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Showing posts with label Forster. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Forster. Show all posts
17th to 21st August 1917
For the next fourteen days I lost my identity. In due course I was able to turn my head and take stock of my surroundings. The man on my left was in a very bad way. His right arm had been blown off at the shoulder and for most of the time he was delirious. On my right was a little artillery man whose chest was no more than one pulpy mass of raw flesh caused by the searing liquid from a gas shell that has burst at his feet. He was a cheerful soul although his agony must have been acute. The only other patient within my view was a very young Canadian in the bed opposite who continually groaned and called loudly for the sister. Experience had taught us that dangerously wounded men lay quiet and still and by the same token the noisy ones are, to say the least, not on the danger list. It is pertinent to note that in K Ward with perhaps forty to fifty occupied beds almost complete silence reigned throughout the day and night except for occasional outbursts from the young Canadian.
Although I had to remain flat on my back I was reasonably comfortable, but the hours passed slowly and I had all the time in the world in which to review the happenings of the last few months. I recalled particularly that sun-drenched Sunday evening on the road to Ivergny when much to Bradley’s disgust I had opted for a blighty. The gods had been good to me – they had met me halfway with a gentle reminder by way of the solar plexus that it was not for mere mortals to strike a bargain. I remembered the impetigo that on the 16th August practically covered the whole of my face despite the efforts of the Regimental MO. My fingers explored the affected parts and I was surprised to find the skin completely free from those nauseating scabs. Clearly the art of blood letting as practised in the 18th century still had something to commend it!
Remembering Bradley, Forster, Willis, Killick (who loved to talk of his wife and two small girls) and a host of others I had left behind and wondering if I should ever see them again I felt helpless and alone.
Dressings began at a fantastically early hour and my purgatory usually lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The hole in the stomach was cleaned and after much probing with tweezers the sister proceeded to stuff it with masses of cottonwool, plugging into all corners with a gold probe. Next came the placing of four rubber “Canoll tubes” over the wound and these were tightly secured with many layers of rat-tailed bandage. The other end of the tubes broadened out into little funnels which were attached at the neck by adhesive tape. The next operation, repeated every few hours, was less painful but incommoding. One half pint of warm Lysol was poured into each funnel, reached its allotted target and overflowed in all directions. Occasionally the sister, a hefty Scottish Canadian woman, would change the bed by lifting me bodily with one arm, whipping out the sodden sheets and replacing them with dry ones – only to return shortly afterwards to pour in two more pints of Lysol.
For those who were fit to take everything on the menu the food was superb. Breakfast usually consisted of boiled eggs which often had pencilled on them get well messages with names and addresses of kind old ladies back in England. For elevenses one glass of Guinness together with jelly and blancmange. A second glass of Guinness preceded a chicken lunch. Most of the men were hand fed by the one ward sister who attended to all the dressings and it was not until evening that her duties were finished. Tremendous effort by a wonderful person. Occasionally an RAMC orderly would assist in the more menial tasks but his appearances on the ward were rare.
As darkness fell the night sister took over. Lights were extinguished except for two low powered bulbs at either end of the marquee. With a hurricane lamp more appropriate to the days of Florence Nightingale the sister walked down the quiet ward and briefly inspected each patient who should by then have been asleep. On the third night she stopped at my bed, held up the lamp and said “Why aren’t you asleep number 27?” I could think of no reason and she promised to find something to send me off. She returned with a large glass of rich ruby port, a most efficacious draught! The next night and the following night number 27 was again wide awake. The same question and the same comforting glass of port ensued. After several nights of this the sister wearied of making a special journey back to the dispensary and during the rest of my stay in K Ward she came on duty with the hurricane lamp in one hand and a glass of port in the other. I was invariably awake. We both understood the situation perfectly. There was no need for conversation.
Although I had to remain flat on my back I was reasonably comfortable, but the hours passed slowly and I had all the time in the world in which to review the happenings of the last few months. I recalled particularly that sun-drenched Sunday evening on the road to Ivergny when much to Bradley’s disgust I had opted for a blighty. The gods had been good to me – they had met me halfway with a gentle reminder by way of the solar plexus that it was not for mere mortals to strike a bargain. I remembered the impetigo that on the 16th August practically covered the whole of my face despite the efforts of the Regimental MO. My fingers explored the affected parts and I was surprised to find the skin completely free from those nauseating scabs. Clearly the art of blood letting as practised in the 18th century still had something to commend it!
Remembering Bradley, Forster, Willis, Killick (who loved to talk of his wife and two small girls) and a host of others I had left behind and wondering if I should ever see them again I felt helpless and alone.
Dressings began at a fantastically early hour and my purgatory usually lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The hole in the stomach was cleaned and after much probing with tweezers the sister proceeded to stuff it with masses of cottonwool, plugging into all corners with a gold probe. Next came the placing of four rubber “Canoll tubes” over the wound and these were tightly secured with many layers of rat-tailed bandage. The other end of the tubes broadened out into little funnels which were attached at the neck by adhesive tape. The next operation, repeated every few hours, was less painful but incommoding. One half pint of warm Lysol was poured into each funnel, reached its allotted target and overflowed in all directions. Occasionally the sister, a hefty Scottish Canadian woman, would change the bed by lifting me bodily with one arm, whipping out the sodden sheets and replacing them with dry ones – only to return shortly afterwards to pour in two more pints of Lysol.
For those who were fit to take everything on the menu the food was superb. Breakfast usually consisted of boiled eggs which often had pencilled on them get well messages with names and addresses of kind old ladies back in England. For elevenses one glass of Guinness together with jelly and blancmange. A second glass of Guinness preceded a chicken lunch. Most of the men were hand fed by the one ward sister who attended to all the dressings and it was not until evening that her duties were finished. Tremendous effort by a wonderful person. Occasionally an RAMC orderly would assist in the more menial tasks but his appearances on the ward were rare.
As darkness fell the night sister took over. Lights were extinguished except for two low powered bulbs at either end of the marquee. With a hurricane lamp more appropriate to the days of Florence Nightingale the sister walked down the quiet ward and briefly inspected each patient who should by then have been asleep. On the third night she stopped at my bed, held up the lamp and said “Why aren’t you asleep number 27?” I could think of no reason and she promised to find something to send me off. She returned with a large glass of rich ruby port, a most efficacious draught! The next night and the following night number 27 was again wide awake. The same question and the same comforting glass of port ensued. After several nights of this the sister wearied of making a special journey back to the dispensary and during the rest of my stay in K Ward she came on duty with the hurricane lamp in one hand and a glass of port in the other. I was invariably awake. We both understood the situation perfectly. There was no need for conversation.
14th August 1917
Forster and I were bemoaning our lot when the 5.9 shell (1) burst not many yards to my right. My companion was untouched but I felt a slight clip on my right hand and another in the solar plexus. My first thought was to get rid of the hitherto forgotten grenades that I now regarded as a menace. Forster removed them from my pockets and expected me to tell him what to do with them – my reply was not in the best of good taste. Stretcher-bearer Brompton was soon on the spot and I offered him the packet of field dressings, which each man had sewn into the bottom edge of his tunic. “Mustn’t use that stuff old boy, just had information from top brass that iodine on open wounds destroys the tissues.” This was a remarkable discovery by the medics after three years of bloody warfare but it gave me the opportunity to add one ampoule of iodine to my collection of souvenirs. Brompton applied his own brand of antiseptic before he left to get stretcher help. He instructed me to lie quite still and on no account to eat or drink. Meanwhile the shelling increased and the promised stretcher never came. Someone, I know not who, laid me in the ditch inside the “Dugout” and thoughtfully covered me with an enormous field grey overcoat. It was here that Bradley, cheerful as ever, sought me out and kept me company as long as he dared. I was never to see his beaming face again.
Throughout the remainder of the night Jargon Trench was subjected to intense bombardment rising to crescendo at dawn when the Germans attacked. By this time, as a result of the continuous explosions, the shelter had disintegrated and collapsed. I was buried under a mass of wooden planks, corrugated iron and mud. I buried my head like an ostrich. From Jargon Trench came the continuous rattle of machine gun and rifle fire. Our men were soon driven back from the advance position and Jargon Trench became cluttered with men and casualties. Corporals Taylor and Johnson, both wounded in the legs, joined me but what happened to them afterwards I never found out.
Sometimes in the melee shouts of “Gas” were passed along. I reached for my respirator and realised for the first time what a blessing that encumbrance had proved to be. The iron canister, from which dribbled what appeared to be carbon granules, had taken the sting out of the shell splinters. The hole at entry of the container was the size of a penny – the exit hole was the size of an orange. Later, when my belongings were removed from my breast pockets, I found that a steel mirror, a fountain pen and other miscellaneous objects had also helped in the good work. I threw the respirator away. There was no gas.
From my prone position I could see but little of what was happening but I knew without question that many of my companions would never return from that morning’s work and for the first time in my brief military career I experienced a strong urge to kill. Not perhaps the thirst for blood which the ‘Canaries’ of Harfleur had tried to instil but an overwhelming desire to revenge the slaughter of those I had so quickly learned to regard as my brothers. In the event my training had gone for nought and there was I, a qualified sniper, denied the opportunity of even one pot shot at the Hun. Today, fifty years later, I still do not know whether to be glad or sorry that, by force of circumstances, I fired no shot in anger.
