A Tale of Two Chief GIs

With kind permission from Am Baile and Murdo MacLeod

[Am Baile www.ambaile.org.uk  was founded by a consortium led by The Highland Council. Together with our partners Taigh Chearsabhagh Trust and West Highland Animation we are creating a digital archive of the history and culture of the Scottish Highlands and Islands. The project has been funded by the New Opportunities Fund and recently assisted with a financial contribution from Highlands and Islands Enterprise].

By Murdo MacLeod

“It must have been the number of naval uniforms that I had seen coming and going in the village of Gress throughout the Second World War, or the numerous photographs of Lewis sailors that had appeared in the Stornoway Gazette during the period, or the fact that my father had served as a Leading Seaman on HMS "Emperor of India" in World War 1 and latterly as a Regulating Petty Officer in Neibhidh a' Bhrunaich... Perhaps it was a combination of all three that persuaded me, when my time came to undertake - or undergo - National Service, to volunteer for the Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve. This ensured me a place in the Senior Service for the next two years.

On a chilly October afternoon in 1952 it was probably a privilege which I would cheerfully have surrendered, but one which it was too late now to forego. Along with another twenty or so very raw and very tired recruits I had just completed a punishing square-bashing routine on the parade-ground of Victoria Barracks, Portsmouth, under the vigilant and apparently malevolent tuition of the senior chief gunnery instructor - the most intimidating member of that whole naval establishment. Here was a man of moderate height but gigantic power: wiry of physique and leathery of complexion, he instilled terror and paralysis, with a single baleful look, in anyone who dare to cross his path. Many a boyish midshipman and fresh-faced sub-lieutenant had reason to regret incurring his wrath by committing the slightest error on parade-ground or gunnery-range. He could fire the most bruising insults in their direction, despite the fact that they carried the Queen?s commission, while never neglecting to address then as "Sir". As for us benighted and utterly inadequate ordinary seaman, our sole aim in life was to avoid being noticed by him.

It was, therefore, to our inexpressible relief that tea-time arrived - we had survived him, and escaped, at least for a brief, blessed respite. Having collected the essential knife, fork, spoon and mug, I was making my expectant and innocent way towards the dining-hall when my temporary sense of well-being was assaulted by an ear-shattering yell from a small doorway in one of the adjacent barrack buildings. This has issued from none other than himself - the Chief G.I. "You there!", he thundered at me, while thrusting a huge teapot into my apprehensive and unwilling hands, "Swill that out, fill it with fresh tea, and bring it back here - at the double!".... what else?

Seldom have I felt so aggrieved. This was a totally unjustified unfair intrusion on my privacy, limited as it was.... But there was nothing for it but to obey his command, like all his other orders. By the time I had carried out his instructions, however, my sense of grievance had diminished slightly, and I decided to risk a little humorous leg-pull. Planting the teapot on his table, I announced: "Here's your tea, sir.... I've put some soap in it for you." There was a further sharp explosion, followed by a deafening broadside: "What's your name?" and, without waiting for my reply, "I'll be keeping an eye on you from now on, my son, and if you ever once as much as put a foot wrong, you're for the high jump. Make on mistake about it!"

He was the classic case of the bark being worse that the bite. There was no bite, really, and the bark was cultivated in order to parade what was essentially a benevolent authority. This became particularly clear towards the end of our fortnight's induction course when Obadiah - as he was universally known because of his practice of reciting a very rude and uncomplimentary rhyme - lined us up, asked each of us in turn where we came from, and passed an appropriately insulting remark on ourselves and on our places of origin. In my case the exchange was as follows:

"Where are you from, MacLeod?"

"Stornoway, sir"

"That's in the 'ebrides, ain't it?"

"Yes, sir"

"I see, you're another of them 'aggis-waffling, bagpipe-blowing, sword-swallowing b......s! What are you?"

"What you've just said, sir!"

I ask you, what else could I say? You don?t contradict the Chief G.I. even if you pretend that you've put soap in his tea!

I could, I suppose, have threatened him with our own Chief G.I., my Uncle Ruaraidh.... but it was too late in the day. This was 1952, and six years previously my Uncle Ruaraidh had responded for the last time to the boson's pipe announcing "Up spirits", and taken up permanent residence in the Valhalla to which all good naval non-commissioned officers retire.

Uncle Ruaraidh passed on quietly on 5th August 1946, after an unusually lengthy and remarkable association with the Royal Navy. Born at 44 Back on 18th October 1872, he was the eldest of the family of ten of Coinneach Anghais Mhurchaidh Alasdair (Kenny) and Margaret Morrison (Mairead Uilleim Ruaidh). Little is known of his schooldays, but shortly after they were over he seems to have acquired some undeserved notoriety from an escapade involving the docking of a local horse?s tail. He himself discovered many years later that the culprits were some young men from Ness who had cross the moor to Back on their way to Stornoway, as was sometimes the custom in those days. At any rate, the resulting parental retribution is said to have caused him so much shame and mental anguish that he took himself off, at the age of 13, to enlist in the Royal Navy. He was promptly ordered back home, but the following year his father relented and allowed him to leave home again, and to follow his ambition to be a sailor. Thus started a naval career which spanned two centuries and experienced three major wars.

