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About the author
Seán Ó Foghlú (John Foley) was born in Nenagh in 1940. His
early school years were at Kiladangan N.S. where the love of
writing and reading were inculcated by Mr. Liam O’Byrne, his
school principal.
He has worked in many areas, doing all types of jobs from
textile spinning to a driver and groom with a stud farm, until
he joined the Defence Forces, where he stayed for 30 years. His
Initial Army Service was three and half years from March 1960
to September 1963 and gave him the opportunity to serve with
35th and 38th Irish Battalions in Belgian Congo. Because life was
rather mundane and quiet in Barracks after Overseas Service, Ó
Foglú left Army Life to see the “excitement” that might be on
offer in Civilian life, and he travelled to many parts of the world.
He rejoined the Defence Forces in 1974 and served until 2000.
He has excelled in hurling, football, cycling, angling and has
played rugby league and soccer in the U.K. He has a medal for
Inter Coy. hurling in 1963 from Katanga and has Championship
of Lancashire & League Medals with Harp & Shamrocks Club in
Manchester in 1960’s.
His interests include the Highland Pipes, and Scottish and
Irish culture as well as military history, shooting, fishing and dog
training. Photography is a passion as are ALL his grandchildren.
He is scuba and parachute trained, and visits Netheravon,
Salisbury Plains occasionally to renew acquaintances with
parachuting friends.
Married to his adorable wife Betty for 44 years, they have
four children: John, a serving soldier in Cork, married with four
children; Liam, also married in Cork with four children, has 14
years army service with 1 Fd. Arty. Regt. He now works as a
driver/plant operator; Michelle is married to Garrett and they
have three sons and live a short distance from Puckane; Sinéad
and Damien have one daughter, Emma, and they currently live
in Puckane Village.
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He is a member of IUNVA (Irish U.N. Veterans Association)
as well as a host of other organisations that cater for the less
well-off. He has completed ECDL & security courses.
He has had short stories published. This work has been a
“Labour of Love” and he hopes to follow with other themes on
military experiences.
No White Feather
A Soldier’s review of Military Life in the Irish Army & U.N. Service in
Belgian Congo, including The Battle of Jadotville 1961.
Seán Ó Foghlú
Every effort has been made to contact the copyright holders of material reproduced in this
book. In cases where these efforts have been unsuccessful, the copyright holders are asked to
contact the publishers directly.
Published in 2011 by Book republic.
Office 19, Dunboyne Business Park, Dunboyne, Co. Meath, Ireland.
http://www.bookrepublic.ie
ISBN: 978-1-907221-06-4
Copyright for text © Seán Ó Foghlú 2011
54321
The paper used in this book comes from wood pulp of managed forests. For every tree felled,
at least one tree is planted, thereby renewing natural resources.
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without
written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages
in connection with a review written for insertion in a newspaper, magazine or broadcast.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Note: The opinions offered in this book are those of the author only
and do not reflect those of the Defence Forces.
Names in italics are false names to protect people’s identities.
Printed in Great Britain by the MPG Books Group, Bodmin and King’s Lynn
Contents
Acknowledgements 7
Introduction 9
1: Enlisting in the Permanent Defence Forces 13
2: Into the West 25
3: Forming up for Peace Keeping Training 38
4: The Curragh Camp & Glen of Imaal 49
5: Africa Bound–At Last 55
6: Welcome to the War Zone 64
7: Company Recreational Pastimes 74
8: Intelligence Gathering & Operation Shadow 81
9: The Pioneer Outing 95
10: Operation Babysitter 98
11: We Move to Sabena Villas 105
12: The Road to Dilolo 113
13: In Search of Dogs of War 128
14: We Saddle up and Move to Jadotville 140
15: Appraisal & Consolidation of our
New Company Position 152
16: The Thunder of War Sounds Loudly over Jadotville 173
17: Day Two & More of the Same 188
18: The Hounds of War still Snarl 203
19: No Victory March 221
20: The Excursion to Kolwezi 243
21: Our Uncertain Future in Katanga 263
22: Security Deployment at Les Roches 270
23: Looking into Hell in all its Misery 278
24: The Green Green Grass of Home 283
Epilogue 293
Appendix 1. Nominal Roll Call “A” Company 295
Appendix 2. Nominal Roll of 3/1 Indian Gurkha
Soldiers killed in action 302
Appendix 3: Map of Katanga 303
Appendix 4: Range Card 304
Acknowledgements
I would like to take this opportunity to express my very sincere
gratitude to all those who have helped me “along the road” to finally
getting this book published.
