Heroes of ‘The Line’. 2 Guys, 2 Cycles, 580 miles of World War 1 trenches… and £10,000 for our soldiers.

Scott Addington.

Other books by Scott Addington World War One: A Layman’s Guide D-Day: A Layman’s Guide The Third Reich: A Layman’s Guide The Great War 100 - Telling the story of the First World War in infographics Five Minute Histories - Great WW1 Battles Five Minute Histories - First World War Weapons All of these books are available on Amazon sites worldwide or via my website http://www.scottaddington.com

http://www.scottaddington.com/

Contents: Introduction. Someone Get the Sat-Nav! Our Route Along the Trenches. 30th October: An Eventful Trip Already! 31st October: Let The Cycling Begin! 1st November: The Mountain Stage. 2nd November: Hotel Paradiso en Chateau Salin. A few thoughts on the trip so far. 3rd November: Verdun. 5th November: Almost up in Spokes… Heroes of ‘The Line’: Captain Charles Lemprière Price DSO, 2nd Royal Scots. 6th November: Seventy Five miles to St. Quentin… Heroes of ‘The Line’: 76645 Lance Corporal John Rimmer MM. Tank Corps. 7th November: Another Wheelie exciting day on the road to Albert. Heroes of ‘The Line’: Lieutenant Colonel Adrian Charles Gordon, DSO. Royal Field Artillery. Heroes of ‘The Line’: Lt-Colonel Edward Henry Trotter, DSO. Liverpool Regiment. 9th November: The Somme. Heroes of ‘The Line’: Lt. Colonel Randle Barnett Barker, DSO & Bar. Royal Welch Fusiliers. Heroes of ‘The Line’: 2nd Lieutenant William Swain, 8th Yorkshire Regiment. 10th November: Onward to Ypres. Heroes of ‘The Line’: Lieutenant Thomas Waldegrave Nops, Royal Flying Corps. Heroes of ‘The Line’: Captain George Edward Henry McElroy, MC & 2 Bars, DFC & Bar. Royal Garrison

Artillery & Royal Air Force.

11th November: To the Menin Gate for a Remembrance Day to Cherish.

Heroes of ‘The Line’: Werner Voss, Jasta 10, Luftstreitkräfte.

Introduction. At the beginning of 2009 I had an idea. Wouldn’t it be good to go on a charity cycle ride and raise a bit of money for the Royal British Legion - a charity I have long admired given my background and interest in military history and genealogy. I spent a few weeks looking for a suitable challenge but nothing really jumped out at me. I didn’t really fancy going on an organised ride with a bunch of strangers, instead I thought it would be much better if I went with one of my mates, on a quasi-holiday but without the sun, nice hotels, swimming pools, and fountains of beer. So I called up my good buddy, Steve Habbishaw, told him of my idea and asked if he wanted to join me. It took all of about 5 seconds for him to shout ‘oh hell yeah! I am in!’ down the phone. Cycling ‘The Line’ was most definitely on… Over the next few months we got busy organising the trip. The plan was to start on the Franco-Swiss border near the town of Pfetterhouse, the most westerly point of the World War 1 Western Front trench system, and cycle our way north east up towards Verdun, and on through places such as St. Quentin, Albert, Thiepval, Vimy, Ploegsteert and Ypres before finishing at the Belgian coast of Nieuport. If you’re counting, we were looking at thick end of 580 miles, and for someone like me who hadn’t cycled further than to the local off-licence and back; this was a long, long way... We would ride completely unaided, carrying all of our kit and supplies ourselves. Setting off via Eurostar at the end of October we scheduled 12 days for us to complete the trip; 10 days of pedaling with a couple of rest days thrown in to give our tired old legs a chance to recuperate. It was calculated that if all went to plan we would arrive in Ypres for Remembrance Day and would be able to watch the memorial service under the Menin Gate before cracking on to the coast and catching the ferry back to ‘Blighty’. Our goal was to raise £10,000 for The Royal British Legion. In the end as the global recession began to bite this figure became a bit optimistic. That said we had fantastic support from friends, family, work colleagues, Twitter followers and complete strangers who bought in to what we were trying to do and donated to the cause. After the trip we raised over £3,500 which we were (and still are) very proud of. However, the journey hasn’t quite finished. This short book continues the trip; It re-kindles the memories and re-tells some of the stories (some funny, some cringe-worthy) that were generated along the way. It also re-discovers some of the heroes that are either buried within those cemeteries, or commemorated on those memorials so perfectly manicured and maintained by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission up and down ‘The Line’. During the trip we obviously came across scores and scores of cemeteries and memorials. Every time we came across one we stopped to pay our respects and we often took significant detours to follow those little green CWGC signs to visit graves and memorials that were not on our direct route. Every single gravestone, every single name on a memorial represents a son, brother, husband or father of a family that mourned its own individual loss. It is very easy to become numb to it all as you walk past row upon row on pristine white headstones, but each one is a human being with a story. Their stories are much more worthy than our silly bike ride and if I could I would have written about every single one of them. Sadly this just isn’t possible. Instead there are just eight men represented here. Eight men who fought and died during The First World War and whose final resting place is ‘a foreign field’.

I have tried to include men with a mix of different ranks and background. They range from members of the ordinary rank and file, through to junior officers right up to Brigade Commanders. Some were professional soldiers who served in the Boer War, some simply signed on the dotted line to answer Kitchener’s call.

Some won multiple gallantry awards; others were not officially recognised for any act of bravery at all. I have tried to select a mix of disciplines too, with line infantry, artillery and the air force all represented. Heroes of ‘The Line’ also continues to raise money for a very important charity. For every copy of this e-book that is sold, at least £1 will be donated to The Royal British Legion. The RBL looks after thousands of servicemen and women (and their families) from numerous conflicts ranging from The Second World War through to Afghanistan and Iraq. This is our small way of saying ‘thank you’ to those who have served and continue to serve with the British Armed Forces. I hope you find the diary of the ride and the research interesting; I certainly enjoyed putting it all together. Each story is remarkable. Each person is a hero. Scott Addington. July 2013.

Approximate map of the route. There is no denying it is a long way…

Someone Get the ‘Sat-Nav’! Our Route Along the Trenches. After numerous high-level meetings down the local pub, we finally settled on a route for the trip. The planned daily mileage varied quite significantly from a relatively easy first day of 40-odd miles, to a couple of days clocking up over 70 miles a piece including an absolute monster of a day cycling over the Vosges Mountains. My brother-in-law lives in Switzerland and I remember telling him that I was planning to cycle over the Vosges. ‘Ha!’ he said…‘They are not proper mountains’. Hmmm. He may live in Switzerland and spend his weekends messing around on the Swiss Alps, but to me, living in very flat Hampshire, they are mountains. Big ones. And they frightened me to death. The second day of cycling was going to be nothing short of 70 miles of very steep uphill-ness. Whichever way you slice it, that was not a fun prospect. However, as I kept reminding myself, the soldiers who were there almost a century ago went through a lot worse. At least no one would be shooting at me. The itinerary of the trip was as follows: Day 0 - 30th October (Travel Day) The first day of the trip involves no pedalling, just a bit of a trek to get to our starting point. We will meet up at London St. Pancras and board the Eurostar to Paris. Then get a cross country train from Paris to Basel. There we will stay the night and travel up to Pfetterhouse in the morning by cab - it should be no more than a 30 minute cab ride - to begin our cycling. Day 1 We would start on the Franco-Swiss border at Pfetterhouse and cycle north(ish) through Seppois, Largitzen, Hirtzbach, Carspach, Altkirch, Aspach, St. Bernard, Balschwiller, and Aspacht before arriving in the town of Thann at the foot of the Vosges Mountains. There would be an overnight stay at Thann, allowing us to tackle the hills fresh on day two. Day 2 From Thann we cross the Vosges going through Willer, St Amarin, Ranspach, Fellering, Oderen, Kruth, Wildenstein, Barmont, Belles-Huttes, Collet Jardin, Le Valtin, Habeaurupt, Plainfaing, Fraize, Vencheres, and St Leonard before we arrive at St Die after 70 plus horrid miles…Never has a town been more aptly named. Day 3 With the worst of the hills behind us we head off to La Pecherie, La Voivre, Etival-Clairfontaine, Raon-l’Etape, Neufmaisons, Pexonne, Fennevillier, Badonvillier, Montreaux, Ninhigny, Barbas, Blamont, Repaix, Igney, Avrincourt, Moussey, Maizieres, Bourdonnay, Lezey and finally Chateau-Salins were we stop for a well earned overnight rest. Day 4 Day four sees us head up to the fortress city of Verdun via Montauville, Limey, Flirey, Beaumont, Rambucourt, Apremont, St Mihiel, Rouvrois, Lacroix, Troyon, Ambly, Genicourt, Dreue, Haudainville and then Verdun. Day 5 Rest Day. We will take a day off at Verdun and do a spot of sightseeing around the town and the local battlefields. Day 6 Onward we go up to Fleury, Douaumont, Ossuaire, Charny, Marre, Chattancourt, Esnes, Avocourt, Vauquois, Varennes, Montblainville, Apremont, Charleyaux, Conde, Cernay, Rouvroy-Ripint, Fontain, Gratreuil, Manre, Aure, Sommepy-Tahure, Ste Marie, St Souplet, St Martin-l’Heureux, St Hilaire-le-Petit,

Betheniville, Pontfaverger, Epoye, Lavannes, Pomacie, Fresnes-Les-Reims and Bourgogne before dropping a few miles south for our overnight stay on the outskirts of Reims. There are a lot of town/villages in this list, and with the mileage count for the day knocking on the door to 80 it looks like it could be a long day! Day 7 We head north out of Reims to Coivre and on to Villers-Franquex, Hermonville, Bouvancourt, Ventelay, Roucy, Pomavert, Craonnelle, Mon le Pantheon, Chavignon, Pinon, Anizy, Wissignicourt, Premontre, Septvaux, St Gobain, Deuillet, Andelain, Charmes, Danizy, Achery, Mayot, Brissay-Cholgny, Brissay-Hamegicourt, Sery-les Mezieres, Mezieres-sur-Oise, Itancourt, Neuville St Amand before finally arriving at St Quentin – a landmark place in our tour as it marks the start of the British sector on the Western Front.

