My name is Ben Fowlkes (part 1) by thadeusz

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When I wondered how my parents had met, I was told that they met in a bar: my father, John Fowlkes, was an Army Junior Officer serving Her Majesty the Queen and my mother, Mary Fowlkes, was working as a barmaid. According to my mother it was love at first sight and they decided very soon to be married. My father’s parents considered that this was an unsuitable match, a catastrophe because my mother was of very low social class: my grandparents on my father’s side refused to be present and I did not see them. My mother’s Mum, my grandmother, came and lived with my parents in a small house in the married officers quarter, very close to the base where my father’s regiment was located. At that time, my mother stopped working and became, according to her, a devoted housewife.

All that occurred in a small town near London, in Great-Britain.

And then I was born. My parents named me Ben, Ben Fowlkes. I lived there with my mother and my grandmother. My father came as often as he could and played a lot with me, but he was very often absent: he had to fulfill his duties within his regiment. When he left for Afghanistan, my mother was first anxious and then furious. I was only 4 but I can remember her violence and her anger. She even told me, and I did not forget that:
"If you were not here, I would go away. Your father thinks that he glued me to his home, as a dutiful military wife should be, but he is wrong."

My mother got tired of staying without my father in a little house near a military camp and she went back to work as a barmaid. My grandmother took care of me and of the house, but I considered that as normal in those early days.

I noticed that when my father was absent, and especially when he was far away, which was the case when he was in Afghanistan, my mother often came back with a young officer in USMC uniform. She told me that this man, Peter Asburn, was a lawyer for the American Navy and Marines and that he could give her good advice. She added:
"Don’t tell anything about this to your father when he phones or when he will be back. Don’t ever mention Peter."

I did not understand why she told me that: for the young child that I was then, Peter was another officer and officers were good people, like my father.

A sad accident changed the rules of the game: my grandmother passed away. She had always taken care of me when my mother went working, or doing something else she did not mention. Now my mother had to stay home and take care of her young child.

Finally my father came back and he had a very long discussion with my mother. They made lots of noise and finally my father left the house telling me that he was going to sleep in the barracks but that I should not worry: I would soon go and see his parents.

Instead of my grandparents, a nice lady came and started to look at my room, my toys and my clothes. She then asked some questions such as:
"Who do you like most, your mother or your father ?"
I tried to explain that I loved both, that my mother took care of me after my grandmother died, but that I also liked my father because he took lots of time to play with me. The problem was that he did not really have that much time. The nice lady concluded that I would be better off with my mother.

So, when I was 5, my parents got a divorce. I was placed under the authority of my mother who got "sole child care". My father had only the right to see me from time to time, but not regularly considering that "as he was an officer he could not have enough free time for his son". As soon as that was decided, my mother decided to leave England and go to California. My father was very sad but did not object, although he could have done so. That’s how I landed in San Francisco where Peter Asburn was waiting for my mother … and me. He took us to a nice little house near the base where he was working. It looked very similar to what I had seen until then in Great Britain, except that I missed my father very much.

Things went very fast then: Peter Asburn and my mother got married and they got a baby: my little sister Julia.

Life was good in California, except that I had no more news from my father and that saddened me a little bit since I had not forgotten our joyful moments when he played with me, his "little boy" as he used to call me.

When I was 9, Peter succeeded to leave the military. He explained me how he did it:
"I got a scholarship from the Marines for my studies, so I owed them a certain time of service. But now it’s over ! I am very pleased to abandon this stupid uniform".
I was shocked because I admired and even liked my father’s uniform. So I told Peter:
"Isn’t it bad of you to abandon that uniform. You took their money and you don’t give much in exchange."
Peter's answer was simple:
"It is always good to take federal money, they have too much of it and they don’t do anything good with it."
That shocked me even more because I felt that Peter had cheated on the government and at school we had been told not to do so, but who was I to react ? A young boy, a young Brit ! So I kept quiet !

I also kept quiet when they gave me another little sister, Serena. Peter obviously liked his two daughters much more than me and mother did not care anymore for her "British baby".

When Peter left the military, we moved from our military housing place to a nice house in San Francisco where each child had his own room and the "parents" had their big bedroom. Mother told me that since we were three children, one of them had to sleep in a smaller room, specially made for me in the attic, on top of the garage. I had been chosen to sleep there because I was the eldest and I needed less attention from my Mother. Since there was no direct communication between the main part of the house and the garage, I would have to use a separate entrance to my domain through the garden. I felt abandoned but also free at the same time, so simultaneously I did not like my mother’s behavior and I loved my little room where I could do whatever I wanted. Especially, going out without asking for an authorization !!!

Peter was a good lawyer and there was a lot of money available. So my mother decided to give me a small budget and to let me choose my clothes all by myself at the age of 12. This meant that she no longer had to look after me. I was also free to go to the hairdresser, whenever I wanted and to have the haircut I chose but that was also on my small budget.

The consequence was that I had a very long blond mane, and when I came in the house for dinner, nobody mentioned it.

As a result I lived constantly in jeans and a t-shirt, and nearly nothing else, and I did not go to the hairdresser.

It had been made clear that I had to learn how a man must live, so I had also to wash my clothes myself and to buy the necessary soap on my own budget.

Mother had told me:
"Now you are a big boy", (I was 12) "so you will have to wash and iron your clothes all by yourself using the small washing machine placed especially for you in the garage."
My clothes were no longer very clean. My jeans were torn and so were my t-shirts, but nobody cared.
Nevertheless I bought lots of soap and shampoo for myself: I spent hours in the small bathroom adjacent to my tiny room, taking showers and brushing my mane. This took me so much time that I barely studied for school and had thus very bad grades. Nobody told me that this was not a good way to become a serious man.

