The Scribbler

Captain Robert Nigel Oldfield Bartlett, King's Brutononian died 6 April 1916

2016-04-09T11:40:00.001+01:00

Captain Robert Nigel Oldfield Bartlett

Captain Robert Nigel Oldfield Bartlett, East Lancashire Regiment. Died of wounds, Felahiyeh, Mesopotamia. 6th April 1916 aged 22.

Whilst at King's Bruton, he was captain of the First Eleven cricket team in 1912 and 1913. In 1912 he obtained three hundreds, including 207 not out versus Wells Theological college. That year, he scored 802 runs, a batting average of over 100.25.

He went to Keble College Oxford in 1913. He entered the college in Michaelmas Term, 1913. A member of the 1st Association Football XI, 1913-1914; 1st Hockey XI, 1913-1914; Freshman's Cricket Trial, 1914; 1st Cricket XI, 1914. A member of the University Contingent of the Officers' Training Corps. Commenced service on 17 September 1914. Second Lieutenant of the 6th Battalion, East Lancashire Regiment, 1914; Captain, 1915, serving in Gallipoli; Mesopotamia, 1916.

He died of wounds received at Felahiyeh, 6 April 1916, in the relief of Kut. This was the relief attempt by Gorringe and is usually termed the First Battle of Kut. The British Empire's forces numbered about 30,000 soldiers, roughly equal to the Ottomans. The battle began on 5 April and the British soon captured Fallahiyeh, but with heavy losses, Beit Asia was taken on 17 April. The final effort was against Sannaiyat on 22 April. The Allies were unable to take Sannaiyat and suffered some 1,200 casualties in the process.

Collecting the dead

2016-01-22T11:31:00.004+00:00

Locating the war dead

The grim work of the Directorate of Graves Registration & Enquiries on the Western Front after the Great War

I was reading a fascinating article by Lieutenant Colonel Graham Parker and Joanna Legg in Stand To!, the journal of the Western Front Association, this morning. In "The Unidentified Irish Guards Lieutenant at Loos: Laid to Rest", they make a very compelling case that in 1992, the Commonwealth War Graves Commission correctly identified the grave of Lieutenant John Kipling at St Mary's ADS cemetery near Loos, France. In my mind, their evidence brings to a close a century old mystery.

However, in one part of their article, they describe the work of the Directorate of Graves Registration & Enquiries, the organisation responsible for collecting the war dead and trying to identify the bodies for burial. There is a description from one of the men tasked with this grim work, and I reproduce it here. Private J McCauley, recovering from wounds, was attached to one of the new special burial details between August and November 1918. He noted how:

“For the first week or two I could scarcely endure the experiences we met with, but I gradually became hardened.

“Often have I picked up the remains of a fine brave man on a shovel. Just a little heap of bones and maggots to be carried to the common burial place. Numerous bodies were found lying submerged in the water in shell holes and mine craters: bodies that seemed quite whole, but which became like huge masses of white, slimy chalk when we handled them.

“I shuddered as my hands, covered in soft flesh and slime moved about in search of the disc, and I have had to pull bodies to pieces in order that they should not be buried unknown. It was very painful to have to bury the unknown.”

I am relived that my own great grandfather was fortunate enough to have been buried, identified, immediately after his death.

BENEDICTINE MILITARY CHAPLAINS IN THE FIRST WORLD WAR - James H. Hagerty

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In a follow up to this article: http://thescribblerdotbiz.blogspot.co.uk/2015/10/the-unsung-of-great-war-battalion.html I have located some additional information on the stout Lane-Fox, the padre to the London Irish Rifles.

From the above mentioned book:

"Dom John Lane-Fox of Fort Augustus was another Benedictine to be commissioned early in the war. Having received his temporary commission in September 1914 he served with the 1st London Irish of the 47th Division and was with them as they kicked a football across no-man's-land in their assault on German positions during the Battle of Loos in 1915. For his ministrations on the battlefield Fr Lane-Fox was recommended for the Military Cross but an accident on March 3,1916, placed the award in jeopardy. During grenade practice a bomb exploded in Lane-Fox's hand seriously wounding him and killing Lord Desmond Fitzgerald. General Cecil Pereria wrote immediately to Mgr Bidwell, Cardinal Bourne's secretary, informing him of the incident and of Lane-Fox's anxiety that he would not be able to celebrate Mass again due to the injuries to ‘his right eye and the fingers of his right hand.' He asked, on Lane-Fox's behalf, for an assurance that the injured priest would not be prevented from saying Mass. Pereria pointed out that he received nothing but the best accounts of Fr Lane-Fox and that he would be ‘very much missed by the men.' Bidwell was able to reassure Lane-Fox, via Pereria, that he could get permission to officiate when he had recovered. Mgr Keatinge, conscious as he was of the chaplains' reputation and the importance of them receiving their fair share of decorations, described the incident as ‘fooling around with bombs.' Eventually, Fr Lane-Fox received the award and was later mentioned in despatches. He was also recommended for the French Medailie Militaire for his ‘remarkably gallant and efficient' work for French civilians, in 1918 he was promoted to temporary Chaplain 2nd Class with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, to be Senior Catholic Chaplain to the 47th Division."

I understand from another source he lost an eye and some fingers.

As I said before, unsung heroes.

A soldier's kiss

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Only a dying horse! pull off the gear,

And slip the needless bit from frothing jaws,

Drag it aside there, leaving the road way clear,

The battery thunders on with scarce a pause.

Prone by the shell-swept highway there it lies

With quivering limbs, as fast the life-tide fails,

Dark films are closing o'er the faithful eyes

That mutely plead for aid where none avails.

Onward the battery rolls, but one there speeds

Needlessly of comrades voice or bursting shell,

Back to the wounded friend who lonely bleeds

Beside the stony highway where he fell.

Only a dying horse! he swiftly kneels,

Lifts the limp head and hears the shivering sigh

Kisses his friend, while down his cheek there steals

Sweet pity's tear, "Goodbye old man, Goodbye".

No honours wait him, medal, badge or star,

Though scarce could war a kindlier deed unfold;

He bears within his breast, more precious far

Beyond the gift of kings, a heart of gold.

Henry Chappell, 1874-1937, published 22nd August 1914

The unsung of the Great War - the Battalion Chaplain

2015-10-01T14:42:00.003+01:00

“What’s this?” I asked, peeping over the parados to the road in our rear. "My God! There's a transport wagon going along the road!”

“Blimey! You're sprucing,” said Bill, peeping over; then his eye fell on a wagon drawn by two mules going along the highway. “Oh, the damned fools, goin' up that way. They'll not get far.”

The enemy occupied a rise on our right, and a machine gun hidden somewhere near the trench swept that road all night. The gun was quiet all day long; no one ventured along there before dusk. A driver sat in front of the wagon, leaning back a little, a whip in his hand. Beside him sat another soldier. . . . Both were going to their death, the road at a little distance ahead crossed the enemy's trench.

“They have come the wrong way,” I said. “They were going to Loos, I suppose, and took the wrong turning at the Valle Cross-roads. Poor devils!”

A machine gun barked from the rise; we saw the driver of the wagon straighten himself and look round. His companion pointed a finger at the enemy's trench. . . .

“For Christ's sake get off!” Bill shouted at them; but they couldn't hear him, the wagon was more than a quarter of a mile away from our trench.

“Damn it!” exclaimed Bill; “they'll both be killed. There!”

The vehicle halted; the near-side wheeler shook its head, then dropped sideways on the road, and kicked out with its hind legs; the other animal fell on top of it. The driver's whip went flying from his hands, and the man lurched forward and fell on top of the mules. For a moment he lay there, then with a hurried movement he slipped across to the other side of the far animal and disappeared. Our eyes sought the other soldier, but he was gone from sight, probably he had been shot off his seat.

“The damned fools! “I muttered. 'What brought them up that way? “

“Wot's that ? “Bill suddenly exclaimed.

“See, comin' across the fields behind the road! A man, an officer. . . . Another damned fool, and he’ll get a bullet in 'im.”

Bill pointed with his finger, and we looked. Across the fields behind that stretched from the road to the ruined village of Maroc we saw for the moment a man running towards the wagon. We only had a momentary glimpse then. The runner suddenly fell flat into a shell-hole and disappeared from view.

"He's hit,” said Pryor. “There, the beastly machine gun is going again. Who is he? “

We stared tensely at the shell-hole. No sign of movement. . . .

“'E's done in,” said Bill.

Even as he spoke the man who had fallen rose and raced forward for a distance of fifty yards and flung himself flat again. The machine gun barked viciously. . . .

Then followed a tense moment, and again the officer (we now saw that he was an officer) rushed forward for several yards and precipitated himself into a shell-crater. He was drawing nearer the disabled wagon at every rush. The machine gun did not remain silent for a moment now; it spat incessantly at the fields.

