The Battalion Provost Sergeant was an Irishman who went by the name of Paddy Hannafin. It is true to say that he was an even more unpleasant and unpopular man than one could reasonably expect, even of the Battalion’s policeman. Although I never heard it for myself, his greatest claim to fame was his instruction to any soldier who aroused his ire, to “Repoort to me, at tirteen-tirty hours, wid a tockin’ haircot!”. Paddy would swagger around the camp, with his red sash and cane, always on the lookout for a victim. This might even be in the form of a junior officer, a Lieutenant or, more likely a 2nd Lieutenant, to whom he would be acidly polite, but they both knew that he represented the Adjutant. This might go some way to explaining why, one freezing Christmas night, someone up on the third floor of “A” Company block emptied a fire-bucket over the strutting martinet below! Paddy never discovered the hero!
“Queenie” in the title above was how 2nd Lt. Queen was known to the lads of the Assault Pioneer Platoon, of which he was Platoon Commander. He was a young man, of an age with those he commanded, and was somewhat unusual in holding a National Service Commission. This meant that he had more in common with us conscripts than with the Officers, and he often came to his platoon’s barrack rooms in the evenings, to chat with the chaps. He was genuinely popular and well-liked.
To return, briefly, to the subject of Paddy Hannafin. He and his cohorts who comprised the Provost Section were in charge of the guardroom and of the defaulters (Janker-Wallahs). There was always a plentiful supply of these, because someone had to clean the offices, and carry out all the fatigues in the cookhouse and other delightful places, and yes I did my fair share!
The Provost Section also had responsibility for traffic signing when we were out on exercises and for policing the battalion’s vehicle movements when away from camp. However it is another of their responsibilities within the barracks which provides the next little gem.
On the day in question “Queenie” was Subaltern of the Day. At about 11.00 hrs the Duty Bugler sounded the fire call, or General Alarm as it was correctly known. Queenie had called a fire practice! Everyone abandoned their duties and made for their individual Assembly Points, at the double. And I mean everyone, regardless of rank! As we were formed up on the square, we could see Paddy and his minions, acting out their role of firefighters. They ran at full-tilt to the fire shed, threw the doors wide and raced out to the nearest hydrant with the hand-propelled firecart. They then connected the hose and ran it out to its fullest extent, at which point Paddy declared them ready for action! Meanwhile, rolls were called and, when everyone was accounted for,the battalion was ordered to stand-down and return to normal duties. The fire drill was considered to be up to a reasonable standard.
On the evening of the following day I happened to be with some of the lads of the Assault Pioneers, when into the room strolled 2nd Lt. Queen. They demanded to know why he had called the fire practice the previous day, or, in barrack-room terminology “Oi Queeny, what the fuck was that all about? D’you think we’ve got fuck all better to do?” “Well chaps,” he explained “I knew Paddy had some paint in the fire shed that I wanted, but I’ve never been able to get in there, because it’s always locked, and he has the key. So I cooked up this little scheme, and when he left the place wide open I was able to get in there and nick the paint!” He grinned broadly at the cries of “You crafty bastard” etc.
The Barracks: Paddy’s fire shed is the smallest building, with the snow-covered roof. The fire hydrant is in the top corner of the square, next to the trees.
The mention above of “jankers” or C.B. (Confined to Barracks), to use its official nomenclature, reminds me of another example of the unpredictability which I found during my service. On this occasion I was undergoing a spell of this punishment, probably 3 days for some minor “crime” when I was instructed by Paddy to go to the quarters of the Regimental Sergeant Major. There, I was told, I would find the R.S.M.’s battledress blouse and an iron. I should press this item of clothing, “And see yers make a blody good jhob of it!” I went, with some trepidation to carry out this task.
I found the blouse, and the iron, which was plugged into the light socket, a not unusual practice in those days! I was steeling myself to begin this job, when in walked the R.S.M. “Hello son” he said, “what are you doing here?” I explained that I had been given this task by the Provost Sergeant. “You sit down, lad,” said he “I’ll do that”. Then, seeing the frayed condition of the lead to the iron, he asked “Have you had a shock off this iron?” Having established that this had not happened, he proceeded to do the job, whilst talking to me like a long-lost friend. After about thirty minutes he said “You had better go back now, but Sgt. Hannafin doesn’t need to know that I did this myself!”
For a short spell, probably about a month, our Company Sergeant-Major or C.S.M Webb was absent for some reason. To our horror his duties were taken over by Paddy Hannafin, but our fears proved to be largely unfounded, probably because he didn”t have time to settle into the job before “Womba” returned. However, the day in question was a Saturday and the men were all looking forward to their afternoon off. At around mid-day I saw a group around the notice-board, reading “Company Orders”. It was both compulsory and in one’s own interest to do this every day, as “But I didn’t know” was not acceptable as an excuse for failure to comply.
I soon discovered the reason for the anger in the air. The whole company was ordered to parade at 14.00 hrs. outside the Company Office and to march round to the playing-field, where the Battalion football team were playing a team from another unit. I am quite sure that the members of the teams were no more keen to be there than we were to stand and watch them. All the blokes concerned were in their late teens or very early twenties and had, to a man, been planning to go down to the town in furtherance of their research into the various clips, clasps, hooks, buckles and buttons to be found about the persons of the local “fräuleins”!
We paraded as ordered, and Paddy emerged from the Company office. The parade was called to attention to be addressed. “Roight”. Began Paddy, “Now for a start, Oi want you to know that Oi don’t like dhis, as much as you do. But, Oi’ve been ordered to march yers round to the sportsfield, and dhats what Oi’m ghoin’ to do! What yers do after dhat is op ter yersilves!” I never thought I would hear the blokes cheer Paddy, but we did then!
On reaching the field we decided it would be prudent to hang around for a few minutes before sloping off. I wandered over to the touchline, to watch for a while, and found myself quite close to the R.S.M. and the Commanding Officer, Lt. Colonel Sleeman. Just then, the ball came loose and was heading at a fair pace down the left wing, in the direction of our goal-line. It was hotly pursued, though at some distance, by the opposing left-winger, intent on glory! Our defender was running as hard as he could go, out from the direction of our goal area, in a do-or-die effort to reach the ball first. The gallant Colonel was beside himself with excitement and shouted, in typical, coarse, red-blooded football supporter’s language “HURRY UP, THAT MAN!” I took this as a signal to leave, choking with laughter as I went!