Volume 2
Casualties of War
Continuing my premise that we all, or at least most of us, have embedded in our soul, and nagging our conscience, incidents in our lives that we would now like to ignore. I certainly have many and wish with all my heart that I had, like my computer, a delete key, but life is just not like that.
There is one predominant scene that I would love to exorcise from my mind, it haunts me and the least occasion, detail or discussion referring to the First World War triggers it off.
I refer to an evening some months before my wedding, at a time when I was still living at home, sitting with my father and mother watching a television play, adapted from George Orwell's book “1984.” I believe Peter Cushing played the part of Winston Smith, the hero - no not hero, there were none. I should probably say he had the lead part.
At a point in the play when Winston was about to be tortured by Big Brother in Room 101, in an attempt to break his spirit, they had discovered his great fear of rats and had devised a contraption, whereby a big hungry rat could only escape being burned in its cage by eating through Winston's face. Admittedly this was quite a horrendous scene. It was at this point my father, who up until then had been absorbed in the play, left the room quickly. I could hear him in the downstairs bathroom being violently sick. He then retired to his room upstairs and did not reappear that evening.
I said to my mother, “For goodness sake! It is only a play. I thought Dad was stronger than that.” She quietly replied “Allan, don't be too ready to pass judgment on matters you know little about. Your father's fear of rats goes back to the First World War.” I replied, “Mum, I know Dad was gassed at the Battle of the Somme. He fought at Ypres and I know he was very badly wounded at Passchendaele. He had a lousy time; they all did. I have read many accounts of that dreadful war, and it still angers me to think of the incompetence of our generals and ineffectual and ill-informed war cabinet but, after all, that was over 40 years ago.” She responded, “But it’s not 40 years ago for him, Allan. I do not doubt that you have read detailed accounts of all the battles along the Western Front, stretching from the Belgian Coast to Switzerland. And you will have read that, for much of the four years, it was trench warfare, deadlocked - a static war of attrition. Millions of men sacrificed - and for what? - Alternately gaining or regaining a few hundred yards of muddy quagmire? When reading the stark historical details, try to imagine the scene. In your mind's eye, see, hear and smell it all. The rain, the churned up battlefield, the noise and smell of war. Imagine the constant sound of heavy gunfire, the clatter and whining of dying horses, the screams and cries of wounded and dying men, the sickly stench of dead bodies, the mud. Think of the living conditions in the trenches, unwashed and stinking men, lice-infested, and the excrement and urine. The stagnant stench of earth and rats - always rats.”
She went on, “Think also, not just of the living conditions but of the dying conditions. The screams and moans of the injured left to die in the open, outside, and in overcrowded field hospitals. Try and imagine that while I tell you about your father. His regiment was part of the Scottish division and was in the line ready for the so-called big push at Passchendaele in September 1917.
I knew nothing of that of course until I received a telegram from the War Office regretting that he had been admitted to hospital - number three, British Expeditionary Force Normandy on the 13th of October, with serious gunshot wounds. Arrangements were made and, in mid-November, and I sailed across the Channel where I met the hospital ward sister who was very kind and sympathetic, gentle and serene - in all the chaos. She explained to me that he was very seriously ill and not to expect too much.
The Sister said, “He falls in and out of consciousness and is delirious much of the time, reliving his frightful experience.” She gently taught me about it so that I would not be alarmed when I sat by his bed. His platoon went ‘over the top’ in early October. They were told our artillery guns had destroyed the enemy wire and their orders were to walk steadily, not run, towards the enemy trenches. However, the wire was not broken and they were walking straight into the oncoming fire from the German machine-gun nests.
They lost a lot of men and he was badly wounded. He fell into a shell crater and drifted in and out of consciousness. At one point he came to and found his sergeant lying alongside him badly wounded with his stomach wide-open. They lay there throughout the night, and the next day the sergeant had stopped moaning. Sometime during that night he must have died because when your father next came to he heard the noise of squeaking and scurrying and squelch of rats. They were scrambling and pulling the sergeant's intestines out of his belly and across your father's body. The rats were crawling all over him in a feeding frenzy. It was about 24 hours later before he was rescued and taken to a field station, where he lay for another two days, prior to arriving at the hospital.
