Ripples From The Somme

A story about how the effects of war can ripple down through the generations

RIPPLES FROM THE SOMME

 

24^th June 1916

 

Everyone knew that the British and French armies were building up to the ‘final push’. William Hobson of the Royal Field Artillery could see that things were serious when his gun squad arrived at their allocated position and found gun pits were already dug for their battery of six horse drawn field guns. They were also surprised to find generous supplies of shells ready for them.

 

By the next day the Boche certainly knew all about it. Along with several thousand other artillery pieces, William’s battery of 18 pounders were pounding no-mans land and the German trenches. Most of the field artillery’s shells were shrapnel, designed to smash the enemy’s wire, but a small fraction were high explosive to destroy their trenches. The bombardment went on for six days until the gunners were exhausted. The routine was to fire their rounds and then return to further behind lines with their limber  to dump empty shell cases and load up with fresh rounds.

 

30th June 1916

 

In the evening William and his pals were aware of large numbers of heavily laden troops making their way down the zigzag communication trenches running towards the front line. They seemed cheerful. Their officers had been telling them that the wire had been smashed and they would walk into the obliterated Boche trenches when the whistles sounded in the morning. The old hands knew better!

 

Sleep proved difficult for the men crowded into the trenches. The hours of darkness were short but small groups of comrades huddled together to talk of home, play cards, or write letters to loved ones. Sitting on the wooden duckboards of the firing step, Donald McDonald from North Uist used the flickering light from a candle to write a poem to his beloved wife Maggie and another to his seven year old son Donald. Not knowing whether he would see them again, he wiped the tears from his eyes and placed the two poems into envelopes addressed to his wife and son, now living in Wick in Caithness.

 

1^st July 1916

 

Around 5am a dull light gradually revealed the grim trenches packed with tens of thousands of helmeted soldiers ready with their bayoneted rifles. The tension and excitement were palpable. At 05.30 an incredible artillery barrage unleashed a storm of fire on the Boche positions. The men gave a cheer, believing that their way forward would be eased.

Just before 7.30 the barrage stopped. There was a brief sense, almost of wonder, as if time itself had paused and all things were possible. Then the officers passed the word for the men to ready themselves and there became only one grim future.

 

A mile behind the front, as William Hobson’s gun battery fell silent, he lifted his field glasses and looked down to the British trench. For the same reason that thunder follows lightning William could see the first ranks of khaki clad Tommies rising above the parapet a second before he heard the faint sounds carrying from the officer’s whistles. He could just make out the pipers stepping bravely ahead of the men and hear the faint skirl of the pipes before the German machine gunners chattered their deadly harvest.

 

In the expectation that the Huns would have been wiped out, the men had been ordered to walk at a steady pace across no-mans land. However, safe in their underground bunkers, the Germans had not been wiped out. They were ready with their artillery and machine guns to exact the murderous toll of fifty seven thousand dead and wounded on the British soldiers - and that on the first day alone.

 

It did not take long for the first of the injured to reach William and his gunners. For days and then weeks they had to watch the nightmare parade of hideously injured men making their way rearwards to the woefully ill prepared field hospitals. Many of the sights seen by William would remain etched in the darkest recesses of his mind until the day he died.

 

 

July 25^th 2016

 

My wife Amanda (whose grandfather, Clarence French, had died in the D-Day landings) and I sat in the half darkness of the Perth concert hall feeling a perceptible buzz of anticipation as Dougie Mclean announced the next singer. We knew that what was to come was something special. Julie Fowlis, a native Gaelic singer from North Uist has a voice that can melt the hardest heart. She announced that she would sing ‘An Eala Bhan’ or ‘The White Swan,’ a Gaelic poem written by Domhnall Ruadh Choruna or Donald McDonald for his wife Maggie, during the battle of the Somme. Julie had performed it recently at the Thiepval commemoration of the centenary of the battle in 2016.

 

Well, my heart is not the hardest, and there was no need to understand the beautiful Gaelic words to feel the deep emotion coursing through this music, a backdrop for nightmare images of slaughter on the western front.

