Beside the Tideless Sea
The year 1936 was a fateful one. Our beloved King George V had been ill for some time but news of his death came as a grave shock. Britain and the Commonwealth were plunged into mourning. Our monarch had led us to victory in the Great War, commanding respect from all four corners of the earth.
In the months leading up to his death, as his health declined, speculation in England was rife. Would the Prince of Wales accede to the throne? This question was on the nation’s lips. Our wilful prince remained unmarried and his name had been associated with that of the divorced American, Mrs Simpson, who at one time was married to a Coldstream Guards officer, Captain Simpson. This was indeed a rather scandalous affair, but the gossipmongers were silenced once and for all when the cries rang out: ‘The king is dead. Long live the king!’
King Edward VIII was proclaimed.
George V was laid to rest at Windsor Castle and we had the honour of an inspection in full Guard Order. We stood to attention on the parade ground, and as the new king passed by looking at our scarlet tunics, which of course were our best, I couldn’t help noticing the look of displeasure on his face. He sighed and turned to address the commanding officer.
‘Often when I have looked out of the castle window, I have noticed that the drummers’ tunics look very clean when mounting, and very shabby on dismounting,’ he remarked, with a disapproving shake of his head.
‘Sir, the air is sometimes very dusty on the parade ground,’ Lieutenant Colonel Whittaker replied, clearly doing his best to remain polite, ‘and that’s why the tunics may sometimes look a little off-colour. There’s not much we can do about this, I’m afraid.’
Despite the commanding officer’s reasonable explanation, new tunics were purchased at the extortionate cost of £9 19s 6d each, which the regiment could barely afford. We were warned that if we soiled them, stoppages would be made to our pay at the sum of two shillings per week. Needless to say we were less than impressed, and felt our new king had got off to a shaky start. However, we all agreed there was still plenty of time for him to grow into his father’s shoes.
Meanwhile, far across the North Sea, the political struggles in Germany were deepening. During the 1930s the country had been in fear of Communism and in desperation had looked anywhere among her own people for a leader, someone strong who could see them safely through the dark times. Ex-Corporal Adolf Hitler had pushed his luck by making impassioned soapbox speeches in the troubled streets, pledging to create a greater nation for all the German people. He gained more and more power, and his Nazi Party began to make headway in the political arena. Joseph Goebbels belched forth his propaganda to all and sundry, whilst Hermann Göring, desperate to get young Germans into the air, had urged these young, impressionable men to take up glider sports as a hobby. Göring, of course, was a fighter pilot in the First World War with a great many kills to his name.
The Horst-Wessel song, or Horse-Weasel, as it later became known, rang out through the streets of Deutschland as the general populous surrendered to Hitler’s deceits.
Clear the streets for the Brownshirts,
Clear the streets for the Stormtroopers!
Already millions, upon seeing the swastika, are filled with hope,
The day of freedom and bread is dawning!
The storm warning has sounded for the last time,
We all stand ready for the fight!
Soon Hitler’s flags will fly over all the streets,
And our bondage will only last a short time more!
The fate of Germany now lay in the hands of one man: the aged president, Paul von Hindenburg. He could have stopped Hitler from ever coming to power, but the president’s sanity was in question. He was eventually talked into handing the reigns over to the self-proclaimed Führer, and Germany’s delight was fanatical. Delirious people packed the streets as the man who would surely lead them to greener pastures took control of the country. They dared to dream his rise to power would bring an end to mass unemployment, street riots, and baton charges that had plagued their everyday lives. In triumphal celebration the brass bands played, banners were waved, and the so-called Stormtroopers appeared in the towns and cities, gathered as one in military formation. Deutschland was once again on the march and it seemed as though nobody, save for two valiant men, had the guts to stop her.
From Westminster the eagle eyes of Winston Churchill and Anthony Eden were watching. Both of these politicians had persistently campaigned for Britain’s rearmament in the event of war, but their fellow ministers treated these men as though they were reptiles. Heads turned away, eyes looked to the ground and ignorance reigned. It wasn’t that they didn’t care; it was just that nobody wanted to believe that another war could be on the way.
