Dear all
A hundred years ago today… British
and Indian Regiments concluded the Battle Of Basra by capturing the city from
the Ottoman Empire, thereby “securing the Persian oilfields” (for the time
being, anyway). But more significantly, the day before, the First Battle Of
Ypres ended in a crucial stalemate; the German Army called it quits although
the casualty lists, while terrible for all, showed a huge imbalance between
them and the Allies – 46,000 Germans, 85,000 French, 56,000 British (out of
163,000 men involved), 22,000 Belgian. During the next few days several German
leaders argued that the war could not be won now, but Generals Ludendorff and
Von Hindenburg (promoted to Field-Marshall on the 27th) successfully urged
continuation... of the slaughterous stasis they had barely begun to explore, as
it turned out.
Meanwhile,
down in Bunbridge, alias Tun/Tonbridge (the spelling adjusted some years
earlier to avoid postal confusion with Tunbridge Wells – really!), under-age Royal
Fusiliers volunteer Sam Sutcliffe, his older brother Ted, and their Edmonton
pals enjoyed their ongoing pleasant surprise at alighting in a Kentish town
rather than the Western Front.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
My father, Sam, 16 – pro tem still “Tommy” in the
third-person early stages of his Memoir – was feeling his way into an
unfamiliar role as guest/billetee in the home of a prosperous couple, the
Fluters. Soon he found his politeness leading him into uncomfortable emulation
of his kind host, as Sam recalled from the first Sunday evening he and fellow
Fusilier Churniston lodged there:
‘That night, just before they all retired Mr Fluter said, “I’m
an early riser. Have to be. As manager I feel I should be first on the scene.
So I keep the entry keys. Nobody can work till I open the doors so I must never
be late. To give my day a bright and fresh start I step into a cold bath at
precisely 6.30am on every working day. I’m shaved, dressed and ready for
breakfast at 7 and away before 7.30. So you lads can consider the bathroom
yours from 7 o’clock onwards.”
Tommy remembered that other early-morning, cold-water
enthusiast Mr Frusher*. So he asked if he might indulge in this discipline and
received permission. He associated the habit with good living, good clothes,
and success. Churniston did not ask this favour for himself, but expressed his
admiration for Tommy’s pluck.
At 7 the next morning, there was a noticeable nip in the air.
The cork bath mat had a nice sloppy surface on which Tommy stood while running
his four inches or so straight from the chilly, mains, water pipes. His
previous cold, morning dips had been those enjoyed by all at Scout camps — a
preliminary gallop down the hill before plunging into the stream, fun pushing
or pulling in the slackers, marvelling at the mystery of Frusher’s floating
soap** and other diversions.
But, here, nothing to distract him from that white, chilly
bath, and its icy water. He climbed in, sat down, breathless. Soaked his
flannel and got to work, quickly rinsed off the suds, stood up and dried
himself furiously. Soon feeling clean — and elated by his own bravery — glowing
now with warmth, he went down to the small breakfast room and devoured
everything dear Mrs F offered him: porridge, egg and bacon, toast and
marmalade. She expressed her surprise at his opting for the cold dip and
suggested he gave it up if he didn’t really enjoy it. But he resolved to endure
this little ritual about which Mr Fluter made no fuss at all.’
* A formative influence
on Tommy/Sam’s childhood and teens back in Edmonton – vicar, choirmaster,
Scoutmaster, piano teacher.
** Proctor & Gamble’s
Ivory brand, marketed in America from 1878, did float; at the time, the company
declared it an accidental outcome of the manufacturing process, but in 2004 a
company archivist revealed it had been a planned gimmick, good for sales and
economical because it involved whipping bubbles of air into the soap.
It remained a puzzle to the recruits that, two months
after joining up, they still had no rifles, much less training in how to use
them. Still, wrote Sam, from the first weekend onwards, their Bunbridge sojourn
did at least offer them the chance to learn one useful battlefield skill –
digging:
‘On the first Friday night, they had instruction in marking
out and digging trenches. Then Saturday morning saw the troops at the railway
sidings. A long line of carriages and several goods wagons had been allocated
to the Battalion. The windows already displayed Company signs, A, B, C and so
on, and they practised entraining in correct order. They loaded quantities of
picks, shovels and spades into the wagons, along with large boilers, and sacks
full of sufficient unbreakable enamel mugs and plates for all the men.
At the last moment before dispersal each Company officer told
his men what was afoot. As a precaution, lines of trenches were to be dug
around Outer London. Their Battalion, responsible for a small part of these
defences, would entrain at 8am and travel to their section where they would dig
from 9 to 4. Time for cleaning tools and loading them would allow departure at
5 and they would be back in Bunbridge by 6. This work would occupy several
weeks and the good people at their billets should be told that their guests
would be out between 8am and 6pm. It was hoped that their hosts would provide
some sort of packed lunch for the men. Tea would be brewed at the site. So
Saturday mornings should be spent thoroughly cleaning clothes, footwear and
themselves — at the town’s public baths if their billets lacked the facilities.
Thus, their temporary pattern of living became established. This helped the
host families because it gave them a chance to organise their own work and
leisure...
Given fair weather most days, the work moved ahead at a good
rate. Tommy found that, because they had more men than tools, they got generous
rest periods between spells of digging and shovelling. Although his hands
became tender and his arms tired towards the end of the morning, he felt sure
he would be able to cope...
People tend
to visualise a trench system as one long, straight line but the British Army at
that time used a different design. A trench would run straight for perhaps ten
yards, then take a 90-degree turn to the right for three yards, becoming
narrower too, then a similar left for three yards, then right again and
thereafter resume the original direction and width.
Most of the excavated soil would be thrown over the back of
the trench, forming the parados. Having dug down five feet — and four feet in
width — the troops would further deepen it to around seven feet (depending on
the nature of the ground), but leaving an 18-inch-wide step at the front which
soldiers on lookout duty would stand on to observe the enemy or to fire from.
The top foot of earth at that front side would be removed and moved forward
somewhat, and unevenly, to form the parapet.’
Soon they encountered another of the Western Front’s
bugbears – rain. However, without the further inconveniences of shot and shell,
they coped quite well:
‘On days when steady rain
set in, mud soon made trench-digging difficult. A halt would be called and
everyone stood around until, perhaps, the officers decided to cease work for
the day. Regardless, Army caps had waterproof linings, the greatcoats made of
strong, thick cloth, and the boots stout, so nobody suffered. But when they
finished early, since the train would not arrive until the appointed time, the
station had to shelter this great crowd of soldiers; some enjoyed a crafty game
of cards, others just chatted, dozed or read (many, like Tommy, always carried
some sort of reading matter with them). Gambling was forbidden, so card schools
made sure they concealed their bets and had a man looking out for approaching
NCOs too’
All the best — FSS
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