The enemy attack was eventually beaten off but the concentrated bombardment of Jargon continued unceasingly until, with every burst, my hopes of survival receded further and further. It was during the German attack that someone, whose voice I recognised, panicked and, shouting “we shall all be killed”, trampled over my now camouflaged body a number of times. Sergeant Yarnold came to my rescue but just what he said to the offender is best omitted from the record.
With every new explosion following each other in quick succession came an uneasy sensation of being slowly raised some distance from the ground, suspended in mid-air for a few seconds, then gently lowered down to earth. Although the shelter was by now virtually destroyed, by some miracle the field telephone and the wire remained intact. I became aware of a heated argument in progress between Sergeant Yarnold and B Company located in the support trenches. In the course of the conversation I gathered that Yarnold had been instructed to send out a party of men in broad daylight for the purpose of establishing an advance Lewis Gun post. His refusal to order men to undertake an operation which could only result in almost certain death was both emphatic and colourful. The consequences arising from his refusal to obey an order whilst on active service was never put to the test because the line went dead. It transpired later that a shell had landed on the Company HQ and Lt Mackle and Sergeant Priest were both killed. The story would not be complete without mentioning that the valiant Sergeant Yarnold made several journeys by himself in daylight in the face of intense rifle and machine gun fire and successfully brought in a number of wounded survivors, including my friend Schneider with a bullet wound in the chest.
Whether or not the Brigade headquarters had reason to believe that the enemy attack had been successful and that the Germans again occupied Jargon Trench is not on record but for some reason the British ‘heavies’ now lowered their sights. Unfortunately for the QWRs their shooting was accurate and Jargon was at the receiving end from both friend and foe. Communication by telephone was out of the question and a call went out for volunteers to take, in broad daylight, the hazardous journey across open ground bearing, I hoped, rude messages for the British gunners. Three times the call for volunteers was heard but it was long after the third runner was despatched that the enemy was given a free field.
When darkness fell the QWR were relieved by the 1st Battalion of the Second London Regiment (Royal Fusiliers). As they quietly made way for the newcomers I was placed on a stretcher but the relief at the prospect of leaving that cruel and bloody region was short lived. After a journey of a few yards a voice came out of the darkness, “Put that man back”. Within seconds the QWRs disappeared into the blackness and I was left to my own devices. Admittedly it would have been difficult and dangerous for heavily burdened stretcher-bearers to negotiate the slippery edges of the deep water-filled shell holes in the pitch darkness and speed was essential. However it could be equally disastrous for a wounded man with only one free hand to make such a perilous journey by himself. Anxious as I was to get away from the terrifying explosions the thought of drowning was equally frightening. It seemed the odds were even and, taking the easiest way out of my dilemma, I buried myself in the mud and tried to forget everything.
...
Fritz ... and heavily ....
Wounded by shell in 2 places.
Fritz ... Gas ... repulsed.
Lay in dug-out.
Heavily strafed.
Battalion leaves the line.
(1) Wikipedia entry for German heavy field howitzer here.
The British referred to these guns and their shells as "Five Point Nines" or "Five-Nines" as the internal diameter of the barrel was 5.9 inches (150 mm).
Throughout the remainder of the night Jargon Trench was subjected to intense bombardment rising to crescendo at dawn when the Germans attacked. By this time, as a result of the continuous explosions, the shelter had disintegrated and collapsed. I was buried under a mass of wooden planks, corrugated iron and mud. I buried my head like an ostrich. From Jargon Trench came the continuous rattle of machine gun and rifle fire. Our men were soon driven back from the advance position and Jargon Trench became cluttered with men and casualties. Corporals Taylor and Johnson, both wounded in the legs, joined me but what happened to them afterwards I never found out.
Sometimes in the melee shouts of “Gas” were passed along. I reached for my respirator and realised for the first time what a blessing that encumbrance had proved to be. The iron canister, from which dribbled what appeared to be carbon granules, had taken the sting out of the shell splinters. The hole at entry of the container was the size of a penny – the exit hole was the size of an orange. Later, when my belongings were removed from my breast pockets, I found that a steel mirror, a fountain pen and other miscellaneous objects had also helped in the good work. I threw the respirator away. There was no gas.
From my prone position I could see but little of what was happening but I knew without question that many of my companions would never return from that morning’s work and for the first time in my brief military career I experienced a strong urge to kill. Not perhaps the thirst for blood which the ‘Canaries’ of Harfleur had tried to instil but an overwhelming desire to revenge the slaughter of those I had so quickly learned to regard as my brothers. In the event my training had gone for nought and there was I, a qualified sniper, denied the opportunity of even one pot shot at the Hun. Today, fifty years later, I still do not know whether to be glad or sorry that, by force of circumstances, I fired no shot in anger.
The enemy attack was eventually beaten off but the concentrated bombardment of Jargon continued unceasingly until, with every burst, my hopes of survival receded further and further. It was during the German attack that someone, whose voice I recognised, panicked and, shouting “we shall all be killed”, trampled over my now camouflaged body a number of times. Sergeant Yarnold came to my rescue but just what he said to the offender is best omitted from the record.
With every new explosion following each other in quick succession came an uneasy sensation of being slowly raised some distance from the ground, suspended in mid-air for a few seconds, then gently lowered down to earth. Although the shelter was by now virtually destroyed, by some miracle the field telephone and the wire remained intact. I became aware of a heated argument in progress between Sergeant Yarnold and B Company located in the support trenches. In the course of the conversation I gathered that Yarnold had been instructed to send out a party of men in broad daylight for the purpose of establishing an advance Lewis Gun post. His refusal to order men to undertake an operation which could only result in almost certain death was both emphatic and colourful. The consequences arising from his refusal to obey an order whilst on active service was never put to the test because the line went dead. It transpired later that a shell had landed on the Company HQ and Lt Mackle and Sergeant Priest were both killed. The story would not be complete without mentioning that the valiant Sergeant Yarnold made several journeys by himself in daylight in the face of intense rifle and machine gun fire and successfully brought in a number of wounded survivors, including my friend Schneider with a bullet wound in the chest.
Whether or not the Brigade headquarters had reason to believe that the enemy attack had been successful and that the Germans again occupied Jargon Trench is not on record but for some reason the British ‘heavies’ now lowered their sights. Unfortunately for the QWRs their shooting was accurate and Jargon was at the receiving end from both friend and foe. Communication by telephone was out of the question and a call went out for volunteers to take, in broad daylight, the hazardous journey across open ground bearing, I hoped, rude messages for the British gunners. Three times the call for volunteers was heard but it was long after the third runner was despatched that the enemy was given a free field.
When darkness fell the QWR were relieved by the 1st Battalion of the Second London Regiment (Royal Fusiliers). As they quietly made way for the newcomers I was placed on a stretcher but the relief at the prospect of leaving that cruel and bloody region was short lived. After a journey of a few yards a voice came out of the darkness, “Put that man back”. Within seconds the QWRs disappeared into the blackness and I was left to my own devices. Admittedly it would have been difficult and dangerous for heavily burdened stretcher-bearers to negotiate the slippery edges of the deep water-filled shell holes in the pitch darkness and speed was essential. However it could be equally disastrous for a wounded man with only one free hand to make such a perilous journey by himself. Anxious as I was to get away from the terrifying explosions the thought of drowning was equally frightening. It seemed the odds were even and, taking the easiest way out of my dilemma, I buried myself in the mud and tried to forget everything.
...
Fritz ... and heavily ....
Wounded by shell in 2 places.
Fritz ... Gas ... repulsed.
Lay in dug-out.
Heavily strafed.
Battalion leaves the line.
 |
| Original diary entry |
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| Original journal notes |
"The story of one small band of Queen's Westminsters may be told; it is typical of what was happening all along the fighting front.
Corporal Skeate and seven men were holding a small post in front of the line, and, cut off from all communication with their company, without rations and exposed to the full fury of the enemy's artillery and machine-gun fire, their position seemed hopeless. Their orders were to hold the post, and for over thirty hours they clung on expecting to be overwhelmed at any moment. The situation was reported to the Brigade, and orders were received that the post was to be withdrawn. Sergeant E. Yarnold, M.M., then volunteered to make an attempt to take the message forward; and with conspicuous courage he made his way across the open, exposed to machine-gun fire at a hundred yards' range, and succeeded in reaching the post in safety. The party then withdrew, and on their way back to the front line five men out of the eight were hit and lay helpless where they fell. Sergeant Yarnold bore a charmed life, for he got back unwounded, though his clothing was pierced with bullets. Calling for volunteers, as soon as he regained the line he went out again with a few brave men and brought in the wounded.
In the evening (August 14th), the Battalion was relieved by the 2nd Londons and moved back to the trenches at Half-way House. During the day and the preceding night its losses had amounted to 24 other ranks killed and 54 other ranks wounded"
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Corporal Skeate and seven men were holding a small post in front of the line, and, cut off from all communication with their company, without rations and exposed to the full fury of the enemy's artillery and machine-gun fire, their position seemed hopeless. Their orders were to hold the post, and for over thirty hours they clung on expecting to be overwhelmed at any moment. The situation was reported to the Brigade, and orders were received that the post was to be withdrawn. Sergeant E. Yarnold, M.M., then volunteered to make an attempt to take the message forward; and with conspicuous courage he made his way across the open, exposed to machine-gun fire at a hundred yards' range, and succeeded in reaching the post in safety. The party then withdrew, and on their way back to the front line five men out of the eight were hit and lay helpless where they fell. Sergeant Yarnold bore a charmed life, for he got back unwounded, though his clothing was pierced with bullets. Calling for volunteers, as soon as he regained the line he went out again with a few brave men and brought in the wounded.
In the evening (August 14th), the Battalion was relieved by the 2nd Londons and moved back to the trenches at Half-way House. During the day and the preceding night its losses had amounted to 24 other ranks killed and 54 other ranks wounded"
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
(1) Wikipedia entry for German heavy field howitzer here.
The British referred to these guns and their shells as "Five Point Nines" or "Five-Nines" as the internal diameter of the barrel was 5.9 inches (150 mm).
13th August 1917
Not until the dawn could we assess our true situation. Supposedly we were holding Jargon Trench but the guns had destroyed all vestige of cover. The diary refers to “Inverness Copse” which is what we were told was our position on taking over. The shattered remains of Glencorse Wood consisted of the stumps of broken trees, shell holes and marshland. The British line was in full view of the Germans comfortably ensconced on the ridge at the top of the slope. Behind, some half a mile away, we could see the murdered trees of Sanctuary Wood where the troops in support must have suffered badly from the heavy bombardment then in progress.
Owing to the weather, aerial cover was non-existent but during the afternoon one solitary enemy plane suddenly appeared from the right and low down, machine-gunning the line from end to end. We raised our rifles hopefully, anxious for the opportunity to take some action against the Boche but the order “no shooting” was passed along in case we gave away the British position! Since the Hun airman could see his prospective victims squirming in the mud the order seemed incomprehensible. The opportunity of a minor boost to our morale was denied. Having completed the trip and again sprayed us with hot metal from end to end he disappeared back to his home ground. Some fifteen minutes later a single British plane trundled up from the rear and, believing it to have been called up to deal with the marauder we cheered quietly in derision. In after years, having seen the remarkable aerial pictures of Glencorse Wood taken at that time, it could have been a British airman purely on a photographic mission.
Bradley suggested a brew. We had received no rations for 24 hours and he thought that with a piece of ‘4x2’ and rifle oil we might be able to boil water from the rain filled shell hole which lay between us. He dipped his canteen deeply to avoid the green scum but when a ghostly figure dressed in field grey floated gently to the surface ‘tea for two’ was abandoned forthwith. It was many hours before we were to see food and drink.
At dusk Lieutenant Marsh crawled along the length of B Company to explain that within the next day or so an attack was to be made from a new position on the lower slopes of Inverness Copse. In preparation for this a line of posts were to be established at a distance of 100 yards in front of Jargon Trench. Under cover of the posts a new trench was to be dug by one section of Riflemen, Rifle Grenadiers and bombers. Snipers would take up positions in outposts of two, 100 yards in from of Jargon Trench. Two snipers were issued with an additional bandoleer of 100 rounds and two Mills Bombs. The preliminary operation would take place that night. The strictest silence was essential. Zero hour was 9pm and we sallied forth with the faint glow of the western sky behind us. The outpost with Corporal Johnson in charge left the digging party behind, about to attempt the impossible task of constructing a new trench in the terrible morass caused by the swollen streams, further disrupted by the constant pounding of the guns.
Judging distances and directions around the shattered tree stumps and through marshy ground in the pitch-blackness of the night was a chancy undertaking. We had no idea how near the German lines might be but without question every step took us nearer to the terrors of the unknown. Before we had found a suitable spot, which offered a modicum of protection from small arms fire if nothing else, the enemy revealed his own state of tension when a cluster of star shells burst high above, lighting up the whole grisly scene. According to the drill book we should have stood perfectly rigid, even though one foot be raised off the ground, until the blessed darkness again covered up the moving targets. With one accord we ignored the theories of the experts and quickly flung ourselves down into the slush. “Grandmother’s Footsteps” in the middle of Glencorse Wood was not a practical proposition. The Boche machine guns opened up at once. Clearly the enemy was as jittery as ourselves and in response to their red and green rockets and the orange flares which spread over the sky like golden rain all hell was let loose.
After the machine guns came the mortars, ‘minnies’ and finally the 5.9s and the heavies joined in. The really big stuff concentrated on Jargon Trench behind us. Since the outpost was in the foremost position its greatest danger was from the spitting machine guns as we pressed faces and bodies into the mud with tin hats tilted backward in the hope that the stream of bullets passing inches above our heads would be deflected if Jerry lowered his sights. In such conditions time was indeterminate but it seemed an eternity. For a brief period the heavy bombardment eased but one very persistent machine gun slowly traversed the entire wood through an angle of ninety degrees. As the sound receded with each sweep we breathed again, then as the sound came nearer on the return journey bodies were pressed yet deeper into the mire.
Against the continuous flashes from the guns along the whole front I at length ventured a peep at my companions spread-eagled around me so quiet and still and a terrible sense of loneliness came upon me. But the dead do not speak and to my immense relief a hoarse whisper from Corporal Johnson ordered the outpost to retire to a position less exposed to the harassing fire by then increasing in volume. We rose, all that is except poor Robinson, and quietly moved back some 50 yards nearer to the digging party. Here the outpost was established but the snipers were not yet in their allotted positions 100 yards in front of the post.
With beating hearts, bulging pockets and extra bandoliers, Forster and I attempted to retrace our steps back to square one. We were soon in difficulties, for the marsh, which in places covered our thighs, had not been encountered in our first expedition and with little or no sense of distance or direction two very worried riflemen came to the conclusion that they were completely lost in the evil wood. Clearly we had digressed but the terrifying thought was to decide in which direction and to what extent we had overshot the mark, maybe wandering dangerously near to German outposts. Any further advance on our part would have been inviting disaster. In one sense we were better off than our companions back in Jargon who were still at the mercy of the incessant shelling from the enemy artillery. By the same token, however, the mere fact that the centre of no-man’s land was an oasis safe from the heavy bombardment proceeding on the lower slopes conjured up other perils.
The machine guns were ominously quiet at last. In these conditions the possibility of German patrols prowling in the neighbourhood could not be dismissed and frequent quick glances betrayed the state of our nerves. We saw nothing except those creeping figures in field grey that came from our imagination. We had not been told what was expected from us in the event of contact with the Hun but we were under no illusion. We were the stooges. Our main function being to provide ample warning to the Company behind when trouble was afoot. We ourselves had little faith in our ability to annihilate the enemy if and when he showed up, even overlooking the fact that our most potent weapons were still reposing in our pockets. This forgetfulness was not surprising since until zero hour on that day we had had no opportunity to handle a live Mills Bomb, let alone throw one.
During the lonely vigil in that accursed wood we experienced one very disturbing moment. Out of the darkness far away to the right came a distant cry of “Help”. However the voice did not convey the impression of a man sorely wounded. The intonation was wrong and the casualty, if such it was, had very sound lungs. We listened carefully for the cry to be repeated but none came in the now silent wood. Huddled together, we discussed in whispers what action, if any, was required of us in the circumstances. We thought of every reason why we should do nothing except the really valid one. We concluded that since we were in the most forward position of the entire Company it seemed unlikely that one of our own men had strayed so far from the fold. We could also not dismiss the thought that Jerry might be attempting to lure some unfortunate Englander to give away the position. The enemy were patently aware that something to their disadvantage was brewing and the capture and interrogation of a British soldier would have been invaluable. Finally it was decided that any attempt to find one lost soul in the dense blackness was doomed to failure anyway. Our reasoning told us that any investigation on our part would be tantamount to deserting our post whilst on active service even though it was questionable whether anyone in the rear knew exactly where the said post was located.
Time passed slowly. Many hours passed and we had no idea when and how we were expected to return to the Company. Release came suddenly – although by the manner of its coming it added yet one more ‘butterfly’ to those already circulating in our insides. Somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood was a prowler and, as the rustling grew close, fingers on triggers took the first pressure. Lt Van der Lind, a brave man, had undertaken the difficult task of finding in the pitch darkness the two jittery youngsters who themselves had little idea of their location. His mission was to escort us back to Jargon Trench for the purpose of guiding a ration party to the outposts and the trench diggers. The officer’s initial success in finding us was miraculous but he was not confident about the return journey.
