TORPEDOED IN THE ATLANTIC

The word ‘torpedoed’ is usually associated with members of the Senior Service, but David Lloyd-Thomas of the Welch Regiment was one of those normally shore-based officers who experienced the terror of being at the receiving end of a submarine-borne missile.

He was trained as a machine-gun officer and, as the only machine-gun battalion in the British Army was stationed in Hong Kong, he expected to be posted there.  Hong Kong had been captured by the Japanese in December 1941 though and his posting order was written like a telegram: ‘Port of embarkation – Greenock (Scotland).  Destination – Far East’.

When he arrived at the seaport of Glasgow, He had his first sight of the SS ‘Llangibby Castle’, the pride of the old ‘Union Castle’ and where he was due to spend the following two months.  She was a fine looking ship but his faith in her collapsed when she failed to sail with the rest of the convoy.  Something was wrong in the engine room and it took two days to put it right. 

     On their first night at sea a howling gale gave passengers a good idea of what lay ahead for them. They were a mixed bunch from all three services but had one thing in common: to do a job in the Far East where the Japanese were devouring our Empire.

     He had an eerie feeling in his stomach when he went on deck that first day.  Gone was the comforting sight of land and all around were angry waves which he knew concealed German U-Boats.  Fortunately, there were two destroyers which zigzagged fore and aft and helped to give him a feeling of security. 

    The ‘Llangibby Castle’ was an aristocrat of her day.  She provided a comfortable billet for her passengers but speed was not her best feature. The two destroyers fussed about her like a pair of Jack Russell terriers urging her to ‘get a move on’ but instead, she sailed on serenely, unmoved by hassle and cajolery.

A few days later the ship caught up with the rest of the convoy.  The weather improved and his first sight of the others was tell-tale plumes of smoke from their stacks.  Soon he was able to identify individual shapes and passengers waving as the ‘Llangibby Castle’ took its place in the convoy.  The two destroyers – their job done, gave a final pass and a few short ‘whoops’ of their sirens before setting off to another station on  the perimeter.

    About a mile ahead of them was the largest ship in the convoy – the French liner ‘Louis Pasteur’.  She had been the pride of the French mercantile fleet before the war but her character had been changed by the application of grey paint, common to all ships that sailed the seas in World War Two.  Other ships, all bound on the same course, radiated from the central position to all points of the compass.  David felt reasonably confident that he had, by law of average, a good chance of getting to Cape Town - his first haven on the long journey to the Far East. 

    His feeling of security however was shattered when on the 16^th January 1942 a deafening explosion cut short his ablutions.

David clutched his life jacket and raced up to the deck where he had practised lifeboat drills.  He gathered that something serious had happened as the ship was losing speed and veering to starboard.  A few minutes later a voice on the intercom from the bridge informed the passengers they had been hit in the stern by a torpedo that had blown the rudder off.  The ‘voice’ went on to say that there was a large hole in the stern but the bulkhead doors had been closed and that the propellers were still turning. As an afterthought, the ‘voice’ informed them that many of the crew had been killed and injured.

    David digested this unpalatable information and wondered what else lay in store for him.  He did not have long to wait as two Fokker Wulf Kondors emerged from a bank of cloud.  They were the eyes and ears of U-boats and were most probably the ones that had guided the killers to their quarry.  David watched, mesmerised, as these huge aircraft, like the sea-eagles after which they were named, closed the distance between them and the ‘Llangibby Castle’.  The few light anti-aircraft guns they had aboard pumped shells at them but the ‘great birds’ kept on coming.  Their machine-guns opened up and, miraculously, only one of the passengers was hit.  Then they dropped their bombs, but they were off target and fell harmlessly into the sea.  The Kondors made a few more runs without doing any more damage and then they headed off for France from whence they had come.

