And the third way they used to try and ... this was to destroy the back axle of the Crossley to break it ... they used to put potholes for about 100 yards all down the road so the Crossley coming along at speed would go bump, bump, bump, and the back axle which was a weak part of those Crossleys would possibly break.
Another nasty thing they used to do, about dusk they would put a piece of wire, or barbed wire, across the road neck high to catch people sitting in front in the neck there. And that being the case if when we had an armoured Crossley we used to put that in front to break the wire that night so that nobody was injured.
A friend of mine I knew could only speak like this [whispers] ... for the rest of their life because they were caught in the wire.
Interviewer : Was he the only casualty you knew of that kind?
GS : There were casualties in ambushes and one always had – when the road was blocked – to see that there was no ambush. [That was] the first thing one did before dealing with crossing the trench or getting round the tree. I wasn’t quite sure what your ...
Interviewer : I meant that did you ...
GS : That was the only one I heard had been caught in the net, yes. I wasn’t sure whether you meant that.
Interviewer : That’s what I meant.
GS : Yes.
Interviewer : Did you know of any Crossley tenders which had had their back axles broken by their methods?
GS : No, I didn’t, and none in the battalion did and I didn’t hear of any outsiders – being only a subaltern I probably wouldn’t.
Interviewer : Did you actually experience any ambushes yourself?
GS : No, I didn’t, no. If we went out we’d go out one way and come back another road so that they wouldn’t be lying up for us on the road we’d gone out by.
Interviewer : Did you go on a large number of patrols?
GS : Quite a few. Usually when one of the police barracks in my area were shot up – or had just a few shots fired at it which was a trick of the IRA to get the Army out and ambush them on the way out. But I never had any experience of ambushes. But if you’d like me to go on about a friend of mine?
Interviewer : Yes, please.
GS : He was stationed at Waterford and the Tramore Police Barracks had shots fired at it, and he was in mufti but the subaltern in charge of the party to go out was just new from Sandhurst and so he thought he’d better go with the party. And so off they went and they were ambushed on the way and it was the young subaltern’s Crossley that was ambushed.
But this officer in mufti found out where the firing was coming from. It was coming from a hedge overlooking the road. His vehicle wasn’t ambushed. And he went along that hedge – using his revolver as a humane killer – and killed about a dozen of them. They were so busy firing on to the road they didn’t realise what was happening.
And the IRA put up a memorial to the twelve who were killed in the Tramore ambush at the spot where the ambush took place.And this happened in 1921 and a private soldier in the battalion went across to Waterford in 1939 – that is eighteen years later – and in a pub he just mentioned that he was out there with the Devons in 1921 and a chap from the far end of the bar came along, ‘You were in the Devons were you?’ and produced a photo of this particular officer who was in mufti, and, ‘Well, do you know this officer?’. And so the chap, ‘Oh, no, I don’t know him’ – of course he did really. And he said, ‘Well, if you see him tell him we’re still after him’.
That officer was ordered by the colonel to leave Ireland next day and he was seconded to West Africa because he said to this officer, ‘Your life will not be worth a minute’s purchase if you remain here any longer. They’ll get you’.
Interviewer : Can you remember what his name was?
GS : As he’s dead now I will. His name was Valentine.
Interviewer : What was the morale like of your unit in Ireland?
GS : It was very high. We knew we were getting the better of the IRA. In my platoon detachment there were no trees cut down for trenches or any sign of activity within three miles of Enniscorthy itself.
Interviewer: Was Enniscorthy a village or a town?
GS : It was a little market town. And those on the run used to come in for, I suppose, a bath, a change of clothes, and we used to go out to visit places that we knew these chaps were, their home was, about twice a week. And it was always the old mother who used to answer the door and the look of relief on her face when she saw it was us and not the IRA because she was so frightened that the IRA had come along to take off the next son who was coming up to manhood. And I suppose it wouldn’t have been if the chap had been in the house. Now I could tell a story about that type of thing if you’d like to hear.
Interviewer : Please.
GS: Just before war broke out I was garrison adjutant, Devizes, and thefirst night I was there I was called to the telephone and there was obviously a Southern Irishman (as) the telephone orderly. And after I’d finished the call I said to him ‘You’re from Southern Ireland aren’t you?’. ‘Yes, sir’. ‘What’s your name?’. ‘O’Connor, sir’, then I asked him where he came from, he said, ‘Enniscorthy, sir’. I said, ‘Any relation to Ginger O’Connor?’. A look of surprise in his face. ‘That’s my brother, sir’. I said, ‘Well, I’m going to put you in the picture. We were after your brother, he was on the run and one night we nearly got him, his bed was warm.’ I always used to send the first party round the back of the house, the second party in front and the third party I used to go in and Ginger O’Connor had just got over the wall at the back before my chaps got there. The telephone orderly said, ‘Well, sir, you hadn’t got much chance really as I was a small boy of eight and we small boys were posted round Enniscorthy and any movement of you from the courthouse’ – which was our billets – ‘noise was spread abroad that you were out and everybody on the run skedaddled straight away’.
