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!

The Red Cushing Chronicles

Here are links to the nine posts relating to Red Cushing and his time in the Spanish Civil War and WWII.

Spanish Civil War

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War I

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War II

Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War III

WWII and capture

The Good Soldier Cushing

The Good Soldier Cushing II

German Agent (sort of)

Agent Double O Cushing

Agent Double O Cushing

Sachsenhausen and Yakov Stalin

Red Cushing and the Many Deaths of Yakov Stalin

Red Cushing and the Many Deaths of Yakov Stalin II

Agent Double O Cushing part II

Cushing and his happy band of double agents were sent to Hamburg to receive briefing about their first mission.

He was told that in two weeks time they would be taken by submarine to Panama, there to act as the leader of a team that would destroy the Gatun Dam, an earthwork dam which is a crucal part of the Panama Canal. After completion of this mission he and his team would be returned to Germany once again by  U boat. Cushing pretended to be quite enthusiastic about the mission.

Delighted by Cushing's responcse he was returned to the team's  apartment in Berlin. One evening he called a meeting of the other Irish "double agents" amd proposed that they should go along with the mission as far as Panama. There they would give the Germans the slip, alert the Americans and hope that the US equivalent of the Fleet Air Arm would capture the other saboteurs and also destroy the U Boat,

Within 24 hours he was taken towhat he called the Berlin Naval HQ there to be told that the conversation had been recorded. He was then shoved in a Black Maria and taken straight to Gestapo Headquarters. While other inmates were taken for interrogation or execution, Cushing spent several days in solitary confinement and then several weeks in a segregated compound for several weeks before being sent to Sonderlager A  (Sachsenhausen) with other members of the Irish Brigade. It was there where he met Yakov Stalin....

(See Red Cushing and the Many Deaths of Yakov Stalin).

After Sachsenhausen Cushing spent time in Flossenburg and Dachau before liberation.  Hhe was interrogated quite severely but was released. Unlike other Irishmen who served with the Germans (eg James Brady and Frank Stringer who were serious about their German allegiance and did some serious time after the war)  he was released without any stain on his character. This in itself must indicate that Cushing was indeed acting with the intent to sabotage German attempts to recruit Irishmen. He eventually reenlisted in the British Army marrying a nurse Nagle before serving in Palestine and Cyprus and then Korea (but not in front line service) and Kenya. It is pleasing to report that he continued his carousing in peace time

I know that Red Cushing was alive in the 1980s but I have no idea when he died. Even if his autobiography Soldier For Hire, may have to be taken with a pinch of salt, he was a larger than life character of the sort that makes the world a much richer place.

If any reader knows what happened to Red after he retired from the Army I would be delighted to know.

Agent Double O Cushing

One thing I have promised for a long time is to finish the chronicles of Thomas   "Red" Cushing, an Irishman who took part in a number of major events in the first half of the 20th century.

In 1962 he wrote a wonderfully entertaining autobiography called "Soldier for Hire". It is long out of print but it is not too hard to pick up a copy. While you have to take what he says with a pinch of salt, that he took part in many of the things he took part in are a matter of historical record

Born in 1909 in Carrick on Suir he played a small role in the 'Troubles" and the Civil War ( a very small one given his age) before emigrating to the United States and enlisting in the US army. His US army days appear to be a tale of promotion to NCO, drinking, fighting, demotion, drinking, fighting, promotion... and so on.

After leaving the US army he took part in the Spanish Civil war on the Republican side, before coming to the UK and enlisting in the British Army. He was part of the British Expeditionary Force and was taken prisoner in June 1940. 

It is a matter of historical record that the Germans attempted to lure Irish POWs to throw their lot in with the Reich. As in WWI when Sir Roger Casement attempted to persuade Irishmen held at the Limburg POW camp to join an Irish Legion (53 Irishmen joined but saw no service on the German side in WWI), the German Intelligence Service Abwehr set up a special camp at Friesack for Irish POWs.

One of the soldiers sent to the Friesack camp was Red Cushing.

