Paranormal History

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst summers any of them had ever known, they’d killed their King and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Parliamentarian soldier in the Lord-General Cromwell’s army was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. What had begun as a glorious invasion of the rebellious Scottish lowlands had turned into a disaster, at every opportunity the Scots had ambushed the beleaguered English, shots fired from copses of tree’s, ridges and mist shrouded vales had caused only a small amount of damage to the bodies of the English soldiers, but their minds were savaged, always frightful of the Scot in the mist or the moving tree which could be another attack. Every time the Scots appeared the English had tried to get to grips with them, but this was Scotland, their country, and an army led by Alexander Leslie 1st Earl of Leven was never going to be caught easily. His forces should have been able to overwhelm the invaders and yet at the very top was the Kirk Party who had dismissed much of his men as being un-fit to fight in what they considered a holy war, men who had fought bravely in the troubles had been sent home, men who would be needed in the days to come.

Oliver Cromwell knew this, and still his forces couldn’t bring the Scots to battle, only a few days before he and a group of cavalry had tried themselves to locate the Scots, find them he did, a small group of musket armed Scots ambushed the party of Englishmen, opening fire one musketball whined through the air close to the Lord-General’s head, thinking it had been a lucky random shot Cromwell cupped his hands and shouted “Had you been one of my troopers I’d have you cashiered for wasting a shot!” no sooner had the Scots fired than they began to flee back to the mist covered heather ridges, one of whom stopped and replied “I was with you Marston Moor Oliver, next time I’ll put a shot right between your eyes you Roundhead!” Turning to his nearest trooper Cromwell grimaced and shook his head “I do hate that word”.

The English were running low on supplies and smoke rose from the fields all around them, the Scot’s had burned everything and anything the English could use to their advantage, they were close to breaking, but they were also close to the sea, at Dunbar English ships could unload vital supplies to them as they trudged back away from Edinburgh to England, Alexander Leslie believed he had whittled away at the English, it was now time to cut them down. On the 1st September the English scouts reported back to Cromwell, Scots to the south on high ground, thousands of them. As he stood looking down onto the English camp at Dunbar Alexander Leslie rubbed his hands and smiled “we have them now, with gods grace we shall put an end to this” a group of men walked towards him and he spat on the ground in disgust, the Kirk Party committee had been a mill-stone around his neck since the campaign began, they wanted battle from the outset, here on Doon Hill Alexander Leslie would show them how a battle was fought and won. He was already sat in his chair when the committee entered his tent, the tallest of them approached “when sir, do you intend to attack” Alexander smiled, and then snorted into laughter “Attack? Attack? Are you serious, the English must come this way back to England, they have to push my 23’000 men off this hill with their own what? 10 – 11’000 men, men who are jumping at shadows, exhausted, weary and defeated, all they will do now is march onto my men’s guns and die” one of the men coughed and raised a finger while shuffling to the fore of the group “Sir, it is not your army, it is the Kirk’s, they are not your guns, they are the Kirk’s, we must attack, the committee has sat and taken advice on this, an attack will succeed because god wills it, he has seen the ways of Cromwell and his lackeys, his army will be crushed at Dunbar, if needs be… without you” Alexander Leslie raised an eyebrow, “without me? Who, by the grace of god, has the aptitude to succeed, with or without gods help I will destroy this enemy, but the men will not attack, they will defend, they will stand in defence,” he rose from his seat to continue, raising his voice as he did “ if they go forward they may falter, you bastards took most of my army away from me, and replaced it with a bunch of monks who don’t know which end of a pike to point at the enemy!” he was trembling now, aghast at what he was hearing, the thought, the very idea of someone else commanding was ludicrous, insane, this was to be his victory, before him the group all stared at him, again it was the tallest who spoke “So be it, Alexander Leslie, 1st Earl of Leven, you are dismissed from command of this army of the Kirk” No. He didn’t just say it, no, Alexander had heard wrong surely, no, no he hadn’t, he’d been, dismissed.

It was late in the afternoon of the 2nd, Oliver sat alone in the house at Broxmouth, his mind sullen, his depression once more to the fore. He read the letter back to himself, a pleading letter to his good friend Sir Arthur Haselrig, now the governor of Newcastle, a post put on him in the aftermath of Cromwell’s shake up of the Parliament. Haselrig was not only his friend and ally, but he also had garrison troops at Newcastle, just within striking distance of the Scots, it seemed to be Cromwell’s only hope, he read the letter once more and called for a rider to be despatched with it immediately, if the rider could find a way through the Scottish lines that is. Their position on Doon his was nigh impregnable, Cromwell didn’t know what to do, he could command men, force them, cajole them, even perhaps inspire men. He knew the word of god and yet he didn’t know what to do. He prayed that night in the little house next to the Broxburn as he’d never prayed before, for surely it was only a matter of time before he would have to order the inevitable, his men were dying of the flux by the dozen, if they fought, with god on their side, they had a chance. Cromwell knew and believed that god was on his side, he’d given Oliver the chances in life for glory, god had chosen poor humble Oliver Cromwell, he’d punished him in his early years, but now by gods grace he’d been made ruler of England. But this night Cromwell wept tears in prayer for the inevitable fight, he could almost picture them men trudging on blistered feet up the long hill, the roar of the cannon, the smell of the powder, the screams of the dying.

He awoke before dawn, his neck sore from it being laid on the table before him, his plans of battle stretched out before him; he had to get back to Berwick, back to England. If it meant sacrificing his army then so be it. He had drawn his men up with the cavalry regiments ready to charge headlong along the area with the road, if they could create confusion then perhaps he could break through any gap and spur away. Of course he’d not let his men know that, his infantry would never get away, the Scots cavalry were much better than his own, and they had much more of it. No, the Infantry will be slaughtered, as he dressed an officer entered with a large grin on his face “sire, the enemy, they appear to have come off the hill” Cromwell blinked in shock, then shook his head “its true sire, I have made a note of their new dispositions, they are much further stretched out, yet because of their numbers they will have no room for manoeuvre” Cromwell took all of this information in and nodded, looking once again to his own battle plan, perhaps he could even win this battle, it was well before dawn, his troops were in position, Overton’s Infantry were the southern most of his troops, really a blocking force making sure the Scots don’t get around his rear and catch him before he can escape. In the centre were Monck’s Infantry, with Pride’s infantry behind in reserve, his left and most northern troops were his horse under the command of Lambert, if they could punch a hole through the Scots line then Cromwell could ride on, to what end god had planned, escape or even victory.

Alexander Leslie’s replacement was David Leslie, a man who had previously been a captain in Alexander Leslies own regiment, David had acquiesced to the committee’s plans for leaving the hillside, his men would win, of that there was no doubt, he knew Cromwell for what he was, a coward, and a liar. Years earlier at Marston Moor the Scots had fought as Parliament’s allies and had won the battle, Cromwell had had his cheek burned by one of his own men who had fired their pistol too close to his face, Cromwell had fled the battle and not returned until the Scottish lancers had routed the Royalist Cavalry under Prince Rupert, Cromwell however had claimed the victory, coupled with Parliaments refusal to adhere to the rules of their alliance many in the Scottish Kirk and camp hated Cromwell, and now, on the 3rd of September 1650 the Scots would have their revenge. It was very early dawn, the new days light had not filled the landscape, his men were ready, well fed and must be feeling as their ancestors had for centuries, giddy at the thought of killing Englishmen, driving them into the sea, capturing that bastard Cromwell and forging a new alliance with the Stuart dynasty not seen since the days of the King James.

