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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… The
Battle Of Passchendaele (July 31-November 10) began, its importance as an
iconic passage of World War 1 accurately reflected by all the current
remembrance events and programmes. Clearly, it was controversial from
conception to conclusion with British PM Lloyd George and French Chief Of
General Staff Foch among its opponents till late in the day and Field Marshall
getting the go-ahead from the Cabinet only fours days in advance it seems.
Prepared
by 10 days of artillery bombardment expending 4.25 million shells, the attack
by British, Anzac, New Zealand, Canadian and French infantry was initiated via
the subsection of the grand plan known as the Battle Of Pilckem (July 31-August
2). The infantry advance, led by a “creeping barrage” south and east of Ypres started
early in the morning and gained 2,500-4,000 yards along a 15-mile front,
although near Ypres itself the German Army drove the British back – until
halted in part by mud, already a torment to all even though the day’s downpour
had only started during the afternoon. Hague reported to the Cabinet that
British casualties for the three days were low compared to the first day of the
Somme at 31,850 – German estimated at about 30,000.
On
the Eastern Front, the Russian decline continued. In what is now western
Ukraine, then a region known as Bukovina, German and Austrian forces took Zaleszczycki and Sniatin (July 30; western
Ukraine now), crossed the river Zbrucz on a 30-mile front (July 31) – resisting
a later Russia counterattack (August 4), and reoccupied Czernowitz (3), and
Vama (4).
Meanwhile,
down in German East Africa, the Allies pressed on with their effort to push the
established colonial power out of this vast territory, driving them back from
the River Lugungu (July 30) and setting out towards victory in the unusually
extended Battle Of Rumbo (August 2-10; British/Portuguese deaths 386, German
1,500).
[Memoir background: my father, Lance Corporal Sam Sutcliffe from Edmonton, north London, under-age 2/1st Royal Fusiliers
volunteer and Gallipoli veteran (Blogs September 20, 2015, to January 3, 2016),
had
fought on the Somme Front with his second outfit the Kensingtons (Blogs May 15 to September 25,
2016)…
until
officialdom spotted his real age – 18 on July 6, 1916, legally too young for
the battlefield – and told him he could take a break from the fighting until he
turned 19. He took up the offer, though with an enduring sense of guilt. By
December, 1916, he ended up posted to Harrogate, Yorkshire, and re-allocated again,
this time to the Essex Regiment 2/7th Battalion, along with a bunch of other under-age
Tommies until such time as they severally became eligible for the trenches again… An interesting year ensued – four months of blizzards, a
meningitis scare, special training in various northern locations…]
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week (100 years ago), Sam’s Battalion, on
a route march which lasted several weeks, enjoyed the unanticipated luxury of a
stint encamped at a “ducal estate” (I think my father got the wrong rank and it
was an Earl’s pad, actually, but not sure). Musical evenings, even!
Now,
however, a change of tone as my father has to deal direct with his “unfavourite
Captain” and fresh threats emerge to continuation of the formerly underage Tommies’
peaceful sojourn back home:
‘“Report to Company office!” This order, sudden and
unexpected, increased the heartbeats and set me thinking about my recent
behaviour… But I couldn’t come up with anything calling for reports or
punishment.
My unfavourite
Captain** sat at a table in his tent, something between a smirk and a sneer on
his unattractive face. Instead of the undeserved rebuke I expected, he rapidly
read from a paper before him a statement that the Army required more officers
than were coming forward, that promotion to commissioned rank should be offered
to men considered suitable***. Whether the Captain intended it or not, cynical
amusement at the very idea seemed to show in his face as he spoke.
Perhaps I fell
into an intended trap, but at that moment the thought of having to work with
such as he appalled me; I took a snap decision. I refused the offer. And then I
refused his suggestion that I take time to consider the matter. I seem to
recall feeling some sort of satisfaction from being able to refuse to abandon
my hoi polloi status. I see now that such feelings were childish, though
gratifying at the time****.
