PERSPECTIVE UKNORTH
People and their profiles: dukes, archbishops, actors, writers, monks, oddbods, the garish, the gregarious - here they are in single file, chosen by chance, by inclination, or by necessity ... and all reflecting, one hopes, the essential, but indefinable, spark that makes one human being interesting to many. Geoffrey Mather
Oliver Leese: President of the British Legion 1962-70, President of the Combined Cadet Force Association 1950-71, President of Warwickshire County Cricket Club 1959-75 and Shropshire County Cricket Club. President of MCC 1965-6. Awarded CBE in 1940, CB in 1942, KCB in 1943, Virtuti Militari in 1944 (highest Polish military honour), Croix de Guerre, Commander of the Legion of Honour and Commander of the American Legion of Merit.
The embarrassment of finding yourself at square leg with a general in waiting
The old general ended with a military drum as an occasional table, a cricket pavilion in his garden (the weathercock being a replica of MCC’s), and one leg. He had commanded a million men in South-East Asia without losing any sleep over it, a tribute to steady nerves and a public school upbringing. Field Marshal Montgomery, whom he succeeded to command the Eighth Army during the Italian campaign in the second world w
ar, had taught him “stark, staring leadership and not to fear anybody or anything.” And at the end of it all he had not, to his infinite credit, written the definitive book on military campaigns and his life and hard times, but instead, had applied himself to an equally prickly subject: the study of cacti.
I first saw him at a flower show amiably describing the prickly plants that were so complementary to the prickly part of his otherwise benign nature. Lt. General Sir Oliver Leese, Bt., CB, CBE, DSO, comfortably secluded at his home in the village of Worfield, Shropshire, died from a heart attack in 1978, aged 84. He was wounded three times in all, and was minus most of a leg. He was what his contemporaries would describe as a cracking good fellow: the only man I ever met who enjoyed Eton, a DSO at 22 on the Somme, and conqueror of Rangoon in the second world war.
It would be nice, in view of this background, if one could have described Leese’s vanished digit as an heroic leg, but rather, it was one which one’s maiden aunts might possess, or dispossess. It was a leg removed by doctors for its lack of circulation The general did not draw attention to what was patently missing (since 1973). He ignored it. And this presented some difficulties for photography. A replica leg, wearing matching trouser leg, sock and brown shoe, lay upright behind a settee two yards from its living companion; a leg in waiting, as it were.
For my own part, I was happy to leave it there and discuss military matters. Leese had commanded one of the most controversial attacks of the war against the monastery at Monte Cassino, near Cassino in Italy. It is built on a 170Oft hill north-west of Naples, and was founded by St Benedict in 529.
Wars make history. They are not supposed to knock history about. The general had been roundly criticised for his assault on history, but he had retained Montgomery’s teachings admirably: He did not give a damn. The civilised world raged in vain. Was it necessary to attack? I asked. And were Germans in the monastery at the time? “Well,” he said, “sometimes they say they were and sometimes they say they weren’t. In a way, it is immaterial. Because if you are in command of a lot of people and you have a thing sticking on top of a hill, and it has this tremendous view all over the countryside, in all honesty and fairness to your own men, you have to shell it and knock it about.”
Was it badly knocked about?
”Oh yes. But an immense amount of it was underground, untouched. After I had taken it over, I had a letter from Monty saying, ‘You must be mad to go for Cassino instead of going round it,’ and I wrote back and said, ‘How the hell am I going to go round it? There’s nowhere to go.’ It was a tough proposition, but I do not think one could have ignored it. I was rather surprised to hear all the outcry that went on about it afterwards.”
This having been explained to me, Sir Oliver waited for his formal picture to be taken. ”Would you,” I asked, “like me to help you with your leg?” It was a question not intended to draw a positive response. I had no wish to turn myself into a medical orderly. ”Would you?” said Leese, unsurprised by the offer, and the photographer, Brian Duff, exited to the garden, ostensibly to collect more equipment, but in reality to howl with laughter at the developing scene inside. It was a heavy leg, the one behind the settee. The brown shoe was exceptionally well made, sculpted almost.
I hauled it across the carpet before going on bended knee before the general. I was uncertain, at this stage, whether it fitted onto something or into something, whether it strapped or slotted or adhered. I averted the eyes from the area of the great man’s thigh. Leese took it upon himself to guide the digit, having some knowledge of where it was going, and I heaved about in support.
”Got to give it a damn good push,” he said encouragingly. A bit like Cassino. For one malicious moment I was tempted to apply the leg with the shoe pointing backwards to confound the companion I knew had disappeared - treacherously - to conjure up and enjoy what, to him, was a vision and to me a reality.
I did not yield to temptation. The picture was duly taken. Both feet pointed resolutely forward. Oliver Leese brought out his books on cacti, signing a copy for me but not for the photographer, which was only right, and all passed into memory.
Geoffrey Mather © 2004
3 March, 2007