"This is a love story. True, the diary kept secretly by George taylor between 1940 and 1943, when he served in the Royal Army Medical Corps on the island of malta, reports on the siege when the island faced daily raids and attacks from Axis forces. But the real theme of the diary is his anxiety for the survival of his relationship with Nettie.
The diary was kept secret because it had to be. Taylor knew he would be in trouble if it were found. There is no censor in the diary ."
Scottish Association of the Teachers of History
"This is a most unusual military history book. There are few military non-combatant accounts of life in the Second World War, fewer still from an Other rank. Based on words and feelings recorded at the time it is probably unique.
It is an interesting an informative account of the Siege of malta, with its devastation of the islanders' jobs, properties, health and social communities, and of the sacrifices made by sailors and airmen to maintain the island and drive off the aggressors.
Obviously a high-minded young man, his eager adoption of the Masons' codes and customs is to his credit and must make very interesting reading for those who are of the Brotherhood."
Don Marshall, Military History Enthusiast
For my children
Faithful through Hard Times
Jean Gill
Copyright Jean Gill 2011
Smashwords Edition
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for George and Nettie
remembrance
love’s last gift
Acknowledgements
This story is as factually accurate as my research and sources could make it. It is not a memoir; it is a reconstruction based on a live report from Malta during the 2nd World War, written by an ordinary, sensitive young Scotsman in his diary. It is not my story, it is George’s story.
The diary extracts included are used verbatim, with small changes to clarify acronyms, and some changes to names where these are not key historical figures. The diary itself was written between 1940 and 1943, is 30,000 words long, and was kept hidden in a cupboard for the rest of George’s life, too dangerous to be allowed out and too precious to destroy.
I cannot reveal my sources for all the details of George’s induction and progress as a Mason because I have taken a terrible, binding oath of secrecy, so you will just have to trust me.
George always said that ‘Ends and Means’ was THE book of philosophy to read and ALL the quotations as chapter headings are from ‘Ends and Means’ and form an ironic counterpoint to George’s story.
Excerpts from ‘Ends and Means’ by Aldous Huxley. Copyright © 1937, 1964 Aldous Huxley. Reprinted by permission of George Borchardt, Inc., for the Estate of Aldous Huxley.
Other quotations are from
My dreams are getting better introduced by Marion Hutton in the film ‘In Society’, lyrics by Les Brown as recorded by Doris Day with the Les Brown orchestra
When is a man a mason? by Joseph Fort Newton
The Mother Lodge by Brother Rudyard Kipling
The Annihilation of Freemasonry, article by Sven G. Lunden
Ecclesiastes is quoted from the King James version of the Holy Bible (also known as the Volume of Sacred Law)
and with special love and thanks to George’s brother, Dave, for all the many background details and for the fun we had together, despite the tears, while I was writing this book
Selected Sources
Siege: Malta by Ernle Bradford
Malta by Sir Harry Luke (Lieutenant-Governor of Malta 1930-38)
Air Battle for Malta by James Douglas Hamilton
Mabel Strickland by Joan Alexander
The Kapillan of Malta by Nicholas Monserrat
Army Medical Services, a guide published in 1969 with a foreword by N.G.G. Talbot, Director-General Army Medical Services
The perfect ceremonies of craft masonry published 1938 by A Lewis
The constitution and Laws of the Grand Lodge of Antient Free and Accepted Masons of Scotland
The Standard Ritual of Scottish Freemasonry published by CC and AT Gardner 1927
Villa Blye Pawla Malta G.C. by Brother Douglas Shields
The Malta Story (film)
And among many useful Internet sources:-
Jack Williams’ memories of mine-sweeping at Malta - now part of www.bbc.co.uk/ww2peopleswar/
Chapter 1
Every road towards a better state of society is blocked, sooner or later, by war, by threats of war, by preparations for war… war, which is mass murder organized in cold blood.Ends and Means
Young men died in wars and old men lied about what they had done in them; George had no intention of falling into either category. He was going to keep his head (when all around were losing theirs), do a good job for a short while and return as soon as possible to Nettie. He smiled ruefully. Why the silly girl had joined up herself, he would never know. It had quite spoilt their secret engagement ceremony, him knowing that she was off to play at soldiers. Perhaps he should not have told her so. There had been one of those stormy moments when she tossed her black curls and wondered that he thought so little of her. He hadn’t pressed the point; time would do that for him, time wearing the scratchy unbecoming fabric of army uniform, time following the orders of some other girl who could also be better occupied. Follow orders? Nettie? When, one day not too far away, she promised in church to obey him, she would probably cross her fingers. How could he protect her if she tossed her head and went her own way? Nettie was supposed to be at home, safe, waiting for his return, not charging off round the countryside. She could have no idea what real soldiers like him would be doing on a daily basis. Truth to tell, he had little idea himself yet, but it had been made clear during the six months training that he must keep his kit in impeccable order and run long distances carrying heavy weights. Whatever its military purpose, (his being not to reason why), he was on his first visit across the border from Scotland, his first trip abroad, and, for all his wide reading, he hung open-mouthed on the foreign sights.
