ROBERT DAVIDSON

The two weeks we spent in Puerto Vallarta were really memorable. The courses were of high quality and the condition of the fairways were better than some of the greens at home. Our hotel didn’t skimp on catering. It had on-the-premises restaurants; a Japanese facility, one with Italian cuisine, an a la carte French dining room, two beach side bars and a hot dog stand, with hamburgers and ribs as well. Of course, there was also the hotel’s main universal dining room. This restaurant provided three meals of superior standing each day. I love breakfast, and a place with three short order cooks standing by to make a wide range of omelettes, among many other choices, gets my vote every time.

To be fair, we could have stayed in the hotel to drink and be entertained in the evenings after golf but it’ll be no surprise to know that we didn’t.

One night it was decided to sample the local nightlife in downtown P.V.

We made a booking for our party at a night club, and showed up en masse at the appointed hour. As we entered, the establishment’s hostess’s came out of the wings and took each one of us by the arm to conduct us to our table. I should say at this point that having been in similar hostelries in Singapore, Malaya, Hong Kong, Germany, and Belgium to name but a few locations, I was more than a little blasé and this was certainly no novelty for me. Ventures in my youth into these arenas had been disastrous to say the least and were in no way inexpensive. The German girls, for example, used to say, after their third bottle of Sekt, “ Ich liebe alle euch Britische soldaten; so reich, so gross, so stark und so verdammte blöd.”

I knew instinctively that Mexico was going to be no different. I did not intend to enter into the spirit of things in any way. As soon as we were seated the girls slid onto our laps. This was the signal for me to put Plan B into action and try out my Spanish.

“Lo siento, soy homosexual.”

“Que?”

“No me gustan las chicas.”

The girl immediately left my lap and went to sit on Ralph’s, which was vacant. Ralph had not heard what I had said but was pleased that she evidently preferred his much younger thighs to mine.

He joked with her,

“He too old. He my Papa.”

She replied,

“No, ella es tu mama.”

Again, Ralph tried to correct her,

“You no understand. He my Papa”

To which she replied, in excellent American,

“I understand perfectly, darling, your amigo is a fag.”

I admit to being somewhat concerned that Ralph, instead of being shocked, actually looked as though something that had been bothering him for some time had just been cleared up.

A little later I decided to hightail it out of there, fast, spurred on by the sight of the girl with the manager, at the bar, gesticulating in my direction and pushing a curly haired young waiter, face heavily made up, toward my table.

Shortly after the invasion of Iraq, the golfing group chose Puerto Vallarta as that year’s destination. We had previously booked to go to St Kitts & Nevis in the Caribbean but due to a major hotelier purchasing the golf course, converting it to a nine hole in order to extend its buildings and other facilities, we decided to go for an alternative.  Mexico got the vote.

As soon as the three of us arrived, after a 15-hour flight from the U.K., the U.S. contingent, already in their hotel and bevvying on the huge patio area, got Marv to phone and invite us over. We showered quickly and headed down to their place.

The huge open air bar area was packed, mostly with folks from the States and some Canadians. As we entered Gary D. stood up and said in a loud voice, “The Brits are here!”

Everybody, to a man, and I mean everyone, stood and clapped. Even the bar staff joined in. This was, I’m sure everyone remembers, when Tony Blair’s stock was at its highest and he had recently received fourteen standing ovations when he addressed Congress immediately after 9/11. He had also committed Great Britain to the by now ongoing action. All three of us flushed with pleasure and I have to confess it felt good, even if Ralph did grip my arm and said sotto voce, “Do not, I mean do not, let them know what you really fxxxing think of Blair.”

We joined the group and after greetings and hugs started downing Coronas. While catching up on the past year with Marv he noticed I was drinking beer and held up his margarita.

“You should be drinking these,” he said,” Better than that stuff. No hangover.” Up to that time I had never tried one.

“You’re joking! Really?”

“Scout’s honour. I’ve drunk these over the years and the beauty is, besides the great taste, and despite how many, there is absolutely no follow-up hangover. Honest. Are you ready for one?”

Naturally, I was. And did they go down! Really smoothly, in quantity.

