There Was A Piper, A Scottish Piper: Memoirs of Pipe Major John T. MacKenzie

By John T. MacKenzie

The memoirs of John T. MacKenzie reveal a truly remarkable man: a highly respected authority on highland piping with a commitment to tradition and excellence in performance.

Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, John T. was a student of piping at age nine. Enlisted in the Scots Guards, he saw active service in the war zones of North Africa, participated in the Liberation of Norway and was later posted to active duty in the Malaysian jungle. John T. MacKenzie bears personal witness to the horrors and valour of warfare. Throughout, his devotion to highland piping remained, and remains, in the forefront of his life.

Appointed personal piper to the Royal Household in 1946, John T. MacKenzie has piped at numerous ceremonial events in Europe and North America. His recruitment as a Pipe Major to the Royal Canadian Air Force in 1952 brought him to Canada, and ultimately to Glengarry County, where his contributions to piping are legendary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dundurn
• Release date: Aug 24, 2001
• ISBN: 9781459714496

John T. MacKenzie

J.T. MacKenzie’s devotion to highland piping remained throughout his long, active lifetime. As recently as 1999, he acted as senior Pipe Major for a Massed Bands Ceremonial March in his native Edinburgh, in support of the Madame Currie Cancer Fund. His memoirs, entitled There Was A Piper, A Scottish Piper, were published by our press in 21.

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PART ONE

Boy Piper and Soldier

1920–1939

1  Boy and Boy Piper

I grew up in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle in the city’s east end, one of a family of seven children—four sisters and three brothers. We were very happy, although we had little money, especially during the Depression. We seldom went hungry as my father was one of the luckier ones and had a job. Having lost a leg in the First World War, he was given a light job in the Granton Gas Works. Unlike many other large families in our street, we were well provided for.

We always seemed to be climbing stairs, our own home being four storeys up in a sprawling tenement designed by James Craig as part of the then-elegant St. James Square. When the aristocracy left in 1850, the building was subdivided into flats for the working class. I remember vividly Patons coal man heaving the heavy bags up those long flights of stairs, shouting, One and two a bag coal! and Mother saying, Gies a bag. She always gave him a tip, saying she felt sorry for him having to climb up all those stairs.

For a short time I delivered milk to the various tenements round about, and my sisters delivered papers and milk in the early morning and evening papers after school from the news shop.

In Leith Street nearby, the celebrated Littlejohns Bakery and Restaurant attracted the more affluent, and in the early morning we would take a pillowslip and get it filled up with their auld teabreed from the day before. We would stuff in trifles and mouthwatering cakes, and sometimes our sisters would take turns and stand there with us. I recall with distaste the Welfare hand-outs from the Grassmarket in Edinburgh. The poor got free boots, but it was a sort of stigma and one that my proud father abhorred. I think I did get a pair but hardly ever wore them—I was glad to get them off.

William MacKenzie and Eliza Turnbull, parents of John T. MacKenzie.

We played constantly in the street. Homemade wooden guiders were a delight—wooden wheels and wooden brakes greased with margarine, and ball bearings from the steelworks. There was a steep hill down to the Theatre Royal, and we went so fast it was a wonder that we did not get killed. Outside the pub at the bottom on a Friday night, the Salvation Army played its tambourines, singing lustily, and on a Saturday afternoon the fruit carter stood there selling his wares, giving us a plum when they were in season. The older boys and teenagers were on the Buroo (the Welfare Bureau), for unemployment was rife in the 1920s. They would gamble at the bottom of the stairs, and we were the lookouts. From St. James Square and round the corner in St. James Place we could spot the police coming up the hill. We’d shout POLICE!!! and off they would go.

Most of the boys were keen soccer players and loved to watch the game as well. One end of the flat, surfaced street led up by a number of steps to St. James Square, and at the other was a printing factory. We were often chased while playing ball. As a fan, I was a Hearts supporter. To get to the game, which was sometimes at Easter Road, we got on the tramcar when the conductor was upstairs. We slipped in at the back and later jumped off. Later, as soldiers in the desert, we were trained to step off like this on a moving truck—the momentum took you forward. While going to the Tynecastle game at the other end of the city, we would get as far as Clifton Terrace at Hay-market and then jump off, getting a few bruises, and continue on and our way. We would wait till half-time, and when spectators finished their beer, we would cash in the empty bottles to gain entrance. If there were no bottles, we had to wait till the last twenty minutes.