For centuries, the British upper classes had sent their children on a Tour of Europe at their coming of age; for young men of all classes, the Second World War enforced such a Tour on a scale never seen before. For twenty-two year old Private George Swan Taylor, his Tour started with a lump in the throat. Goodbye to his parents had not stirred by a hairsbreadth from the Victorian restraint which ruled all their relations. The emotional temperature had risen just enough for his father to say, ‘Of course, I no longer expect you to repay your university fees, not with this… ‘and his slight hand gesture indicated the station platform, crowded with men in khaki, their sobbing women and small children taking what might be a last look. ‘It will just take longer,’ George had replied, earning a nod of approval. Perhaps George had imagined a flicker of envy in his father’s eyes, his Headmaster father who was recalled from his regiment in 1914 because his country needed its teachers. The photograph of his father in his Black Watch kilt stood proudly on the dresser but the uniform had never left for France with its regiment. Or perhaps George was wrong and it had been fear for his elder son, controlled through habit. His mother’s ‘You will write, dear,’ struck him more as a command than a plea, and it had been, as always, Nettie’s hazel eyes which showered him with love and pride. Even if she said nothing, her heart was always in her eyes, sparkling as she smiled for him.
‘Do I look all right?’ she asked him and he regarded her forehead, clear and shining under its halo of fashionably rolled back curls, her red wool coat with a black velvet collar – a present from her sister Jean, who enjoyed spoiling the baby of the family – and he had said, ‘You look fine.’ That was not enough and she pressed, ‘I want you to remember me.’ For two pins he would have run away with her there and then, let the army go hang, let Hitler win the war, but the same eyes would not have let him (she would not have loved him so much, loved he not honour more). He understood that about his girl only too well – she was in love with romance itself as much as he was in love with her. All he could say was, ‘I’ll remember you,’ and he had looked away from her disappointment. One day he would find the words she wanted.
The glitter in her eyes spilled onto her cheek as she waved and he watched her through the bobbing heads and shoulders beside him on the train, crowding the doorway. He screwed up his eyes to sharpen his last glimpse. It was going to be a long … year? Yes, surely a year would do it, earn him time at home, and then back to it, beating the Hun. How his younger brother David had looked at him when he came home for the weekend and said he’d signed up for the full seven, not just for the duration of the war. George told him, ‘Makes no difference; it will last that long anyway.’ David himself had missed conscription by a narrow squeak, using Uncle Willie’s connections to join the Signals and avoid the Infantry, just before George announced his news.
And then there was a train, and men, and endless physical drill, turning left on command, right on command, eating to command, yes sir no sir three bags full sir until you even breathed in unison. Basic bodily functions were an act of anarchism, surprising you with the reminder that anything, other than your rank, could be private, that anything could be beyond army control. When he signed up with the Royal Army Medical Corps in September 1939, George left a Chemistry degree course at the University of Dundee for a different sort of higher education. If he were honest, he had been restless, not convinced that he was cut out to be Mr Taylor, the Pharmacist, for the rest of his life, even with Nettie beside him. Instead he was becoming Taylor, regressing to the relationship with officers which he’d had with his high school teachers, remembering how to disappear into safe insignificance, doing what he was told. Too many Scots for him to become Jock or Haggis but he supposed those too might become an option. George was ceasing to exist.
Despite the confusion of a heavy snowfall, marching orders, a lorry and another train took the men to Southampton docks, where they boarded the Amsterdam within an hour, claimed their fifty cigarettes and iron ration, and bunked down, three to a cabin. They were delayed at Spithead from 3pm till midnight, waiting for an accompanying convoy, but safely reached Cherbourg at 7.30 am on the 15th February 1940. George managed a wash and shave in the water trough on the station platform and then forced down some ‘stew’ for lunch, a slop of meaty mess which made him nostalgic for his mother’s cooking. He took up the offer of a visit to see the town with an anticipation which quickly turned to anticlimax. His accompanying officers and sergeant seemed equally unimpressed by the shabby grey buildings and the slovenly air about the town as sour-faced locals reluctantly opened shutters to poorly stocked shops. If this was the Continent, he had no idea why the rich would holiday here. Perhaps David would have made more of it, speaking French as he did, but even he would have had to work hard to charm a welcome. At least George had time to stretch his legs before cramming with seven others of the party into a second class carriage at the end of the train, knowing he was lucky to have that much room as the men had been split into three groups, each looking after a train.
After a surprisingly good night’s sleep, George visited the train Cookhouse and was revitalised by two slices of ham and bread and tea. He passed the time when off-duty playing cards or reading his copy of ‘Ends and Means’, a work he found very much to his own way of thinking. Huxley would have been amused to hear his philosophical work being passed off as ‘ways of improving at cards’ when George suffered a few pointed queries on his choice of material. It was easier to get on with other chaps if you didn’t flaunt your brains too much, very like schooldays.
The French countryside flashed reflections across the pages of George’s book, whitening the shadows as the snow thickened, softening trees and fields to rounded silhouettes, icing bridges over broad, shivering rivers. Standards dropped at lunchtime when George faced more stew, but the bar of chocolate at teatime saved the day. There was no drinking water available so the men had to rely on their water bottles and an occasional tea. Before he signed up, George had never really considered what he ate and drank, nor when, but it quickly became the timetable, highlight – or disappointment - and conversation topic of his day. Duty consisted of an hour with four patients in the Medical Room, at 9pm and 3am, allowing George two spells asleep, which terminated at 9am in a mild, rainy Marseilles. Despite the all-too familiar weather, this was more like it, with the sort of bungalows and scenery that might attract a chap to explore further. No such luck this time and the train took them relentlessly right to the docks and the waiting Duchess of Atholl, twenty thousand tons of the best of British shipbuilding, from the Clyde, no doubt. This was definitely more like it; hammocks, four course dinners and waiter service – everything the third class passengers would have had – and paid for. Marvellous!
