The company’s complement of officers is finalized by the arrival of a man who is Tough by name and tough by nature. Arnold Bannatyne Tough, one of six brothers and sisters, is a 24-year-old dentist from Accrington. His father is a general practitioner in Accrington and a stalwart of the local community. A renowned local pugilist who, like his friend Raymond Ross, is an admirer of boxing legend Bob Fitzsimmons, Arnie Tough is a big man who does not readily suffer fools and enjoys exercising in the boxing ring at Burnley Boys’ Club. None of the local lads can better him in the ring. Although they are probably better street fighters – where few rules apply, and sometimes none – in the ring, under the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules, Tough is beyond equal.
Although most of D Company’s officers have served as volunteer territorials, most of the military know-how in the company emanates from retired regular army NCOs. They have been brought in to ‘put some backbone into scrawny weavers and some discipline into headstrong miners’, as they are inclined to repeat at every opportunity. As well as Colour Serjeant Jimmy Severn, whose sharp tongue and even sharper forehead they have already met, there are another two who are just as formidable.
Andrew Muir is fifty-five years old and from Maryhill, in Scotland, but he was brought up in Clayton-le-Moors and became an apprentice calico machine-printer. He joined the territorials as a young man and rose through the ranks to become a colour serjeant before being discharged because of his age, in 1910. Sadly, Muir has recently received devastating news and has been given fourteen days’ compassionate leave. His son, Rifleman John Muir of the 1st King’s Royal Rifle Corps, died of his wounds in France, having been badly injured at the Battle of Mons.
Three years younger than Muir, George Lee from Widecombe, in Devon, left a farming community at the age of sixteen to join the 24th Regiment of Foot, the South Wales Borderers. He fought in the Zulu Wars in its last battle, at Ulundi, in July 1879. He subsequently rose to the rank of colour serjeant and became a drill instructor.
Like Jimmy Severn, both men have now been brought out of retirement to get the Accrington Pals ready for war.
The battalion is to be commanded by an old friend of John Harwood, 64-year-old Colonel Richard Sharples, an Accrington solicitor and territorial soldier of many years’ service. His adjutant and senior captain is another Accrington solicitor, 48-year-old George Nicholas Slinger.
It did not take long for Lieutenants Tough and Ross to notice Mick and Tommy’s significant physiques and to hear the stories of their prowess as street fighters. They struck an immediate rapport with the two men and tried to persuade them to put on gloves and transfer their bare-knuckle skills into the ‘noble art’ of the ring and to eschew the use of their hob-nailed clogs in a contest.
Finally, Tommy and Mick did climb into Burnley Lads’ Club’s boxing ring for some sparring. Although they performed well against the other lads in the battalion, putting all-comers on the seat of their pants, they fared less well when they boxed against Colour Serjeant Jimmy Severn. He fought for his regiment as a young man and proceeded to give them a stark lesson in ring craft.
With Vinny and Nat looking on, both Tommy and Mick struggled to lay a glove on the veteran soldier, despite towering over him, having a much longer reach and being less than half his age. Each of their wild swings was avoided with a duck or a sway. Every punch was blocked by raised arms or gloves, before being bettered with disguised, short, sharp counter-punches. Mick soon had a bloody nose and welts under each eye. Tommy’s lip was badly cut, leaving him with a mouthful of blood, and he had to suffer a succession of body blows to his ribs that made him bend double in pain.
In awe of the colour serjeant’s skills, both men shook hands with Severn after their three bouts, each lasting three minutes, and thanked him for his boxing lesson. While they got their breath back and came to terms with the brutal exposure of what they thought were their pugilistic talents, Tough and Ross sat down next to them. Ross was grinning.
‘Well, gentlemen, there’s the difference between fighting and boxing.’
Mick was still shaking his head.
‘I don’t think I landed a dacent punch on ’im, sir.’
‘But you’re strong, Kenny. He hit you very hard, but you didn’t back away. You have a strong chin and you are a mountain of a man. We can make you into a good boxer, as well as a good fighter.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Tough turned to Tommy.
‘The same goes for you, Broxup. You’re strong and have very quick hands. You just need to learn how to use them with a thoughtful cadence, rather than with a rush of blood.’
Tommy looks at Mick, curious about what Tough means by ‘thoughtful cadence’. Mick just raises his eyebrows; he has no idea either. Tough realizes that he has baffled his men and grabs Tommy’s wrists to show him how to punch in combinations: in twos, threes, fours; upper body, lower body. And how, at the same time, to duck and sway and anticipate one’s opponent’s punches.
Tommy smiles appreciatively.
‘Where didst tha learn how to box, sir?’
‘At school; I went to Giggleswick School, where boxing is taken very seriously.’
Tommy is amazed.
‘By ’eck, when I were at t’elementary school, sir, t’teachers ollus tried to stop us feightin’!’
Tough smiles back warmly.
‘Giggleswick is a four-hundred-year-old private school for young gentlemen, not far from here, beyond Skipton. I had to board, in dormitories like an army barracks. No mother to comfort us, teachers who would beat us at the drop of a hat and prefects who treated us like slaves. Cold water, early morning runs in the snow, all designed to toughen us up for a life of service to our King and country. It did us the power of good!’
Ross then described his school.
‘I went to Sedbergh, up in the Dales. Same kind of regime, except we’d say it was tougher than Giggleswick, our big rivals. Our school motto was Dura Virum Nutrix, which means “Stern Nurse of Men”.’
Mick, Tommy, Vinny and Nat have no idea about the world of the men they have always been told are their ‘betters’, but they are beginning to realize it is not quite as they thought. They know that the well-to-do boys of their town go to Burnley Grammar School, the local school for those more fortunate than themselves, or for a few poor lads who are exceptionally clever.
They have also heard of those who are the sons of the aristocracy and go off to posh schools in the south, where they are waited on by servants and taught to be ‘proper gents’. Only three families in the Burnley area are in that league – the Towneleys of Towneley Hall, the Shuttleworths of Gawthorpe Hall and the Asshetons of Downham House – all ancient families who most people believe are a different breed, born to rule.
But local northern schools, with rigours like Giggleswick and Sedbergh, are news to the pals. They hang on Ross’s every word as he continues to describe a whole new world.
‘As well as cricket, rugby and football, we were taught boxing, fencing and horse-riding to equip us as soldiers who would spread Christianity and the British way of life throughout the Empire. Every year, we did the Wilson Run, ten miles over the moors; that sorted the men from the boys.’
Tough then interrupts Ross.
‘I suppose you won it in your time?’
‘Yes, I did, twice. And I hold the record: one hour, fifteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.’
‘Hmmm, thought you might have, not that you’re one to crow about these things!’
‘Course not, old man.’
The four Burnley lads realize that, behind the education and privilege of their officers, these are men just like them and that their lives are not quite as they had imagined. Mary and Cath have told them stories about the top hats and tails at Eton and Harrow, and have tried to persuade their menfolk that it is not a matter of breeding, simply of privilege. The four friends are not sure they understand the difference. Nevertheless, they do not feel antagonistic about the backgrounds o
f their officers, more intrigued, especially by schools like Sedbergh and Giggleswick, which seem to be for men not unlike themselves who come from their own communities.
The four new recruits to the Accrington Pals continue their Friday night drinking session, but they drink less than usual and avoid any provocations that may lead to an end-of-evening fist fight. Their journey to becoming professional soldiers has begun in earnest.
Victoria Station, London
Winston is rushing from his Admiralty car to catch a train from Victoria to Dover. He is on his way to France to see why the Royal Marine Brigade has withdrawn to Dunkirk. He is late for the departure, but John Gough, his Special Branch protection officer, accompanied by two burly Royal Marines, has gone ahead to hold the train. Thus, it is departing ten minutes late. The passengers are restless and the driver is anxious to get moving, but the two marines on his footplate persuade him to stay where he is.
