William Brooke

From ‘Lest I forget’ by Lieut. Eric S. Roberts of Queens Tower, Sheffield.
(written in a Reading war hospital in 1918)

Drummer Brookes.

“The minstrel boy to the war has gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him”

Several weeks had passed since I first entered this strange and treacherous life, and by this time I was getting quite used to the everyday happenings. But I had still one thing to learn, in fact, I hadn’t seen blood.
            There is an old tale of a company who were attacked one night, and drove back the enemy. But their keenness was not roused until they saw the blood of their comrades who were lying round them when daylight came, and then they attacked and were victorious. So I had this lesson to learn, and I learnt it in the most tragic and sad manner.
             One night I was in charge of a working party, the men digging a communication trench. I was going round when I came to a small, jolly, bright-faced boy. I was at once struck with the energy he put into his work, and as he had no one to help him, I gave him a hand. This lad was only a drummer boy and, like so many of his lot, had to do the trench routine along with the rest of the men. It turned out at one time he had been one of my own men in England for a short while, and that fact alone increased my interest in him. I noticed him on the following days, so bright and cheerful, playing football in the camp behind the line. Eventually our turn came to go into the front line, and here again the drummer lad was a willing worker, always smiling and happy. To his comrades he was known as “Tiny,” because he was quite small. One morning I turned out at 3.30am to go my rounds of the trench. It was just daylight and everything seemed quiet and still. Only occasionally a machine gun broke the silence, or a falling stone, as a big brown rat scurried to his wretched home.
             The first post I reached, I had a pleasant little talk with the men and, as ever, I found the “English spirit,” that wonderful spirit that once an old colonel described to me as “past all understanding.”
             “Is everything all right ?” “Yes, sir, everything quite calm: nothing to report.” “Well, I shall be round again directly.” These conversations often varied by a few additions such as “It is a good thing we are winning”; Never mind, the war will soon be over”; “Hard luck on the poor munition workers having to get up so early”; “Poor chaps those policemen in Blighty having to keep watch all night”; and so on.
              I pass now to the next post, and then to the next, and even then all is still. I was sitting talking to these lads, who happened to be the most forward post of that part, when all at once we heard a queer noise we knew only too well. A terrible trench-mortar barrage was being put up on to our lines, particularly on the support trenches, where they had a rather bad time. The corporal in a cheery voice said, “This is the sort of thing when they are coming over.” We were all prepared, and I loaded my revolver. Then the S.O.S. went up on either side of us, and our own guns put up a protective barrage, and of course, as our own post was so far forward, some of the shells fell very near to us, and bits were flying all round us. The whole of this lasted for an hour and a half and it gradually died down. The enemy had tried, but failed owing to our guns.
When my tour of duty was over I returned to the support trenches. On my way I met the company second-in-command, who said, “Have you seen Drummer Brookes anywhere?” “No,” I said, “is he missing?” “Yes,” was the reply. I had to go first to speak to the colonel on the telephone, as I had been the only officer in the line at the time of the shelling, and he wanted to know if everything was all right. This done, I went to help to find this little drummer boy. I was informed he and another had gone into a dug-out for shelter while the shelling had been so bad on the support trenches. His post had been in the support trenches.
           When they thought the shelling was over they were coming out of it when a shell burst right on the top of the entrance to the dug-out. The other fellow had bad shell shock. He couldn’t remember if Brookes had been behind or before. Where was the boy? I went to the dug-out in question, and there was the entrance all blown down. The battalion second-in command was there and the signaling officer. Two men were digging amongst the debris. I knew what for. Presently I heard one of the men say, “Ah! here he is. God help his soul”; and from out of the earth and broken bits of wood they pulled the body, of course, quite dead, as a big beam had fallen on him and broken his back. I just saw his poor little face, all dark and covered with blood and, with a sob, I turned round and walked away.
It was breakfast time, but none could I touch. I sat and sobbed. It may not have been soldier-like, but soldiers at times have feelings, and I have great feelings.
             Was this war? Could this possibly be civilization and humanity? How much longer would God allow such deeds?
              The tragedy of the situation deepened by the fact that this boy helped to keep a deaf and dumb old man and woman whom he had lived with before the war, the lad himself being an orphan.
              Still one more incident of this sad story has to be recalled. A few days later in a little cemetery at the quiet village of Favreuil, behind the line, I visited a little grave. It was simply a brown pile of earth. The small wooden cross, which was erected soon after, was not up then. Little birds sang their songs of glory amongst the trees round about; the air seemed to hum with the bees, who, in company of gaily coloured butterflies, hovered round the flowers on the soldiers graves. I bent forward, and on a small wooden label attached to an iron spike stuck in the ground I read, “Drummer Brookes, York and Lancs.” Then I slowly walked back to my hut.

 

Drummer Brookes was in fact William Brooke. He was # 202318 2/4th York & Lancs. His service papers survive on Ancestry and these bear out the fact that he was indeed an orphan living with a William and Eliza Walker at 8 Coleford road, Sheffield. William was 19 years and 4 months old when he enlisted, his height given as 5’tall, so the nick-name ‘Tiny’ was well earned ! In his effects returned to William Walker were two Drum badges. He is buried at Favreuil British Cemetery, I. F. 25

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

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