The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  August on the Gallipoli Peninsula is far from quiet. The disasters of 6 August, and indeed the entire campaign, are revisited more than once during the long, hot days. Jack Churchill, ever more disheartened by what he is witnessing, keeps his brother, Winston, briefed in a series of letters.

  On 8 August Jack went ashore with Colonel Maurice Hankey, who has been sent to Gallipoli to make a report in Winston’s stead, and Colonel Cecil Aspinall, a member of Sir Ian Hamilton’s General Staff.

  It was extraordinary. There were thousands of our men fighting hammer and tongs to get across this scorching salt lake. But they had no clear orders, and Stopford, for reasons beyond comprehension, is still out at sea …

  … Apathy is everywhere and has spread from the officers to the men. We walked some distance inland. There was no shelling, no machine guns, no firing of any sort. I almost felt that we could have walked to Constantinople unmolested …

  On 10 August Stopford, under pressure from Sir Ian Hamilton, finally issued orders to advance. Jack tries to explain what he thinks has gone wrong.

  These men are not cowards. They are fit and strong, but their training has been based on the horror of the trenches, so they dig. And they think that if they gain 500 yards, it is a victory, so they dig!

  Two days later Jack went to Lemnos to visit the wounded.

  … By the way, I met the two nurses you asked me to see, Killingbeck and Thomas. What splendid girls. They went ashore at Suvla Bay, strictly against orders – how brave. I’m afraid Killingbeck is not very well – severe dysentery. The doctors think she’ll recover in due course, but it’s a worry. Thomas is going back to the Straits on her own – pretty little thing, doesn’t seem old enough to be in the middle of a cesspit like the Dardanelles. Things we’re asking our womenfolk to do! They both deserve medals. I’m going to get Hamilton to get them a Royal Red Cross.

  After receiving Jack’s letters, Winston caused a storm in the War Council meetings of the 19th and 20th. Stopford and two of his generals had already been recalled to London in disgrace, but Kitchener objected to Winston’s suggestion that half the 50,000 troops in Egypt should be sent to Gallipoli at once, but under the command of a general who knew the meaning of the word ‘attack’!

  Kitchener preferred to launch another huge offensive on the Western Front, pointing out that the French troops were becoming restless in their trenches and that a Peace Movement was gaining ground among the rank and file. Once again, Winston lost the argument, and it was decided to wait until September to review the situation on Gallipoli.

  On Sunday the 29th Winston wrote back to Jack.

  Infuriating! I’ve heard through John French that K is planning a new offensive with Joffre for next month, despite the fact that LG and the Old Block think that it has been agreed with French High Command that no such thing will take place! K has got the Cabinet and War Council running scared with talk of pacifism rising among the French poilu. He’s a devious cove!

  The latest debate is conscription. Lloyd George is certain we need it. He’s already got thousands of women into men’s work, but he says we’ll still need to conscript men soon. K is bitterly opposed. The word is that he is very disappointed about the calibre of the men in his New Army. He dare not go public about it, of course, but their physical condition, standard of education and discipline leave a lot to be desired – all very worrying, given that the outcome of the war is going to depend on them sooner or later.

  I’m sorry you are witness to so much misery and inertia in the Dardanelles. K is sending Byng – very tough old bird. He should make a difference. He is a soldier’s soldier, very good horseman. His nickname is ‘Bungo’ to distinguish him from his elder brothers, ‘Byngo’ and ‘Bango’. This story will give you a measure of the man. Not an academic, while at Eton he once traded his Latin grammar book and his brother’s best trousers to a hawker for a pair of ferrets and a pineapple. You’ll like him.

  I hope the nurses get their gongs – let me know if you need any help. Thanks for taking the trouble to go and see them.

  We see Goonie and the Jagoons during the week in London and they come to us most weekends. They’re on splendid form, but we’re all missing you.

  Your devoted Winston

  In St Omer, Cath Kenny and Mary Broxup have been invited to Sunday lunch with Katherine Furse and Kitty Stewart-Murray. The four women are sitting in the Café du Palais de Justice in Place Victor Hugo, the most fashionable restaurant in the city.

