Regret to Inform You... (45 page)

It was sometime later, how many days Albert had no idea, that he found himself resting in a barn with Mike alongside him. They occasionally talked, each recognising the other's fear. Private Mike Marsden was thirty-nine and had joined the army when conscription had come in. He was a passionate family man with eight children and a wife who suffered badly from asthma; he had hated leaving his small Yorkshire village and family. He, too, had been through terrible times in the Somme and had felt growingly certain of his own forthcoming death.

Soon fresh orders arrived. The Germans had rapidly advanced several miles but, for reasons unknown to the allied command, their battalions had come to a halt. Rumours trickled through that they had run out of ammunition or that the Americans caused an unexpected halt to their advance; all that Albert and Mike knew was that they were ordered back to the front line. It was on the second evening in their hurriedly dug-out trench they were told of a fresh initiative: an attack would take place at 06.30 the following morning. Albert had prepared for so many attacks that he responded automatically: gun cleaned and other weapons checked. His new mate Mike, who was alongside him, offered a hurried prayer. The summer morning was grey and as the time approached, the great roar of allied guns presaged the assault and a dense smokescreen was laid to conceal the attack; a tactic too well known by the Germans. The whistle blew at 06.30 precisely; no scramble up a makeshift ladder from this shallow trench, just the clamber
over
the top and then the crouching, dipping and weaving run that Albert had adopted so many times. The Germans adopted their normal response with blind fire, but random though it was, Albert saw men dropping on all sides and heard screaming as he ran on and on. Unlike earlier times when massive barbed-wire walls had been erected, there had been no time for such enemy defences. Albert ploughed on, one of a mad, fiendish band of khaki-clad figures; suddenly they were in the enemy makeshift trenches, time had not allowed deep digging. Enemy arms were raised and guns thrown aside: a victory at last.

The sun cut through the clouds and the warmth matched the elation that descended on most of the men; not on Albert. He had survived again. It was the next day when Lieutenant Roebuck was carrying out an inspection that the young officer stopped and pointed at Albert and some men nearby: ‘You eight men get back to number two line and report to Sergeant Manning. He's got a job for you.' Turning to the man next to Albert, the Lieutenant added: ‘Corporal Brownlow, you're in charge.'

Thirty minutes later, a shock awaited the men. The exhausted-looking Sergeant Manning briefly explained: ‘In the last attack one man refused to move. He tried to hide in the trench. A court martial has sentenced him to be executed. Six of you will be in the firing squad, you two,' pointing at Albert and a fair-haired lad who barely looked out of school, ‘will guard him until the morning.' The six men paled, this was the worst of all orders; Albert could only feel a little relief that he was not one of them.

A second, more intense shock hit Albert a few minutes later when he and the other selected to act as a guard were marched by the sergeant to the prisoner; it was the shaking figure of Private Mike Marsden, the father of eight from Yorkshire. His prison was but a shell-hole, two privates stood nearby, rifles to the ready. They were to be replaced by Albert and the young
private
until the execution early the following morning. The condemned man did not look up when the guard change took place.

That night Albert managed to engage his former mate in brief conversations. Although fear gripped every part of his body, Private Marsden understood that he was to die in a few hours. ‘My family, my Joyce, what will they do now? I have betrayed them,' he broke down in to pitiful sobbing. That night Albert was more comforter than guard; the other guard sat by in his own world of mental distress.

As the first glimmer of light showed on that July morning the execution party prepared. The six men in the firing squad knew that only two had loaded rifles, the other four with blanks; none would know who fired the fatal shot. But the next shots fired were not from any of these men, but a huge barrage of cannon fire followed by the earth shattering explosion of enemy shells. The Germans had launched a final, desperate assault in this sector of the Front. In this war when life or death frequently hinged on chance, a huge explosion shattered the area. The two guards were killed instantly, the execution party and condemned man either killed or severely injured in the blast which created yet another shell-hole in this pitiless landscape.

In the last week of August, Peter Woods rode in to Rusfield carrying a telegram with the news of the thirty-fourth war death. A month later, Susannah and Sidney Jones received a package which contained a small identity disc bearing the name of their son, his number, rank, regiment and religious denomination.

