Soon after I was appointed Weapons Training Officer of the 41st Primary Training Centre, Maindy Barracks, Cardiff in 1947, the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col ‘Ianto’ Price, asked me to start training a team of marksmen for the Western Command Weapons Meeting to be held at Altcar Ranges, Liverpool in August of that year. I selected about a dozen NCOs and men from the training and administrative staff and had a trial run on the 30 yards range the following day. A few of them were not consistent enough in their grouping practices and were replaced by others who had shown interest in becoming members of the team. When I had as good a collection of riflemen and machine gunners as I could muster, we went to Porthcawl (Newton) Ranges for a full day’s shooting. The Commanding Officer visited us in the afternoon and was pleased with what he saw.
The team trained most days on the 30 yards range and we spent two or three evening a week in the miniature range shooting with 22 rifles. I was satisfied with the team’s performance and the marksmen looked upon themselves as an elite bunch.
One day the Adjutant summoned me to his office and handed me a large brown envelope. “These are the squadding cards for the Altcar Team,” he said. “Look after them and make sure that each man has the right card when he is called forward to the firing point.” When I returned to my office, I read the rigmarole about what I had to do as Team Captain and paid special attention to one important rule:
‘COMPETITORS WHO ARE NOT IN POSSESSION OF THEIR SQUADDING CARDS WILL BE DISQUALIFIED’.
That was sufficient warning for me to put the envelope in the safe and check each day to see if it was still there.
The team departed for Liverpool on a Sunday morning armed with rifles, Bren guns, magazines in large boxes for the machine guns and personal baggage. We changed trains at Crewe and caught another to Lime Street Station in Liverpool. We then had to march to a branch line that ran to Altcar and onwards to Southport. It was only a short distance between stations but too far to carry the heavy kit. A young RASC corporal, in charge of a 3-ton troop carrier waiting on the road outside, was assisting women and children to climb aboard. When I asked him if he could take some of our kit as well, he kindly agreed. I put a corporal in charge and told another NCO to form up the remainder of the team ready to march to the next railway station.
When we arrived at the branch line, the heavy kit had been loaded on the train to Altcar. The Guard was looking at his watch and asked us to get aboard as he was running late already.
The last lap of the journey took about 20 minutes and the corporal in charge of the kit had taken most of it out of the guard’s van and deposited it on the platform by the time I appeared. The remainder of the team helped to carry the guns, magazines and personal baggage to a 3-tonner waiting outside the station while the Guard did a final check of his van to make sure nothing had been left behind. He was about to blow his whistle and wave his green flag when I realised I had not collected my own baggage. “Hold on! Where’s my bag?” I yelped. I looked up and down the platform and inside the guard’s van, but there was no sign of it. It was not in the 3-tonner and I could think of no other place to look. “Come on. sir,” said the Guard, “I’m later than ever now.”
It was bad enough to have mislaid my personal kit, but losing the squadding cards for each member of the team was a disaster of the first magnitude.
After the train departed, my first duty was to see that the team was accommodated and fed in the camp adjacent to the ranges. When that was done, I retraced my steps to Lime Street Station, Liverpool.
There was nobody about and the RTO (Rail Transport Office) was shut. I found a porter and asked him if he could remember seeing an Army corporal helping women and children board a 3-ton truck about two hours ago. “Yes,” he said. “They were going to Prince’s Landing Stage. That’s down by the river.” Thanking him for his help and giving him a 2/6d tip, I hailed a taxi and drove to the waterfront.
There was a Customs Post on the quayside and I asked a uniformed official if he knew anything about some women with kids who might have arrived at the jetty in an army truck. He nodded his head and said they had embarked aboard the troopship S.S. Orbita. I felt that I was getting closer to my bag and asked him if he had seen a leather holdall with a prominent white strip on both sides. “Yes,” he replied, “I do remember such a bag. Nobody claimed it so I wrote a label: UNCLAIMED BAGGAGE OF PASSENGER S.S. ORBITA and sent it off with the rest.” The next question I put to the official was: “Where can I find this ship?” He pointed seawards in the direction of the setting sun and said: “There she goes, sir. It’s Gibraltar next stop.”
It turned out that the women, with children, I had seen were going to Mombasa to join their husbands serving in Kenya; my bag must have got mixed up with their luggage.
While I was considering the words I should write in my plea of mitigation to the CO the next day, a sergeant in the Military Police came up, saluted smartly and said: “I could not help hearing your conversation with the Customs Officer, sir. If you wish, I can go after the ship in our launch and see if I can find your bag.” I was prepared to grasp at any straw so, without further ado, the sergeant and a corporal, already in the launch, set off down the River Mersey to catch up with the S.S. Orbita.
Eventually, the launch returned with the sergeant in the bows holding up my bag which he had found on the purser’s square with the afore mentioned label attached.
Colonel ‘Ianto’ Price arrived at mid-day on the Monday and was in good form. I cannot remember how many medals and cups we won – if any, but we had a good time and, as far as I was concerned, gained valuable experience about organizing weapons’ meetings.
Post Script: - By a remarkable coincidence, a year later - almost to the day, I lost most of my kit when a porter put my luggage in the hold instead of the baggage room of the S.S. Empress of Australia berthed at Prince’s Landing Stage, Liverpool and bound for Cyprus. The story is told in my book ‘KHAKI SHORTS’ under ‘Mediterranean Merry-Go-Round’
Friday, 23 May 2008
Too Big for My Boots
Before returning to South Wales from Southampton, where I had been on business, I visited some shops in the city centre with the intention of buying a pair of suede shoes. Due to a malfunction of genes in my pre-birth stage, the big toes on both feet stick out about half an inch in front of their siblings making me take size 12 shoes instead of the more normal size 10 or 11 for a person of my size. There were plenty of suede shoes in the shops but none that fitted me. I returned to my car and headed north west along the A36 to Salisbury where I intended to have another go.
It was the same story - plenty of shoes up to size 11, but nothing else. I was not desperate for footwear but I had tried all the shoe shops in the area where I live and they were unable to provide. Bristol was the next large city on my route so I drove into a multi-storey car park adjacent to the main shopping area.
I started at the top of a long hill and worked my way downwards and received the same answer at each shoe shop I visited: "Perhaps sir would like to try a size 11 with a thinner pair of socks?" was one suggestion put to me by a shop assistant hoping for a quick sale. A traffic warden was more helpful and directed me to a shop down a narrow lane which he said was one of the oldest shoe shops in Bristol.
I followed his directions and eventually came across a cordwainer's shop of the old school. A brass bell announced my presence as I opened the door and an old man wearing a leather apron and pínce nez appeared from the nether region of his shop. For the umpteenth time I repeated my requirement and explained the trouble caused by my big toes. His was not the sort of shop where you could try on a multitude of shoes and select the ones that fitted best. This was a bespoke establishment where (A) your feet were measured, then, (B), you returned a few days later for a first fitting and (C), the final fitting before purchase.
I told the old man I lived in South Wales and that it would not be practicable for me to make two more trips to Bristol just for a pair of shoes. He nodded agreement and, as I rose to leave, I commented: "It's terrible to be deformed, isn't it?" The old man smiled as he walked across to open the door. "I find one gets use to it after a while," he said. It was only then that I noticed the large hump on his back.
It was the same story - plenty of shoes up to size 11, but nothing else. I was not desperate for footwear but I had tried all the shoe shops in the area where I live and they were unable to provide. Bristol was the next large city on my route so I drove into a multi-storey car park adjacent to the main shopping area.
I started at the top of a long hill and worked my way downwards and received the same answer at each shoe shop I visited: "Perhaps sir would like to try a size 11 with a thinner pair of socks?" was one suggestion put to me by a shop assistant hoping for a quick sale. A traffic warden was more helpful and directed me to a shop down a narrow lane which he said was one of the oldest shoe shops in Bristol.
I followed his directions and eventually came across a cordwainer's shop of the old school. A brass bell announced my presence as I opened the door and an old man wearing a leather apron and pínce nez appeared from the nether region of his shop. For the umpteenth time I repeated my requirement and explained the trouble caused by my big toes. His was not the sort of shop where you could try on a multitude of shoes and select the ones that fitted best. This was a bespoke establishment where (A) your feet were measured, then, (B), you returned a few days later for a first fitting and (C), the final fitting before purchase.
I told the old man I lived in South Wales and that it would not be practicable for me to make two more trips to Bristol just for a pair of shoes. He nodded agreement and, as I rose to leave, I commented: "It's terrible to be deformed, isn't it?" The old man smiled as he walked across to open the door. "I find one gets use to it after a while," he said. It was only then that I noticed the large hump on his back.
Sospan Fach
What is it about a little saucepan ('sospan fach' - if you're Welsh) that creates such passion in the Celtic homeland? There are many stories about its origin and the English translation of the ancient ballad only perplexes foreigners, including other citizens of the British Isles. Most true Welsmen and women are word perfect from an early age and sing lustily what they look upon as their own National Anthem. The English translation goes like this:
Mary Anne's finger has withered,
And David the servant is not very well.
