Watch Out! - Seagull's About

For forty years or so from the start of the second world war to 1984, the Army had a code which wireless operators were obliged to use when transmitting official messages. A commanding officer, be he an army commander or a platoon commander was known as 'sunray'; the quartermaster general down to a battalion quartermaster was known as 'molar', while adjutants through their various levels from top brass in Whitehall to an infantry battalion in the field, were known as 'seagull'. The idea was to confuse the enemy by giving them no indication of what sort of sunray, molar or seagull was sending or receiving the message. I was never convinced that the enemy could be so stupid to think that a request for a hundred packets of fly papers and twenty latrine buckets could come from Whitehall and not from some poor dispirited unit camped on the edge of a swamp. The origin of these code words always puzzled me and it wasn't until I looked up ‘seagull' in a wild-life book that I found a clue.
'A seagull (code name for adjutant) is a bird that seeks the company of others of its kind, but it is quite likely to attack them with its beak or flail them with its wings. It is always in immaculate condition despite the grotty areas it inhabits. Its rasping cries are heard first thing in the morning, throughout the day and well into the night. Its eyesight and hearing are pin-sharp and it is aware of everything that goes on around it’. Possessed of an ability to propel its waste matter with unerring accuracy at a recipient of its choice, the code name 'seagull' is, without doubt, most appropriate for adjutants world wide.

When I was a young officer, I could never understand why adjutants changed their personalities when they were appointed to that particular office. Before their appointment they were nice ordinary fellows, and they reverted to their natural state when they moved on or sideways. It was the bit in the middle, when they became so bloodthirsty, that intrigued me.
As an officer cadet, I was led to believe that on being commissioned into an infantry regiment I would be joining a good club. What a rude awakening I received when, as a newly pipped second lieutenant, I was gripped hard not only by the adjutant of my unit, but the senior subaltern and the regimental sergeant major as well.
The first time I felt the sharp prick of the adjutant's fangs was when he came into the local hostelry one evening and saw me standing at the bar with one button of my service dress undone. He said nothing at the time but I had to take his word for it when I appeared before him the following morning. Civilians must think that we soldiers are a strange lot when an unfastened button can cause such a head of steam! For that offence I was awarded three extra orderly officer duties.
The award of 'three extras' was the cue for some hearty back-slapping from one's contemporaries who would be delighted to hear that someone else would be inspecting meals, mounting the guard and checking that sentries were doing their job properly in the early hours of the morning. I have known some officers, totally lacking in charm, suddenly become the most popular fellows in the mess after an award of 'seven extras'.
Eighteen months of pounding barrack squares as a private soldier and an officer cadet had obviously not brought me and the other young subalterns up to the standard required by the adjutant at Dering Lines, Brecon in 1946. We were therefore ordered to parade before that particular 'seagull' and the RSM twice a week at 07.30 hrs until further notice.
We had already received some instruction at OCTU (officer cadet training unit) in the difficult movements associated with carrying a cane on parade, but we did not measure up to seagull's requirement and were told to bring our canes with us on the next parade.
One of our number was a subaltern called Rex Farrow. Rex found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and was never properly effective until after his mid morning break. Someone always had to make sure he was on his feet with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap and a razor in the other.
Rex had been seen in the dining room but when the time came for us to assemble on the side of the square, there was no sign of him. It was too far for one of us to run back to the mess and, anyway, time was up as the adjutant and the RSM were nodding their heads as they checked their watches. With only seconds to spare, Rex came panting around the corner: "Got held up in the bog," he said as he joined us. His relief at making it on time vanished when he saw that the rest of us were carrying canes. He was almost on the point of volunteering for 'seven extras' when one of the subalterns spied a length of hollow copper pipe which some workmen had been using. He thrust it into Rex's hand and said: "Use this, it's about the same length as your cane - but for God's sake don't drop it."
