2nd April 2002 - Day 1

It was the grey time immediately after dawn as we congregated outside Marple's cinema to board the coach. Although we had met once for a pre-trip briefing we were, for the most part, unacquainted with each other. To say we were strangers would be to go too far as Marple is a small place and, as people's paths cross frequently, faces become recognisable even if the personalities behind them remain less familiar. We were clearly a mixed group. Our ages ranged from the fairly young to the very 'mature'. There were parents with their children and a pair of elderly cousins, both groups hoping to find the grave of a family member. Some people were clearly more familiar to each other and they had formed small groups and were already chatting, but even they were fairly quiet. The day was still too young for animated conversations, so short greetings were exchanged and seats taken. At the appointed time of 06.00 we were off and, after picking up a few more people on the way out of Marple, heading south.

The journey to the south coast passed without incident. We collected our last passenger, Ray, at the Stafford service area, had a short break for breakfast somewhere around Oxford and arrived at the ferry terminal at Dover only fifteen minutes after our assigned boat had departed! Fortunately, at that time of the year the ferries were not busy and we were able to secure a place on the next departure. At 13.30 we were watching the White Cliffs fade into the haze. It was becoming a warm, calm day and the Channel was good to us. For the whole crossing the sea retained an even flatness that is not always the face it presents to those making the crossing. As this was the first time that some of our party had ever been abroad and several of them had not been looking forward to the sea crossing, this benevolence from the Channel was greatly appreciated.

My first port of call on the boat was the bar. Having made this journey innumerable times before I knew where my priorities lay and how quickly the queue at the bar can grow. As the first passenger there I was quickly served and was sitting down with my pint of Guinness by the time the rest of our party found their way there. I was joined by a couple of the ladies from the group and we started to get to know each other. Others sat close by and soon the ice was broken.

My next move was to the cafeteria where I enjoyed a meal of lamb stew with potatoes and a small bottle of wine, then on to the ship's shop to get some idea of prices. We were scheduled to make a stop at one of the big hypermarkets in Calais on the way back but I needed to know if the ship offered any bargains.

Some time later, strolling on deck in the warm Spring sunshine, I had a chat with Ray. He was to be my room-mate for the duration of the trip so it was good to discover that he is a great bloke and very good company. He is the nephew of Peter, one of the trip organisers, and intended to try to discover the grave of his grandfather while we were in France.

After the brief ninety minute crossing and having advanced our watches by one hour to take into account the time difference between the UK and France, we left Calais at about 16.00 and headed south-east towards the infamous Somme valley. It never ceases to surprise me how different the French countryside is from that with which I am familiar back in the UK. Separated by only twenty miles of water, both countries have developed very differently. Perhaps that is why I always enjoy my visits here – so close yet so 'foreign'.

The area covered by the battlefield now conveys a very different aspect from the one it must have offered nearly eighty-six years ago. Now it is softly undulating chalk downland covered by large, open fields almost devoid of hedge or fencing. Here and there are small woods and copses. The farm buildings and small villages look as though they have been there forever. It is hard to comprehend that everything now existing above ground level, be it natural or man-made, can only date back to 1918 at the earliest. By the end of the war the area was totally devastated. Not a brick rested on brick nor did any but the odd, lucky tree survive the artillery barrages and the machine guns' fusillades. Even the ground itself bears the scars if you know what to look for. At this time of the year the fields are still devoid of vegetation and it is possible to make out lighter patches on the surface of the soil. These milky patches are often in strips, indicating where trenches had been dug and subsequently filled in. Around these strips are large, round patches showing where shells had burst and brought the sub-soil chalk to the surface.

As one's eye sweeps the landscape and the low, rolling hills gently climb to the horizon, hiding hidden, dry valleys, it is well to remember the passage from John Masefield's book, "The Old Front Line", quoted by Liddell Hart in his "History of the First World War": 'Almost in every part of this old front our men had to go up hill to attack… The enemy had the look-out posts, with the fine views over France, and the sense of domination. Our men were down below, with no view of anything but of stronghold after stronghold, just above, being made stronger daily.'

We knew we were approaching our centre of operations when, at about 17.30, we passed our first war cemetery near Arras. All the cemeteries are similar. A low wall surrounds them with a gate and often a small gatehouse. Inside the enclosure are the neat rows of gravestones. All cemeteries are guarded by a large stone cross upon which is superimposed a large bronze inverted sword. Most have a plain stone altar inscribed with the simple message, 'THEIR NAME LIVETH FOR EVERMORE'.

