GOAT ON LOAN

For the last nine years of my service in the Army I was based at the Prince of Wales's Division Depot, Crickhowell from where I covered most of South Wales spreading the word about career opportunities with the Royal Regiment of Wales and the Royal Welch Fusiliers.  I had a team of twelve soldiers, a display vehicle, a mobile shooting range and the wherewithal to demonstrate  infantry weapons. The team was constantly travelling during the summer, and during the winter I used to arrange visits of school children to the Depot, stage Military Tattoos, and produce Regimental Band and male voice choir concerts in leisure centres within the principality.  To bolster my resources, I made use of Junior Soldiers wing at Cwrt y Gollen infantry training camp, the Territorial Army, branches of the Regimental Association and even In-Pensioners from the Royal Hospital, Chelsea, where my regiment (the Welch Regiment) was raised in 1719.  When I heard that 'Shenkin', the regimental goat of the 3rd (Territorial) Battalion, Royal Regiment of Wales was barred by quarantine regulations from going overseas to annual camp, I offered to look after him for the fortnight the Volunteers would be away.

I had forgotten about my offer until I arrived for work one Monday morning and saw  a trailer in the car park with SHENKIN painted in large white letters on the side.   Commanding Officer's Conference was the first event of the week, so I parked my car and joined other members of the Depot staff in the large room on the upper floor of Depot HQ.

     The Commanding Officer started off  by saying that a most remarkable incident occurred during the previous Saturday afternoon: "The 3rd Battalion goat arrived at the guard room,"  he began.  "The adjutant and I knew nothing about it and there was nobody on the phone at 3/RRW  in Cardiff." 

    I operated independently of Depot HQ and felt a tinge of conscience about not telling anyone and not making proper arrangements for its reception. I stuck my hand up and said:  "I'm sorry, Colonel, I should have asked you if we could look after Shenkin while the 3rd Battalion is away at camp," and as an afterthought, "I hope it's not too late."  The CO concerned is a good friend of mine and rarely loses his cool.  I must have touched him on a raw nerve as he exploded when he found that I was to blame.

    "Do you realise you nearly put two people in hospital last Saturday afternoon?"  he said, and then told me that if I had any more ideas about making the Depot an animal sanctuary, would I please ask  first.

    I felt thoroughly ashamed of myself, but it wasn't until I left the conference room that I found out about the two people I had nearly hospitalised.  It was the Quartermaster who gave me a 'blow-by-blow' account of what happened.

   

It seemed that a Land Rover towing a trailer pulled up at the guard room and the driver, who also happened to be the Goat Major of the 3rd Battalion, dismounted and asked the guard commander to sign for his goat.  "He's staying with you for two weeks while we are away at camp," he said, handing over a suitcase containing a green coat with regimental embellishments, two silver horn tips, a fore-head badge and a regimental cane.     The guard commander had been given no warning about the new arrival but, as the Goat Major was pressed for time, the first essentials were to park the trailer in the car park and put the goat  in the pen specially constructed for such eventualities.  This posed a problem as no one could remember a goat being accommodated there before.  The key was not in the guard room so a runner was sent around to the Regimental Quartermaster Sergeant's married quarter to see if he knew where it was.  "Ask the Drum Major to come as well,"  said the guard commander.  Another member of the guard was sent to the far end of the camp with a barrow and told to bring a bale of hay and a bale of straw from the stables to complement the fodder and bedding material already in the trailer.

Eventually, the Drum Major appeared followed a few minutes later by the RQMS who had found the key in the quartermaster's stores.  The goat was removed from the trailer and led across to its pen where the RQMS  was busy arranging straw on the floor of the sleeping quarters.  Goats can accelerate to 30mph over fifteen feet, which was about the distance between its horns and the RQMS's backside protruding from the bed space.  The impact hurled the warrant officer like a cannonball on a horizontal trajectory until his head hit the wall.  Shenkin then searched for another target and found one in the form of the Drum Major who had just locked the gate from the inside.  As he turned around, the goat butted him in the 'goolies' and incapacitated him as efficiently as it had done with the RQMS. 

Until it could be established why the regimental mascot of the 3rd Battalion had appeared in Cwrt y Gollen camp, a drummer was detailed to look after the animal, but after the CO's conference two days later, a member of my staff took over.

    Shenkin accompanied my team throughout the first week to agricultural shows and carnivals and was the centre of attention wherever he went.  Much of his time was spent eating whatever was offered and nibbling the fingers of young children who crowded around him.  Halfway through the following week, I gave him a day off and the (temporary) Goat Major tethered him to a stake on the opposite side of the road from the officers' mess in Cwrt y Gollen camp.  There, the grass was green and plentiful and was an ideal place for Shenkin to sit and chew cud.    

I was walking from my office to the mess for lunch one sunny day when I noticed the officers' mess cook sunbathing a few feet away from the goat.  I thought at the time it was a strange thing to do, but I put it down to the fellow's East European upbringing.  He had come to Britain as a refugee after the 1956 Hungarian uprising against communist rule and had made a name for himself  by producing his version of Hungarian goulash and other less well-known, but equally delicious, Magyar dishes.   The mess manager was asking if anyone had seen the cook as there was only ten minutes to go before lunch was due to be served.  I pricked up my ears and told him that he was sunbathing on the grass verge outside.  That startling piece of information was investigated and the mess manager found that instead of sunbathing, the chef was unconscious.