Lambert was ready, he knew the plan, he was to attack, it was a simple plan he hoped the simpler it was the easier it would be, but god laughs when men make plans. With him were the cavalry of Fleetwood and Whalley, good veterans of fighting in the troubles, behind them came the Lord-General himself, Lambert hoped if they got out of this alive his rewards from the ever giving Lord-General would be a match for anyone in his favour. He gripped the reins of his horse, a myriad of jingling noises echoed around him as his men gathered into their lines of battle, the day was probably going to be a wet one, and no doubt a very hard one too. He wiped the sweat from his brow on a dirty handkerchief, a gift from his wife, she had embroidered her initials and his inside a heart, he kissed the emblem then raised his eyes upwards and said a small prayer, before encouraging his horse forwards, saying no words to his men, he knew most would not survive, he couldn’t dare to look upon them, not once did he ever wonder if he would survive or not, god had a plan for his life, if was to end her and now then so be it, for his god, his country and his Lord-General he moved forwards.

Colonel Strachan was chewing on a gristly lump of bacon, all around him his Lancers were donning their gear ready for the battle to come, their six foot lances were sharp, their swords each had a keen edge to them, and their ponies could traverse the countryside better than anything the English had. He heard them before he saw them, the jingling sound of men on horses, the sound of music, the music of death. “To arms!” he shouted after spitting the bacon from his mouth, “To arms! The god damn English are coming boys, get on your nags!” he quickly jumped on his own horse and drew his sword, around him his men were mostly already mounted and getting into position, each man in line with their lances held in one hand, the horses reins in the other. Strachan couldn’t see the enemy but he ordered a charge right away. Towards the sound of the jingling, his men drummed the earth with their ponies hooves, drowning out the enemy music of death with their own.

They saw each other coming out of the gloom of the early morning, cantering towards one another, barely able to order a charge each side crashed headlong into one another, Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry trying to keep in battle lines, pistols being fired from close range, men reaching out to touch the muzzle of their guns to an enemy chest and pulling the trigger, men skewered on lances or slashed at with swords, falling from horses and ponies to be trampled into the mud, animals shrieking and flailing in pain and terror, Cromwell’s Cavalry strike was stopped before it had begun.

Monck could hear the battle, and just about see the flashes of gunfire where Lambert had gone forward, he ordered his men to attack, to support Lambert by crossing the Broxburn and attacking the Scots opposite, orders rang out and the entire English centre began its march, Cromwell could just about see them go forwards, flags unfurled, drums beating, just like his visions of doom he prayed they’d not suffer for long. “God damn it” Monck swore, for ahead of him he could see Scottish infantry moving to support their own Cavalry, the flags beneath which the men marched belonged to Lumsden, they would be good men Monck mused, but fight he must. Again orders were shouted out, the Scottish officers had stopped their men too and faint orders could be heard on the morning breeze from across the deadly bit of no mans land separating Monck’s men from Lumsden’s. The pikemen stood firm, their 18 foot pikes ready to march forward, the musketeers on both sides raised their guns to their shoulders, some men blowing on their cords which they’d kept dry in the atrociously wet summer days. “FIRE” came the order, screamed from the dry throats of officers and sergeants, hundred of serpentines fell on the frizzen pans, a puff of smoke from the pan, a gout of white smoke from the muzzle, and the death, and the screaming, began in earnest.

Each side fired and stepped forwards, every shot bringing them a metre closer to one another, the musketeer’s faces were black with powder burns before they got close to their enemy, on either side the advancing men had to step over the dead and dying, limbs torn away by the powerful musket shot, head shattered and men screaming in agony and pain. In a few short moments each man’s mouth had dried in excitement and fear, some wet themselves uncontrollably, many Englishmen who already had the flux were soiling their breeches, but they still fought on, for god was on their side, and if god was for us, the who could stand against us. And then it happened, both sides touched pike and lunged, the musketeers backed off from one another, drawing swords and daggers, throwing their useless heavy muskets away, the barrels far too hot to wield as clubs. It was now the push of pike, the horribly deadly embrace of two pincushions of men.

Oliver heard the crunch of the pikes, he could just about see the battle unfolding before him, Lambert and Monck were stuck fast, no reports had come from Overton, he could hear the screaming too, every now and then a word could be distinguished, “Mother, please, god, no” he almost said the words out loud. His men around him were all itching to get forwards and join the battle, they’d have to fight soon, of that there was no doubt, but Oliver didn’t want to go forwards until the decision was inevitable, Colonel Pride’s men were moving forwards, Cromwell saw them go and remembered Monck’s men moving in the same direction, god how many of them would die, “please god let this day go well”. He could see Prides men getting into order of battle, Musketeers had begun recoiling back and reloading, meaning they were firing at the front, the flags were still flying high above Monck and Pride’s Regiments, Lambert’s men still fought on, but could they win?

Strachan was holding his own against Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley, reinforcements were coming to him and soon he’d overwhelm the enemy, the sun was beginning to rise now, the darkness before him was opening up, he could see an infantry battle raging to his left but he had his own fight to worry about, groups of Scottish Lancers and English Cavalry wheeled around, fired shots at one another, clashed for minutes then retired in good order, he was holding the enemy, with more horses he would push them back now. And then the sun crept over the hill behind him and bathed the approaching English infantry Regiment in its full light “dear god no” he whispered, for the English had a full Regiment of Infantry to support their Cavalry, and he had not. He knew at that moment what would happen, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Oliver saw the light cast down onto the battle raging before him and he smiled, the enemy could not reinforce their battle line because they could not manoeuvre before Pride’s Infantry struck home, quick witted as ever he remembered the 68th Psalm, “Now let God arise and his enemies be scattered”. His men around him smiled.

Some of Strachans men were fleeing already, the new recruits, replacements for the veterans deemed unfit for duty were mostly the first to run, though most who could read a battle knew this one was lost, The redcoated English infantry were scattering the Scottish cavalry, allowing the forces of Lambert, Fleetwood and Whalley to gather and strike. Lumsden saw it too, his men pressed by Monck now began to flee, every man on a horse bolted and soon the entire Scottish army was fleeing for its life from a relieved and vengeful English horde. In effect Cromwell’s plan had worked; he’d smashed the Scottish line and now didn’t need to flee himself.

XXX

It had rained for days, the dirt track roads were washing away beneath a grey sky, without doubt it was one of the worst Autumn’s any of them had ever known, they’d lost the battle and now god had turned the world upside down, each and every Scottish prisoner was shattered, exhausted, cold and wet. And still they marched. On blistered, bleeding filthy ragged feet they marched, stumbling ever onwards. No food, nothing to eat or drink in days, many men had fled in the night time, of the 10’000 taken prisoner maybe half had fled, but for the 5’000 remaining souls the march from Dunbar to Durham had been pitiless and cruel, the English had beaten men to death, Berwick and Newcastle had been blurs to the memory, pain and exhaustion, some of the locals had thrown loaves of bread to them, despite being the loathsome enemy from the north, many Scots had broke into tears as the kindness of some of the English had shone through the darkness of many others, at Berwick and Newcastle the prisoners had rushed forwards to drink from the dirty rivers Tweed and Tyne, bodies littered the roadsides for miles, the flux had become rampant, men simply defecating on the march, not bothering to stop and relieve themselves in a more natural way,

Durham’s Castle and Cathedral looked down upon the Scots as they entered the Castle walls, its black windows looked down onto them with accusing eyes, blaming each and every one of them for the wars of the past, the English guards sneered, cajoled and forced the Scots onwards towards the Cathedral, under the Lord-General’s orders this once holy place was now to be the Scots prison. 3’000 men shambled into the Cathedral, each gazing about in awe at their surroundings, many bloodied and weary men dropping down exhausted and sleeping on the cold hard floor, relieved to be out of the rain and hopeful of some food. They would awake to be disappointed.

