Plenty has been written and said over the last fortnight about the horrors and sacrifices that the men of Britain and her colonies made during the First World War. For Britain, of course, you can read France, Germany, Russia, the United States, Turkey and so on. Nationality no longer seems to be important when it comes to counting the cost of the dead.
The one thing missing from much of this eve of centenary talk, though, is context. And perhaps the daily human side of life in the trenches as well. And this is the strength of Lyn Macdonald’s book 1915 The Death of Innocence (John Hopkins University Press, 1993).
As with all things historic, context is king. How can we hope to understand the mechanics and the machinations of the First World War simply by looking at the numbers of the fallen? We can’t. We get an idea of the scale of the slaughter but not of the movements that led to the strategies and the stalemate.
And how can we understand events of 1916 through to the end of the war without first getting to grips with what happened in 1915, the year when the gloves really came off with a vengeance, when trench warfare set up shop on the Western Front and a lack of planning and realism turned an imaginative plan to snatch the Dardanelles and topple the Ottoman Empire into a bumbling botchjob that cost thousands of lives?
We need to understand why they were there, the forces that were at play, and how the various actions intertwined to create the canopy of carnage.
Macdonald does this superbly. Using the voices of some of the participants as well as diaries, letters and reports, she offers the personal source of individual actions. That gives us a framework of day to day life in the trenches.
Macdonald is never boring; nor is she a dry textbook. Amid the moments of adrenalin-charged terror as the troops piled over the top only to stumble in the hailstorm of enemy machine guns are the moments of tedium which every soldier from every conflict knows. There are also the quirky moments of lightness, if not actual comedy – a night patrol, for example, taking a gramophone into No Man’s Land for no other reason than to give the Germans an unusual surprise.
On top of that, though, she strings together the actions of 1915 in a way that provides a logic and a rhythm. Ypres, Neuve Chapelle, Aubers Ridge, Loos, Hill 60, Hill 70, Anzac Cove and so on were not just one-off actions but part of a much bigger picture.
Macdonald provides the context with which we can get a grip of what happened not just in 1915 but in the three years of war that followed.
This story begins with a map which used to hang in our hallway when I was a small boy. To be honest, I don’t remember it at all but it made a big impression on my elder brother Felix who recalls it vividly, particularly the red-brown smears and the X.
The smears, so the story went, was our grandfather’s blood or perhaps that of his brave, unfortunate batman, Bain, the X marking the place where they were shot by the Germans during an attack on the Butte de Warlencourt in the Battle of the Somme in October 1916.
When the family moved house in 1976, the map went to live with our uncle Ned in Cumbria and was largely forgotten. When he recently sent us a PDF of it, though, along with a brief account of his father’s – our grandfather’s – record in the First World War, Felix and I decided to find out more.
So, here is the tale of how Grandpa Cookson lost his eye on the Somme.
EARLY DAYS
For many years the Cooksons were known as a military family. The most celebrated of them was Major-General George Cookson who served in the Napoleonic Wars. His diaries, which also remain within the family, speak of adventures against Napoleon, dinners with the Duke of York and a fondness for beautiful young ladies.
By the time Reginald was born in 1895, the family had taken a step down the social ladder. His father had made a career in the railways, starting off in the 1870s working at Peckham station which still exists in slightly modernised form in Rye Lane.
This, of course, was an exciting time for the railways; the kernel at the centre of the industrial revolution which promoted and helped expand the supremacy of the British Empire across the globe and which, in due course, contributed to the outbreak of the Great War.
St Mary Cray station, circa 1905 when James Thomas Cookson was the station master
When Reginald appeared, an unexpected younger brother perhaps for Archibald who was 11 years his senior, his father James Thomas Cookson was the stationmaster at St Mary Cray in Kent, some 14 miles to the south-east of London.
It was good middle-class stock, a family which had to work for a living. Reginald went to the City of London School from 1904 to 1908 before heading to The Skinners’ School in Royal Tonbridge Wells.
The first verse of the school song – The Leopards’ Song – written by Percy Shaw Jeffrey in 1894 hints at the shadow that was to fall across Europe 20 years later.
Now hands about, good Leopards all, And sing a rousing chorus,
In praise of all our comrades here And those who went before us; For to this day all hearts beat true, The gallant hearts that love us, So fortune ‘fend each absent friend While there’s a sun above us.
It may well have been that a life in the railways or in government service stretched out ahead of young Reginald until, on June 28, 1914, in the faraway city of Sarajevo, Gavrilo Princip wrote his name into the history books by gunning down the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, heir to the throne of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
Britain declared war on Germany on August 4 and four days later Reginald joined the London University OTC (Officer Training Corps).
