I cannot now remember what was said at that last meeting; I recall words, the formality of the moment, the handshake, the open door and then the slow walk along the cloisters and down to the gate.  I recall a feeling of sadness; of loneliness. I suppose I felt as a baby does when it slowly emerges from the womb to face the unexpected and hostile world. My umbilical cord was being cut for the second time in my life and the feeling of belonging, the friendship, the comradeship and the leadership that I had had for the past five years were being left behind in the Borlasian womb.  I paused to look over my shoulder before I reached the gate. By the side of the air raid shelter and cycle shed. However, I failed to see my men of men marching behind me. Not quite in ranks of three, nor yet with Sandhurst straightened backs and stomachs in;  but there indeed, where they have always been, and will be, during the rest of my life.  I worked for almost twelve months in the most boring job I have ever had and then left Marlow, never to return except for a few short days at a time.

I cannot explain why the next time I entered that Borlase gate was not to be until another November evening but almost forty-six years later. I did go home on leave occasionally and my family lived and remain in the town. During those long years I have travelled the world, have had two careers and last year started my third. I have seen the sun set over the pyramids, have dined with Kings and Princes, have been shot at by Arabs and have loved and lost a wonderful woman. Yet, I have met only a few of the boys I knew at school. "Slim" Gilbert on a train in Paddington -Bill Shervell at a regatta -(how wonderful to find out that he had married his childhood sweetheart); a younger  boy who had acted with me in a summer play I met in Gosforth Rugby Club bar. I often wondered what had happened to the many others.

Forgive me Wilbur Smith for taking the title of your book for my own. The loneliness I felt when leaving Borlase for the last time haunted me for many years. I sometimes ached to be back at school. To smell and feel the soft, damp earth of the Home Meadow, to look again at the Van Gogh cypresses in the Art room, to hear once more that wretched clock behind the fourth form door (is it still there I wonder?). And yes, over the years my life has been filled with a different kind of comradeship and friendship and belonging, as only life in one of the oldest cavalry regiments can become.

As I look back over those forty-six years I realise now that my men of men have been with me ever since we walked out of that gate together in 1949. Those men who nurtured me as a youth and guided me into the world as a young man have always been with me. They were with me in school,  are with me now and will remain with me until my final touch down.  Wherever I have been in the world and whatever situation has confronted me, I would sometimes, but not always, be aware that one or other of those men of men was still guiding me through my life.. Bill Booth, shaking his head or nodding approval or removing his spectacles whilst he considered our response to the problem I faced. A little of him lives on in all who knew him - his wisdom, generosity, fairness and plain speaking were his way of life, something that most of us have emulated over the years, or tried to.  And if it wasn’t him it was Russell Sage - who not only taught me to speak French and to row, but who gave me an intense love of the theatre and acting that has remained with me to this day.  Perhaps it was Jonah, who when not provoking me with algebra, instilled into me a sense of patience and diplomacy and an "if you want to eat sweets in my class boy that’s fine by me, but do it openly. I don’t mind and by the way, we will all have one".  Junk Davies by his definition of the word "nice" taught me that vocabulary was as important in one’s life as history.    Robin Pitman gave me a love of art and especially Van Gogh, and this takes me regularly to the National Gallery and explains why I have those same Cypresses on my living room wall.   Gad Dewhurst and Taffy Thomas taught me to play and to love rugby. (Did Mr Thomas really appear at the Berlin Olympics or did he wear that vest because it looked cool?)  But they taught me to play the Borlase way - that the game should be played to enjoy and not always to win!   I played and refereed for many years after I left Borlase.   Charles Davenport (our Dudley) improved my English whilst at the same time enhancing my love of the theatre. He took me to see A Shoemaker’s Holiday at Toynbee Hall before we performed this as the summer play. An evening I remember even now. He also taught me never to make bad puns when he was in a bad mood.  Foxy Davies, Beaky Pierce, Mr Robertson, Dulcie Newell (yes Borlase had some even then), they all have a special place in my memory and life. They have all been there for me when I needed them.

I know that Borlase has changed since 1949. I saw some of the changes last November. I can only hope, but feel certain, that the spirit of my men of men lives on in the school today. I regret that it is too late to thank those who made my life as fulfilled and as enjoyable as it has been, but even as I write, one of those men of men is beside me, taking off his spectacles, wrapping his gown around him and regretting that he can no longer make me learn the thirteenth chapter of St Paul to the Corinthians.

