If I close my eyes and put my mind in neutral, I can see Fletcher as he was fifty years ago when I first met him. I can see his tousled head with its tight blond curls, his broken nose, his battered ears and his lean frame, always bent slightly forward. I can see his grubby overalls and his boots, not well dubbined as one might have thought, but doused in kitchen grease. Fletcher was the officers' mess cook, not a member of the Army Catering Corps but one of those dedicated band of men from within the regiment whose tools of trade are rifles and bayonets (first) with ladles and saucepans (second).
I do not remember Fletcher for the excellence of his cooking, which was never more than 'simple', but there were things that happened to him - which involved me, that are still pin-sharp in my mind.
He came to see me one day when we were stationed in Pembroke Dock and told me he could not find his boots. He had looked throughout the kitchen and his bunk, which adjoined the kitchen, but they had been missing for three days and he felt they were irretrievably lost. He told me he put his boots outside his door when he went to bed. I asked him if he expected someone to come along and clean them, but he replied saying he had a skin complaint which caused a bad smell and if he opened the window to clear the air, he got a stiff neck. Why anyone would want to pinch Fletcher's boots was difficult to understand; there were far better pickings in the batmen's quarters - but there it was, the boots had gone and he would have to pay for a new pair. For the next few days Fletcher paddled around in a pair of daps which soon became embalmed in kitchen waste and resembled footwear of a low caste native sweeper.
It was not until the end of the week that the mystery was solved. Friday was the day when Fletcher emptied the stock pot. As he winched the large stainless steel container over to one side and deposited the contents into swill bins, a pair of boots came into view among the debris of bones, skin and vegetables at the bottom. With a shout of joy he recovered them and rinsed them off under a tap. He let everyone know he had found his boots and that after a week in the stock pot they were far more comfortable than they had been before. A week later he told me that the skin complaint, which had troubled his feet for years, had completely disappeared. He was oblivious to the sick looks on the officers' faces whenever he mentioned soup and was quite upset the following week when he had to throw away an almost full stock pot. We never found out who played the prank on Fletcher, but it was not hard to guess who was to blame when the Adjutant started to drink soup again.
When we went to Cyprus two years later Fletcher, after a tour of duty in the soldiers' cookhouse, came back to the officers' mess. The national service officers were a new bunch and they knew nothing about the 'stock pot' business, but some of the old hands looked upon Fletcher's return with suspicion. He settled down quite well and cemented good relations with the locally employed civilian staff who worked in the kitchen.
We had a marvellous camp on the north east coast of Cyprus. Behind us towered mountains covered with pine trees and before us lay a beach of golden sand lapped by the warmest, clear blue water in the northern hemisphere. In front of the officers' mess was a rocky promontory which, by a freak of nature, was formed in a number of parallel ridges with water filled gullies between. The largest of these gullies was an almost perfect water polo pitch, except for one thing. Right in the middle was a finger of rock, like a stalagmite, which gave centre forwards a painful experience if they swam into it.
It was an easy matter to rectify, so one morning I went along to the pool with some plastic explosive, gun cotton primers, electric cable and detonators. I dived to the bottom and packed the explosive into as many cracks around the base of the rock that I could find. Then I connected all the bits and pieces and came ashore to the battery terminal. When I was sure that the 'coast was clear' (literally), I pressed the contact on the battery. The finger of rock took off like a rocket and, quite by chance, a shoal of fish happened to swim by at that very moment. The force of the explosion lifted them en masse out of the water.
Fletcher and some others of the mess staff had been watching from the mess veranda and within seconds they had equipped themselves with buckets and bowls and were in the pool collecting fish I had killed. They looked like trout and were about one pound in weight. Not only was there an ample supply for the officers' mess, but Fletcher was also able to feed the sergeants' mess and still have enough to give to the civilian staff to take home. I tell this particular part of the story at length because never before nor since have I fed so many people with a single shot. I was mindful of someone else who, two thousand years previously, did much the same sort of thing - not so very far away either.
I was excited at the prospect of producing a splendid feast of fresh fish and I explained to Fletcher that I wanted him to cook them as if they were trout. But instead of serving them complete with head and tail, he cut them up and covered the pieces with a thick white sauce. 'Presentation' was never one of his strong points and I blame myself for not checking sufficiently.
A few days later, the CO, who now looked upon me as a sort of wizard who could produce shoals of fish at the drop of a hat, asked me to get him a fish for breakfast. Wearing my flippers and mask and armed with a spear gun, I entered the water on the far side of the water polo pitch. Usually there were plenty of fish about but, in the aftermath of the explosion, it seemed as if they had gone away to find a quieter place.
I had almost given up hope of catching anything when I saw movement on the sea bed. It turned out to be a bottom feeder with ugly teeth, golf-ball eyes, snake-like feelers and a body covered in warts. At first, I rejected the thought of shooting it, but when I was unable to find anything else, I went back and speared it. It was even more repulsive when I got it out of the water, but I could see there was plenty of good flesh on it. I gave it to Fletcher and told him to prepare it for the CO's breakfast the following day.
Fletcher's mind worked like a computer. He had been programmed to keep the heads on 'trout-like' fish so, as far as he was concerned, anything that came out of the sea kept its head on when it went into the frying pan.
I heard that the Commanding Officer nearly leapt out of his chair when his breakfast was put in front of him. Fletcher, with a rare flash of imagination, had put a piece of lemon in the monster's jaw, but it did nothing to improve the Colonel's appetite or temper. He was convinced it was a practical joke and when I was summoned to appear before him, he told me that the dining table was 'holy ground' as far as he was concerned and that I would lose my job as messing member if there were any more pranks.
The Colonel had mentioned on a few occasions that he wanted Fletcher to produce West African peanut stew. It was a particular favourite of his and he was anxious to try it out on the rest of us. I carefully recorded the Colonel's instructions about how to produce this exotic dish and then went in search of Fletcher. I passed on the CO's recipe and told him to be ready at 07.00 hrs the following day to go with the quartermaster's convoy to the supply depot in Famagusta, from where he could nip across the road to the market and collect the items he needed for the peppery stew.
He returned in the late afternoon and I saw him walking towards the mess kitchen carrying a bag. I asked him if he had managed to get everything the CO wanted and he replied: "Yes, sir, everything except red chillies - so I got green ones instead." The CO had stipulated that red chillies were essential for a good West African peanut stew, so I was somewhat reluctant to give Fletcher orders to go ahead before checking with the Colonel. I took a few green pods out of the bag and inspected them closely. "Are you sure these are chillies?" I asked, "they look like beans to me." "Oh, yes, sir, they're chillies alright. I picked ‘em special," he said. I selected one and bit it carefully. There was no burning sensation as one would expect from a chilli and when I opened the pod I could see it was, without doubt, a bean. "You're an idiot, Fletcher," I said. "Now, I shall have to tell the CO that the peanut stew is off." Fletcher slunk off to his tent as I went in search of the Commanding Officer.
The Colonel was sitting on the veranda reading a newspaper. I told him about the mistake with the chillies and he said: "How could he possibly confuse beans with chillies? - let me have a look at them." One of the mess servants was told to find Fletcher and tell him that the colonel wanted to see his bag of beans. He appeared a few minutes later and gave the Colonel the brown paper bag. The CO withdrew a pod and studied it carefully. He turned it over and smelt it and then said it was quite suitable for making his favourite stew. "I'm sorry, sir, I must disagree," I said. "It's not a chilli, it's a bean - I've just eaten one." The Colonel once again picked up the green pod and polished his glasses before confirming that it was a chilli. I knew I was on firm ground, so I extracted a pod from the bag, slipped it into my mouth and chewed it up. "There you are, sir, they're beans," I said. It was a convincing demonstration, so the Colonel, feeling I had proved my case, selected a nice big one, popped it into his mouth and chewed it.
What the subsequent investigation revealed was that Flutter's bag contained a mixture of chillies and beans. The Colonel, who had been unfortunate in his choice, turned purple and tears spurted from his eyes like a garden sprinkler. I told Flatter to get some bread and butter, as someone had once told me that this was the antidote to chilli burn. I spread thick wedges of butter on the bread as Flatter and the mess sergeant stuffed it down the CO's throat. This brought on a choking fit and we had to slap him on the back to allow him to breathe properly. At last, all his tubes were clear and we managed to cool him down. The cooling process went only as far as his mouth and throat were concerned, and when he recovered his composure I became the victim of his anger and lost my job as food member of the mess committee. West African peanut stew was never mentioned again.
Once a week an Army Kinema Corporation film came up from Famagusta with the ration truck. When the officers' turn came to see it, we erected a projector on the mess veranda and beamed the film to a screen on top of a pair of six foot tables. Occasionally, when the wind blew hard and the screen was not tethered properly, the contraption would topple over and fall into the water polo pool.
