Bert Stokes at Passchendaele, 70 years later WWI soldier reflects amidst fallen pals

Press, 22 August 1987, Page 21

Bert Stokes at Passchendaele, 70 years later WWI soldier reflects amidst fallen pals

OLIVER RIDDELL

looks at the diary of

Bert Stokes, of Auckland, who attended the seventieth anniversary memorial at Passchendaele, southern Belgium, in July. During the last six months of 1917, thousands of New Zealand soldiers, and more than a million men altogether, died in the swamps of Passchendaele. Bert Stokes was the only New Zealand veteran at last month’s anniversary ceremonies.

Thursday, July 9. A group of 42 passengers, including eight First World War veterans, left Victoria Station. Only four of us were at Passchendaele. When we got to France, all the British passports were O.K. but the one New Zealand passport was taken away and eveiyone was held up for 15 minutes. Maybe the Rainbow Warrior or Mururoa Atoll cast their shadow. We drove by coach from Calais to Ypres. Our coach party comprised all sorts of people, young and old, as there were some Second World War veterans as well as those from the First. Some young people were with their grandfathers, and others were there because of the memory of a relative or friend. Some were there because of their interest in the First World War. We arrived at Ypres at 6 p.m. My room-mate at the hotel was George Blaylock, a Chelsea pensioner all resplendent in his scarlet jacket and tricorner hat. He is 89. After settling in we went off by coach to the Menin Gate to hear the sounding of the “Last Post” — a ceremony which occurs every night and has done for 60 years. The buglers are from the Ypres Fire Brigade. There were two buglers this night and although an “off night” there was a good crowd there. Friday, July 10. We left by coach at 9 a.m. to do a round of the Messines area. We visited Ploegstraet (“Plugstreet” to us) and viewed Hill 63 where we had our guns on June 7, 1917, on the day the New Zealand Division captured Messines village. On the way up to Messines we passed the approximate spot where we were in a shellhole when shrapnel burst overhead — a piece lodging in my writing outfit. I took over as bus commentator to tell the story of the action at Messines. Then we visited the New Zealand Park where there is a memorial to the New Zealanders who were killed at Messines. The group assembled around the memorial while I laid a poppy wreath. When I turned around to face our friends I felt a wave of goodwill surge up. With all the cameras clicking and rolling there, it was a very emotional moment for me after 70 years. On leaving, we passed through Messines Square and stopped at the plaque which indicates that Messines is twinned with Featherston in the Wairarapa. Nearly all the recruits were trained there for overseas service from 1916 on in the brand new camp. We went to Kemmel for a late lunch and on the way back called at Spanbrockmolen, the huge crater caused by one of the mines exploded at Messines in 1917. It is now called the “Pool of Peace,” a lovely quiet spot. Back in Ypres we again attended the “Last Post” at Menin Gate, this time with six buglers and a very big crowd. I went to bed early, very tired, but pleased after such a big day that I could keep up with the others. One event of the day was a visit to Waterloo Farm, where our guns were positioned on October 12, 1917. Having got the permission of the farmer to cross his farm, we walked about 300 yards, to where research suggested, and I had no difficulty in agreeing, that the lay of the land was exactly as I remembered. But of course in 1917 it had all been mud, with shell holes filled with water and absolute desolation. I gave a brief talk about the

conditions on that day and the very heavy casualties we suffered, killed and wounded. A 8.8. C. television crew joined us during the day and took a lot of shots for a documentary.

Saturday, July 11. In the morning we visited a bunker which had been known to the father of one of our group. This was a first-time discovery, and one of our party read from a book the account of a soldier who had used that bunker in 1915. We had lunch at Langemark, a key village in the battle of Passchendaele. A free afternoon led on to a busy evening.

We assembled at St George’s Memorial Church for the march across the square to Menin Gate. The organiser persuaded me it would be much easier for everyone if I agreed to go in a wheelchair like the others. It would avoid any anxiety about

me perhaps faltering on the way. So four of us Passchendaele veterans lined up in wheelchairs behind the Royal Band of the British Legion and the colour bearers, and we headed the parade. It was a memorable ride being pushed over cobblestones. The noise recalled the clatter of horses’ hooves and the roll of the iron tyres of our guns and munition wagons as we went through that very square in 1917. Then, the town of Ypres was just a heap of bricks; here I was, 70 years later, being pushed in a wheelchair with the band playing familiar marches: Our progress was made the more memorable as the huge crowds clapped and cheered as the wheelchairs passed by. On arrival at Menin Gate, we were pushed into front positions where we could see and hear everything. We were the target of countless cameras, including

8.8. C. and Belgian television,

Those of us who could get out of the wheelchairs stood to attention at the playing of the "Last Post” and the national anthems. I could feel a big lump in my throat and my eyes moistened. After the ceremony, the four of us were mobbed by sightseers with cameras and children with autograph books. Then we were wheeled back through cheering crowds. We were the only four survivors from Passchendaele there, and the casual crowds seemed to know it. Then we had the Tattoo, with the band of the British Legion, the Band of the Royal Dragoons, the Ypres Band and the Band of the Belgian Navy. They played popular airs of 1914-18, including “Tipperary.” We old-timers thought the Festival Party would be too hot, noisy and crowded, so stayed away. We were very tired, but happy with the day’s events. A cup of tea instead was a great reviver.

