Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel)

by B A Lightfoot

  The morale of the soldiers in the trenches was reaching breaking point and it was decided that the battalions in the Division should be given a break from the front line. In the second week of July, the 1/8 Lancashire Fusiliers were taken over on trawlers from ‘V’ beach to the island of Imbros where they spent a welcome four days encamped at the Kephalos Rest Camp.

  Given the opportunity to choose, they would probably not have elected to spend their days on Imbros in further, seemingly irrelevant, training. The high command had, however, deemed this to be an appropriate way to relieve the stress of the suffering soldiers.

  ‘Digging bloody trenches,’ Liam grumbled as they made their way to the bar after another tedious day of instruction. ‘We’ve been living in sodding trenches for the last three months. What do we want to know about digging trenches for? We’d be better off having lectures on how to turn Big Charlie into a giant fly paper.’

  ‘Hey. Don’t start getting plans like that for me,’ Big Charlie said, suddenly alarmed by the prospect of being enlisted into such a sticky and unpleasant role. He knew from bitter experience that Liam’s spontaneous ideas often led to hurried actions that were later much regretted.

  ‘It did seem a waste of time, all that trench stuff,’ agreed Edward. ‘But that bit about the tunnelling under the Turkish lines could be a good idea.’

  The atmosphere in the bar was heavy with cigarette smoke, barely disturbed by the slowly turning fan. Loud laughter from the officers’ table in the corner rose stridently over the hubbub of chatter from the soldiers crowded round the bar. A drunkenly barking voice, nauseatingly familiar, silenced the bar.

  ‘It’s the rabble from Salford come to join us,’ Fforbes-Fosdyke shouted. ‘I hope that the steward has enough barrels of beer in.’ His fellow officers smiled weakly whilst he appeared to find the remark hilarious. ‘Hey, bogman,’ he bellowed addressing himself directly to Liam. ‘Fetch us another bottle of whisky. I know that’s one thing you’re good at.’ His sweating red face erupted into a cloud of flying spittle as he laughed uproariously at his belittling humour.

  The crowd in the bar, suddenly tense, turned to look at Liam whose face was white and taut with anger. He muttered something inaudible but didn’t move.

  ‘Come on, you miserable little Irishman,’ the drink crazed Major shouted. ‘A bottle of whisky over here and be quick about it.’ Liam’s fists clenched and hate burned in his eyes but he didn’t move.

  ‘What’s the matter, you pathetic paddy? Don’t you understand the King’s English? Obey an order when you’re given one by a superior officer… else you and that good-for-nothing Irish tart that you’re married to will be back where you belong… cutting peat.’

  Big Charlie hmmphed loudly. ‘I’ll just go and squash the little runt,’ he said, stepping forward.

  ‘Leave it, Charlie’ Liam instructed, restraining him. ‘That way you’ll just finish up on a charge.’

  ‘It’d be worth it,’ Big Charlie growled. ‘The little fat sod deserves a good thumping.’

  ‘It’s ok. I’ll sort it.’ Liam swallowed hard then moved across the room, pausing to speak to a small group amongst the soldiers thronging round the bar drinking from pint pots. Edward and Big Charlie followed closely, concerned about their friend’s intentions. The men huddled round and one of them reached into his pocket, extracted a canvas wallet and passed a small packet discreetly to Liam.

  After a brief conversation with the barman, Liam carried the bottle of whisky over to the officers’ table where the gloating Major cackled with delight, bouncing in his chair with the thrill of his power. His fellow officers, relieved at this peaceful resolution of a potentially nasty situation, guffawed and snorted their approval.

  ‘Hope that you gentlemen enjoy your drink,’ Liam said placidly, before adding in an affected broad Irish accent, ‘It was actually my Granda’ that came over in the potato famine … sir. Although I do believe that your family have done quite well out of starving Irish folk since then.’

  The officers laughed uncomfortably at this riposte but the Major, bulging eyes swivelling as he struggled to grasp the significance of the comment, spluttered feebly and poured a large whisky.