My baby in the cradle is crying
And the cat has scratched little Johnny.
The little saucepan boiling on the fire,
The large saucepan boiling on the floor.
The cat has scratched little Johnny.
Young Dai the soldier,
Young Dai the soldier,
Young Dai the soldier -
With his shirt hanging out.
In rugby circles the name 'Sospan' means only one place - Llanelli. This old steel-making town in West Wales is the shrine of the oval-shaped ball. To be a member of the 'Scarlets', as the first fifteen are called, and to score a try on the holy turf of Stradey Park is to become a saint before you are 30 years of age. The 'All Blacks' of New Zealand are a formidable side and their pre-match strategy of weird incantations and aggressive body movement is usually worth a few points to them. The Scots with their bagpipes and the French with their cockerel, are morale boosters as well, but none of these compare with the secret weapon of Llanelli.
Despite being an unlawful act, a monkey-like figure will sometimes be seen shinning up one of the goal posts before the start of a match and, encouraged by the roar of the crowd, fix a 'sospan fach' to the top of one of the posts. There it will stay for the duration of the game working its magic on the 'Scarlets' below.
Many gallant rugby players and others from Llanelli joined the 4th Battalion Welch Regiment during World War Two and took part in the invasion of North West Europe. When they sailed across the English Channel to land on the beaches of Normandy, a 'sospan fach' was attached to the masthead of their ship. Thereafter, to the end of the war, it travelled on the bonnet of the Commanding Officer's battle wagon and led soldiers to victory in Hamburg. The 'Sospans' was the sobriquet given to that battalion until 1971 when it became the 4th (Volunteer) Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, with headquarters in Llanelli.
To continue the tradition of 'sospan fach', everyone wore a small embroidered sospan on the left sleeve of their jackets. What finer sight could there be than hundreds of small red sospans bouncing up and down as soldiers of the 4th Battalion marched through their home town. Members of St John's Ambulance Brigade were always on hand to treat those overcome with emotion.
During the mid '70s' it was announced that the Prince of Wales would visit Llanelli. Everyone was delighted and plans were made to make the visit a memorable day. The Commanding Officer of the 4th Battalion set a programme with foot and arms drill top priority. The Quartermaster was told to ensure that soldiers' uniforms were in pristine condition.
With a month to go before the great day, the General Officer Commanding the Army in Wales let it be known that he wanted to inspect the battalion. He need not have bothered - personal and unit pride was so strong that not a toe-cap, badge or set of belt brasses could have shone more brightly. The Army is rigid about such matters though and the General duly appeared one Saturday morning to satisfy himself that everything was in order.
People's Park, Llanelli is a splendid venue for a military parade and when the General arrived, the battalion was drawn up in open order of companies ready for his inspection. The General was escorted through the ranks by the Commanding Officer with the Honorary Colonel (a retired Territorial Army officer appointed to that prestigious position), three steps behind. Whereas the General had a word with every tenth man or so, the Honorary Colonel had something to say to every man on parade. Not only did he know their names but, in many cases, asked after their fathers, with whom he had served. He joined 4/WELCH as a subaltern before World War Two and was a seasoned campaigner. Imagine his surprise, therefore, when the General stopped in front of one soldier and said: "What's this?" pointing at the red sospan on his sleeve. "A sospan, sir," replied the soldier. "A what?" exclaimed the General who, although he had been associated for some time with Welsh soldiers, was not a Celt or even an 'adopted' Welshman. He was English through and through.
The young soldier, who was alarmed by the attitude of the General, did not have a chance to reply. The Honorary Colonel, with his moustache bristling like an angry porcupine, answered for him: "It's a SOSPAN, sir - I say again - a SOSPAN." The General stared at the Colonel and said: "Did you say - a saucepan?" The Colonel bristled again and replied: "No, sir, I did not. I said it's a SOSPAN!" The General realised he was out of his depth and that nothing would be achieved by pursuing the matter in front of hundreds of spectators in People's Park.
The General returned to the subject of saucepans in the officers' mess and the Regimental Secretary, who had had time to rehearse his lines, gave the following explanation:
"You were quite right when you recognised those things as 'saucepans'," he began, "but down here they like to call them 'sospans'. The story dates back to the days of the Crimean War when all that stood between the advancing Russians and the British guns was a small detachment of Welsh soldiers - forerunners of this battalion. A young cook from Llanelli was the first to see them and gave the alarm by beating his little saucepan - 'sospan fach', on a rock. The sound alerted everyone and the Russians were driven off with heavy casualties. Ever since then," continued the Regimental Secretary, "the little 'saucepan' has been a sacred emblem of Llanelli folk and soldiers of the 4th Battalion are immensely proud to wear it on their uniforms."
"Good Lord," said the General. "I'm glad I didn't put my foot in it any further. I thought that fiery fellow was going to burst into flames without any help from me."
Postscript:
Nowadays, volunteer soldiers are only issued with khaki uniforms for special occasions, so the small red sospans are no longer part of our uniform - besides, 4/WELCH has ceased to exist by that name. The little silver sospan which accompanied 4/WELCH through France, Belgium, Holland and Germany during the invasion of Northern Europe in 1944-5 now resides (2008) in the officers' mess of The Royal Welsh Regiment in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff.
Mary Anne's finger has withered,
And David the servant is not very well.
My baby in the cradle is crying
And the cat has scratched little Johnny.
The little saucepan boiling on the fire,
The large saucepan boiling on the floor.
The cat has scratched little Johnny.
Young Dai the soldier,
Young Dai the soldier,
Young Dai the soldier -
With his shirt hanging out.
In rugby circles the name 'Sospan' means only one place - Llanelli. This old steel-making town in West Wales is the shrine of the oval-shaped ball. To be a member of the 'Scarlets', as the first fifteen are called, and to score a try on the holy turf of Stradey Park is to become a saint before you are 30 years of age. The 'All Blacks' of New Zealand are a formidable side and their pre-match strategy of weird incantations and aggressive body movement is usually worth a few points to them. The Scots with their bagpipes and the French with their cockerel, are morale boosters as well, but none of these compare with the secret weapon of Llanelli.
Despite being an unlawful act, a monkey-like figure will sometimes be seen shinning up one of the goal posts before the start of a match and, encouraged by the roar of the crowd, fix a 'sospan fach' to the top of one of the posts. There it will stay for the duration of the game working its magic on the 'Scarlets' below.
Many gallant rugby players and others from Llanelli joined the 4th Battalion Welch Regiment during World War Two and took part in the invasion of North West Europe. When they sailed across the English Channel to land on the beaches of Normandy, a 'sospan fach' was attached to the masthead of their ship. Thereafter, to the end of the war, it travelled on the bonnet of the Commanding Officer's battle wagon and led soldiers to victory in Hamburg. The 'Sospans' was the sobriquet given to that battalion until 1971 when it became the 4th (Volunteer) Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, with headquarters in Llanelli.
To continue the tradition of 'sospan fach', everyone wore a small embroidered sospan on the left sleeve of their jackets. What finer sight could there be than hundreds of small red sospans bouncing up and down as soldiers of the 4th Battalion marched through their home town. Members of St John's Ambulance Brigade were always on hand to treat those overcome with emotion.
During the mid '70s' it was announced that the Prince of Wales would visit Llanelli. Everyone was delighted and plans were made to make the visit a memorable day. The Commanding Officer of the 4th Battalion set a programme with foot and arms drill top priority. The Quartermaster was told to ensure that soldiers' uniforms were in pristine condition.
With a month to go before the great day, the General Officer Commanding the Army in Wales let it be known that he wanted to inspect the battalion. He need not have bothered - personal and unit pride was so strong that not a toe-cap, badge or set of belt brasses could have shone more brightly. The Army is rigid about such matters though and the General duly appeared one Saturday morning to satisfy himself that everything was in order.
People's Park, Llanelli is a splendid venue for a military parade and when the General arrived, the battalion was drawn up in open order of companies ready for his inspection. The General was escorted through the ranks by the Commanding Officer with the Honorary Colonel (a retired Territorial Army officer appointed to that prestigious position), three steps behind. Whereas the General had a word with every tenth man or so, the Honorary Colonel had something to say to every man on parade. Not only did he know their names but, in many cases, asked after their fathers, with whom he had served. He joined 4/WELCH as a subaltern before World War Two and was a seasoned campaigner. Imagine his surprise, therefore, when the General stopped in front of one soldier and said: "What's this?" pointing at the red sospan on his sleeve. "A sospan, sir," replied the soldier. "A what?" exclaimed the General who, although he had been associated for some time with Welsh soldiers, was not a Celt or even an 'adopted' Welshman. He was English through and through.
