When I was appointed Recruiting and Publicity Officer of the Royal Welch Fusiliers and Royal Regiment of Wales, I set about visiting as many Army displays as I could find during the summer season of 1972. Recruiting was top priority in those days and regiments that did not keep themselves in the public eye were in danger of being disbanded or amalgamated with other under subscribed units. My boss at Headquarters Prince of Wales's Division of Infantry in Lichfield, gave me a directive that was short, sharp and simple: "Wales is your oyster. There are thousands of young men out there wondering what to do with their lives - encourage them to 'go for a soldier’!" He went on to say that I would be left very much to my own devices and that if I needed anything, I only had to ask.
My predecessor had assembled two teams of six men each plus a senior non-commissioned-officer from the two infantry regiments and they spent the previous six months assembling a mobile display of military hardware. The first outing for this free-standing, canvas covered caravanserai was unfortunately hit by the last of the equinoctial storms which reduced it to a heap of bare poles, ripped canvas and twisted frames. It was obvious I had to start from scratch.
My first venture into the world of advertising was a careers exhibition in Birmingham. There was no shortage of civilian exhibitors and the Army was well represented with impressive display material which advertised the many and varied opportunities in its ranks for young men and women. At that stage I did not know quite what I wanted and, even though my boss at Lichfield had told me to give him a ring if I needed anything, I knew that a two word expletive would be used if I had ideas above my station. Nevertheless, I spent an interesting few hours making notes about techniques and presentation styles which might come in useful if/when I ever managed to get my own show on the road.
By late afternoon I had seen as much as I could absorb in one session so I decided it was time to make my way back to Crickhowell. I headed for the car park but just as I was about to leave the show ground, I spotted a caravan which bore the sign of the cross and the letters RAChD above the jockey wheel. Some might have taken a pot-shot and thought it stood for ROYAL ARTILLERY CHEMICAL DISPLAY, but they would have been wrong. It actually stands for ROYAL ARMY CHAPLAINS DEPARTMENT and this was painted in large letters on the side of the van.
I could see three people inside so I knocked on the door. One of the occupants put his nose to the window and looked me up and down. He made no effort to find out what I wanted but turned away and continued to chat with the others inside the caravan. I knocked again and a middle aged man wearing black trousers, black shirt and a dog collar (white strip around the neck) - which established him as a cleric of the Christian faith, opened the door. I told him about my quest for ideas about advertising and he looked at me with undisguised suspicion. "Wait there," he said. "I’ll have to ask my colleagues if they are prepared to talk to you." I checked the writing on the side of the caravan just to make sure that it did read 'CHAPLAIN'S' and not 'CHEMICAL' and then watched the trio as they discussed the matter of conversing with the Prince of Wales's Division Recruiting Officer (me). At last, the same gentleman to whom I had spoken previously, opened the door and invited me to step inside.
The interior of the caravan was like a very small church with chairs set uniformly on a crimson carpet leading to a communion rail. Two steps beyond the rail was an altar upon which stood a pair of candlesticks and two small vases of flowers; on the frieze was a portrait of Jesus Christ. A candelabra above the altar frontal gave a pleasant glow to the scene and the air was rich with the smell of incense.
The elder, and obviously senior member of the trio, gave me a quizzical look and asked me to repeat my request. When I had finished, they put their heads together and conferred in whispers so quietly that I could not hear what was being said. The 'Bishop', for that is what he appeared to be, eventually spoke. "Before we are prepared to discuss the matter of advertising with you, we would like you to kneel before the altar and say a prayer." Ostentatious demonstrations of faith have always embarrassed me and I wished I had stuck to my original plan of heading for the car park and driving home to Crickhowell. I stood up and said: "I am sorry to have wasted your time, but really, I must be going," and made for the door.
The trio of ecclesiastics had other ideas and, with the 'Bishop' directing operations, I was manhandled by the other two into the kneeling position below the altar. Not knowing what to expect, I became aware of the sound of heavenly music. I was raised to my feet and told to look at the portrait of Our Lord. What had been a perfectly normal 'head and shoulders' shot of Jesus Christ was now surrounded by a halo of light which flashed intermittently from the same electrical circuit as the candelabra. "We've got another one!" said the lesser cleric triumphantly, while the 'Bishop' thumped me on the back and asked me what I would like to drink. All three then opened up and shared their ideas with me about recruiting padres for the Armed Forces.
The 'Bishop' had the last word. "The most important thing is to show potential padres that they will be sailors, soldiers or airmen made from the same mould as others in the service. A lightness of spirit is essential so that's why we practise the 'halo' trick to get them in the right frame of mind from the start."
I drove back to Crickhowell and pondered on the lessons I had learnt in Birmingham. The great display vehicles from the School of Infantry, the Royal Artillery, Royal Engineers etc. plus the modest attempts by cavalry and infantry regiments to attract recruits had given me much to think about. But it was a trio of clergymen in a mobile church that lit a beacon in my mind which burned for the following eight years of my service which I spent as Recruiting and Publicity Officer for the two regiments of line infantry in Wales.
Sunday, 3 February 2008
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!
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 WHIFF OF FRANGIPANI
I do not know who was the more surprised - Lt. Col. Jack Crewe-Read or me when I appeared before him in his office on my first full day with the 3rd (Kenya) battalion, King’s African Rifles. I had never met him before, but I knew his brother, Major Offley Crewe-Read, with whom I had served in the South Wales Borderers.
He looked at my cap badge and then the posting order on his desk. “I was expecting an officer of the Welch Regiment,” he said. I explained that I had been one of five officers of the Welch Regiment serving with the South Wales Borderers and that only ten days previously I had left the 1st Battalion then stationed in Asmara, Eritrea.
He was wearing a bespoke bush jacket of a KAR officer crafted by that most expert of tailors - Jivan Nanji of Nanyuki. On one side of his desk was a bush hat with seven folds of pugri tipped by a thin scarlet border. An Arabic ‘3’ (‘telata’) in brass was mounted on a diamond shaped piece of scarlet felt on the up-turn which was itself surmounted by a tulip-shaped crow’s neck of iridescent hues. Only after I had done an eye-check of his apparel did he introduce himself as an officer of the South Wales Borderers, (24th Regiment).
It is necessary to transport the reader to Eritrea two weeks before I was due to leave 1/SWB. I had, only a week before, proposed to a young English lady whose father was the chief executive of Aden Airways. Neither of us had any thoughts about a life-long union until one evening when we sat under a frangipani tree in her parents’ garden. The intoxicating fragrance from the bell-like flowers turned our platonic friendship into one of sudden passion. Before I realised what had happened, I had proposed marriage to her and she, similarly bowled over by the aphrodisiac effect of the flowers, said, “Yes.” I did a check the following morning just to satisfy myself that the events of the previous evening were not a figment of my imagination. She confirmed that we were engaged to be married and that her father wanted to see me at 7pm that night. With this twist in the pattern of my life, a posting to the KAR in Kenya was not as attractive as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. I had a word with the Commanding Officer, himself an ‘old’ KAR hand, to see if I could stay on in Eritrea a bit longer, but he felt that the needs of the KAR were stronger than those of my fiancee.
I was sitting at the bar of the officers’ club in Asmara a few days after my engagement when a friend said, “Let’s go over to that table by the window, I’ve got something to tell you.” The ‘friend’ was another young English lady who might also have sat under under a frangipani tree as she had married a subaltern of the Regiment a few months previously.
“What I am going to tell you is ‘TOP SECRET’, ” she said, “and I must have your promise that you will not breathe a word to anyone - including your fiancee.” I knew that she worked in the headquarters of the British Administration for the ex-Italian colony but I had no idea what was coming next. “A decision is being made this year (1951) about what is going to happen to Eritrea,” she said. “It might be handed over to Ethiopia, made into a province of the Sudan or even given independence. Whatever happens there is going to be trouble, and I can tell you on the highest authority that a battalion of King’s African Rifles has been put on stand-by to come here and monitor the hand-over.” At that stage I could only hope that one of the Kenya battalions of the KAR would be selected, but I had no means of knowing which one it would be until I got there. It was infuriating not being able to say anything about this to my fiancee and when the time came for me to pack my kit and catch the boat to Mombasa, all I could say was: “See you soon - I hope.”
I was met at Nanyuki railway station by Bob Cobbing. On the way to 3 KAR officers’ mess, not far from the Mawingo Hotel, he told me that the battalion was preparing for a move, but nobody knew where we were going. I felt bound by my oath so I didn’t say anything to him or anyone else, but that night I lay in bed dreaming pleasant thoughts of returning to my beloved in Asmara as a member of a battalion of Kenya askaris.
We now return to Colonel Jack Crewe-Read’s office. Everything seemed to be going very well: I had been given the job of Signals Officer and the Colonel asked me to come around and have supper with him and his wife that evening. “We’ll expect you at 7 o’clock,” he said. “It’ll be quite informal.”
I turned up in a lounge suit and the door was opened by his wife, Diana. I have carried the memory of my first sight of the Honourable Diana Crewe-Read for fifty seven years. She could have stepped straight off the front cover of Vogue and the incredibly seductive long blue dress she was wearing made me gulp and say, “I’ll go back and put on my DJ.” “Don’t be silly,” she replied, “we are very informal here.” She led me into the drawing room where, despite the fact that Nanyuki straddled the equator, the Colonel was standing in front of a log fire dressed in a silk dressing gown and cravat with pyjama trousers peeping out at the bottom. I had never heard of the Kenya custom of dressing for the evening in bedroom wear and I had to take a closer look at Diana before I realised that the heavenly creation she was wearing was a neglige. I was the only guest, which was just as well as the conversation centred around the South Wales Borderers.
After a splendid meal the Colonel and I took our brandies and sat near the fire. Notwithstanding the oath of secrecy I had made to my friend in Asmara, I decided to ask him if it was true that the battalion was going to Eritrea. He looked surprised and said it was a possibility. The wine and brandy had infused me with bravado and I leaned forward and told him about the ‘TOP SECRET’ information I had been given. He rose to his feet and said that up until yesterday there was only one man in the battalion who knew where we were going - and that was him. With my arrival there were now two of us who shared the secret and he made me swear (again) that I would not mention a word of this highly classified information to anyone.
Over the next few weeks, rumours were scattered like chaff and the subject of our move monopolised all other topics of conversation. Most married officers came to the mess at lunch time and the Colonel had to parry countless questions that might have given the game away. Occasionally he would catch my eye and we would exchange a wink. I felt very close to him when this happened. It’s not often that a newly joined temporary captain has such a relationship with his commanding officer.
We all knew that the secret was going to be made public when the Adjutant announced there would be a scale ‘A’ parade in the camp theatre at 08.00 hrs the following day. That evening speculation reached fever pitch and bets were being taken on the most likely place for the battalion to be sent. As none of them featured Eritrea I kept quiet.
I sat about three rows from the front when the Commanding Oficer mounted the dais and addressed British officers, warrant officers and sergeants. “All of you have been wondering what is going to happen and now I am delighted to tell you that we are going to MALAYA. Those of you who are married will be able to take your families. The advance party leaves in October (1951) and the main body departs in January.”
I thought the Colonel had taken leave of his senses and almost got to my feet to tell him that he’d got it wrong. But then the Adjutant took over and got down to the fine details of the move.
I was still in a state of shock when I got back to the mess, where we repaired to toast the news with champagne.
The Colonel came up to me and said: “I’m sorry about our secret - but it was never an option. Still, you’ve kept me amused for the last month.”
He looked at my cap badge and then the posting order on his desk. “I was expecting an officer of the Welch Regiment,” he said. I explained that I had been one of five officers of the Welch Regiment serving with the South Wales Borderers and that only ten days previously I had left the 1st Battalion then stationed in Asmara, Eritrea.
He was wearing a bespoke bush jacket of a KAR officer crafted by that most expert of tailors - Jivan Nanji of Nanyuki. On one side of his desk was a bush hat with seven folds of pugri tipped by a thin scarlet border. An Arabic ‘3’ (‘telata’) in brass was mounted on a diamond shaped piece of scarlet felt on the up-turn which was itself surmounted by a tulip-shaped crow’s neck of iridescent hues. Only after I had done an eye-check of his apparel did he introduce himself as an officer of the South Wales Borderers, (24th Regiment).
It is necessary to transport the reader to Eritrea two weeks before I was due to leave 1/SWB. I had, only a week before, proposed to a young English lady whose father was the chief executive of Aden Airways. Neither of us had any thoughts about a life-long union until one evening when we sat under a frangipani tree in her parents’ garden. The intoxicating fragrance from the bell-like flowers turned our platonic friendship into one of sudden passion. Before I realised what had happened, I had proposed marriage to her and she, similarly bowled over by the aphrodisiac effect of the flowers, said, “Yes.” I did a check the following morning just to satisfy myself that the events of the previous evening were not a figment of my imagination. She confirmed that we were engaged to be married and that her father wanted to see me at 7pm that night. With this twist in the pattern of my life, a posting to the KAR in Kenya was not as attractive as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. I had a word with the Commanding Officer, himself an ‘old’ KAR hand, to see if I could stay on in Eritrea a bit longer, but he felt that the needs of the KAR were stronger than those of my fiancee.
I was sitting at the bar of the officers’ club in Asmara a few days after my engagement when a friend said, “Let’s go over to that table by the window, I’ve got something to tell you.” The ‘friend’ was another young English lady who might also have sat under under a frangipani tree as she had married a subaltern of the Regiment a few months previously.
“What I am going to tell you is ‘TOP SECRET’, ” she said, “and I must have your promise that you will not breathe a word to anyone - including your fiancee.” I knew that she worked in the headquarters of the British Administration for the ex-Italian colony but I had no idea what was coming next. “A decision is being made this year (1951) about what is going to happen to Eritrea,” she said. “It might be handed over to Ethiopia, made into a province of the Sudan or even given independence. Whatever happens there is going to be trouble, and I can tell you on the highest authority that a battalion of King’s African Rifles has been put on stand-by to come here and monitor the hand-over.” At that stage I could only hope that one of the Kenya battalions of the KAR would be selected, but I had no means of knowing which one it would be until I got there. It was infuriating not being able to say anything about this to my fiancee and when the time came for me to pack my kit and catch the boat to Mombasa, all I could say was: “See you soon - I hope.”
I was met at Nanyuki railway station by Bob Cobbing. On the way to 3 KAR officers’ mess, not far from the Mawingo Hotel, he told me that the battalion was preparing for a move, but nobody knew where we were going. I felt bound by my oath so I didn’t say anything to him or anyone else, but that night I lay in bed dreaming pleasant thoughts of returning to my beloved in Asmara as a member of a battalion of Kenya askaris.
We now return to Colonel Jack Crewe-Read’s office. Everything seemed to be going very well: I had been given the job of Signals Officer and the Colonel asked me to come around and have supper with him and his wife that evening. “We’ll expect you at 7 o’clock,” he said. “It’ll be quite informal.”
I turned up in a lounge suit and the door was opened by his wife, Diana. I have carried the memory of my first sight of the Honourable Diana Crewe-Read for fifty seven years. She could have stepped straight off the front cover of Vogue and the incredibly seductive long blue dress she was wearing made me gulp and say, “I’ll go back and put on my DJ.” “Don’t be silly,” she replied, “we are very informal here.” She led me into the drawing room where, despite the fact that Nanyuki straddled the equator, the Colonel was standing in front of a log fire dressed in a silk dressing gown and cravat with pyjama trousers peeping out at the bottom. I had never heard of the Kenya custom of dressing for the evening in bedroom wear and I had to take a closer look at Diana before I realised that the heavenly creation she was wearing was a neglige. I was the only guest, which was just as well as the conversation centred around the South Wales Borderers.
After a splendid meal the Colonel and I took our brandies and sat near the fire. Notwithstanding the oath of secrecy I had made to my friend in Asmara, I decided to ask him if it was true that the battalion was going to Eritrea. He looked surprised and said it was a possibility. The wine and brandy had infused me with bravado and I leaned forward and told him about the ‘TOP SECRET’ information I had been given. He rose to his feet and said that up until yesterday there was only one man in the battalion who knew where we were going - and that was him. With my arrival there were now two of us who shared the secret and he made me swear (again) that I would not mention a word of this highly classified information to anyone.
Over the next few weeks, rumours were scattered like chaff and the subject of our move monopolised all other topics of conversation. Most married officers came to the mess at lunch time and the Colonel had to parry countless questions that might have given the game away. Occasionally he would catch my eye and we would exchange a wink. I felt very close to him when this happened. It’s not often that a newly joined temporary captain has such a relationship with his commanding officer.
We all knew that the secret was going to be made public when the Adjutant announced there would be a scale ‘A’ parade in the camp theatre at 08.00 hrs the following day. That evening speculation reached fever pitch and bets were being taken on the most likely place for the battalion to be sent. As none of them featured Eritrea I kept quiet.
I sat about three rows from the front when the Commanding Oficer mounted the dais and addressed British officers, warrant officers and sergeants. “All of you have been wondering what is going to happen and now I am delighted to tell you that we are going to MALAYA. Those of you who are married will be able to take your families. The advance party leaves in October (1951) and the main body departs in January.”
I thought the Colonel had taken leave of his senses and almost got to my feet to tell him that he’d got it wrong. But then the Adjutant took over and got down to the fine details of the move.
I was still in a state of shock when I got back to the mess, where we repaired to toast the news with champagne.
The Colonel came up to me and said: “I’m sorry about our secret - but it was never an option. Still, you’ve kept me amused for the last month.”
AMBUSH IN MALAYA
BY
MAJOR PETER ST. V. HARDING-ROLLS
(AS TOLD TO MAJOR BOB SMITH - BOTH OF 3/KAR)
The golden rules for a successful ambush are: ONE - good information, TWO - careful planning, THREE -. strict observance of drills and FOUR - quick follow up action.
During the uprising in Malaya from 1948 to 1960 most casualties among communist terrorists (CTs) were the result of carefully laid ambushes - a new style of warfare for the British Army following its defeat by the Japanese in 1942.
Before infantry battalions were allowed to carry out operations in jungle, they had to undergo an intensive period of training at the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi in South Johore, not far from the causeway linking Malaya with Singapore. General Sir Gerald Templer, the Supremo, who arrived in early 1952 following the ambush and death of Sir Henry Gurney the previous High Commissioner, had good reason to put 'ambush drills' high on his list of priorities.
Lieutenant Peter Harding arrived aboard the troopship ‘DILWARA’ with the main body of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles in Singapore in January 1952. He was a new boy as far as serving with askaris was concerned, having joined the battalion at its home base in Nanyuki only a few months before leaving for Malaya. Not having a platoon of his own he was a general factotum and during the journey from Africa to Singapore he was in charge of the battalion baggage. When he arrived in the Training Centre at Kota Tinggi, where the battalion was to undergo six weeks training, he was appointed Weapons Training Officer and understudy to the Intelligence Officer. Even so, he felt his potential had not been tapped and looked enviously at other more experienced subalterns who commanded platoons and spoke Kiswahili fluently.
His first chance for doing what he called ‘proper soldiering’ came when the Commanding Officer sent him on attachment to the 1/10th Gurkha Rifles who were operating near Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya. After a day’s journey down the Sungei Pahang from Mentakab to Pekan in a native long-boat, he eventually arrived at the government rest-house in Kuantan where he was told there was no chance of joining any of the Gurkha patrols as they were many miles away in deep jungle. He had to be satisfied with helping out in the ops. room, but as he did not speak Gurkhali he was not much use there either. He began to feel he was never going to take part in a jungle patrol - but that was going to change sooner than he thought.
When Peter returned to 3/KAR, he was sent to ‘A’ Company based in Temerloh in central Pahang. His Company Commander, Major David Swannell, set about educating him in the finer points of jungle warfare and within a day or two of his arrival he was told to prepare himself for a patrol into the ‘ulu’ (jungle). This was a ‘dummy run’ for a new boy, but exciting just the same. He learnt an important lesson - don’t carry anything that’s not vital, like a full bar of soap and a towel - half of each will do.
A few days previously, a patrol from ‘A’ Company had killed three terrorists. One askari had also been killed and the patrol commander decided to visit the scene to see if there were any signs of terrorist activity. They drew a blank but Peter was able to see for himself the primitive conditions under which they lived.
The flanking unit, 4th Battalion Malay Regiment based in Mentakab, had a huge area to cover and could not patrol all of it effectively, so the brigade commander allocated ‘A’ Company 3/KAR a large tract of rubber and jungle to the north. Peter was told by his company commander he would lead a patrol into this previously unknown area; the following day he and 20 askaris set out from camp. They marched through a heavily overgrown rubber estate for a few miles until they came to a fork in the track. One route led into more overgrown rubber while the other branched off into jungle that had been cut down but was growing back again, ie - secondary jungle. Peter decided this would be a good place to set up an overnight camp so he placed sentries 50 yards away on each track.
Just before dark, at about 6pm, one of the sentries fired two shots. Mess tins and food went flying as askaris grabbed their weapons and set off down the track like a pack of hounds. Thirty seconds later there were more shots and by the time the askaris reached the sentry they found that one terrorist had been killed while another was running for his life. He didn't stand a chance and was brought down in a hail of shots as he sought safety in a swamp.
Peter set about transporting the bodies, lashed to saplings, back to camp for identification. He decided to remain in his position for another 24 hours just in case some more terrorists made an appearance, but torrential rain during the night put a stop to movement. He learnt another valuable lesson - how to make a three man ‘basha’ and stay dry!
In mid June 1952, David Swannell received information from Special Branch that terrorists were expected to visit a village in his area that evening. The information was far from being top grade, but nevertheless he decided to act upon it and told Peter Harding to work out a plan for an ambush.
The first part of Peter’s appreciation was done from the map and aerial photographs from which he could see three paths leading from the jungle to the village. The village itself was situated on a broad bend of the Sungei Pahang, the largest river in the state. It would be necessary for the platoon to travel by road to a point where they could disembark and approach the village through a mixture of overgrown rubber and secondary jungle.
The operation commenced during the afternoon and before last light Peter was able to make a reconnaissance of the three approach routes to the village. He decided to set three ambushes, one on each track, with WOPC (Warrant Officer Platoon Commander) Kiberen and three men on the right hand track, Sergeant Tiongi and three men on the left track and himself in the middle with Corporal Kiplangat and Lance Corporal Chipiyego. The remainder of the platoon were to remain in reserve near a hut on high ground between Sgt Tiongi and himself. There had been little time to set the trap but Peter knew what to do.
At 6pm the cicadas started their evening chorus and flying foxes, few in number at first and then in their thousands, came in search of fruit. Mosquitoes started to bite and soon it became dark. The only sounds that broke the silence was a rustle of leaves as a porcupine waddled along the track and the occasional bark of a dog from the village.
It was eight o’clock and Peter was dozing off before taking the ‘ten to midnight stag’ when the silence was ripped apart by gunfire from the bottom of the hill to his right. He grabbed his verey pistol and fired two cartridges which lit up the area. Nothing could be seen at first, then came the sound of someone running up the hill from Kiberen’s position. Peter told Cpl Kiplangat and L/Cpl Chipiyego not to fire until he gave the order.
Within a few seconds, a terrorist appeared and Peter, instead of shooting him, decided to capture him alive. He yelled: “Usipiga,” (Don’t shoot) and then brought the startled CT down in a flying tackle. Peter felt a hammer-like blow and knew he'd been shot. In darkness, it was difficult to know where he had been hit, but he soon became aware that something was wrong with his thumb. Alongside him was a CT who seemed to be dead.
Peter did not blame Cpl Chipiyego for letting off the contents of his Bren gun magazine at two apparent 'terrorists'. He had broken rule No. 3 - 'strict observance of drills' and realised he was lucky not to have been killed.
He attempted to apply a tourniquet on his upper arm but his finger went through the muscle. On further examination he found that one of Chipiyego’s bullets had entered his body under the armpit, exited through the muscle of the upper arm, gone through the terrorist and then into his thumb; the CT was as dead as a doornail.
Another bandit was in the vicinity and, for the second time, bullets whizzed through the trees. Eventually, quietness descended and Peter shouted to WOPC Kiberen, who was still at the bottom of the hill, for a sitrep. Kiberen reported that two CTs had been killed.
Nothing else could be done until first light so Peter instructed Kiberen to join his own group around the hut near Sgt Tiongi’s position. When his men had been concentrated in one area, Peter gave himself a couple of morphine injections and accepted copious cups of tea, well laced with rum, from his orderly, Private Kimelek.
As soon as it became light, Peter could see there was hardly an inch of his jungle green clothing that was not soaked with blood. Despite his severe injuries he walked down the hill with Kiberen and some askaris to see the dead terrorists. Some villagers appeared and it was obvious from the look on their faces they knew the identity of the CTs. Peter regretted not taking them back to Temerloh for questioning, but he had other things on his mind. It was important that he got back to base as soon as possible to have his wounds dressed; three askaris accompanied him to the main road. WOPC Kiberen was left to bring in the remainder of the patrol and the dead CTs.
When Peter and his escort reached the road, they stopped the first vehicle they saw and instructed the driver to take them to Temerloh.
Peter was patched up in the local clinic and was able to give an account of the action before being cas-evacd by air to the British Military Hospital in Kuala Lumpur.
L/Cpl Chipiyego felt badly about shooting his platoon commander but it was not his fault that the ambush commander changed the rules at the last second and he was absolved from blame.
Post-script:- The commanding officer 3/KAR recommended Peter Harding for a Military Cross but this was downgraded to a 'mentioned in despatches'. The brigade commander commented: "Should have had a court martial for breaking the rules!"
MAJOR PETER ST. V. HARDING-ROLLS
(AS TOLD TO MAJOR BOB SMITH - BOTH OF 3/KAR)
The golden rules for a successful ambush are: ONE - good information, TWO - careful planning, THREE -. strict observance of drills and FOUR - quick follow up action.
During the uprising in Malaya from 1948 to 1960 most casualties among communist terrorists (CTs) were the result of carefully laid ambushes - a new style of warfare for the British Army following its defeat by the Japanese in 1942.
Before infantry battalions were allowed to carry out operations in jungle, they had to undergo an intensive period of training at the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi in South Johore, not far from the causeway linking Malaya with Singapore. General Sir Gerald Templer, the Supremo, who arrived in early 1952 following the ambush and death of Sir Henry Gurney the previous High Commissioner, had good reason to put 'ambush drills' high on his list of priorities.
Lieutenant Peter Harding arrived aboard the troopship ‘DILWARA’ with the main body of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles in Singapore in January 1952. He was a new boy as far as serving with askaris was concerned, having joined the battalion at its home base in Nanyuki only a few months before leaving for Malaya. Not having a platoon of his own he was a general factotum and during the journey from Africa to Singapore he was in charge of the battalion baggage. When he arrived in the Training Centre at Kota Tinggi, where the battalion was to undergo six weeks training, he was appointed Weapons Training Officer and understudy to the Intelligence Officer. Even so, he felt his potential had not been tapped and looked enviously at other more experienced subalterns who commanded platoons and spoke Kiswahili fluently.
His first chance for doing what he called ‘proper soldiering’ came when the Commanding Officer sent him on attachment to the 1/10th Gurkha Rifles who were operating near Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya. After a day’s journey down the Sungei Pahang from Mentakab to Pekan in a native long-boat, he eventually arrived at the government rest-house in Kuantan where he was told there was no chance of joining any of the Gurkha patrols as they were many miles away in deep jungle. He had to be satisfied with helping out in the ops. room, but as he did not speak Gurkhali he was not much use there either. He began to feel he was never going to take part in a jungle patrol - but that was going to change sooner than he thought.
When Peter returned to 3/KAR, he was sent to ‘A’ Company based in Temerloh in central Pahang. His Company Commander, Major David Swannell, set about educating him in the finer points of jungle warfare and within a day or two of his arrival he was told to prepare himself for a patrol into the ‘ulu’ (jungle). This was a ‘dummy run’ for a new boy, but exciting just the same. He learnt an important lesson - don’t carry anything that’s not vital, like a full bar of soap and a towel - half of each will do.
A few days previously, a patrol from ‘A’ Company had killed three terrorists. One askari had also been killed and the patrol commander decided to visit the scene to see if there were any signs of terrorist activity. They drew a blank but Peter was able to see for himself the primitive conditions under which they lived.
The flanking unit, 4th Battalion Malay Regiment based in Mentakab, had a huge area to cover and could not patrol all of it effectively, so the brigade commander allocated ‘A’ Company 3/KAR a large tract of rubber and jungle to the north. Peter was told by his company commander he would lead a patrol into this previously unknown area; the following day he and 20 askaris set out from camp. They marched through a heavily overgrown rubber estate for a few miles until they came to a fork in the track. One route led into more overgrown rubber while the other branched off into jungle that had been cut down but was growing back again, ie - secondary jungle. Peter decided this would be a good place to set up an overnight camp so he placed sentries 50 yards away on each track.
Just before dark, at about 6pm, one of the sentries fired two shots. Mess tins and food went flying as askaris grabbed their weapons and set off down the track like a pack of hounds. Thirty seconds later there were more shots and by the time the askaris reached the sentry they found that one terrorist had been killed while another was running for his life. He didn't stand a chance and was brought down in a hail of shots as he sought safety in a swamp.
Peter set about transporting the bodies, lashed to saplings, back to camp for identification. He decided to remain in his position for another 24 hours just in case some more terrorists made an appearance, but torrential rain during the night put a stop to movement. He learnt another valuable lesson - how to make a three man ‘basha’ and stay dry!
In mid June 1952, David Swannell received information from Special Branch that terrorists were expected to visit a village in his area that evening. The information was far from being top grade, but nevertheless he decided to act upon it and told Peter Harding to work out a plan for an ambush.
The first part of Peter’s appreciation was done from the map and aerial photographs from which he could see three paths leading from the jungle to the village. The village itself was situated on a broad bend of the Sungei Pahang, the largest river in the state. It would be necessary for the platoon to travel by road to a point where they could disembark and approach the village through a mixture of overgrown rubber and secondary jungle.
The operation commenced during the afternoon and before last light Peter was able to make a reconnaissance of the three approach routes to the village. He decided to set three ambushes, one on each track, with WOPC (Warrant Officer Platoon Commander) Kiberen and three men on the right hand track, Sergeant Tiongi and three men on the left track and himself in the middle with Corporal Kiplangat and Lance Corporal Chipiyego. The remainder of the platoon were to remain in reserve near a hut on high ground between Sgt Tiongi and himself. There had been little time to set the trap but Peter knew what to do.
At 6pm the cicadas started their evening chorus and flying foxes, few in number at first and then in their thousands, came in search of fruit. Mosquitoes started to bite and soon it became dark. The only sounds that broke the silence was a rustle of leaves as a porcupine waddled along the track and the occasional bark of a dog from the village.
It was eight o’clock and Peter was dozing off before taking the ‘ten to midnight stag’ when the silence was ripped apart by gunfire from the bottom of the hill to his right. He grabbed his verey pistol and fired two cartridges which lit up the area. Nothing could be seen at first, then came the sound of someone running up the hill from Kiberen’s position. Peter told Cpl Kiplangat and L/Cpl Chipiyego not to fire until he gave the order.
Within a few seconds, a terrorist appeared and Peter, instead of shooting him, decided to capture him alive. He yelled: “Usipiga,” (Don’t shoot) and then brought the startled CT down in a flying tackle. Peter felt a hammer-like blow and knew he'd been shot. In darkness, it was difficult to know where he had been hit, but he soon became aware that something was wrong with his thumb. Alongside him was a CT who seemed to be dead.
Peter did not blame Cpl Chipiyego for letting off the contents of his Bren gun magazine at two apparent 'terrorists'. He had broken rule No. 3 - 'strict observance of drills' and realised he was lucky not to have been killed.
He attempted to apply a tourniquet on his upper arm but his finger went through the muscle. On further examination he found that one of Chipiyego’s bullets had entered his body under the armpit, exited through the muscle of the upper arm, gone through the terrorist and then into his thumb; the CT was as dead as a doornail.
Another bandit was in the vicinity and, for the second time, bullets whizzed through the trees. Eventually, quietness descended and Peter shouted to WOPC Kiberen, who was still at the bottom of the hill, for a sitrep. Kiberen reported that two CTs had been killed.
Nothing else could be done until first light so Peter instructed Kiberen to join his own group around the hut near Sgt Tiongi’s position. When his men had been concentrated in one area, Peter gave himself a couple of morphine injections and accepted copious cups of tea, well laced with rum, from his orderly, Private Kimelek.
As soon as it became light, Peter could see there was hardly an inch of his jungle green clothing that was not soaked with blood. Despite his severe injuries he walked down the hill with Kiberen and some askaris to see the dead terrorists. Some villagers appeared and it was obvious from the look on their faces they knew the identity of the CTs. Peter regretted not taking them back to Temerloh for questioning, but he had other things on his mind. It was important that he got back to base as soon as possible to have his wounds dressed; three askaris accompanied him to the main road. WOPC Kiberen was left to bring in the remainder of the patrol and the dead CTs.
When Peter and his escort reached the road, they stopped the first vehicle they saw and instructed the driver to take them to Temerloh.
Peter was patched up in the local clinic and was able to give an account of the action before being cas-evacd by air to the British Military Hospital in Kuala Lumpur.
L/Cpl Chipiyego felt badly about shooting his platoon commander but it was not his fault that the ambush commander changed the rules at the last second and he was absolved from blame.
Post-script:- The commanding officer 3/KAR recommended Peter Harding for a Military Cross but this was downgraded to a 'mentioned in despatches'. The brigade commander commented: "Should have had a court martial for breaking the rules!"
BEWARE - BOUNCING BULLETS
Things were getting back to normal again when I was stationed at the depot of my regiment in Cardiff in 1947. The place had been occupied by American forces during the war, but two years after hostilities ended a basic recruit training centre for national servicemen was set up.
I remember feeling very honoured when asked if I would like to be a member of the team in the new '41st Primary Training Centre'. I had recently attended a small arms course at Hythe and I felt confident I could handle the job of weapons training officer. I might have come away from Hythe with a reasonable grading, but I soon learnt that I knew very little about musketry compared with my two sergeant instructors.
Sergeant 'Dai' George of the Welch Regiment was the senior NCO and he patiently listened to the new theories I propounded about marksmanship. But when it came to shooting, it was he who could group consistently at four inches over 100 yards. Sergeant 'Nick' Rees of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was my other sergeant instructor. He used to travel from Brecon every day on a motor bike with side car. At least once a week, during winter months, he would bring me a pheasant which, he said, he had been unable to avoid as he drove over the Beacons. During the summer months he would occasionally remove a salmon from the inner depths of his side car. Each story of their procurement was more implausible than the last. When he left my team at the end of 1947, I lost contact with him. I did not see him until fourteen years later when I bumped into him on the bank of the River Usk at Brecon. Like so many of his kind, he had crossed the divide and become a water bailiff. Knowing all the tricks of the trade he was always one step ahead of the poachers.
Maindy Barracks in 1947 was not so well equipped with training aids as it is today, but at least we had a 30 yards range. I can well remember standing on the firing point and giving the first post-war order to fire: "Load with seven rounds. Two rounds into the bank (to warm the barrel) and five rounds grouping. Carry on when you're ready."
We had been shooting in this fashion for half an hour when a head appeared around the wall of the stop-butts. "Stop!" I yelled. "Open your breech and stand by your weapon." When it was safe to proceed, I went forward to speak to the fellow who still had his head sticking around the corner of the wall. "Do you realise you could have been killed if I hadn't seen you? We are firing live ammunition." "I know," he replied. "They're landing on my bowling green and if you don't stop it, there's going to be trouble." It sounded preposterous that rounds should ricochet out of the butts and I told him I should need some proof. He provided this in an instant when he took from his pocket half a dozen 'sharp ends' of .303 rounds. "There you are," he said, "there's plenty more where they came from."
Someone at officer training school told me never to admit anything to a civilian if it might cost the Army money, so I just reminded him never to stick his head around the side of the butts again and left it at that. We had come to the end of shooting practice, which was just as well, so I gave the order: "Boil out rifles" and "Fall out."
Over tea in the officers' mess, I had a word with my company commander who was horrified to hear that bullets had landed on the bowling green. He was all for putting the range 'out of bounds' until I explained my plan for making it safe.
The following day, Sergeants 'Dai' George and "Nick' Rees accompanied me to Curran's Engineering Works in Cardiff docks where we collected a pile of railway sleepers. We took them back to Maindy Barracks and spent the rest of the day making them into a box which, when strongly constructed of sleepers and sand bags, would surely catch any ricochet rounds. I felt so confident that my contraption of wood and sand would be the answer to the problem that I decided to try it out the following day; and at what better time than when the local bowling team were playing a league game at home.
We fired about a hundred rounds into the 'box' before I peeped around the corner of the butts to see if there had been any reaction. Woods were rolling gently down the green towards the jack with nothing to disturb their progress other that an occasional butterfly. The company commander was delighted with my simple solution of the problem but a few weeks later a team of experts from the Small Arms School at Hythe paid a visit to the depot. They nearly had a fit when they saw my 'box' in the butts. I explained the reason why it was there but it made no impression upon them and I was ordered to remove it. Instead, they gave me advice about raking the sand, sieving it for lead and making sure that the sand was at a certain angle to the trajectory of the bullets.
A considerable number of national servicemen were diverted from potato peeling fatigues to the 30 yards range where an immense amount of sand was given the full cleansing treatment. By the end of the week, I was satisfied that every piece of lead had been removed and that the angle of sand conformed to the regulations contained in the Small Arms School manual.
The next Monday afternoon, another batch of national servicemen were lined up to shoot on the range. I gave the usual orders and the crackle of rifle fire disturbed what was otherwise, a quiet summer afternoon. Suddenly, a familiar voice boomed out from the butts: "Eh, mister - your bullets are landing on my bowling green again." "Cease fire," I yelled, shattered to find that all our hard work had been to no avail. I went forward to impress the groundsman, once again, that his regard for his bowling green, although commendable, was highly dangerous.
It was obvious to me that my solution worked, while the one from Hythe did not. I stalked off to the company office, rang up the chief instructor at the school and told him so. Within a few days, one of the warrant officers of the touring team came to Cardiff to see for himself what was wrong. Without firing a shot, he pronounced that we were using the wrong sort of sand. The range was out of action for two weeks while fleets of vehicles removed the old sand and brought in pure 'Severn' sand. Once again, tape measures were used to ensure that the angle of the surface was correct to the last degree.
I stood on the firing point as half a dozen recruits were brought forward to shoot for the first time in their lives - an experience they would never forget, but for a reason quite unconnected with their introduction to gunfire.
"Eh, mister - now you've really gone and done it!" said the voice which had become a familiar accompaniment to shooting practice. "Cease fire!" I shouted, and then went forward to find out what had gone wrong this time.
The groundsman had with him a young lady who was holding a spent .303 round. "That's him," he said, pointing at me. "He's the one who's been shooting all them bullets on the bowling green." The young lady was not concerned about the bowling green; she had other things on her mind and she let me know she was going to sue me for every penny I possessed. I gathered from her invective that her small daughter, who had been gurgling happily in her pram alongside the bowling green, had suddenly let out a yell. When her mother investigated the cause of her baby's discomfort, she found a hot spent round in the child's nappy. The thing had become trapped in a fold of the towelling and had branded the child's stomach as effectively as a cowboy would brand a steer.
Whether or not she took the matter further, I do not know. If officialdom had only allowed me to use my 'box' of sleepers and sand, there would have been no trouble, but the so-called experts knew best and I had to conform to their instructions. Nevertheless, I still have a guilty feeling and that is why I pay attention during the summer months to bare midriffs of 42 year old (or thereabouts) ladies wearing bikinis speaking with a Cardiff accent. Perhaps, one day, I will see the brand mark of a .303 round - then, maybe, I'll introduce myself.
`11
I remember feeling very honoured when asked if I would like to be a member of the team in the new '41st Primary Training Centre'. I had recently attended a small arms course at Hythe and I felt confident I could handle the job of weapons training officer. I might have come away from Hythe with a reasonable grading, but I soon learnt that I knew very little about musketry compared with my two sergeant instructors.
Sergeant 'Dai' George of the Welch Regiment was the senior NCO and he patiently listened to the new theories I propounded about marksmanship. But when it came to shooting, it was he who could group consistently at four inches over 100 yards. Sergeant 'Nick' Rees of the Royal Welch Fusiliers was my other sergeant instructor. He used to travel from Brecon every day on a motor bike with side car. At least once a week, during winter months, he would bring me a pheasant which, he said, he had been unable to avoid as he drove over the Beacons. During the summer months he would occasionally remove a salmon from the inner depths of his side car. Each story of their procurement was more implausible than the last. When he left my team at the end of 1947, I lost contact with him. I did not see him until fourteen years later when I bumped into him on the bank of the River Usk at Brecon. Like so many of his kind, he had crossed the divide and become a water bailiff. Knowing all the tricks of the trade he was always one step ahead of the poachers.
Maindy Barracks in 1947 was not so well equipped with training aids as it is today, but at least we had a 30 yards range. I can well remember standing on the firing point and giving the first post-war order to fire: "Load with seven rounds. Two rounds into the bank (to warm the barrel) and five rounds grouping. Carry on when you're ready."
We had been shooting in this fashion for half an hour when a head appeared around the wall of the stop-butts. "Stop!" I yelled. "Open your breech and stand by your weapon." When it was safe to proceed, I went forward to speak to the fellow who still had his head sticking around the corner of the wall. "Do you realise you could have been killed if I hadn't seen you? We are firing live ammunition." "I know," he replied. "They're landing on my bowling green and if you don't stop it, there's going to be trouble." It sounded preposterous that rounds should ricochet out of the butts and I told him I should need some proof. He provided this in an instant when he took from his pocket half a dozen 'sharp ends' of .303 rounds. "There you are," he said, "there's plenty more where they came from."
Someone at officer training school told me never to admit anything to a civilian if it might cost the Army money, so I just reminded him never to stick his head around the side of the butts again and left it at that. We had come to the end of shooting practice, which was just as well, so I gave the order: "Boil out rifles" and "Fall out."
Over tea in the officers' mess, I had a word with my company commander who was horrified to hear that bullets had landed on the bowling green. He was all for putting the range 'out of bounds' until I explained my plan for making it safe.
The following day, Sergeants 'Dai' George and "Nick' Rees accompanied me to Curran's Engineering Works in Cardiff docks where we collected a pile of railway sleepers. We took them back to Maindy Barracks and spent the rest of the day making them into a box which, when strongly constructed of sleepers and sand bags, would surely catch any ricochet rounds. I felt so confident that my contraption of wood and sand would be the answer to the problem that I decided to try it out the following day; and at what better time than when the local bowling team were playing a league game at home.
