LUCKY IN CYPRUS: Short Pants And Other Indignities

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British Boys' School In Cyprus - Circa Early 50's

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Lucky's first day of school was a disaster. The rest of the semester went downhill from there.

To begin with, he felt like a sissy in the uniform he was required to wear: a dinky gray English school boy’s cap with a little green ribbon sticking up on one side; a gray jacket with narrow lapels over a white shirt with a thin, striped gray and green tie; gray short pants and knee-high gray stockings humiliatingly held up by garters that had dumb green tabs hanging down. The shoes were okay – ordinary black with sturdy soles and thick laces that ought not to break for a week or two. Other than the black shoes, there was nothing about the uniform he didn’t detest. If any of his friends back in the states saw the garters it would be the end of his reputation for all eternity. And the short pants were an abomination that made him hate the British all over again.

While waiting for the school year to begin, he had thought about the nice people he had met during his stay in England and had half-way decided that he was being unfair to condemn an entire nation of people who had never done him any personal harm. Surely, there would be decent English boys at school who would befriend him and helpful teachers who would ease his passage into the strange new world that was the British school system.

But when his mother had brought the uniform home and announced that he’d have to wear it, he suddenly had something real to hang his dislike upon. He argued, he cajoled, he whined and pouted, he dug in his stubborn heels and said he’d rather be dead than wear such a thing. He even threatened to run away from home. His mother laughed and wondered where he’d he run to - Cyprus was an island after all.

"Besides, I think you look absolutely darling in that uniform, Lucky," she said.

The word "darling" boomed in his mind like a kettle drum of warning. This was not good. He could not be perceived in any way as looking "darling." What would Athena think?

He said, "But these are short pants, Mom. No American boy wears short pants."

His mother pealed laughter. She was beyond reason. Beyond common sense. She was… Beyond justice! But, she was wrong, dammit! Every American boy in 1952 knew how hard and how long other boys had fought to rid themselves of sissy short pants. Their fathers, their uncles, their grandfathers told them so. Told them how fortunate they were to be modern boys free of such sartorial chains of youthful enslavement.

Despite his protests, in the end he had no choice but to give in. On the fateful day he wearily dragged on the sissy uniform and called a taxi to take him to school. To leave the house, however, he had to run a gauntlet of women – composed of his mother and the two maids telling him how "darling" he looked - to get out the door and head for the waiting taxi. The gardener had been bribed with a few copper piastras so he had checked to see that the coast was clear and had the gate open for Lucky to make a run for it.

He leaped head-first into the back seat of the cab just as a group of village women trooped around the corner. For all he knew Athena was with them – it would be just his misfortune. He pleaded with the driver to take off and which he did it with alacrity, shooting gravel from his wheels and peeling down the hill in a boil of dust and women shouting for him to slow down before the devil saw he was in such a hurry to go to hell.

The cabbie was his old buddy Nikos, so Lucky was able to relax and try out his Greek. He’d nearly put the whole thing behind him – trying to be philosophical about the uniform - when suddenly the cab was pulling up in front of the school, which was just a mile outside of Nicosia. It was called the Thomas Arnold Academy For Boys, after a famous educator who had reformed the British school system years before. Lucky recognized the good Dr. Arnold’s name from the movie, "Tom Brown’s School Days," based on the novel by Thomas Hughes which Lucky read a few weeks after he became a student of the Academy.

The campus Lucky saw that day first presented imposing walls and iron gates. Through the gates could be seen a mottled lawn and desultory landscaping with several two-and-three-story red-brick Victorian-era buildings huddled together in the center. Two of the buildings were dorms for the boys who lived at the school – by far the majority of the student body. One was an administration building, which also included a large chapel, the dining area, plus school rooms for the boys in the upper grades. Another housed the classrooms for the rest of the students.

The scene through the cab window was the usual chaos one sees when any school approach is made at this time of day – a confusion of kids squeezing out every last second of freedom before the bell called them to order. Lucky viewed a frantic sea of gray uniforms and bare white legs, churning and boiling and flowing madly this way and that. There were smaller boys running around, squealing in high-pitched voices, trying to tag one another, or whip off someone’s cap.

