Desmond Bertram Cancellor
Person details
| Forename(s) | Desmond Bertram |
|---|---|
| Surname | Cancellor |
| Rank | Lieutenant |
| Regiment | The Hampshire Regiment |
| Age | 20 |
| Death | Killed in action |
| Place of Death | Présau, France |
| Date of Death | 01/11/1918 |
| Year of Entry | 1912 |
| House Letter | C |
| School Notes | Junior Scholar |
| Comments |
Reg: author of 'Young England' under pseud. Douglas Strong, and of "Calvary Lane" Radley LIbrary has a copy of both; 3Bn att. 1Bn. Radleian of 26/7/19 has copy of his MC citation. Obituary in Radleian of 18/12/1918 Featured in Twycross Prep School centenary history 2012 Info about him on http://www.cricketarchive.com/Archive/Players/1025/1025922/1025922.html |
| Commonwealth War Graves Commission Link | https://www.cwgc.org/find-record... |
| Unit | 1st Battalion |
| Prefect | Senior Prefect |
| Military Decorations | [MC] Military Cross |
| Album Number | 1 |
| Battle | Battle of Valenciennes |
| Previous Regiment | - |
| Additional Notes |
Added to Imperial War Museum 'Faces of World War One' project and Radley College War Memorial Flickr website on 11 March 2013 http://www.flickr.com/photos/radley_college_war_memorial/ 17.3.2013 - Flickr photo added to the group Valenciens & Valenciennes 26.7.1919. The Radleian. Citation for the Military Cross. 2nd Lt. Desmond Bertram Cancellor, 3rd Bn; (Res.) attached 1st Bn. Hampshire Regt. For conspicuous gallantry and skilful leadership. On the 24th October, 1918, at Monchaux, when the bridging party was trying to bridge the river under heavy hostile machine gun fire, this officer swam the river alone and rushed the nearest machine gun post. This splendid example of duty led other men to follow him across, and .a bridgehead was gained. This young officer undoubtedly saved a very critical situation. 18.12.1918. 'Calvary Lane', short story by Desmond Cancellor, printed in The Radleian. ,. AN INCIDENT OF THE GREAT WAR. Written somewhere in France in October, 1918. By DESMOND BERTRAM CANCELLOR, 2ND LIEUT., Hampshire Regiment. (Killed in Action, All Saints' Day, 1918). A gusty night. Thin straggling little clouds hurrying across a starless sky. The new-born moon giving but a fitful light that brought to the straining eyes of crouching sentries a thousand grotesque forms and fancies. Ten men and a subaltern lay in a line of shell holes, watching, ceaselessly watching. Three hours had passed: three more were still to come. In front of them a stretch of broken ground. Some sixty yards away the dim outline of a ditch visible only when a flare, went up - a ditch where men, Boche men, lived - and died.Behind them a white streak of wire, a British front-line trench, running through a heap of stones that once had borne the name of a village. Away beyond the ruins, high on the sky line, there stood quiet and dignified a massive Calvary. The arms of the Cross were pierced with shrapnel, but the Figure was untouched. "Calvary Lane," the trench that ran in front of it, was called. With the very eloquence of dumbness it seemed to command even the horrors of that devastated slope. Its presence inspired the men who lurked, like hunted prey, in the holes of the earth. The subaltern was in a shell hole with his sergeant and two men, while on each side of him lay two listening posts, if the shallow gash made by high explosives and containing two dog tired privates can be called a post. God! how cold it was! and how the time dragged. Every ten minutes or so the subaltern glanced at his watch. He was very young, and this job was a bit of a strain. For him there was no sleeping. The men might doze, but he must never relax his vigil. The darkness with its eyrie shadows hurt his eyes. Every blade of grass seemed to the taut-strung nerves to be a crouching Boche. What was that dark thing there? Surely - yes, it moved! He gripped the sergeant's arm, and pointed. For a few seconds they both peered eagerly at the dim shape then -" No sir, I think it's only a lump of earth," came the whisper, and just then the moon shone out from behind a cloud and brought conviction. He was a "good fellow" this sergeant, grown old in the arts of war. In his rough taciturn way he could understand and, sympathise with the Officer's feelings. Suddenly, the subaltern remembered his flask and some sandwiches that his servant Smith had handed to, him as he left the Company dug-out. He pulled them out of his pocket, sipped at the flask and passed it to the sergeant: they shared the sandwiches. "Keeps the cold out a bit, sir," the sergeant whispered. "Yes. Now I think we'd better visit the posts again. You take the two on the left, and I'll do the right." "Very good, sir." With a,parting injunction to the two sleepy privates to keep a good look out they stumbled away in opposite directions. For a moment the subaltern was at a loss to know where his first post was. The' moon had gone in and even ten yards away the ground was indistinct. He crept on a few yards, but finding nothing he bore off a bit to the right. Yes, that was the 'line: something white caught his eye. He thanked God and a providential Government for issuing tin hats to the troops. It was the only way of spotting the men on a night like this. He came up behind the two figures lying close together with their heads just above the ground level Neither moved. He bent down and touched the leg of the nearest man. That stirred him, A quick start and an aggressive turn of