PRIVATE COOKSON
I have a photograph of my grandfather on my bookcase. It is a picture typical of the era, a studio work just after he was commissioned. Looking every inch the officer, with the trademark clipped moustache, he appears to stare out across No Man’s Land, into the teeth of the German guns.
This was to come later, though. To begin with he was plain old Private Cookson, five foot eight inches in his socks, who joined up on November 18, 1914.
Sadly, the records for privates are never as complete as those for officers – and there appear to be no diaries or letters – so we don’t know much about his early war. My mother, who was the second eldest of the six children that followed after the war, insists he never talked much about the war so there is also little in the way of anecdotal reference.
For two months, he held the rank of Lance Corporal before voluntarily reverting to Private on February 19, 1915, three days before leaving to join his new regiment, the 19th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers (2nd Public Schools).
Again, there appears to have been more training than anything else, first at Woodcote Park, Epsom and then when they had joined 98th Brigade, 33rd Division at Clipstone camp near Mansfield in Nottinghamshire.
The first troops arrived in 1915 in driving rain following a march from Edwinstowe. What the men of the University and Public School Regiment made of this is unknown. However their first impression of the camp must have been poor due to the lack of constantly working electricity and adequate food.
Reg Carter’s postcard take on life at Clipstone Camp
Questions were even raised in parliament about the poor food quality. The MP for mid-Derbyshire enquired with the Secretary of State for War about “the scarcity and inferiority of the food and the conduct of some of the officers.” Presumably, men had complained about the food and been robustly dealt with by their superiors. No further action was taken and the arrangements were deemed to be of an acceptable standard.
Rifles were still in short supply in the ealry part of 1915 which meant that much of the men’s training centred on physical fitness. Reginald may not have been tall but he was solidly built with a chest expansion of three inches and he enjoyed his sport – he later became a matchday doctor for the two Bristol football teams and Gloucestershire CCC. So perhaps he relished the eagerness with which Kitchener’s Army embraced the ethic of physical fitness.
In early August they moved to Salisbury Plain for final training and firing practice before crossing for France in November
Once across the Channel they were again held in reserve, the 33rd Division concentrated near Morbecque.
The 19 Royal Fusiliers served in a quiet area of Flanders from December 1915 to April 1916.
They were greeted on their first night in the lines by the Germans who detonated a mineunder part of their trench. During that time they incurred a steady flow of casualties from artillery attacks but took no part in offensive action.
Administrative restructuring, though, and the chronic losses of officers in the trenches meant that the battalion was then disbanded in April 1916. The soldiers, public schoolboys, were seen as a natural source of officer material and hence the various parts were distributed across the army.
For Reginald, who had been bounced back up to Lance Corporal in May while they were at Clipstone, it meant a commission. Having just turned 21 in February, he was posted to the Officer Cadet Battalion on March 25, 1916.
As a Second Lieutenant, Reginald Cookson joined his county regiment the Royal West Kents and arriving on the big stage on September 4. His arrival at Brucamps, some way behind the front line, is noted in the war diary for the 11th battalion.
04/9/16 Battalion took part in tactical exercises (medical). 2nd Lieuts. Lindsay, Kerr, and Cookson, arrived.
There was already a Second Lieutenant Cooksey in the battalion so perhaps there were a few jokes along the lines of “too many Cooks…”
The next day was spent training before the battalion moved out on the sixth, taking the train to Méricourt where they arrived just after midday. Now on foot, they marched to Dernancourt, a little to the south-west of Albert.
More training as the RWKs prepared to take part in their first major offensive of the war, the attack on Flers which was to land major significance to historians as the first occasion on which tanks were employed in battle.
In fact the tanks did not make a terribly good first impression on the men around them but the message that “a tank is walking up the High Street of Flers with the British Army cheering behind” caused outbreaks of cheering in London.
Perhaps still too recently arrived, Reginald was not one of the officers selected to go into a battle that saw the RWK smash through the German defences only to find that the the strong German artillery fire was preventing reserves from getting forward to consolidate the success – par for the course on the Western Front.
RWK losses were catastrophic. The bold statement is that 343 of 610 all ranks became casualties. The more important fact was that of these the highest proportion of casualties was amongst the leaders, officers, warrant officers and NCOs.
Among the fallen, their commanding officer, Lt Col AF Townshend and four other officers wounded or missing. A number of others, including Cooksey, were wounded and evacuated to field hospitals. Cooksey would return to action but was killed on April 8, 1917 at Souchez. He was 21.
