For details of how to buy Sam’s full Memoir in paperback or e-book & new excerpted Gallipoli episode mini-e-book & reader reviews
All proceeds to British Red Cross
Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… on
the Western Front minor echoes of the 1914 “Christmas truce” slipped into the
usual (limited but deadly) winter action with widespread artillery exchanges
(December 28), British casualties when large German mines were triggered near
Loos (30), and French advances in the Vosges (28) and near Mesnil-les-Hurlus,
Champagne (January 1).
The
Russian Army continued to prove its cold-weather ability on the Eastern Front, attacking
Austrian and/or German regiments in northern Bukovina (December 27-30, now
Ukraine), at the River Styr (31, Galicia now Ukraine), and the Oszok and
Rostoka passes (January 2, Carpathian mountains).
Further
south, German airships bombed Salonika (December 30), where French and British
forces were trying to hold the line of the Greek border against the Bulgarians,
Germans and Austrians who had conquered Serbia, and off Crete a German U-boat
sank British passenger liner SS Persia
(not a troopship) without warning killing 333 out of 519 (30).
Meanwhile,
in Gallipoli the Allied troops in the Cape Helles sector remained in place (HQ
issued orders to prepare for evacuation on December 28 and the last units of
the Indian Expeditionary Force at Cape Helles sailed for Egypt three days
later).
Already
evacuated, after three months getting nowhere at Suvla Bay, were the remnants
of 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). They’d slipped away on the
night of December 18-19, 1915, then encamped on the Greek Island of Lemnos, hub
for the British Mediterranean forces, through to Christmas Day…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
(bumper back in Gallipoli Boxing Day to New Year’s Day edition)
Last week, Sam and his older brother Ted
enjoyed their happy reunion on Lemnos after the 2/1st’s remaining 200 men (out
of an original thousand) –Ted never got to Suvla Bay because the Army detained
him in Alexandria for dental work after he lost his front teeth in a fight (see
Blog 62 13/9/15). On Christmas Day, they scoffed all the treats that caught up
with them in parcels from home, washed down with free Army beer and had a
lovely time – apart from a terrible encounter with the sufferings of the Arab
workers “in the hole”.
But
early on Boxing Day morning, to their astonishment and profound chagrin, this
is what happened:
‘I had slept for possibly five hours when the unwelcome roar
of a Sergeant roused us all. We had to pack up as quickly as possible, he
bellowed, and be ready to move.
Into every
available space in pack, haversack and mess tin, I crammed as much food as
possible. Cooks handed out fresh-baked loaves – enough to last a few days – and
fried bacon in quantity. They had opened a long, wooden case containing two
large sides of bacon packed in salt, so we ate our fill, stored the remaining
rashers in our tubular cap comforters, and tied these to our belts. Hanging all
the usual pieces of equipment about our persons we picked up our rifles,
slogged down to the landing stage and boarded a small ship, similar to the
Robin Redbreast, which had evacuated us from Suvla Bay.
Whither away we
knew not, nor cared overmuch, for disappointment at the interruption of our
Christmas celebrations was deep and our mood doleful. To hell with everything
and everybody; wasn’t that war over? So what were They up to?
Many hours later
we heard the unwelcome sounds of occasional gunfire and now, in darkness, when
we could just make out land ahead, a shell screamed overhead and burst
somewhere ashore. Our ship crept slowly forward, far too slowly for my liking,
because, added to the likelihood of injury, was the unpleasant one of drowning
as well; and we should by rights have been feasting and lounging on that Greek
island*.
Now we could make
out the black shape of a big ship, berthed in the shallows head-on to the
shore. Moving closer, we saw a large, square opening in her side and, the tide
being just right, our shallower ship could tie up to her and we could step
across into her innards and eventually emerge on to a sort of landing stage. We
hurried along it before gathering, briefly, on the beach beneath towering
cliffs… But no enemy fire came our way.
Excitement and
interest now replaced resentment, as we filed some way up a gully and waited. I
saw someone approach our Major, who then led us further upwards into this
rising gully. A great flash some miles distant seawards gave short illumination
to the scene; we saw we were passing a strange, wooden tower… and at that
moment, almost unbelievably, from the top of it a hunting horn sounded.
