Royal Stations
In the years before the Second World War there were four royal stations for the ceremonial Guardsmen, and each year the companies would take it in turns to swap around. Two companies were stationed at Wellington Barracks in Westminster, close to Buckingham Palace; two more at Chelsea Barracks; one at the Tower of London; and a final company at Windsor Castle. In 1928 it was my company’s turn to go to Windsor. Excitement was in the air as we packed and prepared to leave, and I got the distinct impression that this particular station was the most popular with the Guards. Rumour had it that the prettiest of girls, with a fair eye for a scarlet-clad Guardsman, graced the banks of the river Thames.
That morning, reveille sounded at the earlier time of 4.00 am. As we lined up for a quick breakfast of one boiled egg, a hunk of bread with a pat of margarine on top, and a drop of unsweetened tea (sugar was always absent in the army), all the non-commissioned officers were dashing around, roaring their heads off, and almost everyone lost their name that morning.
After breakfast and armed with my drum and the others with their flutes, we marched up and down the barracks playing The Point of War – an old custom of yesteryear, which originated when calling the troops from their village billets to parade.
With our company commanders mounted on their fine chargers, and with drums beating and bayonets fixed, we awaited the order.
‘Quick, march.’
We marched through the barrack gates towards the railway station, passing a few weeping sweethearts who weren’t permitted to come along with us.
Arriving at Windsor after our 20-mile journey, we found the streets were lined with musical bands and crowds of civilians who’d all gathered to watch the spectacle. The sun was gleaming on our naked bayonets as we drew near to our new home. It was nice to receive such a welcome, and I immediately saw the stories were true: the girls were very pretty.
To the usual roars of infuriated NCOs, we unpacked and settled into our new and rather pleasant accommodation at Victoria Barracks, just a stone’s throw from the historic castle. No troops were allowed out on our first evening, so after our usual trip to the NAAFI for fried eggs and chips, we turned in.
Windsor Castle was a popular residence with the Royal Family, who lived there during the summer months; and the friendly townspeople were extremely fond of the Guards. Our main duty was to form the Castle Guard, which mounted on the barrack square every day. Tourists beheld the sight of Guards in scarlet and gold marching out of the barracks and up the hill towards the castle, and many a romantic date was made. One chap I knew used to write out his rank, name and number onto various slips of paper and surreptitiously scatter them around the streets like confetti as he marched. He was cured of this particular habit when he was sent to the gate one day and was set upon by about half a dozen teenage girls who’d all called for him at the same time.
There were two barracks for the Guards at Windsor. One was for the Household Cavalry at Combermere, whilst we Foot Guards inhabited Victoria Barracks. The Cavalry lads could spin the tallest of yarns, especially if pretty ladies were listening, and a special story was the one about the horse with the green tail. The chaps would delight in telling a captivated beauty that this mythical beast’s tail was more precious than the Crown Jewels themselves. It was said the horse was so exceptional it was kept locked away from daylight in the depths of the castle; and God help the fair maiden who was so tempted to see this rarity that she agreed to an underground tour with her hulk of a storyteller. She always came back much the wiser. This joke went sour some few years later when a 14-year-old schoolgirl was thus attracted and trouble ensued when her irate father had to be escorted off the barracks.
Yet despite the odd hiccup, life was enjoyable here. All the Guardsmen loved this royal station and it was hard to believe this picturesque little town was only some 20 miles away from the Smoke. The train service was good and many chaps went for weekends away to see their parents and friends. I, being so far from my own home, was quite contented to stay.
The castle grounds ran down to the crystal waters of the river Thames, which was teaming with fish, and on the grassy banks there’d often be a carnival or a fair of some description. There was an abundant supply of punts, boats and canoes for hire, and it always amused me whenever I spotted a couple of straight-backed Guardsmen drifting past in full uniform, complete with scarlet tunic and forage hats on straight. It would have been an offence to sit with no headdress on, or to have one’s tunic buttons unfastened.
Off duty, the officers were deluged with invitations, and Smith’s Lawn in Windsor’s Great Park was the scene of many lively games of horseback polo. For us boys, various fatigues were allotted during the day, and one that was given to me and a friend of mine called George Burt was to weed the entre lawn armed with nothing but an ordinary eating fork. What a job that was! There we were, kneeling uncomfortably on the hard ground for hours on end while life passed us by. Each time the Royal Guard marched past, we jumped painfully to our feet and stood to attention, and then fell back to our knees to continue the work. We weeded and weeded, and when I finally stood up at the end of the day my legs gave way under my weight and I collapsed back to the ground. Poor George ended up with fluid on his knees. We were relieved we didn’t have to use the same forks at dinner that evening, and tucked into welcome plates of shepherd’s pie.
