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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… A
plethora of attacks on the Somme Front by the British, Australian and French
Armies represented a new Allied tactic which, I learn from the excellent
Facebook page The Great War 1914-1918, Haig and the top brass dubbed “bite and
hold”. They pursued it through the week in the aftermath of the bloody victory
at Pozières (August 17, beating back a German onslaught, and 18, advancing towards
the Somme), attacking and successfully defending gains along the front line
section that stretched 11 miles from Clery through Maurepas to Guillemont and
Ginchy (16-18).
The
French also continued to press ahead, a step at a time around Verdun – the great
battle begun on February 21 – especially at Fleury and Thiaumont (August 18).
On
the Eastern Front, although some references portray the Russian Army’s mighty Brusilov
Offensive (July 15-September 3) as a spent force by this point, they still had
the Austrians retreating from Halicz and moving forward to Zlota-Lipa, Galicia
(August 14-15, now on the Ukraine-Poland border), and Solotwina (Ukraine).
The
costly Italian victory over the Austrian Army in the Sixth Battle Of The Isonzo
concluded when their C-in-C Cadorna called a halt after taking Gorizia in
Italy’s northeast corner, and establishing a bridgehead over the river (August
17, casualties 51,000 Italian, 41,000 Austrian).
Action
hotted up on Greece’s northern border with the failure of the fourth wave of
Anglo-French onslaughts on the heavily outnumbered Bulgarian garrison at Doiran
resulting in a retreat by the Allies (August 18). But not content with merely
defending their conquered Serbian territory, the Bulgarians attacked and took
the town of Florina (17, Macedonia). However, the regrouped Serbian Army pushed
them back in Moglena as Allied forces gathered for a further offensive in
Macedonia.
Meanwhile,
my father Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London
(his 18th birthday on July 6, 1916), had just got his first home leave since
Christmas, 1914, after being involved in Somme front-line fighting from mid-May
onwards. This
followed a ’15-’16 winter at Gallipoli with the 2/1st
Royal
Fusiliers (250 survivors out of 1,000). They sailed from Egypt to France in
late April, only to be disbanded and transferred to other
outfits – Sam to the Kensingtons. They fought on the front line at Hébuterne, opposite the German positions at Gommecourt,
suffering 59 per cent casualties on July 1 (see FootSoldierSam’s front-line
blogs dated June 26 and July 3, 2016).
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, after experiencing the strange
episode of the cowardly Sergeant while still on the front line, my father at
last got the home leave he’d longed for – following some confusion which
included a Sergeant changing the name on the pass. Carrying all his equipment,
a quantity of mud and the usual livestock, he had a good journey with two NCOs
by train and boat until they sighted the White Cliffs of Dover.
At
this point, a personal note. I’m hardly impartial, but I think this passage
about his homecoming is beautifully written. I read his descriptions of
front-line fighting and think “That's my dad in his teens lying in a shallow
trench watching machine-gun bullets hit the wall behind him” or similar and
shake my head with… bemusement I guess is the word. Well here, in a different
context I’m looking on with bemusement too and thinking “That’s my dad who left
school at 14 and spent his working life as a barrow boy and small-shopkeeper
writing like a literary prizewinner”. Quite a bloke.
Back to his journey home, the Dover to Victoria
leg, Sam gazing at the passing scene…
‘Accustomed as I had been to the hot and sandy-brown scene
at the far end of the Mediterranean, and then to the shattered dwellings and
blasted earth of the Front in France, the greenness and unspoilt beauty of the
countryside between Dover and London surprised me… in some parts, hedges and
lanes extended as far as vision permitted. My mounting excitement took a lot of
concealing from my two companions, older men who had, anyhow, been in England
fairly recently. But I know they too felt very pleased with life in its
immediate prospects; we grinned at each other with understanding and said
nothing to threaten the then fashionable (stiff) upper lip.
Only as we reached
the Victoria terminus did it occur to me that I had no English money, only
small denomination notes issued by a French Department – well, maybe also a
couple of Bank Of France five-franc notes, but they wouldn’t fetch much. I
didn’t discuss this with the two Sergeants since they didn’t mention money. I
assumed they’d had time to attend to the currency problem before leaving their
units, whereas I’d been on the move constantly since our Sergeant awakened me
and handed me my pass.
We reported to the
Transport Officer at Victoria and he stamped our passes, told us to report to
him again seven days hence, and gave each of us an information sheet which we
did not pause to read at that moment, anxious as we were to hurry to our
families. Before parting, we undertook to meet in a week’s time – where else? –
under the clock, the big one.
And there I was, outside the station, suddenly feeling
strange and rather soiled among the hurrying people, all of whom looked clean
and well-dressed. I saw a bus which would take me almost the whole way home,
but hesitated to board it, having no money.
I walked to the
front of the bus to check the destination board, saw the driver already in his
seat, stopped and told him I’d just come on leave from the trenches and had no
money for my fare. “How far are you going?” “All the way when I get some cash.”
“Then here’s your fare, son.” He handed me money from his own pocket.
The kind man would
not tell me how to get in touch with him to repay the debt and seemed very
pleased to have been of use to a lad home from the Front. But I soon discovered
I need not have bothered the driver, for the conductor asked, as I handed him
the exact fare, “Is that alright?” – which among us, the hoi polloi, meant will
you be OK if you part with this lolly? So I told him where I’d got the money
and we both had a good laugh.
The bus took me
through busy streets, free from any sort of war damage, where people hurried or
just strolled as they pleased… It was good to see they felt free to do so, that
the war was not oppressing everybody. People had their private griefs, surely,
but that blessed Channel between Britain and the Continent protected and saved
the people from fear – no column of enemy troops likely to appear at the far
end of the street, nor enemy guns suddenly raining explosive shells on the
town.
