A First World War Soldier's Journey

This item was first read as a magazine article for Sussex Coast Talking News in November 2022.

A First World War Journey.

 

My father’s, mother’s elder brother – my Great-Uncle - was called John Townsend; this is something of his story.  John was born in January 1893 in Honley – a bustling village south of Huddersfield in the West Riding of Yorkshire.  John was a small child but always bright and cheerful, he did well at school and in sports (football particularly).

He went to study at Sheffield University in 1911 (joined the debating society, the OTC, Officer Training Corps, which gave him, and others, useful experience and the sports clubs), graduating as a Bachelor of Arts.  He had worked hard and was awarded his degree at the Universities’ ceremony on the 27^th June 1914. 

 

John was quickly offered a post as an Assistant Teacher at one of Sheffield’s schools and was due to start work in September 1914.  But war was then declared on the 4^th August 1914 and Lord Kitchener had called on the 7^th for 100,000 volunteers to enlist in the British Army.  John only worked in teaching for two weeks as he was to offer himself for military service; the school released him but confirmed that his role would be held open pending his return.

 

Mr HAL Fisher, Vice Chancellor of Sheffield University, along with Sheffield Council decided it would be a great boost for morale to form a local (Pals) battalion and agreed this with the Army Council.  And thus, was created the 12^th (City of Sheffield) Service Battalion of the York and Lancaster Regiment, the local infantry regiment.  The word Service indicates that the Battalion was formed for active service and was not part of the Army reserves.

 

John quickly joined up, his army number was 252/12 indicating that he was the two-hundred and fifty-second man to join the newly-formed battalion.

 

Sheffield Football Club initially offered their grounds and pitch as a camp and training area for the battalion.  But, as the recruits turned all the beautifully cared for grass into mud in a few days, the Battalion was moved very quickly to Redmires Camp away from Sheffield, near Catterick Garrison.

 

The Sheffield Battalion then went through rigorous training and travelled to various camps: Penkridge, Staffordshire in May 1915, Ripon in August, Salisbury in September and Wickford in Essex in December.  This was so for all new battalions training new recruits as the Army kept moving huge numbers of men around the country until they were ready for overseas service.

 

John had known for a while that they faced a long wait getting to the Front as the 12^th York & Lancaster Battalion was part of the Fourth Army and the Second Army had only just mobilised overseas in mid-1915.  On the 14^th December, the 12^th Battalion was formed into the 94^th Brigade in the 31^st Division of the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force to be posted to Egypt in the New Year.  The 94^th Brigade was comprised of four Battalions: the 12^th plus two other Battalions from the York and Lancaster Regiment (both Barnsley Pals) and one from the East Lancashire Regiment (Accrington Pals).

 

Then, just before Christmas 1915, the Brigade was transported (by ship – HMT Nestor) to Egypt via Gibraltar and was based near Port Said on the Suez Canal to protect it from an anticipated Turkish attack.

 

John had been promoted to Corporal by then.  He wrote home frequently (and had done since joining up).  He often had to ask his parents for various supplies: paper, ink, cigarettes (when troops did not get their tobacco rations), sweets and chocolate, coffee, biscuits, cake (Parkin was very popular), tinned goods (fruit, sardines, meat pastes) – not pork pies, these did not travel well apparently!  The postal services really came up trumps for all these soldiers who depended so much on the little extras they got from home.

 

Troops could buy necessities locally, but the prices were often exorbitant and, occasionally, pay did not arrive on time leaving men a bit short sometimes.

For quite a while, when John’s Battalion was stationed in Egypt, water was rationed to a gallon per day per man, although salt water for washing and cleaning clothes was, I think, extra.  John, at one point, mentions swimming from Europe to Asia (I think he meant Africa not Europe, but an easy slip to make) and back again – although I think this was to clean his shirt rather than make any particular point.  Port Said might be very hot during the daytime; but, at night it was exceedingly cold.  John wrote that when coal was delivered to their Base Depot in railway wagons which were “emptied” and returned for re-supply, there would often be plenty of scraps of coal left in the wagons.  The men would use their initiative and very carefully collect up these scraps to take back to their huts.  In John’s hut, he and his colleagues made a fireplace out of an old biscuit tin.  Thus, they were able to keep warm, brew tea at any time of the day and they fried eggs, bread and cheese to supplement their rations and shared the treats and supplies they received from their families and, all in all, make their situation as civilised as they could manage.

 

Interestingly, the fact of John’s promotion to Corporal (then later to Lance Sergeant) is barely mentioned in his letters; but, the contents of his parcels from home (and, I presume that it was the same for all of his fellow soldiers) are of more concern to him.  The necessities and the niceties of life.  These become much more important when the men are posted off to picquet duty a few hours hard march into the desert and away from Port Said.

 

John was promoted to Lance Sergeant in February 1916.  This was a fairly new rank of Non-Commissioned Officer, dating approximately from the early seventeenth century.  Up to Henry VIII’s and Elizabeth I’s time, foot-soldiers fought with bill-hooks and pikes (twenty-two-foot-long ash spears tipped with wickedly sharp blades).  Some cannons and hand-munitions were used in battle, but, in James I’s time, numbers of infantry companies ceased using pikes and were re-armed with match-lock, muzzle-loading muskets.  By the time of the English Civil War in Charles I’s reign a good proportion of infantry companies were issued with matchlock muskets.  These, along with all the equipment that the musketeers were carrying, were very cumbersome; and the process of loading their muskets took about three minutes – compared to about a minute for an infantryman in the British Army of the Napoleonic Wars.  This being the case, besides keeping order in the ranks, the Lance Corporals and Lance Sergeants armed with six-foot half-pikes would face OUT whilst the men in their ranks were otherwise occupied in loading their muskets.  They would defend their rank against enemy attack from the side and warn officers of any threats.  Once their rank was loaded, the Lance-Corporals and Lance-Sergeants would resume their disciplinary duties.

