Gilbert Walter Lyttelton Talbot

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This was the last Diary we received. Gilbert was writing the last up on the evening of the 29th July, the day before he was killed; this he put in his haversack, and it was rifled by the Germans, so it is believed, during the week he lay out in the field before he was buried. The haversack was found on the ground close by, cut off, and empty - his field glasses, revolver, and compass were also taken.

I add a few extracts from Gilbert's letter in the last weeks.

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To Hermione Lyttelton

June 15'.

At times one's thoughts fly back to all the precious things in England, a thousand times more precious now. I think of Farnham, Winchester, Oxford in summer. What Winchester meads are like on a half holiday in June - or Magdalen cloisters on a May evening. And one thinks of all the family and the happy times we had - the love that binds us all, and Mother and all she is to me, and I don't feel ashamed of wondering fairly often if I shall see them again, and if so when.

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To his Mother June 10th.

.......I want you so much to feel as I do (I know you do) how this war and the trouble of my being out here and away from you has drawn us together perhaps as never before. So that I feel our love the great fact of my lifer to cling to - and I can almost feel you beside me - loving me. I want you to know just what is on my mind........

The chief feeling for me now is the feeling of nearness. Somehow, I don't feel as if physical distance meant anything. Your love is near me through all these troubles and dangers. Yours is so much the harder task. My duty here is plain and simple, and there's so much to do it's hard to stop and think - you have the uncertainty and waiting......I do long to live as I write, but I'm in God's hands, and I trust in His mercy.

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To his Mother

July 22nd, 1915.

........I feel so near you really. It's easier for me than for you. Death is not so formidable or awful in a way here. Soldiers put it in it's right place somehow. I know it's not the end - only an incident - and that the love that unites us lives through and will triumph over all.

But I do long for home sometimes.

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Gilbert's last letter to Neville, giving a short account of the holding of the crater.

July 28th, 1915.

Dear Bumps(1), - We've had the hell of a time, but the Company has been taken out of the fire trenches into a quiet supprt point, and we go oot of the trenches altogether tomorrow. I'm all right, but it's certainly the deuce of a place. French's communique about Hooge was really concerned only with my platoon and my trench ! - which is amusing(2). But it's all ridiculously exaggerated and overstated, and makes me think very poorly of communiques. And it's just an ordinary lie that the trench mortar is silenced. The guns never hit it, and it's been firing this morning. It's a sort of aerial torpedo, bigger I believe than the ordinary mortar. It fires an enormous long shell, which goes a very great height and spins like a rugger ball, and then falls with an ear-splitting, and mkost demoralizing noise. It's very trying, and we've had a lot of nervous breakdowns. Ronnie Hardy was killed by it(3). One fell on my trench. Thomas Gent was also killed on a bombing party. Shoveller and Merriam wounded. Also my dear Sergeant Dawson killed. But I'm all right. Laus Deo. Also part of my trench was blown up by a mine - but we were lucky there. I'm writing about it in my diary, which you will see. Come and see me when you can. I'll tell you my precise movements.

(1) Neville and Gilbert called each other "Bumps."

(2) Captain Drummond writes, 28 July: "We were very much pleased, at least my company is, and especially one platoon - Talbot's who did it. We have got a mention in the communique. The 'Daily Telegraph' even gives it a big heading (26 July 1915), 'Bombs and Mines' - near the crater.

(3) Of Captain Hardy he writes in another letter :"Ronnie Hardy was a really perfect fellow. One of his platoon wrote home about him and said - "Absolutely my ideal of an officer and a gentleman. God loved him too well to leave him long with us."

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I have thought it best to give an account of what followed by an extraction from Mr. John Buchan's "Hoistory of the War," vol. ix., p.99, followed by accounts by two eye witnesses, Sergeant Chumley and Rifleman Nash, Gilbert's servant.

Of the part played in this tragic story by Gilbert and his own gallant comrades and platoon, and of the last moments I shall say no more, leaving it to be said (as I think ideally) by his and our life long friend and helper Canon Scott Holland. The little memoir reprinted by his leave from the "Commonwealth" of September 1915 will carry the reader again over much of the ground which I have tried to cover, and will close the story in the way I should most wish it to be closed.