Instead Cookson was in reserve in Carlton Trench where he would have witnessed a large number of stretcher cases, both dead and wounded. Perhaps this was where he had the first inkling that he wanted to become a doctor so he could help to mend these broken bodies.
Back to the regimental diary:
16/9/16 Battalion in reserve in Carlton Trench. Reinforcements of all available fighting strength, except draft, together with remaining officers i.e. Capts. Stone & Richardson, Lieuts. Puttick, Fraser, & Purver, 2 Lieuts. Prior, Knott, Yorke, Russell, Edmunds, Kerr & Cookson, were called up to the Battalion. 2/Lieuts Knott, Yorke, Russell and Edmonds, were attached temporarily to the K.R.R.C (18th), while Lt. Fraser, 2/Lieuts Morley, Cookson & Kerr were returned to Transport Lines.
18/9/16 (Dernancourt) Weather very wet. Battalion was relieved by the 2/5th Lancs. Fusilliers at 8.30 a.m., and marched to bivouacs at E.15,a. Draft of 75 N.C.O’s and men arrived.
19/9/16 (Dernancourt) Strength:- amended to Officers 30, Other Ranks 639
20/9/16 (Dernancourt) Reorganisation of Battalion commenced.
Following the battle of Flers and the subsequent losses it was necessary to reshuffle the pack. Officers and men were drafted in from other battalions which had likely suffered equally bad losses. Major Arthur Corfe had taken over from Townshend, being given the temporary rank of Lieutenant Colonel, new company commanders were appointed and training continued.
The Queensland team that beat the 1899 British Isles tourists. Arthur Corfe (standing, second from right) was then picked to play for Australia.
Corfe, incidentally, was one of the many rugby players to fight in the First World War. Born in Christchurch, New Zealand, he scored two tries in Queensland’s 11-3 win over the 1899 British Isles team, earning himself a place in the line-up for the second Test in Brisbane. This time the British side won 11-0. It was his only Test.
At the front, he went on to win the DSO with two bars and the Croix de Guerre. He was wounded in Ypres in 1917 and taken prisoner in March 1918. But he survived the war, dying in 1949 at the age of 72.
Sunday October 1 was a rest day for the 11th but the next day they were on the move again, heading back towards the fire of the front line, their strength now showing 38 officers and 738 men from other ranks.
2/10/16 (Mametz) Battalion moved by Route March to bivouacs 8.10d, south of MAMETZ WOOD; via DERNANCOURT, MEAULTE, FRICOURT road.
3/10/16 (Eaucourt L’Abbaye) Battalion, less Transport and Details, relieved 1st New Zealand Rifle Brigade in the Line. The following officers went into action:- Lt.Col. A.C.Corfe, Capts. LV.Stone, P.Clarke-Richardson, & S.L.Simmonds., Lieuts. A.W.Puttick (Adjt), B.A..Purver, A.J.Heath, F.G.Fraser, & W.S.Lacey (M.O.)., 2nd Lieuts. H.G.Redmond-Prior, G.D.Henderson, A.V.D.Morley, R.Watson, R.J.Gibbons, R.G.Cookson, S.A.Wheeler, H.C.Edmunds, O.Radclyffe, & F.J.Argent.
7/10/16 Battalion strength:- Officers 41, Other Ranks 737. Battalion attacked the German trenches, on the right the 15th Hampshire Rgt., on the left the 1 40th Infantry Brigade, ona two Company front. The Battalion was only able to advance 100/150 yards from our front line, being held up by intense machine gun fire, coming both from flanks and direct front. Heavy casualties were incurred in this advance. The following Officers became Casualties. Killed:- Lieuts. Purver,, 2nd Lieuts Prior, Gibbons & Watson. Died of wounds:- Lieut.Lacey (M.O.). Wounded:- Capts. Clarke-Richardson, Stone, Simmonds., Lieuts Fraser, 2nd Lieuts. Cookson, Edmunds, Argent, Morley & Radclyffe. Missing:- Lt. Heath. Casualties in Other Ranks 323.
And that is the last we hear of RG Cookson in the Battalion diary although that day, October 7, is etched in family folklore. His story, as passed down, and perhaps embellished goes like this.
The whistle blows and the officer leads his men into the teeth of the German machine guns. A still from the film of the Battle of the Somme: Sequence 31 ‘The Attack’
The whistles signalled the start of the attack, the officers and men climbing up the ladder and out of their trench to begin the slow and cumbersome trudge across No Man’s Land.
Many of the men were hit as they poked their noses over the parapet, the Germans, roused by the bombardment and given a helpful cue by the whistles, let rip with their machine guns.