The young soldier, who was alarmed by the attitude of the General, did not have a chance to reply. The Honorary Colonel, with his moustache bristling like an angry porcupine, answered for him: "It's a SOSPAN, sir - I say again - a SOSPAN." The General stared at the Colonel and said: "Did you say - a saucepan?" The Colonel bristled again and replied: "No, sir, I did not. I said it's a SOSPAN!" The General realised he was out of his depth and that nothing would be achieved by pursuing the matter in front of hundreds of spectators in People's Park.
The General returned to the subject of saucepans in the officers' mess and the Regimental Secretary, who had had time to rehearse his lines, gave the following explanation:
"You were quite right when you recognised those things as 'saucepans'," he began, "but down here they like to call them 'sospans'. The story dates back to the days of the Crimean War when all that stood between the advancing Russians and the British guns was a small detachment of Welsh soldiers - forerunners of this battalion. A young cook from Llanelli was the first to see them and gave the alarm by beating his little saucepan - 'sospan fach', on a rock. The sound alerted everyone and the Russians were driven off with heavy casualties. Ever since then," continued the Regimental Secretary, "the little 'saucepan' has been a sacred emblem of Llanelli folk and soldiers of the 4th Battalion are immensely proud to wear it on their uniforms."
"Good Lord," said the General. "I'm glad I didn't put my foot in it any further. I thought that fiery fellow was going to burst into flames without any help from me."
Postscript:
Nowadays, volunteer soldiers are only issued with khaki uniforms for special occasions, so the small red sospans are no longer part of our uniform - besides, 4/WELCH has ceased to exist by that name. The little silver sospan which accompanied 4/WELCH through France, Belgium, Holland and Germany during the invasion of Northern Europe in 1944-5 now resides (2008) in the officers' mess of The Royal Welsh Regiment in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff.
Sign Here, Sir
I was travelling from London to Newport, South Wales by rail when a disembodied voice with a Pakistani accent informed passengers that there had been an accident in the Severn Tunnel. The unsympathetic voice went on to say we would continue our journey via Gloucester and that any delay was regretted. British Rail (as it was then called) did not believe in giving away anything more than the briefest details about things that go wrong, and we were shunted off in a north-westerly direction at Swindon not knowing if there was a dead cow on the line or if there had been a complete collapse of the tunnel.
My son, who was with me, expressed surprise that the train could reach Newport by another route. Being Clifton educated and brought up in the tradition of that great engineer of the 19th century, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, he had never heard of the 'romantic route' that wound its way through the Cotswolds.
For me it was a journey I had not travelled for well over 40 years and it brought back memories of the time when I was a young subaltern serving at the Welch Regiment depot in Cardiff in 1947.
One day I received a telephone call from the Adjutant saying he wanted to see me. Such a command usually meant something had gone wrong, so I moved with leaden steps from my office on the 30 yards shooting range to his office in the main block.
"Enter," he bellowed as I knocked on his door. "I've got a job for you." I had already learnt to be cynical about any of the Adjutant's jobs, so I waited with some anxiety for the punch line.
"I want you to go to London next Saturday. You'll travel by train, spend the night in a hotel and the following morning you'll collect three German generals from the Prisoner-of-War cage in Kensington Gardens."
I had spent 18 months in various Army units training to be an officer and being subjected to every sort of challenge and situation an officer might be expected to deal with, but that order took my breath away. The Adjutant continued: "The Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant has booked you into a hotel adjacent to the cage for senior German officers in Kensington Palace Gardens. Report there at 0900 hrs on Sunday morning, collect the generals and take them to Paddington railway station. From there you will proceed to Island Farm Prisoner-of-War Camp, Bridgend where you will hand them over. Any questions?" I knew that the question: ‘Any questions?’ did not mean that I should actually ask a question, so I replied: "No thank you, sir," saluted and marched out.
I had been to London only once and that was when I was a boy just before the start of World War Two. The capital was a place to be avoided during the war as it took a considerable pasting from the Luftwaffe and was the last place to go for a week end. When I arrived at Paddington railway station, I took a taxi to my hotel in Kensington and during the evening went out to see the bright lights of the west end.
The following morning I had breakfast, paid my bill and then walked a few hundred yards to No. 8 Kensington Palace Gardens, a former stately home that had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war (the area is now known as ‘Billionaires Row’). A young corporal in the Military Police was sitting behind a six foot table in the reception area. I introduced myself and said "I've come to collect three German generals." He nodded his head and pushed towards me a pad of Army forms 108 on which was written: 'General Heinricci – General Dittmar – General Schmitt’. He turned his head towards the far end of the room and bellowed: "OK, you guys. Over here."
From the deep leather sides of a huge sofa appeared three dignified figures wearing strange uniforms which looked as if they had been made from blankets. They approached, clicked their heels and gave me a 'British' salute. "Sign here, sir," said the corporal.
The driver of a 15 cwt truck helped me with my suitcase while the three generals picked up their kit and climbed into the back of the vehicle; we then set off for Paddington.
The train was at the platform and my generals followed me like three well trained spaniels as I led the way to a first-class carriage. As soon as we had placed our luggage on the rack, steam gushed from the engine and we were on our way to South Wales.
I had been fairly accurate in my guess that their uniforms were made from blankets but, somehow or other, these high ranking German aristocrats wore them with such panache that I, in my new service dress and Sam Browne belt, felt in awe of them. They all spoke perfect English and with me, their reluctant gaoler, they struck up a friendly rapport.
Up until the time we boarded the train, I had no idea where they had come from. I was amazed therefore when they told me they had been on leave with their families in Germany. Knowing now what conditions were like for German in that bitter winter of 1946-7, the generals were indeed fortunate to spend some of those freezing months in warm huts in Island Farm Camp, Bridgend.
As we travelled through the Berkshire and Wiltshire countryside, my three prisoners talked about the war. They spoke about Hitler and Rommel, about the campaign in Libya and the invasion of Russia. Each had played an important part in the German war effort and their conversation, spoken in English for my benefit, was fascinating.
When we arrived at Swindon, because it was a Sunday and the day of the week when maintenance work was carried out on the Severn Tunnel, we were diverted towards Gloucester. This did not mean much to me, but when I felt pangs of hunger at about midday, I realised there was no buffet car on the train and that I had not brought any haversack rations with me. The generals, appreciating my plight, most generously shared their rations with me. The kitchen staff at the prisoner-of-war cage must have been kept on since pre-war days as I had never seen such delicious packed meals, including two bottles of wine.
The train, after a long and tiresome journey via Gloucester, eventually arrived at Cardiff, where we had to change before going on to Bridgend. My parents lived in Barry, about ten miles away, and I usually went home at week ends if, for no other reason, to get my laundry exchanged. I therefore gave General Heinricci a shilling and told him to go with the others to Platform 2, buy four cups of tea and wait for me while I telephoned my mother.
I had to go down to the main entrance to the station and wait in a queue until a telephone was free. When I managed to get through, I said: "Hello, Mother, I'm sorry I will not be able to get down to see you today. I'm taking three German generals to Bridgend." I had to hold the ear piece of the telephone at arm's length as my mother hurled questions at me about the 'enemy'. "Where are they now?" she yelled. "On platform 2 having a cup of tea," I replied. "What!!!!," she screamed. "Get up there at once before they escape; you'll be court-martialled." I tried to explain to her that 'escape' was the last thing they had in mind, but it was no good. She had lived through two world wars and the only place for Germans, as far as she was concerned, was in their own country or behind bars in ours. "I'll bring my washing home tomorrow," I said. When I arrived on platform 2, General Heinricci handed me a cup of tea and four pence change.
The Bridgend train came in about ten minutes later and we all climbed aboard for the last stage of our journey. A truck was waiting outside the station and within a few minutes we pulled up at the reception centre at Island Farm Camp. It was just like a return to school after the 'hols' as lots of high ranking officers turned out to greet their friends and hear news from home.
The driver was waiting to take me back to Bridgend railway station, so I bade farewell to my prisoners. Once again there were smart clicks of heels and British salutes before we shook hands.
For the next 18 months, I used to pass Island Farm Camp once a week when I took recruits under training at Maindy Barracks, Cardiff to the shooting ranges at Porthcawl. I often used to see German officers taking exercise as they walked unescorted along the side of the road. Field Marshal von Runstedt was easily recognised by the two walking sticks he used. I kept looking for 'my generals', but I never saw them again.
Since I wrote this story in 1991 I have discovered some interesting facts about my three German generals:
Generaloberst Gotthard Heinricci.
He came from a military family which provided soldiers for whatever regime was in power in Germany since the 12th century. On 20th March 1945 he succeeded Reichsfuhrer-SS Heinrich Himmler as Commander-in-Chief, Army Group Weichsel on the Eastern (Russian) Front. He was given responsibility for the defence of Berlin on 17th April 1945 but was sacked by Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel 12 days later after he, contrary to Hitler’s instructions, ordered withdrawal. He knew that death awaited him if he was caught by the Russians so he crossed the River Elbe and reached the comparative safety of British lines. He was taken into captivity on 28th May 1945 and was eventually released on 19th May 1948.