But memories are not always about people. They can also be about occasions and events – some happy some sad. And I have strong memories of events and occasions during my time at Borlase that I like to bring out now and again, and enjoy. Those younger members of the Old Boy’s Club who most often write in this part of the school magazine, or perhaps, those Borlasians still at school, who stray into these pages out of curiosity, or by mistake, will forgive me, if I, an older Old Borlasian, write about my memories. Because some memories do not change, are not renewed nor refreshed, nor changed as life changes. Some memories remain as fresh within your mind as they were on the day that they were put there.  I would like to share my best memories with you - please turn the page quietly if you do not want to join me.

I remember my days at Borlase as happy ones. I enjoyed every moment that I was there, whether it was sitting in the old gymnasium reciting Amo, Amas Amat or running around the Colonels meadow on a hot summer’s day trying to get two points for the Saxons. And age did not matter – Borlase was fun whether I was eleven years of age and learning the laws of rugby for the first time - or sixteen and worrying about examination results. From here, older Borlasians like myself, may also remember similar occasions --------rowing on the river at seven-thirty in the early morning, the mist rising off the water, Russel Sage on the bank leaning on his bicycle, nosey swans challenging us to combat, the chill air so calm, the whole world so peaceful and a feeling so exhilarating and so wonderfully, wonderfully alive. Oh what a memory that is.

---sitting in the Saxon seats in the school chapel on a cold, winter’s morning in early 1945, listening to Mr Booth describe the gallantry of, to me, an unknown Old Borlasian who had been killed in some unremembered theatre of war, who had been decorated, who was grieved for. My unfading memory is of my headmaster, trying desperately hard to hide his emotion, as he talked about a dead young man whom he had known, had taught and had loved in that special way that teachers could have in those days for the boys who left school to put on a uniform.

---intercepting a pass on our twenty-five yard line whilst playing rugby against the Royal Grammar School on the Home meadow in 1948. How many of us remember Teddy Woodward, who went on to play for England, and was a formidable fly-half for the RGS. I can hear now the sound of his boots as he pounded up behind me as I ran like crazy to score the only try that had been scored against the RGS for some time. What matter we lost 63 – 3, a Borlasian had actually managed to cross their line – and it was me!!

---winning the Cathcart cup for the first time in 1948. Most older boys will remember the old swimming pool in Marlow (a quiet part of the river which could only be reached by a long walk through town, across the bridge and half way to Quarry Woods). I generally came second in most things I went in for as a senior boy. The Peter Harriman’s, George Danes and Mike Davies’s generally got in front of me. But, I could swim! And I came first. And it was a wonderful feeling treading water watching the other boys cross the line after me and knowing, that, at long last, I had proved myself best in something.

I have one other memory that I would like to share with Old Borlasians – whether ancients like me or those from recent years. Those who read this magazine last year may have read an article I wrote, which I titled "Men of Men" and in which I described the way in which the men of Borlase who taught me (and I include the two women), have lived with me and helped to guide me through life ever since. I remember that I described leaving Borlase for the last time, knowing that I would never return as a pupil.

That is my saddest memory of Borlase – and I hope that, for those at school now, girls and boys both, their unhappiest day there will be, as mine was, the day they leave Borlase for the last time. Good luck to them all - and may we meet them all again at the next OB ‘s dinner!

If I remember the conversation went like this:-

Farewell Ode to Cheese

FOR VALOUR 

George. R I

On a warm sunny afternoon in June last year, I stood in the Faubourg-d’Amiens Cemetery just outside Arras , searching this sombre, awe-inspiring Lutyens memorial, for my uncle’s name. He had died almost eighty-three years ago, on a Sunday afternoon, on the 3rd June 1917, when his company of the 2nd/4th Battalion of the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry for the fifth day running, came under intense shellfire from the enemy guns, visible across the once-green trenches.

There are just under 35,000 servicemen remembered on the memorial panels at Arras – all of whom have no identifiable grave and many of them from New Zealand and South Africa as well as from Great Britain. I wandered among the bays and eventually I found what I was looking for – the simple, stark message :-

In Memory of
Walter Frederick Stroud
Private
203536
2nd/4th Bn., Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry

My uncle had been one of my mother’s four brothers, fighting alongside each other in the trenches of the Great War. He alone never came home. Serving in their County battalion – the Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry - they were representative of many Marlow men who left their families to fight for their King and Country. My father, and his father, fought in France as well. My grandfather returned to England in 1918, only to die a year later of the gas that had infested his lungs during the fighting. My mother’s future brother in law – to be my Uncle Arthur in later life - was a military policeman and in my younger years often told me about "his" war. I wore his white lanyard with pride when later I became a soldier and served in one of this country’s famous old cavalry regiments.

