VCs of the First World War Gallipoli

by Stephen Snelling

  Willis appeared to bear a charmed life. Twice over the next fortnight he escaped unhurt when men were killed within feet of him. His luck, however, deserted him on 4 June when, after a brief spell of sick leave, he returned to command D Company for the attack designed to break through the Turkish lines in front of Krithia. During what the unit’s historian described as ‘this lamentable day’, the 1st Battalion suffered more than 500 casualties. Willis, wounded by a bullet beneath the heart, was evacuated to Egypt and then England.

  When his Victoria Cross was announced, he urged journalists to ‘Please, keep me out of it’. However, he did later assist an Illustrated London News artist with his impression of the W Beach landing. It depicted the rush for the shore and had Willis as its central figure, one hand cupped to his mouth, shouting encouragement to his men and the other waving a walking stick in the air. It was this enduring image which gave rise to the nickname ‘Walking-stick Willis’.

  Once asked how it felt to return to action after having been seriously wounded, the VC winner admitted: ‘It’s not pleasant, but by far the worst of it in my case is that all my brother officers and most of my men are gone.’ In fact, he did not rejoin the 1st Battalion. Promoted major on 1 September 1915, Willis, by then having made a full recovery, received his Cross from the king at Buckingham Palace on 21 September and was posted to France with a draft for the 2nd Battalion.

  He saw service on the Somme and in the Ypres Salient with the 1st Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, the 8th West Ridings and the 6th York and Lancasters. While commanding the 1st Inniskillings, acting Lt. Col. Willis was congratulated by the commander-in-chief, Corps and Divisional commanders, for his battalion’s distinguished service at Transloy and Beaumont Hamel. The battalion was mentioned in dispatches for its good work. Later, Willis was commandant of a reinforcement camp where he won further praise for his work in marshalling men following the German breakthrough on the Lys in April 1918.

  Maj. Willis returned to his regiment at the end of the war and was appointed second-in-command of the 2nd Battalion. He temporarily commanded the unit in India before his retirement from the Army on 26 November 1920.

  He became a teacher, serving with the RAF Education Branch for six years and then working in a succession of private schools, notably as a tutor at Carlisle and Gregsons. He and his wife had two sons and a daughter, and both boys pursued careers in the Army, one of them winning a Military Cross. The two sons later emigrated, one to South Africa and the other to Southern Rhodesia.

  At the outbreak of the Second World War, Willis immediately volunteered as a training officer for the Army and served at Aldershot. During the London blitz, he was injured and spent time in hospital recovering before resuming his teaching career as a prep school master. He later delighted in recounting an incident when the headmaster was saying grace before lunch and only managed to get as far as ‘For what we are about to receive …’ when a V1 flying bomb narrowly missed the dining hall roof before exploding in a neighbouring field.

  The last twenty years of Willis’ life were marked by a steady decline in his health and finances. He received a number of grants from the regiment’s Compassionate Fund and Officers’ Association and then, in 1957, he appealed in the Press for a loan of £100, claiming himself to be ‘in desperate need’. His ‘begging letter’ provoked a public outcry with Questions raised in the House of Commons. The following year, Willis moved into the Lillian Faithfull Home in Cheltenham. His wife was with him there until her death in 1960. Three years later, Willis wrote to an old friend: ‘I am so nearly blind now that I can hardly read at all … I did 37 years teaching, from royalty to ploughboys, till my sight failed, and I enjoyed it even though the pay was a third of today’s, AND I had four languages …’.

  At some point during his twilight years, Willis, to his deep personal regret, became parted from his medals in circumstances which have never been fully explained. When his daughter found out she helped him obtain a replica set which was eventually donated to Harrow School. Since then, the original VC group has been sold on a number of times until being bought by a private collector who loaned them to the Regimental museum in Bury. Later, they were displayed at the Imperial War Museum (North).

  ‘Walking-stick Willis’ died on 9 February 1966 at the Lillian Faithfull Home. His body was cremated at Cheltenham Crematorium where a memorial plaque was unveiled thirty-six years later. Mourners included the acting colonel of the Lancashire Fusiliers and one of the survivors of the W Beach landing.

