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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… The
war in Europe did no more than smoulder, whether it was the Western Front
around Ypres and Verdun, or the Eastern Front where peace negotiations seemed
to have gone chaotic with the Russians demanding a move to Stockholm from
Brest-Litovsk (Belarussia) and General Kaledin’s “volunteer army” perhaps
causing the Bolsheviks more concern than anticipated. Down in Italy the
Austrians, ultimately held back after their long attempt to sweep south, took
some revenge by bombing Treviso, Vicenza, Castelfranco, Bassano, and Padua
(December 31 and January 3-4).
The
more striking events were German successes at sea against British troopships
and even hospital ships. The Osmanieh
succumbed to a mine off Alexandria (December 31; 198 casualties), and the Rewa, with a 279 wounded/sick officers
on board, sailing from Malta to Britain, was torpedoed and sank in the Bristol
Channel (January 4; all crew and patients saved bar four engineers killed by
the explosion).
[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. An
interesting year ensued – four months of blizzards, a meningitis scare, special
training in various northern locations, and then a few summer weeks stomping
around Yorkshire on a route march… which in due course led him to hospital again,
to recover from lurking effects of trench warfare’s privations – and prepare
for more of the same (he was 19 on July 6, 1917, while in hospital). During
that period, his Company Officer told him he’d been offered the chance to train
as a commissioned officer, but Sam detested ordering men around – especially
when death might be the outcome – so he refused; one immediate-post-war pension
form suggests this defiance brought about his “reversion” to Private, but it’s
not clear. He spent several autumn weeks refreshing his signalling skills at an
Army training camp outside Crowborough, Sussex, and, come November/December,
enjoyed what turned out to be the final home leave of his military career. Come
December/January 1917/8, he’s returned to France with the Western Front coming
up once more… However, pro tem the main narrative is subject to a two-week seasonal
interruption…]
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, with no Christmas/New Year story to
tell from 1917/18 – because Sam filed it as “forgettable” in the Memoir via the
simple device of forgetting it, we returned to his festive season of 1915/16 in
and around Gallipoli, a period of a few weeks which really did demand writing
about.
So
that story so far, in summary, is the 2/1st Royal Fusiliers evacuated Suvla Bay
on the night of December 18-19 and enjoyed a high old time on Lemnos – Sam more
than most, because of a surprise reunion there with his older brother Ted – the
main event being a massive feast (in nalnourished-men terms) on Christmas Day
with normal rations richly reinforced by bonus beer from the Army and parcels
from home, the 200-odd Suvla survivors being advised they could devour their
absent comrades’ Christmas goodies too.
However,
this proved much too good to last. At 5am Boxing Day their Sergeant roared out
that they must all get up and prepare to sail away again. As usual, no one told
them where to, much less why, though the sound of gunfire and the black looming
of cliffs against the night sky soon put them in the picture…
‘Now we could make out the black shape of a big ship,
berthed in the shallows head-on to the shore(3). Moving closer, we saw a large,
square opening in her side and, the tide being just right, our shallower ship
could tie up to her and we could step across into her innards and eventually
emerge on to a sort of landing stage. We hurried along it before gathering,
briefly, on the beach beneath towering cliffs… But no enemy fire came our way.
Excitement and
interest now replaced resentment, as we filed some way up a gully and waited. I
saw someone approach our Major, who then led us further upwards into this
rising gully. A great flash some miles distant seawards gave short illumination
to the scene; we saw we were passing a strange, wooden tower… and at that
moment, almost unbelievably, from the top of it a hunting horn sounded.
“Lie down!” yelled
an unidentified voice and, being no strangers to this life-saving precaution,
we were probably flat on the ground before he was. We heard the usual tearing
scream, the crash, and below us – about the spot where we had first paused – we
saw a brilliant flash and a large cloud of smoke, followed by the whinings of
many flying pieces of shrapnel, the phuts as some of them landed nearby.
Said the voice who
had given us the warning, “That shell was from Asiatic Annie(2), a real big gun
across the sea there in Asia Minor. When the lookout up above sees her fire, he
blows his horn and we have about 30 seconds to take cover. The shells don’t
always land here, of course, but we assume they will.” The informative bloke
added that we had landed at V Beach and that the ship we had come through was
the River
Clyde beached there in the first
Gallipoli landings months earlier.
