Chance's strange arithmetic
[Back to Chance's strange arithmetic main page]

PART 3 : "TRAMPS ABROAD" REVISITED, 1995
by Tony Holkham

[Numbers in brackets refer to photographs]

Tuesday, 30 May 1995

It was almost a spur-of-the-moment thing. One minute my mother is handing me a dog-eared typescript and a folder of sepia photographs, and the next minute we are driving to Folkestone to take the Seacat to Boulogne. I am hoping it will be calm because, unlike my father, and his father, who both served in the Royal Navy, I am not a good sailor. Something to do with my ears. But unlike my fighting forbears, I am fortunate enough to belong to a generation which has not been called to sacrifice itself for its country. If I had been, it would have been the Air Force, no question. I would not have considered the odds above my stomach. And that's the reason we are dong this, I suppose. My father and his father survived their conflicts intact, or as intact as they may do, but for my mother's father it was different. He didn't die - not then - but the odds on his surviving in the region of France to which we are headed were, in 1915, not something to dwell on. And he would have known it. That's sacrifice. But this is a diary, not an essay, so I'll try to keep my personal comments to a minimum.

Folkestone is one of those towns which it must be odd to live in, being a busy transit port to and from the Continent. Most people, especially the drivers, seem to be looking for the port and not finding it. I am smugly congratulating myself for having studied the town map before I left home - and then handing it to Suzy, who is Chief Navigator (I once questioned her instructions on our way through Paris and disappeared in a haze of pollution and scrambled urbanisation - never again). We are late arriving because of heavy traffic and endless road works, and I have to run to the ticket office for my boarding passes so we don't miss the boat. Stung for £6.99 for headlamp converters at the port - I always forget something and it's always something expensive. But in the same shop is a large-scale map of North France, which is a bonus. The Seacat is a ferry "par excellence" - better start slipping into the lingo straight away - being quick and thus fairly smooth. The sea is calm as the unlikely craft rumbles into life once she has passed the breakwater, and I bravely stand on the little deck practising my nautical nonchalance. Once out on the open water, the captain steps on the gas and the water boils - yes, boils - behind us [1.12-1.13], the twin engines ploughing deep furrows in the sea. I take a few lungs full of fresh air and go inside where we share a large orange juice. I pay in francs, and get my change in sterling. There is too much ice, and I hate plastic "glasses". But these niggles are very few, and the hour-long trip is a real thrill, especially as I discover I can go up to the top deck forward and look through the windows, through the bridge [1.14], and out to the horizon where already the coast of France is evident. The course is about 33º, the bottom is shelving away, and there are maybe ten other vessels on the radar. And at something approaching 40 knots, we seem to be flying, not sailing. [1.14] [1.13]

Boulogne passes uneventfully, as I mutter "Drive on the right" to myself, which always reminds me of Jack Lemmon in "Some Like It Hot" - "I'm a girl, I'm a girl", but if you haven't seen the film you won't know what I'm talking about. Within minutes we are in the countryside en route to St Omer on the N42, stopping briefly for some of the food we have brought with us, and then pushing on at a road speed unthinkable in 1928 except on the race track. Using our large-scale Michelin map of Northern France, we find Longuenesse easily, and my Grandfather's description takes us right to it. It is the same as in his photographs, and I take some for comparison [1.15-1.20]. Only the trees have grown, and I guess mine will be clearer in the longer view. Raymond's grave (5E 62) is found after a few minutes, and I take pictures of it for my mother, wishing I'd come here before my grandmother died in 1987, because Raymond was very dear to her. The stone reads - 39345 PRIVATE W. R. BOTHAM EAST YORKSHIRE REGIMENT 19TH NOVEMBER 1918 Longuenesse [1.18] [1.15] [1.19]

Raymond shares the grave with Cpl. F. J. Dowsett, RAF, who had died two days before. It is quite a shock to see that Raymond died after the Armistice had been signed, but when he was actually wounded, I don't think anyone knows. I feel it might just be morbid curiosity to try to find out more, though it does bring home the horror of it when you see the lines of stones - and this just one small cemetery in many hundreds that we will pass on our journey. The cemetery is beautifully kept, as are all the Imperial War Grave Commission's "charges", amounting to hundreds of thousands of soldiers who died away from home.

