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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… at
Verdun, the French Army tried to gain the initiative by launching a major
attack (May 22), heavy artillery bombardment followed by infantry onslaught in
the habitual Western Front way. They gained ground at Fort Douamont (22) and
lost it again (24); the Germans took Culières (24) and lost it again (26). In
other words, no great change while the French incurred 5,640 casualties and the
Germans 4,500.
The
only other note of specific action I’ve found on the standard timelines is a
German bombardment of the British between Lassée Canal and Arras, but now that
my father has reached the Western Front his accounts (including today’s Memoir
excerpt below) serve as a reminder that deadly, if “minor”, battling proceeded
non-stop – he reached the Somme Front around May 12, 1916, and saw almost
constant action from then on but it’s only the catastrophe of July 1 that
features on the historical narratives.
Further
south, the Italian Army regrouped somewhat and began to hold the
Austro-Hungarian incursion at the Battle Of Asiago (near Trentino) despite
defeats at Monte Civaron and Monte Moschicce (May 25-7).
Elsewhere,
the Greek government ordered the surrender of Fort Rupel on the
Greece-Macedonia border to Bulgarian and German forces (May 26, leading to a
Greek Army mutiny), the Russians continued their Armenian advance by taking
Mamakhatun (24), and British forces took control of Dafur by defeating the
Sultan’s Army at Beringia (22). The British also backed the South African and
Portuguese invasion of German East Africa (now Burundi, Rwanda and Tanzania) by
briskly taking several townships (25-7).
Meanwhile,
after their terrible winter in Gallipoli, and three months recovering in Egypt,
my father Lance Corporal Signaller Sam Sutcliffe from
Edmonton, north London (still under-age at 17), his older brother Ted, 19, and
their remaining comrades – the 250-ish 2/1st City Of London
Battalion Royal
Fusiliers who’d survived – had transferred to a huge encampment outside Rouen, France,
in April. There, to the young veterans’ profound chagrin, the British Army
carried out its long-standing threat to disband, rather than rebuild, the
Battalion. Soon they were scattered among various other outfits on the soon-to-be
notorious Somme Front. Sam had joined the Kensingtons (1/13th Battalion, London
Regiment) on or about May 14…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, my father settled in with the
Kensingtons, billeted in a village called Souastre, a couple of miles behind
the Front. He tried on his first tin hat and gas mask and generally appreciated
a level of Army organisation and provision he’d never encountered at Gallipoli.
Today,
and throughout the summer, these blogs will be unusually long simply because
Sam had such vivid memories of and so much to say about his experiences a
hundred years ago on the Somme. But I think you’ll find there’s not too much
wasted verbiage and plenty of truth and substance.
First,
though, Sam had a personal matter he wanted to attend to:
‘Because this new lot’s Signals Section was at full strength
when I joined, I became a humble Lance Corporal on ordinary duties. So I sought
an interview with the Captain in charge of our Company and asked to be allowed
to revert to the rank of Private, but he refused.
I wanted no rank,
no responsibility except to myself. Rank entailed being careful, steady, a good
example, even though a Lance Corporal was everybody’s lackey, often jeered at
by the Privates and ordered around by Corporals and Sergeants. I longed to lose
that stripe and be a carefree nothing.
But, with pleasant
fellows in my platoon, on the whole, and a new mood now upon me – occasioned by
living among strangers – I could behave in a relaxed manner, laugh without
restraint at even the corniest joke, and make a few cheeky comments about
people around me (usually taken in good part). The underlying bitterness
remained in me, though, and stoked up the fire of reckless humour which ruled
out thoughts of a serious nature and ensured that nobody would wish to attempt
serious conversation with me – while roughly the opposite of my style in the
old Battalion, this resulted in a sort of coarse popularity which pleased me.
Consequently, I quickly earned for myself a soubriquet I liked, to wit, The
Pisstaker.