Bolstered by the good food, a fortnight’s pay and a ten shilling sub, George found his sea-legs and his way to the dining-room – with only a few wrong turnings, and even they rewarded him with a blue beyond his experience of Leven and Largo, blue to tempt him out on deck in shirt and pants, sunbathing, in February. Even when the seas grew wilder and ropes were put in place to enable safe movement from door to door, the only grey was the accompanying destroyer. Some of the party was detailed as sentries and submarine look-outs but George was free to sway with the roughening sea, rocking to surprisingly sound sleep in his hammock.
Morning brought the usual army routine of inspection followed by an hour’s gym but the rumour that they would reach Malta at four o’clock lifted the men through early tea, into full marching orders and standby, keeping them buoyant for the two hours until they finally docked. George later recorded his first impressions in black ink, in his flowing, looped hand with a hint of angularity to digits and each letter ‘r’, contradicted by extravagance in the tall initial stroke of a ‘p’ or the additional curling loops on a capital ‘W’ or ‘T’. His makeshift diary was a Stores Writing Tablet of thin lined paper, with a grey card cover.
It is due to the fact that one is not allowed to write much that has made my mind up to chronicle to a certain extent the details of my now somewhat varied existence.
Monday19:2:40
The first sight of Malta from the harbour is wonderful - maybe you have seen it in the pictures ? The houses tiered on the hills all round with arches and semi-tropical trees. Then it began to get dusk and the moon started shining. All the lights around began to twinkle and it added more charm to the scene. About 6.45pm we started to disembark - I can’t describe it - all I can say is marvellous and wonderful. All the lights on the hills round about, the moon, the ships’ lights for disembarking and the little gondolas sailing around - each with its fairy lamp. We got to the shore at 7.15pm and were met on the landing at Valetta. We were taken to buses and driven about seven miles across the island to what is known as Imtarfa. On arriving we were given supper and then - after talking, went to bed - and I didn’t need to be rocked.
Tuesday20:2:40
Up at 6am - washed, shaved, cleaned and on parade at 7.15am. Given another Medical Inspection. Breakfast at 8.15am. Wrote a letter to you about 9am and at 10am we were chased out to permit inspection of room. Went across to the N.A.A.F.I. (Navy, Army and Air Force Institute) which is only a minute away and I had a nice cup of tea and two cakes. Came back and laid kit for inspection. At two o’clock the barber walked in and asked if I wanted a hair cut - so I did. It’s fine when the barber comes to you! Then we had inspection until 3.30pm and I think I made a good impression. After that we had tea and four of us went for a walk. (Here we do not wear respirators as it is still a peace time station but we must wear belts for protection)
I saw Anemonies in full bloom - tropical trees and do you remember that cactus my Mother had about 2’ high - Well! I saw one the same - only it was fifteen ft high ! On our walk we were pestered all the time - boys selling things and begging halfpennies. One man collared us and said he would show us the Catacombs - after about twenty yards, I said I wasn’t going and turned back. I had only gone a few yards when another joined me as he didn’t want to go either. About half an hour later we saw the other two again and they hadn’t gone. He had asked them into a ‘pub’ first and they had managed to get out of it and leave him. The ‘natives’ will run a mile if you take off your belt but sticking a knife in you in the Catacombs would be a pleasure. Anyway we got back quite safely at 5.30 pm.
Then I went to the N.A.A.F.I. and bought this writing pad - then beat a fellow nicely at table tennis and then went to the pictures in the N.A.A.F.I. at 6.30 pm. It was a very good picture and I got back at 8.30pm when I started writing this.
It seems ridiculous, I know, but my face is red as a beetroot with the sun! I wasn’t sick on the boat but since I came off it the ground still insists on rocking! We have a wireless in every barrack room; although the time here is one hour ahead of that in Britain.
I think I have done very well for tonight so I will reserve the rest for a later date
Goodnight Darling.
Chapter 2
The ideal man is the non-attached man. Non-attached to his bodily sensations and lusts. Non-attached to his craving for power and possessions. Non-attached to the objects of these various desires. Non-attached to his anger and hatred; non-attached to his exclusive loves. Non-attached to wealth, fame, social position… Non-attachment to the self and to what are called ‘the things of this world’ has always been associated in the teachings of the philosophers and the founders of religions with attachment to an ultimate reality greater and more significant than the self.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
George turned from his organisation of rows of labelled bottles to face a belligerent fellow-soldier, framed in the dispensary doorway.
The Maltese washer-up muttered, ‘I told him there wasn’t enough work for me, never mind another dispenser, but the Serg said he,’ a head-flick at George, ‘ knows what he’s doing.’
‘We’ll see what the C.O. has to say about that!’ The doorway emptied as fast as it had filled, leaving George full of righteous indignation. Still sweating from the march to the military hospital at Mtarfa from Valetta, he had been singled out to work in the dispensary, while the others went to wards, the Cookhouse, clerical jobs and the island’s mental asylum. He had been soothing himself with the familiar names, tincture of iodine, camphor B.P., benzocaine, when interrupted.
‘Who was that?’ he asked the Maltese, whose inexpressive back remained firmly turned towards him.
‘Ward dispenser.’
It would be annoying if the fellow kicked up a shindy and George was blowed if he’d lose such a pleasant post without a fight – even if the man never talked to him again. George completed a third concoction then gratefully accepted a half-day.
Wednesday21:2:40
The average height of the Maltese man seems to be under five feet so it makes me seem bigger than ever! Some of the women go around with peculiar hoods around their head - something like a small cab hood. I don’t know why yet but maybe I’ll find out later. As I am writing (now two o’clock) in the barrack room there is a cool breeze blowing through the wide open windows, and the sun is brilliant outside. Today it is equivalent to one of our finest summer days - I just remarked a few minutes ago that it is ideal for a bathe. I am beginning to think that it will become somewhat hot when summer does arrive - in four months time!