One evening after supper, we were sitting on the veranda watching a 'western'. There had been a gun battle, but the action switched to the bedroom, when all of a sudden shooting started again. It took a second or two for us to realise that this time real bullets were flying through the air and we all dived for cover as lead thudded into the wall behind the projector. There was only one officer who had the courage to get up and find where the shots were coming from. He sprinted around the side of the building just in time to see HQ Company arms storeman reloading a 9mm Browning automatic pistol and then pumping another magazine of rounds through the side of Fletcher's tent. The would-be assassin was brought down in a flying tackle, disarmed and marched off to the guard tent. After the commotion had died down, Fletcher was found cowering underneath his bed none the worse for the experience.
The evidence produced at the court martial of the arms storeman revealed some details about Fletcher's psyche which many of us had suspected. 'Personal relationships' is a delicate matter in the Army and, in those days, if you stepped out of line, you could find yourself in serious trouble. Nevertheless, we felt the unilateral action of the arms storeman was rather heavy handed.
Fletcher left the battalion soon after the attempt on his life. Besides, the Army Catering Corps were getting into their stride and he would never have been one of the 'Professionals' - he was strictly regimental.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Short Back and Sides
Early in this narrative I described how I stranded two army fire engines and a recovery vehicle in the mud of the River Nile in Khartoum. I was trying to impress my Commanding Officer with the enthusiasm I had for fire duties, but only succeeded in making things difficult for a number of people who were involved in a vehicle inspection scheduled for the following day. One would have thought that after such a trail of misfortune on that August day in 1949 I would have been dismissed from the job, but not a bit of it - I had my appointment of unit fire officer of the 1st Battalion South Wales Borderers extended for another six months.
Soon after the battalion arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in January 1950, I was called by the Adjutant and asked to explain why certain fire appliances were found to be in an unacceptable condition during the Commanding Officer's inspection of the camp. I had plenty of experience of standing rigidly to attention on the unoccupied side of the Adjutant's desk, so I just let his invective flow over me.
It was obvious that something had to be done to restore my reputation, such as it was, so I applied my mind to the best course of action. One day as I was walking down the Via Roma, the main thoroughfare in Asmara, clanging of bells heralded the approach of a task force of the Asmara fire service. The Italians may have lost the war and their colonies in East Africa, but what dignity they had salvaged was transferred to their fire service. The fleet of pre-war Alfa Romeo fire trucks had been built with loving care in far off Italy and were kept in immaculate condition throughout the war. Everything, from large brass bells to the knobs on water valves was polished to perfection. The firemen, obviously recruited for their physical appearance as well their enthusiasm for putting out fires, were dressed for effect rather than practical fire fighting. Black helmet with brass accessories, scarlet jacket, black trousers and a huge leather belt supporting a chopper comprised their ensemble. They stood on platforms on each side of their vehicle adopting dramatic poses like gladiators heading for the Coliseum. Everyone - natives, Italian colonials, British expatriates and servicemen stood and admired the grand procession as it hurtled down the road intent upon putting out whatever was on fire.
A few days later, I was passing the fire station and noticed that one of the doors was open. I stuck my head inside to get a closer look at the fire engines and came face to face with the officer in charge. He spoke excellent English and offered to show me around. I was treated to a fascinating exposition of his beloved Alfa Romeos and introduced to the crews on duty. I was also shown around the room where uniforms and equipment were kept before rounding off my impromptu visit with coffee and some rich cream buns. We established a good rapport and I asked the fire chief if he would consider lending me a suit of fireman's clothing and equipment for the fancy dress party that was being held in the officers' club the following Saturday night. He agreed and I was there and then fitted out with a helmet, tunic, a length of coiled rope, a chopper and a belt. Being rather tall, I said I would provide my own trousers.
The fancy dress party was great fun and I generated much mirth among the junior officers who congratulated me on my spectacular outfit. The Commanding Officer and the Adjutant were not amused and thought that my choice of costume was an insolent response to my recent admonition.
When I returned the gear to the fire station the following Monday morning, I asked my friend if he would co-operate with me if I held a fire practice in the camp of the South Wales Borderers. He responded with enthusiasm and assured me that if there were no real fires to put out at the time, I could count on his help. Knowing that the Commanding Officer would be holding 'orders' at noon the following day, I asked my friend to stand by for a telephone call at 11am. I spent the rest of the day supervising my signallers, plus some prisoners from the guard room, collecting rubbish in the camp. It came from all directions and was deposited on a waste piece of ground between the signals store and the orderly room. When it reached the size of a bell tent, I called a halt.
The following morning I went across to the Adjutant's office and asked to see the CO. "What do you want to see him for?" said the Adjutant narrowing his eyelids to thin slits. "It's about holding a fire practice," I replied. The business of the battalion's fire engines being stuck in the River Nile was still fresh in his mind and he was not inclined to endorse any more mad-cap schemes, but I stood my ground and asked to be allowed to speak to the CO. Reluctantly, he ushered me into the Colonel's office and listened as I told the CO about the friendly relationship I had forged with the chief officer of the Asmara fire service who was instrumental in me winning first prize in the fancy dress competition. I went on to explain that I should now like to demonstrate how this rapport could be used to the unit's advantage if we ever had a serious fire in the camp.
"He's an Italian, isn't he?" said the Colonel. "Those buggers were shooting us only a few years ago!" This was an attitude of mind I had not considered and I had to do some pretty nifty public relations work before the CO was satisfied they would not settle old scores and burn the place down if we let them in. "In fact, sir," I said, "I should like to hold a fire practice now just to show you what would happen in a real emergency." I asked the CO and the Adjutant it they would step outside to see what I intended doing. I led them around the side of battalion HQ and pointed towards the great pile of rubbish. "This is where the fire will be," I said. The Colonel gave a nod, which I interpreted as a signal for me to go ahead. I had already briefed one of my signallers to keep a line to the Asmara fire service on hold, so I picked up a phone in the orderly room and shouted: "Fire in the South Wales Borderers camp!"
The fire chief regarded the practise call-out as the most prestigious event to take place since he had taken command three years previously. All three Alfa Romeos were in single file on the road outside the fire station with crews aboard pointed in the direction of our camp with engines running ready to go as soon as they received the signal.
The fire station was only about two miles away from the camp and there was instant response to my call. As I walked across to the pile of rubbish, I could hear bells ringing in the distance, so I sprinted the last fifty yards in order to get the fire going. This turned out to be more difficult than I expected. A strong wind extinguished the flame every time I lit a match and I could see that the kindling wood was damp after an early morning shower of rain. The clanging of bells on the Alfa Romeos was getting louder and, from my elevated position, I could see the fire engines roaring down the road towards the camp. I had another shot at lighting the pile of rubbish but the flame would not take hold. The leading vehicle was now passing the guard room and I realised I was going to look pretty stupid if I could not get the fire going by the time they arrived. I yelled to one of my signallers: "Get me a jerry can of petrol from the battery charging shed, and be quick about it!" Within a few seconds the can arrived and I threw the contents over the pile. I pulled out my last match, struck it and put the flame to some paper at the base.
I do not remember much after that as I became enveloped in flame which burnt off every exposed hair on my body. My woollen hose-tops (open ended stockings) were reduced to a couple of pieces of dried toast and my face, so I was told, took on the look of a well boiled lobster. I have a vague memory of smoke and lots of water and then I was taken off to the medical centre where I was cleaned up and bandaged to such an extent that only my eyes, nostrils and mouth could be seen. I had been wandering around like a zombie during the fire practice and had not realised that a mini 'Hiroshima' had taken place. I was hit by the flames at the base of the bonfire but the main force of the fire-ball had blown an assortment of blazing rubbish high into the air. Much of this was still alight when it hit the ground and the fire chief had to deploy most of his men, to extinguish many small fires that were burning at the lower end of the camp.
I remained in bandages for a few days and when they were removed I was shocked to see that the flames had burnt a crazy pattern of 'tramlines' all over my face and neck. I looked like a Red Indian about to go into battle. The incongruity of my appearance was compounded by a tuft of hair on the top of my head which had been protected by my beret.
It was nearly a month before I looked presentable again. Needless to say, I was not on good terms with the Commanding Officer. When he realised I was not in such bad shape as it appeared, he told me what he thought of me and my ill-prepared fire practice.
The period I spent like a snake, shedding one skin and growing another, was one of great embarrassment. The Adjutant sarcastically remarked that instead of dressing up as a fireman at the fancy dress party, I should have held the fire practice a few weeks earlier and gone as the 'Last of the Mohicans'.
Soon after the battalion arrived in Asmara, Eritrea in January 1950, I was called by the Adjutant and asked to explain why certain fire appliances were found to be in an unacceptable condition during the Commanding Officer's inspection of the camp. I had plenty of experience of standing rigidly to attention on the unoccupied side of the Adjutant's desk, so I just let his invective flow over me.
