Bradley

Posted by Tim Bates (2017)

Stanley Victor Bradley was my dad's closest friend and companion during their time serving with the Queen's Westminster Rifles in 1917.

He was always "Bradley" to my dad.

It was common with those serving together in the army at that time to call each other by their last names.  As shown in Bradley's letter sent to my grandfather on 21st August 1917 letting him know that my dad had been wounded, Bradley wasn't especially aware of my dad's first names or how he was known by his family.  In the letter Bradley assumed that my dad was known by his second name, possibly since it appears that he, Bradley, was also known by his second name (Victor).  He guessed at "Arthur", whereas my dad's second name was actually "Alfred".

From my dad's journal ...

"In later years of peace I have sometimes pondered why in such close relationships the use of Christian names was rejected.  The answer I believe lay in some inner consciousness which refused to admit that friendships born and nurtured on the battlefield could be anything but transient and that by some curious quirk of the mind we were facing up to the inevitable."

My dad met Bradley on 1st May 1917, a few weeks after they had landed in France, at the holding camp at Harfeur just outside Le Havre ...

"It was here that I first met Stanley Victor Bradley.  On my way back to the billet a short tubby figure joined me.  The beaming smile was Bradley’s but the curious and shapeless jacket of greenish hue with no pleats to its bulging breast pockets could only be blamed on the quartermaster’s stores.  Bradley, I learnt in good time, was not one to be worried by the niceties of dress and I soon became aware that his main preoccupation was the enjoyment of life to the full under all conditions with goodwill to all men.

Time was short in 1917 and we soon became acquainted with each other’s relatively brief life histories.  At 25 he was five years my senior, a civil servant in the War Trades Department of the Board of Trade.  He had been at school with my cousin who had died at Loos, had a passion for tennis and was a fervent Wesleyan.  He was also a teetotaller and a non-smoker.  I never heard him utter the mildest of swear words except on one never to be forgotten occasion.  From that day forward Bradley, Forster and I were inseparables except on those occasions when the duties of the day broke up the trio."

The last recorded contact my father had from Bradley was a letter written on Sunday 4th November 1917.

Letter to Ernie from Bradley (4th November 1917)

In the letter Bradley says ...

"I have once or twice been in situations sufficient to have induced comrade Charon to have rubbed his hands together in anticipation but I have cheated him each time so far and propose to paddle my own canoe if possible."

In Greek mythology, Charon is the ferryman of Hades who carries souls of the newly deceased across the rivers Styx and Acheron that divided the world of the living from the world of the dead.  Bradley ends his letter with - "au revoir and best of luck".

Less than four weeks later Stanley Victor Bradley was killed at the Battle of Cambrai on 30th November 1917.

From "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" -

"November 30th was destined to be a glorious day in the history of the regiment. .... The losses of the Queen's Westminsters, though very light in comparison with those inflicted on the enemy, were heavy, amounting to 126 all told."
[ISBN 1-84342-610-2]

Local newspaper article announcing Bradley's death

Commonwealth War Graves Record Google Maps entry for Moeuvres Communal Cemetry Extension

Record from Army Register of Soldiers' Effects

My dad's journal for Sunday 22nd July 1917 recounts a conversation he had with Bradley and their companion Forster, where my dad pondered on their upcoming fate ...

"On the assumption that one’s chances of getting through unscathed were slight I suggested a preference for the little finger of the right hand.

Bradley’s reaction was immediate.  His face registered anger and bitterness such as I would never have dreamed possible.  He spoke at last and his words shocked me to the core.  “I want no ‘blighty’ [a wound sufficiently serious to merit being shipped home].  I won’t have those bloody bastards over there mutilate the body God gave into my keeping.  If they do get me I want complete oblivion.”  Forster and I accepted this outburst in silence.  There was nothing more to be said.  Anyway, I regretted opening my big mouth in the first place.  The incident in itself was not one ever likely to be forgotten but the aftermath, some few months later, not only registered the memory of that day for all time but created in me a sense of wonderment which in my lifetime on this earth will never be resolved."

