Private
George Bowman
5493 10th Lancashire Fusiliers
Died 20th November 1915, aged 23
Lived at Ardwick Street
Buried in Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, Belgium
Burnley Express 11th December 1915
Commemorated
on Elim Primitive Methodists Memorial
“DEATH OUR PAY”
Burnley Soldier’s Pathetic Message.
(Burnley Express 11/12/15)
Definite news has been received by Mrs Bowman, of 101 Ardwick Street,
Burnley, of the death of her husband, Private George Bowman, of the 10th
Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers. While serving in France. An officer writes;
“It is with the deepest regret that I inform you of the death of
your husband. His death from pneumonia was announced to us while we were
in the trenches on the night of the 20th November, being the date on which
he died in the hospital. You might of heard officially from the War Office
before now, and I expect that you will have received the news before this
letter arrives. May I express my deepest sympathy with you, but at any
rate you have the honour of knowing that he died for his country. His
burial, I can assure you, will be carried out in the correct manner according
to his religion.” Other letters state that on November 19th a shell
burst in a dug-out next to the one in which Private Bowman was, and he
was one of those injured in the explosion. He only lived a day.
Private Bowman was 23 years of age, and up to enlisting in September of
last year was working as a twister at Coronation Mill. He was married
two years ago last February, and leaves one little boy. His letters home
were often written in rhyme, and a pathetic interest attaches to the following,
addressed “To my dear wife Mary.”
Though far away I roam,
I often think of you at home;
And in my dreams I seem to see
Myself at home with a happy family.
But when I awake I feel so sad
When I think again of you and the lad,
And in my heart I often say,
May this dark cloud pass away.
But when the shells begin to roar,
This I think again of home once more;
But duty first is our own say,
Been through death may be our pay.
It may be, dear wife, we have met for the last,
So I beg of you not to think of the past;
But look to the day when we will meet again,
Where wars no longer will remain.
