Wakefield in the Great War, page 12
Mates of Gunner Gravett pose for a studio portrait before deployment overseas (Courtesy of Richard Knowles)
Even being wounded was cause for a souvenir picture. (Courtesy of Richard Knowles)
As the first Christmas of the war approached, a great deal of effort was made to ensure that every Wakefield man serving in the forces received a gift of some description. The retreat from Mons had seen hundreds of British soldiers taken prisoner and a Wakefield Prisoner of War Fund was established with its headquarters in the home of Canon Richard Phipps, the Wakefield Diocesan Secretary, and his wife at Manygates House. By October 1915, Mrs Phipps had recruited thirty-three Wakefield women who each maintained contact with one of the men held at Doberitz Camp in Germany. Pupils at Wakefield Girls High School provided parcels for twelve further men and another twelve were catered for directly from the Fund. Most of the men were members of KOYLI, the Duke of Wellington’s Yorkshire Regiment or the Royal Navy. According to the Wakefield Express, Thomas Parkes of the Royal Navy wrote to Mrs Phipps to thank the organisation for gifts of foodstuffs, shirts, scarves and tobacco and Private J. Mason, KOYLI, reported in a letter that he had received three parcels from the Mayoress, Mrs Stonehouse. Working with General Sir A. Wynne, the KOYLI Prisoner of War Secretary, by September 1916 the group was in a position to send each known prisoner from Wakefield a complete set of outer clothing and two sets of under garments. Bread was supplied twice weekly from Switzerland and each man received a weekly food parcel worth 4s. Letters to and from prisoners of war passed through neutral countries and a similar arrangement was in place for the men held in Lofthouse Park.
When the time came for the Wakefield men of the KOYLI to go to France in April 1915, sharing letters home became a way of keeping family, friends and neighbours informed about what was going on and at first it seemed as though they were having fun. Sergeant Herbert Henson was in charge of two machine-guns and in his first letter home he described the scene: ‘They call them trenches but they are more like forts it consists of sandbags making a parapet 6ft high above the level of the ground and behind are the dugouts. The dugouts are like a little colony of huts they consist of earthwork and sandbags about 3ft high with a roof of corrugated iron on top and earth … We had four gun emplacements about 100 yards apart or so covered over from areoplane [sic] observation they were quite alright … We have six men per gun and out of that we had to provide a sentry through the daytime and night time 2 men on duty and 1 sentry. I have had about a couple of hours sleep each night and get the rest during the daytime when I got the chance … We mount the gun nearly on the parapet when it gets dark and keep a sharp look out for working parties and then you let them have it and by Jove they don’t half cuss and shout.’
British PoWs were able to write home via the Red Cross and would receive letters and parcels from home.
A series of letters to the Wakefield Express described what can only be described as slanging matches between the front line trenches as both sides traded insults. German soldiers shouted ‘England no good’ and at one point ‘asked us when our navy was coming out and when we were going to give it up and give in.’ ‘Of course a suitable reply was given’, noted Captain Clayton-Smith. Some, conscious of the worry their families were coping with, kept their messages short and positive: ‘We are all as happy as can be and are making the best of everything’, wrote G.M. Thurlwell to his parents in Pontefract. Others were less concerned about how the people at home might be feeling: ‘We have done very well up to now,’ wrote Private Wood, ‘ having had only one killed and seven wounded in our regiment. I am very pleased to say I am safe and sound yet, and I hope to keep so, but all the same it is hell upon earth. We are short of nothing out here only cigs and I now you will send me some’.