Before they let me see him I was warned not to expect too much. But even so, when I did, I was shocked at his appearance. He was highly fevered and his wounds were very bad. They told me that, since he spent so much time in the shell hole, with only the dead and the rats for company, the big fear was of gas gangrene having entered his wounds. Apparently this was responsible for more deaths than war gas. It came from bacteria in the foul and putrefied soil. If it infected his wounds he could inflate like a balloon. Just remember, please, that antibiotics had not been discovered and any antiseptics, then available, were not very effective.
For the next few days I remained with him the hospital. It was overcrowded with new casualties coming down from the Front. I could not help hearing of their dreadful experiences. The weather was bad, howling gale and ceaseless rain. They talked of soldiers drowning in the shell holes as they filled with water, and of German shells falling on them at the rate of three or four a minute. Then, on the way down, of being tangled up with the relief columns going up to the Front, and the road being partially blocked by destroyed wagons and dead horses. They described it as hell in a state of chaos. Confusion. All around was confusion.
History now shows that the whole area had become a quagmire, many soldiers drowned in the mud and many were just left to die. British casualties well over 300,00, German over 200,000 – and for what purpose?
These were the horrible conditions my husband, your father, was in. He was then only 24 years old. That war made casualties of us all.”
“I will say no more but, suffice to say, your father did recover and you bare witness to that.” My mother added, “We have remained silent on this for all those years, never mentioning it until about 20 years on. It was in November 1937 when his nightmares came back. That's was when it was obvious to him, and any thinking person, that the war, called the Great War, because it was supposed to be the ‘war to end all wars’, was about to start all over again. It was then we agreed that if we were to have any chance of sleep we should have separate bedrooms and that has been the situation ever since.”
“Your father would be annoyed if he knew we were having this conversation so preserve his privacy as I have done over all these years.” I looked into my mother's sad eyes and from her faraway expression realised, her unspoken thoughts were that I may be her son that night, but her reflections were all on her young husband.
I think of that evening with clarity. I felt very guilty. Was it my tactless comment that brought these dreadful incidents back to the surface of her mind? I kissed her smooth cheek gently, tasting a salty tear and desperately wanting to hug my father the next time I saw him but sadly we did not have that type of relationship.
I have thought long and hard before putting the events of that evening into words. Am I guilty of breaking a trust? My mother kept it to herself for many years as I have done for the last 50. I would of course never have mentioned it during their lifetimes - so why now? Is it a belated attempt to salve my conscience by asking forgiveness now for my lack of understanding all these years ago? Is it a selfish attempt on my part to try to clear my mind of some horrible thoughts? I do not think so.
We live our lives naively thinking that we know all about our nearest and dearest and the sacrifices those closest to us make on our behalf. But in reality we do not and it is worth being reminded of that from time to time.
On the other hand it is not all one-sided and joyful occasions can also claim pride of place. Joyce and I were married on 2nd June 1959. Faced with the double tragedy it was impossible to think that our wedding day could be a happy and blissful occasion and, while we made the best of a short honeymoon in Mull, we could not throw off the heavy feeling of sadness. We needed more time to heal.
However, life moves on and I can readily recall, with great pleasure, the happy experience of us setting up our new home together. Entertaining our friends was great fun and from the very beginning it was evident that Joyce was a natural hostess. That certainly was a great time to look back on.
My business was doing well, my private housing estates were winning awards, sales on my three prestigious developments were going strongly, we had erected a show house at the Kelvin Hall National Housing Exhibition and sold all 30 plots on our fourth development. My building system was gaining acceptance for public buildings and other contracts. I was beginning to get recognised by the national press and there was interest from the London city investors. I thought then, if Dad had only lived a bit longer he might have been proud of his youngest son.
We were moving on. Things were going well and we had now been married three years. After all the recent drama and hard work it was felt that we were due a break. It was agreed that my two sisters, Ada and Dorothy, their husband's Clem and Bert, and Joyce and I, would take a short holiday to Italy. The purpose was twofold, to get some well-earned relaxation and at the same time catch up with the Italian side of our family.
We had rented a large villa in Via Reggio, a fine holiday resort on the Mediterranean and close at hand to the Fattori family in Tuscany, who were established mainly in Florence and Livorno. We had our plans down to the last detail; confident we had made contingencies to cover all eventualities. Secure in mind, we set off in two cars for London Airport and onwards to Pisa by air. We were looking forward to the holiday, with unshakable confidence and our belief of great expectations.
“When will we ever learn? - when will we learn?”
Posted July 2009 Casualties of War