大象传媒

Brecon - October 1939

With my head still echoing to the sound of the long shrill blast from the guard鈥檚 whistle, blowing from my mind any last-minute thoughts I might have had like bits of straw in the wind, I waved goodbye to the little gathering of people on the platform of Neath General Station who had come to see me off on that grey and windy October day in 1939.

I felt strangely excited as the train chugged out past the drab backs of the houses with their gardens sprawling down almost to the edge of the railway line, washing on the clothes lines, as if sensing the mood I was in, gaily dancing themselves dry in the morning breeze.

A few weeks earlier, Hitler had marched into Poland and Prime Minister Chamberlain had made the dramatic announcement that Britain had no alternative but to enter into a state of war with Germany.

I had received my conscription papers instructing me to report at the barracks in Brecon for service with the South Wales Borderers, the twenty-fourth foot regiment of the line, which had a very distinguished record in the field, collecting a record number of Victoria Crosses at the famous battle of Rourke鈥檚 Drift in the Zulu Wars, seven of them in one action, which has not been equalled or surpassed to this day. This proud achievement is blazed across the South Wales Borderers鈥� lists of military achievements for eternity.

Many other lads had come this day to Brecon from different parts of the country in answer to the call to arms, so much raw material that was to be kneaded into shape being put through the mill on the barrack square with weeks of square-bashing, eventually emerging as something approaching the finished product 鈥� as Sergeant Roberts would tell us with a hint of sarcasm in his tone 鈥� the trained man of steel equipped to do battle in any part of the world.

After all our particulars had been taken, we were shepherded into the Quartermaster鈥檚 Stores for our very first issue of military clothing. These were called 鈥楧enims鈥�, of very durable material, battle class styled jacket and trousers, used mostly for training purposes and doing fatigues. They came in two sizes, too large and too small! Seeing a bunch of rookies like ourselves just after being kitted out march from the barracks up to the centre of the town of Brecon to the Central hail, where we were to be billeted was worthy of being a pantomime in itself. We shuffled along completely out of step, arms swinging in all directions, the trousers, which needed shortening, buckling up at the knees as we plodded on like robots, most of us not being accustomed to the stiff and heavy army boots.

We were weak with laughter as each man stepped out from the Quartermaster鈥檚 Stores after being fitted out. One had the impression that with a little practice it might have been possible to have done an about turn without the suit moving, but with a little bit off here and a tuck in there we soon made ourselves quite presentable. Our battle dress however was a different matter altogether and was well worth the effort and expense of having it tailored to one鈥檚 requirements for the cost of perhaps a few shillings. The uniform was very smart with its array of shiny brass buttons and gleaming dog collar badges of the sphinx.

I didn鈥檛 find my early training days at all difficult, in fact I rather enjoyed them if anything, being keen on physical training and having a passionate fondness for the outdoor life. At home, I used to love taking my dog, Juno, a silver grey Alsatian for strolls into the densely-wooded hills behind our place. The sense of wonder and awe I experienced when entering the wood, the tall trees with their cool stillness giving a cathedral-like atmosphere invariably left me with a peace of mind and contentment and a wonderful feeling of having been cleansed.

I recall vividly 1939 being a very bitter winter, with quite a lot of snow and ice about. We had great fun skating on the river which had frozen solid to quite a few inches thick, the local inhabitants assuring us that this had not happened for many years. Those frosty nights, so clear, with the stars hanging low like large jewels in the sky, the crunch of our footsteps sounding very loud and exaggerated in the still night air as we plodded on through the crisp snow, the wonderful feeling of well-being experienced after a long day in the fresh air on the huge rifle ranges arriving back at the billets in the evening with faces glowing.

I soon got friendly with Bryn David, a lad from my home town of Neath. Bryn was a rangy lad with a clean and rosy complexion whose whole face came aglow when he laughed his infectious laugh, which seemed to come from deep down in the centre of his whole being. On one occasion, it was necessary for us to go down from our billet at Central Hall to report to the company office in the barracks. We had not covered many yards when an almighty roar went out from across the other side of the barrack square. It sounded like the bellow of a pampas bull, 鈥淲here the hell do you think you鈥檙e going? Straighten up there, head up, eyes front, chest out and keep those arms swinging!鈥�. Bryn, with that irresponsible laugh of his used to say of R.S.M. Lewis 鈥淭hat beggar has more eyes in his head than a Chinese football team鈥�.

I quickly realised that, being in the army at the outbreak of war, one could dispense with any petty fads one might have and the sooner one accepted things in the best possible spirit the better. One of the first jobs we were given was to clean our utensils for eating and drinking. These were tin bowls and plates, and judging by their condition had probably been stacked away without being disturbed since the Great War, being discoloured red with rust but after a little elbow grease, we soon had them spic and span again. Little comforts like warm water for shaving were out and it was the survival of the fittest, shivering around a cold water tank outside the hut for the early morning swill. Shaving was quite an ordeal with bits of broken mirror perched precariously on the ledge of the wall, our mouths screwed up to tighten the skin as we scratched away at our beards by the light coming through the windows from inside the hut, desperately trying to get a good lather from the cold water. The circulation of blood in our bodies was soon restored after a brisk trot usually along the banks of the river for about half an hour or so in P.T. vest and shorts, this being the usual start to the day鈥檚 proceedings.

