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.

Day 7 – The Battlefields Pt 1

Another early start, and today we really got into the battlefields. We travelled to Messines Ridge Cemetery first, then Hill 60, recently brought to our attention in the movie. The word is that the explosion at Hill 60 was heard in London, more than 200kms away. The crater is overgrown now, but the depression is still visible. Larger than an Olympic-sized swimming pool and 4 times as deep.
We stopped at a museum near Passchendaele for morning tea. The spot is beautiful. The gardens are a popular picnic spot, and the locals fish with long rods in the pond. Next is a visit to Tyne Cot cemetery, the largest cemetery for Commonwealth forces, anywhere in the world. The rows of headstones seem to stretch for ever. The next stop was near Zonnebeke, at the memorial for the Australian 5th Division, which included Uncle Mervyn’s battalion (32nd). Like all the others, it is magnificently presented and maintained. Our historian told us briefly about the “Zonnebeke five” who are buried there, and that our lunch stop at Polygon Wood, nearby, would have a special guest. The story is recounted in full here: http://www.polygonwood.com/Polygon%20Wood%20Zonnebeke%205.htm
We had the privilege of meeting and speaking with Johan, the narrator. He runs the cafe/bar/picnic area and tells a great story. His current project is a memorial to brothers lost in the Great War, which, of course, relates directly to my quest for Mervyn and James. We all donated to the cause.
After lunch, some went into Polygon Wood for a walk. I stayed with another Ross, and had a quiet one as we contemplated.
The last stop for the day was the German Cemetery at Langemark. Although beautifully presented, the headstones are flat on the ground, and the graves contain the remains of more than one soldier....up to twenty in some cases. A central plot holds the remains of more than 25000 men.
We finish the day back in Ypres, and had dinner at one of the many restaurants in the central square. It’s a lovely place.

Day 6 – Ypres (Ieper)

Sincere apologies for the tardy blog posts. The internet connection at the Lille hotel was ineffective. Hopefully, it will be better from now on.
We started this morning early, which was unfortunate, given the lengthy “discussion” from the night before. The pace of the tour is cracking, and today would prove to be a drain on physical resources.
We headed for the town of Ypres (also spelt Ieper, and pronounced Eeper), across the border in Belgium. Ypres is a beautiful, almost medieval town with a population of around 24000. I say almost medieval because during WW1, the 700 year-old town was nearly destroyed by shelling, and most of the buildings now date from the 1920s, as the town was rebuilt. The centrepiece, as in many towns in the region, is the cathedral. Having taken 200 years to build between 1250 and 1450, it was destroyed in a couple of months of WW1, and took many more years of reconstruction post-war. The other major building which suffered colossal damage, is the Cloth Hall, also dating from medieval times. Ypres used to be an important centre of textile production and international trade, and the Cloth Hall was the home to all this activity. Nowadays, the Hall is used as an exhibition centre. While we were there we visited the “In Flanders Fields” exhibition, a WW1 display, which was hugely emotive. If you care to, have a read of the poem by that name. It will send chills down your spine.
The city is encircled by rampart walls, which were built so well, they survived the war. We went on a couple of walks during the day, partly along the top of the wall. There are still old pillboxes dotted along the way. And there are little reminders of the war scattered around the town. A cemetery where 2600 are laid to rest, sits behind the prison, simply because the prison was used as an aid post during the war, and they buried the dead “out the back”. It’s all beautifully kept now, though.
The historians on the tour are constantly relating stories about the various battlefields and individual soldiers, some hilarious, some inspiring, others tragic. The emotions run deep amongst the whole tour. We stayed in Ypres all day, waiting for a performance of the Last Post by the Ypres Fire Brigade at 8:00pm. Apparently, it has been performed every day since the 1920s (apart from WWII interruption). We arrived at Menin Gate, a WW1 memorial, and waited. As the time neared, and I watched the crowd assemble, it occurred to me how much of a circus it had become. I’m sure the Fire Brigade still has the same dedication, but the crowds of sight-seers generally do not. People (with little children and babies in prams) stand in the middle of the road, forcing cars to weave through the throngs. The nearby bar has a Menin Gate Happy Hour to attract customers. People jostle for a vantage point. After watching the debacle for 20 minutes, I left, not wishing to participate in something which seemed to devalue its very purpose. Maybe I over-reacted, maybe I was just tired. We got back to the hotel at 10:00pm (still daylight) after a 16-hour day. I couldn’t sleep.

