WW - Gallarus Oratory

Gallarus Oratory on the Dingle peninsula is Ireland's oldest building. Probably dating from the 8th century it is built without mortar. This week's entry for the Tuesday and Wednesday edition of Wordless Wednesday.

Anthony Worrall Thompson’s faux pas

According to the BBC chef Antony Worrall Thompson has apologised after a minor but potentially fatal mistake in a recent interview. In a magazine interview about watercress and other wild foods in Heathy & Organic living , Mr Worrall Thompson said the weed henbane was "great in salads". He had had meant to recommend fat hen, which is a wild herb.

Henbane - Hyoscyamus niger - has sticky serrated leaves, yellow, funnel-shaped flowers and a stale scent. Its name has Anglo-Saxon origins - meaning killer of hens - and it can cause hallucinations, drowsiness and disorientation in humans. Larger quantities can cause a loss of consciousness, seizures, trembling of the limbs and, in extreme cases, death.

The television chef said "Henbane is associated with lots of mythical tales - it's said to turn you black and it's used in witches potions.," But fat hen is perfectly edible. "You can use the leaves in salads like spinach, make tea and eat the roots," he said. Mr Worrall Thompson.

The Healthy & Organic Living website has this notice: In H&OL7 p60 Antony Worral Thompson recommends using henbane in salads. In fact henbane is a very toxic plant and should never been eaten. As always, check with an expert when foraging or collecting wild plants.

In a related subject Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s all Yew can eat restaurant has closed following a dearth of repeat custom...

Did language barriers sink the Mary Rose?

There was a fascinating story in last Friday’s Independent regarding the loss of the Mary Rose in 1545. The Mary Rose was pride of the English battle fleet when it sank in the Solent on 19 July 1545, in sight of the French fleet. Over 400 men perished. The delighted French claimed a direct hit, while the English blamed an undisciplined crew.

A medical researcher from University College London believes that he has cracked the mystery, by studying the skulls of the men who drowned. The problem, he believes, is not indiscipline but a simple inability to understand each other. Professor Hugh Montgomery and forensic experts were given permission by the Mary Rose Trust to examine the crew's remains. Scientists can determine roughly where a person grew up by analysing their teeth, which retain the type of water molecule they consumed in childhood... Lynne Bell, a forensic anthropologist, examined 18 crew members' remains, and was surprised to find that 11 of them must have come from near the Mediterranean.

"The analysis of the teeth suggests the men grew up in a warm climate, probably somewhere in southern Europe, Professor Montgomery said. It's also known that at this time Henry VIII was short of skilled soldiers and sailors and was trying to recruit mercenaries from the Continent."

Henry VIII's state papers reveal that six months before the Mary Rose sank, nine ships were caught in a storm and took refuge in Falmouth harbour. On board were 600 Spanish soldiers who had no money or food, and so had no choice but to join the English navy. Contemporary accounts show that it was suspected that some problem with the crew had led to the sinking of the Mary Rose. The ship's last commander, Vice Admiral Sir George Carew, who drowned with his men, complained not long before the disaster that the crew included, "the sort of knaves whom he could not rule".

Professor Montgomery's theory is that the ship's officer spotted the French and ordered the ship to make a rapid turn; as it turned, it keeled, and an officer shouted at the Spanish crew to close the gun ports. Before they had understood the order, water rushed in...

It’s certainly an interesting idea. The Mary Rose was a top heavy vessel that would roll heavily. It also had a set of gun ports that were too close to the water line it was perhaps no surprise that it sunk. Professor Montgomery’s idea is certainly attractive. But then again I am no expert on the Tudor navy or ship design...

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

Hawkwind Love in Space

Family history and changing the direction of the Poor Mouth (a little)

I’ve been looking back at some of my earlier posts and to be honest I think some of my earlier posts were far, far better than I produce these days. It’s not that I am ashamed of the Poor Mouth as it stands and I don’t plan to devote as much time to party political matters as I used to – suffice it to say that I am a Labour Party member and I have no intention of shifting political allegiance, even if Brown dismays me. But I digress. I intend to devote more time to some of my favourite subjects, most of which concern the footnotes of history. To kick things off this post (which anthologises a number of posts from 2006 and 2007) concerns tracking down my grandfather’s involvement in WWI

In 2006 I knew very little about the history of either side of my family, a fact not helped by the early death of all of my grandparents (Only my maternal grandmother was alive when I was born and she died before I was old enough to take an interest in such matters) and my parent’s own rather fragmentary knowledge.


What I did know about my family beyond my parent’s generation is this:


- A maternal great uncle was a fairly successful middle distance athlete at the turn of the 20th Century. He was all Ireland 880 yards champion. Some of his medals still exist and I hope will be placed in the Millstreet museum in the not too distant future


- A maternal cousin fought in the IRA during the original “Troubles” (1919-21) and then in the ensuing Civil War. Less than 20 years later he was in England working on radar development!

Grandfather

- My paternal grandfather served in the Second Battalion of the Royal Munster Fusiliers (2nd Munsters) and was apparently taken prisoner at the battle of Mons in 1914. That he survived that terrible conflict is probably down to his spending over four years in Germany as a “guest” of the Kaiser! The only photograph I have ever seen of him was taken in a POW camp in Limburgnot far from the Dutch border

Grandfather was in the BEF

All in all this was not an awful lot to show for two fairly sizeable families. Virtually every document or personal item that would help me trace my family history has vanished over time. In May 2006 I searched the WWI service medal database at the UK National Archives website and I was delighted to find a medal record for a private in the Munster Fusiliers bearing the exact same name as my grandfather who arrived in France on 13 August 1914.
This piece of information placed him in the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) at the start of WWI. It is a matter of record that on 23 August 1914 the BEF engaged the German First Army around Mons but the 2nd Munsters were held in reserve and did not participate in that battle. In addition the 2nd Munsters did not participate in the battle of Le Cateau on 26 August.

