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Dear
all
A hundred
years ago this week… A temporary petering-out stage prevailed on most fronts.
The Third Battle Of Ypres (or Passchendaele) remained bogged down by the
weather, but still the opposing Armies exchanged deadly raids: the British
halted their own attack on the Gheluvelt Plateau because of the mud (August
27), advanced 200 yards across the St Julien to Poelcapelle road (27) then lost
the ground again (31), but repulsed German counterattacks southeast of Lens
(30) and at Havrincourt southwest of Cambrai (September 1-2).
On the Eastern Front, one major new eruption
began, the Battle Of Riga or Jugla in Latvia (September 1-3). The German Army
bombarding Russian and Latvian forces across the River Daugava (or Dvina) and
advanced via pontoon bridges. However, an orderly retreat was contrived –
although it involved surrendering Riga – via the courage of the Latvian
Rifleman Brigade holding the line for 26 hours while the rest of their troops
retreated to Sigulda and Celsis. The casualties told the story: 5,000 German,
25,000 Russian/Latvian.
In Romania, while the Battle Of Marasesti
had wound down by September 3 (casualties Romanian 27,410, Russian 25,640,
German 60-65,000, Austro-Hungarian unknown), at the same time the revived
Romanian Army continued its effective resistance in the Vainitza region and the
Ocna Valley (not helped by a Russian Division laying down their arms rather
than supporting them – this betrayal caused by political upheaval back home and
resultant lack of food and money on the Russians’ various and scattered front
lines).
The 11th Battle Of The Isonzo saw the
Italians in the ascendency still, if not making further great strides, as they
beat off Austro-Hungarian counterattacks on the Bainsizza Plateau and at Monte
San Gabriele.
And a report to London averred that down in
German East Africa British and Belgian forces (often abetted by South Africa
and Portugal) were still driving the Germans out of the massive territory which
later became Tanzania, Burundi and Rwanda.
[Memoir background: my father, Lance Corporal Signaller Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers
volunteer and Gallipoli veteran (Blogs September 20, 2015, to January 3, 2016),
had
fought on the Somme Front with his second outfit the Kensingtons (Blogs May 15 to September 25,
2016)…
until
officialdom spotted his real age – 18 on July 6, 1916, legally too young for
the battlefield. So they told him he could take a break from the fighting until
he turned 19. He took up the offer, though with an enduring sense of guilt. By
December, 1916, he ended up posted to Harrogate, Yorkshire, and re-allocated again,
this time to the Essex Regiment 2/7th Battalion, along with a bunch of other under-age
Tommies until such time as they severally became eligible for the trenches again… An interesting year ensued – four months of blizzards, a
meningitis scare, special training in various northern locations, and then,
just after his 19th birthday on July 6, a few summer weeks stomping around Yorkshire
on a route march… which in due course leads him to hospital again, to recover
from some lurking effects of trench warfare and prepare him for more. However,
now I have to break off from the this-week-100-years-ago excerpts from his
Memoir because my father didn’t write enough about his year “out” to provide 52
blog excerpts. So, for the next 10 weeks, before he returns to the France and
the Front from December onwards, I’m revisiting his previous battlefield
experiences, the Somme and, first, Gallipoli.]
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
So, I’m leaving Sam on
freeze-frame in mid-August, 1917, his weekly story to be resumed in November
and then solidly onwards through his very eventful 1918…
Meanwhile, I felt it might be of interest even to longer-term
readers to rerun some excerpts from his Memoir
sections (and the Gallipoli and Somme e-bookette episodes) on the historic
battles he observed from the front lines and, as he always insisted, through
the eyes of one soldier – not a historian, “just” a Tommy participant. Here,
then the first sequence of key moments from Sam’s Gallipoli, his initiation
into the realities of war.
Having grown up poor in Edmonton, north London, he’d enlisted in
September, 1914, telling the recruiters he was 19 when he was really 16 (his
brother Ted, with whom he joined up, lied a little less, being 18); his 2/1st
Battalion Royal Fusiliers then trained for 12 months in London, Tonbridge,
Malta and briefly in Egypt – Sam becoming a Lance Corporal Signaller en route.
