Introduction

For an account of Jack's part in WW2 and his later life, go to www.jackatwar.blogspot.com

 

The early years of my life were happy ones. This was probably due to several factors. In the first place I was born in Rustenburg,  grew up and lived there till my early teens.

Secondly, I had a mother and father and four grandparents who showered love on me, my brothers and sisters and a host of young friends whose lives became so intertwined with mine in these formative years that, despite the fifty years and changing scene,  the memory of those friends and our exploits cannot be erased.

The happiness of which I speak, was probably also in part attributable to the particular period through which South Africa was passing at this time. They were carefree days. The First World War had come to an end, there was no question of another war on the horizon. The politics of the day were devoid of hatred. We lived in peace and equanimity. There were no "Verligtes en Verkramptes",  no ANC and PAC, no extreme Afrikaner political organisation. People were either SAPS or NATS.

When there was an election in the offing,  some citizens would prefer not to be seen in the company of others, children at school would have "maroela" fights and "kleilat" fights under the banner of their respective parties and the women of the town would hold tea parties and tennis parties, being careful to omit those friends of the other political persuasion.

To crown matters, in 1934 Genl. Smuts and Genl. Hertzog suddenly came to the conclusion that they did not know what they were quarrelling about and this in turn brought about unequalled prosperity and wellbeing in the country.

I must, however, add that in the late 20s and early 30s, South Africa, like Europe and America, was experiencing one of the greatest depressions of all times. In my studies after leaving school, I learned that one of the advantages of money was as a "store of value", but in those days it was not a store of value but rather the "unknown quantity". Fortunately, everybody was more or less in the same boat.

From time to time I have told my children of our experiences as youngsters in Rustenburg and now that I have grandchildren growing up, I think it is perhaps as well if I recorded some of those experiences.

Rustenburg Primary School

Jack in his Scout uniform

 I attended the Rustenburg Primary School, which was what could be described as being parallel medium. There were Afrikaans classes and English classes. The number of children attending the Afrikaans Medium far exceeding those attending the English Medium.

My first experience at school was traumatic and was relived in Lichtenburg a couple of years ago, more humorously.

 It happened this way: Our minister started a choir at St Barnabas Church and I was invited with everybody else to attend choir practice.  I shook my head and said: "No, that would not be possible". When asked why, I told the Minister that Mrs Todd would object. He wanted to know who Mrs Todd was.

I explained that when I was in Grade 1, my class, with other classes, would come into a big classroom and the singing lessons would then proceed.  My brother Billy was in Standard 2 and his class joined our class on this particular occasion. Mrs Todd was in charge and set the whole lot of us singing. Billy and I were enthusiastic youngsters and we sang lustily. Before very long, Billy and I were told to leave the singing class and wait outside till the singing was over. Mrs Todd's message came over loud and clear. I have never again opened my mouth to sing.

There were times at the Rustenburg Primary School when we were very, very busy. But I must state as an incontrover-tible fact that our business had absolutely nothing to do with school work or exams.

We also had our seasons and here again the seasons had absolutely nothing to do with the weather.  There was rugby season, cricket season, tennis season "bok-bok" season, the "haas" season, the washer season, marble season, the kite season and "kennetjie" season. 

During the quieter spells we had our fighting season.  I remember such an occasion. One young fellow from the Afrikaans Medium came up with a brilliant idea that there should be a "maroela" fight, and to simplify matters, it was "Die Boere teen die Engelse." ("The Boers against the English.") So it was a case of the "Boere teen die Engelse", but it did not follow the pattern of the Anglo-Boer war. I soon learnt what the gallant Boers must have felt like in the Anglo-Boer War when they were outnumbered and outgunned. The seed of the maroela tree can be a nasty missile and I went home that afternoon nursing a head full of bumps.

But, alas, there were also other kinds of fights. One fine day I was sitting in class, quite innocently, doing nothing and bearing no ill-will to any living person on earth. But Fate had decreed otherwise. I received a little note with the simple words on it: "Do you bang Issy?" ("Are you afraid of Issy?") Now, I had known Issy all my life and we were good friends, but suddenly my honour was at stake and I had no option but to reply in the negative. This was just what the promotor was waiting for and thereafter it was all arranged that the fight would take place immediately after school, next to the old market place. It was a long drawn-out battle and my situation was saved by the appearance of a schoolmaster. I went home and was given a stormy  reception by my mother for being so late - arrived at about three o'clock.

