The name John Tom Cunnington was little more than a name to me, on the family tree. My great-grandmother Mary's brother Tom, as he was known, was the youngest member of his family. (He was named Tom not Thomas, and referred to by that, his middle name.) He had emigrated to Canada by the time he was 21, meeting up with his sister Emma, who had already made the move there.
In 1915 Tom did what a lot of British emigres did at that time, strange though it may seem to us now. He returned home to fight in Europe, alongside his compatriots. Two years later he died in the mud of a Flanders field, with no grave to mark his last resting place.
I had never seen what his face looked like. Tom's name is recorded on the Menin Gate at Ypres, commemorating some 50,000 soldiers who, like him, have no known grave. His name is recorded twice at his home church of Stoke Rochford, appearing on the large headstone of his parents' grave to the north of the church, and on the brass plaque commemorating the War dead, in the church porch. He had lived with his parents in the hamlet of Easton in the parish of Stoke before emigrating.
That is all he was to me. A name on the family tree, born in 1892 at Balderton, Newark, Notts: Died tragically, July 1917, aged just 25. No descendants to bear his name or his memory. No pictorial record of what he looked like.
Then, in summer 2001, I received a brief, unexpected message on my answer-phone, from someone I had never met or heard of before, called Sam Eedle. The message ran along the lines that 'you don't me, but I understand you are interested in the Cunningtons. Well you might be interested to know that I have a post card written by a relative of yours, John Tom Cunnington, from France during the First War. If you would like to follow this up, please call me back...' With great astonishment and mounting excitement I did ring Sam back, and as we spoke I then discovered the most remarkable aspect of what he had to tell me about this post card: On the front it bore a photographic portrait of John Tom Cunnington! Sam proceeded to unfold the story of how he had come by the post card.
In the early 1990's Sam had lived and worked in London. He used to visit a certain place for his lunch, and in order to kill time he would browse through the antique market stalls on the Grays Inn Road. Having a particular interest in researching the First World War, and being a member of the Western Front Association, Sam was on the look out for post cards sent by soldiers, home to loved ones. Flipping through a stack of cards, Sam suddenly stopped as his attention was arrested by the image of a soldier. Unlike almost all portraits of men sent to fight in the First World War, this one did not depict a man with head held high, fierce pride in his face, uniform pristine and recently pressed, not a blemish on him - such photographs would have been taken in Britain before active service ever took place. This one was different. The soldier's cap and jacket looked crumpled and worn. There was a rip in the right shoulder. His eyes looked glassy, staring away from the camera. Fatigue, weariness, and perhaps the knowledge of having witnessed things that most of us hope we shall never see, written all over his face.
Sam was so taken by the image, that he bought the post card. As luck would have it, the brief, pencil-scribbled message on the reverse included, unusually, both his name and regimental number. The writing looks like that of a person who was drained, and certainly would not have had a flat, hard surface on which to lean in order to write it. Do you recognise me? he asks, in effect, as if he knew that his face might have changed in the intervening months or years since he left Blighty. It is as if he made the decision and the effort to visit a photographic studio, and send the card, almost by way of saying, Here's something for you to remember me by. Take a good look, for chances are you may not see me again. Of course he would not have wanted blatantly to be morbid. But perhaps the thought lay in the back of his mind, having already seen comrades come to grief.
Sam took it upon himself to find out as much as he could about this particular Private, just one of hundreds of thousands called up in those fraught and unreal times. His research gradually came together over the following years. Eventually he wrote and illustrated (being a graphic designer by trade) a 25 page A4 document, The Search for John Tom Cunnington, published privately 2001. Almost as an after thought, at the end of one day's work, Sam typed the word cunnington into the search engine on his computer. Among the sites found was the world-wide Cunnington family tree website run by Dave Cunnington (cf. p. XIII). This included an entry for John Tom, which had been supplied with my help. Dave courteously had credited me, and upon receiving a call from Sam, offered him my telephone number, as one of Tom's closest surviving relatives, and being someone with a keen interest in family history. Thus Sam found his way to me.
I remember well that initial conversation over the 'phone, when Sam told me of the existence of the post card and its portrait image. A huge shiver ran up and down my spine. Somehow it seemed like a miracle, and brought home to me a sense of the continuity of life, that seems to transcend individual mortality. I immediately rang Dad, barely able to contain the news. I think we both felt choked as we talked, if only Uncle Wally, who had passed on just a few weeks before, had known about it. But then, we mused, perhaps he had some part in the whole amazing episode, by having a subtle word in the right place!
Sam promptly sent me a good copy of the post card, front and back. My first impression was that there seems to me to be a hint of Tom's sister Ethel, in particular, in his face. Sam informed me that he was shortly to present a talk to his local Western Front Association (in Worcester), outlining his research into Tom's wartime service, so as to illustrate what can be achieved starting from the barest detail -no more than a name and number. Dad and I made it a red letter day, and attended, enthralled by the whole strange phenomenon of hearing unfamiliar people reveal stark details about a family member. The most moving climax to this whole sequence of events occurred when, at the end of the evening, Sam handed the original card to us, saying that he felt its rightful place was to be returned to Tom's surviving family.
