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.

Scarface and Co.

My attendant at the South Wales Borderers Museum in Brecon came into my office one morning and told me that someone wanted to speak to me. It was not unusual for me, the curator, to attend to visitors, in fact, it was a pleasant part of my duty which kept me in touch with the public. The attendant led the way to one of the minor rooms and pointed towards a man and a woman, in their mid-twenties, both dressed in blue jeans. The man had long dark hair with a livid scar which ran down the right side of his face, dragging the flesh near his eye and giving him a sinister appearance. The woman was good looking but had a glint in both eyes which spelt: 'look but don't touch'.
"I've been asked by my boss to speak to you concerning an exercise we would like to hold in Brecon Barracks," said Scarface. Despite his buccaneer appearance, he had a military way about him, but the woman was 100% Hollywood. Both extracted their ID cards and satisfied me they were bona fide members of the elite branch of the service to which they said they belonged.
This was an unusual state of affairs to say the least but, without appearing to be uncooperative, I told them it was beyond my jurisdiction to say yes or no. However, I was prepared to put them in touch with the officer in Brecon Barracks who was responsible for security. I went back to my office and spoke to my colleague who had already received a call from someone in the same elite outfit telling him roughly what was being planned. "Send them over," he said.
An hour later, Scarface and his companion returned with the security officer. "Do you mind if they have a look around upstairs," he asked. "No, not at all," I replied. "You know your way around, carry on." In those days, the first floor of the museum building carried reserve items of the museum collection and was a place where visitors, by appointment, could carry out research. Five minutes later the trio returned and went into the public rooms where they spent another twenty minutes, or so, looking around. That was the last I saw of Scarface and his attractive assistant and, although I used to see the security officer in the officers' mess most lunch times, he took no further part in whatever was being planned.
A few weeks went by and then Scarface's boss rang me to make an appointment for two other members of his organisation to look over the museum. I began to wonder if I was becoming involved in some sort of hoax but, as he had the blessing of those who ran the barracks, who was I to ask questions.
The next to arrive were a pair of pinstriped toffs who could have passed for a couple of up-and-coming stockbrokers. With my permission, they carried out another brisk inspection of the museum and then announced they would like to arrange a date for the visit of a VIP whose identity would have to remain secret until that person arrived. I gave them three or four dates which one of them noted in his diary. Their boss rang me later that day and we agreed on the following Friday afternoon.
I still had not the faintest idea who I was about to meet when a cavalcade of four Jaguar limousines and another four police motor-cycle outriders swept through the barrack gates and pulled up on the square outside the museum. Pinstriped 'heavies' with broad shoulders, narrow waists and tell-tale bulges below their armpits piled out of the Jags and adopted positions of 'all-round defence'. One of them, whom I recognised as the 'stockbroker' I had met a few days before, beckoned me forward to the second Jaguar. I looked through the window and saw a woman in the back seat who was collecting her gloves and handbag. When all was ready, the door opened and she stepped out.
Starting at the top, was a pretty little beige hat with a veil which came down below her nose. A matching beige silk suit with wide lapels and mother-of-pearl buttons was complemented by a black handbag, black stockings and black patent leather shoes with high stiletto heels. She carried beige kid gloves as delicate as her impeccable make-up and ivory complexion. Standing no more than five feet she proffered her hand for me to kiss, shake or anything else I had in mind. A smile played on her lips and a sultry look from her dark eyes made me feel I was being hypnotised. Before I slipped completely under her spell, the pinstriped bodyguard said: "May I introduce the wife of the Israeli Ambassador - Madame Goldberg.”
She said nothing when I welcomed her to the museum, but she spoke eloquently with her eyes. It was the same for the next fifty minutes as I conducted her around the museum, explaining countless treasures spanning over three centuries of service to Kings, Queens and country. I was aware of her bodyguards moving surreptitiously among the other visitors who, of course, had no knowledge of the VIP following in my wake.
I was beginning to 'dry-up' after forty minutes of non-stop prattle and when I had the opportunity, I asked one of the 'heavies' how much longer he wanted me to carry on. "Can you give her another ten minutes, sir?" he enquired. I nodded, took a deep breath and launched into an account of the trouncing the Zulus gave the Regiment in the Zulu War of 1879.
We made our way towards the side door of the museum which leads to the barrack square on which the lined-up Jaguars and police motor-cycles were ready and waiting. I presented Madame Goldberg with a small gift from the sales cupboard as a memento of her visit and she murmured her thanks and fluttered her eyelashes as if I had given her one of our prize exhibits. The door of the Jag was opened and she slid effortlessly into the rich leather upholstery with just that slight delay of the left leg to imprint a vision of the limb into my mind for weeks to come.
The cavalcade was about to move off when the rear passenger window of the second Jaguar opened and Madame Goldberg beckoned me to come close. I hopped across the square, causing a certain amount of consternation among the pinstriped fraternity who resented any interference in their carefully monitored programme. I thought she was going to kiss me, but she drew her rosebud lips close to my ear and spoke for the first time.
"I forgot to ask you," she said in that sonorous Welsh accent used by the well-heeled inhabitants of the Manselton area of Swansea. "Are you open on Saturdays? My dad would love to see this." I was quite unable to speak, so I nodded and reached inside my breast pocket for a museum leaflet which gave opening times throughout the year. "Diolch yn fawr," she said sweetly (in Welsh). .

Post script:- If the lady had ever been to Israel, I fancy she would have gone as a tourist and not the wife of the ambassador of that country to the Court of St. James. The name ''Goldberg' is an invention of mine as I have forgotten what she called herself when she came to Brecon.
A few days after the event, I received a letter from the person whom I looked upon as a 'James Bond' character surrounded by exotic cars sprouting machine guns and rocket launchers. He said the visit had been well worth while and thanked me for the part I played in the exercise.