A profound impact was made on me by a dark curly-haired Jewish lad when, every night, just before lights out in the little school room (Central Hall), he knelt at the side of his bed to say his prayers despite the barracking and teasing he would get from one or two of the less thoughtful chaps who often, charged with courage after a couple of pints of beer, would jeer and throw whatever object that happened to be lying handy across the room to try and distract him. He simply ignored them and just carried on quietly, earning the respect and admiration of most of the lads. I felt very humble and not a little ashamed by this simple act of faith which most of our generation was taught as children but obviously lacked the spiritual strength to carry it through into manhood.

After a few weeks at Brecon, where I had completed a motor transport course, I was sent on a draft and had to say cheerio to Bryn, who remained there for a while and was subsequently sent to Norway with another battalion of the South Wales Borderers where he was badly wounded but eventually survived the war.

My draft joined the Brecknock Battalion at Hereford, after spending a few weeks at the pretty little village of Hay-on-Wye. One character whom I will always associate with Hereford was Lew Pelosi, a broad chunky-built Welshman from Swansea. An Italian by origin, Lew was liked by everyone for his wonderfully cheerful spirit and zest for life, continually acting the fool. Even the officers made allowances for Pelosi and respected him. One of his favourite little pranks was to be late falling in on parade for the roll-call which was held in a huge square courtyard. When the sergeant calling the roll kept repeating his name he would strut along the balcony overlooking the yard, his black greased hair flattened down and parted to one side with his little Adolf moustache and one arm stretched out in front of him shouting 鈥淗ell Hitler鈥� to the delight and amusement of all on the parade ground below.

The months passed by quite uneventfully in this beautiful town of Hereford where the smooth green lawns of the big houses rolled down to the banks of the River Wye.

Then, in the summer of 1940, we moved to the Bootle golf course in Liverpool, where we lived under canvas. This was where I really thought that at last I was getting involved in the war, although somewhat remotely. Nevertheless, I felt a sense of belonging in the struggle that was taking place. What a pleasure it was coming back to the tents at night with one鈥檚 senses sharpened by the damp atmosphere to smell the trampled grass and water-proofed canvas in my nostrils, making one feel earthy and close to nature.

The night skies over Britain rumbled with the sound of heavy German bombers distinguishable by the irregular drone of the engines of Dorniers, Junkers and Heinkels, dropping their hideous loads on strategic points throughout the country, and Liverpool in particular was being badly hit. The camp buzzed with excitement when 鈥楯erry鈥� dropped a couple of bombs on the camp site, resulting in a few tents being whisked away into the air like paper handkerchiefs. There were a few minor casualties but no fatalities as the battalion was out on duty at the time. We were often called upon to meet emergencies in the city. The Birkenhead Docks and Merseyside were main targets for the raiders, the sky often aglow with light from huge bonfires set off by incendiary bombs which rained down on the big stockyards of wood and paper and mills in the vicinity of the docks. The whole place lit up like a fairground, leaving exposed in the first cold light of day the following morning twisted blackened charred masses of debris.

I had joined the motor transport section of the battalion and one of my duties was to take the Post Corporal Ray to the main Post Office in Liverpool. He was a lively dapper little fellow with a neat moustache, who seemed to work up a tremendous enthusiasm over the most ordinary things. For this job, we used what we called the H.Q. office truck, a wide heavy vehicle with rather large wheels. On one occasion, when thundering along Stanley Road into Liverpool city centre, a big ginger tom cat ran straight across my path leaving me no possible chance to avoid him. There was a sickening crunch of bone and flesh as the cat shot out from under the wheels across the cobbled roadway. How squeamish I felt then, little-realising how much spilled blood I was destined to see in the next couple of years.

From Liverpool, we moved down to the south coast, where we took up positions of defence along the beautiful stretch of coastline in Sussex. There was quite a scare on at the time of a possible German invasion.

Mobile columns were formed to deal with any air- or sea-borne landings that might take place, extensive anti-invasion measure had been taken, all sign posts and milestones had either been taken away or painted over, rows of tall stout poles had been erected in the open spaces such a fields as obstructions against possible glider attack and a series of anti-tank ditches had been dug at intervals alongside the coast roads where camouflaged 鈥榩ill boxes鈥� stood giving the appearance of derelict roadside caf茅s. Miles of barbed-wire had also been used at strategic points. In different areas, there might be a concentration of tanks, Bren gun carriers and armoured cars hidden under the cover of camouflage netting strung up in lengths on a line of poles which covered quite a distance, blending into the colour-scheme of the countryside, obscured from the sight of the searching eyes of enemy reconnaissance planes.

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