Blood and Thunder

by Alexandra J Churchill

  The morning of 23 April, Easter Sunday and St George’s Day, dawned misty, ‘a dense sea fog’ that wrapped itself around the dunes and left them with no visibility at all. The soft sand meant that anyone approaching the little camp would have their movement completely muffled. At Oghratina the Worcesters were taken completely by surprise at dawn. The Turks, so it seemed, stumbled upon them as they passed westward along the old caravan route towards Qatiya. The new camp held out for three hours, but two whole squadrons of Yeomanry and their well-digging counterparts vanished into the desert, including two OEs.2 The Turkish troops eyed their surroundings clinically, left some men to deal with the prisoners and then headed for Qatiya and the Royal Gloucestershire Yeomanry Hussars.

  Tom Strickland had gathered up his men at 3.30 a.m. They saddled up their horses and stood to arms in the thick fog. Ordinarily a mounted patrol would have followed an hour or so later, but blinded by the mist, Michael Baker called it off until the weather improved. A little while later ghostly spectres loomed silently up in front of them, just a few feet in front of the part of the line where Ego was stationed. The men called out, but when no response came Ego ordered them to open fire. A few shots were exchanged and the ghosts faded back into the mist. Just a few moments later, the crackling of rifle fire opened up 5 miles away at Oghratina, just as the Gloucester’s main telephone wire back to the larger camp at Romani was cut.

  At 6.30 a.m. the fog had cleared slightly but, urged on by the sound of fighting nearby, Michael Baker managed to get a patrol out. They returned having seen nothing. As daylight came on and havoc was being wreaked on the unfortunate Worcesters several miles away, the Gloucesters began cautiously taking their horses down to the palm grove in groups and small parties went to breakfast. Tom went off with Ego and they sat discussing the incidents of the morning so far and talked up their chances of a proper mounted infantry action against the Turks. They ate nervously. One of their men was halfway through his meal when he got word that more figures were emerging from the dissipating mist but after a few shots were fired, again they faded away. The last telephone message came in from Oghratina at 7.30 a.m., news that the Worcesters were surrounded on all sides. Shortly after this silence fell over the desert.

  Michael Baker immediately began sending outposts to points a mile from the camp to attempt to detect the enemy, NCOs with three men each. One corporal, Smith, was immediately suspicious of the behaviour of the Bedouins. He sent a message to Baker who ordered him to take no risks: ‘Shoot and shoot to kill’. Then he heard a sniper’s bullet whistle past his ear. Smith was off of his horse taking vengeful potshots in the direction of his assailant when he saw a dark crowd coming towards the camp. Jumping back on his horse, Corporal Smith and his companion scarpered. The fog was still thick enough that most of the patrols could barely see a few yards. ‘Shots were flying all round us and no one to be seen!’ One of the patrols ominously failed to return.

  Tom Strickland took out five men, tentatively edging towards Oghratina to see whether he could make head or tail of what had happened to the Worcesters. They softly edged across the sand on horseback for a mile, when a scout he had sent out in front came galloping back in a panic. Hundreds of Turks were heading towards the camp at Qatiya. Tom climbed up to the top of a small ridge in front and sure enough, coming out of the mist less than 500 yards away were, it seemed, well over a thousand men advancing towards them. There were lines of cavalry and twice as many infantry in extended order, with a trail of men on camels behind and, worst of all, artillery. Under a smattering of rifle fire, Tom turned and galloped for Qatiya where Lloyd-Baker ordered all the horses out of the way and all the men ready to defend their position. Scrambling back into camp the first officer Corporal Smith found was Ego, who told him to pass his horse over to the men detailed to hold on to them and then start scratching himself some cover in the sand.

  Shortly after nine in the morning, having annihilated the camp at Oghratina, the Turks began a full on assault of the Gloucesters at Qatiya with long-range rifle fire. Ego took up a position next to their one and only machine gun, Tom was 30 yards away to his right. Within moments the Turkish barrage opened, the first twenty shells burst high and then the artillery corrected their range with the help of aeroplanes buzzing overhead.

