I slipped a disc in February 1959 and spent six months in military hospitals before being discharged with a P7 medical grading. I had long since abandoned plans to join the Sultan of Muscat’s Army and was posted instead to the Welsh Brigade Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales.
Things could have been worse. Despite the inconvenience of having to wear a corset akin to some sort of medieval torture apparatus, I was soon able to lead a near normal life and even get married in August 1960.
During the spring of 1961, Lieut Col ‘Dixie’ Deane (SWB), the CO, called me into his office and told me I was being posted to the 5th Battalion Welch Regt (TA) as Adjutant. I had never considered the possibility of working with the Territorial Army even though my Regiment had three TA battalions and most of my contemporaries had served, or were serving, as adjutants. I knew very little about the ‘volunteer’ side of the Regiment other than what I read during some last minute punching-up on the war history of 5/WELCH. I learnt about its role in the capture of Jerusalem in 1917 and the important part the battalion played in the North West Europe Campaign in 1944-45. Socially, they seemed a good lot and I enjoyed myself greatly at 4/WELCH Officers’ Ball in Murray Street Drill Hall, Llanelli in 1955.
I was introduced to 5/WELCH when I visited them at camp in Barry Buddon on the south east coast of Scotland during the summer of 1961. I was given a double 160 pounder tent which, when put end to end, formed a wind tunnel. In a hot climate in mid-summer it would have been ideal, but the Scottish weather was at its worst and the previous occupant, Major General Charles Hirsch, the Honorary Colonel, told me he had never been so cold in all his life. During the few days I spent in Scotland, the only sign of life I saw beyond the limits of the camp was a couple of civilians bravely battling their way through gale force winds along the sea shore. Despite the atrocious weather, most of the TA officers had brought golf clubs in order to make use of the splendid golfing facilities in that part of Scotland.
The commandant of the camp and training area, in a retired capacity, was a fellow called Colonel Andrew Braisby. I first met him in 1958 when he was the British Military Attache to the Lebanon. He came up to the skii school at Les Cedres while I was there and entertained everyone in the officers’ mess with his collection of amazing stories. He claimed to be the last British casualty of World War Two or, more accurately, the first post-war casualty in 1945. It happened during the morning on 9th May 1945 when the ‘cease fire’ was only a few hours old. He was proceeding to his company base in North Germany when his vehicle broke down. Following him was a dispatch rider on a motor bike who stopped to give him a lift. Andrew climbed aboard the pillion but the engine stalled and the driver had to kick-start it. In so doing, he caught his sleeve on the cocking handle of his Sten sub-machine gun which went off, shooting Andrew through the jaw.
He was quite proud of the various scars and deformities caused by unfriendly fire and the last one he received put a lop-sided expression on his face that went well with his monocle and flashy clothes.
There was a medical reception station at the camp that had a notice above the door which read:-
MRS BUDDON.
One of our TA soldiers reported sick with a boil on his backside but returned to the company office a few minutes later and asked if an appointment could be made for him to see a male doctor. When asked to explain, he told the Company Sergeant Major that Mrs Buddon might be a very good doctor but he was not prepared to take his trousers down in front of her.
A few weeks after returning from Scotland, I was officially posted to 5/WELCH as Adjutant. Due to the imminent birth of our son in August 1961, I travelled daily by car from our married quarter in Brecon to HQ 5/WELCH in Pontypridd. It was a pleasant run over the Beacons and down through Merthyr Tydfil but one day I was disturbed by what I thought was a fish bone stuck in my throat. When I returned that evening, my wife, Nesta, gave me some bread and butter hoping to dislodge it – but it was still there the next morning.
Our next-door neighbour to-be (when we moved to Pontypridd) was a doctor, so I went along to see him. He put a long-handled mirror down my throat but there was no sign of a fish bone.. He advised me to go to the hospital in Church Village for an X-Ray. This I did but the photograph revealed nothing abnormal. Not content with giving me a clean bill of health, the specialist asked me questions about my life-style. When I told him that my wife was expecting a baby, he said: “That’s it!” and told me that the ‘fish bone’ was a sub-conscious expression of sympathy with my wife. I spent another two or three days expecting to see the sharp end of a fish bone appear through my neck but then when my wife gave birth - the ‘fish-bone’ disappeared.
When I related my experience at a Sergeants’ Mess social a few weeks later, Sergeant ‘Knocker’ John, the Provost Sergeant, told me that every time his wife was about to increase his already large family, his big toes swelled so much he could hardly get his boots on.
