Regret to Inform You...

by Derek Jarrett

  There might be different mates each time he returned to the front, but mates just the same. They only knew each other for a brief time, but most would willingly have given their lives for one another.

  How could his parents, how could anyone back home know what it was like to stand for twenty-four hours up to one’s waist in water? The rain was almost as bad as the shells, neither ever stopped. Rats abounded and open excreta had to be chucked out of the trench hoping that some poor devil would spread lime on it; if that did not happen the men would find themselves crawling out through it. The agonies of trench fever and trench foot became more and more common; trench fever gave severe diarrhoea and extreme weakness, and standing in the water all the men feared trench foot. Albert had one mate, Pokey, who had first felt numbness in a foot, then swelling and open sores and eventually gangrene. The toes rotted; the pain had been agonising.

  Into 1918 it had got worse. After a rare advance, Albert and some 300 men had found themselves abandoned in a wilderness. The only shelter was shell-holes scattered across a stretch of destroyed and desolate wasteland. No one really knew what was happening, but the order came through that all were to stay in their position. Albert was there for three days; it rained incessantly. On first sheltering in the shell-hole, some five feet deep and thirty feet wide, he found he had three companions: a dead German, a dead horse and one fellow soldier. His new mate’s name was Martin, a New Zealand private. When they realised they were likely to be there for longer than made any sense, he and Martin managed to bury the German and the horse in the stinking mud of the sloping shell-hole wall. For themselves they tried to dig cave holes into the side, but within hours their intended shelter had filled in with the slithering mud wall.

  To both men the extraordinary thing was that their new sanctuary, and there were other men in similar shell-holes in this surreal area, became known and then accepted by a higher echelon in the military. Each day, minimal rations were brought to them by some poor devil struggling through the sea of mud; they really had no idea where he came from. Each day a two-gallon petrol tin of tea, further wrapped in a small box of straw attempting to keep it warm, had arrived; Albert could still taste the petrol-flavoured tea. This had been accompanied by bread, butter which was often floating in foul water and a tin of bully beef, for which Albert had a makeshift opener. The saving grace for Albert was the company of Martin Grayson who was twenty-four. His grandfather had emigrated to New Zealand as a young man from Camlachie in Glasgow. Albert had found his new mate’s accent attractive and gently reassuring as he went on to speak of his time before joining the forces to defend the mother country.

  ‘After a while in Auckland, my grandfather moved near to Christchurch. He married the daughter from another farming family who had left Scotland around the same time. They had three children who worked on either the farm or in the timber industry. The youngest was my father and after working hard he managed to buy a small area of land near a place called Little River. It was there he met my mother and I grew up on this farm where sheep were the main thing. They never told me, but I think they just could not have any more children, so I was the only one.’ He smiled, ‘And I didn’t arrive until mum was nearly forty.’

  ‘Was the farm successful?’ asked Albert.

  ‘Well, it was never easy, but dad got by and it slowly prospered and he added more land. I always loved helping dad on the farm and so when I finished at school there was only one thing I wanted to do. My mother had never enjoyed the best of health and by the time dad was sixty he found it quite hard. It was all right then because I was around, but when I left them for this,’ he extended his arms, opening out his hands to indicate their location, ‘I knew dad would have difficulty. He managed to get old Zeb in to help, but I’m sure they both struggle as Zeb is around the same age as dad. I can’t wait to get back home.’

  This was the friendship between mates that Albert loved; it was the only good part. The two went on talking about their families and friends back home and the jobs they had done before the war. Albert listened eagerly to Martin’s stories about his farm. ‘It’s a beautiful place,’ Martin said with great enthusiasm, ‘the rolling hills seem to go on for ever, we have a beautiful stone church and like you I enjoyed my schooldays. And then there’s the sea, it’s not very far away and we always loved messing about in the water. We even have a railway station that runs in from Lincoln, mainly carrying timber.’ Amazing, thought Albert, that his mate had come all the way from the other side of the world to fight in this godforsaken place; for what?

  It was the next day whilst they continued to swap memories that a furrow came to Martin’s brow when he was talking about the excitement of shearing time. ‘There’s only one thing that really worries me, Albert.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Well, what will happen to mum and dad if I don’t get back? Suppose something happens to me over here, how will they manage?’

  They fell into a silence. The incessant gunfire from both sides continued, broken only by the savagely rhythmic sound of less frequent machine-gun fire, but all sounded a good distance away. Here in this filthy shell-hole they felt strangely distanced from the war.

  ‘Martin, your Little River sounds a wonderful place. Before the war I thought I might go abroad; some guys in our village went off to Canada and what I heard sounded good. I should think New Zealand is just as good.’

  ‘Or better,’ smiled Martin.

  ‘I guess so, maybe I should go there when all this is over – if I survive.’

  ‘Albert, I’m sure you would love it. I wonder, I just wonder if you would think of going to work on my dad’s farm if anything happens to me?’

  On what turned out to be their last day in the shell-hole before they received the order to retreat, Albert found himself promising Martin that if the New Zealander was killed he would go and help his father. He was not sure whether Doris would accompany him; he thought not.