Our barrack room is one in a huge building which looks marvellous when seen from the next hill. All the buildings here are of solid stone - no ‘bricks’ at all which gives everything a solid appearance. There is also wonderful architecture, with arches, pillars, etc. which makes the place very picturesque. For beauty of scenery this has got Hawayii and all the other places beat to a frazzle. Neither wonder the millionaires live here! - (some of their daughters are nurses!) Our barrack room is about 40ft broad and 80ft long (15 ft high) with eight pillars spaced in the centre. The floor is brown stone and the wall is yellow till half-way up, then a 2’ black band and white all above that. Outside, a solid stone verandah runs the length of the building with arches all the way along. You see the island is solid rock and all the earth has been imported as duty. Thus there is an unlimited supply of water. Labour is also very cheap and so everything is very ornate. The verandah outside is the same colours as inside.
Here, you see, the weather is so fine and everything is so clean that the white stays pure white. Everything seems to be so pale here - even our Service Dress goes pale with the bleaching of the sun. It is lovely and clean, and, having cleaned my boots, it looks as if I have only to flick them until the rain next winter! No mud - no dust - As John Brown once said to me ‘England’s a cold place’ - well! I certainly agree - and dirty too! To tell you the truth, at the present minute I am thinking that after this it would almost be impossible to stay in Scotland again.
Our beds consist of mattress, canvas sheet, 2 sheets, 4 blankets, pillow and slip. We have also each a blue carpet 6ft x 3ft so that we don’t stand on the cold floor! Nice work - eh?
Did I tell you that on my arrival I saw a chap, who came here on the last draft, that I knew at Crookham - a dispenser too. He told me he was on a ward as orderly.
Well! all the other lads on half-day today are away playing football or hockey. Personally, I thought it a little too warm for such strenuous games and I wanted to do a bit of writing anyway. Well! I’ve done it now and that is everything up to date.
Later:- I popped into the dance for an hour just to see what like it was. It was quite good to see that there were too many ‘stripes’ and ‘pips’ there so I just had the one and left and was in bed about 9.30. The crowd came back about 12.15 roaring and singing and then they stuck a mop in my face to wake me up! They are going to be blooming sorry for it yet!
There had been nothing to an Army Dispensary anyway and he would learn more about another highly interesting and very technical subject, George told himself as he reported to the X-ray Department. The Regimental Sergeant-Major had merely told him that one dispenser was enough so it was not clear whether there had been a complaint or merely a reorganisation; either way, it had done George a favour and everybody was quite jealous. To judge by the pips and stripes at the dance, promotion prospects on the island looked good, and George was sure he had made a good first impression on the Radiologist, a Major. It was galling to know that others had started off with stripes, a present in war-time, but he would earn his. He tied his white overall at the back and investigated the system for storing plates.
Daily routine was already cast in solid Maltese stone and started with a six o’clock wake-up call; then, make the bed, dress, sweep the floor; six-thirty parade for roll call; wash, shave, clean buttons and boots, breakfast; seven-thirty be on parade across at the Military Hospital for inspection and roll-call; dismissed for duties. Added to this were the weekly excitements of Pay Parade – so far he was two weeks in advance, so not complaining – and Thursday’s debugging.
On a Thursday morning he would take his bed to pieces, laying it and the bed- clothes on the verandah in the sun, where the display from all the barracks was spread out like an Arab soukh. At teatime, the process was completed with a blowlamp, applied to the metal bed. Boy, did the bugs sizzle, but the worst was the smell. They would be back within days and you became so sensitive, you would react to the movement against your skin and kill the little blighters – you knew you’d got one because of that smell.
Making the bed was no picnic either. George had sewn the required five slips onto his blankets and knew to ensure that the labels showed, or he would fail the 7.15pm stand-to-your-beds inspection, carried out regularly by the Commanding Officer.
Bedding laid out correctly
Before a C.O.’s inspection, George would contribute to the big clean-up after work. They polished the smooth stone floor to a skating-rink, cleaned out their lockers and replaced contents in the approved manner, ensured respirators were to hand, ready to place on top of the blankets, which had to be in a row with labels exact and equipment in the correct fashion on pegs.
Other regular variations in drill included fire practice and a visit to the Gas Chamber to test masks; there seemed to be a general conviction higher up the chain of command that an offensive against the island would probably start with gas attacks on a wide scale.
Parades could sometimes lead to drill; the men would meet on the football field and then there would be an hour doubling the square, in full service dress and wearing respirators, as the Officers did not consider it to have reached summer temperatures yet. That would have been quite amusing in frosty England but when the sweat was running down the inside of his tunic, George didn’t see the joke.
Then, still sweating, it was back to the X-ray room, to find that yesterday’s Corporal was today’s Sergeant.
‘Do I have to create a minor disturbance to find out whether I’m permanent here or not?’ George demanded.
‘I tried this morning but the C.O. was busy – he’ll see me tomorrow,’ was the new sergeant’s response.
‘Well I’m not a fat lot of use so far.’
‘Couldn’t manage without you – it’s just rubber-stamping and the job’s yours.’
George had been in the army exactly six months, one fourteenth of his chosen sentence, long enough to mistrust rubber-stamping, but was slightly reassured at the promise of radiography training. He would have been more optimistic if he hadn’t heard the rumours of orders – confirmed by the Sergeant - that no radiographers or masseurs were to be trained abroad during the war. What an army.
Chapter 3
Of the significant and pleasurable experiences of life only the simplest are open indiscriminately to all. The rest cannot be had except by those who have undergone a suitable training.
