by Pat Kelleher
But the myth refused to die. In subsequent years, men occasionally came forward claiming to be survivors of the battalion, returned with fantastic tales to sell, but none were believed. The story inspired the film Space Tommies, released in 1951 featuring Richard Attenborough and Richard Todd, and was the basis for a short-lived adventure strip in the boys’ comic Triumph.
However, it has become apparent from my extensive research that the mystery of the Harcourt Crater and the true fate of the men of the lost 13th Battalion constitutes one of the biggest cover-ups in British military history. I hope that this, the first part of my account, will go some way towards setting the record straight. All of the major events have been drawn directly from primary sources where possible. Others, by necessity, are based on inference but nevertheless serve to hint at the trials, wonders and horrors they were to face, fighting on a Front far, far from home...
Pat Kelleher
Broughtonshaw
November 2009
CHAPTER ONE
“Waiting for Whizz-Bangs…”
THE AUTUMN SUN ducked down below the Earth’s parapet, staining the clouds crimson and, as the chill twilight wind began to bite, Broughton Street was busier than usual. Private Seeston fidgeted impatiently as an ambling ration party of Jocks on their way to collect food for the Front Line barged past, discussing rumours of the impending attack.
“Oi, newbie! Y’do know this is one way don’tcha, and it ain’t yours?” one said as they shuffled awkwardly by.
“Sorry,” said Seeston. “We’ve only just taken over this sector.”
“Who you with?”
“Thirteenth Pennine Fusiliers.”
“Thirteen, eh? Unlucky for some.”
“Unlucky for Hun, we say, mate,” said Seeston, bridling at the insult.
The Pennine Fusiliers was a regiment with a proud history that went back to Waterloo. They had served in the Boer and the Crimean wars, as well as during the Indian Rebellion. It was their proud boast that they were the backbone of the army in the same way their namesake mountains were considered the backbone of England. Their barracks were in Broughtonthwaite, a northern mill town nestling among the Pennine hills on the border of Lancashire and Yorkshire. The 13th Battalion of the Pennine Fusiliers was one of several local Pals Battalions raised in 1914 as part of Kitchener’s New Army. With only a small standing army at the outset of the war, a million men were wanted to fight the Bosche. Towns vowed to raise as many of the new Battalions as they could muster. A patriotic fervour swept the nation as young men—driven by dull lives, poverty and the lure of adventure— signed up along with their friends, neighbours and workmates. They couldn’t wait to get stuck into the Hun and were desperate to see some action before the war was over.
Their illusions didn’t last. On the Western Front, along a strip of mud six hundred miles long, that stretched from the French Alps to the Belgian coast, they died in their tens of thousands, in the blasted, unhallowed ground called No Man’s Land.
Seeston forged ahead. Shoulders stubbornly thudded against his as he pressed against the flow, but he was on urgent business, a runner for Battalion HQ. The air of importance that this status lent him bolstered his courage and he pushed on with the purpose of a man who knew his time was more valuable than that of those around him.
From somewhere up ahead, beyond the turn in the communication trench, a high scream punctuated the dull repetitive bass thuds of the German shells that had begun to fall.
“Make way there! Coming through.”
Men backed against the walls as best they could. Seeston’s advance was brought to a halt as a broad arm swept across his chest and thrust him against the revetment. He was going to say something, but as he glanced down at the khaki arm he noticed the three chevrons and thought better of it. “You an’ all lad,” said the sergeant.
A couple of Linseed Lancers, red cross brassards on their upper arms, moved urgently past, carrying a stretcher. Seeston got a good look at the occupant. The man, his face swathed in dirty blood-soaked bandages, had stopped screaming and a pitiful whine surfaced though thick, wet gurgles. Inexpertly tied, the bandage had partially fallen away from his face. A couple of waiting men crossed themselves.
“Jesus. Poor bastard.”
