Gilbert Walter Lyttelton Talbot

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There the body lies. But he has gone into another life than we had chosen. And we cannot murmur. In the letters that pour in from his most intimate friends, even those who loved him in his home are startled at the witness borne, not merely to the superficial gifts of which they were so proud, but to the depth and strength of character with which he impressed some of the very best men of his time. They all speak of elevation of tone which he forced upon his company: and how he had become dearer each year to them by his deep influence on their inner lives. He had lived for the last year in lodgings, in most happy companionship with as good a set of men as could be found in Oxford, chiefly from Balliol. It was more especially with them that he grew to his ripe manhood. He was steadily coming through his faults. And this was no light business. For nature, in endowing him richly, had also made him a character difficult to handle and to discipline. He could not be what he was, without being naturally self conscious and self-interested. By necessity he came to the front in almost any company in which he found himself. He could not help being incessantly before the footlights. This was inevitable. But it had its dangers. And then, at Oxford, his many-sided activities had prohibited discipline and concentration: and he had never girded up his loins, or put himself to real proof under the austere sifting of the Schools.

[marina]

'poor blurred remains' - they went out like lights, but these memorial books illuminate them once more. What a brother Neville was.

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But all this was behind him now. The last year had begun the work. The training for the Army bettered it. The seriousness of the issues before him, to which he had given himself, gave the finer touch. He was ready. And, as we think of the perilous moral turmoil of that public political career to which we, in our blindness, were committing him - its dusty and doubtful by-roads, its egotisms, its personalities, its heat of controversy, we can believe that, by the swift gallantry of self-surrender, by the "splendid action on the edge of life," by laying down his life with a call and a smile, he has, in one breathless and unsullied moment, over-topped our best desires for him, and, at at stroke, by the Grace of Christ, has "triumphed over Death, and thee of Time."

"Fear not ! Ye are of more value than many sparrows." So he had written in the Book of Prayer given him by his mother, which he carried with him. And again, "Yea ! though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil." He understood. He was forearmed. Let his soul rest in Peace !

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The Fighting at Hooge in The Last Days of July 1915.

The account of the movement of which the charge of Gilbert's platoon formed part is perhaps best given from independent sources. The events of July 30 are described in a few extracts from Mr. John Buchan's "History of the War," vol.ix, p.99, chap. lxvii:-

The fighting at Hooge at the end of July and the beginning of August had no strategic significance. It was only an incident in the eternal struggle of small losses and small gains to which the policy of holding the Ypres salient condemned us. But it is worthy of special notice, both because of the desperate nature of the conflict and because it was the first appearance in battle of one of the new divisions..........

The British dispositions in July, owing to the coming of the first detachments of the New Army, had undergone drastic changs. Here it is sufficicient to note that on the 29th day of July the salient was held by the new Sixth Corps, under Major-General Keir............

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South of the Roulers Railway, in front of the Bellewaarde Lake and Hooge, and extending down to Sanctuary Wood, was a Division of the New Army, under Major-General Couper.

Our trenches east of the Crater were occupied by two companies of the Rifle Brigade, troops who had just come up and had not been in these trenches before..

About 3 a.m. on the morning of Friday, 30th July, the Germans delivered a violent attack upon the trenches east of the Crater,,,,,,,,The main attack that morning was not made by the artillery. The enemy had sapped up very close to our line, and at three o'clock launched a torrent of liquid fire. The liquid was pumped from machines in the saps, and ignited itself in its passage. Now we knew the meaning of the accusation which had preceeded the Crown Prince's movement in the Argonne. This liquid fire had been prepared since the beginning of the war, for we captured directions for its use in October; but the precise situation when it could be profitably used had not revealed itself until now. Combined with the fire was an assault by "minenwerfers," those trench mortars fired from close range which our troops hated beyond every other weapon. The Germans, too, had a great number of bombers, who stormed our trenches with their grenades.

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The combination of artillery bombardment, liquid fire, trench mortars and bombs was irresistable. Two companies of the Rifle Brigade were nearly blotted out. The Germans carried our first line, and won the Crater. Our troops fell back to the second line, which ran north west from the corner of Zouave Wood. Thereupon the enmy began to plaster with shell the region behind our front, and turned the Zouave Wood into a death-trap.

