Sam enjoys an “unbelievably cushy existence” for a little longer because of the meningitis outbreak. Then it’s back to his Company and its nasty CO, the “unhappy, unjust” Captain Tarquin…

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Dear all

A hundred years ago this week… Activity everywhere, meaning from Ukraine down to Mesopotamia. Politically, USA edged closer to a war declaration when President Wilson decreed that merchant ships could arm themselves on the day a U-boat sank the freighter SS Algonquin off the Scilly Isles (March 12).

    But on the Western Front, you might have imagined that Germany was preparing for surrender as the strange spell of planned retreat to the Hindenburg Line continued so slickly that often the British and French took swathes of territory without much or any resistance. Concluding the “Operations On The Ancre”, the British advanced around Le Transloy and occupied Loupart Wood and Grevillers (March 12/13) en route to taking Bapaume and, moving south of the Somme, Fresnes (17), and progressing rapidly on a 45-mile front from Chaulnes to Arras (18). The French Army surged forward similarly on a 40-mile front, gaining Roye, Lassigny, Noyon, Nesle and Guiscard (17-18).

    During the week, the Russians lost their Czar, Nicholas II, by abdication (March 15) and his successor – his brother – a day later, as the Revolution picked up speed with riots in the streets and a Navy mutiny (16). But the Army carried on fighting. Though beaten back in Ukraine (12), it continued its successes down in western Persia, taking Alliabad and Kerind from the Turks (16-17).

    At that point the Turks decided to quit on their Persian campaign. Their 15,000 force headed west to meet up with their Mesopotamian Army of 10,000. But by then the British were following up the taking of Baghdad by pursuing the Ottoman Army briskly north by means of the railway (March 13-April 23; the Samarrah Offensive).

    Battling in Macedonia, north of Salonika, especially around Monastir saw Allies Britain, France and Italy taking on Austrians and Bulgarians, with all making gains in different sectors (March 12-18). The Austrian Army also had a rare success in northern Italy, breaking through defences in the San Pellegrino valley (16; Dolomites).

Meanwhile, my father, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers volunteer and Gallipoli veteran (FootSoldierSam’s Blogs dated September 20, 2015, to January 3, 2016) Lance Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, had fought on the Somme Front with his second outfit the Kensingtons (Blogs dated May 15 to September 25, 2016)… until officialdom told him they’d noticed his age – 18 on July 6, legally too young for the battlefield – and that he could take a break from the fighting until his 19th birthday. So he did, though not without an enduring sense of guilt. Via Harfleur and London, 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 for months of training until they severally became eligible for the trenches once more. However, for some, including Sam, all military activity was halted by some weeks in a hospital isolation unit because of a meningitis outbreak. He didn’t develop the disease, but while there his general health collapsed (the doctor’s diagnosis: the profound effects of trench warfare)… The hospital brought him some physical recovery via old-fashioned “feeding up” and a restorative Boy Scout-innocent romance with a nurse…

FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS

Last week, Sam concluded a partial recovery from the contrasting onslaughts of German measles and “war sickness” – but he still carried the meningitis bacteria in his throat so he returned to the group of underage pals caught in the same medical limbo, housed in another, cruder “isolation unit” comprising two or three Army huts:

‘A real rest camp this, for we had to do no work at all. Every moment of this unbelievably cushy existence had my sincere appreciation. I never lost sight of what might have been my lot if I had remained in France; my previous good luck over there must surely have deserted me by this time, so every day’s blessings had to be counted.

     The one female in the joint was a 40ish rubicund lady nurse of the VAD**, a famous volunteer nursing force. A kindly soul who blushed at the slightest compliment before I left for the fever hospital, now, she walked about quite defiantly with the arm of a lad young enough to be her son about her waist. Bless‘em both, they looked remarkably happy, so what had at first appeared to be ridiculous became humdrum and caused no comment. Possibly she regarded him as a son-figure but, knowing the young rascal somewhat, I doubt if he fancied himself as her pseudo-offspring, more as a potential father of such I’d say. I hope he didn’t achieve his nefarious ends.

Finally, all germs killed ­– and a horrible end must have been theirs, surrounded by that formaldehyde vapour which was hard enough for us toughies to stomach – back to the Battalion we went. There, I made a fresh effort to really become one of them. To achieve that aim, I carried out all orders to the very best of my ability. But still I never felt “accepted”. This complete Battalion which had so mysteriously remained in Britain*** – presumably to defend the homeland, should our great Army in France be shattered – formed a closed shop against us who had fought overseas.

     None of us could please our unhappy, unjust, unattractive Company officer, Captain Tarquin****. A weird type, reputedly the son of a wealthy family, he had expensive uniforms, yet he brought with him an aura of poverty – mental poverty, probably. His batman slaved away at polishing his leather strappings and shoes, this example conspicuously implying that the rest of us should do likewise. Some hope of that! We just didn’t have the time to spare – and no chance of being provided with batmen. The Captain had “avoiding” eyes and no valid claims to beauty with his red nose against a background of pale skin and surly mouth whence his harsh voice barked orders none too clearly. An almost childish, short temper completes my picture of one officer, perhaps the only officer, to whom I felt superior.