Cushing was sent there after a stint working in a coal mine (see The Good Soldier Cushing Part ii - fear not there will be an index to the Cushing stories following these last posts)..

When he discovered that prisoners from Eire were to be segregated and given preferential treatment vis a vis rations and light work duties, Cushing smelled a rat, remembering vaguely "of an incident in the First World War through the medium of Roger Casement, the Germans had formed an irish Brigade to fight for Ireland's Freedom. According to my father that brigade had ended up fighting for Kathleen ni Houlihan on the Russian Front " (Not actually true that they fought on the Russian Front but everything else is true - my grandfather would have heard Casement speak at Limburg).

Cushing suspected that the Germans were up to no good he discussed with a friend Pat Patterson about stringing the Germans along until they could get an opportunity to escape.

Cushing reckons that there were about 120 Irish soldiers collected together, His main achievement in the first stage of what would be a lengthy selection process. His main act at this stage was to promote himself from corporal to sergeant.

At a second camp he describes as about 20 miles outside of Berlin (almost certainly Friesack) he and another sixty other Irishmen were screened for the profesions of loyalty to both Ireland and Germany. After a potentially disastrous encounter with someone who purported to be IRA leader and International Brigade fighter Frank Ryan (Ryan was both and had been sentenced to death by the Nationalists. His sentences was commuted and he was subsequently removed from Spain to Germany by Abwehr. He died in Dresden in 1944 but I digress). Calling out the person as a fake may have been the  end of his escapades but it seems he got lucky.

A little later he was approached by a Colonel McGrath (Major John McGrath of the Royal Engineers was the Senior Irish officer at Friesack) who asked him to keep a check on the goings on at the camp and to reportback to him. In effect McGrath had given him carte blanche to be a double agent (This is not totally implausible given that Cushing was not only reinstated to the British Army after WWII, he continued to serve for many years after, srising to senior NCO rank). Anyway, Cuhsing was given authority to choose half a dozen other prisoners to act as agents for McGrath.

Cushing and his band of "double agents"were given training in Morse code, cipjers, sabotage and the like. They did their best to prove that they were not only "first rate saboteurs but also that we had fallen hook, line and sinker for the German line of propaganda"

The Germans were pleased with the Irishmen's performance  as they were taken to a hose in Berlin. After a few days of leisure Cushing was interview who ed by a von Halle (presumably Kurt Haller) who discussed is military service and postings, especially those with the US Army in Panama. It was at this point that von Halle told him that he and his team were off to Hamburg for  a final briefing for his first mission.

Red Cushing and the Many Deaths of Yakov Stalin Part II

Red Cushing’s first account of his encounter with Yakov Stalin appears in his autobiography “Soldier for Hire” (pp166)

“The first newcomer to arrive was posted to our hut. He introduced himself clicking his heels and uttering a Russian name that meant nothing to any of us... He explained later that it was the family name of Joseph Stalin and that he was the son of the Russian dictator. While serving as a lieutenant in an anti tank battery, he had been captured near Smolensk.

“Right from the first his behaviour struck me as distinctly odd. I often caught him pacing up and down our hut as if he had something on our mind.... For all his political moonshine, Jacob (Yakov) had many likeable qualities... and in time we may have become firm friends. One evening, however, at the end of an unusually long brooding spell, he suddenly rushed outside, sprinted across the compound, scrambled up the wall and attempted to crawl to the perimeter wire. A shot rang out, followed by a blinding flash, and poor Jacob hung there his body horribly burned and twisted. . We heard afterwards that the sentry’s bullet had got him fractionally before he was electrocuted”.

Cause 3: A fight over fa dirty toilet

18 years later in 1980 Cushing, then in retirement in County Cork, gave a second, slightly expanded account in a Sunday Times article (As with my earlier posts on Red Cushing, I am extremely grateful to Ciaran Crossey’s magnificent website Ireland and the Spanish Civil War). Here is an edited extract:


Joseph Stalin died in 1953 with one abiding regret: he had been unable to discover the fate of his eldest son, Jakov. All Stalin knew was that he had been captured by the Germans at the Siege of Smolensk in 1941, and held in a prisoner of war camp. Rumours that he had died there conflicted with stories that he had escaped. The Russian leader was unable to establish the truth, and though towards the end of this life, he offered a reward of a million roubles, no information was forthcoming.