The General commanding the Sixth Corps ordered a counter attack for the afternoon of that day. It was entrusted to the Rifle Brigade, which was brought up for the purpose from Vlamertinghe, seven miles off, and to what remained of another Brigade. For three-quarters of an hour before it our artillery bombarded the German position, but without much effect. Far more deadly were the German shells, which swept Zouave and Sanctuary Woods and the country between and behind them.

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The counter-attack began at 2.45 p.m., and was doomed to failure from the start. The battalions were mown down in Zoauve Wood, and the few that emerged into the open fell under the blast of machine guns. They were under fire from the German fortins and from the German position on the Hooge ridge, and they had to face as well a devastating artillery storm. The Rifle Brigade never wavered, and no exploit in its long and splendid regimental history surpassed in desperate valour the advance of its new battalions towards certain destruction. Only a remnant remained in the trenches outside Zoauve Wood. The fields and coppices were strewn with dead, platoons and companies disappeared, and few were the officers who returned. Among those that fell were two of the most brilliant of younger Oxford men, Lieutenant Gilbert Talbot and Second Lieutenant the Hon. G.W. Grenfell.

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The great counter-attack was fixed for Monday, 9th August.......The attack was made just before dawn......The artillery work which preceeded it was admirably managed.....Our infantry swept right up to the fringe of our own shell-fire. Then the gunners lengthened their range, and our men were into the German trenches........ The attack swept beyond the Crater, and carried the ruins of the stables.......It had suceeded. Our losses were extraordinarily few. The two battalions who counter-attacked on the 30th July had had 2000 casualties, including sixty officers. The difference in losses was the difference between a well considered and adequately prepared movement and a hasty improvisation.

These clear accounts of the last few day's events are given by Sergeant Chumley and Rifleman Nash.

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From Sergeant Chumley, Rifle Brigade.

......It would be about July 20th or 21st - rumour had it we were going into the trenches for twenty-one days. We started off in the rain, but luckily we were conveyed to within four miles of the firing line by motor busses. On arrival at the trenches, we took up a position well to the right of the crater, but later found we were seperated from the rest of our Company. During the night, D Company had manned the front of the crater, as well as the trench on the left, but owing to their losses from trench mortars it was decided they should be moved and so leave the crater unoccupied. At 8.30 the next morning, we received orders to occupy the left of the crater, previously held by D Coy. During the next few days we were bombarded by trench mortars and had many casualties. One evening the Germans made an attack on our Platoon with bombs; we opened rapid fire and soon repulsed them. At the end of about four days it was decided we ought to be relieved - things were so hot. I should have mentioned that the Germans blew up the extreme left of our trench, containing our bomb store and all our rations. We were next sent down to the reserve, a ruined farm house, well fortified, about half a mile behind the firing line. We remained there in comfort for the next few days. It was Thursday, July the 29th, we were relieved by the 8th R.B. We started off at 11 at night for our Rest Camp, which we reached at 3 a.m.

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Here the narrative is continued from the account which Nash gave to Neville, who closely questioned him on all the points.

Nash's Account.

On July 29th when the party had marched half way back to Vlamertinghe, about 8 miles, they all lay down at once by the roadside about 3.30 a.m. About 2 hours later Nash was roused, and was told the Battn. was to return to make a counter attack on the crater, which had been vacated by the 8th Batt., owing to their being attacked by unexpected use of liquid fire. He called Gilbert, and Captain Drummond coming along at the same time he explained matters, and Gilbert was up at once, and after the first sleepy moment was in very good spirits as they walked off after only a cup of tea - scarcely any food. Some had bits of chocolate and biscuit with them. The men knew little of what was up, but the officers knew, and talked anxiously among themselves, so that after a time the men began to perceive that it was likely to be a hot dangerous affair.