There were now three of us lost in the wood. Each had different ideas on direction and we wandered on aimlessly until at length sounds of a body of men approaching came from the right. Silently we waited, stretched full length in the slime. The intruders were a noisy crowd, spades and other implements clanged and the sound of muffled voices came nearer. As the intruders came nearer, tripping over the broken ground, the mutterings and oaths were, to our great relief, not spoken in the guttural German tongue. On the other hand it was not pure English as taught at school, but there was no misunderstanding the thoughts expressed so colourfully by those simple British soldiers. It was in fact our own digging party with Lt Lloyd in charge. It soon became apparent that we three were not the only QWRs lost in that blasted wood. We breathed again, but the danger was not yet over. In the jumpy atmosphere disclosure would have been utter folly – so, lying doggo, we let our noisy friends pass by almost within arms length.
Our discussions were renewed but the only point on which we reached agreement was that Lt Lloyd was leading his men in the wrong direction. The natural slope of the wood away from Jerry’s enviable position on the ridge was of no assistance in the dark owing to the uneven terrain, the bogholes and the broken trees which had to be negotiated – all resulting from the myriad shells which had pounded the area for days on end. We had no compass. Even the enemy was not prepared to be co-operative since his star shells were no longer bursting in the heavens. We continued to grope in circles. Actually “home” was nearer than we thought and it was Lt Lloyd and his diggers who eventually put us on the right path to HQ. During the homeward journey we did not come across any signs of the night’s trench digging.
HQ was located in a few yards of a one-time trench that had miraculously survived the bombardment. The roof consisted of a few lengths of wood planking across the ditch that supported a piece of corrugated iron. Roughly fashioned doors completed the erection. In occupation of this doubtful refuge, christened the “Dugout”, we found Lt Marsh, Lt Lloyd (who had returned to report progress), a few batmen, Company runners and stretcher-bearers. In fact everybody except the ration party which had not materialised and, I suspect, never did.
Forster and I duly reported and, sensing that our presence was not welcome, gladly removed ourselves from the overcrowded hole. We took up a position in the comparatively fresh air a few yards in front of Jargon Trench. I looked at my watch. It was precisely 3am – we had spent six hours in that accursed wood with the prospect of a further voyage of discovery if and when the rations were delivered.
Google Maps entry for location of Jargon Trench and Glencorse Wood here
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| From "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2] |
Owing to the weather, aerial cover was non-existent but during the afternoon one solitary enemy plane suddenly appeared from the right and low down, machine-gunning the line from end to end. We raised our rifles hopefully, anxious for the opportunity to take some action against the Boche but the order “no shooting” was passed along in case we gave away the British position! Since the Hun airman could see his prospective victims squirming in the mud the order seemed incomprehensible. The opportunity of a minor boost to our morale was denied. Having completed the trip and again sprayed us with hot metal from end to end he disappeared back to his home ground. Some fifteen minutes later a single British plane trundled up from the rear and, believing it to have been called up to deal with the marauder we cheered quietly in derision. In after years, having seen the remarkable aerial pictures of Glencorse Wood taken at that time, it could have been a British airman purely on a photographic mission.
Bradley suggested a brew. We had received no rations for 24 hours and he thought that with a piece of ‘4x2’ and rifle oil we might be able to boil water from the rain filled shell hole which lay between us. He dipped his canteen deeply to avoid the green scum but when a ghostly figure dressed in field grey floated gently to the surface ‘tea for two’ was abandoned forthwith. It was many hours before we were to see food and drink.
At dusk Lieutenant Marsh crawled along the length of B Company to explain that within the next day or so an attack was to be made from a new position on the lower slopes of Inverness Copse. In preparation for this a line of posts were to be established at a distance of 100 yards in front of Jargon Trench. Under cover of the posts a new trench was to be dug by one section of Riflemen, Rifle Grenadiers and bombers. Snipers would take up positions in outposts of two, 100 yards in from of Jargon Trench. Two snipers were issued with an additional bandoleer of 100 rounds and two Mills Bombs. The preliminary operation would take place that night. The strictest silence was essential. Zero hour was 9pm and we sallied forth with the faint glow of the western sky behind us. The outpost with Corporal Johnson in charge left the digging party behind, about to attempt the impossible task of constructing a new trench in the terrible morass caused by the swollen streams, further disrupted by the constant pounding of the guns.
Judging distances and directions around the shattered tree stumps and through marshy ground in the pitch-blackness of the night was a chancy undertaking. We had no idea how near the German lines might be but without question every step took us nearer to the terrors of the unknown. Before we had found a suitable spot, which offered a modicum of protection from small arms fire if nothing else, the enemy revealed his own state of tension when a cluster of star shells burst high above, lighting up the whole grisly scene. According to the drill book we should have stood perfectly rigid, even though one foot be raised off the ground, until the blessed darkness again covered up the moving targets. With one accord we ignored the theories of the experts and quickly flung ourselves down into the slush. “Grandmother’s Footsteps” in the middle of Glencorse Wood was not a practical proposition. The Boche machine guns opened up at once. Clearly the enemy was as jittery as ourselves and in response to their red and green rockets and the orange flares which spread over the sky like golden rain all hell was let loose.
After the machine guns came the mortars, ‘minnies’ and finally the 5.9s and the heavies joined in. The really big stuff concentrated on Jargon Trench behind us. Since the outpost was in the foremost position its greatest danger was from the spitting machine guns as we pressed faces and bodies into the mud with tin hats tilted backward in the hope that the stream of bullets passing inches above our heads would be deflected if Jerry lowered his sights. In such conditions time was indeterminate but it seemed an eternity. For a brief period the heavy bombardment eased but one very persistent machine gun slowly traversed the entire wood through an angle of ninety degrees. As the sound receded with each sweep we breathed again, then as the sound came nearer on the return journey bodies were pressed yet deeper into the mire.
Against the continuous flashes from the guns along the whole front I at length ventured a peep at my companions spread-eagled around me so quiet and still and a terrible sense of loneliness came upon me. But the dead do not speak and to my immense relief a hoarse whisper from Corporal Johnson ordered the outpost to retire to a position less exposed to the harassing fire by then increasing in volume. We rose, all that is except poor Robinson, and quietly moved back some 50 yards nearer to the digging party. Here the outpost was established but the snipers were not yet in their allotted positions 100 yards in front of the post.
With beating hearts, bulging pockets and extra bandoliers, Forster and I attempted to retrace our steps back to square one. We were soon in difficulties, for the marsh, which in places covered our thighs, had not been encountered in our first expedition and with little or no sense of distance or direction two very worried riflemen came to the conclusion that they were completely lost in the evil wood. Clearly we had digressed but the terrifying thought was to decide in which direction and to what extent we had overshot the mark, maybe wandering dangerously near to German outposts. Any further advance on our part would have been inviting disaster. In one sense we were better off than our companions back in Jargon who were still at the mercy of the incessant shelling from the enemy artillery. By the same token, however, the mere fact that the centre of no-man’s land was an oasis safe from the heavy bombardment proceeding on the lower slopes conjured up other perils.
The machine guns were ominously quiet at last. In these conditions the possibility of German patrols prowling in the neighbourhood could not be dismissed and frequent quick glances betrayed the state of our nerves. We saw nothing except those creeping figures in field grey that came from our imagination. We had not been told what was expected from us in the event of contact with the Hun but we were under no illusion. We were the stooges. Our main function being to provide ample warning to the Company behind when trouble was afoot. We ourselves had little faith in our ability to annihilate the enemy if and when he showed up, even overlooking the fact that our most potent weapons were still reposing in our pockets. This forgetfulness was not surprising since until zero hour on that day we had had no opportunity to handle a live Mills Bomb, let alone throw one.
During the lonely vigil in that accursed wood we experienced one very disturbing moment. Out of the darkness far away to the right came a distant cry of “Help”. However the voice did not convey the impression of a man sorely wounded. The intonation was wrong and the casualty, if such it was, had very sound lungs. We listened carefully for the cry to be repeated but none came in the now silent wood. Huddled together, we discussed in whispers what action, if any, was required of us in the circumstances. We thought of every reason why we should do nothing except the really valid one. We concluded that since we were in the most forward position of the entire Company it seemed unlikely that one of our own men had strayed so far from the fold. We could also not dismiss the thought that Jerry might be attempting to lure some unfortunate Englander to give away the position. The enemy were patently aware that something to their disadvantage was brewing and the capture and interrogation of a British soldier would have been invaluable. Finally it was decided that any attempt to find one lost soul in the dense blackness was doomed to failure anyway. Our reasoning told us that any investigation on our part would be tantamount to deserting our post whilst on active service even though it was questionable whether anyone in the rear knew exactly where the said post was located.
Time passed slowly. Many hours passed and we had no idea when and how we were expected to return to the Company. Release came suddenly – although by the manner of its coming it added yet one more ‘butterfly’ to those already circulating in our insides. Somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood was a prowler and, as the rustling grew close, fingers on triggers took the first pressure. Lt Van der Lind, a brave man, had undertaken the difficult task of finding in the pitch darkness the two jittery youngsters who themselves had little idea of their location. His mission was to escort us back to Jargon Trench for the purpose of guiding a ration party to the outposts and the trench diggers. The officer’s initial success in finding us was miraculous but he was not confident about the return journey.