It was obvious that something had to be done to restore my reputation, such as it was, so I applied my mind to the best course of action. One day as I was walking down the Via Roma, the main thoroughfare in Asmara, clanging of bells heralded the approach of a task force of the Asmara fire service. The Italians may have lost the war and their colonies in East Africa, but what dignity they had salvaged was transferred to their fire service. The fleet of pre-war Alfa Romeo fire trucks had been built with loving care in far off Italy and were kept in immaculate condition throughout the war. Everything, from large brass bells to the knobs on water valves was polished to perfection. The firemen, obviously recruited for their physical appearance as well their enthusiasm for putting out fires, were dressed for effect rather than practical fire fighting. Black helmet with brass accessories, scarlet jacket, black trousers and a huge leather belt supporting a chopper comprised their ensemble. They stood on platforms on each side of their vehicle adopting dramatic poses like gladiators heading for the Coliseum. Everyone - natives, Italian colonials, British expatriates and servicemen stood and admired the grand procession as it hurtled down the road intent upon putting out whatever was on fire.
A few days later, I was passing the fire station and noticed that one of the doors was open. I stuck my head inside to get a closer look at the fire engines and came face to face with the officer in charge. He spoke excellent English and offered to show me around. I was treated to a fascinating exposition of his beloved Alfa Romeos and introduced to the crews on duty. I was also shown around the room where uniforms and equipment were kept before rounding off my impromptu visit with coffee and some rich cream buns. We established a good rapport and I asked the fire chief if he would consider lending me a suit of fireman's clothing and equipment for the fancy dress party that was being held in the officers' club the following Saturday night. He agreed and I was there and then fitted out with a helmet, tunic, a length of coiled rope, a chopper and a belt. Being rather tall, I said I would provide my own trousers.
The fancy dress party was great fun and I generated much mirth among the junior officers who congratulated me on my spectacular outfit. The Commanding Officer and the Adjutant were not amused and thought that my choice of costume was an insolent response to my recent admonition.
When I returned the gear to the fire station the following Monday morning, I asked my friend if he would co-operate with me if I held a fire practice in the camp of the South Wales Borderers. He responded with enthusiasm and assured me that if there were no real fires to put out at the time, I could count on his help. Knowing that the Commanding Officer would be holding 'orders' at noon the following day, I asked my friend to stand by for a telephone call at 11am. I spent the rest of the day supervising my signallers, plus some prisoners from the guard room, collecting rubbish in the camp. It came from all directions and was deposited on a waste piece of ground between the signals store and the orderly room. When it reached the size of a bell tent, I called a halt.
The following morning I went across to the Adjutant's office and asked to see the CO. "What do you want to see him for?" said the Adjutant narrowing his eyelids to thin slits. "It's about holding a fire practice," I replied. The business of the battalion's fire engines being stuck in the River Nile was still fresh in his mind and he was not inclined to endorse any more mad-cap schemes, but I stood my ground and asked to be allowed to speak to the CO. Reluctantly, he ushered me into the Colonel's office and listened as I told the CO about the friendly relationship I had forged with the chief officer of the Asmara fire service who was instrumental in me winning first prize in the fancy dress competition. I went on to explain that I should now like to demonstrate how this rapport could be used to the unit's advantage if we ever had a serious fire in the camp.
"He's an Italian, isn't he?" said the Colonel. "Those buggers were shooting us only a few years ago!" This was an attitude of mind I had not considered and I had to do some pretty nifty public relations work before the CO was satisfied they would not settle old scores and burn the place down if we let them in. "In fact, sir," I said, "I should like to hold a fire practice now just to show you what would happen in a real emergency." I asked the CO and the Adjutant it they would step outside to see what I intended doing. I led them around the side of battalion HQ and pointed towards the great pile of rubbish. "This is where the fire will be," I said. The Colonel gave a nod, which I interpreted as a signal for me to go ahead. I had already briefed one of my signallers to keep a line to the Asmara fire service on hold, so I picked up a phone in the orderly room and shouted: "Fire in the South Wales Borderers camp!"
The fire chief regarded the practise call-out as the most prestigious event to take place since he had taken command three years previously. All three Alfa Romeos were in single file on the road outside the fire station with crews aboard pointed in the direction of our camp with engines running ready to go as soon as they received the signal.
The fire station was only about two miles away from the camp and there was instant response to my call. As I walked across to the pile of rubbish, I could hear bells ringing in the distance, so I sprinted the last fifty yards in order to get the fire going. This turned out to be more difficult than I expected. A strong wind extinguished the flame every time I lit a match and I could see that the kindling wood was damp after an early morning shower of rain. The clanging of bells on the Alfa Romeos was getting louder and, from my elevated position, I could see the fire engines roaring down the road towards the camp. I had another shot at lighting the pile of rubbish but the flame would not take hold. The leading vehicle was now passing the guard room and I realised I was going to look pretty stupid if I could not get the fire going by the time they arrived. I yelled to one of my signallers: "Get me a jerry can of petrol from the battery charging shed, and be quick about it!" Within a few seconds the can arrived and I threw the contents over the pile. I pulled out my last match, struck it and put the flame to some paper at the base.
I do not remember much after that as I became enveloped in flame which burnt off every exposed hair on my body. My woollen hose-tops (open ended stockings) were reduced to a couple of pieces of dried toast and my face, so I was told, took on the look of a well boiled lobster. I have a vague memory of smoke and lots of water and then I was taken off to the medical centre where I was cleaned up and bandaged to such an extent that only my eyes, nostrils and mouth could be seen. I had been wandering around like a zombie during the fire practice and had not realised that a mini 'Hiroshima' had taken place. I was hit by the flames at the base of the bonfire but the main force of the fire-ball had blown an assortment of blazing rubbish high into the air. Much of this was still alight when it hit the ground and the fire chief had to deploy most of his men, to extinguish many small fires that were burning at the lower end of the camp.
I remained in bandages for a few days and when they were removed I was shocked to see that the flames had burnt a crazy pattern of 'tramlines' all over my face and neck. I looked like a Red Indian about to go into battle. The incongruity of my appearance was compounded by a tuft of hair on the top of my head which had been protected by my beret.
It was nearly a month before I looked presentable again. Needless to say, I was not on good terms with the Commanding Officer. When he realised I was not in such bad shape as it appeared, he told me what he thought of me and my ill-prepared fire practice.
The period I spent like a snake, shedding one skin and growing another, was one of great embarrassment. The Adjutant sarcastically remarked that instead of dressing up as a fireman at the fancy dress party, I should have held the fire practice a few weeks earlier and gone as the 'Last of the Mohicans'.
Shauri Ya Mungu (It's God's Will)
There used to be a certain type of British Army officer who, despite any bother caused by the natives, would make the early morning flight of sand grouse his first priority of the day. A person who fitted that description was Lieutenant Colonel Jack Crewe-Read, my Commanding Officer when I served with the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles. Being his Signals Officer, and later, Adjutant, I was always close to him wherever we served – be it the jungles of Malaya during the communist uprising, or the forests of Kenya during the Mau Mau campaign.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
When I joined the battalion in 1951, the Colonel was in his element. Bird life abounded on the slopes of Mount Kenya and everything from a guinea fowl to an elephant could be found further afield in the Northern Frontier district. One week-end shooting safari with the Colonel would provide enough feathered and hoofed meat to fill most of the larders in the messes and officers’ quarters in Nanyuki.
Six months after arriving in Kenya, for what I expected to be a leisurely tour of duty in a pleasant part of Africa, I found myself taking the advance party of the battalion to Malaya. We were the path-finders for the remainder of the battalion who arrived about three months later. By that time we had completed the course at the Jungle Warfare School at Kota Tinggi in South Johore and become adept at operating in the hostile green environment that makes up most of Malaya.
Our first operational area was in the Triang district of central Pahang. Bandits abounded in the jungle and so did jungle fowl and wild pig. It wasn’t the CO’s job to go about shooting bandits, there were plenty of askaris to do that so, as soon as he had made sure that the operational side of things was tied up, he set about preparing for his favourite sport. I used to go with him sometimes to shoot wild boar or whatever Indian, Chinese and Malay beaters would drive towards us.
On one such occasion I had taken up position in an overgrown rubber plantation when I heard the distant yelps of beaters’ dogs hot on the scent of something big. As I stood there wondering if I was going to be the lucky one, I looked around to see if I had any support. There was no sign of anyone and I thought about that tiger which had taken a goat from a kampong four miles away only a few days previously. I did not have long to dwell upon it as a large male pig, pursued by a pack of assorted mongrels, headed straight for me. A Malayan wild pig is a formidable animal. There is none of the farmyard porker about him: he is all bone and muscle with two very sharp curved tusks capable of inflicting a lot of damage. I raised my rifle, took a bead on the animal’s head as it shortened the distance between us and waited until it was only a few yards away. It was a good shot and the boar never knew what hit him; it dropped dead at my feet.
