Remembering Lance-Corporal Norman Higginbottom Royal Marine Light Infantry

 

A couple of weeks ago, a friend mentioned that he had picked up a book that I might be interested to take a look at. Knowing of my long-standing interest in military history he passed onto me a book that he had just picked up in a local charity shop for a couple of quid. Now, being a borderline horder it never ceases to amaze me the things that people are happy to chuck out. So what about this book…

Entitled ‘The Roll of Honour of Old Morleians and The Muster Roll of Those Who Served in the Great War of 1914 – 1918’, it is a volume partially bound in leather that commemorates a school’s alumni who participated in the First World War. This takes the form off the Roll of Honour to those who made the supreme sacrifice on the battlefield and a Muster Roll of those who served and survived. For each ex-pupil a brief biography is provided. Later in the book, a number of brief accounts of an alumni’s experiences (recounted here) of training, transfer to France and life in the trenches, are given. It seems that these dispatches were given to the school by the family of the late Lance-Corporel Higginbottom for inclusion in the book. These were experiences of the common soldier that would be representative of most of the pupils honoured within its pages.

What strikes me as being especially interesting about this book is its simplicity. It is a humble and poignant document of remembrance to the lost generation of 1914-1918. For all that, an immense sense of pride radiates from these foxed pages that is palpable to the reader even after the passage of one hundred years (the book was published in 1922).

Morley Secondary School came into being in 1907and was the town’s first publicly funded schools. Latterly it became Morley Grammar School and it still exists today in the form of Morley Academy. The photograph below is contemporary with the book. A piece of field artillery from the war can be seen in front of the school building.

 

Morley Secondary School 1921

The exterior is pretty much unchanged today.

At the outbreak of the War the ex-pupils of Morley Secondary School enlisted to fill the ranks of the British Services, mostly in response to then Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener’s direct call to the yound men of Britain, ‘Your Country Needs You’. As a town on the outskirts of Leeds, many of the Morleian recruits were formed in to what became known as the 15th Battalion (1st Leeds), also known as the ‘Leeds Pals’. This pals battalion, like so many others of Kitcheners New Army that were formed along the same principles , suffered such appalling casualties on 1st July 1916, the opening day of the Somme offensive. It is a date that appears several times in the Roll of Honour.

This piece focuses on just one of those ex-pupils that were killed in action. But before reproducing his experiences as recorded in this book of remembrance, I will hand you over to the Headmaster for a few words.

The compilation of this book was undertaken two years ago in the belief that its details of war service and the descriptive matter contained in it would prove of lasting interest to many Old Morleians now living, and the hope that in the years to come it might be looked upon by the children and grandchildren of those who played their part in the World War of 1914-1918 as something to be treasured.

The compiler's thanks are due to all who have supplied the information contained in it, and in particular to CAPTAIN HERMON MARSDEN, M.C., and Mr. E. NORMAN LEE, past and present Presidents of the Old Morleians Association, for their valuable help and advice in its production.

H. B. BROWNE,

Headmaster

MORLEY SECONDARY SCHOOL,
May 1922.

Norman Edwin Vaughan Higginbottom, the only son of Mr. and Mrs. James Higginbottom, of the School House, Churwell, was born at Belper, and attended first in Morley the Queen Street Wesleyan School, of which his father was then Headmaster. Later he was transferred to Bridge Street Council School, whence, in 1909, he won a County Minor Scholarship to the Secondary School. From this year onwards he became prominent in the Churwell Troop of Boy Scouts. In 1914 he passed the Northern Universities’ Matriculation, and entered Leeds University as a King’s Scholar.

Early in 1915 he joined the Officers’ Training Corps at the University, but shortly afterwards transferred as a private to the Royal Marines, in expectation of service at sea. After training in Hampshire, he took part in putting down the Dublin rebellion of Easter 1916, and was appointed Lance-Corporal in June. Having volunteered for service in the Machine Gun Company, he was sent out in the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, and landed in France on the 5th of September. On 13th November the same years he was killed in the German first line during the capture of Beaumont Hamel, and is buried in the “Y” Ravine Military Cemetery.

Manoeuvres: A Contrast

(The Actual Experiences of the Writer)

1. – DAY MANOEUVRES

The platoon left Barracks three hours ago, and now lies strongly intrenched on the top of a hill which commands the landward head of Portsmouth Harbour. Their trenches are but a ready-made ditch which they have improved so as to afford some shelter, but what of that? The attackers, when they arrive, will have no cover for the whole length of a long field, up which they must charge.

The officer has not forgotten to put out his sentry-groups, and one man has climbed into the branches of an elm tree, the better to survey the scene. And what a scene it is! The hill is girded by woods just bursting into leaf, and interspersed with patches of golden -brown bracken and dense green thickets of holly and furze, whose red berries and golden bloom make a rich blot of colour in the general scheme. To his right the rolling downs of Hampshire stretch away, one behind another, like green billows suddenly frozen. Before him the Isle of Wight floats, a fairy vision, on the deep blue Channel, the effect being all the more wonderful for the slight haze in the lower air. This makes the island appear as if it were being gradually melted into the ocean. Above him the sun rides in a cloudless Italian sky, full of the song of the larks. The whole scene is one of peace and springtime - for spring comes early in Hampshire.

But, turning his head, the sentry looks down into Portsmouth Harbour. The impression of peace is now rudely broken, for six miles away can be seen the town, with the smoke of its dockyards ascending. Moving about in the harbour are many great warships, which at that distance look like toys. What a contrast-busy life and slumbering nature, grim destruction and rural peace!

What is that? Something on his cheek makes the sentry turn his head to see what has touched him. It is only a fluttering gnat, one of a crowd dancing their little life out in the sunshine. Idly he watches their evolutions, when-surely that was the glimmer of brass by the haystack eight hundred yards in front?

Yes, there it is again, and again! The sun, shining on the enemies' cap -badges, has traitorously heliographed their position to him. He descends the tree and gives his information to the officer, then climbs up once more.

He can just discern two long lines of creeping figures among the bracken and gorse. Oh, that is better! Now they are crossing the edge of a patch of emerald -green meadow, and show up much more distinctly. Two platoons are creeping up to our right, and two are ranging themselves in extended order along our front. One section of men, with the Maxim, is on the left. Altogether a dangerous formation for us, and down he goes again with his news. As a result of the information given, half the platoon is sent out to the left, keeping well down, and works into rear of the enemy.

Meanwhile the enemy has cautiously crept up to the edge of the bracken without, as he imagines, having been seen, and suddenly he opens fire with "blank." As if by magic, a crowd of protesting birds appears in the air. Suddenly the Maxim gets under weigh, and under cover of its fire the enemy rushes forward fifty yards and then drops flat. Three times they repeat this manoeuvre. Once again, then they will charge the last fifty yards and , in spite of our " blank," will drive us out at the point of the bayonet. When will our flank men get to work? Only they now can save us. At last! There is a sudden yell from the left. The machine gun has been taken, and now it is turned on its late owners. Caught between two fires, the enemy hesitates, and then charges back to its lines, defeated. We hasten them by a heavy fire of blank, and with mighty cheers. Then we await the bugle which calls us together to march home. At last it goes, and full of mirth and songs we wend our way home. Who could do aught but be merry when Nature is awakening to another spring?

II. – NIGHT MANOEUVRES

“To -night's the night!” Smarting with the sense of yesterday's defeat, the other platoons of the Field –training Company are trying to capture our position. We occupy a line along the road to Southampton, while the others will advance from the Solent shore.

Two hundred yards in front of the line lies a piquet, with its sentries put out in position. Only one sentry may reconnoiter at once, in case of surprise. Let us follow this one in his wanderings.

It is a calm, still night. The sky is cloudless and the moon reigns over her court of stars. The sentry comes to a dense furze-thicket, with narrow glades full of dead, dry bracken, and there lies down. Not a sound breaks the stillness of the evening, not even a murmur from the trees. It is precious cold, thinks the sentry. Why ever didn't he bring his gloves? What a shame they weren't allowed to wear greatcoats! If the Adjutant had only once been a Private! - Good heavens, what was that? Fearfully he peers forward into the darkness whence came that shriek , expecting to see some phantom or other. Nothing happening, he stands up and moves on.