The story was well known to his erstwhile American and British allies: In July 1945 an Anglo-American team sifting through German unearthed the full details of the story. Realising the implications the British Foreign Office reacted quickly, and on July 27, 1945, Michael Vyyyan, a senior Foreign Office official, wrote to his opposite number in the American State Department. "Our own inclination here is to recommend that the idea of communicating to Marshal Stalin should be dropped…It would naturally be distasteful to draw attention to the Anglo-Russian quarrels which preceded the death of his son."



According to these records, Jakov Stalin committed suicide in a particularly horrifying manner, in the bleak surroundings of Sachsenhausen Camp. The only surviving witness to the incident Thomas 'Red' Cushing, still talks of the extraordinary pressures which drove Stalin to his death 'I remember it as if it were yesterday,' said Cushing. 'It was one of the saddest events of my life.'


Yakov Dzugashvili Stalin arrived towards the end of 1942 and billeted with Molotov's nephew, Cushing and the other Irish POWs. Relations between the Russian and Irish prisoners deteriorated quickly in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the camp. The Irish suspected Kokorin, a small self-centred man anxious to curry favour with the German guards, of passing information to the Gestapo. They were equally contemptuous of Jakov. Unlike Kokorin, he became increasingly aggressive in his defence of Russian communism, continually 'shouting bolshevist propaganda', according to a statement Cushing made. There was a constant barrage of accusations between the two sides.


In early 1943, the atmosphere was poisonous. Small events sparked off violent quarrels. There were rows over the distribution of Red Cross parcels, and petty disputes about national habits. The incident that triggered off the final tragedy of Jakov Stalin was typical: it concerned the latrines.


On the afternoon of Wednesday, April 14, 1943, in a particularly heated exchange, Cushing accused Stalin's son of refusing to flush the lavatory and of deliberately fouling the wooden seat. The row spread quickly to the other prisoners. Murphy accused Jakov of the same behaviour. Outside the hut, O'Brien confronted Kokorin with the allegation that he defecated on the ground and fouled the latrine used by the British soldiers. O'Brien called Kokorin 'a bolshevist shit'; Kokorin called O'Brien 'an English shit.' A fight broke out and O'Brien hit Kokorin.


The precise role-played in these exchanges by Jakov Stalin, and indeed his responsibility for them, remains unclear. What does seem certain, however, is that the accumulated effect of constant bickering, rows, accusations - and finally the fight - broke the spirit of a man already suffering from confused emotions about his loyalties, his background and his future.


That evening, at curfew, Jakov refused to go back into the hut. He demanded to see the camp commandant, claiming he was being insulted by the British prisoners, and when his request was turned down, he appears to have gone berserk.Wildly waving a piece of wood, he ran about the area of the camp, shouting in broken German, to the SS guards on duty, 'shoot me, shoot me'. Then, in what appears to have been a clear desire to kill himself, he turned and ran towards the three-stage electrified fencing-surrounding perimeter.


Cushing himself saw what happened: "I saw Jakov running about as if he were insane. He just ran straight onto the wire. There was a huge flash and all the searchlights suddenly went on. I knew that was the end of him... Afterwards the Germans tried to make me take him off the wire and wrap his body in a blanket. It was the first time I felt sorry for the poor bastard."



Once again make of this what you will. There is no doubt that Yakov Stalin died in Sachsenhausen in 1943. There is also no doubt that Cushing, Walsh, O’Brian and Murphy were there at the same time. Languishing in a concentration camp, it’s no surprise that his mental state was at a low ebb. As for the last straw? I would not be surprised if it was a fight over a toilet rather than the Katyn massacre but then again what do I know....

