In from the cold

When researching the names on a war memorial I invariably encounter 'difficult' names, ones which resist all attempts at identification. Sometimes they remain a mystery and perhaps always will, although I never say, "never."

Often I manage to identify men who, for whatever reason, are not officially recorded by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. Usually this is because the circumstances of their death did not meet the precise criteria to entitle them to be officially commemorated and either provided with a headstone (if the place of burial could be identified) or inscription of their name on a memorial (where the place of burial was unknown). Occasionally though, I will find a man who, for reasons now lost in the mists of time, apparently "slipped through the net" when official commemoration was being considered and who was, in fact, entitled to be recorded as one of the official war dead of the United Kingdom.

I'm not alone in pursuing this arcane activity. There is an ongoing project dedicated to identifying as many men as possible who fall into this category and its excellent and regularly updated website can be found at www.infromthecold.org. I'm proud to be associated with it.

One man whom I identified as falling into this category of non-commemoration was 1779, Private Gerard Huck.

Gerard was born at Milnthorpe, although his parents had moved to Dalton-in-Furness when he was still a child. He enlisted in the 4th Battalion pre-war, at the end of June, 1912, and, when not 'weekend soldiering' with the Territorials, he was working at Vickers' Shipyard or playing football.

His first wound during the Great War was received at the hands of a fellow Territorial, when someone accidentally loosed off a round in the billet where he was sleeping after coming off guard duty on the Great Western Railway near Twyford. The next time he had occasion to be wary of bullets and other projectiles was when the Battalion went into the trenches for the first time on May 27th, 1915. He wrote to his mother:

“We have just come out of the trenches, after being in four days and five nights. I am sorry to say that we have suffered a big loss in our company. It is really a pity to see such fine fellows going down without a minute’s notice. It is too difficult for me to tell you exactly what it is like. But one thing I know it is like hell on earth. The last time we were in they shelled us for seven hours. The shells seemed to come from nowhere. We were in the Battle of Festubert. You will see the picture in the “Sunday Herald,” of June 6th. Dear mother, J. Tyson, of the Lots, Askam, and myself have been recommended by the lieutenant of our company for bringing in a ‘dixy’ of tea for the wounded men in our trench. We had to go 200 yards in the open for it, and we got back safe with a bit of luck, because we had three shells right near us. You must excuse scribbling this time, as I am tired and my nerves are not as well as I would like them to be."

It sounded like a real baptism of fire.

I'm not sure exactly when he received the wound which caused him to be invalided out of the Army because the subsequent newspaper report of his death in 1917 is rather ambiguous and his Service Records have not survived. The newspaper reports him as having been wounded and gassed at the "battle for Friburg" which is not an engagement or location that I recognise; my suspicion is that he was wounded at Guillemont in August, 1916.

Wherever he was wounded and whatever the nature of his wounds he was discharged from the Army in October, 1916, and awarded the Silver War Badge, as indicated by his Medal Index Card. This also shows his entlitlement to the three basic service medals and confirms his date of entry to France as May 3rd, 1915 - the official date of landing of the 1st/4th Battalion, as it had been re-designated. Significantly, it quotes his Service Number as T4/1779. At the time the T4-prefix was simply a clerical notation induicating that he was a Territorial in the 4th Battalion, but more about that later.

After his discharge from the Army he remained hospitalised and the newspaper reported that his wounds had destroyed his power of speech and also that he had been in hospital at Meathop (a sanatorium) for a month before his death. The cause of death wasn't explicitly stated but his Death Certificate confirmed that it was tuberculosis. Now, whether or not his wounding/gassing had initiated the tuberculosis is debatable, but what is beyond doubt is that the Army considered his military service to be the root cause of it and were providing him with a pension, this being clearly specified on his Death Certificate.

Eventually I managed to establish that he was buried in Kendal (Parkside) Cemetery, his mother having moved there from Dalton-in-Furness after the death of her husband, and that his grave was unmarked. I knew he wasn't commemorated by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission but, on the face of it, he met the criteria for commemoration and so, in March, 2008,  I forwarded the relevant documentation to the Ministry of Defence for consideration.

On April 21st, 2008, he was accepted for commemoration by the MoD and on June 17th, 2008, his name was added to the online database maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. A war graves pattern headstone was erected on his previously unmarked grave in Kendal Cemetery shortly afterwards.

