FOR THOSE IN PERIL ON THE SEA

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

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

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

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

   

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

BEST FOOT FORWARD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

   

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

TORPEDOED IN THE ATLANTIC

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TROOPS’ ENTERTAINMENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wotcha Cock!

Kipleli arap (son of) Kindurwa was my Kipsigis orderly throughout the time I was in Malaya, including the journey out from Mombasa on the troopship 'Dilwara' in 1951 and the journey back to Kenya in the same ship in 1953.
During the 12 months Battalion HQ of 3/KAR spent in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya, officers lived in a requisitioned hotel called the Nan Yang; Kipleli's first duty of the day was to bring me a cup of tea. The prelude to his entry into my bedroom was a thunderous kick at the base of the door followed by a crash as he slammed his jungle boots into the floor boards at the foot of my bed. If I was not awake already, he would shout: "Jambo, effendi."
He had been shrieking "Jambo, effendi" ever since he had joined the Army. Kiswahili was not his first language and I had the impression he considered it necessary to increase the volume whenever he spoke it.
I had been trying to teach him English, without much success, but I had one more try. "In future, Kipleli," I told him in Kiswahili, "I should like you to say 'Wotcha cock' when you bring me my cup of tea. The meaning of the words meant nothing to him, but he seemed to like the sound and he went around muttering: "Wotcha cock" as he prepared my uniform.
That evening the Colonel was sitting in the ante room having a cup of tea, when Kipleli came in with an armful of clean clothes. As he passed the CO, he swung his head left in salute and cried: "Wotcha cock." Colonel Joe Crewe-Read looked surprised and said: "Am I hearing correctly - did your orderly say 'Wotcha cock?'" I confirmed what he had heard and Kipleli gave him another 'WC', with a right twist of his neck, as he marched out two minutes later. For the next two or three days all the mess servants and batmen were greeting each other and the officers with 'Wotcha cocks' but then they got tired of it and reverted to what everyone preferred: "Jambo, effendi."

Abdulahi 52 was the only Somali servant we had in the Nan Yang Hotel. In just the same way that Welsh soldiers with surnames such as Jones, Evans, Davies and Williams were identified by use of the last two digits of their regimental numbers, so were those with names like Abdulahi, Mohammed and Hassan. It can now be said, after the passage of so many years, that Abdulahi 52 was not our most popular African servant. He had ideas above his station and was forever getting into trouble but, as so often happens with misfits, it is sometimes easier to keep them where you can see them.
Colonel Joe Crewe-Read was a man of strict habits before, during and after breakfast. He liked to read the latest copy of The Daily Telegraph when he ate his bacon and eggs and he would take the newspaper with him when he went to his tailor-made mahogany thunder box which sat like a large Easter egg in a wooden shed at the bottom of the garden.
I was checking bar stock in the kitchen one morning as the Colonel strolled down the path. I watched him as he opened the door of the shed and saw him stiffen when he was confronted by Abdulahi 52 squatting above the seat, Somali fashion, with his shorts around his ankles. The Colonel rolled up his Telegraph and beat him about the head until he pulled up his shorts and took cover behind some bushes.
That, you might think, was more than sufficient to have Abdulahi removed from the mess, but he stayed on and was even given the job of collecting ice from the Singapore Cold Storage Company and delivering the large blocks to all the messes and the main cookhouse.
The ice party was a two man team with Private Ngonga Ng'ii, the driver of a powerful Dodge 15 cwt truck, in charge. One day they stopped in a side street off the main road in Kuantan alongside the Cold Storage. Ngonga Ng'ii went inside to do the paper work leaving Abdulahi sitting in the passenger seat of the Dodge. Having nothing else to do, he moved into the driving seat and started the engine.
He had never driven a vehicle before, but he had watched Ngonga Ng'ii depress the clutch, shift the gears and step on the accelerator. Thinking that this was as good an opportunity as he would get, he went through the drill himself.
The Dodge shot out of the side street like a bullet with Abdulahi striving to control the vehicle. Sitting comatose on their saddles with their feet on the handle bars were the drivers of Kuantan's pedi-cab fleet waiting for fares from the super market. Abdulahi went through them like a pack of cards and ended up with the nose of the Dodge wedged into the wide swing doors of the shop. Thankfully, nobody was killed but the mountain of smashed bicycles was damning evidence against him when he was arraigned before the local magistrate a few days later.
Abdulahi was convicted on a civil charge of 'dangerous driving' and 'destruction of property'. He was found guilty and fined an enormous amount of money, by African standards, which he was still paying off when we left Kuantan in June 1953.


