Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  ‘Come on then, love,’ Eleanor said as she turned to her husband. ‘This is a wretched task, but it’s the least we can do for Liz.’ A strong smell had been evident which became even more noticeable as they walked along the wide drive. ‘Chemicals of some kind,’ Arthur quietly suggested.

  As they turned from the well-treed avenue, dozens of buildings, most single level but a cluster with high-pitched roofs, emerged. It was only later they learnt the factory had been built to supply gunpowder in Napoleon’s time, but many additions had been made in response to the threat from Germany. Some buildings, heavily marked from a variety of discharged materials, were over a hundred yards long, with the occasional second storey breaking up the grey roofing of the lower levels. The stench became stronger, accompanied by increasing noise; a loud hammering causing the ground to shake. A narrow gauge railway line with small engines ran in many directions, conveying the many materials required in making gunpowder and shells, others to move the completed articles on their first stage to France. Huge grey pipes a few feet above the ground, most with a diameter around two feet, ran between the buildings.

  It was now a warm day, but waves of additional heat greeted them as they passed the pipes. Eleanor nudged Arthur and nodded towards an area where hundreds of bicycles were stored. There were workers everywhere, scurrying from building to building, many dressed in long outer garments which Arthur assumed to be protective clothing. There were many women working at a high mound of coal which had been off-loaded from barges arriving via a narrow canal, shovelling it in to barrows. A queue of women waited to take the laden barrows to what must be the source of the steam power generating machinery.

  Cranes of all sizes dominated the area to their left, together with trucks, handcarts and a number of metal machines for which Arthur could not even guess a purpose. The smell, the sounds, the steam and all the machinery demonstrated a momentous activity being carried out in this unlikely part of the countryside. Eleanor shuddered; she had never seen anything like it. They had walked in silence until the corporal spoke: ‘Take care where you walk, please follow me.’ As they went through a door she noticed the thickness of the walls; perhaps to resist explosions. Inside was a red, two-wheeled handcart attached to a larger contraption filled with water; clearly a fire engine, although Arthur doubted its efficiency in an emergency.

  They ascended the stone steps to a door bearing the legend that only named officials could enter. The corporal knocked and almost immediately the door was opened to reveal a fifty-year-old man, tall, grey-moustached, wearing a light brown overall. He smiled. ‘I’m Colonel Woodfull, senior supervisor of this establishment and I’ve been given a brief idea of the purpose of your visit. The unusual circumstances cause me to break our normal code of practice and allow you on to the site. It all sounds grim. Please come in.’

  Eleanor and Arthur found they were in a room running the whole width of the factory; an enclosed balcony to a vast auditorium. Opposite the door through which they had entered and facing the main part of the factory was a brick wall with a narrow band of glass at eye level. This was around sixty feet wide and two feet high; divided into small sections separated by thick brick columns. They guessed it to be for observation. The loathsome smell, the din, the shaking and steam all filtered into this office; voices had to be raised. There was another man in the room.

  The colonel gave his undivided attention as Arthur and Eleanor explained their mission. ‘So, in summary we have a poor lady who lives in your village, working here with her sister, and following a letter delivered on Monday, a telegram arrived this morning which you believe contains bad news.’ Arthur and Eleanor both nodded. ‘You had no way of contacting her quickly other than to come here. I must say, Reverend, that I admire the compassion you and your wife have shown. Major Spottiswoode over there,’ he nodded in the direction of the man poring over clusters of papers, ‘is checking through our records. We have nearly 6,000 people working at this National Filling Factory on two separate shifts, so let’s hope Mrs Smith is here now. Whilst the name Smith is common, I’m sure we shall quickly find the detail, but in the meantime let me show you something. I’m sure you will treat what you see with discretion.’ Eleanor felt she could thank Arthur’s clerical collar and attire for gaining such a favour. They followed the colonel to the observation point; the scene that greeted them was to remain with them for a long while. Never could they have imagined anything that so awfully represented the jaws of destruction and Eleanor and Arthur later agreed that the word “hell” had immediately come to mind as they looked down on the scene stretching out below.