Their next visitor, a friend this time, was one of the escorting destroyers whose captain asked what had gone wrong.  He was told over the loud hailer that they had no rudder and a big hole in the stern.  David and the others were astounded to hear the destroyer Captain reply: “Try and get to the Azores.  Goodbye and good luck.”  He wondered what had happened to those two nice destroyers that had looked after the ship him from the time she left Greenock to when she joined the convoy - they would not have left us – or would they?  He knew that once you are hit by a torpedo, the  old adage: ‘survival of the fittest’ takes on a real meaning.  As the ‘Llangibby Castle’ lumbered around in a huge circle, David watched the smudges of grey paint and then thin wisps of smoke fade away below the horizon.  They were on their own.

It was beyond the knowledge of landlubbers to know how the Captain and the crew managed to keep a course  towards the tiny Portuguese sanctuary of the Azores. Throughout the time they struggled against impossible odds, the crew behaved with remarkable confidence. Their optimism was infectious and the passengers even put the possibility of another U-boat attack on the back burner as they willed the ship to keep her nose straight.  After three days of painfully slow progress they came in sight of some volcanic out-crop islands that make up the Azores in mid-Atlantic. A huge sigh of relief was given when tug boats nudged them to their moorings in the port of Horta.

The British Consul came aboard and attended to the business of getting the wounded ashore and into hospital.  He explained that under the International Neutrality Law they could stay in Horta for only two weeks.  The German Consul, with whom he had been good friends before the war, insisted that the rule be observed but he, the British Consul, felt sure the Portuguese would not cast them out.  Even though the Portuguese technically remained neutral throughout the war, such a callous act as making the ship put to sea in such a helpless state, was not in their nature.  They are not known as ‘our oldest allies’ for nothing.  Nevertheless, two weeks later a large Dutch ocean-going tug arrived to tow the ship to Gibraltar.

As David and the other passengers waved goodbye to those who had come to see them off, they were hailed by a British destroyer at the entrance to the harbour.  “Good luck,”  the Captain shouted through the loudhailer, and told them that the group of people on the foredeck were German survivours of a U-boat that had been waiting outside the harbour.  It had been rammed and sunk.  “Well, that’s one less,”  said David to a shipmate.  “Throw the b-----s back in!”  he replied.

Even though there were three destroyers to escort the ‘Llangibby Castle’ to Gibraltar, all the terror of the first part of the voyage returned as they crept slowly towards the mouth of the Mediterranean, 1,000 miles away.  During those terrifying days they were once again attacked by U-boats.  They fired torpedoes but due to the erratic course of their target and the close attention of the escort, they missed.  Nerves were at stretching point and two Army officers jumped overboard, never to be seen again.

    At last, after six days out from the Azores, the ship arrived at Gibraltar.  The familiar shape of the Rock, a bastion against so many sieges and the refuge of so many mariners, was the best sight David had ever seen.  He remembers counting the ships in the harbour – there were twenty two, all blowing their sirens in a great musical salute.

It was reported that both Churchill and Hitler were kept informed about the ship’s progress from the Azores.  Both looked upon the ‘Llangibby Castle’ as a tool for national morale – to be saved or sunk, depending upon which side you were on.

    Two of the passengers were war correspondents from London newspapers.  They had not been able to make any contact with their editors while at sea, but had plenty of time to write their stories. As soon as they were able get ashore, they broke news of survival  to the rest of the world.

The grand old ship went into dry-dock and spent fifty seven days  being patched up before she lumbered back to UK on her own.  For the passengers, Gibraltar was only a staging post on the long voyage to the Far East and David still had a long way to go before boarding the ‘Dilwara’ at Cape Town.

Bombay was his destination  and it was from there that he travelled overland to Nowsheera in the North West Frontier Province of India to join the 11^th Sikh Regiment (a machine-gun battalion).   It seemed, at last,  that his military skills were about to be fulfilled, but for those who know anything about machine-gun battalions, Burma was hardly the place for effective use of those weapons.

What Happened To.....?