Meanwhile, as the KOYLI men settled into trench routine, news of one of Wakefield’s more unusual war casualties came when Gunner H. Boldy, of Wakefield Battery RFA, was on guard duty outside the Battery’s headquarters in the town, on 7 May 1915 when lightning struck a nearby chimney stack and the blast knocked him to the ground. ‘Dazed and stunned’ he was taken to his home in Dunbar Street to recover. It was not the sort of thing that military protocols accounted for and his exact status as a war casualty is unclear. In a letter written to his family Second Lieutenant Chadwick, 1/4 KOYLI, described his first impressions of the front: ‘Its wonderful how accustomed you get to bullets flying all around; of course when one comes uncommonly close it makes one wonder what would have happened if it had been still closer. It is now six days since I had my clothes off and I expect another twelve days will still see the same clothes on. We have a wonderful good cook. I think he was employed at Hagenbacks [sic] in Wakefield and he makes us some topping stuff. The peasants here still continue working about 2 miles behind our lines, in most cases their houses are smashed up a good bit. The houses near the firing line are simply in ruins in most cases.’ For most soldiers, arrival at the front was something of an anti-climax. It was extremely rare to catch a glimpse of a German and the view from the trenches was of a seemingly empty battlefield. As a result, they often felt they had nothing of any real interest to report but if letters home might have been brief, the men relished the ordinary, routine gossip of life at home and their mail is full of requests for information about family and friends.
A soldier writes home from the trenches.
Even as the war progressed, letters home remained largely positive. Having been in reserve during the first day of the Battle of the Somme, 1/4 and 1/5 KOYLI were ordered into the Thiepval area on the night of 2 July to take over from the badly hit Ulster Division who had been fighting hard after their attack on the first day of the battle. Thiepval Wood, where the front line trenches were positioned, was full of dead, dying and wounded men, blasted trees and discarded equipment. Veterans reported a ‘wailing’ noise made up of the cries of the wounded and moans of delirious and shocked men. The following morning, a 2-hour barrage of tear gas, high explosive and shrapnel shells rained down on them as they prepared to attack on German lines around the infamous Schwaben Redoubt. Throughout July, the attacks continued. Yet despite mounting losses, the mood among the Wakefield territorials remained one of optimism and determination. In a letter to his mother, written on the last day of that month, Lieutenant Chadwick told her that in the heat of summer they were plagued by mosquitoes, to add to all the other discomforts. ‘Haven’t had clothes off for two weeks [and] things are becoming quite lively. Will you please send me out some scent, the extraordinary mixture of odours in the trenches is becoming almost unbearable.’ During August and September, he wrote separately to his mother and father. To his mother he wrote: ‘I cannot express in words the extraordinary bravery and wonderful endurance of the men. There is one great consolation at these times, that is, the excellent example of the fellows that have gone.’ The next day’s letter went to his father: ‘How many homes in England must have been darkened during the last few weeks. Oh! But it is a glorious thing. Men going to certain death with a smile on their faces, the only thought being for those at home. England has something to be justly proud of.’ In September he wrote again to his father: ‘One sees the finest examples of self sacrifice. Men and officers walking out to what appears absolutely certain death without a word of dissent.’
It would be easy to dismiss Lieutenant Chadwick’s letters as boyish enthusiasm but Fred Cocker, a private in the same battalion who would be commissioned the following year, wrote home to his wife saying ‘… you at home see the tragedy of events in a much different sense to us out here. We don’t see the weeping bereaved broken hearts out here. Men come and go for ever, and the only expression of grief which is exhibited by any one, is summed up in a remark which I heard the other day by a man who had just lost his best pal – with a look of fierce rage he broke out – “sithee! The first blank blanking german ‘at ah catch’ od on ah’ll murder’ im by inches, ah’ll…” then followed such a harrowing description of slow torture as would put hero or Kaiser into shade!’
But if Fred Cocker and his mates were spared the ‘weeping bereaved broken hearts’, people at home were not. Margaret Furniss, aged 15, worked for the Post Office delivering telegrams. ‘We used to go to the houses with mostly distress telegrams, you know, people whose lads had got killed or injured or something like that and it was a bit distressing then … the neighbours and that would stand in groups and as soon as they saw you of course your uniform was enough to set them off … they’d say “oh a telegram girl” and then hang around to see what it was like and then more often than not the person you’d taken it to would be too nervous to open it and she would ask you to open it for her. If it was that someone had got wounded they’d burst out crying and you came away and left them with the neighbours.’ After delivering sometimes devastating news and watching wives and mothers collapse in grief, telegram girls were expected to ask, ‘will there be any reply?’ Day after day they made their deliveries to Wakefield homes.