the head, "All right, it's only me," whispered the subaltern ungrammatically. "Everything O.K.?" "Yes, sir." " Seen anything?" ., No sir, nuffing 'ow much' longer is there, sir? " "About two hours and a half," replied the subaltern with a smile that the darkness hid. "Gawd," said the other man who had not opened his mouth hitherto, "the time do drag sir." "Yes, it does: never mind, though, we're more than half way through. Keep your eyes open." He wondered, as he stumbled on to the next post, if they had been asleep. Poor devils he didn't blame them if they were: still it was a relief to feel that there was a good Corporal in the next one. There was no doubt that that gentleman was awake, for the subaltern had not gone ten yards further before a figure rose with a low challenge. As in the case of the other post the answer to the subaltern's question was "nothing doing," He almost wished that the Boche would come along. This was the second night on which he had had this job, and it seemed a waste of time. These watches were very trying to the nerves, He groped his way back to the centre post to find that his sergeant had already returned. "Were they all right, sergeant?" "Yes sir." "No sign of any movement?" "No sir." "Did you make it quite clear that if only two or three Boches came along they were not to open fire, but to try and take them prisoners? " "Yes sir, Lance Corporal White 'll see to that sir," and he added with a grim touch of humour "Jerry 'll have to look pretty slippy getting his hands up." "Yes," said the subaltern thoughtfully. "I've no doubt he will" As his eyes roamed over the dark stretch of ground in front of him, he fell to thinking. What an odd world it was. Behind the sergeant's casual joke, what a world of tragedy there lay! The low challenge. An uncertain movement by the surprised Boche. A quick thrust. Perhaps if there were others an ex- change of bombs and then, silence, and away many miles behind the line an anxious mother, even at that very moment waking in a sudden fever of alarm for the beloved soldier son. And this was not unique. Daily, to hundreds of homes in England, in Germany, yes, in all Europe, was coming unbending tragedy. A scene in a street at home before the war flashed across his mind. A flower covered hearse followed by a line of carriages, in each, of which he had caught a glimpse of faces grave with a great sorrow. He had looked back at the procession as he waited on the pavement' or his sister. Every passer-by, seemed suddenly impressed, a hat was raised here, ,a cyclist dismounted further down, more hats 'were raised there, a passing priest crossed himself with a little muttered prayer for the departed. And this was for the unknown man. And now - thousands were passing, some in slow agony, some with appalling suddenness to the arms of their Creator. God, what a tragedy! He shivered as he thought of it. "Wrumph!" What was that away on the right? Little enough time to wonder. Up, went a flare from the Boche line, then another and another. " Boom-Boom-Boom !" The high-pitched shriek. of a shell, a crash-and a barrage had dropped. Every nerve was taut. The crouching men gripped their rifles. Heads well down. Flare after flare went up. The whole world seemed a chaos of noise and light and smoke. A shell dropped thirty yards short of them. Then another fifteen yards behind them. The subaltern began to shiver. He thanked God that it was too dark for the men to see. What should he do? Move forward or keep the men where they were? "Whew!" that one was close. A shower of earth pattered down on their tin hats. Why the devil would'nt the firing stop? Ah! There were their own guns beginning, that was better. " Wruf ! " The hot blast of a shell fanned the subaltern's face. He crouched lower, hugging the ground. A machine- gun had started its sharp rat-tat-tat. The whizzing bullets seemed to be passing within an inch of their heads. He tried to console himself with the thought that it was the safest place, as the shells were going over them to the poor devils in the trench. But - yes, that was all very well, but they were damnably isolated out here, with the wire behind them and the Boche in front. " Huh " - a deep intake of breath-a dud only five yards away. The men were getting restless. The Sergeant moved uneasily. The Subaltern felt he could bear it no longer. He turned his head to look back at the wire, and just then a flare went up, silhouetting the great Calvary against the darkness of the night. Just for the barest fraction of a second the light glinted on the Saviour's face. Then darkness again. But it was enough. ,The quiet strength of His Face, of that man who for thirty years had known what He had to suffer, was enough. Why, great Heavens, the Subaltern didn't even know for certain that he was going to be hit. And what did it matter? He turned to the Sergeant. "You stay here. I'm going to see that the other posts are all right," and he was out of the shell hole. The fear of the Unknown was gone. (This sketch, together with a photograph of Lt. D. B. Cancellor, has been published in booklet form by Messrs. Warren &; Sons, Printers, Winchester, and may be obtained from them at 1/6 a copy). |
| Burial or Cemetery | DENAIN COMMUNAL CEMETERY, Nord, France. Grave ref D. 7 |
| Place of Birth | Winchester, Hampshire |
| Post School | won History Exhibition to New College, Oxford, 1915 |
| Shields in Hall | in Hope list, but not in Hall 2012 |
