The Ghost of the Trenches

by Helen Watts

  ‘And they did just that. Every Rushbearing Day, as Billy turned thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and then sixteen, he could be seen alongside his friends and companions in the procession through the village, holding his harp high up in the air and smiling broadly.

  ‘But while the days in Grasmere remained peaceful and calm, life outside the little Lakeland village was far from either of those things, for the Great War had begun, and Lord Kitchener had put out his call for volunteers to fight the Allies’ campaign on the Western Front.

  ‘So not long after his seventeenth birthday, in 1915, Billy Peasecod exchanged his harp made of rushes for a standard issue rifle and joined the Border Regiment as a signaller. After saying a tearful goodbye to his mother and father, Billy set off for France.

  ‘It was the signaller’s job to send signals and messages back from the fighting to the Company’s headquarters, which meant that poor young Billy spent most of his days near the front line in the midst of all the action and, of course, the danger.

  ‘Those long, terrible days in the trenches left Billy feeling a lifetime away from the green valleys and rugged mountains of Lakeland and from his solid, little, slate-grey home, on the edge of the beautiful village, nestled between the River Rothay and the twinkling waters of Grasmere. But like King Saul, who found comfort in David’s harp playing before fighting the Philistines, Billy took comfort in his memories of home, of singing alongside his friends in the choir, and of those special days when he would carry his harp in the parade.

  ‘The war raged on. Two Rushbearing Days came and went and, watching the processions back in Grasmere village, Billy’s parents dreamed of the day when their son would be back and carrying his harp once again. But sadly their wish would never be fulfilled, for on 5 November 1917, nineteen-year-old Billy was killed on the battlefields of France.

  ‘Although they couldn’t bear to part with the harp, Billy’s mother and father could not face the thought of anyone carrying it in his place in the Rushbearing procession – not in the year after he died nor in the summers that followed. So gradually the harp fell into disrepair.

  ‘Eventually, Billy’s parents grew old and, one after the other, were put to rest in the cemetery at Great Cross at Grasmere. But their story, and that of the harp, and the story of the young choirboy with the beautiful Irish voice who became a soldier, lived on, as one generation of Billy’s family passed it down to the next.

  ‘And now I have passed it on to you,’ said the storyteller, lifting his panama hat and giving a little bow to his listeners.

  A ripple of applause ran round the small crowd. Thanking the storyteller, the people began to disperse, some to follow the procession into the church, others to make their way off around the village to do a little sightseeing.

  Only the little girl who had chuckled over Billy Peasecod’s name hung back. Tugging on the corner of storyteller’s waistcoat, she looked up into his whiskery face and asked: ‘But what about those people? The lady and the man who were carrying the harp just now? Who are they?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a very good question,’ said the storyteller, ‘as the answer closes the circle in Billy’s tale. They are members of the O’Neill family, Billy Peasecod’s relatives. As I said in my story, no one felt that it was right to carry Billy’s harp for a very long time after he died, but because it’s the Millennium Rushbearing this year, which makes it a very special year, Terry and Sarah O’Neill thought it would be nice to remember Billy. So they had that harp specially made. It’s an exact replica of the one Billy had.’

  The little girl nodded. ‘It’s a good story,’ she said. ‘I liked it. And I think I would have liked Billy too, if I had met him. Is it okay if I tell his story to my friends?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the storyteller. ‘I think Billy would like that very much indeed.’

  We Must Not Forget

  The following poem was written in 2012 by war veteran George Harrison of Kirkby Lonsdale, then in his 90th year. George’s father and grandfather were both Non-Commissioned Officers (NCOs) in the Territorial Army before the war broke out in 1914. Every Armistice Day, George can be seen standing next to Kirkby Lonsdale’s war memorial, reading out the names of local folk who have died at war, many of whom he knew.

  I don’t think they really knew

  That soldiering was not a game,

  Target practice was really fun

  And marching just the same.

  But then there was the horror

  Of tanks and gas and flame,

  We must not forget those

  brave young men

  Who came not home again.

  8: The Regiment That Vanished

  The story that follows, still widely known throughout central Lancashire, explains why the folk in this part of England have never forgotten the kindness of an order of French monks and continue to buy and consume produce from their monasteries as a measure of their gratitude.

  It is not the only First World War legend involving vanishing soldiers. There is also a tale about a regiment from Norfolk, known as the Sandringham Pals, who were fighting in Gallipoli in August 1915. The soldiers were seen marching up a hillside into a low-lying mist – but they never came out again. After the war, despite attempts by the British government to trace the missing men, they were never found.

  A British regiment known as the Lancashire Fusiliers was pinned down in a shell hole somewhere on the Siegfried Line in northern France. Things were looking grim. They were being picked off, a man at a time, by small arms fire from the German infantrymen in the trench a mere fifty yards opposite.

  But that was not their biggest concern. An even bigger worry was the German heavy gun emplacement just beyond that trench. The Fusiliers were well in its sights.

