The little men in kahki all seemed unbelievably small to be British soldiers. Barely over five feet in height, they swarmed over the decks of the Channel steamer Caesarea, moving briskly to shouted orders of sergeants, to sling rifles, packs, and kitbags, then file quickly down to the Le Havre quay. Short legs bowed under their heavy loads of equipment, they tramped ashore -- loudly and cheerfully baahing.

   The tiny soldiers of the Cheshire Regiment amazed the French onlookers. After two years of war, local civilians thought themselves blasé to the variety of types of soldiers the British Empire brought through the port. They had seen black Nigerians, giant Australians, bronzed New Zealanders and Maoris, colorful Rajputs and Sikhs, confident Canadians, splendid Grenadiers, and even blue-uniformed Chinese labourers, but never anything like these almost Lilliputian newcomers. Certainly, no unit ever arrived with such an irreverent display.

   Boots polished to a black sheen, buttons and brasses glinting in the gray early morning, trousers pressed and puttees tight, soft peaked caps set square on heads, the men were like miniature Guardsmen in their smart military turnout, but the noises they made were like nothing ever heard at Caterham Barracks. "Baaaah! Baaaah! Baaaah!"

   After being shunted across southern England in crowded trains for over twenty-four hours, packed into a wallowing tub of a ship though a night of miserable Channel weather, denied breakfast, and kept standing on deck in full marching order for two more weary hours, the sturdy little men saluted their orders to finally march ashore, by giving tongue to a chorus of prolonged sheep-like noises.

   "Baaaah! Baaaah!" They swung down the gangway onto the docks. Seeing these uniformly small soldiers loaded with the kit of war, yet cheerfully voicing their opinion of being herded by all set in authority over them, convulsed many French onlookers. The laughter grew as furious NCOs and Provost Corpsmen barked orders for silence and chivvied the troops into more orderly groups. The mirth spread infectiously to the soldiers themselves, until the dock was a chaos of hilarity.

   A red-faced Rail Transport Officer clattered up on his horse, to take a horrorfied look at the scene of hundreds of paraded British soldiers laughing amidst civilians. Apparently singling out a particularly offensive individual, he was heard to roar, "Take that man's name!" The result was only to further convulse the crowd. The RTO rode up to an amused young lieutenant of the Cheshire Regiment, hauled back on his reins and shouted, "You! Take charged of this damned rabble!"

   At this point, the mishandled horse shied, slipped on the wet cobblestones, and sent the officer into a frenzy of desperate horsemanship to retain his seat. When the RTO recovered himself, he was the centre of more laughter, and shrieked at the young officer. "Dammit, straighten out the little bastards!" He cantered away to find more respectful units.

   The troops quickly settled down at a colour-sergeant's bellow of, "Attention!" Further orders and a good deal of hissed threats by corporals helped shake them out of their laughter and succumb again to accustomed discipline. "Riiight dress!" brought short muscular forearms snapping out to punch the shoulder of each man along the ranks.

   Polished boots shuffled into straight lines. "Ey-ees front!" ... "Le-heft turn!" ... "Qui-hick march!" The Cheshires moved off in column of fours, quick-timing through the streets of Le Havre towards Top-Of-The-Hill Camp.

   After this less-than-dignified arrival, the troops began to be taunted by French townspeople, who cried out, "Hey, Piccininy! Piccinini soldat!" The taunt began to be taken up by more and more locals while the men marched along, drawing crowds as they moved into residential streets of the town itself.

   More thoughtful observers on that cold January morning in 1916 must have wondered at the new arrivals for other reasons than their novelty. Here were perhaps living symbols of the extreme poverty of British manpower reserves, that now such undersized men had to be flung into battle against the Germans.

   The small troops themselves took the name-calling with a resigned silence born of similar gibes in a succession of training camps, from North Wales, to Yorkshire, to Salisbury Plain. They strode along the grimy streets, staring at the prosaic reality of surroundings which were disappointingly less exotic than what they had somehow expected to see in France. For they, like most of their generation, had never previously been abroad beyond the industrial towns or isolated farms of their childhood. The taunts of the French left them unmoved as being those of inferiors, mere foreigners, whom they casually despised, as befitted the outlook of Britons of that time.

