Pals

By Henry P Barnes

As long as he could remember, Albert had dreamt about leaving the slums of Accrington to find a better life to escape the relentless backbreaking drudgery of a life in the cotton mills-a life that had trapped his family for generations. Growing up, he thought hed find that escape in the army. He grew up amidst a strong family and surrounded by wonderful friends.

As a young adult, Albert finally finds himself. He has everything a working-class young man needs-a steady job, a girlfriend, and the starring role in his football team. He has prospects, and life is looking up. Maybe he can find his way without resorting to the army.

When war breaks out, along with thousands of other young men, Albert finds himself in uniform in the infamous Accrington Pals battalion. On the Western Front, he learns the true meaning of friendship and courage. Amid the carnage of the Somme, Albert must dig deep within himself to survive. On a fateful day in July 1916, Alberts youth comes to an end. He must come to terms with terrible loss and try to create for himself a new life, balancing hope for the future with heartbreaking pain. And he must do it without his closest friend-his lifelong pal, William. Albert becomes the reluctant hero-the one his pals turn to and rely on.

Pals is a fictional account of one mans battle to grow up whilst coming to terms with the horrors of the First World War. At the Battle of the Somme, seven hundred Accrington Pals went into battle. Within thirty minutes, almost six hundred of them had fallen, almost an entire generation of men and boys from a small town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Sep 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781496989031

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© 2014 Henry P Barnes . All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 08/08/2014

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8901-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8902-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-8903-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Foreword From The Author

Part One

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Part Two

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

Part Three

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

FOREWORD FROM THE AUTHOR

The memory of the Accrington Pals is strong in their hometown. Growing up nearby, it was hard for me to escape it. Back in the day, when the local corporation ran the buses, they were liveried in the blue and crimson colours of the East Lancashire Battalion and the window frames were black, the colour of mourning – a mark of remembrance. Anyone who took a trip on an old Hyndburn, or Accrington Corporation bus would be reminded of the sacrifice of that group of men. My own father used to drive those buses.

In the Great War, there were many Pals battalions, made up of ordinary young folk from the same towns. The lads from Accrington were no better nor worse than any other. They were enthusiastic and patriotic as they marched away. They did their drill and learned to fire their weapons. Whilst training, it was not uncommon for them to march the ten miles to Burnley, and then do a full day of manoeuvres, before marching back afterwards. They were courageous men, but no more than anyone else called into service in those dark days.

However, they do stand out. The Accrington Pals went to France, to the Somme, where they took their place in the line. Yorkshiremen from Sheffield and Barnsley flanked them. They were given orders to attack a town called Serre. On Saturday 1st July 1916, at about 7.30 in the morning, seven hundred and fifty of them emerged from their trench, went over the top and walked straight into German machine gun fire. In less than thirty minutes, almost six hundred were dead, wounded or missing. By the time their loved ones sat down to eat breakfast that Saturday morning, the heart and soul of their town had already been ripped out.

It was a source of some contention in Accrington during the war that so much attention was on the Pals, and that those serving elsewhere were ignored.

I have long felt the need to tell a story connected to the Pals. This book is not intended as a historical document. My characters are fictional, save a few references in passing to real members of the battalion. Apart from my depiction of the first day of the Battle of the Somme, all other battles are fictional. My intention is not to tell a true story, but to capture the essence of war. My characters could have been in any theatre, any battalion, and they could have fought any battle.

In paying tribute to the Accrington Pals, I also want to pay tribute to all the men and women who were caught up in the Great War, whatever their nationality.

Much has been written about the Great War in this the centenary year of it starting. My hope in offering this contribution is that we remember the humanity, the fact that they weren’t khaki clad robots who went to war, they were people much the same as you and I; brothers, sons and best friends. When they fell, they left behind emptiness and a long and lingering sadness.

If you have never visited Accrington, go. In particular, visit the war memorial in Oak Hill Park. It is an impressive structure, standing proudly over the town. Take a look at the names of the real Pals, alongside those of the others who fell. Accrington gave many of its sons; they all fought bravely in many regiments, not just the Pals. When you have read all the names, turn and look at the plaque for the fallen of the Second World War. The first thing you will notice is how few names there are. The reason for that is that the town gave the lion’s share if it’s most vital youth between 1914 and 1919. By 1939, there weren’t many left to take up arms.

Henry P Barnes,

July 2014

For Pauline, Marian, Arthur, Gwen, Harry, Dinah, May and Philip. Special thanks and love to Pauline, Marian, Harry and Arthur and to the amazing Matthew.

