jump to navigation

Why we must always remember the sacrifices made during the Great War November 3, 2015

Posted by civilizedgraeme in History, Struggle, War.
Tags: , , , , , ,
add a comment

This is an article published in the UK newspaper Daily Mail, printed in 2007. The man who is quoted fought in the Great War on the side of the British in the trenches and he, Harry Patch, who died in 2009, was the last Tommy. This is his story.

On Remembrance Sunday, the last Tommy makes a moving plea to honour soldiers before it’s too late

We were the PBI. That’s what we called ourselves. The poor bloody infantry. We didn’t know whether we’d be dead or alive the next day, the next hour or the next minute.

We weren’t heroes. We didn’t want to be there. We were scared. We all were, all the time. And any man who tells you he wasn’t is a damn liar.

Life in the trenches was dirty, lousy, unsanitary. The barrages that preceded battle were one long nightmare. And when you went over the top, it was just mud, mud and more mud. Mixed with blood. You struggled through it, with dead bodies all around you. Any one of them could have been me.

HarryPatchMOS1111_468x587

Yet 90 years on, I’m still here, now 109 years old. It’s incredible to think that of the millions who fought in the trenches in the First World War, I’m the only one left – the last Tommy.

So now, on Remembrance Sunday, it is up to me to speak out for all those fallen or forgotten comrades. But today isn’t just about my generation. It is about all the servicemen who have risked or given their lives, and the soldiers who are still doing so.

My comrades died long ago and it’s easy for us to feel emotional about them. But the nation should honour what we did by helping the young soldiers of today feel worthwhile, by making them feel that their sacrifice has been worth it.

Remember the men in Iraq and Afghanistan. Don’t make them wait eight decades, like my generation had to wait, to feel appreciated.

The time for really remembering our Forces is while they are at war or in the years immediately after they return, when they are coping with the shock and distress or just the problems of returning to civilian life.

That is what upsets me now. It is as if we have not learned the lessons of the war of 90 years ago.

Last year, the politicians suggested holding a commemoration service at Westminster Abbey to honour the remaining First World War veterans. But why? What for? It was too, too late.

Why didn’t they think about doing something when the boys came back from the war bloodied and broken? And why didn’t they do more for the veterans and the widows in later life?

It was easy to forget about them because for years afterwards they never spoke out about the horrors they had experienced. I was the same. For 80 years I bottled it up, never mentioning my time in the trenches, not even to my wife or sons.

I never watched a war film either. It would have brought back too many bad memories.

And in all that time, although I never said it, I still felt a deep anger and resentment towards our old enemy, the Germans.

Three years ago, at the age of 106, I went back to Flanders for a memorial service. I met a German veteran, Charles Kuentz. It was 87 years since we had fought. For all I know, he might have killed my own comrades. But we shook hands. And we had so much more in common than I could ever have thought.

He couldn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak German. We had a translator but in a way we didn’t need him. After we had talked, we both sat in silence, looking at the landscape. Both of us remembering the stench, the noise, the gas, the mud crusted with blood, the cries of fallen comrades.

Once, to have shaken the hand of the enemy would have been treason, but Charles and I agreed on so much about that awful war. A nice old chap, he was. Why he should have been my enemy, I don’t know.

He told me: “I fought you because I was told to and you did the same.” It’s sad but true.

When Charles and I met, we’d both had a long time to think about the war and all that had happened. We both agreed it had been a pointless exercise. We didn’t know each other, we’d never met before, so why would we want to kill each other?

Charles has died now, but after our meeting he wrote me a letter. It said: “Shaking your hand was an honour and with that handshake we said more about peace than anything else ever could. On Sunday, I shall think of you, old comrade.”

Now, finally, I feel I can talk about those times. I’ve even written a book about my life and they say that makes me the oldest ever first-time author. Isn’t that something? I hope it helps people understand how the young men of my generation suffered.

I was conscripted into the 7th Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry in 1916, by which time enthusiasm for the war had fallen away. I knew when I watched the White Cliffs receding as I sailed for France that I might never see England again.

