DIG FOR VICTORY

    

     I watched my grand-daughter, Ellie, share a bowl of olives with some of her friends a few months before her fifth birthday and marvelled at the sophisticated ways of children these days compared with me at the same age.   

It was not until 1948, when I was 22 years old and stationed in Cyprus that I ate my first olive. I was attending a cocktail party in the home of Mr Magubgub, a respected antiquary and authority on the ancient Roman town of Salamis.  He chuckled at my obvious dislike of the fruit and went on to tell me all there was to know about olives.  I persevered until I became used to the taste and have loved them ever since.  

    The first time I saw a chilli was when I was 21 years of age.  I was staying in a hotel in Maidstone close to a hospital where my girl friend was having her appendix removed.  The waiter brought around a trolley with a selection of salad items; on the middle tray was a red thing about three inches long.  Not knowing what it was, I cut it in half and popped one end in my mouth.  I was convulsed with chilli-burn and such a fit of coughing that  the combined resources of the dining room staff were needed to evacuate me to a less public place.   

    Another example of my blossoming awareness of exotic foodstuff was my introduction to smoked salmon.  What is now a common-place item on supermarket  shelves was, in my youth, as remote as Beluga caviar.  The apogée of smoked fish, as far as  I was concerned, was a kipper.

    It was in 1952, when I was serving in Malaya with the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.  My commanding officer ordered me to get some smoked salmon for a lunch party for the Commander-in-Chief, Far East Land Forces - General Sir Somebody-or-other.  Salmon, smoked or otherwise, was an unlikely first course for a VIP lunch in the remote area  of Central Pahang where we operated and was made even more so by the way I served it - like steaks. The commanding officer was furious but the  General was highly amused, and my gaff contributed to a memorable visit.

    I tell these stories about myself because it is almost beyond the comprehension of those who were born in the '60s' onwards to know what living conditions were like during the war years and into the '50s'.  Rationing of food  was not abandoned until 1953 and a year later television reached the provinces. Compulsory national service of two years in the Armed Forces  did not end until 1963 while supermarkets and package holidays did not make an appearance until well into the '60s'.

    I was nearly 13 when the second world war broke out and I lived a comfortable life in No. 38 Bron Awelon, Barry, South Wales with my parents who, I suppose, were  graded 'middle-class'.  My parents did not  have a car, but they owned their house and they sent me as a day-boy to Monkton House public school in Cardiff (where my paternal Grandfather was educated in the '1880s'. It was then called Shewbrook's College).  The food we ate at home was plain but nourishing.  It was based mainly on recipes from Westmorland, where my mother was born.  She was always a plump woman and the word 'diet' never entered her vocabulary.

    Even though food was rationed during the war, we never seemed to go short.  For this we had to thank the milkman who called on us every morning at eight o'clock.  He used to leave Ford Farm, Llancarfan in the Vale of Glamorgan at about 5am and drive his horse and cart about 12 miles before he reached the Barry Garden Suburb.  His mother was a lazy woman who refused to get up and give him his breakfast (it was most probably too early for him anyway).  My mother, guided by her maternal instincts and recognising an opportunity to gain extra rations, used to provide a man-size breakfast for Edward which usually comprised: porridge, eggs and bacon, fried bread, toast and marmalade.  He supplied much of the food plus lots of other things like butter, cream and guinea fowl.  The rub came each Friday when he presented the bill.  In addition to milk and eggs, he charged for all the other items he brought from the farm, which included the food he had eaten himself.  My mother was sharp as far as money was concerned and so was Edward.  Both recognised a bargain when they saw one.

    My father grew his own vegetables on an allotment south of Porth y Castell  about 300 yards from the house.  He and I used to carry buckets of water, when required, as none was laid on.  During the summer, we were self-sufficient in greens,  root crops, tomatoes and soft fruits.   

    Edward Williams, the milkman, was married during the war and lived in Ty-Newydd Farm not far from the present Cardiff (Wales) Airport.  He continued to supply my mother with extra food and he let my father have two furrows in one of his fields.  Edward sowed potatoes for us and my father and I attended to them during the growing phase.  When they were ready to harvest, we dug them up and put them in sacks which Edward kept in one of his barns.  In return, my father and I helped  with the cereal harvest.  

    Wheat threshing, in those days, was a combined operation involving neighbouring farmers who took it in turn to help each other when the threshing machine  visited their area.  Nowadays, the combine harvester is operated by one or two men (or women) and the whole process takes place on the field where the crop is grown.  Gone is the sight, sound and smell of the steam engine and the chatter of the threshing machine  munching its way through countless  stooks of wheat fed from an adjacent  horse-drawn wagon.  Gone also  are the restful interludes  to quench ones thirst on jugs of home made lemonade, wine and cider. 

