Post Post Script

I have been doing some more trawling through the AWM records, and found more information about James. It appears I may have been wrong in my belief that he fell near Mouquet Farm. I have attached an extract of part of a war diary pertaining to the 48th Battalion. It is a listing of soldiers recommended for awards. James is recommended to be "Mentioned in Despatches" for Gallantry, although it is not confirmed whether this actually happened. The date is 1 September 1916, the day after his death, and the place is Pozieres. I have attached a photo of the Pozieres memorial. The inscription states: "The ruin of Pozieres windmill which lies here was the centre of the struggle in this part of the Somme battlefield in July and August 1916. It was captured on August 4th by Australian troops who fell more thickly on this ridge than on any other battlefield of the war."

Post Script

Well, it's all over....done and dusted. I'm back home, back at work and the jet lag has finally passed. We crammed a fair bit into our tour, and I'm thankful that I kept this diary, or the memories may have blurred.
I feel we have reached out and taken a grip on some past history, maybe given our boys the welcome home they earned so long ago. There's more to find out about Mervyn and James, and with help from new friends, experienced in the dark art of sifting through the archives, I hope to be able to gain a greater affiliation.
They were young men when they left home. They were young men when they fell. From the accounts of many of their brothers-in-arms, they were all well aware of the values they were defending, and the sacrifice being asked of them. These were brave men indeed, men to be proud of and ever grateful to.
The quest for Ross is ended, yet just begun.
I have added a final link to the site, so you can look at a few more photos taken during the tour. Either click on the Slideshow link to view all of them sequentially, or click on each photo individually to have a closer look. I hope you enjoy them as much as I did taking them.