I must emphasise that the initial work began in 1965 when I was
in the U.K. and I started writing the story in long-hand as a hobby
out on the Lancashire Moors, when the weather was not always
inclement. When we moved from Lancashire to Ireland in 1970,
all our stuff was to be brought to Ireland by British Road Services
but apparently this group sub-contracted to a firm called Palgrave-
Murphy from Cork.
This latter firm went into liquidation while our stuff was in
transit so we lost everything, including the original book.
The honour of the driving force behind me getting started on
it again belongs to Mr. Martin Power of Ballyhimikin, Nenagh
—a learned man of many parts who has written some brilliant
publications himself. I am indebted to Mr. Noel Carey, my
former platoon commander in the Congo, for permission to use
photographs from his personal collection; Mr. John Gorman has
given much by way of his own personal records to help with the
book’s formation; Mr. Walter Hegarty’s invaluable assistance in
provision of amendments of Nominal Roll List that I needed for
correcting is acknowledged. The Nominal Roll is listed in Appendix
1. His additional information has cleared up some areas for me.
My thanks to Mr. P.J. Sweeney—former platoon member—for
Dilolo patrol photograph.
I am grateful to Mr. Edward O’Hara of IUNVA Post-25 for his
invaluable assistance in pointing me in the way of much sought-
after photographs in relation to Operation Rumpunch.
7
Seán Ó Foghlú
My daughter Sinéad who patiently typed some of my barely
interpretable notes at times deserves an accolade also. My sincere
thanks to Fiona at Walsh’s Stationery Shop in Nenagh for pain-
stakingly copying pages for me and binding them into a sequence.
My grateful and sincere thanks to my sponsor who wishes to
be known only by “Dora” for providing financial assistance to get
publication up and running.
A very special word of thanks goes to my long-suffering wife,
Betty, who endured “widowhood” while I vanished into my computer
room for hours on end and the many cups of tea or coffee and other
treats that she provided makes her “one in a million”.
To those who took on the onerous task of proof-reading the
book and offering advice and corrective techniques, I say a sincere
thank you also.
Finally to all those involved in the publication of this work, my
sincere gratitude for your very professional approach to every task
and some of them must have been very trying at times.
8
Introduction
T
his Book is dedicated to the entire membership of “A”
Company, 35th Irish Battalion who served with ONUC in
1961. It is a sad fact that quite a number of those great
soldiers have passed to their eternal reward since those hectic
days in Katanga, Belgian Congo and each and everyone of them is
remembered with pride.
Neither do I forget the exceedingly brave members of The Indian
Gurkha Battalion, who formed part of the second Relief Group
that endeavoured to break through and come to our assistance at
Jadotville. Three of those fearless warriors had managed to get across
The Lufira Bridge and were killed in action—a selfless sacrifice on our
behalf. Another died as the Relief Force was making a strategic but
abortive withdrawal from Lufira Bridge. When the Relief Force was
hit up near The Seven Sources on the way back to Elizabethville, the
true heroism of 3/1 Gurkhas was demonstrated by Naik Mahabir
Thapa who, though already wounded, led a clearing party against
road-blocks and mined areas where superior Katangan Forces were
dug in. In the attack to clear them out, an attack that was successful,
this super courageous soldier was mortally wounded but kept at his
task, thus ensuring the relief force got through. He died soon after
of his many wounds. He was posthumously awarded the MAHA
VIR CHAKRA—the 2nd Highest Military Medal for Bravery in the
Indian Army.