  ***

  ‘Well, all I can say is that that was getting a bit personal. He seems to have some vendetta going against you.’ Edward drew on his cigarette and looked at the flies going round the paraffin lamp. They were lying on their beds in the dormitory tent having decided to forego the beers that they had planned. The bar had still been buzzing with appreciation for Liam when they had turned and walked out. ‘I mean, bringing your Brig into it like that,’ he continued. ‘He was really out of order with that.’

  ‘He needs a big fist shoving down his throat,’ Big Charlie suggested, waving his own threateningly in front of him to demonstrate his intention. ‘That’d shut his stupid mouth up for a bit.’

  ‘You can’t shut somebody like that up unless you shoot him,’ Liam observed bitterly. ‘He’s been raised as a spoilt little brat and he still thinks that everybody is there at his beck and call.’

  ‘Perhaps some Turk or German will do us all a favour then and snuff out the miserable little bugger.’

  ‘They’ll never get near enough to him to do that,’ Edward said. ‘If there is any action going, he’s never to be seen.’

  ‘They’d just have to go three miles behind our lines and look for the nearest bar,’ Liam observed curtly, inhaling deeply on his Woodbine and sending circles of smoke curling up towards the canvas apex.

  ‘He was right out of order saying things about Brig,’ Big Charlie said, rolling over in his bed and thumping the floor. ‘The dirty little, snot-faced pervert.’

  ‘Leave it, Charlie,’ Liam chided. ‘Thumping him will sort nothing out. He’ll like as not be a bit out of sorts for the next few days anyway.’

  ‘Would that by any chance have anything to do with the packet that you had off the fella in the bar?’ Edward enquired.

  ‘Aye, it might just have been,’ Liam agreed, permitting himself a weak smile.

  ‘What was it? Hopefully arsenic. That would be a lot more painful than just shooting him,’ Edward said.

  ‘Not quite that bad. That was Billy Carter I was talking to. Used to work with the mules at Clifton Colliery. He’s with the Transport Company now. I borrowed one of those powders that they give the horses when they are bound up. Slipped it in the whisky bottle.’

  ‘But that means all the officers will have the runs,’ Edward said, now feeling slightly alarmed.

  ‘It won’t be too bad. The barman said that, apart from Major Gobshite, they are mostly drinking beer with just the occasional chaser.’

  ‘You know, I’m beginning to like that,’ Big Charlie said, calming down slightly as he warmed to Liam’s solution. ‘I’m beginning to like that a lot. With a bit of luck the little sod might just shit himself away to nothing. Yes, I like that. Here, have another Woodie you two.’

  They lay quietly for a while listening to the hissing paraffin lamp, the chattering cicadas in the fields and the prattling soldiers in the bar. Occasional rumbling explosions reminded them of the hostilities on the mainland.

  ‘Big Charlie’s right in a way,’ Edward broke into the contemplative quiet. ‘You know, having a go at the likes of us is one thing but bringing our wives into it the way he just did is right out of line. Has he come across your Brig before or something? I mean, how does he know that she is Irish anyway?’

  ‘It goes back a long time,’ Liam said after a long pause. ‘When she was at home. There’s a lot of houses round Hulme and Salford that were owned by Gobshite’s Dad and he used to send that little bastard out to collect the rent. One day, Brig came home during her dinner break at the mill because her Mam had been taken bad. She found that slimebag in the scullery groping her thirteen year old kid sister. Poor little sod was too terrified to scream, especially with her Mam ill upstairs in bed.’

  ‘That is evil’ Edward said. ‘What did
Brig have to say about that?’

  ‘Well, you know what she was like when she was sixteen. Never a one for wasting words when action was possible. She fetched him one with a cast iron frying pan round the back of the head.’

  ‘Bloody good for her,’ Big Charlie enthused, emphasising his point by thumping the side of his bed which twanged loudly. ‘She always packed quite a punch, your Brig,’ he added ruefully, remembering his own encounters with the beautiful but intimidating girl.