Days 12 & 13 – The Last Post

It’s funny the way things work out, yeah?
This morning began as most others on this tour....early. After rising and packing the port, I went down to breakfast, to share a last meal with my tour family. I believe some long-lasting friendships have been forged on this trip. We will test that theory at the end of the meal, as each of us returns to our birthplace, to continue the free life our ancestors have earned on our behalf.
I said goodbye to Rosco the Elder, Jan, Patrick and Aleta and many others and strode out of the hotel with one last conquer in mind. I joined the queue to mount the Eiffel Tower at 8:30am, 30 mins before opening time, and already I am 50m down the line. My travel colleagues had regaled varying tales of having to wait up to three and a half hours to gain entry, but in reality, within one hour I was lift-bound up the steel structure. As you ascend the tower, you appreciate the strength of the steel infrastructure. In places, it seems almost flimsy, yet it has stood for more than a hundred years and its lifts take thousands of sight-seers to the summit every day. I spent an hour atop the tower, wandering around and around, awestruck by the spectacle below. I took snaps from all angles of the compass, and I hope the resultant photo appeals.
Having written my name in the imaginary tower attendance registry, I returned to the Novotel, gathered my belongings and checked out. I hailed a taxi from the nearby rank, and it dawned on me that my journey home had commenced. It would be 38 hours before my head would hit the pillow again.
When I got to Gare du Nord, I was almost relieved at how easy it was to enter the building. I had been expecting an army of hawkers to be guarding the access, but my fears were unfounded. There were a couple of people offering to provide me with a trolley, and once politely declined, that was it. I had arrived at the station early on purpose, hoping to recover a book that I had stupidly left on the train to France, but the Lost Property Office had no record of it. I was fortunate to have had a second copy presented to me by its author, Mat McLachlan, during my tour, so the loss was not a complete devastation. Still, it would have been nice to have the original signed copy.
Gare du Nord is a beehive of activity. Not only does the Eurostar stop there, but the entire Parisian train system is centred on it. There are tracks heading everywhere. Around midday, I sat in a waiting area, dislodged my heavy backpack and sat down to wait for my 3:13pm train. I began to read a recently purchased book about the Western Front, and noticed the family next to me had recognised it. They told me they were from Melbourne, and a dialogue began. It turns out that I was talking with an army man who had been touring the WW1 battlefields with his family. He has been doing so since 1989, and his wife and teenage children are equally enthused. Incredibly, he has offered to help me in my search for knowledge about Mervyn & James. He has already given me pointers on where to go within the Australian War Memorial site, and believes he can assist me in my search for greater detail. I’ll be in contact with him as soon as he returns to Australia in August.
Being the consummate European traveller by now, you’d think I’d be on my game, but when it came to boarding time, I failed. I marched out on the platform with the plebs looking for coach 4, and I am reading the small numbers as I make my way along the train. They are out of order, but I persist. I finally reach the coach bearing the number 4, but it is the first coach behind the locomotive, and I am naturally confused. Still, I haul my luggage on board, stow it and find seat 31. Of course, it only takes a short while before the rightful owner of “Coach 1 Seat 31” arrives to claim her prize, and I find myself ousted. Panicked, I realise I have to retrieve my luggage and find my proper seat, tout suite. There’s a continuous influx of passengers into coach 1, and a friendly English voice behind me suggests that I should consider running down the interior corridor to exit at coach 2, run back and retrieve my bag, and then find my way to coach 4. I followed this advice, only to find that I am now under stringent time restrictions. I forced my way back onto coach 1, dragged my bag out and must have jostled other passengers, given the suppressed comments I heard from behind. As I ran along the platform, I heard the PA announcing that the train was about to depart. Now, it’s a heart-in-mouth affair, and I sprint along the platform. I reach the door for the “real” coach 4, and fling my case aboard, followed closely by myself, and the train rolls away almost instantaneously. The beads on the brow are plentiful, and the chest is heaving, but I nonchalantly stow the bag, and make my way to my seat. That friendly English voice belonged to Adam, and he and I had a couple of beers in the refreshments car and laughed off the episode. The French and English countryside is absolutely beautiful, and we rock and roll our way to London.
Arriving at St. Pancras, I am only too aware of what lies next.......I think. I make my way to the ticket counter and request a ticket to London Paddington. The attendant asks where I am going, and tells me there is a direct service to Heathrow from St. Pancras/Kings Cross for £4.50, something which the ticket sellers from a fortnight earlier had failed to mention. Since I had already purchased a return ticket from Paddington, I declined and pressed onward. In the intervening 10 days since I had been in the London Underground, the escalator issue appears not to have been addressed. I lug my case up and down platforms till I get where I believe I am where I should be. A Circle Line train appears and I join the throng to board. I hurl my suitcase onto the train just as the doors slam shut on it. Immediately, I shove my shoulders and elbows into the gap and attempt to pry the doors open so I can gain access as well. There is no give and just as I am about to wave goodbye to my belongings, the door opens, and I quickly grab it and dive aboard, making sure the backpack I am toting gets through before the deadly doors slam shut again. London Underground: 0/10
Finally, I made my way to London Heathrow, and almost effortlessly, checked my case and secured my seat home. In the departures hall, I downed a beer and ordered a meal of chips only to be informed that I needed a table before I could be served. I didn’t have a table and they lost my patronage shortly thereafter. The trip from London was highly anticipated, since it was on an Airbus A380. I was to be disappointed simply because the size of the plane does not mean any greater room for the economy traveller. A 13-hour flight will be a pain in the back, neck, legs, etc just as it would on a Sopwith Camel. As with the trip to the UK, this flight was done in darkness and with window shades down. And let it be known that seat 67H on the A380 and 29G on the A330 have reduced feet space. Yes, I am four for four with picking crap seats on airplanes. Fortunately, the wait in Singapore is minimal and I am on my final leg home.
On touching down in Perth, the enormity of my journey hits home. I am the first son of the Ross family to return from France. Our boys took weeks on a ship and then months in Egypt before they arrived in France, whereas we can fly in and out from Australia nowadays , with no hassle.
I am home now......looking forward to catching up with family and friends, and craving the lamb roast. I wish Mervyn & James could have experienced the same.