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Gilbert Talbot

by Canon Scott Holland

We had not thought of tragedy for Gilbert. Somehow that had never entered into the dream that we dreamed of him. There was a lightness, a freshness, a buoyancy about him that told always of life to come. He was so young: and so ready for the frolic of being alive: and so alert and brimming and radiant. He took thimngs gaily as they came along: and was ready for them all. He enjoyed the daily business of living with most hearty relish: and was always in the thick of it: and revelled in its activities and humour: and could talk it all over for ever and ever: and was keen for any debate that was going: and rollicked in the free play of wits: and loved arguement and chaff, and social intercourse of every shade and shape: and could never tire of the good fellowship of old and young alike. He was alive at every pore.

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And then there was so much high promise. He had the special gifts that carry men to the front places. He was wonderfully ready and effective in all forms of expression whether by speech or writing. He always told at once. While a boy at Winchester he wrote a letter to an evening London paper, which wore an air of such weight and dignity that it drew into the field the leading Liberal organizer, in the belief that he was dealing with somebody of quite special impoertance, to the immense amusement of Gilbert's friends. On leaving school he wrote an article for one of the Monthlies on Public School Life and Morality, which was not only extremely felicitous in style, but was singularly wise, and strong and complete. He seemed so young in himself; but he wrote with a curious profundity on a matter of this kind. And the same note of paternal experience would often amuse the Union, as, in his boyish lightness of demeanour, he spoke as a father to his boys, out of authority of one who had seen and known a larger world than they. The truth was that he loved getting to principles, and had great grips on moral standards, and a very keen psychological insight.

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He analysed motives admiralby, and had a remarkably good judgement on practical perplexities. I once called him in to advise a father on a very perilous and complicated bit of school ethics, and I was immensely impressed with his combination of courage and wisdom. He was perfectly clear and strong in his judgement: yet gave consideration all round: and took his part with an authority and a force that could not be bettered. He had shown splendid moral courage at school, and had dedicated himself for several years, first by careful planning and then by exercise of authority, as head of his house and prefect, to purging school life of its pollutions, and to relieving the smaller boys from fear of wrong. He was as clear and firm as a rock on all such matters: and had been singularly brave in giving his principles public and practical force. Whenever I was tempted to critisize his airy and careless looseness of manner, I used to recall this noble record of his in an arena so daunting and difficult as the big life of a great public school.

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His capacity in writing was shown at its best, at the close of his Oxford career, by the sketch which he was invited to write for the "Times" of the Prince of Wales's career in the University. It was just right. It was very real and true: it had no humbug: it was perfectly happy in touch and tone.

But his fame, of course, had been won rather in speaking than writing. And, no doubt, here lay his special excellence. It brought him to the front in whatever company he found himself. He was really irrepressible. Whatever society or club he joined, he became at once its secretary or chairman. He inevitably spoke for it. He could do it so easily, so quickly, with such felicity, with so much effect. He had the style, the equipment, the manner, to perfection. He already wore all the air of a leader of his party, and was in delightful command of himself and the situation. He was at his happiest in pure debate. He seized on the weakness of his adverasry with really marvelous acuteness. He had his own points admirably ranged and handled. They were valid and clear, and precise. And he backed them with materials which he seemed always to have ready to hand. At his best, in all this debating business, he was really first rate. He made everything that he said tell for its full value.

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He showed this power not only in his favourite field, the Union, but when, even in his Freshman's year, he ventured to counter Mr. Belloc, after some public lecture on Rome, I think: or, again, when he challenged the dry and clever Mr. M'Cabe, who had delivered an attack on Christianity which the Christian defenders were showing themselves but poorly able to repel.

As a debater he would certainly have gone far in after life. And he had high political ambitions. He saw visions of a better social order. He hoped for great things. His ideal chief was Mr. Arthur Balfour, at whose feet he sat. He delighted in what may be called the Cicilian temper - its alert and free intellectuality, its dailectical acuteness, its logical penetration, and invincibel courage. But he also cared deeply for the large human causes that drew all hearts together to work for the better day. And this is what gave him such a large attraction to Mr. Lloyd George. Ever since the visit of the famous Welshman to Oxford for his address to the Union, while Gilbert was president, a most singular friendship was struck up between them. The older man would pour out his soul to the young fellow, telling him of his high hopes of a Social Party in which all parties might unite, so that, in twenty years, they might change the face of England in town and country.