We have decided to miss out the Belgian leg of Grandad's tour because of time - we really only have a day and a half - and so press on to Bethune on the N43, via Lillers. We are heading for Richebourg and the Indian Memorial. We don't find it, and we are getting low on petrol (the driver's responsibility!), so after passing through the same village twice in our search, we ask an elderly lady tending her garden in front of one of the many new bungalows in the area. She is very helpful and patiently explains the directions to the Chief Navigator, who relays them to the driver, and then we are there quite suddenly. It was like being transported back in time. The Memorial Stands in the middle of a large flat region on a crossroads, with willows growing around it. The cafe opposite is still there, but it is closed (as are most other cafes). As it is too late to take good pictures, we take a quick look inside the memorial, and decide to come back in the morning.

The next job is to find somewhere to sleep. We have decided to sleep in the car for economy's sake. We go back in the direction of Bethune, hoping to find a petrol station open. No chance. We strike out to Lens (the petrol wasn't that low), and try a 24-hr station, but the credit card system doesn't work for us - maybe because we are foreigners. Lens is still partly awake, and we go to a fast food place called "Quick", order some food and orange juice, and are told it'll be brought to us in about five minutes. I wonder what the Pals would have made of "Fast Food". There is no petrol station open that we can see, so we drive back to La Bassee and park by the canal at the back of a superstore. When we switch the engine off we are irritated by the buildings air conditioning, so we go to the station car park on the other side of the canal. As it is all closed up, we should get an undisturbed night until the first train in the morning. It's about midnight. It's not as comfortable in the back of the car as when we tried it out at home, giggling. Perhaps we should have found an hotel, but it's too late now. I eventually get off to sleep on my stomach, but wake sweating a while later. Suzy hasn't been able to sleep at all, so we get up, put the seats back to their normal configuration, she on the back seat, me in the front, and we get a couple of hours.

Wednesday, 31 May 1995

I wake at 5 o'clock when the station master drives into the car park and unlocks the station. The first passenger to arrive walks the entire length of the car park looking at us continuously until he instinctively knows he is at the door, which he tries to open but cannot because it is locked. He rattles it vigorously. Achieving nothing, he disappears round the side of the building. The next arrival is a cyclist, who pedals furiously up the hill into the car park, chains his bike to a lamp post and walks out of the car park in the direction of the town, not taking his eyes off us. I am reminded of Themroc, that outrageous film. Then a woman arrives in a car, reverses rapidly into what is obviously her usual spot, gets out, looks at her car, gets in again, and repositions the car a foot to the left - I am laughing because this behaviour is inexplicable, there being no guide lines on the tarmac. She seems satisfied. Other people begin to arrive, so we stir ourselves and wander into the station fully expecting a cup of coffee. There are no refreshments, and apparently no loos, though the station foyer is immaculate and imaginatively decorated with neat benches and geraniums, so we drive the few yards into the town, where we fully expect to be able to get petrol, breakfast and somewhere to have a wash.

Nothing stirs except the traffic, gradually building up in the town. It is after six, and even the Cafe de La Gare is shuttered. I thought the French got up early, but then this is not a tourist area, nor is it really the season yet. We wait for a sign of life, and eventually get fed up and drive off towards Salome, where we find a Tabac which is open. I say to the barman "Deux cafes-au-lait, s'il vous plait", and he goes "Uh?" and the man standing next to me repeats exactly what I have said, and the barman nods in understanding. We have a coffee, surrounded by working men, many of whom are drinking beer. The shop is very busy, probably because he is the only one open at this hour (by now 7 am), and Suzy remarks on the high preponderance of people of Moorish complexion. We drink our coffee, which is delicious, and hardly miss our usual cup of tea, both go to the "Ladies" because there is no "Gents", and set off out of the town, stopping briefly at a patisserie. We find a petrol station which has obviously been open for hours, and head out towards Neuve Chappelle on the D947.

