In the service - or you shouldn't have joined if you can't take a joke

           

In 1946  John Mills finally joined “the Department of External affairs”.

           

John Mills

On arrival in Pretoria I took up residence first at the old Union Hotel.      

Every morning, bright and early - office hours in Pretoria were from 8 am to 4 pm - I walked up the lawns, past the statue of General Botha and up the stairs to that noble pile, the Union Buildings, which at that time was home to all Government departments, except the Department of Agriculture and few others. It really was a most impressive place to work in, built in the Italianate style favoured by its architect Sir Herbert Baker, surrounded by cypress trees which complemented its tiled roofs and towers, and gazing over the city from its eminence on Meintjieskop.

My new colleagues (we were called 'diplomatic cadets') were all ex-servicemen. The day I reported for duty two of them, Paul Lindhorst and Norman Best, were in the Protocol offices collecting their passports before departing for their first posts - New York for Paul, Ottawa for Norman. I was most impressed. They looked suave and distinguished, particularly Norman. He always did. When he later returned to Ottawa as Ambassador, he found that a young fellow with whom he had once shared digs was now Prime Minister of Canada. His name was Pierre Trudeau.

The Staff people pointed out to me somewhat stiffly that by previously turning down the appointment I had forfeited ten months' seniority. Their attitude was as - who should say that the gates of heaven had opened for me and I had capriciously turned away. In those post-Depression years an appointment to the Public Service was much sought after: it offered security and a pension at the end of it.

The Department at that time gloried in the title "Department of the Prime Minister and of External Affairs." It was at the top of the Civil Service pecking order. When later we were separated from the Prime Minister's Office and became merely "Foreign Affairs" we plummeted to the bottom of the heap.  (What is the difference between "External Affairs and "Foreign Affairs?” In those days "External Affairs" was the term used by Commonwealth countries. When we became a republic outside the Commonwealth we used "Foreign Affairs" like every other country.)

 The Prime Minister was the redoubtable Field Marshal Smuts, friend and confidant of the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, and respected by all the other great men of the world. South Africa's reputation stood high among the nations. It was Smuts, after all, who had drafted the preamble to the United Nations Charter and at the time he was a colossus.

As a result the Department had little of importance to do. Anything important was handled by Smuts himself, and we were dealing mainly with nuts and bolts. The department was not large. Apart from the Secretary (a quintessential public servant, Mr. D.D. Forsyth) there was a Deputy (Mr. J. D. Pohl), a Counsellor - yes, one (Mr. G.J. Jooste), the Chief of Protocol was a Second Secretary (Jack Bruce), and the desk officers at whose feet we Cadets sat were Third Secretaries. We were not altogether popular with the latter, who tended to think of us as interlopers. Eddie Dunn (of whom more later) and I were sent to an acidulous person and taught the mysteries of inter-departmental correspondence. We were supplied with chops which we applied to letters which were to be sent to other departments - "The Secretary for ...............Passed to you for: -

o   information

o   consideration

o   disposal

This apparently covered all public service eventualities. When a reply was expected we were required to mark the document "Pend" and give a date on which the file was to be returned so we could send a reminder if necessary.         

One great advantage of being the Department we were, was the immense power it gave even the most lowly among us. It was possible, for example, to telephone the Department of Defence, for example, and say: "This is the Department of the Prime Minister. To whom am I speaking, please?”....”.Brigadier Badenhorst.” “Good morning, Brigadier. My name is Mills. I'm phoning in connection with a minute we sent you on 4th August to which we do not seem to have had a reply, and as the matter is getting a little urgent -"

"I'm sorry, sir. If you'll let me have details, and your telephone extension I'll chase it up at once."   "Thank you, Brigadier".

And of course correspondence would come down to us from our seniors with instructions. The only handwriting which was more difficult to decipher than that of the Secretary, Mr. Forsyth, was that of General Smuts himself, which looked as if a fly had fallen into an inkwell and struggled drunkenly across the page. Historians of the future will have to deduce, from the action which followed, what the original instruction from Smuts, passed on by Forsyth, had been. At times, completely defeated, we would have to ask Connie Stephens, Mr. Forsyth's secretary, for help. She would always say, "I can't think what your difficulty is", and then loop some "l"s and cross some "t's and the message would appear as if by magic.

It was during this time that I almost achieved immortality. The British Consul in Zagreb (in those days British Consular offices used to act on our behalf in countries where we had no representatives of our own) had sent a telegram saying that a lady bearing what purported to be a letter of authority signed by our Minister of the Interior had approached him for funds. Being a wily old bird he was checking to make sure the authority was genuine. After consulting the Dept. of the Interior I drafted a telegram in the following terms:

"You are authorised to make whatever advances you deem necessary to the lady in question."

