Memorable moments: A high-seas recalculation

In the late 1960s, my mum—a spirited, pretty twenty-year-old English lass—boarded an ocean liner in London bound for Cape Town. She was setting sail for the southern tip of Africa in search of adventure, independence, and the open sea.

Early on during the voyage, she met a chap who seemed to tick every single box. He was handsome, charming, outgoing, and easy to talk to. Mum was thoroughly smitten with him, admiring him from across the deck and happily imagining the possibilities.

Then came the sudden revelation: he was a priest.

Mum was not religious in the slightest. In an instant, every single enthusiastic tick on her mental checklist was unceremoniously wiped clean, replaced by a single, definitive cross. Any budding interest evaporated on the spot.

Sharing a cabin with the priest, however, was a very different kind of man: a balding, slightly built fellow of a far quieter disposition. He didn't command the spotlight, but he had a kind and gentle presence, striking green eyes, and a lovely, warm smile. He had been living and working in London and was on his way back home.

Ah, Mum thought, looking at him with fresh eyes. He’s not bad at all.

His name was Ivor.

Over the remainder of the long voyage across the Atlantic, Mum and Ivor began talking on deck, sharing unhurried conversations, and steadily falling for one another.

By the time the ship dropped anchor in Cape Town, the connection was undeniable. Once ashore, the relationship flourished into marriage, and on their honeymoon, I was conceived.

I’ve always loved reflecting on the razor-thin margins of my own existence. If that charming chap had been a banker or an engineer, my mother might never have glanced twice at the cabin mate. In a very literal sense, I owe my life to a clerical collar.

Family stories: Forgoing the marks

My dad had a story from his student days that he loved telling, one that completely captured my imagination as a kid.

Back when he was at dentistry school, the going was incredibly tough. Anatomy was notoriously the hardest course on the syllabus, and a massive part of surviving it involved grueling lab work and detailed dissections. The end-of-year anatomy exam was the ultimate hurdle, a high-stakes ordeal that combined a massive theory section with a live practical dissection.

Armed with both his pen and his scalpel, Dad walked into the exam hall. Because of the sheer volume of information required to pass, he, like almost everyone else in his class, had been forced to play the odds during his late-night study sessions. He had strategically anticipated what topics would come up and had simply been forced to skip a few sections to save time.

He was crushed when he flipped over the paper and read Question Three: Draw a detailed cross-section of the penis. It was one of the exact topics he had completely left out of his studies.

Whenever Dad reached this part of the story, his eyes would light up with a brilliant twinkle.

"I wasn't the only person in that exam hall," he would say, "who looked down at their scalpel, looked down at their lap, and thought, 'Mmmm, is it worth it?'"

Then, the twinkle in his eyes would grow even brighter, and he’d deliver the punchline he clearly cherished: "Isn't it a good thing I decided to forgo the marks, or you might never have been born!"

Memorable moments: What a hit!

I have a vivid memory of playing French cricket with my beloved Gramps at the park—just him and me on a quiet afternoon.

For those who haven’t played, French cricket is an informal, close-quarters game. The batsman stands stationary, using the bat to shield their legs from the bowler, who tries to hit their shins with the ball. It’s a game of quick reflexes.

During our game, I got overly excited. Gramps bowled the ball, trying to sneak it past me, and I swung the bat with everything I had.

Instead of connecting with the ball, my bat swung wide and struck Gramps directly on the elbow.

There was a loud, sickening crack. The impact must have been absolutely excruciating. I can still clearly remember the flash of pure, sharp pain that crossed Gramps’s face in that first microsecond. But almost instantly, through what must have been a superhuman effort of will, he forced that look away.

He managed to break into a smile, though he couldn't completely hide the lingering agony in his eyes. Looking right at me, he gasped out, "Never mind, my boy—what a hit!"

Even now, I feel a twinge of guilt when the memory comes back, but it is entirely overtaken by a deep, expanding love for him. In a moment of such intense, sudden pain, so many people would have lashed out in anger or frustration. Gramps did the exact opposite. He chose to absorb the pain entirely on his own, doing everything in his power to ensure his grandson didn't feel bad for a clumsy mistake.

Family stories: The institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Family stories: The invisible procession

In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”

One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.

She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”

I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.

“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”

Family stories: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Family stories: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The middle way

When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.

My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.

My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.

"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"

It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.

Attention is love

In many ways, Gran and Gramps could not have been more different. To my young eyes, Gramps was the undisputed hero—an extroverted, charismatic powerhouse who had been a respected amateur actor in his youth. He was the man who held sway as the MC at the annual bowls club, a storyteller who lived for the spotlight and the punchline. He was physically effusive, showering us with praise and affection. As a shy, introverted boy, I idolized him. I wanted to be that eloquent, that funny, and that confident.

In many ways, I took on his mantle. I found myself in school plays, losing myself in roles, and eventually becoming a skilled public speaker—though, unlike Gramps, my "performance" always came with a side of anxiety. I learned from him how to express admiration and how to hold a room with a well-timed story.

Gran, however, was the steady, background presence. She was never the center of attention and far less demonstrative with her affection. But if you got her into a one-on-one conversation, the world shifted.

Gran was an incredible listener. She didn't just hear you; she held what you said. She had a memory like a carefully curated archive; if you mentioned a small detail in passing, months later she would present you with a newspaper clipping perfectly relevant to that thought. Her love wasn't a loud performance; it was a quiet, non-judgmental space.