Here is something uncanny, and no mistake! Before him in the shade of a clump of sombre willows , lies a large still pool reed -fringed. On the surface of the water, half in the moonlight, half in the shadow, a pale, bluish flame,

“. ... flickering in a grimly light ,

Dances on the mere . . .”

Forgetting all about methane and its association with the the “Chemy. Lab.” and with marshes, he stands rooted to the spot. Every lurid ghost story in Pearson's that he ever read comes back with unpleasant vividness to him. A clammy dew covers his forehead as a light puff of wind, ruffling the moaning sedges, blows the flame towards him. Then once more bursts out that awful cry, only nearer. Galvanised, the sentry leaves for his piquet, while the author of the cries swoops forth into the moonlight and away over towards Rowner Church.

Five minutes' rest among the bracken, backed up by much internal reasoning, gives the sentry courage to creep out once more from his nest. A light cloud now veils the sky, and the moon is but dimly seen. Overhead a bat flutters by. Yes, this is “the very witching time of night.”

Going a little way to his left, he lies down again, and listens hard, as he cannot see. For two hours he lies there, watching the hands of his luminous watch creep round, when suddenly the narrow passage among the bracken is obstructed by a creeping figure. “Hands up!” - and the sentry triumphantly returns to his base, his fuming prisoner in tow.

It is now our hero's turn for a spell off, so, while his prey is being questioned, he makes himself comfortable on a bed of bracken which occupies the centre of a clump of gorse bushes. Two of his comrades are there, and they are presently joined by another two. One essays a riddle: “Why is a murder like a chicken going across a road?" No answer. The inquisitor replies in triumph, “Because it's a fowl proceedin'.” Shrieks of silence, amid which the funny man subsides, cursing human density.

Time drags slowly. It is two hours later that a couple of long blasts call us to the rendezvous, a sign -post some few yards up the road. Here stand ready the whole of the platoon, with the defeated enemy, who were caught neatly owing to their scout having been taken by our hero. Precise details are lacking, but what matters that? Pipes and cigarettes alight, the platoons set off through the darkness in silence. The night has cast its spell over all, and somehow it is impossible to be rowdy, as is the usual custom when returning from manoeuvres.

ROYAL MARINE (O.M.)

Active Service

I. – DEPARTURE

Thursday, April 28th-the Barracks lies bathed in the level rays of the setting sun. All along the edge of

great colonnade facing the Parade groups of Marines stand gossiping. The main topic is – “What has happenedthose men who left Barracks so hurriedly last Tuesday midnight? Have they gone to Ireland, perchance?“ Gossip and the mutual recriminations inseparable from the Marines' usual conversation

are interrupted by a fierce blast on a bugle - it is the “Alarm.” As by magic the buildings empty on to the Parade, and cottages near by the Barracks the married men come pouring in. Without fuss the ranks form up, in their platoons or in their Companies and march down to the drill-shed. Here much picking and sorting-out goes on, and at 8 p.m. a whistle sounds reducing chaos to silence. “The men on the left flank will fall in at 9 p.m. in marching -order,” shouts the Adjutant. “Dismiss!”


At 9 p.m. a joyful crowd assembles, with every haversack crammed with extra necessaries and the big valise (carried on the back) packed tightly with its regulation contents and other items. And then ensues a fearful two hours. For pouches are filled with two hundred cartridges, water-bottles filled, blankets strapped on the pack, emergency field -dressing taken on board, and life-belts, like motor-tyres, put on under tunics. At 12.30 a.m., after a brief rest, the Company marches out of Barracks. Not a man but is silently anathematising his equipment long before he reaches the station; for it weighs a hundred- weight and a little over. In silence the Company entrains, and loses all further interest in things till in ten hours it is disembarked at Pembroke Docks. So we are going to Ireland after all!

A whole afternoon is spent in loading up the troopship Archangel. There are no fewer than two thousand Marines from Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth, with the Marine Artillery and several Companies of some Army units. There are several field -guns, fifteen Maxims, ammunition, hand grenades, extra rifles and stores in huge quantity. This will “some” haul for a submarine, think we. But all gloomy forebodings vanish at sight of our escort of destroyers.

Luckily it is very calm, so a good passage is made, and early next morning we land at Queenstown, where the Marines go on board H.M.S. Albion, leaving the Army to its own devices.

It must here be mentioned that the Marines were only on the Albion for a few days, after which they went on shore. But as no details of what they did can be given, a description of life on the Albion must suffice.

II.- ON A BATTLESHIP

Steel, solid steel, everywhere. Decks, masts, funnels, cowls - everything of steel. Stripped of any paint that once may have covered her below decks, the utter brute strength of the monster is thrust on one. Stand for a few minutes in one of the casemates on the main deck The first thing one sees is the six -inch gun, whose long barrel projects through the port. Her breechend takes up the whole port side of the small space, a mass of shining steel and burnished brass, of levers and wheels. Around the casemate hang, each in its own canvas bucket, the shells that are the gun's food-not big to look at, though each weighs one hundredweight, and the gun can throw it five miles with precision. Below one's feet is a steel deck, with trap-doors through which the ammunition comes up in a hoist when the ship is in action. And the entrance to this grim chamber, devoted to the dissemination of death and destruction, is through a narrow doorway in a six -inch bulkhead of steel, the door itself resembling that of a safe. The place is depressing - it weighs one down by its gloominess. Let us go out.

H.M.S. Albion

The door gives on to a steel-decked passage. This leads past open spaces where hammocks are slung, past ladders leading from the upper -deck, past tanks and pipes and strange pieces of machinery, past the galley, where a gigantic stove hisses and glows, preparing the crew's dinner. Here are openings leading to the magazines and torpedo -chambers, and here again is the hatchway, black as a pit shaft, which leads down into the lurid chasm where the stokers work at the furnaces-a chasm which is a chaos of sounds from machinery and boilers, a nightmare of strong red lights and intense black shadows.

Come up on decks. Here the first things noticed are the great turrets, of twelve -inch steel, from which project the huge twelve-inch guns. Guns everywhere, of all sizes, from a Maxim upwards. This particular ship is very old, being a pre –Dreadnought of 1898 ; hence she carries only four twelve -inch guns and twelve six -inch guns, with four little twelve -pounders and two Maxims. But she is still a great craft. Amidships rise two large funnels. Fore and aft are two bridges, each with shelterdeck below, and mast with control-tops above. The masts are of steel, and secured by mighty wire hawsers. Of boats she carries a variety, including several sailing -vessels and one steam picket- boat. But if one wishes to gain the most lasting impression of the vessel's might, let him go forward into the bows, and lying on his face look down at the ram, a mighty mass of steel lying below the water -line, which is thirty -seven feet below. What damage that great spur could do if driven into an enemy's side with all the weight of the ship sending it on!

The sun is sinking behind the hills of Old Ireland. A peculiar golden haze flecked with great crimson clouds, fills the upper air. The shadow of the ship lies black upon the shining , placid sea, to whose margin the hills sweep down, clothed in vivid green. Only one thing mars the scene-a large house, fired by the rebels still sends up a thick column of smoke, as if in protest against its treatment. The fo'c'sle of the ship is filled with Marines and bluejackets, for they have knocked -off work for the day. Suddenly a bell rings slowly five times - it is five bells in the second dog -watch, or half-past six. A bugle rings out. Immediately everyone is standing to attention, while the White Ensign emblem of British Naval Power, slowly climbs down from its staff on the after -bridge, over the quarter -deck. At last it is down, and the company sits on the deck to resume its interrupted occupations.

Yet another call! This time it is answered by the whole ship's company with a rapid “double” aft; for the grog -tub is out in the main gangway and everyone goes for his tot. "Grog" is a nauseous mixture of rum and water, mostly water. It is very uninviting both to see and to taste, but the ship's company appear to be of a different mind. The extent to which they will soak up this enticing fluid - if they get the chance - and the extreme rapidity with which they personally surround their portions, cannot be well expressed on paper.

