We arrived in Larne just before daybreak and it was not long before the unit was speeding westward through lovely countryside. Towards midday we arrived at a little station in County Down and marched four miles to camp, an attractive spot which, as it turned out, was to be our home for over a year. Here we became III Corps Engineers, the whole formation being stationed in Northern Ireland.
Our surroundings consisted of a small river winding round two sides of a hill, with thickly wooded slopes. The hill was surmounted by a castle and by the river bank was a flat strip of terrain just wide enough for the company camps. Nearby was a typical small Irish town, Gildford, near Portadown, with its grey stone houses, market place, and the station of the Royal Ulster Constabulary, watching and waiting for any sign of lawlessness, with rather more earnestness than we associated with a police station in this country. On the outskirts opposite the castle stood a large linen mill; the one local industry. Through the little town ran one wide street with its shops and inns, peopled with the queer mixture of intensely loyal folk and a minority who were not so friendly. Never have troops received a more spontaneous welcome and the months that followed established a firm friendship until, at the day of parting, we might have been the County Down Militia of which they sing over their pots of beer. The inevitable two churches, one Protestant and the other Catholic, showed how religious divisions permeate the lives and thoughts of the people in this delightful land: a fact quite beyond the comprehension of the ordinary Englishman, but there it is, a sort of armed neutrality based upon things of the next world but rigidly applied to the things of this life, without compromise or understanding. Irish hospitality has to be experienced to be appreciated. I suppose it could best be described as benevolent feudalism. While the officers were entertained by the Castle and the managing director of the Mill, the NCOs experienced the thrill of a bit of rabbiting with the surrounding farmers, and every sapper had a ‘mother-in-law’ for an occasional meal and chat by the fireside in an Irish home.
Meanwhile training, and still more training, resulted in months of practical exercises ‘up on wheels’. We got to know the country from Donaghadee to Sion Mills, and Londonderry to Newry, with special references to the rivers! How many times we spent the night bridging those rivers to get divisions over to attack imaginary landings of ‘highly mechanized enemy forces which had established a bridgehead at . . .’: those treks out to a concentration area before dark, then the dispatch of companies and equipment to forward harbours and concealment until the appropriate moment! If it sounds easy, just ponder the concealment of an RASC bridging train of say sixty vehicles, plus all your own transport from the watchful eye of low flying enemy aircraft and a posse of umpires all eager to justify their existence. The subalterns who went forward on the reconnaissance solemnly swear that they have walked the river banks of all Northern Ireland at one time or another. Meantime I would get their reports back, and after consultation with ‘G’ staff would allot tasks and equipment, and we would spend yet another night under the stars, manhandling the heavy gear in the silence and murky darkness of a night without a moon. It became a general belief with the men that there was no moonlight in Ireland, a condition noted with considerable emphasis on these occasions.
Sometimes we would lose the ‘battle’, which meant a withdrawal and this entailed preparing bridges for demolition along a series of river lines. The only real satisfaction obtainable, e.g. blowing up the bridges, was denied us, as apparently the County Council would take a poor view of this and anyway there was no enemy except the umpires, and at times the Directing Staff!
We were still required by the War Office to produce demolition parties on an ‘as required’ basis and as a result we were allowed the additional manpower to form a Holding Company for this express purpose. It was considered unfair on the Field Companies in the unit who were supporting III Corps to be continually denuded of officers and men.
The Holding Company practised beach landings at a quiet spot on the eastern seaboard that was on Lord Downshire’s estate at Dundrum near Newcastle. This entailed hard going, a good quota of duckings and some excitement. A string of craft in tow, loaded with men and equipment in a strong tideway on a dark night can be difficult. At least it calls for a fair degree of watermanship and boat sense, plus a well developed sense of humour. The great compensation for the company was the opportunities offered for netting salmon in the river bounding the estate. With ‘local’ tuition they became quite expert and any day in season the cookhouse bore evidence of the crime. It was surprising how our other Field Companies miles away were anxious to visit them and liaise for not always honourable reasons.
