24th July 1917 - Heading north to Ypres

Reveille sounded at 1:30am and by 3am the Battalion was on the first stage of the long trek northwards to the grim and bloody region promised by the Colonel.  Bouquemaison was reached by 6am and an hour later the Battalion entrained for Wizernes.  Standing room only on the French cattle trucks was a pleasant change from pounding the French roads for mile after mile with shoulders drooping under the heavy burden of pack and equipment.  Moreover, by train it was possible, by the good graces of the aged French engine driver, to indulge in the occasional brew-up.  The train stopped frequently for lengthy periods and at the first sound of squealing brakes hordes of khaki clad figures chased up to the front where the kindly driver obligingly turned on a tap and boiling water poured lavishly from a pipe below the engine cab.

The train ride, acceptable as it was, unhappily conveyed its sombre message.  Those frequent stoppages and side trackings were due to the priority given to urgent traffic on the line coming from the opposite direction.  Silently we watched all too many trains thunder by, every carriage bearing significantly the large symbol of the Red Cross.  We detrained at Wizernes at 12 noon having covered the distance in exactly five hours.

Three hours later packs were humped on shoulders and the long trek northward recommenced.  The route took us through several largish towns and on the outskirts of St Omer we broke off for a short rest at the side of the street.  It was a crime to drink on trek.  It was permissible to take one sip from water bottles provided the liquid went no further than the mouth.  Any man caught in the act of swallowing was booked by the lynx-eyed NCO.

Near at hand was a little shop with various oddments displayed in the window and the NCO grudgingly gave me permission to make a purchase.  Suspiciously he watched my movements and made no comment when I came out with a bundle of picture postcards of St Omer and an innocuous bag of sweets.  The postcards were bought for a purpose.  Although “St Omer” would be deleted by the censor, I cherished the hope that the receipt of a never-ending stream of photographs of a large and attractive French town (probably taken in 1901!) might perhaps set my mother’s mind at rest, disturbing her less than the rather forbiddingly worded ‘Field Postcards’.

As for the sweets, even Bradley didn’t guess that the innocent looking chocolates contained alcohol – so I was responsible for him breaking the pledge for the first time in his life.  As thirst quenchers they were a failure but our spirits were fortified for the rest of the journey to Bayenghem (La Commune) where the twelve mile trek ended at 10:30pm.


Reveille 1:30am.
Left Sus-Saint-Léger 3am.
Marched Bouquemaison (6am).
Entrained 7am.
Arrived Wizernes 12 noon.
Marched to Bayengham (La Commune) - 12 miles, 3pm - 10:30pm with tea rest.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

"On 24th July, the Battalion left Sus St. Leger and moved to La Commune, about seven and a half miles north-west of St. Omer and in the Fifth Army area. The Battalion paraded at 2:30 in the morning and, after tea had been served out to the men from the cookers of the Q.V.R., marched to Bouquemaison station. Here the Battalion entrained, and, after a five hours' journey, attended by the usual discomforts of the cattle trucks, reached Wizernes, three miles from St. Omer, about noon. Dinners were served in a field near Wizernes station, and at 3:15pm the Battalion paraded again and marched to La Commune, where it arrived at ten o'clock at night. The total distance marched during the day was about eighteen miles."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]

Google Maps entry for Wizernes here
Google Maps entry for St Omer here
Google Maps entry for Bayenghem here
Google Maps entry for La Commune here

5th July 1917

Rose at 8am.

At 11am in clean fatigues we paraded for rifle inspection by Sergeant Roberts of the London Scottish after which we were left to our own devices for the rest of the day.  It soon became evident that discipline in the strict army sense was not taken seriously and even lowly riflemen were treated as honoured guests.  With the battlefield only 20 miles away the peace and atmosphere of unhurried calm was difficult to believe.


Rose at 8am.
Clean fatigue rifle inspected by Sergeant Roberts, London Scottish at 11am.
Finis! Dismissed for day.
Divisional canteen posh.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

20th June 1917

The day was quiet and as soon as darkness fell the QWRs were relieved by the Rangers and the London Scottish.

