I Was Never Just A Number
My name is George William Hawkins, a widower having lost my Maria some years ago. I live in a terraced house at 2 Cumberland Street, Staines. The place is pretty cramped, with my mum and Dad, two younger brothers and younger sister, and my three children William, Bessie, and Alfred.
I work at the Linoleum factory, along with my dad and one of my younger brothers. It is hard work but pays well, and I have a laugh walking to and from work with my dad and brother. In the summer we stop off at the Swan to have a pint and dip our feet in the Thames before going home.
Some years ago I joined the 8th Middlesex Regiment volunteers. We parade up near Hounslow Common and have the odd weekend away. The lads are a good bunch, and we help each other out when we need to.
When war broke out, I went straight in. CO asked if we wanted to join the regulars, we all said no being fiercely proud of the 8th Battalion Middlesex.
They moved us all over the place, Sheerness, Sittingbourne and then Gibraltar but by February 1915 I was back in Blighty. In March they shipped us back to France, and we joined up with the 85th Brigade ready for another go at Ypres.
On the 28th of April up near the Zonnebeke-Keerselaere road while defending a bridge I was hit by shrapnel and took a bullet in the back. It was bad, and my mates got me out of there as quickly as they could.
By that night I was in one of the base hospitals in Boulogne. I hoped they would send me back to England, but I was too ill. They said I had to rest and get my strength back, but all I could do was think about William, Bessie, and Alfred - not one of them over 16 - please God don't make them orphans.
Finally, on 6th June, I was put on a hospital train back to England, between the pain and the morphine I do not remember much about the journey. What I do remember was the nurses; they always seemed to be there holding my hand when I opened my eyes (If the wounded had been given morphine the nurses would to squeeze the hand to wake them up).
By the 7th I was in the surgical ward of King George Hospital. It was near Waterloo station, which made it easier for the family to come and see me.
The doctors told me there was shrapnel in my chest and they would have to operate. They tried their best, but there was just too much damage to my lungs - I died on the ward at 3.50 am 28th of June 1915.
No 1901 Private George William Hawkins, was 39 years old when he died of his wounds. He would be just one of the average 6,000 to die each day.
I was buried in Staines Cemetery on the 30th of June 1915. The family made their way from the house up to the cemetery. Dad paid for a carriage as he did not want the girls to get their Sunday best dirty, and it's over 3 miles.??That night the landlord of the Swan bought my Dad a pint, “Sorry to hear about George”
George lived three doors up from my old house. He drank in the pubs I drink in and had worries and dreams like you and me. He was loved and gave love. As night draws in remember George and his children William, Bessie, and Alfred - behind each statistic, there is always a life.
God bless your George and all those who gave so much to keep us free.