Cees Sleven /// Homepage
Dutch version
English
version 
"He held
this
trench, he holds it still"
My quest for private William Tart (1892 - 1916)
This is the story of a quest. My quest. My steps, back along the timeline of history, looking
for the answer to the question: who was private William Tart? A British soldier who was
killed on 23 april 1916 in Flemish mud, on a god-forgotten place where
you have no business
at all to be present under normal circumstances. Even me have actually nothing to search in
that place when in the autumn of 2010 I visit the Ypres Salient , the former frontline of the
First World War, where British and Germans soldiers fought for four
years for just a few
miles of stinky mud and where hundreds of thousands men lost their
lives. The Ypres Salient
as a symbol for the futility, the despair and suffering of war, and the
inability of the generals
to put a stop to it. I am present there to follow the track of an
entire generation of young,
promising artists who experienced this fight at the front. In their art
they created in their
mutual relations, a penetrating picture of the awfulness of this war
and agitated against the
inhumanity of the battlefield. Not many survived this madness or at least were scarred for life.
What remained was the eternal value of their letters, poems and music.
Often beautiful and
understated and mostly full of melancholy for home. But always steeped
in blood and smeared
with mud.
My quest takes an unexpected turn when I find a Memorial wreath in the mud, east of the IJzer
- Ypres channel, somewhere between No man's Cot Cemetery and Pilkem Ridge. Such a wreath
wrapped with plastic or paper poppies, you can buy everywhere in this
region at museums and
flower stands. I stand there surrounded by wet, unruly arable land
where beets are piled up under
a closed sky. Stifling grey, and it's about starting to rain. Driven by a sense of reverence I draw
the wreath from the sucking mass and place it on a milestone at the
side of the road. The soggy
paper florets have lost their fresh, new life bringing red color since long ago . My attention is
immediately drawn by the stained plastic cover in the middle of the
wreath. After wiping it clean
a bit the following text patches appear: "William Tart – Kings
Shropshire Regiment – man's
name is on the Menen Gate" and a message of more personal nature:
"William Tart held this
trench, he holds it still". I feel the need to capture the scene on
photo and write down the data.
And then there are questions to answer: a soldier without grave? Why
here, where time has
covered up the past? Who laid down this wreath just here? And while I
long for the answers it
starts raining from the heavy air. Heavy as the clay on the fields and
mud on the roads. In that
vast sadness of the Flemish countryside I decide to look for William
Tart, my unknown soldier.
A new quest is born.
Directly after returning home I try to make contact with the Kings Shropshire Light Infantry
Regiment, which regiment William Tart joined according to my notes. On
their website I scroll
patiently along the many historic battalions photos with powerful and
self-confident soldiers,
who voluntarily stepped out of their carefree worlds and being unaware
of
the war horrors that
awaited them. Names with the pictures are missing. Uniformity trumps, in uniform everyone
is equal. One of them has to be William Tart. All are potential cannon fodder. I write the
regiment an e-mail with the details of the card from the wreath and
send the picture with it.
For any acquaintances or relatives. My question to them is clear: who
was private William Tart?
Unfortunately I do not receive any reply. There follows a time of
intensive search on the internet.
The Great War may still boasted a great interest and it's still growing
now it's nearly a hundred
years ago is that this catastrophe started. Poems, diaries, travel
stories, non-fiction: the stories
keep alive the memory of the First World War, even though the
inevitable topic is the millions
of deathsover and over again. Also in the many forum discussions the
subject is discussed in detail
and it is here that I dare to attempt to post my question about William
Tart. The result is amazing.
Everything points in the direction of the mining town of Dawley in
Shropshire and the forum
answered many of my asked and unasked questionat a stroke. In Dawley, at 52 Fingers Row,
William lives as the eldest son in the family of William and Martha Tart. A large family with 8
children. And just as it's the case with so many families from Dawley,
all adult men work in the
coal mines or the iron foundries. Father and the brothers William,
Leonard and Thomas are no
exception to this rule. Till service calls and the brothers enlist into
the army at different times.
Leonard and Thomas join the Kings Shropshire Light Infantry Regiment and serve with the territorial
troops. In 1912 Williams joins the regular troops of the 1st Battalion
of the same regiment and
serves primarily in India. At the outbreak of hostilities in Europe in
1914 William is injured in France
and is send home to recover. Better again, he returns to
France, just to get injured again. And again
he returns to England to
recover. A third time he goes to France, but now his luck runs out: on
23
april 1916 he is killed in action, and his body has never
been found. Only his name is listed on
the Menin Gate in Ypres on panel 47-49, in the midst of an endless list
of other missing soldiers.
