They don’t make them like that any more. It’s what my generation say about a previous generation in a way implying standards slipping, world going to the dogs, things ain’t what they used to be.
Patrick O’Donovan served in the Irish Guards in the Second World War and then was hired by David Astor (proprietor and owner of The Observer) on the strength of an essay he had written about one of the Brontë sisters. Astor was nothing like Waugh’s Lord Copper, proprietor of The Beast, but his idiosyncratic hiring led to P O’D being sent to Korea as War Correspondent for The Observer where he fell in with Patrick Skene Catling, reporting for the Baltimore Sun.
“The British Commonwealth Division occupied a sector of the Western Front athwart what was referred to as “the historic Seoul invasion route”. The British Army and associated units were conveniently near us, as well as being in action as often as other units, and more than some, and it was a hospitable division.
O’Donovan decided to do an article on the Royal Artillery. He already knew a good deal about the principles and practices of British gunners, I learned, because he had been an officer in a tank regiment of the Irish Guards in the British Army throughout World War II. Now, in Korea, he added to his improvised uniform a Brigade of Guards cap, which has a Prussian arrogance about its vertical front, with a high top and a visor that almost covers the eyes. He said that he would have to insist thenceforward on a little more respect.
”You will have to address me as Major O’Donovan,” he said. Annoyingly enough, his rank was two degrees above what mine had been, so it was no use to try to counter his new affectation in kind. I could do only the opposite: when we set off in a jeep for the British press camp, I wore a Japanese tropical-worsted shirt and trousers, leather bedroom slippers and a Korean rice-straw sombrero.
”I had never before actually believed all that I heard of Air Force slovenliness,” he commented, trying not to seem jealous as he stared at the straw hat, which was, I am willing to admit, a touch of genius.
The British public relations officer who received us at division headquarters was a striking example of War Office carelessness about matching a man’s inclinations and skills to his job. He was a quiet, gentle, rather stuffy man who wanted only to be left alone so that he could exercise his sole talent, an aptitude for sighting, capturing, and classifying butterflies.
“What do you want to do here?” he asked us apprehensively.
”Nothing,” O’Donovan said. “Simply visit some people for a day or two. All we want from you is somewhere to sleep. I thought I might do something on the Gunners. Catling here, I suppose – well, he’s from the Baltimore Sun.”
“I wanted to visit the Black Watch before they go to Kenya to fight the Mau-Mau.”
”There’s nothing been said on that,” the PRO told me sharply. “Where did you hear it?”
”Someone in Seoul. He said he always thought the Black Watch was an Ethiopian sentry.”
”Nothing has been released,” the PRO insisted.
”Then I’ll do something else. What do you recommend?”
”Oh stop fussing, Catling,” O’Donovan said. “Do the Gunners. “The beautiful precision of mathematics: death by the slide rule, etc’. They may shoot for us.” As we were being led to our tent, O’Donovan earnestly said: “By the way . . . Before we go up the line . . .”
”Yes?”
”Really, you can’t wear that hat. In the Brigade . . . “
”I’ll throw it away on one condition.”
”What’s that?”
”You stop saying ‘in the Brigade’.”
The hat was thrown away, but O’Donovan did not stick to his part of the bargain.”
(Better than Working, Patrick S Catling, 1960)
(To be continued)