  To Albert, the three days in the shell-hole had been an escape; strangely, a period of tranquillity. As soon as he had clambered out and joined in the plodding through the all too familiar mud for what seemed like miles, the trembling and fear returned; every sound from a gun caused another quiver to run through his body; both gunfire and shake became continuous.

  He had been one of many who received brief care in the field hospital hastily constructed on a small hillside to escape the worst of the filthy mud and after treatment he was given six days’ rest. With body marginally repaired, but his mind in turmoil, Albert had been examined by a young doctor and declared fit to return to duty. More than once he thought of ending his life; it was unfair that in the many attacks on enemy positions he was spared while others fell. Then, as the rains died and the warmth of spring and early summer promised some hope, Doris’ letter had arrived. Whatever the confusion of the past months, he had a clear picture of Doris: engaging smile, tumbling hair, a lovely body and their shared times of passion. Now this was over. Perhaps she had found someone else; it did not matter, she had finished with him. All over.

  Finding himself huddled in this trench facing the fresh German onslaught, it was probably chance that he found himself next to Mike, an older man, that saved him from tipping right over the edge into madness. Albert realised that this slightly-built, balding man shared the same fears as himself; his trembling at each crash of gunfire and a face that was pale, emaciated and unsmiling. The enemy assault reached such a climax, retreat orders were inevitable.

  It was sometime later, how many days Albert had no idea, that he found himself resting in a barn with Mike alongside him. They occasionally talked, each recognising the other’s fear. Private Mike Marsden was thirty-nine and had joined the army when conscription had come in. He was a passionate family man with eight children and a wife who suffered badly from asthma; he had hated leaving his small Yorkshire village and family. He, too, had been through terrible times in the Somme and had felt growingly certain of his own forthcoming death.
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  Soon fresh orders arrived. The Germans had rapidly advanced several miles but, for reasons unknown to the allied command, their battalions had come to a halt. Rumours trickled through that they had run out of ammunition or that the Americans caused an unexpected halt to their advance; all that Albert and Mike knew was that they were ordered back to the front line. It was on the second evening in their hurriedly dug-out trench they were told of a fresh initiative: an attack would take place at 06.30 the following morning. Albert had prepared for so many attacks that he responded automatically: gun cleaned and other weapons checked. His new mate Mike, who was alongside him, offered a hurried prayer. The summer morning was grey and as the time approached, the great roar of allied guns presaged the assault and a dense smokescreen was laid to conceal the attack; a tactic too well known by the Germans. The whistle blew at 06.30 precisely; no scramble up a makeshift ladder from this shallow trench, just the clamber over the top and then the crouching, dipping and weaving run that Albert had adopted so many times. The Germans adopted their normal response with blind fire, but random though it was, Albert saw men dropping on all sides and heard screaming as he ran on and on. Unlike earlier times when massive barbed-wire walls had been erected, there had been no time for such enemy defences. Albert ploughed on, one of a mad, fiendish band of khaki-clad figures; suddenly they were in the enemy makeshift trenches, time had not allowed deep digging. Enemy arms were raised and guns thrown aside: a victory at last.

  The sun cut through the clouds and the warmth matched the elation that descended on most of the men; not on Albert. He had survived again. It was the next day when Lieutenant Roebuck was carrying out an inspection that the young officer stopped and pointed at Albert and some men nearby: ‘You eight men get back to number two line and report to Sergeant Manning. He’s got a job for you.’ Turning to the man next to Albert, the Lieutenant added: ‘Corporal Brownlow, you’re in charge.’

  Thirty minutes later, a shock awaited the men. The exhausted-looking Sergeant Manning briefly explained: ‘In the last attack one man refused to move. He tried to hide in the trench. A court martial has sentenced him to be executed. Six of you will be in the firing squad, you two,’ pointing at Albert and a fair-haired lad who barely looked out of school, ‘will guard him until the morning.’ The six men paled, this was the worst of all orders; Albert could only feel a little relief that he was not one of them.

  A second, more intense shock hit Albert a few minutes later when he and the other selected to act as a guard were marched by the sergeant to the prisoner; it was the shaking figure of Private Mike Marsden, the father of eight from Yorkshire. His prison was but a shell-hole, two privates stood nearby, rifles to the ready. They were to be replaced by Albert and the young private until the execution early the following morning. The condemned man did not look up when the guard change took place.

  That night Albert managed to engage his former mate in brief conversations. Although fear gripped every part of his body, Private Marsden understood that he was to die in a few hours. ‘My family, my Joyce, what will they do now? I have betrayed them,’ he broke down in to pitiful sobbing. That night Albert was more comforter than guard; the other guard sat by in his own world of mental distress.

  As the first glimmer of light showed on that July morning the execution party prepared. The six men in the firing squad knew that only two had loaded rifles, the other four with blanks; none would know who fired the fatal shot. But the next shots fired were not from any of these men, but a huge barrage of cannon fire followed by the earth shattering explosion of enemy shells. The Germans had launched a final, desperate assault in this sector of the Front. In this war when life or death frequently hinged on chance, a huge explosion shattered the area. The two guards were killed instantly, the execution party and condemned man either killed or severely injured in the blast which created yet another shell-hole in this pitiless landscape.

  In the last week of August, Peter Woods rode in to Rusfield carrying a telegram with the news of the thirty-fourth war death. A month later, Susannah and Sidney Jones received a package which contained a small identity disc bearing the name of their son, his number, rank, regiment and religious denomination.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  August - November 1918

  That two old soldiers, Sebastian de Maine and Robert Berry, were the first to seriously discuss the best way to commemorate the village men who had died was unsurprising. The idea spread with increasing intensity in the three drinking houses and George Cooper raised it at the St Mary’s church council. A village hall to be built on the land adjacent to the school, recommended by the Mothers’ Union, appeared the most favoured idea, although others soon emerged: a memorial garden at the school where the men had spent their young days and a stained-glass window at the west end of St Mary’s. A slightly boisterous discussion broke out at The Queens Head for the commemorative garden to be on the village green, not at the school, but Rachel Fielding suggested to her customers that a stone monument with the men’s names suitably inscribed be placed near the church.

  The morning service on the first Sunday in August fell on the eve of the national Bank Holiday, but in most minds, marked four years since the war had started. Arthur Windle had deliberated long over his sermon and after discussion with the Reverend Reggie Gregg at the Methodist chapel, decided to encourage the establishment of a memorial fund. On that day, which again saw a full church, he started: ‘My dear friends, I know there are different ideas how we can best commemorate the brave men who have died whilst serving our King and country, but I would earnestly suggest that we put on one side exactly how this be done; there will be time enough for that when the war is over. There are encouraging signs that the allied armies are gaining, but sadly, before the war ends there will be more men who will die.’ Even as he spoke, Arthur could see nods of agreement and when he spoke of starting a collection the nods of approval increased. Arthur knew that his good friend was putting forward the same idea at the Methodist chapel. By the following Sunday £17 13s 6d had been collected and the fund grew.

  However, the creation of a memorial fund provoked further anxiety. Thirty-six men with strong Rusfield connections had already died, but a further 182 were still fighting. The families of these men waited in fear; the rest of the village shared in their anxiety.

  For Doris Groves, fear was shared with remorse. Ever since Susannah and Sidney Jones had received news of the death of Albert, Doris had never been far from tears. A thousand times she wished she had never written the letter to him months earlier; why had she ever penned those words? She saw it as her own selfishness, her lack of understanding of him being torn from her and his family. She should have listened to her dear friend, Grace, who patiently bore the absence of her beloved Abraham with apparent composure. She knew life was full of “if onlys”, but if only she had posted the letter, she might have waited for Peter Woods and retrieved it, but no, she had gone to the postbox as he was emptying it and given the letter to him. Within minutes she had deeply regretted writing of ending their relationship, but by the time she had cycled into Steepleton and found Peter at the post office, the letter had gone to the railway station. Only Grace knew that the next day she had travelled to London where she thought the letter would go; maybe she could recover it. Her enquiries at the Liverpool Street post office took her on the underground train to Baker Street and then the short walk to Regent’s Park, but disappointment greeted her. The whole of Regent’s Park, which she had once been to on a family outing, was covered in a gigantic structure. She approached two guards who were hovering near the entrance to the park, but when she had asked one about reclaiming her letter, he had burst out laughing. The other, recognising the trembling nature of her question, threw up his hands and said, ‘I’m sorry, love. There is no chance. I don’t expect you know, but there are two and a half thousand ladies here sorting letters and parcels; they get through thousands each day. I’m sorry.’ Tears had clouded her return and had rarely st
opped whenever she was on her own. Doris’ anguish had not lessened in the four months since writing the letter in May.

  In the intervening months, news had come of the deaths of Billy Griggs and Jimmy Thomas whilst Charlie Wayman, still in a London hospital, had lost his left leg and would not be back home for three months. Fred Jackson or Jack Mansfield often drove Charlie’s wife, Freda, to Steepleton to visit her husband in London.

  It was on a misty day in late September that a remarkable event occurred; soon, and for many years to come, to be known as the “Rusfield miracle”, it was nothing less. Peter Woods had no idea of the life-changing nature of one letter he was carrying. He delivered a small package to Jack Mansfield, then called at the Jones’ house in Wood Lane but, as usual finding no one at home, decided to deliver it to their butcher’s shop in Pond Street. As with all those who had lost a loved one, Peter felt great sympathy; none more than towards Susannah and Sidney Jones. Pulling up outside the shop, he entered to find them as busy as ever; Susannah having just placed some beef and onion pies in the rear oven and Sidney behind the counter. Peter held the door open as Eliza Carey came out, bade her a good morning and took the few steps towards Susannah. ‘Good morning,’ he addressed her in his cheerful manner, ‘just one letter for you.’ After her acknowledgement and a greeting from her husband, Peter turned and left. He had seen a slight puzzlement on Susannah’s face as she took the letter; had he stayed a minute longer he would have heard her cry out. She had wiped her hands on her apron, opened the envelope, unfolded the letter and almost immediately collapsed on a nearby stool.