Holidays were trips to Portobello, or to Port Seton if we had more money. I used to love to visit my Uncle Willie [Lawrie] in Garlogie, Skene, Aberdeenshire, far from the city. My uncle and his family lived in a tied cottage on the estate of Lord Cowdray, where he worked in the mill, operating the huge waterwheel. He taught me how to tickle the trout and guddle the fish, tossing them on to the bank, and how to get the weasels by whistling through his teeth and sticking out his tongue. He would make a funny noise with his thumbs and, in this way, taught me to catch rabbits as well.

Everything changed for me when I was nine years old. I enlisted in 1929 as a boy piper at Queen Victoria Military School, in Dunblane, Perthshire—one of three schools in the United Kingdom for the sons of servicemen killed or wounded in the wars. Initially I was very homesick, going to bed at nine o’clock in a dormitory of thirty—all in their goonies (nightshirts). It was a very disciplined life being a Victorian, but it had its good points, although the teaching at best was mediocre.

In September 1929, nine-year-old John T. MacKenzie was enrolled as boy piper at the Queen Victoria Military School, Dunblane, Perthshire.

Despite the emphasis on discipline, student shenanigans flourished. We had a civilian English teacher and, as students, we had to read the book he had published. We nicknamed him Pocket Billiards as he was always playing with his balls when teaching. In the evenings, during the potato parade in the kitchen, a girl named Jeanie showed us how to peel potatoes and always got us over the kitchen sink so we could feel her breasts sticking into our backs. The head boys were reputed to have bedded her. Along with the memories, we got sustaining, wholesome food; the only thing we really liked was the plum duff—a dessert we had every Friday!

The old gamekeeper, Kempie, had a one-eyed dog. He hated it when the boys would steal eggs from gamebirds’ nests. We often managed to get some curlew and pheasant eggs, which we hid inside our numbered navy jersey and shirt. We would cover up our own student number with a false number. When Kempie caught us, he aimed at us with his shotgun loaded with barley seed, and then he thumped our midsection with his large hand, smashing our eggs, which would run down our bare legs to our knees. He would then march us back to school at gunpoint. The following day, at morning assembly, the regimental sergeant major (RSM) would read out the false names and tag numbers of the offenders, and there the matter rested. The RSM (a former Cameron Highlander) and our school commandant (a former Black Watch) were amazed that Kempie always got fooled. Or maybe they knew and hated the severe punishment—the strap across the backside.

We used to swim nude in the reservoir, with someone watching close by for old Kempie. When he was spotted, we would run naked through the woods, and Kempie could not catch us. One day he was relieving himself and had his pants down. For some reason his dog never barked as we crept up on him. There he was, perched on a stone in the centre of a burn. We tossed a flat stone right behind his bare bottom, and he fell into about two feet of ice-cold water. By the time he made it to shore to get his gun, he again slipped and almost broke his neck. He would scream, You bloody boys! but by this time we were well outside shooting distance.

Kempie used to carry three or four haversacks filled with seeds for the birds and leave them behind a tree. When he was away, we would replace the seeds with stones and would hide behind the tree to watch for his return. He would shoulder the bags and proceed to another bird-feeding sanctuary.

We had pipe bands and military bands trained by Pipe Major Pompi Ross—no relation to Pipe Major William Ross of Edinburgh Castle, who would later figure largely in my life. Our annual outing was to the rugby match in Edinburgh. Early in the morning we would leave by bus, then visit the zoo, where we had lunch. I would always get sick on the bus. I used to sit up front with Pipe Major Ross—it was the only thing that I dreaded, but after two years I got over it. The match was always Scotland versus Wales when we piped in the teams. Fifteen thousand Wales supporters, most of them sporting leeks, would arrive by bus and rail. I still get a thrill when I remember those Welsh voices singing Land of My Fathers. Another annual event I remember well is playing selections for Parents’ Day in full dress uniform.

