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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… It
seems the most far-reaching development was on the Eastern Front where the
Battle Of Kowel, northwest Ukraine, between Russia and Austria ended in what’s
designated as a stalemate (August 8). Yet the Austrian Army planned and
executed it to stop the relentless success of the Brusilov Offensive (June
4-Septmeber 20), and outline histories suggest it did just that – additionally,
by causing massive casualties, it initiated the crumbling of the prodigious
Russian military effort on behalf of the Allies. This despite their continuing
advances elsewhere to take Stanislau (10, Ukraine) and Mariampol (12,
Lithuania) – but the cracks perhaps showed as the Turkish Army, after months
retreating through Armenia, retook Mush and Bitlis (9).
On
the Western Front, post-July 1, the French and somewhat regrouped British and
Anzacs went on making costly progress in the Somme Battles Of Delville Wood
(July15-September 3), Pozières (July 23-September 3), and Hardecourt (August 7
onwards). At Verdun likewise, the French Army held the upper hand in the
near-static conflict with the Germans (for instance, on August 8 the French
lost then regained Thiaumont “works”).
The
Italian Army’s counter to the Austrian invasion of the northern region around
Trentino proceeded with the taking of Gorizia (August 90. They pressed on into
Slovenia, although their full-frontal assault strategy to combat superior
Austrian weaponry led to appalling casualty numbers.
In
northern Greece, the Allies – chiefly French and British troops – decided it
was time to strike back and redress the previous winter’s Bulgarian conquest of
Serbia and launched the first of four eventually fruitless onslaughts on the
Bulgarian garrison at Lake Doiran (August 10).
Meanwhile,
my father (now promoted from Lance Jack to) Corporal Sam Sutcliffe
from Edmonton, north London (his 18th birthday on July 6, 1916), had been
involved in Somme front-line fighting from mid-May onwards. This followed a ’15-’16 winter
at Gallipoli. Shortly after his 2/1st
Royal
Fusiliers (250 survivors out of 1,000) sailed from Egypt to France in late
April, to their chagrin the Army disbanded the Battalion
and transferred the remnants to other outfits – Sam to the Kensingtons. They fought on the
front line at Hébuterne, opposite the German
positions at Gommecourt; on July 1 the Battalion suffered 59 per cent casualties.
Sam survived and the battle continued, albeit at a somewhat lower level of
intensity in their sector – Sam himself often distracted by bitter thoughts
about how he still hadn’t had any home leave since Christmas, 1914…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, my father had a good drown-your-sorrows
time drinking cheap champagne with the Battalion Sergeants during a few days’
rest a couple of miles behind the front line – though having to serve as escort
to the accused at a court martial triggered more sour thoughts about the
British Army’s crass and, in truth, demoralising attempts to instill “courage”
via threats of execution by passing along the trenches lists of convicted men
“shot at dawn”.
Now,
just before some great good news, Sam writes of his encounter with one of the
few men, in his experience, who might properly have been termed “coward” (my
father invariably wrote empathetically about those who simply cracked and ran
for it, or even resorted to self-inflicted wounds, but you’ll see that what he
despised in this Sergeant was his malice and cruelty to others who succumbed to
entirely natural fears and stress):
‘A Sergeant was assigned to the Platoon on my right. Overly
garrulous, he had the horrible habit of punctuating loudly spoken remarks with
harsh laughter. What he thought or did was no skin off my nose but, from time
to time, I needed to move along his section of trench to reach the Company
Headquarters dugout.
After a while, one
of his men stopped me for a chat and told me, among other items, that this
Sergeant had, in the past, been a Military Policeman and sometimes boasted of
how, in battle, he had been stationed at the rear end of a communication trench
where, with drawn revolver, he stopped and drove back into action men whose
nerves had broken or who, he thought, were feigning injury. Sending them back
into the hell which had temporarily broken them obviously gave him pleasure.
Now here was he,
up front himself for the first time, and when, on one of my walks, I saw him
hacking into the earth low down on the front side of the trench I could only
stare in wonderment. Thereafter, his hole grew bigger each day. With no
supports it looked like a deathtrap to me, its purpose beyond my understanding.
Glancing down at
it one day, I thought I saw the Sergeant lying there and bent down to confirm
this was really so. He wriggled out, sprang to his feet, and his eyes had a
strange, wild look in them. I said nothing, just watched him, and he started to
back away. “You’re going to kill me!” he shouted. “Every time you pass I see
that look of dislike in your face. I’ve never done you any harm.” And so on and
on.
