Kipleli arap (son of) Kindurwa was my Kipsigis orderly throughout the time I was in Malaya, including the journey out from Mombasa on the troopship 'Dilwara' in 1951 and the journey back to Kenya in the same ship in 1953.
During the 12 months Battalion HQ of 3/KAR spent in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya, officers lived in a requisitioned hotel called the Nan Yang; Kipleli's first duty of the day was to bring me a cup of tea. The prelude to his entry into my bedroom was a thunderous kick at the base of the door followed by a crash as he slammed his jungle boots into the floor boards at the foot of my bed. If I was not awake already, he would shout: "Jambo, effendi."
He had been shrieking "Jambo, effendi" ever since he had joined the Army. Kiswahili was not his first language and I had the impression he considered it necessary to increase the volume whenever he spoke it.
I had been trying to teach him English, without much success, but I had one more try. "In future, Kipleli," I told him in Kiswahili, "I should like you to say 'Wotcha cock' when you bring me my cup of tea. The meaning of the words meant nothing to him, but he seemed to like the sound and he went around muttering: "Wotcha cock" as he prepared my uniform.
That evening the Colonel was sitting in the ante room having a cup of tea, when Kipleli came in with an armful of clean clothes. As he passed the CO, he swung his head left in salute and cried: "Wotcha cock." Colonel Joe Crewe-Read looked surprised and said: "Am I hearing correctly - did your orderly say 'Wotcha cock?'" I confirmed what he had heard and Kipleli gave him another 'WC', with a right twist of his neck, as he marched out two minutes later. For the next two or three days all the mess servants and batmen were greeting each other and the officers with 'Wotcha cocks' but then they got tired of it and reverted to what everyone preferred: "Jambo, effendi."
Abdulahi 52 was the only Somali servant we had in the Nan Yang Hotel. In just the same way that Welsh soldiers with surnames such as Jones, Evans, Davies and Williams were identified by use of the last two digits of their regimental numbers, so were those with names like Abdulahi, Mohammed and Hassan. It can now be said, after the passage of so many years, that Abdulahi 52 was not our most popular African servant. He had ideas above his station and was forever getting into trouble but, as so often happens with misfits, it is sometimes easier to keep them where you can see them.
Colonel Joe Crewe-Read was a man of strict habits before, during and after breakfast. He liked to read the latest copy of The Daily Telegraph when he ate his bacon and eggs and he would take the newspaper with him when he went to his tailor-made mahogany thunder box which sat like a large Easter egg in a wooden shed at the bottom of the garden.
I was checking bar stock in the kitchen one morning as the Colonel strolled down the path. I watched him as he opened the door of the shed and saw him stiffen when he was confronted by Abdulahi 52 squatting above the seat, Somali fashion, with his shorts around his ankles. The Colonel rolled up his Telegraph and beat him about the head until he pulled up his shorts and took cover behind some bushes.
That, you might think, was more than sufficient to have Abdulahi removed from the mess, but he stayed on and was even given the job of collecting ice from the Singapore Cold Storage Company and delivering the large blocks to all the messes and the main cookhouse.
The ice party was a two man team with Private Ngonga Ng'ii, the driver of a powerful Dodge 15 cwt truck, in charge. One day they stopped in a side street off the main road in Kuantan alongside the Cold Storage. Ngonga Ng'ii went inside to do the paper work leaving Abdulahi sitting in the passenger seat of the Dodge. Having nothing else to do, he moved into the driving seat and started the engine.
He had never driven a vehicle before, but he had watched Ngonga Ng'ii depress the clutch, shift the gears and step on the accelerator. Thinking that this was as good an opportunity as he would get, he went through the drill himself.
The Dodge shot out of the side street like a bullet with Abdulahi striving to control the vehicle. Sitting comatose on their saddles with their feet on the handle bars were the drivers of Kuantan's pedi-cab fleet waiting for fares from the super market. Abdulahi went through them like a pack of cards and ended up with the nose of the Dodge wedged into the wide swing doors of the shop. Thankfully, nobody was killed but the mountain of smashed bicycles was damning evidence against him when he was arraigned before the local magistrate a few days later.
Abdulahi was convicted on a civil charge of 'dangerous driving' and 'destruction of property'. He was found guilty and fined an enormous amount of money, by African standards, which he was still paying off when we left Kuantan in June 1953.
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Thursday, 12 June 2008
Monday, 9 June 2008
What Goes Up Must Come down
Helicopters were new tools in the fight against terrorism when the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles arrived in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya in 1952. Ours was a Sikorsky S51 which carried a pilot and four passengers. Lieut Col Joe Crewe-Read (SWB), the commanding officer used it to visit rifle companies and askaris' morale was raised when they knew that if they were injured or fell sick in deep jungle they could be lifted out within a few hours.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.
In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.
The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.
There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.
In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.
The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.
There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
The Man Behind the Medals: Brigadier R.P. Gottwaltz MC (late South Wales Borderers)
Philip Gottwaltz died on 3rd April 1980. Even though I did not become Assistant Regimental Secretary Royal Regiment of Wales (Brecon) and Curator of the South Wales Borderers Museum until September 1980, I was asked to attend Philip’s funeral in a small West Midland’s village near Halesowen.
Philip Gottwaltz was commissioned into The South Wales Borderers on 22nd September 1914 and joined the 7th Battalion in France. In October 1915 the 7th and 8th Battalions SWB along with the 1st and 11th Battalions The Welch Regiment moved to Salonica to confront the Bulgarian army encamped on high ground above Lake Doiran. There they stayed for the next three years doing little more than patrolling and building up their strength for the last great battle of World War One. In September 1918 7/SWB and 11/WELCH were given orders to capture Grand Couronne, the dominant feature which the enemy occupied to counter any allied advance into Bulgaria. The attack started just before midnight on the 17th September 1918 and by 08.00 hrs on the 19th the two battalions had ceased to exist as fighting units. Philip Gottwaltz fought bravely in the action and was awarded the Military Cross. In October 1918 he was given command of the 9th East Lancashire Regiment but was invalided home soon afterwards.
On the outbreak of World War Two, Philip was commanding the 2nd Battalion SWB and took them through the Norway Campaign. It was a disastrous muddle from the very beginning and the Allied High Command was subsequently criticised for inadequate planning. There was virtually no air cover and artillery support was limited to a single battery of 25-pounders. One night, Philip heard movement outside his hut and, on investigation, he ran across a patrol of six German ski-troops. They were sent packing when a sentry opened fire on them. On another occasion, a few days later, a Royal Navy destroyer came to the assistance of ‘D’ Company 2/SWB when they were in close combat with a much stronger German force. “Are all your patrols in?’ signalled the destroyer. “Affirmative,” signalled the company commander, and then all hell was let loose. The Jack-tars opened up a few yards from the shore and put-paid to the enemy. Colonel Philip and his men considered themselves fortunate to have a Navy man-o’-war in close support.
There was one other time that the Senior Service aided 2/SWB and that was when the battalion was ordered to proceed south of Ankenes to a place called Bodo to relieve a company of Scots Guards. They embarked aboard HMS Effingham for the 100 mile trip but after 15 hours the ship hit an uncharted rock and began to sink. There was no panic and soldiers of 2/SWB formed up on deck waiting to be rescued. A destroyer pulled alongside and soldiers were trans-shipped. Colonel Philip, following tradition, was the last Army member to leave the stricken ship that was eventually destroyed by gunfire
On the 29th May 1940, Colonel Philip was told that 2/SWB would be responsible for covering the evacuation of British land forces from that part of Norway. For three days 2/SWB held off the enemy and by the 5th June, having completed their task, 2/SWB embarked at Borkenes and made their way to a cruise-liner lying off-shore. Five days later, they landed at Greenock. In 1945 the French government created Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur and awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Palmes.
After the war, Philip succeeded Colonel Gwynne Thomas as Secretary of the SWB Regimental Association until 1960 when Major Geo Egerton took over as the first (and only) Regimental Secretary SWB. Thereafter, nothing much was heard of Philip Gottwaltz until he died in 1980 and his son made contact with RHQ RRW.
My mind may be a little hazy about Philip’s funeral in April 1980 (after all it was 27 years ago), but a few salient facts are imprinted on my memory.
Philip’s son and daughter–in-law (disguised as John and Jane respectively for the purpose of this story) lived in a small house sufficient for their needs but requiring some arrangement of furniture to accommodate an 89 year old retired brigadier, who happened to be John’s father. Quite by accident, the old man was discovered by his son living in an old people’s home only a stone’s throw away.
John told me about what he remembered of his father: “I must have been about five years of age when I saw him for the first time. He and my mother lived apart but I can clearly remember her taking me to meet him. It was a lovely day and we had a picnic on the Malvern Hills. Afterwards, I played by myself while my mother and father talked for a long time. I don’t know what they talked about but, looking back on it now, I suppose they were discussing a divorce. When, at last, they got up, he patted me on my head and gave me 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence – 12p in today’s money) and I didn’t see him again until 1979 when I discovered he was living in an old people’s home not far from where we live now. I told Jane about it and we both went around to see him. We found him in good health, if somewhat shaky on his legs, which was to be expected for a man of his age.
When we returned home, I asked Jane how she felt about him living with us. We have no children of our own and there was a spare bedroom - so, it was agreed and he moved in a few days later. I did National Service with the Royal Artillery and Jane spent a few years in the Women’s Royal Army Corps but neither of us could be described as ‘military’ people. My father was quite the opposite and everything from his immaculate suit and regimental tie to his highly polished shoes and erect carriage spelt ‘ARMY’. He always took us by surprise when he came downstairs in the morning. He would suddenly appear and rasp out a greeting as if he was on the barrack square. Both Jane and I would leap to our feet, stand stiffly to attention and bark a reply. Afterwards, we would laugh about the effect he had on us.
His daily routine would always involve a trip to the off-licence where he established a good rapport with the manager. He is going to bemoan the passing of my father more than anyone else as he was a very good customer,” said John.
I asked John what he did for a living. “I move things around,” he said. “What sort of things.” I asked. “Anything from furniture to farm produce,`’ he replied. “I’ve got a van that I park around the back and, providing it’s not too dirty, I’ll shift anything.”
I asked him how he got on with his father after being so long apart: “Very well,” he answered, “We discovered a closeness that neither of us knew existed. Jane and I are going to miss him now that he’s gone.”
Before I left for home in Crickhowell, John told me that he would like to present his father’s medals to the SWB Museum in Brecon. I still had another five months to go before I was appointed Curator, but I gladly accepted them and delivered them to Major Geo Egerton the following day.
After 13 years as Curator of the SWB Museum and an on-going interest to my dying day, I suppose I have more knowledge than most about the ‘Men Behind The Medals’. Those of Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz were my first acquisition and they retain a special place in my affection.
Philip Gottwaltz was commissioned into The South Wales Borderers on 22nd September 1914 and joined the 7th Battalion in France. In October 1915 the 7th and 8th Battalions SWB along with the 1st and 11th Battalions The Welch Regiment moved to Salonica to confront the Bulgarian army encamped on high ground above Lake Doiran. There they stayed for the next three years doing little more than patrolling and building up their strength for the last great battle of World War One. In September 1918 7/SWB and 11/WELCH were given orders to capture Grand Couronne, the dominant feature which the enemy occupied to counter any allied advance into Bulgaria. The attack started just before midnight on the 17th September 1918 and by 08.00 hrs on the 19th the two battalions had ceased to exist as fighting units. Philip Gottwaltz fought bravely in the action and was awarded the Military Cross. In October 1918 he was given command of the 9th East Lancashire Regiment but was invalided home soon afterwards.
On the outbreak of World War Two, Philip was commanding the 2nd Battalion SWB and took them through the Norway Campaign. It was a disastrous muddle from the very beginning and the Allied High Command was subsequently criticised for inadequate planning. There was virtually no air cover and artillery support was limited to a single battery of 25-pounders. One night, Philip heard movement outside his hut and, on investigation, he ran across a patrol of six German ski-troops. They were sent packing when a sentry opened fire on them. On another occasion, a few days later, a Royal Navy destroyer came to the assistance of ‘D’ Company 2/SWB when they were in close combat with a much stronger German force. “Are all your patrols in?’ signalled the destroyer. “Affirmative,” signalled the company commander, and then all hell was let loose. The Jack-tars opened up a few yards from the shore and put-paid to the enemy. Colonel Philip and his men considered themselves fortunate to have a Navy man-o’-war in close support.
There was one other time that the Senior Service aided 2/SWB and that was when the battalion was ordered to proceed south of Ankenes to a place called Bodo to relieve a company of Scots Guards. They embarked aboard HMS Effingham for the 100 mile trip but after 15 hours the ship hit an uncharted rock and began to sink. There was no panic and soldiers of 2/SWB formed up on deck waiting to be rescued. A destroyer pulled alongside and soldiers were trans-shipped. Colonel Philip, following tradition, was the last Army member to leave the stricken ship that was eventually destroyed by gunfire
On the 29th May 1940, Colonel Philip was told that 2/SWB would be responsible for covering the evacuation of British land forces from that part of Norway. For three days 2/SWB held off the enemy and by the 5th June, having completed their task, 2/SWB embarked at Borkenes and made their way to a cruise-liner lying off-shore. Five days later, they landed at Greenock. In 1945 the French government created Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur and awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Palmes.