From the shattered visage a desperate, pleading eye looked up and briefly met Seeston’s gaze. A small jewel of humanity set in a hellish clasp of splintered bone and bloody, chewed meat, the eye lost its lustre as its owner sank once more beneath a private sea of pain. There was a cough and sputter and the groan worked its way up into a scream again, a desperate arm clutching the air for something none of the soldiers could see. Seeston turned his head aside with a shudder. Jesus, that could be him lying there next time. There were countless ugly and obscene ways to die out here; sniper bullet, machine gun, shell fire, gas, grenade, shrapnel, bayonet, trench club. All for King and Country.
The stretcher-bearers disappeared round the traverse of the communications trench towards the Casualty Clearing Station. Seeston doubted their patient would make it. Once the stretcher-bearers were out of sight, Broughton Street came back to life, the incident consigned to a consensual silence and added to the list of things they’d seen but wouldn’t tell those back home.
“That’s why these things are one way, y’daft bastard,” said the brawny sergeant, releasing him. “If yer going up you want High Street. Down, you take Broughton, got it? Now go back the way you came and turn left at Mash Lane.”
Seeston had seen a map of Harcourt Sector back at Battalion but here, sunk into the ground between walls of wooden shoring and mud, he quickly lost his bearings. He came to a crossroads gouged into the earth. A crude hand-painted sign declared the place to be ‘Idiot’s Corner.’ Below it, signposts pointed down different runs: Lavender Road, Parsonage Lane, Harcourt Trench, Gamble Alley. He stopped an approaching soldier.
“Excuse me mate, I’m looking for Moorside Support.”
“Yeah well I wouldn’t stand there and do it. It’s not healthy. Idiot’s Corner, that.”
Seeston blinked.
The soldier rolled his eyes in exasperation. “These crossroads have been marked by Fritz ’aven’t they? Every so often he drops one on it. Like I said, only an idiot would stand around here.”
“I’m looking for C Company HQ.”
“The Broughtonthwaite Mates? Down Mash Lane, turn left onto High Street and follow the smell of black puddin’s.”
“Ta, mate.”
Seeston followed the direction indicated by the Tommy’s outstretched hand and onto another narrow communications trench, this one linking the reserve trenches, several miles back at St. Germaine, to the front line. Having lost time, he started to jog up the trench.
He’d just turned the corner of another traverse when he collided with an officer. A few splatters of mud flew upwards from Seeston’s hobnails as his foot missed the broken duckboard and sank into the open sump, splashing the officer’s highly polished boots.
Crap.
It was Lieutenant Jeffries, Commanding Officer of 4 Platoon.
Crap, crap, crap.
Seeston snapped to attention.
There were some officers that you could get on with, but Jeffries wasn’t one of them, with his airs and graces. In fact he seemed more concerned about his own appearance than anything else, to the point where they called him ‘Gilbert the Filbert’ behind his back; after that musical hall song by wassisname. And he could blow hot and cold. You never knew what you were going to get.
He was a dapper-looking cove with a thin, black, neatly trimmed moustache, not a brass button unpolished, not a crease out of place, cap set straight, everything just so. This man took care of himself, took care to remain different, better. Made a point of it. Not for him the new common purpose, all in it together for King and Country. Despite that, Jeffries had a reputation for taking suicidally dangerous risks on the battlefield.
The officer met Seeston’s gaze and held it just a fract
ion too long to be comfortable, before his eyes flicked down to the mud on his boots. He had a way of looking at you, into you, as if he expected to find something and was profoundly disappointed when he didn’t. A smile, like a shark’s fin, briefly cut the surface of his face.
“Striking an officer, Private? That’s a court martial offence.”
“Sir, it was an accident, sir. I didn’t see you. Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Handkerchief.”
“Sir?”
“Get your handkerchief out, man, and wipe that slop off my boots and mind you don’t scratch the leather.”
“Sir?”
“You heard, Private.”
Seeston pulled out his handkerchief and knelt down on the wet duckboard to wipe the splatters of grey chalky mud from the rich, tan, calf-length boots.