Day 8 Day 8 sees us explore more familiar names to us British as we cycle up towards the Somme battlefields. We are set to pass through Fayet, Fresnoy-le-Petit, Pontru, Verguie, Jeancourt, Montingny, Hervilly, Roisel, Marquaix, Tincourt, Peronne, Clery-sur-Somme, Maricourt, Carnoy, Ficourt, and Bercorde before ending the day in the town of Albert. Day 9 Rest Day. We will be taking in all the sights and sounds of the Somme battlefield. I think this is going to be a memorable day.

Day 10 From Albert we head north(ish) to Aveluy, and on through Authuille, Thiepval (with a slight detour to visit the Memorial), Hamel, Beaumont, Serre, Puisieux, Bucquoy, Ayette, Boiry St Martin, Arras, Bailleu sur Berthoult, Farbus, Vimy, Avion, and onto the town of Lens were we are scheduled for an overnight stay.

Day 11 Day 11 is a landmark day in our ride as we say goodbye to France and hello to Belgium. From Lens we move on to Benifontaine, Haisnes, La Basee, Lorgies, Neuve-Chappelle, Fauquissart, Retillon, Fleurbaix, Armentieres, Le Bizet (French Border) Ploegsteert, Mesen, Wijtshcate, St Elooi and finally to Ypres.

Day 12 (11th November - Remembrance Day) We start the day with a trip to the Menin Gate in Ypres where we will witness the Remembrance Day service and then off we go to Potizje, Frizenberg, Zonnebeke, Paschendaele, St Juliaan, Poelkapelle, Madonna, Hothulst, Kierken, Diksmuide, Ijertoren, Stuivekenkerke, Schoorbakke, Ramsapelle, Belge, Nieuwpoort, Lombardsijde and Westende, where we plan to have one or five beers before getting the ferry back home the next day.

Should be fun!

http://www.greatwar.co.uk/ypres-salient/memorial-menin-gate.htm

30th October - An Eventful Trip Already!! Well here we are in Basel, and I have a few minutes before we set off on the start of our ‘Cycling The Line’ journey across the First World War trenches. We both had an eventful day yesterday, even before we left the UK. I had an early start leaving the house at 6.30am, the cycle ride to Basingstoke train station for me is about 6 miles, not very far, but in that time I nearly fell off three times (I quickly discovered that the bike is quite unstable with full panniers on, not a great sign with 580 miles in front of me). On top of this the pannier rack broke. I mean fell off. So I had to do some emergency repairs by the roadside to try and tie the panniers onto the frame of the bike which didn't really do the job (If you know me, you will know very well that I am not very practical) and my pannier rack continued to fall off the back of the bike every half mile or so, which meant I had to stop, turn around, pick up the panniers from the middle of the road and try and tie the ruddy things back to the bike, whilst at the same time gently uttering a string of expletives under my breath.

Not a great start.

Getting into London I had to get a cab to St. Pancras because there was no way I was going to ride across the city with a broken pannier. Black cabs are the best vehicles in the world, swallowing the bike and panniers easily. I did get a few odd looks though: ‘Why is that guy with a bike taking a cab?’

Getting to St Pancras I then had to get our tickets, the automated ticket machine decided it would be more fun if it chewed up the tickets instead of dispensing them neatly, and as a consequence I had to endure a a 45 min queue to get them reprinted. Which was fun, seeing as I couldn’t leave my bike anywhere as Steve hadn’t arrived, so I had to weave my bike (along with the broken panniers) around the twisty queue lanes (trying not to run over people’s feet or letting the panniers drop onto the floor) to get the tickets reprinted from the ticket office - much to the obvious annoyance of everyone in the vicinity.

In the meantime, Steve texted me to say he was running late – he had had to pay his rent for the next couple of weeks and had stopped off on his way to the train station. He had leant his bike outside the lettings agent in Slough and while he was in there counting out the fivers some little s**tbag made off with his rucksack. Gone were his iPod, camera, a nice shiny Audi weatherproof jacket kindly donated to us by his work and a whole bunch of other stuff… Needless to say when he finally arrived at the station he was not a happy bunny.

Having said all that, the Eurostar is a fabulous piece of kit; very fast and smooth. It was my first time on it and I have to admit to being very impressed. We arrived at Paris Gare du Nord bang on time and we then set about trying to find our bikes (they were stored elsewhere on the train). After walking up and down the platform a dozen times, asking numerous people where to go and not understanding a word they said we finally found our bikes were at the furthest reaches of the train station, about a 20 minute walk from where were. Carrying very heavy, very full panniers as well as rucksacks I can tell you this was not funny. We eventually located our chariots and Steve helped me out with some emergency repairs to my panniers and rack. Eventually we were all set to find Gare d’lest and catch our next train. Once at the station we had a 3 hours to kill before our train departed so we grabbed a bit of lunch: 7 (Seven) Euros for a sandwich and beer!! (It wasn’t even a full pint). Whilst we were sipping our reassuringly expensive beer, some old French lady came up to us and took all our paper wrapping from our sandwiches, put them into her shopping bag and then just walked off without saying a word. Very random.

The train to Basel was again very cool – a proper train - the suits at South Western Trains could do worse than having a chat with our French friends on how to run a half decent rail service; they put us to shame. Fast and comfortable with the coolest reading lights I have ever seen. We glided into Basel about 9pm, found the hotel and also found that we had been given a double bed. Nice. We are good mates, but not

that good! After a quick fight Steve lost and slept on the floor. He paid me back in spades though by snoring like an old man all night…

Current sit-rep on the panniers: the zip on the top pannier is completely buggered and is just flapping about in the breeze… I hope it doesn’t rain.

31st October: Let The Cycling Begin!

Day 1 of the cycle happened to be my birthday (31st October). We eventually left Basel in a taxi big enough to take our bikes and kit (we had waited over an hour for him to turn up, in the meantime two cabbies had turned up for us in nice plush mercedes, even though we explicitly said we had two bikes... DOH!)

Anyhow, the thirty minute cab ride cost us ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY EUROS! Now I know that Switzerland is more expensive than a lot of other countries in Europe, but that cab ride took the biscuit. The cab driver had originally asked for 160 Euros but we negotiated him down as we told him what we were doing and why. Even so, that cab ride put a serious dent in our trip finances, as it was treble what we had planned for that ride. As we got our stuff out the car we told him exactly what we thought of him!

Anyhow, we got dropped off (albeit significantly lighter of pocket - but I am not going to dwell on it) at Pfetterhouse – a town generally accepted as the most southernly point of the Western Front, and finally got into the saddle and started pedalling. After months of training* and planning and after all the buildup and anticipation we were finally on the road. Brilliant! We had a very sophisticated satellite navigation system that we bolted to Steve’s handlebars - he was nominated the lead bike, by virtue of the fact that he was less fat than me and would most likely go a bit faster on the road. The ‘sat-nav’ was basically a piece of paper with a list of the villages/towns that we needed to cycle through. This list was backed up by a trusty map of the area carried by yours truly as I was the only one with a back-pack.

What could possibly go wrong?

The little villages we passed through on that first morning were beautiful. Every one we passed through seemed to be more tranquil, idyllic and picturesque than the previous one, however they all seemed to be set in small valleys, which meant lots of hills! Luckily there were enough downhill bits to compensate for the uphill bits so it wasn’t too bad.

Before we knew it we had knocked off a fair few towns and were feeling very good about things, Thann came and went – it was originally planned that this would have been our first overnight stop but there was no room at the inn and we were forced to continue on a little further than previously anticipated. We eventually got ourselves to a small village called Fellering. Our hotel was up the biggest, steepest hill I had ever seen. It was three miles long and we had to walk it – it was impossible to cycle, especially after forty-odd miles, in fact it was tough enough to walk it while pushing a heavily ladened bike. At every corner I was pleading that the hotel would be the next building but it was not to be. The hill was endless and the light was fast fading. It took over an hour to get there up this hill… but we got there. A beautiful place surrounded by forest; absolutely in the middle of nowhere. The landlady cooked us chicken and rice and home made soup which did the trick just nicely… and we went to bed content that forty-three miles had been knocked off in the first day.

*I am using the term ‘training’ in its loosest possible sense.

