Our Tom

By J. E. Gaulton

Our Tom is set during the First World War and is the story of Thomas Middleton, a lonely 36-year-old labourer from Derbyshire, though well-respected and a pillar of the community he is lonely and sees the outbreak of war a chance to escape his humdrum life. Upon hearing of the sinking of the Lusitania, decides to enlist not only to get away from his life but to protect his family and the country he loves. What he discovers on his journey is that the welcome world of men, and the strict regime of military life are not everything. Amid this turmoil, he meets a feisty young nurse, Ella, who helps him come to terms with the death of a friend and shows him what love is and what it means to be loved. As romance blossoms, Tom’s life merges with the life of this young nurse. As the eve of the third battle for Gaza looms, Tom and Ella are torn apart by the rigid rules and a hidden secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796009125

J. E. Gaulton

J. E. Gaulton is an avid genealogist and writer. She is a member of The Fellowship of Australian Writers Inc. and was a member of the Northern Beaches Writers Group (NBWG). Publishing credits include ‘A Travel Story,’ set in Egypt published in T-Zero (online writers eZine) and a short story entitled ‘The Instructions,’ published in an anthology called Fearsome Engine by the NBWG. She also contributed the first and last chapter to an episodic book entitled ‘Fractured’ as yet unpublished by the Port Macquarie Hastings Branch of the Fellowship of Australian Writers Inc. She has always been interested in the First World War, and upon discovering that no less than three of her ancestors had fought in it, it inspired her to use her passion for family research as material for a novel. Entitled ‘Our Tom’, the book combines history and fiction, shaped in part by connecting with her ancestors through the act of writing. She is currently researching her second novel. She lives in the Port Macquarie, Australia, with her husband.

Book preview

1. SATURDAY 8 MAY 1915

GIANT CUNARDER CROWDED WITH

PASSENGERS CALLOUSLY SUNK WITHOUT

WARNING OFF THE IRISH COAST.

Without warning the famous Cunarder Lusitania, was torpedoed off the Irish coast yesterday. She sank in eight minutes, but it is believed, many of the passengers have been saved.

The United States is seething with anger at this crime against neutral passengers, including women and children.

The pirates disregard of the lives of Americans will undoubtedly compel President Wilson to take immediate and drastic action. Amongst the passengers were many famous Britons and Americans.

—The Daily Mirror

‘Bastards. Bloody Hun bastards!’

Tom gripped the newspaper and settled himself on the hard timber seat. The shrill blast of the train whistle echoed through the air and the seat shuddered beneath him as the train moved away from New Mills station. Tom’s frown deepened as he scanned the paper. The picture emblazoned on the front page showed the ship in all her glory, with her tall, magnificent funnels standing proud and true, surrounded by smaller vessels. He flicked past the advertisements to the pictorial of the interior of the Lusitania. The ship’s luxury was overwhelming; her beautifully appointed drawing room with embroidered cushions and the velvet-upholstered chairs in the first-class dining room were just dreams to people like him, but there it was—the pure opulence of the ship, destroyed by German torpedoes—a callous and cruel act.

His work-roughened hands gripped the paper, scrunching it between his fingers. ‘How could they do it?’ he growled. The Lusitania now lay a twisted wreck at the bottom of the ocean. She had supposedly broken records, was the fastest ship of the seas.

Apparently, not fast enough, Tom thought, shaking his head in disgust at his own cynicism.

Tom turned the page and read on, how in an earlier voyage the captain had been able to avoid detection of a German cruiser by staying hidden in a fog. But there was no fog this time, no escaping the torpedoes. So many souls lost, and so close to safety.

There was a screech and the carriage lurched forwards as the train slowed. Tom looked out of the window; he’d been so transfixed that he hadn’t noticed he was almost home. Closing the paper, he saw the headline on the back page: ‘The ship that lost: Mr Alfred Vanderbilt among the passengers.’ How could someone famous like Mr Vanderbilt be gone? Lost with so many others in a callous act of brutality? He folded the paper, tucked it under his arm and picked up his snap tin from the seat beside him. He glanced out the window again; seeing they were passing Station Road, he stood and moved towards the carriage door.

‘Bloody bastards,’ he muttered as the train lurched to a stop.

Swirls of smoke and steam engulfed Tom as he stepped down from the train and walked across the platform, swatting at the stone dust that covered the dark serge jacket that stretched across his broad shoulders. With head bowed, he trudged up the cobbled street, flat cap pulled firmly onto his head; having worked at the building site all day, his dark hair was sprinkled with dust and stuck out from behind his ears.

