FGR and WWI Memorials

I pedalled through snowdrops and birdsong,
To the two war memorials in Woodchester,
Then bicycled past umpteen old cloth mills,
River liquid light all along my way,
To Nailsworth, Avening, Minchinhampton and Amberley,
With long barrows and a standing stone for company;
On through Shortwood, Tickmorend and Downend,
To Horsley
(A memorial just by the church, the bus stop and the school),
Before descending through Ruskin Mill’s sluice-scape,
A heron pointing my way back to Nailsworth,
Just before the rain came in, on a mid-day westerly breeze.
My next trip meant the number 35 bus,
A two pound forty single delight,
Gazing at the wood anemone by the roadside,
A palimpsest of ancient woodland by this main road,
Traveling by bus on what was once a prehistoric track,
That once made its way under a gloomy canopy,
But now tarmacadam speeds south of the Cotswold scarp –
But I was on my way to Nympsfield’s war memorial,
Just by the shadowed wall of the Old Chapel,
A crucifix, refashioned from one found on the Somme,
And brought back to this Catholic village in 1917;

I pedalled through snowdrops and birdsong,
To the two war memorials in Woodchester,
Then bicycled past umpteen old cloth mills,
River liquid light all along my way,
To Nailsworth, Avening, Minchinhampton and Amberley,
With long barrows and a standing stone for company;
On through Shortwood, Tickmorend and Downend,
To Horsley
(A memorial just by the church, the bus stop and the school),
Before descending through Ruskin Mill’s sluice-scape,
A heron pointing my way back to Nailsworth,
Just before the rain came in, on a mid-day westerly breeze.
My next trip meant the number 35 bus,
A two pound forty single delight,
Gazing at the wood anemone by the roadside,
A palimpsest of ancient woodland by this main road,
Traveling by bus on what was once a prehistoric track,
That once made its way under a gloomy canopy,
But now tarmacadam speeds south of the Cotswold scarp –
But I was on my way to Nympsfield’s war memorial,
Just by the shadowed wall of the Old Chapel,
A crucifix, refashioned from one found on the Somme,
And brought back to this Catholic village in 1917;
I walked to Forest Green along Tinkley Lane,
Past the rhythmic turbine, friend and ally of the wind,
Not worried about poison gas beneath the cotton wool clouds,
As some of those names back in the village would have done.
I continued on my way towards Forest Green and the New Lawn,

Watching a tractor ploughing a large brown earth field,
With gulls gathering in its wake,
Edward Thomas again flitting through my mind:
‘“Have many gone from here?”
“Yes.” “Many lost?” “Yes; a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him…”
I watched the clods tumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.’

The Stroud Valleys, Nailsworth and the Great War

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

1914 August

“On it becoming known that the mobilisation of the Territorial Forces was expected great excitement prevailed in Stroud. Holiday makers gathered in groups round the Post Office…Until a late hour on Wednesday the streets of Stroud continued in an animated state, groups of people gathering in the busier parts of the town, eagerly discussing the latest news. The evening papers were snatched up as soon as they were on the streets.”

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

1914 August

“On it becoming known that the mobilisation of the Territorial Forces was expected great excitement prevailed in Stroud. Holiday makers gathered in groups round the Post Office…Until a late hour on Wednesday the streets of Stroud continued in an animated state, groups of people gathering in the busier parts of the town, eagerly discussing the latest news. The evening papers were snatched up as soon as they were on the streets.”

September 4th: “Mid-Gloucestershire, which a week ago seemed woefully apathetic, is now revealing its patriotism… Stonehouse reported 23 recruits on Friday night; Cainscross caused us a shiver of apprehension on Saturday by merely offering three men, but in justice to that parish it should be stated that in addition to the considerable number of gallant men already serving in both Army and Navy, some 40 or 50 recruits have been enrolled from the Cainscross area since the meeting; Painswick gave us 30 on Sunday; Amberley responded finely on Monday with 40 patriotic offers; and on Tuesday Minchinhampton beat all previous records with 45 recruits…Stroud has another chance on Saturday night, and although we believe considerable numbers have enlisted without the stimulant of a public meeting, one has only to look round to see that the recruiting force here is hardly tapped.”

The Army and the Navy need attention,
The outlook isn’t healthy you’ll admit,
But I’ve got a perfect dream of a new recruiting scheme,
Which I think is absolutely it.
If only other girls would do as I do
I believe that we could manage it alone,
For I turn all suitors from me but the sailor and the Tommy,
I’ve an army and a navy of my own.
On Sunday I walk out with a Soldier,
On Monday I’m taken by a Tar,
On Tuesday I’m out with a baby Boy Scout,
On Wednesday a Hussar;
On Thursday I go out with a Stroudie,
On Friday, the Captain of the crew;
But on Saturday I’m willing, if you’ll only take the shilling,
To make a man of any one of you.
I teach the tenderfoot to face the powder,
That gives an added lustre to my skin,
And I show the raw recruit how to give a chaste salute,
So when I’m presenting arms he’s falling in.
It makes you almost proud to be a woman.
When you make a strapping soldier of a kid.
And he says ‘You put me through it and I didn’t want to do it
But you went and made me love you so I did.’
On Sunday I walk out with a Bo’sun.
On Monday a Rifleman in green,
On Tuesday I choose a ‘sub’ in the ‘Blues’,
On Wednesday a Marine;
On Thursday a Terrier from Toadsmoor,
On Friday a Midshipman or two,
But on Saturday I’m willing, if you’ll only take the shilling,
To make a man of any one of you.

 “While there is supreme confidence among English people that by the time another Christmas season is with us the great war will have come to an end satisfactory to their country and allies, this supreme confidence cannot at present be magnified into a conviction of certainty…Mr. Geo. J. Holloway sent a Christmas gift to the Gloucestershire Regiment fighting at the front, consisting of 100 packs of playing cards and 10,000 cigarettes. Each packet contained 10 cigarettes and was stamped with the message ‘Good Luck.’”

Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile,
While you’ve a Lucifer to light your fag,
Smile, boys, that’s the style.
What’s the use of worrying?
It never was worthwhile, so
Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag,
And smile, smile, smile.

1915

 February 19th: “While the increased cost of living has reduced the spending powers of wage-earners…it is a matter for profound gratification that so far there has been very little acute distress and a very low average of unemployment. This we attribute before to the excellent response to Lord Kitchener’s appeal on the part of the young men of the district, thus relieving many firms of the necessity of curtailing their staffs, but another and even greater cause is the amount of work being done at local mills and factories.”

