made my way quickly into the house and retrieved a couple of bottles of single malts that I had, dumped them in a bag and made my way back outside. I waved and began to walk but my neighbour beckoned me to bring the dog and jump up on the tractor. After coaxing my trusty hound up, I followed and squeezed into the cab as we made our way the mile or so to his farm. Without going into great detail, I hold this memory dear to me as one of the most lovely Christmas memories I have of being deployed abroad. His wife and children were wonderful, all spoke some level of English so communication was a lot easier than I’d thought. The kids were rapt with my pooch who in turn, was absolutely lapping up the attention and the scraps of meat being discreetly passed to her under the table by her new-found friends. The meal was incredible with a lot of local dishes which I’d come to enjoy already while in-country. We spoke of family, friends, food, customs, exchanged stories and for four or so hours I experienced a Christmas as I think it was always meant to be. Camaraderie trumping consumerism with no extravagant gifts or presents. Wholesome food and just the right amount of alcohol to encourage rather than embarrass. Conversation and engagement replacing the standard focus on what’s on the television screen.

I realise how idyllic that last story sounds but that’s how it happened. A stranger identified as being alone and far from home, welcomed and cared for by a family to whom such a thing was unthinkable. That they would have felt uncomfortable with themselves had they not at least attempted to invite the stranger to share Christmas with them. And by share, I really mean in the vein of ‘what’s ours is yours’, such was their genuine generosity. I’ve since had many other times when I wasn’t at home for Christmas, some of them okay, some of them downright miserable, but none of them even close to my experience with my farmer neighbour and his family. It taught me several lessons which I’ve always held close to me, the key one being the actual spirit of Christmas itself, which I know can sometimes be lost in the cavalcade of consumerism we embark upon each year. It also taught me to appreciate each Christmas I had at home as, in many places around the globe and in far harsher circumstances, there are men and women deployed who aren’t so fortunate as to be experiencing a day such as I had.

So, Merry Christmas to all and I hope you have a terrific day surrounded by friends and family with as much laughter as the Famous Four-Five Commando Food Fight!