A soldier's kiss

Only a dying horse! pull off the gear,

And slip the needless bit from frothing jaws,

Drag it aside there, leaving the road way clear,

The battery thunders on with scarce a pause.

 

Prone by the shell-swept highway there it lies

With quivering limbs, as fast the life-tide fails,

Dark films are closing o'er the faithful eyes

That mutely plead for aid where none avails.

 

Onward the battery rolls, but one there speeds

Needlessly of comrades voice or bursting shell,

Back to the wounded friend who lonely bleeds

Beside the stony highway where he fell.

 

Only a dying horse! he swiftly kneels,

Lifts the limp head and hears the shivering sigh

Kisses his friend, while down his cheek there steals

Sweet pity's tear, "Goodbye old man, Goodbye".

 

No honours wait him, medal, badge or star,

Though scarce could war a kindlier deed unfold;

He bears within his breast, more precious far

Beyond the gift of kings, a heart of gold.

 

Henry Chappell, 1874-1937, published 22nd August 1914

The unsung of the Great War - the Battalion Chaplain

“What’s this?” I asked, peeping over the parados to the road in our rear. "My God! There's a transport wagon going along the road!”

“Blimey! You're sprucing,” said Bill, peeping over; then his eye fell on a wagon drawn by two mules going along the highway. “Oh, the damned fools, goin' up that way. They'll not get far.”

The enemy occupied a rise on our right, and a machine gun hidden somewhere near the trench swept that road all night. The gun was quiet all day long; no one ventured along there before dusk. A driver sat in front of the wagon, leaning back a little, a whip in his hand. Beside him sat another soldier. . . . Both were going to their death, the road at a little distance ahead crossed the enemy's trench.

“They have come the wrong way,” I said. “They were going to Loos, I suppose, and took the wrong turning at the Valle Cross-roads. Poor devils!”

A machine gun barked from the rise; we saw the driver of the wagon straighten himself and look round. His companion pointed a finger at the enemy's trench. . . .

“For Christ's sake get off!” Bill shouted at them; but they couldn't hear him, the wagon was more than a quarter of a mile away from our trench.

“Damn it!” exclaimed Bill; “they'll both be killed. There!”

The vehicle halted; the near-side wheeler shook its head, then dropped sideways on the road, and kicked out with its hind legs; the other animal fell on top of it. The driver's whip went flying from his hands, and the man lurched forward and fell on top of the mules. For a moment he lay there, then with a hurried movement he slipped across to the other side of the far animal and disappeared. Our eyes sought the other soldier, but he was gone from sight, probably he had been shot off his seat.

“The damned fools! “I muttered. 'What brought them up that way? “

“Wot's that ? “Bill suddenly exclaimed.

“See, comin' across the fields behind the road! A man, an officer. . . . Another damned fool, and he’ll get a bullet in 'im.”

Bill pointed with his finger, and we looked. Across the fields behind that stretched from the road to the ruined village of Maroc we saw for the moment a man running towards the wagon. We only had a momentary glimpse then. The runner suddenly fell flat into a shell-hole and disappeared from view.

"He's hit,” said Pryor. “There, the beastly machine gun is going again. Who is he? “

We stared tensely at the shell-hole. No sign of movement. . . .

“'E's done in,” said Bill.

Even as he spoke the man who had fallen rose and raced forward for a distance of fifty yards and flung himself flat again. The machine gun barked viciously. . . .

Then followed a tense moment, and again the officer (we now saw that he was an officer) rushed forward for several yards and precipitated himself into a shell-crater. He was drawing nearer the disabled wagon at every rush. The machine gun did not remain silent for a moment now; it spat incessantly at the fields.

“He's trying to reach the wagon,” I said. “I don't envy him his job, but, my God, what pluck! “

“'Oo is 'e?” asked Bill. “'E's not ‘arf a brick, 'ooever 'e is! “

“I think I know who it is,” said Pryor. “It's the Roman Catholic chaplain, Father Lane-Fox. He's a splendid man. He came over with us in the charge, and he helped to carry out the wounded till every man was in. Last night when we went for our rations he was helping the sanitary squad to bury the dead; and the enemy were shelling all the time. He is the pluckiest man in Loos.”

“He wanted to come across in the charge,” I said, “but the Brigadier would not allow him. An hour after we crossed the top I saw him in the second German trench. . . . There he is, up again! “

The chaplain covered a hundred yards in the next spurt; then he flung himself to earth about fifty yards from the wagon. The next lap was the last; he reached the wagon and disappeared. We saw nothing more of him that day. At night when I went down to the dressing-station at Maroc, I was told how the chaplain had brought a wounded transport driver down to the dressing-station after dusk. The driver had got three bullets through his arm, one in his shoulder, one in his foot, and two in the calf of his leg. The driver's mate had been killed; a bullet pierced his brain.