After the war, Philip succeeded Colonel Gwynne Thomas as Secretary of the SWB Regimental Association until 1960 when Major Geo Egerton took over as the first (and only) Regimental Secretary SWB. Thereafter, nothing much was heard of Philip Gottwaltz until he died in 1980 and his son made contact with RHQ RRW.
My mind may be a little hazy about Philip’s funeral in April 1980 (after all it was 27 years ago), but a few salient facts are imprinted on my memory.
Philip’s son and daughter–in-law (disguised as John and Jane respectively for the purpose of this story) lived in a small house sufficient for their needs but requiring some arrangement of furniture to accommodate an 89 year old retired brigadier, who happened to be John’s father. Quite by accident, the old man was discovered by his son living in an old people’s home only a stone’s throw away.
John told me about what he remembered of his father: “I must have been about five years of age when I saw him for the first time. He and my mother lived apart but I can clearly remember her taking me to meet him. It was a lovely day and we had a picnic on the Malvern Hills. Afterwards, I played by myself while my mother and father talked for a long time. I don’t know what they talked about but, looking back on it now, I suppose they were discussing a divorce. When, at last, they got up, he patted me on my head and gave me 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence – 12p in today’s money) and I didn’t see him again until 1979 when I discovered he was living in an old people’s home not far from where we live now. I told Jane about it and we both went around to see him. We found him in good health, if somewhat shaky on his legs, which was to be expected for a man of his age.
When we returned home, I asked Jane how she felt about him living with us. We have no children of our own and there was a spare bedroom - so, it was agreed and he moved in a few days later. I did National Service with the Royal Artillery and Jane spent a few years in the Women’s Royal Army Corps but neither of us could be described as ‘military’ people. My father was quite the opposite and everything from his immaculate suit and regimental tie to his highly polished shoes and erect carriage spelt ‘ARMY’. He always took us by surprise when he came downstairs in the morning. He would suddenly appear and rasp out a greeting as if he was on the barrack square. Both Jane and I would leap to our feet, stand stiffly to attention and bark a reply. Afterwards, we would laugh about the effect he had on us.
His daily routine would always involve a trip to the off-licence where he established a good rapport with the manager. He is going to bemoan the passing of my father more than anyone else as he was a very good customer,” said John.
I asked John what he did for a living. “I move things around,” he said. “What sort of things.” I asked. “Anything from furniture to farm produce,`’ he replied. “I’ve got a van that I park around the back and, providing it’s not too dirty, I’ll shift anything.”
I asked him how he got on with his father after being so long apart: “Very well,” he answered, “We discovered a closeness that neither of us knew existed. Jane and I are going to miss him now that he’s gone.”
Before I left for home in Crickhowell, John told me that he would like to present his father’s medals to the SWB Museum in Brecon. I still had another five months to go before I was appointed Curator, but I gladly accepted them and delivered them to Major Geo Egerton the following day.
After 13 years as Curator of the SWB Museum and an on-going interest to my dying day, I suppose I have more knowledge than most about the ‘Men Behind The Medals’. Those of Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz were my first acquisition and they retain a special place in my affection.
What Happened To.....?
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!!"
Our job was to receive recruits straight from basic training in Maindy Barracks, Cardiff and turn them into trained soldiers. We were still in the days of national service which for many was the greatest violation of personal liberty ever practised. Others found it the most rewarding experience of their lives. The problem with the system was a never ending influx and exodus of soldiers - hence the need for Zulu Company.
I was chatting with an old friend recently about those days in Cyprus so many years ago when he said: "Do you remember Kinell-Jones?" I did a mental check of all the young officers but that young man with a posh name did not register. He then told me a story which reawakened memories long since put on hold.
During the third week of a four week course we ran for one of the drafts from Wales, I decided the time was right to give them some practical experience of searching a Greek Cypriot village at night. The company sergeant major assembled the draft under a convenient carob tree and I began to outline my plans for the operation.
"Tonight, men, we are going to search the village of Flamoudi (a small habitation of a few hundred souls about five miles west of battalion headquarters)." A young soldier sitting in the front row let out an expletive: "F....ng hell!" I looked at him disapprovingly, but as he had shown great interest in everything he had been taught during the first half of the course, I put his outburst down to enthusiasm. "We’ll leave here at 20.00hrs in musketry order, fully camouflaged. You will carry your rifles with one up the spout and safety catch on." "F....ng hell!" was the response from the eager young lad in the front row and another disapproving look from me. "I want you to remember all you have been taught about silent movement and how to recognise shapes in the dark - there may well be EOKA terrorists about." "F....ng hell," said the young man who had only two words to say when his adrenaline flowed. There were more identical expletives throughout the briefing, but I let him carry on when he felt the urge.
A few days later, Offside told me that Kinell-Jones had nearly shot the locally employed Greek Cypriot officers' mess cook when we stormed a taverna in Flamoudi. It took me a second or two before I realised that 'Kinell'-Jones, as he had become known, was the keen young soldier in the front row at my briefing. If you are still bewildered, put the letters F U C in front of the K in the first part of his name.
What I had not told the draft was that Flamoudi was just about the safest Greek Cypriot village on the island. Practically all the locally employed civilians in our camp lived there and it was understandable that the officers' mess cook should throw his arms around my neck and tell the barman to give me a beer when we stormed in. Nikos wanted to 'make a night of it' and introduce me to all his friends, but I remained aloof and told the company sergeant major to get the recruits out as fast as he could. Not all the inhabitants of Flamoudi were as pro-British as the regulars in the taverna and word must have got out that security forces were in the village. There was not a soul about when we emerged from the hostelry.
I led the way on a tour of the village using shadows and convenient objects to make ourselves invisible. Whenever a dog barked, we stopped, changed route - if possible, and moved on when it was provident to do so. We had proceeded in this fashion for a few hundred yards when I saw a wooden gate in a stone wall surrounding a house. Before me lay a garden with bushes on all sides and at the far end was a house with a patio upon which sat an old lady engaged in, what looked like, embroidery. This was just the sort of opportunity I had been looking for, so I signaled the men to close up and whispered to them what I was about to do.
"You see that old lady over there? Well, she doesn't know we are here. I'm going to creep through those bushes making use of available cover. I aim to get to the patio without her hearing or seeing a thing."
I climbed over the wall and slowly made my way towards the old lady. I looked back a few times and could just see the others who had managed to find places from which to observe. The old lady was quite unaware of what was going on until I suddenly revealed myself on the patio a few feet away from her.
"Kali nikta," (Good evening) I said cheerfully to put her at her ease. This did not have the desired effect and she screamed louder than an air-raid siren. I tried to calm her by putting my hand on her shoulder, but she screamed all the more.
I had not noticed a 12 or 13 year old girl asleep on a mattress in a corner of the patio, but the youngster's reaction was swift. She picked up a sweeping broom made of twigs bound to a pole and brought it down on my head like a ton of bricks. Despite the commotion made by the two females on the patio, I heard another cry from the bottom of the garden: "F....ng hell!!"
Water Skiing by Numbers
In addition to the two battalions of Malaysia Rangers, there was also a small 'group' headquarters run by a British Colonel assisted by a Major and a clerk. Colonel Wellstead was a 'Sapper' (Royal Engineer) before he received his red tabs; he had an extremely loud voice and his nick-name - 'Boomer', was most appropriate.
'Boomer' Wellstead was the perfect choice for the job of Malaysia Ranger Group Colonel. He was the epitome of efficiency and everything he did was planned to the finest detail. He and his wife ran excellent parties, but while the rest of us were content to provide our guests with just good food and wine, Boomer's parties included all sorts of party games which left everyone exhausted in mind and body.
Ipoh, the capital of the state of Perak, has the reputation for being the hottest place in Malaya. When not engaged in jungle training, it was customary to work from 7am to 1pm and then take a siesta until 4.30pm, when games would be played. 'Siesta' was a word that did not exist in the Colonel's vocabulary; while others were getting their heads down, he was off rock climbing or hacking his way through jungle in pursuit of fauna, if he could find someone to accompany him.
Ipoh Swimming Club was well attended at week ends and was the favourite meeting place on Sunday mornings. When Boomer and his family arrived (he had an elegant wife and three charming teenage daughters), it was apparent that his passion for precision had brushed off on his family. When they had changed into their swim suits, they would assemble at the deep end where Boomer would give the command for their formation swimming routine to begin. He would be the first to dive in followed by his wife and then his daughters in order of seniority. The exhibition they gave was reminiscent of the days of Esther Williams and her nymphets in the great films of the 1940's. While the Wellstead family were in the pool, it was unthinkable for anyone else to cool off. Even when they had exited like five well disciplined penguins, it made the rest of us feel so inadequate that a quiet dip seemed pathetic in comparison.
It was not long before Boomer added water skiing to his list of family (and friends’) activities. He kitted out his family with water skis and arranged to have a motor boat available at a place called Lumut on the west coast about 45 miles away. We didn't see the Wellstead family at the Swimming Club for a few weeks as they were busy honing their skills with their new sport.
Boomer liked to do everything according to the rules but was unable to find any for water skiing, so he set about writing a pamphlet. He was proud of the fact that he was the first person to create a set of rules about the sport and he kept it in his office for anyone who was interested to flick through the pages.
Captain John Williams of the 1st Battalion had cause to visit the Colonel's office one day and saw the pamphlet on the table. "How interesting, sir," he said. "I didn't know that a pamphlet on water skiing existed." Boomer smiled at the young officer and replied: "You are looking at the only one in existence - I wrote it!" John was not a keen water skier, in fact water skiing was practically unknown in 1965, but it paid to keep in with the Colonel and John showed more interest in the pamphlet than he would have done if someone else had written it.
"Do you think I could borrow it, sir?" he asked. Photo copying, like water skiing, was in its infancy and Boomer was reluctant to let his one and only pamphlet out of his hands. But John's interest in the document impressed him so much that he allowed him to take it away. "Make sure you take care of it," said Boomer, "and bring it back on Monday morning."
John put the document in his brief case and took it home. That night he put it on his bedside table so that he could read it if he woke up early on the Sunday morning. When he did open his eyes, he found that his wife had gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and to let the dog out - it being the servant's day off. He reached for the pamphlet, but as he could not find it, he turned over and went back to sleep, but only for about ten minutes before waking up again to the slobbering caress of an exuberant Labrador puppy he had recently acquired.
John, still half asleep, was roused to full wakefulness when his wife came back, bearing a cup of tea, and exclaimed: "Oh, what a mess, look what the dog's done." John sat up, followed her gaze and saw a mass of chewed up paper covering the bedroom floor. He and his wife did not go to the Swimming Club that day just in case the Wellsteads were there.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, John had to confess to Boomer that his pamphlet no longer existed. The Colonel's reaction was just as volatile as John had predicted and he expected to be told to pack his bags. But Boomer's bark was worse than his bite and his clerk was soon at work making a new copy from the hand-written manuscript.
The Wellsteads were a very kind and sociable family and once you got used to Boomer's passion for organising everything, it was fun to be in his company. Once he and his family had mastered the techniques of water skiing, Boomer set about instructing officers and their wives in the sport. Some welcomed the invitation to spend a morning of water skiing at Lumut, while others were not so keen - particularly one officer and his wife who had a horror of sea snakes and jelly fish. When they eventually received their invitation, they thought hard about how they could refuse without being rude. There was no way out so, with much trepidation, they set off the following Sunday for the west coast.
A total of three families had been invited for this session and, as each party arrived at the jetty, they were ferried to a boat anchored two hundred yards away to wait their turn. One officer from 1st Rangers was already being towed at speed behind the motor boat in which Boomer was at the helm conducting operations. After about ten minutes of faultless skiing, the officer let go of the tow and halted effortlessly beside the boat carrying the remainder of the party.
Boomer drew alongside and nominated the fellow who had just arrived to prepare himself. He, by design or lack of aptitude, could not even manage to get his skis on the service. When it became apparent he was a non-starter, his reluctant wife was ordered to get into the water and put her skis on. To everyone's amazement, she was able to get moving on the first tow and within a few seconds was skimming over the surface at top speed in the crouch position. Everything seemed to be going well until she parted company with the tow-rope. There was a huge splash with arms, legs and skis flailing the water. Boomer was alongside her in a few seconds, but despite his encouragement and congratulations on a promising start, he could not persuade her to have another go. She was brought back to the 'waiting details' boat and sat quietly with her husband until it was time to go ashore for the picnic. Even then she was quiet and as soon as the couple could make their excuses, they got into their car and went back to Ipoh.
Had the unfortunate lady been in possession of a copy of Boomer's pamphlet, she would have known what to do when she became 'sea-borne'. The pamphlet stated: "The crouch position should not be held for more than a few seconds once the skis are skimming over the surface, then you should stand upright. Failure to do so, as far as females are concerned, is to run the danger of receiving a high pressure enema of sea water." Boomer completed the paragraph with: 'Males do not have the same problem as they are equipped with a built-in baffle plate.'