“He's trying to reach the wagon,” I said. “I don't envy him his job, but, my God, what pluck! “

“'Oo is 'e?” asked Bill. “'E's not ‘arf a brick, 'ooever 'e is! “

“I think I know who it is,” said Pryor. “It's the Roman Catholic chaplain, Father Lane-Fox. He's a splendid man. He came over with us in the charge, and he helped to carry out the wounded till every man was in. Last night when we went for our rations he was helping the sanitary squad to bury the dead; and the enemy were shelling all the time. He is the pluckiest man in Loos.”

“He wanted to come across in the charge,” I said, “but the Brigadier would not allow him. An hour after we crossed the top I saw him in the second German trench. . . . There he is, up again! “

The chaplain covered a hundred yards in the next spurt; then he flung himself to earth about fifty yards from the wagon. The next lap was the last; he reached the wagon and disappeared. We saw nothing more of him that day. At night when I went down to the dressing-station at Maroc, I was told how the chaplain had brought a wounded transport driver down to the dressing-station after dusk. The driver had got three bullets through his arm, one in his shoulder, one in his foot, and two in the calf of his leg. The driver's mate had been killed; a bullet pierced his brain.

The London Irish love Father Lane-Fox; he visited the men in the trenches daily, and all felt the better for his coming. Often at night the sentry on watch can see a dark form between the lines working with a shovel and spade burying the dead. The bullets whistle by, hissing of death and terror; now and then a bomb whirls in air and bursts loudly; a shell screeches like a bird of prey; the hounds of war rend the earth with frenzied fangs; but indifferent to all the clamour and tumult the solitary digger bends over his work burying the dead.

“It's old Father Lane- Fox,” the sentry will mutter. “He'll be killed one of these fine days."

Taken from 'The Great Push' by London Irish Rifleman Patrick MacGill, wounded at Loos in 1915

Captain Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson, KIA 25th Sept 1915

2015-09-19T11:21:00.001+01:00

Captain Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson

Old Brutonian Geoffrey Mervyn Underhill Wilson, a captain with the 3rd Batt. Wiltshire Regiment, was killed in action on the first day of the battle of Loos, France, on 25th Sept 1915. He was 21.

Note: although all records (including the Commonwealth War Graves Commission) indicate that Wilson was killed on the 26 September, the War Diary states that he died on the 25 September.

This extract from the battalion war diary provides more detail on his death.

Date: 25/9/1915 Location: France, Verquin

Battn moved at 12.30am marched via LA BOURSE and SAILLY, arriving at a reserve line of trenches SE of NOYELLES at point L12 o 6.6 at about 3am. Bombardment became intense. At about 6am the attack was launched. Battn ordered to advance through VERMELLES up communication trench (CHAPEL ALLEY) to occupy front line at point G11 o 9.8. Capt King wounded. 2/Lt FH Friend assumed command of 'A' Coy. Following the advance of the 20th Brigade the Battalion occupies the front and support German lines. Lt Col BH Leatham DSO then gave orders for the Battn to advance in open order in direction of CITE ST ELIE keeping to the north of HULLUCH ROAD, our right flank connecting with the 2nd Bedfordshires left. The Battn advanced in the following order, 'B' Coy on the left Capt WM Geddes in command, 'A' Coy on right 2/Lt FH Friend in command, two platoons of each company leading, two platoons immediately behind, 'C' Coy in support, 'D' Coy in reserve, Major RMP Gillson in command of'C' Coy, Capt EC Mudge in command of 'D' Coy, the whole were led by Major CG Forsyth, and experiencing extremely heavy rifle and machine gun fire from the front came to a line held very weakly by a mixture of 8th Devon & 2nd Borders. The trench contained 4 German field guns and ammunition. Our losses were heavy and included the following Officers casualties Capt GMU Wilson, 2/Lts CFB Hodgins JH Clarke WHG Durrant killed. Major RMP Gillson, 2nd Lt FH Friend wounded the latter seriously.
At dusk the Battn was relieved by the 9/Devonshire Regt and took up a new front at BRESLAU AVENUE our right resting on the latter Regiment.

Read more about the Battle of Loos here: http://thescribblerdotbiz.blogspot.co.uk/2013/09/battle-of-loos.html

King's Brutonian Captain John Francis Martyr KIA

2015-08-10T17:21:00.002+01:00

Captain Martyr, KIA 11 August 1915

Captain John Francis Martyr, 1st Battalion Royal Irish Rifles (attached to 6th Battalion), died of wounds at Gallipoli 100 years ago today (11/8/1915), aged 33. He was buried at sea.

Captain Martyr had served in the South African War in 1901 and 1902, where he was employed with the Mounted Infantry, and obtained for his valuable services the Queen's Medal with five clasps.

His unit was involved in fierce fighting on the day he was wounded. The 6th (Service Battalion) Royal Irish Rifles War Diary records that the Battalion landed on 5th August 1915 at Anzac Cove with 23 officers and 743 other ranks.

They advanced on the 8th August via Walkers Ridge, Chailak Dere and Aghyl Dere until they reached a lone and isolated position known as The Farm. From there the 6th Royal Irish Rifles, in its first significant battle with the enemy since formation and training on the Curragh, launched attacks against the Turks occupying positions on the ridges above them.

They suffered terrible casualties in a charge against the Turks and then in the Turks counter-attack. The 6th Royal Irish Rifles War Diary explains that on 10th August the Turks counter-attacked and after the battle the Battalion's strength was about 270. Poignantly it records that the casualties (dead, wounded or missing) "as far as can be ascertained" in that one battle on 10th/11th August 1915 amounted to 372 men.

The following is an extract from a report by a company commander there at the battle.

Stringbag over Somerset

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W5856 awaits her new paint job

It’s a cold day when I visit the Royal Navy Historic Flight (RNHF) at Yeovilton and I am glad to get into the enormous hangar and out of the bitter wind that drives across the airfield. The Flight’s Commanding Officer, Lieutenant Commander Chris Götke AFC RN, shows me the collection, which includes two Fairey Swordfish, a Hawker Sea Hawk and a Hawker Sea Fury.

The RNHF’s second Sea Fury survived a forced landing following complete engine failure last year during an air display at RNAS Culdrose in Cornwall. The pilot, Lt Cdr Götke, was awarded the Air Force Cross for his bravery and his cool handling of his aircraft.

It is one of the Swordfish I have come to see. There are thought to be only four airworthy Swordfish worldwide, and W5856 is the oldest surviving example. Following a re-spray into 820 Naval Air Squadron colours that take her back in time to 1941, she is at the end of a complete restoration that will see her enter the Flight’s display program this summer.

Nicknamed the Stringbag by their crews because of their ability to carry almost anything, these tough aircraft served from both land and sea in every theatre of war during the Second World War and, perhaps more than any other type, they represent the spirit of naval aviation in the FAA.

Swordfish had a number of significant successes, notably the attack at Taranto in which the Italian navy lost half of its capital ships. They also played a part in crippling the German battleship Bismarck. But perhaps their defining role was the contribution they made during the Battle of the Atlantic in which they shone as anti-submarine aircraft.

W5856 first flew in 1941 and served with the Mediterranean Fleet. Shipped to Canada at the end of the war, she fell into disrepair. In 1990, British Aerospace bought her from the Strathallan Collection in Scotland and, having restored her to pristine flying condition, presented her to the RNHF in 1993.
As we stand next to the enormous biplane, with its 45 foot wingspan, Lt Cdr Götke admits he has yet to fly one. Looking up at it, I ask him whether he intends to remedy this. He just smiles, and it’s clear to me that the pilots who fly for the RNHF do so for the love of the aircraft; for the pure joy of a kind of flying which is fast disappearing: flying by the seat of your pants and with the wind in your hair; quite literally, in the case of the Swordfish.

The Royal Navy has a long history with aviation. In 1909, it ordered its first airship, and just 3 years later, in 1912, the Royal Flying Corps Naval Wing was formed. This went on to become the Royal Naval Air Service in 1914 under which name it served throughout the Great War with distinction. In 1924, this became the Fleet Air Arm (FAA).

I ask Lt Cdr Götke how he finds pilots to fly these old warbirds. He assures me there is no shortage of volunteers, and so the Flight can afford to be choosy. Pilots selected to display the aircraft hone their skills on less valuable planes with similar handling characteristics. These include the de Havilland Chipmunk, a North American Texan, a BAC Jet Provost and the BAE Hawk.

The powerful radial engine after its rebuild

He leads me over to an enormous radial engine which stands on its own to one side of the hangar. It is about to be refitted to W5856 following a total rebuild. How, I wonder, does the Flight find the necessary skills to maintain what is, after all, an antique piece of engineering?
“We have our own engineers and fitters, and there are also volunteers, but for something as significant as this, we look outside the Navy. This was just rebuilt by specialist aero engine contractor Deltair Airmotive at a cost of around £120,000.”

