Alexander Constantine - 3
I might run the risk of looking weak or being wrong because I abandoned my own ideas and faculties. That was not who any of us were.
“What is the difference between someone and no one?” Grandfather asked. “Do not answer in haste. You must provide a single answer; the most concise, irreducibly simple answer that you can. Ponder it as you wish. Find me in the kitchen when you are ready.”
He left me in the library. It was 9 am. My siblings were about, doing their own study and lessons with grandmother or tutors. I thought about what I had been told about the question previously, which wasn't much.
They’re all no ones because they don't admit they're no one, they don't control what and who they are, and they don't understand the real difference between a someone and a no one.
The answer seemed obvious. There was a single thing that united all three of the things grandfather had told me. I couldn't reduce that thing, so that must have been the answer. I thought about searching in books or asking the others. There were too many books to start an uneducated search and I'd yet to come across a title that suggested specific insight. What if the answer someone else gave me was wrong? How would I know? What was wrong with my own mind? What if there was more than one answer and mine was acceptable? I might run the risk of looking weak or being wrong because I abandoned my own ideas and faculties. That was not who any of us were.
I ran out of the library, Zeus at heel. Grandfather was nearing the bottom of the hall. Around the corner, two doors along was the kitchen. We caught him up and I reached for his hand. He kept walking, didn't look down but held my hand softly as always and I could see a smile breaking out, although it was his way regardless of right or wrong answers.
“Well, here we are. And you'd already found me before either of us were here.” He stroked my head then took a seat at the end of the common table where we all sat for breakfast and lunch. “I'd rather like to savour the anticipation of your answer, my love. How about you make an old man a cup of tea, then we can ponder the question together?”
As I prepared tea for two, grandfather smoked and scanned the paper, marking key words or phrases in red, as was his way. Zeus sat at his feet and watched me at my duties. I gathered the service on a tray and took it over to my master.
“Hmmm. Never too early for a jammy dodger, is it?” he laughed softly and winked. We chinked our biscuits as grandfather poured some milk and then the tea. “So, are you ready to give me your one and only answer? Irreducibly simple?”
“Yes.”
“So be it.” He raised his eyebrows to invite my answer, as he so often did in lessons.
“Choice.” I said. One word was as simple as it could be.
“Whose choice?”
“The someone's.”
“What about the no one?”
“They’re no one because they aren't making the choice or they don't realise that they've chosen to be no one.”
Grandfather sipped his tea and I followed suit. My jammy dodger disappeared in half the time of his, as per the laws of General Relativity.
“Is the someone's choice the only choice that has an effect?”
I thought about that for a little while.
“Not… maybe not entirely. But it's probably the most important choice.”
“Go on.”
“If I don't choose to be someone, then everything else other people choose to do might not matter.”
“But the King didn't choose to be King, and the Queen didn't choose to be Queen. They were born into it.”
“Just because they're born into something doesn't make them someone. They're just people in the position. Anyone could do as they are told and act like a King.”
“Very well, my love,” he smiled and nodded. “Speaking of choice, bourbon or custard cream?”
As we ate and drank, my childish nature bit at my grandfather's vague response.
“Was I right then, grandpa? Please tell me.”
“I can't tell you, I'm afraid. It's not that kind of question. If you think your answer is right, or right enough, and you chose to give it then what next? Perhaps the only way to find out if you are right is to live your answer and see how the world and the universe judges it. What do you make of that, my little chap?”
“When must I choose?”
“What makes you think I know, my love? I'm just an old man who likes biscuits after breakfast,” he grinned.
“But you're someone,” I said. “You chose.”
“Whether I am someone or no one, what does that matter when it comes to you and your choices? My life is not your life. My choices and when I made them are my burden. Do you see?”
Choices and one's awareness of one's ability to choose always struck me as remarkably under appreciated. Although we don't choose our family and many of the key things in life that our parents chose for us, there's still a huge amount of choices we have that, like compound interest, wield massive power over our lives. People didn't seem to explicitly understand this in a uniform way despite it being of fundamental importance. Fortunately, I benefited from the compound effect of many conscious choices of others and the early education about my ability to choose, with a mind on the potential consequences and benefits.