Sometime after the telegram would come a letter from the man’s officer to add a few more details. The family of Bombardier Richard Goodall, from Thornes, received one such from his commanding officer, Major Clarke, to explain that during a heavy bombardment, their son had got out of the trench to help repair a vital telephone wire that had been cut. ‘Death was almost instantaneous’, he told them, ‘and he could have suffered no pain. We buried him that evening. The officers, non-commissioned officers and men wish to convey their sincere sympathies to his parents. We all mourn his loss. He was a right good man, reliable and trustworthy and I extremely regret such a promising career should have been cut short.’ As time wore on, the letters all followed the same format. He was shot through the head or heart and died quickly and without pain. A message of sympathy and a few kind words about the man. It’s difficult to imagine how a young officer could write anything more.
In some cases the letter was more personal. George Lockwood, aged 22, of Edward Street, had been a student, and briefly a Sunday School teacher, was a private in the Territorials when war broke out. He went out to France with them in April 1915 and returned to England in January 1917, for training as an officer. Commissioned as a Second Lieutenant, he was posted back to France in July 1917, was gassed in August and had been back in the line only two days when he was hit again. He died of wounds at a hospital in Rouen on 3 November. His parents, George and Mary Ann, received a letter from Captain Holdstock, who explained that George had been ‘wounded on the afternoon of 25th inst. It is the circumstances under which he was hit that prompt me to write. We were in a nasty part of the line, and quite isolated, and had lost half our company coming up. We had no water and in an endeavour to get some I sent four men to B[attalion] H[ead] Q[uarters]. Your son and I were sharing a frugal meal when word came that two of the men had been sniped and were unable to get back. Your son did not wait a minute, but took off his equipment and went to their rescue. He had just reached his men when he too was hit through the right arm and stomach. He was brought in by a private of the Durham Light Infantry. When I arrived at the spot he was in the trench. I bound him up and although in great pain he behaved like the hero he had already proved himself to be. I stayed with him until dusk and then got him away. You may be proud of your son. I recommended him for the Military Cross, but of course I cannot say if he will get it.’
Often, when a man died of his wounds, nurses would write from the hospitals to tell the families about his last days. Sometimes, there would be other letters from friends who had been with the man when he died, adding their condolences. Men on leave often spent much of their time visiting families on behalf of their mates. In the aftermath of a large battle, coming home on leave could be a painful experience. ‘It was a harrowing time for me,’ Douglas Cattell remembered, ‘with the mothers of my friends asking for information about their sons. When I told them they had been killed or were missing they wouldn’t believe me. In fact in some cases it cost friendships.’
Later still for families like the Lockwoods there would be more mail. Their son’s effects and back pay were forwarded to them and, when the war was over, another letter came. For several years after 1919, Army Form W.5080 was sent out to the next of kin named on a deceased serviceman’s records. It contained a pre-paid printed form and instructions on how to fold and return it along with a message. ‘In order that I may be enabled to dispose of the plaque and scroll in commemoration of the soldier named overleaf in accordance with the wishes of His Majesty the King, I have to request that the requisite information regarding the soldier’s relatives now living may be furnished on the form overleaf in strict accordance with the instructions printed thereon. The declaration thereon should be signed in your own handwriting and the form should be returned to me when certified by a Minister or Magistrate.’ Once completed and countersigned by a minister or magistrate, the form could be returned.
The ‘Dead Man’s Penny’ sent to the next of kin of those who died. The blank rectangle would contain the name of the fallen.
Later, a commemorative scroll arrived bearing the words: ‘He whom this scroll commemorates was numbered among those who, at the call of King and Country, left all that was dear to them endured hardness, faced danger, and finally passed out of the sight of men by the path of duty and self sacrifice, giving up their own lives that others might live in freedom. Let those who come after see to it that his name be not forgotten.’ Later still, a large white envelope marked ‘On His Majesty’s Service’, with a printed ‘Official Paid’ stamp arrived. Inside was another white envelope with the Royal Crest embossed on the reverse containing a brief letter:
Buckingham Palace
I join my grateful people in sending you this memorial of a brave life given for others in the Great War.