    My mother's contribution to these great country gatherings was  helping to  prepare food for the men.  I remember one occasion when we stayed at Ford Farm for a few days during the harvest.  As I have stated previously, Edward's mother was a lazy person and did nothing other than provide  food for the other women to cook.  My mother was aghast to find one day that  only  tinned tomatoes and boiled potatoes were available.  However, that meal stands out in my mind as one of the best I have ever eaten, but my mother used to shudder at the memory.     

    My father and I used to catch fish in the sea, but this was never something we relied on.  My mother used to complain when she bought a pair of herrings for my father to use as bait.  He rarely returned with the equivalent weight in fish and it would have been easier and cheaper, as far as she was concerned, to have eaten the herrings.

    During the summer, I would sometimes lay a long line of baited hooks at the extremity of low tide.  Twelve hours later, during the night, whatever had been caught was revealed but, as nobody was about at that time, it was another twelve hours before the line was revealed again.  I used to catch a considerable amount of fish this way but as we (and most other people in the neighourhood) did not have a refrigerator, I had to give most of it away.  

    There was only one time of year when we could eat mushrooms and that was in the autumn.  My father and I used to go to Porthkerry Park and climb to the top of a steep hill we called 'The Mountain'.  A field at the top was a great spot for mushrooms and we used to bring them back inside my father's raincoat.  We  collected so many that, once again, we had to give them away. 

    My mother used to bottle summer and autumn fruits in Kilner jars. The fruit was boiled inside the jars which had spring clips and rubber seals.  Once they had cooled, they were hermetically sealed and would keep throughout the winter.

    My parents made country wines using  huge earthen-ware pots with  screw tops.  Elder flower and elder berry were the favourite ingredients but parsnip, beetroot, potato and wheat were also used to make some delicious wines.   I remember being woken one night by a huge explosion.  I thought it was a German bomb, but it was one of the earthen-ware pots.  The lid should not have been screwed down while fermentation was taking place, but my father had done just that, and the pot exploded.  Chunks of pottery were embedded in the ceiling and my mother was not amused.

    The Merchant Navy was our life-line during the war but luxury items were cut to the bone.   The only fruit we  saw from overseas were oranges. 

    I remember one occasion when a ship was blown up by a mine in the Bristol Channel.  The following day the Pebble Beach at Cold Knap, Barry was covered in crates of oranges.  Edward Williams, the farmer, opened a crate and tasted one - it was delicious.  He picked up an unopened crate and carried it back to his cart which he had left, with the horse, by the viaduct in Porthkerry Park.  When he got the crate home he found that the contents were 'marmalade' oranges (sour) and, as sugar was rationed, they were useless.  By the time he returned to the beach to collect the crate he had opened, there was nothing left!

    Rabbits were plentiful and were 'off-ration' in butchers' shops.  Lots of people put down snares, but we never did - although, once, I found a dead rabbit in a snare on the Cliff fields.  It was still warm so I slipped it into my coat pocket and took it home.  On the way, I met the old man who I knew laid snares and I tried to conceal the bulge in my pocket.  He used to work the allotment next to ours and on the following day he told my father he knew who had 'nicked' his rabbit.  My father was averse to lying and he made a poor job of trying to defend me. 

    My father was not usually squeamish but once he saw the white fur of a tame rabbit that my mother had ordered from Edward sticking out from underneath a blanket in the shed.  He refused to eat it and my mother, from then on, had to satisfy him that the rabbits she bought were wild ones.  When she could not get whole carcasses, she often used to buy rabbit heads which she would boil and give us three or four each.

    Offal such as liver, kidneys, brains, tripe and sweet-breads, all of which we loved, were not rationed but you had to know the butcher well enough to be among those who received 'under the counter' items.  Sausages, which contained offal were also hidden 'under the counter'.  Corporal Jones in "DAD'S ARMY' plays the part of a war-time butcher to a tee.

    Unless you bred your own chickens or were lucky, like us, to have a friendly farmer, a plump whole chicken was an expensive item reserved for very special occasions.  My mother used to buy 'boilers', occasionally, which she casseroled.  These were birds that had come to the end of their egg-laying days and would have been too tough to eat any other way.

    There was no such thing as vegetable oil.  Dripping, or suet, was  sold  by the butcher and the chips in which they were made were far superior to the bland products that are the norm these days.   My mother used to give me dripping sandwiches as a snack and another favourite of hers from her childhood were 'sugar shags' - brown bread, butter and sugar.  It sounds revolting by today's standards, but I loved them. 

    Another favourite was my mother's version of bread and butter pudding.  Not the light-as-a-feather concoctions you read about in the gourmet cookery books, but brown bread laced with treacle or golden syrup, eggs, butter and dried fruit.  When I joined the Army in 1944, I asked her to send me one.  It arrived in a  biscuit tin and was devoured the same day by me and the other five recruits who shared the hut.  I was the most popular member of the sextet and was elevated to greater heights every time another biscuit box arrived.

