Family War Heroes - John Frank Turner (G/20296)

It is Spring 1918.  The Western Front has been largely quiet for months, a stalemate between the British and German trenches that seems destined never to be broken.  Down inside the British trench, Sergeant John Frank Turner, of the 8th Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment, sits on an rotten ammunition box.  Maybe he is eating a slice of stale bread.  Maybe he's cleaning his muddy boots.  Maybe he's writing a letter to his parents John and Eliza.  Maybe he's just thinking.  Maybe he wants to go home.  He is part of a battalion that has, since 1916, witnessed horrendous action, including the Battle of the Somme and the Third Battle of Ypres (Passchendaele).  Now it is 1918, and the 8th Sussex Regiment is on the Somme front once again.

A platoon of the 8th Royal Sussex Regiment, Belgium, 1917.  John Frank Turner would have fought with these men on the Western Front, and may even be in this photograph. (source: greatwarphotos.com)

It is Spring 1918, and gunfire can be heard across No Man's Land.  Whistles become louder, artillery fire, the shouts - they might be British, or is it the Boche that John Frank can hear as he picks up his rifle, hands shaking as he receives the bellowed orders of his captain.  "Take aim, fire... they're coming at you now, closer with every second.  Hold your position, don't run, don't be scared, there's no time for fear, it's for God, for right, and for King George after all."

It is Spring 1918, and just hours into the German Spring Offensive that began on 21 March, and would last for four months, John Frank Turner is lying dead in the French mud.  He is a mere statistic in the book of war - just one of over 995,000 British servicemen killed between 1914 and 1918, one of over 16 million who died on all sides during the "War to End All Wars."  

A German tank in Roye, 21 March, 1918 (source: Wikipedia).

The church bells ring.  Those who have survived go home.  Every person in the country - probably every person across the continent - knows somebody who has died.  In every city, town and village, memorials are raised.  In little villages, they recall the names of a handful who gave their lives, whilst in the larger cities, thousands are listed.  In Woking, Surrey, they do the same, and remember over 500 of their sons, including the grocer, John Frank Turner, who lived with his parents on Butts Road, near the railway station.  John never came home, but if he had, he would not only have been able to wear the Victory Medal and British War Medal, but also the Military Medal, awarded to him for acts of gallantry and devotion to duty under fire or individual or associated acts of bravery which were insufficient to merit the Distinguished Conduct Medal.  Conferment of the medal would have given John Frank the right to add the letters M.M. after his name.

Woking war memorial (Source: Window on Woking)

The Military Medal (Source: Wikipedia)

John Frank Turner's body was never recovered.  Like thousands of others, he was left in the mud, returned to the earth upon which, that sad summer, a host of poppies would iconically flourish.  In addition to the Woking War Memorial, he is remembered on the Pozieres Memorial, which stands in the Pozieres war cemetery between Amiens and Cambrai, France.  John Frank's connection to me is through his younger brother Reginald Turner, who was my great-grandfather.

John Frank Turner's Forces Record

First Name:  John Frank
Initials: J F
Surname: Turner
DOB: Circa 1892
Age: 26
Resided Town: Kingston-On-Thames, Surrey
Nationality: British
Date of Death: 21/03/1918
Fate: Killed in Action
Information: ELDEST SON OF MR, AND MRS. J. TURNER OF 6 BUTTS RD., WOKING, SURREY
Rank: Serjeant
Service Number: G/20296
Gallantry Awards: Military Medal
Duty Location: France and Flanders
Campaign Medals: Victory Medal, British War Medal

Penny for the Guy

Welcome to Bramley, a village near Guildford that, every November for the last 40 years, has produced a stunning evening of lanterns and illuminations to commemorate the Gunpowder Plot.  I love the celebrations on 5 November, its cold dark evening a reminder of Autumn’s tightening grip on our lives, confining to memory the sunny days of summer, and forewarning us instead of the winter that lays inevitably ahead.  It’s also such a particularly British festival, arguably the most visible annual celebration of our national history, and here at Bramley, they really do it properly; no tasteless fairground rides, no tacky plastic wands, no booming music that is better suited to city clubs and bars…  In fact, the evening begins in wonderfully traditional style, with the judging of village children’s Guys.

