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!!"
Showing posts with label Dhavlos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dhavlos. Show all posts
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Goat's Breakfast
After six months in Dhavlos on the north east coast of Cyprus, it was decided that the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment should be moved from their tented camp to proper barracks in Dhekelia, near Larnaca on the south coast. Many of us, me included, thought that Dhavlos was the ideal up-country station. But there it was, the Army is always on the move and we had to hand over our delightful camp by the sea and other rifle company bases to a field regiment of the Royal Artillery.
Gunners are not usually required to do such things as search culverts for mines every morning, keep the peace between Turks and Greeks, search villages for terrorists and weapons and put out forest fires deliberately started by terrorists to increase soldiers' work-load, To give them their due, they learned their lessons in Cyprus and developed their expertise for infantry work a few years later in Northern Ireland.
Captain Digby Rutherford, the Second-in-Command of the battery which took over the camp in Dhavlos, came up to me one day with a question which he thought I could answer. I can't remember what the question was or the answer I gave but, as far as Digby was concerned, it was overtaken by an event that imprinted itself on his mind for the next fifteen years.
We had been chatting for a minute or so when I became aware that Taffy, the regimental goat, was nosing around looking for something to eat. He found what he wanted in the form of a batch of acquitance rolls which Digby was holding in one hand behind his back. Digby had just paid his gunners and the hundred or so signatures on the long pieces of paper was proof of that fact.
Taffy was quite delicate with things he liked to eat and Digby only became aware of what was happening when Taffy licked his thumb. Having nothing left except a few shreds of paper, he shouted: "Look what your bloody goat has done!"
Nobody speaks about the regimental mascot to an officer of the 41st Foot like that and I told Rutherford that I would hold him responsible for any bowel disorders incurred by the goat from eating Royal Artillery acquitance rolls.
We left Dhavlos a few days later and I didn't see Digby again until 1973 - fifteen years later.
I walked into the officers' mess at the Prince of Wales's Division Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales and ordered myself a gin and tonic. A small stocky officer with a bushy moustache who had been posted in as officer-in-charge of the Army Youth Team, got up from the bum-warmer in front of the fire and told the mess waiter to make it a large one and charge it to him.
He clasped me by the hand and looked earnestly into my eyes: "Not a day has passed without me thinking about that awful gaffe I made the last time I saw you," he said. I had not the faintest idea who he was or what he was talking about, but I didn't let on. "I wondered if I would see you here," he continued, "and what your reaction would be." The waiter arrived with my large gin and tonic, so I sat with him on the bum-warmer.
I have a well practised routine which I use for one sided conversations like this. "Do you mean to say we haven't seen each other since that place ---- what was it called?" Dhavlos," piped Digby, "where your goat ate my acquitance rolls. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had punched me on the nose for what I said about the animal."
For the next three days, as soon as I entered the mess, the waiter presented me with a large gin and tonic. It began to be embarrassing and, eventually, I told Digby he had purged his contempt.
Gunners are not usually required to do such things as search culverts for mines every morning, keep the peace between Turks and Greeks, search villages for terrorists and weapons and put out forest fires deliberately started by terrorists to increase soldiers' work-load, To give them their due, they learned their lessons in Cyprus and developed their expertise for infantry work a few years later in Northern Ireland.
Captain Digby Rutherford, the Second-in-Command of the battery which took over the camp in Dhavlos, came up to me one day with a question which he thought I could answer. I can't remember what the question was or the answer I gave but, as far as Digby was concerned, it was overtaken by an event that imprinted itself on his mind for the next fifteen years.
We had been chatting for a minute or so when I became aware that Taffy, the regimental goat, was nosing around looking for something to eat. He found what he wanted in the form of a batch of acquitance rolls which Digby was holding in one hand behind his back. Digby had just paid his gunners and the hundred or so signatures on the long pieces of paper was proof of that fact.
Taffy was quite delicate with things he liked to eat and Digby only became aware of what was happening when Taffy licked his thumb. Having nothing left except a few shreds of paper, he shouted: "Look what your bloody goat has done!"
Nobody speaks about the regimental mascot to an officer of the 41st Foot like that and I told Rutherford that I would hold him responsible for any bowel disorders incurred by the goat from eating Royal Artillery acquitance rolls.
We left Dhavlos a few days later and I didn't see Digby again until 1973 - fifteen years later.