At an early age I learnt that sometimes it pays to gamble. One fine day I was messing about  in the water furrow which flowed through our erf (plot of land). It was crystal clear stream that had its source in the Magaliesberg range about four miles from town. The erven were big in the town and the stream was used by the owners of the town lying more to the east, to irrigate their fruit and vegetable gardens.  

That was the ostensible use of the water , but for small boys it held out endless joys: there were small fish, crabs, tadpoles, frogs and ample space for sailing boats, etc. Whilst happily engaged in one or the other of these pursuits, I noticed three chaps approaching me. One of them  was Tienie Botha who was well known to me as was his brother, Gwara Botha. It was not long before I was asked in a direct way whether I was prepared to take the three of them on.

It was a situation that required quick thinking. I came up with what I consider to this day to be a trump  card. I said that I was not prepared for the three of them, but I would certainly oblige as far as Tienie Botha was concerned, and the biggest of the three boys. I knew Tienie Botha to be a vociferous big jaw youngster and as scared of fighting as I was. I also knew that the biggest of the three would in all probability, on his own, give me a hiding.

However, the gamble paid off and I saw young Tienie shake his head in a determined fashion and I knew that I had won the day, albeit by sleight of hand.

Needless to say, I stayed away from that part of the water furrow for a considerable period. The Bothas lived very close to the High School and the elder brother, Gwara, was quite a character - but more of him later on. 

The Greatest Sportsman of Us All

As I have already indicated, at school we were very busy.  You will, no doubt, be surprised to hear that our afternoons were equally busy, but once again I must warn you that our business in the afternoons had absolutely nothing to do with school work or home work.  Unlike today, there was no organised sport and we made our own arrangements.  We were never coached along conventional lines to play any particular game, but in our own way we "picked things up".

One such picking up place was the home of my friend, Bremer van Velden.  His home could well have been dubbed "The Van Velden Rugby, Cricket, Tennis, "Bok-bok", you name it, we play it, Club".

You see, Bremer had cousins by the name of Hofmeyer, who attended the Boys' High School, Pretoria, where the youngsters were coached in these various games. The upshot was that Bremer learnt the techniques and niceties of cricket, etc., from his cousins and in due course we "picked it up" from Bremer.  This improved our vocabulary. Terms such as "glides" and "late cuts" were bandied about freely. The same applied to rugby and tennis and we had many a test match in his "yard".

 We did nothing in moderation and it was quite on the cards that we would pitch up at Bremer's place before two o'clock and stay well after six. There was always something on the go.  Bremer came from what could best be described as a well-ordered home. This was in sharp contrast to the sort of home , shall I say, that the Taylors and the Wulfsohns originated from.  Bremer's mother was a dear lady and became known as one of the grand old ladies of Rustenburg.

She must have indicated to Bremer in a very tactful way that sport was all very well, but we had to pass exams. One fine day, in a very diplomatic way, Bremer said to me: "Well, you know, we should really start playing games at half past three and not so early in the afternoon."

This came as a great blow and for a while that was the order of things - half past three. However, it was not long before we reverted to two o'clock sharp.

Among the stalwarts of the Van Velden Club were Witte Gritten, Liony Wulfsohn, Rooi (Red) Dawid van der Merwe, Bremer's younger brother Wim, and Willy Grimes.

I recall that Willy Grimes' full name was William Spencer Grimes. He was always treated with a great deal of respect by the rest of the youngsters, and I was never quite certain whether this respect sprang  from the fact of his prowess at games or that his father was the local undertaker.

Bremer's elder brother was Julie van Velden.  He was an invalid confined to a wheelchair.  He was a fine boy and certainly one of the keenest members of the Club, although his role was that of a spectator.

When tennis, cricket or rugby matches were played, Julie would always be seen there in his wheelchair. He was in fact playing with us; if not physically, then certainly in spirit. His enthusiasm was infectious. Several of the Club's members distinguished themselves in later years as sportsmen, and I believe that this was in part due to his encouragement and enthusiasm and in the Great Design we find that a Boy who never scored a run, never served an  ace or scored a try, was the Greatest Sportsman of us all.