‘Sat-Nav’: Cycling ‘The Line’ style. (Please note the sophisticated front lighting system).

1st November: The Mountain Stage I will be honest with you, I had been worrying about today for a very long time. I expected a monster of a day through the Vosges Mountains… and I wasn’t disappointed. We set off at 9.45am this morning, after a breakfast which consisted of a couple of croissants, jam and some French tea. Now I know the French are celebrated for their culinary skills and gastronomic delights, but they need to significantly up their game on the breakfast front. A couple of croissants wasn’t going to get me over the mountains. Anyway, after making short work of our ‘breakfast of champions’ we loaded up the bikes and set off down the same huge hill we had struggled up the night before and headed towards the looming dark shapes on the horizon – the Vosges Mountains. The road up to them was very misleading, a gentle but constant incline that was exhausting even though it didn’t really look that steep. After eight miles we had to stop as we were both feeling the pace a bit. As we rested by the side of the road a couple of motorbikes passed us by at a fair rate. We heard their engines fade into the distance but then they suddenly reappeared about 100ft above our heads, they then faded again once more only to re-appear a minute later even higher up. That meant one thing: Switchbacks. What was about to start was the thick end of fifteen miles of the hardest physical torture I have ever endured in my life. Switchback after switchback… an unrelenting journey of steep inclines and hairpin bends that seemed never ending. Each incline was probably no more than 500m long, but it quickly got to the stage where I was only able to cycle one stretch before I had to get off the bike and lay on the verge for ten minutes trying to summon the strength to climb the next one, I was spending more time on my back in the grass than I was in the saddle. Eventually we crawled past 600m above sea level, then 700m. The energy gained from our ‘breakfast of champions’ earlier in the day had long since been consumed, as had various energy drinks and snacks we had taken with us. We were both struggling. Big time. My legs were on fire and it felt my heart rate was hitting 300! It didn’t matter what kind of training* or preparation I had done over the past few months, there was nothing I could have done that could have readied me for this. By 2pm we had done less than fifteen miles despite over four hours in the saddle. It was at this point that Steve confidently announced – “we are at the top” and indeed it did seem that we had broken the back of the switchbacks and were on the crest of a hill that only went one way: down. We were at 950m above sea level. A wave of relief washed over both of us and we had a small snack, took a few photos and looked forward to a downhill ride to the other side of the mountains... however, that downhill ride was very short lived. A mile down the road we made a left turn and we were soon climbing again. The expletives were tumbling, the air was a very British blue and we were quickly reduced to walking; neither of us had much energy left. We passed 1100m above sea level and there seemed no let-up in the ascent. We had to get back into the saddle otherwise we were going to be camping in the woods overnight - not a pleasant prospect if I were being honest. We rode on and on stopping almost every mile for a breather. We got to 1300m and rode through a ski resort, complete with cable cars and a cheese restaurant. I practically collapsed in the car park while Steve went in to get some water. A minute later he came out swearing about the ignorant German @£$!$ that wouldn’t serve him because he didn’t speak English (Not Steve, the person behind the bar). So, I got up from the middle of the car park, leaving behind what can only be described as a beautiful sweat angel on the floor where I had been laying, and tried my luck where Steve had failed. Now, one thing you probably don’t know about me is that I don’t really like cheese, and when I walked into this place the stench of

cheese was unlike anything I have experienced in my life. I had walked into a fondue restaurant full of Frenchies getting stuck in to stinky cheese by the bucket load. It was everything I could do not to throw up in the doorway. Despite this, I managed to splutter out a few words of pigeon French and purchased an armful of water and chocolate (but no cheese). To be honest that chocolate absolutely saved us, and after 30 mins rest we felt ready to crack on. It was a good job too as the sunshine we had enjoyed over the last few hours had suddenly turned to a light fog and we could see a rather nasty weather front moving quickly our way, the temperature had dropped significantly and we knew we couldn’t hang about. Luckily from then on, the rest of the trip was downhill… Very downhill. I was free-wheeling at 36mph most of the way! The miles racked up in no time at all. We went through many pretty villages on a valley road with the mountains either side of us and after a couple of hours of nice easy riding we ended up in St Die – very happy to find our hotel after a HUGE day where we had conquered the Vosges mountains. Once we had checked in, showered and completed the sit-rep for both bodies and bikes (My bike was holding up much better than my body it had to be said), we headed into St Die to see what was what and to grab some dinner. We ended up sitting on a bench in the town square each clutching an extra large doner kebab. That kebab right then and there was the best tasting kebab in the whole of Europe, including the ones from the van that parks in the lay-by opposite Bulmershe Teachers College on Woodlands Avenue. Physically this had been the hardest day of my life, yet apart from the birth of my two children, probably the most rewarding and amazing day ever. * Please refer to the comments on training made in the previous chapter.

Vosges: The beginning of the ascent...

2nd November: Hotel Paradiso en Chateau Salin Day 3 of cycling saw us leave St. Die early doors and head north. We had no hotel booked and planned to travel as far as we could during the day, as day 4′s trip up to Verdun promised to be a long one. We had our eye on Chateau Salin which was about 55-60 miles away, but we were prepared to see how the day panned out. When I went to sleep last night I slept well. Very well. Very well indeed. Not just because of the fact my belly was chock full of kebab goodness, but also in the knowledge that I had beaten those Vosges and that anything the trip threw at me now would be nothing compared to what I had just completed. Unfortunately for me, it turned out that I hadn’t quite beaten the Vosges, because the little smashers had one final present left to give, in the shape of a dirty great big climb that smacked us in the face as soon as we left the town of Raon-L’-etape (a pretty town which boasted a moving memorial to its past mayor who had been executed by the Nazis in 1944). The town may have been nice, but that hill the other end of it was a complete monster and it exhausted us both before we had even begun. To be honest I struggled for the first 10 miles or so, the mountains were still in my legs so to speak and Steve shot off like a rabbit and left me huffing and puffing away at my own pace (slow). The day started dry but by lunch time the heavens opened and my did they open. We cycled through 20-25 miles of open countryside buffeted by howling gales and horizontal rain. It was during this part of the day that I realised that my gloves, although they were labelled as ‘waterproof’ were not ‘French-countryside-in-November-with- torrential-rain-and-force-8-gale-proof’. They quickly started soaking up all the water and reduced my hands to ice blocks in no time. I had no choice but to get rid. Also, as I was trying to put on my snood while I cycled into the teeth of a particularly nasty gale, the thing flew off into the distance and left me, well, snood-less. Not surprisingly, the ‘Sat-Nav’ wasn’t holding up to the rain very well either, and soon became nothing more than a mass of mushed up paper pulp. It was perhaps the most unpleasant 25 miles of cycling I had ever done. Give me the Vosges any day of the week. Once out of the flat countryside we slipped through numerous small villages, although we are cycling the Western Front of 1914-1918 this part of France also saw plenty of action during the Second World War. Most of the towns we passed still had their battle scars for all to see; bullet holes in walls, memorial plaques to the Allies and information as to when that particular town or village was liberated. Plus there was the odd tank parked by the side of the road... We were really traveling in the footsteps of heroes. Mercifully the rain let up around mid afternoon, which allowed us to dry out a bit and we enjoyed some great cycling (albeit hilly – why can’t the French build flat roads?) The roads were dead straight and reached right out to the horizon, but resembled the Loch Ness Monster with big humps as far as the eye could see… It was a bit tedious, but we ploughed on until we eventually arrived at a little town called Chateau Salin. We had knocked off 55 miles so we decided to stop here and found a little bar/hotel called… something (I forget). Anyhow, this hotel was run by Jean-Claude and his wife Marie and it had a whole 1 star but it was dry and warm and we were wet and cold, so I said to myself, Scott my ol’ son, this will doo-hoo… you. We booked in for the night. Our host with the most asked us if we wanted dinner, Steve declined as he had just bought himself a gourmet delight from the local Aldi (a ham sandwich and a huge packet of cheese and onion crisps), but I said oui… although I had no idea what ‘dinner’ would be. Our room was ‘cosy’ but it had two beds and JC (that’s what we called him) put the bikes in his garage, which was nice of him. The dinner surprise was served at 7pm… and consisted of eggs for starter, and lasagna for mains. Just what the doctor ordered after a hard day pedalling! This gourmet delight was disposed of in a very smart fashion and was duly washed down with a couple of petit biers. I was most definitely a happy chappy...

And so ended our 3rd day cycling the line… Verdun tomorrow.

