ࡱ> 02/ 4bjbjqq 4"ee4  0hjjjjjj^jjjhhP~wFFT0Xpjj : The Pelican in the Wilderness Extracts from the autobiography by Ivan Clutterbuck After a few weeks of homesickness, I began a love story with Cambridge and especially ͨs College which has never ended, although modern developments have dimmed my affection... Seventy years ago it welcomed a different kind of undergraduate from the present grown-up adults who arrive today after a wealth of experience in the wide world...Cambridge was an ideal place for growing up in the care of college authorities and especially of a senior tutor who exercised a parental concern for all his flock. It was amazing how our smallest indiscretions became known to him ... My senior tutor was Mr Sidney Grose who lived with his family in a corner of the college. He was a kindly man who could fierce on occasions if work was not up to standard: he was also my Classics supervisor... Cambridge in those pre-war years was a wonderful place to be. In some ways it was still mediaeval in its rules and regulations. Certainly there were few mod cons in the colleges and although slops were no longer thrown out of the windows there could be a long walk to the multi-seated loo (called the Fourth Court) and to the bath house. I was first in lodgings near ͨs Piece and although we had a outside privy I had to walk the streets in pyjamas and dressing gown to get a morning bath in college... My college was a real family cemented by the strict rule that we all had to dine in Hall each night and what a dinner that was! We were treated to excellent cuisine which gave us a lesson in what good food should be. The main gate was closed at 6.30 p.m. and outsiders banned, including women. So we became a closed community and settled down to our studies. If you wanted real privacy at examination time you could sport your oak which meant shutting the outer door of your rooms. For my last year I read theology, a poor choice as I later discovered because there were no outstanding scholars at the time...In fact, I learnt enough to get the required pass in the tripos exam and so was able to get my BA before going down. I had grown to love Cambridge life very much and had grown steadily. The strong faith in which I had been brought up might well have been lost in the process but it was not, chiefly because I have Catholic friends who kept me from straying too far. And there was of course the guiding figure of Dr Peck and the church life of Little St Marys. ...meanwhile I had to learn to be a good parish priest...One Saturday afternoon at the beginning of September as I was setting out on my afternoon visits I looked up at what looked like a flight of large black birds. The German bombers wheeled left and, following the Thames, attacked oil installations and set them on fire...This was the beginning of the Blitz which sent up seeking cover in the months ahead. Sidcup was on the fringe of London but became the flight path to the city and regularly received random bombs... (p.26) When the new vicar arrived it quickly became clear that I did not enjoy his support, so sought the advice of the new Master of ͨs, Canon Raven who thought that I would do well as chaplain of Marlborough. I then had to face my very Low Church bishop who said, You are not going to Marlborough but into the Army as chaplain to learn better manners. Churchmanship manners, no doubt. I could have refused, I suppose, because I was four years too young for army service, but it seemed exciting to follow most of my contemporaries into action...My grooming as a respectable Anglican clergyman began without much delay. My black suit was stripped from me and I was clothed in khaki by a Bond Street tailor, then given three pips. No longer Father but an officer with the Kings commission I was promptly saluted by soldiers as I stepped out of Wetheralls. I was then sent to an Army Chaplains training school at a college in Chester...Then I was sent to a large training depot at Blackdown Garrison ... (p.27) Within a few months, I had been transformed into a life where liturgical meant nothing and army discipline was all. The War Office was God and the diocesan bishop meant nothing. Chaplains were moved around to look after the growing army and had to make the best of a bad job. (p.28) After too short an interval we were moved up to join the battle of Cassino and put up the heaviest barrage of the war. Later I paid a visit to some sick men in the military hospital at Caserta and suddenly felt very ill and unable to climb stairs. Fortunately a medical specialist was at hand who was a good churchman. He heard my history and said, You have been in the Army almost three years and you are still too young, apart from having been blown up by a shell. I shall admit you to hospital. So it happened that from hospital I was passed on to a comfortable convalescent home in Sorrento, then to Algiers in North Africa in a hospital ship, finally being discharged in 1944 and shipped back home... After the war I received the silver badge which disabled service men were given with the word For Loyal Service, so I can assume mine was an honourable discharge. (p.39) ARY d ?@4LR,-0124ŽŽŽݪ hhh Yh Y6h YhWhN)hLYhhPvhwQLh-hLht*hh{h6 hV6 h5hh5R h e J@0,-.23421h:pV. 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