Almost immediately, we were called on parade and the complicated business of twiddling our canes commenced. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped his appendage and that person turned out to be Rex Farrow. It was during that particularly difficult manoeuvre when the cane, in the perpendicular position, is brought to the horizontal when you step off. The piece of copper pipe shot out of his hand like a spear and then clattered about twenty feet across the barrack square. The adjutant screamed a command to halt and both he and the RSM marched across to where the strange object lay. The RSM prodded it with his pace stick, and it clanged again. It was not hard for the adjutant to find out what it was and where it had come from. Rex was twitching his thumbs nervously as the adjutant asked him for an explanation. He tried to explain he had left his cane in the 'bog', but this did him no good and he was thereupon awarded 'seven extras' for being idle and disrespectful.

The parade ground adjacent to South Barracks in Khartoum must be the largest in the world. With your back to the perimeter wall it extends from the Blue Nile north, east and west for hundreds of miles. The surface was crunchy gravel and all that was required to give the surface a 'Horse Guards' look was the application of whitewash lines and some spots for the markers. Twice a month Regimental Sergeant Major 'Joe' Friend would hold his parade for everyone of and under the rank of warrant officer class two. There would also be an adjutant's parade for everyone junior to the adjutant and, to complete the trio, the commanding officer would hold his parade, when everyone in the battalion was required to turn out.
These parades started just after first light and one of my enduring memories of Khartoum is the early morning sun glinting on the bayonets of hundreds of Welsh soldiers formed up in open order of companies. Parades started at such an early hour to make use of what remained of the cool night breeze; once the sun came up it was like opening an oven door.
With the sun came flies. These obnoxious insects, not to be confused with their comparatively friendly North European cousins, were early risers. Anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves shaving before going on parade, and then forced to stand immobile during the inspection, would be subjected to a mind cracking form of torture as the little monsters would pile in like a rugby scrum on the area of skinned flesh.
An enormous amount of effort was expended by soldiers the night before to make sure their turn-out was perfect. Fortunately, the officers had batmen to prepare their kit; all they had to do was ensure they put their puttees on properly.
Half an hour after we had fallen out from the adjutant's first parade in Khartoum, the orderly room runner came to my office and told me that the adjutant wanted to see me. This sounded ominous and I wondered what had gone wrong as I made my way to his office. I knocked on his door and heard his call to enter. Four full paces, halt and a smart salute brought me face to face with him. "Why were you improperly dressed on my parade this morning?" he barked. I did a mental check of everything I was wearing and could find nothing wrong. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied. "I do not understand." Seagull paused for a second or two and then said: "You were not wearing your medal." I looked at him incredulously and spluttered: " But I've only got one." "That's correct," he replied, "and you were not wearing it." I was one of those young conscripts who joined the Army in December 1944 - five months before the end of the war in Europe; the 'Victory' medal I was awarded occupied a fluffy corner of my kit bag. Many members of the battalion had been in the thick of action and this was evident on occasions such as adjutant's parades when the desert groaned under the weight of medals won in service to king and country. "I can't wear just one, sir," I protested, but it was no good. "If you appear improperly dressed on one of my parades again, you'll get five extra orderly officer duties," snapped seagull. "This time you are awarded three 'extras'. Now, get out."
The five 'extras' were not long in coming, but I received them for a quite unrelated incident. The second-in-command, Major 'Ski' Galletley, had spent the last two years of the war as a brigadier. He was the most be-medalled person in the battalion and the junior officers had the impression he had won the war single handed. He was a fiery gentleman and we all treated him with respect.
It was, therefore, with dismay that I received a note from the adjutant ordering me, as a member of an audit board, to report to the second-in-command at the sergeants' mess the following Monday morning at 08.00hrs to check the bar stock. One advantage about being signals officer was that I had my own transport in the form of two motor cycles. I did not make my move to the sergeants' mess until 07.50, which allowed me plenty of time to get to the other end of the barracks. I straddled one of the machines, slipped the gears into neutral, primed the carburettor and lunged at the kick start. There was no response from the engine at the first attempt, nor was there from the next half dozen. Fortunately, the other machine was nearby so I went through the same procedure, but to no avail. Both machines made it quite clear they were not prepared to carry me to the sergeants' mess. I looked at my watch and saw I had about six minutes to get to the other end of the barracks. Salvation came in the form of one of my signallers on a bicycle. Without bothering to explain, I requisitioned his machine and pedaled for my life. I skidded into some spiky bushes outside the entrance to the sergeants' mess and hurled myself through the door. Standing beneath the clock above the bar was the second-in-command. "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered. "You're five minutes late." Sure enough the clock above the bar registered five minutes past eight o'clock, but I sneaked a look at my own watch and saw that the time was exactly 08.00hrs. I was not brave enough to point out the discrepancy between the two timepieces, even though I was the officer responsible for keeping accurate time in the battalion. I merely muttered: "I'm sorry, sir," before I started to count the bottles and cans which had been put out for me to check.