A few thoughts on the trip so far… Before I continue with the diary entry for day 4 and the journey to Verdun, there are just a few things I need to say about the trip so far... It seems that France is quite expensive. 1.20Euro for a Mars bar and 1.70Euro for a can of coke seem to be the norm, which is pretty excessive when compared to Britain. A couple of pastries and a bottle of water from the local Boulangerie won’t leave you much change from a tenner. On the plus side the French countryside is simply breathtaking; it really is a very pretty place indeed with wonderful architecture and idyllic settings. The local people we have met have also been fantastic to us without exception. The hospitality of the small places we have stayed at has been amazing; they have all gone out of their way to make sure we had all we need. Out on the roads people are waving at us and cheering us on and the lorry drivers need little encouragement to sound their horns and give us a cheer. Also, the roads in France are something to behold, even the small country lanes are in perfect condition. (UK government please take note). Another odd thing is that we have hardly seen anyone at all. All the towns we go through are deserted, offices are shut, shops are shut, and supermarkets are empty. Where is everyone? The only things we see that are open on a regular basis are pharmacies. Oh yes, if you are short of some aspirin or some cough mixture, France is the place to be - there are thousands of pharmacies. Then there is the issue of lunch. Now we are in the 21st century. The age of 24 hour opening, convenience shopping and of bending over backwards to give the customer as much choice as possible. At least, that is the retail situation in most of the places I have visited over the past few years. But not in France. It does seem that the French still take lunch way too seriously. All shops are shut for hours over the lunch break, which, when you are a hungry cyclist, is a bit of a pain to say the least. Unless of course you need some nappies or antiseptic ointment - then you are spoilt for choice as you can guarantee there will be half a dozen pharmacies open and ready to take your €20. The French fascination with a chemist is a bit odd I must say. There are very few street lights too (unless you are in the middle of a major town or city) which have made for some interesting times over the last few days on the bike when it gets dark... To be honest though these gripes are trivial; so far the trip has been great although the credit card is taking a bit of a hammering!

3rd November: Verdun.

Day 4 of the cycle ride and our destination was the fortress city of Verdun. I was looking forward to getting to Verdun for two reasons; firstly it has huge significance for the First World War and secondly it meant we would finally get a rest day!

As we got ready to set off, our new best mate JC asked us where we were off to next. When we told him it was Verdun he almost spat out his coffee and muttered something under his breath that was probably the French equivalent of ‘you bloody idiots’. He got out an old map and tried to tell us the best route to go, but we were in a bit of a hurry and anyhow, we had our trusty ‘Sat-Nav’! We were supremely confident.

We finally set off from our Hotel Paradiso at about 9am but by the time we had stocked up on supplies at a local shop it was nearer 10am before we really got going. The first couple of miles out of town were up a monstrous hill and we were quickly reduced to walking rather than pedalling. Not the greatest of starts to what was going to be a very long day and it didn’t really get much better either; the terrain continued to be incredibly hilly – we went through some wonderful countryside with tiny villages set deep into picturesque valleys, but valleys meant hills, and hills meant pain and misery.

Then there was the weather. Gale force winds and torrential rain made things just miserable. It was biting cold too. At this point I think it is worthwhile to point out that Steve had chosen to wear swimming trunks for the days cycling… red swimming trunks and a camouflage jacket. In my opinion that was a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions.

The first 30 miles were tough… really tough, it seemed to be uphill all the time and the appalling weather never let up. It seemed that no matter what direction we were cycling in we were traveling straight into the teeth of a massive headwind and as a consequence the miles were being ticked off at an alarmingly slow rate. At about 1pm and after struggling through over 35miles, we eventually arrived at a place called Pont-a-Mousson. Whilst there, in the space of 3 minutes, we were hit with a huge double whammy that knocked us both for 6.

First, I had to pay the best part of 5 Euros for 2 cokes… this did not improve my mood, and some choice Anglo-Saxon filled that particular cafeteria as Steve and I took the opportunity to tell the owner exactly what we thought of his prices and his stupid looking chairs. Then, no sooner had we resumed our journey we saw a signpost saying ‘Verdun – 69km’. That’s about 43 miles. The phrase I uttered on seeing this sign post most definitely rhymed with ‘clucking bell’.

My heart sank.

Fortunately the road out of Pont-a-Mousson was pretty flat and we made decent progress however our speed was severely hampered by the weather which was not letting up and we soon resembled a couple of drowned rats. Freezing cold and very disheveled, we stopped off once more at a tiny little hamlet which remarkably had a shop that was open which allowed us to stock up with some more supplies including a small bottle of whiskey to warm us up a bit. Little did we know how grateful we would be for that whiskey later on.

We headed across open country at the mercy of the wind and rain for what seemed like eternity watching the signposts slowly count down the kilometres to Verdun. The light was fading fast and cycling on rural roads with no cycle lanes, pavements or street lighting, this was becoming a real issue for us.

The hills reappeared again just as dusk fell; we were on a main road into Verdun with no path and a very severe and sudden drop into a ditch. Steve’s back light lasted about 5 minutes before the rain got the better of it. Luckily mine seemed to work OK but with huge lorries continually passing us with just centimeters to spare it was a hair-raising experience to say the least. The side-draft of these trucks, along with the gales and the torrential rain made this part of the journey simply awful. We both just wanted to get to the hotel safe but the miles seemed to stretch out longer than normal. We passed a signpost that indicated 21km to Verdun, I swear we passed at least four signposts over the next hour that all said ‘Verdun: 21km’. It became a bit of a joke that very quickly lost its humour.

After about 60 miles I was began to feel the pace. There was one hill that was simply too much so we had to get off and walk. I was about 50m behind Steve and as he walked up to the top of the hill he was silhouetted against the lights of the oncoming cars, which mixed with the fog and rain, gave an eery yet poignant image reminiscent of a solitary soldier (albeit a soldier wearing red swimming trunks) walking off to the front. It is an image I will not forget in a long time.

The last 10 miles into Verdun were simply horrible. It was pitch black, it was rush hour, it was freezing cold. It was also belting down with rain and every 5 seconds we were getting covered in road spray. There were still no street lights to help light our way and what was left of our bike lights were struggling to shine through the fog, spray and rain. We had a few close shaves with cars and vans not seeing us until the last minute.

Verdun is perched on top of a dirty great big hill, seemingly hundreds of metres high and it was at the foot of this final obstacle that I had had enough. I was empty. I couldn’t go on. I had nothing left. We pulled into a small side road and I was so tired I just threw my bike to the ground and laid on the pavement, I was lying halfway into a big puddle but to be honest I couldn’t have cared less. I must have passed out for a few minutes as the next thing I knew I could hear Steve shouting at me to stop messing around and sit up. I dragged my sorry being out of that puddle and took a few large swigs of the whisky we had purchased earlier on. It was that whisky that got me up that last hill and finally into Verdun at about 7pm.

We had done over 75 miles, we were freezing cold, soaking wet, and so very very tired...

5th November: Almost up in Spokes…

Bonfire Night… and today the entire trip almost went ‘bang’ on us.

Verdun to Reims was the planned trip today. Another day of 70 plus miles, but with much of it riding over open but mainly flat countryside it should have been ok as long as the weather behaved itself. We set off early and by 8.30am we had relegated Verdun to a faint view on the horizon behind us and we were out on the open road. Things were going well. The countryside surrounding the north of Verdun is as magnificent as it is sad. The land is littered with war cemeteries and the land still bears the scars of the savage fighting of early 1916 where the German army threatened to ‘bleed France white’.

Then, 10 miles north of Verdun something very bad happened. Very bad indeed. Four spokes from the back wheel of my bike decided that they didn’t want to continue on the trip and snapped. I was in my customary position of being way behind Steve on the road and had to scream and shout and wave my arms like a lunatic in an effort to attract his attention before he cycled off into the distance without me. After a quick check of the wheel the diagnosis wasn’t looking good; the bike couldn’t be ridden until some more spokes could be found and in the middle of nowhere those spokes were not immediately forthcoming.

The only option was to walk back to Verdun and try and find a place that sold spokes, so off we trudged, walking the 10 miles we had just ridden over. During that walk my heart sank so low I was convinced that I was not going to be able to continue the ride. I started to think about how I would get home and how I would have to face everyone who had supported me and pledged their own cash in the name of our cause and tell them that I failed to complete the trip. Those thoughts got me very depressed and (I will be honest with you now) I cried like a baby. It was a very long, lonely and depressing walk back to Verdun. Thankfully the rain was only very light but the wind was still very strong and the walk was not fun. We eventually found a supermarche but, quelle surprise, they didn’t sell spokes. They did however sell spoke keys; one of which was duly purchased and Steve set about trying to repair the sorry looking spoke situation. He even took a few from the front wheel to put in the back one to balance everything out. It was freezing cold and the job was painful but when it comes to bikes Steve is an absolute genius and he managed to replace and repair enough spokes to make the bike rideable again! Hoorrah!

After a quick test drive in the car park we then found out that Steve also had a puncture, so that needed to be repaired before we decided what to do next.

By this time it was gone 2pm. There was no way we could ride to Reims now as we only had about 3 hours of daylight left, and with the nightmare of the night ride into Verdun still fresh in our minds we decided to get the train. We didn’t even know if my bike would take much more punishment and survive the journey, it would be better to get to Reims and do a bit more work on both bikes to get them into tip-top shape. Let me now take this opportunity to say that French trains are unbelievably good. (The UK transport minister needs to take a few trips on the French railway system and make copious notes on how to improve our sorry national rail service.)

We arrived in Reims (a very busy and vibrant place with a remarkable cathedral) about 6pm and then proceeded to walk another 9 or 10 miles across the city to our hotel, getting lost a number of times along the way as our ‘Sat-Nav’ wasn’t equipped to navigate the streets of Reims, or indeed any major town or city. On the way we found a bike shop with the lights on, the door open and bikes for sale out on the pavement - this was a right result - maybe we could get some new parts for the bike! However, as we entered the shop we were pushed straight back out into the night by a rather gruff shopkeeper. It was 6.33pm and evidently he had closed at 6.30pm. Frustrating or what?

