War & Words

by Surrey Libraries

  It was unusually quiet that morning as he left the alcove to use the old metal bucket that served as a latrine. Joe again noticed the sergeant sitting in the same position on the ammunition box. He went over to him to thank him for his kind gesture with the cigarettes. As he approached the man, he noticed something that alarmed him greatly. His uniform, although it had the sergeant's stripes, was not an English uniform. It was then that he noticed the swastika on the man's shoulder. The man was a German, his sworn enemy. He drew his pistol and aimed it at the German sergeant's head. He was about to pull the trigger, when he knew he could not do it. He remembered the kind gesture the previous day with the cigarettes. The man looked up at him and seemed not to care whether he lived or died.

  Joe returned his pistol to its holder and they looked at each other for quite a while in complete silence. The German sergeant then said in broken English that his name was Heinrich and that he had been left behind by his comrades when they left the trench. He said that all he wanted was to go home to his wife and two children. Joe looked at the German sergeant and realised what an unreal situation he was in. He knew his duty was to imprison or kill the sergeant, but then knew that he was really no threat at all, just a man who wanted to get away from the horrors of war and return home. Joe sat beside him on the ammunition box and they talked in broken English, for what seemed hours. They started to walk away from each other to return to their own place in the trench. Then, for some reason, that neither of them understood, they turned and returned to the ammunition box to continue their conversation.

  The next morning was bright and sunny for a change and Brigadier Lawton-Jones, had been making steady progress towards the main German lines. His regiment had taken heavy losses in the recent fighting, so he had ordered his men to head for some disused trenches, where they could rest up for the day and treat their wounded. As they approached the entrance to the trench, there were many decaying bodies lying around the fields, which gave the whole area an air of despair and desolation. Brigadier Lawton-Jones ordered a thorough search of the trench to make sure it was clear of enemy soldiers and any booby-traps left behind by the fleeing enemy. After a few minutes, one of Lawson-Jones's soldiers reported that the trench was empty, apart from two bodies they had found clinging to each other. The soldier added that he thought it was very strange that the bodies had been found together, because one was a German Sergeant and the other a British soldier. Both had been dead for several months.

  THE SEARCHER

  By

  Nina Hilton

  France, Western Front.

  December 11th, 1918.

  My name is James. I’m a searcher for the British Red Cross. I’ve been stationed out here in France, at the Front, since early 1915. If you don’t know what a searcher is, l’ll tell you. We go into villages, hospitals – places like that – to try to find information about dead or missing soldiers.

  It’s an interesting job, and I’m good at it. I’ve always been good at problem solving – finding clues, picking up details others don’t see. I couldn’t say I ‘like’ it. That wouldn’t be right. After all, it’s unpleasant at times. Seeing dead bodies, dealing with grieving relatives – that’s never nice. It can be rewarding though. Being able to find information which might bring them some peace, or being able to provide a proper burial for the bodies. Cold comfort perhaps, but it helps, I believe.

  I didn’t start out as a searcher. I came over as an ambulance driver, with a load of other lads. (Lasses, too! I’d never worked alongside so many girls before. They were good workers though. I was impressed.) Anyway, the searchers work pretty closely with the ambulance folk, and I got talking to one of them one day. I asked him a bit about what they did, how it all worked, and thought it sounded interesting. Spoke to one of the C.O.s who agreed to transfer me over, and been doing it ever since.

  The War’s over now. Armistice signed last month. I’m still here though, with a lot of others. There’s still loads of work to be done. Especially in this job. Counting up the dead – no small figure, sorry to say. As for the identification part, that takes time.

  I want to tell you about this case I had not long ago – a strange one. I can’t quite shake it off. We found this feller – well, we found his name – but not his body. Normally it’s the other way round. It was like finding a ghost. What happened was, one of the ambulance blokes had been shifting corpses (they pile great heaps of them on the back of wagons, before removing them for burial). As he was going about it, he noticed this little bundle, lying in the mud. It was a child’s toy. A little cloth rabbit – hand sewn and just big enough to fit in a tunic pocket. It was tangled up in these dog-tags (that was how we the chap’s name). Funny, the tags are supposed to stay attached to their uniforms, so’s we can identify them. For whatever reason, he hadn’t done that. Don’t know why. Maybe he’d taken them off, and forgotten to put ‘em back on. Grabbed them as he rushed out to the field and shoved ‘em in his pocket, maybe? They got tangled up with the toy and fell out of his pocket when the corpses were being shifted about, I reckon. Easy for that to happen, without anyone noticing. It’s carnage on the field, after battle. No time to stop and look for little lost bundles.

  The thing about this little mite, it had a message on it. Stitched onto his belly, in tiny, neat, embroidered hand stitching:

  ‘A lucky charm for Daddy.