  Arthur now adjudged the building to be nearer 200 yards long, its width well over half that distance. It had a high roof, supported by heavy metal stanchions which broke up the factory floor into aisles; from the high roof dozens of electric lights were suspended; clearly good lighting was needed in this grim building. The entire floor space in this vast interior was covered by identical shells; among them were dozens of workers, overwhelmingly women, checking or making last minute adjustments to these fearsome projectiles. The shells, all pointing upwards, created a huge mouthful of angry teeth; each stood waist high to the workers. Neither Eleanor nor Arthur had any idea of the number of shells, but knew that they could only be measured in thousands, many thousands. They realised why the establishment was called a filling factory. Eleanor’s mind was filled with the death and destruction for which these shells were intended. In Germany there must be similar factories from which shells had caused the death of Jammy Carey and other Rusfield lads.

  Their thoughts were interrupted by the colonel after his conversation with Major Spottiswoode. ‘Well, we now know that the lady you seek is in the cartridge factory. Please come with me.’

  Having given their thanks to the major, Eleanor and Arthur followed the colonel and whilst the air outside was still contaminated by chemical smells, both were pleased at getting away from the shell building. Outside, Arthur noticed three cranes controlled by women. ‘May I ask, Colonel,’ Arthur broke into the silence, ‘about those buildings over there? They appear to be built partly underground and almost look like ice houses.’ He pointed to five low, dome-shaped structures, windowless and surrounded by a low wall.

  ‘They are where the most dangerous chemicals are made and mixed: nitroglycerin and other hazardous materials. I sometimes wonder what kind of world we have created.’ By now the sun was strong, but for Eleanor a cold air of greyness and nightmarish quality was felt. ‘The workers have a short break every three hours, that’s why you see some out here enjoying what we dare call fresh air.’ They saw four young women sitting on the grass who had momentarily taken off their caps which highlighted the unnatural colour of their faces: an orange-yellow. The colonel noted the direction of the visitors’ glance. ‘I’m afraid that what you see is a result of working with very unpleasant materials. It’s been known for a while that working here over a long period can cause the skin to change colour. They are vulgarly called “canary girls”. Now we are moving the girls around more in the hope that it reduces the effect and last week we provided small masks which must now be worn when they are mixing these chemicals; I just hope it helps these poor girls who work long and dangerous hours, yet just get on with the job. Without them the war would be lost.’

  By now they had reached a heavy green door which gave access to a smaller and lower building than the shell centre they had just left. The colonel held the door open for his visitors then led the way up another set of stone stairs to the observation centre. A younger man, a civilian Arthur assumed, came across as they entered. He was introduced by the colonel as Mr Glover; handshakes were exchanged.

  ‘Mr Glover,’ began Colonel Woodfull, ‘I won’t take up your time by explaining the whole story, but it is imperative that the Reverend Windle sees one of your workers immediately. Briefly, and tragically, he has news for the lady that her son may have been killed. Mrs Elizabeth Smith and, indeed, her sister Miss Mary Smith both
work here in the cartridge inspection team. Please bring them up here and we will allow them to be alone with our two guests who have come on this sad mission.’

  The supervisor made a note of the names and disappeared. The colonel led the way over to the observation area where the scene was a little less fearsome than the one they had just left; shells were substituted by thousands of small cartridges. Running the length of this building were around thirty continuous rows of tables, on both sides of which hundreds of women were sitting shoulder to shoulder with piles of cartridges, each some five inches long. They were closely examining the cartridges and then placing them upright in a flat holder which had holes to take twenty of them. Eleanor noticed a few women who were carrying the full holders to another series of tables to the left; another worker moved cartridges which had been separately placed on the table into a large wooden box behind where they were sitting. Arthur assumed these were cartridges that had failed examination.

  Arthur had turned away, his senses found the scene almost too hard to bear, when the door opened. Dressed in grey overalls, Liz and Mary Smith came in, their looks of total surprise instant. ‘Vicar, Mrs Windle, what are you doing here?’ The look of surprise, even of a slight smile in seeing familiar faces, rapidly turned to anxiety. ‘It’s something bad, isn’t it?’ The colonel and supervisor had quietly left and Arthur beckoned the sisters to sit down. Eleanor unfastened her bag and took out two envelopes.

