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Dear all
A hundred years ago… the geographic
spread of assorted armies battling reminds us why it was called a world war…
the German/Austro-Hungarian Armies finally winning at Gorlice-Tarnów (June 22) to
recapture Galicia from the Russians (who suffered 412,000 casualties for their
foes’ 87,000); the French repulsing German attacks north of Arras and gaining
ground at the heights of Meuse and in Lorraine (21-2); the Italians holding
back the Austrian Army at Trentino (22) and in the Carnic Alps (25); the
British advancing up the Euphrates in Ottoman Iraq (from 27) and destroying the
German port of Buboka, German East Africa, on Lake Nyasa (25) – as, in
Gallipoli, attrition proceeded during the build-up to the Battle Of Gully
Ravine.
Meanwhile...
at St George’s Barracks, Malta, the thousand men of the 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, including my father, newly trained Signaller
Sam Sutcliffe, his older brother Ted (both underage
volunteers, still 16 and 18 respectively in early summer 1915), and their pals
from Edmonton, north London, continued their preparation… for what they knew not, though
hints were building up that Gallipoli awaited them.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, the Signallers concluded their Old
Contemptibles-style rapid-fire 15-aimed-shots-a-minute training – with Sam
rated a “first-class” shot to his astonishment and pride. Now their period of
unwonted comfort at St George’s Barracks comes to an end and they come down in
the world of military accommodations… But it gave Sam the chance to revisit his
love of music, as he recalls:
‘Suddenly it was time, they said, for all good soldiers to
pack their kitbags, move out of barracks and, a mile or two up the road, pitch
their tents on rising ground alongside a military cemetery*. We Signallers had
our line of tents alongside the road. One of them we equipped as an office
complete with field telephones and we wired up a system connecting the
Headquarters of each Company and Battalion and handled all communications.
Two things
furnished me with permanent memories of that camp. One of them was the
frequency with which a band playing The Dead March In Saul** distracted my
attention. This would occur once or twice a day because, as I learned, Malta
had become the medical base for all the British Services in the Mediterranean
area and, inevitably, many men brought to the hospital died of their wounds.
Those who died on the battlefield, I gathered, could receive no such military
honours – perhaps the Malta garrison authorities were clinging to a kindly
peacetime ritual for as long as possible.
So you heard the
slow beat of the big drum away in the distance, then a few notes of music from
the brass would gradually swell in volume as the cortege advanced with stately
tread – the blasts from the trombones dominated because they occupied the front
row to make room for their slides.
If I could
persuade someone to take over the headphones, I would hurry from the tent,
slither on my backside the few feet down the embankment to the road and await
the arrival, the slow approach of my hero, the big, bass drummer: wearing a
real leopardskin between his torso and the drum, and given lots of space around
him to allow his skilful whirlings of the flying drumsticks with their white,
furry tips, “Daa da dada bang! Daa dada dada da bang!” – he supplied the hefty
thuds at the end of each phrase.
Nearing the
cemetery, the band drew to the side of the road. The pallbearers carrying the
flag-covered coffin passed through the gates with the firing party. And then I
could approach the drummer, show him my admiration of his skill and perhaps
persuade him to demonstrate how, amid all the drumsticks’ twirling, he could
give the stretched skin a light touch or a hefty wallop just as he wished.
The farewell
chorus of musketry fire would soon be followed by the reappearance of the
troops. Then the really excellent band led the homeward march to a cheery tune
so different to the funeral dirge which had marked their arrival. We envied the
Battalion which could afford to set up and train that morale-raising band.
Apparently, some of their officers – wealthy men – paid for all the instruments
before the war. I, at any rate, felt that by providing music for gay or sad
occasions, the bandsmen did a good job, even in wartime. If their musical skill
made it possible for them to be spared the horrors of frontline warfare, it
also enabled them to provide enjoyment to those resting from battlefield
tensions.
Our officers,
generous as their own personal circumstances allowed, had supplied the makings
of a drum-and-fife band: a big drum, four side drums, and a dozen or so
assorted flutes. Our band volunteers were learning to play them, some doubling
with bugles. Soon, we too would have our flagging spirits uplifted and be
inspired to march smartly, instead of slouching through the last mile or two of
a trying route – it was customary to transport a band to some point where,
fresh as paint, they could join the Battalion and render this restorative
service to the sorely tried soldiery.
We already had a
Corporal who played all the calls on a very melodious bugle; he roused us with
the Reveille most mornings, and his repertoire covered Cookhouse, Fall In, Sick
Parade, Post Corporal, Officers’ Mess, and, at the day’s end, the full Last
Post. So, at his musical behest, men ran or halted, put out lights and relaxed
into sleep, spirits soothed.
When he sounded
the dreaded Jankers, though, naughty boys hurried to the barrack square to toil
back and forth, heavily loaded, while good, honest souls like me took their
well-deserved ease. Meanwhile, the Corporal’s pupils blew their bugles better
every day and we heard calls the like of which we’d never heard before***. Soon
they would play tunes which meant something to us, for already a few could
tongue their mouthpieces well enough to produce a couple of true notes.’
* Back
in the ’70s, I asked my father if he knew the cemetery’s name and he said the
nearest village was St Julian’s Bay (San Gilijan), but he couldn’t remember
what they called the cemetery; however, other sources suggest it was Pembroke
Military Cemetery, laid out in the mid-19th Century, and that the camp site was
known as Pembroke too. The Battalion had to leave St George’s Barracks because
the Army decided to convert it into a hospital, largely for Gallipoli
casualties.
** The Dead March In Saul
is the popular name for the funeral march from Handel’s Oratorio, Saul (1739) – it isn’t the “Funeral March”; that’s Chopin’s Marche Funèbre, Piano Sonata Number 2.
*** My father’s thinking
of the words to a favourite old song, Alexander’s Ragtime Band, Irving Berlin’s
first hit, from 1911.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: The food goes from bad to terrible, the Fusiliers mutiny –
almost until a young officer takes command… and feeds them!
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