... and as my dad lay badly wounded in the trenches on 14th August 1917 ...

"It was here that Bradley, cheerful as ever, sought me out and kept me company as long as he dared.  I was never to see his beaming face again."

November 1917 - The Road to Recovery

16th November 1917

Following the weekly visit of the MO, I was declared ready for a discharge from hospital with a medical grading of BIII.  I said goodbye to hospitable Lightwoods Hall, Smethwick.  It was certainly time I was on the move.  Three months enforced inactivity had increased my weight by three stone and a little exercise was essential.  A quick return visit to Lichfield Barracks where the hospital grey was exchanged for regulation khaki and I was on my way home to that little village in Essex for ten days leave.

During recovery in England (top row, third from right)

During recovery in England (top row, centre)

26th November 1917

The Third Battalion was now located in East Putney mostly billeted in empty houses.  After a brief visit to the MO I was regraded A1 and posted to C Company.  Back to the beginning with the rookies!  My immediate reaction was to look around for any familiar faces back from the swamps of Ypres.  There were none.

With my return to the Third Battalion commenced a period of misery and deep depression.  Torn between conflicting emotions I found myself completely alone in spirit with nothing in common with the younger members of C Company and, perhaps to my shame, I wished it that way.  On their part they looked upon the overseas man as a being apart, a stranger in their midst, someone to be regarded with awe.  I knew because I too had experienced the same inferiority complex not many months earlier when in the presence of those entitled to wear the soft hats and the red QWR on their shoulders.  Even my close companions of the days at Redhill, not yet of an age for active drafting, seemed different and in spite of the generous welcome back from E J Smith and many others the carefree and irresponsible associations of the past were elusive.  It was I not they who had changed.  With the best will in the world I found myself unable to join in the light-hearted quips and banter which took place in the YMCA and cafes of Putney High Street.  Ever conscious of the hell on earth that was to be their portion before many weeks had passed I had no desire to be the spectre at the feast and went to the length of inventing excuses to avoid the evening quest for food.  During the lonely hours my thoughts went out continuously to those others across the water, ever wondering how each in turn was faring.  As my former chief assessed my character I was not the ‘belligerent type’ and yet, at times, I felt that only the mind and blood of another Ypres could bring back the close human relationships which, in November 1917, I so greatly missed.

It was in this spell that ‘EJ’ (Smith) sought me out one evening with an invitation to supper at his home a short distance from Putney.  We arrived at a small, comfortable villa and were greeted excitedly by two elderly ladies, his mother and her sister.  I got the impression that EJ had no other relatives.  He was the apple of their eye, their sole remaining interest in life.  They entertained me in a gracious and generous manner but in spite of their kindly reception, perhaps even because of it, I regretted my intrusion into the family scene.  EJ was about 19, well over six feet in height, thin and sallow complexioned with large brown eyes.  He once told me that shortly before joining up he had achieved his first success in commercial art with a poster already to be seen on the hoardings.  As we said goodbye to the old ladies a cold chill run up my spine – premonition perhaps – or cold logic?  One day in the not too distant future a German sniper was to fire the bullet that was to find its target between those two large brown eyes.

During December the Third Battalion moved to huts erected on Wimbledon Common.  The quarters were comfortable but the night hops in Richmond Park were exciting.  As well as those official manoeuvres frequent air raid warnings roused us in the dead of night to scatter to distant parts of the common.