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Once on the road Gilbert was consulted by the Colonel. They were to be at the W. end of Zouave Wood by 2 p.m. (on Friday 30th). The last hour or so, he and Nash walked on alone ahead of the rest - shelling became more violent as they got nearer to the wood. Gilbert said to Nash "We're going up all together to a warm shop. I don't suppose many of us will come back." He was anxious lest the Platoon should not be in time, but they were on the tick, and all met as arranged - some of the rest of the Brigade in the middle, not the edge, of the Zouave Wood, and after conferring with and receiving orders from the Colonel, Gilbert went forward a little with Nash, to report about the wood. While still in the middle of the wood, Gilbert said "I don't think the machine guns will be knocked out by this bombardment," clearly realizing what the probable issue was. He was then told to line up his men behind a low trench. The condition of the wood was unspeakable - trees with no leaves left had fallen from shells like spillikins one over the other, and there were corpses, and wounded men, and huge pits and horrors and desolation beyond description

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They all waited from 2 to 2.40 while our side bombarded - to which the Germans answered furiously - and many were killed and wounded in the wood. At first Gilbert went up and down, cheering the men - but at last no words could be heard, so great was the noise, and he went and sat a little apart, on the right, with his head a little bent (Neville said he was sure he was praying hard, and Nash thought so too. "He was heard in that he feared"). He looked constantly at his watch. At 2.45 he blew the whistle which was the signal to charge - and at once the men - only 16 were now available - leapt out, and rushed forward, Gilbert, followed closely by Nash (who he had told to keep near him), headed them a few yards on, with the words "Come on my lads - this is our day." Soon he came to the old British barbed wire fencing, which he was beginning to cut, when he was hit in the neck, and fell over the wire fencing. Nash, badly hit in the left arm, at the same moment as his master, dashed forward, wrenched out his bandages, and turned Gilbert gently on his back, and tried to bind up the fatal wound in his neck. His blue eyes opened wide and he saw Nash and gave him a bright smile, then turned over a little, and died.

[marina]

The detail of this account is as good as I've seen.

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While Nash's right hand was on Gilbert's breast pocket to lay him down a bullet pierced the third finger (it was afterwards amputated) and went right through Gilbert's cigarette case and, he supposed, through his heart. He crawled back, how he hardly remembers, to report what had happened, offering on arriving to go with stretcher bearers to show where Gilbert lay. But though more than one offered to go, and two got within 10 feet of the body, the shelling was to fierce, and after these were hit and wounded, the Colonel forbade any more going down. Some months after this Nash received the D.C.M. for the devoted care and courage he had shown.

Nash was most sympathetic for E.W. and myself, and was awfully sorry - and tears were in his eyes at the bare idea of rejoining the platoon without its brilliant subaltern, and over one half of his old pals gone.

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Extracts from letters form Gilbert's friends

From John Murray, Student of Christ Church, Golbert's Greats Tutor.

....It is difficult to think or write of Gilbert as dead. The volume and warmth of the life that was in him were patent to any beholder and were things for his friends to value and trust to, and to build hopes on. The fullness of effort and interest in him never failed. He had a valiant, infectious urgency, a very formidable emphasis on the "here and now." There was nothing of the faint or distant or lingering about him, none of the things that make the remoteness and the silence of the dead easier to bear and grasp.

Gilbert was such a fact. There he was - present abundantly and indubitably real and significant above most, requiring to be reckoned with. Whatever he was about, he intended seriously, and his acts were fullof energy. He was restless and steadfast, and both in a high degree: most himself and happiest in putting forth power.

The stricken man has vanished, but not faded or failed. His tragic end will not lend itself to pathos or sentiment, which often soften the loss of friends. It shows death at its hardest.......... He is gone, but in a triumph of life and youth, that blossomed and passed, untouched by harm or wrong. The brave memory of him has no clouds. The undiminished figure will live in many minds. His friends will possess him, for not even death can rob them of what they have known and felt the goodliness of and cared for deeply.

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Gilbert was growing, and he would have continued to grow. The Army edified him and made him very happy. I could see that the last time, the very last, he came to Oxford. He was bent on enlisting me. "It was a fine life, soldiering," he said.

There was so much character in him that the future would have ripened a big mind in him too. He had the eye for large and fundamental things, and he faced them simply and directly. The essays he used to bring to me were alike in one point - a desire to mark out the big outlines and the limits. Care for the detail would have come too, and the combunation of these powers along with his gift of speech would have given him a notable place in his generation. And with this emphasis there was an intellectual sensitiveness in him that I prized, just as despite the restless force that was in him he had an unusual capacity of appreciation and admiration for others.........