III. – HOME AGAIN

The troopship Connaught lies peacefully at anchor in Queenstown Harbour. Her escort lies alongside her, in the shape of a torpedo -boat. There is every prospect of a rough passage. As this information is passed round there are those who shiver; there are also those who are filled with unholy glee. Good sailors these, who will gloat over the sufferings of others. A somewhat gloomy Company retires to its bunks at two bells in the first watch-9 p.m.

The writer wakes, with impressions that he is somehow in a steam-swing that has gone wrong at Holbeck Feast. He hears a groan-then he remembers, and sits up. How stuffy it is! Suppose we go aloft. A good seaman, he manages to get up on deck very well. There are here a few other Marines looking anxiously into a thick, white fog that surrounds the vessel. Out of this fog mighty billows sweep in unending procession and try to wash over the vessel; but she is a good sea craft, and manages to keep her decks fairly clear of sea-water. Ah, what was that? Surely a bell rang? Yes, there again, and again, very irregularly. Again comes the sound, from almost under our bows. There is a sudden yell. Someone shouts quick orders; the vessel's engines stop and then go full-speed astern. One of the ship's crew, very white-faced, comes astern. "What's up?" “Oh, only lost our way in the fog, lost our escort through the same cause, and now only just stopped ourselves from running on a great rock.” He further volunteers the information that the captain doesn't know where we are; but thinks we are some - where about a hundred miles out of our course. Cheerful, this!

And then there emerges from the vestibule under the poopdeck, a wan, stricken, pale-faced crowd. Marines and sea-sick! They trickle slowly down to the rail, and there cling in their misery. Now is the opportunity of the charitabl! With ghoulish merriment they crawl along the rail, offering pieces of bully -beef to the stricken, whose anguish is thereby increased. For a sea -sick man cannot stand the sight of anything greasy.

A few bold spirits, to show themselves worthy of the title of Royal Marine, promenade up and down the slippery, plunging decks. Anon comes an extra big lurch, whereat the promenaders, wildly clutching at emptiness, all fall down upon the wretches at the side, who can only give a sort of crescendo to their groans. They are too far gone for anything else.

Breakfast, of tea and the eternal biscuits and beef, is presently served. But less than half the Company can even look at it. So a few improve the shining hour and fill up every pocket, because we have a very long train-ride before us when we land.

Suddenly the fog lifts. Immediately there flashes upon the vessel a ray of light! An old sailor who is part of the ship's crew observes the same. It is the Smalls lighthouse, he says, after counting the flashes. And the course is changed accordingly.

On right and left rise mighty portals of granite cliff, black and forbidding. We are steaming into Pembroke Harbour. Faces that were green become more natural-looking. Chatter displaces groans. And when the anchor is firmly gripping bottom and we are at rest in harbour, there rises up that familiar ditty

“Here we are again!”

But when at last we disembark at the quay, a sort of gloom falls on the crowd. One of us is left behind in Ireland, and will never return. Honour to his memory!


ROYAL MARINE (O.M.)

 

At the Front

Extracts from letters written home by the author between the date of his arrival in France, and that of his death in the British attack at Beaumont Hamel on the 13th November 1916.

Tuesday, September 5th.

We blew in this morning after a rough passage, full of hope - and biscuits. Of these latter we have already had more than a feast. It was rather thrilling piping down last night. We were in the forward hold of a cargo boat that has been convertedinto a troopship, and though there were stools and tabIes and shelves there were no bunks. Therefore I piped down on a fixed bench, the tables above being also full of slumberers . Precariously balanced on the 9-in. plank, I fell asleep being rudely awakened by our sick -bay steward’s jamming a yery well-armoured boot toe into my right eye. Removing same, I roused him a little and complained. But he, being “sunk in swinish sleep,” only grinned in a beastly manner and turned over. I descended to the deck, and found myself, to stretch a metaphor, out of the pan and into the fire; because a driver just behind me was alternately trying to puncture my head and my air-pillow . I gave it up at last and went on deck. Here it was raining hard, so I descended again and had a wash. I woke at 4.45 a.m. to hear the sergeants going round persuading us to rise. I rose; washed again; didn't shave; and had a hearty breakfast of biscuits, jam, cheese, bully, and tea.

Monday, September 11th.

France as seen from a train is very much of a muchness, as the March Hare said. Nothing but miles of long roads, with peculiar trees placed severely two deep along them. There were plenty of orchards, too, which looked very tempting, but whose produce wasn't. Some French kids threw a few to us. I have chewed pens in exams., and thereby drawn inspiration; but from these apples one got nor juice nor inspiration. The villages one saw were all alike - a few houses bewilderingly tiled, an inartistic church, a few orchards, perhaps a few pigs sculling in the road.

We are in billets, just behind the line. There are any amount of guns about, and they fairly shake the house . At night it is very fine to hear them. They never bother me; last night some German shells dropped near this place. Occasionally we see an aeroplane being shelled up in the air; there is one having the experience now, just opposite the glassless window. It is one of ours, and he is making rings and curls and glides in the air; but not going far, just to make game of Fritz. We never hear much rifle firing, but plenty of machine -gun firing at night. The sound of rifles does not-carry so far as that of machine -guns.

It is peculiar what different noises the shells make. Some explosions are like the sounds heard along Bridge Street on Friday night when the people are out shaking their hearthrugs. Others are more like short snippets of the great explosion at Heckmondwike before I joined up. The shells make different noises, too, as they go along. Some are like a violin gently slurring up from one note to the next above it, through all the intermediate notes that you can't get on a piano. Others make a hissing noise. Others again start off with a hiss, which soon becomes a violent shaky row like a train going over a bridge very fast.

I have learnt that it is one thing to write French and another to speak it. Also that “Matric.” French isn't much use when you want to buy, say, a tin of dubbin or a pair of leather bootlaces. Still, I can talk to the aborigines, who still cling to their shellswept homes and keep shops for our benefit. Also “pubs,” than which I never saw anything more numerous. Every second shop is an estaminet. But I digress.

I am fed up with the money here. You get change in English and French coin. Of notes I believe I have as many as that caligraphic expert, Dr. Wilson, U.S.A., has written in his whole career. All values they are, from 2 1/2 d. upward. Fancy, 2 1/2d. notes! And every town seems to issue its own, all different in pattern. But all agree in being creased, dirty, greasy and generally unhygienic.

Sunday, September 24th.

Sunday afternoon! Normally I ought to be with a dozen little friends in a class room, endeavouring to instil into their youthful minds some precept or other; but here I am, lying amid straw and chaos, inditing this epistle. We've had the usual stew for dinner. It's much improved now both in quantity and quality. No one grumbles at the stew. Yesterday there were four kettles full of boiled rice, sweetened. The greedy swine rushed for it as if they'd never had a crumb this last twelvemonth: some got canteens full, some was spilt, the majority got rien. As I was too dignified to rush for some rice, I got left. Next time I'll be waiting at the early door. I won't rush, oh, no! But I'll be there all right.

Since we came out I don't think I have seen a country village half as prosperous as the average English one. There are houses, unruined by war, that would be uninhabited in England; and you never saw such awful roads . But then, I expect the men have gone. Moreover, you don't see a village church of the same beauty as an English one . The country that gave to the world Rheims Cathedral, the flower of Gothic architecture, seems afraid to tackle the Gothic styles nowadays. Its people are content with ugly semi -classical barns with absurd spires, buttresses (of all things!) , and absolutely nothing characteristic.

I went into one the other day and lo, the prismatic glories of Gildersome faded from my memory. Highly -coloured windows and images , three gaudy altars, ditto stations of the Cross – it was most tawdry. There was rather a nice image of St. Anton of Padua with a child, and an altogether silly one of a child in royal robes crown, and sceptre. I can't think that even ignorant people would worship that toy. There was some nice illuminated work on the altars-In principio erat Verbum, etc., from St. John’s Gospel you know. It was evidently the Gospel for the day. There was some beautiful carved wainscoting round the building a fine pulpit, pews, and a confessional, all in dark oak, which somewhat toned down the general prismatic scheme of colour. I would far rather have Woodkirk, though.

St. Mary's Church, Woodkirk (just outside Churwell)

Saturday, September 28th.