  ‘Liz, you must be prepared for bad news. On Monday Peter delivered a letter to your home; today he brought a telegram. Knowing you might not go back to Rusfield for some time, Eleanor and I felt it right to bring them to you. Would you like me to read them to you?’

  Liz nodded, her face the colour of chalk. She may not be able to read fluently, but she understood only too well what the letter and telegram might say. ‘Please do. Somehow, I knew the poor lad would never come back.’

  ‘Let me read the letter first.’ He slid his finger along the top, opening the letter which the Reverend Charlton Woods had written. It described how Fred was ill, but contained the words that Fred had spoken: of how he had loved caring for the army horses and of the love he wanted passed on to his family and friends; they were words written with a great tenderness. Liz shuddered at the mention of her own mother, as Fred had been unaware that his grandmother had died. The letter ended: Mrs Smith, your son is very ill and, sadly, he may not recover. I will come back to this field hospital in a few days to see how he is and will write again with any further news. Please know that we have talked together and Fred is proud of all that he has done in serving his country in this dreadful war. He is, indeed, a fine young man and you should be very proud of him.

  Arthur found it hard to read the words and had an alarming view of what was to follow. Tears were running down Liz’s face, hardly less with the other three. He opened the telegram and read:

  Regret to inform you of the death from a disease of Private F. Smith, 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment at 29 Field Hospital on 29th April. I express the sympathy and respect of the Army Council.

  ‘Oh Fred, darling Fred, God bless you.’ The shocking cry from Liz was so personal, yet Arthur had heard the same cry from Eliza and Sparky Carey, from Ruby Rowe, from young Robert Bacon’s father and others. He knew it would be repeated. Liz had asked for God’s blessing on Fred, but Arthur had to wonder where God was just now.

  ‘And I haven’t seen him since he was a baby. I so wanted to,’ sobbed Mary. ‘Now mother and Fred are both dead. They could never say goodbye to each other.’

  Arthur and Eleanor could only quietly sit by as the sisters shared their terrible family sadness. ‘What does it mean, disease?’ asked Liz.

  ‘I don’t know. But there are so many illnesses caught from being in the trenches. I doubt if we shall ever know, but maybe you will learn more in due course,’ Arthur, hand on Liz’s shoulder, said.

  Liz cuffed away her tears and looked at Arthur. ‘Vicar, when mother died you was with us. You said some words; I think they was a psalm and then we all said the Lord’s Prayer. Can we do the same now? Somehow that will help draw Fred and mother together, us too.’

  ‘Of course.’ Heads were bowed and Arthur remembered the evening when old Mrs Smith had died. ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…’ There, in that office overlooking the weapons of war, a war that had killed a beloved son, they joined in the Lord’s Prayer. As he said the much-loved words, he did feel a little of God’s presence.

  It was Eleanor who spoke next as she looked at Liz. ‘Fred was a fine and caring person. We all loved him and will miss him, but you should be very proud of him. Remember, it was your strength and your love that made him such a fine person. Never forget that.’

  After a few minutes, Arthur told her of Jack Mansfield’s offer to arrange for her a car to take them back to Rusfield. ‘That is very kind of Mr Mansfield. Please thank him, but Mary and I will stay here. A lot of the ladies working here have lost sons and husbands, so many of us have the same things to share. Thank you for coming to see me, that’s been wonderfully kind, in a few days we shall come home to Rusfield.’ Mary nodded; she would do whatever her sister wanted.