Sister Susie’s sewing shirts for soldiers,
Such skill at sewing shirts our shy young sister Susie shows!
Some soldiers send epistles, say they’d rather sleep in thistles
Than the saucy soft short shirts for soldiers sister Susie sews.

April 23rd: “The recruiting campaign organised in the Mid-Gloucestershire Division during this week by a visit of the drum and fife band and Recruiting Party of the… Gloucesters to the various towns and villages was carried out with fairly satisfactory results…The enthusiasm in Stroud was stirred to its highest …At the close of the day about 25 eligible young men were obtained for service.”

June 18th. “Probably there is not a single parish in Mid-Gloucestershire which remains untouched by the casualties of war. Every week that passes adds to the lengthening ‘Roll of Honour,’ and the toll of death goes on.  It is this inevitable phase of war that is bringing its effects home to many who otherwise might regard it lightly. We cannot even approximately estimate the death-roll of Mid-Gloucestershire men, but we shall not be over-stating the total if we say it already exceeds three figures, while several hundred have been wounded more or less severely. Nevertheless, in spite, or perhaps, because of these losses, we know it is the grim resolution to carry on the war until the brutal Germans are beaten and crushed is even stronger to-day than it was ten months ago.”

If you want to find the old battalion,
I know where they are, I know where they are, I know where they are
If you want to find the old battalion, I know where they are,
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire,
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.

August 20th. “The casualty lists issued this week showed that the 7th Gloucesters – the first battalion of Kitchener’s Army raised in the county, and containing a large percentage of the August recruits from this district – were in the thick of the fighting on the Gallipoli peninsular during the previous week-end.”

We’ve watched you playing cricket and every kind of game,
At football, golf and polo you men have made your name.
But now your country calls you to play your part in war.
And no matter what befalls you
We shall love you all the more.
So come and join the forces
As your fathers did before.
Oh, we don’t want to lose you but we think you ought to go.
For your King and your country both need you so.
We shall want you and miss you
But with all our might and main
We shall cheer you, thank you, bless you
When you come home again.

October 22nd: “Evidence of the inevitable waning of the recruiting boom was forthcoming when, after a ‘largely attended recruiting meeting’ held outside the George Hotel, Stroud, at which the Band of the 1st Gloucesters played selections of music, ‘one man – an old soldier – stepped out of the crowd and offered himself amidst cheers.’’

I don’t want to be a soldier,
I don’t want to go to war,
I’d rather stay at home,
Around the streets to roam,
And live on the earnings of a lady typist.
I don’t want a bayonet in my belly,
I don’t want my shoulders shot away,
I’d rather stay in England,
In merry, merry England,
And eat and drink my drunken life away.

December 31st: “ Hopes that were high last New Year’s Eve have been brought down to the dust of realities…We have learned that there can be no such thing as an easy victory; the price must be paid to the full.”

1916

January 28th: “It is an encouraging sign that Mrs. Hudson Lyall’s lecture on ‘How Women can help to Win the War’ should have been so well attended last night…The part that women have taken in the war has, we believe, done more good for the cause of female suffrage than the hysterical demonstrations of militant suffragists did harm in the days before the war.’

February 4th: “Stroud has, within the last week or two, been able to form a fairly comprehensive idea of what is meant by the ‘mud of Flanders.’ The arrival on short leave of men ‘straight from the trenches’ has been an enlightening event, for never in all the town’s history have muddier men been seen in Stroud. Several recent arrivals have reached the local railway station literally encrusted in Flanders mud. From the crown of their heads to the soles of their well-shod feet they have been plastered with mud, but that has had no apparent effect on their vigorous health or buoyant spirits.”

Bombed last night, and bombed the night before.
Going to get bombed tonight if we never get bombed anymore.
When we’re bombed, we’re scared as we can be.
Can’t stop the bombing from old Higher Germany.
They’re warning us, they’re warning us.
One shell hole for just the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us.
So one of us can fill it all alone.
Gassed last night, and gassed the night before.
Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore.
When we’re gassed, we’re sick as we can be.
For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me.
They’re killing us, they’re killing us.
One respirator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast.
So one of us can take it all alone.

February 18th: “The lighting of Stroud is now sensibly diminished, and although we do not assume that the town could be completely hidden from the glasses of an airship observer, the identification of distinctive buildings is certainly an impossibility.”

Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang.
Now you soldiermen get down those stairs,
Down in your dugouts and say your prayers.
Hush, here comes a Whizzbang,
And it’s making right for you.
And you’ll see all the wonders of No-Man’s-Land,
If a Whizzbang, hits you.
June 30th: “We are glad to see the Military Representative at the Nailsworth Tribunal did not oppose the appeal of an applicant who was the father of seven young children. In the earlier days there was very little discrimination shown with regard to the enlistment of fathers of large families. One clear example was that of a Stroud man, the father of ten young children, who volunteered, and was accepted for general service. The separation allowances in his case amount to an unnecessarily costly total, and in the event of his death no fewer than eleven dependents would be cast on the State.”
Up to your waist in water, up to your eyes in slush,
using the kind of language that makes the sergeant blush,
Who wouldn’t join the army? That’s what we all enquire.
Don’t we pity the poor civilian sitting by the fire.
(Chorus)
Oh, oh, oh it’s a lovely war.
Who wouldn’t be a soldier, eh? Oh it’s a shame to take the pay.
As soon as reveille has gone we feel just as heavy as lead,
but we never get up till the sergeant brings our breakfast up to bed.
Oh, oh, oh, it’s a lovely war.
what do we want with eggs and ham when we’ve got plum and apple jam?
Form fours. Right turn. How shall we spend the money we earn?
Oh, oh, oh it’s a lovely war.
When does a soldier grumble? When does he make a fuss?
No one is more contented in all the world than us.
Oh it’s a cushy life, boys, really we love it so:
Once a fellow was sent on leave and simply refused to go.
(Chorus)
Come to the cookhouse door, boys, sniff the lovely stew.
Who is it says the colonel gets better grub than you?
Any complaints this morning? Do we complain? Not we.
What’s the matter with lumps of onion floating around the tea?
(Chorus)

July 14th: “In the Stroud district many homes are in mourning. In such a war as this it is inevitable that war should reap a great harvest. But in every home – in every house and cottage from which a brave man has gone never to return – there is the same brave recognition of the necessity of the sacrifice, and the same unwavering faith in the cause for which these gallant men have yielded their lives.”

