A Doctor at War

by Matthew Hall

  Immediately after leaving port the captain received an order over the radio to examine the British oil tanker SS Union, which had suffered a direct hit and was on fire outside Valencia harbour. They drew alongside the burning tanker, but the surviving crew had already disembarked and escaped to land. Nearby, the passengers and sailors on deck could see the mast tops of seven other ships which in the preceding month had all been sunk by Franco’s bombers. Among them was a cargo ship which had been loaded with 6,500 tons of grain. It had received a direct hit and had sunk in under ten minutes.

  It was carrying enough food for tens of thousands of people – far more than any single relief organization could have brought in. In July 1938 Herford returned to England to report, to help raise money and to get some deserved rest; the work had been hard, and relief workers had to be strong and fresh to be of any use. But during his leave events in Spain accelerated. Fighting had intensified near Barcelona and it was considered unwise by the Society of Friends to risk the lives of any more relief workers than was necessary. In October 1938 the Republican government ordered the withdrawal of all non-Spanish combatants and the British volunteers in the International Brigade were sent home. In January 1939 Franco captured Barcelona, and in March, Madrid. On the night of 29 March Mussolini addressed a 10,000-strong crowd and told them:

  Franco’s infantry and the Italian legionaries have entered Madrid, and the Spanish war can thus be considered finished. It finished with the collapse of Bolshevism. So will end all enemies of Italy and of Fascism.

  Hitler also welcomed the news, and sent a telegram to Franco congratulating him on ‘the final defeat of nation-destroying Bolshevism’.

  Herford was bitterly disappointed at not being able to stay in Spain until the end, but also realized that since qualifying he had made no practical use of his medical training and had not held a hospital post. Until he had taken a hospital job he would not be able to practise, so in September 1938 he accepted an appointment in Cossham Memorial Hospital near Bristol and gained his first practical experience in surgery. His experiences in Spain reinforced his conviction that war with Germany was only months away and in March 1939 he moved to Bristol General Hospital where, when war was declared, he was already a house surgeon in the ear, nose and throat department. He immediately tried to enlist in the RAF, but in the expectation of heavy air raid casualties hospital doctors were classified as belonging to a reserved profession and were forbidden from joining any of the services. For several frustrating months it looked as if he would be confined to the home front for the duration.

  CHAPTER 3

  The Finnish Expedition

  By February 1940 Herford’s patience was running out. He made a special plea to the RAF to be allowed to join on the grounds that he wanted to belong to the same service as his brother George, but the reply was slow in coming. While the bureaucratic wheels were turning, he chanced upon an advertisement in The Times appealing for volunteers to join the newly formed Finnish Aid Bureau (FAB). The Bureau was an independent organization, quite separate from the regular services, that was privately funded by several very wealthy philanthropists. Its independence meant that those who were otherwise prevented from joining the services could be enlisted by the Bureau.

  Finland had been invaded by the Russians in November 1939, and the FAB was frantically recruiting volunteers to join the British contingent of an International Volunteer Brigade. While there was much popular support for the Finns in their struggle against the Soviets, it was considered extremely unlikely that the British government would declare war on Russia as well as Germany. Assuming that the war with Germany would shortly spread to Scandinavia, Herford decided that his only chance of seeing military action was to offer himself as a volunteer. He wrote immediately to the Bureau’s offices in London, and the next day received a telegram asking him to come at once.

  Russia’s war with Finland was less an ideological than a logistical one. Stalin wished to secure a longer coastline on the Gulf of Finland for the protection of Leningrad, and to push the Russian border back to claim Karelia, the north-eastern region of Finland. Twenty-six Soviet divisions comprising 465,000 men were pitted against a slender Finnish army of 130,000. The Russians were so confident of a swift victory that many of the soldiers were only equipped with summer uniforms. However, after a horrific air raid in Helsinki on the first day of the war, the Finns put up dogged resistance and held up the invasion force in a series of bloody battles. The Russians were superior in numbers, but the Finns’ intimate knowledge of the terrain and their ability to cope with the extreme temperatures gave them the edge.

