Day 29 - Battlefields _ Newfoundland Memorial Park, Ulster Tower, Thiepval, Lochnagar Crater, Mouquet Farm and Ist Division Memorial Pozieres

Tuesday 24th April 2012
From our itinerary:

We leave the hotel this morning to visit the Somme battlefields and begin at the preserved areas at the Newfoundland Memorial Park and hear the story of the action of the Newfoundland battalion on July 1st 1916.

We will also see the Ulster Tower, a fitting memorial to the 36th Ulster Division, before we arrive at the Somme Monument to the Missing at Thiepval. With the names of nearly 73,000 soldiers listed as missing in action, this tower dominates the whole area. 

We will visit the areas around Mouquet Farm where Pvt Francis Neal was wounded in the 14th Battalions attack on 27th August 1916 before take lunch at La Boiselle Village.

We will see the largest of the mines blown on the Somme on the 1st of July . Our final visit is to the Australian battlefields around the village of Pozieres, including the 1st Division and the Windmill monuments. We return to Cambrai for dinner and an early night.

I am feeling very remiss now. I cannot remember the names of these two cemeteries. To the left of the picture is a French cemetery. The one on the right is United Kingdom and we pause to pay our respects.

We’re on our way to the Newfoundland Memorial Park.  As we have travelled Bill has imparted some information about the memorial and its management and prepared us for the context when we arrive. This includes the background to the memorial, preservation approaches and what we’ll be seeing and doing on arrival.  The Canadians have instated guides to interpret the site and assist visitors.  There is a section of board walk along remaining trench lines but you can’t just wander over the site as you once could.  There is also a museum dedicated to the Newfoundlanders on site.

The weather has continued fairly inclement. It’s enough to keep us in rain gear but so far it’s not causing much of a problem.  The park has been planted to give it a distinctive feel. They have certainly done a marvelous job of making the park seem like you’re in North America. We are enthusiastically greeted on entry by a young guide. He realizes quickly that we are with a tour guide and leaves us to our explorations with some cheerful encouragement to ask if we need anything and be sure to pay a visit to the visitor centre during our stay.  We walk out to the preserved system of trenchlines which overlook the original battlefield. Sheep graze. Grass covers all, muting the crinkles that remain from the trenches. The trenches are a couple of feet shallower than originally, they zig and zag this way and that the purpose being to prevent anyone being able to simply fire along the trench.  There are barbed wire pickets still in place. In some sections some supports for the trench walls have been inserted.  All sorts of things were cannibalised when the trenches were established.  We pause and look out and down the gentle slope. It’s a good view from up here. Bill explains how the battle proceeded. United Kingdom units where involved in the same battles here across on the flank over there.  Although the lumps and bumps of the battlefield have softened over the years it is still a great experience to see the lines of the front there before you as you consider the battle and how it progressed.  We turn back and make our way to the statue of a caribou which stands high and is depicted as giving voice to a loud strong call.  It looks to me like a cry of anguish over the battlefield. A call to battle perhaps, or maybe just a call of nationhood and identity.

We have about 15 or 20 minutes to explore the museum.  As I’ve noted previously I've been struggling with the detail on most exhibits, but most of what is here is new to me and not terribly demanding. Hubby and I enjoy following the course of the war for the “newfies” as we move from panel to panel.  I particularly enjoy one of the humorous anecdotes:

..sometimes we find amusing things occur. For instance, once a message was sent orally by an officer as follows: “Pass the word to Captain …. To send up reinforcements” but when the message reached its destination it was delivered as “Captain so and so wants you to lend him three and four pence.”

We climb back into the car, our next stop is quite different as a memorial. The Ulster Tower is a close copy of the tower located on the estate in County Down where most of the Ulster Division trained. It is not only a striking memorial but it is located nearby to the Schwabian Redoubt in which I am interested. We spend a little time inside as Bill chats with the elderly gent who manages the memorial. He's back temporarily as a recent attempt to retire fell through when a replacement manager pulled the pin after only a few weeks.

It’s only a short drive further to The Somme Memorial to the Missing at Thiepval. We had planned to have a fair while here to walk up to the memorial and take in the museum.  Most of the group head straight to the memorial before Bill takes a call requesting that we arrive a little early to the planned lunch spot in order to get in before a large group that is expected there. Hubby runs a message up to V &; E that we have a little less time here initially and will return later, but it’s enough time to take in the enormous memorial which is in the process of being cleaned.   All the memorials are immaculately maintained. Note that I said it is enormous. This memorial is far bigger than I realised. I guess you need to be to record over 70,000 names of the missing.

Lunch is in the Old Blighty café nearby which is run by some English ladies.  It’s nothing particularly fancy food wise, I can make better quiche than what they're serving.  In response to a query I comment to Bill that I reckon I could make  sniper's mask from the pastry...  then we head back and spend some time at the visitor centre at Thiepval.  By the way, we are informed that "blighty" is a corruption of the hindi for homeland. We are discovering the origins of all sorts of sayings on this trip.
Luggage weight is becoming an issue and as we don’t have time to sit and watch the loop of videos playing in the visitors centre at Thiepval, we buy a copy at the gift shop. I also take the opportunity to buy Prisoners of the Kaiser and In the footsteps of Private Lynch - a book about E M Lynch the author of Somme Mud.  I could buy these online, but they are much cheaper here than they are at home and it will mean something to me to have bought them here on the battlefields.  We also decide that perhaps umbrellas will come in handy tomorrow and splurge on a couple of small folding poppy umbrellas.  Haha. That was a stupid purchase.  Note to all those heading to the battlefields and in particular to services held at the Australian memorials.  The major memorials to the Australians are located at the top of quite exposed high points in the landscape. The wind comes whistling across there and an umbrella will be less than useless.  Don’t waste your time with one. Your first instinct of rain gear with hoods is indeed the right way to go.  The little folding poppy umbrellas are also very light.. great in your luggage, but not so great out in the elements.  Slightest puff of wind and they blow inside out....  I can't see myself using these things much I have to say. 