During our stay in Ireland our only contact with the real war, apart from a large party who went to the Middle East and an expedition to Spitzbergen, was on the two occasions when Belfast was raided and we were detailed to assist in clearing up the mess. It was almost like being at home again in South England; all the familiar tasks, the smell and heat of smouldering houses and the demolishing of unsafe structures. Perhaps the highlight was the blowing up of a tapering church spire that was unsafe and leaning. It was one of the few remaining structures we had not tackled at one time or another. There was much professional rivalry about this job within the formation and in the event it was a clean drop without damage to nearby property.
Then there were long marches. As we did not always move about in motor transport, once a week all hands had a route march of about eighteen miles through the surrounding country. The days when this took place were varied, and not announced ahead of time. Out we went, with the band playing a lively air and heads high, after a few miles the hourly halts seemed to get further and further apart, but it is surprising how after a few months training the capacity to stay the distance increased. When approaching camp after these foot slogging exercises, apart from looking red faced and a trifle dusty, with the strident Corps march ‘Wings’ to stir us on, we threw out our chests, and told each other that we could have gone for another twenty miles. This hardening process was varied with cross country work and night marches, but perhaps the highlight was a periodical trek of sixty or seventy miles to a distant range; this used to take three days each way, bivouacking at night under the trees and enjoying every minute. Strangely enough the scores on the ranges were better too, than on occasions when for want of time we went in vehicles.
Short of being at war, this enforced period of waiting in Ireland was excellent value as regards training, and a pleasant experience which left its mark upon the formation; even the band adopted one or two Irish airs as part of its repertoire. Some of the more adventurous of the Corps married colleens to show their faith in the country. The highlight was a very occasional weekend in plain clothes down in Dublin, where the lighted shops and crowded streets gave one a reminder of pre-war conditions. One could buy a box of chocolates or silk stockings in anticipation of the next seven days leave in England, see a good show at the Abbey Theatre, visit the Curragh for an afternoon at the races, or merely sit in the lounge of the Gresham Hotel for a while, and watch the world and his wife go by. It is surprising what can be squeezed into forty-eight hours. The streets were fairly full of the soldiers of Eire, well turned out in the main, although mostly very young and rather shorter than our men. An occasional priest and members of a religious order jostling with the crowd of shoppers in O’Connell Street gave the place an odd air of neutrality; it seemed as though they were almost expecting war to come to them, but hoping that it would not. So many appeared to be sympathetic to the cause of the Allied nations that it was not easy to understand the peculiar position their government had maintained. Perhaps the most incongruous sight was the German and Italian flags in front of their consulates; a strange land indeed!
Perhaps the most widely appreciated amusements of the troops were the dances held in Lurgan Assembly rooms; these occasions were literally a manifestation of ‘Finnegan’s Ball’ itself come to life, where sapper, gunner and infanteer swung round with the local youth and beauty to the strains of a caley band. Many of the lads walked home anything up to twenty miles after the show rather than miss the fun, which is more surprising when one considers the tempo of the dances. The whole affair was a breathtaking gallop from start to finish, with stout and porter thrown in to help things along. It is no wonder that in addition to a few broken hearts, some heads suffered the same fate.
During the intervals in training and when we were not employed on ‘works’, that mystic word which covers anything from erecting temporary huts to permanent construction of one type or another, we were collecting engineer intelligence on roads, rivers, bridges, fords and, in general, the local resources of the six counties. This took us through the countryside from the hills in the west to the seaboard on the east, and brought us in contact with the country folk in the countless villages and hamlets. What a fund of amusement they were to us. No doubt they thought the same of us, particularly when the troops were detailed to assist in the unwelcome task of flax gathering.
If you open the Old Testament and turn to Nehemiah, look up the fourth chapter and run your finger down to the seventeenth verse you will read the following:
They which builded on the wall, and they that have burdens, with those that laded, every one with one of his hands wrought in the work, and with the other hand held a weapon. For the builders, every one had his sword girded by his side, and so builded.
