From Enlistment to South Africa: One Soldier's Journey in the Great War

Some of the most revealing accounts of the First World War are not found in official military histories or descriptions of great battles. They are found in the recollections of ordinary men who left their homes, put on a uniform and discovered that their lives were about to change in ways they could scarcely have imagined.

One such account survives in the memoir that we talk about below, written by a soldier who joined the Royal Artillery in March 1917. It describes his early experiences of army life, his departure from England and his voyage to South Africa aboard the S.S. Omrah.

It is a fascinating record of a soldier's first months in uniform. Rather than concentrating on battles and the horrors of the front, the writer remembers the everyday details of his journey: the freezing barracks, the excitement of receiving his uniform, the happiness of returning home on leave, the farewell from the streets of England and the extraordinary kindness he encountered thousands of miles away.

Reading it today, we are offered a glimpse of the First World War from a very human perspective. We follow a man as he leaves one life behind and begins another, surrounded by strangers, bound by military orders and travelling towards an uncertain future.

Rejected for Service, Then Passed Fit for the Army

The memoir begins with an unexpected obstacle. Under the Lord Derby recruiting scheme, the writer had been examined by three military doctors and two civilian doctors, all of whom considered him unfit for service. Yet a second medical board reached a different decision. This time, he was passed fit for active service.

In March 1917, he became a soldier.

His journey took him by train to Preston, where he enjoyed a hearty civilian breakfast before making his way to Fulwood Barracks. It is a small detail, but one that seems to mark the boundary between his old life and the new. He could still enjoy the familiar comforts of civilian life, but he was about to discover how quickly those comforts could disappear.

At the barracks, the welcome was hardly reassuring. He remembered being told:

"Now you fellows, keep away from the door and get outside until we are ready for you."

Imagine the scene. A group of men has answered the call to serve, leaving behind their homes, families and familiar routines. They arrive at the barracks expecting to begin their military lives, only to find themselves being ordered about before they have even properly settled in.

Perhaps some had imagined that becoming a soldier would bring a sense of pride and belonging. Instead, there was waiting, uncertainty and the immediate realisation that they were now expected to obey without question.

The writer later recalled walking through the streets and seeing soldiers who were already smartly dressed. Looking at them, he wondered what would become of him.

That simple observation brings us close to the uncertainty of those first days. He was now part of the army, but he had not yet become accustomed to its ways. The smartly dressed soldiers he saw represented a version of military life that still seemed distant from his own experience.

He was also told that he must be back and in bed before the bugle sounded for lights out at nine o'clock. Civilian freedom had given way to a routine controlled by orders, bells and the expectations of others.

Four Blankets Between Six Men

The first night at the barracks provided a particularly miserable introduction to army life.

When the men returned just before 9, they found around fifty soldiers competing for blankets. His group managed to secure four between six men.

They had to make do with two blankets beneath them and two over them, lying on a freezing floor while the wind howled outside. Broken windows offered little protection against the cold.

It is difficult to imagine a more uncomfortable beginning. These men had volunteered or been called into service during a national emergency, yet their immediate concern was simply how to get through the night.

What might have been going through the writer's mind as he tried to sleep? Perhaps he wondered whether conditions would improve, whether he would ever grow accustomed to this new existence, or how long it would be before he could return home.

The following day brought basic training. The recruits learned how to stand to attention and at ease, and were warned not to put their hands in their pockets. Meals were another challenge: the writer recalled holding greasy meat in one hand while scooping up potatoes and vegetables with the other. Comforts such as knifes and forks were not afforded.

These are not the details that usually dominate accounts of the Great War, but they reveal the everyday process of becoming a soldier. Before a man could be sent overseas, he had to learn the rules, routines and habits of military life.

The Excitement of a New Uniform

The next day brought something to lift the men's spirits. They received their uniforms.

The writer remembered giving the tailor a shilling and receiving a tunic, trousers and a new overcoat that fitted him well. Others were less fortunate, ending up with ill-fitting uniforms and old coats.

A uniform was more than a change of clothing. It was a visible sign that civilian life was being left behind. The men were beginning to look like the soldiers they had seen in the streets, even if they were still learning what being a soldier actually meant.

Yet the writer's reflections also reveal how quickly the mood among the recruits could change. After only a few days, he felt that army life had made them desperate men, writing that "nothing but the blood of the Hun will satisfy their craving".

It is a striking expression of anger and determination. He also expected the war to be over soon, a hope that would have been shared by many men who could not know how much fighting still lay ahead.

The Third Battle of Ypres, better known as Passchendaele, had yet to begin. From July to November 1917, the campaign would bring immense suffering and casualties on a terrible scale.