There were now three of us lost in the wood. Each had different ideas on direction and we wandered on aimlessly until at length sounds of a body of men approaching came from the right. Silently we waited, stretched full length in the slime. The intruders were a noisy crowd, spades and other implements clanged and the sound of muffled voices came nearer. As the intruders came nearer, tripping over the broken ground, the mutterings and oaths were, to our great relief, not spoken in the guttural German tongue. On the other hand it was not pure English as taught at school, but there was no misunderstanding the thoughts expressed so colourfully by those simple British soldiers. It was in fact our own digging party with Lt Lloyd in charge. It soon became apparent that we three were not the only QWRs lost in that blasted wood. We breathed again, but the danger was not yet over. In the jumpy atmosphere disclosure would have been utter folly – so, lying doggo, we let our noisy friends pass by almost within arms length.
Our discussions were renewed but the only point on which we reached agreement was that Lt Lloyd was leading his men in the wrong direction. The natural slope of the wood away from Jerry’s enviable position on the ridge was of no assistance in the dark owing to the uneven terrain, the bogholes and the broken trees which had to be negotiated – all resulting from the myriad shells which had pounded the area for days on end. We had no compass. Even the enemy was not prepared to be co-operative since his star shells were no longer bursting in the heavens. We continued to grope in circles. Actually “home” was nearer than we thought and it was Lt Lloyd and his diggers who eventually put us on the right path to HQ. During the homeward journey we did not come across any signs of the night’s trench digging.
HQ was located in a few yards of a one-time trench that had miraculously survived the bombardment. The roof consisted of a few lengths of wood planking across the ditch that supported a piece of corrugated iron. Roughly fashioned doors completed the erection. In occupation of this doubtful refuge, christened the “Dugout”, we found Lt Marsh, Lt Lloyd (who had returned to report progress), a few batmen, Company runners and stretcher-bearers. In fact everybody except the ration party which had not materialised and, I suspect, never did.
Forster and I duly reported and, sensing that our presence was not welcome, gladly removed ourselves from the overcrowded hole. We took up a position in the comparatively fresh air a few yards in front of Jargon Trench. I looked at my watch. It was precisely 3am – we had spent six hours in that accursed wood with the prospect of a further voyage of discovery if and when the rations were delivered.
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| Original journal notes | |
"On the night of August 13th, the 169th Infantry Brigade attempted to gain a little ground by establishing a line of posts in a ride in Glencorse Wood, one hundred yards in front of the position. The intention was for six posts to be established by the Q.V.R. on the right, and three by the Queen's Westminsters on the left, with an additional post if necessary, in order to keep in touch with the 176th Infantry Brigade on the Battalion's left. Each post was to be manned by one section.
The advance was timed to commence at 9:00pm. At that hour A Company and the Q.V.R. on the right were being heavily shelled and their advance was delayed, but on the left B Company succeeded in establishing a post. Seven minutes after the advance started the enemy put down a heavy barrage on the British front line; and that, together with the counter-barrage which had been called for by lamp signal, had prevented any progress being made by A Company and the Q.V.R.
Continuous and heavy shelling went on all through the night, and, through it all, men hung on to their lonely shell-holes with an heroic endeavour that is beyond all praise."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
The advance was timed to commence at 9:00pm. At that hour A Company and the Q.V.R. on the right were being heavily shelled and their advance was delayed, but on the left B Company succeeded in establishing a post. Seven minutes after the advance started the enemy put down a heavy barrage on the British front line; and that, together with the counter-barrage which had been called for by lamp signal, had prevented any progress being made by A Company and the Q.V.R.
Continuous and heavy shelling went on all through the night, and, through it all, men hung on to their lonely shell-holes with an heroic endeavour that is beyond all praise."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for location of Jargon Trench and Glencorse Wood here
22nd July 1917 (Sunday)
The day was hot and cloudless as we lay in the fields and orchards of the quiet countryside around Sus St Leger. There were no parades, a disturbing portent in itself, and we had all the time in the world in which to ponder over the Colonel’s homily of the previous Friday. Moreover, no post from home had been delivered for some days and our spirits were low. This was the mood in which Forster, Bradley and I wandered that evening along the deserted road to Ivergny towards the blood red sun sinking in the west.
We were completely alone in the silence except for an ominous rumble far away to the north. We kept our thoughts to ourselves and no word was exchanged until at length the sun tipped the distant horizon and we rested awhile by a five barred gate leading into the deserted Picardy fields. I said “I wonder where we three will be in a month’s time”. The other two made no response and I blundered on. I spoke of all the possibilities the future held and felt much better for having aired my hopes and fears. On the assumption that one’s chances of getting through unscathed were slight I suggested a preference for the little finger of the right hand.
Bradley’s reaction was immediate. His face registered anger and bitterness such as I would never have dreamed possible. He spoke at last and his words shocked me to the core. “I want no ‘blighty’.(1) I won’t have those bloody bastards over there mutilate the body God gave into my keeping. If they do get me I want complete oblivion.” Forster and I accepted this outburst in silence. There was nothing more to be said. Anyway, I regretted opening my big mouth in the first place. The incident in itself was not one ever likely to be forgotten but the aftermath, some few months later, not only registered the memory of that day for all time but created in me a sense of wonderment which in my lifetime on this earth will never be resolved. We returned to Sus St Leger in complete silence. It was dark by the time we reached billets and the subject of the day was thereafter taboo.
In orchards, fields all day.
No post out for three days.
(1) A 'blighty' wound was one which was sufficiently serious to merit being shipped home to Britain.
We were completely alone in the silence except for an ominous rumble far away to the north. We kept our thoughts to ourselves and no word was exchanged until at length the sun tipped the distant horizon and we rested awhile by a five barred gate leading into the deserted Picardy fields. I said “I wonder where we three will be in a month’s time”. The other two made no response and I blundered on. I spoke of all the possibilities the future held and felt much better for having aired my hopes and fears. On the assumption that one’s chances of getting through unscathed were slight I suggested a preference for the little finger of the right hand.
Bradley’s reaction was immediate. His face registered anger and bitterness such as I would never have dreamed possible. He spoke at last and his words shocked me to the core. “I want no ‘blighty’.(1) I won’t have those bloody bastards over there mutilate the body God gave into my keeping. If they do get me I want complete oblivion.” Forster and I accepted this outburst in silence. There was nothing more to be said. Anyway, I regretted opening my big mouth in the first place. The incident in itself was not one ever likely to be forgotten but the aftermath, some few months later, not only registered the memory of that day for all time but created in me a sense of wonderment which in my lifetime on this earth will never be resolved. We returned to Sus St Leger in complete silence. It was dark by the time we reached billets and the subject of the day was thereafter taboo.
In orchards, fields all day.
No post out for three days.
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| Original diary entry |
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| Original journal notes |
11th June 1917
From the early hours and throughout the day ‘Boar’ and ‘Bison’ were subjected to heavy but intermittent shelling. The shattering noise and the black bursts from the ‘Jack Johnsons’ (1) left us quivering but, in our sector, the occasional near misses did no more than shower tin hats with fragments of hot metal and chalk which dropped from the skies. To add to our discomfort Jerry mixed tear gas shells with his blessings and this was immediately interpreted as evidence of an impending attack. Although none developed, the variation doubtless had its nuisance value, particularly where fresh troops were at the receiving end.
During the height of the bombardment Forster was a near casualty. In the initial scramble for bivvies Bradley and I had succeeded in acquiring adjoining foxholes and Willis took over the remaining empty one next to me. Forster had been slow in his endeavours to join us and was obliged to accept the only bivvy for which there were no takers. He settled in about 20 yards further along the trench. On the parades behind him was the latrine bucket. The presence of this article we regarded as an unnecessary refinement in trench life but orders had to be obeyed even at the cost of exposing oneself to the distant sniper. A heavy explosion in the direction of Forster’s side brought Bradley and I to our feet and dashing to his aid. We feared the worst. Forster was shaken but unhurt and we rejoiced that he was safe if no longer fragrant! His dilemma, however, made no appeal to one’s sense of humour. We were only too conscious of the spectre of death lurking just round the corner to appreciate the jolly atmosphere of the Western Front as portrayed by Bruce Bairnsfather cartoons (2) drawn for home consumption. Behind us in the open ground still lay the bodies of many who had died in the Easter massacre during the battle of Arras.
As night fell a burial party sallied forth under the direction of Captain Thurston, the Company OC. The operation was conducted speedily and with scant ceremony. Identification was the first essential; the Corporal removed one of the red and green identification discs which hung from the dead man’s neck. From the pockets of his uniform a paybook and a few personal belongings were quickly extracted and stowed away. Preliminaries over, the squad, working in pairs, dealt with the disposal of the remains.
I grabbed the ankles of the nearest corpse and my companions lifted it by the shoulders. We heaved together and our burden parted in the middle. That was an unfortunate beginning but we were concerned solely with the unsavoury nature of the task. I am ashamed to say that sentiment did not overrule the annoyance at choosing the wrong victim. Eventually with the help of spades we deposited the remains in the nearest shellhole and lightly covered them with the broken chalk which abounded. The final act, adding the only touch of dignity to the ceremony, was the planting at the head of the mound the victim’s rifle, sword and tin hat.