V at Lochnagar crater memorial

We head along to the Lochnagar crater.  On the approach we’ve been hearing about the battle and the mine statistics.  At the time this, along with a neighbouring mine to the north were the largest ever detonated. They each contained 24,000 tons of ammonal. The explosion was witnessed from the air by 2^nd Lieutenant C A Lewis of No 3 Squadron RFC and we consider his description:

The whole earth heaved and flashed, a tremendous and magnificent column rose up in the sky. There was an ear-splitting roar drowning all the guns, flinging the machine sideways in the repercussing air. The earth column rose higher and higher to almost 4,000 feet There it hung, or seemed to hang, for a moment in the air, like the silhouette of some great cypress tree, then fell away in a widening cone of dust and debris.

In the bottom of the deep crater poisonous gas settled. Some men perished when they unknowingly descended into the crater during the fight that followed.  We pause at the memorial at the crater site and head across to the crater itself.  Holy Moly. The rain is threatening we’ve noted a black and angry looking cloud bank not far off but we’re all keen to go for a quick walk around the rim.  Bill indicates for us to take our time, he will wait with the vehicle. 

The track around the crater is narrow and wet and chalky. Chalk is slippery. You really do not want to end up in that crater. The sides are very steep. They only way forward is to pick your way carefully. No hurrying. I imagine the heavy weight of wet army boots and packs trying to walk on this slippery surface.  It continues to rain steadily until we are precisely,  that’s right precisely half way. As far away from the car as we can get here and down she comes. Huey is having a ball pelting us with hail and biting wind.  I laugh. It’s all too ridiculous.  Head bowed, my glasses speckled with water drops. The hail is bouncing off my raingear in all directions.  The path is so slippery. You simply can’t hurry. Nothing for it but to pick your way along as though nothing was going on. Situation normal.  We’re all laughing and joking and in good time we’re quickly stripping our sodden raingear as quickly as possible and scrambling into the car.  Bill laughs with us and when his view is sought among the laughter he lets us know that we looked like drowned rats. Arrggh. It’s cold out there now.  We head off and indulge in some car based touring. A French memorial to the civilian casualties and another small memorial to the Lancashire Fusiliers which is of particular interest to V. Something to do with the a Pals unit.

The rain continues to spoil the party as we explore the Mouquet farm area and pay our respects at the associated memorial.  Extraordinary to see this legendary place.  Brought real, converted from the mythology surrounding it and of course Bill gives us a run down of the progress of the Battle and if memory serves the struggle to take it by a number of different formations from different countries, finally being taken by the Australians.

Mouquet Farm

We pass evidence of the reality of working with the land in these parts. Not difficult to assemble quite an impressive pile of old shells. Someone has chosen to make a feature of it. Every now and then someone is still injured from the unexploded ordinance. One not so long ago when he was chiseling rust of an unexploded grenade.. it wasn’t unexploded for long when belted with a hammer and chisel. I mean dah.  Loss of a hand is no deterrent. It is believed the same fellow is still at it using his replacement claw.  Well, that’s the spirit. If you’ve already lost the hand, no risk then is there, with a claw you're actually better equipped for the task obviously ;o)

Our final stop for the day is the memorial to the Australian 1^st Division off the Albert to Bapaume Road.  Bill draws our attention to the Thiepval memorial in the distance atop the ridge.  It’s still raining and we’ve climbed up a small wooden lookout to view the memorial.
With our continued concern about our injured fellow traveler off in the hospital, Bill urges us to take great care. The wooden steps are muddy and slippery.  He is clearly not satisfied with our assurances and decides to drive his point home by slipping down the last few stairs.  Alarm and assurances and then what else is there to do but laugh and congratulate him on his level of commitment in emphasizing the hazards by giving us a demo.  No great injury. I suspect Bill will have a hefty bruise coming through in the following days.

The remains of fortifications near the 1st Australian Division Memorial

As we’ve toured this area we have noted the virgin of Albert, famous of course as the leaning virgin.  The story is recapped for us, refreshing memories or in some cases imparting new information.

Cold. Rain. It’s even more than usually pleasurable to retire to the plush Hotel Beatus.  Our trips homeward in the evening and here and there during the days of touring are lightened by Bills “breathy” travel companion. Her name is Sophie and you get the distinct impression she’d like to be giving directions to somewhere where she can be alone with Bill.  She seems to take particular pleasure in offering to help him with his change if ever we have a need to travel on a tollway.  These GPS device voices provide us with much hilarity.  Every now and then and increasingly as Anzac Day arrangements become critical there is discussion between Bill and Chris about the arrangements for tomorrow morning.  Parking and drop off arrangements have been changed this year. Requirements are as clear as mud.  Some in the other group have reserved seating and arranged a permit to ferry the elderly men up to the memorial for a close drop off and pick up, but it’s not clear whether Bill will be able to drop us younger able bodied folk up where the coaches deliver their cargo.  As we drive and discuss it, the gendarmes will be out in force at check points. It’s entirely unclear what they may allow us to do. E comes up with a practical solution.  Change the tomtom to the Aussie voice.  What sort of instructions would the Aussie tomtom voice give under the circumstances? E suspects the Aussie navigator voice might go something like “bugger the coppers!Drop off at the bloody memorial!”  We are all in stitches at E’s humourous GPS imitation… really we’re easy. We will do what we have to do.

Dinner is early and with much laughter.  One of the other group is a funny b*st*rd. His Dad has slowed down a bit, but the son is clearly a chip off the old block.  Between him and his dad they keep us laughing all through our dinner and after and bring out the witty banter from others among the younger men. I particularly enjoyed one come back from the father, when his son is teasing him mercilessly about his age and infirmity... "Would you like a glass of red wine son?  How would you like it served?"  But we can’t stay up laughing all night.. our leaders set us the example and head to bed. We have a ridiculously early start tomorrow.  Be at breakfast at 3 am please. 