The illustrious nineteenth-century sculptor Sir Richard Westmacott was responsible for the huge Copper Horse statue that still stands within the Great Park in a direct line from the castle. It was commissioned by King George IV and depicts his father, George III, in Roman attire. This majestic sculpture was unveiled in 1831 in the presence of the Royal Family and members of the council, and a collective gasp of horror emanated from the onlookers when they first beheld the horse. According to the legend, they’d been affronted by the absence of stirrups. Whether there was truth in this or not, I cannot confirm, but it was rumoured that the designer, Vincent Gahagan, who assisted the distinguished sculptor, committed suicide not long after the unveiling by hanging himself from a tree close to the horse. It is said the copper king is pointing his outstretched finger directly towards the tree from where the unfortunate man ended his life. However, it’s an undisputable fact that the Romans never used stirrups, so the designer was quite accurate in his depiction. This being the case, the true motive for the crowd’s reaction remains a mystery to this day.
It’s funny how these stories become distorted over time. Whilst Mr Gahagan did indeed lose his life in tragic circumstances less than a year after the unveiling of the Copper Horse, it wasn’t suicide. The unfortunate man was working on his next commission, a 12-foot statue of the late British prime minister, George Canning, when part of the sculpture fell and crushed Gahagan to death.
I always admired the Copper Horse, for it reminded me a little of a much smaller bronze sculpture at Rushmoor Arena, depicting the Duke of Wellington mounted on his charger, facing Waterloo. Legend tells that the sculptor concealed a bottle of whiskey inside the horse’s tail. If so, it must be very mellow by now, for the effigy was first unveiled in 1846! The bottle was apparently placed there so that when Wellington meets Napoleon in heaven, they can drink to each other’s health.
During my time at Windsor I met an elderly ex-Guardsman who’d long since retired but was still living in the town. The tales he told about his time in the regiment left us all enthralled, and one day he related the curious incident of John Hatfield, the sentinel stationed at Windsor Castle during the days of King William III.
One dark and starry night, Hatfield had been pacing the terrace walls of the castle, counting down the minutes to the time when he’d be relieved from duty. The hour of midnight was fast approaching. The night was calm and clear; and far over to the west, unseen and unheard, was the City of London.
Midnight came and went but no relief appeared to release Hatfield from his lonely vigil, which officially ended at the stroke of twelve. Considering his duty was done, he sat down at the side of the rampart to wait but still nobody came. The minutes ticked by and Hatfield closed his eyes just for a second, but soon fell fast asleep. The belated relief found him snoring the castle battlements off some while later. Asleep on duty and caught in the act was a crime punishable by death, and poor Hatfield was placed under arrest.
The ensuing court martial seemed cut and dried, for the facts presented left no doubt as to his guilt. He even admitted being asleep, but John Hatfield astounded all when he stated with unyielding certainty that he’d been awake long enough to hear Great Tom, the bell in the Clock Tower at Westminster, proclaim the hour of midnight with thirteen strokes. The truth of this startling statement was met with great doubt, and the court rejected it out of hand. To hear the clock from such a distance, and that it struck thirteen … well, whoever heard such a ludicrous plea? Hatfield was duly condemned to death but he wasn’t going to accept his fate so easily.
‘Great Tom struck one note too many,’ he insisted, ‘and as God is my witness I heard it, as clear as day. That’s how I knew my watch had ended.’
Had Great Tom really ushered in the hour of midnight with a baker’s dozen strokes? This sensational story soon hit the newspapers, and reports began pouring in from various witnesses who’d been roaming the streets of Westminster that fateful night. They claimed to have also counted thirteen strokes as the bell chimed over the hushed city. The pile of evidence to substantiate his story became so tremendous that Hatfield received the king’s pardon at the eleventh hour and was granted his freedom.
John Hatfield lived until the ripe old age of 102. He went to meet his maker on 18 June 1770, and was always thankful to Great Tom for the inexplicable mechanical error that saved his life.
The Guardsmen on duty in 1928 told us that when all was quiet and the night was serene, they too could sometimes hear Great Tom’s successor, Big Ben, chime the hours, though it never struck thirteen.
One couldn’t expect to visit places like Windsor Castle, steeped in centuries of fine history, and not expect to encounter some lingering ghosts from the past. Many of the sentries who were situated on the East Terrace often echoed the story of the sad and mysterious little lady in grey who could sometimes be seen on a bitterly cold night wending her spectral way along this dark and lonely part of the castle. Some of the older Guards confirmed that sightings had been reported for many a long year, and one happened during my time at the castle.
I was attending the rounds one moonlit evening, and as usual I was armed with my hurricane lamp, which more often than not went out. This normally happened as we rounded the East Terrace, and a blast of cold night air would threaten to knock us off our feet.
‘Halt, who goes there?’ a sentry called out, as we approached his post.
‘The rounds,’ I answered.
‘Advance and be recognized,’ the sentry replied, and after hearing the password he instructed: ‘Pass, rounds. All’s well.’
We proceeded to visit the various watchmen on guard that night to ensure they were alert and on top of their job.
We always took care to watch our step within this ancient stone castle after sundown. It was so dark in the wintertime that all the nooks and crannies looked grey and shadowy when the weak light from our hurricane lamps fell upon them.
