“The Last Minden Parade of 1/5LF (108 Regiment RAC)
August 1943.
Note: - Lt. Westmore was the Ensign of the Colour Guard and was the author of these
original notes”
MINDEN DAY 1943
By Capt. Michael Westmore
Before beginning to describe the happenings on this eventful day I must describe to
you, who may have never seen the place, the appearance of Rufford Abbey grounds
where we had then been stationed for over a year, and it’s surroundings.
This is a part of Nottinghamshire where old and New England have mingled
and as yet the issue as to which will leave its stamp on the countryside the longest is
not decided. To the traveller who keeps to the great roads leading North is presented a
long succession of plough land and pasture with every now and then a great house in
the distance surrounded by it’s parks and lawns, it’s hedges and bridges, and it’s wide
approaches of meadow and ornamental lakes. A green, damp, peaceful countryside,
where man has only interfered in his most stately and munificent moods.
It is only when he turns off these great roads and travels some few miles to the
East of West that the traveller begins to discover the true nature of the country. In the
distance he will se the great dominating grimness of the slagheap and the spidery
headstocks of the pits. Below on either side stretch the new mushroom village-towns
that supply the miners with shelter and rest. A very different picture to that of the
stately houses that lie beside the great road.
From the summer of 1942 to the autumn of 1943 he would have found,
billeted in the village, and the Nissen huts in the grounds of the Abbey, the Regiment
of the Royal Armoured Corps which concerns us, together with it’s tanks, vehicles,
and equipment. Many of those he
Questioned would have told him, a little ruefully, that those he saw about him were
the remnants of what must have been the happiest, most friendly Battalion of infantry
in the British Army – the 1st/5th Battalion, The Lancashire Fusiliers.
Such was the setting were, at the end of June, 1943, Lt.-Col. J.K. Smith, who
had commanded for more than three years, left the Battalion for service overseas. The
command passed to Major T.B.J. Eveleigh, who later was promoted to Lt.Colonel. I
think I must try and describe the state of the Battalion at that time. Please understand
that these are my impressions. I do not attribute them to anyone else, and it may be
that many will disagree with them. But unless my account is coloured with my own
partiality and affection it may become too stereotyped, too much like a newspaper
report or even regimental orders.
Two years before we had been selected for conversion from infantry to
armour. That is, we who had formed for so long part of the 42nd Division were
thenceforth to wear black berets and travel about in tanks instead of on our march
hardened feet. At that time many felt it was a bad things to become grease monkeys
and garage hands, and there was much talk of being hard infantry, footsloggers and
what you will. I may be putting it too strongly when I say that this conversion made
us, for a time more infantry-minded that we had ever been before. But his stage
passed, and it must be placed, on record that the whole Battalion applied itself with
energy and not a little skill to becoming a tank regiment. Results on courses, not that
they are infallible but they are at least concrete evidence rather than hearsay, were
excellent. Many were not concerned how they fought, whether they fought in tanks or
on their own feet, but they would have preferred, if with the Brigade, with the
Division, that they had known and served so long as infantries. However, we sang:
“We don’t want to march like
the Infantry,
Ride like the Cavalry,
Shoot like Artillery;
We don’t want to fly over
Germany.
We are the R.A.C. (L.F.).”
… never forgetting the “brackets L.F.” which was always the part of the song that was
bellowed with the most conviction.
To cut a long story short, for you will certainly hear it from many an old
member of the Battalion told in much greater and more accurate detail (and possibly
in more brightly descriptive terms) than I can hope to do on paper in the short time at
my disposal – to cut a long story short we ceased to belong to the old 42nd (East
Lancashire) Territorial Division of Infantry, and eventually it became apparent that
soon the Battalion would disappear, or die a lingering death, according to the will of
those above us.
This then was roughly the position in July 1943. To the senior officers and
warrant officers and N.C.O.’s, and to a great number of the men who had served so
long together, the position was deplorable and horrible. To those of us who had not
been in the Battalion long it was not quite so hard, but I can say that the succession of
events was extremely irritating and the sympathy we felt for the older members of the
Battalion was very sincere. Also during our short stay with the Battalion we had been
made so much at home and so much a part of it that the impending events held the
promise of very personal loss. Somehow everybody felt that we had had rather a raw
deal.
It was in these circumstances that Major T.B.J. Eveleigh took command.
He proceeded to prepare for the most remarkable Minden Day I ever hope to
see. He decided, I think that if this was to be the last fling it should be a damned good
one. Major J. H. Fielden was despatched to Bury with a colour party of veterans
(including S.S.M. Bentley, S.Q.M.S. Wallis and S.Q.M.S. Lomax) to bear back the
Regimental and King’s colour from Bury Parish Church. The party returned and the
colours were placed in the Officers’ Mess.
Meanwhile the rehearsals for the great day had begun. The soft air of early
morning was made horrible with the shouting and drilling, and the whole Battalion
was on parade shortly after reveille every morning to perfect the ceremony. For Major
Eveleigh had decided to Troop the Colour and, despite the murmurings of the old
soldiers about “it taking all of three months in peace-time with proper soldiers and
struck off al duties,” and the murmuring of young soldiers about blanco-ing and
associated evils, the preparations went forward. It was significant that many who had
seldom been seen in the open air before could now be watched at all hours of day or
night pacing up and down paths and lawns, oblivious of their surroundings, immersed
in deciphering the mysteries of the “Manual of Ceremonial.” Even members of the
convert party slowly became aware that there were other things to rehearse, and their
representations of the original Minden Day paled into insignificance beside the task
now confronting them. Officers could be seen slowly marching over the cricket field
(shortly to be the field of Minden) under the sometimes-exasperated eyes of the
R.S.M. He (R.S.M. Ramsden) worked and scolded, pleaded and thundered until the
whole affair began to take shape.
The Depot Band had come to us and joined in the rehearsals. It put a new
complexion on the whole business. You and I do not march naturally
Perhaps like ducks taking to the water. But put us behind a band of this sort and
nothing can stop us. And so it was.
Thus Minden Day approached. It fell this year on a Sunday, and the
preliminaries included a performance by the Regimental Concert Party and an All
Ranks Dance on the Saturday night. As sleep closed those weary eyes on the last night
of July, belts and gaiters, Sam Brownes and chinstraps, boots and butt plates glowed
in anticipation of the morrow.
But only for a short while, for with the first light of August 1st round the
buildings marched the band and drums playing the rousing sequences of the Minden
March. The dead could not fail to be stirred by this most exhilarating of all marches.
Minden Greetings! Minden was here. Perhaps the last, but certainly, if we know
anything about it, the best, Minden Day, 1943.
The Trooping of the Colour will be most difficult to describe, and before I
begin I must give you a list of the most prominent people among those present.
The General, Major-General Hunter
(Commanding North Midland District).
The C.O., Major T.B.J. Eveleigh, The Adjutant, Capt. K.S. Roberts.
The Second in Command. Major G. Allen, T.D.
The Regimental Sergeant Major, R.S.M. Ramsden.
The Colour Sentry, Sjt. Crew. Sjt. Wilson.
The Colour Guard.
The Captain, Major H. J. Webb.
The Subaltern. Capt. W. A. L. Coulburn.
The Ensign, Lt. M. N. Westmore.
The Sergeant Major, S.S.M. Courtier
The Guard, “C” Squadron.
No. 1 Guard
The Captain, Major J. H. Fielden.
The Subaltern, Capt. A. H. H. Christmas.
The Sergeant Major, S.S.M. Wood.
The Guard. “A” Squadron.
No. 2 Guard.
The Captain. Major D. B. Stewart.
The Subaltern, Lt. T. M. R. Knowles.
The Sergeant Major, S.S.M. Bentley.
No. 3 Guard.
The Captain, Capt. A. E. Bellhouse
The Subaltern, Capt. W. A. Webb.
The Guard, “H.Q.” Squadron.
The Bandmaster, B. M. Wright.
The day was very hot and bright and the field had been prepared by Sergeant Kelly,
the Provost Sergeant, and the unfortunates under his supervision, to give a gay though
dignified appearance to the parade. In the centre of the north side was the platform
where shortly the General would take the salute, and to each side of him a great crowd
of relations and friends and many of the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages. For,
to the neighbourhood, during the time that we were at the Abbey, we had to a high
degree become “their” Regiment. There seemed to be some quality the men possessed
for making themselves part and parcel of these villages. And here the villagers all
were to see the parade. The field, usually rather a dull place behind the M. T. lines,
had taken on a new splendour for this one great day.
You may read in the “Manual of Ceremonial” what happens when the Colour
is Trooped. I cannot begin to describe it without entangling myself in details of who
should be at one flank of the other at a given time. But the band, the roses, the
precision, and somehow the friendliness – the understanding that seemed to flow from
the font part of the procession to the rear, and the Colours themselves – all these
things are deeply impressed on my memory. And the flies! The field adjoined a far
and when standing at attention, great bunches of horse flies attached themselves to all
parts of you and particularly to the lobes of your ears. Captain Bellhouse, with usual
forethought, had purchased small bottles of a special liquid which when daubed freely
over the face and body, gave some immunity. This helped a bit, but the flies,
combined with the heat of the day, demanded Herculean efforts of control and poise
from those taking part.
When the Colours had been marched off there was a drumhead service. I did
not attend this, and while it was taking place, I have to confess that I was replacing
some of the liquid I had lost involuntarily on the parade.
There was a sense of relief and not a little pride at the successful conclusion of
the tricky part of the day. The C.O., after showing the General the colours, brought
him to the Officers’ Mess, which had been established for the day in two large
marquees on one of the lawns.
Then the round of visiting began. From the mess to C.O. was borne along to
the Sergeants’ Mess and round the Squadrons to give and receive Minden Greetings.
He was accompanied by Lt. Col. J. K. Hopkinson and Lt.-Col. E. A. North, two
former members of the Battalion.
You have seen dining halls on Minden Day. You know how a hut is
transformed from it’s usual prosaic self, with the smell of grease and green vegetables
in the background, into a rosy arbour, a military fairyland. So it was this day. I cannot
say which Squadron excelled the other in the decoration it had achieved; I can only
recall my surprise at the ingenuity that had been displayed and the wealth of vanity.
Officers and Sergeants lined up to serve the men with their dinners and beer.
Noise and greetings, hand claspings, the clatter of cutlery and pots, and then silence
for the Commanding Officer, for Minden, for the Loyal Toast. Then cheering and
speeches that were not speeches at all, but mostly musings and reminiscences of past
Minden Days. A collection of all the small memories that form the basis of Battalion
tradition. Then rather sleepily to lie for a moment or two in the sun and allow the
effects of a large dinner and some pints of beer to wear off.
I have known very riotous afternoons on previous Minden Days. I regret that I
took this one easily and connate tell you much about it. All I can readily say is that it
was reputed to be well up to usual standard.
Then the band seemed to be playing, somewhere again and the Officers’
Dinner was about to start. At the head of the Marquee behind the C.O. were the two
Colours with the rose wreath in the centre, and in the artificial light the tablecloths
and silver shone with a particular brilliance. The meal too its course while the band
played outside – marches, waltzes, selections from musical comedies and after
toasting His Majesty, “Those who fell at Minden” were remembered in silence, as is
the custom of long tradition. Finally came the ancient ceremony of eating the Roses,
and ordeal that must be passed through by all officers attending their first Minden
dinner. Thirty-four Officers sat down to this, the last Battalion Minden dinner for
some time to come, and each felt the solemness of the occasion.
But victories must be celebrated, and this was Minden Day! The mood quickly
changed, and the before long the Officers were joining in the gaiety of the Sergeants’
Mess dance in the Long Gallery of the Abbey, decorated so effectively for the
occasion. Seldom could the ghosts of the old monks have looked down on a happier,
gayer crowd of maidens and men. If they raised a frown it could only have been due
to the reaction of their old-fashioned conceptions to the “Hokey Pokey,” and surely
they must have laughed with us as we laughed, and approved of us as they heard the
silent vows made by many a Lancashire Fusilier that day. It was a day worthily spent.