 

The threat of an attack by the Turkish army on the Suez canal had dwindled away and, on the 12^th March 1916, the 94^th Brigade took ship once again and sailed to Marseilles in Southern France to take part in an offensive currently being planned over the river Somme.  They were taken by train most of the way and route marched the remainder.

 

They found the regions they passed through very interesting and enjoyable.  In the main, cherries, almonds and grapes were being intensively cultivated.  Mainly idyllic, but in certain areas, the war was not too far away and the attitude of the locals was darker – not hostile, just understanding of the dangers.

 

They reached their point in the Line and the Sheffield Battalion took their place in the front-line trenches for the first time, experiencing a hot German bombardment at the beginning of April.  Three men were slightly wounded at this time even though they were bombarded by shells, whizz-bangs, tear-gas and canister shot.  Quite a show - and most of the men were on the firing steps cheering on the British Artillery responses.  John looked at the faces of the men in his platoon as he was moving along the trench and noted the intensity of their feelings; all were very angry and ready to fight if the Germans had mounted an infantry attack and were almost disappointed that they did not.  In fact, the men were probably in more real danger from the rats that infested the dugouts.  John mentioned the rats in their dug-outs in one of his letters, then, it appeared that his mother had offered to send out a tin of rat poison.  John politely said “No, Thanks”.  He advised that they would probably need a ton or so of poison to make any difference, then they would be inundated by dead, rotting rats all over the place, so it was better to leave them as they were and live round them as much as possible.

 

In heavy wind and rain, a few days later, the Battalion was moved behind the lines; this happened regularly, as battalions were moved around behind the lines and then to the Front for a short spell before being relieved again.

 

When in the front line, John took part in a number of wire patrols in No Man’s Land, on the first of which he kicked up a number of old meat tins and shell canisters making an awful din, fortunately, the Germans did not hear him.  Then he got caught on the wire and tore his trousers getting free. Carrying his rifle and bayonet about caused a lot of difficulty.  On future patrols, whether on his own or leading men from his platoon, he armed himself with a bag of bombs as it was easier to manoeuvre.

 

Was John frightened of the situation he was in?  Like many soldiers, he was something of a fatalist; he could do nothing about his situation, he took all the care that he could but appreciated that an incident could happen at any time that would kill him.  Often, when he was in command of his platoon at night in the front line, he would have to bolster up any men who were in a bit of a funk about where they were.  This meant that he was often moving about in the trenches far more than was strictly safe as he risked being spotted by German snipers (mind you, the soldiers were pretty disparaging about the accuracy of most of the enemy’s rifle fire).

 

Then, on the 21^st April (1916), the Colonel sent for John and offered him a commission.  John accepted the offer immediately but had to get certificates for his education and personal references to start the process.  He declined time off for officer training and only took one week of his promotion leave as he wanted to get straight back to his unit – the Colonel had said “Well, I suppose you will want 3 months in England, now?”  To which, John immediately responded: “If my commission depends on any more training, I’ll resign it to go back to the trenches.”  The CO clapped him on the back and said: “That’s right, young man, that’s the sort of spirit we want.”

 

He was made a Second Lieutenant in the 12^th Battalion of the West Yorkshire Regiment at the end of May, but took just one week of leave at home in Honley before joining his new unit.  This was a very full week, getting his new uniform and speaking to people at Sheffield University and Town Hall to tell them how well his comrades in the City Battalion were doing and that they were all in good spirits.

 

When his leave was over, John returned to France to join his new unit, the 12^th Battalion of the West Yorkshire Regiment.

 

Let us leave John there, and return briefly to the Sheffield Battalion.  They were carrying out their military duties in and out of the Somme area and were scheduled to take part in the first attacks of that battle near a town called Serre on the left of the Front.

 

The 94^th Brigade (Sheffield City Battalion along with the two Battalions of Barnsley Pals and one of Accrington Pals) attacked at 7:30am on the 1^st July 1916; within an hour German machine-gun and rifle fire had brought the attack to a stand-still and over 500 men of the Sheffield’s had been killed or wounded.  Eventually, months later, the City Battalion was disbanded as they could not get enough replacements to bring them back to full fighting strength.

 

John Townsend did not know about this set-back to the Sheffield City Battalion for quite a few days, but he was very happy in his new Battalion, and fitted in well with the officers and men of the West Yorkshire Regiment.  He was kept very busy as the Intelligence Officer for the 12^th Battalion.  Early in July, the newspapers reported the death of a Second Lieutenant John Townsend of the East Yorkshire Regiment; John had his work cut out writing to friends and family that it was not him in the report and he was very much alive.

 

They took part in sports against other units, particularly the Royal Fusiliers.  Horse-riding and football in the main and the West Yorkshires did very well.  One day, John wrote that they were going to go swimming in a local lock, but the lock-keeper had let out the water in “revenge” for some of the officers leaving their horses in his field without his permission, this did not go down too well with the men who wanted a swim that day.

 

Then, it happened.  On the 24^th July, the official telegram arrived for Mr and Mrs Townsend in Honley.  The King and Queen and Army Council regretted that their son John had been killed in action on the 14^th July 1916.

 

A few days later, John’s parents received a letter from a Private FG King (later Corporal) who had been John’s Batman.  He apologised that he was writing – usually letters to families of the deceased soldier are written by his senior officer in the Battalion, but as many of the officers had been killed or wounded in the action on the 14^th July, it fell to him (and to return John’s effects).   He had died as a result of a shell blast – concussion, not a scratch on him.  Now, John’s parents announced to Sheffield University, the chapel and the local paper, that John had died whilst on a patrol in No Man’s Land to gather intelligence and find & recover the wounded.  This was the story that had been passed down in our family – but it was not true, maybe it was to save his younger sisters’ feelings.

 

The facts were, as explained by John’s Batman and also featured in an article in the Yorkshire Post newspaper (written by a fellow officer, who was also killed in action but a few days later on the 24^th July) that his Battalion in the West Yorkshire Regiment was involved in a very hotly fought action that night to take two lines of German trenches.  Private King saw John as the force was mustering and John was pressing forward to be close to the head of the Push.  He lost sight of John due to the mass of men and that was the last time he saw him alive. 