Even in death the different nationalities are easily identified. British and Commonwealth graves are marked by a large, white headstone of Portland stone while the French are marked by a dark stone cross and the Germans with a black, pointed slab. On the British and Commonwealth stones are deeply carved the name, rank and number of the soldier along with his regimental badge. Also usually shown are his age and the date on which he died. Frequently, at the bottom of the stone, is a short dedication or quotation added at the request of the soldier's family. Both the French and German stones bear much terser inscriptions; the name and unit of the soldier and the date of his death. Many stones for soldiers of all three groups carry even less information as so many of the bodies in the graves were unidentifiable. On British and Commonwealth stones as much information as possible is shown. Sometimes the unknown soldier's regiment is known but often (too often) all that is recorded is that the name of the soldier is 'KNOWN UNTO GOD'. The French stones are simply marked 'INCONNU' – unknown.

A short time later we made our first visit to a cemetery. Warlencourt cemetery holds the remains of Ray's grandfather. It was the site of a casualty clearing station to which the soldiers were transferred from the front line after being wounded. After receiving minimal treatment those that were able to be moved were passed on down the lines of communication to receive better treatment. Sadly Ray's grandfather was too badly wounded and died here.

We easily found the grave for which we searched. Each cemetery has a little box in which is held a directory of the graves. Each row is numbered so it is relatively simple to find a particular grave. We gathered round the grave and Ray told us a little about his grandfather. He had enlisted in the Highland Light Infantry in Glasgow and, like so many of the men whose graves we were to visit, had died in his first battle. Ray laid a poppy wreath on the grave and took away some soil from it as a memento.

Beside the cemetery was an open field, as yet unplanted. Here we were introduced to the pastime of 'field walking'. Even today the ground is still giving up the evidence of the fighting that swayed across it. Each year, at this time, as the farmers plough and harrow before planting their crops, they frequently unearth the detritus of the war. As we were to see, rusty but still-dangerous shells are often uncovered. These are laid at the side of the road to be collected by the bomb disposal patrols. Another regular harvest of these fields is the bodies of the long-dead soldiers of both sides. Sadly it is often impossible to identify the body although sometimes the metal badges remain to indicate to which nation or regiment they had belonged. In all cases these remains are treated with the greatest respect and are duly laid to rest in the nearest military cemetery.

However, it was not for shells or bodies we searched. As we kicked around in the crumbly soil we did find other, smaller relics. Spent bullets and shrapnel balls were frequently uncovered. By the time we went home, Tom, the youngest member of the party, had amassed quite a collection including the rusting blade of an entrenching tool. I found some shrapnel balls and a cartridge case.

Continuing on our way we eventually arrived at our base of operations, the city of Amiens. In 1916 Amiens was safely behind the lines, a depot for supplies and recreation. The front line, though long, was surprisingly narrow so that towns like Amiens could be within earshot of the battle yet still be relatively safe from the destruction.

Amiens turned out to be an attractive and ancient city. It traces its history back to the first century BC when, as the Gallic town of Samarobriva, it marked a bridging place over the River Somme. By the year 1 AD under the Romans its population had grown to 25,000. About the fourth century its name changed to Ambianorum (the city of Ambiens) from which its present name derives. The wonderful cathedral that dominates all views of the town was begun in 1220. Later, in the eighteenth century it became a centre for the manufacture of textiles, particularly of velvet. Some of its famous natives include Choderlos de Laclos, the author of "Liaisons Dangereuses", Jean-Baptiste Delambre who introduced the metric system to France and, perhaps more well-known, Jules Verne who, although not born in Amiens, married a local woman and lived there for 43 years, writing many of his famous novels there.

Our hotel, the Express, right in the town centre, next to the railway station, was one of the more modern buildings in the city. The rooms were small but adequate to our needs, as we were hopefully to spend very little time in them.

After a quick freshening-up, Ray and I were down in the foyer to meet up with some of the party. We headed off in search of refreshments. On our way in we had seen a pleasant-looking area by the river with plenty of bars, cafés and restaurants. I later discovered that this area is called Saint-Leu. In a remarkably short time almost all the party was seated on the terrace of the Nelson pub reviving themselves with a variety of drinks. One drink led to another and before we knew it the evening had flown and it was almost too late to contemplate a full meal. While some of the group chose to carry on with their beers, a few of us decided to seek out some food. A couple of blokes and I found a pleasant Moroccan snack bar where we ate some excellent kebabs. At this point I decided I'd had enough excitement for one day so I crossed the road and headed to bed.