  The columns of Soviet tanks and troops often had to move single file along narrow forest roads in freezing conditions. The Finns manoeuvred quickly on skis and bicycles and adopted highly successful guerrilla tactics. Using crude but effective methods, they roamed around like packs of wolves and ambushed tanks with petrol bombs thrown into the turrets (the ‘Molotov cocktail’, first used in Spain against Franco’s German and Italian tanks). Tank traps were dug to disable the lead vehicle in a column, and the caterpillar tracks from the drive wheels were prised away with logs. By these methods the Russians would be brought to halt in the desolate pine forests. If they stayed in their vehicles for any length of time they froze to death. If they left their tanks they foundered in the soft snow; if they lit fires to keep themselves alive they became targets for Finnish snipers lurking in the woods. The Finnish newspapers carried photographs of long lines of snow-covered Russian transport and tanks next to which were huddled heaps of Russian soldiers, frozen to death, or shot.

  Herford reported to the hectic and disorganized London offices of the FAB, where he was asked if he would lead an ambulance unit consisting of four ambulances, a travelling dispensary and staff to deal with air raid casualties and to help initiate typhus control. He was at once struck by the atmosphere of confusion which seemed to characterize the whole ad-hoc operation. These initial fears proved to be well founded.

  A week later Herford reported back to the FAB medical advisor, Lord Dawson of Penn, for an examination. He was also asked a few brief questions about his training and experience. After only cursory questioning he was told that he seemed suitable for the job. Herford enquired about the rate of pay for volunteers, and was pleasantly surprised to hear that they would receive the equivalent pay to personnel in the Royal Army Medical Corps (RAMC). Had he read the small print in the contract which was hastily presented to him, he would have realized that while in Finland, he would only be paid the equivalent to a Finnish officer of similar rank, the balance being paid into a London bank account. In the event, nothing found its way into the English account. This was only one of many moments of disillusionment which were to follow with the entire expedition. Poor administration in the FAB was evident from day one.

  Initially Herford was told that he would not be required to travel for three weeks as the ambulances were not yet ready, but three days later he received a telegram requiring him to come to London the next day ready to depart. He telephoned the headquarters and was told by a subordinate to disregard the wire. There was such an air of doubt about the message that Herford telephoned several times until he was able to speak to the man in charge, Mr Gibson. Gibson was amazed that he had been told to disregard the telegram, and asked him to be in London the following afternoon.

  Herford arrived in London early the next morning and went immediately to Lillywhites to be fitted out with battledress, some tough ski boots and cold-weather clothing for Finland. Acquiring the correct clothing was the responsibility of the volunteers, who were to travel in civilian clothing and change into uniform and assume rank on arrival. That morning Lillywhites was bursting with the strange variety of men who were making up the expeditionary force. Overwhelmed assistants were pulling all kinds of garment off the racks, and the men were kiting themselves out in clothing with little consideration of the extreme ferocity of the Finnish winter. In the rush Herford had found time to arr
ange a last-minute farewell lunch with his sister Sylvia, and Mary, a fellow student from Bristol. He had no idea how long he would be gone, but was thinking in terms of months rather than years. In fact, he would not be returning to England for nearly four years. Sylvia was a practising doctor at the Royal Free Hospital, and Mary was working in the Bristol Royal Infirmary, and while many of the consultants were away during the war, she became an extremely well-respected Acting Senior Registrar, and organized the evacuation to Newcastle. While still students she and Martin had struck up a friendship which in time became a courtship, in the conventional sense of the word; even in war, relationships continued to proceed in a formal fashion. They had never discussed the future of their relationship, as everything was so uncertain, but there seemed to be an implicit understanding between them that their unspoken mutual affection would in due course become an engagement.