 

They succeeded, but at a huge expense in lives including one Captain Cyril Sharp who was John’s Company Commander and immediate superior as well as being a good friend from their university days.

 

The action took place at Bazentin-le-Grand and the casualties were buried properly in a nearby field.  However, this was later destroyed by German shell-fire.  The names of the men who had been buried there are all included on the Thiepval Memorial.  Interestingly, Bazentin is only a few miles along the front line from Serre, where the Sheffield City Battalion had suffered so severely themselves.

 

Memorials to John are at the Methodist Chapel in Honley along with the local war memorial in Honley.  One day I will visit the village to pay my respects, but I doubt that I will get to Thiepval.

 

Interestingly, both my grandfathers enlisted at the beginning of the Great War – one serving as a Private in the South Staffordshire Regiment posted to Egypt and India and the other as a Corporal in the Royal Field Artillery in France.  They both returned home after the conflict - without a scratch.

 

This is just one story from the Great War – there are a million more yet to be told and I do hope that you have enjoyed hearing the history of my cousins’, my brother’s and my Great-Uncle John Townsend.

 

Thank you for listening today.

 

A dedication to my dear wife, Jean. ( and Belshazzar! Bling-king of the Old Testament)

 

The following article is dedicated particularly to Jean, who appears and plays a crucial part in it.  She has appeared in a number of articles of mine, and will play a part in more to come.  Over the years, dear Jean contributed to so much that I have written; I would always print out sections as I finished them and we would discuss the content together, so everything was a joint creation.

Over the last year or so, I did talk through with her what I was working on, but Jean was not always able to comprehend what I was telling her.  I was particularly eager to get this piece finished as I wanted her to be able to read it, but the research took a long time and, in the end, it was too late …

There is so much that I wanted to tell her, so much that I still want to tell her; but I did say the most important words in the English Language to her – often – and she said the same to me.

I love you.

I love you, Jean.

This is for you …

Belshazzar!  Bling-king of the Old Testament.  The Sitwells!  Jean and Me?

Well that was an attention-grabber wasn’t it?  Anyway, it will all make sense, so let us move on.  Everybody has heard of the Bloomsbury Set, one of the great literary and artistic groupings of the post-Great War era; but equally influential in those circles were the Sitwell sister and brothers.  They were very much avant-garde (in the vanguard) in the artistic circles of the day being very close to Cecil Beaton and William Walton among many others in the Arts; their mission was to protest against dullness and nobody can deny that they spread colour everywhere.

William Walton lived with the Sitwell family for a number of years and when he commenced work on his great choral piece: “Belshazzar’s Feast”, Osbert Sitwell worked alongside him to produce the libretto.  The libretto is the framework on which the music is built to produce a coherent whole and Osbert went beyond just the Book of Daniel to craft the poem / libretto for the composition.  Out of the 117 lines of the finished poem and vocal score, only 53 come from Daniel Chapter 5 which tells the story of Belshazzar’s Feast.  Osbert Sitwell has woven together elements of the Psalms (81 and 137).  Number 137 is the psalm that expresses the plight, most eloquently, of the Israelites being held captive by beginning “By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept when we remembered Zion. … How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?”

Also, there are extracts from the books of Isaiah and Revelations woven together to create a poem which succinctly establishes the situation of the Israelites, the events at the Feast, Belshazzar being slain during the night (I always wonder How? and by Whom?) then general rejoicing at the fall of Babylon (not exactly how it happens in the Book of Daniel, but never mind).

The poems of Osbert Sitwell that I have read are portraits of people of all types and conditions that he knew in England and in Italy.  As you read, each person is alive on the page, and Osbert captures succinctly the essence of his subject, their vanity, their weakness or their nobility and you feel that you know them well.  An air of melancholy, like dust, hangs over some of his subjects and that is not a feeling that we want at this time.

I enjoyed his writing and, when I have the time, will definitely add one or two of his earlier books to my reading list.

 

Sacheverell decided to pre-empt his autobiography by writing about his childhood and early adulthood whilst the memories were fresh in his mind rather than waiting until his older age when he might have forgotten quite a lot.  What he has done with four experiences as a child (and one as a young man) is to create an “One Thousand and One Arabian Nights” experience with digressions and diversions all the time so that you have almost forgotten each original story in reading all the pictures that he conjures up from literature, myths, architecture, horticulture, art and wherever inspiration has struck him.  He paints a realistic picture of a privileged life for a child in the first dozen or so years of the twentieth century but overlaid with a wonderful kaleidoscope of images which sparkle constantly before you.  I wonder what this work would have been like if he had delayed writing until much later in life?

Edith, the elder sister, is the one most known about generally.  A major figure in literary circles and promoter of young poets of promise.  Ridiculed by many, but her poetry and reading tours, particularly in the United States of America, were exceedingly popular.  She was awarded doctorates by Leeds, Durham, Sheffield and Oxford Universities and made a Dame by Queen Elizabeth II in the early 1950s.

I have read a lot of poetry in my time and a fair amount of Dame Edith’s, but, I am afraid that I did not find much of it to my taste.  A lot of it is surreal.  Surrealism is a form of art in which an attempt is made to represent and interpret the phenomena of dreams and similar experiences (*).  Unfortunately, that being the case, many of Dame Edith’s dreams must have been quite dark and terrifying.  I would not recommend a parent of a young child to read the poem: “Lullaby” aloud.  The images are quite unsettling:

“Thy mother’s hied to the vaster race:

The Pterodactyl made its nest

And laid a steel egg in her breast –

Under the Judas-coloured sun.

She’ll work no more, nor dance, nor moan,

And I am come to take her place.”

But, on reading her personal letters, she comes out as warm, funny, clever, interesting and sympathetic.  I must read more, one day, perhaps one of her novels and then I will have to knuckle down to the poetry and recite until the rhythm and the rhyme is right.

My mother was very interested in the Sitwell family and was absolutely certain that she was related to them through her mother’s line.  She wanted to find the connection and spent many years searching through family records without success but eventually produced a substantial family tree.  The details go back to the 1570s and cover a wide range of ancestors; but no connection to the Sitwell family.  Never mind, it was a valiant effort.