Others stumbled on some yards before they too collapsed in a heap in the mud. At some point, this was the fate of 2nd Lieutenant Reginald Cookson.
Out in No Man’s Land he was hit by machine gun fire in his right leg and crumpled to the ground. His orderly, or batman – we believe his name was Private David Bain who coincidentally also had his roots in Peckham – initially dragged him into a foxhole.
Then, during a lull in the battle, perhaps even that evening, Bain picked Cookson up and began to piggyback him towards the British trenches.
No Man’s Land
Sadly, the machine gun fire started up again. A round hit Bain in the head, killing him instantly, a shard of his skull piercing Reginald’s right eye. Quite how he ended up back behind British lines we never knew. Presumably, amid the chaos and confusion of battle, he himself had little recollection of what exactly happened.
But he was recovered by the British and woke to find himself in a field hospital.
It was a Blighty wound, the end of his Western Front experience. Four days later, he was on the ship Western Australia heading from Rouen to Southampton and en route to convalescence at Watermouth. His knee would be fine but his right eye would never see again.
He wasn’t to know that on the same day as he was wounded, a few miles down the road at Bapaume, a young German lance-corporal, who was to play the key role in the next global conflict, was also nursing a wounded leg after being hit by shrapnel from a British shell – a certain Adolf Hitler.
Felix and I made the trip to the Somme in December 2012. We visited a number of the battlefields; we stopped for the setting of the sun at Schwaben Redoubt, where the Ulsters fought so bravely before being let down by the rest of the line, and walked the calm lines of new-sprung trees in what was once the infernal wasteland of Mametz Wood.
We ran our hands along the grass on the softly sloping curves of the trenches at Beaumont Hamel where the Newfoundlanders were all but wiped out and we parked beside a row of frozen turnips on the edge of High Wood where the young cricketer Percy Jeeves fell, later to find posthumous immortality through the pen of PG Wodehouse.
We threaded our along the windy road up to Thiepval – the awe-inspiring memorial to the British soldiers for whom there is no known grave – and there carved high into the white Portland stone walls we found the name of Jeeves and, more important to our story, that of Bain. We paused to offer a silent prayer of thanks for his courage and his sacrifice.
And finally, after brushing the first snow of winter of our car and stowing a flask of hot coffee and a bottle of Bushmills on the back seat, we took the map and went to find where Grandpa Cookson lost his eye.
We passed through the village of Flers and inspected the monument at Butte de Warlencourt, the objective that fateful day in October 1916.
This fortiifed feature which dominated the point of Cookson’s attack with multiple machine guns was never captured and only occupied when the Germans withdrew to the Hindenburg Line.
As the bright winter sun broke through, we found the D11 and turned off on to an even smaller road, coming to a stop in a raised lay-by beside a massive pile of horse manure.
“This is it,” said Felix.
We climbed out, watching our feet carefuly as we slid down the bank, crossed the road and then climbed the frozen ground opposite. We stood by the side of a field of turnips. Row upon row.
Less than a kilometre away to the west the village of Le Sars, to the north-east the same distance away La Barque; silence hanging in the air apart from the occasional car flying past oblivious to the personal significance of the place, probably wondering why two middle-aged men were standing on the edge of a field with binoculars and a map, a copy of the blood-smeared map that used to hang in our hall. And a bottle of Bush.
Halfway up the gently rising hill, a farmer.
“I reckon about 100 yards along here,” said Felix, a man used to reading military maps, as he marched off along the verge of the road.
We walked. We stopped. We stamped our feet against the cold and squinted into the low December sun.
Felix checked the map again and raised a finger, pointing up the hill.
“About 200 metres up this hill. As near as dammit. That’s where he was hit. That’s where X marks the spot.”
We stood silent for what seemed like an age but was probably just a few seconds. Just looking at the rows of turnips and trying to imagine the noise and chaos of October 7, 1916. Neither of us wanted to upset the quiet, nor the farmer.
I retrieved a couple of plastic cups from my coat pocket and passed them to Felix. I unscrewed the cap of the Bushmills and poured two solid slugs. I replaced the cap and took one of the cups.
Sports writing – and rugby in particular – has been guilty over the years of overborrowing phrases or cliches from the world of war. How many times have you read of a player “going over the top” or “launching an aerial bombardment” on the opposing full-back? Even the great Bill McLaren went there in his commentary when he described the Scotland full-back Gavin Hastings as having a “boot like a howitzer”.
Once upon a time, though, this kind of language was used to describe the actions of rugby players in the actual field of battle, a place where the red card meant an unmarked grave and no chance to fraternise in the bar with the beefy prop from the other team who escaped the ref’s attention when he surreptitiously caught you a punch early in the second half.
