“My little soldier”

The funeral of James Idle in the village of Hullavington, on August 29, 1914.

Picture the British countryside and the chances are that you are picturing the unmatched beauty of the Cotswolds, in England’s green heart, west of London. Picture the Cotswolds, and you have in your mind’s eye a place like Hullavington: a handful of cottages, some thatched, but all clustered around a village green, a duck pond and a church. The latter will most likely be ancient, 600 or 700 years old, and its graveyard will be filled with generation after generation of villagers, the same family names carved on tombstones that echo down the centuries even as they weather into slabs of rock.

Visit the church at Hullavington, though, and your eye will soon be drawn to one century-old grave, placed against a bank of ivy and remarkable not merely for its pristine whiteness, but also for the identity of the young man buried there. James Idle, who died a couple of miles away late in August 1914, was a soldier who had no family or friends in the village; indeed, in all likelihood he’d never even been there when he was killed guarding a railway in the very first month of the First World War. But Idle’s funeral—held a few days later in the presence of a handful of men from his regiment and a gaggle of respectful villagers—inspired a remarkable response in one girl who witnessed it. Marjorie Dolman was only 9 years old when she watched the soldier being carried to his grave; she is probably among the village girls pictured in the contemporary postcard shown above. Yet something about the funeral touched her so deeply that, from then until almost the end of her life (and she died aged 99), she made it her unbidden duty to lay fresh flowers daily on Private Idle’s grave.

“On the day of the funeral,” records her fellow villager, Dave Hunt, “she picked her first posy of chrysanthemums from her garden and placed them at the graveside. Subsequently she laid turf and planted bulbs and kept the head stone scrubbed. On Remembrance Sunday she would lay red roses.”

A steam train hurtles through Hullavington station in the 1950s, a mile or two from the viaduct where James Idle met his death. Trains on this dead-straight stretch of the line often exceeded speeds of 90 miles per hour, making them an unexpectedly deadly hazard for troops who were unfamiliar with the area.

In time, Dolman began to think of Private Idle as her own “little soldier”; as a teenager, she came to see it as her duty to tend a grave that would otherwise have been neglected. “When the soldiers marched off,” she recalled not long before her own death, “I can remember feeling sad because the grave looked so miserable,” and even at age 9, she understood that Idle’s family and friends would not be able to visit him. The boy soldier (contemporary sources give his age as 19) came from the industrial town of Bolton, in the north of England, 150 miles away, and had they wished to make the journey, and been able to afford it, wartime restrictions on travel would have made it impossible.

“I suppose it was only a schoolgirl sweetness at the time,” reminisced Dolman, who at a conservative estimate laid flowers at the grave more than 31,000 times. “But as the years went by the feelings of grief became maternal.”

James Idle’s death took place such a long time ago, and so early in a cataclysm that would claim 16 million other lives, that it is perhaps not surprising that the exact circumstances of his death are no longer remembered in Hullavington. A little research in old newspapers, however, soon uncovers the story, which is both tragic and unusual—for Private Idle was not only one of the first British troops to die in the war; he also met his death hundreds of miles from the front line, before even being sent to France.

According to the Manchester Courier, published only a few miles from Idle’s Bolton home, the boy died a sadly unnecessary death, “cut to pieces by an express train…while guarding a viaduct at Rodbourne, Malmesbury,” not far from the spot where he was buried. A report of the inquest into the incident, published a few days later in the Western Daily Press, suggests his death was frankly puzzling. Another private in Idle’s regiment, the 5th Royal North Lancashire Territorials, who witnessed it, attributed the incident to the fact that “he had new boots on, and these apparently caused him to slip.” But another soldier saw things differently:

At 12.30 (mid-day), when Idle was proceeding down the line, witness [Private Joseph Houghton] saw the Bristol to London express train approaching. Idle was on the same side as the train and facing it. Witness shouted to him a warning, but instead of stepping aside Idle turned around and walked up the line. He seemed to have lost his head, for he took no notice of witness’s shouts.

Unable to solve this mystery, the coroner (that is, the medical examiner) recorded a verdict of accidental death. Further investigation, though, reveals one other oddity about the railway at the point where Idle died: a long stretch of dead-straight main line track, running through Hullavington and on for several miles, allowed expresses to reach speeds of almost 100 miles per hour, suggesting that perhaps Idle—who cannot have been familiar with the district—badly underestimated how rapidly the train that killed him was approaching.

Whatever the truth, a death that in normal circumstances would have been swept away and soon forgotten in the maelstrom of the First World War gained a strange and enduring nobility from a young girl’s actions. Marjorie Dolman’s lifetime of devotion was eventually recognized, in 1994, when the British Army held a special service at the grave and commemorated Private Idle with full military honors. And when Marjorie herself died in 2004, she was laid to rest close to her little soldier, in the same village she had lived in all her life.


‘Territorial killed on the railway.’ Western Daily Press, August 28, 1914; ‘Three territorials dead.’ Manchester Courier, August 28, 1914; ‘Territorial’s sad death.’ Western Daily Press, August 31, 1914; Dave Hunt. ‘Private J. Idle and a visit to the Somme Battlefields.’ Hullavington Village Website, nd (c. 2007); Richard Savill. ‘Girl’s lifetime of devotion to “little soldier.”‘ Daily Telegraph [London]. December 6, 2004.

6 thoughts on ““My little soldier”

  1. Haunting…literally! And what a great story for a ghostly tale, should one be inclined to borrow from this sadness and write, write, write…

  2. The young soldiers grave that was so tenderly cared for is my great grand uncle James Idle. My great grandmother Bertha was his sister, who also died young in 1916. I cannot thank Marjorie Dolman enough for the love she showed him all those years and am pleased that she now lies near ‘her soldier’. Thank you so much for the article above and on my next journey to UK I will make sure I place flowers on Marjories grave as a thankyou.

  3. i am Marjorie Dolman’s grandson, and just want to say that my grandmother is buried in hullavington graveyard not in the the churchyard.

  4. just an extra bit of info,the little solder is laid to rest in the churchyard and my grandmother is buried in hullavington graveyard which is the other side of the village with her husband.

  5. Similar kind of story in the news today. From the BBC:

    Mystery visitor to boy’s grave in Gloucestershire, sought by sister

    A mystery person who has been tending a boy’s grave in Gloucestershire is being sought by his sister.

    Karl Smith was just 12 when he drowned on a scouting trip in 1947. He was buried at St Mary’s Church in Prestbury near Cheltenham.

    For the last 20 years flowers and poems have been appearing on his grave, according to his sister Ann Kear.

    She said: “They’re never signed, so someone wishes to remain incognito but I would love to speak to them.”

    Ms Kear’s brother was on a scouting trip to Oxwich Bay near Swansea in August 1947, when the troop stopped at a village and were instructed not to go in the water.

    “Boys being boys, they apparently saw the sea, wanted to get in and so they were in,” she said.

    “But when they got them back out, there was one missing and that was Karl. They searched and he was face down in the water.”

    ‘Grave tended’
    Ms Kear said she visits Prestbury cemetery each Christmas but has been finding “someone else has put something on the grave”.

    “It’s either a sprig of holly, sometimes it’s been a little sheaf of corn nicely wrapped and also some words of tribute – quotations from poems,” she said.

    “This time the grave has been tended and some flowers have been planted.”

    Ms Kear, who was just seven when her brother died, said she left a laminated message at the grave for the person seven years ago but has “not heard anything”.

    “They’re never signed but it’s very neat writing and sort of an elderly hand,” she said.

    “But I would love to speak to them, remembering Karl would be wonderful – absolutely wonderful.”

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