Your inspiration spurs me on every day.

For Jackie and Margaret.

For Stephen, David, Kila, Madeleine, Dawn, Ross, Jake, Charlotte for bearing with me when I kept going on about it.

PART ONE

I

Dear Mam

I don’t know when or even if I’ll get to write again as we are going up onto the line tonight. We are all in good spirits, although I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I am nervous. We have our orders and know what we have to do tomorrow. They say it’s going to be a heck of a show. We will knock the Hun for six. William says we will definitely be home for Christmas so we will push the boat out and have a tree this year.

Don’t worry too much about your old son. We’ve been whacking the enemy for days with our big guns. You can hear the roar for miles. In fact, I reckon if you really tried you could hear them all the way in Accrington. Nothing could survive such a bombardment. Tell you the truth, I feel sorry for Fritz who must have been blown to shreds by now.

So, our big push should be a piece of cake. They’ve put Dad in a different platoon to me. I shall try and see him before they move us on to the line. I’ll try and write again soon.

Give my love to Harold, Victoria and little George. I can only imagine how big he’s grown.

You remain in my thoughts now and always

Love

Your Albert

No Man’s Land,

Serre, The Somme Valley, Northern France

1st July, 1916, approx. 0745

IT WAS a baptism of fire for nineteen year-old Albert Webb. Months of training, drilling and manoeuvres led to this day, although none of it prepared him for those opening moments of the Battle of the Somme. The roar of machine guns, shells and mortar fire was deafening. Albert was pinned down; crouching as low as he could in a crater blasted out of the earth by a high explosive shell.

The Germans unleashed all the fury of hell on the advancing British.

Wave after wave, the Tommies emerged from their trenches, each told to walk and not run. They held their rifles, bayonets fixed – blades against machine guns. Bullets tore through lines of bewildered and frightened men, shredding them as a blade slices corn at harvest.

Still they came these Tommies, up ladders, over the top, finding their footing before moving forward. Some fell immediately to the ground before they’d taken a single step. Some were still on their ladders when they met their end.

Shells burst with a terrifying noise, blasting shards of scorching hot metal. If the blast didn’t get you, the shrapnel would. Bullets strafed the ground in front of the crater, thumping into the bodies of the fallen, lying in mud, over coils of barbed wire, or slumped over shattered tree stumps.

The air was thick with smoke and acrid from the sweet stench of burning flesh. The ground shook violently with each blast. The wounded screamed, crying desperately for help. Some called for their mothers. Grown men, hardened in mills, factories and mines, cowered terrified as death danced mockingly around them.

A shell burst a yard from his crater. Albert crouched as low as he could. He wanted to cry as would a child, but was paralysed with fear. At nineteen, Albert was still a boy, though he was growing fast. He remained still, frightened that the slightest movement would expose him. Shards of hot metal peppered the ground to Albert’s right, missing him by inches. Instinctively, Albert tried to make himself smaller in his hole. Another blast showered earth and rocks onto him. A rock struck his steel helmet, bouncing to the ground at his side. Even with the helmet on, the impact was painful. Smaller stones and earth crashed onto Albert’s back, and he cried in pain.

He had heard the stories of the Western Front and had seen with his own eyes the terrible sight of the wounded being evacuated, but he didn’t expect it to be like this. He prayed that if death were coming, it would be quick so that he might be spared more of this hell.

He heard the diabolical screams of someone who had borne the full impact of the shell, their body torn apart by shrapnel. He daren’t look up. The screaming lasted moments but seemed longer. It became more intense, higher in pitch as desperation grew. Albert tried to get up to help, but couldn’t move. Gradually, the screaming faded away.

Albert didn’t know the soldier, although he thought he recognised the voice. He was sure of one thing; he was from East Lancashire.

They all were, part of a battalion known as the Accrington Pals.

They weren’t all from Accrington – some came from Burnley, Chorley and Blackburn. They were comrades from the same towns, who worked in the same offices, mills, factories and pits. They all grew up together, attended the same schools, and churches, played the same games and courted the same girls. Now they served together, marched against their enemy and died together. Eleven hundred of them had been posted to France, and more than seven hundred went over the top that sunny July morning. Yes, it was sunny – not that they could tell because of the thick smoke hanging in the sky.

Although gripped with fear, Albert needed to get going again.