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What Goes Up Must Come down

Helicopters were new tools in the fight against terrorism when the 3rd (Kenya) Battalion King’s African Rifles arrived in Kuantan on the east coast of Malaya in 1952. Ours was a Sikorsky S51 which carried a pilot and four passengers. Lieut Col Joe Crewe-Read (SWB), the commanding officer used it to visit rifle companies and askaris' morale was raised when they knew that if they were injured or fell sick in deep jungle they could be lifted out within a few hours.
I was working in my signals office (tent) one day when the familiar noise of the Sikorsky was heard. It sounded a bit rough so I got up, went outside and watched it as it prepared to land. I began to think I was imagining things, as all helicopters sound rough when the blades are angled for landing. But then, as it hovered about fifty feet from the ground, it dropped like a stone; I watched helplessly as it hit the ground. Fortunately, it landed squarely and when the blades stopped rotating I ran forward to see if I could help. The pilot looked shaken but, otherwise, was in good order.
“You must be in need of a cold beer to come in at that speed,” I said. He gave me a jaundiced look and said: “That’s not the usual way I land. When I put it into hover, it just dropped; there was nothing I could do about it.” Later that day, when he had examined the undercarriage and found it to be serviceable, he took off once more. He flew around the camp and then brought the machine to the landing pad again. This time he maintained forward movement until he was only a few feet above the ground, but when he put it into hover, it dropped again. The following day the pilot and his mechanic caught the weekly RAF ‘milk-run’ aircraft back to their base in Kuala Lumpur.
The chopper was left in our care alongside other vehicles on the motor transport park. A week passed and then two new crew members arrived by air from Kuala Lumpur. I met the pilot in the mess and we had lunch together. Afterwards, as we were taking coffee, I told him I had been witness to the two occasions when the chopper had fallen out of the sky; he gave me a patronising look when I told him it was something to do with ‘hovering’.
An hour later, I saw him and the mechanic inspecting the helicopter. Minutes later the engine was switched on and the blades started to rotate. The chopper taxied to the centre of the MT park, took off and flew in a westerly direction over Kuantan town. The new pilot was obviously giving it a thorough work-out and everything seemed to be in order until he made his approach to land on the MT park. He was about 50 feet up, the same height as his predecessor, when the Sikorsky dropped like a stone. This time the undercarriage collapsed and I flung myself to the ground just in case the whirling blades detached themselves. Fortunately, this did not happen but the damage was considerable and it was obvious that the chopper was going to be out of action for some time. The pilot eased himself through the door and surveyed the broken undercarriage. I had no wish to embarrass him but could not resist saying: “I told you not to hover."
A few days later a low-loader arrived from Kuala Lumpur. The Sikorsky, along with the pilot and the mechanic, set off on the return journey and we never saw them again.
Colonel Crewe-Read who had been in Penang for a week with his wife, was appalled to find that his helicopter had gone when he returned. He asked the Brigade Commander if he could get him another one, without success. When he learnt that I had witnessed all three incidents, he wanted to know why I had allowed the pilot to take off. I respectfully told the Colonel that it was not up to me to stop the pilot from flying his helicopter. “But you knew it wouldn't hover!” he bellowed. “Yes, sir,” I replied, “and I told him so.” “Well, you didn’t tell him strongly enough,” said the irate Colonel. I was about to say that he might have lost his signals officer if those blades had come off but I realised that he was just blowing off steam and that there was nothing personal in it.