I must have made a face because he continues:
“We had to make new pistons and cylinders because obviously they can’t be ordered off the shelf. And because we want them as close to the original as we can get them, they’re not cheap. £9,000 for the pistons and over £60,000 for the cylinders. It soon adds up.”
And who pays for this?

A Sea Fury in a crowded RNHF hangar

“Funding is the big headache. The Fly Navy Heritage Trust (FNHT) raises most of the money; they provide around £500,000 a year. Because the RNHF is an operational Naval Air Unit, there’s also a contribution from the MoD. Other funds come from personal donations and bequests from supporters. But major overhauls like this are often funded through the generosity of industry.”

The large biplane dominates the hangar

He pats the lower wing of W5856. “She flew for ten years until the wing spars needed to be replaced and that requires special tooling. BAE very kindly came to the rescue and undertook the work at no cost to the Navy or the FNHT. Otherwise, it would have been a million pounds.”

Before I leave, I am permitted to clamber up the side of the aircraft which I waste no time in doing. Having just spent a morning in the nearby FAA Museum looking at a Sopwith Pup, a wood and linen First World War fighter, I am struck by the similarities: open cockpits, uncomfortable seats, cables and dated dials and controls.

The rear cockpit of the Swordfish

The thought of a long patrol over the dark waters of a freezing Atlantic Ocean in this single-engine aircraft is horrifying. Even more so when you consider that safety lay on the heaving deck of an aircraft carrier somewhere in the murky grey distance. And yet for many young men, this was their office; their day-to-day existence.

Perhaps Captain Eric “Winkle” Brown, CBE DSC AFC FRAeS RN puts it best when he says: “It would be an absolute travesty if the Navy’s historic aircraft, and the men who flew them, and those who laid down their lives in them, were forgotten.”

This, then, is the point of the RNHF. It seeks to preserve a century long naval aviation heritage and aims to serve as a memorial to those who flew, and died, for the FAA in Britain’s darkest hour. I look forward to seeing W5856 when she returns to the flight line on 11 July at Yeovilton Air Day.

On the flight line with the RNHF and the Sea Fury

KIA: King's Bruton Old Boy Lt. Denys Brinckman, Royal Irish Fusilier

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KIA 10 June 1915, Aged 19

Denys entered the School in September, 1906, and left in March, 1913. At School he was a boy of excellent ability which was shown afterwards by his gaining a Prize Cadetship at Sandhurst, where he was made a sergeant and passed out 14th on the list.

On leaving Sandhurst, Denys joined his father’s old regiment, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, and it was not long before he received his second star. Though not conspicuous at games, he was very keen and quite promising; he represented the School at hockey, and if he had remained at Bruton, he would certainly have a place in the football XI.

He was of a reserved and retiring disposition, but was much liked by all who knew him well. Owing to the excellent reports of him we had from time to time, his career in the Army was followed with interest by us all at the School, and it was with great regret that we heard of his death in action near Ypres on June 10th.

He was killed by a bullet through the head while in charge of the machine-gun section. He is buried in Vlamertinghe Military Cemetery.

Hazlegrove WW1 Bulletin, number 6 April 1915

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Two King's Bruton Old Boys killed on the same day, serving with the Canadians at Ypres

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Private Hugh Glynn Baker was killed in action serving with the 1st British Columbia Regiment on 24th April, 1915. He was 34.

Captain Evelyn Claude Culling of the Eastern Ontario Regiment was killed in action on the same day, aged 29.

The 7th Battalion (1st British Columbia) was part of the 2nd Canadian Infantry Brigade. The 2nd Battalion (1st Eastern Ontario) was part of the 1st Canadian Infantry Brigade. Both brigades were part of the 1st Canadian Division, Canadian Expeditionary Force, and fought in France and Flanders until the end of the war. The action at St Julien was their first real taste of fighting on the Western front.

Map of action at St Julien with both Canadian brigades highlighted

Both Hugh and Evelyn were killed fighting in what became known as the Battle of St. Julien, itself part of the Second Battle of Ypres which opened on the 22nd April, 1915, with the Germans using chlorine gas against the French in the line around Ypres.

Private Hugh Glynn Baker

Sadly, I do not have a picture of Private Baker.

Although the war diary for the 1st British Columbia Regiment does not record details of Hugh's death (generally, only the death of officers are recorded by name in unit war diaries), his company officer wrote details about the engagements in which Hugh was killed. It gives a flavour of the wider campaign.

Hugh's body was never recovered.

Captain Evelyn Claude Culling

Captain Culling

Again, the battalion war diary does not record the particulars of the death of this company commander, however I have reproduced it here anyway. The 2nd Battalion were fighting to the south west of Hugh's battalion, and casualties on the 24th were heavy.

Evelyn's body was never recovered and he, like Hugh, is remembered on the Menin Gate in Ypres.

King's Bruton Casualty, Captain John Ramsay Cox of the 1st Battalion, Worcester Regiment

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Captain John Ramsay Cox

Captain Cox was killed in action at Neuve Chapelle on 12th March 1915, aged 41.
He was born 29 June, 1873, the son of Captain William Stanley Ramsay Cox and was educated at King's School, Bruton.

Prior to the First World War, he had served with the 6th (Special Reserve) Battalion, Worcestershire Regiment, re-joining early in September, 1914.

Having been attached to the 11th Worcestershire, and temporally employed as a Staff Captain at the 78th Infantry Brigade Headquarters, he proceeded to France in early January, 1915 as part of a draft for the 1st Worcestershire.

It is believed he was killed when his battalion attempted to withdraw from an untenable position in the enemies trenches during the assault at Neuve Chapelle on 12th March. His body has not been found.

The following is an account of the battalion’s action that day.

The trenches in front of Neuve Chapelle held by the 1st Battalion Worcester Regiment were subject to much activity in the run up to the attack. Officers from a number of regiments were sent up in order to reconnoitre the ground in preparation for the great attack planned to commence on the 10th. This attack was intended to smash through the salient in the German line formed by the village of Neuve Chapelle, then hopefully on to take the Aubers Ridge.

Parties of the 1st Worcestershire were in action shortly after the artillery barrage, the heaviest bombardment yet experienced in the war, lifted to the rear of the village around 8 am. In reserve, however, the main body of the Battalion moved forward later and by the afternoon, two companies were heavily engaged.

The following day was a disaster. Heavy casualties were sustained as the Worcesters advanced, some caused by our own artillery falling short of the enemy lines.

Before the first daylight of 12 March the enemy's guns heavily shelled the Worcestershire trenches. Then through the mist, a dense mass of infantry were seen surging forward. Two battalions of the 21st Bavarian Reserve Regiment in close formation lead by officers waving swords and, noted one eyewitness, followed by "a fat old blighter on a horse."

On the right of the Worcestershire, the Sherwoods suddenly fell back. The little salient which their line formed had been attacked from both sides and broken in. This left the Worcester's right flank open, but the Battalion remained unshaken.

'A' Company swiftly formed to the right to face the opened flank and the abandoned trenches of the Foresters. With the Bavarians now within seventy yards, one officer of 'A' Company noted:
"A most extra ordinary hush for a few seconds as we held our fire while they closed in on us. From flank to flank the whole line of the Worcestershire broke into the crackling roar of rapid fire. We brought them down in solid chunks. Down went the officers, the sergeant majors and the old blighter on the horse."

At this point the Worcester's broke from their line and charged into the Bavarians, bayoneting and firing as they went. Much of the enemy now scattered and found its way into an orchard where the Worcesters had a fine scrap with the Germans. The Worcesters had their tails up with a vengeance. They chased the Germans up and down that muddy field like terriers after rats.

Meanwhile to the left of 'A' Company, 'B', 'C' and 'D' were also engaged in a fierce bayonet fight. The end of which saw the pursued beaten enemy into their own lines. Storming a group of building known as "Point 85", the Worcestershire occupied these. But once again through lack of communication, the British guns inflicted casualties among its own troops with bombardment of the captured area.

Now isolated, the three companies beat off repeated counter-attacks until at about 10 am, when it had became clear that the Battalion's position, now encircled by the enemy on three sides, was no longer tenable. Reluctantly the Commanding Officer, Colonel E.C.F. Wodehouse gave the order to fall back.

As the three companies withdrew in good order, officers and men fell fast. The Commanding Officer, the Adjutant, and the last surviving Company Commanders went down, and it was a mere remnant of the three stubborn companies which, still in good order and grimly firing, reached the trenches which they had held at dawn.

Still away to the right, the survivors of 'A' Company, now with hardly any officers, continued the fight in the orchard. But here too, lack of support inevitably forced a withdrawal. The four companies now reunited, the roll was taken and casualties counted.

