Kipleli arap (son of) Kindurwa was my Kipsigis orderly throughout the time I was in Malaya, including the journey out from Mombasa on the troopship 'Dilwara' in 1951 and the journey back to Kenya in the same ship in 1953.
During the 12 months Battalion HQ of 3/KAR spent in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya, officers lived in a requisitioned hotel called the Nan Yang; Kipleli's first duty of the day was to bring me a cup of tea. The prelude to his entry into my bedroom was a thunderous kick at the base of the door followed by a crash as he slammed his jungle boots into the floor boards at the foot of my bed. If I was not awake already, he would shout: "Jambo, effendi."
He had been shrieking "Jambo, effendi" ever since he had joined the Army. Kiswahili was not his first language and I had the impression he considered it necessary to increase the volume whenever he spoke it.
I had been trying to teach him English, without much success, but I had one more try. "In future, Kipleli," I told him in Kiswahili, "I should like you to say 'Wotcha cock' when you bring me my cup of tea. The meaning of the words meant nothing to him, but he seemed to like the sound and he went around muttering: "Wotcha cock" as he prepared my uniform.
That evening the Colonel was sitting in the ante room having a cup of tea, when Kipleli came in with an armful of clean clothes. As he passed the CO, he swung his head left in salute and cried: "Wotcha cock." Colonel Joe Crewe-Read looked surprised and said: "Am I hearing correctly - did your orderly say 'Wotcha cock?'" I confirmed what he had heard and Kipleli gave him another 'WC', with a right twist of his neck, as he marched out two minutes later. For the next two or three days all the mess servants and batmen were greeting each other and the officers with 'Wotcha cocks' but then they got tired of it and reverted to what everyone preferred: "Jambo, effendi."
Abdulahi 52 was the only Somali servant we had in the Nan Yang Hotel. In just the same way that Welsh soldiers with surnames such as Jones, Evans, Davies and Williams were identified by use of the last two digits of their regimental numbers, so were those with names like Abdulahi, Mohammed and Hassan. It can now be said, after the passage of so many years, that Abdulahi 52 was not our most popular African servant. He had ideas above his station and was forever getting into trouble but, as so often happens with misfits, it is sometimes easier to keep them where you can see them.
Colonel Joe Crewe-Read was a man of strict habits before, during and after breakfast. He liked to read the latest copy of The Daily Telegraph when he ate his bacon and eggs and he would take the newspaper with him when he went to his tailor-made mahogany thunder box which sat like a large Easter egg in a wooden shed at the bottom of the garden.
I was checking bar stock in the kitchen one morning as the Colonel strolled down the path. I watched him as he opened the door of the shed and saw him stiffen when he was confronted by Abdulahi 52 squatting above the seat, Somali fashion, with his shorts around his ankles. The Colonel rolled up his Telegraph and beat him about the head until he pulled up his shorts and took cover behind some bushes.
That, you might think, was more than sufficient to have Abdulahi removed from the mess, but he stayed on and was even given the job of collecting ice from the Singapore Cold Storage Company and delivering the large blocks to all the messes and the main cookhouse.
The ice party was a two man team with Private Ngonga Ng'ii, the driver of a powerful Dodge 15 cwt truck, in charge. One day they stopped in a side street off the main road in Kuantan alongside the Cold Storage. Ngonga Ng'ii went inside to do the paper work leaving Abdulahi sitting in the passenger seat of the Dodge. Having nothing else to do, he moved into the driving seat and started the engine.
He had never driven a vehicle before, but he had watched Ngonga Ng'ii depress the clutch, shift the gears and step on the accelerator. Thinking that this was as good an opportunity as he would get, he went through the drill himself.
The Dodge shot out of the side street like a bullet with Abdulahi striving to control the vehicle. Sitting comatose on their saddles with their feet on the handle bars were the drivers of Kuantan's pedi-cab fleet waiting for fares from the super market. Abdulahi went through them like a pack of cards and ended up with the nose of the Dodge wedged into the wide swing doors of the shop. Thankfully, nobody was killed but the mountain of smashed bicycles was damning evidence against him when he was arraigned before the local magistrate a few days later.
Abdulahi was convicted on a civil charge of 'dangerous driving' and 'destruction of property'. He was found guilty and fined an enormous amount of money, by African standards, which he was still paying off when we left Kuantan in June 1953.
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Thursday, 12 June 2008
Monday, 9 June 2008
What Goes Up Must Come down
Helicopters were new tools in the fight against terrorism when the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles arrived in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya in 1952. Ours was a Sikorsky S51 which carried a pilot and four passengers. Lieut Col Joe Crewe-Read (SWB), the commanding officer used it to visit rifle companies and askaris' morale was raised when they knew that if they were injured or fell sick in deep jungle they could be lifted out within a few hours.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.
In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.
The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.
There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.
In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.
The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.
There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
The Man Behind the Medals: Brigadier R.P. Gottwaltz MC (late South Wales Borderers)
Philip Gottwaltz died on 3rd April 1980. Even though I did not become Assistant Regimental Secretary Royal Regiment of Wales (Brecon) and Curator of the South Wales Borderers Museum until September 1980, I was asked to attend Philip’s funeral in a small West Midland’s village near Halesowen.
Philip Gottwaltz was commissioned into The South Wales Borderers on 22nd September 1914 and joined the 7th Battalion in France. In October 1915 the 7th and 8th Battalions SWB along with the 1st and 11th Battalions The Welch Regiment moved to Salonica to confront the Bulgarian army encamped on high ground above Lake Doiran. There they stayed for the next three years doing little more than patrolling and building up their strength for the last great battle of World War One. In September 1918 7/SWB and 11/WELCH were given orders to capture Grand Couronne, the dominant feature which the enemy occupied to counter any allied advance into Bulgaria. The attack started just before midnight on the 17th September 1918 and by 08.00 hrs on the 19th the two battalions had ceased to exist as fighting units. Philip Gottwaltz fought bravely in the action and was awarded the Military Cross. In October 1918 he was given command of the 9th East Lancashire Regiment but was invalided home soon afterwards.
On the outbreak of World War Two, Philip was commanding the 2nd Battalion SWB and took them through the Norway Campaign. It was a disastrous muddle from the very beginning and the Allied High Command was subsequently criticised for inadequate planning. There was virtually no air cover and artillery support was limited to a single battery of 25-pounders. One night, Philip heard movement outside his hut and, on investigation, he ran across a patrol of six German ski-troops. They were sent packing when a sentry opened fire on them. On another occasion, a few days later, a Royal Navy destroyer came to the assistance of ‘D’ Company 2/SWB when they were in close combat with a much stronger German force. “Are all your patrols in?’ signalled the destroyer. “Affirmative,” signalled the company commander, and then all hell was let loose. The Jack-tars opened up a few yards from the shore and put-paid to the enemy. Colonel Philip and his men considered themselves fortunate to have a Navy man-o’-war in close support.
There was one other time that the Senior Service aided 2/SWB and that was when the battalion was ordered to proceed south of Ankenes to a place called Bodo to relieve a company of Scots Guards. They embarked aboard HMS Effingham for the 100 mile trip but after 15 hours the ship hit an uncharted rock and began to sink. There was no panic and soldiers of 2/SWB formed up on deck waiting to be rescued. A destroyer pulled alongside and soldiers were trans-shipped. Colonel Philip, following tradition, was the last Army member to leave the stricken ship that was eventually destroyed by gunfire
On the 29th May 1940, Colonel Philip was told that 2/SWB would be responsible for covering the evacuation of British land forces from that part of Norway. For three days 2/SWB held off the enemy and by the 5th June, having completed their task, 2/SWB embarked at Borkenes and made their way to a cruise-liner lying off-shore. Five days later, they landed at Greenock. In 1945 the French government created Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur and awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Palmes.
After the war, Philip succeeded Colonel Gwynne Thomas as Secretary of the SWB Regimental Association until 1960 when Major Geo Egerton took over as the first (and only) Regimental Secretary SWB. Thereafter, nothing much was heard of Philip Gottwaltz until he died in 1980 and his son made contact with RHQ RRW.
My mind may be a little hazy about Philip’s funeral in April 1980 (after all it was 27 years ago), but a few salient facts are imprinted on my memory.
Philip’s son and daughter–in-law (disguised as John and Jane respectively for the purpose of this story) lived in a small house sufficient for their needs but requiring some arrangement of furniture to accommodate an 89 year old retired brigadier, who happened to be John’s father. Quite by accident, the old man was discovered by his son living in an old people’s home only a stone’s throw away.
John told me about what he remembered of his father: “I must have been about five years of age when I saw him for the first time. He and my mother lived apart but I can clearly remember her taking me to meet him. It was a lovely day and we had a picnic on the Malvern Hills. Afterwards, I played by myself while my mother and father talked for a long time. I don’t know what they talked about but, looking back on it now, I suppose they were discussing a divorce. When, at last, they got up, he patted me on my head and gave me 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence – 12p in today’s money) and I didn’t see him again until 1979 when I discovered he was living in an old people’s home not far from where we live now. I told Jane about it and we both went around to see him. We found him in good health, if somewhat shaky on his legs, which was to be expected for a man of his age.
When we returned home, I asked Jane how she felt about him living with us. We have no children of our own and there was a spare bedroom - so, it was agreed and he moved in a few days later. I did National Service with the Royal Artillery and Jane spent a few years in the Women’s Royal Army Corps but neither of us could be described as ‘military’ people. My father was quite the opposite and everything from his immaculate suit and regimental tie to his highly polished shoes and erect carriage spelt ‘ARMY’. He always took us by surprise when he came downstairs in the morning. He would suddenly appear and rasp out a greeting as if he was on the barrack square. Both Jane and I would leap to our feet, stand stiffly to attention and bark a reply. Afterwards, we would laugh about the effect he had on us.
His daily routine would always involve a trip to the off-licence where he established a good rapport with the manager. He is going to bemoan the passing of my father more than anyone else as he was a very good customer,” said John.
I asked John what he did for a living. “I move things around,” he said. “What sort of things.” I asked. “Anything from furniture to farm produce,`’ he replied. “I’ve got a van that I park around the back and, providing it’s not too dirty, I’ll shift anything.”
I asked him how he got on with his father after being so long apart: “Very well,” he answered, “We discovered a closeness that neither of us knew existed. Jane and I are going to miss him now that he’s gone.”
Before I left for home in Crickhowell, John told me that he would like to present his father’s medals to the SWB Museum in Brecon. I still had another five months to go before I was appointed Curator, but I gladly accepted them and delivered them to Major Geo Egerton the following day.
After 13 years as Curator of the SWB Museum and an on-going interest to my dying day, I suppose I have more knowledge than most about the ‘Men Behind The Medals’. Those of Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz were my first acquisition and they retain a special place in my affection.
Philip Gottwaltz was commissioned into The South Wales Borderers on 22nd September 1914 and joined the 7th Battalion in France. In October 1915 the 7th and 8th Battalions SWB along with the 1st and 11th Battalions The Welch Regiment moved to Salonica to confront the Bulgarian army encamped on high ground above Lake Doiran. There they stayed for the next three years doing little more than patrolling and building up their strength for the last great battle of World War One. In September 1918 7/SWB and 11/WELCH were given orders to capture Grand Couronne, the dominant feature which the enemy occupied to counter any allied advance into Bulgaria. The attack started just before midnight on the 17th September 1918 and by 08.00 hrs on the 19th the two battalions had ceased to exist as fighting units. Philip Gottwaltz fought bravely in the action and was awarded the Military Cross. In October 1918 he was given command of the 9th East Lancashire Regiment but was invalided home soon afterwards.
On the outbreak of World War Two, Philip was commanding the 2nd Battalion SWB and took them through the Norway Campaign. It was a disastrous muddle from the very beginning and the Allied High Command was subsequently criticised for inadequate planning. There was virtually no air cover and artillery support was limited to a single battery of 25-pounders. One night, Philip heard movement outside his hut and, on investigation, he ran across a patrol of six German ski-troops. They were sent packing when a sentry opened fire on them. On another occasion, a few days later, a Royal Navy destroyer came to the assistance of ‘D’ Company 2/SWB when they were in close combat with a much stronger German force. “Are all your patrols in?’ signalled the destroyer. “Affirmative,” signalled the company commander, and then all hell was let loose. The Jack-tars opened up a few yards from the shore and put-paid to the enemy. Colonel Philip and his men considered themselves fortunate to have a Navy man-o’-war in close support.
There was one other time that the Senior Service aided 2/SWB and that was when the battalion was ordered to proceed south of Ankenes to a place called Bodo to relieve a company of Scots Guards. They embarked aboard HMS Effingham for the 100 mile trip but after 15 hours the ship hit an uncharted rock and began to sink. There was no panic and soldiers of 2/SWB formed up on deck waiting to be rescued. A destroyer pulled alongside and soldiers were trans-shipped. Colonel Philip, following tradition, was the last Army member to leave the stricken ship that was eventually destroyed by gunfire
On the 29th May 1940, Colonel Philip was told that 2/SWB would be responsible for covering the evacuation of British land forces from that part of Norway. For three days 2/SWB held off the enemy and by the 5th June, having completed their task, 2/SWB embarked at Borkenes and made their way to a cruise-liner lying off-shore. Five days later, they landed at Greenock. In 1945 the French government created Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur and awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Palmes.
After the war, Philip succeeded Colonel Gwynne Thomas as Secretary of the SWB Regimental Association until 1960 when Major Geo Egerton took over as the first (and only) Regimental Secretary SWB. Thereafter, nothing much was heard of Philip Gottwaltz until he died in 1980 and his son made contact with RHQ RRW.
My mind may be a little hazy about Philip’s funeral in April 1980 (after all it was 27 years ago), but a few salient facts are imprinted on my memory.
Philip’s son and daughter–in-law (disguised as John and Jane respectively for the purpose of this story) lived in a small house sufficient for their needs but requiring some arrangement of furniture to accommodate an 89 year old retired brigadier, who happened to be John’s father. Quite by accident, the old man was discovered by his son living in an old people’s home only a stone’s throw away.
John told me about what he remembered of his father: “I must have been about five years of age when I saw him for the first time. He and my mother lived apart but I can clearly remember her taking me to meet him. It was a lovely day and we had a picnic on the Malvern Hills. Afterwards, I played by myself while my mother and father talked for a long time. I don’t know what they talked about but, looking back on it now, I suppose they were discussing a divorce. When, at last, they got up, he patted me on my head and gave me 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence – 12p in today’s money) and I didn’t see him again until 1979 when I discovered he was living in an old people’s home not far from where we live now. I told Jane about it and we both went around to see him. We found him in good health, if somewhat shaky on his legs, which was to be expected for a man of his age.
When we returned home, I asked Jane how she felt about him living with us. We have no children of our own and there was a spare bedroom - so, it was agreed and he moved in a few days later. I did National Service with the Royal Artillery and Jane spent a few years in the Women’s Royal Army Corps but neither of us could be described as ‘military’ people. My father was quite the opposite and everything from his immaculate suit and regimental tie to his highly polished shoes and erect carriage spelt ‘ARMY’. He always took us by surprise when he came downstairs in the morning. He would suddenly appear and rasp out a greeting as if he was on the barrack square. Both Jane and I would leap to our feet, stand stiffly to attention and bark a reply. Afterwards, we would laugh about the effect he had on us.
His daily routine would always involve a trip to the off-licence where he established a good rapport with the manager. He is going to bemoan the passing of my father more than anyone else as he was a very good customer,” said John.
I asked John what he did for a living. “I move things around,” he said. “What sort of things.” I asked. “Anything from furniture to farm produce,`’ he replied. “I’ve got a van that I park around the back and, providing it’s not too dirty, I’ll shift anything.”
I asked him how he got on with his father after being so long apart: “Very well,” he answered, “We discovered a closeness that neither of us knew existed. Jane and I are going to miss him now that he’s gone.”
Before I left for home in Crickhowell, John told me that he would like to present his father’s medals to the SWB Museum in Brecon. I still had another five months to go before I was appointed Curator, but I gladly accepted them and delivered them to Major Geo Egerton the following day.
After 13 years as Curator of the SWB Museum and an on-going interest to my dying day, I suppose I have more knowledge than most about the ‘Men Behind The Medals’. Those of Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz were my first acquisition and they retain a special place in my affection.
What Happened To.....?
Zulu Company was the name given to Training Company 1/WELCH in Cyprus during the EOKA troubles of 1957-58. It was a tight-knit force with a permanent establishment of no more than ten men: me, my second-in-command, a company sergeant major, colour sergeant, storeman, clerk, three corporals and my black batman - Offside, who when asked by the sentry on the main gate one night if he was 'ZULU', replied: "No, Afro/Welsh - I come from Tiger Bay, Cardiff."
Our job was to receive recruits straight from basic training in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff and turn them into trained soldiers. We were still in the days of national service which for many was the greatest violation of personal liberty ever practised. Others found it the most rewarding experience of their lives. The problem with the system was a never ending influx and exodus of soldiers - hence the need for Zulu Company.
I was chatting with an old friend recently about those days in Cyprus so many years ago when he said: "Do you remember Kinell-Jones?" I did a mental check of all the young officers but that young man with a posh name did not register. He then told me a story which reawakened memories long since put on hold.
During the third week of a four week course we ran for one of the drafts from Wales, I decided the time was right to give them some practical experience of searching a Greek Cypriot village at night. The company sergeant major assembled the draft under a convenient carob tree and I began to outline my plans for the operation.
"Tonight, men, we are going to search the village of Flamoudi (a small habitation of a few hundred souls about five miles west of battalion headquarters)." A young soldier sitting in the front row let out an expletive: "F....ng hell!" I looked at him disapprovingly, but as he had shown great interest in everything he had been taught during the first half of the course, I put his outburst down to enthusiasm. "We’ll leave here at 20.00hrs in musketry order, fully camouflaged. You will carry your rifles with one up the spout and safety catch on." "F....ng hell!" was the response from the eager young lad in the front row and another disapproving look from me. "I want you to remember all you have been taught about silent movement and how to recognise shapes in the dark - there may well be EOKA terrorists about." "F....ng hell," said the young man who had only two words to say when his adrenaline flowed. There were more identical expletives throughout the briefing, but I let him carry on when he felt the urge.
A few days later, Offside told me that Kinell-Jones had nearly shot the locally employed Greek Cypriot officers' mess cook when we stormed a taverna in Flamoudi. It took me a second or two before I realised that 'Kinell'-Jones, as he had become known, was the keen young soldier in the front row at my briefing. If you are still bewildered, put the letters F U C in front of the K in the first part of his name.
What I had not told the draft was that Flamoudi was just about the safest Greek Cypriot village on the island. Practically all the locally employed civilians in our camp lived there and it was understandable that the officers' mess cook should throw his arms around my neck and tell the barman to give me a beer when we stormed in. Nikos wanted to 'make a night of it' and introduce me to all his friends, but I remained aloof and told the company sergeant major to get the recruits out as fast as he could. Not all the inhabitants of Flamoudi were as pro-British as the regulars in the taverna and word must have got out that security forces were in the village. There was not a soul about when we emerged from the hostelry.
I led the way on a tour of the village using shadows and convenient objects to make ourselves invisible. Whenever a dog barked, we stopped, changed route - if possible, and moved on when it was provident to do so. We had proceeded in this fashion for a few hundred yards when I saw a wooden gate in a stone wall surrounding a house. Before me lay a garden with bushes on all sides and at the far end was a house with a patio upon which sat an old lady engaged in, what looked like, embroidery. This was just the sort of opportunity I had been looking for, so I signaled the men to close up and whispered to them what I was about to do.
"You see that old lady over there? Well, she doesn't know we are here. I'm going to creep through those bushes making use of available cover. I aim to get to the patio without her hearing or seeing a thing."
I climbed over the wall and slowly made my way towards the old lady. I looked back a few times and could just see the others who had managed to find places from which to observe. The old lady was quite unaware of what was going on until I suddenly revealed myself on the patio a few feet away from her.
"Kali nikta," (Good evening) I said cheerfully to put her at her ease. This did not have the desired effect and she screamed louder than an air-raid siren. I tried to calm her by putting my hand on her shoulder, but she screamed all the more.
I had not noticed a 12 or 13 year old girl asleep on a mattress in a corner of the patio, but the youngster's reaction was swift. She picked up a sweeping broom made of twigs bound to a pole and brought it down on my head like a ton of bricks. Despite the commotion made by the two females on the patio, I heard another cry from the bottom of the garden: "F....ng hell!!"
Our job was to receive recruits straight from basic training in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff and turn them into trained soldiers. We were still in the days of national service which for many was the greatest violation of personal liberty ever practised. Others found it the most rewarding experience of their lives. The problem with the system was a never ending influx and exodus of soldiers - hence the need for Zulu Company.
I was chatting with an old friend recently about those days in Cyprus so many years ago when he said: "Do you remember Kinell-Jones?" I did a mental check of all the young officers but that young man with a posh name did not register. He then told me a story which reawakened memories long since put on hold.
During the third week of a four week course we ran for one of the drafts from Wales, I decided the time was right to give them some practical experience of searching a Greek Cypriot village at night. The company sergeant major assembled the draft under a convenient carob tree and I began to outline my plans for the operation.
"Tonight, men, we are going to search the village of Flamoudi (a small habitation of a few hundred souls about five miles west of battalion headquarters)." A young soldier sitting in the front row let out an expletive: "F....ng hell!" I looked at him disapprovingly, but as he had shown great interest in everything he had been taught during the first half of the course, I put his outburst down to enthusiasm. "We’ll leave here at 20.00hrs in musketry order, fully camouflaged. You will carry your rifles with one up the spout and safety catch on." "F....ng hell!" was the response from the eager young lad in the front row and another disapproving look from me. "I want you to remember all you have been taught about silent movement and how to recognise shapes in the dark - there may well be EOKA terrorists about." "F....ng hell," said the young man who had only two words to say when his adrenaline flowed. There were more identical expletives throughout the briefing, but I let him carry on when he felt the urge.
A few days later, Offside told me that Kinell-Jones had nearly shot the locally employed Greek Cypriot officers' mess cook when we stormed a taverna in Flamoudi. It took me a second or two before I realised that 'Kinell'-Jones, as he had become known, was the keen young soldier in the front row at my briefing. If you are still bewildered, put the letters F U C in front of the K in the first part of his name.
What I had not told the draft was that Flamoudi was just about the safest Greek Cypriot village on the island. Practically all the locally employed civilians in our camp lived there and it was understandable that the officers' mess cook should throw his arms around my neck and tell the barman to give me a beer when we stormed in. Nikos wanted to 'make a night of it' and introduce me to all his friends, but I remained aloof and told the company sergeant major to get the recruits out as fast as he could. Not all the inhabitants of Flamoudi were as pro-British as the regulars in the taverna and word must have got out that security forces were in the village. There was not a soul about when we emerged from the hostelry.
I led the way on a tour of the village using shadows and convenient objects to make ourselves invisible. Whenever a dog barked, we stopped, changed route - if possible, and moved on when it was provident to do so. We had proceeded in this fashion for a few hundred yards when I saw a wooden gate in a stone wall surrounding a house. Before me lay a garden with bushes on all sides and at the far end was a house with a patio upon which sat an old lady engaged in, what looked like, embroidery. This was just the sort of opportunity I had been looking for, so I signaled the men to close up and whispered to them what I was about to do.
"You see that old lady over there? Well, she doesn't know we are here. I'm going to creep through those bushes making use of available cover. I aim to get to the patio without her hearing or seeing a thing."
I climbed over the wall and slowly made my way towards the old lady. I looked back a few times and could just see the others who had managed to find places from which to observe. The old lady was quite unaware of what was going on until I suddenly revealed myself on the patio a few feet away from her.
"Kali nikta," (Good evening) I said cheerfully to put her at her ease. This did not have the desired effect and she screamed louder than an air-raid siren. I tried to calm her by putting my hand on her shoulder, but she screamed all the more.
I had not noticed a 12 or 13 year old girl asleep on a mattress in a corner of the patio, but the youngster's reaction was swift. She picked up a sweeping broom made of twigs bound to a pole and brought it down on my head like a ton of bricks. Despite the commotion made by the two females on the patio, I heard another cry from the bottom of the garden: "F....ng hell!!"
Water Skiing by Numbers
In addition to the two battalions of Malaysia Rangers, there was also a small 'group' headquarters run by a British Colonel assisted by a Major and a clerk. Colonel Wellstead was a 'Sapper' (Royal Engineer) before he received his red tabs; he had an extremely loud voice and his nick-name - 'Boomer', was most appropriate.
'Boomer' Wellstead was the perfect choice for the job of Malaysia Ranger Group Colonel. He was the epitome of efficiency and everything he did was planned to the finest detail. He and his wife ran excellent parties, but while the rest of us were content to provide our guests with just good food and wine, Boomer's parties included all sorts of party games which left everyone exhausted in mind and body.
Ipoh, the capital of the state of Perak, has the reputation for being the hottest place in Malaya. When not engaged in jungle training, it was customary to work from 7am to 1pm and then take a siesta until 4.30pm, when games would be played. 'Siesta' was a word that did not exist in the Colonel's vocabulary; while others were getting their heads down, he was off rock climbing or hacking his way through jungle in pursuit of fauna, if he could find someone to accompany him.
Ipoh Swimming Club was well attended at week ends and was the favourite meeting place on Sunday mornings. When Boomer and his family arrived (he had an elegant wife and three charming teenage daughters), it was apparent that his passion for precision had brushed off on his family. When they had changed into their swim suits, they would assemble at the deep end where Boomer would give the command for their formation swimming routine to begin. He would be the first to dive in followed by his wife and then his daughters in order of seniority. The exhibition they gave was reminiscent of the days of Esther Williams and her nymphets in the great films of the 1940's. While the Wellstead family were in the pool, it was unthinkable for anyone else to cool off. Even when they had exited like five well disciplined penguins, it made the rest of us feel so inadequate that a quiet dip seemed pathetic in comparison.
It was not long before Boomer added water skiing to his list of family (and friends’) activities. He kitted out his family with water skis and arranged to have a motor boat available at a place called Lumut on the west coast about 45 miles away. We didn't see the Wellstead family at the Swimming Club for a few weeks as they were busy honing their skills with their new sport.
Boomer liked to do everything according to the rules but was unable to find any for water skiing, so he set about writing a pamphlet. He was proud of the fact that he was the first person to create a set of rules about the sport and he kept it in his office for anyone who was interested to flick through the pages.
Captain John Williams of the 1st Battalion had cause to visit the Colonel's office one day and saw the pamphlet on the table. "How interesting, sir," he said. "I didn't know that a pamphlet on water skiing existed." Boomer smiled at the young officer and replied: "You are looking at the only one in existence - I wrote it!" John was not a keen water skier, in fact water skiing was practically unknown in 1965, but it paid to keep in with the Colonel and John showed more interest in the pamphlet than he would have done if someone else had written it.
"Do you think I could borrow it, sir?" he asked. Photo copying, like water skiing, was in its infancy and Boomer was reluctant to let his one and only pamphlet out of his hands. But John's interest in the document impressed him so much that he allowed him to take it away. "Make sure you take care of it," said Boomer, "and bring it back on Monday morning."
John put the document in his brief case and took it home. That night he put it on his bedside table so that he could read it if he woke up early on the Sunday morning. When he did open his eyes, he found that his wife had gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and to let the dog out - it being the servant's day off. He reached for the pamphlet, but as he could not find it, he turned over and went back to sleep, but only for about ten minutes before waking up again to the slobbering caress of an exuberant Labrador puppy he had recently acquired.
John, still half asleep, was roused to full wakefulness when his wife came back, bearing a cup of tea, and exclaimed: "Oh, what a mess, look what the dog's done." John sat up, followed her gaze and saw a mass of chewed up paper covering the bedroom floor. He and his wife did not go to the Swimming Club that day just in case the Wellsteads were there.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, John had to confess to Boomer that his pamphlet no longer existed. The Colonel's reaction was just as volatile as John had predicted and he expected to be told to pack his bags. But Boomer's bark was worse than his bite and his clerk was soon at work making a new copy from the hand-written manuscript.
The Wellsteads were a very kind and sociable family and once you got used to Boomer's passion for organising everything, it was fun to be in his company. Once he and his family had mastered the techniques of water skiing, Boomer set about instructing officers and their wives in the sport. Some welcomed the invitation to spend a morning of water skiing at Lumut, while others were not so keen - particularly one officer and his wife who had a horror of sea snakes and jelly fish. When they eventually received their invitation, they thought hard about how they could refuse without being rude. There was no way out so, with much trepidation, they set off the following Sunday for the west coast.
A total of three families had been invited for this session and, as each party arrived at the jetty, they were ferried to a boat anchored two hundred yards away to wait their turn. One officer from 1st Rangers was already being towed at speed behind the motor boat in which Boomer was at the helm conducting operations. After about ten minutes of faultless skiing, the officer let go of the tow and halted effortlessly beside the boat carrying the remainder of the party.
Boomer drew alongside and nominated the fellow who had just arrived to prepare himself. He, by design or lack of aptitude, could not even manage to get his skis on the service. When it became apparent he was a non-starter, his reluctant wife was ordered to get into the water and put her skis on. To everyone's amazement, she was able to get moving on the first tow and within a few seconds was skimming over the surface at top speed in the crouch position. Everything seemed to be going well until she parted company with the tow-rope. There was a huge splash with arms, legs and skis flailing the water. Boomer was alongside her in a few seconds, but despite his encouragement and congratulations on a promising start, he could not persuade her to have another go. She was brought back to the 'waiting details' boat and sat quietly with her husband until it was time to go ashore for the picnic. Even then she was quiet and as soon as the couple could make their excuses, they got into their car and went back to Ipoh.
Had the unfortunate lady been in possession of a copy of Boomer's pamphlet, she would have known what to do when she became 'sea-borne'. The pamphlet stated: "The crouch position should not be held for more than a few seconds once the skis are skimming over the surface, then you should stand upright. Failure to do so, as far as females are concerned, is to run the danger of receiving a high pressure enema of sea water." Boomer completed the paragraph with: 'Males do not have the same problem as they are equipped with a built-in baffle plate.'
'Boomer' Wellstead was the perfect choice for the job of Malaysia Ranger Group Colonel. He was the epitome of efficiency and everything he did was planned to the finest detail. He and his wife ran excellent parties, but while the rest of us were content to provide our guests with just good food and wine, Boomer's parties included all sorts of party games which left everyone exhausted in mind and body.
Ipoh, the capital of the state of Perak, has the reputation for being the hottest place in Malaya. When not engaged in jungle training, it was customary to work from 7am to 1pm and then take a siesta until 4.30pm, when games would be played. 'Siesta' was a word that did not exist in the Colonel's vocabulary; while others were getting their heads down, he was off rock climbing or hacking his way through jungle in pursuit of fauna, if he could find someone to accompany him.
Ipoh Swimming Club was well attended at week ends and was the favourite meeting place on Sunday mornings. When Boomer and his family arrived (he had an elegant wife and three charming teenage daughters), it was apparent that his passion for precision had brushed off on his family. When they had changed into their swim suits, they would assemble at the deep end where Boomer would give the command for their formation swimming routine to begin. He would be the first to dive in followed by his wife and then his daughters in order of seniority. The exhibition they gave was reminiscent of the days of Esther Williams and her nymphets in the great films of the 1940's. While the Wellstead family were in the pool, it was unthinkable for anyone else to cool off. Even when they had exited like five well disciplined penguins, it made the rest of us feel so inadequate that a quiet dip seemed pathetic in comparison.
It was not long before Boomer added water skiing to his list of family (and friends’) activities. He kitted out his family with water skis and arranged to have a motor boat available at a place called Lumut on the west coast about 45 miles away. We didn't see the Wellstead family at the Swimming Club for a few weeks as they were busy honing their skills with their new sport.
Boomer liked to do everything according to the rules but was unable to find any for water skiing, so he set about writing a pamphlet. He was proud of the fact that he was the first person to create a set of rules about the sport and he kept it in his office for anyone who was interested to flick through the pages.
Captain John Williams of the 1st Battalion had cause to visit the Colonel's office one day and saw the pamphlet on the table. "How interesting, sir," he said. "I didn't know that a pamphlet on water skiing existed." Boomer smiled at the young officer and replied: "You are looking at the only one in existence - I wrote it!" John was not a keen water skier, in fact water skiing was practically unknown in 1965, but it paid to keep in with the Colonel and John showed more interest in the pamphlet than he would have done if someone else had written it.
"Do you think I could borrow it, sir?" he asked. Photo copying, like water skiing, was in its infancy and Boomer was reluctant to let his one and only pamphlet out of his hands. But John's interest in the document impressed him so much that he allowed him to take it away. "Make sure you take care of it," said Boomer, "and bring it back on Monday morning."
John put the document in his brief case and took it home. That night he put it on his bedside table so that he could read it if he woke up early on the Sunday morning. When he did open his eyes, he found that his wife had gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and to let the dog out - it being the servant's day off. He reached for the pamphlet, but as he could not find it, he turned over and went back to sleep, but only for about ten minutes before waking up again to the slobbering caress of an exuberant Labrador puppy he had recently acquired.
John, still half asleep, was roused to full wakefulness when his wife came back, bearing a cup of tea, and exclaimed: "Oh, what a mess, look what the dog's done." John sat up, followed her gaze and saw a mass of chewed up paper covering the bedroom floor. He and his wife did not go to the Swimming Club that day just in case the Wellsteads were there.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, John had to confess to Boomer that his pamphlet no longer existed. The Colonel's reaction was just as volatile as John had predicted and he expected to be told to pack his bags. But Boomer's bark was worse than his bite and his clerk was soon at work making a new copy from the hand-written manuscript.
The Wellsteads were a very kind and sociable family and once you got used to Boomer's passion for organising everything, it was fun to be in his company. Once he and his family had mastered the techniques of water skiing, Boomer set about instructing officers and their wives in the sport. Some welcomed the invitation to spend a morning of water skiing at Lumut, while others were not so keen - particularly one officer and his wife who had a horror of sea snakes and jelly fish. When they eventually received their invitation, they thought hard about how they could refuse without being rude. There was no way out so, with much trepidation, they set off the following Sunday for the west coast.
A total of three families had been invited for this session and, as each party arrived at the jetty, they were ferried to a boat anchored two hundred yards away to wait their turn. One officer from 1st Rangers was already being towed at speed behind the motor boat in which Boomer was at the helm conducting operations. After about ten minutes of faultless skiing, the officer let go of the tow and halted effortlessly beside the boat carrying the remainder of the party.
Boomer drew alongside and nominated the fellow who had just arrived to prepare himself. He, by design or lack of aptitude, could not even manage to get his skis on the service. When it became apparent he was a non-starter, his reluctant wife was ordered to get into the water and put her skis on. To everyone's amazement, she was able to get moving on the first tow and within a few seconds was skimming over the surface at top speed in the crouch position. Everything seemed to be going well until she parted company with the tow-rope. There was a huge splash with arms, legs and skis flailing the water. Boomer was alongside her in a few seconds, but despite his encouragement and congratulations on a promising start, he could not persuade her to have another go. She was brought back to the 'waiting details' boat and sat quietly with her husband until it was time to go ashore for the picnic. Even then she was quiet and as soon as the couple could make their excuses, they got into their car and went back to Ipoh.
Had the unfortunate lady been in possession of a copy of Boomer's pamphlet, she would have known what to do when she became 'sea-borne'. The pamphlet stated: "The crouch position should not be held for more than a few seconds once the skis are skimming over the surface, then you should stand upright. Failure to do so, as far as females are concerned, is to run the danger of receiving a high pressure enema of sea water." Boomer completed the paragraph with: 'Males do not have the same problem as they are equipped with a built-in baffle plate.'
Watch Out! - Seagull's About
For forty years or so from the start of the second world war to 1984, the Army had a code which wireless operators were obliged to use when transmitting official messages. A commanding officer, be he an army commander or a platoon commander was known as 'sunray'; the quartermaster general down to a battalion quartermaster was known as 'molar', while adjutants through their various levels from top brass in Whitehall to an infantry battalion in the field, were known as 'seagull'. The idea was to confuse the enemy by giving them no indication of what sort of sunray, molar or seagull was sending or receiving the message. I was never convinced that the enemy could be so stupid to think that a request for a hundred packets of fly papers and twenty latrine buckets could come from Whitehall and not from some poor dispirited unit camped on the edge of a swamp. The origin of these code words always puzzled me and it wasn't until I looked up ‘seagull' in a wild-life book that I found a clue.
'A seagull (code name for adjutant) is a bird that seeks the company of others of its kind, but it is quite likely to attack them with its beak or flail them with its wings. It is always in immaculate condition despite the grotty areas it inhabits. Its rasping cries are heard first thing in the morning, throughout the day and well into the night. Its eyesight and hearing are pin-sharp and it is aware of everything that goes on around it’. Possessed of an ability to propel its waste matter with unerring accuracy at a recipient of its choice, the code name 'seagull' is, without doubt, most appropriate for adjutants world wide.
When I was a young officer, I could never understand why adjutants changed their personalities when they were appointed to that particular office. Before their appointment they were nice ordinary fellows, and they reverted to their natural state when they moved on or sideways. It was the bit in the middle, when they became so bloodthirsty, that intrigued me.
As an officer cadet, I was led to believe that on being commissioned into an infantry regiment I would be joining a good club. What a rude awakening I received when, as a newly pipped second lieutenant, I was gripped hard not only by the adjutant of my unit, but the senior subaltern and the regimental sergeant major as well.
The first time I felt the sharp prick of the adjutant's fangs was when he came into the local hostelry one evening and saw me standing at the bar with one button of my service dress undone. He said nothing at the time but I had to take his word for it when I appeared before him the following morning. Civilians must think that we soldiers are a strange lot when an unfastened button can cause such a head of steam! For that offence I was awarded three extra orderly officer duties.
The award of 'three extras' was the cue for some hearty back-slapping from one's contemporaries who would be delighted to hear that someone else would be inspecting meals, mounting the guard and checking that sentries were doing their job properly in the early hours of the morning. I have known some officers, totally lacking in charm, suddenly become the most popular fellows in the mess after an award of 'seven extras'.
Eighteen months of pounding barrack squares as a private soldier and an officer cadet had obviously not brought me and the other young subalterns up to the standard required by the adjutant at Dering Lines, Brecon in 1946. We were therefore ordered to parade before that particular 'seagull' and the RSM twice a week at 07.30 hrs until further notice.
We had already received some instruction at OCTU (officer cadet training unit) in the difficult movements associated with carrying a cane on parade, but we did not measure up to seagull's requirement and were told to bring our canes with us on the next parade.
One of our number was a subaltern called Rex Farrow. Rex found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and was never properly effective until after his mid morning break. Someone always had to make sure he was on his feet with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap and a razor in the other.
Rex had been seen in the dining room but when the time came for us to assemble on the side of the square, there was no sign of him. It was too far for one of us to run back to the mess and, anyway, time was up as the adjutant and the RSM were nodding their heads as they checked their watches. With only seconds to spare, Rex came panting around the corner: "Got held up in the bog," he said as he joined us. His relief at making it on time vanished when he saw that the rest of us were carrying canes. He was almost on the point of volunteering for 'seven extras' when one of the subalterns spied a length of hollow copper pipe which some workmen had been using. He thrust it into Rex's hand and said: "Use this, it's about the same length as your cane - but for God's sake don't drop it."
Almost immediately, we were called on parade and the complicated business of twiddling our canes commenced. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped his appendage and that person turned out to be Rex Farrow. It was during that particularly difficult manoeuvre when the cane, in the perpendicular position, is brought to the horizontal when you step off. The piece of copper pipe shot out of his hand like a spear and then clattered about twenty feet across the barrack square. The adjutant screamed a command to halt and both he and the RSM marched across to where the strange object lay. The RSM prodded it with his pace stick, and it clanged again. It was not hard for the adjutant to find out what it was and where it had come from. Rex was twitching his thumbs nervously as the adjutant asked him for an explanation. He tried to explain he had left his cane in the 'bog', but this did him no good and he was thereupon awarded 'seven extras' for being idle and disrespectful.
The parade ground adjacent to South Barracks in Khartoum must be the largest in the world. With your back to the perimeter wall it extends from the Blue Nile north, east and west for hundreds of miles. The surface was crunchy gravel and all that was required to give the surface a 'Horse Guards' look was the application of whitewash lines and some spots for the markers. Twice a month Regimental Sergeant Major 'Joe' Friend would hold his parade for everyone of and under the rank of warrant officer class two. There would also be an adjutant's parade for everyone junior to the adjutant and, to complete the trio, the commanding officer would hold his parade, when everyone in the battalion was required to turn out.
These parades started just after first light and one of my enduring memories of Khartoum is the early morning sun glinting on the bayonets of hundreds of Welsh soldiers formed up in open order of companies. Parades started at such an early hour to make use of what remained of the cool night breeze; once the sun came up it was like opening an oven door.
With the sun came flies. These obnoxious insects, not to be confused with their comparatively friendly North European cousins, were early risers. Anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves shaving before going on parade, and then forced to stand immobile during the inspection, would be subjected to a mind cracking form of torture as the little monsters would pile in like a rugby scrum on the area of skinned flesh.
An enormous amount of effort was expended by soldiers the night before to make sure their turn-out was perfect. Fortunately, the officers had batmen to prepare their kit; all they had to do was ensure they put their puttees on properly.
Half an hour after we had fallen out from the adjutant's first parade in Khartoum, the orderly room runner came to my office and told me that the adjutant wanted to see me. This sounded ominous and I wondered what had gone wrong as I made my way to his office. I knocked on his door and heard his call to enter. Four full paces, halt and a smart salute brought me face to face with him. "Why were you improperly dressed on my parade this morning?" he barked. I did a mental check of everything I was wearing and could find nothing wrong. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied. "I do not understand." Seagull paused for a second or two and then said: "You were not wearing your medal." I looked at him incredulously and spluttered: " But I've only got one." "That's correct," he replied, "and you were not wearing it." I was one of those young conscripts who joined the Army in December 1944 - five months before the end of the war in Europe; the 'Victory' medal I was awarded occupied a fluffy corner of my kit bag. Many members of the battalion had been in the thick of action and this was evident on occasions such as adjutant's parades when the desert groaned under the weight of medals won in service to king and country. "I can't wear just one, sir," I protested, but it was no good. "If you appear improperly dressed on one of my parades again, you'll get five extra orderly officer duties," snapped seagull. "This time you are awarded three 'extras'. Now, get out."
The five 'extras' were not long in coming, but I received them for a quite unrelated incident. The second-in-command, Major 'Ski' Galletley, had spent the last two years of the war as a brigadier. He was the most be-medalled person in the battalion and the junior officers had the impression he had won the war single handed. He was a fiery gentleman and we all treated him with respect.
It was, therefore, with dismay that I received a note from the adjutant ordering me, as a member of an audit board, to report to the second-in-command at the sergeants' mess the following Monday morning at 08.00hrs to check the bar stock. One advantage about being signals officer was that I had my own transport in the form of two motor cycles. I did not make my move to the sergeants' mess until 07.50, which allowed me plenty of time to get to the other end of the barracks. I straddled one of the machines, slipped the gears into neutral, primed the carburettor and lunged at the kick start. There was no response from the engine at the first attempt, nor was there from the next half dozen. Fortunately, the other machine was nearby so I went through the same procedure, but to no avail. Both machines made it quite clear they were not prepared to carry me to the sergeants' mess. I looked at my watch and saw I had about six minutes to get to the other end of the barracks. Salvation came in the form of one of my signallers on a bicycle. Without bothering to explain, I requisitioned his machine and pedaled for my life. I skidded into some spiky bushes outside the entrance to the sergeants' mess and hurled myself through the door. Standing beneath the clock above the bar was the second-in-command. "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered. "You're five minutes late." Sure enough the clock above the bar registered five minutes past eight o'clock, but I sneaked a look at my own watch and saw that the time was exactly 08.00hrs. I was not brave enough to point out the discrepancy between the two timepieces, even though I was the officer responsible for keeping accurate time in the battalion. I merely muttered: "I'm sorry, sir," before I started to count the bottles and cans which had been put out for me to check.
An hour later, I picked up the bicycle, straightened the handle bars and rode back to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the correct time with the main signals exchange in Khartoum. There was no doubt about it, my watch showed the correct time.
I was pretty sure the second-in-command would put in a report about my 'late arrival' and I was not surprised when I received a call from the orderly room to report to the adjutant. This time I walked with a spring in my step to battalion headquarters and confidently saluted the adjutant when I appeared before him. "Why were you five minutes late reporting to the second-in-command this morning?" he said. "I wish to say that I was not late, sir. If you would care to check with the telephone exchange you will find that the sergeants' mess clock is five minutes fast," I replied. This was my trump card and I reckoned it would not be long before the second-in-command would tender his apologies. Perhaps he would buy me a drink in the mess and say: "Really, old chap - no hard feelings." The adjutant continued to stare at me and I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly he exploded: "I know that the clock in the sergeants' mess is five minutes fast. You should have been there five minutes early - at 07.55. I ask you once again, why were you late?" There was no answer to that, so I said nothing. "Five extra orderly officer duties," said the predatory bird.
This episode did not seem to have any long term effect upon the good relations I had among the higher echelons of command because a few weeks later the commanding officer asked me if I would like go on attachment to the Equatoria Corps of the Sudan Defence Force. It seemed that an officer of the regiment commanded the corps in the Southern Sudan and he had made an offer to host four subalterns. Mike Hughes-Morgan was my companion and we were told to prepare ourselves for a flight to Juba in seven days time.
The day before Mike and I departed, I went for a drink in the Grand Hotel in Khartoum and there met a fellow with whom I had a few cold beers. In those days the 'Grand' was one of the great meeting places in Africa. Empire flying boats of British Overseas Airways Corporation would land conveniently at 'sundowner' time on the White Nile and picturesque paddle-wheel steamers from Atbara would off-load their passengers just a few yards from the entrance to the hotel. The ghosts of General Gordon and the Mahdi seemed to stalk the tree-lined avenues and one could imagine the sight and sounds of distant battle. Looking over the water where the Blue and White Niles meet, I told my companion about the trip I was making on the morrow to the south. "What's it all about and why are they sending you all the way down there?" he asked "It's a 'swan' really," I replied, "and a good opportunity to get away from the heat of this place for a while." We chatted for some time and had a few more drinks before I caught a cab back to South Barracks.
Mike and I made an early start the next day and before the sun was high in the sky we were winging our way south in a de Havilland 'Dove' of Sudan Airways. This is not the time to describe all the fascinating experiences we had in that beautiful part of Africa which lies between the upper reaches of the White Nile, Lake Turkana in North Kenya and the southern foothills of the Ethiopian highlands. It was a big milestone in my life which eventually led me to join the King's African Rifles.
Time passed all too quickly and soon we were on our way back to Khartoum. Arriving at the airport, we were met by the orderly officer who gleefully told me that the adjutant wanted to see me as soon as I arrived in barracks. "What's gone wrong?" I asked him. "I don't know, but he looked angrier than usual."
I went to my quarters, had a shower and put on some clean khaki drill before reporting to the adjutant. Pleasantries about the trip were soon completed and then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a newspaper. "What have you got to say about this?" he said, holding up the broadsheet for me to read. I could see it was a copy of the Sudan's only English language newspaper - 'The Sudan Star' whose front page was emblazoned with the headline: 'SOUTH WALES BORDERERS OFFICER GOES ON A SWAN TO THE SOUTHERN SUDAN'. The article described, with emphasis on 'relaxation', how I viewed the prospect of a safari around Equatoria. It appeared that the Kaid (commander-in-chief) choked on his corn flakes when he read the story and my own commanding officer was pretty angry as well. All this displeasure about me giving 'off the cuff' interviews with the press filtered through to the adjutant. I was given three 'extra orderly officer duties' for 'giving military information to a person not authorised to receive it'. This was a chastening experience which stayed with me for a long time. It was not until sixteen years later when I became a member of the staff of Army Public Relations that I found the courage to speak freely with the press again.
Khartoum was a very hot place during the summer months and most British expatriates in government service, along with their families, went home on leave. In early November they began to return and the run up to Christmas was a very sociable time. Most of us found girl friends and we were soon engaged in a hectic round of parties and dances held in clubs and the sumptuous houses of their parents. We were getting into our stride and looking forward to many more months of this pleasant routine when orders arrived for the battalion to move to Asmara, the capital of the adjacent ex Italian colony of Eritrea. We spent Christmas 1949 in Khartoum and a few days later Mike Hughes Morgan and I took the advance party to Asmara.
Mike was one of those officers who exuded charm and was, without doubt, the most popular young officer in the battalion. The girls adored him and he managed to keep three of them, including one of the Kaid's daughters, completely love-struck while, at the same time, staying friends with all of them. They, along with the one I was friendly with, came along to Khartoum railway station to see us off. Despite the jokes and smiles, it was a sad occasion because an extremely happy period of our lives was coming to an end. We promised (in the case of Mike - all three) that we would write and see each other again. The green flag waved, steam gushed out of the engine and the train started to move. It was then that I cupped my girl friend's face in my hands and gave her a farewell kiss. All four stood on the platform waving farewell as we gathered speed and headed north along the Blue Nile. I never saw her again, but cursed my luck when I spotted her name in the register of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi six years later. Unfortunately, she had left the day before.
Meanwhile, the adjutant arrived on the platform just in time to see me kiss my girl friend. I was told that his legs left the ground as he vented his fury at seeing me: 'behaving in a manner unbecoming an officer'. It was obvious that the real reason for his anger was his failure to get to the railway station on time. In an ugly mood, he drove back to barracks and summoned all the other young officers to his office. He laid it on pretty thick about the lascivious behaviour he had witnessed and warned them that if there was any more of it, the person concerned would not see the light of day for three months.
A week or so after we arrived in Asmara, we were joined by the motor transport officer who brought some trucks up from Khartoum. He could hardly wait to get out of his vehicle to tell me about the adjutant's fury. I knew this particular seagull very well and that the passage of time would do nothing to mellow his attitude.. I was prepared, therefore, for the rocket I received three weeks later when he arrived in Asmara with the rest of the battalion. My contemporaries were very pleased to have a free week from doing orderly officer duties when they arrived in that pleasant city 8,000 feet up on the Hamasien plateau above the Red Sea.
Shifta (bandits) abounded in Eritrea and there was nothing they liked more than shooting Italians. The South Wales Borderers were responsible for organising convoys and supplying armed escorts to travel with them. Most of these convoy duties lost their appeal after the soldiers had travelled the route a few times, but one duty was always popular and that was the Littorina trip to Massawa on the Red Sea coast about eighty miles from Asmara.
Italians excelled in the construction of mountain railways and the one in the Red Sea hills was certainly a fine example of their skill. The subaltern whose duty it was to control the Asmara/Massawa convoys would supervise the despatch of the road convoy and then the steam train. When they were well on their way, he would embark in the Littorina diesel train and 'roller-coast' down to Massawa where he would relax for two days in the Ciao Hotel. The Ciao, as far as I know, never earned a mention in the Good Food book of Africa, but the beds were comfortable, the fans worked and, best of all, there was a swimming pool which contained fresh water, not the salty stuff that made swimming in the Red Sea distasteful. The following morning, the same procedure of seeing the convoys off on the return trip to Asmara took place. After a final swim in the pool and a drink in the bar, the officer would then board the afternoon Littorina and drive back up the mountains to Asmara.
Rifle company subalterns were the ones who usually did these duties while I, as signals officer, rarely had the opportunity to be involved. Either there was a shortage of subalterns or, perhaps, the adjutant considered I needed a change of scenery, because one day I was detailed to be the convoy/escort commander on the Asmara/Massawa run. I went through the whole routine and had a thoroughly pleasant two day break in Massawa.
I arrived back in Asmara feeling quite refreshed and after I put my kit in my room, I went along to the signals office to see if there was anything that needed my attention. 'Duke' Dyer, my signals sergeant, was there and he told me the only problem had been the signals despatch service which had run late for the last two days. This was the 'mail run' for which my organisation was responsible and it seemed that those infernal motor cycles had broken down again.
As I was walking back to the mess I saw, through an open door, the adjutant sitting at his desk. He called out to me and asked how I had enjoyed my two days in Massawa. I told him it had been good and that I would be delighted to do that job any time he liked. I mentioned I had been to my office and that I was aware that the SDS had been late on both days I had been away. "Yes," said seagull, "It was most annoying." We walked on to the veranda of battalion headquarters and he said: "Stand properly at ease." Thinking that a senior officer was about to appear, I did what I was told, expecting to be called up for the salute. The next command was: "Subaltern, right turn - quick march." Upon his further direction, I found myself marking time in front of Major 'Winky' Benyon, the second-in-command, who was sitting at his desk. "I have a complaint to make against the signals officer, sir," said the adjutant. "Twice in the last two days the signals despatch service has been late." Sunray minor (code name for the second-in-command), narrowed his lids and said: "What have you got to say?" I could hardly believe what I had heard and tried to explain I had been 80 miles away for the last two days and could not possibly be blamed for what had gone wrong with the SDS. The florid cheeks of Sunray minor became redder than usual. "Not to blame?" he thundered. "Don't try and shovel off your responsibilities just because you were not here - I won't have it. Now listen to me young man. You make sure that things run properly whether you are here or not. You will find yourself in serious trouble if it happens again." With that stern rebuke I was ordered to 'dismiss'.
I did not collect any extra orderly officer duties that time. Instead, an hour later in the officers' mess, the adjutant, accompanied by his wife, asked me to have supper with them the following night.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; the 'buck' stops with the officer. It just goes to show you do not always have to be punished to be taught a lesson.
In April 1951, I completed two and a half years service with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I wanted to join the Sudan Defence Force but, even though I was accepted, a vacancy in the near future was unlikely to appear. My commanding officer, Lt Col 'Milo' Campbell-Miles and company commander, Major Ken Taylor, had both served with the King's African Rifles and they advised me to follow their example. My application was acted upon with remarkable speed and within a few weeks I was on my way to Mombasa, in Kenya, aboard the 'EMPIRE KEN'.
I was posted to the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles which was stationed in Nanyuki. The equator ran through the bar in the Silverbeck Hotel, or so the proprietor led his customers to believe. He lost credibility with those who knew him when, a few years later, he moved the bar, along with the brass line marked N and S, a few yards left and ten feet north.
The Silverbeck was one of three good hotels in Nanyuki and within my first week with the KAR I made friends with some local settlers. "What about joining me for a night at Cloud Cottage next Friday?" said one of my new acquaintances. He was one of the white hunters based at the Mawingo Hotel (later renamed Mount Kenya Safari Club). He said he would be most grateful if I would help him look after some tourists who would be spending the night watching game from a tree house in the forest below Mount Kenya. The following Friday was Empire Day - a national holiday, so I accepted.
True to his word, he came round to the officers' mess in his 'pick-up' truck at the appointed time and took me to the Mawingo Hotel for lunch and to meet the rest of the party. At about 3pm we set off in two vehicles. We drove about two miles into the forest where we left the vehicles and walked the last half mile to Cloud Cottage.
Before we started the march, our leader briefed the half dozen or so fee paying members of the group about the abundance of game in the area. He assured them that within the next twelve hours they would see: elephant, rhinoceros and buffalo as well as lots of smaller game. "Of all these animals, the buffalo is the most dangerous and that is why we have footholds in the trees from here to Cloud Cottage," he said. He pointed to the first of these trees which had hefty wooden supports set in its trunk from ground level to twenty feet up in its branches. Suitably impressed, and feeling they were getting their money's worth, the tourists moved from tree to tree until we arrived at Cloud Cottage. As a boy, I had an ambition to build a 'den' in the trees, but it never progressed further than having a few planks placed precariously in the fork of an ash tree in the garden. Cloud Cottage fulfilled my dreams. It was a sturdy log cabin, with a veranda, built thirty feet up in a forest giant complete with everything for an overnight stay.
African servants had gone ahead and were already getting 'steam up'. They greeted us with tea and sandwiches when we climbed the ladder which they let down through a hole in the veranda.
Our leader pointed out the salt lick in the open ground to our front and explained that it was there that the animals would come after dark. We had a few hours to spare before last light so he and I went to have a closer look at the salt lick. I was a new boy to the art of reading tracks of big game, but it was not hard to recognise the spoor of elephant, rhino and buffalo when they were pointed out to me in the mud around the lick.
Mount Kenya forest is as impenetrable as the Malayan jungle and those animals that favour dark regions, in particular, black rhino, have their own runs through the thick tangle of undergrowth. I was being shown one of these, which resembled a smaller version of the London underground system, when one of the Africans gave a shout to warn us that a rhino and its calf were coming down the tunnel. A quick sprint across no-man's-land saved us from what could have been a nasty confrontation.
Nothing much happened before 8pm and then we were treated to an unforgettable spectacle of African wild life. All the large animals were there and an almost continuous procession of elephants passed below us. A high powered lamp illuminated the area and the animals seemed to appreciate the assistance we gave them to lick their delicious salt. Later on in the evening, a full moon broke through the clouds above the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and we sat well into the night watching animals come and go to a background symphony of cicadas and frogs.
At first light the following day, servants were up getting breakfast ready and cleaning the place before we started the return journey to the forest edge, There had been rain overnight and the air was fresh; eggs and bacon never tasted so good. Just in case the tourists had forgotten our leader's words of caution, he reminded them of the procedure to be adopted if an angry buffalo confronted us, and then we marched off.
There was no sign of the vehicles when we arrived at the place where we had left them, so we continued to walk. At last we found them - stuck in mud! Even with the help of the tourists, it was difficult to extricate them but, at last, we got them out and we completed our journey back to the Mawingo Hotel.
After we had off-loaded the passengers, my friend took me back to the officers' mess where I had a shower and changed into khaki drill for a working half day. I knew I was a bit late for morning parade, but it was a Saturday and there was not much going on.
I was putting on my puttees when the orderly officer stuck his head around the door and said: "Buck up, there's a good chap, the adjutant wants to see you." If someone had said that to me in my last unit, I would have feared the worst. But on this occasion the impending storm did not reveal itself until I arrived at the adjutant's office and knocked on his door.
"You've been absent without leave. I want an explanation," he said icily. At first I thought he meant I was late for morning parade so I explained I had been stuck in the mud in the forest. "What were you doing up there?" he snorted as if he thought I had been visiting a brothel. I told him I had been doing nothing more illicit than watching animals licking salt and, furthermore, on a public holiday.
Seagull had a book on his desk. He opened it, inspected the pages and said: "There's no application by you to stay a night in the forest." This was another of those occasions when I just stood still and said nothing. "Three extra orderly officer duties and make sure you obey the rules in future," he said.