Since I could easily go out at night, I got used to doing it frequently in the evening. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with friends. I was big and could give the impression that I was more than 18. One night, when I was 14, I went alone to a brothel to see "how it was there". I went with one of the ladies and that was my first experience. I also drank alcohol, but that was not the first time. Unluckily for me, one of Peter’s friends from the time he was in the military was also present. He grabbed me and brought me home. There I could see the true nature of Peter: he was really furious and told me to undress completely in my little garage room. Then he took of his belt and told me:
"In the Corps, when a Marine does not behave well in the field, his chief takes his big belt and uses it as a whip to correct him. That’s exactly what I am going to do with you little scoundrel."
Peter then ordered me to bend forward and to hold firmly the top of my chair, which I did. He gave me 13 solid lashes on the back, the bottom and most painful on the thighs. In fact, Peter had told me that he intended to give me 20 lashes and he started saying: "One, two, …" and kept counting, but my mother suddenly entered the room and stopped him rather brutally at 13. After that, I was locked in my room except when I went to school. Even then I had to go directly to school and come directly back: my mother took me there in the morning and came in the afternoon to fetch me. Peter and her had arranged it so that I could not go out in the meantime. This was not very bright and did not convince me that it was important to study.

Near the end of the school year, my teachers told my mother (Peter was not officially my "tutor") that I would not have enough credits to complete my 8th grade. It seemed even difficult to regain "the lost terrain" during a special educational summer camp. The teachers thus advised my mother to let me repeat my 8th grade.

Peter did not like that, because it would be a stain on his reputation as a "father". There was also the risk that I would escape and go back to a brothel or simply to a bar. Peter suggested that I should be sent to one of these very special and disciplinary religious boarding schools where American "bad boys" can be locked up in uniform and forced to study the Bible. He considered that such a school, lost in the Nevada desert, would be an excellent place to "teach me to behave as a man". But mother did not like the idea: she had seen on TV a very negative documentary about such schools. For the first time in years, the two of them started to have an argument, very serious and noisy discussions about this "disagreement" and the "disagreement", that was me ! Finally, to let things calm down, my mother decided to send me for the holidays to England in order to meet my father. So she told me to pack my bags and get ready to travel alone, but under the surveillance of a hostess.

As soon as classes were finished, and thus as soon as my failure to complete the requirements for my 8th grade was registered, I was taken by mother (Peter chose not to come with us) to the airport. There my mother took me to the boarding counter, gave me a big kiss, much kinder than all her kisses for years, and left crying as if she would never see me again. This sounded strange: my trip was supposed to take only a month.

At the counter, a board with the letters "UM" (unaccompanied minor) was solidly attached to my neck and belt. I was told to remain constantly near a well defined hostess. This lady (I never knew her name) took me over the controls and customs and finally to the plane. I really did not like the board on my neck but I did not know how to get rid of it. So I had to keep it until we reached London and I was reunited with my father.

When I was face to face with my father, for the first time in 10 long years, at first I did not recognize him: he was no more like the father I had kept in my infant memory. He was very impressive in his severe parade uniform (or was it not a parade ?) but he no longer looked like the young and smiling Lieutenant he was when I was taken away from him. Luckily, my mother had given me a recent picture he had sent her when they had arranged all the details of my trip. She had also told me that he was now Lieutenant-Colonel in his regiment, and apparently very proud of it.

My father looked at my clothes and my haircut. He clearly did not like what he saw, but he said nothing about it. He just said something very kindly:
"Welcome home, my son."
So I replied, rather pleased about these holidays in England:
"Hello Dad, glad to be back with you."
My father reacted energetically:
"Ben, from now on you are not going to call me ‘dad’ or ‘daddy’ or ‘father’ but ‘Sir’, like your brother and sister. When they speak with me, they always start a conversation with the word ‘Sir’. Later in the conversation, they become less formal. But I heard that you need some discipline, so you are going to use only the word ‘Sir’ when you speak to me. Understood ?"
That was said with great strength, but without any aggressivity. In any case, it was only for the duration of the holidays, one little month. So I replied:
"Yes Sir. Will I no longer be allowed to call you ‘father’ ?"
"Yes Ben, you will be able to say so, but later and never to greet me when you first see me !"
My father continued then with a less kind tone of voice :
"Why did you never answer all the letters I sent you ?"
"But daddy, sorry Sir, I never got these letters !"
In fact, I learned later that my mother had not given me the first ones because she assumed that I was too young for that, and she had never told my father our new address when Peter left the military and moved to a totally different house.
My father’s reaction came quickly:
"Oh ! She did that !" and he stopped speaking for a moment.
He then added: "Too bad, I wrote you a special father’s letter every month, because you are and will always be my first born."
At that point we both remained silent. Father briskly took the "UM" board out of my neck and threw it away, to my great pleasure. I was again a free boy … in the hands of his father, who was now a Lieutenant-Colonel in the British Army.

I took my bags and walked silently with my father to his car. It was an Army car and next to it, a young soldier was standing. The soldier saluted and opened the door. I realised that he was serving as chauffeur. My father simply told him:
"Go home, Preston".
I guessed that Preston was the name of the young soldier.
The chauffeur started driving and on the way I learned that after the divorce my father remarried with a young woman, named Jennifer. Both couples of parents were present at the ceremony, contrary to what happened for my mother’s marriage. Father and Jennifer now had two more children: a boy, my brother Alex aged nine, and a girl, my sister Louisa, aged seven. I would thus be the eldest "child" of the family, aged 15. He added that his parents would come to his home for this evening meal, all that in my honor. I thus had to be decent, but, he said:
"Your haircut is a disgrace. Your clothes also. We are going to arrange all that in a military fashion."
I replied saying:
"Father," he looked at me and that was sufficient to make me change, "Sir, I like my hair as it is. Mother has authorized that haircut."
"Well, now I am in charge and I don’t accept this haircut. Preston, drive us to the barber who is across the street, near the base."
I made a last attempt:
"Father, sorry Sir, not a barber ! He would spoil everything."
Father looked at me in a very severe way, the type of look he must have with some of his soldiers. And that was the end of my attempts to keep my haircut and my big mane. I started to understand why my father was Lieutenant-Colonel !