There is a poignancy in remembering all the troops of 35th Irish
Battalion who were killed in action in Operation Morthor and I
dedicate a special mention to Trooper Patrick (Paddy) Mullins who
is still classified Missing in Action and presumed dead. How sad
that in all the years since 1961 that no trace of his whereabouts has
unfolded!
9
Seán Ó Foghlú
Some of you readers may think that a lot of what I have written
does not reflect the reality of military life in Ireland and, indeed
darkest Africa, during the troubled years of 1960 to 1964 when
U.N. troops tried to restore a semblance of order back into the
Belgian Congo and the Province of Katanga.
The various chapters cover my experiences as they unfolded,
nothing more and nothing less. I have endeavoured to portray, as far
as possible, how every scene made up a larger picture eventually in
all stories. They reflect true events and they had a variety of actions
in them. My use of the “F” word on many occasions is relative to
how soldiers often expressed themselves in those days. By today’s
standards in every aspect of the media and everyday conversation,
such use of the “F” word in the era I refer to, would be considered
mild. Children in play areas use it more frequently than seasoned
soldiers.
Neither do I portray myself to be a hero doing everything in
Jadotville. As a young corporal, I was part of the company machine
and each and every soldier of “A” Company kept that machine
ticking over magnificently once Commandant P.J. Quinlan, as the
“Starter Motor” turned the “crankshaft” to bring us into life.
All events that I took part in are portrayed through my own eyes
and reflect my own feelings, none more-so than when The Battle
of Jadotville was in full swing. The members of No.3 Platoon were
simply magnificent, from the youngest to the oldest, all through
the events of everyday battle. The guiding hand of Sgt McLoughlin
steered us unerringly through many a hazardous episode for which
we were really thankful. There was that cohesion there through
making sure that teamwork would always come to the fore and it
did.
All the other platoons were working in a similar mould and
keeping their own sectors free from infiltration by the Katangese.
I feel certain that had anybody else who had the will to put
into words their own feelings and thoughts, that there would be a
parallel in many aspects of what I have written myself.
10
No White Feather
I hope too that those who have never “soldiered” will find an
inkling of what motivated me and others like me to be a soldier in
the 1960 era and why I grasped the nettle of responsibility when the
chips were down.
There has been no intention on my part to offend anybody,
anywhere in any shape or form in the manner in which I have written
this book. If people do take offence, all I can say that no malice was
or is ever intended. My total goal has been to give the reader an
enjoyable experience should he or she metaphorically “travel along
the road of adventure” that I have endeavoured to portray.
A firm sense of adventure was nurtured in me by my period spent
in the Belgian Congo, so much so that there was a distinct yearning
to get back to Africa as soon as possible or to travel to more places
of intrigue throughout the world.
It is my intention too to put in writing a “follow-up” to this
present publication and to highlight some of the events of being
part of 38th Irish Battalion ONUC in 1962/63.
A layout of a possible fitting Memorial to the Gurkha Soldiers
who died in attempting our rescue at Jadotville is to be found in
Appendix 2.
My sincere thanks to all of you.
Seán Ó Foghlú
11
Chapter 1
Enlisting in the Permanent Defence Forces
T
he appealing slogan of the Army Magazine—An Cosantóir
—“Tar Isteach San Airm”—must have given the driving
impetus to many an aspiring young man to seek Fame and
Glory in Ireland’s Defence Forces in those early days of 1960 when
employment prospects were not all that rosy or settled in a pattern.
Indeed, the expectancy of having to pack a small brown suitcase for
places like Camden Town or Liverpool was all too stark a reality.
Certainly on that frosty morning in March 1960 this Call to
Arms reverberated around my mind as I duly, and without hesitation,
signed “on the dotted line” signifying my full allegiance to three years
Full-time Service and nine years Reserve with Na Buan Óglaigh, at
Sarsfield Barracks, Limerick. Having first gone through the rigours
of a full Medical Inspection by the Medical Officer, anyone with
hammer toes, missing digits on hands or feet, sight problems, back
problems, dental problems or any other malformation was deemed
to be not suitable for Military Service and were kindly requested to
get themselves out of the Barracks and off home.