“Now why are you in such a hurry, hmm? Spit it out.”
“Runner from Battalion, sir. Message for Captain Grantham, C Company, sir.”
“Is that so? Short life, a runner. What’s your name?”
“Seeston, sir.”
“Well, Seeston, best be on your way.”
“Thank you sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Oh, and Seeston?”
“Sir?”
“I never forget a face.”
SECOND LIEUTENANT JAMES Charles Everson was making his way though the trenches towards Company HQ when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he recognised the soldier skulking down a support trench.
“Evans?” he called in a hoarse whisper. The soldier stopped and turned sheepishly.
“Sir?”
Everson saw he was carrying a couple of hessian sandbags in his hands that, despite his care, clanked suspiciously. He shook his head in exasperation.
“Damn it, Evans. You’re my best scrounger. I can’t afford to lose you.”
“Sorry sir, couldn’t help myself. I got you a bottle of scotch though.” His hand slipped into a sand bag and produced a small bottle of amber fluid. He handed it to Everson, who glanced about cautiously before slipping it inside his jacket.
“Merci, Evans,” he said. “Just don’t do it again.”
“I won’t, sir.”
Everson arched an eyebrow. “Won’t what, Evans?”
“Get caught, sir?”
“Good man.”
Evans touched a finger to his temple in an informal salute and slipped away into the muddy shadows.
Everson, too, continued on his way. Heart pounding in his chest, his mouth dry and breath stale from too much coffee and fear, he took a moment to compose himself before pushing aside the heavy gas curtain. A warm fug of stale sweat, damp earth, the chatter of voices and soft oaths rose up the steps to meet him. Ducking his head, he started to descend into the Company HQ Dugout.
Private Seeston, coming up the steps, graciously backed down and stepped aside as Everson entered.
“Thank you, Seeston,” said Everson.
“Sir.”
Seeston had worked for Everson’s father before the war and they often exchanged pleasantries in passing, but today Seeston’s terse demeanour unsettled him. The men had been on edge for days. Supplies had been moving up from the support lines for more than a week now; ammunition, rations and medical supplies along with new troops, and still nobody had told them anything. The tension was palpable. Was this it?
Below, the Dugout was sparsely furnished but the furniture was of good quality, requisitioned from some bombed house, no doubt. Hurricane lamps lit the small room, casting large shadows on the crude wooden walls. Everson could hear the disciplined rattle-tattleting of the battered old Underwood typewriter as Private Garside typed out order sheets. Major Hartford-Croft, the Battalion Second-inCommand, stood over a makeshift table and looked up from the papers in front of him as Everson entered. Around him stood the Platoon Commanders of C Company. The major had seen the men through the early summer of the Somme and had even been over the top with them. The men liked him all the more for that. He was a ruddy faced man who permanently looked as if he’d just done the hundred-yard dash and hadn’t yet recovered, a raspy catch to his breath as he breathed out, his cheeks almost as red as the tabs on his lapels. His mood wasn’t good.
Captain Grantham was there too, C Company’s new commanding officer. This was his first time on the front line and he’d yet to prove himself to the men. Oh, he’d been round the trenches and tried to jolly them along with the odd joke in an accent you could cut glass on, but that had only served to confirm the men’s original unfavourable impressions.
Also present were Everson’s fellow subalterns, Morgan and Holmes. In the corner two men, neither of whom Everson knew, muttered together self consciously; a nervous-looking second lieutenant and another man, wearing small round spectacles and a British Army Warm.
Everson edged around to where Lieutenant Morgan was idly polishing his belt with a cuff.
“Is this it then?” he asked in a low voice.
“Looks like it. The old man’s been huffing over those papers for the past ten minutes. It don’t look good.”
Everson ran his fingers under his collar and began to chew his lower lip.
“Sorry I’m late. Dashed sniper at it again, hmm?” Lieutenant Jeffries didn’t wait to see if his apology had been accepted.