Day 28 - Battlefields - Plugstreet Wood, Messines Ridge, Armentieres, Fromelles, Bullecourt

Monday 23rd April 2012

From our itinerary:

After checking out of the hotel we travel through the Southern Salient visiting the areas around Plugstreet Wood and the 1914 Christmas Truce. We also see where the Australians attacked during the Messines Ridge Operations in 1917.

Travelling on we pass through the town of Armentieres, known to many Australian troops and after lunch travel on to Fromelles, which was a disaster for the 5^th Division in July 1916.  We pay our respects at the new CWGC cemetery Pheasant Wood, containing mainly Australian soldiers.

Our next area of interest will be the Bullecourt battlefield of 1917 and the Digger monument.  It was here that Pvt Francis Neal was wounded and became a POW. We also explore the nearby village of Lagnicourt where Pvt Barber was captured.

Our day ends at the lovely Hotel Beatus in Cambrai where we stay for three nights with dinner.

Bright sunshine and blue skies this morning we have a few minutes in the square where I photograph the electronic cats and the fountain before we get into our day’s touring.

Our first stop today is at Railway Dugouts Burial Ground, which is a United Kingdom cemetery designed by Lutyens.  We hear of the VC winning self sacrifice of Second Lieutenant Frederick Youens who lost his life taking the blast of a hand grenade to protect others. He is buried here in this sacred ground.  We alight from our vehicle and spend some time reading the headstones and paying our respects to the fallen.

Visiting important sites to all the combatants is a feature of our tour that we have specifically requested. I don’t want this to be a one eyed, “only interested in Australians” trip. This is one reason I decided to go with a British company. I wanted a balanced visit, paying respect to all those lost from all sides and to visit sites relevant to the range of participant nations.  I wanted commentary from another perspective. I wanted to avoid any sense of jingoistic “aren’t we great… weren’t we just sooo good coming here to rescue France” in our visit.   Australia participated in that obscene war out of self interest just like every other Government.  Our men were conned by propaganda lies and jingoistic bullshit, just like the men of every other combatant nation. Of course, with the choice to follow our own family members Australian sites will dominate, but we Australians were not the only ones who suffered and not the only ones who fought valiantly and in terms of raw numbers our losses are dwarfed by those of the French and United Kingdom and Germany.  Australians have much to be proud of in France. As members of a wider humanity we also have much to be ashamed of. Much to be angry about and of course we have much to weep about. Much to remember. We must never forget and we must never allow ourselves to romanticize the horror of that conflict or of conflict generally. We must not allow ourselves to settle into stupid levels of jingoism in our remembrance and we must not allow ourselves to be so distracted by the past that we do not focus our attention on the actions of our current governments and the treatment of and preparedness of our currently serving troops and veterans. There’s nothing we can do for the dead of the Great War other than to remember and ensure that our armed forces today are used carefully, competently and most importantly, with restraint and with the maximum protection possible and only after all peaceful alternatives have been exhausted.

As we travel we note the myriad of sites and cemeteries, there’s just so many it’s impossible to stop at every one. Our next proper stop (ie we get out of the car) is at the Spanbroekmolen Mine Crater  aka the One Tree Crater, now a peace memorial and it certainly is a peaceful spot.  Trees surrounding the rim are reflected in the water. This deep deep pool, is what remains from the detonation of a huge stock of ammonal buried with care and amidst much danger deep deep underground.  Tens of thousands of tons of ammonal that simply vapourised some, mutilated others and contributed to the mental scarring of a whole lot more. We’ve been hearing about the underground warfare such as is illustrated in the fairly recent Australian film Hill 60, which Bill says is pretty accurate. Some of these massive explosions were so enormous that they were heard in London.  A friendly cat comes over and I enjoy giving it a friendly pat. In the cold climate and season the cats grow such thick luxuriant fur!  Australian cats don’t need such heavy protection.  I think an unspoken “sorry” to this lovely, trusting and affectionate feline as I think what a lovely fur coat a cold climate cat must make!  Gasp.. no of course I would not do such a thing, but I am finding my mind is very easily distracted from the subject at hand. Hmm probably avoidance behavior. Sigh.

The beautiful countryside is haunted by the ghosts of soldiers.  We pull over by the side of roads, or in quiet areas in the middle of roads as Bill’s arm sweeps across indicating the line of an advance or a forming up point.  Over in the distance, see that farm over there, the advance headed through across that slope. The line of the advance was continuous across that hill out of sight.  At other times we have explanations of what exactly enfilading fire is, or other essential battle jargon.  We stop near a dense woodland over a low rise and hear about the catacombs, a complex of underground shelters and tunnels where up to 2000 Australians were able to rest out of the line.  You cannot visit these at this point, but investigations are underway to check whether they are safe, or can be made safe to open to visitors.  Periodically we stop at another cemetery.  The next is the Royal Berkshire Cemetery extension where the following is provided for us to read serenaded by birdsong:  

Designed by H Charlton Bradshaw, the memorial was inaugurated by the Duke of Brabant on 7 June 1931. It commemorates 11,447 men with no known graves who fell in the Battles of Armentieres, Aubers Ridge, Loos, Fromelles, Estaires, Hazebrouck, Scherpenberg and Outtersterne Ridge. Four Victoria Cross holders are on its panels: Sapper W Hacket VC, 254^th coy, RE kia 27 June 1916; Captain W H Johnstone VC, 59^th Coy, R E kia 8 June 1915; Private J Mackenzie VC 2^nd Scots Guards, kia 19 December 1914; and Acting Captain T P Pryce VC, 4^th Grenadier Guards kia 13 April 1918.  The Rosenberg Cheateau Plots to its left were moved from their original site in the chateau grounds in 1930, the owner refusing permission for their staying there.

The Hyde Park Corner (Royal Berks) Cemetery on the other side of the road was started by the 1^st/4^th Royal Berkshire Regt in 1915 and when extra ground was needed for burials it was extended to this side in June 1916 as Berks Cemetery Extension.

