Part 1: Roger
Ask any historian of British naval history about the late Rear Admiral Sir John Ambrose 'Bull' Bullamore, DSC, and they will tell you he is a legend: a ruddy-faced, pugnacious, larger-than-life character, the son of a humble provincial tailor who rose through the ranks due to a combination of superb tactical awareness, daring and courage in confronting the enemy, and indefatigable determination. I can tell you another story, however: he was an absolute brute, a raging, vicious bully who loved nothing better than scalding, belittling and generally terrorising anyone over whom he had influence of power. That included not only the men unfortunate enough to serve under his command, but also his family, and in particular me, his youngest daughter.
My name's Sandra; well, actually it's Alexandra, after the fabled Macedonian warrior king who was my father's hero. My parents had had two daughters by 1911, and when my mother, already 36 years old, fell pregnant again in the summer of 1920 father anxiously awaited the son he craved to carry on the family name, and follow him into Dartmouth Naval College and the Senior Service of the Empire's armed forces. Then I came along. He never forgave me for being a girl, and throughout his life he insisted on calling me Alex, when he ever called me anything other than bloody stupid and a waste of space. He never missed an opportunity to put me down, constantly telling me how ignorant I was, how useless, clumsy and lacking in grace. He frequently compared me unfavourably to my elder sisters after they left home, those two paragons of virtue who showed the good sense to get out as soon as they could, both marrying professional men and settling in England, far away from whatever Mediterranean ports my father happened to be posted to.
I have only the vaguest memories of my mother: a thin insipid woman who seemed to live her life in monochrome compared to the Technicolor ogre that was my father. I never received any comfort or support from her in the face of his tirades; she used to simply fade into the background, like the shadow on a wall of somebody who was absent from the room. She died (in Alexandria, ironically) when I was 11, due to liver failure brought on by chronic alcoholism, her only escape, I later came to realise, from life with her beast of a husband.
I wasn't stupid, or any of the other things my father called me. On the contrary, I am highly intelligent, widely read, and any girlish awkwardness on my part was simply due to a deep-rooted lack of self confidence, hardly surprising in the face of the constant undermining to which I was subjected. I certainly wasn't graceful, being cast from the same mould as my father, below average height (five-feet-two in my case) and solidly built – strong and naturally athletic, never fat, though by age 16 my chest did require a D cup. But I was pretty, with piercing blue eyes, curly chestnut hair which I wore quite short, a snub nose decorated with freckles and a rounded dimpled chin. I also had shapely, muscular legs that looked good in a pair of shorts.
Some of the happiest times of my childhood were spent at my slightly inferior boarding school on the rolling green Sussex Downs. I used to dread going home during the holidays, and prayed that reasons might be found for me to stay in England, perhaps with one of my sisters, though it never happened. Even though my father was in active service his patrols around the Med rarely lasted more than a day or two, so there was little respite for me.
A few years after mother's death my father developed a heart condition, and was retired from active duty to a desk job in Malta. He loathed his new role, and naturally I bore the brunt of his disappointment. I had hoped to stay in school until I was 18, and then go straight into employment, or perhaps to college, but it wasn't to be. At 16 I was withdrawn, to be my father's 'helpmate'. So, against my will, I settled into a cowed life in dry, dusty, flat, clay-coloured Malta, in a house in Sliema with a view across Marsamxett Harbour to the skyline of Valletta. My only allies were a rotund Maltese cook cum housekeeper, Carmela, who despised my father, and her daughter, a nervous little thing a few years my senior who acted as our maid and scuttled around the place trying not to get into trouble.
For want of something to do with myself during the day I enrolled at secretarial college in Valletta. In the evenings when my father returned from his office I would mix him a G and T and try to be polite in the face of his rudeness. I was rarely allowed out in the evenings with my friends, and I would retire to bed as early as seemed reasonable and spend hours reading English classics – Darwin, Austen, Wilkie Collins and the like - or dream of some handsome cavalry officer riding along and sweeping me up onto his charger to rescue me from my plight.
On days when I wasn't at college I would either sit on the terrace overlooking the garden, reading and dodging the fearsome heat of the day, or hike or bicycle around the peaceful, crime-free island which was now my home. On Sundays there was usually some military social event or other which I was required to attend with father. Despite his age and his weakened arteries he loved playing tennis at the United Services Club, and I was forced to act as his doubles partner. He played as aggressively as he lived the rest of his life, and thought nothing of roaring his disapproval on-court at any error or weakness on my part, as our embarrassed opponents stood awkwardly pretending not to notice. Naturally I hated the game, and swore that at the first opportunity I would burn my racquet and never pick up another.
My life began to change for the better in 1939, after I turned 18. I had started working as a clerk for a branch of the Navy in Valletta, and as the looming crisis in Europe deepened father, as a military man, naturally became engrossed in it, enabling me to steal a little more freedom. At a dance in Sliema one evening I met the man who seemed to offer me hope of salvation from my situation. His name was George Mitchenor, and he was a 21-year old lieutenant with the Devonshire Regiment, newly posted to Malta. He seemed rather immature - I shuddered to think of him commanding a force of fighting men – but he was good looking, slim, tall and blond, a good dancer, a nice kisser, and he could make me laugh. Just before our third date Britain declared war on Germany. That evening, as we left a cinema in Valletta, George suddenly turned to me and asked me to marry him. I instantly consented; to be honest I think I would have said yes to almost any man who had offered me an escape route from my situation. Besides, with the turmoil of impending war, who knew what the future held?
George produced from his pocket a ring set with the tiniest diamond imaginable, and tried to push it onto my finger. Terrified of the reaction at home I told him my father was at sea on manoeuvres, and persuaded him we must keep our engagement a secret until we had been able to seek father's permission. After that I wore the ring under my clothes, on a silver chain around my neck. Perhaps fortunately, before things George could become impatient at the delay in formalising our arrangement, the Devons were posted to the other side of Malta, and I saw little of him for some time after that. My life became rather more humdrum, but I had his ring, the occasional letter and my dreams of the future.
