Please Take Care of Bethany

by PC Brian Wilkinson

“Have You Ever Had That Feeling That Someone’s Watching You?”

  It took a few days of serious thought before what Stanley had said to me really, well honestly, sank in: the story that he had told me about Dad’s final flight. All so much sadder knowing that Dad had almost made it home and how different life would have been had he done so. There was a sense that there was so much more that had been left untold, somehow that this story wasn’t over and far from being so. There had to be so much more to all this, answers to questions that I would probably never find out. I would never, now, get the whole true facts, of this I felt sure. Stanley was now dead and buried. I had his old photograph album and I wanted to know more about the pictures - who, where and when? But all the old boys, Stanley’s crew too, were all now long gone; dead and buried.

  I updated my online thread, told the story so far as it was on the forum and it generated much discussion although no new information came from it. The local paper on Merseyside picked up on my wartime story. They published everything, all exactly as I had been told. So now I wanted some time away, time to think and reflect. To travel to the places that Dad had made reference too. I had the story so far but the need to retrace his own personal journey, to follow in his own footsteps where possible, grew stronger inside.

  A holiday was needed. That’s it, and I had plenty of annual leave now due to me. I never ever took all of my full holiday entitlement from the force as there was nowhere to go without my Doreen beside me. Always so much work to do, working with the residents on the Drover. So we planned a new holiday together, the first since she had died. I know she is dead; you’ll just have to humour me on this point as I want her to come with me too.

  Just imagine as I do, imagine that she is at my side once more. I need to think that she can hear me. Grief never goes for it doesn’t ease. The pain always remains and you just learn to live with it. I’ve never managed to adjust to the loss of such happiness, that happiness we shared together, and I was quite unable to adjust to my new life, this new life of complete emptiness.

  I packed up Winjin’ Pom. He was all freshly serviced mechanically, the oil change and filters. Now he was as ever, raring to go again. I’d forgotten what fun it was working on that old bugger again. In addition, I renewed my road-side recovery service and membership of the vintage auto-club. I packed up my favourite CDs for the long trip, the music of Jonathan Taylor essential; a British singer songwriter. Deep, poetic and moving and acoustic stuff mainly. He’d written many songs about war and conflict, ones that I could directly and emotionally relate to. I guess it is my obsession with military history creeping into my music taste again, I suppose.

  “So where shall we go first, my dear?” I asked. Doreen was very keen to travel to France; to visit the battlefields of World War I. “We need to start with your grandfather I think love. We need to find out if he really was executed and see if Stanley was actually correct in telling you this dear,” she smiled.

  I bought a lap-top, a new personnel computer. Nothing too posh but a good one, just as a little treat for myself. I told the salesman that I wanted speed, reliability and ease of use, nothing too fancy or complicated. I explained that I was going to set up a blog, with the intention of writing a book. I needed basic word processing software and an unlimited connection to the internet, a connection that would work, be reliable from anywhere that I would find myself during my European travels. This, a must have, so I could upload my story and keep the interested boys back home informed. Of course, I also bought a new easy-to-use French dictionary, pocket sized, to take along just in case.

  I had got the hang of it quite easily, using the new computer that is. I had worked on them for several years at the station and the police had always offered us older bobbies any new information technology training that we needed or indeed wanted. It was easy. We just filled in the training requisition form and handed it in, and they had never said no to me. There must have been a bigger budget for that I suppose. The forum too had opened a whole new world for me and I soon naturally gravitated to the the First World War, WW1, forums as well. One was particularly interesting. ‘The Great War Forum’ it was so called and from there I discovered many more links to the most useful resources available to me online.

  I learnt a new French word, not from the dictionary but from those such links that I had followed on the internet. I posted “Searching for information on Brian ‘Bull’s-Eye’ Wilkinson’s dad, John E. Wilkinson” etc. It wasn’t too easy as I had so little information to go on. In fact I had no information on him at all, just a name and the circumstances of his death. I soon found out that wasn’t going to be a problem. The new French word I learnt was fusil, which translated into English means rifle or gun. Execution by firing squad used to be called fusillading, an English word derived from this French word. The online site Shot at Dawn provided so much stuff of interest.

