There are places I'll remember....

In My Life.....

Snelling's Haulage Yard, Copthorne, Spring 1959

There are places I'll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone, and some remain

All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends, I still can recall 

Some are dead, and some are living 

In my life, I've loved them all

Edgington, 1951 - what wheels!

But of all these friends and lovers

There is no one compares with you

And these memories lose their meaning

When I think of love as something new

A Ladies' Man, 1951

Though I know I'll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them

In my life, I'll love you more

Tiddles, 30 Farlington Avenue, Autumn 1954

Though I know I'll never lose affection

For people and things that went before

I know I'll often stop and think about them

In my life I'll love you more

Bros, Farlington Ave, Portsmouth, 1954

In my life I'll love you more

John Lennon and Paul McCartney

One of the things I had on my list to do, before we were told to lock ourselves up and throw away the key, was to go through the archives of photos and letters etc that hold sensory signposts into the 'good' 'old' days.  So now I have time to review some of the pictures in my mother's albums which take me back to another world and recall places and people I love.....

It was a world of black and white, evidently.  I took none of these pictures, and cannot verify their veracity.....  I once claimed to my mother-in-law that mine was the first generation to grow up with a comprehensive photographic record.  This didn't go down well with Dorothy, but because I held on to the concept of cheap cameras etc I still thought I was right.

Now I look back at the pictures of my grandparents and their parents, and of Dorothy and Bernard, I realise my arrogance.

But, more concerning, perhaps, is to contemplate what my children's generation are going to think when it comes to fifty+ years from now.  They will have to interrogate millions of selfies and Facebook posts and billions of pixels to piece together a taste of their youth.

So....  Every silver nitrate lining has a cloud?

Anyway......

My first few steps were taken in a flat in the High Street of Old Portsmouth.  I remember looking out from the flat roof, where mum hung out the washing, seeing warships steaming in and out of the harbour.  Among these were three Russian Destroyers.  Subsequently mum took me and my big brother down for a look around - I remember a sailor chatting mum up and her laughter.  Possibly at the same time that Commander Buster Crab was losing his head in the murky waters beneath the hull.

We lived on the second or third floor, so mum had to park my deluxe perambulator in the stairwell and clamber up the wooden hill with me on her hip.  That summer we went to see her mum, at Edgington, her house at Cripps Corner, on the B2089 near Robertsbridge in East Sussex.  We must have gone there a few times before Grannie died in 1954, and I remember the house and garden well, with particularly vivid images of her two spaniels, her Bakelite telephone on the hall table where she also kept a set of Halma pawns which we played with in the evenings.

Just up the lane, opposite an orchard, lived her friend, Carew, whose house had a wheeled pump for water outside the backdoor. In the field at the back she kept a donkey, a Gypsy Caravan, and an old railway carriage in which resided Aunt Pil, of whom I remember her green eyeshade....

Edgington, 1951

From Portsmouth High Street  we moved up to 30 Farlington Avenue, Drayton, where we had a house, a garage and a garden.

30 Farlington Avenue, 1954

Mum must have taken this picture of Simon getting some kind of telling off.  A few minutes later, I guess, dad took this picture, Simon still chastened....

30 Farlington Avenue, 1954

I remember the place with much affection.  Not really the inside of the house, but the green corrugated iron roof of the coal store, and the recreation ground out the back (which is still there).  I went to my first school across that ground, and in spring and summer we would walk up it to Portsdown Hill and Fort Purbrook and Farlington Redoubt. I remember the poppies and the cornflowers, and Small Blue butterflies.  I loved the grass and the air, and a sense of freedom that faded as we returned home.

I remember starting school, first with Miss Williams, and then Solent Road infants, where as a result of a minor misdemeanour (itself the result of the coercion by a Nelson Munt type) a teacher made me sit inside the classroom and chalk out the numbers from 1 to 100 on a small board while the rest of the school ran round and round screaming in delight.  I remember the dining room, where a  foot once tripped me and sent me crashing to the floor with my peas and mash, the floor and skirting dusty with splinters. I remember walking Shirley, from the year above, to her home, mother concerned by my lateness.

I remember shopping with mum, at the butchers on Havant Road, with her ration book, and sawdust on the floor.  I remember the Rectory at the top of the hill, where I went to a birthday party and saw conjuring tricks.  Many years later I was to work with  Liz, in Rome, and even later to buy paintings from her brother, John Booth, who was Art Master at Eton....

