Paddy Mayne Read online

  When Mayne was in South Africa, his progress had been closely followed at home, and on his return he was feted. That someone from Newtownards had been selected to play for the British Rugby Touring Team and had acquitted himself so well was regarded as an honour for the town. (It was the sort of response that was to be repeated later with his wartime achievements.) A reception was held for Mayne and he was presented with a gold watch. One of the speakers, Mr T. McCartney, said that what impressed him about Mayne was ‘his unfailing modesty and charm of manner’.8

  Within weeks of his return, Mayne was playing rugby again. He joined a new team, Malone RFC, and was elected captain. Then his law career caught up with him. He was accepted as a solicitor at a Hilary sitting and joined the busy city practice of the Belfast firm of solicitors, George Maclaine and Company.9 He had been articled to T.C.G. Mackintosh for five years, and on 10 January 1939 they wrote of him: ‘Blair Mayne is a young man of very good instincts. He has pleasant manners, and is good-tempered and most obliging.’10

  He continued playing for Malone throughout the winter of 1938/39. Then he was selected to play for Ireland again. The first game, on 11 February 1939, was against England, and two weeks later he played in the Irish side against Scotland. Ireland won both games. One report referred to two of the Irish forwards, O’Loughlin and Mayne:

  Mayne, whose quiet almost ruthless efficiency is in direct contrast to O’Loughlin’s exuberance, appears on the slow side, but he covers the ground at an extraordinary speed for a man of his build, as many a three quarter and full back have discovered.11

  The next game followed two weeks later, and Mayne again represented Ireland, this time against Wales on 11 March. It was an important match, for if Ireland had won they would have gained the Triple Crown. But the final result was 7–0 for Wales. It was to be the last time that Mayne wore the Irish jersey. On 6 March 1939, he had joined the Territorial Army. Newtownards was unusual in that, at the time, it had five different TA units. Mayne opted for and was commissioned to the 5th Light Anti-Aircraft Battery, Royal Artillery. There was now no denying it – war was imminent. But the rugby season closed with a game comprising an Irish XV versus one chosen from the British Lions’ touring party. The British Lions won, and Mayne scored a conversion with one of the last kicks of the match.12

  Years afterwards, stories of Mayne being involved in fistfights on the pitch came into circulation – Marrinan had him felling three Welsh forwards – but these tales lack credibility. However, in a book by Gavin Mortimer, one of the Welsh team of the time tells of Mayne and Travers squaring up after an incident.13 Now, that seems more credible, for while rugby is a game of violent contact, gratuitous violence on the scale of Marrinan’s description was not part of the sport and would certainly have been written about at the time, for these games were closely reported. Then the frequency with which Mayne was selected to represent his country and his inclusion in a British team on a high-profile foreign tour means that the selectors had confidence in his reliability. And when he played for his local side, he tended to be elected captain, which indicates that he was looked on as a leader, not a maverick, during play. The risk of injury in top-class rugby was high but Blair once said to Douglas that no game ever had to be halted while he had an injury attended to – even on the occasion when it was discovered later that he had broken his left collarbone.

  During his time at university, Mayne had not been particularly ideological, but he was passionate about Ireland. He had been born before the country was partitioned; he had strong feelings for its history and its cultures. Although he came from a Presbyterian background, he was not sectarian-minded; he celebrated St Patrick’s Day;14 and the international rugby team he played for was all-Ireland. When he was in the army and went overseas with the commandos, he took anthologies of poetry with him. Some of these poems he committed to memory; and under the desert stars at Christmas 1942, a group of soldiers were singing, each person making his own contribution. Mayne’s was to recite poems about Ireland, ‘and becoming so enrapt with their spirit that, even as he did so, his brogue became marked enough for us to find the verses hard to follow’.15 Later, when he went on to command the unit, Mayne followed the tradition of the ancient Ulster chiefs who accorded status to their bards and minstrels. Mike Sadler was one of Mayne’s colleagues and recalled of him:

  He had a very unsatisfactory batman whom he kept on for years and promoted to sergeant, mainly, I think, because he was a very good singer and knew a huge range of Irish songs. Late in the evening he would be wheeled in and made to sing.16

