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| Lightwoods Park Military Hospital, Smethwick |
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| Original diary entry |
Google Maps entry for Lightwoods Park here
Showing posts with label Route. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Route. Show all posts
15th September 1917
Google Maps entry for Lightwoods Park here
31st August 1917
2am in the morning and in spite of the lateness of the hour a sizeable crowd of onlookers stood silently, peering closely as every stretcher was carried to the string of waiting ambulances. No doubt they were hoping with mixed feelings to recognise some face dear to their hearts.
At the army hospital inside the confines of Whittington Barracks the members of Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service forgot for one brief moment the dignity of their commissioned rank and each one dashed from bed to bed, as did the civilians at the station, searching for a familiar face. It so happened that out of the large intake on that night I was the only Londoner and it was apparent that the majority of the nursing staff were Londoners. All I wanted to do was sleep but that was denied me until I had replied to all their questions which covered the whole field of the London Territorial Battalions which comprised the 56th and 47th Divisions and the individual members thereof from Colonels to humble privates. I could not help and as they drifted away I had my face washed and “London” went to sleep. My status had improved; I was no longer ‘number 27’, a mere cipher.
When morning came the nursing sisters at Whittington had regained the dignity of their calling and patients had to conform to strict discipline even though they were bedridden. After all it was a pukka military hospital. The weeks at Whittington were grim. I missed the wonderful food of “No 1 Canadian” but that was understandable. The unearthly silence of the ward was almost unendurable. We had no visitors except two ancient crones who appeared each Sunday morning and presented every patient with one small, wrinkled apple and a religious tract. Even the Sergeants’ voices and the rattle of arms on the barrack square would have been a source of perverse enjoyment but no sound penetrated the ancient walls of the hospital. We had one moment of light relief each morning when the baker’s cart drew up outside the main door and not even matron could still the hearty cheers with which his arrival was greeted.
The elderly matron, a kindly soul no doubt, visited each patient every day with a few words yet oddly enough she was disliked by every man for a particular reason. During her daily round she would plonk down on the patient’s bed her revolting pet, a snuffling, beady-eyed King Charles spaniel. This seemed extraordinary behaviour for the matron of a large hospital but we endured and suffered in silence until she departed from the ward. On one occasion only did I see the matron show her claws and I was the cause of her displeasure. I was still a ‘bedcase’ and she plumped her wretched animal on the counterpane saying “Good morning London, still in bed?”. She passed on to the next patient. Sensitive to any suggestion that I might be “swinging the lead”, which I am sure was not implied, I was up and standing by my bed rather improperly dressed when she arrived the following morning. She dealt with me thoroughly. Her verbal onslaught was superb. No sergeant major could have improved on her masterly performance.
Google Maps entry for Whittington Barracks here
At the army hospital inside the confines of Whittington Barracks the members of Queen Alexandra’s Nursing Service forgot for one brief moment the dignity of their commissioned rank and each one dashed from bed to bed, as did the civilians at the station, searching for a familiar face. It so happened that out of the large intake on that night I was the only Londoner and it was apparent that the majority of the nursing staff were Londoners. All I wanted to do was sleep but that was denied me until I had replied to all their questions which covered the whole field of the London Territorial Battalions which comprised the 56th and 47th Divisions and the individual members thereof from Colonels to humble privates. I could not help and as they drifted away I had my face washed and “London” went to sleep. My status had improved; I was no longer ‘number 27’, a mere cipher.
When morning came the nursing sisters at Whittington had regained the dignity of their calling and patients had to conform to strict discipline even though they were bedridden. After all it was a pukka military hospital. The weeks at Whittington were grim. I missed the wonderful food of “No 1 Canadian” but that was understandable. The unearthly silence of the ward was almost unendurable. We had no visitors except two ancient crones who appeared each Sunday morning and presented every patient with one small, wrinkled apple and a religious tract. Even the Sergeants’ voices and the rattle of arms on the barrack square would have been a source of perverse enjoyment but no sound penetrated the ancient walls of the hospital. We had one moment of light relief each morning when the baker’s cart drew up outside the main door and not even matron could still the hearty cheers with which his arrival was greeted.