One evening, at bath time, there was a strange chortling noise outside in the street.  Mum became excited and we were allowed to look  through the bathroom window. Dad had brought home Aggie - his first car: a splendid Armstrong Siddeley, running boards, green leather seats, walnut dashboard, and a tendency for the radiator to boil when going up hill.  It was probably a 1932 HP Saloon model, but I'm afraid her big end went long ago.....

Dad hooked the car up to a camping trailer and we rumbled down to Dorset for a summer holiday, on a site near Corfe Castle.  It wasn't unlike the kind of rough camp that wagon trains made in the movies, which could explain my life-long love of westerns.... Dad as John Wayne; me as Chill Wills perhaps?

Camping at Corfe, 1955
By the way, note the snake belt - very fashionable!

The bathroom was rudimentary.... But the experience was a stirling introduction to a simple life outdoors, and the Isle of Purbeck is still one of my favourite places....

Bathtime at Corfe, 1955

Dad had been to Worth Matravers as part of his RAF service - Radar it was.  So he took us back.  Without the camping gear, we stayed in Gulliver's Cottage, hard by the duck pond (and a short walk to the Square and Compass - and a long walk back)....

Worth Matravers, with Jamie Gough, 1957

The village was to be our holiday destination for several years and is deeply etched on my heart. We made friends there, and as a teenager I went back with Roy and Joe, and then, much later, with Amanda and our own girls.

After Gulliver's, we rented Sunnyside, at the head of the path down to Winspit. Here Tim joined us later in the fifties....

Sunnyside, Worth Matravers, 1959
Wot larks!

We would spend days at Studland, where the Commandoes were still practising with their landing craft while we were playing, swimming - and shivering....

Studland Bay, with the Reid children, 1955

Studland Bay, 1959

And at Kimmeridge, fishing for crabs with limpets for bait.... I should have capitalised on the smell of rotting rock, but wasn't into oil at the time....

Kimmeridge, 1958

As an Easter treat, in 1958, we went to Gloucestershire, and stayed in Woodbine Cottage, in the hamlet of Edge. 

Woodbine Cottage, Edge, 1958

I loved this place too, surrounded by green countryside, lanes with high banks, and hedged fields.  It sticks in my mind, especially perhaps, because the chimney caught fire, and dad tried to starve it with a board as scorching embers fell back before the heavy suited firemen arrived.  

From there we visited the Severn Wildfowl Trust, now the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust, at Slimbridge, which Peter Scott had founded in 1946, at his home.

Nene (Hawaiian) Geese, Slimbridge, 1958

I have returned many times  to Slimbridge; I  think I owe my interest in birds to Peter Scott....

In the meantime, we had moved from Portsmouth to Northchurch, in Hertfordshire, where dad grew up.  His father was headmaster of the Village School and choirmaster and organist at the Parish Church.  We lived in Crowstone, a house with gardens back and front, and Mrs Ayers next door with chickens.  The house belonged, somehow, to my grandmother, and was a great place for kids.

Crowstone, Northchurch, 1958
Note long trouser and no chain guard

Simon and I used to ride our bikes down the lane opposite to the Grand Union Canal at Dudswell.  The Phillips family with 24 children, lived at a the farm there, and for some reason we had an antipathy to this tribe.  Perhaps they called at us as we rode by, perhaps they didn't have 24 bikes....?  Anyway, one time we decided to raid their yard, and rode in, daring them to react.  Simon, and I believe another friend, made good their getaway, but in my haste I trapped my right trouser cuff in the chain of my bike and became immobilised and terrified in the gateway.  I nearly wet myself as members of the extended Phillips family approached.  I remained petrified as they tended gently to me, helping me to release the oiled trouser from the cog, and encouraging me peacefully on my way.

Ten or more years later I stacked shelves in Sainsbury's in Berkhamsted, where Donald, one of the sons, was a butcher.  We got on famously.....

One other place that sits firmly in my memory is 10, St Ann's Road, Holland Park, London,  where mum's sister, Eve, lived with her husband Wilfred, and eventually several of my cousins.  

10, St Ann's Road, Holland Park, 1958

It's gentrified now, and the row of houses are smart and clean, but I have an abiding memory of the basement which used to flood after heavy rains.  I remember the dirty brown waters gurgling around the floor as we lifted rugs and furniture to avoid the worst.