“What do you have?” asked the guard, in one hand he held a rotten lump of bread, grey and mouldy. The young Scotsman licked his lips, anything was better than nothing, if he could barter food he wouldn’t die. Every few days the guards threw rotten bread into the area where the Scots were being held, already men had died of the flux, moaning in pain as it gripped their stomachs, voiding their bowels in their rags of clothes. “I’ve got a piece of silver, its not much” it may not have been much, but it was enough, the youth, barely a boy let alone a man, hid the food beneath his clothes and kept it for later, it was safer to eat in the darkness of the night than try during the day and have one of the older prisoners beat you and steal it. Food, any food, the men were now licking the morning dew from the walls for water, they had been locked up for months now, over six hundred were dead, more were dying, taken to the nearby castle to die in agony, rumour had it that the English took the poorly away and killed them, some even said they ate the bodies whilst a few others said that the food given to them by the English was made up from their dead comrades. Many went mad, incarcerated in the massive structure of the cathedral, the wood inside had by now been burned in small fires to keep the men warm, men, hardly that now, the shrivelled walking corpses more reminiscent of a scene of hell taken from an old church wall, bones showing beneath waxen skin, sores an cuts untreated, faeces plastered to the rags of clothing. It was never silent, the winter weather was harsh, everyone had a constant cold, men died shivering and wet in the nights, their bodies freezing solid in the coldness. Some had even broken into the vaults within the cathedral, one man sporting an ancient tabard in blue and yellow, the colours of the hated Neville family, long time nemesis of the lowland Scots, the man didn’t care, he was a fraction warmer. The bones of the long since dead burned on the fire, anything and everything which could give warmth to the prisoners was used. Rings torn from the vaults and graves were used to buy food from the guards.

After three months inside Durham Cathedral the remaining men were marched to the coast, they left behind a thousand dead in Durham, they were now being fed on a more regular basis, the weather was improving and they were moving. Again wild rumours spread among the men, “back to Scotland!” said many “Nay, it’ll be London and a hanging for sure” said some more, few were right. The ship stank, it lolled in the harbour with seagulls wailing above the depleted ranks of what was once a proud army, many men were practically naked, women leaned from windows and whistled as they trudged past heading towards the boats that would take them to their final destinations. They could not go back to Scotland, they would tell of the horrors of their incarceration, they would not go to London, it could incite a rebellion against Cromwell’s loathed tyrannical government. They would instead go to the West Indies as slaves, working until they died from fever, hardship or age. For many they never saw land again, too weak from the flux, too tired from the march, too emaciated from neglect. They died, their life light spluttered and passed like a candle in the rain.

XXX

I’ve wanted to write about this part of history for a long time now, though I dare say what I’ve written will never be listed among the literary greats it does serve its purpose. There are no monuments in the grounds of Durham Cathedral to the men who died there in the winter of 1650-51, their suffering and degradation is ignored. I wonder what the world would be like in the future if the holocaust was forgotten, if Hitler was eventually seen as a “great statesman” (As sadly Cromwell is today by some). History doesn’t change, it cannot be changed, I’ve taken liberty with Cromwell’s plans for Dunbar, liberty caused by historical opinion, nobody knows for sure what he planned, how he planned it. He was very lucky to win the battle, yet win he did, no amount of opinion can change that, just as no amount of opinion can change the aftermath of the battle, the forced marches, the death and misery heaped upon the Scottish rank and file. The end for so many men caught up in a power struggle between a select few who didn’t give a damn about them would have been horrible, the flux (Dysentery) would have been rampant, the weather, the openness of the Cathedral and the brutality of the guards and the levels that inmates would go to just to get food in their belly staggers me in its horror, for this is what my article is aiming at, horror, the most horrible aspect of all is that it’s the truth, it actually happened, and it is being forgotten about.

The Battle of Shrewsbury 1403

Henry, the fourth King of England to bear that name was shaking, sweat dripped from his nose and streamed down his cheeks, his mouth scorched dry had clusters of salty sticky residue at its corners. Either side of him stood hundreds of men bearing the same weight of armour and the same sense of foreboding, and dread, his left hand resting on the top of his sword, held to his side by a loop of leather, its scabbard left behind in his baggage as it was known men had tangled them between their legs in the heat of battle, and to slip onto your face in the midst of the killing ground was one of the worst things that could happen. His flag fluttered just behind him, its whip crack making him turn to see the men beside him, all staring ahead, some bent at the knee making prayers to god for them to live this day. Henry had already said his prayers, not just for his own life, liberty and victory, but also for his son, named Henry too, who commanded a section of troops this day, separate from his father. He licked his lips and looked ahead, before him, up a slight rise in the ground, stood an army, a force of Englishmen come to remove him from his crown, a crown he had usurped in the past, a crown which, if he could speak the truth openly, had been nothing but a burden to him.

The men to his fore were once friends, the Percy family, lords of Northumbria, had long been allies of the Bolingbroke’s, so much so that Henry had been marching to assist the Percy’s in their defence of the north from the Scot’s. Then days before news had reached Henry that Percy was marching south west to Wales, to link up with another rebel, Owein Glyn Dwr, and march on London. Henry had left his son to guard this area of land while he moved northwards, now both Henry senior and junior were poised, ready to begin the battle, the test to the House of Bolingbroke, a test of strength, a test of wits, and a test of arms.

Taking a swig from a sack of wine to quench his thirst he looked round for a young page boy, handing the wine to him he smiled and the child smiled back. Henry drew his sword and men now looked to him, with one fluid motion he pointed the blade to his enemy battle line and then faltered, he did not want to attack, his men would have to move uphill into a force of not French, Welsh or Scottish, but Englishmen, armed as his men were, many with war bows, the same which had devastated the French at Crecy. Henry knew of their danger and yet he too had bowmen, whose arrows could penetrate six inches of hard wood, yet move he would have to, Glyn Dwr was no where in sight, Henry could not allow his enemies to join forces, he had to beat them one at a time. Still with his sword pointed ahead he raised his voice skywards and shouted “forwards!"

The Battle of Shrewsbury had begun.

The reasons for the Battle of Shrewsbury are in fact quite simple. You never forget who your friends are. When Henry Bolingbroke took the throne he did so with the help of many lords of England, lords who gave him financial aid, or even fought for him. One such family was the Percy family, hereditary lords of Northumbria, where for centuries they defended that part of the country against invading Scottish armies. Which in fact is a simple and slightly wrong way to term their defence of Northern England, what usually happened was that a Scottish army would invade; the lords of the North (not just the Percy’s) would hide in Newcastle, Bamburgh or some other such fortified place. The Scots would raid and pillage (sometimes as far south as Bradford) and then head back home, loaded down with as much loot as possible, it was then the lords of the North would decide to act, either blocking the Scots road home (meaning the Scots would have to fight their way home) or simply falling on the rear of the fleeing Scottish troops. In the majority of battles fought in the north the English won and the lords pocketed all of the plunder taken by the Scots, meaning the Percy’s (as well as others) became very rich, money of course provides influence in national matters which Henry Bolingbroke used to his full advantage to turn the tables on King Richard II, a King who was hated by many nobles of the land.