I’ve realized as I’ve grown older that love, in its purest form, is exactly that: spacious, affirming, and attentive. Attention is love.

While I idolized the "Toucher Tony" version of life when I was young, my appreciation for Gran has grown until she stands as a role model equal to Gramps. She is the bar I set for my own relationships. If I can show a genuine, loving interest in others the way she did, I know I’m offering something truly special.

I was remarkably lucky to have them both. They represent the two halves of my personality: the part of me that wants to tell a great story to a crowd, and the part of me that knows the most important thing I can ever give someone is my undivided, loving attention.

Family stories: Toucher Tony

Later in life, well after Gran and Gramps had emigrated from the UK to Cape Town to be with us, Gramps took up bowls. It wasn't just a hobby; he had found his true calling. While Gran played and enjoyed the social aspect, for Gramps, the green was sacred ground.

He was famously gregarious, a frustrated actor at heart who finally found his stage. Every year at the Annual Bowls Christmas party, he would hold sway as the MC, regaling the club with stories and jokes he had meticulously collected throughout the year. He was the lifeblood of the club, a man whose energy and humor could turn a simple game into a theatrical performance.

Gramps even had a specific, cinematic dream for how his life would conclude. In his mind’s eye, he would sidle up to the edge of the green, supported by his zimmerframe. He would take aim, throw his final "wood," and as it rolled toward the jack, he would suffer a swift, painless heart attack. As the world faded to black, the last sound he would hear—the ultimate validation of a life well-played—would be the cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher! Well done!"

In the physical world, reality was less poetic. Peripheral neuropathy eventually claimed the strength in his legs, forcing him to give up his beloved sport. He spent his final year in a care home, passing away exactly one year after his "darling" had come to get him.

But in my mind, the physical ending doesn't count. When I think of him now, I see him on a super-vivid, ethereal celestial bowling green. He isn't hobbling; he is galloping along with vital abandon, throwing his woods with perfect precision. Gran is there, watching with that sixty-year-old look of love, the clubmates are roaring at his latest story, and the air is filled with the constant, triumphant cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher!"

Family stories: The piano hiders

Once upon a time, many years ago, a party was held in a house crowded with teenagers. The game of the night was "Murder in the Dark." The lights were killed, the house was plunged into a predatory blackness, and as the "murderer" began to stalk the corridors, the guests scattered into the shadows, shrieking and scrambling for safety.

When the lights finally flickered back on, two complete strangers discovered they had chosen the exact same refuge: the cramped, dusty space beneath an old piano.

As they untangled themselves and looked across at one another, the impression was instantaneous. She was taken by his cheery smile and an optimism that seemed to vibrate off him; he was utterly smitten by her long, lithe, gorgeous legs—legs that he maintained, for the next sixty years, were the most beautiful in all of England.

Their connection was immediate, and four years later, they were married. What followed was a romance that survived the brutal separations of the Second World War and spanned well over half a century. They were, quite simply, inseparable.

In their later years, when Gran developed dementia and moved into a care facility, Gramps’ devotion only deepened. He visited her every single day, wheeling her out into the sunlight of the garden and holding her hand for hours on end. He was a man possessed by a single, noble mission: he was determined to outlive her, purely so he could ensure she was never alone.

Gran passed away at the age of eighty-two on September 16, 2002.

Following her death, Gramps’ own health began to falter, and he eventually moved into care himself. On September 15 of the following year, he looked at the nurses and made a quiet, certain announcement: "My darling is coming to get me."

He was right. The very next day—September 16, 2003—exactly one year to the day after Gran had passed, Gramps went to join her.

And I’ve often thought about that moment under the piano.  Two people, hiding in the dark, not knowing what was about to find them.

It turns out it wasn’t the murderer. 

It was a lifetime of love.

Memorable moments: Thick as Tina

Growing up, we had a beloved dog named Tina. I have never, in all my years, seen a dog who could wag her tail with such violent, sustained joy. It didn't matter if you’d been gone for two years or two minutes; Tina’s tail was her primary mode of communication.

Eventually, her enthusiasm became her undoing. She wagged so hard and so often against the walls that her tail was constantly injured, the scabs breaking open and spraying blood everywhere in a rhythmic, joyful massacre. It lasted for months until it became untenable. With heavy hearts, my parents had the vet remove it.

Tina returned home wearing a pair of female panties for a few weeks to protect the healing stump. But the loss of the tail didn't dampen her spirit; it just forced her to find a new medium for her delight. From that day on, when she saw you, she would emit a low, rumbling hum of pleasure through her nose while her entire hindquarters swung from side to side in a rhythmic "butt-wag." If the excitement reached a certain threshold, she’d punctuate the moment by widdling with pure joy.

Tina lived for the driveway ball-toss. We had another dog, Meg, and the competition between them was nothing short of existential. For Tina, getting to the ball before Meg wasn't just a game—it was her life’s work. If Meg won, the heartbreak was visible.

When she wasn't competing for tennis balls, Tina was hunting shadows. She was particularly obsessed with the moving silhouettes of butterflies, chasing them across the grass for hours, barking at the ground, and occasionally stubbing her nose on the dirt in her pursuit of a dark spot. At night, she’d transfer that intensity to torchlight, sprinting after a beam of light as if it were a tangible prize.

My grandfather, never one to mince words, used to use her as the family benchmark for intelligence. If my sister or I did or said something particularly dim-witted, he’d shake his head and say, "Don’t be as thick as Tina."