Day 5 - Moving Day

This morning, after breakfast and check-out, we embussed and headed east of Paris. Large, comfortable bus, but slow going. Paris peak-hour traffic is as bad as anywhere in the world. Roads seemingly designed for medieval traffic cannot accommodate the volume of vehicles today. The cars are not the huge sedans and 4WDs seen on Australian roads. They are mostly smaller compacts, and there are thousands of two-wheel vehicles, scooters and bikes of all descriptions. These dart in between the often stationary larger vehicles, making full use of the entire road space. The odd thing: nobody gets upset. Everybody wants to get where they are going as quickly as possible, but nobody stresses. After an hour or so, we get to the open road and the buildings disappear.
We are now in farming country. Crops of corn and leaf vegetables and grain are many, and then we reach the wine region of Champagne. Fields of grapevines stretch for miles and miles. As we reach the Champagne region, we pull off the highway and stop at the Mercier Vineyard. From the outside the actuality is impossible to imagine. A tour starts with a slow lift ride down through a Disney-like adventure showing the various stages of wine production. The theme continues 26 metres underground with a robot-controlled train ride through part of a maze of some 18kms of hand-hewn caves through the chalk rock. One avenue is over 1km long. The temperature is stable. The more than 200,000 stored bottles are turned by hand daily as part of the fermentation process. The taste is sublime. The effect is almost instant unconsciousness, given the on-going bus-ride.
We travel to Reims and stop for lunch.
In the afternoon, we journey to the first of many WW1 battlefields and memorials, the real reason for this visit to France. Near the town of Peronne and overlooking the Somme River, is a small block of land, set aside for the memorial to the AIF 2nd Division. It appears out of place, nestled between houses in a suburban street, but is obviously revered and respected by the local residents. A short walk away is an area, now wooded, but in 1918 it had been pounded by heavy artillery for 6 ½ hours prior to an assault by 2nd Division troops which was hailed as the start of the end of the Great War. More than 3000 Australians were killed or injured in the short campaign. Just walking on the same earth and listening to the historian recount the details, made my hair stand on end. Today, I experienced some of the grief. No doubt there is more to come.
We arrived at the outskirts of Lille in the late afternoon, and took residence at another Novotel (Lille Ouest). It’s a sprawling complex as opposed to the previous tower in Paris. We dumped the bags and almost the entire complement of my travelling companions descended on the bar to wash away the dust, and discuss the day. The discussion went on for some time.

Day 4 – A passing look at Paris

After an early breakfast this morning, we were herded onto a couple of enormous coaches, and prepared for a “panoramic” look at the sights of Paris. The meaning of this word would become clearer later, and turned out to be the perfect day for me, given the underlying, and most important, purpose of my journey to France.
We made our way over the Seine and headed south-west towards Versailles. There’s no doubting the magnificence and opulence of the palace and its gardens, but even the tour guide complained that the whole thing had become over-commercialised, and “touristy”. The organisation of the troops outside the gates was lamentable and drew “under-the-breath” criticism from many of the individuals standing in line. Comparisons to various hooved and horned animals produced several suppressed snickers from the ranks. Eventually, after splitting the contents of our 4 buses into smaller groups by means barely more organised than by raffle, we were led to the entrance only to be confronted, jostled and bumped by other conga lines, similarly loosely convened and similarly past their allotted entry time. The administrative folks inside were just as ineffective, and also unhappy, but eventually we made our way to the security screener, dispatched our bags etc through the metal detector, and proceeded to chase after our tour guide, who had darted to a position up a flight of stairs, preparing to launch into her first trivia-filled delivery. Despite her best efforts, we were only able to catch every third or fourth word, the rest being drowned out by competing tour group leaders, speaking in different languages, and equally keen to inform their followers. To say it was organised chaos would be too kind. It was a shemozzle, but in reality did not disappoint me. This short day tour of Paris was meant just to give us a taste, an entree, if you like, before the real meat of the tour. It was pointless even taking photos inside the palace, simply because there were 200 heads, and 70 arms with cameras contaminating the view in any direction. I just took in whatever I could see, and resolved to come back again one day.
We were treated to a very nice lunch at a nearby restaurant, Taverne de Maitre Kanter, and whiled away the next hour and a half. Apparently, nobody mentioned our group was from Australia, so the beers ran out in 10 minutes, and they hastily tried to keep up with some jugs of draught called Kanterbrau, which also ran out, and then some dark brown stuff. Points for preparation: NIL. During the tour inside the palace, I had been tapped on the shoulder by a distant cousin, who was on the same tour to Fromelles to commemorate his wife’s soldier relative. I knew he was coming to France, but did not know he was with the same tour company, and even more randomly, that he and his wife would be sequestered into the same little walking group as me. We enjoyed lunch and a natter together.
After lunch, we climbed aboard the coaches again, and headed back to take in some of the other major Paris icons, the Louvre, Notre Dame, Houses of Parliament, Museums, Theatres and many other historic sites. We didn’t stop at all, or even many, of them. For this tour, just having passed by would fit the bill. We arrived back at the hotel at 5:00pm, where the next day’s orders were posted. Early breakfast, check-out and embarkation tomorrow, as we head north towards Lille. But there will still be a few niceties on the way.
Type soon.

