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It was
no small relief to those of us who remained that we had been posted to the 5th
Battalion of our own Regiment – the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders – escaping
the horrid possibility of transfer elsewhere … Excitement replaced boredom, and
spirits were remarkably heightened.
We had
come from the 3rd Battalion at Ballyvonear, Co. Cork, leaving that
Distressful Country and its troubles with few regrets.
…
A full
mile outside Poperinghe station we were incontinently dumped on the line,
greeted at a little distance by a few shell bursts … As the Pop Club had a good
reputation we drew a bead on in hopes of a meal and perhaps a bath. False hopes:
the place had been knocked in a recent raid, and was in the process of
transferring its remaining effects elsewhere. As the question of accommodation
for the night demanded urgent solution we set off in search of the Town Major,
and it took a full two hours to track that illusive individual down to his lair.
He was disposed to be off-hand and surly, but curled up when I suggested using
his telephone to call up Divisional Headquarters, suddenly finding that he could
fix us up nicely in a convent adjoining the church
…
A more
unpleasant night might conceivably have been passed in the Inquisition itself.
We were no sooner inside than shelling became brisk. The rickety old convent
quivered with every symptom of senility, decay, and a sense of impending
dissolution in which last we shared, for we were four storeys up. Someone summed
it up as “one hell of a shack”. It had been designed to house, in healthier
times, sweet young novices and others of their sex neither so young nor so
sweet, with a maximum discomfort to their bodies whatever its reaction on their
souls. Now in evil days it stank like the doss house it was … during one night’s
stay we mortified the flesh in accordance with the strickest canons. The truckle
bed in my cubicle had a broken leg; I pulled it round from under the shuttered,
blacked-out window and scrounged around until I found some wooden blocks to
wedge it. On this rocking horse I courted Morpheus, and actually fell asleep
quickly. But about 3 a.m. a thunderous explosion close at hand galvanised our
company. There followed the thrashing descent of a cascade of bricks and mortar,
and the frantic convent rocked and swayed like an aspen, shedding here and there
some bits and pieces but with Popish tenacity still maintaining its regrettable
entity. It did, however, succeed in administering to one heretic the fright of
his life. The window shutter from under which I had moved the head of my bed
broke away and crashed to the floor, one corner digging itself into the rotten
boarding sufficiently deeply to just prevent the whole contraption from falling
over my bed in its new site. The blocks slid from under the broken leg, and in
the darkness I slid out through the cubicle doorway involuntarily.
…
The
little remnant (or cadre) of the battalion suffered further casualties soon
after arriving at the new transport lines. The mail had come in, and I retired
to a small wood shanty – four wooden posts, corrugated metal walls and a
sandbagged roof supported by a heavy beam. I sat down on a rickety form, knees
bent to take my elbows as I leaned forward to catch the light from the small
doorway. Intent on my correspondence the background of shelling faded from
notice. Came a sudden breath-taking wave of concussion pounding my chest like a
hammer-stroke, and back I went, heels in the air, my head with its “tin hat”
(good steel) coming to rest well through a rent in the corrugated metal wall.
The hat, now much ajar, had raised some bruises but saved me from serious
injury. Though winded, I extricated myself with haste, noting that the roof beam
had cracked and was sagging ominously, and showers of earth and sand were
pouring down. I got clear as the whole thing subsided … An enemy shell had
landed … on an ammunition dump not more than 600 yards away, and the sky was
like a blast furnace.
…
“Don”
Company had its headquarters in the farmhouse of a smallholding several kilos
removed from the village, and when “Tiger” the billeting officer reined up his
comfortable mount with a “How-do, chaps, not much to grumble about here”, he got
a rocket from a heated Stevenson who was feeling his feet. “Dear heart”, said
Tiger, “your trouble is that you fail to see things in proper perspective. Take
a pull on yourself. Thanks to my strenuous activities you are admirably housed.
You are in the enjoyment of what almost amounts to vacant possession. I say
almost, since I observe that at this moment a very presentable little bint is
giving me the once-over from a vantage point in the garden. No extra charge, but
I shall return to see how things go. Meanwhile, cultivate health with suitable
pedestrian exercise, always remembering that you are in the P.B.I.
whose standards must be maintained. In your spare time, improve your French and
Flemish vocabulary, acquire poise which is the je ne sais quoi of light topical
conversation, swing your kilt, and believe me, one never quite knows, does one?
