The young officer in charge of the firing squad was shaking like a leaf, but he knew now that he had to finish Jimmy off by putting a bullet through his brain with his Webley pistol. He lost his nerve, however, and could not fire the pistol in his hand as Jimmy continued to writhe in agony on the ground.
One of Jimmy’s friends, 23643 Private Richard Blundell, who hailed from Everton in Liverpool, was then ordered by the commanding officer to take the Webley pistol and kill Jimmy. Jimmy’s death was recorded on that day at 5.51 am. The 12 members of the firing squad were given 10 days’ leave after that tragic event in the heat of battle. That was unusual.
Private Blundell lived until he was 95 and carried the memory of that day with him until he died. He was heard to utter, when he was near to his own death, ‘What a way to get leave.’
In an article in the Boston Sunday Globe (12 November 2000), a veteran by the name of John Laister recalled being part of a firing squad when he was a teenager, and when the time came for him to take aim he saw that the soldier he was about to shoot was younger than him: ‘There were tears in his eyes and tears in mine.’
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Victor Silvester is now known as a famous dance band leader, but in 1914 he was just a boy of nearly 15 years of age who had managed to enlist. His true age was only discovered in 1917 after he was wounded, and he was subsequently sent back to England. He was to claim shortly before his death in 1978 that he had taken part in the execution of five soldiers, because when recovering from his wounds at Étaples in 1917 he was detailed to act as a messenger for the commandant’s office. A sharp-eyed officer saw the crossed-rifle badge on Silvester’s sleeve, which denoted that he was a first-class marksman, and commented that he would be useful for what he described as ‘special duties’. Silvester was subsequently to find out that this meant having to be a member of a firing squad, and he described one such occasion in graphic detail (Allison and Failey, 1986):
The tears were rolling down my cheeks as he went on attempting to free himself from the ropes attaching him to the chair. I aimed blindly and when the gunsmoke had cleared away we were further horrified to see that, although wounded, the intended victim was still alive. Still blindfolded, he was attempting to make a run for it still strapped to the chair. The blood was running freely from a chest wound. An officer in charge stepped forward to put the finishing touch with a revolver held to the poor man’s temple. He had only once cried out and that was when he shouted the one word mother. He could not have been much older than me. We were told later that he had in fact been suffering from shell-shock, a condition not recognised by the army at the time.
Silvester recalled the effects of taking part in an execution as disturbed sleep and physical illness, claiming that he had been hospitalised and strapped to a bed to stop him from deserting. There is, though, some doubt about his recollections, as Corns and Hughes-Wilson contend that his story bears no relation to the facts.
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The condemned prisoner did not always meekly make his way, or allow himself to be easily led, to the stake or chair to be used in his execution, thereby creating further horrors for the firing squad, as was contained in Ernest Thurtle’s letter No.1. This letter appears to refer to the death of Private George Ward, 1st Berkshire Regiment, who was executed on 26 September 1914. (The letter gives the date of the execution as 30 September 1914, but the list in Corns and Hughes-Wilson has no executions listed for that date, although Ward was from the 1st Berkshire Regiment so the details appear to match in all other respects.)
The men of the firing squad would already have been feeling somewhat aggrieved by the time Ward was brought to the place of execution, as they had been tricked into being the ones detailed, as was covered earlier in this chapter. Ward, though, was not about to cooperate, and broke free of the sergeant of the guard and ran off. The story is picked up in the letter: ‘…the firing party fired at him on the run, wounding him in the shoulder. They brought him back on a stretcher, and the sergeant of the guard was ordered by the Provost Marshal to finish him off as he lay wounded.’
To the horror of having to shoot one of their own was added the fact that they had not killed him outright and then had to watch him despatched by the sergeant.
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Those involved in a firing squad had a variety of experiences. One soldier recalled being detailed to be part of a firing squad for the execution of a deserter. The prisoner on this occasion was dressed in a set of civilian clothes, and the men were told to shoot at a piece of white cloth pinned over his heart.
Another recalled a Sunday when the whole battalion was made to parade to witness the humiliation of Privates Beverstein and McBride, who had deserted and as a result were to be shot. The two men had their caps and all insignia removed, as part of the army’s ritual humiliation of the condemned, told they were to be shot next day, and that they were each to be shot by a pair of their comrades. There was sympathy in the platoon for the two men but even more sympathy for their parents, who were told only that their sons had been killed in action. The soldier added that every man took punishment as a fact of life, as they did death.
Firing squad in 1917.
Sylvia Pankhurst knew Mr and Mrs Beverstein and took up their son’s case. She published his letters and protested against the injustice of executing a 19-year-old volunteer who had been in the trenches for eight months and had only just come out of hospital with injuries and shell shock. There was a question in the House of Commons about the case, but the only outcome was that from then on executed soldiers were simply said to have ‘died of wounds’.