Close inspection will show that the 'T4' mentioned earlier has been mistakenly inscribed as part of his Service Number, an error also present in the online database. It matters not: Private Gerard Huck - in from the cold at last.

The Ashcroft Diaries: Part 2

Here's another instalment from the diary of Private Wilfred Ashcroft, First Active Service Company, King's Own (Royal Lancaster Regiment). Interestingly, the military snobbery of the day comes through quite clearly. As gentlemen cavalry the Yeomanry appeared to have a rather high opinion of themselves and considered the infantry inferior. This attitude obviously caused some fiction, and there is more than just a tinge of schadenfreude in Private Ashcroft's writing when he observed one or more of the Yeomen to temporarily fall from grace. However, the men of the Active Service Company seem to have particularly resented being labelled as 'Militia' - akin to being the lowest of the low - so there was obviously a definite pecking order among the infantry too. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose, as they say in barracks everywhere.

Saturday, March 24th -  We set off from St. Vincent last night about 7.30 p.m. and steamed nearly 22 knots an hour through the night as we are trying to catch a steamer, the “Nile,” and we had caught her up a day when we got to St. Vincent as she had only gone the day before and she set off two days before us. I think this boat will catch her before Capetown, which we expect to reach Tuesday week. I was on watch all day to-day, that is from 8 to 12 in the morning, and then from 8 to 12 at night, and we are getting quite into sailor’s work. It is the first time this boat has run at her full speed as it is only on her third trip, and it can go when she likes, but it slows down through the day as I think the heat has something to do with it. It is nice and cool in the night. We had some sport with the flying fish in the night as they kept flying aboard, and they are as big as a good big herring, and about the same colour. They just look like swallows when flying, and they can fly a long way, - about 100 yards – and the ship makes them fly in dozens as she goes along. It is very warm. There is one case of dysentery on board, and that is a yeoman, although two or three of our men are on the sick list, but mostly with swelled joints. I don’t know how they have got them without it is with wearing slippers as it is mostly the ankles.

Sunday, March 25th - I have not been in bed or hammock all night as it is so close downstairs, so I went to sleep in a chair on deck, and got up early and got ready for the service. We got the fire alarm just before we were ready, and you should have seen us rush on deck, as everybody has to be ready when the alarm goes, and it is very wonderful where all the men come from. I don’t know where I would get if it was real as there is not enough boats and no sight of land and plenty of sharks to wait for bits. The life belts would be of little use if a big shark got hold of us. It is nice weather, but very monotonous, as we have never seen a ship for a couple of days. It does not matter where we go we are nearly roasted, and I pity the poor stokers when they have to put 20 ton of coal on each shift – that is 60 in a day. We slacken speed every day, but go along very quick at night, and there is always a nice breeze up, so I can stand it all right, and I don’t think I will take any harm. They sent me a packet from the North Western Drug Stores. I received it when at Lancaster the day we left. There is vaselene, health salts, shaving soap, and washing soap, carbonate of potash, and a bottle of Elliman’s embrocation. The health salts are very handy and make a nice drink in this hot weather.

Monday, March 26th – We got up this morning, and it is hotter still, and shoals of dolphins jumping out of the water. They go in a long line reaching a mile and a half, and so they won’t miss many fish. We went on hammock parade this morning, and it was very hot standing on deck in the sun till they inspected hammocks, and to see that we had our two blankets and hammock. We are going to call at St. Helena for water, as the fire alarm went yesterday and they connected the fresh water pipe instead of the salt water, and it has made us run short; but we have plenty, as we get five pints a day allowed us, and it is quite plenty. There is some of the Yeomanry in the cells picking oakum for disobeying orders, and so you see the gentlemen are the worst of all, and they need not call us Militia, as there are none of our men in the cells yet, and none in the hospital. The Yeomanry have about forty out of their lot, and a lot more ready to go in. Our men have been inoculated today, and they seem to be all right, as only one of them fainted, and he is all right now. The officers of this ship are very pleased with the boys in red, and say we are the sort they want out in Africa, and not one-eyed glass men. The Yeomanry nearly all wear an eye-glass, and come on parade in kid gloves and were frightened they would get their feet wet when washing decks. It goes dark very quickly here, and is quite dark by seven o’clock. It is nice and breezy as it has been raining, and it does not forget to rain when it starts, but comes down in torrents. The officers set off rocket and life buoy lights to-night to celebrate the last night on this side of the Equator. The lights will burn for twenty-four hours, and water cannot put them out. We could see them for a long time.