An hour later, I picked up the bicycle, straightened the handle bars and rode back to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the correct time with the main signals exchange in Khartoum. There was no doubt about it, my watch showed the correct time.
I was pretty sure the second-in-command would put in a report about my 'late arrival' and I was not surprised when I received a call from the orderly room to report to the adjutant. This time I walked with a spring in my step to battalion headquarters and confidently saluted the adjutant when I appeared before him. "Why were you five minutes late reporting to the second-in-command this morning?" he said. "I wish to say that I was not late, sir. If you would care to check with the telephone exchange you will find that the sergeants' mess clock is five minutes fast," I replied. This was my trump card and I reckoned it would not be long before the second-in-command would tender his apologies. Perhaps he would buy me a drink in the mess and say: "Really, old chap - no hard feelings." The adjutant continued to stare at me and I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly he exploded: "I know that the clock in the sergeants' mess is five minutes fast. You should have been there five minutes early - at 07.55. I ask you once again, why were you late?" There was no answer to that, so I said nothing. "Five extra orderly officer duties," said the predatory bird.

This episode did not seem to have any long term effect upon the good relations I had among the higher echelons of command because a few weeks later the commanding officer asked me if I would like go on attachment to the Equatoria Corps of the Sudan Defence Force. It seemed that an officer of the regiment commanded the corps in the Southern Sudan and he had made an offer to host four subalterns. Mike Hughes-Morgan was my companion and we were told to prepare ourselves for a flight to Juba in seven days time.
The day before Mike and I departed, I went for a drink in the Grand Hotel in Khartoum and there met a fellow with whom I had a few cold beers. In those days the 'Grand' was one of the great meeting places in Africa. Empire flying boats of British Overseas Airways Corporation would land conveniently at 'sundowner' time on the White Nile and picturesque paddle-wheel steamers from Atbara would off-load their passengers just a few yards from the entrance to the hotel. The ghosts of General Gordon and the Mahdi seemed to stalk the tree-lined avenues and one could imagine the sight and sounds of distant battle. Looking over the water where the Blue and White Niles meet, I told my companion about the trip I was making on the morrow to the south. "What's it all about and why are they sending you all the way down there?" he asked "It's a 'swan' really," I replied, "and a good opportunity to get away from the heat of this place for a while." We chatted for some time and had a few more drinks before I caught a cab back to South Barracks.
Mike and I made an early start the next day and before the sun was high in the sky we were winging our way south in a de Havilland 'Dove' of Sudan Airways. This is not the time to describe all the fascinating experiences we had in that beautiful part of Africa which lies between the upper reaches of the White Nile, Lake Turkana in North Kenya and the southern foothills of the Ethiopian highlands. It was a big milestone in my life which eventually led me to join the King's African Rifles.
Time passed all too quickly and soon we were on our way back to Khartoum. Arriving at the airport, we were met by the orderly officer who gleefully told me that the adjutant wanted to see me as soon as I arrived in barracks. "What's gone wrong?" I asked him. "I don't know, but he looked angrier than usual."
I went to my quarters, had a shower and put on some clean khaki drill before reporting to the adjutant. Pleasantries about the trip were soon completed and then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a newspaper. "What have you got to say about this?" he said, holding up the broadsheet for me to read. I could see it was a copy of the Sudan's only English language newspaper - 'The Sudan Star' whose front page was emblazoned with the headline: 'SOUTH WALES BORDERERS OFFICER GOES ON A SWAN TO THE SOUTHERN SUDAN'. The article described, with emphasis on 'relaxation', how I viewed the prospect of a safari around Equatoria. It appeared that the Kaid (commander-in-chief) choked on his corn flakes when he read the story and my own commanding officer was pretty angry as well. All this displeasure about me giving 'off the cuff' interviews with the press filtered through to the adjutant. I was given three 'extra orderly officer duties' for 'giving military information to a person not authorised to receive it'. This was a chastening experience which stayed with me for a long time. It was not until sixteen years later when I became a member of the staff of Army Public Relations that I found the courage to speak freely with the press again.