I walked into the officers' mess at the Prince of Wales's Division Depot in Crickhowell, South Wales and ordered myself a gin and tonic. A small stocky officer with a bushy moustache who had been posted in as officer-in-charge of the Army Youth Team, got up from the bum-warmer in front of the fire and told the mess waiter to make it a large one and charge it to him.
He clasped me by the hand and looked earnestly into my eyes: "Not a day has passed without me thinking about that awful gaffe I made the last time I saw you," he said. I had not the faintest idea who he was or what he was talking about, but I didn't let on. "I wondered if I would see you here," he continued, "and what your reaction would be." The waiter arrived with my large gin and tonic, so I sat with him on the bum-warmer.
I have a well practised routine which I use for one sided conversations like this. "Do you mean to say we haven't seen each other since that place ---- what was it called?" Dhavlos," piped Digby, "where your goat ate my acquitance rolls. I wouldn't have blamed you if you had punched me on the nose for what I said about the animal."
For the next three days, as soon as I entered the mess, the waiter presented me with a large gin and tonic. It began to be embarrassing and, eventually, I told Digby he had purged his contempt.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
DHAVLOS BY THE SEA
The Army field-telephone crackled at battalion headquarters in Dhavlos and a far distant voice could be heard saying: "Do you want to buy a horse?" It was Major Dicky Randell who commanded 'A' Company of the 1st Battalion Welch Regiment based near the village of Akrades way out on the Karpas peninsula of north east Cyprus. Dicky's thoughts were never far away from horses and many of us in the Regiment wondered why he had bothered to join a foot slogging outfit when he would have been far more at home in a cavalry regiment. We liked his company though and the gentle way in which he approached his problems with what he called 'horse-sense'.
The task of my Regiment in those days of the late 'fifties' was to keep order among Greek Cypriots, who wanted union with Greece. We also acted as a buffer between them and Turkish Cypriots who would often get annoyed with the Greeks for upsetting their quiet lifestyle. When we were not chasing gangs of Greek Cypriot 'EOKA' 'freedom fighters' around the pine clad mountains or waiting in ambush positions on known 'bandit' runs, there were plenty of opportunities for enjoying ourselves. Every company had its own football/volley ball pitch and those who were near the sea had first class swimming and sub aqua facilities. Those of us who were fortunate to be at battalion headquarters had just about everything to keep us happy, albeit in a monastic way. For this we had to thank a unit that had been in Dhavlos some time before us. Their commanding officer decided that the morale of his soldiers was far more important than any tactical considerations concerning the siting of battalion headquarters. The place was like a holiday camp. In the centre of the complex of tents and barbed wire was the Louis Hotel, a strange circular building that looked more like a lighthouse than an hotel. It used to attract the odd adventurous visitor before the state of emergency was declared, but when we were there, it was requisitioned for use as battalion headquarters and senior officers accommodation. We had a full range of sports pitches and, best of all, we were camped fifty feet or so above the sea where we looked across to Turkey and the distant Toros Daglari mountain range.
The swimming facilities were superb. For sub aqua enthusiasts there was deep crystal clear water and plenty of fish and, for those of a timorous disposition, a gently sloping bay of golden sand. A rocky outcrop five hundred yards out in the bay, dubbed Taff's Isle (which looked remarkably like a submarine), was a challenge for our long distance swimmers. Just below the officers' mess was a stone building which we used as a boat house; it contained a few dinghies on loan from the Cyprus Forces Sailing Club. Alongside the boat house was another building which we used as stables. The loose boxes accommodated two desert ponies I had recently purchased from a Royal Air Force unit in Benghazi (Libya) for £5.00 each. I actually bought three ponies, but one of them died of colic on the landing craft that brought them over.
It was difficult to get a verbal profile of the animal Dicky wanted to sell on the crackling line from Akrades, but I managed to gather it was in good condition and a bargain at £15.00. Dicky's recommendation was good enough for me and we came to an understanding that he would advance the money for the horse. I could just make out that he would deliver the beast by truck the following day to a place called Khomi Kebir, where the tarmac ended. I set off on the six mile journey to Khomi Kebir with two Land Rovers and six armed soldiers as my escort. We reached the rendezvous ahead of the other party from Akrades, so we did what most male Cypriots do during the summer; drink coffee and eat nuts in the cool shade of a carob tree.