A few of those boys were already crying, their knees bloody from falling down, and the day had yet to begin. There were also in-between-aged boys playing "grab-ass" and "pinch your roger." In the middle of this madness were the older lads, gathered in small groups - trying to look cool and unconcerned, while they snuck stealthy drags from cigarettes that were passed around hidden in the cups of their palms.

While talking to Nikos Lucky had felt like an adult. But the moment he paid the man off and stepped out of the taxi he felt himself shrinking as if he’d downed one of Alice’s pills. He felt small and insignificant - just a kid again. No different than any of these kids, or the kids he’d felt superior to when he’d left school in Maryland the previous May to set off on his grand adventure.

As he walked along the gravel road to the school Lucky saw several male teachers strolling through the chaos, swinging long blackboard pointers as if they were officers’ swagger sticks. His stomach knotted and he felt like he was going to lose his breakfast right then and there - humiliating himself before all these strange people. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to heavy-handed discipline. His most recent school had been ruled by fierce nuns who could turn an errant boy black and blue in a matter of seconds with their pointers and yard-sticks.

Despite those dangers, at this point in his life he’d somehow managed to avoid even having his open palms stung by an angry nun. When someone was twelve years old and had attended as many schools as Lucky had, they have a different perspective than other children. They learn how to comport themselves in such a way that physical discipline - to put it plainly: beatings - is dismissed from the teacher’s mind. One carried a shield of dignity beyond one’s years.

But he wasn’t so sure of himself as watched the muscular teachers wading through the youthful chaos, swinging away at will. He not only felt small, but weary as well. And when the bell tolled, calling them to assembly, Lucky dragged himself after the other kids, who were streaming toward the building that housed the chapel. Outside the big double doors leading into the main building were half-a-dozen forbidding-looking male teachers forming a horizontal line across the entrance. All of them were armed with pointers. They blew whistles and the crowd of shrieking boys suddenly grew silent. The boys split up and made orderly lines before each of the teachers.

Lucky guessed the division was by age and grade. Generally speaking, the heights of the boys in each line were fairly uniform: little kids in the line at the far left, with each succeeding line composed of progressively taller boys.

As he approached, he looked around, trying to figure out where he belonged. Then someone bellowed: "Yanks over here!"

Lucky turned toward the bellow. He saw a large, pimply-faced boy in his mid-teens standing apart from the others. There were three smaller boys gathered before him.

Another bellow: "Where’s the other Yank? I’m supposed to have four!"

Figuring this meant him, Lucky walked toward the little group. He was somewhat relieved when he recognized two of three boys in the teenager’s charge. They were the Johnson brothers, Larry and Tom - two CIA kids he’d met while he was getting shots at the Pentagon half a year ago. Larry was Lucky’s age, while Tom was a year-and-a-half younger. They’d lived down the street from each other at Langley Park while their fathers got their final instructions at the "Pickle Factory."

Lucky didn’t know the third boy – who seemed to be about his age. He soon learned he was David Sisco Jr., son of the CIA chief-of-station in Cyprus. A few years later, David Sr. would become chief of operations for the entire Middle East. In the succeeding decades he would become a chief negotiator for peace in the Middle East, which Lucky would always find amusing – since he was a spook through and through, just as the Arabs suspected.

Despite his father’s importance, David looked scared as hell. But not quite as frightened as Larry and Tom. Lucky knew why the brothers were so edgy - their mother was a frantic, overprotective woman who wouldn’t even allow her sons to play marbles, or read comic books, fearing that they’d fall under "evil influences." When Larry and Tom saw Lucky they immediately broke into wide grins. He’d gotten them out of some scrapes in Langley Park and they figured, no doubt, that if anyone could deal with a teenage British bully, it was him.

"Lucky!" Larry shouted in greeting. Then, unnecessarily, "Over here!"

Lucky winced. After changing schools so many times, he knew a bully when he saw one. And now Larry, ever the bumbler, had just handed the tall, overly skinny British teenager extra ammunition for his cruelty gun.

The teenager sneered at Lucky. "Are you Cole?" he asked.

Lucky nodded. "Present," he said.

"You’ll address me as ‘Sir,’ or ‘Mister’," the teenager growled. "Don’t you know an upper classman when you see one, you ignorant Yank?"

Lucky shrugged. "Present, sir," he said.