While the world turned a blind eye, the Nazis began strutting about like masters of the universe. The Jews were to be the brunt of their attack. These poor men, women and children were seized in the streets and even in their own homes. Women’s heads were sheared; aged men were made to scrub the pavements; Semitic shops were looted; and books were burnt. The German Jews who’d fled their homes to seek solace in the Holy Land fared little better, for the native Arabs objected to the sheer volume of immigrants, and land ownership became a volatile issue.
In England, the War Office began trying out experimental manoeuvres, testing new equipment and calculating just how long we could march on as little food as possible. We soldiers were training and marching, day and night. Rumour had it that we’d soon be sent abroad, but nothing was ever confirmed to the ‘rank and file’ until the last moment, so we learned the news from idle gossip. Some called it the grapevine, although in the Guards the world over it was always in the WC where one heard what was really going on. That was the only place where one could talk freely without being overheard.
1930s: with army comrades enjoying a break.
One WC rumour spoke of a new type of super weapon that was in development. It was called the ‘Bren Light Machine Gun’, a name only spoken in whispers. We still had the old Lewis automatic gun – and by then I’d mastered the fifty-seven known blockages – but it was said that one only needed to press the trigger of the Bren and all hell would be let loose. This was one rumour we all hoped would come true.
Many changes were being made in the army, and not only where our armament was concerned. For one thing I was now a lance corporal, and my company had been moved to Stansted on manoeuvres. One day I was passing a group of officers when one of them called me over.
‘Tell the sergeant major to come and see me at once,’ he instructed.
I knew from the urgency in his voice that something was going on, and soon we all knew what it was. Our battalion was being sent on active service to Palestine, where trouble was reaching breaking point. Not only were the indigenous Arabs incensed by the mass immigration of European Jews, but there was also open rebellion against British rule, and it was apparently down to us to keep the peace.
Our men were trimmed to fighting fit. Though discipline was down to the last blink of an eyelash, we were only human, and still young and naïve. Our inexperience meant that most of us lacked the understanding of the sort of dangers that lay waiting for soldiers in an active war zone, and most of us were looking forward to the adventure. I for one had always wanted to visit the Holy Land and was filled with a feverish excitement, never once fearing that any kind of harm might befall me.
As it happened, our first tour of Palestine did indeed turn out to be more of a holiday than a military operation. It was almost as if Mr Thomas Cook was there in person to guide us around, as we seemed to do more sightseeing than fighting; shooting more films than bullets. Rumour had it that when the rebels heard the British Guards were on their way, they decided to ask for a truce, so all was calm and peaceful when we arrived in October 1936.
We started our journey as we meant to go on, setting sail on board the luxurious liner, SS Laurentic, which had been chartered especially for us on its return from a Mediterranean cruise. As we steamed out from Southampton Docks, the regimental band, which never failed us, was there in all its glory, playing martial airs. The last notes I heard were the immortal strains of Auld Lang Syne before the shores of England vanished into the blue.
We were six to a cabin, and to us, used to being cooped up in the hold with a filthy old hammock alongside a couple of dozen sweaty bodies, this felt like a luxury. Our days at sea were filled with concerts, swimming in the ship’s pool, setting obstacle courses for each other along the decks, and firing live ammunition at balloons. Early one morning I was taking a stroll along the decks, playing my mouth organ to while the time away, when I happened to pass the ship’s padre on his way to the little chapel. He was carrying what looked like a stack of hand-drawn posters.
‘You play very well,’ he noted. ‘I’m going to be putting on a talent show tonight for all the troops to enter, and there’ll be a prize for the best turn. Pass the word around the ship and make sure your name is down. The details are on these notices, which I’ll be pinning up around the ship for everyone to see.’
I was rather flattered by this. I’d been playing the mouth organ since my young days at Mount Sackville, purely for my own amusement, but until that moment it never occurred to me that anyone else would possibly be interested in listening to me. I thanked the padre and went around telling all the lads about the concert, and was surprised by the number of men who also owned harmonicas. A few of us decided that, with some practice, we might play well together, so we began to prepare a routine we could perform.
