A Doctor at War

by Matthew Hall

  The Russian diet was very simple. The main staple was black bread. Very little fat or meat was available, but they had a certain amount of dried fish and a limited variety of vegetables, mostly potatoes. There were only two classes of person who could acquire more than the basic necessities: the producers, who could use their produce to barter for other goods, and the party executives, who often received ‘luxury goods’ in lieu of salary. Those who rose to senior positions in the party could live the life of a millionaire. The upper hierarchy had cars, expensive clothes, exotic foods, houses and even palaces by the Black Sea, but money couldn’t buy them, only favour.

  Herford asked whether the army had also fallen victim to the shortages, and whether this would compromise their ability to fight. The Russian replied that much of the deprivation was due to so much being spent on equipping the army for what was viewed as an almost inevitable war with Germany. But on the question of whether the army would be able to stave off any German invasion he had definite and confident opinions. Any army that attempted to invade Russia, he said, would suffer the same fate as Napoleon’s. They would be swallowed up by distance and inadequate communications, and the winter would be an overwhelming enemy. In Russia the distances were too great to establish a Maginot line, but instead their armies were organized to create strongpoints, and all their defences and supplies were at the ready. Leningrad might fall, and even Moscow, but they were prepared to fight back to the Urals and beyond. ‘We can buy time with distance and no line of communication will be safe; they will be too long,’ he said.

  By the end of the second day the two had formed a friendship, but knew they were unlikely ever to see each other again. The Russian said goodbye while still in the train, saying that it would be safer if when in Odessa they appeared not to know one another. They shook hands warmly and parted. Moments later they passed on the station platform like complete strangers and went their separate ways.

  Herford was to spend the rest of the day and the night in Odessa before sailing the next morning for Turkey. It was the major port of the Ukraine, a beautiful, geometrically set out city built high on the cliff tops overlooking the Black Sea. In the summer it was a coastal resort, and the area around the city was renowned for its beautiful gardens and vineyards. But in January the cold was as cruel as it had been in Leningrad.

  This time his Intourist guide was an attractive young girl of about 25, who took him on a taxi tour of the town and arranged for him to see the ballet Esmeralda. Herford lost no time in asking her if she could arrange for him to visit the city’s hospital. His request was again met with astonishment. ‘You wouldn’t like it if foreign doctors insisted on intruding into your hospitals in England,’ she responded. Herford explained that on the contrary, he would be delighted. He felt strongly that doctors were an international community whose duties transcended all forms of political dogma. The guide eventually agreed to seek permission, but was flatly refused.

  The following day Herford boarded the SS Srenatia at dusk. Again he experienced no difficulties with the border guards, who, having ascertained that he was a British doctor, waved him through without searching his luggage.

  The night was cold and clear, and the sheets of loose ice on the water glinted in the bright moonlight. The glittering lights of the town lit up the harbour in an almost magical way. It was a calm, unsuspecting city, one of the most attractive of old Russia, which due to the loyalty and resolve of its people retained its dignity despite the harshness of the communist regime. But Odessa and much of western Russia would shortly be going the way of Eastern Europe. Later in the year the Germans came first with bombs and then with an invasion force which claimed the lives of hundreds of thousands of Russian troops and civilians. On 22 October 1941 Odessa was the scene of one of the worst massacres of Jews seen in Russia. At noon the previous day Hitler said of the Jews, ‘By exterminating this pest, we shall do humanity a service of which our soldiers can have no idea.’ Twenty-five thousand Jews were rounded up in the city, half of whom were locked into four vast warehouses, three of which were set on fire. Those who sought to escape death in the flames by escaping through the holes in the roof or windows were murdered with a hail of bullets and machine gun fire. Many women began throwing their children out of the windows. The fourth warehouse was destroyed by artillery. But for now, Odessa was basking in its last precious moments of peace.

