Posts Tagged ‘London’

London

The UK election dominated the news while I was there.  I learned a great deal about their election process – fascinating.  We could learn a thing or two about limiting our tedious and prolonged campaigning process – now it goes on and on and on.  Their way is very different from ours, but that’s another story.

Guardsmen friends and the lovely female friend of the lad on the right.

I lodged mostly in the Victoria area of London, visiting often my good friend and the son I never had, Sgt Kev Gorman, Scots Guards at my favorite pub, The Cardinal.  He has two of the most awesome dogs I’ve met in my lifetime.  Alphie, a mix of English Bull Terrier and possibly Lab, and, Jennifer – a pure English Bull Terrier.  One doesn’t dare refer to them as “pit” anything.  They take great offense, and one really doesn’t want to offend an English Bull Terrier – they might eat you.

Alphie and Jennifer

Jenn and I fell in love.  Just a whim, a mere peccadillo, but I for one shall remember our steamy affair always.  She was next to me or in my lap constantly, giving Alphie fits.  Now having such a magnificent dog in your lap is much like having a large boulder in your lap.  She is hard as nails, but very affectionate … and those eyes !

"Jenn"

During the three weeks I was there, Kev and I worked diligently on a project we have going, to publish a diary of a Scots Fusilier Guards enlisted soldier who was in the Crimean War.  We, mostly Kevin, tracked down his entire family, and it is an amazing story … again for another time.  If we can do it, we’ll have the manuscript publication-ready by end of year.  I’ll keep you posted.  Should there be any one out there with an interest in publishing such a wonderful diary, please let me know.  We have several folks already interested, but would consider all other interested parties.

Kev and LTC Wade Russell, Royal Tank Regt (Ret) - a good friend

Cardinal Pub, Victoria, London - My local

Cardinal Pub - Again !

So we had a bit of snow in Gettysburg – again … and I mean a bit.  Not worth mentioning, but I understand some other areas rather close by were hit harder.  It’s funny how snow fall is so relative to what you’re used to having, at least to me.  I’m from upstate New York, Syracuse to be exact.  We never thought about closing schools or being “snowed in” until we had 8 – 20 inches, and that kind of snow fall was common.  To us it was just weather.  A natural occurrence.  Here in Gettysburg, a few inches causes major worry.

Mike pointing at 'snow emergency' in London

That’s relative as well.  Not too long ago Mike Vice and I were in London on a book project, and they had what they called a major blizzard – emergency conditions.  It shut down the entire town – almost panic in the streets – grocery stores doing a land office business as folks stocked up – being warned not to venture out unless absolutely necessary.

There was what I would characterize as ‘a dusting,’ as you can see by the picture of Mike smiling ironically as he points at the “massive snowfall.”  When I lived in D.C. it was much the same.  It’s all in your perspective and what your used to dealing with.  I, for one, enjoy the snow and consider risking its perils another adventure, another challenge worth taking.

On the other hand, I must admit, I’m getting pretty fed up with the severe and constant cold weather this year in our part of the country.  Where’s all that global warming when you need it?  Spring can not come too soon.

Crimean Memories - Released by Schiffer Publishing

What would be the reaction of two ‘Yanks’ photographing and writing about surviving artefacts of a near forgotten British War – the Crimean War?  Well, it wasn’t at all what was expected.

Whether it was our dogged determination (focused on the work until it was done each day, then on to the pubs), our historical knowledge (certainly not reaching the level of theirs), the fact that the soldiers who fought it are under appreciated, our approach (professional – we hoped), or merely our bright Yank-like smiles, we were met with overwhelming enthusiasm and support from museum staffs and private collectors wherever we went.

At first, they were a bit reticent and cautious, wanting to bring each artefact into our photo set, then returning each delicately to its glass case home.  After a few museum visits, however, with both of us wearing white gloves, and Mike speaking curator-eez to them, things began to change.  I think phone calls were made among this small community of museums.  They saw and sensed how we cared for and about the artefacts.  Soon we were ourselves handling the artefacts, given the keys to the display cases, and found less and less supervision on our work.  We considered this the utmost compliment and were diligent in our efforts to honor their trust.

In all locations they made room.  In some instances they would close down a floor for our setup.  In others, they went so far as to close the museum for us to shoot. I can recall one occasion where they actually closed the museum, handed us the keys, and said please come get us if you need anything, then, in passing, “Oh, and lock the doors when you’re finished.  We’d like you to join us for a bite and a pint.”  Needless to say, we were a mite humbled by this treatment.