The London Irish love Father Lane-Fox; he visited the men in the trenches daily, and all felt the better for his coming. Often at night the sentry on watch can see a dark form between the lines working with a shovel and spade burying the dead. The bullets whistle by, hissing of death and terror; now and then a bomb whirls in air and bursts loudly; a shell screeches like a bird of prey; the hounds of war rend the earth with frenzied fangs; but indifferent to all the clamour and tumult the solitary digger bends over his work burying the dead.

“It's old Father Lane- Fox,” the sentry will mutter. “He'll be killed one of these fine days."

 

Taken from 'The Great Push' by London Irish Rifleman Patrick MacGill, wounded at Loos in 1915

Captain Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson, KIA 25th Sept 1915

Captain Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson

Old Brutonian Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson, a captain with the 3rd Batt. Wiltshire Regiment, was killed in action on the first day of the battle of Loos, France, on 25th Sept 1915. He was 21.

Note: although all records (including the Commonwealth War Graves Commission) indicate that Wilson was killed on the 26 September, the War Diary states that he died on the 25 September.

This extract from the battalion war diary provides more detail on his death.

Date: 25/9/1915    Location: France, Verquin 

Battn moved at 12.30am marched via LA BOURSE and SAILLY, arriving at a reserve line of trenches SE of NOYELLES at point L12 o 6.6 at about 3am. Bombardment became intense. At about 6am the attack was launched. Battn ordered to advance through VERMELLES up communication trench (CHAPEL ALLEY) to occupy front line at point G11 o 9.8. Capt King wounded. 2/Lt FH Friend assumed command of 'A' Coy. Following the advance of the 20th Brigade the Battalion occupies the front and support German lines. Lt Col BH Leatham DSO then gave orders for the Battn to advance in open order in direction of CITE ST ELIE keeping to the north of HULLUCH ROAD, our right flank connecting with the 2nd Bedfordshires left. The Battn advanced in the following order, 'B' Coy on the left Capt WM Geddes in command, 'A' Coy on right 2/Lt FH Friend in command, two platoons of each company leading, two platoons immediately behind, 'C' Coy in support, 'D' Coy in reserve, Major RMP Gillson in command of'C' Coy, Capt EC Mudge in command of 'D' Coy, the whole were led by Major CG Forsyth, and experiencing extremely heavy rifle and machine gun fire from the front came to a line held very weakly by a mixture of 8th Devon & 2nd Borders. The trench contained 4 German field guns and ammunition. Our losses were heavy and included the following Officers casualties Capt GMU Wilson, 2/Lts CFB Hodgins JH Clarke WHG Durrant killed. Major RMP Gillson, 2nd Lt FH Friend wounded the latter seriously.
 At dusk the Battn was relieved by the 9/Devonshire Regt and took up a new front at BRESLAU AVENUE our right resting on the latter Regiment.

Read more about the Battle of Loos here: http://thescribblerdotbiz.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/battle-of-loos.html

 

King's Brutonian Captain John Francis Martyr KIA

Captain Martyr, KIA 11 August 1915

Captain John Francis Martyr, 1st Battalion Royal Irish Rifles (attached to 6th Battalion), died of wounds at Gallipoli 100 years ago today (11/8/1915), aged 33. He was buried at sea.

Captain Martyr had served in the South African War in 1901 and 1902, where he was employed with the Mounted Infantry, and obtained for his valuable services the Queen's Medal with five clasps.

His unit was involved in fierce fighting on the day he was wounded. The 6th (Service Battalion) Royal Irish Rifles War Diary records that the Battalion landed on 5th August 1915 at Anzac Cove with 23 officers and 743 other ranks. 

They advanced on the 8th August via Walkers Ridge, Chailak Dere and Aghyl Dere until they reached a lone and isolated position known as The Farm. From there the 6th Royal Irish Rifles, in its first significant battle with the enemy since formation and training on the Curragh, launched attacks against the Turks occupying positions on the ridges above them. 

They suffered terrible casualties in a charge against the Turks and then in the Turks counter-attack.  The 6th Royal Irish Rifles War Diary explains that on 10th August the Turks counter-attacked and after the battle the Battalion's strength was about 270. Poignantly it records that the casualties (dead, wounded or missing) "as far as can be ascertained" in that one battle on 10th/11th August 1915 amounted to 372 men.

The following is an extract from a report by a company commander there at the battle.

Stringbag over Somerset

W5856 awaits her new paint job

It’s a cold day when I visit the Royal Navy Historic Flight (RNHF) at Yeovilton and I am glad to get into the enormous hangar and out of the bitter wind that drives across the airfield. The Flight’s Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Commander Chris Götke AFC RN, shows me the collection, which includes two Fairey Swordfish, a Hawker Sea Hawk and a Hawker Sea Fury.