Glancing up the road past the chapel, he saw a small gathering of people on the corner near Jackson’s Butcher Shop. At first, he thought it must be the congregation heading for tonight’s six o’clock service in honour of the men who had enlisted. But, as he drew closer, he recognised the people; it was not merely the churchgoers gathering, but most of the village.

Faces ashen and lips trembling, they scowled at the broadsheet stuck to the window of the post office, its stark, bold black font declared the sinking of the Lusitania. The villagers’ murmurs buzzed in the air like a swarm of angry bees, friends and neighbours venting their anger at the cruelty of the Germans.

‘I hear they’ve been killing babies in Belgium,’ a woman muttered loudly to her friend.

‘Well, I read …’ said the other, but Tom turned away before he heard the rest.

I have to get home and tell Da and Edie the news, he thought. Surely this’ll bring in the Americans. How could they not want to face the Huns now?

Home was ‘Shady Grove’, a row of six brown-brick cottages built by Tom’s grandfather back in the 1850s. The cottages sat clustered together along Buxton Road, the main thoroughfare between Chapel-en-le-frith and Stockport. The large end terrace with its three gleaming windows faced out towards the street and canal.

Smoke drifted from the chimneys as he approached. He crossed the road and walked up to the cottage, pushing open the timber gate. Tom could hear bellowing coming from inside the house.

‘Edith!’ the gruff old voice yelled. ‘Edith!’

Tom strode up the path and opened the front door, stepping into the dimly lit hallway.

‘Who’s that?’ demanded the voice.

‘It’s me, Da,’ Tom said, popping his head around the parlour door. Huddled by the fire sat Tom’s father, William, wrapped in a threadbare checked rug, his once-rounded face gaunt and wrinkled. His rheumy, unfocused eyes flicked towards the sound of Tom’s voice.

‘Where’s Edith?’ said William, fingers twitching at the rug. ‘I can’t find me specs, and I needs me Bible.’

Tom smiled sadly at the once proud figure of his father; the spectacles sat perched on William’s head and the Bible lay sprawled on the carpet beside the ancient winged chair. He walked into the room, bent down and placed the Bible in his father’s trembling hands, then gently lifted the spectacles off his head and refitted them over his eyes.

‘There you go, Da,’ Tom said, as he pulled up a stool and sat down. ‘I have The Daily if you’d like me t’read it t’you.’ Tom unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on his lap.

‘Aye, what mischief have them Germans been up t’now?’ William asked.

‘They’ve gone and sunk the Lusitania,’ Tom blurted out. ‘So many dead, even Mr D A Thomas, that Welsh coalman—you know that rich one—and the American called Vanderbilt. I reckon that’ll bring the Americans into the war, don’t you, Da?’

‘Aye, maybe, who knows with them foreign folks,’ said William, studying Tom’s face. ‘You’ll be wanting t’join up again?’

‘Aye,’ Tom said, surprised that his father had grasped it so quickly. ‘Aye, I would. You’ll have Edith, and George and John are nearby. They’ll lend a hand.’

William placed his gnarled, liver-spotted hand over Tom’s dusty, calloused one. ‘I may be old and nearly blind, but I ain’t stupid,’ he said. ‘I knows I shouldn’t have tried t’stop you last time, but I just couldn’t lose you, son. You know that, right?’

‘Aye, Da, I do. But it’s different now. Folks look at me differently. I don’t wish t’lose their respect. I feel like they are staring at me, accusing me of being a coward.’

William squeezed Tom’s hand. ‘I knows, son; you have t’do what’s best,’ said William. ‘Go on, read.’

With one hand, Tom turned the pages of the newspaper as he continued to read aloud, the other clasped firmly in his father’s hand.

Edith’s querulous voice sounded from the doorway. ‘Thomas Middleton, what the heck do you think you’re doing, traipsing dust through the house. Get out back and wash off this instant.’

Tom jumped in fright; the small stool scooted out from under him and he landed heavily back down on the timber floor. William’s gargled laughter burst out; sheepishly, Tom stood up and raised his hands to smooth himself down when his sister reprimanded him. ‘If you so much as pat your arse, I’ll wallop you. I’ll not have any more dust in this house.’ Edith strode into the room and quickly herded Tom out the door.

If she was taller, Tom thought, she’d’ve grabbed me by the lughole and dragged me out.

‘And you,’ she said, turning a baleful eye on her father, ‘don’t encourage him.’