I think that will be all. You may fall out now.” He waved a negligent gloved
hand … leaving a steaming Steevie foaming impotently.
The 10th
of May was the third anniversary of “The Fighting Fifth’s” arrival in France,
and was celebrated by a dinner at battalion headquarters. Of the originals, St
Clair Grant – not the adjutant – was possibly the sole survivor still at the
front. The C.O’s statement that accommodation at the Chateau was too limited to
permit of all the officers sitting down together was not well received among the
company officers. It would not have been impossible to stage the meal out of
doors; short of that something could have been done to bring all the serving
officers together on such an occasion. There was a general feeling that an
opportunity had been lost. If an old regimental spirit was worth fostering at
all, now was the time to do it. Apparently Jingles
thought otherwise. As it was, some off those uninvited whose record of service
with the battalion was far longer than his own felt slighted, and bitter
comments were passed. It was a pity.
…
In the
evening a robust concert was provided by the Divisional concert troupe – “The
Thistles”, the name of course taken from the Divisional badge. For this we
repaired to Racquingham. McGreggor-Smith and his comic songs was popular, but
Quarty Jones did not appear. Boyd Scott discoursed on Scottish wit and humour,
and actually told a new anecdote about Paisley among lots of chestnuts about
Aberdeen. The men finally made the welkin ring to “Good byee”. It was quite a
show, with plenty versatility on tap.
…
On the
18th I rode out to the School of Musketry to organise the Lewis Gun
shoots. It was astonishing to discover that I was breaking new ground. There had
never been L.G. range practice here before. Consequently there were snags. The
Commandant was a dug-out old Colonel who ran to drooping grizzled moustachios, a
man of routine, out of hid depth and spluttering if the even tenor of his way
were disturbed. Although he did not quite go to the length of asking me what in
hell a Lewis Gun was, he had considerable difficulty in grasping the rather
essential fact that the target accommodation I required was for machine guns,
not rifles. When this registered he thought he could perhaps just squeeze me in
between different musketry parties on adjoining ranges; yes, that would do
nicely. I was sorry for the old boy, but I had to look after myself and told him
bluntly that it would not do at all. Was he aware of Musketry Regulations, Part
2, Para 18, with reference to danger areas, safety angles for adjoining ranges
etc. etc.? That a young infantry officer should have cognisance of such occult
matters struck him as phenomenal – “Dammit, I don’t know what to say. Tomorrow
is Sunday. I think I’d better give you the whole bloody range to yourself. Eh,
what do ye say to that?” He proffered me a cigarette, and became chatty once the
arrangement was struck. I came away with the feeling that the old boy regarded
the pending operations as extremely hazardous, and that he would keep out of the
way himself and have Sunday off. He did!
…
Morman
Fork figured in an incident some time later during an out-doing relief. I had
brought my company out so far without mishap when the road before us was heavily
bumped. Should one carry on, or make a detour (difficult, this, in the dark, and
expensive in time), or halt? I decided on the latter course, and the men spread
out along the roadside bank just clear of the Fork. For five minutes we were
ringed by shells. No one spoke; then came a break in front and I passed the word
– “get a move on”. The tail of the company was no more than 25 yards clear of
its resting place than two 5.9s landed in rapid succession just there. We had no
casualties … Intuition is not to be despised unduly. If second thoughts are best
(they often are) it can also be true that he who hesitates is lost.
…
Occasionally one had a seat in the stalls for an exciting air battle. Some times
stakes were laid on the preliminary manoeuvring for position as though the
combatants were in the boxing ring. The fight might be indecisive or trail away
out of sight, or again a lone wolf from behind a cloud might swoop down, knock
out his foe, and the first we would know of it would be the hurtling descent and
the crash in smoke and flame.
