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Dear all
A hundred years ago today… in the
northern Indian Ocean near the Cocos Islands, the Australian cruiser Sydney
wrecked the German cruiser Emden which, in the previous two months had sunk 25
civilian and two Allied Navy ships. Then November 11 in 1914 proved a day for
battles starting: Lodz, Poland, where German and Russian Armies fought
inconclusively in snow and ice for more than three weeks (125,000 casualties);
Basra, Mesopotamia (now Iraq), where over the following 10 days, British and
Indian troops secured the Persian (now Iranian) oilfields by defeating the
Ottoman Army. On that day, too, Sultan Mehmed V declared Jihad on the Allies, “the
last genuine proclamation of Jihad in history by a Caliph”. I guess we’re may
notice contemporary bells ringing...
Meanwhile,
my father Sam Sutcliffe, older brother Ted, and their volunteer pals from Edmonton,
north London, left home for the first time and started what proved to be a very
long and eventful run-up to actual warfare...
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Writing
in the third person in the first part of the Memoir and calling himself
“Tommy”, Sam took an ironic view of himself, the innocent 16-year-old in his
new Royal Fusiliers uniform marching off to... well, not exactly war just yet,
his Battalion gathered that their departure from London (about November 7)
would not mean immediate immersion in the tribulations of the Western Front but
something a little stressful in the Home Counties.
Obviously, this allowed young Sam/Tommy
freedom to strut, inwardly at least, telling himself heroic tales of his own
derring-do to come:
“His imagination wove a tapestry designed by vanity,
coloured by optimism. Its title could have been ‘Me, Wonderful Me’.”
But,
as the Battalion gathered in Bloomsbury to march to London Bridge station and a
southbound train, his thoughts descended to more practical matters — and the
close observations of his fellow foot soldiers which supplied these images from
his remarkable memory when he wrote it all down more than 50 years later (my
father often used aliases for one reason or another, so he may have changed any
or all of these names, although they sound real enough):
“Following instructions, Tommy had written his Regimental
number 2969, his name, Company and Battalion in bold capitals on his kit bag.
Carrying it balanced on a shoulder, he felt little discomfort, its weight not
great, even with all the items issued so far. Companies marched separately to
Greys Inn Road, where they joined up in a long column heading south towards
Holborn... still in the early stages of war, onlookers knew these recruits had
volunteered* and had their own pleasant ways of acknowledging them. Tommy felt
this infectious friendliness made the troops, as the recipients of kindness,
more considerate of each other.
He could see his
comrades to the left and right and some of those ahead of him… Sticky Pryke,
the Soho wide-boy, outgiving with his rich Cockney humour, but quick to take offence,
marched in the row of four immediately in front of Tommy. Alongside him, Ewart
Walker**... A
rather elderly fellow of scholarly appearance, an ex-journalist and very knowledgeable, he looked stern, or
somewhat benign, or quizzical, all dependent on what the brainy bloke was
observing at any given moment — nice to watch the
steady, kindly, old chap plodding along on his sturdy legs, a slight roll to
his body as he marched. ‘Wonder why he didn’t go for a commission? Money
problem I guess,’ thought Tommy.
Looking left along
his own row, Tommy might receive a nod and grin from old Joe Parker, a
Billingsgate porter until recently and ordinary seaman before that – who’d
apprised choirboy Tommy of the wisdom that “with sacks over their heads, all
women look alike”. From his right, perhaps, a snappy quip from Frank Lawler.
About 33 years old, Tommy surmised, slim, sporting a trim, narrow moustache,
outspoken and, when they marched at ease, a loud singer of popular songs — and
home-made parodies thereof. His comments could be rather personal, but he took
the rough replies and studied insults with the good humour he expected of
others and successfully pricked the bubbles of conceit which made some men
sullen when their pride was assaulted. Tommy had been an early victim of
Lawler’s sallies, but by now the blush of self-consciousness no longer suffused
his face at every jibe and he could sometimes manage a retort or otherwise grin
and appear to enjoy what he couldn’t avoid.
The garrulous
Goodbody, his broad shoulders visible over rows of those in front of Tommy, was
one of several men he tried to keep clear of. Goodbody had a bright,
penetrating eye. Tommy knew the fellow guessed he was too young to be a
soldier. Always, if Tommy met his gaze, he seemed about to say something.