When Winston gets to the platform, he is intercepted by a marine serjeant with an urgent message from Lord Kitchener, the Minister for War. Winston is summoned to Kitchener’s house in Carlton Gardens; he must go immediately. The trip to France will have to wait. Winston gathers John Gough and dashes across the station concourse, past the Friday evening commuters, leaving the Dover train driver cursing, ‘Bloody politicians!’
Waiting for Winston in Carlton Gardens with Kitchener are Sir Edward Grey, Foreign Secretary, Prince Louis of Battenberg, First Sea Lord, and Sir William Tyrrell, Eddie Grey’s private secretary. Winston is given a whisky by Kitchener’s butler and listens intently as the Minister for War outlines the grave situation in Belgium.
‘Winston, we think Antwerp is about to fall, which could mean our attempt to create a bulwark for the Channel ports is in peril. Zeebrugge will be exposed, and a German advance along the coast to Calais would be difficult to stop.’
‘How much time do we have?’
‘Very little. There are reports that two of the city’s defensive forts have already fallen. The Belgian Army is on its knees; the country’s politicians and generals are beginning to wilt.’
Winston rises to his feet. There is a gleam in his eye.
‘Where’s the PM?’
‘On a train to Cardiff for a recruiting rally.’
‘May I suggest I send the Royal Marine Brigade to the Belgians? Immediately!’
All in the room nod, and Winston dictates a telegram to be sent from the Admiralty. As the courier leaves, he passes another with a telegram from the French government in Bordeaux. It brings good news. The French are to send two territorial divisions to support the defence of Antwerp. They are also to launch a major offensive near Lille to distract the German High Command.
‘Vive la République! That’s excellent news.’
Winston is in his element. The others in the room look at him, in awe of his unbounded spirit.
‘I’ll go to Antwerp to put some starch in their collars. I know the King, and he’ll feel better with a British minister in his city.’
Eddie Grey looks doubtful.
‘Winston, it’s a good idea, but we know how much you relish a scrap. We mustn’t lose you to a German bullet, or to one of their prisoner-of-war camps.’
Winston gets to his feet, swallows what is left in his tumbler of whisky and makes for the door.
‘Eddie, I can’t guarantee the trajectories of bullets, but I can assure you that I will not be taken prisoner. I was once a POW of the Boers. I managed to escape and I promised myself never to let it happen again.’
Winston’s march to the door effectively pre-empts Kitchener’s decision about the First Lord’s visit to Antwerp. His irrepressible vitality has made up Kitchener’s mind for him. He and Grey both shake Winston’s hand and wish him well.
While Winston travels to the coast by car, Eddie Grey sends a telegram to Sir Francis Villiers, the British minister in Belgium.
First Lord of the Admiralty will be at Antwerp between 9 and 10 tomorrow. It is hoped that he may have the honour of an audience with the King before a final decision as to the departure of the Government is taken.
Delayed by German artillery threats between Ostend and Antwerp, Winston does not arrive in the city until after lunch on Saturday. He immediately hastens to reassure Charles, Comte de Broqueville, the Belgian Prime Minister, of the sincerity of British and French intent.
Later that day, the Royal Marines begin to arrive.
The following morning, Winston goes on a tour of the city’s defences and conducts an inspection of the beleaguered Belgian troops. He is with Admiral Horace Hood, his naval secretary.
‘They look broken, Horace.’
‘They do, sir.’
‘I need to take charge of our marines and get them into positions that will show the Belgians we mean business.’
Winston calls over a stenographer and dictates a telegram back to the Admiralty in London. He orders a vast array of materiel for the defence of the city. The scale of the order causes consternation among Admiralty staff, including Prince Louis; they are worried that their First Lord is ‘playing soldiers’ again.
Winston is exhilarated by being at the forefront of the defence of the ancient city and, at last, able to direct military strategy on the ground. However, realizing that his duty should take him back to London, he sends an outrageous telegram to his Prime Minister.
If it is thought by HM Government that I can be of service here, I am willing to resign my office at the Admiralty and undertake command of defensive forces assigned to Antwerp, provided that I am given necessary military rank and authority and full powers of a commander in the field.