Day 11 – The Battlefields Pt 4

A shorter report today, as we finish off our tour of the old Western Front, and head for Paris.
First call was to the Australian Army Corp Memorial near Le Hamel. The memorial is set on the old German front lines, as at 4th July, 1918. On that day, General Sir John Monash directed Australian troops in a battle which is said to represent the start of the end of WW1. Australians were involved in only a few battles to follow, prior to the end of the war on 11 November 1918. Today we reflected on the tragedy of the loss of men so near to the end of hostilities. Heath Cemetery, near Harbonniere, is the resting place of many soldiers who fell at the Battle of Amiens on 8th August, 1918. Next on our list was a visit to the AIF 4th Division Memorial near Bellenglise. The memorial sits way off the track in the middle of vast fields of wheat and canola. James Ross’s 48th Battalion was part of the 4th Division.
Last call on our tour of battlefield sites was the tiny Calvaire cemetery, near Montbrehain, where Capt. Harry Fletcher is laid to rest. Fletcher and his schoolboy mate, Mahoney saw service at Gallipoli in 1915, and were involved in many battles from then right through to 1918. On 5th October, during Australia’s last WW1 battle, Fletcher banged on the outside of one of his tanks to gain the attention of the crew. Just at that moment, the tank was hit by a shell and Fletcher was killed. Ironically, elsewhere on the front, Mahoney was wounded on the same day, and died of his wounds that night. There was only 5 weeks to go until armistice. We drank a toast, a tot of rum, to Captain Harry Fletcher.
From Montbrehain, we left the battlefields behind, and headed towards Paris. There wasn’t a lot of talking on the way. For some, exhaustion had kicked in, for others it was a time for inner reflection. We arrived at our hotel, but had only minutes to prepare for another bus pick-up to our last supper in the artists district of Montmartre. We supped sumptuously, boarded our bus and did one last lap of Paris at night, to take in the glitter. A last goodnight to my new found family, and I head for home tomorrow.

Day 10 – The Battlefields Pt 3

Today, the enormity of the WW1 losses was really brought home to us. The memorials from the various countries show that this was indeed a world conflict. We all know of the British, French, German, Russian and Australian participation, but other sacrifices by Canada, South Africa, India and even Morocco, were new to me. There are cemeteries, just from WW1, dotted all over the countryside. Some are small plots, hardly bigger than a residential lot, while others cover several acres. All are maintained respectfully. All have the same headstones, just with different names and inscriptions. There are so many that bear the epitaph “Known Unto God”.
Our first visit was to Villers-Bretonneux (VB). We stopped at Adelaide Cemetery where some of the inscriptions made me physically gulp for air. Relatives of one Walter Brown had left a short note next to his headstone during a recent visit. That lump in the throat returned. I hope you can read it from my photograph. In VB itself, we visited a primary school which was gifted by donations from school children in Victoria. 1200 men, fathers and brothers of these children died and are buried around the area. In a small churchyard, there is a cross, hand-carved in the image of the original which, sits in St. Georges Cathedral in Perth. It was a gift to the people of VB from the boys of 51st Battalion from Perth. As the only West Australian on the bus, they took me to look at it separately. I stood outside the fence for a few seconds while the gardeners were mowing near the cross. When they saw me, they waved me in, and went off to mow a different section for a short time. Such is the feeling in the community.
Next stop was the Australian War Memorial near VB. Like the Canadian memorial at Vimy, the grounds cover many acres. There are hundreds of headstones leading the way to the memorial, which records the names of more than 10000 Australian men from WW1, with no known grave. Among those names is that of James Robert Ross. I found him. I held his diary close and whispered that I would send others behind me to say G’day.
At nearby Albert, we stopped at a small memorial called the Lochnagar Crater. It is a huge gaping pit, the result of a mine that was tunnelled under the German trenches (just like Hill 60), and packed with 25 tonnes of high explosive. Witnesses said the spoil (debris) was blown 120 metres into the air. It was the start to an offensive by the British troops, but failed miserably. In the two minutes the British waited after the explosion, the Germans were able to restore their machine-gun posts, looking out over the open fields. More than 60000 British troops became casualties that day, mostly before lunch-time. The day was 1st July 1916.
On our drive towards a lunch stop, we passed Mouquet Farm, scene of some horrific fighting in late August 1916. To the best of my knowledge, this is where Pte. James Robert Ross 4693 fell on 31st August 1916. Unfortunately, the little back road that runs past the farm, does not allow for huge tourist coaches to park. The farmers do not allow access to the farm in any case. The best I could do was take a couple of snaps as we drove past.
Lunch, pumpkin soup and a sandwich, was taken at an Irish memorial for the Ulster Division. A delightful Irish couple live there to tend the memorial, and they run a small museum and cafe for visitors. Then on to Beaumont-Hamel where the Canadians have another memorial, run similarly to the one at Vimy. This time they have preserved an entire battlefield, and the dead are buried at the site of their initial objective, though they never made it on the night of battle.
The British and French have a joint memorial near Thiepval. Once again it is set on colossal acreage, and the memorial itself must be 15 stories high or more. The panels lining its walls record the names of more than 70000 men from WW1 with no known grave. It is one thing to see all the cemeteries and headstones, but the number of men never recovered stops me in my tracks. The South Africans also suffered great losses at Delville Wood, and chose to erect their memorial there. The grounds and memorial are quite beautifully presented. It nestles into the surrounding farm land, like a giant park. And finally on our tour today, we stopped at another Australian memorial near Pozieres. This one is for the AIF 1st Division. The inscription on part of the memorial states that Australian troops fell more thickly on the nearby ridge, than at any other battlefield of the war.
We headed for the hotel as the rain started to fall. It seemed symbolic.

