The Royal Hibernian Military School
The sound of marching boots has echoed in my ears since before I can remember. My childhood wish was to follow in my father’s footsteps and become a brave soldier; but little did I know back then just how many years I’d march, sweat and fight side by side with the tallest of Guardsmen, in their big boots, whilst I’d always remain small in my little boots. Yet those boots were destined to take me to faraway lands, leading me further and further from my loved ones and the provincial village of Chapelizod, near Dublin, I used to call home so long ago.
The only life my father ever knew was the life of a soldier, spending his days marching across bloody battlefields under many a foreign sun. He survived countless front line combats, from the Second Boer War all the way through to the First World War, until he was discharged and forgotten. Many were the times when hope was failing, but with a strong heart and a love of God, king and country, he marched on until his own last post.
An old, and probably false, family legend tells that we Rochfords are descended from the great eighteenth-century earls of Belvedere. Somewhere along the line our branch of the family tree must have become fractured, for it began to grow along a completely different path. My grandfather, Patrick Rochford, was just a lowly chimney sweep from the mean streets of Dublin. Orphaned in his teens, he survived on the edge of society, stealing a crust of bread whenever he could. Living conditions were bleak for those who had no money, and Patrick died when Father was just two years of age, leaving his widow, Mary, with a young child to feed. The burden of parenthood weighed heavily on her shoulders, and unable to cope, my grandmother left Dad on the doorstep of St Brigid’s Orphanage on Eccles Street, never to see him again.
It was a cold winter’s morning in 1889 when the scrawny little youth left the home of his adoptive mother, Mrs Glynn, to join the British Army and take the King’s shilling, as enlistment was called in those days. Before Father was even strong enough to pick up a rifle, he was placed in a pair of oversized army boots and in a few short years was shipped off to fight in India, where he and his comrades found themselves caught up in the mountains and the Relief of Chitral. For just a shilling a day, he battled through war and campaign for many a long year, before finally leaving behind the friends he’d made in the East Lancashire Regiment to settle down to what he hoped would be a normal, civilian life.
Chapelizod, 17 August 1902: Paddy’s parents, Joseph and Annie Rochford, on their wedding day.
Joseph Rochford in his army uniform during the First World War while serving as a sapper with the Royal Engineers. In peacetime he worked for Ordnance Survey in Phoenix Park, Dublin.
On 17 August 1902 he married my mother, little Annie Gaffney, who stood barely over 4½ feet tall. Laying down roots on Park Lane in the village of Chapelizod, life was bearable for the growing family. Though they were poor, the vast, sprawling expanse of the beautiful Phoenix Park was their own back garden. Father took a job at the Ordnance Survey, whose headquarters were in the park, and Mother was able to feed and clothe her young children in relative comfort.
There were four surviving daughters born before my arrival on 1 April 1912, just days before the world’s most infamous ship embarked on her maiden, and only, voyage. The Titanic was said to have been unsinkable. The nation’s hearts almost stopped when the news came through that this floating bastion of wealth was doomed to an afterlife on the seabed, along with scores of men, women and children from every walk of life.
So, here I arrived, little Joseph Patrick Rochford, after my father and grandfather. I was Mother’s April Fools’ joke; that was what she thought, anyway, when the doctor told her, ‘It’s a boy!’ after so many girls.
Just a babe in arms, I was blissfully unaware that trouble was brewing far away on the horizon; and when the year 1914 came it brought with it the news that Britain was at war with Germany. Without hesitation my father picked up his rifle and pack once again, leaving his wife and children to land with the first troops in France. Here, often buried to the waist in mud, he moved backwards and forwards amid shot and shell, and in the midst of the grey dawns he’d charge across no-man’s-land on the front line during bayonet attacks. Life was hard. During the Retreat from Mons he sucked the leather tongue of his boot to save his sanity. He used to keep stones in his pocket to suck on whenever he was thirsty or hungry, which was most days.
As Father struggled through the trenches, so my mother battled to raise a family by herself. The dreaded telegrams: ‘your husband is missing’, and later: ‘he has reported back to his lines’, did nothing to help.
In 1916 bombs and bullets began thudding and flying through the streets of Dublin, though this time the Germans weren’t to blame. The Emerald Isle was under attack from its own people, as the Irish rose to fight for freedom. In those days Ireland was under British rule; it had been this way for more than seven centuries. The wearing of the ‘Green’ signified that you were on the side of the Irish, whilst the wearing of the ‘Red, White and Blue’ showed you sympathized with the English. The wearing of either could mean instant death. ‘Down with the English!’ posters and other such slogans began to appear. Sons took opposite sides to their fathers; brothers were shooting brothers.
Though I was only young, I can still recall the wooden turf carts winding their way along the Dublin Road. Asleep amongst the straw could be spied khaki-clad figures returning home on leave from France. Many a jeer and shout would be directed at them from the rising Irish if they were spotted, and this filled me with anger. My father was doing his bit to help, and to me he was a hero, as was every other uniformed man.
