by David Ruffle
The events of that evening whereby the German agent, Von Bork was captured are well known to the public through the publication of His Last Bow. I took the unusual step of telling the story as a third-party narrator for I was only present at the finale as it were. I may have taken one or two liberties in re-imagining certain conversations, but it was absolutely necessary to bring Holmes’s last case before the public. Holmes’s words to me as we stood on the terrace that evening still bring a tingle to my spine. ‘There’s an east wind coming, Watson.’ ‘Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. There’s an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet. It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast. But it’s God’s own wind none the less, and a cleaner, better, stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared.’ Whether we have that cleaner, better, stronger land is debatable in light of recent events in Germany and the shadow of war hangs over us all again.
I get ahead of myself once more. His Last Bow was published in 1917 and at that time I tried to obtain information regarding what happened to Von Bork after his arrest. Holmes, at the time, intimated that Von Bork would be released in due course and may even undertake ambassadorial duties. I did not think this very likely, one doubts that any country having uncovered a spy in their midst would do anything other than incarcerate him or sentence him to death. When I asked these questions in 1917, I was met with silence. Well, I say silence, but Mycroft communicated with me only to suggest that I kindly drop the matter. Holmes himself was unwilling to discuss the matter with me so I pressed ahead with the story and presented it as I knew it at the time. I believe, however, that Von Bork never made it back to his homeland and met his death on these shores, possibly by firing squad at the Tower of London.
Shortly after these events in 1914, very shortly as it happened, I applied, with Beatrice’s blessing, to re-join my old regiment if they would take an aging doctor such as myself. Which, to my surprise they did. To clarify, this was the Northumberland Fusiliers not the Berkshires whom I was attached to at Kandahar. There was little time for training either for the medical staff or the soldiers resulting in a constant stream of battalions and divisions crossing the channel. I was given the rank of captain and assigned duties as a medical officer at various aid posts. I had initially volunteered for frontline duties. I am not sure why, I had no wish to see the fighting that closely, but I did want to get wounded men away from the line as quickly as possible.
Our first real action was at Ypres in late October as part of the British Expeditionary Force. The Germans were desperate to break through our lines to control the ports behind us thereby giving them access to the North Sea. Offensive after offensive followed in which not an inch was given without someone shedding blood. It was wholesale slaughter on an unbelievable scale. I commanded a B section of the Royal Army Medical Corps within the Fusiliers. This comprised, when full strength which was a rarity, one sergeant, one corporal, two privates who acted as wagon orderlies, thirty-six privates who acted as stretcher bearers, one major, captain or lieutenant in command of tent subsection, one quartermaster, one sergeant-major, four sergeants, two corporals, thirteen privates, including a cook, a washer-man and two orderlies. Within days of the battle beginning, we had lost fourteen stretcher bearers and a sergeant.
The action at Ypres[45], just in the first few days, created thousands of casualties. New weapons such as the machine gun caused unprecedented damage to soldiers’ bodies. This presented new challenges to doctors and medical staff as they sought to save their patients’ lives and limit the harm to their bodies. New types of treatment, organisation and medical technologies were developed to reduce the numbers of deaths.
It was our job on the front line to treat the walking wounded, and this while under constant fire ourselves, and remove the more seriously wounded to a dressing station and from there to casualty-clearing stations for onward movement to base hospitals. Where soldiers ended up depended largely on the severity of their wounds. Owing to the number of wounded, hospitals were set up in any available buildings, such as abandoned chateaux in France.
Often casualty-clearing stations were set up in tents. Surgery was often performed at the CCS; arms and legs were amputated and wounds were operated on. As the battlefield became static and trench warfare set in, the CCS became more permanent, with better facilities for surgery and accommodation for female nurses, which was situated far away from the male patients. Infection was a serious complication for the wounded. We used all the chemical weaponry in our somewhat meagre arsenal to prevent infection. As we had no antibiotics or sulphonamides, a number of alternative methods were employed. The practice of ‘debridement’ - whereby the tissue around the wound was cut away and the wound sealed - was a common way to prevent infection. Carbolic lotion was used to wash wounds, which were then wrapped in gauze soaked in the same solution. Other wounds were bipped. That is to say, that bismuth iodoform paraffin paste was smeared over severe wounds to prevent infection.
The experience of life in the lines could be overwhelming. Men were living outside for days or weeks on end, with limited shelter from cold, wind, rain and snow in the winter or from the heat and sun in summer. Artillery destroyed the familiar landscape, reducing trees and buildings to desolate rubble and churning up endless mud in some areas. The incredible noise of artillery and machine gun fire, both enemy and friendly, was often incessant.
It’s hard to put into words what this noise did to the men. It was impossible to block it out, I am surprised any of us ever slept. When I slept, I dreamt of the noise of battle, the cries and screams of the wounded and the dying. Yet soldiers spent a great deal of time waiting around, and in some quiet sectors there was little real fighting and a kind of informal truce could develop between the two sides.
