This book is an ideal gift for any and all psychologists, psychoanalysts,
psychotherapists, counsellors, coaches, teachers, trainers, social workers, or indeed anybody who is curious about the human
mind, and the journey of the emerging individual from a dysfunctional family background, into a fully autonomous, joyous life
of their own.
Obedience and Revolt: Volume 1 – Learning to
novel & psychological thriller,
By Daniel O’Beeve
Update - 13th October 2015:
“Daniel’s book will make you laugh. It’ll make you cry.
But most of all it will make you question everything you ever thought you knew about men, their fathers and mothers, Ireland
and England, sex-love, and the spiritual journey that each of us must make in order to integrate our hearts and our minds”.
Sean Brady, Irish Lights…
Sixteen years after leaving Ireland, Daniel O’Beeve arrived
in the high peaks of Derbyshire in the winter of 1978-'9, during heavy snow storms. He'd recently returned from Thailand,
and the contrast with the weather there could not have been greater.
Daniel was running on empty; burning out.
He had got into smoking marijuana in Bangladesh, a couple of years earlier, because it was legal –
the legal substitute for banned alcohol. Then, in Bangkok, he got his dope (plus tranquillizers and speed) from
his girlfriend who was, unfortunately, another man’s wife.
Now, arriving in Alton Cross, he decides to go clean; to give up all drugs; to give up illicit affairs;
and to face life sober. This is a harsh come down. He lives alone; a solitary life; in a dusty, rented apartment.
He sits and tries to compose himself; to explore his mind.
He decides to write a poem, titled ‘On First Looking Inside Myself’. He sits for hours, looking at the blank
writing pad. But he sees nothing inside of himself. He is a hollow man.
It will be years before he learns that this makes him a ‘bog standard male’;
a person with no life; no emotional intelligence; and no real sense of self. He is a pretender, like most other men:
going through the pretence of ‘being somebody’.
The only thing he can be sure of is this: He is a ‘physical self’. But he does not have a coherent
‘narrative self’ – a story of who he happens to be. This is so because he has buried most of his psychological
pain over the previous three decades; and lied about who he ‘is’.
So he sits down again, and determines to write the story of his life, in which he hopes to find,
for the first time “the real Daniel” – the true narrative-self of a cruelly abused boy!
Chapter 2 he writes about the love affair he was having in Bangkok, for six months before he returned to the UK. This
is how it begins:
"The Brothers of Christ produced ten generations of boys and men who could neither think nor feel. They
were crippled leftovers from the failed feudal revolt against British capitalism".
Moran, A Very Peculiar Tragedy…
1. A waking nightmare…
alarm dragged me out of a strange black and silver landscape of caves and hills, in which I was haunted by memories of something
I’d lost. I was frantically searching for something precious. But I could not begin to find it until I knew
what it was. And I could not remember what it had been.
Beep, beep, beep…..
slam the beeping alarm off; and swing my legs out of bed. It hasn’t rained for weeks, and the temperature, in
the run-up to ‘Christmas’ is above eighty-five degrees by lunchtime. It’s already over seventy degrees,
and it’s barely seven o’clock in the morning. Yellow light streams in through the windows of my three-room
Although it was almost Christmas ‘back home’ (wherever that was: the UK? or Ireland?)
there seemed to be endless Chinese celebrations going on all over Bangkok. We were still in the year of the Horse; and
the year of the Goat would not begin until early February 1979. I’d consulted a traditional Chinese healer in Bangkok,
and he’d told me that the year of the Goat would be a major turning point in my life. He said my world would crack
and fall asunder; only to be rebuilt in a better form. And the symbol for the moment of change would be the arrival
of the Goat. I can’t wait!
At the moment it’s Chinese Thanksgiving, which is the Thais’ winter solstice
celebration, involving ancestor worship at its core, but lots of eating of spicy foods seemed to be the main evidence that
the celebrations are in full flow.