'Boomer' Wellstead was the perfect choice for the job of Malaysia Ranger Group Colonel. He was the epitome of efficiency and everything he did was planned to the finest detail. He and his wife ran excellent parties, but while the rest of us were content to provide our guests with just good food and wine, Boomer's parties included all sorts of party games which left everyone exhausted in mind and body.
Ipoh, the capital of the state of Perak, has the reputation for being the hottest place in Malaya. When not engaged in jungle training, it was customary to work from 7am to 1pm and then take a siesta until 4.30pm, when games would be played. 'Siesta' was a word that did not exist in the Colonel's vocabulary; while others were getting their heads down, he was off rock climbing or hacking his way through jungle in pursuit of fauna, if he could find someone to accompany him.
Ipoh Swimming Club was well attended at week ends and was the favourite meeting place on Sunday mornings. When Boomer and his family arrived (he had an elegant wife and three charming teenage daughters), it was apparent that his passion for precision had brushed off on his family. When they had changed into their swim suits, they would assemble at the deep end where Boomer would give the command for their formation swimming routine to begin. He would be the first to dive in followed by his wife and then his daughters in order of seniority. The exhibition they gave was reminiscent of the days of Esther Williams and her nymphets in the great films of the 1940's. While the Wellstead family were in the pool, it was unthinkable for anyone else to cool off. Even when they had exited like five well disciplined penguins, it made the rest of us feel so inadequate that a quiet dip seemed pathetic in comparison.
It was not long before Boomer added water skiing to his list of family (and friends’) activities. He kitted out his family with water skis and arranged to have a motor boat available at a place called Lumut on the west coast about 45 miles away. We didn't see the Wellstead family at the Swimming Club for a few weeks as they were busy honing their skills with their new sport.
Boomer liked to do everything according to the rules but was unable to find any for water skiing, so he set about writing a pamphlet. He was proud of the fact that he was the first person to create a set of rules about the sport and he kept it in his office for anyone who was interested to flick through the pages.
Captain John Williams of the 1st Battalion had cause to visit the Colonel's office one day and saw the pamphlet on the table. "How interesting, sir," he said. "I didn't know that a pamphlet on water skiing existed." Boomer smiled at the young officer and replied: "You are looking at the only one in existence - I wrote it!" John was not a keen water skier, in fact water skiing was practically unknown in 1965, but it paid to keep in with the Colonel and John showed more interest in the pamphlet than he would have done if someone else had written it.
"Do you think I could borrow it, sir?" he asked. Photo copying, like water skiing, was in its infancy and Boomer was reluctant to let his one and only pamphlet out of his hands. But John's interest in the document impressed him so much that he allowed him to take it away. "Make sure you take care of it," said Boomer, "and bring it back on Monday morning."
John put the document in his brief case and took it home. That night he put it on his bedside table so that he could read it if he woke up early on the Sunday morning. When he did open his eyes, he found that his wife had gone to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and to let the dog out - it being the servant's day off. He reached for the pamphlet, but as he could not find it, he turned over and went back to sleep, but only for about ten minutes before waking up again to the slobbering caress of an exuberant Labrador puppy he had recently acquired.
John, still half asleep, was roused to full wakefulness when his wife came back, bearing a cup of tea, and exclaimed: "Oh, what a mess, look what the dog's done." John sat up, followed her gaze and saw a mass of chewed up paper covering the bedroom floor. He and his wife did not go to the Swimming Club that day just in case the Wellsteads were there.
The following morning, after a sleepless night, John had to confess to Boomer that his pamphlet no longer existed. The Colonel's reaction was just as volatile as John had predicted and he expected to be told to pack his bags. But Boomer's bark was worse than his bite and his clerk was soon at work making a new copy from the hand-written manuscript.
The Wellsteads were a very kind and sociable family and once you got used to Boomer's passion for organising everything, it was fun to be in his company. Once he and his family had mastered the techniques of water skiing, Boomer set about instructing officers and their wives in the sport. Some welcomed the invitation to spend a morning of water skiing at Lumut, while others were not so keen - particularly one officer and his wife who had a horror of sea snakes and jelly fish. When they eventually received their invitation, they thought hard about how they could refuse without being rude. There was no way out so, with much trepidation, they set off the following Sunday for the west coast.
A total of three families had been invited for this session and, as each party arrived at the jetty, they were ferried to a boat anchored two hundred yards away to wait their turn. One officer from 1st Rangers was already being towed at speed behind the motor boat in which Boomer was at the helm conducting operations. After about ten minutes of faultless skiing, the officer let go of the tow and halted effortlessly beside the boat carrying the remainder of the party.
Boomer drew alongside and nominated the fellow who had just arrived to prepare himself. He, by design or lack of aptitude, could not even manage to get his skis on the service. When it became apparent he was a non-starter, his reluctant wife was ordered to get into the water and put her skis on. To everyone's amazement, she was able to get moving on the first tow and within a few seconds was skimming over the surface at top speed in the crouch position. Everything seemed to be going well until she parted company with the tow-rope. There was a huge splash with arms, legs and skis flailing the water. Boomer was alongside her in a few seconds, but despite his encouragement and congratulations on a promising start, he could not persuade her to have another go. She was brought back to the 'waiting details' boat and sat quietly with her husband until it was time to go ashore for the picnic. Even then she was quiet and as soon as the couple could make their excuses, they got into their car and went back to Ipoh.
Had the unfortunate lady been in possession of a copy of Boomer's pamphlet, she would have known what to do when she became 'sea-borne'. The pamphlet stated: "The crouch position should not be held for more than a few seconds once the skis are skimming over the surface, then you should stand upright. Failure to do so, as far as females are concerned, is to run the danger of receiving a high pressure enema of sea water." Boomer completed the paragraph with: 'Males do not have the same problem as they are equipped with a built-in baffle plate.'
Watch Out! - Seagull's About
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."
'A seagull (code name for adjutant) is a bird that seeks the company of others of its kind, but it is quite likely to attack them with its beak or flail them with its wings. It is always in immaculate condition despite the grotty areas it inhabits. Its rasping cries are heard first thing in the morning, throughout the day and well into the night. Its eyesight and hearing are pin-sharp and it is aware of everything that goes on around it’. Possessed of an ability to propel its waste matter with unerring accuracy at a recipient of its choice, the code name 'seagull' is, without doubt, most appropriate for adjutants world wide.
When I was a young officer, I could never understand why adjutants changed their personalities when they were appointed to that particular office. Before their appointment they were nice ordinary fellows, and they reverted to their natural state when they moved on or sideways. It was the bit in the middle, when they became so bloodthirsty, that intrigued me.
As an officer cadet, I was led to believe that on being commissioned into an infantry regiment I would be joining a good club. What a rude awakening I received when, as a newly pipped second lieutenant, I was gripped hard not only by the adjutant of my unit, but the senior subaltern and the regimental sergeant major as well.
The first time I felt the sharp prick of the adjutant's fangs was when he came into the local hostelry one evening and saw me standing at the bar with one button of my service dress undone. He said nothing at the time but I had to take his word for it when I appeared before him the following morning. Civilians must think that we soldiers are a strange lot when an unfastened button can cause such a head of steam! For that offence I was awarded three extra orderly officer duties.
The award of 'three extras' was the cue for some hearty back-slapping from one's contemporaries who would be delighted to hear that someone else would be inspecting meals, mounting the guard and checking that sentries were doing their job properly in the early hours of the morning. I have known some officers, totally lacking in charm, suddenly become the most popular fellows in the mess after an award of 'seven extras'.
Eighteen months of pounding barrack squares as a private soldier and an officer cadet had obviously not brought me and the other young subalterns up to the standard required by the adjutant at Dering Lines, Brecon in 1946. We were therefore ordered to parade before that particular 'seagull' and the RSM twice a week at 07.30 hrs until further notice.
We had already received some instruction at OCTU (officer cadet training unit) in the difficult movements associated with carrying a cane on parade, but we did not measure up to seagull's requirement and were told to bring our canes with us on the next parade.
One of our number was a subaltern called Rex Farrow. Rex found it hard to get out of bed in the morning and was never properly effective until after his mid morning break. Someone always had to make sure he was on his feet with a towel in one hand and a bar of soap and a razor in the other.
Rex had been seen in the dining room but when the time came for us to assemble on the side of the square, there was no sign of him. It was too far for one of us to run back to the mess and, anyway, time was up as the adjutant and the RSM were nodding their heads as they checked their watches. With only seconds to spare, Rex came panting around the corner: "Got held up in the bog," he said as he joined us. His relief at making it on time vanished when he saw that the rest of us were carrying canes. He was almost on the point of volunteering for 'seven extras' when one of the subalterns spied a length of hollow copper pipe which some workmen had been using. He thrust it into Rex's hand and said: "Use this, it's about the same length as your cane - but for God's sake don't drop it."
Almost immediately, we were called on parade and the complicated business of twiddling our canes commenced. It was only a matter of time before someone dropped his appendage and that person turned out to be Rex Farrow. It was during that particularly difficult manoeuvre when the cane, in the perpendicular position, is brought to the horizontal when you step off. The piece of copper pipe shot out of his hand like a spear and then clattered about twenty feet across the barrack square. The adjutant screamed a command to halt and both he and the RSM marched across to where the strange object lay. The RSM prodded it with his pace stick, and it clanged again. It was not hard for the adjutant to find out what it was and where it had come from. Rex was twitching his thumbs nervously as the adjutant asked him for an explanation. He tried to explain he had left his cane in the 'bog', but this did him no good and he was thereupon awarded 'seven extras' for being idle and disrespectful.
The parade ground adjacent to South Barracks in Khartoum must be the largest in the world. With your back to the perimeter wall it extends from the Blue Nile north, east and west for hundreds of miles. The surface was crunchy gravel and all that was required to give the surface a 'Horse Guards' look was the application of whitewash lines and some spots for the markers. Twice a month Regimental Sergeant Major 'Joe' Friend would hold his parade for everyone of and under the rank of warrant officer class two. There would also be an adjutant's parade for everyone junior to the adjutant and, to complete the trio, the commanding officer would hold his parade, when everyone in the battalion was required to turn out.
These parades started just after first light and one of my enduring memories of Khartoum is the early morning sun glinting on the bayonets of hundreds of Welsh soldiers formed up in open order of companies. Parades started at such an early hour to make use of what remained of the cool night breeze; once the sun came up it was like opening an oven door.
With the sun came flies. These obnoxious insects, not to be confused with their comparatively friendly North European cousins, were early risers. Anyone unfortunate enough to cut themselves shaving before going on parade, and then forced to stand immobile during the inspection, would be subjected to a mind cracking form of torture as the little monsters would pile in like a rugby scrum on the area of skinned flesh.
An enormous amount of effort was expended by soldiers the night before to make sure their turn-out was perfect. Fortunately, the officers had batmen to prepare their kit; all they had to do was ensure they put their puttees on properly.
Half an hour after we had fallen out from the adjutant's first parade in Khartoum, the orderly room runner came to my office and told me that the adjutant wanted to see me. This sounded ominous and I wondered what had gone wrong as I made my way to his office. I knocked on his door and heard his call to enter. Four full paces, halt and a smart salute brought me face to face with him. "Why were you improperly dressed on my parade this morning?" he barked. I did a mental check of everything I was wearing and could find nothing wrong. "I'm sorry, sir," I replied. "I do not understand." Seagull paused for a second or two and then said: "You were not wearing your medal." I looked at him incredulously and spluttered: " But I've only got one." "That's correct," he replied, "and you were not wearing it." I was one of those young conscripts who joined the Army in December 1944 - five months before the end of the war in Europe; the 'Victory' medal I was awarded occupied a fluffy corner of my kit bag. Many members of the battalion had been in the thick of action and this was evident on occasions such as adjutant's parades when the desert groaned under the weight of medals won in service to king and country. "I can't wear just one, sir," I protested, but it was no good. "If you appear improperly dressed on one of my parades again, you'll get five extra orderly officer duties," snapped seagull. "This time you are awarded three 'extras'. Now, get out."
The five 'extras' were not long in coming, but I received them for a quite unrelated incident. The second-in-command, Major 'Ski' Galletley, had spent the last two years of the war as a brigadier. He was the most be-medalled person in the battalion and the junior officers had the impression he had won the war single handed. He was a fiery gentleman and we all treated him with respect.
It was, therefore, with dismay that I received a note from the adjutant ordering me, as a member of an audit board, to report to the second-in-command at the sergeants' mess the following Monday morning at 08.00hrs to check the bar stock. One advantage about being signals officer was that I had my own transport in the form of two motor cycles. I did not make my move to the sergeants' mess until 07.50, which allowed me plenty of time to get to the other end of the barracks. I straddled one of the machines, slipped the gears into neutral, primed the carburettor and lunged at the kick start. There was no response from the engine at the first attempt, nor was there from the next half dozen. Fortunately, the other machine was nearby so I went through the same procedure, but to no avail. Both machines made it quite clear they were not prepared to carry me to the sergeants' mess. I looked at my watch and saw I had about six minutes to get to the other end of the barracks. Salvation came in the form of one of my signallers on a bicycle. Without bothering to explain, I requisitioned his machine and pedaled for my life. I skidded into some spiky bushes outside the entrance to the sergeants' mess and hurled myself through the door. Standing beneath the clock above the bar was the second-in-command. "Where the hell have you been?" he thundered. "You're five minutes late." Sure enough the clock above the bar registered five minutes past eight o'clock, but I sneaked a look at my own watch and saw that the time was exactly 08.00hrs. I was not brave enough to point out the discrepancy between the two timepieces, even though I was the officer responsible for keeping accurate time in the battalion. I merely muttered: "I'm sorry, sir," before I started to count the bottles and cans which had been put out for me to check.