"Damned bloody Yanks are always late," the teenager continued. "Late to the war, late to class. If it wasn’t for us, you’d all be shouting bloody ‘Heil, Hitler’ to Adolph and his pals." The boy lifted an official-looking clipboard, pencil poised. "One demerit, Cole. For being late." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "And on your first day, as well."

Lucky indicated the bell tower, where the hands on a large clock announced that it was five minutes before eight. The teenager’s eyes followed his pointing finger.

"I’m not late… sir," Lucky said. "I’m five minutes early."

The teenager glowered. "Bloody’ Yank, you’re late if I say you are!"

Lucky turned to Larry and Tom, looking for witnesses. Immediately they shrank away. Damn! No help there. He looked at David Sisco for help. To Lucky’s astonishment, David stuck his chin out in defiance.

"If Mr. Simms says you’re late," David Sisco said, "then I guess you are."

Immediately, Lucky broke away from the group. Ignoring the surprised shout of protest from the Brit teenager, he hurried over to the nearest teacher, who was busy reading the roll for his line of students.

The teacher broke off when he saw Lucky. "Pardon me, sir," Lucky said, "but I’m new here. And I don’t know where to go."

The teacher frowned. "From you accent, young man," he said, "I’d take you for one of the American lads who are joining us this year."

"Yes, sir," Lucky replied, smiling as boyishly charming as he could. "I’m Allan Cole. And I’m really worried that I’m going to be marked late for school if I don’t find out where I’m supposed to be."

The teacher looked up the at the clock, then back at Lucky. "No trouble there, young Cole," he said. "You’re here with five minutes to spare."

He turned to his charges and bellowed orders for them to "remain in order" while he was gone. Then he led Lucky back to the bully and the three Americans.

The teenager stiffened when he saw the teacher coming. He practically snapped his heels together.

"Mr. Simms," the teacher said to the youth. "I’ve got a lost Yank for you. His name is Allan Cole, so you can check him off on your list." Again the teacher looked up at the clock. "Mark Mr. Cole on time, Simms," he ordered. Then he turned away and went back to his roll calling.

Larry and Tom beamed at Lucky. This was the sort of thing they expected of him. David, on the other hand, turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. But from the look on his face, Lucky realized he’d just made an enemy – although it was through no fault of his own.

That didn’t worry him too much, because he’d also just made a deadlier enemy - Simms. The boy was not only much older and stronger than Lucky, but was clearly a favorite of the teachers. No different than the toady hall monitors back in the States, with which he’d had some experience.

"You’re a clever fellow," Simms growled. "We don’t like clever fellows here, Cole. Especially clever bloody Yanks."

Lucky did his best to defuse the situation. Putting on a look of great innocence, he said, "I’m really sorry if I caused you any trouble, Mr. Simms. But if I was late to school - especially on the first day - my mom and dad would give me you know what." He sighed, and in that sigh he tried to call on the mutual comradeship all kids shared when it came to parents. "They’d cut off all my privileges for a month," he said. "And my allowance, too!"

But the face of Simms remained unforgiving. "You can bloody well bugger off with your privileges and allowance, Cole," he replied.

He was about to say more, but broke off. A thin, threatening sneer spread across his face. Lucky couldn’t help but notice that two yellowish pimples, ready to burst, marked each corner of Simms’ lips. "What do you have in your pockets, Yank?" Simms demanded.

Lucky knew what he was getting at. But he pretended ignorance. Looking puzzled, he patted his empty wallet pocket. "Not a thing," he said.

"What about your other pockets?" Simms snarled.

Lucky stuck both hands into opposite pockets, palming the penknife that resided in the left and the pound note that lived in the right. Then he drew his hands out, pulling the pockets with them, showing that he had nothing to offer. Another shrug. "Like I said - nothing… uh, sir."

Simms’ smile vanished. Lips lifting to display a crooked-toothed snarl. "Where’s your dinner money, then?" he demanded.

Again, Lucky pretended puzzlement. "Dinner money, sir?" he said. Then his face brightened. "Oh, you mean lunch!" More puzzled shakes of his head. "But I thought lunch was paid for with the tuition." Acting helpless, he asked Larry and Tom. "Do we need lunch money?"

Both boys gave grim nods. It was apparent to Lucky that Simms had already confiscated whatever money they’d carried.

