Friedrich Monck

© 2012 by G.R. LLOYD. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/26/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1945-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-1962-1 (e)

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Contents

PART I

‘THE HOUR OF THOUGHTLESS YOUTH’

1

Arthur Webb, June 30th, 1916.

2

Arthur Webb.

3

July 1916. Private Digby on the Big Push.

4

Winchester, 1902. George Meadowfield.

5

Arthur Webb July 1st, 1916.

6

Arthur Webb. 2nd July 1916.

7

Arthur Webb. Brandon, County Durham. 1895.

8

Arthur Webb. Winchester College. 1905.

9

Arthur Webb. Trinity College.

10

Louise Webb. Brandon 1913.

11

Arthur Webb. 1913.

12

Louise. 1913.

PART II

FRIEDRICH

13

Friedrich Wilhelm Monck.

14

Friedrich Monck.

15

Friedrich Monck 1910.

16

FRIEDRICH. 1910.

17

Judith. 1911.

18

MAIR. 1911.

19

Friedrich. 1911.

20

Sheila.

21

Friedrich. 1913.

22

Dr. Ralph Vaughan Williams.

23

Friedrich 1913.

24

Friedrich. 1913.

25

Louise. A Memory of 1913.

26

Louise. More Memories.

27

Mair.

28

Friedrich.

29

Louise.

30

Louise.

31

Mair.

32

Arthur.

33

Judith.

34

Mair.

PART III

CRY HAVOC

35

Arthur Webb.

36

2nd Lt. Arthur Webb.

37

Harry Fowler.

38

Arthur Webb. 1915.

39

Mair.

40

Harry Fowler.

41

Arthur Webb.

42

Mair.

43

Harry Fowler.

44

Friedrich.

45

Friedrich. The Somme, 1916.

46

Louise.

47

Friedrich.

48

Louise.

49

Friedrich.

50

Louise.

51

Friedrich.

52

Friedrich.

53

Louise.

54

Freddie Monk.

PART IV

STURM UND DRANG

55

Friedrich. Theresienstadt.

56

Louise.

57

Friedrich.

58

Buddy Schwarz.

59

Friedrich.

60

Buddy Schwarz.

61

Louise.

62

Friedrich.

To Joan, my Darling Wife.

PART I

‘THE HOUR OF THOUGHTLESS YOUTH’

‘I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still, sad music of humanity.’

(Wordsworth. ‘Tintern Abbey’)

1

Arthur Webb, June 3⁰th, 1916.

The Somme.

I had been in a total blue funk all night without having to put up with Eric Blore’s sighs and groans as we waited to go over the top. It would only have started him blubbing if I’d snapped at him, so I said Just focus your mind on something nice!

The young subaltern continued to stare through the dugout wall as though he hadn’t heard.

A beautiful memory; something from childhood. Didn’t you have family picnics in the country, or trips to the seaside?

The tired, strained features faced me now, the eyes still focused a thousand miles beyond.

Well, it’s not ourselves we should be thinking of now; it’ll be far worse for those left behind.

As soon as it came out I cursed myself for an insensitive prig. The mask of blank despair was unmoved, the body slouched over the ammunition box as though already taking cover.

Tell your mother and father . . . .

Father’s dead. Second battle of Ypres!

Tell your mother you love her, and . . . and she’s not to worry about you. You’ll be due for a spot of leave when the offensive’s over.

The bombardment intensified and the Lieutenant from Durham who could sleep anywhere, anytime, opened his eyes and cursed. The din was continuous, ear-splitting, earth-shaking, the monotonous barrage interspersed at regular intervals by the sharper crack of French seventy-fives and the big bass drum of our own howitzers. It had been going on, without a break, since Saturday 24th June, seven days of sheer misery, unrelieved by Private Digby’s mouth organ, by a song from the trench outside, or even by Major Olliphant’s tuneless humming which drove us all nearly to madness.

The subaltern’s eyes had opened still further, giving him that crazed appearance I’d noticed on faces waiting to go over the top.

That was it: the waiting! Will I do my duty and stand? Or will I cower, weeping, in some muddy shellhole?’

Something like this, Eric. I read from my own letter, written on 17th June, the day we’d all been briefed as to our part in the offensive they called ‘The Big Push’.