The contrast between the soldier's optimism and what was to come reminds us how little any individual could know about the future. He was preparing for war, but the course of that war remained beyond his control.

Blackpool and Six Wonderful Days at Home

The memoir next takes us to Blackpool, where the writer was billeted in private accommodation. During the war, Blackpool and other British towns were used to accommodate and train military personnel, although the arrangements varied between units and periods.

Here, he received vaccinations or inoculations. British servicemen were protected against diseases including smallpox and enteric fever, particularly typhoid and paratyphoid, but the memoir does not identify which treatments he personally received.

Then came six days' leave at home.

He says little about what he did during those days, but his judgement of them is unmistakable. It was a wonderful period, and the memory stayed with him for months afterwards.

There is something particularly poignant about this brief passage. After the cold, the discipline and the discomfort of the barracks, he was able to return for a short time to the life he had known before enlistment.

We do not know who he spent those days with or what they talked about. Perhaps there were family meals, familiar walks or conversations about the future. Perhaps those closest to him tried to make the most of the time without dwelling on the possibility that he might soon be far away.

Those are possibilities rather than recorded facts. What the memoir does tell us is that the time at home meant a great deal to him.

When he returned to the army, the routine resumed. He recalled being put through "physical jerks", while the staff sergeant remarked on "what a scruffy lot" the men were.

Their training continued, and their departure from England was drawing closer.

A Last March Through the Streets of England

On 27 April 1917, the men were told to have their kits ready and be on parade at nine o'clock that evening. Before leaving, they were served what the writer remembered as the best meal the army had given them.

Then came one of the most moving scenes in the memoir.

After midnight, the soldiers marched through the streets of England for the last time before their departure overseas. People appeared at their doors and windows, clapping and calling out their good wishes as the men passed.

Try to picture the scene. It was late, the streets were dark, and the ordinary business of the day had long since ended. Yet families had come to their windows and doorways to watch the column pass. The sound of marching boots filled the streets, while voices called out encouragement and farewell.

For the soldiers, there must have been a mixture of pride, excitement and anxiety. They were marching together as part of a military unit, but each man had his own life waiting somewhere behind him: parents, a wife, children, friends or a sweetheart.

Some may have felt confident that they would return. Others may have wondered what awaited them, or whether the people watching would ever see them again.

The writer remembered the crowd's final words as an expression of appreciation and sympathy for the Lancashire lads, who were making a great sacrifice.

It is a powerful recollection because it captures both sides of the farewell. The people at the roadside were showing their support, but they were also witnessing the departure of men whose futures had become uncertain. Not all soldiers who left for war would return and many that did return would be scared physically and mentally forever, every farewell carried that possibility, whether spoken aloud or not.

What might have been different had those young men never answered their countries call? How many families, friendships and future generations were shaped by the losses of the Great War? Such questions cannot be answered for each individual, but they remind us that the consequences of war extend far beyond the battlefield.

The soldiers boarded a train for Devonport. On the way, the mayor and mayoress at Exeter provided tea, cake and a packet of biscuits. Another small act of kindness accompanied them on their journey away from home.

Across the Sea on the S.S. Omrah

At nine o'clock the following morning, the men boarded the S.S. Omrah, an ocean liner being used for wartime transport. The ship moved into Plymouth Harbour, where it remained for seven days.

The writer believed that the delay was intended to prevent the soldiers from going ashore again. Whatever the precise reason, the men had to wait, knowing that the sea beyond the harbour brought its own dangers.

German U-boats posed a serious threat to Allied shipping during the First World War. Merchant vessels and troopships could be attacked by submarines, while mines added further danger to maritime routes. Travelling in convoy, with naval escorts, offered protection by bringing ships together and making it harder for submarines to attack individual vessels unnoticed.

On 4 May 1917, according to the memoir, the Omrah finally sailed with nine other liners and two armed cruisers.

The writer recalled the men asking whether they were in danger from U-boats and whether a submarine could evade the escort. It is easy to understand why such questions occupied their minds. They were far from home, on a ship whose course they could not control, travelling through waters where other ships had been lost.

The Omrah was later sunk by a German submarine in May 1918, a year after this voyage. That later fate gives the ship's name an added poignancy.

Hammocks, Life Jackets and a Ban on Smoking

Life aboard the ship was far from comfortable. The men slept in hammocks and kept their life jackets close at hand, using them as pillows so that the equipment would remain within reach.

There were rules to follow at sea just as there had been in the barracks. The writer remembered one restriction in particular: after half past four in the afternoon, smoking on deck was forbidden. Men who disobeyed could face court martial, and he recalled that for a number, this was exactly what happened, many being found disobeying the ban by smoking in the toilets - he says that punishments were severe although he doesn't go into details.