   There was less acceptance of the jeering after the Cheshires were halted at a railway crossing, for one of the inexplicable delays inflicted on all soldiers in transit. Standing in rows, with kitbags down, and rifles at "Stand Easy", the objects of ridicule looked reassuringly short and were under strict military order again. The taunting reached an ugly pitch after some lounging young munitions workers came out of an estaminet.

   These Frenchmen, all exempt from military service because of their employment, took offence at the flirtations which began quickly between the soldiers and some girls from the nearby shell factory, whose prettiness was not marred by a yellowish tint to their skin as a result of handling explosives. The girls were giggling at the advances and roguish jokes of the Englishmen, delivered with twinkling good humour and obvious meaning that needed little translation. The overtures were made in such a comical manner, with much eye-rolling and twirling of waxed mustaches, that the girls were soon crowding around, enjoying the entertainment of such gallant little suitors.

   The young men from the factory were irritated by this, and began to chant, "Picc- in-nin-ny", and to hoot their disdain of such apparently puny soldiery. Some accounts say the troops were physically jostled by the munitions men, others say they were simply tired of standing fast under such gibes, especially now with girls looking on.

   One eye-witness, Corporal Joseph Mainwaring of the Service Corps, recalls, "It was bad enough for them to put up with all that slanging, but when some of the civvies started pushing the little fellers about, that put the top hat on it!" Whatever the trigger, several of the soldiers suddenly erupted in rage and proceeded to attack their tormentors. Fists toughened by a lifetime at the coalface, in warehouses, or in farm fields, now began to thump satisfyingly into sneering civilian faces, to the accompaniment of strange Northern curses, the shrill of officers' whistles, and bellows of, "Steady on, lads!" from harassed sergeants.

   The flurry was over in moments, halted mainly by the prompt flight of the opponents, and sealed by six or eight infantrymen being placed under arrest. Refreshed by their first scuffle in foreign parts, the little men swaggered off towards the war, bellowing a bawdy chorus of "Madem'me'sel From Armenteers, Parly-Voo!" The first of the Bantams had arrived -- volunteers all -- keen to be getting their chance to fight at last. Less than half of them would live to see England again.

   Twenty more battalions like theirs would follow, to fight, and many more to die, and then be almost forgotten. Slaughtered, ignored, their survivors even dismissed as failures, the Bantams formed one of the most unusual and little-known chapters in the annals of the British Army.

   The idea for this book began with a single photograph noticed in a yellowed newspaper of 1916. It showed a strapping Guardsman towering over a boyish soldier almost half his size. Each was in shirtsleeves, suspenders dangling, thrusting bayonetted rifles at each other with looks of mutual exasperation. The caption read, "Burly Guardsman trains one of Bantams how to skewer Hun!"

   Bantams? Though a lifelong student of military history, I had never heard of such troops. Who were they? Were they ever used in combat? Over the next couple of years, I idly kept an eye open for further references to them. Finding none, I made a few enquiries, which drew blank stares, except for a few almost embarrassed hints of a topic vaguely "infra dig".

   Intrigued by this apparent mystery, I decided to solve it for my own interest. What I learned was that here was a neglected story which involved over 50,000 British and Canadian troops who never quite made it into the war books. They had volunteered to serve when they could have stayed safely at home, had suffered physical hardship often beyond their capacities, and sometimes endured with good humour the ridicule of less courageous men, all for the privilege of fighting in some of the fiercest battles of the Great War. Their reward was now virtually total obscurity, or from the few who had heard of them, a condescending shrug, "Nice try, of course, but..."

   The Bantams seemed to deserve more than that, and I set out to put together their saga. It was to send me off on journeys that ranged over Britain and France, and from coast to coast in North America. Hundreds of letters from all over the world, and many personal interviews with survivors, relatives, and military men provided me with details which confirmed that the Bantams warrant a place beside all those other gallant men who served in the 1914-1918 Great War. This is their story.
 
 

There has been no intention to infringe copyright.  Copies of this book may be ordered from the author, Sidney Allinson to:
sidneya@shaw.ca   The author is happy to answer any questions concerning the Cheshire Bantams.
 
 

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Go to Eardley's Page, Genealogy Page, MG Page
 
 
 

My e-mail address is  ewh.bryan@ukonline.co.uk