The Munster fusiliers cap badge

The 2nd Munsters’ contribution to the Mons Campaign took place on 27 August at Etreux. At the time the BEF was in retreat and in extreme danger of being surrounded and destroyed by advancing German forces. Three companies of the 2nd Munsters under Major Charrier along with a troop of the 15th Hussars, and two guns of the 118th Battery, R.F.A., held off a full German Corps for a day taking appalling casualties in the process. This action allowed General Haig’s I Corps to put twelve miles between itself and the front almost certainly ensuring its survival as a fighting force.


The Action is a tiny footnote in a conflict that took millions of lives but it is a textbook example of the function of a rear guard force. The medal record placed my grandfather in the BEF but I could not prove that he fought or was taken prisoner there. However it was a “definite maybe”.

Grandfather was at Etreux

James O’ Sullivan has an excellent site about the Munsters (see below). His father served in the first battalion, which saw action at Gallipoli before transferring to the Western Front in 1916.In 2007 James for provided me with a clipping from the Times dated 23 March 1915, which lists members of the 2nd battalion that had been taken prisoner. One of them is my grandfather. He also confirmed that there is no record of any members of the battalion taken prisoner between the Etreux rearguard action of 27 August 1914 and the publication of the list.

The conclusion is that my grandfather was one of a just a few hundred soldiers that held up a whole German corps for a crucial twelve hours and thus helped ensure the survival of the British Expeditionary Force in its retreat from Mons to the Marne.

Grandfather avoided numerous chances to get his head blown off

All in all I am bloody lucky to have been born in the first place! Had he not been taken prisoner at Etreux he would have had plenty of chance to spill blood between then and 11 November 1918:

• In May 1915 at the Rue du Bois battle where the 2nd Munster's suffered many losses to friendly artillery fire. Before engaging in battle, absolution was administered to the battalion by their Chaplain Francis Gleeson and is subject of the famous (well famous to me) painting by Fortunate Matania. 22 officers and 520 men went in to battle, 3 officers and 200 men returned.

• In September 1915 during Loos sector battles.

• In June 1916 during raids on German lines at Lievin

• In July 1916 in the attack on the village of Contalmaison.

• In September to December 1916 in the defence of Martinpuich and the Somme offensive.

• July 1917 in the Nieuport defence.

• In November 1917 at Passchendale

• In March 1918 in action at Epehy, Tincourt, Doingt, Chuignolles and Mericourt sectors.

• In October at Le Catelet, Foret de Mormal and River Selle sectors.

The second Munsters were wiped out several times over during WWI. A POW camp in Limburg in Germany was probably the safest place for him!

This list was taken from James O'Sullivan’s site

Further reading

There are two excellent websites concerning the history of the Royal Munster fusiliers:

James O Sullivan’s Royal Munster Fusiliers website;

Tadhg Moloney’s Royal Munster Fusilier Association website;

Both carry the account of the Etreux action from The 2nd Munsters in France by Lt Col H S Jervis;

Wikipedia entry on the Battle of Mons

Photo Hunt - Clouds over the Paps of Anu

The theme for this week's Photo Hunt is cloud(s) What better choice than some more photos taken in Ireland. The mountain in question is known as the Paps or the Paps of Anu and are just over the Kerry border a few miles from Millstreet.

The following italicised text is from a forum on Julian Cope's Modern Antiquarian site


On our right, we were much struck with the singular appearance of the two hills, called The Paps. They are smoothly formed to the fairest proportion, imitating the outline of a woman's bosom' (Diary of Traveller on Butter Road in 1797 from visit to Killarney Lakes)

This was the first chance to take a photo of the Paps but the cloud base was too low to see the summit.

"The Paps are named after Anu, prinicipal Goddess of pre-Christian Ireland and mother Goddess of the Tuatha De Danann, a legendary group of divine invaders who ruled Ireland until their final defeat at the hands of the Milesians. The Goddess Anu brought prosperity to Munster... was originally a European Goddess, her name being commemorated most famously in the River Danube."
The this was taken on a clearer day with the mountains clearly in view. On each peak is a cairn

A photo of the cairn on the left peak There is a cairn on the right peak too. It's a hard climb and quite dangerous so the photo was taken with a long telephoto

The Paps' cairns appear to be part of a deliberately placed series which overlook the plains of the southwest. The cairn on the eastern peak is a substantial monument, measuring a height of 4 metres and a diameter of 18m-20metres. The entrances of both cairns are aligned westwards, towards the setting sun. It is thought that the cairns contain Neolithic burial chambers. They are the subject of ongoing study and excavations to confirm such theories.

The Paps were almost certainly objects of veneration for the stone age inhabitants of Ireland although I would like to think that my ancestors a few millennia back had a sense of humour.. I can imagine the conversation

"Hey check it out Beabhis, those mountains look like boobs huh, huh, huh, huh"

"Heh, heh, heh, he boobs Budvoc, boobs!"

A hostile cat

This cat was encountered by the back door of the house where my mother was born and brought up in Millstreet. The other feral cats ran but this one stood her ground and swore copiously at me. It didn't take me long to find out why...

This week's entry for Friday Ark and Carnival of the Cats