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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… Tidings
of comfort and joy did not abound, despite a considerable diminution in the
fighting on most Fronts because of winter. Quite specifically, the Allies
rejected the perhaps-none-too-heavenly peace proposals put up by the Central
Powers; despite US President Woodrow Wilson’s willingness to broker
negotiations, the Allies’ London conference beginning on December 26 had
reached “No” by the 30th – in part because the terms proffered seemed to favour
their enemies outlandishly, maybe in part because of over-confidence that
victory was imminent (any number of other reasons might be adduced too, no
doubt).
So
the French had to deal with a German artillery attack at Mort Homme, Verdun
(December 28), while, on the Eastern Front, a Russian/Latvia force had a great success
in The Christmas Battles (23-29) taking Jelgava, Latvia. However, the Russian
and Romanian Armies continued to suffer daily defeats despite fierce resistance
as they retreated across eastern Romania (26-30) pursued by German, Bulgar and
Turkish troops. (Around this time, Tsar Nicholas II’s notorious “advisor”
Rasputin was murdered in Moscow – I’ve seen the date of his death quoted as
December 19, 21, 29 and 30, so take your pick).
No
substantial action noted anywhere else, though in a quiet week the outline
histories take time to note that the French and British administratively
divided Togoland, which they’d taken unopposed from Germany back in August
1914.
Meanwhile, my father, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers volunteer and Gallipoli
veteran Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from
Edmonton, north London – after the 2/1st’s bitterly contested disbandment – had
fought on the Somme Front with the Kensingtons from mid-May to September at Hébuterne/Gommecourt,
then around Leuze Wood and Morval (FootSoldierSam’s Blogs dated May 15 to September 25, 2016). About September 30 he was told his
age – 18 on July 6 – had been officially noticed, he was legally too young for
the battlefield, and he could take a break until his 19th birthday if he
wished. He certainly did – though not without a sense of guilt. He left the
Front for the British base camp at Harfleur, then the Army shipped him back to
Blighty, for a few weeks based at his old 2/1st HQ near King’s Cross station –
and living at home again. His next move took him up North…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, my father and a group of fellow
underagers were posted to Harrogate, where they found themselves dossing on a
dusty floor while very conscious of the genteel wealth that surrounded them.
And then they found further cause for unease when they discovered – or credited
fake rumours served up by later notorious but as yet unexposed fraudster and
magazine publisher Horatio Bottomley MP – that they had joined the “Lost” or
maybe “Forgotten Division” which had allegedly spent more than two years at
home and never set foot in any war zone.
But
we’ll leave Sam and pals pondering that situation for the next couple of weeks.
Because it’s Christmas and he wrote nothing in his Memoir about the 1916
festivities – just not memorable I guess. Instead I’ll put together a chunky
blog out of stories of earlier Christmases, one from his childhood, then his
first in uniform after joining up in September, 1914 – a tale of near-mutiny
this – and finally, next week, Christmas and New Year in Gallipoli, 1915.
Sam
had a rather joyless childhood through poverty and family tensions arising from
it, so no Yule recollections from his early years. But this story of Christmas
with his friend Reg comes up when he was maybe nine (NB this is back to the
first part of the Memoir where he wrote about himself in the third person and
called himself “Tommy”). A little scene-setting to begin with:
‘Tommy’s friends, in the main, came from the Scouts or the
choir. One was Reg Curtis. In his family it was the custom to wear your hair
long. Reg’s Dad and three brothers had thick, wavy hair; I doubt if the father
would have let a barber lay his hands on any of them. When Tommy got to know
them he realised what a close-knit group they were – the father a deeply
religious man with a generous nature, rather dark of countenance, jet-black
hair, a cobbler by trade, running a fairly large shop. As soon as the children
grew capable of picking up a hammer or a knife, he taught them this craft. But
he didn’t overwork them. Nothing of slavery about it. When Tommy went in there
he knew at once this was a happy place and a happy home.