On the parade ground I knew the routine but after three months of complete idleness and overeating I was far from being the smartest soldier on parade.  During my absence the Boer War Martini rifle had been replaced by the Canadian Ross rifle.  This weapon was originally intended for general issue to the British Army but the war came too quickly and the smaller calibre Ross was not yet produced in sufficient quantity and so was used solely for arms drill.  Reputedly the Canadian weapon was more accurate than the old Lee Enfield but for handling on the square it was cumbersome.  ‘Trailing arms’ which involved throwing the rifle forward and catching it at the point of balance was my downfall.  With the whole company on parade I misjudged the throw and the extra high backsight on the new rifle caught my hand at the spot where Jerry had already operated!  I felt like the poor subject of the excellent cartoon by H M Bateman – “The Guardsman who dropped his rifle on parade”.  My weapon sailed through the air and landed at the sergeant’s feet.  They were reasonably understanding in the guardroom but suggested that a medical report was advisable.  The regimental MO barely waited for an explanation of my trouble but said with a grin “I did not expect you could complete with such a manoeuvre.”.

The Guardsman Who Dropped It, Tatler 1 December 1922 © H M Bateman Designs

I returned to quarters to await further orders.  The company was still on parade but in the hut one lone figure was lounging on his bed.  During my brief career coincidence was always around the corner.  Those distant yet personal connections with Forster and Bradley were happy ones but the situation which now confronted me was disturbing.  The lounger on the bed sat up, glad to find he had company.  “Hello chum, what are you here for?”  I explained briefly what had happened and held up my three fingers.  In turn he held up his right hand minus the little finger!  I shall never forget his exact words, “Blimey chum, what yer fink we’ll get for it?”.  I was too shocked and disgusted to reply and went outside for fresh air, conscious that for the rest of my life strangers would suspiciously eye the missing member on my right hand and naturally, perhaps, think in terms of SIW (self-inflicted wound).  My expectations were very soon to be confirmed.  Unfortunately SIWs were all too common in 1917 and I came across several in the convalescent hospital.  Toes appeared to be a favourite target and strangely enough the perpetrators boasted of their cleverness.

"In the British army during World War I, the maximum penalty for a self-inflicted wound ("Wilfully maiming himself with intent to render himself unfit for service" as it was described) under Section 18 of the Army Act 1881 was imprisonment, rather than capital punishment. In the British Army, some 3,894 men were found guilty, and were sent to prison for lengthy periods."
From the Wikipedia entry for Self-Inflicted Wound

What happened eventually to the lad in the hut on Wimbledon Common I know not but I never saw him in custody, as I might very well have expected, since on the following day I was appointed camp policeman.  My orders were to parade around the whole camp in light fatigues armed with a long cane during the hours from ‘Reveille’ to ‘Lights Out’ with no need to report to higher authority.  I interpreted this as an instruction to “get lost”.  I soon wearied of the constant perambulation of the camp with no tangible result to the responsibility thrust upon me and gladly accepted the freedom of the evenings to while away a few hours drinking tea in the YMCA.

15th December 1917

I attended a medical board somewhere in the Sloane Square district.  Seated at a large table with his back towards me was an elderly surgeon perusing my medical dossier.  Meantime his two very young assistants spotted my maimed hand and I noted a glint of interest in their faces.  The questions came thick and fast.  “Where was I when ‘it’ happened?”  “What caused it?”  “How far away did the shell burst?”  “At what angle?”  “Did anyone else see it?”  They plugged away unceasingly with their questions.  The less I said the more convinced they were that their victim himself pulled the trigger.  At last the old man at the desk turned round and spoke to the two young enthusiasts.  “Never mind that now you two, let’s have a look at the stomach wound.”  I was not sure who most enjoyed the discomfiture of my two red-faced inquisitors, the man at the desk or myself.

It was near midnight when I arrived back into camp by a devious route and crawled into bed.

31st October 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum and Dad

17th October 1917 - Postcard home

Postcard home to Mum

2nd October 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum

Note that the letter is only marked "Tuesday" so the actual date may be a week earlier or later.

23rd September 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum and Dad

18th September 1917 - Postcard home

Postcard home to Mum

16th September 1917 - Letter from Bradley

15th September 1917

Lightwoods Park Military Hospital, Smethwick

Original diary entry

Google Maps entry for Lightwoods Park here

13th September 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum

4th September 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum and Dad

31st August 1917 - Letter and postcard home

Letter home to Mum and Dad

Postcard home to Ernie's sister Daisy

Ernie's sister - Daisy Acton

31st August 1917

2am in the morning and in spite of the lateness of the hour a sizeable crowd of onlookers stood silently, peering closely as every stretcher was carried to the string of waiting ambulances.  No doubt they were hoping with mixed feelings to recognise some face dear to their hearts.