Day 3 – Bastille Day

Today did not begin well. I haven’t got the sleeping patterns quite right yet, but was dozing in my hotel room, when at 5:58 a.m. the door burst open and all the lights went on. Imagine my surprise as I blearily stared at the middle-aged gent, who was muttering the room number in French, while staring, aghast at me. Anyway, after a few seconds of shock, he went back to the door, confirmed the number, then left, shutting the door behind him, leaving the lights on, and without so much as a “Comment allez-vous?” or a “Pardonnez moi”. It took twenty minutes for me to get through to Reception, and all I got was a “Pardon, monsieur, it was a mistake.” Sacre bleu!! Froggies. Just as well I had the covers on, or he really would have got a nasty surprise. Mental Note: ALWAYS throw the door safety latch, when in one’s hotel room, and planning not to be surprised by hotel staff blunders.
I rose not long later, still weary, but determined to get onto the right time zone. Did some blog work, but couldn’t see the value in paying €18 per day for the privilege. Decided to check out the free Apple Macs provided on the Ground Floor, and looked for local internet cafes. Not a lot about. Strange how one expects to see the same sights, within reason, on the streets of any city. In my wanderings, I saw only two fast-food outlets, a Subway and a McDonalds. Both were tiny corner shops, not the barns we see at home. Plenty of boulangeries, bistros, bars and cafes, or combinations thereof. Many coiffure shops and patisseries and some other indecipherable ones as well. Anyway, I found one listing near the tower, and decided to wander down. It was cooler this morning, as I made my way to the Fat Tire Bike Company in a small back street, rue de Edgar Faure. I was understandably dubious. I had looked at the map provided, but if you haven’t been here before, you cannot imagine the street structure. There is none. You’ll come to an intersection, with streets north-south and east-west, and it’s like one sector of 90 degrees has been divided down the middle, and a fifth exit goes off to the north-east or south-west. Then throw in a stack of lanes at abstract angles, and you get the idea. It is really easy to get lost.
Anyway, after plenty of time spent re-tracing my own tracks, I found a group of people practising their Segway moves. Those are the two-wheeled motorised bikes you ride standing up. I saw one young lady was the leader and she had on an identifying T-shirt, and she directed me in an American accent, around the corner, where I was welcomed to sit down and use the free wi-fi. There were hundreds of bikes, and lots of American accents, and they could not have been more accommodating. I sat there for a couple of hours while I composed the Day 2 blog, and all I bought was a bottle of water. They wouldn’t take anything else, gave me a free map when I offered to buy one, and invited me back to hang out at any time. These guys have outlets in Berlin and London as well, and give people directions on normal tour options as well as their own, and freely provide lots of local knowledge. There were plenty of visitors over the time, including several Australian folks. They are great, and they certainly kept my blog alive. I think I’m in better shape internet-wise at Lille and Amiens.
While I was there, the skies went grey and the heavens opened. The rain came down vertically. Not good for the Bastille Day festivities, I thought. I came back to my room and from the 25th floor looked out on the storm. The lightning/thunder delay was very short, and I thought at one stage it was going to come through my window. I sat and watched a couple of movies this afternoon, before the first tour get-together at 6:00pm.
It seems that only passengers from coaches 3 & 4 are billeted at this hotel, but it was good to mix and mingle with other people affected by this event. We enjoyed a drink or two, then a simple, but tasty traditional French meal, and then went for a walk at 8:15pm in bright daylight. A group of us went up to the tower, where an expected quarter of a million people or more were gathering to celebrate Bastille Day at the traditional fireworks spectacular. There were many streets blocked off, and more gendarmes, police, security, fire-fighters, ambulance and a number of other agency representatives, with full riot gear, armed to the teeth, and with every utility vehicle in the combined forces, lining the blocked streets. With an early start to the official tour on Thursday, I and many others decided not to wait until 11:00pm for the fireworks. They had to be left that late because it doesn’t get dark until then. As it turns out, my room faced exactly the opposite direction, but I got a reasonable idea of the proceedings just by watching the reflection in a couple of mirror-type buildings close by. A fireworks show is a fireworks show is a fireworks show. Enough said. The real interest was in how the public roll up and park illegally, 2, 3 and 4 deep, almost blocking the road arteries altogether, and this under the noses of the aforementioned security personnel.
Tomorrow, we will start our tour with a local look at Paris and its attractions. Am looking forward to reporting on that.
Bye for now.