We were hosted all over by the most gracious folks.  Just to name a few of the many cherished memories:  As mentioned previously, guests at the homes of several curators and collectors; guests several times for lunch at the Honorable Artillery Company – London; guests at a Loyal Georgian Society meeting – Halifax; provided a private tour of Horse Guards (Sort of the British Pentagon) by the SgtMaj of the Welsh Guards; guests at Black Sunday, Scots Guards, Wellington Barracks; guests at the Sergeants’ Mess and Officers’ Mess, Wellington Barracks; and even a special guest at Windsor Castle for the Scots Guards Changing of the Colours by Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth.

Mike assisting with lighting on a typical shot - note his white gloves

Mike hard at work taking notes on artefacts

NCO Mess Wellington Barracks

Will and Commanding Officer, Scots Guards - Black Sunday, Wellington Barracks

With Brigadier Kim Ross - Black Sunday, Wellington Barracks

Will 'working' while seated at The Duke of Wellington's desk - Horse Guards

Windsor Castle - Five Bishops blessing the new Scots Guards Colour

HRH Queen Elizabeth at Scots Guards Changing of the Colours - Trooping the Line. She is really quite lovely and gracious.

Crimean Memories: Artefacts of the Crimean War - released by Schiffer Publishing 2009

The journey to publication of Crimean Memories: Artefacts of the Crimean War wasn’t merely about the technical or logistical side of the photography or the history of the artefacts.  It was, in fact, a people experience Mike Vice and I will never forget.

Six months before our first one-week “recce” visit to see if the project was even feasible we started sending letters to museums and collectors asking what their Crimean collection consisted of, and permission to photograph.  The response was much better than expected, and our subsequent first visit was a rousing success.  The project was, indeed, reasonable and achievable, but the budget was going to be tight.

We planned and coordinated our second 4-6 week visit with detailed appointments for shooting and a grueling itinerary.  Our major bases of operation were London (south of England), Halifax (middle and north of England), Edinburgh (Scotland), and a town whose name I can’t even pronounce in Wales.  We planned to take day trips from these places like the spokes in a wheel, and it worked, far above expectations.  To accomplish this, however, we had to find lodging, and that expense alone might have crippled us.  It did not.  Because we had so many kind friends who supported us, and the worthiness of the project.

In London, Sergeant Kevin Gorman, Archivist, Scots Guards, and the son I never had, found us more than reasonable accommodations. He was, as well, an invaluable help with various aspects of the project.

In Halifax, we stayed at the home of a dear friend, LtCol Wade Russell, Royal Tank Regiment (Ret), for weeks on end.  Whether we arose at 2 or 3 am, and in spite of our protests, Wade was always there, making us breakfast for the road.  Whatever time we returned, exhausted and bedraggled, he was waiting with a quiet smile and a fresh gin and tonic.

We felt one of the larger collections was at the Green Howards Museum in Richmond, and that it would take more than a day to shoot.  Roger Chapman, the then curator, insisted we remain overnight with him and his lovely wife.

In Scotland, Wade made arrangements for us to stay at a military officer’s mess in Edinburgh – delightful, and within budget.  We ate at the enlisted mess, and spent the evenings in good company at the officer’s mess.

In Wales, our hosts were Bill Curtis and his wife, while we photographed his definitive weapons collection.  We then went on from there to shoot artefacts at the 23rd Royal Welch Fusiliers Museum.

The kindness and unending hospitality of these folks and so many others made the project not only possible, but so very enjoyable.  The new friends we made and the old friendships we nourished will be with us always.

What I want to talk about in Part II, tomorrow, is the reception of the museum staffs and private collectors to two ‘Yanks’ on a mission to photograph surviving artefacts from a very British war.

The Team - A/Sgt Kev Gorman, Scots Guards, Will, and Michael, surrounded by our equipment

Will and Roger Chapman, of the Green Howards. Photograph taken at the Crimean War Research Society Annual Meeting

Bill Curtis smiling among his collection - a happy man, indeed

Will, Mike, and Wade Russell at the Maypole Pub near Wade's house, not far from Halifax

Mike & a friend, Peter Lockwood, who was a wonderful host and great help in the project's early stages.

British officer's roundabout jacket showing campaign use (Details in book)

British officer's forage cap worn by a Victoria Cross recipient (Details in book)

Officer's breast plate (All the details and history are in the book)

The real Bob. He can be seen at the National War Museum-Scotland, at Edinburgh Castle

Sticks survived the Crimean War, and came home a hero in his own right.  His comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards even fashioned a medal for him.  As they made their grand victory march through the London streets, past their beloved Queen Victoria, Sticks led the regiment.