The day's fighting amounting to a total of three hundred and seventy all ranks.

Trenches at Neuve Chapelle

Lt. Commander Robinson, VC

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Robinson

Eric Gascoigne Robinson won his Victoria Cross by going ashore on the 26th February, 1915, and single-handedly destroying a Turkish naval gun battery. He was a Lieutenant Commander with the British fleet stationed off the Dardanelles during the Gallipoli campaign.

Admiral John de Robeck wanted to remove the threat of a Turkish gun battery at Orkanieh. This position had withstood fire from the battleships of the Allied fleet during the preceding weeks. Robinson was suggested as the leader of a commando force of sailors and Royal Marines tasked with destroying the battery and withdrawing in good order.

Robinson accepted the mission without hesitation. His force landed undetected early in the morning of 26 February, destroyed two small artillery pieces and made fast progress towards the main battery before being pinned down by Turkish snipers in the mid-afternoon. The white naval uniforms of the sailors proved an easy target for the Turks and casualties mounted as Turkish reinforcements were brought up to cut off the raiding party.

Instead of withdrawing in the face of this threat, Robinson marched his men through gullies and came out close to a small rise behind the main battery. The open ground of the rise was covered by several Turkish snipers, but realising the importance of removing the artillery overlooking the sea passage, Robinson delegated command of the party to a junior officer and made the climb alone, dodging bullets in his white uniform until he crested the rise unhurt, emerging a few minutes later and starting back apparently unconcerned by the increasingly heavy gunfire directed at him. He was said to be "strolling around . . . under heavy rifle fire . . . like a sparrow enjoying a bath from a garden hose".

The battery had been ungarrisoned, and Robinson was able to lay fuses which destroyed the large 9.4" main gun and two anti-aircraft emplacements within the position. Withdrawing in good order, Robinson evaded the Turkish reinforcements and then directed gunfire from the fleet onto their positions, including a force garrisoning an ancient tomb, inflicting heavy casualties. An immediate recommendation for the Victoria Cross was put forward by Admiral de Robeck who had observed proceedings from HMS Queen Elizabeth offshore.

Laying fuses

His citation reads:

Lieutenant-Commander Robinson on the 26th February advanced alone, under heavy fire, into an enemy's gun position, which might well have been occupied, and destroying a four-inch gun, returned to his party for another charge with which the second gun was destroyed. Lieutenant-Commander Robinson would not allow members of his demolition party to accompany him as their white uniforms rendered them very conspicuous. Lieutenant-Commander Robinson took part in four attacks on the minefields - always under heavy fire.

—The London Gazette, 13 August 1915

Had Robinson not won the VC for this action, he would almost certainly have received the award for leading a subsequent night-time action which resulted in the destruction of a stranded British submarine while under intense fire from Turkish shore artillery. He was, instead, promoted Commander.

Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green

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Small excerpt from Goodbye, Piccadilly. Available here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00F1YPKKK

***

The train jolted when it crossed some points and Reg woke with a start. It was getting dark outside, he noticed. Most of the lads were either sleeping, or sitting up playing cards or just smoking. Stevens sat by himself in a corner reading. The train began to slow, and Reg assumed they must be arriving at their destination. He stood and walked over to the door. Leaning out, he looked up the track. The train was rounding a gentle bend, and up ahead Reg could see a station and parked alongside, a familiar sight. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘What?’ said Jimmy. He dropped an unpromising hand of cards, stood up and moved to the door, staggering as the train stopped.

‘Have a look.’ Reg stepped aside and Jimmy leaned out. There must have been around forty London buses parked at the station; there was something very comforting about the sight of them.

‘Looks like we’re getting a lift to the front, lads,’ said Jimmy, mightily relieved he wouldn’t have to march in his new boots. Caldwell appeared out of the gloom as the train stood steaming in the station yard. ‘Kendrick. Let’s have the men down and lined up for the buses.’

‘Sir.’ Reg turned to the men lolling around in the truck. ‘Right. Let’s have the lot of you out double-quick before Mr Caldwell gets cross. Don’t any of you dare to forget your kit. This isn’t Waterloo station, so there’s no lost luggage department. Come on; get a bloody move on, lads!’

Jimmy jumped down, his rifle in one hand. He landed heavily and tried not to show that his feet hurt. The others followed, and Reg organised them into a line. Caldwell walked up and down while Sergeant Reynolds gathered the other two sections from further down the train. Reg saw Caldwell suddenly stiffen to attention; he always did that in the presence of senior officers, and when Reg looked further up the track, sure enough, Connolly was strolling down towards their platoon, the RSM and Captain Hambleton close at heel.

‘Alright, Caldwell?’ said Connolly.

‘Yes, Sir.’

Connolly stepped over towards Reg. ‘Ah, Kendrick. Good journey so far?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ Reg always kept to as few words as possible when dealing with officers, especially senior ones.

‘Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, eh, Kendrick?’ Connolly added, nodding at the buses.

‘All on a summer’s day, Sir?’ said Reg, holding his hand out to catch the cold drizzle that had just begun to fall.

Connolly laughed, nudging the RSM. ‘A summer’s day, Sergeant Major; that’s good.’ Leary nodded and smiled dutifully, but he’d no idea what the two men were talking about. ‘Well done, Kendrick. A summer’s day, what? Carry on, Caldwell.’

Connolly strolled on down the sidings, stopping occasionally to chat to his men. Reg could hear him explaining the reference to the music hall song to Captain Hambleton who guffawed with laughter when he thought it appropriate.

‘What did he mean, Kendrick?’ said Caldwell who had come up beside Reg.

‘The CO was making a reference to a new music hall song, Sir. Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, Sir.’

Caldwell looked at Reg as if he were mad.

‘It’s about a girl that takes a bus ride, Sir. To Camberwell Green, Sir. In London.’

Caldwell said nothing, and the men around Reg started to snicker.

‘It’s by Lionel Monckton, Sir,’ Reg said, as if that might explain it all.

‘I don’t care who it’s by, Kendrick, and I very much doubt Colonel Connolly goes to the music hall. I want to know why he took the time to talk to you.’

‘Don’t know, Sir.’ Reg lifted his eyes to look at his officer’s cap badge. Caldwell stared at him, but Reg kept his eyes fixed above those of his platoon commander. After a moment, Caldwell turned and walked away.

Mullins came over to speak with Caldwell; he saluted smartly and delivered his message. Caldwell turned and spoke to his men.

‘Right, everyone, let’s go and get on the buses; our platoon is to take the front two.’

No one moved; it hadn’t sounded like an order.

‘You heard the officer. Get on the buses. Move yourselves; on the double,’ Mullins said, his voice carrying clearly over the noise of the Battalion’s horses being unloaded from a nearby truck. The men ran towards the buses and clambered on.

Mullins walked across the loose gravel to the truck and stood waiting for Johnson’s horse. Johnson wasn’t going to ride it, but he’d want to know it had travelled alright, so Mullins thought he’d have a quick check, although beyond knowing they had a leg on each corner, he knew nothing else about the animals.

Reg climbed up the steps of the front bus, and looked round the men of his section; most were wearing their recently issued goatskins. ‘We look like a bloody circus,’ he said to Jimmy as they both sat down towards the rear of the bus, their packs preventing them from sitting back properly. Jimmy reached into his tunic pocket for his cigarettes.

‘I think we could do with a sing-song, lads,’ said Reg, spotting Caldwell directing the other sections onto the second bus.

Jimmy looked at him.

‘How about Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green?’ Reg grinned at Jimmy.

‘Once up to London I went for the day, Everything there seemed so lively and gay;’ he began, starting them off. Some of the others laughed and joined in, and soon the whole bus rang to the happy melody.

‘I met a fellow, a regular swell, Said I was looking so rosy and well.’

Much nudging and smiling as the men sang.

‘He whispered kindly: “Now don’t make a fuss, We’ll have a ride on the top of a bus.”

Up came the bus and in front could be seen “Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green”.’

Caldwell stopped in his tracks, turning to stare at the front bus. Connolly walked back towards a bus at the rear, smiling at the men of his battalion as they joined with the chorus as they queued to get on to their own transport; they were in great spirits.

‘Chalk Farm to Camberwell Green, all on a summer’s day;

up we climbed on the motor bus and we started right away.

When we got to the end of the ride, he asked me to go for a walk;

But I wasn’t Camberwell Green by a very long chalk.’

The first bus started up and pulled away. Reg turned to Jimmy, who despite himself, was singing fit to bust a lung, his cigarette stuck behind his ear. Caldwell stepped onto the second bus, the lads there singing louder.

‘Up on a bus it’s so lovely to ride, especially if there’s a chap by your side … ’

Reg craned around, but the boarded-up windows prevented him from seeing Caldwell’s face. He laughed, suddenly happy; but it did seem odd to be going to war in a London bus.