Tuesday, March 27th – Father Neptune and his wife came on board this afternoon, and you should have seen the happy couple. They had rigged up a bath, and it was about 1 foot or 18 inches deep. They caught a sailor first, and he was lathered with whitewash, and shaved with a wooden razor, and then asked him if he had been across the line before, and he said “No.” The brush went in his mouth at the same time, and then he was thrown backwards in the bath, and a couple of hose-pipes turned on him. Just to show that there was no ill feeling, he was gently held under for a bit. One of our officers was down next, and he did get a dousing, and enjoyed it immensely, finishing with turning the hose-pipe on us, and wetting everybody through within range, including the ship’s officers and our own as well. There were about 100 shaved and bearded, and all the others were wet through as there were two hose-pipes going full speed. Father Neptune looked extra well, as he was an old soldier, and had a tin crown on his head, and long strands of rope for his hair and girdle. We had a drum and fife band, comprised of tin cans and tin whistles, and it sounded like a horse on a tin roof, or rattling the zinc on the side of Abbey road with a stick, and it made a horrible noise. One of the stewards was taking some jam in the cabins when they turned the hose on him, and you should have seen him move. He was vexed and so they said he had better be still or else he would get a cheap bath whether he wished it or not, and so he cleared off, and I never saw such fun in my life. It was better than the circus carnival, and would have made a pig laugh to see the darkies dress like doctors in top hats and dress suits and drenched to the skin. Father Neptune said there was too much water flying about, and he should be a good judge, as he got wet through dozens of times, and was about drowned. Some of the Yeomanry got on the derricks out of the road, but they just got in it, and were washed out with the hose-pipe. I am sure it was never done so well and with such a lot of take-it-all-in-good-parts sort of men, as there was not one of them that grumbled. It was enough to make a fight any other day.

Wednesday, March 28th – There is nothing fresh today, only all the clothes are hanging out to dry, and it makes the ship look like a back street on a Monday afternoon. It is a bit more rocky, to-day, and some of the men are sick again. We have been sewing our identity cards in our tunics. They have our name, number, next of kin, regiment and our addresses, and are sewn in the left side corner of our tunics. I hope we will live to open them ourselves, as it will mean something dangerous if we don’t.

Thursday, March 29th – We passed the “Clan Cameron” this morning about 12.30 or 1 a.m. and she was getting towed as her propeller shaft was broken. She is bound for Capetown, and was in sore distress as she was short of water and fodder for horses on board, belonging to Paget’s Horse. I don’t know the name of the steamer that was towing her, but she will get a good sum for her trouble, as they are six days sail off the Cape and are going with all speed. We stopped for about two hours to see what had happened, and they signalled to us name and accident and what had happened. We had a military funeral on board about half past nine this morning for one of the 2nd West Kent Volunteers, and they fired three volleys over him. He was bad when we set off, and had been in hospital all this time and died of pneumonia. He had only one lung, so he would have done no good if he had gone to South Africa. It is a sad thing to see a funeral at sea, and all the sailors had their best clothes on, and they took the chief part in the burial. The Lieutenant-Colonel read the service, and it was very touching, as all on board were listening, and his chums had to shoot over him. There were eight of them fired over him with ball cartridge. I hope none of our men are left in the sea, as it would be a bad thing to have come so far and then to be left behind.

The S.S. Tagus, the troopship that carried Wilfred Ashcroft and the men of the First Active Service Company of the King's Own (Royal Lancaster Regiment) to South Africa.

More to come..........

In the grip of the grape

This stolid-looking character posing rather stiffly for his photograph is 2290, Private James Grenfell. When I found the photograph it was intriguingly labelled “drunk on duty.” I wondered about this comment and then found that his Service Papers had survived. Within the pages all is explained.

He’d enlisted in the 4th Battalion on August 8th, 1914, on the outbreak of war, and was from Askam-in-Furness. Then, along with his fellow Territorials he’d gone south with the battalion to guard the Great Western Railway. I assume this photograph was taken somewhere near Slough.