This was passed up the line and eventually, since it concerned a member of his Cabinet, to the Prime Minister himself. Smuts sent it back with the laconic suggestion that the instruction was "open to misinterpretation".

I had not been in the Department for long when the Parliamentary Session began in Cape Town. And how does government function in Cape Town if the civil service is in Pretoria? Simple: a detachment of civil servants comes down with them. I would hate to think what this cost the Government every year, not only in hard cash (accommodation had to be found and paid for) but also in inconvenience.

           

This particular session was a little unusual, because practically all departments were busy with arrangements for the Royal Visit. This visit was however special, since it was the first by a reigning monarch and his entire family.

Smuts had invited them to come to South Africa for a holiday, to recuperate after the strain of the war years. Alas! although the intention was good the visit turned out to be a long pilgrimage, overloaded with official functions, and I doubt it was much of a rest cure.            

In Cape Town the really big occasion socially was the ball at Government House. An invitation to this was much sought after by the mamas of young ladies and gentlemen. I have no idea of the criteria for selection for this event. No doubt they were scrutinized by some Committee set up specially to see that the cream of Cape Town society was represented. Under normal circumstances I would have had no hope of an invitation, but Mr. Bruce, Chief of Protocol, had prevailed upon the authorities to see that we cadets were on the list - to "gain experience", as he put it.

It was on this occasion that Princess Elizabeth's engagement to Prince Philip of Greece was announced. All of Cape Town sighed romantically. I must say that she seemed to me to be particularly beautiful. And why not, on the night of her engagement?  Her complexion was perfection itself and her eyes a beautiful blue - altogether a fairy princess. Her photographs do her no justice at all.  It was certainly an occasion to remember as we danced the night away with our assigned partners.

We were all resplendent in white tie and tails, hired from one of Cape Town's leading tailors, who had been working day and night to meet the demand. It was one of the brains among us - Eddie Dunn? - who realised the possibilities in this situation. He suggested that if we all played our cards correctly we might be able to kit ourselves out with all the formal clothing we would ever require at a fraction of the normal price. We therefore represented to the tailor that as soon as the Royals had departed he would be left with a great deal of second-hand clothing for which there would be very little demand.

           

 With our collective bargaining power we were able to get a very good price. In those days the basic diplomatic dress included:

o   Morning coat and striped trousers.

o   Dinner jacket and trousers.

o   Evening dress (white tie and tails) together with evening shirts, ties, socks, studs.

Later I was to add a Homburg hat, and a top hat and a grey waistcoat. Nowadays there would probably be much less call for formal clothes, and these could if necessary be hired.

           

It wouldn’t have done for the Duke, sir,

It would never have done for His Grace!

                       

The day came when the King, Queen and Princesses sailed away in 'Vanguard'. I remember standing at the quayside as the great battleship sailed away and the band playing "Will ye no' come back again?"

We all came down to earth and went back to our files.  Session came to an end and we all trekked back to Pretoria. Shortly thereafter I was asked whether I would be prepared to go to our Consulate in Elizabethville in the Belgian Congo on a temporary assignment, to replace someone who was on sick leave. This was exciting, and I was about to volunteer when a Third Secretary arrived on sick-leave himself, from Mozambique. He told me that he had volunteered for a similar short-term posting and had now been there for two years.

I suddenly discovered that my health would not permit me to serve in the tropics. This was just as well, for within two months I was posted to the High Commission in London,

FIRST POSTING 1947

The manner in which I journeyed to London was in many ways typical of the way the service was to treat me during my career. I say, "treat me", but there was nothing personal about it, merely an attitude of mind. The Department of External Affairs was very much a new boy in the Civil Service, created only during the Thirties and regarded by other Departments with a mixture of resentment and envy.  It was thought to have ideas above its proper station, and since its entry qualifications were higher than those for the common entrance it tended to recruit those of more than average intelligence. There was an unexpressed feeling that these young pups needed taking down a peg or two.

It took a long time for the Department to get rid of what some of us came to regard as a built-in Fifth Column, and then only as a result of sending administrative officers to missions abroad, so that they could (a) free career people to do what they were trained for instead of looking after the accounts etc., and (b) get some practical experience of the kinds of problems encountered when living abroad.      

This is not to say that it was wrong for new entrants to the service to be required to gain personal experience of administration; indeed it was essential training for the time when one was required to accept responsibility for running a Mission and controlling expenditure sometimes running into millions of dollars. The trouble was that we were often required to do this for too long. This kind of thinking caused some of the more ardent spirits to chafe, to kick against the pricks, and as a result we lost some excellent people who made brilliant careers elsewhere. I can think of a few Professors of Law, of a senior man in the Atomic Energy Agency, another a Divisional head of the World Bank, another head of an Institute for International Affairs, another Secretary of the British Shipping Institute.