We looked around for the next body and got to work. In all the squad disposed of 25 to 30 bodies in this way. A squalid exercise but no doubt good training for those of us who had not acquired the callous outlook that was demanded.
For many days the sweet cloying scent of death clung to our bodies and saturated our clothing. A suggestion was made to the Captain that the unsavoury nature of our duties called for small issue of rum – it met with no response.
Heavies over.
Burial party at night.
Buried four British in shell holes.
Wind up attack.
Tear gas over.
(1) A 'Jack Johnson' was the British nickname used to describe the impact of a heavy, black German 15-cm artillery shell. Jack Johnson was the popular U.S. world heavyweight boxing champion who held the title from 1908-15.
(2) Wikipedia entry for Bruce Bairnsfather here.
During the height of the bombardment Forster was a near casualty. In the initial scramble for bivvies Bradley and I had succeeded in acquiring adjoining foxholes and Willis took over the remaining empty one next to me. Forster had been slow in his endeavours to join us and was obliged to accept the only bivvy for which there were no takers. He settled in about 20 yards further along the trench. On the parades behind him was the latrine bucket. The presence of this article we regarded as an unnecessary refinement in trench life but orders had to be obeyed even at the cost of exposing oneself to the distant sniper. A heavy explosion in the direction of Forster’s side brought Bradley and I to our feet and dashing to his aid. We feared the worst. Forster was shaken but unhurt and we rejoiced that he was safe if no longer fragrant! His dilemma, however, made no appeal to one’s sense of humour. We were only too conscious of the spectre of death lurking just round the corner to appreciate the jolly atmosphere of the Western Front as portrayed by Bruce Bairnsfather cartoons (2) drawn for home consumption. Behind us in the open ground still lay the bodies of many who had died in the Easter massacre during the battle of Arras.
As night fell a burial party sallied forth under the direction of Captain Thurston, the Company OC. The operation was conducted speedily and with scant ceremony. Identification was the first essential; the Corporal removed one of the red and green identification discs which hung from the dead man’s neck. From the pockets of his uniform a paybook and a few personal belongings were quickly extracted and stowed away. Preliminaries over, the squad, working in pairs, dealt with the disposal of the remains.
I grabbed the ankles of the nearest corpse and my companions lifted it by the shoulders. We heaved together and our burden parted in the middle. That was an unfortunate beginning but we were concerned solely with the unsavoury nature of the task. I am ashamed to say that sentiment did not overrule the annoyance at choosing the wrong victim. Eventually with the help of spades we deposited the remains in the nearest shellhole and lightly covered them with the broken chalk which abounded. The final act, adding the only touch of dignity to the ceremony, was the planting at the head of the mound the victim’s rifle, sword and tin hat.
We looked around for the next body and got to work. In all the squad disposed of 25 to 30 bodies in this way. A squalid exercise but no doubt good training for those of us who had not acquired the callous outlook that was demanded.
For many days the sweet cloying scent of death clung to our bodies and saturated our clothing. A suggestion was made to the Captain that the unsavoury nature of our duties called for small issue of rum – it met with no response.
Heavies over.
Burial party at night.
Buried four British in shell holes.
Wind up attack.
Tear gas over.
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| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
(1) A 'Jack Johnson' was the British nickname used to describe the impact of a heavy, black German 15-cm artillery shell. Jack Johnson was the popular U.S. world heavyweight boxing champion who held the title from 1908-15.
(2) Wikipedia entry for Bruce Bairnsfather here.
10th June 1917 (Sunday)
Fortunately that first night in the trenches was quiet, maybe the Boche was also engaged in relieving his front line troops and was not inviting trouble. I awoke to the glorious song of the skylark high above in the clear sky and experienced a strange feeling of elation. Under the hot sun with no responsibilities of a personal nature, good friends on either side, I was happy with a new-found freedom – tomorrow could wait!
Together we peered over the parapet towards the enemy trenches in the hazy distance – fascinated by the vast white expanse of the chalky landscape covered with millions of brilliant red poppies under the deep blue sky. “In Flanders fields where poppies grow”* – but this was Picardy; we saw no poppies in Flanders.
With Forster, Bradley and Willis the day was spent happily conversing and writing home. Letter writing was a problem. Conscious always of the censor’s blue pencil hovering in the background, it was impossible to relate anything but the most trivial activities of the daily routine and difficult to express one’s personal feelings. My own correspondence was stilted in the extreme and consisted of a stream of white lies which bore little resemblance to actuality in my earnest endeavours to allay the fears of those at home. I now know that I underestimated the perspicacity of my mother who often tramped the deserted Essex fields in the dead of night listening to the murmur of the guns across the water. The printed field service cards were a blessing. By the deletion of a few lines of print the troops were able to send out frequent, brief messages to those at home that all was well. Moreover the censors were relieved of much labour and, it must be admitted, so were the writers.
Rose 9:30am.
Bivvy.
Stand to at dusk.
Front line - digging trenches.
Stand down at 4am.
All night shelling.
Together we peered over the parapet towards the enemy trenches in the hazy distance – fascinated by the vast white expanse of the chalky landscape covered with millions of brilliant red poppies under the deep blue sky. “In Flanders fields where poppies grow”* – but this was Picardy; we saw no poppies in Flanders.
In Flanders Fields is a war poem, written in 1915 by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
With Forster, Bradley and Willis the day was spent happily conversing and writing home. Letter writing was a problem. Conscious always of the censor’s blue pencil hovering in the background, it was impossible to relate anything but the most trivial activities of the daily routine and difficult to express one’s personal feelings. My own correspondence was stilted in the extreme and consisted of a stream of white lies which bore little resemblance to actuality in my earnest endeavours to allay the fears of those at home. I now know that I underestimated the perspicacity of my mother who often tramped the deserted Essex fields in the dead of night listening to the murmur of the guns across the water. The printed field service cards were a blessing. By the deletion of a few lines of print the troops were able to send out frequent, brief messages to those at home that all was well. Moreover the censors were relieved of much labour and, it must be admitted, so were the writers.
Rose 9:30am.
Bivvy.
Stand to at dusk.
Front line - digging trenches.
Stand down at 4am.
All night shelling.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
7th June 1917
Bradley’s theory that snipers were excused all mundane fatigues did not work out in practice. In addition to patrol work and the construction of observation posts, my spare moments were sacrificed in taking food to the Duty Guard.
With the best will in the world I am sure the Company cooks made the most of the miserable rations provided and it was not their fault if the meals were consistently inedible except to starving men. My own particular bete noir was the bull beef stew with the addition of swedes and sweet chestnuts – a dish which appeared with unfailing regularity. On this particular day the cooks produced their piece de resistance which, incidentally, was the cause of an interesting conflict with high military rank.
My companion and I were in the process of conveying from the field kitchen to the dump guard a large and heavy iron container with the midday dinner. The road was completely isolated except for one solitary figure approaching from the opposite direction. Swinging a cane, he appeared to be deep in thought and as he drew level we identified him as the Colonel commanding the London Brigade. We gave him the “eyes left” which he acknowledged with a pleasant smile, exclaiming “I say, that really looks delicious, what is it?” I replied that our cooks called it “steak pie”. The colonel was not to be put off however and insisted on having the full recipe in order, he said, “that the L.R.B. cooks should receive some instruction in the culinary arts of the Q.W.R's”. He was most charming, thanked us profusely and departed on his way, albeit still with a thoughtful air. The concoction, for what it was worth, was stewed bully beef covered with a crust made from powdered army biscuits and baked in the ovens – it was revolting.
The evening was more rewarding. Chilton had arranged a shooting competition on the range for B Company snipers. We took up our allotted positions, the rest of the section having been detailed to act as markers in the butts, whilst an NCO, by the side of each competitor, recorded the scores signalled after each shot.
To my intense surprise Forster had somehow managed to infiltrate the sniping squad by persuading the officer that he was a suitable entrant. Just what underhand methods he adopted in order to be with his pals I never found out but I was delighted to see him at my side. We shot off our rounds and I was content with the number of bulls and inners signalled by the marker, a total of 78 points. Forster was still shooting, cards were collected and in due course Chilton presented me with a five franc note for the top score.
We all relaxed. Forster came up with his congratulations which were sincere but with a woebegone face he added “I had three signalled right off target.” I said “Nonsense, you can’t be all that bad, let’s go up to the butts and see what happened”. It was indeed a poor effort, quite apart from the fact that three shots were missing. Then came the awful thought. Sure enough my own target showed three more hits than I had fired. In his hurry to complete the shoot Forster had shot onto my target for his last three shots. They were outers and clearly identifiable because my marker in the butts, having pasted over the full quota of hits from my rifle, had naturally given up his labours. This put me in a quandary because, although morally I knew I had earned the five francs, conscience told me that authority would take a different view. I pondered for a while and, when I declared my intention of speaking to Chilton, poor Forster pleaded desperately that I do no such thing. His despair was understandable since shooting at the wrong target on the range was a crime of some magnitude. With the noblest of gestures I stifled my conscience for Forster’s sake and pocketed the five francs.
All day fatigue. Meals to Dump Guard.
"Patrols" and "Observation posts".
Best shot in B Company snipers - 78 points.
