Yeomen of England

by Ken Tout

  There was a hiatus between the 1919 demobilisation of the Yeomanry regiments, in their various roles, and the 1920 revival of the regiments, not necessarily in the same roles as during the war. The Territorial Force was officially reconstituted on 7 February 1920 but on 1 October 1920 it was renamed the Territorial Army. There were also adjustments for particular roles in accordance with new strategies emanating from the lessons of the recent war. A modern-sounding element entered into public awareness with the ‘Gedes Cuts’: reductions in some formations due to government economies needed to balance the national budget.

  The Great War had revealed that the establishment of cavalry units in the British Army far exceeded the frequency of opportunities that there would be for cavalry action in the closely targeted artillery, barbed-wire and machine-gun era. Inevitably the regular cavalry regiments would continue to supply horsed formations for the time being. This left only a few horsed units to be found from the Territorial sector, with the senior Yeomanry regiments filling requirements. So the Royal Wiltshire (Prince of Wales’ Own), the Warwickshire and others following them in precedence would retain horses. It is perhaps relevant to note again that those two regiments were founded at about the same time as the Northants, but had maintained a regimental structure throughout, whilst during the 1800s the NY had, at times, existed only at squadron level, thus losing precedence.

  In the confusion of the first days of reorganisation, George Jelley, to his delight, found the new NY, commanded by Major J.G. Lowther, the war-time adjutant, to be practising cavalry drill; they were riding horses, all of them hunters, in a field behind the Drill Hall. The new enthusiasts were about to receive an unwelcome shock.

  In the new type of warfare horses would be largely replaced by internal combustion machines, either light tanks riding on tracks or armoured cars riding on wheels. The Tank Corps in 1920 consisted of seven tank battalions and nine armoured car companies, numbered 1 to 9. Unhorsed Yeomanry units were now formed under the aegis of the Tank Corps and wearing the tank badge, as subsequently numbered armoured car companies. For instance the Sharpshooters (County of London) became the 23rd Armoured Car Company, the Tank Regiment; the Derbyshires paraded as the 24th, and the NY fell in as the 25th. All car companies retained their Yeomanry designation in brackets. The Tank Corps itself was elevated to the Royal Tank Corps (RTC) in 1923.

  These changes had a devastating effect on the new NY. When George Jelley reported for duty he found a cadre of regular cavalrymen with Captain Coles as the permanent officer, RSM Corke and QM Hyatt. Major Lowther had, of course, reverted to a part-time Yeoman in peacetime. Only six volunteers paraded the first time with George in cavalry-style uniform, but:

  As numbers increased so we were able to make progress. A number of war officers and men rejoined and by the time 1921 came round the Yeomanry spirit was once more very much alive. Training consisted mainly of foot drill, arms drill and riding drill. Later in the year came a terrible shock. We along with five other regiments were to become mechanised. Upon hearing this, sad to relate, most of the old Yeomen left. Those of us who remained awaited the arrival of the new vehicles. In the meantime our cavalry PSIs like Capt Coles and RSM Corke were replaced by Tank Corps people. We now handed in our cavalry dress and were issued with infantry uniforms. What a come down!1

  Nobody knew what to expect as none of the surviving personnel had ever encountered an armoured car close up. Few had even heard the fateful name ‘Peerless’, which surely meant superb or unequalled. They might later ask ‘in what respect was it unequalled?’ And there would have been a very rude answer. The Peerless armoured car was an urgent 1915 adaptation of the American 3-ton Peerless truck fitted with a primitive armour-plate body with an open back. Eventually it was refined to some extent, still using the Peerless truck chassis but with an improved armoured body made by the Austin Motor Company. The body contained a driver’s compartment plus two turrets, each armed with a 0.303 Hotchkiss machine gun. The car weighed about 7 tons, relied on a rear-wheel chain drive, had a top speed of less than 20mph and required a crew of four to operate.

