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

 

 

HZG First World War Bulletin, Number 5 - January 1915

Stanley Benskin Henson, another King's Bruton old boy

2/Lt. Stanley Henson, Somerset Light Infantry. Killed in action at Ploegsteert Wood, 19 Dec 1914

Stanley Henson was born on 20th June 1886 in Norwood, London, the eldest son of William John Henson, physician. He attended King’s School, Bruton, and later Pembroke College. Stanley Benskin Henson was an officer of the Special Reserve, originally from Wedmore in Somerset. This young subaltern had returned at his own expense from Penang Island, where he was employed as an officer in the Straits Settlement Police, to rejoin his regiment and was placed in command of a platoon in B Company.

In December 1914, the battalion was in Belgium holding the line in the infamous Ploegsteert Wood. The 1st Somerset Light Infantry’s Commanding Officer was informed on 12th December that his battalion would attack enemy troops who had occupied a small salient dubbed the ‘The Birdcage’ in the former British frontline trenches lying at the eastern end of Ploegsteert Wood, between the villages of Le Gheer and St. Yves. This attack was intended to occupy German attention and prevent enemy reserves being moved to oppose a French offensive further south.

The morning of 19th December dawned bright and clear and at 9.00am British 4.5” and 6” howitzers began bombarding ‘The Birdcage,’ although most shells fell short of the target. The assault troops were in position by 1.00pm with B Company lining the trench on the eastern edge of Ploegsteert Wood and C to its immediate rear.  The two leading platoons of B Company, led by 2nd Lt. Stanley Henson and 2nd Lt. Kenneth Dennys, began the assault promptly at 2.30pm, dashing forwards from the edge of the wood towards the German trenches 120 yards away, heavily encumbered with wire ‘mattresses’ and wire cutters.

 Although a direct bombardment by supporting mountain artillery and machine guns the half hour before had destroyed the heavily defended position at ‘German House’ it had failed to cut the wire in front of the enemy trenches. The unshaken German defenders immediately opened fire with machine guns and rifles and enemy artillery shells began falling in No-Man’s-Land. To add to the noise and confusion four 4.5” British shells fell short amongst the attacking troops after they had covered 40-50 yards causing heavy losses.

The heavy going through the deep clinging mud in No-Man’s-Land, pocked with deep water-filled shell-holes, made progress slow. Before reaching the German wire, Henson fell victim to a machine gun or rifle bullet.  As his CO later informed his grieving parents:

“As to the manner of your son’s death, I can only tell you he died a very brave man. He was leading his men in the attack on the German trenches, and had outstripped the rest of his company by about twenty yards, when he was shot through the heart and killed instantly. Those of his company who were fortunate to come out of the action alive speak in the highest terms of your son’s courage. He was a great loss to the Regiment.”

Under heavy fire the 1st Somerset Light Infantry’s attack stalled half-way across No-Man’s Land, despite gallant efforts by its officers to keep up the forward momentum. Since the ground was too wet to dig-in the survivors of the attack withdrew overnight to the former trenches in Ploegsteert Wood.

The abortive attack on ‘The Birdcage’ had cost the 1st Somerset Light Infantry dear, with five officers dead and one wounded and taken prisoner. 27 Other Ranks were killed in action, 52 wounded and 30 reported missing. Its only positive result was that the Germans had been driven completely out of the Ploegsteert Wood.

Henson’s body was recovered by the German troops from No-man’s-Land during the unofficial Christmas Day truce and returned to his regiment. Later that day he was laid to rest in what is now Ploegsteert Wood Military Cemetery.   

 

Some text reproduced from an article by TR Moreman

Eric Barnes, King’s Old Boy

Eric Barnes

Eric Barnes entered King's Bruton School in January, 1904, and left in July, 1912. He was a House Prefect, and a member of the cricket, football, and hockey elevens. After passing through Sandhurst he was gazetted as Second Lieutenant to the 1st Lincolnshire Regiment on February 1st 1914.
There are some boys who possess a certain indefinable charm which makes them general favourites. Barnes was one of these. One of the traits that made him such an attractive character was his cheerfulness; he was a born optimist, and genuine optimism is infectious. Another was the frankness so clearly expressed in all his features. A third was the keenness he displayed in everything he took up. He may not have achieved any great distinction either intellectually or in athletics, but he was an admirable specimen of the best type of all-round usefulness.
The fact that he enjoyed life immensely heightens the tragedy of his early death. Lt.-Col. Smith, his commanding officer, wrote:

‘He fell whilst gallantly leading his Company in the attack on a village (called Wytschaete), which the regiment had been ordered to take. He was struck by a bullet and never moved again. He died as he had lived, upholding the best traditions of the Regiment he loved so well, and his loss is deeply deplored by us all.’