Came the day for us to pack up and move forward…* and now my
gut-gripping tension increased, although I believed, or hoped, I remained
outwardly the flippant ass they liked. For some kilometres our drum-and-fife
band led us on with tunes which had probably cheered up our soldiery in the
days of Good Queen Bess. Anyway, the rhythm of the drums kept our feet moving
in unison – most useful in that it saved us from tripping each other up.
When the band
stepped aside we marched on awhile in silence, save for the crunch of boots on
gravel road. Soon we entered the ghost of a village** and halted. Each Company
remained cohesive, but the general idea, with enemy onlookers in mind, was to
get lost visually.
Far away, we could
see active “sausage” balloons, with baskets housing observers*** suspended
beneath them. I learnt that both sides now commonly used aeroplanes for
observation purposes too, so we had to take great care to avoid being spotted,
because artillery might open up and polish us off before we even reached the
front line.
We spread out in
small groups among the village’s remaining walls, or parts of same, all
remaining within hailing distance of our officers. Our Company cooks
demonstrated their efficiency as usual, for within half an hour we were
enjoying a rich, tasty stew, a generous helping for each man. Obviously, they
had prepared our meal on the road as we marched. Then, when we had our meal,
they quietly cleaned the boilers, filled them with water and brewed tea, for
they soon gave us a welcome drink of that morale-improver. In addition, most of
us had little extras we’d bought earlier – chocolate, biscuits and the like.
The rumble, roar,
and occasional extra-loud crump of a shell exploding nearby, offered constant
reminders that some of us would have to pay for this present indulgence in
blood and pain ere long. With the sun sinking, we were warned to pump ship,
attend to all nature’s wants, and rest, in preparation for some trying hours of
movement in darkness across open country, and then in strange trenches.
The enemy
maintained fairly steady bombardment of places where he knew transports and
troops must pass during the hours of darkness. Horse-drawn and motor vehicles
usually had to stay on the roads, so crossroads became favourite targets for
German gunners. Soldiers on foot could avoid these deathtraps, but the
necessary diversions added mileage to their journeys and often took them
through messy, muddy areas, slowing progress.
As we set off “across the plain”**** – a Sergeant’s words –
there was no moon. His remark aroused little interest among the troops; they’d
done this trip before, and I refused to remind them that I was a stranger among
them by asking, “What plain?” Our Company, walking in twos, must have formed a
considerable crocodile as we weaved around shell-holes and various vaguely
visible humps which mystified me until ear-splitting explosions and
skyward-leaping flame flashes, changing to brief red streaks and short-lived
shrieks issued from one of them – British gun batteries, of course. Someone
could have tipped me off – we were stumbling through such a concentration of
guns as I had never imagined.
And I had no idea
about the extent of this “plain”, but if these batteries were lodged to left
and right of us, not to mention fore and aft, for distances which one could
guess at as more and more guns opened up, then this was war on a scale to which
I was a complete stranger. Sometimes we had to walk in front of and quite close
to these artillery clusters and a fear assailed me that they might let fly at
one of these moments. If they were sighted on distant targets we would be at
little risk because the guns would point upwards, but if they were aiming to
hit enemy positions only a mile or so distant the barrels would be lowered and
the shells pass through us before exploding among the Germans…
By the light of
muzzle flashes, I saw that gun-pits had been dug to house these guns, placing
them below ground level and giving their crews some protection. Their
mound-like appearance in the dark came from the nets slung over frames to
camouflage them in daylight.
“Into single file now.” This order passed quietly from man
to man as we moved down a slight incline… and there I was once more in the
confinement of a trench. I could perhaps move to left or right if
self-preservation seemed to require it, but not far. After several months of
freedom from this wretched situation, the whole, hateful, trapped feeling
returned. Bursts of machine-gun fire, the crashes of bursting shells, sometimes
singly, often in numbers, the whining of bits and pieces – fragments of metal.
