大象传媒

Part 12 The poor padre.

This event recorded below, 鈥榯he poor padre鈥� is true full; maybe rounded on the edges with time, but there you are take it or leave it.

Little military things were going on in Verona As always the young lad was looking for new things to do. An opening came for a new venture; the notice board read 鈥楧river Wanted鈥�. Thought it was just what he wanted, his only problem he had never driven a vehicle before in his life.
Luckily for him one of the lads was a driver. Driving was second nature to him as his father owned a haulage business near the Prison in Cardiff. He was one of the few that knew a job was waiting for him when he left the army.
Like the lad he had plenty of time and agreed to help. His driving lesson would last about two hours but without the aid of a vehicle.
The only things available to act as vehicle and gears were the chairs in normal use and a few books, the hand break operation was to be given as a verbal instruction. Repeated instruction from the expert and this new driver was busting with information on how to control a real live box on wheels.. At least by the time the instructions were over the lad though he could at least move it and stop it, the finer points would come later.
Morning had arrived and there was no reason why he couldn鈥檛 rise to the occasion for his first time behind the wheel.

No questions were asked about his driving experiences. Without any tests he was accepted as a driver and was led to a small muti-purpose vehicle. This P.U was the first bungle of metal he had entered as its driver, his two hours spent to try to learn its controls was now to be but to the test.
He was totally confident in his ability to drive the dam thing as he opened the door, there sitting in side was the padre. With the usual saluting over he entered that P.U. the starting key was already in position. One problem solved. At least his passenger started off with a bundle of smiles. Within a short time all the jolly smiles were draining from this poor old padre鈥檚 face. His new driver had turned into a devil, and was in a different world to his.
The real pedals were not performing as good for the driver as the books and things but was now fully occupied trying to relate his driving skills to those blasted books and those verbal instructions, his mind was working overtime, 鈥淣ow if I press that one down, push that lever to move off then put your foot on the throttle," now under his breath he cursed the gear stick, it wasn鈥檛 working as well as that broomstick and it was certainly noisier.
Ignoring his passenger he directed all his thoughts to that bloody stick and was determined that the thing was going into some sort of gear or something. Like it or not!
His silence was not through fear but shear elation of movement. Something had happened and he had won this one; it was in some sort of gear and the P.U. was moving.
This was an untold victory for him nothing else existed. It鈥檚 got to be plain sailing now, "let that pedal out slowly and away we go." Wrong again, now the engine is working like mad as if it wants to get to hell out of that place under the hood. "What's the matter with the bastard thing?" as he looks down at all the pedals and things, especially that blasted lever.
The voice remembered from the previous evening breaks through. Don鈥檛 forget to take that hand break off. With the skill of a giant he presses the release button and slams that lever to the floor. The screaming engine is free to go and is off at the speed of a rocket. Not very smoothly he admits, but with the feeling of breaking the sound barrier. At least it was moving, no idea what gear it was in?
That was stage one out of the way. Now the tricky one, "pull that gear stick down, remember that clutch pedal." In desperation he pushed the pedal in, the noise was terrible! The engine and gearbox shouted out in agony, he had forgotten to take his foot off the accelerator. It was so noisy as if it was pleading for mercy. Out of luck he lifted his foot on the pedal somehow it was successful and now in a higher gear.

With great satisfaction he held onto that steering wheel. Now he would catch up with that troop convoy. With the freedom of a charging knight he took off in pursuit. Confidence was booming and had the feeling that the four wheels were going fast enough and balls to any more gear changes. Anyway the noises got on his nerves.
As if by magic the entrance to the Baily Bridge appeared. It was wild and exciting. With all this going on he forgot how to slow down and stop the P.U.
His delay in getting there had left the bridge empty. Whatever gear the PU was in she was flying, the only consolation for him, was the entrance to the bridge seemed to be getting wider as it was approached, now all that was necessary was to aim it at that open space. Somehow the P.U found her way without touching any of the paintwork. With that problem out of the way he again returned his thoughts to that two-hour instruction. Looking at his feet end he was trying to will them to move in the right direction,鈥� If I push that pedal down with the other one and pull up the hand break the bloody thing will stop." Halleluiah the leavers and things moved! It stopped all right. The poor Padre almost dislodged from the seat was now almost finding a quick way through the windscreen and to his happy hunting grounds. It was his violent movement that attracted the driver's attention. What he saw was a passenger almost in total collapse. What speech he could make could be heard quite clearly, the engine had cut out during that magnificent stop.