Some years ago, Jean and I visited the Victoria and Albert Museum one day for a good look around.  Whilst there, we saw the sign for the Jewellery Collection and made our way over to Level 2 to have a look.  This Collection is in its own individual strong-room and, as you know, I have worked in many strong-rooms during my banking years.  This one was particularly impressive and as secure as you can get.  After you pass through the outer armoured doors with the dual combination locks, there is a small vestibule leading to the inner steel-barred gate.  When we walked through, we were stopped in our tracks by a framed photograph of Dame Edith Sitwell on the wall.  It was photographed by Cecil Beaton, I think, and showed Dame Edith in magnificent profile wearing a typically flamboyant turban and bedizened in jewellery: ear-rings, rings, bracelets and more necklaces than some ladies would wear in a fortnight.  We gazed at it silently together whilst other patrons walked straight past us and into the exhibition  After a few moments, Jean started chuckling, then laughingly she said:  “You can’t deny it, of course of course you’re related!  Look at that conk, her whopping great hooter – distinct family resemblance you can tell.”

Silently, I gazed down my proboscis – I mean my nose – at her.  We went into the exhibition which was a glittering delight.  But, do you know?  Virtually all that I can remember of that visit is the portrait of Dame Edith Sitwell, who is definitely not related to me or my family.  I just wonder whether the picture is still in place though?

Background reading:

Dame Edith SITWELL       “Poems New and Old” Faber and Faber – Fifth Impression 1946

Dame Edith SITWELL       “The Penguin Poets – A selection by the Author” Penguin Books 1952

Dame Edith SITWELL       “Selected Letters” Edited by John Lehmann and Derek Parker, Macmillan and Co Ltd 1970

Osbert SITWELL                “Poems about People or England Reclaimed” Hutchinson & Co (Publishers) Ltd – First published 1965

Sacheverell SITWELL       “All Summer in a Day – An Autobiographical Fantasia” Duckworth 1926

William WALTON              “Belshazzar’s Feast for mixed choir, baritone solo and orchestra”  Vocal Score Oxford University Press Revised Edition 1955

The Holy Bible – Revised Standard Version 1952 – Books: Psalm 137, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, Revelations.

 

(*) The Shorter Oxford English Dictionary – Third Edition reprinted with corrections – 1964.

 

Rembrandt painted (I think!) the best image of Belshazzar (it is in the National Gallery if you want to go and have a look), but, here it is!

 

 

Download Receipt Number: 828686 / 4314995

 

If you want to see some of the images of the “Nest of Tigers”, click on this link to go to the National Portrait Gallery, enjoy them!

Osbert, Sacheverell & Edith Sitwell 1927

 

The Boy who grew a tree in his tummy.

 

Peter Fletcher is a young boy living with his parents, Douglas and Avril, in a comfortable house with a big garden in a town somewhere to the west of Croydon and east of Guildford.  He is popular at school, and, as his class are a couple of years away from any major exams, the atmosphere there is fairly relaxed. 

Douglas is a bit of a high-flyer in the computer industry; when people ask him what he does, he always says: “Well, I am in IT – I have to keep my eyes open and I drink lots of tea!  Hah-hah-hah!”  Peter and his mother have heard this so much, they are well and truly fed up with his comment.  Anyway, at the time of this story, Douglas was overseas and would be out of contact for a long time.  He was working in offices all over Australia, upgrading computers and getting them to talk to each other.  Which, I hope you agree, is very public-spirited; these poor computers have to work so hard for us and then just left alone at the end of the working day without anybody to talk to or let off steam about the work they have to do.  It must be a tremendous relief for them, to know that they are not alone and can talk to their colleagues.

One Saturday morning, Avril picked all the fruit and vegetables they needed that day from the garden, as most of it was set out as an allotment, and she grew practically everything that they needed for the kitchen.  While she was preparing their lunch, Peter came into the kitchen, picked up an apple from the bowl and started to eat it.  Eat is not quite the word: devour is more like it, Peter held the apple by the stalk and ate it all.  The peel, the flesh, the core and all the pips.  When he had finished, he popped the stalk into the rubbish bin and let loose a mighty belch which echoed around the kitchen like the death rattle of a hippopotamus.

 When Avril had recovered, she shouted out: “Peter, how could you do that?  Now apologise!”

“I am sorry, Mum.” said Peter.  Then a few moments later: “Mum, I know I am sorry, but what am I sorry for?”

 When Avril had recovered her composure again, they sat down at the kitchen table together and had a long chat about the etiquette of burping in public and keeping the noise under control.  As they finished, Avril kissed Peter tenderly and returned to the counter to finish preparing their meal.  Unfortunately, during all the commotion, she did not notice that some of the potato peel and a little piece of earth had fallen into the colander and was cooked with all the vegetables.  Peter did not notice it in the sauce and ate the lot.

Now, floating around in his tummy, were the apple pips, the earth and the potato peel un-noticed by Peter’s Turkish Wrestler and gradually they got closer and closer to each other…

What do you mean, you don’t understand about Turkish Wrestlers?  Alright, alright, just to clarify: everybody has a Turkish Wrestler working in their tummy.  He starts off the digestive process, throwing food against the walls, jumping on it, banging it about, squeezing and crushing it.  That explains all the noise you hear from your tummy at times, the groaning, grumbling and grinding, then the rumbling and splashing sounds that we have all experienced.  The inside of your tummy is a place where the eyes of man have never set foot, so just ignore all that piffle they tell you in Biology.  Peter’s Turkish Wrestler is a man called Kemal Buldan and, at the moment, he is too small to carry out his true profession as a wrestler.  Has anybody ever seen a small Turkish Wrestler?  No.  Precisely, and that is why all these proto-wrestlers start their careers working in people’s tummies.  Very smart they look too in their Kisbets (the leather trousers worn in oiled wrestling bouts) – not that anybody can see them, of course.