Private William Hunt, of the 18th Manchester Regiment, was executed on 14 November 1916 having been found guilty of desertion, and Private P.J. Kennedy, MM, later recalled that he and five others were detailed to form the firing squad. Once the sentence had been promulgated, Kennedy said that the military police took over control of the proceedings, and in an attempt to make the whole business easier for all concerned, they tried to ply the condemned man with alcohol in an attempt to get him drunk – but Hunt refused.
On the eve of the execution, the firing squad was marched to the designated site for the following morning’s grim event. While the officers discussed various matters, the men were able to get their first sight of the ‘heavy kitchen chair’ that Hunt would be sat on. When the discussions between the officers were finished, the men were briefed and were then taken through a rehearsal, when their officer said, ‘Right. Shall we try it now?’
Hunt was not cooperative the next morning and refused to walk to the stake, ensuring that his would not be an execution marked by quiet dignity as he was dragged into position. Hunt was not blindfolded, either as a result of further non-cooperation or because it was simply overlooked in the rush to get it over and done with.
The men’s rifles were taken from them and loaded, one with a blank, and the officer urged them to aim carefully at Hunt, who would be sitting in a chair fewer than ten paces in front of them, as he did not want to have to finish matters off. But the emotion of the occasion got to the men and the officer was required to finish Hunt off with a revolver shot to the head. Maybe as a punishment for not doing their job properly, Kennedy and the others were then detailed to take down the body, clean up the area around the stake and then bury Hunt. When they removed Hunt’s body from the chair, Kennedy recalled that one of the men noticed that the dead man’s hair was ‘standing up stiff and straight from sheer terror’. To add to their woes, they discovered on arrival at the cemetery near Bailleulment that no grave had been prepared. They then had to borrow some tools and dig the grave themselves, wrapping the body in a waterproof cape.
Private Kennedy, like many of his comrades, felt confused, as just eighteen months earlier they had received praise from Sir Douglas Haig, and now the battalion had a stain on its good name when the fact of the execution was publicised on parades and in routine orders.
The death of Private Hunt was reported in
the Manchester Evening News on 30 November 1916. It said simply that he had died of his wounds.
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Private Stephen Graham, of the Scots Guards, wrote a book in 1919 about his experiences on the Western Front, and included a description of an execution which is thought to be that of Private Isaac Reid. Graham’s book starts with the sentence: ‘The sterner the discipline the better the soldier, the better the army’, which gives a clue as to his stance where executions were concerned.
Graham’s battalion was ordered to parade around three sides of a square to witness this execution, and this necessitated the men getting up an hour earlier to put on their full fighting kit in the dark. Private Reid was in his ‘walking out attire’ and appeared relaxed and free to talk to his friends. Graham wrote that volunteers had been unsuccessfully called for to form the firing squad, which he saw as a sign that Reid was viewed as not having disgraced the regiment. As a result, Reid was to be shot by the battalion’s ten snipers and Reid encouraged them, ‘Don’t miss. Fire through my heart.’ Then, having lit a cigarette, he took up his place against the tree that had replaced the more traditional stake. Reid asked not to be blindfolded but his request was turned down. With that, the parade was brought to attention and the snipers took up their positions and a deadly volley ensued.
Perhaps wisely, the officers then had the men sent out on a long route march, which would have had the effect of burning off any anger that they may have had.
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Faced with horror and bloodshed, some men noticed different things where executions were concerned, as was the case with Private Sidney Suffield, who had only just arrived on the Western Front when he was ordered to form part of a firing squad. The man to be executed was Private Frederick Slade of the 2/6th London Regiment. Private Slade had arrived on the Western Front in early 1917 and was a stretcher bearer. However, on 26 October 1917 he had refused to parade prior to the regiment moving up the line and was consequently arrested. At his court martial on 14 November 1917, Private Slade claimed mental incapacity due to his exposure to the horrors of the war, but this was refuted by a captain from the Royal Army Medical Corps, which effectively sealed his fate. He was executed for disobedience on 14 December 1917, and Private Suffield was struck by the way the execution was carried out in complete silence apart from the rifle volley fired by the firing squad.
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Each firing squad had an officer in charge; this was a role that was usually undertaken by junior officers, and was summarised by Crozier (1937) in his usual blunt and forthright manner, when briefing a young subaltern:
‘You will be in charge of the firing party … the men will be cold, nervous and excited. They may miss their mark. You are to have your revolver ready, loaded and cocked; if the medical officer tells you that life is not extinct you are to walk up to the victim, place the muzzle of the revolver to his heart and press the trigger. Do you understand?’ ‘Yes Sir’ came the quick reply. ‘Right’ I add, ‘dine with me in the mess tonight!’
I wanted to keep this young fellow engaged under my supervision until late at night to minimise the chance of his flying to the bottle for support.
One cannot begin to imagine the young subaltern’s feelings on hearing those words. Crozier, meanwhile, was intent on ensuring that the subaltern did not turn to alcohol, thereby rendering him unfit to command the firing squad. The young officer would undoubtedly have preferred to get drunk and take the consequences if he had known what he would have to do the next day – he did, in fact, have to complete the sentence on Private James Crozier as the firing squad had failed to do its job.