Day 9 – The Battlefields Pt 2

This morning we were bussed back to Fromelles to get the historical feel for the happenings there 94 years ago. Some of the group decided to go to the cemetery to walk among the graves and read the epitaphs. Our historian offered us a chance to walk to the 1916 front lines, and I jumped at the chance. Using his map showing the exact positions of the various battalions in the attack on 19 July, we were able to get very close to where Mervyn might have been when he fell. I felt a real sense of closeness, but better was to come.
After we rejoined the bus, our next stop was “Cobbers” statue and the nearby VC Corner Cemetery. The cemetery commemorates the names of more than 1000 Australian men with no known graves from WW1. And Mervyn is among them. Sadly, it is unlikely that his remains, if found, will be identified, although scientific miracles surprise us every day. But at least we know that his name will be remembered forever at this memorial, which is maintained in perpetuity by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.
The “Cobbers” statue is pretty self-explanatory. It represents a soldier, Simon Fraser, carrying his wounded mate back to safety, and is hugely evocative. A terribly sad note is that we found a wreath laid at the statue, from his descendants, and stating that it was in his honour AND for a relative who had died at the ceremony on Monday. We have not had any way of confirming the veracity of the claim, but find it hard to believe that it would be a prank. Maybe you might hear something on the news at home.
From there we ambled on to several other battlefields and memorials, all names that are recognised, but whose story may not be familiar. The Hindenburg Line, Le Trou, Bullecourt, Vimy Ridge, and the list goes on. I won’t even attempt to make this a lesson in war history, but I urge you to take an interest. The stories are fascinating, yet bewildering; uplifting, yet horrible. But they will give you a grounding into why the people of France hold all the deceased soldiers in such high regard.
We stopped at the Canadian WW1 Memorial at Vimy for lunch. They have a completely different way to honour their fallen soldiers. They have maintained a battlefield, complete with mine craters, and a set of trenches, so you can get an idea of life under threat of fire. It’s really well done, and the guards are hot on anybody who dares to enter the battlefield or show disrespect to the facilities. The memorial itself is a towering sculpture, built on top of the Vimy Ridge, and has a commanding view of the surrounding rolling plains. Quite beautiful. We continued on to our new home of Amiens, but stopped for a beer or three at a little cafe called Le Canberra in Bullecourt. The streets of the town are often named after Australiana like rue de Melbourne and rue de 11 Novembre. They love everything Australian, and have lots of memorabilia and kitsch on shelves or hanging on walls. It’s very touching.
Dinner was in the hotel tonight. The meal was OK, but they ran out of draught beer after 30 minutes, and then bottled beer shortly after. Organisation: 0/10. More battlefields tomorrow.

