WHO SHOT THE GOAT?
written by Major (retired) Maurice Bruen -
sent in by Dennis (Polly) Parrott – 23 Para Field Amb.
In 1951, 16 Independent Parachute Brigade had moved from Aldershot to Cyprus and, when things began to get a bit warmer over in Egypt, moved into the Suez Canal Zone. Initially, the PFA was parked in the sand around BMH Suez. After a number of moves to different locations up and down the canal we eventually ended up in Beja Camp on the edge of the canal a few miles from Ismailia. After the sandy wastes of our previous camps, separated from our next door neighbours only by rolls of barbed wire, Beja camp seemed almost luxurious with its bungalow huts for offices and stores, even a proper brick-built house for the officers’ mess and tented accommodation lines laid out beneath cool green conifers. Alastair Young was the Co, Tommy Dodds the Adjutant, Bill Cawthra the RSM (after Terry Reeves left on commissioning), Bill Entwistle the RQMS, Jim Laversuch the Chief Clerk – and Stan Collantine was one of the Section Sergeants.
A new medical officer was posted to us from Moascar Garrison, one Captain K.G.B.R. Prior, who brought with him – a goat! He and his goat were allowed into camp only because the officer gave his word that the intention was to fatten up the goat for the officers’ Christmas Dinner. Now there are one or two things you should know about Egyptian goats. Like goats of any nationality, they will eat anything. But this one had a craving for army equipment – and not necessarily surplus – breakfast scraps from the officers’ mess, tiffin scraps from the sergeants’ mess and teatime scraps from the soldiers’ mess – he would go on nocturnal foraging expeditions through the tent lines, gobbling up ammunition, boots (studs and all), socks, puttees, web belts – anything he could get his teeth around. At least once a night, the whole camp would be woken to the yells of some irate soldier, chasing the goat through the conifers, the goat keeping just ahead, bleating gleefully and pausing tantalisingly from time to time to spit out the odd stud or piece of belt buckle.
The other thing about Egyptian goats is they are wiley so-and-so’s. This Muslin goat obviously knew there was something ominous about the impending Christmas Feast on the 25th December because, despite his huge and varied diet, he steadfastly refused to put on weight and remained over the months just as he was when he first arrived, a scraggy, scrawny Egyptian goat – all skin and bone, not an ounce of meat on him worth talking about. So much so, that the lads began to feel sorry for him. They even tolerated his eating habits and instead of berating the goat after his nightly feast of their boots and socks, they would quietly parade at the QM Stores the next day with their Part 2 Pay books and have the articles replaced.
They began trying to smarten up Billy (as he was known, almost affectionately, by this time). His hoofs were painted red, white and blue – I forgot the colour of the fourth hoof – and his horns were in the Corps colours like two bent barber’s poles (bent poles, that is, not barbers). He was given a collar made from a unit stable belt and he began to look reasonably presentable. In fact, he became a sort of unofficial unit mascot – the unit photograph for that year shows Billy proudly standing in front of our Commanding Officer, Lt. Col A.D. Young, DSO and Lt. Col. W.D. Tighewood, MC (who I think was the Deputy Commander of 16 Independent Parachute Brigade). A close look at the photograph shows that the Egyptian photographer was just as wiley as the goat – because the Egyptian opened the shutter just as Billy opened his bladder – and pee'd on the boots of the visiting Deputy Commander, MC. That endeared him to the lads more than the knowledge that Billy was destined for the officers’ Christmas Dinner. Muffled mumblings were heard around camp “No one is going to have that goat for Christmas Dinner while I’m around” – or soldierly words to that effect. Even the word pet began to be heard from some quarters and all this from the same lads who had been hurling invective and missiles at the goat for months.
So, Christmas came. It was one of those long Christmas holidays: Christmas Day was on the Thursday so the whole unit, except for guards and so on, was stood down from after duties Tuesday until first-parade the following Monday. Things were not very peaceful in the Canal Zone and the CO decreed that the unit stock up with drink and goodies and everyone, himself included, would stay in camp for the whole five days. By teatime Wednesday, 24th, a pleasant alcoholic haze had begun to spread over the camp. That evening the CO and his officers were in the Sergeants’ Mess and the matter of who was to kebab the goat came up.
Apparently, lots were drawn – and the lot fell on Stan Collantine. So Stan reluctantly drew his pistol from the armoury and in a secluded part of the camp, shot the goat. Later that evening, the officers and sergeants were in the newly built Corporals’ Club all getting into the same rosy sloshed condition as the rest of the unit. By late evening the noise from the soldiers’ mess was getting a bit rowdier and the RSM told someone to go and investigate. “Leave them alone” said the CO “the lads are only enjoying themselves like the rest of us, they’ll be alright”. Just then, a brick came flying through the Corporals’ Club window, narrowly missing the CO and landing with disastrous results on the beer table. A deputation was despatched and was greeted with a scene reminiscent of the American Wild West. The lads had built a bonfire in the middle of the drill square and were dancing around the flaming pyre like Red Indians chanting “Who shot the goat – Who shot the goat”.
Stan and the Orderly sergeant decided that his safest billet that night would be in the armoury. In the sober light of the next day, even the lads agreed that Billy was better off at rest – but he never did adorn the officers’ Christmas dinner table. They buried him with due honour under Bill Carrahar’s newly constructed barrier at the main gate. Somebody mentioned something about making it compulsory for the guard to bleat every time anyone walked through the gate – rather like sailors being piped aboard ship. The RSM wouldn’t have that.
A strange sequel developed after Christmas – remember, the holiday went on until the following Monday morning. Well, on about the afternoon of Sunday 28th December one of the medical officers, Captian Prior – the importer of goats you will recall – was to be seen wandering round in a dazed state. We all thought it was something to do with remorse for his responsibility in the fateful end of the goat. Not a bit of it! Apparently at the beginning of the holiday he had bet his fellow officers that he could survive the whole five days without sleeping. By the Sunday night he seemed to have won his bet – although he did look as though he was asleep on his feet.
A sad footnote to this story is Dennis Parrott met Stan Collantine in 1985.
Dennis told me that, although Stan had put on a few extra pounds and his hair
had turned white, he was still the same old Stan, full of dry wit and good humour
that we all remember. They kept in touch each year from then with Christmas
cards – until Dennis had a letter from Stan’s wife Peggy telling
him that Stan had died of cancer in April 2007.