"‘Walked with George down to the Ancre yesterday.’

You know, make it sound casual and natural.’ Not at all like our streams and becks, slow-running, but clear and full of fat trout. Even after all the shooting, the few trees are full of tits, blackbirds and wood pigeon, and, amongst the branches on the bank, a few mallard and teal. George asked me not to talk—as if I would have—and began scribbling in the little lined notebook he always carried. Some new musical theme, I imagine. The whole scene reminded me of a day we spent in Weardale—1912 I suppose it was, the day Louise cut her foot in the stream.’"

You know, make it sound carefree, otherwise, if we go under, they’ll only remember us for our misery.

Still no response, but Cratchett, the great sleeper, was listening now.

Then . . . you could finish with something about loving them all, and wanting your brother to have your boat and that sort of thing. It’ll take your mind off it all.

The muddy curtain swung aside and Major Olliphant entered, humming as usual, followed by Reeve, his batman. No-one stirred, not even Blore on his box.

Don’t get up! He glanced at his watch. Now, I trust you all remember your positions. Out at seven, march the men to their stations. Final barrage at seven-fifteen, five mines at seven twenty-eight,and over we go at seven-thirty. Good luck!

‘Over WE go, you mean!’ I thought, ‘You’ll be back at H.Q. in Albert having breakfast.’

*     *     *     *     *

Seven twenty.

I smiled at the Sergeant-Major—at least, I hoped it was a smile: I was having difficulty keeping my bowels in order, and my left hand holding the whistle was trembling so noticeably, I pretended to be beating a dance-tune rhythm to cover my embarrassment.

Sergeant-Major Robbie Goodge, always cool as a cucumber, pursed his lips in response. A veteran of the North-West Frontier, his face, which had been known to turn purple at some gaffe on the parade ground, never betrayed his anxiety in action. The oldest man in the trench, he had already spoken to half a dozen ‘weak links’ as he called them, encouraging with a few rare words of kindness, making even the ordinary feel outstanding.

His thin lips relaxed into a tight smile and he nodded his head to my right where a lieutenant named Hove-Cartwright had drawn his sword and was making thrusts and passes in the crowded crossroads to the consternation of his men. I grinned at the Sergeant-Major then wondered if such condescension might seem disloyal to the officer cadre

We all instinctively ducked as a colossal explosion shook the earth, and officers and N.C.Os alike anxiously glanced at their watches. Yes, it was only seven-twenty, but someone had exploded a massive mine to the North, a mine which should have distracted the enemy eight minutes later, instead of which, it had alerted him ten minutes before we went over the top.

Pity George wasn’t there: we could have chatted about the blind Delius and his ‘Brigg Fair’.

Four more mine explosions now, and the whistles were blowing all along the front. Hove-Cartwright, sword in hand was first up the ladder.

*     *     *     *     *

2

Arthur Webb.

From a Dugout.

Memories of 1912 in County Durham.

We were to have had a picnic in the garden to mark the unfamiliar occurrence of, not just myself and Louise being at home together, but Father taking a full day-off from the Mill.

Mother was as excited as a child at Christmastide, and she and Cookie, hindered more than helped by Louise, spent the entire morning preparing cold and sweet meats chutneys, cakes and fruit tarts for our lunch. With the completion of the Newcastle Shipping Line order, Father was in sunny mood, and had brought a large bottle of champagne home from Durham.

Then the wasps came.

We offered them near-empty jam jars and beer lees at the edge of the lawn, but they still preferred the fruit tarts, so we swatted and crushed them until the traffic eased a little. But then, as Cookie brought out the savouries, they came again in ever larger swarms and, as the morning was now well advanced and a cloud had appeared above the trees, Father announced that we would take our luncheon by the river at Barnard’s Castle.

We loaded the Lanchester and set off down the Bishop Aukland road at a cracking pace, honking at every cart and carriage which dared get in our way. The weather held, and we laid out our feast on the river bank just below the old bridge, so we should enjoy a fine view of the ruin and the ancient stone houses as we ate. As the afternoon progressed, the sun grew hotter and hotter and, while Father and Mother lay drowsing in the shade, Louise and I walked up-river.

