100 Years Ago

https://www.thetimes.co.uk/edition/register/heroic-story-of-skipper-crisp-vc-dd0brhzb6

november 3, 1917

Heroic story of Skipper Crisp, VC

The honours to naval officers and seamen include the posthumous award of the Victoria Cross to Skipper Thomas Crisp, RNR, of the smack Nelson, and the Distinguished Service Medal to his son, 2nd Hand Thomas William Crisp, RNR. The story of the bravery of Skipper Crisp was alluded to by the Prime Minister in the House of Commons last Monday as an illustration of the way in which British fishermen have faced the perils of the war.
The following is the official account of the action in which Skipper Crisp died; On an August afternoon, at about a quarter to 3 the trawl was shot from the smack Nelson and the smack was on the port tack. The skipper was below packing fish; one hand was on deck cleaning fish for the next morning’s breakfast, and then the skipper came on deck, saw an object on the horizon, examined it closely, and sent for his glasses. Almost directly he sang out, “Clear for Action. Submarine.” He had scarcely spoken when a shot fell about a hundred yards away on the port bow. The motor man got to his motor, the deck hand dropped his fish and went to the ammunition room, the other hands let go the warp, the gunlayer held his fire until the skipper said, “It is no use waiting any longer — we will have to let them have it.”

In the distance the submarine sent shell after shell at the smack, and about the fourth shot the shell went through the port bow just below the waterline, and the skipper shoved her round. The seventh shell struck the skipper, passed through his side, through the deck, and cut through the side of the ship. The second hand at once took charge of the tiller. All the time water was pouring into the ship, and she was sinking.
The gunlayer went to the skipper to render first aid, but it was obvious that he was mortally wounded. “It’s all right, boy, do your best,” said the skipper, and then, to the second hand, “Send a message off.” This was the message: “Nelson being attacked by submarine. Skipper killed. Send assistance at once.” The smack was sinking and only five rounds of ammunition were left, and the second hand heard the skipper say, “Abandon ship. Throw the books overboard.” He was asked if they should lift him into the boat, but he said, “Tom, I’m done, throw me overboard.” He was too badly injured to be moved, and they left him and took to the small boat. A quarter of an hour afterwards the Nelson went down by the head. The second hand, who took charge of the tiller after the skipper was shot, was his son.
https://www.thetimes.co.uk/past-six-days/2017-11-02/register/our-graves-in-france-bfzgkv9td

november 2, 1917

Our graves in France

The following is an account, written early in July, of the care taken of soldiers’ cemeteries in France: Much has been done during the last two years to make beautiful the cemeteries where our soldiers lie buried in France by the planting of flowers. Some, in which it is not yet possible to put out permanent plants, are gorgeous masses of colour formed by long stretches of annuals bordered by a strip of well-kept grass. Each kind of annual has been sown separately in stretches of some 30 to 40 feet. Dwarf blue lupins, white, purple, or bronze linarias, cream pink and bronze eschscholtzias, dwarf blue cornflowers, dwarf nasturtiums, nemophila, white candytuft, yellow bartonia, orange alyssum, white and lilac viscarias, crimson linum, and yellow and brown coreopsis are now in bloom. In some places hedgerows of miniature sunflowers, pink malopes, tall larkspurs, coreopsis, and cornflowers separate the lines of graves and form a background to the rows of crosses. Each stretch of annuals is separated from the next by a belt of grass or mignonette, and there are not many gardens at home where such a noble display of colour can be seen. The fine effect will not be an affair of the moment, for asters and other late flowering annuals will follow. Where more permanent planting has been possible there are several thousand roses, chiefly the little polyantha kinds, which have been planted with pinks and saxifrages on the graves, and the rest of the surface is sown with grass. Those cemeteries which have been made in old apple orchards are perhaps the most beautiful of all.