  The two-day voyage was punctuated by a brief stop in Varna, the main Black Sea port of Bulgaria, but passengers were not allowed ashore. Bulgaria was vacillating in her loyalties and was hostile to all foreigners. Weeks later, on 1 March, King Boris of Bulgaria acquiesced to the Germans and signed his country’s allegiance to the Berlin-Rome Axis, providing Germany with a much-needed pathway to northern Greece.

  Shortly after noon on the second day of the journey, Herford had his first view of the shores of neutral Turkey. As they neared land, a steep, rocky coastline bore up out of the azure sea, behind which were green fields, reminding him of parts of Cornwall. The winter sun was shining brightly, and reflected off the roofs of the higgledy-piggledy whitewashed houses of the little fishing villages and the flotillas of brightly painted fishing boats cluttering every inlet. From the deck Herford had his first view of a Middle Eastern landscape: the olive groves on the hillsides, the trellised vines in the villages and the high wooden frames on the quays on which the fishermen hung their nets. After the grim northern climate it was an uplifting and tantalizing sight.

  The ship docked in the bustling port of Constantinople and Herford took a taxi through the crowded streets to the British Consulate. The Consul was a friendly, efficient man who said that he had been given instructions to send all volunteers arriving in Turkey through Egypt on third-class tickets. This instruction had mystified him, as in Turkey only the lowest peasant and labourers travelled third class. He had therefore taken it upon himself to issue second-class tickets, and arranged for Herford to take the train the following day and suggested a pleasant hotel in which to stay, and a selection of local restaurants which would give him authentic Turkish cuisine.

  The Hotel Pera stood at the summit of one of the city’s hills, and commanded views of both the old and the new towns. Much of the old quarter had not been changed since the Middle Ages, a low lying maze of labyrinthine streets connected by pungent narrow alleyways which occasionally led into little courtyards, quiet oases amidst the clamour of the traffic and street traders.

  Although the Turkish travel visa debarred halts, Herford decided not to take the early train for Ankara the following day, but to spend his limited time taking in the sights of the city. He strolled down the hill into the narrow, cobbled streets, and was surprised by the number of soldiers he saw, short mahogany-faced men with rough features, dressed in crumpled khaki tunics with soft boots and long criss-crossing puttees worn up to the knees. He was watching the passers-by and admiring the outside of one of the many ornate gold-topped mosques when he was approached by a pleasant but insistent Turk who produced a handful of visiting cards from English tourists and said he was an experienced guide. Herford preferred to be independent, but the guide was quite insistent. When Herford finally made him understand that he really didn’t want his services, he said that he had nothing to do for the next hour or two, so he might as well spend the time with someone who could help him improve his English. Herford had little choice in the matter. The guide led the way on a whistle-stop tour of the city.

  They went into the Blue Mosque and viewed the enormous dome, and into the military museum which was filled with ancient weapons and memorabilia. Herford then asked the guide if they could see inside the nearby military hospital. To his great surprise the request was granted, and a young army doctor showed them around the wards and operating theatres. The facilities were simple, but well equipped and efficiently run and probably far superior to those in Russia. The highlight of the day was the bazaar. Set in what was reputed to be the stables of ancient Constantinople, dating from 400 BC, the baza
ar was a tangled network of dark, low buildings housing a myriad of tiny shops hidden behind secretive little doorways. The vendors sat in these darkened interiors sipping small cups of thick black coffee and smoking sweet Turkish cigarettes. The air was filled with rich aromas, some of them perfumed and exotic, others far less pleasant.

  A native lunch of figs, oranges and Turkish Delight was followed by an encounter with several souvenir shops where Herford was initiated into the art of bartering for pretty trinkets for Mary and relatives at home. For a man who favoured straight talking, haggling didn’t come easily, and he found the quick-witted traders running rings around him, weaving an enticing web of words until they ensnared their unwitting prey. He emerged from the bazaar wiser and poorer.