We were third on the bill that evening and though the competition was tough – with some of the lads having formed a rather decent barber shop quartet, others reciting poetry and some even dancing a ballet – our performance received a standing ovation, and to our astonishment we won first prize: about a ton of cigarettes. The commanding officer, who’d applauded and cheered with the rest of the audience, took me to one side after the concert and told me to carry on with the group, as it would be a booster to morale during the bleak days that lay ahead.
Our liner docked at the city of Haifa on 1 October 1936. We crammed the rails to get a good look at this new land and were greeted by the sight of an enormous crowd of barefoot natives who’d gathered in their hundreds looking for money. They were all in rags, and looked extremely thin.
It was winter back in England, but here the sun was a glowing red ball, searing down upon us. The surrounding hills were earthy and bare, but on top of Mount Hebron there was a white covering of snow. It reminded me of Mother’s Sunday tea table, adorned with its spotless tablecloth.
1930s: Paddy and his boxing trophies.
The whole battalion paraded off the ship and formed up in line by the side of the docks. As an added bit of swank we’d been ordered to wear puttees around our lower legs and to tuck our khaki-drill slack into them like the Foreign Legion. Headed by the Corps of Drums, and the commanding officer mounted on horseback, we followed the battalion Colours, company by company. As we marched through the city and up towards the hills, we passed many British Army camps, and some of the remarks from the troops were ripe.
‘Go home, Guards – the war is over.’
‘Look out that you don’t get your uniforms dirty.’
‘You’ve lost your way – this isn’t Blighty!’
At the time I couldn’t find the right word to explain their hostile behaviour, but now I can understand. They were slaphappy. They’d no doubt experienced terrible times, having been sniped at every day by the rebels, had their trucks blown up by landmines, and had experienced all the other terrible things that come with unrest in a land torn apart by strife.
We carried on undaunted, and after some miles we finally reached our dusty encampment where we were to spend the night. It wasn’t grand. There were a few tents for the officers’ mess (an absolute must) and a few tents for our provisions. There was nothing else for miles; nothing except trees, rocks and undergrowth. Those of us not fortunate enough to have a commission laid out our groundsheets between two poles and hoped for the best.
We settled down that night amongst the hills, hoping for a restful sleep, but it wasn’t to be. Some chaps awoke in the darkness, bathed in sweat, having been disturbed by the calls of the pyeards. These unworldly creatures reminded me of angry banshees, wailing inharmoniously in the night. The Palestinian wilderness abounded with these wild canines, which only came out after sundown.
One or two of the men were bitten by scorpions during the night, and it was no wonder. Our juicy white flesh was new, fresh and apparently tasty. Thankfully, the medical officer had a cure, and this was to create an incision with a knife or razor blade crossways over the wound, which was then soaked with iodine. It was painful but essential, for if left unattended, a wound like that could prove fatal.
I gazed up at the stars as I lay beneath them. My makeshift tent had collapsed, though I wasn’t too concerned as the temperature hadn’t dropped. It was surprising how close the stars seemed when one was under the Eastern sky.
Reveille sounded on the bugle the next morning as if declaring to the whole country: ‘It is a beautiful morning but watch your step: the Guards are here!’
Palestine, 1938: an alleged photograph of Fawzi Bey, commander of the Arab rebels.
Before we knew it, we were up, washed, fed and ready. We were marched several more miles to a local railway station where we were rammed into the oldest looking train carriages I’d ever seen. They had the letters PSR painted on the side, which stood for ‘Palestine State Railways’. We wondered how our superior officers would enjoy travelling third class, but as professional as ever, their faces betrayed no hint of displeasure at any point during the journey.
As the rickety old carriages bumped and swayed through the foothills of the mountains, my Wolseley helmet, complete with red plume and large, shining badge of my regiment, fell through the open window. It rocketed down among the sandblasted boulders and out of sight. I knew I’d be in so much trouble, and my imagination began conjuring terrible visions of a sharp-eyed Arabian rebel fingering it with delight.
‘See, I have beheaded an accursed Englishman!’ he declared in my mind, presenting it to his smirking leader, Fawzi Bey, who in turn would send it to the British Governor of Palestine with his compliments.
Would I lose my stripes for this? I fretted for the rest of the journey, but nothing serious happened, except a brief reprimand from the sergeant major.