He had been out in the open in No Man’s Land for about twenty-five minutes, and under intense German fire for the last fifteen. Albert was in the very first wave, ordered to take up a forward position and lie down in the open ten minutes before the main assault. In itself that had been a frightening experience, with artillery exploding directly in front of them, some too close for comfort. They lay flat waiting for the barrage to lift. At the whistle, they rose and walked forward towards their objective; the first of four lines of trenches in front of Serre.

‘Walk lads, don’t run!’ Sergeant Charlie Morris told them. ‘Don’t worry there’ll be no one left to defend the trenches. Nothing could survive that bombardment. Makes you glad to be British, lads.’ Those words were still ringing in Albert’s ear. Nothing could survive it, eh?

They hadn’t just survived it, they came out fighting with all their equipment intact and in rude working order.

It was meant to be just a short stroll across no man’s land, a couple of hundred yards to the first trench. ‘What better way to spend a beautiful Saturday morning in July?’ Morris had been in good form that morning.

The barrage preceding the attack had lasted for days. Never before had ordnance on that scale been hurled at an enemy. The roar was audible for miles. The Pals heard it way back in their rear position and were awed by its ferocity.

‘Listen to that!’ Lieutenant Hubert Pargiter had marvelled as the Pals assembled for the long march to their forward position the evening before. He saw the frightened look in their eyes. Although only twenty himself, Pargiter knew the importance of keeping up morale. Unlike most of the other subalterns, Pargiter was a career soldier, fresh from Sandhurst. He’d hoped for a posting better suited to his minor aristocratic social status, and Pargiter had his sights set on the Guards. The army, however, needed him to get infantry experience and he’d been posted to the Pals on the recommendation of a family friend.

The ear splitting noise went on constantly through the night becoming even more thunderous as the Pals neared the front. Shell craters, caved in communication trenches and ankle deep mud slowed their march. It had taken much longer than planned and by the time they reached their position it was already past two in the morning.

The men were exhausted.

The build up was meant to be a secret, but German lookouts saw the whole thing. Deep in bunkers, they readied themselves. They figured out what was coming next. As soon as the artillery lifted, they scrambled out and set up their guns.

The Pals believed they were unseen, but every move they made was monitored. Lookouts from the Baden Regiment signalled, ‘They’re coming’.

In his crater, Albert’s body was shaking, through a mix of fear, shock and adrenalin. There was no time to think, but he needed to pull himself together and get out of the crater fast. All around was confusion and panic. Stay and he’d be a target. Move and he would be a target. Talk about rocks and hard places.

He got to his knees, just high enough to survey the scene and think about what to do. His eyes fell on the body of a comrade. His dead eyes were still wide open, transfixed with fear.

‘Bert? Mate, is that you?’ A voice rose over the roar of battle. Albert looked around relieved, instantly recognising the voice. It was William Hindle, his oldest and closest friend. They had grown up together, joined up at the same time and vowed to stick together through thick and thin. They epitomised what the Pals were all about – friends fighting united for the same cause. Just minutes earlier, they had been advancing shoulder-to-shoulder, but had separated in the confusion.

William was hit in the leg and struggling to walk. He dragged himself towards the crater. Every move was agony but William was determined to reach his friend.

‘William, come on, quickly.’ Albert called. William’s face was caked with mud and dust. Albert tried to get up to carry William to shelter, but machine gun fire pinned him back. ‘Hurry up.’ Albert shouted.

It seemed an eternity, but eventually William reached the crater’s edge, close enough for Albert to drag him in.

William cried in pain as Albert pulled him. ‘Christ, man!’ He screamed through gritted teeth.

‘Keep your bloody head down. Where are you hit?’ William pointed to his legs, but the pain was too great for him to speak. There was a patch of fresh blood on his dirty trousers. Albert got down to take a look. It was a thigh wound, and Albert knew the danger of damage to the femoral artery. Albert pressed hard on the wound with the palm of his hand but William writhed in agony. ‘Sorry, mate, but I’ve got to do something to stop the bleeding.’ He looked around, searching for something to use when an idea struck him. ‘Wait there.’ He said.

‘I’m going nowhere.’ William wheezed.

Albert crawled over to the dead soldier. He disconnected the bayonet from the dead man’s rifle and used it to cut off part of his tunic.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Stay there and keep your head down.’ Albert crawled back with a strip of cloth to make a bandage. He couldn’t remove William’s trousers, so he decided to apply the dressing to the outside. At the very least, it would put pressure on the wound that might stem the bleeding. ‘Hang on, William.’ Albert told him. ‘This might hurt a bit.’

‘Just get on with it.’