He wasn't entirely wrong about her IQ, but I loved her with all my heart. She was the kinetic, shadow-chasing soundtrack to my childhood and teens—a dog who might not have understood how light worked, but who understood exactly how to love a family with every fiber of her (short-tailed) being.

Memorable moments: My Himalayan organ

In my final year at university, reality hit me in the form of a searing, localized agony at two in the morning. I managed to get into my car to drive to my parents' house, but the journey was a stop-start nightmare; at every red light, I had to abandon the steering wheel and curl myself into a fetal ball until the light turned green.

My parents took one look at my translucent complexion and rushed me to the emergency room. I was whisked into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

My first memory of waking up was the surgeon standing over my bed, looking less like a clinical professional and more like a proud fisherman.

"My God, Mr. Myburgh!" he exclaimed. "You have the hugest appendix I have ever seen! It’s truly impressive—look, here it is in a bottle." He held up the jar with a flourish. "Getting this sucker out of you was a genuine challenge. Do you mind if we keep it? It honestly belongs in a museum."

Droggy and recovering, I looked at the "sucker" in the jar and felt a strange, misplaced sense of pride. I remember thinking, Wow, I only wish certain other of my organs were built to the same magnificent proportions.

With my parents heading off on a trip, I went to stay with my beloved grandparents to convalesce. It was during this recovery period that I discovered a side of my grandfather I had never suspected.

One morning, unable to sleep, I crept into the kitchen at dawn for a glass of milk. There sat Gramps at the kitchen table, intensely focused on the morning crossword. He was entirely, unapologetically nude.

"Gramps," I whispered, clutching my surgical stitches, "you’re... you're nude."

He didn't even look up from the clues. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "For some reason, it makes me more inspired at thinking up words."

I considered this in silence.

Between his approach to crosswords and my record-breaking appendix, it was becoming increasingly clear that subtlety was not a dominant trait in our family.

Memorable moments: The lone tooth legend

My Gramps was a world-class flirt, a trait he carried with effortless grace well into his later years. It was entirely harmless, and Gran never really minded; it was simply a part of his nature—he just couldn't help himself.

One evening, Ally and I took him to the Spur in Cape Town. He loved the place, particularly the steaks. As soon as we sat down, he was in top form, grinning at our waitress, teasing her with practiced ease, and offering charming compliments that had her beaming. He was the undisputed king of the table.

He was midway through enjoying his steak when disaster—of a very specific, mechanical nature—struck.

Gramps suddenly began to choke. Before we could even react, a rogue piece of steak went flying out of his mouth, followed immediately by his entire set of dentures. They hit his plate with a clatter and began to bounce up and down like a pair of porcelain castanets.

He scrambled to retrieve them, but the physics of the moment were against him. He couldn't get them back in. He was left sitting there with exactly one solitary tooth remaining in the front of his mouth.

Most men would have signaled for the check and buried their face in a napkin. But Gramps was made of sterner stuff.

When the waitress returned to the table a moment later, he didn't flinch. He leaned back and gave her a brilliant, confident grin, his single remaining tooth gleaming under the Spur’s warm lighting. He picked up the conversation exactly where he had left off, as charming and self-assured as if he were a Hollywood lead.

He proved that night that true charisma doesn't require a Hollywood smile. It just requires the guts to keep flirting even when your teeth are still vibrating on the dinner plate. I looked at Ally and realized I was watching a master at work; the dentures were gone, but the legend was very much intact.

Memorable moments: The wrong foot

We were gathered for a proper family meal—Mum, Jo, Antony, Gran, Gramps, and my girlfriend (and future wife), Ally. The atmosphere was warm, the conversation was flowing, and I was feeling particularly romantic.

Deciding to share a private, flirtatious moment with Ally, I quietly slipped my shoe off under the table. I reached out with my foot, searching for hers, and began a gentle, rhythmic game of "footsie." I was quite pleased with myself; it felt like a sophisticated, silent connection in the middle of a busy Sunday lunch.

Suddenly, I noticed a change in the atmosphere above the mahogany.

Gran looked up from her roast potatoes and locked eyes with Gramps. A beautiful, radiant smile spread across her face—a look of absolute, rekindled love that I hadn't seen in years. It was the kind of look usually reserved for silver wedding anniversaries or wartime reunions.

Gramps looked back at her, smiling kindly, but he had a look of profound and utter confusion in his eyes. He clearly had no idea what had prompted this sudden outburst of grandmotherly affection.

In a sudden, startling flash of realization, the physics of the seating chart hit me. I wasn't playing footsie with Ally at all. I had overshot the mark by about twelve inches and was currently massaging Gran’s support stockings with my big toe.

I sat there, frozen, realizing I had accidentally become the most romantic thing to happen to Gran’s feet since 1954. I gently retracted my foot, put my shoe back on, and spent the rest of the meal staring very intently at my gravy, while Gran continued to beam at a bewildered Gramps for the next forty-five minutes.

Grandpa's War Stories

Here are some stories that Gramps recorded for us on a tape at our bequest, many years ago. Enjoy.

Audio files

Graeme · Track 01

Graeme  · Track 2

Graeme  · Track 03

Graeme  · Track 4

To stomach the first tape of my stories, I must remind you that you’ve got to blame Graeme and Allie for their request that I record the various stories that I’ve told them and my reminiscences over the years. This is really all about the army.