‘It’s a pity you didn’t fall out with it,’ he said in his usual brusque manner. ‘A right sight you’ll look, marching past the general officer commanding without headdress.’
Thankfully I was issued a replacement. We Guardsmen had strict orders to wear headdress from sunup until sundown. Why this was, I’ll never know, but in about 1940 this order was revoked, and the army Wolseley helmet went out of fashion.
Under the Balfour Declaration of 1917, Jewish people from every nation were given a right to establish a home in Palestine, the land of their forefathers, if they so desired. In the years preceding the Second World War, thousands of them suddenly began taking advantage of this liberty all at the same time, and were buying up as much land in this part of the world as they could.
‘The Jew is pushing us out of our rightful land!’ was the cry that was taken up all over the Middle East by the Arabs, their brothers, cousins and all their brethren.
The British soldier, as usual, was the man in between, and a decidedly unpleasant task it was. The intensity of hatred felt by the Arab for the Jew shocked me to my core; but whatever the natives thought about their new neighbours, the latter brought a prosperity to the land that had never before been realized by the former. Through new ideas, hard work and a fanatical love for the Holy Land, the country began to thrive. The plots the Jews had purchased suddenly began springing up with all kinds of vegetation that the Arabs had never dreamed possible, and this caused even more resentment. It all boiled down to the fact that both races of men felt that they, and they alone, were entitled to inhabit the nation, and neither could live in harmony with the other.
On a personal level I found the Arabs to be a friendly lot, and rather innocent at heart. Their carefree manner meant that they tended to avoid doing more work than was absolutely necessary. There was an old Arabic saying that went: ‘Yimkin bukra fil mishmish’, which, when translated into English, meant: ‘Maybe tomorrow, when the apricots grow.’ In other words, never! This proverb had been handed down through the generations, and though its origins had been lost in the midst of time, many believed that it referred to a foolish Englishman who once tried to grow apricots without success.
The Jewish immigrants, on the other hand, were a hardworking sect whose resilience was admirable. They didn’t fraternize much with us Tommies, and we got the distinct impression that they resented our presence in the land. With this in mind, we tried our best to remain as low key as possible for the duration of our tour.
The Mount of Olives, 1936: the ruined Augusta Victoria Hospital, where the 3rd Battalion of the Coldstream Guards were to be stationed.
The Mount of Olives, 1936: fancying himself as ‘Paddy of Arabia’.
My battalion was stationed atop the celebrated Mount of Olives in a large, ruined building known as the Augusta Victoria Hospital. It had once housed German pilgrims before being transformed into a military infirmary during the First World War, but this onetime hospice was damaged, almost beyond repair, by an earthquake that struck the region in the late 1920s. Surrounded by pine and palm trees, which gave off a lovely fresh smell that whetted the palate, this decaying stone palace was our home for the next few months.
Armed with buckets, brooms and scrubbing brushes, we cleaned the place from top to bottom. Though the weather was warm the floors were marble and the rooms were incredibly large with no means of warming them up, except for the army stoves, which, when not choking one to death with the paraffin fumes, more often than not had wick trouble, and there was always a shortage of new wick.
Despite these little issues, my time on the Mount of Olives, overlooking the city of Jerusalem, was a momentous experience. Life was calm and serene, and we had little work to do. From the windows of our sanctuary one would never have guessed that turmoil was plaguing the scarred yet beautiful land below.
From the rear of the hospice we could look down into the wilderness where Satan had tried to tempt Christ. It was easy to picture the stories from the Bible with clarity as I gazed for miles across this netherworld, where no one but the desert dogs found sanctuary. Sound carried for miles out here, and in the dead of night the distant pyeards would let out their bloodcurdling howls. It was quite some time before we learnt to sleep undisturbed, and one or two fellows would often wake from their slumber in terror, believing that the night prowlers were right beside them. Our beds were not at all comfortable, which didn’t make sleep any easier. Each man was issued with three bed boards and a single blanket to sleep on, and the ‘pillow’ was one’s kit bag; but like everything else in the army, you got used to it and soldiered on.
The Mount of Olives, 1936: the view over the wilderness.
Jerusalem, 1936: a view of the Holy City.
