SOME PERSONALITIES
In writing this short history of the regiment I have carefully
abstained from all personalities. These few notes on some of our best
known characters are only added to recall pleasant—or other—memories,
and the subjects are asked to forgive the liberty taken.
To criticise one’s superiors is both impolitic and impertinent, but
there are three who cannot be omitted—two of them live in England and
may never see this book, and the third—well, he has expressed his
opinion of me quite bluntly more than once already.
At Grammont I received a letter from a very well-known member of the
football team thanking me for the medals, in which he said:—“We
always liked General Girdwood for his kindly consideration for the
men, and I know I am only expressing the opinion of all the boys when
I say we would not have changed him for Haig himself.” There is no
doubt that was the opinion of the whole Division about our
G.O.C.—and, fortunately, we only had the one. Whether he was talking
to the men after a good bit of work in the line, or at a formal
inspection in the “back area,” one always felt how keenly interested
he was in the men. They loved his “Beatty” cap—but not his roasts of
beef. He always expressed his appreciation of good work, but
apparently disliked the growing of oats on the spare pole of one of
the limbers—but the transport know more about that than I do!
The G.O.C. had certainly a brain-wave when he adopted the “Broken
Spur” as our Divisional badge. We were all very proud of our “Broken
Spur.” An Australian officer, seeing it at Faustine Quarry, asked if
it was the badge of the 74th Division. “Well,” he added, “we call you
‘Allenby’s Harriers,’ because you are the only Division we can’t keep
up with.” Coming from an Australian that was “some” praise.
I don’t know which was the more popular—the G.O.C. or “Reggie.”[1]
But “Reggie” took some knowing, and though it was capital fun watching
him strafing others—which he did “full out”—it was quite another
thing when he turned his guns on you! He was a tremendous sportsman,
and it didn’t seem to matter whether he was hunting sentries or
jackal—so long as he was hunting he was quite happy—while the
feelings of the sentry and the jackal were also probably similar! He
took a tremendous pride in the Brigade—“I take off my hat every time
to the 229th”—and I fancy what pleased him far more than defeating
Turk or Bosche was our victory over the Scots Guards at Grand
Rullecourt.
If we had gone abroad within three months after mobilization nothing
would have saved “Black Mick”[2]—if within six months it was about
even odds. At nine months all the N.C.O.’s, a good many of the men, and
even one or two subalterns might have tried to save him; while after a
year, if any one had dared to lay hands on him, he would have been rent
in twain by the entire Regiment. And the reason was obvious. Realising
what capital material he had to deal with, Mick was determined that,
whatever people might think of him, his job was to get the Regiment to
the highest state of efficiency in the shortest possible time. The pill
certainly was a bit bitter, and it was only when the effects began to
be felt that we realised what a thundering good Doctor “Mick” was.
Shortly before we went out he admitted that we were as good as any
cavalry regiment in the Army, but characteristically added—“but don’t
tell the ——!” A very effective combination were the Colonel and Mick,
and if we didn’t love them much at the time we realise now how much we
owe them.
Subalterns and N.C.O.’s were to Mick as a bone to a puppy—he could
chew us as much as he liked to-day, but we were still there for
similar treatment on the morrow! But how pleased we were when his big
black horse played up one day and knocked his cap off!
His language was pointed and all-embracing, and our ancestry and
morals both seemed to meet with his disapproval. It is therefore
impossible to give any anecdote about Mick. When the narrator’s
opinion of Mick is added to Mick’s opinion of the narrator, the story
could only be told in Russian. “Always have an answer ready,” was his
advice, “even if it isn’t the truth—like Mr Sharp’s answer just now.”
Sharpie[3] and Ralph Stewart were quite the best at looking after
themselves, and carried more gear than all the rest of us put
together. At Syderstone Common an inquisitive general ordered the
tarpaulin to be taken off the General Service wagon, and the first
things which caught his eye were Sharpie’s tennis racket and golf
clubs. At Gara munitions of war had to be left behind to find room on
the truck for his patent washstand. By the time he got to Palestine
Johnnie Smith really could not compete with his belongings, and had to
“borrow” a donkey to carry what could not possibly be left at Cox’s
Go-down—and it took eight months after the Armistice was signed
before sufficient shipping could be collected at Alexandria to bring
that home.