William’s laughter followed them down the hallway, through the dining room and into the kitchen. The old black stove sent waves of heat through the tiny room. Beside the oven sat a hip bath of tepid water.

‘Right then, get stripped and while you clean off, I’ll beat the dust from these clothes,’ said Edith, hands on hips.

Tom shuffled behind their mother’s old dressing screen which Edith had dragged from the attic and installed in the kitchen so he could bathe in privacy without traipsing dirt through the house. He undressed and thrust the offending clothes towards Edith, who stood tapping her foot on the other side. He waited for the back door to open and close before stepping out and into the bath. Lye soap sat in a dish on the floor next to a jug and an old blue and white washcloth next to that. Grabbing them both, he scrubbed himself clean as he listened to Edith thumping the dust and grime from his clothes.

Thank the Lord it’s my clothes she’s beating and not me.

Tom washed his hair and rinsed off using the water from the jug. He grabbed the warm towel that hung near the range, stood up and wrapped it securely around his trim waist, his strong, powerful legs barely covered by the towel she had left him. The back door burst open and Edith returned carrying his now well-beaten, dust-free clothes.

‘Weel, go on then,’ she said, head bobbing towards the hallway stairs. ‘You’d best get dressed. I’ll hang these, so they are ready for you int morning.’

Tom went over and gave his sister a quick kiss. ‘You’re the best, Edie,’ he said, holding firmly to the towel as he raced up the stairs.

‘Give over, you great lummox,’ she replied shaking her head. She laid his clothes on the drying rack then checked on dinner, which was cooking on the stove.

‘What’s for tea?’ Tom yelled from his room.

‘Beef and tattie pie, with sage parsnips,’ she called back. ‘And before you ask, fly pie for afters.’

Feet stomped across the ceiling and down the stairs. ‘Lovely,’ Tom said from the doorway, buttoning his shirt. ‘I love it when the raisins get all puffed up and juicy, I can’t wait. Owt I can do?’

‘Aye, lay the table,’ she said, handing him Ma’s old handmade tablecloth with embroidered roses around the edge. ‘Use this. It’ll make Da happy.’

*     *     *

The clanging of Tom’s alarm clock echoed through the house and he slammed his hand atop the ringer, yawning. He stumbled out of bed rubbing his eyes, peeled back the curtains and stared bleary-eyed into the early morning light. The sky was grey and overcast. The washing, strung between the cart house and coal store, hung limply in the cold, still air.

Trembling in the chilly room, he dressed in his grey serge suit, waistcoat, shirt and tie. He tucked his pocket watch into his left pocket and strung the chain through the loop on his waistcoat. Taking a quick look in the shaving mirror, he straightened his tie and ran a comb through his hair and moustache.

Today is the day, he thought, shivering not just with cold but anticipation. It’s May. It shouldn’t be so darn cold.

He tromped downstairs into the small kitchen, expecting it to be empty. But there stood Edith in her dressing gown, slicing bread for toast, kettle already on the range.

‘Edie? What are you doing?’

‘What does it look like?’ she said, placing two thick slices onto a plate. ‘Making you breakfast. You can’t go enlisting on an empty stomach, now, can you?’ Her eyes welled up as she spoke, and she quickly wiped her cheeks with the cuff of her dressing gown.

Tom smiled and wrapped her in a warm embrace. He leant down, resting his cheek on the top of her head, and held her close. He kissed her tousled brown hair and moved away.

‘Will the recruitment office be open?’ she asked, glancing at him.

‘Don’t know. I can only hope so, what with the sinking and all. They’ll hope t’get a few more men.’

‘You’ll miss chapel.’

‘I hope it won’t take so long as that. If it does, I’ll go t’the evening service; although they may not take me.’

‘Course they will,’ Edie said. ‘What do you want on your toast?’

‘Can you make me an egg and bacon banjo? I can eat it on the way.’

Edith nodded and got busy making his simple sandwich. ‘With cheese?’

‘Aye, of course,’ Tom said, grabbing the now-steaming kettle and pouring the boiling water into the teapot.

*     *     *

Tom got off the train at Whaley Bridge and turned right into Market Street; he passed the Railway Pub, wishing it was not so early and he could pop in for a quick pint to steady his nerves. But it was only eight in the morning and a Sunday, so he strolled past and stopped outside the Mechanics Institute two doors down. A poster declared, ‘This way to the recruiting office’ and pointed towards the painted green door.