After a few days, which were filled with lectures on what was expected of us, we were allowed out in pairs. There was much to be seen and various tours were arranged to cover all the places of interest. Every day was a holiday, and when we weren’t on patrol we went exploring.
There was the Old City and the New City of Jerusalem. I always imagined the Old City, surrounded by its thick, stone walls, had changed little since the days when those feet of ancient time had walked upon its uneven streets. The colourful shops, houses and marketplaces had been built almost on top of each other, and the narrow alleyways twisted and turned in all directions. Black hosts of flies swarmed everywhere, but through the filth and the dirt was an ever-present aroma of fresh food and incense, which helped to mask all the other smells.
Life proceeded in this land in much the same way as it had for millennia. The biblical stories that dear old Mother Patrick had told us were unfolding before my eyes. The prophets; the moneylenders; the beggars in rags; the afflicted; and the asses and donkeys all roamed around the streets together as one. The only difference now was that it was British soldiers, instead of Roman, who were to be seen patrolling the city.
Palestine, 1936: Paddy (second from right) and friends taking a dip in the Dead Sea.
Jerusalem, 1936: Palestinian police on patrol by the Wailing Wall.
Bethlehem, 1936: a typical market day street scene.
One day we marched from the Mount of Olives to the Mosque of Omar, one of the most sacred places in the Muslim world. This was just one of the many fantastic visits that we were lucky enough to make. We’d been told to wear clean socks, as nobody was allowed inside in his footwear.
On arrival, a wily Arab at the steps to the building offered each of us the hire of a pair of sandals. We duly placed our shining army boots in neat rows outside the entrance and dropped a few piastres into his hands, trusting he’d keep them safe until we came out. Low and behold, on our return we found that two pairs of boots were missing, and the wily one was gone. He never returned, and neither did the boots. Two crestfallen Guardsmen were left on the steps of the Mosque in their stockinged feet, as neither of them had hired sandals, and remained there in humble meditation for several hours until a red-faced comrade had the chance to race back from the Mount of Olives with their second-best footwear.
Jerusalem, 1936: an Arab rioters’ conference. Paddy and his men later arrested everyone in attendance.
Jerusalem, 1936: Paddy (far right) visiting the Mosque of Omar.
After exploring Jerusalem, we made our way to see the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the place of Christ’s crucifixion. After an hour or two I left full of wonder, with an affirmed belief in my Christian faith. Like many others I’d come away with a pocket full of rosary beads and some holy medals as souvenirs of our visit; but imagine my surprise when my sightseeing buddy handed me an old key.
‘You’re Irish, Paddy,’ he whispered, thrusting the rusty old thing into my hand. ‘Add this to your collection; it’s the key to the tomb of the Lord!’
I blinked in surprise and asked him what on earth he was talking about.
‘It, um, fell onto the floor as we were going inside,’ he explained, ‘so I picked it up and thought you might like to keep it, seeing as you’re Catholic.’
I didn’t feel too comfortable about this and felt the item should have been restored to its rightful place. I returned to the church to hand it in, but the priest simply smiled and told me to keep it as they had a spare.
The next time I travelled home to Ireland I presented the key to my mother as a surprise gift. At first she was horrified, but after I explained the story to her, she had the key plated and inscribed; and from that day forward it was most reverently handled by my family. Many years later Mother told me that every night during the Second World War she’d held the key to her heart and prayed for my safe return.
It was Christmas in the Holy City. The weather was getting cold and our time in this beautiful land had come to an end. We trooped up the gangplank of SS Laurentic, looking forward to returning to England, but somehow or another feeling a little sorry to be leaving. The past couple of months had been an experience that we were lucky to have had, and would certainly never forget.
Before we arrived back in England the news reached us that King Edward VIII had abdicated in favour of his brother, Prince Albert, Duke of York. This emphatic proclamation meant that our king had been Britain’s shortest reigning monarch since the days of Lady Jane Grey. I recalled to mind the day of the funeral of George V, when my battalion had stood to attention as we lined the route on the Mall. I remembered the sombre expressions upon the faces of his four sons as they passed by. How could the shy and retiring Duke of York possibly have foreseen that the weighty crown was destined to rest upon his head? A great burden had fallen on unprepared shoulders; but as history recalls, he carried this burden with humility.
