Pain in the sun
by
former Sapper Eric Reed
Edited
by David Carter with added
comments
Note: Some images can be clicked on for a larger version.
I enlisted in the Royal Engineers at Swansea. I signed on for the extra twelve months to receive an extra one-pound a week and an assurance from the recruiting officer of an overseas posting. The motto of the Corps of Royal Engineers is 'Ubique', which means 'here, there and every bloody where'.
One never forgets basic training days, especially at Aldershot. Of course, that was, and still is, the home of the British Army. The RE HQ is now in Gillingham, Kent.
The normal day began at 5.30 am. You washed, shaved, cleaned the barrack room, and laid out every item of kit on your bed, ready for the morning inspection. Then you marched to the cookhouse for breakfast before returning to the barrack room in preparation for first parade.
Basic training lasted for twelve weeks - the normal, daily military duties - physical training, arms drill, firing on the range, route marching and endless square bashing (drill), the hallmark of the Army and then tiresome, endless 'bull' -which we nicknamed 'Brasso bashing'. The latter part of the training was devoted to specialised sections, such as field engineering, bridge building and all the work involved in sapper units. Many of the men I was with volunteered for the parachute squadron of the Corps. I volunteered for the MT (motor transport) because there were plenty of vacancies abroad. |
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Discipline in the 1950s was hard, quite different from that in the Army today.
I recall one chap with us at Aldershot who could not get his drill correct and he drove the drill sergeant mad. He seemed to put his left leg and left arm out together when marching. Finally he was double marched to the guardroom, where he ended his days cleaning the floor with a toothbrush - very demoralising - until he had a nervous breakdown.
On the whole our NCOs were good. There were regular competitions between A and B Squadrons. If one was good at arms drill and marching, then it was a feather in the cap of the NCO and he would allow you to finish early or go to the NAAFI for a bar of chocolate - that is if you could afford to buy one.
What every serviceman looks forward to after the passing- out parade at the end of training is the posting. For some who went abroad this is where they would remain for the rest of their service. A three-year man like myself could spend two years seven months abroad, which I did and there was no coming home on leave.
I was posted to No I RASLS (radar, air, survey, liaison section) at Polymedhia Camp, two miles from Limassol, as a driver/operator and a very novice one at that.
The journey to Cyprus was far from being a leisurely cruise through the Mediterranean. About 200 us were packed in one compartment, sleeping in bunks below the waterline. The stench was unbearable and the food atrocious, quite different from Aldershot.
We arrived in Cyprus ten days later, after stops at Malta and Gibraltar. These were drop off points for military personnel and their families.
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(Reader John Sowter, a Sapper during the Suez crisis, sailed twice on the Empire Ken. He says: 'I have lived my life working with ships and know the Empire Ken was originally the S.S. Ubena of the German East Africa Line before WW2. During the war, she became a German hospital ship and also a U-Boat Depot ship. In 1945 she was captured by the British and eventually resumed service as a troop-carrier under her new name.') |
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We were transported from the Empire Ken to the Limassol shore by landing craft, as the harbour was too shallow for our ship to tie up.
(David Carter: 30 Field Squadron, 35 Army Engineer Regiment, moved to Cyprus from the Canal Zone in January 1953 and settled in Polemidhia Camp. To the Squadron's surprise, it found 30 wooden huts there, which had been erected by Captain .H H. Kitchener, RE, when he surveyed and mapped the island in 1882, four years after Britain took over the island from the Turks).
With the onset of summer, temperatures rose rapidly into the low 100s. In our standard issue tropical kit of a shirt, baggy shorts down to our knees, hobnail boots with puttees and hose tops, the days were just bearable.
Thirst was another problem. "Need some water, sarge," was a frequent cry.
"The tap is over there, mate," came the reply. "But you'll be lucky. They've cut off the supply. You'll have to wait until the NAAFI opens to get a drink."
(David Carter: The first field engineer unit was deployed to Cyprus to help prepare the ground for Britain's Middle East Land Forces HQ at Episkopi, near Limassol. One of the first tasks was to ensure a secure water supply for the new cantonment. A water source was found at Kissousa, a small village about 1,800 feet above sea level in the Troodos Mountains, which had been selected by 19 Topographic Squadron. Using 18-miles of pipe from the Canal Zone in Egypt, the engineers built a gravity feed system that linked the village to Episkopi).
Britons in Cyprus, whatever their occupation, were a potential target for EOKA, especially when they were off duty. That's when many lost their lives. We had to be alert at all times.
