Six Days In The Ypres Salient
August 6th 1983
My dear Dad,
Well, the great trip is over.
Not quite as emotional as last year's, but full of memories nevertheless.
Quite a few of the people were on the trip I took last year, and I had met some of the others on the three-day trip in 1981.
|
The odd Scots Major - 'Major Mac', or the Mad Major to everyone else - was there and just as mad as he was last year. Even worse perhaps, as his eyes and ears were worse, and he was too proud to get a hearing-aid or glasses. Proud, prickly and suspicious was he - but he provided a conversation-piece for the rest of us and I was delighted to see him. |
On the first day we saw Maréchal Foch's headquarters at Mont Cassell - including the very room where he (apparently) planned the Final Offensive. It was at least a creaky old building with a definite 'old' smell to it, so it looked and smelt authentic.
We were staying just outside Lille, (where we visited the Vauban-designed citadel on the last day - at least we saw as much of it as the present occupants, a French Infantry regiment, would allow us to see: not very much!
|
When we visited St. George's Memorial Church in Ypres we were all invited to the evening service. This was the first time I had been inside a church for a service - apart from weddings etc - since I was a teenager. The experience (a high Anglican service full of standing-ups and sitting-downs and high singsong intonations) did not endear itself sufficiently for me to think of repeating it for a long time! |
St. George's Memorial Church |
|
Menin Gate, Ypres (Ieper) |
We had a Veteran with us who must have been about 85-86. Old Frank was a charming old man - born in the West Country but now living in Penecuik near his daughter, herself probably in her sixties. One tear-provoking event was the (inevitable) visit to see the Last Post played at 8 p.m. by the Ypres Firemen, with their bugles sounding loud and clear under the Menin Gate [and all the traffic stopped for the ceremony]. Old Frank was invited to say a few words in front of the crowd and to lay a wreath there. Indeed Frank, we discovered, had been a runner in Ypres in 1917-18. It was very moving. |
We visited an American WW1 Memorial. The Americans had spent a vast sum on a big site for something like 300 graves. This is about the same number as in an average small British military cemetery, while the Germans, granted little space after the War for burials, would have been expected to bury 40,000 in a similar acreage. Nevertheless, the memorial is certainly impressive, and commemorates some sharp actions fought by two American Divisions in the last ten days of the War.
|
The Night Ration Party One of the big events was a 'Night Ration Party in the preserved trenches in Sanctuary Wood. During daytime we were taken there to be shown where we would be going later - somewhat more information than the troops would have got most of the time. |
Sanctuary Wood Museum |
|
At half-past ten at night we assembled a few hundred yards from the entrance to the trenches. We were split into three parties - a left, a right and a headquarters group (the latter's job was to make the tea). The left group (me et al.) descended into the trenches and wound our way along to the arranged positions. |
|
|
We had hoped for lots of rain to make the trenches really muddy; unfortunately although it had rained through the day, they were still fairly dry. It was pitch dark apart from the flashes of people taking pictures and those who kept snapping their torches on and off, instead of following precisely where the person in front of them was going. Of course this messed up your night vision. We were meant to be a few paces apart, not in touch with anyone else. When we were halted we were left in the darkness, with only the vaguest idea what was to happen next and hearing odd noises as the other party stumbled around some distance off, or when either of the Holts came by. The other party passed through us in the trenches, showing just how little room there was in the average trench. But the people in the next bay all crowded together; soon they were talking, smoking and passing sweets or flasks of drinks around. A couple of blokes - the chap I was rooming with, and a young lad who'd persuaded his grandfather to let him accompany him on the tour - joined me, much to my irritation, as the purpose of the scenario is the loneliness, the uncertainty, the meditation, the hearing of strange noises, the straining of eyes etc. Pat knew that I had brought a flask of whisky with me, which I thought would help the atmosphere, while young Mark was probably a bit scared of being on his own. At last came the two blasts of the whistle and we stumbled back along the trench to the Headquarters area, where some hot tea awaited us (apart from someone knocking over the delicately balanced primus stoves, with their nearly boiling water). Major Mac was in our party - a few bays further on. (At this time we didn't know that he was very deaf). As soon as the whistle sounded, we turned about and went off. It didn't occur to anyone to call the Major - as a result he stumbled in a long time later, furious, and if we could have seen him, probably scarlet with rage and embarrassment that these amateurs - "Some of them didn't know their right from their left" and "Chattering and smoking in the trenches" - should have abandoned him to the enemy. On reflection, the most authentic part was when we formed up and were led, in single file, with a good few paces between us, into the Wood. Then no one used a torch and we each had a feeling of apprehension. The problem with our party was that there were too many old soldier types who wanted life to be 'cushy' and to 'have a laugh'. If it had been Major Holt who was in charge of our particular group, then he would have sorted it out with a few gruff words of command, but our leader was his delightful wife and it would have been out of character for her to have bawled us out. She did shout for us to separate by five yards from the next person, so that we would all be separated by a bay. The order was obeyed at the front (where Major Mac was) but the ones at the back hardly moved. So we got little real change, there were still a bundle of chatterers and torch-flashers close to me. One bloke did dress up in an authentic Medical Corps uniform, which most of us thought was splendid. Major Mac, on the other hand, thought that this was "taking the King's Uniform in vain" (you can guess how long he's been in the army). Still, it was great fun - and was followed by drinks, when the Sanctuary Wood museum-holder [and Café Proprietor] suddenly flung on the lights in his building and opened up the bar. |
Taffy [actually Islwyn] from the room opposite, Pat (sharing a room with me) and I became fast friends. Taffy is the bubbly sort of Welshman, never short of a joke. They got his name - Davies - wrong in the hotel and called him thereafter 'Jones-who-is-called-Davies'.
Pat, on the other hand, was going to lay a wreath at his great-uncle's grave. Much of his concern was to do the job properly and to find a couple of bits of wood and a poppy to make into a little cross. His great-uncle's grave was in a little remote graveyard miles from our route and not near a road. He was deeply touched when we all followed him to his cemetery. Such a ceremony often brings a party together.
When I go next year (for we finalised the programme for next year's six-day visit, and the itinerary suits me down to the ground), I shall lay a wreath at the grave of Brigadier-General Barnett-Barker in Albert. As the tour extends from Bethune to Vimy Ridge to Albert and the Somme area, it has all the main areas in it that 'my' Battalion fought in (this was the 22nd Royal Fusiliers, whose CO for much of the War was Barnett-Barker).
Forward To Part Two: Toc H And 'Pop' | Home