…
An
invariable feature in Flanders billets was the kitchen equipment, a small
conical stove generally piped well away from the wall, neat, economical on fuel
and when the cook had learned the trick of it an excellent cooker. This was the
land not of cakes but of omelettes, and how good they were. Tea, it is true, was
never just right, possibly because the water was chlorinated and flavoured, or
maybe because servants could not be educated out of brewing it into a state said
to be beloved by sergeant-majors. Coffee on the other hand was excellent, the
beans always freshly roasted. We fared more then tolerably well on out-spells, a
deal better than most folks back home whom the times were pinching. Army bread
was good and white, nothing like the sour stuff now supplied in Blighty. We were
not short of sugar. Butter came our way, not the filthy margarine substitute
dished out in civvy-street. In “Don” Company mess we did not indulge in the
lavish table sometimes met with, and our expenditure was within reasonable
bounds, but for all that we were well fed. Our mess corporal (lance-corporal,
unpaid), an obsequious individual called McNab, foraged for supplies together
with drinks for himself; we knew well enough that he enjoyed a very adequate
rake off if not our complete confidence. Compared with his pestilential
colleague at battalion headquarters whose fiddling must have brought him
substantial profits McNab’s operations were small beer.
…
The
Lewis Gun Officer was expected to visit all four companies in the line every
night. Under present conditions this could be and was utterly impossible. The
front was so extended that the ground simply couldn’t be covered. In parts the
line was not even continuous, merely a system of outposts, to reach which was
always time-consuming and often difficult. Distances aside, much turned on the
amount of shelling and machine gunning on tap. One never knew where and when one
might run into trouble and be held up. I did my best to arrange some sort of
routine covering as much ground as possible before the light came in, but I was
often defeated – when this occurred I used my own judgement and kept my own
counsel. I grew experienced in moving quickly when the going was good, and not
so precipitately when it wasn’t. In each company there were posts and guns to be
expected, ammunition, spares and equipment to be looked over. There were often
small repairs to be carried out on the spot so as to keep a gun in commission
rather than send it down. The rectification of lesser defects could be tricky;
it was essential not to be too ambitious. Many a time I wrestled and sweated in
a race against time to get a gun into fighting trim, working in a cubby hole or
dugout by candle light. I think I was prouder of the reputation that came to me
as a handy-man than of anything else, though secretly in dread of being caught
out by tackling too much. This work should have of course been shared with a
trained N.C.O. but the C.O. never allowed the so-called Battalion Lewis Gun
Sergeant up the line, and as I had no opinion of the abilities of this
functionary I never pressed the point. In one respect I came to rely on my
personal retainer Spotwood: when he said it was time to move it really was time
to get a move on. He had a poacher’s or gamekeeper’s sense, and just knew.
…
N.J.
took me round his line. Men were patching up a stretch blown in by a direct hit
from a 5.9 which, just twenty-four hours before, had done in Willie Cameron and
Benjie Henderson, such nice lads whose friendship had led to their being
referred to as David and Jonathan. Jones and the Sergeant-Major had been
conferring with them about a working party when a shell burst on the parapet,
the first two fell back and were uninjured, the others were blown to bits. As
Jones told me of the happening in a flat unemotional tone a deluge of gas shells
came over with their soft whistle and plopping impact, and word was passed
around to don respirators. After a little I pushed on with Spotwood, the pair of
us like anyone else wheezing and bubbling in our “hoogies”. But I found we just
couldn’t get out, for though the hat was quite local then Hun was throwing in a
bit of H.E. and had a box barrage on flanks and rear, just to keep heads down
and prevent movement. Iwas held up for forty minutes, then quite suddenly the
current was switched off and all was silent but for our A.A. guns taking on a
plane right overhead. I had a date with “B” Company in the front line at Les
Ormes and was in the act of climbing out of the trench, standing on the firestep.
The sudden screech of a falling missile made me duck, and there in the bay
beside me was an eighteen year old boy with his right arm carried off at the
shoulder by an A.A. nosecap. Poor Auchterlonie. “Oh, sir, ma erm”, he said … I
wondered if he lived, and doubted it.
…
Intelligence Officer may have been a fancy name inviting ribald comment, but the
I.O. had important functions. His duties included the leading of reconnaissance
patrols into no-man’s land, examining the enemy’s wire and our own, but such
patrols now went out mostly under company command. He collated reports of
patrols, raids and local actions, and passed them through the C.O. to the
Brigade. He sent in wind and weather reports six times daily in the twenty-four
hours. He kept numerous charts and maps up to date by information collected from
all possible channels, including aerial photos. He sited and manned observation
posts throughout the battalion area and was responsible for their proper
functioning. These and other duties, routine and incidental, fell to his lot.
