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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… The
Allies continued their run of success almost everywhere World War 1 had set up
shop (especially with no major events on the Eastern Front, where the grand
Russian endeavour was collapsing by stages).
Under
the general heading of the Third Battle Ypres (July 31-November 10), the Battle
Of The Menin Road Bridge reached a solid conclusion (September 20-26) within
the terms of General Plumer’s “achieve limited objectives then move on”
doctrine – all ground taken around the Gheluvelt Plateau was then defended
against German counterattacks (casualties 20,255 British, 25,000 German). And
Plumer’s next attack followed immediately, the Battle Of Polygon Wood (26-October
3) – fought between the Wood and the Menin Road and stretching north to St
Julien. Again, the initial advance worked well, securing the whole of the Wood
and on to Zonnebeke (heading towards Passchendaele). Then, the following day,
the British and Anzacs beat off seven German counterattacks, and held their
gains on the 30th against another German counter featuring heavy use of
flamethrowers (casualties 15,375 British, 7,188 Anzacs, 13,500 German).
Meanwhile,
the French repulsed a German onslaught in the Verdun area (September 24); the
Italian Army followed up the latest Isonzo bloodbath by bombing Austrian
submarine bases at Pola and Olivi Rock (27; now in Croatia) and advancing on
Monte St Gabriele (28) and the Bainsizza Plateau (29); the Russians,
surprisingly, defeated the Turks near Ortobo (25; Bitlis province, eastern
Turkey); in Mesopotamia, the British won the Second Battle of Ramadi via
careful preparation which went beyond tactics to ensuring the troops had enough
water via 350 Ford vans carrying 14,000 gallons a day (28-29; 62 miles west of
Baghdad); and in German East Africa the colonial occupants neared the exits,
relentlessly pushed back by British, South African, Belgian and Portuguese
forces (Sept 24-30; now Rwanda, Burundi and most of Tanzania).
The
only setback seemed to further prove Britain’s vulnerability to German air
attack by planes and, occasionally, Zeppelins – in four separate raids bombers
killed 58 civilians and injured 218 (September 24-29; London, the southeast
coast, Yorkshire and Lincolnshire).
[Memoir background: my father, Lance Corporal Signaller Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers
volunteer and Gallipoli veteran (Blogs September 20, 2015, to January 3, 2016),
had
fought on the Somme Front with his second outfit the Kensingtons (Blogs May 15 to September 25,
2016)…
until
officialdom spotted his real age – 18 on July 6, 1916, legally too young for
the battlefield. So they told him he could take a break from the fighting until
he turned 19. He took up the offer, though with an enduring sense of guilt. By
December, 1916, he ended up posted to Harrogate, Yorkshire, and re-allocated again,
this time to the Essex Regiment 2/7th Battalion, along with a bunch of other under-age
Tommies until such time as they severally became eligible for the trenches again… An interesting year ensued – four months of blizzards, a
meningitis scare, special training in various northern locations, and then, around
his 19th birthday on July 6, a few summer weeks stomping around Yorkshire on a
route march… which in due course led him to hospital again, to recover from
some lurking effects of trench warfare and prepare him for more. However, I’ve had
to break off from the this-week-100-years-ago excerpts from his Memoir because
my father didn’t write enough about his year “out” to provide 52 blog excerpts.
So, through to November, before he returns to France and the Front from December
onwards, I’m revisiting his previous accounts of historic battles as seen by an
ordinary front-line Tommy – the Somme and, first, Sam’s Gallipoli, his
initiation into the realities of war. He was a 17-year-old Lance Corporal Signaller by the time his Battalion
approached Suvla Bay, Gallipoli, on the night of September 25, 1915.]
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
In the four previous episodes
from this Gallipoli rewind – whereof this is the fifth and last – my father,
Lance Corporal Signaller Sam Sutcliffe survived every young soldier’s
terrifying firsts – the first battlefield, the first shot and shell coming his
way, the first deaths of comrades – and the grind-you-down factors of lousy
food, lousy sanitation, and lousy, well, lice, plus the 24/7 discomforts of his
own job, occupying a hilltop Signallers’ hole (“post” would overdignify it)
with one assistant on non-stop rota for weeks on end.