For the ordinary soldier, it must have seemed another frustrating restriction. Even the small pleasures that helped pass the time were subject to military orders.

The men played chess and draughts, and reading provided another pastime. But the memoir also describes the problems caused by gambling. A man could lose everything he possessed, and desperation could lead to theft from another soldier during the night.

As the voyage continued, the heat became increasingly oppressive. After about a fortnight, the men were competing for every available inch of space on deck. Those who lost their place had to go below, where the writer described the conditions as being like a baker's oven.

These recollections remind us that a troopship was not simply a means of transport. It was a crowded, uncomfortable and tightly controlled environment in which men had to find ways to live together, occupy their time and cope with the uncertainty of the journey.

Sierra Leone: A Stop Along the Way

On 18 May, the convoy reached Sierra Leone. Local traders came alongside offering fruit, biscuits, tobacco and cigarettes. The writer recalled that some soldiers bought generously, promising to pay on the return journey.

He also described men throwing copper coins into the water and watching local people scramble to retrieve them. It is an uncomfortable detail, and one worth retaining rather than glossing over. A personal memoir can reveal kindness and generosity, but it can also preserve behaviour that reflects the inequalities and attitudes of its time.

The ships remained for three days. The writer also remembered a Sunday service held at nine o'clock in the officers' saloon each week. The captain allowed the men an additional hour each week for Bible study in the officers saloon.

For the soldiers, these moments offered a familiar routine in an unfamiliar setting. Away from home and surrounded by the machinery of war, they could still find time for faith, reading and companionship.

Cape Town and the Rough Seas

On 4 June, the convoy arrived at Cape Town. The voyage continued, and the writer described the sea growing rough, with waves rising like mountains in front of the ship.

Four days later, on 8 June, they arrived at Durban.

He greeted the place with the affectionate words, "Good old Durban". His explanation for that warmth is one of the most memorable parts of the account.

Good Old Durban: The Kindness of Strangers

The soldiers arrived during a storm, their clothes soaked through. When they reached camp, they found themselves facing the task of making the best of wet conditions and crowded accommodation.

But the people of Durban came to their aid. The writer remembered women lighting fires, providing sandwiches and even taking soldiers into their homes. The following morning, the men returned to camp to repair their tents. He described fourteen men being crowded into a tent where three would ordinarily have been uncomfortable. He explains that the men were not treated as soldiers but rather as gentlemen and he describes that he feels every soldier also behaved as one.

After lunch, they were allowed to visit the public baths. Yet it was the generosity of the local people that remained most firmly in his memory. Lunches, teas, concerts and fruit were provided for the soldiers, often without charge.

His words convey a genuine sense of gratitude. He reflected that no mother working for her son, or wife for her husband, could have done more for the soldiers than the women of Durban did for them.

It is a remarkable tribute. These were men far from their families, living through a war they had not chosen the course of, yet people in a distant city made efforts to offer them comfort and welcome.

Such kindness did not remove the dangers of military service, but it gave the men something valuable: the feeling that strangers cared what happened to them.

The March to Pinetown and a Lucky Bean

About a fortnight later, the writer was selected as one of around 120 soldiers to visit Pinetown, a march of approximately sixteen miles.

The journey was long and tiring. As the men walked, they squeezed the last drops from their water bottles. Eventually, they came to a large house where the occupants had prepared oranges and bananas for them.

The servants had been instructed to give the soldiers as many as they could hold, and the lady of the house presented each man with a lucky bean. She wished that every one of them would be spared and return home safely.

The officers had stopped the march to allow this welcome to take place. The soldiers responded with three hearty cheers for the strangers who had treated them with "such Christian kindness".

There is something particularly touching about this moment. The lucky bean was a small object, but it carried a heartfelt wish: that the man who received it would survive the war and make his way home.

We do not know whether the writer kept his bean, or what became of it. But he remembered the gesture well enough to record it. The memory of that kindness travelled home with him in the pages of his memoir.

After lunch, and with a local man preparing a large vessel of water for tea, the soldiers continued to Pinetown.

They found the town hall decorated for their reception, with tables arranged for eating and arrangements made there for sleeping. Cycles and horses were provided, along with opportunities to play football and cricket.

After the cold of the barracks, the heat of the troopship and the long march, the welcome must have been a relief. The men had travelled thousands of miles from England, yet here they were being received with generosity by people who had no personal obligation to them.

Where the Memoir Ends

The surviving section of the memoir ends shortly after the writer's arrival in Pinetown. He describes the arrangements made for the soldiers, but then the account stops abruptly.

At the front of the manuscript is a dedication to his daughter. He explains that he is writing about the period between his enlistment and discharge during the Great European War of 1914-1919, helping her understand what happened before the event that caused them to part, we have no understanding of what this unfortunate event is that he refers to.

