On Tuesday, 26th September, 1989, some 25 past and present serving members of G (The London Scottish) Company and Old Comrades gathered at the East London Crematorium, Plaistow E13, to witness the passing of Chris Ross from our midst.

Some 18 months ago Chris had been diagnosed and treated for a cancer of the stomach, and following chemotherapy, had appeared to be making a strong recovery. It came as a considerable shock then to learn that he had suddenly succumbed, and passed away in his sleep on Sunday, 17th September. He was 32 years of age.

At noon on 26th, a warm day of hazy autumnal sun, the five-car cortege bearing the coffin and members of the Ross family processed slowly down the long avenue of lime trees through the cemetery, preceded at a slow-march pace by Pipe Major John Spoore playing Lord Lovat's Lament. After the coffin was carried in, bearing amongst its many floral tributes two wreaths given by 'G' Company and the Regimental Association as well as a bouquet from 'V' (The Liverpool Scottish) Company, the small chapel quickly filled to capacity with relatives, friends, and 'Scottish' comrades in equal numbers.

There was the hymn 'Abide with me', aptly chosen, since Chris himself would have heartily approved of it, though his own version of the tune is unprintable. A reading followed, from St Paul's Letter to the Romans, Chapter 8, which spoke of the abiding hope in the Resurrection, that'. . . not even death, nor life, nor principalities, nor powers ... will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus'. There followed a recitation of Psalm 23, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, therefore will I lack nothing . . .'

The young priest, of an age with the majority of us present, spoke movingly of this, the youngest son of a large and close-knit family on the one hand, and of the soldier, equally beloved and honoured by those who had shared this side of his life with him, on the other. If it surprised those of us of 'The Scottish' present to learn that Chris had come of a loving and caring family, members of that family also present might well have been equally surprised to note the regard in which he had been held as a member of the Territorial Army; to wit, those of us there to bid him farewell to that "Happy Land beyond the Sunset".

At the last the priest spoke the words of the committal, and as with a whisper of curtains the coffin was borne silently from view, the utter finality of Chris' tragic death became manifestly clear. For a moment I felt a great emptiness, for though I had never known Chris as a close personal friend he had been for a time one of my jocks, those jocks which it once had been my privilege to command, and, in the words of Bill Slim of Fourteenth Army fame, to "know them better than their mothers do, and love them as much". We, all of us, made our last silent private salutations until 'Flowers of the Forest' broke on the still air, to be followed by the Regimental March, 'Hielan' Laddie', as we walked back outside into the warmth and sunshine to resume our own lives.

It is difficult to encapsulate the character of Chris Ross in a few well-chosen words. Like so many extrovert and high-spirited individuals he concealed a complicated personality beneath a rough exterior. He was essentially a good-natured rascal, ebullient, invariably outspoken but rarely intending offence, or as one of his fellow jocks has said of him: 'inclined to open the mouth before engaging the brain'. He was perhaps the greatest exponent of the four-letter word that 'G' Company has known in a decade; indeed to him it was almost an art-form. On his rounds as a messenger with a City-based bank he has been known to hail long-lost friends in rounded epithets more often to be beard on the drill-hall floor - all of it totally oblivious to the lunchtime crowds in busy Cheapside or Threadneedle Street. But his heart was always in the right place - the heart, some would say, of a big teddy-bear - and which never failed to win him affection, sometimes grudgingly given, both from his Territorial Army equals as well as his superiors in rank. Not least of all from the Liverpool Jocks, by whom he is especially remembered.

All kinds of incidents will throw up differing reflections on his character, many of which came to light in the 'Earl of Beaconsfield' pub following the funeral, and which will continue to be recalled in all the years to come whenever the name of Chris Ross is mentioned. Some will reveal his seemingly contrived ineptitudes, to the end that one might wonder if they were not all part of a grand design towards the title of Regimental Dunce. Like the Knightsbridge Barracks incident, when one L/Cpl Ross had a close encounter with a Squadron Corporal Major of the Life Guards, and whose reply to the SCM's torrent of invective was, in effect, "So? Well keep your hair on son; you're only a bloody corporal after all!" If Chris attracted a good deal of unsympathetic attention to himself, it might also be said that a great many of those who felt it their responsibility to rebuke his outbursts or chasten his frequent falls from grace were not themselves schooled in tolerance to any large extent. 'In asking forgiveness of his sins seek also to ask it for yourselves'. Put in their proper context, his sins were of no great magnitude, whatever others might think.

When Chris took 'early retirement' from 'G' Company a few years ago, his loyalty to 'The Scottish' continued by other means - his membership of the London Scottish Rifles Lodge, for example, and Regimental activities throughout the year. No longer officially entitled to wear the Hodden Grey, he has appeared at the last two Hallowe'ens wearing a kilt of the Ross tartan, a reminder of the Aberdonian origins of the family, and who better than to wear it.

Remembering seeing Chris so splendidly attired, one was also reminded that he was, in his time, every inch the soldier. His dress, bearing and turnout were always to his credit. 'Never was there a jock more admirably built for the filling of a tunic or for the hanging of a kilt' is just one sartorial testimonial I have heard of him recently. And he was more than a mere parade ground soldier; as a rifleman, signaller, driver or anti-tank gunner he always applied the requisite degree of polish.

As to the essence of his character, I see him as having been something of a latter-day Viking, not lacking a sword-hand, but maybe lacking a cause in an age that is all too full of stereotypes and yes-men. Chris was his own man; life was not always kind to him, but his strident exuberance, his keen zest for life and his search for humour in every situation were the hallmarks of his most unfortettable person. He will be sorely missed.

"Then a soldier
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation 
Even in the canon's mouth." 

Shakespeare "As You Like It" 
(On the seven ages of man)

Those Present at Chris Ross's Funeral on 23/9/1989:

Last updated 10th July 2000