Apart from that, it was the home of Tansy, my aunt's little dog, with whom we would play in the back garden while the grown-ups talked.

Another place that is engraved on my memory  is Copthorne, in Sussex.  Dad's parents, our Grannie and Grandad, had retired there, to Dunster, a red brick house with a detached garage for Grandad's maroon Standard 8 with a wind up windscreen.

Road testing a Dennis, Snelling's Haulage, Copthorne, 1959
(Or was it a Commer?)

Grannie was a Snelling, and almost everyone around was a relative. We took the train there (to Three Bridges or Horsham); later we steamed there in Aggie, stopping occasionally for me to be sick, while dad sang Green and Yellow Ones....

The Snelling family, Uncles Arthur and Harold, ran a haulage firm, supplying provisions to local farmers, who included several great aunts and uncles, and picking up milk in great sloshing churns.  Simon and I ran shotgun with the drivers on occasions, and in the meantime made dens out of sacks of pig and calf breeder nuts (sampling the produce when peckish).  It was heaven for boys in boiler suits and we would speed about in our imaginations in the lorries that didn't go....

At the end of the fifties, I suppose I began to feel different.  I had my own snake belt, Elvis was in all our minds, and, in 1960, Uncle Robert, mum's older brother, got married to Adrienne.  Somehow things were changing, and somehow they would never be the same again.....

At the beginning of mum's albums, she placed a cutting, probably with her first born in mind.

Hope springs eternal.....

By 1960 we had moved to Number 2 Boxwell Road, in Berkhamsted, Hertfordshire. I believe this move was also funded by Grannie Gibbs, but can't be sure.  Dad was a teacher, and mum was a housewife, so otherwise how could we afford a large house in a desirable town?

By curious coincidence, this was the house where dad had gone to school in ages past.  Mr and Mrs Popple had held their academy in the schoolroom at the back, which now became our playroom.  

But so, while Harold Macmillan struggled with the fallout of the 1957 'flu' epidemic (in which some 30,000 Britons died - when the population was 51,495,702) and as we struggled back from the Court cinema at night holding hands because we simply could not see each other in the smog, we grew and grew, and life unfolded.

Here are my brothers and me, in the garden of 2 Boxwell Road (with the Carter's house behind us) in Autumn 1960, looking back, looking inward, and looking forward.  I believe we may have been photographed by a Chemistry teacher, who later ended his own life with poison, but at this time held a Rolleiflex twin lens camera and caused my big bro to laugh....

2 Boxwell Road, Berkhamsted, Herts, Autumn 1960
(Note the snake belt)

Where had the fifties gone?  How can time slip so fluidly through our fingers?  The black and white, the innocence of childhood, the period of selfless and selfish love, was ebbing away, and fast. Tim, my 'little' bro, remembers this photo shoot and remembers envying my snake belt.  

But time will, eventually, heal all.....

Off I go...  Next stop, oblivion!

There are places I'll remember

All my life, though some have changed

Some forever, not for better

Some have gone, and some remain

All these places had their moments

With lovers and friends, I still can recall 

Some are dead, and some are living 

In my life, I've loved them all

John Lennon and Paul McCartney

WWI - REMEMBRANCE

THE 1917 DIARY

OF

L/CPL THOMAS HENRY GIBBS

On Sunday 25^th November, 1917, Lance Corporal Thomas Henry Gibbs (241730), then on active service with the ‘Gloster’ Regiment in India, recorded in his diary, “Date of wound, 1916.”

 

On Wednesday 5^th December 1917, he wrote at the top of the page in his diary, “Left France for England 1916.”

In the heat and dust of India, the memory of those eleven days in France the year before must have been extraordinarily vivid for him to have so headed these two pages.

It is not certain where in France the injury occurred.  The 1917 diary is the only evidence now, but the Gloucester Regiment, which he had joined on March 4^th 1916 (although it seems that he may have enlisted as 4909 Private Gibbs on December 10^th 1915, under the Derby Scheme), was at the Battle of the Somme, which ran from July 1^st until November 18^th, and he had been transported from Southampton to France on August 13^th 1916, so possibly he was one of the last, and perhaps one of the luckiest, soldiers to be wounded there, even though the battle was “officially” over?

According to the surviving records provided by the Soldiers of Gloucester Museum (T H Gibbs’s service record was destroyed in the Blitz during WWII) “H” Company, 4^th Reserve Battalion, The Gloucester Regiment, were behind the lines in bivouac at Bouzincourt and received a draft of Other Ranks on 21^st August 1916, which probably included Tom.  The battalion was then moved into front line trenches at Donnet Post on August 25^th. 

