Boy Soldiers of the Great War (9 page)

We used to march round the town with a military band, recruiting, trying to get more, and they used to fall in at the back, wearing civilian clothes, to be marched to the barracks and sworn in. The crowds watched and clapped and cheered. Sometimes twenty or thirty new recruits would be behind and chaps used to call out, ‘Come on, Jack or Joe, come on, get in, join up,’ and they did, especially if they’d had some drink; that brought them in, in the afternoon, it was laughable.

The class system remained prevalent, and in some regiments middle-class men felt uncomfortable about serving with men of lower status. Battalions were formed to allow like-minded men to serve together in their own units, forming distinctive Tradesmen’s, Sportsmen’s and Commercial battalions in regiments such as the East Yorkshires and King’s Liverpools. In Birmingham, however, things were different. Here men from all backgrounds were thrown together.

Sixteen-year-old Harold Drinkwater had enlisted into the Birmingham Pals, the 15th and 16th Battalions of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment. The Pals were local battalions of men who saw themselves as belonging together because of their loyalty to the area from which they came and the men with whom they worked. Harold’s first parade introduced him to: ‘an extraordinary collection of fellows’,

many being the elite of the city, including barristers, solicitors, land clerks, and qualified engineers. Later on I found the fellow next to me had never done a day’s work in his life. He had had something in the nature of a valet to do it for him. He was barely seventeen. In the same parade were volunteers from the other end of the social scale, including men and boys who by their looks at least required some good square meals before they would ever be able to stand the conditions which we were beginning to understand existed in France.

One of the well-to-do recruits was seventeen-year-old schoolboy Charles Carrington. He was of discernible officer material but had, in his enthusiasm, enlisted in the Birmingham Pals. He recalled his first impression of army life.

A thousand young men in their holiday clothes (with overcoats and stout boots) appeared in a mob on the parade ground … We were subdivided into sixteen platoons, to each of which was allotted a young officer from the OTC [Officer Training Corps] party and a sergeant from the group of old soldiers.

The shortage of non-commissioned officers (NCOs) and officers to train the volunteers was serious. Most were serving in France, and old men were frequently dug out of retirement to take over. Former officers, some in their seventies or eighties, would call out antiquated orders, hastily changing them when they realized their mistake.

It was apparent to Charles Carrington that the officers knew little more about drill than did the men. It was an inauspicious start and Charles looked around to find like-minded spirits.

Since I had no friends yet, I had sidled in among a group of boys of my own age when the line was formed, and presently discovered that two or three, like me, had falsified their attestation forms.

At times it was an eye-opener to see the state of some older men. Vic Cole had not even boarded the train for the West Kents’ depot at Maidstone when he had

a slight altercation with a battered gentleman smelling strongly of hops, who insisted that I bore a resemblance to a sergeant-major of his acquaintance, and was, for that reason, going to punch me on the nose. The train came in at this moment, however, and, in the ensuing rush for seats the Beery One was swept out of my sight.

George Coppard was, like Vic, a south London lad. He described himself as an ‘ordinary boy of elementary education and slender prospects’ – in truth, an accurate depiction of many of the underage boys who enlisted. George had joined up at sixteen into the Queen’s Royal West Surrey Regiment.

Looking round at my new companions I could see that several were near-tramps. One wore a faded old morning coat and a well-washed bowler … We called him ‘Uncle’ and he seemed to relish the title.

Just as age had not been the most pressing issue in recruitment, so promotion among such company was not restricted. A young lad, enthusiastic to learn, was often picked out by a sergeant to take precedence over a florid-faced middle-aged man. Harold Drinkwater recalled that one of the boys in need of a ‘good square meal’ was made lance corporal of his section, though he was only sixteen years old.

Similarly, anyone with even basic knowledge of army life could be made up straight away. Lads from the Scouts or Boys’ Brigade were among the favoured, for their perceived self-discipline and previous training. Vic Cole was swiftly parted from his childhood friend, George Pulley, when it was discovered that, as a former
Scout, Vic had a rudimentary knowledge of signalling and some familiarity with telegraphy.