5 francs from Mr Chilton.
With the best will in the world I am sure the Company cooks made the most of the miserable rations provided and it was not their fault if the meals were consistently inedible except to starving men. My own particular bete noir was the bull beef stew with the addition of swedes and sweet chestnuts – a dish which appeared with unfailing regularity. On this particular day the cooks produced their piece de resistance which, incidentally, was the cause of an interesting conflict with high military rank.
My companion and I were in the process of conveying from the field kitchen to the dump guard a large and heavy iron container with the midday dinner. The road was completely isolated except for one solitary figure approaching from the opposite direction. Swinging a cane, he appeared to be deep in thought and as he drew level we identified him as the Colonel commanding the London Brigade. We gave him the “eyes left” which he acknowledged with a pleasant smile, exclaiming “I say, that really looks delicious, what is it?” I replied that our cooks called it “steak pie”. The colonel was not to be put off however and insisted on having the full recipe in order, he said, “that the L.R.B. cooks should receive some instruction in the culinary arts of the Q.W.R's”. He was most charming, thanked us profusely and departed on his way, albeit still with a thoughtful air. The concoction, for what it was worth, was stewed bully beef covered with a crust made from powdered army biscuits and baked in the ovens – it was revolting.
The evening was more rewarding. Chilton had arranged a shooting competition on the range for B Company snipers. We took up our allotted positions, the rest of the section having been detailed to act as markers in the butts, whilst an NCO, by the side of each competitor, recorded the scores signalled after each shot.
To my intense surprise Forster had somehow managed to infiltrate the sniping squad by persuading the officer that he was a suitable entrant. Just what underhand methods he adopted in order to be with his pals I never found out but I was delighted to see him at my side. We shot off our rounds and I was content with the number of bulls and inners signalled by the marker, a total of 78 points. Forster was still shooting, cards were collected and in due course Chilton presented me with a five franc note for the top score.
We all relaxed. Forster came up with his congratulations which were sincere but with a woebegone face he added “I had three signalled right off target.” I said “Nonsense, you can’t be all that bad, let’s go up to the butts and see what happened”. It was indeed a poor effort, quite apart from the fact that three shots were missing. Then came the awful thought. Sure enough my own target showed three more hits than I had fired. In his hurry to complete the shoot Forster had shot onto my target for his last three shots. They were outers and clearly identifiable because my marker in the butts, having pasted over the full quota of hits from my rifle, had naturally given up his labours. This put me in a quandary because, although morally I knew I had earned the five francs, conscience told me that authority would take a different view. I pondered for a while and, when I declared my intention of speaking to Chilton, poor Forster pleaded desperately that I do no such thing. His despair was understandable since shooting at the wrong target on the range was a crime of some magnitude. With the noblest of gestures I stifled my conscience for Forster’s sake and pocketed the five francs.
All day fatigue. Meals to Dump Guard.
"Patrols" and "Observation posts".
Best shot in B Company snipers - 78 points.
5 francs from Mr Chilton.
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| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
29th May 1917
The silent enemy legions struck suddenly as we three lazed in the long grass minding our own business. Bradley was deeply absorbed in a book but in the hot atmosphere Forster and I were content to sit and ruminate. Jackets were removed and then shirts. Forster said “I’ve got prickly heat”. It was in fact something more tangible and he and I spent the next hour probing the hundreds of lice comfortably ensconced in the cells of the thick, grey woollen vests so thoughtfully provided by the army. The camouflage was perfect and it was only those who had partaken of their fill that could be readily identified by the contents of their little semi-transparent bellies.
Bradley was disgusted and said so in no uncertain terms. How could fellows of decent upbringing allow their bodies to become so filthy – cleanliness being next to Godliness, etc. With mutual understanding Forster and I listened to his diatribe in silence and at length abandoned the exercise for the day. Bradley stoutly refused to admit to harbouring lice, fleas, bugs or any other form of parasite but just to satisfy our curiosity he removed his clothing. We returned from tea in about an hour to find poor Bradley still searching busily!
So far as the infantryman was concerned lice were his blood brothers. True we had an occasional “bath” usually by means of primitive contraptions consisting of horizontal pipes irregularly spouting drips of boiling and ice cold water onto the heads of the naked bodies underneath. We dried ourselves feeling moderately refreshed and more often than not re-clothed with the same lousy undergarments we had taken off.
The billets and dusty, straw “beds” which had been occupied by thousands of men who had passed that way before were the main breeding grounds but no man could pretend that he himself made no contribution to the grey battalions!
My mother, aware of the disgusting state of her son, sent out many preparations guaranteed to exterminate all kinds of vermin. I remember “Harrison’s Pomade” which certainly helped but one would have needed a gallon jar to do the job properly and besides, it was very messy. On one occasion I received from home a large cardboard box which contained, according to the accompanying letter, one home-made cake together with a large packet of insecticide. I opened the box expectantly to find a mixture of cake, currants, and carbolic. The most effective weapon against lice proved to be the lighted candle along the seams of the garments but even that method had its limitations.
Squad drill and lecture by Mr Hayes.
Bayonets, etc.
Bow Bells concert party - Harry Brandon.
New rifle (sniping).
* This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighbouring rights and is being made available under the Creative Commons, Public Domain Mark. The Wellcome Library.
Bradley was disgusted and said so in no uncertain terms. How could fellows of decent upbringing allow their bodies to become so filthy – cleanliness being next to Godliness, etc. With mutual understanding Forster and I listened to his diatribe in silence and at length abandoned the exercise for the day. Bradley stoutly refused to admit to harbouring lice, fleas, bugs or any other form of parasite but just to satisfy our curiosity he removed his clothing. We returned from tea in about an hour to find poor Bradley still searching busily!
So far as the infantryman was concerned lice were his blood brothers. True we had an occasional “bath” usually by means of primitive contraptions consisting of horizontal pipes irregularly spouting drips of boiling and ice cold water onto the heads of the naked bodies underneath. We dried ourselves feeling moderately refreshed and more often than not re-clothed with the same lousy undergarments we had taken off.
The billets and dusty, straw “beds” which had been occupied by thousands of men who had passed that way before were the main breeding grounds but no man could pretend that he himself made no contribution to the grey battalions!
My mother, aware of the disgusting state of her son, sent out many preparations guaranteed to exterminate all kinds of vermin. I remember “Harrison’s Pomade” which certainly helped but one would have needed a gallon jar to do the job properly and besides, it was very messy. On one occasion I received from home a large cardboard box which contained, according to the accompanying letter, one home-made cake together with a large packet of insecticide. I opened the box expectantly to find a mixture of cake, currants, and carbolic. The most effective weapon against lice proved to be the lighted candle along the seams of the garments but even that method had its limitations.
 |
| Harrison's Pomade advert |
 |
| The Bow Bells Concert Party* (see diary entry below) |
Squad drill and lecture by Mr Hayes.
Bayonets, etc.
Bow Bells concert party - Harry Brandon.
New rifle (sniping).
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
* This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighbouring rights and is being made available under the Creative Commons, Public Domain Mark. The Wellcome Library.
28th May 1917
The allocation into sections of the men of the new draft in their respective platoons was now essential and B Company was paraded with all the officers present.
Snipers required special qualifications and were chosen first. Volunteers were called for – “Any marksmen?” – there were none. “First class shots?” – I looked at Bradley and raised my eyebrows. He responded by whispering - “No fatigues!”. Simultaneously we took one step forward and were thereupon nominated as Platoon Snipers.
Poor Forster was nowhere in the running when it came to shooting and gloomily foresaw the break-up of the trio. I am glad it did not work out that way.
6:55am parades.
Detailed sniper with Bradley.
Map reading, contour lines, etc.
Air raids.
Half day off.
On the range in evening.
Snipers required special qualifications and were chosen first. Volunteers were called for – “Any marksmen?” – there were none. “First class shots?” – I looked at Bradley and raised my eyebrows. He responded by whispering - “No fatigues!”. Simultaneously we took one step forward and were thereupon nominated as Platoon Snipers.
Poor Forster was nowhere in the running when it came to shooting and gloomily foresaw the break-up of the trio. I am glad it did not work out that way.
6:55am parades.
Detailed sniper with Bradley.
Map reading, contour lines, etc.
Air raids.
Half day off.
On the range in evening.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
17th May 1917
Very wet - no parade.
Repaired billet.
Rifle and sword inspection.
Repaired billet.
Rifle and sword inspection.
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| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
1st May 1917
Squad and rifle drill were the order of the day concluding with numerous assaults on the bayonet course. The latter was a hazardous undertaking. In close formation, with swords fixed, we were bullied and coerced into climbing and vaulting high barricades with unexpected wide trenches and other obstacles on the farther side, completing the exercise with vicious jabs at swinging sacks and prone ‘bodies’ made of straw. The target was always the solar plexus, the most vital spot in the human body. The danger, we were told, was that if the bayonet was plunged in too deeply human strength would not be able to withdraw it.