When I became Adjutant, I missed the convivial atmosphere of the Officers’ Mess. The only time I saw TA officers was on drill nights, twice a week, and once a month at week ends. I had been commissioned for 15 years and had been used to going to the mess at lunch time, having a drink with my friends, sitting down for luncheon and being served by properly dressed waiters. I soon realised that I would have to change my habits but I saw no reason to follow the example of my predecessor who took sandwiches to work and ate them in his office. Nesta, despite being heavily pregnant, prepared excellent lunches for me in plastic containers before I left Brecon. I gave these to Jimmy James, the caretaker of the drill hall, when I arrived in Pontypridd and sharply, at 12.45pm, I would go upstairs to the mess where Jimmy would be waiting behind the bar to serve me with a gin and tonic. Without anyone to talk to (other than Jimmy), I would read The Daily Telegraph for 15 minutes or so and then proceed to the dining room where the contents of the plastic containers had been transferred to silver tureens. Jimmy would then serve me in the manner to which I was accustomed.
Once every three months, a dinner or a guest night would be held in the Mess when the full panoply of regimental silver and the Colours would be on display. The TA officers prided themselves on doing things properly and I could find no fault in their procedures.
We had our own Band which played through dinner while the Corps of Drums, led by the Goat, marched around the table after port was served. After dinner, Colour Sergeant Percy Cowell and Sergeant ‘Hot Lips’ Lewis would introduce the second part of the Band programme by playing the Post Horn Gallop using the silver post horns presented to 5/WELCH by Pontypridd Town Council. Even to the present day (in 2007), I have a feeling of nostalgia when I hear those same post horns produce such pure notes.
Soon after I joined 5/WELCH, our goat died and I set the wheels in motion to get a replacement. Kashmir goats come from the Royal herd which, in Queen Victoria’s day was kept at Windsor. Legend has it that the Queen visited the 41st Regiment (later the Welch Regiment) at Aldershot in 1856 and was shown the Russian ‘Billy goat which had accompanied the battalion during the Crimean War. Understanding the respect with which the animal was held, she directed that future goats should be made official members of the battalion and that successors should come from her own herd. That has been the custom to the present day and the tradition is carried on by The Royal Welsh.
Dr Desmond Morris was the curator of mammals at London Zoo, where the Royal herd of Kashmir goats was later kept, and it was he who selected the replacement goat. He also invited the Honorary Colonel, the Commanding Officer and me to have luncheon with him at the Zoo on the day of the presentation.
It was an unforgettable experience for many reasons and the ‘hand-over’ was captured on film by the official photographer when ‘Taffy’ was having his scarlet coat adjusted by RSM Jim Holt. Wearing a coat was bad enough but having a silver buckle next to his stomach was beyond the call of duty. He reacted as one would expect from a Kashmir Goat of the Royal Herd.
The arrival of a new Regimental Mascot in Pontypridd provided much publicity for the Battalion, and ‘Taffy’ was front-page news in all the papers. Television was still in its infancy and I was asked by ITV if I could bring him to their studios in Pontcanna Fields, Cardiff to be shown on one of their ‘Here Today’ programmes.
‘Taffy’ was given the full beauty treatment, including having his silver head-plate polished by Goat Major Eric James (Jimmy James the caretaker’s son) before we left Pontypridd. When we arrived at the studio, the first thing that happened was the dulling-down of the head-plate: “Too much shine,” said the make-up woman, “and has he got another coat? The camera doesn’t like red ones.” I told her that as 95% of Welsh viewers used black and white TV sets there should not be a problem.
Joseph Cotton was the interviewer (plus piano player) and everything was scripted. We spent an hour or so rehearsing questions and responses until the floor manager told us we would be ‘on air’ in one minute. Joseph opened the programme by asking me if I thought Taffy was missing his friends in London Zoo. So far, so good and I was word perfect with the answer, but then he asked me if he was going to ‘get his oats’ every day. Nothing had been said about ‘oats’ during the rehearsal and it was quite obvious what the interviewer meant by the saucy expression on his face. I stumbled with a quite unsuitable answer while the floor manager and cameramen sniggered over my embarrassment. Taffy was the only well behaved creature in the studio.
Major Melville Clement and I were commissioned on the same day in July 1946 and were seen off by our families and Mel’s wife, Edwina, when we travelled together by train from Cardiff to Brecon to join the 21st Infantry Training Centre in Dering Lines. We remained firm friends until his untimely death on 6th December 2004.
When I joined 5/WELCH, Mel commanded ‘A’ Company in Aberdare and I used to see him at least once a week when he called in at Battalion HQ on his way home. It was not unusual to find most of the company commanders in the Pontypridd officers’ mess on Tuesday nights as most of them lived in the Cardiff area.
5/WELCH was a compact unit and my job was made much easier by being able to visit all the drill halls in one morning. Some of my colleagues in 160 (Wales) Brigade used to take a few days off to visit their outlying companies while some non-regular commanding officers only saw the full complement of officers and men at annual camp.