Now here he is on September 17, 1915, about to sail from Alexandria to a
destination as yet unannounced, though fearfully guessed by many. On the
troopship, while they wait to weigh anchor, he’s spending time with Ted, as he
has done for most of that year since enlisting…
‘And there I was, high up on the deck of a ship, chatting
happily with brother Ted and looking downwards at men still climbing up the
steep gangway, loaded with full equipment. Ted sat on the deck, his back
against a cabin wall, obviously somewhat uneasy. This actually pleased me, I
recall, because if my strong, assertive older brother could feel like that, I
could be excused for worrying a bit.
At long last, only
five or six of our men remained on the Quayside and now I felt quite confident
about the future, doubtless encouraged by Ted’s presence with me on a ship
about to take us — where?
He remained
seated, taking no interest in what was happening around us. I observed that a
Company Quartermaster had lined up the few men still on the quay to “call the
roll”. He looked around and spoke to the men, then commenced climbing the
gangway, calling loudly. It was someone’s name he shouted, other voices on the
ship repeated it and a shock, a wave of grief, shook me: “Private Norcliffe**,
G Company!”
Those near us urged
my brother to show himself and get the thing finished. “It’s my missing teeth,”
he told me. “The doctor refused to pass me till I have some replacements, false
ones. They told me I couldn’t go with the boys, but I thought I might swing it
by keeping out of sight.”
With barely time
to shake hands, he was hustled off and down the gangway. I kept him in sight.
We waved goodbye during all the time we could still see each other.
Gone was the
happiness which had returned to me when we so fortunately got together on that
ship. Now I felt only the grim prospect of a very difficult and doubtful
existence for an unknown length of time in some strange land. I felt very sad
until a chap who had witnessed Ted’s departure revealed a good side of the
affair. “He’ll be all right whatever happens to you, the lucky devil,” he said.
And I thought, that was how I felt about it, and I hoped Ted would remain in
Egypt for the duration of the war.
We slipped out of
Alex very quietly. Back over the stern of the ship lay the town, already too
distant for buildings to be identifiable. To the left — the east — I could see
a sandy area from which, I guessed, lucky soldiers would be able to swim; to
the right, buildings gradually became fewer in number — an oil storage depot, a
lighthouse, a long sandbank, nothing beyond that but desert… At Sidi Bishr we
had all enjoyed an excellent bath in square tanks, each accommodating several
men. I was to recall that bath on many occasions during the coming months’
** An alias – for reasons
known only to him, on the rare occasions when my father uses his family name “Sutcliffe”
is thinly disguised as “Norcliffe”. By the way Ted’s front teeth got punched
out in a fist fight – he always was something of a scrapper.
The prospect of action
gets Sam and pals thinking long term – about food (partly as an internal
diversionary tactic, given their increasing trepidation about the unknown).
Here two paragraphs, from separate occasions during the build-up, when Sam
reflects on provisions supplied and how he might augment them:
‘… in addition to all the standard infantry and specialist
Signaller impedimenta I listed when we left Malta, alongside the water bottle
on the right hip we now bore a haversack with its very important contents: a
can containing a block of solidified methylated spirit which could be made into
a burner, and “iron rations” comprising a bag of small, hard biscuits, single
packets of beef cubes, tea and sugar, and a can of Maconochie’s stewed beef***
– this last, one of that war’s great successes. To broach these rations without
the permission of an officer was a serious crime; they were to be used in grave
extremity only.’
‘…the taut, nervous condition, brought on by anticipation of
what I feared, had me scheming about any steps I could take to improve my
survival prospects. What bread I, and others around me, couldn’t eat, I stored
in any space in haversack or pack. Stew couldn’t be so readily saved; surplus
remained in the big dixies for return to the cooks and probable dumping overboard.
But I picked out leftover pieces of meat, dried them off, wrapped them up
tightly in an oilskin cap cover, and crammed this little package into my
haversack.’