Bramley is well-known in these parts because of its November 5 lantern procession, which makes for a stunning and atmospheric evening.  The long procession leaves the village centre and heads, slowly and carefully, for the massive bonfire, in the spirit of Walt Disney's Night on Bald Mountain.  When the torch-bearers have all assembled (and they circle the bonfire three-or-four people deep), we are reminded of the Gunpowder Plot, the crowd chanting those famous and traditional words:

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catched
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

The Guys are placed lovingly on the bonfire, which is then set ablaze by the lantern-bearers.  Fire rips through the material, taking hold at an astonishing rate, illuminating the field and the crowd with awesome brightness.  Fortunately, the wind is on our side, the heat blowing away from the gathering and up into the dark, starry sky.

As the bonfire begins to die down, a single rocket firework flies up into the heavens; a warning for spectators to shift their focus upwards.  What follows is an awesome display of noise, colour and light, an inspirational show to celebrate the 40^th anniversary of Bramley’s brilliant event.  The crowd cheer, clap, ooooh and aaaah, as do Lizzie and I, for this is the best display we have ever seen.  It’s hard to get good photos of fireworks, but I think this video gives a little taster of just how good these illuminations were:

So, how do Bramley get it so right and produce an evening better than so many others?  In my mind, it comes down to tradition, community, and generosity.  The celebrations are handled in the most tasteful, timeless manner, they’re organised by volunteers in the community, and they rely on donations, the sale of lanterns and refreshments, so that they can make next year’s event every bit as good.  Everyone plays their part which, speaking as someone from outside the area, is very noticeable and says much about the village.

So, it’ll probably be Bramley again for next year’s festivities – I just think it’s great, and so unusual, to find an event that seems so dedicated to retaining the spirit of the occasion, and to doing it right.

Happy Halloween!

When Halloween arrives, you know it's Autumn. The clocks have gone back, it's dark when you get out of work, and for me there's an extra excitement to getting home and shutting the curtains on the cold dark evenings.

Our Halloween began a few days ago, with a visit to one of our favourite attractions, the Babbacombe Model Village.  Spooky illuminations and scary scenes had been set up especially for the occasion, and the residents of the tiny town were really getting into the spirit.  At the end of one road, the Addams Family house has popped up, whilst on the village green, locals have gathered to witness the burning of the Wicker Man.  Elsewhere in the town, it's a standard Hallows Eve, the brilliant illuminations of the city centre every bit the equal of London or New York, with the added twist of being under attack by giant spiders.  Truly, a spooky little city.

The Addams Family house

Burning the Wicker Man

Merrivale city centre

Attack of the giant spiders!

Spooky happenings in the abbey ruins

For Halloween proper, Lizzie and I were up in Surrey, and ventured to Secretts garden centre where they have put on their own pumpkin pick.  A tractor trailer ride is the only way to get to the site, taking us through many muddy fields completely unsuitable for walking.  Up on the higher land, the pumpkins have grown in abundance, and range in size from the tiny to the enormous.  Signs around the park explain that, due to the poor summer weather, many of the pumpkins have not turned orange, but this just adds an air of uniqueness for me as we walk off with one orange (ish) pumpkin, and one very definitely green fruit.

Fields of pumpkins

Lizzie's pumpkin

A successful harvest!

To the evening, and amongst the spooky snacks we've bought for the day, two sugar mouse cookies from Lizzie's mum!  Our afternoon has been spent carving our beautiful pumpkins, both of us coming up with sinister designs. This is such a fun activity, not just because of the creepy characters you get to meet, but also because of the delicious pumpkin soup you get to make from their scooped-out insides.  On a cold, wet, windy evening, this is a warming treat.  As for our new friends, they will get pride of place at the front gate, warding off evil spirits and hopefully keeping our house safe for the night.

