Tales of the Tower, Part 2. It was intriguing for me to revisit The Tower of London for the first time since doing Public Duties (Guard duty) there in 1977, as a member of The Queen’s Colour Squadron of the Royal Air Force. My boss then was Squadron Leader David Hawkins, a tall, elegant, extremely driven man, who went on to be an Air Vice Marshal, Commandant General of The RAF Regiment, Yeoman Usher of The Black Rod, Gentleman Usher to The Queen and Deputy Lord Lieutenant of Greater London. It was obvious even then that he was going to be someone special. I was his Adjutant and spent most of my life trying to keep up. He had also been my boss on my first Squadron a few years earlier. As a very green young subaltern I had the temerity to suggest at an Officers’ briefing, on the first night of a deployment exercise, that morale amongst the men was not great. His suggestion that perhaps I hadn’t got a bloody clue what I was talking about was one of the best “put-downs” I’ve ever experienced (and I have experienced a few). You could have roasted chestnuts on my face I was so embarrassed. Nonetheless, we became great friends and he was one of those men who inspired huge respect as well as love. He ended up marrying a Harley Street dentist and retiring to a delightful spot in her native Denmark. You could say he pulled a dentist, while she pulled teeth. I was greatly saddened to hear that he had died in January. I would love to have said goodbye properly.
Anyway, back to The Tower. I quite impressed myself with how well I remembered the place. I suppose it had been a very special time. As the (bachelor) Officer of the Guard for 48 hours there were tremendous killings to be made. For some reason, wandering around the Tower in full ceremonial dress and sword seemed to attract all manner of attractive young ladies. Of course one was actually checking that the sentries were fulfilling their duties in accordance with military and regimental custom and tradition. Ahem. The best part though was when the public had gone, the outer gates were all secured and an eerie silence descended on the Old Fortress. Walking around all the little-seen nooks and crannies at three in the morning was a very special experience and not a trifle spooky, as one recalled all the acts of extreme cruelty and barbarism that had taken place there. As our Beefeater had so graphically explained, it was on this very spot beneath our feet on Tower Green, beside The White Tower, where a crude scaffold had been built, with an execution block surrounded by straw, in preparation for Her Majesty Queen Anne Boleyn to say her last prayer. The straw was there to hide the special sword that had come all the way from France, at her request. Apparently beheading by sword is generally less painful than by axe. As nobody lived to tell the tale, I am not clear how she knew that? The good news is that the executioner’s aim was good and with one mighty heave of the Parisian steel her head was most satisfactorily detached. (It sometimes took up to eight swings of the axe before full separation was achieved, so I guess that could hurt a bit). Please just imagine yourself into the scene. This is the Queen of England, whose only crime was that she had failed to provide her husband with a son and heir. Surrounded by a small crowd of courtiers and nobles, her bloody head was now bouncing around in the dirt, before the masked sword-wielder could grab it by her hair and hold it up for all to see. Legend has it that her eyes still blinked and lips continued in prayer for a full twenty seconds after the decapitation. I guess it is an interesting way of resolving marital disputes. With a little imagination, it wasn’t hard to “see” and “hear” such gruesome happenings on my nocturnal strolls past the Bloody Tower.
My times on duty there were enhanced because I knew the Governor of The Tower quite well. He lived in The Queen’s House on Tower Green. He was a former Scots Guardsman, Major General Digby Raeburn, who I’d met at the Inter-Service Skiing Championships. His wife, Addy, liked to be known as the Witch in The Tower. She was a remarkable healer who had helped to reposition my dislocated right shoulder, an injury sustained while crashing through the Downhill finish at 70 mph, a few weeks before I was due to be wielding my sword at The Tower. She had previously been a tremendous comfort to the police constable who was badly maimed when the IRA bombed The White Tower, in another of their heroic acts, in July 1974. I guess it’s no wonder there is so much more security everywhere now.
With State schools still entertaining their pupils, it was a great time to visit. We almost had the place to ourselves and were able to linger at length in The Jewel House, admiring all The Queen’s different hats with their fancy gems; a few bob’s worth in there. Amongst the glittering regalia was The Imperial State Crown which we then watched on TV three days later (i.e.yesterday) being carried in and out of The House of Lords’ on a cushion, rather than perched nobly on Her Majesty’s immaculately coiffured hair, as it was a State Opening Lite with the Queen in mufti; quite smart mufti admittedly, but definitely not the full rig. She was accompanied by her eldest son, who really must wonder when it is going to be his turn. She read out Boris’s plans quite beautifully, but I could have sworn that at one point Prince Charles was falling asleep. Imagine doing that beside Henry VIII. You would have been on the wrong side of Traitor’s Gate before you could say “keep yer ‘air on”.
Still only on Day 1 of London visit. TBC.
ADayInTheStrifeOf 