He was awarded 20 medals during two World Wars. Of particular interest are the two medals he received from the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha which are very rare. The Carl Eduard War Cross was awarded only 97 times in WW1. During WW2 the most prestigious of all his medals was the Knight’s Iron Cross which he was awarded on 18th September 1941.
Generalleutnant Kurt Dittmar.
This officer was six years younger than General Heinricci being born in 1891. In July 1941 he commanded 169th Infantry Division during Operation Polarfuchs (Polar Fox), an attack on Russia from Finland with the objective of cutting the Murmansk railroad. The attack ran out of steam in mid-September 22 miles short of its objective. Dittmar became ill and was evacuated on 29th September 1941.
From April 1942 to April 1945 he was the official military radio commentator of the German Armed Forces. Known as ‘The Voice of the German High Command’, he was widely respected and was listened to not only in Germany but also among the Allied monitoring staff.
When he realised that Germany had lost the war, he made his way to the River Elbe (the limit of the Allied advance), crossed in a small boat near his birthplace of Magdeburg and surrendered to American troops on 23rd April 1945. He was held as a prisoner-of-war in America and Bridgend (South Wales) before being repatriated on 12th May 1948.
General Dittmar was awarded nine medals during WW2, the most prestigious being the German Cross in Gold awarded for his participation in the attack on Russia from Finland.
Generalleutnant Artur Schmitt (no photograph available).
He was born in the Rhineland in 1888 and must have set a record in the German military hierarchy by being captured in each of the two World Wars. He joined the Bavarian Police in 1920 but rejoined the Army in 1935. In September 1941 he was appointed Commander Rear Area 556 in North Africa and a few months later was given command of a division. The British Army launched Operation Crusader in November 1941 and after a few weeks of alternate advance and withdrawal, General Rommel was forced to retreat to El Agheila south-west of Benghazi.
General Schmitt and his division were left behind in Bardia, several hundred miles behind British lines. South African troops began their attack on 30th December 1941 and the town was taken on 2nd January 1942.
General Schmitt was captured and sent to Cairo; later that year he was sent to a POW camp in Canada. He returned to UK in 1947 and spent some time in Island Farm POW Camp, Bridgend before being released in October 1947.
.
My son, who was with me, expressed surprise that the train could reach Newport by another route. Being Clifton educated and brought up in the tradition of that great engineer of the 19th century, Isambard Kingdom Brunel, he had never heard of the 'romantic route' that wound its way through the Cotswolds.
For me it was a journey I had not travelled for well over 40 years and it brought back memories of the time when I was a young subaltern serving at the Welch Regiment depot in Cardiff in 1947.
One day I received a telephone call from the Adjutant saying he wanted to see me. Such a command usually meant something had gone wrong, so I moved with leaden steps from my office on the 30 yards shooting range to his office in the main block.
"Enter," he bellowed as I knocked on his door. "I've got a job for you." I had already learnt to be cynical about any of the Adjutant's jobs, so I waited with some anxiety for the punch line.
"I want you to go to London next Saturday. You'll travel by train, spend the night in a hotel and the following morning you'll collect three German generals from the Prisoner-of-War cage in Kensington Gardens."
I had spent 18 months in various Army units training to be an officer and being subjected to every sort of challenge and situation an officer might be expected to deal with, but that order took my breath away. The Adjutant continued: "The Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant has booked you into a hotel adjacent to the cage for senior German officers in Kensington Palace Gardens. Report there at 0900 hrs on Sunday morning, collect the generals and take them to Paddington railway station. From there you will proceed to Island Farm Prisoner-of-War Camp, Bridgend where you will hand them over. Any questions?" I knew that the question: ‘Any questions?’ did not mean that I should actually ask a question, so I replied: "No thank you, sir," saluted and marched out.
I had been to London only once and that was when I was a boy just before the start of World War Two. The capital was a place to be avoided during the war as it took a considerable pasting from the Luftwaffe and was the last place to go for a week end. When I arrived at Paddington railway station, I took a taxi to my hotel in Kensington and during the evening went out to see the bright lights of the west end.
The following morning I had breakfast, paid my bill and then walked a few hundred yards to No. 8 Kensington Palace Gardens, a former stately home that had been requisitioned at the beginning of the war (the area is now known as ‘Billionaires Row’). A young corporal in the Military Police was sitting behind a six foot table in the reception area. I introduced myself and said "I've come to collect three German generals." He nodded his head and pushed towards me a pad of Army forms 108 on which was written: 'General Heinricci – General Dittmar – General Schmitt’. He turned his head towards the far end of the room and bellowed: "OK, you guys. Over here."
From the deep leather sides of a huge sofa appeared three dignified figures wearing strange uniforms which looked as if they had been made from blankets. They approached, clicked their heels and gave me a 'British' salute. "Sign here, sir," said the corporal.
The driver of a 15 cwt truck helped me with my suitcase while the three generals picked up their kit and climbed into the back of the vehicle; we then set off for Paddington.
The train was at the platform and my generals followed me like three well trained spaniels as I led the way to a first-class carriage. As soon as we had placed our luggage on the rack, steam gushed from the engine and we were on our way to South Wales.
I had been fairly accurate in my guess that their uniforms were made from blankets but, somehow or other, these high ranking German aristocrats wore them with such panache that I, in my new service dress and Sam Browne belt, felt in awe of them. They all spoke perfect English and with me, their reluctant gaoler, they struck up a friendly rapport.
Up until the time we boarded the train, I had no idea where they had come from. I was amazed therefore when they told me they had been on leave with their families in Germany. Knowing now what conditions were like for German in that bitter winter of 1946-7, the generals were indeed fortunate to spend some of those freezing months in warm huts in Island Farm Camp, Bridgend.
As we travelled through the Berkshire and Wiltshire countryside, my three prisoners talked about the war. They spoke about Hitler and Rommel, about the campaign in Libya and the invasion of Russia. Each had played an important part in the German war effort and their conversation, spoken in English for my benefit, was fascinating.
When we arrived at Swindon, because it was a Sunday and the day of the week when maintenance work was carried out on the Severn Tunnel, we were diverted towards Gloucester. This did not mean much to me, but when I felt pangs of hunger at about midday, I realised there was no buffet car on the train and that I had not brought any haversack rations with me. The generals, appreciating my plight, most generously shared their rations with me. The kitchen staff at the prisoner-of-war cage must have been kept on since pre-war days as I had never seen such delicious packed meals, including two bottles of wine.
The train, after a long and tiresome journey via Gloucester, eventually arrived at Cardiff, where we had to change before going on to Bridgend. My parents lived in Barry, about ten miles away, and I usually went home at week ends if, for no other reason, to get my laundry exchanged. I therefore gave General Heinricci a shilling and told him to go with the others to Platform 2, buy four cups of tea and wait for me while I telephoned my mother.
I had to go down to the main entrance to the station and wait in a queue until a telephone was free. When I managed to get through, I said: "Hello, Mother, I'm sorry I will not be able to get down to see you today. I'm taking three German generals to Bridgend." I had to hold the ear piece of the telephone at arm's length as my mother hurled questions at me about the 'enemy'. "Where are they now?" she yelled. "On platform 2 having a cup of tea," I replied. "What!!!!," she screamed. "Get up there at once before they escape; you'll be court-martialled." I tried to explain to her that 'escape' was the last thing they had in mind, but it was no good. She had lived through two world wars and the only place for Germans, as far as she was concerned, was in their own country or behind bars in ours. "I'll bring my washing home tomorrow," I said. When I arrived on platform 2, General Heinricci handed me a cup of tea and four pence change.
The Bridgend train came in about ten minutes later and we all climbed aboard for the last stage of our journey. A truck was waiting outside the station and within a few minutes we pulled up at the reception centre at Island Farm Camp. It was just like a return to school after the 'hols' as lots of high ranking officers turned out to greet their friends and hear news from home.
The driver was waiting to take me back to Bridgend railway station, so I bade farewell to my prisoners. Once again there were smart clicks of heels and British salutes before we shook hands.
For the next 18 months, I used to pass Island Farm Camp once a week when I took recruits under training at Maindy Barracks, Cardiff to the shooting ranges at Porthcawl. I often used to see German officers taking exercise as they walked unescorted along the side of the road. Field Marshal von Runstedt was easily recognised by the two walking sticks he used. I kept looking for 'my generals', but I never saw them again.
Since I wrote this story in 1991 I have discovered some interesting facts about my three German generals:
Generaloberst Gotthard Heinricci.
He came from a military family which provided soldiers for whatever regime was in power in Germany since the 12th century. On 20th March 1945 he succeeded Reichsfuhrer-SS Heinrich Himmler as Commander-in-Chief, Army Group Weichsel on the Eastern (Russian) Front. He was given responsibility for the defence of Berlin on 17th April 1945 but was sacked by Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel 12 days later after he, contrary to Hitler’s instructions, ordered withdrawal. He knew that death awaited him if he was caught by the Russians so he crossed the River Elbe and reached the comparative safety of British lines. He was taken into captivity on 28th May 1945 and was eventually released on 19th May 1948.