As EOKA stepped up its campaign, our freedom to walk to Limassol for a break came to an end. If we went to the town we had to be accompanied and armed. Even our trips to Six Mile Beach, where we swam, had to be curtailed.
Traffic accidents were the cause of many other fatalities, caused by inexperienced drivers ordered by their superiors to drive at speed to reach their destination in the shortest possible time.
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I remember one incident very clearly. We were on detachment at Paphos and were travelling in a Land Rover on the Polis Road, heading for a survey point near the Limni Mines.
A sergeant was sitting next to me in the front seat with four surveyors in the rear. Just as we were passing an army camp on our left, one of the front tires blew. I lost control and the vehicle swung straight into some coils of barbed wire. As the bumper became entangled, another coil swept over the top of the Land Rover, almost beheading the sergeant and my passengers. Fortunately none was injured.
Once we recovered and replaced the tire, we continued our journey towards Polis, only to be stopped by the Military Police, all armed to the teeth. They ordered us to immediately return to camp.
"What for?" I asked.
"Because, lad, EOKA has resumed its hostilities," snapped an RMP corporal. "Uncle George (Grivas) thinks you Sappers have had things too easy and you've chosen to help him. You've come out without your rifles and Sten."
I found it difficult to understand how one day Greek Cypriots expressed their friendship and the next they wanted to kill us. People changed their attitudes overnight. On a Thursday, a village elder would give us coffee, but on Friday he would be leading a crowd who threw bricks and stones at us.
Almost every village in Cyprus concealed one or two terrorists, if not a complete active group involved in 'hit-and-run' attacks.
Friends or Foes?
As time went on, we were always on edge, never knowing the kind of welcome we would receive during our surveying missions. Take, for example, the case of our trip to Amiandos, one of the remoter villages in the Troodos. It consists of two small rows of tiny houses divided by a donkey track.
This particular day there was an eerie silence as we approached. There was not a soul in sight. Even the dogs and stray cats had disappeared. We knew something was up. Then, without warning, a shower of stones descended on us. We jumped out of our vehicle and took up firing positions.
Seeing that we were fully armed the villagers slowly began to emerge from their homes, some holding opened Pepsi Cola bottles, which they offered us as a gesture of friendship!
This was the type of thing we dealt with daily.
Misused Ammunition
During a day out on a survey somewhere near Pedhoulas village in the Troodos Mountains, not very far from Kykko Monastery, I drove my Land Rover as far as we could go up the rugged track and stopped to drop off my sergeant and the surveyors so that they could continue on foot.
Because we were not allowed to leave our Land Rovers unattended, I had to remain behind. "See you in a few hours, sarge," I shouted after the mountaineers.
The day was warm and I must have dozed off, sitting on the verge of the track. Suddenly I woke to the sound of a plaintive song. Blinking in the bright light, I saw an elderly village gentleman, leading a donkey laden with baskets, heading in my direction. To me he looked suspicious and I didn't want to take any chances. What was the time and where were the others?
There was no time to check my yellow-orange card, which told us when we could open fire. In my befuddled state, my instinctive reaction was to reach for my Sten, cock it and press button A for automatic fire, hoping the damned weapon wouldn't jam.
It was common practice, albeit a complete breach of Army Regulations, to hold back some bullets when we returned our weapons to the armoury. The regimental police were supposed to check there were no discrepancies between what had been issued and what was returned. However, those with Stens were rarely caught out. The RPs never wanted to remove and count every round in our Sten magazines, two of which were issued at a time, as it was too time consuming.
Coffee and Sympathy
Still, I had sympathy for the Cypriot people, but never their 'cause'. I felt they were naturally a friendly people, but forced into showing hatred towards us by Grivas and his EOKA gangs. They probably wanted to govern themselves, but the price for independence that the terrorists were exacting was unacceptable.
A member of our survey team was a Greek Cypriot and he introduced me to one of his relatives, a beautiful girl called Androula with whom I established a warm friendship. Of course, we never saw each other alone because local custom dictated there had to be a chaperone present.
But news of our relationship reached the ears of my OC. He summoned me to his office for a private chat. He warned me that EOKA often enticed innocent servicemen into their 'honey traps'. Once caught, the soldiers were either kidnapped and held hostage or blackmailed into revealing sensitive information. He recommended I break off my friendship.
(David Carter: (Nitsa Hadjigeorghiou, a Greek Cypriot woman, was one who set up a honey trap. She was found guilty of luring an RAF corporal to his death by EOKA in her apartment. She was released after turning informer)
I ignored his advice and a few evenings later left camp, claiming I was visiting friends in Berengaria village, where there were married quarters for Army personnel and their families.