I was commissioned in November 1939, in other words six weeks after the War started I found myself a Second Lieutenant, and I was sent up to Coventry to join a company, the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, which was stationed in Coventry. And there I was, age 20, a Second Lieutenant, with six weeks instruction as a Cadet and virtually nothing else. No idea of men control or man management or anything.

And I can remember it was Christmas 1939, just a few weeks really after the War had started, and I was Duty Officer on Christmas Eve, and it was my duty as a young Second Lieutenant to go up with the Orderly Sergeant and the Orderly Corporal to inspect the billets and see that all the men were in bed and asleep. Now the War had just started, virtually it was peace time to all civilians and our men were, at this stage, billeted in empty private houses.

So I walked with my Orderly Sergeant and my Orderly Corporal up the road on Christmas Eve with a view to seeing that everyone was asleep and that everything was in order, and there on the other side of the road going towards the village were two of my men carrying virtually a drunken Irish soldier, one of mine, who was absolutely paralytic with drink. So I said to my Corporal “Go over,” it’s Christmas, you see, so I said to him “Go over and tell them that the Orderly Officer is over the road, get this chap into bed quickly and nothing will be said because it’s Christmas Eve”. So we dawdled and we went to the other two houses before we went to the billet where we knew this Irish was, and we went in hoping to find that they’d got him to bed. But no, he was standing there fighting drunk, threatening to knock anybody’s block off who came near him. And in we came, myself, the Orderly Sergeant and the Orderly Corporal, and all the men of course were sitting bolt upright, this was better than a pantomime. So without any nonsense - and you must remember I’d been commissioned for six weeks from being a bank clerk - so I was there in my officer’s uniform, and so I said “Feeney,” this man was Private Feeney, I said “Feeney, get yourself into bed now and if you’re in bed in two minutes nothing will be said, otherwise you’re going down to the guardroom and you’ll be charged tomorrow”. Now he was really very, very drunk and he came up and he staggered up and he stood about two feet away from me and he said “You… you… you’re the son of a fuckin’ whore”. Now here was I, 20 years old, six weeks commissioned and in front of all the men, who were of course sitting up watching this, in front of men who, in my ignorance as we were all ignorant at that time, for all I knew in a month’s time, these men who were my platoon, would be going in to battle with me and had to have my respect and had to have respect for me and obey my command. And here was this drunken lout calling me the son of a fuckin’ whore in front of them, and when I think back to it, I just lost all control and I hit him, with my clenched fist I punched him straight between the eyes and he fell down poleaxed on the floor.

Now there was nothing said from this, I was bigger than he was, he was drunk as a lord, and not saying this was a big brave thing to do, but it was a bloody stupid thing to do because here was an officer who’d struck a man, six weeks commissioned. So I said to the Orderly Corporal and Sergeant “All right, pick him up, take him down the road to the guardroom and lock him up for the night and we’ll see him in the morning” and that was that, because I realised in my simplicity that for all I knew, and here we were six weeks into the War, nobody knew anything and I might have to be commanding these men in battle and I couldn’t really have them thinking that I could stand and let a man say that to me, in front of them, so that was the thing. However wrong it was, that’s why I did it.

So anyway, they carted him off down the road and he went into the guardroom and they locked him up, and the next morning I woke up and I thought “Oh God, now I’m in real, real trouble”. Here I am, six weeks commissioned and I’m probably now going to be court martialled and stripped of my rank for having punched a soldier. But six weeks into the War it was all very amateurish because we were a territorial battalion that I’d joined and in the night this Private Feeney had sobered up and escaped from the guardroom and was never seen again, nobody ever saw him, in the whole of my life he was never, whether he escaped to a southern island or not, I don’t know. But anyway, he was never seen and that was the end of it. But I did really think at that time that I had probably jeopardised my entire commission because of that man.

Talking of Ireland reminds me of the time when I was in Londonderry in Northern Ireland about, ooh I suppose, nine or ten months into the War and every Saturday night there was an officers dance, there was a dance in the main hotel which was frequented by the officers and at that time all the men in Ireland, of course, had gone off to War and in fact in Londonderry there was seven women to every one man and so all the mothers of the solicitors and the doctors and all the fairly presentable sort of ladies, all their daughters were brought to these dances in the hope that they would catch on to a British officer, that’s what we called the “fishing fleet”.

Anyway, I went to this dance one night, one Saturday night, and it so happened that I was on duty the next morning as Orderly Officer, so I wasn’t going to be late to bed. So anyway, I danced and I was dancing with a very attractive girl, I danced with her several times, and I had what turned out to be the last dance with her, and when the dance ended we stopped in the middle of the floor and I said to her “Well I’m very sorry, but I’m going to take you back to your table and then I’ve got to go back because I’m going off to kip”, K-I-P, kip. Now as a little boy, my father always said to me “Come on lad, time for kip, time for bed” and that was part of my vocabulary as I’d learnt as a child, come off to kip, kip time, kip time, and so unthinkingly I said to this girl, in the middle of the dance floor “I have to take you to your table and leave you because I’m off to kip”, whereupon in front of everybody she smacked me across the face with the biggest clout I’ve ever had from a woman in my life and stormed off, and it was only afterwards that I realised that in Ireland the expression “kip” referred to a brothel. And it appeared I’d said to this pretty little girl in the middle of the floor “Well I’m leaving you now, I’m off to a brother”, but of course it didn’t go down terribly well.