There was a shortage of game that day and it turned out that I was the only one of the party to shoot anything. We left the beaters to carry the pig back to our host’s bungalow while we went on to have drinks before lunch. Despite the fact that he had not had a kill, the Colonel was delighted with my success and congratulated me warmly on my success. Our host’s curry and the cold Tiger beer with which we washed it down set the seal on a very pleasant day and we were asked if we would like to take part in another shoot the following Sunday. “Splendid idea,” said the Colonel, “bandits and such like permitting.”
The armed escort of half a dozen askaris had been looked after in the servants’ quarters and when they saw that we were ready to depart, they took up their positions with a jeep and a ferret scout car. Just as we were about to leave, Jack Watson, who had laid on the shoot and lunch, said: “Oh, by the way, Bob, what part of the pig would you like?” I was not too sure about the anatomy of a pig and, not wishing to deprive the beaters and their families of a good meal, I said: “I’ll take the head if that’s alright.” I must have had some idea about preserving the thing as a trophy but later on that day when the head was delivered to battalion headquarters, I realized that such a plan would not be feasible without the help of a taxidermist. The boar’s head then became a problem and it looked as if there were two choices open to me. We could eat it or we would have to dig a hole and bury it. Whatever I decided had to be done quickly, so I called for the officers’ mess cook.
Corporal Macheru was an unsophisticated fellow who looked upon food as something to make the body function properly. Any process other than boiling meat or burning it in the embers of a fire was, he considered, a frivolous waste of time. He had been in the King’s African Rifles for ten years though and had become used to the strange culinary practices of British officers. He listened to my instructions about how I wanted the boar’s head prepared for the evening meal the following day. I completed my orders by telling him to put the head in a galvanized bath of salt water to keep it fresh.
On the Monday morning, Corporal Macheru, having told the Quartermaster’s ration storeman that he did not require any meat that day, considered the practicalities of roasting the boar’s head. It soon became obvious to him that unless extensive modifications were made to the oven there would be no possibility of getting it inside. He told me that if I was still intent upon eating the head, we would have to think of some other way to cook it. I began to wish I had asked for some other cut, but the boar was large everywhere.
“Well, what do you suggest, Corporal Macheru?” I said. The cook rubbed his big black nose and said he might be able to do something with a Soyer stove. I nodded acceptance of his idea and told him to make sure that the finished product not only tasted good but looked good as well.
A few words of explanation about the Soyer stove might help at this stage.
It was invented by a Frenchman called Alexis Soyer whose brother was chef de cuisine to the Duke of Cambridge. Alexis worked with his brother and was employed by other noble families in London. In 1837 he was appointed head chef of the Reform Club in Pall Mall and it was there that his name became synonymous with fine cuisine.
In 1855 he read in The Times newspaper that British soldiers were starving to death in the Crimea. He had already invented, in 1850, an all-weather stove suitable for use in field conditions and he prevailed on the government to adopt it forthwith. He went to the Crimea in 1855 and worked closely with Florence Nightingale at the Barrack Hospital in Scutari. The place was in disarray when he arrived but he soon had his stoves at work providing nutritious food for the inmates. Among his many revolutionary ideas was a new biscuit that was soft to eat and lasted much longer than the old ‘hard-tack’. Sadly, Alexis caught typhoid in the Crimea and died in August 1858. The Soyer stove was used in the British Army for well over a hundred years.
Corporal Macheru received the cook sergeant’s permission to borrow one of the stoves and when he set it up outside his own kitchen he found that, just like Cinderella’s slipper, the boar’s head - wrapped in a couple of towels, fitted perfectly.
During the late afternoon I went to see how the cook was getting on with the evening meal. The cooking process had come to an end and he had returned the head to the galvanized bath. I could not see it as it was still wrapped in towels and covered in ice which he had extracted from all six paraffin operated refrigerators in the camp. Corporal Macheru, with a big grin, assured me that all was well.
The Indian station master at Triang was not on speaking terms with us as we had requisitioned his ticket office and waiting room for the officers’ mess. Battalion HQ officers lived in a variety of tents and bashas and it was our custom to assemble in the mess before dinner which was served at 8pm. I had been detained in the signals office deciphering a secret message and this made me about 15 minutes late. I joined the others in the ante room (late ticket office) in time for a drink before we went into the dining room (late waiting room).
The Colonel was a stickler for etiquette and, even though we were on ‘active service’ we were all properly dressed in long white trousers, shirt and tie with sleeves rolled down. Mess staff wore white drill with red stove-pipe hats with black tassels. Sergeant Onyala, the Mess Sergeant, reported to the Bwana Mkubwa ( Big Master – CO), in Kiswahili, that dinner was ready: “Chakula tayeri, effendi.” The Colonel led the way into the dining room and as he moved through the doorway, I saw him leap sideways with a cry of: “What the devil is that.” I thought he had seen a cobra, but when I pushed my way forward I became aware of the reason for his convulsion. I had the advantage over other officers because I knew that the gruesome thing on the serving table was the boar’s head. It was hardly recognizable as the dangerous end of the animal I had shot the day before, but its tusks provided a clue to its identity. One of its ears was cocked up while the other hung low like that of a spaniel. A solitary eye gazed with an opaque stare across the room balanced by the empty socket of its twin on the other side of the skull. The snout had parted company from the upper jaw and was elevated at an acute angle like a bullet-nosed missile before take-off. To complete the incongruous spectacle, Corporal Macheru had stuffed a paw-paw between its yellow teeth.
After their initial shock, my brother officers saw the funny side of the cook’s attempt to provide an exotic dish from local resources. Their humour was short-lived however when the Colonel asked me what we were having for dinner. The glum look on my face and my attempt to carve a slice off its cheek brought home the truth of the situation. When it sunk in that there was no other meat available, I was subjected to some rather uncomplimentary remarks. Triang was not the sort of place where you could go out for a meal so, after a fruitless search of all the cupboards in the kitchen, the Quartermaster sent for a box of ‘compo’ rations.
I was pretty unpopular with everyone and I expected to get the sack as food member of the officers’ mess committee, but somehow I managed to survive - most probably because nobody else wanted to do the job.
I have steered clear of boars’ heads since that disastrous experience in Malaya in 1952, but have admired the way the experts make such a good job of using a glazed pig’s head as the centre piece on the buffet table at officers’ and sergeants’ mess parties. I can’t remember anyone ever asking for a slice though!
The railway line which ran north and south through our operational area provided the best means for contact with our rifle companies. We had our own steam locomotive and a couple of ‘flats’ filled with stones which were pushed in front of the engine in case bandits decided to blow up the line. The coaches were 2x4 wheeled bogies covered in armour plate which afforded protection for the occupants from rifle and machine gun fire. When the Commanding Officer of the outgoing unit left Triang, I remember him saying to our Colonel: “Best of luck and remember, don’t eat kippers before travelling on the armoured train.” I should have heeded his advice because a few weeks later I accompanied the Colonel on one of his visits. The daytime temperature in Malaya is always in the top ‘90s’ and inside the armoured train it was considerably more. Once it got going, the small amount of draught which came through the vents eased the position somewhat but then bounce and vibration took over. The springs on the bogey were not designed to accommodate the weight of armour plate and once the thing started to go up and down, the occupants became captives of a giant trampoline. It was not long before I staggered to the doorway and parted company with my kippers.
We had travelled about five miles when the engine slowed down and then stopped, I stuck my head out of the door and asked the Indian driver what had gone wrong. He did not speak any Malay but jabbered back in his own language. Musabi, the CO’s orderly, who could speak some Hindi, told us in Kiswahili that the engine driver had seen a large boar go into the lallang (tall grass) by the side of the track, and he thought the Bwana Mkubwa might like to take a shot at it.
“Hold this,” said the Colonel handing me his M2 carbine and picking up a shot gun. He leapt out of the train and jumped into the lallang. I was able to follow his progress by the nodding heads of grass as he ploughed deeper into the cover in search of the pig. Just ahead of the train was a cutting and I can remember thinking it would be a perfect place for terrorists to set an ambush. I therefore took up a position where I could cover the Colonel if he came under fire.
A shot rang out followed by another, and then I could see the nodding heads of grass coming closer as the Colonel retraced his steps. “Only managed to get a brief look at him,” he said, “before he made off like a bat out of hell.” Musabi hauled his master aboard and then, with a nod to the driver, we continued our journey.
A few weeks later one of our patrols attacked a bandit camp and killed most of the occupants. As usual there was a mass of documents, diaries, books and posters to collect and backload to Police HQ in Mentakab. After they had been examined and translated, the Special Branch officer asked me: “Were you on the armoured train the day the Colonel tried to shoot a pig?” I replied affirmative and he handed me the translation of a report written by a communist sentry who had been in position overlooking the Triang – Kemayan railway line. It read: ‘On such and such a day I was on duty at Post No. 4 when I saw the armoured train approaching from the north. It stopped before entering the cutting and a British officer got out and went into the lallang after a pig. He fired about 20 shots at it and missed with every one’. The Special Branch officer asked me how many shots the Colonel had fired and I replied that there had been no more than two. “Would you like to give him this report?” he asked. “Not on your life,” I replied. “Do your own dirty work.”