2. Minor health problems…
I look down at the red hives on my
legs and arms. Fucking bedbugs. I cross the bedroom and pick up the big black Bakelite phone, tap the
internal call button repeatedly, and speak to the apartment block manager, telling him the new mattress is no better than
the previous one – ‘I’m still covered in bedbug bites’ – and ask that he get me a new mattress
by the end of today. (At this point, I knew nothing of the possibility of stress-induced allergic reactions!)
open the fridge and look in. Nothing appeals to me, so I remove by tee-shirt and put on a pair of swimming trunks and
flip-flops; cross to the entrance hall; and out onto the patio, where I am struck by the glaring sun and the roar of the traffic
from Tunun Praddipat, a couple of hundred yards away. I turn right and walk down to the swimming pool.
are already two Thai families – two mothers and fathers and four children - and the fat American from apartment number
four - in the shallow end of the pool, chatting amiably. I walk to the deep end, where the blinding yellow sparkles
of sunlight bounce off the rippled surface of the pale blue chlorinated water. I climb down the steps, and, clinging
to the ladder rail, float out on my back. This is one way to cool down; one way to wake up; and one way to try to soothe
my burning hives. I can’t swim, but I have learned how to float on my back.
My head is thumping, as usual,
and my neck and shoulders are cold and stiff.
It’s a lot cooler at the moment than it was in June,
when I arrived in this exotic city, with plans to make a reputation and perhaps a small fortune at the same time. I
was trading on my creative ability to suggest timely economic and technological innovations for rural development. The Royal
Thai government was urgently investing in anything that would wean the poor peasant farmers of the Northeast Region from the
Lao and Cambodian communists who repeatedly infiltrated the militarized Land Settlement Projects. (The paradox, of course,
was that I probably hated the American Empire more than did the Cambodians. Laos or Vietnamese! Because I knew the mercenary
reasons the American state, on behalf of American corporations, had gone into Vietnam with tons of bombs and burning
napalm, and killed thousands and thousands of innocent civilians.)
In the past couple of days, the humidity has dropped
to about 60% which, for the Thais is very comfortable; but when it’s combined with such high temperatures, it does not
suit the pale, European skin, and it’s very much outside of our comfort zone. My pale and sensitive skin is particularly
uncomfortable in such hot and sweaty conditions.
3. The cultural context…
As I lie in the pool, trying
to clear my head, and cool my hives, I can smell the riot of odours of Thai cooking from the countless cooking stalls in the
streets that surround Blue Lotus Apartments – the gated community where I’ve lived for the past two months.
Overall the aroma of Thai food is pleasant and rich, though at its core is that rotten, fermented fishy smell of Pla ra.
I could also pick out the diluted stink of Pad sa Tor (which I had often tried as a hangover remedy); though it was
pretty heavily covered by the whole gamut of sweet and spicy herbs that Thais love so much. But at least those food
odours tended to mask the clouds of car exhaust fumes that drifted in from Praddipat Road, as the early morning traffic roar,
which would last all day, began to howl in earnest.
Out of the pool, I walk to the shower at the end, wash
the chlorine off with some local soap; walk back to my apartment, bowing to the Thais in the pool, and to the spirit house
in the small plot in front of my door. Back inside, I get dressed.
Today is the big day for
feedback on my presentation to the Director of the Department of Public Works, on my Northeast Village Technology and Rural
Economy proposal. For this purpose, I don my bitter chocolate, linen safari suit with the pale beige stripe: short sleeved,
open-necked, waisted, and with flared trousers. I have had my long hair cut back to collar length, and my beard trimmed.