Where was I?  Oh yes, the apple pips, the earth and the potato peel were swirling around in the watery fluid in Peter’s tummy (it only came up to Kemal’s shins, not too deep); then they all came together and the pips were absorbed into the earth which itself adhered to the peel.  A shock – a bit like a pleasant tremor – spread out through Peter’s body.  He felt a warm and happy sensation pass through his chest, Kemal fell over, picked himself up, scratched his head and got back to work.

Two weeks passed, all was quiet and peaceful and, somehow, Kemal never caught up with the apple pip (which he would have pushed straight down the alimentary canal) so it had germinated and started growing.  The roots started to push out and the teeny-tiny trunk did what it is programmed to do: look for the light.

“Ow!  Blooming Ouch!  What’s that?”  Peter was having his morning wash, felt something in his tummy button, picked at it and it really hurt, obviously not fluff then.  He pointed it out to his mother, who said: “Oh dear.  Let’s try to get rid of it then, Peter.”  Avril picked up her eye-brow tweezers and a magnifying glass, had a good look and said: “It looks like a tiny little leaf.  How did that get there?  Now let’s see if we can tweak it out.”  Peter’s reaction indicated that the tiny little leaf was not going to go without a fight and he went very pale and sweaty.  Avril said she would get him an appointment with the doctor that afternoon.  What Avril did not know is that just as she was pulling at the leaf from the outside, Kemal was pulling at the roots from the inside; the trunk had found Peter’s tummy button and was working its way out from there whilst the root bundle had locked itself in place like a limpet.

Peter went to school and, after he had finished for the day, went to the doctor’s surgery and met his mother there.  After a little while waiting, they were called in to the doctor’s room.  This was a dark, gloomy, high-ceiled room with one wall completely occupied by an enormous book-case filled with medical magazines and periodicals along with countless text books, all showing signs of wear having been consulted many times over the years.  Against another wall was a full-size skeleton hanging from a hook and numerous charts and diagrams.  On the other walls were numerous framed photographs of Doctor Clayton with various professors and dignitaries along with – in pride of place – his medical certificates; oh, and there was a small dusty window as well.  Dr Clayton was a kindly man, but he was often a bit brusque with his patients as he was under such pressure.  He put Avril and Peter at ease and asked what the problem was and then had a good look at the leaf in Peter’s tummy button.  He reached for a pair of medical tweezers and said he would try to remove it but Peter explained about the pain he had experienced earlier.  “Interesting!” exclaimed the doctor and then turned to his book-case, muttered to himself, pulled a ladder over, climbed almost to the top, recovered a book, descended and returned to his desk.  “Now we are going to get somewhere.” he said to Peter and Avril and read through sections of the book for a few minutes.  When he had finished, he shut the book (Rudge, Simkins and Willis: “On floral and fungal growths in the body”) and rang a hand-bell on his desk for the pharmacist to come in whilst starting to write a prescription for Peter.  When the white-coated pharmacist came in, the doctor said “Ah, Mister Reeday, I am just writing a prescription for an arborifacient, could you make it up now, please?”

 Mr Reeday responded: “Don’t you mean an aborti …” but Doctor Clayton interrupted testily: “No, not an abortifacient!  The boy has a foliaceous eruption from his umbilicus – which needs an arborifacient.  Now, take this book, the formula for the prescription is on pages 68 to 70 and bring the book back to me later, please.”

 The pharmacist had a look at the leaf, refrained from mentioning tweezers, and asked Avril and Peter to sit in the waiting room for a little while.  Whilst waiting, the doctor’s clerk came over and said: “I have the bill for you here, Mrs Fletcher, the fee today for the consultation and the prescription is three florins, would you like to pay now, or shall we send the bill over later?”  Peter looked a bit shocked but Avril got her purse out, paid the sum due and the clerk went off to write out her receipt.  It took a little while for Mr Reeday to make out the prescription, but when he returned, he handed Peter a small cardboard box with “Prescription – Peter Fletcher” carefully written on the top.  He opened the box to show them a large oblong pill inside resting on a piece of cotton wool, a virulent green glow seemed to be coming from within.  “Now, this pill should be taken as soon as you get home with plenty of water, but no later than nine o’clock this evening as all the chemicals will have worn out by then.  Any questions?  No.  Good night then – Oh, have a cup of hot cocoa about fifteen minutes after taking the pill to take the taste away.”

When they got home, they went into the kitchen, Peter poured himself a glass of water, grinned at his mother, said: “Hail, Caesar!  Those about to die, salute thee!” and swallowed the pill.  Avril hugged him tightly, said that she hoped earnestly he was NOT going to die and started making them both a cup of cocoa.

Down in Peter’s tummy, the pill landed like a bombshell.  Debris scattered all over the place when it hit the floor and Kemal looked at it in horror.  He walked around it carefully, then decided it looked much too dangerous to throw around and try to break up.  The pill was pulsing and flashes of green inside could be seen through the casing.  All he could think was that it was about to explode.  What could be done?  Who could control it and make Peter, and everybody inside him, safe?  Of course, the dwarves and elves who worked in the upper and lower intestines; they had the machinery and cutting equipment to deal with this sort of infernal machine.  Kemal gingerly picked up the pill, it was now completely spherical, and the surface was completely taut as if whatever was inside was trying to break out.  He could not let it happen here.  Where was the hatch to get through to the intestines?  It was always moving around.  There!  There it was, half-way up the side wall and, fortuitously, one of the new tree roots that were working their way around the tummy passed quite close.  He ran along the tree root, reached the hatch and heaved it open, shouted: “Sorry about this, I can’t manage it on my own.  I’ll bring round a couple of bottles of Raki later!”  He pushed the pill through, slammed the hatch shut, jumped down and took cover behind the remains of Peter’s afternoon snack.  There was a long, ominous rumbling from beyond the hatch, then the unmistakeable sound of a bulldozer in action, followed by a flame-thrower, then blessed silence.

