Last updated on November 13th, 2024 at 10:07 am
In 1918, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the guns on the Western Front fell silent. Just imagine. For the first time in more than four years, in this part of Europe, men stopped killing one another. Fighting had officially continued throughout that morning, however. Some, like American General Pershing, had been keen to carry on with the war. East of Verdun, artilleryman and future President Harry Truman fired his last shell at 1045 hours. Canadian Private George Price was waiting the end of war with his pals in the Belgian village of Ville-sur-Haine. At 1058, a shot rang out from the German line; Price was killed instantly, one of the last to die in action on the Western Front. Australian, South African and British troops all tell of a German machine-gun firing off a belt of a thousand rounds in an almost ceaseless burst just before the armistice; then, at precisely 1100 hours, the machine-gunner stood up, faced his former enemies, removed his helmet, bowed and walked away.
News of the armistice precipitated an eruption of emotion and visible elation in Allied towns and cities. There was grief too, of course. As the bells rang out in the English town of Shrewsbury, the parents of poet Wilfred Owen received the telegram informing them of their son’s death in action on 4th November. At their stations in the line, on the high seas, at aerodromes, or in barracks, many servicemen joyously celebrated the end of fighting with whatever means at their disposal. Equally, many were dazed; grateful to have survived, yet guilty that they had; profoundly happy at the end of the slaughter; profoundly sad at the waste and friends lost. In places, there was just silence: some wondered what on earth they would do next; for so long, they had only known war.
There’s a nine foot five inch welded metal statue on Terrace Green in the small seaside town of Seaham, County Durham. It depicts a soldier of the First World War sitting on an ammunition box, rifle in hand, head bowed. Named ‘Eleven O One’ by its inspired creator, artist Ray Lonsdale, the locals know it, simply, as ‘Tommy’, the universal nickname for a British soldier – particularly of the First World War. He was placed on temporary display in Seaham in the summer of 2014, but Tommy attracted so much affection that a campaign was launched to buy him and keep him in the town. The necessary £85,000 was raised surprisingly quickly and Tommy will remain in Seaham permanently. Practically speaking, it has been estimated that he won’t need to be moved for repair for at least 200 years; a time capsule has been buried beneath him. Seaham, an attractive place but with too many boarded-up windows, does not strike you as a town with cash to spare; paying for this remarkable sculpture is a powerful achievement.
So – Eleven O One represents a soldier in the first moments of peace after the armistice. The artist took a chance – no one commissioned the work; he was moved by the story of a local man, and by what he had heard of shell-shock – the severe mental condition that many soldiers suffered from, and from which many never recovered, that we would recognise today as post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD.
The detail in Eleven O One is amazing. All the soldier’s equipment is there – his puttees, belt, pouches and Lee Enfield rifle. There is a curiously appealing quality to the texture of the metal that makes you want to touch it, just to be sure it isn’t real. ‘Tommy’ gives the impression he could could very easily come to life. His face is so familiar, like a thousand photographs you have seen. Though full of sorrow and etched with weariness, it is also a proud, dependable, trustworthy, face. Tommy – Eleven O One – is a reminder from the past of man’s potential for foolishness and contempt for sweet life.
As I gazed up at him, a family approached. Dad stood his two children in front of Eleven O One to take their picture. They were dwarfed – course. But then it hit me: of course, the children were what Tommy, and millions like him, went through it all for.
Ray Lonsdale’s a very talented man. He’s written a poem to go with his statue, which is etched onto a plate at the back:
“Now in the wake of this glorious slaughter,
He’d seen many a soul cleansed in filthy water,
Seen godless men reach out for the Bible,
As lead tore the flesh from both friend and rival,
Soon home to the joy and celebration of kin,
Drunken slaps on the back at a favourite inn,
But heavy in his pocket lies a small piece of card,
And the note written on it will break a mother’s heart”.
I was working in Newcastle with Davey Taylor, who mentioned that I should take a look at Tommy. Thanks, Davey – I hope you’ve visited him yourself by now.
