STRANGER IN PARADISE

Some say Pembrokeshire is the most beautiful county in Wales, but that does not mean it is the ideal location for an infantry battalion like the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment which took up residence in Llanion Barracks, Pembroke Dock in October 1954.
1/WELCH left UK in 1951 to become part of the United Nations force in Korea. They covered themselves in glory and earned yet another Battle Honour to carry on their colours. After a year of active service in the front line, the battalion was withdrawn and sent to Hong Kong for a two year tour of duty. Imagine then, seasoned warriors, and others who had joined the battalion in Hong Kong, used to the good life in the best overseas posting in the world, arriving on a wind-swept railway platform at Pembroke Dock on a cold October night. It certainly did nothing for retaining soldiers who had the option of extending their contract or returning to 'civvy street'.
If they thought Pembroke Dock railway station looked grim, they had another surprise when they arrived in Llanion Barracks. Perched on the top of a steep hill, the barracks was a splendid place for flying kites; the wind came at it from all directions. The barracks were built in the 1840's at a time when 'functional' rather than 'aesthetic' was the key word. Red brick can look quite nice when wisteria or virginia creeper cling to it, but if its only adornments are drain pipes and cast-iron staircases, it does not present a pleasant picture. Barrack rooms were long and rectangular, contained thirty men and had a coke stove for heating, half way down.. A locker and an iron bedstead which carried four blankets and two sheets folded and 'boxed' from before breakfast until after tea was the soldier's bed-space where he could recharge his batteries and, on Saturday mornings, lay out his kit for platoon commander's, company commander's or commanding officer's inspection. There was always someone who wanted to check the soles of boots (with the obligatory thirteen studs - polished), coils of spare laces and mess tins brightened with 'Bluebell'. That sort of time-wasting activity, with the odd route march thrown in for good measure was symptomatic of the times. The fact of the matter was, we had no role and very little to do. At times like that, people got under each other's feet and it made for poor morale. There was some light at the end of the tunnel though. We were told that in April 1955 (the following year) the four rifle companies of the battalion would be allocated to various training camps around the country. That meant that our soldiers would be responsible for the smooth running of camps where 'volunteer' soldiers of the Territorial Army would be doing their annual training. My company, of which I was second-in-command, was detailed to move to the Royal Armoured Corps Ranges and Training Area, Castlemartin; about ten miles away from Pembroke Dock.
I arose quite early on my first full day at Castlemartin Camp, had breakfast and then went to see the soldiers who would be forming up for muster parade. As I walked past camp headquarters, the Adjutant poked his head out of the window and said: "Hello, I'm Gerald, I don't think we've met. Come inside and meet the Commandant, he likes to see everyone on the first day."
Gerald was a stocky officer with thick eyebrows, heavy horn rimmed spectacles and a gruff voice. He wore highly polished ammunition boots under his barathea service dress trousers. It's funny how little things give a chap away. Army boots, the same as soldiers wear, instead of proper shoes from the regimental tailor would never have been tolerated in my regiment.
After we had looked each other over, Gerald opened the door to the commandant's office and introduced me. All I received was a curt nod of his head and a motion from his hand to sit down. My company commander, Major Dicky Randell, had been approached by the adjutant as well, so I took a chair next to him. Also present were a number of officers responsible for technical aspects of the gunnery range.
"Now listen here," began the Commandant, looking alternately at Dicky and me. "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Harold Witherspoon of the Royal Tank Regiment. My job is to make sure this place is run efficiently. I have no time for shirkers, dawdlers, nincompoops and drunkards. Do I make myself clear?" There was not much we could say to a question like that, so Dicky and I nodded and tried to look attentive.
"You will be here until the end of September," he went on, "and I expect you to set and maintain the highest standards of efficiency. Do you understand?" We nodded again. He continued to glower at us for a few more seconds, then switched his attention to another fellow who had a black beret on his lap, denoting he was a member of the Royal Tank Regiment. "Why weren't those empty cases I saw this morning sent back to ordnance?" The officer responsible for shell cases mumbled a feeble excuse which did nothing to placate the Commandant. "I'll not have it, do you hear?. Make sure you get those things back on time in future." The next one to get a broadside was the motor transport officer. "Why were two of your three tonners without their tool kits when I saw them at six o'clock this morning?" he spat. The MTO went through the 'goldfish' routine, and said nothing. "See to it in future," snapped the Colonel.