  Katherine Furse smiles benignly. ‘We thought we would have something very French, as it is Sunday and we’re in one of St Omer’s best places to eat. What about herb-marinated pork fillet, a sweet-onion potato gratin and some Provençal asparagus? Then a lovely maple syrup cream cheese pot de crème?’

  Cath and Mary look at one another, mystified. As usual, Cath takes the bull by the horns. ‘Sounds grand, Kath, but wot do’st “Provençal” mean?’

  Katherine and Kitty smile sweetly. ‘Oh, it’s a cooking style from the south. It just means with garlic, onion, mushrooms, herbs.’

  ‘Never ’ad garlic. ’Eard on it, but never tried it, but we’ll gi’ it a go, won’t wi, Mary?’

  ‘Aye, we’ll try owt, us. We even ’ad ’orse meat t’other day. It wer alreet.’

  ‘Very well. Shall we have some wine?’

  ‘Beer fer us, please, Kath; one on them Belgian strong uns.’

  This time, the two VAD leaders smile a little more thinly. The food is a great success. Cath and Mary devour everything in front of them, including all the bread on the table and the two refills of Belgian beer. Katherine Furse then takes a deep breath. ‘Now, ladies, may I raise a delicate subject with you?’

  ‘Aye, o’ course.’

  Cath and Mary eye one another knowingly.

  ‘We have had a disturbing report from GHQ about an incident on Sunday 11 July.’ She looks down at a document she has retrieved from her bag. ‘At Vlamertinge.’

  ‘Aye, the Welch Fusilier. Wot can we tell yer?’

  ‘Well, it is a very distressing story. I suppose we just wanted to check that you are all right.’

  ‘We’re fine, but thanks fer askin’. So, this is wot ’appened: thi wer as drunk as lords. I provoked the big one bi tellin’ ’im t’fuck off. They dragged us into a barn, med me strip off, then tried to rape me. Luckily – an’ a can’t tell yer ’ow lucky – there were a lad ’idin’ in t’barn – he’d escaped fra t’Germans. He ’ad a shotgun; there wer a scuffle. I put a pitchfork in t’lad who wer attackin’ me, an’ then Mary shot t’bugger. Then CSM fra Somerset Light Infantry came in an’ fettled it. That’s it.’

  Katherine and Kitty are wide-eyed and almost speechless. Kitty speaks eventually. ‘You seem so calm about it.’

  ‘Aye, well it’s over now. No ’arm, except a losin’ a bit o’ dignity wi’ me arse in t’air.’

  ‘Well, we’re so sorry it happened. It’s a dreadful thing to happen to someone who’s here to help.’

  ‘Aye, well, ’e got ’is just desserts.’

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘In a military prison in Calais, for the duration.’

  ‘And the lad with a shotgun?’

  Cath smiles mischievously. ‘He’s rejoined his regiment, Welch Fusiliers. We were very grateful, o’ course. Last we ’eard, ’e’s gone into the line at Festubert with the Welch’s 9th Battalion. They gave ’im a Military Medal for helping us at Vlamertinge.’

  ‘Quite right, too.’

  ‘Actually, Kath, there is somat’ we could do fer ’im. He ’as a twin sister, Bronwyn Thomas. She’s in t’QAIMNS. She wer at Pop-Hop wi’ a Sister Margaret Killingbeck. Thi both went off to t’Dardanelles together. He’s very keen to be in touch wi’ ’er agin.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure we can trace her and get an address.’ Furse shifts in her chair uneasily. ‘Now, about this incident in the barn. As you might imagine, we’d like to keep it quiet. We don’t want to upset the other girls and we don’t want word to get
back to the press. There would be an outcry that our soldiers could behave so badly.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Kath, we’ve said nowt to anyone except the MPs, and nowt to t’other girls either. But to absolutely guarantee our silence …’ Cath pauses puckishly. Katherine and Kitty look concerned. ‘… You’ll ata buy us another beer!’