Mel and I were enjoying a drink with each other one night when we put some ideas together about organising a boat race down the River Taff. It was primarily designed to be a public relations exercise to stimulate recruiting, but also an opportunity to get the battalion together and have some fun on a (hopefully) warm and sunny Saturday afternoon in August.
The plan was to race infantry assault boats, each with a crew of five men, from rifle companies (4), HQ Company (2) plus a team each from the officers’ mess and sergeants’ mess, making eight teams in all, down the River Taff from Abercynon (about three miles north of Pontypridd) to the two bridges over the river at the north end of the town. The oldest of the two bridges was the longest stone built single arch bridge in Europe when it was built in 1756. The one alongside it was erected in 1857 to accommodate horse drawn traffic. I have good cause to remember the latter as my young son stuck his head through the railings one day and was only able to get it out when pats of butter were spread behind his ears.
I carried out a recce the following day and found an ideal start point on a piece of council land just south of Abercynon where a meadow sloped gently towards the river. This would allow the boats to be drawn up, bows facing the river for a le Mans start. Halfway to the bridge there were rapids with boulder strewn rivulets leading to a waterfall known as the Berw Pool. From there onwards the river ran smoothly towards the two bridges, both of which would hold hundreds of spectators with the ‘modern’ bridge marking the end of the race.
Few of our soldiers, if any, had experience of using assault boats so the Quartermaster ordered them in sufficient time for some practice runs. The boats we were issued with were of the collapsible variety which meant raising the canvas sides and securing them with wooden struts.
On the day of the race, spectators gathered early to get a good view. The Training Major had set up a display of weapons and equipment on the ‘old’ bridge as this was the most popular place to watch the race. Other spectators lined the river bank on both sides and the police turned out in force to control traffic.
At the start line, boats and crew were drawn up ready and waiting for the starting gun to be fired. When the shot rang out there was a 30 yards dash to the boats and another 30 yards carry to the water, then it was up with the sides, in with the slats and paddle like hell.
Those who knew the River Taff well found vantage points near the Berw Pool. The recent heavy rain had increased the water level and the river was running fast. Some teams managed to steer clear of the waterfall but I remember seeing one of HQ Company’s teams taking a nose dive when they failed to ride the correct approach channel. Sergeant ‘Syd’ Piper was in the bows and, although he wore a life jacket, there was concern when he did not come to the surface. The boat soon righted itself, however, and Syd, who had a pronounced stutter, emerged from the depths yelling: “P-p-p-pass me a p-p-p-paddle and p-p-p-pull me in.”
‘C’ Company team won but everyone enjoyed themselves and 5/WELCH was a great hit with the public.
When I left the battalion in December 1963, I presented a silver cup to be competed for annually. I spent the next two and a half years in the Far East and when I returned to UK in 1966, I was invited to attend the Taff Boat Race and present my cup to the winning team.
The event was just as popular as it had been in my day; the old Pont y ty Pridd (Bridge by the Earthen House) was still doing a great job for recruiting, and competitors still vied with each other to find the best route around the Berw Pool. The ‘march of time’ and rigid implementation of ‘health and safety rules’ put an end to the Taff Boat Race a few years later and my cup, I hope, still languishes in Abertillery Drill Hall (the last place where I saw it).
My first Commanding Officer in 5/WELCH was Lieut Col ‘Rusty’ Davies who managed a bank in Swansea. He usually attended drill nights in Pontypridd on Tuesdays and whenever we had a week end exercise, a shooting match, sporting events and suchlike.
Week end training depended upon the number of ‘man days’ available. We were allocated a certain number each year – something like ten per man (excluding two weeks at camp when TA members were paid Regular Army rates plus half their annual bounty – the remainder being paid on Remembrance Sunday to ensure maximum turnout). We had to keep a careful check on ‘man days’ to make sure we did not run out half way through the year. Fortunately, not everyone turned up for week end exercises etc. but, instead of saving ‘man days’ for a rainy day, they were often used by the Band and Drums when public relations events were given priority. The TA Secretary kept some up his sleeve but we had to make a good case before he would consider giving us any.
Long and short drills were not rationed and were paid for by the TA Association. On Tuesday nights, training took place in drill halls from 7pm to 9pm while shooting competitions with .22 rifles were conducted in miniature ranges on Thursday nights.
The ‘social’ factor was important. Every drill hall had its own club with beer available at reduced prices and, after an hour or two of military training, thirsts needed to be quenched and stories about the last camp or exercise retold.
Wives and girl friends were given much consideration when social events were held. Not all of them were happy about husbands and boy friends going off on training exercises at week ends and for two weeks camp during the summer. The extra money the menfolk earned was a small bonus, but it still rankled.
