#1 Early Days
I love being a European. I have in fact been a European for the past 78 years, 9 months and 13 days (as at 13.12.2021).
Among my qualifications is that I was brought up in an Irish-Welsh family background and was (and still am) the eldest of nine (9) children (and then we were 8 - R.I.P. Elizabeth 2009).
As a child, I was exposed - first-hand - to five cultures, all of which have influenced my subsequent life. As an adult, others added themselves - with or without my conscious approval. More on them later.
I was born on St David's Day - then still a national holiday until the English cancelled it - during World War II in Mid-Wales. The war brought my mother there, and she met and married a Welsh-Irishman. My Dad was christened a Catholic (on the insistence of his Irish father) and later a Baptist (his strong-minded very Welsh mother, who always got her way in the end). I was, therefore, a mix of historically suppressed minorities, and so grew up with a strong sense of the importance of culture, history and tolerance. From three-quarters of the family, I inherited immigrant status - now referred to as 'migrant' - which was then a term restricted to birds and mammals. At this stage, I knew little about the English except that THEY lived over the border and drowned Welsh villages to provide energy and water for their cities. There are not many real cities in Wales - or Ireland for that matter. My next major influence was to be a quantum leap - to Germany!
# 2 First Foreign Influences
As in World War I, a prisoner of war camp was set up not far from our sleepy market town of Newtown/Y Drenwydd. In 1914-18 it housed Germans and Italians - up to 1947 exclusively Germans. Even if they had the desire to escape they would not have got far. Their accents would have given them away immediately. I seem to remember my father telling me that a couple of spies with strange accents were indeed arrested during WW II - but they turned out to be English and were repatriated. The last inhabitants of the camp were young Germans from the Saarland, mostly Catholics, who were let out after 1945 on Sundays to attend Mass in our small Catholic church. The rest of the congregation were immigrants: other Irish families, Italians (ex-WW I POWs who had a monopoly on the ice cream and fish 'n chips trade) Poles, Czechs and Ukrainians who had fled nazified Central Europe, and of course the DPs (Displaced Persons). Although we had little enough to share with others, my Mum regularly invited a group of young Germans to breakfast - those were the 'bad old days' where one fasted (except for water) before receiving Holy Communion. Four or five of the group became regulars and they sat at the kitchen table after breakfast and wrote uncensored letters to THEIR mums under MY Mum's supervision. We became a post office as their letters from home were addressed to my mother thus circumventing the censor. My mother justified this form of treason by claiming that it was anyway a law imposed by the English. One of the young POW became a priest on returning to Germany and, starting with me, all nine children spent at least two holidays with him and his family. He also paid for the travel tickets. I was 10 years old when I spent my first holiday with Robert Bier near Saarbrücken. Although I thought for years I had been in Germany, it was at the time still part of France. Hard to tell, especially as I had my first encounters with sauerkraut and various types of sausage.
#3 Religious Beginnings
I first saw the light of day – or so I am told – at about 8.00 am on a Monday morning (my mother, proud of her first-born, often recited the verse “Monday’s child is fair of face …" some things never change!). Soon thereafter my mother took me home to 3, Wesley Place, a two-up, two-down, cellared terrace house just off Back Lane. My grandparents David and Elizabeth (née O’Keefe) O’Brien lived with us. My grandmother died 3 years later of cancer in 1946 but my grandfather, who was to have a great influence on my early childhood, lived with us in Wesley Place, and later at 2, The Cross, until about 1954/5. Our small street, Wesley Place, was named after the co-founder of the Methodist movement John Wesley, and the Wesley Chapel was just around the corner. Little did I then know of this link to my future life in the Czech Republic and Bohemia. John Wesley (1703-91) was ordained an Anglican priest and, after an unsuccessful ministry of two years at Savannah in the British Colony of Georgia, he returned to London and joined a religious society led by Moravian Christians (Moravští bratři), an offshoot of the Hussite Movement. Newtown, then a small market town of some 5,000 souls, had some 16 churches, chapels or meeting places including denominations such as the Anglicans, Baptists, Christian Scientists, Congregationalists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Methodists, Nonconformists, Presbyterians, Primitive Methodists, Quakers, Roman Catholics, Seventh Day Adventists and Wesleyan Methodists, not to mention the Salvation Army and the Freemasons. In the course of my life I was to have brief but interesting encounters with, inter alia, Calvinism, Druidism, the Greek Orthodox Church and Sikhism. Comparative religion wasn’t on the school curricula at that time – it was all around us.
At the time of my birth, there was no Catholic church in Newtown, so I was baptised a Roman Catholic in the small private chapel of St. Frances in the grounds of Newtown Hall. The then visiting parish priest, Fr. Vaughan Roscoe Minton Beddoes, upset my poor mother, so proud of her first-born, by saying loudly as he passed her pew “Mrs Conlin, hasn’t your child an enormous head”. I have that distinction to this day. My two great influences, outside the immediate core family, were my grandfather David O’Brien and my Grandmother (Nana) Gertrude Conlin, née Lewis. My Grandad, who had served with the Connaught Rangers in Belgium in WWI and in India, taught me a great deal about nature during walks in the mid-Wales countryside, plied me with books which we bought on regular visits to W H Smiths (the first book I read was a ‘classic’ – Ivanhoe) and, accompanying my mother on the fiddle, filled our home with Irish folk and rebel songs in the evenings. I remember the full texts of many of them to this day. Nana Conlin, who had modelled Welsh woolens in London for the Pryce Jones Welsh Warehouse in her younger days, taught me whist and always made me my favourite meat and potato pie when I stayed overnight. She also took me with her on Pryce Jones outings to Devil's Bridge, Aberystwth, Barmouth and places west. My grandparents' outside toilet had newspaper squares hanging on a bent wire, but Nana always gave me proper toilet paper which she kept tucked in her stocking top. Nana was a Baptist and took me with her to chapel on a number of occasions. I was fascinated by the adult baptism, which I later learnt was the 'Believers Baptism'. My grandfather Jack Conlin was an introspective man whose family came originally from Co. Roscommon but he fed the local sparrows with crumbs every day at teatime and taught me important lessons on apartheid and racism from his time with the army in South Africa. I was sometimes sent to the jug and bottle window at the Wheatsheaf pub at the end of the street to bring him an evening beer.