As we turned the corner onto the East Terrace I flashed the lamp to give the sentry the tip that we were coming, but we received no response. I sent another signal but still we weren’t challenged. The rounds were brought to a halt and a couple of us were sent to investigate. A few yards from his box lay the sentry, flat on his back and out for the count. Hastily, and not too gently, he was picked up and returned to the guardroom. He appeared to have been in a dead faint and it was several minutes before he came to. When probed for an explanation, as no doubt was asked of John Hatfield many years before, the startled sentry told us he’d witnessed something so inexplicable it surely had no mortal place in this earthly realm.
‘I saw a lady in grey approaching my post,’ he said, looking as ashen as the character he described. ‘I challenged her but she failed to stop. I received no reply on my second and third challenges, so I lunged forward with my bayonet but no flesh did it penetrate. It simply passed through thin air. I remember no more until I came round.’
There was no court martial for this chap as he’d not been the first to tell this strange story, and likely not the last.
There was another peculiar happening at Windsor Castle that I can well recall but barely explain. One night, just the same as any other, a sentinel had been standing on guard for a long time, looking out over the gardens in the area where the Royal Family stayed during the summer. Suddenly, he saw someone – or something – moving about in the grounds.
‘Halt, who goes there?’ he challenged, but received no answer.
Though it was dark, he could make out the shadowy outline of several human-shaped figures advancing towards his post. He called out to them again, but without a sound the gathering slowly continued to creep towards him under the cover of foliage and moonlight. Who were these men and what were they up to? The sentinel challenged one final time, but still the strangers didn’t respond. Fearing for the safety of the castle, the sentinel opened fire on the moving figures, and all fell still.
The alarm was raised but a subsequent search of the grounds found no trace of any bodies. In fact, no evidence was discovered to suggest that anybody had been there at all. The following morning, as sunlight flooded the scene of the incident, the stone statues that reposed in the gardens were found to be riddled with the sentinel’s bullets. He swore that he’d seen the figures walking towards him, hence his actions. We all believed him, for we knew it would take something quite extraordinary to distract a well-trained Guardsman while on duty.
A colourful Guard Mounting ceremony took place every day at Windsor. After the Guards had formed up and been inspected on the barrack parade ground, we’d march up to the castle headed by the Corps of Drums and Colour Party. This was always a popular event with the public, who’d crowd the streets with their cameras, eager to capture memories of the pageantry, or even catch a glimpse of the Royal Family.
It was customary for the captain to take sherry with the equerry-in-waiting while the senior NCO mounted the Guard. One morning, the captain removed his sword and laid it on the hall table while he quaffed his sherry, but on returning he couldn’t for the life of him find his weapon anywhere and faced the dreaded possibility of parading improperly. Just as he began to feel the sweat gathering on his brow, he heard laughter coming from outside. Upon investigation he found a young royal nobleman standing with sword in hand, which he was using to charge his trembling nanny with some offence or other. Though the officer’s eyes were bulging with rage and his face as scarlet as his tunic, he politely addressed the nobleman with humility when he went to retrieve his sword.
Whenever a member of the Royal Family walked past a Guardsman, he was required to present arms in salute. The young and Right Honourable George Lascelles, grandson of King George V, found this custom particularly amusing. The mischievous 5-year-old decided to entertain himself one day by running past the sentinel on duty, who’d come to present arms, and then dash past again to another present. On and on this comical routine went until the perspiring sentinel was about to take the little lad to task himself. Fortunately, a passing nanny caught the boy and administered a hearty rebuff.
My partner in crime George Burt and I once got into a spot of bother over the Guard Mounting parade. George was the bugler for the Old Guard at the castle, and I was the bugler for the New Guard Mounting. As the New Guard arrived on the quadrangle to receive its trumpeted present arms from the Old Guard, George brought his bugle up to his lips with a flourish, and with an odd flash of forgetfulness, sounded The Pioneers’ Call by mistake.
‘Show that silly fool up with your salute,’ said the voice of the NCO of the New Guard.
I shot my hand behind my back, took a firm grip on my bugle and pulled it towards my lips, but something had gone wrong. The bugle cord had got stuck. Sweat began to roll down my spine, and I was suddenly all too aware of the hundreds of pairs of eyes upon me. I pulled and tugged and at last got the bugle up towards my chin, but it wouldn’t come any further and I found myself looking sadly into the wrong end. I did eventually manage to get some kind of hideous sound out of it, but the NCO was far from impressed.
I joined George in the guardroom some hours later, where we were both charged before being marched under escort to the adjutant. Our excuse was that our bugles were blocked, and the punishment was quite aptly to clean out all the bugles in the Corps of Drums the following weekend. We dutifully soaked all the instruments we could find in a bucket of hot water mixed with soda, as instructed, and then returned them all to their pegs. In our haste there was something rather essential we’d forgotten to do.
Monday morning dawned and brought with it the returning drummers who’d been away on weekend leave. A feeling of murder must have filled their hearts when they entered the barracks and found a room full of rusted bugles. It was only then we realized we’d forgotten to dry them. To make matters worse, the water had dripped all over everyone’s white Blancoed equipment. George and I got the lecture of our lives and endured the wrath of the drummers for a long time afterwards.