My destination was, of course, Androula's home in Limassol. When I arrived in the town, it was alive with RMPs, but I managed to evade them, probably because, due to my Welsh roots, I have olive skin and dark hair, I could pass for a Greek Cypriot.
I expected a friendly welcome from Androula, but I wasn't allowed to see her. Her bother, with the body of a Rambo, greeted me instead and told me to get the hell away. He wanted his family to have nothing to do with me, claiming that if the RMPs spotted me, they would all be dragged off for questioning.
Downhearted I left and went to a bar nearby to drown my sorrows in the company of some Greek Cypriots to whom Androulla had introduced me. The drinks flowed and time passed quickly. Just as I was about to leave, the bar was stormed by a group of RMPs, looking for soldiers who were in town without a pass.
The Greeks crowded round me as if I was one of them, not giving me away. The RMPs left and I managed to return to camp safely.
Next day everyone knew what had happened, without me saying a word. From then on, I was known as 'Taffy the Greek'.
(David Carter: Eric Reed may or may not have been lucky. Two British airmen were allowed to take Greek Cypriot wives, but then ordered out of the island in a hurry, without their brides whom they never saw again. "We were spirited away by the Special Branch," airmen X told me. "And then we were retired by the RAF. Almost 50 years later, it sounds very James Bond." To some extent it was: the Greek Cypriot wives were closely related to Grigoris Afxentiou and Stavros Stylianides, both in the top ranks of EOKA. Afxentiou died in an attack on his hideout after a long shoot-out, while Stylianides was killed trying to plant a bomb. Who gave them away? The airmen won't talk but they only admit they 'co-operated' with Special Branch.
("The Greek Cypriots have honoured these men as 'heroes'", airman X said. "So it's very unlikely that I would be made welcome if I ever went back to the island, as we played a role in their demise. As you know, the Greeks have long memories.")
The Money Run
After several months with No 1 RASLS, I was transferred to No 2 AFSD, a very different type of unit. With No 1 RASLS I had worked with some highly educated and very professional people with whom I had seen almost every part of Cyprus. Now I was to be the OC's personal driver, on call 24 hours a day, always turned out to make an RSM smile with delight.
My OC was Major Storr, an elderly officer with rows of WW2 medals on his chest. He was a strict, old-fashioned disciplinarian. To satisfy him, I had to wake an hour before anybody else, report to the camp's guardroom, draw my weapon and ammunition, check the vehicle, give it a quick polish and then drive to Berengaria village, on the outskirts of Limmasol, to collect him and his officers from their married quarters - all done before I could eat breakfast.
By this time I had been in Cyprus for almost one year and settled in a routine of work. With one stripe on my arms, placed there after a three-week NCO's cadre course in Zygi, I felt quite superior. But that one stripe could be taken away in the blink of an eye, unless you were very careful.
One of the weekly chores for Major Storr was the Wednesday collection of the payroll from a Limassol bank to pay our unit. He regarded his task as one of honour to maintain the morale of the men, who would receive their wages the next day in an orderly fashion.
Usually the collection run was as smooth as clockwork, but on this occasion the Greek Cypriots had decided to be awkward. Reaching Five Ways outside Limassol, RMPs flagged us down and ordered us back because a riot was taking place in the town.
Fixing the RMP corporal with a steely gaze, Major Storr said: "Stand aside. Drive on Corporal Reed and put your bloody foot on the pedal." And drive we did, straight into St Andrew's Street, in the heart of the Greek quarter, where we came to a sharp stop.
Directly ahead of us was an enormous crowd of angry rioters, armed with sticks and axe heads. They looked more terrifying than Welsh fans at Cardiff Arms Park awaiting their national team to take on the English at Rugby. Whether the Major's heart was pumping faster than usual, I can't say, but my adrenalin was flowing faster than Niagara Falls.
Riot or not, however, Major Storr was not to be deterred. He drew his pistol, told our two escorts to remove the safety catches on their tried and tested Lee Enfield .303 riffles and checked that I had loaded my Sten, which was resting on my knees.
At that moment, this Greek Cypriot came up to my side of the Land Rover and aimed a hefty blow at my head with a massive iron bar. I ducked and the Major fired his pistol. The assailant removed himself in a hurry.
I put the Land Rover into four-wheel drive and put my foot down on the accelerator. I wasn't prepared to see if the Greek had been hit or not.
"Is there something wrong with the clutch, Corporal?" Major Storr asked as we juddered through the mass of screaming Greeks.
"No, sir," I replied. "It's just my foot shaking on the pedal."