Shortly afterwards he blotted his copybook by being caught drunk whilst on guard duty. It may not have been the only occasion - and he was probably somewhat more than a bit 'tight' - because the action taken by the Commanding Officer was quite harsh; he was dismissed from the Battalion and his service with the Territorial Force was abruptly terminated - quite a disgrace to bear in those times.

Drunkenness is a difficult subject to gauge because, naturally enough, the Wadham & Crossley 4th Battalion History and (patriotic) local newspapers eschewed recording such embarrasing detail, but the temptations of being away from home were probably too much for some of the men and, dare I say it, the amateurism of the rank and file of the Territorial Force was still rather prevalent at that time. Excessive drinking may have been a genuine source of concern (it certainly had been in the Regular Army) and perhaps an example needed to be set. It certainly was in Private Grenfell's case.

I don't know whether he ever served in uniform again. From his photograph he looks to have been approaching an age where he would have been too old to be conscripted and, in my researches of local men who saw military service in the Great War, I have never come across his name in any other context.

Casting the net wider

When war broke out in 1914 the 4th Battalion had great difficulty in recruiting sufficient numbers to get it up to wartime strength. When the Battalion was mobilised and sent south to guard the Great Western Railway many of the local employers cried "foul!", and nearly 200 of the men had to be released to return to their civilian occupations.

To ameliorate this problem, in February, 1915, the County Territorial Association decided to form a second-line battalion at Blackpool (the 2nd/4th Battalion) and recruit from that district in addition to north Lancashire. One such recruit was 3361, Private John Cowell, from nearby Preston, who enlisted around the end of April, 1915.

The above photograph was taken while he was stationed at Weeton Camp, Blackpool. Another photograph, taken with two fellow recruits (who are, sadly, unidentified) was taken "somewhere in England."

John was eventually posted out to France with a reinforcement draft to join the 1st/4th Battalion some time in 1916. A few months later, on August 8th, he was killed at Guillemont in one of the abortive attacks on that German stronghold which was to claim so many lives before it was finally captured a month later on September 3rd by the Irish soldiers of the 16th Division. In total, 8 officers and 98 'other ranks' of the 1st/4th Battalion were killed that day; most of their bodies simply vanished on the moonscape battlefield and, like John Cowell, they are now nearly all commemorated on the Thiepval Memorial.

Shells bursting around Guillemont on August 7th, the day before the assault by the 55th (West Lancashire) Division. By September the area had been totally obliterated by shelling. Hardly surprising, therefore, that there were few identifiable remains of the men of the King's Own who perished on August 8th (King's Own Museum).

My thanks to Mr. Chris Jordan of the U.S.A. for kindly allowing me to use the photographs of John Cowell.

The Ashcroft Diaries: Part 1

No, not the musings of Lord Ashcroft, the non-dom Tory Party donor and VC collector. Instead, just the everyday writings of a private soldier sent off to fight in South Africa in the Second Anglo-Boer War.

In 1900, Wilfred Ashcroft of Barrow-in-Furness was a member of the local Volunteer Force, being a private in the 1st Volunteer Battalion, King’s Own (Royal Lancaster Regiment). When the War Office made a call for men to serve in South Africa he, along with many other members of the Volunteers, agreed to enlist for a period of twelve months in the Regular Army, forming the First Active Service Company of the King’s Own (Royal Lancaster Regiment). This unit sailed from Southampton to South Africa on the S.S. Tagus on March 16th, 1900, arriving at Cape Town on April 4th, 1900 and subsequently joining the 2nd Battalion on active service in Natal after trans-shipping to Durban on the S.S. Nile. His service in South Africa was curtailed by illness (presumably either dysentery or enteric fever) and he was invalided home and discharged from the Army in early 1901, although he received the Queen's South Africa Medal in recognition of his services.

The 1st Active Service Company on parade at Bowerham Barracks, 1900 (King's Own Museum).

During his period in the Regular Army he maintained a detailed diary, extracts of which were printed in the local newspaper. In due course I'll publish all of them, or at least as many as are available, for they suddenly stopped appearing in the paper. Whether this was because he had ceased writing, or perhaps the newspaper no longer wanted to print them, I'll never know. Whatever the reason, it is a shame, because his (un-pc) writings provide far more colour and insight into the life of an ordinary soldier of that time than a dry regimental history can ever do.