This was to be my life, night and day, for several weeks to come, or for longer
if anything in the nature of attack and counter-attack developed.
But then came a
shaft of hope, almost of joy, for I remembered that here no sea lay behind us,
that in periods of rest from front-line trench life we would withdraw some
miles away from all noise, wounding, or sudden death, and enjoy relief from our
fears and these unnatural living conditions.
We steadily made
our way along the winding communications trench, seeing little, hearing much.
When I sensed, rather than saw, a cross-trench going to left and right, from
past experience I identified it as the reserve trench. Somewhere along it would
be located our Battalion Headquarters and various ancillary services. In the
next cross-trench, the support trench, probably two Companies were stationed.
But we moved on… and into the front line, the trench that faced the enemy. He
might be close, 20 or 30 yards distant, in which case we would have some
advanced holes and short trenches in between the front lines – probably manned
only during hours of darkness. If there were a wide gap, it would be scouted by
patrols from both sides during the night.
As we approached
the front, a stream of men passed us, going back the way we had come – happy,
because we were relieving their burden of tense preparedness with no let-up,
night or day. Always some part of the trench system was being damaged or
destroyed, some danger threatened. Mates maimed, blown apart. So, as they
threaded their way through our advancing line, they made quiet, little jests,
wished us good luck, gave useful hints occasionally about special features of
the terrain. Nice chaps going for a well-earned rest, bless’em.
I felt I was a
stranger here while the others had done all this before. In my previous spell
of front-line service, as a Signaller, to maintain communications between
points A and B I had been compelled to make my own decisions, once I had
received orders. Now, I was a member of a Company and must decide nothing until
my immediate superior told me what to do. This situation, which reduced me to
just a soldier with a number, and a damned long one at that, added further to
my suppressed anger about the way things had gone of late.
In this regard,
with some cynicism, I noticed a ploy the authorities put into operation. Now
that masses of men were being “called up”, as the expression went, those in
command – military or political, I didn’t know – abhorred the idea that chaps
who had volunteered when war started should have anything to distinguish them
from conscripts. My first number, for instance, was 2969, but on joining the
hordes rolling off the Kitchener production line, I and all the other
“old-timers” must be branded as one of them. So 2969 became 302337…***** Well,
may I remind you once more that this yarn has no connection with the story of
World War I; it’s a record of what happened to just one very insignificant
member of HM military forces in that scrap.
We now halted and took over a small stretch of the
front-line trench lately vacated. Nobody told me anything about procedure, no
doubt because they had all done this routine on other occasions. I asked no
questions, but chatted to an older man who sat on the firing step beside me. He
had the unusual name of Smith, worked in a coal mine, he said, though his
speech didn’t smack of Yorkshire or Wales or any northern area. On my other
side sat a youngster who said little.
Soon a man whom I
couldn’t see in the darkness detailed us off in pairs for lookout duty. This
meant that the first pair would get up on the firing step and keep watch on the
area between us and the German trenches for two hours and would rouse the next
two when it was time to change over. Meanwhile, the rest of us could sit and
doze if we wished. But, the enemy artillery being lively – salvos of shells
roared over and burst nearby – we knew some of them might land among us at any
moment. Sleep didn’t come easy.
The Germans also
sprayed the area with machine-gun bullets from time to time, frequently making
our lookout men duck down.
Smith said, “Come
with me if that stuff starts to get too close,” and this I did when necessary,
but with increasing misgivings; I perceived that if I repeatedly moved along to
the traverse – a deep trench section to our right – we would get no rest at all
and be quite unfit for duty when daylight came. In that traverse, when a shell
came near us Smith would say “Down!” and we crouched as low as possible. We
bobbed up and down constantly…
I thought about
the wretched life I’d often endured on that Turkish peninsula. But I was coming
to understand that warfare here could, at any moment, be more intense and
dangerous than at Gallipoli. However, I felt certain that this bobbing up and
down business would, in itself, soon be the death of me.