Interviewer : How did the Army treat the civilians in these searches?
GS : On the whole very well. There was an instance where a watch was stolen. When the woman came out saying her watch was stolen I immediately ordered the chaps to put their hats on the ground, turn out their pockets, keeping their pockets open and put everything in their hats, and there was no sign of the watch. But in a pawnbrokers later the watch appeared and the name of the chap appeared and we got him for theft on that evidence.
Interviewer : So he was one of your unit, was he?
GS : He was, yes. But that was the only trouble I had with them.
Interviewer : Was he punished for the theft?
GS : Yes, definitely.
Interviewer : What punishment did he get?
GS : Oh, I’ve forgotten these days – my memory’s not like it was – in my old age.
Interviewer: Did the Army do any damage in these searches?
GS : No, we were very careful not to. And in these houses we found hens in wardrobes nesting and we always picked up fleas. And I used to average about three fleas after each search that we took. That’s after the truce, the late summer of 1921, instead of having a rat week I had a flea week where we all, and the dogs, got Keatinged and scrubbed and ...
Interviewer : The dogs got what?
GS : Scrubbed and Keating’s Powder, you know, for fleas.
Interviewer : Did you have any Black and Tan Unit in your area?
GS: Yes. We were on a round-up exercise, we knew that the IRA were on the mountains, and we formed a block in one particular village. And the Black and Tans came along to the village when I was out on patrol and they nearly shot my sentry. The Black and Tans were a darned nuisance, they were a lot of ex-officers out of a job after the First War, and where we tried to make friends with the local Irish they just antagonised them completely.
Interviewer : How did they do that?
GS : By their behaviour in … I was going to say in everyway, in any way you can think of.
Interviewer: Can you give me an example?
GS: In their dealings with the
locals they treated them rough. I believe they used to have a lot of drunks and rather on that line. I’ve no experience of that of course, I was just told that.
Interviewer : What did the Army think of the Black and Tans?
GS : Oh, we didn’t like them. They were dealing with the IRA the way the IRA should be dealt with but it was with the civilian population that we didn’t like them, their behaviour towards them.
Interviewer : What were the relations like between the Army and the civilian population?
GS : Very good. As best as one could expect.
Interviewer : How did this show itself?
GS: Well, oh, I think any way that friendly relations could be. That is, we went to dances, we played hockey with civilians and they were quite pleased to see us. There was no trouble with the troops and civilians. I had no complaints from the police or civilians about the troops’ behaviour.
Interviewer : Did you ever meet with any hostility from the civilians?
GS : Not actual. When we joined the hockey club we were told that the local chemist and one of the doctors at the lunatic asylum which was outside, they refused to play hockey as long as we played. And so I said to the chap running the hockey, ‘Look, would you rather we didn’t play?’, and, ‘Oh, no, we want you to play. If they don’t want to play that’s up to them’. I said, ‘Well, don’t you consider that we should not play because we’ll be leaving and what will happen after we leave?’. ‘Oh, no, don’t let that worry you. We want you to play’.
Interviewer : You were talking earlier about knowing the name of this Ginger O’Connor who was on the run. How did you get such intelligence?
GS : I think it was ... We got it from the Royal Irish Constabulary as they were in those days.
Interviewer : And what opinion did you have of the Royal Irish Constabulary as a force?
GS : Oh, mainly a very high opinion. They were excellent at their job, those I dealt with, and I couldn’t speak higher – the Royal Irish Constabulary.
Interviewer : Now you mentioned the patrols that you were on and the occasional attacks of the IRA on barracks. Did you see any other action in Ireland?
GS :No
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Major General Hawes
Details
This is taken from an unpublished autobiography held in the Department of Documents at the Imperial War Museum. Major General Hawes began his career at the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich and from there joined the Royal Garrison Artillery. He served as a staff officer in World War One, serving in France, Italy and in the occupation of Germany. After the war, he served in Ireland from 1919 to 1920, and in India for two tours, 1920 to 1923 and 1932 and 1937. In the inter-war years, he also served at the War Office and with the General Staff. During the Second World War, he served in the Home Forces, and was Commander of the South Midland District from 1942 to 1945. After the War, he became Controller of the Home Department BRCS, a position which he held until 1957.
SERVING WITH ME at general headquarters and living in our mess, was Major Gordan Primsdale RE. When I went on leave in January 1919, I stayed the weekend with his family. There I first met Molly, my future wife. In May 1919 I was at home again and this time went to a dance with her. We became engaged at this dance. We were married at her home in Uxbridge on October 4th 1919.
There began then more than 50 years of married life. For my part I had found a partner who for more than 50 years became my strength and my stay, always at hand to encourage and to defend, steadfast in our successes and courageous in disasters.