An hour later, I picked up the bicycle, straightened the handle bars and rode back to my office. Just to be on the safe side, I checked the correct time with the main signals exchange in Khartoum. There was no doubt about it, my watch showed the correct time.
I was pretty sure the second-in-command would put in a report about my 'late arrival' and I was not surprised when I received a call from the orderly room to report to the adjutant. This time I walked with a spring in my step to battalion headquarters and confidently saluted the adjutant when I appeared before him. "Why were you five minutes late reporting to the second-in-command this morning?" he said. "I wish to say that I was not late, sir. If you would care to check with the telephone exchange you will find that the sergeants' mess clock is five minutes fast," I replied. This was my trump card and I reckoned it would not be long before the second-in-command would tender his apologies. Perhaps he would buy me a drink in the mess and say: "Really, old chap - no hard feelings." The adjutant continued to stare at me and I began to feel uneasy. Suddenly he exploded: "I know that the clock in the sergeants' mess is five minutes fast. You should have been there five minutes early - at 07.55. I ask you once again, why were you late?" There was no answer to that, so I said nothing. "Five extra orderly officer duties," said the predatory bird.
This episode did not seem to have any long term effect upon the good relations I had among the higher echelons of command because a few weeks later the commanding officer asked me if I would like go on attachment to the Equatoria Corps of the Sudan Defence Force. It seemed that an officer of the regiment commanded the corps in the Southern Sudan and he had made an offer to host four subalterns. Mike Hughes-Morgan was my companion and we were told to prepare ourselves for a flight to Juba in seven days time.
The day before Mike and I departed, I went for a drink in the Grand Hotel in Khartoum and there met a fellow with whom I had a few cold beers. In those days the 'Grand' was one of the great meeting places in Africa. Empire flying boats of British Overseas Airways Corporation would land conveniently at 'sundowner' time on the White Nile and picturesque paddle-wheel steamers from Atbara would off-load their passengers just a few yards from the entrance to the hotel. The ghosts of General Gordon and the Mahdi seemed to stalk the tree-lined avenues and one could imagine the sight and sounds of distant battle. Looking over the water where the Blue and White Niles meet, I told my companion about the trip I was making on the morrow to the south. "What's it all about and why are they sending you all the way down there?" he asked "It's a 'swan' really," I replied, "and a good opportunity to get away from the heat of this place for a while." We chatted for some time and had a few more drinks before I caught a cab back to South Barracks.
Mike and I made an early start the next day and before the sun was high in the sky we were winging our way south in a de Havilland 'Dove' of Sudan Airways. This is not the time to describe all the fascinating experiences we had in that beautiful part of Africa which lies between the upper reaches of the White Nile, Lake Turkana in North Kenya and the southern foothills of the Ethiopian highlands. It was a big milestone in my life which eventually led me to join the King's African Rifles.
Time passed all too quickly and soon we were on our way back to Khartoum. Arriving at the airport, we were met by the orderly officer who gleefully told me that the adjutant wanted to see me as soon as I arrived in barracks. "What's gone wrong?" I asked him. "I don't know, but he looked angrier than usual."
I went to my quarters, had a shower and put on some clean khaki drill before reporting to the adjutant. Pleasantries about the trip were soon completed and then he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a newspaper. "What have you got to say about this?" he said, holding up the broadsheet for me to read. I could see it was a copy of the Sudan's only English language newspaper - 'The Sudan Star' whose front page was emblazoned with the headline: 'SOUTH WALES BORDERERS OFFICER GOES ON A SWAN TO THE SOUTHERN SUDAN'. The article described, with emphasis on 'relaxation', how I viewed the prospect of a safari around Equatoria. It appeared that the Kaid (commander-in-chief) choked on his corn flakes when he read the story and my own commanding officer was pretty angry as well. All this displeasure about me giving 'off the cuff' interviews with the press filtered through to the adjutant. I was given three 'extra orderly officer duties' for 'giving military information to a person not authorised to receive it'. This was a chastening experience which stayed with me for a long time. It was not until sixteen years later when I became a member of the staff of Army Public Relations that I found the courage to speak freely with the press again.
Khartoum was a very hot place during the summer months and most British expatriates in government service, along with their families, went home on leave. In early November they began to return and the run up to Christmas was a very sociable time. Most of us found girl friends and we were soon engaged in a hectic round of parties and dances held in clubs and the sumptuous houses of their parents. We were getting into our stride and looking forward to many more months of this pleasant routine when orders arrived for the battalion to move to Asmara, the capital of the adjacent ex Italian colony of Eritrea. We spent Christmas 1949 in Khartoum and a few days later Mike Hughes Morgan and I took the advance party to Asmara.
Mike was one of those officers who exuded charm and was, without doubt, the most popular young officer in the battalion. The girls adored him and he managed to keep three of them, including one of the Kaid's daughters, completely love-struck while, at the same time, staying friends with all of them. They, along with the one I was friendly with, came along to Khartoum railway station to see us off. Despite the jokes and smiles, it was a sad occasion because an extremely happy period of our lives was coming to an end. We promised (in the case of Mike - all three) that we would write and see each other again. The green flag waved, steam gushed out of the engine and the train started to move. It was then that I cupped my girl friend's face in my hands and gave her a farewell kiss. All four stood on the platform waving farewell as we gathered speed and headed north along the Blue Nile. I never saw her again, but cursed my luck when I spotted her name in the register of the New Stanley Hotel in Nairobi six years later. Unfortunately, she had left the day before.
Meanwhile, the adjutant arrived on the platform just in time to see me kiss my girl friend. I was told that his legs left the ground as he vented his fury at seeing me: 'behaving in a manner unbecoming an officer'. It was obvious that the real reason for his anger was his failure to get to the railway station on time. In an ugly mood, he drove back to barracks and summoned all the other young officers to his office. He laid it on pretty thick about the lascivious behaviour he had witnessed and warned them that if there was any more of it, the person concerned would not see the light of day for three months.
A week or so after we arrived in Asmara, we were joined by the motor transport officer who brought some trucks up from Khartoum. He could hardly wait to get out of his vehicle to tell me about the adjutant's fury. I knew this particular seagull very well and that the passage of time would do nothing to mellow his attitude.. I was prepared, therefore, for the rocket I received three weeks later when he arrived in Asmara with the rest of the battalion. My contemporaries were very pleased to have a free week from doing orderly officer duties when they arrived in that pleasant city 8,000 feet up on the Hamasien plateau above the Red Sea.
Shifta (bandits) abounded in Eritrea and there was nothing they liked more than shooting Italians. The South Wales Borderers were responsible for organising convoys and supplying armed escorts to travel with them. Most of these convoy duties lost their appeal after the soldiers had travelled the route a few times, but one duty was always popular and that was the Littorina trip to Massawa on the Red Sea coast about eighty miles from Asmara.
Italians excelled in the construction of mountain railways and the one in the Red Sea hills was certainly a fine example of their skill. The subaltern whose duty it was to control the Asmara/Massawa convoys would supervise the despatch of the road convoy and then the steam train. When they were well on their way, he would embark in the Littorina diesel train and 'roller-coast' down to Massawa where he would relax for two days in the Ciao Hotel. The Ciao, as far as I know, never earned a mention in the Good Food book of Africa, but the beds were comfortable, the fans worked and, best of all, there was a swimming pool which contained fresh water, not the salty stuff that made swimming in the Red Sea distasteful. The following morning, the same procedure of seeing the convoys off on the return trip to Asmara took place. After a final swim in the pool and a drink in the bar, the officer would then board the afternoon Littorina and drive back up the mountains to Asmara.
Rifle company subalterns were the ones who usually did these duties while I, as signals officer, rarely had the opportunity to be involved. Either there was a shortage of subalterns or, perhaps, the adjutant considered I needed a change of scenery, because one day I was detailed to be the convoy/escort commander on the Asmara/Massawa run. I went through the whole routine and had a thoroughly pleasant two day break in Massawa.
I arrived back in Asmara feeling quite refreshed and after I put my kit in my room, I went along to the signals office to see if there was anything that needed my attention. 'Duke' Dyer, my signals sergeant, was there and he told me the only problem had been the signals despatch service which had run late for the last two days. This was the 'mail run' for which my organisation was responsible and it seemed that those infernal motor cycles had broken down again.
As I was walking back to the mess I saw, through an open door, the adjutant sitting at his desk. He called out to me and asked how I had enjoyed my two days in Massawa. I told him it had been good and that I would be delighted to do that job any time he liked. I mentioned I had been to my office and that I was aware that the SDS had been late on both days I had been away. "Yes," said seagull, "It was most annoying." We walked on to the veranda of battalion headquarters and he said: "Stand properly at ease." Thinking that a senior officer was about to appear, I did what I was told, expecting to be called up for the salute. The next command was: "Subaltern, right turn - quick march." Upon his further direction, I found myself marking time in front of Major 'Winky' Benyon, the second-in-command, who was sitting at his desk. "I have a complaint to make against the signals officer, sir," said the adjutant. "Twice in the last two days the signals despatch service has been late." Sunray minor (code name for the second-in-command), narrowed his lids and said: "What have you got to say?" I could hardly believe what I had heard and tried to explain I had been 80 miles away for the last two days and could not possibly be blamed for what had gone wrong with the SDS. The florid cheeks of Sunray minor became redder than usual. "Not to blame?" he thundered. "Don't try and shovel off your responsibilities just because you were not here - I won't have it. Now listen to me young man. You make sure that things run properly whether you are here or not. You will find yourself in serious trouble if it happens again." With that stern rebuke I was ordered to 'dismiss'.
I did not collect any extra orderly officer duties that time. Instead, an hour later in the officers' mess, the adjutant, accompanied by his wife, asked me to have supper with them the following night.
I learned a valuable lesson that day; the 'buck' stops with the officer. It just goes to show you do not always have to be punished to be taught a lesson.
In April 1951, I completed two and a half years service with the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers. I wanted to join the Sudan Defence Force but, even though I was accepted, a vacancy in the near future was unlikely to appear. My commanding officer, Lt Col 'Milo' Campbell-Miles and company commander, Major Ken Taylor, had both served with the King's African Rifles and they advised me to follow their example. My application was acted upon with remarkable speed and within a few weeks I was on my way to Mombasa, in Kenya, aboard the 'EMPIRE KEN'.
I was posted to the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles which was stationed in Nanyuki. The equator ran through the bar in the Silverbeck Hotel, or so the proprietor led his customers to believe. He lost credibility with those who knew him when, a few years later, he moved the bar, along with the brass line marked N and S, a few yards left and ten feet north.
The Silverbeck was one of three good hotels in Nanyuki and within my first week with the KAR I made friends with some local settlers. "What about joining me for a night at Cloud Cottage next Friday?" said one of my new acquaintances. He was one of the white hunters based at the Mawingo Hotel (later renamed Mount Kenya Safari Club). He said he would be most grateful if I would help him look after some tourists who would be spending the night watching game from a tree house in the forest below Mount Kenya. The following Friday was Empire Day - a national holiday, so I accepted.
True to his word, he came round to the officers' mess in his 'pick-up' truck at the appointed time and took me to the Mawingo Hotel for lunch and to meet the rest of the party. At about 3pm we set off in two vehicles. We drove about two miles into the forest where we left the vehicles and walked the last half mile to Cloud Cottage.
Before we started the march, our leader briefed the half dozen or so fee paying members of the group about the abundance of game in the area. He assured them that within the next twelve hours they would see: elephant, rhinoceros and buffalo as well as lots of smaller game. "Of all these animals, the buffalo is the most dangerous and that is why we have footholds in the trees from here to Cloud Cottage," he said. He pointed to the first of these trees which had hefty wooden supports set in its trunk from ground level to twenty feet up in its branches. Suitably impressed, and feeling they were getting their money's worth, the tourists moved from tree to tree until we arrived at Cloud Cottage. As a boy, I had an ambition to build a 'den' in the trees, but it never progressed further than having a few planks placed precariously in the fork of an ash tree in the garden. Cloud Cottage fulfilled my dreams. It was a sturdy log cabin, with a veranda, built thirty feet up in a forest giant complete with everything for an overnight stay.
African servants had gone ahead and were already getting 'steam up'. They greeted us with tea and sandwiches when we climbed the ladder which they let down through a hole in the veranda.
Our leader pointed out the salt lick in the open ground to our front and explained that it was there that the animals would come after dark. We had a few hours to spare before last light so he and I went to have a closer look at the salt lick. I was a new boy to the art of reading tracks of big game, but it was not hard to recognise the spoor of elephant, rhino and buffalo when they were pointed out to me in the mud around the lick.