While I was in Ireland, I was sent on a Company Commanders Course. I was only a Second Lieutenant but I was sent on what they called a Company Commanders Course, and on this course we did what they call a TEWT, that is a Training Exercise Without Troops. In other words we, the students, all Second Lieutenants and full Lieutenants, went out with the Major who was our instructor and we walked a battle, in other words we walked along and our instructor would suddenly say “Right, now we stop here, this is the position” and he would say that the enemy were here and the enemy were here and we had to do this and that. So anyway, that was the sort of thing and then we would give answers as to what we should do and we were either right or wrong, and we were corrected, well of course this becomes a bit tedious after a while. But anyway we went on, and then we got to one stage where he said “Right gentlemen,” and he looked at the 28 of us and said “Right gentlemen, now then, this is the village that you have attacked and you have captured it and the enemy have fled. Now then, this village, you’ve fought your way up here, now what are you going to do in the next half an hour?”. Now I knew very well that the logical answer was, here we were, this is all in the countryside you see, I realised that the answer was that you mount sentries, or lookouts, at all the vulnerable points where the enemy might counterattack and you would place your Bren guns and machine guns in places to defend the position you’ve just captured, that was what he wanted us to say. But with this rather stupid sense of humour of mine, and thinking that we might brighten things up a bit, he turned to me and said “Right, Sorrel, what are you going to do in the next half hour?” and so I said, very facetiously “Loot the houses and rape the women, sir”. That was supposed to be terribly funny and that was supposed to get a big laugh, but this man nearly had a coronary, he went absolutely puce. So anyway when we got back at the end of the exercise, I was sent for by the Colonel in charge of the course and I was brought in and reprimanded and told that he’d never heard anything like it in his life and what did I mean? So I said what could I have meant? I said in all sincerity “It was a silly, stupid remark, a facetious remark which I now realise was probably not the right time to say it. But it’s just that, a silly, stupid remark made for a bit of a laugh”. “Well,” he said “I’ve given serious thought, I may send you back to your unit as unfit to be an officer, but I’ll give you one more chance”. And so nothing was said, but I may say that when I got back, it was reflected in the report they made and when I got back my Colonel gave me hell and I tried to explain to him, but he didn’t think much of it either.

One of the most ridiculous things that ever happened, twice in my life I was made Baggage Officer, twice in my life and each time it had some extraordinary results. The first time we were going from Scotland to Ireland and my Commanding Officer said “All right, Tony, I’m leaving you with 40 men and you will bring the battalion’s baggage over, you’re in charge of the baggage party”. So we get to the docks and there it is, it was only a shortish journey you see, and this small little steamship thing was docked alongside, and there on side on the quay were two enormous piles of baggage. My battalion’s and another battalion who were also going with us to the same place, the Worcestershire Regiment, mine was the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. So we were there first, so I started with my men to get the stuff on, but of course the great thing to do was, we mustn’t get the stuff mixed up. So I went down into the hold of the ship where the baggage was going, and draw a chalk line right down the centre and I said to my chaps “Now we’ll load all of our stuff on, but keep it all to that side of the white line, so when the Worsters come, when their baggage party arrives, they can load theirs on the other side, and then there’ll be no mix up, because it would be hell’s bells to play if we get the stuff mixed up”. So this happened, and we very nearly got all our stuff on and I was on the quay, not on the ship, I was off the ship at the moment and I was on the quay and I was walking down the quay and coming towards me were two naval officers running, obviously very agitated and they stopped when they reached me and one was a Captain of the ship that we were loading and the other was his First Lieutenant. So the Captain said “Who the hell’s in charge here?”. So I said “I am, sir, Lieutenant Sorrel, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, loading our baggage”. He said “Jesus Christ, man! What are you doing?”. I said “I’ve just told you, sir, we’re loading our baggage and the Worsters are going to load theirs and we’re going across”. He said “Look at my bloody ship, for Christ’s sake, man!”. And I looked and there was his ship leaning over to starboard with one edge very nearly underwater. What I’d done was put all this heavy baggage on one side and none on the other and the ship had a list so much that at any moment it looked as if it could topple over. And so that was my first experience of being a Baggage Officer.