*** My father wrote from
experience, of course, and apparently without sarcasm here, but various sites
reveal a critical consensus either abusing the Aberdeen-based victualler’s stew
– “An inferior grade of garbage,” says one – or noting noxious side effects:
“The Maconochie stew ration gave the troops flatulence of a particularly
offensive nature” (from David R. Woodward’s Hell
In The Holy Land, published by the University Press Of Kentucky, 2006,
quoted with permission from Dr Woodward).
Within a couple of days
they reach their first, rather reassuring, port of call:
‘Our ship entered a perfect natural harbour**** with several
large ships at anchor – among them liners and smaller passenger vessels, no
doubt acting as troopships, and a big hospital ship, cream with green lines
along her sides and large red crosses prominently displayed. Many small craft
moved around them, including a lot of lighters similar to those I had seen on
the Thames – metal vessels with steel decks, all cargo carried below.’
**** Mudros: sometimes
spelt Moudros, on Lemnos; the island had become Greek, and a Greek Navy base,
in 1912, as a result of the First Balkan War (the Ottoman Empire versus Serbia,
Greece, Montenegro and Bulgaria); Allied Navies used it from 1915 until the end
of World War I.
Less calming, there
follows the issue of official post cards for the months to come, the impersonal
kind permitting no individual message, just redaction from a bald list of often
painful possibilities (the sole, cold comfort being that, logically, they couldn’t
offer an “I am dead” option):
‘Then we got our first sight of “on active service”
postcards and green envelopes. The cards had messages printed on them and all
we were allowed to do was strike out the lines which were not applicable: “I am
well/I have been wounded” etc. I filled one in immediately, addressed it to my
family, and handed it in.’
The next steps towards
the notionally still unknown inevitable soon follow:
‘Told to prepare to leave the ship, we strapped on all our
gear again. This set the tension mechanism really racing – although I flattered
myself no one knew about that. If a boy like me tried to assume the cool,
steady demeanour of a man in full control of his emotions, then an older chap
might behave with gaiety, perhaps sing a few lines of a bawdy song, or take the
micky out of a mate who was the usual butt of his jokes. The thing not to do
was stay silent and look gloomy – that way you would be labelled “windy” and
lose all your pals. You had to consider that others might be feeling worse than
you, but they didn’t let it show. So it may be that battles fought inwardly to
preserve the good opinion of one’s fellows made possible some of the bigger
victories on the battlefield…’
Consideration of his own,
hidden “windiness” often led Sam to think about his officers. Basically, he had
no time at all for Generals and such who conducted the slaughter from way
behind the lines, but a lot of empathy for the front-line officers – from
Second Lieutenants up to, in some settings, Colonels – who fought alongside
their men and suffered every horror with them. Here are two separate but
related reflections on the subject from that period before Sam’s own Gallipoli
landing:
‘… our officers mainly confined themselves to the upper
deck, probably resting in the cabins most of the time. Well, their privilege,
for when the action – whatever it was – started, they would be responsible for
giving instructions to their men and must show themselves to be steady and
capable of carrying out whatever part of the general plan we had been allotted.
Even a humble Patrol Leader in the Boy Scouts had felt the weight of
responsibility which bears down on one who must make decisions affecting
others. Praise for good leadership, criticism for bad, could enhance or
diminish personal pride during peacetime but, on active service, men’s futures were
at stake and a junior officer might blunder and wreck major strategy at the
cost of many lives. Our men always felt happiest when commanded by men from
that class which traditionally produced fine officers. But, obviously, there
were not many of that calibre around – fewer and fewer in a war which consumed
men daily by the thousand. Still, the Army tried to come up with and train new
top-notchers. Good substitutes. There had to be.’