So how had the post card become detached from its original owner in the first place? Certainly no one in the family had ever mentioned its existence to Dad or to me. The card intriguingly remains elusive as to its intended destinatiott There is no address, stamp or post mark on it, indicating that Tom would have sealed it in an envelope for safe keeping. The message begins, simply, Dear Sister...'. Only one of Tom's sisters was still single and without a family at this time: Ethel, who worked during the First War, as a domestic in London. They would have been closest to each other in age, Tom the youngest and Ethel the second youngest. So perhaps there was a special affection between them. If it was sent to Ethel, one can only speculate as to how it might have become separated from her. It would clearly have held enormous sentimental value for her, so she would surely not have parted with it deliberately. After the War Ethel returned to Easton to be with her father following her mother's death in the flu epidemic of 1919. So it would seem likely that somehow the card was left behind in London, where all those years later Sam found it for sale, and chose to pluck it out of the pile. There is, of course the possibility, that it never in fact reached Ethel at all. Perhaps she changed address at the crucial time preceding its arrival. Or may be the card was lost in transit, or incorrectly addressed. Whatever the case may be, the marvellous fact remains that Tom sent this arresting last image of himself to his family, and over eight decades later it has finally been gratefully received by them, where it will remain highly treasured as an heirloom with a fascinating story to tell.
And what of Tom and his wartime movements, the final chapter of his life? These things are expertly unpacked by Sam in his own paper, aforementioned. My shortened layman's understanding of those events is as follows, based on Sam's work. Tom returned from Canada in December 1915 and was recruited to the Lincolnshire Regiment, the county where he had lived for most of his life. He was one of the last intake of Derby recruits, volunteers who chose to sign up before the British Government was forced to sustain its numbers by using conscription. At this time Tom had an official portrait photograph taken of him in his uniform, as would all new recruits. As revealed also by Sam, this photograph would later be reproduced in the Grantham Journal of the 1st of September 1917, when his death was reported. As you will see, below, my rather hazy scan of a photocopy shows the image of a pristine Private Cunnington in peak condition, a demeanour that people were more used to seeing.
Tom was sent out to France with his fellow recruits, to enter the bloody and bitter reality of trench warfare, unglamorous in the extreme. Sometime in 1916 the Government realised that it was haemorrhaging men so badly from certain regiments, and unable to replace them fast enough with new conscripts, that soldiers would now have to be moved around from regiment to regiment, as appropriate, regardless of their county of origin. Thus it was that Tom found himself being herded into the 12th Royal Sussex. Here I find yet another quirky personal connection. Along with a few from the Lincolnshire, this particular intake also included some chaps from the Leicestershire Regiment, in particular from the Vale of Belvoir, and specifically from my own current home village of Harby, and neighbouring villages of Hose, Long Clawson, and Plungar, where I also work as a priest. Therefore some of the names that I am called upon annually to recite, on Remembrance Sunday, are none other than my great uncle's colleagues, and quite possibly, chums. They include surnames still prevalent today locally, such as Moulds, Coy, Dewey, and Hand. Sam quotes a letter he has come by, written from the Front in June 1916 by Harby man Lance Corporal Alec Coy, to Bertie Hand's mother:
I did not like to write before about poor Bert, for I know what trouble you felt. I am very sorry I cannot tell you any good news. As soon as I could, Tommy and I went to his battalion to see how the Harby boys were, but could not find any of the three. We heard that Tom and Sam were wounded, and Bert missing, I'm afraid Berts other mates are gone, so I cannot get to know anything at all, but there is just a possible chance of him being a prisoner.
As I am reminded each year, Bertie was, in fact, one of those who did not make it back.
In December 1916 Tom's regiment had a few days leave. Enough time for Tom to visit a French photographic studio and have his portrait taken. From the information that we have, this makes it the most likely date for the photograph, some seven months before his death.
Tom was killed on the first day - Z-Day as it was termed - of the Passchandaele Offensive, the 31st of July 1917. His death certificate erroneously records him as still being a member of the 12th Sussex. But just a few days before, in fact it can be pinpointed to the 7th of July, a request was made for replacements to join the 116th Company of the Machine Gun Corps. This consisted of teams of men undertaking particularly dangerous work in the front-line hauling heavy-weight machine guns as quickly as possible into prime positions, from where they could fire 10,000 rounds per hour, direct or indirect over a range of several hundred yards. Tom was one of those men transferred from the Sussex.