“Tukie”[4] and “Doctor” Ross[5] of course go together—I don’t know
which had the more character.
“What’s the guid o’ gaen tae oor Doctor? He wadna believe yer ill till
yer deid, and he wadna believe yer deid till yer stinkin.”
Scrimshankers got little sympathy from either. “I’ve got awful pains
in my back, Doctor,” said one man, and a knowing look passed between
the Doctor and Ross. “Off with your shirt then.” A good old smack on
his bare back and—“that’s all right, my man. A good dose of castor
oil, Corporal Ross. Medicine and duty.”
Corporal Ross was a wonderful detective. He knew the past history and
character of every man in the Regiment, I am sure. Though no two could
have taken more care over you when you were really sick than Tukie and
his corporal, no two were harder on anyone they knew was shamming. How
these two worked on Gallipoli! Finally Tukie had to give in and was
literally pushed on board a hospital ship, but he was as bad as a
patient as he was good as a doctor, and they were glad to get rid of
him at Malta after a short time and return him to his beloved Unit.
Egypt, of course, afforded great scope for Tukie’s fly-extermination
crusade, and I have already referred in the text to his extraordinary
success in exterminating mosquitoes at Sherika.
In Palestine his sanitary schemes were almost universally adopted, and
his award of a Military Cross hardly represents the great improvements
he introduced into the sanitation and health of the Force. We were all
very sorry to lose Tukie, but realised that his ability was wasted as
a regimental doctor, and felt he was better employed at the citadel
where he had more opportunity of using his great surgical powers. We
only hope he didn’t drop cigarette ash into the interiors of his
patients.
Others we lost far too soon were Ronnie Hutchison, O.C. Machine Gun
Section, who went to the M.G.C. His favourite word of command was
“Gallop,” and his joy to jump ditches and hedges with his carts; Pat
Rigg and David Marshall, also Machine Gunners; Willie Don, who had to
leave us in Egypt owing to heart trouble. His Grace of Canterbury
himself could not have intoned words of command more melodiously than
Willie did. Charlie Herdman, our finest exponent of horsemanship. He
left us in Egypt to go to Remounts, and there he was absolutely in his
element, horse, camel, and donkey-coping. Spreull the Vet., who went
to the R.A.V.C. in France. Nor is anyone likely to forget “Daddy”
Ricketts, the Q.M., if he ever tried to extract anything from his
stores, or Gervase Babington (family motto “What is thine is mine”)
if he happened to possess anything Gervase or his troop coveted.
“Ackety-ack”[6]—otherwise Willie Campbell—had one great failing. He
could see no farther than A Squadron or A Company, and if anyone ran
down “A” he foamed at the mouth. Ask him how many sergeants there were
in No. 1 platoon—which won one of the inter-platoon football
competitions—and he was abusive for a week! “Ackety” was perhaps seen
at his best playing for the officers’ team. On the advice of the
crowd, “Go for the man, sir, never mind the ball,” he invariably went
for Collier or Herd or Dommett, the adjutant of the Somersets—each
one quite two or more stone heavier than himself. He and
“Aeroplane”[7] were well matched, nothing striking to look at but
grand stayers. Willie was due for leave about the first week of
January 1919, but as he had spent all his money, and about £200 of
other people’s, on the men’s Christmas dinner, he had just to stay
where he was from want of funds to take him home.
While at Sherika, Ross Robertson left us to join R.F.C. He was our
first signal officer, and when he left was second in command B
Squadron. We lost in Rossie a very capable and popular officer, and
his death on his first solo over the German lines at Cambrai was
keenly felt by the entire Regiment. Morning stables were of no
interest to Rossie—all the energy he could raise was devoted to
flicking the heads off the daisies in his lines, but give him a
definite job to do and no one could do it better.