Now the second one was really much more dramatic. This was when I was Baggage Officer when the battalion went from Africa to Italy, and we arrived in Naples Harbour in a horrible little China Sea’s merchantman which took the battalion over, it was being used as a troop ship, took the battalion over, and my men, I had about 40 men again as a baggage party, and all their rifles were in the armoury on board the ship. When we arrived at Naples, to our horror, we were advised that there was a cholera epidemic and none of the ship’s crew could go ashore, they had to remain on board. We, of course, the battalion was already there and we with the baggage, we had to go and join the battalion. So we started unloading the stuff, but the ship’s crew - very angry and the lowest form of animal life, of human life, I’ve ever met in my life, they really were the dregs of humanity, a terrible crowd - they had, unknown to me, raided the officers’ mess drinks supplies and were all fighting drunk on board ship. Anyway, we got all the baggage off and all that remained was for my men to go up the one gangplank, there was just one gangplank, from the ship to the quay, they had to go up there single file of course because it was a narrow thing, get their rifles and come back. So I said to my Sergeant “Right, get the men up and get their rifles”. At that moment, there appeared at the top of the gangplank on the ship one of the crew clad in old grey flannels and a white T shirt, who stood at the top of the gangplank with a 12 inch butcher’s knife and he said, as the first soldier went to go up, he said “I’ll kill anybody who comes up here”. So obviously the soldier went back down the gangplank and they stood there wondering what to do. And he just stood there waving this 12 inch butcher’s knife about and saying that he would slash anybody who came up the gangplank. So I called the men back and again, in my simplicity and my naivety, although this was well on in the War, but I assume that when this man saw an officer he would respond. All I’ve got was a swagger cane, you know a little short stick, I hadn’t got a weapon at all, and so I said “Right, keep the men back, Sergeant, I’ll go”. So I get halfway up the gangplank and I’m calling to this man “Now come along, stand aside, now come on, I’m an officer and I’m telling you just get away, get away from me, I want my men to come up and get the things”, and he waved this knife at me and then he did something which I will never forget to my dying day. With this 12 inch butcher’s knife, holding it in his right hand as if it were a razor, he went as if to shave himself with it but he was so drunk and so off his rocker that instead of shaving himself, he was slicing pieces of skin off his face and pieces of skin were hanging down and in a matter of seconds, the whole of his T shirt was covered in blood, his own blood. And so I stopped halfway up the gangplank thinking, well if this silly bugger is going to do that to himself, he won’t hesitate to stick me, officer or not. So I came down, very smartly came down, and stood there and I thought, now what the hell are we going to do? Because this man stood there, covered in blood, blood pouring off his face, and he stood there with this blood-stained knife threatening to kill anyone who came up. Now when my battalion had got off this ship, some Scots Guards had got on and they’d been abroad for about three years and they were really weather-beaten soldiers well versed in war, and at this precise moment a Corporal of the Guards was marching two of his men along to mount sentry on the top of this gangplank. Now that they were on board, the Scots Guard were, as it were, responsible for the ship, and so they were mounting a sentry and so there he was marching out. So I called out to him “Corporal, sir” and these men halted. I said “There’s a mad, drunken bastard there with a 12 inch knife, covered in blood, who won’t let my men get up to get their rifles, will you see to it?”. “Sergeant!” was all he said, and he turned around and he muttered something to these two men, one of whom went straight ahead towards the man on the route that they were going on, and the other one went around the other side of the ship and came around and would have approached the man from the back. So anyway, when this drunken man heard these soldiers approaching he turned and he waved the knife at them, and the soldier approaching him and got his rifle there and he held it at what we call high port, right hand and left hand across his front, and he held it there and this man said “I’ll kill ya! I’ll kill ya if you move an inch, if you move an inch I’ll kill ya”. At that moment, the other guardsman who’d come around the other side of the ship came behind him, also with his rifle at the high port. So suddenly this drunken man heard the soldier behind him and turned around, at which time the soldier behind him brought the butt of his rifle around, straight onto this man’s jaw which must nearly have knocked his head off and he fell down poleaxed on the ground. And then something happened which I will never forget the sight of. Never, ever forget. Just behind, on the deck, was the open space where the cargo had been brought up and the top had been taken off, so there was this space with a 30 foot drop down to the hold of the ship, and without a single moment’s hesitation these two guardsmen put their rifles down, one picked up this man’s two arms, the other picked up his two legs and they lifted him and dropped him 30 feet down to hold, to the bottom, and the Corporal looked over and he said “All clear now, sir, get your rifles” and we went up and got our rifles. And that was, to me, one of the most extraordinary things I’ve ever seen in my life.

On a lighter hearted note, another thing I will never forget. We had in our company a Private Biggerstaff. Now Private Biggerstaff was, I suppose, you can only refer to as a country bumpkin. He was a lovely, simple country lad as thick as two planks who was absolutely lost in the army really and didn’t know his right from his left. But if you put him on stage, people would say he was being overacted because you couldn’t be that. But anyway, Private Biggerstaff, just before I went on embarkation leave, we were in Exeter Bypass capital, and there we had, in the camp they had erected here and there urinals. Now anyone who’s been to France will know that in France they have urinals in public places which consist of poles and boarding around so that when you want to go and spend a penny, a man of course, you go in and the top of your head can be seen and from the knees down you can be seen, but the operative bits that are performing can’t be seen, and this is what a French urinal is like. Now we had this at the camp at Exeter, but it was just Hessian, wooden poles with Hessian, and of course the thing was you could go in, you could be seen from the head and shoulders up, and from the knees down, but nothing else. Well, I was walking with my Colonel along the path and Private Biggerstaff was in the urinal, which was just to one side of the path we were walking along. Now one thing Private Biggerstaff knew was, if you see an officer you salute. If you see the Colonel, there is nothing in the world will stop you saluting. So there was Private Biggerstaff, spending his penny, with his John Thomas in his right hand, and along came the Colonel with me and immediately - I have never seen anything like it - Private Biggerstaff transferred his John Thomas from his right hand to his left and saluted over the top of the Hessian and I don’t think my Colonel will ever forget the sight in the whole of his life.