  Usually, all members of the firing squad were instructed to fire simultaneously. It prevents disruption to the process, but also the inability to identify the member who had fired that lethal shot. Sometimes, but by no means always, only some of the guns had live rounds and the others were loaded with blanks. It took me a while to understand why, but I guess that if you are going to kill someone, and a friend perhaps who had fought alongside you in battle, guilt must play a weighty part. Stanley’s words come back to me when I think about it. “Cold blooded murder by our own side,” that’s what he had said. “It was cold blooded murder.”

  The execution is traditionally carried out at dawn giving rise to the term, ‘shot at dawn.’ Though usually, and in reality it meant shot at first light which can be up to an hour in time later than sunrise. I found it almost inconceivable to read that many executions were carried out with the soldier tied into a chair and in a sitting position. This is what I read about my grandfather. He was shot by firing squad whilst seated. Then I learnt another new French word. It was the word coup de grâce. The coup de grâce is a final and single after shot from a pistol by the unit commander and into the back or side of the victims head. This was not only used in the cases where the initial volley proved unsuccessful, but it was used as a way to ensure certainty.

  My grandfather, John Edward Wilkinson had been executed by the British for cowardice. His name I discovered was on a memorial in Staffordshire, his name written alongside the other 306 British and commonwealth soldiers who were executed by the British. My journey to France with Doreen would start here, at the memorial in Alrewas.

  I read a book by Robert Graves, (Goodbye to All That, 1929) and he had written the following:

  “I had my first direct experience of official lying when I arrived at Le Havre in May 1915 and read the back-files of army orders at the rest camp. They contained something like twenty reports of men shot for cowardice or desertion. Yet a few days later the responsible minister in the House of Commons, answering a question from a pacifist, denied that sentence of death for a military offence had been carried out in France on any member of His Majesty's Forces.”

  It seemed that the British had kept quite a few secrets from the families back home. If the principal point to make with these executions is one of a warning to others of what is to come if they refuse to fight, then I never fully understood why it was such a secret.

  Granddad’s war service records said the following: “The court of Ville Pas-de-Calais records that Wilkinson failed to report for duty on October 3rd 1918.” Granddad had “fell out, without permission” and had run back toward his trench. He was later discovered hiding in a disused and shelled-out barn some 3 miles behind the front line. He was charged with desertion and sentenced to death, to be shot at dawn on the 7th October.

  That’s it, for that is all I know really. I have no family still alive who can provide me with any further information. I do know now that he had been previously injured. I read from archives that Granddad had been injured during an assault on enemy positions. Apparently he had been bayoneted through the arm, the right should
er actually, during a German counter charge. He had returned home to Liverpool briefly to recover during August of that same year, 1918, and almost at the end of the war. How he had come to return to the front I do not know, but return he did. John E. Wilkinson was a volunteer. He signed up for service when he was 18 in 1916 and died just two years later at the tender age of 20.

  The dates to these things all start to add up when you look at such paperwork. My father was born in 1919, in the month of May. You can’t help but notice a direct similarity between the two men, my father and his father, my granddad. Granddad Wilkinson too, for certain that is, had died before the birth of his own firstborn child, his son, Brian ‘Bull’s-Eye’ Wilkinson.

  John had volunteered and had served for two years and had also been near fatally wounded: a man who had returned from the safety and security of home to fight on the wartime front in France yet again. These just do not seem to be the actions of a coward to me and I wish that I could find out more about his story. Maybe one day I will but for now I find that all the soldiers of the First World War are now long gone. I shall keep trying over the coming years but cannot help but feel that Granddad’s true story has been taken to the grave along with that of my father’s.

  One secret that has not been taken away is the location of John Wilkinson’s grave, John was buried in a small cemetery called, Windy Corner, a stone’s throw only from Calais and it is here that Doreen and I shall start our journey in France.

  So we set off, Doreen, Winjin’ Pom and I, and the first port of call as we headed south to the ferry was Alrewas in Staffordshire. I remember our conversation well, Doreen and I, as we drove down. The conversation about a soldier called Farr. How could we, the British military have done such a thing?

