by Carl Leckey
Dedicated to a World War One casualty.
George Alexandra Eccleston.
Private. Welsh Regiment. 2 Bn.
Despatch rider.
Age 19.
Date of death.16/03/1918
Tyne Cot Memorial.
War memorial picture here.
Prologue
Angels at Mons
As a child the beginning of World War 2 began a great adventure for me. Because both my parents worked long hours engaged in essential war work I spent a great deal of my early years in the company of my Grandfather, a survivor of the Great War.
He spent his brief but bloody military career as a member of the Labour Corps. This section of the armed forces consisted of mainly poorly educated individuals. Many of them lacked the ability to read or write this included my Grandfather.
The men of this outfit were used to carry out some of the most disgusting tasks in dangerous wartime conditions. I believe as the war progressed they gradually became hardened to the sights and sounds they witnessed on a daily basis. He would make a joke of what any other civilised human beings would consider sacrosanct. Death, horrific injuries, dismembered corpses, executions. They were all part of the horrors he and his comrades experienced in the Great War.
Although my Grandfather officially retired he had a few part time jobs, these consisted mostly of night watchman’s duties on the docks and road repairs.
When not on duty he spent most of his days at his Corporation allotment, growing food to supplement his family’s wartime imposed rationing. Meeting there with him, either attending their own plots of land or gathering in and around his makeshift garden shed were his mates and cronies consisting of First World War veterans.
I never realised until I became more experienced in the ways of the world that they have concealed in the shed a still for brewing their own liqueur.
I grew up eavesdropping on a diet of their wartime adventures and experiences.
In their unofficial old soldiers club they would drink their lethal brew. Argue, fall out, make up, curse, and sing bawdy Army songs.
In turn the old soldiers would relate an experience to the others often to be contradicted for the accuracy of the event or date by one of the gang. On occasions arguments became heated, I sometimes thought they would come to blows but arguments seemed to be settled amicably. Possibly they have experienced enough fighting to last them a lifetime? Or maybe their war wounds and arthritis prevented them from becoming too physical?
One of the things I admired above all else about the old boys is their ability to spit. They could, while hardly pausing in their conversation, spit streams of tobacco juice, with unerring accuracy on unfortunate cabbage white butterflies that have the nerve to invade their domain. As a kid I practised for hours attempting to achieve this dubious skill until my mouth is as dry as a desert and much to the alarm of my mother, sadly to no avail. One of the tasks I proudly carried out on behalf of the veterans was as lookout for their wives. On occasions these presumably neglected women made incursions into the veteran’s sanctum seeking their elusive spouses. My job entailed giving early warning to the errant husbands of the approaching enemy for which they rewarded me handsomely. On these occasions a miracle occurred as the arthritic crippled veterans dived for cover or escaped into prearranged hideouts with the agility of teenagers. The story I felt I have to write, is a compilation of their reminiscences.
The trigger point being an article I read about the so-called Angels of Mons? Some of the fiercest arguments I recall between the veterans revolved around this war time legend.
Two of the old boys that served together on the western Front reckoned they have personally witnessed the apparition. One of the descriptions consisted of a white cloud descending over the battle ground out of a clear blue sky. Emerging from the cloud they clearly witnessed the vision of an Angel grasping a fiery sword in its hand. His mate gave a similar account but added the German cavalry horses bolted and the enemy soldiers abandoned their advance and fled.
These accounts of such events during the Great War were always hotly disputed by my Grandfather.
Some of his other mates have met fellow soldiers that swore they have witnessed the visitation of the Angels themselves and even described an occasion when Archers appeared firing clouds of arrows at the enemy during the British retreat from Mons.
My Grandfather, a sceptic until his death scornfully disputed their stories, any trace or belief in religion imposed on him as a youth have disappeared into the mud and carnage of the front line. Granddad died an ardent atheist at the age of ninety-four. His explanation for the Angels myth he based on something he had personally witnessed after a particularly fierce battle. Granddad would suck on his pipe, settle comfortably into his rickety old arm chair and describe the scene to his mates. ‘Picture no man’s land half covered in a mixture of smoke from exploded ordinance and morning mist. On occasions there were unofficial cross flag truces, giving each side the opportunity to remove the wounded and dead from the scene. On the day in question one of these mutually agreed cross flag cease-fires is in progress. The enemy stretcher-bearers were moving freely on both sides of the wire entanglements that divided the territories. A slight breeze came up, and the gas capes the stretcher-bearers were wearing fluttered like the outspread wings of an Angel. A hysterical wounded soldier out of his mind with pain and terror shouted.’
“The Angels are here to save us, God Bless the Angels." ‘Shell-shocked men up and down the line who had survived a constant, murderous, bombardment for three days and nights took up the cry.