The sudden crack of a rifle meant that someone had unconsciously left ‘one up the spout’ and in his exertions at the top of the barricade had triggered off. The culprit was a tall, scholarly looking individual with bent knees and a pronounced stoop and elderly by our standards. His persistent clumsiness made him the butt of the draft and the despair of the Canaries. What penalty was meted out to him we never knew because from that day forward he disappeared from our ken. I like to think he was found some nice quite job at the Base more in keeping with his talents and no longer a menace to himself or his comrades.
The evening was spent at the YMCA where the well-known historian, Holland-Rose (1), gave a talk on Russia. The lecture was undoubtedly both interesting and instructive but the golden opportunity for a quiet nap with a modicum of comfort was irresistible. It was here that I first met Stanley Victor Bradley. On my way back to the billet a short tubby figure joined me. The beaming smile was Bradley’s but the curious and shapeless jacket of greenish hue with no pleats to its bulging breast pockets could only be blamed on the quartermaster’s stores. Bradley, I learnt in good time, was not one to be worried by the niceties of dress and I soon became aware that his main preoccupation was the enjoyment of life to the full under all conditions with goodwill to all men.
Time was short in 1917 and we soon became acquainted with each other’s relatively brief life histories. At 25 he was five years my senior, a civil servant in the War Trades Department of the Board of Trade. He had been at school with my cousin who had died at Loos, had a passion for tennis and was a fervent Wesleyan. He was also a teetotaller and a non-smoker. I never heard him utter the mildest of swear words except on one never to be forgotten occasion. From that day forward Bradley, Forster and I were inseparables except on those occasions when the duties of the day broke up the trio. In later years of peace I have sometimes pondered why in such close relationships the use of Christian names was rejected. The answer I believe lay in some inner consciousness which refused to admit that friendships born and nurtured on the battlefield could be anything but transient and that by some curious quirk of the mind we were facing up to the inevitable.
The trio was now complete and though we enjoyed the company of many other good friends we were never content unless we three were together.
(1) Wikipedia entry for Professor Holland-Rose here.
The sudden crack of a rifle meant that someone had unconsciously left ‘one up the spout’ and in his exertions at the top of the barricade had triggered off. The culprit was a tall, scholarly looking individual with bent knees and a pronounced stoop and elderly by our standards. His persistent clumsiness made him the butt of the draft and the despair of the Canaries. What penalty was meted out to him we never knew because from that day forward he disappeared from our ken. I like to think he was found some nice quite job at the Base more in keeping with his talents and no longer a menace to himself or his comrades.
The evening was spent at the YMCA where the well-known historian, Holland-Rose (1), gave a talk on Russia. The lecture was undoubtedly both interesting and instructive but the golden opportunity for a quiet nap with a modicum of comfort was irresistible. It was here that I first met Stanley Victor Bradley. On my way back to the billet a short tubby figure joined me. The beaming smile was Bradley’s but the curious and shapeless jacket of greenish hue with no pleats to its bulging breast pockets could only be blamed on the quartermaster’s stores. Bradley, I learnt in good time, was not one to be worried by the niceties of dress and I soon became aware that his main preoccupation was the enjoyment of life to the full under all conditions with goodwill to all men.
Time was short in 1917 and we soon became acquainted with each other’s relatively brief life histories. At 25 he was five years my senior, a civil servant in the War Trades Department of the Board of Trade. He had been at school with my cousin who had died at Loos, had a passion for tennis and was a fervent Wesleyan. He was also a teetotaller and a non-smoker. I never heard him utter the mildest of swear words except on one never to be forgotten occasion. From that day forward Bradley, Forster and I were inseparables except on those occasions when the duties of the day broke up the trio. In later years of peace I have sometimes pondered why in such close relationships the use of Christian names was rejected. The answer I believe lay in some inner consciousness which refused to admit that friendships born and nurtured on the battlefield could be anything but transient and that by some curious quirk of the mind we were facing up to the inevitable.
The trio was now complete and though we enjoyed the company of many other good friends we were never content unless we three were together.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
(1) Wikipedia entry for Professor Holland-Rose here.
30th April 1917
Gas all day - chlorine.
Three times tear gas.
Box respirators.
Sergeant J S Hunt of East Ham as instructor.
Pass to Harfleur and Havre - Montivilleurs. 4-9
Tea at Salvation Army Hut with Foster.
Google Maps entry for Harfleur here
Google Maps entry for Montivilliers here
Three times tear gas.
Box respirators.
Sergeant J S Hunt of East Ham as instructor.
Pass to Harfleur and Havre - Montivilleurs. 4-9
Tea at Salvation Army Hut with Foster.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
Google Maps entry for Montivilliers here
19th April 1917
A few hours later we had disembarked and it was on the quay that I first met one Arthur Forster, another civil servant from Somerset House. We teamed up and soon found a common bond. By a strange coincidence, one of several that have bedevilled me whilst in the Army, our respective elder brothers were close colleagues in the City Tax Office.
The march took us through the docks into the grimy back streets of Le Havre. The early workers had already departed to the war factories and the dockyards on bicycles or on the tramcars with their tinkling bells, leaving behind the very old and the children. Almost everyone was dressed in black – mourning for the sons of France, mourning for France itself. If they deigned to look at us at all their stares appeared hostile. “Another contingent from L’Angleterre” but L’Angleterre had not suffered invasion at the hands of a ruthless enemy. The children ran wildly alongside the column demanding “booly biff” and “beeskits” whilst mongrel dogs scampered between our legs and departed only when addressed with appropriate terms in their own language.
Passing through the village of Harfleur we arrived at Camp No 14, 7th Infantry Base Depot. Here the draft was housed in bell tents of which there were many hundreds spread over a vast slope. Nine soldiers were allotted to each tent and of my eight companions on that first day of active service five lived to make the return journey. The big fellow Scammel and the little chap Stone, men in their forties, friends of happier days, both received snipers’ bullets through the head. Bromidge survived after severe gassing and Williamson lost his life through an accident. Dyball, Mansley and Coombs were lost sight of but Forster and I remained in close companionship until the Boche broke up the partnership.
Sleeping in such close quarters was a problem. Heads on packs around the outer perimeter was comfortable enough but nine pairs of feet meeting at the centre meant that the latecomers were resting their toes halfway up the tent pole. In sloping lanes between the rows of tents were latrine buckets, each one shared between several tents – a useful if somewhat unsanitary arrangement. Unfortunately towards evening these receptacles over reached their capacity with disastrous results to the tent dwellers at the receiving end on the lower slopes. Hasty action with entrenching tools was called for and the competitive spirit entered into the exercise. The idea was to channel off into the adjoining tent before the occupants became aware of approaching danger – sometimes only to find that competitors from another quarter had meanwhile performed a disastrous outflanking movement.
On this day we were issued with rifles and sword bayonets, tin hats, PH gas helmets (1) and box respirators. With the departure of Lieutenant Ivison, the officer in charge of the draft, our last link with Redhill and the 3rd Battalion was severed.
Google Maps entry for Le Havre here
Google Maps entry for Harfleur here
(1) Wikipedia entry for PH gas helmets here.
The march took us through the docks into the grimy back streets of Le Havre. The early workers had already departed to the war factories and the dockyards on bicycles or on the tramcars with their tinkling bells, leaving behind the very old and the children. Almost everyone was dressed in black – mourning for the sons of France, mourning for France itself. If they deigned to look at us at all their stares appeared hostile. “Another contingent from L’Angleterre” but L’Angleterre had not suffered invasion at the hands of a ruthless enemy. The children ran wildly alongside the column demanding “booly biff” and “beeskits” whilst mongrel dogs scampered between our legs and departed only when addressed with appropriate terms in their own language.
Passing through the village of Harfleur we arrived at Camp No 14, 7th Infantry Base Depot. Here the draft was housed in bell tents of which there were many hundreds spread over a vast slope. Nine soldiers were allotted to each tent and of my eight companions on that first day of active service five lived to make the return journey. The big fellow Scammel and the little chap Stone, men in their forties, friends of happier days, both received snipers’ bullets through the head. Bromidge survived after severe gassing and Williamson lost his life through an accident. Dyball, Mansley and Coombs were lost sight of but Forster and I remained in close companionship until the Boche broke up the partnership.
Sleeping in such close quarters was a problem. Heads on packs around the outer perimeter was comfortable enough but nine pairs of feet meeting at the centre meant that the latecomers were resting their toes halfway up the tent pole. In sloping lanes between the rows of tents were latrine buckets, each one shared between several tents – a useful if somewhat unsanitary arrangement. Unfortunately towards evening these receptacles over reached their capacity with disastrous results to the tent dwellers at the receiving end on the lower slopes. Hasty action with entrenching tools was called for and the competitive spirit entered into the exercise. The idea was to channel off into the adjoining tent before the occupants became aware of approaching danger – sometimes only to find that competitors from another quarter had meanwhile performed a disastrous outflanking movement.
On this day we were issued with rifles and sword bayonets, tin hats, PH gas helmets (1) and box respirators. With the departure of Lieutenant Ivison, the officer in charge of the draft, our last link with Redhill and the 3rd Battalion was severed.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
Google Maps entry for Le Havre here
Google Maps entry for Harfleur here
(1) Wikipedia entry for PH gas helmets here.
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