Lt. H. Ingoldby, a brother officer, wrote:

‘It was a terrible battle when we came in contact with the enemy in pitch darkness. Eric was just near me in the advance, and when I got up to take a few men forward in a rush, he was the next to come, but, as I heard, immediately he stood up from the ditch we were lying in to lead his men forward under very heavy fire, he was shot straight through the head and, I believe, died immediately. I was so fond of him, and never have I known such a plucky little fellow – always eager and active in the firing line, regardless of shell or bullet.’

He is remembered on the Menin Gate Memorial at Ypres.

First of many

Harold Edwin Hippisley Killed in Action, 23/10/1914

Harold Hippisley

 Killed in action: Second Lieutenant Harold Hippisley, aged 24, a former pupil at King’s Bruton.

Recently Married

A School Prefect in his last year at King’s, on leaving school, he entered the Royal Agricultural College, Cirencester. He then spent time in land-agency work. He was about to secure a post under the Board of Agriculture when the War broke out. He obtained a commission as a Second Lieutenant with the 1st Battalion Gloucestershire Regiment. He went to France in August, 1914, and fought almost continuously from then until he was killed in defence of Langemarck. A particular sadness is lent to his death by the fact that his marriage took place on the very day of his leaving to join his regiment. 

Eyewitness Account

Hippisley was in charge of a platoon of A Company of the 1st Gloucesters, which was blocking the Langemarck-Koekuit road. The young lieutenant and his men gunned down hundreds of Germans – they could hardly miss – but still they kept on coming.  Private Barton, one of the few survivors of the day, takes up the story:  “About this time (10.30 a.m.), Lieutenant Hippisley, the platoon commander, was hit. The bullet struck the middle of the forehead. He was attended by his servant, Private Brown, who was under the impression that if he kept the brain from oozing out of the hole he would be all right. After a time he was convinced that the wound was fatal and that his master had no chance. He then divided his time between the parapet, where he would fire a few rounds, and then return to Lieutenant Hippisley.  Between his concern for his master and his desire for revenge on the Germans, he seemed to have gone crazy.”   His commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Lovett, writes:  “Hippisley’s company was occupying a trench which was heavily attacked by hostile infantry. There was a severe rifle fire by which his platoon lost sixty percent in killed and wounded. By the steadiness of the men at this point, due to the confidence in their officer, the situation was maintained. Had the enemy in their great numbers penetrated at this point, the result would have been most disastrous. I need hardly say how popular he was amongst everyone, and how deeply we deplore his loss.”  2nd Lieutenant Baxter describes how the left flank was exposed:  “The Germans enfiladed our trenches. The casualties began in real earnest. Harold doing his duty nobly was shot in the head. He died like a soldier and a gallant Englishman. The Gloucester Regiment are proud of him and I am proud to say he was my friend.”

Keen and Gifted Sportsman

Hippisley was an outstanding sportsman and leader; he captained the three major teams – Football, Hockey and Cricket – for an unprecedented three years, and he won the Ridley Cup three times. He had the rare distinction of playing cricket for Somerset when he was still 18, a few weeks after he left School. He also continued with his Hockey, playing for Somerset, as well as for the West of England in two international trial matches in the spring of 1914. He was a regular visitor at King’s between 1909 and 1914, playing for the Old Brutonians as well as in invitational teams in football, hockey and cricket. In his last cricket game at Bruton, in May, 1914, he scored 99 to ensure victory for the Bruton Nomads over the School. Intellectually he was not especially gifted by nature, but by honest and conscientious perseverance he achieved results which brought credit alike to himself and to his School. In athletics he was eminently naturally endowed, but here again it was not the success – which seemed to come so easily to him – that appealed most forcibly to those who watched his performances, so much as the spirit in which that success was won.