I had one experience which I suppose was one of the funniest that I can remember. We were in Ireland and it was very, very muddy and wet and rainy, and the roads were absolutely, everything was saturated, there was mud in all the fields and it was terrible. And one day, there appeared a notice on battalion orders that I, among other officers, was to be an umpire in an exercise between the battalions - this was training not war-time, it was war-time but we were in Ireland - and so I went to the adjutant and very smartly saluted and said “I’m sorry sir, but you see it says in the orders that I’m to draw a motorcycle to act as umpire and I’ve never ridden a motorcycle”. So he said “Well it’s Thursday today, Tony, the exercise is on Monday, you will go and see the Motor Transport Officer and you will ask him to give you someone to instruct you how to road a motorcycle over the weekend, so that you’ll be fit for duty on Monday”. So for Saturday and Sunday, I went around, funnily enough, the battalion had had some new motorcycles delivered and they had to be broken in at 30mph, and so it suited the Transport Officer very much for me to ride one at 30mph and learn how to do it and help break it in. So I did this over the weekend. Anyway, on the Monday I went off to do my umpiring duty, and an umpire is where the different battalions are theoretically fighting each other and you and go and explain the situation and so on. Anyway, at one stage I had to report to the chief umpires centre which was, in fact, a farm hut down the muddiest lane I’ve ever seen in my life, about 12 inches of solid, sludgy mud. So I slithered down this thing, because I was still not experienced on this motorcycle, so I slithered down this thing and came to a halt, and it was pouring with rain at the time, and I slithered to a halt and stalled the engine and got off the motorbike, propped it up, and went in to report to the Chief Umpire, that’s what my instructions were. To my incredulity, in the hut, in addition to the umpire, was the Divisional Commander. Now the Divisional Commander was Major General Carton de Wiart VC DSO MC and Bar - who had, believe it or not, only one eye, the other was a black patch and one arm, and his sleeve was tucked into his pocket. He was incredible character, very famous in the army - and he stood there in the most immaculate outfit you’ve ever seen, including polished riding boots which came up to the knee, the boots came up to the knee and they were burnished brilliantly, he looked like something out of an advert. So I saluted and made my report to the umpire and asked what my instructions were, which he gave me you see, and I saluted smartly again and was about to turn around and go out, when the General said - because you have to announce yourself by name, you go in and you say “Lieutenant Sorrel, Royal Warwickshire Regiment, di-dah, di-dah, dozy” - so the General said “Sorrel, if you’re going up to the road, you can give me a lift on your motorbike, because my car’s up there, couldn’t get down that lane and I’m not going to walk up there in all that sludge, so give me a lift on the pillion”. Now I’m not a brave man and I was so terrified I did not know what to do, but I’d not got the courage to say “No I won’t” to the General. I hadn’t the courage just to say “Oh oh oh yes, sir”. So I’m standing there petrified in front - I was about 21 at the time - petrified in front of this man who was sort of a god to everyone else. So I said “Yes sir”. So he puts his Mac on and he comes out and I tried to get this bloody thing started, which of course was not easy, and he was getting a bit testy. Anyway eventually it burst into life and he sat on the back and somehow, somehow, I will never know how, I slithered and slid up this lane to the top and deposited him at the top, and he said to me “My God, the way you drove that damn thing, anyone would think you’d never ridden a motorcycle before”. So I said “Well in actual fact, sir, I only learnt to ride it yesterday”. And his face fell, and I think for one of the bravest men in the world, it was the first time he’d ever been absolutely terrified when he realised what he’d just gone through.

When I was stationed in Londonderry in Northern Ireland, one day I was Duty Officer and I was called out of bed and told to report down to the edge of the lock, the river that runs through Londonderry, and there was a lot of agitation there and there was a naval officer in charge of his launch, which was only sort of a fairly sizeable sort of launch like a small yacht thing, and up the river about two miles there was a lock and they said to me “A seaplane has landed in the lock and we don’t know whether it’s ours or German or what it is, whether it’s enemy or not, you must go up and investigate”. And so I said “Suppose they fire at me? If they’re enemy, what do I do?”. So he said “Oh no, you’ve got a Bren gun” - now a Bren gun is the minimal sort of machine gun that you can possible imagine - they said “We’re giving you two men and a Bren, which we will mount in the front of your launch and when you go up, your men must keep that trained on the flying boat until we find out what it is”. So we chug up in this thing and then we come around the bend and I can see facing us, propellers on, a four-engine flying boat and all I could see were the four engines and the wings sticking out, couldn’t see any markings of course because it was facing me. I was now very excited, you see, and so I said to the men - normally the men fire the gun and I give him charge - and I said “No, I’ll get on the gun”. So I lay down with the Bren gun with my finger on the trigger and I said to the chap steering the launch “Go around to the side and approach it from the side, so that we can see the markings and see what it is, if we can identify it” because all we could see were these four propellers and the wings. So this fellow steers out to the left, as it were, in the lock and then we turned to approach the flying boat sideways on, and of course we see the British markings. Now all this time while we were doing that, I was in the front of this vessel, this little launch, with my Bren gun pointed directly at the sort of cockpit thing of this flying boat where I could see a head, obviously one of the pilots or something, and so I thought, well if anything happens I’ll fire at that and either hit him or do something, and quite sort of terrified as to what was going to happen. But anyway, once we saw that it was a British flying boat, I got off the gun and we waved and called out “Hello! Hello there! What are you chaps doing?”. These people had had some sort of trouble with the engine, or something or another, and had landed here. Now they had not got the slightest idea where they were, and when eventually I clambered aboard this thing to speak to the senior officer on board the flying boat, I said “Well I received instructions, they didn’t know who the hell you were or what you were and I was sent along”, and I said “But I’ve got to tell you,” and laughingly I said this to the man “I’ve had my Bren gun trained on your head in that cockpit ever since we came into sight” and he said “Well, we didn’t know where we were and who you were and we’ve had two cannon and four machine guns trained at you all the time you’ve been coming up”. So anyway that was the end, but that was one of my more exciting moments in Northern Ireland.