So at last we knew
that a complete evacuation of Gallipoli had not taken place, that we were once
more stuck on that ill-starred Turkish peninsula. I recall wondering what
brother Ted would think of my second disappearance; he would be mad about not
travelling with us, that was certain. Still, although he really belonged to us,
he was attached to the Field Hospital for duty; what a surprise he must have
had when he found our tents empty.
We moved steadily
upwards along a track which eventually brought us to flat ground at the top of
the cliff. Now, away in the distance, we recognised all the audible and visible
indications that over there was a battlefront; personally, I felt once more the
growing nervous tension, the alertness generated by the desire for
self-preservation.
Even so, through a
few days good living and the contact with normal people provided by the letters
from home and those lovely parcels, I felt changed and strengthened; I knew
this tautness was not, at present, allied to fear, as it sometimes had been when
lack of food and sleep had caused debility. I’d had proof the normal world
still carried on, albeit with certain difficulties, and that we had not been
forgotten or given up for lost.
We few remaining
Signallers stood together talking quietly. Short, sturdy Nieter recalled our
days and nights together on that hill(4); I hope I told him how much his faith
in the cause and his cheery optimism had helped me when the physical
after-effects of the blizzard got me down.’
(2) SS River Clyde: a
collier launched in March, 1905, adapted as a landing ship in 1915; that April,
she sailed from Mudros to Cape Helles V Beach; bombarded from the cliffs, she
was beached to serve as a bridge for landings and then for returning wounded;
six of the River Clyde’s crew were
awarded VCs; the apparent hulk was later repaired and sold to Spanish owners
who used her as a Mediterranean tramp steamer until finally scrapping her in
1966; on April 15, V Beach, only 300 yards long, became one of five main Allied
landing places on Cape Helles; it was overlooked by cliffs, a fort and an
ancient castle, Sedd el Bahr Kale (Anglo spelling varies), occupied and
defended by the Turkish Army, though captured on April 26, during the initial
attacks.
(3) According to an invisionzone page which no longer seems to
be available three years on from my original search, Asiatic Annie fired from a
place called Tepe, aiming at V Beach (where my father’s Battalion had landed)
and W Beach on Cape Helles; https://anzacportal.dva.gov.au/history/conflicts/gallipoli-and-anzacs/locations/explore-asian-shore-sites/kumkale
says the gun was set up in a 17th-century fort called Kumkalle, five kilometres
from the site of ancient Troy.
(4) Old friends from
training in Malta for six months earlier that year, they’d lately spent several
winter weeks, including the fearsome blizzard after math running a two-man
Signals outpost (better described as a hole) on top of a hill overlooking the
Turkish lines on 24-hour rotation day after day without relief.
At first it seemed a straightforward Signalling
job was required. Sam Peter and two others settled in an eyrie on the cliffside
high above the River Clyde - interest added to the experience because the
seaward side had no barrier so you could easily roll out and down in your sleep.
Fortunately, before any harm befell them, they had to move.
‘Soon, an order came through for us Signallers to disconnect
everything, take all the equipment down to a store on the beach, then rejoin
our Battalion. A guide took us to where they were living in a series of square
holes not far from the beach all connected by a long trench. At last, we
learned the reason for our return to Gallipoli; we were to work every night at
dismantling and loading stores on to lighters and small ships. Night work only,
in order to conceal evacuation preparations. We could take some rest during the
day — but, should enemy planes appear, like the occasional small groups of
Taubes we’d seen high above Suvla, we must expose ourselves, move around as
though busy upon routine matters, and generally try to convince the observers
that our numbers were as great as at any previous time.
Shortly after dawn
that first morning back with our crowd, a lone plane did fly back and forth
over our area, so we put on our busy act for the pilot’s amusement and
information. Quite rightly, acting on instructions, some of our men fired their
rifles upwards — imagine our surprise, though, when the pilot dropped a bomb(5).
It exploded much too close for our liking and caused a brief interruption to
our “busy bee” programme.
