He Went That Way

The first time I saw Jenkins 17 he was flying through the air having been ejected from the driving seat of a two horse power gharry near the old city of Famagusta in Cyprus.
I was on my way back to camp near the old Roman town of Salamis after spending a week-end in Nicosia. I had rounded a bend in a taxi when I saw coming towards me a Cypriot gharry travelling at speed and drawn by two wild eyed horses. Ahead of me was another taxi and it was obvious the two converging parties would crash; this they did with dramatic effect. The two horses were killed instantly, while the driver was catapulted over the mangled remains of the animals to end up within a few feet from the front bumper of my taxi.
I got out of the taxi to see if I could help and fully expected to find that the driver who was lying comatose on his back, dead as well. But he opened his eyes, dusted himself down and uttered a few expletives which clearly identified him as a Welshman. A couple of military policemen and the owner of the gharry hurried to the scene. The poor old Cypriot was not at all pleased with what he saw. His livelihood had come to an abrupt end and what was left of his horses was not likely to bring him much change from the knacker's yard. He quivered with rage at the sight of the person responsible for his ill fortune and would have hurled himself at his wrong doer if the military policemen had not restrained him.
"He went that way," said the young man without batting an eyelid. "Who did?" I asked. "The bloke who was driving the gharry," he replied. For coolness in the face of damning evidence, I gave him full marks, but the 'red-caps' were not impressed and put a pair of handcuffs on him. They asked me if I had seen the crash and did I know the person who was the focus of the real gharry driver's invective. To the first question I answered 'yes', and to the second I replied 'no'. "But," I went on, "this is the man who was in the driving seat." The young man gaped at me and said: "It wasn't me, sir. I can't drive a gharry. To be able to do that you have to make clucking sounds to make the horses move - and I can't do it." He then proceeded to demonstrate how he could not make clucking sounds. His face contorted into a variety of shapes as he sucked and squelched, gurgled and croaked. "There you are, sir, I can't make a clucking noise," he said. The 'red-caps' who had watched the demonstration with inscrutable looks on their faces decided that that was enough and the young man's feet left the ground as the cops whisked him off to their van.
That was my introduction to 'Jenks', or Jenkins 17 as he was known by the use of the last two digits of his Army number. After well over forty years soldiering during which time I have met many remarkable people, I can honestly say I have never met anyone who equalled Jenkins 17 for getting himself into trouble
I was the prime witness in the aforementioned incident and Jenkins had the book thrown at him. For his own good, he was banned from going anywhere near the town of Famagusta during the remainder of the battalion's stay in Cyprus. But this did not work as a few months later he stowed away on a cargo ship and was picked up in Malta. He was returned to Cyprus two weeks later where he took up residence in one of the cells in the guard room. Except for the regimental sergeant major and the provost sergeant, Jenkins got on quite well with the rest of the provost staff who made life reasonably comfortable for him.
When he was finally let out of jail to enjoy what was left of the summer of 1948, Jenkins was put on guard duty in one of the watch-towers in the fence surrounding the main illegal Jewish immigrant camp. The Jews behind the barbed wire looked upon us in very much the same way as they had looked upon the Nazis under whom many of these poor people suffered during the war. Their aim was to get to Palestine and turn it into the Jewish homeland of Israel. They knew they would have to fight for their country and during their enforced seclusion in Cyprus, young men and women of military age were kept busy with a strict programme of military training. The walls of their lecture huts were made of unopened cans of pineapples and peaches provided in vast quantities by American Jewish organisations. They had dummy wooden rifles which they made themselves, parade grounds, assault courses and all the paraphernalia you would expect to find in a normal infantry battalion 'up-country' station.
Our sentries used to sit in the watch-towers and keep an eye on things, in particular the many shapely young Jewesses in the briefest swim wear (also supplied by the Americans). One day the commanding officer, accompanied by the adjutant and the regimental sergeant major, was making a routine inspection. As the party approached one of the watch-towers they were startled to hear the sound of parade ground orders being shouted, while the Jews on their parade ground responded with commendable smartness. All the usual stuff like: 'Saluting to the front --", "Left wheel" and "Right wheel," "Advance in review order," etc. came thundering out from somewhere or other, but it was not until the RSM looked upwards to the watch-tower that all became clear. There was Jenkins 17, with his beret stuck on the back of his head, so thoroughly in command of the parade that he was quite oblivious of the high powered party below him. With a roar, the RSM brought Jenkins's drill parade to an abrupt end. A substitute sentry was found and Jenkins was taken to the guard-room where, once again, he took up residence in the familiar little cell.
Jenkins cultivated a friendship with the medical officer who practised natural methods to bring relief from sickness and suffering. Ailments ranging from tonsillitis and torn ligaments to athlete's foot received the same prescription: "let the sun get at it." But for Jenkins, the contents of the pill and medicine cupboard were always available. He had the knack of being able to press the right button just before battalion drill parades and no matter how hard his company sergeant major tried, Jenkins - with the help of the medical officer, would always pip him at the post.
On one occasion, Jenkins had been given some exotic mixture by the MO which made his hair fall out. 'Excused hair-cuts until further notice' was the entry on his sick-note which he was careful to carry around in the back of his pay-book. When he wore a beret, his bald patch could not be seen and even though he could not grow hair on the top of his head, it grew in profusion around the level of his ears and the back of his neck. The blonde curls and wisps of hair that hung over his collar were like red rags to a bull when the company and regimental sergeant major were about, but there was nothing they could do as the medical officer guarded him like a prize poodle.
When we arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950, Jenk's wanderlust was reactivated and he started off on his own to walk to South Africa. After he had trudged a few hundred miles and the mountains of Ethiopia were getting higher and higher, he realised he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he turned round and headed back. The regimental sergeant major was waiting for him when he returned to Asmara and once again he was back in the cell in the guard room.
A few months later he had another try. I was on my way back from Massawa where I had spent a few days fishing when Jenkins passed me pedalling the orderly room bicycle on Nefasit Staircase, one of the steep stretches of road between the seaport and Asmara; he was heading for the coast, about seventy five miles away where he planned to stow away on a ship. I felt it was my duty to stop at the next police post and request them to alert another post further down the road that a British 'civilian' was on his own on a bicycle. This was an extremely dangerous thing to do as shifta (bandits) were active and would have thought nothing of killing a single white man. Jenkins was apprehended and later that day was once more back in the guard room.
The adjutant, who had tried everything to reform Jenkins, produced the last trick in his bag - 'absolution'. He made Jenkins the orderly room runner and gave him the bicycle he had used in his attempt to reach the Red Sea coast. This worked and from then on, and certainly until I left the battalion in 1951, Jenkins became a model orderly room runner.
The bicycle which had never seen an oily rag, was polished and burnished until it shone like a new medal. He carried a brew-can on the handlebars and this was always full of the cook sergeant's very best tea. Jenkins became a welcome visitor in company offices; not only did he deliver a piping hot drink as well as letters and messages from the orderly room, but he also knew what was inside the envelopes and would often give good advice about their contents. I remember him coming into the signals office one day with my annual confidential report. He watched me as I read it and commented: "Not a bad one at all, sir."
When old soldiers look back on their service they think about the good times and the many people who have enriched their lives. I will always remember Jenkins 17 because he was an individual who liked to do things his way. The full power of authority was often directed against him, and it hurt. But that did not stop him from doing what he wanted when he felt the urge. I haven't seen him for nearly half a century, but I'm still hopeful of running into him at one of our reunions.