The Love of a Brother
From Plaistow to Passchendaele
Written by Percy Cearns in 1917
Edited by Martin Cearns
Published by Cearns Books at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Cearns Books
This book was first published in a print edition in February 2011 under ISBN 978-0-9568058-0-5 and is still available in print
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Introduction
FRED CEARNS
The Love of a Brother
From Plaistow to Passchendaele
FOR many years there was a private book on my family’s shelves. I did not know of its existence until some five years ago when I was turning out my parents’ house. I discovered a most fascinating and enlightening read.
The book contained the story of my great uncle, Fred Cearns. It was written by his brother Percy within weeks of Fred’s death at the age of 28 in August 1917 at Ypres whilst serving with the London Regiment (Royal Fusiliers). The brothers were clearly very close.
Fred was one of over one million British and Commonwealth soldiers who died in The First World War; but this is a very personal and revealing story. The book has been reproduced as close to the original as possible, including some grammatical inaccuracies that Percy made and idiosyncrasies of his style of writing.
The family home was in Plaistow and Fred and Percy were two of 13 children. The book describes in detail family life in London’s East End at the end of the 19th century and as such is an interesting piece of social history. Then as a young man it tells of his playing football including a few games for West Ham United’s reserve team at the Boleyn Ground, Upton Park. Their father JWY (Jimmy) Cearns worked for the Thames Ironworks and was on the first committee when a works team was formed in 1895. He was then one of the inaugural directors when the team went professional and became West Ham United in 1900.
And two of Fred’s brothers mentioned in the book also were to play a part in the history of West Ham United. Frank became Secretary from 1946 to 1956 and Will (WJC) was a director from 1924 and Chairman from 1934 until his death in 1950.
In November 1914 Fred responded to the call and enlisted with the army. In the summer of 1915 he was in Gallipoli; and by the summer of 1916 he was on the Somme. In March 1917 he suffered injury and had to return to Blighty for convalescence but he was back and ready for action by the time of the big push near Ypres in July 1917, the campaign which is now known as Passchendaele.
The book tells us much about Fred at this time as Percy was an army dispatch rider and on his days off he was able to use his Triumph motorbike to get to meet up with his brother. History is full of stories of the horrendous conditions in the mud of Flanders and the 1917 battles for Passchendaele, but here we have much interesting and intimate detail of what could happen away from the front line.
Martin Cearns
Loughton, Essex, 2011
THE CERTIFICATE FROM THE
COMMONWEALTH WAR GRAVES COMMISSION
In Memory of
Private FREDERICK ERNEST CEARNS
281228, 4th Bn. attd. 3rd Bn., London Regiment (Royal Fusiliers)
who died age 28 on 13 August 1917
Son of Mr. J. W. Y. and Mrs. E. A. Cearns, of 8, Plaistow Park Rd., Plaistow, London.
Enlisted Nov., 1914. Also served at Gallipoli. Previously wounded in March,1917.
Remembered with honour
YPRES (MENIN GATE) MEMORIAL (Panel 52)
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P R E F A C E
IT has been written: “The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones”. For my part this sentiment has always seemed cynical and almost untrue. Certainly I cannot believe that such evil as my brother Fred, being human, may have done will be remembered; whereas I am positive his goodness will always be recalled and his memory treasured for his sweet disposition.
In the following memoirs, try as I would, I believe I have failed to convey more than an indication of the wonderful character and true Christian spirit of Frederick Ernest Cearns, who died a private soldier, that we, his countrymen might continue to enjoy the freedom which has always been our inheritance. Nevertheless succeed or fail, I felt it was due to him that somebody should endeavour to write of his simple goodly life and noble death, if only that from such writing may be learned the lessons of how to live and die as a man and a Christian.
For his life was a pattern nobody need fear to copy and a pattern which so many would unfortunately fail to copy correctly. Therefore, in the long hours following that day when the awful news reached me, and when off duty my thoughts were of him, the idea to write these memoirs came to me. So I have set down just what I have been able to remember of his life as a civilian, during those precious years of peace, and his career and death of a soldier, in the greatest, and it is to be hoped, the last of all wars.