Sunday, July 12. We headed for Tyn Cot Cemetery, the largest in the Ypres Salient with 13,000 graves. All roads were choked with people heading for the 11 a.m. ceremony. It was a very lovely day and the whole countryside had turned out.

Again we were wheeled to the front positions. Before it started I met the New Zealand High Commissioner in London, Mr Bryce Harland, and his family, and also Mr Gerrard Thompson, the New Zealand Ambassador at Brussels, who had all come.

The ceremony was very impressive, led by clergymen from Ypres and Brussels, with the British Chaplain General in charge. Princess Alice of Gloucester, accompanied by Prince Philip of Belgium, laid the only wreath. A helicopter flew overhead dropping poppies, but its aim was a bit astray. I had a long talk with Princess Alice and when she heard I was from New Zealand, she clasped my hand in both of hers and said: “How wonderful.” After all the television crews had had what they wanted, I said I wanted to find my friend Eric Stoneham’s name on the Tyn Cot panels. More than 1100 New Zealanders whose graves are unknown are named on these panels. My wheelchair was run across the lovely neat lawns as we tried to find the right panel. A cry of “Found it” went up and there was a half-circle recess in the wall with the New Zealand names. Included was that of Stoneham E. A., Otago Battalion. My friends photographed me standing alongside the panel. Eric was killed on October 4, 1917, only days after he had arrived. Eric was my cousin and it was his sister that gave me the pocket book in which a piece of shrapnel lodged at Messines on June 7, 1917. It was a long hike back to the coach and I was glad of the wheelchair. There still seemed to be hundreds of people taking photographs. Then we went to the Gheluveldt Chateau lunch where we were welcomed by the Mayor of Zonnebeke. Both places were obliterated during Passchendaele. All nine Passchendaele vet-

erans that had gone to Tyn Cot were at seperate tables for lunch. My table included the Deputy Chairman of the War Graves Commission, an official of the Imperial War Museum, and the famous Rose Coombs who is the authority on war graves and has just been made Librarian at the Imperial War Museum.

After Tyn Cot I reverted to walking, but was glad of a nap after the two-hour lunch with champagne and red wine. Whenever I walked there was always someone to steady my arm.

The four veterans from our coach snoozed under the trees at a nearby church, and then we were guided through the milling crowds into the church for the evening service. I sat in the pew next to the member of Parliament for Ypres, who was staggered when I told him I came from faraway New Zealand. I preferred to stay sitting during the hymns aS it was stiflingly hot and I was glad to get out into the cool evening air. One of the high points of the day for me was getting back to the hotel for a good cup of tea. Afterwards we went for the last time to the Menin Gate to hear the “Last Post” ceremony. There was a huge crowd but this time I walked. This was the last official ceremony of the anniversary and there seemed to be even more cameras than before.

It was quite a while before I could get to sleep that night, but then I slept very soundly and did not waken until the unheard time of 7.45 a.m. I was a bit alarmed because I had to breakfast and pack for a 9 a.m. start. Monday, July 13. It was another fine day and we made three calls at cemeteries at Vlamestinghe where I hoped to find the graves of those pals killed alongside me on October 11, 1917. In my haste to pack I had put my cemetery plans in my bag, which then disappeared into the bowels of the bus.

Alas, we did not get to the right cemetery. Time was running out as we had to be at Calais by 2 p.m. I was disappointed and so was the party. One cemetery we did visit was where a field of poppies had been the inspiration for the poem “In Flanders Fields.” One of our veterans told us he had watched Captain Bruce Bairs-

father — the creator of “Old Bill” — draw his first cartoon on that very spot.

When we reached London later in the day it was hard to say goodbye to all our weekend friends.

So ended the 70th anniversary of Passchendaele. I said on the Sunday night (I am over 90 now) that if I died on the morrow I would do so feeling it had all been worth while. I was told not to dare, as they had promised to get me home to Auckland.

It has been a memorable and moving experience. Going about the scenes of 70 years ago has been something not given to many and certainly to very few who served in 1914-18. So for a few days I lived again the memories of those far off times and paid my tribute to many pals who stayed in the Flanders Fields. Some were killed standing right next to me. I owe profound thanks to those who encouraged me to think that at my age I could go and enjoy it. Without them I would never ■have made the trip.

Princess clasped hand