Beaky's Blather

McLeod walked into my office one Tuesday morning in late 1986. 

“I’m posted in,” he announced quietly. I was to discover that this would be one of the longer sentences that he ever spoke to me. ‘Posted in,’ in RAF terms meant that he had newly arrived on the Base and he would be on my staff. He handed me a thin career file that explained briefly that he would be ‘holding’ prior to beginning his training as a physical training instructor. He was to become a PTI, but as yet, he was unqualified, having still to undertake his professional course. I already had a training department with 27 PTIs on my books, I had also a number of other training specialists.  

I understood PTIs well. They almost invariably had outgoing personalities, were attracted to and capable in nearly all forms of sporting activity and were amongst the fittest human beings on the Planet. Many represented their country internationally in a sport. 

I leant back in my chair, folded my hands – another arrivals interview  – and enquired,
“Tell me about you, McLeod”. This rather lazy, formulaic question was sufficient normally to uncork these extroverts and release a confidently delivered monologue covering their childhood until today, revealing a back story composed of exceptional physical talents, culminating in their having been – since childhood – captain of whatever sports team they had favoured. They rarely admitted to it, but it was often evident they had, if you looked for it – a rough-diamond nature that responded well to firm but fair management, provided the carrot was close but not quite within reach. 

“Silence’. He looked at me steadily, without speaking. 
“Tell me a bit about your background”, I continued. “Why a PTI?”  
“Silence”. I felt a disconcerted. This wasn’t insubordination or someone who didn’t understand the question, I was sure. I felt as if it was my laziness that was being exposed, perhaps. I had offered a rather stale, untailored question. Had I been judged to have employed a ‘recipe question,’ I wondered, one that he felt did not merit a response? 

I uncrossed my legs and leaned forward. 

“I’m seeking to understand how you tick, McLeod”. The leaden inadequacy of this cliché hit the desk between us. I felt that I needed to do better. 

“Listen McLeod,” I said, sort of wriggling and sitting up, “I have two hundred staff here. I seldom get an opportunity to speak informally with many of them…. directly that is…. in conversation,” I paused. “I’ll hear much about you in time, through your various commanders… but directly, like this, face-to-face, well…. this is rare. I value what you are willing to tell me…. personally. So, tell me, what do you like doing, what really motivates you?” There was a long pause that I almost broke into out of frustration. 

“Climbing. I am a rock climber,” he murmured. 

“Great” I said. “Where have climbed, what… ?”

There was a further pause.  “Himalayas, Peru, Alps, Norway,” he murmured.  

I paused, reflected. I was also a rock climber… but, I suspected, not at his level. I decided that I wouldn’t mention my climbing prowess. 

“What are you planning to tackle next”? I enquired, anticipating a long pause.

“Matterhorn.”  He didn’t hesitate or elaborate.

“Not the Hornly Ridge, I suspect.” I mentioned, unable to resist the opportunity to show off that I too knew something of climbing on the Matterhorn; a mountain that I had climbed some years earlier, although by this easier, Hornley route. He didn’t reply.

“Right,” I concluded, “Well… Mr Roper, – he was one of our two Warrant Officers – “he’ll sort you out.”  I thought about mentioning the ‘always-open’ nature of my door, but decided that a further cliché would be two too many. He saluted and left.

***

Some weeks later – I must have signed off the Expedition order that covered his trip out to Switzerland and plan to climb the Matterhorn however I don’t recall doing so – I became fully aware of his Expedition to the Alps however when I received a telephone call at 5.20am one morning.  A heavily accented voice, belonging to a local Swiss police officer, informed me that Mr McLeod’s body had been carried from the base of the Matterhorn into his Village. McLeod had fallen from the top of the North Face. Fallen apparently, so his climbing partner had explained, having successfully completed this extreme climb by the most challenging north face route. It was suspected, I was told, that he had in all probability tripped on a loosely coiled rope that he was carrying on the ‘walk-off’ – the simple scramble as the climb ended that led to the Summit. All that was known for certain is that he flew – silently – past his companion who had been following, and tumbled over 3000 metres to the Valley below.

“Please inform his people and arrange to collect the body,” the policeman requested, in a voice that intimated that this wasn’t the first time he had made a call similar to this.

“Yes, yes of course,” I stumbled. “No, hold on… Hold on,” I insisted. Would you give me your address, where McLeod… and phone number please?  My mind raced to assemble the details and tasks for bringing a body back and telling someone…. his parents I presumed…. about whom I knew nothing… that their son…. about whom I also knew virtually nothing… had died. 

“Killed….

Doing…. what he loved…. in the mountains…

had given his life to…. and for.

In my mind, another clichéd-communication began to write itself.