A few of us were now selected to form a Signal Section and to my consternation I was made lance corporal of same. A special hut was assigned to us, off Battalion Headquarters. There were about twenty of us signallers, including an officer, whom we seldom saw as he probably had another job, and a lovable old-time sergeant, Patsy Sheen, who wore the Indian Frontier Medal and had a seemingly unquenchable thirst. I at first appeared to be the only one with any authority and was well aware that my poor dog’s leg stripe was not very popular, as most of the men were older than me and objected to being ordered about by a kid of seventeen.

Vic hardly cut an imposing figure. For the first few weeks, he and other recruits had been allocated out of the quartermaster’s stores anything that happened to fit. ‘Personally, I did rather well with a set of underwear, khaki tunic and trousers and a pair of boots. Some fellows acquired hats only!’ The men looked willing, if peculiar, and there was much leg-pulling and many jokes.

On parade, some had civilian trousers and coloured socks with khaki tunics, others sported khaki trousers and civilian coats, while one man had a tight-fitting khaki tunic and bowler hat.

The lack of uniforms was a frustration for boys whose apparel was hardly the stuff from which heroes were made. The only time new recruit Ernest Parker saw khaki was during the daily cycle of work, when jobs such as guard duty required for the requisite authority a semblance of uniform.

On these occasions we rookies were obliged to borrow the khaki uniform of an old soldier and then for twenty-four hours we could imagine that we were real soldiers. This gave us the thrill
of adventure, and after undergoing the ordeal of inspection by the Adjutant, we looked forward to our turn of sentry duty with the feelings of men about to fight their first battle. Apart from the prospect of catching a spy red-handed, which always seemed worth bearing in mind, we knew that inside the Guard Room, and entrusted to our sole care, were several desperadoes whose military crimes might be augmented at any moment by a wild bid for freedom. It was well that inquisitive soldiers did not often test our vigilance, for with such possibilities in our minds, we were ready to shoot on sight.

With so many boys in their teens together, camp life could become a manly extension of school, with attitudes and behaviour to match. Bullying was a problem, with older lads picking on apparently weaker boys. George Coppard was singled out for abuse from one bigger boy, eventually being challenged to fight. The other boys, who had not attempted to intervene before, anticipated a brawl and were keen for George to accept. ‘This could only mean a scrape, and before I had time to think it over I was unceremoniously bundled outside the hut.’ In the time-honoured school tradition, a ring of boys formed. ‘Lord knows, I was not a bit anxious to clash with this bloke, for to tell the truth I was in a state of funk.’ Fortune smiled on both George and his assailant. The first blows sent the other boy into an epileptic fit, stopping the fight and so saving George an unwanted tussle and the other lad possible death at the front; he was subsequently discharged as medically unfit.

Most bullying, if it could be called that, was mild boyish behaviour, designed to work out if a lad was game and willing to be one of the gang. Fifteen-year-old George Parker was under canvas at Worksop.

The fellows who had been there some time had evolved a sort of initiation ceremony for newcomers, and I had to go through it.
On the first evening, a bunch of them got me down in the tent, pulled all my clothes off, tied me to the tent pole, and called some of the other hands to come and see. I was very shy then and it was an ordeal. They called me a baby kid, as I was so young, because there were deer with fawns roaming the park. One of the favourite stunts was to put an enamel mug in someone’s bed under the blanket, and when a man jumped heavily on it, it was very painful. However, we all played tricks, all meant as fun.

Civilian clothes were gradually being replaced by khaki – and there was nothing more exciting than receiving ‘kit’. Weaponry was often the last thing to arrive, the rifle and bayonet being the accoutrements of a real soldier. Cyril José had enlisted at fifteen years and nine months into the 2nd Devonshires. In a series of letters to his family, he could not help but let his excitement spill over.

Dearest Ivy [his sister]

Stand back! I’ve got my own rifle, and bayonet, and new ones. Also my equipment
i.e.
belt, cartridge pouches, trenching tools, haversack, another bag – a valise, a water bottle and oil can for oiling rifle. No live cartridges yet.