I wish not to speak of his love for me because honestly I think there were very few people for whom he had other sentiments than love. But for my part there is no fellow for whom I can have the admiration almost amounting to veneration, which I felt and feel for my brother Fred. And this feeling is shared by many of those, both relatives and friends who knew him.
What better testimony than this is necessary to prove his worth? Privileged to live many long years of happiness with him, privileged to be with him so near the end and now privileged to write of him, in all reverence I say that many of us may pray that when our time comes, we may be as worthy as he to meet the creator.
And to my dear mother and father, for whom these pages are chiefly written, may I write a wish that they will find some consolation and fleeting moments of even happiness as they read the following lines. The measure for their love for him was the love he had for them, dearly as son ever loved parents.
Percy Leonard Cearns
September, 1917
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PART ONE
C I V I L I A N
FREDERICK ERNEST CEARNS, a hero, a gentleman, and a Christian.
Above and before all, a Christian.
Private F. E. Cearns, No. 281228, just a cipher amongst the teeming millions known collectively as the British Army; No. 281228 – and that is all that concerns the general public; just another in the long list of killed, published all too often in the daily papers. One more sacrificed to the power lust of Germany; but what a willing sacrifice. Yes, that was the key note of all his actions in the Army, for his country; always willing to do all and give all, never detracting in the giving, by the slightest symptom of what is recognised as a Tommy’s privilege – grumbling. And as during his Military career, so in his civil life it was sacrifice of self, and perfect unselfishness governed every action; so that all who knew him as he lived, know what a true Christian passed to rest in the person of that soldier No. 281228, who, in spite of cannon’s roar, went to sleep in that water-logged trench of bloody Flanders, and woke to “peace, perfect peace”.
Not a long life had he, just 28 years, but for the good he did in such a short space, we can think God rewarded him by taking him quietly and painlessly. A consoling thought is that.
Fred was born in Canning Town, East London. His birthplace quite an ordinary grocer’s shop in an ordinary street – to wit – Swancombe Street; but that grocer’s shop, of which I personally recollect very little, was the cradle of our family, and therefore I know must have been a veritable hive of industry. Many anecdotes have I from Dad, which confirms this impression; sometimes I must confess that these anecdotes lead me to believe the neighbourhood could hardly be termed aristocratic or even salubrious. But what mattered that to the Cearns happy family, it was here my brother first saw light of day on the 29th January 1889. He was the 10th child and was a bit of a “tarter”, if I remember rightly what I have heard. Of just the right age to nurse him were his two sisters Edie and Annie, now Fred had an aversion for the former and an affection for the latter, whilst I, who appeared on life’s stage 21 months later than he, loved Edie.
Nature’s law of compensation here is well illustrated. What could have been better? Annie became Fred’s nurse while Edie was troubled with the care of my person. I wonder did we then learn to form fours and to do other manoeuvres for fighting; for of course we must have had our battles. If after life is any criterion, I am afraid that I was seldom victorious. Even then, I guess, Fred could “out-stick” me, and I warrant would out-do his poor nurse. Edie must have had an easy job, for I was always a “lazy dog”, but I pity poor Annie. Well, as I have said, I was too young to take a lively interest in details of life at that shop, but I suppose Fred was baptised, vaccinated, had teeth, grew hair, learned to walk, then to talk, and finally had measles; the last much to his sisters’ delight, who, as a consequence had a long vacation from school. There was also a grandmother who, I believe used to act as our guardian when Ma appeared with an admonitory cane. I do not know that the public house next door interested Fred more than I, except to watch huge barrels roll off carts, and disappear into the yawning and insatiable depths beneath that popular resort. Many a time since then have Fred and I sat for hours listening to Dad discoursing on the customers that flowed from our neighbour’s shop to ours – after closing time. How many tussles he had I do not know, for Dad was not always 60 and “rheumaticky”.
