Monthly Archives: November 2016

A Typical Day

Here’s a typical day, as told to Pips:

6:30: Arrive back from night duty at the mine. Sit down on bed and servant brings a cup of tea.

6:30-8:00: Generally doze off to sleep after being up most of the night.

8:30: Breakfast – usually porridge, eggs & bacon, bread, butter & jam, and tea.

9:00: Wash and brush up; change boots and socks  usually wet from wading about in the muddy trenches; then read till about 10:30.

10:30: Inspect rifles of working party returned at 9 o’clock, usually go round and ask what sort of breakfast the men have, and generally receive complaints. But they always have complaints, and unless anything very special, take no notice as they are very well treated as regards rations: they have a slice of bread, rasher of bacon and tea for breakfast with jam sometimes; good stew made from fresh meat for dinner and bread and cheese etc for sort of tea/supper.

Letter to Pips, 3 November 1916. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/1/1/3/103)

Letter to Pips, 3 November 1916. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/1/1/3/103)

11:00-1:00: Either start writing you letters, or read. Or, if I have had a busy night without much sleep, I have a nap.

1:00 o’clock: Lunch: today we had soup – some tinned lobster – tinned fruit and coffee (I expect this luxury makes you stagger – but it does not cost much and as we buy our own lunch we get as nice a things as we can). We have been here about 10 days now and have spent 78 francs in rations – which, seeing that there are two of us (and three for part of the time), works out quite moderately. [78 Francs was worth about £2 15 shillings, at a time when the daily pay of an Infantry 2nd Lieutenant was about 7s 6d]

1:00-4:00: Reading, writing, censoring letters, and various little jobs attached to our work, with fairly frequent intervals of watching the Germans bombard our aeroplanes or watching bombardments in the distance…We have absolutely got the upper hand in the air – you see a dozen or two of our aeroplanes hovering about and hardly ever one of “Fritz’s”.

4:30: Tea – usually plain, except when a parcel has arrived.

5:30: One of us leaves to go up on duty – the other stays at home and (if I am off) go on writing (you would be surprised if you knew the time I spend on letter writing), and reading and anything else that may be required.

7:00: Check rations when they come up, and see if all correct.

8:30: Have dinner – sometimes fried steak, onions or potatoes etc.

9:30: Get settled in bed and read for a bit and then go to sleep.

So you see – our time is pretty much our own after duty.

[Next letter: 4 November]

 

UPDATE: Harman’s Corner

In a post published on 18 October, entitled ‘Thinking of Home’, I quoted Sherriff’s letter in which he wrote: ‘I hope the time will come again when I shall walk round Harmans corner… and come across Seymour Road and see puss sitting on the wall…’.

Thanks to Alison Merrington and Ray Elmitt of Hampton Wick, Harmans Corner can be identified as being at the junction of 68 High Street (where Walter Harman had a shop) and Seymour Road, diagonally opposite Sherriff’s house. Click here to see Ray’s photos.

Thanks to both of them for the information.

Shirkers

‘There is always something about the look of the man who shirks,’ he told his mother, and he did not like dealing with them: ‘You have to pretend to be angry and say all sorts of uncomplimentary things to them.’ On the other hand, he acknowledged, it did seem unfair that, as an officer, he had ‘better food, better quarters, better work and everything made easier – whatever an officer endures physically his men are enduring worse.’ He tried to make up for this by being ‘as nice and easy with them men’ as he could, but ‘this results in lack of discipline – lack of respect and the result is that…you make up for all the niceness by giving the man a necessary telling off.’

Shirkers and discipline aside, the days were passing uneventfully, although he had just watched the Germans firing at British aeroplanes, but without success (as usual). So mostly he chatted in his letter about waiting for parcels to come, or about the progress of letters to and from home. His thoughts were also beginning to turn towards Christmas, which had always been a very special time for him: ‘Sometimes, when I am standing in a trench watching the dawn break it reminds me of the times I have lain in bed gazing at [the] sumptuously distorted stocking holding so many good and funny things, waiting for it to get light enough to open it…’

He did not expect to get home for it, but he hoped he would, at least, have a fairly jolly time where he was. Of course, Christmas was still a few weeks away, but ‘every day brings us nearer to the end of it all, and to dear old home and our poultry farm, and everything else that has kept me happy looking forward to.’

[Next letters: 3 November]

A born comedian

He told Pips that he was still enjoying his work, although there was one drawback: ‘…you have plenty of responsibility and all bad work is blamed onto you – still, you can’t have money for nothing and there is worry with every job.’ On the whole the work was uneventful, and even on their days off-duty, there was still enough to occupy them that the time seemed to pass very quickly.

He was conscious that the 5th November was coming up soon, and he fondly recalled his father and uncle trying to organise, from a 2 shilling box, small firework displays (‘wonderful to our unpractised eyes’), but burning themselves by lighting “Blue Devils” at the wrong end. He wished he could be at home to ‘indulge in a few of these little pleasures once more.’

He went on to tell Pips about their troubles with the rats, of which he reckoned there must be millions – so many that even a ‘Pied Piper who wasn’t German’ would have to work pretty hard to keep the numbers down. They were doing what they could to protect their supplies – packing everything in sandbags and stringing them from the roof – but the rats were showing great ingenuity in opening tins and chewing their way through metal, so he reckoned it would only be a matter of time before they pulled the sandbags down.

Alexander Field as Mason the cook, with Colin  Clive (Stanhope) in the original 1929 Savoy production of Journey's End. Photo by the Stage Photo Company. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: ESR/19/2/6(4))

Alexander Field as Mason the cook, with Colin Clive (Stanhope) in the original 1929 Savoy production of Journey’s End. Photo by the Stage Photo Company. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: ESR/19/2/6(4))

He was augmenting his reading of Marcus Aurelius with Scott’s novel, Guy Mannering, and with whatever papers were around. Outside the dugout, the sounds of war continued – ‘tap! tap! tap!’ – and they had recently been startled by some trench mortar shells landing nearby. But still there was scope for plenty of fun, mainly from the men, and Morris in particular, who was a ‘born comedian’:

‘Yesterday we were a bit short of provisions and were arranging our dinner – we had a soup tablet, some tinned pork & beans, a little tin of lobster and some coffee – [Morris] took off his hat in a perplexed way saying:  “Soup – fish – pork – beans – coffee – it don’t seem to rhyme properly, do it?” I leave it to you to puzzle out what he meant.’

[Next letter: 2 November]