One Christmas,
they invited Tommy into the family celebration. Reg’s father had a phonograph
and he’d bought one of those early records – mainly of a religious, sacred
character the tunes were, Jerusalem and similar things. They all made free with
the Christmas fare and the happiness there was a revelation to Tommy. Reg
shared with him the affection which permeated the family, the brothers and Dad.
I don’t mention Mum because, curiously, she remained in the background and
Tommy seldom saw her.’
That special Christmas
had a little sequel after Sam/”Tommy” left school and started work as a junior
office boy for a company based near Liverpool Street. In town he met another of
his friend Reg’s party guests, Bessie Dibbs, and reminiscence led on to Sam’s first glimmer of
romance:
‘He hadn’t seen her for several years since, as children of
eight or nine, they’d played postman’s knock at a Christmas party her brother
Reggie had invited him to. The game involved a boy choosing a girl, or vice
versa – Tommy seemed to recall that Bessie had picked him, he couldn’t imagine
why – then the two would leave the room to kiss and cuddle (if agreeable) while
those left behind giggled and then, on the couple’s return, made saucy comments
on what they might have got up to out in the hallway. Now here they were, 15
and meeting again.
She sat beside him
and they talked as much as they could in a crowded compartment full of people
smoking. They alighted at the same stop, of course, and walked together until
their ways parted. But when they said their good evenings, Bessie suggested
Tommy might let her have his firm’s telephone number so she could ring him up
for a chat. Rather weakly, Tommy agreed. A day or so later, she called and he
was very glad he happened to be on the switchboard to pick it up.’
In the way of such
hesitant early steps, the flirtation soon ended in embarrassment for Sam.
But onwards, probably no more than 18 months, to Christmas 1914;
2/1st Royal Fusiliers Sam and older brother Ted (also underage at 18) were billeted
in Tonbridge while training and digging the south-of-London ring of defensive
trenches. Here’s how a proper British Army cock-up did eventually turn into a
lovely Christmas at home for the brothers and their comrades:
‘As Christmas 1914 approached, and it appeared likely the
Battalion would remain in England during the holiday, the chaps began to
speculate about whether they would be allowed home. “They’re sure to grant two
or three days leave,” was the general opinion. So warming anticipation of
reunions with families gave rise to a happiness which permeated all the men.
Officers must have noticed the prevailing joyfulness but, perhaps, did not
realise what caused it.
An announcement
that Christmas Eve would be free of parades and work contained no reference to
leave of absence. Puzzlement and doubt replaced anticipatory elation. Then, as
groups of men discussed the strange silence about Christmas plans, anger caused
some men to threaten to go home without permission. “But that would be a crime,
either desertion with trial by court martial or else a charge of being absent
without leave” – so cautious men told the impatient ones.
It developed into a
serious situation; on the morning of Christmas Eve, no guidance having come
from above, a large number of men gathered on the London platform at the
railway station. They had bought their tickets and were now committing their
threatened breach of military discipline. But somebody had informed the RSM
about the looming exodus and his powerful voice could be heard ordering all men
to return to their billets.
Most anxious not to
provide authority with any excuse for questioning his stated age and
discharging him, Tommy had not made a decision about joining this rebellion. He
had found a position outside the station from which he observed the following
scene, and even heard much of what was said.
He saw no general movement
by the, shall we say, insurgents to leave the platform and, quite suddenly, the
booming voice of the RSM fell silent. All faces turned towards the station
entrance. The Colonel marched in with a substantial group of officers, followed
by porters carrying a large number of bags. The party stopped abruptly at the
sight of the assembled troops.
The Colonel’s face
expressed great surprise, as Tommy could clearly see. Then he turned to confer
with Captain Blunt, his adjutant. Other officers moved in closer and there was
much quiet discussion.
Some Privates
standing nearby were called forward and, like good soldiers, all saluted
correctly together, straight and upright, eyes looking straight ahead and not
at the officers asking the questions. They may have contemplated doing a bunk,
thought Tommy, but they had remembered their training. Soon the men saluted,
turned about and rejoined their comrades. Then the Colonel came forward and
addressed the men.
