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Dear all
A hundred years ago… through the
week, semi-globally battles raged: the British captured Ngaundere, Cameroons
from the Germans (June 28); the Italian Army battered ineffectively at the
Austro-Hungarians across the Isonzo river, which runs from Slovenia to the Gulf
of Trieste (June 29-July 7, Italian casualties 14,947, Austro-Hungarian 9,950);
Germany and Austria pressed the Russians back in Galicia (June 29) and the
Austrian Army began its successful attempt to retake Krasnik, Poland (July
1-19); the Turkish Army wrested Lahej in Saudi Arabia from its long-time
British protectorate status (July 4); and the Serbs occupied Durazzo, Albania
(July 4), only to withdraw a couple of
weeks later because it breached a three-way deal they’d previously struck with
local Albanian independence leader Essad Pasha...
And
in Gallipoli the British Empire and then French forces launched a substantial
attack at Gully Ravine, Cape Helles (June 28-July 5), bloody and fruitless,
although small gains saw it dubbed an Allied victory (British and Empire
casualties 3,800, Ottoman 6,000) – in the midst of it, Ottoman outrage was
aroused by the British refusing a courtesy accorded earlier in the campaign: a
truce to allow for burial of the dead.
Meanwhile...
a few miles north of Valletta, Malta, in a rather barren Foreign Legion-ish
stretch of land, the thousand men of the 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, including my father, Private Sam
Sutcliffe, his older brother Ted (both underage
volunteers, still 16 and 18 respectively in early summer 1915), and their pals
from Edmonton, north London, continued their preparation for… whatever might turn up. By
now, they’d all completed rifle training, while Sam and a handful of comrades
proceeded with their study and practice of the Signaller’s multifarious skills.
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, when St George’s Barracks was
commandeered to house a hospital, mainly for men wounded at Gallipoli, the
Battalion had to move out of their familiar lodgings to a tented campsite near
St Julian’s Bay (San Gilijan) and beside Pembroke Military Cemetery. There,
once or twice a day, they observed or, anyway, heard the funerals of men who
had not survived their injuries. But music-loving young Sam diverted himself
from the morbid speculations this might have provoked by concentrating on the
marching band which accompanied each procession and finding a hero in the big
bass drummer, whether measuring the solemn tread of The Dead March In Saul on
the way in or thumping out Alexander’s Ragtime Band as they departed en route
back to their base.
Now he
returns to a favourite theme, the horrors of Army food, and an extraordinary
sequence of events at Pembroke camp – a near-mutiny and the emergence of a
fine, new leader among the Battalion’s junior officers. Sam writes:
‘At the camp, the food issued to us got progressively worse*.
At meal times, the orderly officer and a Sergeant visited the messes and the
Sergeant called “Any complaints?” to which, normally, no one responded. It was
assumed that a complainant would be marked as a grumbler and might suffer for
his temerity.
But, finally, one
day several did complain – all greeted with a stony silence and a hostile look
from the Sergeant. No improvement followed and, soon after that, around midday,
from my raised situation in my Signals tent, I witnessed a couple of hundred
men marching round and round the footpaths bordering the camp, led by a man
carrying a leafy branch torn from one of the few trees in the area. They
shouted slogans such as “Poor food, no work!”
Roused and,
understandably, incensed by hunger, more men joined the protest. Little as I
knew of military law, I felt certain the ringleaders risked court martial and
severe punishment, whereas complaints forcefully but properly made would have
brought improvement; the difficulty was finding someone bold enough to stand
alone and state the case. As it was, the leader, a chap with wild, staring
eyes, pursued his rabble-rouser role with infinite zeal and no apparent idea as
to what the next move should be.
A young officer
made the decision for him. He appeared suddenly in front of them and gave a
clear, sharp order, “Halt!” Without quibble, all the marchers obeyed. “Follow
me!” he said, and turned and started marching – making himself the head of the
column. And follow him they did, on to the road and out of my sight.
Later, I heard he
had taken them all to a nearby large marquee in which a famous firm of brewers
and caterers, official concessionaires, retailed food and drink. That place was
the nearest thing to a canteen we had at the time. By cheque, the officer –
Lieutenant Booth** – bought a large quantity of canned sausages, bread and
biscuits and organised their fair distribution to those present. He also
undertook to put the mess complaints to the Colonel and told the men to
disperse quietly.
Thus, a situation,
which could have resulted in imprisonment and punishment for decent, but
desperate soldiers, was settled quietly by a good man who had some regard for
human feelings and failings and not so much regard for the book of rules.
Some good did come
of the mutiny-that-wasn’t. Lieutenant Booth, who had a flair for organisation,
accepted a job which would often intrude on his off-duty periods; he was given
authority to inspect food stores, to check cooked meals before they were issued
to the men and generally to look after the men’s interests regarding quantity
and quality of foods. Perfection was not achieved, but sufficient improvement
elicited praise from some former complainers.
The young officer
was of that type which bases opinions and judgements on a conception of
honesty, which is all too rare in the world. “Scrounging” or “winning”, he
described as cover-up words used by thieves to convince themselves they really
were decent men. The few who persisted in making frivolous complaints got short
shrift from him, as did careless Quartermasters and cooks. Lieutenant Booth,
admired by most, scorned by cynics, remained incorruptible and steadfast in his
pursuit and practice of honesty and fairness to all. A rare bird indeed.’
* Regular readers may
recall the “hard biscuits… the strongest teeth could make no impression on
them… All attempts to eat them had to be abandoned, although an enterprising
chap with a hammer and small chisel did chip carefully away at some of them to
make what he sold as frames for photographs” (FSS blog 34 8-3-15) and Sam’s
wondering “what strange sort of caterer would so bungle his ordering that men’s
breakfasts in a hot climate would consist of strong cheese and onions boiled
together? This occurred on two or three days of each week for a period…” (FSS
Blog 37 22-3-15).
** “Booth” is my father’s
alias for Harry Nathan (1889-1963), who – according to H. Montgomery Hyde’s
biography (Strong For Service: The Life
Of Lord Nathan Of Churt, published by W.H. Allen, 1968) – gained promotion
to Captain quite early in the Battalion’s Malta sojourn; one year into a career
as a London solicitor when war was declared, pre-war he’d also served as a
voluntary organiser of Brady Street Club For Working Lads in Whitechapel; Hyde
quotes an August, 1914, letter from Nathan to his mother wherein he’s already
noting the importance of giving the troops “green vegetables, but they are not
provided by the government”; Hyde also quotes Nathan blaming the poor provision
for the troops in Malta (including the wounded shipped in from Gallipoli) on
Field Marshall Lord Methuen (1845-1932), the Governor and Commander of all
Forces on the island (February, 1915-May, 1919); Nathan wrote that he protested
about all this officially and often and sometimes hoped “my remonstrances had a
momentary effect”; but biographer Hyde makes no mention of the near-mutiny my
father watched – it may be that Nathan (who went on to show leadership and
courage on the battlefield) didn’t write home about it, being aware that his
letters, like every other soldier’s, would be read by censors.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: The Battalion’s on the move again – Sam learns the rigours of
marching miles in 80°F under routine PBI load plus Signalling gear. Total: 91 pounds!
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