He was awarded 20 medals during two World Wars. Of particular interest are the two medals he received from the Duchy of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha which are very rare. The Carl Eduard War Cross was awarded only 97 times in WW1. During WW2 the most prestigious of all his medals was the Knight’s Iron Cross which he was awarded on 18th September 1941.
Generalleutnant Kurt Dittmar.
This officer was six years younger than General Heinricci being born in 1891. In July 1941 he commanded 169th Infantry Division during Operation Polarfuchs (Polar Fox), an attack on Russia from Finland with the objective of cutting the Murmansk railroad. The attack ran out of steam in mid-September 22 miles short of its objective. Dittmar became ill and was evacuated on 29th September 1941.
From April 1942 to April 1945 he was the official military radio commentator of the German Armed Forces. Known as ‘The Voice of the German High Command’, he was widely respected and was listened to not only in Germany but also among the Allied monitoring staff.
When he realised that Germany had lost the war, he made his way to the River Elbe (the limit of the Allied advance), crossed in a small boat near his birthplace of Magdeburg and surrendered to American troops on 23rd April 1945. He was held as a prisoner-of-war in America and Bridgend (South Wales) before being repatriated on 12th May 1948.
General Dittmar was awarded nine medals during WW2, the most prestigious being the German Cross in Gold awarded for his participation in the attack on Russia from Finland.
Generalleutnant Artur Schmitt (no photograph available).
He was born in the Rhineland in 1888 and must have set a record in the German military hierarchy by being captured in each of the two World Wars. He joined the Bavarian Police in 1920 but rejoined the Army in 1935. In September 1941 he was appointed Commander Rear Area 556 in North Africa and a few months later was given command of a division. The British Army launched Operation Crusader in November 1941 and after a few weeks of alternate advance and withdrawal, General Rommel was forced to retreat to El Agheila south-west of Benghazi.
General Schmitt and his division were left behind in Bardia, several hundred miles behind British lines. South African troops began their attack on 30th December 1941 and the town was taken on 2nd January 1942.
General Schmitt was captured and sent to Cairo; later that year he was sent to a POW camp in Canada. He returned to UK in 1947 and spent some time in Island Farm POW Camp, Bridgend before being released in October 1947.
.
Caught in the Loo
Billy Radcliff (not his real name) joined the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Khartoum in 1949. He was one of 15, or so, national service officers allocated to the Borderers. All of them, without exception, 'pulled their weight' and contributed enormously to the efficiency of the Battalion.
Khartoum was just about as far removed from Dering Lines, Brecon as Billy could imagine. The ghosts of Generals Kitchener and Gordon seemed to stalk the two main highways - Kitchener Avenue flanking the waterfront and Gordon Avenue 200 yards away, running parallel to the Blue Nile. Each thoroughfare sported bronze statues of their namesakes - Kitchener in equestrian pose and Gordon, mounted on a richly caparisoned camel, wearing a fez. The gunboat Melik, a relic of Kitchener's campaign to recapture the Sudan in 1896, was still tied to a tree on the bank of the river and gave historic flavour to the Sudan's desert capital. The Governor General's Palace looked much the same as it did when General Charles Gordon had his head severed there in 1885.
Billy, like most others just out from home, took a week or two to get used to the hot, dry climate of the Sudan and he experienced that debilitating condition known as 'gippy tum’ which kept newcomers on a constant trek to and from the lavatory. During this period, Billy spent a considerable amount of time in his room trying to keep cool under a fan that spun lazily from a high ceiling. He did not have far to go to reach the loo as each room in the officers' block had ablution facilities which included a thunder box (hollow wooden seat surrounding a metal bucket). There was an exit hole at the rear for removal of night soil.
During the early hours of the morning, the Bombay Express, a four-wheeled cart driven by a native and drawn by a camel would meander through the lines collecting used latrine buckets and replacing them with empty ones. Except for the squeaking of the metal hinge on the exit hole of the latrine (like a cat-flap), the Bombay Express made very little noise and most people were undisturbed by its nocturnal perambulation.
Billy was on his fourth night of 'gippy tum’ and for the umpteenth time he rose from his bed and made his way to the thunder box. He was sitting on the seat wondering how much longer his system could endure such violent upheavals when he heard the clink of buckets and the quiet snort of a camel.
When the wagon drew up at the back of Billy's quarters, the driver lifted the flap, reached inside and grabbed the bucket prior to loading it into the cart. But the still night air reverberated with the sound of a piercing scream. It was Billy, who nearly had his genitals severed by the rim of the bucket on its way out. The camel, now thoroughly alarmed, 'took off' and jettisoned its load from one end of the officers' mess to the other.
There was considerable loss of blood on Billy's part and he spent the rest of the night in much discomfort.
It does not take long for wounds to fester in Khartoum and by mid morning Billy was asked by his company commander why he was walking in a lop-sided way. He explained what had happened and was told to report at once to the MI Room.
The MO removed the bandage and inspected Billy's infected appendage with considerable interest. "How did you say you caught this?" he said. Billy replied: "I didn't say I caught it. What I said was: 'it got caught on a latrine bucket." The Medical Officer raised his eyebrows and said: "I've heard many hard luck stories, but this is the first time I've heard the 'lavatory seat' excuse."
To be on the safe side, the MO asked Billy questions of a personal nature. Young Radcliff was horrified that anyone should think he had behaved in a manner unbecoming an officer and a gentleman and he stoutly defended his honour. "Besides," he stuttered, "I've only been in the Sudan for five days."
Khartoum was just about as far removed from Dering Lines, Brecon as Billy could imagine. The ghosts of Generals Kitchener and Gordon seemed to stalk the two main highways - Kitchener Avenue flanking the waterfront and Gordon Avenue 200 yards away, running parallel to the Blue Nile. Each thoroughfare sported bronze statues of their namesakes - Kitchener in equestrian pose and Gordon, mounted on a richly caparisoned camel, wearing a fez. The gunboat Melik, a relic of Kitchener's campaign to recapture the Sudan in 1896, was still tied to a tree on the bank of the river and gave historic flavour to the Sudan's desert capital. The Governor General's Palace looked much the same as it did when General Charles Gordon had his head severed there in 1885.
Billy, like most others just out from home, took a week or two to get used to the hot, dry climate of the Sudan and he experienced that debilitating condition known as 'gippy tum’ which kept newcomers on a constant trek to and from the lavatory. During this period, Billy spent a considerable amount of time in his room trying to keep cool under a fan that spun lazily from a high ceiling. He did not have far to go to reach the loo as each room in the officers' block had ablution facilities which included a thunder box (hollow wooden seat surrounding a metal bucket). There was an exit hole at the rear for removal of night soil.
During the early hours of the morning, the Bombay Express, a four-wheeled cart driven by a native and drawn by a camel would meander through the lines collecting used latrine buckets and replacing them with empty ones. Except for the squeaking of the metal hinge on the exit hole of the latrine (like a cat-flap), the Bombay Express made very little noise and most people were undisturbed by its nocturnal perambulation.
Billy was on his fourth night of 'gippy tum’ and for the umpteenth time he rose from his bed and made his way to the thunder box. He was sitting on the seat wondering how much longer his system could endure such violent upheavals when he heard the clink of buckets and the quiet snort of a camel.
When the wagon drew up at the back of Billy's quarters, the driver lifted the flap, reached inside and grabbed the bucket prior to loading it into the cart. But the still night air reverberated with the sound of a piercing scream. It was Billy, who nearly had his genitals severed by the rim of the bucket on its way out. The camel, now thoroughly alarmed, 'took off' and jettisoned its load from one end of the officers' mess to the other.
There was considerable loss of blood on Billy's part and he spent the rest of the night in much discomfort.
It does not take long for wounds to fester in Khartoum and by mid morning Billy was asked by his company commander why he was walking in a lop-sided way. He explained what had happened and was told to report at once to the MI Room.
The MO removed the bandage and inspected Billy's infected appendage with considerable interest. "How did you say you caught this?" he said. Billy replied: "I didn't say I caught it. What I said was: 'it got caught on a latrine bucket." The Medical Officer raised his eyebrows and said: "I've heard many hard luck stories, but this is the first time I've heard the 'lavatory seat' excuse."
To be on the safe side, the MO asked Billy questions of a personal nature. Young Radcliff was horrified that anyone should think he had behaved in a manner unbecoming an officer and a gentleman and he stoutly defended his honour. "Besides," he stuttered, "I've only been in the Sudan for five days."
For Those in Peril
FOR THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA
Huw and Ifor grew up together in Mumbles, West Wales. They went to the same school and when they were called upon to do national service, they joined the South Wales Borderers. Each married girls from the same street and when children came along, they were just one big happy family.
The phone rang in Huw's house - it was Ifor. “I've got bad news - Mam's dead.” Huw winced, but the old lady had been ill for a long time and her demise was expected. “I’m sorry, Ifor,” he said. “She was a lovely woman and she lived a good life. I feel as if it's my mam who’s gone." Ifor muttered his thanks and then gave details of the funeral service and cremation which had been arranged for the following Saturday.