How I have seen Fred laugh at some of mother’s shop yarns too. One of these is of a youth who crept in and slowly enticed a “German” sausage off the counter. Ma spotted it as it made its exit in the youth’s hand at top speed out of the door. A friendly baker – one of the “Kaiser Bill’s” people – Schmidt, who lived opposite, was called on to chase that disappearing youth and sausage. The result of the chase I have forgotten, but I have often wondered since if Schmidt was a spy. By the way, I have forgotten to give Mother’s battle cry as she waved him on; t’was this: “There goes my German sausage”.
Such tales as this have often made Fred and we others laugh long and loud round the home fireside.
Exactly why, when, and how it was, I do not know. But Fred was about six-years-old, (a dear, pale, fair headed little boy, Ma called him) when the family shifted its headquarters to sweet, suburban, Selwyn Road. Memories of a good garden, and nasty next door neighbours are all I have of this place. Whether it was these neighbours or the fact of outgrowing the house, I do not know, but after about six months in this place, the family again transferred itself, to that home of homes, 8 Plaistow Park Road. Here it has been ever since, which is to say about 21 years. How it has dwindled though; then, we were 11 children and Mother and Dad, now at home there are just the two last arrivals, Grace and Nelly, and that same dear old Ma and Dad.
I think my mind must have been far from retentive at this period for I recollect little of the incidents of Fred’s life for several years. However, shortly after this last move I was “down and out” with diphtheria, contracted in trying to make some friends with a gutter drain. Though I cannot remember, I guess, during any illness Fred was very concerned about me; he always was.
My mind next recalls our first school days together at Credon Road School. We used to wander through those alley-ways, to and from school in company. A tale of a wicked old witch there was, who had her cave in one of those alleys. How we used to run by there in the dusk of the winter evenings. Fred was a class above me, so as regards his brain powers I have no details, for we were not together. I can vouch for his sporting proclivities however, for here it was he first showed his liking for kicking a two penny rubber ball about, in the playground.
The year 1898 saw our studies transferred to Balaam St School. Fred was in standard 3 whilst I was in standard 2. For six happy years we were together here. At his lessons they saw Fred was not brilliant but very thorough, and a plodder. Such a thing as leaving a job undone he would not think of. All the time at this school he was never absent, never late, and gained prizes for good conduct and regular attendance, much to my secret jealousy. At the prize distributions, however, how proud I felt that his name was called out amongst other lucky ones, he would march out in front of the 400 boys and receive his book or medal. And what a favourite he was with everybody, teachers and boys alike, they really loved him I think, for he had such an unusually even temper and good disposition. If he had a fault it was obstinacy, this, however, stood him in good stead in many ways, for his was the obstinacy which never recognised defeat in anything. When recently on leave all the teachers who I saw at this school eagerly asked for details regarding Fred. They seemed proud to have had such a fellow to teach. Read the letter of sympathy sent by our dear old headmaster, Mr David Fist. Here are two extracts: “He was a lad of the best sort for whose character I had great admiration; just the kind that we can least spare. He laid down his life willingly for a cause that we cannot allow to fail, for it was the cause of humanity”. Ask his teachers of their opinion of him as a boy. Their unanimous reply would be on the lines indicated in the above.
On the football field what a hero he used to appear to youngsters. He was captain of the school team for two years, I think. In addition he was frequently chosen to play for the picked boy team for the West Ham schools, against teams from other districts. This, we boys always consider a great honour, and undoubtedly it was, and indicated to some extent Fred’s powers at the game. But even as a boy he would never boast of anything that he could do and seemed quite unconcerned whenever he was chosen for this game. As centre forward or outside-right, what havoc he used to make among the opposing defences. In after years I have played against him so I know what they must have endured. I have seen him, when the school was losing a match, clench his teeth, and with the ball at this toe race through the opponents time after time, scoring goals until the game was won.
Knocks he would give and take, but always in the best of spirit. He would never trip a fellow up at football; if an opponent were on the ground he would sooner stop and help him up than run by him. In after life he was the same, never “hitting a fellow when he was down” but “always helping lame dogs over stiles”.
As a youngster I was a bit of a “lame dog” physically. How he used to pity me. Many a time when the cold winter winds have made me gasp for breath, has he sheltered me with his coat as he helped me along to school.