Eighteen months after joining the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles I was appointed adjutant, but only after the incumbent was murdered by one of our askaris when we were serving in Malaya. If ever there was a case of stepping into a dead man's shoes, that was it. Eight years later, I was appointed adjutant again - to a territorial battalion of my regiment. So, I have had plenty of time to set guidelines for a new breed of 'seagull'.
It was my fond and pious belief that I became a friend to all and sundry until just after I retired, when I attended a comrades' dinner. One of my hosts was a retired non-commissioned officer who chatted with me about old times. He seemed to know me very well, but try as hard as I could, I was unable to remember his name. "Which company were you with?" I asked. A look of astonishment crossed his face: "Why, yours of course. HQ Company of the Borderers, in Cyprus" He went on: "Surely you remember the day when you came around the lines on inspection and put me on a charge for having a dirty bed space. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live," he said. "We were more frightened of you than we were of the adjutant."
'A seagull (code name for adjutant) is a bird that seeks the company of others of its kind, but it is quite likely to attack them with its beak or flail them with its wings. It is always in immaculate condition despite the grotty areas it inhabits. Its rasping cries are heard first thing in the morning, throughout the day and well into the night. Its eyesight and hearing are pin-sharp and it is aware of everything that goes on around it’. Possessed of an ability to propel its waste matter with unerring accuracy at a recipient of its choice, the code name 'seagull' is, without doubt, most appropriate for adjutants world wide.
When I was a young officer, I could never understand why adjutants changed their personalities when they were appointed to that particular office. Before their appointment they were nice ordinary fellows, and they reverted to their natural state when they moved on or sideways. It was the bit in the middle, when they became so bloodthirsty, that intrigued me.
As an officer cadet, I was led to believe that on being commissioned into an infantry regiment I would be joining a good club. What a rude awakening I received when, as a newly pipped second lieutenant, I was gripped hard not only by the adjutant of my unit, but the senior subaltern and the regimental sergeant major as well.
The first time I felt the sharp prick of the adjutant's fangs was when he came into the local hostelry one evening and saw me standing at the bar with one button of my service dress undone. He said nothing at the time but I had to take his word for it when I appeared before him the following morning. Civilians must think that we soldiers are a strange lot when an unfastened button can cause such a head of steam! For that offence I was awarded three extra orderly officer duties.
The award of 'three extras' was the cue for some hearty back-slapping from one's contemporaries who would be delighted to hear that someone else would be inspecting meals, mounting the guard and checking that sentries were doing their job properly in the early hours of the morning. I have known some officers, totally lacking in charm, suddenly become the most popular fellows in the mess after an award of 'seven extras'.
Eighteen months of pounding barrack squares as a private soldier and an officer cadet had obviously not brought me and the other young subalterns up to the standard required by the adjutant at Dering Lines, Brecon in 1946. We were therefore ordered to parade before that particular 'seagull' and the RSM twice a week at 07.30 hrs until further notice.
We had already received some instruction at OCTU (officer cadet training unit) in the difficult movements associated with carrying a cane on parade, but we did not measure up to seagull's requirement and were told to bring our canes with us on the next parade.
One of our number was a subaltern called Rex Farrow. Rex found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and was never properly effective until after his mid morning break. Someone always had to make sure he was on his feet with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap and a razor in the other.
Rex had been seen in the dining room but when the time came for us to assemble on the side of the square, there was no sign of him. It was too far for one of us to run back to the mess and, anyway, time was up as the adjutant and the RSM were nodding their heads as they checked their watches. With only seconds to spare, Rex came panting around the corner: "Got held up in the bog," he said as he joined us. His relief at making it on time vanished when he saw that the rest of us were carrying canes. He was almost on the point of volunteering for 'seven extras' when one of the subalterns spied a length of hollow copper pipe which some workmen had been using. He thrust it into Rex's hand and said: "Use this, it's about the same length as your cane - but for God's sake don't drop it."
Almost immediately, we were called on parade and the complicated business of twiddling our canes commenced. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped his appendage and that person turned out to be Rex Farrow. It was during that particularly difficult manoeuvre when the cane, in the perpendicular position, is brought to the horizontal when you step off. The piece of copper pipe shot out of his hand like a spear and then clattered about twenty feet across the barrack square. The adjutant screamed a command to halt and both he and the RSM marched across to where the strange object lay. The RSM prodded it with his pace stick, and it clanged again. It was not hard for the adjutant to find out what it was and where it had come from. Rex was twitching his thumbs nervously as the adjutant asked him for an explanation. He tried to explain he had left his cane in the 'bog', but this did him no good and he was thereupon awarded 'seven extras' for being idle and disrespectful.
The parade ground adjacent to South Barracks in Khartoum must be the largest in the world. With your back to the perimeter wall it extends from the Blue Nile north, east and west for hundreds of miles. The surface was crunchy gravel and all that was required to give the surface a 'Horse Guards' look was the application of whitewash lines and some spots for the markers. Twice a month Regimental Sergeant Major 'Joe' Friend would hold his parade for everyone of and under the rank of warrant officer class two. There would also be an adjutant's parade for everyone junior to the adjutant and, to complete the trio, the commanding officer would hold his parade, when everyone in the battalion was required to turn out.
These parades started just after first light and one of my enduring memories of Khartoum is the early morning sun glinting on the bayonets of hundreds of Welsh soldiers formed up in open order of companies. Parades started at such an early hour to make use of what remained of the cool night breeze; once the sun came up it was like opening an oven door.
With the sun came flies. These obnoxious insects, not to be confused with their comparatively friendly North European cousins, were early risers. Anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves shaving before going on parade, and then forced to stand immobile during the inspection, would be subjected to a mind cracking form of torture as the little monsters would pile in like a rugby scrum on the area of skinned flesh.
An enormous amount of effort was expended by soldiers the night before to make sure their turn-out was perfect. Fortunately, the officers had batmen to prepare their kit; all they had to do was ensure they put their puttees on properly.
Half an hour after we had fallen out from the adjutant's first parade in Khartoum, the orderly room runner came to my office and told me that the adjutant wanted to see me. This sounded ominous and I wondered what had gone wrong as I made my way to his office. I knocked on his door and heard his call to enter. Four full paces, halt and a smart salute brought me face to face with him. "Why were you improperly dressed on my parade this morning?" he barked. I did a mental check of everything I was wearing and could find nothing wrong. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied. "I do not understand." Seagull paused for a second or two and then said: "You were not wearing your medal." I looked at him incredulously and spluttered: " But I've only got one." "That's correct," he replied, "and you were not wearing it." I was one of those young conscripts who joined the Army in December 1944 - five months before the end of the war in Europe; the 'Victory' medal I was awarded occupied a fluffy corner of my kit bag. Many members of the battalion had been in the thick of action and this was evident on occasions such as adjutant's parades when the desert groaned under the weight of medals won in service to king and country. "I can't wear just one, sir," I protested, but it was no good. "If you appear improperly dressed on one of my parades again, you'll get five extra orderly officer duties," snapped seagull. "This time you are awarded three 'extras'. Now, get out."
The five 'extras' were not long in coming, but I received them for a quite unrelated incident. The second-in-command, Major 'Ski' Galletley, had spent the last two years of the war as a brigadier. He was the most be-medalled person in the battalion and the junior officers had the impression he had won the war single handed. He was a fiery gentleman and we all treated him with respect.
It was, therefore, with dismay that I received a note from the adjutant ordering me, as a member of an audit board, to report to the second-in-command at the sergeants' mess the following Monday morning at 08.00hrs to check the bar stock. One advantage about being signals officer was that I had my own transport in the form of two motor cycles. I did not make my move to the sergeants' mess until 07.50, which allowed me plenty of time to get to the other end of the barracks. I straddled one of the machines, slipped the gears into neutral, primed the carburettor and lunged at the kick start. There was no response from the engine at the first attempt, nor was there from the next half dozen. Fortunately, the other machine was nearby so I went through the same procedure, but to no avail. Both machines made it quite clear they were not prepared to carry me to the sergeants' mess. I looked at my watch and saw I had about six minutes to get to the other end of the barracks. Salvation came in the form of one of my signallers on a bicycle. Without bothering to explain, I requisitioned his machine and pedaled for my life. I skidded into some spiky bushes outside the entrance to the sergeants' mess and hurled myself through the door. Standing beneath the clock above the bar was the second-in-command. "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered. "You're five minutes late." Sure enough the clock above the bar registered five minutes past eight o'clock, but I sneaked a look at my own watch and saw that the time was exactly 08.00hrs. I was not brave enough to point out the discrepancy between the two timepieces, even though I was the officer responsible for keeping accurate time in the battalion. I merely muttered: "I'm sorry, sir," before I started to count the bottles and cans which had been put out for me to check.
An hour later, I picked up the bicycle, straightened the handle bars and rode back to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the correct time with the main signals exchange in Khartoum. There was no doubt about it, my watch showed the correct time.
I was pretty sure the second-in-command would put in a report about my 'late arrival' and I was not surprised when I received a call from the orderly room to report to the adjutant. This time I walked with a spring in my step to battalion headquarters and confidently saluted the adjutant when I appeared before him. "Why were you five minutes late reporting to the second-in-command this morning?" he said. "I wish to say that I was not late, sir. If you would care to check with the telephone exchange you will find that the sergeants' mess clock is five minutes fast," I replied. This was my trump card and I reckoned it would not be long before the second-in-command would tender his apologies. Perhaps he would buy me a drink in the mess and say: "Really, old chap - no hard feelings." The adjutant continued to stare at me and I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly he exploded: "I know that the clock in the sergeants' mess is five minutes fast. You should have been there five minutes early - at 07.55. I ask you once again, why were you late?" There was no answer to that, so I said nothing. "Five extra orderly officer duties," said the predatory bird.
This episode did not seem to have any long term effect upon the good relations I had among the higher echelons of command because a few weeks later the commanding officer asked me if I would like go on attachment to the Equatoria Corps of the Sudan Defence Force. It seemed that an officer of the regiment commanded the corps in the Southern Sudan and he had made an offer to host four subalterns. Mike Hughes-Morgan was my companion and we were told to prepare ourselves for a flight to Juba in seven days time.
The day before Mike and I departed, I went for a drink in the Grand Hotel in Khartoum and there met a fellow with whom I had a few cold beers. In those days the 'Grand' was one of the great meeting places in Africa. Empire flying boats of British Overseas Airways Corporation would land conveniently at 'sundowner' time on the White Nile and picturesque paddle-wheel steamers from Atbara would off-load their passengers just a few yards from the entrance to the hotel. The ghosts of General Gordon and the Mahdi seemed to stalk the tree-lined avenues and one could imagine the sight and sounds of distant battle. Looking over the water where the Blue and White Niles meet, I told my companion about the trip I was making on the morrow to the south. "What's it all about and why are they sending you all the way down there?" he asked "It's a 'swan' really," I replied, "and a good opportunity to get away from the heat of this place for a while." We chatted for some time and had a few more drinks before I caught a cab back to South Barracks.
Mike and I made an early start the next day and before the sun was high in the sky we were winging our way south in a de Havilland 'Dove' of Sudan Airways. This is not the time to describe all the fascinating experiences we had in that beautiful part of Africa which lies between the upper reaches of the White Nile, Lake Turkana in North Kenya and the southern foothills of the Ethiopian highlands. It was a big milestone in my life which eventually led me to join the King's African Rifles.
Time passed all too quickly and soon we were on our way back to Khartoum. Arriving at the airport, we were met by the orderly officer who gleefully told me that the adjutant wanted to see me as soon as I arrived in barracks. "What's gone wrong?" I asked him. "I don't know, but he looked angrier than usual."
I went to my quarters, had a shower and put on some clean khaki drill before reporting to the adjutant. Pleasantries about the trip were soon completed and then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a newspaper. "What have you got to say about this?" he said, holding up the broadsheet for me to read. I could see it was a copy of the Sudan's only English language newspaper - 'The Sudan Star' whose front page was emblazoned with the headline: 'SOUTH WALES BORDERERS OFFICER GOES ON A SWAN TO THE SOUTHERN SUDAN'. The article described, with emphasis on 'relaxation', how I viewed the prospect of a safari around Equatoria. It appeared that the Kaid (commander-in-chief) choked on his corn flakes when he read the story and my own commanding officer was pretty angry as well. All this displeasure about me giving 'off the cuff' interviews with the press filtered through to the adjutant. I was given three 'extra orderly officer duties' for 'giving military information to a person not authorised to receive it'. This was a chastening experience which stayed with me for a long time. It was not until sixteen years later when I became a member of the staff of Army Public Relations that I found the courage to speak freely with the press again.
Khartoum was a very hot place during the summer months and most British expatriates in government service, along with their families, went home on leave. In early November they began to return and the run up to Christmas was a very sociable time. Most of us found girl friends and we were soon engaged in a hectic round of parties and dances held in clubs and the sumptuous houses of their parents. We were getting into our stride and looking forward to many more months of this pleasant routine when orders arrived for the battalion to move to Asmara, the capital of the adjacent ex Italian colony of Eritrea. We spent Christmas 1949 in Khartoum and a few days later Mike Hughes Morgan and I took the advance party to Asmara.
Mike was one of those officers who exuded charm and was, without doubt, the most popular young officer in the battalion. The girls adored him and he managed to keep three of them, including one of the Kaid's daughters, completely love-struck while, at the same time, staying friends with all of them. They, along with the one I was friendly with, came along to Khartoum railway station to see us off. Despite the jokes and smiles, it was a sad occasion because an extremely happy period of our lives was coming to an end. We promised (in the case of Mike - all three) that we would write and see each other again. The green flag waved, steam gushed out of the engine and the train started to move. It was then that I cupped my girl friend's face in my hands and gave her a farewell kiss. All four stood on the platform waving farewell as we gathered speed and headed north along the Blue Nile. I never saw her again, but cursed my luck when I spotted her name in the register of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi six years later. Unfortunately, she had left the day before.
Meanwhile, the adjutant arrived on the platform just in time to see me kiss my girl friend. I was told that his legs left the ground as he vented his fury at seeing me: 'behaving in a manner unbecoming an officer'. It was obvious that the real reason for his anger was his failure to get to the railway station on time. In an ugly mood, he drove back to barracks and summoned all the other young officers to his office. He laid it on pretty thick about the lascivious behaviour he had witnessed and warned them that if there was any more of it, the person concerned would not see the light of day for three months.
A week or so after we arrived in Asmara, we were joined by the motor transport officer who brought some trucks up from Khartoum. He could hardly wait to get out of his vehicle to tell me about the adjutant's fury. I knew this particular seagull very well and that the passage of time would do nothing to mellow his attitude.. I was prepared, therefore, for the rocket I received three weeks later when he arrived in Asmara with the rest of the battalion. My contemporaries were very pleased to have a free week from doing orderly officer duties when they arrived in that pleasant city 8,000 feet up on the Hamasien plateau above the Red Sea.
Shifta (bandits) abounded in Eritrea and there was nothing they liked more than shooting Italians. The South Wales Borderers were responsible for organising convoys and supplying armed escorts to travel with them. Most of these convoy duties lost their appeal after the soldiers had travelled the route a few times, but one duty was always popular and that was the Littorina trip to Massawa on the Red Sea coast about eighty miles from Asmara.
Italians excelled in the construction of mountain railways and the one in the Red Sea hills was certainly a fine example of their skill. The subaltern whose duty it was to control the Asmara/Massawa convoys would supervise the despatch of the road convoy and then the steam train. When they were well on their way, he would embark in the Littorina diesel train and 'roller-coast' down to Massawa where he would relax for two days in the Ciao Hotel. The Ciao, as far as I know, never earned a mention in the Good Food book of Africa, but the beds were comfortable, the fans worked and, best of all, there was a swimming pool which contained fresh water, not the salty stuff that made swimming in the Red Sea distasteful. The following morning, the same procedure of seeing the convoys off on the return trip to Asmara took place. After a final swim in the pool and a drink in the bar, the officer would then board the afternoon Littorina and drive back up the mountains to Asmara.
Rifle company subalterns were the ones who usually did these duties while I, as signals officer, rarely had the opportunity to be involved. Either there was a shortage of subalterns or, perhaps, the adjutant considered I needed a change of scenery, because one day I was detailed to be the convoy/escort commander on the Asmara/Massawa run. I went through the whole routine and had a thoroughly pleasant two day break in Massawa.
I arrived back in Asmara feeling quite refreshed and after I put my kit in my room, I went along to the signals office to see if there was anything that needed my attention. 'Duke' Dyer, my signals sergeant, was there and he told me the only problem had been the signals despatch service which had run late for the last two days. This was the 'mail run' for which my organisation was responsible and it seemed that those infernal motor cycles had broken down again.
As I was walking back to the mess I saw, through an open door, the adjutant sitting at his desk. He called out to me and asked how I had enjoyed my two days in Massawa. I told him it had been good and that I would be delighted to do that job any time he liked. I mentioned I had been to my office and that I was aware that the SDS had been late on both days I had been away. "Yes," said seagull, "It was most annoying." We walked on to the veranda of battalion headquarters and he said: "Stand properly at ease." Thinking that a senior officer was about to appear, I did what I was told, expecting to be called up for the salute. The next command was: "Subaltern, right turn - quick march." Upon his further direction, I found myself marking time in front of Major 'Winky' Benyon, the second-in-command, who was sitting at his desk. "I have a complaint to make against the signals officer, sir," said the adjutant. "Twice in the last two days the signals despatch service has been late." Sunray minor (code name for the second-in-command), narrowed his lids and said: "What have you got to say?" I could hardly believe what I had heard and tried to explain I had been 80 miles away for the last two days and could not possibly be blamed for what had gone wrong with the SDS. The florid cheeks of Sunray minor became redder than usual. "Not to blame?" he thundered. "Don't try and shovel off your responsibilities just because you were not here - I won't have it. Now listen to me young man. You make sure that things run properly whether you are here or not. You will find yourself in serious trouble if it happens again." With that stern rebuke I was ordered to 'dismiss'.
I did not collect any extra orderly officer duties that time. Instead, an hour later in the officers' mess, the adjutant, accompanied by his wife, asked me to have supper with them the following night.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; the 'buck' stops with the officer. It just goes to show you do not always have to be punished to be taught a lesson.
In April 1951, I completed two and a half years service with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I wanted to join the Sudan Defence Force but, even though I was accepted, a vacancy in the near future was unlikely to appear. My commanding officer, Lt Col 'Milo' Campbell-Miles and company commander, Major Ken Taylor, had both served with the King's African Rifles and they advised me to follow their example. My application was acted upon with remarkable speed and within a few weeks I was on my way to Mombasa, in Kenya, aboard the 'EMPIRE KEN'.
I was posted to the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles which was stationed in Nanyuki. The equator ran through the bar in the Silverbeck Hotel, or so the proprietor led his customers to believe. He lost credibility with those who knew him when, a few years later, he moved the bar, along with the brass line marked N and S, a few yards left and ten feet north.
The Silverbeck was one of three good hotels in Nanyuki and within my first week with the KAR I made friends with some local settlers. "What about joining me for a night at Cloud Cottage next Friday?" said one of my new acquaintances. He was one of the white hunters based at the Mawingo Hotel (later renamed Mount Kenya Safari Club). He said he would be most grateful if I would help him look after some tourists who would be spending the night watching game from a tree house in the forest below Mount Kenya. The following Friday was Empire Day - a national holiday, so I accepted.
True to his word, he came round to the officers' mess in his 'pick-up' truck at the appointed time and took me to the Mawingo Hotel for lunch and to meet the rest of the party. At about 3pm we set off in two vehicles. We drove about two miles into the forest where we left the vehicles and walked the last half mile to Cloud Cottage.
Before we started the march, our leader briefed the half dozen or so fee paying members of the group about the abundance of game in the area. He assured them that within the next twelve hours they would see: elephant, rhinoceros and buffalo as well as lots of smaller game. "Of all these animals, the buffalo is the most dangerous and that is why we have footholds in the trees from here to Cloud Cottage," he said. He pointed to the first of these trees which had hefty wooden supports set in its trunk from ground level to twenty feet up in its branches. Suitably impressed, and feeling they were getting their money's worth, the tourists moved from tree to tree until we arrived at Cloud Cottage. As a boy, I had an ambition to build a 'den' in the trees, but it never progressed further than having a few planks placed precariously in the fork of an ash tree in the garden. Cloud Cottage fulfilled my dreams. It was a sturdy log cabin, with a veranda, built thirty feet up in a forest giant complete with everything for an overnight stay.
African servants had gone ahead and were already getting 'steam up'. They greeted us with tea and sandwiches when we climbed the ladder which they let down through a hole in the veranda.
Our leader pointed out the salt lick in the open ground to our front and explained that it was there that the animals would come after dark. We had a few hours to spare before last light so he and I went to have a closer look at the salt lick. I was a new boy to the art of reading tracks of big game, but it was not hard to recognise the spoor of elephant, rhino and buffalo when they were pointed out to me in the mud around the lick.
Mount Kenya forest is as impenetrable as the Malayan jungle and those animals that favour dark regions, in particular, black rhino, have their own runs through the thick tangle of undergrowth. I was being shown one of these, which resembled a smaller version of the London underground system, when one of the Africans gave a shout to warn us that a rhino and its calf were coming down the tunnel. A quick sprint across no-man's-land saved us from what could have been a nasty confrontation.
Nothing much happened before 8pm and then we were treated to an unforgettable spectacle of African wild life. All the large animals were there and an almost continuous procession of elephants passed below us. A high powered lamp illuminated the area and the animals seemed to appreciate the assistance we gave them to lick their delicious salt. Later on in the evening, a full moon broke through the clouds above the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and we sat well into the night watching animals come and go to a background symphony of cicadas and frogs.
At first light the following day, servants were up getting breakfast ready and cleaning the place before we started the return journey to the forest edge, There had been rain overnight and the air was fresh; eggs and bacon never tasted so good. Just in case the tourists had forgotten our leader's words of caution, he reminded them of the procedure to be adopted if an angry buffalo confronted us, and then we marched off.
There was no sign of the vehicles when we arrived at the place where we had left them, so we continued to walk. At last we found them - stuck in mud! Even with the help of the tourists, it was difficult to extricate them but, at last, we got them out and we completed our journey back to the Mawingo Hotel.
After we had off-loaded the passengers, my friend took me back to the officers' mess where I had a shower and changed into khaki drill for a working half day. I knew I was a bit late for morning parade, but it was a Saturday and there was not much going on.
I was putting on my puttees when the orderly officer stuck his head around the door and said: "Buck up, there's a good chap, the adjutant wants to see you." If someone had said that to me in my last unit, I would have feared the worst. But on this occasion the impending storm did not reveal itself until I arrived at the adjutant's office and knocked on his door.
"You've been absent without leave. I want an explanation," he said icily. At first I thought he meant I was late for morning parade so I explained I had been stuck in the mud in the forest. "What were you doing up there?" he snorted as if he thought I had been visiting a brothel. I told him I had been doing nothing more illicit than watching animals licking salt and, furthermore, on a public holiday.
Seagull had a book on his desk. He opened it, inspected the pages and said: "There's no application by you to stay a night in the forest." This was another of those occasions when I just stood still and said nothing. "Three extra orderly officer duties and make sure you obey the rules in future," he said.
Eighteen months after joining the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles I was appointed adjutant, but only after the incumbent was murdered by one of our askaris when we were serving in Malaya. If ever there was a case of stepping into a dead man's shoes, that was it. Eight years later, I was appointed adjutant again - to a territorial battalion of my regiment. So, I have had plenty of time to set guidelines for a new breed of 'seagull'.
It was my fond and pious belief that I became a friend to all and sundry until just after I retired, when I attended a comrades' dinner. One of my hosts was a retired non-commissioned officer who chatted with me about old times. He seemed to know me very well, but try as hard as I could, I was unable to remember his name. "Which company were you with?" I asked. A look of astonishment crossed his face: "Why, yours of course. HQ Company of the Borderers, in Cyprus" He went on: "Surely you remember the day when you came around the lines on inspection and put me on a charge for having a dirty bed space. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live," he said. "We were more frightened of you than we were of the adjutant."
The Silent One
The path of this story has many twists and turns. It starts in Cyprus then jumps thousands of miles to a Dunlop rubber estate in Malaya. From there, four years later, it continues in London - then the pieces come together in Belfast. Officers and one regimental wife of the South Wales Borderers provide the thread for this tapestry but, essentially, the story is about a tiger - Nepti, the silent one.
I first met Frank Morgan when he was a member of the camp staff for illegal Jewish immigrants in Cyprus in 1948. He used to drive Nick Somerville, the adjutant, crazy because he grew his hair so long that it fell over his collar. Not being on the strength of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, even though he wore the uniform of that regiment, there was not much Nick could do about it.
Frank was a short service officer and when the Jews were allowed to go to Palestine in February 1949, he and the other officers of camp staff were posted elsewhere to complete their service.
Four years later, I was in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and found I was staying in the same hotel in Kuala Lumpur as Frank. In the few days we were together he showed me sights in the Malayan capital that I may not otherwise have seen. When we parted, he invited me to visit him on the rubber estate where he worked., not far from where 3/KAR was based.
A few months later, I accepted his offer and travelled the 60 or so miles from Triang in Pahang to Bahau in Negri Sembilan where the Ladang Geddes rubber estate was located. Frank met me at the railway station and took me to his bungalow where I met another fellow who had been with him in Cyprus - John Milward of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. John, a wild party-loving fellow, was none too popular with Nick Somerville either, but as he wore the 'black flash' of the 23rd Regiment, he was even further removed from the adjutant's jurisdiction.
I spent three days with my old friends and wondered if I had made the right decision to stay in the Army as a regular officer. They seemed to have a very good lifestyle, even though rubber planters were number one targets for communist terrorists.
My commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read of the South Wales Borderers, asked me to call on the 7th Gurkha Rifles and pay his respects. Their camp was quite near the railway station, so I checked in at the guard post and made my way to the adjutant's tent. As I stooped down to enter, I felt a gentle but determined grasp on my right ankle, which brought me to a halt. I was in a strange position, bent almost double, legs wide apart and attempting to salute.
"Get off, Nepti," shouted the Adjutant as he reached for his cane and came towards me. I looked backwards and to my amazement saw a tiger cub doing its best to drag me out of the tent. The Adjutant gave her a crack over her rump and she ran for cover. He explained that Nepti had been found in the jungle alongside her dead mother by a patrol from No. 4 Platoon of 'B' Company. The patrol brought her back to Bahau and gave the cub to the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate, whose youngest daughter, Jane, had taken a fancy to her. Jane's father and mother soon found that a six week old tiger cub was, even at that age, too boisterous for their young daughter, so it was sent back to 7/GURKHA. Jane's elder sister, Merilyn, was at school in Malacca. When she came home from time to time she and Jane used to visit Nepti in the Gurkha lines.
I duly paid my Colonel’s respects to the Commanding Officer and then it was time to catch the train back to Triang. The last I saw of Nepti, as a cub, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from a fold in the adjutant's tent wall.
In 1956, I spent two weeks leave in London. One day, a friend and I visited the 'big cats'' house in Regent's Park Zoo. To my surprise, I saw a large metal plate on one of the cages which read:
'NEPTI - PANTHERA TIGRIS (TIGER)
PRESENTED BY
7TH GURKHA RIFLES
18TH AUGUST 1952
My friend wondered what had happened when I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. She then thought I had taken leave of my senses when I told her that four years previously the tiger she saw in front of her had held my leg in her jaws. Never the one to lose an opportunity to draw a crowd, I became quite a celebrity among fellow visitors as I related my story. My friend, who knew me quite well then - but very well now after nearly 50 years of married life, said: "OK, that's enough, let's see if you have any more friends in the reptile house."
In 1973, the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales was engaged on an 18 months tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I was invited by the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col Robin Godwin-Austen, an old South Wales Borderer, to pay them a visit.
During an enjoyable five day stay, Robin and Kate, his wife, held a dinner party at their home in Palace Barracks, Belfast, to which I was invited. I found myself sitting next to Merilyn Hywel-Jones, the wife of Major (later Lieut Col) Ian Hywel-Jones, another old South Wales Borderer. During dinner she told me that her father had been the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate in Malaya. When she mentioned two wild planters called Morgan and Milward, I knew I was treading familiar ground and was not surprised when she switched to her sister Jane and a tiger cub.
Merilyn contributed a few more details about Nepti. She told me how sad she and Jane had been when the family came home in 1953 and saw Nepti in London Zoo. By this time she was almost fully grown and quite unrecognisable from the cub they had known only a year before. When Jane and her young brother were asked, in fun, by the keeper if they would like to go inside the cage, they fled in terror! Jane is now a journalist and lives in Denmark. She does not remember much about the real Nepti, but she has a small, worn, stuffed toy tiger called Nepti which she keeps at home.
Nepti did not have much of a say in the pattern of her life. After the death of her mother, she spent some happy days with the Gurkhas and at Ladang Geddes estate, but then it was steel bars and concrete for the rest of her life. She died of a ruptured liver on the 8th April 1959 when she was eight years old.
I first met Frank Morgan when he was a member of the camp staff for illegal Jewish immigrants in Cyprus in 1948. He used to drive Nick Somerville, the adjutant, crazy because he grew his hair so long that it fell over his collar. Not being on the strength of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, even though he wore the uniform of that regiment, there was not much Nick could do about it.
Frank was a short service officer and when the Jews were allowed to go to Palestine in February 1949, he and the other officers of camp staff were posted elsewhere to complete their service.
Four years later, I was in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and found I was staying in the same hotel in Kuala Lumpur as Frank. In the few days we were together he showed me sights in the Malayan capital that I may not otherwise have seen. When we parted, he invited me to visit him on the rubber estate where he worked., not far from where 3/KAR was based.
A few months later, I accepted his offer and travelled the 60 or so miles from Triang in Pahang to Bahau in Negri Sembilan where the Ladang Geddes rubber estate was located. Frank met me at the railway station and took me to his bungalow where I met another fellow who had been with him in Cyprus - John Milward of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. John, a wild party-loving fellow, was none too popular with Nick Somerville either, but as he wore the 'black flash' of the 23rd Regiment, he was even further removed from the adjutant's jurisdiction.
I spent three days with my old friends and wondered if I had made the right decision to stay in the Army as a regular officer. They seemed to have a very good lifestyle, even though rubber planters were number one targets for communist terrorists.
My commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read of the South Wales Borderers, asked me to call on the 7th Gurkha Rifles and pay his respects. Their camp was quite near the railway station, so I checked in at the guard post and made my way to the adjutant's tent. As I stooped down to enter, I felt a gentle but determined grasp on my right ankle, which brought me to a halt. I was in a strange position, bent almost double, legs wide apart and attempting to salute.
"Get off, Nepti," shouted the Adjutant as he reached for his cane and came towards me. I looked backwards and to my amazement saw a tiger cub doing its best to drag me out of the tent. The Adjutant gave her a crack over her rump and she ran for cover. He explained that Nepti had been found in the jungle alongside her dead mother by a patrol from No. 4 Platoon of 'B' Company. The patrol brought her back to Bahau and gave the cub to the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate, whose youngest daughter, Jane, had taken a fancy to her. Jane's father and mother soon found that a six week old tiger cub was, even at that age, too boisterous for their young daughter, so it was sent back to 7/GURKHA. Jane's elder sister, Merilyn, was at school in Malacca. When she came home from time to time she and Jane used to visit Nepti in the Gurkha lines.
I duly paid my Colonel’s respects to the Commanding Officer and then it was time to catch the train back to Triang. The last I saw of Nepti, as a cub, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from a fold in the adjutant's tent wall.
In 1956, I spent two weeks leave in London. One day, a friend and I visited the 'big cats'' house in Regent's Park Zoo. To my surprise, I saw a large metal plate on one of the cages which read:
'NEPTI - PANTHERA TIGRIS (TIGER)
PRESENTED BY
7TH GURKHA RIFLES
18TH AUGUST 1952
My friend wondered what had happened when I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. She then thought I had taken leave of my senses when I told her that four years previously the tiger she saw in front of her had held my leg in her jaws. Never the one to lose an opportunity to draw a crowd, I became quite a celebrity among fellow visitors as I related my story. My friend, who knew me quite well then - but very well now after nearly 50 years of married life, said: "OK, that's enough, let's see if you have any more friends in the reptile house."
In 1973, the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales was engaged on an 18 months tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I was invited by the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col Robin Godwin-Austen, an old South Wales Borderer, to pay them a visit.
During an enjoyable five day stay, Robin and Kate, his wife, held a dinner party at their home in Palace Barracks, Belfast, to which I was invited. I found myself sitting next to Merilyn Hywel-Jones, the wife of Major (later Lieut Col) Ian Hywel-Jones, another old South Wales Borderer. During dinner she told me that her father had been the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate in Malaya. When she mentioned two wild planters called Morgan and Milward, I knew I was treading familiar ground and was not surprised when she switched to her sister Jane and a tiger cub.
Merilyn contributed a few more details about Nepti. She told me how sad she and Jane had been when the family came home in 1953 and saw Nepti in London Zoo. By this time she was almost fully grown and quite unrecognisable from the cub they had known only a year before. When Jane and her young brother were asked, in fun, by the keeper if they would like to go inside the cage, they fled in terror! Jane is now a journalist and lives in Denmark. She does not remember much about the real Nepti, but she has a small, worn, stuffed toy tiger called Nepti which she keeps at home.
Nepti did not have much of a say in the pattern of her life. After the death of her mother, she spent some happy days with the Gurkhas and at Ladang Geddes estate, but then it was steel bars and concrete for the rest of her life. She died of a ruptured liver on the 8th April 1959 when she was eight years old.
The Saga of Sadie Slagheap
The small town of Blaenglyncoch, in one of the Eastern valleys of South Wales, nestles among grim and forbidding slag heaps, lightly grassed over these days but still impeding those who yearn for green valleys and rivers full of trout. The character of the people who live there conflicts with the environment in which they live. They are friendly, warm human beings compacted into a rugby playing, music loving, chapel attending community by the very slag heaps which dominate them.
Blaenglyncoch and district has been, for generations, a strong source of recruits for the infantry regiments of Wales. It was, therefore, an obvious place to be chosen by my Regiment as one of the towns to be visited during its annual recruiting drive.
I was responsible for arranging these publicity ventures and when I made my overture to the local recreation and amenities officer I was delighted with the response I received.
"We would be honoured indeed," said Mr Dafydd Price, "and I know I speak for the Mayor as well, to have you visit our borough." He showed me the rugby pitch where we would be allowed to set up our displays; what greater honour could they bestow? There stood the white posts standing sentinel over the hallowed turf - taking a respite from the rucks and wheelings, lineouts and scrums that made men out of boys in Blaenglyncoch. The entrances and exits were wide enough for our vehicles and there was even a public convenience - a tidy place indeed.
The appointed day arrived, a lovely bright Wednesday in July, and I joined the officer in charge of the touring team, plus three of his subalterns from the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, for drinks in the Mayor’s parlour.
Councillor Gwilym Rees, the Borough Mayor, was a vigorous young man in his early forties. He had climbed to the senior position in the council with a burning crusade for social reform and an ability to bulldoze opposition. His sherry was good and we soon got to know each other quite well. He was interested in the affairs of the Regiment and he thought it would be a good idea to bring back national service. "Discipline is what we want in this country," he proclaimed. We spent two hours in his company and were entertained to luncheon in a country club - once the home of a coal baron.
The evening performance of the touring team was the big event of the day. It started with an open-air concert given by the Regimental Band and Corps of Drums. This was followed by a demonstration of weapons and equipment and then came the mock battle, with plenty of noise - which delighted the children but was not altogether appreciated by the residents of an old people’s home close to the field. The finalé was the marching display, Beating Retreat and lowering of the flag. The salute at the 'march past' was taken by the Mayor, in all his finery.
The crowd clapped and the Mayor beamed as the musicians and soldiers, led by Taffy, the regimental goat, marched off to the strains of: 'God Bless the Prince of Wales'.
"An excellent show indeed," he said, impressed with our military hardware and colourful regalia. He and the others in his party now looked forward to the final part of the programme which was a drinks party in the marquee erected near one of the goal posts.
Councillors and their wives were escorted by a trio of subalterns and it was not long before everyone had a glass in their hands. Conversation flowed easily and we found that some of our guests were old soldiers of the Regiment. One old lady had seen her grandson taking part in the mock battle and was as pleased as Punch.
I was keeping a general eye on things when I saw an old woman enter the tent and sit down on a small table. All the other ladies were either Councillors in their own right or wives of Senior Executives and Councillors. They were all well dressed and some were wearing medallions and chains signifying their position in the council hierarchy. The old woman sitting on the table was not 'dressed' by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair, some of which was sticking out from the side of a dirty brown beret, was grey and ragged. She had no teeth, at least I presumed this was the case as when she spoke her nose practically touched her chin. An old blue coat covered whatever she had on underneath, while badly scuffed shoes with worn heels completed her attire. My nerve ends tingled when I asked her if she was a member of the Mayor's party. "Yes," she snapped, "and I'm thirsty, get me a glass of whisky."
The Mayor was in top form. He had enjoyed the day so far and he could see there was plenty of whisky on the dispensing table. He came over to me and said: "We have witnessed today -----." He stopped in mid sentence with his mouth open. A glance along his line of sight showed that his attention was focused on the toothless old woman staring aggressively at him over the top of her glass. When he recovered his ability to speak, he said: "Who let her in?" Without actually admitting that I had checked her credentials, I told the Mayor I thought she belonged to someone in his party. "She's not one of us," thundered Councillor Rees. He twisted and turned as he looked for his Chief Executive Officer. Unable to find him, the Mayor grabbed the sleeve of the senior police officer. "What's she doing here? Get her out."
Chief Superintendent Emrys Lewis of the South Wales Constabulary was a police officer of considerable experience. Numerous medal ribbons on his jacket showed he had been a loyal servant of the Crown in times of war and peace. Personal acts of bravery, often witnessed at 'throwing out time' in Blaenglyncoch public houses were well recorded in 'The Argus', but when he saw the object of the Mayor's attention, the colour drained from his cheeks. "Good God, Sadie Slagheap," he muttered. "I might have known she'd smell alcohol." He turned away and said: "I'm sorry Mr Mayor, I'm not getting involved with her."
A strange name I thought, and the Mayor explained why: "She goes out with an old pram picking coal from the slag. When she's got enough, she sells it in the town. Then, it's straight down the pub where she spends it on hard drink. When she's skint, it's up the mountain again - if she can make it."
Sadie had settled herself comfortably on the octagonal table, swinging her legs and beaming at everyone through her toothless gums. The subalterns had learned from outraged members of the council how Sadie had earned her distinctive name and were quick to appreciate she could liven up the proceedings. They kept her topped up with a plentiful supply of whisky.
Sadie's warm up period did not take long. It had been a good day on the mountain and she needed only a moderate amount of alcohol to get her going. The Mayor, Councillors, civic officials and their wives looked the other way and tried to put Sadie out of their minds, like a black cloud on an otherwise fine day, but suddenly she erupted: "Stuck up lot of bitches, aren't you?" she yelled. Her remarks were directed to a group of Councillors' wives whose breasts rose together like a huge Atlantic wave. "Likes of me are not good enough for you," went on Sadie as she developed her theme which, I was told by the Mayor, always followed the same pattern. "You there, Gwilym Rees - with your big chain around your neck. I could tell them a thing or two about you." The Mayor glared at Sadie but, whether it was the ferocious look he gave her, or Sadie's decision to pick this plum later, she switched her attack to the Chief Executive Officer who had finally appeared at the Mayor's side.
Alec McFadden had two things in common with Sadie. Firstly, he was a Celt, albeit from Scotland, and secondly, his great love of Scotch whisky. Despite Sadie's shortcomings, she loved her homeland. Anyone not Blaenglyncoch born was, as far as she was concerned, foreign trash. Alec McFadden was anathema to Sadie and she had long been infuriated about having such a person as the top non-elected official in the Borough Council. "I've seen you wearing that skirt of yours as if you're a woman," she shrieked. "Go back to your old Scotland where you came from. There's plenty of Welsh boys who can do your job." The CEO was unprepared for the verbal assault and as he had been subjected to her invective on at least two previous occasions, he decided to keep quiet. Sadie was moving into top gear and the young officers had drinks lined up to keep her going - she knocked them back as fast as they were put in front of her.
I began to wonder how it was going to end when Major Tony Martin, the resourceful Company Commander, came to the rescue. He approached the table where Sadie was sitting, took her hand and said: "My car is waiting to take you home, madam." With a firm grip on Sadie's forearm, he led her through the throng to the staff car waiting outside the marquee. A poker-faced corporal dressed in ceremonial blues held the rear passenger door open and saluted Sadie as she entered. Major Martin tucked in her old blue coat and said: "I hope you will come and see us again the next time we come to Blaenglyncoch." Sadie positively cooed at the gallant major and assured him that nothing would stop her attending.
The Mayor and others in his party gazed open mouthed at Sadie who seemed to have jumped them all in the VIP stakes. As the car moved off in that dignified way favoured by hearses and Royal limousines, Sadie lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Those in uniform saluted her and some natives of Blaenglyncoch, not knowing who was in the car, took their hats off. When the Mayor and other guests had gone, I called for the corporal to tell me he had done with Sadie.
"I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, sir, but she told me to drop her off at the pub on the corner. When she got out, she fell flat on her face. A couple of boys came out to pick her up and she didn't half lay into them."
Postscript : Names of people and places are disguised - but Sadie's nick-name is pretty close. If you are travelling through the Eastern valleys of South Wales and you see an old woman wearing a blue coat, pushing a pram up a slagheap - you'll know who it is.
Blaenglyncoch and district has been, for generations, a strong source of recruits for the infantry regiments of Wales. It was, therefore, an obvious place to be chosen by my Regiment as one of the towns to be visited during its annual recruiting drive.
I was responsible for arranging these publicity ventures and when I made my overture to the local recreation and amenities officer I was delighted with the response I received.
"We would be honoured indeed," said Mr Dafydd Price, "and I know I speak for the Mayor as well, to have you visit our borough." He showed me the rugby pitch where we would be allowed to set up our displays; what greater honour could they bestow? There stood the white posts standing sentinel over the hallowed turf - taking a respite from the rucks and wheelings, lineouts and scrums that made men out of boys in Blaenglyncoch. The entrances and exits were wide enough for our vehicles and there was even a public convenience - a tidy place indeed.
The appointed day arrived, a lovely bright Wednesday in July, and I joined the officer in charge of the touring team, plus three of his subalterns from the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, for drinks in the Mayor’s parlour.
Councillor Gwilym Rees, the Borough Mayor, was a vigorous young man in his early forties. He had climbed to the senior position in the council with a burning crusade for social reform and an ability to bulldoze opposition. His sherry was good and we soon got to know each other quite well. He was interested in the affairs of the Regiment and he thought it would be a good idea to bring back national service. "Discipline is what we want in this country," he proclaimed. We spent two hours in his company and were entertained to luncheon in a country club - once the home of a coal baron.
The evening performance of the touring team was the big event of the day. It started with an open-air concert given by the Regimental Band and Corps of Drums. This was followed by a demonstration of weapons and equipment and then came the mock battle, with plenty of noise - which delighted the children but was not altogether appreciated by the residents of an old people’s home close to the field. The finalé was the marching display, Beating Retreat and lowering of the flag. The salute at the 'march past' was taken by the Mayor, in all his finery.
The crowd clapped and the Mayor beamed as the musicians and soldiers, led by Taffy, the regimental goat, marched off to the strains of: 'God Bless the Prince of Wales'.
"An excellent show indeed," he said, impressed with our military hardware and colourful regalia. He and the others in his party now looked forward to the final part of the programme which was a drinks party in the marquee erected near one of the goal posts.
Councillors and their wives were escorted by a trio of subalterns and it was not long before everyone had a glass in their hands. Conversation flowed easily and we found that some of our guests were old soldiers of the Regiment. One old lady had seen her grandson taking part in the mock battle and was as pleased as Punch.
I was keeping a general eye on things when I saw an old woman enter the tent and sit down on a small table. All the other ladies were either Councillors in their own right or wives of Senior Executives and Councillors. They were all well dressed and some were wearing medallions and chains signifying their position in the council hierarchy. The old woman sitting on the table was not 'dressed' by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair, some of which was sticking out from the side of a dirty brown beret, was grey and ragged. She had no teeth, at least I presumed this was the case as when she spoke her nose practically touched her chin. An old blue coat covered whatever she had on underneath, while badly scuffed shoes with worn heels completed her attire. My nerve ends tingled when I asked her if she was a member of the Mayor's party. "Yes," she snapped, "and I'm thirsty, get me a glass of whisky."
The Mayor was in top form. He had enjoyed the day so far and he could see there was plenty of whisky on the dispensing table. He came over to me and said: "We have witnessed today -----." He stopped in mid sentence with his mouth open. A glance along his line of sight showed that his attention was focused on the toothless old woman staring aggressively at him over the top of her glass. When he recovered his ability to speak, he said: "Who let her in?" Without actually admitting that I had checked her credentials, I told the Mayor I thought she belonged to someone in his party. "She's not one of us," thundered Councillor Rees. He twisted and turned as he looked for his Chief Executive Officer. Unable to find him, the Mayor grabbed the sleeve of the senior police officer. "What's she doing here? Get her out."
Chief Superintendent Emrys Lewis of the South Wales Constabulary was a police officer of considerable experience. Numerous medal ribbons on his jacket showed he had been a loyal servant of the Crown in times of war and peace. Personal acts of bravery, often witnessed at 'throwing out time' in Blaenglyncoch public houses were well recorded in 'The Argus', but when he saw the object of the Mayor's attention, the colour drained from his cheeks. "Good God, Sadie Slagheap," he muttered. "I might have known she'd smell alcohol." He turned away and said: "I'm sorry Mr Mayor, I'm not getting involved with her."
A strange name I thought, and the Mayor explained why: "She goes out with an old pram picking coal from the slag. When she's got enough, she sells it in the town. Then, it's straight down the pub where she spends it on hard drink. When she's skint, it's up the mountain again - if she can make it."
Sadie had settled herself comfortably on the octagonal table, swinging her legs and beaming at everyone through her toothless gums. The subalterns had learned from outraged members of the council how Sadie had earned her distinctive name and were quick to appreciate she could liven up the proceedings. They kept her topped up with a plentiful supply of whisky.
Sadie's warm up period did not take long. It had been a good day on the mountain and she needed only a moderate amount of alcohol to get her going. The Mayor, Councillors, civic officials and their wives looked the other way and tried to put Sadie out of their minds, like a black cloud on an otherwise fine day, but suddenly she erupted: "Stuck up lot of bitches, aren't you?" she yelled. Her remarks were directed to a group of Councillors' wives whose breasts rose together like a huge Atlantic wave. "Likes of me are not good enough for you," went on Sadie as she developed her theme which, I was told by the Mayor, always followed the same pattern. "You there, Gwilym Rees - with your big chain around your neck. I could tell them a thing or two about you." The Mayor glared at Sadie but, whether it was the ferocious look he gave her, or Sadie's decision to pick this plum later, she switched her attack to the Chief Executive Officer who had finally appeared at the Mayor's side.
Alec McFadden had two things in common with Sadie. Firstly, he was a Celt, albeit from Scotland, and secondly, his great love of Scotch whisky. Despite Sadie's shortcomings, she loved her homeland. Anyone not Blaenglyncoch born was, as far as she was concerned, foreign trash. Alec McFadden was anathema to Sadie and she had long been infuriated about having such a person as the top non-elected official in the Borough Council. "I've seen you wearing that skirt of yours as if you're a woman," she shrieked. "Go back to your old Scotland where you came from. There's plenty of Welsh boys who can do your job." The CEO was unprepared for the verbal assault and as he had been subjected to her invective on at least two previous occasions, he decided to keep quiet. Sadie was moving into top gear and the young officers had drinks lined up to keep her going - she knocked them back as fast as they were put in front of her.
I began to wonder how it was going to end when Major Tony Martin, the resourceful Company Commander, came to the rescue. He approached the table where Sadie was sitting, took her hand and said: "My car is waiting to take you home, madam." With a firm grip on Sadie's forearm, he led her through the throng to the staff car waiting outside the marquee. A poker-faced corporal dressed in ceremonial blues held the rear passenger door open and saluted Sadie as she entered. Major Martin tucked in her old blue coat and said: "I hope you will come and see us again the next time we come to Blaenglyncoch." Sadie positively cooed at the gallant major and assured him that nothing would stop her attending.
The Mayor and others in his party gazed open mouthed at Sadie who seemed to have jumped them all in the VIP stakes. As the car moved off in that dignified way favoured by hearses and Royal limousines, Sadie lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Those in uniform saluted her and some natives of Blaenglyncoch, not knowing who was in the car, took their hats off. When the Mayor and other guests had gone, I called for the corporal to tell me he had done with Sadie.
"I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, sir, but she told me to drop her off at the pub on the corner. When she got out, she fell flat on her face. A couple of boys came out to pick her up and she didn't half lay into them."
Postscript : Names of people and places are disguised - but Sadie's nick-name is pretty close. If you are travelling through the Eastern valleys of South Wales and you see an old woman wearing a blue coat, pushing a pram up a slagheap - you'll know who it is.
The RSM and the Rabbit
Putting my foot down to keep an appointment, I narrowly missed a car coming in the opposite direction on a winding stretch of road between Crickhowell and Brecon. My passenger sucked air through his teeth and said: "That was a close one." I agreed with him and thought to myself: "I should have known better," bringing to mind an incident that occurred on the same stretch of road many years before.
On that day, I was cruising along quite pleasantly when I saw a car lying on its side ahead of me. As I approached, I saw one of the doors open, like the conning tower of a submarine, and a head appear. I pulled up, got out of my car and went across to the other vehicle to see if I could help. The passenger who was climbing out of the car was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the unit with which I was serving. I placed my arms around him and with me pulling and he pushing, he came out of the car like a whelk out of a shell. The second whelk in the same shell was the Provost Sergeant. With more heaving, he was also lifted clear.
A small crowd had gathered, all eager to help, but there were no serious injuries. The RSM appeared to be concussed though as he was sitting on the bank with a dazed expression on his face. "Are you alright RSM?" I asked. "Yes thank you, sir," he replied, "but its my rabbit I'm worried about. It's still in the car."
I looked at the car and saw petrol starting to flow from underneath; I hurried across the road and peered inside through one of the windows. Huddled in the corner of the passenger door, under the glove compartment was a large white rabbit.
"Hang on to my legs," I shouted to someone who was standing close by. "Don't be a fool," he said. "The car may blow up any minute." "Just do what I tell you," I commanded. When I felt his hands grip me by my ankles, I reached downwards through the horizontally positioned door, grabbed the rabbit and wriggled my way up again. Petrol was pouring out of the car as the fellow who was holding me by the legs gave a final pull which deposited me and the rabbit onto the road. A cheer went up from the onlookers and a few of them patted me on the back. One woman who had a camera took a photograph of me and said: "That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. I'm going to tell the RSPCA what you've done." I accepted all these plaudits and felt a warm glow of pride.
I had assumed that the rabbit was either concussed, like the RSM, or was so tame that it was thankful to be in my arms. But when I looked at it closely, I could see its eyes were open and lifeless. The glow of pride was overtaken by a feeling of sadness. "One little boy or girl is going to shed tears when he or she is told that the rabbit has met with a fatal accident," I thought.
I took the corpse across to the RSM and said: "I'm very sorry but the rabbit is dead." I put it gently in his hands and he inspected it closely. "You had me puzzled for a minute, sir," he said. "It's been dead for some time. I bought it in the butcher's this afternoon. I'm having it for my supper tonight."
I hastily asked the woman who had taken the photograph not to bother about going to the RSPCA. I told her I was shy about publicity.
On that day, I was cruising along quite pleasantly when I saw a car lying on its side ahead of me. As I approached, I saw one of the doors open, like the conning tower of a submarine, and a head appear. I pulled up, got out of my car and went across to the other vehicle to see if I could help. The passenger who was climbing out of the car was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the unit with which I was serving. I placed my arms around him and with me pulling and he pushing, he came out of the car like a whelk out of a shell. The second whelk in the same shell was the Provost Sergeant. With more heaving, he was also lifted clear.
A small crowd had gathered, all eager to help, but there were no serious injuries. The RSM appeared to be concussed though as he was sitting on the bank with a dazed expression on his face. "Are you alright RSM?" I asked. "Yes thank you, sir," he replied, "but its my rabbit I'm worried about. It's still in the car."
I looked at the car and saw petrol starting to flow from underneath; I hurried across the road and peered inside through one of the windows. Huddled in the corner of the passenger door, under the glove compartment was a large white rabbit.
"Hang on to my legs," I shouted to someone who was standing close by. "Don't be a fool," he said. "The car may blow up any minute." "Just do what I tell you," I commanded. When I felt his hands grip me by my ankles, I reached downwards through the horizontally positioned door, grabbed the rabbit and wriggled my way up again. Petrol was pouring out of the car as the fellow who was holding me by the legs gave a final pull which deposited me and the rabbit onto the road. A cheer went up from the onlookers and a few of them patted me on the back. One woman who had a camera took a photograph of me and said: "That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. I'm going to tell the RSPCA what you've done." I accepted all these plaudits and felt a warm glow of pride.
I had assumed that the rabbit was either concussed, like the RSM, or was so tame that it was thankful to be in my arms. But when I looked at it closely, I could see its eyes were open and lifeless. The glow of pride was overtaken by a feeling of sadness. "One little boy or girl is going to shed tears when he or she is told that the rabbit has met with a fatal accident," I thought.
I took the corpse across to the RSM and said: "I'm very sorry but the rabbit is dead." I put it gently in his hands and he inspected it closely. "You had me puzzled for a minute, sir," he said. "It's been dead for some time. I bought it in the butcher's this afternoon. I'm having it for my supper tonight."
I hastily asked the woman who had taken the photograph not to bother about going to the RSPCA. I told her I was shy about publicity.
The Missing Flute
I used to see Rhys Lewis regularly at regimental gatherings, but then I realised I had not heard his croaky voice and guttural laugh for some time. I enquired about his welfare and was told he was unwell; I found where he lived and paid him a visit. For an old soldier who, as he claimed, had never had cause to see a doctor in his life, the discovery that he had become a victim of diabetes was both a mental and body blow.
A few weeks later, I heard that Rhys, as a result of the disease, had had his left leg amputated. I went to see him again and when he heard voices in the sitting room, he bounced down the stairs on his bottom. I stayed with him for half an hour and he was in his element telling me about his service in far-distant places.
After the passage of another three months I was told that Rhys had had his other leg amputated, so I went to see him again. His wife let me in and I could see from her sad expression that events had taken a turn for the worse. She led the way upstairs and motioned me to enter a bedroom. Rhys was lying on a low bed with his eyes shut. He had never been a big fellow and now that he had lost his legs, there was hardly anything left.
"The officer from Brecon has come to see you," she said - and then quietly to me: "He hasn't eaten anything for a week." The bedclothes had been thrown back to reveal a torso that was nothing but skin and bone. Slowly his eyelids fluttered and he looked towards me. The instinctive movements came flooding back to this old soldier as he saw an officer of his regiment standing by the side of his bed. His skinny arms straightened and he drew them tight alongside his stumps. He continued to lie at 'attention' until I said: "At ease, Rhys." We spoke a few words to each other but I could see the effort was too much for him. I was about to go when Rhys whispered to his wife: "Alice, get me my flute." Alice went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box which she opened and gave to her husband. "I want you to have this flute, Major," said Rhys. I am not an expert on musical instruments, but I could see it was a valuable article in near perfect condition. I offered to sell it for him, but he became agitated and reiterated that he wanted me to have it. He signalled me to come closer and whispered: "You see, Major, it's not mine to sell. I've had it ever since I joined the Corps of Drums in India in 1935."
I promised the old man I would ensure it went back to the Drums' store of the First Battalion. NO NAME - NO PACK DRILL. He smiled and then, with a peaceful look on his face, closed his eyes and went to sleep. He died an hour later.
Post script: Rhys and Alice Lewis are pseudonyms for the real people.
A few weeks later, I heard that Rhys, as a result of the disease, had had his left leg amputated. I went to see him again and when he heard voices in the sitting room, he bounced down the stairs on his bottom. I stayed with him for half an hour and he was in his element telling me about his service in far-distant places.
After the passage of another three months I was told that Rhys had had his other leg amputated, so I went to see him again. His wife let me in and I could see from her sad expression that events had taken a turn for the worse. She led the way upstairs and motioned me to enter a bedroom. Rhys was lying on a low bed with his eyes shut. He had never been a big fellow and now that he had lost his legs, there was hardly anything left.
"The officer from Brecon has come to see you," she said - and then quietly to me: "He hasn't eaten anything for a week." The bedclothes had been thrown back to reveal a torso that was nothing but skin and bone. Slowly his eyelids fluttered and he looked towards me. The instinctive movements came flooding back to this old soldier as he saw an officer of his regiment standing by the side of his bed. His skinny arms straightened and he drew them tight alongside his stumps. He continued to lie at 'attention' until I said: "At ease, Rhys." We spoke a few words to each other but I could see the effort was too much for him. I was about to go when Rhys whispered to his wife: "Alice, get me my flute." Alice went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box which she opened and gave to her husband. "I want you to have this flute, Major," said Rhys. I am not an expert on musical instruments, but I could see it was a valuable article in near perfect condition. I offered to sell it for him, but he became agitated and reiterated that he wanted me to have it. He signalled me to come closer and whispered: "You see, Major, it's not mine to sell. I've had it ever since I joined the Corps of Drums in India in 1935."
I promised the old man I would ensure it went back to the Drums' store of the First Battalion. NO NAME - NO PACK DRILL. He smiled and then, with a peaceful look on his face, closed his eyes and went to sleep. He died an hour later.
Post script: Rhys and Alice Lewis are pseudonyms for the real people.
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.
Taking the Strain
The Havard Chapel of the South Wales Borderers in Brecon Cathedral is the resting place for those most sacred of emblems - Kings', Queens' and Regimental Colours; the physical embodiment of honour, sacrifice and pride of the Regiment. Rarely are these Colours disturbed, their poles stretch parallel to the ground above the pews while netted fragments hang in rigid line twelve feet from the floor. Occasionally, a cool draught of air will touch them and cause slight movement to the silken folds. I often look at them and wonder what stories they could tell; so much history compressed within a small area.