Still here in our old snug barn, awaiting orders to move. It looks as if winter is setting in in good time. Woe worth us if we have a winter campaign! The trees are rapidly shedding what few dying leaves yet remain to their credit, and most melancholy they look against the grey sky. Last night there was a most awful sunset. In the west there was a lurid blaze of crimson, yellow, and green with one thin, black cloud across it. The clouds came along in a straight edge over the colour, quite black, and with long cirrus -clouds of a coppery hue across them. It was, on the whole, very uncanny and wrathful-looking.

The country round here is extremely undulating-very much like the country beyond the Chevin at Belper. There are no hedges, and very few trees or villages to be seen. It looks rather nice-like a tumbled sea that has suddenly frozen hard . It's rotten for marching, though, as I know better than well enough.

One of our mules died the other day-due to its peculiar choice in comestibles, it's thought. The brute had eaten the condenser of a gun, which it had got at by raising the limbercover. I've seen them eating sandbags, rope, and leather reins before now. But that's nothing-I'm quite used to shaving in lukewarm tea.

Tuesday, October 10th.

This is written in the trench in a somewhat warm part of the line-which may mean anything. It is very exciting hearing the shells, and “toffee -apples,” and “rum –jars” going overhead and then exploding. Last night it was all right watching the Hun lines being shelled; but it was another thing when he began to send a few over in exchange.

The battle -field at night has a sort of weird beauty all its own. A second firmament of star-shells is created - red, green, and white. And the bursting projectiles give off a weird, red glare which is somewhat like what I should imagine a volcano would show. During the day the glare gives place to puffs of grey and white smoke, pall-like.

The trenches here are all right; but muddy withal. There has been a good deal of rain, and it is a clayey soil. The result is that progress along a trench is a sort of gliding process. In some parts you procrastinate yourself along, as it were. The dug-outs are cosy, and dry as a rule. Mine isn't, though. I should say there's someone buried near, unless it's a dead rat. There are plenty of corpses in these trenches under the floor. I saw part of one yesterday, where they were repairing the wood - work. But, of course, that's only to be expected. I didn't stay long.

Sunday, November 5th.

It's a mercy that I've come down from my spell of six days unscratched. The Hun got a large number of shells along the trench, one of which exploded two traverses in front of me. The nose -cap would infallibly have removed my nose had that promontory been a foot long; it came past my face like a huge bee in a violent hurry. Later on my “tin hat” saved me from a head wound, so you see I've lots to be thankful for.

Both sides indulged in huge artillery -strafes. It was the powers of Hell let loose by two sides one at the other. A lovely sight it is to see the shells bursting on Fritz's parapets; but most unpicturesque when his start to come over to us. He's fond of using gas shells, too. The stench is awful-like a few thousand wet matches being struck all at once. I think it is phosphine they employ in these shells.

Dante missed an inspiration in not seeing our trenches. He'd surely have put a corner full of mud for the worst in his Inferno. I've forgotten whether he does or not, but anyhow it's a good idea for the scheme. One of these trenches is thigh deep in H20 and mud - the former being on top of the mud and the communication trench is a veritable horror. You should have seen me when I came out, muddy up to the eyes, not having had a wash or shave for six days. And every morning the gun's crew was stiff with rheumatism or something like it.

Tuesday, November 7th.

On our way down from the trenches we came through a ruined village. The church was a horrible sight, and as for the houses - I only wish the Hun may find a village and a church done to in the same manner for everyone of erstwhile fair France that his war-mania has devastated. The average French village church is an unlovely erection in a nondescript style. The one referred to was no exception; but ruined, roofless, windowless, its spire tower and chancel broken, it preached an eloquent , if dumb sermon of anathema against man's cruelty and devilish ingenuity. Gott Strafe England! yell the Huns, and invoke Him. And still they level His houses and the dwellings of His servants. One is tempted to ask-Why does the Almighty not visit the blasphemous hypocrites in the midst of their wickedness? Thank goodness we're slowly but surely visiting their sins upon them. I’m glad to be a machine -gunner. I can layout more of the swine that way . Do you know, when we were strafing up in the trenches at night, I felt not the slightest compunction in letting swift death loose upon the foe. And may I live to repeat the process! Seeing things like those I have mentioned makes one angry without sinning.

Thursday, November 9th.

You ask-how do we keep dry? Well, we don't. When we're wet, as often as not we must stay thus. I've not had dry feet for over a week. I don't mind the water in your boots; but when it comes to trench -mud “siping” in I do draw the line. Trench -mud is extremely odoriferous; when stirred up it smells of unutterable corruption. In this gloomy viscosity we live, move, and have our being; and by way of refreshment we inhale the fumes of Hun shells and dodge into “funk–holes” when we hear them coming. Sometimes we're in an unlucky spot and the place comes in; but that is all as it may be. Chance it! One of our men was buried, but got out again in time.

We had Ora Pro Nobis Stew for dinner; which same entrancing dish has formed the menu for the last goodness-knows-how-many weeks. It's a quite innocuous compound of bully, tinned beans, spuds, and water (in abundance). Sometimes there's bacon in it, too, which makes it horrid - to me, at any rate. But without bacon it's not bad, although it is called by that horrible name. Cheese for breakfast, and once for tea and once for dinner this last four days-with bread or biscuits, of course . Hurray for the cheese! The Red Cross man was busy with his “number 9’s” last night, and I with my little medicine case, end compartment.

Friday, November 10th.

Mother must not build on seeing me again till the end of the war. I'm prepared to stay here for the duration thereof. Unless, of course, I'm so lucky as to get a “Blighty” or go sick. We have some men in hospital now, and this morning I went sick, as you shall learn . Ever since we were up the line amongst the mud, I have had neuralgia in my jaw, and last night, unable to stand any more, I went to the S -M. and told him I was going sick on the morrow. I did. The man of the “number 9 's” shoved a shoe -horn or scapula or something else down my oesophagus, and carefully inspected the depths revealed; prodded my gums and made me say " Ah "; kneaded my jaw; looked into my left orifice; and then wrote on paper and handed me over to the tender mercies of his myrmidons, who gave me a stiff dose of acetyl salicylate (such being the medical name of aspirin). Then he made me sit down and shoved a towel round my neck. Seeing one approach with a steaming, suddy liquid in a basin, I anticipated a shave. But no-one ministering angel produced a glass syringe of magnificent proportions and delivered a volley at close range into my left ear; repeating the process about twelve times till the “Doc.” judged I'd suffered enough. When they let me go, I found I'd to return at 5 p.m. to-night. I shall be there. The treatment has eased the awful ache round my earroot.

We had Ora Pro Nobis B for dinner to -day, i.e., it had a little bacon in as well as bully. I lunched off a franc's worth of “choc.” and ditto biscuits. I've had enough stew for once in a way, and am longing for a good lunch at home.

P.S.-- This isn't a begging letter.

The writer was killed in action three days later.

Lance-Corporal Norman Edwin Vaughan Higginbottom

190th Machine Gun Company

Royal Marine Light Infantry

(IWM)

The following report of the young soldier's death appeared in the edition of 8th December 1916 in the 'Belper News':

'Lance-Corporal Norman Higginbotton, only son of James Higginbottom, former headmaster of Belper Pottery School, was killed in action on 13th November. The parents were first acquainted with the fact by a letter from Pvte. W. Lloyd in the same machine gun section. R.M.L.I. A letter was also received from Lieut. C.W.R. Watson R.N., dated November 20th, who wrote of deceased as a well disciplined and superior fellow who always endeavoured to help his comrades, who much appreciated him. He was leading his particular crew during the attack when he fell. Lance-Corpl. Higginbottom was 20 years of age and an old pupil of Morley Secondary School, from which he passed to Leeds University, taking an Intermediate B.Sc. degree. He was Assistant Scoutmaster at Churwell, where his father is the master of the Council School. He joined the Royal Marines on 17th November, 1915, and was in Ireland during the Easter Rebellion, and left for France on September, 12th. Mr. Higginbottom senr., it will be remembered left Belper some 18 years ago. Deceased is a grandson of Mrs Norman, Chapel Street, Belper.'

Norman Higginbottom enlisted in York on 16th November 1915 aged 19. He was instructed to report to Eastney Barracks in Portsmouth where, on 24th November he was transferred to the Royal Marine Light Infantry (Portsmouth Division).