  It came as an utter surprise, according to Tom Strickland, as the Gloucesters had been led to believe that the Turks had no artillery at all in Sinai. Shrapnel began pouring into the camp and burst amongst the horse lines. Michael Baker crawled up to Ego and Tom. He had telegraphed brigade HQ to ask if he should retire and fight a rearguard action back to Romani, but he was told to stay where he was and get as close to the guns as possible and he would shortly be relieved. Both Tom and Ego began cursing headquarters as ‘showing a complete misunderstanding of the situation’. They expected one 100 men to hold on in the face of over 1,000 troops plus artillery when they still had horses available to mount and ride away in a controlled manner back to Romani.

  Just before gunfire erupted at Qatiya another OE, a Colonel Coventry, commanding a second contingent of the Worcesters, had set out in the direction of the Gloucesters. They got halfway there when the shrapnel began to fly. Coventry had been ordered to reinforce ‘if necessary’ and he immediately decided that it was, but as he and his men came up on the left of Ego, Tom and A Squadron at about 10.30 a.m. the artillery suddenly ceased. Having dismounted and approached cautiously on foot, Coventry took in the scene. Looking at the piles of mangled horses, and bearing in mind that another Turkish force was apparently advancing which could encircle them, he decided that for him retirement was the only course of action.

  Meanwhile, having learned that they were expected to return to their posts and stay there, Ego and Tom had done just that. They were thrilled to see Coventry and his men gallop into the palm grove to their rear, dismount and begin to approach the camp. In front of the Gloucesters, the Turks had begun advancing in short, sharp rushes, taking cover in between whilst officers in uniforms that looked suspiciously German galloped about on horseback orchestrating proceedings. Casualties began to mount, worst of all amongst the tied-up horses, whose ranks had been devastated by shrapnel. It seemed, though, that help was at hand as in addition to Charles Coventry’s Worcesters, the remaining squadrons of the Gloucesters had come into sight a mile off to the left. More firing was heard in the distance and Tom assumed it was the Warwickshire Yeomanry somewhere nearby. For a few moments the Turkish advance seemed to stall. Then everything fell apart.

  Coventry was ecstatic to see the rest of the Gloucesters appear and eagerly awaited some kind of communication. As far as he could make out they were setting up a machine gun. But then, to his astonishment, just as the Turkish guns restarted their deadly barrage using an aeroplane dropping smoke bombs to direct their fire, the relieving party turned and headed in the opposite direction.

  As soon as they had come on to the scene, the Turks had turned all their fire on these Gloucesters who found themselves in a futile position and turned for home, lest they be annihilated. Poor Micky Quenington had survived his wife by a matter of weeks. Carrying a message back towards brigade headquarters he was struck in the thigh and died before his colleagues could get him back to Romani. Now, to make things worse, more Turks were arriving from the direction of Oghratina, riding the horses of the slaughtered Worcesters.

  Ego’s soldier servant Scorgie had been badly hit whilst carrying up batches of ammunition. ‘I’ve got it,’ he told Ego. ‘Where have you got it?’ ‘Through the groin,’ poor Scorgie replied. Having ascertained that he was able to crawl, Ego dispatched him in the direction of the Red Cross tent. Scorgie had been lying there about an hour when Ego himself came in, minus his coat and with a red, silk handkerchief tied around his bleeding shoulder. Tom had watched his brother-in-law retire and he was out of sight long enough for his men to begin to panic, but shortly afterwards Ego reappeared with his arm properly dressed. Tom crawled over to find out if he was all right and Ego a
ssured him that it was a simple rifle bullet through the fleshy part of his upper arm. It didn’t even hurt, apparently, and he was ready to come back into the fray. He went back to giving his men their ranges, cheering them on and encouraging them, scrabbling in the sand from place to place and looking through his field glasses to direct the men’s fire.

  The Gloucesters were rapidly becoming exhausted. Sand had got into their rifles and the sun became so hot that the men were burning their hands trying to operate them. They felt as if they were being cooked alive. Tom Strickland’s men were running out of ammunition and Ego began tossing bandoliers over to him from some boxes surrounding the machine gun, ‘delighted when he made a good shot … and equally annoyed if he made a bad shot’. Both of them, when they were not passing out ammunition or directing fire, were grabbing the rifles of their dead men and joining in the shooting.