Thursday22:2:40
I finished about 6.15 and then went up to the Recreation Room upstairs - two rooms - one billiard room and the other with easy chairs, tables, writing paper, ink, wireless and everything. I played for an hour and a half, - free too ! You can see how everything is so handy here. In one minute you can have food, tea, pictures, dance, tennis, billiards, draughts, ping pong and it’s a couple of minutes to the football pitch and the other N.A.A.F.I. There is a terrific difference here too in that there is never a crush as was always the case at Boyce. I think the company is about 90 strong at present but some are leaving at the end of the week. There are always some on duty which keeps things quiet too !
Tonight, walking back from the recreation room in the full moonlight it was really like daylight - although I bet no-one ever thought of reading in it !! Walking along in the moonlight, jacket and shirt neck open, in the delightfully cool air, has a peculiar effect on me - soothing certainly - and surprise at such magnificent beauty. There is but one way to convince you of the truth in my ravings and that is for you to see everything yourself and then I’ll defy you to express in words how you feel. Off to bed now ! Goodnight Darling.
No-one wakened them the next morning and George scrambled to the 7.30am parade conscious of his stubble, not jet black like his brylcreemed hair, nor oddly ginger like his tentative moustache, but dark enough to be an embarrassment. He knew his buttons would pass muster as they could easily go two days, but he was lucky to get away without shaving.
Mid-morning, George would break for tea, cake and a smoke at the N.A.A.F.I. and that was where he found that his suspicions about the wake-up, or rather lack of it, were shared.
‘Something fishy about this morning business.’
‘Some sod thinks it funny to see us hopping around with our pants down.’
‘Nothing for it – Spoof’s keen. Put him in charge. Least we’ll wake up, then.’ George had become Spoofer, then Spoof, after a Spoofer Taylor in a boys’ magazine.There was hardly a pause for George to accept his new responsibility before all eyes were on their hopes for a perk.
‘Now then, Scouse, what can you do for your mates?’ Scouse, whose real name George didn’t even know, had been placed in the Cookhouse. He grinned.
‘Fancy tea in bed, boys? Or at least in your bedroom.’
‘Best offer we’ve had all week.’
‘Dress up for us an all?’
‘No chance. Time you paid a visit to Straight Street, you randy sod.’
‘Oooh, choosy!’
Shorty turned serious. ‘Make sure it stays on the QT boys, it’s…’
‘More than my job’s worth,’ they chipped in.
‘I’ll slip a pail up to you, mornings, half five, and evenings, eight o’clock, best I can do – all right?’
‘Wonderful. Football, anyone? Three this afternoon.’
The football pitch was probably the only one in existence that was solid stone. Despite seeing cases all week being X-rayed for injuries caused by ‘organised games’, George couldn’t resist joining in, not even when he was reminded to wear his identity tags in case the medics on duty had to sweep him up. As it turned out, a three-all draw with only minor injuries all round, offered a pleasant way to pass the time. And time was passing too slowly.
Saturday24:2:40
I was told today that I am to be trained as a radiographer so I must be doing all right and be quite suitable.
It is now 6.15pm and I haven't anything thought of for tonight yet. All the other lads are out so I'll pop off somewhere I expect. I am just wondering where you are and what you are doing at this minute. Have you got the initials on the ring? Have you got the photograph? - And how I curse the fact that the censor makes it impossible to write what I think instead of having to fall back on the bad habit of thinking what to write.
Love, George.
He had proposed to her in the bluebell wood, where they courted in the springtime with another couple, their friends Joan and Jack. She chose sapphires ‘like your eyes’ for her engagement ring, which should be uniting their initials at this very moment on the third finger of her left hand. Bluebells. She said his eyes deepened bluer when his heart beat faster. She asked for a photograph to carry next to her heart at all times, and she frowned at his comment that it would become rather crumpled and bathing would be difficult, but he promised to send one all the same. Her image was on its way to him; her image had never left him. At the sudden recollection of her face, he felt an ache which he was too much a man of science to diagnose.
Sunday25:2:40
Somehow or other I've missed you more than usual, Darling. I suppose it's just that I'm paying less attention to my surroundings and so think of you more. Everybody else is out - away to Valetta, which is 1/- return by bus. You take a horse cab (if you want) for a three mile roundabout road to the bus stop for the large sum of 3d each. I haven't been in Valetta since the night we came here. To tell you the truth I am spending quite enough without galavanting away ‘to town’. I think my average is about 1/3 a day - roughly 2½d for cigs, 3d for tea and cake in the forenoon - and the rest for supper. Then I was at the pictures once - 6d - and I see 'Idiots Delight' is on tonight so I think I will go ‘and chase the shadows away!’ Anyway you will see that the present rate of expenditure leaves very little over at the end of the week, so it will have to be cut down somehow in order to save a bit. I could do with a pair of light boots - which one is permitted to wear on duty - only they cost 18/- made to measure, so that is out of the question at present..
Today, about thirty men left for home and what surprised me was that they seemed to be going just because they had to and not because they wanted to. This certainly was the case with a few I spoke to, who were absolutely disgusted.
After dinner, I went up to the Billiard Room and played all afternoon. And now I am going to write you a short note for posting, in which will be written as little as possible. I do hope that you do not misunderstand my short, dry letters but I just can't help it.
Love, George
P.S. I was wrong about the price of cigs - it's 2½d for ten but I only smoke ten a day anyway.