That was the first
time I’d thought about the possibility of planes carrying bombs. Probably the
pilot hurled it out of his cockpit. Although it could only have been a small
one, it made quite an impressive bang. Still, no harm done, so nobody worried
too much about air-bomb possibilities.’
(5) Of course, planes
dropping bombs had become common in Europe, but down in Gallipoli, in this
rather less organised campaign, low priorities and tight budgets presumably
restricted innovative approaches.
But soon one of these crudest of aerial bombs
“disintegrates” a comrade on the beach in front of Sam‘s eyes – plus they get heavy
darts dropped on them, pilots unloading them by the boxfull.
With
their professional specialism – Signalling – redundant, the Signallers now find
an unrelated expertise in boozing and noshing called to the colours once more.
You wouldn’t want to leave anything for the enemy, would you?
’Our Signals group landed a lovely job which consisted of
going to a large dump near the beach and gradually dispersing its contents:
canned and bottled food and drink intended as extras for officers – anything
that would keep well in cans, boxes, cartons, with smoked items in cotton
wraps, also biscuits, some cakes and sweets, wines, beers, but not much in the
way of spirits. We loaded these good things on to small mule carts.
A very fair way
had been devised to consign them to the troops in equal quantities. Those up at
the Front got the first deliveries, naturally. The officer in charge at the
dump had records of all the units in benefit. We could only work at night, but
during breaks for rest, or while awaiting transports, we were allowed to eat
and drink. Chicken, asparagus, Irish bitter from round brass-coloured tins, Schweppes
lemon squash or Seltzer water, thin lunch biscuits and other luxuries… for a brief period our small, but fortunate
group guzzled these lush items.
Quite fairly, we
were not allowed to take anything away from the dump for our own use; but we
would be entitled to a share of what was delivered to our Battalion. In fact,
we Signallers hadn’t the gall to accept our share when it was offered since we
stuffed ourselves to capacity during the night and, in daytime, only wanted to
sleep. But we did work with a will on the job — and so shortened its duration,
unfortunately.’
The
festive season hadn’t been much on their minds since the disruption of their
Xmas festivities at 5am, Boxing Day, but suddenly they got a reminder:
‘A few days after our disembarkation at V Beach, around
midnight someone called out “It’s New Year’s Eve!” and a special search
produced several bottles of what may have been cider, although some called it
champagne. We didn’t know which, but heartily toasted each other and anyone
else we fancied, before renewing our onslaught on that marvellous giveaway
job.’
(6) In fact, six days
after they arrived at V Beach.
The evacuation date remained secret, of course.
The next order to include the Signallers and other 2/1st comrades really made
them wonder what was going on – and put the wind up them, as Sam would say.
‘… a few nights later [so January 3 or 4?], our little group was detailed to join other
men and trail off behind a guide in the general direction of the front line. In
faint light from a clear sky we could see the nature of the terrain: sometimes
fairly level, sometimes hillocks, ridges, low areas. Halting at the entrance to
a gully, the leader said, “We now enter Krithea Nullah, which leads to our
front line. It gives good cover against rifle and machine-gun fire, but the odd
shell can be dangerous; the Turks have got it taped as a route we use
regularly, so flop if you hear one coming.”
We reached what I
assumed was the support-line trench where all the men, except lookouts, were
dozing. Forward again and the front line was our next stop. There, we were each
handed a pick or a shovel and our guide led the way up over the firing step and
parapet into No Man’s Land, the space between us and the enemy. He spaced us
out in groups of four and told us to start digging holes. The picks made more
than enough noise on that hard, peculiar ground and we were sitting ducks for
any Turk who cared to take a pot shot. I wished I was still way back helping
with the charitable work at the officers’ food dump…
When several Turk
light field guns let fly, their nearness surprised me; a strange feature was
the thin, red line visible as each shell left its gun, making me wonder if they
used rather antique pieces. Their trajectory was high, its zenith roughly above
us, yet the shells – not trench mortar bombs, their whine confirmed – burst
only a couple of hundred yards behind us.
