Once they were clear of Corbie, they would travel through the locks and the river gardens, the marshes and the eel ponds. Maybe the river was unnavigable, maybe there would be military guards, maybe he would have to abandon the small craft and carry his brother overland, maybe he could rest and get stronger until he found another boat and another way north to the great bay and the roar of its breakers and the wail of seabirds. Then, maybe, one day, they would go to England and find Cousin Isabelle. But meanwhile the sea air would be good for his chest, he could do odd jobs and the boy could play on the sand and get some color in his cheeks, and they could both paddle in the shallows as the tide sucked the Somme out to sea.
Afterwards
Deeply regret your husband, Major Sir Henry Maurice Bourne Sydenham, the Somerset Light Infantry, killed in action in France, July 1. The Army Council expresses sympathy. Unfortunately during the morning’s engagement very few of the Company got back without being hit. However, such is War, and it is the memory of these gallant deeds that must remain to us for our consolation. Assuring you of our deepest sympathy in your sad loss.
It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has this day been received that your son 145083 Cpl Francis Percy Stanton 1st Huntingdonshire (Cyclists’) Batt’n, is missing, believed killed, in action, July 1.
There was fierce fighting in the area at the time and there are as yet no further details. The Army Council expresses sympathy and regrets the loss you and the Army have sustained on the death of your son in the service of his country.
Any application you may wish to make concerning the late soldier’s effects should be addressed to the War Office, Whitehall, London SW.
It is with the deepest regret that I have to inform you that your son, Acting Captain Benedict Arthur Chatto, was killed in action on July 2, while attempting to save the life of a brother officer. His death was that of a fine soldier and a brave man and he has been mentioned in a Dispatch for his courageous action.
The King and Queen deeply regret the loss you and the Army have sustained on the death of your son in the service of his country.
Sad news has been received by Mr. Reginald Dawes-Holt of Avalon Court, Bristol, on his return from honeymoon in Scotland. A telegram awaited with notification of the death of his only son, Captain Theodore Reginald John Dawes-Holt, Royal Flying Corps, who was killed in France during the opening hours of the Battle of the Somme. Many casualties were sustained during this heroic action, we hear, and sadly this popular young officer was among them.
Captain Dawes-Holt, whose late mother was the celebrated singer Mrs. Serafina Dawes-Holt, was engaged to be married to Miss Agnes Elizabeth Bradstock, daughter of the Right Reverend the Bishop of Gloucester.
Before taking up his commission, Captain Dawes-Holt, who was educated at the King’s School, Gloucester, was an organ scholar at the cathedral and his early promise had been much remarked upon in musical circles.
—Bristol Courier, July 28, 1916
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
June 30, 1916
I love you more than life itself. Never forget that.
Your Harry
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Frank, Devon, 1917
THERE WERE THINGS I LEARNED from that war. Too many to list. One is: just because it’s written down and looks official, don’t believe a word of it.
It nearly killed my old dad getting the telegram, but I don’t doubt he had got into the way of enjoying a bit of sympathy. There was plenty who lost their boys and their husbands, but he had no one left at all, of course. Then, six months later, it nearly killed him all over again seeing me turn up. I thought it would just be a pleasant surprise, not knowing the Army had, in the matter of telegrams, let off its barrage too early, which, as we’d learned to our cost, was the usual way with them. I’d been out of it all for weeks, they told me in the hospital, and all that time down as Isaac Meyer, whose name tag they had found on me after Nora had ripped mine off my neck that day. Every week, the rabbi came to sit with me; even when I didn’t know who I was, he stayed, holding my hand. Even when I did, he still came.
Now Dad was as pale as if he’d seen a ghost, which in a way he had. The War Office nearly had the death of the old man on its hands on top of all those young ones.
It was two heroes who saved me from certain death, they said. A French lad, nobody knew his name, who found me, wandering, stuck through with bits of scrap, which was all poor Nora was by then. The French boy cleaned me up, laid me down, and got a first-aider to me. The story followed me, no doubt growing in the telling. Wherever I went, they said you’re the one made it because the French lad swam the River Somme, in the middle of a battle, to get help. Then when nobody wanted to come out and fetch a single soldier who looked like he was a goner, least not on a Frenchman’s say-so, one first-aider volunteered. My second hero. His name I do know: such an ordinary name—Higgs. A searcher who found me, a nurse told me. I could never thank him or have him tell me how it was, as by then he’d disappeared. No record, they said. They’d all disappeared who’d been part of my story; all except me.