Later entries record November being very wet with  snow.  Private William Woods recorded in his diary for November 21^st, “The sodden troops cooled their heels in Middle Wood Camp.  The campo consisted of dozens of tumble-down shacks with perforated roofs, scattered over the face of a mud swamp on a bit of a hill.”  The Battalion War Diary records 23^rd November 1916, for Middle Wood Camp, “In camp.  Working party.  Casualties Other Ranks: 1 died of wounds and 5 wounded.”  For 24^th November: “Rain.  Working parties.”  And for November 25^th: “In camp.  Rain.”  Perhaps Tom misremembered the date and he was one of the five wounded on November 23^rd? 

 

It is impossible to recreate what happened, but, almost 100 years later, I can imagine something of what it might have been like.  T H Gibbs (who was my paternal grandfather) was born on the 26^th September 1885, and so he would have been 30 years old in 1916.  His diary tells us that he was 5 feet 10½ inches tall and weighed 10 stone 11½ pounds.  His glove size was 8; his collar size 15; he wore size 7 hats and size 7.4 boots (that’s what it says!).  He was married to Dora Emily Snelling on June 5^th, 1916, and died on July 1^st, 1972.  At his death he still had a piece of shrapnel in his left humerus – I saw the dimpled scar which covered it.

  

I imagine it like this:  November would have been cold, and wet.  Records tell us it was raining.  There was standing water and mud in the trenches; the rats and rots were torrid.  The continued noise of barrages, from both sides, would have been intolerable up until the end of the Battle of the Somme, and the friction of being under fire and surrounded by death and injury would have been very very hard.  Although the Battle then ended, men were scurrying about, transporting supplies, and I imagine that at some sudden point, and we do not know exactly when (he may even have got the date wrong himself), but at some sudden point an explosive device landed near him.  The blast wave would have been like opening the door to a thousand ovens all at once, blistering gases from a blast furnace.  Then the suction of the airlessness, a vacuum pulling urgently at the lungs as the oxygen was sucked back to feed the greedy fireball.  Then, though then is the wrong word as all this would have happened instantly, the cutting through the flesh, the shapeless molten metal knifing shard embedding itself in the bone, cutting flesh and blood and nerve and forcing the body down in a splatter of mud and heat and cold and smoke and noise.

And then the lying there, ripped sleeve soaking up blood, nausea and blindness and a rushing cantering heat in the ears, the mud seeping cold through the clothes, the blood seeping warm into the rank pool of muddy sewage he was lying in.

Then, a seeming age later, a stretcher party, and shouting and lifting and bumping and jolting and running to the dressing station, where all manner of wounds were uncovered and covered and splashed with disinfectant and staunched and tourniqueted and bound and wrapped and blessed and cut and probed and bandaged and tied.

Then, perhaps a juddering cart ride to behind the lines, an age of waiting in some hallway or room with others groaning, crying, screaming.

Then, eleven days later eleven days, cold infection prone, uncomfortable, miserable days later…. the eventual transport back across the heaving channel to some kind of quiet.

My grandfather was a lucky one.  Despite the pain and anxiety, he had bought a Blighty one, and, he was soon able to return to the home of his father, Lieutenant J R Gibbs RN, of Dunsmoor, Knowsley Road, Cosham, to recuperate in peace.  Luck?  Many died in the lottery of the Blighty ones.  Millions could legitimately say it was not fair.  Their loved ones died, mangled, blasted, withered, disgorged in the mud and gore of the Somme, Ypres, Passchendaele, Vimy Ridge, and many more.  But it was not fair.  And Thomas Henry Gibbs did not choose his Blighty one.  He was near thirty when he enlisted.  In the 1901 census he was an apprentice cobbler (and one of his possessions at his death was a cobbler’s last) but by 1914 he was a schoolmaster, trained in Southampton and practising in Copthorne, Sussex.  Conscription was introduced on January 27^th 1916, but he would have been older than the average, and may have volunteered to take his place in the rank and file of men prepared to die. 

Our contact now with him is limited, but we have his diary for the Year 1917, with an entry for every day of that year.  On the afternoon of January 1^st 1917 he bought a prayer book for Dora, his wife, then played cards in the evening when his sister visited.  The next day, he took the 2.00pm train from Cosham to Three Bridges (arrived 4.12pm) drove to Akehurst Farm, Copthorne, where Dora lived with her parents, played whist and went to bed at 9.30pm.