Zulu Company was the name given to Training Company 1/WELCH in Cyprus during the EOKA troubles of 1957-58. It was a tight-knit force with a permanent establishment of no more than ten men: me, my second-in-command, a company sergeant major, colour sergeant, storeman, clerk, three corporals and my black batman - Offside, who when asked by the sentry on the main gate one night if he was 'ZULU', replied: "No, Afro/Welsh - I come from Tiger Bay, Cardiff."
Our job was to receive recruits straight from basic training in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff and turn them into trained soldiers. We were still in the days of national service which for many was the greatest violation of personal liberty ever practised. Others found it the most rewarding experience of their lives. The problem with the system was a never ending influx and exodus of soldiers - hence the need for Zulu Company.
I was chatting with an old friend recently about those days in Cyprus so many years ago when he said: "Do you remember Kinell-Jones?" I did a mental check of all the young officers but that young man with a posh name did not register. He then told me a story which reawakened memories long since put on hold.

During the third week of a four week course we ran for one of the drafts from Wales, I decided the time was right to give them some practical experience of searching a Greek Cypriot village at night. The company sergeant major assembled the draft under a convenient carob tree and I began to outline my plans for the operation.
"Tonight, men, we are going to search the village of Flamoudi (a small habitation of a few hundred souls about five miles west of battalion headquarters)." A young soldier sitting in the front row let out an expletive: "F....ng hell!" I looked at him disapprovingly, but as he had shown great interest in everything he had been taught during the first half of the course, I put his outburst down to enthusiasm. "We’ll leave here at 20.00hrs in musketry order, fully camouflaged. You will carry your rifles with one up the spout and safety catch on." "F....ng hell!" was the response from the eager young lad in the front row and another disapproving look from me. "I want you to remember all you have been taught about silent movement and how to recognise shapes in the dark - there may well be EOKA terrorists about." "F....ng hell," said the young man who had only two words to say when his adrenaline flowed. There were more identical expletives throughout the briefing, but I let him carry on when he felt the urge.

A few days later, Offside told me that Kinell-Jones had nearly shot the locally employed Greek Cypriot officers' mess cook when we stormed a taverna in Flamoudi. It took me a second or two before I realised that 'Kinell'-Jones, as he had become known, was the keen young soldier in the front row at my briefing. If you are still bewildered, put the letters F U C in front of the K in the first part of his name.
What I had not told the draft was that Flamoudi was just about the safest Greek Cypriot village on the island. Practically all the locally employed civilians in our camp lived there and it was understandable that the officers' mess cook should throw his arms around my neck and tell the barman to give me a beer when we stormed in. Nikos wanted to 'make a night of it' and introduce me to all his friends, but I remained aloof and told the company sergeant major to get the recruits out as fast as he could. Not all the inhabitants of Flamoudi were as pro-British as the regulars in the taverna and word must have got out that security forces were in the village. There was not a soul about when we emerged from the hostelry.
I led the way on a tour of the village using shadows and convenient objects to make ourselves invisible. Whenever a dog barked, we stopped, changed route - if possible, and moved on when it was provident to do so. We had proceeded in this fashion for a few hundred yards when I saw a wooden gate in a stone wall surrounding a house. Before me lay a garden with bushes on all sides and at the far end was a house with a patio upon which sat an old lady engaged in, what looked like, embroidery. This was just the sort of opportunity I had been looking for, so I signaled the men to close up and whispered to them what I was about to do.
"You see that old lady over there? Well, she doesn't know we are here. I'm going to creep through those bushes making use of available cover. I aim to get to the patio without her hearing or seeing a thing."

I climbed over the wall and slowly made my way towards the old lady. I looked back a few times and could just see the others who had managed to find places from which to observe. The old lady was quite unaware of what was going on until I suddenly revealed myself on the patio a few feet away from her.
"Kali nikta," (Good evening) I said cheerfully to put her at her ease. This did not have the desired effect and she screamed louder than an air-raid siren. I tried to calm her by putting my hand on her shoulder, but she screamed all the more.
I had not noticed a 12 or 13 year old girl asleep on a mattress in a corner of the patio, but the youngster's reaction was swift. She picked up a sweeping broom made of twigs bound to a pole and brought it down on my head like a ton of bricks. Despite the commotion made by the two females on the patio, I heard another cry from the bottom of the garden: "F....ng hell!!"

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.