We are off to St. Quentin tomorrow, a journey of about 55 miles or so. I am not sure if the bike will make it to be honest, I will have to go very careful with it as it could break at any moment, and short of buying a new wheel or maybe even a new bike (although it seems that the bike shops around here don’t really want to take my custom) a re-occurrence of the spoke problem could result in the ultimate nightmare scenario: the Eurostar back to Blighty and failure to complete the trip.

Fingers crossed for tomorrow - let’s get this cycle ride back on the road!

A live shell on the side of the road. Painted green and ready to be picked up by the authorities.

Heroes of ‘The Line’: Captain Charles Lemprière Price DSO, 2nd Royal Scots. Name: Charles Lemprière Price Regiment: 2nd Battalion, Royal Scots Date of Death: 16/09/1914 Cemetery: Vailly British Cemetery Grave Reference: I.A.6 Medal Entitlement: Distinguished Service Order, 3 x Mentioned in Dispatches, Queen’s South Africa Medal, King’s South Africa Medal, 1914 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal, 1902 Coronation Medal. Charles Lemprière Price was born in Alderney, Channel Islands on 17th September 1877. He was the only child of Colonel Thomas Charles Price, (late Royal Artillery) and his wife Amy Earle. The young Charles was privately educated at St. Paul’s School after which he enrolled into the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. After graduation from the RMA he was commissioned into the Royal Scots as a Second Lieutenant on 8th September 1897. He served in the South African War of 1899-1902, taking part in many operations including those in Cape Colony, the Orange Free State, the Transvaal and Lydenberg amongst others. During this conflict he was Mentioned In Dispatches twice (20th August 1901 and 10th September 1901) and recommended for the Victoria Cross by Lord Kitchener for his part in an attack on a strongly held Boer position at Bermondsey, East Transvaa: He was sent out to the firing line with a message from the Colonel. When he reached the line he found 3 men lying wounded without cover about 50 yards in front of the firing line, which was about 400 yards from the enemy. Price immediately went out, picked up the nearest wounded man and carried him in. This was heavy work and in order to bring in the other two he asked for volunteers to help him. He then stripped to his shirt sleeves and went back out with the volunteers to retrieve the other wounded men despite intense fire from the enemy. He wasn’t awarded the VC in this instance, but he was later awarded the Distinguished Service Order. His DSO was published in the London Gazette on 27th September 1901:

‘For gallantry in leading an attack on the Boer position at Bermondsey, East Transvaal, 16th May, 1901”.

He was invested by the King on 24th October 1902. With the outbreak of the First World War, Price was part of the British Expeditionary Force that went out to France and Belgium in the first few months of the conflict, landing in France on the 14th August 1914. Unfortunately his war would not be a long one as he was killed in action at Vailly on the 16th September 1914. He may not have been at the front for long, but he served through the Battle of Mons, Le Cateau and the retreat towards Paris and in that short, troubled time, made a remarkable impression on fellow officers and his men. Talking to the Dundee Advertiser after the war, 10549 Private Patrick Clancy, also of the 2nd Royal Scots described those early days of struggle and highlighted the effect Charles had on the Battalion:

‘We met the Germans on 23rd August. On the 26th we were nearly annihilated at Cambrai owing to the French reinforcements not coming up. About 7.30 o'clock that morning one of our airmen descended and

reported that the French were advancing about 20 miles off, and would be able to reinforce us about midday. We waited anxiously, but twelve o'clock came and no French, and five o'clock and still no French. Half an hour later Major Butler gave the order, 'Retire, men, for God's sake; every man for himself'. Shells

were flying thick about us, and it was an awful order to give. We got the order all right, but, with a few exceptions, it did not reach the Gordons, with disastrous results...

So we began the never-to-be-forgotten retreat, with shells and bullets flying about everywhere. We got into Einecourt. When we got between a church and a farmhouse we came across two women and a child. Pipe-Major Duff said he would stay behind and look after them. This he did, and we saw no more of them. Our

Adjutant, Captain Price, who was one of the finest and most popular of the officers, and who was on horseback, said to us, 'Keep your heads, men. There are no marked men here. If the bullets are going to hit

you they will hit you.

The Gordons, 18th Royal Irish and 2nd Royal Scots were all together on the retreat, falling back as fast as they could. The last fight on the retreat was at St Quentin, and then we fell back to Hams, within 24

kilometres of Paris. We blew up all the bridges and the roads as we retreated except one bridge, and upon that solitary bridge and for five miles beyond it 150 guns of the outer defences of Paris were trained. On

came the massed forces of the Germans and started to cross the bridge. Out blazed the guns and the bridge was blown to bits, along with the Germans who were approaching and crossing it. Their losses were awful. But for us it was a terrible retreat, and I shall never forget it. Then came the turning movement. We were

seventeen days and nights in the trenches at the Aisne without being relieved. It was a time of artillery duels. Here we lost Captain Price, who had saved thousands of men at Cambrai.

He lost his life trying to save another's. One of our NCO's was wounded and began to yell. Captain Price was in his bomb-proof dug-out when he heard the shouting, and he called out to the man, 'All right, man, I will be with you in a few minutes'. Just as he got out of the trench he was hit by a bit of shell, and died a few

hours afterwards. His loss was deeply regretted, because he was beloved by everybody’.

For his role in the retreat, Captain Price was mentioned in Field Marshal Sir John French’s Despatch of 8th October 1914, ‘for gallant and distinguished service in the field.’ Captain Price DSO is buried in Vailly British Cemetery, France.

Gravestone of Captain C L Price, DSO. Vailly British Cemetery, France. (TWGPP)

6th November: Seventy Five miles to St. Quentin… In preparation for another long day in the saddle we loaded up on breakfast in the morning. Luckily the hotel offered us more than a couple of croissants and a grape; so we filled not only our stomachs but also our pockets and bags with goodies. After relieving the hotel restaurant of as much sustenance as we could possibly get away with we crossed fingers and set out at 9am from Reims with St. Quentin and the British sector of the line in our sights. We started off at a steady pace as I kept a close eye on the bike to make sure it was holding up OK. Today however, it wasn’t my bike that began to play up. Just 4 miles down the road a link came apart on Steve’s chain, it was another blow to our chances of finishing. He had a go at fixing it by the roadside but was not confident that the fix would last the trip. We needed to find a bike shop or a large supermarket to pick up more mechanical supplies. We carried on slowly in an effort to save both bikes. Not surprisingly there was neither supermarket or bike shop anywhere in sight and as such we had no choice but to keep nursing the bikes onward. Mercifully the sun was shining and it was dry with only a light wind; however the rolling French countryside kept throwing damned big hills in our way and the local lorry drivers were doing their best to push us off the road. With all this going on, those first 30 miles were pretty stressful. Eventually we managed to find a Carre-Four but it was closed. Well it was 2pm so of course it was closed, and, looking back, it was stupid of us to even think that a major supermarket would be open in the middle of the afternoon. We waited patiently for the nice store manager to unlock the doors and bowled in for a) some lunch, and b) some bike kit. We managed to get lunch but had no luck on the bike front, we had no choice but to just crack on with the ride. The hills were unrelenting, and as a consequence, so were the curses emanating from the both of us. Why is France so bloody hilly? Finally we enjoyed some downhill-ness and managed to pick up our average speed, important if we had any chance of making it to St. Quentin before dark. Thankfully the route did eventually flatten out, which was a good thing as it was less stressful on the bikes and slightly easier to pedal. We just kept on going as best we could. Ticking off the little villages as we passed through them and stopping at a few memorials to take some pictures until finally we saw the magnificently impressive Basilica of St Quentin on the far horizon. It really was a majestic site, lit up like a Christmas tree in the night sky. It was 75 miles to St Quentin. That’s a long way, in case you were wondering. St. Quentin is a very pretty place; it is easy to imagine it full of British Tommies enjoying some precious time out of the line. Our hotel is right opposite the Basillica in the centre of the town which is great. One thing is odd though, it is Friday night and yet the town centre is completely quiet and empty, we both expected it to be busy with weekend revelers, but it was practically deserted. To be honest we didn’t go out either, it had been a long grueling day both physically and emotionally. Not knowing if either bike would break at any minute was quite stressful but to be fair to both machines, they are tough little buggers and soldiered through without too many issues. Tomorrow is a shorter (hopefully) trip to Albert, bang in the middle of the Somme battlefield. Personally I can’t wait to finally cycle through the centre of the British sector of the line… In case you were wondering, this cycle trip was put together to raise a few quid for the Royal British Legion’s poppy appeal. By purchasing this e-book you have also contributed to our ongoing fundraising effort to the tune of about £1, for which we are both very grateful. Every month I will add a lump sum generated from book sales to our justgiving page. Hopefully over the coming months we can raise a significant amount of cash for The Royal British Legion: www.justgiving.com/cyclingtheline Thank you!!

http://www.justgiving.com/cyclingtheline

Basilica at St Quentin. Pretty isn’t it?

