The unknown soldier

Maybe there was indeed a grandson/daughter, great-nephew or niece in the congregation gathered in the Barbourne park, Worcester, a week yesterday when - mercifully - the rain actually stopped for once. Who knows.

However, I doubt that a son or a daughter was present - they would have to be in their 90s now. And, in any event, there is every likelihood that Pte Turley of 2nd Bn The Worcestershire Regiment died childless.

So. Who was Pte John Turley, you will now be asking. Well, I've picked out his name from the roll call of Worcester's fallen, read at the service by the Rev Stuart Currie of St Stephen's Church.

That's not to say that men such as Ernest Burton, Arthur Hitch, Cyril Collett or George Steward are not equally important, all precious lives lost in the great struggle for Ypres in 1914.

But I've picked out him because Turley is a good old Worcestershire name, "John" is every man, symbolising the individual tragedy of the First World War... and also because his was the last name on the list. Last but not least, if you like.

Earlier that day, as I was walking to Barbourne down the Bath Road, a car stopped and someone called my name. It was fire brigade press officer Alec Mackie, and, after inquiring if I was going to Gheluvelt Park, he kindly offered to give me a lift, which I gratefully accepted.

There was just one tiny fly in the ointment, though. I had intended to call at the newsagents' shop in Sidbury to buy a poppy. You can't attend an event as momentous as this and not wear a poppy.

However, I shouldn't have worried. A member of The Royal British Legion sold me one in the Sons of Rest Pavilion. No need to worry, then - and so now I had plenty of time to chat to Steve Moorhouse of the Worcestershire and Herefordshire Western Front Association and look around the various exhibits.

Sadly, I have to report that walking back from the park later that day, over a distance of roughly two miles, I did not encounter a single Worcester person wearing a poppy. Through Barbourne, up The Tything, into High Street and then through Sidbury... no one.

I wonder what John Turley would have thought about that.

Earlier, on the way to Gheluvelt Park, Alec had recounted how, as a young reporter on the Birmingham Post and Mail, he had covered the 50th anniversary celebrations.

This had not only been a far more grandiose affair - with a march past by the former Worcestershire Regiment - but among the guests of honour were survivors of the battle that had taken place in the afternoon of Saturday, October 31, 1914.

On a bench outside the Cathedral, Alec interviewed a veteran who had been wounded during the battle, but feigned death to avoid being bayonetted by the Germans.

In 1964, a full day had been made of it, with lunch at The Star Hotel and a service at Worcester Cathedral. Last week, although merely a shadow of that day 40 years ago, there was an undeniable poignancy as a small band of Worcestershire faithful joined civic dignitaries to remember men who fought and died in a tiny corner of Belgium all those years ago.

I've been to Gheluvelt several times. It is a small village straddling the Menin Road about three miles from Ypres. What has been called "The Battle of Gheluvelt" was really an extremely heroic counter-attack by the 2nd Bn of the Worcestershires to mend the broken British line.

In fact, 12 British regiments carry the battle honour "Gheluvelt" on their colours. This is because the pivotal point of the all-out assault launched by General von Fabeck on October 30-31 was centred on the village.

Night and day, the Germans battered a ragged British line that stretched from Dixmuide to Messines - the famed Ypres Salient. Outnumbered at times by seven-to-one, the British line buckled under overwhelming numbers.

But the gap was patched by the Worcestershires... and the legend was born.

R egular readers of the Phillpott File will know that my interest in Gheluvelt also stems from the fact that my great-uncle, a 2nd Lieutenant in the Northamptonshire Regiment, was seriously wounded near the Menin Road at midday when the Germans poured through on that fateful Saturday.

He was wearing a Boer War shilling talisman on that day of crisis. Nine decades later, this grimy coin is now one of my most treasured possessions. It has been all around the Western Front with me, from Mons to the rivers Marne and Aisne, Ypres and the Somme.

And last Sunday, as I listened to the roll call and joined in with the hymns, that shilling, with Paul Kruger's head still discernible, was with me in Gheluvelt Park...

John Turley's name, the last to be read out, seemed to resonate in the still autumn air. The Air Training Cadets had placed their crosses complete with those familiar Flanders poppies, the dignitaries laid wreaths and the Royal British Legion standard bearers had lined up and marched away.

I looked across the park and was suddenly struck by the similarity of the terrain and the actual chateau grounds in Belgium. The park itself is built on land that once belonged to a well-to-do Worcestershire family and the wooded areas are not unlike the woods at Gheluvelt that have long grown back after the carnage of 1914-18.

In fact, if you were looking for more parallels, it could be said that Barbourne Brook itself is roughly about the size of a typical "beek", the name given to the channels that were dug centuries ago to drain the marshy lands of Flanders.

Something seems to tell me that John Turley would have seen the similarities, too. Anyway, I will be sparing him a thought when I attend the Armistice Day Service on Thursday at the Menin Gate.

The streets of Wipers will, of course, be running blood-red with poppies on that day as the British once more return in their hundreds to walk the sacred ground of the Immortal Salient where so many men spend eternity.

But what a contrast to his home town where, on the 90th anniversary of Gheluvelt, a sizeable number of citizens - with the exceptions of those in the park - couldn't be bothered to show their appreciation for men such as John Turley.

Men who gave their todays for our tomorrows.