Kitabı oku: «The Lost Tommies», sayfa 4

Louis’s suicide perhaps explains why the extraordinary photographic collection was placed in the family attic after his death and forgotten. For Antoinette, who lived until the 1970s, it may well have been too painful for her to recall this enormously creative period during the First World War when she and her husband lived such a vital and social life, welcoming soldiers from all over the world into their home, Louis often working well into the night to print the latest photographs.

The couple had two children, both boys, Robert and Roger. Robert was born in 1912 and features in many of the ‘Lost Diggers’ wartime pictures. Roger was born after the war, in 1920.

PLATE 114 A Thuillier family photograph – Robert and Roger Thuillier, after the war. (Courtesy Bacquet family)

For the many Allied soldiers, a child’s innocent face was doubtless a blessed relief after everything they had experienced in the trenches. The delightful, happy images of the town’s children sitting with soldiers suggests they clearly enjoyed playing with the troops, many of whom were fathers themselves.

PLATE 115 Soldiers, possibly of the Army Services Corps, with Roger Thuillier, on the right, and another little friend.

PLATE 116 A slightly damaged plate of Royal Engineers soldiers posing with a Thuillier child and another local.

PLATE 117 Two Army Cyclist Corps privates with a young French girl.

PLATE 118 An Army Services Corps lance corporal with bandolier and spurs, posing in front of a bus.

PLATE 119 A Royal Artillery Regiment soldier (left) with two Army Services Corps men, clearly in the winter.

PLATE 120 A classic informal Thuillier image of three Royal Artillery soldiers with three Australian diggers and a young Thuillier relative.

Robert Thuillier never married and had no children. Roger’s children are Madame Eliane Bacquet, born in 1945, and Christian Thuillier, born in 1947, both of whom we have already met. It is with their kind cooperation that the entire Thuillier collection was carefully removed from the family farmhouse attic, cleaned, packed and then brought to Australia for preservation.

The War

On 28 June 1914, the assassination in Sarajevo of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, unleashed the apocalypse we now know as the First World War. Militaristic Prussians had long wanted to expand Germany’s empire; the German Kaiser Wilhelm II had launched an arms race with Britain, and scrambled to snap up colonies and global resources. After years of simmering tensions, the shooting of the Archduke in the Balkans was the spark that ignited the war. One by one the great powers of Europe plunged into the abyss as treaty obligations pushed nations on to either side of the conflict. France, bound by treaty to Russia, found itself at war with Germany and Austria-Hungary. Within weeks, Germany had invaded Belgium, aiming for Paris. By 4 August 1914, Britain and soon after, its empire, had also entered the war. By late September 1914, the Allied armies and their German adversaries were locked in a trench-warfare stalemate – each side dug in to a roughly matched pair of trench lines running often just metres apart, over a distance of 700 kilometres from the Swiss border in the south to the North Sea coast of Belgium.

PLATE 121 French soldiers head north-west along the Rue de Daours in Vignacourt towards the front line. Because the men are no longer wearing the red trousers originally issued to soldiers, this is likely to be during 1915. As the war went on, the French changed their uniform to the bluey-grey tunic worn by soldiers in this picture instead of the earlier colourful uniform which was an impractical relic of the Franco-Prussian War.

Attempts by each side to outflank the other had failed and the only solution was ‘digging in’ to trenches. The stalemate was created by modern artillery and the new machine guns, capable of extraordinary rates of fire.

During the American Civil War, just a generation earlier, soldiers took a minute and a half to reload their single-shot muskets, and so the slow rate of fire meant a frontal assault was not too catastrophic an undertaking. But by the beginning of the First World War, military strategy lagged behind new military technologies. A single machine-gunner on the Western Front could pump out a thousand bullets in the time it took a Civil War soldier to reload. Sadly, it wasn’t until later in the war that both sides began to grasp the strategies necessary to combat this new technology of killing. Military commanders persisted with a strategy of attrition, ordering troops over the top into full-frontal assaults against the enemy trenches.