Ifor's dad served in the merchant navy during the second world war; his ship was hit by a torpedo while sailing to Russia in one of the Arctic convoys and he was lost along with the rest of the crew. “Mam told me she wanted to join Dad when her time came and have her ashes scattered in the sea," said Ifor. Huw’s eyes opened wide: “How are we going to get them up to the Arctic? That'll be an expensive business.” “No, not the Arctic,” said Ifor, “There’s no need to go that far, Swansea Bay will do.” Ifor went on to say he had asked the coxswain of the Mumbles lifeboat if he could help but had ruled that out when told how much it would cost. Huw said that a neighbour of his had a boat and he offered to speak to him about using it.
The following day, Huw saw Ifor and told him it was all arranged; the boat would be ready in Swansea harbour at 2 o’clock the following Tuesday afternoon. “I told him there would be four of us - that’s you, me, Uncle Will (Mam's brother) and the preacher. With Dai, who owns the boat, there'll be five altogether."
The day after the service in Morriston Crematorium, the funeral director delivered a brown plastic pot containing Mam’s ashes. It was placed reverently on the sideboard in Ifor and Janice's front room.
Uncle Will came for lunch on the day the ashes were due to be consigned to the deep and he went with Ifor to pick up the vicar. Going down the hill towards the sea, Uncle Will could see that the waves in Swansea Bay were being blown into ‘white horses’. “I hope you’ve got a nice big boat for us, Ifor,” he said. “Don’t you worry, Uncle Will," his nephew replied. "Huw's sorted it out. We'll be alright, don’t you fear.”
When they got out of the car near the harbour wall, they saw Huw talking to a man wearing a blue peaked-cap. He was introduced to the others as Dai - the boat owner. After a round of hand shakes, Dai pointed towards some stone steps and said: "If you'd like to follow me, we'll get started." He led the way down to the water where a small boat was tied to an iron ring on the side of the wall.
The Reverend Rufus Llewellyn took hold of Ifor's arm and said: "You're not serious about going to sea in that small boat are you?"
Ifor was in a difficult position. He was as surprised as the vicar about the size of the boat but he knew that if he showed any sign of anxiety the final farewell to Mam might have to be called off. A chain reaction had set in though and Uncle Will voiced his concern as well about setting out on a voyage in a vessel not much bigger than a bath tub. "I can't swim," he said, hoping that the absence of sufficient life jackets would rule him out. Ifor asserted his authority at this point and before the uneasy passengers could voice more objections, he grabbed them by their coat collars and dragged them aboard. As soon as everyone was sitting down, Dai started the engine and headed for the open sea
If the Reverend Llewellyn and Uncle Will thought it was choppy inside the harbour, it was mild compared with the conditions they met when they nosed their way into Swansea Bay. They had not gone more than 30 yards from the end of the harbour wall when Uncle Will yelled: "Drop the pot in here, Ifor, before we all get drowned!" Ifor clung to the pot containing his mother's ashes, to which he had prudently tied a house brick, and replied: "No, Uncle Will. If I drop her in here, she might float back. We've got to go a bit further." Even Huw became anxious, but Dai had plenty of confidence in his boat and increased speed until they were bouncing over the waves. "Right," said Ifor after they had travelled about half a mile, "this is far enough."
The Reverend Llewellyn delivered the oration from the sitting position and when he came to the bit about 'committing her ashes to the deep, Ifor dropped the brick and plastic pot over the side. Uncle Will was sick just as the charred remains of his sister disappeared beneath the waves and he pleaded with Dai to turn the boat around and head back to the harbour.
But the ceremony was not over. Ifor withdrew from his pocket five sheets of paper upon which were printed the words of the mariners' hymn - 'For Those In Peril On The Sea'. Ifor, a powerful baritone, lead the singing with support from Dai in the stern singing the bass part. Uncle Will and the vicar identified themselves completely with the sentiment of the verse but were quite unable to utter a sound as the boat bucked and rolled and gave every indication of following Mam's ashes to the bottom.
Janice was waiting at home for her husband and the others to return from their sea trip. "Where's the pot then, Ifor?" she asked. "I left the ashes in it as the wind was blowing so hard. It's at the bottom of Swansea Bay now," said Ifor. "Oh, there's silly," she pouted, "It looked nice on the sideboard. We could have had some daffodils in it in a few week's time. Mam would have liked that." "Well, it's too late," said Ifor, "besides, I don't think Uncle Will would like to be reminded of what he's gone through today every time he comes to see us."
Uncle Will had partly recovered and was half way through his second sour cream scone. "You're right there, Ifor," he said, "and don't have any ideas when I die about sending what's left of me to join your mam. One trip out there is quite enough for me."
Huw and Ifor grew up together in Mumbles, West Wales. They went to the same school and when they were called upon to do national service, they joined the South Wales Borderers. Each married girls from the same street and when children came along, they were just one big happy family.
The phone rang in Huw's house - it was Ifor. “I've got bad news - Mam's dead.” Huw winced, but the old lady had been ill for a long time and her demise was expected. “I’m sorry, Ifor,” he said. “She was a lovely woman and she lived a good life. I feel as if it's my mam who’s gone." Ifor muttered his thanks and then gave details of the funeral service and cremation which had been arranged for the following Saturday.
Ifor's dad served in the merchant navy during the second world war; his ship was hit by a torpedo while sailing to Russia in one of the Arctic convoys and he was lost along with the rest of the crew. “Mam told me she wanted to join Dad when her time came and have her ashes scattered in the sea," said Ifor. Huw’s eyes opened wide: “How are we going to get them up to the Arctic? That'll be an expensive business.” “No, not the Arctic,” said Ifor, “There’s no need to go that far, Swansea Bay will do.” Ifor went on to say he had asked the coxswain of the Mumbles lifeboat if he could help but had ruled that out when told how much it would cost. Huw said that a neighbour of his had a boat and he offered to speak to him about using it.
The following day, Huw saw Ifor and told him it was all arranged; the boat would be ready in Swansea harbour at 2 o’clock the following Tuesday afternoon. “I told him there would be four of us - that’s you, me, Uncle Will (Mam's brother) and the preacher. With Dai, who owns the boat, there'll be five altogether."
The day after the service in Morriston Crematorium, the funeral director delivered a brown plastic pot containing Mam’s ashes. It was placed reverently on the sideboard in Ifor and Janice's front room.
Uncle Will came for lunch on the day the ashes were due to be consigned to the deep and he went with Ifor to pick up the vicar. Going down the hill towards the sea, Uncle Will could see that the waves in Swansea Bay were being blown into ‘white horses’. “I hope you’ve got a nice big boat for us, Ifor,” he said. “Don’t you worry, Uncle Will," his nephew replied. "Huw's sorted it out. We'll be alright, don’t you fear.”
When they got out of the car near the harbour wall, they saw Huw talking to a man wearing a blue peaked-cap. He was introduced to the others as Dai - the boat owner. After a round of hand shakes, Dai pointed towards some stone steps and said: "If you'd like to follow me, we'll get started." He led the way down to the water where a small boat was tied to an iron ring on the side of the wall.
The Reverend Rufus Llewellyn took hold of Ifor's arm and said: "You're not serious about going to sea in that small boat are you?"
Ifor was in a difficult position. He was as surprised as the vicar about the size of the boat but he knew that if he showed any sign of anxiety the final farewell to Mam might have to be called off. A chain reaction had set in though and Uncle Will voiced his concern as well about setting out on a voyage in a vessel not much bigger than a bath tub. "I can't swim," he said, hoping that the absence of sufficient life jackets would rule him out. Ifor asserted his authority at this point and before the uneasy passengers could voice more objections, he grabbed them by their coat collars and dragged them aboard. As soon as everyone was sitting down, Dai started the engine and headed for the open sea
If the Reverend Llewellyn and Uncle Will thought it was choppy inside the harbour, it was mild compared with the conditions they met when they nosed their way into Swansea Bay. They had not gone more than 30 yards from the end of the harbour wall when Uncle Will yelled: "Drop the pot in here, Ifor, before we all get drowned!" Ifor clung to the pot containing his mother's ashes, to which he had prudently tied a house brick, and replied: "No, Uncle Will. If I drop her in here, she might float back. We've got to go a bit further." Even Huw became anxious, but Dai had plenty of confidence in his boat and increased speed until they were bouncing over the waves. "Right," said Ifor after they had travelled about half a mile, "this is far enough."
The Reverend Llewellyn delivered the oration from the sitting position and when he came to the bit about 'committing her ashes to the deep, Ifor dropped the brick and plastic pot over the side. Uncle Will was sick just as the charred remains of his sister disappeared beneath the waves and he pleaded with Dai to turn the boat around and head back to the harbour.