The ink was hardly dry on my documentation, and that of the
other six who enlisted with me on that cold, bleak March morning,
when we found ourselves the newest occupants of Room No.6 K
Block before being moved to our Recruit Training Depot at Kickham
Barracks, Clonmel.
The harsh reality of our surroundings left little to the imagination
of anyone who was previously cosseted in snug surroundings and
the familiarity of well laid out bedrooms and washing facilities and
the creature comforts of home. The grim interior of the room was
indeed a deflating aspect to the ardour of even the most enthusiastic
amongst us; yellow drab paint flaking from the walls was matched
by an equally drab finish to the doors and window frames. The
13
Seán Ó Foghlú
whole air of despondency was not helped either with the state of the
beds and the accompanying bed adornments—coir hair mattresses
that certainly had seen better days and were sadly in need of being
taken, preferably by night, to the nearest dump for disposal.
Some of them displayed much soiling by urine and the contents
of some unknown soldiers vomit bag or over indulgence of Military
Tea.
To say they offered a modicum of “comfort” to the weary traveller
was possibly an exaggeration, but the aid of the horsehair pillow
lent much to the easiness of getting personnel on First Parade in the
mornings before even the birds had arisen from their slumbers.
But sleep we did, perhaps fitfully amid the columns of fetid
smoke exuding from the metal pot-bellied stove that provided the
main source of heating, and also the possibility of an early grave
for anyone constantly inhaling the odious smoke emanating from
the bowels of this rust-eaten contraption. We had to keep it filled
with sodden pieces of turf and blocks of Elm wood with spit oozing
from them. Those blocks had defied any make of axe to break them
down to manageable sizes to be fed into the cavernous gob of this
metal monster.
Morning saw us attempting to shave and raise a lather with ice
cold water in the Wash Room. Not for us the luxury of hot, or
even tepid, water to soften the bristles as we were to prove our
mettle by being able to “Take it on the chin” but the MacSmile or
Blue Gillette blades had little in common with luxury despite the
admirable claims by the manufacturers.
Many is the piece of paper that adorned the “smig” of a youthful
shaver in those days before Shaving Gel for Sensitive Skin was heard
of. Breakfast was nearly a non-event, as the surly Orderly Cook of
the day had not made provision for seven more hungry mouths to
be fed from his Ration Draw on the previous day. We did, however,
receive about a quarter of a loaf each with a knob of butter perched
precariously on top. One had to be swift as a barrack rat to ensure
that some wiser “old sweat” did not stick his fork into your butter
and leave your bread naked—another page in the learning process.
14
No White Feather
One of the newly fledged Recruits described what was coming on
the plate as “an inkling of a rasher and a button of black pudding”
given unceremoniously to each of us. The immediate tools of the
trade—knife, fork and spoon—were available for us on a tray on a
side shelf in what we later learned was the Dining Hall, a grandiose
name indeed.
Tea was hot and strong and came from a six pint aluminium
teapot and our temporary “loan” of green enamel mugs helped to
tighten up the skin of the lips when attempting to drink the scalding
liquid.
Manage we did because “hunger is a good sauce” and before
long we had an angry individual wearing a 2 Star Corporal insignia
roaring at us to get a move on, the sight of such an insignia would
haunt our waking hours as well as our fitful dreams for the duration
of Recruit Training.
Our arrival at Kickham Barracks was not greeted by a fanfare of
trumpets or a bevy of Officers in Gold Braid and as we dismounted,
rather hurriedly, from the Bedford truck churning out billows
of rancid black smoke, we were again pounced on by a Training
Corporal. He informed us, in no uncertain terms, the “Nice Things”
he had lined up for each and every one of us as soon as we were
kitted out with our paraphenalia.
This consisted of an assortment of Clothing, Brushes and Military
Shaving gear, Webbing Equipment, Rifle, Bayonet, Oil Bottle and
Pull-through, as well as the most ill fitting helmet that ever left the
factory where they were made.
