The Allardyces of Archiestown

The Allardyces of Archiestown

What does Remembrance Day mean to me? I am a 36 year old with no military background or real understanding of the experiences of those who have lived through the horrors of war. This doesn’t stop me from being stirred by the Cenotaph ceremony or being filled with pride and admiration for the veterans taking part in the march-past every year.

Like so many of us, I have a familial link to those who we will honour on Remembrance Sunday as my family suffered tragedy on an unimaginable scale. As each year passes, it becomes increasingly important for us to never forget what happened.

As a child my grandfather told me the story of his father and his role in the Second World
War. He wanted to tell me everything, but still found the circumstances of his father’s death too distressing to discuss in detail. The photographs of my great-grandfather always took pride of place on our sitting room wall.

My great-grandfather, Captain Ransome McNamara Allardyce, was the youngest of four brothers, all born in Dublin to George and Janet Allardyce. His father, George Allardyce, was a Scot from Archiestown in the Scottish Highlands who had moved to Ireland to work as a master tailor, making riding habits for the gentry of Dublin. George and his wife Janet raised their four boys in a modest house in Ranelagh, in the south of Dublin. 

Three of the four boys would go on to train as doctors.



Father George Allardyce with William (left) James (Right) & Ransome (Sitting)

All of the Allardyce brothers would die in the two World Wars.

The oldest brother, George Gilmour Allardyce, started his studies to become a doctor in Dublin before moving to Australia at the age of 17. Following the outbreak of war in 1914, he enlisted as a Private in the 4th Australian Field Ambulance, giving his occupation as a medical student, and by 1915 he was fighting in Gallipoli.

By 1917, whilst serving on the Somme, where he was gassed and later evacuated to England. He was selected for officer training and by 1918 he was appointed 2nd Lieutenant in the 4th Battalion Australian Infantry and returned to fight in France. After suffering injuries to his head and leg, he was again evacuated to England where he died from his wounds in 1918. 

George was 22 years old.

The second brother, William Swirles Allardyce, was training to be a surgeon at Trinity College Dublin and was a third year medical student in 1916 when he enlisted in the Navy with the rank of Probationer Surgeon. He was lost at sea that year when HMS Negro collided with the destroyer leader HMS Hoste, resulting in the deaths of over 50 sailors.

William was only 19 years old.

By the time my great-grandfather, Ransome, began his studies to become a doctor at Trinity College Dublin in 1920, he had already lost his two eldest brothers.

Ransome’s surviving brother, James Craig Allardyce, had chosen a career in the military and entered the Royal Military College in Woolwich in 1916. He was promoted to Captain in the Royal Artillery in 1918 and served in both World Wars. During the First World War, he served with the Indian Mounted Artillery in India, in the Mediterranean and in Iraq. He was later wounded in France but after the hostilities had ended, James remained in the Army.

He was seconded as a Lieutenant in the Auxiliary Forces in India where he married Kathleen Louise in Lucknow in 1924. He was promoted to Captain by 1929. During the Second World War he saw service in Assam, Syria, Burma and Ceylon. Due to ill health, he was sent home to England where he died at the Military Hospital Fulford in York in 1944. He had finished his distinguished military career as a Brigadier General in the Royal Artillery.

He was 45.

My great-grandfather, Ransome, was the youngest of the four boys. He trained as a doctor at Trinity College Dublin, and practiced as a General Practitioner in Manchester, before moving to Japan in 1934 in order to work as a surgeon.

Ransome Allardyce

He moved to Japan with his wife Madeleine and their three small children: my grandfather George and his sisters, Jean and Anne. Ransome worked as the Superintendent of the International Hospital in Kobe-Honshu until 1939, when life became too dangerous for them to remain there. He sent his family ahead to seek refuge in Australia, as passage to Europe wasn’t possible due to the outbreak of World War Two.


Ransome with wife Madeleine, George (left), Jean (centre) & Anne (right) Japan

His family arrived safely in Australia and were given refuge in Sydney and later in rural Armidale. Before leaving Japan, Ransome gave most of his possessions to his servants, destroyed his car and smuggled out some pearls. He was briefly reunited with his family in Australia before he took up a position in Singapore as a Captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps.

He was working as a doctor at the Alexandra Road Military Hospital in Singapore in February 1942 when the country fell to the Japanese. When Japanese troops broke into the hospital and began firing indiscriminately, Ransome decided to challenge them. As the only person who could speak some Japanese, he hoped to reason with the soldiers. 

A Red Cross representative witnessed Ransome walking down a hospital corridor to speak with the Japanese soldiers. He was never seen alive again. His body was found the next day in a mass grave and he was later buried at the Kranji War Cemetery in Singapore. More than 200 people were shot or bayoneted over those two tragic days in February 1942, in what later become known as The Alexandra Hospital Massacre.

He was 39 years old.

After the Japanese Army occupied Singapore, his family still had no definitive news about Ransome. They assumed he had been taken prisoner and Madeleine became ill from worry during this uncertain time. In 1943 the family were erroneously informed by the War Office that Ransome was still working as a doctor in occupied Singapore, however, they later found out that he had died during the fall of Singapore.

They were eventually repatriated back to the United Kingdom. Madeleine and her three children embarked on the five-week voyage to London in March 1947, before travelling up to Scotland. They left summer in Australia and arrived in the middle of a harsh winter to live with George and Janet Allardyce in the village of Archiestown. 