Tom glanced up and down the empty street; all was quiet. With a deep breath, he took off his cap, straightened his shoulders and strode up the steps and into the building. Dim lights illuminated the dark timber foyer where a wrinkle-faced old clerk sat behind a small desk, his hands clasped in front of him.

‘Joining up?’ he croaked as Tom approached.

‘Aye.’

‘Go through that door on the right,’ he said, pointing down the corridor. Tom had walked towards that door before: the time they rejected him. It was different this time; somehow, he felt more confident, brave even. They’d take him this time for sure.

Turning the smooth brass handle, Tom pushed the door open and walked into another office, where a clerk—slightly younger this time—seated behind another desk glanced up and smiled.

‘Oh, good, another one,’ he said, waving Tom forward. ‘Top-O. Age?’

‘Thirty-six.’

The man looked up, nodded once and scribbled it down on a form clipped to a board.

‘Just need to get some particulars,’ he said. ‘Trade, address and next of kin.’ Tom supplied him with all the information and the man wrote it down. ‘You tried before?’ the clerk queried once he had finished writing.

‘Aye, rejected because of me age,’ Tom said.

‘Tried early on, did you? Changed now, that has. You look strapping enough, though. Here.’ The man unclipped the form and handed it to Tom. ‘Through that door and wait ’til called.’

Tom nodded and entered the next room, where hard timber chairs lined the wall to the right. They had partitioned the room off into four cubicles. Tom sat, waiting, heart beating faster with every passing minute. Someone threw a curtain open and an old man stormed out.

‘Bloody disgrace,’ the man grumbled as he limped towards the door Tom had entered. ‘I can see perfectly,’ he said stumbling over the leg of the closest chair. As the old man swung open the door, Tom saw a sign tacked on the inside: ‘Rejected’. He hadn’t even got that far last time—they had deemed him too old to even get to the physical.

A doctor emerged from behind the curtain and peered at Tom. ‘Right, you’re next.’

Straightening up, Tom walked over. The doctor closed the curtains and asked,

‘How old?’ looking dubiously at the form.

‘Thirty-six.’

‘Thank God. The last man reckoned he was forty, but I swear he was sixty or more.’

‘He’s sixty-five,’ Tom said.

‘Know him, do you?’

‘Not well, but he knows me Da.’

The doctor laughed. ‘Righto, strip.’

Tom stood in the altogether, the cold air making goosebumps erupt on his bare skin. The cubicle was furnished with scales for weight and another for measuring height, a wash bowl for the medical officer’s hands, and two wooden tables, at one of which sat a clerk busily checking the attestation form Tom had given to the doctor with all his particulars.

The examination was brief but thorough. The doctor pressed an icy cold stethoscope against Tom’s chest to check his heart, then pounded it to check his lungs. Then he grabbed a tape measure and wrapped it around Tom’s torso.

‘Right, breathe in,’ he said. Tom took a deep breath. ‘C’mon, a bit more,’ the doctor ordered. With his face turning slightly pink, Tom drew in a bit more air. ‘Excellent,’ said the doctor. ‘Right, weight and height next.’ With a whoosh of expelled air, Tom took a steadying breath and stepped onto the scales.

The doctor nodded and told the clerk, ‘Weight 12 stone, height 5 foot 5 inches. You’re a lucky lad; they’ve recently reduced the height requirements. Now, can I get you to hop across the room on your right leg and back again on your left? Need to make sure you have no balance problems.’

Tom grimaced as he lifted his leg and hopped across the cubicle. With his privates flopping madly for all the world to see, he gritted his teeth in embarrassment and hopped back.

‘Excellent, now we just have teeth and eyesight to check.’ Tom opened his mouth for the doctor, who placed a tongue depressor into it to check his molars. ‘Fine set of gnashers you have; best I’ve seen this week. Any history of bad eyesight?’ said the doctor.

‘Weel, me father wears glasses, sir. He can’t see nowt without them.’

The doctor nodded and waved to the clerk, who jumped up and placed a small card, containing some letters in various types, on the wall opposite him. The doctor asked Tom to read them, first with one eye closed and then with the other. With one quick final examination for varicose veins and other visible infirmities, the doctor gave a curt nod and Tom was dismissed to re-don his clothing, as the physician signed the attestation form.

The clerk handed the completed form back to Tom. ‘Through that door on the left,’ he said, glancing over at the empty waiting area.

Tom strode across the room holding the form firmly in his hands. Pushing open the door marked ‘Accepted’, he entered another small office. In front of him sat a mahogany desk, a green leather chair tucked beneath it. Standing to one side was the recruitment officer, accompanied by an orderly who handed Tom a Bible.

