Old Soldiers Never Die..

...At least not in the minds of those they touch.

I’d meant to write an accompanying explanation for choosing PJ Harvey’s ‘On Battleship Hill’ as yesterday’s whimsy, but I was too busy constructing camps out of tables, chairs and blankets in our living room for Scarlett who we were babysitting over the weekend to do so. Oh boy, I’d forgotten how demanding of your attention five year olds can be! My living room currently resembles a war zone, with toys strewn all over the floor, but great fun was had by us all so it’s going to be worth the two or three hours it’s going to take me to get everything back to normal…least that’s what I keep telling myself!

Anyway, Battleship Hill. Back in the 70’s, I spent virtually every weekend one summer staying with my grandparents whilst my dad built an extension on our family home. During this time I formed a friendship…and there really is no other word for it, with an elderly widowed neighbour of my grandparents, a veteran of the 1st World War. I was a quiet bookish child, and though I loved my grandparents dearly, it was their proud boast that they had no books ‘cluttering up the place,’ nor do I recall any toys ever being in the house to occupy either my brother or myself. We were very much left to our own devices and expected to entertain ourselves. My brother, who must have been around eight or nine, soon found refuge in my grandfather’s workshop and became something of a mini apprentice to him learning to make dovetail joints for the boxes and tables my grandfather, who was a carpenter, turned out on a regular basis, but I, being a girl wasn’t allowed to join in. My grandparents were very much ‘old school’ in that respect.

Every Sunday, come rain or shine, my grandmother would plate up a roast dinner for their neighbour, Mr Clayton, which I’d deliver to him via a gate in their adjoining garden wall, and he, in return, would send me back with a bunch of chrysanthemums or some other flower he’d grown in his garden, wrapped in pages of The Times as a means of thanking my grandmother, which I’d then read, once all the usual lunchtime chores had been finished.

Over the weeks of my doing this, I gradually got to know Mr Clayton (think Peter Cushing both in appearance and gentlemanly demeanor and you’re not far off how he was) but was intrigued by the fact that he only had one ear, and also by how he seemed to twitch, and on one memorable occasion visibly jump, at the sound of any unexpected loud noise, and learnt that he’d been badly injured by a shell at Gallipoli, which essentially put paid to his army ‘career.’ He’d then spent months convalescing at a hospital in Southampton, which I can only imagine is the now demolished Netley Hospital, being treated for his wounds and also for shellshock, which is why, even all those years after, he still flinched whenever he was caught unawares by any unexpected noise. I suspect I began to treat Mr Clayton and his stories about the war as something of an escape from the tedium of having nothing to do at my grandparents house and maybe I was an outlet for him too – of a different generation, unsullied by the horrors of war and eager to learn more about his experiences.

Mr Clayton died when I was in my late teens, at which point a son, who nobody had known existed appeared out of the woodwork to claim his house and belongings, but a trunk full of his war memorabilia, including his medals, and some beautiful watercolours of his posting in Egypt and which now hang on my living room wall, were passed onto my grandparents, who promptly gave them to me as a reminder of this lovely man.

Recently I’ve found myself thinking a lot about Charlie (which I was never allowed to call him as a child!) and his tales of Gallipoli which he always referred to as having been a harsh unforgiving landscape. I’d like, at some stage, to weave him into a story I’ve had rattling around in my head for what seems like decades, and so have started researching the First World War and Gallipoli in more detail, which is how I indirectly came across the PJ Harvey track included in yesterday’s whimsy. On reading a book entitled ‘Spike Island, The Memory of a Military Hospital’ which focuses on Netley Hospital, I’ve discovered that most 1st WW medical records were either lost or destroyed prior to it eventually being demolished in 1966, so if Charlie was indeed referred to Netley for treatment, it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to find out more about what exactly happened to him there. I have, however found a series of propaganda film detailing Netley, and other Military hospital's, treatment of War Neurosis (as it was then known), which makes interesting if absolutely heartbreaking viewing;



In the year that the last known 1st World War survivor dies and despite the type of claims made in these films, I wonder how many of these poor men lived out their old age like Mr Clayton, still cowering at the sound of unexpected noise?

I leave you with a First World War ditty my grandmother used to sing to me when I was really little and which I used to love without really knowing what it was about; it makes reference to the Dardenelles (Gallipoli was often referred to as the Dardenelles Campaign). Strange how things go sometimes..