The Ghost of the Trenches

by Helen Watts

  Dedication

  To our children and grandchildren

  in the hope that they can enjoy

  these stories whilst living in peace,

  and that they never have to experience

  the horrors of a world war.

  “In peace, sons bury their fathers.

  In war, fathers bury their sons.”

  Herodotus (Greek historian, 484BC–425BC)

  Contents

  Introduction: War Stories

  1. The Ghost of the Trenches

  ‘Strange Meeting’ by Wilfred Owen

  2. The Rock Climbers

  3. The Mysterious Monk

  4. My Dad’s Got a Gun

  5. An Army of Angels

  6. The Mysterious Case of the Extraordinary Exploding Ships

  7. The Boy and the Harp

  ‘We Must Not Forget’ by George Harrison

  8. The Regiment That Vanished

  9. The Phantom Soldiers of Crécy

  10. Sergeant Stubby

  11. The Soldier and the Donkey

  12. The Spooky Submarine

  13. The Brave Nurse

  14. The Christmas Truce

  ‘The First Friendly’ by Kevin McCann

  Acknowledgements

  About the Authors

  Introduction: War Stories

  What is a story, and why do people choose to tell stories and listen to them?

  Well, quite simply, a story is a description or retelling of an event that is either real or imagined, told using a set pattern of words or themes and with a beginning, a middle and an end. Ever since people developed speech they have communicated in this way – it is the natural thing to do. Stories preserve the past, reveal the present and are part of the creation of the future. The stories we choose to tell, and the stories we choose to listen to, tell people who we are.

  If you asked your grandparents about things they did when they were your age, they would probably tell you in a story. Here is an example:

  One day in the 1950s, when I was just a boy, I went to stay with my grandfather, Edward Victor French, on his tiny Somerset farm. I was helping to muck out the barn where my grandfather kept the mare that pulled the plough, when I noticed a tin helmet hanging on a nail on an oak beam. I asked my grandfather about it. He told me that as a young man he had joined the Somerset Yeomanry, who were posted to Gallipoli in 1915, and that the tin helmet had kept him safe all the way through the war.

  I asked my grandfather what had happened to his horse while he was away. He replied that the horse had gone to war too, but had also returned safely to that Somerset farm. After that, explained my grandfather, the brave horse enjoyed many happy days of retirement, being cared for by my grandfather’s four daughters – one of whom was my mother, Mary Joyce.

  Beyond that, my grandfather didn’t talk much of his experiences in the war as, he said, the things he saw were so terrible. I do recall him making it clear that he didn’t want me to play war games wearing that old tin helmet, although he would never say why.

  Storytellers like my grandfather express their feelings within the stories they tell. Young men facing great danger and adventure as soldiers in the First World War, far away from their families and homes, would tell each other stories in their quiet moments. Telling stories helped them to deal with their fears and to try and make sense of the things they were seeing and experiencing. Other stories would give them strength by reminding them of their home country and the family and friends they left behind. Other tales would reassure them that Good must triumph over Evil, as in the stories of Jack and the Giant, or Jack and the Devil, where Jack must always win. The British soldier, often referred to as ‘Tommy Atkins’, was everybody’s ‘Jack’.

  Everybody has got at least one story to tell, and that’s their own story. Of those lucky few who came home from the Great War, everyone returned with a different tale. Most of these contained some element of truth, but sometimes, as they were passed on from one mouth to the next, and one generation to the next, that truth became exaggerated, moulded and blended with increasing amounts of fiction. Legends were born and stories that were once personal became lodged in folklore.

  Sadly, the last surviving ‘Tommy’ of the Great War, Harry Patch, died in 2009, so in writing this collection, we have had to delve through a written archive of those who have long since left us, and draw upon the memories that were passed on to the children, and even grandchildren, of those who served. So as the proverb says, ‘if we stand tall it is because we are standing on the shoulders of those that have gone before’.

  Taffy Thomas

  1: The Ghost of the Trenches

  This tale is inspired by a ghost story from the American Civil War told by US storyteller Dan Keding. The story features two ideas which are common in legends and folk tales about war. The first involves a soldier, who is setting off to war, being given a gift from a loved one. The gift later saves the soldier’s life by deflecting an enemy bullet. The second idea, a scenario in which a soldier talks to a dead comrade, has been immortalised in the poem ‘Strange Meeting’ by Wilfred Owen, which follows this story.

  Among the officers who graduated from the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst before the war was a particularly handsome young man who caught the eye of a young debutante. As they were both only eighteen years of age, the young couple imagined that they had many long days of courting ahead of them.