We fired about a hundred rounds into the 'box' before I peeped around the corner of the butts to see if there had been any reaction. Woods were rolling gently down the green towards the jack with nothing to disturb their progress other that an occasional butterfly. The company commander was delighted with my simple solution of the problem but a few weeks later a team of experts from the Small Arms School at Hythe paid a visit to the depot. They nearly had a fit when they saw my 'box' in the butts. I explained the reason why it was there but it made no impression upon them and I was ordered to remove it. Instead, they gave me advice about raking the sand, sieving it for lead and making sure that the sand was at a certain angle to the trajectory of the bullets.
A considerable number of national servicemen were diverted from potato peeling fatigues to the 30 yards range where an immense amount of sand was given the full cleansing treatment. By the end of the week, I was satisfied that every piece of lead had been removed and that the angle of sand conformed to the regulations contained in the Small Arms School manual.
The next Monday afternoon, another batch of national servicemen were lined up to shoot on the range. I gave the usual orders and the crackle of rifle fire disturbed what was otherwise, a quiet summer afternoon. Suddenly, a familiar voice boomed out from the butts: "Eh, mister - your bullets are landing on my bowling green again." "Cease fire," I yelled, shattered to find that all our hard work had been to no avail. I went forward to impress the groundsman, once again, that his regard for his bowling green, although commendable, was highly dangerous.
It was obvious to me that my solution worked, while the one from Hythe did not. I stalked off to the company office, rang up the chief instructor at the school and told him so. Within a few days, one of the warrant officers of the touring team came to Cardiff to see for himself what was wrong. Without firing a shot, he pronounced that we were using the wrong sort of sand. The range was out of action for two weeks while fleets of vehicles removed the old sand and brought in pure 'Severn' sand. Once again, tape measures were used to ensure that the angle of the surface was correct to the last degree.
I stood on the firing point as half a dozen recruits were brought forward to shoot for the first time in their lives - an experience they would never forget, but for a reason quite unconnected with their introduction to gunfire.
"Eh, mister - now you've really gone and done it!" said the voice which had become a familiar accompaniment to shooting practice. "Cease fire!" I shouted, and then went forward to find out what had gone wrong this time.
The groundsman had with him a young lady who was holding a spent .303 round. "That's him," he said, pointing at me. "He's the one who's been shooting all them bullets on the bowling green." The young lady was not concerned about the bowling green; she had other things on her mind and she let me know she was going to sue me for every penny I possessed. I gathered from her invective that her small daughter, who had been gurgling happily in her pram alongside the bowling green, had suddenly let out a yell. When her mother investigated the cause of her baby's discomfort, she found a hot spent round in the child's nappy. The thing had become trapped in a fold of the towelling and had branded the child's stomach as effectively as a cowboy would brand a steer.
Whether or not she took the matter further, I do not know. If officialdom had only allowed me to use my 'box' of sleepers and sand, there would have been no trouble, but the so-called experts knew best and I had to conform to their instructions. Nevertheless, I still have a guilty feeling and that is why I pay attention during the summer months to bare midriffs of 42 year old (or thereabouts) ladies wearing bikinis speaking with a Cardiff accent. Perhaps, one day, I will see the brand mark of a .303 round - then, maybe, I'll introduce myself.
`11
DITS AND DAHS
I have experienced only a few complete failures in my life, but one that came quite close was trying to teach conscript soldiers of the South Wales Borderers how to use Morse code.
The signals training pamphlet states that messages transmitted on carrier wave, using Morse code (a series of dits and dahs), travels further than normal voice communication. Certain wireless sets we used in the ‘50s had this facility but, even though my signal sergeant and I spent many hours trying to train our signalers to transmit and receive messages, we never achieved any meaningful success.
At the end of my three year tour with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, I joined the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles in Kenya. When I met my new commanding officer he was interested to hear that I had been signals officer of my previous unit. He was short of an officer to fill that specialist appointment and, as we were under orders for active service in Malaya, I dropped into his lap like a ripe plum. Warrant Officer Platoon Commander Kathuka, of the Kamba tribe, had been doing the job for the previous 12 months and he was summoned to the CO’s office to meet his new boss. We got on well from the start.
When we walked across the playing fields towards the signals lines I was able to learn something about him. He had been with the KAR since the end of the war, he spoke very good English and was, by African standards, well educated. He had the natural dignity of a member of his tribe and he was proud to be a warrant officer in the King’s African Rifles. He was also proud to have commanded the signals platoon for 12 months and, if the truth be known, must have been somewhat disappointed about handing over to me – a ‘new boy’ as far as the KAR was concerned who could not speak a word of Kiswahili.
When we were about 200 yards away from the hut where the signals cadre was receiving instruction, I could hear a strange noise. Kathuka opened the door and I thought that some sort of black magic ritual was being practised. “What’s going on?” I asked. “We do this every morning, effendi,” replied Kathuka: “Morse code and physical training.” He went on to explain that the first 40 minute period of the day was a mixture of learning the Morse code alphabet and strenuous PT.
Askaris were coming to the end of one bout and were bathed in perspiration. They had a few minutes rest before the instructor rapped the table with his stick and asked: “Watu wote tayeri (Is everyone ready?)” “Ndio (yes), tayeri,” came the response. “Sekia,” said the instructor with his stick raised like a conductor: ‘ABLE’, (the first letter in the old phonetic alphabet) said the instructor. Back came the answer from the askaris: ‘DIT DAH’ (the Morse symbol). ‘BAKER” was delivered from the front, ‘DAH DIT DIT DIT’, came the chant with askaris already prancing in time with the dits and dahs. ‘CHARLIE, DOG, EASY and FOX” were signals for askaris to mount chairs and tables or to gyrate on the floor. African rhythm is infectious and before long I found myself caught in the sensation of movement and sound. Not all the letters of the alphabet followed each other in sequence. The instructor produced, either by coincidence or sense of rhythm, a series of letters which continually altered the flow and tempo of the chant.
Everyone enjoyed themselves and what impressed me most was that those askaris, after only four weeks training, could read and send 15 words a minute. That may not seem much to a layman, but I can assure you it is more than adequate for a regimental signaler.
The signals training pamphlet states that messages transmitted on carrier wave, using Morse code (a series of dits and dahs), travels further than normal voice communication. Certain wireless sets we used in the ‘50s had this facility but, even though my signal sergeant and I spent many hours trying to train our signalers to transmit and receive messages, we never achieved any meaningful success.
At the end of my three year tour with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, I joined the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles in Kenya. When I met my new commanding officer he was interested to hear that I had been signals officer of my previous unit. He was short of an officer to fill that specialist appointment and, as we were under orders for active service in Malaya, I dropped into his lap like a ripe plum. Warrant Officer Platoon Commander Kathuka, of the Kamba tribe, had been doing the job for the previous 12 months and he was summoned to the CO’s office to meet his new boss. We got on well from the start.
When we walked across the playing fields towards the signals lines I was able to learn something about him. He had been with the KAR since the end of the war, he spoke very good English and was, by African standards, well educated. He had the natural dignity of a member of his tribe and he was proud to be a warrant officer in the King’s African Rifles. He was also proud to have commanded the signals platoon for 12 months and, if the truth be known, must have been somewhat disappointed about handing over to me – a ‘new boy’ as far as the KAR was concerned who could not speak a word of Kiswahili.
When we were about 200 yards away from the hut where the signals cadre was receiving instruction, I could hear a strange noise. Kathuka opened the door and I thought that some sort of black magic ritual was being practised. “What’s going on?” I asked. “We do this every morning, effendi,” replied Kathuka: “Morse code and physical training.” He went on to explain that the first 40 minute period of the day was a mixture of learning the Morse code alphabet and strenuous PT.
Askaris were coming to the end of one bout and were bathed in perspiration. They had a few minutes rest before the instructor rapped the table with his stick and asked: “Watu wote tayeri (Is everyone ready?)” “Ndio (yes), tayeri,” came the response. “Sekia,” said the instructor with his stick raised like a conductor: ‘ABLE’, (the first letter in the old phonetic alphabet) said the instructor. Back came the answer from the askaris: ‘DIT DAH’ (the Morse symbol). ‘BAKER” was delivered from the front, ‘DAH DIT DIT DIT’, came the chant with askaris already prancing in time with the dits and dahs. ‘CHARLIE, DOG, EASY and FOX” were signals for askaris to mount chairs and tables or to gyrate on the floor. African rhythm is infectious and before long I found myself caught in the sensation of movement and sound. Not all the letters of the alphabet followed each other in sequence. The instructor produced, either by coincidence or sense of rhythm, a series of letters which continually altered the flow and tempo of the chant.
Everyone enjoyed themselves and what impressed me most was that those askaris, after only four weeks training, could read and send 15 words a minute. That may not seem much to a layman, but I can assure you it is more than adequate for a regimental signaler.
FIRE CALL
I could never understand why I was selected to be unit fire officer. I had no qualifications for the job, very little interest - compared with one member of the regimental police who loved fire duties so much that he used to start them, and what seemed to be the most remarkable thing of all, I missed every real fire we had during my first overseas tour; all four of them.
I remember sitting in my office in South Barracks, Khartoum smarting under the injustice of being saddled with this onerous job when, as signals officer, I had enough to do keeping my old wireless sets working. The quartermaster made me sign for scores of stirrup pumps and red buckets, all of which had to kept full of sand or water. The former commodity was no problem as sand got into everything in the Sudan. I also had two fire engines which had to be kept in pristine condition and ready for action.
The commanding officer expected everyone to follow his own high standard of good order and cleanliness; fire precautions were high on his list of priorities. His eagle eye could detect a missing flake of paint on a fire bucket or a defaced copy of fire orders at two hundred yards range; I soon got used to the routine of being summoned to the adjutant's office after Saturday morning barrack inspection and asked to account for my idleness. After receiving a particularly nasty reprimand for not noticing that a length of rubber pipe was missing from a stirrup pump, I decided to do something spectacular to restore my standing with the commanding officer.
The colonel was a well regulated person and I had a good idea how he would respond to a given situation. One of the events in his weekly routine was to go for a sail on a Sunday morning on the Blue Nile, which ran only a hundred yards or so in front of the officers' mess. The clubhouse was one of the boats General Kitchener used on his expedition of 1898 and was anchored close to the bank a few hundred yards down the road.
A plan began to take shape in my mind. A more than ample supply of water was available in the river, the fire engines had suction pumps capable of drawing water and the flowers in the mess garden always needed watering. The whole scenario fell into place and I only had to smooth a few edges to show the commanding officer what an imaginative fire officer I had become.
On the dot, at 08.00 hrs the following Sunday, the colonel entered the dining room to have breakfast. A bevy of white robed Sudanese waiters attended to his needs and the latest copy of The Times was propped up in front of him as he tucked into his kedgeree. He must have wondered why I kept popping up and down outside the window, but my feigned interest in the spiky plants which passed for flowers was merely a cover so that I could keep my eye on him. I was ready to run out to Kitchener Avenue at a moment's notice and give my fire engines the signal to advance. That moment arrived when I saw a couple of waiters descend upon the CO's empty plates as he rose from the table. He picked up a few things to take on the boat and marched smartly down the broad stone steps of the mess portico towards the large wrought iron gates that opened onto Kitchener Avenue.
I was in position in the middle of the road, like a race starter at Le Mans, and I waved my handkerchief as a signal for the fire engines to advance.
The timing could not have been better. Both vehicles were far enough away to get into top gear and they made a fine sight as they charged down Kitchener Avenue with sirens blaring towards the colonel and me. I began to explain what I was doing and I recognised the CO's approval by the nods and smiles as he listened to my plan.
The fire engines were travelling much faster than I had expected; it was not supposed to be a race but I had not taken into consideration the rivalry that existed between the two crews to be the first one to bring succour to the officers' mess flowers. I had to break off my conversation with the CO to take control of the second phase of the operation which involved directing the vehicles towards the river.
During the winter months, the Blue Nile is swollen with flood waters that come from Lake Tana in Ethiopia. But during the summer, the water level gets lower and lower exposing the muddy banks which bake hard into a crazy paving design. Anyone with a grain of common sense would have appreciated that the closer one got to the river the softer the surface would become, but not the two drivers who continued the race, now going backwards, to the water's edge. I shouted at the top of my voice and waved my arms, but it was no good as the crews were looking the other way. Slowly and inexorably the surface of the bank collapsed and both fire engines sank into thick brown mud. They were not even near enough to throw the pipes, with wicker baskets on the end, into the river to suck up the water.
I looked at the colonel and his eyes had narrowed into thin black slits. "How do you propose to get them out?" he said. The vehicles were wallowing in the mud like a couple of hippos and I wondered if they were going to disappear completely. Trying to sound brisk and business-like, I said: "I'll have a word with the motor transport officer, sir. The Bren gun carriers (tracked vehicles like small tanks - with an open top) should be able to pull them out." "No, you won't," he snapped. "The annual vehicle inspection takes place tomorrow and I'm not having them messed up at this late stage. You'll have to think of something else." With that, he strode off in the direction of the sailing boats.
The transport officer was not available, he had gone to shoot duck, and 'Tiger' Morris, the transport sergeant, let me know in even stronger terms than the colonel that the carriers, or any other vehicles in the transport park for that matter, were not going to be used. Instead, he gave me the telephone number of the local REME workshops who, he said, might be able to help with a Scammel breakdown vehicle.
Trying to get a Scammel in Khartoum on a Sunday in August turned out to be quite a problem and I spent most of the morning pacing up and down on the bank of the river waiting for it to arrive.
At last, at about 1pm, it appeared. A Scammel is a large beast and as it drew level, a head popped out of the window high above me. I pointed towards the fire engines in the mud and the driver gave a nod of understanding. The cab door opened and three soldiers clambered down the side of their vehicle to survey the problem.
"OK, we'll fix it in no time," said the corporal, while the others pulled a large hook from the inner depths of the vehicle. They attached this to one of the fire engines, took up the slack and slowly pulled the first vehicle from its muddy hole. An identical operation was carried out on the other vehicle and within a matter of minutes they were both back on the road. My morale, which had taken a nasty knock, was restored and the prospect of a cold beer in the mess began to occupy my thoughts.
The crew of the Scammel were replacing their kit and getting ready for the return journey to Gordon's Tree, on the White Nile, when who should come around a bend in the river but the colonel. What a perfect piece of timing I thought.
As the driver of the Scammel had seen how my fire engines had got into difficulty, I did not think it was necessary to warn him about the unstable bank. I gave the crew a wave as they moved off but within seconds I could see they were on a disaster course. Instead of taking the shortest route back to Kitchener Avenue, the driver took a wide track which brought his huge vehicle too close to the river. With a lurch and a grunt and a sound of spinning wheels it broke through the surface of baked mud and started to sink.
Even though he was a hundred yards away and sailing fast with a following wind, I could see the colonel was not amused. It was not long before he had tied up at the moorings, returned to dry land and was striding purposefully towards me. "Are you playing some sort of game?" he said. The lack of humour in his voice gave me no reason to think he wanted to join in.
There was no other recovery vehicle in the Sudan, the nearest was in Egypt about a thousand miles away! It was obvious that the only way to get the Scammel out was to use the bren gun carriers and 'Tiger' Morris was ordered to get them at once.
The carriers, in immaculate condition for the following day's inspection, were harnessed to the Scammel like a pack of huskies. Their engines roared to full throttle and slowly the recovery vehicle was pulled free from its muddy embrace. The transport sergeant was almost in tears when he surveyed his carriers that were now covered with mud and dust.
I have never been so unpopular with so many people in all my life. The carrier platoon worked all afternoon and well into the evening to get the carriers into the gleaming state they had been until I got my hands on them. The regimental police were turned out and spent hours restoring the shine on the fire engines, The colonel was furious and so was the adjutant - but he was always furious. The transport officer returned without shooting any duck, and he was furious as well. It was without doubt the worst day of my life.
I have often wondered why I was not given the sack on that disastrous day. Maybe the colonel and the adjutant despite their severe expressions really did have a sense of humour. Perhaps they anticipated some of the other remarkable things that were yet to happen. Even to this day, elderly retired officers greet me with such remarks as: "Remember the time you blew your hair off in Eritrea?" - but that's another story.
I remember sitting in my office in South Barracks, Khartoum smarting under the injustice of being saddled with this onerous job when, as signals officer, I had enough to do keeping my old wireless sets working. The quartermaster made me sign for scores of stirrup pumps and red buckets, all of which had to kept full of sand or water. The former commodity was no problem as sand got into everything in the Sudan. I also had two fire engines which had to be kept in pristine condition and ready for action.
The commanding officer expected everyone to follow his own high standard of good order and cleanliness; fire precautions were high on his list of priorities. His eagle eye could detect a missing flake of paint on a fire bucket or a defaced copy of fire orders at two hundred yards range; I soon got used to the routine of being summoned to the adjutant's office after Saturday morning barrack inspection and asked to account for my idleness. After receiving a particularly nasty reprimand for not noticing that a length of rubber pipe was missing from a stirrup pump, I decided to do something spectacular to restore my standing with the commanding officer.
The colonel was a well regulated person and I had a good idea how he would respond to a given situation. One of the events in his weekly routine was to go for a sail on a Sunday morning on the Blue Nile, which ran only a hundred yards or so in front of the officers' mess. The clubhouse was one of the boats General Kitchener used on his expedition of 1898 and was anchored close to the bank a few hundred yards down the road.
A plan began to take shape in my mind. A more than ample supply of water was available in the river, the fire engines had suction pumps capable of drawing water and the flowers in the mess garden always needed watering. The whole scenario fell into place and I only had to smooth a few edges to show the commanding officer what an imaginative fire officer I had become.
On the dot, at 08.00 hrs the following Sunday, the colonel entered the dining room to have breakfast. A bevy of white robed Sudanese waiters attended to his needs and the latest copy of The Times was propped up in front of him as he tucked into his kedgeree. He must have wondered why I kept popping up and down outside the window, but my feigned interest in the spiky plants which passed for flowers was merely a cover so that I could keep my eye on him. I was ready to run out to Kitchener Avenue at a moment's notice and give my fire engines the signal to advance. That moment arrived when I saw a couple of waiters descend upon the CO's empty plates as he rose from the table. He picked up a few things to take on the boat and marched smartly down the broad stone steps of the mess portico towards the large wrought iron gates that opened onto Kitchener Avenue.
I was in position in the middle of the road, like a race starter at Le Mans, and I waved my handkerchief as a signal for the fire engines to advance.
The timing could not have been better. Both vehicles were far enough away to get into top gear and they made a fine sight as they charged down Kitchener Avenue with sirens blaring towards the colonel and me. I began to explain what I was doing and I recognised the CO's approval by the nods and smiles as he listened to my plan.
The fire engines were travelling much faster than I had expected; it was not supposed to be a race but I had not taken into consideration the rivalry that existed between the two crews to be the first one to bring succour to the officers' mess flowers. I had to break off my conversation with the CO to take control of the second phase of the operation which involved directing the vehicles towards the river.
During the winter months, the Blue Nile is swollen with flood waters that come from Lake Tana in Ethiopia. But during the summer, the water level gets lower and lower exposing the muddy banks which bake hard into a crazy paving design. Anyone with a grain of common sense would have appreciated that the closer one got to the river the softer the surface would become, but not the two drivers who continued the race, now going backwards, to the water's edge. I shouted at the top of my voice and waved my arms, but it was no good as the crews were looking the other way. Slowly and inexorably the surface of the bank collapsed and both fire engines sank into thick brown mud. They were not even near enough to throw the pipes, with wicker baskets on the end, into the river to suck up the water.
I looked at the colonel and his eyes had narrowed into thin black slits. "How do you propose to get them out?" he said. The vehicles were wallowing in the mud like a couple of hippos and I wondered if they were going to disappear completely. Trying to sound brisk and business-like, I said: "I'll have a word with the motor transport officer, sir. The Bren gun carriers (tracked vehicles like small tanks - with an open top) should be able to pull them out." "No, you won't," he snapped. "The annual vehicle inspection takes place tomorrow and I'm not having them messed up at this late stage. You'll have to think of something else." With that, he strode off in the direction of the sailing boats.
The transport officer was not available, he had gone to shoot duck, and 'Tiger' Morris, the transport sergeant, let me know in even stronger terms than the colonel that the carriers, or any other vehicles in the transport park for that matter, were not going to be used. Instead, he gave me the telephone number of the local REME workshops who, he said, might be able to help with a Scammel breakdown vehicle.
Trying to get a Scammel in Khartoum on a Sunday in August turned out to be quite a problem and I spent most of the morning pacing up and down on the bank of the river waiting for it to arrive.
At last, at about 1pm, it appeared. A Scammel is a large beast and as it drew level, a head popped out of the window high above me. I pointed towards the fire engines in the mud and the driver gave a nod of understanding. The cab door opened and three soldiers clambered down the side of their vehicle to survey the problem.
"OK, we'll fix it in no time," said the corporal, while the others pulled a large hook from the inner depths of the vehicle. They attached this to one of the fire engines, took up the slack and slowly pulled the first vehicle from its muddy hole. An identical operation was carried out on the other vehicle and within a matter of minutes they were both back on the road. My morale, which had taken a nasty knock, was restored and the prospect of a cold beer in the mess began to occupy my thoughts.
The crew of the Scammel were replacing their kit and getting ready for the return journey to Gordon's Tree, on the White Nile, when who should come around a bend in the river but the colonel. What a perfect piece of timing I thought.
As the driver of the Scammel had seen how my fire engines had got into difficulty, I did not think it was necessary to warn him about the unstable bank. I gave the crew a wave as they moved off but within seconds I could see they were on a disaster course. Instead of taking the shortest route back to Kitchener Avenue, the driver took a wide track which brought his huge vehicle too close to the river. With a lurch and a grunt and a sound of spinning wheels it broke through the surface of baked mud and started to sink.
Even though he was a hundred yards away and sailing fast with a following wind, I could see the colonel was not amused. It was not long before he had tied up at the moorings, returned to dry land and was striding purposefully towards me. "Are you playing some sort of game?" he said. The lack of humour in his voice gave me no reason to think he wanted to join in.
There was no other recovery vehicle in the Sudan, the nearest was in Egypt about a thousand miles away! It was obvious that the only way to get the Scammel out was to use the bren gun carriers and 'Tiger' Morris was ordered to get them at once.
The carriers, in immaculate condition for the following day's inspection, were harnessed to the Scammel like a pack of huskies. Their engines roared to full throttle and slowly the recovery vehicle was pulled free from its muddy embrace. The transport sergeant was almost in tears when he surveyed his carriers that were now covered with mud and dust.
I have never been so unpopular with so many people in all my life. The carrier platoon worked all afternoon and well into the evening to get the carriers into the gleaming state they had been until I got my hands on them. The regimental police were turned out and spent hours restoring the shine on the fire engines, The colonel was furious and so was the adjutant - but he was always furious. The transport officer returned without shooting any duck, and he was furious as well. It was without doubt the worst day of my life.
I have often wondered why I was not given the sack on that disastrous day. Maybe the colonel and the adjutant despite their severe expressions really did have a sense of humour. Perhaps they anticipated some of the other remarkable things that were yet to happen. Even to this day, elderly retired officers greet me with such remarks as: "Remember the time you blew your hair off in Eritrea?" - but that's another story.
GIVE HIM ENOUGH ROPE
I sometimes wonder if things happened the way I remember them. Did I witness them, hear about them and then exaggerate the details, or just dream them into reality? One such incident I have had in mind since 1948 must have been second-hand because it happened in Wayne's Keep, Nicosia before I joined the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Cyprus. I have often chuckled over the situation where a temporary camp commandant found himself on a collision course with an irate district commander. A few weeks before I retired I was able to test the efficacy of my mind when one of the players came into my office in Brecon Barracks.
He was about to introduce himself, when I exclaimed: "Jack Medlicott!" He seemed surprised that I remembered him after such a long time and it was obvious that any memories he had of me had been discarded long ago. He was accompanied by his wife and I spent the next half hour showing them some of the interesting things in the Regimental Museum of which I was Curator. They then wandered around on their own for the rest of the afternoon before returning to my office at closing time to say farewell.
We shook hands, vowed to keep in touch and then, as he was about to leave, he said: "Do you know what happened to Brigadier Anstice?" I told him that I believed the brigadier had gone to live in Kyrenia when he retired. I paused for a moment and said: "Wasn't there some trouble between you and him over a dog?" Jack gasped: "Good Lord, do you remember that business?" In answer to his question, I related the incident as if he was a third person: "The Brigadier telephoned the Commanding Officer of the South Wales Borderers in Famagusta and asked him if he could borrow one of his officers for a week to be acting camp commandant at his headquarters in Wayne's Keep. The incumbent, it seemed, had been taken sick and was bedded down in the local British Military Hospital. The CO agreed and gave orders to Jack Medlicott to proceed forthwith.
Jack arrived at Wayne's Keep during the forenoon and was directed to the brigadier's office. He was told that the camp was filthy and had to be smartened. Stray dogs, in particular, were a nuisance and he was given instructions to destroy any that were not wearing collars. A few other terse instructions were issued, and he was dismissed to attend to his duties.
Jack ordered the Provost Sergeant to accompany him on his inspection of the camp and found that the place was worse than the Brigadier had described. As they approached the cookhouse, a collection of dogs were scavenging at the swill bins. One of them was slower than the rest at making a getaway and the Provost Sergeant threw a rope around its collarless neck. Jack gave instructions for it to be shot. As he was heading for the officers' mess for lunch, he heard a single pistol shot from the area of the thirty yards shooting range.
Brigadier Anstice was standing in the ante room with a glass of beer in his hand, asking if anyone had seen his dog, which always accompanied him to the mess at lunch time. When Jack was told that the Brigadier's dog was a large black Labrador, he began to feel that his instruction to the provost sergeant to kill a similar animal might have been precipitate. His worst fears were realised and Jack's appointment as acting camp commandant was terminated forthwith. He was back in 1/SWB officers' mess for tea."
Jack listened to my account of his misfortune with amazement. "That's just what happened," he said.
I'm pleased that my memory, on that occasion - at least, proved to be accurate.
He was about to introduce himself, when I exclaimed: "Jack Medlicott!" He seemed surprised that I remembered him after such a long time and it was obvious that any memories he had of me had been discarded long ago. He was accompanied by his wife and I spent the next half hour showing them some of the interesting things in the Regimental Museum of which I was Curator. They then wandered around on their own for the rest of the afternoon before returning to my office at closing time to say farewell.
We shook hands, vowed to keep in touch and then, as he was about to leave, he said: "Do you know what happened to Brigadier Anstice?" I told him that I believed the brigadier had gone to live in Kyrenia when he retired. I paused for a moment and said: "Wasn't there some trouble between you and him over a dog?" Jack gasped: "Good Lord, do you remember that business?" In answer to his question, I related the incident as if he was a third person: "The Brigadier telephoned the Commanding Officer of the South Wales Borderers in Famagusta and asked him if he could borrow one of his officers for a week to be acting camp commandant at his headquarters in Wayne's Keep. The incumbent, it seemed, had been taken sick and was bedded down in the local British Military Hospital. The CO agreed and gave orders to Jack Medlicott to proceed forthwith.
Jack arrived at Wayne's Keep during the forenoon and was directed to the brigadier's office. He was told that the camp was filthy and had to be smartened. Stray dogs, in particular, were a nuisance and he was given instructions to destroy any that were not wearing collars. A few other terse instructions were issued, and he was dismissed to attend to his duties.
Jack ordered the Provost Sergeant to accompany him on his inspection of the camp and found that the place was worse than the Brigadier had described. As they approached the cookhouse, a collection of dogs were scavenging at the swill bins. One of them was slower than the rest at making a getaway and the Provost Sergeant threw a rope around its collarless neck. Jack gave instructions for it to be shot. As he was heading for the officers' mess for lunch, he heard a single pistol shot from the area of the thirty yards shooting range.
Brigadier Anstice was standing in the ante room with a glass of beer in his hand, asking if anyone had seen his dog, which always accompanied him to the mess at lunch time. When Jack was told that the Brigadier's dog was a large black Labrador, he began to feel that his instruction to the provost sergeant to kill a similar animal might have been precipitate. His worst fears were realised and Jack's appointment as acting camp commandant was terminated forthwith. He was back in 1/SWB officers' mess for tea."
Jack listened to my account of his misfortune with amazement. "That's just what happened," he said.
I'm pleased that my memory, on that occasion - at least, proved to be accurate.
MAYDAY
Among the many sports facilities the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers had in Khartoum in 1949 was a sailing club with three 16 foot dinghies. There was also a club house - Melik, one of General Kitchener's gun-boats which he used to re-capture the Sudan in his campaign of 1896-98. It had one regular crew member, Osman, the bos'n, who lived in a locker full of sails, rope and cans of paint.
I had not sailed before I arrived in Khartoum, and I was one of the first to put my name down for membership. It did not take long to learn the drill and within a week or two I was able to satisfy the Commodore (Major Ken Taylor) sufficiently to take the helm on my own.
The one big disadvantage about sailing on the Nile is the flow of water in one direction. This is offset by a wind in the opposite direction but, if the strength of the wind drops, you run the danger of ending up in Egypt. We used to sail up-river to Crocodile Island, aptly named as scores of 10 - 12 foot long scaly amphibians slithered from the sand banks into the water when we came into view. They were all around us as we sailed on, with just the tips of their noses and two eyes showing. It was rather frightening the first few times I sailed amongst them, but we had a pact - we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us.
There was a large swimming pool in South Barracks, but whenever we wanted to use it, it was performing its primary role of supplying water to flower beds and grass on the sports pitches. It took a day for the water to flow out, another day to have it cleaned and yet another day to fill it up again. For the first day after the re-fill, the chlorine was so strong it brought tears to the eyes of those who swam in it. Therefore, there were only three days left for swimming before the cycle started again. A much better alternative was the Khartoum Swimming Club, about one and a half miles down Kitchener Avenue.
It was a delightful place sporting an elegant club house, beautiful lawns and a swimming pool made to look as if it was a Roman bath-house. Monthly subscriptions were within my limited means and the atmosphere provided a welcome change from the spartan confines of South Barracks. Most 24th Regiment officers could be found at the swimming club on Sunday mornings but as lunch was extra, subalterns usually walked back to the mess for their mid-day meal.
The thought came to me one day as I trudged back to the mess that I could use one of the sailing boats to carry me and a few others to and from the mess for a Sunday morning swim. Captain John Matcham (not his real name) was my best chum in those days and he agreed we should give it a try.
John turned up the following Sunday morning looking like an officer of the Senior Service. He was dressed from head to toe in white drill carrying a white towel and matching swim suit; I felt somewhat embarrassed in my crumpled khaki pants with a pair of army issue PT shorts under my arm.
Osman, the bos’n, had a boat ready so we placed our kit in the locker, ran up the jib and when we were in mid stream, heaved up the mainsail. We hurtled down the river, making use of the strong current at that time of the year, and within a very short time I was steering the boat to the mooring alongside the swimming club. Nothing could have been easier (or less expensive) and we caused some envious looks from brother officers who wished they had thought of the idea themselves.
When it was time to get dressed and return to South Barracks for lunch, I took the helm and asked John to look after the jib. I released the boat from its mooring but instead of making way to deep water, it acted sluggishly and drifted downstream. I could not understand what had happened and, being an inexperienced sailor, had not realised that the large flat piece of steel (called the centre board and used for keeping the yacht stable) had gone past the 'lock' position and was drifting about aimlessly below the boat. There was nothing we could do but watch the Governor General's palace and the landing stage getting closer.
More by luck than skill on my part, I managed to avoid hitting the jetty only to find that another hazard lay ahead. John stood in the bows with one arm locked around the jib stay and the other ready to fend the boat off the wall when the inevitable collision occurred. At the moment of strike, a deluge of effluent poured out of a large hole above his head. It was as if he had pressed a button to release the contents of every lavatory in the palace and this, combined with a quantity of kitchen waste, started to flood the boat. From being an immaculate officer one second, John became a muddy brown one the next with sewage and rubbish covering every inch of his body.
He was more concerned about his appearance than the state of the boat and I had to use some pretty strong language before he pushed us away from the wall. As we bumped along in front of the palace for another hundred yards or so, we started baling out the mess that filled a large part of the bilge. We were not in any danger of sinking, but the smell was awful.
It was obvious we needed assistance otherwise we would drift down to the great bridge that spanned the confluence of both Niles - the White Nile with its source in Lake Victoria and the one we were on already - the Blue Nile, which sprang from Lake Tana in Ethiopia. From then on, it was non-stop to Cairo.
The sound of a powerful outboard motor was music to our ears and a cabin cruiser swung across the river and drew up alongside us. The daughter of the Civil Secretary was at the wheel (I recognised her as the prettiest girl at a party held only a week previously in the home of a Sudan government civil servant). Her companion had recently arrived from France to spend a holiday in Khartoum. "Are you in trouble?" trilled the elegant Bidsey Wallace. Even at that stage, John and I did not like to admit we were, literally, in the 'mire'; our inclination was to say: "Not really, we're just pottering around helping to keep the place clean." But the reality of the situation was that we were in deep trouble and needed help. Besides, the wind had dropped and even if the centre board had been working, we still would not have been able to get back to our mooring at the Melik.
Bidsey steered her father's boat close to ours, and Chantelle threw us a line which John hooked to a bar on the bow. The French girl's nose twitched when she caught a whiff of 'eau de Governor's sewage works' and when she looked inside our boat and then at John and found that one matched the other, she let out a shriek. I had to explain to Bidsey that it was not as bad as it looked and that if she let out her tow rope to its full extent she would avoid most of the smell. In that manner we chugged slowly up the river and were deposited alongside our mooring.
The final disaster to befall us that day was the loss of the centre board which, when not in use, is held in place in the upright position inside the boat by a steel bolt. While I was having another shot at securing it in its housing, the pin slipped out and the centre board fell, breaking the steel hawser in its descent and coming to rest somewhere on the bottom of the Blue Nile. Osman came out in his little boat to collect us and sucked his solitary tooth when he saw what had happened. I asked him if he had a spare and he shook his head.
Major Ken Taylor, the Commodore, was furious when I told him about our misfortunes. Cleaning the boat was the easiest bit. Osman's son, Ali, was given the job and an hour later it looked cleaner than it was before we took it out. The loss of the centre board, however, was in a different category and I was told that if I could not find it, I would have to pay for a new one.
Later on that afternoon, I took my fishing rod and a magnet from one of my Tele 'Ls' (field telephone - I was the Signals Officer) and tried to locate the centre board on the river bed. After a fruitless hour's trawling, I offered Ali a handful of piastres if he could find it. He grabbed a length of rope and was over the side like a shot. Thirty seconds later he was waving the end of the tether and claiming his reward.
When I left Khartoum in December 1949, I did not sail until I was with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Pembrokeshire in 1955. I was the second-in-command of a rifle company based at the RAC Ranges and Training Area, Castlemartin at the time.
We were talking about boats in the mess one day when one of the young officers asked me if I could sail. Khartoum seemed a long way off and a long time ago, but I answered in the affirmative. "Good," he said. "What about taking us out tomorrow?". The Regiment had a sailing boat moored alongside the ferry landing stage in Pembroke Dock and, as it was free the following day, the young officer booked it for 3pm.
Singing telephone wires made me aware that the wind strength was way above normal for that part of Pembrokeshire as I packed three passengers and myself into my Morris '8'. However, the die was cast and we drove the ten miles of switch-back road to Pembroke Dock in a cheerful mood.
Milford Haven is what its name implies - a haven for ships and all things that float, including Sunderland flying- boats, a squadron of which was based in Pembroke Dock. When they were not flying hundreds of miles out in the Atlantic looking for Russian submarines, they slumbered in the Haven like a flock of elegant swans.
Our little boat was tucked up under its canvas covers riding happily at its mooring. Someone was at hand to row us out and as soon as I climbed aboard, I set about removing the canvas covers, lowering the centre board and generally getting things ready. One of the young officers, trying to help, unfastened the mooring rope and before I could explain the few basic facts I remembered about sailing, we were drifting into deep water and away from the shelter of the pier.
"Raise the jib (small sail in the bow)," I yelled and the young officer who was responsible for our unscheduled start, hauled one of the ropes until the sail filled with wind to such a degree that we were soon scudding down the haven.
As anyone knows, you cannot manoeuvre a boat properly with just a jib. I wanted to raise the mainsail, but the wind was too strong and I was afraid we would turn upside down if I attempted it with an inexperienced crew. Instead, I concentrated on avoiding the flying-boats that were anchored in my path like bunkers on a golf course.
Unknown to me, we were observed by Lieutenant John Davey using a telescope in his bedroom in the officers' mess, Llanion Barracks (little did we guess in those days he would become Brigadier K.J. Davey CBE, MC, DL and Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Wales).
John was Pembrokeshire born and bred and was the only competent sailor we had in the battalion. He could see we were in trouble, so he rang the squadron office at the RAF base in Pembroke Dock and asked them to provide assistance.
While I was busy dodging flying-boats, my crew were quite enjoying themselves, but after I narrowly missed shaving the wing-tip off the last one of the squadron, and still kept going, they realised that something was wrong. One of them asked if I could turn around and go home as he was feeling cold and sick. The call was taken up by the other two, but I would have none of it. and continued on my course down Milford Haven hoping that I would find sanctuary in an inlet somewhere.
I became aware that we were not on our own when a klaxon horn sounded. I turned around and saw a yellow motor boat flying an RAF flag coming alongside. "Do you need assistance?" bellowed a voice through a loud hailer. "No thank you," I replied, thinking of the embarrassment I would suffer if I owned up to being saved by the RAF. "Yes, we do," shouted the other members of my crew. I was finally out-voted in the 'Yes we do' - 'No we don't' battle of words and we were taken in tow by the launch. I have never been so humiliated in all my life and I sat in the stern of the boat all the way back to the mooring like a modern-day Captain Bligh.
I experienced one other mutiny, but this time my crew comprised my wife and two young children and we were sailing our own boat on Llangorse Lake in South Wales. It was just another family argument which I usually lost - so it doesn't count.
I had not sailed before I arrived in Khartoum, and I was one of the first to put my name down for membership. It did not take long to learn the drill and within a week or two I was able to satisfy the Commodore (Major Ken Taylor) sufficiently to take the helm on my own.
The one big disadvantage about sailing on the Nile is the flow of water in one direction. This is offset by a wind in the opposite direction but, if the strength of the wind drops, you run the danger of ending up in Egypt. We used to sail up-river to Crocodile Island, aptly named as scores of 10 - 12 foot long scaly amphibians slithered from the sand banks into the water when we came into view. They were all around us as we sailed on, with just the tips of their noses and two eyes showing. It was rather frightening the first few times I sailed amongst them, but we had a pact - we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us.
There was a large swimming pool in South Barracks, but whenever we wanted to use it, it was performing its primary role of supplying water to flower beds and grass on the sports pitches. It took a day for the water to flow out, another day to have it cleaned and yet another day to fill it up again. For the first day after the re-fill, the chlorine was so strong it brought tears to the eyes of those who swam in it. Therefore, there were only three days left for swimming before the cycle started again. A much better alternative was the Khartoum Swimming Club, about one and a half miles down Kitchener Avenue.
It was a delightful place sporting an elegant club house, beautiful lawns and a swimming pool made to look as if it was a Roman bath-house. Monthly subscriptions were within my limited means and the atmosphere provided a welcome change from the spartan confines of South Barracks. Most 24th Regiment officers could be found at the swimming club on Sunday mornings but as lunch was extra, subalterns usually walked back to the mess for their mid-day meal.
The thought came to me one day as I trudged back to the mess that I could use one of the sailing boats to carry me and a few others to and from the mess for a Sunday morning swim. Captain John Matcham (not his real name) was my best chum in those days and he agreed we should give it a try.
John turned up the following Sunday morning looking like an officer of the Senior Service. He was dressed from head to toe in white drill carrying a white towel and matching swim suit; I felt somewhat embarrassed in my crumpled khaki pants with a pair of army issue PT shorts under my arm.
Osman, the bos’n, had a boat ready so we placed our kit in the locker, ran up the jib and when we were in mid stream, heaved up the mainsail. We hurtled down the river, making use of the strong current at that time of the year, and within a very short time I was steering the boat to the mooring alongside the swimming club. Nothing could have been easier (or less expensive) and we caused some envious looks from brother officers who wished they had thought of the idea themselves.
When it was time to get dressed and return to South Barracks for lunch, I took the helm and asked John to look after the jib. I released the boat from its mooring but instead of making way to deep water, it acted sluggishly and drifted downstream. I could not understand what had happened and, being an inexperienced sailor, had not realised that the large flat piece of steel (called the centre board and used for keeping the yacht stable) had gone past the 'lock' position and was drifting about aimlessly below the boat. There was nothing we could do but watch the Governor General's palace and the landing stage getting closer.
More by luck than skill on my part, I managed to avoid hitting the jetty only to find that another hazard lay ahead. John stood in the bows with one arm locked around the jib stay and the other ready to fend the boat off the wall when the inevitable collision occurred. At the moment of strike, a deluge of effluent poured out of a large hole above his head. It was as if he had pressed a button to release the contents of every lavatory in the palace and this, combined with a quantity of kitchen waste, started to flood the boat. From being an immaculate officer one second, John became a muddy brown one the next with sewage and rubbish covering every inch of his body.
He was more concerned about his appearance than the state of the boat and I had to use some pretty strong language before he pushed us away from the wall. As we bumped along in front of the palace for another hundred yards or so, we started baling out the mess that filled a large part of the bilge. We were not in any danger of sinking, but the smell was awful.
It was obvious we needed assistance otherwise we would drift down to the great bridge that spanned the confluence of both Niles - the White Nile with its source in Lake Victoria and the one we were on already - the Blue Nile, which sprang from Lake Tana in Ethiopia. From then on, it was non-stop to Cairo.
The sound of a powerful outboard motor was music to our ears and a cabin cruiser swung across the river and drew up alongside us. The daughter of the Civil Secretary was at the wheel (I recognised her as the prettiest girl at a party held only a week previously in the home of a Sudan government civil servant). Her companion had recently arrived from France to spend a holiday in Khartoum. "Are you in trouble?" trilled the elegant Bidsey Wallace. Even at that stage, John and I did not like to admit we were, literally, in the 'mire'; our inclination was to say: "Not really, we're just pottering around helping to keep the place clean." But the reality of the situation was that we were in deep trouble and needed help. Besides, the wind had dropped and even if the centre board had been working, we still would not have been able to get back to our mooring at the Melik.
Bidsey steered her father's boat close to ours, and Chantelle threw us a line which John hooked to a bar on the bow. The French girl's nose twitched when she caught a whiff of 'eau de Governor's sewage works' and when she looked inside our boat and then at John and found that one matched the other, she let out a shriek. I had to explain to Bidsey that it was not as bad as it looked and that if she let out her tow rope to its full extent she would avoid most of the smell. In that manner we chugged slowly up the river and were deposited alongside our mooring.