All night long I hear you calling,
Calling sweet and low;
Seem to hear your footsteps falling,
Ev’ry where I go.
Tho’ the road between us stretches
Many a weary mile,
I forget that you’re not with me yet
When I think I see you smile.
Chorus:
There’s a long, long trail a-winding
Into the land of my dreams,
Where the nightingales are singing
And a white moon beams.
There’s a long, long night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true;
Till the day when I’ll be going down
That long, long trail with you.

October 20th: “The Somme pictures proved to be the greatest cinema attraction ever presented to the public of the Stroud district, and we congratulate the management of the Empire Theatre on securing the wonderful film for their patrons…The pictures gave us some little conception of the tremendous amount of energy expended in this one theatre of the war. They gave us, too, some faint inkling of the immense and tragic waste of war: the blasted land, the material wreckage, the broken men and the irrecoverable lives. Their effect was saddening and at the same time inspiring…The half-demented German prisoners aroused sentiments not of derision but of pity…But the dominant impression was that of the bouyancy of our own incomparable men. Surely in all the tragic history of war a more light-hearted, high-spirited and fearless army has never marched into the zone of death and pain? The incalculable debt we owe to these heroes can never be liquidated: for all time the race will be their debtor. No words could record so convincingly as these pictures of actual war scenes the splendid spirit of Britain’s fighting men.”

The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me,
And the little devils how they sing-a-ling-a-ling,
For you but not for me.
Oh death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,
Oh grave, thy victory?
The bells of hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling
For you but not for me.

1917

May 11th: “The King’s Proclamation exhorting the public to practice food economy was read in all of the churches and chapels throughout Stroud and district on Sunday, the 6th inst. The Vicar of Holy Trinity delivered a special sermon on the subject.”

June 8th: “The ceremony of the consecration of the Wayside Cross at Woodchester was held on Sunday evening…The Stroud and Nailsworth Companies of the Volunteers formed a guard of honour. To a very large congregation gathered in the field below the Monastery, the Rev. Father Hugh Pope explained that it was intended to inscribe on the base of the Cross the names of fallen soldiers and sailors of the district.”

August 10th: “The third anniversary of the British declaration of war against Germany was fittingly observed in Stroud by the public meeting held in King Street Parade on Saturday evening…A large crowd assembled to hear the patriotic speeches…War-weariness, especially among those who have to make the greater sacrifices and who reap none of the profits arising from this ruinous struggle, has necessarily to be fought with resolution, and undoubtedly the speeches at last Saturday’s meeting had a stimulating effect on those who perhaps were growing a little weary of the exactions of war…The pageant and fete organised by munition workers of the Stroud district was held on August Bank Holiday at Fromehall Park. Nearly 200 persons took part in a fancy dress parade from King Street to the Park, and very large crowds watched the procession and attended the fete. The Lightpill Works won the first prize for a decorated lorry with a representation of “John Bull and the Allies.”

If you want to find the old battalion,
I know where they are, I know where they are, I know where they are
If you want to find the old battalion, I know where they are,
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire,
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.

August 17th: “The Gloucesters have been in action recently in Flanders, and a number of casualties to local men are reported. It is some time since the battalion to which many Mid-Gloucestershire men are attached have been engaged in heavy fighting and until the present offensive move we have, fortunately, not been called upon to report an excessive number of casualties. But this comparative immunity could hardly, considering the attritive character of modern fighting, be expected to continue, and the present offensive is exacting a toll of Mid-Gloucestershire men which will, we fear, bring mourning and anxiety to many homes.

September 7th: “A great recruiting rally in connection with the 4th Battalion Gloucestershire Volunteer Regiment was held at Stroud on Thursday evening. Officers and men of the Stroud Company marched through the town, captured German guns and trench mortars figuring in the procession. A meeting was subsequently held in King Parade, a number of speeches being made. About 20 recruits were obtained.

September 14th: “Following an unusually cold spring and a wet summer the chances of a fine autumn this year are correspondingly greater. A fine September and October will have an incalculable effect on the Allied campaign on the Western Front. The awful conditions in Flanders during August did more to save the crumbling German line than all Hindenburg’s massed guns and machine-gun emplacements, and 80 per cent. of our casualties (which were very heavy during July and August) were primarily due to the awful mud and swamps that made progress absolutely impossible on many parts of the French front.”

(Tune: ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’)
Forward Joe Soap’s army, marching without fear,
With our old commander, safely in the rear.
He boasts and skites from morn till night,
And thinks he’s very brave,
But the men who really did the job are dead and in their grave.
Forward Joe Soap’s army, marching without fear,
With our old commander, safely in the rear.

Amen.

November 16th: “The flotsam and jetsam of the battlefield may be seen in every county in England…The wounded and stricken men who come to the various hospitals of Mid-Gloucestershire are just as well cared for as those who led the van three years ago. The lavish feting of convalescent men has necessarily undergone considerable restriction in these days of comparative scarcity, but we think the medical and nursing staffs will agree with us that the general health of these patients has not suffered in consequence.”
December 7th: “A war memorial which took the form of a fountain and water supply, was presented to the village of Oakridge.”

December 21st: “For the fourth occasion since the Kaiser plunged Europe into the cauldron of the most bloody war in all history, we have reached the threshold of Christmastide…There will be little of the pre-war feasting in patriotic homes during Christmastide this year. It should be the aim of each one of us to celebrate the festival as frugally as possible, remembering the heavy toll exacted week by week on the country’s shipping…By this time next year the war will be over, and whether its end is sealed with the success of the Allied cause depends largely on Britain’s part during the next six months…

Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!
On the wall, on the wall, On the wall, on the wall,
Oh wash me in the water that you wash your dirty daughter in,
So that I can be whiter than the whitewash on the wall!

1918

April 5th: “The most tragic Eastertide, not only within memory of the oldest inhabitant of the Stroud district, but in all the centuries of recorded history, has come and gone, but few of us, during its passing, have not had our thoughts mainly centred on the blood-soaked fields of France, where the greatest battle of all time is being fought, the results of which will be indelibly stamped on the world’s history for a thousand years…the supreme phase of the German effort to beat down and dominate the civilised world…In view of the very heavy casualties which must inevitably result from the costly fighting of the past fortnight we are afraid many local homes will have to mourn the loss of near and dear ones…

I wore a tunic, a dirty khaki tunic,
And you wore your civvy clothes,
We fought and bled at Loos,
While you were on the booze,
The booze that no one here knows.
You were out with the wenches,
While we were in the trenches,
Facing an angry foe,
Oh, you were a-slacking, while we were attacking
the Germans on the Menin Road.