I began proudly announcing to everyone I came across that I was going to become a soldier just like my father.
‘You’ll have to grow first, little Joey!’ they’d tell me with a smile.
I was always so small, just like Dad. Though he was a tough, capable soldier, he stood just 5 feet 5 inches tall. He had flame-red hair and a moustache to match, and the kindest, twinkling blue eyes one could ever wish to gaze into.
One day, with my ‘gun’ over my shoulder, I set off for France to help him win the war. Halfway along the road to Dublin, my feet became tired and my heart faint when I realized I didn’t know the way. The village policeman, Sergeant Kelly, found me sitting and crying by the wayside some while later. With a kind word and a pat on the head he perched me jauntily on his crossbar and set off for home. We arrived back in Chapelizod just in time to meet a search party of about twenty women, led by my mother. She was furious with me. Her face set and white, she led me into our little house on St Laurence’s Road and sent me straight to bed with a sore bottom.
My great joy as a young child was to roam the lovely Phoenix Park with my four older sisters, Josie, Louie, Nellie and Maggie. This vast stretch of luscious parkland bordered my village, where the flowers and trees were scattered amongst the greenest of grass that grew from the softest turf. My sisters and I would while away our days watching the cattle browse and the deer speed on their way. We’d spot the squirrels gathering nuts, and hear the cries of the rooks and jackdaws flying over our heads. To watch the baby rabbits run for cover and the birds teach their young to fly was the greatest pleasure of all. There was peace and tranquility here, even though a short distance away over on the great ‘15 acres’, khaki-clad soldiers from England marched and countermarched behind military bands. Across the park I’d march with my troopers and my fantasies to sit on the grass and listen, spellbound, to the stories of the real life soldiers who’d just returned from the trenches. They were friendly and softly spoken. One story I can still remember concerned the exchange of a valuable Hunter watch, made from pure gold, for a single slice of bread.
Day after day I returned to visit the soldiers in their camp. I was laughing along with one of them as he gave me a piggyback ride around the tents, when his shoulder badge accidentally grazed my bare leg. As the tears spilled from my eyes, the soldier took out a handkerchief, spat on it, and wiped away the blood that seeped from my battle wound.
‘Ah now, you’ll have to learn to be brave, little Joey,’ he said, with much kindness in his voice. ‘Soldiers don’t cry.’
Later that evening, just before sunset, I was watching the troops marching around their camp on the last parade of the day. I suddenly noticed an officer with an angry red face approach one of the soldiers. He began shouting and waving his marching stick inches from the soldier’s face. I was scared he was about to strike the soldier, and vowed to do something to stop him; but what could I do?
I kept my eyes on the stick throughout the rest of the parade. I watched closely as the officer paused to mop his perspiring brow, placing the stick on the ground beside him. This was my chance. Like a young gazelle I leapt across to where the officer was standing, seized his stick and ran away with it as fast as my tiny legs would go.
‘You, boy! Halt!’
A cacophony of surprised voices called out as I fled, but with my head tucked into my chin and the stick grasped in my sweaty palm, I raced through the gates of the park and along by the little stone chapel. I was in such a hurry I even forgot the old custom of making the sign of the cross as I passed. Before I knew it, I was in through my front door and bounding up the stairs into my bed. I pulled the covers tightly over my head and clung on to the stick. My heart pounded, and with sweat running down my neck, I waited, though I didn’t know what for.
From downstairs I heard the familiar voices of my sisters talking to Mother, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps marching up the wooden stairs. In silence, I was yanked from my bed, returned straight to the park and brought face to face with the owner of the stick. I looked up into the officer’s face and my knees began to tremble. I knew I was in big trouble.
‘Why did you take my stick, young fellow?’
I swallowed hard, dreading what this man was going to do to me. ‘S… so that you would n… not hit the s… soldier with it.’
Hearty laughter greeted my feeble words. ‘I’d never strike a soldier, son. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘You were waving it in a soldier’s face. I saw you.’
The officer chuckled. ‘You’re alright, sonny, but you’ll never make a sergeant major.’
With a pat on my head and a sparkling new shilling placed in my hand, I was marched back home again. Mother was so amused she laughed long and loud as we walked home, but she made me share my shilling with my sisters.
My best friend during those carefree days was a boy called John. He lived just down the road from me and we often used to play together in the street.
One summer’s day, John was hanging around the horse-drawn carriages that brought their rich passengers to Phoenix Park to stroll in the sunshine and listen to the playing of the military band. John was entertaining himself by drawing pictures in the dirt with a stick, when he suddenly spied a ten-shilling note on the ground. Not wanting anyone else to see it, he put his bare foot over the money. Looking around to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he stooped down and lifted it into his trouser pocket, before scurrying away from the scene of the crime; but it was too late. He’d been spotted by a group of men who were also hanging around in the hope of a copper or two flung to them by the rich. Poor John had no hope of escape. The gang dived on top of him, bringing him to the ground. He was punched, kicked and bitten, but still he valiantly clung on to his newfound fortune.
‘Hey, leave that boy alone!’