Khartoum was a very hot place during the summer months and most British expatriates in government service, along with their families, went home on leave. In early November they began to return and the run up to Christmas was a very sociable time. Most of us found girl friends and we were soon engaged in a hectic round of parties and dances held in clubs and the sumptuous houses of their parents. We were getting into our stride and looking forward to many more months of this pleasant routine when orders arrived for the battalion to move to Asmara, the capital of the adjacent ex Italian colony of Eritrea. We spent Christmas 1949 in Khartoum and a few days later Mike Hughes Morgan and I took the advance party to Asmara.
Mike was one of those officers who exuded charm and was, without doubt, the most popular young officer in the battalion. The girls adored him and he managed to keep three of them, including one of the Kaid's daughters, completely love-struck while, at the same time, staying friends with all of them. They, along with the one I was friendly with, came along to Khartoum railway station to see us off. Despite the jokes and smiles, it was a sad occasion because an extremely happy period of our lives was coming to an end. We promised (in the case of Mike - all three) that we would write and see each other again. The green flag waved, steam gushed out of the engine and the train started to move. It was then that I cupped my girl friend's face in my hands and gave her a farewell kiss. All four stood on the platform waving farewell as we gathered speed and headed north along the Blue Nile. I never saw her again, but cursed my luck when I spotted her name in the register of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi six years later. Unfortunately, she had left the day before.
Meanwhile, the adjutant arrived on the platform just in time to see me kiss my girl friend. I was told that his legs left the ground as he vented his fury at seeing me: 'behaving in a manner unbecoming an officer'. It was obvious that the real reason for his anger was his failure to get to the railway station on time. In an ugly mood, he drove back to barracks and summoned all the other young officers to his office. He laid it on pretty thick about the lascivious behaviour he had witnessed and warned them that if there was any more of it, the person concerned would not see the light of day for three months.
A week or so after we arrived in Asmara, we were joined by the motor transport officer who brought some trucks up from Khartoum. He could hardly wait to get out of his vehicle to tell me about the adjutant's fury. I knew this particular seagull very well and that the passage of time would do nothing to mellow his attitude.. I was prepared, therefore, for the rocket I received three weeks later when he arrived in Asmara with the rest of the battalion. My contemporaries were very pleased to have a free week from doing orderly officer duties when they arrived in that pleasant city 8,000 feet up on the Hamasien plateau above the Red Sea.

Shifta (bandits) abounded in Eritrea and there was nothing they liked more than shooting Italians. The South Wales Borderers were responsible for organising convoys and supplying armed escorts to travel with them. Most of these convoy duties lost their appeal after the soldiers had travelled the route a few times, but one duty was always popular and that was the Littorina trip to Massawa on the Red Sea coast about eighty miles from Asmara.
Italians excelled in the construction of mountain railways and the one in the Red Sea hills was certainly a fine example of their skill. The subaltern whose duty it was to control the Asmara/Massawa convoys would supervise the despatch of the road convoy and then the steam train. When they were well on their way, he would embark in the Littorina diesel train and 'roller-coast' down to Massawa where he would relax for two days in the Ciao Hotel. The Ciao, as far as I know, never earned a mention in the Good Food book of Africa, but the beds were comfortable, the fans worked and, best of all, there was a swimming pool which contained fresh water, not the salty stuff that made swimming in the Red Sea distasteful. The following morning, the same procedure of seeing the convoys off on the return trip to Asmara took place. After a final swim in the pool and a drink in the bar, the officer would then board the afternoon Littorina and drive back up the mountains to Asmara.