There were no bloody Angels.’ Granddad affirmed. ‘The visitation of the so called Angels originated in a poor mad buggers imagination due to exhaustion, pain and terror.’ That was my Grandfathers explanation of the event as he had witnessed it in person he stuck to his belief until his dying day. Of course I accepted my Grandfathers explanation of events at that time without question until I read other accounts of the Angel sighting. His description of the occurrence doesn’t explain how the phenomena’s were witnessed on other battlefronts by both sides of the conflict. Who really knows? Were the Angels really a figment of terrified or crazed minds? Or did the Almighty send down his messengers to try and stop the slaughter, as the more religious minded people would like us to believe?
Some said the Angels had succeeded at Christmas time 1914 when an unofficial truce occurred. Verified reports of enemy soldiers fraternising, singing Christmas carols together, sharing food together and even playing a game of football were reported by reliable sources. Without doubt if it had been left to the common soldier the war had ended there and then. But the devil, in the form of Generals, and Politicians, reversed the Angels good deed. Using punishments, threats and even executions the soldiers were impelled to return to bloody combat. Subsequently the war continued for another four horrific years. On occasions I have been urged by my family to leave out the more gory details of the men’s reminiscences. I believe I would be doing them a disservice if readers believed the war consisted of a clinical affair as portrayed by Hollywood and the early news reels. It is worth remembering these young men; some of who had not travelled further than the edge of their town or village. They were catapulted into a Hell on earth within a few short week of completing their rudimentary training. None Commissioned Officers in training camps brutalised and abused the young recruits. Officers, and people with any kind of authority whatsoever over them were often guilty of mistreating the unfortunate recruits. Most Politicians were not aware or did not want to know of the suffering the recruits endured. Very few of the arm-chair Generals ever visited sections close to the actual fighting, although there were exceptions among some senior officers, politicians and some other caring people. To m
ake matters worse many of the young men did not even have the right to vote for the people who sent them to their deaths. It was still a bowl of contention amongst soldiers when I did my own compulsory military service in the nineteen fifties. At that time we were recruited at eighteen years old and were unable to cast a vote until reaching the age of twenty one. Music Hall stars, teachers, priests employers along with politicians and recruiting Sergeants were responsible for glorifying war and entrapping the young Husband’s, Son’s, Brother’s, Father’s into a most deadly gamble with their own lives. The opportunity for travel and excitement glorified in novels lured many young adventure seekers from a mundane existence to an early grave. In some cases maybe worse than death were those unfortunates that were cast adrift, maimed and crippled and blinded to live a life of poverty. Barely existing on the pittance the government grudgingly paid them. Many of the men that had families to support survived off charity often reluctantly administered as the memories of their sacrifices faded with the passing of time. Women, many from the middle and upper classes that perpetuated the handing of white feathers to so called cowards should themselves have been made to experience the misery of the front line. Possibly their attitude to the anti-war protesters would have changed. They went as boys and came back as men, my Grandfather and his mates. They returned from the horrors of the War to end all Wars with no counselling and on many occasions no job to go to. I recall one of his mates severely shell-shocked. His Brother led him about by his hand like a young child. I remember them being ridiculed in the street during the Second World War by street brats. Some years later they were discovered dead in their allotment shed. The declared verdict at the hearing, the elder brother had killed the younger one and then taken his own life. We did not learn from the horrors of the so-called Great War. Twenty short years later we were at it again, fighting the same but a more powerful enemy. British troops witnessed the slaughter of their comrades in arms on a daily basis as entire battalions were annihilated within hours of joining the conflict. Those that survived were confused and terrified men with their brains numbed by suffering the constant barrage of heavy guns. No excuses were acceptable. If they left their post without permission they could be shot. 35 days into the war the first to suffer at the hands of British military justice was a 17 years old. He was undefended at his trial because all his comrades from his regiment had been killed, injured or captured. Another 16-year-old had lied about his age to enlist. He was court-martialled and faced the firing squad although officially too young to be in the army. Those condemned to death had the sentence confirmed by Field Marshal Sir Douglas Haig following their court-martial. A chaplain spent the night with the condemned man and the execution took place the following dawn. The prisoner was secured to a stake with a piece of white cloth marking the man’s heart. A priest was in attendance and prayed for his soul. Then the firing squad of six soldiers were handed already loaded weapons and ordered to shoot the prisoner. One of the rifles was always loaded with a blank cartridge so no soldier knew if he had fired a fatal shot. The medical officer would examine the victim. If by any chance he was still alive, the officer in charge would administer the coup de gras with his pistol.
Angels at Mons
Chapter one
Joining up
I was Sixteen years old and employed in a dead end job with the Corporation cleansing department brushing the streets until the big adventure loomed on the horizon. The chance of travel, adventure, maybe even honour came my way courtesy of Kaiser Bill. My only contribution to the war effort so far entailed the collection of horse chestnuts from under the trees lining the town’s posher avenues. I did this, much to the displeasure of the local kids who considered conkers their own personal property. Subsequently I suffered a great deal of verbal abuse as I carried out my allotted task. I wouldn’t have minded so much if the powers that be, have given me a clue as to why the collecting of these nuts were so important to the war effort.