Next surprise, an
announcement that every member of the Battalion would be medically examined the
following day and re-graded. This must have shaken many a conviction that this
lot were reserved for better things than warfare or, perhaps, that soldiering
in the homeland was a necessary guarantee of the nation’s security. Everyone
could think of a million reasons why “The Lost Division”***** should not have
to board one of those wretched troopships and finish up among all the horrible
bang-bangs.
A cruel streak in
those few of us who had already soldiered “over there” put smug grins on our
faces when we observed the grim looks of some of the hitherto gallant defenders
of the homeland. In fact, we had no justification for harbouring feelings of
superiority. To imply that we were not willing to spend the remainder of our
military service here, rather than there, would have made liars of us.
I had no opinion
for or against submitting to a medical examination and, thus, no interest in
its taking place. I was, however, taken aback by an order to present myself at
the medical marquee at 9am to act as clerk to the medical officer. I was
scared, but asked no questions; obviously the 1914 lie about “Occupation:
clerk” had caught up with me. Funny that — although now aware I had lied about
my age******, it appeared they still accepted the occupational tag as correct.
A moment’s thought by some administrator would surely have revealed that, at
age 16, I could not possibly have been a full-blown clerk.
But, of course, in
the earlier case at Harfleur when Archie Barker had stated that I was a grocer*******,
the Quartermaster should have realised how unlikely that was, given I was sent
down from the Front because of my youth. Mine not to reason why, better to have
a try, and so forth. But I did fear making an ass of myself.’
** The man my father
aliased as “Captain Tarquin”, first encountered in Harrogate: “A weird type,
reputedly the son of a wealthy family, he had expensive uniforms, yet he
brought with him an aura of poverty – mental poverty, probably… The Captain had ‘avoiding’ eyes and no valid
claims to beauty with his red nose against a background of pale skin and surly
mouth whence his harsh voice barked orders none too clearly. An almost
childish, short temper completes my picture of one officer, perhaps the only
officer, to whom I felt superior. What a gift he had for spreading gloom and
despondency where all had been coarse gaiety before his bleary-eyed mug fouled
the scene…” (See Blog 140, March 12, 2017) for background.)
*** I haven’t been able
to find any information about what my father understood to be a new Army policy
on commissioning the non-commissioned. Ring any bells, dear readers?
**** “Childish” perhaps,
but my father really did detest the idea of gaining rank. How far it was a
matter of principle, how far a quirk of character, readers of the Memoir may
decide. But his “previous” included requesting demotion from Lance Corporal to
Private on the Somme (refused, and temporary promotion to Sergeant in the field
ensued), and tearing off a Corporal’s stripe during his December, 1916, transition
from the Kensingtons to the Essex Regiment – amid admin confusion this stuck,
and he remained a Lance Corporal Signaller thereafter.
***** As per last week’s
reference… See Blog 131, January 8, 2017, for Sam’s strange account of the
alleged/rumoured/maligned “Lost Division” – whose entry into the battlefield
seemed to be forever deferred – to which his Essex Regiment Battalion, or at
least stray, under-age members like himself, had been attached in Harrogate.
****** When he enlisted
in September, 1914, he falsified his birth date by three years to make himself
19.
******* See Blogs 117,
October 2, 2016, and 118, October 9, for that story.
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Sam does his clerkly duty at the
Battalion medicals, recording near-Catch 22 verdicts of A1 – fit, so ready for
return to the frontline slaughter – or C3 – unfit, so likely to survive safe at
home. During the day, he learns a dodgy use for cordite… and eventually gets a
good/bad diagnosis of his own condition.
* In his 70s, Sam
Sutcliffe wrote Nobody Of Any Importance,
a Memoir of his life from childhood
through Gallipoli, the Somme, Arras 1918 and eight months as a POW to the 1919
Peace parade.
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