In 1387 Henry Bolingbroke and Thomas of Gloucester (uncle to both Bolingbroke and Richard II) rebelled against Richard, but things for the rebels did not go well, the two nobles had created a group of dissatisfied barons, named the Lords Appellant, Richard had Gloucester murdered and Henry banished to France, Henry spent his time in France making friends back in England, in 1399 Richard II was in Ireland putting down another rebellion, Henry now came across the channel and met Richard near Pontefract, Henry’s forces won the day and the crown passed to Henry Bolingbroke of the House of Lancaster. Richard II was imprisoned, and then murdered in Pontefract Castle, leaving Henry Bolingbroke of the house of Lancaster, Grandson of Edward III and cousin to Richard II as King of England and Ireland.

By 1403 Henry had many troubles. Owein Glyn Dwr’s rebellion had previously met with some success and defeated English armies, it was rumoured the Scots would invade England and so Henry moved north to support the Percy’s in their defence of the north, whilst this was occurring the Percy family had finally become dissatisfied with their new King, they believed they had helped him to his throne and in doing so should have been given new lands in Cumberland, this had not happened and so Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester (and other leading members of the family) publicly renounced the King, charging him with perjury, claiming they did not know he would take the crown but had supported him in his bid to reclaim his estates, whether it is true or not is not really known, but what happened is fact, and that is that Henry “Hotspur” Percy in 1403 marched from Northumbria to Worcester (where his uncle Thomas Percy held land as the Earl). At first Hotspur could only gather 200 men to his side, then more followed and a trickle turned to a flood in Cheshire (still loyal to Richard II and had provided him with a bodyguard of archers). Hotspur wished to join forces with Owain Glyn Dwr, who at the time may have not even known Hotspur’s plans, however most historians agree that he would have joined Hotspur had he not been held up by floods and enemy troops in Carmarthenshire. As soon as the King heard of these events he moved from Burton-on-Trent towards his son, Henry, Prince of Wale’s who was guarding the Welsh Border against Glyn Dwr.

Both sides manoeuvred into position on the 21st July 1403, the King had around ten to twelve thousand men though the rebels while Hotspur had eight to ten thousand men, all veterans of border warfare or fighting in France, each side also contained the most feared weapon on a medieval battlefield, large numbers of large men wielding large bows, today we called them long bows, or war bows, and yet in the period they were simply known as bows. When placed together in large numbers bowmen could win a battle, Shrewsbury would be the first time each side had large amounts of these troops, and the results would be devastating. Local priests and even the Abbot of Shrewsbury tried to persuade both sides to back down, it was no use, rebellion had to be stamped out.

The deadly hail fell amongst the Kings troops, each man now had his visor down to protect his face and yet here and there a man went down with an arrow shaft piercing his plate armour or finding a space to plunge into the man causing flesh to be torn open and bones to be shattered, the King dared not pause to look left and right but he could see in his peripheral vision men fall down, some others stopped to help their fellows but they too were battered by the force of iron tipped rain, and rain it was, a man didn’t walk into the arrow storm, he had to lean into it as if it were hail on a cold wintry morning, just behind the King the bearer of his banner cursed as another arrow bounced off his plate, the force enough to stop him in his tracks, wielding the banner was difficult in armour, almost impossible now it was stuck with a dozen arrows. The Kings men trudged on, not only hit by the force of arrows but held up by the arrows beneath their feet, protruding from the ground and causing one or two to stumble and fall. The tightly packed group of men in heavy armour had almost reached the enemy line and now they could see more easily their foe, men looked for the banner of Hotspur whilst the rebels looked for the Kings banner, to capture a noble in battle was to receive a large ransom, some men had built castles and estates on the ransom of a wealthy noble, or even better, a King of England. The deadly rain not only fell on the armoured knights and men at arms but also on the archers themselves, hundreds died as they loosed arrows on their counterparts, arrows clashing in mid-air wheeled over and over in the bright sun lit sky, men screamed as they were struck by arrows, men without armour struggling to grasp the arrows sticking in them, their hands slick with their own blood trying in vain to break the wooden shafts, a priest tried to pull wounded men from the field to attend to him, other holy men said prayers for the dead and dying while young boys darted too and fro brining fresh sheaves of arrows to the archers, or pulling on their fathers and elder brothers bodies, already dead, already lost.

The Arrows stopped and Henry blinked sweat from his eyes, no man raised his visor, despite the heat, fearful of an arrow in the face. The King now looked around, plenty of men had made it through the arrows and were now shuffling into some sort of order so their attack could hit the rebel line and force their foe backwards. Henry’s banner, with the King beside it was in the centre, the rebels looked to have lost men too for on the ground were bodies, being pushed and kicked forwards to impede the Kings attack. A man yelled towards the back and more men picked up the call, “For Henry and England” shouted the Kings men, “A Hotspur, a Hotspur” cried the rebels as the first of the Kings men reached the rebel line.

The Battle of Shrewsbury was fought like many battles of the period, a simple slugging match between armoured knights who before they could get to grips with the enemy had to get through a storm of arrows, in battles between the Scots and English the Scots had suffered horrendously, sometimes even not making it to the English men. The French too had tried too beat the English with armoured cavalry and men on foot, all to no avail as the dreaded bowmen had killed and disordered any attack coming. The only thing different at Shrewsbury was that both sides had significant amounts of bowmen, and as in most battles the side who attacked first lost a lot of men. King Henry’s men had to attack up a slight rise, he had split his forces into three “battles”, this is where we get the military unit of Battalion from. It is though the King commanded the lead Vanguard Battle whilst Prince Henry commanded the second Rearguard Battle, a third was led by Stafford though thi smay have been a large force of archers. Hotspurs forces were also split into two or three Battles, with Hotspur in command of the Van and his uncle Thomas Percy Earl of Worcester commanded the Rear, the rebels however, defedning a rise in the ground, where drawn up in full battle formation, that is to say one large block of men. Also fighting for the Percy family was the Scottish Earl of Douglas, he had been captured by the Percy's at the battle of Homildon Hill, losing an eye in the process, he had decided to fight for the Percy's, perhaps to gain his freedom, he did gain his freedom when captured, though he lost on of his testicles during the Battle of Shrewsbury, a high price to pay.

Henry’s Battle struggled up a slight rise in the ground to attack the enemy army, taking heavy casualties from arrows they still managed to get to grips with their foes. Single combat was extremely rare in Medieval combat, no doubt you’ll have seen Braveheart where its all confusion and both sides mixed together, in fact it was more of a Rugby match, two lines of men pushing and prodding at one another, not wanting to leave the safety of their comrades next to them, men died, but not on a truly massive scale, it was when one side broke and ran that the slaughter came, men cannot defend a sword thrust to the back when they are running. In the end the pressure was too much for the Kings men, the Percy’s battles held the high ground and took the full force of the Kings assault, it looked like the King would lose his crown.

Prince Henry could see his fathers banner waver and falter up ahead, he struggled in his own armour as arrows began to fall amongst his own men, at first the rebel bowmen had targeted his fathers battle, a tactic which had worked as men now turned and fled from their foes, the Prince could not bear it, his men had not yet reached the enemy line, up ahead he could see banners he knew, men standing beneath them who he had met, some even played with as boys in France. More men now began to leave his fathers battle, he knew he had to do something, he knew he had to stop the rout.

The Prince blinked away the sweat from his eyes, inside his helm his head was boiling, he raised his hand to his chin strap to release his visor, a man next to him protested but the Prince Henry ignored him and raised his helm to shout at the men retreating, screaming “how could you turn from your oaths, your fealty, your country!” men stopped to see him, startled by the youth and his words, which cut into the honour of their very being. Some joined him from the ranks of his father’s battle, Prince Henry, still shouting order began to swing his own sword about his head and point it at the enemy, his own troops grimaced in their armour, grunting and grinning as they neared the enemy, following the Prince, their Prince, their leader. Suddenly the Prince went down, an arrow hitting him in his unprotected face. Men around him screamed as if hit themselves, screaming in fury at the rebels, the scream echoed along the line of men as the Princes troops crashed into the enemy, fury in their hearts and curses on their lips.