It was impossible not to also think of my own grandfather William Hobson. As a youth (and I could not help but picture my own young sons amidst the carnage!) he had joined the Royal Field Artillery to fight in France. I had just recently discovered from my uncle Ronald that he had taken part in the battle of the Somme. He died when I was just ten in 1961 but I knew that he had never spoken of his experiences. All we had to tell of these four years were a handful of sepia studio photographs.

 

August 2016

 

A few years ago I started to take an interest in our family history. The usual scenario is that when your parents die you realise that you’ve left it too late to get all the interesting personal details at first hand. I spent a few interesting sessions with my mother, now approaching ninety, and seeming to remember every last detail from her early life. However I soon realised that I would have to pay a visit to the Scottish Family History Centre in Edinburgh to winkle out some of the hard facts.

 

A few days later found me standing before the magnificent Robert Adam building of Register House at the east end of  Princes Street. I was full of excitement at what I might uncover. The helpful lady at the information desk explained how the ScotlandsPeople centre worked and directed me to the Reid room where I settled myself at a computer. I had prepared myself with as many birth, death and marriage certificates as I could lay my hands on.

 

On my mother’s side of the family, the Hobsons, my uncle had already uncovered our family tree going back to eighteenth century. I had decided to focus on my father’s side of the family. Apart from my granny Maggie saying that my grandad Donald had been killed at the end of the first war she hadn't told us anything.

 

I, myself am a McDonald, Alasdair McDonald born in Dingwall in Rosshire but I knew that several generations back my father’s family had lived on North Uist in the Western Isles. Now, searching for a Donald McDonald in North Uist would be like finding a pub open on the Sabbath but luckily I was armed with my father’s birth certificate.

 

It showed:

Name: Donald McDonald, Date of birth:  27^th June 1919, at Harbour St, Wick  

Father, Donald McDonald, fisherman   Mother, Maggie McDonald

nee McKinnon

 

Luckily I also had my grandfather’s marriage certificate.

Married: 20^th March 1908 in the Free Church, Lochmaddy,

Donald McDonald to Maggie McKinnon

 

As I looked at these dates a fact suddenly struck me. My father was born in June 1919, a mere 7 months after the war ended. As far as I knew his father had been killed in the war. Something didn’t quite add up!

 

I thought about the matter and was keen to resolve the puzzle even if it meant digging up some family skeletons. I went back to my other uncle, Ian McDonald, who confirmed that he had a copy of my grandfather’s service record.

 

Signed up: Donald McDonald, 16th November 1914 in Wick, Caithness

Compassionate leave:    Sept 3rd  to Sept 17th 1918

Killed in action:   October 27^th 1918

 

It didn’t take long to solve the mystery. My grandfather had been given a short leave for some pressing family reason and during that brief interlude back in Wick my father had been conceived. I could just imagine him telling Maggie that the war was nearly over and he would be home again in months at the most. Poignantly, he was killed in action a few weeks later, a mere fortnight before the armistice was signed.

 

Just to make sure that I hadn’t missed anything I decided to check the census result from 1911. I entered my Grandfathers name and his address at 16 Harbour St, Wick. I knew they had moved to Wick after their marriage.

The result was totally unexpected. The residents recorded at the address were Donald and Maggie McDonald as expected but also a Donald McDonald aged two, born 1^st April 1909.

Now I was totally confused. Surely this Donald couldn’t be my father - he was born in 1919. Had there been some freak slip up in the dates?

 

To double check, I searched for the death certificate of the Donald born in 1909. When it appeared on the screen I experienced another ‘wow moment.’

Donald McDonald, died 14^th May 1919, cause of death - influenza

 

Now I could see all the sad details. Poor Maggie, still grieving her beloved husband, and by now heavily pregnant, had to endure seeing her son Donald snatched away in the great Influenza epidemic of 1918-1919. When her second son was born shortly after, it would be understandable for him to be given the family name Donald.

 

October 2016

 

I’d just had an email from Scotrail advertising £1 return rail fares for Club50 members anywhere in Scotland. Yippee! - I went online and booked a return fare up to Thurso. Mandy was still working so I would go alone. It is a wonderful train ride - the passage through the desolate Cairngorm mountains to Inverness and then the long haul up the Moray Firth before cutting inland through the haunting and desolate moorland of the flow country. Thurso lies on the wild Pentland Firth looking north to the Orkneys.