Without the addition of more than two arms on each body we
made hard work of pushing everything into an enormous sack
called a “Clothing Bag” and together with the rest of the Ordnance
we trundled in an ungainly fashion to our Recruit Quarters. There
we were each assigned a Bed space, a Soldiers Kit Box, a Steel Rack
to stack our Webbing on in an orderly fashion (when it was not
“stacked” on our person).
At least the beds and blankets looked to be in a much better
state than the Initiation Billet in our previous location and the floors
15
Seán Ó Foghlú
looked as if they had recently been cleaned and washed. We were
immediately shown—once—how to Make Down and Make Up
one’s bed.
The system of folding the blankets and sheets so that Blue lines
matched the Black lines on the blankets was demonstrated and
everything had to be box shaped and ruler straight for inspection
each day in Make Up mode.
We were informed that a Room Orderly would be delegated daily
for the purpose of having Rooms, Wash houses and other immediate
Hallways and staircases in a spick and span mode, and that fuel
would have to be drawn by the Duty Orderly for heating purposes.
What was stressed also was besides doing all this “housemaids”
chores that the Room Orderly would also be required to attend all
Training during his Roster Day, no mean feat in itself.
We were “invited” to get kitted out in our brown boots and
leggings and to wear our Fatigue Suits, clothing made from a hard-
wearing canvas type material in various shades of Brown with
Military Buttons attached to keep the Tunic closed.
One could not help but noticing that there was a very distinctive
Post & Telegraphs Stamp on both garments, so whence our Military
future?
Then there was a three minute demonstration on how to fit the
wire into the peaked Headdress, with the warning that if you cut
the wire too short the result would make you look like a tormented
zoo keeper. If there was too much left on, then the Cap resembled
a modern day Telecom satellite dish and the cap would be at the
vagaries of the wind.
We were reliably informed by the Training NCO that we would be
on a Charge for damaging Government property if we “redesigned”
our own Caps to look like his.
He emphasised that we would be charged the cost of a replacement
Cap too. It has to be said that his own Cap had the peak slashed like
a Guardsman of the Queens Regiment.
The message was received and understood as with the limited
Pay of £1.19.3 in old money, one could not afford to be financially
16
No White Feather
involved in keeping the coffers of the Barrack Stores topped up.
Finally, looking like the proverbial piece of crap the cat dragged in,
in the vocabulary of another Training Corporal, we were herded on
to the Barrack Square to begin the very rudimentary foundations of
Foot Drill.
The stress was on why all of this was good for us in case we ever
had to go into Battle, that then we would obey the Orders to Fight
or Die without question from our superiors.
The Platoon Sergeant—Sgt. Murphy—a heavy set man with a
pair of jowls on him that got us an immediate “Confined to Barracks
(CB)” detail when one of the more “gobby” Recruits said, as an
aside, that he had seen the Sergeants “brother” in a Bacon Shop in
Limerick, “with an apple stuck in his kisser”. The sergeant’s hearing
was not depleted as he somehow overheard this comment and thus
our first stint at CB. Much muttering from the rest of us showed
that our fellow Recruit was not endeared to us by his quick tongue
wagging, and likewise the Sergeant for his instant pronouncement
on Military Law.
We were to become very familiar with this module from Lectures
by our Platoon Commander, Lt. “Fitzy”, needless to say, a Kerryman.
His main ambition was to add to his two All Ireland Minor football
Medals.
His own keep fit technique was run, run, run, so we became
the pace setters over Powerstown Race Course and the slopes of
the Comeragh Mountains. Those mountains overlooked Clonmel
Town and we galloped up them at least twice per day for six miles
or more.
“Ringlets”, our other Training NCO, who was as bald as the
proverbial baby’s arse, was the most genial of the Training Staff and
he taught us the rudiments of The Theory of Small Arms Fire.
A few denser types thought he was referring to guys with short
arms and fire-lighting ability. He extolled on yarns of how he and
his mates “survived” during the Emergency Years of 1939-1946
and the antics they got up to in procurement of extra rations and
17
Seán Ó Foghlú
clothing and how they traded off the Civilian Ration Coupons for
Tea, Sugar etc. for “porter” in the local hostelries.