 

The Wulfsohn Swimming Club

The van Velden Club was not the only club in town. Another such club was the Wulfsohn Swimming Club.  Let me make it clear at the outset. A swimming pool along conventional lines as known today, was unknown in our town in those years, but the Wulfsohns had what was commonly known as a dam, fed from an adjacent windmill. We had no conventional hours for swimming, nor did we have conventional  changerooms or costumes.  There was no red tape. The procedure was simple.  We dashed home from school, threw our schoolbags down, took a mouthful of food, and Hey Presto! we were at the Club.  Clothes were discarded, there was a jump onto the wall and with our hands obscuring from view, so we thought, the more private part of our anatomy, we dived in and swam.

A great character at these swimming sessions was one Witte,  alias Pickwich, alias Stanley Gritten. He was usually the first in and the last out.

From time to time there were complaints about our swimming costumes, or rather the lack of them, but like most things in life, the disapproval blew over and it was not long before we were at it again.

As you would have observed, in a manner of speaking, I was rather a man about town.  Another such man about town was my friend, Lionel Wulfsohn.  Liony was extremely interested in everything that was going on, but his interest had nothing whatsoever to do with schoolwork and the like. He was a gifted student, but unfortunately he was connected with people whose interests lay in other directions that the purely academic.

Strange to say, Liony seemed to enjoy being led astray. Whenever there was a cricket match on, Liony was there; when there was a rugby match on, Liony was there; when there was a boxing match on, Liony was there, etc.

Liony's father was a successful businessman and Liony was known as being "rich". This, however,  was not a great disadvantage and did not curtail his activities.  It is true that he occasionally wore shoes and socks and once a year went to Cape Town on holiday for a month with his parents, but he seemed to bear this inconvenience stoically.  He was a member of the Scout Troop, a member of the Van Velden Club, chairman of the Wulfsohn Swimming Club, a great philatelist and all in all a most knowledgeable young man.

Wulfsohn's Shop was one of the focal points for action.  There was always something to be seen and done at the shop. When Liony's father was away in the district or out of town, the green light would go on and we would be sliding down the shute from the pavement into the basement.  There were many interesting things in the basement. Seldom, if ever, did we go away empty-handed.  Attached to the main shop there was the Native shop. Liony was a tactician and on the best of terms with the black Assistant Manager, who, in turn, saw to it that we were well provided with sweets.

Liony's mother was a dear lady and if we could spare the time in the afternoons and in hearing distance, she would call us and we'd all sit down to tea. It was there that I learnt to eat cheese cake, and to this day it remains one of my favourites.

Liony was the apple of his father's eye, but was often engaged in heated arguments with him. The arguments usually centered around studies, non-attendance at Hebrew lessons, and exams.  Liony always had an answer - "Pa this" and "Pa that".

There were, of course, different groups of youngsters, depending on age. Liony had elder brothers and sisters. Each group did their own thing. There was one golden rule: we never interfered in the domestic policies of another group and everybody jogged along quite happily.             

Off The Hook

 In Plein Street, which was then the main street of the business centre of Rustenburg, the casual observer would have noticed a small, insignificant-looking little shop.  In the window you could read "I. J. PRETORIUS - LICENSED TO SELL ARMS AND AMMUNITION", then the words "FISHING TACKLE" and below that, "BICYCLES".

It was, however, a shop which was rated rather highly in my estimation. This was the place where we used to buy airgun pellets and fishing hooks, etc. But more important, I had another special friend, whose father, Mr Ikey Pretorius, was the proprietor of the business. My special friend was his son, a white-headed little chap, known as Sos Pretorius.

As I recall the situation, Sos was in a class below me, but it was common practice to have, in the English Medium section of the school, more than one class in the same classroom.

Sos and I became firm friends and we had one overriding passion in life and that was fishing.

Quite close to Rustenburg, we had the "dorp spruit"  (the town creek), the experimental farm dam and the Hex River.  At all these places you stood a good chance of landing a few kurpers.  All you needed was a bicycle, a bit of tackle and a tin of worms.

I spent much time looking at fishing tackle and eyeing bicycles, i.e. to say from the outside. Sos was more favourably placed. He was outside looking in, and inside, looking out.

My brother Billy also had a bicycle, and, with Sos' bicycle, there was no stopping us. The two of them used to take turns in lifting me and with a tin or two of earthworms and Heath Robinson-like fishing rods, we would sally forth.

