Red Cushing after WWII

 Yesterday Peter Lunt left a couple of very enlightening comments about Red Cushing. Peter is in an excellent position to comment on Cushing's character as he was once his platoon commander

In 2002, Peter Lunt provided the following information to Ciarran Crossey's excellent  site about Irish involvement in the Spanish Civil War. He writes, inter alia:

• In January 1954, I was posted to The 1st Battalion Royal Irish Fusiliers in Berlin as a 2nd Lieutenant, and was assigned a Sergeant "Red" Cushing as my Platoon Sergeant....when we moved to Kenya at the beginning of 1955 - in fact, he accompanied us to Kenya, where he became Acting Sergeant-Major at Brigade H.Q. After that, I lost track of him and there is no reference to him in the regimental magazines for the next two years.

• When the battalion moved from Berlin to Korea, I took a group of soldiers on to Japan for several weeks of training at the Commonwealth Division Battle School at Hara Mura, Japan. During that time, Sgt Cushing was given temporary command of #4 Platoon, "B" Company in Korea. Upon my arrival in Korea, he was "all mine" again and accompanied me on a number of detached operations, where we lived in close proximity to one another for weeks at a time. There were very few stories that I missed, and he certainly led a very "varied" existence - although how much he contributed to the war effort on his own side is open to question!

• My first major problem with Red arose on St. Patrick's Day 1954 in Berlin, where we were responsible for internal security at Spandau. On the night prior to the traditional St Patrick's Day parade, Red drank the mess dry and was still drunk the following morning when the time came to march to the Roman Catholic Church for St. Patrick's Day services. Red (as the name implies) had a very ruddy complexion and fiery red hair which stuck out all over the place - he always looked inebriated, so no-one realized how drunk he was that morning and he was allowed to march off with a group of soldiers who soon realized that they he was heading in the wrong direction. After the party failed to show up for church service, we had to send out a security detail to find them, since we were adjacent to the border between the British Sector of Berlin and the Russian Zone of East Germany and an international incident could easily have been started. The following day, he was paraded before the C.O., who advised that he was tired of these "incidents" and was going to recommend a court martial - whereupon Red confessed his sins, implored the C.O. to give him one more chance and explained how he had met with the Padre that morning to renounce the drink forever. By that time, the Adjutant, R.S.M. and myself were practically on the floor with laughter at the "sincerity" of his performance, and the C.O. was having a hard time keeping a straight face. He was finally given a caution that if he was ever brought before the C.O. again, it would mean his stripes (not the first time he would have been demoted for over-indulging!).

• The month-long ocean voyage to Korea (with duty-free booze en route) was heaven-made for Red, and it also helped that a new C.O. joined us, who was not as familiar with Red's background. That soon changed when Red decided to look up his old "buddy" General Maxwell Taylor - then Commander of the U.S. 8th Army, of which the Commonwealth Division was a part, but whom Red claimed had once been his C.O. when he served in the U.S. Army. In order to do this, he left our platoon area in the front lines, and was not seen for several days - by which time, he was reported A.W.O.L. On his return, he was brought up before the C.O. and charged with multiple offences - but, again, managed to talk his way out of it because he had so mesmerized officers at 8th Army H.Q., who wanted to know when he was returning for another visit!

• We were subsequently assigned the responsibility of manning a forward position on the north side of the Imjin River and arrived with 48 hours rations and a large jug of rum - much to Red's delight! We gave each of the troops a small shot of rum, which still left a large quantity in the jug, and Red and I spent the evening finishing it off. Two days later, a 3/4 ton truck arrived with more rations, but no rum, so Red called up the Quartermaster to complain - only to be told that the rum was supposed to have been issued to troops on night patrol, as an addition to their water bottles, and was meant to last for the whole month of our assignment!

• Shortly after that incident, I was called back to Company H.Q. for a meeting with the Company Commander and left Sgt Cushing in charge. Unfortunately, during my absence, the Battalion C.O. arrived for an inspection and found that Red (who was an enthusiastic member of the Sergeant's Mess Football Team) had organized a football match, which was in full swing just a short distance from the enemy positions - about the only thing he didn't do was to invite the North Koreans/Chinese to form an opposing team! By this time, you will have begun to see what I mean about "reliability".