The elderly matron, a kindly soul no doubt, visited each patient every day with a few words yet oddly enough she was disliked by every man for a particular reason. During her daily round she would plonk down on the patient’s bed her revolting pet, a snuffling, beady-eyed King Charles spaniel. This seemed extraordinary behaviour for the matron of a large hospital but we endured and suffered in silence until she departed from the ward. On one occasion only did I see the matron show her claws and I was the cause of her displeasure. I was still a ‘bedcase’ and she plumped her wretched animal on the counterpane saying “Good morning London, still in bed?”. She passed on to the next patient. Sensitive to any suggestion that I might be “swinging the lead”, which I am sure was not implied, I was up and standing by my bed rather improperly dressed when she arrived the following morning. She dealt with me thoroughly. Her verbal onslaught was superb. No sergeant major could have improved on her masterly performance.
Google Maps entry for Whittington Barracks here
30th August 1917 - Back to England
At 1am I was awakened by the light of the hurricane lamp and the sister whispering in my ear that I was being transferred to England. As the two bearers adjusted the blankets on the stretcher I hurriedly appropriated the Field Medical Card which hung at the head of the bed and popped it inside my little red bag of personal belongings. The quest for souvenirs was still strong. On that night I alone made my final goodbye to K Ward No. 1 Canadian General Hospital, leaving behind in that grim marquee many desperately ill men, most of whom I feared would remain in France forever.
On the 19th April 1918 the newspapers reported as follows. “Two squadrons of Gothas attacked British hospitals at Etaples causing over 300 casualties.” Among the published list of Canadian nursing service killed in the bombing I was shocked and saddened to read of the names of those two nursing sisters from whom I had received so much kindness and attention in K Ward.
For some reason which I could never understand the only article of uniform and other clothing which the RAMC considered should remain in my possession was that terrible pair of boots, size 8 and size 9 respectively. To my disgust they were placed on the stretcher close to my feet. The night was dark and the arc lamps strung high above the compound gave only a glimmer of light. The distance to the Red Cross train was considerable and the RAMC men congratulated each other on the fact that the burden was lightweight. Determined those boots should never reach England I took advantage of the good humour of my bearers and gently edged number one boot off the stretcher. It fell with a plop on the concrete. “Did you drop something chum?” I answered in the negative. Acting on the assumption that the greater the distance between the two boots the less likely my bearers would be inclined to make the journey back to recover number one, I waited until we were nearer our destination to dispose of number two in the same way. It hit the ground with a crash but my bearers made no comment.
Once again I was in the top berth of a French Ambulance train but I remember nothing of the journey to Calais harbour.
It was now broad daylight and the scene was one of immense activity of German prisoners, with their soft round hats and large coloured patches on the back of their jackets, who were stretcher bearing from the train to a magnificent white steam yacht moored at the quayside. From the top deck of the Belgian Royal Yacht “Stad Antwerp” a very wide staircase extended down to the bowels of the ship. The stairs were completely boarded over and the stretchers released by one orderly to career speedily down the slope to be caught by two seamen at the foot. Across a large landing and again to career down a second wide chute, then I was comfortably placed on one of the benches which lined the side of the ship. The time was 3pm and we were quickly away. Through a convenient porthole the water rushed past almost at eye level. Positioned as we were in the bowels of that beautiful ship my normal aptitude for seasickness was non-existent.
Crossing the Channel in broad daylight was a hazardous undertaking for British ships and through my porthole I was comforted by the sight of a destroyer which overtook and passed us with cheeky abandon. A second followed and a third and by the time the fifth destroyer disappeared from view I realised my stupidity. What I supposed was a complete flotilla escort was in fact no more than one or two or at most three ships of the Dover patrol literally making rings around us.