It took Kemal two hours to pluck up his courage and visit the intestines.  He took a full case of Raki and lots of glasses.  The dwarves and elves were waiting for him a little way along the hall, they did not look happy.  “I am sorry.”  He said.  “I am really, really sorry.  I did not know what to do, I could not help myself.”  By now, he was surrounded by dwarves and elves, all scowling at him and carrying large metal bars and hand-tools.  He was very worried now.

The biggest and oldest of the dwarves pushed through the throng to Kemal until they were bumping chest to chest and said:  “Tha’ did right, laddie.  If that thing had gone when you were holding it, you would have been blown to smithereens.  We’re the ones with the kit to deal with those poisons and we’re glad to see you safe.  Now, I see you’ve got some of that Turkish falling-down juice with you, it’s time to celebrate hey!”

 After a drink or two, they swore loyalty and eternal friendship.  A little later, Kemal showed some wrestling holds and throws to the younger dwarves, they showed promise but their insistence that they had to keep their daggers on at all times was a bit worrying.  Later still, they toasted their fathers and mothers.  Then their grandfathers and grandmothers.  Then their great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, but then they lost count and got a bit confused.  Some of the younger dwarves fell over and started snoring where they lay.

Shortly after this, Kemal decided that he really should return to base.  None of the dwarves was in a fit state to talk to, so he went over to where the elves were sitting and said he had to get back to the tummy now and he would return in the morning to collect all the glasses.  “Don’t worry, Mr Buldan,” said one of the elves, “We will bring the glasses through for you and thank you very much for a lovely evening.  We have all enjoyed ourselves!”  They all looked very rosy-checked and had big beaming smiles on their faces.  Kemal wished them all a good night and returned to his domain.

 Kemal managed to get one of his boots off before he fell over – fast asleep!

 He had a good night’s sleep, but when Kemal woke up, he rather wished he hadn’t.  His mouth tasted as if he had eaten something that was putrefying which had then crumbled and was now stuck to the back of his throat; his head felt as if someone had wrapped steel bands around it and was in the process of tightening them.  Then he saw the table nearby, on it were all his glasses (beautifully clean and glistening), a large jug of a heavy fruit juice, a plate of bread rolls and a bowl of peaches, nectarines and apricots.  Thanking the elves for their generosity, he tucked into their bounty.  Soon afterwards, he felt great.  He stood up, belched contentedly and got back to work.

Peter and his mother meanwhile did not have a very good evening.  They went into the living room after having a couple of cups of cocoa, Peter did not feel like eating.  Avril placed a large bucket by Peter’s chair, he glanced at it.  “What’s that?”

“Sundry purpose bucket,” came the response.

“What’s it for then?” 

“Sundry purposes.”  said his mother enigmatically.

They did not feel like watching the television, so listened to some of Avril’s dance records.  “Prehistoric.” said Peter.  “No,” from Avril “Just five years before you were born.”

“Definitely prehistoric then.” responded Peter.

After an hour, Peter said “I don’t think it has worked.”  Avril, who had been studying a medical encyclopaedia and seen no use of the bucket, agreed with him.

“What can we do now?  You know I have been bleeding a bit from my tummy and it still hurts an awful lot.”  Avril put down her book, looked lovingly at Peter and after a while thinking about what they should do, responded: “Right, you stay in bed and take the morning off school.  I will go in and tell them what’s going on and try to find out what we should do next, OK?”

Next morning, Avril would have to go on the School Run.

In the morning, bright and early, Avril walked up to the school gates and there, as she expected, were the alpha-mummies clad alike in go-faster lycra, clustering around the start-line making sure nobody else could get to the front.  All dressed-up in electric-blue or lipstick-pink leotards with their hard eyes appraising each other warily and looking with complete disdain at the other mums, and a few dads, who were dressed in whatever came to hand for the school run.  The alpha-mummies were eager to get the run over as quickly as possible today.  All of them had watched their favourite cookery programme on the television last night, presented by Rosina Brooke.  The alpha-mummies idolised Rosina; she was one of the top celebrity lady-chefs in the country (or is that lady celebrity-chef?).  They all had a complete collection of her cookery and life-style books, every device or implement that she used was quickly acquired and used in their kitchens.  Many of them had a signed photograph of Rosina (framed, of course) in pride of place on their kitchen walls; her lustrous blue eyes gazing out at her adoring worshippers.  Woe betide anybody who had the temerity to even think about painting a moustache above those luscious lips!

In last night’s episode of: “Rosina - in your Gourmet Kitchen” she had demonstrated Cornish Pasties with a Tunisian Twist, and all the alpha-mummies were desperate to finish the School Run quickly and get home to make this delicious repast for their adoring families to lunch on.

 Avril meanwhile had other things on her mind and scanned the (non-alpha) throng for one of her trusty friends.  Over there, on the other side was Gertrude - just the right person to confide in.  She waved over and Gertrude saw her and noticed the look of concern on Avril’s face so knew something was awry and started to move over.

Just at that moment, Mrs Ellis, the Deputy Head, came out and rang a hand-bell as warning that the Run was about to commence, blew her whistle and they were off.  Except Avril, as she needed to let Mrs Ellis know about Peter’s absence this morning.  Avril gave her a summary of the situation, she expressed concern, said that Avril seemed to have the situation in hand and, if there was anything the school could do, to let her know.

By now, the runners had covered a fair bit of ground and Avril had to run pretty hard to catch up.  It took a while of determined running, but she caught up with the stragglers at the back of the pack, Gertrude was lagging behind and waved Avril over.  Gertrude took Avril’s arm and said:  “You’re winded.  Don’t say anything, get your breath back and we will talk in a while.”  Avril was much reassured by Gertrude’s confidence and they trotted along side by side for another mile or so.

When Avril felt more comfortable, she told Gertrude the full situation as succinctly as she could, Gertrude was a good friend, they had known each other for years and she was always able to see clearly through a problem and find a good solution.  Gertrude listened carefully and they ran on a bit further in silence while she considered the situation.

“Avril,” said Gertrude “what you need is a tree surgeon.  No, not one of those two axemen who practise around here.  You need a highly-skilled one to handle this situation.  Ah, we are nearly finished now, thank heavens!  Come straight over to my home with me and we will find somebody for you.  But, be warned, this will probably cost you a handful of golden guineas.”

