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Dear all
A hundred years ago… while the Western
Front slaughterously ground along as the two sides got used to the unwanted
reality of almost stationary trench warfare, on March 4 the Russian Army retook
Austro-Hungarian Stanislau (now in Ukraine), the Austrian Navy bombarded
Antivari (Montenegro), and the British Navy started a blockade of German East
Africa (Burundi, Rwanda, mainland Tanzania).
More directly pertinent to the future of Private Sam
Sutcliffe’s 2/1st City Of London Battalion, Royal
Fusiliers, lately landed at Malta, the British Navy’s shelling of
Turkish/Ottoman Empire fortifications around Gallipoli/the Dardanelles
continued sporadically (Smyrna from March 5th) – while, before any clear Allied
plan had emerged, the operation became a matter of political dispute. FootSoldierSam’s
blog stakes no claim to historical understanding of these events, during this
week a century ago, but… The French Government decided to send a force to the
Dardanelles (March 4th); the Russian Government sent a telegram to its Allies
laying claim to Constantinople (now Turkish capital Istanbul, 4th); then the
Greek Premier offered his country’s naval and military assistance to the Allies
(5th), the King of Greece disagreed and the Premier resigned (6th), and the new
Greek Government asked the British for an explanation of their “occupation” of
Lemnos (7th) as a jumping-off point for the Dardanelles attacks – despite
apparent previous assent. That campaign, it seemed, had begun chaotically…
Naturally, my father, Sam, still 16, and his
brother, Ted, 18, both under-age volunteers from Edmonton, north London, and their thousand comrades in the
Battalion knew nothing of this.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, we left them
on the dockside in Marsamxett harbour, Valletta, after finally disembarking
from the Galena, the lumbering tub
which they left with unfond memories of interminable seasickness and befouled
quarters way below decks.
Standing about while the officers got
organised, Sam started to look around and relish his surroundings in the
wonderfully curious way which, I suspect, laid the foundations for the deatiled
memory – external and internal – he later deployed during his seventies when
writing his Memoir, all 250,000 words of it. New readers be aware, at this
stage my father was still writing in the third person and calling himself “Tommy”:
‘During the long wait which followed, Tommy, thrilling to
every new sensation, scanned the long waterfront: buildings all of the
light-coloured stone he found so pleasing, among them one or two shops, the
names above their windows emphasising the exciting foreignness of the place –
“Mateoti*,” for instance, what did that mean?; next door to that a homely
touch, The Seamen’s Mission; a cab with curtained windows clattered by, drawn
by a skinny horse, its bones too prominent, the sallow-faced driver wearing a
floppy hat, a dark red shirt and very old trousers, his feet bare…
On this occasion,
the Battalion had lined up behind Tommy’s H Company, the last in alphabetical
order, so he could see A Company way back in the far distance; what an
anonymous mass of men it was compared to, say, the troop of Boy Scouts of which
he had been a fairly important member a few months earlier. Even in his London
office, as an insignificant junior, he felt like a recognised member of a sort
of staff family… “I suppose all goes on there as usual,” he surmised — though
perhaps not, bearing in mind the Company Secretary’s forecast**… And the family
at home? They would manage, perhaps even do well if Pa could find some work
connected with the war effort…’
But
soon his mind ceased wandering as fresh exertion provided his first experience
of old-Empire English indefatigability when it comes to choosing inappropriate
clothing for foreign climes…
‘Eventually the Colonel and his white horse took their place
at the head of the column and the Battalion moved off. Although the month was
February, the thick wool underwear and sturdy uniform, plus a full kitbag
carried over one shoulder, soon demonstrated the difference between marching
conditions in far-away England and those now to be experienced on this
Mediterranean island. The men relieved their feelings with many a “Phew!” and
“Oh gawd!” – by “having a moan” or “effing and blinding”. And, while thus
occupied, their feet transported their protesting bodies onwards at a steady
four miles an hour. Authority required no more than that of them.
At least, Tommy
felt reassured to see he wasn’t the only one becoming increasingly sweaty. But,
here again, the recollection that he had lied about his age and shouldn’t
really be there at all gave him the determination to endure without complaint.
So he just plodded on… And savoured the air, its flavour exciting to him simply
because it was foreign. On the waterfront, smoke from coal-burning ships
drifted over them at times… but something stronger, probably from the drains
though not too objectionable, had also been noticeable. Now as they marched,
variety of aroma supplied almost as much interest to his questing nose as did
the people, the buildings, and narrow side streets, to his appreciative eyes.
All this he
regarded as a great bonus. By now he had expected to be under fire and
subjected to the ordeals of the Front where, the newspapers reported (with
extensive casualty lists), Allied advances occurred so rarely we had to
persuade ourselves retreats counted as moral victories – some of them therefore
worthy of a special medal. That was not the kind of war that patriotic
Englishmen had hoped to take part in. Our wonderful Army with its
15-rounds-per-minute rifle fire should have scared the Germans. As it
transpired, the enemy had lots of machine guns, any one of which could lay a
hundred men low in a minute. Now why hadn’t we thought of that? Of course, we
had some, but they had many…
Well, instead of
being quickly involved in all the roaring of guns, holding of positions till
forced to move back, woundings, deaths, mud and filth of the battlefields,
Tommy and the others had been put ashore on this charming island. Should he
have felt shame about this? He did think about these matters at the time, he
remembers… but he only felt thrilled, even joyful.
Common sense urged
him to enjoy the sweets while available, there would be plenty of bitters later
without doubt.’
Sam/”Tommy”
marched and mused on, often mentally drifting away beyond his fatigue and
discomfort, but still observing and absorbing everything around him…
‘Across the town of Valletta, before, alongside, and behind
him marched his comrades, but inside Tommy was this very personal thing which
looked, sniffed and listened to people and places…
No pretty girls.
The women he saw walking the pavements mostly dressed in dark or black velvet.
They had sallow complexions, though a minority added a touch of rouge to their
cheeks. So many of them looked alike to him that way back, he surmised, they
must have had a common ancestor… The older chaps made noises which bore witness
to their interest in areas of the ladies’ bodies remote from their faces and
Joe Parker once again proclaimed that, with sacks over their heads, all women
looked alike.
The lad, with no
real, personal interest in the subject, nevertheless fully understood that
married men used to regular companionship in bed would have physical problems
which demanded solutions…
Their route
followed what was obviously the most important street in the town – the Strada
Reale a road sign announced. Impressive buildings and churches to the right,
Tommy noted, fine shops, restaurants, cafés… But they soon turned left, and
then right, into a thoroughfare across which hung many lines of washing. Families
evidently shared accommodation in these fairly tall blocks, and the articles of
clothing and bedding overhead added gaiety, like bunting at a carnival.
The clatter of
soldiers’ heavy boots on ancient cobbles brought heads peering out of windows.
Some of the British lads sang, others shouted greetings and waved, but no
response or encouragement came from above – the town clearly too long
associated with garrison troops to get excited about marching men.
But soon they
reached open country. The occasional women walking by wore black headdresses
draped over their shoulders. A wire frame hidden in the fabric enabled them to
swing them across their faces for concealment from foreigners. This had a
historical significance, Tommy learned later, but considering the
unattractiveness to himself of these females, he thought the cover-up quite a
good idea. In any case, the headdress business had that quaint, exotic touch he
hoped to find in foreign parts.
The road became
dusty and bordered by walls built with the rock which was in evidence
everywhere. They passed through a village, but saw no inhabitants, except that
some young men sat around a table in what appeared to be a drinking shop. They
just stared at the passing troops; imaginative Tommy thought he sensed their
hostility. So along a coast road and on their right a beautiful bay bounded by
long headlands, with a residential area – few signs of business there, just an
occasional shop or café.
They now traversed
firm road and tramping boots supplied a steady beat for the singing troops.
Between choruses, one of the witty chaps would be sure to raise a laugh or two –
especially in H Company, at the front of the column when, not infrequently, the
Colonel’s horse farted and they took it full blast as it hung in the still air.
So, with some good humour, they bore the heat, their awkward kitbags, and the
sluggishness caused by both the privations and inertia of their voyage.
Finally, the way
ahead lay through a barren, rocky area but, at the end of it, they saw buildings,
some single-storey, others two-storey, all flat-roofed and extending over a
wide area. Had the setting been the African desert, Tommy would have expected
to see French Foreign Legionnaires manning the ramparts – but a closer view
revealed no ramparts, camels or képis.
Still, these were
barracks, he realised, and he was about to experience the sort of life he’d
read quite a lot about in the penny weeklies. Nobby Clark, Spud Murphy***, and
other tough soldiers had enjoyed wonderful times in such accommodations and,
surely, great times lay ahead for the new adventurers about to move in.’
* “Mateoti” wasn’t a trade,
but the tradesman’s surname, Maltese sources advise.
** The company secretary had
told Sam/“Tommy” he thought the war would finish them.
*** Characters from Edgar Wallace’s Smithy, Nobby & Co
published in the Daily Mail, 1904-18 (maybe in a weekly too, but I couldn’t
confirm my father’s recollection on that); the fictionalised archetype Wallace
called Smithy dated from his reports as a Mail Boer War correspondent.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Settling into barracks – and dining on biscuits saved from
the Napoleonic Wars…
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