Madeleine had lost her husband and her children, their father, and George and Janet Allardyce had suffered the unimaginable tragedy of losing all four of their sons.

After a few months in Scotland, Madeleine and her children left Archiestown and moved to Dublin where they finally had a home of their own and could try and rebuild their lives. Thankfully, my grandfather and his sisters recovered to lead full and happy lives as the memories of the war gradually began to recede. The trauma of what had happened never completely disappeared but simply faded into the passage of time. 

In the village of Archiestown, in Knockando Parish, there is a war memorial that honours the names of all the men who lost their lives in the two World Wars. A short service is held on Remembrance Sunday every year to remember the young men of the parish who answered the call to arms in 1914 and again in 1939. All of these men, including the Allardyces of Archiestown, paid the ultimate price and their sacrifice should never be forgotten. 

Of all things the bed is the best/ If you can't sleep you still can rest - Italian Proverb

As usual, once I start writing updates for my dormant blog, it occurs to me I haven't written anything for months.

No matter what is happening in our lives, time marches swiftly on.

Nine years after starting my post-graduate course at the London School of Journalism, I finally wrote all of my exams and submitted my work and somehow graduated with a decent mark. I wasn't merited for my speed.

When I started at LSJ so long ago, I actually fancied myself being a bit of a John Pilger, exposing heartless corporations and ruthless governments, and making a nuisance of myself.

A few years of hospital soon put paid to that. You can still write from home or find stories if the locations you visit have wheelchair access, but it does limit your scope a little.

Obviously getting sick on top of that really doesn't help your journalistic career. Spending over a year in bed was pretty unhelpful as well.

However, whatever I am lacking in the necessary skills to be a decent journalist, I am lucky enough to make up for with a surplus of stubborness running through my veins which allowed me to finally finished the course. So the epic battle of trying to imagine articles to write without leaving my flat is finally over thank goodness. I have managed to get a few jobs as a copy editor. Not very exciting but money is money.

In October last year my condition deteriorated and scans showed the little b*****d had been growing considerably so it was back on the chemo again.

Since then I have had seven courses of Temozolomide chemotherapy and the latest scans this year have shown no real change since the tumour got worse in October.

Of course part of the treatment plan involves taking industrial doses of steroids again which means all the nasty side effects are coming back to haunt me.

I spent years reducing steroids only to be put back on them again. Unfortunately, I have returned to being like an inflatable beach toy with a giant head, but apparently I really need steroids.

To prove the doctors wrong and to limit the side effects, I stupidly tried to reduce my dose a bit and all it has done has put me in more pain.

Generally speaking, the plan from my oncolgists is to continue monthly chemotherapy, monitor my bloods, have scans, take steroids and hurry up and wait as they say.

I am in pain most days now and have recently started taking morphine as well as the usual painkillers to deal with it. I find being a Springbok and Liverpool fan hasn't helped my pain or stress levels.

For some reason morphine just makes me a bit goofy and itchy but doesn't provide much relief. The best thing to do in these situations seems to be to just go to sleep and hope the next day is better.

These days, by six in the evening, I am pretty much done and have to get into bed to give my back and mystery pain in my side a rest.

So I am not much fun at parties anymore, but I'm sure my previous one-man crusade to rid the world of Sambuca and lonely pints at closing time isn't missed by many, especially my wife. I suppose we all have to grow up eventually, whether we like or not.

Speaking of my lovely wife, we recently celebrated our 5th wedding anniverary (16 years in total) and we are going to treat ourselves to a meal at a decent restaurant.

Jay is still teaching in the afternoons and has designed loads of grammar booklets and activities to help the poor little nippers through their exams. I really feel sorry for kids these days. Not only are they continually assessed and analysed, they always seem to be under pressure to meet unrealistic expectations.

Of course, that means teachers have to work doubly hard to manage everything.  I get to listen to loads of teacher talk when we have teacher friends over...

At the same age, all I did was pick my nose, daydream, draw cars and talk a lot.

Nowadays kids are expected to explain the ins and outs of the Large Hardron Collider in their Standard Assessment Tests (SATs) or explain why English has loads of silly grammar rules. I tried to answer a maths question aimed at an eleven-year old and nearly had a nervous breakdown.

Gone are the days of rocking up at school dressed as a swordfish or telling your teacher you have a pet dragon. In the old days in Zimbabwe, if you could spell your name correctly on your exercise book, count to ten and use a toilet dilligently, that usually ensured a safe passage to high school.

We went up to Scotland for our first mini holiday in four years. We visited some good friends and did a bit of sightseeing, including a trip to a tiny village in the Highlands where my great-grandfather and his three brothers hailed from. Their deaths in the Great Wars (yes all four brothers died) are commemorated on a mini-cenotaph.  It was quite an emotive experience seeing their names and visiting their village. I'll put their story on my blog at some stage.

All things considered, we are both okay and looking forward to some sunshine and summer socialisng. Given that I am supposed to have expired some time ago, things could be worse. I appear to have taken on the fatalist attitude of a Russian novelist who has just been told by the doctor to give up vodka and is trudging home with a stone in each of his shoes. This morbid outlook seems to work for me.

Most of all, I am looking forward to going to sleep nice and early. Not exactly exciting but essential.

So take care, see some of you soon and to everyone else have a great summer.