To the left of the altar hangs the huge six foot Regimental Colour of the 24th Regiment which survived, but only just, the Battle of Chillianwallah in 1849. Its ensign and escort were mown down by Sikh guns, but a young private soldier dashed forward, ripped it from its pole and carried it to safety wrapped around his body. On the other side of the altar hang the Colours which were carried from 1812 to 1825. They are much older but are in better shape.
Above the small oak casket, which contains fragments of the wreath of dried flowers presented by Queen Victoria in 1880 in memory of those officers and men who died in the Anglo/Zulu War, hangs the Queen's Colour of the 1/24th Regiment. Very little of the original material remains, hardly surprising when you consider it was carried for 68 years and was subjected to the full spate of the River Buffalo when it was trapped in the river bed for two weeks after the disaster at Isandhlwana.
In 1989 it was decided that Brecon Cathedral needed a face lift. Contractors moved in and unsightly scaffolding soon spread up the walls into the rafters where workmen began to rewire electric fittings and whitewash the plaster. The Regimental Chapel was the last place to be done and I watched progress carefully so I could leave the Colours in position until the last moment. When the time came for them to be removed, I supervised the operation of carrying them to the vestry for safe keeping.
Almost a year later, the long business of renovation was complete and I gave thought to returning the Colours to the chapel. Before doing so, the contractor informed me that many of the wire stays that held the Colours in position were unsafe. These wires, two to each Colour, stretched way up into the rafters. I had a look at some of them and agreed that they should be replaced. I made the suggestion that we should use a modern material, such as nylon with a high breaking strain. "Good idea," said the contractor. "Who'll get it, you or me?" As it was a regimental matter and not a fair charge to the cathedral, I told him I would buy whatever was necessary. I then set about calculating how much nylon I would need; I was amazed to find that I needed about a quarter of a mile of the stuff.
Later that day, I went to a shop in Brecon that sold fishing tackle and asked the lady behind the counter if she had some very strong nylon line in stock. She asked me to wait a minute while she went into a store room. When she returned, she was carrying a box covered in dust. "This is 50 pounds breaking strain," she said. "Will that be strong enough for you?" I nodded and told her that I needed 400 yards. "Good heavens," she gasped, "are you going to catch a whale?" I do not know what came over me and why I did not tell her the reason for my purchase, but I replied: "No, not a whale - a sturgeon."
There were five or six men in the shop and I was aware of the close attention they were giving to everything I said. Getting carried away by the story I was creating, I continued: "It was seen at Caerleon last Friday and was spotted going over the weir at Abergavenny on Monday. It's expected to reach Brecon this afternoon or tomorrow." the lady behind the counter was looking at me with her mouth open. Eventually she said: "We get salmon here, not so many these days, but a sturgeon - we've never had one of them." I nodded sagely and said: "By all acounts, this one's a whopper; the barman in the Bridge End public house in Crickhowell said it was at least eighty pounds." I paid for the line, took it back to Brecon Cathedral and gave it to the contractor. "This should keep them hanging safely for the next hundred years," he said with a smile.
Two days later, when I was entering payment for the nylon line in my account, I remembered I had left the receipt in the shop, so I went around to collect it.
"About that sturgeon," said the lady who had served me, "you were having me on weren't you?" I professed indignation that my word should be doubted, but she continued: "Do you remember those men who were in the shop when you bought that line?" I nodded. "Well," she went on, "they were members of a 'Midlands' fishing club. After you left, they bought every inch of that 50 pound line I had. They were on the river all Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday, but they didn't catch a thing. You did me a good turn though," she said with a chuckle. "That box of line had been in the store for the last 20 years and we hadn't sold any of it until you came in."
To the left of the altar hangs the huge six foot Regimental Colour of the 24th Regiment which survived, but only just, the Battle of Chillianwallah in 1849. Its ensign and escort were mown down by Sikh guns, but a young private soldier dashed forward, ripped it from its pole and carried it to safety wrapped around his body. On the other side of the altar hang the Colours which were carried from 1812 to 1825. They are much older but are in better shape.
Above the small oak casket, which contains fragments of the wreath of dried flowers presented by Queen Victoria in 1880 in memory of those officers and men who died in the Anglo/Zulu War, hangs the Queen's Colour of the 1/24th Regiment. Very little of the original material remains, hardly surprising when you consider it was carried for 68 years and was subjected to the full spate of the River Buffalo when it was trapped in the river bed for two weeks after the disaster at Isandhlwana.
In 1989 it was decided that Brecon Cathedral needed a face lift. Contractors moved in and unsightly scaffolding soon spread up the walls into the rafters where workmen began to rewire electric fittings and whitewash the plaster. The Regimental Chapel was the last place to be done and I watched progress carefully so I could leave the Colours in position until the last moment. When the time came for them to be removed, I supervised the operation of carrying them to the vestry for safe keeping.
Almost a year later, the long business of renovation was complete and I gave thought to returning the Colours to the chapel. Before doing so, the contractor informed me that many of the wire stays that held the Colours in position were unsafe. These wires, two to each Colour, stretched way up into the rafters. I had a look at some of them and agreed that they should be replaced. I made the suggestion that we should use a modern material, such as nylon with a high breaking strain. "Good idea," said the contractor. "Who'll get it, you or me?" As it was a regimental matter and not a fair charge to the cathedral, I told him I would buy whatever was necessary. I then set about calculating how much nylon I would need; I was amazed to find that I needed about a quarter of a mile of the stuff.
Later that day, I went to a shop in Brecon that sold fishing tackle and asked the lady behind the counter if she had some very strong nylon line in stock. She asked me to wait a minute while she went into a store room. When she returned, she was carrying a box covered in dust. "This is 50 pounds breaking strain," she said. "Will that be strong enough for you?" I nodded and told her that I needed 400 yards. "Good heavens," she gasped, "are you going to catch a whale?" I do not know what came over me and why I did not tell her the reason for my purchase, but I replied: "No, not a whale - a sturgeon."
There were five or six men in the shop and I was aware of the close attention they were giving to everything I said. Getting carried away by the story I was creating, I continued: "It was seen at Caerleon last Friday and was spotted going over the weir at Abergavenny on Monday. It's expected to reach Brecon this afternoon or tomorrow." the lady behind the counter was looking at me with her mouth open. Eventually she said: "We get salmon here, not so many these days, but a sturgeon - we've never had one of them." I nodded sagely and said: "By all acounts, this one's a whopper; the barman in the Bridge End public house in Crickhowell said it was at least eighty pounds." I paid for the line, took it back to Brecon Cathedral and gave it to the contractor. "This should keep them hanging safely for the next hundred years," he said with a smile.
Two days later, when I was entering payment for the nylon line in my account, I remembered I had left the receipt in the shop, so I went around to collect it.
"About that sturgeon," said the lady who had served me, "you were having me on weren't you?" I professed indignation that my word should be doubted, but she continued: "Do you remember those men who were in the shop when you bought that line?" I nodded. "Well," she went on, "they were members of a 'Midlands' fishing club. After you left, they bought every inch of that 50 pound line I had. They were on the river all Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday, but they didn't catch a thing. You did me a good turn though," she said with a chuckle. "That box of line had been in the store for the last 20 years and we hadn't sold any of it until you came in."
Strictly Regimental
If I close my eyes and put my mind in neutral, I can see Fletcher as he was fifty years ago when I first met him. I can see his tousled head with its tight blond curls, his broken nose, his battered ears and his lean frame, always bent slightly forward. I can see his grubby overalls and his boots, not well dubbined as one might have thought, but doused in kitchen grease. Fletcher was the officers' mess cook, not a member of the Army Catering Corps but one of those dedicated band of men from within the regiment whose tools of trade are rifles and bayonets (first) with ladles and saucepans (second).
I do not remember Fletcher for the excellence of his cooking, which was never more than 'simple', but there were things that happened to him - which involved me, that are still pin-sharp in my mind.
He came to see me one day when we were stationed in Pembroke Dock and told me he could not find his boots. He had looked throughout the kitchen and his bunk, which adjoined the kitchen, but they had been missing for three days and he felt they were irretrievably lost. He told me he put his boots outside his door when he went to bed. I asked him if he expected someone to come along and clean them, but he replied saying he had a skin complaint which caused a bad smell and if he opened the window to clear the air, he got a stiff neck. Why anyone would want to pinch Fletcher's boots was difficult to understand; there were far better pickings in the batmen's quarters - but there it was, the boots had gone and he would have to pay for a new pair. For the next few days Fletcher paddled around in a pair of daps which soon became embalmed in kitchen waste and resembled footwear of a low caste native sweeper.
It was not until the end of the week that the mystery was solved. Friday was the day when Fletcher emptied the stock pot. As he winched the large stainless steel container over to one side and deposited the contents into swill bins, a pair of boots came into view among the debris of bones, skin and vegetables at the bottom. With a shout of joy he recovered them and rinsed them off under a tap. He let everyone know he had found his boots and that after a week in the stock pot they were far more comfortable than they had been before. A week later he told me that the skin complaint, which had troubled his feet for years, had completely disappeared. He was oblivious to the sick looks on the officers' faces whenever he mentioned soup and was quite upset the following week when he had to throw away an almost full stock pot. We never found out who played the prank on Fletcher, but it was not hard to guess who was to blame when the Adjutant started to drink soup again.
When we went to Cyprus two years later Fletcher, after a tour of duty in the soldiers' cookhouse, came back to the officers' mess. The national service officers were a new bunch and they knew nothing about the 'stock pot' business, but some of the old hands looked upon Fletcher's return with suspicion. He settled down quite well and cemented good relations with the locally employed civilian staff who worked in the kitchen.
We had a marvellous camp on the north east coast of Cyprus. Behind us towered mountains covered with pine trees and before us lay a beach of golden sand lapped by the warmest, clear blue water in the northern hemisphere. In front of the officers' mess was a rocky promontory which, by a freak of nature, was formed in a number of parallel ridges with water filled gullies between. The largest of these gullies was an almost perfect water polo pitch, except for one thing. Right in the middle was a finger of rock, like a stalagmite, which gave centre forwards a painful experience if they swam into it.
It was an easy matter to rectify, so one morning I went along to the pool with some plastic explosive, gun cotton primers, electric cable and detonators. I dived to the bottom and packed the explosive into as many cracks around the base of the rock that I could find. Then I connected all the bits and pieces and came ashore to the battery terminal. When I was sure that the 'coast was clear' (literally), I pressed the contact on the battery. The finger of rock took off like a rocket and, quite by chance, a shoal of fish happened to swim by at that very moment. The force of the explosion lifted them en masse out of the water.
Fletcher and some others of the mess staff had been watching from the mess veranda and within seconds they had equipped themselves with buckets and bowls and were in the pool collecting fish I had killed. They looked like trout and were about one pound in weight. Not only was there an ample supply for the officers' mess, but Fletcher was also able to feed the sergeants' mess and still have enough to give to the civilian staff to take home. I tell this particular part of the story at length because never before nor since have I fed so many people with a single shot. I was mindful of someone else who, two thousand years previously, did much the same sort of thing - not so very far away either.
I was excited at the prospect of producing a splendid feast of fresh fish and I explained to Fletcher that I wanted him to cook them as if they were trout. But instead of serving them complete with head and tail, he cut them up and covered the pieces with a thick white sauce. 'Presentation' was never one of his strong points and I blame myself for not checking sufficiently.
A few days later, the CO, who now looked upon me as a sort of wizard who could produce shoals of fish at the drop of a hat, asked me to get him a fish for breakfast. Wearing my flippers and mask and armed with a spear gun, I entered the water on the far side of the water polo pitch. Usually there were plenty of fish about but, in the aftermath of the explosion, it seemed as if they had gone away to find a quieter place.
I had almost given up hope of catching anything when I saw movement on the sea bed. It turned out to be a bottom feeder with ugly teeth, golf-ball eyes, snake-like feelers and a body covered in warts. At first, I rejected the thought of shooting it, but when I was unable to find anything else, I went back and speared it. It was even more repulsive when I got it out of the water, but I could see there was plenty of good flesh on it. I gave it to Fletcher and told him to prepare it for the CO's breakfast the following day.
Fletcher's mind worked like a computer. He had been programmed to keep the heads on 'trout-like' fish so, as far as he was concerned, anything that came out of the sea kept its head on when it went into the frying pan.
I heard that the Commanding Officer nearly leapt out of his chair when his breakfast was put in front of him. Fletcher, with a rare flash of imagination, had put a piece of lemon in the monster's jaw, but it did nothing to improve the Colonel's appetite or temper. He was convinced it was a practical joke and when I was summoned to appear before him, he told me that the dining table was 'holy ground' as far as he was concerned and that I would lose my job as messing member if there were any more pranks.
The Colonel had mentioned on a few occasions that he wanted Fletcher to produce West African peanut stew. It was a particular favourite of his and he was anxious to try it out on the rest of us. I carefully recorded the Colonel's instructions about how to produce this exotic dish and then went in search of Fletcher. I passed on the CO's recipe and told him to be ready at 07.00 hrs the following day to go with the quartermaster's convoy to the supply depot in Famagusta, from where he could nip across the road to the market and collect the items he needed for the peppery stew.
He returned in the late afternoon and I saw him walking towards the mess kitchen carrying a bag. I asked him if he had managed to get everything the CO wanted and he replied: "Yes, sir, everything except red chillies - so I got green ones instead." The CO had stipulated that red chillies were essential for a good West African peanut stew, so I was somewhat reluctant to give Fletcher orders to go ahead before checking with the Colonel. I took a few green pods out of the bag and inspected them closely. "Are you sure these are chillies?" I asked, "they look like beans to me." "Oh, yes, sir, they're chillies alright. I picked ‘em special," he said. I selected one and bit it carefully. There was no burning sensation as one would expect from a chilli and when I opened the pod I could see it was, without doubt, a bean. "You're an idiot, Fletcher," I said. "Now, I shall have to tell the CO that the peanut stew is off." Fletcher slunk off to his tent as I went in search of the Commanding Officer.
The Colonel was sitting on the veranda reading a newspaper. I told him about the mistake with the chillies and he said: "How could he possibly confuse beans with chillies? - let me have a look at them." One of the mess servants was told to find Fletcher and tell him that the colonel wanted to see his bag of beans. He appeared a few minutes later and gave the Colonel the brown paper bag. The CO withdrew a pod and studied it carefully. He turned it over and smelt it and then said it was quite suitable for making his favourite stew. "I'm sorry, sir, I must disagree," I said. "It's not a chilli, it's a bean - I've just eaten one." The Colonel once again picked up the green pod and polished his glasses before confirming that it was a chilli. I knew I was on firm ground, so I extracted a pod from the bag, slipped it into my mouth and chewed it up. "There you are, sir, they're beans," I said. It was a convincing demonstration, so the Colonel, feeling I had proved my case, selected a nice big one, popped it into his mouth and chewed it.
What the subsequent investigation revealed was that Flutter's bag contained a mixture of chillies and beans. The Colonel, who had been unfortunate in his choice, turned purple and tears spurted from his eyes like a garden sprinkler. I told Flatter to get some bread and butter, as someone had once told me that this was the antidote to chilli burn. I spread thick wedges of butter on the bread as Flatter and the mess sergeant stuffed it down the CO's throat. This brought on a choking fit and we had to slap him on the back to allow him to breathe properly. At last, all his tubes were clear and we managed to cool him down. The cooling process went only as far as his mouth and throat were concerned, and when he recovered his composure I became the victim of his anger and lost my job as food member of the mess committee. West African peanut stew was never mentioned again.
Once a week an Army Kinema Corporation film came up from Famagusta with the ration truck. When the officers' turn came to see it, we erected a projector on the mess veranda and beamed the film to a screen on top of a pair of six foot tables. Occasionally, when the wind blew hard and the screen was not tethered properly, the contraption would topple over and fall into the water polo pool.
One evening after supper, we were sitting on the veranda watching a 'western'. There had been a gun battle, but the action switched to the bedroom, when all of a sudden shooting started again. It took a second or two for us to realise that this time real bullets were flying through the air and we all dived for cover as lead thudded into the wall behind the projector. There was only one officer who had the courage to get up and find where the shots were coming from. He sprinted around the side of the building just in time to see HQ Company arms storeman reloading a 9mm Browning automatic pistol and then pumping another magazine of rounds through the side of Fletcher's tent. The would-be assassin was brought down in a flying tackle, disarmed and marched off to the guard tent. After the commotion had died down, Fletcher was found cowering underneath his bed none the worse for the experience.
The evidence produced at the court martial of the arms storeman revealed some details about Fletcher's psyche which many of us had suspected. 'Personal relationships' is a delicate matter in the Army and, in those days, if you stepped out of line, you could find yourself in serious trouble. Nevertheless, we felt the unilateral action of the arms storeman was rather heavy handed.
Fletcher left the battalion soon after the attempt on his life. Besides, the Army Catering Corps were getting into their stride and he would never have been one of the 'Professionals' - he was strictly regimental.
I do not remember Fletcher for the excellence of his cooking, which was never more than 'simple', but there were things that happened to him - which involved me, that are still pin-sharp in my mind.
He came to see me one day when we were stationed in Pembroke Dock and told me he could not find his boots. He had looked throughout the kitchen and his bunk, which adjoined the kitchen, but they had been missing for three days and he felt they were irretrievably lost. He told me he put his boots outside his door when he went to bed. I asked him if he expected someone to come along and clean them, but he replied saying he had a skin complaint which caused a bad smell and if he opened the window to clear the air, he got a stiff neck. Why anyone would want to pinch Fletcher's boots was difficult to understand; there were far better pickings in the batmen's quarters - but there it was, the boots had gone and he would have to pay for a new pair. For the next few days Fletcher paddled around in a pair of daps which soon became embalmed in kitchen waste and resembled footwear of a low caste native sweeper.
It was not until the end of the week that the mystery was solved. Friday was the day when Fletcher emptied the stock pot. As he winched the large stainless steel container over to one side and deposited the contents into swill bins, a pair of boots came into view among the debris of bones, skin and vegetables at the bottom. With a shout of joy he recovered them and rinsed them off under a tap. He let everyone know he had found his boots and that after a week in the stock pot they were far more comfortable than they had been before. A week later he told me that the skin complaint, which had troubled his feet for years, had completely disappeared. He was oblivious to the sick looks on the officers' faces whenever he mentioned soup and was quite upset the following week when he had to throw away an almost full stock pot. We never found out who played the prank on Fletcher, but it was not hard to guess who was to blame when the Adjutant started to drink soup again.
When we went to Cyprus two years later Fletcher, after a tour of duty in the soldiers' cookhouse, came back to the officers' mess. The national service officers were a new bunch and they knew nothing about the 'stock pot' business, but some of the old hands looked upon Fletcher's return with suspicion. He settled down quite well and cemented good relations with the locally employed civilian staff who worked in the kitchen.
We had a marvellous camp on the north east coast of Cyprus. Behind us towered mountains covered with pine trees and before us lay a beach of golden sand lapped by the warmest, clear blue water in the northern hemisphere. In front of the officers' mess was a rocky promontory which, by a freak of nature, was formed in a number of parallel ridges with water filled gullies between. The largest of these gullies was an almost perfect water polo pitch, except for one thing. Right in the middle was a finger of rock, like a stalagmite, which gave centre forwards a painful experience if they swam into it.
It was an easy matter to rectify, so one morning I went along to the pool with some plastic explosive, gun cotton primers, electric cable and detonators. I dived to the bottom and packed the explosive into as many cracks around the base of the rock that I could find. Then I connected all the bits and pieces and came ashore to the battery terminal. When I was sure that the 'coast was clear' (literally), I pressed the contact on the battery. The finger of rock took off like a rocket and, quite by chance, a shoal of fish happened to swim by at that very moment. The force of the explosion lifted them en masse out of the water.
Fletcher and some others of the mess staff had been watching from the mess veranda and within seconds they had equipped themselves with buckets and bowls and were in the pool collecting fish I had killed. They looked like trout and were about one pound in weight. Not only was there an ample supply for the officers' mess, but Fletcher was also able to feed the sergeants' mess and still have enough to give to the civilian staff to take home. I tell this particular part of the story at length because never before nor since have I fed so many people with a single shot. I was mindful of someone else who, two thousand years previously, did much the same sort of thing - not so very far away either.
I was excited at the prospect of producing a splendid feast of fresh fish and I explained to Fletcher that I wanted him to cook them as if they were trout. But instead of serving them complete with head and tail, he cut them up and covered the pieces with a thick white sauce. 'Presentation' was never one of his strong points and I blame myself for not checking sufficiently.
A few days later, the CO, who now looked upon me as a sort of wizard who could produce shoals of fish at the drop of a hat, asked me to get him a fish for breakfast. Wearing my flippers and mask and armed with a spear gun, I entered the water on the far side of the water polo pitch. Usually there were plenty of fish about but, in the aftermath of the explosion, it seemed as if they had gone away to find a quieter place.
I had almost given up hope of catching anything when I saw movement on the sea bed. It turned out to be a bottom feeder with ugly teeth, golf-ball eyes, snake-like feelers and a body covered in warts. At first, I rejected the thought of shooting it, but when I was unable to find anything else, I went back and speared it. It was even more repulsive when I got it out of the water, but I could see there was plenty of good flesh on it. I gave it to Fletcher and told him to prepare it for the CO's breakfast the following day.
Fletcher's mind worked like a computer. He had been programmed to keep the heads on 'trout-like' fish so, as far as he was concerned, anything that came out of the sea kept its head on when it went into the frying pan.
I heard that the Commanding Officer nearly leapt out of his chair when his breakfast was put in front of him. Fletcher, with a rare flash of imagination, had put a piece of lemon in the monster's jaw, but it did nothing to improve the Colonel's appetite or temper. He was convinced it was a practical joke and when I was summoned to appear before him, he told me that the dining table was 'holy ground' as far as he was concerned and that I would lose my job as messing member if there were any more pranks.
The Colonel had mentioned on a few occasions that he wanted Fletcher to produce West African peanut stew. It was a particular favourite of his and he was anxious to try it out on the rest of us. I carefully recorded the Colonel's instructions about how to produce this exotic dish and then went in search of Fletcher. I passed on the CO's recipe and told him to be ready at 07.00 hrs the following day to go with the quartermaster's convoy to the supply depot in Famagusta, from where he could nip across the road to the market and collect the items he needed for the peppery stew.
He returned in the late afternoon and I saw him walking towards the mess kitchen carrying a bag. I asked him if he had managed to get everything the CO wanted and he replied: "Yes, sir, everything except red chillies - so I got green ones instead." The CO had stipulated that red chillies were essential for a good West African peanut stew, so I was somewhat reluctant to give Fletcher orders to go ahead before checking with the Colonel. I took a few green pods out of the bag and inspected them closely. "Are you sure these are chillies?" I asked, "they look like beans to me." "Oh, yes, sir, they're chillies alright. I picked ‘em special," he said. I selected one and bit it carefully. There was no burning sensation as one would expect from a chilli and when I opened the pod I could see it was, without doubt, a bean. "You're an idiot, Fletcher," I said. "Now, I shall have to tell the CO that the peanut stew is off." Fletcher slunk off to his tent as I went in search of the Commanding Officer.
The Colonel was sitting on the veranda reading a newspaper. I told him about the mistake with the chillies and he said: "How could he possibly confuse beans with chillies? - let me have a look at them." One of the mess servants was told to find Fletcher and tell him that the colonel wanted to see his bag of beans. He appeared a few minutes later and gave the Colonel the brown paper bag. The CO withdrew a pod and studied it carefully. He turned it over and smelt it and then said it was quite suitable for making his favourite stew. "I'm sorry, sir, I must disagree," I said. "It's not a chilli, it's a bean - I've just eaten one." The Colonel once again picked up the green pod and polished his glasses before confirming that it was a chilli. I knew I was on firm ground, so I extracted a pod from the bag, slipped it into my mouth and chewed it up. "There you are, sir, they're beans," I said. It was a convincing demonstration, so the Colonel, feeling I had proved my case, selected a nice big one, popped it into his mouth and chewed it.
What the subsequent investigation revealed was that Flutter's bag contained a mixture of chillies and beans. The Colonel, who had been unfortunate in his choice, turned purple and tears spurted from his eyes like a garden sprinkler. I told Flatter to get some bread and butter, as someone had once told me that this was the antidote to chilli burn. I spread thick wedges of butter on the bread as Flatter and the mess sergeant stuffed it down the CO's throat. This brought on a choking fit and we had to slap him on the back to allow him to breathe properly. At last, all his tubes were clear and we managed to cool him down. The cooling process went only as far as his mouth and throat were concerned, and when he recovered his composure I became the victim of his anger and lost my job as food member of the mess committee. West African peanut stew was never mentioned again.
Once a week an Army Kinema Corporation film came up from Famagusta with the ration truck. When the officers' turn came to see it, we erected a projector on the mess veranda and beamed the film to a screen on top of a pair of six foot tables. Occasionally, when the wind blew hard and the screen was not tethered properly, the contraption would topple over and fall into the water polo pool.
One evening after supper, we were sitting on the veranda watching a 'western'. There had been a gun battle, but the action switched to the bedroom, when all of a sudden shooting started again. It took a second or two for us to realise that this time real bullets were flying through the air and we all dived for cover as lead thudded into the wall behind the projector. There was only one officer who had the courage to get up and find where the shots were coming from. He sprinted around the side of the building just in time to see HQ Company arms storeman reloading a 9mm Browning automatic pistol and then pumping another magazine of rounds through the side of Fletcher's tent. The would-be assassin was brought down in a flying tackle, disarmed and marched off to the guard tent. After the commotion had died down, Fletcher was found cowering underneath his bed none the worse for the experience.
The evidence produced at the court martial of the arms storeman revealed some details about Fletcher's psyche which many of us had suspected. 'Personal relationships' is a delicate matter in the Army and, in those days, if you stepped out of line, you could find yourself in serious trouble. Nevertheless, we felt the unilateral action of the arms storeman was rather heavy handed.
Fletcher left the battalion soon after the attempt on his life. Besides, the Army Catering Corps were getting into their stride and he would never have been one of the 'Professionals' - he was strictly regimental.
Short Back and Sides
Early in this narrative I described how I stranded two army fire engines and a recovery vehicle in the mud of the River Nile in Khartoum. I was trying to impress my Commanding Officer with the enthusiasm I had for fire duties, but only succeeded in making things difficult for a number of people who were involved in a vehicle inspection scheduled for the following day. One would have thought that after such a trail of misfortune on that August day in 1949 I would have been dismissed from the job, but not a bit of it - I had my appointment of unit fire officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers extended for another six months.
Soon after the battalion arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in January 1950, I was called by the Adjutant and asked to explain why certain fire appliances were found to be in an unacceptable condition during the Commanding Officer's inspection of the camp. I had plenty of experience of standing rigidly to attention on the unoccupied side of the Adjutant's desk, so I just let his invective flow over me.
It was obvious that something had to be done to restore my reputation, such as it was, so I applied my mind to the best course of action. One day as I was walking down the Via Roma, the main thoroughfare in Asmara, clanging of bells heralded the approach of a task force of the Asmara fire service. The Italians may have lost the war and their colonies in East Africa, but what dignity they had salvaged was transferred to their fire service. The fleet of pre-war Alfa Romeo fire trucks had been built with loving care in far off Italy and were kept in immaculate condition throughout the war. Everything, from large brass bells to the knobs on water valves was polished to perfection. The firemen, obviously recruited for their physical appearance as well their enthusiasm for putting out fires, were dressed for effect rather than practical fire fighting. Black helmet with brass accessories, scarlet jacket, black trousers and a huge leather belt supporting a chopper comprised their ensemble. They stood on platforms on each side of their vehicle adopting dramatic poses like gladiators heading for the Coliseum. Everyone - natives, Italian colonials, British expatriates and servicemen stood and admired the grand procession as it hurtled down the road intent upon putting out whatever was on fire.
A few days later, I was passing the fire station and noticed that one of the doors was open. I stuck my head inside to get a closer look at the fire engines and came face to face with the officer in charge. He spoke excellent English and offered to show me around. I was treated to a fascinating exposition of his beloved Alfa Romeos and introduced to the crews on duty. I was also shown around the room where uniforms and equipment were kept before rounding off my impromptu visit with coffee and some rich cream buns. We established a good rapport and I asked the fire chief if he would consider lending me a suit of fireman's clothing and equipment for the fancy dress party that was being held in the officers' club the following Saturday night. He agreed and I was there and then fitted out with a helmet, tunic, a length of coiled rope, a chopper and a belt. Being rather tall, I said I would provide my own trousers.
The fancy dress party was great fun and I generated much mirth among the junior officers who congratulated me on my spectacular outfit. The Commanding Officer and the Adjutant were not amused and thought that my choice of costume was an insolent response to my recent admonition.
When I returned the gear to the fire station the following Monday morning, I asked my friend if he would co-operate with me if I held a fire practice in the camp of the South Wales Borderers. He responded with enthusiasm and assured me that if there were no real fires to put out at the time, I could count on his help. Knowing that the Commanding Officer would be holding 'orders' at noon the following day, I asked my friend to stand by for a telephone call at 11am. I spent the rest of the day supervising my signallers, plus some prisoners from the guard room, collecting rubbish in the camp. It came from all directions and was deposited on a waste piece of ground between the signals store and the orderly room. When it reached the size of a bell tent, I called a halt.
The following morning I went across to the Adjutant's office and asked to see the CO. "What do you want to see him for?" said the Adjutant narrowing his eyelids to thin slits. "It's about holding a fire practice," I replied. The business of the battalion's fire engines being stuck in the River Nile was still fresh in his mind and he was not inclined to endorse any more mad-cap schemes, but I stood my ground and asked to be allowed to speak to the CO. Reluctantly, he ushered me into the Colonel's office and listened as I told the CO about the friendly relationship I had forged with the chief officer of the Asmara fire service who was instrumental in me winning first prize in the fancy dress competition. I went on to explain that I should now like to demonstrate how this rapport could be used to the unit's advantage if we ever had a serious fire in the camp.
"He's an Italian, isn't he?" said the Colonel. "Those buggers were shooting us only a few years ago!" This was an attitude of mind I had not considered and I had to do some pretty nifty public relations work before the CO was satisfied they would not settle old scores and burn the place down if we let them in. "In fact, sir," I said, "I should like to hold a fire practice now just to show you what would happen in a real emergency." I asked the CO and the Adjutant it they would step outside to see what I intended doing. I led them around the side of battalion HQ and pointed towards the great pile of rubbish. "This is where the fire will be," I said. The Colonel gave a nod, which I interpreted as a signal for me to go ahead. I had already briefed one of my signallers to keep a line to the Asmara fire service on hold, so I picked up a phone in the orderly room and shouted: "Fire in the South Wales Borderers camp!"
The fire chief regarded the practise call-out as the most prestigious event to take place since he had taken command three years previously. All three Alfa Romeos were in single file on the road outside the fire station with crews aboard pointed in the direction of our camp with engines running ready to go as soon as they received the signal.
The fire station was only about two miles away from the camp and there was instant response to my call. As I walked across to the pile of rubbish, I could hear bells ringing in the distance, so I sprinted the last fifty yards in order to get the fire going. This turned out to be more difficult than I expected. A strong wind extinguished the flame every time I lit a match and I could see that the kindling wood was damp after an early morning shower of rain. The clanging of bells on the Alfa Romeos was getting louder and, from my elevated position, I could see the fire engines roaring down the road towards the camp. I had another shot at lighting the pile of rubbish but the flame would not take hold. The leading vehicle was now passing the guard room and I realised I was going to look pretty stupid if I could not get the fire going by the time they arrived. I yelled to one of my signallers: "Get me a jerry can of petrol from the battery charging shed, and be quick about it!" Within a few seconds the can arrived and I threw the contents over the pile. I pulled out my last match, struck it and put the flame to some paper at the base.
I do not remember much after that as I became enveloped in flame which burnt off every exposed hair on my body. My woollen hose-tops (open ended stockings) were reduced to a couple of pieces of dried toast and my face, so I was told, took on the look of a well boiled lobster. I have a vague memory of smoke and lots of water and then I was taken off to the medical centre where I was cleaned up and bandaged to such an extent that only my eyes, nostrils and mouth could be seen. I had been wandering around like a zombie during the fire practice and had not realised that a mini 'Hiroshima' had taken place. I was hit by the flames at the base of the bonfire but the main force of the fire-ball had blown an assortment of blazing rubbish high into the air. Much of this was still alight when it hit the ground and the fire chief had to deploy most of his men, to extinguish many small fires that were burning at the lower end of the camp.
I remained in bandages for a few days and when they were removed I was shocked to see that the flames had burnt a crazy pattern of 'tramlines' all over my face and neck. I looked like a Red Indian about to go into battle. The incongruity of my appearance was compounded by a tuft of hair on the top of my head which had been protected by my beret.
It was nearly a month before I looked presentable again. Needless to say, I was not on good terms with the Commanding Officer. When he realised I was not in such bad shape as it appeared, he told me what he thought of me and my ill-prepared fire practice.
The period I spent like a snake, shedding one skin and growing another, was one of great embarrassment. The Adjutant sarcastically remarked that instead of dressing up as a fireman at the fancy dress party, I should have held the fire practice a few weeks earlier and gone as the 'Last of the Mohicans'.
Soon after the battalion arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in January 1950, I was called by the Adjutant and asked to explain why certain fire appliances were found to be in an unacceptable condition during the Commanding Officer's inspection of the camp. I had plenty of experience of standing rigidly to attention on the unoccupied side of the Adjutant's desk, so I just let his invective flow over me.
It was obvious that something had to be done to restore my reputation, such as it was, so I applied my mind to the best course of action. One day as I was walking down the Via Roma, the main thoroughfare in Asmara, clanging of bells heralded the approach of a task force of the Asmara fire service. The Italians may have lost the war and their colonies in East Africa, but what dignity they had salvaged was transferred to their fire service. The fleet of pre-war Alfa Romeo fire trucks had been built with loving care in far off Italy and were kept in immaculate condition throughout the war. Everything, from large brass bells to the knobs on water valves was polished to perfection. The firemen, obviously recruited for their physical appearance as well their enthusiasm for putting out fires, were dressed for effect rather than practical fire fighting. Black helmet with brass accessories, scarlet jacket, black trousers and a huge leather belt supporting a chopper comprised their ensemble. They stood on platforms on each side of their vehicle adopting dramatic poses like gladiators heading for the Coliseum. Everyone - natives, Italian colonials, British expatriates and servicemen stood and admired the grand procession as it hurtled down the road intent upon putting out whatever was on fire.
A few days later, I was passing the fire station and noticed that one of the doors was open. I stuck my head inside to get a closer look at the fire engines and came face to face with the officer in charge. He spoke excellent English and offered to show me around. I was treated to a fascinating exposition of his beloved Alfa Romeos and introduced to the crews on duty. I was also shown around the room where uniforms and equipment were kept before rounding off my impromptu visit with coffee and some rich cream buns. We established a good rapport and I asked the fire chief if he would consider lending me a suit of fireman's clothing and equipment for the fancy dress party that was being held in the officers' club the following Saturday night. He agreed and I was there and then fitted out with a helmet, tunic, a length of coiled rope, a chopper and a belt. Being rather tall, I said I would provide my own trousers.
The fancy dress party was great fun and I generated much mirth among the junior officers who congratulated me on my spectacular outfit. The Commanding Officer and the Adjutant were not amused and thought that my choice of costume was an insolent response to my recent admonition.
When I returned the gear to the fire station the following Monday morning, I asked my friend if he would co-operate with me if I held a fire practice in the camp of the South Wales Borderers. He responded with enthusiasm and assured me that if there were no real fires to put out at the time, I could count on his help. Knowing that the Commanding Officer would be holding 'orders' at noon the following day, I asked my friend to stand by for a telephone call at 11am. I spent the rest of the day supervising my signallers, plus some prisoners from the guard room, collecting rubbish in the camp. It came from all directions and was deposited on a waste piece of ground between the signals store and the orderly room. When it reached the size of a bell tent, I called a halt.
The following morning I went across to the Adjutant's office and asked to see the CO. "What do you want to see him for?" said the Adjutant narrowing his eyelids to thin slits. "It's about holding a fire practice," I replied. The business of the battalion's fire engines being stuck in the River Nile was still fresh in his mind and he was not inclined to endorse any more mad-cap schemes, but I stood my ground and asked to be allowed to speak to the CO. Reluctantly, he ushered me into the Colonel's office and listened as I told the CO about the friendly relationship I had forged with the chief officer of the Asmara fire service who was instrumental in me winning first prize in the fancy dress competition. I went on to explain that I should now like to demonstrate how this rapport could be used to the unit's advantage if we ever had a serious fire in the camp.
"He's an Italian, isn't he?" said the Colonel. "Those buggers were shooting us only a few years ago!" This was an attitude of mind I had not considered and I had to do some pretty nifty public relations work before the CO was satisfied they would not settle old scores and burn the place down if we let them in. "In fact, sir," I said, "I should like to hold a fire practice now just to show you what would happen in a real emergency." I asked the CO and the Adjutant it they would step outside to see what I intended doing. I led them around the side of battalion HQ and pointed towards the great pile of rubbish. "This is where the fire will be," I said. The Colonel gave a nod, which I interpreted as a signal for me to go ahead. I had already briefed one of my signallers to keep a line to the Asmara fire service on hold, so I picked up a phone in the orderly room and shouted: "Fire in the South Wales Borderers camp!"
The fire chief regarded the practise call-out as the most prestigious event to take place since he had taken command three years previously. All three Alfa Romeos were in single file on the road outside the fire station with crews aboard pointed in the direction of our camp with engines running ready to go as soon as they received the signal.
The fire station was only about two miles away from the camp and there was instant response to my call. As I walked across to the pile of rubbish, I could hear bells ringing in the distance, so I sprinted the last fifty yards in order to get the fire going. This turned out to be more difficult than I expected. A strong wind extinguished the flame every time I lit a match and I could see that the kindling wood was damp after an early morning shower of rain. The clanging of bells on the Alfa Romeos was getting louder and, from my elevated position, I could see the fire engines roaring down the road towards the camp. I had another shot at lighting the pile of rubbish but the flame would not take hold. The leading vehicle was now passing the guard room and I realised I was going to look pretty stupid if I could not get the fire going by the time they arrived. I yelled to one of my signallers: "Get me a jerry can of petrol from the battery charging shed, and be quick about it!" Within a few seconds the can arrived and I threw the contents over the pile. I pulled out my last match, struck it and put the flame to some paper at the base.
I do not remember much after that as I became enveloped in flame which burnt off every exposed hair on my body. My woollen hose-tops (open ended stockings) were reduced to a couple of pieces of dried toast and my face, so I was told, took on the look of a well boiled lobster. I have a vague memory of smoke and lots of water and then I was taken off to the medical centre where I was cleaned up and bandaged to such an extent that only my eyes, nostrils and mouth could be seen. I had been wandering around like a zombie during the fire practice and had not realised that a mini 'Hiroshima' had taken place. I was hit by the flames at the base of the bonfire but the main force of the fire-ball had blown an assortment of blazing rubbish high into the air. Much of this was still alight when it hit the ground and the fire chief had to deploy most of his men, to extinguish many small fires that were burning at the lower end of the camp.
I remained in bandages for a few days and when they were removed I was shocked to see that the flames had burnt a crazy pattern of 'tramlines' all over my face and neck. I looked like a Red Indian about to go into battle. The incongruity of my appearance was compounded by a tuft of hair on the top of my head which had been protected by my beret.
It was nearly a month before I looked presentable again. Needless to say, I was not on good terms with the Commanding Officer. When he realised I was not in such bad shape as it appeared, he told me what he thought of me and my ill-prepared fire practice.
The period I spent like a snake, shedding one skin and growing another, was one of great embarrassment. The Adjutant sarcastically remarked that instead of dressing up as a fireman at the fancy dress party, I should have held the fire practice a few weeks earlier and gone as the 'Last of the Mohicans'.
Shauri Ya Mungu (It's God's Will)
There used to be a certain type of British Army officer who, despite any bother caused by the natives, would make the early morning flight of sand grouse his first priority of the day. A person who fitted that description was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, my Commanding Officer when I served with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles. Being his Signals Officer, and later, Adjutant, I was always close to him wherever we served – be it the jungles of Malaya during the communist uprising, or the forests of Kenya during the Mau Mau campaign.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
Scarface and Co.
My attendant at the South Wales Borderers Museum in Brecon came into my office one morning and told me that someone wanted to speak to me. It was not unusual for me, the curator, to attend to visitors, in fact, it was a pleasant part of my duty which kept me in touch with the public. The attendant led the way to one of the minor rooms and pointed towards a man and a woman, in their mid-twenties, both dressed in blue jeans. The man had long dark hair with a livid scar which ran down the right side of his face, dragging the flesh near his eye and giving him a sinister appearance. The woman was good looking but had a glint in both eyes which spelt: 'look but don't touch'.
"I've been asked by my boss to speak to you concerning an exercise we would like to hold in Brecon Barracks," said Scarface. Despite his buccaneer appearance, he had a military way about him, but the woman was 100% Hollywood. Both extracted their ID cards and satisfied me they were bona fide members of the elite branch of the service to which they said they belonged.
This was an unusual state of affairs to say the least but, without appearing to be uncooperative, I told them it was beyond my jurisdiction to say yes or no. However, I was prepared to put them in touch with the officer in Brecon Barracks who was responsible for security. I went back to my office and spoke to my colleague who had already received a call from someone in the same elite outfit telling him roughly what was being planned. "Send them over," he said.
An hour later, Scarface and his companion returned with the security officer. "Do you mind if they have a look around upstairs," he asked. "No, not at all," I replied. "You know your way around, carry on." In those days, the first floor of the museum building carried reserve items of the museum collection and was a place where visitors, by appointment, could carry out research. Five minutes later the trio returned and went into the public rooms where they spent another twenty minutes, or so, looking around. That was the last I saw of Scarface and his attractive assistant and, although I used to see the security officer in the officers' mess most lunch times, he took no further part in whatever was being planned.
A few weeks went by and then Scarface's boss rang me to make an appointment for two other members of his organisation to look over the museum. I began to wonder if I was becoming involved in some sort of hoax but, as he had the blessing of those who ran the barracks, who was I to ask questions.
The next to arrive were a pair of pinstriped toffs who could have passed for a couple of up-and-coming stockbrokers. With my permission, they carried out another brisk inspection of the museum and then announced they would like to arrange a date for the visit of a VIP whose identity would have to remain secret until that person arrived. I gave them three or four dates which one of them noted in his diary. Their boss rang me later that day and we agreed on the following Friday afternoon.
I still had not the faintest idea who I was about to meet when a cavalcade of four Jaguar limousines and another four police motor-cycle outriders swept through the barrack gates and pulled up on the square outside the museum. Pinstriped 'heavies' with broad shoulders, narrow waists and tell-tale bulges below their armpits piled out of the Jags and adopted positions of 'all-round defence'. One of them, whom I recognised as the 'stockbroker' I had met a few days before, beckoned me forward to the second Jaguar. I looked through the window and saw a woman in the back seat who was collecting her gloves and handbag. When all was ready, the door opened and she stepped out.
Starting at the top, was a pretty little beige hat with a veil which came down below her nose. A matching beige silk suit with wide lapels and mother-of-pearl buttons was complemented by a black handbag, black stockings and black patent leather shoes with high stiletto heels. She carried beige kid gloves as delicate as her impeccable make-up and ivory complexion. Standing no more than five feet she proffered her hand for me to kiss, shake or anything else I had in mind. A smile played on her lips and a sultry look from her dark eyes made me feel I was being hypnotised. Before I slipped completely under her spell, the pinstriped bodyguard said: "May I introduce the wife of the Israeli Ambassador - Madame Goldberg.”
She said nothing when I welcomed her to the museum, but she spoke eloquently with her eyes. It was the same for the next fifty minutes as I conducted her around the museum, explaining countless treasures spanning over three centuries of service to Kings, Queens and country. I was aware of her bodyguards moving surreptitiously among the other visitors who, of course, had no knowledge of the VIP following in my wake.
I was beginning to 'dry-up' after forty minutes of non-stop prattle and when I had the opportunity, I asked one of the 'heavies' how much longer he wanted me to carry on. "Can you give her another ten minutes, sir?" he enquired. I nodded, took a deep breath and launched into an account of the trouncing the Zulus gave the Regiment in the Zulu War of 1879.
We made our way towards the side door of the museum which leads to the barrack square on which the lined-up Jaguars and police motor-cycles were ready and waiting. I presented Madame Goldberg with a small gift from the sales cupboard as a memento of her visit and she murmured her thanks and fluttered her eyelashes as if I had given her one of our prize exhibits. The door of the Jag was opened and she slid effortlessly into the rich leather upholstery with just that slight delay of the left leg to imprint a vision of the limb into my mind for weeks to come.
The cavalcade was about to move off when the rear passenger window of the second Jaguar opened and Madame Goldberg beckoned me to come close. I hopped across the square, causing a certain amount of consternation among the pinstriped fraternity who resented any interference in their carefully monitored programme. I thought she was going to kiss me, but she drew her rosebud lips close to my ear and spoke for the first time.
"I forgot to ask you," she said in that sonorous Welsh accent used by the well-heeled inhabitants of the Manselton area of Swansea. "Are you open on Saturdays? My dad would love to see this." I was quite unable to speak, so I nodded and reached inside my breast pocket for a museum leaflet which gave opening times throughout the year. "Diolch yn fawr," she said sweetly (in Welsh). .
Post script:- If the lady had ever been to Israel, I fancy she would have gone as a tourist and not the wife of the ambassador of that country to the Court of St. James. The name ''Goldberg' is an invention of mine as I have forgotten what she called herself when she came to Brecon.
A few days after the event, I received a letter from the person whom I looked upon as a 'James Bond' character surrounded by exotic cars sprouting machine guns and rocket launchers. He said the visit had been well worth while and thanked me for the part I played in the exercise.
"I've been asked by my boss to speak to you concerning an exercise we would like to hold in Brecon Barracks," said Scarface. Despite his buccaneer appearance, he had a military way about him, but the woman was 100% Hollywood. Both extracted their ID cards and satisfied me they were bona fide members of the elite branch of the service to which they said they belonged.
This was an unusual state of affairs to say the least but, without appearing to be uncooperative, I told them it was beyond my jurisdiction to say yes or no. However, I was prepared to put them in touch with the officer in Brecon Barracks who was responsible for security. I went back to my office and spoke to my colleague who had already received a call from someone in the same elite outfit telling him roughly what was being planned. "Send them over," he said.
An hour later, Scarface and his companion returned with the security officer. "Do you mind if they have a look around upstairs," he asked. "No, not at all," I replied. "You know your way around, carry on." In those days, the first floor of the museum building carried reserve items of the museum collection and was a place where visitors, by appointment, could carry out research. Five minutes later the trio returned and went into the public rooms where they spent another twenty minutes, or so, looking around. That was the last I saw of Scarface and his attractive assistant and, although I used to see the security officer in the officers' mess most lunch times, he took no further part in whatever was being planned.
A few weeks went by and then Scarface's boss rang me to make an appointment for two other members of his organisation to look over the museum. I began to wonder if I was becoming involved in some sort of hoax but, as he had the blessing of those who ran the barracks, who was I to ask questions.
The next to arrive were a pair of pinstriped toffs who could have passed for a couple of up-and-coming stockbrokers. With my permission, they carried out another brisk inspection of the museum and then announced they would like to arrange a date for the visit of a VIP whose identity would have to remain secret until that person arrived. I gave them three or four dates which one of them noted in his diary. Their boss rang me later that day and we agreed on the following Friday afternoon.
I still had not the faintest idea who I was about to meet when a cavalcade of four Jaguar limousines and another four police motor-cycle outriders swept through the barrack gates and pulled up on the square outside the museum. Pinstriped 'heavies' with broad shoulders, narrow waists and tell-tale bulges below their armpits piled out of the Jags and adopted positions of 'all-round defence'. One of them, whom I recognised as the 'stockbroker' I had met a few days before, beckoned me forward to the second Jaguar. I looked through the window and saw a woman in the back seat who was collecting her gloves and handbag. When all was ready, the door opened and she stepped out.
Starting at the top, was a pretty little beige hat with a veil which came down below her nose. A matching beige silk suit with wide lapels and mother-of-pearl buttons was complemented by a black handbag, black stockings and black patent leather shoes with high stiletto heels. She carried beige kid gloves as delicate as her impeccable make-up and ivory complexion. Standing no more than five feet she proffered her hand for me to kiss, shake or anything else I had in mind. A smile played on her lips and a sultry look from her dark eyes made me feel I was being hypnotised. Before I slipped completely under her spell, the pinstriped bodyguard said: "May I introduce the wife of the Israeli Ambassador - Madame Goldberg.”
She said nothing when I welcomed her to the museum, but she spoke eloquently with her eyes. It was the same for the next fifty minutes as I conducted her around the museum, explaining countless treasures spanning over three centuries of service to Kings, Queens and country. I was aware of her bodyguards moving surreptitiously among the other visitors who, of course, had no knowledge of the VIP following in my wake.
I was beginning to 'dry-up' after forty minutes of non-stop prattle and when I had the opportunity, I asked one of the 'heavies' how much longer he wanted me to carry on. "Can you give her another ten minutes, sir?" he enquired. I nodded, took a deep breath and launched into an account of the trouncing the Zulus gave the Regiment in the Zulu War of 1879.
We made our way towards the side door of the museum which leads to the barrack square on which the lined-up Jaguars and police motor-cycles were ready and waiting. I presented Madame Goldberg with a small gift from the sales cupboard as a memento of her visit and she murmured her thanks and fluttered her eyelashes as if I had given her one of our prize exhibits. The door of the Jag was opened and she slid effortlessly into the rich leather upholstery with just that slight delay of the left leg to imprint a vision of the limb into my mind for weeks to come.
The cavalcade was about to move off when the rear passenger window of the second Jaguar opened and Madame Goldberg beckoned me to come close. I hopped across the square, causing a certain amount of consternation among the pinstriped fraternity who resented any interference in their carefully monitored programme. I thought she was going to kiss me, but she drew her rosebud lips close to my ear and spoke for the first time.
"I forgot to ask you," she said in that sonorous Welsh accent used by the well-heeled inhabitants of the Manselton area of Swansea. "Are you open on Saturdays? My dad would love to see this." I was quite unable to speak, so I nodded and reached inside my breast pocket for a museum leaflet which gave opening times throughout the year. "Diolch yn fawr," she said sweetly (in Welsh). .
Post script:- If the lady had ever been to Israel, I fancy she would have gone as a tourist and not the wife of the ambassador of that country to the Court of St. James. The name ''Goldberg' is an invention of mine as I have forgotten what she called herself when she came to Brecon.
A few days after the event, I received a letter from the person whom I looked upon as a 'James Bond' character surrounded by exotic cars sprouting machine guns and rocket launchers. He said the visit had been well worth while and thanked me for the part I played in the exercise.
Riot Control - Turkish Style
Caspar McDonald was a British expatriate policeman who commanded an outfit in Cyprus in the late 50's called the Turkish Mobile Reserve. There might have been a role for them in the early days of the 'emergency', when Greek Cypriots started their campaign for union with Greece, but as the situation developed, the Turkish Mobile Reserve became an embarrassment for the government.
Soldiers of this para-military force were almost permanently confined to barracks in a camp only a few miles away from Lefka, the largest Turkish Cypriot village on the island. Caspar, the only British officer on strength, enjoyed the hospitality of 1/WELCH officers’ mess where he was an honorary member.
He used to turn up on dinner nights dressed in a black bum freezer (jacket) with tight black trousers and spurs which gave him a sinister appearance. I cannot say that I ever liked the fellow, he was too prickly for my liking but this was possibly due to the frustration of not having a real job to do.
We had fallen out over something or other and were not on speaking terms, when he turned up for dinner one night looking like someone out of the Gestapo.
Newly joined officers, in those days, were subjected to a 'welcoming' ceremony which took a number of forms. The Colonel’s favourite was the ‘group photograph’. This involved setting up two rows of chairs: the front row, (covered by a couple of sheets) for field officers, with the Colonel in the middle, the one behind for captains and senior subalterns while the remainder stood at the back. All the chairs would be occupied except the one on the Colonel's right, which had been removed and replaced with a bucket of water (concealed under the sheet). As we had no newly joined subalterns, Caspar was selected as fall guy for the latest group photograph.
I was given the job of telling officers where they had to stand or sit and when I came to Caspar, I pointed towards the empty chair (covered by a sheet) next to the Colonel, He beamed at the unexpected honour so, carefully adjusting his spurs so he would not spike the officers on each side of him, he lowered himself into the non-existent chair. As he sat down, the others in the front row stood up.
Anyone of normal proportions would have been supported by the rim of the bucket but Caspar was so skinny that he got wedged inside and it needed the combined efforts of the CO and the 2i/c to get him out. He failed to see the humour of the situation and refused the offer from one of the subalterns to lend him a pair of dry trousers. Instead, he stalked off and we did not see him for the rest of the night.
Some days later when his anger had cooled, I asked him if he and his force of mobile Turks would like to take part in a crowd control demonstration the Colonel had asked me to lay on. In an internal security situation such as we had in Cyprus, the police are normally responsible for controlling crowds, but if things get out of hand, the military are called in. There wasn't really a role for the Turkish Mobile Reserve in my demonstration, but I thought I might be able to fit them in somewhere. Caspar was quite enthusiastic and gave me reason to think we might get on with each other in future.
There was a large open area between the entrance to Aberdeen Camp, Xeros and the main road and this was the place I selected for the demonstration. There were two other people whose assistance was necessary. One was Kushi Mohammed, the Pakistani contractor who ran everything from providing early morning tea and egg banjos for soldiers, to tailoring, laundry, provision of any item not available in the NAAFI and short term car rental for officers. His father and grandfather had been contractors to the Welch Regiment for many years before and during World War Two and the family looked upon themselves as being part of the Regiment. I asked him if he would arrange for his staff (all Pakistani) to act as the 'rowdy crowd'; he was only too pleased to accept.
The other person whose help was vital was the local Chief of Police. I asked him to supply the 'thin blue line' in the form of Greek Cypriot policemen. He not only accepted, but was delighted with the training opportunity that my demonstration would provide. There was only one thing that concerned me and that was my inability to carry out a rehearsal; it was impossible to get everyone together more than once.
It was a Scale ‘A’ parade to watch the demonstration which started with an assortment of 'char wallahs' (tea boys), 'dersi wallahs' (tailors), 'dhobi wallahs' (laundry workers), 'napi wallahs' (barbers) and others in the employ of the contractor marching across the stretch of open ground towards the 'thin blue line' of policemen. Kushi Mohammed himself, looking like a real brigand with a red scarf around his head, led the crowd which carried banners with slogans such as: GO HOME WELSHMEN and CYPRUS FOR PAKISTAN.
I was giving the commentary on a loudspeaker and, to start with, everything went according to plan. The thin line of policemen stood their ground while a ‘magistrate’ warned the crowd that if they did not disperse, he would call in the military.
It was at this juncture that a clod of earth hit one of the soldiers who was standing with thirty others in reserve behind the police. At the subsequent enquiry, it was found to have been thrown by a 'char wallah' who had a grievance over an unpaid bill for egg banjos. Be that as it may, it was the signal for other members of the contractor's staff to lob anything they could find at the police and our soldiers. It started as a light-hearted sortie but soon developed into a free-for-all with the police and soldiers under attack from the Pakistanis. It was then that I played my trump card in the form of the Turkish Mobile Reserve who were concealed behind some trees a few hundred yards away. When they saw me wave a green flag, they leapt into action.
They arrived on the right flank of those under attack and without waiting for orders tore straight into the Pakistani mob. Kushi Mohammed was the first to get a lathi (long stick used for swiping natives) around his shins but it was not long before the Turks were settling old scores and lashing Greek policemen as well. We had all the ingredients for a real fight and our soldiers had to stand between the Turks on one side and the Pakistanis and Greeks on the other to establish some sort of order.
The demonstration ended like a fight in a dog show and the Colonel, along with the Chief of Police, were not amused. The only people who learnt any lessons about dealing with an unruly mob were the Turkish Cypriots who were rewarded with free beer when they returned to their own camp.
Soldiers of this para-military force were almost permanently confined to barracks in a camp only a few miles away from Lefka, the largest Turkish Cypriot village on the island. Caspar, the only British officer on strength, enjoyed the hospitality of 1/WELCH officers’ mess where he was an honorary member.
He used to turn up on dinner nights dressed in a black bum freezer (jacket) with tight black trousers and spurs which gave him a sinister appearance. I cannot say that I ever liked the fellow, he was too prickly for my liking but this was possibly due to the frustration of not having a real job to do.
We had fallen out over something or other and were not on speaking terms, when he turned up for dinner one night looking like someone out of the Gestapo.
Newly joined officers, in those days, were subjected to a 'welcoming' ceremony which took a number of forms. The Colonel’s favourite was the ‘group photograph’. This involved setting up two rows of chairs: the front row, (covered by a couple of sheets) for field officers, with the Colonel in the middle, the one behind for captains and senior subalterns while the remainder stood at the back. All the chairs would be occupied except the one on the Colonel's right, which had been removed and replaced with a bucket of water (concealed under the sheet). As we had no newly joined subalterns, Caspar was selected as fall guy for the latest group photograph.
I was given the job of telling officers where they had to stand or sit and when I came to Caspar, I pointed towards the empty chair (covered by a sheet) next to the Colonel, He beamed at the unexpected honour so, carefully adjusting his spurs so he would not spike the officers on each side of him, he lowered himself into the non-existent chair. As he sat down, the others in the front row stood up.
Anyone of normal proportions would have been supported by the rim of the bucket but Caspar was so skinny that he got wedged inside and it needed the combined efforts of the CO and the 2i/c to get him out. He failed to see the humour of the situation and refused the offer from one of the subalterns to lend him a pair of dry trousers. Instead, he stalked off and we did not see him for the rest of the night.
Some days later when his anger had cooled, I asked him if he and his force of mobile Turks would like to take part in a crowd control demonstration the Colonel had asked me to lay on. In an internal security situation such as we had in Cyprus, the police are normally responsible for controlling crowds, but if things get out of hand, the military are called in. There wasn't really a role for the Turkish Mobile Reserve in my demonstration, but I thought I might be able to fit them in somewhere. Caspar was quite enthusiastic and gave me reason to think we might get on with each other in future.