  The Lancashire men were not particularly devout Christians, but prayer was their only option. As they prayed, their hands clasped tight, a sixty-pound shell smacked into the mud just in front of their frail refuge. It created a monumental column of black smoke completely engulfing the terrified soldiers, whose only answer was to pray even harder.

  Daring to open their eyes, the soldiers were amazed to see several shadowy, robed figures beckoning them. They were sure that their prayers had been answered and these were angels.

  Under the cover of the thick black smoke, the Lancashire lads followed their cloaked saviours. It wasn’t until they reached the relative safety of a nearby monastery that they realised that the figures who had answered their prayers were, in fact, Benedictine monks. Protected inside the monastery walls, the soldiers and the Benedictine brothers knelt together in prayer.

  Back on the battlefield, the tower of black smoke had dispersed. To the amazement of the German gunners, peering down the sites of their great gun for a killer hit, the British regiment they had witnessed being engulfed within it, had completely disappeared.

  Along the British line, lookouts also marvelled at the disappearance of a whole regiment, especially as the next heavy shell – a ninety-pounder – smacked straight into the hole where the Lancashire boys had been cornered.

  Meanwhile, after precious hours resting in the monastery, where they were treated to both food and drink, the Lancashire Fusiliers prepared to return to the battlefield. Offering thanks and words of farewell to the monks, they marched off boldly, ready to pick up fresh orders.

  9: The Phantom Soldiers of Crecy

  The battles of the First World War were not the first to be fought on the fields and floodplains of France’s River Somme. Plenty more blood had been spilled on this land in the centuries which preceded it. Perhaps the ghosts of those poor souls lost in the past are drawn to those living who face the same dangers and fears as they did; for there are countless stories from the Great War of soldiers seeing ghosts and phantoms of military men – either on the battlefields themselves or in the surrounding villages and countryside. Here is one such tale.

  For the town of Wimereux, on the northern French coast, not far south from Calais, the Gre
at War really did live up to its name, for it transformed the town from a small port into a busy military hospital centre. By the end of the war, it even played host to the General Headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force.

  And it was to this town that a British staff colonel – a tall, striking, no-nonsense kind of man called Colonel Shepheard – was headed one late March afternoon in 1918. The Colonel was exhausted. His men had endured days of heavy, relentless bombardment in damp, foggy trenches, and even the support of the Australian forces could not hold back the German advance. The German Spring Offensive was taking its toll. So when he was ordered back to HQ for a briefing, the Colonel was secretly glad of the opportunity for a few hours’ respite.

  As soon as he climbed into the car and his driver and interpreter, Jean-Claude, started the engine, Colonel Shepheard wound down his window, hoping to let the cool air rush over his face and revive him. But the terrible noise of the continuing battle he was leaving behind him still filled the air, and he rapidly closed the window again, feeling both relieved and guilty at being able to shut it out.

  He didn’t feel like talking, but idle conversation with the Frenchman at his side helped the Colonel to stay awake for the journey north. So, as they passed through village after village, and wound their way to Wimereux, the pair passed the time sharing stories about their families and their loved ones left at home.

  By the time they reached their quarters in Wimereux, the sky was dark. The two men ate a meal together and then, dog-tired, they headed for their beds.

  The Colonel was glad of his first comfortable mattress in days and was soon in a deep sleep. Yet though he slept deeply and his tired bones rested, his mind was still active and he had a vivid dream.

  The Colonel dreamed of the journey he had made that day with Jean-Claude, retracing the route in his mind, as the car raced along from one village to the next. In his slumber, the Colonel re-lived every detail of his journey, with one significant difference. In his dream, just after the Colonel and his interpreter had passed through one small village, something made them slow down and stop the car. Neither man spoke. Neither one questioned the other. The pair simply stared along the road ahead of them in silence, watching and waiting.

  Then suddenly, out of the ground along either side of the road, rose thousands of ghostly figures. Each was wearing a silver-grey cloak with a hood pulled over his head. Some were carrying spears, others swords, but all held their weapons down, hanging limply at their sides. Although the phantoms did not move, nor make a sound, they shimmered in the dusk, like wisps of smoke in the gloomy air, and yet at the same time their shape, colour and form was clear.

  To his surprise, the Colonel found that he was calm and not at all afraid. Quietly, without a word to his driving companion, he stepped out of the car and began to walk slowly, up and down between the two lines of ghostly men.

  Still the figures made no noise, but as his gaze fell upon them, each phantom fixed its ghostly eyes on the Colonel and stared at him. The Colonel was overcome with a sense of sadness, for there was no anger in these silvery soldiers’ eyes, only sorrow and pain.

  The Colonel took a step towards one of the phantoms and reached out his hand to touch the edge of his cloak, but as soon as his fingers made contact with the luminous fabric…puff…it disintegrated into a silvery powder that floated down to his feet. It was as if his touch had broken a spell, for at that instant, every single one of the thousands of phantom soldiers simultaneously turned into dust and disappeared back into the earth from which he had sprung.

  When he woke the next morning, the Colonel remembered every detail of the dream and try as he might, he was unable to shake it from his mind. Over breakfast, he found himself sharing the details of his vision with his interpreter. Would the Frenchman think that the Colonel had gone mad, perhaps, and that the horror of battle had corrupted his mind?