Everson glanced up at him with disapproval but found himself looking away as Jeffries caught his gaze. He was a queer fish that one, no doubt about it. He’d been with them a little over a month and didn’t seem particularly keen on the company of the men, liked his privacy, of which there was precious little to be had on the front. Sometimes it seemed the sensible option he supposed. The life expectancy for an officer in the trenches was only months and eventually you got tired of making new friends only to have them blown to buggery.
“Gentlemen,” began Major Hartford-Croft. “Orders have come down from Battalion HQ. We go over the top at 7.20 Ack Emma tomorrow morning. We are to take the German stronghold at Harcourt Wood at all costs. The general advance is being held back by the stalemate in this sector. This objective falls to us. We are to take the machine gun positions that have been holding back the line for the past four months. Bite and hold, gentlemen, bite and hold.” Using his swagger stick, he pointed at the map spread out on the table. “The Germans have held the ground around the woods all summer. Unless we can break them before the winter sets in the whole advance will be held back until spring. I don’t want that ignominy falling on the Pennines, is that clear? Tomorrow is the first day of November and we will take that ridge.”
On taking over the trenches three days previously, Everson had studied the lie of the land well. Before the war, it had been gentle rolling farmland. Harcourt Wood sat on a low ridge about a half a mile beyond the front line, overlooking the British positions. After years of artillery bombardment, the long incline to the wood was a featureless shell-pocked quagmire. It wasn’t going to be easy. He caught Jeffries smirking to himself and looking a tad more pleased than he had a right to, considering what they were being asked to do. As if he knew something the others didn’t.
“Sir?” It was Holmes, Commander of No.3 Platoon. “The Black Country Rifles before us didn’t manage it. The German machine gun emplacements will mow us down as they have every other assault. We can’t get near them. We’re well under strength. They can’t seriously expect—”
Captain Grantham cleared his throat in a meaningful fashion.
“Thank you, Captain” said the major. “GHQ have absolute faith in the Pennines to sort this little mess out. A bombardment will begin at 5.30 Ack Emma tomorrow to soften them up.”
“Tomorrow, sir?” queried Morgan. “I thought a bombardment would start days before an attack.”
“All very well in theory, Morgan, but that would only warn ’em of an impending attack. Blighters’ll huddle in their deep dugouts until it’s over and then come out like rats and cut us down. This way we have the element of surprise.” The major broke into a grin. “The
Machine Gun Corp Heavy Section is putting a section of their new Hush Hush Boojums into the fray. They’ll lead off the assault and clear a path through the wire. That ought to make Fritz windy enough.”
There was a chorus of muttered approval. Tanks. None of them had ever seen one, although there were many wild rumours floating up and down the line. It was said they’d made a great show of themselves a couple of months back at Fleurs Courcelette. They had apparently scared the Hun witless—great roaring metal monsters crawling inexorably towards them through the smoke. By God, with a section of those it might just be possible. Despite his better judgement, Everson could feel himself getting excited at the prospect of an attack.
“The tanks will set off first and break through the wire. Here and here,” continued the major, pointing at the map. “They will also draw the machine gun fire, giving the Company a fighting chance. Your job will be to take the German positions and hold them until relieved, which may be a couple of days. The Jocks will be holding our flank, but I want this to be our victory. Understood? GHQ have such confidence in us they’ve even sent one of their flicker-wallahs to film the battle for the Kinemas back home.” The major turned to introduce the men in the corner. “This is Oliver Hepton and his conducting officer, Mr Talbot.”
The bespectacled man in the greatcoat at least had the decency to give a weak apologetic smile. Everson wasn’t impressed. This was going to be a difficult enough job as it was, but it looked as if GHQ wanted a circus, damn them. His men needed rest, but perhaps this might provide a momentary diversion in the lead up to the attack. Flickers were always popular among the men and the chance to appear in one might take their minds of things. Briefly.
“Don’t mind me,” said Hepton. “Just go about your duties as you would normally. I’m sure your chaps will put on a jolly fine show for the folks back home.”
