A word from Maj-Gen Kit, OBE, DSO (and moustache)

In the 1950s R H S Crossman was being entertained by Peggy Jay, the wife of Douglas Jay, the Labour politician, herself a leading figure in her own right in the Movement. The conversation turned to Cyprus, which we then occupied. The Jays' son Peter was doing his national service in the RNVR. Crossman said we ought to get out of Cyprus. Indeed, he hoped we lost the small war on the island in which we were then engaged. Warming to his theme, he added: "And I hope that beautiful boy of yours gets killed."

"Kindly leave this house," Mrs Jay said, or words to that effect, a request with which Crossman had no alternative except to comply.

This was Crossman's own account. Though he had a reputation for telling fibs, I always found him a witness of truth, more or less. I have no doubt this episode occurred, or something very like it. And it had a happy ending. We certainly did not win that war – and young Jay lived on to adorn both our television screens and the British Embassy in Washington.

Mrs Jay was rather further to the left politically than Crossman. Almost certainly, she would have felt that his views did not go far enough. But she was not going to have anyone talking like that about her son. This was not only understandable but right.

At the same time, it illustrates the difficulty of those of us who oppose the war in Iraq – who consider it an illegal invasion, worse than Suez, worse than Vietnam (where one state had at least invaded another), not remotely comparable to the first Gulf War. We do not want anybody to be killed. We want our boys to be returned to Blighty as soon as possible in one piece.

Fortunately, this column has been able to secure the services of a military expert. He is Major-General Peter ("Kit") Carruthers, OBE, DSO (and Moustache). He lives quietly but comfortably at The Old Mill by the Stream, near Basingstoke, Hampshire. We have been friends for over 50 years now, ever since he came up to my college to read Mechanical Engineering on a two-year course sponsored by the Army. I began by asking him how he thought the war was going:

"Not badly, but not well either. Not well at all, if you want my honest opinion."

"Why d'you say that?"

"Well, the first rule of combat is: secure your base. You've got to make yourself safe and comfortable. I'm not talking about the Strand Palace Hotel you understand, but about proper shelter, proper beds, a good supply of water. Most important thing in combat, water. Next to that is cigarettes and, after them, chocolate."

"And you think we haven't got those supplies?"

"Couldn't say, you know, couldn't say. But from what I can make out from the idiot's box, we seem to be living hand to mouth, off the land, like a lot of gypsies. And – when was it? – nine days ago, seems longer, when I saw those Yank tanks haring off across the sands of Araby like – you'll forgive the mixed metaphor – a swarm of blue-arsed flies, for all the world as if they were setting off down the M3 for a weekend on the coast, I turned to the wife and I said: 'Ho, ho. Look at that. Mark my words, no good will come of it.'"

"Is there anything else?"

"Oh, yes, plenty of other things. Seems we thought, or those Yanks did, that the boys would be welcomed by whatever is the Arabian equivalent of señoritas with roses clasped between their teeth, proffering complimentary cups of rosewater with sheep's eyes and pillau rice, curry sauce included. Well, it hasn't happened like that. They're actually shooting at us."

"Are there no depths of perfidy to which these people will not descend?"

"I say, steady on, old lad. It is their bloody country after all when you come down to it, what?"

"I was employing irony."

"Yes, that was what I thought you might be doing. 'Sounds remarkably like irony to me,' I said to myself, but I wasn't sure. Dangerous device to use, if you don't mind my saying so. The lads don't like it you know. Think you're taking the piss which, of course, is exactly what you are doing. So if I were you I'd give up irony for Lent, which, according to my Spectator diary that I have open before me, comes to an end on Saturday 19 April."

"So you think the war will by over by then?"

"Now, I didn't say that, did I? You writing chaps are always twisting other people's words. You're worse than that barrister cove I had to deal with at the Court of Inquiry into the missing corned beef; did my career no good at all."

"That was just before you were sent to Northern Ireland, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was Callaghan as Home Sec who sent us out."

"He was 91 last week."

"Was he now? Was he? Good man Callaghan, if a little bit limited. Saw active service in the Navy, which is more than you can say for Bush or Blair, who never saw service anywhere."

"Bush dodged the Vietnam draft and Blair refused to join the cadet force at Fettes. Anyway, you were on about Ireland."

"That I was. Well, as I was saying, Jim sent us over there because the Prods were incinerating the Catholic homes at a rate of knots and causing mayhem in various other ways as well. And when we arrived there the young colleens, or whatever they call themselves in Belfast, were disporting themselves in a provocative manner while simultaneously giving us a rendition of 'When Irish Eyes are Smiling'. But, blow me down, within a month or so they were screaming their heads off and yelling 'Troops out'."

"But all the papers are saying that our experience in Belfast will be invaluable in Baghdad and other towns and give us a decided advantage over the Americans."

"Yes I read that too. Can't agree with it myself. In fact complete load of bollocks in my opinion. Take it from me, dealing with Old Mother Macree with her rolling-pin and her boys with catapults is quite a different bowl of dogfood from creeping round the Souk with Johnny Arab trying to blow your brains out with a Kalashnikov. And after 34 years we're still in Ireland."

"Thanks, Kit."

"Any time, old lad, within reason, and Robert's your avuncular relation. And the good lady – the Field Marshal as I call her at moments of affection – sends you all the very best."

I also consulted my son, whose work as an engineer has likewise taken him to various far-flung and even dangerous parts of the world.

"What you've got to remember, dad," he said, "is that you're dealing with very simple people."

He was not referring to the Iraqis but to the Texans, of whom he has had some experience.