I had no idea
whether personal movement was restricted, so I presumed not and wandered along
the traverses and bays, the former unoccupied, each of the latter crowded with
its complement of soldiers. None of them knew me, but no one questioned me,
until I came to a bay – think of a bay window and you’ll get the idea – where,
as I could see by the gun flashes and the occasional flickering glare of a
falling Verey light******, the men were taking their war in a more relaxed
manner than my new comrade Smith.
In particular, one
man stretched full length on his back along the parapet above his comrades –
twixt him and the Jerries just a mound of earth perhaps 18 inches deep. When he
spoke, I joyfully identified him as a happy former member of our old Battalion
and I congratulated him on the obvious comfort of his chosen bed. We exchanged
wisecracks and, amid the resulting laughs and chatter with others present, I
recognised two more of our “old boys”. Conversation roamed over our
Mediterranean experiences and, naturally, favoured our former close comradeship
and our sorely missed Major. But we laughed and joked a good deal, and forgot
present dangers in the brief, but mutually affectionate spirit of reunion.
Of course, I had
strayed from my Company and, after a while, it dawned on me that two chaps
standing near me wore different uniforms to the rest of us and must be
officers. I’d heard them join in the giggles at times, but still thought I’d
better express a hope that I had not offended by barging into their Company.
They told me not to worry, they were just out from England and our bit of fun
had relieved the nervousness felt by every newcomer to the battlefield. Nice
chaps, but I just hoped they would not recognise me should we meet in daylight,
for I had deserted my own section for rather a long while.
On returning, I
avoided Smithy as far as possible, did my stint of lookout duty, and dozed at
every available opportunity – I wanted to be of some use at “Stand-to” dawn
alert, when with fixed bayonets and loaded rifles we had to be keenly ready to
repel any enemy move. That uncertain light of early morning gave advantage to
an attacker provided he moved cautiously. Every man must remain intently
watchful, speech forbidden, save if an order must be given. When full daylight
arrived, came the order to “Stand down” and fags could be lit and the rum
ration issued to “warm the cockles” after a chilly night.
It was then I
heard for the first time the regular morning performance of a short, swarthy
Sergeant who had come, someone told me, from South America, just to win this war
for us. He would yell his “Stand down, men!”, then call out a greeting to “You
German bastards – I’ll be over after you in a minute and I’ll knock seven
different kinds of shit out of you!” This he repeated as he strolled along the
line, getting many a hollow laugh from men who’d heard it all before, but still
hoped he meant it.’
* Probably May 21. WD for
that day notes the Kensingtons relieving the 1/8th Middlesex on the right of
the Gommecourt front line. My father’s Company A, under Major
Cedric Charles Dickens (grandson of the great novelist, killed at Bouleaux Wood
on the Somme Front, September 9, 1916), reached their front-line trench at 11.15pm, “after
dark” as he recalled (whereas WD reports the other three companies arrived in
daylight).
** Probably
Sailly-au-Bois, 4.6 kilometres southeast of Souastre.
*** Observation balloons:
their use peaked in World War I, says Wikipedia, because artillery had been
developed to fire at a range beyond sight of ground-level spotters; the
observers – attached to balloons full of inflammable hydrogen – became the
first aviators to use parachutes.
**** British soldiers
quoted in Pro Patria Mori called the flat 3.4 kilometre stretch of land between
Sailly and Hébuterne “the plain”.
***** One reference, for
which I can’t find confirmation, suggests that at some stage he had a third
number, 3928 – during his Kensingtons period. One of those details I’ll get to
the bottom of at some point, no doubt.
****** “Verey”, as my
father wrote it, is a common alternative spelling despite the pistols and
flares being named after their inventor, US Naval officer Edward Very.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam in the
front line: praise for the cooks and the sanitary men; digging advance trenches
in No Man’s Land at night… and how to evade a sniper’s bullet!