Albert fastened the bandage and pulled it tight. William winced and screwed up his face; he had never felt this much pain before. ‘Do you think it’s a Blighty wound?’ William asked.

‘Reckon so. Now, sit back and get your breath back. This lot will soon pass over and when it does, I’ll carry you to an aid station.’ He looked around anxiously for a medic but there was nobody, and no let up in the battle.

‘I’ve had just about as much of France as I can take.’ William tried to smile. ‘First thing I’m going to do is get Mum to make me hotpot.’

Albert smiled. ‘You do that.’

‘I’ll think about you having your bully beef.’

Albert could see how uncomfortable William was so he dragged him to a spot where he thought he would be safer. In moving his friend, Albert was careful not to dislodge the bandage.

What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Albert heard the bullet whistle past his ear, missing him by a fraction of an inch. ‘Bloody hell, that was close.’ Albert exclaimed, relieved as he turned to William.

But the bullet that missed Albert struck William in the chest, passing straight into his lung. William was stunned at first, his eyes wide open. A patch of blood appeared on his tunic around the hole made by the bullet and quickly spread across his chest. William slumped over to his side.

‘No, William! Wake up!’ Albert took him in his arms. William was barely conscious and although his face was muddy, what colour there was drained away. William seemed transfixed by something in No Man’s Land.

Albert turned to see what William was looking at, but there was nothing. ‘What is it? What do you see, William?’ He asked, holding him closer.

William struggled for breath. It took all his strength but he pointed into the air at something in the distance. He tried to speak but there were no words.

‘Don’t speak. I’ll get help.’ William’s head rested on Albert’s chest.

‘I don’t feel very well,’ William sighed, ‘help me, Albert. I think this might be it. Don’t let them take me.’

With tears welling, Albert tried to comfort his friend. ‘Hang in there, mate. Help’s coming. We’ll soon get you out, and you can have that hotpot.’

‘I don’t think I’m going to make it.’

‘Of course you will, just hang on. It won’t be long.’ Albert fought back tears.

Albert strained to see out of the crater through the smoke. He could make out the silhouetted figures of infantrymen still going forward – the damned fools, he thought – but no stretcher-bearers. He shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Help! Stretcher-bearers! Help!’

But, no one heard.

‘They’re not coming, Bert.’

‘They will. Hang on.’

‘They’re coming to get me.’ William sighed. He suddenly looked frightened.

Albert looked up, but there was nobody there. ‘Who can you see, William? Who’s coming?’

‘Leave me alone.’ William said softly, ‘I’m not ready!’

‘Who are you talking to William? There’s nobody there.’

‘I don’t want to go, Albert. Tell them I don’t have to go.’ William’s voice was raspy as he struggled for breath.

‘Don’t talk, save your breath.’ Tears rolled down Albert’s cheek. He felt William’s life ebb away. A single tear dripped onto William’s forehead and at that same moment, William struggled for one final breath before sinking peacefully into eternal sleep.

‘William! Don’t leave me, come back.’ Albert sobbed. He had lost his oldest and closest friend. In desperation, Albert laid William down on the floor and pounded on his chest with his fist.

There was no response.

Two weeks short of his twentieth birthday, Private William Hindle, an apprentice engineer from Accrington breathed his last. He had been a soldier almost two years, and in battle less than half an hour. To the army, William was a statistic, one of almost sixty thousand casualties sustained that day, of which twenty thousand souls were returned to God. But to Albert, William was no statistic – and nor was he to his parents, Bob and Vera, or his siblings. Albert’s mind went back to Accrington, to the little Hindle house where they would be gathering for their meagre breakfast, blissfully unaware of William’s agonising final few moments. Perhaps Vera did feel her son’s passing. Many are the stories of mother’s becoming suddenly aware of their son’s pain in those final moments. Years later, she would talk about a deep sense of dread and foreboding that descended on her that morning, that at the time she couldn’t explain.

‘Come on, man, don’t go.’ He cried. ‘I don’t know what to do without you!’

It was no good. No amount of pounding would bring William back. Albert stopped and slumped down next to him, sobbing his heart out. ‘You bastards!’

He cried for several minutes, until there was nothing left in him.

Bullets strafed the edge of the crater and Albert knew he needed to move. He let go of William and crawled to the other side, where there was better shelter, and where he’d left his rifle.

Looking up, he saw the silhouette outlines of men edging forward, their rifles at the ready. Albert watched several fall. But still their comrades advanced. This was either the bravest group of men the planet had ever witnessed, or the stupidest.

