Far down the long annals of past history we must look for the beginnings of the brave breed of Worcestershire men—the outcome of that ancient heroic blood which nourishes the flower of chivalry and strengthens the spirit to perform imperishable deeds of valour. Between a band of tenacious Britons holding the summits of the Malvern Hills, and a military guard and outpost of Roman warriors at Worcester itself, was seemingly produced that special type of Englishman who, ever since those far-away days, has been famous for courage and conquest. The native fighting force of the Gael, and the trained skill and prowess of the Roman are mingled in his being, and they make him, almost unconsciously to himself, a hero from his youth. Something of the salt of ocean, as well as of the salt of the earth, is in him, bracing his energies and hardening his muscle and, indeed, if we grope farther back in the dark recesses of time, we shall find geology suggesting that Worcestershire was once a sea, and the hills of Malvern, islands, and that the projecting bluffs on each side of the gaps in the opposite range were capes standing out from what some imaginative folk called the “Severn Straits,” so that we may be permitted to fancy the earliest progenitors of the Worcestershire breed were, perhaps, bold mariners, sailing round a veritable archipelago of islands, and skilfully steering their primitive craft into harbours sheltered by the very headlands which confront us to-day; or they might have been hunters, chasing the innumerable wild beasts which at one period infested the formerly dense “Forest of Malvern”—a forest that even in the Middle Ages stretched from the plains to the very tops of the hills. Be this as it may, our redoubtable men of Worcestershire must have been born and bred from strong beginnings; they come of a stock which knows no fear, no hesitation, no failure. The “Firm” fighters whom we delight to honour are the product of centuries of heroism. Heroism comes so naturally to them that they think little or nothing of it. Their pride is in each other—not in themselves individually; what is said of one man, must be said for the whole Regiment. Their spirit is expressed in Shakespeare’s lines,—
“In this glorious and well-foughten field
We kept together in our chivalry!”
And though they have performed prodigies of valour in bygone great battles, as in the terrific “World War,” they make no boast of their proved mettle, nor have they called upon the country they so nobly serve for special consideration. It is with difficulty, and only by piecing dry and desultory bits of history together, that we are at all able to read their Golden Chronicle, or to realise the nature and worth of their splendid services, splendidly performed in defence of “This dear, dear land, this land of such dear souls—This England!”
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We do not know with any certainty the character or military qualifications of their first Colonel, Thomas Farrington, who raised the Regiment in 1694, but we do know many of their brilliant exploits since that far-off day, especially in India, such as the carrying of the Delhi Gate and the storming and capture of Bangalore, which helped to bring about the vanquishment of that notable rebel, Tippoo Sahib; and though the overladen pages of historians find little space for special mention of special companies of soldiers, the Duke of Wellington’s praise of the Regiment after Badajos has not slipped notice, nor is it likely to be forgotten:—
“It is the best Regiment in this Army, has an admirable internal system and excellent non-commissioned officers.”
But the laurels of the past, thickly showered as they were on the “Worcesters,” are little to compare with those of the present, when valour is put to its utmost test, and when war weapons contrary to all international usage, more deadly and treacherous than ever were known before, are employed by the most inhuman and dishonourable of foes. We have only to recall the dramatic scenario of the village of Gheluvelt during the battle of Ypres, when the Worcesters literally saved the day. No page of romance was ever more thrilling! The Germans had carried the village, but the Welsh, true sons of “Gallant Little Wales,” remained, firing, holding their ground and refusing to admit any sort of defeat. Even when they had been given the order to retreat, they hung on with the grim tenacity of their Celtic ancestors, and it depended on the merest chance as to whether any company of men could advance to their assistance under the deadly fire of shrapnel which covered and cut them off from the rest of their line. But rescue was forthcoming—a mere handful of Worcesters—six hundred of them, were stationed but a mile off Gheluvelt. Their commanding officer gave the order—“Advance without delay and deliver counter-attack.”
“Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,