  As a token of thanks Herford offered his guide the equivalent of about 15 shillings, but the man refused this sum with a look of indignation, and produced from his pocket a letter setting out the official pay scale which he said entitled him to at least 30 shillings. Herford protested that he had forced his services onto the unwary traveller, insisting that he had nothing better to do. The guide became more and more irate. Rather than provoke an unseemly scene – which would not have been long in coming – Herford parted with more than £1, and the guide marched off with the air of one unjustly used.

  The train to Ankara, which Herford boarded late in the afternoon, thundered along the coast next to the Sea of Marmara through olive groves and small fertile patches of land cultivated with fruit and vegetables, before rising into arid mountainous country in which the track wound across perilous viaducts and along thin cuttings carved out of the jagged hillsides. The landscape here was barren and rocky, an inhospitable place that would only sustain the hardiest sheep and goats and the wiry peasants who eked out a fragile existence amongst the rock and scrub.

  The train arrived in Ankara early the following morning. The city itself was modern, and set on a high plateau which had once been malarial swamp land. Much of the scrub had been drained to make way for building, but the outlying areas were still swamp and water.

  Herford was to stay one night. He reported to the British Embassy which checked him into a hotel and gave him another £6 to cover his travelling expenses. He made a small tour of the town, but it was not as attractive as Constantinople and the travelling was taking its toll. He made for his bed and slept soundly.

  The Taurus Express bound for Beirut passed through equally dramatic hill country, snaking through high desolate gorges scorched by the sun in summer and in the winter buried deep in snow. Herford was within a day of his final destination and the welcome borders of the British Empire.

  As the railway descended towards the frontier it passed through what was then the longest tunnel in the world, blasted out of solid rock, before arriving in the pleasant greenery of the Syrian low country, in stark contrast to the barren Turkish uplands. After a brief overnight stop in the border town of Aleppo, the train pushed on to Beirut.

  Herford again had only time for the briefest reconnoitre of the beautiful coastal city, which at that time might have been the south of France. He walked through the old town past shady cafes and dark little shops and along a dusty road into the countryside beyond, passing native French-speaking troops dressed in long, flowing uniforms. The soothing quiet of the olive groves was a tremendous relief after the clatter of the city and the claustrophobia of the train. It was mid-winter, but the sun shone brilliantly off the bright yellow sand and white-walled houses. Of all the places he had passed through, Beirut was the most appealing. He could have spent a lot longer enjoying its fine French colonial architecture and civilized ambience, but first thing the following morning the train left for Palestine.

  When he first caught sight of the Union Jack fluttering over the frontier post Herford felt an unexpected thrill at being back on ‘home territory’. Here the border controls were tight, and Herford made the mistake of being foolishly honest. When asked how much currency he had in his possession he admitted his several pound notes and a single £10 note, which he had changed at the request of the military attaché in Finland some months previously. He was instructed that £10 could be taken into the country and that the rest would be sent on for collection in Cairo. Herford kept the £10 note, but the official neglected to tell him that it would be impossible to change. From the border post the train took them on the final leg of the journey to Haifa, where Herford promptly reported to the Movement Control Officer (MCO), who arranged for his onward journey to Cairo the next day.

  When it came to settling the hotel bill the following morning the £10 note was flatly rejected. The bank and the police also refused to change it. The bank made close enquiries as to where the money had come from. Herford then learned that he had in fact been planted with what was for all intents and purposes dud money. The bank regretted his tale of woe but said they were unable to help; £10 notes were far too large a denomination to be in frequent circulation, besides which there were widespread fears of counterfeit currency being introduced by the enemy in an effort to sabotage the economy. Thankfully Herford’s almost uncanny good luck held, and another hotel guest saved the day when he negotiated with the frontier police to get Herford’s other currency back – he was a senior customs official.

  As Herford later observed, the whole journey went like clockwork. There were minor hitches, but fate always leant a hand and ensured him a smooth passage. An operation which had been organized with military precision could not have run more smoothly. Although he didn’t realize it at the time, he had a guardian angel who wouldn’t leave his side for the next four years.