[marina]

Nash earned his award.

Marina

[liverpool annie]

For sure he earned his award !! .... what an amazing account !

Annie

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From Victor Mallet

It is difficult to convey an adequate impression of Gilbert as a friend and companion. A portrait in words, as on convas, requires a touch of real inspiration to redeem it from being a flat record of outward impressions, well proportioned and accurately described, yet missing that flicker of a smile that would pass over the face, or that accent of the voice which gave point to the story......

Gilberts humour was a delight to his friends. He was at his best when telling a story, and he could always convey the humour of the situation in a few well-chosen words. I remember one occasion in particular, when on a reading party in Switzerland: we were supposed to be spending a profitable evening working; but Gilbert stopped all work for the evening by retailing for our benefit the stories from Heredotus which he had just succeeded in translating. The stories in themselves were not particularly funny, but Gilbert, putting them into modern slang and pouring them forth with enormous gusto, kept us roaring with laughter for two hours..........

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I must speak mostly of Gilbert at the Chalet Reading Party, as that was the time when I got to know him more intimately than at any other time. He was at that time rather seriously alarmed about his prospects in "Greats," and worked pretty hard. In the evenings we used to stroll round the lawn singing songs; Gilbert had a repertory of those which had to be sung with almost ritualistic regularity every evening On one occasion Evelyn Cardew was having supper at the neighbouring chalet with Miss Asquith and her brother; Gilbert organized a party to serenade them, and a selection was rendered (in harmony) of "I Love a Lassie" and "I know of Two Bright Eyes waiting for Me." The sickly sentiment of this latter always made him howl witrh laughter..........

What he really enjoyed was a discussion of any sort. He always managed to dominate it, and yet everyone was glad that he did, because though he talked a lot he never bored. He was particularly fond of modern novels: Wells he found intensely interesting, and Chesterton he loved. It was his power of making others listen to him that made him a leader. He could convinvce without resorting to quibbles or mere debating points, though as a debater he excelled.

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Many people at Oxford were inclined to base their judgemant of him on what they had heard him say at the Union. They felt that he the supreme debater of his time at Oxford, but did not realize the depth of thought that lay behind his command of words. But those who had the luck to hear him in small clubs, or among a circle of friends round the fire, realized the sincerity of his feelings, and, even though they mifght disagree with his views, could never accuse him of cant. I remember one most interesting evening when he spoke to a small club on "Modernism." He dealt mainly with religion and literature on that occasion (Wells, of coures, was prominent in his arguement), and his remarks struck me as peculiarly well thought out and full of freshness. He always gave one the impression of being vitally interested in all that he described.........

There was in him much of the old conservative both in his outlook on politics and on society. His indignation at the "Bunny-hug" and its kindred dances was quite real, and after the "House" Ball I well remember him describing how he prevented certain people from dancing it ! His mind, for the same reason, disliked the Land Reforms proposed by Mr. Lloyd George as revolutionary. Yet behind all his conservatism was a genuine vein of prgressive feeling. He wanted reforms - many of them he clamoured for - but he loathed the idea of complete change. The world as he found it had many beautiful and dignified institutions, which he wished to preserv. His fear was that in the destruction of what was bad the good might also perish........

But after all it is impossible to sketch any of Gilbert's characteristics. It is useless to attempt to give the impression of that warm smile of welcome or of that vigorous body and still more vigorous mind, which made one think of Gilbert as eternally young and alive.

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From A.P. Herbert

Royal Naval Camp, Blandford.

I like most to think of Gilbert at 8 Long Wall Street, not in our happy days at Winchester nor in the great moments - and they were many - of his Oxford time, but in that last intimate year (of 1913-14) in the little old house between New College and Magdalen Deer Park, the year which ended with Schools - and the War. One needed to be near Gilbert to know him, and the five of us who lived with him there, and learned and suffered his weaknesses, knew the best of him. For he was at his best as a true friend.