Sometime in 1934, our school had a visit from Pipe Major J.B. Robertson, 2nd Battalion, Scots Guards. He was on the lookout for promising young pipers in Scotland. It seems I caught his eye. It was customary for most Victorians to join the army following graduation. But my father was especially delighted when I was selected for his old regiment.

2  Boy Soldier, Scots Guards

It is hard to believe that it is over sixty-five years ago that I became a man, practically overnight. The date, September 16, 1935, was the time I put pen to paper at the recruiting office in Edinburgh and enlisted as 2695295 Boy Piper John Thompson MacKenzie, 2nd Battalion, Scots Guards, posted to Albuhera Barracks in Aldershot, England.

I can vividly remember the send-off from the Waverley Station in Edinburgh, with big sister Eliza and big brother Willie wishing me good luck as I boarded the Night Scot to London. This train was the sister of the famous Flying Scotsman—she departed Edinburgh at ten p.m., arriving in London at six the next morning. She picked up mail en route, and the first three carriages were for sorting it out. Sharing my compartment were four young sailors who were returning to their ship in Portsmouth from Rosyth. I sat in the corner with my beat-up small suitcase and bag of sandwiches, while their four vast kit bags took up all the room on the overhead luggage racks. Don’t worry, lad—we’ll find room for your case. The friendly fellows soon made me feel more at ease. It appeared to me that they had downed a few drinks at the Waverley bar—they were in great fettle, singing and relating their amorous adventures on shore leave.

A Scots Guard non-commissioned officer (NCO) was to meet me at King’s Cross Station in London. Pipe Sergeant Bob Hill turned out to be a giant of a man—six foot three, and weighing 230 pounds—with ginger hair and a large, waxed, ginger moustache. Here, lad—give me the case. I guess you could do with a bite to eat. Just follow me. Off we went to the Greasy Spoon restaurant just outside the arrival platforms; during the war, I had many a good bacon sandwich there on my frequent visits to London. All the boy pipers came under his watchful eye and, though a strict disciplinarian, he was very fair; God help any Guardsman who tried to give any of his boys a hard time.

Now officially in the regiment as a boy piper, I had my second meeting with Pipe Major James B. Robertson. How nervous I was on entering his office for my first interview and appraisal of my piping! There I was, all decked out in my new khaki tunic—Royal Stewart tartan trews and polished brogues—as smart as a new pin. Just stand there, lad! he said, and handed me a practice chanter. Just play over your favourite march, a couple of parts will do. Barren Rocks of Aden was my party piece, and I started right into it, fingers flying. Stop, stop, stop! He reached into his desk and pulled out a blank sheet. Now, young MacKenzie, just forget everything you were ever taught in piping, and don’t let me hear you play any more of these trash tunes! He must have noticed my disappointed look. Just listen and pay attention to myself, Pipe Sergeant Hill and Corporal Burns. We will make a first-class piper of you in no time. He put pen to paper and wrote in The Plain Bagpipe Scale. I knew then that it would be quite a challenge. He reassured me: You stick to it lad, and in a year I will have you winning the Boys’ competitions at the Annual Scottish Regimental Piping contests!

We boy soldiers had a daily routine. In the morning—drill and then two hours of regimental school: map reading, geography, and physical training (PT); in the afternoon—two hours of piping instruction, one hour of sports, and finally weapons training and clean up. If it had not been for the rigorous and disciplined training that we received at Aldershot, I would not be alive and writing my memoirs today.

During our early lessons Sergeant Hill and Corporal Burns taught me the usual British army piping selections and drills, and J.B. Robertson, the master, taught me the fine fingering required for competitive playing. His favourite expression was, Just APE me, lad, and you won’t go wrong. After a few months of my practising the tedious exercises, embellishments and so on, he started me on my first tune, the retreat march MacGregor of Rura.