Unlike his successor, nothing could worry him—Bill Scott, on the
other hand, took his telephones very seriously. Till the day he went
home we pulled his leg about his ’phones. Ormy,[8] in particular,
being lavish in advice as to what to do, and threatening to get Jock
Clark if he (Scott) couldn’t do it.
Ormy was a great fellow. The less he knew about a subject, the more
advice he would give and would argue the point _ad nauseam_. He was
reading Law at the time—perhaps that is why.
Perhaps “Dinkum’s”[9] best _bon mot_ was when he nicknamed
M‘Dougal[10] the “Gallipoli Spider,” and Mac certainly had a wonderful
knack of gathering all things into his web. Gallipoli gave him
splendid opportunity for his Autolycus-like habits, and rumour has it
that, though really ill with dysentery, he took off with him from
Suvla seventeen ground sheets and nearly as many blankets. At Sherika,
rather than lose his share of the ice, he took it with his tea.
Bombing was his strong point, and as an instructor in hand and rifle
grenades he was first class. Routine he hated like poison. Mac is
perhaps the only officer who was witty once—and only once—in his
trench report. I don’t know if H.Q. see the point of his remarks to
this day. He it was, who, having overshot the mark, and lost his way
in Palestine, was shown back to our lines by a Turkish officer!
“George Washington,” Cummins,[11] “lost his nerve,” so he said,
through being mauled by a lion in South Africa. This is purely
supposition on his part, as he had no notion what nerves were. We
sometimes wondered if he even knew what pain was. He was badly
frost-bitten on Suvla, and had to be pushed off the Peninsula—at
Sheria a bullet passed through his forearm and grazed his upper arm
and ribs. He got it tied up, and continued with the advance, and then
assisted wounded all night at the dressing-station. The C.O. ordered
him to go to the Field Ambulance at once to have his wound seen to,
but George put in four more hours before complying with the order.
At Fakenham an officer joined us from the Wild West—a cow-puncher and
lassoo expert. The obvious name for him was Arizona;[12] and Arizona
he remained. I have even heard him referred to as Captain Arizona. An
enthusiast in whatever he took up, he was in turn scout officer,
transport officer, Lewis gun officer, quartermaster and company
commander. But it is as sports officer that he will be best
remembered—training the football or running teams, coaching the
tug-of-war, organising cricket or baseball, or arranging mule
gymkhanas or swimming matches. One of his best efforts was coaching
the tug-of-war team in the final against Lovats at Sohag. Only when
his handkerchief was in his right hand were his instructions
“genuine.”[13]—“Heave” with it in his left meant nothing, and
completely mystified the opposing coach. Poor old Arizona! He went out
with us to Gallipoli, and was with us to the very end. Shortly after
coming home he had an operation on his broken nose, and everything
seemed all right, but pleuritic pneumonia set in, and he died very
suddenly in a nursing home in St Andrews in February of this year.
There is one officer about whom innumerable stories could be told—no
need to mention his name. He, it was who, looking through a periscope,
well below the parapet, waved to a Turkish deserter to come in, and
could not understand how the Turk didn’t see him.
When he was mounting his horse one day it collapsed and died on the
spot.
“That’s a funny thing, Sergeant Cooper; I’ve never known this horse do
that before.”
“Will you take my punishment or go before a court-martial?” “Your
award, Sir.”
“Well, go away, and don’t do it again!”
When asked how he got on when torpedoed on the way home, all we learnt
from him was, “It was very wet.”
Then there is the oft quoted, “What are you complaining about? It’s
only another five miles, and you’ve cocoa for your tea!”
Mac Lindsay,[14] the stock-whip expert and jack-of-all-trades,
confessed to only one ambition in life—to dress —— in a little red
jacket and fez and lead him round on a chain! The report that he made
a Ford car out of bully-beef tins has, I understand, been officially
denied.