I cannot say more, except that the description of what a perfect wife should be, given in the Bible, might have been written about her.
Now she has left me, with a void that nothing will ever fill. It was always my prayer that she should go first and that she should not suffer a long illness – both these prayers were granted.
I firmly believe that our dear ones are near us in point of space and very close in point of time, and that Molly and our son, Grahame, who died in Norway in 1939, are waiting for me. This is my hope and my consolation.
We had one night at the Berkeley Hotel and one night at Uxbridge, by way of a honeymoon and then crossed to Cork where I was to become Staff Captain of the Cork District. My orders were to join immediately. When I reported for duty, I found there was literally nothing to do. We had fourteen battalions of the four Irish regiments and their regimental depots.
There were no men in these battalions and we were not allowed to employ the depot personnel outside barracks. The reason for this was that Sinn Féin activity was growing and it was felt undesirable to ask our men to engage their brothers.
My only work was each Saturday morning to sign a return showing how many rats had been killed during the week.This is a fact.To add to my frustration with my work, I had come from a very active and essential appointment to a useless one. I had also come down in rank, and very much down in pay, from a Major to a captain.
The great access of leisure time was for a little most welcome. We used to play golf at a course about five miles out of Cork. Then the troubles got worse and our movements became more and morec restricted, until we were virtually confined to barracks.
I tried to transfer to the local infantry brigade and was promised an appointment, but my Brigadier refused to let me go, I think because this would expose the futility of his and my appointment.
The soldiers despised the Sinn Féiners. They never came into the open. All the shooting was in the back from behind walls. When cornered as in a search for arms on a bridge, the ends of which had been closed, the men handed their revolvers to the women, who hid them under their skirts. Men were searched but women never. The priests played an active part and would extol, as feat of arms, the murder of an unarmed policemen pulled off a bus, and shot by a gang of thugs and left lying in the road.
More and more troops were poured into Southern Ireland until there were some 100,000 of them. Techniques for quelling the rebellion were perfected and the rebellion was being subdued. HM Government chose this moment to give in. All the casualties we had suffered were wasted. While it might have been wise to give Southern Ireland independence, I feel this might well have been done much earlier or kept until we had made it quite clear that we were acting from a position of strength.
The murder of a number of officers in their beds in Dublin was a great shock to the army. It was hailed by the Sinn Féiners as a major victory.
I had no contact with the ‘Black and Tans’. These men had all had active service, many of them with very distinguished records. All were tough. They met the rebels on level terms and beat them at their own game. This was the reason for their extreme unpopularity.
The regular soldier, as always, was fair game. He had to wait to be shot at before he could retaliate. Any action of his which caused damage to the rebels was raised in the newspapers and often in Parliament. In short, military service in Ireland at that time was wholly and heartily disliked.
At the moment of writing this, British Troops in Ulster are receiving the same treatment and the same ingratitude. General Freeland’s remark on television about the troops leaving Ulster, made a few days ago were, I am sure, said against a background of the supreme test of discipline they were experiencing.
A small example of the mentality of the Southern Irishman came my way when I landed at Waterford for the first time. I was waiting in a hotel for my train. With me was a relatively well-educated man. Not knowing how delicate were religion and politics as a subject of conversation, I allowed myself to be engaged in a discussion of them. Suddenly he pointed at a tower, obviously of great age, and said ‘When King John came here to receive the allegiance of the Irish Kings, he made them kiss his foot and laughed at their clothes. This,’ he said, ‘was an example of the behaviour of the hated English’. He went on from there to Cromwell.
In October 1920, Molly became ill with terrible headaches and vomiting. She was on the point of going home on leave. I wa
s to follow in a few days. By the grace of God she got home safely, but three days later went down with typhoid fever. The water supply in Cork was contaminated. She was at the point of death for days on end. She lost two or three stone in weight and when I got home I found a skeleton.
At this time we were confined to barracks, having been informed that all officers out alone were liable to be shot. I was closing my official accounts and organising my cash for leave. I could not go down to the bank in the city, so took £50 of public money from the safe and put in a cheque of my own.
Two days later the bank rang up to say it had been dishonoured. I sent a telegram to Molly’s father and he transmitted the necessary money to Cork. I went and redeemed my cheque. When I went to Cox-Kings in London to complain, they laughed. I could have got damages I was told but didn’t press the matter because I gathered that the offending clerk would be severely punished.
When I left Cork, I went down alone to the quay. When I went to get my ticket, two men with black hombourg hats and hands in coat pockets came up, one either side of me. They read my name on my warrant over my shoulder. I watched them in the glass of the booking clerks window. I was not wanted I suppose and so was allowed to embark. I was not happy till we got to sea. The reason I was not molested on the quay might have been, I heard later, because a Sinn Féiner on the run was escaping on the same ship.
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