The tension between free will and freedom to choose, and the choices we make for others became the central dichotomy of my life just as it had always been the central dichotomy of our family.
We grew up in the cottage, right at the edge of the estate, a third of a mile from the village. By the time all six of us had arrived, we were cozy and comfy. With the gardens and the little barn, it made for a good sized home for us all and we never wanted for space. What I know now but never noticed when I was young was that we were just like our animals. When our household gained a new animal edition, our existing pets gathered in curiosity and welcome, became acquainted, fell in love and so the tribe grew. It was just the same when each one of us arrived. All of us gathered to hold and cuddle and kiss our baby sibling, share them with the tribe and silently pledged our loving loyalty to them. Mum and dad, I half remember, would always stand back and observe this process. They said it was mainly out of joy but also so they could study our dynamics and hopefully predict behaviours and issues. There was a conscious, deliberately constructed feedback loop that was radically more intricate than most any other family I know of. Mum and dad always kept diaries and we were raised to do so as well. The benefits are numerous. But they also charted our behaviour, developments and concerns, which was fed back to grandfather and so into our education system. Thus, our education and development ran in a close loop of inputs and outputs. Of course, this is the same principle as having a parents' evening, only implemented in a much more intricate and ongoing way. This is something that is possible provided there is time, care, intent, and a system available. This was yet another benefit of being home schooled in a private academy.
We weren't the only children to attend our academy. Our many cousins attended, some of whom lived on other edges of the estate or on the other side of the village. There were numerous others of different backgrounds from around the country. A few who lived close enough came daily, but many were boarders; 20 of them at first, but they grew to 40.
The boarders’ parents were encouraged to visit frequently and stay on the estate to spend time with their son or daughter. On such a weekend, the children in question would be free to choose how to spend the time. Often they would arrange some kind of activities that immersed their parents in aspects of our world, to show them somehow what we were all becoming.
Thomas Elmshurst once decided to take his parents camping in the woods. He invited the others to join and almost all of us naturally agreed. Only the little ones didn't, although they joined us on Sunday morning for breakfast and play. When Mr and Mrs Elmshurst arrived on Friday afternoon, they met grandfather as usual to catch up, and when they were ready Thomas called us all together with his whistle. There we were, assembled as a parade, with our packs at the ready. As a troupe, we followed Tommy's lead the two miles across the estate to Hill Wood, opened up the standing yurt and set out our tents, shelters and bivvies, as was our preference. The little ones tended to prefer open shelters, snuggled up on beds of leaves and such, tucked into their sleeping bags, paired with an older teammate for security. Once we'd set up, Tommy divided us into groups to forage, cook, fetch water and take care of whatever tasks he'd planned. We rotated through band duties over the weekend, each of us getting to play guitar, violin, drums, or sing. Friday night was spent entertaining Tommy's parents in the yurt with camp food, songs, silly stories and other past times. None of us could beat Mr Elmshurst in an arm wrestle and manners dictated that Mrs Elmshurst defeated our eldest.
What I came to understand was that I was part of an academy that built solid foundations of partly uniform type, on which buildings of individual, complimentary but unrestricted style were constructed. We were not militarized, although many aspects of our lives were martial. Our academy's Spartan inspiration was what made eight year old Tommy a leader and organizer of 25 children, all of whom were his genuine friends willing to be led by him out of love, loyalty, and harmonious community.
On Saturday, after breakfast, we deployed in a game of Survivor. A third of the troupe were the infiltrators, who had to get into the yurt without being captured. The two thirds were the guards and hunters. How we did either job was up to us, which gave room for great ingenuity and creativity. Some infiltrators had the patience to act as solo or paired coverts relying solely on camouflage and sneaking to cover what could be a mile of ground without being spotted. This was especially difficult if any of the dogs were with us, but far from impossible. An element of combat was allowed, as was trapping, so active engagements could change the odds for either side and so the whole, morning long game. Tommy's folks had the pleasure of freely wandering and observing the game with Zeus and Banshee to keep them company. When the game was done we cleaned up, entertained ourselves with stories from the day's game and also of our memories of Tommy, which was a way to celebrate our friend's character in the minds of his parents. Food, music and dancing kept us all busy in the evening. Tommy, Leo and Aurelia played a simpler arrangement of Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Waltz and we all watched Mr and Mrs Elmshurst dance together around the firelight as though they were woodland fairies.