N.B. Some of these reminiscences will not always be in chronological order.
#4 Family History - Introduction
My mother, Elizabeth Ann Conlin, was a small but determined lady of Irish (via Liverpool) descent. A fervent Catholic, in a small Welsh market town dominated by Presbyterians, Wesleyans, Baptists, Methodists and Primitive Methodists, she ensured that we knew our catechism, fasted on Fridays and attended Mass as often as possible. She was, however, far from intolerant of other beliefs. One of my earlier memories is her reciting, as a bedtime story, Abou ben Adhem (by Leigh Hunt – but I found that out much later):
Abou ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, “The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.”
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest.
Mum also made sure that we knew our family history. The key names were, on the Irish side, O’Brien (her maiden name and the main branch of the family) and Conlin (paternal grandfather) and, on the Welsh side, Lewis.
Other (extended) family names – on both sides – included Barry, Crowley, Dowling, Dooley, Grattan, O’Keefe, Kavanagh, Kelleher, Rawlings, Reynolds, Roche, Ryan, Walsh and Williams. But more on that another time.
#5 Family History - The O'Briens
Here a few excerpts from my mother' notes on the family tree, which I still have on lined foolscap in her almost copperplate handwriting (I have kept her orthography throughout; I have added a few dates in brackets for orientation):
O'Briens descended from King Brian Boru, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf 1014. The father of the first John O'Brien (1790-?) was a Hedge Schoolmaster, so-called in Penal Times when it was against the law to teach Religion or Gaelic, so therefore had to teach where he could. Margaret Crowley (1796-?) came of a family of writers and storytellers. Cornelius O'Brien (1837-1900 – unmarried) was a beautiful and prolific writer. He kept a journal of his family and the times they lived in. This journal was passed down in the family to John Joseph O'Brien, who was the only son of the eldest brother. Cornelius joined a firm of solicitors connected to his mother's family; Crowley & Bolger, of Dublin, which firm still flourished until comparatively recent times. The other sons, brothers of your (David Ed.) great-grandfather, went to America (being Fenians) and settled in Virginia. Great-grandfather O'Brien was Agent for a Mr Wilkinson, who owned a beautiful, extensive estate in Bantry. All the family were born in the parish of Castletownroche, near Fermoy; a place connected to Princess Diana's mother's family, whose name was Roche and grandmother, Lady Fermoy. John (1864-1943), Jeremiah and David (1875-1956) were indentured to a firm of solicitors in Fermoy, name of Magner. Subsequently, John and David came to Liverpool and joined what is now British Insulated Callender's Cables. Jeremiah went to America to join Uncles in Virginia. When we went to Bantry on holiday, the last night was a come-all-ye. Because Aunt Mary (c.1867 – unmarried) couldn't sing, she recited all forty verses in honour of our most famous forbear (Seamus 1778 – ?) – I can only remember the last verse:
"When you come over, take passage at Cork
And come straight across to the town of New York.
And there ask directions the best way to go
To the town of Cincinnati in the State of Ohio.
And there you will find me, without much trying,
At the Harp and the Eagle, kept by Seamus O'Brien".
#6 Family History contd.
𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗻𝘀
All Conlins descended from Niall of the Nine Hostages. He was either a king or a pirate, depending on how one looked on him.
He had the distinction of being indirectly responsible for bringing Christianity to Ireland, although that was not his aim. One of his fleet, who raided the coast of Britain (Wales) captured St Patrick. The Conlins came from Co. Roscommon, Joseph and his wife fleeing from the Great Famine, settled in Prescot, where they had one son, James Conlin and a daughter Agnes.
Grandfather Conlin (Jackie) had one brother Joseph, who was killed in the first World War. Your Great-grandfather James Conlin and his sister Agnes married a brother and sister name of Kavanagh, so distant cousins in Prescot.
Mary Conlin (Polly) and Anne, were daughters of a second marriage and half-sisters to Jackie. Polly married Grattan, lived in Liverpool, had one daughter Shelia, who after graduating from Liverpool University, went to Peru.
Anne Conlin married a Harry Dooley a very tall well-built man (as were all his numerous brothers and sisters), of Irish descent. He was a prisoner-of-war in a Japanese Camp. Never fully recovered from his experiences (of which he would never talk) and died in middle-age about 20 years ago. Anne was killed in a road accident a few years ago, while Eithne was living in Prescot.
𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘆/𝗥𝗼𝗰𝗵𝗲/𝗢’𝗞𝗲𝗲𝗳𝗲
Nesta, a princess of Wales, who married a Norman knight (De Barri), was the mother of Geraldus Cambrensis, the historian, also Philip, who was given a large grant of land in Ireland. Philip was the progenitor of all the Barrys in Ireland. Elizabeth Roche (neé Barry) was known even years after her marriage as Betty Barry (hence my Christian name). She was my great-grandmother and lived on the Waterford-Cork border at a place called Tallow where, with her husband, who died young, had a large farm called Longuaville, which farm is (or was) in the possession of Walshes (distant cousins – family of her younger brother Patrick’s wife, neé Walsh). In the Great Famine (1845-49) she was commended by the Bishop, as she only ate barely enough to keep herself alive in order to help others. Eugene O’Keefe was a native of Fermoy, a cooper by trade. Margaret, the eldest daughter, went to America taking with her Patrick, only 17 years of age at the time. She lost touch with family, but Patrick married Norah Kelleher, who was born in the village of Kilworth, near Fermoy. Lived in Boston. No news of sons, Joseph and Eugene, but the daughter, Norah, married a Williams and had one daughter Anne Williams, residing in Cambridge, Mass. Last heard from them in the 1930s.
… and the Welsh side of the family
𝗟𝗲𝘄𝗶𝘀
Grandmother Conlin was born in Milford Road, Newtown and had one brother Grenville (Lewis), who subsequently went to Australia and joined Australian Navy, as did his sons.
Her mother’s name was Reynolds and hailed from Carno. Another Reynolds sister was the mother of Naomi Jones, that wonderful old lady who died at 95. She married Richard Lewis, who having a wanderlust, went to America with a woman from Wrexham and “married” her in San Francisco. David Lewis, whom you met when he came to London in 1970, was the son of that union.*
Leslie Lewis, son of Grenville, came to England with the Australian Navy during the war. He married a girl, Joan Kelly, from St. Helens – they had one son Keith, who is about one year older than you living in Sydney, Australia.
* I was working in the Ministry of Defence (Military Operations 3) at the time. He took me to lunch in Simpsons in the Strand.
(The original documents were written for me, as head of the family, in the 1980s, by my mother Elizabeth (Betty) Conlin, neé O’Brien (1913-2005)).
#7 More Early Travels
Next came France. My mother liked the French because they had often supported the Irish against the colonial power. When I was 11 years old I was invited by a student at the summer language school, (run by our parish priest - much more about him later) to spend the summer with his family. I travelled alone via Paris where I spent three days with the family of another student, Chantal, and packed in the Louvre, Tour D'Eiffel, Sacre Coeur and other popular sights. I also ate horsemeat for the first time. Robert Henri's (another Robert!) family were farmers in Clery sur Brenon, near Vézelise in Départment Meurthe-et-Moselle. I spent 6 happy weeks there and many memories remain to this day: sheltering under a haycock with Nicole, the prettiest girl in the village - we boys (and I suspect some of the girls as well) were all madly in love with her; the village simpleton called "Les Haricots", why I don't know to this day; lunch in the fields after harvesting - baguette, hunk of cheese and an onion, washed down with the local red wine (watered down by 50 % for the children); and being injected against tetanus by the local vet after treading on a rusty nail - with a syringe I am convinced was normally used on horses. I returned home brown as a berry and speaking fluent French - sadly I have forgotten a lot since then, through lack of practice, although I can still read French comparatively well as I took French Literature as A-level subject.
It was not until a year later that I was exposed to English culture for the first time. I spent five happy years at a Benedictine boarding school near Hereford, fortunately not far from the Welsh border. Here my lasting memories revolve around my 'career' as an altar and choir boy, becoming a fairly good rugby player captaining the school teams at all levels except 1st XV (I played for Midland Schoolboys and missed an England Schoolboys trial for reasons too complicated to explain here), playing many roles in Gilbert & Sullivan comic operas (Photo the Mikado, y.t left), and having a fantastic English teacher - Fr Jerome Hodginkson - who induced in me a lasting love for English literature and especially poetry (needless to say most of the best ones - excluding WS and Chaucer - were from the Celtic Fringe). But more on Belmont another time. Something must have rubbed off but, after five years in English exile, I still retained my Welsh accent. The Oxford accent came later when I mixed with the upper classes. But that's another story.
Footnote: After over 40 years in Berlin I have a hybrid European accent.
#8 Formative Years - Boarding School Part I
The years of Buddy Holly, Lonnie Donegan and skiffle, and Broadway premiere of My Fair Lady with Julie Andrews and Rex Harrison.
I vividly remember my first day at Belmont Abbey School. Earlier in the day, I had taken the Cambrian Express (drawn by a majestic steam locomotive) from Newtown to Shrewsbury, where I changed trains to Hereford. Outside Hereford station was the school bus, in which I was to travel regularly to and from away rugby matches in the next five years. Arriving in the school grounds - most new boys had come in cars with their parents - we were met by a junior monk with a millboard (Illtyd?), given the name of our House (in my case Cantilupe) and crossed the lawn to meet our Housemaster. I approached a fatherly figure with greying hair, in full-length black habit, a pipe in his mouth and a Jackdaw on his shoulder. My House Master for the next 5 years Fr. Martin. This was more than 40 years before the publication of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone.
The youngest boarders were at first accommodated in Junior House, close to the Abergavenny road, under the aegis of Dom Jerome Hodgkinson. He was to be my first English teacher. His lyrical mentor was Gerard Manley Hopkins. Some evenings, in his study, a group of us read Shakespeare plays in the original. W.S. could be bad-mouthed at times. On the way to Junior House from the main buildings, one passed the Woodworkers Club. This was i.a. a smoker's den and, in my time, the Godfather was a Maltese boy (who looked about 40 years of age) and related vivid sensory descriptions of the female anatomy, which I very much later found to be astonishingly accurate. Across the road was the Pig Farm run by the fearsome-looking brother Peter, who was, in fact, a very gentle man. Another memorable Belmont figure of my time was Brother Joe, the blind monk with rosy cheeks and breathless voice who ran the small monastery telephone exchange.