The Crucifix which Grandad photographed is still there [1.21], but is has been expertly repaired, as has the severe shell damage to the building behind it. There is an atmosphere to the place, but whether it's because we know what took place here, we don't know. Neuve Chappelle [1.21] Back at the Indian Memorial (could this be Salvation Corner?), I take several photographs in this peaceful and thought-provoking place [1.22-1.25], and cannot help remarking that in view of their sacrifices, we don't seem to have done justice to our former colonial allies, in that the Commonwealth seems to mean very little these days. It is interesting to see the size of the trees in the centre of the Memorial, which were newly-planted in Grandad's photograph. We call in at the "Cafe de la Bombe" [1.26, 1.27], which is just opening. Madame is very pleasant, and genuinely interested in the old photographs of the Memorial. She has not been here long, though, so who knows where the family of the original owners went. Her coffee is perfect, and we are allowed to put our own milk in. [1.22] [1.23] [1.24] [1.25]

We head off to Festubert [1.28, 1.29] on the D166 (past Richebourg, which we had got to know so well last night), and cross the La Bassee to Bethune Canal at Cuinchy (which we have christened "Crunchy" - we tend to be quite childish when we are away free) and drive down the track beside the Canal to a quiet spot where we can have a wash and change. The atmosphere here is so peaceful, we could have stayed longer. The Canal [1.30-1.35] is wide, maybe 30 metres, and the path beside it very hard, solid chalk, and stony, and we are not surprised the Pals were foot-sore. I pull up a small root of a plentiful and pretty nettle -like plant, and collect some seeds from some others. The wild flowers are very attractive. We contemplate collecting some rush seeds, but there is too great a risk of falling into the water, which is rather oily from the barge traffic. A barge - "El Lobo" - goes by very quietly at about 5 knots, heading for Bethune, and I am quite envious of the very comfortable looking and prettily decorated cabin at the stern. It's now 10 am, and time to move on. Festubert [1.28] [1.29] La Bassee-Bethune Canal [1.30] [1.33] [1.31]

With Suzy navigating expertly, despite the very confusing and sometimes inaccurate road signs, we go through Mazingarbe, Bully, Lievin and Givenchy-en-Gohelle and start the climb to Vimy Ridge, which is the unmistakable landmark from some way away. It is easy to see why it was so strategically important, especially covering as it does the coal fields around Lens, the spoils from which the Germans needed to support their war industry. At the top of the ridge is the Canadian Memorial [1.36, 1.37], a huge impressive white stone monument which was built after the Pals' tour in 1928. Almost all the cars there are British, and there are two British coaches there, too, but also some Canadian accents. I do wish they wouldn't wear baseball caps with blazer and flannels. What strikes me the most are the fenced-off areas where shells have fallen like rain and the surface, even though covered by grass and peacefully grazed by sheep, is folded and torn in a way that could not have been caused by anything but powerful explosive [1.35]. As many as a million shells could have fallen on the ridge during the fighting, we are told later. We follow the signs and drive right round the huge monument - beside which, incidentally, Hitler was photographed in the 1940s (to demonstrate his respect for the soldiers of his enemies!) - and through the trees past enormous bomb craters [2.0] to the Front Line. From the German side [2.1] (North East, with the protective woods behind them), it is quite literally a stone's throw to the Canadian Line [2.2]. Although the whole area has been sanitised - one cannot escape the sound of strimmer even here - it is not difficult to imagine what this must have been like in the pouring rain and cold and dark, with the constant fear of being shot, shelled or bayoneted. Yet at other times it must have been deathly quiet, so much so that the Canadians eventually copied the German design of wire stake, which was screwed into the ground using a rifle and didn't need to be hammered in. It had an additional benefit of being more difficult to remove.

This is where the entrance to Grange Tunnels [2.3] is - much as it must have been in Grandad's time - and we are guided down the steps with a small party of other Brits by a young Canadian guide. The tunnels are cold and oppressive, though would have been ten times more so then, packed with soldiers in full kit weighing up to 90 pounds [40kg], knee deep in mud, ridden with rats and disease, and the muffled noise of battle just a few metres above. There are areas for planning, eating, sleeping, treatment of the wounded (which would have been curtained off so incoming soldiers wouldn't see them - as if they were fooled) and communication. There are tunnels which go under the German lines where sabotage explosives would be set off, the other side of course doing the same, making even bigger craters. We explore about 100 metres of tunnel, and are told that this particular tunnel goes on for another 700 metres, but has not been cleared. At the end of one tunnel there is a replica of an unexploded shell found by the original diggers, which bored a neat hole 5 metres into the chalk. We are told that at least 30% of shells were expected to fail, and that therefore there could be some 300,000 unexploded shells still buried in the ridge. My flash photographs inside the tunnels [2.4, 2.5, 2.7-2.11] may give some idea of what it would have been like for 25,000 men waiting down there for the big offensive which eventually over-ran the German lines. The guide gives us some idea of the (unusually, for that time) meticulous planning involved - for example that the ground had to be taken at strictly 100 yards every three minutes, because any slower and the Germans would have had time to react, and any quicker and the troops would have been killed by their own artillery. Vimy Ridge: danger area [1.37] [1.36 (top right), 1.37] Vimy Ridge: Canadian Road [2.0] Vimy: A stone's throw between trenches [2.1] Vimy: Suzy at the entrance to the tunnels [2.2] Grange tunnels, Vimy [2.4] [2.5] [2.6] [2.8] [2.9] [2.10] [2.11]