The men at the front fully appreciate this tribute to the dead, and rarely does one visit a cemetery without finding some of our soldiers there. There are many cemeteries where no such work is yet possible, but most of these nature has beautified. One, in a valley of the Somme battlefield, is flanked by rows of tall Italian poplars, and when the graves were covered with poppies, the scene looking along the valley between the poplars towards the ruined church and the crosses rising out of the red was most impressive. Women gardeners are helping the men, many of whom have taken their share in the fighting, and all of whom are ineligible for active service.


https://www.thetimes.co.uk/past-six-days/2017-11-01/register/waist-deep-in-slush-hddr2c3wg

november 1, 1917

Waist-deep in slush

There has been no movement since yesterday. We hold the positions we won and, from the highest point of the ridge above Passchendaele, our men now overlook the village, or what is left of it, as well as a wide unspoiled country of green fields, ploughed land, and autumn foliage in the plains beyond.
The German communique stated that the village of Passchendaele at one time was “lost”, but recovered by a gallant counter-attack. This is nonsense. After they had won the farthest point set them, some Canadian patrols seem to have “nosed out” into the village and found no opposition. They could not stay, because when the limit of our advance is fixed beforehand, our guns sweep all the ground ahead, and any men who stayed out there would be wiped out by our own barrage. One conjectures that the Germans bolted, apprehending an attack, but, finding that our men did not occupy the place, came leaking back again, which was the glorious counter-attack.

I have heard extraordinary stories of the Londoners and the men of the Naval Brigade in the morasses of the Paddebeek Valley, where the little flooded stream wound across the front of the attack, and in which they often sank in water over their heads and had to be pulled out with ropes by their comrades. It is feared that even some unwounded men must have been drowned, as certainly it is inevitable some wounded were. Our troops had a heavy German shrapnel and explosive barrage. Then through this awful slough, under machine-gun and rifle fire from the slopes ahead, it took them a full hour to work their way 100 yards. They forced their way across the Paddebeek by the two or three narrow paths which proved possible, and captured one position after another. They showed the finest heroism, and nothing but sheer exhaustion compelled them to stop short of the ultimate line. Up to the knees or waists in slush, and in torrents of rain, they made contact with the Canadians. Nothing could exceed the terms in which the officers speak of their gallantry and spirits in indescribable difficulties. The Paddebeek is only a tiny stream and its name is ridiculous, but it saw yesterday as fine an exhibition of British pluck and determination as was ever witnessed.


https://www.thetimes.co.uk/past-six-days/2017-10-31/register/on-the-outskirts-of-passchendaele-nf937r2ns

october 31, 1917

On the outskirts of Passchendaele

Tomorrow is the anniversary of what, by common consent, was the critical moment of the triumph on these same battlefields three years ago. On October 31 the German attempt to break through our thin, but so gallant, line here was finally frustrated and the Channel ports were saved. We can celebrate the anniversary with the news that we have again pushed forward to the very outskirts of the village of Passchendaele, and have grasped and hold that highest culminating point of ridge south-west of the village known as Crest Farm, whose poor, battered ruins now lie below our foremost posts.
Much has changed in the three years since the old fighting here, but one thing remains the same. That is the fibre of our men. Not even the splendid steadiness of the men of the Old Army, against which the German masses three years since broke in vain, was finer than the determination with which these newer men are fighting here today. Three years ago, when the Germans were attacking, they had fine weather almost until the middle of November. This year we have been fighting for two weeks and more in conditions of ground which might be supposed to make any advance impossible, but where the enemy, three years ago, could not move us on the dry land, we day by day, though wading to the knees or the armpits, batter and hurl him back.

The advance today has only been about a thousand yards, but what a thousand yards! For two days the weather had been fine, but last evening all the signs pointed to a break before this morning’s attack. Happily, the rain held off, and, after a moonlight night, the dawn was clear and cold when, shortly before 6 o’clock, our men went on. The rain held off until nearly 10, since when it has been a day of continuous rains, chill mist, and biting winds. Before the rain began, however, we had already grasped the main objectives. On the right the attack is being made by the Canadians, direct towards Passchendaele, with troops from the British Isles co-operating on the northern part of the advance. From all points the tidings are good. Prisoners are coming down in small numbers and, in spite of rain and cold, the weary, mud-clad wounded men are happy in the knowledge that the attack has prospered.