No White Feather - Seán O'Foghlú

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About the authorSeán 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.

NoWhiteFeather.indb 1 03/02/2011 13:10:32

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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

5 4 3 2 1

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 7Introduction 9

1: Enlisting in the Permanent Defence Forces 132: Into the West 253: Forming up for Peace Keeping Training 384: The Curragh Camp & Glen of Imaal 495: Africa Bound–At Last 556: Welcome to the War Zone 647: Company Recreational Pastimes 748: Intelligence Gathering & Operation Shadow 819: The Pioneer Outing 9510: Operation Babysitter 9811: We Move to Sabena Villas 10512: The Road to Dilolo 11313: In Search of Dogs of War 12814: We Saddle up and Move to Jadotville 14015: Appraisal & Consolidation of our New Company Position 15216: The Thunder of War Sounds Loudly over Jadotville 17317: Day Two & More of the Same 18818: The Hounds of War still Snarl 20319: No Victory March 22120: The Excursion to Kolwezi 24321: Our Uncertain Future in Katanga 26322: Security Deployment at Les Roches 27023: Looking into Hell in all its Misery 27824: The Green Green Grass of Home 283

Epilogue 293Appendix 1. Nominal Roll Call “A” Company 295

Appendix 2. Nominal Roll of 3/1 Indian Gurkha

Soldiers killed in action 302Appendix 3: Map of Katanga 303Appendix 4: Range Card 304


7

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.

ACknowledgements


Seán Ó Foghlú

8

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.


Seán Ó Foghlú

8 9

This 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!

IntroduCtIon


Seán Ó Foghlú

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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.


Seán Ó Foghlú

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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


13

The 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

Chapter 1

enlIstIng In the PermAnent defenCe forCes


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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.


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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


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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


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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


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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.


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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


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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


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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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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”


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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


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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!!


No White Feather - Seán O'Foghlú

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