Royal Corps of Signals
Dud's
Army.
Chapter
18
Showtime
As the fall of the year approached a couple of
RAF theatre types from the camp’s east end decided to stage a variety
show. By way of a theatre building, at the camp’s centre stood a metal-clad
hut that was just large enough for seating perhaps sixty persons, fronted by
a modest stage. As for players, 280 SU could boast a magician, who in civilian
life did parties, an accordion player, of unknown experience but pleasant to
listen to, some actors from the amateur scene and a few other do-or-die characters
of a type who, since the days of Thespis, have been attracted to show business
if 
only
for the sake of applying greasepaint, dressing up and going on. These latter
blokes proved invaluable for the hairy-leg Cancan dance, for example, and came
close to stealing the show. The Hermits skiffle group, whose uncertain renderings
had somehow reached the ears of the producers, was invited to the party. In
accordance with the no-bull-please-we’re-RAF policy prevailing at 280
SU we were not even required to audition. Taken on trust in this manner actually
heightened our collective resolve to do a good job. The audience would not only
be Camp Gata dwellers but also some from Akrotiri, including civilians, possibly
ladies.
It is one thing to sit around the tent with one’s mates of an evening, puff on a cigarette, sip on a bottle of orange pop and, as the fancy takes one, break into an occasional song often taking questionable liberties with the original lyrics, melody and arrangement; we had no-one’s expectations to fulfill but our own. But to go before an assembled audience some of whom could claim to be general public required certain unavoidable formalities of presentation. In military jargon we would have to smarten up and get a grip of ourselves. To our credit it never occurred to any of us to refuse the invitation. We were to open and close the show.
There followed much discussion on presentation, and it was probably this first gig that required us to finalise “The Hermits” as a name for ourselves. There followed intense considerations on how we should arrange our persons on the stage and what we should wear. The current fashion for going to town in Cyprus was white shirt, black denim jeans of the drainpipe-leg variety terminated by sixteen-inch bottoms. One wore black, slip-on shoes, Italian preferably and highly polished, over white socks. A Slim-Jim, knitted-silk necktie could be worn if the weather was cool or a degree of formality required. This style was adopted wholesale as our band uniform with the exception of Gil, our front man, who, out of respect for his lead-singer status, was given a special dispensation to wear the sweater his mum had knitted him for his last birthday.
In these discussions I was invaluable as an advisor as I had seen every band that ever played in England, paying the closest attention to form and content, as was the wont of your long-time Melody Maker subscriber, Gene Krupa worshipper and all-round ,would-be, musical aficionado. I might also make mention of my loving and admiring a long-time girl-friend who played clarinet, piano and trumpet and came with a bandleader father and a music-teacher mother. The pair of us did much more than just listen to records; we parsed them. One’s credentials as an advisor were impeccable.
With
aspects of format agreed on, including endorsing Jack’s determination
to decorate his bass, tea-chest panels with a Hermits-inspired design, we began
to consider our repertoire. Apart from skiffle numbers - we were unanimous that
“Rock Island Line” would open, we surmised other tastes should be
catered to, leading to inclusions of songs like “Blue Moon,” “Santa
Catalina” and the Paul Anka hit “Dianna.“ We were then advised
that Jack Denny, an RAF touring dance band singer, would make a guest appearance
and required backing for “Jezebel” and “I Believe,”
both hits of Frankie Lane. We had our hands full, and for Gil, Glenn, Jack and
I with only three months experience of learning to play I guess we had our nerve.
Our drummer Bill had experience of playing drums but was as green at playing
his Huntley and Palmers as we were with our strings.
The
show played to a packed and enthusiastic house, the acts following along behind
each other in smooth succession. The excitement was palpable. We progressed
with alarming speed and found ourselves, stage fright forgotten, not wanting
this lovely thing to end. The delight of and applause from the audience was
a drug one could bathe in. As is the way in isolated communities, the coming
together for the sake of a do is invariably a joy, the reason being that whether
performing or simply congregating, all are present determined to have a good
time; the chance comes so rarely. This pro-active attitude is a recipe for success,
and that single evening, in a tin hut perched at the cliff‘s edge of the
southernmost tip of the island of Cyprus, proved no exception. It was a hoot.
Even the snapping of Jack’s bass string only added to the scene as he
had it knotted up and was back thumping and grinning away a mere middle eight
later. We were somewhat overawed by Jack Denny, dinner-suited with bow tie,
but his singing, and disposition, were so bonnie we needn’t have worried.
With “Jezebel” he brought the house down, so all ended on a high.
The C.O. stepped forward and made a speech, the first time I’d ever seen
him. Typically it was a no-bull speech. Happiness was everywhere.
Afterwards there was a bit of a party and a bit of a dance, music courtesy The Hermits. Not only did I get to dance, but I was invited to do so, descending from the stage to the dance floor as in a dream. Three dances and a moon-shadowed kiss later, the girl was gone, it was all over and that was that. One’s definitive summation finds exquisite expression in Elvis Presley’s “Such a Night,“ and it remains only to add that one receives a much squarer deal playing guitar at dances than one ever does playing soldiers.
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