  Love, Ella & Mummy.x’

  I got a lump in my throat when I saw that, I must admit. The case was written up quickly, as “missing, presumed dead”, and an official letter despatched to the family, like so many others. They all say the same thing: ‘the deceased died a hero’s death, defending the freedom of country and empire’. That message from home though, that stayed with me. I felt so sad for his wife, and the little girl. I took down their name and address from the records, and have resolved to write them a letter, and send the rabbit back. It’s not much, I know – but I think it might give them some comfort to have it; to know that it was with him till the end, that they were in his thoughts all the time.

  When I first got here, I wanted nothing more than for the War to be over and won, so we could all go home – but I’ve been here so long now, I almost can’t imagine going back. I’ve not had a de-mob date yet but, in truth, I almost don’t want it to come. I can’t imagine life back home now. This work has given me purpose, and I want to carry on with it. There is so much still to be done. This War has already left thousands missing, and they’re not all counted up yet. It’s only right that they should be remembered, and honoured.

  The world is changing so fast! The news is all about social unrest in Europe, bloodshed in Russia. Everything’s changed at home too, it seems – motor traffic everywhere, women in men’s jobs, refugees from all over Europe. I don’t think life will ever be the same as it was before. Change used to come about slowly, but this War seems to have made it happen all at once. It’s unsettling – but oddly exciting at the same time. Reckon it’s here to stay, anyway! No good complaining about it. Accept it and get on with it as best we can, that’s what I say.

  Still, I don’t want our old way of life and the names and lives of all those people this War has taken to be lost forever. That’s why I’ve started writing to you. I’d never given diary writing any thought before – but there’s so much that’s happened, so much sacrifice, and it scares me to think that might be swallowed up and forgotten in the march of time. I want to get it all down before it’s gone, forever.

  The War is over, but the peace is still to be won. That’s something we’ve all got to keep fighting for.

  A HOME FOR HEROES

  By

  Peter Dillow

  The stench of sour sweat mingles with sulphurous sooty smoke. Tortured wheels scream out as their flanges carve into curving steel rails. The train slows then judders. Buffers clack back and forth together until we stop. We look at one another. The lights flicker, dim and die. I shiver but suddenly I am alive again to every so
und and movement. It has served me well, kept me alive, but now there is no need. I relax. Next to me there is a whimper. The noise grows in intensity, an animal-like wailing as the trooper starts to move his left arm up and down. Again and again, up and down in a staccato beat hammering onto his knee. Gradually his cries subside, now replaced by repetitive breathing, in and out in time with his fist movements whilst still pounding on his knee. The lad opposite starts whistling, followed by his mate then slowly we all join in singing.

  “It’s a long way to Tipperary,

  It’s a long way to go.”

  His fist pauses in mid-air as he glances at the lads opposite. A steam whistle heralds movement as we jolt and jerk forward to advance once more. The singing continues and he starts to beat his fist upon his knee again but now there is a method to it, in time with our singing.

  “It’s a long way to Tipperary,

  To the sweetest Girl I know.”

  He is pressed back into the bench seat close to me, but gradually he straightens and sits upright. He looks sideways then all around the carriage, taking us all in. His mouth moves into what could be a smile as he starts to mouth the words.

  “Goodbye Piccadilly,

  Farewell Leicester Square!”

  All of us are now singing and grins tug our cheeks for the first time since, since long ago, longer than I care to remember. He stops beating his knee but his voice makes up for the lost force as he roars.

  “It's a long long way to Tipperary,

  but my heart's right there.”

  Suddenly he turns and grabs at me, hugging with his left arm, his right still dangling by his side.

  “We home? We home?” he asks.

  I turn and look at him. I study his face for the first time. Cheekbones stabbing through sallow skin, deep black pupils fix me in an innocent stare.

  “We home? We home?” he asks again.

  “Nearly,” I reply, “We’re just coming into Victoria Station.”

  “S’good,” he says,”S’good we nearly home.”

  I last slept in Mons - thirty –six hours ago. Now thanks to the London, Chatham & Dover Railway Company we are approaching London, Victoria. We arrive as a band strikes up Rule Britannia, yet before the train halts, the door is flung open and we tumble happily onto the platform. Soldiers travelling home; fate flinging us together for a fleeting moment of our lives. We embrace, knowing we may never see one another again. I look back to our compartment; he is still sitting there staring out of the window. His time is frozen.

  “Where you heading mate?” I ask.

  “Home.” He says still staring into the distance.

  “And where is home? Where are you travelling to?”

  He turns to me, expression unchanged. A look I will always remember. Then he turns away again and he resumes the rhythmic tattoo with his left fist on his knee. For a moment I am lost for what to do, but then I remember and start to sing again.

  “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile.

  While you've a lucifer to light your fag, smile, boys, that's the style”

  He raises those innocent eyes to me and yes, he smiles.