  Apart from more painfully detailed questioning about the origin of the £10 note at the Egyptian border, and a meticulously close examination of all his personal papers, the final leg of the long haul to Cairo passed without incident. Had Herford run into the military attaché who planted the note on him, however, he would probably not have stopped at verbal retaliation.

  The next morning was 19 January 1941. Herford had lost all count of time and had forgotten it was a Sunday. When he arrived at the British Embassy there was only a junior ADC on duty. But the ADC put him in touch with Squadron Leader Sinclair, his personal contact in the RAF, who in turn referred him to Air Commodore Panter, the Principal RAF Medical Officer. Until now, Herford had not thought of joining any service other than the RAF, but when Commodore Panter outlined the duties of a station MO, he was sorely disappointed. He realized that the job would be both administrative and a long way from the scene of action. But medical officers were in short supply in the RAF, and as far as Panter was concerned, Herford had been granted his passage from Finland on the understanding that he was enlisting on arrival. He was therefore surprised and more than a little put out when he announced that he would like to have an interview with the Royal Army Medical Corps before finally committing himself. Colonel MacFie and Colonel Hacker of the RAMC were equally hungry for new recruits. Far from being tucked away behind friendly lines, the MO, RAMC, would be highly mobile, travelling in a field ambulance and supervising the collection of casualties from the battlefield. The conditions under which the MOs and their orderlies worked were as perilous as those endured by the troops. The red crosses painted on the ambulances and tin hats would hopefully offer some protection against enemy gunfire, but the medical staff were virtually unarmed and in a highly vulnerable position. Herford was impressed with this brief and decided there was no comparison between the challenge of the RAMC and the relatively pedestrian duties he would be stuck with in the RAF.

  Two days after his initial interview Herford received his commission as a Lieutenant with the RAMC. There was only one minor difficulty – apart from a letter of introduction from the British Ambassador in Helsinki referring to him as a doctor, he had no other proof of his qualifications. All his personal correspondence, which might have provided a little additional evidence of his bona fides, was with the censors. But with a touching faith in his veracity, the army took his word as sufficient
, and he was posted for duty at 63 General Hospital at Helmieh.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Expedition to Greece

  To Herford’s initial disappointment, the 63 General Hospital was not busy when he took up his post on 22 January 1941, and he found that his medical duties were far from arduous. There was little military action taking place, so there were few casualties to be dealt with. Herford felt frustrated – he hadn’t travelled all the way to Egypt to treat dysentery and minor illnesses. But luckily the hospital was near to the great pyramids, and he lost no time in sightseeing and climbing to their summits.

  If he had possessed a little more patience he would soon have been caught up in the battles in the Western Desert, but he was itching to be of use in the front line of wherever he could. When he heard that preparations were being made for an expedition to Greece, and that Lieutenant Colonel Mollan, the Officer Commanding the Hospital Medical Division, had been posted to take the command of 24 Casualty Clearing Station, he instantly volunteered himself and pleaded with Mollan to have him on his staff. Unable to resist this impetuosity, Mollan agreed, and on 27 February Herford was attached to his unit.

  When Herford reported to Alexandria docks along with three fellow officers, Fulton, Robertson and Elmazor, on 7 March, he had been in the army all of five weeks. He had barely learned how to wear the uniform correctly, but he was being sent as part of the British Expeditionary Force which aimed to bolster the Greeks against attack from the Germans, who were rapidly progressing through Yugoslavia and Bulgaria to the northern borders of Greece. The southernmost European state, with its enormous coastline and prime strategic position was a possession greatly desired by Hitler. The expeditionary force of 100,000 men was mounted following the advice of Anthony Eden, the then British Foreign Secretary. The objective of the British War Cabinet was to establish a ‘Balkan Front’ across Greece and Yugoslavia. This would both arrest Germany’s southwards march, and provide bases from which British bombers could attack the Romanian oil refineries which were Germany’s principal sources of oil.