From Ice Floes to Battlefields Read online

  The story of how the Broke and Swift had seen off an entire squadron of German destroyers captured the public imagination. The sailors who had fought hand-to-hand on deck ‘in the old way’ and their commanding officers, now known as ‘Evans of the Broke’ and ‘Peck of the Swift’, became national heroes. One newspaper published a cartoon showing Evans in polar gear, glaring up at two tiny Germans perched atop a slender iceberg; the captions read ‘Got Fritz Up the Pole’ and ‘Hans and Fritz – Good Evans’.

  Evans and Peck were both awarded DSOs and promoted to captain; several Broke and Swift crew members were decorated, promoted or noted for accelerated advancement. On Saturday, 2 June King George presented Evans and Peck and servicemen with their medals in Hyde Park.16 Scarlet-coated bandsmen and guardsmen and kilted pipers marched up Constitution Hill into the park and a trumpet fanfare announced the arrival of the king. The monarch was greeted by cheers, salutes and a rousing rendition of the National Anthem; following the presentation ceremony the band played ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave’ and aeroplanes circled overhead.

  According to newspaper reports Evans could not stop smiling. The following week, at a private luncheon hosted by friends at Liverpool’s Cotton Exchange, Evans agreed to sketch some penguins on a menu card, so it could be auctioned for charity; such was his celebrity that it raised 1,000 guineas for the Red Cross.17

  While the war seemed to suit Teddy Evans’ temperament, others were becoming increasingly disillusioned about a conflict which politicians seemed unable or (as some believed) unwilling to bring to a conclusion. During July 1917, Hastings Lees-Smith, an anti-war Liberal MP, brought to the attention of the House of Commons a letter, or ‘declaration’, written by Second Lieutenant Siegfried Sassoon, DSO. In his declaration Sassoon, who was also a published poet, claimed that the war had changed from one of defence and liberation to one of aggression and conquest.

  The Under-Secretary of State for War responded that Sassoon had been examined by a medical board and found to be suffering from the after-effects of a battle-induced nervous breakdown. Given this, he could not be considered responsible for his actions and consequent breach of military discipline. Siegfried Sassoon would, instead of being court-martialled, be sent for psychiatric treatment.

  Sassoon, who moved in the same circles as Brooke’s mentor and patron Edward Marsh, would have been aware of the extent of the losses suffered within Brooke’s Hood Battalion circle. Patrick Shaw-Stewart had returned to Hood Battalion in mid-1916 after a period of service in Salonika. In mid-December 1917, following Arthur Asquith’s promotion to Brigadier-General of RND’s 189th Brigade (which included Hood), Shaw-Stewart replaced him as Hood Battalion commander. On 30 December 1917 he was killed by shells whilst making the rounds of his men in their snow-fringed trenches. His place at the head of Hood Battalion was taken by his friend and Gallipoli comrade-in-arms William Egerton.

  Two days after Asquith arrived in his new post a German sniper shot him twice in the same leg.18 Field hospital doctors amputated his damaged leg then sent him back to London for further treatment. The king visited Asquith in hospital and presented him with a DSO. On 30 April 1918, still on crutches, Asquith married Elizabeth Manners, whom he had known since his schooldays.

  Freyberg was also in London recuperating from wounds received at Passchendaele.19 Still only 28, he was now a brigade commander and held a Victoria Cross for his ‘most conspicuous gallantry’ at Beaucourt. Since returning to England he had spent much of his time with J.M. Barrie, to whom Kathleen Scott had introduced him.

  Freyberg’s other regular companion was a young widow, Barbara McLaren, whom he had met (and fallen for) in 1916. Barbara had, at that time, been married to the Hon. Francis McLaren, a pilot who had died in a flying accident during summer 1917. Barbara was connected to Freyberg’s friends the Asquiths through her cousin Katherine Frances Horner (of Mells), Raymond Asquith’s widow; Barbara and Katherine were also nieces of Gertrude Jekyll, the well-known garden designer.