Somehow or other we bumbled along – scrimping here and saving there with no loss of esprit de corps. In fact, the morale of the battalion remained at a high level throughout the time I was with them and our soldiers, when the occasion demanded, could always be relied upon to perform as well as their colleagues in the Regular Army.
When Nesta, my wife and young son, Richard, moved from Brecon to Pontypridd in September 1961, we were given a quarter at The Highlands, a suburb of Pontypridd on the east side of the main Merthyr to Cardiff road. It was a nice place to live and the views across the valley were delightful.
During the summer evenings, we used to take our son, in his pram, across an area of common land to the 5/WELCH War Memorial. Before I left home one night, I searched but was unable to find my key ring upon which was fastened the key to my car and the key of the security cabinet in my office. I retraced the route we had taken but found nothing. Fortunately, I had a spare key for the car and I seldom had cause to look inside the security cabinet; getting the lock changed the following day would not be a problem. I came to the conclusion that I must have left the keys in the ignition of the car and that someone had stolen them.
When I arrived at the drill hall, about 20 minutes late, the normal hubbub of activity was under way. There was no need for me to say anything about the loss of my keys, but it was one of those occasions when I opened my mouth one time too many. The Colonel stopped dead in his tracks and questioned me about the loss. He was not concerned about my personal loss but a very stern look crossed his face when I admitted the loss of the key of the security cabinet. Colonel ‘Rusty’ Davies had gone through the Second World War with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, won a Military Cross and was a seasoned and efficient officer in all respects. Being a bank manager had tempered his zeal as far as matters of security were concerned; I felt like a small boy being admonished by the headmaster.
I retired to my office and immersed myself in administrative matters while the Colonel went to his office and held ‘Open Door’ for anyone with a problem. Corporal Williams 42 had come down from one of the outstations with a niggle about his results in a recent examination and was telling the CO all about it. Colonel ‘Rusty’ was beloved by his soldiers and he looked upon his ‘Open Door’ policy as a valuable link between officer and soldier. The petitioner might not get what he wanted but, at least, he would have had his say.
While he was dealing with Corporal Williams , the telephone rang in my office. The person at the other end wanted to speak to a ‘Mr Davies’. I told him that we had scores of soldiers named ‘Davies’ in the battalion and could he be more explicit. “He’s an officer – a colonel, I believe,” said the caller. That put ‘Rusty’ in mid-frame and I told him that Colonel Davies was presently engaged on important business with one of his NCOs. “Could I take a message?” I asked. The caller said he did not want to disturb either of us, but would I tell Mr Davies, when I had an opportunity, that he had left the keys of the bank vault on his desk and that he (the caller) would return them to him the following morning. I asked how much money was in the vault: “About two million pounds, give or take a few thousand,” was the answer.
I felt a glow of satisfaction as I chose the words I would use to give the Colonel the surprise of his life and waited until Cpl ’42 was on his way back to his company before I made my move.
“If you don’t mind me asking, Colonel, where do you keep the keys of your bank vault?” The Colonel blinked for a few seconds while he pondered my question, then replied: “In my trouser pocket, of course.” I gave him the same sort of look as he gave me only a few minutes before, and said: “Are you sure you’ve got them?”
Revenge was sweet but I did not prolong his misery and told him about the telephone call I had received.
I understand that lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place but, quite remarkably, the same sort of thing happened a year later.
Colonel ‘Rusty’ and I wore similar raincoats and somehow they got mixed up during a week end shooting competition on Newton ranges near Porthcawl. He became aware of the mix-up before me but was unable to contact me (no mobile phones in those days), because I had driven to Barry to spend the remainder of the week end with my parents. It was not until I arrived home in Pontypridd at about 9.30am on the Monday morning that I became aware of what had happened. Waiting outside our house was a car whose driver wanted to know if I had Mr Davies’s keys in my raincoat pocket. I had not worn the coat since the previous Friday and, sure enough, there they were.
During the summer of 1962 the three TA battalions of the Welch Regiment camped near Dartmoor. This afforded me an opportunity to meet an old friend who was employed (in a retired capacity) as Commandant of an Army training area. Colonel Denis Campbell Miles, who had been my Commanding Officer in the South Wales Borderers in Eritrea in 1950-51 looked after Plasterdown Range and Training Area. He loved horses and was in his element during the 13 years he spent there. He became a well known figure riding the range and was rarely parted from his sturdy gelding ‘Faras’.
Dartmoor was an ideal place to practise our drills and take part in manoeuvres; we enjoyed working closely with our friends from 4/WELCH (Llanelli) and 6/WELCH (Cardiff). There were dinner nights and guest nights, Beatings of Retreat and an officers’ cocktail party during the middle week end when wives and girl friends came down.