    Water was splashed on his face until he levered himself on one elbow and looked around.  When his eyes focused on Shenkin  munching grass a few feet away, he burst into a torrent of abuse in the Magyar dialect which, roughly translated, went as follows:  "You heathen goat whose mother should have been eaten by wolves - don't  expect me to get you out of muddle any more!"

    When the chef had been helped back to the kitchen and  given a glass of beer to assist his recovery, he explained what happened.

    "I went outside for a puff on my cheroot and saw the goat unable to move because his legs were tangled by rope.  We used to keep goats at home in Hungary and many times I have had to unwind rope so they could eat the grass.  I spoke quietly to the goat and told him not to worry as I would soon have him out.  When I had freed all four legs - he butted me here (pointing towards a large red swelling on his forehead), and I don't remember any more."

    There was talk that the chef was going to sue the Ministry of Defence for damages, but a quiet word from the Quartermaster about job opportunities for refugees made him think again and the matter was smoothed over.

A week later, the (permanent) Goat Major turned up to collect Shenkin.  Three members of the Depot staff, who were still nursing their injuries, were glad to see him go while the Commanding Officer - an old South Wales Borderer, had still to be convinced that Kashmir goats, even if they came from the Queen's herd in Whipsnade Zoo, should be elevated above their station.

   

CREPE SUZETTE

I have always been suspicious about setting fire to things at the dining table. Not only is it a waste of alcohol, but it can be downright dangerous.

    It just so happened that Nesta, my wife, and I were in Barbados a few years ago staying in one of the best hotels on the island.  We had spent a full day taking photographs and making notes for a travel guide we were putting together.  We returned to the hotel, took a shower and made ourselves ready for a pleasant evening.

The Maitre d’hotel made us feel that we were the most important couple in the dining room as he led us to our table.  We studied the menu while we waited for drinks to arrive and took in the beauty of the scene – a blood red sun slowly sinking into the ocean while a phosphorescent sea spread wavelets on golden sand below us.  We could not help noticing a young couple sitting a few feet away who had eyes only for themselves.  Nesta winked at me and said: “Honeymooners.”

    A steel band played softly in an arbour of palm trees while a young Bajan strummed his guitar making sweet calypso music.  It was the ideal setting for romance and helped us to fall in love with the island.

   

The main course arrived and produced another dimension for an already perfect evening.  Now and again we looked at the young couple and they managed to take their eyes off each other and gave us a smile. 

    We paced each other throughout the meal but when we ordered a coconut and banana pudding they asked for  Crepes Suzette.  This required a certain amount of preparation and we were well into our pudding before a waiter returned with a trolley. 

    He started to do things with eggs, flour and sugar before reaching for a bottle of spirits.  With a flourish, he ignited the mixture from a canister of gas attached to the trolley and the whole lot exploded. 

    The young wife took most of the discharge and was covered in flames.  Her husband covered her in a table cloth and tried to put out the flames but what he did not realize was that he himself was on fire.  All this happened within a few seconds before he was forced to leap over the balustrade and jump into the sea. 

    In the meantime, other diners, including Nesta and I, flung ourselves upon the girl who was still on fire.  Eventually we succeeded in dousing the flames and the Hotel manager and his wife took over asking us to stand aside and make room for the emergency services.  The ‘honeymooners’ were taken away in an ambulance and that was the end of what promised to be a perfect evening.

There was no evidence of the fiasco when we went for breakfast the following morning and the Maitre d’hotel looked blankly at me when I asked him what had happened to the young couple.  Life had to go on in that most majestic of hotels. 

DIG FOR VICTORY

    

     I watched my grand-daughter, Ellie, share a bowl of olives with some of her friends a few months before her fifth birthday and marvelled at the sophisticated ways of children these days compared with me at the same age.   

It was not until 1948, when I was 22 years old and stationed in Cyprus that I ate my first olive. I was attending a cocktail party in the home of Mr Magubgub, a respected antiquary and authority on the ancient Roman town of Salamis.  He chuckled at my obvious dislike of the fruit and went on to tell me all there was to know about olives.  I persevered until I became used to the taste and have loved them ever since.  

    The first time I saw a chilli was when I was 21 years of age.  I was staying in a hotel in Maidstone close to a hospital where my girl friend was having her appendix removed.  The waiter brought around a trolley with a selection of salad items; on the middle tray was a red thing about three inches long.  Not knowing what it was, I cut it in half and popped one end in my mouth.  I was convulsed with chilli-burn and such a fit of coughing that  the combined resources of the dining room staff were needed to evacuate me to a less public place.   

    Another example of my blossoming awareness of exotic foodstuff was my introduction to smoked salmon.  What is now a common-place item on supermarket  shelves was, in my youth, as remote as Beluga caviar.  The apogée of smoked fish, as far as  I was concerned, was a kipper.

    It was in 1952, when I was serving in Malaya with the 3rd Battalion King's African Rifles.  My commanding officer ordered me to get some smoked salmon for a lunch party for the Commander-in-Chief, Far East Land Forces - General Sir Somebody-or-other.  Salmon, smoked or otherwise, was an unlikely first course for a VIP lunch in the remote area  of Central Pahang where we operated and was made even more so by the way I served it - like steaks. The commanding officer was furious but the  General was highly amused, and my gaff contributed to a memorable visit.