We did not have to wait long before we heard the unmistakable whine of an Army three-ton truck labouring up the hill in second gear. As it came around the corner into the main square of the village, a few comatose Cypriots blinked at the sight of a large horse whose head was sticking out above the canopy frame. I admit to being surprised as well at the size of the horse and wondered if the girth and bridle straps were going to be long enough. I had become used to the size of Middle East horses compared with those of North West Europe. Fourteen hands was about the average height, but this monster in the back of the truck was over sixteen hands high. Dicky's batman, who doubled as a groom, was nick-named 'Shaky' because of his nervous twitch and stutter. He was dwarfed by the horse but was hanging on to the halter. "How are we g-g-g-going to g-g-g-get him off?" he said when he saw me. I had already made a reconnaissance of the village to find a suitable off-loading point and I was able to guide the vehicle to a place where the tailboard could be laid flat on the bank. When this was done and after I had tested it to make sure it was quite safe for the horse to cross over, I signalled 'Shaky' to proceed. After a few prods and pushes, the animal stood on firm ground.
So far, so good. The next stage was to get the bridle and saddle on. I started to undo the buckles and while doing so, asked 'Shaky' what the animal was like to ride. "I d-d-dunno, sir," he replied. "Well, what did Major Randell say about him?" I asked. "He's n-n-never ridden him n-n-neither," said 'Shaky' and then divulged some devastating news. "I d-d-don't think nobody's n-n-never ridden him." Despite 'Shaky' double negatives, the awful truth dawned on me that I had six miles of mountain road, with a nasty drop on one side, to cover on an unbroken horse. I considered returning the animal to Akrades, but then thought of the loss of face I would suffer among the soldiers. "Righto, let's get the bridle on," I said as
cheerfully as possible. I had to stand on the chassis of the Land Rover to reach the horse's head.
As I slipped the headband over his ears, I became aware of the hypnotic stare he gave me from the dark depths of one of his eyes. The saddle was next, with a suitably lengthened girth, and then I was ready to mount. I asked one of the soldiers to remove his shirt and this was draped over the animal's head so that I could, at least, get settled in the saddle before I knew how he would react. One foot in the stirrup, a hefty shove from 'Shaky' and I was up in the saddle and, so far, in command. Now came the moment of truth and I gave the command to remove the blindfold.
The bare-buff soldier reclaimed his shirt and the others, who had been holding on to the bridle as if the horse was a tethered barrage balloon, leapt out of the way. They need not have bothered as the animal stood as still as the most disciplined quadruped on Horse Guards. The calm before the storm, I thought as I put gentle pressure with my calves - still no response. The soldiers started to snigger and I decided that the time had come for some positive action. I reached up into a tree, snapped off a stick and gave him a tap on his rump - still no response. A harder slap, and he started to move, but only at a slow walk. 'Shaky' and his team raised the vehicle's tailboard ready for the return trip to Akrades. They watched me as I ambled off slowly in the direction of Dhavlos on a horse which, instead of being a 'ball of fire', turned out to be a damp squib! I developed a rhythmical motion with my legs and stick to keep the horse moving and in this fashion we progressed along the narrow dirt road with the Land Rovers moving in bounds in front and behind me.
We had travelled about a mile when a Turkish Cypriot, riding a donkey and leading another one behind, came into view. The effect upon my horse was as if someone had given him a huge electric shock. From a gentle walk, I was suddenly catapulted into a gallop as the animal hurtled down the track in the direction of the Cypriot and his two docile donkeys. The impact of a sixteen hands high stallion on a donkey not much bigger than a Shetland pony, was a bit one sided. The old man came off at the moment of strike and rolled under the donkey he had been riding. His position on the donkey's back was taken by me and the stallion who began to satisfy his urge to procreate. What I had not been told about the horse was that it had been used solely for stud purposes. The sight of any donkey, horse or
mule drove it into a frenzy. If it was a female, it had to be mounted and if it was a male,it had to be attacked.
The soldiers in the Land Rovers had watched my assault upon the Cypriot and his donkey with amazement and they assumed I had spotted something they had not seen. As I was trying to get my horse off the donkey, I could see them running up the track with rifles at the ready. I prayed they would not shoot the old man, who was somewhere underneath the writhing mass of horse flesh, and add injury to insult.
I must have been able to get through to them that it was a purely sexual matter, as they put down their rifles and helped the old man to his feet. They dragged the donkey away from the stallion, whereupon it shot over the side of the road and joined the other one that was going as fast as its legs could carry it, for the sea - about two miles away.