The dedication indicates that he survived the war, but it does not tell us exactly what happened during the rest of his service. Nor can we know why this particular section ends where it does.

It is tempting to wonder whether the writer chose to stop because the later experiences of war were too painful to revisit. The memoir is nostalgic in tone, concentrating on the early stages of military life and the kindnesses encountered along the way, rather than describing combat or its horrors.

But we must be careful. The surviving account may simply be incomplete, or the writer may have intended to continue it later. We cannot know whether he deliberately avoided particular memories, or whether the ending reflects circumstances unrelated to the emotional weight of his experiences.

What we can say is that the memoir offers a valuable record of the transition from civilian life to military service. It preserves the ordinary details of a soldier's experience: the blankets, the meals, the uniform, the farewell, the ship and the kindness of strangers. Many World War One diaries tell us of the awful realities of war in the trenches and on the Western Front but what I like about this one is the incredible insight it gives us into the first few days and weeks of that transition from normal civilian life, enlistment and becoming a soldier.

A Soldier's Silence, and a Grandfather's Words

This memoir has also brought to mind something my own grandfather once said to me when I was a child.

Born in 1927, he later completed his National Service in Egypt, in the years following the Second World War. When he spoke about soldiers and their experiences, he made a remark that I did not fully understand at the time:

"You don't ever ask an old soldier if they have killed."

As a child, I heard the words without really appreciating their significance. Looking back now, and particularly after reading this memoir, I find myself thinking about them more and more.

My grandfather grew up among men who had lived through the First World War. His own father and uncles, perhaps teachers, neighbours and the fathers of his friends, belonged to a generation that had experienced a conflict on a scale that is difficult to comprehend today.

Many soldiers returned from war carrying memories of experiences they found almost impossible to put into words. For some, the horrors they had witnessed were things they did not want to revisit, even with those closest to them. Others may have felt that people who had never experienced war could never truly understand. For many, their silence was because the memories were too painful to talk about. We cannot know whether this was true of the soldier who wrote this memoir, but his account reminds us that behind every written record were experiences that may never have been shared.

My grandfather also served in Egypt during a period of continuing unrest after the Second World War. His own military experience may have given his words a personal meaning, although I cannot know exactly what he had in mind when he said them.

Looking back, perhaps he understood that asking an old soldier whether he had killed was not simply asking a question about the past, but potentially bringing back memories that the man had spent a lifetime trying to keep to himself.

I have sometimes wondered, too, whether my grandfather had his own experiences he preferred not to discuss after his National Service in Egypt. I will never know for certain what lay behind his remark, but I have come to see it as more than advice to a young boy. Perhaps he was also trying to protect the men he had known, sparing them questions that might reopen painful memories, and reminding me that some things should not be asked lightly.

The modern understanding of trauma has developed considerably since the First World War, when the condition then known as shell shock was poorly understood and often misunderstood. Many veterans returned to civilian life carrying experiences that they were not able to talk about, many people born in those interwar years will may not have experienced World War 1 but they will have experienced the effects on the men that came home.

This of course does not conclude that his account stops because he was unable to face or wanted to protect the reader from what came later. But my grandfather's words remind me that the stories we preserve are only part of the experience. Behind every written recollection may be things that were never recorded, never discussed or never fully understood by the people closest to the writer.

Why These Ordinary Objects Matter

A first hand memoir is a remarkable object. It allows us to hear the voice of someone who lived through events that would otherwise reach us only through official records, statistics and the accounts of other people.

This soldier's writing does not tell us everything about his life, and it leaves important questions unanswered. We do not know his name from the surviving details alone, what happened during the remainder of his service, or why his account ends in Pinetown.

Yet what he did record is enough to bring us close to his experience. We can picture the freezing barracks, the excitement of the uniform, the streets filled with people saying goodbye, the cramped ship and the woman handing out lucky beans to men she hoped would return safely.

These are not grand historical events in themselves. They are small moments, preserved because someone thought they were worth remembering.

That is why everyday objects matter to history. A diary does not have to describe a famous battle to be valuable. A letter does not have to be written by a famous person to deserve preservation. A simple object can connect us to an individual life and reveal something about the world in which that life unfolded.

The soldier wrote his memoir for his daughter, so that she might understand something of what had happened before their separation. In doing so, he left a record that can speak to readers far beyond his own family.

And perhaps that is the most important lesson of all. When we preserve a diary, a photograph, a letter or an object from the past, we preserve more than a date or a name. We preserve a fragment of someone's experience: a small piece of a life that would otherwise be lost.

Through the objects of history, the past is no longer quite so distant. It becomes personal, imperfect and human-and, for a moment, we can travel back and see the world through someone else's eyes.