I was put in a Lewis gun crew with three others and we became a very close team by the time we were ordered up to the front line during the Battle of Passchendaele. It was August 16, 1917, and just a couple of months after my 19th birthday.

It doesn’t matter how much training you’ve had, you can’t prepare for the reality of the front line – the noise, the filth, the uncertainty, the casualties, the call for stretcher-bearers.

Exactly 90 years later, in July this year, I returned to that very spot with The Mail on Sunday. There, in the sleepy Flanders countryside, I stared out at what was once No Man’s Land and it all came back to me.

The bombardment like non-stop claps of thunder, the ground we had to cover, the stench of rotting bodies who would never be buried.

You lived in fear and counted the hours. You saw the sun rise, hopefully you’d see it set. If you saw it set, you hoped to see it rise. Some men would, some wouldn’t.

Then the war, for me, suddenly came to an end. We were crossing open ground at Pilckem Ridge on September 22. In my mind, I can still see the shell explosion that took three of my pals and nearly did for me too.

I wasn’t told until later that the three behind me had been blown to pieces. My reaction was terrible and it’s still difficult to explain. It was like losing part of my life. The friendship you have during a war, it’s almost like love.

It was because of those three men that I did not speak about the war for most of my life. It was too painful. Today I have forgiven the men who killed them – they were in the same position as us. I find it harder, though, to forgive the politicians.

Somebody told me the other day that at homecoming parades for our men in Iraq and Afghanistan, barely anyone turns up. I was shocked. Even in our day there would at least be some kind of welcome.

I hope that today people will take the time to remember not just those who have died but those who are alive and fighting for our country. Please don’t forget them – or leave your thanks until it is too late.

Harry Patch was talking to Nigel Blundell

• The Last Fighting Tommy, by Harry Patch with Richard van Emden (Bloomsbury). Britain’s Last Tommies, also by Richard van Emden (Pen & Sword).
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-492876/On-Remembrance-Sunday-Tommy-makes-moving-plea-honour-soldiers-late.html#ixzz3qRH1mgsO 

The Struggle of the Homeless August 28, 2015

Posted by civilizedgraeme in Family, History, Independence, medical, Struggle, War.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

As one of the guarantors – alongside France and Germany – of the 1839 Treaty of London, the British promised to come to the aid of Belgium in the event of invasion and, good to their word, Britain not only recognized but was determined to protect Belgium’s independence and neutrality on the eve of World War One. Hence, when German forces were smashing their way across the Belgian countryside, Britain declared war on Germany on August 4, 1914.

The next day, on their way to attack France, as the heavily-armed and well-supported German invasion force advanced on its first military obstacle, the ring of forts around Liège, civilians were being executed en masse . Believing they were under attack from snipers, German commanders had their troops round up local inhabitants from surrounding villages, selected their victims and shot them; any left alive were killed at the point of the bayonet.

Soon after, cities were bombed and set aflame and hundreds of captured civilians were being similarly murdered. While hundreds of thousands of terrified Belgians fled, ‘the rape of Belgium’, as it became known, invoked the sympathy of the world. Newspapers across Britain supported their government’s decision to defend the honour of their ally and send troops and quickly popularized the negative image of ‘the Hun’ rampaging through ‘gallant Little Belgium’.

Although many millions of both soldiers and unarmed civilians were subsequently killed during the Great War, what is often overlooked is the impact on the families who were caught in the middle of vicious fighting, forced from their homes, fleeing from invading armies intent on killing anyone in their path. Current estimates among historians today suggest over 10 million people were displaced, sent running, losing all their possessions and considered refugees during the war.

A Belgian refugee summed up his feelings in 1914: “One was always a refugee – that’s the name one was given, a sort of nickname. One was left with nothing, ruined, and that’s how people carried on talking about ‘the refugee’. We weren’t real people any more”.

After the summer invasion, over 400,000 Belgians had arrived in Holland, and half that many crossed the border into France joining 150,000 French nationals at risk who also sought shelter and freedom elsewhere and a year later, with trenches hastily built from the English Channel to Switzerland, that number had reached nearly a million.

