As a small boy growing up in Kenya where I was born shortly after the Second World War, I was confused by the discovery that my aunt Ditha was German. In those days you still heard people say ‘the only good German is a dead one’. But I learned from my mother that my aunt was certainly an exception. She had saved the life of my uncle, an RAF-bomber-pilot, after he escaped from a PoW camp in the final months of the war. After falling in love, he had taken her home to England with him where she was accepted as one of our own. As a five year old that was all I needed to know.

Influenced by regular visits of Royal Navy ships showing the flag in Kenya’s final days as a British colony, I set my heart on a naval career. Aged thirteen I was sent to HMS Conway in Anglesey as a first step. Conway was geared primarily to prepare boys for lives as officers in the Merchant Navy. I believe I was the old ship’s first cadet to win a scholarship to the Royal Naval College at Dartmouth and you can only imagine the collective consternation when I turned it down after a change of heart about joining the RN. In the face of constant exhortations not to throw my life away, I turned my back on staying at school and going to university and joined the British & Commonwealth Shipping Company as a cadet aged sixteen. Trips back to Africa and other far flung corners of the world from Brazil to Hong Kong provided a fast track to growing up. They also opened my eyes to the reality that there was no future for me in the Merchant Navy either.

I broke off my apprenticeship and headed home with the wistful idea of becoming a journalist. As I soon discovered, that was a lot easier said than done. I persuaded the editor of a local weekly paper to give me a role as a village correspondent. For this I was rewarded with the princely income of a penny-halfpenny a line. With the help of the WI, parish council, and some village stalwarts I banged out enough wedding, funeral and baby show lines to earn two or three pounds a week. But the real break came when one of my informants told me earnestly that the village was up in arms about the vicar. He was running for election to the district council and had asked his congregation at the Sunday service to vote for him. I immediately sensed that politics preached from the pulpit was a story and called my editor. He agreed but to my chagrin sent a real reporter to cover it. She let me tag along behind to learn the ropes. That weekend the story made national headlines, and the following week I was offered my first reporting job.

Looking back, my years as a journalist were some of my most enjoyable. There is something hugely motivating about never knowing quite what each day will bring. I recall feeling disappointed one afternoon when I arrived at The Birmingham Post to discover my name penciled against ‘calls’ in the news desk diary. This meant doing the dreary job of ringing local emergency services every hour in the hope of unearthing some tidbit for the next day’s edition. I started by dialing the Birmingham city police, expecting the usual catalogue of petty crime reports. Instead I was tipped off about a shooting incident unfolding in nearby Solihull. A couple of hours later I was filing the first report about a man who shot dead a family of three living next door. The real twist though, was that everyone else in the street where he lived sympathised with what he had done. The victims were universally regarded as neighbours from hell and their killer was subsequently convicted of manslaughter not murder and sentenced to only two years in jail.

To read part two of Michael's story, including the impact of writing Into Enemy Arms, click here.

 

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MICHAEL HINGSTON