Dearest Jane...

by Roger Mortimer

  We met with very little opposition but a few natives were shot trying to break the cordon. British HQ was established at the Jordan Hotel, kept by a club-footed Greek whose trade has been ruined by lack of tourists and non-paying gangsters. I enjoyed my stay there as I had my first night in a bed since we left Alexandria. The bugs were rather more annoying than usual and all had to swallow quinine every day to avoid malaria.

  One afternoon there, an old Arab rode into our HQ on his donkey and asked if we could spare him some iodine for a couple of scratches. On examination, we found six bullet holes right through him, all stinking and gangrenous; apparently the poor old boy had been shot up about two days before by an aeroplane which also polished off about fifty of his goats.

  God knows how long we shall be out here – I should imagine about another six months. I don’t mind living in mild discomfort but its rather boring, never getting out of uniform, having no books to read, and never seeing anyone at all except soldiers.

  The more I see of the Palestine Police, the more I realise how incredibly idle and indisciplined they are. They cause us endless trouble by letting all their rifles get stolen, spreading secret information and getting pissed and shooting up harmless people.

  The more I see of the Army on semi-active service, the more hopelessly inefficient they seem to be: thank God there wasn’t a war! Some of the British regiments out here are absolute jokes, like the Ws who have lost five trucks, several Lewis guns, shot up their own patrols and run like Hell whenever they meet an armed gang of more than one. Then there are the KO who are nothing more than an armed gang themselves and the RS who are absolute savages. The Buffs and Black Watch, though, are both first class as are the 11th Hussars.

  Best love,

  Roger

  ‘Thank God there wasn’t a war’! Oh my dearest father, don’t hold your breath.

  This letter to his sister Joan indulges in one or two more gentle pleasures beyond the debris and squalor of poverty and strife in Palestine.

  I rather enjoyed Jerusalem, firstly because it was mildly exciting, secondly because the Old City is a most intriguing place, partly fascinating and beautiful, partly squalid and repellent. Some of the Arab hovels I went into were deep in excreta, with human beings, goats, donkeys and chickens all squatting silently and miserably in the same room; once or twice I’ve had to light my pipe to avoid being sick. On the other hand, some of the convents and hospices are beautifully clean and very attractive indeed and run by the most delightful people. I lived in a very high building on the edge of the city wall and at five o’clock in the morning, with the sun rising beyond it, it was a very beautiful sight, especially as there was complete quiet owing to the curfew. Most of the city has altered but little since Our Lord’s time; Pontius Pilate’s house can still be seen.

  I am at billets in Ramleh at present and would be very comfortable if the electric light hadn’t been cut off and if either the bath or the lavatory worked. There is a lovely view across the plain to the hills which seem to change colour every hour of the day.

  I caught a big chameleon here and kept it for a day or two. They are very tame and settle down in no time. I let this one go when I went off to Jaffa for four days work.

  It’s rather dull when one’s not working here as you can’t leave camp at all or you are likely to get kidnapped or shot.

  The following letters bring up all kinds of intriguing points: the state of my father’s wardrobe, terrorist attacks, British officers misbehaving . . . the deteriorating world situation.

  Life continues its uneventful round out here: I haven’t been outside the city traffic checks for nine weeks and my work doesn’t seem to get any less. We’re all waiting anxiously for the Government policy to be outlined and that may give us some idea of the duration of our visit here. As we were originally prepared for a two-month visit, I only brought very few clothes here and I am attending social functions among the Jerusalem elite in grey flannel trousers with a patched seat and a coat that was donned with pride for the first occasion in my Sandhurst days.

  Forty Arabs were blown up just down the road last week by Jews who had placed a bomb in the Arab market, skilfully concealed in a basket of carrots. One unfortunate gentleman was squatting on the basket when the bomb blew up and was completely disintegrated except for his legs which were paraded up and down the street all that day by his female relatives, accompanied by piercing and incessant lamentations. The same night, an infernal machine, which would have almost destroyed Jerusalem, was discovered on a roof by a British policeman who luckily heard the machine ticking. Most of the Arab assassinations are now done by boys under fourteen who are handed the weapon and shown the quarry by a terrorist.