The last post is sounded at 7 pm on the first Friday of each month in remembrance of, and as a tribute to, the dead who fell in the Great War. 11 November, Armistice Day is celebrated with special events by the Ploegsteert community and the first Friday in June is set aside for a ceremony attended by the Australian Ambassador and other dignitaries commemorating the Battle of Messines on 7 June 1917.

In peaceful corners sometimes surprise explosions occur

We move on to the site where a charged mine that was not exploded during the war was set off by a lightning strike in 1955.  Blowing out the windows of the farmhouse we see there today.  What an almighty shock that would be so close to your house. We hop out of the car to check out the photo on the information board. It shows people in the bottom of the crater looking rather like ants in the huge hole in the ground.  There are still some unexploded charged ammonal mines around today! Evidently the risk of leaving them must be considered less than the risk of disturbing them.

Everywhere there is evidence of the patient forbearance and respect paid by the local people to the war dead and the mourning relatives they left behind.  At the edge of a ploughed field a small private wooden memorial that simply appeared one day.  The farmer has left it alone and indeed must determinedly avoid damaging it for it to still be in place.

One of our roadside “pull overs” is one of the sites associated with the Christmas Truce. A memorial and information board has been erected and pilgrims have left footballs as an evocative tribute to the events.  In this area at the appropriate time of year, school children are brought to participate in re-enactments of the events here.  They are kitted up in the right outfits for both sides and are marched into the line or a proximate estimation of them where the trench line no longer exists.  It must be an awesome experience for them. Again we marvel at how history must surely come alive when you can learn about it where it took place.

Nearby is a farmhouse where Capt Bruce Bairnsfather stayed and created the famous comic character “ol Bill”.

We adjourn to Armentieres for lunch.  As we enter the town we get a bit of a run down on where the Mademoiselle from Armentieres had her premises.  When reviewing service records and interpreting them for visitors it’s always a sensitive situation when it turns out that the hospital the soldier was sent to was a VD hospital.  How do you break it to the family that their war hero had VD with all that implies about brothels and sexual conduct.
Bill regales us with a tale about the time he had to do this with an Australian doctor. A gentle refined man on the trail of his father, wife and family in tow.  Only one way to go about it.  Bill waited for a quiet moment and took the doctor aside to break it to him gently.  How did our Australian doctor respond. He cracked up and enthusiastically called the wife and family over by calling out… hey, grandpa had VD! haha.. A disgrace? A shame? They thought it was hilarious.   One of V’s rellies was likewise in the VD clinic, I’m sure one of mine was as well.. maybe not in the same war...

In a moment alone the four of us tourists have been talking about VD and sex and battles. Heck. If we were on the battlefields of the Great War we’d probably be in the brothel at every opportunity too.  Use it while you’ve got it. You could be dead tomorrow, or you could have it shot off.  A moment of escape and pleasure in the hand (so to speak ;o) ) against possible censure and pain of treatment that might never happen? Not so hard a choice one can easily imagine.   Maybe not something we'd advocate in our happy prosperous and peaceful lives, but none of us is prepared to sit in judgement on these men living through a horror we can't even imagine.
Mademoiselle from Armentieres performed an essential service. Over and above the call of duty really. Probably not too many soldiers she failed to offer “stress relief” to.
Treatment wasn’t pleasant for VD in the Great War. Not pleasant at all. I comment that they stuck things up your equipment to treat it.  The men are appalled and sceptical. Hubby looks at me in horror. No antibiotics in those days. The only alternative was to bleed it out. Doesn’t bear thinking about… The men wince as Bill provides a detailed explanation of the treatments inflicted for VD during the great war.  Eyes watering? It’s well beyond that. That’s an additional level of heroism! They deserve a medal! Good grief...  and to cap it off it was a disciplinary offence. Self inflicted wound was how it was regarded. 

I volunteer one of my own little snippets of historical trivia. After the Great War when the men came home there was a syphilis epidemic.  It became an issue in the campaign for women’s rights.  There was no such thing as rape in marriage and the fact that your damaged and in more than a few cases cases violent, traumatised husband had syphilis was no excuse.  It was a big problem and the feminist movement rose to the challenge. 

VC Corner Australian Cemetery

Lunch out of the way we are off to another cemetery stop. This time Australian unknown soldiers. VC Corner Australian Cemetery.  They have taken a different approach here. No headstones, just a swathe of grass over the graves with a large cross on each. Just Australians here.  Thank god I can’t see a rising sun anywhere.  As I walk forward however there is a large rising sun that has been hidden by the memorial cross. I tear up and turn away, regaining composure.

We move on to the Australian Memorial Park Fromelles and the famous statue which we are surprised to read was only installed in 1998. It feels in our hearts like it has always been part of our war iconography. It’s a beautiful statue expressing a beautiful sentiment. Fromelles is known as the worst single day in Australia’s history.  That this is the case is a reflection of the magnitude of the losses to what was at that time a nation of only 5 million people. Pointless inexcusable slaughter. I find it so hard to forgive what was done in places like Fromelles.

Of course by the time the battle had stagnated to trench warfare the Germans occupied the high ground. This enabled them to simply rain down death on the allied lines and forced those occupying the low ground to take an offensive role to try to capture the high ground and “get out from under” so to speak.  I understand this but still cannot forgive the events. I try to understand but forgiveness is impossible.  Anger can cool to implacable resentment... occassionally.. but that’s about as good as it gets. Perhaps we shouldn't even try to lose our anger about the bloody outrages of all sorts that are inseparable from war.

Around the Australian battlefields the Australian Government has been erecting bronze signs in relief showing the various battles relevant to that site.  This is supplemented by all sorts of signage all over the place.  The battlefields are incredibly accessible to solo visitors. It would be just so easy to do a tour like this for yourself if you didn’t need or want the additional guidance and commentary provided by a commercial battlefields tour company.  I am aware also that for Australian sites there is a pretty hefty battlefield guidebook available as well.
We continue to pass unexpected reminders and memorials here and there. None more so than this grave in the middle of the road.

