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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… No
landmarks of history to enter the mass memory, but relentless fighting in mutiple
“theatres” as the experts euphemise…
On
the Western Front, after the bloody “success” of Pozières, the British Army
launched another attack on Delville Wood in the south of the Somme region
(August 21). They used the newly devised “creeping barrage” stratagem, the
infantry advancing a short distance behind a line of shelling – the “friendly
fire” hazards obvious and terrible. But they combined with the French to take
the wood and moved on towards Flers and Thiepval, while other British
Battalions advanced on Bazentin-le-Petit (25) and the French won Maurepas and
beat off a counterattack (24).
The
Russian Army’s extraordinarily extended forces still rode a wave of success
taking the heights south of the Jablonica Pass, Ukraine (August 22), sending
help to the Romanians at the start of The Battle Of Transylvania (27, the same
day they declared war on Austria-Hungary), and advancing against the Turkish
Army in Armenia again (22 west of Lake Van, 23 at Rayat, 23-4 to retake Bitlis
and Mush).
The
Allies’ Salonica campaign began to make headway with the French and British
progressing in Moglena, Macedonia (August 22), and the exiled but regrouped
Serbian Army defeating their invaders, the Bulgarians, near Kukuruz (24) and
Vetremik (27).
And
down in vast German East Africa – currently Burundi, Rwanda and Tanzania – the
British continued their unending advance by taking Kilosa (August 22), Miali
(24) and Morogoro (26).
Meanwhile,
my father Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London
(his 18th birthday on July 6, 1916), had just started his first home leave
since Christmas, 1914, after being involved in Somme front-line fighting from
mid-May onwards. This followed a ’15-’16 winter at Gallipoli with the
2/1st Royal
Fusiliers (250 survivors out of 1,000). They sailed from Egypt to France in
late April, only to be disbanded and transferred to other
outfits – Sam to the Kensingtons. They fought on the front line at Hébuterne/Gommecourt, suffering 59 per cent
casualties on July 1 (see FootSoldierSam’s front-line blogs dated June 26 and
July 3, 2016). And then fighting on and on…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, my father suddenly found himself
issued with the home leave pass he’d longed for, and described a journey from
the ravaged countryside of the Somme to the natural, green loveliness of
England as viewed from the Dover-to-Victoria train.
Out of
hell and back to Blighty he experienced nothing but kindness – from a bus
driver giving him his fare home because he had no money to the welcome of
parents and siblings. Love, laughter, a bed with clean sheets, a comprehensive
delousing by his mother… heaven.
This
week his leave continues – and takes a couple of interesting, even tricky turns:
‘My mother, father and I talked for quite a long time that
first evening and, although we had sent each other letters at fairly regular
intervals, I had to fill in many gaps because Army censorship rules meant I
couldn’t name places, with the exception of Malta. Meanwhile, many things had
happened locally to people we knew or knew of and these matters they related to
me.
But the shock that
shook really hit me when Pa almost casually told me that, as I’d requested, he
did write to Lloyd George about my having been denied leave after reaching
France from the Mediterranean, and how unfortunate he thought that was,
particularly because, having served well enough to be promoted to the rank of
Corporal, I was still below the permitted age for young men to go on active
service.
He had received an
acknowledgment and an assurance that the matter would receive consideration. So
that explained the Special Pass originally made out to another man, but
hurriedly handed to me. What a rocket some big fellow must have received from
the office of the fiery and very powerful LG!
The whole thing
seemed unbelievable, yet it had happened; my quiet, self-effacing father
involved in such an affair and myself the beneficiary of a wonderful kindness
emanating from Downing Street*.
I lay awake,
marvelling at the turn of events. Elation and a resolve to make the most of
every minute of every day of that holiday from the war front, starting with the
easy pleasure generated by just resting in that clean, sweet bed.
Ma lent me money
for the fare to the West End office where my pass, pay-book and a letter from
our adjutant procured me a few pounds. Prices remained low in spite of the war
and I was, temporarily, very nicely fixed. Apart from any personal outings I
had in mind, I booked seats in the stalls at two music halls for my parents and
myself – at one show, I took a seat for my younger brother as well.
I felt sure I
should encounter no Military Police while I confined myself to the area of my
suburb, so I took certain little liberties with my dress, such as wearing a
pair of smart slacks I’d bought which were not the precise khaki colour of the
regulation trousers; carefully creased, worn without puttees and with shoes
instead of heavy boots. Out walking I carried a stick I’d bought about three
years earlier at a great exhibition at Earls Court — made by natives called, I
believe, Igorotti Indians**, it was covered with symbols burnt into it while I
waited. Puzzled glances from passing people were just what I had hoped for, and
I felt the soft Army cap, pulled well down over my left ear, added the final
distinctive touch. Had I met a military cop, or perhaps an officer, no doubt I
would have received another sort of touch — on the shoulder.
Hours at home, walks around the old, familiar places, the
two shows — everything great, freedom unlimited was mine. Until I came face to
face with a girl I’d known slightly at the church. How she’d grown… in a little
over two years, visibly expanded in all the approved places. She had the then
fashionable method of using the eyes; you looked directly at her, but she
appeared to be focussed on a point just above your head. Very effective,
especially if the eyes were a brilliant blue.