A terrific cheer
followed his speech so Tommy readily guessed its import. He climbed down from
his perch, passed through an open gate on into the station coal depot and
crossed several railway lines till he came to iron railings and called to men
on the platform, asking for information.
He learnt that the amateur
officers had made their first major blunder. They had taken no thought of what
was to happen to their men during the Christmas festivities. Vaguely, they had
assumed that the rank and file would remain mostly in their billets and take
meals with the families. For a start, this rather haughtily assumed that those
families would or could supply Christmas fare for comparative strangers and
also took for granted that the soldiers would wish to remain in billets in such
awkward circumstances. Yet the officers themselves had no doubt as to where
they were going to spend the holiday.
Of course, not all
the men had gathered at the railway station, so volunteers offered to go to
each CSM and pass on the good news: two-day leave had been granted to all.
Thus, the remainder of the men would travel to town by the next train – as
Tommy resolved to do.
Hurrying back to
Leigh Drive, he yelled the good news about Christmas leave to the few men he
passed. Mrs Fluter, kindliest of women, said she could have managed easily had
the lads been staying over the holiday and she thought her husband might even
be disappointed that they were not to share the good times together. Tommy had
not seen Churniston** since breakfast, but assumed he also would travel to
London. No worry on that score, said Mrs F; she would tell him about the
unexpected two days off.
A few hours later,
Tommy received cheerful greetings at home and found Ted already there, as he’d
expected. “Bet your life I got on that first train,” he said. “We knew there
would be nothing to do during Christmas, and no order had been given to forbid
us leaving Bunbridge***, so we were on our way regardless. The officers must
have felt foolish when they realised they hadn’t given any instructions as to
what we should do during the next two days. Still, who’s grumbling, eh?”
With money in their
pockets, the brothers bought a turkey in the market place along with fruit,
sweets… and Turkish cigarettes, probably costing 4d for ten instead of the
usual 2d for English – their rich aroma seemed to lend an air of opulence to
that small home.
So they all settled
down to spend a really happy Christmas together. This might be the last family
gathering for several years and, for once, all of them did their utmost to make
the occasion memorable – starting that night with the collective manufacture of
decorative chains from strips of coloured paper and flour paste. A gay touch in
the living room.
Mother spent much
time at the coal-fired, cooking range. It took skill to stoke it and arrange
the dampers so that pots of vegetables on top kept boiling while the bird and
stuffing in the oven roasted without burning.
Pa had bought a
bottle of cheap claret, a favourite of mother’s though, to put it mildly, a bit
sharp for the tastes of the youngsters. But all protested that they liked it.
Drinking some fizzy mineral water, of which they’d bought several large bottles
– “penny monsters” – soon softened its harshness. What with playing games,
telling yarns about Army experiences, and resting between unusually large
meals, the hours passed quickly.
They all praised
Ma’s cooking and even Dad put aside the load of worry which always appeared to
be crushing him… and smiled occasionally. The war was hardly mentioned,
although this Christmas should have marked the end of hostilities according to
many forecasters. Everyone knew it was not going well, and flickers of fear
disturbed even reasonably optimistic people.
But, just for the
moment, self-indulgence quite rightly ousted serious thinking and all felt the
happier for trying to encourage forgetfulness and joyfulness among others.’
** Churniston was his
billet-mate at the Fluters.
*** My father’s alias for
Tonbridge. He liked an alias – sometimes to spare living relatives pain or
embarrassment and sometimes, as in this case for reasons I couldn’t fathom.
Seasonal
all the bests
– FSS
Next week: A surprisingly
sumptuous Christmas and New Year at Gallipoli – between evacuations.
* In his 70s, Sam
Sutcliffe wrote Nobody Of Any Importance,
a Memoir of his life from childhood
through Gallipoli, the Somme, Arras 1918 and eight months as a POW to the 1919
Peace parade.