I want to wear sandals, to keep my body temperature down, but that would not be acceptable attire for a government office
in Bangkok. So I reluctantly put on a pair of Barrett’s two-tone shoes, dark tan and beige, that match the business
4. A breakfast of two parts…
Out on the street, outside my apartment compound, there
are three ‘tuk-tuks’ (or sam lor). These are three-wheeled, motorized rickshaws, built as a covered scooter
– the big brothers of the Indian baby-taxi. They are patiently waiting for customers to come along. I catch the
eye of one driver who’s driven me before, and beckon him over. He turns his sam lor and drives over. Meanwhile,
the aroma of the nearest food stall has stimulated my appetite, so I ask my driver to wait while I have a bowl of Kuai-tiao
nam soup with noodles and pork-balls, from one of my favourite street-sellers. It takes me just three minutes to eat
it, and then I get into the sam lor, and the driver takes me up to the Dorchester Hotel, near Saphan Kwai, where I order breakfast.
lived in the Dorchester for about two months, until I ran out of money, about eight or nine weeks back. Although I am
an accredited consultant with the UN, I am on a payment by results contract; which means that, until I bring in some project
funding, I cannot claim my consultancy fees. It’s very expensive living in Bangkok, and also funding my own field
trips and consultancy reports.
Before I lived in the Dorchester, I’d lived in a low-rent apartment that was
subsidized by Christian Aid, for use by missionaries and Christian Aid field workers. I was evicted when some neighbours
complained of the sounds coming from my room every time Juliet came to visit, during my first few weeks in Bangkok.
It was unfortunate that the floor was a kind of hard, glossy resinous concrete, which squealed and screeched when the iron-frame
bed was forced down hard on its bare metal legs. I suppose it took the other residents a few weeks to figure out what
was going on, and they then decided that making love in the afternoon was sinful.
Now I was back in the basement
restaurant of the Dorchester, in search of the second part of my breakfast, and also to meet Juliet to plan and prepare for
our visit to the Department of Public Works. The purpose of this visit, as I said, was to get feedback on our presentation,
made last month, to the Director, the Minister, and the senior funding teams from the US Agency for International Development
(USAID), the United Nations Development Program (UNDP), and the Dutch government development agency (DDC).
always dark and cool in the Yim Huai Heng restaurant, because it was below ground level and therefore had no windows.
The lighting was old French wall lamps; the décor was dark; and the carpet was so dark it was hard to discern the maroon
background that I guessed would be visible in broad daylight.
I sat at my usual table near the door and looked at
the menu. It contained no concessions to the English language, apart from the Romanization of the Thai words.
I had learned to stick to the Khao phat, for breakfast and lunch: which in most good restaurants contained fried
rice topped with nam pla phrik (which is chillies in fish sauce). The other ingredients tended to vary,
but often included lime or lemon, cucumber or coconut, and, more often than not, spring onions. (Nobody in Bangkok ate
or supplied bacon and eggs; or toast and marmalade. And it was almost impossible to get good quality coffee, since iced
tea [‘cha yen’] was the drink of choice in that city. Such cultural deprivation!)
phat arrived, with a strong smell of lemon grass and ginger; along with a big jug of freshly brewed, strong iced tea
– like masala tea with coconut milk, crushed ice and tons of sugar. I got stuck into the rice, with a fork in
my right hand, while pouring the iced tea with my left. The tea, when well made, in reputable establishments, was almost
as strong as coffee, and I slurped a couple of mouthfuls back, in an effort to wake myself up fully. But the cognitive boost
was less than half that of a good American coffee.
5. Juliet arrives…
The cha yen was
not all for me, as Juliet was due to arrive soon. She normally had black coffee in the morning, at home, (and on Mondays,
Wednesdays and some Fridays, I joined her there for coffee and toast). But today she was due to meet me here at 8.15, so we
could prepare for our meeting at 9.00am at the Department of Public Works. The iced tea was a poor compensation for
the lack of her preferred home-percolated American coffee.
I heard her three-inch stilettos hit the marble floor
in the entrance hall above, and checked my watch. Bang on time.
I heard her march steadily down the
stairs: click, clack, click. I was filled with sadness and gladness, in a mixture acidic enough to burn right through
She was dressed in a tight, black, Thai silk suit: jacket and pencil line skirt, with a long slit
up the right thigh. Her long, blond hair was tied back in a big gold hair slide; and she was wearing her big, red-framed
specs. She was dressed to kill for a crucial business meeting.