Menen Gate, Ypres
With so much information and the answer to the question: who was private William Tart,
my search seems to have come to an end. But not all my questions have
been answered and new
ones are appearing all the time: how would the town of Dawley look
like? Would there still be any
living Tarts? And who honoured William with a Memorial wreath in
Flemish Earth? Virtually I travel
to Dawley, the old mining town in Shropeshire. From the descriptions I
form me an image of a town
amidst drab industry of many coal and iron mines in a battered
landscape. And everywhere there's
grey clay. Carelessly deposited as mountains or as gaping holes left in the landscape. And I find
a Tart there, a William indeed, even with an related email address. But
it turns out to be a dead end.
My message to him stays unanswered, the picture remains unseen.
High
Street, Dawley
Dawley also has a History Group. I send my story to one Shirley who reacts directly with
enthousiasme and prommises me to forward my email to David Shaw, an
expert on the
history of Dawley and writer of the book "Dawley's lost generation".
And David doesn't
disappoint met at all: I get handed detailed answers to my questions
and even a new track
to the familie of William Tart. The brothers Thomas and Leonard survive
the war, in which
Leonard was awarded the Military Medal for Bravery, the MM. The son of
Leonard is still
alive, but is old by days. Email-contact with him is unfortunately no
longer possible. With
grandson Mick who happen to live only three houses away from David, it's possible and to
him David will hand over my correspondence. I am very moved after
opening
the enclosed
attachments: a yellowed newspaper photograph showing the image of the
three brothers.
There
they are with open look,
not yet touched by the tragedy of the war.
The Tart brothers
I also get an excerpt of the military history of the 1st Battalion of
Kings Shropshire Light
Infantry Regiment, the unit to which William belonged, for the period
19 – 23 april 1916,
when the battlefield of Pilkem Ridge, northwest of Ypres cought fire
again. Here were
trenches revealed or recaptured in an overnight battle for meters mud
ploughed by
grenades:
From: the 1st Battalion Kings Shropshire Light Infantry Regiment war history
which covers the dates 19th to 23rd April 1916:
On April 19th the enemy attacked and after an intense bombardment, succeeded in
capturing a portion of the trenches at the Morteldje Estaminet. In
consequence B and
C
Companies, less two platoons, moved up to join A and B Compagnies east
of the
canal
bank. On the 21st the battalion was detailed to recapture the lost
trenches. The
attack,
timed far 10 pm, was launched with B Compagny, Capt. H.S. Collins, on
the
right, A
Compagny, Capt. T.C.N. Hall, in the centre, and half C Compagny on the left.
D
Compagny and half C Compagny were in reserve. The heavy state of the
ground and
the
darkness of the night prevented the three attacks being launched
simultaneously.
B
Compagny, however, struck off about 10.45 and with two platoons, under
2nd Lts.
Norton
and Hannah, assaulting, reached the enemy trench, which proved to be
unoccupied. The assaulting party was then subjected to heavy rifle and
machine-gun
fire,
being enfiladed from the left. Communication was established with the
2nd York
and Lanc. on our right at Algerian Cottage. A bombing party under CSM
Evans was
then sent out to establish communication on the left. This party
gallantly cleared its
way as far as the southern end of Willow Walk, but was unable to
establish touch with
A Compagny, which in fact had not, as yet, been able to advance. After
waiting for the
assembly of the left attacking party until 2 am A Company, who were
knee deep in
the mud, advanced and in spite of strong oppasition captured their
objective, establishing
touch with the left of B Compagny in Willow Walk.