It was too bad that every word he wrote in letters was not only read but censored; if he so much as mentioned the price of cigs, the sentence was likely to be ripped out as a threat to national security and he could do without the ensuing reprimand, too. He studied the photo he was sending. He looked as bald as a baby with his hair hidden under his cap but he’d seen worse mug-shots. He looked extra spick, with cap-badge and buttons gleaming, but the jacket looked so bare; he hoped it would not be too long before he could add some stripes. Still, his mother and his girl needed a picture of him now and he would not disappoint them. He thought of Nettie at odd moments during the day, predicting what she would be doing, wondering if he was right and how she was coping with their enforced separation. Was she coping too well? He was not allowed to tell her he missed her or anything at all that might give the enemy the impression that British army spirits were vulnerable to any human emotion.He was probably allowed to tell her that he had seen a snake about 18” long and ¾” thick but didn’t know if it was poisonous; he could also tell her that he had seen clouds for the first time in a blue Maltese sky. What would she think of him, talking about the weather – he flung his pen across the bed and went to the N.A.A.F.I. to play draughts.
His spirits lifted the next day when he heard that there was a letter for him – only to drop further when he found it was for a different Taylor, forwarded from Crookham on 9th January so goodness only knew when the other chap would get it. Strange to think of some other man’s fragile contact with home contained in this plain envelope; was his alter ego even now looking at Nettie’s handwriting?
Then, when he went to wash some hankies after tea, some man washing himself accosted him with, ‘Blimey, just the guy I wanted to see – I could twist your neck.’
‘Me?’
George recognized the Sergeant in charge of X-ray. ‘You’re the idiot who posted the Major General’s X-ray to him, then?’
‘No idea what you’re talking about. I dropped in a special report to the hospital office if that’s what you mean.’
‘Well, the report’s missing and the wires have been red-hot all afternoon. There will be some stripes missing in this district if that report reaches the patient, I can tell you, so you’d better hope it’s not been sent where the Sergeant in charge thinks!’
George knew better than to point out that he’d just followed orders in passing on the report; he had a fair idea why both sergeants were nominating him as villain of the piece. ‘Perhaps it will turn up with the body that went missing out the mortuary.’ Caused a fair stink, that had and upset the post mortem mightily. George continued washing his hankies.
Outpatients seemed determined to refer all their clients for X-rays the next morning, including a Maltese lady whose case-notes queried ‘Twins?’ in the Medical Orderly’s scrawl. It gave George the chance to try out the local phrases he’d been learning, earning shy smiles with his attempts at bonjoo (hello), keef in-ti (how are you) yek yoj-bok (please), gratsee (thank you) and sahha (goodbye). There were three more cases of ‘Twins?’, one potential pair being so close to arrival that the Sergeant declared, ‘If she starts any tricks on my X-ray table, I will really lose my temper!’
‘Marvellous thing, X-ray, ‘ George smiled at the agitated patient and they got her off the premises without mishap and with a confirmed double blessing.
‘That report turned up, you know,’ the Sergeant told him as they switched plates.
‘Really?’
‘Returned to the Hospital Office. Been dispatched now – correctly addressed. Man there couldn’t organize the proverbial.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Did I tell you I got a wire yesterday? The bloke at the P.O. says ‘Will I read this to you?’ so I says ‘Go on then’ and he reads, ‘Solution to all difficulties immediate marriage!’ Last thing I want to see all morning’s bloody twins!’
‘I can imagine.’ George could also imagine the laughter in the Post Office and how red the Sergeant’s face had been, which was enough to restore their working harmony. This included the Sergeant telling George to ‘Scram’ although there were four patients. Obedient as always, George scrammed, bumping into the Office Sergeant, also on his way home, and keen to offer George something as near an apology as dammit. So all the little sergeants were quite pleased to keep their stripes as it turned out.
Sunday3:3:40
Surely it can’t be long till I get a letter from you now, Darling. Here’s hoping. Love and kisses.
Monday4:3:40
Some of the lads got letters today so I expect mine will be on the next boat - I hope! Goodnight Darling.
Just as I was putting this away I heard that all regulars are to go home next month! Well! Maybe yes, and maybe no - just wait and see!
Wednesday6:3:40
Oh! Yes! I got a letter from Kennoway today, so surely yours just can’t be long now. Goodnight.
Chapter 4
An ‘international police force’ is not a police force and those who call it by that name are trying, consciously or unconsciously, to deceive the public. We shall never learn to think correctly unless we call things by their proper names… If you approve of indiscriminate massacres, then you must say so. You have no right to deceive the unwary by calling your massacre-force by the same name as that which controls traffic and arrests burglars.
‘X-ray department,’ George answered the call, checking his watch. 8.20am and work going well.
‘Who’s speaking?’
Trouble. ‘Private Taylor.’
‘This is the Sergeant-Major and they’re searching high and low for Sergeant Stanton. Where the hell is he? Do you know anything about those plates for White?’
‘Yes, Sir! Ready as requested but they have to be reported on by Major Morris – he’s due in at 9.30.’ When George had last seen Sergeant Stanton, it had been 6.45am and the Sergeant had been relaxed in civvies, ready for a day on the town, after a cheerful reminder to George to see to White and Smith’s plates first, as they were leaving on the hospital ship that day.
‘There’s a whole convoy waiting for those bloody plates! The draft’s been held up for half-an-hour. Get them down here at once!’
‘Yes, Sir!’ George beat it down to the ship. Was this what it felt like to be Admiral Cunningham, the fleet waiting for you to arrive before they could set sail? He didn’t have time to enjoy his VIP status as he had to hotfoot back to deal with the urgent X-rays which filled the morning, so many that they even kept Major Morris writing records until 12.30. A cheery call from Sergeant Stanton to check that all was well made it clear why no-one had tracked him down or thought to wire in earlier; he’d bunked off 7.30 parade to get an early start to Valetta.