     What a gift he had for spreading gloom and despondency where all had been coarse gaiety before his bleary-eyed mug fouled the scene. And then why did so many men say he was too cowardly to be a Company leader? I never saw or heard of anything he undertook that could be counted a test of his strength of character, yet his subordinates despised him. It was freely forecast that when, if ever, he had to lead his men in active service conditions, he would fold up. Two hundred or more men would, in that event, fail to give of their best, perhaps die unnecessarily, or cause the deaths of others.

     Many of us who thought so harshly of one Captain would possibly behave no better when surrounded by erupting earthworks, shrieking shells, whining bullets and shattered bodies. But then we had not set ourselves up to be leaders of men. Some, like me, had applied much thought, and even a little skill, to avoiding or deflecting offers of higher rank and its responsibilities*****.’

** Voluntary Aid Detachment: founded 1909 with the help of the Red Cross; 38,000 served in World War I; members famous then or later included Vera Brittain, Agatha Christie, Amelia Earhart, and Freya Stark.

*** “The Lost Division”, is explained as fully as I can in a footnote to Blog 128 December 18, 2016. Although my father was there in the middle of it, in retrospect the story is hard to pin down because it has taken on urban-myth characteristics. Was it the same as “The Forgotten Division”, also referred to in some online docs. Although “exposed” by Horatio Bottomley (later jailed as a lying fraudster) in his weekly magazine John Bull, its identity remains unclear. Some suggest the 62nd (2nd West Riding) Division – there again, they were never stationed in Harrogate it seems! Meanwhile, the Essex Regiment website lists Sam’s 2/7th Battalion as part of the 12th Brigade 4th Division whom the esteemed Long Long Trail website lists as having been on the Western Front throughout the war. Well, my father’s recollection shows that something very strange had occurred to taint the atmosphere in this Battalion and/or Division, but I can’t say anything certain about the background. Perhaps “Lost” or “Forgotten” Division stories, true or false or somewhere in between, were simply a recurring theme of talk among men who had fought at the Front?

**** An alias: my father changed the names of most of the people in the book in order not to in any way upset living relatives.

***** Promoted to Corporal, and sometimes Acting Sergeant, on the Somme, en route to Harrogate Sam had removed his second stripe and apparently been accepted as a Lance Corporal once more – see Blog 127, December 11, 1916.

All the best – FSS

Next week: Sam gets to know his oddball companions in the Battalion – a song-and-dance man, an opera singer, a painter, a heavyweight boxer – but comes to scorn their useless Colonel. Still, the town decides to entertain the troops and two six-foot sisters hit the spot…

* 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.

Sam and his nurse find themselves in the grip of powerful forces – he strives to remember the instructions of his old vicar/mentor regarding gentlemanliness, chivalry… and the pudding club!

For details of how to buy Sam’s full Memoir* in paperback or e-book & excerpted Gallipoli & Somme episode mini-e-books & reader reviews see right-hand column

All proceeds to the British Red Cross

For AUDIO excerpts click Here  Join Foot Soldier Sam on Facebook Here

Dear all

A hundred years ago this week… The action hardly ceased in all theatres – deaths and woundings at the heart of every movement – and yet nothing of overwhelming significance occurred. Strange, if not uncommon, disjunction between the perspectives of individual life and historic event…

    While America edged a little closer to entering the war (President Wilson’s move to arm merchant ships held back by the Senate, though), on the Western Front the British and French advanced on the Ancre (February 26-March 4 taking various villages in the region of Bapaume, including Gommecourt where my father had fought on July 1, 1916) and on the Somme (March 4, near Bouchavesnes), and the Aisne and the Oise (March 4, near Mouvron).

    But offsetting this seeming triumphant progress was the growing awareness that the German Army had begun working to a more or less orchestrated plan (February 23-April 5) to retreat to the Hindenburg Line of defences constructed since the previous autumn, and hold their ground thereafter, having left a tract of scorched earth behind them.

    On the Eastern Front, the faltering Russian Army responded to German advances near Riga, Latvia, and the Narajowka river, now Ukraine (both March 2) with gas attacks north of Lake Naroch (3), and Krevo (4), both now in Belarussia. Further south, in Romania the Russians lost positions near Jakobeny to Germany (February 27). But another wing of the desperately scattered Russian forces recaptured Hamadan in eastern Persia (March 2).

    Italy too proved its enduring resilience, by holding off a renewed Austrian attack on the Asiago Plateau (February 28) and leading the Allies’ defence of hard-won Monastir, Serbia (March 3).

Meanwhile, my father, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers volunteer and Gallipoli veteran (FootSoldierSam’s Blogs dated September 20, 2015, to January 3, 2016) Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, had fought on the Somme Front with his second outfit the Kensingtons (Blogs dated May 15 to September 25, 2016)… Until officialdom told him they had noticed his age – 18 on July 6, legally too young for the battlefield – and that he could take a break from the fighting until his 19th birthday. So he did, though not without a sense of guilt. Via Harfleur and London, 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 training and making their own entertainment until they severally became eligible for the trenches once more. However, for some, including Sam, all military activity is halted by a substantial spell in a hospital isolation unit because of a meningitis outbreak. There, his health goes from bad to worse…

FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS

Last week, my father’s physical decline continued – according to his veteran doctor, caused more by the hardships of war than the meningitis bacteria and German measles viruses he was wrestling with. He triggered a crisis himself by deliriously wandering out into the Harrogate snow for a walk “because I was so hot”. Result: a swollen groin, boils, sores.

    But, while irrationally hiding what he’d done from the medics, he did some self-healing with some ointment which had cured his prickly heat in Egypt(!) plus the good food, hot baths and increasingly fond care provided by his regular night nurse. This week, their relationship reaches a predictable – and then rather surprising – crescendo:

‘She liked to sit by my bed early in her shift and talk or listen – more of the latter than the former, I now suspect, since most young men think they know it all. Then when duty demanded that she move on, she would bestow a hearty “goodnight” kiss on me and depart till around 4am when, in those post-Florence Nightingale days, the round of washings and bed-makings had to begin – and, no doubt as part of her therapy, a well-delivered kiss would rouse me and have me heading for my bath while she attended to sheets and pillows.

     While the thought of going beyond these little embraces never reached anything pertaining to what is today called sex, this little nurse, Flo, certainly became a very effective part of the super treatment I received; lithe, petite, and with almost tiny, rabbit teeth showing below her shapely upper lip. From the first, she was, in my book, just the type my dear old mentor Frusher** would have me protect from her own generous weaknesses. I recalled anew his instruction that a gentleman would not permit a lady to do anything she would be reluctant to talk about with her mother.

     His influence had to control and hold me back one morning in particular. Before any apparent activity began in the corridors outside my room, Nurse Flo came in, kissed me even more warmly than usual and stood looking down at me as I lay there. So I sat up in bed, put my feet down on the floor, and looked at her, trying to read her thoughts, fears, intentions. Her face paled, she stepped back from the bed and threw open the doors of the large cupboard behind her. She stood there concealed, she must have hoped, from observation, pale-faced and trembling. “No, no, don’t,” she said, as I stepped towards her. And I had no intention of taking advantage of her reaction to natural forces. Certainly, I had the feeling of a needle irresistibly drawn to her magnet. I believe I got the correct message, I believe I thought quickly around the situation, perhaps guessed what was happening to her; I returned her kiss, grabbed my bath towel and went for my morning splash.

     The moment passed, I had my bath, and we were good friends. So much so that she gave me her address near Sheffield, with the hope that we might meet there sometime. With hindsight I can see that she must have thought me a dull dog, but the very fact that I was so safe in sometimes extremely intimate circumstances may have offered some compensating features for her – although, now, I suspect that repeated consummation blots out all fears during the early stages of an affair, until the pudding-club indications appear, and then you have two really scared people.’

** The Vicar/choirmaster/scoutmaster/music teacher Mr Frusher was a key formative influence on my father – as this week’s excerpt suggests, perhaps the strongest reason for his remaining a virgin throughout the war (albeit not for long afterwards, I gather; he did have some oats to sow). Here’s Sam’s pen-portrait of his mentor (from the early part of the Memoir where he wrote in the third person and called himself “Tommy”): ‘of medium height, well-built, wearing a beard, pointed, and the then fashionable pince-nez. Most days he wore a frock coat with a silk hat and striped trousers. Tommy used to love looking at the boots he wore; without toecaps, of fine soft leather, kept in good condition by his housekeeper. He was one of those cold-bath-in-the-morning men. He would sometimes describe with relish how he had broken the ice.’ Apart from music, religion and outdoor activities, Mr Frusher also decided to fill the vacuum left by a total lack of sex education in school – even anatomical diagrams left a blank where the sex organs ought to have been. Naturally, his teaching of a teenaged boys church group came predicated with his own variant on the period’s and the CofE’s morality: ‘“Frankness in these matters kills morbid curiosity,” he would say… In a sensible way, he described the feelings contact between the sexes could arouse, the actions and the results that would follow: the girls in trouble, the unwanted babies; the worry, regret, fear; the difficulties which beset a young man who has fathered a bastard. He drew this picture so impressively the lads were never likely to forget. In fact, he constantly impressed upon them that sexual intercourse before marriage was wrong, a crime, it must never even be considered, let alone indulged in… he wished the lads to grow up as what he called “gentlemen”. The girl being so constituted that marriage and child-bearing were the most important things in her life, she would generally submit to a man’s desires – after a certain amount of caressing had taken place – in spite of any advice she may have received. Mr Frusher’s conclusion: the man – stronger, physically and mentally – had a bounden duty to accept responsibility and ensure that nothing occurred, when the girl was in his care, which he could not freely reveal to her parents. The final word had a memorable simplicity to it: chivalry.’

All the best – FSS

Next week: Sam, still in the isolation unit, resists the Siren calls of an “old” Army nurse, continues his friendship with Flo and has a farewell talk with the sagacious doctor who’d diagnosed him as, basically, sick from the war and decided to build him up with some decent food and care.

* 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.