In his final weeks at Suvla Bay came the notorious blizzard that
froze so many before the thaw drowned some more. But then, in mid-December at
last… evacuation. Sailing away on a small ship on the night of December 18-19, he
felt high hopes that things could only get better – especially with Christmas
coming right up:
‘We reached Lemnos, the harbour from which we’d sailed, it seemed
a very long time ago. Without delay we were put ashore and, as we lined up, I
was shocked to see clearly how few of us remained. No Colonel in the distance
on his white horse. Actually, no Colonel. Perhaps a couple of hundred men in
all, a few Company Officers and Sergeants, one or two Corporals and a
smattering of puny Lance Corporals, myself included. In charge of this small
contingent now was young Major Booth*, who had received rapid promotion from
the rank of Lieutenant. While all the senior men had vanished from the scene of
action for whatever reason they may have had, this young man proved himself
capable of withstanding all hardships and caring for his men as well as
circumstances permitted…
At Suvla Bay,
“Keep your head up, Sergeant Major!”, an outspoken reproof he’d issued to one
of our top non-commissioned officers – the ex-Marine I mentioned, whose
behaviour on active service had lost him all the popularity he had previously
gained – had become a favourite quotation for all of us. Its ironic use
inspired many a hearty laugh. The new Major had become our man of strength, the
leader greatly needed by men who felt they had participated in a failure. Under
his guidance we all felt the future would give us opportunities to shine just a
little bit brighter in the military firmament than we had done in the past.’
** First noticed by the
Tommies as a Lieutenant in Malta when he averted a food riot cum mutiny by
prompt and considerate action, Harry Nathan (1889-1963; aliased “Booth” by my
father who changed nearly all names to avoid pain to survivors or relatives)
became Battalion commander in mid-November 1915, moving so rapidly because
other officers had fallen ill. As I periodically mention, he became an MP, then
a peer, and after WWII he joined Attlee’s Labour Government, playing a modest
part in the great reform period that gave the nation the NHS and free
education.
Stepping ashore, Sam lost
his buoyancy, his 90lbs of infantryman’s pack plus all the Signaller’s gear
weighing him down, body and soul. Until the happiest of coincidences occurred:
‘… when we approached the camp, we saw several men coming
towards us – and, among them, one who looked remarkably like my brother Ted.
Impossible, I thought, for he’d been taken off that ship at Alexandria*** and I
could think of no reason why he should be on this Greek island. But it was Ted,
and a very happy reunion we had.
While we talked he
quietly relieved me of everything I was carrying. He slipped into the straps to
which were attached my pack and haversack and took my signalling equipment and
my rifle — which, as a Signaller, I had still not fired in action — and left me
feeling almost naked. He had a word with one or two men nearby, then set off
for the camp which, he said, he and others had been cleaning up in readiness
for our arrival.’
*** A strange twist of
fate where Ted missed Gallipoli because the Army dentist demanded that he
disembark from the troopship about to convey the Battalion to the peninsula –
because he’d had his front teeth knocked out in a fight.
Sam’s mood shifted
immediately from depressed to exultant, his older brother meant so much to him.
Even the first meal offered to the battle-weary newcomers – more tea and hard
biscuits, would you believe? – couldn’t get him down again:
‘As night fell, Ted vanished and later I heard his voice
calling me outside. He expressed regret that he had been able to procure only a
few slices of beef. “Only”, said I. Only some beef, indeed. As good or better
than slices of gold, I told him.
Then he took me to
the outskirts of a big camp, to a place where the embers of several large fires
glowed, great heat still rising, and we laid our meat on the hot ashes. Sticks
were our cooking implements. We sat there, warm, safe and very soon – after
quite easily scraping ash off the meat – happily eating.’
Ted explained that, after
being left behind in Egypt, he’d taken a chance to become a happy horse
wrangler at a place called Qantara. Then the following day brought a small,
cheery adventure for Sam:
‘Next morning, Drake, a fellow Signals Lance Jack, and I
were told to go searching for missing communications, so to speak. In fact, we
were to board a steam pinnace – lent by the commander of a battleship – go
round to the east side of the island and search for mail dumped there; it had
been allowed to accumulate while we were on active service because transport to
deliver it had not been available. In charge of the trim, little vessel was a
midshipman, a lad of about my age, quite pretty with his pink cheeks, his
immaculate uniform, but a fine young officer. He had a rating for crew.