Day 2 - The Longest Night and Strangest Day

Day 2 – The Longest Night and Strangest Day
Part 2
I found my allotted coach on the EuroStar train, boarded and went to my seat. I had been unable to book a particular seat, having had one allocated automatically. I sat in seat 51, and looked sideways. You guessed it, no windows either side. Don’t ever let me book you a seat online. I’m jinxed.
But things turned around after that. After we got underway, I lurched my way from coach #2 to coach #6 to buy some refreshments. I watched the scenery whiz by at 160kmh, as I sipped a vin rouge for medicinal purposes. The lurching got worse on the way back to my seat, but I sipped another. Conversations started, and I discovered a mother and daughter from Perth were also making their way to a hotel not far from the Eiffel Tower. We agreed to share a cab, which proved to be one of the cleverest things I ever did. Having arrived at Gare du Nord, we all fronted the chaotic taxi ranks. Utter bedlam!! So many horns: so few brain cells. But we lucked out. Our driver was very accommodating, and spoke enough English to pass on some valuable snippets of advice. His dulcet tones somehow distracted us from the traffic nightmare. What is it with other countries, and their driving habits? My jocks were starting to show the wear already, after the non-stop journey.....they didn’t need this extra strain. Anyway, we made it in three pieces, the ladies went their way, and I arrived at the Novotel Paris Tour Eiffel. That is also a slight misnomer, since the object itself is some 2kms down the road. But, what the hey?
Having checked in, I decided to use my second wind to explore. It was very warm, and humid. I’m sure my general body condition was becoming more and more unpleasant to others. I wandered the streets, and eventually found myself dwarfed by the tower. So many souvenir vendors: not enough superlatives. I wasn’t able to climb it today, the lifts being stopped for the day. I strolled again, and found a little bar. I quenched my thirst with a handful of Carlsbergs, and threw a few bits of Francais into the requests for refill. On the way back to the hotel, I found a little restaurant, Turkish, I think....middle-eastern, anyway, and supped on spicy sausage and pommes frittes. In my state of tiredness, it was nothing short of superb. And then, in the darkness again, I headed for the hotel, but the Carlsbergs must have affected the inner compass and I got lost and ended up back at the tower. That couple of kilometres to get back to the hotel late at night were torturous. I peeled my stale clobber off, showered and hit the sack for the first time in 48 hours. Lights out!!