But I digress. I was looking forward immensely to a fortnight on a Union Castle liner bound for England. I imagined romantic episodes on the boat deck in the moonlight, with waves hissing an accompaniment. I was soon to be disabused of any such nonsensical ideas. There was a refrigerated fruit ship, the Roxburgh Castle, which had space for ten passengers, leaving on the following Thursday, and I was booked on that. Despite my pleas to be allowed to travel on the regular passenger liner a week later I was told that could not be contemplated. The rule was that one must travel by the quickest and most economical route, and that was that.... Besides, I was told, London was waiting for me. I was to consider myself lucky to be going there at all, instead of whinghing about my mode of travel. Can't think what the Service is coming to!

And so, I boarded the "Roxburgh Castle" together with the fruit and my fellow passengers - the Headmistress of a Cape Town Girls' School and her fiancé together with her aged aunt as chaperone, a Jewish businessman, an Afrikaner farmer from the Boland, a Rhodesian tobacco planter, an Anglican priest and me. Farewell romantic encounters on the boat deck.

My faithful tin trunk of books was still with me, and this time I had added all the study material I would need to master in order to qualify for a permanent appointment, lecture notes from the University of South Africa. The subjects in which I would have to qualify to become a third secretary were as follows: Economics, Roman Dutch Law, Commercial Law, International Law, French and Diplomatic Practice. None of the subjects I had studied was among those required. Moreover the standard demanded was that of second-year University. (I wonder if such regulations still apply.) I had a formidable task ahead of me in areas of knowledge in which I was not particularly competent, and I had a fortnight in which to devote myself to undistracted study. Ha, ha! ...I did try, but not too hard.

We were an ill-assorted company. The headmistress and her companions were seldom seen. The Afrikaner farmer dismissed me as an "Engelsman." The Jewish businessman, once he had established that I knew no Cape Town merchants of any note ("You don't know Mr. Mandelstam? He's a very wealthy man") dismissed me as of no possible use, and the Rhodesian planter was so like a caricature of Colonel Blimp that I had to suppress giggles when talking to him. The clergyman watched us all with a benevolent eye, but said little. The Chief Engineer, at whose table we sat for meals - a Scot, naturally - used to tease him from time to time by telling jokes which verged on the vulgar, usually ending: "Ah, Padre, our pleasures are like poppies spread: ye pluck the flower, the bloom is shed."

One night a furious altercation took pace between the Rhodesian and the Jew, over what was happening in Palestine - still a British Mandated Territory at the time - when Jewish terrorism was rampant. People tend to forget the bombing of the King David Hotel in Jerusalem, the bombing of the British Embassy in Rome, the letter-bombs which were sent to prominent people in Britain, and other nastinesses perpetrated by the Stern Gang. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap.” The boot has been on the other foot for some time now.

I forget what led to the row. Possibly it was the hanging of three British soldiers in reprisal for the deaths of some terrorists, but it took our combined efforts to separate the pair. (Someone reported it, because Scotland Yard came to see me later to ask what happened.) Apart from this unhappy business, since we had little in common we took little pleasure in each other's company. It was obviously going to be a long voyage, and I should have taken more advantage of the time for study instead of walking the deck and enjoying the slow lift of the bows and the equally slow plunge into the ocean. I enjoy sea travel and lament its virtual disappearance.

Towards the end of the voyage the Captain announced that instead of arriving at Southampton as scheduled, we would now be disembarking at Liverpool. This worried me somewhat, since I had very little money with me. I had barely enough to pay for a night's accommodation and a ticket to Euston station, and I was forced to telephone the only person I knew in England, Elizabeth Topping, and ask her to meet me on arrival in London, bearing funds as a loan, also to inform South Africa House that I would be arriving a day late. As we approached the coast, I remember, I could see the green fields of England stretching for miles - a green so vivid as to appear to African eyes positively unhealthy. There was also the fact that at 11 o'clock at night Liverpool Cathedral was still bathed in bright sunshine (double British summer time.) An odd country I was coming to. 

It was as well that I had telephoned Elizabeth Topping, for when the dear girl met me at Euston all I had left was half-a-crown, which I felt reluctantly obliged to give to the porter -("Blimey, guv: what you got 'ere, gold bricks?") I remember his staring incredulously at the coin and saying in a shattered voice, "Wot - this for all my work?" I told him that it was all I had, but I doubt he believed me.

Off we rattled in a taxi for Trafalgar Square. I dropped off thankfully at South Africa House, while Elizabeth, after squaring the taxi driver, disappeared into a hole in the pavement (entrance to Trafalgar Square tube station) to make her way back to Wimbledon, The majestic doorkeeper held the door open for me as I staggered up the steps with my trunks and entered the portals of the imposing building where I was to work for the next four years.

Imposing it certainly was, and as a site for an Embassy (or High Commission as it is again these days) it can hardly be improved. It stands on one side of Trafalgar Square, the very heart of London, looking through Admiralty Arch down the Mall to Buckingham Palace. On every royal occasion when the Queen rides out in her carriage, to open Parliament or to attend a royal wedding or some other function at Westminster Abbey, she comes through Admiralty Arch into Trafalgar Square and the sightseers at South Africa House are in the ringside seats. From the top floors one looks at Nelson standing on his column, guarded below by the Landseer lions. To the right St.Martin-in-the-Fields and the National Gallery, while to the left is the Strand, and, more importantly, Whitehall, down which one can stroll and be, within a few minutes, in front of the Horse Guards and the Ministry of Defence, No. 10 Downing Street, the Foreign Office, the Treasury, Scotland Yard, and finally, Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament. Wow! You see what I mean.

When I staggered in with my baggage I came to the reception desk and the charming young lady there sent me upstairs to a Mr. Hewitson, who seemed a little puzzled when I gave him my name. What, he enquired, was my business with him? I was reporting for duty, I told him. His eyebrows shot up; he lifted a telephone and asked for the Staff Clerk. Yes, he was told, a Mr. Mills was expected. This was obviously news to him. So much for the Department's insistence that South Africa House was awaiting my arrival with bated breath!

The first thing I had to do was to get hold of some money, then to get myself and my impedimenta to the hotel where accommodation had been booked for me. The doorkeeper summoned a taxi and away I went. When I got there it was to find that in view of my non-arrival the previous day the booking had been cancelled and my room given to someone else, (accommodation in post-war London was not easy to find) so I was forced to return once more to South Africa House. My faith in the efficiency of the Public Service was being placed under some strain. Fortunately the Third Secretary, Mr. Brand Fourie, took pity on me. His wife was visiting her parents in Wales, so he invited me to stay with him until my accommodation problems had been sorted out. The principal memory I have of that week is of his cracking half a dozen eggs, (brought up from South Africa by South African Airways) one after another until he found one that was not rotten. Eggs too were at a premium in London at the time. I was, and remain, very grateful for his hospitality.

Next day I was presented to the High Commissioner, Mr. Heaton Nicholls. He was from Natal, a staunch old conservative of about 75 who had been a Cabinet Minister and had been put out to grass in London. (I was to meet with the same phenomenon later in my career.) After a few welcoming words he gave me a brief lecture on Communism, saying that it was a heresy which many young people seemed to find attractive. He then handed me as a gift a copy of the book "I Chose Freedom", by Igor Kravchenko, an early Communist defector - I've still got it somewhere - saying, "This book will cure you of any misguided ideas you might have on the subject." Having been brought up in the Cape liberal tradition I tended to bristle. In the end, of course, whatever his motives, he was proved right.        

London left me a little breathless. It was at that time a dirty, grimy city, black with soot, subject to "pea-souper" fogs, with the bomb-sites still very much in evidence, like missing teeth. I thought it the filthiest place I had ever been in, and the people, as they hurried to and fro, looked grey, drab and weedy, compared with the stalwart sunburnt South Africans I had grown up among. I had constantly to remind myself that these people had been through a devastating war, the effects of which were all around me, and that they had fought and conquered the most efficient fighting machine of the time, the German Wehrmacht - these self-same weedy drab people.

Rationing, introduced at the beginning of the war, was still in full force. Luckily South Africa House ran a canteen - itself a hangover from the war - where cheap but nourishing meals could be had off the ration. In my prisoner-of-war camp I had heard for years of the great restaurant known as Simpson's in the Strand, so I went there with keen anticipation. What a disappointment! In those days no meal could be had that cost more than 5 shillings. For this sum you could have either the fish or the soup, not both. One chop was all you could get, and counted yourself lucky - it often amounted to a week's ration if you bought it at the butcher's. One small rosette of butter was your portion. Sometimes it was margarine. Let me not dwell on the horrors of boarding-house meals, of "savoury mince" (last night's meat put through a grinder) or "reconstituted egg" (dried egg powder revived with water.) You can see what a ration book looked like in "Orphan of the Storm", (Pam’s book.) In fact at this time, since American Lease-Lend had been abruptly terminated, England was more strictly rationed than she had been during the war, and this situation continued until 1953 - eight years after the war had ended. It wasn’t only foods either - it was everything from clothes to furniture. When I got to England everyone queued, for buses, for trains, for food, for theatre tickets, in the shops - and heaven help you if you tried to improve your position by so much as one inch. "Queue-jumping "was a heinous offence. No wonder the people were grumpy.