Life in the royal Navy was hard in those days, especially at the early stages: boy seamen received little consideration or sympathy from their superiors, being the lowest form of marine life. It was pretty tough for my father as well, when as a toddler he was ducked in a bath of cold water by his eldest brother, jus under 20 years his senior, when he came home on leave...."gus a dheanamh cruaidh!"

Having served for some 25 years in various stations, including the naval battery in Stornoway, and having attained the rank of Chief Petty Officer/Gunnery Instructor, as well as gaining the accolade of champion gun layer of the Mediterranean Fleet, Ruaraidh had retired on pension before war broke out in 1914. He immediately re-enlisted and was soon aboard H.M.S. Orama, an armed merchant cruiser which took part in the Battle of Coronel, off the Falkland Islands, on a Sunday in November 1914. He served throughout the First World War and subsequently settled in London, where he found civilian employment as a caretaker. Moving later to Stornoway, he worked for a time as a janitor in the Nicolson Institute.

The outbreak of the Second World War again stirred in ex-C.P.O. MacLeod the desire to resume his naval career. He volunteered once more but was turned down because of his age. Disappointed but undeterred, he joined the Merchant Navy and did a trip to Australia as a deckhand. Either before or after that period he took an active interest in the services canteen on the pier in Stornoway, serving refreshments to naval ratings and others, and collecting the affectionate nickname of "Bodach na Teatha." According to the late Dr James Shaw Grant he also had a spell of duty as watchman on S.S. Politician, grounded with its inviting cargo and managed to foil the ambition of at least one party of would-be raiders, who had not realised that their proposed plan of attack had been overheard by a Gaelic-speaking Lewisman.

Ruaraidh's repeated efforts to rejoin the Royal Navy were eventually rewarded when he was appointed as recruiting officer and training instructor for young men joining the rescue tug service. Stationed at the Naval base in Campbeltown, he continued in that capacity until demobilisation at the end of the war. Now into his 70s, he had the distinction, it is said, of being the oldest person in Britain to receive the 1939/45 star. On his return to Stornoway his trim, neat figure, topped by his naval skip cap - minus C.P.O. badge - became a familiar landmark to us, as he surveyed the scene from the doorway of Murdo Maclean's drapery shop in Cromwell Street.

The Maclean connection, of course, was of long standing, for much earlier in life he had married the daughter of that well-known businessman, and they had taken up residence in Kenneth Street prior to World War 2. They had one daughter, Margaret, who died at a young age in Canada. He only Son Roderick MacLeod Jeffrey, arrived in Stornoway one day in the 50s, as a regular naval rating on a frigate of the Royal Canadian Navy, and was taken to visit relatives at Back and Gress by my late cousin Kenny. "Theid duine ri dhualchas seachd uairean anns an latha!"

It would be a matter of only passing interest to learn that someone who had served for a total of 30 years in the Army had learned to play the bagpipes. That Ruaraidh did so while in the Navy makes one wonder just how he managed it. He must, indeed, have been self-taught: but I would guess that he was single-minded and determined in his efforts to acquire the necessary skill once he had set his mind to the task. How good a piper he was it is not possible to assess, but according to my father - and he often entertained us with anecdotes about his eldest brother's career - Ruaraidh regularly played the pipes from the bridge when his sip was leaving or entering harbour.

On several occasions I saw and heard his pipes at school social events by the late Iain Maclean, his nephew by marriage, to whom he gifted them. His chanter, however, remained in the MacLeod family. I could never have aspired to playing it, but I had the pleasure of handling it and admiring it a few years ago. It has passed, appropriately indeed, to my cousin Margaret's daughter, Sarah Mackay, herself an accomplished piper and former member of the Lochaber Pipe Band and Lerwick Pipe Band. As Sarah walked up the aisle to be married to Angus Dobie of Australia, the organ played "The mist-covered mountains of home." No doubt she plays the occasional lullaby on Uncle Ruaraidh's chanter to their little daughters Isla-Margaret and Isobel in their home in Victoria. May they enjoy pleasant dreams of their grandparents in Inverlochy, while their mother recalls those happy times spent at 20 Back!

On occasional flights of fancy my own thoughts convey me to a distant celestial naval establishment, where Uncle Ruaraidh keeps a weather eye open, and a sharp lookout in all directions. When off duty he reminisces about cruisers, dreadnoughts and Whale Island and will not hesitate to remind Obadiah of his lack of seniority and to tell him to keep his place as a boy.”
 

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