***

For anyone interested in hearing this sung: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DWMzkbTdpTE

The Amateur Army - Patrick MacGill

2015-02-15T17:34:00.000+00:00

MacGill

I did not go to sleep that night; booted and dressed I lay on the hearthrug in front of the fire, and waited for the call. About four o'clock in the morning a whistle was blown outside on the street; I got to my feet, put on my equipment, fastened the buckles of my haversack, bade adieu to my friends of the billet who had risen from bed to see me off, and joined my company.

Five or six regiments were already on the move; transport wagons, driven by khaki-clad drivers with rifles slung over their shoulders, lumbered through the dimly-lighted thoroughfares; ammunition vans stood at every street corner; guns rattled along drawn by straining horses, the sweat steaming from the animals' flanks and withers; an ambulance party sped through the greyness of the foggy morning, accompanied by a Red Cross lorry piled high with chests and stretcher poles, and soldiers in files and fours, in companies and columns, were in movement everywhere—their legions seemed countless and endless.

Ammunition was given out from the powder magazine; each man was handed 150 rounds of ball cartridge—a goodly weight to carry on a long day's march! With our ammunition we were now properly equipped and ready for any emergency. Each individual carried on his person in addition to rifle, bayonet (sword is the military name for the latter weapon) and ball cartridge, a blanket and waterproof sheet, an overcoat, a water-bottle, an entrenching tool and handle, as well as several other lighter necessaries, such as shirts, socks, a knife, fork, and spoon, razor, soap, and towel.

At eight o'clock, when the wintry dawn was breaking and the fog lifting, we entered the stat
ion. Hundreds of the inhabitants of the town came to see us off and cheer us on the long way to Tipperary: and Tipperary meant Berlin. One of the inhabitants, a kindly woman who is loved by the soldiers of my company, to whom she is very good, came to the station as we were leaving, and presented a pair of mittens to each of fifty men.

The train started on its journey, puffed a feeble cloud of smoke into the air, and suddenly came to a dead stop. Heads appeared at the windows, and voices inquired if the engine-driver had taken the wrong turning on the road to Berlin. The train shunted back into the station, and we all went back to our billets again, but not before our officers informed us that we had done the work of entraining very smartly, and when the real call did come we would lose no time on the journey to an unknown destination.

Taken from the Amateur Army by London Irish Rifleman Patrick MacGill

King’s Bruton casualty, Arthur Clayton

2015-02-11T15:13:00.003+00:00

Arthur Gardner Clayton, Private in Princess Patricia’s Canadian Light Infantry.
Killed in action at La Brasserie, France. 15th Feb 1915, aged 21

Arthur Clayton was a member of New House, and a school Prefect in his final year. He was also a sergeant in the OTC. He was always a very popular boy, being of an extremely affectionate and lovable disposition.

Though not by nature gifted with any great athletic ability, he was a real ‘trier’ and it was by his perseverance and keenness that he became as useful to the school as he undoubtedly was. A keen sportsman, he made his mark playing in both the Hockey and the Cricket XIs.

When he left King’s in July 1911, he moved to Canada where he worked for the Bank of Montreal at Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Soon after the outbreak of war he enlisted as a Private in Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry, a crack regiment which was singled out by Lord Kitchener for the honour of being the first Canadian regiment selected for service at the Front.

The regiment suffered considerably in February 1915, and Clayton fell near La Brasserie, being killed by shrapnel while on duty in the trenches.

His officer, Lieut. Colquhoun said:

“Private Clayton was a splendid soldier and one of the most popular men in the Company. He proved himself a brave man among brave men, and he died a hero’s death.”

Corporal Leaky, of his Platoon, wrote:

“We all loved him as a gentleman, and as most of us were acquainted with him both in a social and business way in Saskatoon, we feel his loss very deeply.”

These appreciations bear out what was known of Clayton at King’s School, Bruton.

His influence was always for the best.

He lies buried in Voormezeele Enclosure No: 3 Cemetery, alongside, incidentally, George Llewelyn Davies, J.M. Barrie’s ‘real’ Peter Pan.

His younger brother would be killed in 1916.

A ticklish job for Quinn

2015-02-01T15:09:00.001+00:00

The sound of boots behind him told Quinn that the prisoner was being brought out. Quinn couldn’t see him, but he was able to view his men’s reactions. One by one, they looked over surreptitiously, and then immediately eyes forward again. From the corner of his own eyes, Quinn saw the medical officer, an officer he supposed to be the padre, and then the prisoner, walking between two MPs. The prisoner looked over to the firing party, and he stumbled. The MPs seized his elbows, but he shook them off, determined to walk with dignity.

They went to the post, and the MO took up station on one side with the padre on the other. Within moments the man had been tied to the post. There didn’t seem to be anything special about him; he didn’t look like a coward; he looks like us, thought Reg.

The MO stepped in front of the man, and then stepped back. He had affixed a white square of cloth over the man’s heart. He walked away and took up position somewhere behind Quinn. The padre leaned in close to the prisoner; the man was nodding, perhaps receiving some comfort from the words, thought Holmes. The MPs fastened a blindfold around the man’s head and then they marched off, disappearing from Quinn’s view. The padre finished whatever he was saying, and then he, too, walked out of the way. It was time.

Quinn looked over to the firing party. Every man watched him closely. He nodded, raising his hand, and the men turned to face the condemned prisoner, took a half step back with their right legs, and brought their rifles into their shoulders. The entire courtyard held its collective breath. Quinn dropped his hand, the shots crashed out, and the startled ravens cawed and squawked their alarm, flapping their wings to escape, while the echoes of the volley rang off the walls. The prisoner jerked hard against his bonds, and then fell forwards against their restraint.

The MO walked briskly forward and pressed his finger to the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He stood, looked at Quinn, and shook his head. The men of the firing party lowered their rifles, and then following a nod from Jimmy, they stood at ease and watched, spellbound, while their officer withdrew his pistol.

Quinn stepped forward, afraid that his shaking body would betray his inner turmoil. He walked slowly, hoping the man would expire before he got there. He remembered once, when he’d been a young boy, he had borrowed his brother’s rifle and had gone rabbiting. It had been a bitter, cold morning, much like this one, and he had crept quietly out of the garden and into the south paddock, his boots crunching on the frosted grass. He had spotted a group of young rabbits by the brambles, their breath misting in the air. He had taken careful aim, and fired. They ran all different directions, but he knew he’d got one. When he walked up, he could see that it was not dead. He knew he should kill it, knew he must put it out of its misery, but he could not summon up the courage, and he had wept with the shame of it as the rabbit twitched and struggled to hold onto its little life.

Quinn stood over the man and he could see that he still moved, despite the blood pumping from his chest. He extended his arm, his hand still shaking, and placed the muzzle of the pistol behind the man’s ear and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, lifting his hand back, and the prisoner’s head shattered. The MO put his finger to the carotid. No pulse. He stood back, nodded at Quinn, and turned away.

Without waiting for any orders, Jimmy marched his section back out through the gates and led them away for their breakfast, if any could stomach it. Quinn stood looking down at what he had done. He fumbled when he tried to put the Webley back into the holster. Even after he had achieved this, he still stood over the dead man, mesmerised by the spreading pool of blood.

Reg came up beside him. ‘Come on, Sir, it’s over. We’ve done what we came for.’ And taking his officer’s arm, he started to lead him away. Quinn nodded. ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I’m quite alright. I’ll go and fetch my gear, grab a bite to eat and then I shall join you all.’

Reg watched him walk past the senior officers and snap them a salute. They called out to him, and it was obvious to Reg that they were trying to console him. Quinn acknowledged their inanities, and then left the yard, his headache worse than ever.

The burial detail arrived and took the dead man away. Within two minutes, the yard had emptied. The raven flew down from the wall and landed on its post just as the sun’s rays cleared the eastern wall.

Quinn made his way to his billet. He closed the door and opened his pack, reaching in for the flask. He unscrewed the cap and emptied the contents in three or four swallows. He remembered that his brother had found him in the field curled up next to the dying rabbit. He had lifted the rifle from Quinn’s cold hands and struck the rabbit’s head with the butt; then he’d carried Quinn back to the house.

Taken from 'Farewell, Leicester Square'. Read more: http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00IGBRJFE

HZG First World War Bulletin, Number 5 - January 1915

2014-12-29T17:46:00.004+00:00

Stanley Benskin Henson, another King's Bruton old boy

2014-12-18T10:50:00.001+00:00

2/Lt. Stanley Henson, Somerset Light Infantry. Killed in action at Ploegsteert Wood, 19 Dec 1914

Stanley Henson was born on 20th June 1886 in Norwood, London, the eldest son of William John Henson, physician. He attended King’s School, Bruton, and later Pembroke College. Stanley Benskin Henson was an officer of the Special Reserve, originally from Wedmore in Somerset. This young subaltern had returned at his own expense from Penang Island, where he was employed as an officer in the Straits Settlement Police, to rejoin his regiment and was placed in command of a platoon in B Company.

In December 1914, the battalion was in Belgium holding the line in the infamous Ploegsteert Wood. The 1st Somerset Light Infantry’s Commanding Officer was informed on 12th December that his battalion would attack enemy troops who had occupied a small salient dubbed the ‘The Birdcage’ in the former British frontline trenches lying at the eastern end of Ploegsteert Wood, between the villages of Le Gheer and St. Yves. This attack was intended to occupy German attention and prevent enemy reserves being moved to oppose a French offensive further south.

The morning of 19th December dawned bright and clear and at 9.00am British 4.5” and 6” howitzers began bombarding ‘The Birdcage,’ although most shells fell short of the target. The assault troops were in position by 1.00pm with B Company lining the trench on the eastern edge of Ploegsteert Wood and C to its immediate rear. The two leading platoons of B Company, led by 2nd Lt. Stanley Henson and 2nd Lt. Kenneth Dennys, began the assault promptly at 2.30pm, dashing forwards from the edge of the wood towards the German trenches 120 yards away, heavily encumbered with wire ‘mattresses’ and wire cutters.

Although a direct bombardment by supporting mountain artillery and machine guns the half hour before had destroyed the heavily defended position at ‘German House’ it had failed to cut the wire in front of the enemy trenches. The unshaken German defenders immediately opened fire with machine guns and rifles and enemy artillery shells began falling in No-Man’s-Land. To add to the noise and confusion four 4.5” British shells fell short amongst the attacking troops after they had covered 40-50 yards causing heavy losses.

The heavy going through the deep clinging mud in No-Man’s-Land, pocked with deep water-filled shell-holes, made progress slow. Before reaching the German wire, Henson fell victim to a machine gun or rifle bullet. As his CO later informed his grieving parents:

“As to the manner of your son’s death, I can only tell you he died a very brave man. He was leading his men in the attack on the German trenches, and had outstripped the rest of his company by about twenty yards, when he was shot through the heart and killed instantly. Those of his company who were fortunate to come out of the action alive speak in the highest terms of your son’s courage. He was a great loss to the Regiment.”

Under heavy fire the 1st Somerset Light Infantry’s attack stalled half-way across No-Man’s Land, despite gallant efforts by its officers to keep up the forward momentum. Since the ground was too wet to dig-in the survivors of the attack withdrew overnight to the former trenches in Ploegsteert Wood.

The abortive attack on ‘The Birdcage’ had cost the 1st Somerset Light Infantry dear, with five officers dead and one wounded and taken prisoner. 27 Other Ranks were killed in action, 52 wounded and 30 reported missing. Its only positive result was that the Germans had been driven completely out of the Ploegsteert Wood.

Henson’s body was recovered by the German troops from No-man’s-Land during the unofficial Christmas Day truce and returned to his regiment. Later that day he was laid to rest in what is now Ploegsteert Wood Military Cemetery.

Some text reproduced from an article by TR Moreman

Eric Barnes, King’s Old Boy

2014-11-01T07:37:00.001+00:00

Eric Barnes

Eric Barnes entered King's Bruton School in January, 1904, and left in July, 1912. He was a House Prefect, and a member of the cricket, football, and hockey elevens. After passing through Sandhurst he was gazetted as Second Lieutenant to the 1st Lincolnshire Regiment on February 1st 1914.
There are some boys who possess a certain indefinable charm which makes them general favourites. Barnes was one of these. One of the traits that made him such an attractive character was his cheerfulness; he was a born optimist, and genuine optimism is infectious. Another was the frankness so clearly expressed in all his features. A third was the keenness he displayed in everything he took up. He may not have achieved any great distinction either intellectually or in athletics, but he was an admirable specimen of the best type of all-round usefulness.
The fact that he enjoyed life immensely heightens the tragedy of his early death. Lt.-Col. Smith, his commanding officer, wrote:

‘He fell whilst gallantly leading his Company in the attack on a village (called Wytschaete), which the regiment had been ordered to take. He was struck by a bullet and never moved again. He died as he had lived, upholding the best traditions of the Regiment he loved so well, and his loss is deeply deplored by us all.’

Lt. H. Ingoldby, a brother officer, wrote:

‘It was a terrible battle when we came in contact with the enemy in pitch darkness. Eric was just near me in the advance, and when I got up to take a few men forward in a rush, he was the next to come, but, as I heard, immediately he stood up from the ditch we were lying in to lead his men forward under very heavy fire, he was shot straight through the head and, I believe, died immediately. I was so fond of him, and never have I known such a plucky little fellow – always eager and active in the firing line, regardless of shell or bullet.’

He is remembered on the Menin Gate Memorial at Ypres.

First of many

2014-10-20T14:15:00.001+01:00

Harold Edwin Hippisley Killed in Action, 23/10/1914

Harold Hippisley

Killed in action: Second Lieutenant Harold Hippisley, aged 24, a former pupil at King’s Bruton.

Recently Married

A School Prefect in his last year at King’s, on leaving school, he entered the Royal Agricultural College, Cirencester. He then spent time in land-agency work. He was about to secure a post under the Board of Agriculture when the War broke out. He obtained a commission as a Second Lieutenant with the 1st Battalion Gloucestershire Regiment. He went to France in August, 1914, and fought almost continuously from then until he was killed in defence of Langemarck. A particular sadness is lent to his death by the fact that his marriage took place on the very day of his leaving to join his regiment.

Eyewitness Account

Hippisley was in charge of a platoon of A Company of the 1st Gloucesters, which was blocking the Langemarck-Koekuit road. The young lieutenant and his men gunned down hundreds of Germans – they could hardly miss – but still they kept on coming. Private Barton, one of the few survivors of the day, takes up the story: “About this time (10.30 a.m.), Lieutenant Hippisley, the platoon commander, was hit. The bullet struck the middle of the forehead. He was attended by his servant, Private Brown, who was under the impression that if he kept the brain from oozing out of the hole he would be all right. After a time he was convinced that the wound was fatal and that his master had no chance. He then divided his time between the parapet, where he would fire a few rounds, and then return to Lieutenant Hippisley. Between his concern for his master and his desire for revenge on the Germans, he seemed to have gone crazy.” His commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Lovett, writes: “Hippisley’s company was occupying a trench which was heavily attacked by hostile infantry. There was a severe rifle fire by which his platoon lost sixty percent in killed and wounded. By the steadiness of the men at this point, due to the confidence in their officer, the situation was maintained. Had the enemy in their great numbers penetrated at this point, the result would have been most disastrous. I need hardly say how popular he was amongst everyone, and how deeply we deplore his loss.” 2nd Lieutenant Baxter describes how the left flank was exposed: “The Germans enfiladed our trenches. The casualties began in real earnest. Harold doing his duty nobly was shot in the head. He died like a soldier and a gallant Englishman. The Gloucester Regiment are proud of him and I am proud to say he was my friend.”

Keen and Gifted Sportsman

Hippisley was an outstanding sportsman and leader; he captained the three major teams – Football, Hockey and Cricket – for an unprecedented three years, and he won the Ridley Cup three times. He had the rare distinction of playing cricket for Somerset when he was still 18, a few weeks after he left School. He also continued with his Hockey, playing for Somerset, as well as for the West of England in two international trial matches in the spring of 1914. He was a regular visitor at King’s between 1909 and 1914, playing for the Old Brutonians as well as in invitational teams in football, hockey and cricket. In his last cricket game at Bruton, in May, 1914, he scored 99 to ensure victory for the Bruton Nomads over the School. Intellectually he was not especially gifted by nature, but by honest and conscientious perseverance he achieved results which brought credit alike to himself and to his School. In athletics he was eminently naturally endowed, but here again it was not the success – which seemed to come so easily to him – that appealed most forcibly to those who watched his performances, so much as the spirit in which that success was won.

All That is Best in Public School Life

Essentially a trier, he never knew what it was to be beaten and was never satisfied with anything short of his best. The peculiar charm of his personality will be readily recalled by all who knew him here: modest and unassuming, healthy in mind as in body, cheery and equable in temper. He stood for all that is best in public school life, and has left behind him a host of friends to whom his memory will always be a treasured recollection. It is sad indeed to think of his life being cut short on the very threshold of so promising a career, and it is sadder still to think of the domestic happiness which we had all anticipated for him, coming to so untimely an end.

Dental hygienist

2014-10-03T12:22:00.001+01:00

I went for a check-up the other day. I was lying back in the chair, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere you always get when anticipating discomfort and pain, and after my teeth had been examined, the dentist took it upon himself to give me a lecture on how to look after my teeth better. I let it wash over me like pink mouthwash. But then I had to see the hygienist. She (they always seem to be women – why is that?) had a poke around, and then asked how many cigarettes I smoked each day. Through a mouthful of her latex-covered fingers, I announced that not only did I never inhale, I also never lit-up; I have never smoked. A momentary silence.

‘Alcohol units per week?’ she enquired, in what sounded like an accusation. Now, I already think that the introduction of alcohol units as a way of measuring your consumption is a government-sponsored way of taking all the fun out of one of the few pleasures left in life. Every time I open my mouth to take another sip of the smoky heaven that is Laphroaig, I think of the health secretary and it spoils my evening. ‘You do drink?’ she said. I mumbled something about 21, knowing that’s below the recommended daily allowance. ‘Mmmmm,’ she replied. Another, longer, silence.

‘A coffee drinker, then?’ she enquired. I nodded, and mentioned espresso. Although I could only see her eyes, and only dimly through both my safety goggles and hers, I could see she was pleased to have discovered my dirty, little, teeth-staining secret. Would she reach for the intercom to announce my filthy addiction to her colleagues and the other orally-disgusting customers sitting in the waiting room? Or perhaps she would wait until she and her co-workers were down at the spa, sipping mineral water, and she would shock them ‘..and then he told me he drank coffee...espresso!’, and some of the younger listeners might actually faint with horror.

‘Coffee, eh? I thought so,’ she smiled. I could only imagine she was smiling because, of course, my mouth was so foul that she was wearing protective sheeting around her lower face. She picked up a probe from her toolbox, and as she began I arched my back so that only my heels and the crown of my head touched the chair. Some time later, with the enamel gouged from my teeth, I lowered my buttocks back onto her recliner, and she began a lecture about the benefits of flossing, demonstrating on a little dental model. With the aid of a mirror held to my face by her able assistant, I was encouraged to practise on myself. She then informed me that I was to return in a few weeks so she could see how I had been getting along with my new dental-hygiene regimen.

What if everyone behaved like dentists? Imagine if you went to buy a new pair of trousers and after being made to stand awkwardly whilst you and your current trousers were minutely examined, you would then receive a lecture on how to wear the new trousers correctly; on how to avoid unpleasant places to sit; on how, because of your disgusting lifestyle, your trousers were prone to damage from revolting stains, and that you should therefore change your lifestyle to ensure trouser-longevity. And if you happened to look above your head during this extensive lecture, you would be faced with a large, grinning, pink elephant with immaculate trousers holding a lint removal roller in his trunk. Finally, you would then be asked to pop back into the store in a few weeks to check that you were adhering to these sartorial guidelines.

Having got through the dental ordeal, I went straight to the café and ordered a large espresso.

Windows 10

2014-10-02T11:39:00.001+01:00

Windows 10 Preview on Lenovo Miix 2 8

OK, so to be honest, I cannot see any significant differences so far. But then, my device is touch, and I would have expected the touch experience to remain the same.

Note: I installed the 32 bit version of the preview on my tablet because I have a 32 bit version of Windows 8.1 on it now.

But there are some differences. The Modern UI version of Internet Explorer seems to have gone walkabout. I’m sure it will turn up, and I certainly hope so, because the Desktop version is difficult to use with fingers – even fingers as svelte as my own.

Windows Technical Preview Build 9841

The installation, in my case an upgrade retaining apps and settings, was easy. I just launched setup from the ISO. But, it failed numerous times, and I’m guessing it was lack of free disk space. Having cleared some clutter, it proceeded normally. Cannot give you any figures for free space required, and I could be wrong anyway. I failed to install with 4 GB free, and succeeded at 7.5 GB.
I have also installed the OS into a virtual machine which is running within Hyper-V on a 64 bit Windows 8.1 Enterprise client. I will report back on this as I discover more.

Summary. Not much to tell as yet.

One device

2014-09-29T17:02:00.001+01:00

First of many - a Psion Organiser, circa 1988

I’ve been conducting an experiment recently. I’ve been trying to determine if a single device can address all, or even most, of my day-to-day computing needs.

A bit of background. Over the years, I have been searching for the elusive perfect device. The one that you can work on, use to play games, and still fits in a pocket. I started this search before the Internet existed, and before mobile phones were portable. As new devices came along, I tossed out the old and bought the new. But in truth, it’s only in the last year or so when that elusive device has finally come within my grasp. And yet, has it?

The Next Generation Psion, somewhere in the early nineties.

My study has focused on two devices: a large mobile phone (6 inch display) and a small tablet (8 inch display). They both run a variant of the Windows operating system. Specifically:

Nokia Lumia 1520 with Windows Phone 8.1
Lenovo Miix 2 8 with 32 bit Windows 8.1

Now, I am using both of these as consumer devices. I ‘consume’ content, such as webpages, Twitter, videos, games and so on. I haven’t really tried to do much serious work on either of them. In fact, I am typing this report sitting in front of my extremely large and powerful Windows 8.1 laptop (Core i7 and lots of memory and an enormous display).
Here are my thoughts.

The Nokia 1520 with Windows Phone 8.1

Nokia Lumia 1520

The Nokia is not my mobile phone, although I have just stuck a Nano SIM in it. I use an old Sony Ericsson Xperia Ray running an old version of Android for that because it’s small and light and fits in a pocket and I can take it anywhere. So, the Nokia is a secondary device.

When I opened the box, I loved it. It’s sleek, and smooth (is that the same as sleek?), and has a wonderful display (1920 by 1080 – although I cannot see the text on webpages without glasses). Windows Phone synced my apps and settings with my other devices as soon as I signed in with my Microsoft account (one benefit of operating devices within the same ecosystem).

And then I started using it as my only consumption device. I put away the tablet and just used this. And it’s pretty good. The web browser works reasonably well, although it’s not quite as slick as IE on the tablet.

I was able to configure email, Skype, Twitter and the rest with relative ease, and for a week, I seriously considered selling the tablet on eBay.

But then a couple of things I didn’t like.

First, Skype on Windows Phone does not support SMS texting. Now, you’ll say ‘but it’s a phone, use the SMS feature of your telecom provider. And I agree, but I have always used Skype for SMS, and I want to carry on. So, this is irritating. It’s not the phone’s fault, nor even the operating system’s. It’s the version of the app that Microsoft provide. I guess I can live without it now I do have a SIM installed.

Second, and this is a big deal, the Bluetooth on the handset doesn’t support a keyboard profile. I hear you saying ‘what on earth would you want to add a keyboard to a mobile phone for?’ And I would remind you we’re searching for the one device you can stick in your day bag and do everything on, so adding a keyboard is an issue, potentially, at least. Without a keyboard, I cannot work. I don’t know my touch type rate, but its pretty fast on a proper keyboard, even the small (but perfectly formed) Microsoft Wedge I have. I am, after all, a writer.

Thirdly, there is not much inking support in the operating system. With the tablet, I can choose to use handwriting recognition as an alternative to the (crappy) onscreen keyboard. Not here. It’s the keyboard, onscreen only, or nothing.

Fourthly, and another killer. The micro USB port used for charging does not appear to support my OTG cable with the consequence that I cannot add memory sticks to the mix when I want to copy files or even to play media from an old memory stick. That’s irritating. It means I must plug the phone into my laptop and drag files across from that. I can live with that process, but someday, I’ll be out of the office, and someone will offer me a file on a memory stick and …. well, you get the idea.
Minor gripes include the fact that I cannot use Outlook for my email and contacts etc. I must use the Mail, Calendar and People apps. They’re OK, and in some respects, pretty good for a mobile phone, but this is inconsistent with the tablet. Interestingly, I have a POP3 email account. While the Mail app on the Nokia is cool with that, the same Mail app on the Windows tablet won’t let me access the mailbox, so I HAVE to use Outlook.

There is a procedure provided my Microsoft in which you use an Outlook.com account that acts as a middleman to bypass this issue. Essentially, your Outlook.com account retrieves your POP3 mail. You can then retrieve that mail from Outlook.com using IMAP. But I tried to get this to work and after an hour, I gave up. I’ve been working with Microsoft products for over 25 years, and it’s beyond me. Microsoft, please add POP support to your Mail app.

While we’re on the subject of Office, which is provided on the handset, I have found that slightly annoying. A large number of my documents won’t open in editing mode because of versioning issues. What? Work harder, guys. I shouldn’t have to save different versions of files to open on different devices. Although, of course, without a proper keyboard, editing is somewhat pointless anyway.

Having said all that, there are some things I love about the device.

In no particular order, I love the Nokia mapping apps. You can even download the maps to make them available offline FOR FREE. You can also choose to use a surfer dude to voice your navigation to your destination. He signs off with cool ‘No need to thank me, dude. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.’
I like Kids’ Corner. You just enable this feature and decide what your kids can access (games, movies, apps and whatever) and then you hand them your handset. They can only access what you setup. It’s a doddle.

There’s plenty of other stuff to like, and although I could never use the Nokia 1520 as a phone (because for me, it’s just too big for that), I have been carrying it around it my man bag for a couple of weeks and have yet to find a situation when I wished I’d had the tablet instead.

The Lenovo Miix with proper Windows 8.1

Lenovo Miix 2 8

I previously had a ten inch tablet running Windows 8. I found this to be just too big to carry around daily. It didn’t fit in my man bag, and it certainly wouldn’t squeeze into a pocket. Also, Windows 8 was pretty frustrating. eBay came to the rescue, and I managed to liquidate the device for the same as I paid from Argos.

I bought the Miix 2 8 because it was too cheap not to. £199 quid including shipping got me the 32GB version.

Now, a lot of folk bang on about available storage. They complain that after Windows is installed, there’s only 8GB left. Well, there is a hidden recovery partition that provides the fantastic feature of total device recovery for the small cost of about 5GB or disk space. So, zap that. No other OS provides that. Now you’re up to 13GB, which is pretty good in a £200 device. And then you can add more storage through a Micro SD card (which you can move between Windows devices fairly seamlessly) and you can even plug memory sticks into the Micro USB port via an OTG cable.

Many people call storage ‘memory’, which, of course, it’s not. Pundits that cannot differentiate between storage and memory should be ignored.

Note that if you have enabled BitLocker on your SD card, Windows Phone seems unable to read the card. If you don’t know what BitLocker is, read on; this won’t matter to you.

What I like about this device is that because it’s proper Windows, I can, if I like, install any desktop app that I want. I installed Memory Map and then the WW1 trench maps I own. Brilliant.

Note that one MAJOR frustration is that Windows 8.1 does not assign virtual comports to navigational software, such as commonly available GPS systems (including Memory Map). This means that although the tablet knows where it is on the surface of the earth, it won’t share this information with any desktop apps. There is supposedly a workaround piece of software available, but as with the Outlook.com issue above, I was woefully inadequate to the task of getting it to work.

Although the display has a lower resolution (1280 by 1024 I think), it’s actually more usable. 1920 displays sound great, but on a device this small, that can prove a challenge for all but the youngest eyes. It’s good enough to use all the apps and play all my videos.

And, of course, I can pair my keyboard, and mouse, to the device and work on it. I have used it to write some content, and it was fine. I wouldn’t want to write a novel on it (not being flippant here – I actually write novels), but for when the onscreen keyboard is not enough (and for me, that’s anything beyond simple text speak), it’s very handy. Mind you, when you add the 300 grams for the tablet, and 500 for the keyboard and its cover, and whatever for the mouse, you might as well have an Ultrabook and be done with it.

I like the Lenovo. BUT, and it’s a big but, I have never taken it out unless I planned on using it. That’s planned. I take the Nokia out just in case, even though I know I shan’t really need it. But the Lenovo is just a bit big for that. Even at only 8 inches.

Summary

I thought that at last, I had reached computing nirvana. The promised land of the single device. But I think that’s a fairy tale. It doesn’t exist – at least, not yet. So for now, I use the Nokia most of the time to view webpages, watch videos and the like. For work, I use a laptop. And the tablet? Well, that seems to be sitting on a shelf. In truth, I shall probably load Windows 9 onto it when I get the preview, and then we’ll see.

Rogues' Gallery

I've used all these over the years. They've all been OK in their own way, but never quite achieved what I was looking for.

Compaq Pocket PC - with Windows CE

This Jornada was a pretty good device. Again, Windows CE - but a 'proper keyboard'

This Sharp Zaurus ran Linux. Slide down the bottom to expose a keyboard

Windows Phone, about 2007 I think

Captain A S M Summers, Royal Flying Corps

2014-09-18T17:12:00.001+01:00

Captain Summers' Cavalry Sword

A friend asked me to take a sword along to the Antiques Roadshow. It’s a First World War cavalry sword. My friend had done quite a bit of research about the blade, having determined from it’s serial number to whom it belonged.
The then Lieutenant A S M Summers took delivery of his sword in October 1909 from Wilkinson Sword. When war broke out, this former Yeoman officer was with the 19th Hussars. This regiment was attached to the infantry divisions in the BEF for the early months of the war, and Lt.Summers was assigned to the machine-gun detachment of his squadron.
He later joined the Royal Flying Corps as a pilot, and saw action with 60 Squadron RFC. Amongst his peers in August and September 1916 was Albert Ball, VC. Captain Summers, by then a flight leader, was killed in action on 15th September 1916 during the Battle of Flers–Courcelette.
I tracked down the following article that explains how he died. He was involved in an attack on enemy observation balloons using a new air-to-air weapons system.

Summers in front of his Morane fighter

In 1914 aircraft armament was a carbine in the cockpit and maybe a grappling hook trailing behind and below. Then, in only a matter of months, fighter plane fire power advanced to machine guns that fired through a rotating propeller and even wing mounted rockets which were crude but effective enough to be used by both the Allies and the Germans air services.

First air-to-air missile combat victory, Lt. A. M. Walters RFC Sept. 16, 1916 at the Battle of the River Somme

And so this sets up one of the great forgotten stories of WW I— a British pilot scores the very first aerial victory by air-to-air missile but then his accomplishment—and name—is lost in the drama and fog of battle. And even more ironically, this war fighter’s exploit was recorded in a large dramatic painting by a famous artist, but he was misidentified and so his historic action has only came to light when the painting of the air battle was discovered on the wall of a modest house in Bristol, Rhode Island almost 100 years after the historic aerial event.

The man who made air-to-air missile ordinance operational was Lt. Yves Le Prieur, a French army officer assigned to Japan before the war and who extrapolated the idea of turning fireworks into an airborne weapons system. Le Prieur’s rockets were just a cardboard tube filled with black powder, attached to a wooden stick fitted with a triangular knife blade to form a spear point. They were far from accurate and a little dicey when it came time to throw the electrical ignition. But a few forward thinking military minds recognized the possibilities, and for a short time in 1916, Le Prieur fire rockets became an important factor in air war strategy.
The story of Le Prieur’s rockets is fascinating and amusing. Le Prieur had to show the Generals that his idea worked before they would install them on an airship. So the inventive inventor took a Piccard-Pictet roadster, strapped on an actual airplane wing to which his rockets were attached, and then shot down a runway at 80 mph, blazing away. Apparently, whatever was destroyed this first rocket salvo did not embarrass anyone, and so M. Le Prieur became the first person to effectively prove that air-to-air missiles were a realistic war-fighter option.
All this then circles back to the story of the long forgotten painting (above) by an artist called Farre who personally captioned his work as an exploit of a “Lt. Summers.” This was to later cause much confusion because when research on the painting began, there was lots of information about an ace named Lt. Summers—but that fellow flew a different aircraft and all his victories were in 1918.
Finally, members of the League of WW I Historians solved the mystery, and here is the (edited) story they unravelled:

On September 15, 1916—the opening day of the Third Phase of the massive Battle of the Somme— RFC headquarters wanted the German balloons in the sector of the Flers-Courcelette assault all destroyed. General Trenchard (in command the RFC) visited No. 60 Squadron (which included the famous ace Albert Ball) and asked for volunteers to attack the balloons. Capt. Ball, 2Lt. A M Walters, 2Lt Euan Gilchrist, and Capt. A.S.M. Summers all volunteered. They all took off in (French) Nieuports armed with LePrieur Rockets.
Albert Ball and 2/Lt Walters found their balloons hauled down. They therefore attacked a formation of German planes. Ball fired off eight rockets but missed so he shot down the enemy fighter with conventional machine-gun fire. His wingman, 2Lt A M Walters, fired his rockets at one of the LVG two-seaters and saw a rocket hit the LVG in the fuselage, setting it aflame. The flaming LVG fell at Bapaume. This may very well have been the first air-to-air rocket victory against a heavier than air target.
Meanwhile, Gilchrist had destroyed his balloon and another was also destroyed and credited to Capt. A S M Summers, who was sadly shot down in flames by the anti-aircraft fire. Summers died in Nieuport 16, military serial number A136.
So, it was not actually Summers but Walters who destroyed an enemy airplane with LePrieur rockets. Lt. Walters fired 4 rockets. One hit the LVG and brought it down.

And there you have it. Lt. Walters, who actually made aviation history, and has languished invisible for a century, and would be forever unknown except for a diligent artist who captured that fleeting moment in a scene of celestial beauty and dramatic death.

This painting ended up in the USA because in 1918, the French government sent the artist and his war time artwork on a tour of the United States, ostensibly to raise money for the widows and orphans of slain pilots, but more likely to increase support for the US as it mobilized troops entering the European conflict. This painting was purchased in New York at the Anderson Galleries during the first exhibit on the tour, and then stayed with that family for three generations.