In forty minutes we were in Dover harbour and comfortably ensconced in a Red Cross train bearing the old familiar chocolate and cream colours of the London and North Western Railway. After a hot bowl of soup, a blessed sleep – until awakened by the jolting and jarring of the wheels slowly negotiating the points of what must have been a junction. It was not pitch dark and as we slowly passed through a blacked out station I could just discern the nameplate “South Kensington” picked out in dim blue lights. I speculated as to which London hospital would have the pleasure of my company and happily resumed my slumbers.
I woke suddenly to the sound of a raucous voice shouting “Lichfield”. Lichfield it was and miles from London to which I belonged.
Etaples to Calais and Blighty.
"Stad Antwerp".
Lichfield Military Hospital.
Google Maps entry for Calais Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Dover Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Lichfield here
On the 19th April 1918 the newspapers reported as follows. “Two squadrons of Gothas attacked British hospitals at Etaples causing over 300 casualties.” Among the published list of Canadian nursing service killed in the bombing I was shocked and saddened to read of the names of those two nursing sisters from whom I had received so much kindness and attention in K Ward.
For some reason which I could never understand the only article of uniform and other clothing which the RAMC considered should remain in my possession was that terrible pair of boots, size 8 and size 9 respectively. To my disgust they were placed on the stretcher close to my feet. The night was dark and the arc lamps strung high above the compound gave only a glimmer of light. The distance to the Red Cross train was considerable and the RAMC men congratulated each other on the fact that the burden was lightweight. Determined those boots should never reach England I took advantage of the good humour of my bearers and gently edged number one boot off the stretcher. It fell with a plop on the concrete. “Did you drop something chum?” I answered in the negative. Acting on the assumption that the greater the distance between the two boots the less likely my bearers would be inclined to make the journey back to recover number one, I waited until we were nearer our destination to dispose of number two in the same way. It hit the ground with a crash but my bearers made no comment.
Once again I was in the top berth of a French Ambulance train but I remember nothing of the journey to Calais harbour.
It was now broad daylight and the scene was one of immense activity of German prisoners, with their soft round hats and large coloured patches on the back of their jackets, who were stretcher bearing from the train to a magnificent white steam yacht moored at the quayside. From the top deck of the Belgian Royal Yacht “Stad Antwerp” a very wide staircase extended down to the bowels of the ship. The stairs were completely boarded over and the stretchers released by one orderly to career speedily down the slope to be caught by two seamen at the foot. Across a large landing and again to career down a second wide chute, then I was comfortably placed on one of the benches which lined the side of the ship. The time was 3pm and we were quickly away. Through a convenient porthole the water rushed past almost at eye level. Positioned as we were in the bowels of that beautiful ship my normal aptitude for seasickness was non-existent.
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| HS Stad Antwerpen |
Crossing the Channel in broad daylight was a hazardous undertaking for British ships and through my porthole I was comforted by the sight of a destroyer which overtook and passed us with cheeky abandon. A second followed and a third and by the time the fifth destroyer disappeared from view I realised my stupidity. What I supposed was a complete flotilla escort was in fact no more than one or two or at most three ships of the Dover patrol literally making rings around us.
In forty minutes we were in Dover harbour and comfortably ensconced in a Red Cross train bearing the old familiar chocolate and cream colours of the London and North Western Railway. After a hot bowl of soup, a blessed sleep – until awakened by the jolting and jarring of the wheels slowly negotiating the points of what must have been a junction. It was not pitch dark and as we slowly passed through a blacked out station I could just discern the nameplate “South Kensington” picked out in dim blue lights. I speculated as to which London hospital would have the pleasure of my company and happily resumed my slumbers.
I woke suddenly to the sound of a raucous voice shouting “Lichfield”. Lichfield it was and miles from London to which I belonged.
Etaples to Calais and Blighty.
"Stad Antwerp".
Lichfield Military Hospital.