I see him thundering down in the morning clamouring for the morning paper, and demolishing over his coffee the latest Ministerial speech; out in the sunny garden beneath the City Wall reading Plato and talking polotics; at the piano,patiently picking out some of the music he loved but could not make; swinging down the High with his ill-fated Paul behind him, many minutes late for a lecture; or up in the little room at the top of the house, surrounded by many books and heaps of untidiness, arguing far into the night with a few familiar disputants and much tobacco - always live, always interested, always a companion.

We used to tell him he was always talking; but in truth, he never wearied us; whether revelling in a long arguement on any topic from philosophy to Rugby football, or in the bandinage of every day, when he would overwhelm his opponent with the rounded repartee of parliamentary phrase, at which he was adept; passionately defending his religious convictions in some heretical and hostile club; describing with real wit some old incident at Winchester, or epitomising with huge solemnity some sermon play, or speech which had specially impressed him - talking, yes, but we loved it.

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I see him in a hundred smoky college rooms, the meeting-places of the many clubs which prized his speaking. Always he seemed to dominate the scene; usually one felt he was right. And for all his ability in public debate, it was this kind of informal discussions which most manifested his real greatness. Others might make a point, bark out a few disjointed retorts, or exhaust a side-issue, but none could so ably draw together the threads of the discussion, and with so much knowledge of political history and tendencies, and give his theme a constructive and comprehensive treatment. On these evenings the rest of us, at best, were young politicians; he seemed like a young statesman. He was curiously lazy about getting up any subject involving much detail or the study of figures, Tariff Reform, for example; but in the treatment of broad questions of policy he surprised any Oxford and, as we thought, many a London speaker. We told him he might be Prime Minister, but would never make a Chancellor of the Exchequer.

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Always he had a grand air; superbly brusque or even arrogant, superbly gallant and courteous, according to his pleasure. To see him at the head of his regal breakfast-parties, or entertaining a Cabinet Minister or a body of Members, was a lesson in confidence and courtliness. Yet in a great measure he was a child like his fellows, fond of simple jests and simple pleasures, excited motor-drives to Winchester and noisy sing-songs round the piano. Everything he did he did with a zest, indeed with too much zest for his success in the Schools. I remeber a mock-trial being held in one of the Colleges. Gilbert with a borrowed wig, was a perfect judge. Every little mennerism of the High Court Bench was there, the mild jokes, the paternal treatment of witnesses, the elborate pronouncementy of obvious deductions - all was portrayed to the life. Indeed, I think he secretly relished the idea of the Courts, and, if he had been nothing more, he would have been a great advocate.

I do not know what impression the above may give; but I hope it is not one of a mind devoted to the narrow circle of Unicersity politics; for indeed the catholicity of his ideals and enthusiasms was to me an abiding wonder. All the hidden corners of Oxford and Oxford life, all the curious and interesting characters, Oxford, old and young, he knew and loved.

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He had views about everything and everybody, and in conversation with him the ordinary undergraduate was continually startled by the contrast which his own mind represented in this respect to Gilbert's. To his room came all manner of men - for in spite of a certain superficial intolerance, no man had a more varied acquaintance - dons, young and old, gilded youth from the House who did not appreciate his powers but loved his company, pale Union aspirants who made him their model but would never make him their companion, pure thinkers, and pure athletes, and the dark skinned Christians whom for their faith and their allegiance he was not ashamed to respect and cultivate. One night he would be the very soul of some gay gathering, the best of young Englishmen about living, infecting all with his high spirits - and the next evening would see him surrendering two valuable working hours to attend a converted Indian's confirmation. And I am sure that he was even more concerned about the success of the Bishop of Oxford's seven-day mission to undergraduates than about that, to him immense, occasion of his Union Presidency, the visit of Mr. Lloyd George.

In grown men these may be little things; in an undergraduate they are much.

I never saw him since the War; and one wishes one had been with him in France. I know how he must have delighted in the colour, the life, the sense of adventure that belongs to the area of war, before ever the beastliness begins.

I can imagine him him in the harbours, at the wayside stations, in the ruined towns, keenly interested in everything he saw, and storing up everywhere unconsciously the most vivid views and impressions; full of dry comment and his own inimitable humour.

And that perhaps is the truest tribute that one man can pay to another; that, above all, he would have gone to the War in that man's company.