In May 1953, shortly before 3/KAR returned to Kenya, a huge operation against communist terrorists took place in central Pahang. Units of infantry battalions from all over Malaya converged on Mentakab, home of the 4th Battalion Malay Regiment. Top grade information had been received from Police Special Branch that a printing press had been set up in the jungle south west of Mentakab and was already churning out posters and pamphlets. The police must have had an informer as we were given nominal rolls of the organisation and a plan of the camp.
The Commanding Officer decided to establish a tactical headquarters in the jungle so that he could keep in touch with the 3/KAR element taking part in the operation. He told me that I would accompany him.
We arrived in Mentakab on a Sunday afternoon and soon after breakfast the following morning we went to the airstrip from where we were to be flown into the jungle. There were many people there including a squadron of Special Air Service. Colonel Joe Crewe-Read received his orders from the Brigadier ( Franky Brooke – late Welch Regiment) and told me that I and ten askaris were to go in with the SAS squadron on the first flight. He instructed me to choose a suitable place for tactical headquarters not far from where the helicopter would drop me. I had never met anyone from the SAS before, let alone operated with them. I can well remember being part of that impressive formation of ten Sikorsky S55 helicopters heading for a large clearing about twenty miles away in deep jungle. I did not know at the time that Lieut Col Oliver Brooke (one of the two Brooke brothers of the Welch Regiment) was the CO of 22 SAS. Oliver had developed the technique of parachuting into jungle, letting the canopy become entangled in the trees and using a rope for the remainder of the descent.
When we reached the clearing, the SAS were deposited at one end while the pilot of my helicopter selected another spot for us about two hundred yards away. I opted to go first in the conventional manner by sliding down a rope. I eased myself out of the fuselage, clung to the rope and started to lower myself to the ground. In addition to my rifle and a hundred rounds of ammunition, I was carrying five days rations plus spare clothing, a poncho cape and a blanket.
I had practised helicopter drills many times but I had never carried so much weight before. I dropped like a stone and to make matters worse, knots in the rope were spaced every few feet. Instead of assisting me to hang on they tore even more skin from my fingers. Finally, the end of the rope looped itself around my ankle and I was left hanging with my shoulders touching the ground with my legs in the air.
There were about ten askaris still in the helicopter and I knew that the last one would give a signal to the pilot by tapping him on his foot before he left. After allowing sufficient time for the last man to descend, the pilot would then fly away. I also knew that if I did not untangle myself I would be carried back upside down on the end of the rope to Mentakab. This terrifying experience only lasted a few seconds but in that time I somehow managed to jettison my rifle, which I had hung by its sling around my shoulders, unbuckle my belt and remove my heavy pack I can’t remember anyone helping me but I can recall freeing myself with only a second or two to spare before the chopper tilted its nose and swung away over the clearing on its way back to Mentakab.
My orderly, Kipleli arap Kindurwa, was soon at my side and helped me assemble my kit. I was in considerable pain and when I looked at my hands I saw there was no skin on the inside of the palms and fingers. Injuries of this sort soon fester and despite liberal applications of foot powder, which was the only substance available, my hands became infected.
The Colonel and I plus a few signallers and orderlies spent five days in the jungle while the area was combed by hundreds of soldiers. If there ever was a bandit news press it must have been built underground as nothing was found.
I learnt an important lesson the day I slid down that rope and when, ten years later, I returned to Malaya as Second-in-Command of the 2nd Battalion Malaysia Rangers, one of the first things I did was arrange for a mock-up helicopter fuselage to be built thirty feet up in a tree. I made sure all our recruits, and even veterans like myself, practised descents on a rope carrying full equipment and rations for five days.