The whole of the area being a maze of deep trenches the way back was complicated and tiring.  In single file we negotiated the contours of the communication trenches by walking along the parapets and parades, occasionally crossing over the six-foot drop between in order to cut off corners.  Suddenly my foot caught in a section of telephone wires and I pitched headlong into a deep trench.  I was not badly hurt but two nasty gashes were bleeding on forearm and hip.  Cuts and wounds were a matter of daily occurrence, especially when handling the masses of German barbed wire which still created pitfalls for the unwary.  No doubt we had to thank the abominable A.T. injections by RAMC for the fact that such untended mutilations of the flesh healed without any sign of festering.

We plodded on for hours but the awaited road in the back area, which would take us to food, rest and sleep, failed to materialise.  B Company, Lieutenant May in command, was lost!


Fairly quiet.
Relieved at night by the Rangers and Scottish.
Back to Achicourt. Billet. Ruins of estaminet.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

20th April 1917

Reveille at 5:15am heralded the commencement of an intensive course of physical training and musketry that lasted for eighteen days on the ‘Bull Ring’ (or the ‘Pimple’) which was situated on a high plateau some distance from the camp.  In blazing sun the daily march up to the Bull Ring was exhausting.

With the newly acquired tin hats the cord and hard leather lining bit deeply into closely cropped heads.  At the top we were at the mercy of the ‘Canaries’, the base instructors in their bright yellow jerseys.  Until late evening squad drill and bayonet work alternated with barely a break.

The midday meal was taken on the training ground and this was the signal for the influx of large numbers of elderly and decrepit market people to proffer their wares at exorbitant prices.  I paid my franc and indulged in an orgy of saffron cakes.  The high spot on these days on the Pimple came when the sun was beginning to sink in the West and the squad were lined up for the return journey to the camp.

Music played an important part in the life of the soldiers.  Throughout the lengthy period of the march-off by the many hundreds of men the massed bands of the Guards played those military marches only the Guards could play until the last man had departed with the setting sun.  I minded not how long our squad stood there awaiting its turn to march off and to this day martial music brings back a picture of the sun disappearing behind the ‘Pimple’ and hundreds of men passing one day nearer the unknown.  In later days we marched to the music of our own Regimental Band – it was not quite up to the standard of the Guards but at times of depression and near exhaustion the first notes of the band striking up always revived our spirits and gave new impetus to reluctant feet.  If the solo bugle produced a false note occasionally, which it did, our release from the cares and fatigue of the hour was enhanced.

The only occasion when little pleasure was derived from marching behind a band was when, still as part of the Brigade on draft, the column was led by the bagpipes of the London Scottish.  Being a rifle regiment the QWR were trained to march at 140 steps to the minute and in the early days as recruits the pace seemed entirely beyond our capacity.  Gradually, however, we became so used to 140 that we found difficulty in slowing down the tempo.  In slow time the march behind the wailing bagpipes of the London Scottish was agony and possibly regimental pride suffered a little.  There was a reason for this.  Owing to the close proximity of the respective Regimental Drill Halls in London there existed a strong, not unfriendly, rivalry between the two regiments which was somewhat enhanced by the feeling that, in our opinion, the Scottish were regarded in Fleet Street as the blue-eyed boys of the London Territorials and received more than their fair share of publicity than was afforded to the other regiments of the ‘Grey’ brigade.  The story goes that one day a QWR rifleman fed up with yet another picture in the daily papers glorifying the London Kilts walked into the drill hall in Queen’s Gate, apologising for his intrusion, and said “Excuse me but is it really true that the London Scottish sank the Emden”.  No one could vouch for the truth of the story*, be that as it may, whenever the regiments came together on the march the London Scottish were unfailingly greeted with a chorus of “Who sank the Emden?".

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

*  "... newsboys hawking papers on the streets of Britain did full-throated justice to two items of information, newly released by the Press Bureau, which appeared on their billboards in happy juxtaposition.
  'LONDON SCOTTISH IN ACTION!' they yelled.
  'EMDEN SUNK!'

It gave rise to a joke that persisted for months.
  Question: 'Who sank the Emden?'  Answer: 'The London Scottish'.

