A fabulous day on the Tour de
Somme. Write up by Marko Trandafilovski Yr9.
Today was for all of
us, as far as I know, much easier than yesterday. While we were all constantly
reminded by the historic sites we visited of the terrible amount of deaths
caused by the carnage in the Somme, we all enjoyed our fair share of relaxation,
strong (and sometimes too strong) sunlight, and the perhaps not-so-occasional
ice cream. We were all also entertained by the apparently endless supply of
stories that Andrew, our historian guide, had to tell, and I mention one here
as it doesn’t fit into the locations I will describe ahead. A little time
before the ‘big push’ was to occur, a young man carrying hand-grenades to his
trench fumbled and dropped them, causing them to fall into the trench and also
causing their safety pins to fall out. Billy
McFadzean, a soldier who was present, saw the
impending fate of the soldiers who would surely perish in the ensuing
explosion, and threw himself onto them to shield his comrades from the blast,
in an act of selfless bravery that saw him posthumously awarded the Victoria
Cross. That was one of the many reminders we had of the horror of the War, and
how it could bring out the best and also the worst in men who had to take part
in it.
We set off at about a quarter to ten through
the picturesque town of Albert to make our a way to the supermarket - this was
to stock up on the various foods enjoyed by the group; while undoubtedly tasty
and in the possession of the ability to replenish one’s energy, they were all
atrocious for the health of the buyers. After this somewhat devilish purchase,
we began to make our way to the 4 main attractions of the day. These were the
memorial to the missing at Thiepval, Serre One and Two, and the fascinating
memorial to the soldiers in the British army from Newfoundland. The first
location, Thiepval, was reached relatively easily - no particularly unpleasant
hills were encountered! We began by looking at one of the small monuments to a
specific divisions, this one being to the eighteenth division. We then
progressed to cycle a little further and were greeted by a truly breathtaking
sight: a tall, magnificent building which acted as an archway into row upon row
of graves. The truly sad thing about those was that there were no bodies
interred within them; they were symbolic, commemorating the deaths of the
seventy-two thousand men who were never found when the war’s conclusion finally
arrived. Upon closer inspection, the arch itself was covered in a seemingly
endless list of names, which overwhelmed the watcher entirely. The sheer number
of people missing (let alone dead) is simply staggering, and Andrew told us
that he was certain that the scenic fields around us were in fact, in a sense,
a mass grave. All those missing people would be buried just below the gently
swinging floors of farmer’s crops. It was, however, comforting to see the
immaculate condition the graves were kept in by the Commonwealth War Graves
Commission, and one could almost become as lost walking among them as cycling
across the rolling fields of the Somme. After taking time to absorb the sight
and also taking time for a rest, we saddled ourselves up and continued to ride
on. Under the influence of the countryside’s hills, I think that we all forgot
how lovely the place we were in was. The upward slopes were simply too arduous.
After some more toil, we stopped off at the
second place of the day, namely the Newfoundland reserve for all the soldiers
who came over from the then - British colony of Newfoundland. The location was
extremely interesting as the trenches had been left exactly as they were, and
no attempt had been made to dig up missing corpses, meaning we could easily
observe the sorts of places soldiers would have had to make their livings in.
Naturally, in the early twentieth century, the population of Newfoundland was
not large, and they managed to raise only about one thousand six hundred men at
the call of the mother country. This made up about two battalions worth -
around 800 men each. Near the famous Caribou statue, Andrew told the story of
William Blackler, who abruptly stopped writing to his relatives back in
Newfoundland. These relatives sent anxious letters to him, only to have them
sent back about a month later with the words ‘dead’ stamped upon them. We also
had a look at the difference in deep ness between the German and British
trenches (the Germans dug much deeper as they expected to stay put) as well as
learning about the ingenious strategies used by the British to shield them from
German machine-gun fire, e.g. creeping barrage fire, which aimed to create a
curtain of shells which the British soldiers could hide behind as the made
their way towards the German trenches. Another such was ‘Box Fire’, which
involved firing shells so violently at a small patch of ground that you could
effectively obliterate anything living within it. The accuracy of British
artillery fire was a major factor in their victories later in the War.
After the experience, we launched in the car park next to the area,
trying to regain some energy, which some of us still lacked. We then soon set
off again to see the afternoon parts of the trip.
The first area we reached, after much more toil
and strain, was the place known as ‘Serre Two’. We saw yet another large
graveyard, and Andrew told us the inspiring tale of the fellow named Ben Leach.
After World War One was over, he stayed behind to keep the graveyard which held
his comrades safe from all desecration. When the Second World War broke out,
the British Government warned him that it was probably safer to return to Britain
to avoid the Axis advance into France, but he refused, unable to abandon the
spot in which so many of his friends had died. When the German forces did
finally arrive, they were surprised by the fact that Ben kept the thirteen
German graves in just as good a condition as the masses of British graves he
had to take care of, and to show their respect, they worked together to get him
a gift - a bicycle. Unbeknownst to them, Ben used it for a long time as a tool
for the resistance, lending it to downed British airmen so that they could
escape to the next available safe house quickly. His brave activities were
never detected by the Germans, who, as far as I know, maintained their respect
for him up to the end of their occupation.
We then headed to Serre one, where, in the
macabre but beautiful location of another graveyard, we learnt the tragic tale
of Horace Isles. His father back in England had recently died in service of the
army, and he, while only fourteen, was the main supporter of the family. But
one day, two young girls walked up to him and gave him the white feather, a
symbol of cowardice. They thought that Horace had no place at home, and should
have been helping out on the front lines. Now, Horace looked much older than he
really was, and to these girls, he must have looked eighteen. In any case, he
was mortified at being branded in such a way, and enlisted immediately. He soon
felt that he was in the wrong place and sent a letter home to his sister to ask
for advice; he didn’t know how to get himself out of battle. His sister sent
back a letter that has become famous since, in which she implored Horace to
‘for God’s sake, tell them how old you are’, feeling sure his superiors would
send him home. It was too late. The letter was returned with the message ‘dead’
stamped upon it. Horace did, after all, come back ‘in pieces’.
