My "Little Bit"

Far down the long annals of past history we must look for the beginnings of the brave breed of Worcestershire men—the outcome of that ancient heroic blood which nourishes the flower of chivalry and strengthens the spirit to perform imperishable deeds of valour. Between a band of tenacious Britons holding the summits of the Malvern Hills, and a military guard and outpost of Roman warriors at Worcester itself, was seemingly produced that special type of Englishman who, ever since those far-away days, has been famous for courage and conquest. The native fighting force of the Gael, and the trained skill and prowess of the Roman are mingled in his being, and they make him, almost unconsciously to himself, a hero from his youth. Something of the salt of ocean, as well as of the salt of the earth, is in him, bracing his energies and hardening his muscle and, indeed, if we grope farther back in the dark recesses of time, we shall find geology suggesting that Worcestershire was once a sea, and the hills of Malvern, islands, and that the projecting bluffs on each side of the gaps in the opposite range were capes standing out from what some imaginative folk called the “Severn Straits,” so that we may be permitted to fancy the earliest progenitors of the Worcestershire breed were, perhaps, bold mariners, sailing round a veritable archipelago of islands, and skilfully steering their primitive craft into harbours sheltered by the very headlands which confront us to-day; or they might have been hunters, chasing the innumerable wild beasts which at one period infested the formerly dense “Forest of Malvern”—a forest that even in the Middle Ages stretched from the plains to the very tops of the hills. Be this as it may, our redoubtable men of Worcestershire must have been born and bred from strong beginnings; they come of a stock which knows no fear, no hesitation, no failure. The “Firm” fighters whom we delight to honour are the product of centuries of heroism. Heroism comes so naturally to them that they think little or nothing of it. Their pride is in each other—not in themselves individually; what is said of one man, must be said for the whole Regiment. Their spirit is expressed in Shakespeare’s lines,—

And though they have performed prodigies of valour in bygone great battles, as in the terrific “World War,” they make no boast of their proved mettle, nor have they called upon the country they so nobly serve for special consideration. It is with difficulty, and only by piecing dry and desultory bits of history together, that we are at all able to read their Golden Chronicle, or to realise the nature and worth of their splendid services, splendidly performed in defence of “This dear, dear land, this land of such dear souls—This England!”

We do not know with any certainty the character or military qualifications of their first Colonel, Thomas Farrington, who raised the Regiment in 1694, but we do know many of their brilliant exploits since that far-off day, especially in India, such as the carrying of the Delhi Gate and the storming and capture of Bangalore, which helped to bring about the vanquishment of that notable rebel, Tippoo Sahib; and though the overladen pages of historians find little space for special mention of special companies of soldiers, the Duke of Wellington’s praise of the Regiment after Badajos has not slipped notice, nor is it likely to be forgotten:—

“It is the best Regiment in this Army, has an admirable internal system and excellent non-commissioned officers.”

But the laurels of the past, thickly showered as they were on the “Worcesters,” are little to compare with those of the present, when valour is put to its utmost test, and when war weapons contrary to all international usage, more deadly and treacherous than ever were known before, are employed by the most inhuman and dishonourable of foes. We have only to recall the dramatic scenario of the village of Gheluvelt during the battle of Ypres, when the Worcesters literally saved the day. No page of romance was ever more thrilling! The Germans had carried the village, but the Welsh, true sons of “Gallant Little Wales,” remained, firing, holding their ground and refusing to admit any sort of defeat. Even when they had been given the order to retreat, they hung on with the grim tenacity of their Celtic ancestors, and it depended on the merest chance as to whether any company of men could advance to their assistance under the deadly fire of shrapnel which covered and cut them off from the rest of their line. But rescue was forthcoming—a mere handful of Worcesters—six hundred of them, were stationed but a mile off Gheluvelt. Their commanding officer gave the order—“Advance without delay and deliver counter-attack.”

They responded, and rushed for about half a mile under the battering rain of shrapnel, going for two hundred yards without cover.