Red Cushing and the Many Deaths of Yakov Stalin

Here's one from the Poor Mouth's vaults. Normal service will resume shortly 

It was my good fortune to wander into the bookshop in the departure lounge at Cork Airport. Otherwise I would not have picked up a copy of Terence O’Reilly’s Hitler’s Irishmen.

Hitler’s Irishmen is mainly concerned with the fortunes of “James Brady” (a pseudonym – we do not know his true identity) and Frank Stringer, two soldiers who were imprisoned in Jersey at the time of the German occupation and who became the only Irishmen to join the Waffen SS. It also provides a detailed account of the farcical attempt to raise an “Irish Brigade” from the POW population. Roger Casement had tried the same thing during WWI with little success – his Irish Brigade numbered just over 50 men. This attempt attracted a mere handful; and some of them had no intention of serving the Reich. Brady and Stinger and the Friesack Camp are for another day though.

By 1942 the Germans realised that four of the recruits (William Murphy, Patrick O'Brien, Andrew Walsh and our old friend Thomas “Red” Cushing) were not quite as loyal to the Reich as originally thought. The four were sent to a segregation unit in Saschenhausen concentration camp.

Born in 1907 Yakov Iosifovich Dzhugashvili (I will use Stalin rather than Dzhugashvili)was Joseph Stalin’s oldest child. An artillery lieutenant, he was taken prisoner by the Wehrmacht at Smolensk in July 1941. By 1942 he too was in Saschenhausen sharing accommodation Vasili Korkorin, the nephew of Vyacheslav Molotov , Murphy, O’Brian, Walsh and Red Cushing.

Yakov Stalin died in Saschenhausen in April 1943. The general consensus seems to be that he effectively committed suicide either with or without the help of a German bullet. However, more than one reason has been put forward for his suicide.

Cause 1: Abandonment

According to a Time article from 1 March 1968 Yakov, devastated by his father’s refusal of a German offer to exchange him for Field Marshall Von Paulus (who had surrendered at Stalingrad in January), picked his way through a maze of trip wires to the camp fence. He then called to a nearby SS guard: "Don't be a coward. Shoot, shoot." When the prisoner made a grab for the fence, the guard obliged, firing a single bullet which killed him in instantly.

Cause 2: Shame over the Katyn massacres

In June 2001, however, the Daily Telegraph carried an article which purported to provide the definitive answer to Yakov’s end. Already dispirited by his father’s rejection of an exchange for Von Paulus, Stalin was so overcome by shame at the news of his father's massacre of 15,000 Poles at Katyn in 1940 that he committed suicide by flinging himself on to the camp's electric fence.


According to professor John Erickson, (an authority on the Great Patriotic War who died in 2002) "It is clear that Yakov, who had become close friends with the Poles and had made two abortive escape attempts with them, was so distraught when goaded with the news of his father's massacre of the Polish officers, which was revealed in German newspapers in 1943, that he took his life. Driven to despair by the horrific conditions in the camp - he was emaciated and on the point of starvation - and the strain of the propaganda campaign the Germans had involved him in, the news that his father had sanctioned the Poles' murder was the final straw."

To be continued

The Good Soldier Cushing - Part II

It’s about time I continued the Red Cushing sage. This is taken from his autobiography “Soldier for Hire”

After capture and several days of marching, Cushing and his comrades were herded into rails trucks and taken to Stalag VIII(b) near Lamsdorf. In Silesia (now called Lambinowice). Not being an officer he was required to work so after fumigation and shaving and looking, as he put it, like a snooker ball he was drafted into a stone quarrying party.

Needless to say he found the food and lodgings rather below par and being a free spirit, he decided to escape. Obviously his attempts were unsuccessful or he wouldn’t have ended up in Sachsenhausen and got into a scrape with Yakov Stalin! During his third and final attempt he made it as far as the Carpathian Mountains. There he encountered a farm dog “about the size of the Hound of the Baskervilles”. To escape he tried to scale a high fence but his battle blouse got caught on a pointed picket post. It was in that ignominious position that he was recaptured. He was awarded 28 days solitary confinement for his troubles.

