By Our Foreign Correspondent (29 April 1978)

I am writing this while on a month’s visit to West Germany, but you will not be reading it until I am home again.  I must explain that my son Roger, his wife Mary, and step-daughter Linda have been living here since last September.  They went to England by car ferry for the Easter Holiday and I travelled back with them on the Tuesday and Wednesday of Easter Week.

That was my first crossing by boat, though Roger had made it quite a few times and Mary many times.  The weather was foggy on both sides of the Channel and all the way across too and I found the trip uneventful almost to the point of being boring.  In fact, I slept part of the way,

Next day I wrote to my Yorkshire brother-in-law Jack telling him of our arrival and mentioning that the crossing had been quiet and that none of us had been sick – nor had anyone else on the boat as far as I had noticed.

After the letter had gone I told Roger and Mary what I had written and they were flabbergasted – and so was I by their reaction.  They said the crossing had been as rough as any they had experienced and that if the sea had been any rougher the boat probably would not have sailed!

Had I not seen all the white caps? They asked.  Had I not heard and felt all the banging, shuddering and slewing as the boat bucked the waves?  Had I not noticed how the foam washed the windows of the upper decks?  Did I not know that sometimes the spray had gone clean over the boat?

Well, yes, I had noticed most of those things, but I had expected something of the sort.  After all, it was the open sea, not the local park pond.

Then why did I think most of the passengers had spent most of the time on the deck above?

To promenade and savour the sea breeze, I supposed.

Nonsense!  They had gone up there to be sick!!

But had I not had to take hold of things to prevent myself from toppling while paying a little visit to the necessary below, including both hands on one bannister rail?  Did I think that was normal too?

Well, yes, I wasn’t too surprised.  Nowadays I am unsteady on my pins at the best of times and expected to be a trifle more so on a boat.

Oh Dad, you are incorrigible!  If all that was normal, why did you think the crossing from Dover to Zeebrugge took six hours instead of the scheduled four hours?

The fog, I supposed.

Nuts, it was because the boat had to slow down and alter course somewhat for fear of damage to itself, its passengers and all those cars and container lorries on board.

The upshot of all this was that Roger forthwith wrote another letter to his Uncle Jack, cancelling out most of mine.  But it was not until that happened that I was convinced they were not pulling my leg.

Somehow, I wish they hadn’t told me at all, neither on the boar nor afterwards.  You see, part of my lonesome return journey involves a trip of at least 12 hours from Rotterdam to Hull, and if I hear and feel what I heard and felt on the way out I shall no longer be able to take it for granted and might well be sick just from the fear of being sick.

The Britishers here are a closely knit community.  This street of fine semi-detached houses and another street backing on to it are occupied solely by army captains and majors, plus teachers, British government officials and NAAFI officials.  I think of it as Sahibs Town.  Older hands welcome newcomers, invite them to their own homes for drinks and so on and do not expect any return invitations until the newcomers had had six months or so to settle down, as they all know from personal experience that the first year after leaving the UK is the most expensive.

But Roger is blessed with luck.  He lands on his feet whichever way he falls.  For on the same side of this street lives another ex-Bletchley young man, Bramwell Nash, with his wife and little son.  There are more than 100 schools in various parts of West Germany for the children of British personnel and both Roger and Bram are teachers, though not in the same school.  Bram has been in Germany two or three years already, though he has only recently moved to this particular station.  I remember him as a boy coming to the Gazette office for a beginners’ job that was going.  Seeing him now, I think he was lucky he did not get it.

Since coming here I have developed an admiration for the sports coverage on German television.  Soccer-wide they don’t give a lot of a Jimmy Hill show mere snippets of the game, as on Match of the Day.  For important matches they give all the play, plus a line by line commentary, with no Jimmy Hills at all.

In this way while sitting in an arm chair in West Germany, I saw all the game when Liverpool thrashed Monchengladback at Anfield.

And that will be all for now from your temporary foreign correspondent, H.S Hepworth (Cpl Rtd).