“Lie down!” yelled
an unidentified voice and, being no strangers to this life-saving precaution,
we were probably flat on the ground before he was. We heard the usual tearing
scream, the crash, and below us – about the spot where we had first paused – we
saw a brilliant flash and a large cloud of smoke, followed by the whinings of
many flying pieces of shrapnel, the phuts as some of them landed nearby.
Said the voice who
had given us the warning, “That shell was from Asiatic Annie** a real big gun across the sea there in Asia Minor. When the
lookout up above sees her fire, he blows his horn and we have about 30 seconds
to take cover. The shells don’t always land here, of course, but we assume they
will.” The informative bloke added that we had landed at V Beach and that the
ship we had come through was the River Clyde***
beached there in the first Gallipoli landings months earlier.
So at last we knew
that a complete evacuation of Gallipoli had not taken place, that we were once
more stuck on that ill-starred Turkish peninsula. I recall wondering what
brother Ted would think of my second disappearance; he would be mad about not
travelling with us, that was certain. Still, although he really belonged to us,
he was attached to the Field Hospital for duty; what a surprise he must have
had when he found our tents empty.
We moved steadily
upwards along a track which eventually brought us to flat ground at the top of
the cliff. Now, away in the distance, we recognised all the audible and visible
indications that over there was a battlefront; personally, I felt once more the
growing nervous tension, the alertness generated by the desire for
self-preservation.
Even so, through a
few days good living and the contact with normal people provided by the letters
from home and those lovely parcels, I felt changed and strengthened; I knew
this tautness was not, at present, allied to fear, as it sometimes had been
when lack of food and sleep had caused debility. I’d had proof the normal world
still carried on, albeit with certain difficulties, and that we had not been
forgotten or given up for lost.
We few remaining
Signallers stood together talking quietly. Short, sturdy Nieter recalled our
days and nights together on that hill****; I hope I told him how much his faith
in the cause and his cheery optimism had helped me when the physical after-effects
of the blizzard got me down.
Consultations
continued between our officers and a group of strangers until, finally, orders
for our disposal emerged, and a guide took Nieter, two others and myself to the
strangest Signals post I ever saw. Located on the cliff top, high above V
Beach, it comprised a nice, square hole with a good earth-covered roof, entry
being through a “door” dug on the landward side – this last a necessity because
the hole had only three sides: the seaward side didn’t exist, if you understand
me. So if, in your sleep, you rolled in that direction just a little too far,
you must, eventually and too late, realise that your next stop was the beach
way down below.
On that open side,
curtains made of sacking concealed our candle lights. We had blankets and a
rough table or bench with boxes for seats; we worked on instruments far
superior to those we carried, and a small, simple exchange or commutator
enabled us to link certain Signal posts.
Evidently, here
the Army conducted the war on a more civilised level than had been the case at
Suvla Bay, largely because the April landings had driven the front line much
farther inland from the beaches. No cooking in mess tins over methylated
heaters – we four would take our meals in rotation at a small Royal Army
Medical Corps camp nearby.
We took over from
complete strangers, men of a unit whose name I forget. They, with others, would
soon be leaving the place for good, they told us. Evacuation under way then, it
appeared. A puzzle therefore: why the heck had we been sent to the place?’
Secrecy has its place, of course, but reading
my father’s Memoir often makes you wonder about the value of keeping combat
soldiers ignorant of exactly why they’re doing what they’re doing... their
purpose here on V Beach took a few more days to emerge:
‘In fact, we spent a few pleasant days on that job. From our
clifftop, the activities around the beach provided interest in idle moments.
But one day, as I
watched a party of civilians moving along down below, without any warning blast
on the hunting horn, a big one from Annie burst among them. Some ran, too late,
in search of shelter; some would never move again. Watching them, those little
figures seemed to exist in a separate world from mine…
Not in any way separate,
the RAMC men quickly appeared and bustled among the casualties quietly doing
their good work.