I have a photograph of Private Ashcroft, or at least I have a group photograph of the 1st A.S.C., although I don't know which of the men he is. He volunteered again in 1914, rejoining the King's Own and serving in France with the 1st Battalion. His soldiering days finally ended at the Heidenkopf Redoubt, near Serre, on July 1st, 1916 - one of the nearly 19,000 British dead on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. In 2003 the body of a King's Own soldier killed that day was found on the site of their attack on the Heidenkopf Redoubt. It is just possible it was 18062, Private Wilfred Ashcroft.

Friday, March 16th. – Embarked at Southampton; sailed half an hour after embarkation. Paraded at 7 p.m. for hammocks. Slung hammocks and made beds. Fell in bed at 10.p.m. Lights out 10.30.

Saturday, March 17th. – Got up at 7 a.m. Breakfast at 8.30. A lot of sickness but I am well. In the Bay of Biscay. Nice weather, but a heavy swell. Rough weather last night, everything lashed down and all troops below at 7.30 p.m. Passed a German steamer, name “Hedwie Woeman," and she was very low in the water and rolling heavily. Still a lot of sickness.

Sunday, March 18th. – Had a rough night, and was ready to get up this morning, and we went on deck as soon as could get, but had to stow hammocks and tidy up a bit. I saw some porpoises this morning, the first fish I have seen since starting. It is very rough, and the spray is wetting everything through. We got out of the Bay of Biscay about ten this morning, but are in rough weather yet. We are having church service on board to-day, when it is a bit finer and get coffee and bread. We passed a barque, but could not read her name. I am fairly surprised at my good sailor qualities, as I have never felt a bit sick yet, and have never missed a meal. I got some oranges this morning. I am fairly champion now, but had a bad cold when we set off, and it was snowing very hard, so you see we went from Barrow in snow, and left Lancaster, and we had snow on board yesterday.

Monday, March 19th. – It is a very fine day, and I am sitting in the sun on the deck near the guard-room, as I have to go on guard at one p.m., and then again at the same time tonight. We have seen no more boats since yesterday morning. We have our quarters on the lowest deck, and it is very musty in the morning, as there are 108 of us in a place not that big. We passed a full-rigged barque this afternoon, her name being “Dundonald,” bound for Africa. I saw some porpoises this afternoon, and you should see them jump. We are out on deck all night, and it is very nice, better than being below. We captured a prisoner tonight. They brought him out of hospital, as he was out of his mind, and they put him in the cells, as he was dangerous. He is one of the Imperial Yeomanry, and a fine, big fellow. He tried to get overboard the other day, and they caught him and took him to the hospital, and then he tried to cut his throat. So you see we had to watch him. They say it was the sea sickness that sent him mad, but I think he had too much whisky aboard, as he said to me when I went on sentry at the door “Give me a pint of bitter, sentry.” I said “You will get it next watch.”

Tuesday, March 20th. - I have been up all night, and am now having a rest down below as I am not on duty. We passed the point of Madeira this morning, and did look a rocky coast, and I was glad we were far enough off them. We saw a big steamer pass the other way this morning, but it was too dark to make her out, as we could only see her lights and hull. The officers have been having revolver practice this afternoon on the forecastle head at a tin can, and there are some marvellous good shots among them. They could hit it every time, left hand as well as the right. Our officers are very quick with the revolver, and could draw very quick. They were much applauded. We have been getting complimented on our smartness and soldier like manner. The Yeomen call us Militia, but we can show them how to drill.

Wednesday, March 21st. – Getting very warm weather here, and all the awnings are put up on deck and that makes it nice and cool underneath. We had physical drill on the bridge deck after dinner, and it makes us very warm. The Yeomanry officers took our photos as we were doing it. I don’t know how we will look. Some of the men have been inoculated, and it has made them very ill for a day or two. They say it is a proof against fever.