C
HAPTER FIFTY-ONE

August - November 1918

That two old soldiers, Sebastian de Maine and Robert Berry, were the first to seriously discuss the best way to commemorate the village men who had died was unsurprising. The idea spread with increasing intensity in the three drinking houses and George Cooper raised it at the St Mary's church council. A village hall to be built on the land adjacent to the school, recommended by the Mothers' Union, appeared the most favoured idea, although others soon emerged: a memorial garden at the school where the men had spent their young days and a stained-glass window at the west end of St Mary's. A slightly boisterous discussion broke out at The Queens Head for the commemorative garden to be on the village green, not at the school, but Rachel Fielding suggested to her customers that a stone monument with the men's names suitably inscribed be placed near the church.

The morning service on the first Sunday in August fell on the eve of the national Bank Holiday, but in most minds, marked four years since the war had started. Arthur Windle had deliberated long over his sermon and after discussion with the Reverend Reggie Gregg at the Methodist chapel, decided to encourage the establishment of a memorial fund. On that day, which again saw a full church, he started: ‘My
dear
friends, I know there are different ideas how we can best commemorate the brave men who have died whilst serving our King and country, but I would earnestly suggest that we put on one side exactly how this be done; there will be time enough for that when the war is over. There are encouraging signs that the allied armies are gaining, but sadly, before the war ends there will be more men who will die.' Even as he spoke, Arthur could see nods of agreement and when he spoke of starting a collection the nods of approval increased. Arthur knew that his good friend was putting forward the same idea at the Methodist chapel. By the following Sunday £17 13s 6d had been collected and the fund grew.

However, the creation of a memorial fund provoked further anxiety. Thirty-six men with strong Rusfield connections had already died, but a further 182 were still fighting. The families of these men waited in fear; the rest of the village shared in their anxiety.

For Doris Groves, fear was shared with remorse. Ever since Susannah and Sidney Jones had received news of the death of Albert, Doris had never been far from tears. A thousand times she wished she had never written the letter to him months earlier; why had she ever penned those words? She saw it as her own selfishness, her lack of understanding of him being torn from her and his family. She should have listened to her dear friend, Grace, who patiently bore the absence of her beloved Abraham with apparent composure. She knew life was full of “if onlys”, but if only she had posted the letter, she might have waited for Peter Woods and retrieved it, but no, she had gone to the postbox as he was emptying it and given the letter to him. Within minutes she had deeply regretted writing of ending their relationship, but by the time she had cycled into Steepleton and found Peter at the post office, the letter had gone to the railway station. Only Grace knew that the next day she had travelled to London where she thought the letter would go; maybe she could recover it. Her
enquiries
at the Liverpool Street post office took her on the underground train to Baker Street and then the short walk to Regent's Park, but disappointment greeted her. The whole of Regent's Park, which she had once been to on a family outing, was covered in a gigantic structure. She approached two guards who were hovering near the entrance to the park, but when she had asked one about reclaiming her letter, he had burst out laughing. The other, recognising the trembling nature of her question, threw up his hands and said, ‘I'm sorry, love. There is no chance. I don't expect you know, but there are two and a half thousand ladies here sorting letters and parcels; they get through thousands each day. I'm sorry.' Tears had clouded her return and had rarely stopped whenever she was on her own. Doris' anguish had not lessened in the four months since writing the letter in May.

In the intervening months, news had come of the deaths of Billy Griggs and Jimmy Thomas whilst Charlie Wayman, still in a London hospital, had lost his left leg and would not be back home for three months. Fred Jackson or Jack Mansfield often drove Charlie's wife, Freda, to Steepleton to visit her husband in London.