Norman’s active service commenced not on The Western Front but in Dublin. In his letters home he describes his unit's passage to Ireland and contends his family with a description of life on board H.M.S. Albion since ‘no details of what they did can be given’. The presence of the Royal Marines in Ireland between the 26th April to 14th May 1916 was for the purposes of quelling the Easter Rising, an attempt by Irish Republicans to end British rule in the country and to establish an independent Irish Republic. Here, according to his records, Norman was wounded (in a section of ‘WOUNDS AND HURTS’, ‘Nature of wound and Service on which employed’ the following is recorded ‘Comd H.2.E. Ireland’ – a compound something? Anyone know?).


He sailed to France on 3rd September 1916, landing on 5th and arriving on the Somme on or around 11th September according to his letter home. The aforementioned Somme offensive had failed to deliver the anticipated coup de grace to the German forces in France. This being the case, the British High Command intended to stage one more major offensive that would both restore some injured pride and reassure the French Command of the ongoing commitment of the British forces to defeat the enemy. The task was given to the 5th Army (formerly the Reserve Army) under General Sir Hubert Gough. This action would become known as The Battle of the Ancre that was fought 13th November to 18th November 1916. The conclusion of the action coincided with the end date of the Somme Offensive.

This new action shifted the fighting further to the north in an area centered around the valley created by the River Ancre. The planning was beset with logistical problems. Four months of constant shelling had created a barren moonscape of flooded shell holes and charred tree stumps. The front line was not so much a trench system, rather a series of interlinked craters. Such terrain caused infinite headaches to those tasked with ensuring that forward ammunition and supply dumps were stocked and ready and that the artillery gun pits were operational. Several delays to the start of the action were communicated in the hope that onset of winter would harden the ground and allow gains to be made before consolidating positions until the Spring.

Battle of the Ancre. British soldiers on the improvised bridge (a fallen tree-trunk) across the Ancre, November 1916 (IWM Q4568).

The intention was to recapture the fortified villages of Beaucourt Hamel and Beamont Hamel, both objective hamlets on 1st July 2016. Retaking these positions would provide a solid starting point for the capture of Serre later on, another location over which much British blood had been spilled on ‘the blackest day in British military history’.

Norman Higginbottom was at this time part of the Royal Marine Light Infantry (RMLI) 190th Machine Gun Company of 190th Brigade which in turn was attached to the 63rd Royal Naval Division (RND). These inland mariners were positioned across a 1,200m front that ran perpendicular to the northern bank of the River Ancre on their right flank. The Division faced Beaucourt Hamel. To the left of the 63rd RND were the 51st Highland Division facing the objective of Beaumont Hamel. The RMLI units were on the extreme left of the 63rd’s front at the Divisional boundary with the Highlanders.

Unfortunately, I do not have the war diary that details the involvement of 190 Machine Gun Company (MGC). It’s companion units of 188 MGC and 189 MGC attached to the 1st and 2nd Royal Naval Brigades were involved in the fighting from the off when the British barrage was laid down at 5.45 a.m. ahead of Zero hour at 6.00 a.m. Perhaps 190 MGC were in reserve only to be brought into the action later in the day. The fighting was hard, not helped by dense fog which on the one hand concealed the advance but on the other meant that the infantry lost the creeping barrage and the protection that it would have afforded them. The Germans fought bitterly in the defence of both Beaucourt Hamel and Beaumont Hamel, inflicting heavy losses on the attackers in doing so. Nevertheless, Beaumont Hamel (described by the war poet Edmund Blunden as ‘the terrible Beaumont Hamel, one of the German masterpieces of concealed strength’) fell to the British on 13th November with Beaucourt Hamel in the hands of the RND by the following day.

RMLI in Action on the Ancre

November 1916

Norman Higginbottom’s body was recovered from the battlefield and buried by soldiers of the 51st Highland Division. His remains now lie within the ‘Y’ Ravine Cemetery, Beaumont Hamel that lies within the Newfoundland Memorial Park.

'Y' Ravine Cemetery, Beaumont Hamel

His headstone carries the inscription ‘KNOWN TO BE BURIED IN THIS CEMETERY’. This I understand to be something of a half way house between internment in a named plot and a plot of an ‘A SOLDIER OF THE GREAT WAR’ containing the remains of an unidentified combatant. For reasons unknown, the exact burial location of Norman Higginbottom is not known other than that his remains are buried within the confines of the cemetery.

His grave also bears the additional inscription (partly obscured in the headstone photograph):

‘CROWNED WITH THE SUNSHINE OF ETERNAL YOUTH’

 

 

‘Victory Over Blindness’ Manchester Piccadilly Station

 

I have a huge interest in The Great War. Not from the perspective of grand strategies or successful or disastrous campaigns but from the human perspective, the impact that the war had on the men who fought (not forgetting those ‘Roses of No Man’s Land who did their upmost to save them in battlefield clearing stations and hospitals) and each and every combatants loved ones on the Home Front.

Men and boys thronged to any building that doubled up as a recruitment office in answer to the famous call by Lord Kitchener that all eligible men should step forward to do their bit for ‘King and Country’. Older men did just that to defend treasured British values and the principles of Empire. Young men stepped forward too, but their reasons to take the King’s shilling were in many cases far less jingoistic, rather a spell with the colours represented an opportunity to escape from the shackles of poverty, the hardships of factory existence or the drudgery of office working.

Regardless of the motives to enlist, the war was a great leveler and before too long, all soldiers, without regard of class or civilian status were exposed to the same hardships and horrors of modern warfare as experienced on the Western Front (as elsewhere). Of those shared horrors, a gas attack must have been one of the most feared and when it did happen it was one of the most horrendous of the brutalities meted out by either side.

Leaping forward some 107 years, I made my way from Euston to Manchester Piccadilly to meet Mo for a Soft Cell anniversary gig at the O2 Academy in town. Stepping out from the station for the first time I was confronted by an extremely striking bronze sculpture. I promised myself to pay it more attention on my return…. but unfortunately poor organization on the day of the return journey resulted in a sprint past the sculpture in order to make the train back to London. On my next visit, I did make the time to see what it was all about… although I did have a good idea.

The sculpture is entitled ‘Victory Over Blindness’ by Cumbrian based artist Johanna Domke-Guyot. She pursued a degree in Fine art after receiving a devastating MS diagnosis in 1998 and her work presents her with difficulties related to the Multiple Sclerosis, including elements of visual impairment.

The final version of ‘Victory Over Blindness’ that now graces the entrance to Manchester Piccadilly Station was commissioned as part of the Great War centenary events, but prior to its unveiling in Manchester by the Countess of Wessex it had toured other venues in concrete rather than bonze form.

‘Victory Over Blindness’ in concrete displayed at Westminster Abbey, London

Study in wax for ‘Victory Over Blindness’

In its permanent Mancunian home it is accompanied by a plaque which states the following:

‘Victory Over Blindness

Johanna Domke-Guyot

Remembering the returning blind veterans

Of the First World War

More than 3,000 veterans lost their sight as a result of their service in the First World War. Making their way home from the front they began their journey to rebuild their lives after sight loss.

In 1915 a charity was founded to support them. Blind Veterans UK, formerly St. Dunstan’s has continued to support thousands more blind veterans to live independently as they begin that same journey today.’

The piece depicts a precession of seven wounded soldiers with injured eyes bandaged, each gripping the shoulder of the soldier in front. The sculpture is intentionally a three dimensional mirror of the famous ‘Gassed’ painting by John Singer Sargent. This huge, almost lifesize,  painting is housed in the Imperial War Museum in London. Sargent, an American war artist was commissioned to paint the piece based on his own experience. That experience came in the form if a German bombardment in August 1918 in the Arras sector in which mustard gas shells were used. Expose to mustard gas (1-Chloro-2-[(2 chloroethyl) sulfanyl]ethane to chemistry nerds…. I was one but had to look it up!) resulted in blindness, severe lung damage and blistering of exposed skin.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gassed_(painting)

I struggle to imagine the fear that gas attacks instilled in front line soldiers. I could be talking nonsense here but at least a bullet or a high explosive shell offered the possibility (with no guarantees) of a quick and clean death. Gas offered no such thing, rather a painful and lingering demise.