At the army hospital inside the confines of Whittington Barracks the members of Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service forgot for one brief moment the dignity of their commissioned rank and each one dashed from bed to bed, as did the civilians at the station, searching for a familiar face.  It so happened that out of the large intake on that night I was the only Londoner and it was apparent that the majority of the nursing staff were Londoners.  All I wanted to do was sleep but that was denied me until I had replied to all their questions which covered the whole field of the London Territorial Battalions which comprised the 56th and 47th Divisions and the individual members thereof from Colonels to humble privates.  I could not help and as they drifted away I had my face washed and “London” went to sleep.  My status had improved; I was no longer ‘number 27’, a mere cipher.

When morning came the nursing sisters at Whittington had regained the dignity of their calling and patients had to conform to strict discipline even though they were bedridden.  After all it was a pukka military hospital.  The weeks at Whittington were grim.  I missed the wonderful food of “No 1 Canadian” but that was understandable.  The unearthly silence of the ward was almost unendurable.  We had no visitors except two ancient crones who appeared each Sunday morning and presented every patient with one small, wrinkled apple and a religious tract.  Even the Sergeants’ voices and the rattle of arms on the barrack square would have been a source of perverse enjoyment but no sound penetrated the ancient walls of the hospital.  We had one moment of light relief each morning when the baker’s cart drew up outside the main door and not even matron could still the hearty cheers with which his arrival was greeted.

The elderly matron, a kindly soul no doubt, visited each patient every day with a few words yet oddly enough she was disliked by every man for a particular reason.  During her daily round she would plonk down on the patient’s bed her revolting pet, a snuffling, beady-eyed King Charles spaniel.  This seemed extraordinary behaviour for the matron of a large hospital but we endured and suffered in silence until she departed from the ward.  On one occasion only did I see the matron show her claws and I was the cause of her displeasure.  I was still a ‘bedcase’ and she plumped her wretched animal on the counterpane saying “Good morning London, still in bed?”.  She passed on to the next patient.  Sensitive to any suggestion that I might be “swinging the lead”, which I am sure was not implied, I was up and standing by my bed rather improperly dressed when she arrived the following morning.  She dealt with me thoroughly.  Her verbal onslaught was superb.  No sergeant major could have improved on her masterly performance.

Google Maps entry for Whittington Barracks here

30th August 1917 - Back to England

At 1am I was awakened by the light of the hurricane lamp and the sister whispering in my ear that I was being transferred to England.  As the two bearers adjusted the blankets on the stretcher I hurriedly appropriated the Field Medical Card which hung at the head of the bed and popped it inside my little red bag of personal belongings.  The quest for souvenirs was still strong.  On that night I alone made my final goodbye to K Ward No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, leaving behind in that grim marquee many desperately ill men, most of whom I feared would remain in France forever.

On the 19th April 1918 the newspapers reported as follows.  “Two squadrons of Gothas attacked British hospitals at Etaples causing over 300 casualties.”  Among the published list of Canadian nursing service killed in the bombing I was shocked and saddened to read of the names of those two nursing sisters from whom I had received so much kindness and attention in K Ward.

For some reason which I could never understand the only article of uniform and other clothing which the RAMC considered should remain in my possession was that terrible pair of boots, size 8 and size 9 respectively.  To my disgust they were placed on the stretcher close to my feet.  The night was dark and the arc lamps strung high above the compound gave only a glimmer of light.  The distance to the Red Cross train was considerable and the RAMC men congratulated each other on the fact that the burden was lightweight.  Determined those boots should never reach England I took advantage of the good humour of my bearers and gently edged number one boot off the stretcher.  It fell with a plop on the concrete.  “Did you drop something chum?”  I answered in the negative.  Acting on the assumption that the greater the distance between the two boots the less likely my bearers would be inclined to make the journey back to recover number one, I waited until we were nearer our destination to dispose of number two in the same way.  It hit the ground with a crash but my bearers made no comment.