Sugar mouse cookies

Halloween treats

Our handsome "jacko-lanterns"

Who's the prettiest?

Warming pumpkin soup

This blog would like to wish everybody a fun and spooky Halloween!

Jubilation!

What a wonderful weekend!  A weekend full of joy and celebration, patriotism, national unity and togetherness.  A brilliant weekend for Britain, a great advert for the nation, a massive lift for a country badly in need of a cheer-up.

Our weekend started in the pretty cathedral city of Chichester, an hour's drive from Lizzie's Surrey home.  Our arrival coincided with a Jubilee parade, and the crowds were out in force to add their voice to the cheers and whistles resounding across the country.  It was brilliant - Saint George and the dragon were there, along with bagpipers, Royal look-alikes and classic vehicles.

On Sunday we wandered down to the common in Shalford, to take a look at their summer fete.  Despite it being an unfortunately cloudy day, the spirits were high as the loudspeaker played a host of period tunes, and we tucked into hog roast rolls and cake.  Lizzie didn't win any prizes in the raffles, and I didn't win anything on the coconut shy, but our hopes were high as Lizzie entered her dog, Poppy, into the dog show.  There were many categories, and Poppy was going for the crown of golden oldie, for dogs over nine years old.

Well, she may not have won the competition, but we all thought she was the best dog, and at least it meant we could enjoy a commiserative ice cream!  There was no time to hang around for the awards anyway, as the fascinating Jubilee pageant was about to begin on the television.  The coverage of one thousand boats making their way down the Thames in honour of the Queen was enthralling, inspirational stuff!

(Photo courtesy of www.telegraph.co.uk)

Day three of the celebrations, and to the little town of Godalming, which was hosting one of the 2,012 beacons due to be lit as part of the celebrations.  The townfolk gathered outside Borough Hall, where councillors were attempting to recreate a group photograph taken on the day of the Coronation, 60 years ago.  Army cadets then led a procession of torch-bearers through the town and into the park, where the festivities had clearly been well underway for hours.  A fabulous brass band kept the crowd amused as night fell, and after the saying of the Jubilee prayer, we all joined in the national anthem.  The beacon was lit to a rousing cheer, and then a seriously impressive burst of fireworks filled the sky, as the band struck up Land of Hope and Glory.  This, for me, was the best part of the whole weekend, so atmospheric and so very memorable.

Our final day of celebration, Tuesday, saw us up uncomfortably early for the train to London.  The capital was certainly busy as we navigated our way around closed-off roads and barriers, eventually ending up on The Strand, just in time to see the Royal car itself, Her Majesty on her way to Saint Paul's Cathedral.  Further down The Strand, a giant screen had been erected at Trafalgar Square, with the square itself shoehorned full of spectators.  From here we made for Whitehall, choosing a spot just beyond the Cenotaph to watch the pageantry unfold.  Considering the millions of people who turned up to watch the event, we didn't get too bad a view, as the bearskins marched through, followed by the cavalry with their perfectly trained horses.  After what must have been two hours, cheering could be heard from Westminster, the household cavalry galloped past, and the royal carriages came into view, Queen Elizabeth with Prince Charles and Camilla in the first, followed by William, Kate and Harry in the second.  We were taken aback by the speed of the procession, but we did the best we could to snap some photos, camera in one hand, union jack waving in the other.  The crowning moment of our Jubilee weekend, the Royal Family themselves, was an absolutely unforgettable moment for Lizzie and I, and every other spectator in the crowd.

Finally, a word about an 86-year-old woman who embodies the spirit of a nation.  In her 60 years on the throne, she has remained the one constant of the country, ever faithful to her sense of duty, unwavering in her national obligation.  Queen Elizabeth never asked or chose to be our Queen, but she has fulfilled her role unflinchingly since the moment she learned of her father's death in 1952.  Inspirational, brave and passionate, she is a national asset, the very best of British.  

This blog would like to thank Queen Elizabeth II for 60 glorious years of service to the nation.  God Save the Queen!