His heroic deeds in the Crimea were legend.  He even disappeared for weeks from the frozen trenches before Sevastopol.  He returned wearing a Russian religious medal around his neck.  The Sergeant Major winked, and said, “Guess the damned Ruskies know a good dog when they see one, aye.  Glad ta hav ye back laddie.”

Private Gorman also survived the war.  He left the Scots Fusilier Guards a few years later, but Sticks chose to remain.  He had found a home, indeed a calling.  Sean knew it as well.  Sticks didn’t belong to him.  He belonged to the Scots Fusilier Guards, and still does – in memory.

———————————————————————————

Yes, there was a real Sticks, but his name was “Bob.”  He did belong to a butcher, but may well have chosen the life of a soldier, rather than having been rescued by one, as in my fictional tale.  He fought in many of the battles in the Crimean War beside his comrades in the Scots Fusilier Guards, and survivied the war.

He even survived the freezing trenches of that first winter of 1854.  His mates did fashion a medal for him, and a collar of white belt leather, festooned with regimental buttons.

Unfortunately, the irony of fate caught up to Bob.  On a cold February morning in 1860, he was marching through London in his usual place at the head of the Scots Fusilier Guards.  Outside Buckingham Palace he was run over by a butcher’s cart and died as a result of the accident.

Much mourned, his spirit lives on, even today.  You see his friends just couldn’t let him go.  They had him preserved, and he can be seen by all of you – sitting tall, still on guard duty, at the National War Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh Castle.

I hope you’ve enjoyed my tale about Sticks as much as I’ve enjoyed spinning it for you.

In memory of Bob … a warrior.

There were many dogs with the British in the Crimea, including this one with officers of the 57th Regiment of Foot.

[This is a fictional tale by Will Hutchison, based on a very real story]

The war had begun.  Britain and France, unlikely bedfellows, were joined, with the help of Sardinia, against Russia – ostensibly to protect “poor, invaded, Turkey.”  As the 1st Battalion, Scots Fusilier Guards marched to the ships, they were led by a proud, prancing Sticks, his black and brown coat shining in the sun.

The marching troops passed by the amazed butcher along the way.  Private Gorman, marching near the head of the column, noticed Sticks’ back stiffen, his head tilt slightly higher, and he could have sworn he heard Sticks sniff loudly as he marched past his former master.

The sea journey was uneventful, except in choppy waters – Sticks being one of the few who did not tear his insides out retching over the rail.  Varna, along the western coast of the Black Sea was the army’s staging area.  It was also where cholera hit the British and French forces – hard – sometimes killing a hundred men in a day.  Sticks watched over his brothers in arms, adding joy to the last few moments of their lives when the sickness consumed them.  He was saddened by the losses, which cut his new friends down within hours of showing the first signs of illness.

“I think I have it, Sticks, heaven help me,” Sean Gorman pronounced one morning, when a grey pallor appeared on his face.  Sticks whined, remained with his friend … but he seemed to know that Sean would not succumb … or perhaps he willed it.  By the third day, it was determined that Sean had serious diarrhea, but not the cholera.  In time he recovered and was back with the regiment.

The real Sticks, whose name was actually "Bob" - This wonderful sketch is courtesy of an unknown artist

The regiment finally moved across the Black Sea to the Crimea, and a confrontation with the Russians.  Sticks first saw action at the Alma River, where the Scots Fusilier Guards were in the thick of a frontal assault on a Russian position fortified with cannon.  While they waited to assault, solid shot and shell rained down upon them perilously.

“What the divil is he aboot, Private Gorman?” asked the Sergeant Major, looking behind his line of soldiers, who were hugging the ground as close as possible.  He was watching Sticks cavorting about the field to their rear like he was playing with toy balls on a London green.

“He’s…he’s chasin’ after them cannon balls, Sar’nt Major.  He’s been doin’ it fer the longest time.”  They had been under intense cannon fire for over an hour.  The men’s nerves were frayed, stretched to the limit.  Watching this tiny dog scampering about was giving them a calming hope of survival.

“Ach, he is a charmer, that one,” said the Sergeant Major, laughing.  “You lads take heed now,” he bellowed.  “If the wee Sticks can stand this hell, then I’m damned sure we kin stand it.”  There were shouts of “Aye, that’s the God’s truth!” and “Charge on, Sticks, lad!”

The attack soon began in earnest.  First they crossed the Alma … where Sticks found he could swim, and Private Gorman went flat on his face in the water.  As the regiment moved up a gradual slope toward the enemy, men began to fall from the ranks.