Wilfred Owen perhaps made the best attempt describing the horrors of a gas attack in the English language in what must be one of the most damning pieces of writing concerning war, ‘In Dulce Decorum Est’:

'Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.'

The saddest thing of all is the fact that when I saw the ‘Victory Over Blindness’ monument and decided to write a piece on it online I was looking at it in terms of a memorial to the horrors of a bygone age, more than a hundred years distant from today. However, at the time of writing, March 2022, politicians are seriously discussing the possibility that Vladimir Putin could deploy chemical and biological weapons against Ukraine. I for one never thought that I would here such talk on such a scale. Sad times indeed.

Remembering Arthur Ghislain-Patiny No. 349 (Belgian) Squadron, Royal Air Force, Killed 12th July 1944

 

Memorial headstone to Arthur Ghislain-Patiny

Memorial Gardens, Burgess Hill, West Sussex.

I was interested to see an old article appear on the ‘Memories of Burgess Hill’ Facebook page that summarized the extent of wartime raids that involved the bombing of the town. Previously I was ignorant of any such attacks on Burgess Hill. Reference to William Joyce’s (‘Lord Haw-Haw’) broadcast concerning the existence of  a ‘Burgess Hill Aerodrome’ was also completely new to me. I suppose the idea of such a military site in the town would certainly not be beyond the realms of credibility, Burgess Hill being only 11 miles north of Brighton which was for the early part of the war considered to be on the front line given the very real threat of invasion. 

Later in the war, Burgess Hill was also utilized in the build up of troops and equipment that would participate in the D-Day landings. In this regard, I recall that Canadian troops were billeted in my primary school, Manor Field (formerly Junction Road School) at that time. Given the town’s proximity to the South coast beaches and the prevailing situation in both 1940 and 1944, it does seem quite logical that Burgess Hill would in all likelihood receive some degree of Luftwaffe attention. I was aware of the photograph taken by a Dornier crew member showing a view of Cyprus Road, complete with a couple of panicked, fleeing civilians. In that instance the raiding bombers understood that the town offered an ideal route marker relative to London… at Burgess Hill just follow the line of the railway north to the Smoke… easy!

Anyway, to return to the article, the last paragraph makes reference to a Polish pilot killed in an air crash on 12th July 1944 on the outskirts of the town.

This reminded me of a return trip to Burgess Hill (I now live in the Hertfordshire town of Bishops Stortford) in September 2018 sadly to attend the funeral of my closest childhood friend. Despite the circumstances of the visit, I did my usual and customary thing of touring the local cemeteries on the look out for war graves and any other interesting memorials. This included a visit to the memorial gardens, annually attended by me on Remembrance Sunday throughout the 1970’s in the company of my veteran Grandfather. Within the grounds, located close to the town’s principle war memorial is a commemorative headstone to the memory of Arthur Ghislain-Patiny, a Belgian (rather than Polish) pilot of 349 (Belgian) Squadron, killed after an error in a dog-fight training manoeuvre. Arthur was piloting a Mk Vb Spitfire from RAF Friston in East Sussex when he collided with another spitfire on the afternoon of the 12th. The aircraft crashed in the area of Parklands and Paddocks in Keymer Road. Arthur was confirmed dead by the police officer who attended the crash site.

He was posthumously awarded the Croix de Guerre.

In 2014, the Mid Sussex District Council agreed to finance a memorial to this brave airman.

Arthur’s remains were repatriated to Belgium in 1948 and now lies in Buzet cemetery in the district of Floreffe, Recognised as a war hero both in Sussex and in his home town of Floreffe in Belgium, the local council there named a road ‘Rue Arthur Patiny’ in his memory.

Arthur Ghislain-Patiny 153064 (No. 349 (Belgian) Squadron Royal Air Force
23rd September 1919 – 12th July 1944

A Spitfire Mk. Vb

‘Lest We Forget’.

Private George Alfred Robinson of the 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment Remembered On This Day

 In a follow up to my post earlier in the week, today I laid a cross of Remembrance on the Robinson family plot that remembers Private George Alfred Robinson. 77 years ago today he was killed in action whilst fighting with the 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment in the Operation Charnwood engagements intended to deliver the strategically critical city of Caen into Allied hands.

The grave was not easy to locate, not least because I took the first photo some months ago and secondly that in keeping with many cemeteries in the UK now there is a policy to leave the grounds untended during the Spring and Summer months in order to encourage pollination and the proliferation of local flora and forna. I am fine with that.... I just struggled to find the grave again given that it has quite a low profile in in comparison with the extent of the summer growth. But find it I did and laid an RBL cross. If you look carefully, there is a small splash of red in the lower right hand corner of the photograph. If anything I was reminded of the war diary report of the battle that involved a treacherous advance through developing corn fields on that fateful July day.

Many thanks are due to Clive Kitchener of the Bishops Stortford Branch of the Royal British Legion for struggling through torrential British Summer rain in order to honour my request for an RBL cross to mark this anniversary. A very bedraggled Clive delivered the requested item to my door!

Now where is that bottle of calvados that I mentioned?

Lest we forget.

Remembering Private George Alfred John Robinson of 7th Battalion Royal Norfolk Regiment - Killed In Action, 8th July 1944

 

Venture into any British cemetery of an 80 year vintage or more and there is a very high probability that you will spot at least one Commonwealth War Grave Commission (CWGC) headstone, instantly recognisable by their rectangular shape and gently curved top. Of limestone cut from the numerous quarries of Portland in Dorset these headstones are imbued with a brightness that ensures that they stand out from their more drab granite, marble and sandstone neighbours in any graveyard.

When entering a cemetery previously unknown to me, it has become second nature to scan the headstones from afar for that oh so familiar shape. Even if I say so myself, I have become rather adept over the years at spotting them almost instantaneously. However, the official war graves do not represent the full story of the losses experienced across the villages, towns and cities of the UK, far from it in fact. Every plot in the CWGC cemeteries across The Somme valley and Flanders, Normandy and in every other theatre of war fought over by Commonwealth soldiers contain the remains of personnel who were not repatriated. More tragic still are the memorials to the missing that bear the names of those thousands of soldiers with no known burial place.

In his 1914 poem ‘The Soldier’, a patriotic verse concerning the death of an English soldier on the Western Front, Rupert Brooke rather romanticised a death on a battlefield far from home.

‘The Soldier’

‘If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
  Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
  Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
  A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
   Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
  And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
   In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.’

These are certainly fine and stirring words but they would have offered little comfort to the mothers, fathers, wives and sweethearts of the fallen left to grieve back at home. Denied in life of the possibility of visiting a memorial place locally, lost sons and husbands were often commemorated in absentia on family headstones. These memorials are more difficult to spot, but no less poignant for that.

One of my last COVID lockdown walks saw me once again in the Old Cemetery in Bishops Stortford, Hertfordshire. It came as some surprise to me that I had missed a mention of a young soldier killed in action in Normandy on 8th July 1944. The inscription appeared on a rather overgrown headstone that marked the final resting place of his mother and father.

‘IN LOVING MEMORY OF

A DEAR HUSBAND AND FATHER

GEORGE ALFRED ROBINSON

WHO DIED 3^RD AUGUST 1945

AGED 63 YEARS

 

AND OF HIS SON

GEORGE ALFRED JOHN ROBINDON

KILLED IN ACTION IN NORMANDY

8^TH JULY 1944 AGED 22 YEARS

 

ALSO HIS WIFE

RHODA ELIZABETH

DIED 4^TH OCT 1970 AGED 88 YEARS

 

REUNITED'

 
‘8^th July 1944’, ‘Killed in Action in Normandy’. A date and a place very well known to me for reasons that I will explain.
 
A search of the British Newspaper Archive revealed the news of the young soldier’s death as reported in the Saturday 29th July 1944 edition of the Herts & Essex Observer. 

‘Killed in Action – Mr. and Mrs. George Robinson, of 59, Dimsdale Crescent, have received notification that, their son, Pte. George A (Alfie) Robinson, Royal Norfolk Regiment, was killed in action in July. Pte. Robinson was 22 years of age, was an old Hockerill School boy and at the time of joining up was employed by Messrs. S. Barker & Sons, bakers and confectioners. Three other members of the family are serving in the Forces.’