I did not like the idea of having a haircut and looking at my father’s haircut, I was really afraid that he would impose on me a military haircut. But I could not do anything and I hoped that it would not be too severe because of my schoolmates' reactions, back in America. I looked at Preston’s haircut and I did not like what I saw. The sides and back of his head were completely shorn and this included his neck. I could not see the top of his head because he was wearing his beret while driving, but I assumed that it would also be shorn.

I nevertheless dared to ask father:
"Father, euh Sir, why does Preston wear his beret inside the car, while he is driving ?"
"Son, that’s part of the Army regulations. As an officer I must take off my cap, but Preston, who is Corporal, must keep his head covered as long as he is not inside a building."
"Isn’t that uncomfortable for him, Sir ?"
"Ask him yourself Ben."
But Preston immediately replied:
"Sir and also Young Master, this rule is part of the rules I accepted when I chose to become a soldier. I feel very comfortable with them !"
My father went one step further:
"Corporal, I think that my eldest son is afraid of your haircut. He fears that I will order him to have the same. Take off your beret and show him."
Preston stopped the car, turned around and took off his beret. I discovered with horror that his head was completely shorn.
There my father added:
"Thank you for my son, Corporal. You can put on your beret, Preston"

The car stopped precisely in front of a barber shop. On the door, the following was written : "Miller’s Barber shop". Father told me that Miller was a former Colour Sergeant who had worked as base barber and who had opened his own barber shop when he retired.

I was really afraid of what would happen. Did my own father, the father I had just been reunited with, did this man I had just been reunited with want to transform me into a soldier boy ? What type of haircut did he want for me ? I looked at his haircut and it was very short ! But I felt unable to resist.
The barber, Miller, greeted my father in those words:
"Good day Colonel, do you need a haircut ? I thought you had one last week ?"
"No Miller", replied my father, "today it is for my eldest son, Ben, who just arrived from America and who badly needs a haircut."
"Well young Ben", said Miller speaking to me, "please be seated in my best chair."
I was petrified and when Miller told me to sit in one of the chairs, I did so without resistance. The barber asked:
"And what do you want as a haircut for your son, Colonel ?"
"Miller, I want my son to have a decent haircut, adapted to the fact that he is soon going to school."
"How old is he, Sir ?"
"He is 15, but he will probably go to school with 13 year olds. Give him a haircut adapted to that age."
There I interfered:
"Sir, father, I am not going back to school in America ? The teachers said that I should repeat my 8th grade, not be with 13 year olds."
"Son, here I am in command, not your mother. And anyway, we do not have the same school system. Now be quiet during this haircut or I will change my instructions. Think about Preston’s haircut."

I chose to keep quiet and as calm as possible. Miller capped me and then started to cut my long mane. It took him a certain time with his scissors to get rid of all that mass of hair. I could see my precious hair fall on my lap, strand of hair after strand of hair, lock of hair after lock of hair. Father was sitting in a corner and reading a magazine, so I was completely abandoned to the expert hands of Miller. He went on, and on, and on. Finally he considered that he had reached a good point. He went to his table and took his clippers, tried them and I could hear the noise. I could not imagine what would happen next, but I did not dare to move. Father had also heard the clippers and interfered:
"No Miller, not that drastic. Ben is not going to become a soldier tomorrow. He was sufficiently afraid when he saw Preston’s head. Just a simple haircut for him, neatly tapered back and sides."
"Sharply parted, Sir ?"
"Yes Miller, the way a good British schoolboy should have his haircut."
"Off the ears, Sir ? And kept in place with Brylcreem, pomade or hair tonic ?"
"That’s the idea Miller. He must have a haircut adapted to his new school."
"And where are you going to send him, Colonel ?"
"DYRMS, Miller. Is there any other school for a boy having some problems and who is the son of a military man ?"
"Certainly not, Sir. There he will learn what must be learned."

So my father had a plan. He wanted to send me to a school for "boys having some problems", probably because I had failed my 8th grade. That sounded to me like a disciplinary school. I felt that it was unfair and abandoned all the resistance I still had. I purposely stopped looking in the mirror. I did not know it then, but DYRMS is in fact the acronym for "Duke of York Royal Military School", a well known school for sons and daughters of military people. This school had an excellent reputation and a strict discipline.

Miller went on with my haircut and he was really sculpting my hair, remodeling the remains of my beautiful mane. He did not brutalize me and at the end, when he told me to look again in the mirror, I could see that I still had long enough hair. As announced by the barber, my hair was now neatly parted on the top of my head. The sides were tapered. The barber plugged his clippers on and started to clean the sides and the neck. He used a plain old fashioned razor to clean all the hair around my ears. He then told my father:
"Colonel, does your boy know that in his new school he will have to have shorter hair on the sides, outside his beret ?"
"No, Miller. But he will soon discover that."
"Sir, I have my old beret. May I offer it to your son as a welcome present ?"
"Yes, Miller, yes you could do that if your own beret is not too much of a souvenir."
"Sir, I really want to welcome this young gentleman to Britain and my old beret seems to me to be the most appropriate welcome present I could give to a Lieutenant-Colonel’s son."

Miller went to a room in the back and came back with a khaki beret which he placed on my head. I looked at my image with it. The beret looked like Preston’s beret and I hated the image the mirror showed me. Miller then asked my father:
"Sir, should I already adapt his haircut to school standards ?"
"No Miller. In that school, all the new cadets have to go through the hands of the barber, and the barber always finds something to cut for the boys. So if you adapt his haircut now, once at school the barber might choose to shave him and Ben would not like that. Would you, my boy?"
Realising that this question was for me, and knowing that there was no escape, I simply replied as I had heard Preston do it earlier:
"Sir, at your command."
"That’s a good answer," reacted my father. "Miller, leave his haircut provisionally as it is now and we will see what happens later when he is at school."
I did not really mind my new haircut but I was really frightened by what would happen to me in my new school, but I felt totally unable to react otherwise. So I chose the easiest way: I simply obeyed.