 

The next day I took the bus to Wick. Apart from not having visited the small town before, it had the added interest of being where my grandmother Maggie had lived with my dad. At the tourist office I was directed to the Local history Museum which had been awarded the ‘best in Scotland.’ The museum was a fascinating warren of rooms converted to show all the facets of local life in the days when Wick was the biggest herring fishing port in Europe. In one room I found a replica of a small school room. On one of the desks there was a century old school bag with an information board beside it.

 

As I read the words on the board tears clouded my vision as their significance became clear.

 

The schoolbag on the desk belonged to Donald McDonald, 16 Harbour St, who died during the influenza epidemic of 1919 aged 10. His mother Maggie kept his bag as he came home from school for the last time. It contains his books and a cabbage root from which he was making a whistle. It also contains an unopened letter from his father Donald who was killed in the war.

 

I stood for a while lost in thought - the thought of the young lad, full of enthusiasm, carving his cabbage root whistle days before his death was almost too much to take in. When I had recovered somewhat I went back to the information desk where the two helpful ladies were sitting blethering. I explained how I had just discovered that the young schoolboy Donald McDonald was in fact my father’s brother. The ladies could see that I was a bit overcome with the moment and immediately agreed that I could examine Donald’s schoolbag under their supervision.

 

Back in the schoolroom, with the two ladies watching, I lifted the schoolbag and inside found Donald’s pencil, rubber and wooden ruler. There was also his jotter and a small English text book. Underneath the jotter I gasped to see a sealed envelope. The neat writing on the envelope read

 

To Donald McDonald

Son of

Domhnall Ruadh Choruna (Donald McDonald)

(to be opened on your eighteenth birthday)

 

I carefully took out the sheet of paper, somewhat mudstained, and read ..

 

Dear Donald,

I am writing this from a dark place, a place that no man should have to be. I pray to see you and your mother again soon but I’m not sure that prayers work in this place. I have written this poem for you to think about when you are a man.

 

The time will come as sure as night

when they will call young men to fight.

They’ll call on King.

They’ll call on country.

They’ll make you think that war is right.

 

They’ll line you up in bonnet and kilt

To march you off, to fight and kill

But don’t forget this simple fact;

that man to man the world over

shall brothers be for all that.

 

(last two lines from Robert Burns)|

 

I passed the letter over to the ladies who read it wide eyed and open mouthed.

‘This is incredible, Donald! You knew nothing about this letter till now?’

‘Nothing - it’s unbelievable!’

‘You’d better sit down. I have one other surprise for you today!’

The older lady started to explain. ‘This letter that you’ve just read was actually inside another envelope addressed to your grandmother Maggie. The envelope also contained a love song called ‘The White Swan’ written during the battle of the Somme by your grandfather Donald to his wife Maggie.

 

‘Oh my God!’ I had just found the final piece in the jigsaw of my family.

It was almost unbelievable. I remembered how I had felt when we had heard Julie Fowlis sing ‘The White Swan’ just a few months before and wondering how I would have felt if I had known that it was my grandfathers love song to my granny Maggie!

 

My final thought that day was, ‘far travel the ripples from the Somme.’

 

Footnote - this story contains a bit of personal history, my own grandfather William Hobson did take part in the battle of the Somme in 1916 and was a member of the Royal Field Artillery. His experience has been woven together with the true but unconnected stories of a young lad, Willie Grant, dying of influenza in 1919 and the love song written during the Somme by Donald McDonald to his sweetheart Maggie.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[red93]

Excellent Alan, and very moving. The sacrifices that these people made as a matter of course and in the Line of Duty - 'to give and not to count the cost'. My own grandfather on my Mother's side served on the Western Front, was mentioned in Despatches, and then went to fight with the British Forces supporting the 'White Russians' against the Bolsheviks - I believe his 'tour of duty' didn't end till 1922. He was though one of the 'lucky ones' who survived WW1 - the conflict to me is like a deep 'scar' on the consciousness of people in the UK, even now over 100 years later.

[alanwgraham]

Many apologies red for my belated reply and thanks for you interesting reply. I've just found that some replies have been going to spam. My wife's grandfather also went to Russia to fight the Bolshiveks but we don't know any details. It is a largely forgotten bit of history. You never know - they may have been mates.
All the best.
Alan

[.]