If I may tell a rather more naughty story of my experiences in the War, I went on a boat called the Johan Van Olden Barneveldt, a troop ship to North Africa from England, and we landed in Algiers and we were sent to a holding camp just a few miles away, Philipville, a place called Philipville, and a gang of about ten young officers including me went one day into Algiers and we were going to visit a brothel to see the exhibition. Now you must understand that, I don’t know about the rest of them, but I was really so innocent it was untrue. I was about 23 and I’d been married for about a year-and-a-half or two years or something, but that was the limit of my sexual experience, but we decided that we couldn’t go to Algiers without seeing a brothel. So we went to the brothel where there was this demonstration by ladies and the whole idea was, of course, to excite us to such an extent that we couldn’t help but rush upstairs with one of them each when it was all over. But in fact, it so put us off that I think, far from that, it ruined any thoughts of sex for the next six months. But there was this one incredible thing, included among us, we picked up some other young officers who were going in at the time, there was a young Guards Officer and the big trick, which was really supposed to excite us but it didn’t really, was that one of these girls had such control of her sexual parts that she could pick up a coin if you put it on the edge of a table, she could, with her private parts, pick it up and walk across the room and put it down on another table and this was supposed to get shrieks of applause from everybody, it was quite incredible you see. Well, we all clapped dutifully you see and everyone was all “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!”, but unknowns to us, this young Guards Officer, he got a sort of a big metal coin, five Francs or something, and he did it with his lighter, he made it hot with his lighter, and he put it on the edge of a table and said “Do that one”. So she was only too willing to oblige, so she came and she went to pick this thing up and let out a shriek that will be heard 20 miles away, and we just managed to get away without being severely damaged, I hate to think what would have happened if they’d caught, but we all just bolted at that, that was enough.

I had one really incredible experience. I was commanding a company - just after I was blown up and I was downgraded to Category B for a while until I was better - and I was commanding a company about 20 miles behind the line of reinforcements, where people from hospital and people from England came, and I sent them up the line. Anyway to keep them occupied during the day, we used to give them training and firing different weapons and doing this, that and the other, and I had a young officer with me, a very charming young boy, very young, even younger than me, and on our off-duty times we used to go down to the beach and swim, and on this beach - this young chap used to come with about five or six of us used to go - and while we were down there and on those occasions that we did go down, there was an extremely pretty Algerian girl, or French girl, very pretty little girl with her parents - she may have been Tunisian, I don’t know - but they were always there - they must have been French because she spoken French, that’s right - anyway she used to go in the water with her girlfriends or relatives or whatever, and she used to throw a ball to each other and she used to say “à moi, à moi” meaning “to me, to me” for the ball, and so he couldn’t take his eyes off this girl, this fellow, he really fell hook, line and sinker for this girl and we nicknamed her “à moi” and wherever we went we used to say “Look, à moi has come with her large entourage of arms” and all sorts of things, because these people all protect their pretty young women. So anyway during the course of training, one day we had a terrible accident and one of the soldiers put a mortar bomb in training in the wrong way, instead of dropping it in, he dropped the front in first and it exploded in the mortar and it killed one man and it wounded this young officer very badly, in fact it very nearly castrated him, but his wounds were in that part of his body, and he was taken to hospital. The thing was that when we went to see him, he was really very seriously ill and he was quite delirious and he kept saying, as far as we could make out, he wanted to see à moi. Now here was a wounded young British officer lying in hospital asking his friends to bring to him a pretty young girl, who none of us had ever spoken to, but who’ve played ball in the sea with her relatives who we’d seen. Anyway, he was in such a state and he was such a nice chap that we went down the next day to the beach and there she was, and I went up and in my terrible schoolboy French, I tried to explain to a very suspicious looking mama or grandmamma that we had a young officer, who they may have noticed us watching them in the past sitting near them, that this young officer was very ill, had been wounded and was in hospital and he desperately wanted to see this little girl, and was it in any way possible, if we provided the transport, that they would allow her to come, escorted by us to look after her and protect her, to go to see him in hospital, because he was really desperately wounded. And, ooh my word, there was all sorts of discussions and hubbubs and grannies and aunties and friends. Anyway eventually, believe it or not, they agreed, and we brought a truck down and we took à moi and about five of her aunts, or mothers or grannies or whatever they were, we took her to the hospital and she actually did go in and see him, and there he lay in there with his wounded middle, and he saw à moi, which I thought was one of the most beautiful little sentimental things, but my word it took some persuasions to get those ladies to come to bring her to the hospital.

My last story that I’m going to tell you is when I was coming home, returning home to England, after over three years abroad, and we were held up over in France because of bad weather and we stayed at a camp there where there was a lot of liquor available for purchase. And so we all bought a bottle of this or a bottle of that to take home for someone, but we had a young Scotsman there who bought so much stuff you’ve never seen, and his whole bag was filled with bottles, and he himself was drinking like a fish and getting more drunk and more drunk. Anyway, we went over on the ferry and eventually we arrived to go through customs, and this chap was really drunk, we were literally having to hold him up, and he was carrying his bag and we were holding him up. And we get to the customs and the customs man said “Have you got anything to declare, sir?” and so this fellow turned and said “My whole bag is filled with booze, nothing else but booze”. So the customs officer roared with laughter and put the squiggle on the thing and said “Right, so you go through”. I came through with one bottle of whisky for my dad and one bottle of whisky for my father-in-law and they made me pay duty. That is something I will never forgive the customs people for.

There we are, that’s the end of my stories and I hope that some of them have been interesting and if you’re fed up with them you must blame my grandson, Graeme, because he’s the one who made me do it.