My first year, apart from the academic side, was dominated by my introduction to rugby and the stage. Under Brother Mark Jabale I played for the school U-14 side (left, sitting on photo - the following year I was captain) and was one of the fairies in Gilbert and Sullivan's Iolanthe directed by Roger Hosker. My first experience of the "𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘥". Sport and the stage were to figure prominently later in life.
Much could be said about my first experiences of sleeping in dormitories (as eldest of 9, nothing new), what went on behind the bicycle sheds, fagging, climbing the water tower with Roger Flaherty (forbidden), corporal punishment and introduction to birdwatching.
But sufficient to the day is the evil thereof - more will follow.
#9 Formative Years - Boarding School Part II
Is it better to give than to receive? My school experiences show that generalisations, applicable as they might be in many contexts, do not always apply.
I started my secondary education at Belmont Abbey School in September 1955, at the age of 12. My primary school was a private Catholic school, St Mary's, in a small, sometimes quiet, sometimes bustling, Welsh market town. Private school is something of a misnomer as we did not (could not afford to) pay fees. The school was a post-war vision of our highly respected parish priest and a young ex-Army officer, both High Anglican converts. I was one of the first pupils, at the age of 4, when it opened in 1947. After taking the 11+ examination, and as there was no Catholic secondary school in Mid-Wales, the state paid my tuition and part of the boarding fees for Belmont. School uniform etc. (from Selfridges, London!) and other extras put quite a strain on the family budget (understatement), but my parents, especially my mother, were determined to give me, and later all my eight younger siblings, the best possible opportunities in life.
So what did I give, or take with me, to Belmont?
First, a comprehensive religious upbringing. I had served Mass almost every day, rain, shine or snow, from my confirmation at the age of seven. On most days I went to communion which meant, in those days, drinking only a glass of water before leaving home. During the week especially, I was often the only one in church, apart from the priest. I learnt not only the basics of serving Mass but also the duties of a sacristan; laying out the vestments appropriate to the liturgical calendar and preparing the water, wine and altar accoutrements. One of the first sins I confessed to was tasting the wine; to which Father Beddoes replied: "I know". This was good preparation for the task of Master of Ceremonies in the Abbey in my final school years. Mass servers enjoyed some small privileges at Belmont. In the evening, we gathered outside the refectory to see the list of servers (and priests) for the following morning. It was a lottery. If you were paired with Dom Roger Hosker, you could be in and out in ten (yes 10!) minutes. Jerome Hodkinson could also be depended on for a relative 'Quickie'. It was, of course, a privilege to be selected to serve the Abbot, Dom Maurice Martin; but it cost you at least 35 minutes of your life - and a cold, congealed egg for breakfast.
Second, a trained (initially soprano) voice. Our Headmaster at St Mary's, Roger Bevan, assembled and trained a small church/school choir - 'klein aber fein' as we say in Germany. We sang at weddings and on religious feast days and, on one occasion, at an Eisteddfod - in Welsh. I can remember some other members: Charles, our GP's son, Shelagh, who is now an author, and members of the large Bevan family, many of whom went on to musical careers. Roger later left and went to Downside Abbey School as music master. At Belmont, I was in the abbey polyphonic choir (think Gregorian chant) and played in a number of Gilbert & Sullivan comic operas.
So what did Belmont give me? What did I receive?
First and foremost, self-confidence. I arrived as a skinny and shy young boy, with a Welsh lilt, and answering to the name of Dai (Bach). I left as a tough, still small, Rugby hooker with the Welsh accent slowly fading. I had successfully struggled through the first levels of the English class system (more were to come later). My religion had been fortified. At one stage, I seriously considered entering the monastery. I reached the rank of CSM in the CCF, a foretaste of my Army career.
Second, a good, broadly-based education and a sense of tolerance towards others. This reinforced my Irish-Welsh upbringing at home and is, I believe, the great strength of Benedictine instruction and way of life. Here I must mention in particular an excellent grounding in, and love for, English literature, and an understanding of the importance of history. Both are still significant factors in my life.
Third, music. I will always regret never learning to play a musical instrument. I have compensated for this by singing throughout my life, on the stage, around camp fires with my Irish soldiers and, of course, with my children and grandchildren. Belmont built on a foundation supplied by my Irish mother and my first choirmaster.
Finally, sport. Up to the age of 12, I had not played sport seriously. Belmont rugby opened a new world to me. I had three excellent coaches, Mark Jabale (U-14), Aelred Cousins (Colts) and Roger Hosker (1st XV). I also had two seasons of rowing (I was useless at cricket) and pulled a useful oar in fours.
There was little negative about my time at Belmont. Some mild bullying that only hardened me for later life. A few beatings, one rather severe in my final term that drew blood and left its marks for a couple of months. A couple of homo-erotic approaches, which puzzled rather than bothered me. No names, no pack drill.
In December 1960, I left the cloistered life of Belmont for two years of almost equally cloistered life at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst.
Afternote
Since writing this and moving on (I am now starting my legacy chapter # 13 - The Graduate) other memories keep flowing back.
Here are a few short notes to encourage others to add more anecdotes, short and concise, or somewhat rambling, like mine:
· Night of tragedy. On the night of 6 February 1958 I was in the dormitory above the refectory when a crystal set fan woke us all and reported the crash of the BEA Flight 609 carrying 'Busby's Babes's . RIP Geoff Bent, Roger Byrne, Eddie Colman, Duncan Edwards, Mark Jones, David Pegg, Tommy Taylor, Billy Whelan.