The next day he received a warrant for his return to Cheltenham and on Monday 8^th January he returned to H Company.  He faced medical inspections over the next two days and then after breakfast at 5.30am on Thursday January 11^th he travelled north to Catterick Bridge.

The next few weeks were filled with parades and training – musketry, bayonet fighting, bombing, gas helmet drill, fatigues, lectures, platoon drill, escort duties, filling sand bags, and so on.  For relief there were concerts, and walks to Richmond (several miles each way) where there was a cinema, church on Sundays, books, and letters, letters, letters. 

On March 8^th there was great excitement in the camp as the men were given embarkation leave, so on the 9^th Tom travelled to Horley via Darlington and London to be reunited with his wife.  He then visited his parents before returning to Catterick on the overnight train from King’s Cross on March 14^th.  It was bitterly cold, and they paraded in snowstorms over the next week, filling in time cleaning equipment and practising bayonet fighting and musketry.  On March 29^th he “went bombing in the afternoon and threw live bombs.  Had been told that we were to leave for Mesopotamia on Saturday, therefore wrote to Dora, Mom, Ce, Auntie C, Mrs Harker and the Vicar…..”  They didn’t leave on Saturday.  On Sunday, after, “Church parade at 7.30am in blinding snowstorm,” the first part of the Mesopotamia draft left. 

Then on Monday April 2^nd Tom’s company, “left Hipswell Camp at 6.30pm, marched to Catterick Bridge,” which they left at 8.45pm en route for Andover.  “Snow nearly all day so wore overcoats on the march and were quite fagged out.”  They arrived at Southampton at 8.30am and then had to wait until 3.30pm before embarking for Havre.  “Left at 6pm and had an awful passage across – frequent snow storms.  Majority of fellows on board were ill.  Felt jolly rotten and was not able to leave the upper deck.”

They arrived at Havre at 2.30am but were not allowed to land until 7am (French time).  They then, “had an awful march to the rest camp – wearing full pack and carrying rifles and kit bags.”  The next day they went by train from Havre to Marseilles, passing the snow covered Cevennes on Friday 6^th and moving slowly down the Rhone.  They arrived at Marseilles at 2.30am on Sunday 8^th April, but were not allowed out of the train until 5.30am.  They then marched to the docks and at about 8.00am they boarded the Cameronia, and Tom was detailed to B floor mess No.6.  They ship did not leave immediately, however, and on Tuesday 10^th the men had to make route march through the streets of Marseilles.  Tom records that there were hundreds of folk about, “apparently quite interested in the 2000 odd men marching with rifles!”  On Thursday 12^th their escort ships arrived during the evening and hopes were raised as to their departure; at 5.45am on Friday 13^th he woke to find they were well on their way from Marseilles. 

Saturday 14^th was, “a miserable morning and nothing but Sea – Sea – Sea (sick)….. “  On Sunday 15^th they passed through the Straits of Messina.  Then, at about 5.30pm, Tom went to draw blankets for the mess when he, “heard a tremendous thud and was given to understand that [they] had been struck.”  Tom, “hunted around for a lifebelt as mine had been taken then went up on deck to find everything in confusion.  Everybody dashing for boats or jumping into the sea.  Fortunately I felt very calm and returned to mess to get my tunic then returned to promenade deck to wait arrival of escort alongside.  When she came I jumped into the same and felt safe.  A large percentage of men were taken on board then we patrolled round picking up others….. Submarine sighted, fired at and apparently sunk.  Arrived on scene of wreckage until help arrived from Malta – two other destroyers and a Japanese boat.  About 1.00am started on our way for Malta, hoping to arrive at about 8am.  Wind began to blow and at 6am we were on a very heavy sea…..Reached Malta soon after 11am and truly thankful for the same after our experience.”

6pm April 15th 1917, taken from the Escort Ship

They stayed in Valetta for ten days, with little to do and some excellent weather.  On Thursday 26^th April they boarded HMS Saxon at 5.30pm, and left twenty-four hours later, with good weather and an escort of two Japanese destroyers.  They arrived at Alexandria at 11am on Monday 30^th and were transferred by train to the Mesopotamia Details Base at 4.45pm.  It was very hot, “and the sand very trying.”  On Thursday 3^rd May, with it still being exceptionally hot, Tom drew a pith helmet..  The next day he drew khaki drills etc in the morning. 