    I tell these stories about myself because it is almost beyond the comprehension of those who were born in the '60s' onwards to know what living conditions were like during the war years and into the '50s'.  Rationing of food  was not abandoned until 1953 and a year later television reached the provinces. Compulsory national service of two years in the Armed Forces  did not end until 1963 while supermarkets and package holidays did not make an appearance until well into the '60s'.

    I was nearly 13 when the second world war broke out and I lived a comfortable life in No. 38 Bron Awelon, Barry, South Wales with my parents who, I suppose, were  graded 'middle-class'.  My parents did not  have a car, but they owned their house and they sent me as a day-boy to Monkton House public school in Cardiff (where my paternal Grandfather was educated in the '1880s'. It was then called Shewbrook's College).  The food we ate at home was plain but nourishing.  It was based mainly on recipes from Westmorland, where my mother was born.  She was always a plump woman and the word 'diet' never entered her vocabulary.

    Even though food was rationed during the war, we never seemed to go short.  For this we had to thank the milkman who called on us every morning at eight o'clock.  He used to leave Ford Farm, Llancarfan in the Vale of Glamorgan at about 5am and drive his horse and cart about 12 miles before he reached the Barry Garden Suburb.  His mother was a lazy woman who refused to get up and give him his breakfast (it was most probably too early for him anyway).  My mother, guided by her maternal instincts and recognising an opportunity to gain extra rations, used to provide a man-size breakfast for Edward which usually comprised: porridge, eggs and bacon, fried bread, toast and marmalade.  He supplied much of the food plus lots of other things like butter, cream and guinea fowl.  The rub came each Friday when he presented the bill.  In addition to milk and eggs, he charged for all the other items he brought from the farm, which included the food he had eaten himself.  My mother was sharp as far as money was concerned and so was Edward.  Both recognised a bargain when they saw one.

    My father grew his own vegetables on an allotment south of Porth y Castell  about 300 yards from the house.  He and I used to carry buckets of water, when required, as none was laid on.  During the summer, we were self-sufficient in greens,  root crops, tomatoes and soft fruits.   

    Edward Williams, the milkman, was married during the war and lived in Ty-Newydd Farm not far from the present Cardiff (Wales) Airport.  He continued to supply my mother with extra food and he let my father have two furrows in one of his fields.  Edward sowed potatoes for us and my father and I attended to them during the growing phase.  When they were ready to harvest, we dug them up and put them in sacks which Edward kept in one of his barns.  In return, my father and I helped  with the cereal harvest.  

    Wheat threshing, in those days, was a combined operation involving neighbouring farmers who took it in turn to help each other when the threshing machine  visited their area.  Nowadays, the combine harvester is operated by one or two men (or women) and the whole process takes place on the field where the crop is grown.  Gone is the sight, sound and smell of the steam engine and the chatter of the threshing machine  munching its way through countless  stooks of wheat fed from an adjacent  horse-drawn wagon.  Gone also  are the restful interludes  to quench ones thirst on jugs of home made lemonade, wine and cider. 

    My mother's contribution to these great country gatherings was  helping to  prepare food for the men.  I remember one occasion when we stayed at Ford Farm for a few days during the harvest.  As I have stated previously, Edward's mother was a lazy person and did nothing other than provide  food for the other women to cook.  My mother was aghast to find one day that  only  tinned tomatoes and boiled potatoes were available.  However, that meal stands out in my mind as one of the best I have ever eaten, but my mother used to shudder at the memory.     

    My father and I used to catch fish in the sea, but this was never something we relied on.  My mother used to complain when she bought a pair of herrings for my father to use as bait.  He rarely returned with the equivalent weight in fish and it would have been easier and cheaper, as far as she was concerned, to have eaten the herrings.

    During the summer, I would sometimes lay a long line of baited hooks at the extremity of low tide.  Twelve hours later, during the night, whatever had been caught was revealed but, as nobody was about at that time, it was another twelve hours before the line was revealed again.  I used to catch a considerable amount of fish this way but as we (and most other people in the neighourhood) did not have a refrigerator, I had to give most of it away.  

    There was only one time of year when we could eat mushrooms and that was in the autumn.  My father and I used to go to Porthkerry Park and climb to the top of a steep hill we called 'The Mountain'.  A field at the top was a great spot for mushrooms and we used to bring them back inside my father's raincoat.  We  collected so many that, once again, we had to give them away. 

    My mother used to bottle summer and autumn fruits in Kilner jars. The fruit was boiled inside the jars which had spring clips and rubber seals.  Once they had cooled, they were hermetically sealed and would keep throughout the winter.

    My parents made country wines using  huge earthen-ware pots with  screw tops.  Elder flower and elder berry were the favourite ingredients but parsnip, beetroot, potato and wheat were also used to make some delicious wines.   I remember being woken one night by a huge explosion.  I thought it was a German bomb, but it was one of the earthen-ware pots.  The lid should not have been screwed down while fermentation was taking place, but my father had done just that, and the pot exploded.  Chunks of pottery were embedded in the ceiling and my mother was not amused.

    The Merchant Navy was our life-line during the war but luxury items were cut to the bone.   The only fruit we  saw from overseas were oranges. 