· Memories of scratches and bruises and the Matron MissTaylor, and her cure-all TCP - for external and internal use. My laundry No. was 183. I once spent the night in the infirmary with a concussion. I had played half a rugby match without remembering a thing
· Playing (inventing) Ramp Rugby, a cross between American Football and all-in wrestling with Roger (Ted) Flaherty, in the shooting range beyond the sports pitches.
· Listening to Tom Lehrer songs in Roger Hosker's study. I have the full CD set at home. A must if you don't know him. Tom Lehrer that is - and the Great Dane, Victor Borge.
· Attending ACF/CCF camp at Rhyl. Several Belmont Alumni of my vintage and older went into the Army. Two, Philip (?) Hogarth and Terence Lyons were at Sandhurst with me. Both went into the Royal Artillery. Otherwise, with much of my life spent outside the UK, I have met few Old Boys and have had only attended one reunion, in the '60s.
· I had the honour to be a school projectionist in that narrow passage behind the Old Gym.
· Catching the caps of our rugby heroes as they ran up the Chicken Walk, and throwing my own cap a couple of years later.
· Learning snooker, an essential life skill with Paul Butcher who was also a jazz aficionado. I was playing snooker (I was on pink) on 22 November 1963, when the news of Kennedy's assassination was announced.
Anyone who is interested in my life before and after Belmont can follow me on Facebook, or look at my developing legacy journal here https://www.davidconlin.info/extracts-from-my-life
# 9A A Belmont Postscript that I wrote elsewhere- Boarding School Part III and final - Incidentals
There is so much to tell about my time at Belmont, but it deserves a book of its own, and I have to press on with other things. It would, however, be amiss not to mention something that has played a big part in my life - birdwatching.
I owe a lifelong debt to my housemaster, Father Martin, for encouraging my interest in birdwatching, which persists to this day. Coming from a small market town in mid-Wales, I was not a complete novice. As a young boy, I was taken on country walks by my father and Grandfather O'Brien in the beautiful countryside around Newtown. Mid-Wales countryside is very underrated. Its main and dominating feature is the River Severn (from the Roman Sabrina), the longest river in the UK, that flows from its source in the Plynlimmon massif - as does the River Wye - to the Bristol Channel. The landscape is very varied, stretching from the Welsh Border country shires near Shrewsbury, through the hilly farm country into the increasingly barren Plylimmon plateau and then down to the shores of the Irish Sea with the coastal holiday towns of Aberystwyth and Barmouth. We gathered blackberries and hazelnuts in season, as well as rose hips that we sold to the local chemist for a little extra pocket money. I knew the difference between a Rook and a Raven, a female Blackbird and a Thrush, and a Sparrow and a Dunnock.
My Cantilupe Housemaster, Father Martin, took this nature education a step further. I learnt to identify eggs in the nest. The very first was a Blackcap's nest in the woods across the Abergavenny Road, then a Cuckoo's egg in a Dunnock's nest near the tennis courts. Outside his study, Fr Martin always had one or the other abandoned or injured young bird to pep up. I have vivid memories of a young Tawny Owl perched on the wall clock in his study, and the pair of magpies we trained to climb a ladder to Brendan Minney's study, but which never brought back cigarettes from his silver cigarette box. We also saw Teal and other water birds on Belmont Pool, and the regular pair of swans on the pond in Clehonger. On my own, I found a wonderfully constructed Long-tailed Tit's nest across the road from the cemetery and saw my first Wryneck.
My parents couldn't afford the legendary summer holiday trips to the Norfolk Broads, but one summer I hitch-hiked to the Pembrokeshire coast to meet John McCarthy and a couple of others to find the Red-billed Choughs - which we did - on the cliffs in an isolated cove.
I diverge here slightly. Hitchhiking was common in those days. My mother advised me, however, to accept a lift from either a couple, or a lady on her own. I was given a lift by a lady, about 35 to 40 years old, in Llandrindod Wells. In the Brecon Beacons, she began putting her hand on my knee (most young boys wore shorts in those days) and I asked her to please stop the car (a respectable Morris Mini Traveller). She did, screamed at me to get out "you naughty boy", and left me in the middle of nowhere. My next lift was from a friendly farmer on his tractor to the nearest village. This experience was never repeated in later life.
After my officer training at Sandhurst, the Army gave me a pair of binoculars and sent me on a 22-year birdwatching expedition to many exciting foreign places. More on the birds in my life later …
#10 Life begins in Earnest - Almost. Officer Cadet Conlin Part I
Nowadays, in the bizarre world of online gaming, we are all aware of the different levels, with increasing degree of difficulty, that we have to fight our way through.