Aurelia once arranged a day of theatrics for her parents. We put on varied performances, readings and demonstrations of martial skill, which were no effort to us given that they were all part of what we had become.
Leo grew particularly fond of botany and later the farm, and we spent an entire weekend teaching his parents as much as we could about such matters on the estate, before harvesting a feast of lamb, chicken, goat and a plethora of veg. Leo was chief butcher and showed his parents what he was capable of before teaching them to kill and prep the chickens, which left his mother rather pale until I rescued her with a tactical aperitif.
By the time we turned ten, each of us was largely self sufficient in terms of daily living. We could all farm, husband animals, cook, clean, fight and live outdoors. On top of that, we knew how to learn, were free to think and consciously combine our skills and personalities to great effect. Music and the arts were key areas where non aggressive teamwork was fostered to our own delight, which bound us so tightly despite our natural diversity of character.
Throughout our education, adult intervention guided us closely through conflict management. Grandfather understood the need for resolution, forgiveness, tolerance and development across all of our relationships. He told me that this had ultimately been one of the most demanding aspects because it required careful attention to understand and spot the dynamics between us and constantly deploy tools and approaches that built unknowing maturity into us despite our youth and developing nature. We were a small group of students but we were children and so we squabbled, competed, struggled and fought amongst each other as one would expect. We benefited from much greater levels of benevolent supervision that was prepared to offer more sophisticated support to all of us to enable us to transcend our childish limitations and the grievances that stemmed from them. We had rotating leadership roles, regardless of age, so even youngsters could lead to the best of their abilities and the older children gain from lessons in humility and act in advisory or subservient positions without curtailing the team or undermining their little leader. We did not always operate within hierarchies. We were encouraged to experiment with roles and structures or completely abandon them. The team wasn't always the answer. Such approaches and variation were extremely important to experience at a young age. Under many educational systems, students learn but one or two ways to organise and few get any real leadership opportunities, which conditions most into followership, as one would likely recognise as the dominant model of post-education life in the West. This is an incredibly stifling way to raise humans and few who have been through the system and experienced the world should tolerate it, but they do, so strong is the conditioning.
“Trying to make children into adults without making them so aware that they abandon their childhood ahead of time was a true challenge,” grandfather told me in his later days. What makes a child? What is childhood? Legal definitions tied to age aside, experience, education and the resultant mentality that reflects one’s integrative cognitive power at a given age might demarc degrees of childishness, certainly at an intellectual level. This would work both ways and goes some way to explaining why there are many childlike or childish adults in the world.
We were actively trained in technology in a way that still seems to be rare. We were the first generation of children to grow up with computer games, but it wasn't until a few years after the release of the ZX Spectrum that we came into contact with any of that era of computers. What was happening was the assimilation of these tools by our parents and grandparents, who sought to understand them on their terms before they exposed us to them. I understand this now as an extremely sophisticated act of parenting, given how alien such technologies were to most adults at that time in the 80s and 90s. What they all quickly understood was that computers were a double-edged sword that had immense value in reinforcing many elements of our learning and curriculum, across logic and maths into programming as it was then, but in games there laid a veiled threat. They tightly controlled our exposure to computers and, I recognise now, actively indoctrinated us to hold computers and gaming in contempt in order to foster in us the notion that such machines were our slaves, and nothing more. I see now the value of this approach and the foresight and understanding it took to manage us through rapidly changing times. Mum and dad actually used us in an experiment over the course of a couple of weeks. We were allowed a Spectrum at home, with a selection of games. They set rules for total time and how we had to take turns. They then observed the effects the machines had on our behaviour, engaged us in reflective feedback about what we thought of the computer and games, then actually told us directly what they had observed, what their concerns were and that we'd been taking part in a kind of experiment. I recall this having profound emotional effect on me. I resented the idea that I'd been so enthralled by this new thing that my parents had noticed changes in my behaviour, focus and treatment of my siblings. I felt weak in some ways because I had been raised to believe I had choices and degrees of discipline. Yet there we were, losing track of time, squabbling over whose go it was on what game. When I took stock of what I had gained, the fun of the games diminished in comparison to what I felt were the costs.