The year was 1929 and I’d reached the age of seventeen. I’d been lucky enough to win the featherweight boxing championship of the Brigade of Guards and had also done well in the army championship, though I’d been beaten in the finals by the skin of my teeth.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my defeat, for the time had come for us to leave the delightful little town of Windsor and travel to the bustling capital city. I was looking forward to my first guards at Buckingham Palace, St James’ Palace and the Bank of England, for I felt nothing but veneration for these great and historic institutions. I had the naïve impression that at ‘Buck House’, as we termed the first, and ‘Jimmy’s’, as we called the second, we’d be permitted to wander freely about the palace corridors on our mission to personally guard the king and queen. I also thought that while at the bank we’d watch the money being printed, and stand guard over tottering stacks of wet notes piled high on the floor. I was soon to discover that the reality was rather different, and not quite as glamorous as I’d imagined.
The crowds were cheering and the bands were playing as we marched out of the gates of Windsor Castle for the last time. Even the mayor came to see us off. Once at the railway station, we departed amidst a wave and a lover’s kiss. Some of the lads even broke into an impromptu chorus:
Her golden hair in ringlets fair, her eyes like diamonds shining,
Her slender waist with carriage chaste, may leave the swan repining.
Ye gods above, O hear my prayer, to my beauteous fair to bind me,
And send me safely back again, to the girl I left behind me.
To those immortal words we steamed out of Windsor and on to smoky London. The stirring notes of the Coldstream Regimental March from Milanollo were played as we marched through the great iron gates of Wellington Barracks. We received a hearty welcome from the colonel of the regiment before being ushered away to our barrack rooms, which overlooked St James’ Park. Over to the left loomed Buckingham Palace. As I gazed out of my window in wonder, it felt strange to think I was stationed here when, centuries earlier, a mighty king of England had apparently decreed that from henceforth no person bearing the name Rochford should ever be permitted to serve in a royal palace again. He was, of course, King Henry VIII, who it was said felt so betrayed by the Rochford family – not least Jane Boleyn, the lady-in-waiting who’d arranged secret meetings between Catherine Howard and her clandestine lover – that he banished all Rochfords to the Emerald Isle with the warning that they were never to return. Jane was the wife of George Boleyn, Second Viscount Rochford, who’d been infamously convicted of incest with his own sister, the king’s second wife: yet another reason for the portly monarch to strike us off his Christmas card list.
Many tides had come and gone with the passing of the years, and it seemed as though the current king didn’t have any objections to my presence. Countless were the royal guards I took at the palace, and I relished every moment, from the Changing of the Guard to Trooping the Colour. We, the drummer boys, felt a little like monkeys at the zoo: we performed behind iron railings as the public peered in, though I must say, they never threw in any peanuts to us. It was a privilege to encounter so many different people, from Alfonso, the exiled king of Spain, to the little old lady who had special permission from Queen Mary to sit in the palace garden whenever she wished. Though the lady was just a commoner, she’d been presented with her own key, and was allowed to come and go as she pleased. I’ve sadly forgotten her name, but not the sixpence that she pushed into my hand as I bent down to pick up her umbrella for her one cloudy afternoon.
Though they called them the Roaring 20s, industrial strife was beginning to take hold all over England, dragging the country down into a state of depression. The protesting ‘hunger marchers’ were descending on London from every corner of the nation, and a general strike loomed large. My company was prepared to turn out at a moment’s notice at the first sign of violence. Full marching kit was hanging on the pegs in anticipation and live ammunition had been issued. Eventually things quietened down, although everything was hanging on a thread at one point. We all felt the sense of misery in the air; and the countless unemployed people, without any means of a livelihood, struggled to make ends meet.
As ever, we Guardsmen were kept busy from dawn until dusk. After a thorough inspection at the barrack gate, including lifting up the soles of our shoes to see if they were in good repair, off we’d march to Hyde Park, neatly dressed in scarlet. It was always interesting to walk up and down the ‘Monkey Run’, the path that cut through the park to the Marble Arch; and no doubt the composer of the marching ditty Round the Marble Arch was a spectator who saw us.
Though we were strictly forbidden to walk out with a girlfriend it wasn’t long before everybody had one. A lot of the foxier boys claimed they had a ‘sister’ and so evaded this rule. In most cases the girls were from private service, so the chaps were never short of a supper at the residence where they worked. One of our brighter boys selected a girlfriend in the region of 15 stone, and we rather cruelly nicknamed her Fat Fan. She fed her man well. He used to return to the barracks laden with parcels of food, the likes of which we’d never seen before, and we’d all hope he was in the mood for sharing. If he wasn’t, we’d creep out of bed at night when he was asleep and help ourselves from out of his locker.
There was a secluded little place called ‘the Dip’, which was a favourite destination of lovers after the sun had gone down. No Guardsman ever dared sit on the grass in daylight while in uniform, so he’d only take his sweetheart to the Dip after dark. Before long the air would be filled with the different company bugle calls, whistled by all the courting Guardsmen to let the other lads know they weren’t on their own.
