The Shores of a New Land
The sea air was filled with the singing voices of some 350 people who’d made what was called ‘The Great Trek from Dublin’. Standing to attention on the decks of the Menevia, the school song rang out:
We’re proud of our Alma Mater,
Proud of the dear old Hib,
Proud of past records of its sons,
Proud to be one of its present ones.
We’ll always do our duty,
And to our motto cling;
‘Be proud to strive and proud to try,
To fear God, honour the king.’
As we approached the shores of England we could see crowds of dockworkers watching us and shouting words of welcome. We disembarked and set off by steam train towards Shorncliffe, near Folkestone, the place that was to be our new home for the next couple of years. As we settled down in our seats to enjoy the long journey, our thoughts strayed back over the Irish Sea to the homes and families we’d left behind.
We watched the unfamiliar landscape passing by through our rain-splattered window. Somehow England looked much different to Ireland, but I found it difficult to put my finger on what it was. The people outside all seemed friendly though, smiling and waving to us as we chugged by.
The hours ticked slowly along as we zigzagged across the countryside, from one side of England to the other. It felt as if we’d been travelling forever; but finally, tired and aching, we found ourselves on a long march behind the school band towards Somerset Barracks. Many of the townspeople stood silently watching us with curious eyes, and I suppose feeling a little bit sorry for us too.
Shorncliffe, 1922: the remnants of the boys of the Royal Hibernian shortly after their arrival in England.
As we approached the barracks I was surprised by how pleasant the place looked, even though it was behind barbed wire. If it hadn’t been for the fortifications it would have reminded me more of a country residence, with its large windows and countless chimneys, than a military base; yet life for us was far from aristocratic. Our days still followed the same old usual pattern. When we didn’t have our noses in books we held parades on the nearby Sir John Moore Plain and gave the locals a chance to see the boy soldiers at work. We marched around the coastal town of Folkestone with the band and Corps of Drums and Pipes, and became a popular local attraction.
News from home came regularly, and on mail day we’d all troop down to the library to receive our letters. I received a half-crown postal order every week, and I suppose, like all boys, I was more interested in that than the letter inside.
Though our military camp comprised more than 230 acres of land, there was little free time for us to spend exploring it. Drills, parades, training and schooling were the order of the day. When our duties were done, we were marched off to bed to get a few hours of much needed rest before we were up again the next morning to do it all over again.
I woke one day feeling particularly under the weather, but like a good soldier I held my head high, gritted my teeth and battled on through the pain. I tried hard to concentrate but it all got a bit too much for me that morning; I collapsed while on parade and was dashed across to the school hospital. The doctor, uncertain in his diagnosis, decided to send me to the much larger and better equipped military hospital at Folkestone as my temperature was running high. Feeling drowsy and scared, I was carried on a stretcher to the waiting horse-drawn ambulance that had no doubt seen service during the war years in France.
The great brick military hospital appeared to rise out of the ground like a grove of knarred oak trees, and it was here, in this foreboding institution, where I witnessed the first real consequences of war. The wards were full to bursting with soldiers who were still suffering from terrible wounds. Some had been blinded from mustard gas in Flanders. Others had no limbs and those who were spared a leg hopped around on crutches.
I had to stay in hospital for quite some time, and I later learned that daily letters passed between the school and Chapelizod. Major Harris, the adjutant at the Royal Hibernian, wrote to my parents to inform them I wasn’t suffering from appendicitis, as originally thought, but from a form of pleurisy, explaining that I was seriously ill but responding well to treatment and would be confined to the hospital ward for some time further.
Those bedridden days seemed to slow down to an unbearable tempo, though the other patients were friendly and easy to get along with. I think they felt sorry for little me, all alone and out of place in a world full of Goliaths.
One day during my stay, a tall Coldstream Guardsman was brought into the ward. He was gravely ill when he first arrived, and was given a bed beside mine. It became clear, as I got to know him, that he loved his regiment with a passion. As his health recovered, stories of the black bearskin and scarlet tunic could soon be heard drifting through the ward, and tales of Guard Mounting at the royal palaces and the Trooping of the Colour filled me with awe. I decided there and then that this was the life for me. Though I was small and Guardsmen were traditionally tall, this didn’t put me off. My determination was renewed, and I vowed to get myself better again so I could return to school and continue my military education.