The air was blue when the Colonel read the translation. Astonishment that he been watched by a bandit sentry was overtaken by anger when he read the bit about ‘firing 20 shots and missing with every one’. The contents of the report became common knowledge within a very short time and some of the senior officers teased the Colonel about his marksmanship. “I know that wild boar are thick-skinned,” said the Second-in-Command, “ but really, Colonel, I would have thought you could have hit it in a vital spot with one of them.” “God dammit, how many more times have I got to tell you, I let fly with both barrels and by the time I had reloaded, the beast was gone.” I just happened to come into the mess and was made to recount every detail of the event, with special emphasis on the number of shots I had heard. For once, I held the Commanding Officer’s reputation in the palm of my hand, but he had no need to worry and I put the record straight.
After three months of chasing bandits in the Triang district, two rifle companies and a tactical HQ of 3/KAR moved to Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya to take part in an operation with 1/10th Gurkha Rifles. I was part of the Tac HQ team and had settled myself in at the Government Rest House in Kuantan by the time the CO came to pay his first visit. He spent a few days with us visiting various people and organizations responsible for law and order. He also took the opportunity to meet some of the local rubber planters in the Club. I had already made the acquaintance of a fellow called Richard Buckingham who made a living from harvesting latex from a certain type of tree that produced the basic ingredient for chewing gum. Every few months he would load the stuff into his boat and take it to Singapore where he would sell it to the highest bidder. He obviously did very well as he and his wife lived in one of the largest houses in Kuantan. One of his side lines was trading in exotic birds and he had a large aviary in his garden which housed a number of brilliantly plumed specimens including a peacock called Charlie.
Soon after we arrived in Malaya, the Colonel told me it was his ambition to capture a rare type of jungle cock, which sported a large scarlet comb. If he was fortunate to get such a bird he intended to send it by sea to the Tropical Bird House in London Zoo. This was a pleasant day dream for the Colonel but it was not until he met Richard Buckingham in Kuantan that he began to think seriously about his project. Over a few stiff whiskies in the Kuantan Club, the Colonel asked Richard if he could get him a cock bird of this rare breed and if he could transport it to Singapore for onward transmission to London. Richard sucked his meerschaum pensively and blew clouds of smoke in reply to the first request but gave an assurance about taking the bird to Singapore if and when it was captured.
The following day, the Colonel returned to Triang feeling that his journey had been worthwhile. On the operational side, there had been great success. The Gurkhas had run into the headquarters of a communist battalion and had killed a number of terrorists. The 1/10th and two companies of 3/KAR were in hot pursuit of the remainder and the chance of further success was good.
A few days after his return from Kuantan, Jack Watson, the planter who had laid on the pig shoot, came to see the Colonel. “Look what I’ve got for you, old boy,” he said, removing a large wicker cage from his truck. Inside was a splendid example of the bird the CO had been dreaming about for months. “It’s yours if you want it,” said Jack. “Give me a bottle of whisky and you can have the cage as well.”
The Adjutant of 1/10th Gurkhas handed me a signal which read: ‘Tell Smith to inform Buckingham that Jungle Cock will arrive by road on Monday’. This caused some consternation in the Gurkha HQ as they thought ‘Jungle Cock’ was the code-name for an important visitor. After the initial mix up, I confirmed with the CO that all would be ready when ‘jungle cock’ arrived.
The Quartermaster’s convoy of vehicles moved off at 07.00 hrs on the Monday morning. Aboard a jeep halfway down the line was Musabi with his master’s bird. He had been given strict instructions to safeguard it at all costs and to deliver it to the Buckingham household when he arrived in Kuantan.
After travelling for a couple of hours through the jungle, the convoy commander called a halt and gave the order ‘tengeneza chai’ (‘brew up’). Mess tins and burners were produced and soon the sweet smell of hexamine (small blocks of solid fuel) filtered down the track. Musabi, having slaked his thirst, peered inside the cage and wondered if the bird would like a drink as well. It seemed absorbed in cleaning its tail feathers, so Musabi quietly opened the door and inserted a can of water. This was the opportunity the jungle cock had been waiting for and before Musabi could slam the door, the bird forced its way out of the cage. With a flurry of feathers and a loud squawk it took off and made for the safety of a large tree. It settled on a branch about 50 yards away and 50 feet above the ground. Musabi gazed at the bird and wondered what he could do to recapture it. He knew that a fate worse than death would befall him if he turned up in Kuantan with an empty cage.
The convoy commander blew his whistle, which was the signal for everyone to board their vehicles. A second blast of the whistle would be the signal to start engines prior to the leader moving off. Musabi ran down the line of trucks and told the convoy commander what had happened. He was successful in impressing upon him the gravity of the situation so the order to disembark and adopt all round defence again was given. The convoy commander, accompanied by Musabi, saw for himself the bird which was cleaning its tail feathers far above the ground. After listening to some quite useless suggestions for recapturing the bird, the NCO bent over, picked up a stone about the size of a tennis ball, and let fly. It was a marvellous shot; it hit the bird on the head and must have concussed it as it dropped like a stone. Musabi rushed to pick it up and saw, with horror, that its magnificent scarlet comb was missing. The jungle cock was as bald as a coot.
Within a few minutes the bird’s eyes opened and, thankful for small mercies, Musabi bundled it back into the cage. But where was the missing piece of flesh? The convoy commander, satisfied that he had completed what he had set out to do, blew his whistle to get his show on the road once more. Musabi then reminded him that it was he who had deprived the Colonel’s bird of its comb and that he, along with himself, was not going to see much daylight once the Bwana Mkubwa found out what had happened. This brought about a change of mind and everyone in the convoy was assembled to carry out a search for the vital piece of avian headgear. It was hopeless and after another 30 minutes the convoy commander gave the order to move on.
As soon as he arrived in Kuantan, Musabi went along to the Buckingham’s house. Mrs Buckingham was in the garden and as soon as she saw the bird in the cage she realised that something awful had happened. As Musabi spoke no English the interpreting was done by Pte Juma, the driver of the jeep. She considered the matter for some time and then told Musabi not to worry as everything would be alright by the time the Colonel arrived. Musabi must have been under the impression that the memsahib had some way of making the comb grow again as he went off to his tent in the Gurkha lines with peace of mind.
When the CO arrived in Kuantan a few days later, he went to see his bird. He found it sitting on a perch in the aviary in apparent good health, but minus its comb. He was speechless for a moment so Mrs Buckingham laid her hand on his shoulder and said: “I’m afraid it was all my fault. When your orderly gave me the bird, I put it in the aviary with Charlie the peacock. There was an awful commotion and Charlie attacked your bird ripping off its comb. Musabi was marvellous. Despite the danger of being scratched by Charlie’s claws, he managed to rescue your bird but, sadly, its comb was torn off. We tried to graft it back on but it didn’t work.”
Musabi had been standing alongside his master while Mrs Buckingham was making her explanation. He did not understand what was being said, but when he saw the memsahib give him a wink, he knew things were going well. He knew he was out of danger when the Colonel said: “Asante sana, Musabi. Shauri ya Mungu tu (Thank you, Musabi. It was just God’s will).”
I do not know if the Colonel ever knew the real story about his bird. After the disappointment of seeing the jungle cock turn into a skin-head, he did not pursue his project. Musabi continued to give faithful service to his master and the CO remained devoted to his servant.
The bird seemed to be quite content without its comb and was released to the wild. It might have had to suffer a loss of status in the pecking order of its new flock, but surely that was better than spending the rest of its life in a cage in London Zoo.
Post script: Ten years after this happened, my wife and I, along with our two young children, went on holiday to Kuantan. Most of the people I knew during the ‘emergency’ had gone but the Buckinghams were still there. We had supper with them one evening and it was then that I heard the full story about the jungle cock. ‘Buckingham’ was not their real name.
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.
"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.
Riot Control - Turkish Style
Caspar McDonald was a British expatriate policeman who commanded an outfit in Cyprus in the late 50's called the Turkish Mobile Reserve. There might have been a role for them in the early days of the 'emergency', when Greek Cypriots started their campaign for union with Greece, but as the situation developed, the Turkish Mobile Reserve became an embarrassment for the government.
Soldiers of this para-military force were almost permanently confined to barracks in a camp only a few miles away from Lefka, the largest Turkish Cypriot village on the island. Caspar, the only British officer on strength, enjoyed the hospitality of 1/WELCH officers’ mess where he was an honorary member.