  While Kitty enjoys her lunch in St Omer and looks forward to her next tryst with her Grenadier Guards lover in London, her husband Bardie’s long-held dream of getting involved in the fighting has become a reality. He and his Scottish Horse left Devonport aboard the Transylvania, bound for Mudros on 19 August. After a mid-Mediterranean scare involving a near-miss with a Spanish merchant-man, when it was discovered that the Transylvania’s captain was drunk on the bridge and had to be arrested, they are now disembarking at Mudros Bay on Lemnos. Bardie has just been informed that they are to sail to Suvla Bay on the Gallipoli Peninsula for a night-time landing in three days’ time.

  Part Nine: September

  * * *

  THE BATTLE OF LOOS

  Wednesday 1 September

  Suvla Bay, Gallipoli Peninsula, Turkey

  Bardie Stewart-Murray is finally stepping into a battle zone, something he has been hoping for since the Great War began. As Britain’s leading aristocrat, he knows that it is his duty to lead men in battle.

  Even though he has already lost a brother and has another in a German prisoner-of-war camp, his fervour and patriotism are undiminished. Although he is a Scot and his first language is Scots Gaelic, his family has always supported the union with England, even against his own rebellious Scottish kinsmen, and even if it meant initiating and participating in the Highland Clearances.

  It is ten o’clock and a dark night, but the sea is warm. Bardie is up to his waist in water and approaching C Beach in Suvla Bay. He and his men are unloading stores and equipment, a task made much easier in darkness, negating the threat of Turkish artillery, which still has the beach in its range.

  Bardie looks around and calls to his adjutant. ‘Captain, we need some sappers in the morning. Some rails along the beach would make getting all this material ashore a lot easier.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I’ll look into it.’

  ‘Don’t “look into it”, Captain, make sure it’s done.’

  ‘Yes, sir, first thing.’

  ‘No, not first thing; before dawn, Captain. Wake the buggers up.’

  Bardie is in his element. One of the benefits of being a marquis from birth is that one gets used to telling people what to do. He told his servants what to do when he was a child at home, did the same at Eton and is now doing it with consummate ease in the army.

  The Scottish Horse are at a loss without their horses, left behind in Britain, but Bardie had studied the situation in France carefully and, realizing that many of his men have been ghillies, deer-stalkers and gamekeepers, has obtained large numbers of telescopic sights for them. At dinner with Sir Ian Hamilton on Lemnos before they left for their landing, Bardie asked how they might be put to good use. At the dinner were Field Generals Peyton and Inglefield, who both suggested that Bardie should find one of Major Hesketh-Pritchard’s top School of Sniping marksmen, Colour Serjeant Hywel Thomas, Welch Fusiliers.

  ‘Captain, when we’re settled tomorrow morning and the sappers are at work, I want you to go and find a sniper, Colour Serjeant Hywel Thomas. He’s a Welch Fusilier, but currently attached to the Manchesters.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The next morning, while his Scottish Horse moves into trenches vacated by the Scots Fusiliers, and the Royal Engineers begin to construct the rails across the beach he has requested, Bardie is eating breakfast on the move. With his regimental serjeant major, William McLaren, at his side, he is striding across the dry salt lake that lies to the north of Suvla Bay.

  ‘Mr McLaren, it would be ideal if we could get three dozen of our best shots on that high ground to the north.’

  ‘Aye, sir, but I think Johnnie Turk might have something to say about that.’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine that all these troops couldn’t take these small hills.’

  ‘Aye, Colonel, but ’ave yer seen how many have dysentery? How can a man run up a hill when he’s shittin’ himself twenty times a day?’

  As the two men continue their conversation about the failures of the Gallipoli campaign, Bardie’s adjutant, Captain Hugh Muir, appears, with Hywel Thomas a yard behind him. He is completely covered in summer camouflage, as are his rifle and sight.

  ‘Colonel, this is Colour Serjeant Thomas, School of Sniping.’

  ‘Thank you, Colour. Sorry to have dragged you away from your duties. Bagged much today?’

  ‘Not many, sir. Mainly been keeping their heads down so that they don’t get too many of our boys.’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  ‘Yes, very. German-trained; good snipers.’

  ‘Now look, Thomas, Generals Inglefield and Peyton tell me you’re one of the best, and General Hamilton says I can have you for a while.’

  ‘Happy to help, sir.’

  ‘We’ve got a lot of good shots in the regiment – ghillies, keepers and the like. Could you teach them your skills? There’s a commission in it for you.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Did you say “commission”?’