Although I never had to queue, thank goodness, I was to learn all about rationing later, and those little pieces of paper, the coupons, carefully snipped out of your ration book by the butcher or the grocer, wherever you were registered, became very important. One thing was extremely good, and that was the bread. There was still the National Loaf, which was a standard issue and had all the nourishment needed in a loaf. In many ways it is a pity that it is not still in existence, instead of the bland plastic over-refined bread with a guaranteed shelf- life, invented by the Americans, which seems to have taken over the world's markets completely. Generations of children will never know what real bread tastes like.

I wandered around London for days during my lunch hour. Quite apart from Nelson on his column I saw places like the Duke of York's Steps, St. James', the Cenotaph, Buckingham Palace, the Strand, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden, the Mall - so that' s Baker Street, where Sherlock Holmes lived! - all the places I had read about since I was quite small. I was enchanted.

I still had, however, to find a place to live. My colleagues, about whom later, were all married. I went down to Wimbledon to meet Gregory and Dorothy Macdonald, Elizabeth's people, and they were very kind to me. They suggested that I find a boarding house in Wimbledon, since there was a direct underground line up to London from there.

Thus it was that I took my trunk and my suitcase to the Southdown Hotel, just off Copse Hill, Wimbledon, not far from the Common.

Although it was very convenient for my purpose I found its inmates somewhat weird. Entering the dining room for breakfast the first morning I greeted everyone with a cheerful "Good Morning", only to find them retreating huffily behind their "Daily Telegraphs". I had, it appeared, offended. Perhaps I had not been introduced. I learnt later just how fiercely the Englishmen guarded their privacy.

At the time, however, I was young and gauche. On the second morning I was confronted after my morning bath by an irate inmate who complained that I had left the bathroom "in a filthy state". He took me to view the extent of my crime. There were admittedly some pools of water around. "I understand you're from Africa," he continued. "Well, there are no damned niggers here to clean up after you." Otherwise welcome, I presumed.

The natives seemed anything but friendly. Obviously I would have to tread warily, lest I transgress some unwritten convention or other. It was quite sobering. I had thought that I would be meeting my own kind of people in England. I did not expect to be treated as a foreigner, and an inferior and unwelcome foreigner at that. I had yet to learn that my situation was even worse than I realised: for foreigners it is possible to make some allowances; for Colonials no grace.

One of the things I could do was to adopt some camouflage, in the shape of clothing that would enable me to melt into the background. In fact the young gentlemen at South Africa House were required at that time to dress like the natives. So I wore my short black jacket and striped trousers and Homburg hat, carried a neatly rolled umbrella and became indistinguishable from the professional class and civil servants strap-hanging on the underground and reading their "Daily Telegraph" or "Times."

Although I was still on probation (and would be until I had passed all the exams I still had to study for) I now had the substantive title of Third Secretary, the lowest rank in the Diplomatic Service. The ranks went as follows:

                        Diplomatic Mission                        Consular Mission

                        Third Secretary                                Vice Consul

                        Second Secretary                             Consul

                        First Secretary                                  Consul-General

                        Counsellor                                                   

                        Minister

                        Ambassador/ High commissioner

           

A Minister was in charge of a Legation, i.e. a Mission which was junior to an Embassy. In former times most countries maintained Embassies only in countries which were very important to them. Elsewhere they had Legations. The Swiss had no Embassies at all. Nowadays inflation has set in, even in diplomacy - and almost all Missions are Embassies.

When I was in London there were fewer than fifty Missions. The Lord knows how many are there today.

In our Service one could be posted to a diplomatic or a consular Mission. There was no distinction. In the British system of that time the diplomatic and consular services were staffed separately - and there was a considerable difference in social status as well.

South Africa House itself was, as I have said, the Queen of all High Commissions. Its commanding position, its architecture, its aspect - like the prow of a ship jutting into the Square - and its details - the carvings, the frescoes, the panelling - all made for a building of great character and charm. I had never seen anything like it.

It had what seemed to be an enormous staff. It even had an advisory engineer, who presided over some mysterious workings in the bowels below, which provided power and heating. There was even a well down there, which had supplied water for fire-hoses during the Blitz. Practically every Government Department in Pretoria seemed to have a representative - Finance, Commerce, Defence, Interior, Agriculture, Airways, Railways and Harbours, Tourism, Customs, and, of course, External Affairs. There was a large section concerned with Stores and Shipping, and, naturally, a large Accounts Section.

All these sections relied heavily on locally-recruited staff, most of whom served until they retired, full of years. The doorkeepers and messengers were all ex-service people - ex-policemen, sailors, marines etc. I remember well the British Commander-in Chief, South Atlantic, being conveyed in the lift to meet the High Commissioner, looking keenly at the lift attendant and saying: "Know your face. We've served together." "Yessir", said the delighted lift attendant, "HMS. Hermes, sir, in the Med." The Admiral smiled. "Thought so. You had a beard then, though." "Sir, I did." Made his day.

I made a note of this. It cost the Admiral nothing, but he made a friend for life. When, in later years, I returned to South Africa House for a Heads of Mission meeting, I made a point of looking up Frank Gray, who had been the High Commissioner's driver, and the fellows with whom I had played cricket with the South Africa House team.

 And, as Daniele Vare says in "The Laughing Diplomat", reputation rarely descends from above; it usually rises from below.

My work-mates were Jimmy Gibson and Bill Douthwaite - both of whom, oddly enough, became Professors of Law after they left the Service. We were later joined by George Malloch-Brown, a Rhodes Scholar who had just finished a degree at Oxford. All Cadets awaiting confirmation. Bill was Private Secretary to the High Commissioner, having taken over from the super-efficient Brand Fourie. He said that when the High Commissioner buzzed for him he would enter and be greeted with a look of distaste. "Send Mr. Fourie in, will you?" Alas for Mr. Heaton Nicholls, for Mr. Fourie soon left on transfer to our Mission at the United Nations in New York. (Needless to say he did not travel by refrigerated fruit ship, but on the 'Queen Mary'.)  Our immediate superior as Second Secretary was Theo Hewitson. The most senior Foreign affairs Officer was the Counsellor, known as Political Secretary, at that time Chris Naude, soon to be replaced by Anthony Hamilton.

I was ensconced in a room on the third floor and handled a variety of subjects, principally, however, together with Jimmy Gibson, the processing of applications for permanent residence received from German refugees, many of them Jews who had survived the extermination camps. This brought us into close contact with the remarkable body which world Jewry had set up to help these hapless people find new homes, known as the Joint Distribution Agency.

Having been myself one of those for whom hope deferred had made the heart sick, I agreed thoroughly with Jimmy Gibson's plan to shorten the waiting period for those in transit camps awaiting news by telephoning our Military Mission in Berlin as soon as permanent residence was granted, following this up by written confirmation. This worked like a charm until the Accounts section raised questions about the large number of telephone calls to Berlin. We were haled before the Political Secretary, reprimanded, and told to cease and desist. I thought then and think now that while this bureaucratic approach was no doubt financially responsible it was heartless. I suppose a week longer was not too much for a refugee to wait, but what joy when the news was received - so why delay it

           

Over the years I was made to learn that haste usually led to mistakes. Later I was to read Talleyrand's advice to diplomats - "Surtout, point  de zele."  (Above all, no zeal."

Now to the royal wedding:   November 1947

General Smuts had come from South Africa for the ceremony. I had been told that I was to assist the General's Private Secretary, Mr. Henry Cooper. I was more than a little awed by this assignment. I had never expected to find myself so close to a Great Man. So I was at Northolt Airport, lurking inconspicuously at the tail end of the South Africa House welcoming party, headed by the High Commissioner, Mr. Heaton Nichols, when the famous old York aircraft touched down on the tarmac.

The general stepped down briskly. I was surprised to see how small he was. The Secretary for Commonwealth Relations, the High Commissioner and all the other important people lined up to shake his hand, including the wife of one of our Cabinet Ministers who happened to be in London at the time. She said, "Welcome to London, sir. My husband and I hope to see something of you while you are here." Smuts looked right through her, said "Why?" and moved on down the line. It was my first experience of the notorious Smuts brusquerie

 Smuts always stayed at the Hyde Park Hotel when in London, and it was there that I reported for duty each morning. Mr. Cooper I found an amiable and obviously very accomplished Private Secretary, but one who much enjoyed having a dogsbody to look after the nuts and bolts while he went gallivanting around London.

No such thing with the General. When he was not out on business he was at his desk, and woe betide anyone who interrupted him. Once when I was holding the fort in Mr. Cooper's absence the High Commissioner telephoned, wishing to speak with the P.M. I had learnt enough to realise that I had better check before putting any call through, so, asking the H.C. to hold the line, I tapped nervously at the door. The P.M. looked up.