  However, only weeks after they met, something happened which altered not only their lives but also the lives of everyone around them. The Austrian Archduke, Franz Ferdinand, was assassinated and his murder was used as justification for war. One country after the next stepped up to stand and fight alongside its allies, and within weeks peace in Europe was shattered. The Great War had begun.

  Realising that it would not be long before he left for France to fight for his country, the young lieutenant, who felt that he would need some support from home, decided to marry his debutante.

  A few months later, on the day before the lieutenant marched his platoon up the gangplank of the troop ship, the newlyweds had a quiet but sad farewell. The young man hugged his wife and gave her a sealed envelope. He told her that she was only to open it if he failed to return safely from the war.

  Shedding a tear, she in return gave him a silver hip-flask engraved with a heart, their names in the centre, telling him it was filled with brandy, but that was to be kept for a rainy day. He put the flask in his khaki battledress breast pocket, over his heart.

  During the years of fighting that followed, there were many times when the lieutenant, fearing for his life and missing his wife, touched his breast pocket and traced the reassuring outline of the hip-flask with his fingers. But he never opened it or touched a drop of the brandy inside.

  Then, not long after his twenty-first birthday, he led his platoon over the top into the horror that was Passchendaele. Half of his men, some of them under the age of eighteen, were butchered in the first hail of German bullets. One bullet slammed into the young lieutenant’s chest, denting the silver hip-flask, which deflected it. His wife’s gift had saved his life.

  Two hundred yards into No Man’s Land, the young lieutenant discovered the mortally wounded body of an English corporal in a shell hole. Barely alive, the unfortunate soldier had had part of his face shot away. Nevertheless, he still tried to give the makings of a salute to his superior officer.

  The lieutenant knelt by the dying corporal, discovering from his thick Lancashire accent that the dying man was of a Pals regiment: friends who decided to join the army and live or die together. The corporal asked the young lieutenant to stay with him as he was afraid to die alone. Seeing the look in the wounded man’s eyes, the senior
officer knew that he had to do it, even if it put himself at risk.

  The wounded soldier pulled a battered envelope from his pocket and asked the officer to deliver it when he returned to Blighty. Glancing at the envelope, the young lieutenant could see that the address written neatly on the front was of a cottage in a small Lancashire mill town. He assured the dying man that he would take care of it. Then he took the dented, treasured hip-flask from his breast pocket and shared the contents with the corporal, the brandy helping him as his life slipped away.

  Some months later on his return to England (one of the lucky ones), the young lieutenant did not forget that he had a promise to a dead comrade to keep. A steam train conveyed him and his kit bag to a small station in Lancashire. Then a long walk saw him standing outside a small cottage. A sharp knock on the door of the cottage, and it was opened by a pale, red-eyed woman who seemed surprised to see him there.

  The young officer asked if she was the woman who was named on the envelope, and when she said she was, he handed it to her. She looked at the handwriting, and at once burst into tears. The letter contained her dead husband’s last words to her.

  She thanked the young officer for taking the trouble to bring her the letter, and asked if he had known her husband well. He told her that he had been there in the last moments of her husband’s life, sharing a drink with him on the battlefield at Passchendaele.

  The woman stared at the lieutenant, astonished. Then, in a trembling voice, she told him that she had already been informed of her husband’s death, and that he had died at Serre, a full year before Passchendaele.

  The stunned officer returned to Surrey to pick up his life with his young wife, with a story to tell her and a mystery that he could never solve.

  Listening to the tale, the young woman was glad that her gift had saved her husband’s life and eased the final moments as another brave soldier lost his. How grateful she was that, unlike the poor widow in Lancashire, she would never need to open her envelope.

  Strange Meeting

  by Wilfred Owen (18 March 1893–4 November 1918)

  It seemed that out of the battle I escaped

  Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped

  Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.

  Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,

  Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

  Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared

  With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,

  Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.

  And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall;

  By his dead smile, I knew we stood in Hell.

  With a thousand fears that vision’s face was grained;

  Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,

  And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.

  ‘Strange friend,’ I said, ‘Here is no cause to mourn.’

  ‘None,’ said the other, ‘Save the undone years,

  The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,

  Was my life also; I went hunting wild

  After the wildest beauty in the world,

  Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,

  But mocks the steady running of the hour,

  And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.

  For by my glee might many men have laughed,

  And of my weeping something has been left,

  Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,

  The pity of war, the pity war distilled.

  Now men will go content with what we spoiled.

  Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.

  They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,

  None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.

  Courage was mine, and I had mystery;

  Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;

  To miss the march of this retreating world

  Into vain citadels that are not walled.

  Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels

  I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,

  Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.

  I would have poured my spirit without stint

  But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

  Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.

  I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

  I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned

  Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

  I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.

