What to do next? I certainly did not intend hanging around at home, and, for that matter, in Malta. Most of my close relatives were in the army and the idea of joining the services had often entered my mind as quite honestly, I had no particular sense of vocation. It was just a matter of doing what everyone else I knew did.
The family probably heaved a secret sigh of relief and gave me whatever assistance I needed. Somehow I found myself being sent to Warminster for a Royal Commission Selection Board to be chosen for Cadet training at Sandhurst Royal Military Academy. This didn’t go too well as I had no idea which regiment I wanted to join or why. It was obvious to them that I was still unsure as to why I was even there or whether I was serious about joining the army.
During my trip to the U.K to attend this interview, it had been arranged for me to spend a week or two of voluntary work at a care centre for the handicapped called ‘Turner Village’. My work was simple. It was in the theatre, where residents watch films and concerts. My job was polishing the brass and keeping the floors clean. After the failed interview at Warminster, I decided to go back there and asked Dr. Benjacar, who was in charge of Turner Village, if I could return for some time while I worked out what I wanted to do with my life.
For the next two or three months I helped out at the centre and it proved to be an eye-opener for me in many ways.
I must have had long buried memories of the chaos of the war days but I never had a clear view of that other side of life which included the human condition in its broken, and seemingly unfixable, state. They were extremely well looked after but I could not help noticing the basic lifestyle of some of these patients compared with the luxury which I knew their families lived in. Quite a few of them were sons of ambassadors and diplomats and brothers of well-known actors and I was all too aware of the contrast. What struck me too was the quiet realisation that these so called ‘unfortunates’ did however enjoy the little gifts they were occasionally given and appreciated the simple pleasures of life. All these thoughts and impressions were softly laying a new vision of what life was actually about and what lay beneath the veneer of ‘normal’ society that chose to show only the ‘fashionable’ face of reality.
I was also beginning to have a different view of people with severe problems. In the theatre, was a little door at the far end which led to the gym. I would often go to the gym to talk with Mr. Kidman who looked after it. As well as the boys from the centre, Mr. Kidman was also in charge of the visiting patients from Rampton, a secure centre for the criminally insane. In their latter years, when they were no longer a threat to society, these inmates would be sent over to Turner Village.
On one particular day, I came into the gym as usual. This day, I found it empty. As I was about to leave, the door at the other end was pushed open and one of the Rampton patients barged in. I froze on the spot because, to be honest, he terrified the living daylights out of me. I stood still as he started coming towards me, saliva pouring out of his mouth and glaring hard in my direction. To my immense relief, Mr. Kidman, arrived and gently talked to him, telling him who I was and diffusing the tension in the room. The patient’s attitude softened immediately and he put out his hand for me to shake. I learned more in that moment about life, myself and others than all the text books in the world could have taught me.
These incidents had a lasting effect on the way I looked at those with obvious and severe social problems and those whose wound was more hidden. I was made painfully aware of this other type of patient when, eating in the staff dining room, I joked with our waiter, an elegant and handsome young man. I was totally taken aback to see him turn away and start crying. What had I done? Could I put it right? Later, I learned that he was one of the patients. Once I had learned this, I managed to correct things and we got on well after that. To someone like me, who felt he had the right to say whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, it was a sobering experience and made me take more responsibility for my words.
Eventually, after about two or three months, I did make up my mind and decided I wanted to join the Royal Malta Artillery. That, I thought, was where I belonged. I packed my bags and returned to Malta.
After joining the Army in Malta, I was chosen for officer training. Malta, being then a British colony, two cadets were chosen each year to go for this training in the U.K. and, ironically, I ended up being chosen and sent for Officer Cadet Training to Sandhurst Royal Military Academy and I was off to the U.K. Again.