‘It’ll blow over,’ George reassured him, unnecessarily. Stanton was in a Valetta frame of mind, when tomorrow could go hang. George could do with a Valetta frame of mind himself and he thought he’d maybe treat himself to the pictures, having been done out of his leisure the night before by a night police detail.
After a day’s work, he had to check the detail board, where his name had suddenly become popular for fire picket – during which he could at least read or write, if there were no pretend fires, or God forbid! real ones – and the dreaded ‘night police’. This consisted of patrolling from 5pm until 9.30pm (curfew) and reporting every half hour. Failure to report resulted in them sending a search party, often with good cause. Men steamed all day, drilled and detailed in preparation for God knows what, and in the evening the kettle blew, often at the sight of the special armband worn by the night’s ‘policeman’. Two nights earlier, a Regimental Policeman on duty had been conked by some maniac and was still in a coma. George was finding it useful to expand his knowledge of local phrases beyond ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, neither of which came up much on night police.
‘No pictures for you tonight, Spoof,’ greeted him at the detail board, as a luckier man left for a night in Rabat. George swore and put on his armband. This was the third time in eight days and it wasn’t his problem that the man whose name had been down first was already on night duty. George had spoken to the Sergeant about it and he was supposed to be speaking to the Orderly Sergeant and it was pretty clear what would come of all this speaking to sergeants – the same as usual! It was hardly reassuring to hear the story of the recovered R.P.; the last words he’d heard were ‘Stick a knife in the _______!’
The night started quietly enough, with George and his partner pinching four men, two for throwing stones and two for fighting, but this made him too confident. After Lofty and he had split up, George saw about twenty Maltese hanging around the picture-house and told them to scram. Twenty grins responded.
‘So you don’t understand English?’ and George repeated his request in Maltese.
The twenty grins were unchanging and George realised that everything depended on just how careful he was.
‘Two minutes or I’ll run you in,’ he told them. No change. Then he picked on one, told him to get lost, then another one, and each man in turn realised he was vulnerable to arrest if he refused, so sloped off.
George took a turn around the block but when he came back to the picture house, he found the same group, at a slight distance, in a circle, loitering – apparently aimlessly. George suddenly realised that there were only about ten minutes daylight left and he made for the N.A.A.F.I. as quickly as he could, leaving it through the back door to shake off his followers. The next time he passed the picture-house, they had lost interest and dispersed. It certainly kept you awake.
Being kept awake was starting to cause George problems. Convinced that his promotion prospects depended on shiny buttons and a nod of approval from the C.O., he was finding it difficult to maintain inspection standards after a night police detail. He had prepared his speech in case he was put on a charge, the proforma for an official reprimand, but, so far, even a full kit inspection resulted only in the instruction to George to number his kit. This took him two hours to individually stamp each digit of 7265587 on every article he possessed, so that the numbers were floating in front of his eyes by the time he had finished.
Wednesday13:3:40
Today has been the 13th! Just listen to this list:- I broke my mug at breakfast! That was the start. The forenoon was so-so, busy - and tearing around, but no major catastrophe. Then at 12.15pm I read orders. Oh! Oh! and Oh! 1. Route march in full kit for GST at ten past two. 2. Blood tested in the forenoon. 3. Night Police from 5pm to 9.30pm and 4. Fire piquet from one o’clock till lights out. And of course I see that the X-ray dept. is run as well! I think I may have a slightly busier day than usual! It was also up that I have another kit inspection on Sat. morning at 7.15 am.
What a 13th!
This afternoon I have cleaned up my brushes, washed my feet and a pair of socks in readiness for tomorrow. In the process I knocked a bottle of Brylcreem on the floor - what a mess! What next? And that’s what I’ve been saying all day too.
I’ve just heard that the ‘Amsterdam’ (the one we crossed in!) has been sunk by a mine. It’s funny to think that a bunk we once slept in lies at the bottom of the sea.
Well! I got the first letter from you yesterday - since I arrived - since I left England. This last does not bring tears to my eyes because in spite of working day and night, half fed, calling everybody for everything, I am as happy or even happier than I have ever been before. There is something about ‘to have the love of a good woman’ but I just can’t remember it. Anyway there must be something in it. Here too! where I know it is impossible to see you I am not taking it so badly as when I was so near and yet so far. Well! that is nearly all. Shortly, I am going to tea and then I will go to Rabat where I will post a letter to you in the ‘civvy’ box when it gets dark and I hope you will get it. This censor business certainly gets one down. Cheerio!
Thursday14:3:40
I am writing this on a Saturday as I have been so busy that I have not had a minute to write - even to answer your letter. Anyway I will write as if it was Thursday morning as usual. Finished at 1pm. Ready at ten past two in full kit and steel helmet for the route march. It was some hike - over goat tracks - across the island. At 3.30pm we met the travelling kitchen and had a ‘tin’ of tea. Then until 4.15pm we did stretcher drill. The ground was so rough that it took one stretcher party about quarter of an hour to find the ‘patient’. There was an ambulance there too and we were all asked if we were able to walk on then. Only one fellow dropped out. I told the Company Sergeant Major that it was unfortunate that I was on night police after I got back and he said,’We’ll manage to excuse you tonight,’ so that was O.K. We eventually got back at 6.30pm, somewhat tired! The tea I got was worth it though. In fact I had two teas, one after the other. The first was five slices of bread and jam and rissole. The second was three slices of bread, jam, two cheeses and onions. Accompanying this, I had four mugs of tea. Now! I ask myself - do you think it would be cheaper to keep me a week than a fortnight? After that (no! I didn’t go to bed!!) I tidied up my kit and to bed, after attending to the remains of my feet. (Debugging today aussi.)