We came at length to a tiny beach and sat a while talking about the future.

After Greats, it’ll be teaching for me, I suppose. said I, "Literae Humaniores’ll be useless for running a mill.

What about you? I expect someone’ll fall for you, you’ll marry, and spend the rest of your life rearing brats."

Louise had been educated at a private school in Durham, and all the family assumed she would enter one of the new ladies’ colleges at Oxford.

She smiled a secret smile and turned to meet my eyes.

When I finish at St.Monica’s I’ll take a train to Berlin and enroll at the Isadora Duncan Academy of Dance!

I was too shocked to laugh: the idea of my little sister quitting England for Germany of all places, and joining an immoral dance group . . . .

She was waiting for my reaction, her pretty blue eyes wide with daring, lips parted in excited anticipation.

You can’t! Father would never allow it! I stuttered, thinking rather—God help me—of ‘family honour’ than of my sister’s happiness.

I can, and I will! she cried, Miss Embly, who teaches Greek Dancing and Deportment says I have natural grace and rhythm.

My mouth fell open in horror. What a prig I could be!She laughed out loud, her face raised to the heavens.

I’ll show you if you like! and without waiting for my reaction, she began to take off her clothes, spreading her arms and standing—very elegantly, I thought—on first one foot, then the other until, clad only in her unmentionables, she adopted a stance reminiscent of the Goddess Diana, and announced amid peals of laughter that she was going to bathe.

Everything I said seemed to make her more determined, and, afraid someone would hear her laughter and think the worst, I walked away up the bank while she peeled off the last of her garments.

Freed from the shame of being caught with her in the nude, I began to ask myself what Mother and Father would say. I had walked a little of the way towards Startforth when I heard her scream, then a gurgling sound as though she were going under, and I ran back to the river like a thing demented.

I could see her hair floating and part of her head bobbing up and down as the feeble current carried her back towards the bridge, and, reaching a small sand bar which projected into the stream, flung myself full-length towards her.

Instead of landing in deep water, I fell flat on the shingle and sandy bottom with a crash which knocked all the wind out of me. As soon as I had collected myself enough to get to my feet, I heard Louise laughing.

She stood in perhaps a foot of water, beside herself with laughter and pointing a finger at me in derision.

You looked so funny . . . . diving in to save a damsel in distress!

I suddenly remembered she was stark naked, and my first thought was one of dread as to what Mother and Father would say.

Shut up!! I shouted, and . . . . and put your clothes on!"

She was in no hurry to dress, and spent some minutes trying to examine a cut on the sole of her foot which was bleeding a little. I declined her request to inspect the wound and stared defiantly at the world around us until I could see out of the corner of my eye that she was decently dressed.

Her spirits were not at all dampened, indeed, every so often, as we made our way back, she slipped once more into little fits of laughter until, forgetting my dignity at last, I joined in.

This day was, in some degree, a watershed in my relations with my sister. She was no longer the little girl of my games in garden and nursery, but instead, had blossomed into a clever and exciting young woman—and something of a beauty at that.

As we repacked the car and started for home, it was clear that Father had noticed nothing odd, but I knew Mother had remarked Louise’s dry clothes and wet hair, and her silence on the return journey said she also knew this day marked the end of an era.

*     *     *     *     *

3

July 1916. Private Digby on the Big Push.

An outraged voice penetrated even the cacophony of gunfire.

’Ere, Diggers! There’s six ‘undred an’ ninety-nine other buggers in this battalion to stick that bayonet up, so why pick on me!

I fumbled in a trouser pocket for the mouth organ, then decided against the idea. The lads could do with a familiar tune, but my hands were trembling like a woman’s holding her first bairn.

Keep silence up there! growled Sergeant Wills, Want ’em to ‘ear you comin’?

Leeds Pals! Some pals! Nobody had spoken a word to me since the barrage began last Saturday, except officers niggling and sergeants screaming, and everyone trotting back and forth, back and forth to the bucket, day and night. Now some prize idiot had detonated that Hawthorn mine eight minutes early. There’d be hell to pay over that: some poor sod of a sapper would get court-martialed and shot, no doubt.