At this point, they crossed the finish line and were given their times.  Not a single alpha-mummy was in sight, but most of the other mums and dads clapped them over the line before catching up on all the news.  Avril and Gertrude made their farewells and walked quickly to Gertrude’s home to do their research.

They were successful and two days later, Avril and Peter set off for Peter’s appointment.  They took the Central London Railway line to Bond Street station and then walked over to Harley Street.  Peter looked at his mother with worry written all over his face: “Mum, I’m scared.  What’s going to happen?”

Avril gazed at Peter, and said: “Don’t worry, dear.  They know what they are doing.  You will be alright.”  But inside herself, she was just as worried.

They reached the right address.  On the wall by the front door was a large well-polished brass plaque that read:

Mr Sebastopol Jack

Fellow of the Royal Society of Consulting Tree Surgeons.

 

 Avril rang the bell and stepped back.  In a short while, the door was flung open and a very smartly dressed young man stepped out, looked at them with a beaming smile and said: “Peter?  Mrs Fletcher?  Welcome to Mr Jack’s surgery.  Do, please come in and we will get the paperwork done in the waiting room.  He smiled at Peter as they stepped in and said: “I can see you are worried; but please don’t be.  Mr Jack will care for you and look after you very well, believe me.”

In a little while, they were ushered into a large, airy, wood-panelled room and Mr Jack himself greeted them.  He was a tall broad-shouldered man wearing a flowing green and brown surgical robe and cap (to keep his hair in place) who quickly reassured them with his grasp of the situation.  He asked Peter to take off his shirt and lie down on the examination couch in the centre of the room, switched on a set of powerful lights above Peter, put on a pair of glasses with magnifying lenses then spent a few minutes intensely examining the growth in Peter’s tummy button.

“Right,” he said eventually as a couple of nurses came in to assist, “I will need a dose of local anaesthetic.  This is just to numb the skin around your tummy so you don’t feel anything, Peter.”

One of the nurses went off to prepare the anaesthetic.  Mr Jack turned to the other nurse and the young man, who had just come back in.  “I will need three or four small, surgical Retractors, a 20-gauge chainsaw and a 35-gauge chainsaw in reserve, along with a length of plastic tubing.  Now, could you get a flask of hot chocolate and a couple of cups for Mrs Fletcher and put the screen around the couch, please?”

A 20-gauge chainsaw is one with a one-twentieth of an inch (1/20^th) blade and a 35-gauge is one with a one-thirty-fifth of an inch (1/35^th) blade.

The young man busied himself getting the screen in place and then bringing a tray over to Avril with a flask of spiced hot chocolate and two cups and saucers (one for Peter when all was finished) and saw that she was comfortable.

The other nurse went over to a large wooden cabinet, unlocked it and took out two surgical trays.  On one of them she placed a 35-gauge chainsaw, a thin piece of plastic tubing and some retractors.  She then picked up the 20-gauge chainsaw, filled a tiny jug with petrol and proceeded to top up the chainsaw’s fuel tank.  When the tank was full, she sealed the lid and took the chainsaw to an electric socket on the wall under a sign saying: “Chainsaw starter only.”  She plugged the chainsaw in and there was a delicate cough followed by a high-pitched whine, the sweet aroma of petrol fumes started to fill the air.  She put the device on the tray and placed this on a table by the couch.

The first nurse had given Peter an injection and his skin started to get numb.  Mr Jack helped to put up a small curtain over Peter’s chest and then explained to Peter and Avril what he intended to carry out and asked Peter to lie back and try not to move about or to look over the curtain, reassuring him that he would not be hurt in any way.  His assistant, the young man, asked Avril to sit down again and poured her a fresh cup of chocolate.

Mr Jack asked the nurses to use the retractors to gently pull the skin away from the little tree trunk, which they did and, whilst holding it back, he looked into the hole to see that the root ball was secure and watertight.  He then got to work with the 20-gauge chainsaw and the whine deepened considerably as he expertly trimmed off all the suckers and branches from the root ball up to where the trunk appeared above Peter’s tummy button.   Every now and then he stopped and said: “Suction”, the nurse moved a small tube over and vacuumed out all the debris that had collected in the hole.  When the trunk was completely trimmed, Mr Jack wrapped a piece of plastic tubing around it from just above the root ball to about three-quarters of an inch above skin level, then asked the nurse to remove the retractors and gently ease the skin back to the tubing.

All done!  The nurses removed the screens and helped Peter to sit up again.  Whilst Peter was putting his shirt back on, Mr Jack pulled a chair over from his desk, sat next to Avril and explained all that he had done.  Peter came over and sat in the chair waiting for him.  “Mum!  Mr Jack’s brilliant.  I didn’t feel a thing and all the scratching pain has gone now.”

“Thank you, Peter,” responded Mr Jack, “now, I will need to see you again in a few weeks to check on progress and prescribe you some special Humus pills to give the root ball in your tummy all the nutrients it needs.  Also, if you ever go to a good Greek restaurant …” Here he was interrupted as a very irritated rumbling noise came from Peter’s tummy.  “Sorry!” he resumed, “I mean a GOOD TURKISH Restaurant.”  The rumbling stopped.  “You can’t do any harm by having a good portion of hummus as a starter.”

The pills arrived and Mr Jack explained that they were made from irradiated and pasteurised finest quality top soil which would feed the roots in Peter’s tummy with all the essentials they required.  To make the dosage simple, Peter only needed to take one tablet on the same date each month.  After making another routine appointment to see Mr Jack a few weeks later and paying the fee for the consultation (which did indeed come to quite a few golden guineas), Peter and Avril said their goodbyes and made their way home.