“I always found
something to be doing elsewhere when it appeared that Goodbody intended to talk
to me,” Tommy later recalled***. “Fear of the man, or of what he might say in
the hearing of others, made me keep a wary eye on him. But I always felt that
once we were out of England there would be no risk of him forcing a showdown.”
Much more
comforting to have in view on the march was Price, a six-footer with a sort of
baby face, soon dubbed “High” Price. When pleased — which meant most of the time
— he had this girlish sort of smile. A pronounced dimple showed in each cheek.
Nothing girlish, though, about that strong physique nor his challenging mien if
he suspected anyone of getting at him.
No danger of that
from High Price’s neighbour on the march, Nick Thompson, about 28, a purposeful
family man, a believer in all the decencies, who never deviated from his
obvious lifelong habit of giving and expecting fair dealing. He marched
carefully, steadily, and yet joined in the sociability around him, their
comradeship already developing.
A couple of rows
further on, Jack Pawson, tall, thin, but just the figure to show off a uniform,
along with a face and neat moustache one would expect of a real soldier — yet
his head looked rather small, giving a suggestion of frailty, as did his
thinnish, putteed calves. Tommy had found him to be kindly and serious;
probably most of the slick, Cockney humour which flew back and forth had no
meaning for him. Jack marched with a Harker at either shoulder, brothers Percy
and Reg; Percy of medium height, slight build, black hair, blue shaven chin, a
sort of non-stop seeker after knowledge, always delving away and questioning;
brother Reg quieter, diffident, very likeable.
Heavens, thought
Tommy, there’s the Old Bailey already. Thinking about his comrades — these men
becoming a real part of his life — had made him oblivious to the distance
covered. If he was only a lad, at least a fine, protective screen of older men
was forming around him…
The crunching
tramp, tramp of all those heavy boots proceeded… sometimes sounding above them,
the din of clattering horses’ hooves, merry or cursing wagon drivers, noisy
petrol engines and hooting motor horns... south from Cheapside along King
William Street and across the Thames via London Bridge.
Came the order
‘Break step!’, cheerfully obeyed by many who indulged momentarily in some fancy
footwork for a laugh; Battalions of troops always walked out of step over
bridges to avoid setting up a swinging motion which might cause damage, perhaps
even to this stolid structure.”
* With this blog coming out on
Remembrance Sunday, it’s worth a statistical note: in early August, 1914,
Parliament called for 100,000 volunteers; by the end of September, 750,000 had
come forward, by January, 1915, a million...
**Shortly after landing at Gallipoli
in September, 1915, my father learned that “Ewart Walker, the erudite
ex-journalist, had died within moments of reaching the beach — a time-fused
shell exploded above his head, relieving him of any requirement to further tax
his ageing body, and depriving us of a very good comrade.”
*** To me, this is the moment when
my father started to drift towards his eventual decision to go full-on into the
first person — “I” instead of “he/Tommy” — perhaps no longer needing that
distance the third person gives, perhaps recognising more of his adult self
emerging from the child… both or neither, I can’t be sure because back in the
‘70s I didn’t think to ask him!
Next stop, the first away from home
for Sam/Tommy and his older brother Ted, turned out to be a startlingly genteel
location, given their poor upbringing in Edmonton. My father subtly disguised
the name of the Kentish town where the Battalion billeted, but you may be able
to work it out...
“At London Bridge station, the Battalion, together with a
great deal of equipment, filled a fairly long train of the old London, South
Eastern and Chatham Railway, LSE and C for short, a line saddled with various
nicknames including “Lazy, Slow, Easy and Cold”. But Tommy considered the
seating to be roomy and well-upholstered...
Well, now here was
Bunbridge and Tommy’s feet were among the first to touch down on the station
platform.
The troops left
the station as quickly as the exit allowed and gathered into their various companies
on the road outside... Lieutenant Swickenham announced that men should go to
their allotted lodgings as soon as they were handed their billeting slips... A
large map hung on a nearby fence and NCOs, who had visited the town previously
to plan the operation, helped their men to locate their new addresses. Tommy’s
slip of paper read: Mr and Mrs Fluter, 12, Leigh Drive.”
All the best — FSS
Next
week: Sam’s Fusiliers start digging trenches – in Kent!
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