  ‘I did, into my regiment, assuming that a Welshman wouldn’t mind joining a Scottish regiment.’

  Hywel is beaming from ear to ear. ‘I’d be delighted, sir. But what about Major Hesketh-Pritchard?’

  ‘The general will write to him. I’m sure the major will be thrilled to hear that one of his men has been commissioned in the field. And when you’ve taught us what you know, he can have you back, Lieutenant Thomas.’

  ‘Oh dear, sir, that sounds very odd.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get used to it. So, where do we start?’

  ‘Well, sir, I can’t help men who can’t shoot, but I can help good shots get better.’

  ‘Well, we will only send you our best shots. See to it, Mr McLaren.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  The RSM then turns to Hywel. ‘What else do you need, sir?’

  Hywel takes a moment for the RSM’s appellation of ‘sir’ to sink in before answering. ‘We’ll need to organize some kind of range, firing positions, targets and ammunition. Then we’ll need materials for camouflage – hessian, vegetation and the like – and I’ll need a shaded area so that I can show them how to calibrate their sights. I’ll also need an observer for each sniper – they’re vital – and each one will need a telescope or high-magnification field binoculars.’

  Bardie is impressed. ‘How long do you need?’

  ‘Three to six weeks, depending on how good your men are.’

  Bardie has been curious about Hywel’s gloved hand since they met. ‘So, why the glove?’

  ‘It hides a gammy hand, sir. It’s been shot through, repaired by a doc in Ypres. The glove is reinforced; it acts as a support.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve only got one hand?’

  ‘Well, I like to think I’ve got two and a half hands, because the gloved one is much better than a normal hand.’

  ‘Fascinating, Lieutenant. So, let’s summarize: when we make our next attack, assuming it’s within the training time you need, I’d like to have an entire company of snipers ready who we can disperse throughout the regiment to support our advance, especially to take out their machine-gun nests. Agreed?’

  ‘Understood and agreed, sir.’

  Hywel walks away with a broad grin on his face. When the war began he was a broken man, alone on a dilapidated farm, his family scattered. Then good fortune intervened. A stranger in the form of Margaret Killingbeck made him reconsider his misfortune. Then he found a God-given gift, which took him to France and has now earned him a commission as an officer.

  Wednesday 15 September

  St John’s Gate, Clerkenwell, London

  Katherine Furse and Kitty Stewart-Murray are drinking tea in Katherine’s offi
ce at St John Ambulance Headquarters in London. Kitty is pensive. She needs to confide in someone, and Katherine, despite her somewhat severe, matronly demeanour, is her only option.

  ‘You know, Katherine, I often think of those two rough diamonds in Poperinghe, Kenny and Broxup. The war is a big adventure for them. Without it, their lives would be just like those of their mothers and grandmothers, and their daughters too, no doubt.’

  ‘I know, but it’s true for us as well. I am a widow with a decent pension. Before the war, my prospects were a quiet life here in London until my children leave me, then a retirement to the country or the south coast. Now I can’t imagine anything more awful.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same for me. Life is changing – of that there’s no doubt – but it is destroying my family. The duke is a broken man: one son killed, another a prisoner, and his heir clinging on to a strip of land under fire from 300,000 Turks.’

  ‘It is so sad, and true of so many families. I don’t have one friend who hasn’t lost a relative. The other day I went to a memorial service for Henry Moseley, killed on Gallipoli last month. I knew his father, Henry, an anatomy professor at Oxford, and his mother, Amabel, a championship chess player – a brilliant family. Young Henry was a King’s Scholar at Eton, took an outstanding sciences degree at Trinity College, Oxford, before working with Ernest Rutherford at Manchester. They say he was going to win the Nobel Prize for Physics for something to do with atomic numbers, whatever they are. But he joined up as a signals officer and was shot through the head by a Turkish sniper. At the service Rutherford spoke, with tears rolling down his cheeks. He said a profoundly important thing: that Moseley was the brightest star of a glittering generation being extinguished by war, and he begged the government not to send any more of them to their deaths. There was not a dry eye in the house and many “hear, hear”s in support of his words.’