They all knew me in my immediate area. I knew any attempt to deceive the recruiting Officer at the local town hall would be out of the question. Yet my best pal Tommy had succeeded in being enlisted and I towered inches over him.
Tommy and I have been pals for as long as I could remember and have survived a few tight scrapes together as kids. The big difference between us being Tommy liked school and enjoyed his lessons, where as I hated it and avoided attending at every opportunity.
It really upset me when the Army accepted him and left me very much alone. His recruitment strengthened my determination to join him in the military. To top it all he even enlisted into one of the best County Infantry Regiments. Tom is much better educated than me I reckoned this factor certainly influenced the recruiting Officer decision.
Monday morning came I did not tell my adopted parents of my intentions, nor did I report for work at the cleaning depot. Instead I took a chance and travelled over to Liverpool on an early ferry to be first at the recruiting office as it opened. One of my work mates at the Corporation who had been invalided out of the Army reckoned if I arrived at the office first, the recruiting staff would still be bleary eyed after last night’s beer and enlist anyone that applied.
He confidentially revealed. “A gorilla escaped from a travelling circus and dived into the office to avoid his pursuers and bugger me if the Sergeant never joined the animal up.” He added “Lucky sod’s in a training camp teaching new recruits how to be soldiers and has already been promoted to Sergeant.”
I took this story with a pinch of salt until I met some of the drill Sergeants in training at the outset of my military career.
Frankly I don’t think they cared much about my age in the recruiting office. I made my first mistake regarding the year of my birth and the Sergeant corrected me by deducting two years off the date I gave him.
The medical examination turned out to be a joke. It consisted of a walk up and down in front of a bored looking Doctor. A cursory eye and ear test drop my trousers a quick examination of my front and back and hey presto the King accepted me warts and all, as a soldier in his Army.
My adopted Mother is very angry with me for enlisting without her permission. She wants to march me down to the Army and reveal my real age when I informed Mum what I have done. My adopted Father however thought me very brave to volunteer and convinces my mother it will make a man of me. He had served in the Army during the Boer wars and according to him he had enjoyed every minute of his service. Finally Father won the argument and she agrees to my leaving home to meet my fate in the Army under the Kings colours.
Two days later I join the Army true and proper with no turning back.
If I had only known what to expect when I put my mark on the papers would I have enlisted? Six weeks of pure Hell comes next in a basic training camp. The Corporals and other NCO’s were I’m sure spawned by the Devil. Hungry, tired, home sick and continually bullied by thugs in uniform the whole experience consists of a waking nightmare. Early morning parades, kit layouts, inspections, drilling, long route marches not forgetting the very painful injections and inoculations they give us without any explanation of what they pump into our bodies. However, much to my surprise I did survive the six week ordeal by hiding my tears and fears behind a facade of jollity and bravado.
The Army quickly discovers my lack of education and groups me with similar lads. I very soon learn what these selected men are destined for in the military machine. The Army has no intention of spending much time energy and the expense of training the likes of me for the tasks they have in mind.
At the time we are glad to be away from the dreaded training, while the other fellows stay for more intensive instructions in weapon training and the subtle art of warfare.
After the purgatory of the minimal amount of training and the issue of kit and uniforms the real adventure began. The train trip to Ramsgate and the cross channel steamer to Le Havre became an exciting trip for me in particular. Before joining the Army a ferry trip to New Brighton on a Sunday school
outing had been the furthest I have travelled.
The excitement becomes contagious on the Cross Channel, overcrowded Steamer as we line the ship’s rails gazing in wonder at the white cliffs of Dover disappearing astern as we leave England for our first time. We witness masses of assorted craft dashing to and fro across the channel loaded with troops and equipment brings reality home to us. We know we are heading for something big. While on the journey I really become aware of class distinction. I have of course encountered it before, in the pecking order of the Corporation officials. My limited encounters with vicar’s priests, and rich people, the so called privileged classes of Britain always annoyed me but I could keep my distance from them. In the Army there is however no avoiding it, the obvious privileges they enjoyed were thrust upon us.
On the train we the poor common soldiers are crammed into overcrowded carriages, even goods vans and cattle trucks. While the Officers travel in style, first class of course. The same occurs on the cross channel ferry, they are secluded in the First Class lounge, drinking, eating good food and being waited on hand and foot by poor batmen.
This enlightenment of the class system enrages some of the other lads and especially me. I make a vow to myself if ever I have the opportunity to share in their good fortune by fair means or foul I will take the chance. We are it seems to serve our country even to the point of death and beyond, but some were to do it more comfortably than others
The arrival in France.
After a long night crossing the channel we begin to disembark from the boat in the early hours of the morning at first light directly into an organised chaos. There are, arranged in line after line of walking wounded and blinded men, waiting patiently to board the boats for the return trip to blighty. As they shuffle forward the blinded men found the way by keeping a hand on the shoulder of the comrade ahead. It brought to my mind a procession of elephants I once witnessed as they paraded through our town, each one gripping the tail of the beast ahead.
