Regimental Stories: Soldiering is Fun

Wotcha Cock!

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 06:06:00 +0000

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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What Goes Up Must Come down

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Mon, 09 Jun 2008 10:43:00 +0000

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.

The Man Behind the Medals: Brigadier R.P. Gottwaltz MC (late South Wales Borderers)

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 05:54:00 +0000

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.

What Happened To.....?

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 05:43:00 +0000

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!!"

Water Skiing by Numbers

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 05:37:00 +0000

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.'

Watch Out! - Seagull's About

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:44:00 +0000

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."

The Silent One

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:39:00 +0000

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.

The Saga of Sadie Slagheap

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:37:00 +0000

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.

The RSM and the Rabbit

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:34:00 +0000

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.

The Missing Flute

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:32:00 +0000

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.

Terra (in) Firma

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:29:00 +0000

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.

Taking the Strain

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:25:00 +0000

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."

Strictly Regimental

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:20:00 +0000

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.

Short Back and Sides

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:10:00 +0000

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'.

Shauri Ya Mungu (It's God's Will)

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:06:00 +0000

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.

Scarface and Co.

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:04:00 +0000

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.

Riot Control - Turkish Style

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 15:01:00 +0000

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.

Right Marker

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:58:00 +0000

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.

Remove Head-Dress

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:54:00 +0000

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?"

Quick Decision

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:48:00 +0000

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."

Promotion Prospects

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:44:00 +0000

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.

On a Wing and a Prayer

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:39:00 +0000

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.

On a Hot Tin Roof

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:35:00 +0000

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.

Murder in Kuantan

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:29:00 +0000

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.

Lost Week End

bobsmithrrw@aol.com (Major Bob Smith) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 14:13:00 +0000

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.