Once again I was in the top berth of a French Ambulance train but I remember nothing of the journey to Calais harbour.

It was now broad daylight and the scene was one of immense activity of German prisoners, with their soft round hats and large coloured patches on the back of their jackets, who were stretcher bearing from the train to a magnificent white steam yacht moored at the quayside.  From the top deck of the Belgian Royal Yacht “Stad Antwerp” a very wide staircase extended down to the bowels of the ship.  The stairs were completely boarded over and the stretchers released by one orderly to career speedily down the slope to be caught by two seamen at the foot.  Across a large landing and again to career down a second wide chute, then I was comfortably placed on one of the benches which lined the side of the ship.  The time was 3pm and we were quickly away.  Through a convenient porthole the water rushed past almost at eye level.  Positioned as we were in the bowels of that beautiful ship my normal aptitude for seasickness was non-existent.

HS Stad Antwerpen

Crossing the Channel in broad daylight was a hazardous undertaking for British ships and through my porthole I was comforted by the sight of a destroyer which overtook and passed us with cheeky abandon.  A second followed and a third and by the time the fifth destroyer disappeared from view I realised my stupidity.  What I supposed was a complete flotilla escort was in fact no more than one or two or at most three ships of the Dover patrol literally making rings around us.

In forty minutes we were in Dover harbour and comfortably ensconced in a Red Cross train bearing the old familiar chocolate and cream colours of the London and North Western Railway.  After a hot bowl of soup, a blessed sleep – until awakened by the jolting and jarring of the wheels slowly negotiating the points of what must have been a junction.  It was not pitch dark and as we slowly passed through a blacked out station I could just discern the nameplate “South Kensington” picked out in dim blue lights.  I speculated as to which London hospital would have the pleasure of my company and happily resumed my slumbers.

I woke suddenly to the sound of a raucous voice shouting “Lichfield”.  Lichfield it was and miles from London to which I belonged.


Etaples to Calais and Blighty.
"Stad Antwerp".
Lichfield Military Hospital.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

Google Maps entry for Calais Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Dover Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Lichfield here

29th August 1917 - Letter from home

Letter from Mum

27th August 1917 - Letter home

Letter home to Mum and Dad

23rd August 1917 - Letter from home

Letter from Ernie's Mum

Ernie's mum - Anna Elizabeth Bates

22nd August 1917

Across the courtyard was the operation theatre and here no time was lost in getting down to the business in hand.  The anaesthetic was applied and long before it was given a chance to function I was on the slab surrounded by white gowned figures in masks, the surgeon with scalpel at the ready.  I heard the sister say “he’s off” and fearful lest the bloody work should commence at once I waggled my hand furiously.

Back in bed number 27 I awoke to see the big moonface of the day sister grinning at me from the end of the bed.  I asked for my tea and was told not to be silly, teatime was finished hours ago.  I had to be satisfied with one sip of water and two kidney basins for which, to her surprise, I had no use.  I was annoyed because, so I thought, the shattered remains of my finger had not been amputated – I could move it under its wrappings.  It was not until the 28th August when the bandages were removed that I was duly convinced.

For some days I had been fidgety to get back to England but the weather was stormy and I was told that with the rough seas in the Channel the danger of peritonitis could not be risked.


