Shooting 007: And Other Celluloid Adventures (20 page)

Remembering the previous owner, I tried to have a conversation with my invisible friend. Would she reveal herself? Would I drop dead from the shock if she did? In the madness of it all I spoke to the lady with all sincerity of our wonderful home, anything to get her attention, even suggesting that we could share this beautiful cottage, which of course she could claim we already did.

In the uneasy calm of awaiting a reply nothing happened, except that the creaking beams had noticeably stopped before continuing from different parts of the room, as if my invisible companion was moving around. Even more convincing was that the beams stopped creaking when I was speaking to her, suggesting that the old woman was listening to me. But again, did I imagine all this?

The lady never materialised, which was probably a good thing anyway as I was not sure what would happen if she had – apart from my dying-of-shock scene, but at least that would solve the pain of the divorce. Later I recalled that the spirit would only reveal herself if a happy atmosphere existed in the cottage, which I could not claim with Lesley’s departure. As a consequence I would never meet the dear soul – perhaps in time, who knows …

Thirty years later would bring an interesting twist to this account, which for reasons of continuity will appear later in this memoir.

The film industry was going through one of its quiet periods, which happened from time to time, but at least these downturns gave me time to catch up with the real life which inevitably got sidetracked with all my travelling around the world.

In a casual conversation, my cousin Brian repeated a conversation he once shared with my dad, whom he had talked into telling of his experiences in the First World War. Strangely this was something I had never asked Dad for or even thought about; my memory of Dad was of his reluctance to talk about the war – his war. Now it was too late to ask questions and I realised that much had been lost between father and son. While I was trapped in the navy Brian had got to know Alf on a different level, even managing to get Dad to discuss his experiences during the 1914–18 war. Brian passed this on to me many years later, long after Dad had died. Sadly I was too young to show an interest in Dad’s wartime experiences then. There was one account in particular which caught my interest. Quote: ‘Alf struck an officer!’

As you might imagine, this captured my full attention as it was a most unlikely thing for Dad to do, although thinking about this later I would admit that he was not one to hold back with his opinions if he felt it was necessary. Even so, my memory of Dad was of a quiet, gentle soul, so now I had to find out if there could be some truth in this.

The story of life in the trenches is now well known from personal accounts of the conflict, and the passing of time makes it more difficult to prove them as true or false. It would seem that Alf was put on a charge for this so-called assault, which if true then he could have been executed for striking an officer. There again, the officer involved may have been a casualty – or not. Either way, it would seem that the incident remained lost in the fog of war, somewhere in the trenches of northern France. Of course, one could argue that Brian had exaggerated the story, though I would doubt that as there was no reason for him to do so, or perhaps the situation was not as serious as the picture Alf had painted. However, there is an interesting postscript to this tale.

Obviously Alf was a rebel, which Simon discovered later when he acquired a copy of Alf’s service record. Before the war he had been a porter descended from a line of Suffolk stablemen and carriage makers, so it was no surprise that he would end up as a horse driver in the Royal Field Artillery, galloping the guns into position before he eventually became a gunner.

Mum and Dad on the occasion of their fiftieth wedding anniversary on 18 December 1971.

Simon recently visited the National Archives at Kew while researching a personal project on HMS
Britannic,
the wreck of which he now owns. While in Kew he decided to look up Alf’s army service record, which confirmed that Dad was often in trouble one way or another: late on parade; arguing with officers; leaving the stables without permission; improper language to an NCO; again late on parade … It goes on and on, but although he was court-martialled in October 1916 for ‘using threatening language to his superior officer’, apparently for mistreating a horse, and for which he received forty-two days’ Field Punishment No. 1 – handcuffed and chained to a gun carriage wheel for two hours a day – there is no record of Alf actually striking an officer.

Interestingly enough, recently seeing the film
War Horse
this brought back some of the stories Alf passed on to Brian. Another story Brian recounted was of a practice that became known as the ‘third light’ – an interesting example of what it was like in those muddy trenches. While waiting on orders to go over the top, the soldiers would keep their heads down, out of sight of enemy snipers. The stand-off would continue into the night, with the occasional flare and sporadic gunfire reminding both sides they were still there, even though they were unable to see each other. In the black of night the soldiers would stand around quietly chatting; one might light a cigarette, and a German sniper hiding in the dark would take note of the position. Should a second soldier take a light from the same match, the sniper would take aim; if a third soldier took a light he was shot. This action became known as the ‘third light’.