In the orders relating to the execution for desertion of Private William Roberts, of the 4th Royal Fusiliers on 29 May 1916, Captain H.H. Pridmore, on behalf of the brigadier-general commanding the 9th Infantry Brigade, states, ‘Please choose your officer carefully.’
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The notes given to Guilford outline three parts to the role of the officer in charge of the firing party: namely, loading the rifles, giving the order to fire and, where necessary, administering the coup de grace:
Rifles will be loaded by the Officer i/c Firing Party and will be placed on the ground. One rifle will be loaded with a blank. Safety catches will be placed at safety. Distance from post 5 paces. The Officer will bring with him a loaded revolver.
The Officer, when he sees all the men are steady, will give the word ‘fire’. This is to be the only word of command given after the prisoner leaves the place of confinement.
The Medical Officer will go forward and examine the body. If he considers that life is not extinct he will summon the Officer i/c of the firing party, who will complete the sentence with his revolver.
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To be present when one man was executed can be counted as a rarity, but Captain G. Macready had just joined the 8th Division as a staff officer in April 1915 when a few months later, due to the illness of the APM, he was ordered to officiate at the execution of five men. The executions of Private Bert Hartells, Private Alfred Thompson, Private Ernest Fellowes, Corporal Frederick Ives and Private John Robinson, all of the 3rd Worcestershire Regiment, took place on 26 July 1915, and all had been sentenced for desertion.
The notes to Guilford state that the officer in charge of the firing squad, when the moment came, was to ‘give the word “fire”’, and this should be the last word the condemned man ever heard. There were a number of silent variations on this which were thought to be more humane: namely, the lowering of the officer’s sword or dropping a handkerchief, but of course those most affected by this were not in a position to supply feedback on the humanity of this action.
Once the volley rang out, the officer would then have to wait for the medical officer to check whether the men had fired accurately and the prisoner was dead. It is hard to imagine what was going through the officer’s mind as he waited to hear whether he would be called upon to administer the coup de grâce. On one occasion, Winter writes, ‘A man was shot for cowardice. The volley failed to kill. The officer in charge lost his nerve, turned to the APM and said, “Do your own bloody work, I cannot.”’
The notes to Guilford state that ‘one rifle will be loaded with a blank’, but the practice again varied, from one rifle loaded with a blank to only one rifle loaded with live ammunition, and it is likely that a young officer would be guided in that practice by the more experienced APM.
The young officers who were placed in charge of the firing squad were not immune from feelings of sympathy for the condemned man themselves, but were just as powerless to do anything about it. On 9 March 1917 Private John Rogers of the 2nd Battalion of the South Lancashire Regiment was executed having been sentenced for desertion by a firing squad drawn from his comrades under the command of his second lieutenant I.W.F. Agabeg.
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There is little doubt, therefore, that the firing squad was the weakest part of the process, which caused concern for the officers involved. Members of the firing squad, whether individually or collectively, could and did miss their target for a variety of reasons such as incompetence, nerves, unfamiliarity with their allotted rifle or sympathy for the condemned man. It is a matter for debate whether, in the event that you sympathised with the condemned man, it was preferable to miss your target, knowing that if wounded he would still be killed by the officer in charge, or to fire accurately and end their suffering.
Based on today’s knowledge of mental trauma, it cannot be a surprise that those men who formed the firing squad would have been affected by what they were being ordered to do. The extent to which the men were affected could be subject to such factors as how they had been selected, their physical and mental condition at the time, and their feelings towards the condemned man, as well as being involved in the execution itself. It took time, though, for the military hierarchy to accept and to acknowledge that mental trauma and shell shock could affect the fighting man, as it even took the medical profession
some time to accept this universally. In fairness, there were men who would do whatever was asked of them, and who just got on with it without any discernible effect at the time, though whether and how this might have manifested itself after the war is not known.
In a letter to the Observer newspaper on 11 November 2001, Mrs Anne Mary Jones urged that the men of the firing squads, like her father, should also not be forgotten, writing, ‘They joined the army to shoot the enemy, not terrified boys and shell-shocked men. My father was one such and the experience remained the most dreadful thing he ever had to do.’
Despite this, the practice of loading one rifle with blank ammunition could be viewed as an acknowledgement of the potential mental and social impact of being detailed to take part in a firing squad, although, as previously mentioned, in reality the men would have known by the force of the recoil what type of ammunition they had just fired.
Whatever the standards and practices of the time, it does seem strange that the army had not laid down a precise number for the size of the firing squad, which seems to have varied from two up to twenty-five, although the majority do appear to have been closer to the figure stipulated in the note given to Guilford.
Whilst the members of the firing squad could draw some comfort from being only one of a number of men put in the situation of shooting a fellow British soldier – or convincing themselves, if they did not know already, that their rifle had been loaded with blank ammunition – there was no such solace for the invariably young subaltern in charge. They had to stand closer to the condemned man and, if required, would have to administer the coup de grâce, with no chance of arguing that they had fired a blank.
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