Prince Henry should have died at the Battle of Shrewsbury, as he began his own assault an arrow ricocheted off another mans armour and hit him in the face, no ones sure if he had his visor up and for what reason, there was a detailed account of the operation and even a drawing of the device used in removing the arrow from his face, done by the surgeon in charge, John Bradmore. He bore the scar for the rest of his life, in battles to come when he was King, he did so with the remembrance of those who fought for him and his family. He didn’t make the same mistake his father did. Prince Henry’s men won the battle of Shrewsbury for the King, despite King Henry’s men faltering the Prince's troops smashed into the rebels and pushed them from the hilltop, attacking on the side of the Percy’s line they had successfully outflanked the enemy, a tactic which cost many lives for the royalist troops, and then the rebels turned and ran, it was now the Percy's turn to suffer the slaughter and massacre.

Hotspur died fighting, his Uncle’s fate was decided afterwards and he too was killed, along with other prominent rebels they were hung drawn and quartered, their heads displayed on London Bridge.

On the site of the battle King Henry paid for a church to be built, as many other monarchs have done, to atone for the loss of blood. Battlefield Church was built as a simple chapel, in 1460 it was re-built as a church and again in 1862 was renovated. Burial pits have believed to have been unearthed close by.

Shrewsbury has a rich history of ghostly activity, however reports from the battlefield are almost non-existant, perhaps its true that King Henry’s building fo the Church has indeed appeased the dead from that bloody day over 600 years ago.

CJ Linton.

Shildon, the cradle of the Railway.

The town of Shildon is best known for its Railway heritage, when in fact the history of this location goes back much further, as far back as the year 821 when the land was given to the church, back then it was known as Sceld dun (or Scyld dun) meaning shield/refuge hill. Between the years 1175 and 1547 the area of Shyldon came under the ecclesiastical laws of the Priory of St mary at Neasham. With Henry VIII's usurpation of holistic powers the land was transferred to the local gentry, therefore in 1547 the land had passed to the Thickley Punchardon Estate under the lordship of the Lilburn Family. The Lilburn family's main claims to fame were their opposition to royal authority, John Lilburn being a member of the 1569-70 Northern Rebellion against Queen Elizabeth's reign, there was also a member for the Lilburn family who signed the death warrant of King Charles I to have him beheaded at the end of the first civil war.

The Lilburn's of Shildon were often at loggerheads with the Byerley's of Middridge Grange, especially during the Civil War when Anthony Byerley commanded a Regiment known as Byerley's Bulldogs. By 1717 the Thickley estate was sold by the Lilburn's, they would no doubt have needed money in the wake of King Charles II's return to power and the years of monarchical upheaval with the Glorious Revolution and Jacobite Rebellions. In the late 18th century and early 19th century coal began to be mined in vast quantities in the region of what was to become known as the Auckland Coalfield, Shildon however was still a small hamlet with only around 100 inhabitants, yet in the period 1820-50 all that was to dramatically change.

Shildon's rise was due to it being situated at a point where horse-drawn wagons of coal were transferred to coal driven locomotives, here sprung up workshops for repairs and maintenance, as well as the rise of the workforce in the New Shildon works there was a massive influx of foreign immigrant labour, mostly from Ireland (in nearby Eldon Lane one street was named Paddy's Row). People brought the many vices associated with a labour force of mixed social, political and religious backgrounds, many times simple disputes were turned into almost riot conditions. Drunkenness was rife in many parts of the area, most immigrants lived in tents until proper accommodation could be built, by the 1850's the population had risen to around 3000 people.

It was 1825 that saw the largest change in Shildon's fortunes, two names being at the forefront of this change, Stephenson and Hackworth. George Stephenson was born in Wylam, just under ten miles from Newcastle upon Tyne, in 1781. He was uneducated in his early life, his father (Robert) worked as a fireman at Wylam Colliery, at the age of 17 George began work as a Brakeman for Water Row Pit in Newburn, his job was to stop the winding gear at the pit head, he soon saw the relevance of education and so paid for his own teaching in reading, writing and arithmetic. During this time of his life he travelled and worked on various Collieries in the north east of England, he also suffered greatly in that his wife Fanny (Frances) Henderson whom he married in 1802 lost a daughter in childbirth, she too then died of consumption, a term which covered a range of diseases in the Victorian period, though they had successfully gained a son, Robert, in 1803. George decided to leave the area and so moved to the north of Scotland, he returned from Montrose only a few months later after his father had been blinded in a pit accident. In 1811 an incident occurred which changed not just Stephenson's life forever, but the history of the world too. At the High Pit in Killingworth the pumping engine had broken down, Stephenson offered to fix it and did such a good job that he was given the role of Enginewright for Killingworth and probably all collieries in the north east. It was whilst studying steam driven engineering that his life began to change. In 1818 he began to design a safety lamp for miners, at the same time a London scientist was also looking into a solution to the risk of naked flames in gas filled mines, Sir Humphry Davy and George Stephenson's designs differed in that Davy used a gause to shield the flame whilst Stephenson used a glass screen, Davy was awarded ?2000 for his design, though Stephenson proved he had worked independently and had not stolen the design, Davy however was adamant he had stolen the design and could never believe a low born man such as Stephenson could have came up with such an idea. This gave Stephenson a healthy dislike for London and it's so called theoretical scientific experts.

Richard Trevithick designed the world's first Steam Engine Locomotive in 1804, ten years later George Stephenson designed his own for hauling coal from the Killingworth Colliery, he named it Bl?cher after the Prussian General who was Wellington's ally at the Battle of Waterloo. In total he built 30 Locomotives whilst at Killingworth, then in 1821 the Government passed a parliamentary bill allowing the building of the Stockton and Darlington Railway, designed to connect all the various coalpits in the Auckland Coalfield to a single railway to take coal to Stockton on Tee's. Originally the plan was to use horse drawn transport however the man behind the scheme, Edward Pease, met George Stephenson and radically changed the plans to allow locomotives to do the work. Edward Pease, George Stephenson, Michael Longridge (of Bedlington Ironworks) and Robert Stephenson (George's son) set up a locomotive building works in Newcastle, their first locomotive was originally named Active, but it was changed to Locomotion, they built three others in short succession, Hope, Diligence and Black Diamond. It was the Locomotion which first hauled passengers inside a carriage known as Experiment, along with an 80 tonne load of coal and flour for nine miles in two hours, inside the carriage were local dignitaries and people associated with the Stockton and Darlington Railway, the first Passenger train had arrived.

Although Locomotion was George Stephenson's first engine it is thought he was ably assisted by Timothy Hackworth, a man he would have known from his Wylam Colliery days. Timothy Hackworth was the head engineer for all of the Stephenson works, he lived in Shildon and oversaw the building of many engines in his time, most notably the Royal George and the Sans Pareil. He was a staunch Methodist and in hsi time as overseer at the New Shildon Works he set forth the following rules.

1. The meal times allowed are from 8 to half past 8 in the morning and 12 to 1 for dinner throughout the year.

2. Overtime to be reckoned at eight hours for a day, but not until a whole regular day has been done.

3. Every workman to put on his time board with his time, the name of the article or articles he has been working at during the day and what engine or machinery they are for.

4. Every workman who is provided a drawer for his tools, with lock and key, the drawer and key to be numbered, and all his tools to be marked with the same number as well as the letters SDRWC; the key to be left in the office every night when the man has left work.