He used to turn up on dinner nights dressed in a black bum freezer (jacket) with tight black trousers and spurs which gave him a sinister appearance. I cannot say that I ever liked the fellow, he was too prickly for my liking but this was possibly due to the frustration of not having a real job to do.
We had fallen out over something or other and were not on speaking terms, when he turned up for dinner one night looking like someone out of the Gestapo.
Newly joined officers, in those days, were subjected to a 'welcoming' ceremony which took a number of forms. The Colonel’s favourite was the ‘group photograph’. This involved setting up two rows of chairs: the front row, (covered by a couple of sheets) for field officers, with the Colonel in the middle, the one behind for captains and senior subalterns while the remainder stood at the back. All the chairs would be occupied except the one on the Colonel's right, which had been removed and replaced with a bucket of water (concealed under the sheet). As we had no newly joined subalterns, Caspar was selected as fall guy for the latest group photograph.
I was given the job of telling officers where they had to stand or sit and when I came to Caspar, I pointed towards the empty chair (covered by a sheet) next to the Colonel, He beamed at the unexpected honour so, carefully adjusting his spurs so he would not spike the officers on each side of him, he lowered himself into the non-existent chair. As he sat down, the others in the front row stood up.
Anyone of normal proportions would have been supported by the rim of the bucket but Caspar was so skinny that he got wedged inside and it needed the combined efforts of the CO and the 2i/c to get him out. He failed to see the humour of the situation and refused the offer from one of the subalterns to lend him a pair of dry trousers. Instead, he stalked off and we did not see him for the rest of the night.
Some days later when his anger had cooled, I asked him if he and his force of mobile Turks would like to take part in a crowd control demonstration the Colonel had asked me to lay on. In an internal security situation such as we had in Cyprus, the police are normally responsible for controlling crowds, but if things get out of hand, the military are called in. There wasn't really a role for the Turkish Mobile Reserve in my demonstration, but I thought I might be able to fit them in somewhere. Caspar was quite enthusiastic and gave me reason to think we might get on with each other in future.
There was a large open area between the entrance to Aberdeen Camp, Xeros and the main road and this was the place I selected for the demonstration. There were two other people whose assistance was necessary. One was Kushi Mohammed, the Pakistani contractor who ran everything from providing early morning tea and egg banjos for soldiers, to tailoring, laundry, provision of any item not available in the NAAFI and short term car rental for officers. His father and grandfather had been contractors to the Welch Regiment for many years before and during World War Two and the family looked upon themselves as being part of the Regiment. I asked him if he would arrange for his staff (all Pakistani) to act as the 'rowdy crowd'; he was only too pleased to accept.
The other person whose help was vital was the local Chief of Police. I asked him to supply the 'thin blue line' in the form of Greek Cypriot policemen. He not only accepted, but was delighted with the training opportunity that my demonstration would provide. There was only one thing that concerned me and that was my inability to carry out a rehearsal; it was impossible to get everyone together more than once.
It was a Scale ‘A’ parade to watch the demonstration which started with an assortment of 'char wallahs' (tea boys), 'dersi wallahs' (tailors), 'dhobi wallahs' (laundry workers), 'napi wallahs' (barbers) and others in the employ of the contractor marching across the stretch of open ground towards the 'thin blue line' of policemen. Kushi Mohammed himself, looking like a real brigand with a red scarf around his head, led the crowd which carried banners with slogans such as: GO HOME WELSHMEN and CYPRUS FOR PAKISTAN.
I was giving the commentary on a loudspeaker and, to start with, everything went according to plan. The thin line of policemen stood their ground while a ‘magistrate’ warned the crowd that if they did not disperse, he would call in the military.
It was at this juncture that a clod of earth hit one of the soldiers who was standing with thirty others in reserve behind the police. At the subsequent enquiry, it was found to have been thrown by a 'char wallah' who had a grievance over an unpaid bill for egg banjos. Be that as it may, it was the signal for other members of the contractor's staff to lob anything they could find at the police and our soldiers. It started as a light-hearted sortie but soon developed into a free-for-all with the police and soldiers under attack from the Pakistanis. It was then that I played my trump card in the form of the Turkish Mobile Reserve who were concealed behind some trees a few hundred yards away. When they saw me wave a green flag, they leapt into action.
They arrived on the right flank of those under attack and without waiting for orders tore straight into the Pakistani mob. Kushi Mohammed was the first to get a lathi (long stick used for swiping natives) around his shins but it was not long before the Turks were settling old scores and lashing Greek policemen as well. We had all the ingredients for a real fight and our soldiers had to stand between the Turks on one side and the Pakistanis and Greeks on the other to establish some sort of order.
The demonstration ended like a fight in a dog show and the Colonel, along with the Chief of Police, were not amused. The only people who learnt any lessons about dealing with an unruly mob were the Turkish Cypriots who were rewarded with free beer when they returned to their own camp.
Soldiers of this para-military force were almost permanently confined to barracks in a camp only a few miles away from Lefka, the largest Turkish Cypriot village on the island. Caspar, the only British officer on strength, enjoyed the hospitality of 1/WELCH officers’ mess where he was an honorary member.
He used to turn up on dinner nights dressed in a black bum freezer (jacket) with tight black trousers and spurs which gave him a sinister appearance. I cannot say that I ever liked the fellow, he was too prickly for my liking but this was possibly due to the frustration of not having a real job to do.
We had fallen out over something or other and were not on speaking terms, when he turned up for dinner one night looking like someone out of the Gestapo.
Newly joined officers, in those days, were subjected to a 'welcoming' ceremony which took a number of forms. The Colonel’s favourite was the ‘group photograph’. This involved setting up two rows of chairs: the front row, (covered by a couple of sheets) for field officers, with the Colonel in the middle, the one behind for captains and senior subalterns while the remainder stood at the back. All the chairs would be occupied except the one on the Colonel's right, which had been removed and replaced with a bucket of water (concealed under the sheet). As we had no newly joined subalterns, Caspar was selected as fall guy for the latest group photograph.
I was given the job of telling officers where they had to stand or sit and when I came to Caspar, I pointed towards the empty chair (covered by a sheet) next to the Colonel, He beamed at the unexpected honour so, carefully adjusting his spurs so he would not spike the officers on each side of him, he lowered himself into the non-existent chair. As he sat down, the others in the front row stood up.
Anyone of normal proportions would have been supported by the rim of the bucket but Caspar was so skinny that he got wedged inside and it needed the combined efforts of the CO and the 2i/c to get him out. He failed to see the humour of the situation and refused the offer from one of the subalterns to lend him a pair of dry trousers. Instead, he stalked off and we did not see him for the rest of the night.
Some days later when his anger had cooled, I asked him if he and his force of mobile Turks would like to take part in a crowd control demonstration the Colonel had asked me to lay on. In an internal security situation such as we had in Cyprus, the police are normally responsible for controlling crowds, but if things get out of hand, the military are called in. There wasn't really a role for the Turkish Mobile Reserve in my demonstration, but I thought I might be able to fit them in somewhere. Caspar was quite enthusiastic and gave me reason to think we might get on with each other in future.
There was a large open area between the entrance to Aberdeen Camp, Xeros and the main road and this was the place I selected for the demonstration. There were two other people whose assistance was necessary. One was Kushi Mohammed, the Pakistani contractor who ran everything from providing early morning tea and egg banjos for soldiers, to tailoring, laundry, provision of any item not available in the NAAFI and short term car rental for officers. His father and grandfather had been contractors to the Welch Regiment for many years before and during World War Two and the family looked upon themselves as being part of the Regiment. I asked him if he would arrange for his staff (all Pakistani) to act as the 'rowdy crowd'; he was only too pleased to accept.
The other person whose help was vital was the local Chief of Police. I asked him to supply the 'thin blue line' in the form of Greek Cypriot policemen. He not only accepted, but was delighted with the training opportunity that my demonstration would provide. There was only one thing that concerned me and that was my inability to carry out a rehearsal; it was impossible to get everyone together more than once.
It was a Scale ‘A’ parade to watch the demonstration which started with an assortment of 'char wallahs' (tea boys), 'dersi wallahs' (tailors), 'dhobi wallahs' (laundry workers), 'napi wallahs' (barbers) and others in the employ of the contractor marching across the stretch of open ground towards the 'thin blue line' of policemen. Kushi Mohammed himself, looking like a real brigand with a red scarf around his head, led the crowd which carried banners with slogans such as: GO HOME WELSHMEN and CYPRUS FOR PAKISTAN.
I was giving the commentary on a loudspeaker and, to start with, everything went according to plan. The thin line of policemen stood their ground while a ‘magistrate’ warned the crowd that if they did not disperse, he would call in the military.