On arrival at Sandhurst, as I mentioned earlier in my father's best suit, I soon realised that the level playing field I had finally attained at Belmont was a relatively junior piece of turf on the social ladder (how's that for a mixed metaphor?). There were four most recognisable categories among the cadets. First, the Eton (and Harrow, Winchester, Wellington etc.,) and the Guards crowd. For these young men, Sandhurst was the first stepping-stone, via 3 years in a 'good' regiment, to the City (finance), a safe (Conservative) seat in the Commons (unless there was a hereditary seat in the Lords waiting) or the upper echelons of the Civil Service (MI6 was also an option). Then came the family connections, with places more or less reserved in the cavalry or traditional regiments of foot such as the Greenjackets & Co. and, exceptionally, the Royal Horse Artillery. In a special category, most of who had attended Welbeck College were those already destined for the technical support arms, nowadays Logistics and Co. The remainder, many of whom had not decided (or did not know) their fate after commissioning, were headed for the Royal Engineers, Artillery, county of regional infantry regiments, or exotic destinations such as the Parachute Regiment or the Intelligence Corps. Not included in any of these categories are members of Royal Families and their offshoots, foreign and our own. Bullying (today we would call it mobbing) was practised mostly by those from the first category, who had experienced or suffered under the modern manifestations of Tom Brown's Schooldays and were therefore keen to pass it on to unsuspecting proles (also know as 'oiks'). This phenomenon produced Boris Johnson and people of that ilk. Their targets were cadets with regional accents, off-the-peg clothes, non-country house table manners and a keenness to learn and get things done. Mobbing was exclusively psychological and almost all survived it. On the physical side, the victims had their revenge on the rugby pitch, or by excelling in the physical regime we were subjected to.
I've gone on for far too long, so there will be a Part III. A brief mention though of amateur dramatics. I was able to pursue this as Sandhurst and from being one of the Three Little Maids in the Mikado at Belmont, graduated to playing and singing the role of Koko on the Sandhurst stage. This was to have a beneficial effect on my Military History studies, but more of that later.
#11 Life begins in Earnest - Almost. Officer Cadet Conlin- The Graduate
Just so there are no misunderstandings, the title of this extract does not imply I met my Mrs Robinson!
In retrospect, the time between 'Passing of the Square' after six weeks of Term One, and 'Passing Out Parade' at the end of Term Six two years later, now seem just a moment in time, but it was one of the most eventful and varied of my life. I will mention a few highlights.
Academic: Based on my A-Level results, I had hoped to be streamed for a later place at university. This was not to be. For the first, but not last time in my Army career, I was mistaken for the only other Conlin I had come across (outside the family), whose school-leaving results were not as good as mine. I was therefore allocated to the General Course. When, after a few weeks, the mistake came to light, I was offered the choice of one of several additional academic studies. I chose Additional Military History. A brilliant choice as it turned out. For this, I had a one-to-one tutor, Brigadier retd. Peter Young (see footnote). A fascinating and charming man and a gifted historian. The tutorial sessions were held in his study and, without exception, began with tea and biscuits served by his secretary. A glass of sherry was offered on special occasions. When he discovered that I had played the part of Koko in the Academy's production of the Mikado and that I had played in various Gilbert & Sullivan comic operettas at school, I was often requiired to sing extracts from one or the other before the tutorial session began. Peter Young was the founder of the English Civil War re-enaction society, The Sealed Knot, so it was no surprise that this was our first subject. The second was the American Civil War, with emphasis on General Sherman and his 'March to the Sea'.
Drill and Turnout: My memories of the first weeks are polishing boots, pressing battledress trousers, blancoing belts and gaiters (then shining the brasses) and polishing boots. After six weeks we were paraded, inspected and drilled, and finally permitted to leave the Academy grounds for our first free weekend. In the senior terms, our rooms and equipment were looked after by the male stewards who worked in each block (imagine a cross between butler and footman), and sword took over from rifle drill. Offences against order and discipline were punished by extra drills - two hours at weekends under the supervision of a Guards Warrant Officer. Woe to those who were drilled in double time by CSM Bostock, Coldstream Guards. Far better was funeral drill under a small Welsh Guards Sergeant (the name escapes me).
Tactical Training: This was conducted in the classroom or as a TEWT (Tactical Exercise Without Troops) in the field, and as manoeuvres with the cadets allocated different roles and ranks. The highlights in Intake 30 were the end of year overseas exercises In 1961 we flew (for me the first time) in an RAF Comet (the world's first jet airliner) to Libya. Our training camp was in the Sahara near Tarhuna. There I had my first experience of scorpions, Bedouin encampments and sand, sand, and more sand. An absolute highlight was a visit to the remarkably well-preserved Roman city of Leptis Magna. Our second overseas exercise, as senior cadets, was to Cyprus. There we exercised in the Kyrenia and Troodos mountains (photo). Little did I then realise what a recurring part Cyprus was to play in my life.
Romance: 1961 was the year of Moon River. At a village dance in Frimley, I was French-kissed (for the first time, I was a late starter) by Dawn, the blonde daughter of a Parachute Regiment sergeant in Aldershot. Then there were parties in Camberley and London flats. We went out together for a short while. Before Remembrance Day 1961, there was a call for volunteers to help with rattling money boxes in Camberley for Poppy Day. I was paired up with Heather, daughter of the Head of the Sandhurst Science Department. We fell head over heels in puppy love and were inseparable until the end of my time at Sandhurst. I spent a lot of my free time with the family, and Heather's father taught me sailing on Frensham Pond. She was my partner at the June Ball in Summer 1962. On my posting to the Innsikillings in Gravesend in January 1963, the distance separation proved too difficult (I was principally to blame; too immersed in my new life) and we lost sight of each other. I often think about her, and writing this is not easy, even after almost 60 years. I was not to have a steady girlfriend again until we went to Berlin in 1965. (I wrote a rhyme about this last year - 2021 - https://allpoetry.com/poem/16353117-Heather-and-I-by-An-Innocent-Bystander
Social: I learnt to use several knives, forks and spoons at the same meal, starting with those farthest from the plate. I bought my first suit with my own money. We earned £4 in our first year as cadets. After a failed interview with a senior officer of my local regiment, the Royal Welch Fusiliers (wrong pedigree, but my fellow, selected competitor with family connections proved to be a poor choice later), I opted to join the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, to the joy of my mother, as Grandfather O'Brien had served for 20 years in the Connaught Rangers in India and Belgium in WW II. My first shock came when I was given the list of uniform items I was required to purchase. I was measured and fitted out by the regimental tailor on Savile Row, and paid off the debt over the next four years.