  Herford was not a great romantic. Had he been, this would have been the perfect opportunity for him to confess his love for her and to propose, before leaving to face an uncertain fate. Instead, he treated Mary no differently from his sister; he bought them both lunch and presented them with identical presents – a pair of gloves.

  Was this lack of outward passion a mark of insensitivity, or the complete reverse? Herford knew one thing: that he could offer no long-term guarantees, and that any attempt to make plans for the future would be marred with uncertainty. He was not a man to make promises he couldn’t keep. But there was more between them than either let on to the other, and that afternoon they parted in no doubt that they were committed to one another.

  Having said his goodbyes, Herford joined the other volunteers at a drill hall near King’s Cross station where they were gathering before taking the night train to Leith. In an attempt to instil a little military smartness they were called to attention and briefly addressed by Colonel Roosevelt, whom they were told would shortly be following them out to Finland and taking charge. This information was greeted with some scepticism, as when Roosevelt stepped forward he was visibly suffering from uncontrollable tremors, and looked most unwell, creating the distinct impression that he was quite unfit to lead them.

  The sense of foreboding intensified when Gibson called Herford aside and asked him to take control of £500 in mixed sterling and Scandinavian currencies, which was to be used to cover emergency expenses en route; on arrival in Finland the remaining money was to be handed over to the paymaster, who was already in situ with an advance party. Herford accepted this responsibility reluctantly, but was offered little choice. The large bundles of notes were stuffed into his suitcase without being counted, a signature was scribbled on a receipt, and he was driven hastily through the gloom of the blackout to the station feeling like one of a band of conspirators on a wild clandestine mission.

  At the station Herford was introduced to Captain Blew-Jones (ex-Life Guards), a 6ft 4in giant of a man who was to command the draft; Fraser, his diminutive assistant; and Major Joyce, a thin man in his 60s who had come out of retirement from the army to be second in command. The volunteers were divided into platoons of 30, each with two men in charge who were to assume the status of officer and senior NCO on arrival. Like most of the FAB’s arrangements, these were also made incompetently, as many more volunteers had been promised officer status than positions were available, providing the fuel for many acrimonious disputes and petty power struggles.

  The Finnish volunteers left British soil in a large convoy on 9 March 1940. The sea voyage aboard the SS Meteor (rumoured to be the ex-Kaiser’s yacht) took four days. Herford busied himself securing the use of the ship’s dispensary and taking stock of their extremely limited medical supplies. Most of the others divided themselves up into little groups and spent the time playing cards and generating rumours about each other’s pasts. They were an incongruous mixture of men with very little in common with one another apart from being on board the same ship. Rather like French Legionnaires, many of them had enlisted to escape, some from drinking and gambling debts, others from situations which they didn’t care to discuss. Strangest of all were the wealthy young men who had never been anything but West End playboys. Only a handful seemed to be there because of their convictions.

  Finding himself amongst this rag-tag collection of individuals, Herford was already becoming concerned for the future of their expedition. He quickly had cause to become deeply suspicious of Blew-Jones, who was not acting like a responsible commanding officer. For most of the voyage he was holed up in his cabin with Fraser working his way through a crate of whiskey, and after several days he summoned Herford and demanded that he hand over the £500. Herford at first resisted, but when Blew-Jones made it an order he had no choice but to capitulate. He could see no reason why it was necessary for Blew-Jones to have control of the money unless he was harbouring a dishonest motive.

  Unknown to the outside world, peace talks were taking place between the Finnish Prime Minister, Risto Ryti, and the Russians in Moscow even though the war in Finland was still raging. Since early February the Finnish Army had been in retreat, ground down by sheer force of numbers. On 10 February the Russians attacked the Mannerheim line north-east of Helsinki with such ferocity that they broke through the Finnish defences. The Finns fell back to a second line half a mile to the rear, but three days later the Russians broke through again. These successes were owed to a massive squandering of Russian lives by their commanders. Using the ‘crescendo offensive’, a phrase coined by Marshal Voroshilov, the Soviet Minister of Defence, wave after wave of troops were sent in one after another until the exhausted enemy were finally beaten down. This primitive strategy claimed the lives of 27,000 Finnish soldiers and 58,000 Russians.