When Asquith receives Winston’s offer, he is dismayed. He regards the suggestion as ridiculous; it is typical of his extraordinary First Lord but, all the same, preposterous. That morning, he does Winston no favours by revealing the contents of his telegram to several cabinet colleagues. In doing so, he uses the damning phrase, ‘After all, he would be a Lieutenant of Hussars commanding two major generals!’ These are words that begin to circulate around Westminster.
When Winston hears of the rebuke, he is, not surprisingly, livid.
Asquith declines Winston’s offer, insisting that he is needed at home. However, Winston decides to stay in Antwerp, at least until more reinforcements arrive, thus fulfilling his promise to the Belgians.
The situation deteriorates: French reinforcements in the form of a Marine Fusilier Brigade are delayed, as are British reinforcements under the command of General Sir Henry Rawlinson, which are detained in Bruges.
That evening, Winston attends a meeting of the Belgian Council of War, presided over by King Albert. After it ends, he sends a message to Kitchener: ‘All well. I have met King Albert and his Ministers in Council, who resolved to fight it out here whatever happens.’
With still no sign of Rawlinson and his British reinforcements, nor of the French, Winston takes personal charge of Antwerp’s defences. The Royal Marines continue to hold out in their hastily dug trenches around the city.
The following day, General Rawlinson arrives, but without his army of 40,000 men, who are still on their way.
With Rawlinson now able to take charge, Winston feels he is able to withdraw to London, where several political enemies are already discrediting his efforts, pouring their words into the ear of the King and on to the pages of Fleet Street’s newspapers. Undaunted, Winston continues to badger Asquith for direct military command in France and goes to Downing Street, where he berates the Old Block for over twenty minutes.
That evening, Asquith writes to his mistress, Venetia Stanley. His letter contains a vivid description of Winston in his pomp.
Having ‘tasted blood’, he is ravenous for more and begs for command. His mouth waters at the thought of K’s new armies, these ‘glittering commands’. I much regret that no shorthand writer was there to get down some of the phrases, which were priceless. He is a wonderful creature, with a curious dash of schoolboy simplicity and what someone once sai
d of genius: ‘a zigzag of lightning in the brain’.
The Cabinet is split about Winston. Half, including Kitchener, Lloyd George, Grey and Lord Haldane, the Lord Chancellor, think he is a political and military prodigy. Most of the others, largely lesser men, jealous of his talents, see him as a dangerous maverick.
On 8 October, the French decide to halt their reinforcement of Antwerp. General Rawlinson asks for permission not to commit his British reinforcements and to withdraw the marines from their trenches around Antwerp. Winston is furious, but he is powerless to prevent the inevitable outcome.
Without the French, and with Rawlinson unwilling to commit his men, Antwerp falls to the German Army on 10 October. Fifty-seven marines are killed in defence of the city, with hundreds more taken prisoner. The British press round on Winston, with headlines that scream: ‘The Antwerp Blunder!’
Asquith does little to defend his First Lord. For the first time since the beginning of the war, Black Dog pays Winston an unwelcome visit and he descends into a deep depression.
That evening, F. E. Smith arrives at the Admiralty with a car and with an antidote to Black Dog. He has already spoken to Kitchener, who has cleared the plan with Asquith. Lord Louis of Battenberg will take charge at the Admiralty for a few days, while Winston takes a break and spends a long weekend with his family at Blenheim Palace.
It is where he was born, the home of his first cousin, Charles ‘Sunny’ Spencer-Churchill, the 9th Duke of Marlborough, and the place where, as a little boy, he first vowed to emulate the glorious deeds of his ancestor at the Battle of Blenheim.
On 7 October, Clemmie gave birth to Sarah Millicent Hermione Churchill, the third kitten in the Churchill litter. She was born in the First Lord’s flat at the Admiralty but, because of the Antwerp crisis, Winston has hardly seen his new daughter.
It has been a grim time for all of them. Clemmie had to endure the last days of her pregnancy while Winston was embroiled in Belgium and had to suppress her own grave concerns for his personal safety. Now, he is being pilloried in the press for a debacle that, at worst, he managed to prevent happening for over a week entirely through the strength of his personality.
The Shadow of War Page 27