  Even though there had been an interim period when the new recruits were allowed to train as cavalry, there was still a long period when training was restricted to what might be termed ‘armoured car drill without armoured cars’. More urgent calls for armoured cars were being received from Ireland and from the Indian Army, as well as the ‘home’ companies of the Tank Corps. So George Jelley and his comrades, from Major Lowther down, paraded faithfully at weekends. It was not the sound of a silver cavalry trumpet which eventually spurred the Yeomen to mobile activity, but an ‘ugly, roaring noise’ full of industrial menace, as George heard it:

  After a very long time I strolled one evening to the Drill Hall and saw the gate and part of the wall flat on the ground. A small voice said to me ‘the armoureds have arrived!’ Sure enough they had. These were Peerless armoured cars and were they well named? Big, ugly things weighing about ten tons, solid tyres and chain drive, top speed about fifteen miles an hour – IF you were lucky. Mostly they did not go at all. The next thing of course was to learn to handle these monsters, so most of the time was now spent in driving and maintenance lessons. I hate to say this but we all failed our first test. We blamed these ugly brutes which would not behave like decent horses would. However, next time we all passed and were ready to take our vehicles to the first camp, whenever that should take place.

  The first NY post-war camp was eventually arranged for August 1922. This is recorded tersely as ‘Place – Cardington near Bedford. Distance – about twenty-two miles. Time taken to arrive – all day. Comments – nothing very exciting except for frightening a few civilians and ending up in someone’s front garden, the proprietors of which were not very amused.’ The drivers of the Peerless armoured cars, in spite of passing their tests, had obviously not yet mastered the obstreperous beasts. Meanwhile, the Yeomen were required to wear the cap badge of the Royal Tank Corps but continued to use the ‘White Horse of Hanover’ of the original NY as the ‘collar dog’.

  By the time of the 1923 camp George Jelley had commenced his more detailed diary with illuminating glances into the excitement and sometimes chaos of the annual camps. Place – Swingate Camp, Dover:

  The advance party right from the start performed wonders. Believe it or not, they actually drove the Peerless cars from Northampton to Dover. We never expected to see them. The rest of us detrained at a station about four miles from the camp site and in those days we always marched. We drew our full complement of cars and were able to operate for the first time as a full squadron. By now I was a corporal and I had as my driver one of the men who had brought one of the cars down to camp. I thought at the time how lucky I was. Training now commenced under the command of Maj Geoffrey Elwes, squadron commander, who wore white cavalry breeches.

  The NCOs and troopers did not yet realise that a camp so near the White Cliffs of Dover was likely to be more perilous than in the safe haven of Althorp Park. They now found themselves hazarding their clumsy and recalcitrant vehicles along narrow tracks with very little room for error, and with the sea lapping the cliffs hundreds of feet below. Each car was sent out to navigate individually. George asked his driver if he knew the way, to which he replied, ‘Yes, Corporal’. But the driver proved to be a fearless man with ambitions to drive his car around the Brooklands or Monza racing circuits:

  We were going merrily down the hills, very close to the cliff edge and I was getting worried. I shouted ‘Put you brakes on’. We came to a hairpin bend, he turned his wheel for all he was worth, and we finished up with our front wheels out in the empty air, but still upright. My troop leader, a new officer, came dashing up in his car and said ‘Who is in charge here? Consider yourself under arrest. When you get out of this mess, follow me.’ We edged back into the track, went off round another particularly sharp bend. And there was the troop leader himself with his front wheels nicely parked in a hedge – smoke pouring out all over the
place and absolute chaos. I ventured to approach the troop leader saying ‘With your permission, sir, I will get you out of this’. When we got back to camp the troop leader simply said to me, ‘You know, Corporal, these drivers are not safe’. Later in the morning I was sent for, to report to the orderly room. ‘What the hell is wrong now?’ I thought. To my utter amazement I was being promoted to sergeant.

  During 1922 and 1923 the NY senior officers were confronted with a rather embarrassing and perplexing problem requiring discretion and diplomatic skills. In 1921 the annual Northamptonshire Yeomanry Challenge Cup race was run at the Pytchley Hunt point-to-point meeting at the Bringstons. It was won by an old acquaintance from Italy days, HRH the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VIII and even later Duke of Windsor. It is not recorded if the prince won on merit or if the other riders discreetly forewent any opportunity of overtaking him. Whatever the case, the prince departed carrying the cup, but when the time arrived for the 1922 race the cup, which was normally held for a year, he did not reappear. Perhaps the busy prince had forgotten. By 1923, after due doffing of caps and polite enquiry, it became apparent that the royal rider had decided unilaterally to keep the cup; indeed he had had his name inscribed on the trophy. It was a story which would have echoes many years ahead.2

  Such aristocratic machinations had little impact on the NCOs and troopers for whom the annual camp continued to be the focus of both advanced training and personal enjoyment. For men largely employed in the monotonous routine of the boot or brewery industry it was exciting to learn that the 1924 camp would once more be at Dover. Again the most insignificant events became memorable. For George the notable incident of the camp was a moment of farce.

