Christmas 1944

One of the great features about Army life is the virtually limitless opportunities it provided to meet people. Given that different people are remembered for different reasons there almost always has to be a certain ‘someone’ who qualifies for ‘best remembered’. For me that someone was Gordon Oates - ‘Titus Oates’, as I never remember anyone addressing him otherwise. The original square peg in the roundest of holes Titus suffered it all uncomplainingly, invariably in fact with a cheerfulness that made him a doubtful candidate for being merely mortal.
Titus hit rock-bottom late in 1942 and quickly became inseparably linked with the humble spade, now being reduced to the digging of latrines as we moves to successive camp sites. At one time aspiring to, in turn, vehicle mechanic and then driver, Titus had brought such disaster to these functions that he was forbidden ever to touch another spanner or steering wheel for the duration of hostilities.
Christmas 1944 found us in excellent spirits. Home for this festive season found us in the yard of a builder of sea-going wooden boats at the northern end of Rimini the now fashionable Italian Adriatic resort. One of the collection of buildings was a roomy hanger-type construction, largely empty and which we learned had been earmarked for ‘Christmas Night Jollifications’. Our introduction to this, the non-gastronomic side of the Christmas break came when in mid-December Bill Reeves our Administration Corporal turned up notepad in hand. Bill, as Yorkshire as Cleveland pudding wasn’t given to preamble. “Dos’t thee do owt?” this being occasionally varied to “Cans’t thee do owt?” It didn’t dawn upon us too readily that what Bill wanted to know what whether we, as individuals, were in any way capable of entertaining. After a string of refusals punctuated by the occasional “Ah’ve got thee down, ah’ve heard thee playing mouth organ” (the would-be performer protesting his amateurism to no avail) and “Tha’s got a reet good voice - ah’ve heard thee in ablutions” to rope in a further unwilling performer, Bill snapped shut his notepad seemingly convinced that in terms of talent he’d milked us dry.
Titus Oates, replete with spade, had stood off a few feet during these largely one-sided exchanges. He hadn’t been spoken to, seemingly unworthy of consideration - until Bill turned to go at which time Titus made his move. “Oh corporal, aren’t you going to ask me”? Our interest quickened. “I’ll be honest with thee lad - nay”. Titus stiffened slightly then as quickly relaxed. “Oh very well, I expect you’ve got all the talent you can find room for”. There followed a longish pause. “Are thee serious Titus - dost want thee name put down - cos I’m not laking about lad, once tha name’s down that’s as good as on that stage Christmas neet …, and what does’t thee do Titus … play piano - hm, really”.
Having secured this unexpected bonus Bill turned again to go but Titus quickly placed himself in his path. “Corporal, there is one thing I must insist upon. If I am to perform on Christmas night then it’s absolutely essential that I am excused all duties between now and then”. Bill Reeves, open-jawed by this turn in the conversation was still trying to formulate the sort of reply which could well have found it’s way into King’s rules and Regulations as the text-book answer to incipient revolt when Titus continued “I don’t mind in the least not playing (fingering the handle of his spade near-lovingly) but if I am to perform then I must be allowed this next nine days to Christmas free of all work - to get my hands in shape”.

Stan Smith Rimini narrative

Within the hour Titus was paraded before the Commanding Officer where he firmly re-stated the conditions attached to appearing at the concert. Ten heated minutes later he emerged from this confrontation - triumphant. Piquancy was added to the situation in that the piano upon which Titus was to demonstrate his self-professed skills wouldn’t be made available until late in the afternoon of Christmas day itself - by which time he would have collected nine gloriously lazy, sunbathing (it was unnaturally warm for winter even in those latitudes) book-reading, late-rising days.
Came the evening of the 25th. Despite the general scarcity of talent that had been cajoled/bullied into appearing, the concert was well organized although comments like “Oh no - not him on the spoons again” and “not another interval” were rife. And through it all the Commanding Officer sat, or rather sweated it out on the front row knowing that humiliation or acclaim was to hand.
To a hushed gathering the announcement finally came “Gentlemen, without detracting from what has gone on before we now come to the highlight of the evening. May I introduce you to “Me and my piano - Titus Oates”. The curtains opened to reveal a black-cased upright and stool in the centre of an otherwise empty stage. A moment later Titus stepped forward into a spotlight. We gasped. Gone was the khaki of 5 years - replaced by full evening dress. It must be said that Titus wasn’t at all a bad physical specimen and he showed off the suit well.
He took his seat and in a silence you could have almost hung your greatcoat on. From the opening chords of the then newly-composed “Warsaw Concerto” we realized that musically-speaking we were indeed in august company. For fully half an hour he held us spell-bound - the fruits he afterwards claimed of leaves, always taken alone and spent entirely at the keyboard in service clubs either in Cairo or, after the war had moved to Europe, Rome.
The applause from the C.O. (both mainly of relief one has to believe) could be heard quite distinctly above the general thunderous acclaim as Titus finally subsided. A piano was quickly found and installed in the officers mess. As for Titus, at least while he remained in khaki - he’d dug his last hole.

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