…his friend O’Hanlon , who was present at the Duke of Wellington’s funeral . Every regiment of the army contributed a private to the cortege and O’Hanlon, of the 12th Foot, came down from Bury St Edmunds accordingly . He is a dapper and very alert sort of chap: Quigley drinks with him once a week at The Coal Hole. Few teeth left and a bit deaf but still soldierly ( as if I really knew what that means). He has many stories of that day , the best of which is that when the bronze carriage containing the Duke’s coffin set off down the Mall, drawn by twelve enormous dray horses , it very quickly sank into a pothole , overburdened by its ridiculous weight ( eighteen tons ). Sixty policemen were drafted in to help draw it clear . I told him how my father bought a cone from a wreath that fell off the Car , as it was called . I went with him to Box Hill, where we buried the sacred relic in the hope it would become a tree. Before I parted from this old soldier, I asked him if he had ever served under the Iron Duke. ‘Only on this one occasion,’ he replied gravely .