The finale, as far as 5/WELCH was concerned, was a battalion dawn attack upon an ‘enemy’ position. This involved a night approach march of ten miles to an assembly area where the cooks brought up a hot meal. During the hours of darkness a recce party led by Captain Eddy John laid white tape from the assembly area to the start line. They also placed, at regular intervals, perforated biscuit tins with lamps inside to keep us on track.
As the first shafts of light appeared, the Second-in-Command, Major Bill Gibbs, gave the order to advance. The message was passed left and right down the line and everything went according to plan until the leading company, with Bill Gibbs up front, arrived at the start line. Bill glanced at his watch – right on time, and gave the silent signal to move forward.
He was the first man in the battalion to enter ‘enemy’ territory and the first to fall prey to the Brigadier’s secret weapon – a Dartmoor bog. He took only a few paces before he was up to his knees and then sank further until only his head and shoulders were above ground level. The soldiers near him were like a flock of startled sheep and word was passed down the line to wait until dawn before they tried to find a way around the swamp.
Meanwhile, the priority was to get the 2 I/C out before he disappeared altogether. Someone produced a rope and we tried to pull him out, but that was no good. Then someone suggested a jeep equipped with sand tracks, but that would take too long. Finally, his batman, with whom Major Bill had great trust, crawled as near to his Lord and Master as was possible saying “Leave him to me – I’ll get him out.” Pte Jones 02 was a skinny little fellow who made very little impression upon the surface of the bog as he crept forward. Within a few minutes he was standing on a few pieces of wood that someone had tossed to him, with his arms around his boss doing his best to screw him out. That might have worked if the whole of the Second-in-Command’s body revolved at the same time, but everything below his shoulders was stuck fast and he was in danger of having his spine twisted like a corkscrew. Jones 02 remained with his boss until a jeep arrived and the rescue was completed.
The Brigadier, who had written the ‘bog incident’ into the exercise, was delighted that his ruse had worked so well and made a point during his assessment of the exercise about ‘the need for sound reconnaissance’.
I was talking on the phone to Edwina Clement, widow of the late Major Melville Clement, recently and she asked me if I remembered the time when wives and girl friends visited 5/WELCH at camp in 1962. I knew what she was going to say but I listened anyway as she reiterated the cock-up of gigantic proportions I made when I booked, cancelled and rebooked accommodation in various hotels in Okehampton until no one knew what was happening. Not only did I get a lot of agro from the WAGS, and husbands/boy friends of WAGS, but also from hotel owners and managers who resented being mucked about during the peak holiday period. I can’t remember exactly how it ended but I do know that I was the most unpopular officer in 5/WELCH until the end of camp.
Despite any official records to the contrary, the winter of 1962 will stand out as the coldest I have ever experienced. We moved from The Highlands (near 5/WELCH War Memorial) to The Mount, a much larger house within a few hundred yards of the town centre, soon after the Quartermaster, Major Tony Wedlake, and his family went to Singapore. The cold weather was yet to arrive and we spent an idyllic summer enjoying our new quarter and the spacious grounds that surrounded it.
Our first visitor was Major General Charles Hirsch, the Honorary Colonel, who was paying one of his many visits to the battalion during his tenure. The Highlands was too small to offer him accommodation on previous visits, but the main guest bedroom in The Mount was fit for a General! I went to meet him at Cardiff General Railway Station and I was able to bring him up to date with battalion activities during the return trip to Pontypridd. My wife had not met him but knew all there was to know about him. His wife was the sister of the Lord Lieutenant of Glamorgan, Colonel Sir Cenydd Traherne KG and Lieut Col John Traherne, recently CO 1/WELCH. His son, Peter Hirsch, also a regular officer of the Welch Regiment, had been second in line to the baronetcy held by his uncle, Sir Cenydd, until Col John Traherne’s wife, Lesley, produced a son, Rhodri, in 1956. I brought the bags inside while he chatted to Nesta.
My wife, invariably calm and collected, looked somewhat uneasy and kept trying to attract my attention. After I had given the General a stiff gin and tonic in the sitting room she found an opportunity to get me into the kitchen. “There’s a dead hamster in his bedroom,” she said. “I’ve tried getting it out of the drawer, but it’s stuck tight.”
For a few weeks we had been aware that a hamster was missing from a cage in the butler’s pantry. Our young son was absorbed with its antics on a wheel and would let it out whenever he had the opportunity; it always came back so we were not unduly worried.
I went upstairs and found one very dead hamster glued, as my wife had said, to the bottom of a drawer. It had gone past the ‘smelly’ stage and must have been close to mummification as I had to use a kitchen knife to prize it off. I gave the room a liberal squirt of Lily of the Valley and went downstairs to assure my wife that all was well.