Off we puffed
round the coast after leaving the big harbour. East Mudros had a useful jetty
and, going ashore, Drake and I found piles of full, canvas mailbags – a
quantity commensurate to the full Battalion of a few months back. We began
carrying them back to the pinnace and stacking them on the deck. By the time
we’d loaded up there was little to be seen of the boat but her funnel. Not a
word of complaint came from the young officer, though. The cherubic smile, the
acceptance of things as they were, inspired me, given that almost all my
companions of late had been depressed by the pervading feeling of material
poverty and defeat.
Happy in the
knowledge that we were accomplishing a really useful mission, to avoid rolling
overboard Drake and I crawled over the sacks, seeking places with handholds. I
spotted a sort of handle near the top of the funnel, clambered up and held on
there. Drake jammed himself close to the small superstructure which housed the
steering wheel, the rating, and the midshipman. I had my doubts that they could
see where they were going, but of course they managed fine.
Just as we cast
off, someone came running towards the landing stage, waving. It was Jackson,
the man whose spectacles had been damaged one dark night on machine-gun hill****.
Before we passed out of hearing, he yelled that he had temporary glasses he
could just about see with, and he was awaiting shipment to Egypt. His rosy face
was all smiles and his wife and children could surely hope to see Daddy before
long.’
**** For the full story
of Sam’s role in the saving of myopic Private Jackson see Blog 166, September
10, 2017.
The pinnace made it back
to Mudros and the Battalion remnants settled down to renew acquaintance with
the homeland – by means of cakes and hand-written letters. Sam and Ted shared
the pleasure:
‘Among many nice things, our parents had sent photographs of
our family taken in the back garden. Our baby sister was standing there, now
able to do so without help. Our young brother looked bonny, the older sister
all smiles*****, the ever solemn dad still solemn, while mother wore her usual
rather stern expression.
It was good to
have this reassuring picture, visible proof that life at home had not greatly
changed. Father’s letters, written in his impeccable hand, gave us a clear
picture of the national scene as he understood it, and Ma’s gave us news of
family and local happenings. All was well there, and that was great.’
***** Baby sister Edie born
1912, brother Alf 1903, older sister Ciss 1894.
Major “Booth” arranged
for the fun to continue with a proper Christmas Day – given the circumstances
anyway. He sorted out…
‘… a supply of beer, lots of it, to be collected from the
Forces’ Canteen. Volunteers, genuine on this occasion, set off, carrying the
large dixies in which the cooks normally prepared stews or tea. When they
returned, noticeably more talkative and cheerful than before, they carried far
more beer than it appeared likely we could cope with.’
They had Christmas puds
and all sorts of fancies – including, as sanctioned by the officers, goodies from
the parcels of the dear departed (whose mail would be sent on to the sick and
wounded or returned to the families of the dead and missing). After the feast,
gorged and tipsy Sam and Ted took a stroll:
‘The day was dull, the sky grey, the wind very chilly, but
divil a bit cared we… until we came to the hole.
Yes, yet another
hole after all those others I’d lived in recently. This, however, was a big
one, circular and possibly 15 feet deep. When, why or by whom it had been
excavated we had no idea, but now it provided shelter from the winter for a
number of Arabs. Dressed in the usual poor man’s gowns and hood-like headgear,
they crouched in circles well below the rim. They looked ill and miserable.
Dotted all around, above and below them was their excreta, all noticeably
coloured by the blood which escapes from dysentery sufferers.
Of course, I
stated my belief that it was wrong to bring these people from a very poor sort
of life in Egypt to an even worse one in this cheerless island, but Ted
informed me they had competed for the opportunity to come and earn some cash, a
chance seldom available to them at home. Things had not been all that good for
me in recent months, but I still had pity to spare for these poor devils. Even
more so when Ted told me how they, and others, had travelled from Egypt; he
knew because he had been ordered to escort some of them on to a ship, to send
them below and close the hatches. During the voyage, the labourers had to be
kept down there at all times, their guards armed with trenching tool handles to
quell any revolt that might occur.
It all seemed
wrong to me. We walked away discussing the wisdom of the officials concerned in
deciding that these poor, debilitated souls should be sent across the sea to
finish up shivering in a hole in the ground surrounded by shit…’
Still, nothing Ted and
Sam could do. They returned to their camp, more treats – and a hell of a shock:
‘Late that night, Ted left me to return to his tent and we,
the very happy brothers, promised ourselves another lovely day tomorrow.