  In an obituary published in the Regimental Gazette, the then Lt. Col. Grimshaw VC, who had served under Willis at Gallipoli, wrote: ‘I shall always remember him as my old Company Commander and the excellent example of courage and leadership that he always displayed which made one feel proud to serve under him. He was a great man who we will always remember.’

  Willis’ death left Grimshaw as the last-surviving member of the ‘Six VCs Before Breakfast’. Only twenty-two years of age when he set foot on W Beach, he lived to the grand old age of eighty-seven.

  John Elisha Grimshaw was born on 23 January 1893 at Abram, near Wigan, in Lancashire, the son of carpenter John Grimshaw. Educated at St John’s School, Abram, he worked, like his father, as a carpenter at Messrs Cross, Tetley and Company’s collieries in the Wigan coalfields until enlisting in the Lancashire Fusiliers in 1912 at the age of nineteen. The following year he joined the 1st Battalion in India and returned to England with his unit after the outbreak of war. By the time of the landing at W Beach, he was a lance corporal signaller in C Company, and his role throughout the operation was to maintain contact with the headquarters aboard HMS Euryalus and neighbouring units. He did this and more, showing marked leadership in the crisis which threatened to overwhelm his battalion.

  Writing to his parents on 10 June 1915, he gave a graphic account of the unremitting strain of life on the peninsula:

  As I write this letter our trenches are being shelled by the Turks, and they are dropping rather close. In fact, one has dropped about six yards in front of us, covering us with loose earth. But we are used to it now. We are taking it easy for a few days after having been through some more heavy fighting, in which we drove the Turks back, taking two lines of trenches. No doubt you will be pleased to see that I have been promoted to Sergeant so I am not doing badly and if God spares me I shall get higher still.

  It’s terrible, though, is war, and I think it’s worse here in Gallipoli than anywhere, for it is simply hell, and you don’t know but that the next minute will be your last. But we have to go some time, and we might as well go fighting for our country.

  Whether Grimshaw was aware of his name featuring among his CO’s nominations and the subsequent ballot for the VC is uncertain. However, he was aware that his name had been put forward for a DCM, the recommendation presumably being made after Hunter-Weston failed to have him included in place of a second private soldier. After the DCM was confirmed, he wrote to his parents:

  It came as a bit of a surprise to me, for I had forgotten all about it. I heard I was getting it when the General sent me a card, but I thought nothing of it at the time. I only hope I have the luck to come back after the war, and have the honour of wearing it. It will give you all a bit of satisfaction to know that if anything happens to me you will know I did a bit of good.

  Recounting his Gallipoli experiences half a century later, Grimshaw recalled the grim routine of a relentless conflict waged from trenches within bomb-throwing range of the enemy, of night patrols in no-man’s-land and of swarms of flies that were the bane of every soldier’s life on the peninsula. ‘One couldn’t eat a biscuit or a bit of jam … one had to put a covering over one’s head, an old towel or anything you had … and even then they’d get underneath’, he said. ‘And the smell, with the dead bodies lying in front of the trenches … it was no wonder dysentery was rife.’

  He took part in every one of his unit’s major actions, survived being buried by a shell blast that smashed his trench and
withstood the strain of prolonged periods under fire without rest. Asked how he managed to endure the constant strain that service on the peninsula imposed on men, he replied: ‘One more or less becomes a fatalist … personally, I had my own faith and that was between myself and my maker.’

  Grimshaw, who forever counted himself ‘very lucky to escape wounds’ at what he called ‘that terrible landing’, survived the fighting only to fall victim to frostbite. Evacuated from the peninsula, he spent five weeks in hospital before being sent home to England to recuperate. While convalescing, he was invited back to his home town for the presentation of his DCM which the burghers of Abram had persuaded the War Office to send to them. It was pinned on his chest at Abram Parish Church School by the district council chairman, who also presented him with a gold watch bearing the inscription: ‘Presented to Sergeant J.E. Grimshaw from the public of Abram and district as a mark of appreciation on his securing the DCM for conspicuous bravery at Cape Helles, on April 25th, 1915.’ The packed hall then rose as one and delivered a rousing rendition of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’.