  However, when it came to assuming what Mayne’s standpoint was, some of his colleagues did not have a fine sensitivity for the Irish or the situation in Ireland. Pleydell, a medical officer, had some awareness of Mayne’s appreciation of the irony in the following tale:

  Yes, Paddy was Irish all right; Irish from top to toe; from the lazy eyes that could light into anger so quickly, to the quiet voice and its intonation. Northern Irish, mind you, and he regarded all Southerners with true native caution. But he had Southern Irishmen in his Irish patrol – they all had shamrocks painted on their Jeeps – and I know he was proud of them; he never grew tired of quoting the reply given by one of the Southerners in answer to the question, why was he fighting in the war: ‘Why?’ he had replied. ‘Of course it’s for the independence of the small countries.’17

  David Stirling was wide of the mark when, decades later, he told his biographer of an after-dinner story about Mayne which was predicated on the idea that Mayne was prejudiced against Roman Catholics.18 Both Pleydell and Stirling were in the position of outsiders giving their interpretations and making their judgements. The Northern Irish writer Lynn Doyle, who lived in the latter part of the nineteenth century and up until the middle of the twentieth, summed up this tendency and its failings: ‘Yet none but an Ulsterman can fairly criticise Ulstermen. The foreigner, looking at the surface of things, judges both sides too hardly.’19 Roy Farran, who came from the Roman Catholic tradition in Northern Ireland, and who was second-in-command of 2 SAS, appears to give some weight to Doyle’s argument, for he wrote that Mayne was not bigoted.20 Certainly, what Mayne himself wrote in his journal does not point to partisanship. He described a fellow Irishman, O’Sullivan, as ‘Gaelic Irish’ and he wrote that the two were in a club talking and drinking one Christmas Eve until O’Sullivan left to attend Midnight Mass. And although Mayne would not have described himself as a religious man, he had what Fraser McLuskey, the padre of 1 SAS, described as ‘a typically Irish respect for the Church’.21

  Enduring characteristics of Mayne’s personality were formed in those early years. Some, such as standards of courtesy and charm of manners, of course, reflected his upbringing and were shared with his brothers and sisters. His employers and those giving expression to public recognition of his sporting achievements acknowledged such qualities in him. Nor were they mouthing shallow platitudes; for their assessments are compatible with what Mayne revealed of his attitude to others. Describing someone, he wrote ‘I like good manners in people.’22 But what there is no evidence of in these early years – it was to become more assertive with greater experience – was his implacable intolerance of people who were proud and conceited. Mayne, himself, although a high-achieving sportsman, was truly modest; it was a characteristic that never left him. For example, in a journal – where his only audience was himself – he wrote that he had been publicly honoured some weeks earlier, and he described the experience in one word, ‘embarrassing’. Those early years, of course, were also a time when lasting friendships were formed; and since his background was that of a small town, whose institutions he had attended and whose clubs he had joined, these friendships naturally crossed social boundaries.

  As boys and as young men, Blair and Douglas were very close. The tone and content of Blair’s letters to Douglas are redolent of this, with allusions to their shared experiences of hard-drinking sessions, sometimes to shared values, or references to ea
rlier philosophical questions they had discussed concerning fate, chance and providence. Douglas, too, was a keen sportsman, and after leaving school in 1939 he went up to university to study dentistry. He, too, gained a rugby blue and later, recommencing his studies after the war, became a golf blue.

  A view that was expressed first by Marrinan and then echoed by others stated that Mayne was particularly close to his mother. Indeed, Bradford and Dillon, using Freudian analysis, attempted to break new ground by suggesting that, as a result of Tom’s death, Mrs Mayne concentrated her attention on Blair and that such a ‘boy who is his mother’s favourite’23 succeeds in life. When Tom died, Blair was twenty-two, at university and representing his country at rugby – rather late to be still at the early developmental stage. But the idea that he was very close to his mother is hardly supported by Mayne’s correspondence in the first two years after he left home. In one letter to his mother, he described conditions in his billet as near perfect because he could leave his wet clothes lying about without any women coming round tidying them up; in another he less than tactfully told her that he had recently met an old woman who reminded him of her; and he finished off a cheery epistle to his father with ‘Give my regards to your wife.’24 Now, there is no doubt that Mrs Mayne was a very strong character. Not only that, however, she had an extended period of parenting a large family: only Molly had left the nest, having married and moved to Belfast (Billy both married and divorced in 1933, and returned to the family home). So, from another perspective, the siblings may have considered that the mother was a bit of a dragon, but they were genuinely very fond of her.