I had slept for
possibly five hours when the unwelcome roar of a Sergeant roused us all. We had
to pack up as quickly as possible, he bellowed, and be ready to move.
Into every
available space in pack, haversack and mess tin, I crammed as much food as
possible. Cooks handed out fresh-baked loaves – enough to last a few days – and
fried bacon in quantity. They had opened a long, wooden case containing two
large sides of bacon packed in salt, so we ate our fill, stored the remaining
rashers in our tubular cap comforters, and tied these to our belts. Hanging all
the usual pieces of equipment about our persons we picked up our rifles,
slogged down to the landing stage and boarded a small ship, similar to the Robin Redbreast, which had evacuated us from Suvla Bay.
Whither away we
knew not, nor cared overmuch, for disappointment at the interruption of our
Christmas celebrations was deep and our mood doleful. To hell with everything
and everybody; wasn’t that war over? So what were They up to?‘
Sending them back to
Gallipoli, that’s what They were up
to – in Sam’s case, with no chance to say goodbye and offer an explanation to
his brother. The battered Battalion remnants were about to acquaint themselves
with another of the peninsula’s hostile locations, V Beach on Cape Helles and
its iconic WW1 monument, the beached hulk of the SS River Clyde:
‘Many hours later we heard the unwelcome sounds of
occasional gunfire and now, in darkness, when we could just make out land
ahead, a shell screamed overhead and burst somewhere ashore. Our ship crept
slowly forward, far too slowly for my liking, because, added to the likelihood
of injury, was the unpleasant one of drowning as well; and we should by rights
have been feasting and lounging on that Greek island******.
Now we could make
out the black shape of a big ship, berthed in the shallows head-on to the
shore. Moving closer, we saw a large, square opening in her side and, the tide
being just right, our shallower ship could tie up to her and we could step
across into her innards and eventually emerge on to a sort of landing stage. We
hurried along it before gathering, briefly, on the beach beneath towering
cliffs… But no enemy fire came our way.
Excitement and
interest now replaced resentment, as we filed some way up a gully and waited. I
saw someone approach our Major, who then led us further upwards into this
rising gully. A great flash some miles distant seawards gave short illumination
to the scene; we saw we were passing a strange, wooden tower… and at that
moment, almost unbelievably, from the top of it a hunting horn sounded.
“Lie down!” yelled
an unidentified voice and, being no strangers to this life-saving precaution,
we were probably flat on the ground before he was. We heard the usual tearing
scream, the crash, and below us – about the spot where we had first paused – we
saw a brilliant flash and a large cloud of smoke, followed by the whinings of
many flying pieces of shrapnel, the phuts as some of them landed nearby.
Said the voice who
had given us the warning, “That shell was from Asiatic Annie*******, a real big
gun across the sea there in Asia Minor. When the lookout up above sees her
fire, he blows his horn and we have about 30 seconds to take cover. The shells
don’t always land here, of course, but we assume they will.” The informative
bloke added that we had landed at V Beach and that the ship we had come through
was the River
Clyde******** beached there in the first
Gallipoli landings months earlier.’
******
H Montgomery Hyde’s Nathan biography, Strong
For Service, says that, while he was eating his Christmas dinner, Major Nathan/“Booth”
received the order that the Battalion remnants must return to Gallipoli. They duly
shipped out on Boxing Day.
******* Asiatic Annie
shelled V Beach and W Beach on Cape Helles from a 17th-century fort, Kumkalle, at
Tepe, five kilometres from the site of ancient Troy.
********
SS River Clyde: a collier launched in
March, 1905, adapted as a landing ship in 1915; that April, she sailed from
Mudros to Cape Helles V Beach; bombarded from the cliffs, she was beached to
serve as a bridge for landings and then for returning wounded; six of the River Clyde’s crew were awarded VCs; the
apparent hulk was later repaired and sold to Spanish owners who used her as a
Mediterranean tramp steamer until finally scrapping her in 1966; on April 15, V
Beach, only 300 yards long, became one of five main Allied landing places on
Cape Helles; it was overlooked by cliffs, a fort and an ancient castle, Sedd el
Bahr Kale, initially occupied and defended by the Turkish Army, then captured by
the Allies on April 26, 1915.
Despite sharing the widespread
indignation at what the Army had done to them – a sort of betrayal, this sudden
and unexpected return to Gallipoli – and the resulting swift reacquaintance
with the terrors of the battlefield, Sam found to his surprise that he did still
feel the benefit of that brief respite on Lemnos:
‘Even so, through a few days good living and the contact
with normal people provided by the letters from home and those lovely parcels,
I felt changed and strengthened; I knew this tautness was not, at present,
allied to fear, as it sometimes had been when lack of food and sleep had caused
debility. I’d had proof the normal world still carried on, albeit with certain
difficulties, and that we had not been forgotten or given up for lost.’
At first they parked him,
his old Signaller mate Peter Nieter and two others in an open-sided clifftop
Signals post where they had to be careful not roll over the edge while
sleeping. But soon they moved near the beach into a series of the familiar
Gallipoli holes in that flakey ground which made building proper trenches very
tricky. The strategy was to “look busy” to prevent the enemy thinking anyone
had for a single moment pondered the possibility of evacuation – though, in
truth, the Turks had probably worked it all out some weeks or months earlier.
So when German/Turkish planes flew over, the Battalion bustled about as if they
still had serious military intent – and got a nasty surprise:
‘Shortly after dawn that first morning back with our crowd
[at the beach], a lone plane did fly back and forth over our area, so we put on
our busy act for the pilot’s amusement and information. Quite rightly, acting
on instructions, some of our men fired their rifles upwards — imagine our
surprise, though, when the pilot dropped a bomb. It exploded much too close for
our liking and caused a brief interruption to our “busy bee” programme.
That was the first
time I’d thought about the possibility of planes carrying bombs. Probably the
pilot hurled it out of his cockpit. Although it could only have been a small
one, it made quite an impressive bang. Still, no harm done…
However, soon
after that incident, one of our chaps approached our position, a message in his
hand, when another low-flying plane appeared. Our friend more or less
disintegrated before our eyes. Sheer bad luck placed him in the spot where bomb
Number 2 exploded, poor fellow. So, very early in that distant war, did I see
death from the air strike a man down.’
They dropped large darts
too, airborne weaponry being at a rather primitive stage of development then. But,
aside from these distractions, for the 2/1st remnants and their new comrades on
V Beach the chance to resume Christmas-style feasting soon arose, along with
the ready military justification that no Allied food should be left for the
enemy:
‘Our Signals group landed a lovely job which consisted of
going to a large dump near the beach and gradually dispersing its contents:
canned and bottled food and drink intended as extras for officers – anything
that would keep well in cans, boxes, cartons, with smoked items in cotton
wraps, also biscuits, some cakes and sweets, wines, beers, but not much in the
way of spirits. We loaded these good things on to small mule carts.
A very fair way
had been devised to consign them to the troops in equal quantities. Those up at
the Front got the first deliveries, naturally. The officer in charge at the
dump had records of all the units in benefit. We could only work at night, but
during breaks for rest, or while awaiting transports, we were allowed to eat
and drink. Chicken, asparagus, Irish bitter from round brass-coloured tins,
Schweppes lemon squash or Seltzer water, thin lunch biscuits and other
luxuries… for a brief period our small, but fortunate group guzzled these lush
items… we stuffed ourselves to capacity during the night and, in daytime, only
wanted to sleep. But we did work with a will on the job — and so shortened its
duration, unfortunately.’
En route, they still had
some drink left for a modest celebration of New Year. And, rather less
convivially, their officers still had time for a rather exaggerated display of
hostile intent which put Sam and some pals in mortal danger – in a party sent
out to dig advance trenches ahead of their front line… just as if they were
about to launch an attack:
‘We reached what I assumed was the support-line trench where
all the men, except lookouts, were dozing. Forward again and the front line was
our next stop. There, we were each handed a pick or a shovel and our guide led
the way up over the firing step and parapet into No Man’s Land, the space
between us and the enemy. He spaced us out in groups of four and told us to
start digging holes. The picks made more than enough noise on that hard,
peculiar ground and we were sitting ducks for any Turk who cared to take a pot
shot. I wished I was still way back helping with the charitable work at the
officers’ food dump…
When several Turk
light field guns let fly, their nearness surprised me; a strange feature was
the thin, red line visible as each shell left its gun, making me wonder if they
used rather antique pieces. Their trajectory was high, its zenith roughly above
us, yet the shells — not trench mortar bombs, their whine confirmed — burst
only a couple of hundred yards behind us.