The final disaster to befall us that day was the loss of the centre board which, when not in use, is held in place in the upright position inside the boat by a steel bolt. While I was having another shot at securing it in its housing, the pin slipped out and the centre board fell, breaking the steel hawser in its descent and coming to rest somewhere on the bottom of the Blue Nile. Osman came out in his little boat to collect us and sucked his solitary tooth when he saw what had happened. I asked him if he had a spare and he shook his head.
Major Ken Taylor, the Commodore, was furious when I told him about our misfortunes. Cleaning the boat was the easiest bit. Osman's son, Ali, was given the job and an hour later it looked cleaner than it was before we took it out. The loss of the centre board, however, was in a different category and I was told that if I could not find it, I would have to pay for a new one.
Later on that afternoon, I took my fishing rod and a magnet from one of my Tele 'Ls' (field telephone - I was the Signals Officer) and tried to locate the centre board on the river bed. After a fruitless hour's trawling, I offered Ali a handful of piastres if he could find it. He grabbed a length of rope and was over the side like a shot. Thirty seconds later he was waving the end of the tether and claiming his reward.
When I left Khartoum in December 1949, I did not sail until I was with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Pembrokeshire in 1955. I was the second-in-command of a rifle company based at the RAC Ranges and Training Area, Castlemartin at the time.
We were talking about boats in the mess one day when one of the young officers asked me if I could sail. Khartoum seemed a long way off and a long time ago, but I answered in the affirmative. "Good," he said. "What about taking us out tomorrow?". The Regiment had a sailing boat moored alongside the ferry landing stage in Pembroke Dock and, as it was free the following day, the young officer booked it for 3pm.
Singing telephone wires made me aware that the wind strength was way above normal for that part of Pembrokeshire as I packed three passengers and myself into my Morris '8'. However, the die was cast and we drove the ten miles of switch-back road to Pembroke Dock in a cheerful mood.
Milford Haven is what its name implies - a haven for ships and all things that float, including Sunderland flying- boats, a squadron of which was based in Pembroke Dock. When they were not flying hundreds of miles out in the Atlantic looking for Russian submarines, they slumbered in the Haven like a flock of elegant swans.
Our little boat was tucked up under its canvas covers riding happily at its mooring. Someone was at hand to row us out and as soon as I climbed aboard, I set about removing the canvas covers, lowering the centre board and generally getting things ready. One of the young officers, trying to help, unfastened the mooring rope and before I could explain the few basic facts I remembered about sailing, we were drifting into deep water and away from the shelter of the pier.
"Raise the jib (small sail in the bow)," I yelled and the young officer who was responsible for our unscheduled start, hauled one of the ropes until the sail filled with wind to such a degree that we were soon scudding down the haven.
As anyone knows, you cannot manoeuvre a boat properly with just a jib. I wanted to raise the mainsail, but the wind was too strong and I was afraid we would turn upside down if I attempted it with an inexperienced crew. Instead, I concentrated on avoiding the flying-boats that were anchored in my path like bunkers on a golf course.
Unknown to me, we were observed by Lieutenant John Davey using a telescope in his bedroom in the officers' mess, Llanion Barracks (little did we guess in those days he would become Brigadier K.J. Davey CBE, MC, DL and Colonel of the Royal Regiment of Wales).
John was Pembrokeshire born and bred and was the only competent sailor we had in the battalion. He could see we were in trouble, so he rang the squadron office at the RAF base in Pembroke Dock and asked them to provide assistance.
While I was busy dodging flying-boats, my crew were quite enjoying themselves, but after I narrowly missed shaving the wing-tip off the last one of the squadron, and still kept going, they realised that something was wrong. One of them asked if I could turn around and go home as he was feeling cold and sick. The call was taken up by the other two, but I would have none of it. and continued on my course down Milford Haven hoping that I would find sanctuary in an inlet somewhere.
I became aware that we were not on our own when a klaxon horn sounded. I turned around and saw a yellow motor boat flying an RAF flag coming alongside. "Do you need assistance?" bellowed a voice through a loud hailer. "No thank you," I replied, thinking of the embarrassment I would suffer if I owned up to being saved by the RAF. "Yes, we do," shouted the other members of my crew. I was finally out-voted in the 'Yes we do' - 'No we don't' battle of words and we were taken in tow by the launch. I have never been so humiliated in all my life and I sat in the stern of the boat all the way back to the mooring like a modern-day Captain Bligh.
I experienced one other mutiny, but this time my crew comprised my wife and two young children and we were sailing our own boat on Llangorse Lake in South Wales. It was just another family argument which I usually lost - so it doesn't count.
MEDITERRANEAN-MERRY-GO-ROUND
I arrived in Liverpool on a bright sunny day in August 1948 to begin my journey to Cyprus. Although I had been commissioned for two years, this was to be my first experience of travelling aboard a troopship.
"That'll be two and sixpence, guv," said the taxi driver as he drew up alongside the gangway of Canadian Pacific's liner 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA' moored at Prince's Quay. As he unloaded my kit, I looked up at the ship which was to be my home for the next two weeks. Troopships in those days were painted white with a blue line just above the anchor all way round. This one, which displaced 21,830 tons, had three funnels and two masts from which were draped signal flags of many colours.
The taxi driver handed me over to a porter who told me he would attend to my baggage. "I see you've got it well labelled, sir," he said. "Don't worry, leave everything to me. Your 'cabin baggage' will be delivered to the purser's square, 'wanted on voyage' will go to the baggage room and the rest will go down to the hold." He seemed to know what he was doing so I picked up a Gladstone bag which contained my travel documents and a few other odds and ends and went aboard.
I shared a cabin with another officer who soon had all his cabin baggage stowed beneath his bunk, but despite a number of trips to the purser's square, there was no sign of mine. I looked over the ship's side to the place where I had last seen it, but there was nothing there. The baggage room and the hold were out of bounds and no one was able to help me find my kit. At 6pm the restraining hawsers of the ship splashed into the sea and we moved out into the River Mersey. Tugs fussed about us like terriers, nosing here and pulling there until we were in midstream and able to look after ourselves. Soon, we left Liverpool behind and headed down-river to the open sea.
The loss of my kit did not worry me for the first few days, but when we reached Gibraltar, everyone else was able to change into lightweight clothes. I was the exception and had to put up with my heavy winter uniform for the rest of the voyage. It was not too bad during the day, but I missed the white 'drill' mess jackets and navy-blue trousers which I had had made specially for Mediterranean wear.
Our arrival in Malta was an unforgettable experience. I awoke to hear the sound of church bells and when I looked out of the porthole, I saw tiers of brilliant white buildings, all jammed together, rising from the green sea; we were entering Grand Harbour, Valetta. My cabin companion and I got dressed and were up on deck to see more of the island which only six years before had been battered by the German and Italian air forces; there was still plenty of evidence of the damage they caused.
Our next landfall was Haifa in what was then called Palestine, soon to be re-named Israel when the avalanche of Jewish emigrants from Europe forced the hands of the United Nations. Many soldiers disembarked at this point and then, in the late afternoon, we drew anchor and sailed for Port Said in Egypt, only twelve hours away.
Up to this time I was a free-agent, but as we left Haifa I was called to the adjutant's office and told I would be responsible for exchanging English money for Egyptian piastres for about fifty soldiers who would be disembarking at Port Said. The process started that evening when I assembled the soldiers and relieved them of their spare cash, which I handed to the adjutant for safe keeping. As I was leaving his office, one of the clerks put a list of names on the notice board. This gave details of those who would be disembarking the following day and I was surprised to find my name was entered. This was obviously a mistake as the next port of call after Port Said was Limassol in Cyprus, the island where the South Wales Borderers were stationed. I told the adjutant about the error, but all I got was a rude reply.
We arrived in Port Said early the next morning and most people were up on deck to see the waterway that joined the Red Sea with the Mediterranean. History came to life when I saw the huge statue of the French engineer who masterminded the project - Ferdinand de Lessops, at the entrance to the canal. The 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA' moved majestically down the canal parallel to the waterfront where shops were already open for business. I saw the well-known store of SIMON ARTZ which claimed to stock everything required by the discerning traveller whether going east or west or deep into central Africa; we tied up close to the Canal Building.
'Bum-boats' were the first to make contact and it was not long before rope lines were thrown aboard and trading commenced. Baskets containing merchandise ranging from rugs to sculpted wooden figures passed up and down until a price was agreed. Soon to follow were the 'gilli-gilli' men who squatted on the deck and drew a crowd of soldiers by shouting their 'trade-sound': "Gilli-gilli-gilli-gilli." At the same time, they juggled with their props which consisted of chickens' eggs, dice, and small brass pots. They had a quick-fire routine which started with the apparent disappearance of an egg which had been placed beneath one of the pots, only to reappear in a soldier's pocket six feet away. The ship's regimental sergeant major was heard to say: "Take care lads, if that chap there can make those eggs disappear, what chance have you got keeping your wallet safe in this thieving town?"
As soon as I had finished my breakfast, I went to the adjutant's office to get the bag of money and collect a form which I had to complete and present to a field cashier of the Royal Army Pay Corps when he came aboard. I was not the only one who had to change English money into Egyptian piastres. There must have been half a dozen of us who had been detailed to look after various groups of soldiers, and there were officers, warrant officers and families who were being dealt with individually. The cashiers, about five or six of them, sat in a row behind tables on the purser's square and we formed queues in front of them. Eventually, my turn came to be served but when the cashier took my bag of money he said: "You haven't completed this bit." Cursing under my breath, I took the form to a spare table and spent a few minutes completing the extra detail. The queue filled up again and when my turn came, for the second time, I looked into the face of an officer I had not seen before.. I glanced right and left at the other cashiers but none looked like the one to whom I had given my bag of cash. The chap in front of me held out his hand but all I could say was that I had given my money to someone in that exact spot a few minutes ago, and now he seemed to have gone. "What was his name and what did he look like?" asked the cashier. I told him I wasn't on personal terms and, as for a description, he looked remarkably like the 'gilli-gilli' man on the promenade deck. The present incumbent of the chair was getting impatient. "You had better go along to the pay office in Port Said," he said. "Someone might have taken it there."
For the second time on the voyage I was the unwitting victim of the loss of chattels. The first, as yet, unresolved disappearance of my kit was, at least, a personal problem. But the loss of soldiers' money was a different sort of thing altogether. I went along to see the adjutant to get a pass to go ashore. "Do you make a habit of this sort of thing?" he said icily.
I had only a sketchy idea of the location of the Army pay office . On my way there I was accosted by a number of small boys who showed me photographs of their sisters, all of whom were available that morning. Thanking them for their offers, and nearly falling over three other children who were trying to clean my shoes, I followed the directions I had been given. More by luck than judgement I found the building, identifiable by a Union Jack flying from a pole on the roof. I explained my presence and once again sensed a lack of sympathy for my misfortune. The Royal Army Pay Corps require signatures and, as I did not have one, they were not interested. Just as I was about to give up, return to the ship and surrender myself to the soldiers whose money I had lost, I saw the fellow I was looking for walk from one room to another. I grabbed him and demanded he return my money. He looked at me for a second or two and responded with an appropriate analogy: "Now the penny's dropped. I wondered why I was £500 up."
Within a few minutes he had given me the equivalent amount in grubby piastre notes. Never having seen Egyptian money before, I spent a considerable amount of time sorting them out. When I had finished, the cashier arranged for me to return to the ship in a staff car. "You wouldn't last more than five minutes in this area with that bag of cash," he said. I have never experienced such a feeling of relief as I felt that day when I was driven back to the waterfront. As soon as I got aboard the ship, I called my soldiers together and paid them out to the last piastre.
Not all the soldiers on the ship had changed their money because many of them were going to join units in Cyprus including the South Wales Borderers. I went to the adjutant's office again and remonstrated with him, but it was no use. "I don't give a damn about where you say you are going. I have orders to put you off here and that's what I'm going to do." he said. "What about my kit which I haven't seen since I left Liverpool?" I asked. "It will catch up with you sooner or later," he said dismissively.
When the time came to disembark, we descended into lighters which took us across to the east side of the canal. From there we marched to Port Fouad transit camp, which was only a few hundred yards away. We passed through pleasant tree-lined avenues where opulent houses were set back from the road in well tended gardens. This was obviously the wealthy residential district of the metropolis of Port Said which, at that time, was one of the great ports of the world. I began to buck up at the prospect of spending some time in this cheerful place, but the 'cheer' faded when I entered the transit camp and saw rows of khaki '160 pounder' tents.
I had never experienced the heat of a Mediterranean summer before and I found that a small tent on a dusty camp-site was not the best place to start. Even with both ends open and lying on my bed in a state of near nudity, the stifling heat numbed my senses. It was not until about 5pm, when a slight breeze brought some relief, that I started to take an interest in things again. I placed my canvas-backed camp chair at the entrance to the tent and picked up one of the novels I had brought. Before I had read one page, I heard the sound of squeaky wheels. Looking up, I saw an Arab coming towards me pulling a barrow. When he stopped alongside my tent, he took out a small book from within his long white nightshirt, checked the number on my tent-pole and off-loaded two suitcases which I recognised as mine. He made a few more trips between the tent and his barrow and eventually I was reunited with all my kit which I had not seen for two weeks. I felt like kissing him, but on second thoughts I emptied my pockets and gave him all my loose change. I knew exactly where to find a pair of white shorts and a shirt and I could hardly wait to get them on.
No sooner had I got dressed than an announcement was made over the PA system: 'Anyone wanting an advance of pay should report to the camp office'. My pay was then about £25 a month so, as I was about £20 in credit in my bank at home, I cashed a cheque for the lot. That was a considerable amount of money in those days and, as life was sweet and the morrow could take care of itself, I and a few other friends went out for a night on the town.
I must have been in the transit camp for three or four days thoroughly enjoying the routine of swimming at the French Club and spending the evenings in Port Said. Cyprus seemed a long way away and, if the British Army couldn't make up its mind what to do with me, I was prepared to soak up the good life, providing the field cashier continued to sustain me.
The Army had not lost contact with me though and one morning I was told I was being transferred to Base Transit Depot (Suez) the following day. Additionally, I would be responsible for conducting a draft of forty men. At this point, I began to wonder if these people had any idea of sending me to join my regiment at all. Perhaps it was East Africa or India they had in mind!
After an early breakfast, I reported to camp office, collected the documents and met the draft that was formed up ready to move. Our kit was put aboard a truck and we marched to the canal, which we crossed by ferry - then another short march to the railway station.
Before we boarded the train, I told the men not to stick their heads out of the windows when the train was moving. It was a common occurrence for thieves to relieve passengers of their watches and rings as the train moved along the platform. I had heard one nasty story about a soldier nearly having his wrist severed by a cut-throat razor when a 'clefty-wallah' tried to cut his leather watch strap.
As we moved out of Port Said and into the delta area of Egypt, we saw the moving pattern of life in this fertile region irrigated by the mighty River Nile. On one side was a pastoral scene, biblical in its simplicity, while on the other side huge ships seemed to be floating through the desert but were, in fact, on passage through the Suez Canal.
The journey from one end of the canal to the other is about one hundred and ten miles, with a stop at Ismailiya - the half way stage, where we changed trains. I had to attend to the documentation of the draft so I told the senior rank - a sergeant, to look after the men and get them to the right platform. I became immediately involved with the station master who objected to the amount of kit I wanted to take aboard the train. There was no way I was going to let it out of my sight in the guard's van, so I had to reach an understanding with him. When he was satisfied with the crumpled pile of piastre notes I put in his hand, I was allowed to proceed. The station master himself summoned a porter and led the way to the platform for Suez. There was nobody there when I arrived, but eventually the sergeant and a corporal turned up. They looked mystified when I asked them what had happened to the draft. We eventually came to the conclusion they had boarded the train to Cairo which had recently departed from the other side of the platform. Half an hour later, the train for Suez was shunted in and we, the remaining three of the draft, climbed aboard and set off on the second part of the journey. This latest loss of mine had the potential for being the biggest so far and I saw very little of the Bitter Lakes - a natural deep water section of the canal; I was too busy working out what I would say when I arrived, draftless, at the other end.
I had always imagined Suez to be a romantic outpost of the Middle East, but the reality of the place dispelled my illusion. The town itself was set in a stretch of flat desert upon which were built some hideous blocks of flats. The rest of the sprawling township consisted of mud huts with corrugated iron roofs. We went on for a few more miles to a place called Port Tewfik, where the southern part of the canal flows into the Red Sea - or vice versa.
I stuck my head out of the window and saw some soldiers wearing red arm bands on their khaki shirts. I recognised them as Army Movements staff and realised that the time had come for me to report the loss of the draft. "I'm sorry to tell you that I've only got two left. I think the others have gone to Cairo." The senior officer took the documents which I offered him and scanned the contents as if it was an unwelcome bill. "We weren't expecting a draft today," he said. "Where did you say they'd gone?" I told him I could not be sure they had gone to Cairo as I was not conversant with the Egyptian railway system. "It could have been Alexandria," I suggested, as this was the only other place I could think of. The movements officer put the documents in his brief case and went off to attend to some soldiers who were going to Port Said. I found it difficult to understand why no one seemed the slightest bit interested in thirty eight men going adrift, but I had done everything I could think of, so the sergeant, the corporal and I climbed into a truck which took us to the transit camp.
Base Transit Depot (Suez), at Port Tewfik, was much the same as the one at the north end of the canal while the inside of a '160 pounder' tent looks the same anywhere in the world. The down-town area was in walking distance and had the same sort of spacious houses and wide boulevards as in Port Fouad. The Europeans who lived there were mainly French and the club was spectacular.
For the next six days or so, I reported to the camp office each morning to see if there was any news of the missing draft, but the answer was always the same. I would then wander down to the French Club and spend the day by the pool. During the evening, there was usually a film show and I became more proficient in the French language during that week in Port Tewfik than I ever did at school. On my seventh day in the transit camp, I was told I would be going back to Port Said the following day and that I should make myself ready to board the train at 8am.
Even though there were a number of British soldiers travelling on the same train, I was not responsible for them. I do not think they believed in drafts in Port Tewfik and even if they did, I was surely the last person in the world they would have chosen to be the officer in charge.
When I boarded the train, I noticed that some of the soldiers were looking out of the windows, so I told what I had heard about 'cut-throat' razor thieves. Most of them took my advice, but when we arrived at Suez railway station, one soldier continued to lean out of the window. As the train stopped, a native spat in his face. The soldier immediately retaliated by punching the fellow on his nose. That was the signal for all hell to be let loose. I could see that the natives were eager to get to grips with the unarmed soldiers, so I ordered the windows to be closed. This made the Egyptians try another line of attack and I watched as they went further up the train to make their entry.
Before I left home in Wales, a friend of my father gave me a Colt .45 revolver which he had carried during the second world war. I thought it was a kind gesture at the time, but realised later I might have been a convenient depository for a weapon and ammunition that had become an embarrassment. The Egyptians were now racing down the train towards me so, with their leader only about ten yards away, I pulled my enormous revolver out of its leather holster and stuck the muzzle into the fellow's stomach. This had the desired effect and I herded the Egyptians, with their hands in the air, to the nearest door where they fell out onto the platform. The guard realised that something was wrong and he acted promptly when I told him to get his train moving. The enraged natives ran alongside the carriage for the whole length of the platform letting us know what they would do if we ever came to Suez again.
When we arrived at Port Said, we had the problem of getting ourselves and our kit to the waterfront. A sergeant mustered the soldiers into three ranks and then contracted a porter with a large barrow to carry the kit. When all was ready, we moved off with the soldiers up front followed by the porter and finally me, bringing up the rear, keeping an eye on my kit.
When we were half way to the waterfront, the porter stopped and put the shafts of the barrow on the ground. I shouted to the sergeant to halt the men while I dealt with the porter who had gone on strike. The sergeant, who wore a kilt and was made of stern Highland stuff, was not prepared to renogotiate the contract and gave orders to three of the soldiers to take over the barrow and proceed. The porter was outraged and shouted so loud that a hostile crowd collected around us. Our little force closed ranks and, like a Roman phalanx - with the barrow in the middle, we progressed slowly to the canal. Reinforcements in the shape of half a dozen military policemen eventually came to our assistance when we emerged from the native quarter. The sergeant, with magnanimity typical of his race, handed the purple-faced porter a handful of piastres and advised him in a broad Highland dialect: "Dinnae try yurr tricks wi' me agin laddie."
When I reported to the adjutant in the transit camp at Port Fouad, I asked him if there were any other interesting places I could visit. A trip along the north African coast as far as Tobruk would, I suggested, be most acceptable. He looked sourly at me and told me I would be sailing for Cyprus in three days time on the 'EMPIRE COMFORT'.
The 'EMPIRE COMFORT' turned out to be an ex Royal Navy corvette which carried about fifty soldiers in extreme discomfort and a dozen or so officers in medium discomfort. She had a sister ship called 'EMPIRE PEACE MAKER', aptly re-named 'EMPIRE SICK MAKER' by all who voyaged in her. We sailed out of Port Said harbour into a rough sea and I found that my sea-legs were inadequate for this vessel that bobbed round like a cork. I consoled myself with the thought that I would have to spend one night only on board.
Famagusta came into view the next morning and we were soon alongside the jetty. Familiar Welsh voices greeted me as I stepped ashore and one of my friends from Brecon days whisked me away in a jeep to Karaolos Camp, the home of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, a few miles out of town. I was allocated half a Nissan hut in the officers' compound and given the rest of the day to get settled. The adjutant told me the commanding officer would like to see me first thing the following day.
At the appointed hour I appeared before the CO. He was interested to hear what I had done since I was commissioned and he explained the role of the battalion which was guarding twenty thousand illegal Jewish immigrants. Then he dropped the bombshell: "How would you like to be my signals officer?" Anyone less knowledgeable about wireless sets than me would have been difficult to find, and I told him so. "We'll soon fix that," he said. "If you think you can do the job, I propose to send you home to do a signals course in Yorkshire in six weeks time." Naturally, I accepted the offer but I was beginning to wonder if I was destined to be a human albatross, forever travelling over the oceans of the world with only temporary visits to dry land. When I had time to reflect upon the offer, I realised how lucky I was to be given, what many people believed, the best job for a young officer in an infantry battalion.
I travelled home from Port Said on the 'ASTURIAS', a large and luxurious ship returning to Southampton after carrying British emigrants to Australia at £10 a head. I successfully completed an eleven week signals course in Richmond, Yorkshire, spent Christmas 1948 with my parents and returned to Cyprus in the good old 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA'. This time I had no trouble with my kit - after all, I was by this time a seasoned traveller.
"That'll be two and sixpence, guv," said the taxi driver as he drew up alongside the gangway of Canadian Pacific's liner 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA' moored at Prince's Quay. As he unloaded my kit, I looked up at the ship which was to be my home for the next two weeks. Troopships in those days were painted white with a blue line just above the anchor all way round. This one, which displaced 21,830 tons, had three funnels and two masts from which were draped signal flags of many colours.
The taxi driver handed me over to a porter who told me he would attend to my baggage. "I see you've got it well labelled, sir," he said. "Don't worry, leave everything to me. Your 'cabin baggage' will be delivered to the purser's square, 'wanted on voyage' will go to the baggage room and the rest will go down to the hold." He seemed to know what he was doing so I picked up a Gladstone bag which contained my travel documents and a few other odds and ends and went aboard.
I shared a cabin with another officer who soon had all his cabin baggage stowed beneath his bunk, but despite a number of trips to the purser's square, there was no sign of mine. I looked over the ship's side to the place where I had last seen it, but there was nothing there. The baggage room and the hold were out of bounds and no one was able to help me find my kit. At 6pm the restraining hawsers of the ship splashed into the sea and we moved out into the River Mersey. Tugs fussed about us like terriers, nosing here and pulling there until we were in midstream and able to look after ourselves. Soon, we left Liverpool behind and headed down-river to the open sea.
The loss of my kit did not worry me for the first few days, but when we reached Gibraltar, everyone else was able to change into lightweight clothes. I was the exception and had to put up with my heavy winter uniform for the rest of the voyage. It was not too bad during the day, but I missed the white 'drill' mess jackets and navy-blue trousers which I had had made specially for Mediterranean wear.
Our arrival in Malta was an unforgettable experience. I awoke to hear the sound of church bells and when I looked out of the porthole, I saw tiers of brilliant white buildings, all jammed together, rising from the green sea; we were entering Grand Harbour, Valetta. My cabin companion and I got dressed and were up on deck to see more of the island which only six years before had been battered by the German and Italian air forces; there was still plenty of evidence of the damage they caused.
Our next landfall was Haifa in what was then called Palestine, soon to be re-named Israel when the avalanche of Jewish emigrants from Europe forced the hands of the United Nations. Many soldiers disembarked at this point and then, in the late afternoon, we drew anchor and sailed for Port Said in Egypt, only twelve hours away.
Up to this time I was a free-agent, but as we left Haifa I was called to the adjutant's office and told I would be responsible for exchanging English money for Egyptian piastres for about fifty soldiers who would be disembarking at Port Said. The process started that evening when I assembled the soldiers and relieved them of their spare cash, which I handed to the adjutant for safe keeping. As I was leaving his office, one of the clerks put a list of names on the notice board. This gave details of those who would be disembarking the following day and I was surprised to find my name was entered. This was obviously a mistake as the next port of call after Port Said was Limassol in Cyprus, the island where the South Wales Borderers were stationed. I told the adjutant about the error, but all I got was a rude reply.
We arrived in Port Said early the next morning and most people were up on deck to see the waterway that joined the Red Sea with the Mediterranean. History came to life when I saw the huge statue of the French engineer who masterminded the project - Ferdinand de Lessops, at the entrance to the canal. The 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA' moved majestically down the canal parallel to the waterfront where shops were already open for business. I saw the well-known store of SIMON ARTZ which claimed to stock everything required by the discerning traveller whether going east or west or deep into central Africa; we tied up close to the Canal Building.
'Bum-boats' were the first to make contact and it was not long before rope lines were thrown aboard and trading commenced. Baskets containing merchandise ranging from rugs to sculpted wooden figures passed up and down until a price was agreed. Soon to follow were the 'gilli-gilli' men who squatted on the deck and drew a crowd of soldiers by shouting their 'trade-sound': "Gilli-gilli-gilli-gilli." At the same time, they juggled with their props which consisted of chickens' eggs, dice, and small brass pots. They had a quick-fire routine which started with the apparent disappearance of an egg which had been placed beneath one of the pots, only to reappear in a soldier's pocket six feet away. The ship's regimental sergeant major was heard to say: "Take care lads, if that chap there can make those eggs disappear, what chance have you got keeping your wallet safe in this thieving town?"
As soon as I had finished my breakfast, I went to the adjutant's office to get the bag of money and collect a form which I had to complete and present to a field cashier of the Royal Army Pay Corps when he came aboard. I was not the only one who had to change English money into Egyptian piastres. There must have been half a dozen of us who had been detailed to look after various groups of soldiers, and there were officers, warrant officers and families who were being dealt with individually. The cashiers, about five or six of them, sat in a row behind tables on the purser's square and we formed queues in front of them. Eventually, my turn came to be served but when the cashier took my bag of money he said: "You haven't completed this bit." Cursing under my breath, I took the form to a spare table and spent a few minutes completing the extra detail. The queue filled up again and when my turn came, for the second time, I looked into the face of an officer I had not seen before.. I glanced right and left at the other cashiers but none looked like the one to whom I had given my bag of cash. The chap in front of me held out his hand but all I could say was that I had given my money to someone in that exact spot a few minutes ago, and now he seemed to have gone. "What was his name and what did he look like?" asked the cashier. I told him I wasn't on personal terms and, as for a description, he looked remarkably like the 'gilli-gilli' man on the promenade deck. The present incumbent of the chair was getting impatient. "You had better go along to the pay office in Port Said," he said. "Someone might have taken it there."
For the second time on the voyage I was the unwitting victim of the loss of chattels. The first, as yet, unresolved disappearance of my kit was, at least, a personal problem. But the loss of soldiers' money was a different sort of thing altogether. I went along to see the adjutant to get a pass to go ashore. "Do you make a habit of this sort of thing?" he said icily.
I had only a sketchy idea of the location of the Army pay office . On my way there I was accosted by a number of small boys who showed me photographs of their sisters, all of whom were available that morning. Thanking them for their offers, and nearly falling over three other children who were trying to clean my shoes, I followed the directions I had been given. More by luck than judgement I found the building, identifiable by a Union Jack flying from a pole on the roof. I explained my presence and once again sensed a lack of sympathy for my misfortune. The Royal Army Pay Corps require signatures and, as I did not have one, they were not interested. Just as I was about to give up, return to the ship and surrender myself to the soldiers whose money I had lost, I saw the fellow I was looking for walk from one room to another. I grabbed him and demanded he return my money. He looked at me for a second or two and responded with an appropriate analogy: "Now the penny's dropped. I wondered why I was £500 up."
Within a few minutes he had given me the equivalent amount in grubby piastre notes. Never having seen Egyptian money before, I spent a considerable amount of time sorting them out. When I had finished, the cashier arranged for me to return to the ship in a staff car. "You wouldn't last more than five minutes in this area with that bag of cash," he said. I have never experienced such a feeling of relief as I felt that day when I was driven back to the waterfront. As soon as I got aboard the ship, I called my soldiers together and paid them out to the last piastre.
Not all the soldiers on the ship had changed their money because many of them were going to join units in Cyprus including the South Wales Borderers. I went to the adjutant's office again and remonstrated with him, but it was no use. "I don't give a damn about where you say you are going. I have orders to put you off here and that's what I'm going to do." he said. "What about my kit which I haven't seen since I left Liverpool?" I asked. "It will catch up with you sooner or later," he said dismissively.
When the time came to disembark, we descended into lighters which took us across to the east side of the canal. From there we marched to Port Fouad transit camp, which was only a few hundred yards away. We passed through pleasant tree-lined avenues where opulent houses were set back from the road in well tended gardens. This was obviously the wealthy residential district of the metropolis of Port Said which, at that time, was one of the great ports of the world. I began to buck up at the prospect of spending some time in this cheerful place, but the 'cheer' faded when I entered the transit camp and saw rows of khaki '160 pounder' tents.
I had never experienced the heat of a Mediterranean summer before and I found that a small tent on a dusty camp-site was not the best place to start. Even with both ends open and lying on my bed in a state of near nudity, the stifling heat numbed my senses. It was not until about 5pm, when a slight breeze brought some relief, that I started to take an interest in things again. I placed my canvas-backed camp chair at the entrance to the tent and picked up one of the novels I had brought. Before I had read one page, I heard the sound of squeaky wheels. Looking up, I saw an Arab coming towards me pulling a barrow. When he stopped alongside my tent, he took out a small book from within his long white nightshirt, checked the number on my tent-pole and off-loaded two suitcases which I recognised as mine. He made a few more trips between the tent and his barrow and eventually I was reunited with all my kit which I had not seen for two weeks. I felt like kissing him, but on second thoughts I emptied my pockets and gave him all my loose change. I knew exactly where to find a pair of white shorts and a shirt and I could hardly wait to get them on.
No sooner had I got dressed than an announcement was made over the PA system: 'Anyone wanting an advance of pay should report to the camp office'. My pay was then about £25 a month so, as I was about £20 in credit in my bank at home, I cashed a cheque for the lot. That was a considerable amount of money in those days and, as life was sweet and the morrow could take care of itself, I and a few other friends went out for a night on the town.
I must have been in the transit camp for three or four days thoroughly enjoying the routine of swimming at the French Club and spending the evenings in Port Said. Cyprus seemed a long way away and, if the British Army couldn't make up its mind what to do with me, I was prepared to soak up the good life, providing the field cashier continued to sustain me.
The Army had not lost contact with me though and one morning I was told I was being transferred to Base Transit Depot (Suez) the following day. Additionally, I would be responsible for conducting a draft of forty men. At this point, I began to wonder if these people had any idea of sending me to join my regiment at all. Perhaps it was East Africa or India they had in mind!
After an early breakfast, I reported to camp office, collected the documents and met the draft that was formed up ready to move. Our kit was put aboard a truck and we marched to the canal, which we crossed by ferry - then another short march to the railway station.
Before we boarded the train, I told the men not to stick their heads out of the windows when the train was moving. It was a common occurrence for thieves to relieve passengers of their watches and rings as the train moved along the platform. I had heard one nasty story about a soldier nearly having his wrist severed by a cut-throat razor when a 'clefty-wallah' tried to cut his leather watch strap.
As we moved out of Port Said and into the delta area of Egypt, we saw the moving pattern of life in this fertile region irrigated by the mighty River Nile. On one side was a pastoral scene, biblical in its simplicity, while on the other side huge ships seemed to be floating through the desert but were, in fact, on passage through the Suez Canal.
The journey from one end of the canal to the other is about one hundred and ten miles, with a stop at Ismailiya - the half way stage, where we changed trains. I had to attend to the documentation of the draft so I told the senior rank - a sergeant, to look after the men and get them to the right platform. I became immediately involved with the station master who objected to the amount of kit I wanted to take aboard the train. There was no way I was going to let it out of my sight in the guard's van, so I had to reach an understanding with him. When he was satisfied with the crumpled pile of piastre notes I put in his hand, I was allowed to proceed. The station master himself summoned a porter and led the way to the platform for Suez. There was nobody there when I arrived, but eventually the sergeant and a corporal turned up. They looked mystified when I asked them what had happened to the draft. We eventually came to the conclusion they had boarded the train to Cairo which had recently departed from the other side of the platform. Half an hour later, the train for Suez was shunted in and we, the remaining three of the draft, climbed aboard and set off on the second part of the journey. This latest loss of mine had the potential for being the biggest so far and I saw very little of the Bitter Lakes - a natural deep water section of the canal; I was too busy working out what I would say when I arrived, draftless, at the other end.
I had always imagined Suez to be a romantic outpost of the Middle East, but the reality of the place dispelled my illusion. The town itself was set in a stretch of flat desert upon which were built some hideous blocks of flats. The rest of the sprawling township consisted of mud huts with corrugated iron roofs. We went on for a few more miles to a place called Port Tewfik, where the southern part of the canal flows into the Red Sea - or vice versa.
I stuck my head out of the window and saw some soldiers wearing red arm bands on their khaki shirts. I recognised them as Army Movements staff and realised that the time had come for me to report the loss of the draft. "I'm sorry to tell you that I've only got two left. I think the others have gone to Cairo." The senior officer took the documents which I offered him and scanned the contents as if it was an unwelcome bill. "We weren't expecting a draft today," he said. "Where did you say they'd gone?" I told him I could not be sure they had gone to Cairo as I was not conversant with the Egyptian railway system. "It could have been Alexandria," I suggested, as this was the only other place I could think of. The movements officer put the documents in his brief case and went off to attend to some soldiers who were going to Port Said. I found it difficult to understand why no one seemed the slightest bit interested in thirty eight men going adrift, but I had done everything I could think of, so the sergeant, the corporal and I climbed into a truck which took us to the transit camp.
Base Transit Depot (Suez), at Port Tewfik, was much the same as the one at the north end of the canal while the inside of a '160 pounder' tent looks the same anywhere in the world. The down-town area was in walking distance and had the same sort of spacious houses and wide boulevards as in Port Fouad. The Europeans who lived there were mainly French and the club was spectacular.
For the next six days or so, I reported to the camp office each morning to see if there was any news of the missing draft, but the answer was always the same. I would then wander down to the French Club and spend the day by the pool. During the evening, there was usually a film show and I became more proficient in the French language during that week in Port Tewfik than I ever did at school. On my seventh day in the transit camp, I was told I would be going back to Port Said the following day and that I should make myself ready to board the train at 8am.
Even though there were a number of British soldiers travelling on the same train, I was not responsible for them. I do not think they believed in drafts in Port Tewfik and even if they did, I was surely the last person in the world they would have chosen to be the officer in charge.
When I boarded the train, I noticed that some of the soldiers were looking out of the windows, so I told what I had heard about 'cut-throat' razor thieves. Most of them took my advice, but when we arrived at Suez railway station, one soldier continued to lean out of the window. As the train stopped, a native spat in his face. The soldier immediately retaliated by punching the fellow on his nose. That was the signal for all hell to be let loose. I could see that the natives were eager to get to grips with the unarmed soldiers, so I ordered the windows to be closed. This made the Egyptians try another line of attack and I watched as they went further up the train to make their entry.
Before I left home in Wales, a friend of my father gave me a Colt .45 revolver which he had carried during the second world war. I thought it was a kind gesture at the time, but realised later I might have been a convenient depository for a weapon and ammunition that had become an embarrassment. The Egyptians were now racing down the train towards me so, with their leader only about ten yards away, I pulled my enormous revolver out of its leather holster and stuck the muzzle into the fellow's stomach. This had the desired effect and I herded the Egyptians, with their hands in the air, to the nearest door where they fell out onto the platform. The guard realised that something was wrong and he acted promptly when I told him to get his train moving. The enraged natives ran alongside the carriage for the whole length of the platform letting us know what they would do if we ever came to Suez again.
When we arrived at Port Said, we had the problem of getting ourselves and our kit to the waterfront. A sergeant mustered the soldiers into three ranks and then contracted a porter with a large barrow to carry the kit. When all was ready, we moved off with the soldiers up front followed by the porter and finally me, bringing up the rear, keeping an eye on my kit.
When we were half way to the waterfront, the porter stopped and put the shafts of the barrow on the ground. I shouted to the sergeant to halt the men while I dealt with the porter who had gone on strike. The sergeant, who wore a kilt and was made of stern Highland stuff, was not prepared to renogotiate the contract and gave orders to three of the soldiers to take over the barrow and proceed. The porter was outraged and shouted so loud that a hostile crowd collected around us. Our little force closed ranks and, like a Roman phalanx - with the barrow in the middle, we progressed slowly to the canal. Reinforcements in the shape of half a dozen military policemen eventually came to our assistance when we emerged from the native quarter. The sergeant, with magnanimity typical of his race, handed the purple-faced porter a handful of piastres and advised him in a broad Highland dialect: "Dinnae try yurr tricks wi' me agin laddie."
When I reported to the adjutant in the transit camp at Port Fouad, I asked him if there were any other interesting places I could visit. A trip along the north African coast as far as Tobruk would, I suggested, be most acceptable. He looked sourly at me and told me I would be sailing for Cyprus in three days time on the 'EMPIRE COMFORT'.
The 'EMPIRE COMFORT' turned out to be an ex Royal Navy corvette which carried about fifty soldiers in extreme discomfort and a dozen or so officers in medium discomfort. She had a sister ship called 'EMPIRE PEACE MAKER', aptly re-named 'EMPIRE SICK MAKER' by all who voyaged in her. We sailed out of Port Said harbour into a rough sea and I found that my sea-legs were inadequate for this vessel that bobbed round like a cork. I consoled myself with the thought that I would have to spend one night only on board.
Famagusta came into view the next morning and we were soon alongside the jetty. Familiar Welsh voices greeted me as I stepped ashore and one of my friends from Brecon days whisked me away in a jeep to Karaolos Camp, the home of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, a few miles out of town. I was allocated half a Nissan hut in the officers' compound and given the rest of the day to get settled. The adjutant told me the commanding officer would like to see me first thing the following day.
At the appointed hour I appeared before the CO. He was interested to hear what I had done since I was commissioned and he explained the role of the battalion which was guarding twenty thousand illegal Jewish immigrants. Then he dropped the bombshell: "How would you like to be my signals officer?" Anyone less knowledgeable about wireless sets than me would have been difficult to find, and I told him so. "We'll soon fix that," he said. "If you think you can do the job, I propose to send you home to do a signals course in Yorkshire in six weeks time." Naturally, I accepted the offer but I was beginning to wonder if I was destined to be a human albatross, forever travelling over the oceans of the world with only temporary visits to dry land. When I had time to reflect upon the offer, I realised how lucky I was to be given, what many people believed, the best job for a young officer in an infantry battalion.
I travelled home from Port Said on the 'ASTURIAS', a large and luxurious ship returning to Southampton after carrying British emigrants to Australia at £10 a head. I successfully completed an eleven week signals course in Richmond, Yorkshire, spent Christmas 1948 with my parents and returned to Cyprus in the good old 'EMPRESS OF AUSTRALIA'. This time I had no trouble with my kit - after all, I was by this time a seasoned traveller.
OFF PISTE
One of the most enjoyable aspects about being a public relations officer with 2 Division of the British Rhine Army was covering the annual ski meeting in Bavaria. Not only did I enjoy myself, but I was able to take my wife and children along with me. We used to travel by car from our home in Lubbecke, North Germany during the first week in January and head for Oberjoch in the Algau Alps, a journey of about 500 miles. After the first year (1967) when we battled through blizzards to get there, the following two years - though no less horrific in weather terms, were made somewhat easier by being travellers on a familiar route.
The whole village was taken over by skiers of 2 Division for two weeks. This was convenient for us and beneficial to the local economy, public relations were excellent without any effort on my part. My job was to provide photographs and stories about soldiers taking part in winter sports for local newspapers in the United Kingdom. In addition, my team used to make short TV films for provincial TV stations. In those days we had to work hard to attract young men and women to join the Army and this sort of publicity was considered useful.
One day, my cameraman and I were on the slopes looking for suitable photo opportunities, when I heard a shout. I looked up and saw a heavily built figure on skis heading towards me. Being ski-less and unable to move out of his way, I was relieved when the person narrowly missed me. In his effort to change direction, he lost his balance and collided with a tree. Dropping my camera equipment, I floundered through the snow to see if he had hurt himself.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "No, I'm not bloody alright," he replied, "neither would you be if you'd hit this tree." The skier was obviously British and, by the sound of his voice, was an officer of considerable seniority. I grabbed his arm and attempted to get him on his feet, but he yelled: "Put me down." Within a few seconds a trio of experienced skiers skidded to a halt and took over. I soon became aware that the person who had hit the tree was Lieutenant General Sir John Mogg, the Corps Commander and that he had broken a leg. I could see that I was not in a position to help and, anxious to protect my identity, I struggled to put as much distance as I could between the General and myself.
It is not often in one's career that an opportunity presents itself to incapacitate a corps commander! I realised I had committed the unforgivable sin of crossing the piste without skis and that this would not be dismissed lightly.
It became common knowledge in Oberjoch that the public relations officer had caused the trouble and my own General (of 2 Division) asked me why I had to pick on the Corps Commander when there were many other people available. I tried to explain that I did not 'pick' on him. If anything, he had picked on me as there was plenty of room on the mountain for him to go skiing.