Square bashing did not appeal to many and the repetitive nature
of Drill often had many in tears and confusion and the abrasive
language of the NCO’s, liberally sprinkled with the “F” adjective,
caused at least four to decide that Military life was not for them in
the first week of Training.
References to what their mothers should have done with them
when they were born caused many to harbour thoughts of what they
would like to do to those insulting NCO‘s if they were to meet up
with them—preferably on a dark night—in the town‘s precincts.
Morning Inspections by the Training Staff prior to handing over
to the Platoon Commander often brought sarcastic comments like:
“Did you shave this morning, soldier?” This was inevitably followed
in a meek tone by the questioned man and his reply “Yes, Corporal”
brought a comment like: “Next time step a feckin pace closer to the
feckin razor as you still have your gooseberry hairs sticking out of
your feckin snout.”
Other soldiers questioned as to whether they had polished their
boots often brought a bit of hilarity from one particular soldier who
liked winding up the NCOs. When asked such a question he would
give a deadpan reply like “No, Corporal” and when asked why
would answer, “Because the fella beside me had no feckin polish,
Corporal.” This certainly endeared him to the Training Staff.
It was now that the relish of having done a stint in the FCA came
into its own, but anyone foolish enough to mention that they had
such Service drew ribald comments of “You’re a ‘Sandbag’ then?”
Now there was silent thanks to the beleaguered FCA Corporal who
drummed into our sometimes non-receptive heads “Deas Iompaígh”,
“Iompaigh Thart”, “Fan Sochair”, “Clíonaigh Airm”, “Tharraigh
Airm” and such like military terminology.
The Regular Training NCOs wanted a “Lean, Green Fighting
Machine” from what they termed as rabble, assembled on the
Barrack Square.
18
No White Feather
Indeed it sometimes did seem that some of our Platoon did have
two Left legs or two Right arms when they got mixed up in Drill
procedures and this only meant that we all got a roasting time again
from Training Staff.
There was a great sense of camaraderie, however, when the more
talented helped out the slow learners after Training hours and even
in the late evenings Drill and Orders could be seen and heard at the
back of the Billets. The explanation of the Irish words of Command
helped many to stay determined to make it in Military life.
Musketry in all its forms, or at least what was relevant to fledgling
soldiers, was always on the daily curriculum and we spent many
hours out by the banks of the River Suir “Laying Aims,” finding
hidden Targets, Searching Ground and Judging Distances. This
would lead up to Tactical Training later on, and the hours we spent
in Weapons Training were very satisfactory from my point of view.
I already had fired Mk.4 Lee Enfield Rifle and LMG BREN with the
FCA. Repetitive Loading and Unloading, Care and Cleaning, Use of
Oil and 4 x 2 Cleaning Cloth for Weapons and how to use the Pull-
through to proper effect without scoring the front of the barrel of
the rifle was drummed into our heads repeatedly.
Our “progress” was to be assessed at five weeks by our Platoon
Commander. We thought that we were ready for release against any
Elite Forces after so many hours on the Square, on the mountains,
“bulling” the boots and leggings with exuberance and Spit and
Oxblood polish to get a glossy shine on them. We had rubbed the
verdigris covered brasses on our Web Equipment with a piece of
leather and Brasso until they gleamed in the light. We had squared
off the pouches—commonly known as “Diddy Bags”—with plywood
and liberally coated them with a paste of Blanco which gave them a
nice even, green colour when applied properly.
Alas we were brought thundering down to earth when on Final
Approval day he announced to all and sundry that we were “the
worst he had ever seen in his Military career” and we, not knowing
19
Seán Ó Foghlú
much better, believed him and we were not aware either that
he himself was not too long out of the Military College, having
completed his Cadet Officer Training. This comment did not draw a
chorus of “Well Done” either from the Training Staff.
We were advised that a much greater effort was now required if
we were ever to get to wear that coveted One Star insignia, which
would denote that we had at last reached the first rung of the
Military ladder.