But the ceremony was not over. Ifor withdrew from his pocket five sheets of paper upon which were printed the words of the mariners' hymn - 'For Those In Peril On The Sea'. Ifor, a powerful baritone, lead the singing with support from Dai in the stern singing the bass part. Uncle Will and the vicar identified themselves completely with the sentiment of the verse but were quite unable to utter a sound as the boat bucked and rolled and gave every indication of following Mam's ashes to the bottom.
Janice was waiting at home for her husband and the others to return from their sea trip. "Where's the pot then, Ifor?" she asked. "I left the ashes in it as the wind was blowing so hard. It's at the bottom of Swansea Bay now," said Ifor. "Oh, there's silly," she pouted, "It looked nice on the sideboard. We could have had some daffodils in it in a few week's time. Mam would have liked that." "Well, it's too late," said Ifor, "besides, I don't think Uncle Will would like to be reminded of what he's gone through today every time he comes to see us."
Uncle Will had partly recovered and was half way through his second sour cream scone. "You're right there, Ifor," he said, "and don't have any ideas when I die about sending what's left of me to join your mam. One trip out there is quite enough for me."
Gone Fishing
GONE FISHING
Percy Morris used to visit me once every six months when I was curator of the South Wales Borderers museum in Brecon. He was a dear old man, slightly confused in old age, but quite harmless and very proud of his South Wales Borderers roots. Even though I was editor of the regimental journal, he used to cut out certain passages and paste them in a scrap book I told him once not to bother as I had plenty of spare journals, but it made no difference; it was a labour of love and he had no intention of giving it up.
He never married and when he was discharged from the Army some time after the war, he went to live with his sister in Brecon. Life for him could have been quite comfortable if it had not been for his brother-in-law - Alf Dewsnap. Alf was sanitary corporal in Dering Lines during the war and was of lower rank to Percy who wore two stripes on his arm. Like the proverbial 'elephant who never forgets', Alf waited for his fortunes to change; this they did when he married Gloria, Percy's sister.
Gloria Dewsnap was catapulted as a teenager into the role of matriarch of her family when her mother died before the war. It was natural, therefore, that Gloria, who had no children of her own, should offer Percy, her only male sibling, a home when he retired. Alf was opposed to this arrangement and did all he could to sabotage his wife's plans. But Gloria was strong willed and Percy was allotted a bunk at the back of the house.
Alf won an important concession: his brother-in-law had to vacate the house after breakfast and not return until he (Alf) had finished his tea at six o'clock. Percy, who never attempted his Army Certificate of Education 1st Class, might well have qualified for a retrospective award if the books he read in Brecon library, which was his daytime sanctuary, had anything to do with it. A change from his routine came once a month when he went to the Infantry Training Camp at Crickhowell, twelve miles away from Brecon, and acted as a server in St. David's Chapel when recruits passed out. One commanding officer thought so much of him that he invited Percy to stand alongside him on the saluting dais at his last parade.
My secretary in the museum was well versed in Percy's routine. One chocolate biscuit, a dash of milk in his tea and two spoons of sugar would start him going with stories that were more implausible than those he told on previous visits. He often spoke about the close relationship he had with the Prince of Wales which went back to the years when he taught Prince Charles how to fish.
One day, he told me about the time he spent in London attending the wedding of the Prince of Wales to Lady Diana Spencer. My eyebrows must have shot up when he said: "The reception in Buckingham Palace the night before the wedding waswonderful," and then went on to tell me about the conversations he had with the Duke of Edinburgh and other members of the Royal family. After ten minutes, or so, of pleasant intercourse, Percy picked up his scrapbook and said it was time to see the General.
Major General Lennox Napier, an old friend of mine, was the General Officer Commanding the Army in Wales at the time. More importantly, as far as Percy was concerned, he was a South Wales Borderer whose grandfather had been killed at Gallipoli while serving with 4/SWB - the same unit in which Percy's father served. I rang the General's PA and told her to have another cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit ready.
I saw the General a few days later and asked him if Percy had spun him the story about being invited to the reception in Buckingham Palace. "I don't know about that," said Lennox, "but he had a ticket and was sitting two rows behind me in St. Paul's Cathedral for the wedding."
Percy Morris used to visit me once every six months when I was curator of the South Wales Borderers museum in Brecon. He was a dear old man, slightly confused in old age, but quite harmless and very proud of his South Wales Borderers roots. Even though I was editor of the regimental journal, he used to cut out certain passages and paste them in a scrap book I told him once not to bother as I had plenty of spare journals, but it made no difference; it was a labour of love and he had no intention of giving it up.
He never married and when he was discharged from the Army some time after the war, he went to live with his sister in Brecon. Life for him could have been quite comfortable if it had not been for his brother-in-law - Alf Dewsnap. Alf was sanitary corporal in Dering Lines during the war and was of lower rank to Percy who wore two stripes on his arm. Like the proverbial 'elephant who never forgets', Alf waited for his fortunes to change; this they did when he married Gloria, Percy's sister.
Gloria Dewsnap was catapulted as a teenager into the role of matriarch of her family when her mother died before the war. It was natural, therefore, that Gloria, who had no children of her own, should offer Percy, her only male sibling, a home when he retired. Alf was opposed to this arrangement and did all he could to sabotage his wife's plans. But Gloria was strong willed and Percy was allotted a bunk at the back of the house.
Alf won an important concession: his brother-in-law had to vacate the house after breakfast and not return until he (Alf) had finished his tea at six o'clock. Percy, who never attempted his Army Certificate of Education 1st Class, might well have qualified for a retrospective award if the books he read in Brecon library, which was his daytime sanctuary, had anything to do with it. A change from his routine came once a month when he went to the Infantry Training Camp at Crickhowell, twelve miles away from Brecon, and acted as a server in St. David's Chapel when recruits passed out. One commanding officer thought so much of him that he invited Percy to stand alongside him on the saluting dais at his last parade.
My secretary in the museum was well versed in Percy's routine. One chocolate biscuit, a dash of milk in his tea and two spoons of sugar would start him going with stories that were more implausible than those he told on previous visits. He often spoke about the close relationship he had with the Prince of Wales which went back to the years when he taught Prince Charles how to fish.
One day, he told me about the time he spent in London attending the wedding of the Prince of Wales to Lady Diana Spencer. My eyebrows must have shot up when he said: "The reception in Buckingham Palace the night before the wedding waswonderful," and then went on to tell me about the conversations he had with the Duke of Edinburgh and other members of the Royal family. After ten minutes, or so, of pleasant intercourse, Percy picked up his scrapbook and said it was time to see the General.
Major General Lennox Napier, an old friend of mine, was the General Officer Commanding the Army in Wales at the time. More importantly, as far as Percy was concerned, he was a South Wales Borderer whose grandfather had been killed at Gallipoli while serving with 4/SWB - the same unit in which Percy's father served. I rang the General's PA and told her to have another cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit ready.
I saw the General a few days later and asked him if Percy had spun him the story about being invited to the reception in Buckingham Palace. "I don't know about that," said Lennox, "but he had a ticket and was sitting two rows behind me in St. Paul's Cathedral for the wedding."
A Point to Remember
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A POINT TO REMEMBER
When I was a young officer I learnt many lessons from the experience of others. One of them was never to use a bamboo shooting stick.
Shooting sticks had not entered my orbit until I went overseas. If I had been asked to describe one, I would most probably have said it was some sort of blow pipe from the East Indies. The first one I saw belonged to the late Major 'Winky' Benyon who was posted in as second-in-command.
I met 'Winky' on the day he joined us in Khartoum in the middle of the 'hot' season of '49. He was standing on the steps of the officers' mess veranda in South Barracks looking down the Blue Nile wearing the most enormous pair of shorts I had ever seen; their knife edge creases stood out fore and aft like two huge rudders. I learnt later that he wore two pairs of shorts each day, one for standing up and one for sitting down. If you were summoned to his office, you could be forgiven for thinking you had come face to face with the 'invisible man', for perched in the corner were Winky's 'standing up' shorts, supported by nothing but starch ready for him to slip into when he made his round of the barracks.
"It's good to be back in the Sudan," he said. "I was here many years ago as a subaltern." I looked at him and had a vision of a young Benyon swiping dervishes with his sabre as he battled up the Nile with Kitchener's army. A glance at the Army List in my office as I write this story, shows me that Winky was thirty eight years of age when he joined us in Khartoum, but there was a presence about the man that gave him an air of majesty far beyond his years. Maybe it was his eyebrows that made him different from other men; they were about twice as long as normal and he used to twirl them until they stood up like two wireless aerials on each side of his face. He had a thick moustache over a broad upper lip and a voice that seemed to get its resonance from a forty four gallon oil drum buried deep inside him. I don't mind admitting that he frightened the life out of me at first and there were occasions when he nearly stopped my flow of blood. To be at the end of one of Winky's rockets was an unforgettable experience, but these outbursts were like tropical storms; they passed as quickly as they came.