Quite a job …
when I
took over and had a stab at this work for the first time I had no assistance and
no one to turn to for advice. The C.O. was remote and inaccessible, reserved for
a crisis only. The Adjutant, to whom one might normally have turned, was weighed
down by other affairs and required increasing help from me to keep the wheels
turning at all … And there were perpetual interruptions – one could settle to
nothing. I got past worrying, and apart from seeing that weather reports went in
and irregular visits to observer posts, let the Intelligence side rip. If and
when things built to a show-down I’d make no excuses but I’d have plenty to say.
Grant
[the adjutant] was a queer fellow, not at his best in double harness and no
collaborator. It was obvious to me that he was not on good terms with Jingles
whose worrying pettiness was become unbearable … But I got the impression that
there had been a serious row between them, and suddenly realised that Grant was
wearing badly and looked ill … He avoided the mess … in the orderly room he
barked at everyone with a degree of ill-temperament that passed all bounds …
There was something brewing in this damned culvert that seemed to breed
homicidal tendencies all round. We were all short of sleep … During this spell I
achieved about an hour and a half in the twenty-four hours in bed, always with
interruptions and disturbances, or once or twice as much as two hours but never
more.
…
Next
afternoon the C.O. announced (very properly) that he would have a look see
himself, to check up of course [on a previous patrol made down the Meteran
Becque from Tunis House to Brahmin Bridge] … The C.O. strode forward into No
Man’s Land as if monarch of all he surveyed, well away from the becque. I
trailed him with growing apprehension. I felt certain that he had lost his
bearings and had no appreciation of the lie of the land. Just exactly when were
we going to bump into a Boche post? I thought, “My God, this is going to turn it
now, alright To hell with his delicate susceptibilities, the silly cookoo.” I
said sharply, “Are you aware, sir, that we are almost on top of the Boche front
line?” So long as I checked his progress what did it matter if he didn’t like
it?
He
wheeled round on me, lips open to rend me, and precisely then a machine gun to
the right flank stuttered and opened up on us. Bullets split the air at our very
ears. Jingles dropped so suddenly that I thought he was hit. For my own part I
struck the ground an almighty whack when I got there. “Are you alright, sir?” I
asked, and gathered from a stream of imprecations that the answer was in the
affirmative.
…
By now
St. Clair Grnat was everything that an adjutant shouldn’t be. Normally well and
sprucely turned out, his uniform hung about him with no more cut or shape than a
sandbag. He looked and was a very ill man, so very obviously that the C.O. could
not have failed to take not of his condition, yet he … did nothing. I confess
that though he had always kept me at arm’s length I was genuinely sorry for him,
and I honestly tried to lighten his burden and shoulder much of his work. But he
had a devil of suspicion and resentment in him as if convinced that I was trying
to oust him from his job, while the truth was that the prospect of having to
take over if and when he went down really put the wind up me. I couldn’t bear to
think much about it, for I felt pretty foul myself, about the end of my tether
…on second thoughts a number of those present [in the orderly room] looked
anything but fit.
…
the
Brigade enjoined the carrying out of a raid in force in front of Meteran so as
to secure identification of the enemy units confronting us. At all events
Jingles got orders to this effect, with the most unfortunate results. The
epidemic [of trench fever] may have hit us no harder than other battalions – I
cannot say, but I do know that we were much too dérangé to be in fettle for such
an operation. We were due to side-slip from our present position very shortly;
this was to be our swan-song here. As a result of Aussie activities it was
decided that a day raid was inadvisable since the Hun was likely to have lost
his taste for napping in the morning, so it was to be a night affair following
on softening of the objective by trench mortars. “B” Company … went over the
bags after one minute’s Stokes [mortar] barrage. The raid was a complete fiasco
– all we collected was a number of casualties, and no identification.
…
[After
evacuation with trench fever to the coast.] To add insult to injury certain
baser elements in R.A.M.C. had relieved me of just those sundries of dress as
assume inherent importance if one is shorn of them – collar and tie, studs, gold
tie-pin and gold cuff-links. Until I could do some shopping I was dependant on
borrowing. Apparently this was no uncommon or unique experience. Light fingered
gentry occurred in all units but possible enjoyed fullest scope in the R.A.M.C.
whose symbols were apt to be interpreted by sufferers as “Rob All My Comrades”.