So, on 20 December 1962, I received my commission, and a whole new experience began.
1. Brigadier Peter Young, DSO, MC & Two Bars (28 July 1915 – 13 September 1988) was a British Army officer who, during the Second World War, served with distinction with the British Commandos. Subsequently, he went on to command a regiment of the Arab Legion before leaving the Army to become a lecturer at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst.
Well worth reading up on Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Young_(historian)
#12 Army Life is a Learning Curve
Before I begin to recount the next, long, and eventful period of my life in the Army, I will give it some structure. Basic and advanced training play a large part in any long-term military career, New skills need to be learnt, others refreshed and promotional and other qualifications earned. Officers need to be competent in, if not to master, all the skills required of their soldiers and subordinates.
Jan 1961 - Dec 1962: Two very full years of officer training at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, culminating in commissioning as a Second Lieutenant in the Regiment of Corps of your choice. I have described this in detail in previous chapters.
1964: All infantry officers are required to attend basic training courses in platoon weapons, rifle, pistol, sub-machine gun, machins gun (in my day the light machine gun (LMG) replaced by the general-purpose machine gun (GMPG), the 2-inch mortar, and the Carl Gustav anti-tank weapon. For this, I attended an eight-week course at the then School of Musketry in Hythe, Kent. Weapon training included assembly, care and maintenance, handling and a high degree of shooting accuracy. We also had bayonet training with straw dummies and bayonet fencing, stab and parry, with a partner. I still have a faded scar on my left hand from the latter. At the end of the weapons course, we had a short introduction to radio communications.
On completion of the weapons course, we moved to the School of Infantry in Warminster, Hants, to learn basic fieldwork and tactics on a six-week course.
In 1963 I also attended a First Aid Instructor's course, which I practised as a volunteer in the local hospital.
1965: In January and February I attended a six-week Support Weapons course. Infantry regiments had their own light artillery in the form of the 81 mm mortar and the 120 mm anti-tank recoilless gun. On the course, we were also introduced to the anti-tank guided missile. Training included live firing and basic instruction in the direction of artillery fire and ground support aircraft.
In the course of the next few years, I completed two interesting courses:
In 1965, in preparation for my appointment as an instructor at the Infantry Junior Leaders Regiment, I attended a five-day Boxing Referee's course and received a certificate. In 1966 I attended a five-day refresher course. One of the most important things I learnt, for young boys involved in amateur boxing, was when to stop a one-sided bout: "Blue is stronger than red. Blue is the winner".
At the National Fire Brigade School in Reigate in 1968, I qualified as a Unit Fire Officer. The two-week course was very 'hands-on' and, apart from theory, involved wrestling with high-pressure hoses, balancing on turntables, and using breathing apparatus.
In 1972, on return to the regiment from a posting to the Ministry of Defence, I attended the 10-week Junior Command and Staff Course at the School of Infantry Warminster before assuming command of Command Company in Germany,
In 1974, I sat and passed the examination for promotion to Major and was selected for attendance at the Army Staff College. The Staff College course consisted of 3 months (military science for dummies) at the Royal Military College of Science in Shrivenham (Techies did a full year), followed by a 12-month course at the Staff College Camberley. This involved twice moving house - and changing schools for the two girls - from Germany to Shrivenham, then Shrivenham to Camberley. My course was made up of 180 students from the British Army, the Commonwealth and other nations. These included, for the first time, officers from Yugoslavia and Israel, both Lieutenant Colonels ( I was still a Captain) and a Major from Egypt who had just left the Soviet Staff College, the Frunze Academy. I successfully passed out, among the top 10 students, as a General Staff Officer.
In 1976, I attended a two-week course on Psychological Operations in Warminster. Apart from counter-propaganda, I learnt the identification and use of black propaganda.
My training or military education also included a not inconsiderable amount of time on military exercises, practical training, in Belize, Canada, Germany, Malawi and the UK.
In further extracts, I will attempt to describe the highlights of my military career in a number of foreign countries
#13 Regimental Life Part I - UK Milton Barracks, Gravesend
In 1968, the infantry regiment into which I was commissioned in December 1962 amalgamated with the other two North Irish infantry regiments. The Skins, Stickies and Faughs became the Royal Irish Rangers (explanation of the nicknames: "Skins" = Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers; "Stickies" = Royal Ulster Rifles, from their motto Quis separabit and; "Faughs" = Royal Irish Fusiliers, from their motto "Faugh a Ballagh" - "Clear the Way"). The latter, because of their assumed but unjustified airs of superiority, we called the FIGS - Fake Irish Guards. So be it.