Thank God it was nearly time to go; three, four hundred yards across No Man’s Land, without enough cover for an undernourished mouse! Would the barrage have destroyed the wire? Had the mine alerted the Boche instead of diverting him? Will I cop one?

Don’t forget, lads, spread out as soon as you’re up the ladder, and WALK, don’t run. Look out for shell holes and you’ll be alright as soon as you reach the smoke!

Lieutenant Webb’s voice. Don’t know how he does it! Some of ’em say he’s a schoolmaster, others a musician, yet he’s got more courage in his little finger than that Hove-Cartwright. Now that Webb; there’s a man to follow over the top!

Whistles up the line!!!! Hundreds of ’em. This is it!

The nearest ladder is on the left, where Hove-Cartwright’s boys are standing. He’s blowing his bloody whistle like an outraged referee. Now he’s wagging his sword about and up the ladder he goes. No, he’s changed his mind and jumped down again.

Poor sod! He’s bought one, right through the neck.

Now we’re off, the Lieutenant in the lead, revolver in hand, trying to blow a bloody folk-tune on his whistle. Christ!

There’s metal flying around like sparks in a foundry. Gerry guns replying now. Ours have upped the range to the Gerry second line.

All the best, lads!

Christ! . . . bodies lying all about like sandbags, just over the parapet. Machine gun and rifle bullets flying around with a hiss or a whine. Why can’t we run? We’ll all be hit before we reach the smoke! There’s Fred Browning, fast asleep as usual, an endless sleep this time. Billy Best, Oh, my God, what a mess!

Poor old Billy. Gerry’s got our range with his 2.9’s now. Hope this smoke isn’t gas! Christ! That was a close one.

Surely we must have covered two, three hundred yards by now?

‘Leeds Pals . . . . I mean Yorkshire Light Infantry, Sir.

C.O. Sir? Lt.Webb. Part of 70th Brigade, 8th Division.’

Talking to myself now! God, a Gerry machine gun, out in the open just over there, and Gerries, scores of ’em standing up on top of the trench firing at us.

‘Don’t like bayonets—cold steel—they don’t!’ Sergeant Wills had said on parade.

Neither do I . . . . like cold steel! Look at him, he’s aiming at me! Oh Christ! Thank God someone’s shot the bastard.

Down into the trench, no, it’s a shell hole. No t’isn’t, it’s the remains of their front line trench, there’s a bit over there still intact. Look at them duckboards! Bloody Gerry’s made a better job of his than we did of ours. That’s right, you sod, put your hands up! I’ll give you Kamarade!

Alright, alright! I’m not goin’ to kill you. Put down that bloody gun, no, over here, look! Now sit still and shut up!

Dugout there at the crossroads. Wonder if . . . .

Anybody in there? Christ, there’s steps goin’ down under the ground. No wonder our guns couldn’t reach ’em!

’Ere, you! Fritz. Come ’ere and fetch out any of your lads left inside. No! Tell ’em we’re not goin’ to kill ’em, you silly sod!

Jack Hayward having a rest.

Hey up, Jack! We made it then!

Jack slowly turned his trunk towards us and . . . he was holding his guts in his hands.

Lieutenant Webb came up with Sergeant Wills.

Well done, Digby! he gestured towards the prisoners who now numbered eight. Send them back towards our lines. Tell them to keep their hands up!

Just as if he was on the bloody playing field! It’ll be ‘three cheers for St.Boniface’s’ next!

Noise ain’t so bad now. P’raps it’s all over: and we’ve won?

Must be dinner time by now. I could do with a brew!

What time is it, Sir?

The Lieutenant holstered his revolver and glanced at his watch. Eight-oh-five, nearly.

What? Sir! You mean it’s only half an hour since. . . ?

That’s right. Incredible isn’t it! What have you done with your ammo pouches . . . and your tin hat? Can’t go back to our trenches looking like that. Adjutant’ll have a fit! He laughed.

I felt my bare head and looked down at my chest, conscious for the first time that my tunic was torn to pieces by bullets and shrapnel.

How many of us are there left, Sir?

Don’t know for certain, but I reckon we lost half the battalion.

Charlie Widdop, Joe Richardson, Alfie Longfellow,

Freddie Browning, Billy Best. All gone? Charlie Hayward holding in his guts. What about Perce, Percy Trump? Cor! Just made corporal, too.