My final year of service in England was spent training in preparation for our attendance at the coronation of His Majesty King George VI. When the great day dawned on 12 May 1937, the capital city looked her best. A festive spirit filled the air; visitors, photographers and news reporters from across the world had flocked in their thousands to witness the spectacle. Even the heavy rumblings in Hitler’s Germany couldn’t stifle the excitement. Bunting, streamers and flags of every nation were proudly on display, and street parties were held all over the country by revellers in outfits of red, white and blue.
Chapelizod, 1936: a portrait of Joseph and Annie Rochford.
Jerusalem, 1936: the Coldstream Guards marching to church from the Mount of Olives.
We were roused at 4.30 am that morning. After breakfast we took up our positions outside Buckingham Palace at the Queen Victoria Memorial. Even at such an early hour the streets were crammed with people. The rain held off until later in the day, at which point it began to pour, but this did little to dampen the enthusiasm of the joyous crowds. Thousands of scarlet-clad Guardsmen lined the roads, their bearskins groomed, and the horses of the Household Cavalry sporting glistening coats.
The procession commenced at 8.40 am, when the magnificent royal carriage drove into view. I saw His Majesty King George sitting calmly inside. He looked thoughtful and passive under his cap of submission, though it was hardly surprising. Sitting gracefully beside him was his beloved wife, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth, and joining the royal couple were the two lovely little princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, whose carefree smiles beamed out of the windows.
As the golden carriage passed by it was difficult to hear the word of command, ‘Royal salute, present arms’, because the cheers from the crowd were so tremendous. Even the corporation dustman with his horse and cart received a special cheer as he passed by.
The ceremony itself took place inside Westminster Abbey, and once our king and queen had been crowned we were marched back to barracks. On the way through the assembled throng people kept offering us drinks, which all except for one Guardsman declined. (He was punished later.) We were allowed to have the rest of the evening off, so most of us went back into London to join in the festivities. The street outside the palace was swarming with people, and many times our new king and queen, along with other members of the Royal Family, came out onto the balcony to greet their subjects and watch the firework display, which lasted long into the early hours.
It was a frosty November dawn when we received orders to relieve the 2nd Battalion of the Grenadier Guards, who were serving in Alexandria, Egypt. We were told it was to be a normal peacetime tour lasting eighteen months, and were given embarkation leave prior to our departure. I travelled home to Chapelizod for a few snatched moments with my loved ones. At the end of my brief visit my brothers and sisters came to see me off, and that was the first time Father hadn’t taken me to the docks himself to bid me a final farewell. I did wonder why that was, but when I arrived back at barracks there was too much going on for me to dwell on it any longer.
Somewhere in Hertfordshire, 1937: Paddy and the troops on manoeuvres, shortly before leaving for Egypt.
1937: HMT Dunera, the ship that took the 3rd Battalion of the Coldstream Guards to Egypt.
It was bitterly cold when we embarked. As always, the faithful regimental band played for us as we waved at the well-wishers who’d gathered to bid us bon voyage. Mothers, wives, sisters and girlfriends all blew teary kisses towards their men.
The air became milder as we sailed further from home, and I knew we couldn’t be far from our destination. It was during the early hours one morning when I was roused by a pal and told we were finally approaching Alexandria. I went onto the deck of HMT Dunera and breathed in the warm, sea air. I could see bright city lights ahead, twinkling like fireflies in the distance. The Rue Corniche was a main road through Alexandria that swung down from Abū Qīr, a village in Egypt that was made famous by the sea battle in 1798 when Lord Nelson defeated the French fleet, resulting in the British landings in Egypt. The lights had the appearance of a diamond necklace draped across the skyline, which earned the road the colloquial nickname ‘Queen Nazli’s Necklace’. She was the beautiful and much younger wife of the late King Fuad, and the mother of the present ruler, King Farouk I, the gluttonous monarch considered by many to be one of the most crackpot leaders of all time.
Any apprehension I felt about this voyage was taken by the breeze, and as I stood in the night air, I felt a shiver of excitement. I wondered what adventures awaited me in this historic land of pharaohs and kings, where we were due to arrive at dawn.