On to the new cemetery at Fromelles (Pheasant Wood) where recently found and in many cases, identified, soldiers have been reinterred.  This is the first time that a government has used modern forensic technology to identify the remains of the dead.  On the way here we have noted Prowse Point Cemetery unique among the cemeteries as it is named for an individual.

We are heading for the Digger memorial at Bullecourt. Along the way we pull over and Bill pulls out copies of the service records, red cross records (where available) and unit diaries for our relatives who were captured during action in this area.  We start with Pvt Neal and soon we are looking at the forming up area for Uncle Andrew Barber. It was along this grassy embankment by the road where we have pulled over.  Gee, you’re joking. Right here.  I try to imagine the events of the night. It’s not easy in this scene of lush rural serenity.  I make a renewed attempt. Think mud. Think shelling. Think fear and the stench of death. Gore. No. I see green. I see rain. I see quiet solitude. The ghosts are sleeping. The war dead suffer no more. Even the survivors have now passed on and suffer no more. Strangely, I am gradually feeling a degree of closure. It seems a bit silly, but really, it's sort of like burying the dead visiting these now peaceful fields that in our minds on the other side of the earth have continued to represent the most horrendous battlefields in history.

Uncle Andrew lived to a ripe old age. In his latter years he lived with my grandparents. He was my grandmother's eldest brother. One of six Barber brothers. My grandmother was the youngest child and the only girl. I have inherited the wallet Andrew bought in London and his much worn and damaged discharge papers from the war.  Andrew never married and according to his service records his time as a prisoner of war destroyed his health.  Conditions for POWs varied, but death rates among prisoners were high.  Bill recommends the book Prisoners of the Kaiser by Richard Van Emden.  There’s not a lot of books about Great War POW experiences, but at least there is this one, written when all of the contributors were over 100 years old. Talk about cutting it fine for recording witness testimony. Being a prisoner was no picnic, and not so different in the Great War to what was dished up in WWII.

The sunshine of the morning is long gone. The wind is bitter the rain is biting cold. We continue to clamber out into the wet, heads tucked deep in our rainhoods.  Nothing so paltry will keep us in the car at the digger memorial.  A few minutes contemplation and silence is not a lot to ask. 

We’re on our way to call it a day, but we take a moment to note one of the reconstructed little memorials dotted around the place.  This one was originally built in wood, quite spontaneously by relatives so many decades ago. The wood was deteriorating so the local community reconstructed it in stone and reattached the many plaques to the new more durable memorial.   

We adjourn to the warmth and comfort of the Hotel Beatus in Cambrai and settle in for a rest before a group dinner. But all is not rosey for the other group. In the course of the day one of the elderly men has slipped in the wet on perfectly level ground and badly broken his leg. He is being well cared for in hospital in Belgium. David of Bartlett's Battlefield Journeys has things in hand and our erstwhile dinner companion is scheduled for surgery tomorrow. No chance of his continuing on the trip unfortunately.  The other group trail in a couple of hours later than us, looking totally wrecked.  I'm certainly glad I'm not  thirty years older and trying to do this trip.

Day 27 - Paris to Calais, Ieper, Menin Gate Memorial

Sunday 22 April 2012
The harsh cry of the alarm. That means it’s 5am.

6:40 there is a couple heavily laden with luggage wandering up the Rue de Lyon towards Bastille. Who are these people? These are not travelers with whom we are familiar.  They look similar to those we know. But they are not panicked. They are not rushing. On the contrary they are calm.  Oh hang on now I recognize them. There is that smug and well prepared aura about them.  But there’s something different an edge we’re not familiar with….

So here we are on the Rue de Lyon. Everything has gone really smoothly.  We’re leaving a little later than we planned to get to Paris-Nord for our train to Calais-Frethun but there was some time factored in for that.  At this rate we should get to Nord really early. This is almost too good to be true.  Something must be about to go horribly horribly wrong.

It’s a cool clear day but not as icy as it has been. I hope this bodes well for the battlefields.  The streets are pretty empty. Just a few cars and some sort of council truck on the Rue de Lyon.  The red lights of taxis are shine brightly without the competition from other road traffic.  So does the green of taxis.  Look there’s a green taxi.  Where?  Up there heading away from us. Oh.  We trudge. Lord look at all the green taxis… heaps of them.  Here’s two coming our way. Hubby waves the arm.  Actually he does have two arms, but just waves one of them.  Taxi pulls over.  Gare de Nord?  Do you have an address?  What the?  Maybe we should just get the Metro. Lug our baggage up and down stairs and get the metro. Eventually our potential driver decides he can cope with a trip to Nord without the benefit of GPS navigation.  We load up and jump in.

7:12 am and we are happily ensconced within view of the indicator board waiting for information about what platform to head to. Our train is the next departure.  A sizeable crowd has assembled by the time the indicator board flashes up with the platform information.  We are coach 15, seats 47 and 48  -right at the far end of the train.  We find the carriage without any problem and stow our cases in the luggage area.  Now where are our seats.  Where are our seats. Oh FFS where are our bloody seats.  The seats are not numbered chronologically.  We scour the carriage. There are no seats numbered 47 and 48. They do not exist. We check the carriage, we know we are on the right train. It’s nearing time for departure. We’re getting stressed.  We decide we have no option but to sit in a couple of the spare seats and move if necessary.  We sit. Hubby notices that above these seats, which are brightly numbered 41 and 42 there is an alternate number that is unlit so not easy to see. 47 and 48.  We feel more comfortable and settle down for the trip.  I am sadly disillusioned by the fact that they have no powerpoint for the e-notebook. I journal until the power runs out. Then we sit and watch the scenery and take a much needed nap a bit as well.

In no time an almost unintelligible (for us) announcement. I think I detect Calais in there somewhere. I watch as the train slows for a station name. Calais Frethun. We scramble to get our luggage and get off the train.  On the platform the uneven ground is puddling with water which quietly ripples with the concentric circles of rain lightly falling.  Oh. Scramble for rain gear.