"You’re a bloody liar, Yank!" Simms said. "I know you’ve got money. And if you don’t hand it over I’ll bloody well knock you on your ass!"

He stormed forward. Skinny arms coming up. Clenching big bony fists that his arms would someday grow into. There wasn’t anything Lucky could do as the much bigger boy loomed over him, raising a fist for a devastating punch.

Lucky’s instincts cut in. His boxer grandfather had drilled him on just this sort situation. Automatically, Lucky’s left hand shot out and grabbed Simms by the right elbow. He tugged forward, catching Simms off balance and spinning him toward him. At the same time, Lucky’s right fist powered upward. Using the force of Simms’ much larger body being pulled at him and all the strength he could put into the punch, Lucky struck Simms square on the jaw.

Bam!

Simms went down like a felled tree. Smacking his head against the steps.

At first Lucky felt like he imagined Rocky Marciano must have felt a week or so before when he’d knocked out Jersey Joe Walcott in the 13^th round. But then blood suddenly poured from Simms head, scaring the hell out of Lucky. In what seemed like a split-second the teacher Lucky had talked to was suddenly standing over Simms.

"What happened, here?" he demanded.

Larry and Tom gulped and went silent.

Sisco, however, started to speak: "Cole, here…" he began…

But Simms, despite his pain and the blood, had the presence of mind to break in and save himself from being humiliated. After all, he’d been knocked down by a much smaller boy.

"I slipped on the steps, sir," he croaked. "Cole tried to stop the fall… but it wasn’t any use."

The teacher knelt beside Simms, examining the injury. "Heads wounds always look worse than they really are," he said flatly. "No worry here. But get yourself off to the infirmary, Simms. Have the nurse confirm my opinion." The teacher rose, laughing. "I’ve seen more blood on the rugby field," he said. "It’ll give you character, Simms." Then he strolled away.

Simms crawled to his feet, one hand trying to cover wound, blood pouring freely through his finger.

"I’m sorry," Lucky blurted.

This was no exaggeration or special pleading. He didn’t mean to cause such injury.

"You don’t know how bloody sorry you’re going be, Yank," Simms snarled. Then he limped off to the infirmary.

Larry said, "What do we do now?"

Lucky looked around and saw the lines of boys being led through the doors of the chapel.

"Follow them," he said.

Then he turned to David. "Thanks for the help," he said - as sarcastically as he could.

David gave him a look of great disdain. "Don’t you know who I am?" he asked.

Lucky was bewildered. He’d never heard the child of a CIA agent ask such a question. He could only shrug.

"I’m David Sisco," the boy said. Then he waited, as if expecting Lucky to be impressed.

"So?" Lucky asked, still bewildered.

"My father is your father’s boss," David sneered.

Lucky was shocked by this answer. Not because of David’s claim of superiority. But because of the implied secrets that were being revealed. He looked at Larry and Tom, who were just as stunned.

Larry, suddenly emboldened said, "You better shut up about that, David. Mr. Blaines would kick your butt."

Realizing what he’d done, David paled. He bit his lip. Then, gathering his wits together, he turned to Lucky. "I’m going to tell what you did," he said. "You’re going to be in big trouble."

But now Lucky was back on familiar ground. "Tell all you want," he said. "But just don’t tell it to the wrong people, okay?"

As white as David was, he turned paler still. Then he whirled and rushed off into the chapel.

"Now what?" Larry asked.

Lucky said, "We do what we’re supposed to do. Shut up, right?"

Larry nodded. "Boy, what if… you know… finds out?"

"I’m not talking," Lucky said. "If David does… never mind. We’re really being stupid here, right? We could get our dads… you know…" What he wanted to say was, "killed," but he left that off because it was unnecessary to explain these things to one of Mr. Blains’ boys.

"Yeah," Larry said. "We know."

That was the last word they ever said or heard on the subject. Wisely, David chose to keep his lip buttoned. As the years went by it was also the one and only time Lucky ever heard a member of the extended CIA family come close to breaking the seal of silence required of them all.

David Sisco never forgave Lucky for witnessing his error.

*****

NEXT: THE GOD SAVE THE KING FIASCO

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LUCKY IN CYPRUS: IT'S A BOOK!
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"Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
"Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
"... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com

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MY HOLLYWOOD MISADVENTURES
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