On the morning of Z-Day, just north of Ypres, the Division rose at 3.50 am, and pushed steadily north-east towards the small village of St Julien. The quantity of shells rained down on those fields was such that the landscape became like a sea of giant mole hills, pitted with deep lakes of sludge and slurry. These were so treacherous for man or beast to fall into, that horses and even soldiers, once irretrievably embedded, were reported to have been shot dead by their own side, rather than being left to drown in the mud. Later that day it began to rain, and continued raining for four days solid. During the month of August 1917 at the front, rain continued to fall on no less than 18 days in total. It is little wonder that Tom's and the bodies of so many others were never recovered.
The War Diary of the 116th Machine Gunners for the 31st of July reads: At Zero Hour [3.50 am] the sections followed the infantry according to instructions they were subjected to heavy shelling in the assembly positions and during their advance. No. 2 section received several casualties by the time they reached the dotted blue line [the first objective]...
By 8 o'clock that morning the 116th had lost one officer, with one wounded; four men were killed, 19 wounded, and four missing. It seems likely that Tom would have been numbered among the latter.
A letter from Lieut. H. H. Stint, dated August the 5th - which was published a month later in the Grantham Journal - was sent to Tom's mother, my great-great grandmother Elizabeth Cunnington, reading as follows:
Aug. 5th 1917.
Dear Mrs. Cunnington, - It is my very painful duty to write and tell you of your son's death in action on the 31st of last month. I can only hope the casualty list will prepare you for this letter. I hope it may bring you some small comfort to know that his death was quite instantaneous, since I was there when the shell burst almost on top of hint He had not been with us long, but showed great keeness for machine-gun work and quickly became an efficient gunner. He found his place in the section, and was soon liked by everyone. I personally had a great liking for him, for he was always so willing and eager to get om Everyone feels his loss deeply, and I can only send my own and the Company's heartfelt sympathy for you in your bereavement.
Just over a year later Tom's sister Mary gave birth to a son. He was given the name Tom. The following year, in 1919, Tom's mother Elizabeth Cunnington died during the infamous flu epidemic of that year. But perhaps part of her had never fully recovered from receiving news of Tom's untimely death, killed in the mud and mire of the battlefield while loyally serving his country.
Sam's research has enabled us to imagine, to a degree, what was going on at the end of Tom's life, even to the extent of locating the exact field where he, at the last, fell. But it is the reconstructing of the living soul that makes this work exciting. Putting flesh on the bones of his life, seeing the image of the man who lived and breathed, walked and talked.
Since Sam's news came to light, Dad has informed me that there is in fact a solitary photograph of Tom that has been in the extended family's keeping all this time, although I had never heard about it or seen it until now! Taken when he was evidently enjoying life to the full, newly installed in Canada, Tom had sent a copy to his sister Mary (Stapleford), my great-grandmother, together with a letter, as follows (it is noteworthy how much neater his writing was on this occasion compared to his spidery message on the post card from the Front). It is good to be able to picture something of the halcyon days of Tom's youth, when all seemed to be innocence and simplicity, to remember him that way, and to consider that the place where he must surely now reside, will be just as blissful:
Marieton Sask[atchewan] Canada July 18, 1913
Dear Sister,
Just a few lines trusting they will find you all quite well as it leaves me m good health, I saw [sister] Emma on Sunday and she send [sic.] her best love to you all, and she likes being out here, we had a Picnic on the first in aid of the Church building fund we were both there had a good time, it was a flne time there were over 200 people there and six motor cars and one motor boat and buggys and waggons, there was a football match and a sale of work and a sweet and ice cream stall, they charged 35c for dinner and 25c for tea, I had my Photo taken three weeks since so am sending you one of them, this is the team I work and that is our fire wood at the back of us me and Jack got it in the winter, how is Mary [Stapleford, niece] getting on, should be pleased to have a letter from her some time if she can write one, I guess she can by now, give my kind regards to Harry and Dick Welbond and tell them I have not
forgotten them yet and they are to look out for a long letter from me soon trusting they are both in good health as it leaves me, we have been having a lot of hot weather latley [sic.], has set in wet again now rained all last night and is raining to day having to stay in doors as it is not fit to work outside, the crops were beginning to want rain badly, are growing fast now, most of the wheat is heading out looks like being good crops only the straw will be short but that do not matter a deal as we burn the straw out here. There is a lot of wild fruit about this year, I got a lot on Sunday after noon and me and the Misses [no suggestion that he was ever married- this could just be a polite term for a woman] got some strawberrys one day last week there is a lot of wild black currants about this year on the lake banks, I guess they will be ready by Sunday I go down to the lake to bathe on sundays this hot weather, Was down at Horns to dinner the first sunday Emma was there, shall see her most sundays it takes me half an hour to walk over, shall be pleased to hear from you when ever you have time to write, trusting this will find you all in the best of health as it leaves us both [Emma?]. With best love to all.
Remain Your Affectionate Brother Tom Cunnington
They shall not grow old,
as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun,
and in the morning,
we will remember them:
We will remember them
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