  ‘It just seemed a good idea at the time but next day he sent his stooges down and they were put out on the street. Her dad was already dead so there they were, four kids with a sick mother sat out on the flagstones on a suitcase in the middle of winter. They spent the next five nights in next door’s coal shed. Her mam just got worse and died. They buried her in a paupers’ grave in Weaste cemetery. Brig found somewhere to stay in the cellar of a house that was rented by another Irish family. Trouble was, the drains used to flood and the crap would come up from the communal toilet. Her three year old sister got sick and died. Brig just didn’t know what to do but she found out where the Fforbes-Fosdykes lived in Prestwich and went round there and smashed his front windows. Some of the blokes who worked there grabbed her and took her inside to see the old man. She told him what had happened and he got the son in and flogged him in front of everybody. Bit humiliating, I suppose, for a twenty year old fella. Had to take it though when his old man is holding the purse strings. But it didn’t get her Mam and the little girl back. And she was still homeless.’

  The three friends were silent for a moment before Edward spoke. ‘I knew Brig had had it tough, mate, but I didn’t realise how tough. He deserved that flogging. It should have been done in the middle of Cross Lane market.’

  As the detail of Brig’s childhood ordeal had unfolded, Big Charlie had become less animated but smoked incessantly. He lay staring rigidly up at the roof of the tent. ‘Aye, it should. It didn’t change the slimy little bastard, though,’ he said finally.

  ***

  The trenches in Krithia Nullah were suddenly bursting with activity. The Division had been strengthened with the arrival of 1500 men and 47 officers from England on the 23 July though these had not been enough to make up the losses that had already been suffered. The troops, along with large quantities of supplies and ammunition, had been brought in by British ships adapted to give protection against enemy torpedoes and artillery fire. The Turkish army had, at the same time and with greater effect, been building their own reserves with the introduction of new troops, guns and ammunition. They had continued to pound the British positions relentlessly and, in just one morning, seven hundred shells had hit ‘W’ Beach – now known as Lancashire Landings.

  It was the 6 August and it was extremely hot. Sweat was running in rivulets down Edward’s back as he sat on the fire step next to Liam whilst they cleaned and checked their rifles. There was a dedication to the detail of the activity, screwing the corner of the cloth into a little spiral so they could pick out small particles of dust from every corner of the weapon. Their devoted attention, though, was cursory compared to the passionate care given by Big Charlie. He went into an almost trance-like state as he bent over the rifle, cleaning and polishing it with his special cloths. All the soldiers cared deeply for their rifles, not cynically as a weapon of destruction, but respectfully as a friend who saved their lives. For Big Charlie, though, his rifle was not just life preserving, it was life enhancing, and he loved it.

  They had been told that a big landing of Allied troops was to take place at Suvla Bay a few miles to the North. The troops already on Gallipoli were going to mount an attack on the Turks to keep them pinned down in the south so that the landing troops could have a clear run into Suvla Bay. From there they would be able to swing round and attack the Turks from the rear.

  The Salford men had known that something special was being planned. For the last two days they had been making jam tin bombs in earnest. They had scoured the area and collected thousands of spent bullets and any other odd bits of metal that they could find. Empty one-pound jam tins were brought up from the kitchens on ‘W’ beach, where they had been carefully cleaned and stored, and these were packed with the bits of shrapnel. A piece of gelignite with a fuse in it was then pushed into the centre of each tin and the lid was soldered back into place with the fuse protruding. The design was simple but effective. It had been developed by the ever-inventive Tommies whose official supply of hand bombs was sparse in comparison with the plentiful supply that the Turks had available.

  Whilst relatively safe to use – light the fuse, count to five and then throw – when Liam mischievously announced on one occasion that he had forgotten where he had counted up to, the trench cleared within seconds.

  That morning they had been introduced to a new weapon of war that had been brought up to the front lines. There had been general disbelief, and no shortage of pointed comments, when they had seen the four foot wooden catapults but it was explained that these would project grenades over a much greater distance. They had been reassured to see that they also had a supply of a new grenade that was being specially made for them in Malta.