Providence was clearly on John’s side that day, for a passing member of the Royal Irish Constabulary witnessed the scuffle.
John seized this opportunity. In the confusion he managed to free himself and race off into the depths of the park, where he clambered up a tree out of harm’s way. He was so frightened he hid up there all day until darkness fell, and only when he was certain the coast was clear did he scamper back to his home. He arrived late in the evening, covered in blood, and feared he’d be in big trouble for what he’d done. Bracing himself for another beating, he decided to come clean and told his father everything. To the young boy’s surprise, his father grinned at him.
‘Have you still got the money, son?’
John took the crumpled bit of paper from his pocket and showed it to his father, wondering if it was destined to go straight into the family purse that fed them. However, to John’s amazement, his father smiled and patted him on the head.
‘First thing in the morning, take yourself away to Dublin and buy yourself a pair of boots.’
A pair of boots; his very own pair of boots. John was so excited he hardly slept that night. He’d be the only child in the village to be blessed with such a luxury.
At the first light of dawn he was up and away, and straight into the first boot store in Dublin he could find. Booted and proud, the little boy began making his way back to Chapelizod to show his mother and father. Not being used to footwear, they nipped and pinched his feet but he tightened his lips, braced his shoulders and hobbled on. He’d hoped to save the penny fare for the horse tram home, but he’d spent every bit of his money and had to walk all the way. Feeling like a king, he proudly showed the shining footwear to all his friends and family, and he cleaned them twice a day, every day. He was one of the lucky ones, and vowed never to go anywhere barefoot again.
Times were tough during my childhood, and I once saw a chap standing on a wooden soapbox, loudly addressing his fellow workers as they came out of a factory in Dublin.
‘Vote for me, and I’ll put boots on all the barefoot children in the city!’ he bellowed.
I’m happy to say that when Ireland gained its independence, the Dublin Herald started a boot fund for the barefoot children, and thousands of pairs of boots were given to the half-starved yet cheerful urchins from the crowded slums.
My early childhood flew by, and before I knew it I was packed off to school. I can look back with fond thoughts to my time at the Mount Sackville Convent School on the fringe of Castleknock, just a stone’s throw from the country house of the Guinness family. Mother Patrick was my teacher, and though she was as strict as she was devout, we all loved her. She kept our noses to the blackboard and always made us sit up with shoulders straight. The stories she told and her fine sense of humour had a great effect on me; and though I was only a child, she gave me the determination to apply myself. This led me to reveal, during a conversation in class about what we’d like to be when we grew up, what my greatest ambition was.
‘I’m going to be a sergeant major in the army,’ I squeaked.
I gave the school its greatest laugh that day, but Mother Patrick came over and put a comforting arm around my tiny shoulders.
‘Good for you, Joey,’ she enthused. ‘But you’ll have to put on plenty of inches first.’
The days sped by, and I soon settled in with my new classmates. We were cocooned in an environment filled with learning and prayers, yet outside the walls, trouble was brewing. How vividly I can still recall that frightful morning when Mother Patrick burst into the classroom, her face as white as a sheet.
‘Kneel down with me, children,’ she commanded as she got down on the floor. ‘Kneel down and pray very hard with me.’
We all did as she instructed but we didn’t know what we were praying for. It later transpired that a gunman had murdered a senior British Army officer by shooting him in the back, just yards from the school gate.
This, however, was nothing new, and we’d hear this same story many times over.
‘SOLDIER KILLED IN PHOENIX PARK’, the newspaper headlines declared.
‘BRITISH OFFICER SHOT IN THE ROAD’.
The violence escalated on Easter Monday, 1916, when hundreds of Irish civilians, dressed in green uniforms, marched through the streets with guns at the ready. They gave battle against the small British force and set up headquarters in the post office on Sackville Street. I couldn’t understand why these terrible things were happening, but I wondered where my father was and why he hadn’t come home to sort all the mess out.
Rumour had it that over in France, in the shell-ridden trenches, a bond of friendship had grown between an English officer and his Irish batman. One day, the batman returned to Ireland on leave and saw with anger how the English were treating his fellow countrymen. Seething with rage, he was persuaded by his lovely Irish girlfriend, Colleen, to join the IRA. He deserted from the English forces and was soon given command of a squad of gunmen. Before long, the batman was out on the country roads leading to and from the city of Dublin, laying siege to British convoys, blowing up bridges and generally causing mayhem.
The Fates have often been known to play queer tricks on us, and this was one of those occasions. The English officer whom the ex-batman had once served was posted to Ireland. On his first raid he captured his former companion, killing his entire squad in the process. Confronted by his ex-master, the deserter was overcome with guilt and was persuaded to act as an informer. ‘Escape’ was arranged and the ex-batman reported back to his pals in Dublin, telling them that he’d been captured but had managed to get away. They accepted his story and he was sent back on duty with a fresh squad.