Diggers!

Must be something wrong, Sergeant using my nickname! Sarge?

Give us a tune, man. Something cheerful-like.

I pulled my mouth organ from the torn cloth which had been a trouser pocket and found a neat, round hole in the top, a larger jagged one in the bottom.

Like that time after the Scunthorpe match in ’13, when Johnny Pike, Fred Wylie an’ me—me playin’Cross Gates Nelly’ on me mouth organ, drunk as bloody coots, walks right into that runaway dray. Flattened ’em both, Johnny an’ Fred. An’ me? I was safe as ‘ouses, lyin’ on me back, t’mouth organ squashed to smithereens!

Luck o’ the devil, they said.

*     *     *     *     *

4

Winchester, 1902. George Meadowfield.

Mummy’s singing that aria from Traviata again, the one I liked so much where Violetta sings with a broken heart. Wasted on that couple from the St.Cross Road, though. They’d have been happier with something by Harry Lauder.

Daddy was as good as his word—for a non-betting man. Don’t suppose he’ll repeat it though: gave me five whole shillings just for playing one of the Goldberg Variations! If only other people, like the Reeds or the Wetherbys, would pay me for easy jobs, I shouldn’t have to work for the rest of my life.I think that’s why they sent me to bed so early, because they were afraid I might say something rude or too intellectual to those people from the St.Cross Road. I fantasised:

‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs St.Cross Road. Shall I play you a composition of my own for four hands? I shall have to borrow the Mater’s hands, of course, but I’m sure you’ll find it entertaining.’

Back to jolly-old Pilgrims in the morning!’And, did you know, Mrs St.Cross Road, that I am School Captain now? What was that, Mr St.Cross Road, Sir? You are so grateful to the Pater for giving you the tyre contract for the Omnibus Company? I should jolly-well think so too!’

It’s still light outside, and the cherry tree is a picture.

I think I should like to live deep in the country when I’m grown up. Somewhere on Old Winchester Hill with a view over the Meon Valley. A full-grown cherry in the garden and a big, black grand piano in the morning room. I would be rich, so I could afford to pay Mr Wherle to travel from Salisbury to brush up my piano and composition.

What, still awake, little man?

Mother never missed coming up to kiss me goodnight and straighten the bed, even when they had guests. Even when Gladys was knitting in the next room.

I adored the Verdi, Mother! Did the St.Crosses like it.?

Without waiting for her reply, I went straight into another question, not really caring for an answer, but determined to detain her as long as possible.

And . . . and, Mother, why have all composers got foreign names? Are there no English ones?

Her lovely features clouded and the amused smile disappeared while she thought over her answer.

Well, it seems we can’t home-grow composers like the Germans, the French and the Italians. I suppose, since Purcell, we’ve lost the tradition, and our talent now goes abroad to draw on theirs.

She bent over the bed and kissed my cheek; she was about to depart.

Sing me an English song, Mummy!

She smiled and wagged a finger at me. Just one verse and then you must go to sleep;it’s back to school in the morning!

It was a song called ‘York, York for my Money’ she said, but the tune was ‘Greensleeves’, a sad and plaintive air sung soft and low so it could’nt be heard downstairs, and as she sang,

I fell in love with her once more.

I remembered Keats’ ‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty, ‘and began to paraphrase it as ‘Music is love . . . . ‘but, then, she was gone and I remembered music I had heard which was not beautiful but terrible and frightening and nothing at all to do with love . . . . and so I fell asleep.

It couldn’t have been much later, but something woke me. I went to the door, and the St.Cross Roads had gone, and Mummy and Daddy were talking in the sitting room.

You know, I really think I have more intelligent conversation with George these days! And when, after I sang my aria, Mrs Carter asked me if I liked Ragtime, I wondered why I bothered. I mean, we all like Ragtime, but it’s a long shot from Verdi isn’t it!

Daddy laughed. He adored Mummy’s music, but confessed himself something of a Phillistine when it came to remembering composers and key signatures. Daddy said

"Sometimes I think that boy has been cheated out of his childhood. He spends too much time with adults; at times I catch him looking at me as though he’s the father, I the son.