  However, of the personal qualities that were to become so important in Mayne’s military career, one, at least, can be traced back to his upbringing: his ability – an outstanding leadership attribute – to give support to his men in stressful situations. From a soldier’s acknowledging that Mayne gave him great confidence in those situations, to a general, visiting the unit, observing the high respect and regard in which Mayne was held by his men, all accounts point to a man who was secure in himself and in his early family attachments.

  This misconception about Mayne having a special relationship with his mother appears to be connected with the assumption made by earlier writers that he had little interest in women. But their assumption is wrong. Mayne was certainly interested in women: he thought about them; he wrote about them; and he invited one or two of them out – as this narrative will reveal. All that can be inferred at this stage in his life is that he was naturally shy, and that his precocious physical development may have contributed to awkwardness in relationships. There was possibly a degree of sexual suppression in the family’s Presbyterianism, but that would be overcome in time as he gained experience. However, he committed himself completely to his sport – research shows that, during high-school and college years, men, more than women, see relationships as secondary to achievement and are more dismissive of attachment than women – and failed to practise personal interaction skills with girls when he had greatest opportunity, at university.

  So Mayne was now twenty-four; he had been dependent for a prolonged period because of his education, and his commitment to rugby had delayed his qualifying as a solicitor. In the usual course of things, he would have expected to become established in the new law practice, leave home and, with the realism of the high-performing sportsman, knowing that his athletic days were short in number, he would have given some thought to his long-term future. But for a generation of young men and women the usual pattern was disrupted. On 1 September 1939, Germany invaded Poland. Forty-eight hours later, Britain went to war.

  The Territorial Army had already been called up, and on 24 August Mayne reported for duty. Officers from among these weekend warriors, who had not previously been in the regular army, had to be inducted in a short space of time into traditional military discipline. However, what these young soldiers had not anticipated was the disappointment of anti-climax after their initial enthusiasm over fighting for their country; for after the fall of Poland no aggressive land action was initiated by either side. Some seven months passed in this way in what became known as the ‘phoney war’. Certainly, there was fighting at sea and in the air, but it was a period of frustration for many. By the beginning of March 1940, the months of inactivity showed no sign of ending. Mayne was in Sydenham, and on 17 March, St Patrick’s Day, he celebrated in style, although he later confessed that the detail of it was a bit blurred in his mind.25 But this was to be the last St Patrick’s Day that he would celebrate in Ireland for seven years.

  In 1939 it was not uncommon for friends to go along to the recruiting office together or jointly to complete their forms for the TA. That is what Mayne did: he and a friend of his, Ted Griffiths, applied to join the Royal Artillery Territorial unit, and his brother Douglas followed suit. And all three transferred to other units or branches of the services: Ted Griffiths and Douglas Mayne went to the Royal Air Force, and on 4 April 1940 Blair transferred to the Royal Ulster Rifles.

  The Royal Ulster Rifles (RUR) up until 1923 had been the Royal Irish Rifles. But after the partition of Ireland a decision was taken to rename it. It seemed logical enough, since, historically, the regiment had recruited mainly from the province of Ulster. Mayne was posted to Ballymena, the RUR depot.