George was born in Bishops Stortford on 27^th January 1922. I have been unable to ascertain much detail of his early life. Detail of Ancestry based family trees state that George was born in Sawbridgeworth and yet there is no clear indication that his family moved away from the Bishops Stortford area. In the 1911 census the family are recorded as living in Middle Row in the Newtown area, whilst the extraordinary 1939 census sees the family, George included, as residing in Dane Street, in the area of the railway station. Likewise, a family tree source states that he was christened in Thorley. As his parents were married in 1907 at Holy Trinity Church it seems to me to be unusual that their growing family would not be christened in this church rather than another in an area at that time rather distinct from Bishops Stortford. Nevertheless, his early life is not the focus of this post, although of course being an inquisitive soul, I would be interested to know more of his life prior to service.

Private George Alfred John Robinson 5783776 was a soldier of the 7th Batallion Royal Norfolk Regiment. The Battalion was part of the British Expeditionary Force that in 1940 fought in what became known as the Battle of France. Early in the war as a fighting unit within the 51st Highland Division they were not part of the Dunkirk evacuation, they fought on until, depleted of food and ammunition, they were forced into an humiliating surrender at St. Valery-en-Caux on 12th July 1940. Their Commanding Officer, Major General Fortune surrendered 10,000 troops to Erwin Rommel and his 7th Panzer Division.

Back in England the Battalion was reformed in July 1940 around a nucleus of one officer and 29 other ranks who had returned from France, after which the ranks swelled with regular intakes of civilian recruits. As was normal for a newly formed battalion it was assigned duties that combined coastal defence (the 7th defended Grimsby docks for the remainder of 1940) with intensive training.

As Britain’s High Command struggled with the reorganisation of the British Army, successive reassignments of the 7th Royal Norfolks eventually saw them stationed in Loughgall, to the north of Armagh, Northern Ireland, as part of the 59th (Staffordshire) Infantry Division’s 176 Brigade. This was the point at which the history of the 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment and consequently Private Robinson became very familiar to me as well as that fateful date of 8th July 1944. This was because several years ago, as the 70th anniversary of D-Day approached I started researching my maternal Grandfather’s military service in World War II. He was a soldier serving with the 5th Battalion South Staffordshire Regiment which was also under the command of the 59th (Staffordshire) Division, but with 177 Brigade. As such from the point at which the 7th Royal Norfolks joined the Division to train in the Mountains of Mourne, my Grandfather’s service history and that of George ran along parallel lines.

The 'Pithead' insignia of the 59th (Staffordshire) Infantry Division

The Battalion returned with the rest of the Division from Northern Ireland and were stationed in Kent as part of 12 Corps from March 1943. In the preparations for D-Day, the North West Europe invasion that all knew to be on the horizon, 59th Division were designated as a ‘follow up’ up Division. Training continued at an intensified pace including Operation ‘Harlequin’ that simulated the mobilisation of men right down to the water’s edge at Dover before the men were turned back. Few of the rank and file knew that this was an exercise rather than the real thing!

The commencement of the Second Front, better known now to history as ‘D-Day’, occurred as we all know on 6th June 1944. As a follow-up division, representatives of the 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment along with all other Divisional units attended a service of commemoration at Canterbury Cathedral where no doubt the thoughts and prayers of all were with their brothers-in-arms who had landed on the British and Canadian assault beaches early that morning.

On 7th June a personal message from General Montgomery (Commander-in-Chief of 21st Army Group) was read out to all troops:

1. The time has come to deal the enemy a terrific blow in Western Europe. The blow will be struck by the combined sea, land, and air forces of the Allies - together constituting one great Allied team, under the supreme command of General Eisenhower.

2. On the eve of this great adventure I send my best wishes to every soldier in the Allied team. To  us is given the honour of striking a blow for freedom which will live in history; and in better days that lie ahead men will speak with pride of our doings. We have a great and righteous cause. Let us pray that "The Lord Mighty In Battle" will go forth with our armies, and that His special providence will aid us in the struggle.

3. I want every soldier to know that I have complete confidence in the successful outcome of the operations that we are now about to begin. With stout hearts, and with enthusiasm for the contest, let us go forward to victory.

4. And, as we enter the battle, let us recall the words of a famous soldier spoken many years ago:-

" He either fears his fate too much,

Or his deserts are small,

Who dare not put it to the touch,

To win or lose it all."

5. Good luck to each one of you. And good hunting on the mainland of Europe.

B. L. Montgomery

General

C - in - C 21 Army Group

The words of Monty are famous, but to my mind, with references to teams, enthusiasm for the contest, this great adventure and good hunting, they strike me as more in keeping with speeches in the halls of Eaton or Harrow than for the ears of the massed ranks of a civilian army!

According to the original plan the 7th Royal Norfolks alongside the rest of 59th Division were due to land on Juno Beach on D-Day + 16 i.e. 22nd June. However, violent storms in the English Channel over the 19th to 21st June meant that the Division was delayed and remained in marshalling areas for some days. For the marching troops (distinct from the Divisional transport) bivouacked in Brighton’s Stanmer Park in fine weather the enforced delay was not as irksome as it could have been.

The Marching troops eventually embarked for Normandy at Newhaven, landing at Courcelleson on 28th June after which they concentrated at Le Manoir. The Battalion’s vehicles and armour sailed out of Tilbury Docks landing at Le Hamel on 29th June.

The 7th Royal Norfolks were permitted scant time to acclimatise to life in a theatre of war, finding themselves at the front line from 5th July when they relieved my Grandfather’s 5th South Staffordshire Regiment.

Private Robinson, his battalion comrades and the rest of 59th Division were about to participate on a three division frontal assault on Caen. The ancient Norman capital had originally been a D-Day objective, but such was the strategic importance of the city in terms of the facilitating an Allied breakout of Normandy and an advance on Paris that it was defended in great strength.

Operation ‘Charnwood’ was to be the push that would deliver Caen into Allied hands. Given the fact that the planned encirclement of Caen had floundered by virtue of a fanatical German defence, Charnwood intended to hammer the city’s defences from the north. The 59th Division was situated in the centre of the battlefront with the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division on their right flank and the British 3rd Infantry Division on their left.

With the information that I have I cannot pin George Robinson down to a particular Company, but the engagement that cost him his life ran along the lines of the narrative that follows.

Operation Charnwood saw the first involvement of Bomber Command in engagements on the North West European front. From 21.50 hours to 22.30 hours on the night of 7^th July, George Robinson would have witnessed a display of air power not yet seen in the war to date. A raid comprising no fewer than 467 Halifax and Lancaster bombers pummelled the city with a combined payload of 2,560 tonnes of high explosive, incendiary and delayed-action ordinance. It was a firework display like no other, but the necessity and effectiveness of the raid is still a hugely debated topic almost 77 years after the event.

Head of Bomber Command, Air Chief Marshall Arthur Harris insisted on a 6,000 yard safety margin relative to the forward positions of the British and Canadian troops massed for the assault at zero hour on 8th July. This margin meant that the aerial bombardment fell behind the German front line fortifications and resulted in the decimation of the northern suburbs of the city (as opposed to the intended network of strongly defended positions in the villages and hamlets beyond the city limits that were the attacking forces objectives in Operation Charnwood. The loss of civilian life was high.

Such an overwhelming display of might would have undoubtedly provided a much needed morale boost to soldiers such as George Robinson and my Grandfather as they contemplated the prospect of their first combat, but it offered little in terms of a strategic advantage.

 

Diagram showing the concentration of the aerial bombardment of 7th July that fell behind the forward enemy positions.

It was known that the 59th Division in their first engagement would be facing formidable opposition, not least the 12th SS Panzer Division Hitler Jugend (comprising fanatical young men drawn from the Hitler Youth movement) and the 1st Panzer Division Lebstandarte SS Adolf Hitler (formed from the ranks of Hitler’s personal bodyguard).

No matter how many times I revisit this situation in early July 1944, I struggle to comprehend the idea that a civilian force drawn from the factories, farms and offices of Britain were pitched against the elite forces of the Third Reich, many of whom were hardened and bloodied veterans of many campaigns, not least of them, the Eastern Front.