The man of the cloth with Captain's Pips was sitting there just staring ahead, the lad was a little sympathetic with his appearance for some reason the poor Padre had a handkerchief wiping pools of sweat of his face. With the other hand with a book fanning with great zeal disturbing the rest of the air around him.
His prayers had been answered. At last the P.U was stopping and he was still in one piece, maybe his soul was fighting a little hard to re-enter his body, but he was more alive than ever before.
The young driver could see no reason why he should have been so agitated. Nothing had gone wrong. Maybe a bit noisy at times but the trip that took them over that bridge went as sweet as a nut.

Hurried signs were made by the poor Padre to remain on that side of the road. Little was spoke now, details of what the padre wanted came by hand signal. The role had changed, now padre was being dangerous by having his side door open long before the final stop. In fact a part of him was already poking from the side door; the rest of him left in quick haste as the vehicle stopped. There was no doubt as to what he wanted the lad to do.
Reluctantly the lad departed from that beloved steering wheel, and moved into the passenger鈥檚 seat. Within a short time and under new management the PU took off. Little was said, those two hour instructions had some how failed.
Driving days for the lad in the army were over. On reflection the Padre must have been a good solid piece of the church. He made no complaint as far as the driver knew.

Have no second thoughts about these stories as being true, they are all truthful memories, but again only memories. All his life he鈥檚 had the protection not afforded to others, he was lucky and knew it! At times mixed in a part of the messy things but the good things outnumbered them. As time went on things within his world now looked more of a privilege than a chore of survival.
How can words describe adequately sailing in a convoy with its navy escorts? RN Escorts looked what they were mighty ships that stirred the heart of this youngster.

Happy thoughts of Sicily and Italy his Europe that he knew so little about with its ever changing scenery of hills and plains brought grunts of joy. Churches with splendid interiors that abounded with antiquity filled him with wonder. He admired the people working the land with hands hardened and knobbed with their labours and the old people, each a character with their highly coloured skin gained by the working of their land , but most of all their tolerance of the hardships of the industry that benefited most.
Their women always seemed to be working on the thousand and one things on their smallholding. Harvesting the grapes and taking them to a deep concrete basin for the initial crushing by the feet was one of his fondest memories. It was another new day another new experience.

His big moment for that day was being asked to join in the feet crushing of the grapes. Rolling up the trousers and washing the feet for another one off life experience of pressing grapes. The joint effort of all had the pure juice running through the outlet to the storage tank then all grape skin and residue left collected and put into a hand worked press to drain the last drop of juice.
There was no doubt about it the effort was rewarded by feeling good and being invited to share a meal with them. No high fatiguing piles of eating irons and a nice white tablecloth, it was a hands only treatment to take what was wanted and to wipe them down the leg of the trousers. African influence on the buildings and the people of the poor south was obvious, but was so different and honest. A common sight was to see an over-worked donkey standing there to be loaded. Its only movement the twitching of its tail to move the tormenting flies buzzing around and about it. God they were magic moments that could never be repeated. The richer North so much European with their fine cities filled with historical things to be seen that could never have had been included in his 鈥榦rdinary civilian life鈥�.

Mounted Patrol.

War was almost over. The First Welsh was assigned another job this time to provide a mounted patrol. Once again the notice board became of interest to the young soldier. Its main gist was that they wanted volunteers for a newly formed Mounted Patrol.' His interview was short and sweet, and was accepted.
Again it was the same old problem for him. He had never ridden a horse before, nearest he had got was a ride on a donkey at Barry Island. Idea of moving about the country on this new type of transport pleased him. At least it was something different; one horse power seemed a reasonable proposition. The previous animals management had been put out of business and now it was the turn of the Welsh to use these war booty horses; their change of ownership would make no difference to there well being, it was just a matter of feeding and cleaning them and they would happy enough.

His new Sergeant knew all about horses and became the main instructor. Care of the animal and maintain of the leather reins, etc, took priority over anything else. No excuses were accepted, mucking out the stalls took time to get used too, what went into the horse had to come out again, never found the smells offensive.
鈥楶erhaps it was those very early childhood days when there were plenty of cart-horses working the streets and a few coppers could be made by collecting it for use in the garden that made it problem free鈥�.
Cleaning and brushing the horses properly was a bit of joy for the animal but not for the boy. Its back end was the messy end with lots of flies taking part in the act. It was during one of these cleaning periods that with the help of a good strong hoof this newly trained soldier was propelled yards away into another part of the stable. Lesson well learnt and the bugger never had another chance to kick out. No hard feelings for the horse, but damage to the lad鈥檚 pride more than anything else.