Miller started then to finalize the sides and the back so that all the visible hair was reduced to very little, although there was still hair to comb. He then took the beret off and took some cream from a big jar, cream which he placed on my head. He then carefully combed my hair and I remained there with a nice haircut with very short and very thin sides. On the top of my head, the hair was much longer but neatly parted. Miller told me to put some cream on my hair every morning before combing it. Then Father asked:
"Now that he has a decent haircut thanks to you, Miller, can he keep your beret ?"
"Of course, Colonel, I gave it to the boy as a present."
"Well", said my father speaking to me, "put this beret on your head. In your new school you will have to wear one, similar to Preston’s beret. You might as well get used to it during the holidays. I know all that: I have been to that school and it did me much good."
I suddenly felt much better, knowing that my father who I had missed so much during years was sending me to his own old school. I was now ready to accept everything he was going to require from me.

After thanking Miller, and paying him for this long haircut, my father told me to follow him. I now had an army beret on my head. So father told me to sit next to Preston and to keep my cover on my head while in the car, as if I were another enlisted man. I obeyed him without discussion: he had such a commanding voice. My father sat alone in the back.

Father then spoke to Preston:
"Corporal, drive us to the big clothing shop on Main street." It was not a request, it was a non negotiable order. But Preston replied:
"Colonel, which one do you mean ? There are two such shops on Main street."
"The one with school uniforms, Corporal."
"Yes sir. I will drive you there".

We arrived in front of a big shop where my father had decided to buy me what he considered "good and decent clothes". When we left the car, father told me:
"Don’t forget to take off your beret as soon as you enter a building. That will be your rule as of now: you must train for your school."
As soon as we reached the shop door, father looked at me and I rapidly took off this beret (which I hated) and put it in one of my pockets.

I was completely fitted, starting with white undies I did not like because I considered them out of fashion. The seller asked then for which school I had to be fitted and my father answered using the same acronym : DYRMS.
"In that case", started the seller, "he will be completely fitted in his school. So what does he need here, Sir."
Father replied:
"I know all that, I have been to that school. But my son just arrived from America and I don’t want to let him walk dressed the way he is now during the holidays. Please get him appropriate clothes."
Then again the seller wanted to know how old I was and my father explained that despite the fact that I was 15, I was going to be treated like a 13 year old. The seller concluded that the long trousers were not for me and I received short grey pants instead. There was also a white shirt to be worn with a tie, blue with red stripes, a blue blazer, grey long woolen socks and black shoes. Then the seller asked his last question:
"What sort of cap does he need now, Sir ?"
"Thank you, but he needs none. He just received a beret from my own regiment and he is learning to wear it in the appropriate way." And turning towards me he continued: "Ben, take your beret out of your pocket and put it smartly on your head."
I was really subdued by my father’s natural authority and I obeyed without thinking further.
"Good", said my father, "now Ben, remember you are inside a house, so take that beret immediately OFF".

The seller complimented me for my new look, beret and haircut included. He packed my old clothes and I left the shop dressed as a little disciplined British pupil aged 13, which I was not! When we reached the door, my father looked at me and I remembered: the beret. I quickly put my hand in the pocket of my new short pants (I had carefully put the beret there to have it at hand), I pulled the beret out of it and placed it on my head. Father smiled and appeared pleased and that made me happy, even if I disliked most of my new clothes.

Preston drove us then to Father’s house. It was a small house in the married officers quarter, near the base, like the house I lived in until I was 5. It was simply slightly bigger. As soon as we arrived, I stepped out of the car and ran to get all my bags. Luckily, Corporal Preston decided to help me, since I also had the bag with my old clothes. We arrived at the door and Father opened it letting us enter the house. I looked at the corporal who rapidly took his beret with his right hand and made it disappear in his right trousers pocket. I imitated his movements and my father suddenly said:
"Well done Ben"
There again I was pleased more than I could say and I replied, nearly automatically:
"Thank you Sir."
Father told Preston that he would not need the car anymore and that the corporal could go where he wanted until the next morning at 7am. The corporal put on his beret, saluted and made a beautiful turn around in order to leave. This lead me to ask my father if I should do the same moves and father replied, smiling:
"No Ben, you are only a boy, not a soldier. You will learn these movements once you will be in your new school."

Suddenly a boy appeared saying:
"Hello, I am Alex. You must be my brother Ben"
"Hello Alex, I am so pleased to meet you."
"Ben, you have new clothes ? And a fresh haircut from Miller’s ? Did you bring me something from America ?"
I did not have the time to reply: our father did it for me. He said that I had new clothes because in America they don’t wear the same clothes as we and I needed to get ready for my new school where Alex would go one year after me, but not in the same school year since he would start Prep School. Then Alex asked the question I dreaded most:
"Ben, in which year are you going to be ? You are big, so it could be in year 11 to prepare for your A-level exams ?"
Once again, father saved me saying:
"Alex, the school system in America is not the same as ours, so we will see what the school examiners will decide for Ben. In any case, asking so many questions is not a nice way to receive a guest."
"But Sir, father, he is not a guest. He is my eldest brother and I have been waiting for him for a long time. In any case, Mother has arranged it so that we can sleep in the same room for the time being."

Finally Alex stopped asking questions. He led me to a young girl, my sister, who did not ask questions but simply kissed me. Then came a young lady: Father’s wife. She simply said:
"Ben, my name is Jennifer and I suggest you call me by that name since I am sure you don’t want to call me ‘mother’. You are going to live with us and everything is settled. Alex agreed to share his room with you as long as needed, but we will arrange it so that you can have your own room.