The experience and experiment did not end there. Grandfather turned this into an academy-wide experiment across groups of 4. Each time, the experiences were similar. We were not actively selfish or aggressive, but aspects of those elements were drawn out by the games and desire to play them. Patience with each other was always tested and tension seemed to mount in any group over some matter, like which game to play, how long someone could last on a turn, and other petty but consequential matters. Grandfather made us spend a day reflecting individually then presenting our thoughts to us all, as he, mum, dad and uncles, aunts and some tutors took notes. The computers disappeared and two months passed until we were called together and introduced to a new tutor, Paul Jackson, who had been employed to train us in computer programming. Via this approach, conscious control over technology that had the power to control me was actively taught to me via lessons in my own and our group dynamics and psychology. This, I shall always remember, permanently changed how I viewed any form of technology. Up to that point, all tools and technology were clearly subservient to the user; each was generally specialised, limited in function and scope, and unlikely to illicit the kind of emotional engagement and response as we had experienced via the computer games. Our games room simply did not have the same effect on us and our disciplined timetable had programmed us to delight in myriad activities. Music and performance was grounded in pure expressive creation, whereas games were a bounded experience that could teach and entertain but had much more obvious limitations and were in some ways very exclusionary. Computer games, by comparison, we're something else and had been carefully shown to us as Trojan horses. We were not denied them but the discipline standard required was actively increased, and we focused on the machines’ general capabilities as tools rather than the superficial playing of games.
“My suggestion,” grandfather said to us all, “is that you see computers the way you see fire: something of immense value to those who can become and remain its master; something that can render harm, maybe even forms of death, to those who fail to respect it, underrate it and therefore become enslaved or captured by it. The world is changed the most by the smallest of things. You are living proof of that. I have watched you all since you were tiny and you have changed all of us here who love you, our academy, our community and you will undoubtedly change the world. So too, will these machines. They will change man in ways we have yet to understand, then man will change the world in line with his changed nature. What is clear to me is that this is another lesson in choice. You must make the choice of whether you remain masters of yourselves by becoming masters of these powerful machines, or whether you become slaves to those people who use these machines to control you.”
Tommy put up his hand to contribute.
“As long as we keep choosing to be someone, our choice should mean we stay free of slavery, sir.”
“Yes, Thomas, I agree. But we have to make conscious choices about such matters and be able to recognise when we face new challenges. We must harness our skills of critical analysis, scepticism, imagination, all to recognise and set in place whatever this new thing or challenge might be. We cannot trust that just a drive to be someone will make us successful in that endeavour and make us immune from failing or falling into obscurity.”
Even in that era, personal computers were capable of running forms of simulation. I became enthralled with flight simulators, rudimentary though they were. I learned so much about flying from the remarkably rich manuals that accompanied Microprose's simulations like F15 Strike Eagle and AH64 Gunship. It was the latter that fully engaged me and set me on the road to a career in flying.
My father had a commercial pilot's license but didn't fly that often. He was busy with the work he loved in microbiology and his company. When he saw how interested in flying I'd become, he and grandfather paid attention.
“I want to be a fighter pilot,” I told them. “Mastery of the fastest, most extreme machines. Amazing, cool, dangerous. That's got to be the best. All the astronauts were fighter pilots!”
Top Gun had done its job and infected me with the jingoism of the US Navy's most incredible propaganda, practically overwriting in one viewing years of my family's painstaking work.
“Well, I know how you feel,” said dad. “I love flying and enjoyed getting my license. Who can argue with how cool Top Gun is? Best of the best, eh?”