Day 8 – The Big Day

The invitation from the Duke of Kent said we had to be seated by 11:30am. Given Fromelles is only a short distance from Lille, it seemed a little odd that the tour group wanted us to depart the hotel at 8:30am. It proved, however, to be a master-stroke.
Fromelles is a tiny farming community, with barely more than a main street. Co-ordinating the arrival and departure of thousands of people must have presented a logistical nightmare, especially with royal visitors, and distinguished dignitaries on the guest list. I hadn’t felt like breakfast, and had remained in my un-air-conditioned room, donning my best suit, clean shirt and tie, already feeling the beads of sweat moistening my forehead. The forecast was for temperatures above 30C, something almost unheard of in the north of France. I packed my daypack with a change of clothes, cameras and other essentials and headed for the bus. It was strange to see half the folks dressed in their finery, while the rest stayed with their normal tour clobber. Those of us with an official invitation, had reserved seating up with the dignitaries.
We arrived shortly after 9:00am, armed with official ticket, passport and other ID, to enable us to get into the secured area. As it turned out, we surprised the organisers, having arrived before they had even set up the barriers. So we waited in the warming sun, in our finery while the security staff threatened us with expulsion if we didn’t have all the right paperwork. Sometime after 10:00am we were allowed to move to the gates and after documentation was verified, we headed to the great stand in the sky. I hope it looked OK on TV. The structure appeared rather flimsy from the inside, going up the stairs, but held together without issue. We were ushered to our section B seats, and asked to sit down. And it got warmer. Around 11:15am, the dignitaries began arriving, but seemingly did not have to sit down, but we stayed put. And it got warmer. By 12:00pm, we had been standing or sitting in the sun for nearly 3 hours, and the melt had started. We were crammed into seats meant for school children, and the finery wasn’t looking so fine any more.
Eventually, the crowd was asked to be seated. Those with parasols were given instruction to fold. And it got warmer. The ceremony began, and I must say, it was the best-produced, and most moving event I have ever attended. It was done for TV, I know, but it was directed perfectly and with the greatest reverence. But it was as hot as an inferno in the sun. There was a bottle of water under every seat, but we still saw several people being attended by the medical support staff, for heat-stroke. The ceremony went on until about 1:45pm, but seemed timeless. Family members recounted tales of the Diggers and the British troops, and there wasn’t a dry eye in the cemetery. I thought the lump in my throat was going to choke me, as the horror of the battle was portrayed. The key speakers were sincere and respectful, and I was almost sad, when it all came to an end. There was a feeling of being amongst family, as both local residents and imported attendees rubbed shoulders, all there for the same purpose: to show our gratitude for the enormous sacrifice made by this gallant generation.
There were a couple of things that might have been done better. For instance, we were never told there was a Visitor’s Register that we could have signed. By the time I found it, there was a queue so long, the bus would have left without me. In the general admission area, there were souvenirs (t-shirts etc) being sold. Nothing in the secure area, though. Those relatives whose soldier had been identified, were allowed to walk through the cemetery, but those of us without, were left to leave with our thoughts alone.
When the buses were eventually allowed to get close to the town again, those of us with no further business there, were taken back to the hotel, where we showered and changed, and prepared for an afternoon in Lille, at leisure. As I towelled dry, I felt the left side of my face, and realised I had been severely burnt after nearly 5 hours in the bleachers. I’ll survive. I grabbed a few fellow coach-mates, and hunted down the Cafe OZ at 33, Place de Bettignies, where we were led astray, willingly, by ex-pat Andrew Becker, brother of an old friend of mine, Peter. We had a very enjoyable afternoon, reminiscing about the day’s events, and solving the problems of the world. The real world returns tomorrow.