Just a week before the Armistice we lost Colthart, the best
quartermaster in the Army, and one of the best of fellows. He had a
wonderful “way with him,” and could get for us all sorts of stores,
etc., which other quartermasters were unable to get. He was with us
all the time, and never missed a “show.”
Colthart once “took pity” on a stray donkey in Palestine. Government
oats soon made a tremendous difference, and the donkey was sold at
Yalo for, I think, £11. Unfortunately, the previous owner met the new
purchaser with the donkey, and all explanations being unavailing, a
court of enquiry was the result, to which witnesses seemed to come
from all over Palestine. Eventually, the donkey was returned to its
previous owner, and all parties satisfied—except the donkey.
Dick Wood and Harry Fraser were two of the best we got from the Black
Watch. Dick Wood looked benevolent enough behind his spectacles, but
in a scrap his lust for blood was insatiable. Harry’s penchant was
stalking Bosche machine gun posts. Unfortunately, he got it badly in
the neck just as success was at hand, and was away from us till about
the Armistice.
He and the other Harry (Adamson) looked after the transport lines.
Arizona told Harry Adamson to take his platoon forward and see if the
Bosche were still holding their trenches on the Lys Sector. “Hairy’s”
method was typical of the man. Thinking it might be a “dirty” job,
“Hairy” left his platoon under cover and went on himself. Having
failed to find any Bosche in their trenches, he got up on the parapet
and waved to his platoon to come on!
Of the N.C.O.’s and men it is possible only to mention a few.
I always associate S.M. Alec. Ogilvie with Hogsthorpe at early morning
stand-to going round the lines, abusing everyone for making a noise,
and himself making as much noise as all the rest of us put together.
He was the life and soul of C Squadron. Heaven knows what C would have
done without him on the Peninsula. He and Edie and M’Laren, our three
squadron sergeant-majors, were a very strong trio. Edie was an example
to all of us—however tired he might be himself he never thought of
resting till he was satisfied his men were all right.
One man, I know, will never forget Sergeant Craig (he was made
R.Q.M.S. just a few days before his death on Suvla). Craig found lice
“doing squaderron drrrill up his legs,” and he was pegged out in an
outhouse till his clothes were fumigated.
S.M. Bradfield was another splendid fellow who lost his life—the
result of frost bite—on Gallipoli. Corporal “One ’wo” was a physical
instructor in civil life, and no one could twist one better at “jerks”
than he could.
Then there was the one and only Jock Lumsden. Regularly once a week at
morning stables he turned the whole troop out to water, while he and
“Dinkum” swept the entire garage out—a sure sign that the previous
night had been pay night. He always was a hard worker, but a perfect
demon for work the morning after the night before. A squadron leader
was showing a man how to use a pick, cutting trenches in the sandstone
at Sherika. Up strolled Jock—hands deep in his pockets. “Here,
Sergeant-major—this man hasn’t the foggiest notion how to use a pick.
I’ve just been showing him.” “I’ve been watching ye, sir. I’m thinking
it wad need tae be war time for you to earn ten shillings a day in the
pits.”
“How many men in this bay for rum, Sergeant Lumsden?” “Four men and
myself, sir. That will be nine.” When handed his tot, he looked at the
bottom of the mug, and handed it back to the orderly sergeant, “Hoots,
Gorrie, dinna mak a fule o’ my stamach.”
An inveterate gambler, but a great sportsman, no one could have been
more loyal to his Company than Jock.
When a man on manoeuvres crawls up to a ditch within twenty yards of
a very wide awake post, leaves his cap just showing above the bank,
and then proceeds up the ditch so as to get within five yards of the
sentry, and could only be dislodged from there by stones, one spots
him at once as a keen, hard-working fellow. Such was Private Gall, who
eventually became R.S.M. He taught us to bayonet fight with “dash,
vigour, and determination,” and gave us Irish songs and recitations at
our smokers.
Another star performer was Craig of the Machine Gun Battery, with his
whistling and patter. He eventually got a commission (and the D.S.O.)
in the Grenadier Guards.