Shrapnel showered thick and hot in front of them, and on their right flanks the Bavarians poured bullets upon them from rifles and machine guns. In crossing the two hundred yards without “cover” they had one hundred casualties. But what did death or danger matter to the Worcesters? What have they ever cared for shots that have sped their brave souls to Heaven? They pressed on, up on the left of the splendidly stubborn Welsh, and opened fire with so much success that the foe was forced to retreat. The effect of their action was such that the position was entirely changed—the Germans fell back and the British line was reinstated. In Sir John French’s despatch it is written:—

“The recapture of the village of Gheluvelt at such a time was fraught with momentous consequences. If any one unit can be singled out for special praise it is the Worcesters.”

Quite recently, a British General, whose name, for some occult reason or other, was withheld from the public by the newspaper reporter, gave an enthusiastic account of the fine deeds of the Worcestershire Regiment on the Somme.

“The Worcesters have a wonderful record,” he said. “They have seen some of the hardest fighting of this war, and they have won new honours for a fine regiment, which already boasts some of the most glorious records on our military history.”

We shall do well to think of, and to long remember, some of this “hardest fighting.” For example, when they made their wonderful stand against the Prussian Guards, with the Wiltshires. Some of the incidents in that fight have never been recorded, and yet, to those who witnessed them they make the glory of the Worcesters still more glorious. Listen to the stirring account of the stirring action!

“The battalions had been fighting incessantly for weeks, with little or no rest. They had taken trenches from which the enemy had to be flung out. The subsequent German attack or counter-attack was delivered by a force of picked troops, made up of Prussian Guards and other crack regiments. There were at least ten thousand of these crack troops. They were supported by magnificent artillery and had been trained for an attack over this ground for days before they were sent against the Worcesters. Judging by the ordinary standard of things, the weary Worcesters’ battalions ought to have been crushed and finished under such an avalanche; but they withstood the fiercest attacks for two days and nights. They captured many prisoners, as many as themselves, and the German killed and wounded were twice as numerous as they. There was one great mound of dead before the trench, after the last attack was driven off, the Germans being simply mown down by the machine guns of the Worcesters.”

“Firm” has ever been the character of the Regiment, as well as its motto. On five several occasions they have held their ground and carried strong positions held by superior enemy forces. They have come triumphantly through every ordeal—shell-fire, machine-gun fire, liquid fire, and poison gas, without shrinking or complaint—and on several occasions the foe himself has been moved to praise of their splendid heroism. Here is another story:—

“On one occasion a battalion of the Worcesters was advancing under great difficulties against a strongly fortified village. The artillery fire and infantry defence was stronger even than they expected. For a moment the battalion seemed to pause. The officer in command sprang forward with the shout, ‘Firm! Firm! Give them Worcester Sauce!’ The men responded with a cheer and laughter—they swept forward, rushing the position and fighting their way to the rear of the surprised and baffled foe.”

Think of the time when a little band of these splendid lads were cut off by a sudden descent of the enemy in force! They were holding a bit of trench, which was powdered to ruins by shell-fire, and they were half-buried under the wreckage; but they dug themselves out again, and fought with such resolved fury that not all the forces of the foe could overwhelm or overawe them. They held their ground for three days—though every man who wasn’t killed was wounded. When they were at last relieved they were cheered wildly by the troops who watched their limping march down to billets for rest, heroes all, without a single exception!

Such is the “way” of the Worcesters—such has always been their way from their beginning. Unflinching valour, duty, and love of country beyond all love of life, has made them and still makes them what they are. They, and all their brave and noble kind, have fought and are still fighting for us that we may dwell in our homes in peace. It must now be our pride, as well as our honour, to prove our gratitude to them, not only by words but deeds. Many of them will return to us, broken men, deprived of health, strength, and all ability to work for their living—crippled, blind, disfigured—suffering too from what we may call mind-hurt beyond remedy. That is to say, the awful, ineffaceable impression of ghastly sights and sounds, so inhuman, as to shame humanity. What shall we do for our self-sacrificing defenders when they come home? How shall we assuage their sufferings and seek to make them forget the terrors they have confronted for our sakes?