  Following his convalescence, Sgt. Grimshaw was posted to Hull, as an instructor, and it was there that he met his future wife, Maggie Stout. The couple were married on 26 August 1916. News of his belated VC was broken to Grimshaw by a journalist at an army camp on Humberside. By his own account, he was dumbfounded. ‘I know nothing of the matter except what you have just told me’, he said. ‘The DCM was given me for the landing at Gallipoli on 25th April, 1915. I don’t believe there’s another decoration for me.’ The account carried in the Hull Times continued: ‘His chums crowded round with inquiries as to what was the trouble. The “trouble” was explained to the sergeant’s comrades, who asked if any official intimation had been received. On being told there was no doubt about the news being correct, Sergeant Grimshaw was congratulated all round.’ Nine days after his award was gazetted, Grimshaw received his Cross from the king at Buckingham Palace.

  Later that year, Grimshaw, who was described as an ‘excellent soldier on active service’, went to France and was commissioned in the field. In 1918 he was posted to India where he served with the 1/75th Carnatic Infantry on the Sub-Continent and in Arabia. In 1921 he rejoined the Lancashire Fusiliers. His last posting with the regiment was to Ireland where the troubles were approaching their climax. A few months later he retired to take up the post of army recruiting officer in Cardiff. After eleven years in the job he was promoted lieutenant colonel and served as chief recruiting officer in Northumberland until 1944, and then in East Anglia. Lt. Col. Grimshaw retired from the Army in 1953 aged sixty, after completing forty-one years’ service. He lived in Warrington and Lymm in Cheshire, before settling in Twickenham, London, where he died on 20 July 1980. He left a widow, two daughters, eight grandchildren, and eleven great grandchildren. His son, who served as a squadron leader in the Royal Air Force, had died some years earlier.

  His VC award made him a regimental celebrity and throughout his life he carried the responsibility that accompanied the honour with quiet dignity. He regularly attended the annual Gallipoli Sunday parades in Bury, the home of the Lancashire Fusiliers. As the number of survivors dwindled, he continued to march at their head, providing a proud echo of one of the British Army’s most celebrated actions.

  E. UNWIN, W.C. WILLIAMS

  G.L. DREWRY, G. MCK. SAMSON

  W. ST A. MALLESON AND

  A.W. ST C. TISDALL

  V Beach, Cape Helles, 25 April 1915

  In the early hours of 25 April 1915 a vast fleet closed in on the darkened shore of Gallipoli. They ranged from destroyers to dreadnoughts, yet the vessel destined to play the leading role in the landing operations that morning was not a man-of-war at all, but a converted collier. The SS River Clyde, her hull painted a dun brown colour, presented an incongruous sight as she steamed towards Cape Helles. From holes cut in her side ran gangways of wooden planks strung along her bows. In tow she had a 150-ft long steam hopper and three large lighters. Together, this unlikely invasion taskforce represented the linchpin of Sir Ian Hamilton’s V Beach plan and was destined to provide the enduring image of the landings and, indeed, the campaign.

  At the appointed hour the River Clyde, known throughout the expeditionary force as the ‘wreck ship’, would be run ashore, the hopper and lighters providing a jetty across which her cargo of 2,000 troops, mainly from the Royal Dublin and Munster Fusiliers, were to dash ashore. Bold and imaginative in its conception, the V Beach plan with its reliance on a hastily converted cargo vessel appeared to owe more to Heath Robinson than any staff college. Provided everything went according to plan, however, the River Clyde scheme did possess one notable virtue, the opportunity of swiftly reinforcing the first wave of assault troops in greater numbers than would have been possible by any other means.

  The man responsible for this piece of improvisation was Cdr. Edward Unwin, a 51-year-old former Merchant Navy officer with a reputation for brusqueness, bluff good humour and forceful leadership. Brought out of retirement in August 1914, Unwin’s war had thus far been an unspectacular one. He had served as coaling officer to the Grand Fleet before being given command of HMS Hussar, a 20-year-old torpedo boat converted to the role of communications yacht for the C.-in-C., Mediterranean Fleet.