• In reading through the regimental magazines for the period, I came across a few interesting quotes: 

1. "That international figure, Sgt Cushing..."
2. "The only goddam yank in the mess was Sgt Red Cushing (now back with us once again)"
3. "Sgt Cushing is never really a total loss, for wherever he goes he leaves memories of his indomitable character and ever-ready fund of entertaining stories and unquenchable thirst. His latest proposed adventure is to join the Kenya Police. With a twinkle in his eye he informed his Company Commander that "I may yet have the privilege of arresting you, sir. God bless you, sir:"

It is good to know that Red never changed although he must have driven Peter Lunt to distraction!

Red Cushing continues to interest

Regular readers will know that I am fascinated by Thomas "Red" Cushing, a man who served in teh US army in the 30s, then on the Republican side in the Spanish Civil War. After this he joined the British army wwas taken prisoner during the fall of France was sent as a labourer to a mine where he played the "Good Soldier Svejk", then to the Freisack camp which was set up by the Germans to recruit Irish soldiers to their cause.

With the Senior British Officer's connivance, he joined a group of of potential recruits with the full intention of disrupting german efforts. These failed and he sat out a large portion of the war in Sachsenhausen concentration camp. It was there where he met Yakov Stalin and provides a prosaic but plausible reason for Stalin minor's suicide.

Some time ago (I cannot recall exact dates of this or most other comments) Joseph Conlon wrote

My dad met Red Cushing. We have a photo of him on our bathroom wall at home. I'm just reading the book 'Soldier For Hire' and its great so far.  I asked my dad today - Red's dad seems like a bit of a nutter to which her replied "yes but Red's daughter was even worse"... guess I have got more to find out... 

Today I received a comment from someone giving his name as Peter:


I was Red Cushing's platoon commander 9n Germany (Berlin) and Korea in the 1950's. I have many stories about him - most of which revolved around his problem with "the drink" (he really loved his beer!). He was truly a one of a kind character, and I'm pleased to see that people are still interested in his exploits.

I was truly delighted to receive this comment. Peter (Lunt?), if you come back to this low quality blog I would be delighted to hear more. Indeed, if there is anyone else out there who knew Red, I would love to hear from you. In fact I am not even sure when he died. I know he would still have been alive in 1980

Red Cushing was a truly larger than life character. I have more information on his time in Germany in WWII  from books such as Terrence O' Reilly's superb work Hitler's Irishmen.There is a record of correspondence sent by Peter Lunt to Ciarran Crossey, who used to run a superb website Ireland and the Spanish Civil War, which details some of Red's post war exploits in the British Army and which shows Red as much a "character" as he ever was!

One day, maybe, I will research Red's life more fully. His own book "Soldier For Hire", is an entertaining read but is  not an accurate account of his life. His was truly a life less ordinary and surely deserves a good biography. I'm not sure that I am up to that task but maybe I wil try!

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War part III

I was to sail on a ship belonging to the Stag Line, and to throw dust into the eyes of the authorities, I was handed a seaman's book, an A.B. certificate and a life-boat certificate .... I formed one of the crew.... Sometimes I worked in the galley; sometimes I did lookout duties; I was even called upon to steer and a fine mess I made of it, too. I shall never forget the Captain coming up to the wheelhouse to remark dryly, 'I don't mind you writing your Jasus name on the face of the ocean, but why the hell do you go back to dot the "i"?'

... We were now in the thick of the fighting, with very little hope of respite. My only consolation was that I met Frank Ryan, another Tipperary man, who had once been either the Editor or Sub-Editor of the An Phoblacht. Tall and scholarly-looking, Frank had a thin, hawk-like face, dark hair and a humorous mouth. He was serving as a machine-gun officer with the Attlee Battalion. One of the men in his Company told me that thanks to Frank's intelligent siting of the guns in a defensive position farther south, practically the whole of an Italian Brigade had been cut to ribbons.