Turkish Cypriots are made of strong stuff and the recovery of that one from a state of shock was swift. Within a matter of seconds he was leaping up and down in his strange baggy pants (Christ catchers) and gesticulating wildly in the direction of his runaway donkeys. The soldiers had a 'whip round' for him and managed to collect a few packets of cigarettes, which he grudgingly accepted. I did my best to apologise, but he just shook his fist at me and gave a 'five fingered curse' to the stallion.
At this stage of my ownership of Satan, for that was his name, I did not realise that an identical reaction would take place every time he saw an animal of his own species. I was, therefore, only slightly prepared when we met the next donkey-borne Cypriot. He was more fortunate than the other one as we had descended to sea level and his donkey summoned all its reserves of speed to escape from the carnal onslaught.
Except for two sudden bursts of speed, the journey from Khomi Kebir to Dhavlos had been boring and we had taken about one and a half hours to cover six miles. I was relieved to see the camp in the distance and, as we got closer, the sight of a mess waiter in his white uniform on the patio of the officers' mess reminded me that I was much in need of a cold beer. I walked Satan through the transport park and handed him over to my batman. I gave him instructions to feed and water the animal before I climbed the cliff path to the bluff of high ground above the stables and boat house where the mess was situated. Most of the officers were standing around having their drinks before lunch and the commanding officer asked me what I thought of the new horse. I told him what had happened and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.
All of a sudden there was a commotion outside and I recognised the voice of my batman. "Sir, you'd better come quick, that new horse of yours is knocking the stable down!" I bounded out of the mess and flew down the cliff path to the stables where I found the place in a shambles. "Whatever has happened?" I asked. One of the other batman explained that Satan had been taken into a stall where he had been given a large pan of oats and a bucket of water. "Good as gold, he was," said the batman, "until someone brought in one of those desert ponies, and then all hell was let loose." I recognised the same trouble that I had experienced twice myself that morning. "We'll have to get him out of here," I said. "Take him up to the contractor's shop and tie him up beneath the big tree. I looked at the damage
he had caused and calculated it would take a few days' work and a number of large gins for the Quartermaster before the stables would be restored.. "Another thing," said my batman, "I've never seen a horse eat so much as this one." Even an inexperienced person could see that Satan had been kept on basic survival rations. Big hollows in his sides showed he had been underfed and I realised he would need more than the normal rations for a horse of his size to build up his strength,. What I had not appreciated was the enormous capacity he had for oats. Instead of a throat and a stomach, it seemed he had a black hole down which everything disappeared.
One advantage of giving him this high octane food was that his performance as a hack
improved and I spent many enjoyable hours riding him on the beach and the countryside around Dhavlos. I could not take him too far from the camp as we were on 'active service' and the threat of terrorist action was real. One feature of his personality which remained constant was the effect other horses had on him. His years as a stud stallion had become too ingrained in his personality to be changed by the 'cordon bleu' treatment I was giving him.
I was never able to take him anywhere near the other horses in the stables and, as a result, I became a 'lone ranger' as nobody could accompany me on a ride. He continued to live under the big tree by the contractor's shop which was ideal for him during the summer months. After six months service in Dhavlos, the time came for us to leave the Karpas peninsula and take up residence in Dhekelia Camp near Larnaca on the south east coast of Cyprus. There was no problem about taking the other two ponies with us, they were quite manageable and had already become seasoned travellers. Satan was a problem though and the prospect of putting him in stables in Dhekelia, where there were plenty of ponies and a flourishing polo club,
was quite out of the question. I suppose I could have sent him back to Akrades, but with all his faults I had become attached to the old rogue.
The answer to the problem came two weeks before we were due to leave Dhavlos. Nikos, the locally employed officers' mess cook, came to me and said: "I understand you want to sell your horse, sir." "That's true," I replied. "Are you interested?" "Yes, I am," replied Nikos. "You see, I have some horses and I think Satan would be good for putting with them." By 'horses' he meant 'mares' and it was obvious that he had his eye on Satan as the father of some sturdy foals and fillies. I was delighted with this solution to the problem and I told Nikos he could have Satan as a gift the day we left Dhavlos.Nikos was a courteous old man and he looked after us well during our time in the camp alongside his village. He was always pleased to prepare local dishes for us and even to this day I remember his way of cooking octopus with garlic and red wine.
