In a Guardsman’s Boots
I was now well and truly a soldier with seven years’ military service behind me. My pay was a shilling a day until I reached adulthood, when it would rise to two shillings a day. That wasn’t much, but what did we soldiers want with money? Bed, board and every daily necessity was provided by the army.
Payday was a parade, much the same as any other. At 5.00 pm on a Friday we would, in answer to a bugle call, double away to the company office, line up in alphabetical order and wait until our names were called. There was a cruel sequence of events after pay parades, as far as we boys were concerned. The bugle would sound its familiar call to signal our march to the NAAFI, where the drum major would read out the items of cleaning kit that we required. It was always the same: two tins of Blanco, one white and one khaki; soap; toothpaste; black shoe polish; a spare pair of leather laces; needles and thread; and, of course, the thing that was required by all Guardsmen – Brasso. I felt that without Brasso there would have been no Guards Regiment. By the time we’d paid for all these items there was virtually nothing left. There were often cases of chaps who dodged the NAAFI parade and got away with their pay, which would most likely be spent on treats. Just across the road from the barracks stood a civilian who was permitted to sell sweets and chocolates, including a favourite milk bar of mine called ‘Heavy Weight’.
There were three meals a day for a soldier: breakfast at dawn and then dinner at 1.00 pm followed by tea at 4.30 pm, with a light supper for the enlisted boys at 7.00 pm. They were good, solid meals but not enough for the strong, healthy giants in the Guards. The usual mad dash to the cookhouse would commence as the bugle sang out to us:
Come to the cookhouse door, boys,
Come to the cookhouse door.
Less than five minutes after this, another bugle call resonated:
The orderly officer was there to see that the meals were served properly, and also to attend to any complaints about the food. If the chaps were sensible there’d be no complaints; but like most things in life there were exceptions and grievances were sometimes voiced. If a complaint was deemed to be untenable, the complainant would lose his name for making a frivolous grumble, and the cook would make a mental note to get his own back on the soldier later.
I remember several odd happenings in the dining hall at Albuhera Barracks. One of the officers had a large dog, and on hearing a moan from one of the Guardsmen, the officer took the complainant’s fork and scraped the offending piece of food onto the floor, which his dog promptly gobbled up.
‘If my dog will eat it, then so shall you,’ the officer decreed.
‘A soldier’s life is akin to a dog’s life.’ I’ve heard this saying many times over the years and largely agree, except the dog’s life was usually the cushier of the two. Punishment was exact and discipline was strict, for how else could you train a man to face death across the trenches or march into battle knowing there was little chance of survival?
If a soldier ever committed a serious offence, he’d find himself in the dreaded mush. This prison cell was approximately 5 yards square with a single barred window and a wooden bed. The poor unfortunate who was placed inside this bleak reformatory wouldn’t be able to tell the time of day or even see the stars at night, for the window was too high and too small. Prior to the soldier going inside, he was stripped of all metals and any other possessions, and the laces were removed from his boots in case he thought about hanging himself. The wooden cell door was a solid mass save for an eyehole in the middle. From time to time, an eye would peer through to check the Guardsman wasn’t up to anything, which was virtually impossible, anyway.
There were many other forms of punishments for defaulters, including fatigue duty. These jobs made us so hungry we were never against licking clean the dirty plates in the kitchen, cigarette ash and all. Spud peeling, for example, was an awful job. Armed with an eating knife and a mountain of potatoes, the lads would peel and peel as the hours scraped by. After the first few minutes of banter silence would descend as the endless amount of tubers plopped into the bath of water. The spud mountain never appeared to diminish in size, and when the cooks presented us with even more of the wretched things, the flow of choice swear words came thick and fast. I recall we wasted more than we peeled. One particular chap was caught and placed on a charge for ‘allowing the potatoes to suffer idle peeling, and in consequence, did waste soldiers’ rations’. He was awarded fourteen days’ CB, which stood for ‘confined to barracks’. Then there was the time when two chaps lost their tempers and pelted each other with spuds. Unfortunately for them a cricket match was in progress at the rear of the hut.
‘You stupid, long-haired, knock-kneed sons of doubtful origin!’ a quartermaster raged as he stormed in. ‘The cricket field is swimming with potatoes!’
We had our laughs.
