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Dear all
A hundred years ago… this week the
South African/British invasion of German South-West Africa (later Namibia)
re-emphasised the “world” dimension of the Great War, but the bloody to and fro
on Western and Eastern Fronts continued via marginal successes for the French
and German Armies, while ancient and modern fighting methods both had their
days with British (Zeebrugge) and German (Cloister Hoek) air raids in Holland
on April 1, a Thursday that year, and a Russian cavalry victory against the
Germans in northern Poland the following day.
Meanwhile,
the tangled build-up to Gallipoli detoured to the Black Sea where, on April 3,
a German/Turkish squadron fought what’s reported to be one of the most
tactically complex naval battles ever, if this
wikipedia account is right – although it ended with battlecruiser Goeben and light cruiser Breslau successfully running back to the
Bosphorus, and no decisive outcome. But the two German ships had, the previous November, played what
Churchill, then First Lord Of The Admiralty, saw as a fateful hand in drawing
the Ottoman Empire into the war by attacking the Russian fleet in the Black
Sea.
Down
in Malta, though, my father Private Sam Sutcliffe’s 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, experienced no hot action, only hot
weather. Feeling pleasantly surprised – and a little guilty too, given they’d expected
to go straight to the Front in France – the 1,000 volunteers, including
16-year-old Sam’s brother Ted, 18, and their two mates from Edmonton, north
London, Len Minns and Harold Mellow, continued feeling their way into the first
foreign country any of them had ever visited.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
At
St George’s Barracks, a Foreign Legion-style outpost in a barren area north of
Valletta, they felt their way into the new climate and customs. In his Memoir,
my father wrote (with usual warning to new readers that to this point he wrote
third-person, calling himself “Tommy”):
‘Mostly, the weather stayed warm and fine, but Tommy learned
that the Mediterranean could occasionally cut up rough. Perhaps for three days
on end heavy rain showers would prevent them training in the open. Then
instruction, limited by space available, continued in barrack rooms or along
the covered sidewalks.
These occasions
provided opportunities to give tired muscles and overworked sweat glands a rest
— and if, sometimes, flies or mosquitoes became a problem, for sixpence they
could buy a little bird, similar to an English wagtail but yellow, which busied
itself devouring insects all day long. The Maltese vendor clipped its wings so
that it couldn’t fly away.’
So
they got stuck into their squarebashing, day after day, with little idea of
where and when they might finally be called upon to put it into practice. Coming
to know one another better than when they’d lived at home in London or billeted
with families in Tonbridge seemed a plus – except when Sam/”Tommy” feared the
secret of his sworn and attested lie about his age might be exposed by his own
shortcomings… or the malice of others:
‘So the first few weeks on Malta passed and familiarity with
daily complicated drills and exercises achieved the desired result of making
the men feel confident and, collectively, a creditable organisation. Although
the individual valued his personal standing, in each Company a real feeling of
comradeship grew as they endeavoured to at least equal their rivals.
In the barrack
room one saw groupings develop — two, three, or four men would spend much of
their spare time together, playing cards, going to the canteen or outside the
camp in their groups. But, overriding these alliances and friendships, all
sharing the room showed a common consideration for each other and Tommy felt
comfortable among them despite being so much younger.
Only one of them
could and did shake his composure: George Goodbody*, mentioned during the
Battalion’s training days in London. He still had the capability and habit of
downgrading Tommy’s ego with a snide remark accompanied by a white-toothed
smile which, to match his words and tone, should have been a scowl. Thus, while
never saying anything to the authorities, he wielded the bit of power he held
by knowing Tommy’s real age.
Still Tommy felt
fortunate in having roommates who could not be described as coarse in any
sense. When so moved or inspired, they would use adjectives which would not
have shamed a Billingsgate** fish porter, but all was free of malice to anyone
present.
Furthermore, every
soldier really wanted his Company’s officers to be something special, maybe
even asserting that theirs were better than the others. Although some
disappointed, of course. Many eyes watched the officers while they did their
work; the men could easily identify the most efficient. Those not too fortunate
in their leaders showed impatience and near-resentment. But, hopefully, they
still gave of their best. Although, by nature, some NCOs and officers were more
tolerant than others, most grew used to demanding a reasonable standard of
discipline. The average was satisfactory, at least, and most men disregarded
the grumblers.
Tommy saw, heard
and felt what went on around him and often feared he might be something of a
liability in his Company. However, nobody told him so and his boyish efforts to
please gained him a little good will.’
* The inappropriately named Goodbody (an alias
chosen with Dickensian intent by my father, I think) had loomed over him since
the Battalion’s mass marches through London, as my father recalled earlier in
the Memoir: “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.” Back
then, he’d guessed that “once we were out of England there would be no risk of
him forcing a showdown”, but, clearly, the man retained his evil-eyed hold over
the youngster.
**
No longer a household name – nor byword for foul language –Billingsgate fish
market operated off Lower Thames Street south-east London from the 16th Century
until moved to the Isle Of Dogs, Tower Hamlets in 1981.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam/“Tommy” and the strange case of the boxing glove in the
night…
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