He was then sent to work in a coal mine where he was assigned as an assistant to a humourless but even tempered worker called Willi. Cushing found this mix a perfect opportunity for mischief.

One day Willi was engaged in making modification to roof supports. He called down to Cushing in guttural English “Thomas, the saw you will give Ja?”After weighing the request Cushing provided a hammer.

“Nein, Nein Thomas. The saw, Die Sage Verstehst?” Cushing responded “Ja ich verstehe” going through the motions of a man sawing, then promptly handed Willi some wood.Willi, with the patience of a saint, stopped his work and came down to show him what he wanted.

Cushing would do this time and time again. When Willi wanted nails, he would get a hammer and so on. The effect was that Willi spent more time explaining things to Red than actually doing any work.

Believing Red to be an utter idiot, Willi would spend a lot of time regaling him with the latest Nazi propaganda, particularly tales of hardship and starvation in England.. Nothing Red said in answer would change his view (and why would it when the Reich was on a roll at that time). Tiring of the Crapology, as he called it, Red found the perfect way of putting one over him, proving in the process that Britain’s larder was not quite as empty as it was portrayed.. He persuaded the other prisoners to let him have a complete Red Cross parcel.

When eating a lunch of ersatz coffee and black bread with a little Speck, Willi demanded “Thomas, this war how long it last, eh?

“Oh probably another 10 or 11 years Willi”

“Nein, nein In England everybody hungry is.. Doctor Goebbels says”

“Up Dr Goebbels lulu, have a look at this little lot” At this point he opened the parcel to display a treasure trove of goodies, including tea, sugar cocoa (and of course lots of span and bully beef).“One parcel a week Willi for every British POW in Europe”

Red’s trick had the desired result: Willi and the other workers realised that their propaganda was an exaggeration and was to be taken not with a pinch of salt but with a whole mine’s worth.

The Good Soldier Cushing Part I

It’s been a while since I wrote about Thomas “Red” Cushing. I promised to do so a lot earlier but hey ho! This is the first of a group of posts covering Red Cushing’s time between leaving Spain disillusioned and his time in Sachsenhausen with Yakov Stalin. This is taken from his autobiography “Soldier For Hire” (John Calder 1962)

After arriving in Victoria (stopping only to belt a Daily Worker seller in Paddington see Red Cushing and the Spanish Civil War Part III), he made his way to Cardiff to enlist in the Royal Iniskilling Fusiliers. After a relatively uneventful time (for Red that is!) involving a few boxing matches, and a fair bit of drinking, he was posted to Darlington and then Hereford to man a searchlight unit, he was sent to France as part of the British Expeditionary Force.

He spent four months digging fortifications until the Wehrmacht decided it wanted to spend its 1940 summer holiday at the French seaside. Like many other members of the BEF the next few weeks were a story of chaos, desperate fallbacks and futile attempts to regroup. Near Douai his unit did manage to blow a bridge taking several German armoured vehicles with it.

Caught behind the German lines Cushing and several other soldiers found shelter in a bistro cellar filled with an impressive range of drink. Building a bar out of a few crates Cushing and comrades embarked on what he described the greatest drinking bout of the century. Cushing was still resolved to do his duty. He was determined to fight out the war to the last bottle.

Alas things did not work out quite that way....

Red Cushing and the several deaths of Yakov Stalin Part II

Red Cushing’s first account of his encounter with Yakov Stalin appears in his autobiography “Soldier for Hire” (pp166)

“The first newcomer to arrive was posted to our hut. He introduced himself clicking his heels and uttering a Russian name that meant nothing to any of us... He explained later that it was the family name of Joseph Stalin and that he was the son of the Russian dictator. While serving as a lieutenant in an anti tank battery, he had been captured near Smolensk.