…
A letter
dated 16th July: “This morning between stand-to and stand-down, soon
after the light had come in, there was a most wonderful sky picture, the like of
which I had never seen. All the riches of the spectrum were there, but it was
the rapidity of transition from one colour to another that was so particularly
beautiful. It was as if an unseen artist with the whole firmament as his canvas
kept splashing on primary colours which straightaway rushed together, commingled
and ran through the range of every conceivable, intermediate tint, dissolving,
reintegrating, forming new combinations and patterns. There never was a
kaleidoscope that could even hint at such a display. Everyone watched
spellbound. Eventually a vivid lilac hue prevailed and spread over all, a lovely
if inauspicious augury of what was to follow. A thunderstorm of incredible fury
swept over us – I couldn’t have imagined it outside the tropics. Here, there,
everywhere the atmosphere surcharged with electricity burst into flame in
simultaneous and repeated discharges. There were great broad sheets of
lightening with prodigious flashes, interspersed with vicious forks and zig-zags.
As for the thunder, there is no poetic licence in asserting that the welkin
really did ring and boom and crash. I can record it, but description is beyond
me. It eclipsed the sound of the guns on both sides, and I was informed by a
gunner later that they all closed down … I should have thought that serving a
gun in an electrical storm was a poor insurance risk, but I speak as an
infantryman without expertise.
And then
the deluge. It lasted for perhaps half an hour, and in volume it exceeded all
expectations. In a twinkling the trenches were awash, in five minutes many of
them were toppling, and when it was all over there were long and short stretches
where caving-in had just obliterated them. Where they continued to exist the
mess was unbelievable. But my own luck was uncanny. The gradient of the trench
floor outside my own cubby was steep, and I was a good 18 ins. Above it, hiding
in a recess below the parapet. Over my head was a substantial roof with a good
ton of earth well jacked up. There had been growing corn on top, now of course
laid flat. Not a drop of water came through. I peered our anxiously.
Clay-reddened water angrily poured down the conduit, just clear of my Plimsol
line, on its way to join the flow down hill, already waist deep…”
…
We
dodged across, I first, then the guide and Spot[wood] as his rear-guard. Then we
were ‘there’. Auntie was hugely delighted to see me: what a welcome. He had a
devilish three-cornered bit of line to hold, with Jerry to the front, to a flank
and partly to his rear. A pocket that could be pinched off neatly, ironed or
mortared out as soon as the spirit moved the enemy. Most of Auntie’s men had
been loaned for a working party elsewhere, but it was hard to imagine how a
platoon could be accommodated here at all. For all practical purposes there was
no line here to hold. A trench had been roughly sited; it had never been
excavated. Where it was other than non-existent it was nowhere more than three
feet deep. And to crown everything Auntie had apparently no real conception of
his precarious position.
He had
no trench experience to speak of, and thought that his situation was quite
normal for an outpost. He had been told that he mustn’t disclose himself by
digging, so he didn’t dig. The Boche was quite near, but the corn gave cover
from view. What about cover from fire? I asked? “Well, old boy”, he said,
glancing around “there is not a great deal we can do about it here beyond
getting down when things fly about. It’s fairly hot, sometimes.” I’ll bet it
was. I confess that I shivered as I too looked around. I was scared stiff.
Time was
short. I had other platoons to visit. Auntie had two Lewis guns. They were
unsited, so I saw to that, feeling that they were as much use to him as a brace
of blunderbusses. As to the condition of the so-called trench, I told him
quietly he must get cracking at once – get down, and to hell with non-digging
orders. He was in charge, wasn’t he? To hell with back-boys orders … any man
with trench-nouse who saw it would dig with pick and shovel, trenching tool,
finger nails failing anything else, and wouldn’t think of stopping for a rest
till a good six feet down, not before. There wasn’t a fire-step in the whole
lay-out; how did he think he could repel the Boches if they came over? … I threw
out some practical suggestions as to how best to dispose of and camouflage fresh
soil. I stressed the necessity for working quietly. I did my best to jag him out
of his coma without converting his state into one of jitters. He listened
carefully … then gave a wry smile. “I’ve been a clot, of course. I just didn’t
know the drill – nobody told me. Thank God for a decent instructor and a real
friend.” He grasped my hand and … was not far from tears at that moment.
…
Now the
sun was bright and strong, ushering in a warm July day. The writhing curly
morning mists had gone, the plain was tricked out in patterns of green, light
and dark brown here and there tinting in sepia and ochre, the far distance in a
shimmering blue. The sky was clear but for a few high patches of cirrus cloud.