One evening while out in London, I stopped to ask a civilian the time. To my pleasant surprise I found myself standing face to face with a young man whom I remembered from long ago. His name was Cyril. I’d shared the same dormitory as this fellow while we were at the Duke of York’s School together, and always got on well. I was pleased to learn he’d done well for himself and was now in private service as a footman to a well-known nobleman and Tory politician, Sir Philip Cunliffe-Lister. Cyril was residing in His Lordship’s family home on Ebury Street, and he invited me to call to see him on my next evening out. This I did, and had the good fortune to meet all of the household staff and enjoy their hospitality and friendship for many years to come. I’d often go to dinner at Ebury Street and share a meal with my new friends in the servants’ dining room. It was delightful to be waited on by the pretty kitchen maids, who served us wholesome three- or four-course dinners, including wine. This became something of a tradition, and it was eventually suggested that I should keep a suit of civilian clothes in Cyril’s room so that every so often I could change out of my scarlet uniform and go for a night at the theatre, or even to the pictures, with him and the other members of staff. Being underage I was forbidden from wearing civilian attire, but I was young and carefree, and was eager to have some fun.
One evening over the Christmas period I’d been to see a show with some chums and had arranged to meet Cyril outside the residence at 10.30 pm so I could nip inside and change back into uniform, as I had to be correctly attired and back at the barracks by midnight. I arrived at the agreed time and waited.
And I waited.
It was one of those nights when the frost nipped at your fingers and cheeks, but I kept waiting in the lamplight as the falling snow dusted me in a light sprinkling of lace. The minutes ticked silently by, and still Cyril didn’t turn up. The servants’ entrance was locked and it seemed as though everyone had gone out for a Christmas tipple, so there was no way of letting myself in. At 11.00 pm I became rather worried, for a couple of policemen were eyeing me suspiciously. Inevitably, after several more moments of loitering outside His Lordship’s residence, they approached me.
‘What are you doing here, young fellow?’ one of them asked.
‘I’m a drummer in the Coldstream Guards,’ I began, wondering how on earth I could explain the situation to them. Mercifully, however, they believed my sorry tale, and advised I should wait a further half hour. If my pal still hadn’t turned up, they suggested I should knock on the front door.
There was still no sign of Cyril by 11.30 pm, so with hesitation I approached the front door of the four-storey town house, and after a gulp or two, pressed the bell. I only had to wait a few seconds for it to open, and into view came the earl himself, dressed in a fine dinner jacket. He glared down at me with a cool stare and I lamely recounted my story. Disbelief was etched all over his well-bred face.
‘You do not expect me to believe this tripe, do you?’ he scoffed. ‘I’m afraid you will have to go away.’
I backed away to avoid being whacked in the nose as the door slammed shut, and was just beginning to wonder how much trouble I’d get into if I was caught trying to force a window open, when Cyril appeared by my side, completely out of breath. He’d been having such a good night that he’d lost track of the time. As soon as he let me in through the servants’ entrance I raced to his room, threw my uniform on and dashed away again across snowy London. I made it back just as Big Ben was chiming the introductory tune before striking midnight.
It was 1930 and the time had come for us to make our annual move. This time we’d been posted to Chelsea Barracks, and I was particularly excited because this was the year when I’d come of age. We packed up as meticulously as if we were going to an overseas station, though we were only moving a matter of a few miles. As always, we quickly settled into our new home and got into the usual swing of things.
Not many weeks after our arrival we received an order to lay our kits out for an impromptu inspection. For some reason the adjutant had a sneaking suspicion that something was amiss and he was keen to catch us unawares.
‘Lay out your kits!’ the drum major bellowed as he strode in through the door, while the adjutant and his Alsatian remained out of sight.
As we hurriedly turned out lockers and kit bags, whispers could be heard being passed around the room.
‘Anybody got a spare bar of soap?’
‘… a comb?’
‘… a button stick?’
‘… a tin of Blanco?’
There was always somebody who was deficient in something, and equally there was always the astute one who had two of everything, and would help out a comrade in distress. Unfortunately for a poor boy named Stan there was no spare soap, so in desperation he placed a portion of dirty-looking cheese in the spot where his soap was normally laid. Thinking he’d got away with it he breathed a heavy sigh of relief; but just as the adjutant came to check this chap’s kit, the Alsatian, Sally, caught a whiff of something rather tasty indeed, and she gobbled up the chunk of cheese in one gulp.
‘Where’s your bar of soap?’ the adjutant growled at Stan, noticing the empty space.
‘Sally’s just eaten it, sir,’ said Stan, as a titter of laughter left the lips of his comrades.
The adjutant asked how much it had cost and without turning a hair Stan replied: ‘Threepence, sir.’
At once the adjutant put his hand in his pocket and produced the required sum. Handing it over to Stan, he uttered: ‘I’m very sorry.’
The Bank of England Picquet was a picturesque military operation that had the unequivocal purpose of meeting all security requirements at the bank. It was originally posted in 1780 to guard ‘the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street’ during the time of the Gordon Riots, when anti-Catholic protesters got carried away with themselves, and rioting and looting across the City of London was rife. Though the riots were eventually subdued the tradition of the picquet endured, and each evening at 5.45 pm one officer, one drummer and fourteen Guardsmen would march 6 miles from Chelsea Barracks to the bank. This was no fun in the summer months, when scarlet tunic and bearskin cap was the order of the day. We used to spend most of our time praying for rain, because when the weather was dreary the officer commanding the Bank Picquet would usually buy us all tickets for the Underground instead of making us march.