PLATE 122 Trench warfare. An intriguing picture of what appears to be an Austrian mortar battalion in the trenches. Historian Laurent Mirouze believes this plate may well have been obtained by the French 47th Division which was billeted in Vignacourt. They had just returned to France from fighting with the Italians against the Austrians in northern Italy. Perhaps the intelligence service of the 47th asked Thuillier for prints off these plates.

In December 1915 General Sir Douglas Haig was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the British armies in France in place of Field Marshal Sir John French; French had commanded through the disastrous Battle of Loos in September, losing tens of thousands of troops for little gain, and hopes of a quick victory now seemed remote. As John Keegan has written, Field Marshal French

… had been worn down by the attrition of his beloved army of regulars, the old sweats of his Boer War glory days, the keen young troopers of the cavalry in which he had been raised, the eager colonels who had been his companions on the veldt and in the hunting field. The death of so many of them – there had been 90,000 casualties among the original seven infantry divisions by November 1914, rather more than a hundred per cent of mobilised strength – afflicted him …³

But there was one huge difference beginning to show by the start of 1916: as Haig planned the big breakthrough in the German lines, Lord Kitchener’s massive enlistment drive had allowed the formation of six ‘New Armies’ – each five divisions strong – to supplement the existing (now very depleted) eleven regular army divisions and the twenty-eight infantry divisions of the territorials. It meant that by the spring of 1916 Britain would have seventy divisions available for a massive offensive aimed at breaking the German lines.

PLATE 123 Royal Artillery soldiers pose with what appears to be a 6-inch howitzer on a Vignacourt street during winter on the Western Front. The wooden-spoked wheels were often fitted with girdles to get the gun over mud. One of the British Army’s most important weapons during the war, these guns fired 22.4 million rounds on the Western Front.

In late December 1915 Haig agreed with French General Joffre that 1916 would be the year that France and Britain mounted a joint offensive at the point where their two armies met in the middle of the Western Front, on the Somme. The Allied lines along this section of the Western Front – beautiful lush countryside of rolling green hills and chalky soil – had been relatively quiet since 1914 and the Germans had exploited the calm to massively reinforce their own lines, building huge underground bunkers, burying communications cables and creating arcs of fire with machine guns and barbed wire which made crossing no man’s land towards their lines a near-suicidal undertaking. Facing them were twenty relatively less well-prepared Allied divisions – most of them the New Army British recruits, the patriotic citizens who had rushed to join the Pals battalions – and there was a small number of regular army units. There were also the territorials, who had only been in France for six months; this meant that most of the Allied infantry had little or no experience of combat at all.

General Haig transformed the thirty kilometres west of the Somme front lines into a massive armed camp, building new roads and railway lines, artillery emplacements and shell dumps, that would provide the support for the massive infantry attack. Even at Vignacourt, a brand-new casualty clearing station was being built and, as the soldiers caroused in the estaminets and restaurants of Vignacourt and nearby Amiens’s red light district, all knew there was hell to pay on the horizon.

Haig’s plan was to break the German lines by levelling their front lines with a massive bombardment in the week before the attack. Nineteen British and three French divisions would then advance across no man’s land in the expectation that the enemy would be so shattered that barbed wire could be cut and their trench lines seized, allowing them to advance into the open country behind. As John Keegan explains, Haig and his advisers were so confident of the impact of their artillery that ‘… they had decided not to allow the inexperienced infantry to advance by the tried and tested means of “fire and movement”, when some lay down to cover with rifle volleys the advance of the rest, but to keep them moving forward upright and in straight lines’.⁴ The advancing troops would walk straight across with a creeping barrage of artillery falling ahead of them, which was designed to keep the Germans out of their parapets before the Allies were on top of them. But, as history records, the coming attack would prove to be an unmitigated disaster; all the Allied expectations would be dashed in a dreadful and bloody carnage of machine-gun- and shellfire. And, as Keegan comments, the generals should have known: ‘The simple truth of 1914–1918 trench warfare is that the massing of large numbers of soldiers unprotected by anything but cloth uniforms, however they were trained, however equipped, against large masses of other soldiers, protected by earthworks and barbed wire and provided with rapid-fire weapons, was bound to result in very heavy casualties among the attackers.’⁵