    Ice-cream was something you ate in the summer.  Few people had refrigerators before and during the war and, as there was a shortage of sugar, ice-cream was a luxury.  A boy used to come around the neighbourhood where we lived selling Wall's products.  He pedalled a tricycle with an enormous ice box on the front which contained Snow-Fruit and Snow-Cream in triangular shaped cardboard sleeves.  If I and my friends saw him pushing his load up-hill, we would help him in exchange for an iced lolly.  But when he had sold his cargo, we would envy him as he free-wheeled at enormous speed down two steep hills to Barry Town for a refill.  Snow-Fruit was just frozen coloured water and Snow-Cream was marginally more like real ice cream.  

    Once a week a Thomas and Evans's van from Porth in the Rhondda Valley used to deliver lemonade and other soft drinks.  My mother used to buy two flagons of dandelion and burdock.  There was a hefty deposit on the bottles, which were fitted with metal spring-clips.  No champagne cork ever made a more satisfying sound than one of these bottles when the clip was released.   

    We had an Irish terrier called Paddy.  He never went short of food as there was a shop in Barry Docks that sold meat 'unfit for human consumption'.  It was horse meat in the main, stained with  purple dye  but I expect the odd cow that died of natural causes found its way into the shop as well.    My mother used to boil it for the dog and the smell was mouth-watering.  I understood at an early age why French people like horse-meat. 

    Whale factory-ships used to berth in Barry Docks with their cargoes of whale oil from the South Atlantic.  Whale meat was also available but my mother was never tempted to buy any.     

    During my school-days in Cardiff, I used to have lunch in a 'British Restaurant'.  It was run by the Women's Voluntary Service and the food they served - certainly the one in Cardiff, was awful.  As far as I can remember, it was stew every day with  greens and root vegetables such as turnips, swedes and carrots and a small piece of meat swimming around, if you could find it.  Sometimes, even now, if I smell potatoes being cooked in big tubs, I recognise the smell that 'greeted me' in the British Restaurant.

    We never went out for a meal during the war and, as I was under 18 until I joined the Army at the end of 1944, I never went into a pub.  Pubs in those  days were for men to drink ale which was not always available due to the shortage of sugar. Women rarely entered and children - never.  The nearest I got to a pub was 'The Fox and Hounds' in Llancarfan.  It was during one of our visits to Ford Farm and I can remember my father going inside and bringing out some lemonade for my mother and me.  Alan Cobham's Air Circus was performing just outside the village and we watched him looping-the-loop.

    My mother did most of her shopping in Mr Bembridge's Barry Garden Suburb Stores.  It was what we would call a 'corner shop' these days being   only five minutes walk from where we lived at 38, Bron Awelon.  The groceries were delivered by a young lad on a bicycle - rather like a 'chopper' that my son, Richard, rode as a ten-year-old.  Big wheel at the back, a small one in front with a huge wicker basket on top.  Edith James, across the road, used to shop in the Co-operative Stores, about ten minutes walk away in Cambridge Street.  She used to try and get my mother to go there and she explained the advantage of the dividend (or 'divi') scheme - which made buying food cheaper. There was a certain amount of 'snobbery' about this.  The road below us was called Tan-y-Fron and that was where the Great Western Railway employees lived.  My mother would not have been seen dead shopping with them.

    Johnny Yeandle, the butcher - who had a shop in Cambridge Street, was, according to him, the adopted son of Stan Yeandle, who founded the business, but the likeness between him and the senior Yeandle did not fool anyone.  They both had heads like footballs, florid complexions and voices like fog-horns.  In about 1927, Stan Yeandle shot Pete, our wire haired fox-terrier and my parents  severed relations with him.  It was Pete's custom to call on his boy-friend, a cocker spaniel, each morning and both would hunt rabbits on the Cliff fields.  Neither of them chased sheep but, as Stan Yeandle had lost a number of his flock to killer dogs, he did not give Pete and his friend the benefit of any doubt when he saw them in his field one day. 

    When Stan died and his son took over the business, my mother resumed buying  meat from him. We never had expensive joints such as: rib of beef, shoulder of lamb and leg of pork.  Instead, my mother would buy: flank of beef, shin of beef and ox-tail.  A meal of roast lamb was always 'breast of lamb' and pork meals were either belly pork, pigs trotters or boiled bacon.  When I was serving in the Army overseas for six years from 1948-54, I used to dream about my mother's food.   When I returned, I couldn't wait for her to produce the old favourites - and they were just as delicious then as they always had been. 

    I thought I was worldly wise as far as foreign food was concerned and I attempted to make a curry for my parents - a dish that was virtually unknown in this country in 1954.  It didn't turn out as well as I expected, so my mother had a go.  What she made was, essentially, a beef casserole with added curry powder - but the taste was superb.  It was the first curry my mother made and she was surprised how well it was received by my father and me.  It became a favourite with all three of us.

    Nesta (my wife) and I, with our son and daughter  are a food-loving family. There is nothing more we enjoy than all 'mucking in' together in the kitchen.  Some of the meals I enjoyed in my youth are still among my favourites, but time has moved on and I'm glad to be a reasonably healthy 85 year old (2011) enjoying all the good things now freely available in super-markets, town and village stores, pubs and restaurants.

    

Watch Out! - Seagull's About

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strictly Regimental

If I close my eyes and put my mind in neutral, I can see Fletcher as he was fifty years ago when I first met him. I can see his tousled head with its tight blond curls, his broken nose, his battered ears and his lean frame, always bent slightly forward. I can see his grubby overalls and his boots, not well dubbined as one might have thought, but doused in kitchen grease. Fletcher was the officers' mess cook, not a member of the Army Catering Corps but one of those dedicated band of men from within the regiment whose tools of trade are rifles and bayonets (first) with ladles and saucepans (second).
I do not remember Fletcher for the excellence of his cooking, which was never more than 'simple', but there were things that happened to him - which involved me, that are still pin-sharp in my mind.
He came to see me one day when we were stationed in Pembroke Dock and told me he could not find his boots. He had looked throughout the kitchen and his bunk, which adjoined the kitchen, but they had been missing for three days and he felt they were irretrievably lost. He told me he put his boots outside his door when he went to bed. I asked him if he expected someone to come along and clean them, but he replied saying he had a skin complaint which caused a bad smell and if he opened the window to clear the air, he got a stiff neck. Why anyone would want to pinch Fletcher's boots was difficult to understand; there were far better pickings in the batmen's quarters - but there it was, the boots had gone and he would have to pay for a new pair. For the next few days Fletcher paddled around in a pair of daps which soon became embalmed in kitchen waste and resembled footwear of a low caste native sweeper.
It was not until the end of the week that the mystery was solved. Friday was the day when Fletcher emptied the stock pot. As he winched the large stainless steel container over to one side and deposited the contents into swill bins, a pair of boots came into view among the debris of bones, skin and vegetables at the bottom. With a shout of joy he recovered them and rinsed them off under a tap. He let everyone know he had found his boots and that after a week in the stock pot they were far more comfortable than they had been before. A week later he told me that the skin complaint, which had troubled his feet for years, had completely disappeared. He was oblivious to the sick looks on the officers' faces whenever he mentioned soup and was quite upset the following week when he had to throw away an almost full stock pot. We never found out who played the prank on Fletcher, but it was not hard to guess who was to blame when the Adjutant started to drink soup again.

When we went to Cyprus two years later Fletcher, after a tour of duty in the soldiers' cookhouse, came back to the officers' mess. The national service officers were a new bunch and they knew nothing about the 'stock pot' business, but some of the old hands looked upon Fletcher's return with suspicion. He settled down quite well and cemented good relations with the locally employed civilian staff who worked in the kitchen.
We had a marvellous camp on the north east coast of Cyprus. Behind us towered mountains covered with pine trees and before us lay a beach of golden sand lapped by the warmest, clear blue water in the northern hemisphere. In front of the officers' mess was a rocky promontory which, by a freak of nature, was formed in a number of parallel ridges with water filled gullies between. The largest of these gullies was an almost perfect water polo pitch, except for one thing. Right in the middle was a finger of rock, like a stalagmite, which gave centre forwards a painful experience if they swam into it.
It was an easy matter to rectify, so one morning I went along to the pool with some plastic explosive, gun cotton primers, electric cable and detonators. I dived to the bottom and packed the explosive into as many cracks around the base of the rock that I could find. Then I connected all the bits and pieces and came ashore to the battery terminal. When I was sure that the 'coast was clear' (literally), I pressed the contact on the battery. The finger of rock took off like a rocket and, quite by chance, a shoal of fish happened to swim by at that very moment. The force of the explosion lifted them en masse out of the water.
Fletcher and some others of the mess staff had been watching from the mess veranda and within seconds they had equipped themselves with buckets and bowls and were in the pool collecting fish I had killed. They looked like trout and were about one pound in weight. Not only was there an ample supply for the officers' mess, but Fletcher was also able to feed the sergeants' mess and still have enough to give to the civilian staff to take home. I tell this particular part of the story at length because never before nor since have I fed so many people with a single shot. I was mindful of someone else who, two thousand years previously, did much the same sort of thing - not so very far away either.
I was excited at the prospect of producing a splendid feast of fresh fish and I explained to Fletcher that I wanted him to cook them as if they were trout. But instead of serving them complete with head and tail, he cut them up and covered the pieces with a thick white sauce. 'Presentation' was never one of his strong points and I blame myself for not checking sufficiently.
A few days later, the CO, who now looked upon me as a sort of wizard who could produce shoals of fish at the drop of a hat, asked me to get him a fish for breakfast. Wearing my flippers and mask and armed with a spear gun, I entered the water on the far side of the water polo pitch. Usually there were plenty of fish about but, in the aftermath of the explosion, it seemed as if they had gone away to find a quieter place.
I had almost given up hope of catching anything when I saw movement on the sea bed. It turned out to be a bottom feeder with ugly teeth, golf-ball eyes, snake-like feelers and a body covered in warts. At first, I rejected the thought of shooting it, but when I was unable to find anything else, I went back and speared it. It was even more repulsive when I got it out of the water, but I could see there was plenty of good flesh on it. I gave it to Fletcher and told him to prepare it for the CO's breakfast the following day.
Fletcher's mind worked like a computer. He had been programmed to keep the heads on 'trout-like' fish so, as far as he was concerned, anything that came out of the sea kept its head on when it went into the frying pan.
I heard that the Commanding Officer nearly leapt out of his chair when his breakfast was put in front of him. Fletcher, with a rare flash of imagination, had put a piece of lemon in the monster's jaw, but it did nothing to improve the Colonel's appetite or temper. He was convinced it was a practical joke and when I was summoned to appear before him, he told me that the dining table was 'holy ground' as far as he was concerned and that I would lose my job as messing member if there were any more pranks.

The Colonel had mentioned on a few occasions that he wanted Fletcher to produce West African peanut stew. It was a particular favourite of his and he was anxious to try it out on the rest of us. I carefully recorded the Colonel's instructions about how to produce this exotic dish and then went in search of Fletcher. I passed on the CO's recipe and told him to be ready at 07.00 hrs the following day to go with the quartermaster's convoy to the supply depot in Famagusta, from where he could nip across the road to the market and collect the items he needed for the peppery stew.
He returned in the late afternoon and I saw him walking towards the mess kitchen carrying a bag. I asked him if he had managed to get everything the CO wanted and he replied: "Yes, sir, everything except red chillies - so I got green ones instead." The CO had stipulated that red chillies were essential for a good West African peanut stew, so I was somewhat reluctant to give Fletcher orders to go ahead before checking with the Colonel. I took a few green pods out of the bag and inspected them closely. "Are you sure these are chillies?" I asked, "they look like beans to me." "Oh, yes, sir, they're chillies alright. I picked ‘em special," he said. I selected one and bit it carefully. There was no burning sensation as one would expect from a chilli and when I opened the pod I could see it was, without doubt, a bean. "You're an idiot, Fletcher," I said. "Now, I shall have to tell the CO that the peanut stew is off." Fletcher slunk off to his tent as I went in search of the Commanding Officer.
The Colonel was sitting on the veranda reading a newspaper. I told him about the mistake with the chillies and he said: "How could he possibly confuse beans with chillies? - let me have a look at them." One of the mess servants was told to find Fletcher and tell him that the colonel wanted to see his bag of beans. He appeared a few minutes later and gave the Colonel the brown paper bag. The CO withdrew a pod and studied it carefully. He turned it over and smelt it and then said it was quite suitable for making his favourite stew. "I'm sorry, sir, I must disagree," I said. "It's not a chilli, it's a bean - I've just eaten one." The Colonel once again picked up the green pod and polished his glasses before confirming that it was a chilli. I knew I was on firm ground, so I extracted a pod from the bag, slipped it into my mouth and chewed it up. "There you are, sir, they're beans," I said. It was a convincing demonstration, so the Colonel, feeling I had proved my case, selected a nice big one, popped it into his mouth and chewed it.
What the subsequent investigation revealed was that Flutter's bag contained a mixture of chillies and beans. The Colonel, who had been unfortunate in his choice, turned purple and tears spurted from his eyes like a garden sprinkler. I told Flatter to get some bread and butter, as someone had once told me that this was the antidote to chilli burn. I spread thick wedges of butter on the bread as Flatter and the mess sergeant stuffed it down the CO's throat. This brought on a choking fit and we had to slap him on the back to allow him to breathe properly. At last, all his tubes were clear and we managed to cool him down. The cooling process went only as far as his mouth and throat were concerned, and when he recovered his composure I became the victim of his anger and lost my job as food member of the mess committee. West African peanut stew was never mentioned again.

