Uncle Paul´s Cain 01 Page

By Paul Cummings

The Reception 20/09/99

"Listen Ben," began the CO in an exasperated tone, "you will go to the reception and you will wear full dress. Christ man, if I had your colours I’d wear them all the time. The Director has decreed that you be there. As the only serving holder of the VC, the Director wants to make sure that the politicians know they’ve met a real hero. For the good of the regiment you will do this." The young major held his superior’s look for a second then nodded slightly. Ben Cain was not a man given to vast shows of emotion. He was a polite, softly spoken man, unusual in an army officer and unique in an officer of the 22^nd Special Air Service Regiment, or simply the Regiment to those in it.

Despite his sometimes infuriating manner, Andrew Lawrence rather liked Cain. He was a very professional soldier: He followed orders, he was unbelievably brave – how he won the VC was still a well discussed story in the Regiment, not just a piece of its heritage. It was just that he was so nice. He never ordered anyone to do anything. He just suggested it to his men. Mind you, it worked. The men under Cain’s command, especially those that had been on live operations with him, were fiercely loyal to him. Finally, there was his freakish physical prowess. He was just over five feet eleven tall and weighed around thirteen and a half stone, very average for the regiment, yet he was invincible in unarmed combat. Lawrence knew Cain was brought up in Japan and had a Japanese mother, but it was still something else to watch him move. As well as commanding A Squadron, Cain taught Karate, Aikido, Jujitsu and God knows what else.

Still, there was something missing from his background. Like it or not, Lawrence was from an old Scottish family. He was old fashioned in his view of what was needed for a British army officer. Mind you, he kept these views buried as the Director may be a Scot, but he came from the wrong side of Glasgow and had joined the army at sixteen, working his way up to Brigadier and a desk job in London as Director of the SAS. Lawrence wasn’t about to blot his copybook with the Director. Wallace was a man of iron, who was also a very skilled politician. He could certainly hurt Lawrence’s career if he chose to.

Cain walked back from the CO’s office to his quietly. He had attended rather too many of these receptions. He was wheeled out for politicians to shake his hand and gaze at that little dark cross with its purple ribbon. As he saw it, he’d got that just for doing his duty. As well, of course, there was always the risk that his family secret would come out at these events; sometime there was bound to be someone at one of these events that knew his family. He took a deep breath and cleared his mind. There was nothing for it. Duty. Cain grabbed his jacket and went out to his Toyota Land Cruiser Colorado parked outside. It was eleven miles from Stirling Lines to the house in the woods he owned. Driving slowly, he took eighteen minutes to get home.

Slowly the big off-roader drove round the back of the house and halted. Cain got out and entered the house though the back door. He hung his jacket up and climbed the stripped wooden stairs. With his usual precise neatness, Cain hung up his uniform, laid out his number one dress and then took a shower. With the meticulousness brought on by his Japanese heritage he scrubbed his body clean. After drying, Cain put on a fresh silk kimono and prepared himself some food. Living on his own, Cain was used to cooking, and he was actually quite a good cook with a tasty westernised version of Japanese food. The problem was always getting the authentic ingredients, but he had soon learned what he could reasonably substitute. There was, of course, no substitute for proper Japanese horseradish, nor for the frothy green Japanese tea Cain made himself after eating. He was not a great tea drinker, but his mother had taught him that it was a good way to calm the mind and body.

After drinking his tea, he dressed. That little cross seemed to carry so much weight. He remembered how he had won it six years ago. It seemed like yesterday, with two four man bricks they had held off an assault for three days. The last two days Cain had fought them off near single handed with no sleep at all. Then with just two remaining wounded men he had managed to pull out and get them back to the emergency rendezvous for evacuation, eleven days of slow night-time movement. Carry each man a little way, returning for the other then having to go off and draw the enemy away again. When they finally reached the ERV, he had been near delirious and had collapsed just as the evacuation helicopter had arrived. When he regained consciousness he found that the other two’s account meant he was going to get the Victoria Cross. The first non-posthumous VC won for more than thirty years. Corporal Williams had fully recovered and was now a troop sergeant in D Squadron. Trooper Macdonald had not made a full recovery and needed to have a foot amputated. He was now running the Regiment’s motor pool.

Cain shook off the memories and finished dressing. He had barely finished when he heard a car coming down the drive. It swung around and stopped at the front. Arnie Lewis thought Cain. Jim Macdonald nearly always made sure that it was Arnie that drove Cain when he needed an official driver. Arnie was a very good chauffeur. He could handle the cars superbly and he was also quiet and efficient, which suited Cain well. Cain opened the door just as Arnie was reaching for the brass knocker.

"Good afternoon, Arnie. How are you?" Arnie snapped to attention.

"Good afternoon, sir. I’m very well thank you." The Regiment didn’t really use the formality of other parts of the army. Everyone knew everyone and there had to be mutual trust and respect. Lives depended on it, there was no need to bang on formally all the time.

"Excellent. Shall we go?" Arnie stepped back and opened the rear door of the Rover. Cain didn’t really like being driven, but since his promotion to major he’d been obliged to use a driver for events like this. Cain sat back and relaxed. The Rover had barely got to the main road before Cain was asleep. Arnie was used to this; Cain often slept when he was being driven anywhere. The trip to the CO’s house was just over thirty minutes. As usual, Cain woke up two minutes before they arrived. Arnie smiled to himself. He’d been watching Cain in the rear view mirror for a few minutes. It always amazed him how Cain’s internal clock seemed to wake him at the proper time.

Lawrence lived in a large neo-Georgian house in a village just north of Ross-on-Wye. It was solidly built and had a U-shaped gravelled drive. Ivy grew up the entire western half of the front of the house, giving it a much older look than the actual twenty years it had seen. It was an impressive house, too impressive for a Lieutenant Colonel to own, but then Lawrence had family money available to him. Arnie jumped out and rang the bell.

Once the colonel was on board, Arnie headed out to the A40 and put his foot down, heading for London. The trip to London was going to be around two and a half hours. If he’d had some of the boys rather than ruperts in the car he’d have done it in two hours.

The rover pulled up outside Lancaster House. The doorman opened the rear door, so that Lawrence and Cain could get out. They walked up the steps and into the building. After a quick security check, they were allowed into the main hall. Here they were introduced to the Prime Minister, who was holding the reception. The young Tory Prime Minister enthusiastically shook Lawrence’s hand.

"It’s always a pleasure to meet you Colonel," he said.

"Thank you, sir," replied Lawrence before moving smartly off to the side to allow Cain to approach. "Prime Minister, this is … " began Lawrence before the Prime Minister interrupted him, grabbing Cain’s hand and pumping it vigorously.

"Major Cain, it is an honour to meet a man like yourself. A man who has done so much for this country’s safety."

"Sir," replied Cain formally, "it’s an honour to meet you, sir." Lawrence ushered Cain away and over to the Director, Brigadier Sir John Wallace, Director of Special Forces. Wallace was a tall grey haired, granite-hard Scotsman. Fifty years ago he would never have been allowed to become an officer, but now, with capability becoming more important than breeding, he had risen up to being a brigadier. He was even tipped for the very top. Assuming the hawkish young Prime Minister was able to win another term of Government for the Conservatives. Wallace was a soldier’s soldier, although on the way up he’d learnt the art of politics needed at the very top of the military. He was well respected by all who served with him, and feared by those who fought against him. He was even rumoured to be descended from Scotland’s greatest hero William Wallace.

"Andrew," Wallace began in his heavy Scottish accent, "how are you?"

"Well, Sir," replied Lawrence in an accent a cynic might say was a little heavier than his normally light, educated accent. Wallace turned to Cain.

"And you, Ben, how are you?" Lawrence felt the slight softening of tone in Wallace’s voice. Cain had that effect on people. Somehow you couldn’t help but like him.

"I’m well, sir. Thank you for asking." Cain smiled back.

"And your parents?"

"Well too, sir. My father sends his regards." Lawrence had forgotten that Wallace knew Cain’s parents, especially as neither of them spoke much about the link. All Lawrence knew about Cain’s parents was that his father was English, his mother Japanese and that they now lived in Hampshire somewhere. His father was a retired civil servant of some form. Feeling somewhat on the outside of this conversation, Lawrence looked to change the subject.

"The Prime Minister looked pleased to see us."

"Aye, he’s a great supporter of the Special Forces, especially the Regiment. Supported us as Defence Secretary and now as Prime Minister. Best supporter we’ve had since Thatcher. Brave lass she was." That was certainly true. Wallace had been commander of G Squadron during the Iron Lady’s time. She had often visited Stirling Lines when she was Prime Minister. She had a simple relationship with the boys of the Regiment; she passionately believed in them and supported them. In return, the Regiment loved her for her fearsome reputation as much as her patronage of the Regiment. Under the two subsequent Prime Ministers, the relationship between them and the Regiment had been less personal and more professional. True, Blair had tried to have the close relationship with them, but his idea of camaraderie was to have himself photographed with some of the boys of the regiment. He hadn’t taken it well when nobody wanted to be photographed with him. He didn’t seem to realise that that would be the end of their Regiment life as they would be known faces and hence useless to the Regiment’s main job of providing intelligence in hostile environments. It was early days yet, but the new Prime Minister seemed to be heading slowly down Lady Thatcher’s path in relation to the Regiment, and much else. "Anyway gentlemen, let’s circulate and enjoy the party. And Ben laddie, you make sure that people see that cross."

Cain circulated for an hour. Surprisingly, this seemed to be a very small gathering. Cain knew by sight many of the people present. There was Sir Nigel Mayfield, otherwise known as C, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, previously known as MI6. As well as the Chief, there was one of the Deputy Chiefs and an Assistant Chief, the Director of Operations, present. A big turnout for the shadowy SIS people. Sir Brian Barrington, the Director-General of the Security Service, the old MI5, was also deep in discussions with someone Cain didn’t know, although he recognised the Deputy Director-General and a couple of branch heads. In such exalted company, Cain was able to stay out of the limelight, however, he did get two requests for the story of his VC, which, as ever, Cain politely declined. There were also a few appraising looks when people thought he wouldn’t notice.

Apart for the CO and the Director, the only people Cain felt really relaxed with were the two boys from the Special Boat Squadron. In his first spell in a sabre squadron, Cain had been in Mobility Troop and Air Troop, not Boat Troop, but he had worked a couple of times with the SBS. Plus, of course, various members of the SBS had been to Stirling Lines many times. Even after fourteen years in the army, Cain was equipped to deal with civilians: His upbringing in Japan had taught him the necessary skills of politics, both from his father, who had spent a long time in the diplomatic service, and his mother, who had taught him so much of Japanese history, culture and etiquette. Since then, Staff College, which is attended by all officers as a prelude for their promotion to major and above, had emphasised the need to work with the civilian authorities in the modern army, where military action was always closely guided by political objectives.

Cain kept a discreet watch on Lawrence and Wallace. As soon as they left, he would be disappearing. Lawrence was staying in London for a couple of days, but Arnie would be driving Cain back to Hereford. Eventually, the two Scots took their leave. Before Cain could effect a covert exit too, the Director of Operations for the SIS spoke to him, whilst the Deputy Director, who was his immediate superior, stood silently beside him. Cain was used to this; in Japan it was usual for the superior to place a junior at the front and for him to stay amongst the juniors so that he could watch proceedings and learn about his opponent, without his opponent learning about him. Both sides did this, so it became a game of who could learn the most from the choice of front man and what he said. Then there was face. A superior could gain lots of face if a junior handled the situation well, and hence cause his opponent to lose face against a junior.

Somehow, Cain had the feeling that the SIS men were questioning him. They were far too good to allow him to understand what they wanted. Cain was bored by the evening, otherwise he might have handled things better, but he decided to play games with them too. He varied his speech patterns, paused in unexpected places and generally played other verbal tricks designed to cause the other person to break their concentration and lose face. The SIS man held up remarkably well, so Cain ventured further from the accepted etiquette of conversation; concentrating his ki energy, Cain carefully drew energy from the other two men. The effect of this would be to make them feel lethargic and so more liable to make mistakes. This was a technique that was easy for Cain, but not understood, or even believed by most westerners, for whom the idea of one man being able to effect another by his mind alone was not though possible. But then these same westerners spent a lot of time and money on experts to toughen them up mentally, so that others wouldn’t intimidate them during sport or work. This was just a basic level of building defences against a basic ki attack. The SIS man was quite good, but he was eventually led down a path of Cain’s choosing and forced to lose face trying to gain the upper hand.

The Deputy Director seemed to gain some understanding of what was happening, at least he could see that his man was losing face to the extent that he had lost control of the conversation. With a few brief words he ended the conversation and allowed Cain to make his quick exit. The rover was waiting and Cain jumped in.

"Good evening, sir. RHQ?" said Arnie. Nobody in the Regiment would ask anything about what another had been doing; there was no Need To Know. Arnie just asked if Cain would like to drive back to Hereford and the Regimental Head Quarters.

"Good evening, Arnie. Yes, please." And with that Cain shut his eyes.

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