[liverpool annie]

For a while I had a hard time reading this thread ...... I can imagine his mother's feelings as she read this letter !

To his Mother June 10th.

.......I want you so much to feel as I do (I know you do) how this war and the trouble of my being out here and away from you has drawn us together perhaps as never before. So that I feel our love the great fact of my lifer to cling to - and I can almost feel you beside me - loving me. I want you to know just what is on my mind........

The chief feeling for me now is the feeling of nearness. Somehow, I don't feel as if physical distance meant anything. Your love is near me through all these troubles and dangers. Yours is so much the harder task. My duty here is plain and simple, and there's so much to do it's hard to stop and think - you have the uncertainty and waiting......I do long to live as I write, but I'm in God's hands, and I trust in His mercy.

Plus I believe my Granddad was at the Hooge ! ........... it's all been very heart rending !

But Andy ... thank you for these memoirs .... how wonderful it is to read these very special books ! without you - we'd never know about them !!

Annie

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Hi Annie,

Must admit I had to double check that and a couple of other passages to ensure that I had trancscribed it correctly.

Annie, I am glad that you are enjoying these memorial books, although we know the ending, I find these a very valuable insight into the men and some of the events.

Andy

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Gilbert found himself irresistibly fascinated by this personal charm. For a time he fell back on Mr. Hyde and Dr. Jeckyll as a reconciling iterpretation of the man he knew and the Limehouse orator: but, after a time, even this explanation went under. Only two days before his death he wrote to Mr. Lloyd a delightful and intimate letter, telling him of the deep gratitude to him for his work on Munitions that was going up from the hearts of soldiers in the trenches who once had hardly been able to bear the sound of his name: and recalling again the visions of national welfare which had opened out for him to follow. Mr. Lloyd George had only just read the letter, when he caught sight of Gilbert's name in the Roll of Honour.

For it was to be a deeper note, after all, that was to be struck. Our hopes, our anticipations, our dreams had been all of life - a life that held in it such promise, such opportunities. Right across this came suddenly at a stroke the higher call, the gallant response, the swift silence of death, on the field of honour, in the hour of glory.

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He had given himself to the new obligation with dramatic decisiveness. For he had just started with a friend, Geoffrey Colman, for his great world tour, every detail of which had been carefully arranged for months before. The war broke out while they were crossing the Atlantic. The knew it first by the cheering and the bands with which the arrival of their ship was met at Quebec. They spent six hours on land, and took the next steamer straight away home. Both joined the Rifle Brigade, with which Gilbert was associated by his Uncle General Neville Lyttelton, and by his brother Neville, Fellow of Balliol.

He set himself to the unusual training and dicipline, and proved to be an excellent officer. His innate gift of leadership showed itself at once. He especially won the confidence of his men by his open talk to them about all that he wanted them to do and know. On being asked, in his military examination, what would be his first act when placing his platoon in a post of danger, he said: "I should call them all up and tell them what they were expected to do." This was exactly right, and singularly characteristic of the man. He gained greatly himself under the stress; he shed much much of his careless disarray and casualness. He learned to concentrate. He lived no longer with "loose sleeves." He deepened in character. He thought more of others. He steadily got his own soul ready for the risks that he quite surely saw before him.

[marina]

Lloyd George - Jekyll and Hyde!

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Hi Marina,

Must admit I did have a giggle at that one too.

Andy

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After the endless months, as they seem, of preparation, the last act came swiftly on. His Battalion was among the first of the New Army to be sent up to the front firing line. His brother Neville, who had been acting chaplain to his old regiment, saw him before and after his first bout in the trenches, and was struck again with the quick way in which Gilbert occupied the ground among his mates. He always took the lead; it all buzzed round him; it was "Gilbert" here and "Gilbert" there, and "Gilbert" everywhere.