  The transcript of his court martial at Ville-sur-Ancre records that Farr failed to report for duty on 17th September. He had fallen out without permission, with the sole intent of finding an officer to report sick to. However, his plea for understanding fell unheard. He was literally dragged whilst kicking and screaming and pleading for mercy, towards the front line. Following this incident and Farr’s complete mental breakdown, he too was charged with cowardice.

  He told those present at his court martial that day, “I returned to the 1st Line Transport hoping to report sick to some medical officer there. On the Sergeant Major's return I reported to him and said I was sick and I could not stand it.” Farr went on to say. “He then said: `You are a fucking coward and you will go to the trenches. I give fuck-all for my life and I give fuck-all for yours and I'll get you fucking well shot.” Whilst Farr was in the hospital suffering from profound shell shock, a nurse wrote home on his behalf. She addressed the letter to Farr’s wife Gertrude. Farr was reported as being unable to write as his hands shook too much. He was unable to even grasp the pen when offered it. This was the last time that his wife Gertrude would ever hear from him. Farr was shot at dawn on the 18th October.

  Farr and my grandfather, John E. Wilkinson were sick, they were cold and hungry, they were tired, exhausted and they were terrified. They had witnessed their friends being bombed, gassed and cut to pieces, mowed down by machine gun fire in incalculable numbers. Men; the ‘for King and Country’ volunteer soldiers, now reduced to trembling wrecks. Men now bearing no resemblance to the men they had been before the war. This caused by the relentless ongoing shell-fire and the realization of their own imminent death, the fear of their own certain demise.

  Many were just boy soldiers having lied about their age. Three hundred and six of them were executed, often for little more than being frightened, confused young men. Between 1914 and 1920 more than 3,000 British soldiers were sentenced to death for desertion or cowardice, for striking an officer or disobedience, for falling asleep on duty or for casting away their arms. Of these 3000 sentenced, 11 per cent of summarily executions were carried out. The 306 men shot at dawn had all been denied legal representation and any right of judicial appeal. Today we know that the overwhelming amount of evidence available to us proves the men suffered from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. This medical information, at the time was often never discussed by the court and quite simply ignored. Military court martials concerning cowardice were scheduled to be completed within a maximum time frame of just 20 minutes.

  Among the 306 men executed by British court martial during The First World War (WW1) were 25 Canadians, 22 Irish and 5 from New-Zealand. Australia was the only Commonwealth member that refused the execution of “any volunteers”. The 129 Australians that were sentenced to death by the British were never subsequently shot.

  American court martials sentenced 24 American deserters to death but these sentences were never carried out. 150,000 soldiers deserted the German lines, most fleeing to the neutrality of The Netherlands and Denmark and often Switzerland. Of those caught, Germany executed 18 although I noted that during the Nazi occupation of Europe later on and during the World War II, over 10,000 German deserters were executed. During WW1, the French put more than 600 of their own death.

  On Thursday, March 17th 2005, I arrived at Alrewas in Staffordshire. Then, without any hesitation, neither a coffee nor anything to eat after my long drive, I stood before the ‘Shot at Dawn’ memorial. There I stopped silent and still, and I read out-aloud every one of those 306 names inscribed upon it. The memorial depicts a young British soldier blindfolded and tied to a stake; he is tied there waiting to be shot by a firing squad. I stared deep into the face, the accurate likeness of 17-year-old Private Herbert Burden, both his name and his face there before me. Herbert had lied about his age in order to enlist and was later shot for desertion. The names of the 306 dead are represented by a semicircle of stakes upon which are listed their names. This too included the name of Harry Farr, who like my grandfather, I had now read so much about. I found out that the memorial was created by an artist named Andy De Comyn. It was unveiled in June 2001 by Mrs. Gertrude Harris, the daughter of Private Farr. Many descendants of these 306 men shot also attended the unveiling.