As will be evident in the following photographs, what makes them so special is their intimacy and humour. Madame Thuillier took many of the portraits and perhaps it was the sight of her beautiful face that sparked a smile from the weary men straight from the trenches. It is the very special humanity and humour of the Thuillier pictures, their normality at a time when so many of these young men went off to their deaths, that makes them so distinctive. Perhaps these soldiers realized their chances of surviving this war unscathed were remote and that this was a last opportunity to send a photograph back home.

PLATE 124 These three soldiers from an unidentified regiment wear identity bracelets on their wrists. The flags on the sleeve of the private in the middle show he is a qualified signaller. His friends hold the rank chevrons of a corporal (the soldier on the left) and lance corporal.

Most of the photographs are of British soldiers and a few airmen, Scots in their kilts and English, Welsh and Irish regiments. But there were also Indians, Nepalese and a host of other nationalities from across the British Empire. For one brief, horrific moment in history they were all thrust together into a brutal, ghastly killing maw only a short distance from the ordinary daily life of this small French country town. And when those soldiers came to rest, recuperate and nurse their wounds before they returned to the front lines, Vignacourt was where they relaxed and tried to forget the war.

PLATE 125 The service caps on the ground represent several famous British regiments: (left to right) Essex, Royal Berkshire, Suffolk (two caps) and Norfolk.

During research for this book, the common and frequently voiced refrain from descendants of First World War veterans is how little their fathers or grandfathers ever spoke about their experiences on the Western Front. Sebastian Faulks described this conspiracy of silence admirably in his historical novel Birdsong through his fictional character Captain Stephen Wraysford, writing of his time on the Western Front:

No child or future generation will ever know what this was like. They will never understand. When it is over, we will go quietly among the living and we will not tell them. We will talk and sleep and go about our business like human beings. We will seal what we have seen in the silence of our hearts and no words will reach us.⁶

This unwillingness by the soldiers who came home to tell of what they had seen perhaps explains why the Thuillier images, nearly a century on, now arouse so much emotion. One hundred years’ passing has healed much of the initial grief felt by the families of those who died, those who were horribly maimed or those who were simply never seen or heard of again. The temptation to put that horror in the past, to tell the children never to talk about it, must have been intense. Now, with the centenary of 1914–18, there is renewed focus on the grief but there is also an intense pride and curiosity. The names of the battles of the First World War stand as grim metaphors for suffering: Mons, Ypres, Arras, the Somme, Fromelles, Pozières, Passchendaele … and the men who fought in them are long dead. But the soldiers you see in these pages strode those fields; many died, many were wounded and every one of them suffered.

‘Never before in our history had such an army been gathered, and never again would such an army be seen … True we launched greater armies and won greater victories in the two years that followed; but – the very flower of a race can bloom but once in a generation. The flower of our generation bloomed and perished during the first four months of the First Battle of the Somme. We shall not look upon their like again.’

Major J. H. Beith in The Willing Horse (1921) by Ian Hay

York and Lancaster Regiment

PLATE 126 The cap badge of the York and Lancaster Regiment.

PLATE 127 Two of the highest-ranking officers identified in the Thuillier collection: 9th Battalion York and Lancaster commander Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Addison (left) poses with his second-in-command Major Harry Lewis (right) at Vignacourt in late March 1916. On the following 1 July, both men elected to lead their men into battle on the first day of the Somme – and both would die, within three months of this photograph being taken.