Mount Kenya forest is as impenetrable as the Malayan jungle and those animals that favour dark regions, in particular, black rhino, have their own runs through the thick tangle of undergrowth. I was being shown one of these, which resembled a smaller version of the London underground system, when one of the Africans gave a shout to warn us that a rhino and its calf were coming down the tunnel. A quick sprint across no-man's-land saved us from what could have been a nasty confrontation.
Nothing much happened before 8pm and then we were treated to an unforgettable spectacle of African wild life. All the large animals were there and an almost continuous procession of elephants passed below us. A high powered lamp illuminated the area and the animals seemed to appreciate the assistance we gave them to lick their delicious salt. Later on in the evening, a full moon broke through the clouds above the jagged peaks of Mount Kenya and we sat well into the night watching animals come and go to a background symphony of cicadas and frogs.
At first light the following day, servants were up getting breakfast ready and cleaning the place before we started the return journey to the forest edge, There had been rain overnight and the air was fresh; eggs and bacon never tasted so good. Just in case the tourists had forgotten our leader's words of caution, he reminded them of the procedure to be adopted if an angry buffalo confronted us, and then we marched off.
There was no sign of the vehicles when we arrived at the place where we had left them, so we continued to walk. At last we found them - stuck in mud! Even with the help of the tourists, it was difficult to extricate them but, at last, we got them out and we completed our journey back to the Mawingo Hotel.
After we had off-loaded the passengers, my friend took me back to the officers' mess where I had a shower and changed into khaki drill for a working half day. I knew I was a bit late for morning parade, but it was a Saturday and there was not much going on.
I was putting on my puttees when the orderly officer stuck his head around the door and said: "Buck up, there's a good chap, the adjutant wants to see you." If someone had said that to me in my last unit, I would have feared the worst. But on this occasion the impending storm did not reveal itself until I arrived at the adjutant's office and knocked on his door.
"You've been absent without leave. I want an explanation," he said icily. At first I thought he meant I was late for morning parade so I explained I had been stuck in the mud in the forest. "What were you doing up there?" he snorted as if he thought I had been visiting a brothel. I told him I had been doing nothing more illicit than watching animals licking salt and, furthermore, on a public holiday.
Seagull had a book on his desk. He opened it, inspected the pages and said: "There's no application by you to stay a night in the forest." This was another of those occasions when I just stood still and said nothing. "Three extra orderly officer duties and make sure you obey the rules in future," he said.
Eighteen months after joining the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles I was appointed adjutant, but only after the incumbent was murdered by one of our askaris when we were serving in Malaya. If ever there was a case of stepping into a dead man's shoes, that was it. Eight years later, I was appointed adjutant again - to a territorial battalion of my regiment. So, I have had plenty of time to set guidelines for a new breed of 'seagull'.
It was my fond and pious belief that I became a friend to all and sundry until just after I retired, when I attended a comrades' dinner. One of my hosts was a retired non-commissioned officer who chatted with me about old times. He seemed to know me very well, but try as hard as I could, I was unable to remember his name. "Which company were you with?" I asked. A look of astonishment crossed his face: "Why, yours of course. HQ Company of the Borderers, in Cyprus" He went on: "Surely you remember the day when you came around the lines on inspection and put me on a charge for having a dirty bed space. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live," he said. "We were more frightened of you than we were of the adjutant."
The Silent One
The path of this story has many twists and turns. It starts in Cyprus then jumps thousands of miles to a Dunlop rubber estate in Malaya. From there, four years later, it continues in London - then the pieces come together in Belfast. Officers and one regimental wife of the South Wales Borderers provide the thread for this tapestry but, essentially, the story is about a tiger - Nepti, the silent one.
I first met Frank Morgan when he was a member of the camp staff for illegal Jewish immigrants in Cyprus in 1948. He used to drive Nick Somerville, the adjutant, crazy because he grew his hair so long that it fell over his collar. Not being on the strength of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, even though he wore the uniform of that regiment, there was not much Nick could do about it.
Frank was a short service officer and when the Jews were allowed to go to Palestine in February 1949, he and the other officers of camp staff were posted elsewhere to complete their service.
Four years later, I was in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and found I was staying in the same hotel in Kuala Lumpur as Frank. In the few days we were together he showed me sights in the Malayan capital that I may not otherwise have seen. When we parted, he invited me to visit him on the rubber estate where he worked., not far from where 3/KAR was based.
A few months later, I accepted his offer and travelled the 60 or so miles from Triang in Pahang to Bahau in Negri Sembilan where the Ladang Geddes rubber estate was located. Frank met me at the railway station and took me to his bungalow where I met another fellow who had been with him in Cyprus - John Milward of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. John, a wild party-loving fellow, was none too popular with Nick Somerville either, but as he wore the 'black flash' of the 23rd Regiment, he was even further removed from the adjutant's jurisdiction.
I spent three days with my old friends and wondered if I had made the right decision to stay in the Army as a regular officer. They seemed to have a very good lifestyle, even though rubber planters were number one targets for communist terrorists.
My commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read of the South Wales Borderers, asked me to call on the 7th Gurkha Rifles and pay his respects. Their camp was quite near the railway station, so I checked in at the guard post and made my way to the adjutant's tent. As I stooped down to enter, I felt a gentle but determined grasp on my right ankle, which brought me to a halt. I was in a strange position, bent almost double, legs wide apart and attempting to salute.
"Get off, Nepti," shouted the Adjutant as he reached for his cane and came towards me. I looked backwards and to my amazement saw a tiger cub doing its best to drag me out of the tent. The Adjutant gave her a crack over her rump and she ran for cover. He explained that Nepti had been found in the jungle alongside her dead mother by a patrol from No. 4 Platoon of 'B' Company. The patrol brought her back to Bahau and gave the cub to the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate, whose youngest daughter, Jane, had taken a fancy to her. Jane's father and mother soon found that a six week old tiger cub was, even at that age, too boisterous for their young daughter, so it was sent back to 7/GURKHA. Jane's elder sister, Merilyn, was at school in Malacca. When she came home from time to time she and Jane used to visit Nepti in the Gurkha lines.
I duly paid my Colonel’s respects to the Commanding Officer and then it was time to catch the train back to Triang. The last I saw of Nepti, as a cub, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from a fold in the adjutant's tent wall.
In 1956, I spent two weeks leave in London. One day, a friend and I visited the 'big cats'' house in Regent's Park Zoo. To my surprise, I saw a large metal plate on one of the cages which read:
'NEPTI - PANTHERA TIGRIS (TIGER)
PRESENTED BY
7TH GURKHA RIFLES
18TH AUGUST 1952
My friend wondered what had happened when I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. She then thought I had taken leave of my senses when I told her that four years previously the tiger she saw in front of her had held my leg in her jaws. Never the one to lose an opportunity to draw a crowd, I became quite a celebrity among fellow visitors as I related my story. My friend, who knew me quite well then - but very well now after nearly 50 years of married life, said: "OK, that's enough, let's see if you have any more friends in the reptile house."
In 1973, the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales was engaged on an 18 months tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I was invited by the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col Robin Godwin-Austen, an old South Wales Borderer, to pay them a visit.
During an enjoyable five day stay, Robin and Kate, his wife, held a dinner party at their home in Palace Barracks, Belfast, to which I was invited. I found myself sitting next to Merilyn Hywel-Jones, the wife of Major (later Lieut Col) Ian Hywel-Jones, another old South Wales Borderer. During dinner she told me that her father had been the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate in Malaya. When she mentioned two wild planters called Morgan and Milward, I knew I was treading familiar ground and was not surprised when she switched to her sister Jane and a tiger cub.
Merilyn contributed a few more details about Nepti. She told me how sad she and Jane had been when the family came home in 1953 and saw Nepti in London Zoo. By this time she was almost fully grown and quite unrecognisable from the cub they had known only a year before. When Jane and her young brother were asked, in fun, by the keeper if they would like to go inside the cage, they fled in terror! Jane is now a journalist and lives in Denmark. She does not remember much about the real Nepti, but she has a small, worn, stuffed toy tiger called Nepti which she keeps at home.
Nepti did not have much of a say in the pattern of her life. After the death of her mother, she spent some happy days with the Gurkhas and at Ladang Geddes estate, but then it was steel bars and concrete for the rest of her life. She died of a ruptured liver on the 8th April 1959 when she was eight years old.
I first met Frank Morgan when he was a member of the camp staff for illegal Jewish immigrants in Cyprus in 1948. He used to drive Nick Somerville, the adjutant, crazy because he grew his hair so long that it fell over his collar. Not being on the strength of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers, even though he wore the uniform of that regiment, there was not much Nick could do about it.
Frank was a short service officer and when the Jews were allowed to go to Palestine in February 1949, he and the other officers of camp staff were posted elsewhere to complete their service.
Four years later, I was in Malaya with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King's African Rifles and found I was staying in the same hotel in Kuala Lumpur as Frank. In the few days we were together he showed me sights in the Malayan capital that I may not otherwise have seen. When we parted, he invited me to visit him on the rubber estate where he worked., not far from where 3/KAR was based.
A few months later, I accepted his offer and travelled the 60 or so miles from Triang in Pahang to Bahau in Negri Sembilan where the Ladang Geddes rubber estate was located. Frank met me at the railway station and took me to his bungalow where I met another fellow who had been with him in Cyprus - John Milward of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. John, a wild party-loving fellow, was none too popular with Nick Somerville either, but as he wore the 'black flash' of the 23rd Regiment, he was even further removed from the adjutant's jurisdiction.
I spent three days with my old friends and wondered if I had made the right decision to stay in the Army as a regular officer. They seemed to have a very good lifestyle, even though rubber planters were number one targets for communist terrorists.
My commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read of the South Wales Borderers, asked me to call on the 7th Gurkha Rifles and pay his respects. Their camp was quite near the railway station, so I checked in at the guard post and made my way to the adjutant's tent. As I stooped down to enter, I felt a gentle but determined grasp on my right ankle, which brought me to a halt. I was in a strange position, bent almost double, legs wide apart and attempting to salute.
"Get off, Nepti," shouted the Adjutant as he reached for his cane and came towards me. I looked backwards and to my amazement saw a tiger cub doing its best to drag me out of the tent. The Adjutant gave her a crack over her rump and she ran for cover. He explained that Nepti had been found in the jungle alongside her dead mother by a patrol from No. 4 Platoon of 'B' Company. The patrol brought her back to Bahau and gave the cub to the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate, whose youngest daughter, Jane, had taken a fancy to her. Jane's father and mother soon found that a six week old tiger cub was, even at that age, too boisterous for their young daughter, so it was sent back to 7/GURKHA. Jane's elder sister, Merilyn, was at school in Malacca. When she came home from time to time she and Jane used to visit Nepti in the Gurkha lines.
I duly paid my Colonel’s respects to the Commanding Officer and then it was time to catch the train back to Triang. The last I saw of Nepti, as a cub, was a pair of yellow eyes staring at me from a fold in the adjutant's tent wall.
In 1956, I spent two weeks leave in London. One day, a friend and I visited the 'big cats'' house in Regent's Park Zoo. To my surprise, I saw a large metal plate on one of the cages which read:
'NEPTI - PANTHERA TIGRIS (TIGER)
PRESENTED BY
7TH GURKHA RIFLES
18TH AUGUST 1952
My friend wondered what had happened when I was rendered speechless for a few seconds. She then thought I had taken leave of my senses when I told her that four years previously the tiger she saw in front of her had held my leg in her jaws. Never the one to lose an opportunity to draw a crowd, I became quite a celebrity among fellow visitors as I related my story. My friend, who knew me quite well then - but very well now after nearly 50 years of married life, said: "OK, that's enough, let's see if you have any more friends in the reptile house."
In 1973, the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales was engaged on an 18 months tour of duty in Northern Ireland. I was invited by the Commanding Officer, Lieut Col Robin Godwin-Austen, an old South Wales Borderer, to pay them a visit.
During an enjoyable five day stay, Robin and Kate, his wife, held a dinner party at their home in Palace Barracks, Belfast, to which I was invited. I found myself sitting next to Merilyn Hywel-Jones, the wife of Major (later Lieut Col) Ian Hywel-Jones, another old South Wales Borderer. During dinner she told me that her father had been the manager of Ladang Geddes rubber estate in Malaya. When she mentioned two wild planters called Morgan and Milward, I knew I was treading familiar ground and was not surprised when she switched to her sister Jane and a tiger cub.
Merilyn contributed a few more details about Nepti. She told me how sad she and Jane had been when the family came home in 1953 and saw Nepti in London Zoo. By this time she was almost fully grown and quite unrecognisable from the cub they had known only a year before. When Jane and her young brother were asked, in fun, by the keeper if they would like to go inside the cage, they fled in terror! Jane is now a journalist and lives in Denmark. She does not remember much about the real Nepti, but she has a small, worn, stuffed toy tiger called Nepti which she keeps at home.
Nepti did not have much of a say in the pattern of her life. After the death of her mother, she spent some happy days with the Gurkhas and at Ladang Geddes estate, but then it was steel bars and concrete for the rest of her life. She died of a ruptured liver on the 8th April 1959 when she was eight years old.
