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Dear all
A hundred years ago this week… All
quietish, considering, the loudest noise being generated by negotiations at
Brest-Litovsk: Germany sent an ultimatum to the Romanians demanding peace talks
within four days or else (February 6; this provoked the Romanian Premier to
resign after surviving four years in the post); the Central Powers signed a
peace and protection treaty with the Ukraine, including a definition of the
republic’s new borders (9); and Russia’s Foreign Affairs Commissar Leon Trotsky
announced the end of the state of war between Russia and the Central Powers…
while also refusing to sign a peace treaty (10; because he didn’t believe a
Communist nation could properly agree a treaty with a capitalist one).
Meanwhile,
the Don Cossacks, whose region had provided the Russian Army with several
anti-revolutionary Generals, began their latest uprising with 30,000 troops
under General Mikhail Alekseev setting off for Moscow to fight the Bolsheviks
(February 4).
Otherwise,
deadly skirmishing continued on the Western Front (more Americans arrived) and
in Italy, where the Austrian Army still made occasional attempts to push south,
after being held north of Venice and the River Piave.
At
sea, the troopship SS Tuscania,
carrying around 2,000 American soldiers from Hoboken, New Jersey, in a convoy
to the UK was torpedoed and sunk by a U-boat south of Islay, Scotland, with the
loss of 166 men by some accounts, 230 by others – accompanying British destroyers
and other ships saved the majority.
[Memoir background: my father, Lance Corporal Signaller 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. So they 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. An
interesting year ensued – four months of blizzards, a meningitis scare, special
training in various northern locations, and then a few summer weeks stomping
around Yorkshire on a route march… which in due course led him to hospital again,
to recover from lurking effects of trench warfare’s privations and prepare for more of the same (he was 19 on July 6, 1917, while in
hospital). During that period, his Company Officer told him he’d been offered
the chance to train for a commission, but Sam detested ordering men around –
especially when death might be the outcome – so he refused; one
immediate-post-war pension form suggests this defiance may have brought about
his “reversion” to Private, but perhaps he actually requested it, given his
feelings on the subject of rank. After refreshing his signalling skills at an
Army training camp outside Crowborough, Sussex, come November/December, he enjoyed
what turned out to be the final home leave of his military career – at the end
of which he assured his family of his firm conviction that he would survive,
even if they didn’t hear from him for a while. In December/January 1917/8, he’s
returned to France, unattached to any specific Battalion pro tem, and knocking
about Brigade HQ, dogsbodying where he can – though he’s soon sent out to the front
line, just a few miles away, as a sort of freelance signaller for any outfit
that needs one… ]
FOOTSOLDIERSAM SPEAKS
Last week, my father, Signaller Sam Sutcliffe,
with a Battalion he’d been temporarily attached to by 12th Brigade HQ in Arras,
rushed to the Front, six miles or so east, responding to a big German
bombardment – which might have been the start of the Spring Offensive (which
then wouldn’t have been called the “Spring” offensive I guess), but turned out
to be some kind of bluff to observe the British response. At least that’s what
the Tommies reckoned; could have been a mistake, a change of mind mid-bombardment,
nobody really knew.
However,
after striving over the four years of his war story to more or less align Sam’s
recollections with “100-years-ago-this-week”, I explained last week that this
wouldn’t work for the duration of his Spring Offensive memories because he
wrote thousands of words about the battle, March 20-28, and not much about
January, February and early March. The out-of-step phase began last week when
we were actually in late February, 1918, and – as I try to clarify in the blog
footnotes – the following passage starts with a spell back in Arras which
probably lasts from the first few days of March until March 19 when he heads
for the Front once more.
Also
you’ll run into one big change for my father; as mentioned in previous blogs,
since he arrived in Arras in mid-January, for reasons unknown (bar the “fog of
war”), he hasn’t encountered his own official Battalion, the 2/7th Essex Regiment,
so he’s been “freelancing/dogsbodying” for Brigade HQ. But during this episode
he makes the connection and the quartet of unattached Signallers he’s been
knocking around with all go along with him (whether Sam’s good friend Neston
and their two comrades also happened to be in the Essex or wandered along with
him as freelances I don’t know):
‘Our turn for a rest from the front line(2) duly came round
again and, one dark night, we filed out as another Battalion filed in. It had
to be a night changeover for safety’s sake – for a degree thereof, anyway –
because we had been unable to repair much of the damage to our trench system.
We trudged quietly for hours, pausing at regular intervals to rest and get a
bite and a swig from the water bottle. The crash and scream of shells gradually
softened as our distance from the Front increased – dull thuds and far-off
roars our reminders that hell was only a few kilos away.
By great good
fortune they quartered us once more in Arras(3). Unusual, perhaps, to be allotted
a rest period in that delectable, war-scarred town, but we appreciated it. We
even enjoyed the brief training periods, chiefly because officers and NCOs were
far from heavy-handed, mellowed by close association with their men in the
forced intimate proximity of trenches, holes in the ground, or the occasional
luxury of a dugout.
I was delighted to
find the Army canteen still had a few of those tasty Christmas puddings, my
special preference. Whether they remained because of over-stocking or to meet a
non-seasonal demand I knew not. Maybe I was the only customer for them, but
they stored well and remained moist and luscious…(4)
All too quickly our
period of rest and ease sped by, and a careful checking of equipment began. We
must take only the bare essential items which could be carried in “battle dress
order” – an outfit which did not include the large pack containing the
greatcoat and a few other bulky oddments. The forward trenches had reserve
stores of rifle ammunition and hand-grenades and, in any but hopeless
situations, food and drink would somehow be got to us. In the case of the
Signals section, field telegraph and phone equipment – all the tools of our
trade – would be handed to us at the time of takeover, probably quite joyfully
for the chaps we relieved.
Our Company “got
fell in” around 1300 hours and we marched off in good spirits, led by a short,
but tough-looking Captain, with a one-pip subaltern heading each Platoon except
ours; we had a two-pip Lieutenant, a coarse promotion from the ranks from whom
we expected much courage and wisdom in time of battle (erroneously, as it
turned out).
During the early hours of the march good humour prevailed,
with jokes and chummy insults exchanged. Rests by the side of the road lasted
longer than usually allowed, and – with a dare-devil air – the Captain took an
occasional pistol shot at a tin-can or other suitable target.
By dusk we reached
the area of the big guns. No marching now. We advanced in a single file, slimy
mud underfoot. We slithered, one foot higher than the other, along the steep
side of a ridge. Very dark now, terribly difficult to keep going forward
without sliding downhill, almost impossible for each of us to maintain contact
with the man in front and…
“God help us,” I
silently cried. “I’ve lost touch with him!” Of course, a long file of men
followed me and, if I went the wrong way, so would they. Inky darkness. “I’m as
good as blind and scared stiff… The man in front of me will never know I’m not
behind him and the man behind me can’t tell that I’m leading him astray… “
Field guns banging and I heard machine-gun fire way off… It felt worse than
going “over the top”, I thought, for later I’d have to face the derision of men
I really didn’t know and of officers who certainly wouldn’t spare my feelings.
I could be accused of attempted desertion, or showing cowardice in the face of
the enemy…
I recalled being
Corporal in charge of a squad escorting a prisoner to his court martial on the
Somme in 1916; this time I’d be the poor bloody prisoner, though guiltless of
any intention to offend. The loneliness of the lost idiot assailed me, and all
my previous confidence evaporated. I, who had felt so fit, well-trained and
quite the Old Soldier after my varied war experiences… reduced in my own estimation
to a twitching coward. I’d never even heard of a bloke losing his way while
advancing with his Company in single file or any other file.
On this very black
night I could see nothing and nobody, being aware of my follower only by the
sound of his footsteps and occasional curses. Then a slight noise to my
half-right – some item of equipment tapping on a buckle – caused me to veer in
that direction; I closed up behind that clinking sound and cunningly murmured,
“Everybody happy in C Company?” in a comical query tone. “Too bloody true,”
came the matey reply, softly as per orders, and I knew I was back where I
should be and joyful relief replaced my personal panic. Throughout all this I
had said nothing to the man behind me so I guess he never knew we’d strayed
from the “straight and narrow”.’
(2) After the stint in
the front line provoked by the German’s artillery bombardment “bluff”.
(3) Although Sam doesn’t
say so, I’m pretty sure they were back in their billet at the Museum, the Musée
Des Beaux Arts, Rue Paul Doumer – last week, he referred to the “canteen down
the road” selling those lovely post-seasonal Xmas puds. And this location, I
gather, proved crucial in his running into his “own” Battalion (the Army
transferred him to the 2/7th Essex in December, 1916, but the circumstances
outlined in the italicised thumbnail of his “career”, above, meant that he’d
never spent any time with them).
(4) In hopes that modest research
correctly fills the gaps left by my father hereabouts. I’m pretty sure that he (and
his friend Neston and their two Signaller mates) hooked up with his official
Battalion, the 2/7th Essex right here. The Battalion War Diary says they moved in
from Berneville, six miles southwest of Arras, and billeted “in the Museum” –
where my Sam lodged – on March 11 and stayed there for two nights. Contact!?
The WD actually notes “1 OR Reinforcement” (“OR” means “other ranks” than
commissioned officers) on that day and nine more on the 13th – by which time
they’d gone through an aborted overnight “stand by” to repulse an enemy attack,
undertaken several days’ training (mentioned by Sam), and moved on to the
Prison, their billet until the next, and genuine summons to the trenches
outside the town. (Sam and Neston billeted in the Prison for some while during
January, see Blogs 180 and 183, December 17, 2017, and January 7, 2018.)
All
the best –
FSS
Next week: Just before the great onslaught, normally
circumspect Sam has a mad moment and takes on one of Richthofen’s Flying
Circus!
(1) 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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