At the time of our visit to Argentina, the Falklands War had finished three years earlier. Our Argentine polo-playing friends had not been allowed to come and play in England since that time, for obvious reasons. In addition, our assumption was that the Argentine public were not too happy over there with Englishmen, either. However, several of our friends said that they were getting on with their lives and would love to see us. So off I went with Norman Lobel and Michael Amoore on our quest to buy horses, saddles, blankets and tack.
I have to say, true to their word, we found no animosity, albeit that we spent all our time with our polo-playing friends. Horses were cheap, with few international buyers since the war had deterred them, so we had a field day.
I remember taking a taxi one day from Buenos Aires out onto the Pampas, to look at horses. Most of the roads were dust tracks, with huge great holes eroded by the relentless beating sun and the torrential tropical rains that make up the varied climate of Argentina.
Four of us were squashed like sardines into this old taxi, alongside the driver. It soon became clear that the only way to survive this rugged terrain was to put on our polo hats to protect our heads, which were continually smashing against the roof of the taxi as we plunged into the deep crevices of the road.
The taxi leapt forward under the driver’s instructions, veering sharply to the left, and suddenly there was a puncture. Out we jumped and within minutes the tyre was changed. Then we were off again, until a few miles later we veered sharply to the right. For a while the car struggled along, veering this way and that, but with no air-conditioning we were soon shedding pounds in our baking sauna.
All of a sudden there was another puncture. Again the driver managed to repair the wheel and we were off once more, all the time veering sharply from left to right. An hour passed by – although it seemed like an eternity – when we had a third puncture. This time repair was useless as we had used his two spares.
Stuck with no tyres, we sent our lone Spanish speaker to hitch back to the nearest town to try to find a new tyre, or help. After all, he spoke the language, but, more importantly, he was in our employ so had no choice. After some time, he hitched a lift from a passing vehicle and disappeared in a ball of dust.
Norman and Michael tried talking with the driver through hand signals while I settled down on the ground, shaded in part by the side of our taxi. In the far distance, I spotted a small wooden shack with smoke rising from its chimney so I decided to go and have a closer look. A few minutes later, I found myself facing what can only be described as a scene from the Steinbeck novel The Grapes of Wrath.
Inside this lean-to building was a rough-hewn wooden bar where a beautiful young Argentine goddess, a vision to behold, stood adorned in a white dress, grubby with the chores of the day. Surrounded by her children playing in the dirt, she meticulously tried to clean the floor with a broom while her overweight sloth of a husband watched through half-closed eyes from behind the bar.
While contemplating this picture, I became aware of the most delicious smell of cooking. Several large juicy chorizo sausages were simmering gently in a large black pan so I ordered, in my poor Spanish, a chorizo and a cold beer.
To this day, I can tell you that I have never eaten anything more divine. I walked back out of the door and shouted to Norman, beckoning them over, ‘Norm, I’ve found an oasis!’ How they produced ice cold beer in these conditions was beyond me; the old generator outside must have worked overtime to produce such a cold, delicious drink.
While we had been in Argentina, Norm’s brother had been in Brazil. The day before we left Argentina, Norm received a phone call from his brother to say that he had just got out of jail, having been inside for over twenty-four hours. As he was leaving Brazil, he had been stopped because it turned out he had a forged airline ticket. He was eventually released the next day. However, our tickets had been purchased from the same agency in the UK and he wanted to warn us that we might have a potential problem.
It is one thing being stopped with a forged ticket anywhere in Central America, but it was quite another to be English and stopped in Argentina only three years after the Falklands War. With this thought in mind, I decided that we would draw the airport staff’s attention to the fact that we might be victims of forged tickets, before any further issues could arise.
At the check-in desk, I informed the young attendant that I had reason to believe there might be something wrong with our tickets and could she please check them.
She returned shortly afterwards with a smile on her face.
‘Mr Morrison, these tickets are fine,’ she informed me. ‘Shall I check you in?’
‘Please,’ I replied.
Minutes later, we progressed through passport control and immigration. At the departure gate, we had approximately fifteen minutes to wait before boarding.
‘Well, Norm,’ I said, ‘two weeks in Argentina with no incidents, no arrests and we are heading home!’ High fives all round.
Across the tannoy came the words ‘London Heathrow’, and soon we were boarding, arriving at our seats and stowing our bags in the lockers along with our jackets containing passports, papers and wallets.
I literally collapsed into my seat, the emotions of the day and the trip making me extremely tired. Seconds later, with seat belts fastened, we awaited take off. The cabin doors were closed and the plane moved forward … but only a yard or two, and then suddenly it stopped.
Half a minute later and rather ominously, the door opened once again. In stepped two soldiers with machine guns slung over their shoulders. They walked through the cabin, pausing at a stewardess who was now out of her seat and looking very worried.
I was watching them extremely closely, when suddenly one of them mouthed the words, ‘Señor Morrison’. I couldn’t believe it. After some seconds, the stewardess led them towards Norman and me.
‘Señor Morrison?’ This face peered down at me from above. ‘Can you pleeze come with us.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ I pleaded, with more of a wish than belief. ‘We are going to London.’
The words were repeated. ‘Mr Morrison, pleeze come with us.’
Those two machine guns told me that resistance wasn’t possible. So up we got, shoulders hunched, and we followed them. At the door of the plane, I remembered that my wallet and passport were still in my jacket in the locker above.
‘Hang on, I need my jacket, it’s got my passport and wallet in it.’
His next words were the most ominous of all.
‘It is not a problem, señor, you will not be needing them.’
That was it. I was convinced that they had come to get us. Were we about to be abducted? With a soldier at each side, we exited the plane, proceeded through customs and back out through passport control without a pause. My panic was slowly creeping up.
Suddenly there was a door in front of us with a porthole-style window in the centre. As we got closer, I could see that we were about to enter the main airport complex. In that split second, I was sure there would be a couple of green Ford Fairlanes parked outside, with a posse of suited security men wearing dark glasses inside them, waiting for us.
The two soldiers went through the door first, leading the way to an escalator that led down towards the main concourse and certain imprisonment. Sweating profusely from the heat and fear, I turned to Norm and said, ‘At the bottom of the escalator, run – we are in the shit.’ I was now absolutely certain that we were being abducted. Moreover, the escalator was taking us further down towards the mouth of the dragon.
I started to shout, ‘Run, Norm, run!’ when a crisp voice suddenly pierced my consciousness.
‘Bryyyan! Norrrman!’
I looked past the soldiers towards the bottom of the escalator and there, ten feet in front, was Bernardo McCormick, a great Argentine friend, standing nonchalantly with a huge smile on his face.
We hit the bottom of the escalator and the two guards stepped aside, while Bernardo rushed forward, giving us each a huge embrace and a big hug.
‘Hey. I am sorry, I get caught in the traffic, and I just had to say goodbye.’
Say goodbye, I thought, what’s he talking about?
That was when the full impact of what had just happened hit us. We were convinced that we would be dead within hours, or at least tortured, and here was Bernardo, who had managed to stop an international jet airliner (how, I do not know) simply because he wanted to say goodbye.
In Argentina, when you know the right people, you can do anything.
The emotion and happiness at seeing his face overwhelmed us. We laughed and almost cried for minutes before Bernardo said something to the guards, who then escorted us back up the stairs and through security, passport control and customs. Once back on the plane, the looks we got from our fellow passengers were of total bemusement and impatience, after all they had been waiting for us for at least thirty minutes. Minutes later, we took our seats and once again we were on our way, covered in a huge blanket of relief.
While on the subject of aircraft, I must recount this story.
One day a mate of mine rang me up and asked what I was up to.
‘Not a lot,’ I replied. ‘Why?’
‘I am taking my helicopter up to Northampton and I thought that you might like to come for the ride?’
Some time passed before this ear-splitting noise, somewhat reminiscent of a helicopter sequence from Good Morning, Vietnam, split the air.
Seconds later, a large red Hughes 500 helicopter touched down with the delicacy of a woman’s hand embracing a length of silk. This piece of silk was slap bang in the middle of the lawn behind my house.
Crouching low – as they do in the movies – I half ran and walked towards the machine. A hand waved me round to the front and within seconds I had heaved myself, not too gracefully, into the co-pilot’s seat. Brian, my friend and pilot, was gesticulating at once from his ears and head towards my ears and head. Earphones I thought, or rather headphones, as I was to learn soon afterwards. Seconds later I was there, seatbelt tightened, headphones on, listening to a voice that sounded as if it was at the bottom of a well, rather than a few inches away from me.
‘You alright?’ the words came over the airwaves. Once again remembering the old movies, I responded with the thumbs up.
Sitting there, the garden and house loomed large. Suddenly and effortlessly we were gone. Within seconds the house that encapsulated my life looked no bigger than a postage stamp stuck on an envelope, and we were off on our great adventure. Ten minutes into the flight, Brian made a suggestion that seemed to reek of total madness.
‘Do you want to take control? Do you want to fly it?’
‘Are you kidding?’ was my somewhat dubious reply.
‘Just take the stick, not too much movement, give it a try,’ he said.
My first reaction was to hold the stick as if I was hanging onto a piece of wood attached to a doomed raft in the Pacific Ocean, which was about to sink.
‘No, caress it, hold it gently.’
Magically I heard the words, ‘You have control.’
At this point, there was one thing I needed to do and that was to inform the pilot that I had control.
‘I have control.’
For five minutes, I flew that beautiful machine and loved it. An hour later, having been to our destination, we were flying along the Thames at 1,500 feet, when once again, Brian over the RT said, ‘Do you want control?’
‘Yeah, I’d love to.’
‘You have control.’
‘I have control,’ I repeated.
Everything was fine for the next two minutes. Then suddenly there was a massive jolt and the helicopter shook as if we were in a twin-tub washing machine. We were not exactly hurtling towards the earth, but we were descending pretty fast.
In that exact moment, over my headphones, I heard the words, ‘Mayday! Mayday!’ Two words associated with real danger.
I turned to look at Brian, who was pronouncing the third ‘Mayday!’ – it was us.
This whole experience lasted no more than thirty seconds before I realised that we were really in trouble. My hands left the stick with the acceleration of someone letting go of a white-hot poker. The vibrations were intense, we were skewering downwards. Seconds became an eternity and an eternity disappeared in seconds.
We were in the shit.
Don’t ask me how, probably because he is a fantastic pilot, we landed safely. Within moments of our distress call, the airwaves were buzzing with the knowledge that an aircraft was down. An hour and a half later, we were back at base to be met by a plethora of people. Gold and silver braid was everywhere.
It turned out that the Hughes 500’s rotor blades were susceptible to stones being thrown up from the ground during rotation. I don’t know if this problem is particular to the Hughes but in order to protect the leading edge on the blades they had bound them with strapping. This strapping had torn and blown open, so creating turbulence in the blades’ rotation. The wind and the rain of the day had done their job to exacerbate the problem.
‘Are you OK?’ I was asked
‘Yeah, I am fine. Tell me, what are the chances of a helicopter crashing?’
‘Oh, one in five million,’ came the reply.
‘Good, is there anywhere that I can learn to fly, having just enlarged the odds to one in ten million?’
That is how I turned up a week later at Wycombe Air Park, based at the former RAF Booker airfield, near High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire, to learn how to fly a helicopter. After taking more than forty lessons, and despite the fact that on my final exercise I strayed into military airspace and a live firing zone above Salisbury Plain, I completed my training. To everyone’s disbelief, a few months later my full helicopter private pilot’s licence arrived in the post.
About six months later, I was invited to Malaysia by one of my great friends, HRH Prince Abdullah ibni Sultan Haji Ahmad Shah, better known by a nickname I gave him years ago, ‘The Prince of Peace’. He is the eldest son and heir of the Sultan of Pahang, the third largest state in Malaysia.
There were many amazing incidents during the trip, and the first was on the evening of our arrival. We had been invited to dinner with the rest of his extended family, who between them accounted for half the royal family of the region. The venue was a hotel restaurant owned by the Prince, where we were taken to a very large private room at the back. There were in the region of twenty-five of us sitting down and, as per usual, the hospitality was unrivalled.
The meal finished and Abdullah decided that we should go back with him to his palace, so he and I exited our private room together. The main restaurant had possibly seventy diners sitting at various tables, and most of the diners looked to be locals. As we stepped into the room a few heads turned, followed by the sound of chairs being pushed back on a marble floor, and before we had moved halfway across the restaurant virtually all the diners were lying prostrate on the floor. It was surreal.
The door opened to the main lobby where dozens of people were going about their business, some sitting and talking, with porters heaving suitcases, bell boys carrying small message boards with tinkling bells, concierges, management, check-in girls – the normal mêlée of a busy hotel lobby. At the main exit, thirty yards in front, were about thirty people standing motionless; they looked like some sort of greeting party. Within ten seconds, I felt like Gulliver walking through dozens of small people – it was either that or a war zone.
From my right the Prince whispered, ‘Just look ahead and keep walking.’
By now every person in that lobby with the exception of a couple of Europeans, who looked like lone trees in a denuded forest, was on their belly or at least in a prayer position. It was the most unbelievable sight. The party dead ahead were on their knees, and the whole lobby was now on the floor. Then three or four of the welcoming party rose, greeting the Prince with huge affection, we climbed into the awaiting cars and were gone.
Where was I? Oh yes, the helicopter story.
As part of our trip, the Prince had arranged for us to spend two nights in the middle of the jungle in a camp. He’d told Greta and me that a large craft would take us up-river to our camping site. ‘Don’t worry, the boat will be well equipped.’
I noticed a glint in his eye when he said this, but I thought no more about it.
A couple of his chaps took us in a 4x4 to a small landing by the side of this great river, my eyes darting here and there looking for the African Queen to take us up-river. All I could see, however, were some rough-hewn, canoe-like craft; not, I thought, a boat fit for a prince.
‘Where’s our boat?’ I enquired.
‘That’s it there,’ a boatman said, pointing to a dug-out tree that was floating by the jetty.
At that moment, I could just picture the Prince’s glee back at the palace, imagining my horror as to what was about to happen. Now I knew what that glint in his eye was for. This called for the British stiff upper lip that has mastered thousands of different situations, such as the eating of lambs’ eyes off a pile of couscous – yes, I’ve done that as well, in a sheik’s tent in the Sahara Desert.
With the maximum amount of poise, Greta and I climbed into our piece of floating bark for the commencement of our journey. It rained, it shone, and it was magnificent. Two days later, however, the thought of a warm, comfortable bed was beckoning to me.
An excited guardian of the jungle informed us that they had received a radio message that the Prince was sending a helicopter to pick us up. A boat took us across the river, and after a short hike we came to a very small clearing where ten minutes later the helicopter dropped out of the sky. Greta sat in the back, as I had been invited by the pilot to sit by his side, headphones were donned, and within seconds we were airborne.
A minute or two passed before I was aware of the pilot talking about landing back at the palace in Pahang. I pressed the intercom, ‘Excuse me, but we are supposed to be going to Kuala Lumpur.’
‘Oh, let me see.’
After a rapid conversation in Malaysian, he confirmed that our destination was in fact to be KL. We were at this time flying over dense jungle with no sighting available, so out came the pilot’s map, board, rule and so on. For the next minute, he attempted to fly and at the same time rework his chart.
I pressed the intercom again. ‘Why don’t I fly it, while you fix your charts.’
‘You fly it? What do you mean?’ he replied disdainfully.
‘I have a licence to fly a helicopter, I just passed a few months ago.’
He stared at me for a second or two, then came those magic words, ‘You have control.’
I flew that beautiful machine for the next hour, sometimes going to within twenty feet of the jungle canopy, until dead ahead, the captivating and delightful city of Kuala Lumpur came slowly into view through the shimmering haze. We slid effortlessly across the city to the airfield, where, I say modestly, I made a perfect landing. It was a really great thrill.