Fishermen spend much time debating the question as to when fish come on to bite.  The answer was simple: all you had to do was watch Sos, and when he was away from school - sick - you knew the game was on.

There was a sequel to this: Sos was caught by the "lammervanger" (eagle - literally 'lamb catcher') : The Probation Officer. True enough, Sos did have his schoolbag with him, but unfortunately, instead of a set of books, he had three sizeable kurpers. The Probation Officer was persuaded to release him with a warning and Sos was "off the hook".

I often wonder where Sos Pretorius is today and whether he still spends his spare time, and other time, catching kurpers.

Don't judge a book by its cover

There were several remarkable families in our town and I immediately recall the Mograbies and the Beans.

Let me tell you something about the Beans:

There were five boys and a girl called Emmy, who was the eldest.  I knew two of the younger boys, Joseph and Les, very well. The youngest of the family was one Effie.  Although I speak of Joseph, the only name by which he was known, was "Os" (Ox). It was quite a simple matter. Mr. Bean was a cattle speculator and the name "Os" followed logically. Les was not known as Les but as "Luis" (Louse) Bean. the father was known for his public-spiritedness, but far removed from being a wealthy man.

When we were in standard 4, a small incident occurred which I have always remembered, concerning Os. I hope I am given the opportunity one day to ask him whether he recalls it. Our Afrikaans teacher, a man by the name of Beuning, was asking the class what they intended doing when they grew up.

In reply to the question, Os said that he wanted to become a doctor and I remember clearly Mr. Beuning, the master, saying: "Jou pa sal moet baie beeste verkoop as jy 'n dokter wil wees." (Your dad will have to sell a lot of cattle if  you want to be a doctor.) Little did Mr Beuning know that it was not only Os who wanted to become a doctor, but Luis as well.

The story continues: Os passed into Matric, Luis into Standard 9, but in the new year, whereas Os came to school in the usual way, Luis was missing. To cut a long story short, the Beans had discovered that University books were very expensive, and deduced that if they started together as medical students, they would be able to share the text books.

Needles to say, both became doctors and in addition to that, their younger brother Effie also became a doctor as did one of the older brothers. So the family produced four doctors. I think this was one case in Mr Beuning's life where his pessimism proved to be unfounded.

They were all keen sportsmen and Effie played rugby for Witwatersrand University and subsequently for Transvaal.  The achievement of producing four doctors in the family may not sound extraordinary today, but in those days, to come by higher education was extremely difficult. Had I met Mr Beuning in later life, I would have liked to quote the Afrikaans idiom: "Moenie 'n man op sy baadjie takseer nie."

Holidays at Northam

After the First World War,  a number of Englishmen came out to settle in a geographical area lying approximately 50 miles to the north of Rustenburg.  The area comprises a number of farms, but but was generally known as "NORTHAM".

Apart from these post-First World War settlers, there were also a number of English-speaking families in the district long before that time. As a matter of fact, some of the families, notably the Taylors and the Toppers, settled there in the 1860s.

The area was, and is to this day, essentially suited for cattle ranching.  These 1930 settlers concentrated on agriculture and particularly cotton farming. This type of farming was not a success and with a few exceptions, many of those immigrants left their farms and moved to the towns and cities of the Transvaal and a good proportion of them eventually did well in South Africa.

They left their stamp and added a lot to the cultural, social and sporting activities of the area. At one stage they had a tennis team, a cricket team and even a rugby team. Obviously the sporting teams were not composed solely of the Settlers, but they were the driving force and formed the nucleus of the sporting activities.

Grandfather MacDonald settled in the area around about this time, as a trader with a shop at a farm called "DE PUT", which belonged to the Fothergill family and where the original Post Office was sited. With the coming of the railway to the area, my grandfather changed his trading situation to "NORTHAM PROPER", where today there is a small township and station and Government buildings.

Brother Billy and I loved to spend holidays at Northam. Whilst at our grandparents Taylors' farm at Oorsaak, we did a lot of fishing, at Northam we concentrated on shooting.

Granny and Grandpa Mac, as they were affectionately known to their grandchildren, loved to have us with them and we, in turn, enjoyed every minute of those holidays walking and chasing game in the veld, in and around Northam.