Over the next few days there were parades and route marches, but little to report until on Sunday 13^th when he was knocked down by the French Consul’s car.  He had a badly bruised arm, hip and leg, and had to go to hospital to have the wounds dressed. With his arm still painful he visited the Consul’s house on the 17^th and left a note to say he had called. 

On the 18^th he was delighted to receive a letter from the Consul himself, but by then they were on their way to Port Suez, where they embarked at 6am, departing twenty-four hours later.

They reached Aden just before midday on Sunday 27^th.  After coaling was completed they put out from the harbour at 3pm on Monday 28^th, with various rumours about their destination.  On Tuesday 29^th his entry reads: “Spent a very strenuous day lying about on hatchway, reading and playing cards. Almost cool today.  Bound for Bombay.”

And on June 5^th, his wedding anniversary, they anchored off Bombay, after an uncomfortable and slow voyage across the swelling Arabian Gulf.  The next day they disembarked at noon and left by train to cross the Western Ghats to Belgaum, five hundred kilometres away and 750 metres above sea level. 

Gibbs, Bishop, Brees, Sims

The weather was bad, as the monsoon rains seemed to have poured down almost every day, forcing the cancellation of parades and marches.  Tom reported sick on June 10^th and was unwell, with dysentery, for some weeks.  When fit enough, he was trained in the use of the Lewis gun, and occasionally there were inspections, fatigues, physical drills and lectures.  Life seems to have been slow, with many days being, “Parades etc as usual, otherwise nothing to note….” Or, “Another very wet day.  Parades curtailed in conclusion….” but a high point was reached on Saturday August 18^th when he spoke for the opposition in a debate on the subject, “Are Cinemas an influence for moral evil?”  The opposition won by an overwhelming majority, and by 9.00pm at that!

On his 32^nd birthday, September 26^th, all he recorded was, “Church History Class at Chaplain’s Bungalow at 6.30pm,” although his entry for October 3^rd, “Morning spent digging drains around tents for C Coy’s draft,” is subscribed, “Transfer to Wed 26^th ult.” so it seems that the emptiness of days may have been confusing him.

On October 27^th they left Belgaum for Poona, which was an overnight journey away.  The style of entry changes, and life seems a little jauntier, with instruction and examinations, then visits to the bazaar, pictures at the Empire, and tea at the Italian Café, even returning to camp at 12.15 am on November 10^th.  But then they returned to Belgaum on November 20^th, which was where he was on Sunday 25^th when he wrote, “Date of wound 1916,” and where he still was on December 3^rd when he recorded that he, “Left France for England 1916.”  On that particular day he also recorded “Field operations today.  Parade at 5.30a.m.  No further parades.”  What was he thinking?  Was it relief to be in the heat and rain of India, far from the firing line?  Or was it guilt that he had escaped worse injury or death when so many of his comrades had fallen? 

Intermittently throughout the diary there are entries about snippets of news, such as June 1^st, “Message came through of the sinking of hospital ship in the Mediterranean (Dover Castle?)” and June 7^th, “Heard of torpedoing of HMS Transylvania.” What did they know of France?  What were they doing in Belgaum?  The British Raj had had a base there for very many years, and it was known in some circles as the Cradle of the Infantry, but it was perhaps ironic that while 15,000 British Troops were stationed in India during the First World War, about 800,000 Indian men took part in the battles in Europe, where they were particularly badly prepared for trench warfare in winter.

Tom's Shadow - Beautifully Preserved

It is probable that the declaration of post-war policy presented to the House of Commons on August 20^th 1917 by the Secretary of State for India, Edwin Montagu, lay behind the deployment of troops in the sub-continent (though it is also a fact that the Mesopotamian Campaign was run from India).  This speech referred to the, “gradual development of self-governing institutions, with a view to the progressive realization of responsible government in India as an integral part of the Empire.”   With problems in Ireland after the Easter Rising, difficulties in the Middle East with the British taking control of Baghdad on March 11^th, and the capture of Jerusalem on December 11^th (after the Balfour Declaration in November which proposed the settlement of Jews within Palestine), the British administration in India had a sense that without a significant presence all could have gone awry.  There had been Home Rule agitation in 1916, and the Lucknow Pact between Hindus and Muslims the same year warned that political unrest was not far below the surface.  General Dyer’s spectacular blunder at Jallianwala Bagh was still some way off, but Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi was, quite literally, girding his loins, having left his suit in South Africa in 1915.