  At lunchtime Ego was wounded for a second time when a shell fragment knocked him off his feet and again he trotted 50 yards back into the RAMC tent. Scorgie was dismayed. ‘Oh sir,’ he sighed. ‘Why do you not retire, you are twice wounded?’ Ego was adamant that his continued presence would show courage and boost the dwindling ranks, so having had his thigh bound up he told Scorgie not to bother about him and he went back outside.

  Shortly afterwards a shell came flying over, scored a direct hit on the tent and set it on fire. Ego crawled back with a few men to help the doctor rescue the badly wounded, including Scorgie, from the blaze, dragging them to relative safety behind some bales of hay.The situation had become dire and, watching from afar, Colonel Coventry could render no assistance. The Turkish artillery fire had been creeping closer and closer to his Worcesters and, without the assistance of the other two Gloucester Squadrons, approaching the scene meant certain death. There was nothing he could do but sit and hope that further reinforcements would turn up, but this was not to be. The enemy was within 400 yards and Coventry’s priority now was to load his own wounded on to camels and horses and evacuate them from the scene. Any hope of assisting Ego and Tom’s shrinking squadron had gone.

  They watched as the Turkish infantry came closer and closer. They were within 150 yards. Shells rained into the camp, disrupting the attempts of the few survivors to keep firing on the approaching enemy. After six hours fighting in the blazing heat, the Gloucesters were fully aware of what was coming next. Their telephone operator had bravely kept up communications, but now he sent out a call saying that they could not hold out much longer. The Turks had closed to within 50 yards. They fixed their bayonets and charged what little remained of the camp at Qatiya. Tom ordered his men to keep firing until they were swamped, outnumbered three or four to one, in a hand-to-hand fight.

  The surviving men had waited for an order to charge, but instead Tom took the initiative and surrendered, ordering a ceasefire. Ego’s squadron was baffled. Nobody had taught them what to do in the event of surrender. The Gloucesters began throwing their hands up and for an awful moment it looked as if they might feel the sharp point of a bayonet anyway, but then Tom was relieved to see German officers arrive and take charge.

  Watching from afar, Coventry was sulking at the sight of Tom’s white flag because nobody consulted him before throwing it up. The Turks busily packed up ammunition, tents, water, rifles and anything else they could carry and began loading it on to camels. They arranged the wounded in rows, dressing the injuries of the men that they intended to take as prisoners. Once they had moved off, ‘Arabs’ arrived and they were far less accommodating. They stripped the dead and badly wounded of their clothes and their weapons and even their helmets so that they had no shade. Some were garrotted. One lucky trooper had telegraph wire wrapped around his neck but it snapped so they just left him lying there. Another trooper was beaten with a sword. ‘They made me take my coat off,’ he complained, ‘and then went away with it. I never had any water and one of them came to me and said “English finish, Turk Port Said …” and some of the women were spitting at us.’

  The Australians and New Zealanders who had been marked to take over the area arrived a few days later to find the wounded still strewn through the desert. All about the camp men and horses lay still dying whilst others half burrowed into the sand looking for shade. Heaps of spent cartridges lay next to the bodies; some of them garrotted and others bayonetted or tortured by the Bedouin. One trooper had been lying next to a wounded officer,;shot through the neck, he kept trying to speak, despite his injuries. Men were crawling through the sand, delirious and looking for water. The nights were so cold that they lay shivering and unable to sleep.

  Scorgie lay in the sand for three days. All he could talk about when the Australian Light Horse found him was whisky and Ego. He kept telling them to look for Lord Elcho, that he might be alive and wounded elsewhere in the sand. ‘Search, oh search everywhere. Please go and search until you find him.’

  It was decided that Micky Quenington ought to be taken to lay beside his recently deceased wife. Men of the regiment acted as his pall-bearers and he was given a funeral in Cairo. Michael Lloyd-Baker was amongst the fallen; shot through the stomach he was much maligned for not withdrawing his force but, as Tom Strickland bore witness, his fellow OE had been expressly told to stay put and that help was on the way.

  Tom had remained unscathed until the last five minutes when he got ‘a slight touch’ on the elbow and a wound to the shoulder. The Turks were in a hurry to leave with their prisoners, edgy about a counter-attack. They refused to let Tom or his men get their overcoats from their tents, forcing them to line up in fours, including the walking wounded. A German colonel then appeared speaking English and removed their papers. He even commiserated with Tom when he saw a letter amongst his things saying that he was a couple of weeks away from a month’s leave to England. Hungry, tired and scared about what would happen to them next they moved off.

