Norman Smith 1911 Census Record. Click to increase size.
Norman Havelock Smith. Died 23rd March 1918
Norman was born in 1896 to father, Ernest (deceased at the time of Norman’s death) and mother Rosalie in Bradford, Wiltshire. He was the second born and had three siblings, an elder brother, Edmond and two sisters, Rosalie and Lilian. By the age of 36, father, Ernest was a Baptist Minister and they were living with Rosalina’s mother, Sarah Warrell (aged 79). Their address in 1901 was 49 St Margaret’s Street, Bradford on Avon, Wiltshire and the family had two servants. In the 1901 census Sarah was described as the head of house, not Ernest. Ten years later their circumstances had changed considerably; the family were living in 11 Crescent Road, Wokingham, a large three story house in a select neighbourhood and with two servants of their own. At the age of 15 Norman was still at school and his brother had become a cable tester at the age of 17. Electricity was starting to replace gas in some homes, but would not become a common sight for another twenty years. Such scenes of domestic tranquillity, were to be the last; by the end of the decade, Ernest was to die in 1915 at the age of only 50 and Rosalie was to also lose her son less than only three years later. Norman was 22.
Norman joined the London Regiment and became a Lieutenant in the 141st Trench Mortar Battery and was soon on his way to France. As yet we are unable to recound his experience in the war, but know he was killed during the German Advance on the 23rd March 1918. His name is given on the Arras Memorial in northern France.
Norman as a Lieutenant in the Trench Mortar Battery, would have been aware of the terror a trench mortar could inflict upon the enemy.. Here is a description of what it was like to be on the receiving end of the experience. It is by Major Hanbury-Sparrow of the Royal Berkshire Reg / 2nd Battalion:
“…… it was a land of mines and counter-mines, of deep craters like inverted volcanoes, of snipers, and of Minenwerfers (trench mortars). Here was a battle-scarred wilderness in which the individual was strangely thrown back on himself. The eye was continually looking upwards to discern the great canisters coughed out by the Minenwerfer. By day they could be seen rising into the air with a cumbrous wobble, pausing for an uncertain instant at the culmination of their flight, and then swooping down in a clumsy tumble to fall with a crash. At night a tail of fire betrayed their approach. Woe betide the man who heeded not their coming. Nothing was left of him who misjudged their approach – sometimes not even three inches of spine. Literally the man was blown to smithereens. For the whole tour in the front line men were continually keyed up watching for these dreadful monsters. The safety of each depended on himself and himself alone, upon the man’s individual judgment as to where they would fall. On such occasions authority and experience couldn’t command; they could only act as a guide. These trench mortars crashed and pulverised the ground to such a state of friability that their concussion would shake down yards of trench. Every night the loose earth would be put in sandbags and the parapet built up once more, and each day the trench mortars, like Penelope and her tapestry, would undo another piece of work”
Wellington Road (at time of death)
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