  They had practised with the catapults for a while, lobbing large stones towards the watching lines of bemused Turks. The exercise had resulted in clearing the agitated bird life out of the trees but they had managed to get a reasonable feel for the positioning of the catapult and the pull needed.

  Shelling of the Turkish trenches had started earlier in the afternoon, signalling that an attack had now been launched in another part of the line. It would be another long night of waiting in the Salford trenches. They would be going over the top in the morning but already the tension was mounting.

  ‘Do you remember those pork sausages from that butcher’s on Ellor Street?’ Liam asked. ‘Were they not the most exquisite things that you had ever tasted?’

  ‘Was that the one with all the white tiles? I think it was called Robert Lloyd’s,’ Edward said. ‘We used to have them for our tea every Saturday night.’

  Big Charlie, now distracted by the discussion of food, folded his cloths and put them in his rucksack. ‘My Dad preferred belly pork so we usually had that.’

  ‘Well, right now a plateful of that with a couple of sliced eggs and two rounds of Brig’s bread would suit me fine.’

  ‘We had it on Wednesday nights as well. Then on Tuesdays and Fridays my Mam used to go to Mary Deakin’s for some tripe.’

  ‘My Mam used to get her tripe from Frank Dawson’s,’ Liam said thoughtfully. ‘Looking at the size of you though, perhaps she should have gone to Mary Deakin’s sometimes. She must have been putting something in her cowheel.’

  ‘I remember the clothes exchange place near the tripe shops,’ Edward said. ‘George Hughes it was called. Had to go in there if you took the backside out of your pants or if the family hand-me-downs didn’t fit.’

  ‘My Mam bought me a stupid, poncey jumper from there once,’ Big Charlie recalled glumly.

  ‘I remember it,’ Liam shouted, slapping his big friend on the shoulder. ‘A massive bright green thing with a big gold pattern down each sleeve.’

  ‘Aye, that was the one.’

  ‘You looked like a tree with two giant caterpillars stuck on it when you came down the street in that,’ Liam taunted.

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as that overcoat that your Mam got you that was down to your ankles,’ Big Charlie retorted.

  ‘Oh yes. I remember that one,’ Edward said. ‘I borrowed it once and it was so long that it got stuck in the wheels of my bogey going down Rabbit Hill. Our kid overheard me telling our Sarah what had happened and within minutes all the neighbours had come round to have a good laugh. Fat lot of sympathy I got for all my cuts and bruises.’

  Edward gazed out over the heavily scarred but still beautiful landscape of Cape Helles and watched as the warm August sun gradually cleared away the early morning mist. In the far distance he could make out a Turkish farmer and his
wife working in a field whilst, in another, a young boy chased a yelping, excited dog through the long grass. A few hundred yards away he could see the barbed wire collar of the enemy trenches that were their targets for the action today. In front of them splashes of glowing colours of the wild flowers sat uncomfortably amongst the brown scars of the craters. Swirling, screeching birds marked the positions of unclaimed corpses.

  Soon, this comparative peace would be shattered by the ear-splitting, mind-numbing roar of the high explosive shells then, exactly an hour and a half afterwards, it would be their turn.

  Edward no longer felt the paralysing fear of going over the top. He had now seen so many of his friends blown apart or shot that the idea of death had become like an unwelcome companion on his elbow. Like his fellow soldiers, he weighed the odds. Although a good proportion of them would be hit, many of those would be non-fatal. The problem for the injured, however, was getting back safely to their own lines. Being hit in no-man’s land invariably meant waiting until nightfall in order to make a move as doing so in sight of the Turks would probably attract a sniper’s bullet. Unfortunately, after a battle, the men in the firing line remained tense and nervous and shot at anything that moved in the dark towards them. Many an injured man, having suffered the agony of remaining still for hours in the baking sun, was then killed by one of his own soldiers as he tried to gain the sanctuary of the trench.

  Despite this, for Edward and his friends, the long exposure to the carnage had taken some of the fear out of being injured. If he was going to be hit he just hoped it would be a ‘Blighty’ – an injury serious enough to justify a posting home – rather than one that would see him buried under Turkish soil.