In some cases we were really determined to get stuck in and
shape up and at evening time we would be “knackered” from the
Square, the now eight mile run in morning and evening, the repetitive
Weapon Training and Musketry lessons and trying to keep up the
Clothing and Kit to a top class standard by acquiring some short
boards from the BFW yard Staff.
I bought some labelling material from Woolworth’s Store on
Main Street to enhance the layout of the Kit in the Kit box with
810428 and Date of Issue stamped neatly on all items and in a nice
line up. Even the Woollen Stockings and Gloves got this treatment,
as did the Grey Back Shirts, the Knee length Drawers that felt on
the skin that they were made of a mixture of steel wool and furze
bushes material. The Vests P.T. were the only garments that gave
some degree of “comfort” to the wearer.
It was strange that a soldier has all his possessions in this Kit
Box and even the Aluminium Plate, Knife, Fork, Spoon, Brushes,
Oil Bottle and Pull-through had all their places on the lid of the
box, being kept in place by wide, stout elastic also purchased at
Woolworth’s Store. We used the mattress and a blanket to press
out a sharp crease in our Issue Trousers and sometimes we tried
the same “stunt” with the Bulls Wool Tunic, a garment that was
buttoned right up to the neck and kept in place at top by two hooks,
thus ensuring that one would not be looking down at the ground
or viewing any “loose change” that might be on the Square, as the
NCOs would say, from time to time.
It has to be said that we did persevere in all aspects of Training
and were deemed safe enough and confident enough to fire the Rifle
20
No White Feather
on Kilcoran Range near Cahir. Some of us relished this aspect of
Training and it was satisfying to see the White Disc being signalled
repeatedly on one’s target indicating that maximum score was being
achieved. Even at 300 yards distance only four points were dropped
altogether and after the day’s tallies, it was evident that I might be
in line for a prize on Passing Out Day.
We finally did Pass Out on the Barrack Square, to a fanfare of
trumpets from the Band of Southern Command, speeches from the
Colonel, praise for all of us even from the Training Staff en bloc.
The awards of Best Shot, Best Kit and Best Soldier overall were
then announced with much ceremony, or at least it sounded so to
us who had been chosen for our resolute determination to achieve
success. Finally our Platoon Commander gave his “few words”
when he plainly admitted that the whole Platoon had done him
proud and was the Best that he had ever commanded.
So this was what the blood, sweat and tears of the past few
months was all about!
A day of glory for the Platoon Commander and his Training Staff
and Guinness to be supped by the gallon in the Mess on the strength
of a fine effort and roll on the next batch of Ireland’s “faithful”.
On reflection, were the endless hours scrubbing the wooden
floors of the Recruit Billet using hand scrubbers and Carbolic Soap,
that seemed to be available “by the mile” for Military purposes,
worth it? Were the efforts at cleaning the Wash Rooms, Toilet areas,
or the floors of the Billets, the careful use of the Button-stick on
the Webbing Brasses after the rivulets of Blanco had dried into
the Equipment also worthy of praise? Was the pressing of Service
Dress No.1 under the mattress, or the clandestine acquisition of a
piece of bicycle chain to make the trouser legs hang that little bit
straighter over the well-bulled Brown Leggings ever worth it? The
Leggings sat atop the equally well-bulled Brown Boots, complete
with their regulation twelve studs and cleats, glistening to a Mr.
Sheen shine through the continuous application with dedication
of spit and polish. Did this “winning formula” merit staying in
on evenings when others were “out on the town” with a soldiers
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Seán Ó Foghlú
meagre wage of £1.19.3 less deductions for Laundry, Haircuts and
Barrack Damages?
Were the efforts of folding and refolding one’s Kit always or
nearly always stacked neatly in the Kit box and ensuring that one’s
Army Number was ruler straight for the unannounced Kit Inspection
by Training Staff at a moments notice also worth it? The sarcastic,
sharp comments that sometimes accompanied those Inspections
often left a stinging sensation in one’s mind?
