How to really be an alpha male
Sunday
Dec 16, 2007
The following story is taken (abridged) from the McAuslan series by George Macdonald Frasier – a set of short stories about a young Scottish army officer immediately after the Second World War. The character described in the paragraphs I’ve transcribed – Captain Errol – is remarkable in that he shows so many qualities of a naturally attractive guy – a real alpha male. He leads and dominates, he doesn’t care about getting social rules wrong (although if called on them, doesn’t get aggressive) and most importantly – refuses to compete or argue with people – just carries on on the path he’s chosen:
He had the same casual, self-assured swagger of the man who is well content with himself and doesn’t give a damn whether anyone knows it or not; when you have two strings of medals, starting with the M.C. and M.M. and including the Croix de Guerre and a couple of exotic Balkan gongs at the end, you don’t need to put on side. Which was just as well, for Errol had evidently been born with a double helping of self-esteem, advertised in the amused half-smile and lifted eyebrow with which he surveyed the world in general – and me in particular on the day he joined the battalion.
It was as I was turning to follow that I became aware of an elegant figure seated in a horse-ghari which had just drawn up at the gate. He was a Highlander, but his red tartan and white cockade were not of our regiment; then I noticed the three pips and threw him a salute, which he acknowledged with a nonchalant finger and a remarkable request spoken in the airy affected drawl which in Glasgow is called ‘Kelvinsaid’.
“Hullo, laddie,” said he. “Your platoon? You might get a couple of them give me a hand with my kit, will you?”
It was said so affably that the effrontery of it didn’t dawn for a second – you don’t ask a perfect stranger to detach two of his marching men to be your porters, not without preamble or introduction. I started at the man, taking in the splendid bearing, the medal ribbons, and the pleasant expectant smile while he put a fresh cigarette in his holder.
“Eh? I beg your pardon,” I said stiffly, “but they’re on parade at the moment.” For some reason I didn’t add ’sir’.
It didn’t faze him a bit. “Oh, that’s a shame. Still not to panic. We ought to be able to manage between us. All right, Abdul,” he addressed the Arab coachman, “let’s get the cargo on the dock.”
He swung down lightly from the ghari – not the easiest thing to do, with decorum, in a kilt – and it was typical of the man that I found myself with a valise in one hand and a set of golf-clubs in the other before I realised that he was evidently expecting me to tote his damned dunnage for him. My platoon had vanished from sight, fortunately, but Sergeant Telfer had stopped and was staring back, goggle-eyed. Before I could speak the newcomer was addressing me again:
“Got fifty lire, old man? ‘Fraid all I have is Egyptian ackers, and the coachman won’t look at them. See him right, will you, and we’ll settle up anon. Okay?”
That, as they say, did it. “Laddie” I could just about absorb, and even his outrageous assumption that my private and personal platoon were his to flunkify, and that I would caddy for him and pay his blasted transport bills – but not that careless “Okay?” and the easy, patronising air which was all the worse for being so infernally amiable. Captian or no captain, I put his clubs and valise carefully back in the ghari and spoke, with masterly restraint:
“I’m afraid I haven’t fifty lire on me sir, but if you care to climb back in, the ghari can take you to the Paymaster’s Office in HQ Company; they’ll change your ackers and see to your kit.” And just to round off the civilities I added: “My name’s MacNeill, by the way, and I’m a platoon commander, not a bloody dragoman.”
Which was insubordination, but if you’d seen that sardonic eyebrow and God-like profile you’d have said it too. Again, it didn’t faze him; he actually chuckled.
“I stand rebuked. MacNeill, eh?” He glanced at my campaign ribbon. “What were you in Burma?”
“Other rank”
“Well, obviously, since you’re only a second-lieutenant now. What kind of other rank?”
“Well … sniper-scout, Black Cat Division. Later on I was a section leader. Why … sir?”
“Black Cats, eh? God’s Almighty Own. Were you at Imphal?”
“Not in the Boxes. Irrawaddy Crossing, Meiktila, Sittang Bend -”
“And you haven’t got a measly fifty lire for a poor broken-down old soldier? Well, the hell with you, young MacNeill.” said this astonishing fellow, and seated himself in the ghari again. “I’d heap coal of fire on you by offering you a lift, but your platoon are probably waiting for you to stop their motor. Bash on, MacNeill, before they seize up! Officers’ mess, Abdul!” And he drove off with an airy wave.
The battalion’s opinion was formed before Captain Errol had been with us twenty-four hours. He had driven straight to the mess, which was empty of customers at that time of day, smooth-talked the mess sergeant into paying the gharri out of bar receipts, made free with the Whisky unofficially reserved for the Medical Officer, parked himself unerringly in the second-in-command’s favourite chair, and whiled away the golden afternoon with the Scottish Field. Discovered and gently rebuked by the Adjutant for not reporting his arrival in the proper form, he had laughed apologetically and asked what time dinner was, and before the Adjutant, an earnest young Englishman, could wax properly indignant he had found himself, by some inexplicable process, buying Errol a gin and tonic.
As he had begun, with the Adjutant and me, so he went on, causing ripples on our placid regimental surface which eventually turned into larger waves. One of the former, for example, occurred on his first night in the mess when, within half an hour of their first acquaintance, he addressed the Colonel as ’skipper’. It caused a brief silence which Errol himself didn’t seem to notice; officially, you see, there are no ranks in the mess, but junior officers normally call the head man ’sir’, especially when he is such a redoubtable bald eagle as our Colonel was. ‘Skipper’ was close to the edge of impertinence – but was said so easily and naturally that he got away with it. In fact, I think the Colonel rather liked it.
That it soon became plain, was Errol’s secret. Like his notorious namesake, he had great charm and immense style; partly it was his appearance but most of it was just personality. He was casual, cocky, even insolent, but with a gift of disarmament, and even those who found his conceit and familiarity irritating seemed almost flattered when he gave them his attention. When he was snubbed, he didn’t seem to notice; the eyebrow would give an amused flicker, no more.
The youngest subalterns thought him a hell of a fellow, of course, not least because he had no side with them; rank meant nothing to Errol, up or down. On balance, he was not over-popular with the troops, or the officers, but even they held him in a certain grudging respect. None of which seemed to matter to Errol in the least.
Author: Posted by the Grow Your Game Editor - Travis. 
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