The next day when Peter returned to school, he had to let his class-mates know what had happened to him; he had to do this quickly as they would find out eventually.  This caused immense, raucous hilarity amongst his class-mates who called him Pip-Pip Peter from then on.  After a couple of weeks everything settled down and Peter’s situation became part of their life.  He consistently refused to build a swing for them to play on.  Every time the teacher mentioned something like:  “Well, the core of the conundrum is …” or “Peel off the label.”  Most of the boys would burst out with laughter, turn round and say: “Did you hear that, Pip-Pip?  Peel off the label.  Sure it won’t hurt?”  Peter would smile and everybody just carried on with their lessons – until the next time.

In the playground though, if any of the boys from other classes started to tease or bully Peter, one or two of his own class would quietly turn up by his shoulder and defuse the situation; much to Peter’s relief, they were comrades after all and they stuck together.

Soon after this Kemal kept banging his head while working in Peter’s tummy.  That was it, he was growing up.   He quickly made the arrangements for a much smaller replacement wrestler to take his place and then return to his homeland: Turkey!  He popped through the hatch to the intestines to let his friends know he would be leaving in a couple of days, they arranged to have the farewell celebration the next night.  On his way back, one of the elves’ team leaders had a quiet word and suggested that if the dwarves invited him to take part in their “Dagger and Boot” dance, it would be best to decline and sit that one out, Kemal nodded his agreement.

The next day, Kemal, freshly shaved and hair neatly combed, joined the dwarves and elves in their communal hall.  The dwarves thrust a large tankard of Bear-skin Brown Ale into his hands and the evening got off to a good, convivial start.  After a while, the dwarves asked him to join in with their dance, mindful of his warning, Kemal politely declined.  When the dance finally lumbered to a close, Kemal was quite shaken and relieved to have avoided the carnage.  Manfully, he joined in with giving first aid to the injured, washing the blood away from wounds, applying pads and bandages and holding them in place until the bleeding stopped.   

When all the damage had been cleared up, one of the elves handed him a small glass and said “Try this, this is our drink, the dwarves don’t like it.”  Kemal thanked him and the elf filled the glass from a small black flask.  The glass felt warm and the drink looked like water with a slightly reddish hue.  

Kemal took a sip – it was icy cold!  He dipped his finger in the liquid, it was warm; he took another sip, again icy cold but with a sharp flavour of berries and the bitterness of herbs.  “Thank you, thank you, it is delicious.  What is it called?”  The elf said something indistinct, Kemal asked him to repeat it, it sounded like the “Erl-King’s noggin”.  Kemal asked if he could have another glass, please, the elf smiled and said “Just one.”  With his glass topped up, Kemal sat down to really savour the fine drink he had been treated to.

The evening swirled on, with singing (but no more dancing) and toasts to all and sundry.  Eventually, Kemal decided it was time to leave as he had to welcome his replacement and make his departure shortly; the dwarves tried to present him with a full-sized stuffed and mounted black bear; fortunately, he was able to decline this as he had to travel light, but a sheathed dagger was thrust into his belt for him to keep.  He eventually was able to make his final and regretful farewells to all his friends and commence his homeward journey.  He was able to carry out the handover to his, much smaller, replacement and make his way out; Peter was fast asleep and his mouth (fortunately) was wide open.  Kemal made his way to the railway station, nobody noticed him en route, and boarded a EurasiaTunnel express – the Silver Crescent – which would take him all the way to his homeland without having to change trains.  There was a small compartment where Kemal and fellow returnees could travel comfortably without being noticed by the other passengers.  Thus Kemal left these shores, never to return.

Interestingly, some years later, Peter was watching one of the Eurosport television channels waiting for the netball finals to be shown when the results of that year’s National Wrestling Championships from Turkey were shown, and there was Kemal – the champion!  He was just waiting for the presentation to be made by Queen Daphné, Peter did not know why, but he was transfixed by the screen and stared at Kemal in wonder.  In a moment, the camera was pointing straight at Kemal and it was as if they were looking straight into each other’s eyes.  A look of recognition, confusion and bewilderment passed over Kemal’s face then the view panned over to the victor’s podium where Kemal was being shepherded, he still looked a bit startled, but he took his place.  He knelt down to await the queen.

This was the first time that any monarch of Greater Turkey had attended a wrestling championship and the capacity crowd was jubilant at the honour they were being shown.  As Queen Daphné walked down the steps everyone sank to their knees in awe and respect, she smiled at those around her and, when she reached the arena, turned round and gestured for the crowd to stand again.  Walking towards the podium, she was given the crown of laurels by a courtier.  She reached Kemal, raised the crown above her head and turned round slowly to show the crown to all four corners of the stadium.  To huge acclaim, the queen then placed the crown on Kemal’s head and bade him stand up, shook his hand, said a few words to him and made her way to leave the stadium.  As the queen's car drew away, the president of the Turkish Wrestler’s Federation stepped forward with a velvet glove stuffed full with gold rings to present to the champion.

 The screen then went momentarily blank and cut to the television studios to carry on with the next broadcast.  Peter watched the netball feeling slightly bemused for a while, but soon recovered.  Meanwhile a warm glow suffused his tummy for some hours.

About six months after Peter’s first appointment with Mr Sebastopol Jack, he was sitting contentedly in the kitchen.  He had just had his third follow-up appointment by then and he, and his tree, were making good progress.  Avril was baking, she was just putting the finishing touches to an apple pie and handed over a piece of fruit for Peter.  He looked at it and went a bit green.  “Sorry, Mum.  I just can’t eat apples again.” he blurted out, and he never ate an apple again.  But, in the autumn, he always had one or two to give his friends.

The End.

Author’s warning: If you wish to grow a tree in your tummy, you must take great care as it is a procedure that is prone to complications.  Peter was extremely lucky in that he was able to see a top-class tree surgeon who gave him the treatment he needed.  I strongly suggest that you consult a tree surgeon with an excellent track record in supporting patients growing trees in their tummies before you commence ingestion and propagation, particularly so if you like peaches.

Postscript.  After he left his school, Peter enrolled in an agricultural college.  In their Topiary and Hedgerow classes, he met a very nice young lady who was in a similar condition to him, although she was growing a pear tree in her tummy.  I do hope that they decide to settle down and run an orchard, together …