There was no marking time on the Teruel front. Severe fighting had been the order of the day there for six months before my arrival and for once I knew what war really meant. I also realised that we were getting the wrong end of the stick. Enemy attacks were growing in strength and we were being slowly pushed back towards the coast.

At length we were contained on the Ebro riverfront, with our forces strung out along the north bank. The position could only be described as critical. One day I crossed the river with a reconnaissance patrol with the intention of getting some idea of the enemy's strength. Taking full advantage of the natural cover, we proceeded for two or three miles without incident. Then suddenly, as we were cutting through a valley, all hell broke loose. Raked by a merciless crossfire, we scattered and ran.

It was a case of every man for himself. I found myself pounding along beside a fellow called McClusky. Neither of us knew where we were, but we were both confident that we were heading for our own lines... We were about to press on, when we heard voices coming from the direction of a large cave... 'Spaniards!' I hissed. Wait here.' I dropped flat and wormed my way cautiously towards the cave. Whether they were Fascists or Loyalists. I neither knew nor cared... As members of the International Brigade, we're liable to be shot on sight... I forget how many days and nights our trek lasted, when it ended at Port Bou. We had no trouble in persuading an old fisherman to take us to Marseilles in his trawler and there we hung around 'on the beach' for the next two months...

I went to see the American Consul. I had no credentials, as all my papers were in Spain... By participating in a war in which the U.S.A. were non-belligerent, I had automatically forfeited my citizenship...On receipt of this depressing information, I wandered along the Canebire as far as the recruiting office for the French Foreign Legion.. Once inside, I put my case forward with such eloquence that I was immediately escorted to the Depot of the Legion at Fort St. Jean, where my treatment proved altogether different from what I had expected. Instead of brutality, iron discipline 'and an austerity diet, I enjoyed the friendly, relaxed atmosphere of the Depot and four excellent meals a day, including a litre of wine...

This dilatory attitude quite baffled me until one morning I bought the Continental edition of The Daily Mail and scanned the headlines. It was perfectly obvious that Great Britain and France would soon be fighting Germany... I had no difficulty in squaring matters with the French Foreign Legion. The authorities understood that my first duty was to my own country.

I travelled to England by way of Paris and Dieppe, disembarking at Newhaven and proceeding to Victoria... As I was leaving Victoria, with a view to catching a 'bus to Paddington. a slimy-looking character tried to sell me The Daily Worker. His smug references to the Spanish Civil War so incensed me that I hauled off and belted him one. I derived a great deal of personal satisfaction out of that blow, throwing into it all the anger and disgust I felt about Communist mismanagement in Spain. It symbolised for me my complete repudiation of the Party line...

Make of this what you will. Cushing was a larger than life character but think he should be read with a pinch of salt. His later adventures as a POW-cum-potential German spy are a mixture of comedy and tragedy.

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War part II

As the future seemed uncertain, I decided to spend the evening in O'Mara's, an Irish hostelry on 2nd Avenue and 23rd Street. There, by an odd coincidence, I fell into conversation with two young Irishmen who said they were returning to Ireland to join General O'Duffy's Blue Shirts.

'And who the hell might General O'Duffy's Blue Shirts be?' I asked them. 'I'm told it's some sort of independent brigade the General's taking across to Spain,' one of them replied.

'And on what side would the Blue Shirts be fighting?' 'Well, aren't they Catholics, you ignoramus? And wouldn't they be supporting the Nationalists and Franco?'

'Bejasus!' I exclaimed. 'Then I'm on the wrong side again! That'll be another excommunication looming up for me. In any case, it will be like old times, with the Irish trying to destroy each other. And what about the British army? Whose side are they on?'

'I wouldn't be knowing that. I've heard that a British battalion and a Canadian battalion are operating out there as a brigade under a fellow called Tom Wintringham. Pat and I are hoping they've joined the Republicans. We'd dearly love to have another crack at the English.'