It is a platitude that the world was changing beyond recognition.  But it was, despite the truism, a point of no return.  The Russian Tsar, Nicholas II, had abdicated on March 8^th of that year, and the Bolsheviks overthrew the Russian provisional government on November 7^th. The Americans had declared war on Germany on April 6^th and their first troops had arrived in France on June 25^th.  On July 17^th the British Royal Family had changed its name from Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, to Windsor. On July 31^st the Third Battle of Ypres (or Passchendaele) had begun.  The Battle of the Somme had seen the first use of tanks in warfare, zeppelin raids had become commonplace over London, and on January 31^st 1917 Germany had announced unrestricted submarine warfare, as witnessed by my grandfather in the Mediterranean. 

Anyway, Thomas Henry Gibbs, then acting Corporal in the Gloucester Regiment, stationed in Belgaum, was doing his duty.  On Christmas Day 1917 he attended Holy Communion at 7.00am, then went for a walk with three friends.  He “Slept during afternoon – feeling very poorly,” and “went to bed soon after 6.00pm.”  On Monday 31^st 1917 they had Parade at 6.00am, then “Marched to Race Course where we practised for Review which takes place on Jan 1^st 1918.”  He received letters from Dora and others in the afternoon, then his last entry for 1917 reads, “Evening parade after which went to Gardens.” 

And there the diary ends, apart from a list of ‘books read’ on two pages with the printed heading “Notes for 1918.”  The last book listed was “Whirligigs” (O’Henry) and he has noted that it was “v.poor.”  The first sentence of that book is: “A favourite dodge to get your story read by the public is to assert that it is true, and then add that Truth is stranger than Fiction.”  We have had my grandfather’s diary in the family since it was written in 1917, and do not question its authenticity, but so much is unsaid that the picture is indeed in some ways stranger than fiction. 

However, Thomas Henry Gibbs was real, and lived to die a grand old man at the age of 86 on July 1^st 1972, survived then by his wife of over fifty years, a son, a daughter and six grandchildren.  After Belgaum he moved to Bangalore and though we have no further written diary, he has left us a photo album with affectionate snaps of his mates (Dobbs and Smudger, Bish, “Floss,” Steve and Freddie et al), churches and temples, transport workers, Dhobies, Christian Girls at Drill, and Armistice Reminiscences, Nov 11^th 1918.

He stayed on there until 1919, then came home, returning to be organist and choirmaster at the Parish Church of St James, West End, Southampton, which post he had held since 1907.  He remained there until 1923, when he was appointed Head Master of the Church of England Schools at Northchurch, Hertfordshire, where he was also organist and choirmaster of St Mary’s, until his retirement in 1945.

Thomas Henry Gibbs’s service in the First World War was unremarkable, perhaps, and, perhaps, he had good fortune in comparison with the millions who suffered terrible injuries and death, but his records in his diary for 1917 and photographs of 1918 bring that distant world to life and stand as a tribute to the way so many lived through those years.  The repetition, the dullness, the separation from loved ones, the sensation of being moved about the face of the earth like a piece on a game board, all come across very clearly, but at no time did my grandfather complain.  He did what he had to do, and despite the boredom, the illness and the discomfort he shows the sense of humour I knew well.  The Personal Memoranda on the cover of the diary bear this out:  Season Ticket No. χ; Stores Ticket No. π; Bicycle No. β; Bank Pass Book No. θ; Telephone No. Δ.

In his life, Tom remembered those who died, and now, in remembering him, and through him those who gave their lives, I hope it is not inappropriate to quote from the inscription on the marble slab covering the grave of the Unknown Warrior in Westminster Abbey, composed by Herbert Ryle, Dean of Westminster:

THUS ARE COMMEMORATED THE MANY
MULTITUDES WHO DURING THE GREAT
WAR OF 1914-1918 GAVE THE MOST THAT
MAN CAN GIVE LIFE ITSELF
FOR GOD
FOR KING AND COUNTRY
FOR LOVED ONES HOME AND EMPIRE
FOR THE SACRED CAUSE OF JUSTICE AND
THE FREEDOM OF THE WORLD

The boys in Bangalore recovering

November 12^th 1918

Thomas Henry Gibbs

Headmaster of Northchurch C of E School