Rifle company subalterns were the ones who usually did these duties while I, as signals officer, rarely had the opportunity to be involved. Either there was a shortage of subalterns or, perhaps, the adjutant considered I needed a change of scenery, because one day I was detailed to be the convoy/escort commander on the Asmara/Massawa run. I went through the whole routine and had a thoroughly pleasant two day break in Massawa.
I arrived back in Asmara feeling quite refreshed and after I put my kit in my room, I went along to the signals office to see if there was anything that needed my attention. 'Duke' Dyer, my signals sergeant, was there and he told me the only problem had been the signals despatch service which had run late for the last two days. This was the 'mail run' for which my organisation was responsible and it seemed that those infernal motor cycles had broken down again.
As I was walking back to the mess I saw, through an open door, the adjutant sitting at his desk. He called out to me and asked how I had enjoyed my two days in Massawa. I told him it had been good and that I would be delighted to do that job any time he liked. I mentioned I had been to my office and that I was aware that the SDS had been late on both days I had been away. "Yes," said seagull, "It was most annoying." We walked on to the veranda of battalion headquarters and he said: "Stand properly at ease." Thinking that a senior officer was about to appear, I did what I was told, expecting to be called up for the salute. The next command was: "Subaltern, right turn - quick march." Upon his further direction, I found myself marking time in front of Major 'Winky' Benyon, the second-in-command, who was sitting at his desk. "I have a complaint to make against the signals officer, sir," said the adjutant. "Twice in the last two days the signals despatch service has been late." Sunray minor (code name for the second-in-command), narrowed his lids and said: "What have you got to say?" I could hardly believe what I had heard and tried to explain I had been 80 miles away for the last two days and could not possibly be blamed for what had gone wrong with the SDS. The florid cheeks of Sunray minor became redder than usual. "Not to blame?" he thundered. "Don't try and shovel off your responsibilities just because you were not here - I won't have it. Now listen to me young man. You make sure that things run properly whether you are here or not. You will find yourself in serious trouble if it happens again." With that stern rebuke I was ordered to 'dismiss'.
I did not collect any extra orderly officer duties that time. Instead, an hour later in the officers' mess, the adjutant, accompanied by his wife, asked me to have supper with them the following night.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; the 'buck' stops with the officer. It just goes to show you do not always have to be punished to be taught a lesson.

In April 1951, I completed two and a half years service with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I wanted to join the Sudan Defence Force but, even though I was accepted, a vacancy in the near future was unlikely to appear. My commanding officer, Lt Col 'Milo' Campbell-Miles and company commander, Major Ken Taylor, had both served with the King's African Rifles and they advised me to follow their example. My application was acted upon with remarkable speed and within a few weeks I was on my way to Mombasa, in Kenya, aboard the 'EMPIRE KEN'.
I was posted to the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles which was stationed in Nanyuki. The equator ran through the bar in the Silverbeck Hotel, or so the proprietor led his customers to believe. He lost credibility with those who knew him when, a few years later, he moved the bar, along with the brass line marked N and S, a few yards left and ten feet north.
The Silverbeck was one of three good hotels in Nanyuki and within my first week with the KAR I made friends with some local settlers. "What about joining me for a night at Cloud Cottage next Friday?" said one of my new acquaintances. He was one of the white hunters based at the Mawingo Hotel (later renamed Mount Kenya Safari Club). He said he would be most grateful if I would help him look after some tourists who would be spending the night watching game from a tree house in the forest below Mount Kenya. The following Friday was Empire Day - a national holiday, so I accepted.
True to his word, he came round to the officers' mess in his 'pick-up' truck at the appointed time and took me to the Mawingo Hotel for lunch and to meet the rest of the party. At about 3pm we set off in two vehicles. We drove about two miles into the forest where we left the vehicles and walked the last half mile to Cloud Cottage.
Before we started the march, our leader briefed the half dozen or so fee paying members of the group about the abundance of game in the area. He assured them that within the next twelve hours they would see: elephant, rhinoceros and buffalo as well as lots of smaller game. "Of all these animals, the buffalo is the most dangerous and that is why we have footholds in the trees from here to Cloud Cottage," he said. He pointed to the first of these trees which had hefty wooden supports set in its trunk from ground level to twenty feet up in its branches. Suitably impressed, and feeling they were getting their money's worth, the tourists moved from tree to tree until we arrived at Cloud Cottage. As a boy, I had an ambition to build a 'den' in the trees, but it never progressed further than having a few planks placed precariously in the fork of an ash tree in the garden. Cloud Cottage fulfilled my dreams. It was a sturdy log cabin, with a veranda, built thirty feet up in a forest giant complete with everything for an overnight stay.