  I’m glad I’m not in England at present, there seems to be so much squabbling, wind and national hysteria about. It may be dull here but we don’t worry much about Europe and there are worse conditions to be in than mine – a nice, dull, peaceful groove.

  Manoeuvres in Egypt have been very severe this year – very strenuous and in dreadful weather. The new mechanised brigade – pride of the Near East forces – returned to its base in sad ignominy on the train, all the mechanism having been rendered useless by two days in a sandstorm!

  I hope to take four days leave to Egypt next month or in May, which I feel I am now entitled to.

  Best love,

  Roger

  The Conference has provided no solution to this squabble over here, so I suppose we’re stuck here T.F.O. [till further orders]. We’re all beginning to get rather browned off as we’re given no clue as to our future except the knowledge that there’s no leave going this year. However, an ugly world crisis seems to be brewing up so there’s a chance we may get shoved off to Egypt to keep the Italians quiet. What a truly bloody world it is at present and not the remotest sign of any improvement in the future. And to think I’m doing it all for about the same wages as my grandmother gives her 2nd or 3rd gardener.

  Quite a lot of murders outside the hotel this week, one of which was seen by Guardsman Newash who pursued and captured the assassin. The popular method now is to hand the gun to a boy of about ten or eleven, who actually does the dirty deed, knowing full well that his youth precludes him from the gallows.

  The flowers out here are lovely and the hill country has been miraculously transformed into a vast rock garden. At one place I saw about two acres of the most magnificent lupins I’ve ever seen, and even the Jerusalem suburbs are less nauseatingly hideous than usual.

  I have employed a tutor for the evening hours and learn Arabic from him with almost humiliating difficulty. I think I’m beginning to improve and can now occasionally startle some particularly annoying yokel with some acid remarks in his native tongue.

  Some regiments have been having trouble with the officers and I’m rather glad to hear the Buffs, who I think are rather priggish, are having to court-martial one of their officers. He was in command of a platoon post on the railway and unfortunately his sex urge was stronger than his sense of duty. Tiring of the boredom of isolation, he used to sneak off at night and bed down with some alluring Rachel in a Jewish colony. Unfortunately he used to make his journey in the wireless lorry so that when his post was attacked in his absence, no SOS could be given to HQ and a disaster was only just averted. An RAMC [Royal Army Medical Corps] Major is also durance vile [restraining order] for calling the CO of the 5th Fusiliers an old bastard to his face! Well I hope this finds you less browned off than it leaves me.

  Best love,

  Roger

  Christmas in Palestine, 1938: Roger was as near to the birthplace of the Messiah as he would ever be, but not on a pleasant Christmas break to the sound of the merry organ and sweet singing of the choir. He was not away in a manger, but often caught up night-time alarms and excursions.

  The situation here remains static: even if we get back to Egypt, the European situation rules out any hope of leave to the UK. These bloody dictators never let up on one for a second; they have a
lmost entirely ruined soldiering as a pleasurable profession and in spite of rumours, I do not believe their power shows any sign of being on the wane.

  Very busy here lately: only one night in bed out of the last ten, owing to these windy generals being scared stiff of being thought inactive (‘lacking in drive’ or ‘not a live wire’ is the usual term used). Consequently we are shoved out at midnight every day to go and inflict moderate hardship on some perfectly peaceful village.

  We did however have a good raid on Hebron: it was two days of hell, very cold, very arduous and well carried out. With the help of informers we picked out several hundred terrorists, having rounded up and questioned 800 men in 36 hours. Then, if you please, the bloody staff, having urged us on, makes us release all but a hundred as ‘they hadn’t expected so many and don’t quite know what to do with them’. The big bunch of cloth-headed saps! No wonder we all get browned off.

  We’ve moved after nine weeks in the open to real comfort at this excellent German hotel in Jerusalem. The comfort of a bed, carpet, electric light and other kindred amenities that I was beginning to forget are more than welcome. Well, a Merry Christmas to you all, and a peaceful new year.