  Let us sleep now…’

  2: The Rock Climbers

  Unpredictable, unforgettable and unparalleled in its beauty, the English Lake District in Cumbria has, over the centuries, inspired generations of writers, storytellers and artists and drawn millions of visitors. In Victorian times, when exploration and adventure were very much admired, the Lake District also became a magnet to rock climbers and mountaineers who relished the opportunity to test their skill, strength and courage by conquering the peaks and summits of mountains like Scafell, Helvellyn and Skiddaw. Lakeland continued to be a popular destination for holiday-makers, walkers and climbers into the early twentieth century.

  The outbreak of the First World War in 1914 meant that holidays and recreational fun time became severely limited as people concentrated instead on serving their country. However, the following tale, inspired by the many true stories of sadness and loss, courage and friendship, which came out of the trenches of the First World War, is proof that the love of creating and telling stories, and the passion for exploring the mountains, remained strong in the Lake District throughout the twentieth century, right up to the present day.

  Imagine a land of gentle green valleys, where frothy white waterfalls tumble into lakes of crystal clear water.

  Now imagine a land of jagged, slate-grey rocks clawing at the sky, where black water oozes from boot-sucking bogs into deep, menacing pools.

  Picture these two lands merging into one, and you have in your mind the fells, crags, lakes, peaks, tarns and becks of Lakeland: a living, breathing monster of a landscape whose mood can change in a heartbeat. A place where swirling mists suddenly lift to reveal stunning, panoramic views from mountain summits, and where lakes turn from glittering jewels into dark forbidding depths as the sun slips behind incoming clouds.

  Standing guard over Lakeland, like three giant kings, are the peaks known as Scafell, Skiddaw and Helvellyn. Soaring the highest of all England’s mountains, they have sent out a challenge to climbers and explorers far and wide, over many generations. Who would be brave enough to tackle their steepest ascents? Who could tame the greatest number of peaks?

  Among the climbers and explorers who rose to their challenge were two young men who loved to test their skill, strength and courage on the mountains’ rocky faces. The two friends grew up together in one of Lakeland’s most picturesque villages, and would head for the hills whenever they could. Together, they walked route after route and climbed one rock face after another, until they became accomplished mountaineers.

  Lakeland’s peaks could be breathtakingly beautiful, but they could also be unforgiving and unpredictable and there was many a time when, had they not been together, one of the pair might have perished. A slip on a razor-sharp scree slope. A booted foot losing its grip off a rain-soaked ledge. A narrow path along a knife-edge suddenly disappearing from view in a dense, descending mist. These and many more dangers had they overcome together. They shared their successes too, as one by one a new pinnacle was reached, a new summit crowned.

  And so a bond of friendship was fastened securely between them.

  Then the day came when a cloud descended over Lakeland’s fells and valleys – a dark, threatening cloud, brought in not by the wind, but by the threat of oncoming war. News of the assassination of an Austrian Archduke; of countries promising to stand together and abide by existing treaties while others declared war on their enemies. Germany invad
ed Belgium and advanced towards France, and Britain entered the fray. Brave men who once dreamed of conquering Scafell, Skiddaw or Helvellyn now headed for the Western Front.

  Out of posters slapped hastily on walls, Lord Kitchener’s finger pointed at potential recruits, and the message of ‘Your country needs you’ reached everyone, even the two companions in their remote Lakeland village.

  As a young farmer, who could provide his countrymen with much-needed food, one of the friends remained at home, while the other answered his nation’s call and headed for France, Belgium, and the horrors of trench warfare.

  Every weekend, the companion who stayed behind would still head for the hills and climb their jagged rocks. But all the while, his thoughts were with his friend. No longer did the views from the mountain tops fill him with joy. No longer did he celebrate reaching a new summit. Climbing without a partner was lonely and full of risk, as any solo climber knows. But the young farmer knew of no other way to pass the time, and so he continued, as the months passed and summer turned to winter, winter to spring, and then spring into summer again.

  Then one sunny day, after completing a particularly tough scramble to the top of Scafell Crag, the young man was walking back down through the pass known locally as Hollow Stones when he heard cheery whistling. His heart leaped. Coming towards him he saw the smiling face of his soldier friend, presumably home on leave and heading up on the outward leg of the route he had himself just conquered.

  The friends exchanged smiles, delighted to be reunited. They rested for a while, perching on a moss-covered rock, their faces turned up to the warm sunshine, and chatted of what they might do when the war was over.

  At last the soldier pointed to the top of the mountain. Understanding his friend’s desire to reach the summit before the end of the afternoon when the light would begin to fade, the young farmer stood up and brushed the moss from his trousers. As they parted, the two companions agreed to meet up again that evening for a pint of ale at the Wasdale Head Inn.