To continue reading this dramatic autobiographical novel, please order your own paperback
To get your paperback copy, please click the link for your nearest Amazon store below:
Obedience and Revolt: Volume
1 – Learning to conform
By Daniel O’Beeve
So Daniel set out on a long,
complex, spiritual journey through two landscapes: one being an inner dream world, and the other the recollection of his life
from childhood through young manhood.
Some of the dreams occurred in Alton Cross, and some were recalled from earlier periods of his life.
And some of his dreams turned
out to have a strange ‘objective truth’ when they were confirmed by the final report of Professor Valises: the
director of an alien research team from the Intergalactic Federation, which had been following Daniel’s life from his
dreams that proved to be true, and which surprised him the most, were the three dreams about the battles of Crumble-Baan.
These involved a strange, ‘primitive communist’ community, near the east coast of Hibernia, back in the mists
of time. Here is an extract from that section:
We remember so little of our infancy. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes little
snatches of sound or feeling, or snippets of imagery.
I don’t know how often my mother sang songs when I was a babe in arms, but one
such song did stick in my mind. This is how it begins:
“It was early, early in the spring
small birds whistled and sweet did sing,
And changing their notes
The song they sang was Old Ireland Free”.
It was a sad song. I didn’t know what the
words meant – did not know what “Ireland” was; or what “Free” could be. I may have had
some vague idea what a “bird” was; and a “tree”, perhaps.
But it was a sound of deep, mournful grief, the way
she sang it. Even despair. It bored its way into my heart, like a sick worm, looking for some-where comfortable to die!
did I absorb from my mother’s culture? Perhaps everything!
So if you are to understand my personal story you need
to know something of the culture from which my mother emerged – for I almost certainly inherited whatever she had inherited.
is a modification of the understanding of what the tall woman told the curious boy, above. It is not just that our childhood
defines who we become; but that our family history, our racial history, shapes what is possible for our lives.
4. A legend
of old Ireland…
Therefore, before I can tell you anything about me and my childhood, I need to give you a broader
context. So, to begin with, let me tell you a legend of old Ireland:
Long, long ago, about 64 generations back – in
the season of the Crow – about two full moons before the Festival of Aine (the Moon Goddess) - Doneal McFlynn was walking
on the hillside outside the village of Crumble-Baan. He was wearing a plain green kilt and a sheepskin vest. His
long grey hair was tied in a knot on top of his long, slender head; and his feet were bare.
Evening was closing in, and
darkness was descending fast.
Looking down on the village, he could just see the outline of the three concentric circles of
round houses in which the entire population lived their communal life.
Though the light was poor, he could still make out the
modest campfire of the two boys who were keeping the Night Watch on the opposite hillside. Suddenly, without warning,
a great flare of flame arose in his field of vision, right next to the boys’ campfire. In his entire lifetime
he had never seen this vision, though he had spent decades expecting to see it one day. The alarm signal. Invaders
have been spotted approaching us.
As quickly as he could, Doneal made his way down to the village, where the men and
boys had congregated in the open space at the centre of the inner circle of roundhouses. They had a huge assortment
of wooden clubs, wooden shields, whips, big stones and slingshots, a few axes, and bronze bars with which to beat their opponents.
The two watching boys had arrived sweating and shouting. They had seen the signal from the next village, at the top
of the valley. So the enemy must be coming from the sea, as they had always expected they would.
Tor Sorgas was the leader of
the raiding party. He stood at the front of the bigger of the two wooden ships, in metal helmet with nose shield; wearing
woollen shirt and trousers, covered by a leather jerkin. He has ordered the crew on the oars to head for the bay.
They had left their home in the frozen north of Europa three weeks earlier, intent upon plundering a few communities in Scotia
and Britannia, but they had been rebuffed at every attempt. They also failed two landings on the Welsh coast, and now
were bound for the east coast of Hibernia.