There was a large open area between the entrance to Aberdeen Camp, Xeros and the main road and this was the place I selected for the demonstration. There were two other people whose assistance was necessary. One was Kushi Mohammed, the Pakistani contractor who ran everything from providing early morning tea and egg banjos for soldiers, to tailoring, laundry, provision of any item not available in the NAAFI and short term car rental for officers. His father and grandfather had been contractors to the Welch Regiment for many years before and during World War Two and the family looked upon themselves as being part of the Regiment. I asked him if he would arrange for his staff (all Pakistani) to act as the 'rowdy crowd'; he was only too pleased to accept.
The other person whose help was vital was the local Chief of Police. I asked him to supply the 'thin blue line' in the form of Greek Cypriot policemen. He not only accepted, but was delighted with the training opportunity that my demonstration would provide. There was only one thing that concerned me and that was my inability to carry out a rehearsal; it was impossible to get everyone together more than once.
It was a Scale ‘A’ parade to watch the demonstration which started with an assortment of 'char wallahs' (tea boys), 'dersi wallahs' (tailors), 'dhobi wallahs' (laundry workers), 'napi wallahs' (barbers) and others in the employ of the contractor marching across the stretch of open ground towards the 'thin blue line' of policemen. Kushi Mohammed himself, looking like a real brigand with a red scarf around his head, led the crowd which carried banners with slogans such as: GO HOME WELSHMEN and CYPRUS FOR PAKISTAN.
I was giving the commentary on a loudspeaker and, to start with, everything went according to plan. The thin line of policemen stood their ground while a ‘magistrate’ warned the crowd that if they did not disperse, he would call in the military.
It was at this juncture that a clod of earth hit one of the soldiers who was standing with thirty others in reserve behind the police. At the subsequent enquiry, it was found to have been thrown by a 'char wallah' who had a grievance over an unpaid bill for egg banjos. Be that as it may, it was the signal for other members of the contractor's staff to lob anything they could find at the police and our soldiers. It started as a light-hearted sortie but soon developed into a free-for-all with the police and soldiers under attack from the Pakistanis. It was then that I played my trump card in the form of the Turkish Mobile Reserve who were concealed behind some trees a few hundred yards away. When they saw me wave a green flag, they leapt into action.
They arrived on the right flank of those under attack and without waiting for orders tore straight into the Pakistani mob. Kushi Mohammed was the first to get a lathi (long stick used for swiping natives) around his shins but it was not long before the Turks were settling old scores and lashing Greek policemen as well. We had all the ingredients for a real fight and our soldiers had to stand between the Turks on one side and the Pakistanis and Greeks on the other to establish some sort of order.
The demonstration ended like a fight in a dog show and the Colonel, along with the Chief of Police, were not amused. The only people who learnt any lessons about dealing with an unruly mob were the Turkish Cypriots who were rewarded with free beer when they returned to their own camp.
Right Marker
I served in three officer training units: Belfast, Wrotham and Stoke-on-Trent before I was commissioned. During that period, from December 1944 to July 1946, I went through the gamut of being taught (three times) everything there was to know about platoon weapons, field defences, tactics and map reading. I was shouted at by warrant officers and non-commissioned-officers of the Royal Ulster Rifles and, in the case of the last two units, warrant officers and drill sergeants of the Brigade of Guards.
These people had discovered a way of converting you from flesh and blood into machines operating in unison with each other when activated by a series of high pitched screams. They terrified you and made you wonder why you volunteered to be trained as an officer. You cursed them (under your breath) and were inclined to believe stories you heard about them, one of which was about an old lady beating a regimental sergeant major with an umbrella when she saw 'her boys' being badly treated. You accepted the notion of a senior Brigade of Guards warrant officer lining up his wife and children for inspection before marching them off to collect their groceries in the NAAFI. Yet you could not help respecting them and eventually feel grateful for the way they made you look, feel and act like a soldier.
The pinnacle of excellence, or the one who terrified me most, was Warrant Officer Class One 'Charlie' Copp of the Coldstream Guards. He was the Regimental Sergeant Major of 164 Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) based at Trentham Park, Stoke-on-Trent when I arrived there for the last stage of officer training in February 1946. He stood out from all others like a lighthouse on a barren shore, towering over most of his flock by at least six inches and wearing a uniform into which he seemed to have been poured. He was the epitome of military perfection from the tip of his nose-flattening peaked cap to the twin brass ferrules on his highly polished pace stick.
Despite being complimented by the drill sergeants at 148 pre- OCTU at Wrotham, Kent for our performance on the final parade, it was back to square one when I arrived at Trentham Park.
RSM Copp believed in introducing himself to new arrivals as soon as possible; within two days we were pounding the square and being told we were the worst selection of ragamuffins he had ever come across. In order to freshen us up, he gave the order for double mark time at the slope. In other words: 'running on the spot, knees as high as you can raise them with a rifle banging on your collar bone'. After five minutes of this, it was hard to decide which hurt most - knees sandpapered of skin by coarse battle dress trousers, or a left shoulder bruised by an Enfield Mark 1V rifle.
As the tallest man in the platoon, a mere six foot two inches, I was appointed right marker - the one from whom the remainder of the squad took their dressing. It was a responsible position and I felt a certain amount of pride whenever I heard the command: "Right Dress."
The RSM must have realised we were in danger of being whittled down to our kneecaps if we double marked time any longer, for the next command was: "Fore---ward." Anything would have been preferable from the piston-like movements we had been executing for the previous five minutes, but it was still a painful business to jog around the drill square with a rifle bouncing on your shoulder. I gritted my teeth and bared my lips aggressively, determined that the RSM should see no sign of weakening when I doubled past him for the third time. At last, the torture came to an end when a drill sergeant was given the job of marching us off. Later that morning, the orderly sergeant told me I was on a charge and that I should attend Company Commander's Orders at midday. I asked him what I had done wrong, and he replied: "You'll find out when you get there."
I presented myself to the Company Sergeant Major at noon and was told to line up with two or three others who were waiting to be tried by the Company Commander. Just before I was marched in, I was surprised to see RSM Copp marching in to the office, but I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
Like a bullock entering an abattoir, I was prodded through the open door of the office where the Company Commander sat behind a large desk. "You are charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you did laugh at RSM Copp as he was conducting a drill parade." The languid major in the Rifle Brigade stared at me and continued: "Are you guilty or not guilty of this offence?" I was so surprised that I could not say anything for a few seconds. The thought of laughing at the RSM was preposterous and the only excuse I could make was that he had interpreted my grimace for a grin. "Not guilty," I stuttered. The RSM then gave his evidence and confirmed that I had laughed at him on a number of occasions as the squad doubled around the square. This was pretty damning evidence made worse when the Company Commander asked his next question: "Do you have complete control of your facial muscles?" Wondering if I would be booted out of OCTU if I admitted to being physically impaired, I told him that everything I possessed worked properly. "Seven days confined to barracks," he barked.
The really irksome part of this punishment was having to parade twice every evening in 'field service marching order' (everything a soldier would carry if he was marching in a combat situation). The rifle you drew from the stores (not the same one each time) had to be cleaned (with woodwork slightly oiled). Brass fittings on large and small packs, ammunition pouches, belt, gaiters and hat had to be polished to perfection - the fact that it had all been done the day before, or even once already that evening, was no guarantee that you would satisfy the Orderly Officer who ran a fine-tooth comb over you.
I was on my last day of confinement to barracks when an officer of the 60th Rifles found a trace of blanco dust behind one of my brasses. I was in front of the company commander the following morning and he awarded me another three days CB for being idle on the Orderly Officer's inspection.
I was careful not to laugh, smile or even let a grin cross my face for the rest of the time I was right marker on drill parades. RSM Copp and his team of drill sergeants continued to extract every ounce of effort from us on the square and, by the 19th July 1946 - when our commissioning parade took place, with my parents seated alongside the saluting dais, there was no prouder soldier in the Army than me.
As soon as we were dismissed from the parade ground, we raced back to our billets, removed battle dress trousers and blouses and donned our new bespoke uniforms with one 'pip' on each epaulette. As a special concession, we were allowed to accompany our parents etc. home dressed as officers although our commissions did not become effective until 00.01hrs the following day. It seemed that one officer cadet, a few terms before us, had not heeded that fact. Just as he was leaving Trentham Park for good in his parents' car - with his girl friend by his side, he spied the Regimental Sergeant Major talking to some guests. He got out of the car strolled over and tapped the RSM on his rump with his new silver topped cane and told him what he thought of him and his pack of voracious drill sergeants. If he had waited overnight in nearby Stoke-on-Trent and come back the following day, the RSM and drill sergeants would have had to stand to attention and accept the young subaltern's invective - but he had forgotten the one important detail about the effective date of his commission. Within seconds he was put under arrest, deprived of his service dress, peaked hat, Sam Browne belt - et al, and left to consider his position in the guard room. The following day he was returned to his unit as a private soldier.
These people had discovered a way of converting you from flesh and blood into machines operating in unison with each other when activated by a series of high pitched screams. They terrified you and made you wonder why you volunteered to be trained as an officer. You cursed them (under your breath) and were inclined to believe stories you heard about them, one of which was about an old lady beating a regimental sergeant major with an umbrella when she saw 'her boys' being badly treated. You accepted the notion of a senior Brigade of Guards warrant officer lining up his wife and children for inspection before marching them off to collect their groceries in the NAAFI. Yet you could not help respecting them and eventually feel grateful for the way they made you look, feel and act like a soldier.
The pinnacle of excellence, or the one who terrified me most, was Warrant Officer Class One 'Charlie' Copp of the Coldstream Guards. He was the Regimental Sergeant Major of 164 Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) based at Trentham Park, Stoke-on-Trent when I arrived there for the last stage of officer training in February 1946. He stood out from all others like a lighthouse on a barren shore, towering over most of his flock by at least six inches and wearing a uniform into which he seemed to have been poured. He was the epitome of military perfection from the tip of his nose-flattening peaked cap to the twin brass ferrules on his highly polished pace stick.
Despite being complimented by the drill sergeants at 148 pre- OCTU at Wrotham, Kent for our performance on the final parade, it was back to square one when I arrived at Trentham Park.
RSM Copp believed in introducing himself to new arrivals as soon as possible; within two days we were pounding the square and being told we were the worst selection of ragamuffins he had ever come across. In order to freshen us up, he gave the order for double mark time at the slope. In other words: 'running on the spot, knees as high as you can raise them with a rifle banging on your collar bone'. After five minutes of this, it was hard to decide which hurt most - knees sandpapered of skin by coarse battle dress trousers, or a left shoulder bruised by an Enfield Mark 1V rifle.
As the tallest man in the platoon, a mere six foot two inches, I was appointed right marker - the one from whom the remainder of the squad took their dressing. It was a responsible position and I felt a certain amount of pride whenever I heard the command: "Right Dress."
The RSM must have realised we were in danger of being whittled down to our kneecaps if we double marked time any longer, for the next command was: "Fore---ward." Anything would have been preferable from the piston-like movements we had been executing for the previous five minutes, but it was still a painful business to jog around the drill square with a rifle bouncing on your shoulder. I gritted my teeth and bared my lips aggressively, determined that the RSM should see no sign of weakening when I doubled past him for the third time. At last, the torture came to an end when a drill sergeant was given the job of marching us off. Later that morning, the orderly sergeant told me I was on a charge and that I should attend Company Commander's Orders at midday. I asked him what I had done wrong, and he replied: "You'll find out when you get there."
I presented myself to the Company Sergeant Major at noon and was told to line up with two or three others who were waiting to be tried by the Company Commander. Just before I was marched in, I was surprised to see RSM Copp marching in to the office, but I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
Like a bullock entering an abattoir, I was prodded through the open door of the office where the Company Commander sat behind a large desk. "You are charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you did laugh at RSM Copp as he was conducting a drill parade." The languid major in the Rifle Brigade stared at me and continued: "Are you guilty or not guilty of this offence?" I was so surprised that I could not say anything for a few seconds. The thought of laughing at the RSM was preposterous and the only excuse I could make was that he had interpreted my grimace for a grin. "Not guilty," I stuttered. The RSM then gave his evidence and confirmed that I had laughed at him on a number of occasions as the squad doubled around the square. This was pretty damning evidence made worse when the Company Commander asked his next question: "Do you have complete control of your facial muscles?" Wondering if I would be booted out of OCTU if I admitted to being physically impaired, I told him that everything I possessed worked properly. "Seven days confined to barracks," he barked.
The really irksome part of this punishment was having to parade twice every evening in 'field service marching order' (everything a soldier would carry if he was marching in a combat situation). The rifle you drew from the stores (not the same one each time) had to be cleaned (with woodwork slightly oiled). Brass fittings on large and small packs, ammunition pouches, belt, gaiters and hat had to be polished to perfection - the fact that it had all been done the day before, or even once already that evening, was no guarantee that you would satisfy the Orderly Officer who ran a fine-tooth comb over you.
I was on my last day of confinement to barracks when an officer of the 60th Rifles found a trace of blanco dust behind one of my brasses. I was in front of the company commander the following morning and he awarded me another three days CB for being idle on the Orderly Officer's inspection.
I was careful not to laugh, smile or even let a grin cross my face for the rest of the time I was right marker on drill parades. RSM Copp and his team of drill sergeants continued to extract every ounce of effort from us on the square and, by the 19th July 1946 - when our commissioning parade took place, with my parents seated alongside the saluting dais, there was no prouder soldier in the Army than me.
As soon as we were dismissed from the parade ground, we raced back to our billets, removed battle dress trousers and blouses and donned our new bespoke uniforms with one 'pip' on each epaulette. As a special concession, we were allowed to accompany our parents etc. home dressed as officers although our commissions did not become effective until 00.01hrs the following day. It seemed that one officer cadet, a few terms before us, had not heeded that fact. Just as he was leaving Trentham Park for good in his parents' car - with his girl friend by his side, he spied the Regimental Sergeant Major talking to some guests. He got out of the car strolled over and tapped the RSM on his rump with his new silver topped cane and told him what he thought of him and his pack of voracious drill sergeants. If he had waited overnight in nearby Stoke-on-Trent and come back the following day, the RSM and drill sergeants would have had to stand to attention and accept the young subaltern's invective - but he had forgotten the one important detail about the effective date of his commission. Within seconds he was put under arrest, deprived of his service dress, peaked hat, Sam Browne belt - et al, and left to consider his position in the guard room. The following day he was returned to his unit as a private soldier.
Remove Head-Dress
An infantry battalion is the result of much fine tuning which, over the years, has produced a well balanced combat unit. Rifle and support companies reap most of the glamour, but there are others such as storemen, drivers and mess servants who provide essential administrative support. The 'back-up' boys accept their low profile but occasionally a moment occurs when a burst of energy, zeal or inspiration catapults them into the focus of attention.
Such was the case with Private Morris. If World War Two had not been declared in 1939 it is unlikely he would have worn battle-dress but, like many thousands of other young men, he was conscripted to fight in the Army; he joined a territorial battalion of the Welch Regiment and was actively engaged in Northern Europe from D-Day onwards.
Morris was one of the links in the chain at the bottom of the pile but, nevertheless, he performed a vital function by producing a cup of hot, sweet tea for his platoon officer whenever it was needed. His contribution is not recorded in the official account of the Battle for the Reichswald, but those who drank his tea swear that the turbo action of his beverage was the essential ingredient for success.
When the war was won and Morris returned to his home in West Wales, he missed the routine of Army life. By 1947, when Russians had taken the place of Germans as Public Enemy No.1, he returned to his old battalion and became a waiter in the officers' mess.
During the first annual camp for volunteer soldiers after the war, the Commanding Officer received notice that Field Marshal The Viscount Montgomery of Alamein would visit the battalion. Normal training was put on 'hold' while the camp was smartened to perfection.
The great day arrived and the Field Marshal drew up alongside the guard room in his limousine. The quarter guard gave a crisp salute and the Field Marshal inspected them. He visited a platoon of soldiers on the thirty yards range and saw a demonstration of fire-drill before being escorted to the officers' mess for lunch. The CO had been told about Monty’s spartan taste, so the dining table carried some cold chicken legs and a green salad instead of the usual all-in stew and plum-duff pudding. Wine was not served and the officers had been forbidden to smoke in the great man's presence.
As soon as the dessert had been eaten, Monty turned towards the Commanding Officer and said: "What have you got for me to see this afternoon?" The Colonel outlined the programme and the Victor at El Alamein bounded to his feet eager to get started. Aides de camp moved ahead to collect his coat, cane and famous black beret. The overcoat and cane were on the coat rack, but there was no sign of the beret.
"Where's my hat?" snapped the Field Marshal. The Colonel looked vacant, the Second-in-Command bit his finger nails and the Quartermaster occupied himself by writing feverishly on his mill board. "Where's my hat, dammit?" thundered the little man with a lion's heart. It was at this point that Private Morris, still in a state of euphoria after being allowed to serve blancmange to Monty, burst through the throng, grabbed him by the arm and said: "Are you sure you had it on when you came in, Field Marshal?"
Such was the case with Private Morris. If World War Two had not been declared in 1939 it is unlikely he would have worn battle-dress but, like many thousands of other young men, he was conscripted to fight in the Army; he joined a territorial battalion of the Welch Regiment and was actively engaged in Northern Europe from D-Day onwards.
Morris was one of the links in the chain at the bottom of the pile but, nevertheless, he performed a vital function by producing a cup of hot, sweet tea for his platoon officer whenever it was needed. His contribution is not recorded in the official account of the Battle for the Reichswald, but those who drank his tea swear that the turbo action of his beverage was the essential ingredient for success.
When the war was won and Morris returned to his home in West Wales, he missed the routine of Army life. By 1947, when Russians had taken the place of Germans as Public Enemy No.1, he returned to his old battalion and became a waiter in the officers' mess.
During the first annual camp for volunteer soldiers after the war, the Commanding Officer received notice that Field Marshal The Viscount Montgomery of Alamein would visit the battalion. Normal training was put on 'hold' while the camp was smartened to perfection.
The great day arrived and the Field Marshal drew up alongside the guard room in his limousine. The quarter guard gave a crisp salute and the Field Marshal inspected them. He visited a platoon of soldiers on the thirty yards range and saw a demonstration of fire-drill before being escorted to the officers' mess for lunch. The CO had been told about Monty’s spartan taste, so the dining table carried some cold chicken legs and a green salad instead of the usual all-in stew and plum-duff pudding. Wine was not served and the officers had been forbidden to smoke in the great man's presence.
As soon as the dessert had been eaten, Monty turned towards the Commanding Officer and said: "What have you got for me to see this afternoon?" The Colonel outlined the programme and the Victor at El Alamein bounded to his feet eager to get started. Aides de camp moved ahead to collect his coat, cane and famous black beret. The overcoat and cane were on the coat rack, but there was no sign of the beret.
"Where's my hat?" snapped the Field Marshal. The Colonel looked vacant, the Second-in-Command bit his finger nails and the Quartermaster occupied himself by writing feverishly on his mill board. "Where's my hat, dammit?" thundered the little man with a lion's heart. It was at this point that Private Morris, still in a state of euphoria after being allowed to serve blancmange to Monty, burst through the throng, grabbed him by the arm and said: "Are you sure you had it on when you came in, Field Marshal?"
Quick Decision
Morphou, on the north coast of Cyprus, was a hot-bed of Greek Cypriot terrorist activity in the late '50's and was best left alone unless a full scale cordon and search operation was mounted. Unfortunately, the main east/west highway ran through the town and security forces' vehicles travelling on their own were often pelted with rocks thrown by school children. It is fair game to shoot terrorists but taking pot-shots at school kids is not an option. Nevertheless, a hail of well aimed rocks stacked in piles in the playground is a daunting experience for seasoned soldier and young Second Lieutenant Willoughby Pryce-Thomas, recently commissioned, described rock throwing as his 'first taste of serious warfare'.
Having made the mistake of driving past Morphou Secondary School at mid morning break, he was forced to run the gauntlet of a hundred or so young Greeks taking a lesson in 'pelting the enemy'. Rocks thudded against the body work and canvas canopy of the Land Rover but, to the occupants' relief, they emerged unscathed at the far end of the school. Willoughby told the driver to stop while he inspected the damage but, as it was only superficial, he decided to press on.
Just as they were leaving the township for the open country, Willoughby spied a Greek flag flying from a pole on top of a coffee shop. This was a flagrant violation of government regulations and young 2/Lt Pryce-Thomas was not prepared to turn a blind-eye, especially as a group of middle aged Greek Cypriot men were looking belligerently in his direction.
Willoughby ordered the driver to stop alongside the coffee shop and stuck his head out of the window. "Pull that flag down," he ordered. The Greeks muttered among themselves and one of them gave a two fingered salute. "Pull that flag down, I won't tell you again." said Willoughby impatiently, summoning all the authority he could muster. His attempt to restore law and order had no effect on the sullen group so he decided to take more positive action.
He opened the door of the Land Rover with the intention of confronting the coffee drinkers but, in so doing, caught the webbing sling of his sub machine carbine on the door. The sling tightened around the cocking handle of the carbine and a split second later a rattle of gunfire sent cups, saucers, bottles and jugs crashing to the floor. Greek Cypriots crawled over each other in their rush to reach the blue and white flag which their leader on bended knee, offered to Willoughby.
Still shocked by the accidental discharge of his weapon, Willoughby took the flag and hurled it into the back of the Land Rover where it was caught by my batman, who was one of Willoughby's escort. "A smart bit of thinking there, sir," he said in his inimitable Cardiff accent:. "I take my 'at off to you."
Having made the mistake of driving past Morphou Secondary School at mid morning break, he was forced to run the gauntlet of a hundred or so young Greeks taking a lesson in 'pelting the enemy'. Rocks thudded against the body work and canvas canopy of the Land Rover but, to the occupants' relief, they emerged unscathed at the far end of the school. Willoughby told the driver to stop while he inspected the damage but, as it was only superficial, he decided to press on.
Just as they were leaving the township for the open country, Willoughby spied a Greek flag flying from a pole on top of a coffee shop. This was a flagrant violation of government regulations and young 2/Lt Pryce-Thomas was not prepared to turn a blind-eye, especially as a group of middle aged Greek Cypriot men were looking belligerently in his direction.
Willoughby ordered the driver to stop alongside the coffee shop and stuck his head out of the window. "Pull that flag down," he ordered. The Greeks muttered among themselves and one of them gave a two fingered salute. "Pull that flag down, I won't tell you again." said Willoughby impatiently, summoning all the authority he could muster. His attempt to restore law and order had no effect on the sullen group so he decided to take more positive action.
He opened the door of the Land Rover with the intention of confronting the coffee drinkers but, in so doing, caught the webbing sling of his sub machine carbine on the door. The sling tightened around the cocking handle of the carbine and a split second later a rattle of gunfire sent cups, saucers, bottles and jugs crashing to the floor. Greek Cypriots crawled over each other in their rush to reach the blue and white flag which their leader on bended knee, offered to Willoughby.
Still shocked by the accidental discharge of his weapon, Willoughby took the flag and hurled it into the back of the Land Rover where it was caught by my batman, who was one of Willoughby's escort. "A smart bit of thinking there, sir," he said in his inimitable Cardiff accent:. "I take my 'at off to you."
Promotion Prospects
I had been in to see the Adjutant about something or other and was turning to leave when he said: "By the way, you have to sit a promotion exam in six months time." I turned around and said: "I beg your pardon, what did you say about an examination?" He repeated and expanded the unpalatable information by reeling off a list of subjects I would have to study and satisfy the examiners if I wanted to wear three pips on my shoulder. I had already been wearing the badges of rank of a captain for a year and I had not been aware that I would have to pass an examination to keep them. Besides, it was 1951, I was serving in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and killing bandits was the top priority.
There was not much one could do about studying for examinations at that time. We were in a lonely place surrounded by jungle and the only books on military subjects were a few old pamphlets, a manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations which the Adjutant kept in his tent. I discovered that the examination, for which I and three other officers of the battalion had been entered, was the first one to be held in post war years.
Prosecuting the war in Malaya under that most energetic High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, was a full time job for everyone, at least that was our excuse. It was not until we were within two weeks of the examination that the subjects we had to study began to occupy our minds.
With two days to go before E-Day, the four of us boarded the Commanding Officer's 4x4 Humber command vehicle and, escorted by a pair of Ferret scout cars, we set off for Kuala Lumpur. Each of us had been able to get a copy of the manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations. The Adjutant had provided his copies, brigade headquarters had loaned another two sets and a local rubber planter, recently retired from the Army, provided the remainder.
The examination, even after all these years, is a painful memory relieved only by the counter balance of a few nights in the bright lights of the nation's capital city. Our lack of preparation was certainly responsible for much pencil sucking and early orders for cold Tiger beers in the mess. We returned to our unit in a sombre and dejected state convinced we had failed in all subjects.
A few weeks later, we received small brown envelopes which, when opened, informed us that we had failed in all subjects except military law. This was a surprise because just before we were given the military law question papers, we were told that reference books were not allowed. They were collected from our tables and stacked on the dais occupied by the invigilating officer. In one way, it made things easier for us as we could not possibly quote chapters and paragraphs; I remember recommending the death sentence for some of the more tricky questions. However, we congratulated ourselves on not disappearing completely down the plug hole, but learnt a few weeks later that the reason for our limited success was because of the error of the invigilating officer who had deprived us of our books. It seemed that everyone had passed irrespective of how well or badly they had done.
There was another occasion when I was stationed with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Luneberg, Germany in 1956. Along with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Mike Dyer and one or two others I had been entered for the captain to major practical examination to be held in Hameln.
The others went ahead of me and it was not until the early evening that I collected my suitcase and books and boarded an Austin Champ. In those days they did not issue doors for Champs and, as we were well into autumn, it was a cold ride.
I arrived in Hameln at about 9pm and it was not difficult to find the officers' mess where I had been booked to stay; Military Police signs covered every route. Making sure that my driver had a meal and a bunk for the night, I was dropped off at the mess. I was still protected from the cold night air with my British warm overcoat and a huge scarf twisted around my neck three times.
A trio of lieutenant colonels greeted me like a long lost brother. "Good to see you at last," said one. "What would you like to drink?" said another. "A whisky and soda would do very well," I replied. "I'll get your supper fixed," said the third. I really could not have expected more hospitable treatment than I received from those kind fellows and I felt a surge of confidence for the morrow when such splendid directing staff would ease us through our tasks.
With a large whisky in one hand I started to peel off my clothing. As I did so, I became aware of two sets of eyes, both belonging to lieutenant colonels, looking at my epaulettes which carried three pips. The third half-colonel came from the kitchen area and said: "Supper's on the table," then he became absorbed with my badges of rank. Their hospitality vanished in an instant and I was given a chit pad to sign for my drink.
What happened was that they had mistaken me for the fourth member of directing staff who had not arrived. I have always looked older than I am and even as a member of the school combined cadet force, wearing a trench coat, I was often saluted by serving soldiers. It had been fun then, but in Hameln on that cold night in 1956, I became aware of the hazardous situation I had created.
The following morning, we received instructions to assemble at a grid reference about three miles away. I did not notice at the time, but afterwards remembered the casual way officers lingered over their coffee as zero hour for departure approached. As soon as I got up from the table and headed for my Austin Champ, everyone else fell in behind. With a one inch to the mile map on my lap, I led the way out of barracks.
We had not travelled more than 300 yards before we came to an 'umleitung' (diversion) sign. The German use of diversion signs has always amazed me. Wherever you go there are 'umleitungs' - even to the extent of 'umleitung' signs diverting you from 'umleitungs'. It wasn't long before I was completely lost in the back streets of that ancient town, with a huge snake of military vehicles behind me. Those officers who had lingered over their coffee were the first to make unkind remarks about my map reading. Others, who thought their career prospects were in danger, were looking at their watches and going white around the gills.
We finally extricated ourselves from the depths of Hameln and, eventually, like the pied piper, I led the column to the assembly point. Standing there on the cold hillside were four lieutenant colonels, including the one they thought was me the night before. "Where have you been?" said the one who had ordered me a large whisky. I gave a weak excuse about 'umleitungs', but I could see I was extremely unpopular with students and directing staff alike.
I spent a very uncomfortable day expecting low marks, but a few weeks later, one of those familiar small brown envelopes arrived with the good news that I had passed.
I am one of those fellows who turns up for written examinations with the minimum amount of kit ie. one red and one blue ball point pen, one fountain pen, one pencil, a rubber and a ruler. I have never felt that any of my successes, or otherwise, have been due to the tools I have used, but there are others who believe in fortifying themselves with a remarkable array of paraphernalia on their desk tops. Flasks of coffee, slide rules, geometry sets, travelling clocks, coloured inks and crayons, blotters and even slippers, change of sweaters and Beacham's powders are part of the stock in trade of those who take examinations seriously.
One fellow I met in Sennerlager was a lighter traveller than me. He turned up with only a blue biro and a ruler. With about five minutes to go before the starting bell rang, he ambled across to me and said: "Just checking - it was GOLD, JUNO and SWORD from west to east?" I gave him a puzzled look and said: "What are you talking about?" "The beaches in France, of course," he replied. I gave this some thought before asking him why he wanted to know about the beaches where the invasion force landed on D-Day. "So that I can answer the question if it comes up, you dummy," he answered. There were a few moments of panic before I assured myself that I had studied the correct campaign and he had studied the wrong one. I tried not to create a situation where this languid cavalry officer might fall on his sword but, with seconds ticking by, I had to break it to him we were doing 'North Africa'. When this alarming piece of news was confirmed by others around him, I took him across to Duncan Griffiths who had made some pretty little coloured maps on cardboard, rather like tiles on a bathroom wall. With three minutes to go, Duncan did his best to explain what the large curved arrows of troop movements meant. Half an hour after the starting bell rang, I watched him walk out of the room clutching his biro and ruler. He was not in the mess when the rest of us returned for lunch and the mess sergeant told me had seen him throw a suitcase into the back of his car and depart a few hours before.
I must have taken a nose dive on that examination because I found myself with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Norman Salmon and a few others in Tripoli, Libya a year or so later sitting another one.
We had flown from Benghazi where 1/WELCH was stationed and had spent a few days concentrated study in the comfortable officers' mess of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. The four days of the examination was an uncomfortable experience and it was with relief that I inked in the last full stop.
Tripoli, in those days, was a splendid place to be stationed. There were plenty of good hotels, a casino, night clubs and a flourishing nurses' mess. Some of us made use of our time in the city and as soon as darkness fell we called a taxi and sped off to the British Military Hospital and the nurses' mess.
We enjoyed the girls' hospitality for an hour or so and then most of us, with some of the girls, went to one of the excellent restaurants on the sea front. Later that night we did a round of the night clubs and finally got back to our beds as the first rays of dawn were showing in the eastern sky.
I was woken within a short time by a servant with the unwelcome news that the bus would leave for the airport in thirty minutes time. It was easy to see the ones who had been 'clubbing' only a few hours before. They were the ones who could not bear to sit on the seats as the bus lurched through pot holes in the road to King Idris Airport.
I sat glumly in what was called the Airport Lounge, which could easily have been mistaken for an extension of the camel market, until a Cyprus Airways plane landed and we were called forward by the air hostess. She was the daughter of a Nicosia based brigadier and was the only bit of glamour on an otherwise dull airline. "I am sorry to say we are over-booked. I need two volunteers to stay behind until next week," she said. My right arm shot up automatically and I shouted: "Me," just in case there was any competition. I need not have bothered as there were no other takers. "We shall have to draw lots then," she said and proceeded to do something with small pieces of paper in her pretty little hat. When everyone, except me, had taken one it was found that Duncan Griffiths had drawn the piece of paper with a cross on it. I could see from the look on his face that he considered this very bad news, made worse by having to spend a week with me whose nocturnal pursuits were not in line with his own. Besides, it was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take his wife out to dinner that night.
Duncan insisted on waiting until the others were airborne, just in case someone dropped dead at the last minute. It was only when he saw the wheels disappear into their niches in the wings that he accepted the fact that he was marooned in Tripoli. We boarded the bus once more and within an hour I was tucked up in bed.
At about 10am, I was woken by Duncan who had been working on a plan to get back to Benghazi. He told me that it was our duty to try and get back to our unit. "Rather like prisoners-of-war," he said. I told him that I did not feel at all like a prisoner-of-war and, that as far as I was concerned, the enforced stop-over in Tripoli was more like a gift from heaven. He was determined to go ahead with his plan though and when he outlined what he proposed to do, I could see that questions would be asked if I was not with him when he returned to Benghazi.
Phase 1. of Duncan's plan had already been completed while I was asleep. He had telephoned someone at Wheelus Field, a large American Air Force base a few miles outside Tripoli, and asked if there was anything going to Benghazi. He was told that a DC-3 would be flying there that afternoon and if we reported at 2pm, there was a good chance of getting a lift. I must have looked as miserable as Duncan looked a few hours earlier and I was furious that he had scuppered my opportunity to have seven days holiday. I packed my bags again, had lunch and then set off with Duncan in a taxi for Wheelus Field.
The DC-3 was on the runway and we were told to climb aboard. The engines roared and we started to move forward but, instead of gathering speed, we slowed down and stopped. The door of the crew compartment opened and a large gum chewing American with a gold-encrusted baseball cap said: "I hear there are Limeys aboard - and I don't carry Limeys." Duncan and I had been looking out of the window to see why we had stopped and did not pay attention to the first announcement, but someone must have pointed us out to the pilot because he marched down the aisle, confronted us and said: "Are you Limeys?" Both of us were familiar with the expression despite never having been addressed that way before. We nodded assent and without further ceremony the big aggressive American opened the door, pulled down a ladder and said: "Get off!" Summoning as much dignity as we could manage, we collected our bags and descended to the runway. The door clanged shut behind us, engines revved to full power and off went the DC-3 in the direction of Benghazi.
Duncan was anxious to recover his pound of flesh and he set off to get redress from the base commander. But everyone had their heads down and he could not find anyone who would listen to his grievance. Finally, he bowed to the inevitable and we took a taxi back to the Royal Irish Fusiliers barracks.
My fortunes seemed to be changing for the better and it looked as if I was going to get seven days leave in Tripoli after all. To give Duncan his due, he had a few more shots at trying to get back to Benghazi via local oil prospectors' aircraft, but this time he was on his own and was unsuccessful.
A week later, the two of us once again took the bumpy road to King Idris Airport. The Cyprus Airways plane arrived on time from Malta and Duncan gave a big sigh of relief when the air hostess told him she had room for both of us.
There was not much one could do about studying for examinations at that time. We were in a lonely place surrounded by jungle and the only books on military subjects were a few old pamphlets, a manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations which the Adjutant kept in his tent. I discovered that the examination, for which I and three other officers of the battalion had been entered, was the first one to be held in post war years.
Prosecuting the war in Malaya under that most energetic High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, was a full time job for everyone, at least that was our excuse. It was not until we were within two weeks of the examination that the subjects we had to study began to occupy our minds.
With two days to go before E-Day, the four of us boarded the Commanding Officer's 4x4 Humber command vehicle and, escorted by a pair of Ferret scout cars, we set off for Kuala Lumpur. Each of us had been able to get a copy of the manual of military law and a copy of King's Regulations. The Adjutant had provided his copies, brigade headquarters had loaned another two sets and a local rubber planter, recently retired from the Army, provided the remainder.
The examination, even after all these years, is a painful memory relieved only by the counter balance of a few nights in the bright lights of the nation's capital city. Our lack of preparation was certainly responsible for much pencil sucking and early orders for cold Tiger beers in the mess. We returned to our unit in a sombre and dejected state convinced we had failed in all subjects.
A few weeks later, we received small brown envelopes which, when opened, informed us that we had failed in all subjects except military law. This was a surprise because just before we were given the military law question papers, we were told that reference books were not allowed. They were collected from our tables and stacked on the dais occupied by the invigilating officer. In one way, it made things easier for us as we could not possibly quote chapters and paragraphs; I remember recommending the death sentence for some of the more tricky questions. However, we congratulated ourselves on not disappearing completely down the plug hole, but learnt a few weeks later that the reason for our limited success was because of the error of the invigilating officer who had deprived us of our books. It seemed that everyone had passed irrespective of how well or badly they had done.
There was another occasion when I was stationed with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment in Luneberg, Germany in 1956. Along with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Mike Dyer and one or two others I had been entered for the captain to major practical examination to be held in Hameln.
The others went ahead of me and it was not until the early evening that I collected my suitcase and books and boarded an Austin Champ. In those days they did not issue doors for Champs and, as we were well into autumn, it was a cold ride.
I arrived in Hameln at about 9pm and it was not difficult to find the officers' mess where I had been booked to stay; Military Police signs covered every route. Making sure that my driver had a meal and a bunk for the night, I was dropped off at the mess. I was still protected from the cold night air with my British warm overcoat and a huge scarf twisted around my neck three times.
A trio of lieutenant colonels greeted me like a long lost brother. "Good to see you at last," said one. "What would you like to drink?" said another. "A whisky and soda would do very well," I replied. "I'll get your supper fixed," said the third. I really could not have expected more hospitable treatment than I received from those kind fellows and I felt a surge of confidence for the morrow when such splendid directing staff would ease us through our tasks.
With a large whisky in one hand I started to peel off my clothing. As I did so, I became aware of two sets of eyes, both belonging to lieutenant colonels, looking at my epaulettes which carried three pips. The third half-colonel came from the kitchen area and said: "Supper's on the table," then he became absorbed with my badges of rank. Their hospitality vanished in an instant and I was given a chit pad to sign for my drink.
What happened was that they had mistaken me for the fourth member of directing staff who had not arrived. I have always looked older than I am and even as a member of the school combined cadet force, wearing a trench coat, I was often saluted by serving soldiers. It had been fun then, but in Hameln on that cold night in 1956, I became aware of the hazardous situation I had created.
The following morning, we received instructions to assemble at a grid reference about three miles away. I did not notice at the time, but afterwards remembered the casual way officers lingered over their coffee as zero hour for departure approached. As soon as I got up from the table and headed for my Austin Champ, everyone else fell in behind. With a one inch to the mile map on my lap, I led the way out of barracks.
We had not travelled more than 300 yards before we came to an 'umleitung' (diversion) sign. The German use of diversion signs has always amazed me. Wherever you go there are 'umleitungs' - even to the extent of 'umleitung' signs diverting you from 'umleitungs'. It wasn't long before I was completely lost in the back streets of that ancient town, with a huge snake of military vehicles behind me. Those officers who had lingered over their coffee were the first to make unkind remarks about my map reading. Others, who thought their career prospects were in danger, were looking at their watches and going white around the gills.
We finally extricated ourselves from the depths of Hameln and, eventually, like the pied piper, I led the column to the assembly point. Standing there on the cold hillside were four lieutenant colonels, including the one they thought was me the night before. "Where have you been?" said the one who had ordered me a large whisky. I gave a weak excuse about 'umleitungs', but I could see I was extremely unpopular with students and directing staff alike.
I spent a very uncomfortable day expecting low marks, but a few weeks later, one of those familiar small brown envelopes arrived with the good news that I had passed.
I am one of those fellows who turns up for written examinations with the minimum amount of kit ie. one red and one blue ball point pen, one fountain pen, one pencil, a rubber and a ruler. I have never felt that any of my successes, or otherwise, have been due to the tools I have used, but there are others who believe in fortifying themselves with a remarkable array of paraphernalia on their desk tops. Flasks of coffee, slide rules, geometry sets, travelling clocks, coloured inks and crayons, blotters and even slippers, change of sweaters and Beacham's powders are part of the stock in trade of those who take examinations seriously.
One fellow I met in Sennerlager was a lighter traveller than me. He turned up with only a blue biro and a ruler. With about five minutes to go before the starting bell rang, he ambled across to me and said: "Just checking - it was GOLD, JUNO and SWORD from west to east?" I gave him a puzzled look and said: "What are you talking about?" "The beaches in France, of course," he replied. I gave this some thought before asking him why he wanted to know about the beaches where the invasion force landed on D-Day. "So that I can answer the question if it comes up, you dummy," he answered. There were a few moments of panic before I assured myself that I had studied the correct campaign and he had studied the wrong one. I tried not to create a situation where this languid cavalry officer might fall on his sword but, with seconds ticking by, I had to break it to him we were doing 'North Africa'. When this alarming piece of news was confirmed by others around him, I took him across to Duncan Griffiths who had made some pretty little coloured maps on cardboard, rather like tiles on a bathroom wall. With three minutes to go, Duncan did his best to explain what the large curved arrows of troop movements meant. Half an hour after the starting bell rang, I watched him walk out of the room clutching his biro and ruler. He was not in the mess when the rest of us returned for lunch and the mess sergeant told me had seen him throw a suitcase into the back of his car and depart a few hours before.
I must have taken a nose dive on that examination because I found myself with Duncan Griffiths, Ian Mennell, Norman Salmon and a few others in Tripoli, Libya a year or so later sitting another one.
We had flown from Benghazi where 1/WELCH was stationed and had spent a few days concentrated study in the comfortable officers' mess of the Royal Irish Fusiliers. The four days of the examination was an uncomfortable experience and it was with relief that I inked in the last full stop.
Tripoli, in those days, was a splendid place to be stationed. There were plenty of good hotels, a casino, night clubs and a flourishing nurses' mess. Some of us made use of our time in the city and as soon as darkness fell we called a taxi and sped off to the British Military Hospital and the nurses' mess.
We enjoyed the girls' hospitality for an hour or so and then most of us, with some of the girls, went to one of the excellent restaurants on the sea front. Later that night we did a round of the night clubs and finally got back to our beds as the first rays of dawn were showing in the eastern sky.
I was woken within a short time by a servant with the unwelcome news that the bus would leave for the airport in thirty minutes time. It was easy to see the ones who had been 'clubbing' only a few hours before. They were the ones who could not bear to sit on the seats as the bus lurched through pot holes in the road to King Idris Airport.
I sat glumly in what was called the Airport Lounge, which could easily have been mistaken for an extension of the camel market, until a Cyprus Airways plane landed and we were called forward by the air hostess. She was the daughter of a Nicosia based brigadier and was the only bit of glamour on an otherwise dull airline. "I am sorry to say we are over-booked. I need two volunteers to stay behind until next week," she said. My right arm shot up automatically and I shouted: "Me," just in case there was any competition. I need not have bothered as there were no other takers. "We shall have to draw lots then," she said and proceeded to do something with small pieces of paper in her pretty little hat. When everyone, except me, had taken one it was found that Duncan Griffiths had drawn the piece of paper with a cross on it. I could see from the look on his face that he considered this very bad news, made worse by having to spend a week with me whose nocturnal pursuits were not in line with his own. Besides, it was his wife’s birthday and he wanted to take his wife out to dinner that night.
Duncan insisted on waiting until the others were airborne, just in case someone dropped dead at the last minute. It was only when he saw the wheels disappear into their niches in the wings that he accepted the fact that he was marooned in Tripoli. We boarded the bus once more and within an hour I was tucked up in bed.
At about 10am, I was woken by Duncan who had been working on a plan to get back to Benghazi. He told me that it was our duty to try and get back to our unit. "Rather like prisoners-of-war," he said. I told him that I did not feel at all like a prisoner-of-war and, that as far as I was concerned, the enforced stop-over in Tripoli was more like a gift from heaven. He was determined to go ahead with his plan though and when he outlined what he proposed to do, I could see that questions would be asked if I was not with him when he returned to Benghazi.
Phase 1. of Duncan's plan had already been completed while I was asleep. He had telephoned someone at Wheelus Field, a large American Air Force base a few miles outside Tripoli, and asked if there was anything going to Benghazi. He was told that a DC-3 would be flying there that afternoon and if we reported at 2pm, there was a good chance of getting a lift. I must have looked as miserable as Duncan looked a few hours earlier and I was furious that he had scuppered my opportunity to have seven days holiday. I packed my bags again, had lunch and then set off with Duncan in a taxi for Wheelus Field.
The DC-3 was on the runway and we were told to climb aboard. The engines roared and we started to move forward but, instead of gathering speed, we slowed down and stopped. The door of the crew compartment opened and a large gum chewing American with a gold-encrusted baseball cap said: "I hear there are Limeys aboard - and I don't carry Limeys." Duncan and I had been looking out of the window to see why we had stopped and did not pay attention to the first announcement, but someone must have pointed us out to the pilot because he marched down the aisle, confronted us and said: "Are you Limeys?" Both of us were familiar with the expression despite never having been addressed that way before. We nodded assent and without further ceremony the big aggressive American opened the door, pulled down a ladder and said: "Get off!" Summoning as much dignity as we could manage, we collected our bags and descended to the runway. The door clanged shut behind us, engines revved to full power and off went the DC-3 in the direction of Benghazi.
Duncan was anxious to recover his pound of flesh and he set off to get redress from the base commander. But everyone had their heads down and he could not find anyone who would listen to his grievance. Finally, he bowed to the inevitable and we took a taxi back to the Royal Irish Fusiliers barracks.
My fortunes seemed to be changing for the better and it looked as if I was going to get seven days leave in Tripoli after all. To give Duncan his due, he had a few more shots at trying to get back to Benghazi via local oil prospectors' aircraft, but this time he was on his own and was unsuccessful.
A week later, the two of us once again took the bumpy road to King Idris Airport. The Cyprus Airways plane arrived on time from Malta and Duncan gave a big sigh of relief when the air hostess told him she had room for both of us.
On a Wing and a Prayer
It was the pigeon loft under which I lived for a week in a deserted Italian house in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950 that gave me the idea of using an alternative means of communication to my wireless sets. As signals officer of my unit I was always being chased by the commanding officer for the shortcomings of the radios. There was very little I could do about it. I didn't really understand how they worked and my efforts to repair them when they went wrong usually made them worse.
We had been garrisoning a scruffy little village on the outskirts of Asmara after a Muslim fanatic tossed a bomb into a Coptic Christian funeral procession. The effect was like putting a thunderflash into a wasps' nest and the battalion had been hard pressed to find enough men to keep the two communities from slaughtering each other.
When we eventually moved back to barracks, I thought about the pigeons in the loft of the house we had used and I spoke to my signals sergeant about catching some of the birds and training them as message carriers. He was interested in the idea and, as we had reached rock bottom in communications efficiency, he thought we should give it a try. When I decided to go ahead with the project, there was no shortage of helpers from the signals platoon. Within a few days, a loft of generous proportions was constructed half way up a water tower behind the signals store.
When everything was ready, a few of us went back one evening to the deserted house armed with a pair of crook-sticks (for lifting telephone cable over trees etc.), a mosquito net, a ladder and a wicker basket. We lifted the mosquito net over the loft with the crook-sticks and then I climbed up the ladder under the net. I gently explored the inside of the loft with my hands until I found a bird. As soon as I closed my fingers around its body there was pandemonium and I was quite unprepared for the rush to escape. Pigeons can work up a fair head of steam in a small space and I was pounded on all sides by birds whose only thought was to get away from me and the confines of the mosquito net. More for self protection than trying to catch pigeons, I found that my hands were full all the time. All I had to do was pass them down to a signaller who put them straight into the basket. Within a short time we had as many birds as we wanted, had loaded them into a jeep and were heading back to camp. We put them directly into the loft where an ample supply of food was available to make them feel at home.
I managed to get hold of an old Army pamphlet on pigeon management and I learnt that new birds must be kept in the loft for seven days and fed every day just before dusk. On the eighth day, the birds should be let out just before feeding time so that they can have some exercise and then return for their food. Thereafter, they should stay quite happily in the loft and should return from considerable distances.
For the next seven days the fifteen or so birds ate a considerable amount of food and some of the more mature birds put on so much weight that I wondered if the exit from the loft was big enough to let them out. On the evening of the eighth day, the entire signals platoon turned out to see what would happen. I climbed up the ladder on the water tower, opened the door of the loft and stood back. There was a pause before the first bird came forward to have a look around. He spread his wings and flew up into the evening sky. That was the signal for the others to take-off as well. We never saw them again.
All was not lost. When I looked inside the loft, I could see some birds huddled in a corner. I left the door open hoping that the mature birds would return, while some of the youngsters stuck their heads out and vainly flapped their wings.. They were too young to fly and knowing their capabilities, went back inside and ate the food I had put down for them. After another week, they plucked up courage to jump off the water tower and it was a delight to watch them as they exercised in their new found freedom.
For the first couple of days, they were content to stay near the loft and then they became adventurous and went off to explore one of the fine legacies which the Italians had left to their former colony - the aerial ropeway. This engineering marvel, which ran near the camp perimeter, was designed to carry coal in large steel buckets from the seaport of Massawa up and over the spectacular mountain range to Asmara, eighty miles away and eight thousand feet above sea level. It had not been used commercially for a long time, but once a week someone pressed a button and the whole one hundred and sixty miles of ropeway creaked into action and ran for about half an hour. My pigeons used to sit on the wire, when it wasn't moving, and as it was so well oiled, they all developed little black backsides - by which they could be recognised.
The birds became quite tame as they were fed on food not readily available to less privileged birds in Eritrea. The cook sergeant kept me well supplied with dried peas and lentils and they soon developed into fine plump birds.
When I considered that they were old enough to do some serious work, I took them for flights in multiples of half mile distances. Before long, they were finding their way home from twenty miles away.
The commanding officer who up till now had had doubts about my signalling skills, started to show interest. I explained the reason for the large packing case half way up the tower and the system of string and pulley that ran from the signal office to a spring-loaded door on the front of the loft. The routine worked like this: (1) Pigeon lands on platform in front of closed door. (2) Platform depressed and rings bell in office. (3) Signals clerk pulls lever and opens door to loft. (4) Pigeon hops inside. (5) Signals clerk relaxes lever and closes door. (6) Signals clerk climbs ladder, catches pigeon and recovers message. It was very impressive and the CO was pleased with what promised to be a great leap forward in communication technology. From the look on his face, I believe he had a vision of pigeons winging their way around Eritrea on a sort of aerial milk-run.
This fantasy could never get off the ground for two reasons. First - pigeons can only fly in one direction; you have to take them to a distant point and then let them fly back home. Second - hawks. Eritrea abounds with all manner of birds of prey whose favourite food is pigeon. The chance of a pigeon travelling on His Majesty's service over the sort of terrain found near Asmara without being seen by a hungry carnivore was fairly slim; in the early days of my pigeon post I lost quite a few birds. A serious impediment to their mobility was the message, in a plastic bag, strapped around its leg with an elastic band. When attacked by a hawk, the poor bird must have felt like a Spitfire with its wheels down being chased by a Messerschmitt 109.
There was also the problem of transporting the birds. They never took kindly to being stuffed into cardboard boxes and being bounced around on a mule or the back seat of a jeep. I suspect that some of my signallers felt sorry for them and released them prematurely.
One day, the CO told me that he and the brigadier were going to visit one of the detachments about forty miles away on the road to Keren and that this would be a good opportunity for the brigadier to see the pigeon post in action. My most trustworthy bird was a snowy white female (marred only by a black ring on her bottom). She was placed in one of the specially prepared cardboard boxes and handed over to the intelligence sergeant who was detailed to accompany the party.
When they arrived at the detachment, the intelligence sergeant set about preparing a message to say they had arrived and would be returning in about one and a half hours time. The CO casually told the brigadier about the contents of the cardboard box and the old boy was fascinated as he watched the procedure with the plastic bag and the rubber band. "How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen this done since I was a subaltern just after the Great War. Does it work?" "Oh, yes, sir," said the sergeant, "she'll be back in Asmara in about twenty minutes." He then released the bird.
The pigeon flew up to about one hundred feet and made a number of large circular passes over the camp. "Just getting her bearings," said the colonel, "she'll be off next time around, I expect." His expectations of her flying back to Asmara were wrong. Instead, she set a southerly course and disappeared from view when she reached a range of barren hills. "She'll end up in Addis Ababa if she goes that way," grunted the brigadier, and with a motion to the colonel that he wanted to start work on more serious matters, he stomped off.
About twenty minutes later, the party were striding around the perimeter fence when a solitary white bird flew in from the south and settled on a thorn tree next to the cook house. "Isn't that your bird, Johnny?" asked the brigadier. Unless there was another white bird in Africa with a plastic bag tied around its leg, it was fair to assume this one was a member of the signals platoon of the South Wales Borderers. "Uh, yes, sir, I believe it is," said the colonel, who by now had had enough of my pigeon and wished it would fly off anywhere and not come back. The brigadier then took over. He grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it at the bird. Pigeons are sensitive creatures and they value their long association with man. This unfriendly act by a senior officer who should have known better could have destroyed the trust I had built up over a number of weeks. As the old boy was a good shot and was bending over to collect a second handful of gravel, the bird did not wait for another salvo and flew off once again in the direction of Ethiopia.
The inspection came to an end during the late afternoon and after a cup of tea in the detachment commander's tent, the party embarked in their vehicles and set off for Asmara.
Meanwhile, I was standing outside the signals office scanning the sky for my pigeon. I realised that something had gone wrong because, for once, wirelss communications were working reasonably well. I had been given a running commentary by one of the signallers who had watched the antics of the brigadier and the reluctant pigeon. I was also given the time he had left the outpost and I knew within quarter of an hour or so, when the party would arrive in camp. I also had a pretty good idea what the CO would say if I was not in possession of the pigeon post message.
From where I was in my observation post, I could see the main gate and my heart sank when I saw three vehicles approaching. The provost sergeant and a few regimental policemen tumbled out of the guard room and saluted the brigadier's jeep as it passed them and headed in the direction of the officers' mess. "Well. that's it," I said to myself. "It's only a matter of time before my birds get the order of the stock-pot." With this dismal thought in mind, I decided to slink off to my quarters and bury my head. But just then, a flash of white appeared over the roof of the signals office and, as I looked up, I saw my beautiful white bird banking in fast flight around the water tower. The signals clerk was alerted by my whoops of joy and a few seconds later I heard the bell ring as the pigeon landed on the platform. It was working like magic, the ringing stopped when the bird went inside and then the clerk pulled the lever to stop her getting out. I sprinted across to the water tower and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. I opened the door and gently removed the mesage from her leg before free-falling down the ladder in my haste to get a date/time stamp on the small piece of paper.
I felt I could face the commanding officer and the brigadier with confidence, so I made my way over to the officers' mess. It turned out better than I had hoped, for on my way to the mess I met the colonel and the brigadier on their way to see me. The CO was looking sick as he had had enough of me, my pigeon and the brigadier. "Did your bird turn up?" asked the old boy. My answer was to hold up the piece of paper. He chuckled, slapped me on my back and told me how much he appreciated initiative. I glanced across at the commanding officer who was staring at the message in disbelief. Eventually, but only after he had submitted the message to intense scrutiny, a grin spread over his face as he handed it back to me.
From that moment, and for some considerable time after, I held the position of 'most favoured subaltern'. It seemed I could do no wrong and, to add coals to an already healthy fire, the brigadier asked me to address the joint operations planning committee on the subject of 'communications in a hostile environment'.
Eritrea is still a wild and lawless country and, as yet, there is no hope of it finding a slot on the tourist route. It will happen one day though and, who knows, the aerial ropeway may come into its own again. If you ever visit one of the most remarkable capital cities in the world and take a ride on a cable car, look out for some snowy white pigeons with black backsides - they could be regimental property.
We had been garrisoning a scruffy little village on the outskirts of Asmara after a Muslim fanatic tossed a bomb into a Coptic Christian funeral procession. The effect was like putting a thunderflash into a wasps' nest and the battalion had been hard pressed to find enough men to keep the two communities from slaughtering each other.
When we eventually moved back to barracks, I thought about the pigeons in the loft of the house we had used and I spoke to my signals sergeant about catching some of the birds and training them as message carriers. He was interested in the idea and, as we had reached rock bottom in communications efficiency, he thought we should give it a try. When I decided to go ahead with the project, there was no shortage of helpers from the signals platoon. Within a few days, a loft of generous proportions was constructed half way up a water tower behind the signals store.
When everything was ready, a few of us went back one evening to the deserted house armed with a pair of crook-sticks (for lifting telephone cable over trees etc.), a mosquito net, a ladder and a wicker basket. We lifted the mosquito net over the loft with the crook-sticks and then I climbed up the ladder under the net. I gently explored the inside of the loft with my hands until I found a bird. As soon as I closed my fingers around its body there was pandemonium and I was quite unprepared for the rush to escape. Pigeons can work up a fair head of steam in a small space and I was pounded on all sides by birds whose only thought was to get away from me and the confines of the mosquito net. More for self protection than trying to catch pigeons, I found that my hands were full all the time. All I had to do was pass them down to a signaller who put them straight into the basket. Within a short time we had as many birds as we wanted, had loaded them into a jeep and were heading back to camp. We put them directly into the loft where an ample supply of food was available to make them feel at home.
I managed to get hold of an old Army pamphlet on pigeon management and I learnt that new birds must be kept in the loft for seven days and fed every day just before dusk. On the eighth day, the birds should be let out just before feeding time so that they can have some exercise and then return for their food. Thereafter, they should stay quite happily in the loft and should return from considerable distances.
For the next seven days the fifteen or so birds ate a considerable amount of food and some of the more mature birds put on so much weight that I wondered if the exit from the loft was big enough to let them out. On the evening of the eighth day, the entire signals platoon turned out to see what would happen. I climbed up the ladder on the water tower, opened the door of the loft and stood back. There was a pause before the first bird came forward to have a look around. He spread his wings and flew up into the evening sky. That was the signal for the others to take-off as well. We never saw them again.
All was not lost. When I looked inside the loft, I could see some birds huddled in a corner. I left the door open hoping that the mature birds would return, while some of the youngsters stuck their heads out and vainly flapped their wings.. They were too young to fly and knowing their capabilities, went back inside and ate the food I had put down for them. After another week, they plucked up courage to jump off the water tower and it was a delight to watch them as they exercised in their new found freedom.
For the first couple of days, they were content to stay near the loft and then they became adventurous and went off to explore one of the fine legacies which the Italians had left to their former colony - the aerial ropeway. This engineering marvel, which ran near the camp perimeter, was designed to carry coal in large steel buckets from the seaport of Massawa up and over the spectacular mountain range to Asmara, eighty miles away and eight thousand feet above sea level. It had not been used commercially for a long time, but once a week someone pressed a button and the whole one hundred and sixty miles of ropeway creaked into action and ran for about half an hour. My pigeons used to sit on the wire, when it wasn't moving, and as it was so well oiled, they all developed little black backsides - by which they could be recognised.
The birds became quite tame as they were fed on food not readily available to less privileged birds in Eritrea. The cook sergeant kept me well supplied with dried peas and lentils and they soon developed into fine plump birds.
When I considered that they were old enough to do some serious work, I took them for flights in multiples of half mile distances. Before long, they were finding their way home from twenty miles away.