We walked and
talked, I self-consciously, she being the first girl I had been alone with back
in London, even in the street. On a free night I took her to the pictures, to a
really go-ahead place where, to add music to the silent films, you didn’t have
just a pianist but a small orchestra. Tea and French pastries afterwards —
already well on the way to the Devil.
With another
meeting arranged I felt compelled to tell my mother about the girl, the renewed
acquaintance, and see the disappointed look on her face — my short remaining
time at home must now be spread around more thinly. I really regretted this,
although excited about having such an attractive girlfriend. Life had become
quite a heady, dazzling affair. Plenty of cash, all the hours of the day and
part of the night at my disposal… no one to give me orders, no Jerry to sling
shells at me.
As the precious
break neared its conclusion, I felt a sadness which I threw off by reminding
myself that some time still remained. I took a final walk with the girl, part
of it in open country… seemingly unconnected to that horrible war.
Suddenly, on that
dark moonless night, criss-crossing searchlights illuminated the whole sky,
wide beams terminating in big, circular blobs of light where they encountered
clouds. This unwelcome display of London’s air-raid defences coming into action
brought my thoughts back to reality with a jerk. No enemy planes appeared and
no anti-aircraft guns fired, but my feeling of security, one of the boons of
this holiday, now vanished. No place, after all, completely without risk of
enemy attack in some form.
We two walked to
her home, lingered outside awhile, kissed and parted with promises to write to
each other.
Next morning, goodbye to younger brother, sister Ciss*** and
the baby girl. My parents came with me to the railway terminus. I left them for
a moment, hurried to the big clock and met the two Sergeants, who I found in a
state of great excitement for reasons they cautiously told me about.
They had already
checked the platform from which our train should depart. There they heard a
railway official tell a soldier that it had been cancelled, that he must go to
Charing Cross to board another train in about an hour’s time. The Sergeants
hurried away from the platform and, between them, concocted a plot which they
hoped would gain us another day at home: simply, that we should hide outside
Victoria until it would be too late for us to reach Charing Cross in time to
catch the special train. We would then dash into Victoria Station, hurry to the
Transport Officer’s place, and report ready to catch the pre-arranged train. I
went back to my parents and told them of the wicked plan. We said goodbye in
case things went wrong.
So, after lurking
outside for a while, the Sergeants and I rushed into Victoria and on upstairs
to the RTO, were duly staggered when he said we ought to be at Charing Cross
already, and told him we would do our damnedest to get there in time. We
accepted a note from him to the RTO at Charing Cross explaining everything.
Arriving at Charing Cross we manifested amazement when the rather annoyed RTO
there told us the one and only train had gone. Finally, he endorsed our passes
extending leave by 24 hours. And we all went home again.****
Strangely, that
extension of leave had an unnatural feeling around it. All concerned had
thought my departure certain, we’d said our goodbyes, yet here I was, back home
again. It didn’t seem right somehow.
By way of a bonus,
I went off for a last look at my favourite haunts. How came it then that I
finished up by a canal at a spot on the opposite bank to a factory in whose
offices worked my girlfriend? No hope of contacting her during working hours,
yet I wrote a note to her, wrapped it around a stone and waited. Soon I saw a
girl walking from one building to another and called out to her, then threw my
message across the water. She picked it up, straightened out the paper, read
it, then waved reassuringly I thought. She did deliver it, I learnt at a much
later date.’
* The “Downing Street” reference here is a mistake. Lloyd
George served as PM for many years, but didn’t move up from Secretary Of State
For War until December 7, 1916, after Herbert Asquith’s resignation.
** No doubt the Igorots were referred to as “Indians”at the
exhibition, but they hailed from the Philippines. The Tagalog word means
“mountain people”. Although, in the 16th century, they held off Spanish
colonialists who wanted their gold, in the 20th a group of them fell into the
grip of showmen and toured exhibitions such as the 1904 World’s Fair where they
reconstructed a “native” village - and T.S. Eliot wrote a short story about
them, titled The Man Who Was King.
*** Ciss: his older sister, always known as “Ciss”, proper
name Dorothy, born December 3, 1894 (for details on Sam’s other surviving
siblings – three died by 1912 – see the footnote to last week’s blog).
**** Working out the dates by reference to the Kensingtons’
War Diary and the time of the Battalion’s arrival for a rest period at a
village called Millencourt-en-Pothieu (63 kilometres west of the front line at
Hébuterne), I think my father left home on the morning of August 21 or 22, 1916
– that is, during the 100-years-ago week of this blog, but I decided to hold
the journey over until next week as it represents the start of a new “chapter”
in Sam’s experience of the Somme battle (and to even out the distribution of
his material; he wasn’t thinking in blog-sized chunks when he wrote his
Memoir!).
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam returns to
his Battalion from the blissful relief of leave with the family… to find
himself treated to a different kind of “homecoming” by comrades at their ease
away from the Front. He basks in the glow of warm fellowship and “water”
bottles full of strong local cyder…