 "Well?' he enquired.          

"Sir, the High Commissioner wishes to speak with you on the telephone."

"What does he want?"-  fiercely.

 "Sir, I didn't ask."

After a brief moment - "He's wasting my time. Tell him 'No'."

 " Sir?"

"I said tell him 'No'!"

"Yes, sir,"

… and off I went trying to think how to explain this to my Chief, before whose frown all South Africa House trembled. I fear I told a white lie, saying that the P.M. was engaged and could not be interrupted. "But, sir, he says he will be seeing you very shortly."

Needless to say The H.C. was not pleased, and told me so. When elephants fight, the grass gets trampled.

One thing that was impressed on me was that the Prime Minister would not tolerate people in his anteroom whom he did not know or who had no appointment with him. On one occasion, however, I found that I had no alternative but to admit some unexpected visitors. There was a tap on the door, and when I opened it I found an elderly and very distinguished gentleman and a very aristocratic looking lady outside.

 "Good morning. Is the Prime Minister in?"

 "No, sir, but I expect him shortly."

 "May we come in and wait for him?"

 "Excuse me, sir, but is he expecting you?"

 "No, but I think he will see us. I'm Athlone, and this is the Princess Alice."

Impossible to apologise: it would hardly have done to say that when the Earl of Athlone had been Governor-General of South Africa I was too young to remember. And one cannot argue with Royalty.

           

Then there was the occasion when one of the City Guilds wished to make Smuts an Honorary Fishmonger or something like that. I heard Mr. Cooper on the telephone doing a fine job as soothing Private Secretary.

           

"Yes, Sir Gilbert, I do remember, and believe me, the Prime Minister is deeply sensitive of the honour you wish to do him, and if his time were not so taken up with engagements, particularly with the Palace......Yes, sir, I know this is the third time, but.....No, sir, I really would advise against that.........I must say that I think it extremely unlikely.... Well, sir, if you come it will be on your own responsibility.... in half an hour. Very well, sir, I shall be expecting you." Then he sat back and put his fingers in his ears.

And so these distinguished Guildsmen were there when Smuts, coming out of his office to speak with Cooper (one of his endearing traits: he did not summon, he always came out himself) coming out, as I say, he spotted the intruders and stiffened.

"Cooper, who are these people?"

"Sir, may I present Sir Gilbert - - ....and his colleagues of the Worshipful Company of - "

"Gentlemen, I did not invite you here and have no wish to see you. Good-day to you!"

It was brutal, and as the unfortunate visitors dejectedly trooped out, I could not help feeling a twinge of sympathy for them. Judge then of my feelings when the reception desk rang up to say there was a young lady asking for Mr. Cooper.

"Who is s she?"

"She says Mr. Cooper is her uncle."

 "Tell her that Mr. Cooper is out with the general."

 "I have, sir, but she says she will wait for him in his office."

"She can't! Tell her she can't!" 

 "I tried to, sir, but she says she is coming up, anyway. I'm afraid I couldn't stop her."

Hell's bells! So she came, an attractive, intelligent-looking young woman in whom, under different circumstances I might myself have taken an interest. I tried, rather feebly, to explain just how impossible it was for her to wait for her uncle in Smuts' anteroom, but to no avail. So I found myself ordering tea, and listening to an engaging young girl prattling artlessly. She was, it appeared, a relative of Olive Schreiner, the South African writer, and was at the time working at the B.B.C.

We had just had our second cup of tea when Smuts swept in, followed by Cooper. The latter shot me a poisonous glance. Once again the P.M. stopped in his tracks. Here we go!

"Cooper, who is this young person?"

"Sir, I'm sorry, she is my niece."

Slowly and menacingly Smuts paced forward until he stood over the intruder.

"Well, young lady, what have you to say for yourself?"

The young lady so addressed showed no sign of discomposure. Demurely she smiled, then replied:  "Well, I don't know. What would you like me to say? It's warmer today than it was yesterday."

For a moment time stood still. I waited for the thunderbolt which was sure to ensue. Smuts stood bristling, then suddenly threw his head back and laughed and laughed. "Cooper, order some fresh tea."  He sat down beside her. " Tell me, my dear, how long have you been in London, and what are you doing here?"

I had never seen so rapid a transition in Smuts - from grisly ogre to kindly uncle. He had obviously admired the young woman's spirit, but I still think she was taking an almighty chance. However, attractive young girls can get away with murder.

