By Stephen J. Brannagan
Sitting hungry in a cholera infested camp outside Sebastopol was not what he had imagined life in the 3rd Regiment of Foot would be like, but for John Connors it was still better than his prospects at home. At least he had missed the harsh mud infested winter he heard the older troops talking about. Although probably the same age as him, the years were etched on their faces. They had been through a lot these past months.
Life back home in Duagh, just down the road from Listowel, in dearest Ireland was not a bed of roses either. Prospects were non-existent and nearly half of his village had either died of starvation or fled to New York. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the constant marching at Birr Barracks back in 1851 but at least he was still in Ireland. His depleted family had understood his enlisting at 19 was a necessity and the love of his life had succumbed to hunger. For him it was more for necessity than for the young Victoria sitting on her throne. What other choices did he have.
At 24, John had resigned himself to a soldiers life. Maybe one day he would return home to the emerald isle and find a small piece of land to call home again, but not yet. His eyes had been opened to the wonders of the world with the fortresses of Malta and the Parthenon in Athens. Getting off that damned boat at Balaklava was a relief but there were no welcoming locals here in Crimea. He could imagine the harbour as it should be with rolling hills down to the sea but now it was a sea of masts, a throng of soldiers and he could taste the smell. The detritus of war was all around.
Now sitting there in camp, hunger was back. It was an enemy John had hoped to never meet again. People back home had thought of this as a glorious adventure but now were starting to understand it was not. That didn’t stop the wealthy war spectators arriving to view the performances, although nobody wanted a repeat performance of The Light Brigade horror. Boredom was another enemy that punctuated the moments of terror trying to reach that damned wall. They called it the ‘ great redan’ but he had other words for it. Words his mother would not have approved of.
The dust got everywhere in this god forsaken sun baked land. Those who were here last winter talked about how it’s much better than the mud drenched trenches when they arrived but they are all crazy. The officers were on edge which in his short military experience meant bad times were ahead. Early evening on Friday 7th September 1855, sitting here, felt so far from home and John was scared. Early next morning word came that today there would be another push towards that damned redan. Officers and men made their preparations and their peace. Word spread of the plan but everyone knew that by the time it reaches the privates in the 3rd Foot, it will have changed already. Those cumbersome ladders were readied, too long for his liking and too few for so many men.
The French would attack the Malakoff and then the order would be given to raise the tri-colour and our race to victory or death would begin. The noise, the noise was worse than the fear. Crouched in that trench waiting for the order. The smell, the smell made you retch and many did, emptying the rum and meagre stew of the night before. The waiting was endless. Sean, his best friend, was crying and, to be honest, nobody blamed him. The waiting, the noise, the smell, the fear, the waiting.
The flag, the flag was up, the flag is up. Word spread quickly cutting through the noise. The French had done it! If they could, we can too. The first man jumped up and then the next. It was infectious. Was the order given? Did he miss it? Too late now as legs betray him and race towards oblivion. Bullets fly all around. The crash of those guns will never leave. With trusty Lee Enfield in hand crashing forward. The fighting was intense. Friend or foe? Bodies lie still grasping those internal ladders but no legs to climb them. It was as if a red mist had risen and everything slowed down. Screams pierced the blur of terror Blood everywhere. So many dead and all for a wall. More screaming and yelling. Was that young Sean lying there?
Watching in slow motion as three Russians fought with an officer of the 30th Foot. He didn’t know him but the colours had been drilled into him back at Birr. The crack of a rifle close by startling him awake and realising it was his rifle pressed against his cheek that made that noise. One of the Russians fell and the three men looked his way. Those damned legs again. Charging forward John pierced the soldier with the surprised and hateful look in his eyes. He fell backwards, gripping the bayonet on John’s rifle. The third Russian soldier dropped his sword and ran back towards his lines. John didn’t shoot, he knew that feeling so clearly on the Russian’s face. He lifted the officer, now unconscious, and headed back towards his own lines. Passing Colonel Maude of the 3rd Foot on the way, John could see he was in a bad way. Good old Maude, in the thick of it with his men unlike some of those others. He looked near death and John hoped that old mother Seacole was waiting for him with open arms.
Less than two years after his brave deeds, John and the 3rd Foot are stationed on the sun soaked island of Corfu. The fortress here reminds John of Malta and the contrast between the hell of Sebastopol and here are stark. Perhaps here he started to think of home again and returning to what was left of his homeland. Perhaps the now Corporal Connors would be a lifelong soldier. On the 29th January 1857 on the battlements of Corfu at Port Neuf just sixteen months after his act of selflessness, John plunged to his death. The tide of time hides the details of what happened to him.
John Connors was awarded the Victoria Cross on the 24th February 1857 for his valour at the Battle of the Great Redan. Colonel Fredrick Maude who survived the battle was also awarded the Victoria Cross. John would never know the recognition he received or that his memory would last the test of time.
Leaping forward another 166 years and John Connors VC is still at his last post on Corfu. A chance meeting for this writer with Alexandros Anemogiannis, manager at The Corfu Palace Hotel, indicated a visit to the beautiful British Cemetery nearby shouldn’t be missed. An oasis of history, tortoises, wild orchids and cooling shade were too much to resist. The highlight of the planned visit was the discovery that it was the resting place of a Victoria Cross recipient. That highlight unfortunately turned into a low point when John Connors VC was finally located.
The memorial to a VC winner was in a sorry state. John Connors VC didn’t leave my thoughts for the rest of that vacation or when returning home. Something had to be done. People had to know. Someone must be responsible for this. And so began a journey of learning, badgering, writing and annoying. Emails to The Corfu Heritage Foundation, chats with The Victoria Cross Trust and also The Victoria Cross and George Cross Association. Everyone recognised that the situation wasn’t appropriate and something had to be done. These things take time and patience is apparently a virtue. One year later sitting here across from the new headstone organised by the wonderful VCGC Association and I must have something in my eye, as I wipe away a tear.
From his beautiful Corfu last post, John Connors VC can witness the going down of the sun through the trees. At 26 years of age, he isn’t wearied and the years haven’t condemned him. Our only job is to remember him.
If you are in sun soaked Corfu town and want a break from the heat then go say hello to John. He rests within a beautiful oasis, at the end of a tree lined path, waiting to hear from you. For that matter, wherever you are, there will be others like him in far flung places resting where they fell for our tomorrows.
Thank you to all involved in this journey for me including; Rebecca Maciejewska, CEO of the VC&GC Association, Keith Lumley, Chair of VC Trust and Scotmint for donation of the replica VC that now is with John Connors VC.
