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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… maybe
the kind of phase that originated that not irony-free phrase “all quiet on the
Western Front”. The summaries note only a German Army attack north of Artois
repulsed (November 27) – not to say that men weren’t dying daily on both sides.
In the East, the Russian Army continued its winter turnaround with a series of
victories over the German at Tzaremunde (Latvia, 23), Yanopol (Ukraine, 24) and
Pinsk (Belarus, 28). They succeeded much further south too, defeating Turkish
and Kurdish forces at Karaj and Yengi Iman in Persia (26).
The
4th Battle Of The Isonzo between Italy and Austria continued, but the Italian
Army took Rovereto (in Trentino, 23) from Austria – which promptly called for
German assistance.
But
the greatest events took place in less-remembered parts of the conflict.
On
November 25, the Serbian Army, assailed by a combination of Bulgarian, German
and Austro-Hungarian Regiments since October 7, finally cracked and fled in
full retreat through Albania, sustaining terrible casualties because of the
weather more than the fighting – the Siberian blizzard that swept Gallipoli
afflicted the Balkans too.
And
in Mesopotamia (Iraq), after a series of British Indian Army victories over the
Ottoman along the Tigris, a sudden reversal saw the previously disregarded
Colonel Nureddin lead his men to hold back a fresh attack at Ctesiphon, 16
miles south-east of Baghdad and then chase their foes 100 miles back to Kut.
Meanwhile,
in Gallipoli, at Suvla Bay, the 2/1st City Of London
Battalion, Royal
Fusiliers, including my father, Lance Corporal Signaller Sam Sutcliffe
from Edmonton, north London (still under-age at 17), had to concentrate above
all on dealing with the weather… as did the Turks, no doubt. For a time, only
snipers persisted in “fighting”…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, in his Memoir my father wrote about his
own experience of the great Gallipoli blizzard of late November, 1915 (in the
rhythm of the Memoir I had to start covering it a week early); venturing down
from his two-man 24-hour hilltop Signals post to seek food from Battalion HQ when
he and gloomy colleague Harry Green “looked like dying quite soon”; discovering
his 2/1st comrades huddled together in the open –forced out of their trenches
by floods of melted snow and.
Reluctantly
accepting the Quartermaster’s best offer of two biscuits and a handful of tea
to last him and Green “for an indefinite period”, he returned to the hilltop
and found Harry had foolishly taken his boots off and was “a right mess” – he
soon fell into delirium. Sam phoned Brigade HQ for a replacement, reused the
tea repeatedly (dodging snipers to fetch melted snow from a nearby disused
trench), and handled Signalling duties solo for the next 48 hours until
stretcher-bearers and a replacement reached them:
‘My feet felt uncomfortable, but
I didn’t remove my boots then, nor for a week or more afterwards. Later, back
in Egypt, my already brown toenails turned gradually darker and at intervals
fell out, but sound new ones grew in their place.
A
gradual thaw set in and, as moving around became easier, I learnt more of the
tragedy the smaller number of us now remaining in that benighted place had
survived. Many men had drowned in flooded trenches from which they could not
escape quickly enough or had fallen into when they took a step in the wrong
direction in the dark. Others died of the cold – a few had laid hands on jars
of rum sent up for distribution as tots for all, then drunk themselves insensible
and perished in the freezing winds.*’
Even so, up on the hill,
life reverted to “normal” – except for one terrible incident:
‘The sun shone briefly most days,
growing warmth dried out our heavy coats, and life became far more bearable to
me. Especially because my new companion on the hill turned out to be that
shortish man of Swiss origin I have previously described**, he who was more
patriotic than most British-born soldiers – and after all our tribulations, he
still felt the same about his dad’s adopted country. He even made excuses for
the failed author/poet who had, by some accident, become the Commander-in-Chief
of that unfortunate Army*** and composed lyrical dispatches for home
consumption in his comfortable cabin way out at sea.
After
that wasteful Ramadan**** bombardment I had no further fears that the enemy
would ever launch a big attack on us, and now I felt convinced that our
depleted force would never have a go at him… so all one had to do was be
careful to stay alive, until someone told us to get the hell out of the
wretched place.
Attached
once more to the regular Essex***** boys for rations, we fared well. And I had
my disused trench for water – it remained several feet deep for some time.
However, fetching it became risky because a sniper had spotted my movements as
I darted hither and thither to fox his aim.
I
carried a can to which I had tied a length of string to lower it into the
trench. I would climb out of our trench and dash several yards, freeze there
for a moment while I pictured John Turk taking aim at me, then make another
short dash while the bullet smacked somewhere behind me. One more pause, then
run to the trench, lower and raise the can, and return via another pause or two
before a final, fearful charge back to and into our trench, having retained as
much water in the can as possible. The bullets always seemed to arrive at the
spot near where I had last paused. But I was careful to operate in poor light,
morning and evening, because I had rightly assumed that the sniper was a good
shot…
So
you can imagine my sorrow when two Essex men laid a boy on a firing step just
opposite my hole, pointed to a wound in his chest, and told me the lad had
attempted to copy my water-getting dash in broad daylight. Probably he didn’t bother
about foxing the sniper either. He belonged to the Hampshire Regiment, but an
Essex man had watched his progress, seen him wounded, and with a pal had risked
death to drag him in.
I
phoned Brigade HQ for stretcher-bearers, but doubted if the lad would live –
the bullet had pierced a lung. We fixed his field dressing over the entry
wound, but I dared not move him to search for the exit, which may well have
been a gaping hole. As I tried to keep him warm and give him support such as I
could in response to those frightened eyes, I felt quite old in spite of my
mere 17 years. He – the first wounded man I’d had to deal with – was even
younger than I.
The
stretcher-bearers were gentle with him; I knew only too well they would have to
climb out of trenches in several places where a stretcher could not be
accommodated; in full view of the Turk, they would have to rely on his
clemency.
Thereafter,
I stayed away from the watery trench and made do with such water as the machine
gunners could spare for me.’
*
Strong For Service, H Montgomery Hyde’s
biography of the 2/1st’s then commanding officer Major Harry Nathan (later a
lord and an Attlee Government Minister) says 280 men “drowned” in the mud
produced by thawing snow and rain at Gallipoli.
**
Peter Nieter from my father’s trainee Signallers group on Malta (see blog 45,
17-05-15) – except that, first time round, he called him “Miter”; given my
father’s fondness for aliases, I don’t know whether either version of the name
is “real”.
***
He means General Sir Ian Hamilton.
****
HQ informed British troops that Ramadan triggered this bombardment and my
father had no reason to know otherwise, but it was entirely the wrong time of
year, as noted in blog 70, 8-11-15.
*****
The Essex Regiment machine-gun team they shared the hilltop with.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam and Peter’s final onslaught on the Turks – through the
medium of song; Sam, suddenly summoned to Divisional HQ, finds himself
luxuriating on steak and onions for a few days! And the hilltop Signalling duo
get a surprise, eccentric visit from General Beauvoir De Lisle himself!
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