British Voices (23 page)

Generally, in their remarks it seemed to me, while kindly disposed to our foibles, they were very much ‘on target', and I thought how little the soldiers missed regarding the strengths and weaknesses of their officer's characters. Finally they got to one of my brother officer's names, a nice man, but certainly ineffectual. The reader of his name dismissed him with but one short contemptuous remark ... 'Ach, Haskett, he's no an officer at all, at all, the poor mannie, chust a choke'.

As was natural, as the Sinn Féin movement gradually gathered strength, fewer and fewer of the local Irish families attempted to entertain Army officers from a very natural fear of reprisals; but a definite local exception was the family of the well known local bank manager, belonging to an old Irish Roman Catholic family. He had several daughters, and very good looking and charming girls they were, and so partly due to his courageous attitude, at one period three of his daughters became engaged to no less than three of our Protestant Cameron officers. Later two of these engagements ended in marriage, to my great friend Colin Cameron, and to Charlie Macleod (Dalvey), son of the old Dalvey, who commanded a company in the 3rd Battalion when I joined at Invergorden, some seven years earlier.

As regards the soldiers, there is no doubt but at this time, a good deal of hard drinking went on, especially in the Sergeants' Mess, and it was no wonder, for when off duty there was so little for them to do, cooped up as we were in a small camp surrounded by sentries and barbed wire. We did our best with games in camp and whist drives and the like, but we were allowed no wives or families there, and few of the local Irish girls dared to be seen with a British soldier.

I had an old orderly room clerk sergeant whom I knew very well was a hard drinker, though one never saw him drunk. Suddenly the poor man went sick, and it was finally diagnosed as lead poisoning. The cause was that in the Sergeants' Mess there was a lead pipe from the beer barrel, in which the first pint drawn off, spent the night. He was invariably the first man to drink a pint in the morning, hence his illness.

When New Year's Day came, I, as Adjutant, ordered double guards and sentries all round our perimeter wire, as knowing what would happen inside camp it seemed an obvious precaution. All the various companies had the usual tremendous New Years' dinners, and as Adjutant I had to go round with the Commanding Officer and drink a toast of neat whisky, to the officers and men of each company.

As a result of this, and a heavy midday meal, I was just settling down to a New Year's afternoon nap, when the Brigade Headquarters phoned me up, (it was probably Monty), as Brigade Major, himself ) and gave orders that a large party was to be sent out at once in our lorries, to hunt for a suspected ambush, or some such ploy, ten or twenty miles away.

Now normally we always had a platoon on duty for an instant job like this, and all one did was to order the Guard Bugler to sound three ‘G's' on his bugle and the duty party turned out at the double, while the duty lorries warmed their engines. Now the RSM and I had already picked some 50 well known teetotallers that day as all the camp guards, and I felt that to order out the standby duty troops at 3pm on New Year's day might be tricky for the officers concerned. I decided, therefore, to sound the camp fire alarm, whereby every single officer and man in camp had to fall in at the double on parade. Several hundred men turned out, a good few in no shape for any lorried patrol, and I selected a composite force there and then from all the remaining teetotallers.

At last the British Government in July 1921 decided to treat and compromise with the rebel leaders. To my mind this was the only sensible course left open to them, for though no doubt we, in the Army, given the powers of life and death, and official policy of ruthlessness, could easily have quelled the actual active Sinn Féin revolt, by means of really stern measures backed by the British Government, I feel certain the discontent would have merely smouldered underground. It would have burst into flames as soon as we withdrew. The really brutal measures which Cumberland and his Army took in Scotland in 1745, finally to crush the rising there, would never have been tolerated by public opinion in Britain in 1921!

Soon after the Armistice, or truce, in Ireland, we, of the Camerons, were ordered back to Aldershot, and I do not think a single officer or man was sorry to leave the, so called, Emerald Isle behind us. Before we left Ireland, we were once more paraded by General Strickland in Belmont Hutments, and this time he was most complimentary in his remarks, on the part of we had played, and our spirit and morale. A few days later we embarked on a troopship in Cork Harbour on one of the most stormy nights of the whole year.

Once more we were back at peacetime soldiering, but after the
Great War, North Russia, and then Southern Ireland, I had got so used to sleeping with a loaded pistol under my pillow, I found it quite difficult to drop the habit for many a month to come.

Detail

This account is taken from the personal papers of the Lt Colonel Hughes-Hallett, and concerns his service with the King's Shropshire Light Infantry in Ireland from 1919 to 1922. He joined the British Army in September 1914, enlisting in the 9th Battalion Worcestershire Regiment at Tidworth, Wiltshire. His training as a junior officer began in October 1914, when he joined the 7th Battalion King's Shropshire Light Infantry. He served in France and Belgium during the First World War, and as a company commander at the Ypres salient from 1915 to 1916. He was seriously wounded in the Battle of Bazentin Ridge in 1916. After his service in Ireland, he was a company commander with the 1st Battalion KSLI in India from March 1925 to February 1934, serving at Poona, Dinapore, Muzaffapore, Razmak, Rawalpindi and Kuldana. During the Second World War, he was on garrison duty in Bermuda and in the Netherlands West Indies.