  1921 NY point-to-point cup won by the Prince of Wales. (NYA)

  We had one or two newcomers. It was obvious by his face that one had been in the boxing ring. I said, ‘Who are you? A boxer?’ He said, ‘Champion of the Manchesters for the last three years. But everybody calls me “pet”!’ In those days the catering corps did not exist. Pet was made cook. One day he decided he would give the troops a treat and make a ‘spotted dog’ pudding. He had the flour, he had the currants, but he had no cloth to wrap the pudding in. Being full of enterprise (as a Yeoman should) he ripped off the tail of his shirt and used that. Cor, blimey!

  George does not record any serious mishaps to the health of the troops as a result of Pet’s ministrations. However, in 1926 higher authorities in the regiment had taken note of the continuing plight of soldiers wounded or otherwise incapacitated by the Great War. The Northamptonshire Yeomanry Old Comrades Association was founded as a charitable trust to ‘establish a Fund to assist members who through age, sickness, wounds or any other difficulty are unable to maintain themselves; to obtain employment for members on discharge; to assist wives and families or widows and orphans; to maintain and promote fellowship and association between past and present members …’. The association, as extended in 1943, would outlive the active regiment.

  Camps continued to provide training and holiday enjoyment for the Territorials and there appeared to be little restriction on petrol consumption. In 1925 the cars drove from Northampton to Salisbury Plain and one scheme saw them driving from Salisbury almost to the outskirts of London and back. Old soldiers like George still maintained some cavalry instincts and at the 1926 camp George was reminded by superiors that his group of soldiers was not called a ‘Troop’ but a ‘Section’. However, officers on the armoured cars still valiantly carried whips.

  Historically the Yeomanry had been recruited from smallholders, hunt servants and the like, but in urban areas respectable people such as small tradesmen had joined. Now, with increasing unemployment in the late 1920s, Sergeant Jelley noticed a new type of Territorial coming to camp. ‘I had a rare old bunch of rough necks … but they make good soldiers.’ They were also much harder to discipline and more prone to drunken outbursts. ‘But let me say that they never let me down on parade.’ In one hilarious episode, a tent full of men back from a pub crawl tied their tent shut and refused to put the lights out. When the adjutant’s shouted orders failed to produce results the adjutant, a huge 20-stone man, simply leapt on top of the tent, brought it crashing down and walked away, leaving the defaulters smothered and squirming in the dark.

  Another hilarious episode was not appreciated by officers of another regiment, but aptly underlined the changes in the nature of warfare. Critics have since noted the fact that the British Army, having introduced tank warfare, was slower to adapt to ‘armoured doctrine’ than other countries and tended to hold on to cavalry traditions. Sergeant George Jelley in all innocence recorded a significant event near Colchester camp in 1929:

  It is interesting to note that in spite of our conversion to armour, the Officers always paraded as Yeomen, booted and spurred. We had an exercise against another cavalry unit, whose name I choose not to remember. Really it was too easy. Seeing our approach, they smartly dismounted, one man holding four horses, and took up infantry positions in the hedge. We immediately turned our cars on them, smashing into the hedge. They scattered in all directions. We then aimed our cars at the horses and they all bolted. The regular colonel was not amused. Perhaps not very sporting war but very effective! This was the last camp where we held equestrian sports.

  Having wrestled manfully with the ponderous Peerless cars for a decade, the Yeomen were encouraged to hear that a new armoured car was on the way with a truly peerless name, the Rolls-Royce. These armoured cars were indeed constructed on the chassis of the contemporary Silver Ghost civilian car. Weighing only 4 tons compared to the Peerless’ 7 tons, they could achieve 45mph rather than the older vehicle’s less than 20mph. Equipped with a machine gun in a revolving turret, the car was further strengthened by having twin rear wheels, so that a single puncture would not incapacitate the vehicle. The Rolls-Royce had been used in Dublin as early as 1921 but, after allocation to regular units, was only now becoming available to the NY in 1929 and 1930.