Never before or
since have I witnessed such a strange performance. I assured him I had no
feelings nor interest regarding him. Men in the vicinity looked on, and perhaps
one of them reported that their Sergeant had gone doolally. He vanished from
our ken soon afterwards.
Just before he
went, however, he gave a final performance. That day, a heavy fog settled over
the battlefield and some Germans took advantage of it by dragging forward small
trench mortars and dropping their small bombs among us. The Sergeant announced
that he would stop that. He climbed out of the trench and soon vanished in the
fog. In vain, we waited for him to start his private war… Until he crawled
back, and we guessed he’d just crept out of sight and crouched there hoping
nothing would happen and that a VC or similar would reward his outstanding
bravery*.’
This next scene almost certainly took place at
Sailly-au-Bois, a village about two miles west of Hébuterne, on August 13, 1916. Although that was a
mildly comforting distance from the front line, if not from longer-range German
artillery, the Battalion War Diary notes that they would routinely sally forth and
pass through Hébuterne en route to conduct their nightly and
scary advanced-trench-digging in No Man’s Land.
‘I
awoke on the piece of floor which was my bed to the sound of my name being
shouted by a Sergeant. “Here’s a special leave pass for you,” said he, and
handed me a stout piece of paper; the heading did indeed read “Special Pass”.
At that moment, his excitement was greater than mine for I saw at once that it
was made out to someone else. Even so, the Sergeant assured me all was well,
the name would be changed to mine and signed by an officer.
As I made rapid preparations to depart, puzzlement about the
matter occupied my thoughts: a Special Pass granted to another man but handed
to me? Soon, though, I reported to the Company officer who duly “corrected” the
name – no explanation requested or given. Some bread, butter, and a tin of
bully beef were handed to me, along with a note instructing me to report to the
RTO (Railway Transport Office) at Salty la
Bret** a railhead some kilometres distant. How to get to the railhead, that was up to
me. I must rejoin the Battalion 10 days hence, three days being allowed for
travel both ways.
 |
| Saulty L'Arbret (correct name, see ** footnote) June 2016: the railway station closed a few years ago, but I think it was behind the building in the centre to the left of the church. (Pic by Phil, Sam's son, on out Thiepval trip.) |
With a pack of
unwashed oddments, some food in my haversack, a canister gas mask in its
satchel on my chest, two blue cotton anti-gas hoods in their satchel hung over
one shoulder, a full water bottle, trenching-tool handle in its loop at one
side and the life-saving steel digger-head covering the upper bum, also various
ammunition pouches attached to their webbing belt and braces, plus my rifle,
the bayonet in its sheath… this load and I were at last on our own, headed for
Blighty***.
Away from the
trenches I plodded, although freedom made me want to gallop despite my heavy
burden.
Now I crossed
artillery-land and, when a nearby battery blasted off, I feared my Special Pass
might be wasted, because most of these lighter guns sat in sunken gun-pits,
their muzzles only raised above ground level when they took aim. Camouflaged
into the bargain. I might well get an 18-pounder up my jumper if I didn’t keep
my eyes skinned.
After much
tramping, I came to a village, and a kindly bloke, a British soldier billeted
nearby, tipped me the wink that I might just as well wait there because a
motor-lorry would be coming along. It did the trip to the railhead daily, he
said, and I’d get a lift for certain. I shared my grub with him, he supplied
some lovely tea. Grateful for his help, I yet had a touch of belly-tremble,
fearing that the lorry might not pass that day and that the train would leave
Salty la Bret without me.
The lorry stopped
for me, I slipped a Bank of France five-franc note into the driver’s palm – not
that he asked for anything – and he dropped me and my clobber off at the
railhead. I found others waiting at the little-damaged station, but I made a
beeline for a handsome, blond Sergeant with a moustache waxed at the points
because he wore the flaming fusil badge on top of his cap, as I had with my old
Battalion. A Sergeant of the Rifle Brigade sat with him and the two were kind
enough to invite me to join them for the journey to London.
Together, we went
to the RTO’s little office and the officer in charge there strolled two or
three lengths of the platform with us to stretch his legs. Actually, I suppose
he wasn’t a British RTO, he was a French officer, but he spoke perfect English.