The lookout on the
tower must have been missing. One of our chaps said they [the civilians] were
Greeks brought in to do construction work. That seemed strange to me, civilians
working close to a battlefront.
Soon, an order came through for us Signallers to disconnect
everything, take all the equipment down to a store on the beach, then rejoin
our Battalion. A guide took us to where they were living in a series of square
holes not far from the beach all connected by a long trench.
At last, we
learned the reason for our return to Gallipoli; we were to work every night at
dismantling and loading stores on to lighters and small ships. Night work only,
in order to conceal evacuation preparations. We could take some rest during the
day – but, should enemy planes appear, like the occasional small groups of
Taubes we’d seen high above Suvla, we must expose ourselves, move around as
though busy upon routine matters, and generally try to convince the observers
that our numbers were as great as at any previous time.
Shortly after dawn
that first morning back with our crowd, a lone plane did fly back and forth
over our area, so we put on our busy act for the pilot’s amusement and
information. Quite rightly, acting on instructions, some of our men fired their
rifles upwards – imagine our surprise, though, when the pilot dropped a bomb.
It exploded much too close for our liking and caused a brief interruption to
our “busy bee” programme.
That was the first
time I’d thought about the possibility of planes carrying bombs. Probably the
pilot hurled it out of his cockpit. Although it could only have been a small
one, it made quite an impressive bang. Still, no harm done, so nobody worried
too much about air-bomb possibilities.
However, soon
after that incident, one of our chaps approached our position, a message in his
hand, when another low-flying plane appeared. Our friend more or less
disintegrated before our eyes. Sheer bad luck placed him in the spot where bomb
Number 2 exploded, poor fellow. So, very early in that distant war, did I see
death from the air strike a man down.
Still we continued
with our task of deceiving the enemy, so much so that aerial visits became
quite a regular feature. The Germans must have spared those planes from the
Western Front – a small formation, but capable of causing some harassment…
One day, we were
watching a water cart coming our way – no shortage of water there, unlike at
Suvla; the cart consisted of a tank on an axle and two wheels pulled by a mule
and driven by an elderly member of our transport section who we knew to be
rather deaf. We heard a plane coming and yelled a warning, but he obviously
heard nothing. The plane appeared, flew low, and a strange swishing sort of
sound followed – but no explosion. Some of us dashed out to the rather puzzled
old chap to tell him what had happened and persuade him to shelter for a while.
That he scornfully refused to do and he went on about his business.
Then one lad let
out a shout. We ran over to him and he pointed to a six-inch-long metal dart
protruding from the earth. That set us all searching and acquiring further
specimens, some lying on rocks, others dug out where small holes indicated
their presence. A shower of darts had scattered around mule, water cart and the
lucky old driver, but all was well.
The one I found
was heavy, thick at the head, then slim, and the tail had enough flukes to
cause rotation when falling. The inventor presumably thought this might aid
penetration of the victim’s head – bearing in mind that steel helmets for
soldiers had not yet been introduced. I thought about the method of delivery
employed and guessed at a box with apertures at the bottom and a sliding grid
operated by the pilot. I kept my dart as a prize souvenir, until it vanished in
a kitbag I lost some time later.
At V Beach – in
fact, during the entire Gallipoli campaign – I saw only one British aircraft,
though it appeared several times. The pilot, I gathered, was the famous
Wing-Commander Samson*****. His forays were probably of a “showing the flag”
nature rather than attacks on the enemy, although the Turks did fire a few
shells at him.’
Happily, in this festive
week 100 years ago, the celebratory side of evacuation began to emerge and
offer its perhaps rather odd beneficence to the 2/1st for the second time
within a couple of weeks:
'No Signals work was required at that time, for the
Battalion’s numbers had dwindled to about Company strength****** and our work
concerned simply helping to prepare for evacuation. Our Signals group landed a
lovely job which consisted of going to a large dump near the beach and
gradually dispersing its contents: canned and bottled food and drink intended
as extras for officers – anything that would keep well in cans, boxes, cartons,
with smoked items in cotton wraps, also biscuits, some cakes and sweets, wines,
beers, but not much in the way of spirits. We loaded these good things on to
small mule carts.