Once a week an Army Kinema Corporation film came up from Famagusta with the ration truck. When the officers' turn came to see it, we erected a projector on the mess veranda and beamed the film to a screen on top of a pair of six foot tables. Occasionally, when the wind blew hard and the screen was not tethered properly, the contraption would topple over and fall into the water polo pool.
One evening after supper, we were sitting on the veranda watching a 'western'. There had been a gun battle, but the action switched to the bedroom, when all of a sudden shooting started again. It took a second or two for us to realise that this time real bullets were flying through the air and we all dived for cover as lead thudded into the wall behind the projector. There was only one officer who had the courage to get up and find where the shots were coming from. He sprinted around the side of the building just in time to see HQ Company arms storeman reloading a 9mm Browning automatic pistol and then pumping another magazine of rounds through the side of Fletcher's tent. The would-be assassin was brought down in a flying tackle, disarmed and marched off to the guard tent. After the commotion had died down, Fletcher was found cowering underneath his bed none the worse for the experience.
The evidence produced at the court martial of the arms storeman revealed some details about Fletcher's psyche which many of us had suspected. 'Personal relationships' is a delicate matter in the Army and, in those days, if you stepped out of line, you could find yourself in serious trouble. Nevertheless, we felt the unilateral action of the arms storeman was rather heavy handed.
Fletcher left the battalion soon after the attempt on his life. Besides, the Army Catering Corps were getting into their stride and he would never have been one of the 'Professionals' - he was strictly regimental.

DHAVLOS BY THE SEA

The Army field-telephone crackled at battalion headquarters in Dhavlos and a far distant voice could be heard saying: "Do you want to buy a horse?" It was Major Dicky Randell who commanded 'A' Company of the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment based near the village of Akrades way out on the Karpas peninsula of north east Cyprus. Dicky's thoughts were never far away from horses and many of us in the Regiment wondered why he had bothered to join a foot slogging outfit when he would have been far more at home in a cavalry regiment. We liked his company though and the gentle way in which he approached his problems with what he called 'horse-sense'.

The task of my Regiment in those days of the late 'fifties' was to keep order among Greek Cypriots, who wanted union with Greece. We also acted as a buffer between them and Turkish Cypriots who would often get annoyed with the Greeks for upsetting their quiet lifestyle. When we were not chasing gangs of Greek Cypriot 'EOKA' 'freedom fighters' around the pine clad mountains or waiting in ambush positions on known 'bandit' runs, there were plenty of opportunities for enjoying ourselves. Every company had its own football/volley ball pitch and those who were near the sea had first class swimming and sub aqua facilities. Those of us who were fortunate to be at battalion headquarters had just about everything to keep us happy, albeit in a monastic way. For this we had to thank a unit that had been in Dhavlos some time before us. Their commanding officer decided that the morale of his soldiers was far more important than any tactical considerations concerning the siting of battalion headquarters. The place was like a holiday camp. In the centre of the complex of tents and barbed wire was the Louis Hotel, a strange circular building that looked more like a lighthouse than an hotel. It used to attract the odd adventurous visitor before the state of emergency was declared, but when we were there, it was requisitioned for use as battalion headquarters and senior officers accommodation. We had a full range of sports pitches and, best of all, we were camped fifty feet or so above the sea where we looked across to Turkey and the distant Toros Daglari mountain range.

The swimming facilities were superb. For sub aqua enthusiasts there was deep crystal clear water and plenty of fish and, for those of a timorous disposition, a gently sloping bay of golden sand. A rocky outcrop five hundred yards out in the bay, dubbed Taff's Isle (which looked remarkably like a submarine), was a challenge for our long distance swimmers. Just below the officers' mess was a stone building which we used as a boat house; it contained a few dinghies on loan from the Cyprus Forces Sailing Club. Alongside the boat house was another building which we used as stables. The loose boxes accommodated two desert ponies I had recently purchased from a Royal Air Force unit in Benghazi (Libya) for £5.00 each. I actually bought three ponies, but one of them died of colic on the landing craft that brought them over.

It was difficult to get a verbal profile of the animal Dicky wanted to sell on the crackling line from Akrades, but I managed to gather it was in good condition and a bargain at £15.00. Dicky's recommendation was good enough for me and we came to an understanding that he would advance the money for the horse. I could just make out that he would deliver the beast by truck the following day to a place called Khomi Kebir, where the tarmac ended. I set off on the six mile journey to Khomi Kebir with two Land Rovers and six armed soldiers as my escort. We reached the rendezvous ahead of the other party from Akrades, so we did what most male Cypriots do during the summer; drink coffee and eat nuts in the cool shade of a carob tree.