A little bit later, an elderly couple came in: father’s parents. The old lady hugged me saying:
"My dear Ben, you have become really big since I last saw you." She had forgotten that she had always refused to see my mother and me ! "I wish you ‘welcome’ in your real family. I am your grandmother, so you can do as Alex and Louisa, call me ‘granny’." So that was it, ‘granny’ had accepted me in the family, despite the fact that she had never seen me before. But that was the past. I was now the eldest son of Father and I realized that he had done well in getting new clothes for me. I even started to accept the fact that I had lost my big mane.

That was enough emotion for my first day in my own country. We had a nice dinner and Alex took me with him, as a prey he had won ! In Alex’s room, a folding bed had been prepared with pyjamas for me. I went to bed and fell asleep without even dreaming about America, my Mother or Peter.

The next day, Jennifer took me with her to the clothing shop and she selected all kinds of items father had forgotten. I felt happy with her for these holidays, trying not to think about the fact that it was not only for holidays but for life. I tried to forget about all my American friends who were now part of my past ! I had realized that my stay in Great-Britain would last for all my school life and that made me sad, but I tried to behave as if that was not the case ! In fact, very rapidly, I felt better and better in my British family: there at least I was not relegated to the garage room, from day one I was a full member of the family.

Jennifer also bought me casual clothes which my father had not thought of. This included jeans, t-shirts and Nikes ! But my new casual clothes were in much better shape than my old ones and Jennifer, very subtly, convinced me to throw away my old torn clothes. She also explained that in my new school, being a boarder, I would be alone and thus that I would have to take care of my clothes all by myself. In any case, she also told me that these clothes would be a school uniform. She did what my mother had done: she told me that I was big enough to take care of these clothes all by myself and to wash them myself. But she added something my mother had never done: she showed me how to do it and how to iron my clothes.
Since I felt responsible for Alex, being his big brother, I decided to explain to him how he should do and Jennifer and Father approved that.

In fact, I felt very quickly "at home" in my father’s house. I was happy but also a little bit sad for my American lost friends and really frightened about my new school and the idea I would have to wear a uniform and go there to the barber.


So, Jennifer, who had realized that I was afraid, did all she could to explain to me that my new school was a plain boarding school for boys and girls whose parents were in the military. There would be a uniform like in most good British schools, and this would be inspired by old military uniforms. But the discipline would not be so strict. The only delicate point was wearing the beret correctly and Jennifer approved my father’s choice to make me already wear a beret in accordance with the school rules. Alex made me promise to give him my beret, paid with my long mane, as soon as I would have my school uniform beret: this would enable my brother to train for the moment when he would go to the same school.

After hearing that, I decided to take some precautions and I asked Corporal Preston to teach me discreetly how to salute and how to make a perfect "about turn" and other military moves, which he did without telling my Father. After that, I felt better prepared for the ordeal which was ahead of me.

The holidays lasted nearly a month and that was a wonderful period with MY family. I felt much better than I had ever felt with my mother and Peter. Then Father told me that it was time to go to my new school: the Duke of York Royal Military School. I gathered the few things I was allowed to have and I said goodbye to Jennifer, Alex and Louisa. Alex made me promise that I would come back for the first holidays and Father confirmed that. Father and I, still wearing my beret, embarked in the car and Corporal Preston drove us there. I chose to sit respectuous next to Preston and Father smiled approvingly.

My new school was not one school in one building, like my school in the States, but a series of buildings within a big park. I must say that it was very nice.

Father took me to the headmaster’s office where they discussed in which Year I should be placed. ‘Year’ is the term used in England for the American ‘grades’, but they did not correspond exactly. I had failed my 9th grade and I was 15. In America, a 15 year old boy starts his 10th grade, but that was not to be my case here. The headmaster examined my school reports and noticed that I was weak in most domains. He thus suggested that I start in year 8. Father replied that year 8 was meant for children aged 12 to 13 and that it would be an embarrassment for everybody since I was now 15, so he wanted year 9 for me. But the headmaster insisted:
"Year 9 is after the Common Entrance Exam, after the prep school, and young Ben here is not ready for that."
"Well", said my father, "leave him temporarily in Year 9 for observation and if he does not work well there, move him down to Year 8."
I hated what I just heard, but I had nothing to say, just the right to obey.

When that was settled, my father said goodbye. He did not kiss me, that was not his style, but he was obviously moved. He first caressed kindly the top of my now well cut haircut and he then gave me something which looked like a small medal and said:
"This is my regimental cap badge, the one I wear on my cap and you have on your beret. You will sew it on your uniform jacket, next to your left breast pocket. In this way I will always be with you. Now go and get your uniform and your haircut."
"Sir, I give you here my beret, the one Miller gave me on my first day. Please, Sir, give it to Alex: I promised him that I would do so as soon as I would have my uniform beret, and that will be very soon now."
The "Sir" used for my father had come nearly automatically and I was surprised, and very pleased when Father told me:
"You are a good boy Ben. You can call me ‘Father’ now, except when you greet me for the first time. Exactly like your brother and sister do."
I felt fine hearing that but Father was probably more moved when he left me alone in his former school than I was afraid of it, but I did not realize that at that moment.

A boy, older than me and in a blue cadet uniform with corporal stripes on his sleeves, was assigned as "my initial mentor". He introduced himself as ‘Cadet Corporal Andrew Dillingham’ and told me:
"New Cadet Fowlkes, I am your mentor here. I will show you the way during the first days and train you to behave as a good cadet. For the time being you must call me ‘Corporal Dillingham’ and you must obey my orders. Later, you might be allowed to call me ‘Corporal Andrew’. That’s the rule for all of us."