I asked about a
field pitted with large shell-holes, adjacent to his station; that they were
there and not in his station, amused and pleased him. He related how,
throughout the previous night, big howitzer shells had arrived at intervals,
but only one caused damage to the track and that only slight.
A train would
come, he said, but time of arrival was uncertain – early morning the
probability. That gave us time to visit a village estaminet, have a meal of
wine and coffee, eggs, chips, and slightly sour French bread, and get to know
each other.
The Fusilier
Sergeant wore a well-fitting uniform, spotless, surely almost new. If he had
come from the Front, he must have had a spare uniform stashed away somewhere.
His boots shone, and – judging by face and hands – he had recently bathed. Good
to see a clean soldier – sharp of wit too, a great smile; with his personal
assets he could have posed as a superior type, but he didn’t. The other
Sergeant had greying hair, his face round and rosy, his appearance that of the
trench-wallah who took great care of his gear and himself. He was a comfortable
man, steady of speech and a willing listener; his kindly eyes and steady gaze
kept me at ease.
I’d certainly struck gold when that pair adopted me. And we
were all glowing because we were going home. They had wives and kids to love
them and the reunions would be marvellous. I had family too, not quite in the
same way, but I knew they would do everything possible to make my stay happy.
While the two
Sergeants looked almost too good for front-line habitués – they had come via a
rest camp, I believe they told me – they had kindness enough not to comment on
my unhygienic condition. Having left our advanced position in a hurry, I wore
an old, soiled uniform and muddy boots, for up front you had little opportunity
for anything beyond a wash and a quick shave should you need one, using your
steel helmet as a bowl. I had lice in my underwear no doubt, although I always
kept them down to the minimum possible. I must have had something of the sour
trench smell about me too, but my companions ignored it.
In the complete
darkness of the early hours, the train arrived and we settled into a
comfortable compartment. Lots of room, so we stretched out and began to savour
the feeling of freedom from danger and anxiety. There was little talk, some
attempted dozing, and, towards dawn, an eye on the passing scene – then a
grabbing of gear and a rapid exit when we heard the cry of “Amyong!
Amyong!”**** The circuitous part of the journey in the little, unscheduled
train was over, we heard; we would now board a mainline train through Abbeville
to Boulogne.
Eventually, we
three crossed a choppy Channel in a small passenger ship. She rolled a bit so I
took no risk of feeling queasy, stuffing myself with dry bread. We talked
little, mostly stared fixedly ahead, keeping our thoughts to ourselves… It
would have been too bad to stop a torpedo at that point, within sight of the
White Cliffs.’
* My father wrote this
passage in a chapter preceding July 1, but I can’t confirm the probable date or
period and clearly it’s the sort of one-off memory which coulßd have happened
at any point during the Kensingtons’ front-line service on the Somme. The only
reference to fog I noticed in the Battalion War Diary occurred in September
when they’d moved far south of the Hébuterne/Gommecourt sector, but that hardly
pins it down.
** Salty la Bret:
in earlier editions I noted I couldn’t find any reference to this place. A
failure of lateral spelling! Fifty-plus years on, my father was somewhat
misremembering a village actually spelt Saulty L’Arbret, 15 kilometres
north-west of Gommecourt.
***
My father
wrote his own Endnote here: “I believe that affectionate name for the homeland
was a corruption of a Hindu word [Bilãyati,
meaning ‘foreign land’ Collins Concise
English Dictionary confirms]. The Indian Army influence remained strong it
seemed, for tea was often called ‘cha’, jam was ‘possi’, ‘pahni’ was water. If
an old soldier wished to rouse you, he might shout something which sounded like
‘Chubberowyuchoot!’ These things were learnt without conscious effort as were
the words sung to some bugle calls; ‘Officers’ wives eat puddens and pies,
while Sergeants’ wives have skilly’ was the call to Officers’ Mess (dinner);
the short reveille call tune had the inspiring words, ‘Charlie, Charlie, get up
and dress yourself/Charlie, Charlie, get up an’ shite.’ When mail was to be
handed out, the bugler played, ‘There’s a letter from Lousy Lou, boys, a letter
from Poxy Kate’.”
**** Amiens: capital of
Somme department in Picardy; a rail hub and British logistics centre during
World War I.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Home at last!
First, he basks in the great kindness of his fellow working men towards his
uniform and what it means. Then his normally reserved mother hugs him, he
washes off the dirt and lice of the front line, talks fondly with the family, and
sinks into the bed that “represented heaven to me”…
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