Larks were singing. I looked it over – a beautiful setting, for what? Still
waiting … The present with its hateful tedium was ticking over … Some had been
dozing, some smoking, some conversing, passing the time somehow, no matter how.
Now all were passive: just waiting … How long to zero hour? Officers’ watches
had been synchronised – time to gird up our loins. We were ready. A last look at
rifle, bayonet, equipment, with studied unconcern, but the air had suddenly
become tense. “Half a minute to go, boys”, I said, letting wrist and watch drop.
“Wait for it.”
It came
with an unbelievable ear-splitting crash merging into a continuous roar. We were
off. Within seconds a yawning crater opened up at our feet, and showers of
earth, stones and splinters whirled about us. The ground we trod on heaved. My
group split automatically, jog-trotted around the gaping hole, joined up and
kept going. Already the smoke was thick – we kept our eyes skinned. It was
impossible to [know] how many yards visibility we had – not many. We approached
some red-leaded Nissen huts. It was near here that I glimpsed a shell hole with
some dead bodies heaped together. Were they tartan clad? I couldn’t be sure. I
recalled Auntie, [and his death] and pressed on. It was hard going on rough
ground. Like the men I was carrying rifle, bayonet, equipment and shovel.
Additionally, revolver on belt, and a “Bisley bandolier” of revolver rounds
strapped to each wrist for quick reloading.
“Don”
Company’s right flank crossed the Axe Hill road and passed through the remnants
of the house where the village thinned out. We found ourselves in an orchard,
and as the barrage moved forward I heard the sound of heavy machine gun fire
ahead and to the left. Then the smoke cleared sufficiently to disclose a
straggling hedge crossing our front obliquely, lined by Jerry gunners. A barrage
of H.E. does not creep … but lifts and jumps, clearing a space on the ground …
Here the barrage had obviously come down on one side of the hedge and lifted
over it, leaving enemy details intact oblique on this stretch … I saw some of my
men mown down. Everybody was prone myself included as a stream of bullets
whipped past me. Some lads were using their rifles. My first clear view of a
Boche was a man getting off at a run from behind the hedge. I had a crack at him
and missed, slipping sideways into a crump hole just as I pressed the trigger.
Then two more rabbits: I steadied myself and got them both – that was for Auntie
for a start. Then I realised, as I should have done straight away without
indulging in snap shooting that “B” Company men were mixed up with mine, and
that our front wave had been held up here. Shouting directions was hopeless in
this din; I got up, waved a bunch of forward, and led them at a rush. This was
bayonet work, and we cleared that hedge in a trice … It was the only concerted
resistance we encountered on our company front till our objective was reached.
Meantime, we linked up again and pushed on.
As I
passed through a gap in the hedge I threw over a Boche Maxim on its mounting. To
have turned it on the Huns now running helter-skelter down the reverse slope of
the hill would have been a joy, but many of them were behind our own men who
pushed through and forward. Incidentally this particular gun had continued to
fire until we were almost on top of it when the man behind it stuck up his arms
in the Kamerad act. A big man over six-foot, that Jerry, but what could he
expect? He got no quarter from a Glaswegian using his bayonet with a will for
the first time; he wasn’t more than 5 ft. 3 ins. at most, but he had seen his
comrades shot down. Beyond the hedge were cubbies and dug-out used by the
gunners, now either scuppered or on their way towards Berlin. Not all of them,
though. Mopping up was a dirty job. The men had been warned not to take chances
… because the enemy so often proved himself treacherous. Despite warnings we
lost a number of men done in by Huns who made a show of surrendering and then
resisted. I am not likely to forget an individual who emerged from a lair at my
feet, his hands high above his head, but he had an egg-bomb in his right fist
9the only bomb I saw in the show). I had slung my rifle with its empty magazine,
my Webley grasped at the waist until there was time to reload. Our eyes met, he
meant business, and I plugged him, instantly flinging myself flat. The bomb did
not explode. I put the revolver away, reloaded the rifle and got to my feet, to
be confronted by another Boche carrying an automatic. Just three feet away. And
at that instant a heavy blow struck me full on the pack strapped between my
shoulders, flinging me forward involuntarily bayonet first. Caput! I had been
struck by a fragment from a trench mortar dump which was pooping off in the
village. The pack and its contents had saved my back, the bayonet my life …
Crowded
moments. I had no notion of how long the rushing of machine guns and the hand to
hand encounters took. We advanced across the main road to Bailleul, mopping up
as we went. No smoke now. The men were well in their stride, if anything
pressing forward rather too much. There were lots of Huns breaking cover to be
dealt with. The din of the barrage was still deafening, with additional periodic
major explosions from the dump in Meteren.