  When Eleanor and Arthur had got back to the vicarage from the National Filling Factory, they shared an unusually quiet evening with their individual thoughts. Eleanor was a little puzzled: Liz and her sister Mary shared the same family name: Smith. She knew Mary had never married so why had Liz kept her maiden name? Maybe she had just wanted to retain her maiden name when Fred was born; not uncommon in Rusfield when an unmarried woman had given birth. She knew so little of Liz’s past and feared for her future. Arthur broke into her thoughts as he quietly stood up and then spoke to her with much love: ‘Eleanor, it has been a dreadful day for Liz, but one thing I want to say. I was amazed at the work being done at that factory by women, young and old. I saw the same thing at the military hospital we visited a few weeks ago. And you are right; women are at least equal to men, sometimes more than equal.’ He added with a slight smile, ‘I’m not going to become an angry suffragette when the war is over, but I will do what I can to get them voting rights.’ Eleanor kissed him.

  That night in bed, Eleanor and Arthur simply clung to each other.

  A week later Liz and Mary Smith made the journey back to Rusfield. Mr Glover said they could return to the factory whenever they wanted. When Liz opened the front door she immediately saw a letter which Peter had delivered the previous day. A thought flashed through her mind: perhaps there had been a mistake and it was someone else who had died. She and Mary quickly walked to Olivia Atkins. After a consoling and lingering embrace, Liz asked Olivia to read the letter. It was from Major Richard Carpenter of the 8th Dragoon Guards. It read:

  I deeply regret to have learnt that your son Pte. F. Smith, No. 204491 of the 2nd Battalion Suffolk Regiment died on the night of the 29th instant. He had been ill for some days with an unknown illness, but did not suffer.

  His service to the army was of major importance and I and all my men had the highest regard for him. After showing great bravery at the front, I was pleased that he joined my team where he worked tirelessly with army horses, enabling a vital part of the war effort to be carried out. He was hardworking, cheerful and a good colleague. I had the privilege of many conversations with him especially about his abiding love of horses and his happy life in your village.

  I and all the staff here and his colleagues deeply sympathise with you in your loss.

  Your son always did his duty and has now given his life for his country. We all honour him, and I trust you will feel some consolation in remembering this. I know that many attended his burial; the place marked with a simple cross bearing his name. I am sure his effects will reach you via the Base in due course.

  In true sympathy.

  FORTY-THREE

  August 1916

  For months Ruby had watched the buzzard, remembering the time Willy had pointed out the tree four years earlier; this year she had s
een a buzzard showing itself on a high branch in April. Four days later she spotted its nest and from then on she saw the buzzard most mornings; Willy would have been able to tell her when it laid its eggs. A further three weeks on, she had observed two buzzards and heard a strange yelping noise as one flew to join the other. She wondered if the cry meant “I’m coming” or was it the one on the nest saying “welcome”? And then, on one glorious summer morning, she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw two young buzzards perched on the branch near the nest.

  So much to tell Willy and now he was coming home. It was all so exciting after all the sadness that had gone before. She knew how everyone had been saddened by the news of Fred Smith’s death; she had loved him. She had liked him when they had walked home together after the party four years earlier and then felt a sense of wonder as that feeling had grown into love. Now as she lay in bed, she knew that Fred’s bed next door would remain empty; each time she walked past the forge she imagined him tending the horses. She had burst into tears of joy when Mrs Smith had told her that Fred had spoken of her in the letter home just before he died. Somehow, watching the buzzards had helped, as she knew Fred loved birds as well.

  On this same early August morning, Eleanor was returning from Sidney Jones’ butchers, thinking just what she might say at the meeting in the afternoon. Not that she knew the questions and she was only one of four on the answer panel, but she was pleased the Mothers’ Union was going from strength to strength. The weekly gathering showed warmth and friendship with a number of women attending who, like Eleanor, did not have children. Eleanor tried to look forward to the meeting, although she would have preferred to stay at home; her headache still troubled her.

  As she approached the vicarage she waved to Peter. ‘I’ve delivered your letters, Mrs. Windle,’ adding with a smile, ‘no exciting stamps on either of them.’ Eleanor thanked him and opening the door saw the letters on the hall floor: one for Arthur bearing the official Canchester Cathedral crest and, addressed to both of them, a letter from Arthur’s mother. Eleanor admired how Charlotte Windle always wrote in such positive fashion; her lively news with attendances at her branch of the Mothers’ Union, art classes and time with friends.