Day 2 - The Longest Night and Strangest Day

Day 2 – The Longest Night and Strangest Day
Part 1
During the flight to Singapore yesterday, I was able to track the onset of darkness, as I followed the flight path on the plane’s entertainment system. For all intents and purposes, we experienced sunset around 6:00pm somewhere over the Indian Ocean. Having taken off on the second leg from Singapore to London at 11:59pm Singapore (and Perth) time, we then careered headlong into the blackness, for another 12 hours, making it an 18-hour night. We came in to land at Heathrow at around 6:35 am and I thought I’d be relieved to see daylight again, but having descended through the cloud, one could have been forgiven for thinking we had flown in a huge circle, and landed back in Perth, just as it was on Monday afternoon, when I left, grey and rainy.
The flight itself was pretty easy, despite my misgivings. I had chosen an aisle seat for this leg and as I took my seat I noted that where my feet were meant to go under the seat in front, there was some metal enclosure attached to the seat’s left leg, which left me a gap of 30cms or less. Not a comforting thought, when you think you are going to be trapped in that position for the next 13 hours. There was a young gent seated in the window seat, and, can you guess? Yes, another misnomer. Seats 41 A, B and C on a Boeing 747-400 do not have a window. Not that it really mattered, because the whole flight was in the dark, anyway. The flight was not full, and the captain had barely turned off the seat-belt sign, when the young gent was up and off to find something with a bit more legroom. That left me with three seats to myself, and things were looking up. There was a similar situation in the row in front....one guy in the window seat (not a misnomer, in this case), and another in the aisle seat, with a vacancy between. But these guys had plenty of legroom, and weren’t going anywhere. Anticipating correctly, I quickly heaved myself into the middle seat of my row, just as the two lads in front set their seats backs to the recline position. One for the good guys, I mused. Now I won’t tell you the flight was comfortable, but I did have room to move.....and three pillows to myself. So I spent part of the time lying down across all three seats, and part of it sitting up with pillows to support my still sore back. There was no sleep, but I dozed, I’m sure. The lights, as you would expect, were off for most of the journey.
The Heathrow experience was not bad, at all, despite major renovations going on. A few questions from Customs, a few minutes wait for the baggage to appear, and I was heading for the London streets. As I followed the signs pointing to the trains, I ran smack, bang into the mobile ticket-sellers. A quick swipe of the credit card, and I received my discounted return ticket for the Heathrow Express. A 15 minute ride on it takes you to London Paddington station on the Underground. And here’s where things got a bit messy. I believe all the escalators in London Underground stations have been removed, although I am unable to fathom why. You see, from London Paddington station I had to change lines so I could take a Circle Line train to King’s Cross – St. Pancras International station to get on the EuroStar train that goes under the English Channel to Paris. Changing lines, however, often means changing levels in a station. And, of course, this meant I had to purchase another train ticket. The time was around 0745 when I alighted from the comfortable Heathrow Express, and launched into the morning peak-hour rush at London Paddington station. I followed the signs pointing the way upwards to the Circle Line, but ....no escalators....just dozens of stairs.....and me toting a duffel and a backpack, both fully laden. First task: buy ticket. Presented at the one and only ticket machine on the pathway, and joined the queue. A well-meaning, but geriatric attendant frowned when I pulled out the £20 note. “There’s not much change in the machine. Use your credit card.” I duly supplied the card and the attendant punched all the buttons, but the machine obstinately refused it. “Try it again”, suggested the attendant. “No way”, said the machine. Meanwhile the rush-hour queue has grown behind me. A slightly frazzled, but polite businessman tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Excuse me. I have a train to catch.” I pulled away from the queue to ponder my options. As I looked around, I noted there were no stalls or machines to get notes changed, and no other ticket machines. While I am puzzling, another tourist, who turned out to be from Melbourne, was trying to buy tickets for his young family. He suffered the same fate, and as he turned around, I commiserated with him. The pair of us had to walk downstairs and across miles of the station to find the main ticket counter, where I purchased a £4 ticket to go the five stops to KC – SPI. Back down the stairs again, with bags, and waited for the underground train. I tried to press myself into the smallest possible footprint against a glass panel near one of the doors, but I couldn’t hide. It seemed that the sheer mass of myself and the baggage was enough to cause every clown on the underground system to gravitate towards me. I can’t possibly squeeze in any smaller, but still there were people looking at me to get out of the way, while other passengers, with no annoying accoutrements, would just stand there and complete the blockage. I made it eventually.
Arrived at KC – SPI, and trudged downstairs, only to go back upstairs, still with the bags, which by now, has increased in weight by a factor of several tons. By now the sweat is pouring off me, and I present myself at the EuroStar access point with the ticket I pre-printed at home. I placed the barcode print on the reader, expectantly. Bong-bong. Reject!! As I cried, a bemused official came to my rescue, and pointed out that the check-in for my train at 11:01am had not yet opened. It was only 8:30am. That’s local time, of course, but for me it was 3:30pm, and the mind and body were starting to fail, after 33 hours on the go. But press on, I must.
I waited the required time (30 minutes), recovered my breath, and my composure, went through the meat-grinder that is the EuroStar “enregistrement” process, and flopped at a small cafe, in the waiting hall. After a bacon baguette and a coffee, the soul was restored, and I was ready for more shenanigans. Bring ‘em on.
Continued in Part 2.

