In my previous article I described my initial meeting with this delicious character (Oh, if only more vicars were from the same mould the C of E would not be in such dire straights) and our first outing by bicycle to the Pas de Calais. It wasn’t long thereafter that I received a phone call from His Reverence asking for my help.
    In addition to being the local vicar of the parish of St. Mary’s, Walmer, Kent, Bruce was also the Chaplain of the Royal Marines School of Music in the neighbouring town of Deal.
    The barracks in Deal were first established in 1861 and became home to the School of Music in 1930. Tragedy struck in 1989 when a bomb planted by the IRA killed 11 bandsmen and injured a further 22. The school moved to Portsmouth in 1996 but the bandstand erected on Walmer Green is a permanent memorial to those young musicians who died in 1989. Each year the Royal Marines return to the bandstand and put on a musical display which attracts well over 4000 people.
    As I mentioned in my earlier piece Bruce is something of an expert on WW1. As part of his ministry to the young Marine musicians it had become his custom to take groups of them to France to better understand the sacrifices made by young soldiers and sailors such as themselves for the glory of King and Country.
    So it was in the summer of 1993 that he found himself in need of an extra driver to assist with the transportation of a group of 12 young men and women students from the School of Music. I confess I was not much thrilled by the idea of driving and chaperoning such a bunch but how could I say no! How wrong I was proved to be as the trip turned out to be one of those events that will always remain in my memory.
    Together with Bruce and Stephen Caldecott, a fellow parishioner and music teacher at the School, we loaded our station wagons and set forth by ferry from Dover to cross the Channel to Calais and onward to Arras where we were to make our base.
    Freedom from the discipline of military life at the barracks was soon evident on the boat but Bruce was a picture of paternal tolerance and understanding. Despite the consumption of numerous “brews” and to my astonishment he managed to round up his young flock in its entirety and in time to make a reasonably orderly disembarkation at Calais. My particular cargo of four was soon asleep and I was left in peace and quiet to journey the hour or so to our lodgings in Arras.
    It had been with some trepidation that I had greeted the news that our lodgings were to be in a former seminary, Maison Diocesaine by name. I was not accustomed to less than four star establishments at this time of my life and a seminary sounded Spartan to say the least. My fears were well founded but at least thanks to my age I was afforded a room of my own albeit that the bathing facilities were bisexually communal!
    Shortly after our arrival our fearless leader summoned us to the common room where he proceeded to explain the nature of our outing and plan of attack. Upper most however, on the minds of most of our charges, seemed to be where and when we would eat and “what about booze”. These were soldiers after all despite their musical talents.
    Bruce explained that we would breakfast and dine in the Maison and wine would be available with the later. Lunch would be a picnic on the hoof. “What about now” was the chorus, (we had missed dinner and breakfast a la French style of coffee and rolls was hours hence).  So it was that in order in prevent a mutiny Bruce and I departed for a shopping expedition to the local Mammoth hyper market.
    I love French super markets. The ones here and in England are sadly lacking when it come to the selection of cheeses, cold meats and pates, pastries and breads. Bruce was equally a fan and thanks to his fluency in the native tongue our trolleys were soon laden with a most splendid assortment of the aforementioned. It was as we approached the cash registers that I espied that other delicacy of this region of Frances, les huitres.
    After some discussion it was agreed that a few dozen oysters would not go amiss especially as we had already purchased a rather suitable white burgundy.
    We were greeted like long lost brethren when we arrived back at the common room and in no time a feast was under way. The oysters were not deemed to be one of my better ideas; it emerged that none of the youngsters had ever tasted one. Bruce rose to the occasion and extolled the virtue of this most noble of all crustaceans concluding with the comment that in certain cultures they were regarded as an aphrodisiac (a word requiring translation it transpired). This prompted the response from one of the young lady musicians, a flautist I seem to recall from the East End of London, “Gor blimey, what’s the use of bl***in’ oysters when me boyfriend is back in London”.
    Suffice to say that while each of the soldiers did try at least one oyster, often accompanied by exclamations of horror, most of them were consumed by Bruce, Stephen and me. With no ill or beneficial effects I might add!
    As we retired to bed I commented to Bruce that I was extremely apprehensive at the prospect of conducting this ‘shower’ round cemeteries and battle sites. I suggested that perhaps we could find an amusement park which I thought would be more in keeping with their level of maturity.         How wrong I was!
    This article will continue with Part 2 in four weeks time.

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