The commanding officer who up till now had had doubts about my signalling skills, started to show interest. I explained the reason for the large packing case half way up the tower and the system of string and pulley that ran from the signal office to a spring-loaded door on the front of the loft. The routine worked like this: (1) Pigeon lands on platform in front of closed door. (2) Platform depressed and rings bell in office. (3) Signals clerk pulls lever and opens door to loft. (4) Pigeon hops inside. (5) Signals clerk relaxes lever and closes door. (6) Signals clerk climbs ladder, catches pigeon and recovers message. It was very impressive and the CO was pleased with what promised to be a great leap forward in communication technology. From the look on his face, I believe he had a vision of pigeons winging their way around Eritrea on a sort of aerial milk-run.
This fantasy could never get off the ground for two reasons. First - pigeons can only fly in one direction; you have to take them to a distant point and then let them fly back home. Second - hawks. Eritrea abounds with all manner of birds of prey whose favourite food is pigeon. The chance of a pigeon travelling on His Majesty's service over the sort of terrain found near Asmara without being seen by a hungry carnivore was fairly slim; in the early days of my pigeon post I lost quite a few birds. A serious impediment to their mobility was the message, in a plastic bag, strapped around its leg with an elastic band. When attacked by a hawk, the poor bird must have felt like a Spitfire with its wheels down being chased by a Messerschmitt 109.
There was also the problem of transporting the birds. They never took kindly to being stuffed into cardboard boxes and being bounced around on a mule or the back seat of a jeep. I suspect that some of my signallers felt sorry for them and released them prematurely.
One day, the CO told me that he and the brigadier were going to visit one of the detachments about forty miles away on the road to Keren and that this would be a good opportunity for the brigadier to see the pigeon post in action. My most trustworthy bird was a snowy white female (marred only by a black ring on her bottom). She was placed in one of the specially prepared cardboard boxes and handed over to the intelligence sergeant who was detailed to accompany the party.
When they arrived at the detachment, the intelligence sergeant set about preparing a message to say they had arrived and would be returning in about one and a half hours time. The CO casually told the brigadier about the contents of the cardboard box and the old boy was fascinated as he watched the procedure with the plastic bag and the rubber band. "How remarkable!" he exclaimed. "I haven't seen this done since I was a subaltern just after the Great War. Does it work?" "Oh, yes, sir," said the sergeant, "she'll be back in Asmara in about twenty minutes." He then released the bird.
The pigeon flew up to about one hundred feet and made a number of large circular passes over the camp. "Just getting her bearings," said the colonel, "she'll be off next time around, I expect." His expectations of her flying back to Asmara were wrong. Instead, she set a southerly course and disappeared from view when she reached a range of barren hills. "She'll end up in Addis Ababa if she goes that way," grunted the brigadier, and with a motion to the colonel that he wanted to start work on more serious matters, he stomped off.
About twenty minutes later, the party were striding around the perimeter fence when a solitary white bird flew in from the south and settled on a thorn tree next to the cook house. "Isn't that your bird, Johnny?" asked the brigadier. Unless there was another white bird in Africa with a plastic bag tied around its leg, it was fair to assume this one was a member of the signals platoon of the South Wales Borderers. "Uh, yes, sir, I believe it is," said the colonel, who by now had had enough of my pigeon and wished it would fly off anywhere and not come back. The brigadier then took over. He grabbed a handful of gravel and hurled it at the bird. Pigeons are sensitive creatures and they value their long association with man. This unfriendly act by a senior officer who should have known better could have destroyed the trust I had built up over a number of weeks. As the old boy was a good shot and was bending over to collect a second handful of gravel, the bird did not wait for another salvo and flew off once again in the direction of Ethiopia.
The inspection came to an end during the late afternoon and after a cup of tea in the detachment commander's tent, the party embarked in their vehicles and set off for Asmara.
Meanwhile, I was standing outside the signals office scanning the sky for my pigeon. I realised that something had gone wrong because, for once, wirelss communications were working reasonably well. I had been given a running commentary by one of the signallers who had watched the antics of the brigadier and the reluctant pigeon. I was also given the time he had left the outpost and I knew within quarter of an hour or so, when the party would arrive in camp. I also had a pretty good idea what the CO would say if I was not in possession of the pigeon post message.
From where I was in my observation post, I could see the main gate and my heart sank when I saw three vehicles approaching. The provost sergeant and a few regimental policemen tumbled out of the guard room and saluted the brigadier's jeep as it passed them and headed in the direction of the officers' mess. "Well. that's it," I said to myself. "It's only a matter of time before my birds get the order of the stock-pot." With this dismal thought in mind, I decided to slink off to my quarters and bury my head. But just then, a flash of white appeared over the roof of the signals office and, as I looked up, I saw my beautiful white bird banking in fast flight around the water tower. The signals clerk was alerted by my whoops of joy and a few seconds later I heard the bell ring as the pigeon landed on the platform. It was working like magic, the ringing stopped when the bird went inside and then the clerk pulled the lever to stop her getting out. I sprinted across to the water tower and climbed the ladder two rungs at a time. I opened the door and gently removed the mesage from her leg before free-falling down the ladder in my haste to get a date/time stamp on the small piece of paper.
I felt I could face the commanding officer and the brigadier with confidence, so I made my way over to the officers' mess. It turned out better than I had hoped, for on my way to the mess I met the colonel and the brigadier on their way to see me. The CO was looking sick as he had had enough of me, my pigeon and the brigadier. "Did your bird turn up?" asked the old boy. My answer was to hold up the piece of paper. He chuckled, slapped me on my back and told me how much he appreciated initiative. I glanced across at the commanding officer who was staring at the message in disbelief. Eventually, but only after he had submitted the message to intense scrutiny, a grin spread over his face as he handed it back to me.
From that moment, and for some considerable time after, I held the position of 'most favoured subaltern'. It seemed I could do no wrong and, to add coals to an already healthy fire, the brigadier asked me to address the joint operations planning committee on the subject of 'communications in a hostile environment'.
Eritrea is still a wild and lawless country and, as yet, there is no hope of it finding a slot on the tourist route. It will happen one day though and, who knows, the aerial ropeway may come into its own again. If you ever visit one of the most remarkable capital cities in the world and take a ride on a cable car, look out for some snowy white pigeons with black backsides - they could be regimental property.
On a Hot Tin Roof
This is the last of the trilogy of misfortunes I experienced as a unit fire officer. For many years the trauma of these embarrassing events made me push the memories into the deepest recesses of my mind, but now that I'm old and grey, I can appreciate the hilarious situations I created.
In 1959 I slipped a disc playing polo in Benghazi. I spent several months in hospital before I was discharged and given a sedentary job in the Welsh Brigade Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales. My position on the staff roll was Second-in-Command headquarter company but, in fact, I was a 'factotum' with a string of other jobs - one of which was unit fire officer. Those in authority obviously had not heard of the reputation I had gained while serving in Africa.
The army camp in Crickhowell was being modernised when I arrived. Pre-fabricated walls, flat roofs and lots of glass was a new concept as most of the barracks in the country were relics from the Victorian era. There was still evidence of war-time use of the camp in the shape of some old wooden huts; it was there that I decided to hold my first fire practice.
To create realism, the Quartermaster gave me three smoke canisters, each about the size of a five litre can of paint. I set these down among a group of huts, lit the fuses and within a few seconds a dense cloud of smoke drifted across the playing fields to the A40 which runs parallel to the southern boundary of the camp; traffic was unable to proceed until the canisters became exhausted ten minutes later. The village constable from Crickhowell arrived on his bicycle (no panda cars in those days) just in time to start the traffic moving again.
Meanwhile, the response from within the camp was disappointing. A platoon of soldiers marched down the road only a hundred yards away from where I was positioned, without turning their heads. The camp gardener was the only one to show any initiative; it was he who drew the attention of the provost sergeant to the mass of smoke emanating from the area of the wooden huts. At last, the regimental police came puffing along the road with the wheeled contraption which carried lengths of canvas hose. When they had been coupled together, the order: 'Water on!' was given. I pressed the button on my stop-watch when water spat from the nozzle and was not at all pleased with the time taken to get into action. It was obvious the whole system needed reviewing.
I was busy scribbling notes on my mill-board when soldiers appeared carrying red fire buckets and stirrup pumps. Water came from all directions and, as I seemed to be in the middle of the deluge, I shouted: "OK, that'll do, it's only a practice." The provost sergeant caught hold of me by the shoulder, spun me around and said: "Practice, indeed, sir. Just look at the roof of that hut." It was not until I had turned a half circle that I saw we had a real fire on our hands. The smoke canisters, which I had never used before, emitted balls of fire, rather like Roman candles on Guy Fawkes night. While most fell harmlessly to the ground from two or three feet, a few of them went higher and some had actually landed on the tarred felt roof of the hut where I had concealed myself; a substantial fire had taken hold and was blazing away merrily. The emphasis then switched to some real fire fighting which was only partially successful as the hut became a write-off. I comforted myself with the thought that those huts were due to be demolished anyway and made the suggestion in the mess at lunch time that I should set fire to the remainder. The offer was not accepted and it looked as if I had blotted my copy book with yet another commanding officer.
A week before I was married in August 1960, I decided to hold a fire practice in the area of the quartermaster's stores which, in those days, comprised a collection of large Nissen huts with corrugated iron roofs at the far (Crickhowell) end of the camp. The bugler sounded 'Fire Call' this time and the fire (not a real one) was supposed to be in the accommodation stores. The provost staff trundled the two wheeled hose truck down the road to the quartermaster's stores and, on this occasion, earned bonus marks for doing it in good time. The water, when it trickled through the nozzle, lacked pressure to carry it very far and I subsequently found this was due to numerous punctures in the canvas lengths of hose. This might have been beneficial for grass and herbaceous borders but did nothing for putting out a fire - had there been a proper one. After the bugler had blown 'Stand Down', I marked each puncture with coloured chalk and ordered the provost sergeant to exchange the faulty lengths of hose for new ones. Having assured myself that the Welsh Brigade Depot was fire-proof, I threw a suitcase of kit into my car and went off to London to get married.
My wife and I spent our honeymoon in the West Country. One day as we were driving along the North Devon coast, I switched on the car radio just in time to hear the BBC Radio Wales newscaster (just across the channel) read the funny bit at the end: "A fire took place last night in an Army camp in South Wales," he said. He then went on to specify the name of the camp and the location of the fire, which was the camp cinema. He could hardly contain his mirth when he delivered the punch-line: "The place was completely gutted and guess what? - they were playing Tennessee William's film, 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. From that moment, my honeymoon was ruined. Torrential rain did not help and after a week of being mesmerised by non-stop windscreen wipers, we decided to call it a day and head for Brecon where we had been allotted a quarter. A phone call to the Adjutant when we arrived, confirmed that the camp cinema had been burnt down and, said the Adjutant: "The CO wants to see you as soon as you return from leave."
The Board of Inquiry pronounced its findings before I reported for duty: 'There was insufficient hose to allow water from the nearest hydrant to reach the camp cinema' I was at a loss to understand how this could have happened until the Commanding Officer reminded me that I had given an order to the provost sergeant to withdraw all hoses that were punctured. I told him that the operative word was EXCHANGE, not WITHDRAW - but that didn't do me any good. The CO fixed me with a cold look and said: "Did you check that the exchange had taken place?" "No, sir, I did not. I left for London the following day to get married." It is only recently that the Army has admitted that wives have a place in its structure. In the old days, they were described as 'camp followers' and there are still some traditionalists who would like to keep it that way. The florid faced lieutenant colonel who was beating his table top with clenched fists was obviously in that category. "Because you put your wedding first and fire precautions second," he stormed, "we now find ourselves without a cinema. Do you realise I've had to lay on trucks to take soldiers into Abergavenny twice a week, while you've been swanning around the West Country?"
This was like a re-run of the time I appeared before the Second-in-Command of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Eritrea. Then, I had to account for the failure of my signals despatch service to collect and deliver the mail on time and landed myself in deep trouble after pleading I had been 80 miles away. I should have known better on both occasions; the buck stops with the officer - even if he is on his honeymoon.
I hoped the Commanding Officer would release me from this onerous duty which I had been saddled with, off and on, for quite a few years. This did not happen. Instead, I was told the fire adviser of Western Command would carry out a fire inspection of the camp in two weeks time. "You'd better make sure that everything is in order by the time he arrives," said the Colonel menacingly. I made good use of the time in hand and by the day of the visit, I was confident that everything was in order.
At exactly 10.00 hrs on the day of the inspection, the fire adviser from Army HQ in Chester was ushered into my office by the Company Sergeant Major. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I enquired. "No, thank you," he replied. "I think we should start the inspection at once, I'm one minute late already." His response to my friendly overture warned me that this pernickety servant of the Army Fire Service could cause trouble if he was not handled carefully.
Before the inspection started at the east (Glangrwyney) end of the camp, Inspector Shorthouse (a name that lends itself to some amusing permutations) told me he had parked his car just off the main road in the camp. "I hope I'm not breaking any rules leaving it there," he said, pointing in the direction of the chapel. I assured him that it was in order to park his car anywhere he liked (it would be another ten years before the IRA started their campaign for 'home rule' in Northern Ireland, and car bombs were unknown).
We started in the Junior Soldiers' Wing and worked our way through every building until we were almost back to where we started. Inspector Shorthouse was appalled by everything he saw. "Just ready to burst into flames," was his invariable comment followed by much sucking of teeth as he made notes on his mill board. On one occasion, I asked him: "How could this place burn down - it's all concrete?" "Heat anything hot enough and it will burn - even concrete, have you never heard of spontaneous combustion?" was his terse reply and I saw him write some more notes which I felt sure were comments about my frivolous attitude towards fire precautions.
We were heading back to my office after the most uncomfortable couple of hours I had spent for a long time, when Inspector Shorthouse gave a yelp and ran up the road ahead of me. It was then that I saw a car parked alongside the camp incinerator, and realised it was his. Anyone with a modicum of common sense should have known that a brick built oven-like structure with a chimney stuck on the top was used for burning or cooking things. The camp gardener had just emptied a wheel-barrow full of grass and leaves into it and the swirling smoke enveloped the fire adviser's small Ford Popular saloon. Shorthouse disappeared into the smoke and a few seconds later the car shot out as if it had been fired by a mighty cannon. It did not appear to have suffered any damage, but for someone whose sole function in life was to prevent fires, he was taking no chances. When I caught up with him, he was squirting foam from a hand held fire extinguisher all over the engine. When that ran out, he took another one out of the car and sprayed under the chassis. When he was satisfied that his car was not going to blow up, he slumped to the ground and mopped his brow.
There have been a number of occasions in my life when my 'fairy god-mother' has come to my rescue, and this was one of them. "You had a close shave there, didn't you?" I observed. "Wait until the Commanding Officer hears about this. He's been as hot as mustard about fire precautions since the cinema burnt down; your car could have been a write-off, didn't you see that incinerator when you parked it there?" I suggested he put something in his report about catering for people who could not recognise an incinerator when they saw one. On that note, when I had won 'game, set and match', I bade him 'good day' and went off to the mess for lunch. The CO asked me if the fire adviser had been pleased with everything he had seen "Oh yes, sir," I replied. "I'm sure we'll receive an excellent report."
Inspector Shorthouse's report arrived a week later and was the linchpin for an 'outstanding' annual administrative report on the Welsh Brigade Depot. The CO was delighted and bought me a large gin and tonic.
"There's only one recommendation," he observed. "He wants a NO PARKING sign put alongside the incinerator. What's all that about?" I told him it was something to do with 'spontaneous combustion' and left it at that.
In 1959 I slipped a disc playing polo in Benghazi. I spent several months in hospital before I was discharged and given a sedentary job in the Welsh Brigade Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales. My position on the staff roll was Second-in-Command headquarter company but, in fact, I was a 'factotum' with a string of other jobs - one of which was unit fire officer. Those in authority obviously had not heard of the reputation I had gained while serving in Africa.
The army camp in Crickhowell was being modernised when I arrived. Pre-fabricated walls, flat roofs and lots of glass was a new concept as most of the barracks in the country were relics from the Victorian era. There was still evidence of war-time use of the camp in the shape of some old wooden huts; it was there that I decided to hold my first fire practice.
To create realism, the Quartermaster gave me three smoke canisters, each about the size of a five litre can of paint. I set these down among a group of huts, lit the fuses and within a few seconds a dense cloud of smoke drifted across the playing fields to the A40 which runs parallel to the southern boundary of the camp; traffic was unable to proceed until the canisters became exhausted ten minutes later. The village constable from Crickhowell arrived on his bicycle (no panda cars in those days) just in time to start the traffic moving again.
Meanwhile, the response from within the camp was disappointing. A platoon of soldiers marched down the road only a hundred yards away from where I was positioned, without turning their heads. The camp gardener was the only one to show any initiative; it was he who drew the attention of the provost sergeant to the mass of smoke emanating from the area of the wooden huts. At last, the regimental police came puffing along the road with the wheeled contraption which carried lengths of canvas hose. When they had been coupled together, the order: 'Water on!' was given. I pressed the button on my stop-watch when water spat from the nozzle and was not at all pleased with the time taken to get into action. It was obvious the whole system needed reviewing.
I was busy scribbling notes on my mill-board when soldiers appeared carrying red fire buckets and stirrup pumps. Water came from all directions and, as I seemed to be in the middle of the deluge, I shouted: "OK, that'll do, it's only a practice." The provost sergeant caught hold of me by the shoulder, spun me around and said: "Practice, indeed, sir. Just look at the roof of that hut." It was not until I had turned a half circle that I saw we had a real fire on our hands. The smoke canisters, which I had never used before, emitted balls of fire, rather like Roman candles on Guy Fawkes night. While most fell harmlessly to the ground from two or three feet, a few of them went higher and some had actually landed on the tarred felt roof of the hut where I had concealed myself; a substantial fire had taken hold and was blazing away merrily. The emphasis then switched to some real fire fighting which was only partially successful as the hut became a write-off. I comforted myself with the thought that those huts were due to be demolished anyway and made the suggestion in the mess at lunch time that I should set fire to the remainder. The offer was not accepted and it looked as if I had blotted my copy book with yet another commanding officer.
A week before I was married in August 1960, I decided to hold a fire practice in the area of the quartermaster's stores which, in those days, comprised a collection of large Nissen huts with corrugated iron roofs at the far (Crickhowell) end of the camp. The bugler sounded 'Fire Call' this time and the fire (not a real one) was supposed to be in the accommodation stores. The provost staff trundled the two wheeled hose truck down the road to the quartermaster's stores and, on this occasion, earned bonus marks for doing it in good time. The water, when it trickled through the nozzle, lacked pressure to carry it very far and I subsequently found this was due to numerous punctures in the canvas lengths of hose. This might have been beneficial for grass and herbaceous borders but did nothing for putting out a fire - had there been a proper one. After the bugler had blown 'Stand Down', I marked each puncture with coloured chalk and ordered the provost sergeant to exchange the faulty lengths of hose for new ones. Having assured myself that the Welsh Brigade Depot was fire-proof, I threw a suitcase of kit into my car and went off to London to get married.
My wife and I spent our honeymoon in the West Country. One day as we were driving along the North Devon coast, I switched on the car radio just in time to hear the BBC Radio Wales newscaster (just across the channel) read the funny bit at the end: "A fire took place last night in an Army camp in South Wales," he said. He then went on to specify the name of the camp and the location of the fire, which was the camp cinema. He could hardly contain his mirth when he delivered the punch-line: "The place was completely gutted and guess what? - they were playing Tennessee William's film, 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof'. From that moment, my honeymoon was ruined. Torrential rain did not help and after a week of being mesmerised by non-stop windscreen wipers, we decided to call it a day and head for Brecon where we had been allotted a quarter. A phone call to the Adjutant when we arrived, confirmed that the camp cinema had been burnt down and, said the Adjutant: "The CO wants to see you as soon as you return from leave."
The Board of Inquiry pronounced its findings before I reported for duty: 'There was insufficient hose to allow water from the nearest hydrant to reach the camp cinema' I was at a loss to understand how this could have happened until the Commanding Officer reminded me that I had given an order to the provost sergeant to withdraw all hoses that were punctured. I told him that the operative word was EXCHANGE, not WITHDRAW - but that didn't do me any good. The CO fixed me with a cold look and said: "Did you check that the exchange had taken place?" "No, sir, I did not. I left for London the following day to get married." It is only recently that the Army has admitted that wives have a place in its structure. In the old days, they were described as 'camp followers' and there are still some traditionalists who would like to keep it that way. The florid faced lieutenant colonel who was beating his table top with clenched fists was obviously in that category. "Because you put your wedding first and fire precautions second," he stormed, "we now find ourselves without a cinema. Do you realise I've had to lay on trucks to take soldiers into Abergavenny twice a week, while you've been swanning around the West Country?"
This was like a re-run of the time I appeared before the Second-in-Command of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers in Eritrea. Then, I had to account for the failure of my signals despatch service to collect and deliver the mail on time and landed myself in deep trouble after pleading I had been 80 miles away. I should have known better on both occasions; the buck stops with the officer - even if he is on his honeymoon.
I hoped the Commanding Officer would release me from this onerous duty which I had been saddled with, off and on, for quite a few years. This did not happen. Instead, I was told the fire adviser of Western Command would carry out a fire inspection of the camp in two weeks time. "You'd better make sure that everything is in order by the time he arrives," said the Colonel menacingly. I made good use of the time in hand and by the day of the visit, I was confident that everything was in order.
At exactly 10.00 hrs on the day of the inspection, the fire adviser from Army HQ in Chester was ushered into my office by the Company Sergeant Major. "Would you like a cup of tea?" I enquired. "No, thank you," he replied. "I think we should start the inspection at once, I'm one minute late already." His response to my friendly overture warned me that this pernickety servant of the Army Fire Service could cause trouble if he was not handled carefully.
Before the inspection started at the east (Glangrwyney) end of the camp, Inspector Shorthouse (a name that lends itself to some amusing permutations) told me he had parked his car just off the main road in the camp. "I hope I'm not breaking any rules leaving it there," he said, pointing in the direction of the chapel. I assured him that it was in order to park his car anywhere he liked (it would be another ten years before the IRA started their campaign for 'home rule' in Northern Ireland, and car bombs were unknown).
We started in the Junior Soldiers' Wing and worked our way through every building until we were almost back to where we started. Inspector Shorthouse was appalled by everything he saw. "Just ready to burst into flames," was his invariable comment followed by much sucking of teeth as he made notes on his mill board. On one occasion, I asked him: "How could this place burn down - it's all concrete?" "Heat anything hot enough and it will burn - even concrete, have you never heard of spontaneous combustion?" was his terse reply and I saw him write some more notes which I felt sure were comments about my frivolous attitude towards fire precautions.
We were heading back to my office after the most uncomfortable couple of hours I had spent for a long time, when Inspector Shorthouse gave a yelp and ran up the road ahead of me. It was then that I saw a car parked alongside the camp incinerator, and realised it was his. Anyone with a modicum of common sense should have known that a brick built oven-like structure with a chimney stuck on the top was used for burning or cooking things. The camp gardener had just emptied a wheel-barrow full of grass and leaves into it and the swirling smoke enveloped the fire adviser's small Ford Popular saloon. Shorthouse disappeared into the smoke and a few seconds later the car shot out as if it had been fired by a mighty cannon. It did not appear to have suffered any damage, but for someone whose sole function in life was to prevent fires, he was taking no chances. When I caught up with him, he was squirting foam from a hand held fire extinguisher all over the engine. When that ran out, he took another one out of the car and sprayed under the chassis. When he was satisfied that his car was not going to blow up, he slumped to the ground and mopped his brow.
There have been a number of occasions in my life when my 'fairy god-mother' has come to my rescue, and this was one of them. "You had a close shave there, didn't you?" I observed. "Wait until the Commanding Officer hears about this. He's been as hot as mustard about fire precautions since the cinema burnt down; your car could have been a write-off, didn't you see that incinerator when you parked it there?" I suggested he put something in his report about catering for people who could not recognise an incinerator when they saw one. On that note, when I had won 'game, set and match', I bade him 'good day' and went off to the mess for lunch. The CO asked me if the fire adviser had been pleased with everything he had seen "Oh yes, sir," I replied. "I'm sure we'll receive an excellent report."
Inspector Shorthouse's report arrived a week later and was the linchpin for an 'outstanding' annual administrative report on the Welsh Brigade Depot. The CO was delighted and bought me a large gin and tonic.
"There's only one recommendation," he observed. "He wants a NO PARKING sign put alongside the incinerator. What's all that about?" I told him it was something to do with 'spontaneous combustion' and left it at that.
Murder in Kuantan
I first met Jack John Itumo when he was sent to me in Nanyuki, Kenya as a trainee signaller. He was a tall, well built man with a good command of the English language and came from the Kikuyu tribe. Initially, he gave a good impression, but over the following three weeks or so there were certain aspects of his character that gave me cause for concern. There was no problem about intelligence: he soon mastered the operating techniques of our newly acquired No. 68 wireless sets and showed aptitude for Morse code. It was his attitude to discipline that caused the alarm bells to ring and after a succession of cases of insubordination to his instructors, I decided he was not suitable for the signals platoon and returned him to duty.
I do not remember having any more contact with him until a few weeks before we were due to end our tour of active service in Malaya. The Adjutant, Captain John Mather of the Somerset Light Infantry, had been evacuated to the British military hospital in Kuala Lumpur with fever and I had temporarily taken over his duties. The Regimental Sergeant Major brought me a list of askaris who had been referred to the commanding officer for disciplinary action and I saw the name of Jack John Itumo.
He thought he had discovered a way to get out of jungle patrols. Occasionally, when warned for duty, he would report sick and, claiming to have an ailment beyond the scope of the medical orderly in ‘A’ Company, would be sent to battalion HQ in Kuantan, over one hundred miles away. He had tried it on a few times and had discovered that whatever was wrong with him mysteriously disappeared when he breathed the sea air of the east coast. He was warned that if it happened again he would be charged with malingering. Amazingly, a few months later he succeeded in pulling the wool over someone’s eyes again and was sent to Kuantan. He was given a thorough examination but this time the Medical Officer, who found nothing wrong with him, charged him with malingering.
Commanding Officer’s Orders are usually highly charged affairs with plenty of foot stamping and bawling of commands. Most miscreants did what they were told when they were ‘marched in’ by the RSM with escorts on each side carrying unsheathed bayonets. But not Jack John Itumo. He sauntered into the CO’s tent and promptly lay on the floor. Hauled to his feet to hear the charge and evidence against him, he was found guilty and given 14 days detention in a tent surrounded by a web of barbed wire.
During the first week of his punishment, he committed another offence and was awarded an extra punishment by the CO which involved being handcuffed to the tent pole for most of the day and night and deprived of all but the necessary items of food to keep him alive. These draconian measures only caused Itumo to become more angry and I began to wonder what trouble he would cause when he was finally released.
If we had been in Kenya he would have been discharged from the Army after serving his sentence but while we were in Malaya there was no alternative but to keep him with the battalion until we got home. The responsibility for this was not mine because John Mather returned from hospital and resumed his duty as Adjutant. I told him about Itumo and warned him that he was likely to cause more trouble when he was released in a few days time. I then left battalion headquarters in Kuantan with the Commanding Officer to take part in a large operation in central Pahang.
The CO and I were helicoptered into a clearing in the jungle where we set up a tactical HQ. Five days later the CO flew out, leaving me to manage the communications before marching out on the Menchis track to Mentakab. When I got to the headquarters of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment, there was a message for me to contact the CO in Kuantan. Eventually, I managed to get through and he told me that John Mather had been murdered. He instructed me to get back to Kuantan as soon as possible as I was now the permanent Adjutant.
When I arrived in Kuantan, I learnt that Itumo was under arrest for the murder of John Mather and that the funeral had already taken place. I asked what had happened and this is what I was told:
Itumo had been released from detention on a Saturday but had to wait for transport to take him back to Jerantut the following Monday morning. He was free to go into town and he teamed up with two other askaris with whom he spent the daylight hours drinking beer in local bars. They returned to camp for their evening meal and shortly afterwards, Itumo announced he was going back to the town. He asked the other two to go with him. Askaris were not allowed out of camp after dark but after some discussion all three of them crossed the padang and walked down the main street.
Itumo stopped at a hardware store and went inside to buy a knife. When asked by Mwaola Muasa, one of his companions, what he was going to do with it, he replied: “I’m going to kill a mzungu (white man).” Mwaolo was a decent young soldier and he tried to dissuade Itumo from buying the knife. His other companion was an askari called Hassan Ndolo who had drunk far more than was good for him. He encouraged Itumo to proceed with his plan. All three went to a bar where Mwaola did his best to cool the situation, but was unable to control the blood lust of the other two.
While this was going on, the British warrant officers and sergeants were holding a party for the British officers in their mess. At about 8pm the British Regimental Sergeant Major was told about a disturbance in the town which involved three askaris. The RSM spoke to the Adjutant, who was one of the guests, and was surprised when the Adjutant decided to investigate the matter himself. He took with him the RSM, the provost sergeant, some regimental policemen and, together, they made their way to the town centre.
A crowd had collected outside one of the modest little bars that sported a dance floor where taxi girls sat in a row waiting for clients. A Malay policeman guided the Adjutant to the door and pointed to an African who was standing menacingly at the bar with a bottle in his hand. It was Jack John Itumo.
At this point Mwaola Muasa disengaged from the other two and was arrested by the regimental policemen. Hassan Ndolo continued to encourage Itumo but he was eventually overpowered and taken away. Itumo was like an animal at bay but, realising the game was up, backed off and slowly made his way to camp followed by the Adjutant and the others.
When Itumo reached the entrance to the camp he tried to get to his own tent, but his passage was blocked by the Adjutant, regimental policemen et al who had their own ideas about where he was going to spend the night. He was told to go quietly into the guard-tent but this enraged him and he warned everyone not to approach him if they valued their lives. He spoke in Kiswahili which everyone, including John Mather, the Adjutant, understood. When it was obvious that John Mather had taken the initiative and was going to make physical contact with him, he produced a large knife from his trouser belt and drove it upwards into the Adjutant’s chest. He then ran off pursued by the remainder of the posse. John Mather tried to get back to the warrant officers’ and sergeants’ mess but he collapsed and died before he could get help.
Itumo did not get far before he was captured and placed in close arrest. It was some time later that the adjutant was found dead in a pool of blood behind the mess tent.
With only two weeks to go before the battalion returned to Kenya, two officers, a British warrant officer and 12 askaris remained behind as witnesses and interpreters for the forthcoming general court martial. Mwaola Muasa and Hassan Ndolo were accused of complicity in the murder; eventually, they were sentenced to be dismissed from the Army.
During the trial, Itumo sat impassively listening to the evidence and did himself no favours when he elected to give evidence himself. He seemed pleased to have taken the life of a ‘mzungu’ and, with the Mau Mau campaign at its height in Kenya, he obviously felt he was contributing to the ‘freedom’ movement that was sweeping through his tribal reserve. He was found guilty of murder, was sentenced to death and executed in Pudu gaol, Kuala Lumpur in August 1953.
Post script:- Hassan Ndolo went into ‘decline’ when he began the journey back to Africa. He was seen by the ship’s doctor on the voyage to Aden, the doctor at the RAF camp in Aden and by the doctor on the troopship on the last part of the voyage from Aden to Mombasa. None of them could find anything wrong with him but he had lost two stone in weight by the time he reached Mombassa and had to carried off the ship on a stretcher. He died three weeks later.
Mwaola Muasa was the brother of the Regimental Sergeant Major of the 5th Battalion King’s African Rifles and was bitterly ashamed of himself for the disgrace he had brought upon his regiment, his family and his tribe. But KAR discipline was harsh and he had to pay the price for a few unfortunate hours spent in the company of a murderer.
I do not remember having any more contact with him until a few weeks before we were due to end our tour of active service in Malaya. The Adjutant, Captain John Mather of the Somerset Light Infantry, had been evacuated to the British military hospital in Kuala Lumpur with fever and I had temporarily taken over his duties. The Regimental Sergeant Major brought me a list of askaris who had been referred to the commanding officer for disciplinary action and I saw the name of Jack John Itumo.
He thought he had discovered a way to get out of jungle patrols. Occasionally, when warned for duty, he would report sick and, claiming to have an ailment beyond the scope of the medical orderly in ‘A’ Company, would be sent to battalion HQ in Kuantan, over one hundred miles away. He had tried it on a few times and had discovered that whatever was wrong with him mysteriously disappeared when he breathed the sea air of the east coast. He was warned that if it happened again he would be charged with malingering. Amazingly, a few months later he succeeded in pulling the wool over someone’s eyes again and was sent to Kuantan. He was given a thorough examination but this time the Medical Officer, who found nothing wrong with him, charged him with malingering.
Commanding Officer’s Orders are usually highly charged affairs with plenty of foot stamping and bawling of commands. Most miscreants did what they were told when they were ‘marched in’ by the RSM with escorts on each side carrying unsheathed bayonets. But not Jack John Itumo. He sauntered into the CO’s tent and promptly lay on the floor. Hauled to his feet to hear the charge and evidence against him, he was found guilty and given 14 days detention in a tent surrounded by a web of barbed wire.
During the first week of his punishment, he committed another offence and was awarded an extra punishment by the CO which involved being handcuffed to the tent pole for most of the day and night and deprived of all but the necessary items of food to keep him alive. These draconian measures only caused Itumo to become more angry and I began to wonder what trouble he would cause when he was finally released.
If we had been in Kenya he would have been discharged from the Army after serving his sentence but while we were in Malaya there was no alternative but to keep him with the battalion until we got home. The responsibility for this was not mine because John Mather returned from hospital and resumed his duty as Adjutant. I told him about Itumo and warned him that he was likely to cause more trouble when he was released in a few days time. I then left battalion headquarters in Kuantan with the Commanding Officer to take part in a large operation in central Pahang.
The CO and I were helicoptered into a clearing in the jungle where we set up a tactical HQ. Five days later the CO flew out, leaving me to manage the communications before marching out on the Menchis track to Mentakab. When I got to the headquarters of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment, there was a message for me to contact the CO in Kuantan. Eventually, I managed to get through and he told me that John Mather had been murdered. He instructed me to get back to Kuantan as soon as possible as I was now the permanent Adjutant.
When I arrived in Kuantan, I learnt that Itumo was under arrest for the murder of John Mather and that the funeral had already taken place. I asked what had happened and this is what I was told:
Itumo had been released from detention on a Saturday but had to wait for transport to take him back to Jerantut the following Monday morning. He was free to go into town and he teamed up with two other askaris with whom he spent the daylight hours drinking beer in local bars. They returned to camp for their evening meal and shortly afterwards, Itumo announced he was going back to the town. He asked the other two to go with him. Askaris were not allowed out of camp after dark but after some discussion all three of them crossed the padang and walked down the main street.
Itumo stopped at a hardware store and went inside to buy a knife. When asked by Mwaola Muasa, one of his companions, what he was going to do with it, he replied: “I’m going to kill a mzungu (white man).” Mwaolo was a decent young soldier and he tried to dissuade Itumo from buying the knife. His other companion was an askari called Hassan Ndolo who had drunk far more than was good for him. He encouraged Itumo to proceed with his plan. All three went to a bar where Mwaola did his best to cool the situation, but was unable to control the blood lust of the other two.
While this was going on, the British warrant officers and sergeants were holding a party for the British officers in their mess. At about 8pm the British Regimental Sergeant Major was told about a disturbance in the town which involved three askaris. The RSM spoke to the Adjutant, who was one of the guests, and was surprised when the Adjutant decided to investigate the matter himself. He took with him the RSM, the provost sergeant, some regimental policemen and, together, they made their way to the town centre.
A crowd had collected outside one of the modest little bars that sported a dance floor where taxi girls sat in a row waiting for clients. A Malay policeman guided the Adjutant to the door and pointed to an African who was standing menacingly at the bar with a bottle in his hand. It was Jack John Itumo.
At this point Mwaola Muasa disengaged from the other two and was arrested by the regimental policemen. Hassan Ndolo continued to encourage Itumo but he was eventually overpowered and taken away. Itumo was like an animal at bay but, realising the game was up, backed off and slowly made his way to camp followed by the Adjutant and the others.
When Itumo reached the entrance to the camp he tried to get to his own tent, but his passage was blocked by the Adjutant, regimental policemen et al who had their own ideas about where he was going to spend the night. He was told to go quietly into the guard-tent but this enraged him and he warned everyone not to approach him if they valued their lives. He spoke in Kiswahili which everyone, including John Mather, the Adjutant, understood. When it was obvious that John Mather had taken the initiative and was going to make physical contact with him, he produced a large knife from his trouser belt and drove it upwards into the Adjutant’s chest. He then ran off pursued by the remainder of the posse. John Mather tried to get back to the warrant officers’ and sergeants’ mess but he collapsed and died before he could get help.
Itumo did not get far before he was captured and placed in close arrest. It was some time later that the adjutant was found dead in a pool of blood behind the mess tent.
With only two weeks to go before the battalion returned to Kenya, two officers, a British warrant officer and 12 askaris remained behind as witnesses and interpreters for the forthcoming general court martial. Mwaola Muasa and Hassan Ndolo were accused of complicity in the murder; eventually, they were sentenced to be dismissed from the Army.
During the trial, Itumo sat impassively listening to the evidence and did himself no favours when he elected to give evidence himself. He seemed pleased to have taken the life of a ‘mzungu’ and, with the Mau Mau campaign at its height in Kenya, he obviously felt he was contributing to the ‘freedom’ movement that was sweeping through his tribal reserve. He was found guilty of murder, was sentenced to death and executed in Pudu gaol, Kuala Lumpur in August 1953.
Post script:- Hassan Ndolo went into ‘decline’ when he began the journey back to Africa. He was seen by the ship’s doctor on the voyage to Aden, the doctor at the RAF camp in Aden and by the doctor on the troopship on the last part of the voyage from Aden to Mombasa. None of them could find anything wrong with him but he had lost two stone in weight by the time he reached Mombassa and had to carried off the ship on a stretcher. He died three weeks later.
Mwaola Muasa was the brother of the Regimental Sergeant Major of the 5th Battalion King’s African Rifles and was bitterly ashamed of himself for the disgrace he had brought upon his regiment, his family and his tribe. But KAR discipline was harsh and he had to pay the price for a few unfortunate hours spent in the company of a murderer.
Lost Week End
Malayan rubber planters earned a reputation for being hard drinkers during the communist uprising of 1948-1960. At the best of times, life on a rubber estate was a hard and lonely existence but when expatriates became easy targets for terrorists they could be forgiven for taking an extra slug or two of whisky at the end of the day. Mike Malone was a good example of the hard living hard drinking planter; his wife, Mary, ran him a close second. Both came from County Cork and, if put to the test, they would most probably have drunk most of their kinfolk back home in Ireland under the table any night of the week.
I first met them in the village of Triang in Malaya in 1952. Other than a few houses, a row of Chinese shops and a basketball pitch Triang’s only claim to an entry on the map was its railway station on a minor branch line that run up the spine of Malaya. It was also the location of battalion headquarters of the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.
The ‘down’ train from Mentakab had pulled in one day and was waiting in a siding for the ‘up’ train from Gemas to pass. First class passengers did not expect, neither did they receive, much comfort on this type of train; the only attractive feature was the dining car. Malays, Chinese and Indians sat on hard bench seats on one side of the kitchen while an open air terrace sufficient for six first class passengers was on the other. It was quite enjoyable to sit at the end of the train and enjoy the cool breeze as you looked down the track from the veranda. A Chinese cook produced delicious meals on a charcoal stove while his assistant looked after the drinks.
I was walking along the platform to my office when I heard a shout from the rear end of the train. I looked across the railway line and saw a beefy looking fellow with a glass in his hand inviting me to join him and his female companion for a drink. It was getting on for mid-day so I crossed the line and joined them on the train.
Mike Malone introduced himself and his wife and told me he managed the Glugor rubber estate near Mentakab. I gathered they were going to Bahau, about fifty miles down the line, to spend a few days with friends. The ‘up’ train had been delayed and we spent about an hour in each other’s company before the ‘down’ train could continue its journey. It was a pleasant interlude and before we parted the Malones invited me to a curry lunch party at their home on the estate the following Saturday.
At this stage of my story, the reader should understand that Malaya during the 'emergency' was not the cosy holiday destination it is today. Venturing on roads through jungle and rubber estates without an armed escort was asking for trouble and communication with Army units was subject to strict security; telephones were rarely used as they could easily be ‘tapped’ by the communist terrorist organisation. Wireless was the normal means of contact but this did not usually work after dark.
Unmarried officers lived a monastic life, but those who were married (accompanied) were able to visit their wives once a month on the island of Penang. The Commanding Officer must have appreciated the morale factor for officers like me, because when I asked for permission to go out for lunch, he said: “A day away from this place will do you good. Go off and enjoy yourself.”
The following Saturday morning, I set off in the CO’s Humber 4 X 4 command vehicle accompanied by a large American Dodge load carrier with half a dozen askaris, as my escort. I took a minimum amount of kit as I expected to be back in Triang that night.
Two hours later, I saw the sign post to Glugor estate and drove up the long line of palm trees to the Malone’s bungalow. Mike and Mary greeted me like an old friend and introduced me to a dozen or so people who had driven in from neighbouring rubber estates. As soon as I had slaked my thirst with a cold beer I went to the back of the house to see how my askaris were getting on. They were being looked after by Malay kitchen staff who most probably had never seen an African before. Instant rapport was the name of the game as far as the askaris were concerned and they had already made their mark with a buxom Malay lady who just happened to be in charge of the curry. I stayed with them as they were served mountains of rice and mouth watering selections of curried chicken, fish and goat. My driver told me afterwards he had never tasted anything so delicious in all his life.
When I rejoined the party I was introduced to a fellow called Guy Reardon who ran a rubber estate not far from Triang. When he heard I was going back to Triang that evening, he said: “There’s no need to keep your soldiers here, I’ll give you a lift home.” It seemed a good idea so I gave the askaris instructions to return to base when they had finished their meal.
Although the curry was ready to eat by 1pm, Mike and Mary were in no hurry to feed their guests, neither were their guests in any hurry to eat. There was plenty of drink and both conversation and alcohol flowed freely. I looked at my watch and saw it was getting on for three o’clock. Planters get up early in the morning and soon after dawn they supervise the collection of latex from thousands of rubber trees. After checking all is well in the processing sheds and smokehouse, they usually go home at about 9am and have a large breakfast. This keeps them going until 2pm'ish when they have ‘tiffin’ (light lunch) and then snooze through the hottest part of the day. During the comparative coolness of the late afternoon, they put in another couple of hours work on the estate. The ones I met at the party were 'letting their hair down' and enjoying a break from their normal routine; we sat down to eat at about 5 pm.
When darkness fell, I began to feel uneasy and wondered if Guy Reardon had forgotten about his offer to take me back to Triang. He had been drinking heavily since mid-day and was looking the worse for wear. At the risk of sounding a spoil-sport I impressed upon him my need to get back. He looked at me with glazed eyes and said: “The party’s just starting old boy. Let’s have another drink and enjoy ourselves.” I then asked Mike and Mary to help me but it was evident they also thought the party had some way to go. Guy took another glass of whisky but before he drank any there was a crash and he collapsed on the floor. Mary took one look at him and said: “Well, that’s him out for the night." Guy had hit his head on the corner of a coffee table and a pool of blood was spreading over the floor. “He’s always doing that,” grumbled Mike. “The last time he was here he put his head through that bamboo screen.” Mary brought a bandage and when the blood stopped flowing, Guy was carried to a bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on a bed. If only I had been able to pick up a telephone and speak to someone in battalion headquarters it would have been alright, but there was no way I could get through and going AWOL (absent without leave) on ‘active service’ is a serious matter.
I shared a bedroom with the drunken planter who was sleeping soundly when I turned in. When I awoke the following day, his pillow was covered in blood. I thought the wound on his head had opened but it turned out he had had a nose-bleed. Mary Malone told me it was not the first time he had made a mess of her bedding.
Guy was nursing a hangover when he joined us on the veranda and a bump on his forehead added to his discomfort. When he was offered a choice of corn flakes or fresh fruit he called for some ‘hair of the dog’, otherwise a brandy and ginger.
I was all for making an early start for Triang, but the Malones and Guy Reardon were intent upon attending another lunch party at a place called Bukit Dinding (Malay for ‘Valley Between the Mountain’); they could not understand why I was so anxious to return to a grotty little railway station on a Sunday morning. Once again, I tried to explain we worked every day of the week in 3/KAR but as far as they were concerned, Sunday was a day of rest. Instead, they promised me it would be a quick visit and that I would be back in base before the Colonel had woken up from his afternoon snooze.
I travelled to the manager’s bungalow on Bukit Dinding rubber estate with Guy in his armour plated Chevrolet saloon. It was a monster of a vehicle designed to protect anyone inside from rifle fire and hand grenades. He was very proud of his ‘Chevy’ which, he said, had proved its reliability when he had been ambushed by bandits a few months previously. He tried to impress me by hurling the thing around corners but it lurched so violently it only made me feel sick.
When we arrived at Bukit Dinding, I recognised a few of the people who had been at the Malone’s house the day before. I think most of them were feeling ‘fragile’ and we all sat down for lunch at the reasonable hour of one o’clock. I began to feel there was a chance I would be back in Triang, with a bit of luck, by late afternoon.
At three o’clock, guests started to thin out and Guy asked me if I was ready to make a move. We said our farewells and I climbed into the Chevy alongside him. When we reached the main road, instead of turning right, Guy swung the car in the opposite direction. “Where are we going now?” I yelped. “Just remembered, I’ve got to see a fellow in Bentong,” he replied. “Bentong!” I gasped. “Christ, that’s half way to Kuala Lumpur.” He put his foot down and the ‘tank’ hurtled down the jungle-fringed road. “It’s not that far. We’ll be there in half an hour and it will only take me a few minutes to do my business. You’ll still be back in Triang by six o’clock,” he said. I was none too pleased with this change of plan and I began to feel worried again.
We reached Bentong within the hour and Guy drew up alongside a Chinese general store and suggested I follow him inside. We climbed over some sacks of rice and dried fish and went upstairs where four Chinese men were playing mah-jong in a dimly lit room. Guy greeted them in Cantonese and introduced me. I had no idea what they were saying but I had the impression that Guy was being given a hard time. After about half an hour he stood up and I gathered that business had been completed.
We took the road back to Mentakab and I tried not to think what the CO would say when he saw me. He would be angry, for sure, but I hoped he would understand I was a victim of circumstances. The Chevrolet roared down the deserted highway and rolled alarmingly around corners. Still, we were making good time and I didn’t complain about Guy driving so fast.
During the Malayan emergency you got into the habit of looking for enemy ambush positions: I searched the jungle on each side of the road and kept my sub-machine gun ready for action - just in case! We entered a stretch of road with a number of bends and, to my horror, after negotiating a series of twists and turns, I saw a tree across the road. That usually spelt ‘Ambush’, but Guy had no intention of stopping. With a cry of: “Hold on!” he aimed the Chevy at the leafiest part of the tree. There was an almighty crash as the vehicle tore through branches and leaves and the collision almost halted the vehicle, but Guy put his foot down and the Chevy began to pick up speed again. We never knew if there were bandits near the tree and when we inspected the car later there were no obvious bullet holes. The suspension had been damaged though and we limped into Mentakab with a list to starboard and ominous groans coming from under the bonnet.
It was obvious the car was in no state to take us to Triang and the only course was to head for Glugor rubber estate and ask the Malones to put us up for another night. Mike and Mary were delighted to see us and soon we were tucking into a meal. Thereafter, we calmed our nerves with Irish whiskey while the clock ticked towards midnight. Guy had another nose-bleed during the night and when I awoke his face was covered in blood. I wondered why Mary didn't keep an old pillow so he could indulge himself as much as he liked whenever he stayed with them.
As soon as we had finished breakfast we went into Mentakab to see about getting the car repaired. The damage was more serious than we thought and Guy was told it would not be ready until about four o’clock that afternoon. Mary accompanied us so we left the Chevy at the garage and returned to the estate in her car. Later that morning she showed me around her flower garden and took me into a special place where she grew orchids. I told her my Commanding Officer loved flowers and that he had surrounded his basha (thatched hut) with a variety of plants. She knew I was worried about what he was going to say when I returned, so she suggested I take him a bunch of flowers and some potted plants. It could do no harm and might even cool him down - so I accepted her offer.
The foreman at the garage was still working on the Chevy when we arrived at 4pm and it took another two hours before it was ready for the road. We eventually got back to the Glugor estate at 6.30pm and were invited to have supper. Guy would have stayed another night if I had not insisted he take me home. I gathered the Colonel’s flowers and potted plants, slung my sub-machine gun on my shoulder and enlisted the help of Mary Malone to remove the bottle of Irish whiskey from Guy’s reach. Reluctantly, at about 7.30pm, he climbed into the driving seat of the Chevy and we set off for Triang.
Once we had crossed the Sungei Pahang (river), Guy turned off the main road and took a route through an overgrown rubber estate. To venture into such country at night without an escort seemed madness to me but Guy said he knew what he was doing and eventually we turned up at his estate. He told me that Triang was only a few miles away across country and that as soon as he had had a word with his houseboy he would drive me to the officers’ mess. I felt I was nearly ‘home and dry’ so I accepted a drink before embarking on the last lap of the journey. I had a tankard of beer and Guy poured himself a large whisky which he drank in one gulp.
While he poured himself another one, he told me about his business. He looked after three Chinese owned rubber estates and had to pay 'blood money' to the local communist terrorist organisation (Min Yuen) in order to stay alive. The worry of it all was driving him mad and he broke down in tears, which led to another nose-bleed. He collapsed on the floor and I shouted for help to get him into the bathroom. His servants were well practised in knowing what to do and while they were cleaning him up and putting him to bed I pondered on the latest situation in which I found myself. Here I was, not more than six miles from Triang, with no telephone and no way to get help. I strolled on to the veranda and wondered if I should drive the Chevy myself through the maze of tracks that criss-crossed each other on the huge rubber estate. I had almost made up my mind to do this when I saw the lights of a vehicle some distance away heading in my direction. It was another armoured saloon car and as it drew up alongside the bungalow I recognised the driver as Archie Richardson who occasionally came to battalion HQ to play bridge with the Colonel. “Hello Bob,” he said, “what are you doing here? “ I gave him a resume of the previous three days I had spent in Guy Reardon’s company and then asked him if he could take me back to Triang. “No problem,” he said. "Hang on a few minutes and I’ll run you home.”
I followed him into the bungalow and we checked on Guy, now tucked in bed inside a mosquito net. “This is par for the course,” said Archie. “He’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop drinking.” Archie found what he wanted and within a few minutes I had removed the flowers etc. from the Chevy and stowed them in the boot of the other vehicle. It took only twenty minutes to get to Triang and the sentry opened the gate when he saw me sitting in the passenger seat. Archie carried the box of plants and I took the bucket of flowers as we made our way to the officers’ mess.
I could see the Colonel and three other officers playing bridge, but they were so intent on their game that they did not look up until I said: “Good evening Colonel, I’m back.” The bucket of flowers was large and heavy and my face was hidden from view but the Colonel recognised my voice and would have blasted me if it had not been for Archie who was handing over the box of plants to the mess sergeant. I put the flowers on the card table but quickly removed them when I saw the acid look the Colonel gave me. Archie accepted the offer of a drink and this eased the situation somewhat. In fact, the Colonel was, as usual, the perfect host and he accepted Archie’s invitation to attend a pig shoot the following Sunday. I walked back to the car and Archie said: “I don’t know what you were worried about. The Colonel seemed alright to me.” I was under no illusion about being 'let off' but I went to bed thankful I was home at last.
After breakfast the following morning, I went to my office to see what had happened since I had been away. Warrant Officer Kathuka was bringing me up to date when Major Tony Lynch-Staunton, my company commander, walked in and told me to put my hat on. “The Colonel wants to see you - NOW,” he said.
I was marched into the CO's office by Tony and we both stood rigidly to attention as the Colonel said in a steely voice: “I want you to tell me exactly where you have been and what you have been doing since I saw you last Saturday morning.” I told him every detail of what had happened and ended up by apologising for acting in such an irresponsible way.
The Colonel's fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk top, and then he spoke in that deep voice with measured tones which I knew spelt trouble: “You have been very unfortunate in your selection of friends. They have let you down and you must pay the price for being absent without leave.” He then told me I would be confined to camp for a month (except when I was on duty - which was every day) and that I would not be allowed to go on leave for three months. (I did not have any leave during the twenty months I spent in Malaya, except for one week end when I visited some old friends in Bahau). It sounded like a severe punishment but, in fact, my routine was unaltered.
What hurt me most was causing my Commanding Officer to worry about me. I thought the world of him and was deeply ashamed about what had happened. But time has a way of sorting things out and years later at a regimental reunion tears of mirth ran down his face as he recalled the memory of me staggering into the mess at Triang and peeping at him through a large bunch of flowers.
Post script: I never saw Guy Reardon again; he committed suicide, or someone else blew his brains out, six weeks later. Rubber planters in the area closed ranks and the official line was that ‘drink’ had finally proved too much for him. But I remember the look on the faces of those sinister Chinese men playing mah-jong in Bentong and what Guy said about ‘paying the price to stay alive'.
The names of Guy Reardon, Mike and Mary Malone, Archie Richardson and the Glugor Rubber Estate are fictitious, but otherwise the story is true.
I first met them in the village of Triang in Malaya in 1952. Other than a few houses, a row of Chinese shops and a basketball pitch Triang’s only claim to an entry on the map was its railway station on a minor branch line that run up the spine of Malaya. It was also the location of battalion headquarters of the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.
The ‘down’ train from Mentakab had pulled in one day and was waiting in a siding for the ‘up’ train from Gemas to pass. First class passengers did not expect, neither did they receive, much comfort on this type of train; the only attractive feature was the dining car. Malays, Chinese and Indians sat on hard bench seats on one side of the kitchen while an open air terrace sufficient for six first class passengers was on the other. It was quite enjoyable to sit at the end of the train and enjoy the cool breeze as you looked down the track from the veranda. A Chinese cook produced delicious meals on a charcoal stove while his assistant looked after the drinks.
I was walking along the platform to my office when I heard a shout from the rear end of the train. I looked across the railway line and saw a beefy looking fellow with a glass in his hand inviting me to join him and his female companion for a drink. It was getting on for mid-day so I crossed the line and joined them on the train.
Mike Malone introduced himself and his wife and told me he managed the Glugor rubber estate near Mentakab. I gathered they were going to Bahau, about fifty miles down the line, to spend a few days with friends. The ‘up’ train had been delayed and we spent about an hour in each other’s company before the ‘down’ train could continue its journey. It was a pleasant interlude and before we parted the Malones invited me to a curry lunch party at their home on the estate the following Saturday.
At this stage of my story, the reader should understand that Malaya during the 'emergency' was not the cosy holiday destination it is today. Venturing on roads through jungle and rubber estates without an armed escort was asking for trouble and communication with Army units was subject to strict security; telephones were rarely used as they could easily be ‘tapped’ by the communist terrorist organisation. Wireless was the normal means of contact but this did not usually work after dark.
Unmarried officers lived a monastic life, but those who were married (accompanied) were able to visit their wives once a month on the island of Penang. The Commanding Officer must have appreciated the morale factor for officers like me, because when I asked for permission to go out for lunch, he said: “A day away from this place will do you good. Go off and enjoy yourself.”
The following Saturday morning, I set off in the CO’s Humber 4 X 4 command vehicle accompanied by a large American Dodge load carrier with half a dozen askaris, as my escort. I took a minimum amount of kit as I expected to be back in Triang that night.
Two hours later, I saw the sign post to Glugor estate and drove up the long line of palm trees to the Malone’s bungalow. Mike and Mary greeted me like an old friend and introduced me to a dozen or so people who had driven in from neighbouring rubber estates. As soon as I had slaked my thirst with a cold beer I went to the back of the house to see how my askaris were getting on. They were being looked after by Malay kitchen staff who most probably had never seen an African before. Instant rapport was the name of the game as far as the askaris were concerned and they had already made their mark with a buxom Malay lady who just happened to be in charge of the curry. I stayed with them as they were served mountains of rice and mouth watering selections of curried chicken, fish and goat. My driver told me afterwards he had never tasted anything so delicious in all his life.
When I rejoined the party I was introduced to a fellow called Guy Reardon who ran a rubber estate not far from Triang. When he heard I was going back to Triang that evening, he said: “There’s no need to keep your soldiers here, I’ll give you a lift home.” It seemed a good idea so I gave the askaris instructions to return to base when they had finished their meal.
Although the curry was ready to eat by 1pm, Mike and Mary were in no hurry to feed their guests, neither were their guests in any hurry to eat. There was plenty of drink and both conversation and alcohol flowed freely. I looked at my watch and saw it was getting on for three o’clock. Planters get up early in the morning and soon after dawn they supervise the collection of latex from thousands of rubber trees. After checking all is well in the processing sheds and smokehouse, they usually go home at about 9am and have a large breakfast. This keeps them going until 2pm'ish when they have ‘tiffin’ (light lunch) and then snooze through the hottest part of the day. During the comparative coolness of the late afternoon, they put in another couple of hours work on the estate. The ones I met at the party were 'letting their hair down' and enjoying a break from their normal routine; we sat down to eat at about 5 pm.
When darkness fell, I began to feel uneasy and wondered if Guy Reardon had forgotten about his offer to take me back to Triang. He had been drinking heavily since mid-day and was looking the worse for wear. At the risk of sounding a spoil-sport I impressed upon him my need to get back. He looked at me with glazed eyes and said: “The party’s just starting old boy. Let’s have another drink and enjoy ourselves.” I then asked Mike and Mary to help me but it was evident they also thought the party had some way to go. Guy took another glass of whisky but before he drank any there was a crash and he collapsed on the floor. Mary took one look at him and said: “Well, that’s him out for the night." Guy had hit his head on the corner of a coffee table and a pool of blood was spreading over the floor. “He’s always doing that,” grumbled Mike. “The last time he was here he put his head through that bamboo screen.” Mary brought a bandage and when the blood stopped flowing, Guy was carried to a bedroom and unceremoniously dumped on a bed. If only I had been able to pick up a telephone and speak to someone in battalion headquarters it would have been alright, but there was no way I could get through and going AWOL (absent without leave) on ‘active service’ is a serious matter.
I shared a bedroom with the drunken planter who was sleeping soundly when I turned in. When I awoke the following day, his pillow was covered in blood. I thought the wound on his head had opened but it turned out he had had a nose-bleed. Mary Malone told me it was not the first time he had made a mess of her bedding.