All That is Best in Public School Life

Essentially a trier, he never knew what it was to be beaten and was never satisfied with anything short of his best. The peculiar charm of his personality will be readily recalled by all who knew him here: modest and unassuming, healthy in mind as in body, cheery and equable in temper. He stood for all that is best in public school life, and has left behind him a host of friends to whom his memory will always be a treasured recollection. It is sad indeed to think of his life being cut short on the very threshold of so promising a career, and it is sadder still to think of the domestic happiness which we had all anticipated for him, coming to so untimely an end.

Dental hygienist

I went for a check-up the other day. I was lying back in the chair, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere you always get when anticipating discomfort and pain, and after my teeth had been examined, the dentist took it upon himself to give me a lecture on how to look after my teeth better. I let it wash over me like pink mouthwash. But then I had to see the hygienist. She (they always seem to be women – why is that?) had a poke around, and then asked how many cigarettes I smoked each day. Through a mouthful of her latex-covered fingers, I announced that not only did I never inhale, I also never lit-up; I have never smoked. A momentary silence.

‘Alcohol units per week?’ she enquired, in what sounded like an accusation. Now, I already think that the introduction of alcohol units as a way of measuring your consumption is a government-sponsored way of taking all the fun out of one of the few pleasures left in life. Every time I open my mouth to take another sip of the smoky heaven that is Laphroaig, I think of the health secretary and it spoils my evening. ‘You do drink?’ she said. I mumbled something about 21, knowing that’s below the recommended daily allowance. ‘Mmmmm,’ she replied. Another, longer, silence.

‘A coffee drinker, then?’ she enquired. I nodded, and mentioned espresso. Although I could only see her eyes, and only dimly through both my safety goggles and hers, I could see she was pleased to have discovered my dirty, little, teeth-staining secret. Would she reach for the intercom to announce my filthy addiction to her colleagues and the other orally-disgusting customers sitting in the waiting room? Or perhaps she would wait until she and her co-workers were down at the spa, sipping mineral water, and she would shock them ‘..and then he told me he drank coffee...espresso!’, and some of the younger listeners might actually faint with horror.

‘Coffee, eh? I thought so,’ she smiled. I could only imagine she was smiling because, of course, my mouth was so foul that she was wearing protective sheeting around her lower face. She picked up a probe from her toolbox, and as she began I arched my back so that only my heels and the crown of my head touched the chair. Some time later, with the enamel gouged from my teeth, I lowered my buttocks back onto her recliner, and she began a lecture about the benefits of flossing, demonstrating on a little dental model. With the aid of a mirror held to my face by her able assistant, I was encouraged to practise on myself. She then informed me that I was to return in a few weeks so she could see how I had been getting along with my new dental-hygiene regimen.

What if everyone behaved like dentists? Imagine if you went to buy a new pair of trousers and after being made to stand awkwardly whilst you and your current trousers were minutely examined, you would then receive a lecture on how to wear the new trousers correctly; on how to avoid unpleasant places to sit; on how, because of your disgusting lifestyle, your trousers were prone to damage from revolting stains, and that you should therefore change your lifestyle to ensure trouser-longevity. And if you happened to look above your head during this extensive lecture, you would be faced with a large, grinning, pink elephant with immaculate trousers holding a lint removal roller in his trunk. Finally, you would then be asked to pop back into the store in a few weeks to check that you were adhering to these sartorial guidelines.

Having got through the dental ordeal, I went straight to the café and ordered a large espresso.

Windows 10

Windows 10 Preview on Lenovo Miix 2 8

OK, so to be honest, I cannot see any significant differences so far. But then, my device is touch, and I would have expected the touch experience to remain the same.

Note: I installed the 32 bit version of the preview on my tablet because I have a 32 bit version of Windows 8.1 on it now.

But there are some differences. The Modern UI version of Internet Explorer seems to have gone walkabout. I’m sure it will turn up, and I certainly hope so, because the Desktop version is difficult to use with fingers – even fingers as svelte as my own.

Windows Technical Preview Build 9841

The installation, in my case an upgrade retaining apps and settings, was easy. I just launched setup from the ISO. But, it failed numerous times, and I’m guessing it was lack of free disk space. Having cleared some clutter, it proceeded normally. Cannot give you any figures for free space required, and I could be wrong anyway. I failed to install with 4 GB free, and succeeded at 7.5 GB.
I have also installed the OS into a virtual machine which is running within Hyper-V on a 64 bit Windows 8.1 Enterprise client. I will report back on this as I discover more.

Summary. Not much to tell as yet.