Then there was Sergeant Renton—who, though badly frost-bitten,
refused to leave the front line, and always showed his other foot to
the Doctor. He could only hobble with the help of spades as crutches.
Young Roger who “saw red” in the Dere and nearly bayonetted the
Doctor. Hastie Young, an “old soldier,” the regimental barber: he cut
the Brig.’s hair, until the Brig. unfortunately ran into Hastie
holiday-making in Jerusalem.
Lowson who snored quite happily within a few yards of the Turkish
machine gunner at “Amulree”[15] and finally got lost, and “fetched up
among the ‘Duffs,’ I think ye ca’ them” (it is as the “Buffs” that
they are generally known)!
S.-M. Elder, an old Black Watch man, who when asked if he were dead
stoutly denied it.
Little Batchelor, the runner, never flurried and always so polite,
however nasty the Bosche might be, was nearly kidnapped by the
Australians as a mascot.
“Honest John” M’Niven who would work twenty-four hours a day to make A
Company more comfortable.
S.M. Hair whose wonderful pronunciation of words of command always
amused us. His “Stind at —— ice” electrified everyone; unlike poor
old Aitken, whose staccato and rapid “Company company ‘shun’” was
never heard by anyone! And then the footballers Savage, Herd, Collier
(who commanded “hauf a Batt-al-i-on” at St Emilie); Todd, M’Guffog
(who captained the team that won the Final of the Divisional Cup, with
a bit of Turkish shrapnel so close to his spine that they dared not
operate); Davis with a heart like a lion and a kick like a mule;
M’Lean who could head the ball about as far as he could kick it;
Durham who seemed always half asleep and too lazy to worry—and many
another first-rate footballer.
Leitch, the biggest and strongest man we had, the end man of the
tug-of-war team, one of our best Lewis gunners, who, when shot in the
hand, so that he could not fire his gun, carried on bringing up
ammunition boxes all that day.
Henderson, D Coy’s S.M.; Galbraith on whom descended Colthart’s
wonderful knack of obtaining whatever he wanted; Storrer Mosh alias
Morrison Storrar of A Squadron and A Coy.
Mack, one of the best we got from the 10th Battalion, and they were
all good fellows; Corporal Gibb, who looked the part so well that he
was appointed Acting Q.M.S. by the Stores Officer at Kantara!
And Many More.
Names and episodes crowd one another out—the more one writes, the
more one recalls. These random jottings, however, will call up many
more to the reader’s memory. Such is my hope—that, having started you
in a reminiscent frame of mind you will now carry on “spinning the
yarn” yourself.
“Here’s tae oorsel’s! Wha’s like us! Damned few!”
[Illustration: THE FIFE AND FORFAR IMPERIAL YEOMANRY AT ANNSMUIR.
_To face page 158_]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Brigadier-General R. Hoare, C.M.G., D.S.O.
[2] Capt. (later Lieut.-Col.) M.E. Lindsay, D.S.O., 7th D.G.
[3] Capt. H.S. Sharp.
[4] Capt. A.L. Tuke, M.C., R.A.M.C.(T.).
[5] Cpl. (later Sgt.) A.J. Ross, M.M., R.A.M.C., attd. F. and F.Y. and
14th R.H.
[6] Capt. (later Major) Sir W.A.A. Campbell, Bart., M.C.
[7] His charger.
[8] Lieut. (A/Capt.) J.W. Ormiston.
[9] Pte. Henderson, B Squadron.
[10] Lieut. (later Capt.) A.R. M‘Dougal.
[11] Lieut. (late Capt.) W.W. Cummins.
[12] Lieut. (late Capt.) R.A. Andrew, M.C.
[13] Pronounced “_genu-eine_.”
[14] Lieut. A.S. Lindsay, M.B.E., M.C.
[15] Amurieh, an isolated hill held by the Turks, raided by the Ayrs
and Lanarks, 22nd March 1917.