Women are funny about such things as dead hamsters. Even though the General seemed unaware of the drama that had been enacted almost under his nose, Nesta was sure that her reputation as a hostess would never recover.
When the cold weather arrived we waged a losing battle to keep the house warm. There were no such facilities as loft insulation and double glazing and when I tried to locate the hot water boiler one day, I found it, unwrapped, half way up an open chimney.
During the run-up to Christmas the Post Office, as usual, took over some of our drill halls to store parcels. The permanent staff instructor (PSI) at Merthyr was ‘surplus to requirements’ for ten days so he asked me if he could take some leave. I agreed to his request and told him to make sure he was back in Merthyr by Christmas Eve when the Post Office people were due to leave.
Those in temporary occupation of the drill hall were responsible for security and keeping the place warm, but when they left one day earlier than agreed, they turned the heating system off. The drill hall was, therefore, unheated for 24 hours – and during that time the big freeze struck.
I received a telephone call from the PSI on Christmas Eve telling me that all the radiators were smashed and that the place looked as if a bomb had dropped on it. I was fully aware that radiators had to be drained or switched off if left unattended and, if anyone was to blame, it was me.
It was not easy to find a plumber on Christmas Eve especially as hundreds of other houses and buildings had been similarly affected. Brigadier Claude Hurford, the TA Secretary, was livid when he realised how much it was going to cost to repair the damage and the CO wanted to know why I had disobeyed the rules.
We spent a miserable Christmas in a cold house with a gas stove that packed up half way through cooking the turkey (pipes frozen) and it was well into February of the following year before life returned to normal.
The Cambrian March had been going for a few years before I joined 5/WELCH but the 1962 competition was the first one I witnessed. All major units of 53 (Welsh) Division were expected to produce teams of ten TA soldiers, including one officer who would spend a week marching over some of the roughest terrain in Wales and being subjected to practising military skills such as river crossing, shooting, first aid and map reading The average distance covered was 20 miles a day for seven days starting on a Friday. Details of the route would remain secret except for the general location – south, mid or north Wales. ‘D’ Company at Merthyr took on the task of providing most of 5/WELCH’s team that trained every week end for three months before the event.
I arrived in time to see the teams set off on the 1962 race and so did a number of TA COs, Seconds-in-Command and Company Commanders. One of the teams was short of an officer when the race was due to start and the CO of that unit had to fill the place himself. It was a noble thing to do as he was not trained sufficiently for the gruelling task that lay ahead. I met the teams in every night and it was obvious that the replacement officer was not going to last the course. There was a marked absence of senior TA officers the following year as teams set off.
Training and taking part in the Cambrian March produced fine athletes and 5/WELCH did well in the 53rd (Welsh) Division cross country championships held in Lichfield in 1962 when they took fourth place.
When regimental bands no longer had a place in the orbat of regular infantry battalions, the two line infantry regiments of Wales, continued to display their unique Welsh flair through the TA Band of the Royal Welsh Regiment.
On 1st March 2006, the Royal Welch Fusiliers and the Royal Regiment of Wales amalgamated to form a new regiment - The Royal Welsh. New arrivals in the Regiment hardly notice the difference on occasions such as Rorke’s Drift Commemoration in Brecon Cathedral and Rugby matches in the Millennium Stadium when our own TA Regimental Band, Corps of Drums and Regimental Goat give all the presence and support that Welsh men and women have come to expect.
The loss of the old style Regimental Band is felt mainly in the ranks of the regular battalions. For generations the Band was the source of high morale on the march, on military parades, at leisure in barracks and on the sports field. These days, regular soldiers overseas have to be content with infrequent visits by one of the two regular bands based in Lichfield which support all units of the Prince of Wales’s Division of Infantry.
Many of our sister battalions in the British Army do not have the same tradition of music that we take for granted in Wales. When I served with 5/WELCH, our band was continually in the public eye at regimental functions or civic occasions. There were many civilian brass and silver bands throughout our recruiting area and no shortage of musicians. In fact it was considered a great honour to be a member of 5/WELCH Band. During the winter months I attended a number of competitions and 5/WELCH Band was always in the top flight.
The role of the Territorial Army is to provide home defence for the country and support for the regular army in time of need. No better examples can be seen than the hands-on support given by TA soldiers to their Regular colleagues on active service and the wonderful contribution of the band of the Royal Welsh Regiment which is as good, if not better, than anything we had in the old days.
A good example of being in the hub of the community was the Sunday evening concerts in Pontypridd Drill Hall. They were held under the patronage of HQ Company but an impresario, Ron Richards, arranged the concerts, booked the acts and ran the show himself. They were extremely popular among the local population and did wonders for the PRI account. These concerts were held at about the same time that Tom Jones, the singer, was making a name for himself. It just goes to show what talent existed in Pontypridd when Tom Jones was not asked to do a turn!