Sticks would run to each, sniffing, prodding.  If the man lay still, he’d go on to the next.  If the man moved, he’d bark loudly until other soldiers or one of the bandmen, who were used to carry wounded to the rear, came up to aid the fallen man.  Sticks was utterly fearless and relentless. There were times when he ran so fast he outstretched the moving line of guardsmen, and had to be called back – bullets kicking up ground around him.

An officer went down, hit once in the leg.  It was the young lieutenant who had been Officer of the Day when Sean found Sticks in the snow. The ground where he lay was exposed except for a pile of rocks nearby.  The officer was hit again in the arm while lying on the ground. Sticks ran to his side and began dancing around, barking.  Sean heard the bark and recognized the wounded officer.  He moved quickly, grabbing the officer by his shoulder belt and coatee collar, dragging him behind the rocks.

“Good work, Sticks, lad,” he said, “but ya better bide here behind these rocks.  It’s no a safe place out there.”

Two bandsmen with an improvised stretcher came up.  Sean ran on to catch the regimental line moving ever closer to the Russians.  He looked back over his shoulder. “Stay – boy!  Stay!”

There was, of course, little or no chance of Sticks “staying.”

[The Conclusion, Part VI, will be along tomorrow with more of the real story behind the fictional tale.]

{Photograph at top taken by Roger Fenton}

A youthful Ian Carlyle in the Crimea

Deciding on a fictional hero for an entire series is a daunting task, not to be pursued lightly. The character will last for years and through many adventures. He will grow older as the series progresses. I had certain aspects of my protagonist in mind from the beginning. For instance, I am a Scot. My father, a character in his own right, was born there. He was raised in the north, and considered himself a highlander, although actually born south of Glasgow in Kilmarnoch. He emigrated to Canada, then to the US. He had a thick brogue. In fact, I had a strange quasi-Scottish accent until I was about ten, when it began to fade away. I wanted my hero to have my roots, and, like my father, be a bit of a rogue and a maverick.

I chose the name Carlyle, because it was a sept of the Clan Bruce of Scottish nobility. The first name, Ian, just seemed to fit. His home was originally Dunmore Hall, until I found through research and friends in Scotland that there was a thriving Dunmore Hall, family, and estate, and they well might take offense to being fictionalized. Thus I made up the name Dunkairn, as Ian’s home. A ‘cairn’ is a mound of stones with crevices. These cairns are all over the highlands. It came to mind from a wonderful cairn terrier I had once owned. Like all such creatures, he was raised to hunt – to drive critters from among these cairns so his master could make the kill. I changed the ‘c’ to a ‘k’ on purely a whim.

I’d had my fill of reading about enlisted men who, against all odds, rose from the ranks in the 19th century British army to become officers of the Queen. The overwhelming majority of the British officer corps did not fit this mold. They came into the army as officers, and, in most cases, had to be able to afford the considerable purchase price and maintenance costs of their commissions. Each promotion was purchased, and the higher, the more expensive.

I made Ian the second son of the Earl of Dunkairn, just to complicate his life even more. As the second son he would not inherit the title, and, in that Victorian period, his options were limited. It would have been appropriate for him to go into the army.

There are many British regiments I am fond of, particularly Scottish regiments. At the top of that list, however, is the Scots Guards, or as they were titled in mid-19th century, the Scots Fusilier Guards. As part of the Guards Brigade, the Household Guard of the Royal family, they were, and remain, the elite of British military. I also wanted him to join a regiment his father, the Earl, might have been in during the Napoleonic Wars, many years before. The Guards are replete with officers who are also titled nobility. One might easily run into a Lieutenant ‘His Lordship’ so and so, or Captain ‘Sir’ so and so. What better regiment for my hero to join than the Scots Fusilier Guards?

To develop Ian’s military background, I spent countless hours at the Scots Guards Archives at Wellington Barracks, London, and, of course, at the Buckingham Arms, across Petty France Street from the rear gate – one of my favorite pubs. With the expert help of Kevin Gorman, Archivist, Scots Guards, who has since become the son I never had, I was able to pin down two of the Scots Fusilier Guards officers who served on George B. McClellan’s staff, Army of the Potomac, in the American Civil War – Captain and Lieutenant Colonel (dual rank system in G uards only)Edward Neville and Captain and Lieutenant Colonel Charles Henry Fletcher. I combined their service records and backgrounds to come up with the fictional Captain Ian Carlyle.

The end result was the character study described in Follow Me to Glory:

“Then, of course, there was Captain Ian David Carlyle, himself. Ian was of medium height, his ramrod posture making him look much taller. He had a delicate face, like his mother’s, with the straight nose, high cheekbones and strong chin of his deep highland roots. Having been brought up largely in London, he had only a trace of Scottish accent, unless he chose to charm or mock someone. At those times his brogue became as thick as he wished, a useful skill that he had learned to impose as one might turn a fine horse, with a flick of the wrist.