George didn’t know what to do about his feet.. Despite ‘going native’ with his first ever pair of light and airy sandals, which he wore whenever he could and which did reduce the swelling, the constant sweating and route marches had reduced his flesh to peeling ribbons. There was more sticking plaster than flesh, just to keep him going. As he became fitter, he could almost have enjoyed the route marches now, quite the way to see an island which was only seventeen miles by nine at its widest, but for his feet. It wasn’t just the distance the men covered, nor the weight they carried, but the combination under the Maltese sun. One route march turned into an evacuation of the wounded and George had to carry a man whose femur was broken for three-quarters of a mile over ditches, walls and fields, the sweat trickling under his helmet at the rate of tears.
George’s sandal
The wounded were not always the result of official skirmishes. On being discharged, one soldier immediately went on a Saturday-night spree, got half-canned, stole an army lorry and went for a run with a dozen mates. He hit a bus, killing the driver, five others and leaving all the rest casualties. The operating-theatre next door to the X-ray department was working fit to burst, taking three hours to put one fellow together again. If they lived, they came to be X-rayed for broken bones and George had never seen bodies so battered and yet still alive.
Gradually the supposed limits to the working week were eroded, with more frequent preparations for air-raids. The whole island, soldiers and civvies alike, would man stations, the hundreds of churches ringing their bells in warning, all utilities switched off and gas-masks at the ready. During one such exercise, George was the sentry, patrolling the hospital with the rattle to signify ‘gas’. Such simulations left even less time to complete the work of the X-ray department, which had the extra pressure of a VIP patient.
‘They’ve stopped the buses from Rabat,’ had been the first hint that something was up. Then Lofty had told George that there were police on duty to prevent anyone using the stairs at one end of the hospital, even wearing their duty sandshoes, so there was obviously some big cheese on one of the wards. It didn’t take long before the word got round that Governor General Sir Bonham Carter, Malta’s designated ruler since Britain had suspended local government, was not only in hospital but critically ill. When he was brought for his X-ray, the stretcher bearers were Staff Sergeants, and the Governor was accompanied by the C.O., the D.D.M.S., three majors and one lieutenant - George and Sergeant Stanton definitely lost amongst the pips.
Like the king unbending to his public, the Governor-General asked George, ‘How long have you been out?’ and on hearing the reply commented, ‘You’re from Scotland.’ It was a shaky foundation on which to build promotion hopes but the X-ray had gone well, despite Major Morris visiting them later that day to pick fault with Sergeant Stanton, his special-occasion monocle wiggling precariously. When he’d gone, Stanton turned to George, ‘Who rattled his cage?’ Over seven hundred X-rays had now been completed since George had joined the department and no-one’s mood was reliable.
Friday22.3.40
This is Good Friday - we had two hot cross buns with our breakfast. I went over to the hospital at 9 o’clock to write up some films but, as I couldn’t get a key, I just came back. Then, until dinner time, I played football. In the afternoon I had a rest and then went on night police at 5 o’clock. It had the effect of spoiling the day slightly. I was asked to go bathing and had to decline. There was also a huge procession (Catholics with all the dooh-dahs) in Rabat about 5 o’clock and I was really sorry to miss it. I am on night police alone now and am on every 6th night. Debugging today!
Saturday23.3.40
Worked until 12.30. Then I flitted to another barrack room to make room for a new draft arriving next week sometime. In the afternoon I played football. At night, table tennis and draughts.
Sunday24.3.40
Wrote home, my Grandmother and David - quite a good bit of work. I worked until 12.15pm. Sat in the sun all afternoon and went to church at six o’clock - quite voluntarily! Nor was it a guilty conscience! Later I played table tennis and draughts. I have been beaten at tennis but so far am unbeatable at draughts. When you get old, you must try draughts!
Monday25.3.40
Easter Monday! This has been a lovely holiday weekend for me! Worked this morning till 11.15am, lay on bed till dinner time. Played football all afternoon. Then I had a bath and cleaned my locker for C.O.’s inspection tomorrow. In all my off times I just wear shirt, pants, socks and sandals - boots when I play football of course. Imagine the hottest summer day you’ve known - and that is what I play football in. Already I’m browner than I’ve ever been before.
Today I got a letter from you and one from Taffy which I hope to answer sometime. It’s all right for you to complain about my letters but if your letters had to be censored by your ‘boss’ then you would probably be pretty careful what you wrote too! All tonight. Cheerio.
In his increasingly rare time off work, George would listen to the radio, a Rediffusion system with one switch; middle - off, top - BBC overseas, bottom - Malta station. When reception was good, it was excellent but those moments were few and far between. The Malta ‘station’ seemed to consist of a wireless set which picked up other stations and slung them out, seemingly at random, and certainly switched to music as soon as any talk came on. He would be listening to dance music one moment, the William Tell overture the next. He could hear his father’s scathing comments on modern rubbish switching to reverent approval; his father, the choirmaster, whose young singers, including George’s brother David, had won first prize in the Kirkcaldy Festival; his father, the pianist, who, although he could read music on sight, played by ear so well that he reckoned he could play non-stop for two days without repeating anything. He could accompany any singer or instrument so long as he was provided with the music. His moral stance vis-à-vis dance music had been compromised when he couldn’t resist correcting David’s chords, but neither brother had dared accuse him aloud of actually listening to the dangerous rhythms.