African servants had gone ahead and were already getting 'steam up'. They greeted us with tea and sandwiches when we climbed the ladder which they let down through a hole in the veranda.
Our leader pointed out the salt lick in the open ground to our front and explained that it was there that the animals would come after dark. We had a few hours to spare before last light so he and I went to have a closer look at the salt lick. I was a new boy to the art of reading tracks of big game, but it was not hard to recognise the spoor of elephant, rhino and buffalo when they were pointed out to me in the mud around the lick.
Mount Kenya forest is as impenetrable as the Malayan jungle and those animals that favour dark regions, in particular, black rhino, have their own runs through the thick tangle of undergrowth. I was being shown one of these, which resembled a smaller version of the London underground system, when one of the Africans gave a shout to warn us that a rhino and its calf were coming down the tunnel. A quick sprint across no-man's-land saved us from what could have been a nasty confrontation.
Nothing much happened before 8pm and then we were treated to an unforgettable spectacle of African wild life. All the large animals were there and an almost continuous procession of elephants passed below us. A high powered lamp illuminated the area and the animals seemed to appreciate the assistance we gave them to lick their delicious salt. Later on in the evening, a full moon broke through the clouds above the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and we sat well into the night watching animals come and go to a background symphony of cicadas and frogs.
At first light the following day, servants were up getting breakfast ready and cleaning the place before we started the return journey to the forest edge, There had been rain overnight and the air was fresh; eggs and bacon never tasted so good. Just in case the tourists had forgotten our leader's words of caution, he reminded them of the procedure to be adopted if an angry buffalo confronted us, and then we marched off.
There was no sign of the vehicles when we arrived at the place where we had left them, so we continued to walk. At last we found them - stuck in mud! Even with the help of the tourists, it was difficult to extricate them but, at last, we got them out and we completed our journey back to the Mawingo Hotel.
After we had off-loaded the passengers, my friend took me back to the officers' mess where I had a shower and changed into khaki drill for a working half day. I knew I was a bit late for morning parade, but it was a Saturday and there was not much going on.
I was putting on my puttees when the orderly officer stuck his head around the door and said: "Buck up, there's a good chap, the adjutant wants to see you." If someone had said that to me in my last unit, I would have feared the worst. But on this occasion the impending storm did not reveal itself until I arrived at the adjutant's office and knocked on his door.
"You've been absent without leave. I want an explanation," he said icily. At first I thought he meant I was late for morning parade so I explained I had been stuck in the mud in the forest. "What were you doing up there?" he snorted as if he thought I had been visiting a brothel. I told him I had been doing nothing more illicit than watching animals licking salt and, furthermore, on a public holiday.
Seagull had a book on his desk. He opened it, inspected the pages and said: "There's no application by you to stay a night in the forest." This was another of those occasions when I just stood still and said nothing. "Three extra orderly officer duties and make sure you obey the rules in future," he said.

Eighteen months after joining the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles I was appointed adjutant, but only after the incumbent was murdered by one of our askaris when we were serving in Malaya. If ever there was a case of stepping into a dead man's shoes, that was it. Eight years later, I was appointed adjutant again - to a territorial battalion of my regiment. So, I have had plenty of time to set guidelines for a new breed of 'seagull'.
It was my fond and pious belief that I became a friend to all and sundry until just after I retired, when I attended a comrades' dinner. One of my hosts was a retired non-commissioned officer who chatted with me about old times. He seemed to know me very well, but try as hard as I could, I was unable to remember his name. "Which company were you with?" I asked. A look of astonishment crossed his face: "Why, yours of course. HQ Company of the Borderers, in Cyprus" He went on: "Surely you remember the day when you came around the lines on inspection and put me on a charge for having a dirty bed space. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live," he said. "We were more frightened of you than we were of the adjutant."