‘I’ll come back for you, old friend.’ Albert told William. ‘I won’t leave you here.’ He picked up his rifle, pulled himself out and joined the advancing ranks. Slowly the smoke cleared and Albert saw for the first time the scale of the destruction. It was carnage and utter confusion. Albert had no idea where his own platoon had gone, or even if anyone from it was still alive. For William and the others who were falling all around him, Albert knew he had to get the job done – if nothing else so that they could go home soon.

II

ACCRINGTON IS a proud town nestling in a once pretty valley twenty or so miles north of Manchester, four miles east of the town of Blackburn and six west of Burnley. It was built on decades of hard graft: the main industry was spinning, weaving and dying cotton. Everything centred on the cotton industry. Even the town’s heavy engineering factories, of which there were several, built the looms that filled dozens of giant cotton mills. Accrington was built atop a rich coal seam, mined in collieries all over the area, providing the fuel that powered the furnaces, which drove thousands of machines.

Huge factories, their tall chimneys belching thick black smoke into a leaden Lancashire sky, dominated the skyline. Clinging to these temples of industry and spreading out in all directions were row upon row of tightly packed terraced houses, mostly built in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, turning black, dirtied by the factory smoke, giving the town a dark complexion, creating an industrial gloom even on the brightest sunny day.

Narrow cobble streets, separated the fronts of these rows of cheaply built workers’ houses. Small walled yards at the rear with tiny outhouses, which provided storage for wood and coal and an outside lavatory. Many a Lancashire backside froze out there in winter. Beyond the yard, a narrow, cobbled, back passage. It was the same wherever one looked. Row upon row, street after street of the same houses, stretching as far as the eye could see.

At the start of the twentieth century, these tough, dark and uninviting streets were dimly illuminated by gas, lit by hand each night. Most residents didn’t possess alarm clocks and the early morning peace was shattered each day by the noise of the knocker-upper an unwelcome individual armed with a long pole with which he knocked on bedroom windows, rousing the occupants, announcing the arrival of another grinding day in the mill. One had better heed his call. There were fines for turning up late for work. Life in the mills was tough and unrelenting.

The reason for cotton’s success in Lancashire was the region’s higher than average rainfall. Damp prevents cotton from snapping in the loom, and it’s what made Lancashire textiles the finest in the world. Lancashire damp was perfect for cotton, but not so for the lung, which when combined with the smoke, gave rise to above average lung disease.

Poor quality housing, with people living on top of one another and in each others’ pockets, along with bad diet, hard work, and smoke mixed up with the damp air made for an unhealthy population. Why did people leave their rural villages in droves to settle in places like Accrington? They needed money, and post industrial revolution Lancashire paid a regular wage.

It would be easy to characterise Accrington as a mass of downtrodden working people in cloth caps and clogs, trudging to and from their looms, as in a Lowry painting. But, scratch away only part of the surface and you would discover the beating heart of a vibrant and thriving town. The people were down at heel, but they were stoical, with a biting sense of humour and fun. They loved life, friends, family and neighbours. They were ordinary people just like everyone else trying to get by in a hard world, do their best and progress a step or two forward. They had the same hopes, ambitions and fears as anyone anywhere.

It was into this place that Albert came kicking and screaming one hot August day in 1896, the first born of the recently married George and Mary Webb. It would have been a scandal if anyone had bothered to do the maths. Albert arrived nine months almost to the day after his parents became engaged, but only four after their wedding. George had arranged the wedding for before Mary started to show.

Lucky for George, no one seemed to catch on, or if they did they didn’t say anything. The first few weeks of Albert’s life were a struggle for survival. There were times when they thought he wouldn’t make it. But he was a born fighter, with the grit and determination that would serve him well in later life.

The cause of the potential scandal was George’s impulsive desire to consummate his engagement. He’d never expected Mary to say yes when he popped the question, believing she was too good for him. When she did agree, he was so overjoyed he insisted they take a train to the seaside to celebrate.

George led Mary onto the Promenade at Blackpool just as the sun was setting. That evening, the sky was ablaze in shades of yellow, purple, orange and red. It made dazzling colourful patterns in the clouds and reflected off the sea. It was magical, quite unlike anything George had ever seen.

Seizing the moment, George took Mary to the end of the North Pier, took her in his arms and gave her a long, lingering, kiss. If she was embarrassed by his public show of affection, she hid it well. That was the thing about Blackpool. Social conventions that constrained those prudish Victorians were left at the town’s boundary.