I
trotted along what I took to be my own front, signalling to bunches of men to
spread out; among them were numbers of lads from “B” Company who should have
been elsewhere. It was quite impossible to issue orders by word of mouth, and
nothing but hand signals could be understood. While so engaged, but unknown to
me then, it seems that I had a narrow shave from a wounded Boche whom I passed
but did not see. He was going through the motions of putting [a] bullet through
my back when a youth called Spalding who was trailing me almost fell over him.
He kicked the weapon from his hands and jumped on his face with both feet. Why
record so horrible an occurrence? The answer must be that if I have chosen to
suppress my qualms in the matter, I must not suppress what as horrible if this
record is to be … a true and factual story …
We had
now emerged into open country, with a first vista down the reverse slope of the
ridge crowned by the ruined village. We looked downhill over the Meteren Veldt
stretching away towards Armentieres, faintly seen behind distant woodlands. I
didn’t spare any time on the prospect. Only a few Boche were visible in the
foreground now, and it seemed to be that too many of our own people were
wandering around aimlessly or indulging in stupid chases in attempts to take
prisoner fugitives racing in front of us but still to the rear of our front line
wave. I was annoyed at the attention given to one lumbering fellow on our left
flank who had broken through our moppers-up, dodging and doubling like a hare,
outdistancing all pursuit. What were our chaps thinking about? In a sudden flare
of anger I lay down, took quick aim and fired. He bounced into the air and fell
over, no one more surprised than myself. I was pulled to my feet by a full
private (under-keeper and deer-stalker by occupation) who clapped me vigorously
on the shoulder and pronounced in a foghorn voice, “Eh, man, if you are no’ the
bonny boy with a service rifle. He was a wheen over a hunner yairds, that yin,
I’ll say.” I managed to grin at him, though the truth was I had a revulsion in
feeling. I shrugged my sore shoulders and told myself “another one for Auntie.”
We moved
into standing corn and I tried to introduce some order into the mopping up.
There were still furtive Jerries lying or crawling on hands or knees. A covey of
three was flushed from a cleverly concealed cubby and taken prisoner, going to
join the ranks of goodish batches now passing back … They were a motley crowd.
The well set-up soldierly type were in the minority, many of the younger brands
were pretty awful specimens, sloppy and bedraggled … the majority showed relief
or even definite joy at the prospect of being out of the war for keeps … No for
the first time shrapnel bursting in the air to our front was giving the
prearranged signal: objective reached, dig in. The first headache now was going
to be just where to dig, identifying map references on strange ground; the next
would be setting down quickly enough. Our position was open and exposed – how
[long] would the Boche plastering which was bound to come be deferred?
… I had
got a fair proportion of my half company collected when Jones and Fraser
appeared … N.J. radiated satisfaction and determination, and the men took note
of the fact that the skipper was well pleased at the way things had gone. He
raised a laugh by telling them that they looked like a lot of miners, but there
was going to be a long shift of overtime before a bath came along.
We
conferred hurriedly … I [went] forward to the front line to bring back “Don”
Company men still with “B” Company. We had to get cracking, Spot[wood] and I,
but we were watchful in the corn. Firing was going on in a small basin of ground
in the centre of which was an empty, dilapidated hand cart, and a certain N.C.O.
quite on his own was slamming round after round into it. We approached him
carefully from behind; the chap was off his rocker, under the impression that he
was slaying his thousands. I clapped my revolver to his head and Spot[wood]
disarmed him … we pushed him along and handed him over to “B” Company where he
belonged … His condition was run-induced …
He
wasn’t the only one in “B” Company who had gone to pieces. The Company Commander
was wild with excitement, dancing about like a marionette, issuing volleys of
orders to which no-one was paying the slightest attention … he foamed at the
mouth, threatened to place me under arrest and became really obstructive … I
left him muttering, having raked in about a score of men, and pushed them uphill
in top gear.
Jones
had a pitifully small party at work on the most exposed part of the new line,
but by great good luck we were able to make use of a nicely converted
slip-trench further along, extending it at both ends. It was a gift indeed, for
if the worst came to the worst we could crush in there under something like
cover.