This cadet was rather pompous, but I followed him knowing that I had been well prepared by Corporal Preston. Andrew took me to the clothing department. Other new boys and girls were queueing there: queueing seemed to me to be one of the major British activities. Boys and girls were sent to separate rooms. I wanted to speak with a boy in front of me, but "Corporal Andrew" told me to be silent as long as I was not in uniform and in my study group. Instructors, all in soldiers' uniform, called us one at a time. When my name was called, I entered a big hall where several soldiers were standing next to a big desk behind which there were piles of clothes: they were in charge of giving us our uniforms. Cadet Corporal Andrew told me to undress, but to keep my undies. A soldier wearing sergeant stripes started to measure me. He then rapidly gave my measures to the soldiers who were waiting behind the desk. He examined my undies and decided that they were "good": Jennifer had carefully bought for me enough undies, handkerchiefs and black socks, respecting intelligently the norms imposed by the school. I received a shirt. It was not a real shirt with an opening down to the bottom, but a shirt with only a small opening near the collar. This shirt had to be passed over the head and had only three buttons in the front. There was also a sort of Mao collar, high enough but not too much, with a small piece of white cloth with two buttons: this served to keep the collar closed. I was told that from now on I had to keep all the buttons, wrist buttons included, closed as soon as I was out of my room. The shirt was comfortable, except for the fabric in which it was made: this fabric was rather thick and coarse, but I was told that soldiers always wore such shirts and "if it is good enough for Her Majesty’s soldiers, it must be good for you". The pants were long blue pants with a vertical red stripe on each leg and the vest was in fact a tunic with a high collar similar to that of the US Marines dress blue coat! The only problem with this tunic was the great number of buttons, all in copper. There were buttons in front, buttons on the two breast pockets but none on the sleeves nor on the side pockets: these parts could remain unbuttoned ! All these buttons were very shiny when I received my tunic, but I was told that I would have to clean each of them every evening. There were also two small hooks to keep the high collar closed. The fabric was also thick and heavy, which made it hot. But it was comfortable. To complete the uniform, I received a large and wide white belt to be worn on top of the tunic. Finally came black very comfortable shoes.
Andrew asked me:
"Do you have a cap badge from your father’s or mother’s regiment ?"
"Yes corporal", was my answer, "my father gave me one."
"Then you must sew it immediately just next to your left breast pocket."
"That’s what my father told me, Corporal". I was very careful to add "Corporal" in my reply and Andrew appeared very happy with it.
"Which is your father’s regiment, Cadet Fowlkes ?"
"The Guards, corporal. And he is their Lieutenant-Colonel."
This appeared to silence my mentor during the short time I needed to sew my father’s cap badge on my tunic.

At the end of the clothing process, I received a blue beret with the comment:
"You must keep this beret in your right hand: you can only put it on your head when you have been through the barber office".
All in all, this was certainly not as comfortable as my old jeans and t-shirt, long forgotten, nor as elegant as the clothes Father and Jennifer had bought for me. But it was comfortable enough and I felt I would be able to live with this uniform and to do great things in this Year 9, which I expected to be a copy of my American 9th grade.

My mentor led me then, with all my kit, to the boys barbers’ department. There again there was a queue, but I knew better now than trying to speak to another new cadet. I felt comfortable in my uniform, except for the beret which was still in my right hand. I automatically wanted to put it on my head, exactly as Preston had shown me. Andrew reacted immediately:
"New cadet Fowlkes, take that beret OFF. You are not allowed to wear it before the barber tells you to do so."
"But Cadet Corporal, my father took me yesterday to the barber and he gave me a special haircut."
That was true: Father had taken Alex and me to Miller’s barber. Miller gave Alex a very traditional haircut, he gave my father his usual very short and military-like haircut and for me he cut my hair in such a way that there was nearly nothing visible outside the beret. But that was not good for Andrew who told me:
"You tried to put your beret on your head at an unauthorized moment. I will tell this to the barber and he will give you a very special haircut, like the ones we have here for difficult boys like you."

When my name was called, I entered the big barbers’ hall and sat on the chair shown to me. My mentor told the barber who would take care of my head that:
"Sergeant, this new cadet is a rebel. He tried to speak with another new cadet while queuing before entering the clothing hall and he tried to put on his beret before coming to the barbers’ hall. He is also boasting about his father’s imaginary rank."
I tried to explain that my father had trained me to automatically put on my beret, but to no avail: the barber brutally silenced me and started to work.

The barber told me to sit on one of the 6 chairs, he covered me with a blue and white striped cloth. He then turned the chair so that I could only look away from the mirror. I could feel that he started to cut, with scissors, the hair Miller had left on top of my head. He simply said:
"Short hair will be better hidden under your beret, young cadet."
He then went on with clippers, something Miller had never done before. He pushed my head to the left to shave my right side, then he pushed it to the right side so that he could easily shave my left side and all that to a precise line which according to him marked the limit of my beret. He also pushed my head forward to shave my back and neck. He finished his job using a razor and cleaning, according to his words, "the ears and around". Finally he told me that Brylcreem or any other pomade was strictly forbidden and that he wanted to see me again, in this chair, within three weeks. He then turned the chair around and told me to look in the mirror. The image I saw was totally different from that I had of myself when I arrived in Great-Britain, but so was my self esteem. I realized that with this haircut I looked alot like my father and I liked that. In just one month I had changed a lot !

The sergeant uncapped me, told me to stand up and added, shouting:
"Now you can put your beret ON. And don’t claim that your father is what he is not !"
I put my beret swiftly on my head after saying:
"Thank you Sergeant."

"Cadet Corporal Andrew Dillingham" led me then to my room and started to explain to me the rules of the school. I had a shock when I discovered that I would from now on share a room with 3 other cadets, all of them aged 13. This was my age now as far as school work was concerned. This was the end of my comfortable small individual room in America and I could forget my free evening walks through the streets of San Francisco. Drinking alcohol had to remain in the distant past, I did not even think that it might come back in the near future. The same held for girls: my new school was meant for boys and girls, but only in classrooms. On all other occasions, at my "age", boys and girls were carefully separated.