The Saga of Sadie Slagheap
The small town of Blaenglyncoch, in one of the Eastern valleys of South Wales, nestles among grim and forbidding slag heaps, lightly grassed over these days but still impeding those who yearn for green valleys and rivers full of trout. The character of the people who live there conflicts with the environment in which they live. They are friendly, warm human beings compacted into a rugby playing, music loving, chapel attending community by the very slag heaps which dominate them.
Blaenglyncoch and district has been, for generations, a strong source of recruits for the infantry regiments of Wales. It was, therefore, an obvious place to be chosen by my Regiment as one of the towns to be visited during its annual recruiting drive.
I was responsible for arranging these publicity ventures and when I made my overture to the local recreation and amenities officer I was delighted with the response I received.
"We would be honoured indeed," said Mr Dafydd Price, "and I know I speak for the Mayor as well, to have you visit our borough." He showed me the rugby pitch where we would be allowed to set up our displays; what greater honour could they bestow? There stood the white posts standing sentinel over the hallowed turf - taking a respite from the rucks and wheelings, lineouts and scrums that made men out of boys in Blaenglyncoch. The entrances and exits were wide enough for our vehicles and there was even a public convenience - a tidy place indeed.
The appointed day arrived, a lovely bright Wednesday in July, and I joined the officer in charge of the touring team, plus three of his subalterns from the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, for drinks in the Mayor’s parlour.
Councillor Gwilym Rees, the Borough Mayor, was a vigorous young man in his early forties. He had climbed to the senior position in the council with a burning crusade for social reform and an ability to bulldoze opposition. His sherry was good and we soon got to know each other quite well. He was interested in the affairs of the Regiment and he thought it would be a good idea to bring back national service. "Discipline is what we want in this country," he proclaimed. We spent two hours in his company and were entertained to luncheon in a country club - once the home of a coal baron.
The evening performance of the touring team was the big event of the day. It started with an open-air concert given by the Regimental Band and Corps of Drums. This was followed by a demonstration of weapons and equipment and then came the mock battle, with plenty of noise - which delighted the children but was not altogether appreciated by the residents of an old people’s home close to the field. The finalé was the marching display, Beating Retreat and lowering of the flag. The salute at the 'march past' was taken by the Mayor, in all his finery.
The crowd clapped and the Mayor beamed as the musicians and soldiers, led by Taffy, the regimental goat, marched off to the strains of: 'God Bless the Prince of Wales'.
"An excellent show indeed," he said, impressed with our military hardware and colourful regalia. He and the others in his party now looked forward to the final part of the programme which was a drinks party in the marquee erected near one of the goal posts.
Councillors and their wives were escorted by a trio of subalterns and it was not long before everyone had a glass in their hands. Conversation flowed easily and we found that some of our guests were old soldiers of the Regiment. One old lady had seen her grandson taking part in the mock battle and was as pleased as Punch.
I was keeping a general eye on things when I saw an old woman enter the tent and sit down on a small table. All the other ladies were either Councillors in their own right or wives of Senior Executives and Councillors. They were all well dressed and some were wearing medallions and chains signifying their position in the council hierarchy. The old woman sitting on the table was not 'dressed' by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair, some of which was sticking out from the side of a dirty brown beret, was grey and ragged. She had no teeth, at least I presumed this was the case as when she spoke her nose practically touched her chin. An old blue coat covered whatever she had on underneath, while badly scuffed shoes with worn heels completed her attire. My nerve ends tingled when I asked her if she was a member of the Mayor's party. "Yes," she snapped, "and I'm thirsty, get me a glass of whisky."
The Mayor was in top form. He had enjoyed the day so far and he could see there was plenty of whisky on the dispensing table. He came over to me and said: "We have witnessed today -----." He stopped in mid sentence with his mouth open. A glance along his line of sight showed that his attention was focused on the toothless old woman staring aggressively at him over the top of her glass. When he recovered his ability to speak, he said: "Who let her in?" Without actually admitting that I had checked her credentials, I told the Mayor I thought she belonged to someone in his party. "She's not one of us," thundered Councillor Rees. He twisted and turned as he looked for his Chief Executive Officer. Unable to find him, the Mayor grabbed the sleeve of the senior police officer. "What's she doing here? Get her out."
Chief Superintendent Emrys Lewis of the South Wales Constabulary was a police officer of considerable experience. Numerous medal ribbons on his jacket showed he had been a loyal servant of the Crown in times of war and peace. Personal acts of bravery, often witnessed at 'throwing out time' in Blaenglyncoch public houses were well recorded in 'The Argus', but when he saw the object of the Mayor's attention, the colour drained from his cheeks. "Good God, Sadie Slagheap," he muttered. "I might have known she'd smell alcohol." He turned away and said: "I'm sorry Mr Mayor, I'm not getting involved with her."
A strange name I thought, and the Mayor explained why: "She goes out with an old pram picking coal from the slag. When she's got enough, she sells it in the town. Then, it's straight down the pub where she spends it on hard drink. When she's skint, it's up the mountain again - if she can make it."
Sadie had settled herself comfortably on the octagonal table, swinging her legs and beaming at everyone through her toothless gums. The subalterns had learned from outraged members of the council how Sadie had earned her distinctive name and were quick to appreciate she could liven up the proceedings. They kept her topped up with a plentiful supply of whisky.
Sadie's warm up period did not take long. It had been a good day on the mountain and she needed only a moderate amount of alcohol to get her going. The Mayor, Councillors, civic officials and their wives looked the other way and tried to put Sadie out of their minds, like a black cloud on an otherwise fine day, but suddenly she erupted: "Stuck up lot of bitches, aren't you?" she yelled. Her remarks were directed to a group of Councillors' wives whose breasts rose together like a huge Atlantic wave. "Likes of me are not good enough for you," went on Sadie as she developed her theme which, I was told by the Mayor, always followed the same pattern. "You there, Gwilym Rees - with your big chain around your neck. I could tell them a thing or two about you." The Mayor glared at Sadie but, whether it was the ferocious look he gave her, or Sadie's decision to pick this plum later, she switched her attack to the Chief Executive Officer who had finally appeared at the Mayor's side.
Alec McFadden had two things in common with Sadie. Firstly, he was a Celt, albeit from Scotland, and secondly, his great love of Scotch whisky. Despite Sadie's shortcomings, she loved her homeland. Anyone not Blaenglyncoch born was, as far as she was concerned, foreign trash. Alec McFadden was anathema to Sadie and she had long been infuriated about having such a person as the top non-elected official in the Borough Council. "I've seen you wearing that skirt of yours as if you're a woman," she shrieked. "Go back to your old Scotland where you came from. There's plenty of Welsh boys who can do your job." The CEO was unprepared for the verbal assault and as he had been subjected to her invective on at least two previous occasions, he decided to keep quiet. Sadie was moving into top gear and the young officers had drinks lined up to keep her going - she knocked them back as fast as they were put in front of her.
I began to wonder how it was going to end when Major Tony Martin, the resourceful Company Commander, came to the rescue. He approached the table where Sadie was sitting, took her hand and said: "My car is waiting to take you home, madam." With a firm grip on Sadie's forearm, he led her through the throng to the staff car waiting outside the marquee. A poker-faced corporal dressed in ceremonial blues held the rear passenger door open and saluted Sadie as she entered. Major Martin tucked in her old blue coat and said: "I hope you will come and see us again the next time we come to Blaenglyncoch." Sadie positively cooed at the gallant major and assured him that nothing would stop her attending.
The Mayor and others in his party gazed open mouthed at Sadie who seemed to have jumped them all in the VIP stakes. As the car moved off in that dignified way favoured by hearses and Royal limousines, Sadie lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Those in uniform saluted her and some natives of Blaenglyncoch, not knowing who was in the car, took their hats off. When the Mayor and other guests had gone, I called for the corporal to tell me he had done with Sadie.
"I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, sir, but she told me to drop her off at the pub on the corner. When she got out, she fell flat on her face. A couple of boys came out to pick her up and she didn't half lay into them."
Postscript : Names of people and places are disguised - but Sadie's nick-name is pretty close. If you are travelling through the Eastern valleys of South Wales and you see an old woman wearing a blue coat, pushing a pram up a slagheap - you'll know who it is.
Blaenglyncoch and district has been, for generations, a strong source of recruits for the infantry regiments of Wales. It was, therefore, an obvious place to be chosen by my Regiment as one of the towns to be visited during its annual recruiting drive.
I was responsible for arranging these publicity ventures and when I made my overture to the local recreation and amenities officer I was delighted with the response I received.
"We would be honoured indeed," said Mr Dafydd Price, "and I know I speak for the Mayor as well, to have you visit our borough." He showed me the rugby pitch where we would be allowed to set up our displays; what greater honour could they bestow? There stood the white posts standing sentinel over the hallowed turf - taking a respite from the rucks and wheelings, lineouts and scrums that made men out of boys in Blaenglyncoch. The entrances and exits were wide enough for our vehicles and there was even a public convenience - a tidy place indeed.
The appointed day arrived, a lovely bright Wednesday in July, and I joined the officer in charge of the touring team, plus three of his subalterns from the 1st Battalion Royal Regiment of Wales, for drinks in the Mayor’s parlour.
Councillor Gwilym Rees, the Borough Mayor, was a vigorous young man in his early forties. He had climbed to the senior position in the council with a burning crusade for social reform and an ability to bulldoze opposition. His sherry was good and we soon got to know each other quite well. He was interested in the affairs of the Regiment and he thought it would be a good idea to bring back national service. "Discipline is what we want in this country," he proclaimed. We spent two hours in his company and were entertained to luncheon in a country club - once the home of a coal baron.
The evening performance of the touring team was the big event of the day. It started with an open-air concert given by the Regimental Band and Corps of Drums. This was followed by a demonstration of weapons and equipment and then came the mock battle, with plenty of noise - which delighted the children but was not altogether appreciated by the residents of an old people’s home close to the field. The finalé was the marching display, Beating Retreat and lowering of the flag. The salute at the 'march past' was taken by the Mayor, in all his finery.
The crowd clapped and the Mayor beamed as the musicians and soldiers, led by Taffy, the regimental goat, marched off to the strains of: 'God Bless the Prince of Wales'.
"An excellent show indeed," he said, impressed with our military hardware and colourful regalia. He and the others in his party now looked forward to the final part of the programme which was a drinks party in the marquee erected near one of the goal posts.
Councillors and their wives were escorted by a trio of subalterns and it was not long before everyone had a glass in their hands. Conversation flowed easily and we found that some of our guests were old soldiers of the Regiment. One old lady had seen her grandson taking part in the mock battle and was as pleased as Punch.
I was keeping a general eye on things when I saw an old woman enter the tent and sit down on a small table. All the other ladies were either Councillors in their own right or wives of Senior Executives and Councillors. They were all well dressed and some were wearing medallions and chains signifying their position in the council hierarchy. The old woman sitting on the table was not 'dressed' by any stretch of the imagination. Her hair, some of which was sticking out from the side of a dirty brown beret, was grey and ragged. She had no teeth, at least I presumed this was the case as when she spoke her nose practically touched her chin. An old blue coat covered whatever she had on underneath, while badly scuffed shoes with worn heels completed her attire. My nerve ends tingled when I asked her if she was a member of the Mayor's party. "Yes," she snapped, "and I'm thirsty, get me a glass of whisky."
The Mayor was in top form. He had enjoyed the day so far and he could see there was plenty of whisky on the dispensing table. He came over to me and said: "We have witnessed today -----." He stopped in mid sentence with his mouth open. A glance along his line of sight showed that his attention was focused on the toothless old woman staring aggressively at him over the top of her glass. When he recovered his ability to speak, he said: "Who let her in?" Without actually admitting that I had checked her credentials, I told the Mayor I thought she belonged to someone in his party. "She's not one of us," thundered Councillor Rees. He twisted and turned as he looked for his Chief Executive Officer. Unable to find him, the Mayor grabbed the sleeve of the senior police officer. "What's she doing here? Get her out."
Chief Superintendent Emrys Lewis of the South Wales Constabulary was a police officer of considerable experience. Numerous medal ribbons on his jacket showed he had been a loyal servant of the Crown in times of war and peace. Personal acts of bravery, often witnessed at 'throwing out time' in Blaenglyncoch public houses were well recorded in 'The Argus', but when he saw the object of the Mayor's attention, the colour drained from his cheeks. "Good God, Sadie Slagheap," he muttered. "I might have known she'd smell alcohol." He turned away and said: "I'm sorry Mr Mayor, I'm not getting involved with her."
A strange name I thought, and the Mayor explained why: "She goes out with an old pram picking coal from the slag. When she's got enough, she sells it in the town. Then, it's straight down the pub where she spends it on hard drink. When she's skint, it's up the mountain again - if she can make it."
Sadie had settled herself comfortably on the octagonal table, swinging her legs and beaming at everyone through her toothless gums. The subalterns had learned from outraged members of the council how Sadie had earned her distinctive name and were quick to appreciate she could liven up the proceedings. They kept her topped up with a plentiful supply of whisky.
Sadie's warm up period did not take long. It had been a good day on the mountain and she needed only a moderate amount of alcohol to get her going. The Mayor, Councillors, civic officials and their wives looked the other way and tried to put Sadie out of their minds, like a black cloud on an otherwise fine day, but suddenly she erupted: "Stuck up lot of bitches, aren't you?" she yelled. Her remarks were directed to a group of Councillors' wives whose breasts rose together like a huge Atlantic wave. "Likes of me are not good enough for you," went on Sadie as she developed her theme which, I was told by the Mayor, always followed the same pattern. "You there, Gwilym Rees - with your big chain around your neck. I could tell them a thing or two about you." The Mayor glared at Sadie but, whether it was the ferocious look he gave her, or Sadie's decision to pick this plum later, she switched her attack to the Chief Executive Officer who had finally appeared at the Mayor's side.
Alec McFadden had two things in common with Sadie. Firstly, he was a Celt, albeit from Scotland, and secondly, his great love of Scotch whisky. Despite Sadie's shortcomings, she loved her homeland. Anyone not Blaenglyncoch born was, as far as she was concerned, foreign trash. Alec McFadden was anathema to Sadie and she had long been infuriated about having such a person as the top non-elected official in the Borough Council. "I've seen you wearing that skirt of yours as if you're a woman," she shrieked. "Go back to your old Scotland where you came from. There's plenty of Welsh boys who can do your job." The CEO was unprepared for the verbal assault and as he had been subjected to her invective on at least two previous occasions, he decided to keep quiet. Sadie was moving into top gear and the young officers had drinks lined up to keep her going - she knocked them back as fast as they were put in front of her.
I began to wonder how it was going to end when Major Tony Martin, the resourceful Company Commander, came to the rescue. He approached the table where Sadie was sitting, took her hand and said: "My car is waiting to take you home, madam." With a firm grip on Sadie's forearm, he led her through the throng to the staff car waiting outside the marquee. A poker-faced corporal dressed in ceremonial blues held the rear passenger door open and saluted Sadie as she entered. Major Martin tucked in her old blue coat and said: "I hope you will come and see us again the next time we come to Blaenglyncoch." Sadie positively cooed at the gallant major and assured him that nothing would stop her attending.
The Mayor and others in his party gazed open mouthed at Sadie who seemed to have jumped them all in the VIP stakes. As the car moved off in that dignified way favoured by hearses and Royal limousines, Sadie lifted her hand in a gesture of farewell. Those in uniform saluted her and some natives of Blaenglyncoch, not knowing who was in the car, took their hats off. When the Mayor and other guests had gone, I called for the corporal to tell me he had done with Sadie.
"I asked her if she wanted me to take her home, sir, but she told me to drop her off at the pub on the corner. When she got out, she fell flat on her face. A couple of boys came out to pick her up and she didn't half lay into them."
Postscript : Names of people and places are disguised - but Sadie's nick-name is pretty close. If you are travelling through the Eastern valleys of South Wales and you see an old woman wearing a blue coat, pushing a pram up a slagheap - you'll know who it is.
The RSM and the Rabbit
Putting my foot down to keep an appointment, I narrowly missed a car coming in the opposite direction on a winding stretch of road between Crickhowell and Brecon. My passenger sucked air through his teeth and said: "That was a close one." I agreed with him and thought to myself: "I should have known better," bringing to mind an incident that occurred on the same stretch of road many years before.
On that day, I was cruising along quite pleasantly when I saw a car lying on its side ahead of me. As I approached, I saw one of the doors open, like the conning tower of a submarine, and a head appear. I pulled up, got out of my car and went across to the other vehicle to see if I could help. The passenger who was climbing out of the car was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the unit with which I was serving. I placed my arms around him and with me pulling and he pushing, he came out of the car like a whelk out of a shell. The second whelk in the same shell was the Provost Sergeant. With more heaving, he was also lifted clear.
A small crowd had gathered, all eager to help, but there were no serious injuries. The RSM appeared to be concussed though as he was sitting on the bank with a dazed expression on his face. "Are you alright RSM?" I asked. "Yes thank you, sir," he replied, "but its my rabbit I'm worried about. It's still in the car."
I looked at the car and saw petrol starting to flow from underneath; I hurried across the road and peered inside through one of the windows. Huddled in the corner of the passenger door, under the glove compartment was a large white rabbit.
"Hang on to my legs," I shouted to someone who was standing close by. "Don't be a fool," he said. "The car may blow up any minute." "Just do what I tell you," I commanded. When I felt his hands grip me by my ankles, I reached downwards through the horizontally positioned door, grabbed the rabbit and wriggled my way up again. Petrol was pouring out of the car as the fellow who was holding me by the legs gave a final pull which deposited me and the rabbit onto the road. A cheer went up from the onlookers and a few of them patted me on the back. One woman who had a camera took a photograph of me and said: "That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. I'm going to tell the RSPCA what you've done." I accepted all these plaudits and felt a warm glow of pride.
I had assumed that the rabbit was either concussed, like the RSM, or was so tame that it was thankful to be in my arms. But when I looked at it closely, I could see its eyes were open and lifeless. The glow of pride was overtaken by a feeling of sadness. "One little boy or girl is going to shed tears when he or she is told that the rabbit has met with a fatal accident," I thought.
I took the corpse across to the RSM and said: "I'm very sorry but the rabbit is dead." I put it gently in his hands and he inspected it closely. "You had me puzzled for a minute, sir," he said. "It's been dead for some time. I bought it in the butcher's this afternoon. I'm having it for my supper tonight."
I hastily asked the woman who had taken the photograph not to bother about going to the RSPCA. I told her I was shy about publicity.
On that day, I was cruising along quite pleasantly when I saw a car lying on its side ahead of me. As I approached, I saw one of the doors open, like the conning tower of a submarine, and a head appear. I pulled up, got out of my car and went across to the other vehicle to see if I could help. The passenger who was climbing out of the car was the Regimental Sergeant Major of the unit with which I was serving. I placed my arms around him and with me pulling and he pushing, he came out of the car like a whelk out of a shell. The second whelk in the same shell was the Provost Sergeant. With more heaving, he was also lifted clear.
A small crowd had gathered, all eager to help, but there were no serious injuries. The RSM appeared to be concussed though as he was sitting on the bank with a dazed expression on his face. "Are you alright RSM?" I asked. "Yes thank you, sir," he replied, "but its my rabbit I'm worried about. It's still in the car."
I looked at the car and saw petrol starting to flow from underneath; I hurried across the road and peered inside through one of the windows. Huddled in the corner of the passenger door, under the glove compartment was a large white rabbit.
"Hang on to my legs," I shouted to someone who was standing close by. "Don't be a fool," he said. "The car may blow up any minute." "Just do what I tell you," I commanded. When I felt his hands grip me by my ankles, I reached downwards through the horizontally positioned door, grabbed the rabbit and wriggled my way up again. Petrol was pouring out of the car as the fellow who was holding me by the legs gave a final pull which deposited me and the rabbit onto the road. A cheer went up from the onlookers and a few of them patted me on the back. One woman who had a camera took a photograph of me and said: "That's the bravest thing I've ever seen. I'm going to tell the RSPCA what you've done." I accepted all these plaudits and felt a warm glow of pride.
I had assumed that the rabbit was either concussed, like the RSM, or was so tame that it was thankful to be in my arms. But when I looked at it closely, I could see its eyes were open and lifeless. The glow of pride was overtaken by a feeling of sadness. "One little boy or girl is going to shed tears when he or she is told that the rabbit has met with a fatal accident," I thought.
I took the corpse across to the RSM and said: "I'm very sorry but the rabbit is dead." I put it gently in his hands and he inspected it closely. "You had me puzzled for a minute, sir," he said. "It's been dead for some time. I bought it in the butcher's this afternoon. I'm having it for my supper tonight."
I hastily asked the woman who had taken the photograph not to bother about going to the RSPCA. I told her I was shy about publicity.
The Missing Flute
I used to see Rhys Lewis regularly at regimental gatherings, but then I realised I had not heard his croaky voice and guttural laugh for some time. I enquired about his welfare and was told he was unwell; I found where he lived and paid him a visit. For an old soldier who, as he claimed, had never had cause to see a doctor in his life, the discovery that he had become a victim of diabetes was both a mental and body blow.
A few weeks later, I heard that Rhys, as a result of the disease, had had his left leg amputated. I went to see him again and when he heard voices in the sitting room, he bounced down the stairs on his bottom. I stayed with him for half an hour and he was in his element telling me about his service in far-distant places.
After the passage of another three months I was told that Rhys had had his other leg amputated, so I went to see him again. His wife let me in and I could see from her sad expression that events had taken a turn for the worse. She led the way upstairs and motioned me to enter a bedroom. Rhys was lying on a low bed with his eyes shut. He had never been a big fellow and now that he had lost his legs, there was hardly anything left.
"The officer from Brecon has come to see you," she said - and then quietly to me: "He hasn't eaten anything for a week." The bedclothes had been thrown back to reveal a torso that was nothing but skin and bone. Slowly his eyelids fluttered and he looked towards me. The instinctive movements came flooding back to this old soldier as he saw an officer of his regiment standing by the side of his bed. His skinny arms straightened and he drew them tight alongside his stumps. He continued to lie at 'attention' until I said: "At ease, Rhys." We spoke a few words to each other but I could see the effort was too much for him. I was about to go when Rhys whispered to his wife: "Alice, get me my flute." Alice went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box which she opened and gave to her husband. "I want you to have this flute, Major," said Rhys. I am not an expert on musical instruments, but I could see it was a valuable article in near perfect condition. I offered to sell it for him, but he became agitated and reiterated that he wanted me to have it. He signalled me to come closer and whispered: "You see, Major, it's not mine to sell. I've had it ever since I joined the Corps of Drums in India in 1935."
I promised the old man I would ensure it went back to the Drums' store of the First Battalion. NO NAME - NO PACK DRILL. He smiled and then, with a peaceful look on his face, closed his eyes and went to sleep. He died an hour later.
Post script: Rhys and Alice Lewis are pseudonyms for the real people.
A few weeks later, I heard that Rhys, as a result of the disease, had had his left leg amputated. I went to see him again and when he heard voices in the sitting room, he bounced down the stairs on his bottom. I stayed with him for half an hour and he was in his element telling me about his service in far-distant places.
After the passage of another three months I was told that Rhys had had his other leg amputated, so I went to see him again. His wife let me in and I could see from her sad expression that events had taken a turn for the worse. She led the way upstairs and motioned me to enter a bedroom. Rhys was lying on a low bed with his eyes shut. He had never been a big fellow and now that he had lost his legs, there was hardly anything left.
"The officer from Brecon has come to see you," she said - and then quietly to me: "He hasn't eaten anything for a week." The bedclothes had been thrown back to reveal a torso that was nothing but skin and bone. Slowly his eyelids fluttered and he looked towards me. The instinctive movements came flooding back to this old soldier as he saw an officer of his regiment standing by the side of his bed. His skinny arms straightened and he drew them tight alongside his stumps. He continued to lie at 'attention' until I said: "At ease, Rhys." We spoke a few words to each other but I could see the effort was too much for him. I was about to go when Rhys whispered to his wife: "Alice, get me my flute." Alice went downstairs and returned a few minutes later with a rectangular box which she opened and gave to her husband. "I want you to have this flute, Major," said Rhys. I am not an expert on musical instruments, but I could see it was a valuable article in near perfect condition. I offered to sell it for him, but he became agitated and reiterated that he wanted me to have it. He signalled me to come closer and whispered: "You see, Major, it's not mine to sell. I've had it ever since I joined the Corps of Drums in India in 1935."
I promised the old man I would ensure it went back to the Drums' store of the First Battalion. NO NAME - NO PACK DRILL. He smiled and then, with a peaceful look on his face, closed his eyes and went to sleep. He died an hour later.
Post script: Rhys and Alice Lewis are pseudonyms for the real people.
Terra (in) Firma
My last job in the Regular Army was Recruiting and Publicity Officer for the line infantry regiments of Wales (The Royal Welch Fusiliers and The Royal Regiment of Wales). I was based at The Prince Of Wales' Division Depot, Crickhowell, South Wales, had two teams of soldiers - one for each regiment, and a mobile display vehicle which travelled the length and breadth of Wales at all times of the year except mid-winter.
One of the places we visited was a pleasant little town near Swansea. Council officials were most helpful and allowed us to use the municipal park which comprised ornamental gardens, tennis courts, bowling green, cricket wicket and a rugby pitch. The mobile display wagon and the shooting range (in the back of a truck) were the first to arrive and it was not long before children were attracted to the park like wasps to a jam pot.
I was talking to some soldiers on the site when I became aware that the turf upon which I stood seemed to move when people passed by. I jumped a few inches off the ground and my return to earth set the soldiers wobbling like a set of near missed skittles.
It was then that Mr Ieuan (pronounced - Yiy-an) Thomas, the Chief Environmental Officer of the borough greeted me. "Hello Major Smith, everything alright then?" I assured him that things were in order and that we were looking forward to a good day. "There's only one problem," I said. "The ground seems to wobble. Was there ever a coal mine here and is it possible we could be standing on a covered over shaft?" I made another leap and the colour drained from Mr Thomas's face as he wobbled like a piece of jelly. He and his ancestors had lived in the valley for generations and after some thought he said: "Not to my knowledge have their been collieries. Potteries - yes, but no coal mines."
