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Rfn. Robert McIntosh MM.
British Army 7th Bn Kings Royal Rifle Corps
from:Atherstone, Warwickshire.
My grandfather was Robbie McIntosh, a signaller in the 7th Battalion of the Kings Royal Rifle Corps. He joined up on the 1st Sep 1914 (under age) in Crystal Palace and survived until the end of the war. He won a Military Medal for gallantry on 2nd June 1917 which was awarded by Captain M.J. St. Aubyn. We believe the medal was given when he volunteered to keep the communication lines open and crawled for many days in the mud of No Man's Land. He ran out of food and was disorientated from the shelling. He was lucky to survive. I am in possession of his papers and the award notification.
Robert McIntosh also had an older brother, Charles (Chas), who served in India (North West Frontier Expedition Medal) and France (the Retreat from Mons on the 15th July 1914, with Kitchener's Army). He became a Sgt Major, also won the Military Medal, and was apparently Mentioned in Despatches.
I also have a copy of a sad poem, "Egypt Lost", that has both my grandfather's name and that of Rifleman J.C. Lapworth, 8th Battalion written on the paper. My grandfather did not write the poem and we concluded that Rfn. Lapworth wrote it, but are not certain.
Tell me not in mournful numbers
Egypt’s but an empty dream
And the Staff that often blunders
Is the washout that they seem.
Mugs we are, as Mugs returning
To the trenches as before
With out hearts in anger burning
We, the Scapegoats of the Corp.
From the trenches, East of Ypres
We returned and blessed the day
And we mocked the Hunnish Snipers
As we West-ward wound our way
Off we went our hearts all joyous
Going to a brighter land
Where we hoped they’d soon employ us
Digging trenches in the sand.
Gladly did we send our spare kit
To the Quartermasters store
Full of Souvenirs we packed it
For we hoped we’d see no more
You; You land of Mud and Water
And it made the fellows smile
For they thought that Pharaoh’s daughter
Called them to the Sunny Nile.
But the shining vision vanished
When the order came to stay
And our fondest hopes were banished
That we’d ever get away.
Mugs we are, as Mugs returning
To the trenches as before
Doomed to rot in mud and water
Till the Hun has Lost the War.