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| Original diary entry |
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| Original journal notes |
Google Maps entry for Calais Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Dover Harbour here
Google Maps entry for Lichfield here
16th August 1917
Just before dawn the men were issued with a generous ration of rum. Too generous – a few of the lads, no doubt unused to such potent drink in large doses, appeared to be unaware of their surroundings or the purpose for which they were there. In the light of what followed to many of them one could only hope that the agonies of the spirit and the flesh were to some extent alleviated by the blessed state induced by the strong liquor. One lad offered me a generous part of his ration, for which I was grateful but I dare not risk more than a tiny sip.
At dawn, to the shrill blast of the whistle, 2nd London rose as one man and scrambling forward into Glencorse Wood, scorned the murderous fire of the German machine guns from the heights above. In a matter of seconds Jargon Trench was again cluttered with the wounded and the dying. The first casualty being the Platoon Commander who, with arm upraised in the act of waving his men forward to the attack, fell backward and lay beside me with his lifeblood spouting from a bullet wound in his chest.
No pen can adequately convey the supreme heroism of those young lads of the 1st Battalion of the 2nd London Regiment. As a helpless onlooker it is possible only to record, with deep feeling, the slaughter of the innocents I witnessed that early morning of 16th August 1917. It was the most heart-rending experience I endured during my brief spell in the line. They were mostly teenagers, barely out of school, whom fate had brought into the world just one year too soon. Bitter as my feelings were to those ‘bastards’ on the ridge, I found time to direct a few uncomplimentary thoughts to the British top brass, far away from the smoke and flames, who were responsible for the bloodbath of Glencorse Wood without having the remotest idea of the unspeakable condition of the terrain or the utter futility of the operation.
With Jargon Trench a shambles and many badly wounded men requiring urgent attention, my position was desperate. Lack of food, drink and sleep for the best part of four days and loss of blood had taken their toll. I resisted the impulse to try to escape from that hell. The shooting was now mainly concentrated on the upper slope and the hazards of crossing this vast area within the Salient were considerably lessened but the body refused to obey the natural instinct of survival. I lay supine, content to await the next turn in the wheel of fate.
The return to reality and reason came suddenly. The advance was not proceeding too well for the gallant 2nd Londons and many of those who survived were falling back to the relative safety of the jumping off ground. The time had come to move and, retrieving tin hat, I crawled out on hands and knees and, carefully negotiating the craters, commenced the long haul back. The enemy were too busily employed nearer their home ground to bother with one lone figure on the way out, although for the first hundred yards rifle and machine gun bullets hit the mud with disturbing ‘plops’. Meanwhile, on the slopes behind, the massacre continued and the farewell and faintly disturbing message from my companions of the last few days was simply “the LRBs have been turned on the right”.
The white tapes, which had been laid out for the guidance of the incoming troops to the jumping off position for the attack, had disappeared except for a few shreds sticking out of the mud here and there. However, in daylight the general direction to safety was clear enough. Progress was slow but sure and occasional rests on the edge of waterlogged craters gave me the opportunity to survey the whole grim picture of the Salient for the last time. Sitting thus after a journey of perhaps half a mile without seeing a living soul I became aware that in the adjoining crater not three feet away lay the body of a German soldier – arms outstretched, glassy eyes wide open to the skies and legs partly submerged in the waterlogged shell hole where he was taking his final rest. There was no sign of mutilation of the flesh and the calm features showed none of the anguish of suffering. His release from the earthly hell must have been quick and I was glad. I kept him company for several minutes until gradually my hatred of the German hordes began to evaporate. Indeed, owing no doubt to physical weakness, I became soft and maudlin in my attitude toward that piece of rotting clay. A mental picture of the Hun in his home in the Fatherland, his family, maybe young children, came before me and I lost all sense of reality. Pulling myself together came the realisation that he was away from it all while I was still alive with a long way to go.
Glencorse Wood behind was still an inferno and “the LRBs had been turned on the right”. That right flank on the southern slopes by Inverness Copse was not far distant and presented a threat that could not be denied. I moved on.