I was about ten and my brother Billy about twelve. We used to go off into the veld, armed with a 410 shotgun, and would occasionally bring back a guinea fowl or a hare.  There were lots of impala in the area and on occasions we would accompany our uncles on a shooting trip into the bush.

I remember going off with my Uncle Rowland on a shoot one afternoon. He took with him his .303 rifle. We had not found anything to shoot and stopped for a rest and Uncle Rowly wanted to relieve himself.  Whilst he was thus engaged, there came to our ears from the windward side sounds of an animal grazing. Uncle Rowly peered through the bushes as best he could and saw a big impala bull grazing no less than 50 yards away. In a semi-compromised situation, he took aim and fired, but the impala just cantered away unconcernedly.

With all the excitement, Uncle Rowly had forgotten to allow for an adjustment of the rifle's sights and the bullet passed over the head of the buck. For many years after this, he was teased about this particular incident.

I remember Billy and I walking in the veld, he having with him his 410 shotgun. A duiker got up, stood not less than 50 yards away from us, and Billy took aim and fired. Once again the quarry ran away quite unconcernedly, not even at any great pace.

Billy was very excitable, and had a very good imagination. When we got home, he repeated the story, adding that he was sure he had wounded the buck because it had moved away so slowly. My dad came out to Northam and of course Billy related the story to him. I remember my dad saying: "But, Billy, the buck ran way so slowly because you never even frightened it." Needless to say, after that Billy was completely deflated and we heard no more of the buck story.

On occasion the  whole  family would spend Xmas with Granny and Grandpa Mac at Northam - happy days indeed.

  

The nights in the Bushveld can be quite cold, but Billy and I would sit around the  "hardekool" (hardwood) fire in the lounge with Granny and Grandpa; Granny usually busy with her crochet work and Grandpa playing patience.

Approximately 15 miles from Northam, further into the Bushveld, there is a place which is now very well known but not so extremely well known in those days, namely THABAZIMBI. My father knew many people in the district and he happened to know a man, Robert Peacock, who had a farm on the slopes of the mountain.

It wasn't long before Billy and I had organised a hunting trip to Thabazimbi  to stay at the home of Mr Peacock.

In those days there was absolutely nothing and Billy and I roamed that mountain armed with a shotgun and a .22 rifle, chasing guinea fowl, pheasants, hasies (hares) and small game.

The Peacock family were kindly people, and we enjoyed our stay with them. Although the name "Robert Peacock" might suggest some English-speaking identity, in fact this was not so at all.  Neither Mr Peacock nor his wife nor any of his children could speak a word of English.  I only mention this in passing as a point of interest.

It was a secluded part of the district and there were few visitors or passers-by dropping in at the farm. However, one day we noticed that there was a special amount of activity and preparation going on in the Peacock home.  We soon discovered that that particular evening, there would be a dance at the house.

Now let me explain that a dance in a country home was known to the "superior" town dwellers as a "sheepskin". Needless to say, the dancing went on till the small hours of the morning, with the concertina doing its work non-stop. They were all very respectable people but they certainly did enjoy themselves.

A few years ago I came across a poem in "Opperman's Verseboek", written I think in 1905, under nom de plume Picadel. It is all about a hectic Sheepskin at Hartebeestfontein.

When I read the poem, it recalled my experience at Thabazimbi. It is really very amusing and I am attaching a copy of it. (See Appendix )

Talking of the name "Robert Peacock", it also reminds me of families in the Zeerust district and the way the local farmers have changed the pronunciation of the names.

For example, there is a family called "Southwood", but they are known in the district as "die Soutvoete" (the Salt feet). there is another family by the name of Douglas. They've become "die Dou-glase" (the Dew-glasses).

Holidays at "Oorsaak"

There was, in those days, a main road from Rustenburg that led in a southerly direction through Kroondal and on towards Pretoria. A farm road branched off approximately ten miles from the town, to the foothills of the Magaliesberg. This was the road that led to "Oorsaak", where my grandparents Taylor lived and where Billy and I, as small boys, spent numerous holidays. In front of the house, my grandmother had her garden and croquet court. Behind the house there were extensive fowl runs and tobacco sheds.

The mountain provided the farm with a stream of water which eventually became a rivulet, more commonly known as a "spruit".  My grandfather was the inveterate fisherman, and from him brother Billy and I acquired our piscatorial skills.

