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Dear all
A hundred years ago this
week… the German and Austrian Armies chalked up minor successes on Western and
Eastern Fronts, with the usual extravagant cost in casualties, the French
occupied Oyem in Cameroons (February 16), and U-boats began the “unrestricted”
blockade of Great Britain (that is, torpedo attacks without warning; the German
Government described their first such strike, on the 19th, against Norwegian
merchantman SS Belridge as an error –
and the vessel reached port).
Meanwhile, a fresh campaign began which, a full seven months
later, determined the fate of many in the thousand-strong 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, including my father Sam Sutcliffe, still 16, and his
brother, Ted, 18, both under-age volunteers from Edmonton, north London…
on February 19, 1915, an Anglo-French Naval task force started a long-range
bombardment of Ottoman artillery along the Dardanelles Coast. Bad weather
interrupted them and rather spoiled their aim because spotter planes couldn’t
be launched from the aircraft carrier Ark
Royal. Gallipoli had begun in the lumbering manner to which
British, Australian and New Zealand servicemen were to become accustomed…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, Sam’s
troopship from Southampton to a destination unknown to the rankers emerged from
a terrifying and gut-churning Bay of Biscay storm and, in the distance, they
could make out the coast of… somewhere or other. As my father picks up the
story “on the morning of the seventh day at sea”, new readers please note that
up to this point he was still conducting his Memoir in the third person,
referring to himself as “Tommy”:
‘The land
mass now assumed a recognisable shape, presenting a picture which had faced
Tommy every time he walked out of the classroom into the corridor during his
last years at school. “That’s the rock of Gibraltar,” he yelled to all within
hearing.
Soon the regular
throbbing of the engines changed to a slower beat and the shape of the rock
altered as the Galena’s course changed, barely moving now, just veering
slightly to the left. Excited soldiers packed the formerly unused, lonely
decks.
“There goes the
Marook*,” shouted someone as a massive chain roared across the foredeck and
vanished through an aperture. The chain stopped moving and slackened. A noisy
week of raging winds and crashing waves and vibrating engines ended with a
calm… in which men could converse without shouting and once more regard one
another with interest, to see what degree of suffering had been endured by
their comrades.
An elderly H
Company man looked at Tommy almost with amazement. He had obviously never been
deceived about the boy’s age for he said: “I can’t believe it — a kid like you
and you’ve grown a moustache”.
Tommy borrowed a
pocket mirror and saw that the beginnings, fine and fair, had indeed emerged
since he last saw his face over a week ago. Elated, and knowing that repeated
shaving resulted in stiff whiskers, he scraped it off as soon as possible — but
without the desired effect as, next day, no further sign of a moustache
appeared, nor did this herald of approaching manhood darken his upper lip for
many a day to come. Had it grown, it would have helped; so far he believed he
had performed everything asked as well as any of his comrades, yet for peace of
mind he needed to feel accepted as an equal.’
For the rest of that day,
the Fusiliers, most of them away from England for the first time in their
lives, experienced as much of the colourful life of a Mediterranean port as possible
without actually stepping ashore. Sam recalled:
‘Numerous
craft of various shapes and sizes moved about in the sheltered harbour and the
bustle of activity lifted the weight of boredom from those — and they were the
majority — who had wilted under it for a week. Bumboatmen rowed and bumped and
jockeyed to secure positions near the ship’s sides, displaying their wares,
holding up articles and deploying limited English to declaim their merits:
“Very good, very nice, very cheap!” The soldiers called “How much?”, a question
asked and understood in most parts of the world.
Haggling about
prices, with much use of fingers as counters, sometimes brought agreement. Then
the seller would sling up a thin, coiled rope which the soldier endeavoured to
catch. Eventually succeeding, the soldier coiled a couple of turns around his
hand and let fall the rest of it, so that the seller could secure it to the
handle of a basket.
In most cases,
this was the moment for fresh argument to commence. Naturally the boatman
wished the buyer to haul up the basket, place in it the purchase money and
lower it back down, whereas the buyer thought the goods should be sent up first
– and used more gestures than words to make this point. Somebody had to give
way, but the great reluctance down below to trust the doubtless honest man
above suggested that some unscrupulous cads in uniform had passed that way
before. Could there be a man so wicked as to empty a basket of its contents and
then vanish among the men swarming over the decks without paying? Apparently
so. Nonetheless, some small deals did reach completion.
Tommy ventured a
sixpenny purchase comprising four packets of ten cigarettes. He tried to smoke
one, but it tasted awful. Blaming the strong sea air, he put them away for
later use.
After some hours
at Gibraltar, the Galena moved quietly onwards. With changed weather, all began
to feel cheerful, even energetic. On the calm, warm Mediterranean a renewed
feeling of purpose and comradeship prevailed. Smiles replaced the bleak,
hopeless, solemn expressions seen on most faces during the week of low, grey
skies, heaving seas and roaring winds which had reduced many averagely good men
to neglecting all the usual habits of self-care.’
* I transcribed this from a
hand-written section of my father’s Memoir and “Marook” is how it seemed to be
spelt. Can’t find the work anywhere! But it must surely mean “anchor”. One
guess is Sam heard a distorted pronunciation of “mudhook”, the slang word back
then (maybe still?), especially in the gambling game Crown & Anchor. Other
suggestions welcome…
All
the best —
FSS
Next week: Finally, the Fusiliers step on to dry land – in Malta.
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