Guy was nursing a hangover when he joined us on the veranda and a bump on his forehead added to his discomfort. When he was offered a choice of corn flakes or fresh fruit he called for some ‘hair of the dog’, otherwise a brandy and ginger.
I was all for making an early start for Triang, but the Malones and Guy Reardon were intent upon attending another lunch party at a place called Bukit Dinding (Malay for ‘Valley Between the Mountain’); they could not understand why I was so anxious to return to a grotty little railway station on a Sunday morning. Once again, I tried to explain we worked every day of the week in 3/KAR but as far as they were concerned, Sunday was a day of rest. Instead, they promised me it would be a quick visit and that I would be back in base before the Colonel had woken up from his afternoon snooze.
I travelled to the manager’s bungalow on Bukit Dinding rubber estate with Guy in his armour plated Chevrolet saloon. It was a monster of a vehicle designed to protect anyone inside from rifle fire and hand grenades. He was very proud of his ‘Chevy’ which, he said, had proved its reliability when he had been ambushed by bandits a few months previously. He tried to impress me by hurling the thing around corners but it lurched so violently it only made me feel sick.
When we arrived at Bukit Dinding, I recognised a few of the people who had been at the Malone’s house the day before. I think most of them were feeling ‘fragile’ and we all sat down for lunch at the reasonable hour of one o’clock. I began to feel there was a chance I would be back in Triang, with a bit of luck, by late afternoon.
At three o’clock, guests started to thin out and Guy asked me if I was ready to make a move. We said our farewells and I climbed into the Chevy alongside him. When we reached the main road, instead of turning right, Guy swung the car in the opposite direction. “Where are we going now?” I yelped. “Just remembered, I’ve got to see a fellow in Bentong,” he replied. “Bentong!” I gasped. “Christ, that’s half way to Kuala Lumpur.” He put his foot down and the ‘tank’ hurtled down the jungle-fringed road. “It’s not that far. We’ll be there in half an hour and it will only take me a few minutes to do my business. You’ll still be back in Triang by six o’clock,” he said. I was none too pleased with this change of plan and I began to feel worried again.
We reached Bentong within the hour and Guy drew up alongside a Chinese general store and suggested I follow him inside. We climbed over some sacks of rice and dried fish and went upstairs where four Chinese men were playing mah-jong in a dimly lit room. Guy greeted them in Cantonese and introduced me. I had no idea what they were saying but I had the impression that Guy was being given a hard time. After about half an hour he stood up and I gathered that business had been completed.
We took the road back to Mentakab and I tried not to think what the CO would say when he saw me. He would be angry, for sure, but I hoped he would understand I was a victim of circumstances. The Chevrolet roared down the deserted highway and rolled alarmingly around corners. Still, we were making good time and I didn’t complain about Guy driving so fast.
During the Malayan emergency you got into the habit of looking for enemy ambush positions: I searched the jungle on each side of the road and kept my sub-machine gun ready for action - just in case! We entered a stretch of road with a number of bends and, to my horror, after negotiating a series of twists and turns, I saw a tree across the road. That usually spelt ‘Ambush’, but Guy had no intention of stopping. With a cry of: “Hold on!” he aimed the Chevy at the leafiest part of the tree. There was an almighty crash as the vehicle tore through branches and leaves and the collision almost halted the vehicle, but Guy put his foot down and the Chevy began to pick up speed again. We never knew if there were bandits near the tree and when we inspected the car later there were no obvious bullet holes. The suspension had been damaged though and we limped into Mentakab with a list to starboard and ominous groans coming from under the bonnet.
It was obvious the car was in no state to take us to Triang and the only course was to head for Glugor rubber estate and ask the Malones to put us up for another night. Mike and Mary were delighted to see us and soon we were tucking into a meal. Thereafter, we calmed our nerves with Irish whiskey while the clock ticked towards midnight. Guy had another nose-bleed during the night and when I awoke his face was covered in blood. I wondered why Mary didn't keep an old pillow so he could indulge himself as much as he liked whenever he stayed with them.
As soon as we had finished breakfast we went into Mentakab to see about getting the car repaired. The damage was more serious than we thought and Guy was told it would not be ready until about four o’clock that afternoon. Mary accompanied us so we left the Chevy at the garage and returned to the estate in her car. Later that morning she showed me around her flower garden and took me into a special place where she grew orchids. I told her my Commanding Officer loved flowers and that he had surrounded his basha (thatched hut) with a variety of plants. She knew I was worried about what he was going to say when I returned, so she suggested I take him a bunch of flowers and some potted plants. It could do no harm and might even cool him down - so I accepted her offer.
The foreman at the garage was still working on the Chevy when we arrived at 4pm and it took another two hours before it was ready for the road. We eventually got back to the Glugor estate at 6.30pm and were invited to have supper. Guy would have stayed another night if I had not insisted he take me home. I gathered the Colonel’s flowers and potted plants, slung my sub-machine gun on my shoulder and enlisted the help of Mary Malone to remove the bottle of Irish whiskey from Guy’s reach. Reluctantly, at about 7.30pm, he climbed into the driving seat of the Chevy and we set off for Triang.
Once we had crossed the Sungei Pahang (river), Guy turned off the main road and took a route through an overgrown rubber estate. To venture into such country at night without an escort seemed madness to me but Guy said he knew what he was doing and eventually we turned up at his estate. He told me that Triang was only a few miles away across country and that as soon as he had had a word with his houseboy he would drive me to the officers’ mess. I felt I was nearly ‘home and dry’ so I accepted a drink before embarking on the last lap of the journey. I had a tankard of beer and Guy poured himself a large whisky which he drank in one gulp.
While he poured himself another one, he told me about his business. He looked after three Chinese owned rubber estates and had to pay 'blood money' to the local communist terrorist organisation (Min Yuen) in order to stay alive. The worry of it all was driving him mad and he broke down in tears, which led to another nose-bleed. He collapsed on the floor and I shouted for help to get him into the bathroom. His servants were well practised in knowing what to do and while they were cleaning him up and putting him to bed I pondered on the latest situation in which I found myself. Here I was, not more than six miles from Triang, with no telephone and no way to get help. I strolled on to the veranda and wondered if I should drive the Chevy myself through the maze of tracks that criss-crossed each other on the huge rubber estate. I had almost made up my mind to do this when I saw the lights of a vehicle some distance away heading in my direction. It was another armoured saloon car and as it drew up alongside the bungalow I recognised the driver as Archie Richardson who occasionally came to battalion HQ to play bridge with the Colonel. “Hello Bob,” he said, “what are you doing here? “ I gave him a resume of the previous three days I had spent in Guy Reardon’s company and then asked him if he could take me back to Triang. “No problem,” he said. "Hang on a few minutes and I’ll run you home.”
I followed him into the bungalow and we checked on Guy, now tucked in bed inside a mosquito net. “This is par for the course,” said Archie. “He’s going to kill himself if he doesn’t stop drinking.” Archie found what he wanted and within a few minutes I had removed the flowers etc. from the Chevy and stowed them in the boot of the other vehicle. It took only twenty minutes to get to Triang and the sentry opened the gate when he saw me sitting in the passenger seat. Archie carried the box of plants and I took the bucket of flowers as we made our way to the officers’ mess.
I could see the Colonel and three other officers playing bridge, but they were so intent on their game that they did not look up until I said: “Good evening Colonel, I’m back.” The bucket of flowers was large and heavy and my face was hidden from view but the Colonel recognised my voice and would have blasted me if it had not been for Archie who was handing over the box of plants to the mess sergeant. I put the flowers on the card table but quickly removed them when I saw the acid look the Colonel gave me. Archie accepted the offer of a drink and this eased the situation somewhat. In fact, the Colonel was, as usual, the perfect host and he accepted Archie’s invitation to attend a pig shoot the following Sunday. I walked back to the car and Archie said: “I don’t know what you were worried about. The Colonel seemed alright to me.” I was under no illusion about being 'let off' but I went to bed thankful I was home at last.
After breakfast the following morning, I went to my office to see what had happened since I had been away. Warrant Officer Kathuka was bringing me up to date when Major Tony Lynch-Staunton, my company commander, walked in and told me to put my hat on. “The Colonel wants to see you - NOW,” he said.
I was marched into the CO's office by Tony and we both stood rigidly to attention as the Colonel said in a steely voice: “I want you to tell me exactly where you have been and what you have been doing since I saw you last Saturday morning.” I told him every detail of what had happened and ended up by apologising for acting in such an irresponsible way.
The Colonel's fingers drummed a tattoo on his desk top, and then he spoke in that deep voice with measured tones which I knew spelt trouble: “You have been very unfortunate in your selection of friends. They have let you down and you must pay the price for being absent without leave.” He then told me I would be confined to camp for a month (except when I was on duty - which was every day) and that I would not be allowed to go on leave for three months. (I did not have any leave during the twenty months I spent in Malaya, except for one week end when I visited some old friends in Bahau). It sounded like a severe punishment but, in fact, my routine was unaltered.
What hurt me most was causing my Commanding Officer to worry about me. I thought the world of him and was deeply ashamed about what had happened. But time has a way of sorting things out and years later at a regimental reunion tears of mirth ran down his face as he recalled the memory of me staggering into the mess at Triang and peeping at him through a large bunch of flowers.
Post script: I never saw Guy Reardon again; he committed suicide, or someone else blew his brains out, six weeks later. Rubber planters in the area closed ranks and the official line was that ‘drink’ had finally proved too much for him. But I remember the look on the faces of those sinister Chinese men playing mah-jong in Bentong and what Guy said about ‘paying the price to stay alive'.
The names of Guy Reardon, Mike and Mary Malone, Archie Richardson and the Glugor Rubber Estate are fictitious, but otherwise the story is true.
The Last Journey of Ranger Awang
During the seven months I spent on 'active service' with the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers in Sabah we had only one fatality, and that was caused by our own mortar fire.
Our operational area was the island of Sebatik (Pulau Sebatik) which was three miles from Tawau where main headquarters of 2/RANGERS was based. The island was about thirty miles long and ten miles wide at its widest point; the northern part belonged to Malaysia and the southern part to Indonesia. The border on our side was marked by a barbed wire fence, then came a stretch of 'no-man's-land' beyond which was Indonesia; the distance between the two sides was no more than a hundred yards. On our side, spaced at varying distances where peaks of high ground afforded the best view, were huge sandbag and timber fortifications known as 'sangars'. They were in communication with each other and, wherever possible, supported each other with interlocking fields of fire.
One of the advantages of the 'confrontation' campaign was the ability to practise live firing without having to conform to normal peace time restrictions. This was alright as long as one did not get too blasé about the danger of dealing with high explosives.
Once a week, our medium mortars with base plates about two miles behind the border, would bring down defensive fire (DF) into 'no-man's-land'. The aim was to practise drills and to make sure that destruction of the enemy would occur if the signal to shoot was given. The first time soldiers experienced mortar bombs exploding a hundred yards away from them was a frightening experience. But the mortar-men, two miles away knew what they were doing - and nothing ever went wrong!
Such a rehearsal took place one day after the occupants of one of the sangars had taken all necessary safety precautions. Mortar bombs rained down and the ground shook with the force of explosions. Suddenly, a soldier - Ranger Awang, slumped against one of his friends and then slid slowly to the ground. When the bombardment ceased, it was found that Ranger Awang had been killed by a piece of shrapnel that had gone through his head. It must have been a million to one chance because the jagged piece of metal had entered the sangar through one of the firing slits, ricocheted off a timber support and bounced back under the parapet where Ranger Awang was sheltering.
The body was taken to Tawau on the mainland where the usual formalities were carried out. A coffin, with a metal liner, was delivered to the medical centre and the deceased was placed inside and sealed down. It was found that his parents lived on a small island called Pulau Chantek, a few miles from Jesselton (Kota Kinabalu). They were informed of their son's death and that the body would be delivered for burial the following day.
The composition of the funeral party was myself, the Regimental Sergeant Major, the Pipe Major (Malay), the Tuan Guru (Malay padre) and six soldiers from Ranger Awang's company. We made an early start by boarding an aircraft of the Malaysian Air Force which took us over dense jungle to Jesselton, the capital of Sabah, where transport was waiting to take us to the waterfront. One of the soldiers pointed towards a small island a few miles from the shore and told me it was Pulau Chantek.
As soon as I saw the motor boat that was to take us to the island, I knew we were in for a dangerous ride. Not only was it a hazardous operation getting the coffin down a rickety stairway, but when we moved off with eleven live people (including the driver) and one dead man aboard, the water lapped less than six inches from the top of the gunwale.
As we drew near to Pulau Chantek, I could see that waves were breaking on the shore, and there was no sign of a jetty. The skipper confirmed there were no landing facilities but said he would try and get as close as he could to Ranger Awang's parents' house which nestled under some coconut palms a few yards from the shore. I had not reckoned with having to wade ashore through the surf in our smartly pressed jungle green uniforms, but I ordered the soldiers to remove their footwear and roll up their trousers. The Regimental Sergeant Major had not thought about this either. Had he done so, he would have ensured that he wore a pair of socks that did not end abruptly at his toes like a pair of mittens.
We struggled in the water to get the coffin on dry land but were hampered by the under-tow of the waves. It was like a bad dream and I prayed I would wake up and find myself comfortably ensconced under my mosquito net in Tawau. The reality was that the Tuan Guru told me that I and the Regimental Sergeant Major had been invited to go into the house and take part in certain rituals with the family before the burial could take place. I was concerned about how we would manage to get the coffin, which grew heavier every time we moved it, up a flimsy ladder to an atap house built on stilts ten feet above the ground. But this time, willing hands from Ranger Awang's family carried the coffin and placed it in the centre of the main room.
The RSM did not want to accompany me as he would have had to remove his boots again. I insisted, and for the next half hour he sat like a ram-rod with his hands covering his bare toes. He and I sat on the floor and were given cool coconut milk and rice cakes (the RSM could not accept these delicious offerings as he did not have a spare hand).
Ranger Awang's parents and friends listened as I told them (in Malay) how he had been killed. I had not attended a Malay funeral before and, although I was impressed with the dignity they showed in their sorrow, I was horrified when the Tuan Guru told me that the coffin would have to be opened. I knew that the metal liner had been welded down and I advised him that it should be left alone. The family, however, were determined to see Awang before he was buried, so an 'orang besi' (blacksmith) was summoned. The womenfolk went through the distressing business of saying their farewells to the accompaniment of much wailing, beating of breasts and tearing of hair. At last their devotions came to an end and the orang besi was able to close the coffin again.
Another false assumption of mine was that the burial would take place near the house but, in fact, it meant another sea trip to the other side of the island. Once again, the coffin had to be carried through the surf to the boat before being transported another couple of miles to the burial place.
Before interment took place, it was necessary for the Tuan Guru to read from the Koran inside the grave. While he was doing this, I took the Pipe Major along the shore for about a hundred yards to a place where he could see me wave my handkerchief - this being the signal for him to play his 'lament' when the Tuan Guru had finished his part of the burial service I also positioned the six soldiers where they could fire two volleys when the coffin was placed in the grave.
This ritual is commonplace among soldiers and it would have been unthinkable to have deprived Ranger Awang of a proper farewell. For his family and friends though, who had never heard bagpipes and two volleys of gunfire at close quarters, it must have come as a shock. But there it was, we did our best for Ranger Awang who was the first soldier from Pulau Chantek to die in the course of military duty. I was proud to be one of those who brought him home.
Postscript : As with so many of my stories, I have concealed the real names of those involved. Pulau Chantek (Pretty Island - it certainly was) is also an invention of mine.
Our operational area was the island of Sebatik (Pulau Sebatik) which was three miles from Tawau where main headquarters of 2/RANGERS was based. The island was about thirty miles long and ten miles wide at its widest point; the northern part belonged to Malaysia and the southern part to Indonesia. The border on our side was marked by a barbed wire fence, then came a stretch of 'no-man's-land' beyond which was Indonesia; the distance between the two sides was no more than a hundred yards. On our side, spaced at varying distances where peaks of high ground afforded the best view, were huge sandbag and timber fortifications known as 'sangars'. They were in communication with each other and, wherever possible, supported each other with interlocking fields of fire.
One of the advantages of the 'confrontation' campaign was the ability to practise live firing without having to conform to normal peace time restrictions. This was alright as long as one did not get too blasé about the danger of dealing with high explosives.
Once a week, our medium mortars with base plates about two miles behind the border, would bring down defensive fire (DF) into 'no-man's-land'. The aim was to practise drills and to make sure that destruction of the enemy would occur if the signal to shoot was given. The first time soldiers experienced mortar bombs exploding a hundred yards away from them was a frightening experience. But the mortar-men, two miles away knew what they were doing - and nothing ever went wrong!
Such a rehearsal took place one day after the occupants of one of the sangars had taken all necessary safety precautions. Mortar bombs rained down and the ground shook with the force of explosions. Suddenly, a soldier - Ranger Awang, slumped against one of his friends and then slid slowly to the ground. When the bombardment ceased, it was found that Ranger Awang had been killed by a piece of shrapnel that had gone through his head. It must have been a million to one chance because the jagged piece of metal had entered the sangar through one of the firing slits, ricocheted off a timber support and bounced back under the parapet where Ranger Awang was sheltering.
The body was taken to Tawau on the mainland where the usual formalities were carried out. A coffin, with a metal liner, was delivered to the medical centre and the deceased was placed inside and sealed down. It was found that his parents lived on a small island called Pulau Chantek, a few miles from Jesselton (Kota Kinabalu). They were informed of their son's death and that the body would be delivered for burial the following day.
The composition of the funeral party was myself, the Regimental Sergeant Major, the Pipe Major (Malay), the Tuan Guru (Malay padre) and six soldiers from Ranger Awang's company. We made an early start by boarding an aircraft of the Malaysian Air Force which took us over dense jungle to Jesselton, the capital of Sabah, where transport was waiting to take us to the waterfront. One of the soldiers pointed towards a small island a few miles from the shore and told me it was Pulau Chantek.
As soon as I saw the motor boat that was to take us to the island, I knew we were in for a dangerous ride. Not only was it a hazardous operation getting the coffin down a rickety stairway, but when we moved off with eleven live people (including the driver) and one dead man aboard, the water lapped less than six inches from the top of the gunwale.
As we drew near to Pulau Chantek, I could see that waves were breaking on the shore, and there was no sign of a jetty. The skipper confirmed there were no landing facilities but said he would try and get as close as he could to Ranger Awang's parents' house which nestled under some coconut palms a few yards from the shore. I had not reckoned with having to wade ashore through the surf in our smartly pressed jungle green uniforms, but I ordered the soldiers to remove their footwear and roll up their trousers. The Regimental Sergeant Major had not thought about this either. Had he done so, he would have ensured that he wore a pair of socks that did not end abruptly at his toes like a pair of mittens.
We struggled in the water to get the coffin on dry land but were hampered by the under-tow of the waves. It was like a bad dream and I prayed I would wake up and find myself comfortably ensconced under my mosquito net in Tawau. The reality was that the Tuan Guru told me that I and the Regimental Sergeant Major had been invited to go into the house and take part in certain rituals with the family before the burial could take place. I was concerned about how we would manage to get the coffin, which grew heavier every time we moved it, up a flimsy ladder to an atap house built on stilts ten feet above the ground. But this time, willing hands from Ranger Awang's family carried the coffin and placed it in the centre of the main room.
The RSM did not want to accompany me as he would have had to remove his boots again. I insisted, and for the next half hour he sat like a ram-rod with his hands covering his bare toes. He and I sat on the floor and were given cool coconut milk and rice cakes (the RSM could not accept these delicious offerings as he did not have a spare hand).
Ranger Awang's parents and friends listened as I told them (in Malay) how he had been killed. I had not attended a Malay funeral before and, although I was impressed with the dignity they showed in their sorrow, I was horrified when the Tuan Guru told me that the coffin would have to be opened. I knew that the metal liner had been welded down and I advised him that it should be left alone. The family, however, were determined to see Awang before he was buried, so an 'orang besi' (blacksmith) was summoned. The womenfolk went through the distressing business of saying their farewells to the accompaniment of much wailing, beating of breasts and tearing of hair. At last their devotions came to an end and the orang besi was able to close the coffin again.
Another false assumption of mine was that the burial would take place near the house but, in fact, it meant another sea trip to the other side of the island. Once again, the coffin had to be carried through the surf to the boat before being transported another couple of miles to the burial place.
Before interment took place, it was necessary for the Tuan Guru to read from the Koran inside the grave. While he was doing this, I took the Pipe Major along the shore for about a hundred yards to a place where he could see me wave my handkerchief - this being the signal for him to play his 'lament' when the Tuan Guru had finished his part of the burial service I also positioned the six soldiers where they could fire two volleys when the coffin was placed in the grave.
This ritual is commonplace among soldiers and it would have been unthinkable to have deprived Ranger Awang of a proper farewell. For his family and friends though, who had never heard bagpipes and two volleys of gunfire at close quarters, it must have come as a shock. But there it was, we did our best for Ranger Awang who was the first soldier from Pulau Chantek to die in the course of military duty. I was proud to be one of those who brought him home.
Postscript : As with so many of my stories, I have concealed the real names of those involved. Pulau Chantek (Pretty Island - it certainly was) is also an invention of mine.
High Pressure Means Trouble
Within a few weeks of retiring (finally) from the Army (27th August 1993), I was taking stock of some of the things in the military museum I ran and with which I was familiar. I looked nostalgically at the Bren machine gun and the Enfield mark 4 and 5 rifles in the armoury and the old wireless sets No. 19 and 68 in 'Signals Corner'. A suit of battle-dress and a pair of ammunition boots (with thirteen studs in the leather soles - no more, no less). A Slidex card (low level cypher) and a can of Bluebell (metal polish). Some of you have never heard of these things; I won't bother to explain. But for others of my profession and vintage, they are old friends - or enemies, as the case may be. All are well past their 'sell by date', but there was one piece of kit that was going strong when I joined the Army in 1944 and was still in front line service when I bowed out. It is officially known as 'Cooker Portable No.1' but, to its friends - the 'Number One Burner'.
This truly marvellous item of equipment has been in service since 1939; its CV states: '---designed to cook for seventy persons ... can be used to cook fresh and tinned rations, producing a multi-choice but basic menu. ADVANTAGES ... operates on petrol. It is versatile and, when used with ancillary equipment, is an efficient cooker. DISADVANTAGES ... Operating at ground level increases hygiene risks as you must dig in before use. Petrol, being corrosive, eats away the inside of the tank. Annual pressure tests are essential'.
This doesn't say much for a portable cooker that has reigned supreme for over half a century and I've never known anyone worry about the 'health and safety at work' rules when the Company Quartermaster Sergeant announces that 'all-in-stew' is ready.
Basically, the No. 1 burner is a strong container which ejects petrol, under pressure, through a perforated metal ring. Initially, the petrol will burn as a liquid, but as soon as the ring becomes hot, the petrol changes to vapour and that is when the burner roars into life. For best results, the burner should be set at the end of a line of metal stands in a trench two feet deep. The flame travels down the tunnel heating as many as five dixies (containers) set on the top. Within a short time, the contents will be bubbling away merrily.
One of the nostalgic sounds within an old soldier's memory is the 'early shift' cook getting breakfast ready. He will be going about his business as quietly as he can, trying not to wake his mates, but then comes the sound of him pumping the burner; rather like the noise a bicycle pump makes when it's inflating a tyre. Next comes the roar as the petrol vaporises. It never annoyed me, rather, it was a comforting sound bringing the promise of strong, sweet, 'sergeant major's' tea within ten minutes.
Dixies on metal frames above the trench will provide hot water or boiled food, but if you are in a semi-permanent location, you can improvise with 44 gallon drums (Royal Engineers will always provide). You can then produce a splendid variety of ovens. Under my personal direction, during the Mau Mau campaign in Kenya, King's African Rifles cooks in my company constructed a huge oven of mud, stone and wattle which cooked everything. The power source was firewood, but if this was not available, we used a No. 1 burner. The heat circulated a 44 gallon drum, which was the centre piece of the oven, before dispersing through a chimney at the top. We could fry, boil, grill. roast, bake and barbecue on this contraption and it became a prototype for a number of other, but not so efficient, ovens in the Kikuyu reserve.
But let me return to the conventional No. 1 burner and a tale about another disadvantage not specifically mentioned in its CV.
In June 1953, the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles withdrew from Malaya where we had spent eighteen months helping to subdue a communist insurrection. Some of the rifle companies travelled to Singapore by road to embark aboard the troopship 'DILWARA' for our journey back to Kenya. Others travelled down the east coast of Malaya in landing craft.
As Adjutant of the battalion, I embarked in Kuantan with a motley collection of orderly room and officers' mess staff, the Drums platoon and half a dozen regimental policemen. The landing craft we travelled on was the smallest of the breed, about 60 feet long, known as LCI (landing craft infantry). It was like a Dinky toy version of its larger cousins which carry lorries, tanks and heavy machinery. The Skipper was the fattest Chinaman I have ever seen; when he entered the wheel house, there was no room for anyone else.
We slipped our moorings at about 4pm and I took a long last look at the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront, which had been my home for the previous twelve months. It was the only hotel in Kuantan at that time and the top floor had been a brothel before we requisitioned it as the officers' mess. I have no doubt that it quickly reverted to its former usage when we left.
We sailed down the broad estuary of the Sungei Kuantan to the open sea and then turned south. After proceeding a few miles, the landing craft stopped and the anchor went down. Using a mixture of Malay and English, I gathered from the Captain that he could only travel during daylight hours as he did not have any maps; scores of offshore islands inhibited movement by night.
Content that the Captain's decision was in everyone's interest, I took out my fishing rod, attached a lure in the shape of a small wooden sprat and cast it into the water. After about ten minutes, I felt a bite. I struck and then enjoyed another ten minutes of action with whatever was on the end of my line. Some of the crew showed interest in what I was doing, but when the head of my quarry broke surface, there were cries of horror. Two African askaris came to see what was going on and they also gave shouts of alarm: "Angalia, effendi. Iko nyoka mkubwa!" (Watch out, sir. That's a big snake!). I had been told about the danger of sea snakes when we arrived in Malaya, but as I had never seen one and the swimming had been so marvellous in the South China Sea at Kuantan, I never gave them a thought. The Captain waddled down the ladder from the wheel house and joined the chorus of dissent when he saw the snake, which was now squirming around on the surface. He made it quite clear that he was not going to allow the thing to be brought aboard his ship. Chinese will eat most things, including land based poisonous snakes, but those that live in the sea, are definitely not to their taste. In this, they had full support from their African passengers who considered any snake, from land or sea, was something to be avoided at all times. I was the odd one out, but only because I did not want to lose my sprat which had served me well over the years and which was now sticking head first out of the snake's mouth. The snake eventually settled the matter by spitting it out.
Corporal Macheru, the officers' mess cook, watched the drama and when things were sorted out, he went back to the bows of the ship where the No. 1 burner was in place to cook curry for our evening meal. The Captain made it plain he did not want any more trouble with snakes, so I dismantled my rod and packed my sprat. As I was doing this, Corporal Macheru told me he thought there was something wrong with the burner. When I went to investigate, I found that the indicator on the pressure gauge was well into the 'red'. As I stepped back to consider the matter, there was a sound like a pistol being fired and a huge jet of flame shot about thirty feet into the air. The instinct of self preservation has always been one of my strong points; I wheeled around and, from a standing start, cleared a six-foot table upon which sat an assortment of cooking utensils. Later, I found that a brass stud on the top of the burner blows out if the pressure gets too high. It could have been lethal if I had been standing over it.
The Captain was back in the wheel house mopping his brow after the exertion of climbing up and down his ladder when suddenly the front of his ship erupted in flame. For the second time in thirty minutes, he hurled his massive frame down the ladder and scrambled over piles of baggage to find out what had gone wrong this time. When he eventually reached me, the fire had gone out and I hastened to assure him there would be no repetition. He was not easily pacified and relations between us took another plunge when I asked him if we could use his cooking facilities, as ours did not work any more. We managed to reach Singapore two days later without any more disasters.
Since then, I have been wary of anything that operates with petrol under pressure; but there was one other occasion when I had a similar experience.
It happened when I visited one of the volunteer battalions of my Regiment at camp in Scotland. The Commanding Officer and I went to see one of the rifle companies at their camp in the Trossachs. The midges were biting like mad, so the CO suggested we stand near a No.1 burner. Instinctively, I looked at the pressure gauge and saw that the indicator was in the 'red'. "Stand clear!" I shouted and then dived for cover. The others thought I had taken leave of my senses but they joined me when a 'pistol shot' preceded a spectacular pillar of flame as the safety plug blew out.
Now that I am well and truly retired, I have plenty of memories to remind me of nearly half a century of soldiering. One of my favourites is the rattle of dixies and the No.1 burner roaring into life at the start of a new day.
This truly marvellous item of equipment has been in service since 1939; its CV states: '---designed to cook for seventy persons ... can be used to cook fresh and tinned rations, producing a multi-choice but basic menu. ADVANTAGES ... operates on petrol. It is versatile and, when used with ancillary equipment, is an efficient cooker. DISADVANTAGES ... Operating at ground level increases hygiene risks as you must dig in before use. Petrol, being corrosive, eats away the inside of the tank. Annual pressure tests are essential'.
This doesn't say much for a portable cooker that has reigned supreme for over half a century and I've never known anyone worry about the 'health and safety at work' rules when the Company Quartermaster Sergeant announces that 'all-in-stew' is ready.
Basically, the No. 1 burner is a strong container which ejects petrol, under pressure, through a perforated metal ring. Initially, the petrol will burn as a liquid, but as soon as the ring becomes hot, the petrol changes to vapour and that is when the burner roars into life. For best results, the burner should be set at the end of a line of metal stands in a trench two feet deep. The flame travels down the tunnel heating as many as five dixies (containers) set on the top. Within a short time, the contents will be bubbling away merrily.
One of the nostalgic sounds within an old soldier's memory is the 'early shift' cook getting breakfast ready. He will be going about his business as quietly as he can, trying not to wake his mates, but then comes the sound of him pumping the burner; rather like the noise a bicycle pump makes when it's inflating a tyre. Next comes the roar as the petrol vaporises. It never annoyed me, rather, it was a comforting sound bringing the promise of strong, sweet, 'sergeant major's' tea within ten minutes.
Dixies on metal frames above the trench will provide hot water or boiled food, but if you are in a semi-permanent location, you can improvise with 44 gallon drums (Royal Engineers will always provide). You can then produce a splendid variety of ovens. Under my personal direction, during the Mau Mau campaign in Kenya, King's African Rifles cooks in my company constructed a huge oven of mud, stone and wattle which cooked everything. The power source was firewood, but if this was not available, we used a No. 1 burner. The heat circulated a 44 gallon drum, which was the centre piece of the oven, before dispersing through a chimney at the top. We could fry, boil, grill. roast, bake and barbecue on this contraption and it became a prototype for a number of other, but not so efficient, ovens in the Kikuyu reserve.
But let me return to the conventional No. 1 burner and a tale about another disadvantage not specifically mentioned in its CV.
In June 1953, the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles withdrew from Malaya where we had spent eighteen months helping to subdue a communist insurrection. Some of the rifle companies travelled to Singapore by road to embark aboard the troopship 'DILWARA' for our journey back to Kenya. Others travelled down the east coast of Malaya in landing craft.
As Adjutant of the battalion, I embarked in Kuantan with a motley collection of orderly room and officers' mess staff, the Drums platoon and half a dozen regimental policemen. The landing craft we travelled on was the smallest of the breed, about 60 feet long, known as LCI (landing craft infantry). It was like a Dinky toy version of its larger cousins which carry lorries, tanks and heavy machinery. The Skipper was the fattest Chinaman I have ever seen; when he entered the wheel house, there was no room for anyone else.
We slipped our moorings at about 4pm and I took a long last look at the Nan Yang Hotel on the waterfront, which had been my home for the previous twelve months. It was the only hotel in Kuantan at that time and the top floor had been a brothel before we requisitioned it as the officers' mess. I have no doubt that it quickly reverted to its former usage when we left.
We sailed down the broad estuary of the Sungei Kuantan to the open sea and then turned south. After proceeding a few miles, the landing craft stopped and the anchor went down. Using a mixture of Malay and English, I gathered from the Captain that he could only travel during daylight hours as he did not have any maps; scores of offshore islands inhibited movement by night.
Content that the Captain's decision was in everyone's interest, I took out my fishing rod, attached a lure in the shape of a small wooden sprat and cast it into the water. After about ten minutes, I felt a bite. I struck and then enjoyed another ten minutes of action with whatever was on the end of my line. Some of the crew showed interest in what I was doing, but when the head of my quarry broke surface, there were cries of horror. Two African askaris came to see what was going on and they also gave shouts of alarm: "Angalia, effendi. Iko nyoka mkubwa!" (Watch out, sir. That's a big snake!). I had been told about the danger of sea snakes when we arrived in Malaya, but as I had never seen one and the swimming had been so marvellous in the South China Sea at Kuantan, I never gave them a thought. The Captain waddled down the ladder from the wheel house and joined the chorus of dissent when he saw the snake, which was now squirming around on the surface. He made it quite clear that he was not going to allow the thing to be brought aboard his ship. Chinese will eat most things, including land based poisonous snakes, but those that live in the sea, are definitely not to their taste. In this, they had full support from their African passengers who considered any snake, from land or sea, was something to be avoided at all times. I was the odd one out, but only because I did not want to lose my sprat which had served me well over the years and which was now sticking head first out of the snake's mouth. The snake eventually settled the matter by spitting it out.
Corporal Macheru, the officers' mess cook, watched the drama and when things were sorted out, he went back to the bows of the ship where the No. 1 burner was in place to cook curry for our evening meal. The Captain made it plain he did not want any more trouble with snakes, so I dismantled my rod and packed my sprat. As I was doing this, Corporal Macheru told me he thought there was something wrong with the burner. When I went to investigate, I found that the indicator on the pressure gauge was well into the 'red'. As I stepped back to consider the matter, there was a sound like a pistol being fired and a huge jet of flame shot about thirty feet into the air. The instinct of self preservation has always been one of my strong points; I wheeled around and, from a standing start, cleared a six-foot table upon which sat an assortment of cooking utensils. Later, I found that a brass stud on the top of the burner blows out if the pressure gets too high. It could have been lethal if I had been standing over it.
The Captain was back in the wheel house mopping his brow after the exertion of climbing up and down his ladder when suddenly the front of his ship erupted in flame. For the second time in thirty minutes, he hurled his massive frame down the ladder and scrambled over piles of baggage to find out what had gone wrong this time. When he eventually reached me, the fire had gone out and I hastened to assure him there would be no repetition. He was not easily pacified and relations between us took another plunge when I asked him if we could use his cooking facilities, as ours did not work any more. We managed to reach Singapore two days later without any more disasters.
Since then, I have been wary of anything that operates with petrol under pressure; but there was one other occasion when I had a similar experience.
It happened when I visited one of the volunteer battalions of my Regiment at camp in Scotland. The Commanding Officer and I went to see one of the rifle companies at their camp in the Trossachs. The midges were biting like mad, so the CO suggested we stand near a No.1 burner. Instinctively, I looked at the pressure gauge and saw that the indicator was in the 'red'. "Stand clear!" I shouted and then dived for cover. The others thought I had taken leave of my senses but they joined me when a 'pistol shot' preceded a spectacular pillar of flame as the safety plug blew out.
Now that I am well and truly retired, I have plenty of memories to remind me of nearly half a century of soldiering. One of my favourites is the rattle of dixies and the No.1 burner roaring into life at the start of a new day.
He Went That Way
The first time I saw Jenkins 17 he was flying through the air having been ejected from the driving seat of a two horse power gharry near the old city of Famagusta in Cyprus.
I was on my way back to camp near the old Roman town of Salamis after spending a week-end in Nicosia. I had rounded a bend in a taxi when I saw coming towards me a Cypriot gharry travelling at speed and drawn by two wild eyed horses. Ahead of me was another taxi and it was obvious the two converging parties would crash; this they did with dramatic effect. The two horses were killed instantly, while the driver was catapulted over the mangled remains of the animals to end up within a few feet from the front bumper of my taxi.
I got out of the taxi to see if I could help and fully expected to find that the driver who was lying comatose on his back, dead as well. But he opened his eyes, dusted himself down and uttered a few expletives which clearly identified him as a Welshman. A couple of military policemen and the owner of the gharry hurried to the scene. The poor old Cypriot was not at all pleased with what he saw. His livelihood had come to an abrupt end and what was left of his horses was not likely to bring him much change from the knacker's yard. He quivered with rage at the sight of the person responsible for his ill fortune and would have hurled himself at his wrong doer if the military policemen had not restrained him.
"He went that way," said the young man without batting an eyelid. "Who did?" I asked. "The bloke who was driving the gharry," he replied. For coolness in the face of damning evidence, I gave him full marks, but the 'red-caps' were not impressed and put a pair of handcuffs on him. They asked me if I had seen the crash and did I know the person who was the focus of the real gharry driver's invective. To the first question I answered 'yes', and to the second I replied 'no'. "But," I went on, "this is the man who was in the driving seat." The young man gaped at me and said: "It wasn't me, sir. I can't drive a gharry. To be able to do that you have to make clucking sounds to make the horses move - and I can't do it." He then proceeded to demonstrate how he could not make clucking sounds. His face contorted into a variety of shapes as he sucked and squelched, gurgled and croaked. "There you are, sir, I can't make a clucking noise," he said. The 'red-caps' who had watched the demonstration with inscrutable looks on their faces decided that that was enough and the young man's feet left the ground as the cops whisked him off to their van.
That was my introduction to 'Jenks', or Jenkins 17 as he was known by the use of the last two digits of his Army number. After well over forty years soldiering during which time I have met many remarkable people, I can honestly say I have never met anyone who equalled Jenkins 17 for getting himself into trouble
I was the prime witness in the aforementioned incident and Jenkins had the book thrown at him. For his own good, he was banned from going anywhere near the town of Famagusta during the remainder of the battalion's stay in Cyprus. But this did not work as a few months later he stowed away on a cargo ship and was picked up in Malta. He was returned to Cyprus two weeks later where he took up residence in one of the cells in the guard room. Except for the regimental sergeant major and the provost sergeant, Jenkins got on quite well with the rest of the provost staff who made life reasonably comfortable for him.
When he was finally let out of jail to enjoy what was left of the summer of 1948, Jenkins was put on guard duty in one of the watch-towers in the fence surrounding the main illegal Jewish immigrant camp. The Jews behind the barbed wire looked upon us in very much the same way as they had looked upon the Nazis under whom many of these poor people suffered during the war. Their aim was to get to Palestine and turn it into the Jewish homeland of Israel. They knew they would have to fight for their country and during their enforced seclusion in Cyprus, young men and women of military age were kept busy with a strict programme of military training. The walls of their lecture huts were made of unopened cans of pineapples and peaches provided in vast quantities by American Jewish organisations. They had dummy wooden rifles which they made themselves, parade grounds, assault courses and all the paraphernalia you would expect to find in a normal infantry battalion 'up-country' station.
Our sentries used to sit in the watch-towers and keep an eye on things, in particular the many shapely young Jewesses in the briefest swim wear (also supplied by the Americans). One day the commanding officer, accompanied by the adjutant and the regimental sergeant major, was making a routine inspection. As the party approached one of the watch-towers they were startled to hear the sound of parade ground orders being shouted, while the Jews on their parade ground responded with commendable smartness. All the usual stuff like: 'Saluting to the front --", "Left wheel" and "Right wheel," "Advance in review order," etc. came thundering out from somewhere or other, but it was not until the RSM looked upwards to the watch-tower that all became clear. There was Jenkins 17, with his beret stuck on the back of his head, so thoroughly in command of the parade that he was quite oblivious of the high powered party below him. With a roar, the RSM brought Jenkins's drill parade to an abrupt end. A substitute sentry was found and Jenkins was taken to the guard-room where, once again, he took up residence in the familiar little cell.
Jenkins cultivated a friendship with the medical officer who practised natural methods to bring relief from sickness and suffering. Ailments ranging from tonsillitis and torn ligaments to athlete's foot received the same prescription: "let the sun get at it." But for Jenkins, the contents of the pill and medicine cupboard were always available. He had the knack of being able to press the right button just before battalion drill parades and no matter how hard his company sergeant major tried, Jenkins - with the help of the medical officer, would always pip him at the post.
On one occasion, Jenkins had been given some exotic mixture by the MO which made his hair fall out. 'Excused hair-cuts until further notice' was the entry on his sick-note which he was careful to carry around in the back of his pay-book. When he wore a beret, his bald patch could not be seen and even though he could not grow hair on the top of his head, it grew in profusion around the level of his ears and the back of his neck. The blonde curls and wisps of hair that hung over his collar were like red rags to a bull when the company and regimental sergeant major were about, but there was nothing they could do as the medical officer guarded him like a prize poodle.
When we arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950, Jenk's wanderlust was reactivated and he started off on his own to walk to South Africa. After he had trudged a few hundred miles and the mountains of Ethiopia were getting higher and higher, he realised he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he turned round and headed back. The regimental sergeant major was waiting for him when he returned to Asmara and once again he was back in the cell in the guard room.
A few months later he had another try. I was on my way back from Massawa where I had spent a few days fishing when Jenkins passed me pedalling the orderly room bicycle on Nefasit Staircase, one of the steep stretches of road between the seaport and Asmara; he was heading for the coast, about seventy five miles away where he planned to stow away on a ship. I felt it was my duty to stop at the next police post and request them to alert another post further down the road that a British 'civilian' was on his own on a bicycle. This was an extremely dangerous thing to do as shifta (bandits) were active and would have thought nothing of killing a single white man. Jenkins was apprehended and later that day was once more back in the guard room.
The adjutant, who had tried everything to reform Jenkins, produced the last trick in his bag - 'absolution'. He made Jenkins the orderly room runner and gave him the bicycle he had used in his attempt to reach the Red Sea coast. This worked and from then on, and certainly until I left the battalion in 1951, Jenkins became a model orderly room runner.
The bicycle which had never seen an oily rag, was polished and burnished until it shone like a new medal. He carried a brew-can on the handlebars and this was always full of the cook sergeant's very best tea. Jenkins became a welcome visitor in company offices; not only did he deliver a piping hot drink as well as letters and messages from the orderly room, but he also knew what was inside the envelopes and would often give good advice about their contents. I remember him coming into the signals office one day with my annual confidential report. He watched me as I read it and commented: "Not a bad one at all, sir."
When old soldiers look back on their service they think about the good times and the many people who have enriched their lives. I will always remember Jenkins 17 because he was an individual who liked to do things his way. The full power of authority was often directed against him, and it hurt. But that did not stop him from doing what he wanted when he felt the urge. I haven't seen him for nearly half a century, but I'm still hopeful of running into him at one of our reunions.
I was on my way back to camp near the old Roman town of Salamis after spending a week-end in Nicosia. I had rounded a bend in a taxi when I saw coming towards me a Cypriot gharry travelling at speed and drawn by two wild eyed horses. Ahead of me was another taxi and it was obvious the two converging parties would crash; this they did with dramatic effect. The two horses were killed instantly, while the driver was catapulted over the mangled remains of the animals to end up within a few feet from the front bumper of my taxi.
I got out of the taxi to see if I could help and fully expected to find that the driver who was lying comatose on his back, dead as well. But he opened his eyes, dusted himself down and uttered a few expletives which clearly identified him as a Welshman. A couple of military policemen and the owner of the gharry hurried to the scene. The poor old Cypriot was not at all pleased with what he saw. His livelihood had come to an abrupt end and what was left of his horses was not likely to bring him much change from the knacker's yard. He quivered with rage at the sight of the person responsible for his ill fortune and would have hurled himself at his wrong doer if the military policemen had not restrained him.
"He went that way," said the young man without batting an eyelid. "Who did?" I asked. "The bloke who was driving the gharry," he replied. For coolness in the face of damning evidence, I gave him full marks, but the 'red-caps' were not impressed and put a pair of handcuffs on him. They asked me if I had seen the crash and did I know the person who was the focus of the real gharry driver's invective. To the first question I answered 'yes', and to the second I replied 'no'. "But," I went on, "this is the man who was in the driving seat." The young man gaped at me and said: "It wasn't me, sir. I can't drive a gharry. To be able to do that you have to make clucking sounds to make the horses move - and I can't do it." He then proceeded to demonstrate how he could not make clucking sounds. His face contorted into a variety of shapes as he sucked and squelched, gurgled and croaked. "There you are, sir, I can't make a clucking noise," he said. The 'red-caps' who had watched the demonstration with inscrutable looks on their faces decided that that was enough and the young man's feet left the ground as the cops whisked him off to their van.
That was my introduction to 'Jenks', or Jenkins 17 as he was known by the use of the last two digits of his Army number. After well over forty years soldiering during which time I have met many remarkable people, I can honestly say I have never met anyone who equalled Jenkins 17 for getting himself into trouble
I was the prime witness in the aforementioned incident and Jenkins had the book thrown at him. For his own good, he was banned from going anywhere near the town of Famagusta during the remainder of the battalion's stay in Cyprus. But this did not work as a few months later he stowed away on a cargo ship and was picked up in Malta. He was returned to Cyprus two weeks later where he took up residence in one of the cells in the guard room. Except for the regimental sergeant major and the provost sergeant, Jenkins got on quite well with the rest of the provost staff who made life reasonably comfortable for him.
When he was finally let out of jail to enjoy what was left of the summer of 1948, Jenkins was put on guard duty in one of the watch-towers in the fence surrounding the main illegal Jewish immigrant camp. The Jews behind the barbed wire looked upon us in very much the same way as they had looked upon the Nazis under whom many of these poor people suffered during the war. Their aim was to get to Palestine and turn it into the Jewish homeland of Israel. They knew they would have to fight for their country and during their enforced seclusion in Cyprus, young men and women of military age were kept busy with a strict programme of military training. The walls of their lecture huts were made of unopened cans of pineapples and peaches provided in vast quantities by American Jewish organisations. They had dummy wooden rifles which they made themselves, parade grounds, assault courses and all the paraphernalia you would expect to find in a normal infantry battalion 'up-country' station.
Our sentries used to sit in the watch-towers and keep an eye on things, in particular the many shapely young Jewesses in the briefest swim wear (also supplied by the Americans). One day the commanding officer, accompanied by the adjutant and the regimental sergeant major, was making a routine inspection. As the party approached one of the watch-towers they were startled to hear the sound of parade ground orders being shouted, while the Jews on their parade ground responded with commendable smartness. All the usual stuff like: 'Saluting to the front --", "Left wheel" and "Right wheel," "Advance in review order," etc. came thundering out from somewhere or other, but it was not until the RSM looked upwards to the watch-tower that all became clear. There was Jenkins 17, with his beret stuck on the back of his head, so thoroughly in command of the parade that he was quite oblivious of the high powered party below him. With a roar, the RSM brought Jenkins's drill parade to an abrupt end. A substitute sentry was found and Jenkins was taken to the guard-room where, once again, he took up residence in the familiar little cell.
Jenkins cultivated a friendship with the medical officer who practised natural methods to bring relief from sickness and suffering. Ailments ranging from tonsillitis and torn ligaments to athlete's foot received the same prescription: "let the sun get at it." But for Jenkins, the contents of the pill and medicine cupboard were always available. He had the knack of being able to press the right button just before battalion drill parades and no matter how hard his company sergeant major tried, Jenkins - with the help of the medical officer, would always pip him at the post.
On one occasion, Jenkins had been given some exotic mixture by the MO which made his hair fall out. 'Excused hair-cuts until further notice' was the entry on his sick-note which he was careful to carry around in the back of his pay-book. When he wore a beret, his bald patch could not be seen and even though he could not grow hair on the top of his head, it grew in profusion around the level of his ears and the back of his neck. The blonde curls and wisps of hair that hung over his collar were like red rags to a bull when the company and regimental sergeant major were about, but there was nothing they could do as the medical officer guarded him like a prize poodle.
When we arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in 1950, Jenk's wanderlust was reactivated and he started off on his own to walk to South Africa. After he had trudged a few hundred miles and the mountains of Ethiopia were getting higher and higher, he realised he had bitten off more than he could chew, so he turned round and headed back. The regimental sergeant major was waiting for him when he returned to Asmara and once again he was back in the cell in the guard room.
A few months later he had another try. I was on my way back from Massawa where I had spent a few days fishing when Jenkins passed me pedalling the orderly room bicycle on Nefasit Staircase, one of the steep stretches of road between the seaport and Asmara; he was heading for the coast, about seventy five miles away where he planned to stow away on a ship. I felt it was my duty to stop at the next police post and request them to alert another post further down the road that a British 'civilian' was on his own on a bicycle. This was an extremely dangerous thing to do as shifta (bandits) were active and would have thought nothing of killing a single white man. Jenkins was apprehended and later that day was once more back in the guard room.
The adjutant, who had tried everything to reform Jenkins, produced the last trick in his bag - 'absolution'. He made Jenkins the orderly room runner and gave him the bicycle he had used in his attempt to reach the Red Sea coast. This worked and from then on, and certainly until I left the battalion in 1951, Jenkins became a model orderly room runner.
The bicycle which had never seen an oily rag, was polished and burnished until it shone like a new medal. He carried a brew-can on the handlebars and this was always full of the cook sergeant's very best tea. Jenkins became a welcome visitor in company offices; not only did he deliver a piping hot drink as well as letters and messages from the orderly room, but he also knew what was inside the envelopes and would often give good advice about their contents. I remember him coming into the signals office one day with my annual confidential report. He watched me as I read it and commented: "Not a bad one at all, sir."
When old soldiers look back on their service they think about the good times and the many people who have enriched their lives. I will always remember Jenkins 17 because he was an individual who liked to do things his way. The full power of authority was often directed against him, and it hurt. But that did not stop him from doing what he wanted when he felt the urge. I haven't seen him for nearly half a century, but I'm still hopeful of running into him at one of our reunions.
Goat's Breakfast
After six months in Dhavlos on the north east coast of Cyprus, it was decided that the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment should be moved from their tented camp to proper barracks in Dhekelia, near Larnaca on the south coast. Many of us, me included, thought that Dhavlos was the ideal up-country station. But there it was, the Army is always on the move and we had to hand over our delightful camp by the sea and other rifle company bases to a field regiment of the Royal Artillery.
Gunners are not usually required to do such things as search culverts for mines every morning, keep the peace between Turks and Greeks, search villages for terrorists and weapons and put out forest fires deliberately started by terrorists to increase soldiers' work-load, To give them their due, they learned their lessons in Cyprus and developed their expertise for infantry work a few years later in Northern Ireland.
Captain Digby Rutherford, the Second-in-Command of the battery which took over the camp in Dhavlos, came up to me one day with a question which he thought I could answer. I can't remember what the question was or the answer I gave but, as far as Digby was concerned, it was overtaken by an event that imprinted itself on his mind for the next fifteen years.
We had been chatting for a minute or so when I became aware that Taffy, the regimental goat, was nosing around looking for something to eat. He found what he wanted in the form of a batch of acquitance rolls which Digby was holding in one hand behind his back. Digby had just paid his gunners and the hundred or so signatures on the long pieces of paper was proof of that fact.
Taffy was quite delicate with things he liked to eat and Digby only became aware of what was happening when Taffy licked his thumb. Having nothing left except a few shreds of paper, he shouted: "Look what your bloody goat has done!"
Nobody speaks about the regimental mascot to an officer of the 41st Foot like that and I told Rutherford that I would hold him responsible for any bowel disorders incurred by the goat from eating Royal Artillery acquitance rolls.
We left Dhavlos a few days later and I didn't see Digby again until 1973 - fifteen years later.
I walked into the officers' mess at the Prince of Wales's Division Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales and ordered myself a gin and tonic. A small stocky officer with a bushy moustache who had been posted in as officer-in-charge of the Army Youth Team, got up from the bum-warmer in front of the fire and told the mess waiter to make it a large one and charge it to him.
He clasped me by the hand and looked earnestly into my eyes: "Not a day has passed without me thinking about that awful gaffe I made the last time I saw you," he said. I had not the faintest idea who he was or what he was talking about, but I didn't let on. "I wondered if I would see you here," he continued, "and what your reaction would be." The waiter arrived with my large gin and tonic, so I sat with him on the bum-warmer.
I have a well practised routine which I use for one sided conversations like this. "Do you mean to say we haven't seen each other since that place ---- what was it called?" Dhavlos," piped Digby, "where your goat ate my acquitance rolls. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had punched me on the nose for what I said about the animal."
For the next three days, as soon as I entered the mess, the waiter presented me with a large gin and tonic. It began to be embarrassing and, eventually, I told Digby he had purged his contempt.
Gunners are not usually required to do such things as search culverts for mines every morning, keep the peace between Turks and Greeks, search villages for terrorists and weapons and put out forest fires deliberately started by terrorists to increase soldiers' work-load, To give them their due, they learned their lessons in Cyprus and developed their expertise for infantry work a few years later in Northern Ireland.
Captain Digby Rutherford, the Second-in-Command of the battery which took over the camp in Dhavlos, came up to me one day with a question which he thought I could answer. I can't remember what the question was or the answer I gave but, as far as Digby was concerned, it was overtaken by an event that imprinted itself on his mind for the next fifteen years.
We had been chatting for a minute or so when I became aware that Taffy, the regimental goat, was nosing around looking for something to eat. He found what he wanted in the form of a batch of acquitance rolls which Digby was holding in one hand behind his back. Digby had just paid his gunners and the hundred or so signatures on the long pieces of paper was proof of that fact.
Taffy was quite delicate with things he liked to eat and Digby only became aware of what was happening when Taffy licked his thumb. Having nothing left except a few shreds of paper, he shouted: "Look what your bloody goat has done!"
Nobody speaks about the regimental mascot to an officer of the 41st Foot like that and I told Rutherford that I would hold him responsible for any bowel disorders incurred by the goat from eating Royal Artillery acquitance rolls.
We left Dhavlos a few days later and I didn't see Digby again until 1973 - fifteen years later.
I walked into the officers' mess at the Prince of Wales's Division Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales and ordered myself a gin and tonic. A small stocky officer with a bushy moustache who had been posted in as officer-in-charge of the Army Youth Team, got up from the bum-warmer in front of the fire and told the mess waiter to make it a large one and charge it to him.
He clasped me by the hand and looked earnestly into my eyes: "Not a day has passed without me thinking about that awful gaffe I made the last time I saw you," he said. I had not the faintest idea who he was or what he was talking about, but I didn't let on. "I wondered if I would see you here," he continued, "and what your reaction would be." The waiter arrived with my large gin and tonic, so I sat with him on the bum-warmer.
I have a well practised routine which I use for one sided conversations like this. "Do you mean to say we haven't seen each other since that place ---- what was it called?" Dhavlos," piped Digby, "where your goat ate my acquitance rolls. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had punched me on the nose for what I said about the animal."
For the next three days, as soon as I entered the mess, the waiter presented me with a large gin and tonic. It began to be embarrassing and, eventually, I told Digby he had purged his contempt.
Friendly Fire
It is difficult to remember after the passage of fifty years how many askaris of the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion, The King’s African Rifles were casualties of accidental discharge of weapons. There was certainly a spate of incidents in the early days of our eighteen month tour of duty in Malaya from December 1951 to June 1953 but as time went by, training and expertise in handling weapons, with ‘one up the spout’, effectively cut down the casualty rate.
The first incident I can recollect was when a patrol in thick jungle in the middle of the night panicked and let fly at what they imagined to be a gang of communist terrorists. Unfortunately, most of their weapons were pointed towards the centre of the all-round defensive position and the platoon sergeant was hit in the backside with at least two rounds of .303. The Commanding Officer was furious and gave a stern warning that any more cases of ‘bure’ (Kiswahili word pronounced ‘booray’ meaning ‘for nothing’) rounds would be met with severe disciplinary action.
It was a normal sort of day, hot as hell without a breath of wind, when bullets zipped through the thatched walls and roofs of the flimsy huts we had erected on the platform of Triang railway station (otherwise known as Battalion Headquarters 3/KAR). My instinct for preservation has always been acute and within a second I was flat on the floor of the signals office. I waited for the next volley but none came so I crawled out of the office and joined the Adjutant and a few others who had assembled outside the orderly room. We were joined by the Commanding Officer who was bristling like a wart-hog. His ‘basha’ was on the south end of the platform and it received the full force of the blast. All became clear when a young lieutenant and a patrol of askaris came walking along the railway line towards battalion headquarters.
The first person the young officer saw was the CO: “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, “I hope I haven't done any damage, my Owen gun went off as I was removing the magazine.” For a moment the CO was speechless and then a second volley (this time vocal) was let off. The subaltern was left in no doubt about the seriousness of his action and when the Adjutant told the Colonel that some of the bullets had gone through his wardrobe in his adjacent sleeping quarters, it was a wonder the miscreant was not put under arrest. The CO spent the rest of the morning composing a signal to all company commanders which spelt out, once again, his attitude to ‘bure’ rounds and what would happen to anyone else who let them off. Having got that out of his system he called for the dersi wallah (tailor) who took away some of his clothing which had taken a battering.
A few days later, I was coming out of the officers’ mess when I almost fell over a young officer who was sitting on the steps. He had just returned from patrol and, as he was in a very muddy state, he asked a mess waiter to serve him a cold beer outside. I sat alongside him and asked if he had anything to report. He told me that he and his askaris had spent three days in the jungle west of Triang rubber estates investigating some previously occupied bandit camps. As they had not been able to find any fresh tracks, he had decided to head for the railway line and battalion headquarters so that they could return to their company base on the armoured train. I noticed he was carrying an Owen gun, that unpredictable Australian sub-machine gun - and that it was loaded. I suggested he should proceed to the sand-bagged unloading bay and make safe his weapon but at that moment the waiter arrived with his beer and before I could stop him he started to unload the weapon. There was a cascade of gunfire and for the second time in a week the Commanding Officer came under fire while sitting at his desk.
The Colonel was made for speed and his long legs carried him out of his office faster than a hare breaking cover. His impetus took him almost to the steps of the officers’ mess and the smoking gun barrel of the young subaltern. The CO could be forgiven for thinking there was some sort of conspiracy on the part of his subalterns to get rid of him, but British Army officers are not, generally, that way inclined. Instead, he summoned the Adjutant and told him to put the young officer under arrest (not much point in doing that on ‘active service’) and convene a court of inquiry. The subaltern could expect to be arraigned before the Brigade Commander and receive, at least, a reprimand which he would always carry on his record of service.