  With the instability in Europe and increasing threat posed by Hitler, my father’s next destination turned out to be in the cooler climes of Birkenhead, in preparation for war. He described this period years later.

  The Miller’s House

  Kintbury

  21 July [1980s]

  Dearest Jane

  As you know I was on leave from Egypt when the Hore-Belisha expansion of the Army took place. I was a junior captain and found myself suddenly in command of a Searchlight Militia Battery, RA, in Arrow Park, Birkenhead. My junior officers tended to be moth-eaten old dug-outs from World War I. The other ranks were Merseyside teenagers. We had no searchlights, no rifles, no NCO instructors, no parade ground, no snacking irons, no kitchen utensils, no clerks, no cooks, no uniforms. We were riding on the rims. Belisha thought that as long as he assembled individuals there was no need to fuss about organisation, training, standard of living. He was a flat-catching shit backed by the Daily Mirror and the radical press. The Merseyside teenagers were basically OK and I grew to like them, and vice versa I think. I was very moved by the send-off they gave me when I left to rejoin the Coldstream at Pirbright. A lot of them had no religion and when I filled in their particulars they gave as their religion ‘The Prudential’ or ‘The same as you sir, if you don’t mind’. I eventually got a Battery Clerk from the labour exchange. A cynic, highly efficient, he had been quite a nob in the local communist party. We got on very well. My BSM was a very smooth riding instructor from the RHA. By far the best young officer I had was John Garnett, Marlborough and Royal Welsh Fusiliers, killed in 1940 as soon as the fighting started.

  Best love

  xx D

  Roger didn’t have much time for Leslie Hore-Belisha, the Secretary of State for War better known today for pedestrian road safety due to his ‘Belisha beacons’ at road crossings. His appointment was not a popular one with Parliament or the top ranks of the Army. Hore-Belisha gave some highly regarded generals the sack, a downgrading he himself received in the early months of 1940.

  I’m delighted that Hore-Belisha was sacked. In my opinion he was a self-advertising careerist, a liar, not over-scrupulous, and a sucker up to the vulgar press.

  Between the declaration of war in September 1939 and Hitler’s invasion of Belgium and the Netherlands in May 1940, British forces were engaged in constant military manoeuvres, training exercises and preparation for action. It was a time of unsettling hiatus – the Phoney War. As part of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF), Roger was sent to northern France with his Coldstream battalion in early 1940.

  I was detailed to come up here at four hours notice from the Base: I was rather relieved in a way at not going to the 2nd Bn where my memories are not of the happiest; moreover, the Commanding Officer used to be Riley’s right-hand man and I’m afraid I never treated him with the respect due to his seniority and spent a good deal of time and ingenuity in making him ‘the butt’: the fact that we have not had to meet in the tenser atmosphere of war is a matter of mutual relief and if I’d been in his place I should have been very loathe to receive me into his fold!

  I’m a fairly junior captain in this Bn and I am doing duty as 2nd in command to Jerry Feilden which suits me well especially as I have a hell of a lot to learn about this sort of soldiering. Jack Whittaker is our Brigadier, I’m glad to say, as no one could be nicer. Arnold Cazenove is almost unknown to me; he is very serious, painstaking and industrious and demands (rightly, I think) a very high standard indeed. I bet there isn’t a better Battalion in the BEF as regards turnout; we work like blacks, digging every day from dawn till dusk with occasional variations in the shape of 15-mile marches. I find myself very tired when my last duty is done and more inclined to sleep than anything else. I had a bloody journey up, taking 48 hours with two minor train accidents. I arrived at 4 p.m., very tired and dirty and with the worst cold I’ve ever had and shivering in a tremendous blizzard. At 8 p.m. we did a night drive, yours truly sitting in an open lorry with no windscreen, and then proceeded to walk back some 16 miles, getting in at dawn. I felt like death when I started but 100 per cent better at the end. Could you please send another issue of kippers and a cake from Mrs Tanner would be welcome. Our billets are easily the best in the BEF: we have a very good company mess, central heating, good WC etc: sleep in the next door house in a very classy mansion owned by a rich industrialist. I have a delightful bedroom and get ragged a good deal by the seven children, who I frequently see sitting in a long row on jerrys.