Now it seems fairly obvious that Nehemiah must have been the first sapper. Not for one minute do I suppose they called him Director of Works, or Engineer in Chief in those days, but the simple fact stands out a mile. He had the idea which has been handed down through the centuries to the present day sapper; he was probably the first military bricklayer. The simplicity and clarity of the specifications shame the modern Army Council instruction by its directness. Taking Nehemiah’s precept as a guide, it is easy to see why we must build as well as fight. We have erected literally thousands of tin igloos styled Nissen huts, at the same time defacing many a decent property that remains in our fair land. Who has not entered a stately park, surrounded by a baronial wall, with its shady trees and elegant sweeps of parkland about some ancient home only to emerge some weeks later having transformed the whole place into serried rows of those tin-tack tabernacles! But there, the modern army must live somewhere. As if not content with our handiwork, we have driven roads hither and thither, put up incinerators, cookhouses and all the other eyesores scheduled as camp structures.
One can almost hear the modern Nehemiah saying as he enters a certain high building in Whitehall, ‘What about these sappers – are they holding their weapons at the correct angle?’ Calling his staff together to write instructions, training manuals, pocket books weighing many pounds and textbooks, all to teach the sapper how to hold and use that weapon in his other hand. (I wonder if the great Creator really feels that he gave the sapper one hand too few?) This elaboration of Nehemiah’s simple specification is forwarded ‘for information and necessary action’ through the appropriate channels, as it goes out in ever widening circles. Probably the medical branch is consulted for confirmation that sappers still have one spare hand; in any case the result is the same. Our sapper holds, wields, carries or has strapped to him various weapons and all the other warlike appliances of any infantry soldier. An interesting sidelight is that the instructions, training manuals, pocket books and pamphlets are all at great pains to point out that the building, lading, modern slaves of Nehemiah are COMBATANT TROOPS. Personally we could never think the individual sapper was in any danger of overlooking this aspect of his calling, judging from his appearance when dressed in battle order and close to the enemy.
When the troops have exhausted their patience roofing huts with tin sheets which harass and cut the hands, they break into brickwork and carry on the good work of ‘those who laded’ as the first Director of Works specified. At times when all the troops on hand are housed, they turn their attention to the RAF and lash out in concrete by the way of an extra aerodrome or two. Here the sappers really get down to it, with the aid of every modern mechanical appliance, literally plastering the fair face of the countryside with miles and miles of concrete runways. As if to prevent ideas becoming stereotyped the Herrenvolk come over and mutilate some town and indeed biblical prophecy brings the Corps into its own. They follow up those good Christian souls who minister to the suffering and once they have got the remains of the town in their hands, then you see some lading. They pull down, blow up and drag things away until an unappreciative borough surveyor thinks that the sappers have done more harm than the Germans.
But enough of this building and lading; take another look at the specifications, not only must we be ‘in the work’ but, leaving nothing to chance, we must hold a weapon in the other hand. This is clearly the mandate. When the entire ‘weapon holding’ really gets down to the ordinary soldiers, styled Field Companies RE, then things begin to happen. They take us out for days at a time waging a bloody war against Redland or Blueland. We go forward, carry out the necessary reconnaissance for assault over rivers (crossing by the perfectly good existing bridge if no umpire is about). At night we build girder bridges, or in an incredibly short time float pontoon equipment across the gap. I am not sure whether sappers regard humping pontoon units over a ploughed field in the dark as ‘LADING’ or as ‘WEAPON HOLDING’. Most of the muttered words and expression of opinion that I have heard on these occasions did not sound like either and are not repeatable.
When the season for formation (all arms) training is temporarily over – for like pheasant shooting it has a season – and when the shortage of huts, bricks and cement is acute, they take us to the ranges where flattening our tummies on the ground we really get down to the weapon holding business. If it is a fine day, without too much wind and shooting is in danger of becoming enjoyable, the formation gas officer comes upon the scene and gets us into gas masks. When the order comes round that no further ammunition will be issued until the next training period, what does a CRE do then? He makes them dig cunning holes in the ground and wrap the place round with skilfully concealed barbed wire.
At the end of the day when all are back in camp, the education officer gives a lecture on the ‘modern army’, the padre holds a prayer meeting, cadre classes for budding lance corporals begin, study groups sit down to work and a company sing song strikes up in the NAAFI. Meanwhile the section officers sit down to censor the men’s letters and then there are the visits and inspections by the staff.