We’re a disorganized mess standing in the rain when a couple nearby approach and introduce themselves.  They will be our tour companions for the next 5 days.  They go ahead to get out of the rain as we get ourselves together.  We trail down the platform way behind everyone else. Everyone else is lumping cases up the high flight of stairs.  There’s a lift.  Doesn’t it work?  Why would people be lugging heavy cases up the stairs if there’s a working life? We try it. Works for us. Good.  Then we need to get down the other side. Corresponding lift not working. Trudging down is not as bad as having to trudge up!

We rejoin our new travel companions whom I will refer to as V and E. We’re about 20 minutes earlier than scheduled arriving at our collection point and we get to chatting about I don’t recall what beyond the usual who are we and where are we from, where we’ve each been and where are we heading after the tour etc.  V&E are from Melbourne and are heading onward to Paris when we continue on to Dover and the tour’s official end point.

We’re completely into the conversation  and it is still well before 10 am when a man approaches us and asks if we’re all waiting for Bartlett’s Battlefield Journeys. Yes indeed.  We haven’t been looking out for him. This is Bill and he will be our guide.  We head for the exits as Bill goes and gets the van which he’s had to move around to the parking area due to a prowling official.

Confusion as hubby and V both head for the front passenger seat.  Both sufferers of motion sickness seeking the view with the least risk. Hubby defers to V and we get going.  Bill assures us we’ll take turns in the front day by day. The vehicle is a large VW people mover. High seats, good visibility, very comfortable and with ample room for all our luggage (phew, I’d been a bit worried about that).  For the next five days we will undertake an all inclusive tour of the World War 1 battlefields of Belgium and Europe where Australians fought. In particular we will be considering the service of six particular Australian soldiers. Three of my great uncles and three uncles of V.  Our tour is bespoke, tailored to the priorities we have each advised.  There are a lot of companies running tours of the battlefields these days. We have chosen to go with a British company whose details I got some years ago via a series of referrals from the Australian War Memorial website. The company is Bartlett’s Battlefield Journeys.

Bill hands us each a folder of plastic sleeves of which the first few pages contains our detailed itinerary.  This is the first time we get to see the details. There’s an element in faith and reputation involved in choosing this particular approach to the trip.  The folder also has spare plastic sleeves where we can put the handouts that will be provided over the next few days.  Our pack contains copies of Major and Mrs Holt’s Battle Maps of Ypres Salient and Passchendaele and the Somme. These are on sale at memorial gift shops in the area and are recommended as an outstanding guide to the battlefields.

As we get the courtesies out of the way and set off, Bill explains the causes of the Great War, the make up of the British Army during the Great War and other relevant contextual information.  We travel past Dunkirk, but no stop there.  Today we are exploring the area around Ieper.

 I’m just going with it and not writing massive notes.  I am sure I will forget some details or some stops along the way but what will be will be. Photos will be the record. I guess it goes without saying that as we drive the conversation and commentary are focused on the events around the locality during the war. 

The whole battlefields area is littered with cemeteries large and small. There are thousands of them. Following the war, the Belgian and French people freely gave the land for the various commonwealth cemeteries and memorials in perpetuity.  Our first cemetery stop is at a small cemetery - Brandhoek New Military Cemetery which was created to support the casualty clearing station here. There is another couple of similar small cemeteries nearby.

The memorial cross, the gave of Captain N G Chavasse VC and Bar, MC is shown at the bottom left of the picture

We get a run down on the grave markers and the standard features of them, rules about what each family was allowed to have, what they were required to pay for. We also hear about the conventions of commonwealth war graves sites.  The standard memorial cross for example, and the work of the war graves commission.
There is a mixture of nationalities among the fallen.  We stop to pay our respects at the grave of Captain N G Chavasse VC and Bar, MC.
It is a somber place and this is not unexpected. We pause to review the information boards near the entrance before heading back to the vehicle.

It's only about 15 minutes back to Ieper where we park in the lovely town square.  Ieper was completely annihilated in the Great War. Not a stone left standing. The images of the ruins remaining are one of the most famous images from the war. Consequently I was expecting the town to be fairly unexciting and dominated by post war architecture. Not so. Ieper has been reconstructed largely as it was before the war. It is absolutely lovely, charming. The sort of place to come back to.  Bill confirms our first impressions and is particularly enthusiastic about what a lovely place Ieper is and how nice the people are.

The Cloth Hall at Ieper, 

We head across the square to de Kollebloeme to have lunch.

We choose drinks and meals as we like from the menu but all is covered in the tour price.   Most of the party are opting for Croque Boum Boum which is best described as a cheese on toast with bolonaise sauce for €9.50.  Hubby opts for a the Carbonade Flamande which translate as “Flemish stew with fries and a salad” €10.50. I decide I’ll try the lasagna which is also €10.50.  Belgium has hundreds of varieties of beer. We are advised that all of them are great. Belgium is beer heaven apparently.  Hubby’s first sampling is Leffe Blonde and it is judged to be “lovely” as is his meal. When my lasagna arrives I’m slightly appalled.  It is served in a large soup bowl and is sitting in a soup of white liquid. Cream? Thin béchamel? I’m not sure.  I tuck in.  Oh my! It is the tastiest lasagna in the world.  Absolutely divine.  Everyone is happy with their meals. Everyone is happy with their drinks.  We’re gradually getting comfortable with eachother as we chat.  It’s always a good thing to start an endeavour with an excellent meal. Our tour is off to a flying start. The lasagna is one of the stand out meals of the trip and that is saying something with all the flash dining we’ve been doing.

Before we leave Ieper we have about 20 minutes to explore the Grote Markt.  V & E find their own way to the chocolate shop. We seek direction from Bill but we get there in the end and all load up with boxes of Belgian handmade chocolates and my personal weakness, handmade jellies. So cheap. So delicious. We wish we had less luggage and more room for taking souvenirs home.  Each of the kids/couples will need to share a small box.

It’s raining and quite cold, but this doesn’t stop hubby from insisting that we each get an ice cream cone from the shop nearby.  We scoffing our ice creams in the rain, admiring the square and the huge cloth hall. You would never know that this town was flattened in the war. It has a feel like it’s been sitting there solid as a rock for centuries. Like all of the towns we visit the locals simply love the cobbles. They’re not so practical to drive on in cars. It must increase the maintenance costs but it certainly adds to the feel of the place. Ieper is beautiful. 