The RNHF’s second Sea Fury survived a forced landing following complete engine failure last year during an air display at RNAS Culdrose in Cornwall. The pilot, Lt Cdr Götke, was awarded the Air Force Cross for his bravery and his cool handling of his aircraft.

It is one of the Swordfish I have come to see. There are thought to be only four airworthy Swordfish worldwide, and W5856 is the oldest surviving example. Following a re-spray into 820 Naval Air Squadron colours that take her back in time to 1941, she is at the end of a complete restoration that will see her enter the Flight’s display program this summer.

Nicknamed the Stringbag by their crews because of their ability to carry almost anything, these tough aircraft served from both land and sea in every theatre of war during the Second World War and, perhaps more than any other type, they represent the spirit of naval aviation in the FAA.

Swordfish had a number of significant successes, notably the attack at Taranto in which the Italian navy lost half of its capital ships. They also played a part in crippling the German battleship Bismarck. But perhaps their defining role was the contribution they made during the Battle of the Atlantic in which they shone as anti-submarine aircraft.

W5856 first flew in 1941 and served with the Mediterranean Fleet. Shipped to Canada at the end of the war, she fell into disrepair. In 1990, British Aerospace bought her from the Strathallan Collection in Scotland and, having restored her to pristine flying condition, presented her to the RNHF in 1993.
As we stand next to the enormous biplane, with its 45 foot wingspan, Lt Cdr Götke admits he has yet to fly one. Looking up at it, I ask him whether he intends to remedy this. He just smiles, and it’s clear to me that the pilots who fly for the RNHF do so for the love of the aircraft; for the pure joy of a kind of flying which is fast disappearing: flying by the seat of your pants and with the wind in your hair; quite literally, in the case of the Swordfish.

The Royal Navy has a long history with aviation. In 1909, it ordered its first airship, and just 3 years later, in 1912, the Royal Flying Corps Naval Wing was formed. This went on to become the Royal Naval Air Service in 1914 under which name it served throughout the Great War with distinction. In 1924, this became the Fleet Air Arm (FAA).

I ask Lt Cdr Götke how he finds pilots to fly these old warbirds. He assures me there is no shortage of volunteers, and so the Flight can afford to be choosy. Pilots selected to display the aircraft hone their skills on less valuable planes with similar handling characteristics. These include the de Havilland Chipmunk, a North American Texan, a BAC Jet Provost and the BAE Hawk.

The powerful radial engine after its rebuild

He leads me over to an enormous radial engine which stands on its own to one side of the hangar. It is about to be refitted to W5856 following a total rebuild. How, I wonder, does the Flight find the necessary skills to maintain what is, after all, an antique piece of engineering?
“We have our own engineers and fitters, and there are also volunteers, but for something as significant as this, we look outside the Navy. This was just rebuilt by specialist aero engine contractor Deltair Airmotive at a cost of around £120,000.”

I must have made a face because he continues:
“We had to make new pistons and cylinders because obviously they can’t be ordered off the shelf. And because we want them as close to the original as we can get them, they’re not cheap. £9,000 for the pistons and over £60,000 for the cylinders. It soon adds up.”
And who pays for this?

A Sea Fury in a crowded RNHF hangar

“Funding is the big headache. The Fly Navy Heritage Trust (FNHT) raises most of the money; they provide around £500,000 a year. Because the RNHF is an operational Naval Air Unit, there’s also a contribution from the MoD. Other funds come from personal donations and bequests from supporters. But major overhauls like this are often funded through the generosity of industry.”

The large biplane dominates the hangar

He pats the lower wing of W5856. “She flew for ten years until the wing spars needed to be replaced and that requires special tooling. BAE very kindly came to the rescue and undertook the work at no cost to the Navy or the FNHT. Otherwise, it would have been a million pounds.”

Before I leave, I am permitted to clamber up the side of the aircraft which I waste no time in doing. Having just spent a morning in the nearby FAA Museum looking at a Sopwith Pup, a wood and linen First World War fighter, I am struck by the similarities: open cockpits, uncomfortable seats, cables and dated dials and controls.

The rear cockpit of the Swordfish

The thought of a long patrol over the dark waters of a freezing Atlantic Ocean in this single-engine aircraft is horrifying. Even more so when you consider that safety lay on the heaving deck of an aircraft carrier somewhere in the murky grey distance. And yet for many young men, this was their office; their day-to-day existence.

Perhaps Captain Eric “Winkle” Brown, CBE DSC AFC FRAeS RN puts it best when he says: “It would be an absolute travesty if the Navy’s historic aircraft, and the men who flew them, and those who laid down their lives in them, were forgotten.”

This, then, is the point of the RNHF. It seeks to preserve a century long naval aviation heritage and aims to serve as a memorial to those who flew, and died, for the FAA in Britain’s darkest hour. I look forward to seeing W5856 when she returns to the flight line on 11 July at Yeovilton Air Day.

On the flight line with the RNHF and the Sea Fury

KIA: King's Bruton Old Boy Lt. Denys Brinckman, Royal Irish Fusilier

KIA 10 June 1915, Aged 19

Denys entered the School in September, 1906, and left in March, 1913. At School he was a boy of excellent ability which was shown afterwards by his gaining a Prize Cadetship at Sandhurst, where he was made a sergeant and passed out 14th on the list.

On leaving Sandhurst, Denys joined his father’s old regiment, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, and it was not long before he received his second star. Though not conspicuous at games, he was very keen and quite promising; he represented the School at hockey, and if he had remained at Bruton, he would certainly have a place in the football XI.

He was of a reserved and retiring disposition, but was much liked by all who knew him well. Owing to the excellent reports of him we had from time to time, his career in the Army was followed with interest by us all at the School, and it was with great regret that we heard of his death in action near Ypres on June 10th.

He was killed by a bullet through the head while in charge of the machine-gun section. He is buried in Vlamertinghe Military Cemetery.

Hazlegrove WW1 Bulletin, number 6 April 1915

 

Two King's Bruton Old Boys killed on the same day, serving with the Canadians at Ypres

Private Hugh Glynn Baker was killed in action serving with the 1st British Columbia Regiment on 24th April, 1915. He was 34.

Captain Evelyn Claude Culling of the Eastern Ontario Regiment was killed in action on the same day, aged 29.

The 7th Battalion (1st British Columbia) was part of the 2nd Canadian Infantry Brigade. The 2nd Battalion (1st Eastern Ontario) was part of the 1st Canadian Infantry Brigade. Both brigades were part of the 1st Canadian Division, Canadian Expeditionary Force, and fought in France and Flanders until the end of the war. The action at St Julien was their first real taste of fighting on the Western front.

Map of action at St Julien with both Canadian brigades highlighted

 

Both Hugh and Evelyn were killed fighting in what became known as the Battle of St. Julien, itself part of the Second Battle of Ypres which opened on the 22nd April, 1915, with the Germans using chlorine gas against the French in the line around Ypres.

Private Hugh Glynn Baker 

Sadly, I do not have a picture of Private Baker.

Although the war diary for the 1st British Columbia Regiment does not record details of Hugh's death (generally, only the death of officers are recorded by name in unit war diaries), his company officer wrote details about the engagements in which Hugh was killed. It gives a flavour of the wider campaign.

 

Hugh's body was never recovered.

Captain Evelyn Claude Culling 

Captain Culling

Again, the battalion war diary does not record the particulars of the death of this company commander, however I have reproduced it here anyway. The 2nd Battalion were fighting to the south west of Hugh's battalion, and casualties on the 24th were heavy.

Evelyn's body was never recovered and he, like Hugh, is remembered on the Menin Gate in Ypres.

King's Bruton Casualty, Captain John Ramsay Cox of the 1st Battalion, Worcester Regiment

Captain John Ramsay Cox

Captain Cox was killed in action at Neuve Chapelle on 12th March 1915, aged 41.
He was born 29 June, 1873, the son of Captain William Stanley Ramsay Cox and was educated at King's School, Bruton.

Prior to the First World War, he had served with the 6th (Special Reserve) Battalion, Worcestershire Regiment, re-joining early in September, 1914.

Having been attached to the 11th Worcestershire, and temporally employed as a Staff Captain at the 78th Infantry Brigade Headquarters, he proceeded to France in early January, 1915 as part of a draft for the 1st Worcestershire.

It is believed he was killed when his battalion attempted to withdraw from an untenable position in the enemies trenches during the assault at Neuve Chapelle on 12th March. His body has not been found.

The following is an account of the battalion’s action that day.

The trenches in front of Neuve Chapelle held by the 1st Battalion Worcester Regiment were subject to much activity in the run up to the attack. Officers from a number of regiments were sent up in order to reconnoitre the ground in preparation for the great attack planned to commence on the 10th. This attack was intended to smash through the salient in the German line formed by the village of Neuve Chapelle, then hopefully on to take the Aubers Ridge. 

Parties of the 1st Worcestershire were in action shortly after the artillery barrage, the heaviest bombardment yet experienced in the war, lifted to the rear of the village around 8 am. In reserve, however, the main body of the Battalion moved forward later and by the afternoon, two companies were heavily engaged.

The following day was a disaster. Heavy casualties were sustained as the Worcesters advanced, some caused by our own artillery falling short of the enemy lines. 

Before the first daylight of 12 March the enemy's guns heavily shelled the Worcestershire trenches. Then through the mist, a dense mass of infantry were seen surging forward. Two battalions of the 21st Bavarian Reserve Regiment in close formation lead by officers waving swords and, noted one eyewitness, followed by "a fat old blighter on a horse." 

On the right of the Worcestershire, the Sherwoods suddenly fell back. The little salient which their line formed had been attacked from both sides and broken in. This left the Worcester's right flank open, but the Battalion remained unshaken.

'A' Company swiftly formed to the right to face the opened flank and the abandoned trenches of the Foresters. With the Bavarians now within seventy yards, one officer of 'A' Company noted:
"A most extra ordinary hush for a few seconds as we held our fire while they closed in on us. From flank to flank the whole line of the Worcestershire broke into the crackling roar of rapid fire. We brought them down in solid chunks. Down went the officers, the sergeant majors and the old blighter on the horse."

At this point the Worcester's broke from their line and charged into the Bavarians,  bayoneting and firing as they went. Much of the enemy now scattered and found its way into an orchard where the Worcesters had a fine scrap with the Germans. The Worcesters had their tails up with a vengeance. They chased the Germans up and down that muddy field like terriers after rats.

Meanwhile to the left of 'A' Company, 'B', 'C' and 'D' were also engaged in a fierce bayonet fight. The end of which saw the pursued beaten enemy into their own lines. Storming a group of building known as "Point 85", the Worcestershire occupied these. But once again through lack of communication, the British guns inflicted casualties among its own troops with bombardment of the captured area. 

Now isolated, the three companies beat off repeated counter-attacks until at about 10 am, when it had became clear that the Battalion's position, now encircled by the enemy on three sides, was no longer tenable. Reluctantly the Commanding Officer, Colonel E.C.F. Wodehouse gave the order to fall back. 

As the three companies withdrew in good order, officers and men fell fast. The Commanding Officer, the Adjutant, and the last surviving Company Commanders went down, and it was a mere remnant of the three stubborn companies which, still in good order and grimly firing, reached the trenches which they had held at dawn.

Still away to the right, the survivors of 'A' Company, now with hardly any officers, continued the fight in the orchard. But here too, lack of support inevitably forced a withdrawal. The four companies now reunited, the roll was taken and casualties counted.

The day's fighting amounting to a total of three hundred and seventy all ranks.

Trenches at Neuve Chapelle

Lt. Commander Robinson, VC

Robinson

Eric Gascoigne Robinson won his Victoria Cross by going ashore on the 26th February, 1915, and single-handedly destroying a Turkish naval gun battery. He was a Lieutenant Commander with the British fleet stationed off the Dardanelles during the Gallipoli campaign.

Admiral John de Robeck wanted to remove the threat of a Turkish gun battery at Orkanieh. This position had withstood fire from the battleships of the Allied fleet during the preceding weeks. Robinson was suggested as the leader of a commando force of sailors and Royal Marines tasked with destroying the battery and withdrawing in good order.

Robinson accepted the mission without hesitation. His force landed undetected early in the morning of 26 February, destroyed two small artillery pieces and made fast progress towards the main battery before being pinned down by Turkish snipers in the mid-afternoon. The white naval uniforms of the sailors proved an easy target for the Turks and casualties mounted as Turkish reinforcements were brought up to cut off the raiding party.

Instead of withdrawing in the face of this threat, Robinson marched his men through gullies and came out close to a small rise behind the main battery. The open ground of the rise was covered by several Turkish snipers, but realising the importance of removing the artillery overlooking the sea passage, Robinson delegated command of the party to a junior officer and made the climb alone, dodging bullets in his white uniform until he crested the rise unhurt, emerging a few minutes later and starting back apparently unconcerned by the increasingly heavy gunfire directed at him. He was said to be "strolling around . . . under heavy rifle fire . . . like a sparrow enjoying a bath from a garden hose".

The battery had been ungarrisoned, and Robinson was able to lay fuses which destroyed the large 9.4" main gun and two anti-aircraft emplacements within the position. Withdrawing in good order, Robinson evaded the Turkish reinforcements and then directed gunfire from the fleet onto their positions, including a force garrisoning an ancient tomb, inflicting heavy casualties. An immediate recommendation for the Victoria Cross was put forward by Admiral de Robeck who had observed proceedings from HMS Queen Elizabeth offshore.



Laying fuses

His citation reads:

Lieutenant-Commander Robinson on the 26th February advanced alone, under heavy fire, into an enemy's gun position, which might well have been occupied, and destroying a four-inch gun, returned to his party for another charge with which the second gun was destroyed. Lieutenant-Commander Robinson would not allow members of his demolition party to accompany him as their white uniforms rendered them very conspicuous. Lieutenant-Commander Robinson took part in four attacks on the minefields - always under heavy fire.