The German battlecruiser Emden had been sunk by the Australian navy, and it was Australia's first spectacular contribution to the war effort ...."
1914: The Days of Hope - Lyn MacDonald - Penguin UK - ISBN 9780241972199

12th February 1917

By 1917 the situation on the Western Front was grim.  At home the flag waving had ceased long before and manpower was becoming desperately short.  The London Territorial Regiments were anxious to retain their voluntary status and, in spite of their depleted ranks occasioned by the severe losses sustained on the Somme and subsequent battles, resisted for as long as possible the intake of men transferred from the County Regiments and the Conscripts.

A colleague who hailed from Dumfries was released from the service at the same time, and together, on the 12th February 1917, we made our way to Buckingham Gate where the respective headquarters of two London Territorial Regiments stood side by side.  My companion, understandably, was intent on joining the London Scottish, a regiment of some renown, and as a final gesture of goodwill I accompanied him into the Scottish Drill Hall, where "H" was immediately welcomed as a blood brother by a burly Scottish sergeant.  They chatted interminably until I became restless in the alien atmosphere. At length the formalities were completed and "H" was back with the Clan.  The burly sergeant then turned to me with an invitation to sign on the dotted line.  I politely declined, explaining that I was under the impression that the London Scottish were decidedly choosy on the matter of ancestry and that I personally could boast no blood nearer the border than Harwich - a little Irish, maybe but no Scottish!  He gave an assurance that in 1917 they were not all that particular and, moreover, implied that he would willingly commit perjury on my behalf.  I gathered that his idea was to transfer my grandmother's birthplace from Dublin to Edinburgh!

Against the persuasive powers of the two Scots, and the memory of my cousin who died at Loos whilst serving with the London Scottish I was sorely tempted.  I tried to visualise my skinny person arrayed in swinging kilt and sporran but the picture faded as the findings of the Medical Board registered.  From that moment the pattern of the future, for good or ill, was fixed by one pair of ungainly knock-knees.  Casting sentiment to the winds I crept out and entered the adjoining building.  The formalities were soon over - the Queen's Westminster Rifles were “not all that particular".

Queen's Westminster Rifles headquarters - 58 Buckingham Gate, London
(Peter Daniel Collection)

Having spent the greater part of the day in the Drill Hall, struggling with uniform puttees and equipment, a very ill-assorted and self-conscious bunch of recruits undertook an exhausting and embarrassing march to Victoria Station - all of one half mile - where we entrained for Redhill, Surrey, to join the 3rd Reserve Battalion there in training.  Sergeant Kaye, a veteran in charge of the draft wore the ribbons of the Boer War.  He was a kindly man and during the journey eyed us pityingly - maybe at the sight of youth being prepared for the sacrifice or perhaps in despair at the quality of the material with which his beloved regiment was being adulterated.  Most of the draft were youngsters of 18, but three days previously I had celebrated my 20th birthday, and that brought me within a different category.  Almost apologetically he warned me that after six weeks training I would be "over there".

Marching through the main streets of Redhill was the next ordeal, when to our surprise and delight an order to right wheel took us straight through the doorway of a small Italian cafe especially reserved for the draft.  Within minutes we were consuming plates of sausages and mashed potatoes washed down by pints of hot tea.  This was our first meal provided out of army funds and if our hopes for the future were raised by that satisfying repast, they were soon to be dissipated once the Army cooks had favoured us with their culinary efforts.

Number 2, The Granges was one of several large empty Victorian houses, and here I shared a room with five other new boys.  We made our 'beds'- low trestles, three planks and 'biscuits' filled with straw and one blanket on top.  The fastidious, loath to give up the civilised habits of pre-army life, wore pyjamas.  Having laid out our kit we toured the billet.  The usual home amenities were cut off and boarded up.  The ablutions and other creature comforts, primitive and soon to be snow-bound, were available at the end of the garden.

Left to our own devices by an uncooperative corporal in change of the billet we learned our lessons the hard way.  It was an error, for instance, to purchase an army issue jack-knife from the corporal even though he only charged nine pence, but our greatest mistake was to mark with indelible pencil our privately owned enamel tea mugs.  The strong, sweetened tea was purveyed in large buckets by the cooks and we helped ourselves by dipping in the mugs.  By the time the end of the queue reached the bucket the contents had acquired a brilliant violet hue, but even so the brew compared quite favourably with the active service concoctions of later days.

Original diary entry

Google Maps entry for 58 Buckingham Gate, London here
Google Maps entry for Redhill here