My mentor was after all not a bad guy but simply a pompous boy aged 15, clearly stressed by what he had to do with me. He told me that it was the first time he was serving as mentor: he had been promoted Cadet Corporal for this occasion and thus wanted me to obey his orders without discussion. He told me to put all "my stuff" on my bed or in my cupboard and to look at him while he was teaching me the basic movements of a "good soldier", movements to use inside the school. He started with a salute and ordered me to repeat what he had done, which I did without any difficulty thanks to Corporal Preston’s lessons. He then wanted me to march, make an about turn, etc and he noticed to his great surprise that I did all these moves without any problem. So he asked me:
"Where did you learn to perform all the required moves that well ?"
"Corporal Dillingham, as soon as I knew that I would come here I asked a Corporal in my father’s regiment to teach me the basic moves."
"How come this corporal had enough time to teach you that ? Normally corporals are very busy. I know it, my father is a corporal."
"Corporal, this corporal is in fact my father’s chauffeur, so he is frequently hanging around our house waiting for my father."
"Your father has a chauffeur ?"
"Yes corporal, I told you that my father is Lieutenant-Colonel. Really, that’s true."
"Wow ! And I did not believe you ! Usually sons of High Ranking officers don’t come here, only children of lower ranked soldiers. Or boys who really need to be disciplined. Is that your case ?"
"Yes corporal, I think I need some discipline. But you must know that my father was a boarder here and that my grandfather was also a high ranking officer."
And I started to tell him my whole story. He told me that his parents got married early, but that his father did not find a good job. So when his sister was born, one year after himself, his father joined the military. In fact his father joined the Royal Marine and that’s why he was only a Corporal. Andrew added:
"I really admire him and I was so proud to be promoted to Cadet Corporal and Mentor, but mentor of a Lieutenant-Colonel’s son, I don’t know if I will be able to handle that: you must know all the ropes."
"No, Corporal Dillingham, I only know a few moves. And anyway, your father seems to be really good: he is Corporal in the Royal Marines, that’s not for everybody ! I will very seriously try to obey all your orders because you are a model for me. I promise Corporal."
"Drop the Corporal, cadet Fowlkes. Call me simply cadet Dillingham and I will be pleased. And let’s be friends, if the son of a Lieutenant-Colonel can accept my friendship."
"Corporal, I am ready to call you as you want, but you are a Cadet Corporal and I want to show you my respect. Remember that I need to be disciplined ! And I would be proud to be your friend since I am new here and two years behind as far as school is concerned."

This is how a great friendship started, friendship which is still very active despite the different paths we followed later in life.

Andrew helped me a lot during my first weeks in my new school. In fact it was difficult for me to adjust to my new situation: being treated as a 13 year old although I was 15. Nevertheless I realized soon that the level of a British Year 9, at least in my new school, was much higher than the level of the 9th grade I failed in America. I painfully tried to follow the rapidly moving teaching and luckily my Mentor and friend, Cadet Corporal Dillingham, helped me a lot. But I clearly had the impression that I would lose this uphill battle for schoolwork and that studying in books was not my cup of tea.

After three weeks I went back to the barbers’ hall and was treated by the same Sergeant who gave me then a slightly longer haircut on the top of the head, below the beret, but still a very short one on the sides and back. That was what he called a "short crew cut". I was then called to my Tutor’s office. The Tutor being the teacher who is directly in charge of your education, the others are only in charge of your instruction. My Tutor, who by chance -and by luck- was also Andrew’s Tutor, told me that it was now time for me to join a Cadet Corps since this was compulsory. He asked me what branch of the military I chose: Army, Navy or Air Force. Without any hesitation I chose the Army, thinking of my Father. My Tutor gave me a complete soldier uniform and told me that from now on, I would spend my weekends in the Cadet Camp, being placed in a group of 15 year olds.

At first I did not like being forced to wear during a full weekend what I considered as "the disguise of a real soldier". Luckily, this time I was with boys of my age and even better I was with my friend Andrew who was still my mentor. He thus felt that it was his duty to introduce me to the sergeant in charge of our group. He did it with kind words:
"Sergeant, this is new cadet Ben Fowlkes. His father is an officer and Ben knows already all the military moves you took so much time teaching us last year. He is really ready to do his best as an Army Cadet."

The sergeant decided to test me and gave me all kinds of orders, he then told Andrew and other cadets to join me and he tested the group. This let him conclude:
"Cadets, you form a good group and Cadet Ben Fowlkes is worthy of being with you. DISMISS."
This gave us a short rest of about 15 minutes before we started training again. We spent the rest of the weekend learning more about guard duty, marching and parading, ranks and how to address our superiors. Finally we left the Cadet Camp (a Camp in the middle of a Military training zone) and went back to our school on Sunday evening.

We did not have cadet training every weekend, only every other weekend. The "in between" weekend was devoted to course preparations, which I hated, and uniform cleaning and ironing, which I did very well thanks to Jennifer’s good advice. Every three weeks, I went back to the barber and the same Sergeant kept trimming my hair in a mixture of short (back and sides) and semi-long (on top) haircut. I did not mind any more.

The best part of all this was, according to me, the training periods in the Cadet Corps. I learned to live on rations, to sleep in a tent even when it was cold and rainy outside, to endure long marches with a heavy bag on my back. I wrote home and I told them all that.

In fact I wrote every week to Father and Jennifer telling them everything that happened to me, asking for advice and I received every week a long and detailed letter written by Jennifer, but also signed by Father: Jennifer described what had happened at home, so that I was no longer estranged to my own British family and Father added kind words about life in his regiment and always the same very good words: "with fatherly love, your father". When I told them about the Cadet training, I started to receive some letters from Corporal Preston who had helped me so much. Father had also required that I sent a letter to Mother and to my sisters regularly. I refused to write to Peter because I could not forget the 14 lashes. In the beginning, I wrote every week, but I soon realized that they could not understand what my present occupations were. So I started to write only once a month. I never received an answer, just as if Mother and my sisters had forgotten me as soon as I was far from my garage room.