Plans soon began to go wrong for the IRA and many attempted ambushes failed with heavy losses. They quickly realized somebody must have been informing. The brains of the outfit decided everyone should be closely watched and they soon became suspicious of the ex-batman. One day he was spotted entering a police billet, so he was seized on his way out and court-martialled in a basement cellar, where he was sentenced to death.
Early one Sunday morning, the church bells of Dublin called the faithful to worship. On their way to Mass, the congregants came across the body of a man nailed to a cross inside the grounds of the churchyard, with the word ‘traitor’ etched across his skin. At his feet, sobbing and stripped to the waist, was Colleen. Her hair had been shorn and pinned to the breast of the dead man. Her crime had been introducing an unreliable soldier to the movement.
‘The war is over!’
In 1918 everybody had this cry on their lips, and the streets were filled with joy. Posters of Lord Kitchener, which had once stared down from the walls of buildings and told us ‘You are wanted!’, were now hanging in ribbons.
At home, Mother was full of tears. We were all kissed and made to sing. We could hear people cheering in the street outside, though others were booing. Some were singing Land of Hope and Glory, and others, Wrap the Green Flag Around Me, Boys. In our parlour we had a horn-o-gram, and even though Mother disliked the British with a passion, she played the 24-inch record of the English national anthem. The music must have sounded for miles away.
My mother was a fearless lady and she hadn’t a care for what anybody thought of her. Though she was only tiny, she’d once whipped a soiled dishcloth across the face of a gunman who happened to take refuge near our home from the Black and Tans, a dreaded force of men that had been sent over from England to put down the Irish revolt. This makeshift army had many names in Ireland: jail birds, murderers; but whatever their name, they were brutal, and despised throughout the land. Mother’s action was nothing to do with a love of the Tans, however. She hated the merest utterance of their name and would insist on everybody making the sign of the cross at such a mention. Her disapproval was roused when the gunman woke her sleeping children, and that was enough to incur the wrath of any mother in Ireland. Perhaps she’d failed to notice the man was armed to his teeth.
Though the Great War was finally over, the war in Ireland was just hotting up. People spoke in whispers, never daring to trust each other, and the returning heroes were looked upon as traitors because they’d fought side by side with the accursed English.
In a desperate attempt to quash the rebels, the prime minister, Lloyd George, vowed to strengthen the Irish Constabulary. An advertisement appeared in English newspapers asking for applicants to join the Black and Tans for the princely wage of ten shillings per day. Seven thousand violent men, many of whom had just been released from jail and were looking to start a new life, were selected and sent across the sea to Ireland.
Soldiers began being demobilized in their hundreds. They were no longer required now the war was over, but they had little chance of finding civilian work, their previous positions having been filled long ago. This led to mass unemployment and poverty in many households. The little work there was paid meagre wages. Families were large and houses were small. The streets were swarming with barefoot children who’d lift their grimy faces and beg with a prayer.
‘A penny for a crust of bread,’ was their constant plea.
Dublin had a strange smell lingering in the air. The floors of public houses were covered with horse droppings, rotting fruit and vegetables, and damp sawdust. Sanitation was unheard of, and visitors from overseas nicknamed the capital ‘Dirty Dublin’. It wasn’t the townsfolk who were to blame, though. If they didn’t empty the garbage in the streets, there was no other place for their rubbish apart from the muddy waters of the river Liffey. Refuse was piled high; flies, rats and mice were breeding in the damp dwelling houses. It was here where the poor people of the land eked out an existence and many died at an early age. Consumption was sapping the strength of the Irish people and there was misery everywhere, except, of course, in the grand houses of the rich, where ‘poverty’ was a dirty word in their drawing rooms. The scent of port and Havana cigars disguised the foul smell of destitution outside. These members of the privileged classes couldn’t have cared less about the plight of the poor, and their attitude was causing the common people to react with fury. In the troubles that were to follow, the rich were the first to have their homes burnt to the ground.
In the wider world, the victorious and vanquished countries alike were plunged into desperate straits. American troops were called out to put down their former servicemen who were demonstrating in the streets. In Germany, Nationalism was beginning to turn the country into an isolated state. France, too, was experiencing her own troubles. Disturbances, police baton charges, unemployment and bitterness filled the once cosmopolitan streets. England, too, was on her knees.
None of this concerned little me, however, for my father had come home at long last, healthy but pale. My sisters and I cheered as we saw him coming round the corner of our street, and we all swarmed over him, laughing and crying at the same time. His khaki uniform was spotlessly clean, and his boots and buttons polished, but Mother directed him straight through to the back room and made him strip off and bathe. She burnt his uniform, and this, we were told, was for no other reason than to make sure the lice from the trenches didn’t settle in our home.
Our newfound happiness was shattered on many occasions, as gunfire tore holes into the brickwork of our house. Many were the times when the seven of us would find ourselves lying face down on the floor underneath the rickety old kitchen table, scared out of our wits and ashen faced, waiting for the shooting to end. This went on day after day, night after night, sometimes lasting well into the early hours as the fight against the English rulers intensified.