As I looked at the writing on the marble panels, I tried to conjure up a picture of all those men who had died. Rank upon rank of khaki uniforms marched quietly before my eyes as I gazed slowly over the names that were there. Allen, Bell, Burroughs, Davis, Goodall…. Suddenly, exploding in my mind like a bullet, one name caught my eye and, instantly, I was thrown back to my school days, to the bricked up cloisters and the air raid shelter; the apple tree on the lawn, to early morning chapel and the occasional walk along to Mr Booth’s study. A picture hung there, on the wall, and out of nowhere, it appeared now before my eyes. I had seen this picture so many times – had become so used to it that, in time, I saw it no more. Like the old clock mechanism behind the door in the classroom in the cloisters, this picture blended, in time, into the background. It was a part of Borlase that one was accustomed to seeing, therefore it became no longer apparent. That black and white picture of a soldier, staring into the camera. The name! The name! I looked at the panel so near my uncle’s again and realised that what I was seeing was real.

In Memory of
BASIL ARTHUR HORSFALL VC
Second Lieutenant
1st Bn. Attd. 11th Bn., East Lancashire Regiment
who died on
Wednesday, 27th March 1918, Age 30

This then was a memorial, not only to my uncle and the thousands of other servicemen who had given their lives, but also to the only Old Borlasian who had won the Victoria Cross. I am not given easily to emotion, but at that moment, I felt proud and humble, standing in that place, remembering that photograph, remembering that man.

When later that year, I stood in the School chapel and spoke about Old Borlasians who we were remembering during that service, I knew more about Basil Horsfall than I had known when I was at Borlase. There is no plaque upon the outside wall to shout of his courage to passers by and his only known photograph then, now lies hidden in the depths of the school. As a soldier I know the esteem in which Captain Oates, of South Pole fame is held by my own regiment. Oates walked to his death in the snow in order that his comrades might live. Scott called Oates a Very Gallant Gentleman. Basil Horsfall is no less a hero, no less gallant than Oates. He laid down his life in a brutal and bloody war, bravely and without hesitation. Borlasians of all ages should know of him and be proud, he was one of us.

The Horsfall family lived in Chapman House, Darley Road, Colombo in Ceylon and were quite successful tea merchants. Like many families of that time, they sent their children home to be educated. We have our present day family connections – sons who have followed fathers into Borlase; followed by their own sons and even, for several years now, perhaps by their daughters. What family of our modern era however, can say that their four sons went to Borlase! Basil was born on the 4th October in 1887 and came to Borlase in May 1903, at the age of fifteen years. He remained in school for just over two years and returned home in 1906. He played football and cricket for the school and in his last year became School Captain.

Of Basil’s cricketing prowess, Doctor Skinner recorded in the School Magazine of 1905 – Basil’s last year :-

"Very useful bat, powerful hitter, good field. Fine medium right hand bowler. Too impatient to make runs.. Lately developed habit of playing over balls on leg stumps with disastrous results at nets at any rate"

What is little known is that before Basil, his other three brothers had also come to Marlow to be educated. Edward Francis, his oldest brother, born in 1883, was at Borlase between 1897 and 1901. Like Basil, Edward served with the East Lancashire Regiment during the war that was to come. Cuthbert William, born on the 24th May 1884, came to Borlase from 1897 and 1902. We know that he was in the school cricket eleven and in 1902 he won the long jump at the school Sports Day. The third brother was Godfrey Lock. He was born in 1885 and was at school with Basil for two years between 1902 and 1904. Like many Borlasians they probably enjoyed walking along the banks of the Thames or rambled together through the meadows above Home Meadow, many years before the rugby pitch was carved out of the hillside.

We know that none of the brothers boarded at the school and it has not been possible to find out who with, or where, they stayed whilst attending school. Their guardian whilst staying in England is recorded as a Mrs Kate Lock, who lived at Park Gate in Castle Hedingham, Essex. There is a family connection here as one of the sons – Godfrey – also has this name. Perhaps the maternal grandmother, or an aunt? Perhaps not as the brothers’ mother’s maiden name was Layard. Significant maybe, is that Godfrey served during the war with the Essex Yeomany, which points to a family connection with that County.

Basil returned to Ceylon to work in the Public Works Department and joined the Ceylon Engineer Volunteers. When war broke out in 1914, like many young men who lived abroad, he applied for permission to return to England and wanted, with his brothers, to enlist in the Army. This permission was not given until two years later. In July 1916 he sailed to England and in December 1916 his commissioning into the East Lancashire Regiment appeared in the London Gazette.  

