As you plunge through the dense green foliage and struggle in the humid air, you could be forgiven for believing that you are in the midst of a tropical rain forest, perhaps on a remote Pacific island. But, in truth you are not at all far from the madding crowds, indeed, you are part of the madding crowds, as this is Kew Gardens famous palm house.
The Waterlily House, Kew Gardens
Kew in south west London is rightly famous for its astonishing gardens. The vast majority of visitors arriving at Kew Gardens tube station immediately head across the pleasant leafy square towards the world-famous gardens. However, a small, but not insignificant number, will head in the opposite direction, down the quiet residential streets, often clutching notepads and sharpened pencils. They are heading for Kew’s hidden secret, the National Archives. To call it hidden might appear ludicrous, the National Archives are after all, housed in an enormous concrete modernist building. But, they are tucked away down the backstreets of Kew. Ask the majority of those heading towards Kew Gardens and it is unlikely that they will be aware of the existence of the National Archives. Yet, there it is, a handful of streets away, home to one thousand years of history and over fifteen million documents.
I had ten large cardboard boxes awaiting me at my allocated workstation inside the reading room. Although I had allocated myself two days to work through them, it still appeared to be daunting task. The very first document I leafed through was the report into the loss of the minesweeper trawler Garmo. The battered telegram from the Scarborough wireless station to the Admiralty in London, announced that the skipper was dead and five were missing. Its clipped language announcing yet another victim of the minefield laid by the Germans off Scarborough during the bombardment of 1914. It was followed a few pages later by the official press release for the morning papers. On a single page it listed those who had died when the minesweepers Orianda and Garmo had struck mines in Cayton Bay.
The telegram from Scarborough Wireless Station to the Admiralty in London
The scene was set for an often melancholy day, reading the litany of losses in 'ADM 137/2959 British Merchant Vessels sunk and captured by the enemy, August 1914 to December 1915’. There was little new evidence in that bulky document, but there listed at first hand, were the names of the ships I have become familiar with during the course of my research. The first victim, the collier Elterwater, her twelve crew rescued by another ship, but the second mate died on the deck of the City of Newcastle.
A few pages later, the Torquay, the collier described in the last post, one of whose firemen is buried at Dean Road Cemetery in Scarborough. The document did add that she was towed into Scarborough by the trawler Game Cock, so another small piece is added to the jigsaw.
I patiently worked my way through the ‘History of British Minesweeping during the War’, the ‘Records of the Director of Minesweeping’ and finally an intriguing bundle of files that purported to contain ‘Wreck. Notification of a boat found off Flamborough Head (1915)’. I read through each file four times and there was nothing. It had either been misfiled, or I was going cross-eyed by this point. The final box was entitled ‘ADM 137/1887 Secret Packs of C-in-C Grand Fleet Vol. VII … Pack 005 Minesweeping’. There stamped in red on the buff cover of the document was the word ‘Secret’. Even 110 years on, there was still an air of excitement as I opened the file. I have to admit that I am an admirer of Admiral Jellicoe and his leadership of the Grand Fleet during the Great War. There I was, reading the same file that he opened on board the fleet flagship HMS Iron Duke. There was the great man’s signature. Unfortunately, there was little of much significance in regard to the minefield at Scarborough, Jellicoe was commenting on the general effectiveness of the German mines and the failed operation to intercept the German ships in the wake of the bombardment.
On my final night in London I attended the BBC Proms at the Royal Albert Hall, as a promenader paying a mere £6 to witness Sir Simon Rattle conduct the Bavarian Radio Orchestra. The chosen work was the Austrian composer Anton Bruckner's Symphony No. 4. Although it is a romantic work, it now has an historic resonance, as the symphony was the final piece of music performed and broadcast by the Berliner Philharmoniker on 12 April 1945. Apparently, Albert Speer chose the symphony as a signal that the Nazis were about to lose the war. Hitler Youth members were reported to have distributed cyanide pills to the audience for those who wished, by death, to escape the imminent arrival of the Red Army. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Wagner’s Götterdämmerung (Twilight of the Gods) was also performed.
This research trip was kindly facilitated by the Scarborough Maritime Heritage Centre and will lead to an exhibition at the centre, entitled ‘After the Bombardment, the Battle of Cayton Bay 1914-15’ between December 2024 and March 2025.