5. Any man who is longer than a quarter of an hour after the bell is wrung will lose a quarter of his daily pay.

6. Any worker who does not call for his time-board in the morning and return it to the office in the evening, or when done work, will be fined sixpence.

7. Any workman leaving his work without giving notice to the clerk or to the foreman will be fined one shilling.

8. Any workman swearing or using abusive language to a shopmate will be fined one shilling.

9. Should anyone or more send for Beer, Ale or Spirits into the works (without leave) to be fined one shilling.

10. Any man introducing a stranger or any person to the works (without leave) to be fined one shilling.

11. Any man giving in more time than he has wrought, to have double to time taken off that he has overcharged.

12. The companies timepiece at the shop to be the guide for the workmens time.

13. Any workman taking tools from a lathe or other piece of machinery to be fined one shilling.

14. Any workman not returning taps or dyes, or any general tool, to the person who was in charge of them, to be fined sixpence.

15. Should and person leave their work for the purpose of drinking, in working hours, he will be considered as having forfeited his position.

Timothy Hackworth was obviously not a drinking man, yet he was a very charitable man, he paid for the building of a Sunday school close to his home at the Soho Cottages where local children could be educated along religious lines. Today the entire area of the works is a large scale museum, from Hackworth's home and Sunday school, his works shed down to the old sidings which have now been turned into a museum housing many trains and carriages from all over the world. It is well worth a day out and you may be lucky enough to catch a ride on an old locomotive on the site of the very first passenger train in the world.

CJ Linton.

Chester first breathed into life as a ford across the River Dee in 75ad, the builders of this ford, the Romans, also built a massive fort which they named Deva, around which grew the town and with Roman expeditions going northwards Deva quickly became the largest Roman fortress in the country. Recent Archaeological explorations have brought evidence to light which may make Deva the largest Roman fort outside of Italy, in the 4th Century Roman civilisation began to break down, with constant raids becoming more stronger from Angles and Saxons from Europe and Scots from Ireland the people of Chester began to leave the city and make their own way in the world, thus Chester’s population took a dramatic decrease. During the time of the Roman’s leaving and the Saxon’s taking over it were the Welsh who took over possession of Chester, however it wasn’t long until the Saxons took over Chester in a bloody battle against the Welsh. Saxon rule brought a new name, Ceaster (sess-ter). In fact the Saxon’s named any place where there were lots of Roman buildings a Ceaster, Cirencester, Binchester, Lanchester and Manchester to name a few. The reason they simply named Chester without a pre name is because it was the largest Roman town in the Country, not as many believe the Roman capital London. Soon after the Saxons taking over the town grew again, local traders and merchants used its port to trade with the rest of Europe; it even had its own mint during Saxon times as well as a new Saxon fort built on the site of the older Roman one.

Durham Cathedral

"Rules are for the obedience of fools, and the guidance of Wise men"

In London on the 10th February 1910 a man was born to fairly humble origins, his father was a civil engineer who had just been offered a job in India, both wife and husband believed their new born son would not be able to acclimatise to the heat and left him in England for the first two years of his life, if only they had known their son a little better they would have known that whatever stood in his way he would be able to overcome it. I’m talking about a man who in my opinion is the greatest Briton to have ever lived, throughout his life he overcame hurdles that the vast majority of people today would crumble before, he defended his country to the utmost, not just as an everyday fighting man but also by leading large numbers of people, instilling in his comrades in arms the kind of spirit which exemplified his own life, I only hope this short article on his life can somehow give justice to the greatness of his entire being, his passions for his fellow man, his love for his country, and his unequal ability to overcome his own disability and go on to become one of the true heroes this nation has had to offer in its history.

Douglas Bader’s early life was beset by tragedy, his parents left him with relatives at an early age, he joined them in India for just a year before coming back to England in 1913, with the outbreak of World War One in 1914 Douglas’ father Frederick Bader went to fight in France, he never saw him again as in 1915 Frederick died of a bad shrapnel wound. His Mother remarried soon after the war, but Douglas did not take to his new father, nor did his new father take to him. Much of the young Douglas Bader’s life was spent living with his Aunt Hazel, her husband Cyril Burge was a Flight Lieutenant Adjutant to the RAF College at Cranwell, it wa shere in his formative years that Douglas found his first love, the airplane. He attended St. Edwards school in Oxford where he excelled at Sports, representing his school at Hockey, Rugby, Cricket and Boxing, however his extra curricular activities must have had some effect on his academic studies as he struggled with most subjects, despite this he came second in his schools sword of honour awards at the end of his final term. In 1928 he became a flight cadet at Cranwell, here Bader’s life had a golden period, just two years later he was commissioned as an officer in the Royal Air Force. Bader soon gained a reputation for being fearless, in just one year he had a prominent place in the Aerobatics team which won the Pairs title at the Hendon Air Pageant. Then on 14th December 1931 his life was to take a dramatic turn for the worse, whilst putting on a private show for friends near Reading he was slow rolling his bi-plane as close to the ground as possible, suddenly one of his wingtips grazed the ground, the plane flipped violently onto its belly disintegrating its undercarriage and the bottom part of the fuselage, Douglas Bader came off just as bad as his aircraft, being rushed to the local hospital Dr Leonard Joyce had to amputate his right leg just above the knee joint, his left leg was taken off just below the knee joint. Bader’s friends and family were told to expect the worst, however the brave 21 year old had other ideas. He was taken to the RAF’s own hospital at Uxbridge, there Bader met the real love of his life, he and Thelma Edwards were married in 1935. Douglas Bader could be described as obstinate, and under the circumstances I can’t blame him, he of course was told he would never walk again, to which he scoffed at, then he was given metal legs to try out, again the doctors urged him to be careful, his legs would need to grow callouses so the metal legs would not hurt too much, for thsi reason he was given a pair of walking sticks and told he would never walk without them, again he scorned the medical opinion by stating "on the contrary, I shall never walk with them". And he never did.

Bader had been discharged from the RAF, his last entry in his flying log details (in his own way) the crash he suffered: "X-Country near Reading. Crashed slow rolling, bad show" this was typical Douglas Bader, he soon got a job working for a petroleum firm, he was given a special car for his work, which soon got him into trouble with the police for he was caught driving recklessly on more than one occasion on country back lanes, his quest for thrills and danger had not been diminished it seems. Perhaps the only way an adrenaline junkie can truly quench their thirst is to be involved in the ultimate test, for Bader that meant one thing, flying and fighting. In 1939 he got his chance, Hitler’s jackbooted hordes smashed through Poland, Britain declared war and Bader went to the RAF asking for a position, he was bluntly told that "there is no where in the Kings regulations that allowed a man in his condition to fly" Bader using his quick witted intelligence replied to the recruiting officers "you mean there is no where in the Kings regulations that states a man in my condition cannot fly". Bader had support from colleagues he had been a cadet with, they knew his spirit and skill with an aircraft and so he gained his re-commission into the Royal Air Force. He was made Flight Commander in 222 Squadron, in May 1940 German forces overrun allied forces in France, Belgium and Holland, the British were separated from the majority of the French army by the German blitzkrieg and so fell back to Dunkerque (Dunkirk) where during Operation Dynamo hundreds of thousands of troops were brought safely back to England to continue the fight at a later date. The RAF flew sorties across the channel to stop the German Luftwaffe from destroying the British Army on French soil, Bader’s 222 Squadron was one of these units making sorties, at the end of May Bader shot down his first German aircraft near Dunkerque. During the slight lull between the German conquest of the Low Countries and the Battle of Britain Bader was promoted and given command of 242 Squadron, a Canadian unit flying Hurricane fighters.