Were the Dry Practices in Billets with Rifle and Bayonet, Loading
and Unloading, Naming of Parts, Aiming and Arms Drill till one’s
arms ached with the effort, ever worth it either? So much time spent
on all those tasks found one dallying to the Canteen for a respite of
a large mug of steaming tea and a couple of iced buns that set one
back the usual princely sum of three pence each.
The tea cost six pence and finally one fell into bed and dreamless
slumber before the electrifying hour of the Tattoo Bugle Call echoed
across the Barrack Square and Parade Grounds. Were the often
unfair hours spent scrubbing dixies and pots in the Cook-house
under the mundane gaze of the Orderly Cook or Orderly Sergeant
really necessary to declare one’s loyalty to one’s country? I would
say yes, definitely.
This was a Test of Manhood—not in a sexual way as one’s Male
appendage was “available” for one use only in those far off days,
due no doubt to the liberal application and dosage of Bromide and
perhaps other “secret ingredients” into the Cook-house tea urns on
many occasions.
One must not forget also the weekly degrading “Medical
Inspection” in the Billet prior to Bath Parade when the Duty NCO
shouted loud enough to be heard on the slopes of Slievenamon,
“Stand by your beds.” We automatically—some gingerly at first—
peeled off our Grey-back Shirts, turned them inside out and held
the seams for Inspection and any indication of Body Lice. At the
same time we tried to maintain a modicum of self dignity (if there
was any dignity remaining at this stage) while standing in a kind of
hula hoop position with arms half raised and “Wire-wool Drawers”
22
No White Feather
at “half-mast”. This allowed the Medical Staff to ascertain that no
undesirable “bodies” were in habitation on your person or that you
had not succumbed to any of the STD’s that might be doing the
rounds in some of the sleazier places out town.
Then the mad dash to the Bathhouse took place, where if one
anticipated a hot shower you were often disappointed, as surely
when your turn came the storage tank had drained off and a quick
“flash” in the chilling water was your lot before being marked
up as being present by the Duty NCO on the L.A.57 (Baths Book
Record).
Now we could display our notorious 1 Star Badge of Rank on
our No.1 Tunic and thus perhaps, a great milestone on our road
to future greatness—who could tell? Now also we could savour
and relish three days Leave from Barracks in our respective home
environs and taste a nearly forgotten piece of home baked brown
bread spread with lashings of “country butter”. We could banter
with our equals in the neighbourhood, who all seemed strange and
refined even after only a few short months away.
A request to tog out for a Junior Hurling match on the Sunday
and due to the fact that fitness was our forte, we were able “to run
rings round” our opposite numbers and a clean win was the day’s
result.
Our three days break was all too short and then it was cycling
back the sixty miles to Clonmel to await whatever new War Games
would be applied to harden us up further for the War Machine as
we called the Army then.
The Tuesday morning Parade started with urgency to get kitted
out for Battle Tactical Training, and while this was in progress there
was a hushed message doing the rounds that a Senior Officer had
come all the way from a place called Renmore in Galway to try an
inveigle fresh faced young men with a minimum of the Irish Language
to consider transferring to the 1st Irish Speaking Battalion—An
Chéad Cathlán Gaelach.
We were “Fell In” again and told by our Platoon Commander
that Commandant Jack Griffin—a mighty looking stalwart man by
23
Seán Ó Foghlú
all appearances—would like to discuss a transfer with any soldier
having a fancy to soldier daily through the medium of Irish.
Five of us took the regulation Pace Forward and were told to
meet with Commandant Griffin in the Company Office where he
listened to our “blas” of Munster Irish. Having been a follower of
Gaelic League activities for many years while in Secondary School,
and having a distinct love of the language, I quickly responded to all
his queries and he seemed very pleased that at least one face would
be forthcoming to Renmore.
In fact three others did make the choice and then we were told
that we would be packing our Kit and travelling by Travel Warrant
to Galway on the following morning. I am not sure if the training
Staff heaved a collective sigh of relief to see some of us going but
we were told in no uncertain terms that whatever bed we made we
must now lie on it and no coming back!!
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