“Thoughtless as a schoolboy” is an expression sometimes used. If all schoolboys were like Fred this should be “thoughtful as a schoolboy”. He would not have hurt a fly. During his last year at school, we were in classes together, he in standard 7 and I in standard 6.What a paternal eye he kept on me. “Young Percy” he would call me. I guess every time I was punished, which was quite frequent, it hurt him more than if it were his hands that were being tickled with the cane. At home during these years, I suppose we had boyish quarrels. The most serious of these, however, would be as to whose turn it was to fetch the coals. You see I always wanted to arrange it so that he did all the coals carrying, even his temper would not submit to this.
We used to be the best of friends while playing in the street. What terrors of Plaistow Park Road we lads must have been. I wonder how many fruitless journeys to open front doors we have caused ladies in the neighbourhood through our propensity to play a game, colloquially known as “knocking down ginger”. “Kick can”, “buttons”, “egg cap”, “leap frog”, “robbers and thieves” were among other famous sports which we young ruffians were wont to pass our evenings. Dad never believed in restraining us from roaming the streets. I think he was right too. I wonder where our comrades of those days are now. Probably some died as my brother has, whilst others are even now scattered over the different battlefields fighting for the “cause”. Wherever they are however, I guess none of them will have forgotten Fred Cearns, and all will have only good to say of him. Just a few years ago, Jimmy Wilson, a great friend of his, who has prospered, came to see him. How fond he was of Fred could easily be seen. Poor Duncan MacDonald was another chum of his. He, poor lad, died when about 15-years-old.
One of the most popular playing grounds as we got into our teens was Phillip’s work yard. What days we used to spend there. Arthur and Stanley Cook, Tommy Mumford, Harry and Fred Franks, and Fred and I.
“Kick can” was our regular pastime; and what a pastime; unless we spoiled one suit of clothes a fortnight by rents and dirt, we were none of us content. There we used to climb into or under dirty old carts, on to much laden shelves, behind sooty forges, down into smelly pits. Even the pungent paint shop did not escape us and many a trace of this haunt did our clothes show. Mr Scales and “Old Steve”, what a time we used to give them. As a variation to this we would try football or even cricket, but huge carts and piles of wheels on the field did not make for enjoyment when playing these games; so we would often abandon such sports for “swinging the sledge hammer”. I don’t know who was the best at this, but I bet it was Fred. Personally, I used to swing that dreadful implement until my muscles felt fit to burst and I looked to be on the verge of apoplexy, and then somebody else would just about double the number of my swings.
Sometimes we would be asked to tea by Mrs Phillips, much to our secret satisfaction. Then we would outstay our welcome playing darts with Arthur and Stanley. From these evenings we would return home quite clean, much to Mother’s astonishment. Frank was rather interested in these visits of ours, for he knew there were certain Misses Cook. I can well remember how he used to question us about these girls – particularly Altro. I think the name and the curls attracted him then. Anyhow, as we know, the sequel has been most romantic. One incident of this playground of ours I have omitted to mention.
To flatter ourselves we were helping the work, we would roll huge iron cart wheels’ tyres from one yard to another, some 200 yards distant. This meant traversing a rather busy road. These tyres had just come from the forges and were still very hot at one invisible spot. Arthur and Stan Cook were quite adept through long practice at assisting even two hoops, each twice as big as themselves, along the road, without ever handling the warm spot. Poor Fred one day, wishing to emulate them to some extent, volunteered to wheel a huge tyre across to the outer shop. Away he went quite steadily at first. Presently a wobble began. This was accentuated to some extent when Fred, in steering it, grabbed hold of the hot place.
Across the road the thing flew and was only stopped by the kerb and an old bad tempered lady who happened to be on the spot. I believe she burnt her hand among other injuries. What ensued I do not exactly know, but as a result we visitors to the yard used to have to content ourselves with watching those clever brothers at the game. I believe Fred was very sorry for the old lady but I do not think he stopped to apologise.