On one occasion a general appeared at one of our camps; everything according to specification, gold oak leaves, red hatband and gorgets, brassard on arm, three rows of decorations, highly polished Sam Browne and field boots that dazzled. The guard turned out, were duly inspected in every detail and then dismissed. Meanwhile a well brought-up sapper dashed into the company office and ‘spilled the beans’ that something was happening at the Quarter Guard!
Now it so happened that on this particular afternoon the Company Commander was out, on official business be it noted, likewise the second in command. A hasty beat round by the CSM produced a newly joined subaltern whom he sat down in the OC’s chair. To lend colour to appearances in his strange surroundings, he began making notes from the latest training manual in the pending tray in front of him.
In due course the great one entered and faced the young man. ‘I am General Snodgrass’ quoted the visitor by way of introduction. By this time all attempts at realism, or even clear thinking was quite beyond the unhappy lad who promptly sprang to attention and saluted oblivious of the fact that he was bareheaded. The General sat down. The impressed representative of the OC mumbled the necessary apologies and explanations for the absence of his Company Commander. By this time the General, who turned out to be a very senior welfare officer, made his mission known. This was sufficiently encouraging to prompt the young officer to suggest the unit needed wireless sets as they only had one. The reply was, ‘We have none on hand – but I will make a note of it. Good afternoon.’
Curtains.
Then, of course, we all shared in another kind of occupation, which is something between running a hotel, life as a Justices’ Clerk in a petty sessions and an accountant. This is styled ‘Administration’. It would be unwise to say much about the threadbare subject of ‘filling in forms’, that persistent blight that intrudes upon our existence from the cradle to the grave. Precious little can be done in any phase of life nowadays without having to fill in a form to say when you were born, where you live, what you earn and those left behind when you die. In the Army they manage this form filling bee on intensive lines, even to the extent of running schools to teach the form filling habit to young aspirants for high positions. The matter does not stop there, however, for these ‘form conscious’ young men, when they become sufficiently senior discover that with the aid of the duplicator they can invent new forms, styled pro forma to distinguish the issue from the printed variety. With increasing experience these improvisations can be made even more difficult than the official forms. Then they send them out to a perspiring soldiery. Experience in the formation headquarters went to show that it is necessary to fill in 2.5 forms every day, seven days a week, e.g. over 900 per annum. If the requisite numbers of copies are used as a multiplier, the latter figure reaches over 3,000 sheets of paper containing statistical information.
Still another diversion for the young officers are Courts of Enquiry. These are convened by order of the CO. Three or four officers assemble at a time and place arranged, on a date specified, to examine witnesses and ascertain what happened to the missing blanket etc. In certain circumstances the Courts apportion blame, then when the proceedings (in quadruplicate) go back to the convenor, Sapper Smith usually has to pay or at least make some contribution to the National Exchequer according to his degree of delinquency. These proceedings are recorded upon a special Army Form, signed by all members of the board, each witnessed and then the forms are finally endorsed by the CO stamped with the office stamp and the party is over. Of course Higher Command may disagree with the endorsements, the method adopted by the Court, any or all of the evidence and then back comes the transcript again for the next session. During our stay in Ireland while quarrying one day a lone goat dropped dead nearby, well away from the blasting be it noted. Now the nanny was in an interesting condition and an asset to its owner who claimed the value of the goat and expected kid from the CO of the Field Company on this job. The result was a Court of Enquiry to ascertain the cause of the death of a pregnant goat on the date specified. These proceedings became a classic and circulated sub rosa quite a way to cause many a laugh.
Then there is the ‘concert’. Amongst the troops this function is taken really seriously. It represents the high spot of the cooperative ability, initiative, power to improvise and organization within the unit. Usually led by one of the subalterns and backed up by the sergeants, the performers steal off to some unoccupied shed or hut to rehearse. A fine display of minor tactics begins to be used in the life and the work of the company to account for people missing from ordinary parades and duties. The whole atmosphere is permeated with excuses for absences. Things in the company do not seem to be running quite as smoothly as usual; all sorts of people are missing at awkward times. Much depends upon the outlook of the OC at this critical stage; generally speaking it is considered strategically sound to keep him in the dark for as long as possible.