‘Take the book in your right hand and say after me, I swear,’ said the officer, ‘To serve His Majesty the King, His heirs and successors and the generals and officers set over me by His Majesty the King, his heirs and successors, so help me God!’

Tom repeated the oath and kissed the Bible as directed.

‘Well, lad, sounds like you’ve joined the Army.’

‘Aye, sir.’

‘You are to report for duty Tuesday morning. Here’s when and where you will need to be.’ The officer passed Tom a slip of paper. Written in black ink were the words, ‘Army Service Corp Depot, Oswestry, Wales. 1000 hours.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Tom said, leaning forward, hand outstretched. The officer clasped Tom’s hand and shook it.

‘Good luck, lad.’

2. TUESDAY 11 MAY 1915

PRINCIPLES AND SYSTEM OF TRAINING

PRINCIPLES OF TRAINING.

1. General instructions.

1. The object to be aimed at in the training of the infantry soldier is to make him, mentally and physically, a better man than his adversary on the field of battle.

2. The principles on which all training must be based are contained in Field Service Regulations, Part I, and amplified with regard to infantry in Part II of this manual.

3. The preliminary steps necessary for the efficient training of the soldier are:

(i) The development of a soldierly spirit.

(ii) The training of the body.

(iii) Training in the use of rifle, bayonet and spade.

After satisfactory progress in these essentials has been made, the soldier must be taught how he can apply what he has learnt to the varied conditions which will confront him in war.

—Infantry Training. (4-Company Organisation) 1914, p. 1

A motley crew of men in flat caps, bowler hats and boaters clustered together in two chaotic rows on the enclosed parade ground, a green square of grass surrounded on three sides by barracks and on the fourth by forest, shrouded in a mist that eddied and swirled in the cold breeze.

Tom stood at the edge of the group, arms crossed over his aching chest, remembering Edith’s watery smile of farewell and his father’s frail hug. He swallowed; he’d never been so far from Furness Vale before. Standing amongst this group of eager young men made him feel old. He straightened, thrusting out his chest, and looked around at the men near him. To his left was a chubby young man with lank, greasy black hair lying across his pimpled forehead. Grime and dirt appeared to cake every exposed surface of the young man’s skin.

How could someone get so dishevelled? Tom thought.

Surreptitiously, the man raised a hand and furiously scratched a pimple on his chin, popping it. He glanced at the scab on his fingertip and wiped it against his trouser leg as a dribble of blood oozed down his chin. Shaking his head, Tom looked away and pondered the vagaries of some folk.

Two uniformed men exited one building and strode towards them, shoulders squared, jaws thrust out like axes cutting through the air.

‘Atten-SHUN,’ one yelled.

The dozen men muttered and cursed as they trod on each other’s toes, forming themselves into some semblance of attention.

‘I am Corporal Cross, and this here is Company Sergeant Major Billingham. Youse can call him sir!’

Tom shifted, along with the rest, unsure whether they should reply.

‘What are the four duties of a soldier?’ asked CSM Billingham as he scanned the gathered recruits. ‘Anyone?’

The recruits stared blankly, faces slack as they shuffled their feet and looked towards the CSM.

‘They are: one, obedience,’ he said striding along the front row. ‘Do you know what obedience is, laddie?’ He paused in front of a tall, broad-shouldered lad with almost white blond hair; the boy’s startled blue eyes flicked uneasily.

‘Eh.’

‘Obedience, boy, is the willingness to follow orders! This army runs on orders, son. What is obedience?’

‘To obey orders, sir.’

‘Correct.’ CSM Billingham turned left at the end of the first row and headed down Tom’s row, perusing each man as he passed. He stopped next to the grubby lad, scrutinising him. ‘The next duty of a soldier is cleanliness,’ he said, turning full on to the boy. ‘Do you know what cleanliness is?’

‘Not being dirty?’

‘Not being dirty. Look at yourself, boy! ARE YOU CLEAN?’

‘Eh, no.’

‘No, SIR!’

‘Eh, no, sir.’

‘Why are you not clean, boy?’

‘It ain’t Sunday, sir,’ said the lad.

‘What?’ The CSM’s eyes bulged, and his lip twitched.

‘It ain’t Sunday. I only have a bath on a Sunday,’ supplied the boy in a helpful tone.

‘I see.’ The CSM moved away, stopped, turned back. ‘Name!’

‘Reginald Bennett. But everyone calls me Reggie, sir.’

‘Corporal, make