It was at this juncture that a clod of earth hit one of the soldiers who was standing with thirty others in reserve behind the police. At the subsequent enquiry, it was found to have been thrown by a 'char wallah' who had a grievance over an unpaid bill for egg banjos. Be that as it may, it was the signal for other members of the contractor's staff to lob anything they could find at the police and our soldiers. It started as a light-hearted sortie but soon developed into a free-for-all with the police and soldiers under attack from the Pakistanis. It was then that I played my trump card in the form of the Turkish Mobile Reserve who were concealed behind some trees a few hundred yards away. When they saw me wave a green flag, they leapt into action.
They arrived on the right flank of those under attack and without waiting for orders tore straight into the Pakistani mob. Kushi Mohammed was the first to get a lathi (long stick used for swiping natives) around his shins but it was not long before the Turks were settling old scores and lashing Greek policemen as well. We had all the ingredients for a real fight and our soldiers had to stand between the Turks on one side and the Pakistanis and Greeks on the other to establish some sort of order.
The demonstration ended like a fight in a dog show and the Colonel, along with the Chief of Police, were not amused. The only people who learnt any lessons about dealing with an unruly mob were the Turkish Cypriots who were rewarded with free beer when they returned to their own camp.
Right Marker
I served in three officer training units: Belfast, Wrotham and Stoke-on-Trent before I was commissioned. During that period, from December 1944 to July 1946, I went through the gamut of being taught (three times) everything there was to know about platoon weapons, field defences, tactics and map reading. I was shouted at by warrant officers and non-commissioned-officers of the Royal Ulster Rifles and, in the case of the last two units, warrant officers and drill sergeants of the Brigade of Guards.
These people had discovered a way of converting you from flesh and blood into machines operating in unison with each other when activated by a series of high pitched screams. They terrified you and made you wonder why you volunteered to be trained as an officer. You cursed them (under your breath) and were inclined to believe stories you heard about them, one of which was about an old lady beating a regimental sergeant major with an umbrella when she saw 'her boys' being badly treated. You accepted the notion of a senior Brigade of Guards warrant officer lining up his wife and children for inspection before marching them off to collect their groceries in the NAAFI. Yet you could not help respecting them and eventually feel grateful for the way they made you look, feel and act like a soldier.
The pinnacle of excellence, or the one who terrified me most, was Warrant Officer Class One 'Charlie' Copp of the Coldstream Guards. He was the Regimental Sergeant Major of 164 Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) based at Trentham Park, Stoke-on-Trent when I arrived there for the last stage of officer training in February 1946. He stood out from all others like a lighthouse on a barren shore, towering over most of his flock by at least six inches and wearing a uniform into which he seemed to have been poured. He was the epitome of military perfection from the tip of his nose-flattening peaked cap to the twin brass ferrules on his highly polished pace stick.
Despite being complimented by the drill sergeants at 148 pre- OCTU at Wrotham, Kent for our performance on the final parade, it was back to square one when I arrived at Trentham Park.
RSM Copp believed in introducing himself to new arrivals as soon as possible; within two days we were pounding the square and being told we were the worst selection of ragamuffins he had ever come across. In order to freshen us up, he gave the order for double mark time at the slope. In other words: 'running on the spot, knees as high as you can raise them with a rifle banging on your collar bone'. After five minutes of this, it was hard to decide which hurt most - knees sandpapered of skin by coarse battle dress trousers, or a left shoulder bruised by an Enfield Mark 1V rifle.
As the tallest man in the platoon, a mere six foot two inches, I was appointed right marker - the one from whom the remainder of the squad took their dressing. It was a responsible position and I felt a certain amount of pride whenever I heard the command: "Right Dress."
The RSM must have realised we were in danger of being whittled down to our kneecaps if we double marked time any longer, for the next command was: "Fore---ward." Anything would have been preferable from the piston-like movements we had been executing for the previous five minutes, but it was still a painful business to jog around the drill square with a rifle bouncing on your shoulder. I gritted my teeth and bared my lips aggressively, determined that the RSM should see no sign of weakening when I doubled past him for the third time. At last, the torture came to an end when a drill sergeant was given the job of marching us off. Later that morning, the orderly sergeant told me I was on a charge and that I should attend Company Commander's Orders at midday. I asked him what I had done wrong, and he replied: "You'll find out when you get there."
I presented myself to the Company Sergeant Major at noon and was told to line up with two or three others who were waiting to be tried by the Company Commander. Just before I was marched in, I was surprised to see RSM Copp marching in to the office, but I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
Like a bullock entering an abattoir, I was prodded through the open door of the office where the Company Commander sat behind a large desk. "You are charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you did laugh at RSM Copp as he was conducting a drill parade." The languid major in the Rifle Brigade stared at me and continued: "Are you guilty or not guilty of this offence?" I was so surprised that I could not say anything for a few seconds. The thought of laughing at the RSM was preposterous and the only excuse I could make was that he had interpreted my grimace for a grin. "Not guilty," I stuttered. The RSM then gave his evidence and confirmed that I had laughed at him on a number of occasions as the squad doubled around the square. This was pretty damning evidence made worse when the Company Commander asked his next question: "Do you have complete control of your facial muscles?" Wondering if I would be booted out of OCTU if I admitted to being physically impaired, I told him that everything I possessed worked properly. "Seven days confined to barracks," he barked.
The really irksome part of this punishment was having to parade twice every evening in 'field service marching order' (everything a soldier would carry if he was marching in a combat situation). The rifle you drew from the stores (not the same one each time) had to be cleaned (with woodwork slightly oiled). Brass fittings on large and small packs, ammunition pouches, belt, gaiters and hat had to be polished to perfection - the fact that it had all been done the day before, or even once already that evening, was no guarantee that you would satisfy the Orderly Officer who ran a fine-tooth comb over you.
I was on my last day of confinement to barracks when an officer of the 60th Rifles found a trace of blanco dust behind one of my brasses. I was in front of the company commander the following morning and he awarded me another three days CB for being idle on the Orderly Officer's inspection.
I was careful not to laugh, smile or even let a grin cross my face for the rest of the time I was right marker on drill parades. RSM Copp and his team of drill sergeants continued to extract every ounce of effort from us on the square and, by the 19th July 1946 - when our commissioning parade took place, with my parents seated alongside the saluting dais, there was no prouder soldier in the Army than me.
As soon as we were dismissed from the parade ground, we raced back to our billets, removed battle dress trousers and blouses and donned our new bespoke uniforms with one 'pip' on each epaulette. As a special concession, we were allowed to accompany our parents etc. home dressed as officers although our commissions did not become effective until 00.01hrs the following day. It seemed that one officer cadet, a few terms before us, had not heeded that fact. Just as he was leaving Trentham Park for good in his parents' car - with his girl friend by his side, he spied the Regimental Sergeant Major talking to some guests. He got out of the car strolled over and tapped the RSM on his rump with his new silver topped cane and told him what he thought of him and his pack of voracious drill sergeants. If he had waited overnight in nearby Stoke-on-Trent and come back the following day, the RSM and drill sergeants would have had to stand to attention and accept the young subaltern's invective - but he had forgotten the one important detail about the effective date of his commission. Within seconds he was put under arrest, deprived of his service dress, peaked hat, Sam Browne belt - et al, and left to consider his position in the guard room. The following day he was returned to his unit as a private soldier.
These people had discovered a way of converting you from flesh and blood into machines operating in unison with each other when activated by a series of high pitched screams. They terrified you and made you wonder why you volunteered to be trained as an officer. You cursed them (under your breath) and were inclined to believe stories you heard about them, one of which was about an old lady beating a regimental sergeant major with an umbrella when she saw 'her boys' being badly treated. You accepted the notion of a senior Brigade of Guards warrant officer lining up his wife and children for inspection before marching them off to collect their groceries in the NAAFI. Yet you could not help respecting them and eventually feel grateful for the way they made you look, feel and act like a soldier.
The pinnacle of excellence, or the one who terrified me most, was Warrant Officer Class One 'Charlie' Copp of the Coldstream Guards. He was the Regimental Sergeant Major of 164 Officer Cadet Training Unit (OCTU) based at Trentham Park, Stoke-on-Trent when I arrived there for the last stage of officer training in February 1946. He stood out from all others like a lighthouse on a barren shore, towering over most of his flock by at least six inches and wearing a uniform into which he seemed to have been poured. He was the epitome of military perfection from the tip of his nose-flattening peaked cap to the twin brass ferrules on his highly polished pace stick.
Despite being complimented by the drill sergeants at 148 pre- OCTU at Wrotham, Kent for our performance on the final parade, it was back to square one when I arrived at Trentham Park.
RSM Copp believed in introducing himself to new arrivals as soon as possible; within two days we were pounding the square and being told we were the worst selection of ragamuffins he had ever come across. In order to freshen us up, he gave the order for double mark time at the slope. In other words: 'running on the spot, knees as high as you can raise them with a rifle banging on your collar bone'. After five minutes of this, it was hard to decide which hurt most - knees sandpapered of skin by coarse battle dress trousers, or a left shoulder bruised by an Enfield Mark 1V rifle.