I remember passing one First Aid Post, hurriedly erected since the commencement of the advance on 31st July. Nearby was a disabled tank. A number of walking wounded were hanging about but since no ambulance could travel over the shell-pocked ground there was little point in my joining the queue. The kind, garrulous Brompton had administered first aid days and nights previously and with the threat of gangrene time was my only enemy.
The vast expanse of open ground which lay ahead appeared deserted and the complete aloneness in the strange world around was uncanny. The emptiness of the landscape was not entirely surprising since the whole area was now overlooked by unfriendly eyes from the high ridge towards Passchendaele – watching every move by the British Army along the Menin Road and the remains of the tracks leading to the frontline positions. It was across this ground that on 31st July the British attacked and the Third Battle of Ypres commenced. On that very day the heavens opened and torrential rain continued incessantly through day and night until the deep craters filled to overflowing, transforming the whole low-lying area into one vast swamp through which we floundered twelve days later.
Where were the dead? Apart from an occasional khaki or field grey figure grotesquely spread-eagled in the mud there was no real evidence of the slaughter on both sides. Progress was slow for perhaps another quarter of a mile but at length the dead came into view. They lay in one long mound which, straight as an arrow, stretched away to the north as far as the eye could see. The spectacle of that mangled pile of humanity, gruesome as it was, by its very magnitude failed to stir the emotions as did the little German in the shell hole. The temporary resting-place of those thousands of khaki and field grey together was, I believe, the road to Westhock. One thing was certain, I had no recollection of negotiating that mountainous heap on the way in and with the realisation that I was off course I veered to the left.
Progress was very slow and the effort painful but at length the first evidence of sanity in those troubled fields singled me out for special attention. In the far distance a tiny moving object was approaching at great speed. I sat down and waited for the visitor. Bubbling over with the sheer joy of life, free from the hates and bitterness that beset his masters, the affectionate, if boisterous, greeting of that little brown mongrel put new spirit into the weary traveller. Having completed his mission he scampered off in the direction from whence he came and where he led I followed. He was already home and waiting for me at the support trenches where a long line of faces peered apprehensively over the parapet towards the smoke and flame to their front. Here were the QVRs awaiting the order to advance to the support of the LRBs. To their shout of “How’s it going up their chum?” one could only repeat the parting message of the LRBs that they had been turned on the right. Cold comfort with the prospect of a dim future for the lads of the QVR who by all appearances had already shared in the slaughter of that futile operation. The Germans knew very well the precise location of the British support lines and we ourselves had witnessed the intense bombardment of that region from our own position in Jargon Trench.
I shuffled along until in the far distance, away to the right, I espied a party of twenty or thirty men trudging slowly back towards the British rear. As we converged I was intrigued to notice that every other man was carrying on his shoulder what appeared to be a long pole. They could hardly be walking wounded and my guess was that a party of pioneers was leisurely returning from some task in the field. As we drew closer I was spotted and immediately half a dozen broke away from their party and raced towards me. At last I was face to face with the enemy! Flinging their rolled up stretchers to the ground and quickly opening them up they arranged blankets and I was invited to take my pick. Competition for my patronage was keen and I was bewildered by the verbal onslaught and gesticulation of those half dozen unarmed and unwounded Germans. No doubt they were more concerned with their own safety than my immediate wellbeing since unescorted Germans in process of surrendering to the enemy were treading a dangerous ground. I was to be their insurance, their passport to safety. What additional benefits they may have thought would accrue from their synthetic display of humanity is a matter of conjecture. This was not the moment for fraternisation. We spoke no common language but a few well-chosen words in good British Army language sufficed. Quite unperturbed they bundled up their stretchers and hurried back to their companions. Incidentally, not one of my visitors wore the brassard of the Red Cross.
So far the way back had been comparatively peaceful, if slow and tortuous, but now there was the smoke of bursting shrapnel in the dull grey sky. Although hitherto there had been no path or track in the wilderness there now appeared the remains of the white tapes laid out for the advance to the infamous Menin Road. As I progressed I was overtaken, walking wounded began to appear from all directions. A crowd of several hundred weary, dishevelled and bloody remnants staggered along until the ambulances were reached at a spot beyond which no vehicle dare venture in daylight.