The almost gay
scene through which I passed in London brought home to me the quietness and
absence of strolling civilians in the French towns I had visited. It was great.
A few days of this, I thought, would do me more good than a barrel of medicine.
As I settled into
the long bus journey from city centre to suburbs, I read the sheet the officer
at Victoria had given me. Of most interest was the address of the Army building
in West London to which I should take my pay-book. I resolved to attend to that
next day, relying on my dad to advance a few shillings to start off with.
Finally, the bus reached its turning point outside a big pub about half a mile
from my home and I got off with all my gear, the rifle hanging from my right
shoulder, not the least bit bothered by all the weight of it, happily clumping
along the pavements in my heavy, noisy boots, savouring the look and smells of
the shops and houses as I passed them.
In that developing
suburb, a few grand houses still remained, though no longer occupied by the
bigwigs who had formerly adorned the local scene. As brass plates or notice
boards announced, they had become offices or workshops. The small dwellings
adjacent to them, where the servants of the great may have lived, in some cases
sported shop fronts behind which small retail businesses were conducted.
Variety and
interest abounded along my entire route, reviving memories, many of them
connected to my brother Ted*. Thoughts of him brought to mind the grim scenes I
had just left behind and the sad realisation that he was still over there; he
might at this very moment be at risk in some awful battle or raid. But the last
thing he’d want would be me worrying on his account, so onward… and finally the
walk down our street to knock on the door of Number 26.**
Ma opened the door and, at first, she was unable to grasp
the fact that I was her son… but soon she hugged me in welcome and in I went.
We sat facing each
other, using time, of which we had plenty, to adjust to the situation. I’d
known that I would be there. She had known, or thought she had, that I was
somewhere in France. Now she must really believe her eyes. I’d changed in appearance,
more than I was aware. She spoke of this – not quite the baby-faced lad who’d
slipped away so long ago, as it seemed to both of us.
Then, when full
realisation was achieved, she started laughing happily and so did I and we went
at it for quite a while. Laughter was easier and more enjoyable than a lot of
chat. We knew why we were laughing and why tears were flowing. You’re not
having a real good laugh if you’re not crying too…
My baby sister didn’t really know me, of course. But that would soon right itself… By the
evening, the family gathering was complete, Ted excepted – my younger brother
home from school, elder sister and my father back from work, and all of them so
surprised by my sudden appearance among them.
I had at least as
many questions to ask them as they had for me, and it was pleasant to be talked
to as an adult, whereas beforehand I had not quite rated that status with
brother Ted the first son – I had never seriously questioned the situation
because of his obvious superior intelligence and better judgement. Rather, I
had felt proud of him. But I had lived through strange events and borne some
small but serious responsibilities since last we were all together, and perhaps
it showed. Or they may just have been naturally glad to have me there with them
for a while… Either way, happiness; nor could I have wished for a more
affectionate welcome.
With less cordial
relationships, I could have found difficulty in admitting that my clothing
housed other creatures than myself, but fortunately tales of the crummy state
of men at the front had become common knowledge and, after chatting about the
lousy conditions under which we often lived on active service, Ma suggested
that I strip, have a bath and dump all my clothing out back. Some items of my
civvy gear good enough to wear around the house still awaited me in a drawer
upstairs.
A little later, my
entrance, wearing these old things, brought on a big laugh, for I had grown
somewhat. If the Army clothes had not dried by morning, I would have to lie
abed for a few hours until they did, a prospect which pleased me. The lovely
warm bath and the new experience of being well looked after were delights I had
not dared to anticipate, contrasting so greatly with my recent mode of living
that I could not properly express all the gratitude I felt for the many
kindnesses shown… Tomorrow I would feel more relaxed, especially after a long
sleep in a soft bed, free from all necessity to be constantly strung up and
ready to act quickly in the cause of self-preservation.
The single iron
bedstead carried just a mattress with filling unknown, clean sheets, one
pillow, a blanket, and a patchwork quilt, produced some years previously by
members of the Mothers’ Union at the local mission church. But that bed represented
heaven to me. My younger brother was already asleep when I slipped between the
cool sheets. We shared a small room, but I didn’t disturb him and I enjoyed
watching him, a picture of boyish innocence, before I blew out the candles.’
* To introduce the
Sutcliffe family’s details to newer readers, given they’re all referred to in
this homecoming passage: older brother “Ted”, officially Philip Broughton, born
October 15, 1896, at 53 Great Cheetham Street, Broughton, Manchester; parents
Charles Philip, born April 29, 1864, at 132, Elizabeth Street, Cheetham,
Manchester, and Lily Emma, née Fleetwood, born August 18, 1872, in Lincolnshire
– they married on May 2, 1894; Dorothy (always known as “Ciss”), born December
3, 1894, at 49, Great Cheetham Street (I don’t know if the birthdate means Ciss
was born prematurely or conceived before her parents’ wedding! Nor do I know
why her birthplace is two doors away from Ted’s two years later – since the
family was wealthy then, immediately before “ruin” plunged them into poverty
and down to London, it may be that another branch of the family lived close by,
or that they moved a short way down the street for some reason); younger
brother Alfred Brotherton, born March 8, 1903, at 24 Vale Side, Eade Road,
Tottenham, London (now N4); baby sister Edith “Edie” Minnie Sutcliffe, born May
22, 1912 (three other children had died, aged one to 12).
** 26, Lowden Road,
Edmonton (now N9).
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam discovers
it was Lloyd George himself who sorted out his first home leave since
Christmas, 1914! And he meets a girl… the pictures, tea, French pastries, a
kiss. But then he has to say goodbye to romance and to the family and start the
journey back to France… twice, as it happens.
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