Next morning, I felt like Lazarus. I was up, well, I was vertical. I could walk —barely. Every part of me was numb, except my head, which was thrashing and my stomach was a three-witch Macbeth bubbling cauldron complete with toads in swelter’d venom. The inside of my mouth was like the bottom sheet of a baby’s pram —all piss and broken biscuits.

Somehow we got to the course, the Tiger Wood designed El Tigre, and spilled out of the taxi. The rest of the crew were on the first tee. I saw Marv with his back to us and I walked over silently.

Before I could say a word, and without even turning round, he said,

“Ok, so I lied!”

If only Tony Blair could be so forthright.

I had always thought that we, as members of the Airborne Brigade, shipped out to Northern Ireland in support of the civil powers, in 1968, but apparently it was in the late summer of 1969 according to Google. So much for memory.
We left Southampton by sea, aboard the Sir Galahad, later achieving renown when she was attacked, set on fire and sunk by Argentinean aircraft in the Falklands war. We had a rough crossing. A staff sergeant circulated with a huge jar of what we were told were sea sickness pills but, as we didn’t relish becoming sea sick, we refused them. Disembarking at Belfast docks we were ferried by coach to a disused civilian aerodrome called Long Kesh. Much later this would become the site for the infamous ‘H’ Blocks of the Maze prison.
For accomodation we were assigned two dilapidated and abandoned semi-detached cottages at the side of the over-grown airfield. We used two canopies from three-ton Bedfords to cover the gaping holes in the roofs. Behind the houses were two barns or byers, the onetime home of long-gone cattle. We cleaned and scrubbed them for use as a recreation room and one of the lads, named Adrian, who was artistic by nature and a gifted painter, decorated the walls with representations of horses’ heads using black and white paint, which was all that was available.
He also did a series of funny caricatures that almost everyone thought captured the spirit, and the vanity, of the person displayed. Needless to say, I thought mine lacked veracity and frankly missed the genuine essence of my personality. For an indeterminable and totally unconnected reason Adrian wound up getting all the rotten clean up jobs around the place for a while.
At the end of the airfield, next to the Maze Racecourse, was the Maze public house which was a popular place for the locals to partake of an aperitif or six prior to dinner. My outstanding memory while at the bar there was, while feeling expansive and full of bonhomie, after several Guinness and a couple of Maundy’s, saying to a little Irishman waiting to be served, “So, what’s all trouble about over here, Paddy?” and he replied, without even looking at me, “Bastards like you calling us Paddy.”
Much of the time we were on the streets of Belfast patrolling the Catholic areas to protect the inhabitants from sectarian violence. At first we were welcome but as time progressed things cooled due to the IRA’s dislike of anything British and passing out the word to deter fraternization. So, distribution of pots of tea and potato scones, handed out at 3 am by little old ladies grateful for our presence, soon ended.
When we were not on duty in deepest darkest Belfast we devised our own entertainment. We had two shotguns and used to shoot rabbits to supplement our dry rations. However, due to duty commitments, we could only do this at night and found that the ideal equipment was a land rover, glaring headlights, a shotgun and the shooter perched on the roof with his feet resting on the bonnet (hood).
Jim the Pig and I used to do this frequently — until the accident.
In explanation, I should say Jim acquired the epithet ‘Pig’ not because of ugliness, he was quite a personable guy, or a slovenly nature, nor because of a brutal temperament but due to his habit of saving all his loose change, for the next binge, in a porcelain piggy bank.
One night we set off, with me at the wheel and James on the roof of the Rover armed with one of the guns. The idea was to belt full speed down the runway, with no lights, then suddenly switch them on to mesmerize the rabbits nibbling at the weeds growing through the tarmac. For some reason I almost missed the patch where the bunnies were usually the most numerous and suddenly applied the brakes. The depression in the canvas above my head suddenly levelled out as Jimmy went airborne and I remember admiring his presence of mind, as in preparation for landing, at approximately twenty feet above my head, he reminded himself by hollering “Safety catch.”

Of my many regrets, one is that I have not been consistent with the upkeep of this blog and posts to it. My most recent one was a couple of months ago but prior to that I had done nothing. The publication of my second novel prompted me to make another attempt at keeping the blog extant.