It’s weird."

Mummy was silent, thinking it over. Perhaps she thought it was her fault; perhaps I should be climbing trees instead of practising the piano and writing hymns?

George is a very special person. No! this isn’t just a mother talking—he’s unusually mature and gifted, and . . . . she paused, and I could imagine her smile giving way to a look of anxiety . . . . pain, almost . . . . I feel sometimes that his Maker has made him like this because, well . . . . he may be taken from us before his time. You know: ‘Whom the Gods love’

I wondered what this meant. Wouldn’t I see them any more after I started at Winchester?

Daddy coughed and cleared his throat in the way he always did to show us he was about to pronounce, and it was going to be serious. You mean ‘like Keats and Mozart . . . . and all that sort of thing? God forbid! He’s a clever little batsman, and you should see him with the village boys. Dribbles a football like a professional.

Mummy was silent again, but I knew Daddy had done nothing to reassure her.

Yes, I’m sure he does, but don’t forget, you’re a big local employer; they’re hardly likely to take the ball off him while you’re watching.

So! I was Mozart one minute, then just sucked-up to by the locals the next.

Daddy grunted; it was time to bring this conversation to a close. It was almost unhealthy!

"I told you I’d asked the School to propose him for

Winchester didn’t I? Yes, well, they’ll bring out the best in him: make a man of him too, I’ll be bound."

*     *     *     *     *

5

Arthur Webb July ¹st, 1916.

Our guns had upped the range now, and shells were falling around Mouquet Farm and right across to Pozières, then all hell let loose. I don’t think I had a single coherent thought during the rest of that day, and it was as well I’d memorised our orders and the positions we were supposed to take up.

The air was full of metal, the ground pitted with shell holes, great and small, and with bodies, which meant we had to keep our eyes down to avoid falling. That was a mercy really, because, though there was no real protection to be got from keeping your head down, it gave you the feeling that, if you weren’t actually looking into the enemy’s eyes, he might not aim at you.

Brassey, the orderly was down, making a gurgling noise, and Pitts who’d narrowly missed a court martial for assaulting some village girl, lay on his back screaming he’d got one in the thigh. Ten or a dozen others whose backs or mangled faces I couldn’t recognise, were falling, or throwing themselves on the ground to get a shot back at those murderous machine-gunners.

Now it was all whizz-bangs and stick-grenades, so you couldn’t hear the screams for the explosions. God! When will it all end?

The lines were only about three hundred yards apart at this point, but we were climbing the slope of Nab Valley, and progress was slower than for the 2nd Lincolns on our right.

I jumped down into a shallow shellhole and found myself face to face with Corporal Stallworthy.

"‘Tenant Webb, Sir. Lincolns ‘as reached the line,

Sir, an’ some of our lads too, but we’re ‘filaded from both sides an’ they’re throwin’ bombs to clear us out."

Yes I replied, in a daze, Splendid show!

I looked away.’Splendid show!’ What a bloody silly comment to make!

There was a sudden upsurge of grenade explosions ahead, and I felt guilty lying there in comparative safety while our chaps suffered in the Boche trenches.

Come on! Let’s give them a hand.

Sir. Sir! Stallworthy shouted, "Look! The

Lincolns is retreating. Our lads too!"

It looked bad; as bad as it could be, as though a general retreat was in train, and countless men were being shot down as they climbed out of the German trenches and wove their way back between the potholes.

Come on! I shouted, scrambling up the bank,"

They’ll all be killed unless we give them some covering fire."

The Corporal and I, followed by perhaps half a dozen others who had been taking cover, made a dash for the enemy line, combing the few stooping figures making for our own lines. There was one particularly annoying enemy machine-gun on the Leipzig side, and I directed our fire at it, grabbing a rifle myself from beside a corpse. We must have made them relent a little, for the stutter ended for a while, only to restart as men of the support battalion, the 9th Yorks and Lancs, joined us.

This gave us a false sense of strength for a moment until two or more machine-guns opened up on us from Leipzig and Thiepval, and then there was nothing more we could do but lie doggo and pray for dark.

Later that morning, the reserve battalion, the 11th Sherwood Foresters, tried to get to us, but the