For the next two days General Mogg was confined to bed in the local hospital with his leg encased in a large plaster cast. On the third day he felt fit enough to walk around the town on crutches. I was coming out of one of the souvenir shops near the bottom of the ski lift when I nearly collided with him again. There was an explosion when he recognised me and I beat a hasty retreat for the second time in three days.
Things are rarely as bad as they seem and the Corps Commander was soon able to dispense with his plaster and crutches. I used to meet him quite often at his headquarters in Bielefeld, North Germany and he would glower at me and mutter something about 'bloody pedestrians'. We both moved on, he to greater heights and me to a recruiting/publicity job in Wales. We did not see each other for quite some time.
The Commanding Officer of the infantry training camp in Crickhowell, South Wales in the mid '70s' was a fellow who had gained a reputation for unusual ideas. He was talking to my wife at a cocktail party when the name of General Sir John Mogg was mentioned. My wife told him what had happened at Oberjoch about eight years previously and this gave him an idea - which involved me.
The following day, he checked the accuracy o what my wife had told him and then asked if I would like to join the top-table for lunch in two weeks time when the General would be visiting the camp. I was pleased to accept.
A week later, I found there was a price to pay for having lunch with my old Corps Commander; the CO told me what he had in mind: "When the General arrives at the mess, I want you to stand in the hall dressed in Arctic combat clothing, carrying skis and wearing snow goggles. I will bring him over to you and say: 'I believe you know this officer, General' - that will be the signal for you to remove your goggles." I was struck dumb for a few seconds while I digested the high explosive content of what the CO wanted me to do. When I recovered, I replied as courteously as I could that I would rather put my head in a lion's mouth. The Commanding Officer pressed me hard to change my mind but I stood my ground. I thought the invitation to sit at the top-table would be withdrawn, but it was not and we all had a pleasant time.
General Sir John greeted me like an old friend and asked me if I had been skiing lately. I told him I had never been much of a skier - skating on thin ice was more in my line.
The whole village was taken over by skiers of 2 Division for two weeks. This was convenient for us and beneficial to the local economy, public relations were excellent without any effort on my part. My job was to provide photographs and stories about soldiers taking part in winter sports for local newspapers in the United Kingdom. In addition, my team used to make short TV films for provincial TV stations. In those days we had to work hard to attract young men and women to join the Army and this sort of publicity was considered useful.
One day, my cameraman and I were on the slopes looking for suitable photo opportunities, when I heard a shout. I looked up and saw a heavily built figure on skis heading towards me. Being ski-less and unable to move out of his way, I was relieved when the person narrowly missed me. In his effort to change direction, he lost his balance and collided with a tree. Dropping my camera equipment, I floundered through the snow to see if he had hurt himself.
"Are you alright?" I asked. "No, I'm not bloody alright," he replied, "neither would you be if you'd hit this tree." The skier was obviously British and, by the sound of his voice, was an officer of considerable seniority. I grabbed his arm and attempted to get him on his feet, but he yelled: "Put me down." Within a few seconds a trio of experienced skiers skidded to a halt and took over. I soon became aware that the person who had hit the tree was Lieutenant General Sir John Mogg, the Corps Commander and that he had broken a leg. I could see that I was not in a position to help and, anxious to protect my identity, I struggled to put as much distance as I could between the General and myself.
It is not often in one's career that an opportunity presents itself to incapacitate a corps commander! I realised I had committed the unforgivable sin of crossing the piste without skis and that this would not be dismissed lightly.
It became common knowledge in Oberjoch that the public relations officer had caused the trouble and my own General (of 2 Division) asked me why I had to pick on the Corps Commander when there were many other people available. I tried to explain that I did not 'pick' on him. If anything, he had picked on me as there was plenty of room on the mountain for him to go skiing.
For the next two days General Mogg was confined to bed in the local hospital with his leg encased in a large plaster cast. On the third day he felt fit enough to walk around the town on crutches. I was coming out of one of the souvenir shops near the bottom of the ski lift when I nearly collided with him again. There was an explosion when he recognised me and I beat a hasty retreat for the second time in three days.
Things are rarely as bad as they seem and the Corps Commander was soon able to dispense with his plaster and crutches. I used to meet him quite often at his headquarters in Bielefeld, North Germany and he would glower at me and mutter something about 'bloody pedestrians'. We both moved on, he to greater heights and me to a recruiting/publicity job in Wales. We did not see each other for quite some time.
The Commanding Officer of the infantry training camp in Crickhowell, South Wales in the mid '70s' was a fellow who had gained a reputation for unusual ideas. He was talking to my wife at a cocktail party when the name of General Sir John Mogg was mentioned. My wife told him what had happened at Oberjoch about eight years previously and this gave him an idea - which involved me.
The following day, he checked the accuracy o what my wife had told him and then asked if I would like to join the top-table for lunch in two weeks time when the General would be visiting the camp. I was pleased to accept.
A week later, I found there was a price to pay for having lunch with my old Corps Commander; the CO told me what he had in mind: "When the General arrives at the mess, I want you to stand in the hall dressed in Arctic combat clothing, carrying skis and wearing snow goggles. I will bring him over to you and say: 'I believe you know this officer, General' - that will be the signal for you to remove your goggles." I was struck dumb for a few seconds while I digested the high explosive content of what the CO wanted me to do. When I recovered, I replied as courteously as I could that I would rather put my head in a lion's mouth. The Commanding Officer pressed me hard to change my mind but I stood my ground. I thought the invitation to sit at the top-table would be withdrawn, but it was not and we all had a pleasant time.
General Sir John greeted me like an old friend and asked me if I had been skiing lately. I told him I had never been much of a skier - skating on thin ice was more in my line.
PEARL OF THE ORIENT
The relaxed style of the 'confrontation' campaign by Indonesia against Malaysia when the new state was established in the early 60's became apparent as soon as I landed in Tawau airport, Sabah in October 1965. I was met by a Malaysian officer who wanted to know if I would like to see the Brigadier (Malay). It would have been impolite to say no, so I shook him by the hand and said: "Yes, please." "Well, you can't," he replied. "It's a holiday today."
Holidays are an ever present feature of life in Malaysia and rarely does a two week period pass without a Malay, Chinese or Indian festival taking place. Despite Malaysia being an Islamic country, members of indigenous races enjoy celebrating Christmas and Easter just as much, if not more, than Christians. It's not hard to understand why: the sound of cash registers in all the big shops has long beaten Christmas carols to No. 1 in the Christmas charts.
Another example of the relaxed style with which Malays and Indonesians confronted each other was the presence of at least half a dozen Indonesian sailing boats, known as 'cumpits' at their moorings in Tawau harbour at any one time. These small sailing boats plied their trade without hindrance over a wide area of the South China Sea throughout the troubles.
One of my jobs as Second-in-Command 2/RANGERS was to pursue the 'hearts and minds' campaign. A considerable sum of money had been voted to provide children's playgrounds and this was deemed to be an excellent opportunity to get to know villagers. The procedure went like this: First - a village would be selected and a reconnaissance carried out to see if the villagers wanted a playground and, if so, where it should be sited. Second - the contract for the construction of swings, roundabouts and slides to be drawn up with a local contractor in Tawau. Third - the preparation of concrete foundations in the village and, finally, Fourth - the delivery by me and a working party of the playground, in kit form, ready for assembly on the concrete slabs. The village headman would make it quite an occasion, the children would be given a day off from school and there would be speeches and toasts and, hopefully, declarations of support against the common enemy.
The day before we set off for one of the villages destined to receive a set of playground equipment, I checked to make sure it was complete and then had it loaded on a couple of Army lorries. I and about a dozen soldiers comprising the working party, made an early start as there had been continuous rain during the previous week. Even though it was only a round trip of sixty miles, the roads were so bad that progress could be as little as ten miles an hour. The 'roads' through the jungle were just cleared tracks where trees had been felled by Chinese logging companies. It was quite a useful scheme for all concerned; the Chinese were able to cut down valuable hardwood while the Sabahan government benefited from the revenue paid for timber as well as being able to develop tracks and bridges used by the loggers. Nowadays, many of these tracks have become wide thoroughfares connecting towns and villages which, in my day, could only be reached by sea.
The journey was just as I expected - painfully slow. At one stage, when we were crossing a log bridge, the wheels of one of the lorries slipped between two tree trunks and it took us a few hours to get moving again. As a result, our schedule was badly affected and by the time we had put the playground together and made sure that everything worked properly, it was too late to make the return journey.
This was not a problem; we were operating in Borneo where the pace of life is much slower than most other places in the world. The local PWD (public works department) allowed us to occupy some atap (palm frond) huts in his compound and the soldiers were quite happy to spend a night in the village, where one of them was able to see his family. I had a hut for my own use and I brought a hammock, a mosquito net and a couple of blankets to be on the safe side. I could have joined the soldiers who were making a curry from the contents of their emergency ration packs, but decided, instead, to go into the village for an evening meal.
When I parked my Land Rover near the padang (village green), I could see that the night shift had taken over. Screams of adult laughter rang around the padang as grown men and women gave the swings, slides and roundabouts a thoroughly good test. Some of them recognised me as their benefactor and greeted me again most warmly. I considered that 'hearts and minds' in this particular village had been well and truly captured.
I spent some time with the villagers and then became aware that I had not had much to eat since breakfast. It was only a small place and I did not expect to find anything so sophisticated as a restaurant. I walked around the padang again and someone was kind enough to direct me to a place where food was available.
The door of the house facing the padang was closed, so I walked around to the back. I climbed a few steps, looked through the window and saw a Chinese family sitting down to their evening meal; the father of the family got to his feet and invited me in. I asked him in Malay if he could serve me with food and he led me to a room normally used for that purpose. Seated at a table was a Chinese woman of middle age who listened as the towkay (owner of the establishment) spoke to her in Cantonese. She then spoke to me in excellent English and introduced herself as Pearl Chung.
"I understand you would like something to eat," she said. I was delighted to meet such an agreeable companion and I asked her what was on offer. There was nothing like a menu in this most humble of eating establishments so I told her that anything would do as long as it came quickly. She said that she was waiting for a meal herself, and suggested that she double the order. "Yes, please," I replied, "and what would you like to drink?" She had an empty bottle of Tiger beer in front of her and nodded towards it.
The main course, as far as I can remember, was a pile of rice accompanied by bits of chicken and duck which are usually thrown away by more discriminating cooks. It was food, nevertheless, and when I had finished I was able to give my full attention to liquid refreshment.
Pearl and I sat well into the night drinking rice wine (when the towkay's stock of Tiger beer was exhausted). At about one o'clock in the morning I realized that I would be incapable of driving if I drank any more wine so I offered to drive Pearl home. Getting her down the back steps was quite a job and an even more difficult task was to get her into the vehicle. She directed me out of the village and along the road towards the sea. After we had travelled about two hundred yards, she told me to turn right and follow a track between some banana trees. Eventually, we came to an atap hut with a brilliant white door. "Here we are," said Pearl as she stumbled out of the vehicle.
She told me she was 'attached' to someone and, although our friendship was quite above board, I had no wish to be confronted by a Chinaman who could be excused for thinking otherwise. I was about to drive away when the door opened and a male European dressed in immaculate white drill from head to foot said: "Hello, darling. Who have you brought home?" He grabbed Pearl around the waist with one hand and put the other on the bonnet of the Land Rover. Pearl gave her boy friend, or whatever he was, a kiss and then pointed to me: "This is Bob Smith - we've had a great time together." Short of running over Pearl's boy friend, I was unable to make my exit and, as he showed no intention of enquiring into what sort of 'great time' we had had together, I opened the door and got out. "Andrew Millard," said the man in white, "late of the Royal Navy. Come inside old boy and have something to drink. We don't see many Army chaps around here."
From the outside, the house looked like most other native dwellings, but once inside, I found it was pleasantly decorated. A typewriter on the desk and a wide selection of books on shelves led me to believe that Andrew or Pearl did some writing. I was right in this assumption as Andrew explained that he supplemented his pension by submitting the odd story to the Sabah newspaper printed in Jesselton (now called Kota Kinabalu). I had consumed enough rice wine that night to last me for the rest of my time in Borneo but, over the next few hours, Pearl and I found second wind and by the time I left, at getting on for 3 o'clock, the place was littered with empty bottles.
The story of Andrew and Pearl started in Hong Kong where Andrew was serving with the Royal Navy. He had a shore job most of the time and spent the last three years of his service in the colony. On one of his sea trips, he visited an idyllic village on the east coast of Sabah (then called British North Borneo). He told Pearl about it and when he retired they decided to live there. They bought a ramshackle van which Andrew used as a taxi to carry around employees of logging companies. Pearl, for her part, bought a large refrigerator and went into the ice cream business. Something went wrong with the refrigerator though and when, for the second time in six months, she caused food poisoning among the villagers, they became quite angry and drove the pair out. They had to abandon everything that would not fit into the van and fled to the place where I found them.
Pearl wanted me to stay the night, or what was left of it, but I decided that it was time to get back to my hammock in the PWD compound. A few hours later, I was woken by a soldier offering me a cup of tea at the start of another day. The track had dried out and we had an uneventful journey back to Tawau.
About three months later, I was sitting in my office when the phone rang. I picked it up and a voice said: "Hello, Bob, this is Pearl. I'm staying in the Tawau Hotel for a few days. Can we meet." In a flash, I remembered I had urgent business which would take at least three days to complete on Pulau Sebatik, a large island a few miles from the mainland which was our operational responsibility.
I met her and Andrew once again when I paid a visit to the village to see if the playground was still there. It seemed more circumspect that way!
POLES APART
Early in 1950 the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers mounted its first large scale operation against the shifta (bandits) of Eritrea. Banditry has been a way of life since time began in this rugged East African country sandwiched between the Red Sea, Ethiopia and the Sudan, but a few years after the end of the second world war, a political flavour was introduced to their national sport. It was Mussolini's dream to have an East African empire, but things turned sour on him in 1940 when British, Indian and South African forces defeated his army in Somaliland, Abyssinia and Eritrea.
When we arrived in Asmara nine years later, there were still plenty of Italian expatriates about. In fact the whole country, radiating from its beautiful capital city, gave the impression of a pleasant part of northern Italy. Our job was to look after the interests of these poor Italians and stop shifta from wiping them out, which they would have done given half a chance.
The area selected for our first anti-shifta operation was an expanse of semi desert country west of Keren. We travelled by road from Asmara through rugged mountain country where mighty outcrops of rock, densely covered in prickly pear cactus provided excellent observation posts for shifta who were waiting for an opportunity to snipe at vehicles. For this reason, we always travelled in convoy with everyone armed and alert.
We reached the edge of the plateau where, in March 1941, British and Indian troops under General Platt fought one of the toughest battles of the war. As we descended through the gorge we marvelled at the tenacity of our soldiers who levered themselves to victory with their finger nails. Marked on a rock in white paint for all to see were the words: HLI SCOTLAND FOR EVER (HLI means Highland Light Infantry). At the bottom of the gorge, the road ran through undulating country sparsely covered with thorn bush. Twenty miles or so further on we turned left and headed for a place on the map marked Arressa; this was the location of battalion headquarters. We arrived during the late afternoon and were able to erect our tents before darkness enveloped us.
The next morning, the commanding officer held his 'O' (orders) group. The operation had already started and I, as signals officer, felt a certain amount of satisfaction as wireless communications were working reasonably well and information was trickling in. When operational matters had been covered, the CO came to the 'command and signal' part of his orders. "I have decided to have my Tac HQ (tactical headquarters) in the police post on the top of the hill over there," he said. We followed the direction of his finger and saw a small white-washed hut sitting like a pimple on a hill a few hundred yards away. "Signals officer - I want a wireless and telephone to be set up. Any problems?" "No, sir," I replied, "I'll get that fixed right away." "Good," said the colonel as he rose from his camp chair and strode towards his jeep. He looked back over his shoulder and said: "There's just one more thing, pole the telephone cable." "Hang on, sir," I shouted. "We haven't brought any poles with us." The colonel stopped in his tracks, turned around slowly and said menacingly: "I'm not concerned whether or not you have brought poles with you, just get that cable poled." With that, he got into his car and drove off.
I was fortunate to have an efficient signals sergeant called 'Duke' Dyer. I went across to the signals tent and gave him the outline of the CO's orders. "That's the place over there," I said, pointing to the small hut on the hill. "Righto. sir, no problem," said the resourceful 'Duke'. "There's just one more thing, Sergeant Dyer," I said, "pole the cable." "We haven't brought any poles," he replied. I gave him a stern look and said: "I don't give a damn whether or not you've brought any poles, just get that cable off the ground." I turned on my heel and walked off. I give credit to Sergeant Dyer and the signallers for trying hard. They collected all the spare tent poles and every bit of wood they could find in the quartermaster's compound which would raise the cable off the ground, but it wasn't enough. After a short distance from the magneto (field) exchange, they ran out of 'poles' and the telephone line had to lie on the ground.
The following day at the CO's 'O' group, I had a feeling that things were not going well. When he got around to the 'command and signal' bit, he looked at me and said: "Didn't I tell you to pole the cable to my Tac HQ?" "Yes, sir," I whispered. "Then, why-have-you-not-done-it?" he said in that clipped way of his which signalled trouble. I stumbled with a lame excuse about not being able to find anything else to lift the line and received another broadside: "Absolute nonsense," bellowed the colonel. "The place is littered with poles. Go outside and I'll show you." Leaving the others inside the tent, the CO picked up a piece of wood which turned and coiled back on itself until it resembled a modern art version of a corkscrew. "What's wrong with this?" he said. "A few of these tied together will be ideal. The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't use your head." Just to add substance to his words he picked up a few more bent sticks he found under a bush. "I want that cable poled by midday," he snapped.
I gathered 'Duke' Dyer and the signallers together and we set about scouring the barren landscape for anything made of wood. Nothing was rejected and we soon had a production line of signallers tying together an assortment of twisted shapes. We made slow progress getting the cable off the ground and every time we erected a 'pole' I looked at the small hut on the hill to see if it was getting any closer. At last, within five minutes of the deadline, we struggled up the remaining few yards to the CO's Tac HQ and drove in the last 'pole', which resembled three badly damaged bicycle wheels.
The colonel came out of the hut and surveyed the undulating cable stretching back to battalion headquarters. I wiped the sweat off my brow and gasped: "I never thought we would do it, sir." He looked at me with a smile on his face and said: "I'll let you into a secret, Bob. I didn't think you would either. Well done."
When we arrived in Asmara nine years later, there were still plenty of Italian expatriates about. In fact the whole country, radiating from its beautiful capital city, gave the impression of a pleasant part of northern Italy. Our job was to look after the interests of these poor Italians and stop shifta from wiping them out, which they would have done given half a chance.
The area selected for our first anti-shifta operation was an expanse of semi desert country west of Keren. We travelled by road from Asmara through rugged mountain country where mighty outcrops of rock, densely covered in prickly pear cactus provided excellent observation posts for shifta who were waiting for an opportunity to snipe at vehicles. For this reason, we always travelled in convoy with everyone armed and alert.
We reached the edge of the plateau where, in March 1941, British and Indian troops under General Platt fought one of the toughest battles of the war. As we descended through the gorge we marvelled at the tenacity of our soldiers who levered themselves to victory with their finger nails. Marked on a rock in white paint for all to see were the words: HLI SCOTLAND FOR EVER (HLI means Highland Light Infantry). At the bottom of the gorge, the road ran through undulating country sparsely covered with thorn bush. Twenty miles or so further on we turned left and headed for a place on the map marked Arressa; this was the location of battalion headquarters. We arrived during the late afternoon and were able to erect our tents before darkness enveloped us.
The next morning, the commanding officer held his 'O' (orders) group. The operation had already started and I, as signals officer, felt a certain amount of satisfaction as wireless communications were working reasonably well and information was trickling in. When operational matters had been covered, the CO came to the 'command and signal' part of his orders. "I have decided to have my Tac HQ (tactical headquarters) in the police post on the top of the hill over there," he said. We followed the direction of his finger and saw a small white-washed hut sitting like a pimple on a hill a few hundred yards away. "Signals officer - I want a wireless and telephone to be set up. Any problems?" "No, sir," I replied, "I'll get that fixed right away." "Good," said the colonel as he rose from his camp chair and strode towards his jeep. He looked back over his shoulder and said: "There's just one more thing, pole the telephone cable." "Hang on, sir," I shouted. "We haven't brought any poles with us." The colonel stopped in his tracks, turned around slowly and said menacingly: "I'm not concerned whether or not you have brought poles with you, just get that cable poled." With that, he got into his car and drove off.
I was fortunate to have an efficient signals sergeant called 'Duke' Dyer. I went across to the signals tent and gave him the outline of the CO's orders. "That's the place over there," I said, pointing to the small hut on the hill. "Righto. sir, no problem," said the resourceful 'Duke'. "There's just one more thing, Sergeant Dyer," I said, "pole the cable." "We haven't brought any poles," he replied. I gave him a stern look and said: "I don't give a damn whether or not you've brought any poles, just get that cable off the ground." I turned on my heel and walked off. I give credit to Sergeant Dyer and the signallers for trying hard. They collected all the spare tent poles and every bit of wood they could find in the quartermaster's compound which would raise the cable off the ground, but it wasn't enough. After a short distance from the magneto (field) exchange, they ran out of 'poles' and the telephone line had to lie on the ground.
The following day at the CO's 'O' group, I had a feeling that things were not going well. When he got around to the 'command and signal' bit, he looked at me and said: "Didn't I tell you to pole the cable to my Tac HQ?" "Yes, sir," I whispered. "Then, why-have-you-not-done-it?" he said in that clipped way of his which signalled trouble. I stumbled with a lame excuse about not being able to find anything else to lift the line and received another broadside: "Absolute nonsense," bellowed the colonel. "The place is littered with poles. Go outside and I'll show you." Leaving the others inside the tent, the CO picked up a piece of wood which turned and coiled back on itself until it resembled a modern art version of a corkscrew. "What's wrong with this?" he said. "A few of these tied together will be ideal. The trouble with you, my boy, is that you don't use your head." Just to add substance to his words he picked up a few more bent sticks he found under a bush. "I want that cable poled by midday," he snapped.
I gathered 'Duke' Dyer and the signallers together and we set about scouring the barren landscape for anything made of wood. Nothing was rejected and we soon had a production line of signallers tying together an assortment of twisted shapes. We made slow progress getting the cable off the ground and every time we erected a 'pole' I looked at the small hut on the hill to see if it was getting any closer. At last, within five minutes of the deadline, we struggled up the remaining few yards to the CO's Tac HQ and drove in the last 'pole', which resembled three badly damaged bicycle wheels.
The colonel came out of the hut and surveyed the undulating cable stretching back to battalion headquarters. I wiped the sweat off my brow and gasped: "I never thought we would do it, sir." He looked at me with a smile on his face and said: "I'll let you into a secret, Bob. I didn't think you would either. Well done."
STANDING PROUD
It's good to attend a wedding now and again. It makes you dig out your morning dress, check for moth holes and find if it's still in fashion. Your wife looks upon the celebration of nuptials as a good excuse to plunge her account at Harrod's or Harvey Nick's into deep trouble. It makes you do lots of things out of the normal routine and, although you may grumble at the cost of a present for the bride and groom - the former, a pimply faced horror when last you saw her, and the other - never before the wedding day, you get a glow when both greet you like a favourite aunt and uncle.
It was like that when Nesta, my wife, and I were invited to a wedding of the daughter of some old friends. The ceremony was to take place in Woking, which meant an overnight stay in a reasonably adjacent hotel. We found one in a picturesque village and resolved to return and spend more time there one day.
With a few hours in hand, we ambled slowly along the A319 in the direction of Woking. Suddenly, I let out a gasp and turned my head sideways, causing the car to cross the white line in the middle of the road. I was back on track within a second or two but Nesta said: "What was that about?" I did not give her a direct answer, but looked for somewhere to turn around. A few minutes later I was driving into a place which bore the sign: 'GORDON'S SCHOOL'. "What are we doing here?" she asked. I drew up alongside a life-size statue of a British Army officer wearing a 'fez' sitting cross-legged on a heavily caparisoned camel. "That's why," I said. "It's General Charles Gordon, Governor General of the Sudan. The last time I saw the statue was when I was with the South Wales Borderers in Khartoum in 1949."
An obliging house master came along and confirmed it was the same statue I had seen forty four years previously. He explained that three years after the Sudan had been given its independence, the statue was brought home and re-erected at Gordon's School on 2nd April 1959. We sat in the car for a while; Nesta occupied herself with The Daily Telegraph crossword while I mused about happy days long ago in Africa.
I was a 22 year old officer when I travelled with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers from Cyprus aboard the SS 'EASTERN PRINCE' through the Suez Canal and down the Red Sea to Port Sudan. Any romantic ideas I may have had about the desert were dispelled when I saw mud-hut hovels which comprised the township and ugly piles of (Welsh?) coal used to fuel locomotives of Sudan Railways. The heat, even at that time of the year (April), was sticky and oppressive. Further inland, in Khartoum, we would find it hotter but less humid.
The journey from Port Sudan to Khartoum took about eighteen hours with one night aboard the train. Desert met the eye for a full 360 degrees, broken only by the mighty River Nile and the metal track. It was a landscape such as I had never seen before.
Every window was crowded as we approached Khartoum. Desert gave way to cultivated land irrigated by centuries-old methods of drawing water from the river. Groves of date palms provided contrast in colour to sand and gravel while crowds of natives dressed in long white 'night-shirts' raced along the track beside us.
At last, we pulled into Khartoum railway station where we were greeted by a Guard of Honour and the Regimental Band of the Sudan Defence Force. That moment imprinted itself on my mind for all time: rigid ranks of immaculately clad black soldiers wearing scarlet flower-pot 'taboosh' hats, khaki-drill smocks, shorts and long black puttees above leather sandals. This was a template of the standard for which we should aim. The band, equipped with conventional instruments, played Arab music. It was a new sound to most of us and, although military in character, it had an exotic lilt and sensuous rhythm which stirred my blood. In the months ahead, I would spend time with these fine askaris on the borders of Kenya, Ethiopia and Uganda. It was the beginning of my respect for Africa and Africans which has been a part of me from then to the present day.
A queue of Army trucks was waiting outside the station to take us to our new home in South Barracks. It was no more than a ten minute ride to the sprawling mass of stone buildings built to the same style as pre-war Indian barracks providing soldiers' accommodation, offices, messes, a parade ground, wide and well watered flower beds, tennis courts and a large swimming pool ringed by tall date palms. Company sergeant majors were soon bawling commands and letting soldiers know that if they expected a 'cushy billet' in Khartoum, they had another thought coming!
Ivor Jarman, the Quartermaster, who arrived three weeks ahead of the main body, had produced a plan of officers' accommodation and it was the first thing I saw when I entered the wide portico of the mess. My batman gave a whistle of astonishment when he saw the huge room with a high ceiling that his officer (a mere lieutenant) had been allotted.
That evening, a few of us took a taxi and drove down Kitchener Avenue to the Grand Hotel. We already felt we had entered a time warp, but we were transported even further into the 19th century when our taxi driver pointed towards one of General Kitchener's gun-boats, the 'MELIK', which he had used on his campaign of 1896-8, tethered to a tree alongside the Blue Nile. Further along the road we passed the Governor General's palace re-built on the site of an earlier palace occupied by a previous governor, General Charles Gordon, who was killed there in 1885.
The 'Grand' was, at that time, one of the great hotels of the world. It stood at the junction of the two Niles: the White Nile, with its source in Lake Victoria and the Blue Nile, which started its long journey to Egypt in the Ethiopian highlands. We stood on the bridge spanning the confluence and watched the two shades of water merge into one mighty torrent that flowed north for 1,500 miles towards the land of the Pharaohs and the Mediterranean.
We had a meal in the hotel and I sampled for the first time the national dish - 'ful sudani'. The main ingredient of this delightful platter is ground-nuts, but the delicate use of spices, which provide a subtle and mysterious flavour, make its reproduction in a cold climate almost impossible. A cool breeze blew in from the river and we watched from the veranda as the stern paddle-wheel steamer from Atbara tied up at the jetty.
Our voluble taxi driver was waiting to take us back to South Barracks and this time he drove along Gordon Avenue; another broad avenue running parallel to Kitchener Avenue and the waterfront. The battered old taxi had a flimsy framework that held some canvas over our heads, otherwise it was open to the elements. We were in high spirits but quite unprepared for the magnificent sight which lay before us. When we were half way down Gordon Avenue, the moon appeared through a gap in the clouds and illuminated a statue of a camel with its rider sitting cross legged on a heavily ornamented saddle.
The driver stopped alongside the plinth and gave us a history lesson: "This is General Charles Gordon," he said. "He became Governor of Equatoria (Southern Sudan) in 1873 and stopped the slave trade." He went on to explain that Gordon became the Governor General of the whole of the Sudan in the service of the Khedive of Egypt in 1877. He visited every part of his desert domain and was respected for his wise counsel and firm leadership. Despite his strong Christian beliefs, he was not averse to dealing harshly with those he found guilty of breaking the law. He often hanged offenders for serious crimes.
In 1880, Gordon's talent for sorting out problems which defeated politicians was recognised; he was sent to China where he single-handedly defused a situation that could have led to war. In 1881, he was posted to Mauritius and promoted to Major General. He then went to Jerusalem for a year before being recalled to the Sudan to supervise the evacuation of Egyptians from their expensive and ill-fated attempt to rule Sudan as a colony. To this end, he was appointed Egyptian Governor General of the Sudan but answerable to the British government as well.
Gordon returned to London in 1884 to warn the British government about the danger created by a mystical cleric of Islam known as El Mahdi. Prime Minister Gladstone had no intention of getting involved in another war in Africa and sent Gordon back to Khartoum with instructions to sort the problem out by himself. Later that year, the Mahdi spread his influence over huge areas of the Sudan even to the gates of Khartoum where Gordon was forced to prepare siege emplacements around the town. As an officer of the Royal Engineers with a professional knowledge of defence works and pyrotechnics, he produced many novel and effective measures to delay the inevitable entry of the Mahdi's warriors.
After ten months of ever increasing distress among the 34,000 soldiers, families and civilians of Khartoum, who resorted to eating every living thing they could find, the defences were breached and the Mahdi's forces entered the town.
General Gordon, by some accounts, had returned to his quarters in the palace. When he heard the sound of the enemy in the courtyard, he faced them in full dress on the outside staircase; he offered no resistance when they climbed the stairs and stabbed him to death. Gordon's head was cut off and delivered to the Mahdi in Omdurman, on the other side of the river. Two days later, the thunder of guns and sharp cracks of rifles were heard and two steamers came into view. They were carrying British troops who had travelled up the Nile to try and rescue Gordon. When it became obvious that Khartoum had fallen, they turned around and headed back down the river.
The British government was hard pressed to account for the abandonment of the nation's greatest hero; Queen Victoria was inconsolable and led the country in mourning. It was not until 11 years later in 1896 that a task force commanded by General Sir Herbert Kitchener (later Earl Kitchener of Khartoum) forced a passage up the Nile and re-established British presence in Khartoum. From then until 1956 the Sudan enjoyed an age of political stability and wealth from the export of its natural resources, in the main - cotton.
Even though the Sudan was known as an Anglo/Egyptian condominium, there had been little Egyptian influence there since 1884 and Governor Generals had always been British.
Since 1956, when independence was granted, the Sudan has withdrawn into its shell and a new dark age has settled upon its people. Various regimes, controlled from Khartoum, have created genocide and have brought misery to the negroid people of the south. Arabs of the north have been forced to accept the harsh rules of Islamic fundamentalism and the once prosperous economy has stagnated through mismanagement.
But back to Gordon's statue and the remarkable events that took place before it was erected in Khartoum in 1903.
It is the work of Mr Onslow Ford RA and is a replica of the original statue unveiled by the Prince of Wales (later - King Edward V11) in Chatham, the home of the Royal Engineers, on 19th May 1890. The 'Khartoum' statue was originally sited in St. Martin's Place, London where the statue of Nurse Edith Cavell, executed by the Germans during World War One, now stands. It was unveiled there in July 1902 by the Duke of Cambridge.
Lord Kitchener and Lord Glenesh (The Morning Post) thought this was the wrong place and campaigned successfully to have it transported to Khartoum. In October 1902 it was put aboard the SS 'CEDARDINE' and began its journey to Egypt. Within twenty four hours the 'CEDARDINE' was rammed by another ship in the Thames estuary, and sank. Gordon and his camel rested ignominiously in the mud forty feet below the surface until the following day when it was raised and placed aboard the SS 'LESBIAN' (Queen Victoria, now dead, would not have been amused!).
Once out of British waters, the journey to Alexandria was uneventful but when the statue began the next stage of its journey to Khartoum, on a smaller boat, it sank again. Finally, it arrived in Khartoum and was erected on a low plinth. Lord Kitchener objected and gave orders for a much higher stone plinth to be provided. He might well have been thinking about the time when his own statue would be erected a mere hundred yards away from that of General Gordon. This happened sooner than he could have imagined, following his death in 1916 when he was drowned aboard HMS 'HAMPSHIRE' after she hit a German mine off the Orkney Islands.
General Charles Gordon would have been proud to know that his statue has found a permanent home in Woking at the school which carries his name. It was founded by public subscription at the express wish of Queen Victoria in 1885, the year after his death. Since then, the school has had the reigning monarch as its patron. To this day, it retains its tradition of being organised on public school lines with a strong military influence. On ceremonial occasions, its pupils wear the unique Gordon uniform of blue tunic and trews for boys and blue tunic and kilt for girls. They make an impressive sight when they march behind their sixty strong band.
It was time to leave the school and drive a few miles further to Woking for the wedding. The bride looked beautiful, the groom was handsome and our old friends were much the same as when we last saw them. The champagne was ice cold and the food superb, but as we drove home my thoughts were of General Charles Gordon and my days as a young officer in Khartoum.
It was like that when Nesta, my wife, and I were invited to a wedding of the daughter of some old friends. The ceremony was to take place in Woking, which meant an overnight stay in a reasonably adjacent hotel. We found one in a picturesque village and resolved to return and spend more time there one day.
With a few hours in hand, we ambled slowly along the A319 in the direction of Woking. Suddenly, I let out a gasp and turned my head sideways, causing the car to cross the white line in the middle of the road. I was back on track within a second or two but Nesta said: "What was that about?" I did not give her a direct answer, but looked for somewhere to turn around. A few minutes later I was driving into a place which bore the sign: 'GORDON'S SCHOOL'. "What are we doing here?" she asked. I drew up alongside a life-size statue of a British Army officer wearing a 'fez' sitting cross-legged on a heavily caparisoned camel. "That's why," I said. "It's General Charles Gordon, Governor General of the Sudan. The last time I saw the statue was when I was with the South Wales Borderers in Khartoum in 1949."
An obliging house master came along and confirmed it was the same statue I had seen forty four years previously. He explained that three years after the Sudan had been given its independence, the statue was brought home and re-erected at Gordon's School on 2nd April 1959. We sat in the car for a while; Nesta occupied herself with The Daily Telegraph crossword while I mused about happy days long ago in Africa.
I was a 22 year old officer when I travelled with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers from Cyprus aboard the SS 'EASTERN PRINCE' through the Suez Canal and down the Red Sea to Port Sudan. Any romantic ideas I may have had about the desert were dispelled when I saw mud-hut hovels which comprised the township and ugly piles of (Welsh?) coal used to fuel locomotives of Sudan Railways. The heat, even at that time of the year (April), was sticky and oppressive. Further inland, in Khartoum, we would find it hotter but less humid.
The journey from Port Sudan to Khartoum took about eighteen hours with one night aboard the train. Desert met the eye for a full 360 degrees, broken only by the mighty River Nile and the metal track. It was a landscape such as I had never seen before.
Every window was crowded as we approached Khartoum. Desert gave way to cultivated land irrigated by centuries-old methods of drawing water from the river. Groves of date palms provided contrast in colour to sand and gravel while crowds of natives dressed in long white 'night-shirts' raced along the track beside us.
At last, we pulled into Khartoum railway station where we were greeted by a Guard of Honour and the Regimental Band of the Sudan Defence Force. That moment imprinted itself on my mind for all time: rigid ranks of immaculately clad black soldiers wearing scarlet flower-pot 'taboosh' hats, khaki-drill smocks, shorts and long black puttees above leather sandals. This was a template of the standard for which we should aim. The band, equipped with conventional instruments, played Arab music. It was a new sound to most of us and, although military in character, it had an exotic lilt and sensuous rhythm which stirred my blood. In the months ahead, I would spend time with these fine askaris on the borders of Kenya, Ethiopia and Uganda. It was the beginning of my respect for Africa and Africans which has been a part of me from then to the present day.
A queue of Army trucks was waiting outside the station to take us to our new home in South Barracks. It was no more than a ten minute ride to the sprawling mass of stone buildings built to the same style as pre-war Indian barracks providing soldiers' accommodation, offices, messes, a parade ground, wide and well watered flower beds, tennis courts and a large swimming pool ringed by tall date palms. Company sergeant majors were soon bawling commands and letting soldiers know that if they expected a 'cushy billet' in Khartoum, they had another thought coming!
Ivor Jarman, the Quartermaster, who arrived three weeks ahead of the main body, had produced a plan of officers' accommodation and it was the first thing I saw when I entered the wide portico of the mess. My batman gave a whistle of astonishment when he saw the huge room with a high ceiling that his officer (a mere lieutenant) had been allotted.
That evening, a few of us took a taxi and drove down Kitchener Avenue to the Grand Hotel. We already felt we had entered a time warp, but we were transported even further into the 19th century when our taxi driver pointed towards one of General Kitchener's gun-boats, the 'MELIK', which he had used on his campaign of 1896-8, tethered to a tree alongside the Blue Nile. Further along the road we passed the Governor General's palace re-built on the site of an earlier palace occupied by a previous governor, General Charles Gordon, who was killed there in 1885.
The 'Grand' was, at that time, one of the great hotels of the world. It stood at the junction of the two Niles: the White Nile, with its source in Lake Victoria and the Blue Nile, which started its long journey to Egypt in the Ethiopian highlands. We stood on the bridge spanning the confluence and watched the two shades of water merge into one mighty torrent that flowed north for 1,500 miles towards the land of the Pharaohs and the Mediterranean.
We had a meal in the hotel and I sampled for the first time the national dish - 'ful sudani'. The main ingredient of this delightful platter is ground-nuts, but the delicate use of spices, which provide a subtle and mysterious flavour, make its reproduction in a cold climate almost impossible. A cool breeze blew in from the river and we watched from the veranda as the stern paddle-wheel steamer from Atbara tied up at the jetty.
Our voluble taxi driver was waiting to take us back to South Barracks and this time he drove along Gordon Avenue; another broad avenue running parallel to Kitchener Avenue and the waterfront. The battered old taxi had a flimsy framework that held some canvas over our heads, otherwise it was open to the elements. We were in high spirits but quite unprepared for the magnificent sight which lay before us. When we were half way down Gordon Avenue, the moon appeared through a gap in the clouds and illuminated a statue of a camel with its rider sitting cross legged on a heavily ornamented saddle.
The driver stopped alongside the plinth and gave us a history lesson: "This is General Charles Gordon," he said. "He became Governor of Equatoria (Southern Sudan) in 1873 and stopped the slave trade." He went on to explain that Gordon became the Governor General of the whole of the Sudan in the service of the Khedive of Egypt in 1877. He visited every part of his desert domain and was respected for his wise counsel and firm leadership. Despite his strong Christian beliefs, he was not averse to dealing harshly with those he found guilty of breaking the law. He often hanged offenders for serious crimes.
In 1880, Gordon's talent for sorting out problems which defeated politicians was recognised; he was sent to China where he single-handedly defused a situation that could have led to war. In 1881, he was posted to Mauritius and promoted to Major General. He then went to Jerusalem for a year before being recalled to the Sudan to supervise the evacuation of Egyptians from their expensive and ill-fated attempt to rule Sudan as a colony. To this end, he was appointed Egyptian Governor General of the Sudan but answerable to the British government as well.
Gordon returned to London in 1884 to warn the British government about the danger created by a mystical cleric of Islam known as El Mahdi. Prime Minister Gladstone had no intention of getting involved in another war in Africa and sent Gordon back to Khartoum with instructions to sort the problem out by himself. Later that year, the Mahdi spread his influence over huge areas of the Sudan even to the gates of Khartoum where Gordon was forced to prepare siege emplacements around the town. As an officer of the Royal Engineers with a professional knowledge of defence works and pyrotechnics, he produced many novel and effective measures to delay the inevitable entry of the Mahdi's warriors.
After ten months of ever increasing distress among the 34,000 soldiers, families and civilians of Khartoum, who resorted to eating every living thing they could find, the defences were breached and the Mahdi's forces entered the town.
General Gordon, by some accounts, had returned to his quarters in the palace. When he heard the sound of the enemy in the courtyard, he faced them in full dress on the outside staircase; he offered no resistance when they climbed the stairs and stabbed him to death. Gordon's head was cut off and delivered to the Mahdi in Omdurman, on the other side of the river. Two days later, the thunder of guns and sharp cracks of rifles were heard and two steamers came into view. They were carrying British troops who had travelled up the Nile to try and rescue Gordon. When it became obvious that Khartoum had fallen, they turned around and headed back down the river.
The British government was hard pressed to account for the abandonment of the nation's greatest hero; Queen Victoria was inconsolable and led the country in mourning. It was not until 11 years later in 1896 that a task force commanded by General Sir Herbert Kitchener (later Earl Kitchener of Khartoum) forced a passage up the Nile and re-established British presence in Khartoum. From then until 1956 the Sudan enjoyed an age of political stability and wealth from the export of its natural resources, in the main - cotton.
Even though the Sudan was known as an Anglo/Egyptian condominium, there had been little Egyptian influence there since 1884 and Governor Generals had always been British.
Since 1956, when independence was granted, the Sudan has withdrawn into its shell and a new dark age has settled upon its people. Various regimes, controlled from Khartoum, have created genocide and have brought misery to the negroid people of the south. Arabs of the north have been forced to accept the harsh rules of Islamic fundamentalism and the once prosperous economy has stagnated through mismanagement.
But back to Gordon's statue and the remarkable events that took place before it was erected in Khartoum in 1903.
It is the work of Mr Onslow Ford RA and is a replica of the original statue unveiled by the Prince of Wales (later - King Edward V11) in Chatham, the home of the Royal Engineers, on 19th May 1890. The 'Khartoum' statue was originally sited in St. Martin's Place, London where the statue of Nurse Edith Cavell, executed by the Germans during World War One, now stands. It was unveiled there in July 1902 by the Duke of Cambridge.