Guess the rifle is heavy. The rifle with bayonet fixed reaches up to my ear from the ground. The bayonet is about two feet long from hilt to point. Must feel a bit rummy to run on to one of them in a charge. Not ’arf.

Nearly got it hot today. I had my bayonet fixed in my room with the sheath off and pointed it at another chap. Just then the sergeant walked in. By George, didn’t he swear. He told me that it was one of the greatest crimes in the army to point your bayonet at anyone.

All good sergeants inspired some element of fear, but how the boys felt about these men varied immensely. There were those
who were hated with a passion, and many a dark, if unlikely, plot was hatched in the barrack block to ‘finish off’ a certain bastard should he accompany them to France. Other sergeants were hero-worshipped by the lads under them and, although the language they used shocked a few boys, they soon got used to it, as they did the parade-ground patter that was delivered with aplomb. Reginald Kiernan, who enlisted at seventeen, recalled how the lads from the mines thoroughly enjoyed the insults that were thrown.

They think the instructor is a fine fellow, a real soldier. They memorize the lines and repeat them in the hut, and hope some day they will have a stripe on their arms so that they can say them.

Some of the foot drill instructors are really funny, and they are not personal or abusive to any particular recruit. They are all old Regulars. ‘Come orn, come orn, leftright-leftright –Yer –broke-yer-mother’s-heart-but-you-won’t-break-mine … tike yer eyes orf the grahnd, yer won’t find no money there …’ They run it all off mechanically – they’ve been doing it for years.

Smiler Marshall joined the Essex Yeomanry at the age of seventeen. A self-confessed rough diamond whose childhood was regularly punctuated by scraps with local lads, he was totally unperturbed by anything he heard. Ninety years later, he could still remember, with a chuckle, the banter thrown at recruits who struggled to stay on their mounts.

When we went to the 20th Hussars at Colchester, you had to ride all different horses, nothing on them, no saddle, no bridle, no nothing. You had to have a stick, a little cane under each arm, and when the riding masters cracked the whip the horses you were on just stopped. The horses were trained for that, they were proper cavalry horses and they’d stop dead from a trot, canter, or gallop.
You had to sit tight, or else. I never came off because I put my arms round the horse’s neck – but half of them fell off and the sergeant major used to shout, ‘Who the hell told you to dismount?’

Dismounting – permanently – was Frank Lindley’s most earnest wish. After his brother was drowned, he had joined the Royal Field Artillery, having been told that his local infantry unit, the Sheffield City Battalion, was full up. He quickly discovered that he had no affinity with horses and was bored.

The NCOs were crap at the Riding School. One of them, Sergeant Major Mullin, he used to take our riding school, and if you didn’t suit him, he’d have hands full of horse shit and he’d come up side and say, ‘hey, you’ and bang, you got a face full. And there was us clinging on bareback horses. It was ridiculous.

Although training was very hard, it was also deeply rewarding for boys who enjoyed army life, such as George Baden White, who had joined the 2nd Dragoon Guards.

We spent days learning marching, physical training, bayonet fighting and, later, rifle drill and firing. There’s no doubt it did me good, what with the open air and exercise, I broadened out, gained confidence and went in for boxing.

George loved the challenge, while other boys merely coped. Daily routine typically consisted of a parade, followed perhaps by an hour’s intensive drill when men would slope, order, present and port arms ad nauseam. Rifle practice followed, then square bashing, bayonet practice, or a route march with full pack, fifteen or twenty miles. It was exhausting but it hardened everyone, and in what seemed like no time at all.

The only downside to training as far as George and many other boys could see was that robust exercise induced a ravenous
hunger. It was never far from the mind of any man, but for growing lads it could be mild torture. Breakfast was typically sugar-laced tea, known as gunfire tea, a bowl of porridge in winter, and bread, butter and jam. Lunch was generally the best meal of the day, when men could expect soup, then vegetables, beef and potatoes or pie. Finally, tea was generally a lump of bread and cheese and a mug or basin of hot tea. It was good food, at least better than many had eaten as civilians, but it was never enough. Ernest Parker recalled: