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Dear all
A hundred years ago… this week Field
Marshall Lord Kitchener, Secretary Of State For War, announced 11 new British
Divisions (Sept 15, 10-20,000 men each) had been sent to the Western Front. But
he also declared himself worried about recruitment and a House of Commons
discussion about National Service conscription began.
In
the East, the German Sventiany Offensive against the Russian Army concluded
after three weeks (August 26-September 19) with the occupation of Vilnius (now
in Lithuania) and Pinsk (now in Belarus). Romania shifted from neutrality to
join the Allied side, a decision said to have cost the country 748,000 military
and civilian dead over the following three years.
And
in Gallipoli, as deadly attrition became the mode of fighting for the final four
months of the campaign, in the Aegean a U-boat sank the troopship Ramazan en route to Gallipoli with the
loss of 300 troops, by some accounts all Indian, by others including around 200
Gurkhas.
Meanwhile...
lately arrived in Egypt, the thousand men of the 2/1st
City Of London Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, including my father, Lance Corporal
Signaller Sam Sutcliffe, his brother Ted (still
secretly underage at 17 and 18), and their pals from Edmonton, north London, had
been enjoying a couple of weeks in this exotic location – the Pyramids,
Heliopolis, the markets and bars – before… well, they could all guess where
they were bound now although, as usual nobody told them. Gallipoli, their first
battle, 12 months after they joined up…
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, Sam and Ted enjoyed the diverse
Cairo delights of the Blue Mosque and a troupe of belly dancers. Then, back at
their camp in nearby Abbasieh, Sam had fun observing as their Aussie
neighbours, whose informal ways he much admired, conducted their nightly Crown
And Anchor gambling school… but looked on in sorrow as a gang of his new heroes
looted and mocked a bunch of local traders who, with the Allied Armies’
permission, had set up a small market adjacent to the camp.
But
those pleasures and troubles he soon set aside as other urgent matters brought
a different momentum their lives.
‘A period of general unease now set in. No more trips to
Cairo town… We were ordered to wear our heavy uniforms and return the cotton
drills and our lightweight sun helmets to the Quartermaster – but the sun
didn’t vanish in sympathy. We were given new short rifles with long bayonets to
replace the ancient long rifles with short bayonets turned in on Malta. The
brains of Britain had been busy. There must have been some significant
advantage in this change of arms, though what it was eluded me.
Next, brand new
signalling equipment came our way; a clash of interests resulted because, at
the same time, we Signals men were ordered to rejoin our Companies for training
in the use of the new rifles, while the officers on the communications side
wanted us to spend every moment available learning about the new telephone,
telegraph, and electric signal lamps. The latter involved making our way in
darkness over fair distances from one point to another using only illuminated
compasses, meanwhile improving our speed at sending and receiving messages. So,
with neither set of trainers relenting, they kept our section busy all day and
half the night.
A sharpness and
impatience was abroad. Officers told us we lacked diligence and application and
had fallen well behind other Battalions in our Brigade. Our Brigade? Where were
the other three Battalions which comprised it? Where was that marvellous band
and my hero, the big-drum wizard with the leopardskin?* Come to think of it,
where was our Colonel? Our corpulent RSM Cole? And the dashing Major who
mysteriously appeared among us one day in Malta? – his appearance, his bearing,
the very epitome of an officer of that rank, his blatant uselessness to a
wartime Army balanced by his ornamental qualities.
Have I told you
about how, on practice manoeuvres in Malta, that handsome gent plucked me from
my humble job as a Lance Corporal in charge of a line of signals communications
and handed me the reins of his horse and his fly-whisk and told me to keep in
sight of him as he wandered along?** That took some explaining to my officer
later, but I dared not disobey or argue with the Major. Probably nobody knew or
cared what the old boy was doing; probably Headquarters had attached him
temporarily to us to keep him out of mischief. He looked as though he belonged
in the upper-bracket, and his horse had peculiar hind legs – if he made it
trot, the hind legs moved stiffly as though made of wood, most weird.
Anyway, he had
stayed behind in Malta and so, I gradually concluded, had a number of others.
It was ominous.
Paybooks for use
on active service were issued to each of us – columns for amounts paid, date,
and signature of the officer who made the payment. The last page was printed in
the form of a will. It was not obligatory to use this, but it would be useful
in the event of a soldier’s death.
Death? A certain
tension built up inwardly at the possibility thus openly presented. In the
excitement of the early days of the war, the remote prospect of being killed or
wounded had appeared an acceptable risk which all Britons must face, and an
early dispatch to the front line would probably have settled the issue before
one had very much time for contemplation of all the possibilities.
However, my
Mediterranean sojourn***, with all its pleasant experiences, had conditioned me
for an indefinite period of such unwarlike soldiering, with no bangs bigger
than those made by the bass drummer…’
* See blog 50 June 21,
2015.
** No, he hadn’t told us!
*** In Malta February to
late August, blogs 33 to 58.
And so my father experienced one of the key
transitions in a soldier’s life – from training to battle – and found out about
himself at every step, while necessarily, he felt, concealing every emotion
from his comrades.
‘An inner resistance to all forthcoming horrors would be
necessary to conceal the truth about me from my comrades – I was actually
scared windy, as it was termed, but I must remain the only one aware of this.
While behaving as normally as possible, I would maintain this preparedness for
any dire possibility, always be one step ahead of the enemy who happened to
have the bullet or shell with my name on it.
Thereafter,
although I joined in fun and games and general conversation with those around
me, I never fully relaxed. The perpetual awareness of danger, which wild
creatures display at all times, became part of my way of life – my defence
against the risks which would soon beset me. Having settled into this new
animal-instinctive preparedness, I could do my work and, when necessary,
exercise the petty authority of my one stripe with ease, realising that at least
some of my mates must be feeling a bit of tension, a twinge of anxiety.
Soon, we were on
the move once more, with not a word of explanation, nor hint of destination. We
spent two days beside a railway, at a place called Sidi Bishr, then off to
Alexandria****…
And there I was,
high up on the deck of a ship, chatting happily with brother Ted and looking
downwards at men still climbing up the steep gangway, loaded with full
equipment. Ted sat on the deck, his back against a cabin wall, obviously somewhat
uneasy. This actually pleased me, I recall, because if my strong, assertive
older brother could feel like that, I could be excused for worrying a bit.
At long last, only
five or six of our men remained on the Quayside and now I felt quite confident
about the future, doubtless encouraged by Ted’s presence with me on a ship
about to take us – where?
He remained
seated, taking no interest in what was happening around us. I observed that a
Company Quartermaster had lined up the few men still on the quay to “call the
roll”. He looked around and spoke to the men, then commenced climbing the
gangway, calling loudly. It was someone’s name he shouted, other voices on the
ship repeated it and a shock, a wave of grief, shook me: “Private Norcliffe, G
Company!”*****
Those near us
urged my brother to show himself and get the thing finished. “It’s my missing
teeth******,” he told me. “The doctor refused to pass me till I have some
replacements, false ones. They told me I couldn’t go with the boys, but I
thought I might swing it by keeping out of sight.”
With barely time
to shake hands, he was hustled off and down the gangway. I kept him in sight.
We waved goodbye during all the time we could still see each other.
Gone was the
happiness which had returned to me when we so fortunately got together on that
ship. Now I felt only the grim prospect of a very difficult and doubtful
existence for an unknown length of time in some strange land. I felt very sad
until a chap who had witnessed Ted’s departure revealed a good side of the
affair. “He’ll be all right whatever happens to you, the lucky devil,” he said.
And I thought, that was how I felt about it, and I hoped Ted would remain in
Egypt for the duration of the war.’
**** H Montgomery Hyde’s
biography of Harry Nathan (later Lord), the Battalion’s eventual commanding
officer at Gallipoli (until now aliased as ”Lieutenant Booth” by my father)
says the Battalion spent 10 days in the Abbasieh camp, but my calculations
suggest it was a little longer than that, given they sailed into Alexandria
from Malta around September 1; a Nathan letter home notes them sailing from
Alexandria for Gallipoli on September 17, 1915.
***** Throughout the
first part of the Memoir, my father gave his family the oddly thin disguise “Norcliffe”.
****** Knocked out in a fight with one of his comrades in C Company.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam’s first
battlefield – “guns being fired with intent to kill”, shrieking shells, the
urgent call for “Stretcher-bearers!”… and he wants his breakfast!
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