The day before we left Dhavlos, I took Satan for our last ride. His coat was sleek and shiny and the deep hollows in his sides had gone; he held his head high and tossed his mane at the prospect of a gallop on the beach. It was hard to imagine that this was the same horse that had been in such poor condition only a few months before. Dicky Randell had been right when he recognised the potential of the animal.
I was getting my soldiers ready for the move, so my batman took Satan to his new home. When all was ready and the soldiers were aboard the trucks, I gave the order to move off. As we headed east on the dust road to Khomi Kebir and beyond, I leaned out of the window to take a last look at the Louis Hotel and the rows of tents, now occupied by a field battery of the Royal Artillery. At the far end of the village, I saw the whitewashed stone house where Nikos lived with his wife and two daughters. In the adjoining field, three mares were gently swishing their tails under some trees. Standing with them, gently nuzzling the neck of a pretty little filly, was Satan. I gave him a wave and silently wished him a long and
happy life.
The task of my Regiment in those days of the late 'fifties' was to keep order among Greek Cypriots, who wanted union with Greece. We also acted as a buffer between them and Turkish Cypriots who would often get annoyed with the Greeks for upsetting their quiet lifestyle. When we were not chasing gangs of Greek Cypriot 'EOKA' 'freedom fighters' around the pine clad mountains or waiting in ambush positions on known 'bandit' runs, there were plenty of opportunities for enjoying ourselves. Every company had its own football/volley ball pitch and those who were near the sea had first class swimming and sub aqua facilities. Those of us who were fortunate to be at battalion headquarters had just about everything to keep us happy, albeit in a monastic way. For this we had to thank a unit that had been in Dhavlos some time before us. Their commanding officer decided that the morale of his soldiers was far more important than any tactical considerations concerning the siting of battalion headquarters. The place was like a holiday camp. In the centre of the complex of tents and barbed wire was the Louis Hotel, a strange circular building that looked more like a lighthouse than an hotel. It used to attract the odd adventurous visitor before the state of emergency was declared, but when we were there, it was requisitioned for use as battalion headquarters and senior officers accommodation. We had a full range of sports pitches and, best of all, we were camped fifty feet or so above the sea where we looked across to Turkey and the distant Toros Daglari mountain range.
The swimming facilities were superb. For sub aqua enthusiasts there was deep crystal clear water and plenty of fish and, for those of a timorous disposition, a gently sloping bay of golden sand. A rocky outcrop five hundred yards out in the bay, dubbed Taff's Isle (which looked remarkably like a submarine), was a challenge for our long distance swimmers. Just below the officers' mess was a stone building which we used as a boat house; it contained a few dinghies on loan from the Cyprus Forces Sailing Club. Alongside the boat house was another building which we used as stables. The loose boxes accommodated two desert ponies I had recently purchased from a Royal Air Force unit in Benghazi (Libya) for £5.00 each. I actually bought three ponies, but one of them died of colic on the landing craft that brought them over.
It was difficult to get a verbal profile of the animal Dicky wanted to sell on the crackling line from Akrades, but I managed to gather it was in good condition and a bargain at £15.00. Dicky's recommendation was good enough for me and we came to an understanding that he would advance the money for the horse. I could just make out that he would deliver the beast by truck the following day to a place called Khomi Kebir, where the tarmac ended. I set off on the six mile journey to Khomi Kebir with two Land Rovers and six armed soldiers as my escort. We reached the rendezvous ahead of the other party from Akrades, so we did what most male Cypriots do during the summer; drink coffee and eat nuts in the cool shade of a carob tree.
We did not have to wait long before we heard the unmistakable whine of an Army three-ton truck labouring up the hill in second gear. As it came around the corner into the main square of the village, a few comatose Cypriots blinked at the sight of a large horse whose head was sticking out above the canopy frame. I admit to being surprised as well at the size of the horse and wondered if the girth and bridle straps were going to be long enough. I had become used to the size of Middle East horses compared with those of North West Europe. Fourteen hands was about the average height, but this monster in the back of the truck was over sixteen hands high. Dicky's batman, who doubled as a groom, was nick-named 'Shaky' because of his nervous twitch and stutter. He was dwarfed by the horse but was hanging on to the halter. "How are we g-g-g-going to g-g-g-get him off?" he said when he saw me. I had already made a reconnaissance of the village to find a suitable off-loading point and I was able to guide the vehicle to a place where the tailboard could be laid flat on the bank. When this was done and after I had tested it to make sure it was quite safe for the horse to cross over, I signalled 'Shaky' to proceed. After a few prods and pushes, the animal stood on firm ground.