—The London Gazette, 13 August 1915

Had Robinson not won the VC for this action, he would almost certainly have received the award for leading a subsequent night-time action which resulted in the destruction of a stranded British submarine while under intense fire from Turkish shore artillery. He was, instead, promoted Commander.

Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green

Small excerpt from Goodbye, Piccadilly. Available here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00F1YPKKK

***

The train jolted when it crossed some points and Reg woke with a start. It was getting dark outside, he noticed. Most of the lads were either sleeping, or sitting up playing cards or just smoking. Stevens sat by himself in a corner reading. The train began to slow, and Reg assumed they must be arriving at their destination. He stood and walked over to the door. Leaning out, he looked up the track. The train was rounding a gentle bend, and up ahead Reg could see a station and parked alongside, a familiar sight. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Jimmy. He dropped an unpromising hand of cards, stood up and moved to the door, staggering as the train stopped.

‘Have a look.’ Reg stepped aside and Jimmy leaned out. There must have been around forty London buses parked at the station; there was something very comforting about the sight of them.

‘Looks like we’re getting a lift to the front, lads,’ said Jimmy, mightily relieved he wouldn’t have to march in his new boots. Caldwell appeared out of the gloom as the train stood steaming in the station yard. ‘Kendrick. Let’s have the men down and lined up for the buses.’

‘Sir.’ Reg turned to the men lolling around in the truck. ‘Right. Let’s have the lot of you out double-quick before Mr Caldwell gets cross. Don’t any of you dare to forget your kit. This isn’t Waterloo station, so there’s no lost luggage department. Come on; get a bloody move on, lads!’

Jimmy jumped down, his rifle in one hand. He landed heavily and tried not to show that his feet hurt. The others followed, and Reg organised them into a line. Caldwell walked up and down while Sergeant Reynolds gathered the other two sections from further down the train. Reg saw Caldwell suddenly stiffen to attention; he always did that in the presence of senior officers, and when Reg looked further up the track, sure enough, Connolly was strolling down towards their platoon, the RSM and Captain Hambleton close at heel.

‘Alright, Caldwell?’ said Connolly.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Connolly stepped over towards Reg. ‘Ah, Kendrick. Good journey so far?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Reg always kept to as few words as possible when dealing with officers, especially senior ones.

‘Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, eh, Kendrick?’ Connolly added, nodding at the buses.

‘All on a summer’s day, Sir?’ said Reg, holding his hand out to catch the cold drizzle that had just begun to fall.

Connolly laughed, nudging the RSM. ‘A summer’s day, Sergeant Major; that’s good.’ Leary nodded and smiled dutifully, but he’d no idea what the two men were talking about. ‘Well done, Kendrick. A summer’s day, what? Carry on, Caldwell.’

Connolly strolled on down the sidings, stopping occasionally to chat to his men. Reg could hear him explaining the reference to the music hall song to Captain Hambleton who guffawed with laughter when he thought it appropriate.

‘What did he mean, Kendrick?’ said Caldwell who had come up beside Reg.

‘The CO was making a reference to a new music hall song, Sir. Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, Sir.’

Caldwell looked at Reg as if he were mad.

‘It’s about a girl that takes a bus ride, Sir. To Camberwell Green, Sir. In London.’

Caldwell said nothing, and the men around Reg started to snicker.

‘It’s by Lionel Monckton, Sir,’ Reg said, as if that might explain it all.

‘I don’t care who it’s by, Kendrick, and I very much doubt Colonel Connolly goes to the music hall. I want to know why he took the time to talk to you.’

‘Don’t know, Sir.’ Reg lifted his eyes to look at his officer’s cap badge. Caldwell stared at him, but Reg kept his eyes fixed above those of his platoon commander. After a moment, Caldwell turned and walked away.

Mullins came over to speak with Caldwell; he saluted smartly and delivered his message. Caldwell turned and spoke to his men.

‘Right, everyone, let’s go and get on the buses; our platoon is to take the front two.’

No one moved; it hadn’t sounded like an order.

‘You heard the officer. Get on the buses. Move yourselves; on the double,’ Mullins said, his voice carrying clearly over the noise of the Battalion’s horses being unloaded from a nearby truck. The men ran towards the buses and clambered on.

Mullins walked across the loose gravel to the truck and stood waiting for Johnson’s horse. Johnson wasn’t going to ride it, but he’d want to know it had travelled alright, so Mullins thought he’d have a quick check, although beyond knowing they had a leg on each corner, he knew nothing else about the animals.

Reg climbed up the steps of the front bus, and looked round the men of his section; most were wearing their recently issued goatskins. ‘We look like a bloody circus,’ he said to Jimmy as they both sat down towards the rear of the bus, their packs preventing them from sitting back properly. Jimmy reached into his tunic pocket for his cigarettes.