Just as I arrived, one crowded ambulance drove off at breakneck speed in the direction of Ypres. The second one, crammed with screaming Huns was ready to move off whilst many patient British ‘Tommies’ sat around awaiting their turn. Overhead the vicious whiplash crack of bursting shrapnel showered its deadly splinters from the air amongst the crowd of waiting men. Jerry had got the range to a ‘T’. I was not so patient as the rest. I took exception to the priority the wounded Germans were receiving. I took further exception to the brusque manner of the RAMC Corporal when in reply to my request he looked at my bandaged hand and said “You can walk”. When I explained that it was not my intention to do any more walking he softened. “All right chum, we are full inside, you can sit with the driver.” I sat with the driver. Speed was sacrificed to comfort as was essential having regard to the mounting casualties continuously filtering along through the Menin Road to Ypres.
At last the Ancient Cloth Hall came into view. We had reached Field Ambulance Station number 55 at Dickebusch. The journey was rough and long and with every bump and lurch of that primitive conveyance I felt my body was breaking into pieces. So far as I know Dickebusch was the first substantial Field Ambulance Station at which the casualties from the battle area could receive proper attention to their wounds. The fact that Dickebusch lay some miles from the battle area of Glencorse Wood was an indication of the complete domination of the Ypres Salient from the heights above and it follows the only justification for launching the Battle of Langemark. However I am no historian and my theories are derived from a purely personal interest. It was a hell of a long way back.
At Dickebusch the constant stream of bloody and exhausted wounded were directed to a large hut inside which were rows of long trestle tables and forms. Unlimited supplies of bully beef sandwiches, chocolate and cigarettes were laid out and orderlies repeatedly filled mugs with hot, sweet Army tea. I had not eaten or drunk for over three days and set to with a will. My thirst was insatiable. Feeling decidedly better and resting on the hard forms, my thoughts dwelt on the good fortune that had been my portion in that hell which lay behind. “Lay quite still and on no account eat or drink”. Brompton’s parting message, which I had quite forgotten, gave me a few moments anxiety but feeling none the worse for that overdue repast I was past caring anyway – though Brompton could have been right.
It was time to move this dirty, ragged individual with uniform in shreds, puttees trailing away behind, jacket in ribbons and jacket sleeves ripped from the wrists to the shoulders by the blast of the 5.9. Outside the canteen three or four queues of Tommies stood patiently in single file whilst in the distance could be seen a cluster of white buildings which proved to be Field Ambulance Station number 55. I attached myself to the nearest queue and prepared for a long wait. Nobody talked. All stood quietly, immersed in their own thoughts, waiting for some relief from the pain and exhaustion. I indulged in a little mental arithmetic. Assuming there were at least 200 men in that long line before me and, say, four doctors available for each queue, my potential would be decreased to 50. Allowing an average of 15 minutes for each patient for jabs, cleaning, surgery, bandaging and recording formalities, I might expect to enter the portals of that distant building in about 12 hours. Hopefully deciding that my working hypothesis must be faulty the mental exercise was abandoned. Meanwhile the queue continued to lengthen behind and the forward movement was negligible.
The pain in the stomach and hand was excruciating and with every beat of the heart the finger pumped in unison. By now the outside of the bandage was jet black with dried blood except for an unpleasant sheen of phosphorescent green in places. The whole ensemble was the size of a toy balloon and as hard as iron. Considerable relief was obtained by resting the packet on the top of my shoulder and thus I was standing when a white spot emerged from the distant building. As it came nearer the white spot proved to be a young surgeon, obviously fresh from the operating table from the bloody state of his white gown. He was no doubt on the way to a rest and food. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and his step was weary. He plodded down the line with now and again a quick glance at those who stood and waited. He passed by me but after a few steps he was back. Pointing to the black bundle on my shoulder he said “How long have you had that?” I told him two and a half days. “Come with me” – and retracing his steps he walked all the way back to that far off building. I had jumped the queue by about 200 places!