  Not at all. For the interpreter listened intently, then when the Colonel had finished, he asked him about the village near where, in the dream, they had stopped the car.

  The Colonel did his best to describe the small village which he had now passed through twice – once on his real journey the day before, and once in his dream. He remembered a small cross or monument made from stone and red-brick, and driving by a beautiful yet unusual church with both a bell tower and a watchtower.

  The Frenchman took a sip of his coffee then nodded his head as he swallowed. ‘Without doubt,’ he said, ‘the village you are describing to me is Crécy, and the vision you have seen in your dream is not unknown to me. There are many others who have witnessed a similar sight. Your sleep has been invaded by the ghosts of the bowmen who died in the Battle of Crécy over 570 years ago.’

  The Frenchman told his companion all about the famous battle which took place at Crécy in 1346, during the Hundred Years War, when King Edward III’s army, although massively outnumbered by its French enemy led by Philip VI, was eventually victorious.

  The English owed their victory to their shrewd tactics, fighting on foot from a strong, defensive position on high ground. Fatigued from days of marching, the French crossbowmen, who marched at the front of the army, were at a major disadvantage. Their bows were wet and ineffective and they were fighting without the usual protection of their shields.

  Aware that his men were suffering heavy casualties, it was not long before the French leader ordered his army’s retreat and the English declared a decisive victory.

  At once the Colonel understood the pathetic, defeated look he had seen in the eyes of the phantoms that had lined his route in his dream. He understood, too, why the presence of an English military man, crossing their ancient, bloody resting place, might summon the spirits of an old French enemy, long since dead.

  10: Sergeant Stubby

  Have you ever heard someone describing a dog as ‘man’s best friend’? It is a well-used phrase because it sums up perfectly the companionship between people and domestic dogs, and the loyalty and love that dogs show towards their owners. Yet dogs can be more than just good friends. They can also be a source of practical help and support. Today, dogs carry out a range of jobs – from guiding the blind and assisting the disabled to rounding up sheep and sniffing out drugs and explosives.

  During World War I, there were thousands of working dogs who more than lived up to the name of ‘man’s best friend’. One of their most important jobs involved carrying messages to and from the trenches. Dogs could run faster than human messengers across ground which was often difficult, rough and muddy. Because they could move more quickly, it was harder for enemy snipers to spot and shoot them.

  Dogs were also employed to listen for – and sniff out – wounded soldiers, or enemies hiding in underground tunnels. Others were trained to pull along supply carts.

  Many of the dogs who went to war were much loved by the soldiers in the trenches. They offered comfort and companionship, especially to those who were homesick, wounded or dying.

  The following tale is inspired by one very special dog who went to France during the Great War. No one knows for sure where the truth about his adventure starts and ends, but the brave little dog has become a war legend on both sides of the Atlantic.

  If you are ever fortunate enough to travel to America and visit the neighbourhood of Georgetown in the capital city of Washington DC, you will discover that this is a university town, and if you look closely at the hats, T-shirts and hoodies that the athletics students wear, you will see that they bear the symbol of a bulldog.

  This is not just a symbolic animal image, like the speedy jaguar or the galloping horse used by famous car manufacturers, or the leaping springbok that the South African rugby team wears on its shirts. No, this is a real dog, a hero who became a legend, and his name was Stubby.

  In fact, Stubby was not a bulldog at all. He was what we call a cross-breed: half Boston terrier and half bull terrier, and considering that he became world-famous, this little dog’s life began very differently to how you might
imagine. For when he was a puppy, Stubby was either abandoned or lost by his owners. Alone, hungry and thirsty, the poor little pup found himself wandering the streets of New Haven in the American state of Connecticut.

  Goodness knows what he went through during those tough first days of his life. Perhaps he had to learn very quickly how to react to danger. Perhaps he had to set aside his fears and learn to be brave. But whatever he saw, whatever he did, the little dog learned how to survive.

  One day, while trotting along a street in the city, the little stray wandered onto the edge of a baseball field where a group of soldiers from the nearby military camp were training. They were being drilled ready to leave for the Great War, thousands of miles over the ocean in Europe.

  Tired from his wanderings, the stray dog lay down in the shade of a tree. He rested there all afternoon, watching the soldiers going through their paces. One of the soldiers, a corporal named Robert Conroy, had spotted the dog and was watching him out of the corner of his eye. Every time his drill sergeant turned away, Corporal Conroy would cast a glance to the side of the field to see if the little dog was still there. He wondered where he came from and who he belonged to, for he had never seen him there before.

  When the whistle finally blew and the training session was over, the corporal went down on one knee and whistled to the little dog. The dog pricked up his ears. The soldier whistled again and the dog sat up and wagged his tiny docked tail. Then the soldier patted his thigh and smiled.

  Sensing no danger, the chestnut-brown pup scampered across the field, his tongue lolling happily from one side of his mouth. As soon as he reached the soldier he gambolled onto the grass and rolled over onto his back, presenting his soft white tummy for a tickle.