Illness was notoriously hard to cure in those days, and I was in hospital for almost eight months. Just as I was discharged, I learned the sad news that the Royal Hibernian Military School was to be disbanded after one and a half centuries of history. I wondered what my fate would be and if I’d be returning home to Ireland, but I didn’t have to ponder for long. My father sent me a letter advising it would be in my best interests to carry on with my training. He told me I was to transfer with the other boys to the Duke of York’s Royal Military School at Dover.
Despite my sadness at seeing this school closed, I’m proud to say I was among the last of the boys ever to attend the Royal Hibernian, and was present at the final roll call at Somerset Barracks.
It was now the summer of 1924 and I’d started yet another new chapter in life amongst the lovely green fields atop Lone Tree Hill that looked down onto the town of Dover. The Duke of York’s School was a most imposing place, spread out over a large area that was bordered by walls and iron gates. When we arrived I could see the enormous school halls interspersed between lots of other brick buildings. Standing in the centre of the yard was a huge clock tower, which reminded me of pictures of Big Ben I’d seen in my textbooks. Flying high over the school was the familiar Union Flag, and I felt like I was back in Phoenix Park again. It was a welcome sight.
The ‘Dukie’ boys were smart chaps, and, like me, were the sons of British soldiers. I was posted to Wellington House, home to many fine English boys, though the remnants of the ‘Hib’ school who’d moved here with me were sorted into another house, so I felt really lonely at first. Settling in was a bit of a challenge. There were constant fights between the ex-Hibs and the Dukies in ‘England versus Ireland’ contests. The battles always took place after lights out but after a while the school commandant, Colonel Poyntz, told us it would be better if we confined our battles to the sports ground, and this we did. Many a competitive game took place between the two groups, and it was all rather evenly matched.
I soon became unpopular with the other boys from the Hibernian School. I was looked upon as a spy simply because I’d been posted to Wellington House – a Dukie house – and refused to reveal information to the Irish about the English, nor would I join in the many Irish raids that took place after lights out. Consequently, a raid on Wellington House was planned with the sole purpose of taking me by force and giving me a good beating. It was supposed to have been a surprise attack but we got word of their plot and laid traps for them. As the raiders stormed our dormitory, we were waiting. We poured boiling hot water over the invaders’ heads, and with cloth coshes, knocked some sense into them. We’d also set a trap for the leader of the raiders, Mad Mick, and successfully captured him along with two companions in the shoe cleaning room. After tying them up we covered them from head to foot with boot polish and made Mad Mick eat the piece of paper that had the words ‘Death Sentence’ written on it, which had been intended for me. From then on my popularity was assured with the Irish, who were no doubt scared of what might happen next if their hostility continued.
It was 1925. I was thirteen years of age and the proud wearer of four good conduct stripes. I was considered to be a smart soldier and was even promoted to acting lance corporal. I was the champion boxer for my weight and a decent hockey player. In fact, I had a fair knowledge of all the sports that were played at our school, thanks to the excellent sports master. I loved drill and became quite an expert under the school’s regimental sergeant major.
I’d been informed that I was allowed home on leave for a few days. As I stepped off the ship and set foot in the great city of Dublin again, I was conscious that this was probably the first time since the evacuation of British soldiers in 1922 that the khaki uniform had been spotted in the streets, which were much cleaner than the last time I’d seen them. The new Irish Government had done a great deal of work to improve the sanitation and general quality of life, but there was still a long way to go.
The ever-usual transport strike was on, so Father, who’d come to meet me at the docks, hailed a jaunting car for us both. With a flick of the whip, the driver got the horses moving and off we went, back to my beloved village. The driver sang cheery songs as the high cart trundled along the Lucan Road, swaying from side to side. Father and I spent the journey catching up with each other’s news, and as we turned the corner into Chapelizod, I could see my family waiting to greet me outside the little house that I loved so dearly.
Great was my joy at seeing Mother again. I was surprised to find that her once dark hair was now flecked with silver, and as we embraced I noticed fine lines were spreading around her smiling Irish eyes. She looked tired, but that was probably down to the fact she now had three more children to raise.
The daily bombings and shootings were still taking place over divided loyalties, and hatred had become deeply etched in people’s hearts. The slow trickle of families from Ireland’s shores in search of work overseas was growing, as thousands began departing this sad isle, leaving behind the old, the hungry and the bitter. The streets of Dublin were home to too many beggars, and it angered me to see so many former heroes sitting in the gutter, many of whom had their medals pinned to their chests. During my stay I always made sure I put my hand in my pocket and placed a few coppers in their outstretched palms.
Though it was strange, given recent events, I received many a friendly pat on my shoulder as I walked through the streets in my dreaded English uniform. It seemed that there were still many who felt sorry that the English soldiers had gone. The soldiers had been good and fair, and had done nothing but their duty; but the brutal Black and Tans were still despised, and the Irish never ceased in their quest to hunt them down in every corner and crevice of Dublin City. One was even followed to Australia and shot dead by a 70-year-old widowed mother to avenge her dead husband and son.
My holiday finished all too soon and before I knew it I was on the ocean waves once more, on my long way back to Dover. My time at the Duke of York’s Royal Military School was nearing an end, and on my return from Dublin I applied to the school commandant for permission to join the Coldstream Guards, much to the amusement of the schoolmasters. Even my Dukie pals found the idea comical.
‘You’d better start growing, Paddy!’ they’d snigger.
Parading on the final morning was an emotional experience. I’d first entered the school gates as a nervous child, with little idea of where I was heading; and now I was walking out of them as a well-trained and disciplined soldier with a promising career ahead of me. With ten shillings in my pocket, I boarded the train at Dover with detailed instructions on where to get off and to whom I should speak on the way.
It was a cold, wet day as the train rattled to a halt amid clouds of smoke and steam. I saw the word ‘Farnborough’ out of my window and I knew I alighted here. Standing in the entrance to the station was the tallest man I’d ever seen. He must have been nearly 7 feet tall, and his shoulders were almost as broad. He was dressed in a grey field overcoat with a row of shining brass buttons. On his head was a peaked cap, and on his feet were boots so highly polished they could have doubled up as a mirror. A neat moustache that the former German Kaiser would have been proud of completed the figure. The man lowered his gaze and his eyes fell on me as I approached.
‘Lance Corporal Gee to escort you, boy,’ he roared.
I have to admit I was rather scared. I held out my hand expecting a shake, thinking I was being polite, but I quickly learnt that this was not the done thing. Setting off in quick time we marched out of the station and down the long road to Aldershot. I expected the man to make small talk on the way but he remained impassive and stared straight ahead the whole time. We passed several officers on our brisk march and they all smiled at me. I expect they were amused at the contrast in our sizes.
After a while I began to tire as I struggled to keep up with my escort’s gigantic strides. Just as I was wondering how much further we had to go he suddenly spoke, startling me.
‘You are small but appear well trained.’
Those words of encouragement gave me the strength to finish the march, and before I knew it we’d arrived at Albuhera Barracks at Aldershot, where more giants stood proudly at the gate. These fine men, who were to be my comrades, were all 6-footers, and their uniforms were smart beyond words. Many had served in the First World War and a rainbow of ribbons decorated their chests.
Colonel George Monck, the first commander of the Coldstream Guards, formed the regiment in 1648 and set up his headquarters in the town of Coldstream on the Scottish Borders by the banks of the river Tweed. Over the centuries the Guardsmen held their association with the Duke of Wellington with pride. The Iron Duke had a high regard for his Brigade of Guards; and it was on his recommendation that all privates in the Guards Regiment should be termed Guardsmen, to put them one foot above other regiments of the line. Queen Victoria took just as much pride in her ceremonial Guardsmen. They were the Household Brigade of Guards, and very close to the Crown.
It was on a windy and rainy day in 1927 that I had the honour of enlisting in this historic regiment of Foot Guards that was Nulli Secundus – the regiment’s motto, which means ‘second to none’. I offered all 5 feet and 3 inches of myself to march, fight and grumble side by side with these giants of men in the service of God, king and country.
When I arrived at the camp the 3rd Battalion of the Coldstream Guards was away on manoeuvres somewhere, training to fight and march across long distances, carrying full kit over their shoulders. Here in the empty barracks I found only a rear party who took me into their care and showed me around. They made me feel welcome and I began to look forward to the work ahead.
The next day I was called into the drum major’s office, and to my astonishment I found myself face to face with the man who’d inspired me to join this great regiment in the first place. I was pleased to see he’d made a full recovery and had returned to duty fit and well after his stay in hospital. He smiled at me and invited me to sit down with him at his desk. He was extremely kind and gave me a pep talk, warning me to be careful with any money I might have, for there was the odd thief lurking in the army.
‘There are one or two crooks in every unit,’ he told me. ‘Anything you have of value, you are to place under your blankets when you go to bed at night.’
Aldershot, 1927: Paddy (left) and a friend, having just joined the 3rd Battalion of the Coldstream Guards.
Meal times were also explained to me. I was told that up until recently the last meal of the day had been served at 4.30 pm but a lot of the young boys were becoming hungry between dinner and breakfast the following morning at 6.30 am. As a result, a supper was laid on nightly, and though only a bowl of soup and a slice of bread with a mug of hot cocoa, it was most welcome.
With the pep talk over, I left the drum major’s office but was startled by an almighty roar from an open window.
‘Swing your arms up, you idle man!’
As I was the only one in sight, I knew the shout must have been directed at me. There was always a non-commissioned officer about, though more often than not you’d never see him. Even when you went to the WC there always seemed to be a voice shouting out at you.
Everything was done in double time here. One never walked anywhere but marched, at all times wearing your headdress properly, with your eyes to the front and your arms swinging in the correct military manner. Nothing else would do; even the sick and lame had to report to the orderly sergeant to be inspected and then had to march quick time to the sick room. I was warned it was a bad idea for a soldier to report sick, and unless a chap was half dead, it was best for him to think twice about such a notion. They used to tell us that whenever we felt under the weather, we were to roll up our sleeve and look at the back of our elbow joint to find the stream of gold-coloured ‘elbow grease’. This was our extra store of energy to call upon in such times. After inspection the medical officer would mark a sick soldier either ‘fit for duty’ or ‘medicine and duty’. This tonic, known as ‘Black Jack’, was a shocker, and was supposedly good for the stomach. However, all it did was send the poor man running to the loo in the shortest possible time. He’d later emerge white faced, but surprisingly enough almost recovered. If you were marked fit for duty then you were placed on a charge, and this could mean seven to fourteen days confined to barracks, or seven days in the clink. The charge was for malingering, which was nearly as bad as stealing a comrade’s rations or appearing dirty on parade. Guardsmen, therefore, tried as hard as possible never to report sick, and consequently one chap died from continued pains in the stomach that went untreated.
Just before turning in on a night, we enlisted boys had to ‘fall in’ by our beds, dressed in nightshirts and in our bare feet. The orderly sergeant would walk past the beds and call out: ‘Hands!’ These were held straight out with the palms turned to the floor, and after the inspection the boys would turn smartly to the right, count a pause and then jump into bed. We had to be in bed, lying on our right side away from the heart, by 9.00 pm every night without fail.
A Guardsman was kept moving from the reveille bugle call at 6.00 am right up until lights out at 10.15 pm, and there was little time to rest one’s feet. After reveille the door to our dormitory would burst open. The sound of boots on concrete floor would follow, and we were greeted with a variety of phrases.
‘Wakey, wakey.’
‘Show a leg.’
‘Rise and shine.’
And, most menacingly: ‘Move, or you’ll find yourself in the mush.’
This was the name for the Guardroom cell, which was as frightening as a condemned cell but not so well furnished.
Without faltering we were up and dashing to the ablutions. With beds made, breakfast eaten and kits clean and tidy, we’d march off to the barrack square for an hour’s drill. After that there’d be music practice, stirring marches, fatigues, lectures and a welcome break in the NAAFI – which stood for the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes – but as we had little or no money, we just sat looking hopefully at the NAAFI girls, hoping that one day they might take pity on us and offer us a free snack or a drink. They never did.
We had to do the most peculiar things in the Guards, but all things had a purpose. Standing on the outer flank of the barrack square we’d wait for the order ‘Get on parade’, and then off we’d step in quick time and fall in on the markers. Grown men could be seen at this 3.30 pm parade holding up a pair of properly darned socks, a perfectly groomed bearskin or a towel correctly washed. This was known among the recruits as ‘dummies’ parade’ and was necessary for the Guardsmen to prove that various cleaning duties had been performed to the required standard. I was even to see a chap march on parade with the barrack room table under his arm, while under the other he carried the barrack room coal box, glittering as if made of pure gold.
As on all parades, the regimental policeman would be there to ensure that no stray dog trotted across the ground. If it did, it was his duty to see it off and it was always funny to see a huge Guardsman running in regimental time after a scraggy looking stray. The dog always seemed to enjoy itself, with the Guardsman in hot pursuit calling the dog the choicest of names. Most likely the policeman would find himself on report for ‘improperly allowing an animal to walk across the barrack square’.
Later in the afternoon there was weapon training, more drill, school for an hour, teatime, music practice, kit cleaning and perhaps an hour in the NAAFI before bedtime. This was the general run of the day.