Finger amputated and stomach wound cleaned.
No 1 Canadian General Hospital, Etaples.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

17th to 21st August 1917

For the next fourteen days I lost my identity.  In due course I was able to turn my head and take stock of my surroundings.  The man on my left was in a very bad way.  His right arm had been blown off at the shoulder and for most of the time he was delirious.  On my right was a little artillery man whose chest was no more than one pulpy mass of raw flesh caused by the searing liquid from a gas shell that has burst at his feet.  He was a cheerful soul although his agony must have been acute.  The only other patient within my view was a very young Canadian in the bed opposite who continually groaned and called loudly for the sister.  Experience had taught us that dangerously wounded men lay quiet and still and by the same token the noisy ones are, to say the least, not on the danger list.  It is pertinent to note that in K Ward with perhaps forty to fifty occupied beds almost complete silence reigned throughout the day and night except for occasional outbursts from the young Canadian.

Although I had to remain flat on my back I was reasonably comfortable, but the hours passed slowly and I had all the time in the world in which to review the happenings of the last few months.  I recalled particularly that sun-drenched Sunday evening on the road to Ivergny when much to Bradley’s disgust I had opted for a blighty.  The gods had been good to me – they had met me halfway with a gentle reminder by way of the solar plexus that it was not for mere mortals to strike a bargain.  I remembered the impetigo that on the 16th August practically covered the whole of my face despite the efforts of the Regimental MO.  My fingers explored the affected parts and I was surprised to find the skin completely free from those nauseating scabs.   Clearly the art of blood letting as practised in the 18th century still had something to commend it!

Remembering Bradley, Forster, Willis, Killick (who loved to talk of his wife and two small girls) and a host of others I had left behind and wondering if I should ever see them again I felt helpless and alone.

Dressings began at a fantastically early hour and my purgatory usually lasted for about three-quarters of an hour.  The hole in the stomach was cleaned and after much probing with tweezers the sister proceeded to stuff it with masses of cottonwool, plugging into all corners with a gold probe.  Next came the placing of four rubber “Canoll tubes” over the wound and these were tightly secured with many layers of rat-tailed bandage.  The other end of the tubes broadened out into little funnels which were attached at the neck by adhesive tape.  The next operation, repeated every few hours, was less painful but incommoding.  One half pint of warm Lysol was poured into each funnel, reached its allotted target and overflowed in all directions.  Occasionally the sister, a hefty Scottish Canadian woman, would change the bed by lifting me bodily with one arm, whipping out the sodden sheets and replacing them with dry ones – only to return shortly afterwards to pour in two more pints of Lysol.

For those who were fit to take everything on the menu the food was superb.  Breakfast usually consisted of boiled eggs which often had pencilled on them get well messages with names and addresses of kind old ladies back in England.  For elevenses one glass of Guinness together with jelly and blancmange.  A second glass of Guinness preceded a chicken lunch.  Most of the men were hand fed by the one ward sister who attended to all the dressings and it was not until evening that her duties were finished.  Tremendous effort by a wonderful person.  Occasionally an RAMC orderly would assist in the more menial tasks but his appearances on the ward were rare.

As darkness fell the night sister took over.  Lights were extinguished except for two low powered bulbs at either end of the marquee.  With a hurricane lamp more appropriate to the days of Florence Nightingale the sister walked down the quiet ward and briefly inspected each patient who should by then have been asleep.  On the third night she stopped at my bed, held up the lamp and said “Why aren’t you asleep number 27?”  I could think of no reason and she promised to find something to send me off.  She returned with a large glass of rich ruby port, a most efficacious draught!  The next night and the following night number 27 was again wide awake.  The same question and the same comforting glass of port ensued.  After several nights of this the sister wearied of making a special journey back to the dispensary and during the rest of my stay in K Ward she came on duty with the hurricane lamp in one hand and a glass of port in the other.  I was invariably awake.  We both understood the situation perfectly.  There was no need for conversation.

News sent back to England

Postcard home to Mum (17th August 1917)

Letter home to Mum and the family (17th August 1917)

Postcard home to brother Percy (19th August 1917)

Letter to Ernie's Dad from his best friend Bradley (21st August 1917) Note that it was usual for those serving together to call each other by their last names, and so Bradley wasn't aware of Ernie's first names or how he was known by his family.

Official notification (23rd August 1917)