Not too far from our Aldershot Barracks were the Field firing rifle ranges at Pirbright Camp. Our monthly excursions there were allotted on a company rotation system; the Pipes and Drums, being part of the HQ company, marched with that unit on these occasions. There was no motor transport—we had to march everywhere and spent many long hours doubling about and down these ranges with our 303 Lee Enfield rifles and Lewis guns. The Lewis must have been the most frustrating weapon ever invented. It had about thirty-nine stoppages. Thank God it gave way to the Bren machine-gun by 1939!

I shall always remember the company cooks. They did not look very hygienic—more like coal miners coming out of the shafts. Dessert pastry was their masterpiece—Jam Roll! Their kitchens comprised four wood-burning stoves and one Aldershot oven—a large oil drum placed on its side, then completely covered with about two feet of soil. One end of the drum was removed, and inside went several large stones—rammed with firewood, which was then lit. During the heating-up process our pastry cooks prepared the dough, rolling it out and spreading jam over it. Invariably wasps and other insects would alight on it; our chefs calmly rolled everything up, insects and all, and popped it into the oven. After the war the government opened the Army School of cooking in the Aldershot area to improve the skills of regimental chefs.

In those early days of training the most strenuous activities were boxing and highland dancing. Sergeant George was our boxing instructor—a huge man with a flat nose and cauliflower ear. Every second day he took us road running. Off we would double, with George taking up the rear on his bicycle. On the first hill he would bellow, O-U-T! Boxers about turn and double up the hill backwards. We would halt at the top, then descend and go up again, performing these manoeuvres several times. There were no sneakers or running shoes then—only the heavy army studded boots. Although Sergeant George looked a hard man, he had a heart of gold and would take us for treats to the Navy, Army and Air Force Institutes (NAAFI) shop.

For highland dancing, Corporal Shaw—a former pupil of Bobby Cuthbertson, world highland dancing champion—was our instructor. He was a proper taskmaster, and there was no let-up during these sessions. Just like the boxing training, the dancers practised with their heavy brogue shoes. The Scottish Lowland and Highland regiments held annual competitions and most team members were piper boys, producing tremendous rivalry. The competition dances were the foursome reel and ceremonial Broadswords.

To receive full pay, one had to be a first-class shot. Most evenings after supper one of the better shots in the pipers’ room would teach us trigger pressure as applied to our Lee Enfield. We would lie prone on the floor holding the rifle in the firing position, and our coach would lie down about four feet ahead of us, holding a small six-inch target disc with a hole cut in the centre. We would align our sights on the bull’s eye, cock the rifle, and, taking careful aim, pull the trigger. Our coach could tell if we were pulling the rifle off when releasing the trigger. Or you could have a buddy place a farthing on the rifle’s foreside and balance it, and then you would pull the trigger—if you jibbed it at all, the coin would immediately fall off. Gradually, we learned to squeeze the trigger very gently, so that the farthing did not come off. These methods really improved one’s performance on the rifle range.

The barracks rooms had the pipes and drums at one end and the boys at the other end—in the most distant or isolated section of camp, so that they would not disturb the rest of the troops. Also the pipes and drums and the flute band were on the bottom floor, to avoid marching on the wooden floors above. The floors were spotless and were scrubbed out once a week by hand, along with the few furnishings—perhaps two six-foot wooden tables and a couple of wooden bunks. The wrought-iron legs were black-leaded and polished frequently. Even the corner protective strips on the wooden tables were unscrewed, with the steel tips emery papered down and polished for the weekly inspection. The fireplaces, tongs, and shovels were black-leaded and were polished, as was the wrought-iron fender. Window fasteners were also inspected scrupulously, and beds made up, with the legs duly scrubbed. Not to forget the washrooms and latrines, which also received careful attention. Woe betide anyone when the adjutant came round waving his white gloves and his eagle eye spotted a speck of dust above the doors and window sills. My God—dust!!! Get it attended to immediately!

Boy Piper John T. MacKenzie practising at Pirbright Camp, England, 1938.

There was no hot water in the barracks, but later, when we were billeted at Chelsea, we were given a geyser-type heater for hot water for shaving in the morning. On our weekly bath day we paraded over to the washhouse, where we had first to sign the bath book. Heaven help us if we forgot to do this!

This was the time of