April 19th: “It is difficult to write of events in France in these difficult days, when events might transform everything in the course of a few hours, but whatever course the vast struggle takes, whether it be to our advantage or disadvantage, one cannot refrain from expressing the confident hope that the heroic endurance, and self-sacrifice, and courage of our troops will have an inspiring sequel in the defeat of an exhausted enemy. We know that the toll of casualties is very heavy – and from the Stroud district alone we fear the list will prove a lengthy one – but we also know that the Germans have suffered losses incomparably greater…

May 31st: “The war has not brought many changes to the Stroud district. Were it not for the recurrent drone of the aeroplane and the occasional sight of motor lorries we should have very few visual reminders of the long-drawn out struggle across the Channel, save, of course, for the presence of the wounded soldiers at the local Red Cross hospitals. But if we penetrate a little beneath the exterior it is easy to see how the war has entered practically every home. The Stroud district has given freely of its manhood…and has mourned the loss of many a gallant son, or brother, or husband since the call to arms…But it is “carrying on” and its women are proving themselves worthy of their race. Their record of ‘war-work’ is one on which they might look back with pride and satisfaction when the longed-for ‘peace with honour’ arrives.”

June 28th: “It was stated that the hamlet of Nag’s Head, near Avening, had sent 17 men to fight for their country. There were only 18 houses in the hamlet.”

August 9th: “The heartening news of the second German retreat from the Marne last Saturday made an appropriate complement to the local commemoration services in connection with the anniversary of the declaration of war. But it was significant that all the sermons preached throughout the Stroud district were restrained rather than triumphant…”

August 30th: “It was reported that Corpl. W. Latham, Duke of Cornwall’s L.I., son of the late Mr. W. Latham, of Watledge, Nailsworth, had died in Germany from “sepsis, following a shattered thigh, while a prisoner of war in Germany.”

September 6th: …Lieut. Clifford Downing, of the Gloucesters, had a near shave during the German push in March…He was left with his platoon to cover a bridge-head…Then as he got up to go after the platoon had passed over, a machine gun bullet went through both thighs and temporarily paralysed him. He could not walk, nor could he stand to get on the back of his servant. The Germans were only 200 yards away. His servant, however, discovered a wheelbarrow in a cottage close by, placed him in and wheeled him over…It says a good deal for the British Army that although eleven officers of the Battalion were wounded and missing that day, in all cases their servants stuck to them to the end.”

And when they ask us, how dangerous it was,
Oh, we’ll never tell them, no, we’ll never tell them:
We spent our pay in some cafe,
And fought wild women night and day,
‘Twas the cushiest job we ever had.
And when they ask us, and they’re certainly going to ask us,
The reason why we didn’t win the Croix de Guerre,
Oh, we’ll never tell them, oh, we’ll never tell them
There was a front, but damned if we knew where.

October 4th: “The heartening war news of this week has not led to any demonstrations of the ‘Joy Bells’ category in the Stroud district, but it has nevertheless inspired a feeling of satisfaction and relief which in its depth has not been reached since the war began…How splendid a part is being played by the British soldier in this overthrow of a mighty enemy the Nation hardly realises in its broad entirety. But it is shown in the changing colours of the map of Europe and Asia. It is a very proud day for the British Empire.”
I want to go home, I want to go home.

I don’t want to go in the trenches no more,
Where whizzbangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.
Take me over the see, where the Alleyman can’t get at me.
Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.
I want to go home, I want to go home.
I don’t want to visit la Belle France no more,
For oh the Jack Johnsons they make such a roar.
Take me over the sea, where the snipers they can’t get at me.
Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.

October 18th: “We appear to be moving swiftly towards the peace which for four long years we have, through supreme sacrifice and unfaltering resolution been seeking. But it is not the peace which the Kaiser had planned. It is not even the peace which his accommodating Ministers had in view when they appealed to President Wilson.”

“Shortly before 11 a.m. on Monday, November 11th, the following official bulletin was posted outside the “Stroud News” Office: The Armistice was signed at 5 o’clock this morning, and hostilities are to cease on all Fronts at 11 a.m. today.’
On the stroke of 11 the bell at Messrs. Holloway’s factory clanged forth, the syrens at the local mills were sounded, and within an incredibly short time the streets were filled with excited citizens and bright-faced children. It was fitting that so soon after the news of the cessation of hostilities became known in Stroud a public service of thanksgiving was held in the Parish Church, and was attended by a congregation representative of all classes and religious denominations. The display of flags and bunting throughout the whole district gave a joyous touch to the demonstrations … The street scenes have been varied and sometimes amusing, and a little license, after more than four years’ strict repression, on the part of the young people, could be viewed with toleration. It is an event that never again will be celebrated in their lives, and even the excellent guardians of public order have not been oblivious of this fact.”

When this lousy war is over,
No more soldiering for me,
When I get my civvy clothes on,
Oh, how happy I shall be!
No more church parades on Sunday,
No more putting in for leave,
I shall kiss the sergeant-major,
How I’ll miss him, how he’ll grieve!
Amen.

The Peace Year, 1919

March 14th: “Co.-Sergt.-Major E.C. Brown, A.S.C., of Tinkley Farm, Nailsworth, a local Territorial who had served throughout the war, died at his home just a fortnight after he had been demobilised.”

July 4th: “Shortly after three o’clock last Saturday afternoon the great world war came officially to an end by the signing of the Peace Treaty in the Hall of Mirrors at the Chateau of Versailles…For good or ill the Treaty has been framed and it has been signed…We may hope that…a reformed Germany and a rehabilitated and self-governing Russia will before the next decade has run its course have become members of the League of Nations. If we are to be free of the eternal threat of war these great peoples must be drawn again into the comity of nations.
Throughout the Stroud District last Saturday evening the signing of the Peace Treaty was joyously celebrated…Bells were ringing in many church belfries, flags were again unfurled, townsmen and villagers alike took part in the impromptu demonstrations. Stroud on Saturday night was thronged with good humoured, happy crowds…We have won a great victory. But even in the hour of our recognition of the magnitude of this victory we cannot lose sight of all the difficulties that have yet to be overcome before its ripe fruits fall into our hands…It has impoverished England…We have to carry an immense load of debt, and the depreciation of our currency is shown by the abnormal price of practically every commodity or comestible…The pre-war standard of wages has gone never to return. A better standard of living, shorter working hours, for the working classes, must be one of the first effects of this dawning peace-time. Wee glad to say that a large section of the workers are already enjoying these benefits. The danger is that extremists will by ill-considered and reckless tactics rob them of these hardly-won advantages in the same way as Bolshevism has robbed the Russian industrial classes.”

They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardship,
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the home fires burning
While your hearts are yearning,
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining,
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out,
Till the boys come home.

An FGR and Walter Tull Declamation

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.

Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
‘Shoot, Ernie’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
‘Where’s Walter?’

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names from Forest Green:
Harry Watts was born in 1891 in Avening.
Harry joined the 6th Signal Corps of the Royal Engineers
prior to outbreak of war and became a Corporal.
He received the Military Medal in 1915.

Ernest Beale was born in 1897.
He worked as a brass worker before joining up.
He died in 1916 at Exeter Hospital of meningitis.

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, and Ernest, and Harry,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Harry,
‘Shoot, Ernie’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Harry’,
‘Keep your head down, Ernie’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Ernie’,
‘Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll get you to hospital’,
‘Where’s Walter?’

You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Trained together,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Nailsworth, Shortwood and Forest Green players
Who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And childhood,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.

And, who knows?
They may have talked of you,
That fine footballer, officer and gentleman,
When gathering in the Jovial Forester,
Toasting you with Stroud Brewery beer,
But then forgetting you as times grew hard,
As the wind rushes by.

As the Wind Rushes by.

A Swindon Town FC and Walter Tull Declamation

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names of the Robins:
Billy Brewer KIA 1914
Jim Chalmers KIA 1915
Ted Murphy died of head wounds 1916
Billy Kirby KIA 1917
Albert Milton KIA 1917

Arthur Beadsworth KIA 1917

Freddy Wheatcroft KIA1917

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, Billy, Jim, Ted, Billy, Albert, Arthur, Freddy,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Freddie,
‘Shoot, Billy’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

Let the living answer the roll call of the dead:
Walter Tull of Spurs and Northampton Town KIA 1918;

And now the names of the Robins:
Billy Brewer KIA 1914
Jim Chalmers KIA 1915
Ted Murphy died of head wounds 1916
Billy Kirby KIA 1917
Albert Milton KIA 1917

Arthur Beadsworth KIA 1917

Freddy Wheatcroft KIA1917

Names from another century come back to haunt us:
Walter, Billy, Jim, Ted, Billy, Albert, Arthur, Freddy,
Names once shouted over a football pitch,
‘Give it to Walter’,
‘Over here, Freddie,
‘Shoot, Billy’;

The imperatives of a football team
Replaced by new orders in khaki, with
Night patrols, barbed wire and machine guns;
Muddied football boots forgotten
In the trench foot fields of Flanders;
The clamour from the ground and stands
No match for whizz bangs, mortars and howitzers;
The fogs of a November match,
Innocent memories in a gas attack:

‘Over the top tomorrow, Arthur’,
‘Keep your head down, Albert’,
‘Stay quiet. Don’t shoot, Billy’,
‘Don’t worry, Fred. We’ll get you on this stretcher’,
‘Where’s Jim?’

You may have known each other,
Played with or against each other,
Trained together,
Boarded ships and trains together,
Relieved each other in the trenches,
And who knows?
Some of the Swindon players who survived the war,
May have searched for your body, Walter,
Before and after your last breath and memories,
Memories of Spurs and Northampton,
And childhood,
And a grandmother who had been a slave,
And you, an officer now,
Revered and loved by his men,
Searching for you out there in no man’s land,
As you breathe your last breath,
In whatever corner of a foreign field,
Which will always be an England,
Where the wind rushes.

The following Swindon players survived the Great War,
And who knows?
They may have searched for Walter’s body:

Bertie Arman died 1972
Tommy Bolland died 1967
Bertie Denyer died 15.3.69 (League Cup Final day at Wembley)
Charlie Giles died 1953
Jack Lee died 1951
Matty Lochead died 1964
George Maunders died 1935
Dave Rogers died 1975
Bert Warman died 1955
Tober Weston died 1966

Hello Stuart,

I am the grandson of Bertie Denyer who joined the 23rd Battalion (First Sportmans) Royal Fusiliers .I believe he was wounded in France and evacuated back to England. On recovery he was posted to Edinburgh Castle and played for Hearts in the 1916-17 season and became the top scorer for them .Many of the Hearts players had enlisted but suffered heavy losses and I believe there is a memorial to them at the stadium.
He went to Dublin for a short time and then to Lagos, Nigeria where he was a PT instructor. After the War he returned to Swindon Town.

I am not sure when your request was published in the newspaper as I have just been sent a cutting by a friend who lives in Swindon.

Best Wishes,

Paul Denyer

.

A Lament for Dorothy and Archie

Each little river has a tale which, if understood, cannot fail
To edify the Human heart; mine’s of Lovers who’d not part:
Both loved Nature, read her runes and worshipped countless harvest moons.
He, a Minchinhampton Man – she the lanes of Burleigh ran,
Eager, passionate, enthralled to embrace her Archibald.
The stream that gushes into town on Hazel Woods, as hail, crashed down.
High on that ridge where sheep are shorn, a tiny rivulet was born.
It seeped through soil and chiselled stone, caressing sea-spawned Cotswold bone.
A weave of light like soft silk shook became a dancing, babbling brook.
Through Gatcombe Park the waters curled, then through its stately gardens swirled
To trace a spiral as they whirled past Longfords Mill.