The objectives of the 7^th Royal Norfolks and 176 Brigade on 8^th July were the fortified villages of Epron, the approach to which necessitated an advance through cornfield crops that were two feet high. These fields were surrounded by hedges and banks in which the Germans had established deadly defensive positions. The situation on the ground was such that the opportunities for reconnaissance in advance of zero hour were limited and heavy reliance was placed on aerial photography. This factor cost much in terms of casualties suffered on the day of the battle.

Map showing the position of Epron and La Bijude and the advances of the 21st Army Group Divisions that resulted in the capture of Caen.

Zero hour for Operation Charnwood was set to 0420 hours. Moments before the off a few artillery pieces stuttered a few bursts which heralded the full fury of the Division’s supporting artillery. At the same time, the big guns of the Royal Navy waded in with their formidable contribution to a dawn chorus from hell. HMS Belfast, Emerald and Rodney anchored in the beachhead added significant weight to the bombardment that became known as the ‘Monty barrage’.

The German defenders were quick to respond, sending over shells from their own artillery, although this left the Norfolks unscathed.

Orders were received at 0620 hours to start phase II of the attack at 0730 hours. This order was made on the assumption that the first phase had concluded successfully. Moreover one of the earliest casualties of the second phase was the Battalion’s radio communication which was rapidly put out of action. The leading Companies of the Battalion, advancing upon their objectives through the aforementioned corn crops, encountered a very confused situation. Despite the fact that the Norfolks had rehearsed an advance through cornfields, a combination of accurate mortar and machine gun fire from the hedgerows enclosing the crop fields, pinned the men down within the fields. Their issues with the advance were compounded by the fact that the opening artillery created a mass of dust that severely compromised visibility to an estimated 300 yards. As a result the tanks were unable to provide any effective support to the advance.

In this confusion the attacking ‘A’ and ‘C’ Companies struggled to make any headway. ‘C’ Company headed towards the fire coming from nearby La Bijude rather than the correct objective of Epron, whilst every officer of ‘A’ Company became a casualty. ‘B’ Company in support were due to mop up after the ‘A’ and ‘C’ Company assault, but they too suffered heavy losses upon deployment in ‘C’ Company’s direction.

It was not until 1045 hours when a runner managed to get a message back to the Commanding Officer that it became clear that the attack had failed and La Bijude remained in German hands rather than with the 6th North Staffordshire Battalion as planned. The loss of the Battalion's 18 sets (field radio) lead to this communication breakdown throughout the morning of 8th July.

With the realisation that the 6th North Staffords had faltered, ‘D’ Company of the 7th Royal Norfolk Battalion with the support of a tank squadron were ordered to capture La Bijude. At the same time the remnants of ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’ Companies were reorganised and put in reserve. The combined scratch Company strength was reduced to just fifty men.

‘D’ Company’s assault commenced at 1400 hours but once again fierce and concealed resistance was encountered. Notably, after his own tank was ‘brewed up’ (in Tank Regiment parlance of the day), one Major Cotter continued to direct the tank fire by walking between the machines within full view of the enemy and with little regard for his own safety. A Lieutenant Bartlett was felled, but not before silencing a Spandau machine gun position to the south of the village that was harassing the advance.

At the end of the fighting ‘D’ Company held the southern part of La Bijude, such that anti-tank guns could be brought forward for a continued assault on Epron, but ‘D’ Company were effectively spent by 1530 hours. This being the case, ‘A’ Company of the 7th South Staffordshire Regiment were placed under command with orders to take Epron by nightfall.

 
It was planned that ‘A’ Company would attack the strongly fortified earthworks located to the west of La Bijude whilst ‘D’ Company 7th RNR took Epron. The composite Company comprising the ‘A’, ‘B’ and ‘C’ Companies remained in reserve.

The final push to capture Epron started at 2030 hours when tanks opened up against all possible hedgerow positions before the infantry of ‘D’ Company and ‘A’ Company advanced to clear the way into Epron. By 2200 hours, only the odd diehard sniper remained in the village. By night fall, positions were consolidated and anti-tank guns were in place for an anticipated counter attack that never materialised. Reconnaissance into the village reported scores of enemy dead left behind at the German units withdrew from contact with the Allied forces.

By 10th July the majority of the Norman capital of Caen was in Allied hands, albeit over a month later than was originally anticipated by Montgomery.

For their part, the men of the 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment remained in the locale of Epron for a further 36 hours during which the battlefield was cleared and the fallen were commemorated in a memorial service. On 11th July, the Battalion was moved to Ryes close to Arramanches for a period of rest and reorganisation.

The casualty figures for the Battalion in this first engagement were:

Officers: 3 killed 7 wounded 0 missing

Other ranks: 30 killed 111 wounded 1 missing.

George Robinson is accounted for as one of the 30 of the other ranks.

After the Operation Charnwood battles, the fighting units of the 59th Division continued in their efforts to force the enemy out of Normandy and in the direction of the Seine. The 7th Royal Norfolk Regiment fought heroically over the 7th and 8th August 1944 in a tenuously held bridgehead over the River Orne at Grimbosq. These actions would result in Captain David Jamieson of ‘D’ Company receiving the Victoria Cross for his bravery. Back in June 2019 at the memorial raised to commemorate his actions I delivered a speech and a 59th Association wreath was laid.

In the third week of August 1944, Divisional Commanding Officer of the 59th Staffordshire Division, Major General Lyne was instructed to inform the men under his command that the decision had been taken that the 59th were to be disbanded. This was in order to provide similarly bloodied and depleated regiments much needed reinforcement. In this respect, the 59th, as a more recently established Division, was sacrificed in favour of those divisions encompassing older Regiments of the British Army. Thus it was that in the weeks following the disbandment notification, the men of the 59th were transferred to other English, Scottish and Welsh Regiments.

I have for the past few years been a member of the 59th Staffordshire Division Association, with whom I have travelled to Normandy to pay my respects to the men of the Division who fell in the efforts to break out. Sadly, in my time in the Association, no veterans have been able to make the journey across the Channel, but it has been my privilege to be in the company of friends, who like myself, have a connection with the 59th through a relatives who served in the Divisions ranks. It has been with them that I have had the opportunity to travel to several of the CWGC cemeteries most closely linked to the soldiers of the Division. Not least among these is Cambes-en-Plaine cemetery which is located approximately two kilometres to the north east of Epron and six kilometres from central Caen. George Alfred John Robinson lies within these perfectly manicured grounds.

Our pilgrimage of Remembrance takes in this cemetery since many of the men of the 59th Division who fell during the Charnwood fighting on the 8th and 9th July 1944 are buried here. Among them is Private John Rowden James of the 2/6th South Staffordshire Regiment, the father of a fellow  Association member, also named John James. In June 2019 (the last pre-pandemic visit to the battlefields and cemeteries around the city of Caen), John laid a wreath on the grave of the father that he never had the opportunity to know. Like George, John James senior was killed in action on the 8th July in that first engagement for the men of Staffordshire and Norfolk.

1546112 Private J.R. James

The South Staffordshire Regiment

8th July 1944

Age 30

A member of the excellent WW2Talk forum was kind enough to send me a photograph of George’s Cambes-en-Plaine headstone.

5783276 Private G.A.J. Robinson

The Royal Norfolk Regiment

8th July 1944 Age 22

"Thy Will Be Done"

In addition, the 6th June this year saw the unveiling of the Normandy Memorial at Ver-sur-Mer, Calvados. This memorial commemorates no less than 22,442 soldiers, across 30 nationalities who fought and died within British units to achieve the breakout from Normandy which culminated in the liberation of Paris on 25th August. The gargantuan struggle that occurred in Normandy between June and August 1944 marked the beginning of the end of Nazi tyranny in Europe.

George Alfred John Robinson’s name appears on Column 147 of the memorial. His 59th Division comrade, John James is remembered on Column 145. The memorial will be one of my first ports of call at the point when travel to France once again becomes possible without quarantine requirements.

In little over a week, on 8th July, I will be remembering both George and John, in fact I may dust down the bottle of calvados that resides at the back of the drinks cupboard for the occasion!

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.’