‘Going in with the lads’

By the time the photograph above was taken, these two high-ranking officers of the 9th Battalion of the York and Lancaster Regiment had been through more than eighteen months on the Western Front, including the Battle of Loos in late September 1915. For months since the disastrous British losses at Loos, the battalion’s commander, Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Addison, and his second-in-command, Major Harry Lewis, had pushed their men – most of them Yorkshire miners – extremely hard in training near the French town of Saint-Omer, preparing them for an assault somewhere on the entrenched German front lines that they knew was soon to come. Both officers finally learned the attack would be on the Somme when, in January 1916, their 9th York and Lancaster Battalion was deployed 100 kilometres south from Saint-Omer to Vignacourt. We know this photograph was taken sometime in late March 1916, in the final weeks of their time there – and, sadly, we also now know it to be the final months of both their lives.

It is wonderful to be able to identify these two dignified-looking senior officers because their faces and story might so easily have been lost in the fog of war; and they are two of the highest-ranking officers identified up to now in the Thuillier images. For within a few months of their photographs being taken by the Thuilliers, Lieutenant Colonel Addison and Major Lewis would be two of the thousand or so British officers who would die ‘on the German wire’ on the very first day of the Somme. We only know who they are because, over half a century later, in February 1970, an elderly gentleman by the name of Philip Brocklesby, who had been a lieutenant in the 13th York and Lancasters, and was clearly a chum of Addison and Lewis, took the trouble to remember both men because, he lamented, so little was told of their steadfastness and courage in the regiment’s official history. He sent his story and a faded print of the Thuillier image to the regimental journal’s editors.

Brocklesby had been an orderly room clerk private with the 9th from May to November 1915, no doubt winning a commission after Loos, but he wrote of the warm affection and regard in which all the men of the 9th held both Addison and Lewis. Of Colonel Addison he quoted one soldier describing him as a ‘pleasant, quiet, Regular officer recalled from half-pay, not a dynamic man but a responsible soldier with right principles about training troops’.¹ His second-in-command, Major Harry Lewis, was a former Guards sergeant major who was remembered for his formidable discipline and drill training. As the account in the regimental journal The Tiger & Rose details:

Major Lewis impressed on me and my friends one lesson at least; that young officers have no privileges and no rights; but only duties. Woe betide any subaltern who ever so much as enquired after his dinner until he had seen his men fed and made comfortable; or who kept them standing at ‘attention’ when they might have been ‘standing at ease’.²

^{There was also the story of how, when they were training in England, the colonel had led them on a sixteen-mile route march; four miles into the hike with full kit Addison turned them around and made them pick up the litter they had left at their departure point. ‘The 9th never left any more litter after that!’3} The men also joked how Major Lewis had the loudest voice of command that anyone had ever heard, claiming that his commands could be heard from four miles away.

In 1916, Lieutenant Colonel Addison was a married man of forty-nine and Major Lewis was fifty-four. Both had families back in England but, after the horrors of 1915, they knew as British officers that they had little chance of surviving the war unscathed. Colonel Addison had a lot to live up to; his father, Thomas Addison, was a general in the British Army and Arthur had followed him into the regular army, serving in the Royal Irish Rifles. When war was declared he was living in England and he was recalled into the army to head up the 9th Battalion when it was formed in the West Riding of Yorkshire in September 1914. Major Lewis had started off in the ranks, earning his stripes in the 1898 Sudan campaign to become a sergeant major in the Grenadier Guards before he moved across to the York and Lancaster Regiment. The 8th and 9th Battalions of the York and Lancaster were part of the 70th Brigade initially attached to the British 23rd Division. But in the lead-up to the Battle of the Somme, their 70th Brigade was transferred to the 8th Division under General Sir Henry Rawlinson’s Fourth Army. Beside them in the 70th were other Yorkshiremen: the 8th Battalion the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and the 11th Battalion the Sherwood Foresters. None of them, their commanders included, really had any idea what kind of impossible attack they were about to be sent into.