Tor could not imagine any kind of life other than plundering the wealth of others,
especially the mineral wealth of the Britons. But the livestock and crops of Hibernia would have to do this time.
run out of dried fish earlier today, and so they had to succeed with this landing. To ensure that there was no turning
back, they burned their boats on the beach where they landed, and began the trek inland to find some undefended community
Doneal McFlynn, as the village elder, took charge of the massed men and boys, and told them that the gods
were on their side. Nobody had the right to invade their community and disrupt the peace. Right is mighty, he
told them, and then commanded them to follow him into battle.
It was not known in advance how long it would take to
locate the enemy, but in the event it involved a two hour march eastwards.
The warriors of Crumble-Baan met the invading army on
the fields of Larkow, halfway between the village and the coast. The men and boys of Crumble-Baan did their war dance,
screaming and roaring their anger at the invaders. This was the tradition of Lenster-Beag: to demonstrate superior moral
right by every means available to larynx and arms; and to body movements and facial contortions.
Tor Sorgas had trained his warriors
to ignore the behaviour of the enemy, and to look within for the superior claim of the people of Scantavia to the wealth of
the world. The god of war was on their side, and they would prove to be invincible.
The men and boys of Crumble-Baan
ran down the hillside towards the invaders, stamping their feet, shouting curses, screaming for them to withdraw and go away.
They were convinced that, at any moment, the invaders would understand that the people of Crumble-Baan had the superior moral
stand, and then they would simply run away.
… End of extract…
This was the first of three battles which sealed the fate of the Celtic clans of old
Hibernia. To find out how this evolved, please buy your own paperback copy.
To get your paperback copy, please click the link for your nearest Amazon store below:
and Revolt: Volume 1 – Learning to conform
By Daniel O’Beeve
In ancient time, in traditional cultures throughout the world, at the end of childhood, individuals were
initiated into their adult roles.
For boys, this often involved a group of older men taking a young boy, at puberty, into the wild, and confronting
him with a fear-inducing challenge, during which he was often wounded. Sometimes those wounds were unnecessary and sadistically
inflicted, by damaged communities. But in healthy communities, initiation into the role of manhood was done with loving
kindness, and skill.
In the modern, western world, there does not seem to be an equivalent of this kind of initiation ceremony.
Certainly, in my own case, Catholic Confirmation did not help me to become a man; and Daniel O’Beeve reports a similar
Daniel, starting work as a metal jewellery apprentice, at the age of fourteen years, and then joining a judo club with some
fellow workers, was a kind of initiation. He describes beautifully the experience of being trained in Judo
by Japanese trainers, who taught a broad philosophy of life, as well as a martial art.
But this could not have been a ‘full initiation’
into manhood, because, five years later he joined a harsh, new military outfit in England. Did he do that because he
was non-consciously seeking the ‘wound’ that would make him a man?
Here is an extract from the relevant section of his book:
Extract from Chapter 10
12. The next stage…
On Sunday, after a slap-up lunch, we were all told to
pack our kit and get ready for a move to CSDU High Pittington, where we would do our ‘square-bashing’. Some
of the new recruits had been in the armed forces before, and they explained that square-bashing was just about learning how
to march, salute, and a few things like that. They explained that the Drill Instructors might try to break you down,
to ‘crack you’, but “just keep cool and hang in there and it will soon pass” – or so they said!
We were driven the three or
four miles to CSDU High Pittington in a high-chassis, military transport bus with stiff suspension. It was a real bone-shaker,
and the road surfaces were very rough, and potholed, especially the closer we got to High Pittington. Also, the driver was
one of the roughest drivers I’ve ever travelled with. So I was feeling a bit shaken up when we arrived.