And what Cooper does so cleverly through his choice of players is to tiptoe through the maze of the war as it unfolded from 1914 to 1918, from the Western Front, Gallipoli and Mesopotamia to the opening salvos of the Easter Rising in Dublin. These men find their wars at sea, in the air and, needless to say, in the thick, cold, cloying mud of the trenches.
Rosslyn Park began life in 1879 and quickly became a backbone for the game in the London area, developing lasting rivalries with Richmond and Blackheath. When war was declared, it was comfortably based in Old Deer Park in Richmond. The club moved to Roehampton in 1956 which is where some of its great names were nurtured: Andy Ripley, Paul Ackford, Alex King and Danny Cipriani all went on to play for England.
In 1914, it could also lay claim to a number of internationals
Alec Todd cut a dash through South African society during the 1896 British Isles tour
Alec Todd was a backrow forward who had toured South Africa with the British Isles team of 1896 – they weren’t to become the Lions until 1930 – scoring his only international try in the second Test win in Johannesburg. In 1899, he played for London County Cricket Club under the captaincy and management of a certain Dr WG Grace.
He was shot by a sniper on Hill 60 and died four days later on April 21, 1915 at Number 3 Casualty Clearing Station, Poperinghe.
Arthur Leyland Harrison put the Royal Navy above all else, entering Britannia Royal Naval College in 1901 at the age of 15. He played rugby for Rosslyn Park and even went on tour with them to Germany in June 1913 where “the team had a great time owing to the hospitality of the Germans”.
The robust lock, with a jaw that puts even the mighty Lawrence Dallaglio’s to shame, caught the eye of the selectors and won his first England cap against Ireland at Twickenham on Valentine’s Day 1914, his performance earning him rave reviews. He missed the Scotland match because of Navy duties but then returned and contributed to England’s win over France April 1914.
Arthur Leyland Harrison, capped twice by England, a VC at Zeebrugge
He would surely have played a lot more for England had it not been for an assassin’s bullet in Sarajevo, three months later.
Lieutenant-Commander Harrison volunteered for a new force – a forerunner of the Special Boat Service – which launched a daring and almost suicidal mission on the night of April 22, 1917 to neutralise the German guns at Zeebrugge while the navy blockaded the port.
That impressive jaw was ripped apart by a shell and he was taken for dead. In fact, he had been knocked out and when he roused himself he immediately rejoined the fray. The end came soon enough, though, as he led his men back into the fray. Harrison was awarded a posthumous Victoria Cross.
In among the XV is Eric Fairbairn; an Olympic silver medallist in rowing (coxless pairs) in the London Games of 1908, The Australian survived just one week in the trenches in Belgium before being “dangerously wounded” by a rifle grenade, dying on June 20 1915.
Then there is the Hampshire cricketer Wilfred Jesson, the playwright Guy du Maurier, who played for the club as early as 1881 when he was just 16, and the would-be poet Nowell Oxland.
Six members of the Rosslyn Park team of 1909-10 never came back from the war including Charles Bayly (front left) who died three weeks after war began and his half-back partner Wilfred Jesson (front, second from right)
Through Jack Bodenham, Cooper tells the story of the first day or the Battle of the Somme, the perfumer one of those that “simply disappeared”, while the tale of Guy Pinfield illustrates the sideshow of the Easter Rising in Dublin, the young Rosslyn Park wing the first British officer to die that day in Dublin Castle.
The chapter on John Harmon preludes his end in a flying accident by laying out the background of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin while the development of the tank is portrayed in the stories of Denis Monaghan, a good enough three-quarter player to represent the Barbarians, and JJ Conilh de Beyssac, another international who played the first of his five Tests for France against Ireland on New Year’s Day 1912 and the last against England in April 1914 – when Arthur Harrison was lined up opposite him.
Rosslyn Park provided over 350 young men to the services; Cooper’s research suggests 72 of those never came back. He has settled on 15 riveting stories, building vivid pictures of the men, their backgrounds in family, business and rugby and the battles they fought.
The Final Whistle is a lasting tribute to each and every one of them;
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Plenty has been written and said over the last fortnight about the horrors and sacrifices that the men of Britain and her colonies made during the First World War. For Britain, of course, you can read France, Germany, Russia, the United States, Turkey and so on. Nationality no longer seems to be important when it comes to counting the cost of the dead.
Sports writing – and rugby in particular – has been guilty over the years of overborrowing phrases or cliches from the world of war. How many times have you read of a player “going over the top” or “launching an aerial bombardment” on the opposing full-back? Even the great 