The Royal County of Berkshire Polo Club was now in top gear, and one of the most interesting occasions was a day conceived by Ronnie Ferguson and, I believe, Captain James Hewitt, who was a friend of Princess Diana. The Gulf War had been over for a few months and Ronnie and I had been talking about the various troop commanders that we knew who had taken part in the war, when it occurred to us that there must be enough of them to make up a couple of polo teams. Arthur Denaro and James Hewitt, to name just a few.
So we decided to have a celebration of the event. Prince Charles was invited to play, along with the top military brass, a few Desert Rats, some tanks and possibly even a fly-past by some Tornado fighter jets – just a small day!
For organisational reasons, the event had to be on a Tuesday, a question of logistics. However, there was a problem with Tuesday, which was that the Joint Chiefs of Staff had always met on Tuesdays in London since Wellington beat Napoleon at Waterloo.
Somehow we managed to get them to break with tradition for our event. For the first time in over 150 years, the meeting was cancelled so that all the Joint Chiefs, as well the Secretary of State for Defence, the Right Honourable Tom King MP, and the Commander-in-Chief of British Forces in the Gulf War, General Sir Peter de la Billière, could be present at our Gulf War Day. Ronnie’s idea was to raise £250,000 for charity on this day, and the date was set for Tuesday 16 July 1991.
We were blessed that day with beautiful warm weather. Four huge Desert Rat tanks stood satanically on the four corners of Number 1 polo field, standing out starkly from the lush green fields. God, they were evil. They had arrived the previous day on the biggest transporters I have ever seen. Looking at them, I would not like to have been the enemy.
The teams were made up of the 7th Armoured Brigade, the Desert Rats, against the 4th Armoured Brigade, the Black Rats. Prince Charles, being Colonel-in-Chief of the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards, was made the captain of the 7th; while Captain James Hewitt of the Life Guards, who served as a Challenger tank commander in the Gulf War, was the captain of the 4th.
The Royal Box was adorned with the great and the good. The Duchess of York, Ronnie’s daughter, was also present, having agreed to present the prizes to the winning team, and so too His Majesty King Constantine of Greece.
The Band of the Welsh Guards took to the fields in all their sound, colour and pageantry, to begin the day’s celebrations. Then, out of the azure blue sky, suddenly dozens of parachutes from the Red Devils display team appeared and, as if being funnelled from above, all landed within yards of the Royal Box.
From the east, a deafening roar shook the ground as about a dozen Tornado fighters screamed overhead at one thousand feet, followed by displays from the Sharks helicopter team, the Queen’s Colour Squadron, and the Household Cavalry standard bearers.
The two teams fought out a fast and furious match, which was won by the 4th Armoured Brigade. The day was a huge success and went a long way to achieving Ronnie’s target of £250,000 for the charity. The comment from most of the players afterwards was that playing in the game had been more nerve-racking than going to war.
I am sure they were only joking.
• • •
This is where Bryan Morrison finished his original manuscript in late 1991. Ultimately, he decided not to have the book published the following year and it was put away in a drawer, where it has remained ever since.
On Sunday 16 July 2006, Bryan was playing in a friendly match with his son Jamie at the Royal County of Berkshire Polo Ground, when his horse tripped and Bryan was thrown to the ground, where he lay unconscious. He had landed on his head, causing severe brain injuries. He was taken to Wexham Park Hospital, near Slough, and then transferred to John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford.
Sadly, Bryan never regained consciousness and he was to remain in a coma for more than two years. He died aged sixty-six after contracting a virus on 27 September 2008, at the Holyport Lodge Care Home, near Maidenhead.
Looking back on his extraordinary life, Bryan Morrison once said, ‘I’m a very fortunate man. All my businesses are my hobbies – I love music, I love design and I love polo. But if you want to know what I rate as my greatest achievement of the last decade, I’ll tell you. It’s got nothing to do with horses – it is learning how to fly a jet helicopter.’