That was his prompt to dust off his license and take me up on more than a pleasure flight. In the first two hours he gave me informal but serious lessons, just as one would expect even though he was not an instructor. Straight and level, and rudimentary turns, climbing and descending. It was exciting and initially a little overwhelming, but in just two hours and some time in a classroom I could grasp the idea that it was a controlled, ordered process.
“So, your third lesson. Fancy skipping ahead?” Dad must have had confidence in me. At 14, I was confident of my ability to learn, but a degree of caution and humility had been ingrained in us. “Let's make this one a kind of mission, like we’re fighter pilots. How's that sound?”
I was sold instantly. Excitement piqued.
“One rule. This will be risky. We must be safe. You must swear an unbreakable oath to me for the duration of this flight.” His voice and look became darkly serious, something I'd seen so rarely that I knew to heed him well. “You must swear to do exactly as I say, follow all my instructions and commands until I relieve you of your oath. If you break this oath, you will never fly with our family again, all your pocket money will be sent to charity forever, and you will spend a month locked in the attic on rations. Are you prepared to make this commitment to me for this flight?”
I trusted my father, I wanted to experience the flight and take a step closer to what was becoming my dream, so I agreed and swore his oath.
We flew in a Cessna 152 from the airfield, towards the village, turning just before it towards the estate.
“If you know where we are, tell me where the estate farm is and guide my turn towards it, love,” said dad. Easy peasy. The main house was impossible to miss and the farm was beyond the back left of the house. Dad turned onto that heading and nodded, as if I had done fine. Approaching the main house, he pushed open his window and jammed it full wide.
“Do the same, please. Full open,” he commanded. No problem, just a strong breeze on a warm day. The headsets kept the wind noise down. Over the main house, dad reached behind my chair and lifted a box into my lap.
“Open up! That's our payload.” I was enthralled at this new aspect to flying and our mission. Inside the box were eight, round firework type bombs. I began smiling and laughing, giddy at the degree of seriousness dad had taken the mission to. I was unaware of any actual legality issues. It is illegal to drop anything from an aircraft without prior permission. Over the estate, only we'd have known so he knew we could get away with having some fun.
He briefly explained that the bombs were ignited by the sheathed wick, and so I was to hold one out of the window, pull off the sheath to ignite the fuse then immediately drop it. When we were over the target, he'd start a turn to orbit overhead and I was to drop one bomb at a time onto the target and to get rid of all eight bombs to ensure the enemy target was destroyed. Then it was back in time for tea and medals.
When he started the orbit, he was overhead one of the chicken pastures. As he looked over at me, I called out his error.
“Not here, dad. That's the chickens and… there's others there.” Within our orbit were a couple of cows, some sheep and not that far off were at least two of my classmates. Dad's face went dark.
“That pasture is the enemy target. Your orders are to bomb it now. Drop all the bombs, one at a time, immediately!” He was one step away from shouting.
“But it's the chickens! Dad! That's not…”
“I AM ORDERING YOU TO ATTACK THE FUCKING TARGET NOW! IF YOU REFUSE, YOU WILL BE JAILED FOR A MONTH AND LOSE YOUR LIFE PAY. YOU SWORE AN OATH TO OBEY ALL ORDERS UNTIL RELIEVED OF YOUR OATH ON PAIN OF PUNISHMENT. BOMB THE FUCKING TARGET NOW!” That was actually the first ever time he'd shouted like that at any of us with any kind of malice. I was scared, threatened and trapped by my oath. I couldn't escape. I kept my oath, and one by one the bombs began to drop into the pasture, somewhere among the chickens or cows or sheep, and all within eye and earshot of the children. I managed to release a few without activating their fuse.
I couldn't bear to look down too closely to see the explosions and their exact location or effect. I felt sick, bullied and scared; hostage to a toxic promise and a bully who'd tricked me into making it. Tears were running down my cheeks, although I did not sob. When I'd rid us of the bombs, dad began to whoop for victory, snapped the plane out of the turn to head straight to the airfield and then tried to high five me, totally ignorant of my obvious distress.