The more I questioned those lads, the more obvious it became that they knew as little about this Spanish affair as I did. I began to regret the hours I had spent poring over the sporting pages of the daily press instead of studying reports of what was happening in the world. The most I could gather was that the Russians, the Germans and the Italians were all mixing it in Spain, but the real ins and outs of the struggle had me mystified.

Anyway, next day I proceeded to the Social Club and mustered my contingent. To my amazement there were no absentees. I marched them to the waiting buses and away we went to Hoboken to board the ship... At the start of the voyage I selected four of the toughest specimens in my outfit and made them section commanders with nine men each to look after. I gave them considerable coaching in man management and in what the whole bunch needed most - personal and collective hygiene. None of the forty had ever undergone military training, so throughout the trip I lectured them on patrolling, scouting, the section in attack and in defence, the approach march, advance to contact and so on. They all seemed interested with the exception of a scholarly type called Rudi Rudovsky... Although a tolerable fart would have blown him into the sea, he caused me more trouble than the rest of the mob put together and was ready to argue on the drop of a hat. His sole topic of conversation was the inevitability of world Communism. No matter what subject was under discussion, Rudi would immediately switch it on to the Party rails. If I asked my trainees how many stoppages there were on a Lewis gun, Rudi would reel off a dozen reasons why the Communist worker never came out on strike. If I was dealing with First Aid, Rudi would prove conclusively that Russia had the finest hospital service in the world. Anything the West could do, the East could do better was the basis of all Rudi's impassioned utterances.

We docked at Cartagena, where Rudi charged me with being a subversive element. He complained that I had confined my lectures to military matters, that I had obstructed his political propaganda and that on one occasion I had threatened to beat his brains out with 'Das Kapital'. The Party boss to whom he complained simply laughed in Rudi's face and slung him out of his office. I never saw him again, although I was informed later that he found himself a cushy job in a leave camp down at the base, preaching the Cause and dodging the column.

I was sent to a vast training area up in the Sierra de Guadarrama, north of Madrid, where I remained for four months. Then, as platoon leader in Number One Company, the Lincoln Washington Battalion, I went into action.

We were operating against the Italians on the front southeast of Madrid. Although we were out-numbered three to one, our sector was surprisingly calm. The Italians had evidently used up all their courage and energy fighting the unarmed Abyssinians. Matched against a small but determined body of professional soldiers, they preferred to remain under cover...

We had no idea what the overall situation was. Any information about the general course of the war was carefully withheld from us by the Party leaders. Gradually it dawned on these political panjandrums that what they needed in Spain was less tub-thumping and more military know-how, so at last they decided to ship me back to the States with a view to recruiting some young men with initiative and leadership qualities.

... Eventually I reported to the Party H.Q. in New York and received my instructions. I had to hang around the Army Base in Brooklyn, keep my weather-eye open for soldiers awaiting demobilisation, take them for a drink, paint an attractive picture of the pay and conditions in Spain and try to persuade them to join the Lincoln Washington Battalion. I was given a wad of notes to cover my expenses on the recruiting expedition and also approximately a dozen addresses of doctors who would be prepared to carry out medical examinations without asking awkward questions.

I put the money to good use by treating myself to regular drinking bouts in the bars of Brooklyn. My conscience would not allow me to conduct a serious recruiting campaign. In case I was being watched by my sponsors, I frequently chatted with young soldiers in bars and restaurants, but I made no real attempts to lure them to Spain. For six months I played the role of the reluctant recruiter in and around Brooklyn, always promising results but never achieving them. It was not altogether surprising that the organisation began to view me with suspicion. Finally, I was ordered to return to Spain...

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War

This post was inspired by recent posts by two of my favourite bloggers: Roland Dodds on the vandalising of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion memorial and Bob from Brockley’s Spanish Civil War in San Fransisco.

Irishman Thomas “Red” Cushing is almost certainly resting in his grave now (if he were still alive he would be in his late 90s) but he definitely had a life less ordinary. In the first 35 years of his life he was an IRA member, had a yoyo career in the US army with a sideline of training Sandino’s forces; served in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade (his sobriquet refers to his hair not his political allegiance, he has bolshie, not a Bolshevik!), joined the British army, taken prisoner during the fall of France.... and then his adventures really began!