One day, towards the time of presentation of the performance, while on his rounds of the camp accompanied by the CSM, the OC may see the odd figure of a large raw-boned soldier, clad only in the scantiest female attire with a blonde wig, emerge from a hut. Recovering from his first shock, he is reassured that the morals of the company are as good as ever and it is merely the men rehearsing. After this stage the prospective concert assumes, quite unjustifiably, an official role and carpenters and electricians, scenic artists, musicians and whole cross sections of the unit become involved in the production of the show. Eventually the great night arrives and the whole unit squeezes into the improvised hall, where officers and men, packed in serried rows, are determined to enjoy themselves – and they do. The audience is quite prepared to take a hand in the proceedings if the fare provided does not come up to expectations. Much good humoured barracking and chaff is exchanged and, generally speaking, no quarter is either given or expected between performers and those on the other side of the footlights.
All the usual items of song and dance go with a swing, in any company there are always a few men with real musical ability, and every item is enjoyed either because it is good, or on account of the fun its poor quality provides the audience. The high spot of the evening is usually the sketch, in which the parts of company officers are played by the men in some such setting as the orderly room or at a kit inspection. All kinds of ridiculous situations are produced in quick succession to give the players an opportunity to imitate mannerisms or favourite expressions used by their officers. This invariably brings the house down and rounds off a rollicking night. These shows got up by the men themselves invariably please far more than the entertainment provided by outside agencies. One finds too that the unit that is good at its job is the unit which usually produces the best shows which I suppose is an indication of their cooperative ability and team spirit.
Hence it comes about that those humble disciples of Nehemiah, when not actually demolishing the works of others, building and lading themselves, or putting all else aside and indulging in an orgy of form filling, entertain each other and keep happy. One thing is certain, there is plenty on hand to keep them from becoming bored.
Another feature of life is best summoned up in the letters MT, for the mechanical transport of a formation brings great responsibility for training, maintenance and exercise, even in the peaceful surroundings of life at home. The raw material drafted in as drivers, RE, is a perpetual headache to most Company Commanders. They are lectured about the mysteries of the internal combustion engine, how it ‘comes in here and goes out there’, the intricacies of gearbox and differential, together with all the other odds and ends of a modern vehicle. They are then introduced to the art of map reading by an NCO who explains the necessity for three distinct types of North, magnetic, grid and true, after which they are put in the lorries for further practical instruction. Then the fun begins in deadly earnest. After spells in hospital and attendances at inquests, the survivors eventually emerge to be rediscovered as impeccable drivers in some night convoy. But it all takes time and patience, quite a lot of work for the workshops, an odd job or two for the doctors and plenty of form filling for the second in command.
The more adventurous are trained as dispatch riders, that peculiar breed of young men who seem to have missed their vocation by not joining the RAF. We had one with us in Ireland who, when he saw cattle ahead of the convoy, would zoom off at high speed, stop just short of the rear animal and put his engine into a succession of ear splitting backfires. The cows jumped over the hedges and with the road clear, the convoy would go through and this otherwise law abiding lad would meekly rejoin his section formation.
Such was our daily round, much the same as any other Field Company of the Royal Engineers, and as far as our domestic life goes, the same as any unit of the British Army.
Then came the time when rather more than usual activity at a certain port, all of which was mysterious at the time, was followed by the arrival of the Americans. They quickly infiltrated the whole country and soon our men were rubbing shoulders with the jaunty young men from ‘over there’. They too were well received by the Northern Counties, but the press in Eire reacted rather violently just in case they ventured south of the border.
The months slipped by, and with many postings away on promotion to other units, in addition to a contingent that went to the Middle East, and one or two jobs, it almost seemed as if we were in Ireland for the remainder of the war. Having commanded the unit since 1932 when it was raised, and in our many vicissitudes during wartime, I left the unit on promotion. A leave taking that was, to be sure! Before moving on, one of my last acts as CO was to find a niche for Corporal Holland who had been my driver and batman since the outset of war. He had taken on considerably more responsibilities in the running and administration in the HQ in the last year or so. The Holding Company, who were just leaving us and converting into a parachute squadron, needed an MT sergeant. I had no reservations about sending him down to them and he was delighted. He was a very high grade man and popular in the unit so they had no doubts about accepting him.