“Yee haw! You sure gave it to those punks! Bombs away! Mission accomplished. We just need a damage assessment. Well done, Captain! There's a medal in this for you!”
I felt utterly conflicted. My father wasn't my father anymore, it was like he'd been possessed. His manner and voice had changed. He supportively cajoled me with a fist to the shoulder and some more positive noises, then he gave me control. He set up for the circuit and landing, let me follow through on the controls the whole time until landing while talking me through the entire process, which was remarkably intense and forced my mind to move into the present.
We went straight from the airfield to the house and then the farm. I didn't speak. I barely looked at dad though I knew he was eyeing me.
“Damage assessment.” He snapped the words with his head to force me with him to the crime scene. There were most of the boarders at the site, and grandfather, Uncle Harold and mum. I was petrified. Dad pushed me in the small of the back as we walked, to keep the pace up and me to my oath. It was a fucking bloodbath. Five of the eight bombs had exploded in the pasture. The cows had legged it, one sheep was wounded close to the fence line, with barbed wire blown across its face.
“Captain! With me. Damage assessment. Let's get a body count.” He hoiked me up and over the chicken fence. It wasn't that I couldn't handle dead animals, it was the nature of the death and injury. I had done it all, it was gruesome, indiscriminate, they were animals not enemies, they had been brutally killed and hurt and were obviously suffering. I was forced to count all ten dead birds and six wounded. Grandfather softly asked Leo and Eddie to care for the wounded birds if possible, or to flag the badly wounded. They didn't look at us as they came in and rendered aid. Grandfather lifted the sheep to its feet. I instinctively stepped to collect the dead birds but dad turned me back to fence and we simply turned our backs and departed. We jogged back to the house. At the rear main stairs, I hoped to be freed of my oath. Dad snapped stiff.
“Captain! Ah-ten-shun!” he shouted. We weren't raised to drill in a strict manner, but I knew enough. I drew up straight. He gave me a strong, smart, sharp salute in the British style while staring straight into me. I simply responded in kind. “Mission accomplished, Captain. Well done.”
Finally, it was over. He shook my hand.
“I want a two thousand word flight report covering today's mission in full detail, with emphasis on your personal thoughts and actions, on my desk in two hours. Dismissed.”
He spun away in a crisp about face and marched up the steps into the house, leaving me alone. That was the first time I hated him. When I turned in my report, I hadn't grasped the nature of the lesson. It wasn't until I had been made to debrief all of my classmates on the mission, as they stared back mostly in surprise but some with visible shock, that I realised I was both my own and their lesson. The flight report didn't matter.
An oath had turned me into a slave. I wasn't even the master of the plane. He was. I was trapped between two sets of consequences: kill or be made to suffer. Do not question. Inflict harm on his command. The enemies weren't enemies but they were the target nonetheless. The damage was bad but it could've been worse. It was bad enough to harm my friends and family. The sheep was slaughtered prematurely as were all the birds. It's what I know would've been considered a cluster fuck from some points of view.
My father sternly watched me explain myself, rather sheepishly, to the room. At the end, he coldly rendered judgement.
“You were insubordinate, Captain. You failed to arm three of your bombs. You never pulled the fuses, so you failed to destroy the enemy to the maximum degree. That's negligent, given you knew how to arm the others. Hesitancy on your first attack is one thing, which we can all forgive. But you disobeyed direct orders, against your oath. You gave the enemy ordinance and created three unexploded bombs that endangered civilians on the ground around the target, when they unwittingly approached to render aid, as anyone naturally would. If not for your choice the mission would've been a success and worth all the risk taken and resources expended. It is my finding that you will spend a month locked in the attic on rations. Your pay will be suspended during this time and you will be dishonourably discharged from your oath on completion of your sentence.”
In one fell swoop, I'd been made to face a courts martial with a single judge, no jury and the humiliation of an audience of all my peers.
That was the second time I hated my father.
That fucking bastard!
Today, we are all engaged in the game "Survivor" in real time.
Wow - so powerful! You're an excellent writer as well.