A Lament For Dorothy and Archibald
Who took their lives on the 28th August 1916

Each little river has a tale which, if understood, cannot fail
To edify the Human heart; mine’s of Lovers who’d not part:
Both loved Nature, read her runes and worshipped countless harvest moons.
He, a Minchinhampton Man – she the lanes of Burleigh ran,
Eager, passionate, enthralled to embrace her Archibald.
The stream that gushes into town on Hazel Woods, as hail, crashed down.
High on that ridge where sheep are shorn, a tiny rivulet was born.
It seeped through soil and chiselled stone, caressing sea-spawned Cotswold bone.
A weave of light like soft silk shook became a dancing, babbling brook.
Through Gatcombe Park the waters curled, then through its stately gardens swirled
To trace a spiral as they whirled past Longfords Mill.
Silhouette upon a twig, a dancing bird performs a jig;
She tips her tail, she dips her bill, she fans her feathers, she drinks her fill.
Mesmerised within this stream, new-born fish cascade and gleam;
So receptive is this river, even ducklings make it shiver;
Yet in this water, ice-cold, holy, these Lovers dipped their warm skin… slowly;
One a boy of twenty-four, off to fight a foreign war,
One a maid of sweet eighteen, whose love was rich and raw and keen:
These Lovers, who would not be parted, had a notion, which once started took firm root:
there was a way to overcome their Parting-day;
Sworn with many a heart-felt vow, they meant to end their lives right now,
To slip beneath Iron Mills Pond and from this Vale of Tears abscond,
To slip beneath an steel-cold lake and never ever once more wake
And to that end, with all their might, they bound his army great-coat tight
About their loving limbs, and then they slipped beneath that water
That stole away an old man’s daughter;
That stole away an only child – a boy once meek and sweet and wild.
In The Weighbridge Inn their bodies lay – was it for this God fashioned clay?
Was it for this that they were born, to never see another dawn?
To never witness dawn’s clear light first kindle then set the vale alight?
To never see each drop of dew shimmer with a rainbow hue,
To never hear a barn-owl sing, or watch the moonlight flood her wing,
To never smell his lover’s hair, or kiss those lips beyond compare.
He’s buried now, not far from home and those wild woods he used to roam,
His stone’s by Minchinhampton’s Church and near it passing crows find perch.
Her, sadder, grave, in Amberley, is all but lost to gravity,
Her tottering stone is sinking down towards rich earth that holds her crown,
Her hair, her eyes, her loving heart that from her Archie wouldn’t part;
Her unkempt grave, beneath a lime bears witness to another crime,
How could so sad and tender a tale be all but lost: let us not fail
To spread their edifying story. Tragic? Yes, yet tinged with glory:
For Love, Sweet Love, they’d die as one and forgo both stars and sun.
Their final words? The War they cursed, then defied Death to do his worst.

Thanks to Anthony Hentschel for the above post.

Remembering Stroud’s Conscientious Objectors from WW1

‘How do you prove you have a conscience?’

You came to me via a pdf,
Out of the blue,
Via a Facebook message,
On a hot afternoon in late July,
With names, occupations, addresses and ages –
A bit like a census, in a strange way:
Official, bald, and bureaucratic
In your modernity,
No telegrams today.

Eighteen conscientious objectors
Whose courage, principles and politics,
Whose ethics, morals and steadfastness
Enabled them to stand up against the crowd,
In those heated days before and after July 1916,
And before and after November 1918.

‘How do you prove you have a conscience?’

You came to me via a pdf,
Out of the blue,
Via a Facebook message,
On a hot afternoon in late July,
With names, occupations, addresses and ages –
A bit like a census, in a strange way:
Official, bald, and bureaucratic
In your modernity,
No telegrams today.

Eighteen conscientious objectors
Whose courage, principles and politics,
Whose ethics, morals and steadfastness
Enabled them to stand up against the crowd,
In those heated days before and after July 1916,
And before and after November 1918.

Men from Stroud and around the Five Valleys,
Part of the 16,000, countrywide,
Who faced angry, suspicious tribunals
That demeaned and intimidated,
That despised sincerity and conscience,
As they deliberated on their verdicts:
“Does this man deserve absolute exemption?
Or some alternative to military service?
Or an army non-combatant role?
Or is he a liar?
Should he be summarily dispatched?
To the army, to training camp,
The front line and ‘combatant duties’?”

Some of you may have taken on medical and hospital work
(Some 6,500 did),

Some of you may have absolutely resisted:
You may have refused medical examinations,
You may have refused to wear uniforms,
You may have refused to march, salute or stand up …

You may have faced polite persuasion,
Or you may have been forced to wear a uniform,
Or wear a straitjacket,
Or have been placed in solitary confinement,
Or been one of the 6,000 thrown into prison
(‘Funny. You’re in for murder and I’m in here for refusing to.’)
Or been given ‘field punishments’,
Or been beaten up,

Or been given a death sentence,
That after a few seconds pause …
With hearts racing and with anxious swallowing …
Would be commuted to ten years’ imprisonment with hard labour.

I don’t know the judgements that you received,
And I don’t know what happened to you after the war
(If you survived),
The victimization that you faced
Might well have gone well beyond losing the vote,
Work, wages, friendship, family, faith,
People spitting in the streets as you passed by,
White feathers slipped through your letter box,

While gathering numbers of others,
Began to shake your hand,
Or place an arm around your shoulder,
And begin to wonder whether you might have been right,
All along,
When you stood alone.

But I silently stand and shake your ghostly hands,
And hope that at the going down of the sun,
And in the morning,
We will remember you:
Eighteen conscientious objectors
Whose courage, principles and politics,
Whose ethics, morals and steadfastness
Enabled them to stand up against the crowd:

1. Allen, James Whiteway Colony Stroud Labourer 21 (1916)

2. Apperley, Ebor 32, Bath Place Stroud Printer/compositor at Copeland Chatterson and Co. 27 (1916)

3. Burford, Edward Wyatt Edge Road, Painswick Grocer’s porter 35 (1916)

4. Butt, William Henry Stonehouse Farmer 26 (1916)

5. Clements, Harry Whiteway Colony Stroud Market gardener

6. Clements, William John Whiteway Colony Stroud Market gardener

7. Cole, Will Whiteway Colony Stroud Chemist turned market gardener

8. Cossham, Philip Raymond Park Farm Lypiatt, Nr. Stroud Land Agent 21 (1916) b. Cirencester

9. Hampton, Thomas Moor Hall Randwick, nr Stroud Described as a ‘Monk’

10. Kenworthy, George C. Whiteway Colony Stroud Farmer and carrier 26 (1916) b. Birkenhead

11. Kenworthy, John F. Whiteway Colony Stroud Farmer and carrier 28 (1916) b. Birkenhead

12. Mortimer, William Nailsworth Nailsworth Nr. Stroud Antiques and furniture dealer 36 (1916)

13. Murray, Stormont Oliver Whiteway Colony Stroud 19 (1917) b. Islington June 1898

14. Rudland, William 2, Bank Buildings, Regent Street Stonehouse Brushmaker 28 (1916)

15. Stevens, Will or Bill Whiteway Colony Stroud

16. Tilley, Albert Edward 4, John Street Stroud Jobbing Compositor at Copeland Chatterson and Co. 28 (1916)

17. Trussler, Arthur William Moor Court Gardens Amberley Professional gardener

18. Weight, Joseph Alfred Nailsworth, near Stroud Refrigerating Engineer 39 (1917) b. Nailsworth

The Badgers of Slad

The paintings of badgers on the posts at Slad,
Are beguiling and deceptive in their art,
Seemingly comic and anthropomorphic,
Each one contributes to a tragic tale,
Summarised in that curt and cruel word: cull.
They look like Tommies facing execution,
Tied to their posts at dawn’s first red-streaked light:
What passing-bells for those who die for cattle?

‘Only the monstrous anger of the guns,
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle.’

The paintings of badgers on the posts at Slad,
Are beguiling and deceptive in their art,
Seemingly comic and anthropomorphic,
Each one contributes to a tragic tale,
Summarised in that curt and cruel word: cull.
They look like Tommies facing execution,
Tied to their posts at dawn’s first red-streaked light:
What passing-bells for those who die for cattle?

‘Only the monstrous anger of the guns,
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle.’

Echo Chambers – Archibald and Dorothy

Echo Chamber: Voices of Conscience – a sound and photography exhibition marking 100 years of conscientious objection – owes its inspirational existence to Fiona Meadley, Dom Thomas and Ruth Davey. The exhibition includes information submitted by living relatives of Conscientious Objectors from WW1: it was a privilege to contribute to this history, with our performance of the story of Dorothy and Archibald.
The link: http://radicalstroud.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Archie-And-Dorothy.m4a takes you to a recording made of Dorothy and Archibald , featuring the voices of Rachel Simpson and Stuart Butler, as they read the words of Alice Butler and Stuart, during the Stroud Book Festival in November 2016.

Echo Chamber: Voices of Conscience – a sound and photography exhibition marking 100 years of conscientious objection – owes its inspirational existence to Fiona Meadley, Dom Thomas and Ruth Davey. The exhibition includes information submitted by living relatives of Conscientious Objectors from WW1: it was a privilege to contribute to this history, with our performance of the story of Dorothy and Archibald.
The link: http://radicalstroud.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2016/11/Archie-And-Dorothy.m4a takes you to a recording made of Dorothy and Archibald , featuring the voices of Rachel Simpson and Stuart Butler, as they read the words of Alice Butler and Stuart, during the Stroud Book Festival in November 2016.

Archibald and Dorothy

by Stuart and Alice Butler | Read by Rachel Simpson and Stuart Butler

Dear Stuart
And thank you and Rachel for your engaging performances.
I estimate we had about 200 visitors over the weekend, and they donated £178 to stroud refugee aid. And the event was extensively covered on bbc radio Gloucestershire on Remembrance Sunday. I will forward you a news clip broadcast at 9 am. It brought in many visitors, and Sunday was our busiest day.

I’ve made a 60 second video clip with the radio broadcast about echo chamber and posted it on YouTube. You are welcome to use it in your blog.
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=h-GXDu3EFgw

Regards
Fiona

Stuart
Thanks for yesterday. Really enjoyed your input. Was great to have such a moving local story. Here are a few pics. If you use, please credit as follows:
Photos by Ruth Davey – www.look-again.org. If anyone else wants to use them, please let me know and ask them to contact me on 07789 958895
Thanks
Ruth

1916-1926: from the Somme to the General Strike

The British Army at the start of the Great War
Was essentially ‘Wellingtonian’:
A predominantly country-set set of officers,
A predominantly rural army of men,
Battalions and companies of men and officers,
With a reverence for tradition and locality,
Be it the BEF or the Territorials:
‘I daresay it is snobbish to say so, but the fact remains that men will follow a gentleman much more readily than they will an officer whose social position is not so well assured.’
Kitchener’s recruits changed that, of course,
And then with conscription, by the end of the war,
5 million industrial workers had joined the army –
‘More than 10% of the … workforce joined up in the first two months of war’;
Two and a half million men had volunteered by 1916
And a further 2 million men indicated
That they would willingly countenance conscription;
This patriotism still meant some cultural problems, however:
Trade unionism, for example;
But, in the main, military discipline did its job:
From saluting right through to executions …
Although when trouble did break out, as at Etaples,
Then the old class antagonisms came to the surface –
As with General Haig:
‘Men of this stamp are not content with remaining quiet,
they come from a class which like to air real or fancied grievances…’;
But class prejudice was of little consequence
When placed alongside racial prejudice –
When colonial support workers went on strike in France,
Summary public shootings were the response.

So, after this contextualization,
I, do make Oath, that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs, and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity, against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and of the Generals and Officers set over me.
So help me God.

So now on to the Somme:

‘Pals’ Battalions, on the whistle, lads. Steady pace in straight lines.
Into the remembrance of statistics’:
‘How many officers and men went over the top on July 1st 1916?’
‘150,000, sir.’
‘What weight did the men carry?”
’66 lbs: rifle, grenades, ammo, rations, cape, helmet, gas masks (two), goggles, sandbags (empty, four), field dressing, pick/shovel, water bottle, mess tin, sir.’
‘And our casualties?’
’19,000 dead and 38,000 wounded. Highest figures ever in a single day, sir.’
‘Good man. Correct again. And was that it?’
‘No, sir: another five months of bloody attrition, sir, and another 420,000 casualties. ’
‘How long was the front?”
‘Eighteen miles, sir; but listen to this account of the 1st of July from Captain Gerald Brenan, M.C., sir. It gives a flavour of the battle.’
‘The battle opened a little after sunrise on 1 July 1916, with a bombardment that shook the air with its roar and sent up the earth on the German trenches in gigantic fountains. It seemed as though no human being could live through that. Then our men climbed by short ladders onto the parapet and began to move forward shoulder to shoulder, one behind the other, across the rough ground. They moved slowly because each of them carried a weight of 66 pounds. Then the German barrage fell on our trenches and their machine-guns began to rattle furiously. Clouds of blue and grey smoke from the bursting shells, mixing with a light ground mist, hid the general view, but in the gaps I could see little ant-like figures, some of them keeping on in a broken line, others falling, crawling, lying still. Each of them carried on his backs a tin triangle to assist in their identification by our artillery, and the early morning sun shone on these triangles and made them glitter. But as the hours passed I could not see that any of them had reached the German front line and later I knew why: our bombardment had not penetrated the deep dugouts the Germans had excavated in the chalk and their machine-gunners had come out and were mowing our men down …
The sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the heat of that scorching summer day grew and grew, but though I was never able to get any coherent picture, the failure of our assault on Serre gradually became obvious. Those three or four hundred yards of rough ground that lay in front of our front lines were thickly sprinkled with silver triangles, only a few of which still moved, while the German parapet was bare and still the pounding of our front trenches went on …
After fifty-six hours spent in shell-holes, sleeping among and even pillowed by dead comrades, without water, without food, having to defend themselves the whole time, a few of the more determined had managed to creep or fight their way back through the German lines to tell their tale.’
‘ Now here’s the last two stanzas from a poem by Second-Lieutenant Robert Ernest Vernede, 3rd Battalion, the Rifle Brigade, sir: it’s a poem about three selfless and quietly heroic sergeants who were killed, sir.’
‘Those sergeants I lost at Delville
On a night that was cruel and black,
They gave their lives for England’s sake,
They never will come back.

What of the hundreds in whose hearts
Thoughts no less splendid burn? …
I wonder what England will do for them
If ever they return?’

‘A few more statistics please, my good man. Death by our own hands – by the war’s end, how many of our men were executed by firing squad?’
‘346, I think, sir.’
‘Do you have any reports in my valise that we could share?’
‘Course, sir. Certainly sir. Here we are; three cases of privates.’
“The man has a very bad character both in civil life and in the army. He is probably useless as a soldier. For the above reasons I feel it my duty to recommend that the sentence be carried out. I am quite aware that the general worthlessness of the man is inclined to influence above decision, but I have given due weight to this point and see no reason to allow it to alter my opinion. I do not think it affects my judgment.”
“This man was not a man who gave much trouble neither was he in any way a man whom one would pick out as a good man. He is considered by his Platoon Commander to be of poor intellect, and I consider that he is a typical slum product of a low level intelligence…”
“The …Battalion … contains a proportion of rough characters and lately there has been a certain amount of insubordination especially when orders are issued for heavy work in the trenches. I am reluctantly compelled to state that I think an example is necessary in the interests of discipline of the Brigade.”
‘Is that enough, sir?’
‘Anything on NCO’s?’
‘Course, sir. Here we are again, happy as can be, all good friends and jolly good company.’
“As an NCO he is a failure, being too familiar with his subordinates, and surly and morose to his superiors … Chief cause of complaint is that NCOs will not assert themselves as they come from the same class of men as those in the ranks and think too much of their position after the war when they will all be in the workshops again.”
‘Were most men executed for funk? Cowardice?’
‘No, sir. Desertion. Here’s the views of two different generals, sir.’
“‘I consider the extreme penalty should be inflicted because: (a) the man has already deserted once on active service (b) he has no intention of fighting for his country (c) is quite worthless, as a soldier or in any other capacity and is better removed from the world.”
“He was no rotter deserving to die like that. He was merely fragile. He had volunteered to fight for his country … at the dictates of his own young heart. He failed. And for that failure he was condemned to die …”
‘What did the young man say?’
‘He said, sir, “What will my mother say?”’
‘You’re going on a walk today, aren’t you?”
‘Yes sir, Bristol, sir; we’re meeting at Temple Meads and then walking around St Philips and the Dings; we’re remembering the days of the Triple Industrial Alliance before the war. And remembering Alfred Jefferies who lived in St Philips and was executed for desertion on November 1st 1916: firing squad at dawn, sir. His brother Arthur was killed in 1916 too, at the Somme, sir. A bad year for the family, sir.’
‘Cheer me up, old chap, for God’s sake. Sing me a song or something.’
‘Course sir, certainly sir.’
“If you want to find the old battalion,
I know where they are, I know where they are, I know where they are
If you want to find the old battalion, I know where they are,
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire,
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.
I’ve seen ’em, I’ve seen ’em, hanging on the old barbed wire.”

‘Before I finish, sir, one last thought. I’ve often reminisced about the old days sir, and one thing’s stuck in my mind but it’s rarely mentioned, sir. You know how people talk about the sacrifices and heroism at the Somme and so on, sir. But I’ve often thought what if those men had lived? Then we wouldn’t have lost the General Strike ten years later, sir. Just a thought sir – but worth thinking about.’

‘I’d like to finish, now, sir, if I may, with the last two stanzas of Siegfried Sassoon’s poem Aftermath, from March 1919. Thank you, sir, it’s been a pleasure to talk to you.’

“Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz –
The nights you watched and wired and dug sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench –
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, ‘Is it all going to happen again?”

Do you remember that hour of din before the attack –
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized you and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads – those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?”

‘Just think, sir, those boys might have won the General Strike, sir. And I wouldn’t be calling you sir, sir. Would I?’

Whistle for the Somme, Rodborough Churchyard, 1.7.16

Whistle for the Somme, Rodborough Churchyard, 1.7.16

Sunlight flashed across the churchyard yew trees
As the whistle blew at half past seven,
Children scattered poppies in the rain soaked grass
(Who can forget the innocence of Mrs Yolland’s reception classes,
Twenty years ago and more at Rodborough School:
‘I can run through a field of poppies’?),
Wreaths were laid at the graves of two Somme victims of this parish:
A commonwealth war grave for William Stevens of Rubble Hole, Little London,
And a home-fashioned iron cross for Charles Burroughs,
Of Court Bank, Butterow.

Traffic hummed in the streets – or was it horses’ hooves?
A skylark soared and sang on Rodborough Common,
The same song as on the Somme a hundred years before,
Clouds scudded along Ivor Gurney’s Severn,
Fifty people made their solemn way homewards, to school, or to work.

We passed Rodborough’s Whistle for the Somme notice board,
Or was it the MR James’ ghost story –
Oh, Whistle and I’ll come to You, my Lad …
I left for work on my bike, drifting through overheard conversations:
‘What have I got to worry about, compared with that?’
Then in the shop, getting my newspaper, a mum chastising her child:
‘Oh you are grumpy today. It’s not the end of the world.’
I got to work and filled in an official form with the bald date:
1.7.16
And heard my gramp singing to me from
‘Somewhere in France’,
His old music hall Christmas routine:
‘Where do flies go in the wintertime?
Do they go to gay Paree?
When they’ve finished buzzing round our beef and ham,
When they’ve finished jazzing round our raspberry jam,
Do they clear like swallows every year
To a distant foreign clime?
Tell me, tell me, where do flies go in the wintertime?’

Oh, Whistle and I’ll come to You, my Lad …