Thursday, March 22nd. – I went on deck this morning, as it was so hot down below, and it was like being in a tent, so nice and cool. It was stifling below decks. We expect to land at St. Vincent tomorrow morning, and then we will take coal and set off again. It will be strange to see land again after such a long sail. We are having firing exercise this afternoon, and it is surprising how you can see the bullets strike the water a mile or so away. It is a good boat this, and makes about 13 to 15 knots an hour. Her best run in 24 hours was 373 miles. I hope I can keep as well as I am now all the time I am away, and then I won’t grumble. I often go in the forecastle, as there are a lot of darkies in the crew, and they are very good on the fiddle and banjo. They can sing some good songs, and it passes the time away better than lounging about below. We have very good rations on board, stewed beef and bread for breakfast and beef for dinner, and then we have bread and butter for tea, and it is very good bread and is made on board every day. I have only tasted biscuits twice. Once when on guard we had some biscuits and coffee, and we got some served on deck once. I like them better than bread for a change. I was in bed or hammock soon after sunset, and it is quite comfortable. It takes two or three nights to get used to them, for if you are not careful you fall out, and then you get a nice bump.

Friday, March 23rd. – We arrived here soon after breakfast, and it is a beautiful harbour, but the land is solid rock without a tree on it or a bit of grass. We were in sight of land when we got up, and I never thought there was such a rocky coast about here. It was not long before the coal barges arrived, and it is a treat to watch the niggers working. They work like horses, and go about three times as much as an Englishman, and they are as strong as horses, and never stop work to speak to one another. There are dozens of men and boys selling fruit, and we can get as many bananas or oranges as we can lift for 6d. I don’t know where they get them from, but they are as sweet and big as ever I saw, I have been wondering if there is coal here, or if they have to fetch it from other places. There are many different kinds of fish here, and one of the men caught a small shark. Flying fish and some fish like gold fish, but a lot bigger and shaped like a roach, and there are thousands swimming around the ship in swarms. If we throw a piece of bread in they come fairly thick after it. The men and boys can swim and dive like ducks, and they never miss a copper if thrown in to them. It does look like a dried up land, and I don’t think the fruit can grow here. There is a fine cruiser, name “Cambrian” here, and we are anchored close to it. The bluejackets were pleased to see us, and came in boats to take our officers ashore. The darkies are very frightened of them, and clear out of the road as soon as they turn up. The darkies are the very same colour as the rocks, that is, copper colour, and a finer set of men I would not wish to see. They should be too, as they get plenty of exercise with swimming, rowing and coaling boats. One of their boats had a nice lot of fish, and they were all a nice gold colour, and some big ones as large as a big cod. They say there are a lot of sharks about, but the boys don’t mind them, as they have been diving all day. I should think we have taken 800 tons of coal in, as there were eight barges full, and we sail again at seven p.m., so you see the darkies can work, and they never sweat over it. It has been the hottest day we have had yet, and we are brown as the niggers, but more colour, as they have no red in their cheeks. I wish you could have had a trip out here in your younger years, as it would have suited you grand, and if I was an engineer I would soon be at sea and see all the sights of this beautiful world. We are four days off the line, so we will cross about Tuesday. You have no idea of the heat of the sun. I never thought I should ever see the sights I have seen, and be in the hottest part of the world, but I shall soon have been, and in such a strange way I am as happy as a lark. I think I have said enough for today.

To be continued.........

When civilian drilling was more important than military drill

I have made mention in previous blog entries of the recall of around 200 men of the 4th Battalion after their mobilisation in August, 1914. Many had key skills that simply could not be replaced overnight and local employers were understandably alarmed about the loss of so many skilled men to what in effect was rather mundane sentry duty in the south of England.

An example was Private Edward Smith, of Great Urswick. He had enlisted on June 11th, 1911, as a peace-time Territorial and, upon mobilisation, moved with the rest of the 4th Battalion to duty guarding the Great Western Railway. In doing so, he left behind his work as a driller (machinist) at Vickers' Shipyard in Barrow-in-Furness, a fairly specialised occupation.

On February 2nd, 1915, he was recalled and returned to his trade at Barrow, but still remained a mobilised member of the Territorial Force. He remained subject to Military Authority - and recall to the Colours at any time - although, to the best of my knowledge, he never again wore a uniform. Assuming that he had signed the Imperial Service Obligation agreeing to serve overseas then he may have worn an Imperial Service Badge to protect him from accusations of "slacking" or cowardice.

In February, 1917, he was renumbered - along with all Territorial Soldiers - and allocated the new number 200127. I don't know his original Service Number but would guess it was around 1745. Shortly after this, in March, 1917, his term of service with the Territorial Force expired and he was formally discharged, all the while continuing to work at the shipyard.