With all this information coming from a cousin, I had to ask myself why Dad never told me about his wartime experiences, which in all probability was because I never asked him. Although these amazing stories came as a surprise, this next account tells more of the man I knew and respected.

It is necessary to remember what it was like in those dark days when people lived from week to week with few luxuries, where the so-called working classes were given their pay packets to take home on a Friday for families to buy their necessary provisions. One Friday night Alf arrived home without his wages, claiming that he had lost the money. Lil was very angry and accused him of losing it at the White City dog track, which Dad strongly denied, saying he had not been anywhere near the place. Lil, however, was having none of this nonsense – not a word of it – and let him know exactly what she thought about this matter. It was some weeks later while she was out shopping that Lil was approached by a troubled woman, the wife of Alf’s workmate, who thanked her for Alf’s gesture of helping them in their hour of need. The tearful lady explained that they had lost their twins and did not have enough money to pay for the funeral expenses; it would seem that Dad gave his wages to his friend without a word to Lil.

This was a gesture I did recognise and was familiar with, and hence my need to record it. Dad’s generosity and compassion to an equal was the man I knew, the man I would always remember him as. This still begs the question of why all these wonderful stories came from a third party. I took comfort in deciding that Dad just ‘switched off’ and was reluctant to talk about his wartime experiences, while his son is proud to recall this small piece of lost family history. Even so, the credit goes to Brian, who managed to squeeze these revelations out of Dad; otherwise another piece of family history would stay lost in the fog of time.

But now it is time to get back to my own private adventures in life …

With film production remaining quiet in our unpredictable industry, I had time to consider writing an autobiography, should I ever get around to it. Later I would realise that this would be no easy task, particularly when trying to unravel the interesting from the boring, but that was a dilemma which I would face in my retirement now, as I struggle on, hoping to keep your interest.

Moving on, camera operating offers began to arrive with more consistency, including
Gold
,
The Hiding Place
,
Operation Daybreak
and
Shout at the Devil
, which would keep the wolves from the door and keep me busy for the next two years.
Gold
came as a happy reunion, with me working once again with Peter Hunt, who enjoyed the company of his trusted ally from
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
. However, this time Peter’s cinematographer would be Osama Rawi, with whom I had worked before on
Alfie Darling
, a nonsense story made in the wake of the earlier and more successful Michael Caine film – we have all worked on films we would prefer to forget! Even so, I doubt I was of much help to Ossie, as my mind was constantly on personal matters with the issue of my divorce, not forgetting the friendly phantom of Cherry Trees, who kept reminding me that she was still around and sharing my pain.

The film, based on the novel
Goldmine
by Wilbur Smith, would star Roger Moore, whom I had last worked with back on
The Saint
in 1966. Roger was an actor who made the camera operator’s job so much easier. He was a complete performer in every sense of the word and also enjoyed a wonderful sense of humour. Later you will see how I became his prized victim.

Gold
would turn out to be one of the most hazardous films which I would work on as a camera operator. It was a trial for any camera crew to film deep underground in a goldmine where conditions were near impossible to cope with. During our filming I spent time down in the lowest part of the mine with the second-unit director, John Glen, having agreed to change places with John’s cameraman, Jimmy Devis, who suffered from claustrophobia. Jimmy missed a wonderful visual moment as the cage slowly descended to the bottom of the mineshaft, passing countless black miners on many levels on the way down, the lights on their protective helmets mixed with the perpetual dust, creating a strange unforgettable image.

Leaving the mass drilling behind, we moved to a different form of transport in the shape and size of a coffin, which would take us to an even lower level where the new seams were being worked. Travelling in this Heath Robinson apparatus, quite apart from the ever-present danger of rock falls, it was necessary to lie completely flat to prevent our heads scraping on the rocks inches above. When we arrived at our destination a new atmosphere greeted us – it was a surprisingly large, cooler area where the mine took on a totally different character, with only the occasional lonely miner drilling to find a new seam in this extraordinary subterranean world. Although this was interesting and tested my curiosity, I will admit that the journey to the lowest point was something I could happily do without. Now it was time to return to our ‘coffin’ and start the long journey back to ground level, with both John and I grateful for our safe arrival back at the surface, where the sweet taste of fresh air greeted us.

One particularly dangerous scene which comes to mind was with Roger Moore and Simon Sabela struggling up to their necks in uncontrolled surging water as part of a mine flooding sequence, where Simon’s character is eventually killed. They were not alone in the water, and the camera crew had to help steady me against the constant surging water as I battled to keep a grip on my handheld camera while capturing the chilling moment of the mine flooding.