With 2/KSLI in Ireland 1919 to 1922

I
JOINED THE
2nd Battalion at Fermoy, County Cork, in August 1919, from half-pay, and served with them in various stations until early 1922. Fermoy had been a pre-war station for the regiment and a number of regimental wives came from there. It had, I gathered, always been a happy station. One of my uncles had commanded his regiment there and my sisters had much enjoyed visiting their aunt and family there. When I first arrived, all seemed to be at peace – tennis parties and so forth in the surrounded country. Then – one Sunday – while the main body of the Battalion was falling-in in front of the Church, after Church parade, a hatless soldier rushed up calling out that he had a message for the CO. After being jumped on(!) by the RSM, he was fortunately seen by the CO, who called him up. His story was that he was one of the Wesleyan Party, going to their chapel in Patrick Street, some ‘baker's dozen' strong. As they filed into the chapel doorway (he was the last man in the file and a cross-country runner) a gang of locals, sitting lounging around – in ambush – on various walls, suddenly produced revolvers and ‘loaded' staves from their sleeves, and opened up on the backs of the troops at point blank range. The troops were carrying their rifles (for safety, just as was the custom in India), but no ammunition. One soldier (Private Lloyd) was killed on the spot and the rest knocked down. Their assailants seized their rifles (thirteen, I think) and drove off towards Cork (where they had come from). Trees, which had been sawn were pulled down to block the road from pursuit. All the houses round at once barricaded themselves in, and – except for the Wesleyan Minister and his wife – who did everything they could to help – not one soul was prepared to assist the injured men, even with a glass of water, although many of them must have known what was ‘in the off '. The last soldier in the queue, who saw what was about to happen, knocked down several men and leapt the wall across the road, into the cattle market and ran to where he knew the battalion would be parading. As he ran through the built-up area he threw his rifle to an old woman ordering her to hide it. Hatless, he raced towards the Colonel. Lieutenant Norton was ordered to rush his platoon down into the town and round to the scene of the outrage; but it was too late. The murdering thugs had bolted. A coroner's inquest was ordered, and, owing to the machinations of a priest, it brought in a verdict of ‘Accidental death, unpremeditated'. That was too much for the troops, many of whom were ‘War' soldiers awaiting demobilisation. That evening we were at dinner in Mess, when the Mess Sergeant rushed in to say that ‘The troops were in the town'.

