Sam on his underage “break” from the front – and on the edge of mutiny with his group of young Somme veterans in Harrogate

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Dear all

A hundred years ago this week… The Allies effectively rejected US President Woodrow Wilson’s pre-Christmas peace proposal. In response, the German and Austro-Hungarian Governments issued a statement repudiating responsibility for the continuance of the war. The ins and outs of this process remain a matter of opinion, though the body language maybe implied the Central Powers were more keen on negotiation, therefore less confident of victory?

    On the Western Front, the snowy winter got worse but the trench attrition started to crank itself up again with a new battle around the River Ancre, part of the Somme aftermath or continuation, which ran from January 9, when the British Army took some trenches east of Beaumont Hamel, until March 13.

    In the east, the overstretched Russian Army’s enduring resilience proved itself by beating back German counterattacks around Lake Babit (January 8-12), advancing in the Tirul Marsh (9, both Latvia) and taking back an island in the River Dvina (8, Poland).

    However, the Russian forces helping the Romanians defend their country against the Central Powers remained on the run for the most part – although it remained a fierce conflict with the German Army’s capture of Focsani (January 8) and Vadeni (14), partly offset by Romanian counterattacks in the Casin Valley (11) and on the River Putna (10).

    Much further south, the British Army – with substantial “Empire” help – did make headway via a) the Battle Of Rafa completing the recapture of the Sinai Peninsula from the Ottomans (January 9, on the Egyptian border with Palestine, British/Anzac/Indian camel Battalions leading the way) and b) an advance along the Tigris west towards Kut, the town yielded after along siege 10 months earlier.

Meanwhile, my father, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers volunteer and Gallipoli veteran Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, had fought on the Somme Front with his new outfit the Kensingtons from mid-May to September (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 spent a few weeks at the Harfleur British base camp, a few more “training” in London (and living at home), then in December the Army posted him up North to Harrogate where he was reallocated again, this time to an Essex Regiment Battalion…

FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS

Last week, I ran the second of two blogs from my father’s recollections of Christmases and New Years past – contrasting scenes from childhood and Gallipoli. That was because his wonderfully detailed memories included not a word about the festive season, 1916-17. Presumably, it passed unremarkably in the most literal sense.

    But now we’re back to more or less chronological 100-years-ago business – except that, as far as I can tell, this next story happened just before the festive season rather than just after. We’ll get in synch soon. Still this is quite eye-popping stuff in it’s way: the third minor and temporary mutiny my father had found himself caught up in (interesting examples of the micro-history we never hear about except in individual nobody-of-any-importance memoirs).

    To recap from Blog 128 (December 18), this hullabaloo arose from Sam’s group of under-age-volunteer Tommies arriving in Harrogate to find they’d been consigned to the alleged “Lost Division” (as Sam recalled the ignominious soubriquet). Or rather, a couple of his comrades had read a scandal story in (later notorious fraudster) Horatio Bottomley’s John Bull weekly magazine which they half-remembered as claiming this Division had so far sat out the war in Blighty with all the home comforts while others – such as these under-age veterans – had risked life, limb and sanity in the trenches.

    In truth, this malicious tale seems to have been three parts urban legend and over-lurid journalism. The closest to fact my modest research revealed, via one history book and a PhD thesis online, was an account of a so-called “Forgotten Division” (rather than “Lost”), the 62nd (2nd West Riding), which did remain in England due to both maladministration and poor leadership – but… it seems to have never been based in Harrogate and, anyway, to have shipped out to France in December, 1916/January, 1917. Furthermore, the 2nd Battalion Essex Regiment, which my father joined in Harrogate, was never part of that Division.

    The fog of war, even back home in England! Be that as it may (or may not etc), the following scene really did play out on the Stray In Harrogate, so clearly some kind of hooha was going on about these troops dodging the column. Here’s Sam (they'd moved into rooms above a shop, sleeping on mattresses on the floor):

‘So, we slept on the floor. Up in the morning early, a cold wash at a tap in a sort of washroom on a lower floor, and out on parade for the first time with this new Battalion. We, the under-age new boys, chatted away, our persistent theme that, although we were too young for the fighting line, our ambitions had never included relegation to a crowd branded nationally as dodgers, avoiders of doing their bit in the war effort. However, having considered this, I’d pretty well decided to follow my usual policy of lying low and saying nothing. There were always others around ready to do the talking, not all of it sensible.

     One chap, Warley, three inches shorter even than myself (I was about 5 foot eight by then) and with one stripe on his arm too, turned out to be a bright little sparrow, always ready with a cheerful grin, but rather sharp of tongue – and he quickly decided he wanted no part of this “Lost Division” or whatever you cared to call it. The rest of us took little persuasion to go with him. When we proceeded to the common**, where the rest of the troops had assembled, our little group stood to one side, waiting. We should have joined whichever Company we had been assigned to, but there we stayed, separating ourselves, plainly conducting a small mutiny. A bad start.

     NCOs from various Companies came over and said we should be with them and why weren’t we? Warley and others soon made it clear we wanted no part of this stay-at-home mob.

     I think the height of absurdity arrived when the RSM approached us: a small man, well-proportioned, quick-moving, a swagger stick carried under his left armpit or occasionally brandished; doubtless because of his exalted rank, his small head had to bear the burden of a rather large moustache with long, thin, waxed ends. Sharp, snappy orders from this alert little Sarnt Major required us to obey orders and take up our positions in the various Companies. All to no avail.

     So, believe it or not, he started to bargain, to dicker with this small group of youngsters. I’d never heard of such a thing before. My former RSM*** would have thrown us into the nick for this ridiculous defiance of authority, but little “Sticky” Walker, as he was known to his jolly men, made a sporting offer – take today off, he said, get used to the place, give the matter some thought, and make the right decision. Be on parade tomorrow, and the matter will be forgotten…

     And that was the end of it. From then on I accepted the good life. A reasonable breakfast, a large basin of tea between us, bread, sometimes a rasher of bacon. Nothing wrong with that. My Company took dinner round one o’clock in a large church hall; generally some sort of stew – the big, white basin again – accompanied by potatoes, even some green stuff (though not often), and on Sundays, a pudding, either plum duff or spotted dick. Luxury indeed. Around teatime, that big basin full of tea re-emerged, with bread, marge, jam and, not infrequently, a chunk of cheese… These lucky men had enjoyed rations of that sort throughout the war years, while some of us led rather rougher lives and endured fare much below these standards.’

** The common in the middle of Harrogate is called The Stray – 200 acres, including all the springs in the town,  declared a perpetual public open space by law in 1778.

*** Sam’s referring to the Kensingtons’ RSM. He never names him, but writes of his “unshakeable” courage on July 1, 1916, at Gommecourt on the Somme front line (Blog 103, June 26, 2016).

All the best – FSS

Next week: Sam and comrades dig the town out of the first blizzard of a terrible winter – and he encounters a mysterious “character delineator” and discovers his new friend Mac is a trained phrenologist (he reads your bumps, Mrs!)…

* 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.