  Although some new recruits coming into the regiment may have been of a rather different type to the original Yeomen, the officers continued to draw on eminent county families: Major G. Elwes, who notoriously wore white cavalry breeches, commanding 1925–30, and Major A.F.G. Renton 1930–40. On 8 November 1930 the annual dinner was held with the band playing John Peel and Auld Lang Syne. The usual loyal toasts were drunk to ‘The King’ and ‘The Regiment’. Then Colonel Lowther arose and proposed ‘To Foxhunting!’

  In 1930 George Jelley and three other Territorials obtained special leave from work, George from the Northampton brewery, and spent a month at the Driving and Maintenance School of the RTC at Bovington. They were to become the instructors within the NY on the Rolls-Royce armoured car, only a couple of which were delivered to Northampton at first. Arriving at the annual camp, this year ‘an ideal site’ at Shoreham, to take delivery of these splendid new vehicles, they were surprised to find all the tyres worn out, the cars having been handed down from a regular unit. The next day, the first training day as sections, they were ordered on a 100-mile run, but all cars failed to return within the time limit because of frequent punctures. Pride in the new Rolls-Royces was well and truly punctured.

  As the 1930s progressed, Hitler took power in Germany and the resurgent German Army developed the most radical ideas of tank warfare, which would be justified by the annihilation of the powerful French and British armour during the blitzkrieg of 1940. In Britain, however, 1933 was ‘austerity year’ and there was no annual camp for the NY, although a few days were spent at Ludgershall on Salisbury Plain by a few officers and men who went at their own expense. George Jelley was also sent on a refresher course on the Vickers 0.303 machine gun, on which he had been an instructor for some time. When the test took place at the end of the course, George went through the stoppage exercises with practised efficiency, reacting to the sudden call ‘Stoppage!’ from the examining officer. Then the examiner commented, ‘I am not sure if I can pass you.’ ‘Why not, sir’
asked a perplexed George. ‘Because you must have anticipated the stoppage call, you were so quick.’ This left George mystified: how can one anticipate a machine-gun stoppage?

  The year 1934 saw the camp at Rodean and the Territorials allowed to play cricket on the girls’ school ground. It also revealed once more to the ORs something of Britain’s inefficiency in military provision. Again Sergeant Jelley was observing:

  The most exciting part of our training was the treasure hunt. Each car would rush to a compass bearing where an officer would issue another compass bearing and so on, each commander having to map read the route to the bearings. Unfortunately there was only one compass per officer and none for the crews. So we only got one look at the compass which the officer was holding. Gone was the comradeship – everybody calling each other all the names under the sun as they struggled to get hold of the compass. Matters were not helped because there was only one gate through which to exit. The speed was a steady thirty with an umpire on each vehicle to see it was adhered to. But only one compass at each report point.

  Another reflection on the social status of the officers and the unusual Yeomanry camaraderie between officers and ORs was jotted down by the observant sergeant. In 1936 at Felixstowe, most of the ‘troop leaders’ (still strictly ‘section leaders’) had Rolls-Royce cars, the civilian variety, of their own. As the sections went out in their armoured cars, the lieutenants drove their civilian cars, taking ‘crews’ of troopers for an exhilarating change of steed.

  By 1937 there was an ominous change in the type of training as the regiment went to its annual camp at Lulworth, part of the Royal Tank Corps headquarters and training area. The Rolls-Royces were not taken with them but the Territorials had to use the Lanchesters of the 12th Lancers, a regular unit. At first only the regulars drove the cars and there were mixed crews of regulars and Territorials, both officers and ORs. However, the more serious nature of training was relieved when a road march to Tidworth was laid on, enabling most of the Yeomen to see the famous annual Tidworth military tattoo. Later in the week on free time, a group of Yeomen made their way independently to Tidworth to see the tattoo, but did not have enough money to pay the entry fee for all the party. A quick-thinking corporal then lined the men up, marched them to the entry point, announced, ‘fatigue party reporting for duty’, and marched them through. Unfortunately, the days of ‘fun and games’ annual camps were at an end as Hitler was now moving into the offensive mode, having successfully taken over Austria and the Sudetenland virtually unopposed.