In matters of this kind, many people incline to the old conventional, rather worn-out business of a “War Memorial,” which conveniently and with all official publicity and importance, writes the names of living subscribers as well as those of the heroic dead, but it is more than likely that the whole face of the Empire will be strewn with such “War Memorials” in so great a number that in a short time no passer-by will pause to look at them. And a monument of cold stone cannot come into comparison with the expressed warmth or loving hearts; so that the best and kindest “Memorial” to the gallant “Worcesters” who have passed away “in the stern and grim life-battle, in the morning of their day”—should be of a nature to care and to provide for the “Worcesters” who have come alive out of the Valley of the Shadow, and who remain with us to witness our recognition of their services. Such a “Memorial” is proposed by the Mayor of Worcester, and I, for one, do most heartily wish that his lead could be followed in every County and Town of Imperial Britain. For what a fine scheme it is! Could anything be more practically humane and sympathetic than the idea that small, pretty cottages or bungalows should be erected to provide permanent homes, rent free, not only for the life-disabled men of the Worcestershire Regiment, but also for Worcestershire Sailors and Soldiers in other units, similarly disabled, who have “borne the burden and heat of the day,” and who are entitled to the country’s heart-whole gratitude. I can imagine no more beautiful “Memorial” to these brave fellows than the free gift of charming little houses to live in, fragrant little gardens to tend, and a fair and peaceful prospect to look upon for the rest of their days. Nothing better, nothing kinder could be advised for the permanently injured and maimed, the sad and battered wrecks of once strong and comely men—no more comforting reparation scheme could possibly be thought of—and it is good to know that much has already been done, and is being done, to forward its success. The Mayor of Worcester himself has given the site for building, and one individual has offered five tons of lime to assist operations. Then come the Pharmacists of Worcester, who are willing to supply free all drugs and medicaments needed by the dwellers on this “Pleasaunce of Peace”—while the “Old Comrades” of the County Regiment have incorporated an effort of their own with the general plan, which has the approval of the local military authorities. Subscriptions are beginning to flow in; and when it is fully realised how welcome and warm “a Home-coming” can, by these means, be given to the heroes who have sacrificed their own homes to fight for us, surely every one will be eager and anxious to contribute to so worthy a cause. For say what we will, there is a truth in the familiar song,—

And it is within our power to give our broken Worcestershire men that blessed abode of simple tranquillity and content, which, if they had not fought for us they might have earned for themselves. They will have their pensions from the Government of course, but we doubt whether those pensions will be as adequate as they might expect. Anyhow, we of the British People, who have been defended by their valour, cannot do too much for them, and if the Mayor of Worcester’s scheme were copied and carried out all through the British Isles it would lift a considerable burden of anxiety from the State. If any “County” must have a special “War Memorial” to coldly chronicle names of the dead rather than hearts of the living, there is nothing in our “Happy Homes” work to prevent the erection of “marble or the gilded monument,” but to the eyes of thinkers, philosophers, and all teachers and helpers of mankind, a little village of clustering cottages on the lovely site which the Mayor has freely given, commanding as it does an outlook over picturesque country—cottages with tiny gardens easy to till, plant, and care for, where in summer the dear old-fashioned flowers which are a liberal education in themselves, may bring their beauty and sweetness into lives that have been blackened by shot and shell—will offer a far greater and more impressive testimony of memory and gratitude.

I, who am privileged to write this brief token of honour and admiration for men whose fine character and splendid courage have been chronicled by infinitely worthier pens than mine, now plead this noble cause, as worthy of the strongest and most loving support of every man, woman and child in the historic county of Worcestershire, and I want the spirit of a fine and active enthusiasm to “catch on” and spread like a prairie fire, not only through Worcestershire, but even farther afield. Why should not every county have its own soldiers’ and sailors’ settlement? It’s own well-organised, picturesque haven and “Pleasaunce of Peace”? It is impossible that any of us should sit down in satisfied comfort at the close of the war and do nothing for the men who have done so much for our defence. A new “Garden City” would hardly be spacious enough to provide them with their well-earned ease—and shall we hesitate to build them villages? Villages so artistically and prettily planned, so dainty and restful that the wandering stranger in future years shall pause, enchanted, to ask what influences have been at work to create such little Edens on earth. And he will be told:—

“These are the homes of heroes!—here dwell men who faced death for duty’s sake and Britain’s honour—and Britain has given them what she can to prove her gratitude, and to make their remaining lives sweet.”

For, of every man that has fought for us in this terrific World-Struggle for nobler freedom and higher ideals, it can be said with Shakespeare,—