As the tallest man in the platoon, a mere six foot two inches, I was appointed right marker - the one from whom the remainder of the squad took their dressing. It was a responsible position and I felt a certain amount of pride whenever I heard the command: "Right Dress."
The RSM must have realised we were in danger of being whittled down to our kneecaps if we double marked time any longer, for the next command was: "Fore---ward." Anything would have been preferable from the piston-like movements we had been executing for the previous five minutes, but it was still a painful business to jog around the drill square with a rifle bouncing on your shoulder. I gritted my teeth and bared my lips aggressively, determined that the RSM should see no sign of weakening when I doubled past him for the third time. At last, the torture came to an end when a drill sergeant was given the job of marching us off. Later that morning, the orderly sergeant told me I was on a charge and that I should attend Company Commander's Orders at midday. I asked him what I had done wrong, and he replied: "You'll find out when you get there."
I presented myself to the Company Sergeant Major at noon and was told to line up with two or three others who were waiting to be tried by the Company Commander. Just before I was marched in, I was surprised to see RSM Copp marching in to the office, but I still had no idea what I had done wrong.
Like a bullock entering an abattoir, I was prodded through the open door of the office where the Company Commander sat behind a large desk. "You are charged with conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline in that you did laugh at RSM Copp as he was conducting a drill parade." The languid major in the Rifle Brigade stared at me and continued: "Are you guilty or not guilty of this offence?" I was so surprised that I could not say anything for a few seconds. The thought of laughing at the RSM was preposterous and the only excuse I could make was that he had interpreted my grimace for a grin. "Not guilty," I stuttered. The RSM then gave his evidence and confirmed that I had laughed at him on a number of occasions as the squad doubled around the square. This was pretty damning evidence made worse when the Company Commander asked his next question: "Do you have complete control of your facial muscles?" Wondering if I would be booted out of OCTU if I admitted to being physically impaired, I told him that everything I possessed worked properly. "Seven days confined to barracks," he barked.
The really irksome part of this punishment was having to parade twice every evening in 'field service marching order' (everything a soldier would carry if he was marching in a combat situation). The rifle you drew from the stores (not the same one each time) had to be cleaned (with woodwork slightly oiled). Brass fittings on large and small packs, ammunition pouches, belt, gaiters and hat had to be polished to perfection - the fact that it had all been done the day before, or even once already that evening, was no guarantee that you would satisfy the Orderly Officer who ran a fine-tooth comb over you.
I was on my last day of confinement to barracks when an officer of the 60th Rifles found a trace of blanco dust behind one of my brasses. I was in front of the company commander the following morning and he awarded me another three days CB for being idle on the Orderly Officer's inspection.
I was careful not to laugh, smile or even let a grin cross my face for the rest of the time I was right marker on drill parades. RSM Copp and his team of drill sergeants continued to extract every ounce of effort from us on the square and, by the 19th July 1946 - when our commissioning parade took place, with my parents seated alongside the saluting dais, there was no prouder soldier in the Army than me.
As soon as we were dismissed from the parade ground, we raced back to our billets, removed battle dress trousers and blouses and donned our new bespoke uniforms with one 'pip' on each epaulette. As a special concession, we were allowed to accompany our parents etc. home dressed as officers although our commissions did not become effective until 00.01hrs the following day. It seemed that one officer cadet, a few terms before us, had not heeded that fact. Just as he was leaving Trentham Park for good in his parents' car - with his girl friend by his side, he spied the Regimental Sergeant Major talking to some guests. He got out of the car strolled over and tapped the RSM on his rump with his new silver topped cane and told him what he thought of him and his pack of voracious drill sergeants. If he had waited overnight in nearby Stoke-on-Trent and come back the following day, the RSM and drill sergeants would have had to stand to attention and accept the young subaltern's invective - but he had forgotten the one important detail about the effective date of his commission. Within seconds he was put under arrest, deprived of his service dress, peaked hat, Sam Browne belt - et al, and left to consider his position in the guard room. The following day he was returned to his unit as a private soldier.
Remove Head-Dress
An infantry battalion is the result of much fine tuning which, over the years, has produced a well balanced combat unit. Rifle and support companies reap most of the glamour, but there are others such as storemen, drivers and mess servants who provide essential administrative support. The 'back-up' boys accept their low profile but occasionally a moment occurs when a burst of energy, zeal or inspiration catapults them into the focus of attention.
Such was the case with Private Morris. If World War Two had not been declared in 1939 it is unlikely he would have worn battle-dress but, like many thousands of other young men, he was conscripted to fight in the Army; he joined a territorial battalion of the Welch Regiment and was actively engaged in Northern Europe from D-Day onwards.
Morris was one of the links in the chain at the bottom of the pile but, nevertheless, he performed a vital function by producing a cup of hot, sweet tea for his platoon officer whenever it was needed. His contribution is not recorded in the official account of the Battle for the Reichswald, but those who drank his tea swear that the turbo action of his beverage was the essential ingredient for success.
When the war was won and Morris returned to his home in West Wales, he missed the routine of Army life. By 1947, when Russians had taken the place of Germans as Public Enemy No.1, he returned to his old battalion and became a waiter in the officers' mess.
During the first annual camp for volunteer soldiers after the war, the Commanding Officer received notice that Field Marshal The Viscount Montgomery of Alamein would visit the battalion. Normal training was put on 'hold' while the camp was smartened to perfection.
The great day arrived and the Field Marshal drew up alongside the guard room in his limousine. The quarter guard gave a crisp salute and the Field Marshal inspected them. He visited a platoon of soldiers on the thirty yards range and saw a demonstration of fire-drill before being escorted to the officers' mess for lunch. The CO had been told about Monty’s spartan taste, so the dining table carried some cold chicken legs and a green salad instead of the usual all-in stew and plum-duff pudding. Wine was not served and the officers had been forbidden to smoke in the great man's presence.
As soon as the dessert had been eaten, Monty turned towards the Commanding Officer and said: "What have you got for me to see this afternoon?" The Colonel outlined the programme and the Victor at El Alamein bounded to his feet eager to get started. Aides de camp moved ahead to collect his coat, cane and famous black beret. The overcoat and cane were on the coat rack, but there was no sign of the beret.
"Where's my hat?" snapped the Field Marshal. The Colonel looked vacant, the Second-in-Command bit his finger nails and the Quartermaster occupied himself by writing feverishly on his mill board. "Where's my hat, dammit?" thundered the little man with a lion's heart. It was at this point that Private Morris, still in a state of euphoria after being allowed to serve blancmange to Monty, burst through the throng, grabbed him by the arm and said: "Are you sure you had it on when you came in, Field Marshal?"
Such was the case with Private Morris. If World War Two had not been declared in 1939 it is unlikely he would have worn battle-dress but, like many thousands of other young men, he was conscripted to fight in the Army; he joined a territorial battalion of the Welch Regiment and was actively engaged in Northern Europe from D-Day onwards.
Morris was one of the links in the chain at the bottom of the pile but, nevertheless, he performed a vital function by producing a cup of hot, sweet tea for his platoon officer whenever it was needed. His contribution is not recorded in the official account of the Battle for the Reichswald, but those who drank his tea swear that the turbo action of his beverage was the essential ingredient for success.
When the war was won and Morris returned to his home in West Wales, he missed the routine of Army life. By 1947, when Russians had taken the place of Germans as Public Enemy No.1, he returned to his old battalion and became a waiter in the officers' mess.
During the first annual camp for volunteer soldiers after the war, the Commanding Officer received notice that Field Marshal The Viscount Montgomery of Alamein would visit the battalion. Normal training was put on 'hold' while the camp was smartened to perfection.
The great day arrived and the Field Marshal drew up alongside the guard room in his limousine. The quarter guard gave a crisp salute and the Field Marshal inspected them. He visited a platoon of soldiers on the thirty yards range and saw a demonstration of fire-drill before being escorted to the officers' mess for lunch. The CO had been told about Monty’s spartan taste, so the dining table carried some cold chicken legs and a green salad instead of the usual all-in stew and plum-duff pudding. Wine was not served and the officers had been forbidden to smoke in the great man's presence.
As soon as the dessert had been eaten, Monty turned towards the Commanding Officer and said: "What have you got for me to see this afternoon?" The Colonel outlined the programme and the Victor at El Alamein bounded to his feet eager to get started. Aides de camp moved ahead to collect his coat, cane and famous black beret. The overcoat and cane were on the coat rack, but there was no sign of the beret.
"Where's my hat?" snapped the Field Marshal. The Colonel looked vacant, the Second-in-Command bit his finger nails and the Quartermaster occupied himself by writing feverishly on his mill board. "Where's my hat, dammit?" thundered the little man with a lion's heart. It was at this point that Private Morris, still in a state of euphoria after being allowed to serve blancmange to Monty, burst through the throng, grabbed him by the arm and said: "Are you sure you had it on when you came in, Field Marshal?"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)