The origin of ‘Tommy’ as a nickname for an ordinary British soldier is uncertain. Allegedly, in 1815, the War Office (now the Ministry of Defence) produced a soldiers’ pocket book that every man had to carry and ‘Thomas Atkins’ was the name used as a specimen example showing how the details needed to be completed. A further part of the popular story is that the Duke of Wellington was asked for a name which, in his view, summed up the characteristics of a British soldier. The Iron Duke recalled the Battle of Boxtel in 1794, when he came across one his most reliable men, Private Thomas Atkins, a huge man, lying mortally wounded. Atkins looked up from the mud and said, “It’s alright sir; all in a day’s work”. The Imperial War Museum says that ‘Tommy Atkins’ was a term in use as early as 1743, however, and that British soldiers were also known as ‘Thomas Lobsters’, because of their red coats. In any event, ‘Tommy’ was in widespread use by the mid-19th century and further popularised by Rudyard Kipling.
Brilliant post Mike, you did him proud.
I’m currently reading “Le Feu”, where Henri Barbusse writes about his experience of the first World War, it’s poignant and your post arrived in my inbox just at the right time ti remind me that the war did stop at some point!
That is one moving statue, thank you for visiting it. 🙂
Thank you for this beautiful tribute Mike.
That sculpture is very moving as well.
This is why I love art so much!
Thank You also for the origin of the nickname Tommy.
I had to look it up last week after listening to a programme on BBC4.
I enjoyed reading your poignant story of the ceasefire and Shrewsbury’s Tommy. The statue is evidence that from deeply felt passions come enduring art.
I visited Gallipoli a few years ago and was so touched by the setting of that WWI campaign. Even from this great distance in time, those hillsides of gravestones and stories of what the soldiers endured should have been sufficient to end all wars. It obviously hasn’t, but you’re right. We recognize the futility of fighting each other, we just haven’t found a way to take the next step and stop doing that.
Thank you for visiting The Write Game. I hope you’ll stop in again.
A beautiful poignant post.
A truly remarkable sculpture!
Another very moving post Mike. Thank-you. I love ‘Tommy’ – wonderful sculpture!
That sculpture looks amazing, I’m so glad they managed to keep it. It was so interesting reading about the event before, and after the moment when the guns stopped and also why the soldiers were nicknamed Tommy. Sarah x
A brilliant sculpture!
What wonderful detail. This is a moving post and it makes me sad so much violence is still in our world today. This is a wonderful memorial. I hope to visit it one day.
Hi Mike – what an incredible sculpture … no wonder the town wanted to keep it. Another one I’d love to see … what a clever artist and poet Ray Lonsdale is … I must remember his name in future. One day – I’d definitely like to see this … so desperate though .. the tales of sadness for so many. Hilary
What a poignant and beautiful work, majestic in its size and very moving. Thank you for sharing it with us.
Thank you … I enjoyed this heartfelt post.
Carla
What an incredible work of art, so sad.
A moving tribute – thank you.
Wow. That is incredible, very moving. Thanks for all the background history, too.
The sculpture’s incredible- it’s the facial expression that just really does that.
A wonderful tribute, hopefully one day I’ll get to see Tommy
So sad. But very interesting that this town wanted so badly to keep him!
As a resident of Seaham I can tell you that once we saw him he just had to stay with us. He has qualities that just make you want to touch him. You know he’s metal but you still expect the straps of his bag to move. His positioning is perfect in my view. Close to the cenotaph but not on top of it. Despite his obvious weariness and despair He has brought pleasure to many, and will many more.
I completely get that. Many thanks for dropping in and leaving a comment!
I’ve been an admirer of Ray Lonsdale’s sculptures since I saw his Fisherman on the front at Filey on the Yorkshire Coast and more recently the smaller piece Father and Son, miners in Coalville, Leicestershire. I’d love to see this one, maybe one day. I always find the story of Wilfred Owen and his parents receiving the news of his death as the bells rang out for peace so very moving and quite tragic:)
I didn’t know about the one in Coalville – need to look that up next time I’m round that way. I do like Freddie Gilroy in Scarborough https://bitaboutbritain.com/freddie-gilroy-and-the-belsen-stragglers/
I saw the one in Swadlincote of the 2 miners, quite wonderful. You must see TOMMY, it’s amazing.
I agree with Tanja. Tommy is such a moving tribute. Even from just a photo one can see the weight of weariness and loss. I wish I had seen it in person.
unfortunately more than a 100 years later we still fight in meaningless wars..:(
I agree. But we have moved on to the extent that we can recognise a meaningless war now?
all wars are meaningless