I was by that time coming up to eight years of age and old enough, Father thought, for my career choice to be decided upon. Sitting me down one morning after breakfast, he placed his hand on my shoulder and looked at me with a serene expression on his face, though there was no twinkle left in his eyes anymore. I used to imagine he’d lost his sparkle in the mud somewhere in a foreign field, which was probably closer to the truth than I’d realized.
‘Do you still want to be a brave soldier, Joey,’ he asked, ‘despite everything you’ve witnessed for yourself? Are you prepared to spend a lifetime facing the horrors that war brings?’
‘Yes,’ I insisted. I wondered why he was asking me this and assumed he was going to try to talk me out of it, but looking back I think that was the last thing he ever intended to do. ‘I want to be a hero, like you.’
‘Good lad,’ he said, squeezing my shoulder. ‘Then you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve secured you a place at the Royal Hibernian Military School, over in the park, where you’ll learn how to become a real British soldier.’
All too soon my days at the Mount Sackville Convent School came to an end, and as Mother Patrick kissed me goodbye, I could feel her warm tear on my cheek.
‘So, my little child will be a soldier after all,’ she sighed. ‘Your road will be long and hard, young Joey, but always remember that God will be with you.’
Those few words stayed with me for a long time.
As I walked by my father’s side towards the great military school, looming like a dark castle out of the luscious greenery, I could feel my heart beating faster and faster against my ribs. I took one last look over my shoulder towards the road that led to my home. I couldn’t understand why Mother had wept so bitterly as she kissed me goodbye. I’d be seeing her again soon, wouldn’t I?
The Royal Hibernian stood at the top of a hill in Phoenix Park overlooking the beautiful Liffey Valley, the shadow of the Wicklow Mountains just visible in the distance. The school had been formed way back in the 1760s and incorporated by royal charter as an industrial home for the sons of British soldiers, many of whom had been orphaned. Passing through the wrought-iron gates of this famous institution, I felt as if the ghosts of its past were swirling around me. My stomach began to flutter. Finding it hard to catch my breath, I didn’t see where I was putting my feet and I fell down into an open coalhole. I must have looked a frightful sight being fished out my by father, covered from head to toe in coal dust. I’d quite literally put my first foot wrong as I took my first steps into military life.
Washed and clean after my mishap, Father and I went to announce my arrival. I could see lots of boys about my age dressed in scarlet tunics with shining buttons. They were marching through the grounds with backs straight and arms swinging, every so often making a smart salute and turning their eyes towards a tall, white cross that had a dagger-like knife in its centre, and words written upon it that I couldn’t see clearly.
‘That’s the school memorial cross,’ Father told me, his voice full of pride. ‘It was set up there in honour of soldiers who’ve given their lives over the centuries for king, queen and country.’
This worried me a little; I hoped I wasn’t expected to die as well.
After being led into the cavernous Great Hall, where I was told I’d be spending my meal times, an enormous quartermaster with rows of coloured ribbons on his chest began handing me item after item of kit; and it soon dawned on me I wasn’t going to be returning home any time soon.
When I was all kitted out and ready to go, I followed my father back outside into the courtyard. With the least amount of fuss or affection he bade me farewell, closed the iron gates behind him and started marching back towards the road without even a backwards glance. My little eyes watched him go, and as he disappeared from view I put my head in my hands and sobbed. For the first time in my life I was completely alone. What was I going to do without Mother and my sisters? When would I see them again? I looked up again, hoping Father was going to reappear and take me home. How I willed for him to come back, but he never did.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ came a deep voice from behind me. ‘Soldiers don’t cry.’
Soldiers don’t cry. Those words sounded familiar. I remembered hearing them before when talking to a soldier in Phoenix Park.
Looking up I saw a man in uniform, very much like the quartermaster, except this face was kindly. I stood up as straight as I could, wiped my tears from my eyes and received a warm handshake from the man, who introduced himself as Company Sergeant Major Malone MM. I later learned this friendly officer was to be my housemaster, and in some ways, my new father in this strange new world I’d been catapulted into.
With my kitbag slung over my shoulder, I was marched away to begin my new life. The first day passed by in a blur, and the following morning I was woken abruptly. For a split second I’d forgotten where I was. It wasn’t long until I remembered I was in my extremely hard bed, where the previous night I’d silently cried myself to sleep. The dormitory was small and cold; and though it was still dark, a bugle was sounding from somewhere and a voice at the door was shouting at me.
‘Come on, show a leg!’
I wondered if I was expected to hold my legs up in the air for him to inspect, but the boy in the next bed told me I’d merely heard the ‘army alarm clock’, which meant we all had to get up, wash, dress and go to breakfast as swiftly as possible. I found myself dashing about with all the others on that first chilly morning.
Clean and presentable, I ‘fell in’ with the others and marched to the Great Hall. The head prefect said grace, and then we all sat down at our tables. I was surprised at the amount of noise that took place. Everybody chatted to each other as they tucked in to the wholesome food that was put before us. We were given porridge with milk, kippers, bread, butter and marmalade, and a china mug of tea.
I glanced nervously around the room. I was surrounded by hundreds of fine-looking boys who were to be my new companions. Some of them looked a few years older than me, but many seemed to be about my age. On the oak-panelled walls around the hall were large oil paintings depicting various battles from long ago. Some of the pictures had gold plaques beneath them that bore their names. I also spotted flags, pennants, swords and guns mounted on display stands, which were dotted about the room. They’d all been put there for one purpose: to make one feel like a true soldier.
After breakfast, my comrades and I were on parade. To begin with I had difficulty marching as smartly as the others, but I was doing my best and trying hard to enjoy myself.
‘Shun.’
‘Quick march.’
‘Left, right, left, right.’
‘Halt.’
‘Left turn.’
So many instructions were ringing in my ears that it made me dizzy, until at last I heard something familiar.
‘Boy Rochford.’
Before I had time to think, I was marched in front of the school commandant, Colonel Bent OBE, the master of ceremonies. Even though he was sitting behind a desk, I could tell he was only a small man, but he had an authoritative face, and a monocle held to his right eye. One thing that struck me was that all these men wore lots of coloured ribbons, and this man was no exception. I felt tremendously out of place among these decorated warriors, but I was put at ease by the man’s soothing words of welcome and the explanation of what this fine school stood for, and what it hoped to instill into boys like me. When he’d finished, I was marched out again with sentences ringing in my ears such as, ‘to fear God and honour the king’, this being the school motto.
There were about 500 boys at the school and they were mostly Irish. The few English boys who were with us had fathers serving in Ireland, and some whose parents were on the staff. The general purpose of the school was to train the boys to become full-time soldiers in the regular army. Sports were played at an exceptionally high level, and education formed a primary part of our lives. The schoolmasters were the best in the land, having been drawn from the ranks of the Army Education Corps, and what these men couldn’t teach us about the military wasn’t worth worrying about.
Meanwhile, outside the school gates, the violence on the streets of Dublin prevailed. Bombs and bullets were flying around most days now, and innocent blood ran down the walls and streets, as some poor woman’s husband or son – or both – was shot dead or blown to kingdom come. Each day the crisis worsened, but inside the walls of the school, life continued as normal.
The weeks passed, each one the same as the last, and after several months I was considered to be a reasonable soldier for my age. I was even allowed to go home at weekends but had to return to sleep at the school. It was a proud day for me when I passed through the school gates for the first time, dressed as a soldier. Down towards Chapelizod I marched, my scarlet tunic contrasting against the greenest of grass that only grows in Ireland, and my golden buttons glinting in the sun. My parents and sisters were thrilled to see me, but Father seemed concerned. I think it was because he had a fair idea about what I was going through, and more importantly, what lay ahead.
One Saturday afternoon he sat me down with a look of sympathy in his eyes. It made me uneasy.
‘What is it like, son?’ he asked.
‘It’s alright,’ I shrugged, feeling it was best to be honest, ‘but very lonely. I miss you all, dreadfully.’
He slipped a half-crown into my hand and patted me on the head without another word.
It was 1921 and I’d turned the grand old age of nine. A whole year had passed since I’d enrolled and I felt much more settled. During free periods I enjoyed exploring the school grounds and would regularly wander down to the chapel in the graveyard whenever I was feeling low, as it was such a peaceful place. There were hundreds of little stone crosses marking the graves of all the boys from the school who’d died from various diseases over the years, and I used to read their names and imagine what they were like. I’d watch the birds, the squirrels and the deer passing by, just as I’d done back in the carefree days with my sisters whenever we visited the park.
I acquired my first black eye following a skirmish with another student. It had been worth it, though, for it helped me find my place among the hundreds of other boys. Feeling fed up one day, I’d been sitting in a corner on my own and for no reason at all, other than to show off in front of the others, somebody came up and pasted me. It was a big brawny lad called Ginger, one of the most notorious bullies at the school. His father had been a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary, and was thus a marked man. Poor Ginger had witnessed the brutal murder of his father on the doorstep of his own house as the family was setting out for church one Sunday morning. This had affected Ginger to such an extent that he began venting his anger towards all the other boys.
Sitting with my face held between my hands, trying hard not to cry, the school boxing instructor, Sergeant Pat Hastings, approached me.
‘What’s the matter, boy?’ he barked. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I didn’t do anything, sergeant,’ I snivelled, leaping to my feet and standing to attention. ‘I was just sitting here when a boy came up and gave me a good hiding for no reason at all.’
Sergeant Hastings suggested I should spend my evenings with him at the school gymnasium where he’d teach me the art of self-defence. Our meetings went well and I soon felt so confident that I agreed to have a bout against Ginger in the school boxing competition that was taking place. I trained hard every night until the big day finally arrived.
With a quivering sensation in the pit of my stomach, I climbed into the ring. Hundreds of eyes were upon me, but that was the least of my worries. Across in the other corner sat Ginger, looking extremely cool. No doubt it was all just a joke to him, the big, tough boy who was going to knock pathetic little Joey straight through the roof in front of the whole school; but I was able to draw confidence from the fact that my father had come to watch, and he’d given me a few words of encouragement before the bout.
The shouting from the crowd died down as the bell sounded, and Ginger came out of his corner like a bullet. In no time at all he was belting and slogging into me, but caution was my defence and I let him do all the work in the hope he’d soon tire.
Except for a red mark on my cheek, I weathered the first round; and as the bell sounded I went over to my corner and sat down, feeling happier than I had done in a long time. There was something about boxing that sent a wave of exhilaration throughout my body and I knew, at last, I’d found something I excelled in.
The bell sounded again and we both got up and walked towards each other. This time Ginger was using caution but his right hand was strong, and when he swung for me I didn’t duck in time. He landed a stinging blow on my cheek. Thankfully, I’d been taught a two-fisted attack against a stronger opponent, so I let him have it, and was pleased to see Ginger screw up his face. I knew I was hurting him. I gritted my teeth, dug my feet into the ground and punched as straight and hard as I was able. Before I knew it, Ginger was on his back and was counted out.
Amid the cheers must have been gasps of surprise, but I didn’t care. I’d beaten him in front of the whole school, and my father. He was delighted with me, of course, and as he left to go home he slipped a silver coin into my hand.
From that moment on, all the bullies left me alone. Life took a new and interesting turn. Over time I became quite a handy boxer and fought many times in the ring. My housemaster was pleased with my progress, even though I was useless as a ‘shine’ – a cleaner of boots and other such items – but like everything else this eventually came to me after many sound rebukes.
In the outside world the rule of the gun was now a part of daily life. The British Government invited an Irish delegation over to Westminster to discuss the ever-worsening situation. An agreement, which became known as the Anglo-Irish Treaty, was ultimately signed, dividing Ireland into thirty-two counties. Of these, twenty-six were given to the Irish and this nation became known as the ‘Irish Free State’ under its own government. The other six counties remained under the control of Britain and would become Northern Ireland. Some factions of Sinn Fein, however, didn’t agree with this, believing the whole of the country should belong to them. Consequently the party split into two. The new head of government of the Free State was the politician William Thomas Cosgrave, and the fine soldier, Michael Collins, was commander-in-chief of the National Army. The republicans were led by Eamon de Valera, and bitter fighting broke out between these two political groups. It certainly seemed to us like a case of divide and conquer, even if that hadn’t been England’s intention.
One night, just as we boys had retired to our beds, bursts of machine-gun fire were heard coming from outside. We rushed to the small dormitory windows to see that the Dublin skies were alight. Great red and white bursts were flashing in the darkness above, as ‘crump’ after ‘crump’ resonated all around. The Four Courts and the Public Records Office were engulfed in flames. All we could do was watch, helplessly, as a thousand years of Irish history burned to the ground. In the flickering light we could make out silhouettes armed with rifles, running around the streets and on the flat-topped roofs. Now and again some of these figures would throw up their arms and topple into the streets, dead.
Morning told the full story. The Free State Army had attacked the positions held by the republicans in the Four Courts with cannons and machine guns. General Michael Collins had given them the chance to come out with their hands up but they’d refused, hence the battle. Many Irish lives were lost that night and it was five years or more before the Four Courts was rebuilt.
That was not the end of the carnage. People hardly dared speak to their neighbours any more. House searches went on day and night by both sides, looking for arms and the enemy. Many innocent men and women were cut down in the streets and even in their own homes. Day after day, night after night, murder and rape was committed. Catholic Ireland was incensed, and many people who hadn’t even taken part in the revolt now carried guns wherever they went.
Strict curfews made the city of Dublin appear dead after nightfall. To walk in the streets after curfew meant instant death. Nobody was ever challenged; the trigger was squeezed and there was blood on the streets once more. Behind closed doors and curtains, prayers would be offered up for the dead and the dying.
One day while on leave from school, I went with my mother on a shopping trip into Dublin. The old steam tram we were travelling on was brought to a halt halfway along the road, where several police lorries were drawn up and Tans with drawn pistols were standing in line. They’d been ordered to search all the men for arms, and just before they boarded the tram, I saw guns being passed in front of my eyes to the female passengers. In a flash the weapons vanished underneath skirts or behind shawls, for the women weren’t searched in those days.
The search completed, we were allowed on our way; and as we passed by Kilmainham Gaol, which was filled to bursting with soldiers of the IRA, we heard shouting drifting from their cell windows.
‘Up the rebels!’
‘Death to the Black and Tans!’
The streets below the gaol were packed with mothers, fathers, wives and sisters with tears streaming down their faces as they sobbed words of encouragement up to their loved ones. It was a harrowing sight. Some of the prisoners were under sentence of death and would eventually be taken to the bleak Mountjoy Prison for the early morning drop. This was the building where hundreds of freedom fighters were lodged. Among the Irishmen who were hanged for what was deemed treason was a young boy, Kevin Barry, just eighteen years old. He was taken to the gallows early one morning as the grey skies were clearing. His crime was blowing up a lorry-load of Black and Tans. The explosion had knocked Kevin unconscious and he was arrested before he came round. One of the rebel songs that was being sung by the Irish was dedicated to Kevin, and it was against the law to be heard singing it, though I still recall the lyrics.
Just a lad of eighteen summers,
And for that, no man knows why,
For as he walked into the scaffold,
He held his young head high.
‘Shoot me like a soldier; do not hang me like a dog,
For I fought for Ireland’s freedom,
And for that I was to die.’
There were many sad songs dedicated to the struggle. Another haunting melody I remember well used to drift up and down the streets of Dublin like a whisper in the wind.
Oh, I wish I had a penny,
I’d buy myself a gun,
I’d fill it full of powder,
And make those English run.
Oh then, Paddy dear, and did you hear,
The news that’s going around?
For they’re hanging men and women,
For the ‘Wearing of the Green’.
Perhaps the pages of history would have been written differently if the murderous Black and Tans hadn’t been formed and sent to this tragic land.
Many hearts in Ireland, and even in England, fell heavy when the news came in late August 1922 that General Michael Collins had been murdered, though by whose hand nobody knew for sure. Speeding towards Dublin in his staff car, he turned a bend in the road and a volley of shots stopped his vehicle. One well-aimed bullet caught him at the back of the ear.
The whole of Ireland mourned this great patriot. Much good work had been expected of him; he could have been the man to lead Ireland to greatness. Along with my father and countless other mourners, I remember filing past the coffin to pay our last respects to this distinguished man who lay in his green uniform with the Irish flag above his head. Mick Collins was loved and respected by all. He was a brave man, a fine soldier, leader and a gentleman.
For me and all the other boys, the troubles had only just started. One chilly morning, before the sun had risen, our commandant stood in front of the whole school and broke the news to us that we were to leave Ireland for good and set up a permanent home far across the sea in England. This came as a crushing blow to all the young boys, many of whom had never even ventured beyond Dublin’s streets. He explained to us that one of the things that the Anglo-Irish Treaty introduced was the withdrawal of the Black and Tans, and all the English soldiers, from Irish soil. As the Royal Hibernian was British-controlled, we boys had to be evacuated too.
The evening before we left, a party of green-clad soldiers from the Irish Free State Army marched into the school grounds and lowered the Union Flag that had proudly fluttered over the school for 150 years. In its place was run up the green, white and gold flag of the Irish Free State.
Ireland was truly free.
Everybody had much hope that things would finally get better. I, however, felt torn. I didn’t know what to think. My heart was full of joy and sorrow as the last post sounded and I made my way to bed. Tomorrow promised to be a momentous day in my young life. The thought of leaving Ireland had broken my heart. Some of the other boys’ parents had taken their sons out of school upon hearing the news, but there was nothing I could do to convince my father to do the same. He wanted me to have a good career with the British Army rather than an uncertain future in Ireland.
It was a dull, grey morning in 1922. The band of the Royal Berkshire Regiment played as we said our brief goodbyes to our families on the school parade ground before being marched away to the waiting Crossley lorries. Though my parents were silent as we parted, I could hear one of my sisters sobbing. It took all my determination to stop myself from from shedding any of my own tears, and I kept bringing to mind the words that were so often drilled into me: ‘soldiers don’t cry’.
Dublin, 1922: the boys of the Royal Hibernian Military School on parade for the final time prior to leaving for England.
The cobbled streets of Dublin seemed strangely quiet as the lorries snaked along them. Many of us raised our hands in salute as we passed the sad ruins of the Four Courts. I could smell the yeast and rye from the distillery at St James’ Gate and from the barges on the river Liffey carrying stout out to the big ships in Dublin Bay. I saw barefoot men, women and children spitting on the pavements, as they knew no better. I saw boys with dirty faces picking up crusts of bread and even fighting the rats for morsels. I thanked God that at least my own family was in a better position.
As we swung in through the gates of the docks, the enormous vessel that was to carry us across the endless sea came into view. She was called TSS Menevia. The docks were filled with noise and activity when we arrived, and crowds of people, mostly friends and relatives, were waiting to see us off. Many were kneeling on the wet ground, hands clasped, praying that we wouldn’t go. The Dublin fruit sellers, whom we’d fondly nicknamed ‘the Biddy Girls’, were handing out their wares to all and sundry.
‘Me darlin’ bhoys!’ they were crying. ‘May the blessed Virgin watch and pray over yeh.’
We tore ourselves away from the hugs and kisses and walked up the gangplanks, the salty sea air filling our nostrils with every step we took. The Number One Army Band of the Irish Free State began playing A Soldier’s Farewell; and as the Menevia moved out to sea, the mournful Auld Lang Syne drifted across the wind towards us. I stood in silent contemplation as the shores of Ireland faded into the mist. Dear, wretched Ireland. It was the only home I knew; the only one I yearned for. Little did I think, as I sailed away from the unsettled shores of that battered and bruised land, that I’d live to experience the same troubles over and over again in many a foreign clime; but first I was to learn to become a soldier in England.