That he had a softer side to him became even plainer a little later. It was my job to see that despatch boxes and papers from South Africa House went in to him directly. Normal correspondence addressed to him at the hotel was usually vetted by Mr. Cooper and answered by him. Occasionally I had to sub for him, and once I slipped this one in to the general. It read:

           

"My dear Godfather, Mummy has told me that you are in London, but that you will be very busy and probably won't have time to see me, but if you could I would be so happy. It is a long time since I have seen you....."

           

Out it came, an hour later, with a reply written in Smuts' own crabbed handwriting - he never dictated:

"My dear,

Thank you for your letter. It is true that I am very busy, but I too would very much like to see you. Ask Mummy if she could bring you on Friday at four o'clock and we can have tea together....."

A curious amalgam, Smuts.  

           

On another occasion Sir Godfrey Huggins, Prime Minister of Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) was taking tea with the general when I found myself addressed directly. I must have been in a day-dream.

"Young man, why are you so glum?"

"I'm sorry, Prime Minister, I was just thinking - "

"Too much thinking at your age will do you no good. Have another cup of tea and cheer up."

I was actually thinking about the responsibilities of what marriage involved, for it was for life. At least that is what we all thought in those days!

Pam, and I were to be married in a few months.

And now, I think, it is time to tell you about South Africa's wedding gift to the Princess Elizabeth. The afternoon before the Wedding I was once again holding the fort (why was Henry Cooper always absent on these occasions?) when Smuts came out of his office to ask where "the gift" was. I said I was sorry, but I had no idea. Well, said the Prime Minister, I had better find out quickly and get it ready for presentation, as he was due at the Palace within the hour. He then turned on his heel and returned to his work. I was not brave enough to pursue him and ask him precisely what the gift was. I had no idea even of what it might look like. But, as Pam always tells me, "Seek and ye shall find."

Poking about in Cooper's room I eventually discovered, under his bed, a heavy wooden case, its lid fastened with eight heavily countersunk brass screws. This must surely be it. There was nothing else it could be, but the only way to find out would be to undo the screws. Easier said than done. I telephoned down for a screwdriver and tried to shift them. They had not been greased, and came out reluctantly. I had undone only three when Henry Cooper returned. Hearing his voice, Smuts emerged, saying testily, "Come, come, Cooper, why is the gift not ready? We must not keep Royalty waiting." Cooper replied soothingly, "We can go on ahead, sir, while this young man follows in a taxi. I'm sure he will have it ready by the time he reaches the Palace."  (Thank you very much.)

He then telephoned down for a taxi and for someone to help me with the case, and left with Smuts, giving me what I imagine he thought was a reassuring smile. In that he was unsuccessful. In the taxi I wrestled again with those accursed screws, managing to undo only two more before we swung in through the gates of Buckingham Palace.

You may imagine my distress as I walked down the long corridors, with two Royal servants carrying the wooden case. We emerged eventually into a large anteroom filled with Ladies and Gentlemen in Waiting. Observing that the case was still not opened, Smuts' face took on a grim aspect. The situation was saved by the Cabinet Minister whose wife had so irritated Smuts at the airport. Fortunately he was also present for the ceremony. He immediately took charge, summoned footmen with more screwdrivers, and when the case was finally opened we saw lying inside an object swathed in yards of flannel. I lifted it out, the Minister took one end of the flannel, and he and I reversed in stately fashion across the room until at last the object was revealed in all its glory.

It was a heavily encrusted gold plate, looking, I thought, distinctly vulgar. No doubt chosen by Public Works. Just what a Princess needed. God alone knows how much it would have cost - and it had been lying under Cooper's bed all this time, totally unguarded. We handed it to the Prime Minister just as the great doors leading to the Audience chamber opened, and he passed through, cradling the plate in his arms. My last memory is of the Minister and I standing side by side, while footmen, with a disdainful air, brushed the fluff off our jackets, and the Ladies and Gentlemen in Waiting affected a polite disinterest.

My last view of Smuts was when he called at South Africa House on the occasion of a farewell by the staff to Mr. Heaton Nicholls, who was to retire. Having decided to say a few words, the Prime Minister realised that he would have to elevate himself in order to be seen. Undeterred, he dragged a table forward and started to clamber up. People rushed to help him, but he struck their hands away, saying in a testy tone "I am quite capable of getting up by myself!" Not bad for 78.

The general was due to leave for South Africa the following morning. That evening when it was time for me to knock off he held his hand out and thanked me for my help. I took his hand, but told him I would see him in the morning at the airport. "There is no need for you to come all that way, and on a Saturday, too," he said." I replied, "Sir, I would like to." "Oh, very well," he said.

A few brief months later he lost the election which he had been confidently expected to win, and was never again to regain power, unlike Churchill. Politics plays queer tricks.