As we gobble our ice creams we hear mewing.  After a while we track it down. Cats. Plastic, stylized, motion detecting cats.  They are in all sorts of colours and they have been placed whimsically on ledges here and there on the cloth hall.  When you move near one it mews at you.  Such a playful, creative touch.  We’re happy campers as we climb into the vehicle to resume our day’s exploration.

Our first stop after lunch is the Advanced Dressing Station Essex Farm. Orginally constructed of wood it was later built in concrete under an existing embankment. Bill tells us anecdotes about the events in this place, the conditions under which the medical staff worked, and talk of ghost sightings here from time to time. Doctors worked for days on end without a break. Wandering the small rooms and peering into the narrow doctor's rest room, I can quite imagine it, though imagination is helped by the photos on the information panels. The floor was not paved during the war as it is now. It would be hard to go off and sleep when there is an endless supply of mutilated men waiting for attention. It was also in this immediate vicinity that the Canadian major and doctor John McCrae wrote In Flanders Fields.

As we head to our next spot I snap a quick photo of a roadside memorial through the rain. The war is everywhere here. It seems almost inescapable.

Our next stop is the German cemetery at Langemark, the only German cemetery in the Ypres salient area. To the victor the spoils. To the defeated – well, they just have to do what they are required to do.  Germany and its allies were not permitted to retain so many cemeteries. Although originally German soldiers were buried individually as their fallen foes were, after the war, in a number of waves of activity, they were told they had to exhume the dead and rebury them in a small number of sites.  Here at Langemark just under 45,000 soldiers are buried or commemorated.  This effort resulted in a very different approach with multiple burials in one grave and also a large mass grave in which 25,000 are interred.

 We are informed that Langemark is well remembered in Germany and there are many references to this somber cemetery and memorial in German towns and villages.  Among the grave sites oaks are planted, a tree with strong symbolic resonance in Germany.  We are given time to wander and contemplate the cemetery.

I am particularly struck by the series of pill box fortifications surrounded by graves.  Langemark cemetery is also known as the student’s cemetery because it is the burial place of about 3000 student volunteers who died at the battle of Langemark in October and November of 1914.  Langemark was also a site visited and used by Hitler to gee up German Youth in support of his war years later.

"The Watchers" by sculptor Professor Emil Kreiger

It is nearing the agreed time for moving on when a large coach arrives in the parking area. Until this point we have had the place to ourselves.  A great crowd of Australians gathers to hear about the cemetery and consider and pay respects to the dead of a former foe.  Among the group is one fellow in a fluorescent vest clearly labeled “Historian”.  I recognize him. This is another of the companies I was considering going with.  I am SO glad I am in a small group of only four with guide. Very very glad. I give myself a pat on the back as we climb back into the van and move on with talk about our impressions of the cemetery. Langemark is very different in atmosphere and approach to the Commonwealth cemeteries. It is very moving as any war cemetery must surely be.  We are very glad to have had time to pay our respects here.

Our next destination is Tyne Cot on Passchendale Ridge.  The origin of the name is explained.  Cot is short for a cottage. A unit who served here – the Northumberland Fusiliers noted a resemblance between the German pill boxes here and a workers cottage on the Tyne – hence Tyne Cot. Most of the localities across the battlefields were given nicknames and so appear on battle plans and maps by their colloquial names rather than the original name for that area. We spend a while visiting this, the largest Commonwealth War Graves Cemetery in the world and contemplating the nearly 34,000 men whose “graves are known only unto god” and whose names are listed on the Tyne Cot memorial to the missing.  

The structure on which the memorial cross sits and around which the graveyard has been laid out, was constructed over a German blockhouse captured by the 3rd Australian Division on the 4th October 1917. The blockhouse was then fitted up as an Advanced Dressing Station

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There are no words to express the horror of the Great War and no words express the emotions that flow in visiting these sites of memorial to the fallen. Many of the cemeteries have information panels explaining the site and the battles that took place nearby. I find that my mind simply cannot focus on them.  I’ve read a reasonable amount on the Great War and my mind rebels against the details and can only focus on the loss and the insanity of engaging in a war of attrition.  Much to my surprise I don’t have the urge to cry here.  I’m usually very easily brought to tears when I think of those lost, but somehow here on the battlefields I’m OK.  It is what it is. So long as I don’t look at the Australian rising sun symbol I’m fine.  Consequently I studiously avoid spending any length of time contemplating the rising sun on graves and memorial sites. Instead I look for names and details.

I will leave it to our itinerary to explain the upcoming route. “We travel to the village of Zonnebeke to explore Dvr John Neal’s battlefield before we travel through the Australian areas of Polygon Wood, Glencourse Wood and the Menin Road.  It was in the Broodseind Ridge area where CSM HJ Townsend won the Military Medal for actions while on patrol.” 

We are finding some surprising coincidences with V & E regarding the service of our relatives. John Neal and Harry Townsend served in similar areas, and later we find our other uncles also served in near proximity to one another and were both captured, though serving in different units formed up in different States.  Our families were very lucky. All our boys returned home, though some were permanently invalided.  Another coincidence as it turns out that we had each decided to come here to pay our respects to all of the fallen first. Thoughts of looking for our own family members battlefields the secondary priority.  We have very compatible objectives. We even have kids of similar ages and identical cameras for goodness sake.. we even have the same political heros. We are a tour group pairing made in heaven.

Buttes New British Cemetery, Polygon Wood, Zonnebeke, looking toward the Fifth Australian Division memorial

At Polygon Wood the trees have regrown. Only a few are original. The wood imparts an even quieter atmosphere to the cemetery within.  It has a very different feel to the other memorials on more open sites. The Australian memorial sits atop a pre-existing butte which is a high mound. It was used as a firing range before the war.