So far, so good. The next stage was to get the bridle and saddle on. I started to undo the buckles and while doing so, asked 'Shaky' what the animal was like to ride. "I d-d-dunno, sir," he replied. "Well, what did Major Randell say about him?" I asked. "He's n-n-never ridden him n-n-neither," said 'Shaky' and then divulged some devastating news. "I d-d-don't think nobody's n-n-never ridden him." Despite 'Shaky' double negatives, the awful truth dawned on me that I had six miles of mountain road, with a nasty drop on one side, to cover on an unbroken horse. I considered returning the animal to Akrades, but then thought of the loss of face I would suffer among the soldiers. "Righto, let's get the bridle on," I said as
cheerfully as possible. I had to stand on the chassis of the Land Rover to reach the horse's head.
As I slipped the headband over his ears, I became aware of the hypnotic stare he gave me from the dark depths of one of his eyes. The saddle was next, with a suitably lengthened girth, and then I was ready to mount. I asked one of the soldiers to remove his shirt and this was draped over the animal's head so that I could, at least, get settled in the saddle before I knew how he would react. One foot in the stirrup, a hefty shove from 'Shaky' and I was up in the saddle and, so far, in command. Now came the moment of truth and I gave the command to remove the blindfold.
The bare-buff soldier reclaimed his shirt and the others, who had been holding on to the bridle as if the horse was a tethered barrage balloon, leapt out of the way. They need not have bothered as the animal stood as still as the most disciplined quadruped on Horse Guards. The calm before the storm, I thought as I put gentle pressure with my calves - still no response. The soldiers started to snigger and I decided that the time had come for some positive action. I reached up into a tree, snapped off a stick and gave him a tap on his rump - still no response. A harder slap, and he started to move, but only at a slow walk. 'Shaky' and his team raised the vehicle's tailboard ready for the return trip to Akrades. They watched me as I ambled off slowly in the direction of Dhavlos on a horse which, instead of being a 'ball of fire', turned out to be a damp squib! I developed a rhythmical motion with my legs and stick to keep the horse moving and in this fashion we progressed along the narrow dirt road with the Land Rovers moving in bounds in front and behind me.
We had travelled about a mile when a Turkish Cypriot, riding a donkey and leading another one behind, came into view. The effect upon my horse was as if someone had given him a huge electric shock. From a gentle walk, I was suddenly catapulted into a gallop as the animal hurtled down the track in the direction of the Cypriot and his two docile donkeys. The impact of a sixteen hands high stallion on a donkey not much bigger than a Shetland pony, was a bit one sided. The old man came off at the moment of strike and rolled under the donkey he had been riding. His position on the donkey's back was taken by me and the stallion who began to satisfy his urge to procreate. What I had not been told about the horse was that it had been used solely for stud purposes. The sight of any donkey, horse or
mule drove it into a frenzy. If it was a female, it had to be mounted and if it was a male,it had to be attacked.
The soldiers in the Land Rovers had watched my assault upon the Cypriot and his donkey with amazement and they assumed I had spotted something they had not seen. As I was trying to get my horse off the donkey, I could see them running up the track with rifles at the ready. I prayed they would not shoot the old man, who was somewhere underneath the writhing mass of horse flesh, and add injury to insult.
I must have been able to get through to them that it was a purely sexual matter, as they put down their rifles and helped the old man to his feet. They dragged the donkey away from the stallion, whereupon it shot over the side of the road and joined the other one that was going as fast as its legs could carry it, for the sea - about two miles away.
Turkish Cypriots are made of strong stuff and the recovery of that one from a state of shock was swift. Within a matter of seconds he was leaping up and down in his strange baggy pants (Christ catchers) and gesticulating wildly in the direction of his runaway donkeys. The soldiers had a 'whip round' for him and managed to collect a few packets of cigarettes, which he grudgingly accepted. I did my best to apologise, but he just shook his fist at me and gave a 'five fingered curse' to the stallion.
At this stage of my ownership of Satan, for that was his name, I did not realise that an identical reaction would take place every time he saw an animal of his own species. I was, therefore, only slightly prepared when we met the next donkey-borne Cypriot. He was more fortunate than the other one as we had descended to sea level and his donkey summoned all its reserves of speed to escape from the carnal onslaught.