  I was comforted to know that Doreen was with me, as I admit I broke down in tears at the sight of my grandfather’s name. Her, so

  tenderly reassuring me, talking to me over that later light meal, a vegetarian sausage sandwich and a coffee. We decided to stay for just one night and then rush for the channel ferry crossing the next morning. Doreen and I had always been strict vegetarians, though unlike her, I do put my hands up to eating the odd smoked kipper or two occasionally. There was to be no fish supper on this trip. Doreen would never approve of that!

  It felt appropriate to me that I spend at least one evening camped up near this memorial, in recognition that the deaths of these brave young men had finally been recognised. Also to feel that in some way I was meeting my grandfather for the very first time.

  Saturday, March 19th, 2005, we arrived at Windy Corner, Pas-de-Calais. I couldn’t decide which was the lesser of the two evils; re-adjusting myself to gravitational normality given the extremely rough sea crossing I had endured yesterday or coping with the culture of French drivers today. Both seemed to me to be rather unpleasant and unwanted experiences. Windy Corner, WW1 War Graves Cemetery, was just a short drive from Calais and across eastward toward Belgium to the Pas-de-Calais region. But to hell with it we all thought, ‘all’ being the inclusion of the third person’s perspective on matters at hand, the opinion of our dear faithful friend, the Winjin’ Pom. So we had stayed impromptu overnight at Dunkirk.

  In May of 1940, the British Expeditionary Forces had been cut off from the rest of France, and indeed a significant part of the supporting French Army also, this by the German advance. The BEF had retreated to Dunkirk and had become completely encircled, cut off and trapped. The British and French soldiers cut off were forced to retreat to the area around the port.

  Having been forced to retreat in such haste and leave all heavy military equipment behind, the Germans could have easily defeated us. To think that personal squabbling between Hitler and his Generals led
to our escape. It was always assumed that Adolf Hitler had ordered the halt of land forces, favouring an aerial attack instead by the Luftwaffe. Alhough within the official war diaries of Army Group A at the time, Generaloberst Gerd von Rundstedt had made the order, Hitler had merely validated the command some hours later. Modern historians tend to believe that, regardless of who actually made the order to stop the advance, it was issued as a command due to in-fighting amongst the German Military leadership. Someone somewhere wanted the full recognition for beating the British Army and the German Commanders and Generals couldn’t decide amongst themselves which one of them it should be.

  Well actually, who really cares what truly happened? I don’t. The fact is that this lull in the action gave the British a few days to evacuate by sea. It’s a much better story and to be totally honest with you, the Nazis are not a group of people that I am particularly fond of talking about in any admirable manner of fashion.

  Churchill ordered any ship or boat available, regardless of its size and capacity, to sail and pick up the 338,000 plus men, including a further 123,000 French soldiers who were also stranded at Dunkirk. Over 900 vessels were used to evacuate, or if you prefer “rescue” the Allied Forces. In excess of 40,000 vehicles and countless tonnage of other military equipment and supplies were left behind on the beaches. Britain desperately needed its trained fighting men back. Equipment and supplies could be replaced but an army, no. The miracle of Dunkirk, Churchill called it. The official operation name was Operation Dynamo. Sadly, 40,000 Allied troops fell into the hands of the Germans that final day. Only a few groups managed to return home afterwards as free men through a variety of routes including via neutral Spain.

  Under the command of German Admiral Friedrich Frisius, the now occupied Dunkirk Fortress, as it was known, was not liberated from German occupation until the 9th of May, 1945 when the Germans, forced into eventual and unconditional surrender, did so to the Commander of the Czechoslovak forces, Brigade General Alois Liska. The artillery siege of Dunkirk was directed on the final day of the war by pilots from No. 625 and No. 652 Squadrons of the RAF.

  I had to smile to myself at the irony of all this. Why? Well because until that day of Friday, March 18th, I had never seen so many Germans collected together as a unified group in my entire life. I think that everybody in Germany who owned a motor-home or camper van was parked up at Dunkirk that day. Literally, and I kid you not, hundreds of German campers were there and clearly for many, money was no object. There were vans from all over Europe and something I had never thought of beforehand - what a tourist trap Dunkirk had now become. I could criticise none too harshly as we too were there that day for no other reason than a fascination with our own military history.

