Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  As always the crack of the gun surprised the crowd, Abraham seemed to make a very fast start. Few in the crowd understood the second gun sound, but the runners did and knew what it meant. ‘What’s going on,’ was the question asked by thousands.

  Arthur knew and turning to those around him explained: ‘It must be someone has fouled, probably started too early.’ A few moments later he added, ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ as the starter walked up to Abraham and the runner next to him. ‘Don’t say they are going to be disqualified.’ The groans of despair from those surrounding the vicar were numerous. It was only later that they learnt from Abraham exactly what had happened.

  ‘I was nearest to the starter. When he said “Get yourselves set,” like all the others I was ready. After what seemed a terrible time gap, the gun falsely clicked and then the shot rang out. At first the starter said that two of us were disqualified for starting before the gun, but in fact only Wyndham next to me and I had heard the faint click which we just thought must be the start. So we were just a moment ahead of the others and clearly that’s not fair. The starter did not understand until Wyndham explained. He’s such an experienced runner that he knew. So we weren’t disqualified, but went back to the start.’

  Indeed, after a few minutes to collect their thoughts and for the starter to reload his pistol, the same procedure was repeated, each athlete going through his much rehearsed drill again. The gap between “To your marks” and the crack of the pistol again seemed huge, but Abraham knew he must not start before the pistol sounded; another offence might well mean disqualification. The Rusfield supporters waited in silent agony.

  Only the smallest fraction of a second separated Abraham’s start from the rest. He seemed to then fly towards the first bend. It seemed impossible to reduce the gap between himself and Wyndham in the next lane, but reduce it he must. Over the second hundred yards he felt himself gaining on three runners, but as they entered the final bend, the crowd found it impossible to judge who was ahead.

  ‘Who’s winning?’ screamed Jammy. ‘It’s not like last time when you could see who was ahead.’

  ‘You will in a moment,’ replied the quietly-spoken Jack.

  As they came out of the final bend and entered the straight, three coloured vests were ahead: the American’s red, white and blue; the blue and white of Wyndham’s Scottish shirt and, wondrously, the green of Abraham and Rusfield. Lanes four, two and one neck and neck: the American, perhaps, a few inches ahead. The roars must have been heard miles away as each cheered on their own favourite, but as Willy said later, ‘I reckon our cheers and roars were the greatest.’

  Thirty, twenty, ten, five yards to go and still too close to call. Just short of the line Wyndham seemed to lose a few inches to the others; almost touching the tape it seemed that Abraham threw himself forward. He had won.

  If disbelief, wonder and sheer joy could be measured, the scale of each coming from the Rusfield crowd would have reached record heights. At first they were uncertain, this was too much to expect, yet here were other runners going to Abraham who had sunk to his knees, congratulating him. Grace was weeping. Pauline, Frederick and James Richards were in tears as were so many. ‘Wonderful, wonderful.’ Willy echoed the words of so many. Never, never could a village people have been united in such pure delight.

  Half an hour went by before they saw Abraham walking towards them, carrying his bag and the broadest smile ever seen. The first words spoken were his. ‘Thank you everyone. You made all the difference.’ The congratulations were too many to record; others joined the joyful Rusfield group. Wyndham, who had already given Abraham the biggest hug he had ever received from a fellow runner, went on to congratulate his parents. The Bagshott family added their praise, giving Jack time to ask the pretty Patricia if he might write to her about anything else he could find out regarding Charles Blondin. With a happy smile, she agreed.

  Two more races had been watched whilst Abraham had taken a bath and changed, but it had been agreed that the return journey should be made as soon as he joined them. ‘It’s quite a long journey and we don’t want to be too late home.’ The journey was one of the happiest that had ever been made. The cheers, the talk, the sense of pure celebration were boundless. Everyone wanted to sit next to Abraham, Rusfield’s champion.

  The two coach drivers shared in the celebration and agreed to drive right back to Rusfield and they arrived by seven o’clock. There were more people near the pond waiting for news. It was a long and very happy evening.

  Nine o’clock found the six close friends in the untidy, cramped rear garden of The George. The usually morose landlord, John Harrowell, had surprised them by buying each a drink. It was the usually retiring Fred who expressed the feelings of all by simply saying: ‘To the best runner in the world. Thank you Racer, it was amazing to see your green running vest in front at the end.’

  Abraham gave his usual modest smile. ‘Well, I wasn’t at all sure that I was in front. Thank you all for coming.’

  Willy put his glass on the rough-hewn chair that served as a table. ‘Racer, what was your time? We were so delighted you won that we forgot to ask.’

  ‘Well, thanks to the other runners who really pushed me, I managed 48.4 seconds which is much better than I’ve ever done before. The track today helped. But enough about speeds, it’s my turn to buy you a drink; without your support I’d never have won.’

  He disappeared inside and a few minutes later reappeared with a tray of five ales and an apple juice. He passed them round. As soon as they all had their glasses, Boney turned to Abraham and asked: ‘Racer, where are the next Olympics?’

  ‘Well, it’s to be in Berlin.’

  ‘You’ll be there,’ put in Jammy, ‘and we’ll be there to cheer you on to victory.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know,’ smiled Abraham, ‘1916 is a long way off and a lot could happen between now and then.’

  Part Two

  1914-1919

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Thursday, 27 August 1914

  ‘Get yer friggin’ head down, you stupid coppernob. And put yer ‘at on. I don’t want yer friggin’ brains scattered all over me.’

  The shove on his shoulder forced Jack’s face into the dry ground. He had only taken his cap off for a moment. The sun was unbearably hot and he could feel the sweat running down his back as the heavy material of his uniform ill-matched the August weather.

  ‘Sorry, Sarge,’ half-smiled the ever-agreeable Jack, more concerned about upsetting the harsh, steely-glaring Sergeant Burgess than endangering his own life. He gave a final mop of his brow before replacing his rough-edged cap which he felt to be wearing a furrow into his forehead; it smelt with sustained sweat. Jack patted his rifle.

  He looked out on the momentarily peaceful scene which reminded him of the Salisbury Plain where his fortnight’s training had taken place. However, his mind rapidly returned to reality, as it did for the other 200 men barely hidden by the slight dip in the summer-burnt grassland. Less than a mile away, well positioned on a heavily wooded hillside was the enemy. To Jack’s left were three mobile guns, each behind a limber and six horses. The horses, like the men, had struggled with the guns since the failure to hold the Mons-Condé Canal line. By nightfall on Monday, 25 August, II Corps, including 700 men from the 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment who had been brought over from Ireland, were in retreat.

  Now the forgiving and gentle horses were casually eating the unappetising, but welcome grass. When Jack and Fred had joined the retreating troops they had been as shocked to see the state of the horses as they had the main body of men. A frail looking grey had an angry wound on its left hind with dried blood down to its rear fetlock. Fred’s natural inclination was to ignore his own tiredness and give a little comfort to the horse, but he dared not risk the bellowing of his sergeant.

  Jack knew that to their left were some larger calibre howitzers; their deafening noise from earlier in the day still ringing in his ears. Now, there was also a brief lull
in the onslaught from the German guns. The main force had struggled the thirty miles from Mons; they were filthy, bedraggled and fighting hard to keep up their spirits. The fighting was not going as Jack and the others, who had signed up with adventure and excitement running through their bodies, had expected.

  The first serious fighting on the previous Monday had been before Jack and Fred had joined the main body of men. Could that really only be three days ago? he wondered. I was in Southampton then! Now they were part of the force attempting to hold up the powerful German advance until even more support arrived, but Jack and Fred together with Racer and Boney, hopefully not far away, really had no idea what was intended next.

  Enemy guns started up again and peace was shattered by a shell only forty yards from where they lay, throwing up a shower of earth. ‘Keep yourself as close to the ground as you can, Fred,’ urged the ever-encouraging Jack. ‘They can’t seem to get their range quite right, so we’ll be all right.’ His words were more comforting than were his thoughts. The nearby lighter British guns answered back; all knew that the quick-firing 4.5-inch howitzer was a weapon feared by the Germans. It was the much heavier guns of the enemy that the British lacked.

  The minutes crept on, each one marked by the appalling sound of guns from both sides. Jack was suddenly aware of a movement to his left. Turning, he saw an officer crouching but moving rapidly towards Sergeant Burgess. A hurried conversation and the officer scurried on towards a larger band of men 200 yards to the right. Trailing just behind was a private trying to keep up with him.

  The men round Jack and Fred heard the orders coming from Bellowing Burgess; Jack preferred not to pay attention to the names some had given their sergeant. ‘Listen, you bleeders. The officer thinks we’re ‘aving too easy a time, so we’re moving on. It seems the lovely commander has decided that we can’t go on retreating. There’s a village about a mile away and we’re to make our way to this ‘ere Caudrey and dig in. We’re at last going to make a stand and not give in to these friggin’ Krauts. So get yerselves ready, make yerselves beautiful and be ready to move when I tell yer. It’ll be in the next thirty minutes. Don’t ‘ang about when I give the order.’

  There was nothing to do, but wait. Jack had once heard how in the moments of drowning the whole of life passed before the victim. He did not know about this, but in the minutes of waiting for Bellowing Burgess’s order, the events that had moved him from Rusfield to this remote part of northern France ran through his mind.

  It had been five months earlier that the six of them had been together in The George. Jammy Carey’s building work had taken him to the mansion of Sir Lancelot Prestwish on the edge of Steepleton, so he now lived at home and was able to meet up with his mates more regularly. It was Jammy who had seen a poster in Steepleton, inviting young men to join the Territorial Army. ‘Sounds great,’ he had told the others. ‘They meet every Tuesday in their headquarters near the town centre, seven-thirty for two hours.’

  ‘What do they do there?’ queried the more cautious Fred.

  ‘Well, they teach you army drill, reading maps, loading and unloading a rifle and they even have manoeuvres up on the Steepleton side of Bramrose Hill.’

  ‘And what about shooting?’ asked Boney.

  ‘Well,’ replied Jammy, reaching for his drink, ‘Frank, a mate of mine, says that after a few weeks training, you go out to the shooting range near Broston. He’ll soon get his uniform. Well, what do you think?’ He turned towards Willy, as always the one who led the way. The others knew he was thinking things through, his chin resting on his left hand providing the clue. Indeed, they were all thinking about Jammy’s news.

  Village activities were still enjoyed, but the monthly meetings provided a new dimension to their lives. Racer had established himself as the fastest quarter mile runner in the country; the others went to watch him when they could and in the hot summer they had greatly enjoyed the village cricket club, with Boney and Willy excelling. The six had been delighted that they had joined the Terriers; the Tuesday evenings could not come round quickly enough with the six trying to meet near the pond and walking in to Steepleton. They rapidly learnt basic military skills with the monthly manoeuvre in the expanding company of Steepleton Terriers being one of the highlights.

  On the very day that war was declared, they had met as usual at the pond. The previous day’s Bank Holiday had been much quieter than usual, in spite of dancing and the children’s sports on the village green. The troubles in Europe had cast a blanket of anxiety over the whole of the country and Rusfield, along with the whole nation, was filled with a passionate sense of righteousness and patriotism. The six young men responded to the cry for justice with enthusiasm and excitement. Now, talk took on an excited, yet increasingly serious tone. There was only one topic at the Territorial Army HQ: it was about when the men should volunteer.

  Two days later, on Thursday, 6 August, Jack had worked a little later than normal at the bakery enabling him to meet up with Boney when the brewery worker came into Steepleton on the six-thirty from Branton. In turn, they met with Racer and Fred who had walked in from Rusfield and the four strode down Broad Street to the impressive town hall, which had been built on the wealth of Steepleton business, in Queen Victoria’s reign. They were amazed to see a queue stretching over a hundred yards. There was much banter, talk of the excitement of war, of having a crack at the Huns and the anticipation of going abroad for the first time.

  A huge poster under a Union Jack greeted them as they went in to the large hall. It called for volunteers with a graphic illustration of an evil looking soldier, spiked helmet and uniform which was clearly that of a German. The enemy was, as Jammy said, ‘Getting a well-deserved kick up the arse’ by the proud British soldier in the poster. Jack was not alone in being moved when he saw it.

  Mention of being a Terrier gave immediate access to the recruitment officer’s interest. ‘Name? Age? Are you sure about that? Address? Occupation?’ Answering with excited nods, a document was thrust at Jack which he was told to sign.

  ‘Over there,’ ordered the fiery, heavily-moustached recruiting officer. He had moved across the room to where, armed with tape measure, a younger man was assessing each recruit. All seemed to satisfy the needs of the moment, although Fred later told Willy that his weight had almost proved a problem. ‘Only eight stone and six pounds,’ remarked the officer who had been consulted by his subordinate doing the weighing. ‘I suggest you eat a bit more my lad. But you’ll do.’

  So, the four became members of the 2nd Battalion of the Suffolk Regiment. Jammy and Willy had similarly enrolled in the Suffolks at the Territorial Army headquarters where queues had been even longer. Parents and loved ones were upset, some hurt, to hear that the young men were to report to the Steepleton base on the Saturday morning; suddenly life for the families was changing. Yet the overwhelming feelings were of excitement and pride; excitement on the part of the young men, pride felt by the families that their men were standing up for Britain and the Empire.

  It was Sparky Carey and his cart that took them from Rusfield with a large gathering of villagers waving farewell. A number of Union Jacks had suddenly appeared, most home-made, to be waved by the children. Arthur Windle went from man to man, shaking hands with each and giving a blessing. As he stopped and talked with Jack, the last of the six great friends, Arthur wished that he, too, was going with them. For the rest of his life, Abraham would remember his departing kiss from Grace; it caused a momentary doubt of what he was about to undertake.

  In Steepleton there was a further health check, signing on and receipt of a basic food ration for the journey, then on to Paddington and Warminster. At each station a growing number of men, mainly young, joined them until there was little room left on the western-bound train. The reception at Warminster was swamped with large numbers of men each carrying bag, backpack or holiday case. The rough and tumble of over 1,000 men being moved in to regimental groups was clearly a challenge for the uniformed men, involvin
g nearly one hundred of the Suffolks; the six Rusfield men managed to stay together.

  Some London lads found Salisbury Plain frighteningly different to their home area, but to Jack it was not so different to his beloved Rusfield countryside; the emptiness and silence were just on a grander scale. The training immediately got underway and they were kept frenetically busy; the long marches each day carrying heavy packs were exhausting. Blisters became hardened skin and muscles toughened. Fred found the going harder than the other five, but their encouragement and his own determination got him through. After two weeks training they were adjudged ready to move on: Saturday, 22 August. It was a two-day march to Southampton and Jack was glad that his daily cycling from Rusfield to Steepleton had helped keep him fit. Most of the march was along roads, with the large contingent often having to move into the side as many vehicles were transferring provisions to the docks. The roads became more crowded as they got closer to their immediate destination.

  Coming in sight of the great estuary, the number of ships amazed Jack. The whole place was alive with activity which at first seemed chaotic, yet must clearly have had a purpose. The vessel to which they were ordered was a passenger ship that had been taken out of a side dock just when its life expectancy had been thought to be over. Every square yard of the deck found men sitting and resting, most enjoying a welcome smoke.

  Together again and along with some 2,000 others, the Rusfield six had embarked at nine o’clock on the Sunday evening. There were clearly many regular soldiers on board, their confidence and general know-how ill matched by the bewilderment and uncertainty of the recent volunteers. There was an all-round smartening up when a general, unnamed but recognised by his elaborate uniform, came on board. Anchors were lifted and the ship, without too much hesitation, got underway an hour after midnight; less than three weeks after war had been declared.