We did not have to wait long before we heard the unmistakable whine of an Army three-ton truck labouring up the hill in second gear. As it came around the corner into the main square of the village, a few comatose Cypriots blinked at the sight of a large horse whose head was sticking out above the canopy frame. I admit to being surprised as well at the size of the horse and wondered if the girth and bridle straps were going to be long enough. I had become used to the size of Middle East horses compared with those of North West Europe. Fourteen hands was about the average height, but this monster in the back of the truck was over sixteen hands high. Dicky's batman, who doubled as a groom, was nick-named 'Shaky' because of his nervous twitch and stutter. He was dwarfed by the horse but was hanging on to the halter. "How are we g-g-g-going to g-g-g-get him off?" he said when he saw me. I had already made a reconnaissance of the village to find a suitable off-loading point and I was able to guide the vehicle to a place where the tailboard could be laid flat on the bank. When this was done and after I had tested it to make sure it was quite safe for the horse to cross over, I signalled 'Shaky' to proceed. After a few prods and pushes, the animal stood on firm ground.

So far, so good. The next stage was to get the bridle and saddle on. I started to undo the buckles and while doing so, asked 'Shaky' what the animal was like to ride. "I d-d-dunno, sir," he replied. "Well, what did Major Randell say about him?" I asked. "He's n-n-never ridden him n-n-neither," said 'Shaky' and then divulged some devastating news. "I d-d-don't think nobody's n-n-never ridden him." Despite 'Shaky' double negatives, the awful truth dawned on me that I had six miles of mountain road, with a nasty drop on one side, to cover on an unbroken horse. I considered returning the animal to Akrades, but then thought of the loss of face I would suffer among the soldiers. "Righto, let's get the bridle on," I said as
cheerfully as possible. I had to stand on the chassis of the Land Rover to reach the horse's head.

As I slipped the headband over his ears, I became aware of the hypnotic stare he gave me from the dark depths of one of his eyes. The saddle was next, with a suitably lengthened girth, and then I was ready to mount. I asked one of the soldiers to remove his shirt and this was draped over the animal's head so that I could, at least, get settled in the saddle before I knew how he would react. One foot in the stirrup, a hefty shove from 'Shaky' and I was up in the saddle and, so far, in command. Now came the moment of truth and I gave the command to remove the blindfold.

The bare-buff soldier reclaimed his shirt and the others, who had been holding on to the bridle as if the horse was a tethered barrage balloon, leapt out of the way. They need not have bothered as the animal stood as still as the most disciplined quadruped on Horse Guards. The calm before the storm, I thought as I put gentle pressure with my calves - still no response. The soldiers started to snigger and I decided that the time had come for some positive action. I reached up into a tree, snapped off a stick and gave him a tap on his rump - still no response. A harder slap, and he started to move, but only at a slow walk. 'Shaky' and his team raised the vehicle's tailboard ready for the return trip to Akrades. They watched me as I ambled off slowly in the direction of Dhavlos on a horse which, instead of being a 'ball of fire', turned out to be a damp squib! I developed a rhythmical motion with my legs and stick to keep the horse moving and in this fashion we progressed along the narrow dirt road with the Land Rovers moving in bounds in front and behind me.

We had travelled about a mile when a Turkish Cypriot, riding a donkey and leading another one behind, came into view. The effect upon my horse was as if someone had given him a huge electric shock. From a gentle walk, I was suddenly catapulted into a gallop as the animal hurtled down the track in the direction of the Cypriot and his two docile donkeys. The impact of a sixteen hands high stallion on a donkey not much bigger than a Shetland pony, was a bit one sided. The old man came off at the moment of strike and rolled under the donkey he had been riding. His position on the donkey's back was taken by me and the stallion who began to satisfy his urge to procreate. What I had not been told about the horse was that it had been used solely for stud purposes. The sight of any donkey, horse or
mule drove it into a frenzy. If it was a female, it had to be mounted and if it was a male,it had to be attacked.

The soldiers in the Land Rovers had watched my assault upon the Cypriot and his donkey with amazement and they assumed I had spotted something they had not seen. As I was trying to get my horse off the donkey, I could see them running up the track with rifles at the ready. I prayed they would not shoot the old man, who was somewhere underneath the writhing mass of horse flesh, and add injury to insult.

I must have been able to get through to them that it was a purely sexual matter, as they put down their rifles and helped the old man to his feet. They dragged the donkey away from the stallion, whereupon it shot over the side of the road and joined the other one that was going as fast as its legs could carry it, for the sea - about two miles away.

Turkish Cypriots are made of strong stuff and the recovery of that one from a state of shock was swift. Within a matter of seconds he was leaping up and down in his strange baggy pants (Christ catchers) and gesticulating wildly in the direction of his runaway donkeys. The soldiers had a 'whip round' for him and managed to collect a few packets of cigarettes, which he grudgingly accepted. I did my best to apologise, but he just shook his fist at me and gave a 'five fingered curse' to the stallion.