Lord Kitchener and Lord Glenesh (The Morning Post) thought this was the wrong place and campaigned successfully to have it transported to Khartoum. In October 1902 it was put aboard the SS 'CEDARDINE' and began its journey to Egypt. Within twenty four hours the 'CEDARDINE' was rammed by another ship in the Thames estuary, and sank. Gordon and his camel rested ignominiously in the mud forty feet below the surface until the following day when it was raised and placed aboard the SS 'LESBIAN' (Queen Victoria, now dead, would not have been amused!).
Once out of British waters, the journey to Alexandria was uneventful but when the statue began the next stage of its journey to Khartoum, on a smaller boat, it sank again. Finally, it arrived in Khartoum and was erected on a low plinth. Lord Kitchener objected and gave orders for a much higher stone plinth to be provided. He might well have been thinking about the time when his own statue would be erected a mere hundred yards away from that of General Gordon. This happened sooner than he could have imagined, following his death in 1916 when he was drowned aboard HMS 'HAMPSHIRE' after she hit a German mine off the Orkney Islands.
General Charles Gordon would have been proud to know that his statue has found a permanent home in Woking at the school which carries his name. It was founded by public subscription at the express wish of Queen Victoria in 1885, the year after his death. Since then, the school has had the reigning monarch as its patron. To this day, it retains its tradition of being organised on public school lines with a strong military influence. On ceremonial occasions, its pupils wear the unique Gordon uniform of blue tunic and trews for boys and blue tunic and kilt for girls. They make an impressive sight when they march behind their sixty strong band.
It was time to leave the school and drive a few miles further to Woking for the wedding. The bride looked beautiful, the groom was handsome and our old friends were much the same as when we last saw them. The champagne was ice cold and the food superb, but as we drove home my thoughts were of General Charles Gordon and my days as a young officer in Khartoum.
STRANGER IN PARADISE
Some say Pembrokeshire is the most beautiful county in Wales, but that does not mean it is the ideal location for an infantry battalion like the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment which took up residence in Llanion Barracks, Pembroke Dock in October 1954.
1/WELCH left UK in 1951 to become part of the United Nations force in Korea. They covered themselves in glory and earned yet another Battle Honour to carry on their colours. After a year of active service in the front line, the battalion was withdrawn and sent to Hong Kong for a two year tour of duty. Imagine then, seasoned warriors, and others who had joined the battalion in Hong Kong, used to the good life in the best overseas posting in the world, arriving on a wind-swept railway platform at Pembroke Dock on a cold October night. It certainly did nothing for retaining soldiers who had the option of extending their contract or returning to 'civvy street'.
If they thought Pembroke Dock railway station looked grim, they had another surprise when they arrived in Llanion Barracks. Perched on the top of a steep hill, the barracks was a splendid place for flying kites; the wind came at it from all directions. The barracks were built in the 1840's at a time when 'functional' rather than 'aesthetic' was the key word. Red brick can look quite nice when wisteria or virginia creeper cling to it, but if its only adornments are drain pipes and cast-iron staircases, it does not present a pleasant picture. Barrack rooms were long and rectangular, contained thirty men and had a coke stove for heating, half way down.. A locker and an iron bedstead which carried four blankets and two sheets folded and 'boxed' from before breakfast until after tea was the soldier's bed-space where he could recharge his batteries and, on Saturday mornings, lay out his kit for platoon commander's, company commander's or commanding officer's inspection. There was always someone who wanted to check the soles of boots (with the obligatory thirteen studs - polished), coils of spare laces and mess tins brightened with 'Bluebell'. That sort of time-wasting activity, with the odd route march thrown in for good measure was symptomatic of the times. The fact of the matter was, we had no role and very little to do. At times like that, people got under each other's feet and it made for poor morale. There was some light at the end of the tunnel though. We were told that in April 1955 (the following year) the four rifle companies of the battalion would be allocated to various training camps around the country. That meant that our soldiers would be responsible for the smooth running of camps where 'volunteer' soldiers of the Territorial Army would be doing their annual training. My company, of which I was second-in-command, was detailed to move to the Royal Armoured Corps Ranges and Training Area, Castlemartin; about ten miles away from Pembroke Dock.
I arose quite early on my first full day at Castlemartin Camp, had breakfast and then went to see the soldiers who would be forming up for muster parade. As I walked past camp headquarters, the Adjutant poked his head out of the window and said: "Hello, I'm Gerald, I don't think we've met. Come inside and meet the Commandant, he likes to see everyone on the first day."
Gerald was a stocky officer with thick eyebrows, heavy horn rimmed spectacles and a gruff voice. He wore highly polished ammunition boots under his barathea service dress trousers. It's funny how little things give a chap away. Army boots, the same as soldiers wear, instead of proper shoes from the regimental tailor would never have been tolerated in my regiment.
After we had looked each other over, Gerald opened the door to the commandant's office and introduced me. All I received was a curt nod of his head and a motion from his hand to sit down. My company commander, Major Dicky Randell, had been approached by the adjutant as well, so I took a chair next to him. Also present were a number of officers responsible for technical aspects of the gunnery range.
"Now listen here," began the Commandant, looking alternately at Dicky and me. "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Harold Witherspoon of the Royal Tank Regiment. My job is to make sure this place is run efficiently. I have no time for shirkers, dawdlers, nincompoops and drunkards. Do I make myself clear?" There was not much we could say to a question like that, so Dicky and I nodded and tried to look attentive.
"You will be here until the end of September," he went on, "and I expect you to set and maintain the highest standards of efficiency. Do you understand?" We nodded again. He continued to glower at us for a few more seconds, then switched his attention to another fellow who had a black beret on his lap, denoting he was a member of the Royal Tank Regiment. "Why weren't those empty cases I saw this morning sent back to ordnance?" The officer responsible for shell cases mumbled a feeble excuse which did nothing to placate the Commandant. "I'll not have it, do you hear?. Make sure you get those things back on time in future." The next one to get a broadside was the motor transport officer. "Why were two of your three tonners without their tool kits when I saw them at six o'clock this morning?" he spat. The MTO went through the 'goldfish' routine, and said nothing. "See to it in future," snapped the Colonel.
Everyone so far had received a rocket and I began to feel uneasy about this chap who would be my boss for the next six months. Up until then, Dicky Randell and I had not been told what our duties would be, other than supervising and looking after our soldiers.
Suddenly, I found myself looking at the end of the Commandant's finger as he thrust his arm in my direction. "Why were your boilers at fifty pounds pressure at 6.30 this morning?" he rasped. As I didn't know I had any boilers and, even if I did - could not possibly have known what pressure they should be registering, I thought it better to play for time. "Must be something wrong there, sir. I'll make sure they don't go above forty pounds in future," I mumbled. "No you won't you bloody idiot, you'll make sure they're up to sixty pounds at least," cried the Colonel.
I hoped that the storm would blow over, but more was to come. "Tell me, how you are working your sh***s?" he enquired. Once again, I had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. Nobody had told me that among the number of jobs I would be given was that of messing officer with responsibility for managing a large kitchen and dining hall. 'Sh***s' could mean all sorts of things, and I went through a mental selection process. SHEETS - SHAFTS - CHEFS - SHIFTS. "Did you say 'shifts', sir?" I replied, selecting the word that sounded most appropriate, but having no idea of the context. The effect of what I said to Colonel Harold Witherspoon was as if he had been stung by a hornet. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he thundered. "Any more of it and you'll be going back to your regiment with an adverse report." I murmured an apology and wondered what he thought I had said.
"What was all that about?" said Dicky, who got away without a scratch. "You seem to have upset him." "I've never seen him before," I replied, "and it looks as if I'm not going to see much more of him."
Before leaving camp headquarters, I asked the Adjutant what all the business of 'boilers' and 'shifts' was about. It was only then that I became aware of my duty concerning feeding the masses. "The Quartermaster does the job during the winter, he'll tell you everything you want to know," said the thoughtful Gerald.
The Quartermaster was a mine of information and I wondered why he could not continue doing the job during the summer, rather than hand it over to me - an unknown quantity.
A week went by without any trouble, and then I received a telephone call from the Adjutant. "The Commandant would like to see you, can you come across?" "Anything wrong?" I asked. "No, he just wants to have a chat, I think," was the reply. I tripped across the sports field and went into Gerald’s office. "The Colonel will see you now," he said, motioning me to enter. I marched in, saluted and waited for the Commandant to offer me a chair. Not a chance. "Why is your cookhouse in a filthy condition," he barked. I was struck dumb for a few seconds, and then said: "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you'd been there this morning." "I haven't been there," he replied. "I don't have to go there to know that the place is filthy." He leaned back in his chair and let me ponder on his words for a few moments before he continued: "Look out of the window and tell me what you can see on your cookhouse." I did as I was told, but nothing seemed to be wrong. As cookhouses go, it was a rather nice one. It did have some moss of the north facing roof, so I said: "I'll get someone on the roof to clear that moss, sir." "Not moss, you idiot - SEAGULLS," he bellowed.
I could have kicked myself for not thinking of 'seagulls', but there were seagulls everywhere in Castlemartin as it was in the middle of one of the largest bird sanctuaries in the country. I still could not see the connection between seagulls and a filthy cookhouse until the Colonel said: "Seagulls are scavengers and they love filth and dirt, that's why they're sitting on the roof. Now, get that place cleaned up and I'll be along at 11 o'clock to inspect it."
No scrum half ever crossed the sports field faster than me as I went back to the cookhouse to make sure that everything was clean and tidy. It was, of course, as I had an efficient catering staff who took pride in their work.
The Cook Sergeant heard about the rocket I had received and said: "Caught you on the old 'seagull' routine did he, sir?" When I nodded, he said: "That's one of his 'pets'. He's hot on seagulls but leave it to me." The Sergeant went into the dining room and saw one of the soldiers from my company who was employed as a dining room orderly. He and a few others like him were responsible for cleaning tables and hot plates and generally keeping the place clean.
Private Maldwyn Clutterbuck had not endeared himself to the Cook Sergeant because, even though he had a rich baritone voice, he knew only one song which he sang all day. "Stranger in Paradise' was worse than water torture practised by Chinese Triads and he had nearly driven everyone mad by his non-stop rendering of the tune.
"Right. You there, Private Clutterbuck. I've got somewhere better than Paradise for you. Follow me." The Cook Sergeant led Clutterbuck to the boiler house where there was a huge pile of coke in the yard. "Fill that bucket with coke and get up on that bank. When you see a seagull, let fly at it."
Maldwyn Clutterbuck was, without doubt, the most satisfied soldier in my company during that lovely summer of 1955. His daytime routine was one constant session of sun bathing until a seagull arrived, then he would fling a lump of coke at it. The cookhouse roof was kept clear of scavenging birds, the Commandant’s blood pressure was normal, catering staff were able to sing among themselves while Private Clutterbuck indulged himself with his favourite song.
The standard of service and cleanliness in the officers' mess was not good enough. This was mainly due to the inadequacy of the Mess Sergeant, who also came from my regiment. Colonel Witherspoon did not like him and, for once, I agreed with him. I was not surprised, therefore, when I heard he had been given the sack. His replacement arrived the same day and when I saw who it was, I knew we were in for more trouble.
Corporal 'Panther' Thomas had been the battalion sports storeman until he was promoted to the new job. He earned quite a reputation for himself, particularly in rugby circles, and had become a sort of talisman with his sponge bag at Army Rugby Cup finals where his stocky figure, propelled by legs pumping like pistons, could be seen running towards some unfortunate forward who had been kicked in the teeth. He won his nick-name in Korea where, according to legend, he had strangled a couple of Chinese soldiers who had unwittingly stumbled into his trench. The lighter side of his character was his ability to bring tears to the eyes of those who heard his rendering of the ballad, 'Eskimo Nell' and 'The Lord's Prayer'.
'Panther' set about the task of brightening the officers' mess ante-room as soon as he arrived. He brought with him a ghastly assortment of beer mats and cheap ash trays from the local brewery and he spread these awful objects around the mess until the place looked like some third rate restaurant. 'Panther' had rarely dressed in anything other than a track suit, so I did not recognise him in his 'blues' uniform when I went into the mess.
The Commandant came in soon after me, and Panther asked him what he would like to drink. "I'd like a gin and tonic, if you please, Sergeant Thomas," said the Colonel. Panther returned a few minutes later with a glass on a silver salver. "There you are, sir. I've put some ice and lemon in it; I hope it's to your liking." Colonel Witherspoon was a man of instant likes and dislikes and the beer mats and ash trays had already raised his blood pressure. He was about to tell Panther to get rid of them when the new Mess Sergeant said: "Excuse me, sir, did you beat a tenor or a side drum?" None of us knew anything about the Colonel's background, but it transpired he had joined the Army as a drummer boy when he was fifteen years of age. He progressed quickly through the ranks and during World War Two he received a decoration for gallant conduct when he was blown out of three separate tanks in one day. In getting out of one, he fell awkwardly and broke his leg which never mended properly. Panther, who had noticed the Colonel's limp, thought he recognised the slight drag of the left leg which is the common swagger of drummers. There was a long pause before Colonel Witherspoon replied; "Many years ago, I used to beat a side drum. How did you know?" Panther beamed and said: "I saw you coming down the road and I said to myself: 'once a drummer boy - always a drummer boy' " For the first time since I had known him, the Colonel was struck dumb; all he could do was glower at Panther as he cleared some glasses away.
After a remark like that Panther's days were numbered, but he accelerated his departure by falling out with the Mess Corporal. The Corporal was not a member of the Welch Regiment and therefore, according to Panther, not a proper soldier. He did not react quickly enough one day when he received an order, so Panther picked up a kitchen knife and stuck it through his neck. At his subsequent court-martial, he must have given a favourable impression to those who tried him because he was soon back on the rugby touch-line, wearing a lance corporal's stripe and carrying the 'first-fifteeen's' sponge bag.
Somehow, I managed to keep out of trouble for the rest of the time I was in Castlemartin and on the day I left I was loading my car when Gerald said: "The Colonel would like to have a word with you before you go." I thought to myself: 'This is where I came in', but Harold Witherspoon was gracious enough to thank me for all I had done while under his command. "I only wish I could have the same team next year, but I'll have to start with a new lot in six months time," he said.
I had a picture of my successor being called to account for boilers and seagulls, but that's the Army system and you soon learn how it works.
1/WELCH left UK in 1951 to become part of the United Nations force in Korea. They covered themselves in glory and earned yet another Battle Honour to carry on their colours. After a year of active service in the front line, the battalion was withdrawn and sent to Hong Kong for a two year tour of duty. Imagine then, seasoned warriors, and others who had joined the battalion in Hong Kong, used to the good life in the best overseas posting in the world, arriving on a wind-swept railway platform at Pembroke Dock on a cold October night. It certainly did nothing for retaining soldiers who had the option of extending their contract or returning to 'civvy street'.
If they thought Pembroke Dock railway station looked grim, they had another surprise when they arrived in Llanion Barracks. Perched on the top of a steep hill, the barracks was a splendid place for flying kites; the wind came at it from all directions. The barracks were built in the 1840's at a time when 'functional' rather than 'aesthetic' was the key word. Red brick can look quite nice when wisteria or virginia creeper cling to it, but if its only adornments are drain pipes and cast-iron staircases, it does not present a pleasant picture. Barrack rooms were long and rectangular, contained thirty men and had a coke stove for heating, half way down.. A locker and an iron bedstead which carried four blankets and two sheets folded and 'boxed' from before breakfast until after tea was the soldier's bed-space where he could recharge his batteries and, on Saturday mornings, lay out his kit for platoon commander's, company commander's or commanding officer's inspection. There was always someone who wanted to check the soles of boots (with the obligatory thirteen studs - polished), coils of spare laces and mess tins brightened with 'Bluebell'. That sort of time-wasting activity, with the odd route march thrown in for good measure was symptomatic of the times. The fact of the matter was, we had no role and very little to do. At times like that, people got under each other's feet and it made for poor morale. There was some light at the end of the tunnel though. We were told that in April 1955 (the following year) the four rifle companies of the battalion would be allocated to various training camps around the country. That meant that our soldiers would be responsible for the smooth running of camps where 'volunteer' soldiers of the Territorial Army would be doing their annual training. My company, of which I was second-in-command, was detailed to move to the Royal Armoured Corps Ranges and Training Area, Castlemartin; about ten miles away from Pembroke Dock.
I arose quite early on my first full day at Castlemartin Camp, had breakfast and then went to see the soldiers who would be forming up for muster parade. As I walked past camp headquarters, the Adjutant poked his head out of the window and said: "Hello, I'm Gerald, I don't think we've met. Come inside and meet the Commandant, he likes to see everyone on the first day."
Gerald was a stocky officer with thick eyebrows, heavy horn rimmed spectacles and a gruff voice. He wore highly polished ammunition boots under his barathea service dress trousers. It's funny how little things give a chap away. Army boots, the same as soldiers wear, instead of proper shoes from the regimental tailor would never have been tolerated in my regiment.
After we had looked each other over, Gerald opened the door to the commandant's office and introduced me. All I received was a curt nod of his head and a motion from his hand to sit down. My company commander, Major Dicky Randell, had been approached by the adjutant as well, so I took a chair next to him. Also present were a number of officers responsible for technical aspects of the gunnery range.
"Now listen here," began the Commandant, looking alternately at Dicky and me. "My name is Lieutenant Colonel Harold Witherspoon of the Royal Tank Regiment. My job is to make sure this place is run efficiently. I have no time for shirkers, dawdlers, nincompoops and drunkards. Do I make myself clear?" There was not much we could say to a question like that, so Dicky and I nodded and tried to look attentive.
"You will be here until the end of September," he went on, "and I expect you to set and maintain the highest standards of efficiency. Do you understand?" We nodded again. He continued to glower at us for a few more seconds, then switched his attention to another fellow who had a black beret on his lap, denoting he was a member of the Royal Tank Regiment. "Why weren't those empty cases I saw this morning sent back to ordnance?" The officer responsible for shell cases mumbled a feeble excuse which did nothing to placate the Commandant. "I'll not have it, do you hear?. Make sure you get those things back on time in future." The next one to get a broadside was the motor transport officer. "Why were two of your three tonners without their tool kits when I saw them at six o'clock this morning?" he spat. The MTO went through the 'goldfish' routine, and said nothing. "See to it in future," snapped the Colonel.
Everyone so far had received a rocket and I began to feel uneasy about this chap who would be my boss for the next six months. Up until then, Dicky Randell and I had not been told what our duties would be, other than supervising and looking after our soldiers.
Suddenly, I found myself looking at the end of the Commandant's finger as he thrust his arm in my direction. "Why were your boilers at fifty pounds pressure at 6.30 this morning?" he rasped. As I didn't know I had any boilers and, even if I did - could not possibly have known what pressure they should be registering, I thought it better to play for time. "Must be something wrong there, sir. I'll make sure they don't go above forty pounds in future," I mumbled. "No you won't you bloody idiot, you'll make sure they're up to sixty pounds at least," cried the Colonel.
I hoped that the storm would blow over, but more was to come. "Tell me, how you are working your sh***s?" he enquired. Once again, I had not the faintest idea what he was talking about. Nobody had told me that among the number of jobs I would be given was that of messing officer with responsibility for managing a large kitchen and dining hall. 'Sh***s' could mean all sorts of things, and I went through a mental selection process. SHEETS - SHAFTS - CHEFS - SHIFTS. "Did you say 'shifts', sir?" I replied, selecting the word that sounded most appropriate, but having no idea of the context. The effect of what I said to Colonel Harold Witherspoon was as if he had been stung by a hornet. "How dare you speak to me like that?" he thundered. "Any more of it and you'll be going back to your regiment with an adverse report." I murmured an apology and wondered what he thought I had said.
"What was all that about?" said Dicky, who got away without a scratch. "You seem to have upset him." "I've never seen him before," I replied, "and it looks as if I'm not going to see much more of him."
Before leaving camp headquarters, I asked the Adjutant what all the business of 'boilers' and 'shifts' was about. It was only then that I became aware of my duty concerning feeding the masses. "The Quartermaster does the job during the winter, he'll tell you everything you want to know," said the thoughtful Gerald.
The Quartermaster was a mine of information and I wondered why he could not continue doing the job during the summer, rather than hand it over to me - an unknown quantity.
A week went by without any trouble, and then I received a telephone call from the Adjutant. "The Commandant would like to see you, can you come across?" "Anything wrong?" I asked. "No, he just wants to have a chat, I think," was the reply. I tripped across the sports field and went into Gerald’s office. "The Colonel will see you now," he said, motioning me to enter. I marched in, saluted and waited for the Commandant to offer me a chair. Not a chance. "Why is your cookhouse in a filthy condition," he barked. I was struck dumb for a few seconds, and then said: "I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know you'd been there this morning." "I haven't been there," he replied. "I don't have to go there to know that the place is filthy." He leaned back in his chair and let me ponder on his words for a few moments before he continued: "Look out of the window and tell me what you can see on your cookhouse." I did as I was told, but nothing seemed to be wrong. As cookhouses go, it was a rather nice one. It did have some moss of the north facing roof, so I said: "I'll get someone on the roof to clear that moss, sir." "Not moss, you idiot - SEAGULLS," he bellowed.
I could have kicked myself for not thinking of 'seagulls', but there were seagulls everywhere in Castlemartin as it was in the middle of one of the largest bird sanctuaries in the country. I still could not see the connection between seagulls and a filthy cookhouse until the Colonel said: "Seagulls are scavengers and they love filth and dirt, that's why they're sitting on the roof. Now, get that place cleaned up and I'll be along at 11 o'clock to inspect it."
No scrum half ever crossed the sports field faster than me as I went back to the cookhouse to make sure that everything was clean and tidy. It was, of course, as I had an efficient catering staff who took pride in their work.
The Cook Sergeant heard about the rocket I had received and said: "Caught you on the old 'seagull' routine did he, sir?" When I nodded, he said: "That's one of his 'pets'. He's hot on seagulls but leave it to me." The Sergeant went into the dining room and saw one of the soldiers from my company who was employed as a dining room orderly. He and a few others like him were responsible for cleaning tables and hot plates and generally keeping the place clean.
Private Maldwyn Clutterbuck had not endeared himself to the Cook Sergeant because, even though he had a rich baritone voice, he knew only one song which he sang all day. "Stranger in Paradise' was worse than water torture practised by Chinese Triads and he had nearly driven everyone mad by his non-stop rendering of the tune.
"Right. You there, Private Clutterbuck. I've got somewhere better than Paradise for you. Follow me." The Cook Sergeant led Clutterbuck to the boiler house where there was a huge pile of coke in the yard. "Fill that bucket with coke and get up on that bank. When you see a seagull, let fly at it."
Maldwyn Clutterbuck was, without doubt, the most satisfied soldier in my company during that lovely summer of 1955. His daytime routine was one constant session of sun bathing until a seagull arrived, then he would fling a lump of coke at it. The cookhouse roof was kept clear of scavenging birds, the Commandant’s blood pressure was normal, catering staff were able to sing among themselves while Private Clutterbuck indulged himself with his favourite song.
The standard of service and cleanliness in the officers' mess was not good enough. This was mainly due to the inadequacy of the Mess Sergeant, who also came from my regiment. Colonel Witherspoon did not like him and, for once, I agreed with him. I was not surprised, therefore, when I heard he had been given the sack. His replacement arrived the same day and when I saw who it was, I knew we were in for more trouble.
Corporal 'Panther' Thomas had been the battalion sports storeman until he was promoted to the new job. He earned quite a reputation for himself, particularly in rugby circles, and had become a sort of talisman with his sponge bag at Army Rugby Cup finals where his stocky figure, propelled by legs pumping like pistons, could be seen running towards some unfortunate forward who had been kicked in the teeth. He won his nick-name in Korea where, according to legend, he had strangled a couple of Chinese soldiers who had unwittingly stumbled into his trench. The lighter side of his character was his ability to bring tears to the eyes of those who heard his rendering of the ballad, 'Eskimo Nell' and 'The Lord's Prayer'.
'Panther' set about the task of brightening the officers' mess ante-room as soon as he arrived. He brought with him a ghastly assortment of beer mats and cheap ash trays from the local brewery and he spread these awful objects around the mess until the place looked like some third rate restaurant. 'Panther' had rarely dressed in anything other than a track suit, so I did not recognise him in his 'blues' uniform when I went into the mess.
The Commandant came in soon after me, and Panther asked him what he would like to drink. "I'd like a gin and tonic, if you please, Sergeant Thomas," said the Colonel. Panther returned a few minutes later with a glass on a silver salver. "There you are, sir. I've put some ice and lemon in it; I hope it's to your liking." Colonel Witherspoon was a man of instant likes and dislikes and the beer mats and ash trays had already raised his blood pressure. He was about to tell Panther to get rid of them when the new Mess Sergeant said: "Excuse me, sir, did you beat a tenor or a side drum?" None of us knew anything about the Colonel's background, but it transpired he had joined the Army as a drummer boy when he was fifteen years of age. He progressed quickly through the ranks and during World War Two he received a decoration for gallant conduct when he was blown out of three separate tanks in one day. In getting out of one, he fell awkwardly and broke his leg which never mended properly. Panther, who had noticed the Colonel's limp, thought he recognised the slight drag of the left leg which is the common swagger of drummers. There was a long pause before Colonel Witherspoon replied; "Many years ago, I used to beat a side drum. How did you know?" Panther beamed and said: "I saw you coming down the road and I said to myself: 'once a drummer boy - always a drummer boy' " For the first time since I had known him, the Colonel was struck dumb; all he could do was glower at Panther as he cleared some glasses away.
After a remark like that Panther's days were numbered, but he accelerated his departure by falling out with the Mess Corporal. The Corporal was not a member of the Welch Regiment and therefore, according to Panther, not a proper soldier. He did not react quickly enough one day when he received an order, so Panther picked up a kitchen knife and stuck it through his neck. At his subsequent court-martial, he must have given a favourable impression to those who tried him because he was soon back on the rugby touch-line, wearing a lance corporal's stripe and carrying the 'first-fifteeen's' sponge bag.
Somehow, I managed to keep out of trouble for the rest of the time I was in Castlemartin and on the day I left I was loading my car when Gerald said: "The Colonel would like to have a word with you before you go." I thought to myself: 'This is where I came in', but Harold Witherspoon was gracious enough to thank me for all I had done while under his command. "I only wish I could have the same team next year, but I'll have to start with a new lot in six months time," he said.
I had a picture of my successor being called to account for boilers and seagulls, but that's the Army system and you soon learn how it works.
TERRA (IN) FIRMA
My last job in the Regular Army was Recruiting and Publicity Officer for the line infantry regiments of Wales (The Royal Welch Fusiliers and The Royal Regiment of Wales). I was based at The Prince Of Wales' Division Depot, Crickhowell, South Wales, had two teams of soldiers - one for each regiment, and a mobile display vehicle which travelled the length and breadth of Wales at all times of the year except mid-winter.
One of the places we visited was a pleasant little town near Swansea. Council officials were most helpful and allowed us to use the municipal park which comprised ornamental gardens, tennis courts, bowling green, cricket wicket and a rugby pitch. The mobile display wagon and the shooting range (in the back of a truck) were the first to arrive and it was not long before children were attracted to the park like wasps to a jam pot.
I was talking to some soldiers on the site when I became aware that the turf upon which I stood seemed to move when people passed by. I jumped a few inches off the ground and my return to earth set the soldiers wobbling like a set of near missed skittles.
It was then that Mr Ieuan (pronounced - Yiy-an) Thomas, the Chief Environmental Officer of the borough greeted me. "Hello Major Smith, everything alright then?" I assured him that things were in order and that we were looking forward to a good day. "There's only one problem," I said. "The ground seems to wobble. Was there ever a coal mine here and is it possible we could be standing on a covered over shaft?" I made another leap and the colour drained from Mr Thomas's face as he wobbled like a piece of jelly. He and his ancestors had lived in the valley for generations and after some thought he said: "Not to my knowledge have their been collieries. Potteries - yes, but no coal mines."
We were joined by the Borough Engineer - Mr Iorweth (pronounced - Yorrweth) Evans. He agreed about 'potteries' but said he could not pronounce about a coal mine as he and his ancestors had not lived in the valley as long as the family of Mr Thomas. "I could find out for sure when I get back to my office," he said. "We've got records going back for centuries." Ieuan would have been happy to let old pots lie, but borough engineers are an inquisitive breed and Iorweth walked across to the pavilion and brought back a long metal rod with a loop on the end. Standing on the steps of the display vehicle, he raised his arms above his head and drove the rod into the ground. No undue force was required or used to drive the eight foot rod through the turf as far as its loop. Iorweth withdrew the rod and we inspected particles of black stuff which clung to it. "Peat," said Ieuan, and then as an after-thought - "could be charcoal though." Iorweth picked up a few pieces and agreed with his colleague. It was my turn, so I inspected some of the black matter and noticed that it did not crumble like the rest. "Coal!" I said, "and it looks like good quality anthracite to me." The two borough officials gaped like a couple of goldfish, but then they closed ranks when they remembered the many occasions the ground had been used for fairs, carnivals and rugby matches. "You'll be alright, have no fear," they said in unison.
Despite their assurances, I did not feel they were entirely convinced. The display vehicles could have been moved to a safer area near the bowling green but wherever I jumped on the rugby pitch, the ground wobbled - besides, I was getting some funny looks as I leapt around the park like a demented frog. Taking the easy course, and assuring myself that if the ground was going to collapse it would surely have done so when the band in their fifty-seater coach passed by, I decided to carry on.
The Mayor of the borough, a charming elderly lady, was our chief guest at the show we put on that evening. The hour long performance included a display of foot and arms drill, gymnastics, mock battle and Beating Retreat by the Band and Drums. More than a hundred soldiers, plus the regimental goat, pounded the turf during the finale. I do not know if she had been told or even felt for herself the undulating movement of the ground. If she did, she said nothing and, as she had lived near the park all her life, she was most probably used to it.
She certainly did not appreciate the reason why I kept my camera at the ready during the performance. The Band and Drums. regimental mascot, Mayor, Councillors - and maybe me as well - disappearing through the hallowed turf of the town's rugby pitch may have given me the opportunity to take the picture of my life.
One of the places we visited was a pleasant little town near Swansea. Council officials were most helpful and allowed us to use the municipal park which comprised ornamental gardens, tennis courts, bowling green, cricket wicket and a rugby pitch. The mobile display wagon and the shooting range (in the back of a truck) were the first to arrive and it was not long before children were attracted to the park like wasps to a jam pot.
I was talking to some soldiers on the site when I became aware that the turf upon which I stood seemed to move when people passed by. I jumped a few inches off the ground and my return to earth set the soldiers wobbling like a set of near missed skittles.
It was then that Mr Ieuan (pronounced - Yiy-an) Thomas, the Chief Environmental Officer of the borough greeted me. "Hello Major Smith, everything alright then?" I assured him that things were in order and that we were looking forward to a good day. "There's only one problem," I said. "The ground seems to wobble. Was there ever a coal mine here and is it possible we could be standing on a covered over shaft?" I made another leap and the colour drained from Mr Thomas's face as he wobbled like a piece of jelly. He and his ancestors had lived in the valley for generations and after some thought he said: "Not to my knowledge have their been collieries. Potteries - yes, but no coal mines."
We were joined by the Borough Engineer - Mr Iorweth (pronounced - Yorrweth) Evans. He agreed about 'potteries' but said he could not pronounce about a coal mine as he and his ancestors had not lived in the valley as long as the family of Mr Thomas. "I could find out for sure when I get back to my office," he said. "We've got records going back for centuries." Ieuan would have been happy to let old pots lie, but borough engineers are an inquisitive breed and Iorweth walked across to the pavilion and brought back a long metal rod with a loop on the end. Standing on the steps of the display vehicle, he raised his arms above his head and drove the rod into the ground. No undue force was required or used to drive the eight foot rod through the turf as far as its loop. Iorweth withdrew the rod and we inspected particles of black stuff which clung to it. "Peat," said Ieuan, and then as an after-thought - "could be charcoal though." Iorweth picked up a few pieces and agreed with his colleague. It was my turn, so I inspected some of the black matter and noticed that it did not crumble like the rest. "Coal!" I said, "and it looks like good quality anthracite to me." The two borough officials gaped like a couple of goldfish, but then they closed ranks when they remembered the many occasions the ground had been used for fairs, carnivals and rugby matches. "You'll be alright, have no fear," they said in unison.
Despite their assurances, I did not feel they were entirely convinced. The display vehicles could have been moved to a safer area near the bowling green but wherever I jumped on the rugby pitch, the ground wobbled - besides, I was getting some funny looks as I leapt around the park like a demented frog. Taking the easy course, and assuring myself that if the ground was going to collapse it would surely have done so when the band in their fifty-seater coach passed by, I decided to carry on.
The Mayor of the borough, a charming elderly lady, was our chief guest at the show we put on that evening. The hour long performance included a display of foot and arms drill, gymnastics, mock battle and Beating Retreat by the Band and Drums. More than a hundred soldiers, plus the regimental goat, pounded the turf during the finale. I do not know if she had been told or even felt for herself the undulating movement of the ground. If she did, she said nothing and, as she had lived near the park all her life, she was most probably used to it.
She certainly did not appreciate the reason why I kept my camera at the ready during the performance. The Band and Drums. regimental mascot, Mayor, Councillors - and maybe me as well - disappearing through the hallowed turf of the town's rugby pitch may have given me the opportunity to take the picture of my life.
THE CASE OF THE RIGID BANANA
It is a little known fact that the fashion for 'flared' trousers ie. those that are wider at the bottom than they are at the knees, started in Borneo in the early 1960's. Our soldiers doing their training in Ipoh used to be the subject of ribaldry from soldiers of other regiments over their funny trousers, but by the mid 70's the style had become the 'in-thing' for well dressed men world-wide.
Soldiers from Sabah were, on the whole, a well behaved lot; it was therefore a shock to hear that one of them had been seen fighting with a Chinaman outside a bar. The Chinaman came off second best and very nearly lost his life through a knife wound within an inch of his heart. There were about half a dozen witnesses to the crime and each one said the act was committed by someone wearing 'flared' trousers. This vital piece of evidence coupled with the fact that a few other bell-bottomed trouser wearers were seen running away in the direction of the Army camp, led the police to think that a soldier of 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers was the culprit.
The British Commanding Officer of our battalion was none too pleased when he was acquainted with the facts, but he promised the local Chief of Police that he would investigate the matter. Accordingly, he told the Adjutant to order a scale 'A' parade for 2pm that day.
With everyone present, the CO mounted a dais and addressed the battalion. He spoke good Malay and he outlined the events of the previous evening. When he got to the vital piece about the fellow with 'flared' trousers being seen stabbing the Chinaman, he used the wrong word for 'knife'.
What he said was: "Dia pukul orang China dengan pisang." ('He struck the Chinaman with a banana'). The word he should have used is 'pisau' (knife). Not content with a single mistake, he reiterated the gory details a few times and, on each occasion, dwelt on how the 'banana' had narrowly missed the victim's heart.
There must have been three hundred Sabahan soldiers and Malay non-commissioned officers on parade and their faces remained expressionless. British officers, on the other hand, were convulsed with mirth. Nobody had the courage to tell the Commanding Officer about his mistake. The culprit was never found!
Soldiers from Sabah were, on the whole, a well behaved lot; it was therefore a shock to hear that one of them had been seen fighting with a Chinaman outside a bar. The Chinaman came off second best and very nearly lost his life through a knife wound within an inch of his heart. There were about half a dozen witnesses to the crime and each one said the act was committed by someone wearing 'flared' trousers. This vital piece of evidence coupled with the fact that a few other bell-bottomed trouser wearers were seen running away in the direction of the Army camp, led the police to think that a soldier of 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers was the culprit.
The British Commanding Officer of our battalion was none too pleased when he was acquainted with the facts, but he promised the local Chief of Police that he would investigate the matter. Accordingly, he told the Adjutant to order a scale 'A' parade for 2pm that day.
With everyone present, the CO mounted a dais and addressed the battalion. He spoke good Malay and he outlined the events of the previous evening. When he got to the vital piece about the fellow with 'flared' trousers being seen stabbing the Chinaman, he used the wrong word for 'knife'.
What he said was: "Dia pukul orang China dengan pisang." ('He struck the Chinaman with a banana'). The word he should have used is 'pisau' (knife). Not content with a single mistake, he reiterated the gory details a few times and, on each occasion, dwelt on how the 'banana' had narrowly missed the victim's heart.
There must have been three hundred Sabahan soldiers and Malay non-commissioned officers on parade and their faces remained expressionless. British officers, on the other hand, were convulsed with mirth. Nobody had the courage to tell the Commanding Officer about his mistake. The culprit was never found!
THE RELUCTANT ASKARI
With less than a week to go before we embarked on Hired Transport (HT) 'DILWARA' at Singapore for the return journey to Kenya in June 1953, one of our askaris went missing.
For an African to go AWOL in Malaya was like a swallow electing to stay behind in Britain when all the others were taking off for the southern hemisphere. He was seen in the nearby village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to the Jungle Warfare School, Kota Tinggi where we were staging) but fled when we tried to catch him. With just one day to go, he was caught on a rubber estate and locked up in the guard room.
Askaris were concerned about what was happening in Kenya. Mau Mau was sweeping through the country like a forest fire and they knew that another war would have to be fought when they reached home. I asked my orderly, Kipleli, how he would like to live in Malaya, like so many other expatriates did. There was a look of terror in his eyes as he asked me if that was an option. When I assured him that it was only a matter for discussion, he thought for a few moments and replied: "Effendi, have you ever seen a mother chicken scratching the earth for things that her chicks can eat?" I nodded. "And when there is danger, what do the chicks do?" he continued. I pretended not to know. "They scamper under her wings where they know they'll be safe. You and all the other officers are the chickens, and I'm just a chick." That parable is typical of the way askaris related complicated issues to simple situations.
There was no doubt that the vision of ordinary askaris had been widened during their time in Malaya They learnt what communism was about and they learnt how to work with British, Malay, Fiji and Gurkha soldiers. They came to realise what fine athletes they were and were proud of the records they gained for track and field events. It was in the early '50s' that the athletic fraternity came to hear about the fantastic running skills of the Nandi and Kipsigis. Nowadays, it is commonplace to see the Kipsangs, Kiptanuis, Kiplangats and all the other 'Kips' streaking ahead of the opposition to return world record times - and it all started in Malaya.
But to return to the askari who wanted to stay in Malaya. He was kept handcuffed until he got aboard the ship and was then put in the ship's cells at the 'sharp' end of the boat. During the first day at sea, he made a nuisance of himself shouting and throwing food, which he refused to eat, at his jailers. But when we turned west after rounding the northernmost tip of Sumatra, we ran into heavy seas. The motion amidships, where I had my cabin, was uncomfortable enough until I became used to it, but in the bows the rise and fall was quite alarming. It was not long before the prisoner was whimpering for mercy. Eventually, he found his sea legs but then went on hunger strike.
After four days of taking water only, the Doctor told me he would have to be force-fed. I spoke to the Colonel, who by this time had had enough of the prisoner, and would have agreed to him walking the plank if the Doctor said so. But force feeding was agreed and the procedure was simpler than I expected.
A couple of burly regimental policemen quickly overpowered him, bound him in a straight-jacket and carried him off to the medical centre. He was strapped to a table while the Doctor produced a piece of wood like a horse's bit with a hole in the middle and tapes at both ends. He pressed it against the askari's tightly closed lips which opened when it became painful. The tapes were tied at the back of his head, and then we were ready for the next stage. This was the insertion of a rubber tube through the hole in the 'bit' which was fed down to his stomach. It was then a simple business to pour a jug of soup down the tube. It was all over in a minute and the prisoner, realising he wasn't going to win, submitted to the authority of the provost sergeant, and we had no more trouble from him.
For an African to go AWOL in Malaya was like a swallow electing to stay behind in Britain when all the others were taking off for the southern hemisphere. He was seen in the nearby village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to the Jungle Warfare School, Kota Tinggi where we were staging) but fled when we tried to catch him. With just one day to go, he was caught on a rubber estate and locked up in the guard room.
Askaris were concerned about what was happening in Kenya. Mau Mau was sweeping through the country like a forest fire and they knew that another war would have to be fought when they reached home. I asked my orderly, Kipleli, how he would like to live in Malaya, like so many other expatriates did. There was a look of terror in his eyes as he asked me if that was an option. When I assured him that it was only a matter for discussion, he thought for a few moments and replied: "Effendi, have you ever seen a mother chicken scratching the earth for things that her chicks can eat?" I nodded. "And when there is danger, what do the chicks do?" he continued. I pretended not to know. "They scamper under her wings where they know they'll be safe. You and all the other officers are the chickens, and I'm just a chick." That parable is typical of the way askaris related complicated issues to simple situations.
There was no doubt that the vision of ordinary askaris had been widened during their time in Malaya They learnt what communism was about and they learnt how to work with British, Malay, Fiji and Gurkha soldiers. They came to realise what fine athletes they were and were proud of the records they gained for track and field events. It was in the early '50s' that the athletic fraternity came to hear about the fantastic running skills of the Nandi and Kipsigis. Nowadays, it is commonplace to see the Kipsangs, Kiptanuis, Kiplangats and all the other 'Kips' streaking ahead of the opposition to return world record times - and it all started in Malaya.
But to return to the askari who wanted to stay in Malaya. He was kept handcuffed until he got aboard the ship and was then put in the ship's cells at the 'sharp' end of the boat. During the first day at sea, he made a nuisance of himself shouting and throwing food, which he refused to eat, at his jailers. But when we turned west after rounding the northernmost tip of Sumatra, we ran into heavy seas. The motion amidships, where I had my cabin, was uncomfortable enough until I became used to it, but in the bows the rise and fall was quite alarming. It was not long before the prisoner was whimpering for mercy. Eventually, he found his sea legs but then went on hunger strike.
After four days of taking water only, the Doctor told me he would have to be force-fed. I spoke to the Colonel, who by this time had had enough of the prisoner, and would have agreed to him walking the plank if the Doctor said so. But force feeding was agreed and the procedure was simpler than I expected.
A couple of burly regimental policemen quickly overpowered him, bound him in a straight-jacket and carried him off to the medical centre. He was strapped to a table while the Doctor produced a piece of wood like a horse's bit with a hole in the middle and tapes at both ends. He pressed it against the askari's tightly closed lips which opened when it became painful. The tapes were tied at the back of his head, and then we were ready for the next stage. This was the insertion of a rubber tube through the hole in the 'bit' which was fed down to his stomach. It was then a simple business to pour a jug of soup down the tube. It was all over in a minute and the prisoner, realising he wasn't going to win, submitted to the authority of the provost sergeant, and we had no more trouble from him.