At the time, Grandpa Taylor was the manager of the "Magaliesberg Kooperatiewe Tabakplantersvereniging" (Magaliesberg Co-operative Tobacco Planters' Association") and went into town by car every day.

Billy and I took to fishing in the "spruit". Granny Taylor was always worried that something would happen to us. Her fears were well founded. There were fish in the spruit, to be sure, kurpers and yellows, but they were not easy to come by and in the stream, that was crystal clear, one could see them swimming about in a tantalising way. Fish are perverse creatures and, unlike humans, tend to fight shy of hooks. We would eagerly watch them swimming round and this excitement would reach fever pitch when an occasional biggish yellow appeared on the scene.

It was a case of so near and yet so far, but this proved too much for me and one day I tumbled into the river. All I remember is that I had no sooner landed in the water than Brother Billy, in a rescue bid, also jumped in. There we stood, two little boys, five and seven years old, the water up to our necks.  Neither of us could swim.

When we eventually got back to the farmhouse we were both drenched, and Granny Taylor was most upset. Fishing meant a lot to us and the thought that we could not fish any more was most distressing. I was always regarded as being the one most likely to land in  trouble and Granny Taylor then came up with an excellent idea. With a hank of rope I was tied  to a tree and our fishing continued as usual.

(A few years later I was subjected to the "rope trick" by my mother when we went on a camping-fishing expedition below Hartebeespoort dam.)

Over the weekends Grandpa Taylor would take us to other spots on the river.  The three of us would set off in his motor car, accompanied by his favourite dog, Boel, who occupied a seat in the car. One afternoon we set off as usual, the three of us, or, including Boel, the four of us. Grandpa had landed a few yellows and things were really looking up. But alas, Grandpa went to the basket where he kept the bait, cooked mealiemeal, to find that Boel had eaten the lot. Grandpa was most annoyed. I recall him calling us, telling us to get in, slamming the door and driving off. Boel was left to find his way home.

When Billy turned nine, he was given a pellet gun by one of his uncles. It was a BSA #1. This was of course all very exciting and fitted in nicely with our holidays at Oorsaak. So we arrived on the farm, complete with airgun, for a holiday.

In his own way, Grandpa Taylor was a bit of a disciplinarian and no doubt was quick to recognise that the airgun introduced a new hazard. But he was loath to do anything that would dampen the spi-rits of his young grandsons. We were given permission to use the pellet gun in our minor shooting expeditions, but on no account was it to be used in or about the precincts of the fowl run.

Seen from our point of view, there was a snag. The poultry was obviously fed with mealies in some or other form and it was not only fowls that liked mealies, but also pigeons, or doves as we used to call them. In the surrounding bushes they were not easy to come by. The fowl run seemed to teem with them but this was "verboten" territory.

One Saturday afternoon Granny and Grandpa were resting. It was very hot and there was little to do. Billy spotted a dove in one of the fowl runs, walking among the fowls, and beset by an irresistible impulse,  decided to give it a go. Whenever we went shooting, he would walk ahead and I was always four or five paces behind him. Well, he went up to the fence, put the airgun through the wire and took aim. As he fired, a young rooster put his head up and instead of seeing a dove lie dead in the run, we saw a rooster jumping around with a pellet through his head. I ran away

 Grandpa was furious when the news was brought to him by Granny.

There was always a friendly atmosphere on the farm and Granny and Grandpa used to do all sorts of things to amuse us. That night was a terrible night. Neither Billy nor I wanted to have any supper and did not know which way to turn. On Sunday morning things were much the same.

However, Granny knew her man. When we came in for midday dinner, Grandpa was still looking very stern. That is to say the Sunday midday dinner. The maid came in with a huge plate with golden brown potatoes and in the middle of the plate was the rooster, prepared to a turn. Then followed an icy silence. Grandpa Taylor was a corpulent man and to say the least he enjoyed his meals. In no time, everything had changed and Grandpa was his usual self.

After tea that afternoon, as was our custom, we had a game of croquet. I partnered Grandpa and Billy partnered Granny. We enjoyed ourselves immensely. It was business as usual. The trouble of the last few days was forgotten but really gone and forgotten was the rooster.

Our cousin, Alfie Pitman, used also to spend holidays at Oorsaak. He was a good deal older than us and in a manner of speaking a smart young chap. When Grandpa, Billy and I were out fishing, he would come with us on the trip, but instead of fishing, he would lie under a tree, either sleeping or reading a book.

We noticed that although Grandpa was always friendly and affable to us, there were times when he was a bit offish to Alfie. He appeared to have a soft spot for his barefooted grandsons from the "dorp" (village). We could not quite understand this. After all, Alfie was the son of a Judge of the Supreme Court of South Africa, he had matriculated top in the Transvaal, wore long pants and was about to enter the University to follow in his grandfather's footsteps as an accountant. In modern parlance, things were going for him, yet he did not appear to be persona grata with his granddad.

This worried Billy so much that he one day asked his granny why Grandpa was always so cross with Alfie. Granny's reply was: "Well, you know Grandpa likes fishing and Alfie never fishes."  Apparently Alfie had stated, in grown-ups' company and in the hearing of Grandpa, that he thought that fishing was a fool's game - a major indiscretion.

"Be Prepared"

Although Lichtenburg is not very far from Rustenburg, it has not been my practice to visit my old stamping grounds. However, a month or two ago I did run over to Rustenburg to see a friend, and drove around the town which is now enormously big and about twenty times the size I knew it as a kid.

Here and there I found some of the old landmarks, but most of them, to my great sorrow, had disappeared. An exception thereto was the old wood and iron building which was our Scout Hall and which, I was elated to see, still stands exactly as it was more than 50 years ago.

Scouting played an important part in our young lives in Rustenburg. My earliest recollections go back to the days when I was a Cub. My first Cub Mistress was a Miss Essev, later married to Dr McQueen. I was approximately 5 years old and I remember saying with the other little cubs: "Akela - we will do our best, we'll dirb, dirb, dirb".

After Miss Essev, my Cub Master was none other than the renowned artist, W.W. (Walter) Batiss.  He was a clerk in the Magistrate's Court in those days.

I always remember a concert which he organised in the Methodist Church Hall. When I have occasion at an Art exhibition to see his works of art displayed, especially the futuristic art, it is so difficult to associate him with the goings-on of an ordinary, sane Cub Master.

On occasion of the visit of Prince Edward,  the Prince of Wales, I think it was in 1925, to South Africa, the Cub Pack accompanied the Scouts to Johannesburg. We went up by train and it was a most exciting occasion.

It nearly ended in disaster as far as I was concerned.  We arrived in the evening and slept on the ground and the next morning when we got up to prepare ourselves for  the parade, a distress signal went up. I had lost my pants. It was duly announced over the communication system: " Jackie Taylor of the Rustenburg Pack has lost his pants. Will anybody finding please do the needful."

Of course this was a great source of amusement. Eventually my pants were found in somebody's kitbag and I could attend the parade. For many months it was a standing joke and even when I became a Scout and grew up a little bit, some of the old hands recalled the incident and used to ask me jokingly whether I had found my pants.

In due course I graduated to the Scouting ranks and enjoyed it immensely. Our Meetings were on Friday evenings. Our first Scout Master was a Mr Thurley. After him came Brian Pullen.

Years afterward when I was a grown-up man, I still had my old Scout shirt with a brilliant array of badges. Unfortunately the shirt was stolen.

I had also been a very keen philatelist - stamp collector, and had really excellent stamps, some of which were given to me by my late father who in turn had received them from his father, namely my grandfather.

I kept my album for years and afterward when I started out in practice, I kept it in my safe. Unfortunately the safe was stolen and the stamp album was never seen again.

The badges on my Scout shirt and the stamps in my album represented so many hours and days of joy, sweat and toil, that even to this day, when I think of it, I cannot do so without a tinge of sadness.

As Scouters we often camped at the Kloof. I remember the McGrabies, namely Solly and Joe, who were prominent Scouts. Solly afterwards became a Scout Master and Joe was one of the leading patrol leaders.

We also had boxing tournaments in which I remember once our Scout master, Brian Pullen, being a contender, knocking out his opponent. Another boxer of merit was Solly McGrabie who was also known for the weight of his right hand.

Other prominent Scouts of that time were Harold Johnson, Des Grimes, the Van Veldens, Rooi Dawid van der Merwe, Lionel Wilson, my own brother, Billy, Stanley and Voysey Gritten.

To read about Jack's war service and his later life, go to http://jackatwar.blogspot.com.au/