The third and last of my helicopter stories is about a trip my cameraman and I made from Lubbecke, in north Germany to Denmark in 1969. I was Public Relations officer of 2nd Division of the British (Rhine) Army and I was tasked to make a film for Westward Television featuring the 1st Battalion The Devonshire and Dorset Regiment training in Denmark. The helicopter that picked us up in Tunis Barracks, Lubbecke that September day had sufficient room for the pilot, the two of us and our kit.
The first stage of our journey was due north to an airfield somewhere near Wilhelmshaven, on the North Sea coast of Germany. When we landed and the blades had stopped rotating the pilot asked me if I had felt any vibration during the trip. I have yet to travel in a helicopter that does not vibrate, so I gave him an affirmative. “Oh, my God,” he gasped. “You’ve confirmed my worst fear,” whereupon he took out a large bag of spanners from under his seat, climbed on top of the cockpit and started to tighten the nuts on the blades.
Whenever I travel by air I try not to think of things that might go wrong. I trust whoever is in charge to deal with problems and certainly do not expect to be involved in matters affecting safety.
All three of us walked across to the airport building where we had coffee. The pilot detached himself and went into one of the offices. A few minutes later he came out with an RAF officer who was giving him an update on weather conditions. There was a lot of technical jargon but I understood the last bit when he said: “There's nothing to worry about, the cloud base is not less than five hundred feet and rain is already clearing from Denmark.” The pilot bit his nails, looked across at me and said: “I don’t like the sound of it. What do you think?” I began to wish I had used the Land Rover to get to Denmark but then the weather-man spoke again and poured scorn on the pilot’s reluctance to continue the journey. “Come on. Let’s get going.” I said. As we walked across the tarmac to the helicopter my cameraman tugged my jacket and said: “I’m all for staying here and getting someone else to take us back. I don’t have any faith in this bloke.” He echoed my sentiments entirely but I did not tell him so.
The rest of the journey to Denmark was uneventful but as soon as we landed the pilot clambered on top of the cockpit with his bag of spanners and started tightening the nuts again.
I do not know where he went during the next two days we were making our film but the thought of travelling back to Lubbecke with him on the third day occupied my thoughts. I saw him at breakfast and we travelled together in a Land Rover to the helicopter. I did not ask him if the machine was serviceable, that would be tempting providence, so we climbed aboard and strapped ourselves in. It was a fine day, there were no problems with weather and vibration was minimal.
Soon after crossing the German border, we landed at a small airfield near Kiel. The pilot grabbed his brief case and legged it across the tarmac to the control tower. The cameraman and I got out to stretch our legs and within a few minutes a German police car with a flashing light on the roof pulled up alongside us. “OK, where is the porn,” said one of the coppers in a thick German accent. “I beg your pardon, would you mind repeating that?” I said, not having the faintest idea what he wanted. He repeated what he had said and then, to make things clearer, he emphasised the last word: “PORN - PORNO - PORNOGRAPHY!” The penny took some time to drop but, eventually, I gathered he thought we had a consignment of literature and/or photographs, freely available in Denmark, but then classed as contraband in Germany. One look at our faces must have satisfied him that we were not smugglers of pornography so he joined his mate in the car and drove off. The pilot returned a few minutes later and we resumed our journey to Lubbecke. The remainder of the flight was uneventful but my cameraman and I were relieved when we disembarked and waved good-bye to the pilot.

There is a sad twist to this story. I was talking to someone involved with helicopters a few months later and I casually mentioned the name of the pilot who had flown me to and from Denmark. I was told he had been taken off flying duties and was presently undergoing psychiatric treatment in a miliatary hospital in UK.

The Man Behind the Medals: Brigadier R.P. Gottwaltz MC (late South Wales Borderers)

Philip Gottwaltz died on 3rd April 1980. Even though I did not become Assistant Regimental Secretary Royal Regiment of Wales (Brecon) and Curator of the South Wales Borderers Museum until September 1980, I was asked to attend Philip’s funeral in a small West Midland’s village near Halesowen.

Philip Gottwaltz was commissioned into The South Wales Borderers on 22nd September 1914 and joined the 7th Battalion in France. In October 1915 the 7th and 8th Battalions SWB along with the 1st and 11th Battalions The Welch Regiment moved to Salonica to confront the Bulgarian army encamped on high ground above Lake Doiran. There they stayed for the next three years doing little more than patrolling and building up their strength for the last great battle of World War One. In September 1918 7/SWB and 11/WELCH were given orders to capture Grand Couronne, the dominant feature which the enemy occupied to counter any allied advance into Bulgaria. The attack started just before midnight on the 17th September 1918 and by 08.00 hrs on the 19th the two battalions had ceased to exist as fighting units. Philip Gottwaltz fought bravely in the action and was awarded the Military Cross. In October 1918 he was given command of the 9th East Lancashire Regiment but was invalided home soon afterwards.
On the outbreak of World War Two, Philip was commanding the 2nd Battalion SWB and took them through the Norway Campaign. It was a disastrous muddle from the very beginning and the Allied High Command was subsequently criticised for inadequate planning. There was virtually no air cover and artillery support was limited to a single battery of 25-pounders. One night, Philip heard movement outside his hut and, on investigation, he ran across a patrol of six German ski-troops. They were sent packing when a sentry opened fire on them. On another occasion, a few days later, a Royal Navy destroyer came to the assistance of ‘D’ Company 2/SWB when they were in close combat with a much stronger German force. “Are all your patrols in?’ signalled the destroyer. “Affirmative,” signalled the company commander, and then all hell was let loose. The Jack-tars opened up a few yards from the shore and put-paid to the enemy. Colonel Philip and his men considered themselves fortunate to have a Navy man-o’-war in close support.
There was one other time that the Senior Service aided 2/SWB and that was when the battalion was ordered to proceed south of Ankenes to a place called Bodo to relieve a company of Scots Guards. They embarked aboard HMS Effingham for the 100 mile trip but after 15 hours the ship hit an uncharted rock and began to sink. There was no panic and soldiers of 2/SWB formed up on deck waiting to be rescued. A destroyer pulled alongside and soldiers were trans-shipped. Colonel Philip, following tradition, was the last Army member to leave the stricken ship that was eventually destroyed by gunfire
On the 29th May 1940, Colonel Philip was told that 2/SWB would be responsible for covering the evacuation of British land forces from that part of Norway. For three days 2/SWB held off the enemy and by the 5th June, having completed their task, 2/SWB embarked at Borkenes and made their way to a cruise-liner lying off-shore. Five days later, they landed at Greenock. In 1945 the French government created Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz a Chevalier de Legion d’Honneur and awarded him the Croix de Guerre with Palmes.
After the war, Philip succeeded Colonel Gwynne Thomas as Secretary of the SWB Regimental Association until 1960 when Major Geo Egerton took over as the first (and only) Regimental Secretary SWB. Thereafter, nothing much was heard of Philip Gottwaltz until he died in 1980 and his son made contact with RHQ RRW.