Initially, the Dutch Government decided to locate the Belgians in camps on the outskirts of towns such as Gouda, Nunspeet and Bergen op Zoom, although preferring to call them “Belgian villages” (in order to avoid the negative association with the “concentration camps” of the Boer War), where the emphasis of temporary housing was on health and hygiene.

Once the urgent needs of food and shelter had been assessed, other issues needed to be addressed: children were desperate to find their parents, and likewise adults sought their lost children. Refugees asked questions about their status and entitlements to relief, and many wanted the opportunity to work, while children needed to continue their schooling. Food, sanitary needs, and fresh clothing had to be found.

Emergency accommodation was found in railway stations, schools, empty factories, breweries, hotels, bathhouses, army barracks, monasteries, synagogues, theatres, cinemas, cafes, and even prisons. Local authorities, diocesan committees and other associations helped to provide underwear, shoes, linen, soap and other items.

In France, on the grounds that they were deserving “victims of war,” refugees received financial and other assistance from the government, as well as assistance from charitable organisations and from parish priests, and the organisations refugees themselves created, such as the Committee for Refugees of the Departement du Nord. Although many volunteer agencies were organized to assist the growing populations being displaced across continental Europe, the impact was nothing short of disastrous on local economies.

In its long history as a safe haven for refugees, Britain had given a home to French Protestant Huguenots in the 17th century and Russian Jews in the 19th century, and during the Great War would open its doors to its largest single influx of refugees and became home to 250,000 Belgians. They were initially welcomed and the government used their plight to encouraged anti-German sentiment and foment public support for the war effort.

In some purpose-built villages they had their own schools, newspapers, shops, hospitals, churches, prisons and police. These areas were considered Belgian territory and run by the Belgian government. They even used the Belgian currency. Elisabethville was one such sovereign Belgian enclave in Birtley, Tyne and Wear, named after the Belgian queen.

However, as soon as the war ended, both British and Belgian governments appealed for the refugees to return home. As early as 1914, the Belgian Repatriation Fund had been created and in 1917 the British government set up a repatriation committee to expedite their return. Many Belgians had their employment contracts terminated, leaving them with little option but to go home. The government offered free one-way tickets back to Belgium, to get them to leave the country as quickly as possible.

Within a year of the war ending more than 90% had returned home. They left as quickly as they came, leaving little time to establish any significant legacy, with two notable exceptions: Hercule Poirot, subsequently created by Agatha Christie, and a single monument in London’s Victoria Embankment Gardens given in thanks by the Belgian Government. “It was the largest influx of refugees in British history but it’s a story that is almost totally ignored,” says Tony Kushner, professor of modern history at the University of Southampton.

In Britain, sympathy for Belgian refugees derived from a belief that they had suffered unspeakable torment at the hands of German troops. “Brave little Belgium” was a term commonly used in the UK, where “King Albert’s Book” allowed British dignitaries to pay “tribute to the Belgian King and people.” By 1916, 2,500 local refugee committees had been established and the secretary of the War Refugees Committee publicly applauded the efforts of local committees and Belgian refugees to find work.

Yet concern about the burden on the British taxpayer, the sacrifices made by British conscripts overseas, and anxieties about the “disreputable” sexual conduct of Belgian women, help explain why public sympathy began to diminish by 1916. Alternate plans drawn up in the UK to resettle Belgian refugees in Chile and South Africa came to naught in fact because the Belgian authorities insisted that refugees should contribute to national reconstruction in Belgium after the war.

After four years of fighting along the Western Front most Belgian refugees had returned by the end of 1919 to find countless cities and towns reduced to rubble: houses, shops, churches and temples, schools, office buildings, factories, warehouses, police and fire stations, simply were gone.

The French government had made no preparations for refugees before the outbreak of war. When Germany invaded, administrators attempted to disperse Belgian and French refugees to the interior of France and avoid overcrowding areas near the front. But refugees wished to stay as close as possible to their homes in the hope that they might return before Christmas.