In January 1963, I joined the Skins in Milton Barracks, Grave
send in Kent. The photo shows the entrance to the barracks around 1900. It had not changed much some 60 years later. The guardroom is on the left, and the Officer's Mess and accommodation behind the trees on the right. The barrack blocks, housing for the soldiers, were primitive, consisting of an open dormitory heated by coal-fired stoves. I took command of 7 Platoon, B Company, commanded by Major Dick (Rosie) Cox. My first platoon sergeant was Sgt Daniels, an experienced man with some 16 years of service. He was followed by Sergeant (Black) Kavanagh, a wily Southerner who later blotted his copybook on Cyprus. Another story that won't be told here. The Irish love their nicknames, usually based on physical characteristics or memorable events. The ones who come to mind after all these years, in no particular order of merit are: 'Pinky' O'Neill, a big lad with a florid face and a sonorous tenor voice. He once came second to Ruby Murray in a talent contest, and his 'Autumn Leaves' brought homesick Paddys to the verge of tears; then there was Sgt 'Snakebite' Macaulay, Yogi and Bubu, O.C. and 2IC of A Company; Colour Sergeant '???' O'Neill, who was often saluted as he paraded in the early morning between the Sergeant's and Officer's Mess in silk dressing gown and long cigarette holder. But enough … I could mention a host of other names, but I have neither time nor space. I will, however, mention my two orderlies (then called batmen), who were representative of the Northern and Southern Irish components of the regiment. As ever with Irish soldiers, there is always an anecdote to tell.
My first batman was Fusilier Stansfield from Belfast. After dinner nights, which often involved a considerable alcohol intake, getting out of the tight, form-fitting mess kit (formal evening uniform) was a long and difficult struggle. My company commander always had problems removing the stud from his tight starched collar and invariably reverted to cutting it on both sides with a pair of nail scissors. I usually gave up trying to undo the buckles of my trousers under the riding boots and removed them in one piece. I then hung the entire mess kit, including the starched shirt, on a coathanger. This I put on a coat hook opposite the door of my room and placed my caubeen on top. At 7.00 am, Stansfield arrived with my morning tea. The first thing he saw was the uniform on the coat hook. I heard the teacup and saucer crash on the floor and Stansfield running off, uttering strange noises. He returned with the Mess Sergeant, having reported that Mr Conlin had hanged himself. He was a simple lad but otherwise dependable.
Fusilier Daly, from Dublin, was made of stronger stuff. Every evening, on return from my duties, I would find my clothing for the evening laid out immaculately on my bed. One Friday, as I was Duty Officer over the weekend, Daly prepared my uniform for both the evening and the following day. That morning, however, for some breach of discipline, one of my fellow subalterns was awarded extra duties by the Adjutant, so I planned to go up to London for the weekend. Dress for London was a suit, felt hat, and umbrella. After duty, I went to my room to find my Blues uniform neatly laid out. I put it back in the wardrobe and looked for my weekend attire. The coat hanger was empty. Late on Sunday night, Daly returned to barracks well-oiled - and well-dressed. At least he paid for the dry cleaners bill.
The initial eleven months in Gravesend, before we left to intervene in the troubles on Cyprus in December, were mosty uneventual. As spearhead battalion of the UK-based army, we were at a constant (24 hour) state of readiness to deploy worldwide, and practice call outs and parades were the order of the day. I played rugby, usually out of position, as it was not one of the outstanding regimental sports, hockey, and as a young officer was obliged to box, which generally ended with a bloody nose against experienced opponents - either from the clubs or streets of Ulster. My parents came in summer to the Trooping of the Colour, the only time they ever visited me in my Army career.
One memorable event was the evening of 22 November 1963, a Friday. Playing snooker with Micky Scott (R.I.P) - I was on the pink - we were interrupted by the news of J F Kennedy's assassination. I still remember the moment vividly.
On arrival at the regiment in January, I was secretly proud of my ¾ Irish descent and being the eldest of 9 children. My pride did not last long. John Eldridge, Jim Condon and Johnny Cargin were all from families of 10!
Gravesend (the burial place of Princess Pocahontas) was the real start to my Army career. Life in a family regiment was vastly different to the hallowed halls of Sandhurst. There is much more to tell, and many more people to mention, but perhaps I'll get around to that another time.
Nec aspera terrent. The Regimental motto!
#14 UNICYP
Cyprus
I commanded a rifle platoon, 7 Platoon, B Company in my first year with the Inniskilling Fusiliers. The regiment had the role of spearhead battalion of the Allied Command Europe Mobile Force (AMF) at 24 hours' notice to deploy to Northern Norway or Turkey on the flanks of NATO. But other events got in the way. As the conflict between Greek and Turkish Cypriots became more violent, with the inhabitants of cities, towns and villages embroiled in a factual civil war, we were deployed to Dhekelia Garrison in the Eastern Sovereign Base Area, de facto British territory, on the island of Venus.
My first operationas eployment was, still as a British Army unit, to the Lazarus Square (the bpnes of St Lazarus, later Bishop of Kition (Larnaca) are interred in the crypt of the church there) on the 'Green Line' between the Greek and Turkish communities. The church bell rower, and the mosque on the Tuirkish side, were vantage points for the opposing side's snipers.
More to follow on deployment as a United Nations Blue Beret unit to the villages of nKophinou and Ayios Thedoros, where we experience some heavy fighting and regular murders of farmers from both sides.
#15 Regimental and Army Life
Chapters to come on:
post Cyprus - Berlin
Oswestry - Infantry Junior Leaders' Battalion
Malawi - Adjutant The Malawi Rifles
Ministry of Defence London - Military Operations
OC Command Company, Deilinghofen, Westfalen, Germany
Army Staff College, Camberley;
General Staff Officer, Operations and Planning, Herford, Germany
OC A Company, Deilinghofen, Tidworth, UK and Belize
General Staff Officer, Operations and Planning, British Sector Berlin
Deputy Public Safety Adviser, British Military Government, Berlin
Civil Life - Training mananger social housing
Living in Czech
Committee Against Bird Slaughter (CABS )- Malta and Cyprus
A new writing career - in verse