  While he was in the Royal Ulster Rifles, Mayne became friendly with Eoin McGonigal. It was to become one of the closest friendships of his life. McGonigal’s family originally came from the south: his father had been a judge in the county of Tyrone; and the oldest brother, who was about thirteen years older than Eoin, was a senior counsel in Dublin. After the separation of Ireland, the family moved north (later it moved back to the south). Eoin and his older brother Ambrose went to Clongowes Wood College in Kildare. Eoin was a keen sportsman who played cricket and rugby. After leaving school, Eoin followed the same path as Ambrose and in 1938 matriculated at Queen’s University in the Faculty of Law. And at the outbreak of war the brothers joined the Rifles. Eoin was about four years younger than Blair. They may first have known each other through rugby circles or the legal fraternity, but it was in the RUR that they really got to know each other. When they were on leave, Blair and Eoin visited each other’s homes and met the other’s family. But they had joined up to defend their country, not to have an extended period of playing at soldiering and socialising, and they were restless.

  Why, in the late spring of 1940, the Cameronians (Scottish Rifles) asked for officers on attachment from the Royal Ulster Rifles in not spelled out in the regimental history of the Cameronians. What is known, however, is that there was a request. Douglas Mayne confirmed – so Blair must have told him – that it related to internal dissension in the Cameronians. This was not a bizarre situation: there is anecdotal evidence of a long-standing, friction-relief arrangement between these two regiments – the Irish and the Scottish Rifles – which may have been introduced by Lt Col R.M. Rodwell, a First World War veteran. Why Mayne and, it would appear from what transpired, McGonigal should have been prepared to go on detachment was probably simply to alleviate boredom. It was not a transfer to the Cameronians, it was a secondment. True, crossing the Irish Sea was scarcely comparable to an overseas posting, but life in the army had been frustrating for months. The reality, of course, was that it was no more stimulating in the Cameronians, as Mayne reported in a letter to his family.

  But that was soon to change. In May, Germany invaded Denmark, followed by Norway; Britain responded and assisted the Norwegians, but the campaign was soon over. King Haakon and his cabinet fled to the UK. Germany then unleashed a blitzkrieg in France and the British Expeditionary Force was evacuated from Dunkirk. Churchill became Prime Minister, and within a month of his taking office he initiated action that led to the creation of an elite force within the army. Circulars requesting volunteers were sent to all the Home Commands. In response to the circular which was sent to Scottish Command, Mayne and McGonigal applied.

  PART II

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  11TH (SCOTTISH) COMMANDO

  Their country, which they have become soldiers to defend, is slipping away into the misty night and they are asleep. The place which will fill their thoughts in the months to come is gone and they did not see it go. They were asleep. They will not see it again for a long time, and some of them will never see it again.

  John Steinbeck, Once There Was A War

  Three infantry landing ships, Glengyle, Glenroy and Glenearn, slipped from the Tail of the Bank and into the Firth of Clyde late on the night of 31 January 1941. They set a course due west in convoy with some warships and a Cunard liner, its speed trimmed to that of the ‘Glen’ ships. Once it was considered that they were out of reach of aircraft bases in occupied Norway, the ‘Cunarder’ steamed at full speed without escort on its transatlantic run; the remainder of the convoy turned south. On board the three ‘Glen’ ships were No. 7 Commando, No. 8 (Guards) Commando and No. 11 (Scottish) Commando.

  It was little over six months since Lt Col Dudley Clarke came up with the idea of such units in response to the prime minister’s challenge that new, aggressive and highly mobile units be created: ‘What’, asked Churchill, ‘are the ideas of the C-in-C Home Forces about “Storm Troops” or “Leopards” drawn from existing units?’1 Dudley Clarke had been turning over in his mind models of irregular warfare and, among other works, had been influenced by Deneys Reitz’ book, Commando, about Reitz’ experiences in the Boer War. Clarke outlined a scheme on one sheet of paper and submitted it to his boss, Chief of the Imperial General Staff Sir John Dill, who in turn informed Churchill. Within forty-eight hours, the idea was approved. A veteran soldier and journalist of the Boer War, Churchill did not demur at the choice of the name ‘Commando’. He gave his full support, and his only stipulation was that no unit should be diverted from the primary task of the defence of the UK. On 17 July 1940, he appointed Adm Sir Roger Keyes as Director of Combined Operations, within whose structure the Commandos would be placed. As a seal of approval, as it were, on these units, Churchill’s son Randolph volunteered for the Guards Commando and Keyes’ son Geoffrey for No. 11 (Scottish) Commando.