A very fair way
had been devised to consign them to the troops in equal quantities. Those up at
the Front got the first deliveries, naturally. The officer in charge at the
dump had records of all the units in benefit. We could only work at night, but
during breaks for rest, or while awaiting transports, we were allowed to eat
and drink. Chicken, asparagus, Irish bitter from round brass-coloured tins,
Schweppes lemon squash or Seltzer water, thin lunch biscuits and other
luxuries… for a brief period our small, but fortunate group guzzled these lush
items.
Quite fairly, we
were not allowed to take anything away from the dump for our own use; but we
would be entitled to a share of what was delivered to our Battalion. In fact,
we Signallers hadn’t the gall to accept our share when it was offered since we
stuffed ourselves to capacity during the night and, in daytime, only wanted to
sleep. But we did work with a will on the job – and so shortened its duration,
unfortunately.
A few days after
our disembarkation at V Beach, around midnight someone called out “It’s New
Year’s Eve!” and a special search produced several bottles of what may have
been cider, although some called it champagne. We didn’t know which, but
heartily toasted each other and anyone else we fancied, before renewing our
onslaught on that marvellous giveaway job.’
* H. Montgomery Hyde’s Strong For Service, biography of the
2/1st’s beloved commanding officer, Major Harry Nathan (later a lord and member
of Clement Attlee’s post-WW2 Labour Government), says that, while he was eating
his Christmas dinner, Nathan received the order that the Battalion remnants
must return to Gallipoli. But he must have decided not to spoil the fun and
withheld the bad news from his men until the Sergeant’s vocal reveille the
following morning.
** Asiatic Annie fired
from a 17th-century fort called Kumkalle in a place called Tepe, five
kilometres from the site of ancient Troy, aiming at V Beach (where my father’s
Battalion had landed) and W Beach on Cape Helles.
*** SS River Clyde: a collier launched in March, 1905, adapted as a
landing ship in 1915; that April, she sailed from Mudros to Cape Helles V
Beach; bombarded from the cliffs, she was beached to serve as a bridge for
landings and then for returning wounded; six of the River Clyde’s crew were awarded VCs; the apparent hulk was later
repaired and sold to Spanish owners who used her as a Mediterranean tramp
steamer until finally scrapping her in 1966; on April 15, 1915, V Beach, only
300 yards long, became one of five main Allied landing places on Cape Helles;
it was overlooked by cliffs, a fort and an ancient castle, Sedd el Bahr Kale,
occupied and defended by the Turkish Army, but captured on April 26.
**** See recent blogs
passim for more on Lance Corporal Signaller Peter Nieter, Sam’s mate since
training on Malta, Feb-August, 1915, and their manning of a Signals post/hole
on a Suvla Bay hilltop overlooking the Turkish lines.
***** Charles Samson:
1883-1931, says Wikipedia, born Manchester, one of the first four Royal Navy
pilots, and the first to fly an aircraft from a moving ship (1912); he won the
Distinguished Service Order for activities on the Western Front, earning
promotion to Commander; he was sent to Gallipoli in March, 1915; different
accounts have him recalled to London either in November, 1915, or at the end of
the Gallipoli campaign – but a Fleet Air Arm Museum Tweet notes him flying from
his base on Imbros to drop a bomb on December 18, 1915, which supports the suggestion
that he stayed around Gallipoli to the last, and that my father’s informant was
correct and Samson did fly over British troops on V Beach in January, 1916.
****** My father several
times noted that “a couple of hundred” of the original thousand-man Battalion
survived Suvla Bay. But his reference here to a presence more like Company
strength at V Beach may connect with what he told me years ago in conversation
which was, if memory serves, that 147 of the Battalion got out of Gallipoli
intact (a Company numbering around 100).
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: It’s Gallipoli
evacuation day déjà vu all over again for the 2/1st Fusiliers – meanwhile, Sam
and comrades make pretend raids and get shot at with real bullets, before their
second great getaway (losing Corporal Bebb en route… and finding him again).
No comments:
Post a Comment