Everyone so far had received a rocket and I began to feel uneasy about this chap who would be my boss for the next six months. Up until then, Dicky Randell and I had not been told what our duties would be, other than supervising and looking after our soldiers.
Suddenly, I found myself looking at the end of the Commandant's finger as he thrust his arm in my direction. "Why were your boilers at fifty pounds pressure at 6.30 this morning?" he rasped. As I didn't know I had any boilers and, even if I did - could not possibly have known what pressure they should be registering, I thought it better to play for time. "Must be something wrong there, sir. I'll make sure they don't go above forty pounds in future," I mumbled. "No you won't you bloody idiot, you'll make sure they're up to sixty pounds at least," cried the Colonel.
I hoped that the storm would blow over, but more was to come. "Tell me, how you are working your sh***s?" he enquired. Once again, I had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. Nobody had told me that among the number of jobs I would be given was that of messing officer with responsibility for managing a large kitchen and dining hall. 'Sh***s' could mean all sorts of things, and I went through a mental selection process. SHEETS - SHAFTS - CHEFS - SHIFTS. "Did you say 'shifts', sir?" I replied, selecting the word that sounded most appropriate, but having no idea of the context. The effect of what I said to Colonel Harold Witherspoon was as if he had been stung by a hornet. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he thundered. "Any more of it and you'll be going back to your regiment with an adverse report." I murmured an apology and wondered what he thought I had said.
"What was all that about?" said Dicky, who got away without a scratch. "You seem to have upset him." "I've never seen him before," I replied, "and it looks as if I'm not going to see much more of him."
Before leaving camp headquarters, I asked the Adjutant what all the business of 'boilers' and 'shifts' was about. It was only then that I became aware of my duty concerning feeding the masses. "The Quartermaster does the job during the winter, he'll tell you everything you want to know," said the thoughtful Gerald.
The Quartermaster was a mine of information and I wondered why he could not continue doing the job during the summer, rather than hand it over to me - an unknown quantity.
A week went by without any trouble, and then I received a telephone call from the Adjutant. "The Commandant would like to see you, can you come across?" "Anything wrong?" I asked. "No, he just wants to have a chat, I think," was the reply. I tripped across the sports field and went into Gerald’s office. "The Colonel will see you now," he said, motioning me to enter. I marched in, saluted and waited for the Commandant to offer me a chair. Not a chance. "Why is your cookhouse in a filthy condition," he barked. I was struck dumb for a few seconds, and then said: "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you'd been there this morning." "I haven't been there," he replied. "I don't have to go there to know that the place is filthy." He leaned back in his chair and let me ponder on his words for a few moments before he continued: "Look out of the window and tell me what you can see on your cookhouse." I did as I was told, but nothing seemed to be wrong. As cookhouses go, it was a rather nice one. It did have some moss of the north facing roof, so I said: "I'll get someone on the roof to clear that moss, sir." "Not moss, you idiot - SEAGULLS," he bellowed.
I could have kicked myself for not thinking of 'seagulls', but there were seagulls everywhere in Castlemartin as it was in the middle of one of the largest bird sanctuaries in the country. I still could not see the connection between seagulls and a filthy cookhouse until the Colonel said: "Seagulls are scavengers and they love filth and dirt, that's why they're sitting on the roof. Now, get that place cleaned up and I'll be along at 11 o'clock to inspect it."
No scrum half ever crossed the sports field faster than me as I went back to the cookhouse to make sure that everything was clean and tidy. It was, of course, as I had an efficient catering staff who took pride in their work.
The Cook Sergeant heard about the rocket I had received and said: "Caught you on the old 'seagull' routine did he, sir?" When I nodded, he said: "That's one of his 'pets'. He's hot on seagulls but leave it to me." The Sergeant went into the dining room and saw one of the soldiers from my company who was employed as a dining room orderly. He and a few others like him were responsible for cleaning tables and hot plates and generally keeping the place clean.
Private Maldwyn Clutterbuck had not endeared himself to the Cook Sergeant because, even though he had a rich baritone voice, he knew only one song which he sang all day. "Stranger in Paradise' was worse than water torture practised by Chinese Triads and he had nearly driven everyone mad by his non-stop rendering of the tune.