Hero of ‘The Line’: 76645 Lance Corporal John Rimmer MM. Tank Corps Name: John Rimmer Regiment: Tank Corps Date of Death: 23/11/1917 Cemetery: Cambrai Memorial Grave Reference: Panel 13. Medal Entitlement: Distinguished Conduct Medal, Military Medal, 1915 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal. John Rimmer was born in Blackburn in 1895, and as a child attended both the Norfolk Street Day School and St Francis’ Church Sunday school. There is little detail available of his early life, but what is clear is that after leaving school John took an apprenticeship as a weaver at the Gordon Street Mill in Darwen. After the outbreak of hostilities in the summer of 1914 Rimmer was quick to head to recruitment office to offer up his services to King and Country, and on the 3rd September 1914 he found himself heading to Berwick-upon-Tweed to sign on the dotted line to enlist. He was now 14345 Private John Rimmer of the 7th Battalion, The King’s Own Scottish Borderers (KOSB) Regiment. The Regiment quickly moved out to Bordon Camp for training, and then onto Salisbury Plain to complete their rudimentary military education. Once they were deemed ready for war they made for France, landing on the continent on 10th July 1915. Within a matter of weeks, Private Rimmer and the rest of the 7th KOSB were thrown into the Battle of Loos. John fought at the Battle of Loos in September 1915 where his unit, badly affected by British poison gas and hard hit by German machine-guns, suffered approximately 60% casualties in their efforts to capture the French town of Loos. Rimmer was awarded the Military Medal on 12th July 1916, it is likely that he won this gallantry award during the Battle of Loos. A report from Major Connell, Commanding the 7th KSOB described how a costly case of mistaken identity cost the Battalion significant casualties during the first part of the offensive: “Bombers were with the leading two coys and bombed support and communicating trenches catching many Germans in dug outs. A reliable Sergt. states he counted 14 dead in one dug out. Casualties were very slight during bombardment, but immediately the advance started casualties were very heavy (especially among

officers) from shrapnel and machine gun fire.

After crossing the German 2nd line very few casualties ocurred until after crossing the crest of Hill 70, and the retirement back over it again where they became very heavy. The small redoubt on Hill 70 though

heavily wired, and untouched by our artillery appears to have been hardly held by the Germans at all, and caused very little bother.

The cause of the losses after advancing over Hill 70 was undoubtedly caused largely by flanking fire as it appears that a message was passed along that a battalion on the 7th Bn. KSOB right had taken a village.

The 7th Bn KSOB thought this meant Cite St Auguste whereas it was Loos. The men cheered loudly and charged forward mistaking Germans who were removing guns from near Cite St Auguste for the Black

Watch.” At some point either in late 1916 or early 1917 John Rimmer transferred to the newly formed Tank Corps, as well as being transferred he was promoted to the rank of Lance Corporal and given a new service number: 76645. As the Tank Corps expanded he found himself in C Battalion, (later to be renamed the 3rd Battalion), training on the newly introduced Mark IV tanks. His chariot would be C47 ‘Conquerer II’. After a brief return to England on leave in July 1917, where he visited his old school, he returned to the front line

to take part in the Third Battle of Ypres, (Passchendaele) where his Battalion were to take part in the Battle for Pilkem Ridge, the fighting around Fortuin and help back up British infantry along the Menin Road. Despite small isolated victories in the tanks, the battlefield was quickly turned into a quagmire of deep mud due to persistent heavy rain and the smashing of the delicate drainage systems in the area through constant artillery bombardments from both sides. Such swamp like terrain rendered the tanks all but useless as they struggled to haul their considerable bulk through the mud. The mud was more than just a pain for the tanks, it turned the battlefield into a living nightmare for the infantry too, making it almost impossible to live, move and fight without a terrible struggle and enormous loss of life. No surprise then, that the battle was an absolute disaster for Britain and the Allies. However, the British High Command were desperate to end 1917 on a high and turned to the newly formed Tank Corps to deliver the crushing victory they so badly needed. They were asked to launch an attack on the much fabled defense area known as the ‘Hindenburg Line’, with the important German held town of Cambrai smack in the middle of the planned attack zone. The Battle of Cambrai opened up on the 20th November 1917 with more than 300 tanks leading the offensive at zero hour. It was the first time in history that so many tanks were used to lead a formal attack on enemy lines. It is very likely that John Rimmer lined up his C-47 tank among those 300 machines; his unit, the 3rd (C) Battalion supported British troops attacking Lateaux Wood. By the end of the day the Hindenburg Line had been breached and an advance of three to four miles had been achieved across a six mile front. This was an impressive advance by Western Front standards, however with 179 tanks destroyed that day, the advance was a costly one. The Germans duly counter-attacked a couple of days later, capturing Bourlon wood and the key village of Fontain-Notre-Dame. 24 hours later, what was left of the British Tanks (including Lance Corporal John Rimmer and the rest of the crew of C-47) were thrown at the village in an attempt to wrench it out of German hands. After a bitter struggle C-47 reached the centre of the village, but the tank was in a bad way; its engine was overheating and as it neared the local village church it caught fire. John Rimmer and the rest of the crew were now in a bit of a situation; they had a choice, either stay in the tank and be either burnt to death or blown up by exploding ammunition, or escape from the tank and risk being shot by the scores of enemy infantry that were pummeling their tank mercilessly with small arms fire. As luck would have it for the crew of C-47, another tank - C-48 ‘Caesar’ was nearby and as it drew alongside, John and his colleagues kicked open the escape hatches, and under intense enemy fire, bailed into C-48. The commander of C-47, Lieutenant Moore, fell severely wounded in front of his tank and narrowly escaped being run over by his own vehicle which had been left in gear as they fled. With all the crew of C-47 crammed inside C-48 it was time to try and find a way out of the village and back to safety. Whilst doing so they were under intense attack from all sides and bullets were now penetrating the hull of the tank, they were in all sorts of trouble but somehow the tank managed to find a path back to the safety of the British lines. Sadly, during this retreat, John Rimmer was hit in the throat by a bullet, killing him instantly. The next day, Lt Archibald, the commander of C-48, along with 2 other officers buried John Rimmer close to the place where they had come under attack. Today, Lance Corporal Rimmer has no known grave and is commemorated on the Cambrai Memorial at Louverval.

C47 ‘Conqueror II’ in Fontaine-Notre-Dame, where it was knocked out on 23/11/1917

7th November: Another ‘Wheelie’ Exciting Day on the Road to Albert. The trip so far has been amazing. But it now as we approach the Somme region and the areas of British involvement in the war that things start getting really interesting (for me at least). So understandably, I was excited at the prospect of cycling up to Albert today. The town of Albert is practically in the centre of the Somme battlefield and is synonymous with the British Tommy. We set off at about 10am after a very nice petit-dejuner. The sky was full of rain, and although the wind was getting up and what looked like a monster storm threatened to make our journey miserable, it stayed away and we made good initial progress. Despite the inevitable hills we knocked off the miles at a very respectable rate, all things considered. After about 10 miles Steve asked me if he had a buckled wheel, to which I gave him a big fat ‘yes’. Not 50 yards down the road his back tyre exploded with a very loud bang! We were about 7 miles from the next town (Peronne) and we had no choice but to get walking and hope that we would find a supermarche that stocked inner tubes and wheels. Although, to be honest, with the recent experience we have had dealing with the finer workings of the French retail industry we were not exactly full of confidence. It seemed like we were going to have another ‘interesting’ day. The walk was long and ironically the terrain was flat. The first 10 miles or so on the way out of St. Quentin had been hilly and tough going, but we were now in open country with great wide ranging views. It was a real shame we had to walk as we could have made rapid progress on the bikes. There was very little traffic on the roads and the weather was bright and sunny. Walking along I needed to answer a call of nature and once finished I got on the bike to quickly catch up Steve who was a couple of hundred metres ahead. As I got on the bike I noticed an old Fiat Panda in the distance coming our way, albeit slowly, I didn’t think much of it as the road we were on was arrow straight and pretty wide, although there was no pavement. As I gently rolled down the road I could hear the Fiat getting gradually closer and closer. As I glanced behind me once more I noticed it was being driven very close to the side of the road as if allowing other cars to overtake it, although it was the only other thing on the road apart from us two. A couple of moments later, the damned car hit me. A wing mirror smacked into my elbow and the shock of the impact knocked me off the bike. It hurt like hell, but I guess I was lucky the car was only doing about 10 miles per hour otherwise I could have come off much worse! The car stopped about 50 metres in front of me, but nothing happened. No one got out of the car, although I could see that there were two people in the front. I took my jacket off to check my arm and gave the bike a once over when suddenly the front door of the Panda swung open. But still no one appeared. Eventually a bony arm reached out to the door and perhaps the oldest person I have ever seen slowly hauled himself out of the driver’s seat and looked down the road towards me. He slowly hobbled down the road towards me; I couldn’t really believe what I was seeing. This chap looked like a tortoise; he must have been about 100 years old. He could hardly move, possessed a huge limp, a face full of deep wrinkles and had no teeth. By this time I was beyond annoyed and as he got near me I let him have both barrels, asking him in very colourful Anglo-Saxon what the blazes he thought he was doing driving into me? He obviously didn’t speak a word of Anglo-Saxon as none of my insults made an impression. It was at about this time his wife appeared; she looked even older than him if that was possible! They then started talking to each other and pointing to my bike whilst I was in full flow. I stopped, looked at him and said to him ‘You haven’t got a f*****g clue what I have just said to you have you? He just replied ‘pardon monsieur’ and started to wheeze a bit. So I just shook my head and trudged off down the road, still cursing. Old people should not be allowed to drive.