  The German officer was a ‘decent sort of man’. He praised the Gloucesters for their courage and when he found out just how few of them that there had been ‘he thumped his fist into his hand and said, ‘You have put up a good fight!’ Tom watched his colleagues hobbling pitifully along towards Beersheba. Unknowing British airmen dropped bombs on them to compound their misery, inflicting further damage on the wounded . They were marched along, day and night for hours at a time. The Mecca Camel Corps passed them, taunting them with fierce songs. Even their German leader admitted that he was afraid of being pushed aside with his Turks and that his bag of prisoners would be murdered.

  The Countess of Wemyss, still mourning the very recent loss of Yvo at Loos, was of a spiritual nature. On the night before the Turkish attack, she recalled, she had had an odd nightmare at Stanway: ‘I felt the stress and the strain and saw, as if thrown on a magic lantern sheet, a confused mass of black smoke splashed with crimson flame; it was like a child’s picture of the battle or explosion and in the middle of it I saw Ego standing.’

  A few days later, before the Anzac troops had found the survivors at Qatiya, the family read that there had been a scrap east of the canal where the Gloucesters were known to be. News of Viscount Quenington’s death arrived immediately but for the rest, there was a strange silence. Letty telegraphed from Egypt to say that Ego and Tom were both prisoners and that Ego had been slightly wounded, but that was all she knew, which was agonising for his wife who couldn’t bear the thought that Ego was most likely being marched further and further away from her.

  An officer from one of the other Gloucester squadrons went out to Qatiya to interrogate the Australian troops who had taken over the camp. He returned supremely confident that none of the bodies found could have been Ego. Letty was now ecstatic, for he would at least be safe until the end of the war. Mary too, frantic for news of her new husband Tom and of her brother, sought and was given permission to interview the wounded Gloucesters now lying in Egyptian hospitals. They also had the US Consul in Cairo wire the American embassy in Constantinople before she and Letty packed up and returned to England to be with the
family. A few days after the officer returned from interviewing the Anzac men, a note arrived from Tom, merely telling her that he was alive. To Letty’s utter despair it said nothing of his brother-in-law; his captors had forbidden it.

  On 10 June the telephone rang when the countess was sitting in her husband’s sitting room to say that the Red Cross had found Ego; that he was a prisoner of war and had ended up in Damascus. ‘We were wild with joy.’ Then, silence. No further information was forthcoming ‘and hope began to fade again’. Lord Wemyss repeatedly called at the American embassy, desperate for news, but then a telegram arrived from the Red Cross. It nullified their previous statement and confirmed that Ego was killed in the dying moments of the fight at Qatiya. Letty assumed a position of complete denial. Ego’s eldest sister, Cynthia, rushed to her and together they survived ‘that first dreadful night’. A padre with the Australian Light Horse came to tea and claimed to have found Ego with two volumes of Herodotus beside him and to have buried him himself. The Turks and the Arabs had stripped him of his clothes and he covered him with sand until they could go back and conduct a proper burial. It would be weeks before Tom could get a proper letter off. It was soon corroborated by the testimony of one of the troopers who wrote: ‘Lord Elcho wounded twice then shell blew out his chest, acted magnificently.’ ‘He was killed instantaneously,’ Tom was finally able to reveal. ‘Michael Baker was killed quite early on and Ego took command … The men put up a splendid fight until an hour after he was killed, when … [we] were surrounded and had to surrender.’ Tom had watched as, when the Turks had approached to within 150 yards, a shell came careening towards the machine-gun post and burst exactly where he had seen Ego lying. When the smoke cleared, neither Ego nor the man that had been with him was anywhere to be seen. As the Turks had rounded up their prisoners Tom had gone to the spot, but Ego and all traces of his equipment had vanished. The Countess of Wemyss had now lost two sons in the space of six months. Ego’s once reluctant servant, the gruff Scorgie, recovered from his wounds and answered her invitation to visit Stanway. When he arrived on her doorstep in Gloucestershire to talk to her about her eldest son’s last hours he was in floods of tears.