It was on a misty day in late September that a remarkable event occurred; soon, and for many years to come, to be known as the “Rusfield miracle”, it was nothing less. Peter Woods had no idea of the life-changing nature of one letter he was carrying. He delivered a small package to Jack Mansfield, then called at the Jones' house in Wood Lane but, as usual finding no one at home, decided to deliver it to their butcher's shop in Pond Street. As with all those who had lost a loved one, Peter felt great sympathy; none more than towards Susannah and Sidney Jones. Pulling up outside the shop, he entered to find them as busy as ever; Susannah having just placed some beef and onion pies in the rear oven and Sidney behind the counter. Peter held the door open as Eliza Carey came out,
bade
her a good morning and took the few steps towards Susannah. ‘Good morning,' he addressed her in his cheerful manner, ‘just one letter for you.' After her acknowledgement and a greeting from her husband, Peter turned and left. He had seen a slight puzzlement on Susannah's face as she took the letter; had he stayed a minute longer he would have heard her cry out. She had wiped her hands on her apron, opened the envelope, unfolded the letter and almost immediately collapsed on a nearby stool.

‘What is it, love?' her husband asked as he came quickly to her.

‘It's… it's from Albert. Look,' she said thrusting the letter to him. ‘What does it mean? I don't understand.'

Sidney joined his wife in total bewilderment. ‘Maybe it's just been long delayed, a letter he wrote months ago.'

‘But that can't be. Look at the date: twenty-sixth of August. It doesn't say this year, but it must be.' Together they read:

Dear loving parents,

I'm afraid this letter will be another shock as I haven't written for a long time. A mate of mine, whose name is also Albert, is writing it for me as my right hand and arm are still bandaged. Don't worry, I really am all right and I'm sorry to give you worries again. I don't really know all that has happened, but it won't be long before I'm back home. I can't remember everything and it's difficult to explain in a letter. What is important is to send my love; I think so much about you and Flo, Willy, Henrietta and George. Give them a big hug from me. I was injured by another shell and ended up in hospital again. I'm not sure exactly when. It seems I was there for several weeks before I was moved to this hospital which is near Calais; I can see the sea. The doctor said I needed feeding up and I've put on a lot of weight. Last week my leg came out of plaster and I can walk really well now and won't need my stick in a few
days.
The doctor said I can go home in about three weeks. I can't wait to see you all. Please remember me to all my friends as well, especially Doris if she ever asks after me. I thought about writing to her but I don't really think she would want a letter from me.

Your loving son Albert

‘He's alive,' gasped Susannah. ‘So he's been injured again, but he's all right. I can't believe it, but it must be true, mustn't it Sid?'

‘Of course it must, my love. I don't know what's happened, but someone must have got things terribly wrong. I suppose with so many being killed, things get mixed up.' He put his one arm round Susannah and both cried; in joy, in wonderful joy. ‘I'll make a cup of tea and then let's close the shop for the rest of today. Who would believe it?' The “Rusfield miracle” had been born.

Putting up the closed sign twenty minutes later, Susannah and Sidney decided to make one call before walking home. They had been close to Arthur Windle since he had persuaded Sidney's employers at the brewery to give him some compensation; his efforts had enabled them to buy the shop. On that occasion, six years earlier, Arthur and Eleanor had been surprised when Susannah had thrown her arms round him; he was no less surprised now. Her explanation was confused and even when they were all sitting down in the vicarage kitchen, he did not really understand. Then they showed him the letter. His faith did not embrace a belief that God had intervened in saving their son; why not the others who had died? But he silently thanked God and could feel Eleanor sharing in the joyful news.

Customers had been surprised to find the butchers shut, but by early evening there were few villagers who had not heard the news. Amazement and joy abounded. However, Arthur was not the only one who realised that others in
mourning
would now cling to a hope which would surely not be repeated; nor was it in Rusfield.

By late October when the news from Europe finally showed victory to be in sight, Private Albert Jones came back to the village. The family rejoicing was constantly interrupted by a succession of friends calling at the cottage in Wood Lane. Albert's return was the source of celebration that the village had not known for years. He did not have the strong look of the man who had gone to war, but anyone with him in the trenches six months earlier would have been surprised at the rebirth from his terribly haggard, torn look. He walked with a slight limp and his right hand, the one that Nurse Betty Hazlett had treated two and half years previously, was improving.