The Silver Screen
Tawau in the mid 60's was the centre of the pornographic film industry of Borneo. I cannot speak with personal experience, but I doubt if they were more sexually explicit than some of the programmes we see today on TV.
The market for these films was the staunchly Roman Catholic Republic of the Philippines. There was also a brisk traffic in 'PLAYBOY' magazines that came in by sea and were then re-exported in long, thin, pencil-shaped boats powered by four 40 horse power outboard motors. The boats travelled so fast that nothing in the Philippine Navy could catch them. They presented a difficult target but occasionally a boat would be hit by gunfire - there were never any survivors. Those who took part in this illicit trade considered the risks worth while; ten successful runs would provide crews with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
Colour Sergeant Hamish McCleod of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders was the orderly sergeant of the day and was carrying out an evening inspection of 2/RANGER's camp in Tawau. McCleod was one of the first non-commissioned officers to be seconded to the Sabah battalion and had proved himself to be an excellent NCO; he set a high moral standard in his personal and professional life.
He was accompanied on his inspection by the Malay provost sergeant (regimental police) and was about to tell him to 'fall out' when an unusual sound made him freeze. He moved his head from side to side until he had a fix on one of the accommodation huts. Signaling the provost sergeant to follow, he tip-toed to the hut and smashed the door open with his boot. There was an exodus of bodies through every window frame and within a matter of seconds the room was empty except for one man. Corporal Lam Chop was standing stiffly to attention alongside a machine that was projecting a pornographic film. The only reason why he hadn't followed the others was because he owned the projector.
Colour Sergeant McCleod could not believe what he saw on the screen. His strict Presbyterian upbringing in Scotland had shielded him from such sights as human bodies writhing around each other like sand eels in a bucket. "Yur dirrty wee blackguard, I'll have yur courrt martialled for this," he exclaimed. He gave instructions to the provost sergeant to put the Corporal in the guard room while he himself switched off the machine and removed the film.
The routine for Commanding Officer's Orders (a military version of Magistrates' Court) is pretty much the same wherever the British Army has left its influence. Those who are about to answer charges of misconduct before their CO are paraded outside his office, usually at noon. To create atmosphere, there is much shouting of commands, stamping of feet and blowing of bugles.
My office was next door to the CO's and we shared a veranda where miscreants were paraded. I looked out of my door and saw Corporal Lam Chop having his uniform and general turnout inspected by the Regimental Sergeant Major. Knowing him to be a good NCO, I wondered what had gone wrong, so I waited for an opportunity to speak to the senior warrant officer.
The RSM told me about the discovery of Lam Chop's nocturnal side-line and I was dismayed to hear that he was being charged with 'conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that he did provide and exhibit pornographic films for the purpose of entertaining soldiers'.
We had experienced some racial problems between Malay soldiers serving in Tawau and our own soldiers - who were Sabahan. The old problem of 'flared' trousers had been the cause of a number of fights and our soldiers resented the patronising attitude of mainland Malays. The Brigade Commander - a Malay himself, made things worse by taking sides with his kinsfolk.
Looking at it in the bigger picture, I considered Lam Chop was doing a good job keeping soldiers happy and contented within the confines of the camp. The innocuous matter of showing pornographic films was, I considered, a small price to pay.
The British Commanding Officer of 2/RANGERs had recently returned to UK at the end of his tour of command and had been replaced by a Malay lieutenant colonel. The newcomer was an extremely competent officer who had been commissioned at Sandhurst; all the remaining British ranks were pleased to serve under him. I therefore went to find out what he proposed to do.
I was aghast when he told me he intended making an example of the NCO. I remonstrated with him, but it was no good; if the charge was proved Lam Chop would be reduced to the ranks and suffer a term of detention.
There seemed to be nothing else I could do to change his mind, but just as I was about to return to my office, the CO's phone rang. When he replaced the hand set he told me that the Brigadier wanted to see him; 'Orders' would have to wait.
Brigade Headquarters was only a few hundred yards away and it was not long before the CO returned. Even for a Malay, he looked flushed; he told me that the Brigadier had heard about Lam Chop being caught in the act and had reacted strongly when told that he was going to be disciplined. "You will do no such thing," he said. "You will return his projector and his film - we have booked him to give a show in the brigade officers' mess next Monday night."
The market for these films was the staunchly Roman Catholic Republic of the Philippines. There was also a brisk traffic in 'PLAYBOY' magazines that came in by sea and were then re-exported in long, thin, pencil-shaped boats powered by four 40 horse power outboard motors. The boats travelled so fast that nothing in the Philippine Navy could catch them. They presented a difficult target but occasionally a boat would be hit by gunfire - there were never any survivors. Those who took part in this illicit trade considered the risks worth while; ten successful runs would provide crews with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives.
Colour Sergeant Hamish McCleod of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders was the orderly sergeant of the day and was carrying out an evening inspection of 2/RANGER's camp in Tawau. McCleod was one of the first non-commissioned officers to be seconded to the Sabah battalion and had proved himself to be an excellent NCO; he set a high moral standard in his personal and professional life.
He was accompanied on his inspection by the Malay provost sergeant (regimental police) and was about to tell him to 'fall out' when an unusual sound made him freeze. He moved his head from side to side until he had a fix on one of the accommodation huts. Signaling the provost sergeant to follow, he tip-toed to the hut and smashed the door open with his boot. There was an exodus of bodies through every window frame and within a matter of seconds the room was empty except for one man. Corporal Lam Chop was standing stiffly to attention alongside a machine that was projecting a pornographic film. The only reason why he hadn't followed the others was because he owned the projector.
Colour Sergeant McCleod could not believe what he saw on the screen. His strict Presbyterian upbringing in Scotland had shielded him from such sights as human bodies writhing around each other like sand eels in a bucket. "Yur dirrty wee blackguard, I'll have yur courrt martialled for this," he exclaimed. He gave instructions to the provost sergeant to put the Corporal in the guard room while he himself switched off the machine and removed the film.
The routine for Commanding Officer's Orders (a military version of Magistrates' Court) is pretty much the same wherever the British Army has left its influence. Those who are about to answer charges of misconduct before their CO are paraded outside his office, usually at noon. To create atmosphere, there is much shouting of commands, stamping of feet and blowing of bugles.
My office was next door to the CO's and we shared a veranda where miscreants were paraded. I looked out of my door and saw Corporal Lam Chop having his uniform and general turnout inspected by the Regimental Sergeant Major. Knowing him to be a good NCO, I wondered what had gone wrong, so I waited for an opportunity to speak to the senior warrant officer.
The RSM told me about the discovery of Lam Chop's nocturnal side-line and I was dismayed to hear that he was being charged with 'conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that he did provide and exhibit pornographic films for the purpose of entertaining soldiers'.
We had experienced some racial problems between Malay soldiers serving in Tawau and our own soldiers - who were Sabahan. The old problem of 'flared' trousers had been the cause of a number of fights and our soldiers resented the patronising attitude of mainland Malays. The Brigade Commander - a Malay himself, made things worse by taking sides with his kinsfolk.
Looking at it in the bigger picture, I considered Lam Chop was doing a good job keeping soldiers happy and contented within the confines of the camp. The innocuous matter of showing pornographic films was, I considered, a small price to pay.
The British Commanding Officer of 2/RANGERs had recently returned to UK at the end of his tour of command and had been replaced by a Malay lieutenant colonel. The newcomer was an extremely competent officer who had been commissioned at Sandhurst; all the remaining British ranks were pleased to serve under him. I therefore went to find out what he proposed to do.
I was aghast when he told me he intended making an example of the NCO. I remonstrated with him, but it was no good; if the charge was proved Lam Chop would be reduced to the ranks and suffer a term of detention.
There seemed to be nothing else I could do to change his mind, but just as I was about to return to my office, the CO's phone rang. When he replaced the hand set he told me that the Brigadier wanted to see him; 'Orders' would have to wait.
Brigade Headquarters was only a few hundred yards away and it was not long before the CO returned. Even for a Malay, he looked flushed; he told me that the Brigadier had heard about Lam Chop being caught in the act and had reacted strongly when told that he was going to be disciplined. "You will do no such thing," he said. "You will return his projector and his film - we have booked him to give a show in the brigade officers' mess next Monday night."
THE SNOWY HEIGHTS ABOVE BEIRUT
During the twelve months I spent in Cyprus with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment during the EOKA campaign (1957-8), I had no leave as such, but spent two weeks in the Lebanese Army Ski School at Les Cedres high in the mountains above Beirut.
The Adjutant drew my attention to the notice in district routine orders and told me that the Commanding Officer thought it would be a good idea for me to have a break. I studied the words carefully and could find no catch, so there and then my name was put forward.
I heard nothing for a few weeks and then I received an official looking envelope from Headquarters Middle East Land Forces telling me I was required to report to a certain officer there a few days hence.
I made the journey to Episcopi, on the south coast, by way of the Troodos mountain range and was in time to have a drink in the mess and a leisurely lunch before keeping my appointment.
The fellow to whom I had to report turned out to be a lieutenant colonel in a cavalry regiment. He presented a sinister appearance with a black eye patch, but he greeted me warmly as I entered his office. He did not mince his words when he told me that I was being sent to Lebanon to find out all I could about the country. He told me to keep my eyes and ears open and write a report as soon as I came back.
The Adjutant of 1/WELCH had said nothing about the clandestine part of the skiing trip, neither was it mentioned in district routine orders. I began to feel I was sitting in the office of this one eyed cavalry-man under false pretences. Before I could tell him that James Bond films gave me nightmares, he stood up, shook my hand and wished me the best of luck.
When I returned to my unit, I tackled the Adjutant about 'setting me up'. He countered by telling me that if I was 'funking' out, he would erase my name from the list. Not wishing to be called a coward, but nevertheless thinking that the matter could have been dealt with more candidly, I prepared myself for the trip to Lebanon.
I flew the short distance from Nicosia to Beirut in an aircraft of Middle East Airlines along with two sergeants from other units of the British Army in Cyprus. I wondered if they too were on clandestine missions, but thought it better not to enquire.
A young man from the British Embassy was at the airport to meet us. He introduced me to a swarthy looking soldier called Salim, the driver of the Land Rover who had orders to take us to Les Cedres.
My joining instructions stated that ski-wear would be issued at the ski school but, as I take size twelve boots, I thought it wise to buy a pair before leaving Beirut. Salim took over when I explained what I wanted and drove like a maniac up the long tree-lined avenue from the airport to the town centre. Horn and accelerator were the two main driving essentials, with the brake used only to avoid collisions.
Salim, being a soldier, could drive over traffic islands and this he did every time we came to one. By the time we pulled up at the first shoe shop the two sergeants in the back were talking about getting a taxi to Les Cedres. I reminded them that we were on an official mission and they would just have to stick it out.
When we visited the next shoe shop Salim went through the motions of stem turns, snow-ploughs and Christies and the manager of the shoe shop finally got the message, but he didn't have anything to fit me. We visited another two shoe shops before I was forced to give up and accept the fact that Beirut was devoid of size twelve ski boots.
Salim was anxious to get going as it was a two hour journey to Les Cedres and the weather forecast was not good. He started off again and jumped another three traffic islands before emerging on the north coast road running towards Tripoli.
At Tripoli, he turned right and headed into the mountains. If Salim's driving at sea level had scared the pants off us, it was nothing to what he had in store for us once we had passed through the low foothills of the huge mountain range that towered in front of us. Heavy rain gave way to snow as we climbed higher but the slippery roads only made Salim take corners with more of a flourish. To add to our concern, steam started to cloud the windscreen. We drew up on a straight piece of road, Salim lifted the bonnet and was lost to sight as steam enveloped him. He re-appeared a few seconds later grinning like a Cheshire cat saying: "Mauyer maffeesh!" (water finished.) Fortunately, a stream ran along the side of the road and when the engine had cooled, we were able to scoop some water out and fill the radiator. Poor maintenance rather than a hole in the cooling system seemed to be the cause and we were able to continue our journey without further trouble.
A full scale blizzard was blowing and darkness had descended when we arrived at Les Cedres. The Land Rover drew up outside a building where the two sergeants got out. Salim then took me to another building on the other side of the quadrangle, which was the officers' mess. I was warmly welcomed by some Lebanese Army officers, who led me upstairs and gave me some really good coffee. It was hard to imagine that I was still in the Lebanon when only a few hours ago the sun had been shining and people were swimming in the sea. Even within the warm confines of the officers' mess, the blizzard could be heard and snow could be seen piling on the window frames.
I took stock of my room, which could be described as 'frugal but adequate', for my two week stay. Only two essential items seemed to be missing - bed sheets. I went along to the mess office and asked one of the servants if he could let me have some. He looked at me in a puzzled way and told me that he had actually made my bed that morning: "Where could they have gone?" was his reply. He accompanied me to my room, rolled back the blankets and exclaimed exultantly: "Here they are!" He returned to his duty and left me alone to take a closer examination of the obnoxious things that went under the name of ‘bed sheets'. They appeared to have been made from the same coarse material that prisoners in British jails use to make mail sacks.
I unpacked my kit and went along to the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me and heard a thud from the landing outside. I could see at once what had happened; the metal bar, with the outside knob, had passed through the lock. There was no way I could have opened the door, but I was not concerned as I felt sure that someone would come along, see the knob on the landing and release me. Hot water gushed into the huge bath-tub and I was able to enjoy a good soak.
I must have been in the bath for half an hour without hearing a sound, and I started to get worried. I dried myself, put on my dressing gown and inspected the door and its frame again to see if there was any way I could get out; it was quite impossible. The only course, it seemed, was for me to shout for assistance, so I opened the window and was subjected to the full blast of the blizzard which nearly blew me back into the bath. I persevered and managed to get my head and shoulders into a position where I could see the entrance to the officers' mess.
In the lee of the porch was a sentry wrapped in a great-coat. I shouted to attract his attention, but he did not hear me. I tried again and this time stuck two fingers between my lips and let out a piercing whistle. I felt I was making progress as this time the sentry looked about him, but only at ground level. Despite the fact that I was now covered with snow, I made one more try and levered myself as far as I could out of the window. The sound I made not only caused the sentry to look upwards, but the guard commander and a few others came out of an adjacent building to find what all the noise was about. The extra surge of decibels was due to my dressing gown falling open thus allowing certain tender parts of my anatomy to descend upon the top of a very hot radiator. I hastily withdrew from my position and rendered first aid to myself with copious amounts of snow.
In order not to lose contact with those on the ground, I shook a large bath towel out of the window. Within a few minutes, I heard sounds in the passage-way and then the door opened. I was still in considerable pain but I made light of the matter and walked with as jaunty a step as I could manage back to my room.
Whilst on matters lavatorial, I was caught one day trying to remove a piece of fossilised human excreta from the top of the lavatory seat in the wash room of the officers' mess. One quite sophisticated Lebanese officer could not understand why I was standing with one of my shoes in my hand chipping away with the steel-tipped heel at something on the seat; I felt embarrassed about having to tell him what I was doing. He inspected the offending lump, which now had sharp edges, and said quite cheerfully: "There's no need to worry about that. There's an old Arab proverb which says: 'There's a dirty place in every man's house'."
The blizzard of the previous evening had reduced visibility to only a few yards, but when I awoke on my first full day in Les Cedres the sun's rays were bringing a russet glow to the snow shrouded mountains. For the first time I was able to see the large clump of cedar trees a few hundred yards away which are the only ones left from hundreds of thousands that once grew in those mountains. Nine hundred and fifty years before the birth of Jesus Christ this fine wood was used to build the temple of King Solomon in Jerusalem and, it is said, some of the trees standing in Les Cedres were growing there when Jesus was born. Their majestic branches, spreading outwards from the trunk and parallel to the ground are more familiar in our own country these days than they are in the Levant.
I had been told the night before to report to the ski school stores at 8am to draw my kit. With a few minutes in hand I met the two sergeants and the instructor/interpreter who had been detailed to look after us during our stay. Arctic clothing of the same pattern used by the British Army was brought out and we were given our appropriate sizes. Then came the skis and ski sticks and finally, the boots. This was the moment of truth and I began to feel uneasy when the storeman scratched his head when asked to find an extra large pair for me. He pulled out a number of boots but I felt like one of those ugly sisters in 'Cinderella' as I tried to stuff my feet into them. It was no good, they were too small and it looked as if I was going to be left in the kitchen while everyone else went to the ball. The interpreter suggested I should go along to the one and only ski shop in the shopping area when it opened at 9am. If and when I found some ski boots to fit me, I was asked to join the others at the bottom of the ski lift.
I went back to the mess, had some coffee and then, at 9am, took the short walk to the ski shop. The manager was rolling up the blind when I arrived. He gave a sigh when he saw the size of my feet and said: "I can tell you now, sir, I have nothing that will fit you." I asked him if there was anyone else who could help me. After a few seconds' thought he replied: "There is a man who lives in the village of Bacharre in the Kidicha Gorge not more than 15 miles from here." He explained that it would not be difficult to find him as he lived in a cave on the right side of the road a hundred yards before you entered the village. "His name is Haji Yusuf - he owns a boot shop and he may be able to help you." I thanked him and went back to the ski school to get some transport.
Salim had returned to Beirut, but another soldier was summoned and ordered to take me to Bacharre. Not only did this driver bear a remarkable resemblance to Salim, but he had obviously graduated from the same driving school as his look-alike. There was a deep covering of snow on the road and driver No. 2 used it to skid alarmingly around corners with drops of thousands of feet on one side.
As we approached the village of Bacharre, I kept my eyes open for the cave where Haji Yusuf lived. We missed it on the first run and had to turn around and try again. On the return trip, it was easy to find as the opening of the cave faced towards the village. A track led from the road to the cave and I walked the hundred yards or so to the entrance.
Haji Yusuf's boot and shoe emporium must have had the best view of any shop in the Lebanon. Shielded from the prevailing westerly winds, it absorbed the morning sun and provided a light-filled work and show place ideal for the purpose of that master cordwainer. Haji Yusuf saw me climbing the slope and stood up as I approached. Befitting a pilgrim who had visited Mecca, he wore a henna-stained red beard and welcomed me to his cave. "Salaam alakum," he said in greeting. "Alakum, salaam," I replied - and we shook hands. I told him of my difficulty in getting a pair of ski boots and asked if he could help. He asked me to raise my right foot to his lap and, with a wooden contraption, he took my measurements. He sucked loudly through his teeth and exclaimed: "Quois kebir!" (very big!). Nevertheless, he nodded in an optimistic way and asked me to follow him to the back of the cave. Rows of shelves lined the solid rock wall and Haji Yusuf stopped at a place that looked as if it was a tomb for long-dead beavers. He took down a pair of whiskery boots and asked me to try them on. Shaggy fur ski boots had yet to become the fashion in ski resorts and I suppose I can claim to be one of the first to wear this avant guarde style of footwear. The important thing was that they fitted me like a glove and I asked if I could hire them for the next two weeks. The old Arab was delighted to be of service and mentioned a paltry amount which I was only too pleased to pay in Lebanese pounds. I told him I would return them when I passed through Bacharre on my way back to Beirut.
Most of the morning had been occupied in my search for boots and by the time I returned to Les Cedres, it was nearly midday. There are only a few weeks at the beginning of the year when you can ski all day at Les Cedres. By mid March, when I was there, the snow on the piste gets slushy by noon and everyone packs up for lunch. It might be a good place to spend your honeymoon, but for someone on his own it was the most boring place I have ever been in all my life. Once you had walked around the clump of cedars and inspected the ski and souvenir shop - that was it. There was only one other thing to do and that was to go to your room, curl up on your mail bags and read whatever books you had brought with you.
Another blizzard hit us on my second night in Les Cedres, but the social climate changed for the better. A crowd of Lebanese Air Force officers arrived during the afternoon and they provided congenial company.
I was keen to get started the following morning and gave little thought about the effect my strange looking ski boots would have on other people. I was given some idea when Gilbenk, the mess waiter, thought I had brought a dog into the dining room and that it was sitting between my legs.
After breakfast, I gathered my kit and walked across to the ski lift. The two British sergeants were drinking coffee at the small stand-up bar at the terminal when I arrived. Their expressions reflected what they thought about my footwear, but they were too polite to make any disparaging remarks. One of them said: "Glad to see you got some boots, sir." Our instructor arrived and soon the lift creaked into action. The two sergeants continued with basic lessons while I, graded 'competent novice', told them I would see them at the top. I grabbed the first swinging seat that came along and winged my way up the ski slope.
I looked behind me when we were nearing the half-way point and was surprised to see how steep the ground had become. The next stage was more precipitous so I jettisoned at the first opportunity. The blizzard of the night before had blown itself out but clouds were still thick and heavy with snow as they descended over the piste. I spent a few minutes getting the feel of my skis and found that the skills I had learnt in Austria a few years before were coming back to me.
The previous night's fall of snow had produced an unblemished surface on the side of the mountain but when the clouds thickened I experienced for the first time the phenomenon known as 'white-out '. This happens when land and sky merge into one element. For the novice skier, it is a disturbing feeling to lose control and not know where you are going. All of a sudden I felt the wind strengthen on my face and I had a feeling of moving much faster than I should under such conditions. It came to an abrupt end when the slope I was descending reversed its inclination. The points of my skis dug into the snow, I parted company with them and flew about twenty feet through the air. I was immediately conscious of a very cold feeling in my feet and when I looked at them I was horrified to see that all I had on were the hairy uppers; the soles were still clamped to the skis.
When the clouds began to clear, I found that I had left the piste, slipped into a valley and was on my own. Immediate survival action was required if I was not to lose my toes through frost bite, but the only implement I had resembling a tool was a cigarette lighter.
The Zippo, although clumsy in shape, became the best known cigarette lighter in the world when it was issued to American soldiers during World War Two. I doubt if it has ever before or since been used as a hammer, but it saved my life that day when I was able to replace the nails that held the two parts of my boots together. I knew it was only a temporary measure and it took me a long time to get to the bottom of the ski lift. I was thankful that the instructor and two sergeants were not there to witness my embarrassment as I shuffled off to the officers' mess.
When I had changed into some decent footwear, I arranged for a Land Rover to take me to the shoe cave in Bacharre. Haji Yusuf was where I had left him the day before and he looked sad when I handed him the boots. It was not a problem for him though and within a few minutes his sturdy foot operated sewing machine and a battery of nails put the boots back into working order. I returned to Les Cedres and was in time to get in some skiing before the snow turned slushy. I had no more problems with the boots and soon became oblivious to the stares of new arrivals.
The young man from the British Embassy who met us in Beirut told me to expect a visit from the British Military Attache while I was at Les Cedres.
About half way through my stay, Colonel Andrew Braisby arrived. He made his presence felt as soon as he stepped from his official car. He was well known to the Commandant of the Ski School and we all had an hilarious lunch time session followed by an equally pleasant evening when much good food and wine was consumed.
Colonel Braisby was an officer equipped with a most ebullient personality. He had a fine war record and was a member of one of Scotland's most respected infantry regiments. He had a strange twist to his mouth, wore a monocle and possessed a booming voice. He was the centre of attention at the dining table and the other Lebanese officers who had not seen him before were in awe of him. He spoke perfect Arabic and French, although at one stage of the meal he was at a loss for the name of a certain animal, like a wolf, that frequented the area of Les Cedres. He sought the assistance of one Arabic speaking officer on his left, who was unable to help. The Colonel was quiet for a few moments and then leaned back in his chair and let out an enormous howl. This was supposed to help his luncheon companion remember the name of the animal, but only succeeded in causing him to choke on his food.
I learnt later that the Colonel was held in the highest esteem among the military and diplomatic hierarchy in Beirut. He had the reputation of being the unluckiest officer in the British Army in terms of being wounded by gun-fire. It seemed that many of his wounds had been inflicted in the pursuit of saving Arabs from Jews. This and the fact that some of his wounds had contorted his face - giving even more credence to his bravery, made him very popular among the Arabs. It was generally agreed that he was the ideal choice for British Military Attache to the Embassy.
He told me the story about the last time he was wounded during World War Two - or to be exact, just after World War Two. The war in Europe officially ended at midnight on the 8/9th May 1945. Andrew Braisby, then a young major, was on his way to brigade headquarters in North Germany on the first day of peace for five years, when his car broke down. The driver was still trying to find what had gone wrong when a dispatch rider on a motor bike came along. Andrew stood in the middle of the road, flagged him down and asked for a lift. The DR signalled Andrew to take a seat on the pillion, but when he released the clutch, the engine stalled with the extra weight. To start the machine again, it was necessary for the driver to put one foot on the ground and use the other to kick start the engine. After the third unsuccessful attempt, the DR put everything he had into the next lunge. The extra effort caused his elbow to come into contact with the cocking handle of his Sten gun, which was attached to a sling around his shoulder. There was a sharp rattle of gun fire and Andrew Braisby became the first post war casualty of the British Army when he was shot through the jaw.
By the end of eleven days in Les Cedres, I was quite happy to pack my bags and return to Beirut where I had been booked into the Normandie Hotel on the sea front. It was a pleasant relief to sleep in proper sheets again and explore the bazaars and fascinating maze of streets that made up old Beirut. The broad boulevards and majestic promenade reflected the strong Gallic influence and helped to make this city the show-piece of the Levant.
When I returned to Cyprus, I gave some thought to the one-eyed lieutenant colonel in Episcopi and the report he wanted me to write. I spent a long time sucking the end of a pencil and staring at a blank sheet of paper before commencing. I could have made a suggestion that others with plans to ski should bring their own sheets and boots - if they have large feet. Also, an ample supply of books and a few bottles of whisky would not go amiss, but these were frivolous points so I confined my comments to writing about the hospitality I received and how pro-Western everyone had been. I remember ending my report with the recommendation that more cultural, sporting and tourism ties should be forged with this haven of peace and tranquillity.
A few months after I wrote the report, the Muslim community in the Lebanon revolted over the Christians' pro-Western policy. The Christian president, Camille Chamoun, asked for help and a task force of American marines and armour landed on the beach of Beirut and stormed through the town. At the same time, other Arab countries of the Eastern Mediterranean were plunged into turmoil when King Feisal 11 of Iraq and his Prime Minister Nuri es-Said, were assassinated. It was one of those turning points in Middle East history and the shock waves that travelled around Arab countries had far reaching consequences, As far as the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment, with whom I was serving, was concerned, it meant rapid removal from Cyprus to prop up the tottering regime of King Idris of Libya - who thought he was the next in line for the 'chop'.
I never received an acknowledgement for my report and I should be surprised if it occupies space in any government or military archive. I only hope that my highly inaccurate recommendations did not influence anyone to take precipitate action.
The Adjutant drew my attention to the notice in district routine orders and told me that the Commanding Officer thought it would be a good idea for me to have a break. I studied the words carefully and could find no catch, so there and then my name was put forward.
I heard nothing for a few weeks and then I received an official looking envelope from Headquarters Middle East Land Forces telling me I was required to report to a certain officer there a few days hence.
I made the journey to Episcopi, on the south coast, by way of the Troodos mountain range and was in time to have a drink in the mess and a leisurely lunch before keeping my appointment.
The fellow to whom I had to report turned out to be a lieutenant colonel in a cavalry regiment. He presented a sinister appearance with a black eye patch, but he greeted me warmly as I entered his office. He did not mince his words when he told me that I was being sent to Lebanon to find out all I could about the country. He told me to keep my eyes and ears open and write a report as soon as I came back.
The Adjutant of 1/WELCH had said nothing about the clandestine part of the skiing trip, neither was it mentioned in district routine orders. I began to feel I was sitting in the office of this one eyed cavalry-man under false pretences. Before I could tell him that James Bond films gave me nightmares, he stood up, shook my hand and wished me the best of luck.
When I returned to my unit, I tackled the Adjutant about 'setting me up'. He countered by telling me that if I was 'funking' out, he would erase my name from the list. Not wishing to be called a coward, but nevertheless thinking that the matter could have been dealt with more candidly, I prepared myself for the trip to Lebanon.
I flew the short distance from Nicosia to Beirut in an aircraft of Middle East Airlines along with two sergeants from other units of the British Army in Cyprus. I wondered if they too were on clandestine missions, but thought it better not to enquire.
A young man from the British Embassy was at the airport to meet us. He introduced me to a swarthy looking soldier called Salim, the driver of the Land Rover who had orders to take us to Les Cedres.
My joining instructions stated that ski-wear would be issued at the ski school but, as I take size twelve boots, I thought it wise to buy a pair before leaving Beirut. Salim took over when I explained what I wanted and drove like a maniac up the long tree-lined avenue from the airport to the town centre. Horn and accelerator were the two main driving essentials, with the brake used only to avoid collisions.
Salim, being a soldier, could drive over traffic islands and this he did every time we came to one. By the time we pulled up at the first shoe shop the two sergeants in the back were talking about getting a taxi to Les Cedres. I reminded them that we were on an official mission and they would just have to stick it out.
When we visited the next shoe shop Salim went through the motions of stem turns, snow-ploughs and Christies and the manager of the shoe shop finally got the message, but he didn't have anything to fit me. We visited another two shoe shops before I was forced to give up and accept the fact that Beirut was devoid of size twelve ski boots.
Salim was anxious to get going as it was a two hour journey to Les Cedres and the weather forecast was not good. He started off again and jumped another three traffic islands before emerging on the north coast road running towards Tripoli.
At Tripoli, he turned right and headed into the mountains. If Salim's driving at sea level had scared the pants off us, it was nothing to what he had in store for us once we had passed through the low foothills of the huge mountain range that towered in front of us. Heavy rain gave way to snow as we climbed higher but the slippery roads only made Salim take corners with more of a flourish. To add to our concern, steam started to cloud the windscreen. We drew up on a straight piece of road, Salim lifted the bonnet and was lost to sight as steam enveloped him. He re-appeared a few seconds later grinning like a Cheshire cat saying: "Mauyer maffeesh!" (water finished.) Fortunately, a stream ran along the side of the road and when the engine had cooled, we were able to scoop some water out and fill the radiator. Poor maintenance rather than a hole in the cooling system seemed to be the cause and we were able to continue our journey without further trouble.
A full scale blizzard was blowing and darkness had descended when we arrived at Les Cedres. The Land Rover drew up outside a building where the two sergeants got out. Salim then took me to another building on the other side of the quadrangle, which was the officers' mess. I was warmly welcomed by some Lebanese Army officers, who led me upstairs and gave me some really good coffee. It was hard to imagine that I was still in the Lebanon when only a few hours ago the sun had been shining and people were swimming in the sea. Even within the warm confines of the officers' mess, the blizzard could be heard and snow could be seen piling on the window frames.
I took stock of my room, which could be described as 'frugal but adequate', for my two week stay. Only two essential items seemed to be missing - bed sheets. I went along to the mess office and asked one of the servants if he could let me have some. He looked at me in a puzzled way and told me that he had actually made my bed that morning: "Where could they have gone?" was his reply. He accompanied me to my room, rolled back the blankets and exclaimed exultantly: "Here they are!" He returned to his duty and left me alone to take a closer examination of the obnoxious things that went under the name of ‘bed sheets'. They appeared to have been made from the same coarse material that prisoners in British jails use to make mail sacks.
I unpacked my kit and went along to the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me and heard a thud from the landing outside. I could see at once what had happened; the metal bar, with the outside knob, had passed through the lock. There was no way I could have opened the door, but I was not concerned as I felt sure that someone would come along, see the knob on the landing and release me. Hot water gushed into the huge bath-tub and I was able to enjoy a good soak.
I must have been in the bath for half an hour without hearing a sound, and I started to get worried. I dried myself, put on my dressing gown and inspected the door and its frame again to see if there was any way I could get out; it was quite impossible. The only course, it seemed, was for me to shout for assistance, so I opened the window and was subjected to the full blast of the blizzard which nearly blew me back into the bath. I persevered and managed to get my head and shoulders into a position where I could see the entrance to the officers' mess.
In the lee of the porch was a sentry wrapped in a great-coat. I shouted to attract his attention, but he did not hear me. I tried again and this time stuck two fingers between my lips and let out a piercing whistle. I felt I was making progress as this time the sentry looked about him, but only at ground level. Despite the fact that I was now covered with snow, I made one more try and levered myself as far as I could out of the window. The sound I made not only caused the sentry to look upwards, but the guard commander and a few others came out of an adjacent building to find what all the noise was about. The extra surge of decibels was due to my dressing gown falling open thus allowing certain tender parts of my anatomy to descend upon the top of a very hot radiator. I hastily withdrew from my position and rendered first aid to myself with copious amounts of snow.
In order not to lose contact with those on the ground, I shook a large bath towel out of the window. Within a few minutes, I heard sounds in the passage-way and then the door opened. I was still in considerable pain but I made light of the matter and walked with as jaunty a step as I could manage back to my room.
Whilst on matters lavatorial, I was caught one day trying to remove a piece of fossilised human excreta from the top of the lavatory seat in the wash room of the officers' mess. One quite sophisticated Lebanese officer could not understand why I was standing with one of my shoes in my hand chipping away with the steel-tipped heel at something on the seat; I felt embarrassed about having to tell him what I was doing. He inspected the offending lump, which now had sharp edges, and said quite cheerfully: "There's no need to worry about that. There's an old Arab proverb which says: 'There's a dirty place in every man's house'."
The blizzard of the previous evening had reduced visibility to only a few yards, but when I awoke on my first full day in Les Cedres the sun's rays were bringing a russet glow to the snow shrouded mountains. For the first time I was able to see the large clump of cedar trees a few hundred yards away which are the only ones left from hundreds of thousands that once grew in those mountains. Nine hundred and fifty years before the birth of Jesus Christ this fine wood was used to build the temple of King Solomon in Jerusalem and, it is said, some of the trees standing in Les Cedres were growing there when Jesus was born. Their majestic branches, spreading outwards from the trunk and parallel to the ground are more familiar in our own country these days than they are in the Levant.
I had been told the night before to report to the ski school stores at 8am to draw my kit. With a few minutes in hand I met the two sergeants and the instructor/interpreter who had been detailed to look after us during our stay. Arctic clothing of the same pattern used by the British Army was brought out and we were given our appropriate sizes. Then came the skis and ski sticks and finally, the boots. This was the moment of truth and I began to feel uneasy when the storeman scratched his head when asked to find an extra large pair for me. He pulled out a number of boots but I felt like one of those ugly sisters in 'Cinderella' as I tried to stuff my feet into them. It was no good, they were too small and it looked as if I was going to be left in the kitchen while everyone else went to the ball. The interpreter suggested I should go along to the one and only ski shop in the shopping area when it opened at 9am. If and when I found some ski boots to fit me, I was asked to join the others at the bottom of the ski lift.
I went back to the mess, had some coffee and then, at 9am, took the short walk to the ski shop. The manager was rolling up the blind when I arrived. He gave a sigh when he saw the size of my feet and said: "I can tell you now, sir, I have nothing that will fit you." I asked him if there was anyone else who could help me. After a few seconds' thought he replied: "There is a man who lives in the village of Bacharre in the Kidicha Gorge not more than 15 miles from here." He explained that it would not be difficult to find him as he lived in a cave on the right side of the road a hundred yards before you entered the village. "His name is Haji Yusuf - he owns a boot shop and he may be able to help you." I thanked him and went back to the ski school to get some transport.
Salim had returned to Beirut, but another soldier was summoned and ordered to take me to Bacharre. Not only did this driver bear a remarkable resemblance to Salim, but he had obviously graduated from the same driving school as his look-alike. There was a deep covering of snow on the road and driver No. 2 used it to skid alarmingly around corners with drops of thousands of feet on one side.
As we approached the village of Bacharre, I kept my eyes open for the cave where Haji Yusuf lived. We missed it on the first run and had to turn around and try again. On the return trip, it was easy to find as the opening of the cave faced towards the village. A track led from the road to the cave and I walked the hundred yards or so to the entrance.
Haji Yusuf's boot and shoe emporium must have had the best view of any shop in the Lebanon. Shielded from the prevailing westerly winds, it absorbed the morning sun and provided a light-filled work and show place ideal for the purpose of that master cordwainer. Haji Yusuf saw me climbing the slope and stood up as I approached. Befitting a pilgrim who had visited Mecca, he wore a henna-stained red beard and welcomed me to his cave. "Salaam alakum," he said in greeting. "Alakum, salaam," I replied - and we shook hands. I told him of my difficulty in getting a pair of ski boots and asked if he could help. He asked me to raise my right foot to his lap and, with a wooden contraption, he took my measurements. He sucked loudly through his teeth and exclaimed: "Quois kebir!" (very big!). Nevertheless, he nodded in an optimistic way and asked me to follow him to the back of the cave. Rows of shelves lined the solid rock wall and Haji Yusuf stopped at a place that looked as if it was a tomb for long-dead beavers. He took down a pair of whiskery boots and asked me to try them on. Shaggy fur ski boots had yet to become the fashion in ski resorts and I suppose I can claim to be one of the first to wear this avant guarde style of footwear. The important thing was that they fitted me like a glove and I asked if I could hire them for the next two weeks. The old Arab was delighted to be of service and mentioned a paltry amount which I was only too pleased to pay in Lebanese pounds. I told him I would return them when I passed through Bacharre on my way back to Beirut.
Most of the morning had been occupied in my search for boots and by the time I returned to Les Cedres, it was nearly midday. There are only a few weeks at the beginning of the year when you can ski all day at Les Cedres. By mid March, when I was there, the snow on the piste gets slushy by noon and everyone packs up for lunch. It might be a good place to spend your honeymoon, but for someone on his own it was the most boring place I have ever been in all my life. Once you had walked around the clump of cedars and inspected the ski and souvenir shop - that was it. There was only one other thing to do and that was to go to your room, curl up on your mail bags and read whatever books you had brought with you.
Another blizzard hit us on my second night in Les Cedres, but the social climate changed for the better. A crowd of Lebanese Air Force officers arrived during the afternoon and they provided congenial company.
I was keen to get started the following morning and gave little thought about the effect my strange looking ski boots would have on other people. I was given some idea when Gilbenk, the mess waiter, thought I had brought a dog into the dining room and that it was sitting between my legs.
After breakfast, I gathered my kit and walked across to the ski lift. The two British sergeants were drinking coffee at the small stand-up bar at the terminal when I arrived. Their expressions reflected what they thought about my footwear, but they were too polite to make any disparaging remarks. One of them said: "Glad to see you got some boots, sir." Our instructor arrived and soon the lift creaked into action. The two sergeants continued with basic lessons while I, graded 'competent novice', told them I would see them at the top. I grabbed the first swinging seat that came along and winged my way up the ski slope.
I looked behind me when we were nearing the half-way point and was surprised to see how steep the ground had become. The next stage was more precipitous so I jettisoned at the first opportunity. The blizzard of the night before had blown itself out but clouds were still thick and heavy with snow as they descended over the piste. I spent a few minutes getting the feel of my skis and found that the skills I had learnt in Austria a few years before were coming back to me.
The previous night's fall of snow had produced an unblemished surface on the side of the mountain but when the clouds thickened I experienced for the first time the phenomenon known as 'white-out '. This happens when land and sky merge into one element. For the novice skier, it is a disturbing feeling to lose control and not know where you are going. All of a sudden I felt the wind strengthen on my face and I had a feeling of moving much faster than I should under such conditions. It came to an abrupt end when the slope I was descending reversed its inclination. The points of my skis dug into the snow, I parted company with them and flew about twenty feet through the air. I was immediately conscious of a very cold feeling in my feet and when I looked at them I was horrified to see that all I had on were the hairy uppers; the soles were still clamped to the skis.
When the clouds began to clear, I found that I had left the piste, slipped into a valley and was on my own. Immediate survival action was required if I was not to lose my toes through frost bite, but the only implement I had resembling a tool was a cigarette lighter.
The Zippo, although clumsy in shape, became the best known cigarette lighter in the world when it was issued to American soldiers during World War Two. I doubt if it has ever before or since been used as a hammer, but it saved my life that day when I was able to replace the nails that held the two parts of my boots together. I knew it was only a temporary measure and it took me a long time to get to the bottom of the ski lift. I was thankful that the instructor and two sergeants were not there to witness my embarrassment as I shuffled off to the officers' mess.
When I had changed into some decent footwear, I arranged for a Land Rover to take me to the shoe cave in Bacharre. Haji Yusuf was where I had left him the day before and he looked sad when I handed him the boots. It was not a problem for him though and within a few minutes his sturdy foot operated sewing machine and a battery of nails put the boots back into working order. I returned to Les Cedres and was in time to get in some skiing before the snow turned slushy. I had no more problems with the boots and soon became oblivious to the stares of new arrivals.
The young man from the British Embassy who met us in Beirut told me to expect a visit from the British Military Attache while I was at Les Cedres.
About half way through my stay, Colonel Andrew Braisby arrived. He made his presence felt as soon as he stepped from his official car. He was well known to the Commandant of the Ski School and we all had an hilarious lunch time session followed by an equally pleasant evening when much good food and wine was consumed.
Colonel Braisby was an officer equipped with a most ebullient personality. He had a fine war record and was a member of one of Scotland's most respected infantry regiments. He had a strange twist to his mouth, wore a monocle and possessed a booming voice. He was the centre of attention at the dining table and the other Lebanese officers who had not seen him before were in awe of him. He spoke perfect Arabic and French, although at one stage of the meal he was at a loss for the name of a certain animal, like a wolf, that frequented the area of Les Cedres. He sought the assistance of one Arabic speaking officer on his left, who was unable to help. The Colonel was quiet for a few moments and then leaned back in his chair and let out an enormous howl. This was supposed to help his luncheon companion remember the name of the animal, but only succeeded in causing him to choke on his food.
I learnt later that the Colonel was held in the highest esteem among the military and diplomatic hierarchy in Beirut. He had the reputation of being the unluckiest officer in the British Army in terms of being wounded by gun-fire. It seemed that many of his wounds had been inflicted in the pursuit of saving Arabs from Jews. This and the fact that some of his wounds had contorted his face - giving even more credence to his bravery, made him very popular among the Arabs. It was generally agreed that he was the ideal choice for British Military Attache to the Embassy.
He told me the story about the last time he was wounded during World War Two - or to be exact, just after World War Two. The war in Europe officially ended at midnight on the 8/9th May 1945. Andrew Braisby, then a young major, was on his way to brigade headquarters in North Germany on the first day of peace for five years, when his car broke down. The driver was still trying to find what had gone wrong when a dispatch rider on a motor bike came along. Andrew stood in the middle of the road, flagged him down and asked for a lift. The DR signalled Andrew to take a seat on the pillion, but when he released the clutch, the engine stalled with the extra weight. To start the machine again, it was necessary for the driver to put one foot on the ground and use the other to kick start the engine. After the third unsuccessful attempt, the DR put everything he had into the next lunge. The extra effort caused his elbow to come into contact with the cocking handle of his Sten gun, which was attached to a sling around his shoulder. There was a sharp rattle of gun fire and Andrew Braisby became the first post war casualty of the British Army when he was shot through the jaw.