242 Squadron had suffered heavy casualties before Bader took over, in fact roughly half of their number had been shot down, killed or captured before Bader’s appointment. The Canadians believed Bader would be flying no more than a desk in the upcoming months, using his technical and tactical skills on the airfield. Bader once more had other ideas, on arriving at the airfield 242 Squadron were using he jumped straight into a Hurricane and put on an hour long aerobatic display over the airfield, astonishing his Canadian pilots, raising their morale when it was slowest and instilling a belief in the impossible for the younger newer pilots who had arrived as replacements. These young pilots were thrown into the cauldron of fire that was the Battle of Britain, Germany’s attempt at controlling the British skies, their first step towards invasion. Bader was in action early on in his time with 242 Squadron, early in the morning of 11th July he received a call in the dispersal hut, he was told there was a German twin engined bomber just off Cromer, could he send a section (two aircraft) off to intercept, Bader looked out the window, the conditions were appalling, heavy rain and thick cloud. He answered the phone by saying it was too bad to send up a section, he would go himself. Bader took off and shot down a Dornier Do17 medium bomber, reliving the experience years later he states "I remember thinking to myself as the Dornier gunner opened fire on me: I’ve got a bullet proof windscreen in front of my face, I’ve got a twelve cylinder engine in front of my body, and tin legs, what harm could possibly come to me?"

On the 30th August 242 Squadron took to the skies, under Bader’s leadership and using his own unique tactics the Squadron shot down 12 German aircraft in their first sortie, in the months to come they would fly three, four or even five sorties per day. Bader went on to shoot down 22 ½ Aircraft during this period, the half was because both he and another pilot fired into a Heinkel bomber which crashed soon after, both shared the kill. Bader’s record made him the fifth highest RAF ace of the war, the highest ever was the German Erich Hartmann who shot down around 360 aircraft, most of them poorly piloted Russian aircraft on the Eastern Front, though the Germans also claimed aircraft shot whilst on the ground too, but Hartmann must have still shot down about 150 aircraft in the air, with maybe 50 of those flown by top quality pilots, making Hartmann the greatest ace ever. But then again Bader didn’t have real legs!

Douglas Bader rightly deserved the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) and the Distinguished Service Order (DSO) for his part in the Battle of Britain, even when the German bombers had been beaten off Bader flew his Squadron into the channel to attack German shipping in dangerous low level attacks. When Bader had a good day "at the office" he would fly over the airfield, roll his canopy back on his c ockpit, stand up, placing the control stick between his knees (one of which was artificial remember) and light his pipe! Piston engined fighters had the dodgy habit of leaking all kinds of flammable liquid when in flight and so his wingmen kept their distance whenever Bader lit up, just in case he blew up! In 1941 the RAF took the war into occupied Europe, regular fighter sweeps were made across the channel, and it was during these operations that Bader became a prisoner of war. Its not exactly sure how Bader came to grief, most reports say he collided with a German Messerschmidt Me Bf109 whilst in a dogfight, however archaeological evidence and some other reports might suggest he was shot down accidentally by one of his own pilots. With his aircraft tumbling out of control he tried to bail out, opening the canopy at 300 miles per hour would have nearly ripped his fingers off, he unbuckled his harness and stood in the cockpit, just as he jumped the spinning aircraft’s control stick made a violent lurch and trapped his prosthetic right leg, Bader was trapped inside a doomed aircraft hurtling towards the ground, yet once more angels must have been giving him a helping hand for the strap on his false right leg snapped, sending him tumbling out to parachute safely to the ground, his right leg was found years later during archaeological work in the area, in fact the archaeologists were looking for a different aircraft when they found Bader’s leg!

Douglas Bader was now a Prisoner of War, recovering in hospital he asked if the Germans would allow a British aircraft to safely fly over their airfield and drop a replacement, unbelievably they agreed and told the British the terms, amazingly it nearly all went to plan, however when Churchill found out about it all he ordered bombs to be dropped on the airfield, followed by the false right leg. After the attack the Germans had to repair the damaged leg but they gave it to Bader who put it on and began to walk again, just a few hours later Bader made his first bid to escape by simply walking out of the hospital, it nearly worked too! All British POW had orders to try to escape at any time, on a militarily tactical level it makes sense, it means the enemy has to use more frontline soldiers to hold the POW. Many allied POW were captured, most were killed, a lot were sent to Colditz Castle, not the impregnable fortress Hollywood would have us believe, in fact many people escaped from there, from people bribing the guards to people simply making civilian clothes and walking out past the sentries. The most ingenious idea to escape was a hand built glider! Airey Neave was the first British POW to escape from Colditz, he however was killed in an explosion by the IRA in 1979. Bader tried to escape many times and ended up in Colditz, in fact he tried to escape so often the Germans at one point took his legs away, but the worlds media caught wind of the situation and the Germans backed down at such ungentlemanly behaviour and returned them, as soon as they did Bader tried to escape once more. He was still in Colditz in 1945 when American troops liberated the Castle-come-Prison, after the war he was promoted Group Captain, but with no more war to fight he left the RAF and took up a job with Shell Oil’s aviation department, a job which came with its own plane. Douglas Bader had by far done his bit for his country, he had suffered more than most and still battled through, he could have retired to a peaceful existence, but yet again Bader had other ideas. He used his fame to gain support for disabled peoples around the world, raising vast amounts of money and putting disabled peoples rights on political agendas through his forceful will and ceaseless endeavours, through it all he kept his dignity and own self reliance and determination, in 1955 he was giving a speech at his old school in Oxford, a fifteen year old pupil saw Group Captain Bader coming through the gates with his unmistakable walking style, the boy ran across and offered to hep him carry his cases as it was a hot sunny day, Bader’s reply was simple. "B ugger off". The head master saw the incident and told the boy that "Group Captain Bader will not be helped, he regards even carrying his heavy cases on a hot day as a challenge, and challenges must be overcome". Right until his death in 1982 Douglas Bader was touring the country, always seeing each step as a challenge as difficult as learning to walk again, learning to fly again, escaping the German Prisons or even carrying his cases on a hot summers day. In the heading at the top of this post is one of his better quotes, I still find it remarkable that he overcame each of these challenges, through grit and determination, passionately believing in his duty to his country, to his friends and his self belief that he could achieve anything he put his mind to. Others will no doubt have their own person in mind when the term "Greatest Briton" is thrown around, I must say Nelson comes a strong second, but for me Sir Douglas Bader is a man who could still after so many years of death inspire any one to reach for the sky.

Christopher John Linton

WHAT IF?

What if? A question we have all no doubt asked our selves every day, what if I got the bus instead of the tube... what if I ask her out, what if she say’s no... what if she say’s yes... well as much as all of our own little what if’s play upon our minds and affect our very being, there are what if’s that have affected us all.

What if... in the year 701BC, in a tiny kingdom called Judah, in what is now the middle east, there stood a city, well a large town really. It was and still is known as Jerusalem. And it was under siege. Sennacherib, King of Assyria, had amassed an army to squash this tiny Kingdom and force it’s inhabitants to stop their alliance with the Philistines, Phoenicians and the Egyptians, any that did not would become slaves, or food for the buzzards. But something happened, something stopped the Assyrian’s in their tracks. A plague tore through the besieging forces killing hundreds if not thousands, King Sennarcherib simply did not want his forces to dwindle away, lest they become a target for much larger more deadly adversaries in the pre-Roman Middle East.

What if the plague had not spread amongst his troops, the walls would surely have fallen and the usual rape, pillage and slaughter would have occurred and Jerusalem would have seen it’s last days of prosperity, as it was the city has become the most fought over piece of soil in the history of the world, and still is seen as one of the most holiest of places for three quarters of the planets population.