Even in more active parts of the front, the fighting was rarely continuous and boredom was common among troops, with little of the heroism and excitement many had imagined before the war.
Sometimes, a new order to go on the offensive galvanised the men to such an extent that cheers would break out in the trenches in spite of the fact that death might be only minutes away. By November and the onset of even worse weather things quietened down for a while. This was in no small part due to sheer exhaustion on both sides. We had pummelled ourselves to a standstill. But there was one final attempt by the Germans to break through.
The main German threat on 11th November would come from two fresh divisions, the 4th Divison and the Prussian Guards. These two divisions, with 10,000 men in twelve fresh battalions, would attack eleven tired British battalions, reduced in strength to around 4,000 men after three months of fighting, along the line of the Menin road.
The German attack was preceded by one of the heaviest artillery bombardments yet, lasting from 6:30 to 9 a.m. Along much of the line the advancing German troops were further protected by early morning mist, but the attacking troops had already lost their early enthusiasm and the attack was turned back by the accurate British rifle fire. The Germans were then pushed back into Nonne Boschen woods and a period of calm returned.
There were a few sporadic attacks after that, but essentially the danger was over. For now. It was a time to regroup, assess our strength or lack of it.
It was a time of fleeting friendships, there was no guarantee that a man you befriended one day would be there the next. Everyone was aware that the next bullet or whizzbang could have your name on it. Life expectancy in the front line was minimal yet the fortitude and good humour
I saw amongst the men was a great testimony as to their spirit. There they were being gassed, shot at, shelled, in the most horrendous conditions yet they sang and laughed their way through it as though they were visiting a holiday camp. Deep down of course they were scared, petrified and homesick for loved ones they might never see again. And now the bastard diplomats talk of war aga
in. It is obscene.
Mr. Huntley, you may wish to edit that particular word out, if I knew how I would, but the whole move towards war makes me heartily sick, hence my language. Have we not seen destruction enough?
To preserve my sanity, I composed letter after letter to Beatrice who now had the added worry of knowing Nathaniel was now in France serving with the Dorset Regiment[46] along with Godfrey Jacob’s two sons. Somewhere too, was my nephew I surmised, serving still with the Border Regiment.
It was with a heavy heart I realised that the chances of all of us coming through this hell unscathed was very thin. At this time while there was a bit of a lull on the front line, I was attached to the staff at the nearest casualty-clearing station. The one I found myself in was one of the larger ones and we had upwards of one thousand patients when I arrived, many as you may imagine, seriously wounded indeed.
Some were quickly established as ‘Blighty cases’ who would be taken, usually by train, to a base hospital near the coast and from there, back home. All too often, after treatment, they found themselves back at the front where they would be extremely fortunate to survive a second time.
Two months into 1915 I was on the move again, this time north towards Lille. There was to be a major offensive with the plan to capture the high ground of Aubers Ridge[47]. Our section was short on everything including men. On the tenth of March the battle which came to be known as Neuve-Chapelle began. At seven-thirty in the morning the artillery bombardment commenced, and never in all of history had there been such a one. You couldn’t hear yourself speak for the noise. It was a continual rattle and roar.
We lay very low in our medical trench just behind the front line, as several of the British guns were firing short. The early success of taking the village of Neuve-Chappelle was soon muted by the stalemate which followed. It did not seem like any kind of victory to us with over 11,000 men perishing and thousands upon thousands suffering grievous wounds. Neuve-Chapelle was the first planned wholly British offensive of the war. It demonstrated that it was quite possible to break into the enemy positions, but also showed that this kind of success was not easily turned into breaking through them.
I suppose I got used to the conditions we had to work in, the blood, gore and pitiful cries of the men accompanied me in both my waking moments and my sleep. The nightmares began around then and still persist to this day. On the last day of the battle, although we did not recognise it as such then, the casualties were even higher than we had come to expect. The injuries ranged from mere scratches to the most horrific where limbs had been blown away leaving men to bleed to death where they lay. The stretcher bearers were magnificent, retrieving the wounded under such terrible conditions. Their bravery was inspiring. A quick glance at each man was enough to tell me whether they would live or not. I had words of comfort for each and every one.
One man that day was near to death as I spoke to him. With a struggle he lifted his head and whispered, ‘It’s Doctor Watson. My God, a friendly face.’ Blood and mud covered his face, but recognition came to me. It was Cecil Jacobs. ‘Rest easy now, Cecil. Don’t try to speak if it pains you.’ ‘I have to. My brother is out there somewhere. Out... there.’ I immediately thought of Nathaniel, was he out there somewhere too?’ I gripped Cecil’s hand and urged him not to worry about his brother and that I would do all I could to keep Arthur safe. He lifted his head again and made as if to speak, his grip on my hand suddenly tightened then relaxed and he slipped away.