We have to move on, even though we are both by now feeling tired after the very short sleep, but we drive down to Arras on the N17 and head, via Bapaume, for Albert on the same road, Suzy catching up on a little sleep while we sail effortlessly across the rolling, uneventful countryside. A few miles short of Albert, we turn left on to the D107 to Martinpuich, Longueval and Delville Wood, passing many cemeteries on the way, all beautifully neat and incongruous in the brilliant sunshine. We have missed out Thiepval, Pozieres and the Ulster Memorial - we can't do it all, unfortunately, but we stop in the shade of a yew tree by Delville Wood Cemetery [2.13], opposite the impressive South African Memorial [2.12]. The scene looks different from the photograph Grandad took - I suppose the trees were damaged in the fighting and the dense trees which back the Memorial now were not there then. We also have to remember that this area was again the subject of fighting during the Second World War. The players were the same. A different generation, but the same nonetheless. Delville Wood Cemetery[2.13] South African Memorial [2.12]

We then drive down through Ginchy and Guillemont, scene of several offensives and re-offensives - so strange for such a small village, cutting across to Montauban - more cemeteries - where there is what looks like a brand new memorial stone in the village on the left, in memory of the Liverpool Lads and Manchester Pals (including Grandad's 19th Battalion), which I photograph from both sides [2.14, 2.15]. Missing out Mametz, we pass through the beautifully situated little village of Carnoy - my grandfather named his house after it - and stop to photograph it from the top of the hill on the other side [2.16]. We cross the Albert - Peronne road and imagine - not for the first time this trip - Grandad and his friends trudging along the lanes. With Billon Wood on our left as we head towards Bray, the farm in front of us must be Billon Farm. I ask a man of about my age through the open window of the farm house, which looks quite recently built. He confirms the name, and I ask permission to take photographs. In our brief conversation, I learn his family have only been there since 1956, but he is interested to know that my grandfather was here during the war. I stand in the same place Grandad had stood, and photograph the same barn, now strongly rebuilt, thinking what an irresistible target it must have been to the German artillery, being visible on the hill for many miles around [2.17-2.21]. Montauban: Memorial to the Pals [2.14] [2.15] Looking back to Carnoy [2.16] Billon Farm [2.17] [2.18] [2.19] [2.20] [2.21]

Just a little way down the hill on the other side of the road we stop by Bronfay farm [2.22, 2.23], where the same expertly patched brick work is very clearly defined. The farmhouse is an imposing building - not like a farm house at all, more like a small chateau. Opposite is Bronfay Farm Cemetery [2.24-2.25] where maybe a hundred soldiers are buried - from almost as many different regiments - killed, I suppose, while passing through to the Line, now just a mile or so away. Bronfay Farm [2.22] [2.23] Bronfay Farm Cemetery [2.25] [2.24]

Now down the hill - in the opposite direction to the "Lads", of course - into Bray-sur-Somme [2.26-2.29], with its imposing church in the centre. I try to photograph the church from where Grandad did, but can't get back far enough, realising when we go into the cafe opposite the church and see some old photographs on the wall that the building which I leaned on to take the picture wasn't there in 1928. Realising we are both very tired, we have coffee at the Cafe - where the proprietor keeps the "Ladies" locked, but she is fascinated by Grandad's photographs - we decide to call it a day, unaware - until we get home - two things: first, the cafe is the one the Pals took drinks in, and second, that just up the hill was the farm where the Briault-Turquet family lived in 1928, of whom Grandad took several photos. Had we not been so tired, we might have even thought to go there and ask if the children in the photographs were still living in the village. But that's a good enough reason to go again.