Come rain or shine, a small civilian lady of about forty years of age used to march alongside the picquet every evening. Sadly, I never got to know anything about her, who she was or why she marched with us. Some said her husband was killed in the Great War. If that was so, no doubt he was from a Scottish regiment, for she always dressed in traditional Highland attire. One evening she failed to turn up for the march, and after that we never saw her again.
For one young ensign, it was his first duty as Bank Picquet commander and he felt extremely proud as he swung through the streets at the head of his immaculately dressed troops. A lone piper was leading the way. Ahead, the ensign saw that the traffic lights had turn to red. He was in full swing and didn’t want to be stopped, so he directed the piper to head down into the Underground. It seemed an ingenious solution to march down the steps, along the subway and up the other side. I barely recall what the ladies said as they emerged to find their privacy invaded by fourteen burly Guardsmen, one crimson-faced officer with his sword drawn, and a piper merrily screeching out his music. It quickly dawned on the young ensign he’d taken a wrong turn and had led his party straight down to the public lavatory.
It was said that the bank was impossible to break into, but we all knew that was just a myth. This illusion was shattered the day a Guardsman on patrol outside the bank witnessed, to his horror, a dishevelled head protruding from a narrow air-chute that originated somewhere within the building. Before the sentry had time to react, an arm appeared from out of the wall. The body slowly followed closely behind, and the whole figure sank to the floor in an untidy heap. The intruder was thin and emaciated, with facial hair almost down to his armpits. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten or shaved for weeks. The man was arrested on sight, and under interrogation revealed that he’d spent many weeks squeezing into the bank on the instruction of a person or persons unknown. If he succeeded in his task, he’d apparently been offered a substantial sum of money, enough to go abroad with and disappear forever. The intruder didn’t have anything of value on him when our men apprehended him; so the question remained: if he hadn’t gone in there with the intention to steal, why had he pulled such a risky stunt? The true motives for his actions, and the mastermind behind them, have never been disclosed.
On 1 April 1930 I officially turned a man of eighteen years, and was allowed much more freedom than before. Once the duty of the day was done I was permitted to wear civilian clothes, smoke, drink and even be seen in the company of a girlfriend. Being a good Catholic boy I’d never set foot inside a public house before, so I decided I might stop off to have a celebratory drink as I made my way back from Cyril’s to the barracks. I stepped smartly into what I thought was an average public house, but as soon as I entered I could tell something wasn’t right. An unsettling silence descended and many an interested gaze fell on me. At first I thought I must have done something wrong. I glanced around the room and noticed that the patrons were both male and female, and nearly all of them seemed uncommonly distracted by my presence.
‘What can I get you?’ the barman asked.
Not really knowing what to order, I requested the first thing that came into my mind.
‘Ooh,’ came a seductive voice from a table to my right. ‘She drinks a Brown Ale, does she?’
For a moment I thought the voice was female until I looked closer and found it belonged to a man; though only just. A chortle of laughter greeted his remark and my cheeks began to burn. Eager to leave, I downed my drink in one and went to place my empty glass back on the bar, but not being used to alcohol the beer rushed straight to my head and I missed by inches. The glass dropped straight onto the floor, scattering broken shards in all directions. With many exclamations of sympathy from the gathering, I departed in haste, too embarrassed to even offer to pay for the damage.
I was relieved to find my bus had pulled up outside, so I went to hop on board but heard the sound of footsteps hurrying along behind me. I turned and found the softly spoken man had followed me.
‘What’s your hurry, love?’ he said, or something to that effect. I don’t quite remember his exact words, for I was so perturbed by what happened next that I lost all sense of reason.
The man reached out a finger and stroked my cheek. That was enough to make my innards boil. With one hand clinging on to the rail of the bus, I whipped the man a beauty right across the chin with the other. He dropped to the pavement like a ton of bricks. At first I thought I’d killed him, but as the bus pulled away I noticed him stir. The conductor was so amused by the whole incident he didn’t charge me my fare.
I later learnt that particular public house had a certain reputation around town, and made a mental note never to frequent it again.
The year 1931 saw us on the road to the grim Tower of London. It was always a cold and miserable place, and I felt sure that all the personalities who’d had the misfortune to be imprisoned there over the centuries wouldn’t have been at all sorry when their hour of execution came.
Once a royal residence, the Tower had since been put to good use as a fortress, a prison, and a place to house the Royal Mint and public records. King James I, a great lover of wildlife, expanded the royal menagerie at the Tower, and traces of this were still evident by the presence of the ravens that hopped about, cawing and sometimes swooping down on tourists who looked like they might have had a packet of biscuits or a bag of chips on them. Hector, one of the cheekier ravens, was supposed to be 199 years old, and he’d a nasty habit of pecking at the legs of lady visitors. The birds used to make their nests on the walls of the Old Tower during my time there, and legend tells that the Tower will crumble and England will fall if the ravens ever depart. To ensure the safety of the country, one of our sergeants had the great responsibility of caring for the birds. Each had its own unique identification number and set of records, and food rations were put out to encourage our feathery friends to stay. The tamer ones would be fed by hand, though sometimes they’d catch the sergeant’s finger in their sharp beaks and give him a nip. This hand-feeding was eventually stopped as the visitors thought the cries of pain issuing from the lips of the sergeant were put on for their entertainment, and that the ravens were trained to perform. Howls of laughter could often be heard, much to the annoyance of the sergeant. He was a great animal lover, nonetheless, and had a pet dog called Bruno who went with him everywhere. The pair could often be seen together in the NAAFI, and the sergeant would regularly share a beer with his faithful friend, pouring the dregs into the dog’s food bowl.
1931: Paddy (marked with a cross) and his comrades on manoeuvres.
A fine tradition that went on at the Tower of London at 10.00 pm each evening was the Ceremony of the Keys, during which the Tower was officially locked up by the chief yeoman warder. Ever since the Crown Jewels were stolen back in the seventeenth century, the chief constable never took any chances regarding their safety. A special security system was rigged up so an alarm would ring in Scotland Yard and Buckingham Palace if the treasures were ever tampered with. This sounded once during my time at the Tower. On hearing it we Guards turned out in number, armed to our teeth and prepared to apprehend the malignant felon, but to our hilarity he turned out to be just a little mouse having a nibble on one of the wires.
We were kept so busy at the Tower that we didn’t have time to concern ourselves with the darker, more sinister matters that were looming on the horizon. Newspaper headlines were prophesising the arrival of a deadly foe, and as the months went by their warning became starker:
‘CRITICAL DAYS AHEAD’.
‘FASCISM SWEEPING THROUGH GERMANY’.
‘HITLER’S THREAT OF “HEADS WILL ROLL”’.
And, most ominous of all: ‘WORLD WAR TO END CIVILISATION’.
We all knew these sensational headlines were merely the means to sell more papers, and never gave it a second thought. After all, everybody knew the Great War had been the war to end all wars, and surely Germany wouldn’t be foolish enough to come looking for another thrashing.
However, the fallout of these international political skirmishes landed firmly on our doorstep one day when we learned that Captain Norman Baillie-Stewart, a highly regarded officer of the Seaforth Highlanders, had been placed under close arrest and imprisoned in the Tower for allegedly spying for the Germans. This was a terrible shock to Great Britain who until then had placed so much faith and trust in her armed forces. By all accounts this officer had fallen in love with a beautiful German girl who, like many others working in England as officers’ servants, had had the secret mobilisation plans of Britain in the event of war handed directly to her.
It was at around this time when a sort of anti-war movement began within the exclusive circles found in places such as Mayfair and Grosvenor Square. The British upper classes began to join together in what was called ‘a link of happy understanding’ with Germany, and the ill-famed Herr Von Ribbentrop, Hitler’s ambassador in London, began seducing the rich with his lavish parties. Champagne was flowing freely on the tables in London as the oily Von Ribbentrop slipped his way into diplomatic houses, with the intention of gaining high-ranking friends across the Western world. He even had the nerve to goose-step into Buckingham Palace on one occasion, and upon leaving gave the king a Nazi salute. This caused much comment but in real English style the whole affair was overlooked as a show of bad manners from a sore loser.
Such matters were quickly forgotten, however, for my battalion had been detailed to file the Guard of Honour for Their Majesties King George V and Queen Mary. As usual, we spent many hours polishing and preparing, and consequently my second-best pair of boots were so clean that they glinted. They looked so fine, in fact, that I was tempted to wear them on this occasion even though they had a small hole in the uppers, just on the inside by the bottom of the big toe.
The great day finally dawned, and as I donned my sparkling footwear I felt a slight twang of apprehension in my stomach, but I’d made up my mind and wasn’t going to change it. I half wondered if one of my superior officers would spot the hole during the initial inspection on the barrack square, but to my relief, it wasn’t noticed.
To the great roars of command by Regimental Sergeant Major ‘Tibby’ Brittain, we duly marched into the arena at Earl’s Court.
‘Eeeeeyes front!’ he roared, as a gathering of nearby ladies squealed in delight, and we all stood to attention to await the arrival of the Royal Family.
After presenting arms and dipping the battalion Colours to the strains of the National Anthem, played by the regimental band, the king came down the ranks. I was praying that he’d pass me by. As a single bead of sweat meandered down my brow, I watched him draw closer from the corner of my eye. Just as he reached me he stopped, like my heart nearly did. He looked down at my boots; then his eyes snapped back up to my face.
‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Nineteen years, sir.’
‘Your boots are very clean,’ he remarked, before continuing on his way down the line.
I glanced at the drum major and saw the look of love etched on his face. I breathed a deep sigh of relief. My holey boots hadn’t let me down.
In the days before indoor plumbing was common, some local authorities used to provide public bathhouses for their townsfolk. These were a little like swimming pools, and one such establishment could be found at Ealing. This particular venue was hired by the British Army, who transformed the whole building into a boxing arena. It was here where I took part in a triangular match between the Coldstream Guards, the Grenadier Guards and the Guards Training Depot. The ring had been placed over the first class bath and the changing room was in the cubicles for the second class bath. There was much excitement within the ranks, as any contest between the Coldstreamers and the Grenadier Guards was always a blood match. I couldn’t wait to get in the ring and do my regiment justice. Mutt Morton and I were the first opponents and I knocked him out quite easily in the second round, with a left to the face followed by a right cross.