    I remember one occasion when a ship was blown up by a mine in the Bristol Channel.  The following day the Pebble Beach at Cold Knap, Barry was covered in crates of oranges.  Edward Williams, the farmer, opened a crate and tasted one - it was delicious.  He picked up an unopened crate and carried it back to his cart which he had left, with the horse, by the viaduct in Porthkerry Park.  When he got the crate home he found that the contents were 'marmalade' oranges (sour) and, as sugar was rationed, they were useless.  By the time he returned to the beach to collect the crate he had opened, there was nothing left!

    Rabbits were plentiful and were 'off-ration' in butchers' shops.  Lots of people put down snares, but we never did - although, once, I found a dead rabbit in a snare on the Cliff fields.  It was still warm so I slipped it into my coat pocket and took it home.  On the way, I met the old man who I knew laid snares and I tried to conceal the bulge in my pocket.  He used to work the allotment next to ours and on the following day he told my father he knew who had 'nicked' his rabbit.  My father was averse to lying and he made a poor job of trying to defend me. 

    My father was not usually squeamish but once he saw the white fur of a tame rabbit that my mother had ordered from Edward sticking out from underneath a blanket in the shed.  He refused to eat it and my mother, from then on, had to satisfy him that the rabbits she bought were wild ones.  When she could not get whole carcasses, she often used to buy rabbit heads which she would boil and give us three or four each.

    Offal such as liver, kidneys, brains, tripe and sweet-breads, all of which we loved, were not rationed but you had to know the butcher well enough to be among those who received 'under the counter' items.  Sausages, which contained offal were also hidden 'under the counter'.  Corporal Jones in "DAD'S ARMY' plays the part of a war-time butcher to a tee.

    Unless you bred your own chickens or were lucky, like us, to have a friendly farmer, a plump whole chicken was an expensive item reserved for very special occasions.  My mother used to buy 'boilers', occasionally, which she casseroled.  These were birds that had come to the end of their egg-laying days and would have been too tough to eat any other way.

    There was no such thing as vegetable oil.  Dripping, or suet, was  sold  by the butcher and the chips in which they were made were far superior to the bland products that are the norm these days.   My mother used to give me dripping sandwiches as a snack and another favourite of hers from her childhood were 'sugar shags' - brown bread, butter and sugar.  It sounds revolting by today's standards, but I loved them. 

    Another favourite was my mother's version of bread and butter pudding.  Not the light-as-a-feather concoctions you read about in the gourmet cookery books, but brown bread laced with treacle or golden syrup, eggs, butter and dried fruit.  When I joined the Army in 1944, I asked her to send me one.  It arrived in a  biscuit tin and was devoured the same day by me and the other five recruits who shared the hut.  I was the most popular member of the sextet and was elevated to greater heights every time another biscuit box arrived.

    Ice-cream was something you ate in the summer.  Few people had refrigerators before and during the war and, as there was a shortage of sugar, ice-cream was a luxury.  A boy used to come around the neighbourhood where we lived selling Wall's products.  He pedalled a tricycle with an enormous ice box on the front which contained Snow-Fruit and Snow-Cream in triangular shaped cardboard sleeves.  If I and my friends saw him pushing his load up-hill, we would help him in exchange for an iced lolly.  But when he had sold his cargo, we would envy him as he free-wheeled at enormous speed down two steep hills to Barry Town for a refill.  Snow-Fruit was just frozen coloured water and Snow-Cream was marginally more like real ice cream.  

    Once a week a Thomas and Evans's van from Porth in the Rhondda Valley used to deliver lemonade and other soft drinks.  My mother used to buy two flagons of dandelion and burdock.  There was a hefty deposit on the bottles, which were fitted with metal spring-clips.  No champagne cork ever made a more satisfying sound than one of these bottles when the clip was released.   

    We had an Irish terrier called Paddy.  He never went short of food as there was a shop in Barry Docks that sold meat 'unfit for human consumption'.  It was horse meat in the main, stained with  purple dye  but I expect the odd cow that died of natural causes found its way into the shop as well.    My mother used to boil it for the dog and the smell was mouth-watering.  I understood at an early age why French people like horse-meat. 

    Whale factory-ships used to berth in Barry Docks with their cargoes of whale oil from the South Atlantic.  Whale meat was also available but my mother was never tempted to buy any.     

    During my school-days in Cardiff, I used to have lunch in a 'British Restaurant'.  It was run by the Women's Voluntary Service and the food they served - certainly the one in Cardiff, was awful.  As far as I can remember, it was stew every day with  greens and root vegetables such as turnips, swedes and carrots and a small piece of meat swimming around, if you could find it.  Sometimes, even now, if I smell potatoes being cooked in big tubs, I recognise the smell that 'greeted me' in the British Restaurant.

    We never went out for a meal during the war and, as I was under 18 until I joined the Army at the end of 1944, I never went into a pub.  Pubs in those  days were for men to drink ale which was not always available due to the shortage of sugar. Women rarely entered and children - never.  The nearest I got to a pub was 'The Fox and Hounds' in Llancarfan.  It was during one of our visits to Ford Farm and I can remember my father going inside and bringing out some lemonade for my mother and me.  Alan Cobham's Air Circus was performing just outside the village and we watched him looping-the-loop.

    My mother did most of her shopping in Mr Bembridge's Barry Garden Suburb Stores.  It was what we would call a 'corner shop' these days being   only five minutes walk from where we lived at 38, Bron Awelon.  The groceries were delivered by a young lad on a bicycle - rather like a 'chopper' that my son, Richard, rode as a ten-year-old.  Big wheel at the back, a small one in front with a huge wicker basket on top.  Edith James, across the road, used to shop in the Co-operative Stores, about ten minutes walk away in Cambridge Street.  She used to try and get my mother to go there and she explained the advantage of the dividend (or 'divi') scheme - which made buying food cheaper. There was a certain amount of 'snobbery' about this.  The road below us was called Tan-y-Fron and that was where the Great Western Railway employees lived.  My mother would not have been seen dead shopping with them.

    Johnny Yeandle, the butcher - who had a shop in Cambridge Street, was, according to him, the adopted son of Stan Yeandle, who founded the business, but the likeness between him and the senior Yeandle did not fool anyone.  They both had heads like footballs, florid complexions and voices like fog-horns.  In about 1927, Stan Yeandle shot Pete, our wire haired fox-terrier and my parents  severed relations with him.  It was Pete's custom to call on his boy-friend, a cocker spaniel, each morning and both would hunt rabbits on the Cliff fields.  Neither of them chased sheep but, as Stan Yeandle had lost a number of his flock to killer dogs, he did not give Pete and his friend the benefit of any doubt when he saw them in his field one day. 

    When Stan died and his son took over the business, my mother resumed buying  meat from him. We never had expensive joints such as: rib of beef, shoulder of lamb and leg of pork.  Instead, my mother would buy: flank of beef, shin of beef and ox-tail.  A meal of roast lamb was always 'breast of lamb' and pork meals were either belly pork, pigs trotters or boiled bacon.  When I was serving in the Army overseas for six years from 1948-54, I used to dream about my mother's food.   When I returned, I couldn't wait for her to produce the old favourites - and they were just as delicious then as they always had been. 

    I thought I was worldly wise as far as foreign food was concerned and I attempted to make a curry for my parents - a dish that was virtually unknown in this country in 1954.  It didn't turn out as well as I expected, so my mother had a go.  What she made was, essentially, a beef casserole with added curry powder - but the taste was superb.  It was the first curry my mother made and she was surprised how well it was received by my father and me.  It became a favourite with all three of us.

    Nesta (my wife) and I, with our son and daughter  are a food-loving family. There is nothing more we enjoy than all 'mucking in' together in the kitchen.  Some of the meals I enjoyed in my youth are still among my favourites, but time has moved on and I'm glad to be a reasonably healthy 85 year old (2011) enjoying all the good things now freely available in super-markets, town and village stores, pubs and restaurants.

    

FOR THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA

Huw and Ifor grew up together in Mumbles, West Wales.  They went to the same school and when they were called up for national service, they joined The South Wales Borderers.  Each married girls from th same street and when children came along, they were just one big happy family.

    Huw was doing some weeding in the back garden when Dylis, his wife, shouted to him  that Ifor was on the phone.  “He sounds a bit worried,”  she said.  “You’d better come in and see what’s wrong.”  Huw dusted himself down, took off his boots and grabbed the phone.  “What’s up Ifor?”  he said.  “There was a pause before Ifor replied – “Mam’s dead.”  The news was not entirely unexpected as the old lady had been ill for quite some time.  “I’m sorry Ifor,”  said Huw,  “she was a lovely woman and she lived a good life.  I feel as if it’s my mam who’s gone.”   Ifor muttered his thanks and then gave details of the funeral and cremation that he was arranging for the following Saturday.

    Ifor’s father served in the Merchant Navy during World War Two; his ship was hit by an enemy torpedo while sailing to Russia in one of the Arctic convoys and he was lost along with the rest of the crew.  “Mam told me that she wanted to join Dad when her time came and have her ashes scattered in the sea,”  said Ifor.  Huw’s eyes opened wide:  “How are you going to get them up to the Arctic? That’ll be an expensive business.”  “No, not the Arctic,”  said Ifor, “there’s no need to go that far, Swansea Bay will do.”  He went on to say that he had asked the coxswain of the Mumbles lifeboat if he could help but had ruled that out when told how much it would cost.  Huw said that a neighbour of his owned a boat and he offered to speak to him about using it. 

    The following day, Huw saw Ifor and told him that all was arranged; the boat would be ready in Swansea harbour at two o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon following the funeral.  “I told him there would be four of us - that’s you, me, Uncle Will (Mam’s brother) and the preacher.  With Dai, who owns the boat, there’ll be five altogether.”

 Two days after the service in Morriston Crematorium, the funeral director delivered a plastic pot containing Mam’s ashes. It was placed reverently on the mantel-piece in Ifor and Janice’s front room.

  

 Uncle Will came for lunch the following day and he went with Ifor to pick up the preacher.  Going down the hill towards the sea, Uncle Will could see that the waves in Swansea Bay  were being blown into ‘white horses’.  “I hope you’ve got a nice big boat for us, Ifor,” he  said.  “Don’t you worry Uncle Will,” his nephew replied, “Huw’s sorted it out.  We’ll be alright.”

    When they got out of the car near the harbour wall they saw Huw talking to a man wearing a blue peaked-cap.  He was introduced to the others as Dai – the boat owner.  After a round of hand shakes, Dai pointed towards some stone steps and said:  “If you would like to follow me, we’ll get started.”  He led the way to where a small boat was tethered to an iron ring on the side of the jetty.  The Reverend Rufus Llewelyn took hold of Ifor’s arm and said:  “You’re not serious about going to sea in that small boat, are you?”  Ifor was in a difficult position:  he was as surprised as the preacher about the size of the boat but he knew that if he showed any signs of anxiety, Mam’s farewell might have to be called off.  A chain reaction had already set in though and Uncle Will voiced his concern about setting out on a voyage in a vessel not much bigger than a bath tub.  “I can’t swim,”  he said, hoping that the absence of sufficient life jackets would rule him out.  Ifor asserted his authority at this point and before the uneasy passengers could voice more objections, he grabbed each one by their coat collars and dragged them aboard.  As soon as everyone was sitting down, Dai started the engine and headed for the open sea.

If the Reverend Llewelyn and Uncle Will thought it was choppy inside the harbour it was mild compared with the conditions they met as they nosed their way into Swansea Bay.  They had not gone more that 30 yards from the end of the harbour wall when Uncle Will yelled:  “Drop the pot in here, Ifor, we’ll all get drowned if we go any further.”  Ifor clung to the pot containing his mother’s ashes to which he had prudently tied a house brick, and replied:  “No, Uncle Will.  If we drop her in here, she might float back.  We’ve got to go a bit further.”  Even Huw became anxious, but Dai was in his element and opened the throttle until they were bouncing over the waves.  After they had travelled about half a mile, he said:  “This is far enough” and shut off the engine.

    Rufus Llewelyn delivered the oration from the sitting position and when he came to the bit about ‘committing the ashes to the deep’, Ifor pushed the pot and the brick over the side.  Uncle Will was sick as the charred remains of his sister disappeared beneath the waves and he pleaded with Dai to turn the boat around and head back to the harbour.  But the ceremony was not yet over and Ifor drew from his pocket five sheets of paper upon which was printed the words of the mariners’ hymn – ‘For Those In Peril On The Sea’.  Ifor, a powerful baritone, lead the singing with Dai in the stern singing the bass part and Huw coming in as the tenor.  Uncle Will and the vicar identified themselves completely with the sentiment but were quite unable to utter a sound as the boat bucked and rolled and gave every indication of following Mam’s ashes to the bottom.

   

Janice was waiting at home  with Dilys for the men to return. “Where’s the pot then, Ifor?” She asked.  “I left the ashes in it as the wind was blowing so hard.  It’s at the bottom of Swansea Bay now.”  Oh, there’s silly,”  she pouted,”  “it looked nice on the mantel-piece. We could have had some daffodils in it in a few week’s time.  Mam would have liked that.”  “Well, it’s too late now,” said Ifor, “besides, I don’t think Uncle Will would like to be reminded of what he’s been through every time he comes to see us.” Will had partly recovered and was half way through his second sour cream scone.  “You’re right there, Ifor,”  he said, “and don’t have any ideas about sending what’s left of me to join your mam when my time’s up.”

BEST FOOT FORWARD

It would be difficult to find any place in Africa with a more pleasant climate than Nanyuki.  This small garrison town, 6,250 feet above sea level, directly on the equator, is warm during the day and cold enough at night to sit around a log fire.  The backdrop of Africa’s second highest mountain – Mount Kenya (17,500 feet) provides an Alpine setting with its jagged summit permanently covered in snow.

    When I joined the 3^rd (Kenya) Battalion, King’s African Rifles in Nanyuki in 1951, Mau Mau had not reared its ugly head and both races, black and white, enjoyed a good standard of living.  True, there was a certain amount of cattle rustling in the Northern Frontier District bordering Sudan, Ethiopia and Somaliland and urban crime in places like Nairobi, Nakuru and Mombasa but, in the main, peace and tranquillity was enjoyed by most of the population.  My commanding officer was Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read (South Wales Borderers), my company commander was Major Tim Evill (SWB) and one of the company officers was Captain Dai Curtis (SWB).  It was almost like being at home with the 24^th Regiment, the 1^st Battalion of which I had left only a week before in Eritrea.

    Nanyuki was home to the 3^rd and 5^th Battalions of the King’s African Rifles, a troop of Kenya Artillery and a squadron of the East Africa Armoured Car Regiment.  We rarely saw British soldiers but all that changed when the advance party of a British Army task force arrived and set up camp on the airfield.  In addition to supporting arms such as REME, Engineers and Medics, there were some Redcaps (Military Police) who erected OUT OF BOUNDS signs on the perimeter of the native quarter.

    Askaris (soldiers) of 3/KAR were allowed out of camp on Saturday and Sunday afternoons only;  uniform was obligatory and they had to be back in camp before sundown.  They usually went to the majengo (native quarter) to meet friends and drink pombe (native beer), a routine they had been practising ever since they had been in Nanyuki.  Imagine their surprise, therefore, when some of them were rounded up one Saturday afternoon by British Redcaps as they were enjoying the company of walaya (whores).  The Redcaps made no distinction between British and African soldiers and took them back to their camp where they locked them in a compound next to the guardroom. When our askaris heard what had happened, a crowd of them made their way to the British camp and, forcibly, let them out.

    Our brigade commander in Nanyuki was not a man to cross and anyone unfortunate enough to receive one of his ‘rockets’ would remember the experience for the rest of his life.  When he heard what had happened, he ordered our commanding officer, Lieut Col Jack Crewe-Read, to report to him in his office, even though it was late on a Saturday afternoon.  After submitting to a tirade of invective about his ill-disciplined askaris, Colonel Jack was told to prepare the whole battalion for a punishment march the following Monday morning.  “You’ll march down the Nyeri road until I tell you to stop,”  said the irate Brigadier.  “as for those mutinous askaris of yours – I’ll have them court-martialled.”  For a case of man mismanagement, this was a collectors’ piece.  A quiet word from the Brigade Major to his opposite number in the newly arrived task force would have sorted the matter, but once the Brigadier became involved, the law had to take its course.

Every member of the battalion, British and African, paraded on the square at 07.00hrs on the Monday morning.  The Bwana Mkubwa (Big Master) – Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, addressed the parade and said how disappointed he was that a few askaris had tarnished the good name of the battalion.  “I hope that such a thing will never happen again,”  he said.  The parade was then handed over to the British Regimental Sergeant Major who added a few words of his own Gaelic-flavoured Kiswahili (lingua franca of the KAR).

The battalion marched out of camp and down the road to the main street in Nanyuki, which was akin to a film set for a ‘Western’ movie.  There they turned left and headed for Nyeri, about 45 miles away.  The tarmac ran out after half a mile and the road reverted to murram (a clay-like substance that is rock-hard in dry weather but adopts the consistency of toffee in the wet).  It was a fine day, the going was good and most askaris thought it was a splendid way to spend a morning.  Not all the British officers were of the same mind.  A few of them such as the Quartermaster and the MTO (Motor Transport Officer) considered they had better things to do than march an unspecified distance along a dusty road in unaccustomed footwear.  But a Scale ‘A’ parade means everyone – no exceptions.

    By mid day the battalion had covered about 15 miles and the Colonel began to wonder if the Brigadier had forgotten to do what he said he would do – arrive in person and give the order to turn around and march back to camp. 

    At about 1 o’clock the food truck arrived and 20 minutes later a meal of posho, niama and mboga (crushed Indian corn, a slab of meat and vegetables) was served to the rank and file.

    British officers had a ‘Fortnum and Mason’ style lunch served from ‘chop boxes’ containing all the necessary implements for a sophisticated picnic.  We did things well in the KAR.

    As the Colonel was finishing his last dregs of port and a wedge of Stilton, a dust cloud heralded the approach of a Humber 4X4 flying the pennant of the Commander 70 Brigade.  Two days of mulling over the indiscipline of 3/KAR askaris had not cooled the Brigadier’s wrath and he rejected the Colonel’s offer of a cold beer.  “You can turn around and march back now,”  he said gruffly.

When the lunch break was over and the Brigadier had returned to Nanyuki, the African RSM asked the Adjutant if askaris could take off their boots.  That was the way they liked to march, with laces tied together and their wide-soled footwear, specially made for those who spent most of their lives barefooted, hanging around their necks.  Permission was given and when they were ready, the order ‘Quick March’ was given.

If the singing on the outward leg of the march had stirred the blood, it was nothing compared with the enthusiasm askaris felt when they had their noses pointing towards home. ‘Tufunge Safari’ and ‘Mama na Dada’ were two of the great marching songs of the KAR, but there were many more – all sung in that chanting, rhythmical style peculiar to Africans.  It did not stop there.  Soon, shoulders were bobbing, arms were waving, boots were flying and some of the Wakamba (tribe) were gyrating and leaping as if they were at a Saturday night ngoma (dance) back in camp.  Long before the Mexican Wave was thought of, askaris had a way of starting a similar snake-like movement through the ranks by taking three or four steps forward and one backwards.  Not only did this increase the mileage, but it further increased the discomfort of the wazungu (British officers, warrant officers and senior NCOs) who had not yet mastered the style of African route marching.

    When they reached the tarmac, half a mile from Nanyuki, the African RSM gave the order to halt and replace footwear.  Then the British RSM took over and the whole column marched to attention with rifles at the slope, through the main street and back to camp.  ‘Tufunge Safari’, the regimental march, rang out again but, this time, played by the Bugle Band of the Battalion.

    It had been a wonderful day out but Colonel Jack and a few other ‘old hands’ wondered if the ‘punishment’ march would give askaris the wrong signal.

   

Everything was sorted out by the following Saturday when our lads visited the majengo to drink pombe, enjoy the favours of the walaya and buy vitu maradadi (pretty things) for their wamke and watoto (wives and children).  OUT OF BOUNDS signs had been removed and the place was free of Redcaps.  The Brigadier was satisfied that justice had been done and there was no mention of courts martial.  The culprits were given seven days detention and enough free pombe to make a week in jail worth while.

TORPEDOED IN THE ATLANTIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TROOPS’ ENTERTAINMENT

The sight of Geri Halliwell (one time member of ‘Spice Girls’) frolicking on the beach in Oman, did wonders for my circulation and presumably that of The Daily Telegraph in which the picture appeared.  She brought to mind the many show business personalities who, over the years, since World War Two have found time in their busy (and in some cases, not-so-busy) schedules to entertain troops in distant parts of the world.

 Major Dick Taverner used to tell a story about meeting Marilyn Monroe on one of her visits to Korea (Journal No. 31 page 19).  Using ‘B’ echelon 1/WELCH as an excuse to pay a visit, Dick joined some American Army officers for one of Marilyn’s shows.  It was a performance he would never forget because after the show he found another friend (British this time) who invited him for a drink in the Commonwealth Division Officers’ Mess.  This was a popular oasis for ‘dry’ Americans and just as Dick was supping his first pink gin, Marilyn and the entire cast of her show were escorted into the mess.  “I’ve always wanted to be kissed by you,”  said Dick confronting the star.  Marilyn smiled sweetly and then pecked him on his cheek. Dick came back to earth with a jolt when he returned to ‘A’ echelon and had a late lunch of tinned hamburgers.

I was not in Hong Kong with 1/WELCH in 1953 but I remember Howard James telling me about a CSE (Combined Services Entertainment) show that took place when Lieut Col ‘Bun’ Cowey was in command.  Howard was the ‘floor manager’ and was in his element setting up the stage and making sure that everything was right for  a good evening’s entertainment.  Colonel ’Bun’ and his wife, Peggy, made their entrance at precisely 8pm and took their seats in the front row.  The Commanding Officer nodded to Howard who drew the curtain revealing the pianist and the comedian who opened the show with what he believed was a joke to get everyone in the right mood.

    “I say, I say, I say,”  he began.  “I went to the barber’s shop this morning and asked for a hair-cut. The Chinaman tucked a towel around my neck and said:  ‘What sort of hair-cut you want?’  “What sort of haircut have you got,”  I asked.  ‘We got only one sort of hair-cut,’  replied the Chinaman,’It’s called a ‘Bun’ Cowey hair-cut - ‘cos it’s got a hole in the middle.’  The Commanding Officer, whose hair grew in profusion everywhere except on the top of his head, was not amused and ordered Howard tostop the show.  He and the ‘first lady’ left the auditorium and it was some time before a severely chastened comedian managed to get back into his stride.

    The Commanding Officer’s displeasure had, if anything, increased by the following morning when Howard was summoned to appear before him, and got the rocket of his life.

Wyn Calvin, self-styled ‘Clown Prince of Wales’, visited 1/WELCH in Cyprus in 1958 during the EOKA troubles, and again in 1959 when we were stationed in Benghazi, Libya.  On each occasion he was accompanied by a pianist and a couple of pretty girls.  But, although the curves and scanty costumes of the girls were a tonic to red-blooded Celts, it was Wyn who received most applause.  When not performing on stage, he spent his two or three days with the battalion tape recording interviews with soldiers which he used  on radio and TV programmes when he returned home.  He even made telephone calls to families in Wales, before and after his BBC shows, giving them up to date news of their sons.

    Although he ‘abdicated’ as ‘Clown Prince of Wales’ before HRH Prince Charles was invested Prince of Wales in 1968, Wyn Calvin will remain, to many Welshmen who served in Cyprus and Libya, as our own ‘Clown Prince’.

Lita Roza was a big name in show business in the late ‘50s and those of us in 1/WELCH, Aberdeen Camp, Xeros, Cyprus were delighted to hear she was to be the star turn in a CSE show due to visit us in early 1958.  Lita had a figure that was right for the time; she filled her sequined dress as if she had been poured into it.

    At the end of one particularly sexy song, a young soldier sitting three rows from the back, could not contain himself any longer.  He leapt to his feet and, with a combination of grunts and pelvic contortions, indicated to Liza what he would do if she consented to accompany him to the far end of the dhobi lines.  Lita could have ignored his advances, , but she chose to hitch up her skirt, descend to floor level and confront her admirer.  She looked him up and down for a few seconds before pronouncing:  “You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me.”

    There were two other girls in the troupe who did a dance routine accompanied by a pianist whose musical ability was impaired by over indulgence with the local brew.  It didn’t matter, the girls wore tight blouses and skirts that revealed more than they covered and that was what the boys wanted.  The following day, the troupe climbed aboard some trucks and set off  on the north west coast road for the camp of the 1^st Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers where they were due to put on another show.  One of our soldiers, who was acting as escort in the back of a 3-tonner, accidentally fired a shot from his rifle that hit one of the girls.  The bullet went through her body and out of the windscreen.  Thankfully, she recovered after spending a few weeks in hospital, but this was a case when the show did not go on.

Wherever soldiers are engaged in wars, emergencies, insurgencies – call them what you like, light relief in the form of pretty girls, comedians and musicians are the life-blood of morale.  Dame Vera Lynn stated something when she became ‘Forces Sweetheart’ in World War Two.  She traveled many thousands of miles throughout the world, including Burma, to entertain the troops.  She writes:  ‘Burma 1944.  I don’t suppose many entertainers have stood on a stage made of cases containing Spitfire engines, decorated with parachutes and lit by a ring of lorry headlights.  The piano was damp and huge cockroaches would fly down and hit the keys in mid-song; it was so hot that my evening dress used to change colour with sweat.  We were giving four concerts a day, frequently with the back of a lorry as a stage.  Sometimes men would emerge from the jungle with their weapons and melt away when the show was over.  More often we sang in hospitals where conditions were very poor.  I don’t know how the nurses endured it for so long.  I once walked into an operating theatre by mistake.  The surgeon gave me a bullet he was removing from a badly wounded soldier.  I still have it today.  Many of the boys had been away from home for four years and were desperate for letters and news.  “What’s it like in London?” they would ask, or “Could you give my mum a ring?”  One said: “Please tell them we’re still here.”  No wonder they were called ‘The Forgotten Army’.