Fitting the gear to the horse took a few weeks. During this time they were fitted out with riding breeches. It was at this stage that he was given the full responsibility of the horse. To add to his problems how to mount the horse allotted to him was sixteen hands high. Standing by the side of the horse seemed to present the impossible situation of mounting the thing.
At last the powers to be considered that the lad with the rest of the troupe were ready or the first ride. Getting onto the saddle for the first time was still uncertain; a little hesitation then up went the foot to find the stirrup. With a sigh of relief the foot was in the blasted thing. Little did he realize that major troubles lay ahead? There was more effort needed to give a good heave that was high enough to lift the other leg over the saddle. The lad now found himself sliding about in the saddle with no secure position found.

For some time the all too free leg swung about looking for the other stirrup. Somebody grabs the foot and jams it into the stirrup. The uncertainly of staying in the saddle needed all his thoughts. He was easy meat for what was to happen. Orders were given; it is time for the move. As instructed he gave the poor horse a dig in the ribs with the heels of his boots. Stubbornly it stood its ground it had outwitted him; it didn鈥檛 want to go anywhere with this under trained novice on its back. Panic had set in, another dig in the ribs and it still didn鈥檛 move. What the hell did it need to move it? In frenzy the mind searches for the Sergeant鈥檚 instructions. At that time the art of moving off and holding the reins all looked so easy; except for wobbling all over he felt that he was doing all the right things.
As if to double check he speaks aloud the instructions. 鈥淔irst sit upright in the saddle, leaving a bit of slack in the reins.鈥� Looks down at his feet and about himself to check things, 鈥淣othing wrong with that鈥� He feels that the grip to the horse with the knees was good enough to break the bloody things ribs.

When the order came to move he tried to put into practice the instructions he had been taught. Looking down at this useless thing on four legs, he tried to convey to it that he was the master and when it moved he would lift (as he thought) his bottom at the right time. Somehow he was told that it was to take the weight off the animal鈥檚 rear legs. Then to add insult to injury it dropped a load as if to say 鈥榰p you鈥�. Patience almost exhausted he鈥檚 almost pleading with the stubborn thing. "For Gods sake at least follow the others." Then he remembered the final demonstration by the expert. His words of what not to do, "I do not want to hear anyone saying, gee up!鈥� Would now be totally disregarded; any port in a storm all he wanted now was that forbidden words be ushered loud enough to be hear by both.
His efforts seemed to fail he looked down at the horse, he now hated the thing. Maybe he had hit it much too hard in the right spot or something for now it was moving. It had now sprung to life and moving off like a mad thing. Its rider was now at it mercy.
Somehow he had become detached from the reins. Bouncing up and down and landing on the saddle in the most awkward of places. One foot had become detached from the stirrup. Only thing to grab at was the horse's main. His final attempt to hold on had failed; it was only a small time before the biggest thrill came.

He slid over the saddle, the only part of his body still attached to the horse his foot in the left-hand stirrup. Now it was the hard surface of the ground. Horse's legs were somehow passing his body as it galloped along. All the views of the moving parts seen from this new angle were not frightening. What it did was to provide a vivid picture that would remain with him. Somehow the sergeant galloped side and managed to control the horse and bring it to a stop. No bones broken, his only hurt was his pride of an unhurt horse warrior.

A few kind words from his sergeant and a helping hand from others to remount the horse was all that was needed. Under the watchful eye of the sergeant as he moved off full of apprehension as he sat there, that strange feeling of calmness he had felt as he bumped along the ground was over. He wanted it to be successful this time and tried to relax. He knew he would never to be a good at riding, but in time he was to gain enough experience to control the beast. The two even began to work out some sort of partnership. Within a short time he became a member of the Mounted Patrol.

The patrolling went well enough. Now he was able to see the beautiful country as it should be seen. It seemed so ridiculous that people couldn鈥檛 find peace in this sanctuary of nature. It wasn鈥檛 to be, the Welch patrol were there to help the different warring fractions of Mihailovic's Chetnicks and the Partisans led by Tito. Groups were found they all seemed so normal, if it had been otherwise they could have overwhelmed the patrol. Again it was peaceful and a relief to all. What terrible things had be done in their names?

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