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Dear
all
A hundred
years ago this week… immediately after the Battle Of Jutland, the British war
effort was shaken by the death of “Your Country Needs You” poster hero Field
Marshall Lord Kitchener – at sea, oddly enough, when cruiser HMS Hampshire,
carrying him to Russia, hit a mine off Orkney (or perhaps was torpedoed by a
U-boat whistled up by disguised on-board German spy Fritz Joubert Duquesne…
whose account of events has been questioned).
In France, the deadly back and forth at Verdun
continued, with the German Army’s attacks largely repulsed (Vaux Fort and
Damloup June 5, Hill 304 9, Thiaumont 11), while the Battles Of Ypres and Mount
Sorrel likewise proceeded inconclusively.
The Brusilov Offensive, the Russian Army’s
greatest military achievement some say, developed favourably as they pushed the
Germans back at Lutsk, Dubno and Czernowitz (June 6, 10 and 11, in present
Ukraine). And further south, the Italian Army started its counterattack against
the Austrian Strafexpedition invasion
of Trentino and gained ground around Monte Cengio (5) and Asiago (9).
Emphasising that, within certain
longitudinal limits, this war did pretty much involve everyone fighting
everyone everywhere, British-backed Sharif Hussein launched the Hashemite Arab
Revolt against the Ottoman Empire with an attack on Mecca and the siege of
Medina (both June 10, current Saudi Arabia), in Persia the Turkish Army drove
the Russians out of Khanaqin (5) and the British took Kirman (12), and the
invasion of German East Africa (current Tanzania, Rwanda and Burundi) continued
via advances by Rhodesian (6), British (8-10) and Belgian (6) troops.
Meanwhile, my father Lance Corporal
Signaller Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London
(still under-age at 17), had reached the Somme front as – unbeknownst to the
soldiery – plans and preparations for July 1 developed. After
a terrible winter in Gallipoli, and three months recovering in Egypt, his
2/1st City Of London Royal Fusiliers (250 survivors
out of 1,000) had moved to France in late April. To
their chagrin, at Rouen the Army disbanded the Battalion and transferred the
remnants to other outfits – Sam to the Kensingtons and so swiftly he had no
chance to say goodbye to his older brother and Fusilier comrade Ted, 19.
That was on or about May 14…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM
SPEAKS
Last week, my father
learned more of the ways of the Western Front – sniper avoidance, how to dig a
trench in No Man’s Land and such – initially in the Gommecourt sector front
line at the northern end of “the Somme”, just outside the village of Hébuterne, and then, from
May 28, in the reserve trench which ran through a nearby village called Sailly:
‘I really enjoyed life in that support trench for several
reasons, the main one simply that I was getting rest and sleep, but also it ran
through what remained of an orchard. The occasional tree, the fruit bushes, and
wild brambles seemed to cut us off from the war – just because we couldn’t see much of it…
So the days and
nights passed and soon came our turn to move back to our Reserve line. It ran
through the outer, westward side of a small country town, much of it wrecked*.
My section occupied the ground floor of what remained of a small, detached
house…’
My father called this
latest temporary set-up “comparative luxury: part of a house with part of a
roof” – which I suppose it was, relative to a muddy trench. But he soon found
that modest distance from the front line had little bearing on the hazards of
their nightly labours in No Man’s Land:
‘… our night work became more difficult and dangerous – to
mark our gratitude for favours received, perhaps.
Wearing light
equipment consisting of belt, shoulder straps, ammunition pouches and haversack
– worn on the back instead of at the side – with rifle carried in the right
hand and a pick or shovel in the left, we moved up the long communication
trench to the front, then straight “over the top” in a long line. Guides
stationed out there already led groups of us to positions where a short length
of advanced trench had to be dug as soon as possible.
Soon, all of us
were hard at work – and the noise we made was frightening. Only too well aware
that we must soon be heard and seen by Jerry, we picked and shovelled like
madmen, hoping that German observers sending reports of our activities back to
their HQ, and then senior officers deciding how to dispose of us… would all
take a long time.
Fortunately for
us, enemy reaction did prove slow and when, eventually, their wrath descended,
we squeezed down into the hollows we’d dug and found we did have a few
protective inches of earth above our precious bodies.
Machine-gun
bullets spattered around me and I marvelled that I should lie there, hear and
see them striking, yet remain untouched. But our semi-trenches afforded little
protection when light field guns joined in and their shattering whizz-bangs**
filled the air with noise and flying metal. One could only hug Mother Earth and
wait for an order to retire, which didn’t come.
I heard the
occasional muttered request for “Stretcher-bearers!” – brave fellows indeed,
themselves not immunised from injury or death by their labours of mercy.
Brilliant flickering Verey lights fired by the Germans revealed all movements;
when one hovered near you, you froze no matter in what posture. I always looked
down to conceal the whiteness of my face, though more in hope than conviction.
Later, after the
firing had died down, the order “Dig like hell!” was passed along. We complied
until, after a while, we reaped a further rich harvest of bullets and shell
which compelled our officer to order a retreat. We stood not upon the order of
our going***, and one still had to find a gap in the barbed wire to reach our
frontline trench. But, having done that, one savoured the rich pleasure of
having survived a risky piece of work.
Via such skirmishes and the general attrition of low-key
fighting, the odd few casualties took toll of our men****. But no major battle
had yet taken place during my few weeks around the Front in France, and our
Company next moved yet further back. Even so, we still had to provide the
occasional nocturnal working party.
One night, with
six men I think it was, I was sent to meet a Sergeant of the Royal Engineers at
a certain point in a communication trench. A very different job, this one.
Thankful I was that my task only involved ensuring the men reached the
rendezvous, and obeyed the Engineers’ instructions, then returned with me to
our Company.
So, not
trench-digging, but proper excavation this time: first, a tunnel sloping
downward at a steep angle; then, when we got deep enough, we dug out a large
hole and shored it up with pit-props – accommodation for a Brigadier and his
staff, we heard.
While one man
worked at the “face”, the rest of us formed a chain, passing buckets of “spoil”
back up to the surface. Every couple of feet, we could all pause while the
Engineers hammered a new wooden frame into position to support the tunnel roof
and walls around us. We quickly reached a depth sufficient to require the use
of a manual pump up above to drive fresh air through a tube and down to us.
During a pause for
rest, I made my way to the very bottom of the tunnel. The noises of war faded
to nothing down there. No interference, then, with the work the Brigadier and
his aides would have to conduct during some coming battle. We gathered that
another tunnel was being dug to serve the same headquarters; it started from
some distant point unknown to me, the idea being that, if a German shell
smashed one entrance/exit, the other, hopefully, would remain and provide an
escape route.
Down at the bottom
of our approach tunnel, I tried to make myself feel safe. I thought of the
officers and men who would spend days and nights here, poring over maps and
dispatches, considering reports and making decisions. They would, of course,
have ample room, whereas I had only a very confined space, and realised that
the sooner I climbed out into fresh air the better I would feel. Back up top, I
reflected on which situation I would prefer if the area came under intense
artillery bombardment – below ground or not – but I reached no conclusion.
Then, and since, I
have wondered if any conceivable consideration could justify placing millions
of men under the constant nervous stress that assails them in the battle areas
of a static trench war. It may not have occurred to some people that, until
full voting rights were given to all men in Britain, manual and clerical
workers – generally of that level of society which is referred to as “working
class” – had no avenue of escape from compulsory National Service in time of
war. It was probably in 1911 that an Assistant Scoutmaster, aged about 24, told
me he had at last become “a real man”, having just been given the “lodger’s
vote”. Prior to that, only house owners could vote for a parliamentary
candidate. Women, of course, had no vote until after that war*****.
However,
regardless of my reflections in idle moments, there I was, a boy compelled to
wear a stripe on each arm which gave him unwanted, albeit tiny, authority over
his fellows; a boy who couldn’t get even a short break at home between the
Middle East campaign and the now impending Battle Of the Somme******.
We soldiered on.’
As I’ve mentioned before,
comparison between my father’s Memoir and the Kensingtons’ War Diary suggests
that he did not recall these vivid front-line incidents in precise
chronological order. The following is a story I’ve brought forward from its
actual location in the Memoir because it sits naturally with these accounts of
sallies into No Man’s Land (as editor, I didn’t change the order of events in
the book itself at all). The WD notes my father’s A Company working in No Man’s
Land on many occasions, May 26-7, May 30-June 1 and June 9-21:
‘One night, we had slunk across open country towards the front
in one, long, single line – to reduce loss of men to the minimum if a machine
gun or a shell found us – had re-entered the trench system, then found our work
sites in No Man’s Land.
Our unfinished
trenches aimed to join our existing front line to manned, advanced positions. I
placed my merry lads at equal intervals in pairs, each with one pick and one
shovel. Work got away to a good start, but after about three hours of this
exhausting labour we needed food, drink and rest. However, on this occasion,
the normal rations had been issued during the day and our Quartermaster and his
stores lodged way back in the village. Even the cold water in our bottles
tasted mouldy and, thereafter, all the heart went out of the work. As I walked
the length of the trench, I apologised to all and promised I would personally
see that food and drink would be available next time.
A little later
that night, a man sent from the front-line trench came to fetch me. I found the
Company officer in charge of that section having a chat and a cuppa in his
dugout with another officer, based in our village*******, who was responsible
for supervising the whole trench-deepening operation. He said he would make
periodical inspections of all the groups involved in this work, including mine.
So I told him of the men’s need of food and drink around midnight – to which
his only suggestion was that, as the men were required to sleep during most
hours of daylight, they should save bread, cheese and such for a meal during
the night; water would have to suffice for drinking.
None of this would
please our chaps – good workers if looked after, but capable of skilful
toil-avoidance if displeased. I felt they were not being well treated and would
be resentful. Yet, somehow, some work must be seen to be done. So I let it be
known that if they did a good three hours graft, starting from our time of
arrival, then the rest of the night could be taken easy, given that each man
should grab a tool and be busy as soon as he heard my voice, for my coming would
be a warning of the officer’s presence, doing his rounds.
Each night I found
it necessary to conduct two or three of these hurried scrambles, talking
loudly, even giving the occasional jab or shake to a slow waker-up. This meant
we shifted a reasonable amount of earth and the men’s sense of grievance
subsided – a satisfactory outcome, and I felt good because I had become
acceptable to and even popular with a Platoon of men among whom I had so far
felt like an interloper (apart from also being much younger than most of
them).’
* My father never named these places, though I’m sure he
remembered them, but my deduction from the Kensingtons War Diary is that this
was Sailly.
** British soldiers
nicknamed shells fired by the German 7.7cm field gun “whizz-bangs” because they
travelled faster than the speed of sound, so recipients heard the “whizz” as
they sliced through the air before they heard the “bang” made by the gun firing
them; this meant they offered no early warning of their arrival, unlike larger
shells from a more distant howitzer.
*** What good schooling
my father had received! Although he had to leave at 14 because of his family’s
poverty, here he is, writing in his 70s and quoting from Macbeth – studied more than 50 years earlier.
**** For example, the
Kensingtons’ WD notes 11 “ORs” (Other Ranks) killed or wounded on May 27.
***** “Only house owners
could vote for a parliamentary candidate”: that was under the Third Reform Act,
1884, though more explicitly it gave the vote to men paying annual rent of £10
or owning land valued at £10 or more – this is estimated to have still excluded
40 per cent of adult males; however, it seems that, despite the 1884 Act, many
lodgers found themselves excluded from voting until a 1911 Court Of Appeal
decision, which is probably what made a man of my father’s Assistant
Scoutmaster back home in Edmonton; women (over 30 who met minimum property
qualifications) won the vote in UK via the Representation Of The People Act
passed well before the end of World War I, in February, 1918, and first
exercised their new right later that year in the December 14 general election.
****** As he has
mentioned in recent episodes, at this point Sam wanted nothing more than a
week’s leave back home. It would have been his first since February, 1915. No
such luck as yet.
******* Sailly or
Souastre at this point.
NB: today, and throughout the summer, these
blogs will be unusually long, simply because Sam had such vivid memories of and
so much to say about his experiences a hundred years ago on the Somme. I hope
you’ll agree there’s not too much wasted verbiage and plenty of truth and
substance.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: After a
terrifying cock-up in No Man’s Land Sam and comrades get some rest a few miles
back – baths, delousing… and some practice for July 1 on a mock battlefield
(with only their officers and some German spy planes looking on).
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