By the end of eleven days in Les Cedres, I was quite happy to pack my bags and return to Beirut where I had been booked into the Normandie Hotel on the sea front. It was a pleasant relief to sleep in proper sheets again and explore the bazaars and fascinating maze of streets that made up old Beirut. The broad boulevards and majestic promenade reflected the strong Gallic influence and helped to make this city the show-piece of the Levant.
When I returned to Cyprus, I gave some thought to the one-eyed lieutenant colonel in Episcopi and the report he wanted me to write. I spent a long time sucking the end of a pencil and staring at a blank sheet of paper before commencing. I could have made a suggestion that others with plans to ski should bring their own sheets and boots - if they have large feet. Also, an ample supply of books and a few bottles of whisky would not go amiss, but these were frivolous points so I confined my comments to writing about the hospitality I received and how pro-Western everyone had been. I remember ending my report with the recommendation that more cultural, sporting and tourism ties should be forged with this haven of peace and tranquillity.
A few months after I wrote the report, the Muslim community in the Lebanon revolted over the Christians' pro-Western policy. The Christian president, Camille Chamoun, asked for help and a task force of American marines and armour landed on the beach of Beirut and stormed through the town. At the same time, other Arab countries of the Eastern Mediterranean were plunged into turmoil when King Feisal 11 of Iraq and his Prime Minister Nuri es-Said, were assassinated. It was one of those turning points in Middle East history and the shock waves that travelled around Arab countries had far reaching consequences, As far as the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment, with whom I was serving, was concerned, it meant rapid removal from Cyprus to prop up the tottering regime of King Idris of Libya - who thought he was the next in line for the 'chop'.
I never received an acknowledgement for my report and I should be surprised if it occupies space in any government or military archive. I only hope that my highly inaccurate recommendations did not influence anyone to take precipitate action.
'TIFFY' OF THE 24TH
The first St David's Day I spent overseas was with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Cyprus in 1949. I was one of four officers of the Welch Regiment serving with the '24th' at that time and we were all made to feel completely at home. This regiment, renowned for its stand against the Zulus at Rorke's Drift in 1879, has always prided itself on the good 'club' atmosphere of its officers' mess.
Charles Brewis, my company commander, took me aside on the eve of St David's Day and said: "These 24th people don't put much of a show on for "Dai's Day so its up to us, of the 41st (Welch Regiment), to keep the flag flying." (He was wrong).
So far, I had no idea what was in his mind, but then he said: "I know where we can get a goat." He told me he had made a reconnaissance of the Old City of Famagusta and had seen a herd of goats, one of which was pure white. "We'll go down there this evening and snatch it," he said. Timidly, I put to him the question of ownership but he dismissed my caution saying: "There are thousands of goats on the island, they won't miss one. Besides, we'll take it back tomorrow night."
As the sun crept towards the horizon, Charles and I set off for Famagusta in his Morris Eight. There was hardly room for two of us as Charles had a wooden leg and needed all the room he could get to manipulate the pedals. We arrived at the walled city entrance and Charles pointed towards the herd. Sure enough, there was a pretty little white goat standing on a pile of rubbish.
Morris Eights are not built for cross country work in the Middle East and the squeaks and groans that came from the one we were travelling in made this abundantly clear. Charles drew up as near to the goat as he could without scaring it, then gave the command: "Get him." I flung myself at the animal and managed to grab a leg. I soon got hold of another and began to bundle the animal into the back seat. While I was struggling among the rubbish, Charles saw the goat-herd appear from behind a rock to investigate the commotion. We sped away as fast as we could until we out-distanced the angry Cypriot.
Charles drove to the drums' store where the storeman helped us unload; we were then able to take stock. It was a pleasant little animal and it had settled down quite well. This could have been due to the newspapers Charles had put on the back seat to protect the upholstery; most of which had been converted to cud.
The storeman, by virtue of his trade, was quite handy with rope and he soon made a head collar. When I went back to the drums' store after tea, he had also made a coat from one of the leopard-skin aprons drummers wear on parade. It fitted the goat like a glove and the whole appearance of the animal was so cute that I decided to walk it to the officers' mess and show it off.
'Tiffy', as the drums' storeman had named him, trotted by my side as if he had been used to that sort of thing for all of his short life. A few officers were sitting under the cane loggia 30 yards away from the sea enjoying one of those magnificent sunsets for which Cyprus is famous. 'Tiffy' had quite an effect on them and was soon devouring an assortment of digestive biscuits, mint humbugs and cigarettes. On my way back to the drums' store, I poked my head into the ante-room and saw the commanding officer reading the latest copy of 'The Field'. Here was an opportunity, I thought, to put myself on the map and gain a few bonus points for initiative.
I led 'Tiffy' into the mess and approached the CO without making a sound. Just as I was about to come into view around his right shoulder, the goat let out a cry for its mother, the goat-herd or another mint humbug. Whatever the reason, the effect on the colonel was as if someone had thrown the switch on an electric chair. In an instant he was on his feet with rage so contorting his face that I wondered for a moment if it actually was the CO. "Get that animal out of here," he blasted. The good 'club' atmosphere of the 24th evaporated in a flash and to make it worse, 'Tiffy' peed on the carpet. "Now look what the beast has done," stormed the colonel. "Remove it at once, then clean up the mess." As I slunk away, he let off a final salvo. "This is the 24th Regiment, not the 41st. We don't worship graven images or goats." (we had to wait another twenty one years before the two regiments amalgamated for that dictum to be reversed).
St David's Day dawned and to give credit to the South Wales Borderers, they put on as good a show as I have ever experienced with my own regiment. We had cricket in the morning, a three course bumper lunch for soldiers in the cookhouse, officers and sergeants drinks in the messes and rugby sevens in the afternoon. Some of the officers asked me what had happened to the goat, but my enthusiasm for the ruminant had disappeared, especially as the regimental sergeant major told me that the Military Police had been around to see if anyone knew about a missing goat from the Old City.
The drums' storeman took over where I left off and during the outdoor activities the two of them paraded through the outer field and touch line where 'Tiffy' in his pipe-clayed halter and leopard-skin coat was the centre of attraction.
When darkness fell, Charles Brewis and I loaded 'Tiffy' into the Morris Eight and set off for Famagusta. Near Othello's Tower, beneath the walls of the Old City, we opened the door and lifted him out. I gave him a mint humbug, with the paper on (the way he liked them), and then we drove away.
In the short time 'Tiffy' had been with us, he made quite an impression. I don't suppose he was aware of the exalted position he held in the Regiment on its national day. Neither did the goat-herd who must have been surprised when he did a head count the following morning.
Charles Brewis, my company commander, took me aside on the eve of St David's Day and said: "These 24th people don't put much of a show on for "Dai's Day so its up to us, of the 41st (Welch Regiment), to keep the flag flying." (He was wrong).
So far, I had no idea what was in his mind, but then he said: "I know where we can get a goat." He told me he had made a reconnaissance of the Old City of Famagusta and had seen a herd of goats, one of which was pure white. "We'll go down there this evening and snatch it," he said. Timidly, I put to him the question of ownership but he dismissed my caution saying: "There are thousands of goats on the island, they won't miss one. Besides, we'll take it back tomorrow night."
As the sun crept towards the horizon, Charles and I set off for Famagusta in his Morris Eight. There was hardly room for two of us as Charles had a wooden leg and needed all the room he could get to manipulate the pedals. We arrived at the walled city entrance and Charles pointed towards the herd. Sure enough, there was a pretty little white goat standing on a pile of rubbish.
Morris Eights are not built for cross country work in the Middle East and the squeaks and groans that came from the one we were travelling in made this abundantly clear. Charles drew up as near to the goat as he could without scaring it, then gave the command: "Get him." I flung myself at the animal and managed to grab a leg. I soon got hold of another and began to bundle the animal into the back seat. While I was struggling among the rubbish, Charles saw the goat-herd appear from behind a rock to investigate the commotion. We sped away as fast as we could until we out-distanced the angry Cypriot.
Charles drove to the drums' store where the storeman helped us unload; we were then able to take stock. It was a pleasant little animal and it had settled down quite well. This could have been due to the newspapers Charles had put on the back seat to protect the upholstery; most of which had been converted to cud.
The storeman, by virtue of his trade, was quite handy with rope and he soon made a head collar. When I went back to the drums' store after tea, he had also made a coat from one of the leopard-skin aprons drummers wear on parade. It fitted the goat like a glove and the whole appearance of the animal was so cute that I decided to walk it to the officers' mess and show it off.
'Tiffy', as the drums' storeman had named him, trotted by my side as if he had been used to that sort of thing for all of his short life. A few officers were sitting under the cane loggia 30 yards away from the sea enjoying one of those magnificent sunsets for which Cyprus is famous. 'Tiffy' had quite an effect on them and was soon devouring an assortment of digestive biscuits, mint humbugs and cigarettes. On my way back to the drums' store, I poked my head into the ante-room and saw the commanding officer reading the latest copy of 'The Field'. Here was an opportunity, I thought, to put myself on the map and gain a few bonus points for initiative.
I led 'Tiffy' into the mess and approached the CO without making a sound. Just as I was about to come into view around his right shoulder, the goat let out a cry for its mother, the goat-herd or another mint humbug. Whatever the reason, the effect on the colonel was as if someone had thrown the switch on an electric chair. In an instant he was on his feet with rage so contorting his face that I wondered for a moment if it actually was the CO. "Get that animal out of here," he blasted. The good 'club' atmosphere of the 24th evaporated in a flash and to make it worse, 'Tiffy' peed on the carpet. "Now look what the beast has done," stormed the colonel. "Remove it at once, then clean up the mess." As I slunk away, he let off a final salvo. "This is the 24th Regiment, not the 41st. We don't worship graven images or goats." (we had to wait another twenty one years before the two regiments amalgamated for that dictum to be reversed).
St David's Day dawned and to give credit to the South Wales Borderers, they put on as good a show as I have ever experienced with my own regiment. We had cricket in the morning, a three course bumper lunch for soldiers in the cookhouse, officers and sergeants drinks in the messes and rugby sevens in the afternoon. Some of the officers asked me what had happened to the goat, but my enthusiasm for the ruminant had disappeared, especially as the regimental sergeant major told me that the Military Police had been around to see if anyone knew about a missing goat from the Old City.
The drums' storeman took over where I left off and during the outdoor activities the two of them paraded through the outer field and touch line where 'Tiffy' in his pipe-clayed halter and leopard-skin coat was the centre of attraction.
When darkness fell, Charles Brewis and I loaded 'Tiffy' into the Morris Eight and set off for Famagusta. Near Othello's Tower, beneath the walls of the Old City, we opened the door and lifted him out. I gave him a mint humbug, with the paper on (the way he liked them), and then we drove away.
In the short time 'Tiffy' had been with us, he made quite an impression. I don't suppose he was aware of the exalted position he held in the Regiment on its national day. Neither did the goat-herd who must have been surprised when he did a head count the following morning.
AT SEA WITH 3/KAR
Part 1
In May 1951, askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles were told they were going to Malaya for eighteen months to take part in the fight against communist terrorists. Some of them must have thought that a life of bliss awaited them as 'Malaya', in Kiswahili, means 'lady of easy virtue'. The feeling of euphoria they had at the thought of entering Paradise on earth evaporated soon after they arrived in the Far East and found that tented camps in remote jungle locations was the nearest they were going to get to Utopia.
It was difficult trying to explain to askaris what the 'emergency' in Malaya was all about. In the early '50s Africans were not as well educated as they are today, there was no television or visual aids to explain what the country and people looked like and the wazungu's (white officers' and NCOs') attempts to describe a troopship drew wondrous looks. Except for those who lived near Lake Victoria, very few askaris had seen a large expanse of water - rivers and streams were familiar to them (but only in the wet season) and a dug-out canoe was their only perception of a boat.
I was in charge of the advance party of 3/KAR when we left Nanyuki in September 1951. The first part of our journey took us by train to Nairobi where we changed to the overnight express which carried us to Mombasa. The 'Empire Ken' was there to greet us and I for one was not impressed. Seven months previously, I had travelled on her from Massawa, in Eritrea, to Mombasa. A more uncomfortable ship would be hard to find. She had a list to port and everything you did, from drinking soup at one end of the bowl, to climbing uphill in bed when you wanted to turn over reminded you that life was lived permanently on the slant.
Already aboard, was the advance party of 1/KAR, from Nyasaland, who had travelled up from Beira and were also destined for active service in Malaya. It was not often that our askaris had the opportunity to meet fellow soldiers from so far afield but, despite a language problem, it was not long before they found ways of communicating with each other.
It was decided that askaris of 3/KAR should occupy a block house near the stern of the ship. I am sure the original design of the ship did not include this strange looking appendage but it suited our lads admirably as they had a commanding view of everything that lay before and around them. We sailed late that afternoon and the decks were full of askaris taking a last look at their homeland as we moved slowly down the channel from Mombasa harbour to the open sea.
I attended breakfast the following morning and was amused to see the askaris' reaction to British food. Instead of their normal ration of posho (crushed and boiled Indian corn), they were offered porridge, cereals, eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread and marmalade. They took the lot and came back for more! Later, I inspected the troop-decks and ablutions and was not pleased with what I saw. European style lavatories were something they were not used to - and they were filthy. I spoke to the senior African warrant officer and told him I would return in half an hour to inspect them again. Thirty minutes later, I carried out my second inspection and found little improvement. The African Platoon Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable when I asked him for an explanation. "Back in camp, effendi," he said, "that work is carried out by wachura (sweepers) - it is not the job of askaris to safisha choo (clean latrines)." I understood the reluctance of askaris to undertake such chores but I was not prepared to give way. I ordered the African warrant officer to summon three NCOs and all four followed me down through the troop decks until we reached the bottom of the ship. "If those choos are not spotlessly clean in half an hour and remain that way until we get to Aden, I will move the askaris down here," I said. The sight of waves breaking over the port holes was enough to set the NCOs running back to tell the askaris what would befall them if they did not clean the lavatories. We had no trouble after that.
A few days out from Mombasa, we arrived in Victoria Harbour, Mahé, in the Seychelles. In those days the only contact Seychellois had with the rest of the world was the occasional ship that brought mail and essential goods. Another ten years were to pass before an airport was built and another ten or fifteen before the start of international tourism. I took a few photographs from the deck of the ship but it was not until 1998 (47 years later), when my wife and I spent six weeks travel writing in Mahé and other islands in the Seychelles, that I was able to fully appreciate them.
It was another three days before we reached Aden, that barren outpost of the Empire which still served as a link between east and west and the whole of the east African seaboard. We tied up at Steamer Point from where we could see the jumble of shops, offices, market and go-downs which made this one of the wealthiest ports in the world. We said farewell to the 'Empire Ken' and began getting used to walking with both legs on level surfaces again.
We were told it would be another four days before the troopship 'Dilwara' would arrive from Liverpool to take us to Singapore and that we would be accommodated in Kor-Maksar transit camp. With typical RAF efficiency (the Royal Air Force ran just about everything in Aden), we were driven off in RAF trucks.
I had just finished my lunch in the Officers' Mess when a waiter told me I was wanted on the phone. Expecting a call from the camp commandant or some such person, I was surprised to hear the voice of my ex fiancée's mother. Her daughter and I had become engaged a few days before I left the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Asmara seven months previously and, except for a week, which she and her mother spent in Nanyuki (the latter as a chaperone), we had not had an opportunity for getting used to each other in our betrothed state. Obviously, I did not measure up to her standards as she ditched me when she returned to Asmara. This did not affect the friendly relationship I had with her mother and she decided to pop down to Aden (her husband was the Chief Executive of Aden Airways) to see me and do some shopping. We arranged to meet that evening and she arrived at 6pm in the company's limousine (driven by an immaculately dressed chauffeur) and whisked me off to the company's bungalow high up on a mountain peak. Aden is an appallingly hot place at any time of the year but the cool breezes that caressed the bungalow from its elevated position made living in this treeless wasteland almost acceptable. Mum (I still found it hard to call her anything else) had invited some friends around for a party and it was approaching midnight before I was driven back to Kor-Maksar.
We arranged trips for the askaris to the shopping centre, known as The Crescent (built to resemble the elegant early 18th century crescent in Bath). They also visited Crater, the main habitat for thousands of indigenous folk who lived cheek by jowl with their neighbours in suffocating conditions. On the way back to Kor-Maksar, we stopped at the top of the pass and inspected the many regimental badges carved into the rock by previous units who had the misfortune of being stationed there. Football and volley ball matches kept the askaris fit and worked up their appetites to enjoy the same food provided for the Aden Protectorate Levies whose camp was nearby. I continued to enjoy a good social life with Mum and wondered if my luck would extend to a delay in the arrival of the 'Dilwara' This, unfortunately, did not happen, and the elegant single funnelled, brilliant white troopship of the British India Company, with signal flags a-flying arrived on time at Steamer Point.
Mum and I had said our good-byes on the quayside, but when I went aboard I found her talking to the OC Troops, an ex-Indian Army Lieutenant Colonel who was completing his last two years military service at sea. It seemed that they knew each other from pre-war days in Karachi. The other officers of 3/KAR began to wonder how my ex-potential mother-in-law seemed to pop up when least expected. They had seen her in Nanyuki (she stayed on for an extra week when the aircraft returning to Asmara with her daughter was full), then she appeared in Aden in a chauffeur driven limousine and now she was chatting to the OC Troops. My friends were too kind to ask me what was going on but they must have wondered if she had any intention of meeting us in Colombo, our next stop. There were enough officers and NCOs to look after the askaris, so I accepted the Colonel's invitation to have a pink gin with him and Mum in his cabin.
For the first time in my life I was given a cabin of my own which was club class compared with other occasions when I had travelled by troopship. The askaris accommodation was superb as well. Instead of clumsy beds and airless troopdecks, the 'Dilwara' provided 'standee' bunks, which folded when not in use, and plenty of cool, fresh air.
Each morning, the OC Troops held an inspection of soldiers on the promenade deck. On the first day out from Aden, askaris of 1 and 3/KAR paraded as if they were on a Governor's Parade back home in their respective countries. True, they had had plenty of time to wash and iron their drill uniforms but they would have been immaculately turned out even without the facilities afforded them in Kor-Maksar camp. While aboard the 'Empire Ken', they could be seen hanging their drill out to dry on the ship's rails and using the deck as a giant ironing board for their charcoal irons. Makaa (charcoal) was as important as boot polish and Brasso to askaris and the African Warrant Officer had made sure that an adequate number of sacks had been put in the baggage van before leaving Nanyuki.
The OC Troops (remember, he was an old Indian Army hand) walked through the lines of British soldiers who had embarked at Liverpool and suffered nearly three weeks of sea sickness and sun burn. They had washed their uniforms and had tried to iron them in the crowded ironing rooms, but they looked like scarecrows compared with our askaris. His blood pressure was at bursting point when he reached our lads but he soon cooled down and started chatting to them in some Indian dialect (they could not understand a word, of course). After the parade was dismissed, the Colonel took me and the officer commanding 1/KAR advance party aside and told us that he wanted us to march through the lines of British soldiers the following day to show them what 'proper' soldiers looked like. We were horrified at this idea, especially as he intended giving a public rebuke to the British squadies for their slovenly turnout. We voiced our protest and when I asked him if he would have humiliated British soldiers in front of Indians, he realised he had gone too far. "Alright," he muttered. "But I still want you to march your askaris off through the ranks of the British soldiers - I'll leave it to them to see what 'proper' soldiers look like."
And so it was. We did not tell the askaris why they had to slow-march in open order through the ranks of sunburnt, white kneed, British soldiers who had less than six months service. Many of them were destined to join infantry regiments in Korea and would soon become seasoned soldiers.
The OC Troops asked if we could put on a show of African music and dance for cabin passengers. OC Advance Party 1/KAR, both African Warrant Officers and I put our heads together and decided it could be done. 1/KAR had brought drums with them but we in 3/KAR had to improvise with ghee cans of various sizes from the galley. These turned out to be good substitutes once they were cleaned, painted and strung with rope. The Bos'n gave us access to the sail locker where there was enough rope (to be shredded), metal rods, feather dusters and canvas to make arm and leg ornaments, head decorations, spears and shields. Boot polish tins, polished until they shone like mirrors - with things to rattle inside, were strapped to askaris' ankles and provided that essential ingredient for the rhythm of African dance.
We in 3/KAR were proud of the dancing ability of our askaris of the Kamba tribe. While most other tribesmen were content to leap in the air like a herd of Springboks, the Kamba had a vast repertoire of acrobatic dancing which set everyone's feet tapping. Lest the bulk of passengers aboard ship thought they were being left out, we performed a dress rehearsal for those that were accommodated on the troop decks. None of the squadies had seen anything like it before and from the cheers they gave, our lads felt confident to perform their show to the 'upper crust' audience the following evening.
Before the show started, I gave the following warning to the audience: "The performance you are about to see has one ingredient missing - women. Back home, the wives and girl friends whistle and encourage their men folk to become outrageous in their movements. Eventually, excitement becomes so intense that dancing stops and passion takes over." I went on to say that our soldiers were usually well behaved but: "If things get out of hand, will those young ladies in the front and second rows please get up and move to the back." The audience did not know whether or not to take me seriously and some of the young ladies looked apprehensive when the dancers appeared dressed in their finery.
The programme comprised KAR marching songs, drum beating and dancing (including some leaping in the air to satisfy the Northern Frontier tribes). The Kamba warriors, as usual, stole the show and brought to an end a magnificent performance by brandishing their shields and spears and rushing towards the young ladies in the first and second rows (the dancers had been primed). There were squeals of alarm mixed with much laughter as the young ladies acted their part in the evening's fun. It was a great success and both the Captain of the ship and the OC Troops congratulated the askaris on an excellent show.
My orderly, Kiplele arap Kindurwa, of the Kipsigis tribe, asked me why he could not get bubbles out of his soap when he showered. I told him that maji ya chumvi (salt water) was useless as far as ordinary soap was concerned and that if he wanted to lather himself, he would have to use tap or drinking water(maji ya kunywa) in the wash basins. Kiplele pondered for a few moments on this little known aspect of shipboard plumbing and then asked: "Why don't they use maji ya kunywa in the shower?" I told him that fresh water was in short supply but there was any amount of the other stuff. "Look around you, Kiplele," I said, pointing through the port hole. "As far as you can see there is maji ya chumvi and, what's more - it goes down about ten miles." Kiplele had another question to ask: "How do they get the maji ya chumvi into the boat, effendi?" I expect he had some notion of a team of sailors 'baling in' (as opposed to 'baling out' - something he experienced with his own dug-out canoe). "They draw it up through a hole in the bottom of the ship," I replied. There was one of those long drawn out utterances that Africans use when they hear bad news. Ahhhhhh-la, exploded Kiplele, and then questioned me about the hole: "Where is it? How big is it? Who looks after it?" His idea of boat building, limited as it was to hollowing out tree trunks, did not include a purpose-built hole and the fact that I had told him that maji ya chumvi went down ten miles to the seabed, made the matter much worse.
From that moment on, Kiplele lost his zest for sea travel. The matter of the hole and the thought that he might be putting the ship in danger of sinking if he used too much salt water was uppermost in his mind. I would catch him looking into the sea trying to find something he could put his feet on if the worst should happen, but it was no good. He was not happy until he marched down the gangway in Singapore docks.
We called at Colombo, the capital city and main port of Ceylon, now called, Sri Lanka. We were not allowed to go ashore so we spent time watching the changing pattern of ships, old and new, as they went about their business in the great harbour. Bum-boat men in their colourful rowing boats crowded around us as soon as we dropped anchor. It was a new experience for askaris and many of them wondered how these voluble boatmen made a living when they allowed their wooden carvings, leather goods and suchlike to be inspected by ships' passengers. Baskets on ropes went up and down for passengers to inspect - some may have gone missing, but that is a risk all bum-boat men must take. By the grins on their faces and their invitations to return, it was clear they were satisfied with their side of the bargains.
We moved out of the calm serenity of Colombo harbour to catch the strong westerly winds which had followed us from Aden. The force of these winds caused a substantial swell on the surface of the ocean and I can remember looking towards the land as we sailed south, parallel to the coastline, and seeing huge fountains of spray as the waves spent their force at the base of tall cliffs.
It was at this stage of our journey that the ship's radio broadcast the news that the High Commissioner of Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney, had been killed in a road ambush on 6 October 1951. It seemed that he and Lady Gurney were travelling in their official Rolls Royce to Frazer's Hill, a popular watering hole in the Cameron Highlands, when one of the escort vehicles broke down. As they had only a few more miles to go, Sir Henry ordered his chauffeur to carry on, leaving the other vehicle to assist the one that had stopped. An ambush party of Chinese terrorists, commanded by the notorious Su Mah, had been waiting for a suitable target for a few days and were just about to pack up and return to their jungle base, when along came a vehicle flying a Union Jack.
The first burst of machine gun fire shattered the windscreen and killed the driver. Sir Henry, attempting to draw fire away from his wife, opened the door and tried to sprint across the road, but he was killed before he reached cover.
The implication of what had happened caused shock waves throughout the ship and those of us who were bound for Malaya were in a sombre state at dinner that night. We must have passed the news on to the askaris but I cannot remember their reaction. I suppose they accepted it without comment as everything was a new experience and the death of the Bwana Mkubwa Sana (Big White Chief) was regrettable but not the end of the world.
One thing that we British officers did not appreciate was that the murder of Sir Henry Gurney was a turning point in the war. General Sir Gerald Templer was appointed the new High Commissioner and, under his dynamic leadership, the fight against communist terrorism was developed to a fine art. The King's African Rifles were among those who became experts in this type of warfare.
A few days later, the 'Dilwara' nosed her way around the southern tip of Johore and entered the approach lane to Singapore harbour. Major General A.G. O'Carroll-Scott, General Officer Commanding Singapore, came aboard soon after we tied up and greeted both advance parties (us in Kiswahili). Then came the press reporters and cameramen eager to get the first comments and pictures of African soldiers who had not been seen in this part of the world since 11th (East African) Division took part in the Burma campaign in World War Two.
That was the end of the first voyage; another 18 months would pass before askaris of the two KAR battalions would find themselves in Singapore again waiting to embark on the 'Lancashire' (1/KAR) and the'Dilwara' (3/KAR) to return to our respective countries.
PART 2
In June 1953, a few days after the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11, the 2nd (Nyasaland) Battalion KAR took over from us. Rifle companies made their way by sea, road and rail to the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi where we were accommodated while in transit.. I travelled from Kuantan (Bn HQ) on the east coast of Malaya in a LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) with the Drums Platoon, Orderly Room staff and a considerable amount of baggage. I expected to be in Singapore the following day but the Chinese captain dropped anchor only a few miles from the shore. He spoke neither English nor Malay but I gathered he had no maps and was unwilling to hazard his ship among the many offshore islands when darkness fell.
With nothing else to do, I assembled my fishing rod, attached a wooden sprat and cast the lure into the depths of the South China Sea. During the time I was on the east coast, I spent many hours fishing the estuary of the Sungei Kuantan and, on one memorable occasion, had used a tiny air-sea rescue blow-up dinghy to catch whatever was on offer in front of the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront at Kuantan.
I was sitting, rather uncomfortably, in the dinghy - which was smaller than the average bath tub, when I heard a hissing noise. I thought I had sprung a leak but when I turned around to investigate, I came face-to-face with a sea snake. The snake circled me a few times then dived, only to appear at a new quarter. My friends sitting on the balcony of the hotel (which we had requisitioned for Battalion Headquarters) could not understand why I was going around in circles and thrashing the water with my rod.
The great grandfather of that snake must have heard about my sprat because I felt a gigantic tug on my line and my rod bent almost in half. I played with my yet undisclosed catch until its head appeared on the surface. It was only then that I recognised it as a much larger version of what had confronted me outside the Nan Yang Hotel. I had no wish to haul the snake aboard and would have cut the line if it had not been for my sprat which had served me well for a long time. While I was contemplating my dilemma, I saw the Captain waving his arms and struggling to ease his massive frame down the gangway from the wheel house. He clambered over the mountain of baggage and made it quite plain to me that I must get rid of the snake.
Chinese will eat all sorts of land-based snakes but for some reason or other will have nothing to do with sea snakes - especially brilliantly coloured ones like the one on the end of my rod. A number of askaris had come to see what all the excitement was about and, as far as they were concerned, any snake - land or sea based, was something to be avoided. The problem was sorted out by the snake itself. It spat out the sprat and disappeared below the waves.
An hour or so later, Corporal Macheru - the Officers' Mess cook asked me if I would take a look at the No. 1 burner he was using to prepare curry for our evening meal. The No.1 burner operates when petrol is vaporised after being pumped through a perforated hot metal collar. Even though it looks and acts like a flame thrower, it is quite safe providing it is not put under too much pressure. If that should happen, a brass stud on top of the container blows off.
It was the pressure gauge that worried the cook; the needle was well into the 'red' and he knew not what he should do. I had never even noticed there was a pressure gauge on a No.1 burner and as I was trying to catch up on the technology of field-cooking appliances, the brass stud departed with a sound like a pistol shot. The by-product of pressure release was a sheet of flame which shot about fifty feet into the air from the hole left by the stud. The Chinese Captain was till mopping his brow following the incident with the sea snake when he saw the bows of his ship go up in flames. For the second time in an hour he eased his massive frame down the gangway, stumbled over the baggage and confronted me as I was wondering how we were going to cook the curry without a No.1 burner. The long and short of it was that we had to use the crew's cooking facilities, which further damaged relations between me and the Captain.
Late in the afternoon the following day we arrived in Singapore. I suppose the Chinese crew were as glad to see the back of us as we were to see the back of them.
During the 18 months 3/KAR had been in Malaya, askaris had no leave other than changes of scene when they spent a few days with their friends in other rifle companies. Quartermaster's convoys to collect stores in Kuala Lumpur were popular as were numerous visits to the British Military Hospital in the nation's capital for a course of masindano (needles - to cure gonorrhoea and suchlike). But while we were waiting in Kota Tinggi for the troopship to arrive, company commanders arranged shopping trips for askaris in Singapore.
Four-ton trucks carried them down the main road from Mersing to Johore Bharu where they stopped at the police station to hand in rifles for safe keeping (Singapore was not affected by the Malayan 'emergency'). Then it was across the causeway (still waiting to be properly repaired since the Japanese invaded Singapore in January 1942) and on down the Bukit Timah road to the centre of the metropolis. The joy of being let loose in a bustling city full of things to buy was a tonic to our lads who had saved up to buy presents for their wamke na watoto (wives and children). Their delight was short-lived however, for when they returned to Malaya via the causeway, they were stopped at the Custom's Post where packages were opened and duty demanded on most items. A near mutiny occurred and the askaris were still in a rebellious mood when they returned to Kota Tinggi.
It was not long before Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, the Commanding Officer, heard what had happened and made use of the 'hot-line' to Government House in Kuala Lumpur. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer was appalled and gave instruction that askaris would be refunded within twenty four hours.
With three days to go before we embarked on the 'Dilwara', one of our askaris went missing. He was seen walking towards the village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to Kota Tinggi). For an askari to stay behind in Malaya when the rest of the battalion returned to Kenya was like a swallow opting to stay in Britain through the winter. He had to be found, even if it meant turning out every available man in the battalion. This was done, and, by the grace of God he was located in thick jungle squatting inside a basha he had made for himself. He was shackled to a tent pole until it was time to board the 'Dilwara' in Singapore docks.
It is not unusual for Africans to act in strange ways and the bug which disturbed his mind was still active long after we put to sea He refused to eat and eventually was forcibly fed. The (prison) cell on the 'Dilwara' is as far forward as you can go and is triangular in shape. The rise and fall in that part of the ship is quite alarming and the continuous roller-coaster effect eventually wore him down. By the time we arrived in Mombasa he was back to normal.
The 1st Battalion KAR sailed for home on 9th April 1953, two months before 3/KAR. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer came to Singapore to see them off but, alas, was unable to say farewell to 3/KAR in person. Instead he sent a letter to Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read which read: 'I am disappointed that I cannot come in person to thank you for all you have done since you started operations in Malaya last year. Kenya can surely be proud of what you have done to contribute towards fighting communist terrorists in Malaya'.
On 3 June 1953, the General Officer Commanding Malaya, Sir Hugh Stockwell, sent a signal to the battalion: 'I want ten more communist terrorists eliminated before you go'. 3/KAR obliged by killing 11 making the total number of kills 71 (the fastest eliminating rate for any battalion in Malaya during an eighteen month period of service).
Other statistics published by the Straits Times on the eve of our departure are as follows: 163 food and arms dumps and 270 bandit camps destroyed. Senior members of the Malayan Races Liberation Army killed included: four District Committee Members, one Branch Committee secretary, one Political Commissar, Commander of 8 Independent Platoon and Wong Chee, State Committee member for Trengannu (killed by No. 6 Platoon 'B' Coy 3/KAR, the highest ranking terrorist ever to be killed in that state).
'B' Coy 3/KAR conducted a six week patrol, which was part of a combined operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles, in the state of Trengannu when askaris killed four terrorists. The length of this patrol was claimed as a record.
Two askaris were killed and five men wounded (including two officers). One officer was murdered by an askari who was later found guilty and executed in Pudu Gaol, Kuala Lumpur. For long and distinguished service, Warrant Officer Platoon Commander (WOPC) Kiberen and WOPC Kitur, both of the Nandi tribe, were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal respectively. The Commanding Officer, Lieut Col J.O. Crewe-Read, was awarded the OBE.
Captain Williams, a Welshman from Cardiff, was still in command of the 'Dilwara' , but the OC Troops had retired and was replaced by a jovial fellow who kept very much to himself. We were the only unit aboard and he had no-one to command; our own CO was quite capable of doing that. We still had morning inspections on the promenade deck and the rest of the day was spent in fitness training, English lessons and shooting at empty beer-cans over the stern of the ship. During the afternoon, askaris busied themselves washing and drying their jungle green uniforms and pressing creases with charcoal irons on the foredeck.
Colombo looked familiar when we arrived. Bum-boats were soon alongside and a brisk trade was done with askaris who knew this would be their last opportunity to take home presents from the far east. Captain Peter Harding (later to become Major Peter Harding-Rolls) knew what he wanted and sped off in a launch in search of a special present for his girl friend. He returned an hour later with a broad grin and a pouch full of sapphires.
It took just over a week to cover the last lap of the journey to Mombasa and there was a feeling of euphoria as we relaxed in the balmy weather.
We played deck games, horse racing, liar dice and bridge. We found sunny alcoves where we could read and snoozed to the sound of wires singing in the rigging. We danced - at least some of us did, as British wives were with us again, and we had a fancy dress party. We revelled in the delicious food served aboard the 'Dilwara' and we drank gin and whisky at ridiculously cheap prices. We talked a lot about what had happened over the last eighteen months and we discussed the situation in Kenya. The Mau Mau campaign was at its height and we knew that once our askaris had taken leave, there would be another war for us to deal with, perhaps worse than the one we had left behind in Malaya.
At first light on the day of our arrival, the deck was lined with askaris anxious to catch their first view of Africa - low lying and shrouded in mist. Slowly, the 'Dilwara' steamed past the two marker buoys at the entrance to the approach channel and made its way past the many attractive white homesteads on each bank to a berth in the harbour. General Sir Cameron Nicholson, the General Officer commanding East Africa (known affectionately as 'Cammy Knicks') came aboard and said he wanted to speak to the askaris. The African Regimental Sergeant Major introduced the GOC on the Tannoy system with the words: "Sikolozeni watu wote. Bwana Mkubwa Kabisa nataka kunena wewe" ("Listen in all men. The Commander-in-Chief wants to speak to you")
There was a long pause and then our Lord and Master greeted us with: "JAMBO." We were home at last.
In May 1951, askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles were told they were going to Malaya for eighteen months to take part in the fight against communist terrorists. Some of them must have thought that a life of bliss awaited them as 'Malaya', in Kiswahili, means 'lady of easy virtue'. The feeling of euphoria they had at the thought of entering Paradise on earth evaporated soon after they arrived in the Far East and found that tented camps in remote jungle locations was the nearest they were going to get to Utopia.
It was difficult trying to explain to askaris what the 'emergency' in Malaya was all about. In the early '50s Africans were not as well educated as they are today, there was no television or visual aids to explain what the country and people looked like and the wazungu's (white officers' and NCOs') attempts to describe a troopship drew wondrous looks. Except for those who lived near Lake Victoria, very few askaris had seen a large expanse of water - rivers and streams were familiar to them (but only in the wet season) and a dug-out canoe was their only perception of a boat.
I was in charge of the advance party of 3/KAR when we left Nanyuki in September 1951. The first part of our journey took us by train to Nairobi where we changed to the overnight express which carried us to Mombasa. The 'Empire Ken' was there to greet us and I for one was not impressed. Seven months previously, I had travelled on her from Massawa, in Eritrea, to Mombasa. A more uncomfortable ship would be hard to find. She had a list to port and everything you did, from drinking soup at one end of the bowl, to climbing uphill in bed when you wanted to turn over reminded you that life was lived permanently on the slant.
Already aboard, was the advance party of 1/KAR, from Nyasaland, who had travelled up from Beira and were also destined for active service in Malaya. It was not often that our askaris had the opportunity to meet fellow soldiers from so far afield but, despite a language problem, it was not long before they found ways of communicating with each other.
It was decided that askaris of 3/KAR should occupy a block house near the stern of the ship. I am sure the original design of the ship did not include this strange looking appendage but it suited our lads admirably as they had a commanding view of everything that lay before and around them. We sailed late that afternoon and the decks were full of askaris taking a last look at their homeland as we moved slowly down the channel from Mombasa harbour to the open sea.
I attended breakfast the following morning and was amused to see the askaris' reaction to British food. Instead of their normal ration of posho (crushed and boiled Indian corn), they were offered porridge, cereals, eggs, bacon, sausages, fried bread and marmalade. They took the lot and came back for more! Later, I inspected the troop-decks and ablutions and was not pleased with what I saw. European style lavatories were something they were not used to - and they were filthy. I spoke to the senior African warrant officer and told him I would return in half an hour to inspect them again. Thirty minutes later, I carried out my second inspection and found little improvement. The African Platoon Sergeant Major looked uncomfortable when I asked him for an explanation. "Back in camp, effendi," he said, "that work is carried out by wachura (sweepers) - it is not the job of askaris to safisha choo (clean latrines)." I understood the reluctance of askaris to undertake such chores but I was not prepared to give way. I ordered the African warrant officer to summon three NCOs and all four followed me down through the troop decks until we reached the bottom of the ship. "If those choos are not spotlessly clean in half an hour and remain that way until we get to Aden, I will move the askaris down here," I said. The sight of waves breaking over the port holes was enough to set the NCOs running back to tell the askaris what would befall them if they did not clean the lavatories. We had no trouble after that.
A few days out from Mombasa, we arrived in Victoria Harbour, Mahé, in the Seychelles. In those days the only contact Seychellois had with the rest of the world was the occasional ship that brought mail and essential goods. Another ten years were to pass before an airport was built and another ten or fifteen before the start of international tourism. I took a few photographs from the deck of the ship but it was not until 1998 (47 years later), when my wife and I spent six weeks travel writing in Mahé and other islands in the Seychelles, that I was able to fully appreciate them.
It was another three days before we reached Aden, that barren outpost of the Empire which still served as a link between east and west and the whole of the east African seaboard. We tied up at Steamer Point from where we could see the jumble of shops, offices, market and go-downs which made this one of the wealthiest ports in the world. We said farewell to the 'Empire Ken' and began getting used to walking with both legs on level surfaces again.
We were told it would be another four days before the troopship 'Dilwara' would arrive from Liverpool to take us to Singapore and that we would be accommodated in Kor-Maksar transit camp. With typical RAF efficiency (the Royal Air Force ran just about everything in Aden), we were driven off in RAF trucks.
I had just finished my lunch in the Officers' Mess when a waiter told me I was wanted on the phone. Expecting a call from the camp commandant or some such person, I was surprised to hear the voice of my ex fiancée's mother. Her daughter and I had become engaged a few days before I left the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Asmara seven months previously and, except for a week, which she and her mother spent in Nanyuki (the latter as a chaperone), we had not had an opportunity for getting used to each other in our betrothed state. Obviously, I did not measure up to her standards as she ditched me when she returned to Asmara. This did not affect the friendly relationship I had with her mother and she decided to pop down to Aden (her husband was the Chief Executive of Aden Airways) to see me and do some shopping. We arranged to meet that evening and she arrived at 6pm in the company's limousine (driven by an immaculately dressed chauffeur) and whisked me off to the company's bungalow high up on a mountain peak. Aden is an appallingly hot place at any time of the year but the cool breezes that caressed the bungalow from its elevated position made living in this treeless wasteland almost acceptable. Mum (I still found it hard to call her anything else) had invited some friends around for a party and it was approaching midnight before I was driven back to Kor-Maksar.
We arranged trips for the askaris to the shopping centre, known as The Crescent (built to resemble the elegant early 18th century crescent in Bath). They also visited Crater, the main habitat for thousands of indigenous folk who lived cheek by jowl with their neighbours in suffocating conditions. On the way back to Kor-Maksar, we stopped at the top of the pass and inspected the many regimental badges carved into the rock by previous units who had the misfortune of being stationed there. Football and volley ball matches kept the askaris fit and worked up their appetites to enjoy the same food provided for the Aden Protectorate Levies whose camp was nearby. I continued to enjoy a good social life with Mum and wondered if my luck would extend to a delay in the arrival of the 'Dilwara' This, unfortunately, did not happen, and the elegant single funnelled, brilliant white troopship of the British India Company, with signal flags a-flying arrived on time at Steamer Point.
Mum and I had said our good-byes on the quayside, but when I went aboard I found her talking to the OC Troops, an ex-Indian Army Lieutenant Colonel who was completing his last two years military service at sea. It seemed that they knew each other from pre-war days in Karachi. The other officers of 3/KAR began to wonder how my ex-potential mother-in-law seemed to pop up when least expected. They had seen her in Nanyuki (she stayed on for an extra week when the aircraft returning to Asmara with her daughter was full), then she appeared in Aden in a chauffeur driven limousine and now she was chatting to the OC Troops. My friends were too kind to ask me what was going on but they must have wondered if she had any intention of meeting us in Colombo, our next stop. There were enough officers and NCOs to look after the askaris, so I accepted the Colonel's invitation to have a pink gin with him and Mum in his cabin.