No one told us
why, at this stage of the campaign, we poor mugs were digging holes in front of
the Turk trenches at great risk to ourselves and our underpants, but even we of
the lower orders could guess that we played a part in the great game of bluff.
Our top brass hoped John Turk would reason, “They can’t be leaving yet or they
wouldn’t be digging works in advanced positions”. I wonder if they were right –
if the enemy even cared what we were up to? Perhaps he too had seen enough of
the farce. We suffered no casualties.’
The laundry hazards concluded, the Battalion
finally got their second set of evacuation instructions – which arrived in
Battalion CO Major Nathan’s words, as researched by H Montgomery Ward for his
biography Strong For Service, “on the
night of Thursday 6th at ten minutes notice [and] in the middle of tea”.
“Once again the quiet line-up in the darkness, the very quiet
roll-call, but then the strong, firm voice of our idolised Major saying
“Forward!” Little artillery activity as, in two lines, we followed him…
After we had
walked for some time, I saw the dark shape of a large building on our left-hand
side. We stopped 30 yards away and I could see that light escaped from several
slits in doors or windows. Apart from slight indications of habitation behind
enemy lines up Krithea way, this was the first real building I’d seen near V
Beach, so I was interested when the voice of one of our best officers informed
us that there stood the fort of Sedd el Bahr, possibly dating from Crusade
times.
Cautious no
longer, the Major’s voice boomed out, “Corporal Bebb! Corporal Bebb!” It
appeared that this popular chap, friend of my brother’s, well known to and
admired by me, had taken a small party on an assignment to the front line with
orders to return to us in time for our move off, but they were still missing.
I felt an
atmosphere of mystery just then… standing near the ancient fort, Bebb and his
little party missing, our contingent now so small that some months before had
been nigh a thousand strong, all our senior officers missing, apart from Major
Booth; we had successfully crawled away from one battlefront and now we were at
it again. Would the Turks let us do it twice?
Only a few hundred
yards to go and our ears told us that the enemy guns were dropping more shells
around the beaches than they had done for many a day. Why?
Hope of Bebb’s
party abandoned because we had to follow a precise timetable, our Major said we
must now move. As we reached the cutting at the landward end of the beach area
Asiatic Annie flashed and one of her huge shells crashed down a couple of
hundred yards away, but we walked steadily forward, hoping to be spared. A sad
thing it would be if she wiped most of us out when we’d got this far…’
But it proved another brilliant evacuation.
Hardly any casualties – much though many of the troops shared the sourness
about “doing what we do best - running away”. The 2/1st remnants passed through
the River Clyde to board a lighter
and then a small steamer…
‘Partridge, probably
related to the Robin Redbreast that
lifted us from Suvla, chugged off into the night, taking us away from all the
nasty bangs and flashes and wounds and deaths which make life on active service
so unpleasant for us who would much prefer life in an equable clime with a full
belly under a tree with a glass of wine and thou and that sort of thing.
Enjoying myself, I
recall, leaning on the ship’s rail, looking at the dark sea with its occasional
streaks and flurries of white foam, I heard a conversation in which one speaker
was a nice chap and very good worker named Harry Greengrass, a member of our
Pioneer section. Harry and his mates did most of the unpopular jobs. He said to
someone unknown to me, “The Padre insisted on doing a short burial service over
Lewis’s body. You remember, don’t you? The man who copped that bomb from the
plane. We collected as many pieces as we could find and sewed them up in a
sack, but as we went to lower it slowly into the grave his legs fell out. That
scared me because I was sure I had stitched up the bag properly.”
I moved away. Poor
Lewis. A year earlier, who would have imagined it — in pieces in a sack in a bleak
strip of Turkey.’
And so they sailed on to Mudros harbour again.
They didn’t go ashore, just waited awhile before moving back to Egypt on a
large troopship, the Minneapolis. They
were to spend four months there on training and r&r before their turn came
around to head for the Western Front and the Somme…
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Back to Arras, January, 1918, Sam still a
free agent exploring his lodgings in the old Prison, freelancing around as a
Signaller while he awaits re-attachment to his 2/7th Essex Battalion - and
taking inspiration from the sight of a Guards outfit sprucing themselves up,
top to toe, despite it all …
(1) 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.