The manager at the Staffordshire Golf Club, that’s the bar and restaurant, as opposed to the administration of the golf side of things, unintentionally acted as an excellent PR representative on behalf of The Tuzla Run some time ago, by telling a number of the members that I had written a book. This was obviously a surprise to many of them; some didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it, others thought it a poor joke in even worst taste and doubted that I knew someone who could read much less write. Some, however, thankfully (that’s my feeling, not theirs) did buy the book. So, when The Yukon Illusion became available and there was little movement I said jokingly to Ken, the manager,
“You haven’t read my second book yet!” he replied, “Your second book? I haven’t even read the first!”

A friend of mine, who was the first to buy The Tuzla Run, was delighted to tell me that he was responsible for two of the local libraries putting it on their shelves. I was over the moon too, until I discovered that Amazon does not have any arrangement with UK libraries for royalties, unlike libraries in the States. Still, I’m proud that my book is there with other recognized authors’ work although I have a nagging suspicion that the widespread closure of public libraries in the UK might somehow be linked.

Yet another close friend supportively bought a copy of The Yukon Illusion and told me that she would read it as soon as she had completed ME BEFORE YOU by Jojo Moyes. Later, she punched another hole in my balloon by telling me that I have been relegated yet again due to the publication of Jojo’s subsequent novel. Still, I justify this by convincing myself that my friend is into delayed gratification — big time.

The last straw was from someone i have known since we were fifteen years old and served in the Army together who promised to read it while he was on a month’s holiday. On his return I couldn’t resist asking if he had read the book. His reply, “Nah, sorry mate, it didn’t rain once.” was not the uplifting response I had expected.

I have returned to a half finished project which was a sequel to The Tuzla Run, foreseeably with some of the same characters. I am enjoying the work and look forward to being one of the first, if not the first, to read the completed book.

The last twelve months has been a period of great loss for me. Death has taken three very dear friends in quick succession. Two lived in the States, Oklahoma and South Carolina, and the third in Wiesbaden, Germany. We were all part of a group that formed when we worked together in Frankfurt at the U.S. Army Contracting Centre; some were U.S. military, some U.S. civilian and some local civilians.

Our shared obsession was golf. It lasted, surprisingly enough, far longer than our preoccupation in those days with wine, women and song — which is not to say that we totally abandoned those delights. It’s just that the sense of achievement from our performance in a good game was often better than our sense of accomplishment in sex — where even a bad one beat mowing the lawn. We never had to ask “Was it good for you?” We never had to fret that our partners might have faked it. We knew when we were good and since that was not very often, and I’m still talking golf here, it was memorable.

And we travelled. Every year we went to a different part of the world to play and over the twenty-five years I have been a member I have played golf, badly, on some of the best courses in the world. Portugal, Ireland, St. Augustine, Mexico, Mallorca, Myrtle Beach, the UK, Hawaii, Germany, & Hilton Head were just a few of the many highlights. An integral part of the pleasure was in seeing each other again and sharing once more the camaraderie that bound us together as brothers.

Larry was one of the founding and senior members from the antediluvian beginning. He was The Chairman or Godfather. He had a rapier wit, caustic and acerbic but never without humour and each remark delivered in such a way that the recipient probably laughed more than the other guys. The last place we were all together was in Costa Rica. He died not long after that trip.

Kurt – you’ve guessed, from Germany – although not in good health got with us in Bavaria. Like Larry and Marv, I’m sure he knew how serious his illness was but, as they did, refused to let it dominate the time he had left. He passed a few months later.

My hero, Marv, who had served as a young Special Forces soldier in Vietnam and again, as a major, in Desert Storm made the long haul to Germany —his last get together — although he too was seriously ill, from pancreatic cancer. He tired easily but was never downhearted. With our wives, we spent a couple of days, on the return from Der Vaterland, in London, where one of our shared highlights was a virtuoso performance of The Jersey Boys. Despite a brave struggle Marv didn’t win the fight, but accepted the inevitable, like the true warrior he had always been, and passed a few months after his return to the States. At this stage of my life, it is improbable that those of us left will be able to get together again but one more time would be special.