…
The men
were obviously very tired now. They had stuck to the digging well, but some were
showing signs of exhaustion and one or two flopped out. I felt I had been on my
feet for hours and glanced at my watch in disbelief when I found it registered
precisely thirty-five minutes after zero-hour.
…
I wrote
from Hondeghem: “A warm, overcast day. I write at a farm kitchen window, looking
out over a well stocked vegetable garden to broad sweeps of grain awaiting the
reaper. The farmers are woefully short-handed … Every available pair of civilian
hands are occupied. Women of course predominate, though they don’t run to dust
coats, smart breeches, long boots and green scarves – not that there is anything
against these charming accessories which our own Land Girls wear, but quite
simply, I suppose, because the proximity of the front and lack of means or even
of desire to dress up cuts out everything but bare essentials.
…
In one
of my censoring stint at Details I was confronted by two letters in identical
handwriting, one addressed to “My dear Wife”, the second to “My dear Marie” – at
different addresses. The first was a short and unemotional communication, the
second unrestrainedly erotic. Marie was a casual acquaintance who had once given
the scribe “a very, very good time”, and he looked forward to remeeting her.
Rightly or wrongly, I sent for the man, who turned out to be a Romeo, aged 19,
of not very striking exterior. I tossed him the letters and asked him to make
sure that they were alright. They were. Quite O.K.
I put it
to him: “Suppose the Censor were to make a sad mistake. Suppose he was careless
enough to enclose the letter to Marie to your wife. Still O.K.?” His face
blanched. He managed to quaver, “You wouldn’t do that, sir?” I told him, of
course not. I was a censor of letters, not of morals, and if he still wanted
both letters sent off he could close them down now. I just wanted him to decide
for himself. “I’m not a married man myself, so I mustn’t advise you”. Marie’s
letter was withdrawn, whether for redrafting or not I cannot tell. We had a
short chat outside the scope of King’s regulations, and I had the impression the
husband bore me no grudge.
…
Kodak
Farm alongside the Butts and not far from the Highlandman’s Trench gave me the
same sort of misgivings that Prospect Farm had bred. Cooking for the whole
battalion was carried out in its large kitchen. Rows of dixies were piled on the
stone floor on the centre of which was a great fire over which they were hung in
turn. Windows were boarded up and cracks and holes in walls and roof carefully
stuffed to effect a blackout. Smoke did not matter at night, and escaped how and
where it might, but I never stayed there long enough to find out how the cooks
became innured to the pungent atmosphere – I dived for the cellar with
streaming, smarting eyes. Presumably the policy of “chancing one’s arm” with
mass cooking so that the troops in the adjacent trenches could get really hot
meals was justifiable, but with Jerry in his present mood the risks were
considerable.
…
I
decided to try a spot of organisation in Highlandman’s Trench. The battalion
boasted of six Lewis gunds earmarked for A.A. work and fitted with forward area
A.A. sights…
I
selected two gun teams, briefed them and swore them to secrecy. The guns were so
sited as to secure cross-fire, for Jerry always seemed to arrive from the same
direction. He didn’t turn up next morning, but the next again when the light was
coming in a little before stand-down I heard his engine before I could actually
see him. I thrashed along to the nearest post and dived for the gun … With a
corporal actng as my No 1 I was all set as Jerry came flicking along, slightly
to the front of the trench and not more than 200 feet up. It was a gift. Over
open sights I got him with the first burst, held him, and poured a whole drum
into him. Tracer bullets with their luminous trail were interspersed through the
rounds one in seven; one could see them whang into the fuselage sparking nicely.
The pilot twisted and banked. I had the empty drum off in flash and my No 1
clapped a refill on the magazine post like an expert. My right hand flew for the
cocking handle: it wasn’t there! The gun had been faultily assembled, and could
not be recocked without stripping. I could have wept with mortification. To make
matters worse, the bright lads on the other gun down the trench never came into
action at all.
Jerry
did a right-angle turn and mushed for his own lines. His course was unusually
erratic, though how much from damage or from craft I couldn’t guess … I watched
his exit in silence, picked up the missing cocking-piece from the trench floor,
tossed it up in my palm and chucked it disdainfully on the firestep. I surveyed
the gun team coldly, shrugged my shoulders and stalked away – they looked
miserable. So did the other team when I had finished with them. They hadn’t been
standing-to properly.
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