For the first time in my life I was given a cabin of my own which was club class compared with other occasions when I had travelled by troopship. The askaris accommodation was superb as well. Instead of clumsy beds and airless troopdecks, the 'Dilwara' provided 'standee' bunks, which folded when not in use, and plenty of cool, fresh air.
Each morning, the OC Troops held an inspection of soldiers on the promenade deck. On the first day out from Aden, askaris of 1 and 3/KAR paraded as if they were on a Governor's Parade back home in their respective countries. True, they had had plenty of time to wash and iron their drill uniforms but they would have been immaculately turned out even without the facilities afforded them in Kor-Maksar camp. While aboard the 'Empire Ken', they could be seen hanging their drill out to dry on the ship's rails and using the deck as a giant ironing board for their charcoal irons. Makaa (charcoal) was as important as boot polish and Brasso to askaris and the African Warrant Officer had made sure that an adequate number of sacks had been put in the baggage van before leaving Nanyuki.
The OC Troops (remember, he was an old Indian Army hand) walked through the lines of British soldiers who had embarked at Liverpool and suffered nearly three weeks of sea sickness and sun burn. They had washed their uniforms and had tried to iron them in the crowded ironing rooms, but they looked like scarecrows compared with our askaris. His blood pressure was at bursting point when he reached our lads but he soon cooled down and started chatting to them in some Indian dialect (they could not understand a word, of course). After the parade was dismissed, the Colonel took me and the officer commanding 1/KAR advance party aside and told us that he wanted us to march through the lines of British soldiers the following day to show them what 'proper' soldiers looked like. We were horrified at this idea, especially as he intended giving a public rebuke to the British squadies for their slovenly turnout. We voiced our protest and when I asked him if he would have humiliated British soldiers in front of Indians, he realised he had gone too far. "Alright," he muttered. "But I still want you to march your askaris off through the ranks of the British soldiers - I'll leave it to them to see what 'proper' soldiers look like."
And so it was. We did not tell the askaris why they had to slow-march in open order through the ranks of sunburnt, white kneed, British soldiers who had less than six months service. Many of them were destined to join infantry regiments in Korea and would soon become seasoned soldiers.
The OC Troops asked if we could put on a show of African music and dance for cabin passengers. OC Advance Party 1/KAR, both African Warrant Officers and I put our heads together and decided it could be done. 1/KAR had brought drums with them but we in 3/KAR had to improvise with ghee cans of various sizes from the galley. These turned out to be good substitutes once they were cleaned, painted and strung with rope. The Bos'n gave us access to the sail locker where there was enough rope (to be shredded), metal rods, feather dusters and canvas to make arm and leg ornaments, head decorations, spears and shields. Boot polish tins, polished until they shone like mirrors - with things to rattle inside, were strapped to askaris' ankles and provided that essential ingredient for the rhythm of African dance.
We in 3/KAR were proud of the dancing ability of our askaris of the Kamba tribe. While most other tribesmen were content to leap in the air like a herd of Springboks, the Kamba had a vast repertoire of acrobatic dancing which set everyone's feet tapping. Lest the bulk of passengers aboard ship thought they were being left out, we performed a dress rehearsal for those that were accommodated on the troop decks. None of the squadies had seen anything like it before and from the cheers they gave, our lads felt confident to perform their show to the 'upper crust' audience the following evening.
Before the show started, I gave the following warning to the audience: "The performance you are about to see has one ingredient missing - women. Back home, the wives and girl friends whistle and encourage their men folk to become outrageous in their movements. Eventually, excitement becomes so intense that dancing stops and passion takes over." I went on to say that our soldiers were usually well behaved but: "If things get out of hand, will those young ladies in the front and second rows please get up and move to the back." The audience did not know whether or not to take me seriously and some of the young ladies looked apprehensive when the dancers appeared dressed in their finery.
The programme comprised KAR marching songs, drum beating and dancing (including some leaping in the air to satisfy the Northern Frontier tribes). The Kamba warriors, as usual, stole the show and brought to an end a magnificent performance by brandishing their shields and spears and rushing towards the young ladies in the first and second rows (the dancers had been primed). There were squeals of alarm mixed with much laughter as the young ladies acted their part in the evening's fun. It was a great success and both the Captain of the ship and the OC Troops congratulated the askaris on an excellent show.
My orderly, Kiplele arap Kindurwa, of the Kipsigis tribe, asked me why he could not get bubbles out of his soap when he showered. I told him that maji ya chumvi (salt water) was useless as far as ordinary soap was concerned and that if he wanted to lather himself, he would have to use tap or drinking water(maji ya kunywa) in the wash basins. Kiplele pondered for a few moments on this little known aspect of shipboard plumbing and then asked: "Why don't they use maji ya kunywa in the shower?" I told him that fresh water was in short supply but there was any amount of the other stuff. "Look around you, Kiplele," I said, pointing through the port hole. "As far as you can see there is maji ya chumvi and, what's more - it goes down about ten miles." Kiplele had another question to ask: "How do they get the maji ya chumvi into the boat, effendi?" I expect he had some notion of a team of sailors 'baling in' (as opposed to 'baling out' - something he experienced with his own dug-out canoe). "They draw it up through a hole in the bottom of the ship," I replied. There was one of those long drawn out utterances that Africans use when they hear bad news. Ahhhhhh-la, exploded Kiplele, and then questioned me about the hole: "Where is it? How big is it? Who looks after it?" His idea of boat building, limited as it was to hollowing out tree trunks, did not include a purpose-built hole and the fact that I had told him that maji ya chumvi went down ten miles to the seabed, made the matter much worse.
From that moment on, Kiplele lost his zest for sea travel. The matter of the hole and the thought that he might be putting the ship in danger of sinking if he used too much salt water was uppermost in his mind. I would catch him looking into the sea trying to find something he could put his feet on if the worst should happen, but it was no good. He was not happy until he marched down the gangway in Singapore docks.
We called at Colombo, the capital city and main port of Ceylon, now called, Sri Lanka. We were not allowed to go ashore so we spent time watching the changing pattern of ships, old and new, as they went about their business in the great harbour. Bum-boat men in their colourful rowing boats crowded around us as soon as we dropped anchor. It was a new experience for askaris and many of them wondered how these voluble boatmen made a living when they allowed their wooden carvings, leather goods and suchlike to be inspected by ships' passengers. Baskets on ropes went up and down for passengers to inspect - some may have gone missing, but that is a risk all bum-boat men must take. By the grins on their faces and their invitations to return, it was clear they were satisfied with their side of the bargains.
We moved out of the calm serenity of Colombo harbour to catch the strong westerly winds which had followed us from Aden. The force of these winds caused a substantial swell on the surface of the ocean and I can remember looking towards the land as we sailed south, parallel to the coastline, and seeing huge fountains of spray as the waves spent their force at the base of tall cliffs.
It was at this stage of our journey that the ship's radio broadcast the news that the High Commissioner of Malaya, Sir Henry Gurney, had been killed in a road ambush on 6 October 1951. It seemed that he and Lady Gurney were travelling in their official Rolls Royce to Frazer's Hill, a popular watering hole in the Cameron Highlands, when one of the escort vehicles broke down. As they had only a few more miles to go, Sir Henry ordered his chauffeur to carry on, leaving the other vehicle to assist the one that had stopped. An ambush party of Chinese terrorists, commanded by the notorious Su Mah, had been waiting for a suitable target for a few days and were just about to pack up and return to their jungle base, when along came a vehicle flying a Union Jack.
The first burst of machine gun fire shattered the windscreen and killed the driver. Sir Henry, attempting to draw fire away from his wife, opened the door and tried to sprint across the road, but he was killed before he reached cover.
The implication of what had happened caused shock waves throughout the ship and those of us who were bound for Malaya were in a sombre state at dinner that night. We must have passed the news on to the askaris but I cannot remember their reaction. I suppose they accepted it without comment as everything was a new experience and the death of the Bwana Mkubwa Sana (Big White Chief) was regrettable but not the end of the world.
One thing that we British officers did not appreciate was that the murder of Sir Henry Gurney was a turning point in the war. General Sir Gerald Templer was appointed the new High Commissioner and, under his dynamic leadership, the fight against communist terrorism was developed to a fine art. The King's African Rifles were among those who became experts in this type of warfare.
A few days later, the 'Dilwara' nosed her way around the southern tip of Johore and entered the approach lane to Singapore harbour. Major General A.G. O'Carroll-Scott, General Officer Commanding Singapore, came aboard soon after we tied up and greeted both advance parties (us in Kiswahili). Then came the press reporters and cameramen eager to get the first comments and pictures of African soldiers who had not been seen in this part of the world since 11th (East African) Division took part in the Burma campaign in World War Two.
That was the end of the first voyage; another 18 months would pass before askaris of the two KAR battalions would find themselves in Singapore again waiting to embark on the 'Lancashire' (1/KAR) and the'Dilwara' (3/KAR) to return to our respective countries.
PART 2
In June 1953, a few days after the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth 11, the 2nd (Nyasaland) Battalion KAR took over from us. Rifle companies made their way by sea, road and rail to the Far East Land Forces Training Centre at Kota Tinggi where we were accommodated while in transit.. I travelled from Kuantan (Bn HQ) on the east coast of Malaya in a LCI (Landing Craft Infantry) with the Drums Platoon, Orderly Room staff and a considerable amount of baggage. I expected to be in Singapore the following day but the Chinese captain dropped anchor only a few miles from the shore. He spoke neither English nor Malay but I gathered he had no maps and was unwilling to hazard his ship among the many offshore islands when darkness fell.
With nothing else to do, I assembled my fishing rod, attached a wooden sprat and cast the lure into the depths of the South China Sea. During the time I was on the east coast, I spent many hours fishing the estuary of the Sungei Kuantan and, on one memorable occasion, had used a tiny air-sea rescue blow-up dinghy to catch whatever was on offer in front of the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront at Kuantan.
I was sitting, rather uncomfortably, in the dinghy - which was smaller than the average bath tub, when I heard a hissing noise. I thought I had sprung a leak but when I turned around to investigate, I came face-to-face with a sea snake. The snake circled me a few times then dived, only to appear at a new quarter. My friends sitting on the balcony of the hotel (which we had requisitioned for Battalion Headquarters) could not understand why I was going around in circles and thrashing the water with my rod.
The great grandfather of that snake must have heard about my sprat because I felt a gigantic tug on my line and my rod bent almost in half. I played with my yet undisclosed catch until its head appeared on the surface. It was only then that I recognised it as a much larger version of what had confronted me outside the Nan Yang Hotel. I had no wish to haul the snake aboard and would have cut the line if it had not been for my sprat which had served me well for a long time. While I was contemplating my dilemma, I saw the Captain waving his arms and struggling to ease his massive frame down the gangway from the wheel house. He clambered over the mountain of baggage and made it quite plain to me that I must get rid of the snake.
Chinese will eat all sorts of land-based snakes but for some reason or other will have nothing to do with sea snakes - especially brilliantly coloured ones like the one on the end of my rod. A number of askaris had come to see what all the excitement was about and, as far as they were concerned, any snake - land or sea based, was something to be avoided. The problem was sorted out by the snake itself. It spat out the sprat and disappeared below the waves.
An hour or so later, Corporal Macheru - the Officers' Mess cook asked me if I would take a look at the No. 1 burner he was using to prepare curry for our evening meal. The No.1 burner operates when petrol is vaporised after being pumped through a perforated hot metal collar. Even though it looks and acts like a flame thrower, it is quite safe providing it is not put under too much pressure. If that should happen, a brass stud on top of the container blows off.
It was the pressure gauge that worried the cook; the needle was well into the 'red' and he knew not what he should do. I had never even noticed there was a pressure gauge on a No.1 burner and as I was trying to catch up on the technology of field-cooking appliances, the brass stud departed with a sound like a pistol shot. The by-product of pressure release was a sheet of flame which shot about fifty feet into the air from the hole left by the stud. The Chinese Captain was till mopping his brow following the incident with the sea snake when he saw the bows of his ship go up in flames. For the second time in an hour he eased his massive frame down the gangway, stumbled over the baggage and confronted me as I was wondering how we were going to cook the curry without a No.1 burner. The long and short of it was that we had to use the crew's cooking facilities, which further damaged relations between me and the Captain.
Late in the afternoon the following day we arrived in Singapore. I suppose the Chinese crew were as glad to see the back of us as we were to see the back of them.
During the 18 months 3/KAR had been in Malaya, askaris had no leave other than changes of scene when they spent a few days with their friends in other rifle companies. Quartermaster's convoys to collect stores in Kuala Lumpur were popular as were numerous visits to the British Military Hospital in the nation's capital for a course of masindano (needles - to cure gonorrhoea and suchlike). But while we were waiting in Kota Tinggi for the troopship to arrive, company commanders arranged shopping trips for askaris in Singapore.
Four-ton trucks carried them down the main road from Mersing to Johore Bharu where they stopped at the police station to hand in rifles for safe keeping (Singapore was not affected by the Malayan 'emergency'). Then it was across the causeway (still waiting to be properly repaired since the Japanese invaded Singapore in January 1942) and on down the Bukit Timah road to the centre of the metropolis. The joy of being let loose in a bustling city full of things to buy was a tonic to our lads who had saved up to buy presents for their wamke na watoto (wives and children). Their delight was short-lived however, for when they returned to Malaya via the causeway, they were stopped at the Custom's Post where packages were opened and duty demanded on most items. A near mutiny occurred and the askaris were still in a rebellious mood when they returned to Kota Tinggi.
It was not long before Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, the Commanding Officer, heard what had happened and made use of the 'hot-line' to Government House in Kuala Lumpur. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer was appalled and gave instruction that askaris would be refunded within twenty four hours.
With three days to go before we embarked on the 'Dilwara', one of our askaris went missing. He was seen walking towards the village of Ulu Tiram (adjacent to Kota Tinggi). For an askari to stay behind in Malaya when the rest of the battalion returned to Kenya was like a swallow opting to stay in Britain through the winter. He had to be found, even if it meant turning out every available man in the battalion. This was done, and, by the grace of God he was located in thick jungle squatting inside a basha he had made for himself. He was shackled to a tent pole until it was time to board the 'Dilwara' in Singapore docks.
It is not unusual for Africans to act in strange ways and the bug which disturbed his mind was still active long after we put to sea He refused to eat and eventually was forcibly fed. The (prison) cell on the 'Dilwara' is as far forward as you can go and is triangular in shape. The rise and fall in that part of the ship is quite alarming and the continuous roller-coaster effect eventually wore him down. By the time we arrived in Mombasa he was back to normal.
The 1st Battalion KAR sailed for home on 9th April 1953, two months before 3/KAR. The High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer came to Singapore to see them off but, alas, was unable to say farewell to 3/KAR in person. Instead he sent a letter to Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read which read: 'I am disappointed that I cannot come in person to thank you for all you have done since you started operations in Malaya last year. Kenya can surely be proud of what you have done to contribute towards fighting communist terrorists in Malaya'.
On 3 June 1953, the General Officer Commanding Malaya, Sir Hugh Stockwell, sent a signal to the battalion: 'I want ten more communist terrorists eliminated before you go'. 3/KAR obliged by killing 11 making the total number of kills 71 (the fastest eliminating rate for any battalion in Malaya during an eighteen month period of service).
Other statistics published by the Straits Times on the eve of our departure are as follows: 163 food and arms dumps and 270 bandit camps destroyed. Senior members of the Malayan Races Liberation Army killed included: four District Committee Members, one Branch Committee secretary, one Political Commissar, Commander of 8 Independent Platoon and Wong Chee, State Committee member for Trengannu (killed by No. 6 Platoon 'B' Coy 3/KAR, the highest ranking terrorist ever to be killed in that state).
'B' Coy 3/KAR conducted a six week patrol, which was part of a combined operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles, in the state of Trengannu when askaris killed four terrorists. The length of this patrol was claimed as a record.
Two askaris were killed and five men wounded (including two officers). One officer was murdered by an askari who was later found guilty and executed in Pudu Gaol, Kuala Lumpur. For long and distinguished service, Warrant Officer Platoon Commander (WOPC) Kiberen and WOPC Kitur, both of the Nandi tribe, were awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal and the Military Medal respectively. The Commanding Officer, Lieut Col J.O. Crewe-Read, was awarded the OBE.
Captain Williams, a Welshman from Cardiff, was still in command of the 'Dilwara' , but the OC Troops had retired and was replaced by a jovial fellow who kept very much to himself. We were the only unit aboard and he had no-one to command; our own CO was quite capable of doing that. We still had morning inspections on the promenade deck and the rest of the day was spent in fitness training, English lessons and shooting at empty beer-cans over the stern of the ship. During the afternoon, askaris busied themselves washing and drying their jungle green uniforms and pressing creases with charcoal irons on the foredeck.
Colombo looked familiar when we arrived. Bum-boats were soon alongside and a brisk trade was done with askaris who knew this would be their last opportunity to take home presents from the far east. Captain Peter Harding (later to become Major Peter Harding-Rolls) knew what he wanted and sped off in a launch in search of a special present for his girl friend. He returned an hour later with a broad grin and a pouch full of sapphires.
It took just over a week to cover the last lap of the journey to Mombasa and there was a feeling of euphoria as we relaxed in the balmy weather.
We played deck games, horse racing, liar dice and bridge. We found sunny alcoves where we could read and snoozed to the sound of wires singing in the rigging. We danced - at least some of us did, as British wives were with us again, and we had a fancy dress party. We revelled in the delicious food served aboard the 'Dilwara' and we drank gin and whisky at ridiculously cheap prices. We talked a lot about what had happened over the last eighteen months and we discussed the situation in Kenya. The Mau Mau campaign was at its height and we knew that once our askaris had taken leave, there would be another war for us to deal with, perhaps worse than the one we had left behind in Malaya.
At first light on the day of our arrival, the deck was lined with askaris anxious to catch their first view of Africa - low lying and shrouded in mist. Slowly, the 'Dilwara' steamed past the two marker buoys at the entrance to the approach channel and made its way past the many attractive white homesteads on each bank to a berth in the harbour. General Sir Cameron Nicholson, the General Officer commanding East Africa (known affectionately as 'Cammy Knicks') came aboard and said he wanted to speak to the askaris. The African Regimental Sergeant Major introduced the GOC on the Tannoy system with the words: "Sikolozeni watu wote. Bwana Mkubwa Kabisa nataka kunena wewe" ("Listen in all men. The Commander-in-Chief wants to speak to you")
There was a long pause and then our Lord and Master greeted us with: "JAMBO." We were home at last.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
DHAVLOS BY THE SEA
The Army field-telephone crackled at battalion headquarters in Dhavlos and a far distant voice could be heard saying: "Do you want to buy a horse?" It was Major Dicky Randell who commanded 'A' Company of the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment based near the village of Akrades way out on the Karpas peninsula of north east Cyprus. Dicky's thoughts were never far away from horses and many of us in the Regiment wondered why he had bothered to join a foot slogging outfit when he would have been far more at home in a cavalry regiment. We liked his company though and the gentle way in which he approached his problems with what he called 'horse-sense'.
The task of my Regiment in those days of the late 'fifties' was to keep order among Greek Cypriots, who wanted union with Greece. We also acted as a buffer between them and Turkish Cypriots who would often get annoyed with the Greeks for upsetting their quiet lifestyle. When we were not chasing gangs of Greek Cypriot 'EOKA' 'freedom fighters' around the pine clad mountains or waiting in ambush positions on known 'bandit' runs, there were plenty of opportunities for enjoying ourselves. Every company had its own football/volley ball pitch and those who were near the sea had first class swimming and sub aqua facilities. Those of us who were fortunate to be at battalion headquarters had just about everything to keep us happy, albeit in a monastic way. For this we had to thank a unit that had been in Dhavlos some time before us. Their commanding officer decided that the morale of his soldiers was far more important than any tactical considerations concerning the siting of battalion headquarters. The place was like a holiday camp. In the centre of the complex of tents and barbed wire was the Louis Hotel, a strange circular building that looked more like a lighthouse than an hotel. It used to attract the odd adventurous visitor before the state of emergency was declared, but when we were there, it was requisitioned for use as battalion headquarters and senior officers accommodation. We had a full range of sports pitches and, best of all, we were camped fifty feet or so above the sea where we looked across to Turkey and the distant Toros Daglari mountain range.
The swimming facilities were superb. For sub aqua enthusiasts there was deep crystal clear water and plenty of fish and, for those of a timorous disposition, a gently sloping bay of golden sand. A rocky outcrop five hundred yards out in the bay, dubbed Taff's Isle (which looked remarkably like a submarine), was a challenge for our long distance swimmers. Just below the officers' mess was a stone building which we used as a boat house; it contained a few dinghies on loan from the Cyprus Forces Sailing Club. Alongside the boat house was another building which we used as stables. The loose boxes accommodated two desert ponies I had recently purchased from a Royal Air Force unit in Benghazi (Libya) for £5.00 each. I actually bought three ponies, but one of them died of colic on the landing craft that brought them over.
It was difficult to get a verbal profile of the animal Dicky wanted to sell on the crackling line from Akrades, but I managed to gather it was in good condition and a bargain at £15.00. Dicky's recommendation was good enough for me and we came to an understanding that he would advance the money for the horse. I could just make out that he would deliver the beast by truck the following day to a place called Khomi Kebir, where the tarmac ended. I set off on the six mile journey to Khomi Kebir with two Land Rovers and six armed soldiers as my escort. We reached the rendezvous ahead of the other party from Akrades, so we did what most male Cypriots do during the summer; drink coffee and eat nuts in the cool shade of a carob tree.
We did not have to wait long before we heard the unmistakable whine of an Army three-ton truck labouring up the hill in second gear. As it came around the corner into the main square of the village, a few comatose Cypriots blinked at the sight of a large horse whose head was sticking out above the canopy frame. I admit to being surprised as well at the size of the horse and wondered if the girth and bridle straps were going to be long enough. I had become used to the size of Middle East horses compared with those of North West Europe. Fourteen hands was about the average height, but this monster in the back of the truck was over sixteen hands high. Dicky's batman, who doubled as a groom, was nick-named 'Shaky' because of his nervous twitch and stutter. He was dwarfed by the horse but was hanging on to the halter. "How are we g-g-g-going to g-g-g-get him off?" he said when he saw me. I had already made a reconnaissance of the village to find a suitable off-loading point and I was able to guide the vehicle to a place where the tailboard could be laid flat on the bank. When this was done and after I had tested it to make sure it was quite safe for the horse to cross over, I signalled 'Shaky' to proceed. After a few prods and pushes, the animal stood on firm ground.
So far, so good. The next stage was to get the bridle and saddle on. I started to undo the buckles and while doing so, asked 'Shaky' what the animal was like to ride. "I d-d-dunno, sir," he replied. "Well, what did Major Randell say about him?" I asked. "He's n-n-never ridden him n-n-neither," said 'Shaky' and then divulged some devastating news. "I d-d-don't think nobody's n-n-never ridden him." Despite 'Shaky' double negatives, the awful truth dawned on me that I had six miles of mountain road, with a nasty drop on one side, to cover on an unbroken horse. I considered returning the animal to Akrades, but then thought of the loss of face I would suffer among the soldiers. "Righto, let's get the bridle on," I said as
cheerfully as possible. I had to stand on the chassis of the Land Rover to reach the horse's head.
As I slipped the headband over his ears, I became aware of the hypnotic stare he gave me from the dark depths of one of his eyes. The saddle was next, with a suitably lengthened girth, and then I was ready to mount. I asked one of the soldiers to remove his shirt and this was draped over the animal's head so that I could, at least, get settled in the saddle before I knew how he would react. One foot in the stirrup, a hefty shove from 'Shaky' and I was up in the saddle and, so far, in command. Now came the moment of truth and I gave the command to remove the blindfold.
The bare-buff soldier reclaimed his shirt and the others, who had been holding on to the bridle as if the horse was a tethered barrage balloon, leapt out of the way. They need not have bothered as the animal stood as still as the most disciplined quadruped on Horse Guards. The calm before the storm, I thought as I put gentle pressure with my calves - still no response. The soldiers started to snigger and I decided that the time had come for some positive action. I reached up into a tree, snapped off a stick and gave him a tap on his rump - still no response. A harder slap, and he started to move, but only at a slow walk. 'Shaky' and his team raised the vehicle's tailboard ready for the return trip to Akrades. They watched me as I ambled off slowly in the direction of Dhavlos on a horse which, instead of being a 'ball of fire', turned out to be a damp squib! I developed a rhythmical motion with my legs and stick to keep the horse moving and in this fashion we progressed along the narrow dirt road with the Land Rovers moving in bounds in front and behind me.
We had travelled about a mile when a Turkish Cypriot, riding a donkey and leading another one behind, came into view. The effect upon my horse was as if someone had given him a huge electric shock. From a gentle walk, I was suddenly catapulted into a gallop as the animal hurtled down the track in the direction of the Cypriot and his two docile donkeys. The impact of a sixteen hands high stallion on a donkey not much bigger than a Shetland pony, was a bit one sided. The old man came off at the moment of strike and rolled under the donkey he had been riding. His position on the donkey's back was taken by me and the stallion who began to satisfy his urge to procreate. What I had not been told about the horse was that it had been used solely for stud purposes. The sight of any donkey, horse or
mule drove it into a frenzy. If it was a female, it had to be mounted and if it was a male,it had to be attacked.
The soldiers in the Land Rovers had watched my assault upon the Cypriot and his donkey with amazement and they assumed I had spotted something they had not seen. As I was trying to get my horse off the donkey, I could see them running up the track with rifles at the ready. I prayed they would not shoot the old man, who was somewhere underneath the writhing mass of horse flesh, and add injury to insult.
I must have been able to get through to them that it was a purely sexual matter, as they put down their rifles and helped the old man to his feet. They dragged the donkey away from the stallion, whereupon it shot over the side of the road and joined the other one that was going as fast as its legs could carry it, for the sea - about two miles away.
Turkish Cypriots are made of strong stuff and the recovery of that one from a state of shock was swift. Within a matter of seconds he was leaping up and down in his strange baggy pants (Christ catchers) and gesticulating wildly in the direction of his runaway donkeys. The soldiers had a 'whip round' for him and managed to collect a few packets of cigarettes, which he grudgingly accepted. I did my best to apologise, but he just shook his fist at me and gave a 'five fingered curse' to the stallion.
At this stage of my ownership of Satan, for that was his name, I did not realise that an identical reaction would take place every time he saw an animal of his own species. I was, therefore, only slightly prepared when we met the next donkey-borne Cypriot. He was more fortunate than the other one as we had descended to sea level and his donkey summoned all its reserves of speed to escape from the carnal onslaught.
Except for two sudden bursts of speed, the journey from Khomi Kebir to Dhavlos had been boring and we had taken about one and a half hours to cover six miles. I was relieved to see the camp in the distance and, as we got closer, the sight of a mess waiter in his white uniform on the patio of the officers' mess reminded me that I was much in need of a cold beer. I walked Satan through the transport park and handed him over to my batman. I gave him instructions to feed and water the animal before I climbed the cliff path to the bluff of high ground above the stables and boat house where the mess was situated. Most of the officers were standing around having their drinks before lunch and the commanding officer asked me what I thought of the new horse. I told him what had happened and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.
All of a sudden there was a commotion outside and I recognised the voice of my batman. "Sir, you'd better come quick, that new horse of yours is knocking the stable down!" I bounded out of the mess and flew down the cliff path to the stables where I found the place in a shambles. "Whatever has happened?" I asked. One of the other batman explained that Satan had been taken into a stall where he had been given a large pan of oats and a bucket of water. "Good as gold, he was," said the batman, "until someone brought in one of those desert ponies, and then all hell was let loose." I recognised the same trouble that I had experienced twice myself that morning. "We'll have to get him out of here," I said. "Take him up to the contractor's shop and tie him up beneath the big tree. I looked at the damage
he had caused and calculated it would take a few days' work and a number of large gins for the Quartermaster before the stables would be restored.. "Another thing," said my batman, "I've never seen a horse eat so much as this one." Even an inexperienced person could see that Satan had been kept on basic survival rations. Big hollows in his sides showed he had been underfed and I realised he would need more than the normal rations for a horse of his size to build up his strength,. What I had not appreciated was the enormous capacity he had for oats. Instead of a throat and a stomach, it seemed he had a black hole down which everything disappeared.
One advantage of giving him this high octane food was that his performance as a hack
improved and I spent many enjoyable hours riding him on the beach and the countryside around Dhavlos. I could not take him too far from the camp as we were on 'active service' and the threat of terrorist action was real. One feature of his personality which remained constant was the effect other horses had on him. His years as a stud stallion had become too ingrained in his personality to be changed by the 'cordon bleu' treatment I was giving him.
I was never able to take him anywhere near the other horses in the stables and, as a result, I became a 'lone ranger' as nobody could accompany me on a ride. He continued to live under the big tree by the contractor's shop which was ideal for him during the summer months. After six months service in Dhavlos, the time came for us to leave the Karpas peninsula and take up residence in Dhekelia Camp near Larnaca on the south east coast of Cyprus. There was no problem about taking the other two ponies with us, they were quite manageable and had already become seasoned travellers. Satan was a problem though and the prospect of putting him in stables in Dhekelia, where there were plenty of ponies and a flourishing polo club,
was quite out of the question. I suppose I could have sent him back to Akrades, but with all his faults I had become attached to the old rogue.
The answer to the problem came two weeks before we were due to leave Dhavlos. Nikos, the locally employed officers' mess cook, came to me and said: "I understand you want to sell your horse, sir." "That's true," I replied. "Are you interested?" "Yes, I am," replied Nikos. "You see, I have some horses and I think Satan would be good for putting with them." By 'horses' he meant 'mares' and it was obvious that he had his eye on Satan as the father of some sturdy foals and fillies. I was delighted with this solution to the problem and I told Nikos he could have Satan as a gift the day we left Dhavlos.Nikos was a courteous old man and he looked after us well during our time in the camp alongside his village. He was always pleased to prepare local dishes for us and even to this day I remember his way of cooking octopus with garlic and red wine.
The day before we left Dhavlos, I took Satan for our last ride. His coat was sleek and shiny and the deep hollows in his sides had gone; he held his head high and tossed his mane at the prospect of a gallop on the beach. It was hard to imagine that this was the same horse that had been in such poor condition only a few months before. Dicky Randell had been right when he recognised the potential of the animal.
I was getting my soldiers ready for the move, so my batman took Satan to his new home. When all was ready and the soldiers were aboard the trucks, I gave the order to move off. As we headed east on the dust road to Khomi Kebir and beyond, I leaned out of the window to take a last look at the Louis Hotel and the rows of tents, now occupied by a field battery of the Royal Artillery. At the far end of the village, I saw the whitewashed stone house where Nikos lived with his wife and two daughters. In the adjoining field, three mares were gently swishing their tails under some trees. Standing with them, gently nuzzling the neck of a pretty little filly, was Satan. I gave him a wave and silently wished him a long and
happy life.
The task of my Regiment in those days of the late 'fifties' was to keep order among Greek Cypriots, who wanted union with Greece. We also acted as a buffer between them and Turkish Cypriots who would often get annoyed with the Greeks for upsetting their quiet lifestyle. When we were not chasing gangs of Greek Cypriot 'EOKA' 'freedom fighters' around the pine clad mountains or waiting in ambush positions on known 'bandit' runs, there were plenty of opportunities for enjoying ourselves. Every company had its own football/volley ball pitch and those who were near the sea had first class swimming and sub aqua facilities. Those of us who were fortunate to be at battalion headquarters had just about everything to keep us happy, albeit in a monastic way. For this we had to thank a unit that had been in Dhavlos some time before us. Their commanding officer decided that the morale of his soldiers was far more important than any tactical considerations concerning the siting of battalion headquarters. The place was like a holiday camp. In the centre of the complex of tents and barbed wire was the Louis Hotel, a strange circular building that looked more like a lighthouse than an hotel. It used to attract the odd adventurous visitor before the state of emergency was declared, but when we were there, it was requisitioned for use as battalion headquarters and senior officers accommodation. We had a full range of sports pitches and, best of all, we were camped fifty feet or so above the sea where we looked across to Turkey and the distant Toros Daglari mountain range.
The swimming facilities were superb. For sub aqua enthusiasts there was deep crystal clear water and plenty of fish and, for those of a timorous disposition, a gently sloping bay of golden sand. A rocky outcrop five hundred yards out in the bay, dubbed Taff's Isle (which looked remarkably like a submarine), was a challenge for our long distance swimmers. Just below the officers' mess was a stone building which we used as a boat house; it contained a few dinghies on loan from the Cyprus Forces Sailing Club. Alongside the boat house was another building which we used as stables. The loose boxes accommodated two desert ponies I had recently purchased from a Royal Air Force unit in Benghazi (Libya) for £5.00 each. I actually bought three ponies, but one of them died of colic on the landing craft that brought them over.
It was difficult to get a verbal profile of the animal Dicky wanted to sell on the crackling line from Akrades, but I managed to gather it was in good condition and a bargain at £15.00. Dicky's recommendation was good enough for me and we came to an understanding that he would advance the money for the horse. I could just make out that he would deliver the beast by truck the following day to a place called Khomi Kebir, where the tarmac ended. I set off on the six mile journey to Khomi Kebir with two Land Rovers and six armed soldiers as my escort. We reached the rendezvous ahead of the other party from Akrades, so we did what most male Cypriots do during the summer; drink coffee and eat nuts in the cool shade of a carob tree.
We did not have to wait long before we heard the unmistakable whine of an Army three-ton truck labouring up the hill in second gear. As it came around the corner into the main square of the village, a few comatose Cypriots blinked at the sight of a large horse whose head was sticking out above the canopy frame. I admit to being surprised as well at the size of the horse and wondered if the girth and bridle straps were going to be long enough. I had become used to the size of Middle East horses compared with those of North West Europe. Fourteen hands was about the average height, but this monster in the back of the truck was over sixteen hands high. Dicky's batman, who doubled as a groom, was nick-named 'Shaky' because of his nervous twitch and stutter. He was dwarfed by the horse but was hanging on to the halter. "How are we g-g-g-going to g-g-g-get him off?" he said when he saw me. I had already made a reconnaissance of the village to find a suitable off-loading point and I was able to guide the vehicle to a place where the tailboard could be laid flat on the bank. When this was done and after I had tested it to make sure it was quite safe for the horse to cross over, I signalled 'Shaky' to proceed. After a few prods and pushes, the animal stood on firm ground.
So far, so good. The next stage was to get the bridle and saddle on. I started to undo the buckles and while doing so, asked 'Shaky' what the animal was like to ride. "I d-d-dunno, sir," he replied. "Well, what did Major Randell say about him?" I asked. "He's n-n-never ridden him n-n-neither," said 'Shaky' and then divulged some devastating news. "I d-d-don't think nobody's n-n-never ridden him." Despite 'Shaky' double negatives, the awful truth dawned on me that I had six miles of mountain road, with a nasty drop on one side, to cover on an unbroken horse. I considered returning the animal to Akrades, but then thought of the loss of face I would suffer among the soldiers. "Righto, let's get the bridle on," I said as
cheerfully as possible. I had to stand on the chassis of the Land Rover to reach the horse's head.
As I slipped the headband over his ears, I became aware of the hypnotic stare he gave me from the dark depths of one of his eyes. The saddle was next, with a suitably lengthened girth, and then I was ready to mount. I asked one of the soldiers to remove his shirt and this was draped over the animal's head so that I could, at least, get settled in the saddle before I knew how he would react. One foot in the stirrup, a hefty shove from 'Shaky' and I was up in the saddle and, so far, in command. Now came the moment of truth and I gave the command to remove the blindfold.
The bare-buff soldier reclaimed his shirt and the others, who had been holding on to the bridle as if the horse was a tethered barrage balloon, leapt out of the way. They need not have bothered as the animal stood as still as the most disciplined quadruped on Horse Guards. The calm before the storm, I thought as I put gentle pressure with my calves - still no response. The soldiers started to snigger and I decided that the time had come for some positive action. I reached up into a tree, snapped off a stick and gave him a tap on his rump - still no response. A harder slap, and he started to move, but only at a slow walk. 'Shaky' and his team raised the vehicle's tailboard ready for the return trip to Akrades. They watched me as I ambled off slowly in the direction of Dhavlos on a horse which, instead of being a 'ball of fire', turned out to be a damp squib! I developed a rhythmical motion with my legs and stick to keep the horse moving and in this fashion we progressed along the narrow dirt road with the Land Rovers moving in bounds in front and behind me.
We had travelled about a mile when a Turkish Cypriot, riding a donkey and leading another one behind, came into view. The effect upon my horse was as if someone had given him a huge electric shock. From a gentle walk, I was suddenly catapulted into a gallop as the animal hurtled down the track in the direction of the Cypriot and his two docile donkeys. The impact of a sixteen hands high stallion on a donkey not much bigger than a Shetland pony, was a bit one sided. The old man came off at the moment of strike and rolled under the donkey he had been riding. His position on the donkey's back was taken by me and the stallion who began to satisfy his urge to procreate. What I had not been told about the horse was that it had been used solely for stud purposes. The sight of any donkey, horse or
mule drove it into a frenzy. If it was a female, it had to be mounted and if it was a male,it had to be attacked.
The soldiers in the Land Rovers had watched my assault upon the Cypriot and his donkey with amazement and they assumed I had spotted something they had not seen. As I was trying to get my horse off the donkey, I could see them running up the track with rifles at the ready. I prayed they would not shoot the old man, who was somewhere underneath the writhing mass of horse flesh, and add injury to insult.
I must have been able to get through to them that it was a purely sexual matter, as they put down their rifles and helped the old man to his feet. They dragged the donkey away from the stallion, whereupon it shot over the side of the road and joined the other one that was going as fast as its legs could carry it, for the sea - about two miles away.
Turkish Cypriots are made of strong stuff and the recovery of that one from a state of shock was swift. Within a matter of seconds he was leaping up and down in his strange baggy pants (Christ catchers) and gesticulating wildly in the direction of his runaway donkeys. The soldiers had a 'whip round' for him and managed to collect a few packets of cigarettes, which he grudgingly accepted. I did my best to apologise, but he just shook his fist at me and gave a 'five fingered curse' to the stallion.
At this stage of my ownership of Satan, for that was his name, I did not realise that an identical reaction would take place every time he saw an animal of his own species. I was, therefore, only slightly prepared when we met the next donkey-borne Cypriot. He was more fortunate than the other one as we had descended to sea level and his donkey summoned all its reserves of speed to escape from the carnal onslaught.
Except for two sudden bursts of speed, the journey from Khomi Kebir to Dhavlos had been boring and we had taken about one and a half hours to cover six miles. I was relieved to see the camp in the distance and, as we got closer, the sight of a mess waiter in his white uniform on the patio of the officers' mess reminded me that I was much in need of a cold beer. I walked Satan through the transport park and handed him over to my batman. I gave him instructions to feed and water the animal before I climbed the cliff path to the bluff of high ground above the stables and boat house where the mess was situated. Most of the officers were standing around having their drinks before lunch and the commanding officer asked me what I thought of the new horse. I told him what had happened and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.
All of a sudden there was a commotion outside and I recognised the voice of my batman. "Sir, you'd better come quick, that new horse of yours is knocking the stable down!" I bounded out of the mess and flew down the cliff path to the stables where I found the place in a shambles. "Whatever has happened?" I asked. One of the other batman explained that Satan had been taken into a stall where he had been given a large pan of oats and a bucket of water. "Good as gold, he was," said the batman, "until someone brought in one of those desert ponies, and then all hell was let loose." I recognised the same trouble that I had experienced twice myself that morning. "We'll have to get him out of here," I said. "Take him up to the contractor's shop and tie him up beneath the big tree. I looked at the damage
he had caused and calculated it would take a few days' work and a number of large gins for the Quartermaster before the stables would be restored.. "Another thing," said my batman, "I've never seen a horse eat so much as this one." Even an inexperienced person could see that Satan had been kept on basic survival rations. Big hollows in his sides showed he had been underfed and I realised he would need more than the normal rations for a horse of his size to build up his strength,. What I had not appreciated was the enormous capacity he had for oats. Instead of a throat and a stomach, it seemed he had a black hole down which everything disappeared.
One advantage of giving him this high octane food was that his performance as a hack
improved and I spent many enjoyable hours riding him on the beach and the countryside around Dhavlos. I could not take him too far from the camp as we were on 'active service' and the threat of terrorist action was real. One feature of his personality which remained constant was the effect other horses had on him. His years as a stud stallion had become too ingrained in his personality to be changed by the 'cordon bleu' treatment I was giving him.
I was never able to take him anywhere near the other horses in the stables and, as a result, I became a 'lone ranger' as nobody could accompany me on a ride. He continued to live under the big tree by the contractor's shop which was ideal for him during the summer months. After six months service in Dhavlos, the time came for us to leave the Karpas peninsula and take up residence in Dhekelia Camp near Larnaca on the south east coast of Cyprus. There was no problem about taking the other two ponies with us, they were quite manageable and had already become seasoned travellers. Satan was a problem though and the prospect of putting him in stables in Dhekelia, where there were plenty of ponies and a flourishing polo club,
was quite out of the question. I suppose I could have sent him back to Akrades, but with all his faults I had become attached to the old rogue.
The answer to the problem came two weeks before we were due to leave Dhavlos. Nikos, the locally employed officers' mess cook, came to me and said: "I understand you want to sell your horse, sir." "That's true," I replied. "Are you interested?" "Yes, I am," replied Nikos. "You see, I have some horses and I think Satan would be good for putting with them." By 'horses' he meant 'mares' and it was obvious that he had his eye on Satan as the father of some sturdy foals and fillies. I was delighted with this solution to the problem and I told Nikos he could have Satan as a gift the day we left Dhavlos.Nikos was a courteous old man and he looked after us well during our time in the camp alongside his village. He was always pleased to prepare local dishes for us and even to this day I remember his way of cooking octopus with garlic and red wine.
The day before we left Dhavlos, I took Satan for our last ride. His coat was sleek and shiny and the deep hollows in his sides had gone; he held his head high and tossed his mane at the prospect of a gallop on the beach. It was hard to imagine that this was the same horse that had been in such poor condition only a few months before. Dicky Randell had been right when he recognised the potential of the animal.
I was getting my soldiers ready for the move, so my batman took Satan to his new home. When all was ready and the soldiers were aboard the trucks, I gave the order to move off. As we headed east on the dust road to Khomi Kebir and beyond, I leaned out of the window to take a last look at the Louis Hotel and the rows of tents, now occupied by a field battery of the Royal Artillery. At the far end of the village, I saw the whitewashed stone house where Nikos lived with his wife and two daughters. In the adjoining field, three mares were gently swishing their tails under some trees. Standing with them, gently nuzzling the neck of a pretty little filly, was Satan. I gave him a wave and silently wished him a long and
happy life.
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