To be fair though, it was probably difficult for him to see me on the road. I mean, it was a dead straight road, in the middle of a sunny afternoon and I was only wearing a high-visability jacket, so I do feel sorry for the toothless old git. I have still got pins and needles in my arm… After a couple of hours we got to Peronne and found a huge supermarket which surprisingly stocked exactly what was needed and within half an hour of arrival we were back on the road. We had 20 miles or so to go and only a couple of hours of daylight left, so we needed to get a wiggle on. We made good progress and as we got nearer to Albert there were more and more signs of the fighting that took such a massive toll on the landscape over ninety years ago. We found a number of shells scattered along the roadside, there were various plots of land that were still visibly scarred with shell craters despite the passage of time, and of course the British military cemeteries that became more and more frequent as we rode along. We stopped at each one and took time to walk around each cemetery, trying to comprehend what these chaps went through. Seeing all those graves is a humbling experience and brings sharply home the reasons why we are doing this trip. The next few miles on the bike were quiet; the fact that there were still loads of hills didn’t really matter anymore… The nearer were got to Albert the more cemeteries were saw, we stopped off at another one – the Devonshire Cemetery - where we saw the grave of a VC winner: 12639 Pte J MIller, Royal Lancaster Regiment and a father and son who had served together in the same Field Artillery Battery and were killed in action on the same day (5th September 1916). While at this cemetery I checked my bike over to make sure everything was ok, and found that I had another spoke broken… not good news. We rode a few more miles, but to save the bike I walked the last couple to the hotel. Tomorrow is a rest day in Albert, the plan is to take a hire car and visit a few of the memorials and museums, as well as try and find a bike shop! Should be an interesting day…

The grave stones of 71939 Corporal Robert Lee (aged 19) and his Father 6029 Sergeant George Lee (aged 44).

They served together in ‘A’ Battery, 156Th

Brigade, Royal Field Artillery and died together on 5th

September 1916.

Grave of 12693 Private J Miller, VC. Royal Lancaster Regiment. Dartmoor cemetery.

His Citation for the Victoria Cross was published in The London Gazette on 8th September 1916: 'For most conspicuous bravery. His battalion was consolidating a position after its capture by assualt. Private Miller was ordered to

take an important message under heavy shell and rifle fire and to bring back a reply at all costs. He was compelled to cross the open, and on leaving the trench was shot almost immediately in the back, the bullet coming out through his abdomen. In spite of

this, with heroic courage and self-sacrifice, he compressed the with his hand the gaping wound in his abdomen, delivered his message, staggered back with the answer and fell to the feet of the officer to whom he delivered it.

He gave his life with a supreme devotion to duty.'

Heroes of ‘The Line’: Lieutenant Colonel Adrian Charles Gordon, DSO. Royal Field Artillery

Name: Adrian Charles Gordon Regiment: 235th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery Date of Death: 12/12/1917 Cemetery: Ruyaulcourt Military Cemetery Grave Reference: G.10 Medal Entitlement: Distinguished Service Order, Mentioned in Dispatches, 1915 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal.

Adrian Charles Gordon was born in Enfield on the 4th July 1889. His Father, Charles Wood Gordon, was a ship-owner by trade so it was no surprise that after his education at Bishops Stortford School the young Adrian followed in his Father’s footsteps and pursued an early career in shipping. In addition to this, during his teenage years, Adrian Gordon had joined the volunteers. At that time, the family home was in Russell Square, London, and when war broke out in 1914 he immediately put his name down to join up and eventually found himself on the boat to France on 6th March 1915 as a Major with the 16th (County of London) Battery, 6th London Brigade, Royal Field Artillery (Territorial Force). He was quickly in to the action and took part in the Battle of Loos where he won the Distinguished Service Order, the award of which was published in the London Gazette of 4th November 1915:

‘For conspicuous gallantry, ability and resource at Maroc 25 Sept. 1915, when he got close although under

heavy fire, captured 12 Germans, after shooting one man with a revolver. On the afternoon of the same day he again went up to reconnoitre the enemy’s second line under very heavy fire. On the following day Major Gordon rendered valuable service at Loos by reorganising men who had become detached and taking them

to the firing line.’

This deed was further embellished in the 10th November 1915 edition of “Truth”:

‘Of all the brave deeds done at the Battles of Loos, one of the bravest was that of Major Adrian Charles

Gordon, Commanding the 16th County of London Territorial Force, who while reconnoitering on 25 Sept., close up to the German lines, cut off 12 German soldiers, who were holding a trench, and after shooting one

of them, ordered the others to hold up their hands and file past him as prisoners. If ever a D.S.O. was well earned, it was by Major Gordon.’

He continued to lead his men with dash and distinction for the next three years, achieving a promotion to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel during 1916, until he was killed in action on 12th December 1917. The Chaplain of the Brigade wrote to his widow to offer his condolences:

‘He was one of the finest commanding officers that any brigade could have. He had all the qualities which go to make the ideal leader of men, and they would have followed him anywhere. He died just after the

accomplishment of the greatest achievement in his military career, after having done something with the brigade which it will be given to few artillery officers to be able to do. His name has been on everybody’s lips in this division, and not in this division alone. Further honours would certainly have come to him in the near

future.’

Lieutenant Colonel Gordon, DSO is buried in Ruyaulcourt Military Cemetery.

Gravestone of Lieutenant Colonel Adrian Charles Gordon, DSO. Ruyaulcourt Military Cemetery.

Hero of ‘The Line’ Lt-Colonel Edward Henry Trotter DSO, Liverpool Regiment Name: Edward Henry Trotter Regiment: 18th Battalion, Liverpool Regiment Date of Death: 8/7/1916 Cemetery: Peronne Road Cemetery, Maricourt. Grave Reference: IV.H.28 Medal Entitlement: Distinguished Service Order, Mentioned in Dispatches (10/9/1901) Egyptian Medal with clasp, Queens South African Medal with 4 clasps, 1915 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal. Edward Henry Trotter was born in London on 1st December 1872, the son of Major General Sir Henry Trotter and the Hon. Lucy Trotter, the daughter of the 2nd Baron Gifford. He joined the Grenadier Guards as a Second Lieutenant on 28th June 1893, serving with distinction under Lord Kitchener in the Sudan, as well as the Nile Expedition of 1898 and the South African War of 1900-1902 whilst attached to the City of London Imperial Yeomanry as a staff officer. He was Mentioned in Dispatches in the London Gazette on 10th September 1901 and created a companion of the Distinguished Service Order ‘In recognition of services during the operations in South Africa’ a couple weeks later (London Gazette 27th September 1901). By the time the First World War came knocking, Trotter had been promoted through the ranks to a Major and was handed command of the 18th Battalion, Liverpool Regiment, one of the ‘Liverpool Pals’ Battalions. He relished the challenge of whipping this group of civilians into an effective fighting force and devoted himself totally to the training and welfare of this men. He was a huge advocate of physical fitness and he ensured his Battalion were among the fittest in the British Army. He was of the opinion that the best sportsman made the best soldier and as such he put his men through tough physical exercise including a daily cross country run which he himself would often take part in. The Battalion had enjoyed repeated success in inter-Battalion sports competitions and quickly earned the nickname ‘Trotter’s Greyhounds’. The 18th were finally ready to move out in late 1915 and landed in France on the 7th November, they were moved straight up to the Somme area where they trained and prepared for what would be the ‘Big Push’ of 1st July 1916. When the men of the 18th Liverpool Regiment went ‘over the top’ on 1st July 1916 their objective was the village of Montauban, via the Glatz Redoubt. Despite being enfiladed by enemy machine-gun fire, the redoubt was taken by 8.35am and Mountauban was captured by 10am. It was a rare success on a day of desperation, but it didn’t come cheap. The battalion lost over 500 men that morning. After the first day of the Battle of the Somme, with a roll call of just 6 officers and 288 men,the Trotters Battalion had ceased to exist as an effective fighting force and was duly taken out of the firing line on the 2nd July. However, the rest was short lived and on the 8th July Trotter received orders to move his men forward once more. He decided to supervise the move himself and went up to the line in advance of the bulk of the Battalion. As he was entering the dug-out that was serving as HQ to the 21st brigade the dug-out took a direct hit from a German shell and killed him instantly. Private Steele of the 18th Liverpool Regiment saw this tragic incident happen:

I was about thirty feet away when it happened. The Colonel was occupying the old German headquarters. As you came over a hill, there was the headquarters, and there was the German front line over there. The

artillery was firing this way and he fired three shells. One let over there, one let over there and one let right

on the dug-out, he must have measured it before he went back, he must have had sights on it. He killed the Colonel, a young lieutenant and two men in that dugout.

I was about thirty feet away when it went up, and you could tell he’d gone. I could see them dragging him out right away. I was with the Colonel’s servant at the time, he was a crack shot in the Grenadier Guards,

that’s how he got the job - he had this little rifle on his arm, for being a crack shot, and he cried like anything, and he got his rifle and he flung it far away, crying like hell!