We pulled in through the gates, as a military-police guard (or MP) - in the white-topped pillbox hat with red armband - raised
a big metal barrier. He was carrying a machine gun across his chest. The peak of his cap was slashed, and bent
so it faced down instead of out, thus covering most of his eyes. He had the chiselled features of a villain from a James
Bond film. Behind him stood two others with .303 rifles in their hands. Slashed peaks: no eyes. Harsh mouths.
The bus rattled over intermittent
ramps, and the driver continued to crash the gears and stamp alternately on the accelerator and the footbrake, until we reached
the centre of the camp, about a mile from the gates. Then the bus turned into a big, open, concrete square. “That’s
the drill square”, said one of the former servicemen.
A sergeant and a corporal
were standing to attention, like robots, in the middle of the square. Their uniforms were immaculate, with sharp creases
down the fronts of their pearl-grey trouser legs, and gleaming buttons on their royal blue jackets. They wore bone white
webbing belts around their waists, with white straps across their chests, from left shoulder to right hip. They looked to
have rigid backbones, and they both had the slashed peaked pillbox hats and the grim lower faces. They had to tilt their heads
slightly backwards in order to see past their peaks. Under their arms they carried what I later learned are called ‘pace
sticks’ – three feet long, two inches thick, oak sticks with heavy brass tips on both ends. Weapons? Coshes?
The late afternoon sun glinted off their black plastic peaks which concealed their eyes.
Behind them there were two rows of new recruits in uniforms,
like mine, and the bus they had arrived in was parked on the far side of the square. And behind those lines were another
sergeant and a corporal, and off in the corner of the square, by a high flagpole, two lieutenants were watching the proceedings,
without any involvement.
As the bus stopped, the driver called: “Everybody out”. The door at the front opened,
and the drill sergeant and his corporal marched like toy soldiers over to the bus, banging their big, bright, highly polished
hob-nailed boots on the tarmac surface of the square. I felt as if they were trying to make permanent indentations in
the square with every step they took.
Several of the men scrambled off before me, throwing their kit bags out first and jumping down
the three steps to the square, and running to form a line where indicated by the corporal. In addition to my kit bags,
I also still had my suitcase and my rucksack with my civilian clothes inside. As I reached the door, I got stuck with
all my luggage in the narrow exit. The sergeant outside shouted, “Out, out, out! At the double!”
Saying that, he reached forwards with his right hand, and I, misunderstanding, passed him my suitcase, to facilitate my easing
through the door. His mouth snarled, and he caught me by the wrist and pulled me down the steps onto the tarmac square.
I had to drop my case and bags as I sailed through the air. I landed hard on my hands and knees, and also banged my
head, causing my pillbox hat to fly off.
13. Coming down to earth…
As I knelt there on the hard tarmac, trying to recover myself,
I looked back in the direction in which the bus had come. The exit was at least a mile away; guarded by armed men.
Outside, there were three or four miles of rough, country roads back to Low Pittington, and then a further five miles to Durham.
But the truth is I was not planning to make a run for it. This place was well known to me. I was back at the bottom
of the stairs, laid over the piss-pot, winded. Or was I, once more, laid at the bottom of the kitchen steps, with concussion;
where my father had knocked me down? Or perhaps I was laid across a desk in Mr O’Bombula’s class, and Mr
McMurphy was lashing my arse with his cane. I was back in my childhood, at the mercy of sadistic parents and teachers,
and peers. If I had heard of Freud’s concept of ‘repetition compulsion’ at that time, I would have
recognized immediately that that was where I was: repeating my childhood humiliation and abuse, just because humans are creatures
up, dazed, I could see that my suitcase had split, spilling my civilian clothes on the parade ground. Looking down,
I could see blood seeping through the knees of my pearl-grey trousers.
Orders were shouted: Get over here; Line up there; Shoulder
width apart; By the right, dress off… and so on.
I was picking up my suitcase and belongings when the sergeant came up beside me and
roared in my ear. “Some kind of trouble-maker are we? Not even arrived yet, and already spoiling the Queens
Peace? Get fell in before I have your guts for garters!”