We were joined by the Borough Engineer - Mr Iorweth (pronounced - Yorrweth) Evans. He agreed about 'potteries' but said he could not pronounce about a coal mine as he and his ancestors had not lived in the valley as long as the family of Mr Thomas. "I could find out for sure when I get back to my office," he said. "We've got records going back for centuries." Ieuan would have been happy to let old pots lie, but borough engineers are an inquisitive breed and Iorweth walked across to the pavilion and brought back a long metal rod with a loop on the end. Standing on the steps of the display vehicle, he raised his arms above his head and drove the rod into the ground. No undue force was required or used to drive the eight foot rod through the turf as far as its loop. Iorweth withdrew the rod and we inspected particles of black stuff which clung to it. "Peat," said Ieuan, and then as an after-thought - "could be charcoal though." Iorweth picked up a few pieces and agreed with his colleague. It was my turn, so I inspected some of the black matter and noticed that it did not crumble like the rest. "Coal!" I said, "and it looks like good quality anthracite to me." The two borough officials gaped like a couple of goldfish, but then they closed ranks when they remembered the many occasions the ground had been used for fairs, carnivals and rugby matches. "You'll be alright, have no fear," they said in unison.
Despite their assurances, I did not feel they were entirely convinced. The display vehicles could have been moved to a safer area near the bowling green but wherever I jumped on the rugby pitch, the ground wobbled - besides, I was getting some funny looks as I leapt around the park like a demented frog. Taking the easy course, and assuring myself that if the ground was going to collapse it would surely have done so when the band in their fifty-seater coach passed by, I decided to carry on.
The Mayor of the borough, a charming elderly lady, was our chief guest at the show we put on that evening. The hour long performance included a display of foot and arms drill, gymnastics, mock battle and Beating Retreat by the Band and Drums. More than a hundred soldiers, plus the regimental goat, pounded the turf during the finale. I do not know if she had been told or even felt for herself the undulating movement of the ground. If she did, she said nothing and, as she had lived near the park all her life, she was most probably used to it.
She certainly did not appreciate the reason why I kept my camera at the ready during the performance. The Band and Drums. regimental mascot, Mayor, Councillors - and maybe me as well - disappearing through the hallowed turf of the town's rugby pitch may have given me the opportunity to take the picture of my life.
One of the places we visited was a pleasant little town near Swansea. Council officials were most helpful and allowed us to use the municipal park which comprised ornamental gardens, tennis courts, bowling green, cricket wicket and a rugby pitch. The mobile display wagon and the shooting range (in the back of a truck) were the first to arrive and it was not long before children were attracted to the park like wasps to a jam pot.
I was talking to some soldiers on the site when I became aware that the turf upon which I stood seemed to move when people passed by. I jumped a few inches off the ground and my return to earth set the soldiers wobbling like a set of near missed skittles.
It was then that Mr Ieuan (pronounced - Yiy-an) Thomas, the Chief Environmental Officer of the borough greeted me. "Hello Major Smith, everything alright then?" I assured him that things were in order and that we were looking forward to a good day. "There's only one problem," I said. "The ground seems to wobble. Was there ever a coal mine here and is it possible we could be standing on a covered over shaft?" I made another leap and the colour drained from Mr Thomas's face as he wobbled like a piece of jelly. He and his ancestors had lived in the valley for generations and after some thought he said: "Not to my knowledge have their been collieries. Potteries - yes, but no coal mines."
We were joined by the Borough Engineer - Mr Iorweth (pronounced - Yorrweth) Evans. He agreed about 'potteries' but said he could not pronounce about a coal mine as he and his ancestors had not lived in the valley as long as the family of Mr Thomas. "I could find out for sure when I get back to my office," he said. "We've got records going back for centuries." Ieuan would have been happy to let old pots lie, but borough engineers are an inquisitive breed and Iorweth walked across to the pavilion and brought back a long metal rod with a loop on the end. Standing on the steps of the display vehicle, he raised his arms above his head and drove the rod into the ground. No undue force was required or used to drive the eight foot rod through the turf as far as its loop. Iorweth withdrew the rod and we inspected particles of black stuff which clung to it. "Peat," said Ieuan, and then as an after-thought - "could be charcoal though." Iorweth picked up a few pieces and agreed with his colleague. It was my turn, so I inspected some of the black matter and noticed that it did not crumble like the rest. "Coal!" I said, "and it looks like good quality anthracite to me." The two borough officials gaped like a couple of goldfish, but then they closed ranks when they remembered the many occasions the ground had been used for fairs, carnivals and rugby matches. "You'll be alright, have no fear," they said in unison.
Despite their assurances, I did not feel they were entirely convinced. The display vehicles could have been moved to a safer area near the bowling green but wherever I jumped on the rugby pitch, the ground wobbled - besides, I was getting some funny looks as I leapt around the park like a demented frog. Taking the easy course, and assuring myself that if the ground was going to collapse it would surely have done so when the band in their fifty-seater coach passed by, I decided to carry on.
The Mayor of the borough, a charming elderly lady, was our chief guest at the show we put on that evening. The hour long performance included a display of foot and arms drill, gymnastics, mock battle and Beating Retreat by the Band and Drums. More than a hundred soldiers, plus the regimental goat, pounded the turf during the finale. I do not know if she had been told or even felt for herself the undulating movement of the ground. If she did, she said nothing and, as she had lived near the park all her life, she was most probably used to it.
She certainly did not appreciate the reason why I kept my camera at the ready during the performance. The Band and Drums. regimental mascot, Mayor, Councillors - and maybe me as well - disappearing through the hallowed turf of the town's rugby pitch may have given me the opportunity to take the picture of my life.
Taking the Strain
The Havard Chapel of the South Wales Borderers in Brecon Cathedral is the resting place for those most sacred of emblems - Kings', Queens' and Regimental Colours; the physical embodiment of honour, sacrifice and pride of the Regiment. Rarely are these Colours disturbed, their poles stretch parallel to the ground above the pews while netted fragments hang in rigid line twelve feet from the floor. Occasionally, a cool draught of air will touch them and cause slight movement to the silken folds. I often look at them and wonder what stories they could tell; so much history compressed within a small area.
To the left of the altar hangs the huge six foot Regimental Colour of the 24th Regiment which survived, but only just, the Battle of Chillianwallah in 1849. Its ensign and escort were mown down by Sikh guns, but a young private soldier dashed forward, ripped it from its pole and carried it to safety wrapped around his body. On the other side of the altar hang the Colours which were carried from 1812 to 1825. They are much older but are in better shape.
Above the small oak casket, which contains fragments of the wreath of dried flowers presented by Queen Victoria in 1880 in memory of those officers and men who died in the Anglo/Zulu War, hangs the Queen's Colour of the 1/24th Regiment. Very little of the original material remains, hardly surprising when you consider it was carried for 68 years and was subjected to the full spate of the River Buffalo when it was trapped in the river bed for two weeks after the disaster at Isandhlwana.
In 1989 it was decided that Brecon Cathedral needed a face lift. Contractors moved in and unsightly scaffolding soon spread up the walls into the rafters where workmen began to rewire electric fittings and whitewash the plaster. The Regimental Chapel was the last place to be done and I watched progress carefully so I could leave the Colours in position until the last moment. When the time came for them to be removed, I supervised the operation of carrying them to the vestry for safe keeping.
Almost a year later, the long business of renovation was complete and I gave thought to returning the Colours to the chapel. Before doing so, the contractor informed me that many of the wire stays that held the Colours in position were unsafe. These wires, two to each Colour, stretched way up into the rafters. I had a look at some of them and agreed that they should be replaced. I made the suggestion that we should use a modern material, such as nylon with a high breaking strain. "Good idea," said the contractor. "Who'll get it, you or me?" As it was a regimental matter and not a fair charge to the cathedral, I told him I would buy whatever was necessary. I then set about calculating how much nylon I would need; I was amazed to find that I needed about a quarter of a mile of the stuff.
Later that day, I went to a shop in Brecon that sold fishing tackle and asked the lady behind the counter if she had some very strong nylon line in stock. She asked me to wait a minute while she went into a store room. When she returned, she was carrying a box covered in dust. "This is 50 pounds breaking strain," she said. "Will that be strong enough for you?" I nodded and told her that I needed 400 yards. "Good heavens," she gasped, "are you going to catch a whale?" I do not know what came over me and why I did not tell her the reason for my purchase, but I replied: "No, not a whale - a sturgeon."
There were five or six men in the shop and I was aware of the close attention they were giving to everything I said. Getting carried away by the story I was creating, I continued: "It was seen at Caerleon last Friday and was spotted going over the weir at Abergavenny on Monday. It's expected to reach Brecon this afternoon or tomorrow." the lady behind the counter was looking at me with her mouth open. Eventually she said: "We get salmon here, not so many these days, but a sturgeon - we've never had one of them." I nodded sagely and said: "By all acounts, this one's a whopper; the barman in the Bridge End public house in Crickhowell said it was at least eighty pounds." I paid for the line, took it back to Brecon Cathedral and gave it to the contractor. "This should keep them hanging safely for the next hundred years," he said with a smile.
Two days later, when I was entering payment for the nylon line in my account, I remembered I had left the receipt in the shop, so I went around to collect it.
"About that sturgeon," said the lady who had served me, "you were having me on weren't you?" I professed indignation that my word should be doubted, but she continued: "Do you remember those men who were in the shop when you bought that line?" I nodded. "Well," she went on, "they were members of a 'Midlands' fishing club. After you left, they bought every inch of that 50 pound line I had. They were on the river all Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday, but they didn't catch a thing. You did me a good turn though," she said with a chuckle. "That box of line had been in the store for the last 20 years and we hadn't sold any of it until you came in."
To the left of the altar hangs the huge six foot Regimental Colour of the 24th Regiment which survived, but only just, the Battle of Chillianwallah in 1849. Its ensign and escort were mown down by Sikh guns, but a young private soldier dashed forward, ripped it from its pole and carried it to safety wrapped around his body. On the other side of the altar hang the Colours which were carried from 1812 to 1825. They are much older but are in better shape.
Above the small oak casket, which contains fragments of the wreath of dried flowers presented by Queen Victoria in 1880 in memory of those officers and men who died in the Anglo/Zulu War, hangs the Queen's Colour of the 1/24th Regiment. Very little of the original material remains, hardly surprising when you consider it was carried for 68 years and was subjected to the full spate of the River Buffalo when it was trapped in the river bed for two weeks after the disaster at Isandhlwana.
In 1989 it was decided that Brecon Cathedral needed a face lift. Contractors moved in and unsightly scaffolding soon spread up the walls into the rafters where workmen began to rewire electric fittings and whitewash the plaster. The Regimental Chapel was the last place to be done and I watched progress carefully so I could leave the Colours in position until the last moment. When the time came for them to be removed, I supervised the operation of carrying them to the vestry for safe keeping.
Almost a year later, the long business of renovation was complete and I gave thought to returning the Colours to the chapel. Before doing so, the contractor informed me that many of the wire stays that held the Colours in position were unsafe. These wires, two to each Colour, stretched way up into the rafters. I had a look at some of them and agreed that they should be replaced. I made the suggestion that we should use a modern material, such as nylon with a high breaking strain. "Good idea," said the contractor. "Who'll get it, you or me?" As it was a regimental matter and not a fair charge to the cathedral, I told him I would buy whatever was necessary. I then set about calculating how much nylon I would need; I was amazed to find that I needed about a quarter of a mile of the stuff.
Later that day, I went to a shop in Brecon that sold fishing tackle and asked the lady behind the counter if she had some very strong nylon line in stock. She asked me to wait a minute while she went into a store room. When she returned, she was carrying a box covered in dust. "This is 50 pounds breaking strain," she said. "Will that be strong enough for you?" I nodded and told her that I needed 400 yards. "Good heavens," she gasped, "are you going to catch a whale?" I do not know what came over me and why I did not tell her the reason for my purchase, but I replied: "No, not a whale - a sturgeon."
There were five or six men in the shop and I was aware of the close attention they were giving to everything I said. Getting carried away by the story I was creating, I continued: "It was seen at Caerleon last Friday and was spotted going over the weir at Abergavenny on Monday. It's expected to reach Brecon this afternoon or tomorrow." the lady behind the counter was looking at me with her mouth open. Eventually she said: "We get salmon here, not so many these days, but a sturgeon - we've never had one of them." I nodded sagely and said: "By all acounts, this one's a whopper; the barman in the Bridge End public house in Crickhowell said it was at least eighty pounds." I paid for the line, took it back to Brecon Cathedral and gave it to the contractor. "This should keep them hanging safely for the next hundred years," he said with a smile.
Two days later, when I was entering payment for the nylon line in my account, I remembered I had left the receipt in the shop, so I went around to collect it.
"About that sturgeon," said the lady who had served me, "you were having me on weren't you?" I professed indignation that my word should be doubted, but she continued: "Do you remember those men who were in the shop when you bought that line?" I nodded. "Well," she went on, "they were members of a 'Midlands' fishing club. After you left, they bought every inch of that 50 pound line I had. They were on the river all Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday, but they didn't catch a thing. You did me a good turn though," she said with a chuckle. "That box of line had been in the store for the last 20 years and we hadn't sold any of it until you came in."
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