“Right from the first his behaviour struck me as distinctly odd. I often caught him pacing up and down our hut as if he had something on our mind.... For all his political moonshine, Jacob (Yakov) had many likeable qualities... and in time we may have become firm friends. One evening, however, at the end of an unusually long brooding spell, he suddenly rushed outside, sprinted across the compound, scrambled up the wall and attempted to crawl to the perimeter wire. A shot rang out, followed by a blinding flash, and poor Jacob hung there his body horribly burned and twisted. . We heard afterwards that the sentry’s bullet had got him fractionally before he was electrocuted”.

Cause 3: A fight over fa dirty toilet

18 years later in 1980 Cushing, then in retirement in County Cork, gave a second, slightly expanded account in a Sunday Times article (As with my earlier posts on Red Cushing, I am extremely grateful to Ciaran Crossey’s magnificent website Ireland and the Spanish Civil War). Here is an edited extract:

Joseph Stalin died in 1953 with one abiding regret: he had been unable to discover the fate of his eldest son, Jakov. All Stalin knew was that he had been captured by the Germans at the Siege of Smolensk in 1941, and held in a prisoner of war camp. Rumours that he had died there conflicted with stories that he had escaped. The Russian leader was unable to establish the truth, and though towards the end of this life, he offered a reward of a million roubles, no information was forthcoming.

The story was well known to his erstwhile American and British allies: In July 1945 an Anglo-American team sifting through German unearthed the full details of the story. Realising the implications the British Foreign Office reacted quickly, and on July 27, 1945, Michael Vyyyan, a senior Foreign Office official, wrote to his opposite number in the American State Department. "Our own inclination here is to recommend that the idea of communicating to Marshal Stalin should be dropped…It would naturally be distasteful to draw attention to the Anglo-Russian quarrels which preceded the death of his son."

According to these records, Jakov Stalin committed suicide in a particularly horrifying manner, in the bleak surroundings of Sachsenhausen Camp. The only surviving witness to the incident Thomas 'Red' Cushing, still talks of the extraordinary pressures which drove Stalin to his death 'I remember it as if it were yesterday,' said Cushing. 'It was one of the saddest events of my life.'

Yakov Dzugashvili Stalin arrived towards the end of 1942 and billeted with Molotov's nephew, Cushing and the other Irish POWs. Relations between the Russian and Irish prisoners deteriorated quickly in the claustrophobic atmosphere of the camp. The Irish suspected Kokorin, a small self-centred man anxious to curry favour with the German guards, of passing information to the Gestapo. They were equally contemptuous of Jakov. Unlike Kokorin, he became increasingly aggressive in his defence of Russian communism, continually 'shouting bolshevist propaganda', according to a statement Cushing made. There was a constant barrage of accusations between the two sides.

In early 1943, the atmosphere was poisonous. Small events sparked off violent quarrels. There were rows over the distribution of Red Cross parcels, and petty disputes about national habits. The incident that triggered off the final tragedy of Jakov Stalin was typical: it concerned the latrines.

On the afternoon of Wednesday, April 14, 1943, in a particularly heated exchange, Cushing accused Stalin's son of refusing to flush the lavatory and of deliberately fouling the wooden seat. The row spread quickly to the other prisoners. Murphy accused Jakov of the same behaviour. Outside the hut, O'Brien confronted Kokorin with the allegation that he defecated on the ground and fouled the latrine used by the British soldiers. O'Brien called Kokorin 'a bolshevist shit'; Kokorin called O'Brien 'an English shit.' A fight broke out and O'Brien hit Kokorin.

The precise role-played in these exchanges by Jakov Stalin, and indeed his responsibility for them, remains unclear. What does seem certain, however, is that the accumulated effect of constant bickering, rows, accusations - and finally the fight - broke the spirit of a man already suffering from confused emotions about his loyalties, his background and his future.

That evening, at curfew, Jakov refused to go back into the hut. He demanded to see the camp commandant, claiming he was being insulted by the British prisoners, and when his request was turned down, he appears to have gone berserk.Wildly waving a piece of wood, he ran about the area of the camp, shouting in broken German, to the SS guards on duty, 'shoot me, shoot me'. Then, in what appears to have been a clear desire to kill himself, he turned and ran towards the three-stage electrified fencing-surrounding perimeter.