In April 1952 we took delivery of the first two of our Daimler Ferret scout cars. Up until that time the Colonel travelled in a cumbersome Humber four-by-four station wagon which was vulnerable to gunfire, but in these snug little vehicles, one protecting the other, he could travel in safety anywhere.
He decided to make use of both when he and the intelligence officer were ordered to attend the Brigade Commander’s conference three days later. This gave the motor transport officer enough time to prepare the mountings for twin Bren machine guns, each with one hundred round magazines above the ‘conning tower’, which was the only way to get in and out of the vehicle.
On the day of the conference, the Intelligence Officer made sure that the Colonel would be as comfortable as possible in the rather cramped conditions of the scout car. Both vehicles were drawn up outside the officers’ mess and all the CO had to do was walk down the steps, climb on top of the leading scout car and ease himself through the hole.
The ‘bwana mkubwa’ (big master) was aptly named as he stood six feet four inches tall. Getting into the vehicle proved to be a problem but after a considerable amount of wriggling and adjustment of baggage he succeeded in getting himself settled. The IO started to tell him about the twin Bren guns that were mounted above his head and how they should be fired should the likelihood arise, but the Colonel was not listening: “What are these handle-bar things for, Charles?” he said. “They are for moving the guns up and down and sideways,” said the IO, “but whatever you do, sir, don’t squeeze the things that look like brakes.” It was too late, the Colonel had already gripped both ‘brakes’ which operated the triggers by remote control.
Battalion HQ officers had become used to the sound of sub-machine guns going off in the area of the Colonel’s basha, but twin Bren guns blasting off was something knew. The guns happened to be pointing towards the motor transport park where drivers were doing their first parade servicing - checking tyre pressures, oil and water levels etc. Two three-tonners were hit by .303 rounds while a third had two of its tyres punctured. Askaris did not wait to find where the bullets were coming from. The Sungei Triang, a fast flowing tributary of the Sungei Pahang, flowed past the far end of the MT park and most of them dived in.
The Colonel was stunned for a few seconds and then realised what had happened. In all fairness, it was not his fault that the Bren guns were loaded and the safety catches were off. But he was the vehicle commander even though he had just got in and had never travelled in such a vehicle before. The important thing was to find a scape-goat and the IO was conveniently available.
The commanding officer was never allowed to forget that unfortunate incident and he was associated with ‘bure’ rounds for the remainder of the time we served in Malaya.
‘It’s an ill-wind that blows nobody any good’. This ancient adage was borne out when the subaltern who sprayed the Colonel’s basha from the steps of the officers mess, heard nothing more about being put in front of the Brigadier.
The first incident I can recollect was when a patrol in thick jungle in the middle of the night panicked and let fly at what they imagined to be a gang of communist terrorists. Unfortunately, most of their weapons were pointed towards the centre of the all-round defensive position and the platoon sergeant was hit in the backside with at least two rounds of .303. The Commanding Officer was furious and gave a stern warning that any more cases of ‘bure’ (Kiswahili word pronounced ‘booray’ meaning ‘for nothing’) rounds would be met with severe disciplinary action.
It was a normal sort of day, hot as hell without a breath of wind, when bullets zipped through the thatched walls and roofs of the flimsy huts we had erected on the platform of Triang railway station (otherwise known as Battalion Headquarters 3/KAR). My instinct for preservation has always been acute and within a second I was flat on the floor of the signals office. I waited for the next volley but none came so I crawled out of the office and joined the Adjutant and a few others who had assembled outside the orderly room. We were joined by the Commanding Officer who was bristling like a wart-hog. His ‘basha’ was on the south end of the platform and it received the full force of the blast. All became clear when a young lieutenant and a patrol of askaris came walking along the railway line towards battalion headquarters.
The first person the young officer saw was the CO: “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” he said, “I hope I haven't done any damage, my Owen gun went off as I was removing the magazine.” For a moment the CO was speechless and then a second volley (this time vocal) was let off. The subaltern was left in no doubt about the seriousness of his action and when the Adjutant told the Colonel that some of the bullets had gone through his wardrobe in his adjacent sleeping quarters, it was a wonder the miscreant was not put under arrest. The CO spent the rest of the morning composing a signal to all company commanders which spelt out, once again, his attitude to ‘bure’ rounds and what would happen to anyone else who let them off. Having got that out of his system he called for the dersi wallah (tailor) who took away some of his clothing which had taken a battering.
A few days later, I was coming out of the officers’ mess when I almost fell over a young officer who was sitting on the steps. He had just returned from patrol and, as he was in a very muddy state, he asked a mess waiter to serve him a cold beer outside. I sat alongside him and asked if he had anything to report. He told me that he and his askaris had spent three days in the jungle west of Triang rubber estates investigating some previously occupied bandit camps. As they had not been able to find any fresh tracks, he had decided to head for the railway line and battalion headquarters so that they could return to their company base on the armoured train. I noticed he was carrying an Owen gun, that unpredictable Australian sub-machine gun - and that it was loaded. I suggested he should proceed to the sand-bagged unloading bay and make safe his weapon but at that moment the waiter arrived with his beer and before I could stop him he started to unload the weapon. There was a cascade of gunfire and for the second time in a week the Commanding Officer came under fire while sitting at his desk.
The Colonel was made for speed and his long legs carried him out of his office faster than a hare breaking cover. His impetus took him almost to the steps of the officers’ mess and the smoking gun barrel of the young subaltern. The CO could be forgiven for thinking there was some sort of conspiracy on the part of his subalterns to get rid of him, but British Army officers are not, generally, that way inclined. Instead, he summoned the Adjutant and told him to put the young officer under arrest (not much point in doing that on ‘active service’) and convene a court of inquiry. The subaltern could expect to be arraigned before the Brigade Commander and receive, at least, a reprimand which he would always carry on his record of service.
In April 1952 we took delivery of the first two of our Daimler Ferret scout cars. Up until that time the Colonel travelled in a cumbersome Humber four-by-four station wagon which was vulnerable to gunfire, but in these snug little vehicles, one protecting the other, he could travel in safety anywhere.
He decided to make use of both when he and the intelligence officer were ordered to attend the Brigade Commander’s conference three days later. This gave the motor transport officer enough time to prepare the mountings for twin Bren machine guns, each with one hundred round magazines above the ‘conning tower’, which was the only way to get in and out of the vehicle.
On the day of the conference, the Intelligence Officer made sure that the Colonel would be as comfortable as possible in the rather cramped conditions of the scout car. Both vehicles were drawn up outside the officers’ mess and all the CO had to do was walk down the steps, climb on top of the leading scout car and ease himself through the hole.
The ‘bwana mkubwa’ (big master) was aptly named as he stood six feet four inches tall. Getting into the vehicle proved to be a problem but after a considerable amount of wriggling and adjustment of baggage he succeeded in getting himself settled. The IO started to tell him about the twin Bren guns that were mounted above his head and how they should be fired should the likelihood arise, but the Colonel was not listening: “What are these handle-bar things for, Charles?” he said. “They are for moving the guns up and down and sideways,” said the IO, “but whatever you do, sir, don’t squeeze the things that look like brakes.” It was too late, the Colonel had already gripped both ‘brakes’ which operated the triggers by remote control.
Battalion HQ officers had become used to the sound of sub-machine guns going off in the area of the Colonel’s basha, but twin Bren guns blasting off was something knew. The guns happened to be pointing towards the motor transport park where drivers were doing their first parade servicing - checking tyre pressures, oil and water levels etc. Two three-tonners were hit by .303 rounds while a third had two of its tyres punctured. Askaris did not wait to find where the bullets were coming from. The Sungei Triang, a fast flowing tributary of the Sungei Pahang, flowed past the far end of the MT park and most of them dived in.
The Colonel was stunned for a few seconds and then realised what had happened. In all fairness, it was not his fault that the Bren guns were loaded and the safety catches were off. But he was the vehicle commander even though he had just got in and had never travelled in such a vehicle before. The important thing was to find a scape-goat and the IO was conveniently available.
The commanding officer was never allowed to forget that unfortunate incident and he was associated with ‘bure’ rounds for the remainder of the time we served in Malaya.
‘It’s an ill-wind that blows nobody any good’. This ancient adage was borne out when the subaltern who sprayed the Colonel’s basha from the steps of the officers mess, heard nothing more about being put in front of the Brigadier.
Flavour of the East
Until I met Ko Ko Lay I had not tasted anything more oriental than a rice pudding. Our friendship lasted for eleven weeks and took place, for the most part, above the clouds in Richmond, Yorkshire.
We were both students on an Army signals course held in a dreary collection of wartime huts called Gallowgate Camp, alongside the Green Howard's depot. The inhabitants of Richmond rarely see the sun in November and December. We had a slight advantage over them and were able to look down on the ancient town, usually covered in mist, like a huge feather duvet. The disadvantage was that we were kept in a permanent state of refrigeration.
Ko Ko Lay had spent all his life in Burma until he was sent to the other end of the world to learn how wireless sets worked. The shock of living in Yorkshire in the winter caused him to pile on everything he could wear and this, he claimed, affected his comprehension of all things electronic. The other thing that slowed him down was British food. In his own country he was used to hot and spicy stuff but nothing that came from the kitchen in the officers' mess excited him.
Half way through the course, we had a long weekend break; Ko Ko used the vacation to visit friends in London. When he returned, he brought with him a collection of cooking utensils which included two small paraffin cookers.
A few days later, he asked me if I would help him make a curry. In those days (1948) there were few Asian restaurants outside London and I knew nothing about those wonderful eastern flavours that we now take for granted. I was anxious to learn though and I accepted his offer.
Ko Ko made a plan and he put this into operation when the afternoon training session came to an end the following day. He led me across some fields to a farm he had discovered about half a mile away. Chickens were running about the yard when we arrived and he pointed to the one that had taken his fancy. I knocked on the door of the farmhouse which was opened by the farmer's wife; a large lady with her hair in a bun. I explained that my Burmese friend would like to buy the white cockerel, if it was for sale. The plump lady looked at us suspiciously and asked. why he wanted to buy the bird. "To eat," said Ko Ko. "You can buy one in the town ready for the oven," she replied. "Don't want a dead one," said Ko Ko, "I want that one over there." It was obvious that the farmer's wife did not like the look of the lanky six foot three inch white man and the five foot three inch brown man, so she called her husband. The farmer obeyed his wife's shrill command and came to the door. Ko Ko fortified his request by thrusting two florins into the farmer's hand who, recognising a good bargain, went off and deprived the hens of their lord and master.
When we returned to camp, Ko Ko invited me into his room and gave me some small packages to smell. That was the starting point of my interest in, and love of, oriental food which still gathers strength half a century later. He went through the now familiar routine of grinding and mixing spices while my nostrils quivered at this new sensation. The bit I was not looking forward to happened without me knowing; a quick twist of Ko Ko's wrist broke the bird's neck and the carcass was handed to me for entrail and feather removal.
Ko Ko's expertise with the paraffin burners and an assortment of saucepans was something I have never forgotten. Not only did he cook the cockerel to perfection, but he also produced a number of piquant side dishes and a bowl of fluffy rice. Never have I experienced anything so delightful as my first curry cooked on the floor of an Army hut on a cold winter's night in Yorkshire.
A month later Ko Ko went back to Burma, which had just received its independence and I never saw him again. The country did not get off to a good start and its fortunes spiralled into anarchy. In 1962, Burma closed its doors to the outside world and its people were locked into a police state which lasts to the present day (2001). If Ko Ko Lay survived, of one thing I'm sure - he never went short of a good curry.
We were both students on an Army signals course held in a dreary collection of wartime huts called Gallowgate Camp, alongside the Green Howard's depot. The inhabitants of Richmond rarely see the sun in November and December. We had a slight advantage over them and were able to look down on the ancient town, usually covered in mist, like a huge feather duvet. The disadvantage was that we were kept in a permanent state of refrigeration.
Ko Ko Lay had spent all his life in Burma until he was sent to the other end of the world to learn how wireless sets worked. The shock of living in Yorkshire in the winter caused him to pile on everything he could wear and this, he claimed, affected his comprehension of all things electronic. The other thing that slowed him down was British food. In his own country he was used to hot and spicy stuff but nothing that came from the kitchen in the officers' mess excited him.
Half way through the course, we had a long weekend break; Ko Ko used the vacation to visit friends in London. When he returned, he brought with him a collection of cooking utensils which included two small paraffin cookers.
A few days later, he asked me if I would help him make a curry. In those days (1948) there were few Asian restaurants outside London and I knew nothing about those wonderful eastern flavours that we now take for granted. I was anxious to learn though and I accepted his offer.
Ko Ko made a plan and he put this into operation when the afternoon training session came to an end the following day. He led me across some fields to a farm he had discovered about half a mile away. Chickens were running about the yard when we arrived and he pointed to the one that had taken his fancy. I knocked on the door of the farmhouse which was opened by the farmer's wife; a large lady with her hair in a bun. I explained that my Burmese friend would like to buy the white cockerel, if it was for sale. The plump lady looked at us suspiciously and asked. why he wanted to buy the bird. "To eat," said Ko Ko. "You can buy one in the town ready for the oven," she replied. "Don't want a dead one," said Ko Ko, "I want that one over there." It was obvious that the farmer's wife did not like the look of the lanky six foot three inch white man and the five foot three inch brown man, so she called her husband. The farmer obeyed his wife's shrill command and came to the door. Ko Ko fortified his request by thrusting two florins into the farmer's hand who, recognising a good bargain, went off and deprived the hens of their lord and master.
When we returned to camp, Ko Ko invited me into his room and gave me some small packages to smell. That was the starting point of my interest in, and love of, oriental food which still gathers strength half a century later. He went through the now familiar routine of grinding and mixing spices while my nostrils quivered at this new sensation. The bit I was not looking forward to happened without me knowing; a quick twist of Ko Ko's wrist broke the bird's neck and the carcass was handed to me for entrail and feather removal.
Ko Ko's expertise with the paraffin burners and an assortment of saucepans was something I have never forgotten. Not only did he cook the cockerel to perfection, but he also produced a number of piquant side dishes and a bowl of fluffy rice. Never have I experienced anything so delightful as my first curry cooked on the floor of an Army hut on a cold winter's night in Yorkshire.
A month later Ko Ko went back to Burma, which had just received its independence and I never saw him again. The country did not get off to a good start and its fortunes spiralled into anarchy. In 1962, Burma closed its doors to the outside world and its people were locked into a police state which lasts to the present day (2001). If Ko Ko Lay survived, of one thing I'm sure - he never went short of a good curry.
Friday, 6 June 2008
Eyes Front
Bring me the sunflower and I'll transplant
It in my garden's burnt salinity.
All day its heliocentric gold face
Will turn towards the blue of sky and sea.
Jeremy Reed.
The inflexible routine for pre-war Saturday mornings on the north west frontier of India was barrack inspection. All hands would be mustered on the Friday evening and the already brilliant stones outside barrack blocks would receive yet another coat of whitewash. The grass would be cut by Indian gardeners wielding large metal rods like golf clubs but with a sharp cutting edge at the base. Other native workers would busy themselves removing sticks, stones and rubbish which had accumulated over the week.
Early on the Saturday morning, everyone would be out of bed at the first sound of the bugle putting finishing touches to their company areas.
Lieutenant 'Olly' Evans had recently joined the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers and he found himself in charge of his company one Saturday morning when his company commander was otherwise engaged. Accompanied by the Company Sergeant Major, he carried out a preliminary inspection of the outside area and was about to congratulate the warrant officer on the immaculate state of the lines when an Indian gardener went past pushing a wheel barrow full of flowers. A few seconds later, eager hands of soldiers, from another company in an adjacent block, removed the flowers and placed them in prepared beds, while the Indian trundled off with his barrow for another load.
The transformation of the dry and dusty mound of earth next door into a colourful garden was as good a conjuring trick as Olly and the Sergeant Major had seen since they had been on the frontier; both realised they had some catching up to do.
After a few seconds thought, Olly gave instructions for a party of men to proceed to the dhobi lines and each collect an armful of sunflowers. The dhobi lines was the place where washing of soldiers' clothes was carried out by the contractor's staff. The abundance of water made it an ideal place for sunflowers to grow.
The men descended on the washing area with picks and shovels but they found digging out the massive plants was a hard job as the roots went so deep. "Cut them off at ground level," ordered the sergeant major. Machetes were unsheathed and the men scythed through the sunflowers until each one had a full load.
With less than fifteen minutes to go before the commanding officer arrived, Olly and the CSM supervised the erection of the sunflowers. Each one was about eight feet high and when they had been jammed into the earth they presented a solid wall of bright yellow blooms.
The Commanding Officer, Adjutant, Regimental Sergeant Major, Provost Sergeant, stick orderly and CO's bugler came into sight right on time and the giant display of sunflowers made the Colonel stop in his tracks. "Good heavens," he exclaimed. "What a remarkable sight. Well done, Olly, you've certainly brightened the place up, but I don't remember seeing those flowers last week." Olly accepted the compliment with a humble shrug and mumbled something about the blooms shooting up after they received a load of manure from the mule lines.
The CO went on to inspect the barrack rooms, but he seemed to have a far away look in his eyes. When he had completed the inspection, he went back to have another look at the garden. He walked up and down the phalanx of flowers and then bellowed: "There's something wrong with these plants!" Olly's mouth went as dry as the earth had been only half an hour before, and he squeaked: "Oh, what's that, sir?" The Colonel caught hold of the stem of the largest flower and with a sharp tug, pulled it out of the ground. He surveyed the rootless but pointed end of the stalk: "Just as I thought," he said, holding it in such a way that Olly thought he was going to be pinned to the wall. "Sunflowers always face the sun, and yours are pointing in all directions."
It in my garden's burnt salinity.
All day its heliocentric gold face
Will turn towards the blue of sky and sea.
Jeremy Reed.
The inflexible routine for pre-war Saturday mornings on the north west frontier of India was barrack inspection. All hands would be mustered on the Friday evening and the already brilliant stones outside barrack blocks would receive yet another coat of whitewash. The grass would be cut by Indian gardeners wielding large metal rods like golf clubs but with a sharp cutting edge at the base. Other native workers would busy themselves removing sticks, stones and rubbish which had accumulated over the week.
Early on the Saturday morning, everyone would be out of bed at the first sound of the bugle putting finishing touches to their company areas.
Lieutenant 'Olly' Evans had recently joined the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers and he found himself in charge of his company one Saturday morning when his company commander was otherwise engaged. Accompanied by the Company Sergeant Major, he carried out a preliminary inspection of the outside area and was about to congratulate the warrant officer on the immaculate state of the lines when an Indian gardener went past pushing a wheel barrow full of flowers. A few seconds later, eager hands of soldiers, from another company in an adjacent block, removed the flowers and placed them in prepared beds, while the Indian trundled off with his barrow for another load.
The transformation of the dry and dusty mound of earth next door into a colourful garden was as good a conjuring trick as Olly and the Sergeant Major had seen since they had been on the frontier; both realised they had some catching up to do.
After a few seconds thought, Olly gave instructions for a party of men to proceed to the dhobi lines and each collect an armful of sunflowers. The dhobi lines was the place where washing of soldiers' clothes was carried out by the contractor's staff. The abundance of water made it an ideal place for sunflowers to grow.
The men descended on the washing area with picks and shovels but they found digging out the massive plants was a hard job as the roots went so deep. "Cut them off at ground level," ordered the sergeant major. Machetes were unsheathed and the men scythed through the sunflowers until each one had a full load.
With less than fifteen minutes to go before the commanding officer arrived, Olly and the CSM supervised the erection of the sunflowers. Each one was about eight feet high and when they had been jammed into the earth they presented a solid wall of bright yellow blooms.
The Commanding Officer, Adjutant, Regimental Sergeant Major, Provost Sergeant, stick orderly and CO's bugler came into sight right on time and the giant display of sunflowers made the Colonel stop in his tracks. "Good heavens," he exclaimed. "What a remarkable sight. Well done, Olly, you've certainly brightened the place up, but I don't remember seeing those flowers last week." Olly accepted the compliment with a humble shrug and mumbled something about the blooms shooting up after they received a load of manure from the mule lines.
The CO went on to inspect the barrack rooms, but he seemed to have a far away look in his eyes. When he had completed the inspection, he went back to have another look at the garden. He walked up and down the phalanx of flowers and then bellowed: "There's something wrong with these plants!" Olly's mouth went as dry as the earth had been only half an hour before, and he squeaked: "Oh, what's that, sir?" The Colonel caught hold of the stem of the largest flower and with a sharp tug, pulled it out of the ground. He surveyed the rootless but pointed end of the stalk: "Just as I thought," he said, holding it in such a way that Olly thought he was going to be pinned to the wall. "Sunflowers always face the sun, and yours are pointing in all directions."
End of the Line
Tawau was only a small town tucked away on the south east side of Sabah. If the state of emergency had not been proclaimed, it would have remained one of the most remote townships in Malaysia. But, because it had a harbour, an airfield and was in close proximity to Indonesia, it became a convenient place to establish a garrison. The influx of many hundreds of soldiers and airmen was a heaven sent gift for tradesmen, but this presented difficulties, one of which concerned the water supply. The townsfolk had no problems, but when the taps were turned on in some of the military camps, which were at the end of the pipeline, they produced a miserable drip or nothing at all.
There was a large water tank at the top end of our camp and one day I climbed up the ladder to find out just how much water there was in it. Except for a few dead birds, it was empty. The following day, I went to see the person in charge of the water supply at the public works department. When I told him we didn't have any water, he nodded and said it would stay that way. "If I fill that tank it will drain the already strained system. Unfortunately, you are at the end of the line and you will just have to make the best of it - there's nothing I can do."
That evening we had the usual downpour and I saw some of our soldiers standing outside their barrack rooms rubbing soap over themselves and bathing in natural conditions. That gave me an idea.
Officers' accommodation in 2/RANGER's camp was built around a sunken badminton court which looked like a swimming pool without water. When it rained, the water ran into gutters below a corrugated iron roof and was carried away into the sewage system.
I went to see the Troop Commander of the Royal Engineer unit and outlined my plan for catching rain water and re-routing it into a number of forty four gallon steel drums so situated that the top one, when full, overflowed into the one beneath it and so on down the line. Within a few hours, a truck arrived with the drums, some extra guttering and the sappers set to work. By evening all was ready and we waited for the rain to come. When it did, the steel drums were soon filled to the brim and we had more water than we wanted. We were then able to wash in the Malaysian way by standing alongside a tank of water with a saucepan-like utensil to fill and pour over oneself. There is nothing more exhilarating than doing this and the cold water from the sky added additional zest to our ablutions. It was all so simple and I can't think why previous occupants of the camp had not thought of it.
Rats were a problem when we took over from the outgoing unit. On our first morning in Kukusan Camp, Tawau, every bar of soap had been eaten. A few pieces on the floor of my room bore traces of teeth marks which clearly spelt the message that rats had been at work.
By the time darkness fell, every officer was in possession of a rat trap and before we went to bed, most had been sprung. The rats looked upon the officers' mess as their habitat and we could see them as they scampered from room to room on top of the partitions. They were about fifteen to sixteen inches long from nose to tail and were extremely vicious. Some of them tried to run off with traps attached to their bodies and we had to kill them with parangs (long knives). It took us about three days to get rid of them.
Cockroaches are found everywhere in Malaysia. Even in the best regulated households these disease-carrying beetles can usually be found in the kitchen. The best safeguard is to keep a cat which will make short work of them. We would have needed an army of cats in the cookhouse of Kukusan Camp to have made an impression on the ones we found there after we had taken over from the previous unit.
The Quartermaster took immediate action when he found traces of these insects in the main kitchen. He ordered some large cupboards to be drawn back from the wall and hundreds of thousands of these creatures, sheltering from the light, were revealed. The cooks hurled buckets of boiling water over them and when the stoves were dismantled, thousands more were discovered. The floor became ankle deep in cockroaches and finally they were shovelled into sacks and taken outside to a pit where they were covered in paraffin and burnt.
If this sort of thing was a problem on the mainland, it was nothing compared to the situation on Pulau Sebatik. Living in sangars was bad enough, but rats brought snakes, particularly cobras, and they were the most dangerous of all. When the cry "Ular' (snake) went up. there was no peace until the reptile was killed.
Company bases on Pulau Sebatik could be reached in two ways - by helicopter or boat. Helicopters were useful for carrying senior officers on visits and to evacuate sick personnel. Their cargo capacity was limited though and only on special occasions were they used for that purpose. Our 'work horse' was the infantry assault boat designed to carry ten men equipped with paddles across small rivers. When a 40 horse power outboard motor was mounted on the stern, its performance was transformed and speeds up to thirty mph were possible. We had so much faith in them that we would happily set off on a 20 mile round trip journey from Tawau to our most distant company base at Simpang Tiga.
Our soldiers were used to handling boats, but they needed to be trained in the use of outboard motors. On our first exercise in some gravel pits in Malaya, one of the engines had not been attached to the mounting board on the stern securely enough. When the rope was pulled and the engine roared into life, it shot off the stern and was never seen again.
Some of the company positions were well concealed, but our boatmen, after a three mile trip across the sea from Tawau, knew just where to enter the dense marine jungle of mangrove which ringed the island. These bases could only be reached at high tide and even then, the last few hundred yards had to be paddled. Mangrove has its use though. The impregnable tangle of roots was as good as barbed wire for keeping out the enemy.
When travelling by boat to Simpang Tiga on the western end of Pulau Sebatik, we came under observation from the Indonesian Army base at Nunukan on an adjoining island about five miles away. Before we arrived, the Indonesians had ambushed some boats travelling up the river and we therefore always travelled in a convoy of three boats for the last three miles.
At the mouth of the river, a large motor boat was permanently anchored on the Sabahan side of the border (marked by a tethered buoy). It had a permanent crew of three plus a few policemen and half a dozen Rangers. Their task was to observe, with an extremely powerful telescope, and report movement in the Indonesian garrison. It was never a popular duty to spend three days on this boat which was for ever straining at its anchor; even the best sailors become sea-sick. On one occasion, an Indonesian gun-boat made an aggressive charge but turned off before it reached the marker buoy.
The day I left Tawau to return to Penang in Malaya, where my wife and children had been living during my seven months' absence, President Sukarno, the Indonesian dictator, was deposed and the campaign came to an end. Tawau soon reverted to the sleepy little backwater it had been before 'confrontation' started. I doubt if the Indonesian sailors in their 'cumpits' in the harbour realised that anything had changed.
There was a large water tank at the top end of our camp and one day I climbed up the ladder to find out just how much water there was in it. Except for a few dead birds, it was empty. The following day, I went to see the person in charge of the water supply at the public works department. When I told him we didn't have any water, he nodded and said it would stay that way. "If I fill that tank it will drain the already strained system. Unfortunately, you are at the end of the line and you will just have to make the best of it - there's nothing I can do."
That evening we had the usual downpour and I saw some of our soldiers standing outside their barrack rooms rubbing soap over themselves and bathing in natural conditions. That gave me an idea.
Officers' accommodation in 2/RANGER's camp was built around a sunken badminton court which looked like a swimming pool without water. When it rained, the water ran into gutters below a corrugated iron roof and was carried away into the sewage system.
I went to see the Troop Commander of the Royal Engineer unit and outlined my plan for catching rain water and re-routing it into a number of forty four gallon steel drums so situated that the top one, when full, overflowed into the one beneath it and so on down the line. Within a few hours, a truck arrived with the drums, some extra guttering and the sappers set to work. By evening all was ready and we waited for the rain to come. When it did, the steel drums were soon filled to the brim and we had more water than we wanted. We were then able to wash in the Malaysian way by standing alongside a tank of water with a saucepan-like utensil to fill and pour over oneself. There is nothing more exhilarating than doing this and the cold water from the sky added additional zest to our ablutions. It was all so simple and I can't think why previous occupants of the camp had not thought of it.
Rats were a problem when we took over from the outgoing unit. On our first morning in Kukusan Camp, Tawau, every bar of soap had been eaten. A few pieces on the floor of my room bore traces of teeth marks which clearly spelt the message that rats had been at work.
By the time darkness fell, every officer was in possession of a rat trap and before we went to bed, most had been sprung. The rats looked upon the officers' mess as their habitat and we could see them as they scampered from room to room on top of the partitions. They were about fifteen to sixteen inches long from nose to tail and were extremely vicious. Some of them tried to run off with traps attached to their bodies and we had to kill them with parangs (long knives). It took us about three days to get rid of them.
Cockroaches are found everywhere in Malaysia. Even in the best regulated households these disease-carrying beetles can usually be found in the kitchen. The best safeguard is to keep a cat which will make short work of them. We would have needed an army of cats in the cookhouse of Kukusan Camp to have made an impression on the ones we found there after we had taken over from the previous unit.
The Quartermaster took immediate action when he found traces of these insects in the main kitchen. He ordered some large cupboards to be drawn back from the wall and hundreds of thousands of these creatures, sheltering from the light, were revealed. The cooks hurled buckets of boiling water over them and when the stoves were dismantled, thousands more were discovered. The floor became ankle deep in cockroaches and finally they were shovelled into sacks and taken outside to a pit where they were covered in paraffin and burnt.
If this sort of thing was a problem on the mainland, it was nothing compared to the situation on Pulau Sebatik. Living in sangars was bad enough, but rats brought snakes, particularly cobras, and they were the most dangerous of all. When the cry "Ular' (snake) went up. there was no peace until the reptile was killed.
Company bases on Pulau Sebatik could be reached in two ways - by helicopter or boat. Helicopters were useful for carrying senior officers on visits and to evacuate sick personnel. Their cargo capacity was limited though and only on special occasions were they used for that purpose. Our 'work horse' was the infantry assault boat designed to carry ten men equipped with paddles across small rivers. When a 40 horse power outboard motor was mounted on the stern, its performance was transformed and speeds up to thirty mph were possible. We had so much faith in them that we would happily set off on a 20 mile round trip journey from Tawau to our most distant company base at Simpang Tiga.
Our soldiers were used to handling boats, but they needed to be trained in the use of outboard motors. On our first exercise in some gravel pits in Malaya, one of the engines had not been attached to the mounting board on the stern securely enough. When the rope was pulled and the engine roared into life, it shot off the stern and was never seen again.
Some of the company positions were well concealed, but our boatmen, after a three mile trip across the sea from Tawau, knew just where to enter the dense marine jungle of mangrove which ringed the island. These bases could only be reached at high tide and even then, the last few hundred yards had to be paddled. Mangrove has its use though. The impregnable tangle of roots was as good as barbed wire for keeping out the enemy.
When travelling by boat to Simpang Tiga on the western end of Pulau Sebatik, we came under observation from the Indonesian Army base at Nunukan on an adjoining island about five miles away. Before we arrived, the Indonesians had ambushed some boats travelling up the river and we therefore always travelled in a convoy of three boats for the last three miles.
At the mouth of the river, a large motor boat was permanently anchored on the Sabahan side of the border (marked by a tethered buoy). It had a permanent crew of three plus a few policemen and half a dozen Rangers. Their task was to observe, with an extremely powerful telescope, and report movement in the Indonesian garrison. It was never a popular duty to spend three days on this boat which was for ever straining at its anchor; even the best sailors become sea-sick. On one occasion, an Indonesian gun-boat made an aggressive charge but turned off before it reached the marker buoy.
The day I left Tawau to return to Penang in Malaya, where my wife and children had been living during my seven months' absence, President Sukarno, the Indonesian dictator, was deposed and the campaign came to an end. Tawau soon reverted to the sleepy little backwater it had been before 'confrontation' started. I doubt if the Indonesian sailors in their 'cumpits' in the harbour realised that anything had changed.
End of the Line
Tawau was only a small town tucked away on the south east side of Sabah. If the state of emergency had not been proclaimed, it would have remained one of the most remote townships in Malaysia. But, because it had a harbour, an airfield and was in close proximity to Indonesia, it became a convenient place to establish a garrison. The influx of many hundreds of soldiers and airmen was a heaven sent gift for tradesmen, but this presented difficulties, one of which concerned the water supply. The townsfolk had no problems, but when the taps were turned on in some of the military camps, which were at the end of the pipeline, they produced a miserable drip or nothing at all.
There was a large water tank at the top end of our camp and one day I climbed up the ladder to find out just how much water there was in it. Except for a few dead birds, it was empty. The following day, I went to see the person in charge of the water supply at the public works department. When I told him we didn't have any water, he nodded and said it would stay that way. "If I fill that tank it will drain the already strained system. Unfortunately, you are at the end of the line and you will just have to make the best of it - there's nothing I can do."
That evening we had the usual downpour and I saw some of our soldiers standing outside their barrack rooms rubbing soap over themselves and bathing in natural conditions. That gave me an idea.
Officers' accommodation in 2/RANGER's camp was built around a sunken badminton court which looked like a swimming pool without water. When it rained, the water ran into gutters below a corrugated iron roof and was carried away into the sewage system.
I went to see the Troop Commander of the Royal Engineer unit and outlined my plan for catching rain water and re-routing it into a number of forty four gallon steel drums so situated that the top one, when full, overflowed into the one beneath it and so on down the line. Within a few hours, a truck arrived with the drums, some extra guttering and the sappers set to work. By evening all was ready and we waited for the rain to come. When it did, the steel drums were soon filled to the brim and we had more water than we wanted. We were then able to wash in the Malaysian way by standing alongside a tank of water with a saucepan-like utensil to fill and pour over oneself. There is nothing more exhilarating than doing this and the cold water from the sky added additional zest to our ablutions. It was all so simple and I can't think why previous occupants of the camp had not thought of it.
Rats were a problem when we took over from the outgoing unit. On our first morning in Kukusan Camp, Tawau, every bar of soap had been eaten. A few pieces on the floor of my room bore traces of teeth marks which clearly spelt the message that rats had been at work.
By the time darkness fell, every officer was in possession of a rat trap and before we went to bed, most had been sprung. The rats looked upon the officers' mess as their habitat and we could see them as they scampered from room to room on top of the partitions. They were about fifteen to sixteen inches long from nose to tail and were extremely vicious. Some of them tried to run off with traps attached to their bodies and we had to kill them with parangs (long knives). It took us about three days to get rid of them.
Cockroaches are found everywhere in Malaysia. Even in the best regulated households these disease-carrying beetles can usually be found in the kitchen. The best safeguard is to keep a cat which will make short work of them. We would have needed an army of cats in the cookhouse of Kukusan Camp to have made an impression on the ones we found there after we had taken over from the previous unit.
The Quartermaster took immediate action when he found traces of these insects in the main kitchen. He ordered some large cupboards to be drawn back from the wall and hundreds of thousands of these creatures, sheltering from the light, were revealed. The cooks hurled buckets of boiling water over them and when the stoves were dismantled, thousands more were discovered. The floor became ankle deep in cockroaches and finally they were shovelled into sacks and taken outside to a pit where they were covered in paraffin and burnt.
If this sort of thing was a problem on the mainland, it was nothing compared to the situation on Pulau Sebatik. Living in sangars was bad enough, but rats brought snakes, particularly cobras, and they were the most dangerous of all. When the cry "Ular' (snake) went up. there was no peace until the reptile was killed.
Company bases on Pulau Sebatik could be reached in two ways - by helicopter or boat. Helicopters were useful for carrying senior officers on visits and to evacuate sick personnel. Their cargo capacity was limited though and only on special occasions were they used for that purpose. Our 'work horse' was the infantry assault boat designed to carry ten men equipped with paddles across small rivers. When a 40 horse power outboard motor was mounted on the stern, its performance was transformed and speeds up to thirty mph were possible. We had so much faith in them that we would happily set off on a 20 mile round trip journey from Tawau to our most distant company base at Simpang Tiga.
Our soldiers were used to handling boats, but they needed to be trained in the use of outboard motors. On our first exercise in some gravel pits in Malaya, one of the engines had not been attached to the mounting board on the stern securely enough. When the rope was pulled and the engine roared into life, it shot off the stern and was never seen again.
Some of the company positions were well concealed, but our boatmen, after a three mile trip across the sea from Tawau, knew just where to enter the dense marine jungle of mangrove which ringed the island. These bases could only be reached at high tide and even then, the last few hundred yards had to be paddled. Mangrove has its use though. The impregnable tangle of roots was as good as barbed wire for keeping out the enemy.
When travelling by boat to Simpang Tiga on the western end of Pulau Sebatik, we came under observation from the Indonesian Army base at Nunukan on an adjoining island about five miles away. Before we arrived, the Indonesians had ambushed some boats travelling up the river and we therefore always travelled in a convoy of three boats for the last three miles.
At the mouth of the river, a large motor boat was permanently anchored on the Sabahan side of the border (marked by a tethered buoy). It had a permanent crew of three plus a few policemen and half a dozen Rangers. Their task was to observe, with an extremely powerful telescope, and report movement in the Indonesian garrison. It was never a popular duty to spend three days on this boat which was for ever straining at its anchor; even the best sailors become sea-sick. On one occasion, an Indonesian gun-boat made an aggressive charge but turned off before it reached the marker buoy.
The day I left Tawau to return to Penang in Malaya, where my wife and children had been living during my seven months' absence, President Sukarno, the Indonesian dictator, was deposed and the campaign came to an end. Tawau soon reverted to the sleepy little backwater it had been before 'confrontation' started. I doubt if the Indonesian sailors in their 'cumpits' in the harbour realised that anything had changed.
There was a large water tank at the top end of our camp and one day I climbed up the ladder to find out just how much water there was in it. Except for a few dead birds, it was empty. The following day, I went to see the person in charge of the water supply at the public works department. When I told him we didn't have any water, he nodded and said it would stay that way. "If I fill that tank it will drain the already strained system. Unfortunately, you are at the end of the line and you will just have to make the best of it - there's nothing I can do."
That evening we had the usual downpour and I saw some of our soldiers standing outside their barrack rooms rubbing soap over themselves and bathing in natural conditions. That gave me an idea.
Officers' accommodation in 2/RANGER's camp was built around a sunken badminton court which looked like a swimming pool without water. When it rained, the water ran into gutters below a corrugated iron roof and was carried away into the sewage system.
I went to see the Troop Commander of the Royal Engineer unit and outlined my plan for catching rain water and re-routing it into a number of forty four gallon steel drums so situated that the top one, when full, overflowed into the one beneath it and so on down the line. Within a few hours, a truck arrived with the drums, some extra guttering and the sappers set to work. By evening all was ready and we waited for the rain to come. When it did, the steel drums were soon filled to the brim and we had more water than we wanted. We were then able to wash in the Malaysian way by standing alongside a tank of water with a saucepan-like utensil to fill and pour over oneself. There is nothing more exhilarating than doing this and the cold water from the sky added additional zest to our ablutions. It was all so simple and I can't think why previous occupants of the camp had not thought of it.
Rats were a problem when we took over from the outgoing unit. On our first morning in Kukusan Camp, Tawau, every bar of soap had been eaten. A few pieces on the floor of my room bore traces of teeth marks which clearly spelt the message that rats had been at work.
By the time darkness fell, every officer was in possession of a rat trap and before we went to bed, most had been sprung. The rats looked upon the officers' mess as their habitat and we could see them as they scampered from room to room on top of the partitions. They were about fifteen to sixteen inches long from nose to tail and were extremely vicious. Some of them tried to run off with traps attached to their bodies and we had to kill them with parangs (long knives). It took us about three days to get rid of them.
Cockroaches are found everywhere in Malaysia. Even in the best regulated households these disease-carrying beetles can usually be found in the kitchen. The best safeguard is to keep a cat which will make short work of them. We would have needed an army of cats in the cookhouse of Kukusan Camp to have made an impression on the ones we found there after we had taken over from the previous unit.
The Quartermaster took immediate action when he found traces of these insects in the main kitchen. He ordered some large cupboards to be drawn back from the wall and hundreds of thousands of these creatures, sheltering from the light, were revealed. The cooks hurled buckets of boiling water over them and when the stoves were dismantled, thousands more were discovered. The floor became ankle deep in cockroaches and finally they were shovelled into sacks and taken outside to a pit where they were covered in paraffin and burnt.
If this sort of thing was a problem on the mainland, it was nothing compared to the situation on Pulau Sebatik. Living in sangars was bad enough, but rats brought snakes, particularly cobras, and they were the most dangerous of all. When the cry "Ular' (snake) went up. there was no peace until the reptile was killed.
Company bases on Pulau Sebatik could be reached in two ways - by helicopter or boat. Helicopters were useful for carrying senior officers on visits and to evacuate sick personnel. Their cargo capacity was limited though and only on special occasions were they used for that purpose. Our 'work horse' was the infantry assault boat designed to carry ten men equipped with paddles across small rivers. When a 40 horse power outboard motor was mounted on the stern, its performance was transformed and speeds up to thirty mph were possible. We had so much faith in them that we would happily set off on a 20 mile round trip journey from Tawau to our most distant company base at Simpang Tiga.
Our soldiers were used to handling boats, but they needed to be trained in the use of outboard motors. On our first exercise in some gravel pits in Malaya, one of the engines had not been attached to the mounting board on the stern securely enough. When the rope was pulled and the engine roared into life, it shot off the stern and was never seen again.
Some of the company positions were well concealed, but our boatmen, after a three mile trip across the sea from Tawau, knew just where to enter the dense marine jungle of mangrove which ringed the island. These bases could only be reached at high tide and even then, the last few hundred yards had to be paddled. Mangrove has its use though. The impregnable tangle of roots was as good as barbed wire for keeping out the enemy.
When travelling by boat to Simpang Tiga on the western end of Pulau Sebatik, we came under observation from the Indonesian Army base at Nunukan on an adjoining island about five miles away. Before we arrived, the Indonesians had ambushed some boats travelling up the river and we therefore always travelled in a convoy of three boats for the last three miles.
At the mouth of the river, a large motor boat was permanently anchored on the Sabahan side of the border (marked by a tethered buoy). It had a permanent crew of three plus a few policemen and half a dozen Rangers. Their task was to observe, with an extremely powerful telescope, and report movement in the Indonesian garrison. It was never a popular duty to spend three days on this boat which was for ever straining at its anchor; even the best sailors become sea-sick. On one occasion, an Indonesian gun-boat made an aggressive charge but turned off before it reached the marker buoy.
The day I left Tawau to return to Penang in Malaya, where my wife and children had been living during my seven months' absence, President Sukarno, the Indonesian dictator, was deposed and the campaign came to an end. Tawau soon reverted to the sleepy little backwater it had been before 'confrontation' started. I doubt if the Indonesian sailors in their 'cumpits' in the harbour realised that anything had changed.
Dark Patch on the Surface
Just before I retired from the Army in 1980, I visited the 1st Battalion of my regiment which was engaged on a four month tour of duty in Northern Ireland. In the course of publicity work I was doing, I required some photographs of signalling equipment in current use with an infantry battalion, so I went along to the signal store with my camera. The thought went through my mind of the remarkable changes that had taken place since the days when I had been the signals officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I claim to be the last British officer to use pigeons on active service, not that I sought to establish a record, it was only because my wireless equipment was so abysmally inefficient.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
Just before I retired from the Army in 1980, I visited the 1st Battalion of my regiment which was engaged on a four month tour of duty in Northern Ireland. In the course of publicity work I was doing, I required some photographs of signalling equipment in current use with an infantry battalion, so I went along to the signal store with my camera. The thought went through my mind of the remarkable changes that had taken place since the days when I had been the signals officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I claim to be the last British officer to use pigeons on active service, not that I sought to establish a record, it was only because my wireless equipment was so abysmally inefficient.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
DARK PATCH ON THE SURFACE
Just before I retired from the Army in 1980, I visited the 1st Battalion of my regiment which was engaged on a four month tour of duty in Northern Ireland. In the course of publicity work I was doing, I required some photographs of signalling equipment in current use with an infantry battalion, so I went along to the signal store with my camera. The thought went through my mind of the remarkable changes that had taken place since the days when I had been the signals officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I claim to be the last British officer to use pigeons on active service, not that I sought to establish a record, it was only because my wireless equipment was so abysmally inefficient.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
Just before I retired from the Army in 1980, I visited the 1st Battalion of my regiment which was engaged on a four month tour of duty in Northern Ireland. In the course of publicity work I was doing, I required some photographs of signalling equipment in current use with an infantry battalion, so I went along to the signal store with my camera. The thought went through my mind of the remarkable changes that had taken place since the days when I had been the signals officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I claim to be the last British officer to use pigeons on active service, not that I sought to establish a record, it was only because my wireless equipment was so abysmally inefficient.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
DARK PATCH ON THE SURFACE
Just before I retired from the Army in 1980, I visited the 1st Battalion of my regiment which was engaged on a four month tour of duty in Northern Ireland. In the course of publicity work I was doing, I required some photographs of signalling equipment in current use with an infantry battalion, so I went along to the signal store with my camera. The thought went through my mind of the remarkable changes that had taken place since the days when I had been the signals officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I claim to be the last British officer to use pigeons on active service, not that I sought to establish a record, it was only because my wireless equipment was so abysmally inefficient.
I was taught how to use the numbers 18, 19 and 22 wireless sets at the School of Signals in Richmond, Yorkshire. The course lasted 11 weeks and at the end I was just as mystified by radio valves, oscillating waves and battery charging as when I arrived. The rest of the students must have felt the same because the commandant gave us some advice before we left.
"Gentlemen," he began. "You are about to return to your units to become regimental signals officers. We have taught you as much as we can during the time you have been here, but it will not have escaped your notice that the wireless sets are, to say the least, pretty useless. You will have to make the most of them though until the new range of equipment comes through. There will be times when you will have to 'carry the can' for the shortcomings of your equipment, and your commanding officer might well get angry with you. If this happens, I suggest you tell him that this is the worst time of year for sunspots." With that he turned on his heel and left the room. I remember asking the fellow next to me what sunspots were, but he didn't know either.
When I had the opportunity, I looked up the word in a dictionary and found that a 'sunspot is a dark patch on the sun's surface'. On further investigation, I learnt that these dark patches were violent eruptions of nuclear energy which had a detrimental effect on radio waves.
Within a few weeks I was back with my unit in Cyprus, but just in time to check the stores and take over from the outgoing signals officer before we packed up and set sail for the Sudan. It was not until early April 1949 when we had unpacked all our kit that I was able to sort everything out. The old hands in the signals platoon were busy erecting aerials, laying telephone lines and coaxing the charging engines to put some energy into the cumbersome secondary batteries that were used to power the wireless sets. These batteries were to cause me more trouble than anything else in the months ahead.
Khartoum is a hot place to be at any time of the year, but even before we were properly acclimatised, the commanding officer announced he was holding a two day signals exercise in the desert south of Omdurman. I realised that this was going to be my first big test and I worked hard over the weekend to ensure that all the wireless sets were in good working order and that batteries were charged to their full capacity.
We set out for the exercise area on the Monday morning with each company HQ vehicle having aboard a No. 19 set on the main battalion net. We made a fine sight as we sped across the desert, each vehicle leaving a wide dust trail behind it.
Battalion headquarters was established under a solitary group of palm trees and the commanding officer, after checking he was in wireless communication with me, roared off in his jeep. For the first hour or so, outstations managed to speak to each other but then voices got weaker, crackles and squeaks grew louder until, by midday, nothing could be heard except me shouting to myself: "All stations, report my signals." In the end, even I gave up when I saw that my batteries were running down.
I was munching a cheese sandwich when I became aware of a dust cloud growing larger by the minute. Soon, I recognised the pennant on the bonnet of the jeep as belonging to the commanding officer; before the vehicle stopped, he jumped out and demanded to know why he couldn't hear anyone. Slipping my half eaten sandwich into the headset carrier bag I remembered the words of the commandant at the School of Signals. "I'm sorry, sir, but it's only to be expected," I said. "This is the worst time of year for sunspots." The CO looked at me for a second or two, and then he erupted. "SUNSPOTS!!" he bellowed. "You'll have sunspots on your arse if you don't get these wireless sets working."
With my trump card played, there was nothing else I could do and, as there didn't seem much point in carrying on with the exercise when no one could hear anything, the CO set off in his jeep to tell everybody to go home.
There was much mirth when we all met in the mess and I was the recipient of many hurtful remarks. The commanding officer had been heard muttering: "Sunspots, I'll give him bloody sunspots." The adjutant thought the CO had taken too much sun and spoke to the medical officer about it, but eventually the truth came out.
I was known as 'Sunspots' for a long time and I had a good mind to write to the commandant of the Signals School and tell him that his advice didn't work in the Sudan.
Postscript: The young signaller to whom I spoke in the signals store looked owlishly at me when I asked him if he had any trouble with sunspots. I was just testing him to see if it was still an emotive word in the Signals Platoon. He didn't react, so I suppose it's forgotten now. The mule panniers had gone as well.
Cat and Dog in a Monsoon Climate
Soldiering in the tropics had been a solo pastime for me until 1963 when my wife, Nesta, my son Richard, aged two and my daughter Gilly, aged nine months, set off for Malaysia on the last day of the year. All my previous journeys to distant parts of the world had been by troopship and I was unprepared for the dismal conditions we had to face for the next 36 hours in a propeller driven aircraft that carried us to Singapore with stops at Istanbul and Bombay. Gilly, being a babe-in-arms, was given a sky-cot, which hung from the baggage lockers above us, while Richard shared whatever room he could find between his parents.
During the long flight, when we saw the sun rise twice, Nesta and I had plenty of time to talk about what lay ahead of us. I had already spent 18 months in Malaya during the communist uprising of the early ‘50s. This time I was to be Second-in-Command of the newly raised 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers whose recruits came from North Borneo, or Sabah, to use its new name. The first soldiers were already being trained at the Gurkha Depot at Sungei Patani, in mainland Malaya. When they and the remainder of the battalion were fit for combat, we were destined to take our place among other Malaysian and Commonwealth forces defending Sabah and Sarawak from incursions by Indonesian armed forces. We would live in private accommodation on the island of Penang off the north west coast of Malaya for the first nine months of our two and a half year tour, but for the first 12 weeks of my time in Malaysia, I would be in Singapore and Johore learning the language and attending a Jungle Warfare course. After that, my routine would be five days and nights in Sungei Patani and the remainder at home in Penang.
The train journey from Singapore to the ferry, where we crossed to Penang, was luxurious compared with the cramped conditions on the long flight. Soon, we were settled in the Officers' Club, otherwise known as the Runnymeade Hotel.
We stayed at the club while we looked around for private accommodation. After a few days we selected a pleasant little house on the road to the airport about two miles out of Georgetown, the capital. It was a typical Chinese bungalow with three bedrooms and quarters for a 'live in' amah, who would attend to the housework, cooking and baby sitting. A small garden provided us with bananas and three towering coconut trees produced delectable nuts whenever we could obtain the services of a special 'nut plucker'. We were on our own as far as Europeans were concerned, but our neighbours were Chinese, Malay and Indian middle-class people. We made the acquaintance of our nearest neighbours, who were Malay, within an hour of moving in. They had a son about the same age as Richard and they were soon playing as if they had known each other all their lives. I asked them about security when I saw a large dog chained to a kennel in their garden. They spoke very little English but the gestures they made left me in no doubt about the importance of keeping a guard dog.
I asked our newly acquired amah - Ah Kwa, if she knew where we could get one that would not only guard the house but be a pet as well. She said she would ask her father when she next went home. As a second string to our bow, a long term British resident in Georgetown told me about two aged English ladies (sisters and spinsters) who lived nearby in a rambling old house which they shared with animals. They were self appointed, self financed and the nearest to the RSPCA to be found in Penang. I was given a grilling by one of the old girls when I rang her on the telephone and, eventually, she agreed to call me if and when she came across a suitable dog.
I was having a shower one evening when Nesta answered a ring on the door bell. I heard her talking to someone and then came an urgent call: "Bob, come quickly!" I was out of the shower in a second, wrapping a towel around my middle as I skidded through the living room to see what was wrong. "I think there's a snake in there," she said as she pointed to a sack on the door step. An old Chinese man, who had propped his bicycle against the wall, was undoing some knotted string from the mouth of the sack. I tried to speak to him in faltering Malay but he only spoke Cantonese. The sack was moving and it was clear that some sort of living creature was inside. "Tell him to take it away," said Nesta who was now convinced that a king cobra was going to crawl out. The old man finally succeeded in opening the sack, and he pulled out a black dog. Relief that it was only a dog was overtaken by a feeling of revulsion for the way the poor animal had been treated. It had been lashed to a narrow metal carrier behind the saddle of the bicycle.
The dog was cringing on the doorstep and, although I had great sympathy for it, it did not conform to my requirements. The amah, who had gone to a shop on the corner of the main road, returned as I was telling the old man to take it away. She spoke to him in his own language and he told Ah Kwa he was only responding to my request for a guard dog. There was much arm waving by the amah and the Chinaman but in the end he picked the dog up by the scruff of its neck and put it back in the sack; a pathetic moan came from the animal as it was lashed to the carrier.
"Stop him," said Nesta. "We can't allow him to treat the poor dog like that." With my towel in danger of dropping to the ground, I ran into the driveway and signalled the old man to stop. "How much does he want, Ah Kwa?" I said. "He say 50 dollars," replied the amah. "Tell him I'll give him 20," I replied. Another arm waving session between Ah Kwa and the Chinaman ensued before Ah Kwa said: "He'll take 20 dollars." Nesta handed me two crisp ten dollar bills which he stuffed into his pocket before untying the sack and letting it drop to the floor. Without a backward glance he mounted his bone-shaker and pedalled off into the night.
I unfastened the neck of the sack and once again the emaciated animal struggled to get out and sit up. The effort was too great and it slumped onto its side. While I returned to the bedroom to put on a pair of shorts, Nesta gave the dog a bowl of water and some pieces of meat. It gently lapped the water but turned away from the food.
It was hard to estimate its age as it was in such poor condition. It was jet black and stood about the height of a medium sized Labrador. Its eyes followed me wherever I went and as I carried it to a comfy bed which Nesta had made for it in the corner of the porch, its tongue came out and gently licked my hand. We made it as comfortable as we could and stayed with it until it went to sleep.
The following morning, Nesta and I rose early and found the dog still lying listlessly in the position where I had placed it the night before. We decided to take it to the Veterinary Hospital in Georgetown as soon as possible so, after we had finished breakfast, we put the dog in the car and headed downtown.
We were able to see a doctor straight away. He did not give the animal a thorough examination because it was obvious it was in an advanced state of distemper. "I'm sorry, there is no hope of saving the dog, would you like me to put it to sleep?" he said. Although we had known the animal for less than one day, we were sad when I nodded assent.
Our young son, Richard, who had been kept under strict control by Ah Kwa burst into tears when I told him what had happened. "Don't worry, he's gone to a much happier place than he's been used to - we'll find another one within a few days."
My optimistic words bore fruit as two days later I received a phone call from one of the Misses Jones: "I think I've got the dog you've been looking for," she said, and gave me a quick profile of the animal: "He's just an ordinary 'pye' dog - black all over with a curly tail, about two years old and quite a character!" She asked us to come around during the early evening.
We arrived at 5pm and let ourselves into their garden through a rickety gate. The place was a wilderness - a complete contrast to the neighbours' gardens which were kept in immaculate condition by native 'kebuns' (gardeners). All sorts of animals were wandering about. There were geese and ducks, peacocks and hornbills. Goats grazed alongside a young calf and an odd assortment of dogs and cats made up the menagerie. Just in front of the house was a dilapidated garden seat suspended on chains below a patched awning. Lying up against a cushion at one end of the seat was a black dog with a curly tail. Even though there were other 'pye' dogs in the garden, Nesta and I knew that this one was ours. The other dogs came running towards us and jumped about excitedly, but the one on the garden seat stayed where he was and looked at us imperiously. Quite obviously, he was leader of the pack.
The Misses Jones came down the steps from their patio and walked towards us. "This is Bobby," said Miss Alice, pointing to the dog on the garden seat. "As you can see, he likes comfort." "We thought he was the one," said Nesta. "Is he friendly?" The answer to the question was a suggestion by Miss Annie that I should extend the back of my hand for him to smell. Bobby inspected the proffered hand with a cold nose and then, with a yawn and a stretch, descended to ground level.
Richard watched the act of introduction between Bobby and myself with interest and felt confident enough to make his own overture. The rapport between dog and child was immediate and within seconds they were playing together happily. It did not take us long to make up our minds, so we accepted Miss Alice's offer to enter their house to complete details of ownership. There were more animals inside the house. Some were in cages like birds with broken wings, while kittens and puppies crawled over the floor. "How do you manage to look after all these creatures?" I asked. "With great difficulty and lots of love," said Miss Alice. "If we can find good homes for them we are pleased to hand them on but, unfortunately, many of our dear friends which cannot find a home or be returned to the wild have to be put to sleep." The Misses Jones went on to tell us they made a run in their car every morning following a regular route so that the indigenous folk of Georgetown could give them their unwanted animals. These two remarkable old ladies had spent many years in Penang devoting their lives to animals. Their concern was about who would take over from them when they became too old to carry on.
Over a cup of tea Miss Annie told us that Bobby had come from a good Chinese home and had been inoculated against rabies and distemper. She lifted the flap of his right ear and I was able to see the serial numbers which recorded the fact. We entered our names in a book they kept and I asked how much we owed. "Anything you can spare will be welcome," said Miss Alice. The Malaysian equivalent of ten pounds was a reasonable amount of money in those days, so I handed over the cash in exchange for a fine black dog which we felt sure would guard us well for the next two and a half years.
Bobby jumped into the back seat of our Humber 'Hawk', followed by Richard holding his lead. As we made our way home, it became obvious that Bobby liked being in a car. He stuck his head out of the window like an old time engine driver and barked loudly at anyone who approached.
Ah Kwa was brushing the patio when we arrived home and she looked suspiciously at Bobby when he bounced out of the car. She need not have worried as Bobby had not yet taken up residence and established his area of authority. Just to be on the safe side, Ah Kwa gave him some meat scraps which he devoured eagerly. Our small daughter, Gilly, then aged nine months, had not been allowed access to Bobby. When they were introduced, the magic chemistry of friendship was bonded at once. In the following days and weeks Bobby was subjected to a demanding variety of violations of privacy such as tail twisting, eye poking, nose pulling and ear biting. He took everything in his stride and, in return, he would give Gilly a big lick across her face which usually sent her tumbling backwards.
It was not long before Bobby knew who was family and who was not. The first person to fall foul of him was a wizened little Malay who earned his living harvesting coconuts. He was able to use his extraordinary ability to climb trees when he came face to face with Bobby in the driveway one day. By the time I arrived to see what all the noise was about, the Malay was about 20 feet above the ground and still climbing.