  Best love to Mummy and I’ll write when I get time. Am unlikely to get leave before the end of June.

  Roger would not get leave in June. The Germans had other plans for him. In the meantime, February 1940 found him lulled into tranquillity, living in a French arcadia.

  Fine warm weather here with very sharp frosts every night. I wish there was a golf course near, as it’s just the right time of year for that sort of thing. I only wish I could hop down to the NZ on Sunday and play a round and a half, no doubt exceedingly badly, with a large lunch in between.

  I had arranged to go to Paris last Sunday with Rupert Gerrard and Tommy Gore Browne, but at the very last moment on Saturday morning, just as we were setting off, some dim old bore of a general announced his intention of inspecting us at 11 a.m. on Sunday. This was equally tiresome for the guardsmen, as on Saturday afternoons we hire three buses and take a trip to the nearest town. Consequently they had no time left to get cleaned up and everything swabbed for this singularly ill-timed visit. We duly paraded on Sunday, but after a tedious wait a message came through to say we would be an hour and a half late; I suppose we should have expected this but nevertheless, our feelings towards the general were scarcely improved by this announcement. However, I felt it my duty to give him a civil reception, so I posted some drummers with French ‘Cors de Chasses’ on the balcony of the turret and when he emerged from his staff car, they blew a loud and highly original fanfare – the sort of thing that precedes the entry of Prince Charming in a provincial pantomime. The general was visibly shaken so I seized the initiative and had him well under control the whole time. He proved to be a dim, pleasant sort of Belisha general: he inspected the men ‘standing easy’ if you please, and asked them all well-meant but fairly silly questions, such as ‘Does your family write to you often enough?’ I think he was pleased with his visit and he was very complimentary afterwards.

  We have a padre living with us which is a pretty fair bore as he is obtuse and foolish, even for his station in life, which is saying a good deal. He’s not a shit in any way, rather to the contrary, but he’s appallingly ignorant and out of touch with reality to such an extent that he really shocks me. Also he is apt to make rather sly, smutty remarks to show what a jolly, broad-minded sport he really is!

  Deep in the winter of early 1940,
he wrote to his uncle.

  1st Reinforcement, 2nd Battalion Coldstream Guards

  1st Infantry Base Depot

  BEF

  9 February 1940

  Very many thanks for your most welcome letter. I should be most grateful if you would be kind enough to send me some ‘mental nourishment’. I am quite content to rely on your selection and any preference I have would be between David Cecil’s ‘The Young Melbourne’ and Franklin Luckington’s ‘Portrait of a Young Man’.

  My life here continues to be distinguished solely by the completeness of its rural quietude: my former companion has moved on and though I miss the conversation, the joint attack on The Times crossword and the general knowledge papers we set each other every night, I am very happy in complete solitude as long as the post arrives occasionally and I have something to read. By good fortune I managed to get hold of Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’, which I had always shied away from formerly: I enjoyed it more than anything I’ve read for years and it kept me quiet for almost a week.

  The best of this sort of existence is that one is able to do all sorts of things that in more normal times one never think of doing – at any rate, I wouldn’t. I have become rather a keen naturalist in a primitive sort of way and spend a good many afternoons watching birds and I think I shall shortly be able to publish a small brochure dealing with the life and habits of the little owl in this part of France! Now that the thaw has set in, I’m going to buy a rod and do a little coarse fishing in the canal.

  Little owls, thoughts of fishing and not a hint of conflict in that early spring air – how removed that little corner of France seems from a time of war. In a letter to me in the 1980s, he recalled that halcyon interlude.

  I have seldom been happier. There was no other officer there, it was too cold to work, and I had a snug room with a huge stove and piles of books sent from kind friends in England. In those days books cost 7/6d, not £10.