Volunteers of all ranks came from every conceivable outfit and were a tough adventurous group prepared for any hardship. Mixed with us, for a while, were the semi-mutinous remains of the independent companies, defeated in Norway and now awaiting either absorption into the Commandos or disbandment. The Regimental Sergeant Major of this rugged conglomeration was a huge man, brought by Brian Mayfield and Bill Stirling from their parent regiment, the Scots Guards. The first morning I was at Lochailort, this splendid creature passed me, ramrod straight and moustache bristling. He let fly a tremendous salute which I acknowledged. He replied to this with an unmistakable and very loud Bronx cheer or common raspberry.
I spun round as if shot and shouted after him,
‘Sergeant Major!’
‘SAH!’
‘Come back here!’
‘SAH!’
He came back, halted and snapped off another salute.
‘Did you make that rude noise?’
‘YESSIR!’
‘Why, may I ask?’
‘Because you look such a c*nt in a Rifle Brigade hat – SAH!’
Only then did I catch on – it was John Royal of Green Beer fame!
While I gaped at him he said,
‘I heard you were coming … I have a room in a crofter’s cottage, name of Lachlan, just behind the kirk in the village – see you there this evening … SAH!’
Another Scots Guards salute and he was gone.
John’s cottage was a godsend. Every evening, I repaired there and tried to forget my aching, bruised body and my ‘fleabag bed’ on the hard wooden floor of a loft, shared with forty or fifty others.
John, after his problems in India, had found it impossible to obtain a commission so he had joined the Scots Guards as a guardsman and within a few months had risen to his present dizzy height. Later he became a parachutist and at last got back his commission as a glider pilot. He was killed at Arnhem.