Before we leave Bray, we go down to the beautiful river and take pictures from the bridge [2.30, 2.31]. The place has a lovely atmosphere, and we are sorry to go, but we have decided to return to Boulogne tonight and see if we can catch the last boat, because the trip has been very tiring and our backs are complaining almost audibly. We head towards Corbie, stopping briefly to photograph an Australian Memorial by the road [2.32, 2.33], and also to buy some provisions from the Intermarche, and then the Amiens ring road, and out on to the N1, a road we have been on before, south of Paris - the road Ian Fleming referred to in "Goldfinger" as "The Murderess", if I remember correctly. What strange thoughts pop into my head without warning. A few miles from Amiens, we turn left, drop down the hill through St. Sauveur and cross the River Somme at Ailly, then turn left for Breilly. The cafe at the top of the street on the right looks too new to be the one my grandfather described, but the owner leaves Suzy in no doubt when she goes in with the old photographs to ask [2.34-2.36]. Once again, they are delighted to know what we are doing. Then on again to Picquigny, where we are pleased to find the buildings little changed, so we can take another comparative picture [2.37]. We are surprised to find that the building on the left in his picture is fronted with wood, which looks as no attention has been paid to it since, and is at the entrance to a farm. Picquigny is delightful, and a must for another visit. We just cannot do the area justice in this rather hurried visit - but one thing has struck us both very forcibly, that in every town and village and on practically every hillside there is a military cemetery and, in most that we visited, the majority of the graves were of British or Commonwealth soldiers. The numbers are staggering. Bray [2.26] [2.28] [2.29] Bray: from the bridge over the Somme [2.31] The Somme [2.30]

We cross the river again, and get back on to the N1, hardly noticing Abbeville (next time!) and drive at good speed to Boulogne, via Montreuil and many small villages. The weather is good enough to be tempted to go to Le Touquet, but the thought of another night in the car keeps us going, and we reach the port of Boulogne in time to have a coffee in the Seacat lounge before the 9.15 sailing. There is just about enough light for me to take a few photographs as we leave [3.1-3.3], while Suzy tries to find a comfortable place to relax after the long drive, but some immature teenagers drive her on deck, while I spend the hour either on deck or looking into the bridge. The sun is setting, and we pass a couple of showers, but it is still dry as we reach Folkestone, and watch as the watertight door is lowered manually because the automatic mechanism has failed. This gets the crew in a muddle and they call for foot passengers to disembark just as the last ones are stepping off the gangway, and at last we are told we can go to our cars. We drive through customs, out of the town, stopping for some expensive but very average chips, and on to the road back home, which is quiet. It starts to rain - the first drop since the day before we left - a good bit of luck coming home when we did.

And the first thing we do when we walk in the door around midnight - put the kettle on for a cup of tea. Nothing has changed, Grandad.

Postscript

I set out, as I said in my introduction, to get some idea of what the Great War was like for my grandfather; I believe I have a better idea now. The special thing about this trip was that I felt I was paying my respects to the man whom I never got to know very well. Above all, what I have seen has given me unbounded respect for him and all his brave comrades. What I will never be able to know is how sick he must have felt in 1939 when he knew it was all going to happen again, and yet could not know that by "chance's strange arithmetic" he - or his family - would survive. It was typical of him, however, that he would volunteer for the A.R.P. and place himself at risk again - because he knew it was the right thing to do.

Even though our trip was all done in such a rush, some recollections of this whistle-stop tour, as I sit and type up my notes and the taped comments I have made, are very vivid. The humorous moments, the friendliness and interest of most of the people we met, the perfect weather and the mad drivers. And then the places I knew Grandad had been, during the war or afterwards, especially Vimy Ridge and the Somme - the names which have always conjured up for me visions of Hell on Earth, reinforced by recent visits to the Imperial War Museum.

But the places themselves emitted to me an air of unreality. While the countryside was pleasant, and the broad views punctuated reassuringly by the church spires, the water towers, the neatly defined woods and the extensive young crops, the marks on the landscape might be the diggings of some monstrous wild animal, or even the result of the Earth's turbulent geology - if it were not for the white grave stones which seemed to number more than the trees, and the uncanny quietness - as if the unassuming landscape still held its breath, waiting for the next time War slouches this way again...

© Tony Holkham 1995, 2003

[Back to top] [Back to Chance's strange arithmetic main page]