  By December 1917 Edward Nelson had settled into his new role at the Board of Invention and Research in London. The BIR had been established as a branch of the Admiralty in 1915 under the chairmanship of Admiral ‘Jackie’ Fisher. It had originally operated from some rooms at the Metropole Hotel but now occupied a house in Cockspur Street – which the ebulliently optimistic Fisher had renamed ‘Victory House’.20 BIR was supervised by a board of eminent scientists and naval representatives and staffed by scientists of different disciplines. Nelson now spent his days, as he had done in Antarctica, working with fellow scientists on a range of projects. The Marine Laboratory in Plymouth had also made it clear that he was welcome to return to his work with them when he completed his war service.21

  Nelson’s erstwhile marine biologist colleague Dennis Lillie had been giving Atkinson, Cherry-Garrard and Debenham cause for concern. Lillie, a conscientious objector, had volunteered for non-combatant scientific work but had gradually become increasingly depressed, delusional and suicidal until, in February 1918, he was admitted to Bethlem Hospital (popularly known as ‘Bedlam’) for treatment.22 The hospital usually only accepted patients on a short-term basis, but when the trustees of the Captain Scott Memorial Fund offered to contribute to the costs of treatment, an exception was made. When doctors asked Lillie whether he thought his hardships in Antarctica might have contributed to his state of mind he told them his time with the Terra Nova expedition had been amongst the happiest periods of his life.

  Notes

  Information is from cited documents, Huntford, Smith (Shackleton) and publicly available material.

  1. Priestley, ‘Wireless Memories Round and About the First World War’.

  2. Wright et al., ‘Epilogue’, in Silas: The Antarctic Diaries and Memoir of Charles S. Wright.

  3. Wright to Cherry-Garrard, 2 March 1916, quoted in Wright et al., Silas, p. 377 (original at SPRI).

  4. Wright to Cherry-Garrard, 8 July 1916, quoted in Wright et al., Silas, pp. 378–9 (original at SPRI).

  5. Debenham to Cherry-Garrard, 10 May 1916, SPRI/MS559/24.

  6. The wedding took place on 27 January 1917 at St Phillip’s, Kensington.

  7. Cherry-Garrard, pp. 179–80.

  8. Huntford, Shackleton, p. 383.

  9. Ship’s passenger lists, www.ancestry.co.uk.

  10. Referred to in letter of 28 March 1916 from Churchill to his wife Clementine (quoted in part in Tyler-Lewis, pp. 217–8 and endnote, and Huntford, Shackleton, pp.488–9 and note, and in full in Martin Gilbert, Winston S. Churchill, Volume Three Companion (Heinemann, 1972) p. 1468.

  11. The Times, 27 March 1916.

  12. Ibid. 29 December 1916, 1 and 10 January, and 27 April 1917.

  13. John Murray (which remained a family firm until 2002) published biographies of Wilson and Bowers, something Reginald Smith would have undoubtedly done.

  14. Monitor ships carried heavy guns used in bombardments from the water in support of troops.

  15. Evans, Keeping the Seas; Admiralty and other reports (The Times, 23, 25, 26 April 1917).

  16. The Times, 4 June 1917.

  17. Liverpool Daily Post, 12 June 1917; 1,000 guineas is £1,050.

  18. Events are described from Asquith’s and Freyberg’s standpoints in Page and Freyberg respectively.

  19. Ibid.

  20. The BIR is mentioned and described in Nelson’s and Brady’s service records; see also J.J. Thomson (2011 [1936]), Recollections and Reflections, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, p. 206.

  21. Brady, Nelson’s supervisor, described him as zealous, hardworking and possessing sound scientific knowledge (Nelson’s service records, National Archives, ADM/337/117). Nelson’s name appears on the cover of the Plymouth Marine Laboratory’s December 1917 journal as a member of staff (despite still being attached to the BIR).

  22. 21 February 2011 posting on www.museumofthemind.org.uk (Bethlem Hospital).

  16

  A Norwegian ‘Warbird’ Keeps his Promise

/>   When Tryggve Gran travelled to London in October 1916 to join the Royal Flying Corps he became the third ‘Antarctic’ to join Britain’s air service.

  Cecil Meares had joined the Royal Naval Air Service in April 1915, immediately after resigning from the Northumberland Hussars. He had sat the War Office’s languages test and been awarded first-class passes in spoken French, German and Russian and in written French, and second-class passes in spoken German and Russian – something which would make him eligible for additional allowances. He was attached to the RNAS’s new ‘No. 4 Wing’ and was sometimes based at its Dunkirk base – which meant that he regularly passed through Dover and, as he told his wife Annie, sometimes bumped into people he knew:1

  Mrs Evans travelled down to Dover with me, she was looking very nice; the country was lovely with all the fruit trees in flower … I dined with Commander & Mrs Evans, they were very kind; Evans … is stationed here in Dunkirk and has several destroyers under his command. Campbell is also coming here in command of the Mohawk.

  Jim Dennistoun, with whom Meares climbed Little Mount Peel in 1912, had arrived in England in mid-1915 and joined the Royal Flying Corps in June 1916.2 His parents were still in England, as was his close friend and erstwhile climbing companion Ada Julius, who had qualified as a VAD nurse. Dennistoun arrived in England just after his younger brother George (whose leg was broken by Pennell’s mount at Peel Forest in 1913) had passed through on his way to a new posting on Lake Nyasa.3

  Dennistoun initially joined the North Irish Horse regiment and, after a period of training at Netheravon Cavalry School, left for France with the 33rd Division of the BEF. At Netheravon he had visited the neighbouring flying school where the Royal Flying Corps trained pilots for front line service. On his return from his tour of duty in France he went for an interview with the RFC (in which his cousin Herbie Russell was already serving). Three months later Dennistoun was ready to join his cousin on sorties, acting as observer.

  On 26 June 1916 Russell and Dennistoun climbed into their aircraft, which was equipped with two Lewis guns and loaded with bombs. They flew over the Channel to France, where they were due to rendezvous with four other aircraft at 7,000ft over Arras. From there they would cross the German front line together and release their bombs over the German trenches.

  Shortly after take-off, at 5,000ft, their aircraft developed a fault, so they returned to base for a replacement. This time they made it to Arras, but by the time they arrived there was no sign of the other British aircraft. They crossed over the front line and, keeping an eye open for German Fokkers, dropped their bombs.

  Suddenly Dennistoun saw a Fokker right on their tail. As the German gunners opened fire, Dennistoun grabbed their aircraft’s rear gun and began shooting. While Russell was looking around (in vain) for some cloud cover, Dennistoun was shot in the stomach. Russell tried to throw off the Fokker but the faster machine kept pace behind them and shot Russell’s petrol tank, which burst into flames. After Russell was hit in the lung he began to faint, but as his aircraft began to nose dive the rush of cold air brought him round.

  Dennistoun was by now unable to operate the heavier rear gun, so Russell suggested he try firing the front gun. As their aircraft plummeted at 75mph, they were both flung clear. By the time they hit the ground, Russell’s jacket was ablaze from leaking petrol and Dennistoun had collapsed from his stomach wound.

  They had landed in the middle of German lines at Fampoux, east of Arras. Soldiers immediately jumped out of their trenches, wrapped Russell in blankets to extinguish the flames and found a doctor to administer to Dennistoun. The cousins were initially taken to separate hospitals but after Dennistoun had undergone two operations they were transferred to the same hospital. The Germans found an English-speaking nurse to look after Dennistoun and to help him write a letter to his parents in England. During July Dennistoun made some progress but when Russell visited him he could see his cousin was in considerable pain.

  On the morning of 9 August Russell popped into Dennistoun’s room on his way to have his own dressings changed. Dennistoun was not feeling particularly well and when Russell returned he found his cousin’s condition had deteriorated considerably. A doctor came and recommended that a third operation, which had already been planned, should be carried out immediately. At 12.30 p.m. a doctor came to tell Russell that his cousin had survived the operation but come round feeling ‘pretty rotten’ and died soon afterwards.

  Dennistoun was buried in Germany; Russell returned to duty.

  While New Zealander Dennistoun was flying under British colours, Tryggve Gran was feeling inhibited by Norway’s neutrality in terms of his own flying. On 18 October 1916 Gran visited the Norwegian Minister of Defence to request a transfer to the Royal Flying Corps. After Gran had been interviewed at the Norwegian Legation in London, the British War Office and by the commander of the RFC’s Home Defence Wing, it was agreed that Gran could be attached to the RFC’s 11th Squadron. Given Norway’s neutral status, it was decided that he should serve as ‘Teddy Grant’, a Canadian aviator.

  On 7 November Gran reported for duty at Northolt aerodrome, west of London. He obtained clearance to fly solo and, after being appointed as an instructor, went to the Royal Aircraft Factory at Farnborough to collect his aircraft. He was, of course, expected to fly it back:

  It was late in the afternoon … and it had become twilight. For the first half hour everything went well and I started to look over the side in front of me to detect Northolt. Everything became dark, snow and hail hit me in the face. I cut the motor and went gliding downwards … at a height of 200 metres, I found myself … cruising over London … I turned due west, keeping near the ground, hoping to find a place where I could land …

  But the whole countryside seemed to be flooded:

  Flying at a height of about fifty feet, I followed a railway line westward until I sighted a field apparently free of water. Down I went … then, suddenly, came a jar and, before I had realised what had happened, the machine and myself shot headlong in the mud – my first experience of night flying thus came to an end.

  Despite his shaky start Gran soon passed his official night pilot’s test:

  we were taken by motor van to the dark and silent aerodrome. It was a calm night with millions of stars … Pale, I crawled into the pilot’s cockpit which was lit by small electric lamps. I pushed the throttle forward and let the machine rip up above the flares into the darkness. For a time, there was nothing to see, but my eyes became accustomed to the darkness. I kept to my instructions and rose to a height of 300 metres before I turned back to the aerodrome. Here, I cruised about until they flashed me from the ground [to] ‘Land’. I approached the ground in wide circles and, as carefully as possible, glided down between the searchlights to touch my wheels at the first flare. We kept flying for the whole night and when daylight came I was entitled to wear my flying badges.

  Gran, who was still technically a member of his own country’s air force, was attached to the RFC’s 37th Squadron. By day, he practised shooting at targets in the Thames or honed his flying skills; by night, he and his messmates would visit local hotels for music and dancing. On the evening of 26 November, an alarm bell interrupted the music.

  Gran and his companions ran to their cars and raced to the aerodrome where the ‘Yellow’ alert (raised due to Zeppelins having been sighted over London) was raised to Green (due to the rate of sightings increasing to about one a minute). Gran ran to his aircraft, ready for take-off, but before he could do so huge banks of fog began rolling in from the east. He clambered out of his cockpit, returned to his quarters and took a nap. At 5 a.m. orderlies roused him to confirm that there would be no action that night.

  When Gran woke he found a note saying that Zeppelins had been dropping bombs on Victoria Street (which he knew well from visits to the Terra Nova expedition office) around the time they had received their call to action – it seemed that, even if there had been no fog, they could not have prevented the air raid
.

  In early December Gran joined the 39th Home Squadron, which was based at a half-finished airfield at Sutton’s Farm. Gran tried out his new aircraft, which was painted with the squadron’s skull-and-crossbones insignia, but over the next few weeks fog and sleet made flying virtually impossible.

  But they were only 15 miles away from London, where ‘behind the thick curtains, the lights burned brighter than ever’ and music and dancing served ‘for a time to fade away all horrible pictures of war from many a soldier’s brain’.

  By spring 1917, Gran was becoming frustrated that his status as an ‘attached’ Norwegian officer precluded him from joining his messmates on air raids across the Channel. But when a request was received for a night flying machine to be delivered to the RFC base at St Omer in northern France, Gran volunteered:

  There to the right of me lay Ypres, under me lay the Yser Channel shining in the sun, whilst hundreds and thousands of small flashes seemed to be running up and down both sides of the watery way … Such a flying trip has the effect of a good stimulant and, as cheery as schoolboys just off for a holiday, we made towards St Omer.

  When Gran realised that the aircraft he had delivered would soon be flying over enemy lines on moonlit nights, dropping spies by parachute, he decided he must resign as a Norwegian officer and join the RFC in his own right.

  But the weather in May was not ideal for night flying activities: