The sight of Geri Halliwell (one time member of ‘Spice Girls’) frolicking on the beach in Oman, did wonders for my circulation and presumably that of The Daily Telegraph in which the picture appeared. She brought to mind the many show business personalities who, over the years, since World War Two have found time in their busy (and in some cases, not-so-busy) schedules to entertain troops in distant parts of the world.
Major Dick Taverner used to tell a story about meeting Marilyn Monroe on one of her visits to Korea (Journal No. 31 page 19). Using ‘B’ echelon 1/WELCH as an excuse to pay a visit, Dick joined some American Army officers for one of Marilyn’s shows. It was a performance he would never forget because after the show he found another friend (British this time) who invited him for a drink in the Commonwealth Division Officers’ Mess. This was a popular oasis for ‘dry’ Americans and just as Dick was supping his first pink gin, Marilyn and the entire cast of her show were escorted into the mess. “I’ve always wanted to be kissed by you,” said Dick confronting the star. Marilyn smiled sweetly and then pecked him on his cheek. Dick came back to earth with a jolt when he returned to ‘A’ echelon and had a late lunch of tinned hamburgers.
I was not in Hong Kong with 1/WELCH in 1953 but I remember Howard James telling me about a CSE (Combined Services Entertainment) show that took place when Lieut Col ‘Bun’ Cowey was in command. Howard was the ‘floor manager’ and was in his element setting up the stage and making sure that everything was right for a good evening’s entertainment. Colonel ’Bun’ and his wife, Peggy, made their entrance at precisely 8pm and took their seats in the front row. The Commanding Officer nodded to Howard who drew the curtain revealing the pianist and the comedian who opened the show with what he believed was a joke to get everyone in the right mood.
“I say, I say, I say,” he began. “I went to the barber’s shop this morning and asked for a hair-cut. The Chinaman tucked a towel around my neck and said: ‘What sort of hair-cut you want?’ “What sort of haircut have you got,” I asked. ‘We got only one sort of hair-cut,’ replied the Chinaman,’It’s called a ‘Bun’ Cowey hair-cut - ‘cos it’s got a hole in the middle.’ The Commanding Officer, whose hair grew in profusion everywhere except on the top of his head, was not amused and ordered Howard tostop the show. He and the ‘first lady’ left the auditorium and it was some time before a severely chastened comedian managed to get back into his stride.
The Commanding Officer’s displeasure had, if anything, increased by the following morning when Howard was summoned to appear before him, and got the rocket of his life.
Wyn Calvin, self-styled ‘Clown Prince of Wales’, visited 1/WELCH in Cyprus in 1958 during the EOKA troubles, and again in 1959 when we were stationed in Benghazi, Libya. On each occasion he was accompanied by a pianist and a couple of pretty girls. But, although the curves and scanty costumes of the girls were a tonic to red-blooded Celts, it was Wyn who received most applause. When not performing on stage, he spent his two or three days with the battalion tape recording interviews with soldiers which he used on radio and TV programmes when he returned home. He even made telephone calls to families in Wales, before and after his BBC shows, giving them up to date news of their sons.
Although he ‘abdicated’ as ‘Clown Prince of Wales’ before HRH Prince Charles was invested Prince of Wales in 1968, Wyn Calvin will remain, to many Welshmen who served in Cyprus and Libya, as our own ‘Clown Prince’.
Lita Roza was a big name in show business in the late ‘50s and those of us in 1/WELCH, Aberdeen Camp, Xeros, Cyprus were delighted to hear she was to be the star turn in a CSE show due to visit us in early 1958. Lita had a figure that was right for the time; she filled her sequined dress as if she had been poured into it.
At the end of one particularly sexy song, a young soldier sitting three rows from the back, could not contain himself any longer. He leapt to his feet and, with a combination of grunts and pelvic contortions, indicated to Liza what he would do if she consented to accompany him to the far end of the dhobi lines. Lita could have ignored his advances, , but she chose to hitch up her skirt, descend to floor level and confront her admirer. She looked him up and down for a few seconds before pronouncing: “You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me.”
There were two other girls in the troupe who did a dance routine accompanied by a pianist whose musical ability was impaired by over indulgence with the local brew. It didn’t matter, the girls wore tight blouses and skirts that revealed more than they covered and that was what the boys wanted. The following day, the troupe climbed aboard some trucks and set off on the north west coast road for the camp of the 1st Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers where they were due to put on another show. One of our soldiers, who was acting as escort in the back of a 3-tonner, accidentally fired a shot from his rifle that hit one of the girls. The bullet went through her body and out of the windscreen. Thankfully, she recovered after spending a few weeks in hospital, but this was a case when the show did not go on.
Wherever soldiers are engaged in wars, emergencies, insurgencies – call them what you like, light relief in the form of pretty girls, comedians and musicians are the life-blood of morale. Dame Vera Lynn stated something when she became ‘Forces Sweetheart’ in World War Two. She traveled many thousands of miles throughout the world, including Burma, to entertain the troops. She writes: ‘Burma 1944. I don’t suppose many entertainers have stood on a stage made of cases containing Spitfire engines, decorated with parachutes and lit by a ring of lorry headlights. The piano was damp and huge cockroaches would fly down and hit the keys in mid-song; it was so hot that my evening dress used to change colour with sweat. We were giving four concerts a day, frequently with the back of a lorry as a stage. Sometimes men would emerge from the jungle with their weapons and melt away when the show was over. More often we sang in hospitals where conditions were very poor. I don’t know how the nurses endured it for so long. I once walked into an operating theatre by mistake. The surgeon gave me a bullet he was removing from a badly wounded soldier. I still have it today. Many of the boys had been away from home for four years and were desperate for letters and news. “What’s it like in London?” they would ask, or “Could you give my mum a ring?” One said: “Please tell them we’re still here.” No wonder they were called ‘The Forgotten Army’.