The coconut plucker, among other visitors and tradesmen who came to our house, soon got the idea that it was safer to rattle the large metal gates and wait for someone to come than actually set foot in the garden. The distinctive noise made by Bobby when the gates were rattled was sufficient to let Nesta and me, or Ah Kwa, know that we had to look sharp.
At that stage of Bobby's time with us, we did not always put him on a running lead as he hated being chained up. Besides, we could manage him quite well as there was a large fence around the house and we felt sure he could not get out. We were wrong of course as we had not considered the 'sex' factor.
The first time he felt the urge to 'go forth and multiply' I saw him clear the wire fence with a few inches to spare. Over the next four or five days we saw nothing of him until one evening when he dragged himself into the garden through the gates we had left open for him. He was in an appalling state and it was obvious he had been engaged in a number of fights. The fur and flesh above his right eye had been ripped open and congealed blood covered one side of his face. He just managed to give Nesta one of his big slobbering licks before he sank to the ground in front of us completely exhausted. The kids were crawling all over him but the energy he had expended over the previous few days had used up his store of adrenaline and he was quite impervious to them.
Nesta went inside to get the first aid box and returned a few minutes later with a selection of powders and liniments. A liberal sprinkling of penicillin powder was applied to the raw flesh and an adhesive plaster kept the flap of flesh and fur in position above the eye. It was her intention to take Bobby to the vet the following morning but, after two hours sleep followed by a full bowl of meat, he sailed over the fence and went off for another two days procreation.
As far as the female of the species were concerned, Bobby loved them all, but for those of his own sex it was a different matter. Providing there was not a female around, Bobby would co-exist with black and white dogs, but the sight of a brown dog would send him into a paroxysm of rage.
One such animal lived with a Chinese family a few hundred yards down the road from where we lived. The master of the household was in the habit of taking his dog for a walk in the cool of the evening - until we arrived. Bobby had made a hole under the fence for such purposes as launching himself at brown dogs, and this he did one evening as the Chinaman and his dog walked past our house.
Bobby's attack was noisy and violent as he hurled himself at the brown dog. His upper mandibles clamped hard on the victim's cheek while the lower set were fixed firmly behind one ear. The poor little dog was held in a vice-like grip and nothing the Chinaman did made any impression upon Bobby.
Nesta, alerted by the noise, rushed outside and tried to pull Bobby away, but she failed as well. Ah Kwa, leaning on the gatepost thoroughly enjoying the unexpected entertainment, was somewhat disappointed when Nesta told her to fetch a bucket of water; she waddled slowly back to the house and a few minutes later appeared with a large bucket. "Quickly, quickly, Ah Kwa," shrieked Nesta, "throw the water over them." Ah Kwa spread her legs, took aim and swung the bucket. She missed Bobby and the brown dog but the poor Chinaman took the full force of water on his chest, knocking him to the ground. Nesta yelled at the amah to fetch another bucket of water but, before she could waddle off for the second time, the Chinaman commandeered the bucket and began beating Bobby around his head until he let go. Although Nesta spoke none of the Chinese dialects, she did not need Ah Kwa to interpret the words of the owner of the brown dog. It was quite obvious to her that the old man's long dead ancestors had been exhorted to even the score with the Smith family and the black 'devil dog' that lived with them.
Another of Bobby's aversions was motor bikes. The sound of a 750cc Kawasaki would set his muscles twitching and he had to be restrained when even a small two-stroke machine passed by.
The road in front of our house went up a hill to the transmitting station of Radio Malaysia. It was about a 1 in 10 incline and offered a reasonable challenge to any driver of a high powered machine. One such bike, driven by an Indian with his hair streaming behind him, roared up the hill one evening as Nesta and I were going for a stroll. Bobby was a good sport and he let the Indian get about 30 yards ahead of him before he set off in pursuit. Over short distances he had a good turn of speed and he quickly caught up with the motor bike. He locked on to the Indian's ankle and held tight. With his balance impaired, the driver lost control and zig-zagged across the road until he hit a concrete bollard and flew over the handlebars - with Bobby still attached to his ankle. We watched all this with horror and were about to go to the Indian's assistance when we saw him climb out of the ditch and start beating Bobby with a stick. Having satisfied ourselves that the driver had not been injured, we spun on our heels and walked off nonchalantly in the opposite direction - away from the Indian, his motor bike, Bobby and any claim for damages.
Some of the most beautiful beaches in the Far East are to be found in Penang. We often drove to our favourite place - Lone Pine Beach, on the north coast of the island a few miles west of Georgetown. There we would sunbathe and swim in the warm waters of the Straits of Malacca to our hearts' content. Bobby loved to come with us and so did Ah Kwa, providing she could stay in the shade as no self-respecting Chinese woman could have a sun tan. While we were swimming, Bobby would be absorbed with a particular kind of crab which is found on most Malaysian beaches. They measure about three inches across the top of their shells and stand on stalk-like legs. They always seem to be on the move and when danger threatens, they scurry away to the nearest burrow in the sand. They move like greased lightning and, as there are always scores of crabs about with numerous burrows, they produce a bewildering pattern of movement as they criss-cross each others' tracks. Bobby could never be single-minded enough to select one crab and ignore the others. The result was that he never caught anything as he weaved and twisted through the scampering crustaceans. They seemed to know just how far to keep in front of his nose before disappearing down a hole. The digging process would then begin and before long the area of beach we had selected would be turned into something like a battlefield.
You can never tell by the expression on a crab's face what it is thinking but, after long periods of observing them on Lone Pine Beach, I am sure they enjoyed the sport just as much as Bobby.
At this stage of our tour in Malaysia, we adopted a kitten. I pulled into a garage one day for some petrol and, as I was paying the bill, I saw a cat with a litter of kittens in a corner of the shop. Richard had been pestering me for some time to get a cat so I asked the man behind the counter if I could have one of the kittens. The towkay (boss) was called and he was only too delighted to give me one. In fact, he tried his best to give me all six, but I selected a cute little 'tabby' and put it on the back seat.
Bobby and cats mixed as easily as oil and water. A one time domesticated cat, which had reverted to the wild, had taken up residence with its babies at the back of the garage, but it had been forced to move by Bobby's unwelcome attention. Poor little defenceless 'Friday', as we called her, carried the obnoxious 'cat' smell and this set Bobby's nose twitching. We had to be on constant guard for the first few days in case Bobby followed his instinct and had her for a snack.
During the cool evenings when the cicadas were singing in the coconut palms, we would watch Bobby and Friday as they developed their relationship. It was all one-sided at first. Bobby appeared disdainful towards the small furry animal which had the patronage of his master and mistress, but could not remain completely detached when the tip of his tail was such an object of attention. Friday would stalk it through the jungle of chairs and table legs before pouncing.
There is a certain time of year in Malaysia, just before the monsoon, when a large type of flying beetle makes sitting out of doors in the evening a dangerous business. These beetles are attracted by light and they come flying towards lamps at great speed. If you happen to be sitting in their flight path, you can receive a painful blow if they hit you. Friday would amuse herself for hours during the beetle season as she leapt and spun in her attempts to catch these noisy and troublesome pests.
As she grew from a kitten into a lean, graceful and very good looking cat, she became more expert in catching all sorts of flying and crawling things. She would deposit a wide variety of birds, lizards and beetles at the side of our bed for inspection.
Every household in Malaysia has its chi-chas. These are small lizards about four of five inches long from nose to tail with sucker pads on their feet. They spend the daylight hours behind pictures and cupboards but at night time they come out and scamper around the walls and ceilings in search of flies. They are delightful creatures and I have yet to meet anyone who does not have affection for them. In fact, among the ethnic population, a house without chi-chas is considered an unlucky place.
We had the usual number of chi-chas in Penang, but they differed from those in some of our friends' houses in that many were minus their tails, having ventured too far down the walls and been caught by Friday. Chi-chas have lived on this planet far longer than human beings and this is most probably due to their ability to jettison their tails if they are caught. They waddle around in an ungainly way for a few days while they are growing a new one, and then the whole business starts again.
Bobby would watch Friday's nocturnal activities with interest and eventually he accepted her as a fully paid up member of the family union. When she became tired of catching beetles and depriving chi-chas of their tails, she would curl up inside Bobby's legs and go to sleep.
By September 1964 sufficient numbers of our soldiers from Sabah had been trained at the Gurkha Depot in Sungei Patani to allow the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers to embark on the second stage of its evolution. This meant a move into barracks of our own in the tin mining town of Ipoh in the state of Perak (about 100 miles away). We had to pack our belongings and hand back our pleasant little house at Bukit Glugor to our Chinese landlord. We had to say farewell to our neighbours and both Richard and Gilly were quite tearful about leaving their Malay playmates. Parting from Ah Kwa was a wrench for all of us. Not only was she an excellent amah, but she had become a good friend as well. The children adored her while Nesta and I were grateful to her for teaching us so much about the Malaysian way of life. She would have loved to come to Ipoh with us, but her father said she was too young to go so far away from home.
When everything was packed and we were ready to leave, an Army truck arrived to take our belongings to Ipoh. My Sabahan orderly, Ibrahim, was detailed to ride in the front of the vehicle while Bobby was tied by his lead to one of the packing cases in the back of the truck. I felt sure that with Bobby guarding our kit there would be no danger of prying hands coming over the tailboard. We had a special rotan (cane) basket made for Friday and she travelled with us in the car.
I had already spent a few days in Ipoh supervising the take-over from the 8th Hussars, the outgoing unit. I had checked all the items in our new quarter and had satisfied myself that everything was in order for my family. It was, therefore, a pleasant experience to introduce them to the new home we would occupy for the following 14 months.
Our bungalow in Gopeng Lane was much larger than the one in Penang. It comprised a sitting room, a dining room, a study, three bedrooms and two bathrooms. Adjoining the dining room was the kitchen and beyond were the amah's quarters. Surrounding the house was about half an acre of lawns and flower beds. The backdrop was jungle and towering limestone rock which stretched to the sky and onwards to the Cameron Highlands. The scene was really beautiful.
Ah Ying, our new amah, and her husband, Lee with their two children Pen and Tan skidded into line on the driveway when they heard our car coming down the lane. They had occupied the servants' quarters for about two years so Ah Ying and Lee were thoroughly experienced in looking after a British Army officer and his family. Within a few minutes of arriving, tea and cucumber sandwiches were served on the patio.
About an hour later, after we had off-loaded the car and freshened ourselves, the whine from the engine of an Army truck could be heard as it approached the house. Ibrahim was in the front wearing a grin like an oriental Cheshire cat and in the back was Bobby looking fed up after being on his own for so long.
All the old problems about relationships between Bobby and servants had to be sorted out again, so we took good care to keep hold of his collar when we introduced him to Ah Ying and her family. They all made a fuss of him and a few titbits of food from their own kitchen helped with an entry to his affection. Friday was removed from her basket as soon as we arrived and had already made an inspection of her new home.
Richard, now three years of age and Gilly, 15 months, were old and mobile enough to enjoy the experience of living in a new house with a new amah and the novelty of two ready-made playmates. None were more than three years old and, even though they could not speak each other's language, it hardly seemed to matter as they exchanged toys and played happily with each other.
We thought it wise to tether Bobby when we arose the following morning so he could take his time to get to know the other people who would assist in running the household. The first to arrive was Raslan, the Malay kebun (gardener). Malays are Moslems and consider dogs unclean. Although they keep them in their kampongs (villages), they are never touched or allowed to enter their houses. Raslan knew he would be working for another British officer but he was not aware that his new master kept a dog and that it was tied to a running lead which ran from one end of the patio to the other. He collected his bucket and spade from the amah's quarters and was heading for one of the flower beds when Bobby spotted him. It was fortunate for the kebun that the route he took was about six feet beyond the length of the lead. Bobby came to a sudden halt as the tether tightened like a bow string - and Raslan had the fright of his life; he had to go around the corner, sit on his bucket and compose himself for a few minutes before he got on with his work.
Raslan was a malingerer. The only reason he turned up early on his first day was because he wished to make a good impression. Thereafter, his performance went rapidly downhill. Bobby looked upon him with suspicion from the start. Despite being given scraps of meat each morning when Raslan arrived, it did not do much good for dog/kebun relations and the gardener distanced himself from Bobby at every opportunity.
During the afternoons throughout the year, the heat in Ipoh is almost unbearable (it has the reputation of being the hottest place in Malaysia), and it is customary for Europeans to take a siesta. The franchise does not extend to the lower strata of the ethnic population who are expected to work until the shadows lengthen in the late afternoon. Raslan must have thought he was a few rungs up from the bottom level of society as he had become used to taking a nap in some bushes at the far end of the garden during the hottest part of the day. Bobby soon put a stop to that for as soon as the kebun made a move for the bushes, he would find Bobby guarding the hole at the entrance. His performance became more desultory when he was denied a siesta, so he had to go.
The people next door were a friendly couple; the man was Chinese and his wife English. At the entrance to their drive was a tree and from its branches hung various strips of cotton material. One day, Nesta asked our neighbour what they were for. The explanation she received was that they were part of the secret world of superstition which rules the life of most Chinese. We noticed that their amah would spend time each day tying bits of cloth to the tree and removing others. She would light candles and joss sticks at the base of the trunk, spray incense and distribute fake money for the spirits of her ancestors. At the end of her devotions, she would place small bowls of food alongside the candles which contained strange things like: chickens' gizzards, ducks' feet, pigs' intestines, nuts and fish heads - Chinese people believe in looking after their dead.
Soon after we were told about the amah's daily ritual, we discovered that her routine was being aborted. Richard and Gilly, along with Bobby, also had a daily routine. This involved watching the movements of our neighbours' amah as she busied herself at the base of the pokok hantu (ghost tree). When she had finished and returned to the house, the trio would creep, under cover of a hedge, to the tree and devour the food. As the children were fond of nuts and Bobby was particularly partial to fish heads and guts of pigs and chickens, very little - if anything, was left for the dearly departed. Eventually, the penny dropped and the amah placed the bowls of food in a fork of the tree, out of reach of those who lived the good life on earth.
Bobby was in the prime of life when we lived in Ipoh and seemed to fear nothing. One evening though, when we were going for a walk around the edge of the golf course, a large cobra slithered through the grass in front of us. Bobby's reaction was immediate: he jumped sideways and took refuge behind Nesta. I did not upbraid him for being a coward, he knew his limitations and cobras were not in his class.
Friday would often bring snakes and lizards into the house. None were very big: she knew her limitations as well. As far as we were concerned, all snakes in Malaysia were treated with respect and whoever found one of Friday's play-things raised the alarm immediately.
Nesta was particularly concerned about snakes, and for good reason. The previous occupants of our house in Ipoh had left the door from the veranda to the main bedroom open one night and had not noticed that one of their children had placed a wooden plank from the ground to the veranda. The plank allowed a cobra to enter the bedroom and they came face to face with it when they went to bed. Needless to say, we kept that door closed while we lived there.
Ramillies Lines, Ipoh - the temporary home of 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, was about a mile away from where we lived and Nesta used to drive me in each morning at 7am. Our route took us along Tiger Lane, which should really have been called Cobra Lane on account of the dead snakes that littered the carriageway every morning. Snakes like warmth and are attracted to the heat retaining properties of tar macadam. The continuous depletion of their numbers seemed to make no difference to the new crop of squashed snakes we saw every day. It gave one an eerie feeling to know that these highly venomous reptiles lived so close to our house.
The transit from daylight to darkness in Malaysia is sudden. Each day we arranged a playtime period for the children and the animals to take place during the last half hour of daylight. We had a large garden with plenty of room for all of us to scamper around. Bobby was the most energetic member of the family and he used this playtime period to burn up excess energy. Cats do not normally feel the need to exercise, but every evening as the sun dipped below the green horizon, Friday would join us. She would rub her sides against our legs with her tail held high and she would arch her back and raise a paw menacingly when Bobby approached - but with good humour, although Bobby was never quite sure. When the time came to go indoors to bathe the children, Friday would usually bolt across the lawn with Bobby in pursuit. She had an amazing turn of speed and, like a good rugby scrum half, could spin on her axis and change direction without slowing down. She always tied Bobby up in knots and he never managed to get within three feet of her. The chase always ended with Friday climbing a tree where, from the topmost branches, she could look down on Bobby - giving a good impression of a dog who had not eaten for a week. Then it was Friday's turn to feel unsure.
Friday found a boy friend soon after we arrived in Ipoh and we became aware of the increasing size of her girth. She gave birth to the first of five kittens one evening just as the children were getting ready for their story before going to bed. This was the only time I can remember when I was let off my evening duty - the arrival of Friday's babies was far more fun.
Up until that time, Bobby and Friday got on well with each other, but those tiny bundles of fur put a new edge to their relationship. Gone was the romp in the garden and so was their close companionship on the patio in the cool of the evening. Friday's duty lay with her babies and she was a good mother.
One day I saw Bobby come flying out of the garage with Friday on his shoulders. He had made the mistake of going too near the basket which Friday used as a nest for her kittens. Thereafter, he kept away from the garage but, as the kittens grew up and became adventurous, he could not always avoid them. He used to look appealingly at us when Friday boxed his ears. Fortunately, our new kebun was able to find homes for them when they were six weeks old. We were sorry to see them go, but Bobby was delighted to resume his normal relationship with Friday.
The area in which we lived mustered about eight or nine houses, some of which were occupied by British officers and their families, but we were the only ones to keep a dog. During the 14 months we lived in Ipoh, almost every other house in the patch was burgled. We felt sure that our good fortune was due to Bobby's visual and audible presence. He really was the terror of the neighbourhood as far as the indigenous people were concerned. The NAAFI boy was forbidden by the manager of the Army's general store to take his van down our drive after Bobby had bitten lumps of rubber off one of the tyres in an attempt to get at the driver. Nesta and I were pleased with his performance as a guard dog, although we were always concerned about the danger of causing injury to someone.
In early 1965 I felt confident enough with my ability to speak Malay fluently that I applied to take the national language examination. I flew to Singapore and took the test in Nee Soon barracks. There were no problems and I qualified for the £150 grant for passing the test. I promised Nesta and the children that if I was successful we would go on leave to the east coast of Malaya. It is not difficult to imagine the delight my good news caused when I returned to Penang on the evening flight of Malaysian Airways.
We arranged with our neighbours for Bobby and Friday to be given food each day and for Bobby to be tied up whenever Chandra, the new kebun came to attend to the garden. For the rest of the day and night he was allowed to run free and we only hoped he would not feel the urge to go off with one of his girl friends while we were away.
We had a marvellous time on the east coast and I was able introduce Nesta and the children to some old friends of mine whom I had not seen for 12 years since I was stationed in Kuantan with the King's African Rifles during the communist insurgency. All too soon it was time to return and when we arrived home we received a great welcome from all those who had now become dependent upon us - Chinese, Indian and Malay (car wash boy), as well as Bobby and Friday. Chandra greeted us in the fashion of his race, with palms pressed together as in prayer. "Everything is in good order sahib," he said. I could see that this was true as I cast my eyes over the well tended flower beds and freshly cut grass. Bobby, who was prancing about with excitement, suddenly transferred his attention to Chandra and leapt playfully into his arms. "He is my friend now," said the kebun. "He's a good dog and he looked after the house very well while you were away." Bobby knew he was getting a good report and he positively beamed with pride.
We very nearly lost Bobby one day when the dog catchers came around. Stray dogs are a menace in Malaysia and they cause great concern to the public health authorities. Teams of 'catchers' travelling in vans are employed to round up such animals. They can always be recognised by their bright yellow jackets, the .22 rifles they carry and the long claw-like implements they put around a cornered dog's head at a range of about ten feet. As they are only concerned with dogs that are not wearing collars, and Bobby always wore a stout rivet-studded collar with his name and address clearly marked on it, we were not unduly worried about him when we saw the 'catchers' in our area.
Nesta had driven me to work one morning and had returned home for breakfast. As she was sitting at the dining table, she heard Bobby barking in the garden. Ah Ying appeared and said: "Come quickly, mem (short for memsahib), the dog catchers are here and Bobby is not on his lead." Corn flakes flew over the table as Nesta sped from the dining room, through the kitchen to the back garden where she saw Bobby jumping up against the fence - minus his collar. Somehow he had wrenched it off and thus had put himself in the category of 'fair game' for the dog catchers. One of them was actually walking towards the fence with a rifle and was about to take aim when Nesta put herself in the line of fire. The dog catcher lowered his rifle while Nesta put her arms around Bobby's head to shield and control him. Ah Ying had no such idea of standing between Bobby and the trigger-happy dog catcher, but she was most impressed with Nesta's dedication to Bobby's welfare. After that, we made sure that Bobby's collar was tightened to another hole.
Although Pen and Tan, Ah Ying's children, played happily with Richard and Gilly in the garden, their mother made it quite clear to them that our quarters were out of bounds. This rule was strictly observed until the 16th August 1965 - Richard's fourth birthday. It was easy to round up a dozen extremely willing three and four year olds from the battalion's British families to attend the party; we asked Ah Ying if her children would like to come as well. This was an opportunity for us to repay Ah Ying's and Lee's hospitality to our children a few weeks before when they were invited to attend the Moon Festival at Ah Ying's mother's house. It was just about the most exciting thing that had ever happened to our kids and when they returned home they told us all about the strange food they had eaten and the lantern procession in which they had taken part. Ah Ying's mother had given them some rice cakes for us to eat and their beautifully painted bamboo lanterns sat on their bedside tables for the rest of the time we lived in Malaysia.
The day of the party arrived and during the afternoon the local soft drink manufacturers, Frazer and Neave, delivered the swings, slides and roundabouts which were common features at all children's parties. While they were being set up in the garden, Ah Ying and Lee were busy preparing the table on the patio to bear a mass of sandwiches, cakes, jelly and trifle they had been making since daybreak.
At about 4pm the first of our young visitors arrived and soon the garden became a noisy playground as the kids made the most of the soft drink firm's fun machines. When all was going well, Ah Ying went off to her quarters and returned a few minutes later with her two children bearing their birthday gifts. They approached Richard very formally and, with a curtsy from Pen and a bow from Tan, the presents were handed over. Like all well brought up Chinese children they were immaculately dressed. Pen had her jet black hair tied in plaits, with ribbons to match her crisp white dress with tiered skirt. Eye shadow, rouge, powder and lipstick are used by Chinese mothers on their children from an early age and Ah Ying had made Pen into a most beautiful painted doll. Tan, although not 'made up', had been well prepared to attend this most prestigious function.
By this time, our children had picked up a few words of Malay, which most Chinese understood, and Richard was able to say: "Terima kasi" (thank you), to Pen and Tan for their gifts.
Bobby had been lying on the mat between the living room and the patio, waking up occasionally when he was trodden on or hit by a flying squeaker. Suddenly he raised himself and, to his amazement saw, inside the living room, the amah's children playing happily with the other party goers. Bobby must have been aware of Ah Ying's rules about where and where not her children could go in our house, so he went across to Pen and nosed her towards the door. Then with ever so gentle nips on her bottom, he pushed her towards her mother who was attending to the food on the patio. Nesta realised what was in Bobby's mind so she caught hold of him, took him outside and tied him up in the garage. After the party, when all of us were cleaning up, we had a laugh about Bobby's action. Ah Ying said that our children, when they visited her mother's home for the Moon Festival, had prompted the same action from their dog, and he had to be tied up as well.
To give Bobby a change of scenery and some exercise, I would occasionally take him with me when I went into the jungle to see our soldiers training. I was making an early start one morning and, when Bobby saw me in jungle kit, he pranced around and made it quite clear that he wanted to come. When I opened the door of the Land Rover he was in like a shot.
Ibrahim, my orderly, and I set off to follow the the course of the Sungei Kenas which flows into the Sungei Perak at Kuala Kangsar. It was an easy route and there were well worn paths on each side of the river. The jungle had been designated a 'big game reserve' and we were quite happy to have Bobby with us to give warning if he scented an animal of the same species as Friday, but much larger. Even after the passing of 40 years, I can remember the first time I walked the Sungei Kenas. It is one of the most beautiful regions in Malaysia and the lower reaches of the river became a favourite place of ours to swim and have picnics.
After about one and a half hours we came upon our soldiers in their jungle camp. I was impressed by the way they had built their bashas (temporary huts made from saplings and palm fronds) and by the way they had sited shallow trenches nearby - to afford them interlocking fields of fire in an emergency. Our young men from Sabah (North Borneo) were quite at home in jungle, but it was necessary to tune their natural skills into the Army way of doing things.
I visited another group of soldiers a short distance from the main camp. They had been practising ambush drills all morning and were having a rest when we arrived. Tiny portable stoves that used hexamine blocks of fuel were bringing rice to the boil in mess tins and askars (to use the Malay name for 'soldiers') were opening those marvellous little tins of food from, what the Army calls, 'individual ration packs'. Sabahan soldiers, even though they liked this highly nutritious food, would supplement their rations with dried fish. Even though the smell was obnoxious, it became quite tasty when cooked. This particular platoon of soldiers had brought with them a large bag of the stuff and Bobby, who had been nosing around, found it. At home in Ipoh, he would have turned up his nose if Ah Ying had put dried fish in his bowl in place of his usual pound of kangaroo meat but, on his day out in the jungle, he ripped open the bag and ate the lot. He was busy searching for the next course when the platoon sergeant discovered what had happened and placed a size eight jungle boot under his tail. The gentle and courteous manners of Malaysian folk is one of the pleasant features of serving in that part of the world. Those hungry soldiers did their best to convince me that they did not want any dried fish that day anyway, but their efforts to appease my embarrassment was of no avail.
In October 1965, the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers was fully trained and ready to take its place alongside other units of Commonwealth security forces defending the borders of Sarawak and Sabah against Indonesian aggression. Many of the British wives decided to return to UK, but Nesta preferred to return to Penang and await my return in seven months time. Her reasoning was that life would be better in that idyllic island than spending a cold winter in an Army quarter in UK.
A month before I was due to leave for Sabah, we took a week's leave and went house hunting in Penang. We stayed at the government chalets, a delightful little compound of holiday homes reserved for the use of Malaysian civil servants and officers of the armed forces. We knew the island well and, although we had been very happy in our previous home in Bukit Glugor, Nesta wanted to be closer to the sea and nearer the centre of Georgetown.
The place she set her sights on was an apartment situated between the Runnymeade (Hotel) Officers' Club and the Eastern and Oriental Hotel (shortened to 'E & O'). The place turned out to be ideal for her and the children. A number of families were already living there, it was within easy reach of the shops and the view from the garden over the sea to Kedah Peak was superb. We went to see the administrator who told us that a flat would be available just at the time I was due to leave for Sabah. We signed up there and then.
The last few weeks in Ipoh passed quickly. There was much packing of boxes and disposing of rubbish and we were mystified by the way our possessions increased 100% every time we made a move.
It seemed familiar when an Army 3 ton truck arrived at our house in Ipoh to take aboard our packing cases for the return to Penang. Ah Ying, Lee and their children, now over a year older than when we arrived were standing in a tearful line to say 'good-bye'. Chandra and the car wash boy had also come to see us off and all of them received an enhanced payment for looking after us so well. Bobby was put in the back of the truck where, once again, he was detailed to look after our possessions. With Friday in her wicker basket inside the car and with Richard and Gilly nearly falling out of the windows waving their farewells, we set off for Penang.
Nesta and I were quiet with our own thoughts as we drove north. We knew that in a few days I would be returning to Ipoh on my own to take the advance party of the battalion to Sabah. We sped along the road which twisted and turned through the Kinta Valley wherein lies the world's greatest deposits of tin. We saw the turn-off to the Chior Big Game reserve where only a few weeks before we found the pug marks of a fully grown tiger. Kuala Kangsar came into view on the banks of the Sungei Perak and we were reminded of an unforgettable evening when we attended the Sultan of Perak's birthday party in his fairy tale pink palace. Onwards to Taiping which brought back unhappy memories for both of us. I was taken to the British Military Hospital there with the dreaded swamp disease called Leptospirosis which I caught at the Jungle Warfare School in Kota Tinggi. Nesta drove thousands of miles when she visited me each day for four weeks while she was living in Penang.
At last, we drove out of the vast forest of rubber trees and saw the sea and the island of Penang in the distance; we felt we were on our way home.
One advantage of the new apartment was the close proximity of a beach, which was less than a hundred yards away. We had been confined in the car for about three hours, so we felt the need for a swim.
When we returned about 30 minutes later, we had just had time to make a pot of tea before the truck, with our kit, arrived. Ibrahim unleashed Bobby who, within a very short time had made a note of all the smells in the garden and contributed a few of his own. The following two days were spent unpacking some of our boxes and putting others aside for our return to UK in eight months time.
We tried to get Ah Kwa to be our amah again but she had found another job with a long term future and she quite sensibly, but regretfully, declined our request to come and work for us. She made a great fuss of the children, but the interval of over a year had made them shy. It was not until she left that the children implored us to let them see her again. Thereafter, Richard and Gilly had to be retrained from hi-jacking her from her new mistress whenever we went near the house where she worked.
Nesta interviewed some potential amahs and finally settled on a middle aged Burmese lady who, surprisingly, had the same name as my mother - Elsie.
Bobby had to be introduced to a new bunch of Malays, Chinese and Indians. The first commotion occurred during the first morning we spent in our new home. The Indian postman came face to face with Bobby as he was about to put an envelope through the letter box. Fortunately, the postman's bicycle was only a few feet away and he was able to hold it in front of his body to stop Bobby tearing him limb from limb. I flew to the postman's rescue and caught hold of Bobby's collar before he could do any harm. The Indian was speechless with fright and looked at me incredulously when I approached, still holding Bobby, and asked him to give me his left hand. He shut his eyes as I placed his hand on Bobby's head and then worked it around until I inserted his fingers into Bobby's mouth. Someone once told me that this was the way to forge friendship between man and dog. It seemed to work as the Indian was able to withdraw his hand and assure himself that he was still in possession of all his fingers. "You will have no trouble from now on," I said, and he voluntarily offered his other hand to Bobby who graciously sniffed it.
The last few days with Nesta and the children flew past but I was happy with the thought that after seven months in Sabah, I would return to Penang and spend four weeks leave there before returning to UK. Nesta had got the flat she wanted, an amah who seemed to be excellent - certainly as far as Burmese curries were concerned, and a dog that would stand no nonsense from anyone.
A Land Rover arrived and Ibrahim put my kit aboard. I kissed Nesta and the children and gave a last and somewhat choked instruction to Bobby about 'being in charge', and then I was on my way. I hardly noticed the familiar streets and buildings in Georgetown and my eyes did not clear until I was on the ferry heading for the mainland.
All the time we had been in mainland Malaya, we had communicated with our parents in UK through the medium of a tape recorder. We seemed to be the only British family in the battalion to do this and I could never understand why others did not follow our example. From an early age Richard and Gilly used to trot off with a tape recorder and announce they were going to talk to Grandpa and Grandma. Richard was able to operate the buttons and both would chat quite easily to both sets of grandparents who lived on the opposite side of the world.
Before I left Penang, I bought two new tape recorders; one for Nesta and the children and one for me. I was eager, therefore, to receive my first audio message when I arrived in Sabah. After five days watching every Fokker 'Friendship' aircraft of Malaysian Airways arrive on the airstrip adjacent to our camp in Tawau, the one carrying my first tape finally arrived. I was delighted to hear news of the family but appalled to hear what Nesta had to say about Bobby. It appeared he abrogated the postman's trust by nearly ripping his trousers off on his second visit to the flat. Nesta hoped he would not take the matter further, but thoughts about compensation were uppermost in the postman's mind and he reported the incident to his boss. From then on bureaucracy took over and the saga of Bobby and the postman accounted for many yards of magnetic tape.
Nesta was summoned to appear at the Magistrates' Court in Georgetown, When she arrived she was advised by her Chinese counsel to plead guilty. One look at the magistrate, a Malay, convinced her that this was a good idea.
The magistrate listened to the evidence of the postman, who by now had developed a limp and had to be assisted in and out of the witness box. He looked severely at Nesta and asked her how she wanted to plead. "Guilty!" she squeaked. Another severe look from the magistrate was followed by the pronouncement that she would have to pay a fine of Malaysian 200 Malaysian dollars - which was about £20 in those days, and a lot of money. More was to come, and the second arrow from the magistrate's bow was an order that Bobby would be put in quarantine to see if he carried the dreaded rabies virus. Despite Nesta's protestations that he had been vaccinated - and had a tattoo in his ear to prove it, he was duly impounded and taken away to the approved place for dogs who bite postmen. After 14 days he was returned to Nesta's ownership, but only after she had handed over another $200 for his keep and another rabies jab. While all this was going on, he was 'absent from duty' – which was the main reason for having him. I was none too pleased.
Indians come in all shapes and sizes, but the one who decided to adopt Nesta and the children - or rather, the place where they lived, was called in Malay, 'orang gila' (mad-man). During daytime, this weird, bearded and wild-eyed fellow spent his time on the padang (open grassy area in the centre of the town, rather like a park in British terms). At night, he took up residence in the passage way leading to the front door of our flat and there he slept until morning. At dawn he would pick up his meagre possessions, clean up whatever mess he had made - very little really, and return to the padang.
Nesta nearly had a fit the first night she saw him. She was returning from a supper party and fell over the Indian who was asleep on the floor in front of the door. The orang gila, who was most probably used to being kicked during the night, did not move, but Nesta's agitation set off a chain reaction which caused Bobby to wake up the entire community. She opened the door as fast as she could, stepped over the somnolent Indian, at the same time keeping hold of Bobby's collar lest he attack him and cause another trip to the magistrate's court. She need not have worried as Bobby, instead of attacking, shrank into the shadows and spent the rest of the night barking in unison with the snores of the orang gila.
The strange fellow used to arrive every night at about ten o'clock and was quite unconcerned about Bobby who, even though he barked long and loud, would not approach him. Nesta was concerned at Bobby's failure to deter the Indian from trespassing on our property, but it was obvious to her that the orang gila had some sort of mental hold over the dog, so she resorted to other means.
The administrator of the flats, a Chinaman, considered that his responsibilities lay only with collecting rent and attending to matters of maintenance. She then tried the local police, but the jaundiced eye of the sergeant in charge, who recognised her from the postman affair, convinced her that she could not expect any sympathy from that quarter. In desperation she called at the headquarters of the resident British infantry battalion in Penang and asked the Adjutant if he could help. "Leave it to me," he said.
When the orang gila arrived at the flat that night, he came face to face with two burly regimental policemen. They turned him round and very firmly led him to their Land Rover, put him in the back and drove off. Nesta saw him most days on the padang, but he did not visit our flat any more.
That is the end of the story as far as the orang gila is concerned, but a big question mark was entered against Bobby's effectiveness towards such people.
In one of Nesta's tapes she told me that Friday had brought a small snake into the house. Elsie inspected the reptile and said it was a baby cobra. It was dead, so she tossed it over the sea wall. The worrying thing was, if there was one baby snake it was more than likely there were others close by. A search was made of the garden, but nothing was found. Elsie told Nesta that when she was a young girl she had been bitten by a cobra and she showed her the mark on her leg. Whether it had been caused solely by the snake or by someone being too heavy handed with a knife when sucking out the poison, could not be established but, whatever the reason, she was badly scarred.
The amah lived about half a mile from the flat and one day soon after Friday caught the baby snake, she burst in through the kitchen door, slammed it behind her and said: "Do not open the door, mem, there's a snake in the monsoon drain." It seemed that as she was crossing the forecourt she looked into the six foot deep drain and saw a huge cobra. The open drain went around the block of flats and the snake was obviously trying to find a way out. Nesta made sure that all members of the family, including Bobby and Friday, were inside the flat and then closed all the doors and windows. She then telephoned the administrator and asked him to get rid of the reptile. He was, as usual, quite useless and, by a strange coincidence, everyone else who lived in the flats decided it was a great day to go out for a picnic. After spending an hour cooped up in the flat, Nesta and Elsie tip-toed through the garden and searched the whole length of the monsoon drain. The snake had disappeared and was not seen again.
After seven months of active service in Sabah, it was time for me to return to my family. The final chapter of a fascinating part of our life was to end with four weeks leave in Penang.
Nesta and the two children, Richard now five years of age and Gilly, three and a half, were at the airport when I flew in. Bobby had been left in the car in the car park and his welcome was as enthusiastic as ever. By the time we arrived home we were all in tune with each other and it was hard to believe that I had been away for so long.
We had a marvellous holiday but all too soon it was time for us to pack our boxes and switch our minds to the business of returning to UK. Two and a half years previously we had not given thought to the matter of handing on our animals but now, when the sands of time were running out, we had to take action. Elsie wanted to keep Friday but her benevolence did not extend to Bobby, with whom she had always had an uneasy relationship. We decided to ask the Misses Jones, from whom we had obtained Bobby, if they could find someone suitable. They said they would try.
A week before we were due to fly home, Miss Alice rang to say she had found someone who would like to have Bobby. If we agreed, he would start the next chapter of his life with a Chinese 'dollar' multi millionaire who lived with his family in one of the huge houses on the coast road leading to Lone Pine Beach. We were delighted with the arrangement but I emphasised that we wanted Bobby to remain with us until our last day in Penang.
Two hours before we vacated our flat and started the long journey home to UK, a large white Mercedes limousine drew up on the forecourt. A uniformed Chinese chauffeur announced that he had come to collect a dog for his master. Nesta took out his two bowls, one for water and the other for his kangaroo meat, his wicker basket (chewed at one end), his cushion, his rubber bone and his special toy - a squashy football. Bobby needed no prompting as I am sure he knew it was time to move on. He jumped into the back seat of the limousine, reclined against a cushion and, without a backward glance, sped off to the home of his new family.
Bobby was just an oriental 'pye' dog, one of thousands which scavenge, fight, procreate and generally make nuisances of themselves. But to us he was a friend and a character whose personality enriched our lives to such an extent that we still talk about him forty years later.
We often wonder if there were any more chapters in his life or if he ended his days happily in the home of the wealthy Chinese family. Of one thing we are sure, his standards would have remained high until the day he died.
Another Sacred Cow
Occasionally, we are given a glimpse behind the formal façade of the Royal family. One little cameo which illustrates the whimsical nature of Queen Elizabeth 11 was told to me many years ago by Lieutenant General Sir Charles Coleman, Colonel of the Welch Regiment from 1958 to 1965.
Soon after Sir Charles retired from the Army in 1959, he was offered the job of Lieutenant Governor of Guernsey - an honour he was delighted to accept.
Before taking up the appointment, there were certain formalities which had to take place; one of which was the formal kissing of hands at the palace. Fortunately, an old friend had taken up the appointment of Lieutenant Governor of Jersey a year before; he gave Sir Charles a ring to pass on some tips about procedure at the ceremony.
"The Queen spent much time talking about Jersey cattle," said the friend, "and my knowledge of that breed of cattle - or for that matter, any breed of cattle, is nil. You may or may not know that Guernsey has its own cattle, so I suggest you do some homework." Sir Charles thanked his friend and set about learning all there was to know about Guernsey cattle.
When the day arrived for him to report to Buckingham Palace, he stepped lightly across the forecourt feeling quite confident about his forthcoming audience with the Queen.
The Gentlemen of the Household and the Lord Chamberlain were present and he was ushered into the audience chamber where her Majesty was waiting. The formal kissing of hands took place and Sir Charles was confirmed in his appointment.
The Queen then fixed him with a penetrating gaze and said: "I suppose you've been mugging up on Guernsey cattle, General?" Sir Charles, who had been looking forward to a quiet and relaxed conversation about cows admitted that he had become, possibly, the greatest authority in the world about Guernsey and, for good measure, Jersey cattle, as well. The Queen chuckled over the memory of the discomfort of the Governor of Jersey, but was touched to hear how he had tried to help his friend.
Soon after Sir Charles retired from the Army in 1959, he was offered the job of Lieutenant Governor of Guernsey - an honour he was delighted to accept.
Before taking up the appointment, there were certain formalities which had to take place; one of which was the formal kissing of hands at the palace. Fortunately, an old friend had taken up the appointment of Lieutenant Governor of Jersey a year before; he gave Sir Charles a ring to pass on some tips about procedure at the ceremony.
"The Queen spent much time talking about Jersey cattle," said the friend, "and my knowledge of that breed of cattle - or for that matter, any breed of cattle, is nil. You may or may not know that Guernsey has its own cattle, so I suggest you do some homework." Sir Charles thanked his friend and set about learning all there was to know about Guernsey cattle.
When the day arrived for him to report to Buckingham Palace, he stepped lightly across the forecourt feeling quite confident about his forthcoming audience with the Queen.
The Gentlemen of the Household and the Lord Chamberlain were present and he was ushered into the audience chamber where her Majesty was waiting. The formal kissing of hands took place and Sir Charles was confirmed in his appointment.
The Queen then fixed him with a penetrating gaze and said: "I suppose you've been mugging up on Guernsey cattle, General?" Sir Charles, who had been looking forward to a quiet and relaxed conversation about cows admitted that he had become, possibly, the greatest authority in the world about Guernsey and, for good measure, Jersey cattle, as well. The Queen chuckled over the memory of the discomfort of the Governor of Jersey, but was touched to hear how he had tried to help his friend.
A Distasteful Task
I first saw Cyprus in the summer of 1948 when, as a junior subaltern of the Welch Regiment, I was sent to the Middle East to join the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. My first impression of this 'jewel' of the Mediterranean was that hell could not be far away when day time temperatures soared into the top '90's I remember trying to find some relief from the oppressive heat by spending a few hours on a tethered raft a hundred yards from the shore - only to be burnt so badly that the medical officer read me the rules about self inflicted wounds! Captain Jack Walliker, another officer of my regiment serving with the Borderers, took pity on me and invited me to join a camping party in the Karpas Peninsula (the ‘Panhandle’) he was organizing for the following week end. I eagerly accepted.
There were two jeeps for eight of us and we loaded four two-men bivouacs and enough 'compo' rations to last three days. Cool breezes took over from the hot, dusty air of the plains as we headed north into the mountains where brilliant white villages with groves of olive and orange trees nestled among rocky outcrops. When we reached the half way point to the ruins of Kantara Castle, which had been one of the bastions of the Knights of St. John in the twelfth century, we stopped in a village for refreshments.
In the centre of the village, was a tree that provided shade for the men folk drinking coffee and playing cards. We were welcomed with smiles and friendly invitations to sit among them. Within seconds, the proprietor of a nearby coffee shop asked us what we would like to eat and drink. He spoke good English and Jack ordered some coffee and other things with Greek names. That day I made my first acquaintance with keftethis and halvah. Deep fried wafer thin pasta envelopes of spiced meat and tender bean sprouts were complemented with the flavour of honey and roasted almonds. Tiny cups full to the brim with a scalding black liquid, which almost supported the spoon in the vertical position, anointed my palate with the taste of real coffee such as I had never tasted before. Bowls of other delectable nibbles and small glasses of a deep red liqueur took over when the coffee cups were cleared away. A considerable amount of collective discipline had to be exerted to ask for the bill and bid our friendly hosts farewell. The coffee shop proprietor, his family and other local inhabitants stood and waved to us as we climbed into our vehicles and headed further into the mountains.
The rest of the story about our camping week end is of no consequence. It was very pleasant but has no relevance to what I am about to relate.
Early in 1949, the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers left Cyprus and sailed south through the Suez Canal to Port Sudan, on the Red Sea coast, then overland to Khartoum, which was to be our new station.
Nine years passed before I arrived in Cyprus again, this time with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment to take part in a campaign to subdue Greek Cypriot terrorists (or 'Freedom Fighters') whose aim was to end British rule and establish union with Greece.
Our first operational area was in the north west part of the island with battalion headquarters at Xeros. We stayed there for six months before moving to Dhavlos on the north east coast of the Karpas peninsula. This was familiar territory to me and the sight of Kantara Castle brought back memories of that camping trip.
One day, the officers were called to an 'O' (orders) Group where the Commanding Officer outlined the details of 'Operation Woodpecker'. The plan was to arrest thousands of passive supporters of the Greek Cypriot EOKA terrorist organisation throughout the island and put them in a place where they could not make mischief. We were given envelopes which contained details of our responsibilities.
When I returned to my tent and opened my envelope, I found I had to meet some Greek policemen at a certain grid reference on the other side of the mountain at 20.00hrs the following evening. It seemed they would escort me to a village and then show me the house of the person who had to be arrested.
I set out the following evening with my escort in two Land Rovers and we duly met the two policemen. I had no idea where I was until we drove into a village which seemed familiar. A carob tree with large black pods hanging from its branches stood in the centre of the square and Greek Cypriot villagers sat at tables drinking coffee and playing cards. To them a visit from the security forces was a common occurrence and when they saw who it was, they looked at us with sullen expressions. My eyes took in the scene and my mind wound back to August 1948 when these same villagers had been so friendly and hospitable.
I wondered which one, if any, I would have to arrest and glanced towards one of the policemen for a clue. He, however, motioned me to follow him and our posse filed out from the village square and down a narrow alley bordered by two high walls. We turned left at the end and saw in front of us an alcove blocked by a wooden gate. From the shadows of the alcove I could see a family of Greek Cypriots sitting in their arbour of vines having their evening meal.
The father of the family sat at the head of the table facing me, his wife sat at the other end and their children, numbering five or six, sat on either side of the table.
One of the policemen whispered into my ear: "That is Constantis Theakus (not his real name), the man we must arrest. He owns the village coffee shop." It seemed a cruel irony that fate decreed I should arrest a man who had been so friendly when I had met him ten years before. Even though it was a hot and sultry night, a chill swept over me. The accusation about him being an EOKA supporter did not seem to matter as I opened the gate and entered the courtyard.
Constantis looked up and rose to his feet as I approached. One of the policemen told him he was being arrested and would be given a few minutes to pack some clothes. Both policemen accompanied him inside the house leaving my escort and me standing near the remainder of the family. After what seemed an age, Constantis reappeared carrying a small suitcase. He put it on the ground and then embraced his children one by one. He then turned to his wife, dried her tears and held her close. After a few seconds, he said: "I'm ready to go." One of the policemen put handcuffs on him and we filed back the way we had come.
An hour later, we were back in Dhavlos where tents had been erected within a barbed wire stockade. Police 'Special Branch' then took over and the following day Constantis and others who had been brought in the night before were moved away in police vehicles.
I was never in any doubt that the only inconvenience Constantis suffered was temporary deprivation of liberty and that after a month or two, he would be back in his village serving coffee and playing cards with his friends. I sometimes wonder though what would have happened to him if he had been arrested by one of the many totalitarian regimes we have seen in that part of the world in recent years.
There were two jeeps for eight of us and we loaded four two-men bivouacs and enough 'compo' rations to last three days. Cool breezes took over from the hot, dusty air of the plains as we headed north into the mountains where brilliant white villages with groves of olive and orange trees nestled among rocky outcrops. When we reached the half way point to the ruins of Kantara Castle, which had been one of the bastions of the Knights of St. John in the twelfth century, we stopped in a village for refreshments.
In the centre of the village, was a tree that provided shade for the men folk drinking coffee and playing cards. We were welcomed with smiles and friendly invitations to sit among them. Within seconds, the proprietor of a nearby coffee shop asked us what we would like to eat and drink. He spoke good English and Jack ordered some coffee and other things with Greek names. That day I made my first acquaintance with keftethis and halvah. Deep fried wafer thin pasta envelopes of spiced meat and tender bean sprouts were complemented with the flavour of honey and roasted almonds. Tiny cups full to the brim with a scalding black liquid, which almost supported the spoon in the vertical position, anointed my palate with the taste of real coffee such as I had never tasted before. Bowls of other delectable nibbles and small glasses of a deep red liqueur took over when the coffee cups were cleared away. A considerable amount of collective discipline had to be exerted to ask for the bill and bid our friendly hosts farewell. The coffee shop proprietor, his family and other local inhabitants stood and waved to us as we climbed into our vehicles and headed further into the mountains.
The rest of the story about our camping week end is of no consequence. It was very pleasant but has no relevance to what I am about to relate.
Early in 1949, the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers left Cyprus and sailed south through the Suez Canal to Port Sudan, on the Red Sea coast, then overland to Khartoum, which was to be our new station.
Nine years passed before I arrived in Cyprus again, this time with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment to take part in a campaign to subdue Greek Cypriot terrorists (or 'Freedom Fighters') whose aim was to end British rule and establish union with Greece.
Our first operational area was in the north west part of the island with battalion headquarters at Xeros. We stayed there for six months before moving to Dhavlos on the north east coast of the Karpas peninsula. This was familiar territory to me and the sight of Kantara Castle brought back memories of that camping trip.
One day, the officers were called to an 'O' (orders) Group where the Commanding Officer outlined the details of 'Operation Woodpecker'. The plan was to arrest thousands of passive supporters of the Greek Cypriot EOKA terrorist organisation throughout the island and put them in a place where they could not make mischief. We were given envelopes which contained details of our responsibilities.
When I returned to my tent and opened my envelope, I found I had to meet some Greek policemen at a certain grid reference on the other side of the mountain at 20.00hrs the following evening. It seemed they would escort me to a village and then show me the house of the person who had to be arrested.
I set out the following evening with my escort in two Land Rovers and we duly met the two policemen. I had no idea where I was until we drove into a village which seemed familiar. A carob tree with large black pods hanging from its branches stood in the centre of the square and Greek Cypriot villagers sat at tables drinking coffee and playing cards. To them a visit from the security forces was a common occurrence and when they saw who it was, they looked at us with sullen expressions. My eyes took in the scene and my mind wound back to August 1948 when these same villagers had been so friendly and hospitable.
I wondered which one, if any, I would have to arrest and glanced towards one of the policemen for a clue. He, however, motioned me to follow him and our posse filed out from the village square and down a narrow alley bordered by two high walls. We turned left at the end and saw in front of us an alcove blocked by a wooden gate. From the shadows of the alcove I could see a family of Greek Cypriots sitting in their arbour of vines having their evening meal.
The father of the family sat at the head of the table facing me, his wife sat at the other end and their children, numbering five or six, sat on either side of the table.
One of the policemen whispered into my ear: "That is Constantis Theakus (not his real name), the man we must arrest. He owns the village coffee shop." It seemed a cruel irony that fate decreed I should arrest a man who had been so friendly when I had met him ten years before. Even though it was a hot and sultry night, a chill swept over me. The accusation about him being an EOKA supporter did not seem to matter as I opened the gate and entered the courtyard.
Constantis looked up and rose to his feet as I approached. One of the policemen told him he was being arrested and would be given a few minutes to pack some clothes. Both policemen accompanied him inside the house leaving my escort and me standing near the remainder of the family. After what seemed an age, Constantis reappeared carrying a small suitcase. He put it on the ground and then embraced his children one by one. He then turned to his wife, dried her tears and held her close. After a few seconds, he said: "I'm ready to go." One of the policemen put handcuffs on him and we filed back the way we had come.
An hour later, we were back in Dhavlos where tents had been erected within a barbed wire stockade. Police 'Special Branch' then took over and the following day Constantis and others who had been brought in the night before were moved away in police vehicles.
I was never in any doubt that the only inconvenience Constantis suffered was temporary deprivation of liberty and that after a month or two, he would be back in his village serving coffee and playing cards with his friends. I sometimes wonder though what would have happened to him if he had been arrested by one of the many totalitarian regimes we have seen in that part of the world in recent years.
Tuesday, 3 June 2008
Mau Mau Memories
In 1952, when the 3rd Battalion King’s African Rifles was involved in the communist insurrection in Malaya, another 'emergency' started in Kenya. Slowly at first and then with increasing vigour the Kikuyu reserve became a battleground for many members of that tribe in their revolt against colonial rule. The movement became known as Mau Mau and its ‘freedom fighters’, though misguided, were no less dedicated to their cause than the communists we were fighting in Malaya.
The Mau Mau emergency was at its height when we arrived at the newly built Lugard Barracks in Nanyuki in July 1953. Askaris were keen to put into practice the skills they had learnt in Malaya, but first they had to go home to see their families. Over 18 months separation meant they had accumulated over eight weeks leave and that, plus an extra day for every twenty miles marching for those who lived far from rail or bus routes, meant we were going to be out of action for a considerable time. I, as Adjutant, was soon back on duty though and was horrified to read the directive about our role in the emergency.
The first thing to happen was the posting of many African warrant officers, non-commissioned officers and askaris to newly raised KAR battalions to provide expertise in jungle warfare. Others were to be selected as instructors at the East African Training Centre at Nakuru. Then followed the departure of many of our British officers, warrant officers and NCOs who, in many cases, had extended their tours to serve with the battalion in Malaya. When the cuts and departures had taken place our superbly trained and well balanced battalion was diluted to the level of most other KAR units. The final insult was withdrawal of our jungle green webbing in exchange for old '38 pattern' khaki equipment.
We deployed to the Kikuyu reserve, with Bn. HQ at Fort Hall, in September 1953. There we took part in a number of operations which involved hundreds of so called ‘loyal’ Kikuyu armed with bows and poisoned arrows, with every tenth man carrying a shotgun. They were transported into areas to establish cordons and then used as a back-stop for fully armed members of the security forces who would beat their way through banana and maize plantations. All of us had been issued with pamphlets featuring horrific photographs of Mau Mau atrocities and there was no reluctance on the part of the security forces to shoot any terrorist who refused to surrender.
Unlike ‘freedom fighters’ of the '60s, '70s and '80s who were equipped with AK47 automatic rifles and rocket launchers, Mau Mau had few proper weapons. In addition to an assortment of ancient Italian rifles, they used whatever weapons they had captured from white farms and police armouries. They also made their own weapons. These usually consisted of a piece of wood carved into the shape of a rifle upon which a metal tube was bound with wire. The chamber was crimped to take a bullet and the firing pin was a nail attached to a piece of rubber which was pulled backwards before being released by the firer. It was an extremely hazardous operation and many Mau Mau were injured when they fired their home made guns. Nevertheless, they were status symbols and were used with considerable success to impress the mainly law abiding villagers when Mau Mau demanded food and clothing.
As always in these situations, it is the poor villager who suffers most. On one side he has the ‘freedom fighter’ exhorting him to support the cause, on pain of death if he refuses, and on the other side, the security forces destroying his crops, burning his house and confiscating his cattle if he does not give them the information they want. Chinese with their parangs and Africans with their pangas are adept at changing the contours of the human body if the party line is not followed.
As late as 1954 people in UK were only fed information approved by the ‘establishment.’ But one day a news reporter in Kenya managed to get hold of a story about a certain battalion commander who offered a cash prize to anyone in his unit who could provide evidence that he had killed a member of Mau Mau. This was the turning point in accountability of security forces, not only to their superior headquarters, but to the public at large - home and abroad. A high powered parliamentary team came to Kenya to put specific questions about giving ‘cash for kills’ to every commanding officer, second-in-command, adjutant and company commander in every combat unit. Additionally, anyone who had information they wished to divulge was invited to give evidence.
Our first casualty
Lieutenant Christopher Nunn and his platoon from ‘B’ Company took part in one of the longest patrols the battalion made during our 18 month tour in Malaya. When they returned to their base at Chukai on the north east coast after six weeks in thick jungle, many of them were in poor shape. It just so happened that the High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, decided to drop in o
The Mau Mau emergency was at its height when we arrived at the newly built Lugard Barracks in Nanyuki in July 1953. Askaris were keen to put into practice the skills they had learnt in Malaya, but first they had to go home to see their families. Over 18 months separation meant they had accumulated over eight weeks leave and that, plus an extra day for every twenty miles marching for those who lived far from rail or bus routes, meant we were going to be out of action for a considerable time. I, as Adjutant, was soon back on duty though and was horrified to read the directive about our role in the emergency.
The first thing to happen was the posting of many African warrant officers, non-commissioned officers and askaris to newly raised KAR battalions to provide expertise in jungle warfare. Others were to be selected as instructors at the East African Training Centre at Nakuru. Then followed the departure of many of our British officers, warrant officers and NCOs who, in many cases, had extended their tours to serve with the battalion in Malaya. When the cuts and departures had taken place our superbly trained and well balanced battalion was diluted to the level of most other KAR units. The final insult was withdrawal of our jungle green webbing in exchange for old '38 pattern' khaki equipment.
We deployed to the Kikuyu reserve, with Bn. HQ at Fort Hall, in September 1953. There we took part in a number of operations which involved hundreds of so called ‘loyal’ Kikuyu armed with bows and poisoned arrows, with every tenth man carrying a shotgun. They were transported into areas to establish cordons and then used as a back-stop for fully armed members of the security forces who would beat their way through banana and maize plantations. All of us had been issued with pamphlets featuring horrific photographs of Mau Mau atrocities and there was no reluctance on the part of the security forces to shoot any terrorist who refused to surrender.
Unlike ‘freedom fighters’ of the '60s, '70s and '80s who were equipped with AK47 automatic rifles and rocket launchers, Mau Mau had few proper weapons. In addition to an assortment of ancient Italian rifles, they used whatever weapons they had captured from white farms and police armouries. They also made their own weapons. These usually consisted of a piece of wood carved into the shape of a rifle upon which a metal tube was bound with wire. The chamber was crimped to take a bullet and the firing pin was a nail attached to a piece of rubber which was pulled backwards before being released by the firer. It was an extremely hazardous operation and many Mau Mau were injured when they fired their home made guns. Nevertheless, they were status symbols and were used with considerable success to impress the mainly law abiding villagers when Mau Mau demanded food and clothing.
As always in these situations, it is the poor villager who suffers most. On one side he has the ‘freedom fighter’ exhorting him to support the cause, on pain of death if he refuses, and on the other side, the security forces destroying his crops, burning his house and confiscating his cattle if he does not give them the information they want. Chinese with their parangs and Africans with their pangas are adept at changing the contours of the human body if the party line is not followed.
As late as 1954 people in UK were only fed information approved by the ‘establishment.’ But one day a news reporter in Kenya managed to get hold of a story about a certain battalion commander who offered a cash prize to anyone in his unit who could provide evidence that he had killed a member of Mau Mau. This was the turning point in accountability of security forces, not only to their superior headquarters, but to the public at large - home and abroad. A high powered parliamentary team came to Kenya to put specific questions about giving ‘cash for kills’ to every commanding officer, second-in-command, adjutant and company commander in every combat unit. Additionally, anyone who had information they wished to divulge was invited to give evidence.
Our first casualty
Lieutenant Christopher Nunn and his platoon from ‘B’ Company took part in one of the longest patrols the battalion made during our 18 month tour in Malaya. When they returned to their base at Chukai on the north east coast after six weeks in thick jungle, many of them were in poor shape. It just so happened that the High Commissioner, General Sir Gerald Templer, decided to drop in o