I first came across his name in Renegades: Hitler’s Englishmen, Adrian Weale’s excellent account of the Britisches Freikorps (the BFC) and other British traitors of WWII Cushing was mentioned in respect of the Reich’s farcical attempt to raise an Irish legion. He also appears in Mark Hull’s “Irish Secrets: Espionage in Wartime Ireland” and Terrence O’ Reilly’s “Hitler’s Irishmen”. However, he was no traitor himself and he continued his career in the British Army into the 1960s

Cushing wrote an account of his rollercoaster life in the book “Soldier For Hire”. It is long out of print but fortunately it is not hard to track down a reasonably inexpensive copy. The chapter “No Castles in Spain” which covers his time in Spain is very handily reproduced on Ciaran Crossey’s superb Ireland and the Spanish Civil War website. Plagiarism is not intended but I have a damaged wrist and anything that will cut down my typing is a godsend at the moment!

... While on demob leave, I stayed at the Army and Navy Club in Lexington Avenue, New York. I took the opportunity of visiting all the army posts where I had friends. To keep myself solvent I boxed a few times. Then, one morning in 1936, I wandered as far as the Army Base in Brooklyn, hoping to bump into somebody I knew...
My luck was out... I finished up in a saloon bar, sitting at the same table as five or six young fellows, listening to their conversation and occasionally chipping in when the talk became general. Somehow we had got on to the subject of soldiering abroad. During a lull in the discussion, an unmistakably military figure detached itself from the bar and slid easily into the seat next to mine.

'I'm recruiting for the Lincoln Washington Battalion, now serving in Spain,' he announced without preamble. 'Any of you guys interested?' 'What are the prospects?' I asked him. He shrugged. 'Well, I guess that depends on what you can do. Have you soldiered before?'

I fished from my wallet the army documents I carried around with me and dropped them on the table in front of him. He scrutinised them in silence, lingering especially over an impressive list of courses I had passed. At last he looked up and eyed me appraisingly. 'Seems to me you're the type we want, brother. Can't guarantee it, but with these qualifications you should swing a commission.'

'Never mind the commission. My interests are tipple and bananas.'


... First we went to a building on the Grand Concourse, where I was medically examined and pronounced physically fit. Then, we proceeded to a dingy office not far from Union Square. There I completed a sort of application form, signed on the dotted line and was duly inducted. I received a cash advance of fifty dollars and was warned to hold myself in readiness... A day or two later, my instructions arrived. I was ordered to report to an address on Eighth Avenue and Sixteenth Street... I was introduced to a number of curious characters, all belonging to the school of thought that condemns soap and water as capitalist luxuries. Even before they opened their mouths, I knew what I had let myself in for. I had stepped into a gathering of Communist Party members.

Although I had no time for such crapology, I decided to ride along with them and find out how they ticked. I therefore listened patiently to my long-haired friend's appreciation of the situation. .. I had been appointed conducting officer and was responsible for shepherding forty volunteers from New York to the Spanish front.

...The 'Commissar', as I had mentally labelled him, next led me into a dance hall, where I passed on his information to my comrades... When I first saw them, my heart sank. There were intellectuals, students from Columbia University and a generous sprinkling of Bowery bums and dead-beats, who had evidently espoused the Communist cause in order to be issued with meal tickets.... When I had finished, the Commissar gave them a long political speech, loaded with the usual Communist clichés. The workers of the world had to unite, fight for freedom, win a lasting peace and had nothing to lose but their chains. The students and the self-styled intelligentsia lapped it all up, but the talk made little impression on the bums. The squad was then dismissed and the Party members gathered round me, eager to give me a propaganda injection.

'Gentlemen,' I said to the shower of nanny goats, 'I'm a professional soldier, not a politician. I've volunteered to go to Spain simply for the experience. As far as I'm concerned, you can stick your Communist racket up your jaxies! So cheerio, comrades! I'll be seeing you at nine o'clock to-morrow morning.' With an ironic bow to the Commissar, I made a quick exit...

To be continued