Drills were the lowest form of punishment and were awarded for minor forms of crime such as having dusty boots for the picquet officer’s daily barrack room inspection, or being a few minutes late for meals, or even having untidy blankets on our beds. It was not easy in the Guards to go through life without losing one’s name but it was remarkable how many did, and the name for this was ‘undiscovered crime’.
Of the many hundreds of men I was to serve alongside, one in particular, whom I will always remember, was Tom. Tom was a rugged sort of chap with dark hair and an olive complexion that could easily have been mistaken for Mediterranean, though he was from the North of England. He was tall and broad-shouldered and had a warm, open heart, but on each cheek was a scar and this made him look quite ferocious. Unfortunately, this poor lad was constantly getting into trouble for appearing on parade with ‘dirty flesh’. This was the name used in the event of dried soap being found behind the ears, or a smear of grit on the face. He never looked smart in uniform and it was for this reason he always lost his name. After every parade he attended, he was placed in the ‘book’ and was awarded weeks and weeks of CB. Our sergeant became so fed up of him that he put us all ‘on the gate’, which meant none of us were allowed out. This didn’t make poor Tom popular with his comrades. We’d grown so sick and tired of being let down by him that we decided to do something about it.
It was one winter’s day when a hard frost had covered the ground like a glistening blanket, and in order to get water to refill the fire buckets one had to break the ice that had formed about half an inch thick on top. Poor old Tom was forcefully undressed and dragged to the cold showers. He was soaped and scrubbed, and scoured with a dry brush until his skin was red raw, and he was climbing the wall in desperation. I can still hear his screams of ‘ouch!’ even now, as the icy water from the fire buckets was thrown over his naked body. This went on until he was shining bright. His unruly hair was groomed to perfection, and even his teeth were cleaned for him. Dressed in his best and turned out fit to see the king, we marched him over to the drum major for his inspection, and to our delight, we were allowed out that day.
There was one time when we were all to be inspected by the Prince of Wales, the future Edward VIII. As we waited for His Royal Highness, poor old Tom was standing in line looking like a beaten cow. His bearskin looked as if it had seen a ghost. His belt was far too loose, and in consequence, his packed grey coat was hanging halfway down his back. To top it all, his nose was running and he had two long candlesticks dribbling down his upper lip. The adjutant began passing down the ranks of the Corps of Drums, looking reasonably happy with everybody’s appearance until he reached Tom, at which point he almost fainted.
‘Oh, look, drum major!’ the adjutant cried. ‘What on earth is this?’
With eyes popping and a red face, the drummie marched furiously up to Tom and stood so close to him that their noses almost touched.
‘Are you ill, Guardsman?’
‘No, drum major,’ Tom answered, a single bead of sweat dripping down his forehead.
‘You are now!’
With that, the drummie slammed his ceremonial mace into Tom’s ribs. Tom collapsed in an unconscious heap and was quickly carted off the parade ground by a couple of officers just as the Prince of Wales rounded the corner.
It was amazing how Guardsmen who were never ‘spit and polish’ soldiers had plenty of guts when it came to a showdown, when it all really mattered. Tom died in battle in 1942 in the Western Desert, as brave a soldier as ever there was. Germany’s Afrika Korps were smashing our forward troops at the frontier of Sallum. In the heat of battle, through bombs, shells, mortars and machine-gun fire, Tom stood fast among the wounded Guardsmen, tending to them in his usual gentle manner until the last. None of us ever saw Tom again.
Training soon began for the annual Aldershot Grand Military Searchlight Tattoo, the greatest show on earth. It was a wonderful week-long musical event, well known to soldiers and civilians alike, and well attended by both. We used to look forward to those springtime days of the tattoo, though a lot of sweat and toil were used up in practice. For many years before the Second World War the display was held on Rushmoor Arena, a large open area just north of Aldershot. One of the main features of this magnificent spectacle was the performance by the massed bands and pipes of the regiments that were stationed locally.
Although the whole display was presented on a grand scale, the tattoo originated from a simple army procedure, observed as far back as the seventeenth century. In those days all active operations ceased in the late autumn and rival forces were billeted together in the towns and villages in and around the battlefields. The social centres for the troops were the local inns. To get them back to their billets on a night, it was necessary for the innkeeper to turn off his beer taps and to cease the sale of liquor. The time for doing so was between 9.30 and 10.00 pm, when a drummer would march through the billeting area beating a call to notify all concerned it was time to return to their beds.
One can almost picture a bright moonlit night in Flanders about two and a half centuries ago. At one end of the main road through the town or village was assembled a young officer, a sergeant and a drummer. At 9.30 pm on the dot the officer would order the drummer to commence beating. As soon as the innkeepers heard the sound of the drumbeats rolling over the quiet countryside they’d call out their command in Old Dutch: ‘Doe den tap toe!’
When translated into English this meant ‘turn off the taps’, and was the phrase from which the word ‘tattoo’ derived. The soldiers, after downing their drinks, poured out of the inns and proceed back to their billets.
In later years a flute player joined the drummer on his march along the road, and instead of a monotonous tapping, short tunes were performed. Eventually this led to the whole Corps of Drums, Pipes and Bands playing music for the entertainment of the troops, and eventually, the public.
The great evening finally arrived and the whole army was on parade; and what a parade it was. The massed bands with their 2,000 bandsmen were marching and countermarching up and down the illuminated Rushmoor Arena, where thousands of spectators from all over the world were gathered.
I was considered too young to take part in this, my first tattoo, so I was given a steward’s job instead, and very proud I was with my badge of office hanging from my jacket. One job I had that evening was to help three other comrades, Chibby Charles, Alex Mills and Richard Shaw, to move a conductor’s rostrum into the centre of the arena during the massed bands’ display. This was to be done as the lights went out and the rostrum had to be in position just as the musicians reached the centre of the arena. Split-second timing was the key. Our moment came, and off we went. Everything proceeded as planned until a tyre on the rostrum burst and panic threatened to overwhelm us, but we made it just in time. The lights came back on just as the director of music, Captain Seymour, marched up the stairs of the rostrum; but the burst wheel had made the whole structure unsecure and one side tipped down.
‘Hold it up, you silly soldier!’ the captain hissed at Chibby.
Poor purple-faced Chibby had to balance the unsafe corner of the rostrum on his shoulder throughout the entire performance of Handel’s Largo. Every so often his shoulder wilted under the weight and a cold stare would blaze down onto his head from above.
Training for war was in the nature of a game in those days, and field exercises were ever to the fore. One day we were taken out into the countryside and, placed in position by an officer, I was told I was to represent a platoon of infantry. I was handed a green flag that was to symbolize the anti-tank gun that was currently being developed. Standing by myself at a leafy crossroads outside of town, I waited for something to happen, though I didn’t know what; the officer had forgotten to tell me.
Some time passed until eventually, in the distance, I heard a heavy rumbling and clanking noise. From around the corner emerged a giant metallic monster, the likes of which I’d never seen before in my life. Sticking out of the top was a gun, the barrel dead set in my direction. Two smaller monsters clunked and clattered into view behind the first, coming to a halt beside the larger one. I stood transfixed, not knowing what was happening or what I was meant to do. Coming to a quick decision, I dashed out into the road and pointed my flag at these things.
‘Halt, or I fire!’ I bellowed.
A single head appeared out of the turret of the leading machine, and it looked angry. ‘Move away, you bloody fool! Can’t you see you’re in the path of three tanks?’
‘Um … that’s why I’m here,’ I spluttered, trying to sound as brave as I could. ‘This green flag represents an anti-tank gun and you are my prisoners. Pull up at the side of the road and come out with your hands up!’
If looks could kill, I’d have been stone dead. The officer in the tank leapt out of the vehicle and came bounding towards me.
‘How in the name of sanity do you think you’re going to take us prisoner?’ he yelled, his eyes popping and spit flying in all directions. He snatched my little green flag from my feeble grasp and hurled it into the hedge.
It was then it dawned on me that this wasn’t part of my exercise. Feeling about 2 feet tall, I stood to attention and gave the man a smart salute. I could think of nothing else to do. Thankfully, I was saved by the appearance of an umpire on horseback. He was amused by the tale, and sent me to report to battalion headquarters.
As the officer in the tank was leaving, he cast one last look in my direction and dryly remarked: ‘I’ll recommend you for the Victoria Cross.’
I walked away feeling an even bigger fool than I had before, and on reaching my lines reported the incident to the company commander. I never received my VC.
I was to drop another clanger several weeks later while on another training exercise. I was pushing my army cycle through the woods when one of the majors, acting as an umpire, stopped me and asked me what I was up to.
‘I’m taking a message to battalion headquarters,’ I duly informed him.
‘I’m a friendly civilian,’ he said.
I gulped. Had the officer got a touch of the sun?
‘A large formation of enemy tanks is in the area of Woking,’ he continued, ‘and rumour has it they’ll head this way.’
I blinked in surprise.
‘Well?’ he prompted after a few seconds of silence. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Um, thank you very much for being on our side,’ I said, feeling terribly embarrassed.
The expression of fury on the major’s face told me that wasn’t the correct answer; and I was once again sent to report to the company commander. I’d decided field exercises weren’t my strong point, but they were easy compared to the gruelling task we had ahead of us.
It was said that Guardsmen’s sweat was used to wash the ancient road that went up and over the steep hill known as the Hog’s Back, situated somewhere in the Surrey countryside. If that was the case then I must have contributed plenty of mine to the cause. Many past and no doubt present Guardsmen of all regiments of the Household Brigade of Guards will well remember the notorious hill that we were so often required to march up and down, like the Grand Old Duke of York, though it’s likely that he, at least, would have been on horseback.
With full packs over our shoulders, we set out one warm summer’s day to begin this long march. The crunching sound of steel studs and heel tips filled our ears as we marched in almost perfect unison. Clip-clopping behind were the horses and mules employed to pull the grub-car. Dense black smoke was belching into the air as our infamous brown stew – a bland recipe familiar to everyone in the army – bubbled away. Someone along the line began playing a mouth organ to relieve the tedium and a few tired voices started to sing along:
Cheerily goes the dark road, cheerily goes the night,
Cheerily goes the blood to keep the beat.
Half a thousand dead men marching on to fight,
With a little penny whistle to lift their feet.
We used to sing this tune at the old Hibernian School. It was written during the Great War and spoke of an incident that happened during the Retreat from Mons. The story goes that there were some 400 British stragglers, too tired and too dispirited to go on. In an attempt to lift the spirits of the half-dead men and return them home, the commander acquired a tin whistle and a toy drum, giving the former to his trumpeter and the latter to an officer. Miraculously, he got his men onto their feet, and, led by the whistler and drummer, they eventually reached their regiments after an all-night march.
We’d always set off on our marches in good spirits, singing merrily; but after bouts of torrential rain and scorching sun, our backs would ache and our feet would be rubbed to blisters. A few score miles into the march the singing would die down and silence would reign, though perhaps if you accidentally kicked the heels of the chap in front he’d turn and snarl.
I forget how many miles we marched along the Hog’s Back that day, but we carried on moving until the long-awaited command came:
‘Fall out on the side of the road.’
At once we let our bodies sink into the welcoming soft bank. It was a lovely feeling to relax after such a long march, and we began to prepare for a meal of brown stew, complete with the bits of grass and twigs that would always find their way into a soldier’s mess tin.
We slept rough that night and for many a night after, feeling like kings if we were lucky enough to nap in some farmer’s barn, with hay for our mattress and rats for bedfellows. Onwards we trudged the following morning, not caring or knowing where we were heading, though it always seemed to be uphill. The rain continued to lash down on us, and following one particularly nasty thunderstorm one of our chaps took ill. He died from pneumonia some days later.
After weeks and weeks of hard work I was assigned to the Corps of Drums, the pride of the regiment, and was considered good enough to carry a drum with the other Guardsmen.
My newfound pride came to an abrupt end when I received some alarming news from home. Mother was not well. On 2 July 1927 she’d given birth to my youngest sister, Phyllis, and wasn’t recovering as quickly as the doctor had hoped. Luckily, my army leave was drawing near so I resolved to go home for a few days to spend time with my family; but there was a problem. I’d been informed that the British Army uniform was no longer permitted in the Irish Free State, and if a soldier was spotted wearing it, he’d be shot on sight. Not being able to afford a civilian suit, I wondered what on earth I should do.
‘You should ask the adjutant if you can borrow some money, Paddy,’ one of the lads kindly suggested. I was very young and naïve, and had no idea this was his idea of a joke.
‘Aye, the adjutant is a gentleman,’ another boy nodded in agreement. ‘He won’t mind at all if you ask him. Wait outside the orderly room and stop him as soon as he comes from the officers’ mess.’
I did as my so-called friends suggested, and that afternoon as the adjutant marched across to the orderly room, with his sword trailing along the ground, I nipped smartly across to him, saluted, and spluttered out my well-rehearsed script.
‘M…may I have your permission to speak, sir?’
Timing, it seemed, was not on my side, for just at that moment the drum major spotted me as he was coming across from his quarters. Looking as if he was about to explode, he ran full gallop to where the adjutant and I were standing. With a scarlet face, he saluted the adjutant and told me in no uncertain terms to clear off at the double.
‘That’s alright, drum major,’ the adjutant said with a curious glance in my direction. ‘Leave the boy with me.’
As the drummie saluted and marched off, he threw me a glowering look. For once I didn’t care, and took the opportunity to explain to the adjutant, thread through needle, my sorry position. I prayed he’d understand.
‘Alright, boy,’ he said, after a moment of contemplation, ‘I will give you a loan to buy some new clothes with. But how do you propose to pay me back?’
Being inexperienced with regard to money, I quickly suggested: ‘I’ll repay you at the rate of one shilling per week.’
To my surprise, the adjutant burst out laughing. ‘How about we discuss the terms later?’
I thanked him and saluted before marching across the road back to my room.
What a shock the lads got when I told them about my meeting. They called me a cheeky idiot and various other names, but I pointed out that I was only following their advice.
‘You nutter,’ they responded. ‘We were only having you on!’
The following morning a tall non-commissioned officer marched me down to Thomas White’s outfitting shop in Aldershot where I was fitted out completely, from my overcoat to my suitcase. I even received a pair of gloves.
Dublin, 1927: Paddy posing for a photograph with his parents, while on leave from England.
Back at the barracks I began to pack for my trip, and didn’t tell anybody about my scarlet jacket that I’d hidden in the bottom of my case. I was proud of my regiment and after much deliberation had resolved to show the Irish that the British Army wasn’t scared of wearing the king’s uniform. I know now this was a foolish and reckless thing to have done, as I’d been kindly provided with expensive civilian clothes so I’d neither break the Anglo-Irish Agreement nor risk my life in doing so.
Passing through the customs shed in Kingstown Port, just outside Dublin, the poor customs officer nearly fainted when he saw the contents of my case. At first he thought it was fancy dress but when I explained to him what it represented he made the sign of the cross.
‘God Almighty,’ he gasped. ‘The British Army is back!’
I was flattered by the promotion. Up until that moment I’d felt like nothing more than a very small, insignificant soldier.
My father was waiting for me at the docks, as usual, and as I walked up to him he passed me a welcome nip of the ‘Creator’, as whiskey was known in Ireland. It warmed up my whole body in an instant. The British War Office had sent me home by third class and I travelled the whole way in steerage. Anyone who knows the Irish Sea will understand how soaked I got coming over. Every wave splashed against the side of the ship and I emerged on the shores of the Emerald Isle dripping wet and freezing cold.
Mother was delighted to see me, as always, and I felt sure my presence back home made her feel well again. My brothers and sisters were equally thrilled to have me home, as were all our neighbours in the village. I remember dressing up in my uniform and marching through the streets of Chapelizod, showing off to everyone who passed. They stared in amazement, and the barefoot urchins of the district gathered around and asked if I was a prince.
‘He’s not a prince,’ one of the cheekier ones called out. ‘He’s just an advert for Drummer Dyes!’ This was a well-known brand of fabric colouring, which had a picture of a scarlet-clad drummer on the front of the box.
I wasted no time in visiting the lovely Phoenix Park, which was just as green and beautiful as I remembered it. I went to see my old school, which was now garrisoned by the Irish Free State Army, and then on to a photography studio in Dublin where Mother, Father and I had our picture taken together. I took that snap wherever I went to remind me of home. When times got tough I’d gaze with fondness at my dear old father, standing proudly with a chest full of medals. I was standing beside him in my British Army uniform. Here was undisputable proof that I’d defied the Irish by wearing my British uniform, and lived to tell the tale.