A Rifleman's Journal - 1917: Rifle

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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.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

(1) Wikipedia entry for Professor Holland-Rose 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.

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.

11th April 1917

Our allotted ‘six weeks’ were up and at the first parade came the anticipated preliminary warning.

Those who fell out for the overseas draft were in theory highly trained men, physically fit and in all respects qualified to do battle with the foe. We ourselves had no doubt on the question of health and strength (that much at least was owed to the army) and it may be assumed that our youthful exuberance refused to admit any deficiency in the military sphere. On dismissal little groups of excited men foregathered to discuss the one overriding question – not when but where? The scheduled night hops were cancelled for the overseas men and apart from the issue of another new rifle we were free to ponder upon the future and to stock up on the minor necessities for travel that were not provided by army issue.

I took the opportunity to clear up a little matter that had bothered me for several weeks past. Before joining up I had purchased a wristwatch – “one which would stand up to really rough treatment”. Unfortunately the glass was soon broken in the course of training. Behind the counter of a small watch repairer shop a very old man with a long grey beard made several attempts to fit a new glass but regretted he had not one in stock. If I would return next week he would “contact the wholesalers for the correct size”. The watch was returned to the makers to be delivered next week. By the time I was free to visit the old man again we had been warned for overseas draft on the following day but the watch “had not been returned from the makers, the war you know”. I had been slow on the uptake but at last the penny dropped. My immature appearance was perhaps mistaken and I had been subjected to gross trickery. The little bit of Irish came to the fore and I demanded my watch immediately or I would “fetch the Gang”. Without a word the old man opened a drawer and handed over my watch complete with fitted glass for which, incidentally, I refused to pay. I wonder how many Queen’s Westminster’s at Redhill went overseas never to return - with their watches still in the possession of that old man. I might perhaps add that my ‘Cyma’ with its solid steel case, now pitted with rust, gave sterling service and survived the mud of Flanders.