Meanwhile the two platoons of C Compagny under Lt. Fox, forming the
left of the
attack, which had lost touch in the rain and darkness, had re-assembled
and managed
to advance simultaneously with the centre, and after great difficulty
owing to the state
of the ground, reached the enemy trenches, which they cleared without
encountering
much opposition. A somewhat half-hearted counter-attack at daybreak was
easily
beaten off, leaving the battalion in possession of all the lost
trenches. During the
advance in the centre wounded men were foundto have been suffocated in
the mud,
and in some places on the left the mud was so deepthat it was only by
crawling
almost flat, throwing their rifles in front of them, that it was
possible for the men to
advanve. the situation was further complicated by a new trech, recently
dug by the
Germans, unknown to us, in the path of the centre of the attack. An
intense
bombardment between 6 and 7 in the morning of the 22nd followed in
retaliation for
the succesful attack and during this bombardment Lt. Col. Luard was
severely
wounded, dying at the Casualty Clearing Station in the evening of the
24th. The
battalion was relieved on the night of the 22nd - 23rd and returned to
Camp "E" in
Wood "A30"
Morteldje
Estaminet
The story of this minor operation cannot be too simply told. Its
estimate depends not
upon gains or losses, but the fact that courage, devotion to duty and
discipline enabled
men to achieve, in mud, darkness and pouring rain what was seemingly
impossible.
And in the end there are only the chilly figures: 3 killed and 5
wounded officers. In the
statistics only they have the honor to be named. At the lower ranks: 22
killed, 135 injured,
6 missing. William belongs to the latter. Lance Corporal number 9837.
He does not return
from Morteldje Estaminet, the former Inn on the Moortelweg. Somewhere
along this road,
he found his final resting place in the heavy Flemish clay. "William
Tart held this trench,
he holds it still". The spot is marked by a small Memorial wreath,
of which the pale red
roses are the single color that stands out against the pale grey of the
environment.
On december 3rd 2010 I receive an email from Leonard Tart's grandson
Mick. It's a short note,
accompanied by comprehensive information about William, submitted by
various registers
from the municipality of Dawley and the military. I search for the year
in which William was
born. I find 1892. William was only just 25 years old when he was
killed in what is officially
was named the Theatre of War, the Western European Theatre. I sink into
thoughts: the war
as a theater piece in which, along with the millions of deaths,
idealism and humanity were
killed on the battlefield. I see for me a daunting decor in which rules
and conventions of
warfare were violated and were victims too. A macabre spectacle in
which the illusion can
catch up the gruesome reality, because this reality is unbearable to
tell about itselves.
The inconsolable grief of a mother who could take no farewell of her
son when her the
dreaded Army form B. 104-82 was handed over: "it's my painful duty to
inform you .....".
And do not have the ability to carry her own son to his grave by
herself. She knows him only
entrusted to bloodied Earth somewhere far from home.
And also Mick comes with questions. Why was the Memorial wreath right
there and not
found in Ypres? None of his family has laid it down there where
I've found it. And what text
was exactly on the card? And knew William someone in France? In my
reply to him I describe
again just what I've found and we come to the conclusion that we are
talking about one and
the same wreath. After which Mick ask me the question what will be the
next step in my quest.
I wonder if there should be a next step . May be I want to hang on to the illusion now William
has been given a face and has become a tangible essence for me. The
question who has honored
William in the Flemish field seems suddenly insignificant. Even when Mick later reports that
a friend of his son layed down the wreath there where I've found it.
I want to let rest the past. Let the Flemish Earth to William. I step away from time, even though
it will continue forever . Because the absolute time moves inexorably, in which the present is
swallowed by history. Was my presence there based on a chance? Or was it a conscious moment
in time, on which our both roads had to cross each other? It turned out
to be a dead end for William
and a marking point where the past devoured the future and magnified everything continually
since then. The past cannot rest, it creates grotesk forms constantly.
I slowly zoom forward to the present. The edge of the field at
Morteldje Estaminet will turn red
again by the always thriving poppy and the earth will bear rich fruits
again. The silence there
will be immense, the raw cry of a bird of prey will be then just an
accent, no disruption of that
silence. The tears of the last veteran are now long dried and the
seasons will cover up the Ypres
Salient with a carpet of damp autumn leaves or virgin wintersnow time after time. As a child
that is poured in and good-night kissed lovingly. That it may forget
the horrors of war forever.
In the infinite cycle of life that applies to everyone. For friend and
enemy.
Oh! You
who sleep in Flanders Field,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
"We Shall Keep the Faith" - Moina Michael
Cees Sleven © 2014 a Baseck Inc. / Timeflyer production
My special debt of gratitude goes to:
Mr. Mick Tart, Dawley / Shropeshire, GB
Mrs. Shirley Bruneau, Dawley
History Group
Mr. David Shaw, Dawley History
Group
Mr. Christopher Burgess
Shropshire Regimental Museum, Shrewbury Castle / Shrewbury, GB
Niek Arts, Arnhem / Unique stories
Annette Burgoyne, many thanks for allowing me to use your map