Winky soon set about his job as overseer in training matters and announced there would be an officers' TEWT in a few days time. For the uninitiated in Army jargon, a TEWT is a 'tactical exercise without troops'. In other words, a simple way of practising officers how to fight a battle and letting soldiers get on with other things back in barracks.
Winky committed his plans to paper and none of us were surprised to hear that the TEWT would be held in the usual area.
Jebel Meriam was the only place for miles around where the ground rose slightly above desert level. It was well known to the rest of us as the previous second-in-command had used it to beat off scores of imaginary attacks from all points of the compass. It was, therefore, with a feeling of gloom that we faced the prospect of spending four or five hours being baked alive on this pimple in the desert.
We set out from Khartoum at sunrise on the day of the exercise and drove over the bridge where the White and Blue Niles meet. We turned left through the maze of mud huts that was Omdurman and passed the Mahdi's tomb before heading south for Jebel Meriam. Within an hour we were standing on the summit - all two hundred feet of it.
Winky outlined the situation and waved his shooting stick in the direction of the 'enemy'. For those of us who could not remember all he said, a hand-out was issued and a few minutes later we were given a piece of paper with 'Question 1' written on the top. The routine was always the same on these occasions, first - trying to understand what the directing staff (ie. Winky Benyon) had written, and second - trying to work out, within one's syndicate, a sensible answer. At this stage, 'Fatty' Smith, the mess sergeant, would produce a splendid breakfast, but as the wind blew at 50mph, it was toss up which would fly off first - the corn flakes or the question paper. There was never enough time to eat the eggs and bacon and work out the problem before we were called forward to give our answers.
Winky finished his breakfast and bellowed that he was ready. We assembled before him in our syndicates, hoping that one of the others would be asked to give the solution. The law of averages has never operated in my favour and, on this occasion, not only was my syndicate selected - but I was nominated as spokesman.
Winky was sitting on his shooting stick looking at me in such a way that I knew that whatever I said would be wrong. He allowed me to go through the rigmarole of preparing for battle before he spoke his mind, which consisted of a single word of five letters. He waved his shooting stick around and stabbed at various points in the desert which made my plans a lot of nonsense; it was an impressive performance by someone who had real battle experience.
Like a conductor bringing a symphony to a tumultuous finale, Winky twirled his shooting stick once more around his head before driving it into the ground and depositing his voluminous shorts into the seat. Instead of a crash of cymbals, there was a crack like a pistol shot and Winky travelled a further thirty inches until he was sitting on the ground.
Despite his size, Winky was remarkably light on his feet. Obviously something was wrong when he just sat there and did nothing. The awful truth dawned when we went to help him and saw his broken shooting stick lying alongside him. A jagged spike at the bottom of the stick meant that a matching piece was somewhere underneath him.
Very slowly we raised him and saw the rest of the shooting stick projecting from his shorts. With commendable initiative and enormous courage, one of the subalterns gave the broken piece of bamboo a sharp tug and withdrew it. Winky was not capable of walking, so we carried him down the jebel to a jeep which took him off at top speed to Khartoum military hospital. He remained remarkably cheerful throughout the journey even though he had a nasty bamboo splinter in a very tender part of his body.
The doctor and nurses in the hospital did a great job on Winky's bottom, so we were led to believe. It was one of those operation scars that Winky could not show his friends. By the evening of the same day, he was receiving visitors.
Winky was up and about within a few days and was soon his usual snorting, eye brow twisting, cantankerous but loveable self once more.
As far as I know, he didn't use a bamboo shooting stick again. Come to think of it, I've never seen anyone carry a bamboo shooting stick since that day in 1949. It's amazing how the word gets around!
A POINT TO REMEMBER
When I was a young officer I learnt many lessons from the experience of others. One of them was never to use a bamboo shooting stick.
Shooting sticks had not entered my orbit until I went overseas. If I had been asked to describe one, I would most probably have said it was some sort of blow pipe from the East Indies. The first one I saw belonged to the late Major 'Winky' Benyon who was posted in as second-in-command.
I met 'Winky' on the day he joined us in Khartoum in the middle of the 'hot' season of '49. He was standing on the steps of the officers' mess veranda in South Barracks looking down the Blue Nile wearing the most enormous pair of shorts I had ever seen; their knife edge creases stood out fore and aft like two huge rudders. I learnt later that he wore two pairs of shorts each day, one for standing up and one for sitting down. If you were summoned to his office, you could be forgiven for thinking you had come face to face with the 'invisible man', for perched in the corner were Winky's 'standing up' shorts, supported by nothing but starch ready for him to slip into when he made his round of the barracks.
"It's good to be back in the Sudan," he said. "I was here many years ago as a subaltern." I looked at him and had a vision of a young Benyon swiping dervishes with his sabre as he battled up the Nile with Kitchener's army. A glance at the Army List in my office as I write this story, shows me that Winky was thirty eight years of age when he joined us in Khartoum, but there was a presence about the man that gave him an air of majesty far beyond his years. Maybe it was his eyebrows that made him different from other men; they were about twice as long as normal and he used to twirl them until they stood up like two wireless aerials on each side of his face. He had a thick moustache over a broad upper lip and a voice that seemed to get its resonance from a forty four gallon oil drum buried deep inside him. I don't mind admitting that he frightened the life out of me at first and there were occasions when he nearly stopped my flow of blood. To be at the end of one of Winky's rockets was an unforgettable experience, but these outbursts were like tropical storms; they passed as quickly as they came.
Winky soon set about his job as overseer in training matters and announced there would be an officers' TEWT in a few days time. For the uninitiated in Army jargon, a TEWT is a 'tactical exercise without troops'. In other words, a simple way of practising officers how to fight a battle and letting soldiers get on with other things back in barracks.
Winky committed his plans to paper and none of us were surprised to hear that the TEWT would be held in the usual area.
Jebel Meriam was the only place for miles around where the ground rose slightly above desert level. It was well known to the rest of us as the previous second-in-command had used it to beat off scores of imaginary attacks from all points of the compass. It was, therefore, with a feeling of gloom that we faced the prospect of spending four or five hours being baked alive on this pimple in the desert.
We set out from Khartoum at sunrise on the day of the exercise and drove over the bridge where the White and Blue Niles meet. We turned left through the maze of mud huts that was Omdurman and passed the Mahdi's tomb before heading south for Jebel Meriam. Within an hour we were standing on the summit - all two hundred feet of it.
Winky outlined the situation and waved his shooting stick in the direction of the 'enemy'. For those of us who could not remember all he said, a hand-out was issued and a few minutes later we were given a piece of paper with 'Question 1' written on the top. The routine was always the same on these occasions, first - trying to understand what the directing staff (ie. Winky Benyon) had written, and second - trying to work out, within one's syndicate, a sensible answer. At this stage, 'Fatty' Smith, the mess sergeant, would produce a splendid breakfast, but as the wind blew at 50mph, it was toss up which would fly off first - the corn flakes or the question paper. There was never enough time to eat the eggs and bacon and work out the problem before we were called forward to give our answers.
Winky finished his breakfast and bellowed that he was ready. We assembled before him in our syndicates, hoping that one of the others would be asked to give the solution. The law of averages has never operated in my favour and, on this occasion, not only was my syndicate selected - but I was nominated as spokesman.
Winky was sitting on his shooting stick looking at me in such a way that I knew that whatever I said would be wrong. He allowed me to go through the rigmarole of preparing for battle before he spoke his mind, which consisted of a single word of five letters. He waved his shooting stick around and stabbed at various points in the desert which made my plans a lot of nonsense; it was an impressive performance by someone who had real battle experience.
Like a conductor bringing a symphony to a tumultuous finale, Winky twirled his shooting stick once more around his head before driving it into the ground and depositing his voluminous shorts into the seat. Instead of a crash of cymbals, there was a crack like a pistol shot and Winky travelled a further thirty inches until he was sitting on the ground.
Despite his size, Winky was remarkably light on his feet. Obviously something was wrong when he just sat there and did nothing. The awful truth dawned when we went to help him and saw his broken shooting stick lying alongside him. A jagged spike at the bottom of the stick meant that a matching piece was somewhere underneath him.
Very slowly we raised him and saw the rest of the shooting stick projecting from his shorts. With commendable initiative and enormous courage, one of the subalterns gave the broken piece of bamboo a sharp tug and withdrew it. Winky was not capable of walking, so we carried him down the jebel to a jeep which took him off at top speed to Khartoum military hospital. He remained remarkably cheerful throughout the journey even though he had a nasty bamboo splinter in a very tender part of his body.
The doctor and nurses in the hospital did a great job on Winky's bottom, so we were led to believe. It was one of those operation scars that Winky could not show his friends. By the evening of the same day, he was receiving visitors.
Winky was up and about within a few days and was soon his usual snorting, eye brow twisting, cantankerous but loveable self once more.
As far as I know, he didn't use a bamboo shooting stick again. Come to think of it, I've never seen anyone carry a bamboo shooting stick since that day in 1949. It's amazing how the word gets around!
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