Another popular venue was the Warrant Officers’ and Sergeants’ Mess in Pontypridd which was open on Saturday and Sunday evenings for members and guests.
Lieut Col ‘Rusty’ Davies was dined out on 8th September 1962 and the officers of 5/WELCH made it an occasion he would never forget. During World War Two, ‘Rusty’ served with the 8th Battalion Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders and he often told us stories about certain fabulous characters with whom he had served. The PMC of the officers’ mess managed to locate four of his old friends, hidden away in the fastnesses of the Scottish highlands, and they were invited to attend ‘Rusty’s’ big night. Other guests were the Colonel of the Regiment - Lieutenant General Sir Charles Coleman, the Honorary Colonel - Major General Charles Hirsch and the Brigade Commander, Brigadier Carlton Griffin.
‘Rusty’ is a modest man and was surprised to be greeted by the Colonel of the Regiment when he arrived. The presence of the other two senior officers was also a surprise but when his four pals from Scotland greeted him one by one it was almost too much for him and we were quite concerned when he slumped into a chair and sat there, ashen faced, for a few seconds to recover. Even after the passage of 45 years, I can still remember that night when we said farewell to one of the finest officers I have ever known. He died aged 95 on 20th September 2011.
Command of 5/WELCH was given to Lieut Col William Mostyn Gibbs who was, like Col ‘Rusty’, a seasoned veteran of WW2. Bill Joined 1/WELCH in Egypt in July 1943 and during the invasion of Sicily had to swim for his life when the landing craft in which he was travelling was sunk. He went on to serve with 1/WELCH throughout the Italian campaign and returned from Trieste to UK for demob in 1946. He rejoined the family firm, Western Cork Co. Ltd., as managing director and in 1951 joined 5/WELCH as a company commander. He was promoted Colonel in 1965 when he was appointed Deputy Commander 160 Brigade and in 1969 was appointed Territorial Colonel (Wales). Bill Gibbs was not a man to be trifled with – he knew what he wanted and God help anyone who stood in his way. I felt the sharp lash of his tongue on a number of occasions but, like a summer storm, the dark clouds blew away and he was soon the efficient and considerate man I learnt to respect. He died on the 9th of May 1991.
I used to see Colonel Bill once or sometimes, twice a week, and was surprised, therefore, when he suddenly appeared in my office at about 3pm one Wednesday afternoon. He had had lunch with the General Officer Commanding Wales District in Brecon and I could see that something had upset him. Whilst he was supping port the General observed that 5/WELCH had not won a major sporting trophy for five years. “When are you going to do something about it?” he asked. To give 5/WELCH its due, we had won or come close to winning, many of the minor events, but soccer was the preserve of 4/WELCH and the 53rd Welsh Division Rugby Challenge Shield was usually captured by 6/WELCH. Colonel Bill looked me straight in the eye and said: “You have just over a year left to do something about it. I want to see 5/WELCH’s name on that shield before you leave.”
It was common knowledge that certain TA units enlisted ‘gladiators’ (sportsmen who did nothing other than play sport). It had been the policy of 5/WELCH to shun this sort of activity but when my confidential report depended on success or failure on the sports field, I decided it was time for a change.
One of the local rugby teams had recently returned from Berlin where they stayed with the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment during the course of a rugby tour. They were very impressed with the Regular Army way of life and were just the sort of people I wanted to make my plan work. I visited them one training night and told them how important it was for us to win the 53rd Welsh Div Rugby Shield. I explained that we needed a better fly-half, a full-back who could actually catch a ball if it came in his direction and a few spare forwards if we were to have any chance in the following year’s championship. They were worried about losing their amateur status, so I told them they did not have to accept their pay if they did not want it, and that seemed to satisfy them.
The following week, after receiving a call to say that my proposal had been accepted, the Orderly Room Quartermaster Sergeant, WO2 ‘Jonah’ Jones, and I went to the clubhouse and signed them up.
I am going to jump ahead to 24th February 1963 when we met 4/WELCH in the semi-final of the 53rd Div Rugby Championship. The result was a draw 8-8. We met again on 31st March and this time we beat 4/WELCH 16-8. The finals of the Championship were held at Maindy Barracks on Sunday 7th April 1963 between 5/WELCH and 6/WELCH.