King George V
Inside the outer envelope was a cardboard envelope which protected a small bronze plaque with the name of the lost man. It would soon become known as the dead man’s penny. Finally, in 1922, yet another package arrived at the Lockwood’s home. In it were the British War Medal and the Allied Victory Medal their son had earned to go alongside the 1914/15 Star he would never wear.
CHAPTER 6
They Also Serve
The Gorgeous Wrecks
Many hundreds of thousands of men volunteered for the army in the late summer and autumn of 1914, completely swamping the recruit training system. Spoilt for choice, the army raised its minimum height standards to try to reduce the numbers coming forward. Medical standards, often ignored in the initial rush, began to be enforced more carefully, excluding men who had a stammer on the grounds that they would not be able to pass messages along in the trenches, and those with bad teeth on the basis that they would not be able to chew the hard tack ration biscuits. Truly determined men had their teeth removed so they would qualify for army issue dentures but there were many would be soldiers sent home as unfit for service. Others, men who were running small businesses or had too many dependants to rely on the painfully small separation allowances on offer to support families left behind, began to look for other ways to serve their country.
Earlier in the year, Ireland had come close to civil war over the issue of Home Rule and for some time both sides had been preparing to fight. In January 1913, the paramilitary Ulster Volunteer Force had been formed to oppose Irish self governance, soon followed by the Irish Volunteers to support it. Seeing a chance to destabilise Britain, Germany had supplied arms to both sides. In April, 24,000 rifles had been landed at Larne by the Ulster Volunteers. In June, author Erskine Childers, whose book The Riddle of the Sands, had told of a secret German plan to invade England, landed 900 Mauser rifles from his private yacht to support the Irish Nationalist cause, and in July newspapers around the world had shown pictures of citizen armies on both sides openly parading their weapons in shows of strength. When war broke out, fears of an uprising by German agents or a Zeppelinled invasion were high. With the army heading for France and the Territorials seemed set to follow them, people began to fear what would happen when the soldiers left. Inspired by what was happening in Ireland, Percy Harris wrote to The Times on 6 August to propose setting up a citizen’s militia to defend London if the need arose. Just four days later, a group of self-appointed officers began recruiting for the London Defence Force.
Volunteer Training Corps uniforms had to be of green twill, not khaki, and had to be paid for by each recruit.
In much the same way as the Boy Scout movement had taken off since 1908 by encouraging youngsters to form their own troops, the idea of a citizen army quickly took off in almost every town and city. In Swansea, 500 dockers formed a unit to guard food warehouses against looters, whilst units with titles like the National Association of Local Government Officers Special Battalion, the Businessmen’s Friends Battalion, the Chief Constable’s Citizen Corps and the Athlete’s Volunteer Force, sprang up to learn the basics of military training using local rifle clubs and either borrowing drill instructors from the local police or paying ex-soldiers to lead the group. Armed with a variety of ancient rifles, shotguns or any other weapon they could find, they were a cause for alarm in government circles where the idea of bands of untrained armed civilians roaming the streets at a time when everyone believed that an uprising of immigrant agents could happen at any time made for a potentially dangerous scenario. Even if the Germans did come, the bands were more likely to hinder than help. They would not be covered by the Geneva Convention and could be shot out of hand as many ‘terrorists’ had been by the Germans during their advance through Belgium.
Despite official discouragement, the movement flourished and in November, the Central Association of Volunteer Training Corps was established with the aim of at least trying to organise the estimated 1400 groups of volunteers into some sort of manageable force. Rules were laid down around who could join to ensure no-one tried to use membership as an excuse not to enlist, every group had to employ some sort of qualified military advisor, and they must not wear military uniforms or ranks. A red armband with a crown and the letters ‘GR’ (standing for Georgius Rex and showing they were in the service of the crown) was all that would be allowed. Looking at the retired soldiers and men well over military age who had joined up already, people joked that ‘GR’ stood for ‘God’s Rejects’ or, the name that would haunt the volunteers for the rest of the war: ‘Gorgeous Wrecks’.