  “C’mon mate, you may not know where you’re goin’ but trust me, I know what we need to do and you’re coming with me. Got it!”

  He nods slowly.

  “Got it.” He replies and chuckles.

  I hurl his kit bag across the platform and it fetches up against a bench where we both sit.

  “Alright if I take a look inside?”

  He nods. Usual stuff, clothes, clean- must have been a new issue to him at Ostend, but no paperwork. My finger catches on something sharp. A badge; the badge of the Royal Regiment of Artillery.

  “Well, how about that,” I say, “We’re brothers in arms. We’re both gunners.”

  His face lights up as he looks at me. Then it comes to me in a flash. I understand.

  “Gunner! Shun!” I shout.

  He jumps up. Back straight, arms at his side. Recognition in his face, a picture of pride and passion; alive again.

  “Gunner! Stand at ease!”

  His snaps his left leg aside into the pose.

  “Gunner,” I pause, “by the left.” He waits perfectly still, “Fall out!”

  With dramatic effect he pivots to his left. A grin splitting his face. I offer my right hand and he takes shakes it with his left, pumping it up and down with a new enthusiasm.

  “OK gunner,” I say, “I’m Lance Bombardier Tom Lister, and I have an idea. No more wasting or drifting for me, like before the war. There will now be purpose to my life, to our lives. You and me have a mission - together. We’re gonna find out where your home is. You and me both buddy. But not just you, we’re needed to help all the buddies like you who require a little help getting back to where they were before this war to end all wars.”

  That was over two years ago and then Buddy and I started the Federation of Discharged and Demobilized Sailors and Soldiers. Buddy found his home here helping others and now on this day 15th May 1921, we have been rewarded to see the British Legion founded to help all ex-servicemen and their dependents.

  REGIMENTAL AID POST

  By

  Jeff Patrick

  The Somme – 1917

  Although not required for his memory, but as if to give greater reassurance by its presence, the Reverend Julian Whitmore opened his bible and steadied his finger at psalm 23.

  ‘. . . Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

  ‘You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

  ‘Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. . . Amen.’

  Whitmore closed his bible slowly. He was exhausted, having only dipped his head towards sleep in nearly forty hours now. What remained of the boy’s chest rose and fell in stubborn refusal of death. His face was gone, burnt to the bone save the staring brown eyes which so blankly held Whitmore’s gaze under the morphine.

  Whitmore held the bible at his chest and prayed what he hoped would be a final blessing upon the boy, imploring his Christian soul to go forth upon its journey.

  ‘Do not be frightened child,’ he said patiently, ‘for our Lord awaits you.’

  Very gently he held the boys left hand. And, as if in acceptance of the invitation, the boy, three days short of his eighteenth birthday, took his final breath, his chest settling as the first of the mornings sun pricked the trench and splashed through the small corrugated door.

  ‘If mankind is capable of such atrocity,’ said Whitmore sipping from a cup of Bovril, ‘then surely it must have the capacity to forgive it?’

  ‘Is that a question or a plea?’ said Simon Everett, the RAMC surgeon. Whitmore raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Despite . . . All of this,’ he said, ‘we must have faith that the future will embrace us all . . . It will find its way back from this. Surely, along one path or another the circle of humanity will be reconnected.’

  Everett, also exhausted, smiled uncertainly. ‘I’m sorry Padre,’ he said, ‘but I just don’t see any escaping this war. I just can’t see a future beyond all this.’ He wiped his hands down his blood stained apron and blew the air from his lungs.

  ‘Surely you don’t believe that?’ said Whitmore. ‘A place will be found for all those in need?’

  ‘Perhaps Padre,’ said Everett, lowering himself to the near empty medicine cabinet. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t generally share my opinions with anyone, let alone . . .’

  ‘God?’

  ‘The men of. No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  Whitmore opened his bible and took out an envelope pressed someway between Numbers and Deuteronomy. ‘From my wife,’ he said. ‘She’s never missed a post bag. Letters, a p
arcel, a cake, a pair of socks, drawings from the children, that sort of thing.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ conceded Everett, as yet unmarried.

  ‘Yes,’ said Whitmore holding the envelope to his nose and inhaling. ‘I’m not sure if Helen scents the paper directly or if the rose water has transferred from the cuff of her blouse, but . . .’ He smiled privately. ‘What you said before, about man charging headlong towards self-destruction.’

  ‘You disagree?’

  After a moment, Whitmore said, ‘One of my main roles is restoring faith in mankind, or at least creating the opportunity for it to be contemplated. No matter how contradictory that has become. If the men can’t go to church, then the church must go to the men. Not my words, but it does rather underpin why I am here. Humanity must endure this war Mr Everett, no matter how lost it might seem. One day it will be over and we must retain the optimism to return to a version of what we once were. A better version.’

  ‘And will the church question itself? As you say, when it is all over.’