World War I Roll of Honour - The Clove Club Hackney Downs School

WAR TIME HOLIDAYS, 1916.
Reprinted from The Review No 89, 1916.
When the holidays draw near thoughts of relaxation and well-earned rest arise, and the usual question
is asked, “What shall I do with myself all the time?” In normal times, when little or no thought was given to
this impending “War of the Nations,” the question could readily be answered; but under the present circumstances
many of us think, or should think, twice before we devote our time to our own ends. However, I with my fellow
Form chum decided that we must not be selfish whilst so many brave fellows are laying down their lives for us
at home, but try and “do our bit” for the Country.
Having made numerous enquiries concerning Harvest work, we finally settled upon a farm near Bury
St.Edmunds, in Suffolk, where extra help was needed during Harvest, and we agreed to do a month’s work.
How we longed for the end of term, and the day when our adventures would commence. The weather being
fine, we decided to cycle to our destination which, by road, was about 80 miles.
The day before our departure was spent in collecting our oldest clothes, and if anyone had peered into
my portmanteau before it was despatched they would have thought that a tramp was having a fresh outfit sent
down to him, but fortunately nobody did see. Having has favourable advice on the subject of day-break, I set
the alarum for 3 o’clock, and retired for the night.
Precisely at 3 o’clock I was awakened, but lo and behold! instead of being light as my advisers had
stated, it was pitch black. Nevertheless, we met at 4 o’clock, and the air bit coldly as we commenced our long
journey, but by the time we had reached Brentwood we were thoroughly aglow and fit for the ride. Chelmsford,
with its large camps, was still hushed and sleeping when we reached it. Taking the northern road, we sped
along at a regular ten miles per hour through the flat country, where the nearly ripe grain waved solemnly in the
gentle breezes that came from the direction in which the sun was just appearing through the grey streaks of
sombre cloud. Braintree and Halstead were passed and, as we approached the quaint old town of Sudbury, the
sun, which had risen rapidly, revealed to us a different view entirely. The landscape, instead of being uninteresting
as it previously was, had changed now into gentle undulations clad with belts of fine timber and stretches of
standing grain. At Sudbury, our thoughts turned naturally to that great painter, Thomas Gainsborough, who has
bestowed so many masterpieces on the world. At 12.15 we rode into Bury, only to find that our stopping-place
was still another four miles further on.
At last two dusty travellers arrived at the end of their journey. It was an ideal Suffolk homestead; there
were the barns, the live-stock, and the old disused water wheel, with the dancing, glistening river running swiftly
by. Our welcome was, indeed, a cordial one, and we settled down very comfortably in our new home.
Sunday broke, and after a most refreshing rest, we enjoyed a hearty breakfast at 9 o’clock. As we
gazed out of the open window, through which the sun’s rays beamed resplendently there cam the sound of the
ever busy multitude of feathered creatures, who were noisily partaking of their morning’s meal in the yard.
Past the window ran the deep river Lark, whose slow and lazy current had allowed beautiful green and bronzed
water-growths to spread their flat leaves upon the surface, while the long, slimy and entwined stems penetrated
into depths mysteriously dark and unknown. Quietly did the Sunday pass without a discordant city cry to distract
one’s thoughts.
On the following day, clothing ourselves as carelessly as possible, and trying to appear as if we had
worn thick boots and ugly straw hats all our livers, we started for the Farm on our bicycles at 5.30 a.m., through
the damp early morning mist. Our first surprise was, indeed, a sudden one, and you can imagine our faces when
we suddenly saw dozens of brown objects scudding before us with their white tipped tails disappearing and
re-appearing along the roadway and through the tall grasses. However, this regular appearance, since it happened
every morning, soon lost its interest, but we were destined to make a closer acquaintance with these agile
quadrupeds in the future.
Punctually at six o’clock we reached the Farm. What a splendid old place! There were the cattle lowing,
the pigs grunting, the birds chirping, making just such a picture as out thoughts has painted so many times
previously. The Farmer who, though naturally taciturn, asked after London, which had, he imagined, “been
badly blown about by the raiders,” and was greatly relieved to hear that all was serene in the Metropolis. He
soon showed us our first job, and how I shall remember it! I can still see that huge field stretching as far