As the war dragged on, and prior to the US declaration of war in 1917, the momentum increased in favour of the German forces and as they advanced towards Amiens and then Champagne in France, the number of refugees rose rapidly from 1.32 million in February to 1.82 million in July.

Keeping in mind it was a Serb national who had originally shot the Austro-Hungarian Archduke and his wife in 1914, rather than face imprisonment in Austria, Hungary or Bulgaria, many Serbs also fled to seek safe haven in France, and its colonies North Africa, and it is estimated at least 140,000 died while trying to cross into Albania.

In the first phase of the war, around 40,000 refugees of Italian extraction sought exile in Italy rather than remaining under Austrian rule. However, the greatest catastrophe occurred in November 1917 following the defeat of Italian forces at Caporetto, which resulted in some 400,000 Italian civilians fleeing to the south.

Some of the largest atrocities committed during and after World War I were directed at the Armenians. The population of 2 million was decimated by what was later recognised as the first genocide of the 20th century. Systematic persecution under the Ottoman empire meant that half of that population were dead by 1918 and hundreds of thousands were homeless and stateless refugees.

In 1915, Ottoman officials and military commanders turned on entire Armenian communities and forced men, women and children to trek across the desert in the most arduous conditions. Up to 250,000 Armenians evaded the deportations by crossing the Russian border in August 1915, although one in five died en route. More than 105,000 ex-Ottoman Armenians sought refuge in Russian-administered Erevan, quadrupling its size. They were the lucky ones. Women and children who survived the deportations and remained in Armenia were protected or abducted (depending on one’s point of view) by Turkish and Kurdish men.

Around 200,000 Jewish refugees fled Galicia and Bukovina in the first year of fighting (this figure does not include those who were either resettled within the region or dispatched to the Russian interior). They settled in Vienna and parts of Bohemia and Moravia. According to the Austrian Ministry of the Interior, by the end of 1915 some 386,000 refugees were living in Austria, two-fifths of them Jews.

Generally speaking the language used to characterize the refugee movement in Russia and Eastern Europe reinforced the widely-shared sense of calamity. Some witnesses believed that the “boundless ocean” of refugees could never properly be navigated. More typically, contemporary observers in the Russian interior used language that was directly reminiscent of a disaster like a river bank being broken. Thus “flood”, “wave”, “deluge”, “avalanche” and volcanic ‘lava’.

The refugee crisis provided opportunities for professionals to carry out important relief work. Some of the nurses who were attached to the Scottish Women’s Hospitals and American Women’s Hospitals remained in the field. AWH nurses were employed in Macedonia until the 1930s, for example. Quaker relief workers stayed on in Russia and Poland to assist with famine and typhus relief.

Edith Pye and Hilda Clark, a midwife and obstetrician, respectively, established the Friends War Victims Relief Committee in France in 1914. They worked extensively with refugees in northern France and afterward moved to Vienna to assist malnourished children. Clark then devoted herself to various relief and reconstruction projects in Poland, Greece, Serbia, Bulgaria and Turkey. Both women also assisted child refugees from Spain after 1936.

Likewise Francesca Wilson travelled from France to Corsica, to assist Serbian refugees, and Yugoslavia, before joining Pye and Clark in Vienna. She too became involved in relief work in Spain.

Impressive and ever-lasting careers were thus forged in the crucible of the Great War, despite the atrocities that continue today. Lest we forget.

The Struggle for Dignity August 12, 2015

Posted by civilizedgraeme in History, Struggle, War.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

During the Great War, once assigned to the front, a combat unit arriving would inevitably need to wind themselves through a maze of trenches; each replete with various forms of life. Upon their approach, typically at dusk, they would see and hear exploding bombs, shells and mortar rounds, as well as machine gun bursts and sniper fire. However, they would likely smell the frontline first. Adding to the dried sweat of all soldiers’ uniforms, bandages and encrusted feet, would be the carcasses of not only animals and fallen comrades, but wood, sandbags and tents.

There was the smell of cordite too, not to mention lingering poison gas. In No Man’s Land, during the day crows would peck out the eyes of the dead and bodies would swell and turn blue before the putrid gases would eventually escape. It was a haunting smell no soldier could ever forget, and who would have to fight atop the dead, some buried by bomb blasts; the living would then be commanded to dig new trenches among the carnage and, if sadly unlucky enough to fall upon them, to have rotting flesh – the consistency of Camembert cheese – stuck for weeks between their fingernails.

Lice and nits infested soldiers’ hair from head to toe, and caused incessant itching. Fearless rats, brown and black, some as big as cats, feasted on soft tissue, carrying with them an array of unpleasantness, each pair easily reproducing hundreds more in a given year – thus there were millions joining the men in the crowded trenches, crawling over faces at night. Adding to the terror of being shot or maimed, disease was rampant, from common ailments suffered by the cold and damp conditions to fungal infections and Trench Fever, caused by lice, which was extremely painful and lasted several months.

Trench Foot affected many combatants along the Western Front, mainly as a result of constantly walking through the soggy, muddy and simply unsanitary conditions, which if untreated would turn gangrenous, to be then followed by amputation in severe cases. There were flies and insects to deal with, and there was excrement, as well as vomit, lining the deadly trenches. Despite rotations, living in a trench was appalling and, being shelled and trapped, sometimes soldiers at the front would not eat for days, even while injured, having had a leg or arm blown off, a piece of metal, shrapnel, a bullet or several embedded in either bone or muscle.

Throughout the war soldiers spent from days to weeks on end in wet, cold, muddy trenches which alone created many symptoms such as swollen limbs, damaged sensory nerves and inflammation. But, apparently, not one British soldier starved while serving at the front.

Field kitchens were close to the frontlines, but not close enough so that the enlisted men could ever enjoy a warm meal; besides, eating in filth was repulsive. Stale food, which took over a week to reach them, sent many an able-bodied man to the infirmary with a multitude of stomach and intestinal ailments. The bulk of the British soldier’s diet in the trenches was bully beef (tinned corned beef), bread and biscuits. By the winter of 1916 flour was in such short supply that bread was being made with dried ground turnips, and pea soup was flavoured with lumps of horsemeat.

In this environment, for four years, men did their duty; they killed and were killed, suffered and caused suffering. They also cleaned their rifles, refilled sandbags and drained trenches, chores constantly inspected by officers. They went “over the top” when ordered, and crossed No Man’s Land to sit quietly adjacent to the enemy in their Listening Posts with bayonets fixed, or to repair barbed wire. Day and night soldiers were also assigned sentry work, though only for a few hours, as the penalty for falling asleep on the job was death by firing squad.

This is what greeted a soldier arriving at the front and if he survived all this, whether a bomb or bullet, sickness or disease, rat or insect, among this malignant stagnation and cacophony of most-foul odours, he then might be assigned the task of cleaning their overflowing latrines.

Augmenting a horrible lack of hygiene, sleep deprivation and faced with the prospect of dying, quickly or slowly, many soldiers also fought the psychological damage inflicted upon them daily – the shock of seeing bodies blown apart, limbs disappear into the mud forever, or having to look into another man’s eyes before plunging a bayonet into his stomach, or throwing a grenade into an enemy trench to hear the resulting screams for help go unanswered and drift away.

During the war, the executions of 306 British and Commonwealth soldiers took place, for crimes such as desertion and cowardice, which still remain controversial, with some believing that many of those executed should have been pardoned as they were suffering from what is now called shell shock. However, then, military commanders would not accept a soldier’s failure to return to the front as anything other than desertion, and court martials speedily convicted offenders.

Private Abe Bevistein, aged sixteen, was shot by firing squad at Labourse, near Calais. As with so many others cases, he had been found guilty of deserting his post. Just before his court martial, Bevistein wrote home to his mother: “We were in the trenches. I was so cold I went out (and took shelter in a farm house). They took me to prison so I will have to go in front of the court. I will try my best to get out of it, so don’t worry.”

It is estimated that 9 of 10 British soldiers who served in the trenches along the Western Front during World War I actually lived to tell the tale.

Lest we forget.