Then in May he became ill, being diagnosed with tuberculosis, from which he ultimately died on April 11th, 1919. His surviving records acknowledged that he contracted the illness while still officially a soldier and so he was awarded a pension, and when he died, he was accorded official commemoration by the Imperial War Graves Commission.

He is buried in Urswick (St. Mary) Churchyard and, following a 2005 campaign by a resident of the village, his name is now also inscribed on Urswick War Memorial, and quite rightly so.

Wasted lives at Arras

There has long been a tendency to decry all forms of British generalship during the Great War. Indeed it has formed the stock-in-trade of several "revisionist" historians, including one notorious Australian contributor who more or less fashioned a career from it. A lot of the criticism is nonsense, but some, however, is well-targeted.

I'll illustrate this with an episode from the Battle of Arras in 1917. The battle had opened on April 9th but, after some initial successes, had ominously begun to bog down into the all-too-familiar cycle of attrition and stalemate. There would be a total of 84,000 British casualties before it finally ground to a halt a month later.

The ruins of Feuchy after it's capture on 9th April (Imperial War Museum).

The Regimental History by Colonel J. M. Cowper describes an action undertaken by the 8th Battalion on April 11th, three days into the battle:

When 8/King’s Own returned to the line on May 10 it occupied trenches in front of Monchy and was therefore in the sector next to the 1st Battalion, on the other side of the river. Three weeks’ continuous shelling and sniping had reduced it to three hundred and fifty rifles and it was hardly numerically strong enough to hold the front allotted to it. During the previous week when the battalion was theoretically resting, it had been continuously employed digging communication trenches, and the men were worn out by strain and want of sleep. On the first day in the trenches Second-Lieutenant A. W. Holgate, who had been commissioned from the ranks only a short time before, was wounded. It was in the afternoon of the 11th that the battalion was ordered to attack a trench which was to be incorporated in the British front system, and after three minutes’ drum fire the men went over the top at 6 p.m. Their failure to reach their objective was due to a cause as unfortunate as it was unexpected. They were subjected to heavy enfilade machine-gun fire from both flanks and they were also caught in their own machine-gun barrage which, though accurately laid on the enemy trenches, swept in its trajectory the crest of a rise over which the battalion had to pass. Assailed on all sides, the attack launched in two waves on a three-company front had not enough momentum to carry it through. Five officers were wounded as soon as the battalion rose from its trenches and thirty-eight other ranks were killed or missing. When the survivors struggled back under cover of darkness, the battalion numbered only a hundred and sixty-seven.

One of the casualties that day was Second Lieutenant Frederick Wilkinson from Haverthwaite. He was 20 years old and had only been in France about three months.

An ex-Ulverston Grammar School pupil, he had joined the Inns of Court O.T.C. as a private, being discharged to a commission in the King's Own in November, 1916. A fellow officer (a Captain O'Brien, of Kent's Bank) wrote to his parents explaining the circumstances of his death:

“We made an attack in the early morning and were held up by machine-gun fire and had to dig in. In the afternoon another attack was made by the remainder of our brigade from behind us, and we had to reorganise our men to support the attack and advance with the other regiments when they came through us. We had no trenches, but were sheltering in shell holes. Your son was collecting his men and preparing to assist the attack when he was hit in the head by a bullet. Death was instantaneous and he could have suffered no pain at all. We were afterwards very heavily shelled. When it was dark we went to look for his body, so as to collect his papers, but were unable to find him: in addition to that about 2 in. of snow had fallen, so our task was almost impossible. Your son’s death is an immense loss to the battalion, and he is very much missed by the other officers, with whom he was very popular. We all sympathise with you very much, but perhaps the knowledge that he died bravely will help you. He had already been wounded twice, but he still stopped at duty with his platoon."

One has to wonder at just how much the truth was disguised to assuage the feelings of his bereaved parents; in letters of this nature no one ever seemed to die a lingering death, screaming in pain. Certainly there was no mention that the bullet that killed him was just as likely to have been made in Birmingham as in Berlin.

If his body ever was found in the aftermath of the slaughter at Monchy then it was never identified, for to-day he is commemorated on the Arras Memorial, his young life wasted in pursuit of a completely futile and dreadfully-planned attack. I'll let Siegfried Sassoon have the final words...

"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.