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

 

 

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.