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.

Out now! Nobody Of Any Importance: A Foot Soldier's Memoir Of WW1

Dear all

"All"! Well, we'll see, but welcome to whoever's out there, on behalf of my father and from me as, just the 35 years after Sam Sutcliffe started writing his memoir of a foot soldier's life at Gallipoli, the Somme and all the tricky bits before and after, young Phil - that's me, 67 last Sunday - finally finishes editing it and gets it out there via the miracle of e-book.

Here's the link to buy it if you care to in UK (which I missed before editing this blog just now, sorry) click here or in US (I think) click here.

It looks like this:

Price in UK is £5 and, in my father's memory, all author/editor royalties for the e-book will go to the UK Red Cross, a cause he would approve of, given they saved his life at Gallipoli and probably later too - to be clear, that means the Red Cross will get 35 per cent of what you pay on Amazon, and somewhat different amounts and percentages on other outlets when we get to them. It's 700 pages+ of his near-total-recall memory from north London childhood to the peace parade that really affirmed it was over in July, 1919.

If I can keep going, I want to update this blog weekly for the duration of WW1's serial Centenary by featuring short excerpts from the book relevant to what was going on 100 years ago this week, the next week and thereabouts - what my dad called his "Nobody Of Any Importance" story running in parallel to all the macro memorial events.

FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS:
First excerpts from the e-book coming up, but I'm sure I'll need to set the scene somewhat.

One thing I have to explain about the first two parts of the book - covering his childhood and through to the early months of the war - is that my father chose to write about himself in the third person. So Tommy Norcliffe is Sam Sutcliffe, although observed from "outside". After a while, Dad gave that up and wrote as "I" for the duration. Well, he was no professional historian. It really is memoir/autobiography from the start.

So to the history. As you know, the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand on June 28, 1914, in Sarajevo, set the dominos of war declarations tumbling all over Europe and beyond for a couple of months to come. A hundred years ago today (writing on July 19), the treaty breach that got Great Britain officially involved had not yet occurred. But in writing about his early teens, particularly the period after he left school at 14 in 1912, my father often referred to popular worry and/or excitement about the likelihood of war with Germany - further stirred up by the weekly fiction magazines of the day which propagated a whole sub-genre of "invasion scare" fiction.

A series in Pearson's Weekly, Sam recalled, "described the invasion of Great Britain by German Forces, detailing the Channel crossing, landings on the beaches, battles through Kent and Sussex villages and their eventual approach to London. Ordinary people had for some while generally accepted that war with Germany was inevitable and they read this carefully constructed story of a surprise attack with excitement and, perhaps, concealed fear. Tommy and others of his generation could not see what would prevent the Germans from achieving their objective if they landed along the low-lying coasts. No great mountain ranges between there and the capital…"

A little later Sam writes: "One weekly magazine, John Bull, edited by Horatio Bottomley, a man able to discern what line of thought would arouse millions of partially educated people, used the war to excite the masses to do things which always had the ultimate result of putting money into his pocket. At meetings advertised in his publication and where he was the chief speaker, he would advocate donating money to the John Bull Victory Bond Club.

Tommy often read this weekly paper when his father had finished with it. The fiery patriotism impressed him, the condemnation of the foul enemy with whom we were at war, the constant watchfulness the editor and his staff maintained to discover and expose traitors in high places. He, and thousands of others, began to believe that this man could be the leader and saviour of Britain and the Empire."
And so the talk gathered pace and fervour: "Although the routine of living continued for Tommy, his family, and all around him, excitement mounted daily as events abroad, culminating in the assassination of a royal person, led many to believe that a war in which Britain would be involved was imminent.

The morning paper, which Pa bought on his way to the station with two of his sons, was eagerly read by their mother and the other children in the evening.

"On the train to work men loudly and strongly expressed opinions about events and prospects and Tommy listened. At the office, the Sergeant* really let himself go on this one; he believed the prospective enemy, the Germans, had always intended to attack England, but that our well-trained Army would soon finish them off once the two forces were face to face. Too old for active service himself, he would be doing his bit for Britain through that job at the War Office he had told the boys about.

"Meanwhile, brother George, sunburnt and lusty after a fortnight at a camp for assistant Scoutmasters, frequently talked about England going to war and what part he might play in it. He encouraged Tommy to join him and two friends of his own age, Len Winns and Harold Mellow, in long walks at the weekends. Then, when they stopped to rest and eat their sandwiches, a pack of cards would be produced and they’d play their favourite game, solo whist. But discussions of war always cropped up. Exciting speculations on how long it would last might vary between a few months and several years."

* The commissionaire at the City mining company offices where Sam worked as a junior office boy, 1912-14.

Hope that's a good taster. Until next week?

Your comrade

FootSoldierSam

Copyright © Sam Sutcliffe 1987 & Phil Sutcliffe 2014. The moral rights of the authors are asserted.

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