Buttes New British Cemetery, looking down to the New Zealand Memorial

We tend to go our separate ways in the cemeteries. I climb to the top of the butte and look down to the NZ memorial to the missing at the far end of the cemetery. Most of the several thousand graves here are unidentified. Their occupants known only to God.  Most died after 1917, and most were relocated here from their original burial site.

Memorial Cross Polygon Wood Cemetery

At this place we have coincided with the other Bartlett’s group. An elderly man and his son who are following the service of the old man’s father, a Kiwi who served in an United Kingdom unit. Another elderly man and his Army Major daughter on a similar pilgrimage and a third elderly man who is bringing material to donate to the museum at the school in Villers Bretonneux.  A quick hello all round we will meet up at dinner tonight.

My person of interest in this afternoon’s program is Harry Townsend. He was my dad’s uncle. The eldest of four sons and the only one to serve in the great war. My grandfather was the second son, only just old enough towards the end of the war. I don’t know why he did not join up. The younger brothers served in World War II. One became a prisoner of the Japanese in Changi among those units who suffered dreadfully in the death camps.  The Townsend uncle I knew best served in the signals in the CMF.  Across two world wars all in my family who served came home. Big families lots of brothers among them. It’s pretty remarkable not to have had anyone killed.

We stop along the road at Broodseinde and consider the action of the battle.  The area in which Uncle Harry won his MM is down in the distance to our right.  It is certainly something, to think about the battles while on the battlefield where you can see the general terrain. Not at all the same as reading about it, though of course having read about it and conditions on the battlefields certainly helps the imagination.

The whole area through which we are travelling is beautiful. It would be a lovely area to come back to and explore at leisure over additional days. It is quiet and rural now.
In one place we visited during our tour, I can't remember exactly where it was, in the middle of a roundabout a sculpture has been placed.  It's a piece of modern art so somewhat stylised, but it is clearly a huge skull.  If memory serves it also has an inscription on it. Something about war and death.  I recall it as an anti -war sculpture.  A comment is made that it is an odd thing to have as a piece of public art.  Driving around the battlefields I think it is the most natural thing in the world to erect and it gives rise to some mulling over for me. Right across the lines of battle from close enough to 100 years ago, still the farmers are extracting war refuse and unexploded shells from the earth, and bones. There is an infinite supply of grisly remains and reminders here across the bloody fields of the Great War. For the local people it would be impossible to forget the war. Every day no forgetting. Every day continued danger. Every day tourists visiting to remember those lost.
Battlefield tourism is nothing new. As soon as hostilities ceased the pilgrims began. Mourners looking for loved ones or the graves of loved ones. Originally, the next of kin received a photo of the grave and information about where it was. Those who’s loved ones were missing often came over to France to look for their son, brother or husband.  The numbers lost were unprecedented. The grief likewise unprecedented.  In recent years tourism to these sites has only increased.  There is no peak season. People are just as willing to visit in the dead of winter as the height of summer. They come from all over the world.  The pilgrims see the extreme conditions as part of the experience. The soldiers bore the brunt of the worst of every season on top of the unimaginable gore and stench of the trenches, hunger, disease and pain, and nerve shattering bombardments the statistics of which are incomprehensible.  Those of us living in comfort rightly consider that visiting in cold weather, warmly dressed is a small price, and we come in droves.

Our day’s program completed for now, we head back to Ieper to check into the Novotel, tucked down a little side street around the corner from the Menin Gate Memorial  We meet up in a couple of hours to head around to the evening ceremony. Before we rest, I have an errand. A canny florist has set up business near the memorial.  We purchase some flowers and place them at the memorial privately and explore the memorial then head back along the row of shops window shopping ever so briefly and admiring the trench art for sale.  A rest in our room is now the priority.

We meet up at the memorial a good half hour or so before the service is due to commence.  Bill gives us tips about where to stand for a good view. We wait in place for the ceremony to start.  As time draws near a woman walks across from the opposite side of the street and steps over the barrier and stands next to me in a teeny little space. We shuffle to make room. She’s short. No problem, she should be in front.  Then step two: she starts summoning other members of her group and starts elbowing me out of the way as she edges in front.  No problem. The way they are standing I can see quite well.  Then step three. She waves the men over and starts with the same trick.  They are taller. I hold my ground. I can see where this is heading. They are completely shameless and it is oh so obviously a calculated strategy. When the time comes for things to start the husband just leans out in front of me so I can’t see a thing.  This is beyond the pale and I give him a forthrightly Australian “Excuse me!”  He pulls back muttering some stupid crap in excuse for himself.  Yeah right, I think to myself:. I know exactly what you were doing you inconsiderate latecomer. Pull it on someone else. It is all most unseemly.  This is neither the time nor the place.. I bite my tongue and resolve to let it go. He's backed off.  That's enough.

As the service proceeds. The assembled crowd stands quietly. Many people are videoing or taking photographs. I haven’t brought my camera.  I’m not too sorry.  I don’t see the service as a tourist photo opportunity.  I am uneasy about the paparazzi approach to remembrance. Though I suppose the photos perused later offer another opportunity for remembrance. 

Ceremony completed, Bill has organized for us to have our photos taken with the bugler and his fellows from the service in their smart uniforms.  Not really my style, but it's good to have a group photo. Then we’re off to dinner which is to be taken at Petrus.

It’s a hard choice what to have. I crave more of the delicious lasagna I had at lunch. With breathtaking irrationality I order the lasagna here. It’s nice enough when it eventually turns up, but not a patch on the version dished up by de Kollebloeme.  The restaurant is very busy tonight and they kept us waiting for a ridiculously long time for our food.  Bill ordered something that came served with chips.  The bowl of chips brought out could have fed a family.  Apparently Belgians LOVE their chips and eat mountains of them. We were marveling at the size of Bill’s bowl of chips and to compensate for taking so long with the food, what could be better than to bring us more chips?  Bizarre.  Hubby chose a starter of shrimp croquettes chosen by fried chicken tagliatelle. Both very nice. We arrange a meeting time for brekky and retire for the night.