No one told us
why, at this stage of the campaign, we poor mugs were digging holes in front of
the Turk trenches at great risk to ourselves and our underpants, but even we of
the lower orders could guess that we played a part in the great game of bluff.
Our top brass hoped John Turk would reason, “They can’t be leaving yet or they
wouldn’t be digging works in advanced positions”. I wonder if they were right –
if the enemy even cared what we were up to? Perhaps he too had seen enough of
the farce. We suffered no casualties.’
And finally… evacuation. On
the night of Thursday, January 6, “at ten minutes notice” according to Hyde’s
Nathan biography – and “in the middle
of tea”! The second for Sam’s Battalion, of course:
‘Once again the quiet line-up in the darkness, the very
quiet roll-call, but then the strong, firm voice of our idolised Major saying
“Forward!” Little artillery activity as, in two lines, we followed him…
After we had
walked for some time, I saw the dark shape of a large building on our left-hand
side. We stopped 30 yards away and I could see that light escaped from several
slits in doors or windows. Apart from slight indications of habitation behind
enemy lines up Krithea way, this was the first real building I’d seen near V
Beach, so I was interested when the voice of one of our best officers informed
us that there stood the fort of Sedd el Bahr, possibly dating from Crusade
times*********…
… we had
successfully crawled away from one battlefront and now we were at it again.
Would the Turks let us do it twice?
Only a few hundred
yards to go and our ears told us that the enemy guns were dropping more shells
around the beaches than they had done for many a day. Why?
… As we reached
the cutting at the landward end of the beach area Asiatic Annie flashed and one
of her huge shells crashed down a couple of hundred yards away, but we walked
steadily forward, hoping to be spared. A sad thing it would be if she wiped
most of us out when we’d got this far…
********* My father was
historically misinformed on this one: the Turks built Sedd El Bahr in 1659.
They crossed the beach
safely, scrambled through the River Clyde’s
innards, and out the other side of the hull to board a metal lighter. When the 2/1st
landed at Suvla in September, they’d travelled teetering on deck, which felt
dodgy enough. But this time they crowded in below – far more alarming, Sam
found:
‘Dim light from a candle lantern, the air already foetid,
and the horrible feeling of being imprisoned in a dark, stuffy hold frightened
me more than anything ashore had done.
With all aboard,
we stood too closely packed for anyone’s peace of mind. We heard the engine
start, felt the motion, up, down, and somewhat sideways. We stood silent, prey
to individual fears and hopes. Time passed. A distant gun, the shriek of a
shell overhead followed by the familiar explosion heightened the claustrophobic
threat of our situation.
I forced myself
then, as I have done many times since, to take stock painstakingly of every
factor relevant to our position.
On the credit side
of the account one could enter: the excellent protection provided by the stout
metal hull and deck of our lighter – nothing but a direct hit could hurt us;
the proven steadiness and, in many cases, the courage of my companions – they
had fulfilled their contract, signed when they had enlisted, to be loyal at all
times to their king and country, good chaps to live and toil with when
difficulties and dangers had to be dealt with; we had shelter from the weather
– it wasn’t at all bad outside, but it could change and showers of rain, shot
or shavings couldn’t touch you down there.
But, debit: it was
getting hot and stuffy, we were jammed very close, the tiny light might blow
out… supposing one was taken short, what could you do about that? No room to
get across to the steps and the cover over the opening would be closed and your
pants would be holding an unwelcome load before you could do anything about it.’
Nonetheless, they sailed
away again, soon transferring to the relative comfort of a small ship called
the Partridge:
‘Partridge, probably
related to the Robin Redbreast that
lifted us from Suvla, chugged off into the night, taking us away from all the
nasty bangs and flashes and wounds and deaths which make life on active service
so unpleasant for us who would much prefer life in an equable clime with a full
belly under a tree with a glass of wine and thou and that sort of thing.’
At Lemnos again, the
remnants of the Battalion boarded a troopship/liner called Minneapolis and soon sailed for Egypt, and almost four months of rest
encamped between the Nile and the Sahara as some decent food and a little light
training built them up for their next task… the Somme.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Somme Rewind 1 of 5 – France, a stolen
kiss, a bitter ending for the 2/1st, and settling into “the business of war” on
the Western Front…
* In his 70s, Sam
Sutcliffe wrote Nobody Of Any Importance,
a Memoir of his life from childhood
through Gallipoli, the Somme, Arras 1918 and eight months as a POW to the 1919
Peace parade.