  I did try to talk with the owner of a British registered car though. Not because they were British but because I had seen them previously in Alrewas in Staffordshire, earlier on my trip. I had seen this blue car before for sure. It had stood out to me with its tinted side windows. That kind of thing always draws the attention of a policeman’s eye. Nonetheless, I could not find the driver and didn’t feel the need to wait around too long. I’d liked to have shared our mutual journey destinations and chatted over a cuppa. Clearly somebody else was as interested in The Shot at Dawn Memorial and Dunkirk just as I was. I felt certain we would have had many interests in common.

  But, what of Windy Corner Cemetery? Well it was perfect. Not because of the overall feeling of great sadness and loss, but in the way in which it was so perfectly maintained. Respectful, unforgotten and appropriate. Not a weed in sight, the grass mowed to its lowest level; a carpet of green perfectly maintained throughout. Flowers and bushes planted amongst the graves. I felt it was tidier than any English country manor garden, any that Doreen and I had ever visited together. We always maintained our membership of the National Trust and loved visiting country gardens and manor houses. That was a really special thing, the big thing between us.

  Inside the front gate there was a metal box built into the stone wall. Open and unlocked, it contained the names and plot references (numbers) to all the soldiers who now slept there. My granddad’s name was there. I somehow felt that through all the tragedy of his death, somehow he was now finally respected in death. All those rows and rows of military white, cold head-stones, so many of them, and there amongst them all side by side my Granddad, John E. Wilkinson. I wonder, am I the very first person from the family to have ever visited this grave? I suspect that this is the case.

  Then as I sat there beside his grave, a feeling of absolute coldness took over, a bitter chill which I cannot explain. A feeling of negative spiritual haunting. Something destructive and unclean. I became anxious and upset. Had I upset my grandfather? Was my presence here today unwanted somehow? I am not a person that believes in spirits or ghosts but that is the only way that I can explain the sensation to you. I decided to return to the van and grab a jumper. Winjin’ Pom was very close and parked just out beyond the gate. Windy Corner was a small, almost a hamlet type village community, with just a few detached houses along the roadside. This isolated and obviously small rural French community explained to me the absence of any graffiti or vandalism and the reason that the cemetery reference book was not locked away. As I left and upon closing the gate behind me to turn outward, I saw it again. I saw that same Blue British registered car, the car with the tinted windows.

  Alrewas in Staffordshire and Dunkirk were a reasonable coincidence, but here as well? Here at Windy Corner? That was not a coincidence surely. Then as my mind started to run away with me, I became convinced that it had shared the same channel ferry crossing with me also. I was sure. It sped away and almost in such a manner as if to say that I had clearly taken the driver by complete surprise. I noted the plates this time. Whoever it was, it had made it indisputably clear to me, they didn’t want me to see them.

  I hooked up online and shared the registration number with the boys back home at the station; a quick email and they ran a plate check for me. Just an hour later they replied and told me the car was a Renault Clio, a green one and registered to a pensioner in Edinburgh. The lady who owns this car is 73 years of age. The car I saw was a Ford Mondeo, it was navy blue and most definitely, most definitely indeed, it was not driven by an old lady. I left it with the lads to make some further routine enquiries for me. Police business and all that.

  I then realised. I had uploaded every word that Stanley Jack had told me about Dad’s last top secret and final mission. Every detail was on the forum, there written down on the thread for all to see. Had I drawn the attention of the military? Had I somehow upset the British Secret Service? Surely not? It may appear of me to be somewhat naîve in doing this, but surely no. Who would care after all this time? Not the Soviets. The communist regimes had long fallen into history and the Berlin Wall had long been pulled down. The new Russian democracy wouldn’t care and why would the British? Everything there is to know about WW2 and the German atomic research programmes was now widely and publicly known, readily available to anyone who wanted to read it. You can watch all this stuff anytime you like on numerous British cable channels. But upset them, someone somewhere, I had, I turned to Doreen and nervously asked her, “Have you ever had that feeling that someone’s watching you?”