It hit the Battalion like a brick. It went through the Battalion like that - they all new in a few seconds - it’s

amazing how the news got round that the Colonel had been killed. Lt-Colonel Edward Henry Trotter DSO is buried in Peronne Road Cemetery, Maricourt, France.

Lt Colonel Edward Henry Trotter, DSO. (Image from The Coldstream and District Local History Society).

9th November: The Somme Our rest day on walking/cycling around the Somme area was fantastic. During the morning we spent a lot of time walking around the town of Albert. Steve and I almost visited the museum in the morning but it was just about to close for lunch, that was at 11.58am. The Mademoiselle on the desk informed us that it wasn’t worth going in as they were about to shut for lunch at midday. ‘OK’. We said, ‘we will come back just after 1’. Presuming that the museum would be open after just an hour or so. We should have known better but it still was a bit of a shock when she replied with a resounding ‘non!’ We should be kindly informed that the museum will be closed until 3pm for lunch. That was that then. Luckily, there was plenty of things around Albert to keep us occupied until we were allowed back into the museum mid afternoon. The town itself didn’t hold too much of interest apart from the museum and the Basilica which, bearing in mind the central role this town held for British activities on this part of the Western Front, was a bit surprising. However there were a number of CWGC cemeteries in the area that were well worth a visit. Albert Communal Cemetery holds 862 First World War graves and twenty five from the Second World War, and only twenty are un-identified. Not surprisingly given the history of this part of the line, the majority of the casualties are from 1916. Walking along the rows of headstones there were a couple of plots that seem to indicate a mass burial. For example we found a group of five headstones set very close together with the names of eleven members of the the Royal Garrison Artillery and a Private from the Royal Army Service Corps. They were all killed on the 14th July 1916 by a German shell as they were working together unloading ammunition. One of these chaps, Gunner J. Sweeting, was just 18 years of age. We also saw a number of high ranking officers buried here, including a couple of Brigadier Generals and a Lieutenant Colonel Barker who was awarded the Distinguished Service Order on two occasions. We did go back to the museum after they very kindly re-opened following their leisurely luncheon, and it was worth the wait. The museum is crammed full of hundreds of excellent exhibits and part of the museum is based in underground tunnels that run deep beneath the town. Altogether a good rest day, but it was soon time to get back on the bikes. All through the trip so far I had worn a fleece, it was my favourite fleece but despite several trips to local launderettes over the past few days, it was getting decidedly stinky. So much so that Steve had repeatedly threatened to burn it. As we were getting ready for the next leg of the ride I was looking for my trusty fleece but couldn’t find it, I knew Steve had done something with it, but he wasn’t letting on. Time was ticking and we had to get going, it wasn’t until we cycled through the hotel car park that I saw my beloved fleece hanging from the window ledge to our room. Six floors high. It’s fair to say I was a bit grumpy. I continued to call Steve all the names under the sun as we headed out north across the old killing grounds of 1916. The mist was heavy on the ground and gave an eery atmosphere as we crossed the open fields and pock-marked ground of the old Somme battlefields. Our first stop was the Lochnagar mine crater which was just awe inspiring. At 7.28am on the 1st July 1916, 60,000lbs of ammonal were set alight to blow a hole in the ground that was 90 feet deep and 300 feet across. The blowing of this mine signaled the start of the Battle of the Somme. Even today, after almost 100 years it is a very impressive hole in the ground, measuring up at about 40 metres wide. We carried on north-ish, it wasn’t long before out of the mist emerged the Pozieres British Cemetery. This cemetery is a truly beautiful, moving and sad place; with over 14,500 soldiers either buried or commemorated on the memorial walls. We stopped there longer than we should but we felt compelled to give it the attention it demanded. Eventually we continued on our way, taking a slight detour to stop off at

the Thiepval Memorial to the Missing. The mist and fog had not shifted and despite this monument being the best part of 45 metres high we struggled to find it. We found it eventually though and how glad we were that we did! It is simply jaw-dropping in both size, and what it represents: 73,000 officers and men killed in the region but who were denied the dignity of having a known grave… After spending a sobering hour or so at the memorial we carried on north through the battlefield. The mist finally cleared and the sun came out to say hello and we made good progress passing many memorials and cemeteries along the way. Not surprisingly the hills kept coming but not to the same extent as they did further south down the line. We also started to see more and more old shells along the roadside. Steve picked one of these ‘le bombs’ up and strapped it to his bike to take home. I am sure there is a French law somewhere that states it is prohibited to strap a First World War explosive to the back of bicycle, but he didn’t seem to care much. Our final destination today was the city of Lens. On the approach we got a bit confused as to what road we should have used and somehow ended up on a motorway, something else that we probably shouldn’t have done that day. Imagine cycling on the M4 and you get the idea. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience - every other car was beeping their horn at us and the lorries were getting dangerously close. It was a struggle sometimes to stop being knocked over by the air turbulence every time a vehicle passed by, especially large trucks and coaches. It was not nice, and we got off that particular road at the very next opportunity. We negotiated the final few miles without much trouble, and succeeded in avoiding motorways. We eventually landed in Lens just as the afternoon was giving way to dusk. It is a big industrial city without much character if I am being honest, or at least that was the impression we had from the bits we saw. We found our hotel which was in the middle of an industrial estate and crashed out for the night, but not before a cheeky burger and a couple of beers. Well, it would be rude not to. By the way, I still have pins and needles in my arm from that ruddy car! Next stop: Ypres!

Standing on the lip of the Lochnagar mine crater - Somme.

Pozieres British Military Cemetery and Memorial.

Hero of ‘The Line’: Lt. Col. Randle Barnett Barker, DSO & Bar. Royal Fusiliers. Name: Randle Barnett Barker Regiment: 22nd Battalion, Royal Welch Fusiliers Date of Death: 24/31918 Cemetery: Albert Communal Cemetery Extension Grave Reference: Sp. Mem. 4. Medal Entitlement: Distinguished Service Order & Bar, 5 x Mentioned in Dispatches, 1915 Star, British War Medal, Victory Medal. Randle Barnett Barker was born in London on 19th June 1870, the eldest son of Major J Barnett-Barker. A career soldier, Barker gained a Commission with the Royal Welch Fusiliers on 17th January 1891 joining them as a 2nd Lieutenant. He spent the majority of the next 5 years serving in India, before marrying on the 2nd June 1897. He rose steadily through the ranks of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, being appointed Adjutant on 1st October 1898 and promoted to the rank of Captain on 19th July 1899. He enjoyed a modest and unspectacular career of fifteen years before he retired from general service on 5th May 1906. Nine years later though, that was all about to change. He was appointed as a Captain in the Reserve of Officers on 21/8/1915 and found himself back on active duty on the Western Front on 11th December 1915. Barnett Barker had a prodigious war, being present during the fighting at Vimy Ridge (1916), Delville Wood (1916), Beaumont Hamel (1916), The Ancre advance and Miramont Battle (1917), Arras (1917), and the second Battle of the Somme (1918).

During his time at the front he was Mentioned in Dispatches 5 times (22/5/1917, 4/1/1917, 15/5/1917, 11/12/1917, 20/5/1918) and awarded the Distinguished Service Order on two separate occasions. By January 1918 he had assumed command of the 99th Infantry Brigade.

He gained his first Distinguished Service Order during the fighting that raged in and around Delville Wood from the 24th July until the 6th August 1916. During this time, Barnett Barker’s regiment (22nd Royal Fusiliers) suffered 267 casualties killed, missing and wounded. The Citation for his Distinguished Service Order appeared in The London Gazette on 20th October 1916:

‘For conspicuous gallantry during operations. He took over and organised the defences of a wood with great skill, after making a personal reconnaissance of the whole wood under shell and machine gun fire. He

has done other fine work and has displayed great personal bravery.’

In 1917 Barnett Barker and his regiment were in the thick of it at Arras. It was here that he won the Bar to his Distinguished Service Order. The Citation for which appeared in The London Gazette on 24th July 1917:

‘For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty. During an assault his battalion was compelled to withdraw from its objective owing to heavy casualties and to its flank being unsupported. At this most critical moment

he reorganised and rallied all the men of his brigade who were within reach, and by his promptitude and fine leadership won back most of the objective, and maintained it until relieved.’

Lt. Col. Barnett Barker fell in action at Guendecourt during the second Battle of the Somme on 24th March 1918 when he was commanding 99th Infantry Brigade. The Brigade HQ diary records the day as such:

Shells began to fall in and around Guendecourt at 5.45pm. Brigadier General R. Barnett Barker, DSO and Captain E. I. Bell, MC (staff Captain) were killed by a shell.

That shell was part of the massive German Spring Offensive that started on 21st March 1918. The 99th Infantry Brigade diary summarises:

The German offensive began at 4.45am and the events of the following days are summarised in the Narrative of Operations (Appendix VI). Special record must however be made of the serious losses sustained

by the Brigade during the fighting. Foremost amongst these were Brigadier General R. Barnett Barker. General Barker had served in the Brigade continuously since it came out to France, except for 3 months when he commanded the 3rd Infantry Brigade in Flanders. As Commanding Officer of the 22nd Royal

Fusiliers he had won the respect and affection of everyone in the Brigade and when he succeeded Brigade General R .O Kellett in Command of the Brigade it was with the happiest auguries for the future.

Lt. Col. Barnett Barker, DSO &