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Dear all
A hundred years ago… today, on May
31, but a Monday, the first Zeppelin bombing raid on London caused an eruption
of public outrage which, in retrospect, may seem disproportionate amid a war
dealing in mass slaughter daily on the various frontlines. LZ38 flew from
Evère, outside Brussels, found London – a tricky business in an airship – and,
following the Kaiser’s instructions to leave his family at Buckingham Palace
well alone, dropped 120 bombs (90 of them incendiaries) on a line from Stoke
Newington to Stepney and then east to Leytonstone. Seven died, but several of
the fatalities were children, which resulted in the British dubbing their enemy
“baby killers”. Further mob attacks ensued on London Germans and other
foreigners suspected of being German (earlier that month one victim was a Scot
with an “ach” in his name, a Mr Strachan).
Elsewhere,
the bloody to and fro continued in France, Poland, the Italian Alps, Mesopotamia and in Cameroon.
And
at Gallipoli, a British/Indian and French attack in the Helles sector again
ended in failure at the Third Battle Of Krithia (British/Indian casualties
4,500, French 2,000; Turkish reported as 3,000 dead). One controversy from a
small detail of the action still rages today: Lieutenant GRD Moor of the
Hampshire Regiment was awarded a VC for turning a mass of fleeing British
soldiers from another Regiment back towards the Turks – according to some
sources via the expedient of shooting the four leaders of the disorderly
retreat; other sources say this is unconfirmed by any clear account or record
and may have been put about by his seniors pour
encourage les autres.
Meanwhile...
at St George’s Barracks, Malta, the thousand men of the 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, including my father, Private Sam
Sutcliffe and his older brother Ted (both underage
volunteers, 16 and 18 respectively as of early summer 1915), and their pals
from Edmonton, north London, continued their training and wondering where
they’d finally end up “in the trenches” (Gallipoli was the immediate answer; you
readers can know, but nobody was telling the PBI). However, despite this
certain sense of aimlessness, Sam had found new work he enjoyed by signing up
as a specialist Signaller, developing skills he first acquired back home in the
Boy Scouts...
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, Sam luxuriated in recollection of
Saturdays off, the young trainee soldier as tourist, taking his ease in a nice
Valletta tea room and getting a guided tour of a French battleship in the
harbour (here)… It’s quite a thought that for many of these working-class lads,
like Sam and his pals, the war was the only time they ever set foot outside
their own country.
But,
as he recalls in his Memoir, the time came to get down to business – the dirty
work, you could say – beyond the rather technical, classroom atmosphere of
Signals training. They’d been supplied with guns, finally, some weeks earlier;
now they had to learn how to use them:
‘Life as a member of the Signals Section felt far more
fulfilling than that of an ordinary “squaddie”, but now came our turn to learn
something of armed combat. This brought our group under instruction from men
who regarded soldiering as something much tougher and harsher than did our own
Sergeant, to whom ohms and amps, dots and dashes, and field telephones were the
tools which would actually win the war.
A major part of the
basic training concerned the ranker’s weapon, the rifle. Once issued to him,
that rifle’s number was entered against his name. It became his main
responsibility, a court martial for him if he mislaid it, and the “rookie” must
learn the name, position and function of every part of his gun.
The bolt was an
intricate piece of mechanism, a moving and removable part containing within it
a strong spring and a striking pin. Consider then what happened when you
squeezed the trigger — the bolt spring was released, the striker pin pierced a
small explosive cap, this ignited tightly packed strands of cordite in the
cartridge case creating enormous pressure in that small space which propelled
the metal cone blocking the outlet at express speed through the rifle barrel to
the destruction or mutilation of some unfortunate person… or as the instructor
would say, “It’ll put paid to some poor bastard”. If your aim was good…
When you raised the
bolt’s lever it came backwards, engaging, withdrawing, and expelling the
cartridge case of a fired bullet. When you then pushed the bolt forward it
shoved a fresh cartridge into position ready for firing. Speed must be
developed in doing this, so that you could kill more enemies in a given time.
The instructor pointed out a brass plate on the wide butt where a hinged, small
tongue protected a hole out of which one could extract a small oil container
and a pull-through — a cord with a slim metal weight at one end and a loop to
hold a piece of cloth at the other. Lubricating and cleaning the rifle and its barrel
was quite an important part of a soldier’s job.
Now, dear reader,
you are almost as proficient as I was in the mechanics of a lethal weapon and
probably hoping, as I was, that you may never have to shoot a fellow human. You
may say so freely, but I kept my trap shut, perforce. I continued adding to my
knowledge thus… at the tip of the barrel is the foresight and, closer to the
rifleman’s eye, the backsight, adjustable. Cut into the latter is a U or a V
and so, holding the rifle tightly to your right shoulder, left hand supporting
the barrel, you look with your right eye along the gun and bring the
foresight’s tip into line with the shoulders of the backsight and both in line
with the bottom of the object to be shot at. Pressing the butt hard into your
right shoulder, now squeeze the trigger between the right thumb and forefinger…
But, before
actually firing a live round, we need more training. “Lie down,” says the
instructor. “Take aim as taught.” He lies down too, a few yards in front of
you, facing your rifle, brave man. The target, which he holds, has a tiny hole
in the centre of its bull’s-eye through which he peers to see if your gun is
correctly sighted. At his command you fire… fortunately, you are using wooden
bullets, so when the trigger is pressed only a sharp click follows, but the
instructor can see if, in the firing process, there is too much movement of the
rifle barrel. By the way, the instructor examines these wooden bullets before
and after each practice because, he says, a live round got among the dummies
once and the Army lost a good teacher.’
Science
and technique; every part of this training stayed with Sam. The deadly effect,
as will emerge in due course, stayed with him for the rest of his life.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Rifle training continues – firing live rounds, the
humiliating importance of the safety catch, Maltese fishermen duck for their
lives…
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