Cushing himself saw what happened: "I saw Jakov running about as if he were insane. He just ran straight onto the wire. There was a huge flash and all the searchlights suddenly went on. I knew that was the end of him... Afterwards the Germans tried to make me take him off the wire and wrap his body in a blanket. It was the first time I felt sorry for the poor bastard."

Once again make of this what you will. There is no doubt that Yakov Stalin died in Sachsenhausen in 1943. There is also no doubt that Cushing, Walsh, O’Brian and Murphy were there at the same time. Languishing in a concentration camp, it’s no surprise that his mental state was at a low ebb. As for the last straw? I would not be surprised if it was a fight over a toilet rather than the Katyn massacre but then again what do I know....

Red Cushing and the several deaths of Yakov Stalin Part I

It was my good fortune to wander into the bookshop in the departure lounge at Cork Airport. Otherwise I would not have picked up a copy of Terence O’Reilly’s Hitler’s Irishmen.

Hitler’s Irishmen is mainly concerned with the fortunes of “James Brady” (a pseudonym – we do not know his true identity) and Frank Stringer, two soldiers who were imprisoned in Jersey at the time of the German occupation and who became the only Irishmen to join the Waffen SS. It also provides a detailed account of the farcical attempt to raise an “Irish Brigade” from the POW population. Roger Casement had tried the same thing during WWI with little success – his Irish Brigade numbered just over 50 men. This attempt attracted a mere handful; and some of them had no intention of serving the Reich. Brady and Stinger and the Friesack Camp are for another day though.

By 1942 the Germans realised that four of the recruits (William Murphy, Patrick O'Brien, Andrew Walsh and our old friend Thomas “Red” Cushing) were not quite as loyal to the Reich as originally thought. The four were sent to a segregation unit in Saschenhausen concentration camp.

Born in 1907 Yakov Iosifovich Dzhugashvili (I will use Stalin rather than Dzhugashvili)was Joseph Stalin’s oldest child. An artillery lieutenant, he was taken prisoner by the Wehrmacht at Smolensk in July 1941. By 1942 he too was in Saschenhausen sharing accommodation Vasili Korkorin, the nephew of Vyacheslav Molotov , Murphy, O’Brian, Walsh and Red Cushing.

Yakov Stalin died in Saschenhausen in April 1943. The general consensus seems to be that he effectively committed suicide either with or without the help of a German bullet. However, more than one reason has been put forward for his suicide.

Cause 1: Abandonment

According to a Time article from 1 March 1968 Yakov, devastated by his father’s refusal of a German offer to exchange him for Field Marshall Von Paulus (who had surrendered at Stalingrad in January), picked his way through a maze of trip wires to the camp fence. He then called to a nearby SS guard: "Don't be a coward. Shoot, shoot." When the prisoner made a grab for the fence, the guard obliged, firing a single bullet which killed him in instantly.

Cause 2: Shame over the Katyn massacres

In June 2001, however, the Daily Telegraph carried an article which purported to provide the definitive answer to Yakov’s end. Already dispirited by his father’s rejection of an exchange for Von Paulus, Stalin was so overcome by shame at the news of his father's massacre of 15,000 Poles at Katyn in 1940 that he committed suicide by flinging himself on to the camp's electric fence.

According to professor John Erickson, (an authority on the Great Patriotic War who died in 2002) "It is clear that Yakov, who had become close friends with the Poles and had made two abortive escape attempts with them, was so distraught when goaded with the news of his father's massacre of the Polish officers, which was revealed in German newspapers in 1943, that he took his life. Driven to despair by the horrific conditions in the camp - he was emaciated and on the point of starvation - and the strain of the propaganda campaign the Germans had involved him in, the news that his father had sanctioned the Poles' murder was the final straw."

To be continued

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