My poor friend, Godfrey, I would have to write to him with the news myself rather than entrust it to the chaplain or commanding officer. First, I needed to find out what, if anything, had happened to Arthur. I questioned soldier after soldier until I pieced together some sort of coherent narrative. He had last been seen leading an assault on a German machine-gun post, leading from the front. None of the party that made up that group had materialised since.
It was possible that they had been taken prisoner, but more likely that they had perished in their brave action. Many years later it was learned that none had been taken prisoner and somewhere in that field there they lie still until such time as they may be discovered, perhaps by a local farmer. No one that I quizzed knew the name of Nathaniel Heidler which was some form of relief at least. As it turned out, Nathaniel, in 1916 was wounded at Verdun, mentioned in dispatches and invalided home. He found life difficult after life in the trenches which is probably an understatement for so many hundreds of thousands would had an equally torrid time in adjusting to a civilian life where everything had changed irrevocably.
In a bid to alter the course of his life, he took over the running of a farm near High Wycombe along with Elizabeth and Rose. They live there still. Constable John Legg, who was such a popular policeman in Lyme, died at Amiens in August 1918. Godfrey Jacobs himself was a broken man after losing his sons and did not long survive them; he died of a heart attack whilst out fishing in 1919.
Sarah Jacobs joined the VAD at the outbreak of the war and served in hospitals on the south coast. Her grief was profound and in 1920 set up a women’s charity group in Dorset which she runs to this day. My time at the front was coming to an end. After Neuve-Chappelle I was sent to the No 40 Stationary Hospital in Harfleur[48]. If wounds inflicted by machine-gun fire can ever be called slight, then that is the kind of wound we treated. Many who were seriously wounded did not survive the journey to the base hospital and those who did tended to be shipped straight home on one of the hospital ships which were a permanent fixture in the harbour.
In Harfleur, a nurse caught my eye and I had the feeling I had met her before, but with no idea where and when such a meeting had taken place. During a quiet moment, she sought me out. ‘It’s Uncle John, isn’t it?’ ‘My word, Charlotte! You were tiny when I saw you last. How on earth did you know it was me?’ ‘My mother has a photograph of you on the mantlepiece.’
She told me her mother was well and had, at long last married again. He was a fine man, she assured me. Of course, I was pleased that Lily had found happiness and asked Charlotte to send her my love. I asked how James was. Had she heard from him? At this point she broke down and sobbed uncontrollably. James, she told me, had died at Gallipoli where so much of his regiment suffered enormously.
War, bloody war, shattering families, shattering lives. Having obtained Lily’s address from Charlotte, I wrote to her offering my condolences and assuring her that I would always be on hand to help in any way I could. Did I really mean that I asked myself? Yes, I did. Time had gone some way to healing the old wounds. I worked with Charlotte for a few weeks until I received further orders that I was to report to the military hospital at Netley as soon as possible. Netley!
I imagined I had seen the last of the place, but once more it was looming large in my life. I left Harfleur on the hospital ship, SS Glenart Castle[49] which was to be tragically torpedoed three years later. I promised Charlotte we would keep in touch and looked gratefully towards England.
39 Part of The Battle of Tugela (or Thukela) Heights, consisted of a series of military actions lasting from 14 February through 27 February 1900 in which General Sir Redvers Buller’s British army forced Louis Botha’s Boer army to lift the Siege of Ladysmith during the Second Boer War.
40 Part of the Battle of Colenso, 15th December 1899.
41 It opened in May 1906.
42 The assassination of Arch-Duke Ferdinand.
43 Harwich is a town in Essex, England and one of the Haven ports, located on the coast with the North Sea to the east.
44 A person opposed to increased industrialization or new technology.
45 Ypres, is a town in the Belgian province of West Flanders. It’s surrounded by the Ypres Salient battlefields, where many cemeteries, memorials and war museums honour the battles that unfolded in this area during World War I.
46 The D
orset Regiment was a line infantry regiment of the British Army in existence from 1881 to 1958, being the county regiment of Dorset. Until 1951, it was formally called the Dorsetshire Regiment, although usually known as “The Dorsets”.
47 The battle of Aubers Ridge fits the popular image of a First World War battle better than most. The British troops went over the top early on the morning of 9th May and were cut down by German machine gun fire. The survivors were pinned down in no man’s land. No significant progress was made, and early on 10th May Haig ended the offensive. The British suffered 11,000 casualties in one day of fighting on a narrow front.
48 Harfleur is a commune in the Seine-Maritime department in the Normandy region of northern France. It was the principal seaport in north-western France for six centuries
49 On 26th February 1918, she was torpedoed and sunk by the German submarine UC-56, ten miles West of Lundy Island, on a voyage from Newport to Brest, to collect wounded. Captain Burt and 94 of her crew were among the 153 killed out of her complement of 186.
Cylinder 11
We steamed into Portsmouth on a day of unbroken sunshine. Never was I so glad to see England. I was relieved to be home, away from the death and destruction I had left behind which would always be with me though. The people of Portsmouth always turned out in thousands to cheer the returning wounded. It was a heart-warming sight that moved me to tears.