  On 11 March impassioned pleas were still being broadcast on the radio for more Finnish volunteers, but the next day an armistice was announced. The war had come to an end the day before the volunteers arrived. The defeated Finland was forced to cede large areas of the Baltic coast to the Russians as well as granting them a 30-year lease of the strategically important Hango Peninsula on the southernmost tip of the country. This settlement gave the Russians a dominant position on both sides of the Gulf of Finland. The following morning the Meteor docked in the Norwegian port of Bergen. Blew-Jones and his ever-present assistant, Fraser, went ahead of the others to seek instructions from the British consul. They returned with the answer that they were to proceed as planned to Lapua in Finland, the central point for all volunteer contingents. The peace was still considered fragile, and it was felt that British troops might soon be needed to counteract the anticipated German invasion of Norway.

  The motley unit was sent across Norway and Sweden by night train and the following day arrived in Haparanda, a small town just inside the Swedish border, where the temperature was between minus 20 and 30 degrees. The men were then herded into a large barn-like building where General Sir Ormonde L’Eppee Winter KBE CMG DSO, the representative of the Finnish Aid Bureau and an ageing veteran of the previous war, was to have met them. It turned out that he had bronchitis and was too ill to come, which only reinforced the overall sense of anti-climax. After the parade, Blew-Jones and Fraser sneaked off for a private interview with the general, and returned with the news that apart from Blew-Jones and Joyce, who was to hold the rank of major (he had commanded the first heavy machine gun unit in World War I and won an MC), no others were to be considered as officers by the Finns and that Herford would therefore have to rank as an ordinary volunteer. Herford was indignant, and reminded them that he had been specifically told that he would assume the rank of lieutenant on his arrival, and would refuse to be treated as anything other than an officer.

  Such was the disorganization that Blew-Jones was in no position to gainsay him, but the antagonism between them was already evident. Blew-Jones and Fraser were clearly mounting a systematic attempt to wrest control of the entire expedition, but Herford was determined to be a thorn in their side. The volunteers finally arrived in Lapua on 25 March. The men were billeted in prim
itive, cramped barracks in a large hall, and Herford and Major Joyce were put up in a local farm. Blew-Jones and Fraser had chosen separate lodgings in another comfortable farmhouse by themselves. Also stationed in the town were a detachment of Finnish soldiers and an advance party of 40 British volunteers under the command of Captain Chandler and his 2nd Lieutenant, Guthrie.

  Blew-Jones’ manoeuvrings took a new twist when, shortly after their arrival, Chandler and Guthrie invited a party of officers, including several Finns, to their quarters for tea. They had received a telegram which was causing them some concern. Herford and Joyce were excluded from the discussion, but finally Joyce took the telegram and read it: it was from ‘D’Hiver H.Q. British Troops’ and purported to appoint Blew-Jones a full colonel. On the way back to the billets Joyce was deeply puzzled by the instruction, until finally he turned to Herford and announced that it must have been a fraud, sent by Fraser during their journey to Lapua.

  By the time Herford returned to Chandler’s quarters the following day the telegram had indeed been exposed as a fraud and Blew-Jones and Fraser were ordered to leave the unit and return to Sweden. Herford insisted that a proper investigation first take place into their handling of the unit’s funds, so Fraser was asked to produce an account. In the event he came up with a spurious and inept document which failed even to disguise his clumsy dishonesty. All the money which Herford had handed over to Blew-Jones had been converted by him into Finnish marks at an exchange rate very favourable to him. When asked to give a personal explanation he was tongue tied, and several packets of money were found in his coat pockets. In total, he had misappropriated over £100 of the FAB’s money. To Herford’s amazement, however, no punitive action was taken and, after producing the missing money, Fraser and Blew-Jones were simply dispatched to Sweden.