At this stage of my ownership of Satan, for that was his name, I did not realise that an identical reaction would take place every time he saw an animal of his own species. I was, therefore, only slightly prepared when we met the next donkey-borne Cypriot. He was more fortunate than the other one as we had descended to sea level and his donkey summoned all its reserves of speed to escape from the carnal onslaught.

Except for two sudden bursts of speed, the journey from Khomi Kebir to Dhavlos had been boring and we had taken about one and a half hours to cover six miles. I was relieved to see the camp in the distance and, as we got closer, the sight of a mess waiter in his white uniform on the patio of the officers' mess reminded me that I was much in need of a cold beer. I walked Satan through the transport park and handed him over to my batman. I gave him instructions to feed and water the animal before I climbed the cliff path to the bluff of high ground above the stables and boat house where the mess was situated. Most of the officers were standing around having their drinks before lunch and the commanding officer asked me what I thought of the new horse. I told him what had happened and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.

All of a sudden there was a commotion outside and I recognised the voice of my batman. "Sir, you'd better come quick, that new horse of yours is knocking the stable down!" I bounded out of the mess and flew down the cliff path to the stables where I found the place in a shambles. "Whatever has happened?" I asked. One of the other batman explained that Satan had been taken into a stall where he had been given a large pan of oats and a bucket of water. "Good as gold, he was," said the batman, "until someone brought in one of those desert ponies, and then all hell was let loose." I recognised the same trouble that I had experienced twice myself that morning. "We'll have to get him out of here," I said. "Take him up to the contractor's shop and tie him up beneath the big tree. I looked at the damage
he had caused and calculated it would take a few days' work and a number of large gins for the Quartermaster before the stables would be restored.. "Another thing," said my batman, "I've never seen a horse eat so much as this one." Even an inexperienced person could see that Satan had been kept on basic survival rations. Big hollows in his sides showed he had been underfed and I realised he would need more than the normal rations for a horse of his size to build up his strength,. What I had not appreciated was the enormous capacity he had for oats. Instead of a throat and a stomach, it seemed he had a black hole down which everything disappeared.

One advantage of giving him this high octane food was that his performance as a hack
improved and I spent many enjoyable hours riding him on the beach and the countryside around Dhavlos. I could not take him too far from the camp as we were on 'active service' and the threat of terrorist action was real. One feature of his personality which remained constant was the effect other horses had on him. His years as a stud stallion had become too ingrained in his personality to be changed by the 'cordon bleu' treatment I was giving him.

I was never able to take him anywhere near the other horses in the stables and, as a result, I became a 'lone ranger' as nobody could accompany me on a ride. He continued to live under the big tree by the contractor's shop which was ideal for him during the summer months. After six months service in Dhavlos, the time came for us to leave the Karpas peninsula and take up residence in Dhekelia Camp near Larnaca on the south east coast of Cyprus. There was no problem about taking the other two ponies with us, they were quite manageable and had already become seasoned travellers. Satan was a problem though and the prospect of putting him in stables in Dhekelia, where there were plenty of ponies and a flourishing polo club,
was quite out of the question. I suppose I could have sent him back to Akrades, but with all his faults I had become attached to the old rogue.

The answer to the problem came two weeks before we were due to leave Dhavlos. Nikos, the locally employed officers' mess cook, came to me and said: "I understand you want to sell your horse, sir." "That's true," I replied. "Are you interested?" "Yes, I am," replied Nikos. "You see, I have some horses and I think Satan would be good for putting with them." By 'horses' he meant 'mares' and it was obvious that he had his eye on Satan as the father of some sturdy foals and fillies. I was delighted with this solution to the problem and I told Nikos he could have Satan as a gift the day we left Dhavlos.Nikos was a courteous old man and he looked after us well during our time in the camp alongside his village. He was always pleased to prepare local dishes for us and even to this day I remember his way of cooking octopus with garlic and red wine.

The day before we left Dhavlos, I took Satan for our last ride. His coat was sleek and shiny and the deep hollows in his sides had gone; he held his head high and tossed his mane at the prospect of a gallop on the beach. It was hard to imagine that this was the same horse that had been in such poor condition only a few months before. Dicky Randell had been right when he recognised the potential of the animal.

I was getting my soldiers ready for the move, so my batman took Satan to his new home. When all was ready and the soldiers were aboard the trucks, I gave the order to move off. As we headed east on the dust road to Khomi Kebir and beyond, I leaned out of the window to take a last look at the Louis Hotel and the rows of tents, now occupied by a field battery of the Royal Artillery. At the far end of the village, I saw the whitewashed stone house where Nikos lived with his wife and two daughters. In the adjoining field, three mares were gently swishing their tails under some trees. Standing with them, gently nuzzling the neck of a pretty little filly, was Satan. I gave him a wave and silently wished him a long and
happy life.