All three of friends had a special sense of humour and it’s a wonderful thing. Like beauty, humour is in the eye of the beholder and more than anyone, I know they would have laughed at what happened to me last week, despite their being on the receiving end as I was.

Our current clubhouse hires out its function room for wedding parties, entertainment evenings and funeral wakes. When it does, a partition is drawn across the main room and the players use the bar on the other side. On the course that morning I had talked about my three friends, with anecdotes of what they had been involved in over the years. My preamble would be, “Larry, who passed not so …”, or “Kurt, who died recently, said… “, or  “Marv, he passed on just months ago, told me once. “

Back in the clubhouse, seeing the partition across the room someone asked “Whose funeral is it?” and Ken said,  with shades of one of Larry’s lightning strikes, “Ask Bob, he knows a bunch of dead guys”.

I have never suffered from modesty, false or genuine; in fact I can’t recall an instance where I ever was diffident. I never found self-praise to be in any way detrimental or damning. So, it’ll come as no shock to anyone who knows me when I say I’m not backward in coming forward in the trumpet blowing stakes.

Take negotiating, for example. No, not those hostage-taking things that are all the rage nowadays but honest (well, maybe not entirely honest) to-goodness negotiations, as in commerce. When I worked for the U.S. Government as a contracting officer (a KO, to use the vernacular) in Germany, I was involved in many high profile transactions. One that comes to mind was the deal with the Italian national broadcasting corporation, RAI, to provide several transmitting stations to facilitate the broadcasting of Armed Forces Network (AFN) TV programming to the troops stationed throughout Italy.

Among others, I dealt with Siemens, virtually on a daily basis, on individual contracts, many with a value of several million dollars. Obviously, there were the usual governmental checks & balances for these processes but it never ceased to amaze me that, as a non U.S. citizen my signature had the power to commit the U.S. to high dollar value contracts despite the fact I did not pay one red cent in tax to the United States.

In negotiations, I considered myself to be a pretty sharp operator and believe the results in the majority of the deliberations justified this opinion. Most of my counter parts across the table would be German, fluent in English of course, but for the thirteen years I dealt with them I gave no indication that I could speak German. This gave me a hidden but valuable edge which I invariably used to good advantage as I was able to understand the asides made by members of their teams in their own tongue. So, for example, when their team leader expressed the opinion that they would be quickly successful and out of there I would give it a couple of seconds then stand up, remove my jacket and cuff-links, roll up my sleeves and loosen my tie and carry on as though nothing had happened.

I used to take a savage delight during the hot summers of having dinner, heavily larded with garlic, the night before and ensuring that the smallest conference room, and table, were booked for the negotiations. Where possible I’d have the visitors facing the windows where the sunlight was at its dazzling best – or worst.

I’d be less than honest if I claimed success every time I entered negotiations. I’ve stated that my successes were mostly big time but when I lost there were also no half measures. One of my worse, toe-curling experiences occurred when I had travelled down from Frankfurt to Stuttgart to negotiate with a retired colonel who had gone to bat for the opposition. To say we disliked each other  would be to put a gloss on the truth. We detested each other with a passion. This worked both for and against each of us on occasion. This was to be singularly my occasion.

I should mention that I had taken to wearing spectacles firmly secured to a chain so that when I removed them they couldn’t be mislaid. So, on the day, I placed my pad, files, etc. in front of me and we began. After two hours it was going nowhere. The discussions were ineffectual; both of us convinced that the other was not open to reason.

There was no flexibility at all and it was obvious that there would be no agreement.

Finally, the Colonel suggested we broke for coffee and perhaps we might have a modicum of success afterwards. We left the conference table and in the next room coffee and  several Danish pastries were laid out. It should be said that I have a sweet tooth and a Danish or three are a delight. I restricted myself to two of the melt-in-your-mouth flaky concoctions and, finishing my coffee, mentally girded my loins to re-join the fray.

We faced each other with grim faces and I put on my glasses to help my steely glare – only to find I was sightless due to the half inch layer of flaky pastry adhering to my lenses.

The Colonel saying “And is that a final decision, Mr McGoo?” before exploding into laughter totally destroyed any semblance of propriety and I showed the white flag.