My mind may be a little hazy about Philip’s funeral in April 1980 (after all it was 27 years ago), but a few salient facts are imprinted on my memory.
Philip’s son and daughter–in-law (disguised as John and Jane respectively for the purpose of this story) lived in a small house sufficient for their needs but requiring some arrangement of furniture to accommodate an 89 year old retired brigadier, who happened to be John’s father. Quite by accident, the old man was discovered by his son living in an old people’s home only a stone’s throw away.
John told me about what he remembered of his father: “I must have been about five years of age when I saw him for the first time. He and my mother lived apart but I can clearly remember her taking me to meet him. It was a lovely day and we had a picnic on the Malvern Hills. Afterwards, I played by myself while my mother and father talked for a long time. I don’t know what they talked about but, looking back on it now, I suppose they were discussing a divorce. When, at last, they got up, he patted me on my head and gave me 2/6d (two shillings and sixpence – 12p in today’s money) and I didn’t see him again until 1979 when I discovered he was living in an old people’s home not far from where we live now. I told Jane about it and we both went around to see him. We found him in good health, if somewhat shaky on his legs, which was to be expected for a man of his age.
When we returned home, I asked Jane how she felt about him living with us. We have no children of our own and there was a spare bedroom - so, it was agreed and he moved in a few days later. I did National Service with the Royal Artillery and Jane spent a few years in the Women’s Royal Army Corps but neither of us could be described as ‘military’ people. My father was quite the opposite and everything from his immaculate suit and regimental tie to his highly polished shoes and erect carriage spelt ‘ARMY’. He always took us by surprise when he came downstairs in the morning. He would suddenly appear and rasp out a greeting as if he was on the barrack square. Both Jane and I would leap to our feet, stand stiffly to attention and bark a reply. Afterwards, we would laugh about the effect he had on us.
His daily routine would always involve a trip to the off-licence where he established a good rapport with the manager. He is going to bemoan the passing of my father more than anyone else as he was a very good customer,” said John.

I asked John what he did for a living. “I move things around,” he said. “What sort of things.” I asked. “Anything from furniture to farm produce,`’ he replied. “I’ve got a van that I park around the back and, providing it’s not too dirty, I’ll shift anything.”
I asked him how he got on with his father after being so long apart: “Very well,” he answered, “We discovered a closeness that neither of us knew existed. Jane and I are going to miss him now that he’s gone.”

Before I left for home in Crickhowell, John told me that he would like to present his father’s medals to the SWB Museum in Brecon. I still had another five months to go before I was appointed Curator, but I gladly accepted them and delivered them to Major Geo Egerton the following day.

After 13 years as Curator of the SWB Museum and an on-going interest to my dying day, I suppose I have more knowledge than most about the ‘Men Behind The Medals’. Those of Brigadier Philip Gottwaltz were my first acquisition and they retain a special place in my affection.