In the lead-up to the beginning of the Somme offensive, the 70th Brigade moved into the Le Boisselle–Thiepval sector. In this part of the front, no man’s land was very wide and was particularly hazardous because it lay under the sights of the higher German-held trenches and their machine-gun posts. It was also wide open to the German artillery spotters.

PLATE 128 A York and Lancaster soldier (standing) with a soldier from the Sherwood Foresters. The Sherwood Foresters were also part of the 70th Brigade attack on 1 July 1916.

On 30 June, the brigade, along with the rest of the 8th Division, was in position – the 8th York and Lancaster and the 8th King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry were to be in the initial assault with the 11th Sherwood Foresters and the 9th York and Lancaster coming up behind in reserve. What followed at 7.30 a.m. on 1 July when the barrage lifted, as with so many other battalions all along the Allied line, was a massacre. The Allied barrage had not destroyed the German defences and, as the Tommies went over the top, they were cut down by the heavy machine-gun fire pouring down from the German positions. When it was time for the 9th to go over in the following waves at 8.40 a.m., they must have known what would be their fate. But in the face of certain death the two commanders made a fateful decision.

Instructions had been issued to commanders during the battle plan for the opening attack that officers who were second in command should remain behind, to ensure the battalions could re-form under experienced leadership if the commander fell in battle. However, as Philip Brocklesby’s ‘Tiger & Rose’ account details, Major Lewis refused to stay behind in safety, insisting on ‘going in with the lads he had trained’. It was a noble and ­­courag­eous decision but a wretchedly pointless one; he and Lieutenant Colonel Addison were cut down by German artillery and machine-gun fire within seconds of leaving their trenches. By 7 p.m., the few bloodied remnants of their 9th Battalion had made it back to the British lines, although more than half of their number lay out on the battlefield behind them.

The artillery barrage in front of the 70th Brigade had actually cut the German wire defences and the first and second lines on the Thiepval ridge were captured. But by the time the 9th York and Lancasters came up in support the Germans had rallied their defence and even before they left their assembly point one of the four 9th Battalion companies had lost half of its men to precise German artillery fire. One account, from Lance Corporal John Cook of the 9th Battalion, describes how he could hear the wounded screaming for help in the battlefield; it sounded ‘like enormous wet fingers screeching across an enormous pane of glass. Some of the wounded screamed, some muttered, some wept with fear, some called for help, others shouted in delirium or groaned in pain.’⁴ The men who had seized the German lines at Thiepval fought bravely for another six hours until they were overwhelmed and killed by the Germans. Most of those who died were mates from the Pals battalions in Sheffield and Barnsley.

PLATE 129 An officer of the York and Lancaster Regiment (right) with an officer of the West Yorkshires (left).

The 9th Battalion lost twenty-three officers and 517 other ranks on that single day, the blackest in British military history. Their chums from the 8th Battalion suffered even worse, losing twenty-three officers and 617 other ranks. Two hundred of those men of the 9th lay dead, in rough lines where they had fallen across no man’s land, among them the bodies of Lewis and Addison. The commander’s body could not be recovered for months because the fire across the open ground was so intense during the Battle of the Somme. It is a painful detail, recorded in Anthony Seldon and David Walsh’s book Public Schools and the Great War, that when Lieutenant Colonel Addison’s body was found, his diary was also retrieved. It revealed he had lived for two or three days before succumbing to his wounds on the battlefield.⁵ Poignantly, he had also written in his diary: ‘Tell the Regiment I hope they did well.’ Back in England, Mildred Addison of Chelsea and Charlotte Lewis of Hertford were about to receive the news they must have dreaded. Lieutenant Colonel Addison is buried in Becourt Military Cemetery but the body of Major Lewis was never found. He has no known grave but is remembered on the Thiepval Memorial. As an elderly Philip Brocklesby wrote in 1970: ‘Perhaps … these two will be remembered.’