Fred and I shared the same room ever since I can remember. Here as we lay at nights in our beds, we used to exchange our little confidences. Even until he left home for the battlefield was this the case. In our boyhood, these little talks we had, were invariably preceded by some game which can best be accomplished and enjoyed in a bedroom. Generally the bed linen suffered as a result of such frolics. Yes, I must confess we had many a pillow fight in which victory varied. This particular type of pastime was ended by a catastrophe that gave us a chilly bedroom for a few nights, and depleted money boxes for some weeks. It occurred one evening, when after a long and prolonged bout, Fred dealt a wonderful “coup de grace” full in the face. Back went my head out into the night by way of a closed window. The glass tinkled on the ground below while we hurriedly scampered to bed and put the light out. Of course we should have received severe chastisement but as usual escaped with a few words of scolding from Ma. However, we decided to alter our games, and as football was becoming very popular with us, we decided to use our bedroom as a practice field for learning to “head” a ball correctly. The ball was made of paper, the goals were the two sides of the bed, while the field of play was the bed itself. Huge fun we had from this very simple, if destructive game. I believe, however, it robbed poor Ma and Dad of many hours sleep, for their room was directly beneath ours, and we were hardly light-footed. Often have we been in the midst of our games, and suddenly looked up to see the stern apparition of Dad standing at our door. At any rate he tried his best to be stern, but he never punished us. In fact, I believe he often wanted to laugh at our nocturnal pranks.
There was a sad period when we could not have these games however. That was when grandmother had her fatal illness. Then Fred said we must not make any noise and we used to creep on tiptoes upstairs and go straight to bed. It was during this time that we took to reading pernicious literature.
Our favourite books were the “Boy’s Friend”, “Boy’s Realm”, “Union Jack”. Night after night we used to “burn midnight oil”, devouring the wonderful tales these books contained. How we did enjoy reading of the daring deeds visibly portrayed in these pages – I wonder now whether any heroes either of these or other fictions ever suffered and braved what dear Fred and thousands of others have done during this awful war – naturally this class of reading was “forbidden fruit” to us. Therefore, during the day, we were forced to hide the books beneath articles of furniture in the bedroom and many times we have returned from school to find that Mother had discovered these. Then we received lectures from Dad who always told us there were plenty of books in the bookcase to read “instead of such trash”.
I am afraid we neither of us took much notice of this advice however, as we would always replace the lost copies and impatiently await the next numbers.
During the winter evenings, when it was dark, what a job it was to get us to go to bed. This was on account of the solemn quietness of that last flight of stairs and the empty bedroom. How we used to manoeuvre to get the other to be first to venture. It was so amusing.
Frank was another inmate of our cosy bedroom. He however was always a late bird, never getting to bed much before midnight, even then he would lay reading far into the small hours, by the extravagant light of two or more candles. One night Fred conceived an idea to cure him of this habit, and at the same time have a joke. The idea did not succeed in the former object, but certainly it was a fine joke. The pieces of various candles which would be used as “reading lamps” pieces of stout thread were tied, the other ends being led under Frank’s bed, held by Fred. Great care was taken to hide the thread from the notice of our elder brother, the reader. Then we youngsters extinguished the light and got into our respective beds. Patiently we waited the arrival of our victim. Presently his steps were heard on the stairs and tight closed were our eyes in well-feigned sleep. Unsuspiciously Frank lit the candles, undressed and slipped between the sheets, then opened his book – I believe it was some such hair-raiser as “Old St Pauls” – and settled down to an enjoyable read. A few minutes lapsed and the candles on their several pieces of thread moved an inch or so. Lying next to Frank I felt him jump, and heard him mutter “what’s that”. Presently another movement of the sources of illumination, and another start and exclamation by the victim. Finally a big heave by Fred at the threads and on the floor jumped the candles and candlesticks, which luckily were not of chinaware. With one huge jump Frank sat up in bed. I could feel how startled he was. Fred and I with our heads beneath the blankets tried hard to stifle our laughter; but it was impossible, especially when Frank re-lit the candles and discovered the cause of the moving lights. We had to give way to our feelings and have a good laugh. For his part Frank took the joke very well and laughed himself, while calling us “young bounders”. Perhaps he was glad to discover there was no occult explanation of why the candles should jump from the table to the floor. For everybody did laugh when we told them of the joke the next day.