Day 1 - Ready, Set, Go

Woke early today (5:48am)....too early, really, considering the amount of sleep I probably won't get in the next couple of days. Will have to hope the long haul flight to London overnight, will zonk me out. No coffee till Heathrow!

Had a quiet morning, finishing the packing, and doing my best to leave the house in order. But there's always that nagging feeling as you pull the door shut and head off to the airport. Haven't had any "Oh, no!" moments so far, fingers crossed.

Sat at Perth airport, having a beer with my personal driver.......great service.....even agreed to take this snap of me to prove I was leaving the country. Thank you, Little One, I owe you for that. Had an uneventful flight to Singers, except for a couple of unsettled young'uns. Booked a window seat for this leg, because it was relatively short and during the day. Mattered litte, two minutes into the flight, the plane was engulfed in impenetrable cloud, and it seems, a window seat in row 28 on an Airbus A300 is something of a misnomer....row 28 has no windows....:^)

So far, the number of landings equals the number of take-offs.....which is just the way we like it.

The internet may be free here at Changi, but I point-blank refuse to pay $20 for a beer at Harry's Bar. Might have a quiet red on the Jumbo, courtesy of Mr & Mrs Qantas.

Will call it quits for now. Will take another stroll around the terminal to get the circulation working. Then, it's onwards to The Old Dart. Talk to you from there. Take care all.

Just over a week to go, and the brain is in heavy duty organisation mode. So many things to arrange and remember. Have given plenty of thought about what to pack, and I hope it will fit the requirements for the coach tour.
Got my official Royal Invitation from the Duke of Kent yesterday, requesting the pleasure of my company at the Fromelles ceremony. On the back of the invitation, I am advised that dress requirements apply......lounge suit or blazer, if you please. Hadn't planned on that. Need to somehow include some semi-formal stuff in the wardrobe.
The tour company tells me that I should be dressed for muddy treks through various battle sites. There's no changeroom on the coach, so it might be a case of striptease in front of the rest of the passengers and crew. Oh, dear.

The Prelude

This is a quest for discovery, understanding and closure. A mere 12 months ago, the names of Mervyn and James Robert Ross, were nothing more to us than engravings on a marble wall, distant relatives whose lives were lost in a conflict before our time, and beyond our cognisance. Their names were never mentioned, even by siblings.....their history never passed down the generations.

In 2009, some of the cloud surrounding these boys was lifted. A wartime diary written by James surfaced, and a photograph of Mervyn was passed to the family, items that created a contemporary and more personal aspect to these gallant boys.

However, it was not until the family was contacted by the Australian Army, that we really started to delve into the records, to garner any available, personal details to enable us to "know" these boys better, and to understand what transpired almost 100 years ago.

Mervyn, the second eldest of six, was the first to enlist in the AIF in July 1915, eager, no doubt, to join the fray "over there". James, the eldest, enlisted a few months later, probably not to be outdone by little brother, or possibly because the promise of adventure was too much to resist. We'll never know the truth of it, just as they probably never knew the hell they were heading for.

With the knowledge now of how and when they met their fate, it is opportune to follow their footsteps to northern France, to the one-time Western Front, where so many lives were cruelly and needlessly ended, and yet from that sacrifice, we live the free life we do today.

Amongst other stops, this journey will take us to Fromelles, where Private Mervyn Ross 1040 will be commemorated at a new cemetery at Pheasant Wood, on 19 July 2010, the 94th anniversary of the battle that claimed his life. And a few days later, we will visit Mouquet Farm, the likely site of the battle that killed James Robert Ross 4693 on 31 August 1916, just six weeks after Mervyn.

I ask that you join me on this quest, share the emotion with me, elation and despair. Have a thought for the boys' parents, James Waddle and Mary Ann, and the heartbreak they must have felt, on receiving those dreaded telegrams on the other side of the world, probably within days of each other.

I hope that through my eyes (camera lens), and words (this blog), you will enjoy the experience as much as me.