‘I think we could do with a sing-song, lads,’ said Reg, spotting Caldwell directing the other sections onto the second bus.

Jimmy looked at him.

‘How about Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green?’ Reg grinned at Jimmy.

‘Once up to London I went for the day, Everything there seemed so lively and gay;’ he began, starting them off. Some of the others laughed and joined in, and soon the whole bus rang to the happy melody.

‘I met a fellow, a regular swell, Said I was looking so rosy and well.’

Much nudging and smiling as the men sang.

‘He whispered kindly: “Now don’t make a fuss, We’ll have a ride on the top of a bus.”

Up came the bus and in front could be seen “Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green”.’

Caldwell stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at the front bus. Connolly walked back towards a bus at the rear, smiling at the men of his battalion as they joined with the chorus as they queued to get on to their own transport; they were in great spirits.

‘Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, all on a summer’s day;

up we climbed on the motor bus and we started right away.

When we got to the end of the ride, he asked me to go for a walk;

But I wasn’t Camberwell Green by a very long chalk.’

The first bus started up and pulled away. Reg turned to Jimmy, who despite himself, was singing fit to bust a lung, his cigarette stuck behind his ear. Caldwell stepped onto the second bus, the lads there singing louder.

‘Up on a bus it’s so lovely to ride, especially if there’s a chap by your side … ’

Reg craned around, but the boarded-up windows prevented him from seeing Caldwell’s face. He laughed, suddenly happy; but it did seem odd to be going to war in a London bus.

 

***

 

 

For anyone interested in hearing this sung: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWMzkbTdpTE 

The Amateur Army - Patrick MacGill

MacGill

I did not go to sleep that night; booted and dressed I lay on the hearthrug in front of the fire, and waited for the call. About four o'clock in the morning a whistle was blown outside on the street; I got to my feet, put on my equipment, fastened the buckles of my haversack, bade adieu to my friends of the billet who had risen from bed to see me off, and joined my company.

Five or six regiments were already on the move; transport wagons, driven by khaki-clad drivers with rifles slung over their shoulders, lumbered through the dimly-lighted thoroughfares; ammunition vans stood at every street corner; guns rattled along drawn by straining horses, the sweat steaming from the animals' flanks and withers; an ambulance party sped through the greyness of the foggy morning, accompanied by a Red Cross lorry piled high with chests and stretcher poles, and soldiers in files and fours, in companies and columns, were in movement everywhere—their legions seemed countless and endless.

Ammunition was given out from the powder magazine; each man was handed 150 rounds of ball cartridge—a goodly weight to carry on a long day's march! With our ammunition we were now properly equipped and ready for any emergency. Each individual carried on his person in addition to rifle, bayonet (sword is the military name for the latter weapon) and ball cartridge, a blanket and waterproof sheet, an overcoat, a water-bottle, an entrenching tool and handle, as well as several other lighter necessaries, such as shirts, socks, a knife, fork, and spoon, razor, soap, and towel.

At eight o'clock, when the wintry dawn was breaking and the fog lifting, we entered the stat
ion. Hundreds of the inhabitants of the town came to see us off and cheer us on the long way to Tipperary: and Tipperary meant Berlin. One of the inhabitants, a kindly woman who is loved by the soldiers of my company, to whom she is very good, came to the station as we were leaving, and presented a pair of mittens to each of fifty men.

The train started on its journey, puffed a feeble cloud of smoke into the air, and suddenly came to a dead stop. Heads appeared at the windows, and voices inquired if the engine-driver had taken the wrong turning on the road to Berlin. The train shunted back into the station, and we all went back to our billets again, but not before our officers informed us that we had done the work of entraining very smartly, and when the real call did come we would lose no time on the journey to an unknown destination.

Taken from the Amateur Army by London Irish Rifleman Patrick MacGill

King’s Bruton casualty, Arthur Clayton

Arthur Gardner Clayton, Private in Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.
Killed in action at La Brasserie, France. 15th Feb 1915, aged 21

Arthur Clayton was a member of New House, and a school Prefect in his final year. He was also a sergeant in the OTC. He was always a very popular boy, being of an extremely affectionate and lovable disposition.

Though not by nature gifted with any great athletic ability, he was a real ‘trier’ and it was by his perseverance and keenness that he became as useful to the school as he undoubtedly was. A keen sportsman, he made his mark playing in both the Hockey and the Cricket XIs.

When he left King’s in July 1911, he moved to Canada where he worked for the Bank of Montreal at Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Soon after the outbreak of war he enlisted as a Private in Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry, a crack regiment which was singled out by Lord Kitchener for the honour of being the first Canadian regiment selected for service at the Front.

The regiment suffered considerably in February 1915, and Clayton fell near La Brasserie, being killed by shrapnel while on duty in the trenches.

His officer, Lieut. Colquhoun said:

“Private Clayton was a splendid soldier and one of the most popular men in the Company. He proved himself a brave man among brave men, and he died a hero’s death.”

Corporal Leaky, of his Platoon, wrote:

“We all loved him as a gentleman, and as most of us were acquainted with him both in a social and business way in Saskatoon, we feel his loss very deeply.”

These appreciations bear out what was known of Clayton at King’s School, Bruton.

His influence was always for the best.

He lies buried in Voormezeele Enclosure No: 3 Cemetery, alongside, incidentally, George Llewelyn Davies, J.M. Barrie’s ‘real’ Peter Pan.


His younger brother would be killed in 1916.

A ticklish job for Quinn

The sound of boots behind him told Quinn that the prisoner was being brought out. Quinn couldn’t see him, but he was able to view his men’s reactions. One by one, they looked over surreptitiously, and then immediately eyes forward again. From the corner of his own eyes, Quinn saw the medical officer, an officer he supposed to be the padre, and then the prisoner, walking between two MPs. The prisoner looked over to the firing party, and he stumbled. The MPs seized his elbows, but he shook them off, determined to walk with dignity.

They went to the post, and the MO took up station on one side with the padre on the other. Within moments the man had been tied to the post. There didn’t seem to be anything special about him; he didn’t look like a coward; he looks like us, thought Reg.

The MO stepped in front of the man, and then stepped back. He had affixed a white square of cloth over the man’s heart. He walked away and took up position somewhere behind Quinn. The padre leaned in close to the prisoner; the man was nodding, perhaps receiving some comfort from the words, thought Holmes. The MPs fastened a blindfold around the man’s head and then they marched off, disappearing from Quinn’s view. The padre finished whatever he was saying, and then he, too, walked out of the way. It was time.

Quinn looked over to the firing party. Every man watched him closely. He nodded, raising his hand, and the men turned to face the condemned prisoner, took a half step back with their right legs, and brought their rifles into their shoulders. The entire courtyard held its collective breath. Quinn dropped his hand, the shots crashed out, and the startled ravens cawed and squawked their alarm, flapping their wings to escape, while the echoes of the volley rang off the walls. The prisoner jerked hard against his bonds, and then fell forwards against their restraint.

The MO walked briskly forward and pressed his finger to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He stood, looked at Quinn, and shook his head. The men of the firing party lowered their rifles, and then following a nod from Jimmy, they stood at ease and watched, spellbound, while their officer withdrew his pistol.

Quinn stepped forward, afraid that his shaking body would betray his inner turmoil. He walked slowly, hoping the man would expire before he got there. He remembered once, when he’d been a young boy, he had borrowed his brother’s rifle and had gone rabbiting. It had been a bitter, cold morning, much like this one, and he had crept quietly out of the garden and into the south paddock, his boots crunching on the frosted grass. He had spotted a group of young rabbits by the brambles, their breath misting in the air. He had taken careful aim, and fired. They ran all different directions, but he knew he’d got one. When he walked up, he could see that it was not dead. He knew he should kill it, knew he must put it out of its misery, but he could not summon up the courage, and he had wept with the shame of it as the rabbit twitched and struggled to hold onto its little life.

Quinn stood over the man and he could see that he still moved, despite the blood pumping from his chest. He extended his arm, his hand still shaking, and placed the muzzle of the pistol behind the man’s ear and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, lifting his hand back, and the prisoner’s head shattered. The MO put his finger to the carotid. No pulse. He stood back, nodded at Quinn, and turned away.

Without waiting for any orders, Jimmy marched his section back out through the gates and led them away for their breakfast, if any could stomach it. Quinn stood looking down at what he had done. He fumbled when he tried to put the Webley back into the holster. Even after he had achieved this, he still stood over the dead man, mesmerised by the spreading pool of blood.

Reg came up beside him. ‘Come on, Sir, it’s over. We’ve done what we came for.’ And taking his officer’s arm, he started to lead him away. Quinn nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’m quite alright. I’ll go and fetch my gear, grab a bite to eat and then I shall join you all.’

Reg watched him walk past the senior officers and snap them a salute. They called out to him, and it was obvious to Reg that they were trying to console him. Quinn acknowledged their inanities, and then left the yard, his headache worse than ever.

The burial detail arrived and took the dead man away. Within two minutes, the yard had emptied. The raven flew down from the wall and landed on its post just as the sun’s rays cleared the eastern wall.

Quinn made his way to his billet. He closed the door and opened his pack, reaching in for the flask. He unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents in three or four swallows. He remembered that his brother had found him in the field curled up next to the dying rabbit. He had lifted the rifle from Quinn’s cold hands and struck the rabbit’s head with the butt; then he’d carried Quinn back to the house.



Taken from 'Farewell, Leicester Square'. Read more: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00IGBRJFE