‘One man who simply had to win the personal inward struggle
was the commissioned officer in charge of men in the front line. This subject
I’d heard debated many a time; I don’t recall discussions about the deeper
feelings of fellow rankers, but officers being a class apart, loved or hated,
we expected them to act as the leaders they had set themselves up to be. If
they had their men’s good will, they carried all our hopes that, in action, we
would acquit ourselves well together.‘
The 2/1st transfers to smaller
ships, two Companies per vessel, at Mudros and as they leave the harbour Sam
skims a second active service card on to the deck of the Aragon, a liner converted to floating Post Office for the Gallipoli
campaign – it’s addressed to the Fluters, the couple who billeted him in
Tonbridge, so fondly does he remember their kindness. On edge, yet overwhelmed
by tiredness, he falls asleep on the deck until a wave washing over the side
wakes him. Then he gets talking to an officer whose identity remains mysterious
because the night is so dark – however, he makes a lasting impression on Sam
with his persuasive account of troubles ahead:
‘This man did tell me – and thus whipped up inner tension to
its highest level so far: “We are going ashore at a place where landings
commenced some time ago. Unfortunately, that lot haven’t done as well as hoped
for. There are big hills quite a short distance from the beach and our chaps
should by now be on the far side of them, but they’re not. We go ashore
tonight, advance through their lines and try to get to what was their
objective. I don’t like it, but we can only do our best.”*****’
***** My father’s
Battalion landed at Suvla Bay, Gallipoli, on September 25, 1915, joining the
88th Brigade of the 29th Division. In Strong
For Service, H Montgomery Hyde’s
biography of Lord Nathan (the 2/1st’s most popular officer and in the later
months of Gallipoli their CO, after brisk promotion from Lieutenant to Major –
he later served as a Minister in Attlee’s post WW2 Labour Government), the
author refers to a “late afternoon” landing, which is not my father’s
recollection, as you see – but different Companies (two per ship, eight in the
Battalion) landed at different times, and Hyde writes that “Nathan was the
first person in the Battalion to set foot on Turkish soil”, whereas my father
in H (the eighth) Company may well have been one of the last. The Allies’ Gallipoli
landings had begun on April 25, 1915, and the Suvla Bay phase on August 6.
Forewarned, Sam gathers
his equipment, his inner resources – and his self-esteem – but still finds his
stomach demanding attention:
‘Word passed around for all to be ready to disembark and I
donned my load, message case, field transmitter, rifle and all – in one hand I
gripped a bunch of four signal flags. Whether excitement or fear brought it on
I don’t know, but I suddenly felt terribly hungry. Then I recalled that I had
not eaten since early morning. Nor, as far as I know, had any of our men.
Someone had blundered. Or was it usual to land troops on a battlefield with
empty bellies?
The sound of the
ship’s engines changed. We four H Company Signallers stood shoulder to shoulder
with the others awaiting the next move.
As Lance Corporal
in charge of our small group, I knew that our job would be to supply
communication between our Company commander and Battalion headquarters, and
perhaps between us and Companies on our right and left. Runners would carry
messages between platoons and Company HQ. So I located our Captain and resolved
to keep close to him and to have my mates close to me. Ever since our Signals
Section had been formed back there in Malta, I had not had much to do with H
Company, and the good Captain had not been really aware of my existence. He had
his intimates – usually two junior officers and his batman; he called on his
Company Sergeant Major in respect of drills and training and procedure when on
parade, but as to Signallers he knew nothing, nor did he seem to wish to.
“I can send
messages by word of mouth,” he told me when jammed together, as we all were on
that small ship. We four appeared to be crowding him in that darkness.
Proximity to the scent of power boosted my confidence sufficiently for me to
disregard any intended rebuff. I’d had my training, I felt that I knew my job,
and perhaps felt sorry that the Captain did not appreciate our role. By signals
of whatever sort, vital information could be transmitted immediately, even in
darkness, whereas messengers might be delayed, get lost, wounded or killed,
even over a short distance.’
And suddenly the proximity
of battle announces itself:
‘The next part of the military operation was simple. Our
small ship carried G and H Companies, and each assembled without fuss on its
appointed side of the boat. Where the dark cliff had towered above us, I now
saw the lighter colour of the sky. Across a wider stretch of water than
earlier, on land rifles fired continuously and artillery lit up the blackness,
each flash followed by a bang, a shriek or a strange whine which often
increased in volume then ended up in a big explosion. Guns were being fired
with intent to kill and here was my first experience of warfare.’
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam and pals land at Suvla Bay, under
fire for the first time in their lives – and suffers their first deaths.
* 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.
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