After his first bout was over, he and his lot were ordered to hold one of those awful craters which one of our mines had carved out in front of Hooge. They held it, and had just come out of it, when the murderous attack with liquid fire recaptured it. They were turned back at once, after two hours' sleep, half way home, to re-march the eight miles already covered, and to be ready for the counter-attack on the captured trench. With nothing but that cup of tea, after the marching, they had to work their way by communication trench through a wood that was being heavily shelled, and then rush an open one hundred and fifty yards.

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Gilbert's platoon had to lead the attack. He deployed his men on the edge of the wood (Zouave), and made them lie in a low ditch, until the artillery preparation was over. At the sound of five whistles, they were to make the rush. The whistles blew. Gilbert rose at once and leaped forward, crying: "Come along, lads, now's your time !." But the platoon had lost heavily in the wood, and, what with this and the tumult, only sixteen men could be found to follow him. He ran forward pointing the way with his arm, bidding his servant to keep close with him. He was hit by a bullet in the neck. He fell: gave a smile to his servant, Nash, who tried to stem the gush of arterial blood; and rolled on his face. He was dead. Other bullets struck him, and one went through his heart. Nash was twice wounded himself, and was forced to leave him lying there.

When the officer of the next platoon, who had been told to follow and support Gilbert, emerged from the wood he could see no platoon to suppert. There was not a man left who was not hit. The attack had failed. There was never any hope of it succeeding, for the machine guns of the Germans were still in full play, with their fire unipaired (The Germans had brought up 9 machine guns since their attack in the morning).

The body had to lie there where it had fallen.

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This drawing comes from Edward James Kay-Shuttleworths Memorial Book who was another 7th Rifle Brigade Officer present on this day, who was killed in a motor-cycle accident in the UK later in the war.

Gilberts falling position is marked by the G just below the Bond in Bond Street.

[marina]

I' m glad it was a clean shot - no lying about suffering. And what a sad map that is, all his friends and colleagues shown. I think the fear of them being 'lost' must have haunted the mapmaker.

Marina

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The view today, Zuoave Wood was never replanted but the edge can be seen by the wooden fence posts.

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Gilbert's grave in Sanctuary Wood Cemetery

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Only his brother could not endure to let it lie unhonoured or unblessed. After a day and a half of anxious searching for the exact details, he got to the nearest trench by the murdered wood, which the shells had now smashed to pieces. There he found some shaken Somersets, who begged him to go no further. But he heard a voice within him bidding him risk it, and the call of the blood drove him on. Creeping out of the far end of the trench, as dusk fell, he crawled through the grass on hands and knees, in spite of shells and snipers, dropping flat on the ground as the flares shot up from the German trenches, And, at last, thirty yards away in the open, he felt that he was touching young Woodroffe's body, another subaltern, and knew that he was close on what he sought. Two yards further, he found it.

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He could stroke with his hand the fair young head that he knew so well; he could feel for pocket-book and prayer-book, and the badge and the wrist watch. He could breathe a prayer of benediction, commending the poor dead thing that had meant so much, to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: and then crawl back on his perilous way in the night, having done all that man could do for the brother whom he loved so fondly: and enabled, now, to tell those at home that Gilbert was dead indeed, but that he had died the death that a soldier would love to die, leaving his body the nearest of all that fell, to the trench that he had been told to take. He crowned his life by this act of heroic decision. He leaped forward himself and made his sacrifice: and died, as he called others to follow where he led. He must have known perfectly well what was before him. He had said, before, that the officer who had to lead the first platoon on such a venture, had only one possible end to expect. In his own case the hope was forlorn: and he knew it. But he never flinched. He called, "Come along, lads," and he died with a smile on his lips.

A weel later, on the following Sunday, his brother Neville again went out with three brave Tykes from a Yorkshire regiment, who leaped over the parapet, as soon as he asked for their help, with a stretcher on which, under peril not so urgent as before, they bore back the poor blurred remains, to be laid to rest in a quiet cemetery, under a wooden cross, which a kindly Engineer cut out for Neville, and wrote on it, of his own will, a word of peace.