1930s: Paddy (left) and a friend looking smart in their uniforms.
After the match I returned to the changing room, where I met the company sergeant major of the Irish Guards, a champion boxer himself. We had a good chat and he invited me to show him the dive that had won me the Brigade Diving Championship earlier in the year. Without thinking, I peeled off my boxing gloves, stepped onto the diving board and prepared to take my well-drilled plunge.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sonny,’ echoed the voice of the bath attendant from somewhere below.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I called, eager to impress the CSM. ‘I’m the champion diver for my regiment. I know exactly what I’m doing!’
‘I don’t doubt it, but the baths are currently being emptied for cleaning,’ the attended explained, ‘so I’d advise you not to go in.’
I was at that awkward age when one doesn’t listen to advice. I leapt proudly into the air, did a one and a half somersault and struck what little water there was left in the bath. I hit the bottom of the pool with the bridge of my nose. The cool, blue water around me suddenly turned warm and red. I felt dazed and confused, but didn’t lose consciousness. Though my face throbbed and my whole body ached I managed to drag myself out of the bath, where I sank down by the wall in a puddle of water and blood. The town mayor and my commanding officer came to see me from the makeshift arena, and after some first aid and a plaster stuck ceremoniously on my nose, I was declared fit to go back into the boxing ring to receive my cup. I just about managed this, but felt nauseous and wobbly after losing so much blood.
The following morning I was allowed an extra hour in bed, where I stayed hidden under the blankets pretending to be asleep. I was in pain for a good few weeks afterwards, but on reflection I think it was my pride that hurt the most.
With our royal duties completed, we were due to arrive at Warley Barracks in Brentwood, Essex; and it was here where I had my first romance.
1930s: preparing for a bout.
There was another boxing match coming up and though we were kept busy from dawn until dusk I was keen to get in as much training as possible. One day I went out alone for an early morning run. I was trotting along a leafy lane when ahead of me I noticed a pleasant looking country inn called The Thatcher’s Arms. From one of the windows I saw two pretty young faces gazing out at me. They smiled as I drew nearer, and I decided it wouldn’t hurt to step inside for a few moments to have a swift drink. It was an unseasonably chilly day and the warmth from the crackling log fire greeted me as I stepped over the threshold.
‘What you running from, soldier?’ giggled one of the girls, who I noticed was wearing a servant’s uniform.
I puffed out my chest and tried to look impressive, though that was always difficult with my slender frame. ‘I’m a boxer in the army, and I’m preparing for my next fight. It’s going to be a tough one, but I’m well up for the challenge.’
The girls exchanged incredulous glances and I was mortified when they both burst out laughing.
‘You’re pulling our legs. You’re far too little to be a boxer.’
‘For your information,’ I began, hoping my cheeks weren’t as red as they felt, ‘I happen to be the regimental champion. I have trophies to prove it, as well as a scar on my nose. See?’
‘Well,’ chuckled the second girl, ‘if you’re the champion, the boxing world must be very hard up.’
She lit up the whole room with her radiant smile, and I thought she was absolutely beautiful. She had long, dark locks that were bunched up on top of her head and bright rosy lips that reflected her name; and I hardly failed to notice her familiar accent that reminded me so longingly of home.
‘You’re Irish,’ I grinned.
‘Yes,’ she said, looking embarrassed. ‘What about it?’
‘Only that I’m Irish too. I’m a Liffey-sider.’
‘Go away with you,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘You’re too English sounding. I know your game. You’re just trying to get off with me!’
‘No, of course not!’ I insisted, perhaps a little too eagerly. ‘Anyhow, you’re the one who smiled at me as I was jogging by. So it’s clearly you who’s trying to get off with me.’
We all giggled, and I found I couldn’t tear my eyes from the girl’s lovely smile.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.
‘Rosie,’ she said, ‘and this is my friend, Ruth.’
We stood chatting for a good half an hour, during which time I learned that these two girls were employed by Ruth’s father to work at the inn. As I was leaving they invited me to call round on my next evening out, which I did with pleasure, and over time we three became good friends. I even used to help out by serving in the bar every now and again when I was off military duties.
That Christmas I called at The Thatcher’s Arms to say so long before I went to Ireland on leave, but was so moonstruck by the lovely Rosie that I stayed with her at the inn for two whole weeks. I had my own room, of course, and sent my poor old mother a telegram saying: ‘Further delayed; will arrive tomorrow.’ I never did, but I had one of the nicest Christmases I’d ever experienced.
After a period of shy courting I made a cardinal mistake. I introduced my sweetheart to one of my sergeants, and not just any sergeant. This one was a tall, handsome, muscular man with a tongue like velvet and a right hook that would fell an ox. Though it’s sad to relate, it’s perhaps hardly surprising that that was the last I ever saw of my first love.