The text below is printed on an unaddressed postcard
(½d. inland postage, 1d. foreign postage).
It is thought that William Hoggarth (1891-1965)
had many friends who served in the 4th King's Own.
As a matter of fact Lance Corporal W. Hoggarth of
Lindal-in-Furness served in the 8th Batallion
4th King's Own Royal Lancaster Regiment.
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TO OUR LADS OUT IN FRANCE
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Good luck to the boys of the 4th King's Own,
That are out far away in France;
Each fighting for home and country,
Each taking the sporting chance.
They have gone to avenge their comrades,
Those that have gone before;
They have gone to crush the German Hun,
To return that coward's blow.
They have left their mothers, wives and sweethearts,
Some have left their children small;
Left everything that they love best,
To answer their country's call.
But our hearts are always with them,
In the damp and dirty trench;
Where our Lindal lads are fighting
Side by side with French.
All their hearts are staunch and true,
And on this we put our oath,
That Germany will never crush,
The boys of the Fighting Fourth.
LILIAN STABLES.
Lindal-in-Furness,
June 16th, 1915.
The clipping that follows is from an
unidentifiable newspaper dated
November 2nd, 1918. A friend of
William Hoggarth (1891 - 1965) is believed
to have written the article.
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THE ARMY "PULLMAN."
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FORTY MEN IN AN OPEN RAILWAY TRUCK IS
TOMMY'S WAY OF TRAVELLING.
The night is very dark, and the square,
solid shapes of the trucks and old coaches
of which the train is composed stand out
just a little blacker against the starless sky.
In the background are the gaunt ruins of the
station buildings, for this place was, before
the advance, under enemy shell-fire, and is
even now occasionally strafed by long-range guns.
Now and then the darkness is broken by the flare
of a match, as someone attempts to pass away
the dragging moments of waiting with a cigarette
or a pipe. If one had the eyes of a cat, one would
see a long, double line of men lying on
the ground in all attitudes, with their rifles
and equipment beside them, some sleeping, some
talking and laughing. They have just been
relieved from the line, and after a long, tiring
march in the night have reached the point where
they are to entrain for the village miles behind
the line in which they will spend their period
of "divisional rest."
Packed Like Sardines.
Presently a voice shouts "Fall in!" The cry is
taken up by the officers and N.C.O.'s, and with
a sigh of relief the men get up and struggle into
their equipment.
Then begins a slow, forward movement, with a halt
at almost every five steps, as the men are told
off in batches to their respective trucks or
carriages. We crane our necks forward to see if
we are lucky enough to "click" a carriage,
although this is a mixed blessing if there are
ten men with all equipment in each compartment.
But the sergeant relentlessly tells us off one
by one as we scramble up into the truck, and we
immediately dump our kits in the nearest vacant
spot. Man after man pours through the opening,
until it seems as though there must be at least
half the company in our truck alone.
Some wag reminds the sergeant that this isn't
"the bloomin' Albert 'All," and we all breathe
valedictions on the man who deemed this truck
capable of holding "40 Hommes."
Certain lucky persons produce candles, and by
their feeble light we settle ourselves down and
attempt to get to sleep in our rather crowded
temporary quarters. The only possible way to
get one's legs out is to hang all kit on the
walls of the truck and lie in sardine fashion,
head to feet.
Racing a Bomber.
Eventually the battalion is entrained, and
after a time the train pulls out, and the
rocking lulls us to sleep. Occasionally we
are half awakened by the yells of some unfortunate
upon whom his kit has descended, the vibration
of the train shaking it from its insecure hold.
Suddenly we awake with a start, the echoes of
a mighty crash resounding in our ears.
"What's that!" asks someone nervously, and even
as he speaks we hear it again - and recognise it.
An enemy aeroplane has spotted the train, and
is bombing it. Jerry knows this line too well.
Another and yet another bomb drops, and each
seems nearer than the last. Stones and dirt
patter on the roof like dirt hail. Faster
and faster rushes the train through the night,
for the driver knows that a swift moving object
is a difficult target for bomb-dropping; also
he knows that there is a tunnel ahead.
But the crashes cease, the airman having exhausted
his stock of bombs, and we get over an attack
of "wind up" and resume our interrupted sleep.
When we next awake it is nearly daylight.
The sliding doors are opened, and there is
f the truck. Others sit on the footboards,
and some, even more venturesome, get on the
roof, although this is strictly against orders.
Civilisation Again.
The train slows down, and presently draws up
alongside a little country station. Immediately
everyone jumps out to stretch their lags, or
to "scrounge" for grub or bread. Apparently
from nowhere there springs a crowd of urchins
of all sizes and ages, shouting "Biskeet!" or
"Bully biff!" in shrill voices.
Suddenly there sounds a piercing whistle, a
shout of "All aboard!" and the train starts
with a jerking and rattling of coupling chains.
Then there is a rush for carriages, and the
train, gathering speed with every turn of the
wheels, is pursued by a long line of panting,
sweating figures, running as if for dear life,
for to get left behind means trouble, it being
against orders to leave the train without
permission.
But they all get aboard somehow, some even
hanging on the buffers of the rear truck,
and we proceed complete. The message "Next stop,
destination!" comes down the line, and we
get our gear ready to put on.
Eventually the train pulls up in a siding,
and we detrain and from up in platoons and
companies. Then our representative in the
advance billeting party comes up and takes
charge of us, and away we go to our billets,
eager to get a wash and clean-up generally,
and look like real, decent, respectable
soldiers once again.
-----------------------------------
"THE LADS FRA YAM."
-----------------------------------
Wild Utah has no country lanes,
Where blithesome birdies sing;
No favor'd spot where beauty trains,
The blossom'd charms of spring.
When you have known the lovely scenes,
That dress the English dales,
You can't espouse the art that gleans,
A joy from desert trails.
The sun may light the Yankee wastes,
And cosmic mists dispel,
And yet not warm the life that tastes,
The chill of prison cell.
The "lads fra yam" declar'd they'd force,
A pleasure from the wilds,
And round their lives outlined a course,
On which they air'd their smiles.
J. Dixon formed a club that lit
Their lives with thoughts of home,
And caused their starving hearts to knit,
To scenes across the foam.
They stroll'd again the flowery dells,
And breath'd the honey'd breeze,
That met them as they storm'd the fells
With youth's untiring ease.
Again they saw the pretty daisies,
And heard the skylark sing,
The cheerful song that ever praises,
The loves that mate in spring.
The club impaled the gloomy hour,
And kept our virtues train'd
To greet the fact that booze's pow'r
By mental calm is maimed.
There's scores of chaps that start to booze,
Because their town is dull,
And grants to pubs sole rights to loose,
The cobwebs from the skull.
The "Dalton News" got neatly thrash'd
When members met together,
And searching optics brightly flash'd,
Upon its stock of blether.
W. Gibson watch'd the farming notes,
J. Spence the murphy trade,
While James, on whom a sweetheart dotes,
Its marriage items slay'd.
Dick Johnson, Butcher, Billy Fox,
All eyed the "Local Chat,"
And told us when he stewed his socks,
To dope his thinking vat.
Marshall, and poor Joe Whitehead,
Who died a month ago,
The order's counsels promptly fed,
With briefs on sporting law.
Ritson, Joe Rogers, Fisher Fred,
Made many a try at ginney,
And filled their foemen with the dread,
We used to have for "Shinny"
JOSEPH ROGERS
247, So. Main, Salt Lake City, U.S.A.
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