  By late February 1915, however, Unwin found himself part of the huge British naval force concentrating at Mudros. His ‘energy, ability and cheerfulness’ made a swift impression on Rear-Adm. R.E. Wemyss, the newly appointed governor of Lemnos. Recruited on to the governor’s staff, Unwin busied himself with the task of helping transform the harbour at Mudros into a naval base. It seems likely he would have remained a key member of the base staff, but for an appearance at a meeting of the joint staffs in early April. The plan for the landings was already well advanced, yet one difficulty remained. How could the initial wave of 2,200 troops be rapidly reinforced? The size of the beach at Cape Helles coupled with a shortage of boats for ferrying in the troops meant the second wave would be delayed by at least forty-five minutes.

  Unwin’s solution was to run a harmless-looking collier, crowded with a further 2,000 troops, on to the beach. Within minutes, he argued, the number of men ashore would be doubled. Furthermore, he felt his plan afforded the assault troops not only greater protection than a landing from open boats, but also provided them with an element of surprise, rather in the manner of the wooden horse of Troy. Despite staff scepticism, the scheme was eventually accepted, due largely to the enthusiastic advocacy of Rear-Adm. Wemyss. Unwin was promoted to the rank of acting captain and given command of the operation. Under Wemyss’ direction, Unwin chartered the 4,000-ton SS River Clyde, a 10-year-old Glasgow-built collier which had been used to transport mules from North Africa. Work on converting the vessel began on 12 April. Four doors, known as sallyports, were cut in each side of the hull, and from the rearmost a wooden gangway led to the bows. There, they were designed to meet the stern of a flat-bottomed steam hopper, the Argyll. This vessel, to be towed towards Cape Helles by the River Clyde, was intended to be released shortly before beaching to form a link between ship and shore. If the gap, however, proved too great, Unwin had devised a plan for using specially decked lighters, three of which were also to be towed by the River Clyde, to bridge any gaps. Lastly, in order to provide covering fire for the troops, three armoured and sandbagged casemates were constructed on the foredeck to house machine-guns manned by a unit of the RNAS Armoured Car Squadron under the command of Lt. Cdr. Josiah Wedgewood.

  To assist him in the enterprise, Unwin chose one of his junior officers aboard the Hussar, Midshipman George Drewry, a boyish looking 20-year-old, whose tender years belied an adventurous pre-war career in the Merchant Navy. The rest of the 24-man crew was made up of volunteers. They included six seamen, six engine-room ratings and the carpenter from his former ship’s crew. In addition, Unwin took Leading Seaman William Williams, a 34-year-old reservist and Boer War veteran, who literally talked himself on board the R
iver Clyde. Unwin later recounted:

  Williams came up to me and asked if he could not come. I told him I was full up and that I did not want any more petty officers, to which he replied, ‘I’ll chuck my hook [give up his rating] if you will let me come’, and I did, to his cost but everlasting glory.

  Drewry, as Unwin’s number one, was ordered to take command of the steam hopper during the landing operation. The vessel was to be manned by six Greek seamen, who although non-combatants had volunteered, and one member of the Hussar’s crew, Seaman George Samson.

  At 5.00 a.m. on 25 April Drewry and his crew clambered aboard the hopper. The mist-shrouded shore was barely two miles distant as the River Clyde and her assorted tows steered for her landing place. The coastline appeared to quake under a rain of shells from the assembled fleet. The Turkish reply was muted by comparison. Among the senior army officers alongside Unwin on the bridge of the River Clyde was Lt. Col. Weir de Lancy Williams. He recorded the ship’s final run-in to the shore in his diary:

  6.10 a.m. Within 1⁄2 mile of the shore. We are far ahead of the tows. No OC Troops on board. It must cause a mix-up, if we, 2nd line, arrive before the 1st line. With difficulty I get Unwin to swerve off and await the tows.

  6.22 a.m. Ran smoothly ashore without a tremor. No opposition. We shall land unopposed.