“This is a bloody alarm! Get out! Get out!”

The battalion was at Richmond, North Yorkshire, (home of the Regiment) at the outbreak of war, and on 8th August was moved to West Hartlepool, where it remained for the rest of the war. William was one of those on guard duty at South Gare during the bombardment. He was later drafted into the 6th Green Howards and served at Gallipoli. The 6th Battalion landed in the first wave of troops at Suvla Bay on 6th August.

The assault by the Battalion was the first attack made by any unit of the New Army during the war. On 21st August the Battalion attacked Scimitar Hill and lost all its officers. Only 100 men, under a sergeant-major made it to the Turkish line. The Battalion, reduced to a strength of 285 (from 775) subsequently formed a composite battalion with the West Yorkshires. Following a spell in Egypt the Battalion moved to France and the Somme. It was here, now a Corporal, that William won the MM. At the Third Battle of Ypres William, then a Sergeant, served with the 32nd Light Trench Mortar Battery. He suffered an accident on 31st October 1917 whilst demonstrating the use of a Stokes Mortar, and lost a leg. He survived the war and died on 2nd May 1998.

There are two main reasons I will always remember Hartlepool. First, we were always told as recruits that we were the junior service and the senior service was the British Navy, and the Navy was marvellous. We were told no foreign ships could ever enter British waters and all that caper. Secondly, it was the first time we were told in advance of what we were going to do. Usually we were never told anything, just fell in. You know, somebody yells at you and left turn, quick march and you find yourself doing something. But nobody told you about it in advance. Except at Hartlepool (and once at Passchendaele).

We weren’t in Hartlepool actually, we were attached to the South Gare breakwater, a kind of peninsula at the mouth of the Tees. We were on this south breakwater, a company of us as part of coast command. The remainder went to Hartlepool and were billeted in the Town Hall. The breakwater was cut off with a ten-foot high barbed-wire fence, and it was ten-feet deep too. There was a railway line ran along this peninsula and at the end of the line there were two trucks, one with a portable searchlight and one with a fixed searchlight. The engineers worked the searchlight; we were just forming the guard, about a hundred of us. It was a nice cushy little billet as a matter of fact; there was a nice hut built on the wider side of the peninsula and we had ‘biscuits’ and a ‘bed board’ - the biscuits were like a square cushion two-and-a-half feet square; you had three of them, about as long as a man, and they were quite comfy.

Anyway on this particular night we were under barrack-room conditions with the bugler blowing all those calls. We hadn’t got down to wartime when you abandoned things like that. Anyhow, he’d blown the Last Post and come to blow Lights Out; most of us were already in bed for there was nothing to stop up for once the Last Post had gone. Anyhow, instead of blowing Lights Out he blew another call, and we couldn’t make out what it was. But we had a couple of reservists with us and they soon said, “This is a bloody alarm! What the hell’s the matter? Get out! Get out!”

We got outside and lined up and out came the Commanding Officer.

“We’ve been told by the Admiralty that the German Fleet is at sea and they’re making for our shores and they’re expected to make a landing on the Northumbrian coast. You will all stand to. Don’t take one iota of your equipment off and await orders. There’s a train being shunted up the line with the engine steam up all night, and in the event that you’re wanted you’ll have to bundle into that quick and push off further north.”

That was the first time I’d ever been told anything. Anyway we went to bed that night, using our haversacks for pillows.

In the morning we got up, had breakfast and then dispersed; some on guard duty at the gate, or at the top, while a few had nothing to do, except talk. Then we heard the first salvo.

“Get down!” cried the officers. We were on the breakwater and couldn’t dig in so we simply lay down on the ground, while the officers stood up with their binoculars. Not that they could see anything because of the mist. But we could hear the shells coming over, though we didn’t have the faintest idea what was going on. We thought our Navy was knocking the hell out of the German Fleet. We’d been told the fleet was at sea and naturally assumed they were blowing the Germans out of the water. That’s what we thought.

This went on until one of the officers commented, “I do believe there’s something going on in Hartlepool across the way there.” Hartlepool was four or five miles away. But we still thought it was a naval battle.

By the time the mist lifted the Germans had packed up and steamed off. A little later quite a few women came running down the line, the peninsula, outside the barbed-wire, calling out for someone, a son or husband, because they were local people and wanted to know everyone was okay. But of course nothing had happened to us, nothing at all. Then we had dinner, our midday meal, and were still wondering when some ships hove into sight from the south. When they came into view they were battleships, British Navy, all wonderful flags flying. There were two or three ships and the big one in front was the battle-cruiser Lion, Admiral Beatty’s headquarters. You should have heard some of the comments from the older soldiers . . . “Bloody Navy!”