"Right. You there, Private Clutterbuck. I've got somewhere better than Paradise for you. Follow me." The Cook Sergeant led Clutterbuck to the boiler house where there was a huge pile of coke in the yard. "Fill that bucket with coke and get up on that bank. When you see a seagull, let fly at it."
Maldwyn Clutterbuck was, without doubt, the most satisfied soldier in my company during that lovely summer of 1955. His daytime routine was one constant session of sun bathing until a seagull arrived, then he would fling a lump of coke at it. The cookhouse roof was kept clear of scavenging birds, the Commandant’s blood pressure was normal, catering staff were able to sing among themselves while Private Clutterbuck indulged himself with his favourite song.

The standard of service and cleanliness in the officers' mess was not good enough. This was mainly due to the inadequacy of the Mess Sergeant, who also came from my regiment. Colonel Witherspoon did not like him and, for once, I agreed with him. I was not surprised, therefore, when I heard he had been given the sack. His replacement arrived the same day and when I saw who it was, I knew we were in for more trouble.
Corporal 'Panther' Thomas had been the battalion sports storeman until he was promoted to the new job. He earned quite a reputation for himself, particularly in rugby circles, and had become a sort of talisman with his sponge bag at Army Rugby Cup finals where his stocky figure, propelled by legs pumping like pistons, could be seen running towards some unfortunate forward who had been kicked in the teeth. He won his nick-name in Korea where, according to legend, he had strangled a couple of Chinese soldiers who had unwittingly stumbled into his trench. The lighter side of his character was his ability to bring tears to the eyes of those who heard his rendering of the ballad, 'Eskimo Nell' and 'The Lord's Prayer'.
'Panther' set about the task of brightening the officers' mess ante-room as soon as he arrived. He brought with him a ghastly assortment of beer mats and cheap ash trays from the local brewery and he spread these awful objects around the mess until the place looked like some third rate restaurant. 'Panther' had rarely dressed in anything other than a track suit, so I did not recognise him in his 'blues' uniform when I went into the mess.
The Commandant came in soon after me, and Panther asked him what he would like to drink. "I'd like a gin and tonic, if you please, Sergeant Thomas," said the Colonel. Panther returned a few minutes later with a glass on a silver salver. "There you are, sir. I've put some ice and lemon in it; I hope it's to your liking." Colonel Witherspoon was a man of instant likes and dislikes and the beer mats and ash trays had already raised his blood pressure. He was about to tell Panther to get rid of them when the new Mess Sergeant said: "Excuse me, sir, did you beat a tenor or a side drum?" None of us knew anything about the Colonel's background, but it transpired he had joined the Army as a drummer boy when he was fifteen years of age. He progressed quickly through the ranks and during World War Two he received a decoration for gallant conduct when he was blown out of three separate tanks in one day. In getting out of one, he fell awkwardly and broke his leg which never mended properly. Panther, who had noticed the Colonel's limp, thought he recognised the slight drag of the left leg which is the common swagger of drummers. There was a long pause before Colonel Witherspoon replied; "Many years ago, I used to beat a side drum. How did you know?" Panther beamed and said: "I saw you coming down the road and I said to myself: 'once a drummer boy - always a drummer boy' " For the first time since I had known him, the Colonel was struck dumb; all he could do was glower at Panther as he cleared some glasses away.
After a remark like that Panther's days were numbered, but he accelerated his departure by falling out with the Mess Corporal. The Corporal was not a member of the Welch Regiment and therefore, according to Panther, not a proper soldier. He did not react quickly enough one day when he received an order, so Panther picked up a kitchen knife and stuck it through his neck. At his subsequent court-martial, he must have given a favourable impression to those who tried him because he was soon back on the rugby touch-line, wearing a lance corporal's stripe and carrying the 'first-fifteeen's' sponge bag.

Somehow, I managed to keep out of trouble for the rest of the time I was in Castlemartin and on the day I left I was loading my car when Gerald said: "The Colonel would like to have a word with you before you go." I thought to myself: 'This is where I came in', but Harold Witherspoon was gracious enough to thank me for all I had done while under his command. "I only wish I could have the same team next year, but I'll have to start with a new lot in six months time," he said.
I had a picture of my successor being called to account for boilers and seagulls, but that's the Army system and you soon learn how it works.