Ian had thick sandy-brown hair, which appeared red in bright sunlight, and clear blue eyes that, when focused, could quite literally melt the hardest heart. These same eyes could also turn to iron straight away, and cut through the resolve of most opponents in an instant, another useful skill.

Ian carried himself with the decisive and confident demeanour of a military officer. He wore this bearing like a badge of honour. This, like so many aspects of Ian’s character, was his father’s and Angus’ influence. [Angus is his mentor, a crusty old highlander.]

Ian was, after all, second son of the Earl of Dunkairn. He was here in the Crimea at the end of a long personal struggle, and wanted this war badly, to pursue his own dreams of glory.”

Period Photography by Roger Fenton, and sketches by Peter Culos

Ian Carlyle in American Civil War - 6 years after Crimea

Scots Fusilier Guards officer in Crimea - Used as model for Ian's early sketch

Group of British observers on McClellan's staff in American Civil War

Edward Neville (left), Unidentified officer (middle), Charles Fletcher (right)

The first in the Ian Carlyle Series.

What on earth possessed me, a Yank, to write for my debut novel a book about the Crimean War, a very British war – not well known in the US.  Actually it didn’t start out that way. My original thought was to write about British observers in the American Civil War on General McClellan’s staff. There were about a dozen of them.

I began writing about these Civil War observers, but it soon dawned on me that they received their combat experience, and became the fine officers they were, in the Crimea, six years before our Civil War. I decided that the setting for the first novel must be the Crimea. I would bring my characters into the American Civil War in the sequel. The Crimean War then became my passion, my obsession, if you will.

Through the next three years of research I made numerous visits to the UK, and two trips to the Crimean battlefields.  After a ton of hours at the Scots Guards archives at Wellington Barracks, London; Eton College; and various amazingly beautiful places in Scotland; I finally felt I could put pen to paper … or more precisely finger to keyboard.

Actually, people know more about the Crimean War than they may realize. For instance, the Charge of the Light Brigade – Florence Nightingale, the lady with the lamp – the ‘Thin Red Line’. These all came out of the Crimean War. It took place at the height of the reign of Queen Victoria, and was primarily fought on the Western coast of the Crimean peninsula (present day the Ukraine), between 1854, and 1856.

The war’s origins are shrouded in political mystery and intrigue, ranging from somewhat bogus religious reasons to the expansionist doctrine of the Russian Czar, Nicholas I, in an effort to gain free access (A warm water port)  between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean Sea. The spark which caused the feces to hit the fan was when Russia invaded the then Ottoman (Turkish) Empire.

Britain and France, the most unlikely of bedfellows, came to Turkey’s aid, supported by Sardinia. Although a Turkish Army basically forced Russia back across her borders, the people and governments of Britain and France felt strongly that Russia needed to be taught a lesson. Thus in September 1854, a combined allied army landed on the Crimean peninsula. Their mission was to capture Sevastopol and sink the Russian Black Sea fleet harbored there.  Their long term strategic goal was to stop Russia from ever again entertaining ideas of expansion in the Mediterranean.

The Russians sunk a major part of their own fleet to block the harbor to British and French ships, and it took the allied army, at great cost, the next two years to ‘capture’ Sevastopol. In the end, the Russians merely evacuated the city in good order, and left it to the British and French.

I think a writer must follow his instincts and above all his passion. I guess my original intent was that “Follow Me to Glory” would be a prequel to the major American Civil War work, but as I researched and wrote, Ian Carlyle’s owing up adventures and his Crimean combat experiences took on their own character and importance.  Thus, it is a prequel in the sense that it is the first in the Ian Carlyle Series, where his character comes of age as a man, then as an officer in the caldron of war.  The sequel, “The Gettysburg Conspiracy,” brings Ian Carlyle, now a seasoned veteran, into the American Civil War. There will also be at least a third in the Ian Carlyle series. I am determined, however, that each book will be of equal importance, and each will stand alone as a story in itself.

I did ponder the idea of making the setting for the series in a different era, but there is such a strong connection and impact between the Crimean War and our Civil War (only a few years apart) that I doubt there is any other period or set of wars which would so readily lend themselves to my vision.

I have always been mesmerized by this simpler Victorian age. Where they were more gentle and genteel among themselves, yet still using terribly blunt linear tactics when throwing armies at one another head-on. The lines drawn in cultural values, and in war, seem to me clearer than more recent conflicts. Of course, there’s that passion of mine for the 19th century. I couldn’t very well ignore that, could I?