Edward was already serving with the East Lancashire Regiment; Godfrey had been commissioned into the Essex Yeomanry and Cuthbert – as the Borlase school magazine of 1917 tells us – was serving with the Madras Motor Cyclists. A unit of the Royal Engineers and believed to be part of the reserve Auxiliary Forces India. I have found no evidence that this unit served in Europe – and Cuthbert probably remained in Ceylon, heart-broken at not being able to join his brothers

At the age of 30 years, Basil joined his battalion in February 1917 and was posted into the company commanded by his brother Edward. It was not long before the two brothers were in the thick of the action. In May 1917, their battalion took part in an attack on a heavily fortified German strongpoint at Roeux, near Arras. Both Basil and his brother were wounded in the fighting that followed and Basil, with less serious injuries, took command of the company from his brother. After recovering from his wounds in England, he returned to France in October 1917 and was posted with other reinforcements, to the 11th Battalion of the East Lancashire Regiment, more famously known as the "Accrington Pals". It is believed that Edward, whose wounds were the more serious, remained in England to convalesce.

On a day in March 1918, whilst Basil and other members of his company were playing football, the Germans launched an offensive along a fifty mile front from a point South of Arras. For the next few days the battalion was moved around the front, taking up new positions and occasionally being shelled by their own artillery as well as by the Germans. It was on the morning of the 21st March that the enemy finally delivered a frontal attack on the East Lancs positions, gained a foothold, were driven back, counter attacked, and were held back by the fierce resistance of the "Accrington Pals". It is shortly after this that Basil was killed and won his Victoria Cross and I can only quote from the citation for his award that later appeared in the London Gazette.

"When the enemy first attacked Second Lieutenant Horsfall’s position, three forward sections were driven back and he was wounded in the head. Nevertheless, he immediately organised the remainder of his men and made a counter-attack which recovered his original position. On hearing that, out of the remaining officers of his company, two were killed and one wounded, he refused to go to the dressing station, although his wound was severe. Later his platoon had to be withdrawn to escape very heavy shell fire, but immediately the shelling lifted he made a second counter attack and again recovered his positions. When the order to withdraw was given he was last to leave his position and, although exhausted, said he could hold on if it had been necessary. This very gallant officer was killed when retiring to the positions in the rear"

Colonel Arthur Rickman, in his letter to Basil’s father said, of his son:-

Almost eighty three years have passed since Basil Horsfall died in action and the news was passed by telegram to his brother then living at Halstead in Essex. At the beginning of this article I have reproduced the letter sent by King George to his father, regretting that he was unable to personally present the Victoria Cross to Basil. This Victoria Cross was purchased by the East Lancashire Regiment in 1982 and for a time was displayed in the regimental museum in Blackburn. It is now held in the regimental museum of the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment (the successor to the East Lancs) and is on display in Preston. They are very proud of it. The only other known photograph of Basil was presented to the school in 1958 by his brother Cuthbert, together with a photograph of the Victoria Cross that he had won. At the time Cuthbert was living in Essex but I have been unable to find any surviving members of the family there..

Basil Horsfall was a simple man. He played football and cricket, was good enough to become Captain of his School and when his time at Borlase came to an end, returned to his family home to work and to become a part time soldier with his local Engineers. When the time came, like many other Englishmen abroad, he saw as his duty the need to fight for his King and Country. Jingoistic perhaps, but for several years this country has sought to play down its heroes. We live in an age when a film like "Saving Private Ryan" is given world wide acclaim and people marvel at the story of American heroism. The trenches of nineteen-eighteen were no less bloody than the beaches of nineteen-forty-four. The soldiers no less heroic. The Horsfalls sent three of their four sons to war and the youngest of these did not survive. In his dying he proved that he was worth the highest award that this country can give its heroes – the Victoria Cross. This medal is proudly displayed in the museum of the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment in Preston. Basil Horsfall was a Borlasian from a Borlasian family. His regiment is proud to honour him. We should do the same. Who knows, perhaps we can persuade them to join us when we finally recognise the courage of one of our school’s greatest heroes. They may even be persuaded to let us see the Victoria Cross that Basil Horsfall was awarded "For Valour" when he was " following worthy things"!

Ron Ives

30th April 2001

After eighty-three years it has been difficult to delve into the lives of the Horsfall family. I am grateful for the help given to me by Lee Mumbray-Williams the school librarian, in providing material that helped me in writing this article. My thanks also to Ian Miller from Cardiff, a Member of the Orders and Medals Research Society for his invaluable knowledge and research; to Charlie Bird, Cecil and Doris Panel, and Colonel Gosling – local historians in Essex. Also to Major Tony Maher.MBE, Assistant Regimental Secretary to the Queen’s Lancashire Regiment. And to the many people around the world who replied to my emails – thank you! To the perfectionists among my readers I apologise for using poetic licence – the Lutyens memorial contains only the name and initials of the many servicemen recorded there. I have substituted the more substantial memorial message recorded in the War Graves Commission website.

POR FAVOR – J’ENTENDE THAT WHICH  DU SAGT!!!