At half time, 5/WELCH were trailing 8-0 and as the whistle blew my wife gave a yelp. “What’s the matter<” I asked. “It’s coming,” she replied. “What’s coming?” I said. “The baby,” she answered giving another yelp. We had already packed a suitcase for her to take to hospital but neither of us thought the birth of our second child was imminent. The priority was, of course, to cheer 5/WELCH through the second half to victory - which is what happened with a win of 11-8. Nesta was just as hoarse as me and both of us needed a glass of champagne before embarking on the next important event of the day. We left to another round of cheering and best wishes and then it was back to Pontypridd as fast as we could go. Nesta was admitted to Church Village Hospital near Pontypridd at about 6pm and our daughter, Gilly, was born three hours later. It was a good day.
I ran across my old batman, Marlow Offside, in Cardiff one day. We chatted about the times we spent together in 1/WELCH in Germany and Cyprus in the ‘50s and I asked him if he was still interested in boxing. He reeled off a number of recent successes which made clear he was well up in the amateur circuit, so I asked him if he would like to join 5/WELCH and be my batman again. He promptly agreed and a few days later he was back in harness.
I had two things in mind – one, the Territorial Army Boxing Championships to be held in White City in May 1963 and – two, a TA exercise to be held near Folkestone, with me as an umpire. As to the former, Offside started training immediately and, for the latter, I gave him a warning order to be prepared to accompany me to Kent for a week.
There had been a few outdoor occasions when we could have done with a caravan to accommodate guests, such as the Honorary Colonel. There was no question of the TA Association paying for one, so we decided to make one ourselves. We used an ordinary 3-ton load-carrying vehicle and fitted it out with a sofa and four comfy chairs, a bed, dining table and chairs, a chemical toilet and a calor gas stove. We had a carpet on the floor and a stove pipe sticking out through the roof.
The first time we used it was in the 1962 Cambrian March. There were a few wry looks from the General and his staff but when it was explained that the 3-tonner could revert to its usual role within half an hour, they seemed satisfied. I decided to use it for the exercise in Kent.
Offside and I travelled to Folkestone in a Land Rover with the ‘caravan’ following a hundred yards behind. In the back of the Land Rover we had a radio, enough compo rations to last us for a week and a bivouac tent for Offside and the 3-tonner driver. We arrived on Lapins Plain in time to set up camp and enjoy a meal provided by the directing staff.
The exercise started the following morning and we spent most of the day travelling about the countryside monitoring the movements of imaginary units and formations and reporting back to the DS by radio. That night we set up camp on the edge of a wood and Offside prepared a meal from compo packs on a No. 1 burner.
Other umpires, camped close by in bivouac tents, stared enviously at me in my luxurious ‘caravan’.
Early the next day, Offside announced he was off on a training run but would be back in good time to prepare breakfast. He returned less than an hour later with a bag of eggs, fresh bread and some home cured bacon. He told me he had spotted a farm the night before and had called in to find what was on offer. It cost him nothing and the three of us, including the driver, had a splendid breakfast to start the day.
Offside found a new farm every day and got all the fitness training he required. I did my umpiring work, attended O-Groups at Exercise HQ and let my staff look after me in the manner to which I had become accustomed.
Soon after we returned, Offside went off to White City and won the light welter weight championship of the Territorial Army for 5/WELCH.
Colonel Bill Gibbs was able to look the General straight in the eye after winning the Divisional Rugby Shield, taking one of the top trophies in the TA Boxing Championships and taking 4/WELCH to extra time in the Soccer Championship – only to lose by one goal.
Offside and I left the battalion at the same time in December 1963. I did not see him again for many years and during our time apart he divorced his wife, remarried, had children and was making a good living as a school caretaker and professional boxing trainer.
He came to see me at the Prince of Wales’s Depot, Crickhowell in 1976 with a wicker cage full of pigeons. He wanted to become a member of the Royal British Legion Pigeon Fanciers Club and asked me if I could give him a reference. I was pleased to do this and I watched him as went through the procedure of preparing his birds for their comparatively short flight back to Cardiff. I told him I was thinking about making a dovecot and erecting it in my front garden in Abergavenny. He offered to provide me with as many birds as I wanted and returned two weeks later with two breeding pairs. For the following 13 years, my dovecot and up to a dozen snowy white birds, was the focal point of interest for visitors and residents alike approaching Abergavenny from the east.
I saw him again on 12 September 1983 when he came to Abergavenny with one of the boxers in his stable who had just won the flyweight championship of Great Britain My father, a founder member of 11th (Cardiff ‘Pals’) Battalion Welch Regiment in WW1, and a devotee of the noble art, died two days after he met the pair and held the Lonsdale Belt in his hands.
I look back on my days with 5/WELCH with great pleasure. It was a shock to my system when I joined the battalion, but I soon got used to the ways of the TA and learnt that pride in oneself and one’s unit was the mark of a Volunteer. The experience I gained was most useful when I became Assistant Regimental Secretary of the Royal Regiment of Wales in 1980 and I like to think that my apprenticeship, all those years ago, made me a better person.