Disease has always been a great leveller when it comes to military History, Athens was lost in 404BC after a plague and so Greece lost its most prominent city state. Dysentery ravaged the Prussian Army in 1792 after the Battle of Valmy, thus saving the French Republic and ushering in a phase of warfare never seen before on the continent of Europe. Indeed had the Influenza Epidemic of 1918 not killed hundreds of thousands of people then what people would have led that generation into the horrors of the thirties and forties.

Sometimes split second decisions by the lowliest of soldier can turn a battle and change History. What if Alexander the Great had been killed at the Battle of the Granicus in 334BC? He came very close to having his block knocked off by a Persian noble called Spithridates. Alexanders own Companion Cavalry unit had charged headlong into the River Granicus to attack the Anatolian and Greek Mercenary force arrayed against him on the other side, Alexander, leading from the front as always, ploughed into the first ranks of the enemy and along with a small group of his bodyguards burst into rear ranks where Spithridates was pushing his own men into some order, the Persian’s first blow knocked Alexanders white plumed helmet sideways, raising his large two-handed axe above his head he could have changed history forever. Only he did not, one of Alexander’s personal bodyguards, a man named Cleitus ( nicknamed "the Black") thrust his spear into Spithridates’ neck, saving his general and winning a battle in the blink of an eye.

What if Cleitus had not been so quick, the Macedonian’s may have won the battle, but Darius of Persia would have not needed to take the field at Guagamela as the Macedonian killing machine would have ground to a halt, heir-less, Alexander’s generals would have squabbled over who would lead from now on, just as they did when he died of a fever (poison?) In 323BC.

Not every What if has to be created by a man in a suit of armour, in 1931, New York, a taxi-cab driver working late on Fifth Avenue spotted a fare further down the road, usually he would have kept to the speed limit but it was late, no one was around. Except there was, as he sped towards his expected fare a stocky man with a large cigar in mouth stepped from between two parked cars into the road. The taxi swerved and unluckily clipped the man who never the less was sent sprawling to the ground. An Ambulance was called but by the time it came the man was sitting in the street, lighting another cigar. The reason he did not look left as he crossed the road was because he was a foreigner, he was British, he was Winston Churchill.

What if he had been killed, would Britain have a leader to get us through the difficult times of World War Two, or would Britain not even have bothered with Nazi Germany until it was far too late, Hitler could have won the war before he had even come to power in Germany.

King William I of England, Duke of Normandy. Here is a man who owed his entire living to What if’s, what if his father had not felt the urge to bed a tanners daughter one night, what if the wind had not changed in the channel, not only enabling his fleet to set sail for England, but also keeping the Saxon fleet bottled up in the solant. What if he had lost the battle of Hastings? He so very nearly did. His polyglot force was made up of men from Breton, commanded by Alan of Brittany and covering the entire left wing. The right was made up of Gascon’s mainly, but included Italians and a few Frenchmen. Whilst the centre was entirely made up of Norman’s. It should have been the mixed right wing which was the problem, but it was not, the left saw the worst of the fighting. Harold’s men held the line atop their hill all day long, the Bretons could not keep up their attacks for that long and men started to splinter away, the few turned to many and soon the entire left wing was in disarray, some men shouted that Duke William was dead. William had to remove his face guard and shout to his men to restore order, it was then that he saw his chance. The Saxons on the Norman left had attacked down the hill as the Bretons had ran and now William shouted commands to his mounted Knights, the Saxon line had fallen into a trap, wether it was William’s idea or not, the Saxons streaming down the hill were now easy meat for the Normans to kill with their Lances, thrown on the gallop (Norman Lances were really throwing spears, Lance being the Norman word for "throwing"). The Saxons died valiantly, but easily. As the day wore on the Saxon line slowly crumbled, many of its men had died in the hit and run attacks by Norman Knights. Harold caught an arrow with his eye and the line disintegrated. William won, but what if he had been killed, or if he had not seen the Saxon attack, or even if that Norman Archer pointed his arrow towards Harold’s banner then had second idea’s. Why waste a good arrow.

Sometimes what ifs have many factors, a series of what ifs that leads to one almighty decision. For example. During the Russo-Japanese war of 1904-05 Alexander Samsonov and Pavel Rennenkampf both commanded a Division fighting Japanese forces in Manchuria, Samsonov commanded a Cossack Division, detailed to hold the Yentai Coal Mines, Rennenkampf’s Division was ordered to support the Cossacks if they should come under attack. The Japanese attacked the mines, killing the majority of Samsonov’s Division while Rennenkampf stood idly by. About a month after the disaster both men met each other at a railway station called Mukden, an infuriated Samsonov ran up to Rennenkampf, took off his gloves and slapped him hard across the face, the two then wrestled to the ground and rolled around in the mud before being separated by their cadre’s.

Now skip forwards to August 1914, the area of the Masurian Lakes in German East Prussia. To be more specific, Tannenburg. The German 8th Army was facing off against two Russian armies, each bigger than the German force. Between the two Russian armies was the Masurian lakes, commanding the 1st Russian Army was Rennenkampf, commanding the 2nd... yes you guessed it. Samsonov. The Russian forces were defeated piecemeal, first Samsonov’s. Samsonov eventually committed suicide in the swamps around Niedenburg, then Rennenkampf’s, both Russian Armies were badly mauled by a German Army not even half of the size of its adversary... so why did the German high command not run away and fight in more favourable terrain, closer to home? Well initially it did panic, Count Max von Prittwitz was replaced by Hindenburg, under him were two exceptional German commanders, General Ludendorff and Colonel Max Hoffman.

Hindenburg did have a small crisis of conscience, he did believe that whilst he defeated Samsonov the other Russian Army would batter his flank, which was held by two small Cavalry Divisions. However Colonel Max Hoffman pulled him to one side and told him that he did not think Rennenkampf would come to Samsonov’s aid, when asked why not he told his superior about a little incident he had witnessed years ago in a little train station called Mukden. So many what if’s surround these events I’m sure you can come up with them on your own, what if the Germans had been crushed, the way in the East would have been wide open, Hitler would not have had his immense chip on his shoulder, and even the Soviet Revolution would not have happened... all because of a slap in the face.

Another of our own country’s what if’s surrounds the Glorious revolution in the late 1689-90... in fact there are two. The City of Derry had been under siege for quite some time before King James II arrived, instead of going to his commanders in charge of the siege to see how the fighting was going he rode straight for the city gates, a truce had been ordered, only the troops at the gates had not been told so and they opened fire, hitting and killing a Captain Troy with a cannon’s round shot. The blood spattered King took to his heels and ran for his life. What if the King had been cleaved in two by the cannon shot? Without a sovereign to fight for the Jacobite rebellion would have been stopped before it had even started, even Bonnie Prince Charlie may have had other idea’s fifty years later. The other event is very similar to King James’ ordeal. This time it was King William III, his "successor", who came under fire by enemy troops, before the Battle of the Boyne, the deciding engagement of the Revolution, King William was cantering alongside the River when he stopped for a little picnic, Jacobite troops quickly brought up a gun and fired a shot, it bounced in the soft mud of the riverbank and grazed the King’s shoulder, taking off a layer of skin at the least. Again, without a King to fight for the Revolution would have been decided, however there is no doubt that the repercussions of a triumphant King James would have seen much more bloodshed in our green and pleasant land.

There are untold amounts of What if scenarios in the worlds history, I have my own, i'm sure you have yours too.

Thank you for your time,

CJ Linton.