Wow. Such a wonderful story, dear Alan! I can see why you were drawn to my teeny tiny post after all! It seems, despite the differences in our ages and countries of birth, we both share the same piece of history and our families have been touched by those deadly days on the Somme. I adore the detail in your story here and the way you shift the timespan and keep it all together cohesively. Admittedly, my knowledge of my own families history on the Somme is something I have just learned briefly from a single conversation with my Grandfather, and like you, I too have gaps in my story that need to be filled, so i may well take a leaf out of your book once time permits to chase up my own history in greater detail. Thanx so much for pointing me in the direction of your story. It was hard to find amongst your extensive catalogue here! I enjoyed reading this one very much and I am happy that your own tragic history on the Somme eventually provided a wonderfully positive outcome. A wonderful write, dear monsieur. Very much appreciated! :))

[alanwgraham]

Many thanks for your great review and belated apologies for missing your reply. I don't suppose there are many families that were not touched by these two terrible wars. I hope you are surviving our present tribulations.
All the best.
Alan

[Paul Bell]

First. Great story. If ever there was a waste of life. It was the battle of the Somme. At some point in my life i will visit the graves of the fallen. Sometimes the scale of loss is just too much to take.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Paul. I am sure it helps in your writing when you have some emotional attachment to it.
Regards,
Alan

[Ted Kniffen]

Wonderfully done, Alan. My granddad fought with the 18th Btn C.E.F. and was at the Somme as well as many other battles. I was told a few stories from the trenches, so everything in your story rings true. Good write

[alanwgraham]

Thanks Ted. It felt worthwhile making the effort to imagine myself back to what these young lads went through. Thanks for taking the time to read this.
regards
Alan

[Ted Kniffen]

The cream of the crop went down in that one, Alan.

[TL Boehm]

My name is Tammy and I'm an ancestry addict. What Barleygirl said ferreting out the details makes this such a poignant and fascinating story - topically speaking. Mechanically this is sound as well - I enjoyed the use of the letters to move the work forward - I was hooked, forgot it was fiction for a moment. I have a lot of names and dates on my tree but it's the personal moments that I treasure. Well penned

[alanwgraham]

Thanks for reading this. I realise that it does take a bit of time. I found this quite emotional to write and it took some hard work to fit it all together.
Regards.
Alan

[Duncan Brown]

Dry dry dry France France France....................

[alanwgraham]

Thanks for reviewing this Duncan. This time I can see some greater connection between your review and my writing! I'm reserving judgement on whether your use of two words this time is going to be the start of an exponential growth in meaningful communication or a mere blip in the white noise. I am beginning to come round to the view that your (lack of) communication might be a case of 'the curious incident of the dog in the night.' What is interesting is not what you say but why you don't say it, and also what can be read between the lines of your writing - very smart but not giving much away of a personal nature which I feel is the basis of real communication between humans. There is also a noticable and notable disconnect between your (generally) polite requests for reviews and then your monosyllabic mode of reply.
Cheers, Alan

[barleygirl]

Congratulations on this amazing story! You took two things I find boring as hell (war & genealogy) and managed to craft everything into a story that isn't a snooze-fest -- not at all! I'm amazed! There were a couple places where I thought my eyes might glaze over, but you always managed to bring in something personal & interesting & provocative at just the right times. For example, in the midst of several paragraphs about fighting war (ho-hum), then you insert that part about writing home, which totally lightened up the mood & piqued the interest. You did this time & time again. Each time the thing of interest became more & more interesting, as well.

The things you dug up about genealogy were so amazing! The reason I don't care for genealogy is becuz the only interesting aspect about dead people are the personal stories (who cares about dates & names?) These personal stories are rarely ferreted out as you've done so well here, & fleshing these out with intriguing details so your reader doesn't have to put any of these dates & names together. It was an effortless read, becuz you put so much effort into it.

[alanwgraham]

I really appreciate you reading this and writing such a generous review. I'm afraid that I get very emotionally attached to stories like this and they start to take on a life of their own. You are very perceptive in saying that it took a lot of work to tie everything together. I was worried that the names and dates might lose too many and I appreciate that you made the effort to follow it.
Thanks again M.
Cheers,
Alan