I was soon kitted out with a full uniform and equipment, and had so many items I wondered where I’d put them all. I took my cue from the others and soon had stacks of neatly folded clothes in the locker above my bed. My uniform included one bearskin, a blue-grey overcoat, a blue cape and a complete set of white buff equipment for ceremonial parades. Kit inspections were frequent, and woe betided the man who was found lacking.
The only difference from one night to another was my second night. I was kneeling at my bedside saying my prayers – a duty we’d been encouraged to perform at military school – when the chattering in the room from the other nineteen boys suddenly ceased, and was replaced by the odd twitter or chuckle.
‘Sling a boot at that idiot,’ a voice said.
‘If you do, I’ll bash your face in.’
I recognized the second voice as belonging to a friend of mine, and it dawned on me that the first threat had been directed my way. I opened my eyes and looked up. One of the rougher chaps was striding in my direction with a set look on his face. He was a tough Londoner with a reputation for having a coarse mouth.
‘On your feet,’ he growled. Even if I’d been standing, this youth would have towered over me. ‘You’re acting like a Nancy. Soldiers don’t pray!’
I was a good Catholic boy and had no intention of behaving in any other way, so I took no notice of him. I tried to continue what I was doing but he kicked me hard in my ribs and I toppled over. That had done it. Seeing red, I rose to my feet. This chap had no idea that I was a talented boxer, and with all the strength I could muster, I let him have it straight on the nose. He clearly hadn’t been expecting that, for he staggered backwards and fell down hard onto my bed. I thought he was out cold but after a second or two he stood up again with blood streaming from both nostrils, and a look of fury in his eyes. He launched himself at me like a wild animal. Four fists began flying in all directions and the other lads gathered around to cheer and goad us on.
‘Come on, then, you Irish bastard,’ the Londoner taunted.
I gritted my teeth, tucked in my jaw and belted him left, right and centre. My army boxing training came in useful that night, and eventually I was on top. He didn’t take defeat well.
‘I’ll get you for this,’ he spat as he skulked away, wiping blood and sweat from his ugly face.
When the drum major heard about the fight the following morning he called us both into his office one by one. The other lad went first and then it was my turn. I entered the room expecting a stern reprimand, but to my surprise the officer shook my hand.
‘You were very brave to stand up to that boy,’ he told me, and I couldn’t help but notice a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Do you know who he is?’
I shook my head. ‘No, drum major.’
‘Then let me enlighten you. That chap is the champion heavyweight boxer, and I’ve warned him there’ll be trouble if he ever pulls a stunt like that again. Fighting outside the boxing ring is not tolerated in the army, but as you’ve done so well, I’ll not be punishing you today. Instead, I’m going to enter you into the battalion boxing tournament.’
This was a great honour indeed, and I assured the drum major I’d do my best to make my battalion proud.
The bugle sounded as usual one bright and breezy morning, but I was sure I heard a sense of urgency in its notes. It soon became clear that something important was afoot. We were duly informed, as we gathered for parade, that the battalion on manoeuvres was making a forced march from the village of Dymchurch in Kent all the way back to barracks – a distance of about 100 miles – and was due to arrive later that afternoon. Beds had to be made and fires lit, and various other duties had to be carried out to ensure that everything was in shipshape for their arrival.
That afternoon some of the other boys and I stood with great excitement near the officers’ club at the junction of the road leading to Fleet, and received the thrill of our lives. It looked as if the entire British Army was on the march. Unit after unit came marching up the road. I’d never seen men so tall and so smart before. Their brasses were flashing in the sunlight and they looked so immaculate you’d have thought they’d just started the march instead of being at the end of it. They’d been out on the open road for weeks, exposed to the wind, rain and sun, but none of them looked any the worse for wear. The general officer was very smart in his Savile Row-cut uniform. No doubt he’d just stepped out of a nice hot bath and had been dressed under the care and attention of his batman.
At the head of these troops rode an officer on a fine horse. He was Commanding Officer Lieutenant Colonel J.A.C. Whittaker, the head of the battalion; his adjutant, who was also mounted, followed him closely behind.
As company after company swung past, the Corps of Drums and Fifes played a stirring tune that the chaps standing near me began to join in with.
You are marching back to barracks,
So get off your bloody knees …
Yet these men weren’t on their knees. Those lyrics didn’t make sense to me; but I was to learn the hard way that those lines were often sung by the troops during a long march. Somehow it made us feel less tired, and gave us the strength to carry on and face whatever challenges lay ahead.