Andrew, "Cadet Corporal Andrew Dillingham" and I also had long conversations when we were in the Cadet Camp, during the nights we spent in our little tent or when we were allowed to sleep in the barracks. Alex told me that his stays in the cadet Camp had convinced him that being a soldier "was not his cup of tea", but he felt compelled to become one by fidelity for his father. He also told me a lot about life in the Royal Marines. His father seemed to like that, despite the fact that he was only Corporal after 13 years of service, but he, Alex, wanted to go to another regiment, an "easier one" he told me. So I asked him if, after all, he would not be better off in the civilian world. But he liked to study and did not know how to do it outside the military. He told me that he wanted to apply to Welbeck Defence College. This institution accepts students who have good results on their GCSE (British "General Certificate of Secondary Education" which is a central exam I didn't know existed before I arrived in my new school and which you take at the age of 15 or 16, after you finish your Year 11). All this was obviously not for me, but well for Andrew who hoped to be accepted. He would then become a Junior Soldier and get a pay which enabled him to be independent from his father's hard work. He would also be able to study further but he would have to repay for that and come out of Welbeck as an officer, a technical junior officer only but an officer which would have to serve the Queen for at least 6 years.

I told Andrew that I was tempted by a military career and that I would like to join the Royal Marines. I also added that being only 15, I was much too young to join and I really did not want to stay at school. So I considered trying to convince my father to take a job as an apprentice or workman somewhere and then join the RM as soon as I was old enough. That’s when Andrew first mentioned the Army Foundation College at Harrogate: I would be able to join the AFC as early as 16 and become then a Junior Soldier, I would get a pay and be trained during about one year. The training would consist of military exercises and also education for a future job in the Army where I would have to stay for a minimum of 3 years. I asked him if it would be possible to go from the AFC to the Royal Marines and he told me that this was the case. He added that generally, boys coming out of the AFC automatically started their career as Lance Corporal, but he did not know if that was true for all the regiments. Andrew finally said that he had asked his parents to send him there as soon as he would be 16, but considering his excellent school results his father had refused. As far as I was concerned, my future was completely defined. I simply had to convince my father to allow me to do that: I needed his signature since I was a minor.

We all went home for the Christmas holiday period. All cadets had the choice between going in civvies or going in school uniform. I chose the latter option, but the day before I left the school, I went to the barber’s hall and asked the Sergeant who usually took care of my haircut to refresh it. He was really astonished and asked:
"Why do you want that, Cadet Fowlkes ? Usually, cadets try to have long hair for the holidays."
"Precisely Sergeant, I had long hair when I arrived in Great-Britain after ten years spent in the USA. My father did not like it but said nothing. So I would like to impress him."
"Do you want this haircut to be short or long, cadet ? Today I can do both for you."
"Well Sergeant, please do as usual : long on the top, what is hidden by the beret and shorter, but not too short, on the sides. Please give me a not too severe crew cut: my father will like it. In a way it will be my Christmas present, especially since I do not have good grades."
The Sergeant started to laugh and did, kindly, what I had asked. When I came out of the hall I still had nice hair under my beret, but nearly nothing on the sides for which he had used his clippers with a #1 guard.

I left the school in uniform, with a small bag containing the civilian clothes I had when I arrived and … my (very bad) school report. When I arrived in our town, Father was in the station waiting for his son, which pleased me. He was accompanied by my brother Alex who greatly admired my uniform. Father simply said:
"Hello Ben, you look taller now in your cadet uniform, and with your short haircut."
I did not answer but I took the liberty to salute him in the proper way since I was in uniform and to my great surprise he replied.
Alex interfered immediately:
"Ben, I love your uniform. I am glad I will also go to this school. Did you notice that our father has been promoted this morning to full Colonel ? Do you see that I am wearing your beret? Father arranged it for my head."
I had noticed that Alex had now the beret Miller had given me, and that I had left in the hands of my father but I had not noticed that father had been promoted, because I had not looked at the uniform but at the man, the father. But as soon as I looked, I noticed the new stripes and I said:
"Sir, with all my respects, may I congratulate you, Sir ?"
"Yes Ben you may congratulate me, but it is simply an expected Christmas promotion. It has consequences which you will see soon and about which Alex is not allowed to speak now. But my best Christmas present is to see you standing tall in your cadet uniform and with a more than decent haircut. By the way, I remind you that I gave you the authorization to call me father, or dad except when you greet me for the first time."
"In that case, congratulations Colonel-daddy" and I hugged him. It was good to be back home, even if it was only for a short holiday period.

We left the station and I noticed Preston, standing tall as usual, next to Father’s car. But he was no longer CPL Preston: I had time enough to see his new stripe and I saluted him saying:
"Congratulations on your promotion, SGT. And thank you for the excellent advice and lessons you gave me before I left. It has been very precious."
Being in uniform, I naturally wanted to sit next to Preston, but Alex objected that, since he was wearing "THE" beret, it was his place. Father found the solution:
"Alex, you sit near the driver. Ben is going to sit next to me and start telling me what happened at his new school. Preston, drive us all home."

These sentences were not a sort of polite request but as usually a set of orders.

So I sat next to my father and I started to tell him about my new school, about my friends and especially Andrew, about the Cadet Force. But I did not tell him that I had very bad grades. Neither did I look at the way Preston had chosen. Suddenly, the car came to a halt in front of a big house, still in the Officers' quarter, but nicer and bigger than the one I knew. Jennifer and my sister Louisa were waiting on the porch. I was really astonished. Father looked at me and explained that as soon as he had heard he would be promoted to full COL, he knew that a big house would come with the promotion. Jennifer had worked hard to arrange everything in time for my arrival and this was the surprise Alex was not allowed to speak about at the station. In fact the great surprise was a wonderful one: there was now a room for each of Father’s children, me included, an office for father and another one for Jennifer. Life was great.

Alex and I went home and Preston drove father to his office in the regiment. Jennifer showed me around the house and ended with my new private room, which had everything necessary for a boy my age. I even found the clothes Jennifer had bought for me during the summer holiday and I immediately changed, leaving my uniform in a cupboard and remaining in jeans and t-shirt for the holidays.

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