Except for two sudden bursts of speed, the journey from Khomi Kebir to Dhavlos had been boring and we had taken about one and a half hours to cover six miles. I was relieved to see the camp in the distance and, as we got closer, the sight of a mess waiter in his white uniform on the patio of the officers' mess reminded me that I was much in need of a cold beer. I walked Satan through the transport park and handed him over to my batman. I gave him instructions to feed and water the animal before I climbed the cliff path to the bluff of high ground above the stables and boat house where the mess was situated. Most of the officers were standing around having their drinks before lunch and the commanding officer asked me what I thought of the new horse. I told him what had happened and everyone had a good laugh at my expense.
All of a sudden there was a commotion outside and I recognised the voice of my batman. "Sir, you'd better come quick, that new horse of yours is knocking the stable down!" I bounded out of the mess and flew down the cliff path to the stables where I found the place in a shambles. "Whatever has happened?" I asked. One of the other batman explained that Satan had been taken into a stall where he had been given a large pan of oats and a bucket of water. "Good as gold, he was," said the batman, "until someone brought in one of those desert ponies, and then all hell was let loose." I recognised the same trouble that I had experienced twice myself that morning. "We'll have to get him out of here," I said. "Take him up to the contractor's shop and tie him up beneath the big tree. I looked at the damage
he had caused and calculated it would take a few days' work and a number of large gins for the Quartermaster before the stables would be restored.. "Another thing," said my batman, "I've never seen a horse eat so much as this one." Even an inexperienced person could see that Satan had been kept on basic survival rations. Big hollows in his sides showed he had been underfed and I realised he would need more than the normal rations for a horse of his size to build up his strength,. What I had not appreciated was the enormous capacity he had for oats. Instead of a throat and a stomach, it seemed he had a black hole down which everything disappeared.
One advantage of giving him this high octane food was that his performance as a hack
improved and I spent many enjoyable hours riding him on the beach and the countryside around Dhavlos. I could not take him too far from the camp as we were on 'active service' and the threat of terrorist action was real. One feature of his personality which remained constant was the effect other horses had on him. His years as a stud stallion had become too ingrained in his personality to be changed by the 'cordon bleu' treatment I was giving him.
I was never able to take him anywhere near the other horses in the stables and, as a result, I became a 'lone ranger' as nobody could accompany me on a ride. He continued to live under the big tree by the contractor's shop which was ideal for him during the summer months. After six months service in Dhavlos, the time came for us to leave the Karpas peninsula and take up residence in Dhekelia Camp near Larnaca on the south east coast of Cyprus. There was no problem about taking the other two ponies with us, they were quite manageable and had already become seasoned travellers. Satan was a problem though and the prospect of putting him in stables in Dhekelia, where there were plenty of ponies and a flourishing polo club,
was quite out of the question. I suppose I could have sent him back to Akrades, but with all his faults I had become attached to the old rogue.
The answer to the problem came two weeks before we were due to leave Dhavlos. Nikos, the locally employed officers' mess cook, came to me and said: "I understand you want to sell your horse, sir." "That's true," I replied. "Are you interested?" "Yes, I am," replied Nikos. "You see, I have some horses and I think Satan would be good for putting with them." By 'horses' he meant 'mares' and it was obvious that he had his eye on Satan as the father of some sturdy foals and fillies. I was delighted with this solution to the problem and I told Nikos he could have Satan as a gift the day we left Dhavlos.Nikos was a courteous old man and he looked after us well during our time in the camp alongside his village. He was always pleased to prepare local dishes for us and even to this day I remember his way of cooking octopus with garlic and red wine.
The day before we left Dhavlos, I took Satan for our last ride. His coat was sleek and shiny and the deep hollows in his sides had gone; he held his head high and tossed his mane at the prospect of a gallop on the beach. It was hard to imagine that this was the same horse that had been in such poor condition only a few months before. Dicky Randell had been right when he recognised the potential of the animal.
I was getting my soldiers ready for the move, so my batman took Satan to his new home. When all was ready and the soldiers were aboard the trucks, I gave the order to move off. As we headed east on the dust road to Khomi Kebir and beyond, I leaned out of the window to take a last look at the Louis Hotel and the rows of tents, now occupied by a field battery of the Royal Artillery. At the far end of the village, I saw the whitewashed stone house where Nikos lived with his wife and two daughters. In the adjoining field, three mares were gently swishing their tails under some trees. Standing with them, gently nuzzling the neck of a pretty little filly, was Satan. I gave him a wave and silently wished him a long and
happy life.
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