Dear all
A hundred years ago… the battles
ground on at Ypres (French, British and Belgian Armies against the German
Army), the Yser (Belgium and France against Germany), and the Vistula (Russia
against Germany), but the major development was the Ottoman Empire’s entry into
hostilities – announced, not diplomatically, on October 29 by its Navy
beginning to bombard the Russian Black Sea ports Odessa, Sevastopol and
Feodosia. Meanwhile, the conflict spread in Africa: today, October 26, is the
centenary of France occupying parts of German colony The Cameroons and of
German forces invading Portuguese West Africa (later Angola).
Also,
away from these grand, terrible events, a hundred years ago today my father,
16-year-old volunteer and Edmonton boy Sam Sutcliffe, at last got issued with his Royal
Fusiliers uniform – seven weeks after enlisting.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Following England’s Indian summer, in October
the weather turned cool and rainy. New junior officers, learning on the job,
squarebashed Sam, his three pals, and the rest of the thousand-man Battalion (2/1st
City Of London) around the parade ground at the Foundlings Hospital in Kings
Cross and marched them miles on city and suburban streets -–Hampstead Heath a
popular destination. They could think of nothing else to do; they had no
weapons, nor even any uniforms.
As
Sam recalls (new readers note my father called himself “Tommy” and wrote in the
third person for the first part of his Memoir):
“Tommy surmised that residents,
and others... might speculate as to how all this was helping the troops already
fighting and being wounded or killed. How about giving each man a rifle and
showing him how to fire it, how to use a bayonet? Many people were saying that
would have been better preparation for war. Tommy agreed. But we hadn’t the
uniforms or the arms apparently... And Tommy and many thousands of other early
volunteers may have owed their survival to that lack of war materials...
The
famous Spaniards Inn at Hampstead found itself swamped with customers on days
when Army trainees were in the vicinity. Tommy enjoyed the cheap, satisfying
lunches there. He felt good beer replenishing his strength, chunks of bread and
cheese satisfying his hunger, the crunchy crusts adding to the meal a rhythmic
percussion... War, according to the school history books he’d read, had never
been this pleasant. But, while good weather lasted, the men naturally enjoyed
this period of playing at soldiers, as some described it.”
Bar the days when they got soaked, that was.
Having worked for a couple of years since leaving school at 14, Sam/Tommy had a
decent coat and “sound footwear... but what of the poor
devils in flimsy suits and shoes?” he writes. “Even
those who had joined for some imagined advantage had, for the most part, also
believed the cause was a good one and so had tackled the new life with zest and
good intentions. The temporary stagnation was depressing... ”
Until,
finally:
“However,
came the day when all doubt and disappointment vanished: an announcement that,
from the last Monday in October [the 26th!], the two Companies who, each day,
took their turn to occupy the Battalion Headquarters would be solely occupied
with the long-anticipated distribution of uniforms: greatcoats, tunics,
trousers, socks, boots, puttees, undervests, shirts, pants, all crowned by a
military cap with a Regimental badge. Much mirth ensued from the announcement
that each man would be issued with a housewife, but this turned out to be
nothing more sexy than a roll-up cloth pouch holding needles, cotton, buttons
and so on.
The
recruits were expected to buy tins of a paste called Soldier’s Friend, also a
small brush and a peculiar six-inch piece of metal with a lengthwise slot —
called a button stick, for reasons soon revealed. An instructor demonstrated
the art of accurately directing a shot of spittle to the centre of the paste,
scooping some buttons into the slot on the stick, dabbing the brush into the
paste, scrubbing the buttons, and finally polishing them.
Then the
NCOs showed them how to convert their great coats into long slim rolls, the
ends of the rolls to be brought together and secured with a cord or strap, the
loop then passed over the head to rest on the right shoulder diagonally across
the body. In fine weather, the welcome order to listen out for was ‘Great coats
will be worn en banderole’. Was this expression borrowed from Napoleon’s Army, Tommy wondered.
Nobody enlightened him and he never heard the phrase used by officers of any
other Army unit. He assumed the Foreign Legion and his Royal Fusiliers had at
least those two words in common.
On
receiving his kit he couldn’t get home fast enough.
Later in
the war he sometimes recalled that day. He didn’t realise its importance at the
time, none of them did as far as he knew. Quite light-heartedly, he wished to
throw off the clothes of a mere civilian and be seen as a soldier — after weeks
of trying to be one while still dressed in his boyish suit and bowler. But, in
truth, he was shedding the garb of freedom, doing so eagerly, divesting himself
of clothing which entitled him to go almost anywhere in Great Britain without
let or hindrance and putting on the uniform of service or maybe of serfdom.
From then on, if called upon to do so by Military Police or gentlemen holding
His Majesty’s Commission, he would have to account for his presence in any
location.
His
family showed great interest in the quality of the clothing, touching the
uniform and rubbing it between thumbs and forefingers like so many tailors. All
good stuff, they agreed: vest and long pants of wool, warm, heavy garments;
socks too would obviously stand much hard wear and ensure warm feet in he
coldest weather. The name Schneider in the cap struck them all as being rather
strange. ‘What,’ asked Dad, ‘is the British Army doing with headgear of
apparently German manufacture?’
Hastily,
Tommy changed into the uniform. He found all the garments fitted him well,
except that the boots were too big, albeit the smallest in stock as the
Quartermaster had explained when issuing them. So, for his early months in the
Army, Tommy had to wear two pairs of grey socks to fill out the heavy boots. He
would have to buy two pairs of socks as near to the official ones in colour and
weight as possible so he could rotate two pairs on and two in the wash.
He’d put
on everything but the puttees. He began his first attempt to wind these
bandages round his calves, starting with a turns around the ankle... spacing
each turn evenly a requirement not easy to satisfy. However, after a few
awkward failures, he came close to achieving the correct outcome. Then he stood
up straight and still, eyes looking straight ahead at their own level, chin in,
shoulders back, chest out, stomach in, knees back, heels together, toes apart
at an angle of 90 degrees — all as per instructions, the very figure of a
soldier, he hoped.
Mother
studied him, tears in her eyes... and she laughed and laughed and laughed. This
puzzled and disappointed the self-conscious lad. He searched her face to
discover if the mirth was a derisory reaction. As he watched her, understanding
came to him and he also laughed and laughed. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘You can
see it all as I do. I’m not sneering at the boy soldier, but to see one of my
children dressed as a fighting man for the first time, standing stiff as a
ramrod and so serious with it. Well, it’s just too much.’ The laughter petered
out with some quickly concealed tears.
Tommy
ventured into the street to avoid further embarrassment and perchance to see if
neighbours had any comment to make. Looking up the street towards the main road
he thrilled to see brother Ted already wearing his Army gear, striding briskly
towards him.
His keen
scrutiny turned to pleasurable surprise and pride when the boy saw how neatly
the clothes fitted Ted’s small, but well-proportioned body. He would have
valued a pair of legs of that shape himself — slightly bowed, the calves
flattered by his carefully rolled puttees. A flicker of the heartache he felt
throughout life, whenever it seemed that someone he loved was drifting away,
assailed him briefly at that moment. Faulty reasoning, sentimentality, a soft
streak, these he always feared were at the root of these feminine lapses which
must be concealed if he was ever to become a real man. Other people didn’t
appear bothered by them. In any case, people’s feelings were only of interest
to themselves, not to be indecently exposed.”
All
the best — FSS
Next week: Finally, Sam, Ted and the lads leave London – and home for
the first time in their lives...
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