The sound of breaking glass was heard, from the town, a few hundred yards away across the river (there was only the one bridge giving access). Everybody hurried to exchange mess-jacket for tweed coat and cap and hastened into the town. The Sergeant's Mess had been equally surprised and knew nothing of what was to occur. The troops had worked out a splendid plan. First they sent a screen ahead of the main body to clear the streets – ordering everybody, who was on foot, into their houses and to stay there. Then the demolition party proceeded to every shop or place of business of the coroner and the members of the jury, who had brought in their infamous verdict. I can't recall all the details, but the Jeweller (Barker?), the Boot Shop (Tyler), and the Wine Shop and particularly the foreman of the Jury, etc., were all faithfully dealt with. Trays of rings and watches were soon being flung into the river. A chain of men supervised by a captain, who was later to become Chief Constable of Devon, smashed bottles on the pavement, and drink flowed in a stream down the gutter. The Boot Shop produced one incident that could only be Irish. An old woman – looter – like jackals they had soon got wind of matters – had filled a sack with boots and shoes, but when she had reached the exit-door she realised she had no laces. She hurried back to collect some, only for another looter to make-off with the sack. There she stood shouting for the police, as somebody was ‘after stealing her boots'!! The fall-in was sounded at 10pm. Not a man was absent; and nobody was drunk. Next morning the Divisional Commander (Strickland) from Cork addressed the Battalion. He said we had had a damned dirty trick played on us and had had an adequate revenge. But enough was enough. It was his job to see that discipline was observed and that there would be no more. In the meanwhile the Battalion would be confined to Barracks. That was observed by all in the Regiment. However, that evening a large party of Gunners, who had not been privy to the first revenge, had spent the day making petrol torches etc., as they intended to burn down the Church of the offending priest. They assembled outside our barracks, while our men just sat on the wall. The Gunners kept calling ‘What's the matter with the Shropshires? Aren't you coming with us?' But our people said ‘No – they had done their bit'. Meanwhile I and Lieutenant Norton were sent on the double down to the town (leaving the barracks by a side exit; so the assembled Gunners would not see us go). Norton had to man the bridge over the river with fixed bayonets, I had to go into the town – clear St Patrick Street from end to end and keep it clear with my platoon in an open order of 4's (fixed bayonets) covering the road from pavement to pavement, and slowly sweep it clear, and keep it so. How long this lasted I can't recall, but at one time a senior RIC officer said to me that he hoped that the troops wouldn't get across the Bridge as at least 500 armed men had moved into the town during the day and were in every house round us and round the threatened Church!! I'm glad to say that they did not get across the Bridge!! The next move was that the Battalion, with Band and Colours, made a demonstration march thro' the town, it had been made very clear to the authorities that they had never yet apologised for the outrage and had not expressed one word of sorrow for the death of the soldier being killed in his chapel doorway, etc., etc. The march was carried out and Fermoy grovelled. But – how stupid can the authorities be?! After a few days, when we were top dogs again, they suddenly moved us to – of all places – Cork, from where our assailants had come. We moved into Victoria Barracks (since burnt down) alongside the Ox & Bucks LI. We had a double company detachment about six miles out at Ballincollig. I was with that lot – about half a dozen Subalterns under a Major, who was resigning and emigrating. Except for me, all the Subalterns were ex cavalry war-time promoted ‘rankers' (a splendid tough lot). We had to take turns to dine in Mess at Battalion headquarters on ‘Guest Nights'. I well remember my turn, as I had to cycle in in Mess Kit and, late at night, as I cycled back in the dark, I rounded a corner between high hedges slap into a parade of ‘Sinn Féiners' drilling. They were as much surprised as I was, and they all turned outwards and hung their heads so that I could not see their faces, I don't doubt my hair stood up a bit as I rode silently through! Our Fermoy incident was, I believe, the first incident of bloodshed after the quelling of the ‘1916 Easter Rising' (looked on by us as a stab-inthe-back, but differently by them!!). Cork was not a happy station. There was soon trouble, started by Sinn Féin gangs cutting off the hair of girls seen to be chatting with soldiers, who naturally resented it. Entrenching-tool handles soon found their real use, up the sleeve, and heads were being cracked and opponents being pushed into the river. So our next move was to the Curragh (County Kildare). But before we go there, I would say that we used to find an ‘Officers Guard' on important prisoners in Cork Gaol. I remember more than once being officer of the guard and marching with fixed bayonets from the Barracks the length of Patrick Street and spending my night outside the cell-door of The Countess Marcheviz (I can't spell her!), to be known as the ‘Stormy Petrel' of Irish politics. She was of good Irish family (Gore-Booth), but had married a Pole and become a fanatical rebel. I was to meet her again a half a century later, when I was reluctantly being forced to set foot in Ireland again, to do with some business connected with the death of an aunt of my wife's. I had gone for a stroll in Dublin on St Stephen's Green, which I had known long ago, and found myself alongside a statue. Looking up, it was to see that it was The Countess Marckeviz, as a national heroine!! So our next move – The Curragh, were stationed in Barracks, named after Wellington's famous Peninsular General Beresford, and from appearances, untouched since those days! The Battalion was dispersed with Company Detachments in places like Maryborough and Tullamore, with a smaller detachment at a house on the River Shannon, named Hunston House. Military training was NIL, except for Weapon Training Courses. I had become the Weapon Training Officer and Asst/Adjt. Patrols and raiding parties were often out at nights in pursuit of wanted men required by ‘Intelligence'. I recall one particular occasion, when I had been ordered to take my platoon, by night, in a lorry across The Bog of Allan, form a road-block with the idea of capturing a badly wanted ‘bad-hat', rumoured likely to come through. Our lorry proved too heavy for the bog road and sank through the surface. At dawn, while we were still endeavouring to get the lorry on to firm ground, a Sergeant of the RIC – that splendid body of men – cycled out from his Police Barrack near Edenderry, to see if he could help. He asked me how I would like his job separated so far from any help. I didn't think I would particularly relish it, but he went on ‘of all the ignorant, dirty, cruel and treacherous people commend me to the Irish, and – he went on – I'm an Irishman myself and I have never left Ireland'. I said to him – referring to the crofter-types going off to work – all these chaps seem very polite (touching their caps and saying ‘Marnin', Sgt', etc.). He turned to me and disdainfully asked ‘Did you ever meet an Irishman who wasn't polite – to your face? You wait until he's gone ten yards past you'!! In view of so much that had happened since ( and happens daily) I have never forgotten what he said. In those days the RIC were split up into small isolated police barracks, with their families. One Sinn Féin trick was to ring round and raid and burn. The Army Recruiting notices used to read ‘Join the Army and see the World'. It was quite usual to see scrawled under it ‘Join the RIC and see the Next World'.