Somehow we reached the bank and parked outside. Major Storr marched boldly through the entrance, while the escorts and I moved to the rear of the vehicle, making sure our backs were to a wall to avoid being shot from the rear, a favourite EOKA tactic.
(David Carter: If collecting the regimental payroll was dangerous, so was sorting army mail, another RE responsibility. Many Sappers experienced alarming incidents at first hand, as bombs exploded in the Postal Depot area at an average rate of one a month and special arrangements were made for the security and escort of mail, which by then included classified mail, in road transit
(The Ox and Bucks Light Infantry was responsible for security in Limassol at the height of the EOKA conflict, which had developed into a battle between Greeks and Turks as well by mid-1958. Usually, the town company was quick into action to stop trouble developing. According to Major D. J. Wood, "Their tear gas and batons were used without partiality, favour or affection on all and sundry. Tear gas was found particularly effective and there was never any question of a subsequent inquiry about the shooting of an innocent bystander who one could always guarantee would turn out to be a mother with six children or the one congenital idiot the town had. It says something for the discipline of the soldiers that no one ever fired his personal weapon at either a Greek or Turk during this very temper-trying period."
(But the job had its lighter moments, too. The 'ladies' of Zig-Zag Street, a notorious red light area, complained to the British that the night curfews and zone barricades were stopping them, unfairly, from practicing their trade!)
Punishments for the Bad Boys
I suppose we were lucky. We got away without injury or having to fire our weapons, except for the Major's single shot. After so much restraint, we resented reading press reports about soldiers treating EOKA with brutality.
That's not to say that some service personnel did not lose control and vent their anger on some occasions after some EOKA outrage, such as the time when a Red Cross ambulance was ambushed on the way to RAF Akrotiri and only one passenger lived to tell the tale.
Quite often, it was the soldiers who experienced the 'brutality' from their own masters. 'Naughty boys', especially National Servicemen, were severely punished if they stepped out of line by an inch and no excuses were accepted.
I saw one defaulter lose his self-control at the Polymedhia Camp when he was serving seven-days confined to barracks (CB as it was known). The sentence meant him reporting to the guardroom at specified times day and night in full battle order and then parade, going through various drill movements at the whim of the RPs.
On this particular evening, a sadistic sergeant found fault in everything the soldier did, swore at him and kept prodding his pace stick into the man's stomach. The soldier stripped off his kit and delivered a well-deserved kick to the sergeant's groin.
Needless to say, the soldier ended up in the detention centre at Wayne's Keep, a god-forsaken place. Ironically, on his release he was appointed a regimental policeman.
I have ready many books about overseas campaigns, but I can't recall reading anything about the punishments meted out for trivial offences. None warranted such inhumane acts.
No Excuses Tolerated
During my service in Cyprus I was charged three times and found guilty of speeding, guilty for smoking whilst driving and guilty for failing to collect our new OC from Nicosia Airport. Of the latter, I still maintain my innocence.
I had drunk some contaminated water and ended up with dysentery. During one of my frequent trips to the latrine, I collapsed and woke up in hospital, with a temperature of 104 degrees, and a nurse holding a cold compress at my head. For three weeks I remained in hospital, having three injections every day to kill the bugs in my body. By the time of my release, I had lost more than 25 pounds in weight.
The Provost Sergeant, too, took some pity and kept the punishment light.
Released seven days later, I went back to my usual duties as the OC's driver, but with a hatred for the military establishment.
I could have stayed on in Cyprus as the OC's driver, as he had forgiven me, but I had not forgotten my seven days' detention.
End of a Sunshine Holiday
After two years and seven months, I returned home, glad to be back in one piece. Many others had not made it and were buried in Wayne's Keep Military Cemetery.
I am proud of my Cyprus Service Medal and of having belonged to the Royal Engineers. We may not have been an elite fighting unit but, I believe, we did worthwhile things in the island.
Back with my family, I thought it curious that nobody asked me how life was in Cyprus. I suppose they imagined it had been an extended holiday in the sun, paid for by Her Majesty.
(David Carter: Despite the EOKA conflict, the Royal Engineers developed the island's infrastructure for the benefit of the local people. During the post-Suez period, they completed work on what were to become the Sovereign Base Areas after independence. They constructed rifle ranges at Dhekelia, playing fields at Episkopi and a ski lift on Mount Olympus. Typical of their many chores was the large civil aid project carried out by 40 Field Squadron and the Plant Troop of 18 Field Park Squadron in the early summer of 1958, to connect the villages of Trozina and Yerovasa in the Troodos foothills with a one-and-half-mile road and a 130-foot Bailey bridge).
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