You Are There… Graphic History Series.
Historical Backdrop
July 1, 1916, was the first day of the Battle of the Somme — the worst day in the history of the British Army. After a week-long artillery bombardment meant to destroy the German wire and trenches, 120,000 British and Empire soldiers climbed out of their trenches at 7:30 a.m. and walked, in straight lines, into machine-gun fire. By nightfall, almost 20,000 were dead and another 40,000 wounded. Many of the dead came from “Pals Battalions” — units of friends, neighbors, and brothers from the same towns who had enlisted together in 1914.
Our subject is Lance Corporal Thomas “Tom” Ashworth, 22, is one of the Bradford Pals (16th Battalion, West Yorkshire Regiment). A former wool-comber from a Bradford textile mill, he enlisted with his cousin and four schoolmates in September 1914. His battalion will attack the village of Serre. Of the roughly 2,000 Bradford Pals who go over the top this morning, 1,770 will be casualties before lunch.
1 July 1916 — 04:10 — Battalion Dugout, Reserve Line near Colincamps, Picardy, France
You wake on a wire-frame bunk in a chalk dugout six metres underground. A candle stub gutters on an upturned ammo box. The air is wet, sour with men’s breath, lamp paraffin, and the latrine bucket in the corner. Your cousin Walter snores beside you. Somewhere above, a shell falls, and white chalk dust drifts down onto your blanket. Your stomach is hollow and your mouth tastes of last night’s bully beef. Sergeant Pearson’s voice barks down the wooden steps: “Stand to, lads. Stand to.”
1 July 1916 — 05:30 — Front-line Firing Trench, “Monk Trench,” opposite Serre
You queue with your platoon in the firing bay. The cook hands you a tin mug of strong sweet tea and a wedge of fried bacon between two thick slices of bread. Your hands shake — from cold, you tell yourself. Walter winks at you and says it’ll be over by tea-time. Down the trench you can hear someone vomiting. The guns are still hammering at the German wire — they have not stopped for seven days and seven nights. The ground itself trembles beneath your boots.
1 July 1916 — 06:40 — Front-line Firing Trench, opposite Serre
You sit on the fire-step writing on a buff-coloured Field Service Postcard. You cross out everything except “I am quite well.” You sign it Tom. You think of your mother in her kitchen on Manningham Lane, of the smell of bread, of your sister Edith’s laugh. You fold the card and pass it to the runner. Walter is reading aloud from a battered Bible, only his lips moving. The chaplain comes by, blesses each man, his cassock muddy at the hem.
1 July 1916 — 07:15 — Front-line Firing Trench, opposite Serre