I moved as quickly as I could - with suitcase under one arm,
big kitbag in my right hand, small kitbag and rucksack in my left - and got into line.
“From the left, call out your number, rank and
name!” was the next instruction.
People chanted off the details. I could not remember my number yet, even though
I had been told to memorize it; and so I had to put my luggage down again, take my ID card out of my pocket, and read it off.
Suddenly the corporal was standing behind me; his breath hot on my neck; his coarse voice loud in my ear: “This one’s
a right trouble-maker, sergeant! Is he not? We will have to pay special attention to him!”
“I’ve got my eye
on him, corporal”, said the sergeant. “A bit of a slacker, I think. And you know how we treat slackers
around here?” he asked the corporal.
The corporal laughed, a gallows laugh. “We haven’t had a slacker
on the rack for a while, have we, sergeant?”
I was terrified. I was back in Brother Herbert’s line in the Wattling Town
school yard. I was expecting Brother Linx to appear at any moment.
14. A brief reprieve…
But then there was some mumbling
in the ranks, further to my right, and the sergeant and the corporal moved over there.
“Having a party, are we?” the sergeant asked
a tall, blond lad with a Yorkshire accent.
“No, sergeant!” said the lad.
There was then some more disorder further down the line;
followed by more threats that the sergeant would have people’s guts for garters.
Then total silence reigned. The sergeant and the
corporal had totally intimidated thirty two men aged between nineteen and thirty years. What a sense of sadistic satisfaction
that must have given them. Dozens of cowed men!
After what felt like five minutes of total silence, as the sergeant and corporal walked
up and down the lines, inspecting us insolently; peering into our impassive, frightened faces – as we doggedly stared
straight ahead, as ordered - we were then told that we would be split into two ‘battle groups’: Nine Commando
and Ten Commando.
“If you are allocated to Nine Commando”, said the sergeant, “fall out and run to join Sergeant
Brown and Corporal Wilson at the back of the square. If you are allocated to Ten Commando, stay where you are”.
Names and numbers were then
called out, and half the group ‘fell out’ and ran to the back of the square. I was left with fifteen others,
in the ‘Ten Commando’ group.
“These must be the lazy ones”, said the sergeant to the corporal. “They
must need a lot of kicking into shape, since they have fallen into our hands. And what do we do with people who fall
into our hands, Corporal Danby?” roared the sergeant, so our eardrums hurt.
“We make them or break them, Sergeant Wright!”
roared the corporal, with obvious delight in his absolute power. “But mostly we break them!”
We were then ordered to run
(or ‘double-march’), with all our kit, across the square, into Gibson House - a two story, redbrick building opposite
the parade square - up the stairs, and turn right into our billet. We moved as fast as we could, and the sergeant and corporal
marched behind us, yelling at us to get a move on “you horrible little worms!”
My knees are sore and difficult to bend as I struggle
up the stairs with my luggage. My heart is in my mouth. I have made a terrible mistake. I am back in my
little blue bear is in a tree outside the billet window. He is in a state of shock. He is terrified, panicked.
He thinks he is going to die!
continue reading this story, please buy your own paperback copy:
To get your paperback copy,
please click the link for your nearest Amazon store below:
On this site you will find lots of informational resources (mainly requiring
an access fee) about coaching, counselling and psychotherapy services to help with all kinds of emotional, behavioural
and relationship difficulties and problems; and public performance difficulties. Counselling, coaching and psychotherapy
in Hebden Bridge, West Yorkshire, UK; and all over the world via the telephone system and by email.
We use the services of PayPal to sell our self-help resources,
informational packs, and distance learning courses.
ABC Coaching and Counselling Services is the home of
Emotive-Cognitive Embodied-Narrative Therapy (E-CENT) - which
is an integration of: Attachment theory; Rational therapy; Psychodynamic (‘Object relations’) therapy; Cognitive
therapy; Transactional analysis; Narrative therapy; Moderate Buddhist and Stoic philosophies; Moral philosophy; and other