Inside I sat at a rough wooden table and was inflicted with 75cc A.T. The hand was immersed in a large enamel trough filled with hot antiseptic and the process of unwinding the lengths of coagulated bandage and gauze commenced. For the first time I saw what Jerry had done to my finger, from the knuckle to the nail it was split exactly down the centre with splinters of white bone at right angles resembling the skeleton of a fish. With infinite care and patience the MO slowly unthreaded the interwoven gauze and bound it up. He commenced to write in the details on my Field Medical Card. I asked him about the other wound, pointing to my stomach. His profanity was excusable in the circumstances and yet with the same care and attention he cleaned and plugged and bandaged. With my Medical Card in a waterproof cover he wished me good luck and was out of the door in no time. I trust he kept his eyes averted during his second attempt to reach his own particular refuge.
The diary records that lorries conveyed the casualties from Dickebusch to No. 7 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station at Poperinghe passing hundreds of German prisoners on the road. After food, drink and a second inspection I slept in a tent. However, today, I have no recollection of that part of the journey.
I awoke from what I suspect was an induced sleep to find myself on the luggage rack of an ancient French railway carriage converted for use as an ambulance train. We were ambling along at a steady pace. Periodical stops were made at wayside British Army halts where our wounds were inspected, food and drink administered and, of course, the ever ready hypodermic was in action. For every inspection the Medical Card should have been noted accordingly but mine shows a complete blank except for the AT prod I received at Dickenbusch. I remember peeing out of a top window at one of these halts. Several elephant huts jutted on the line whilst in front beautifully tended gardens ablaze with the colourful flowers of late summer were enclosed with freshly painted white fencing heralding the first promise of approaching civilisation and comfort.
We detrained and ambulances completed the journey to No 1 Canadian General Hospital at Etaples on the coast. Around my neck still hung the Field Medical Card reporting a battle casualty resulting in “shell wounds to right hand and abdomen”. The ward sister arrived. “What happened to you number 27?” I reported the diagnosis on the card. She said “Don’t be silly, boy, that’s not your abdomen that’s your belly”. Lt A V Ledger RAMC of No. 55 Field Ambulance Station may have slipped up in his anatomy but he dealt with me handsomely.
The tattered remains of my uniform having been removed with scissors, my body washed down by an RAMC orderly, clothed in a night-gown of sorts and blanketed, I was carted away on a stretcher tightly clutching the little red bag containing my personal treasures. Entering an enormous marquee labelled K Ward, bed number 27 brought me to the end of my day.
British attack (2nd Londons).
Michael ... makes a dash out.
CCS (Casualty Clearing Station) Dickebusch.
Tea. Wounds dressed (Ypres).
CCS Poperinghe.
Etaples.
Google Maps entry for The Cloth Hall, Ypres here
Google Maps entry for Dickebusch (Dikkebus) here
Google Maps entry for Poperinge here
Google Maps entry for Etaples here
At dawn, to the shrill blast of the whistle, 2nd London rose as one man and scrambling forward into Glencorse Wood, scorned the murderous fire of the German machine guns from the heights above. In a matter of seconds Jargon Trench was again cluttered with the wounded and the dying. The first casualty being the Platoon Commander who, with arm upraised in the act of waving his men forward to the attack, fell backward and lay beside me with his lifeblood spouting from a bullet wound in his chest.
No pen can adequately convey the supreme heroism of those young lads of the 1st Battalion of the 2nd London Regiment. As a helpless onlooker it is possible only to record, with deep feeling, the slaughter of the innocents I witnessed that early morning of 16th August 1917. It was the most heart-rending experience I endured during my brief spell in the line. They were mostly teenagers, barely out of school, whom fate had brought into the world just one year too soon. Bitter as my feelings were to those ‘bastards’ on the ridge, I found time to direct a few uncomplimentary thoughts to the British top brass, far away from the smoke and flames, who were responsible for the bloodbath of Glencorse Wood without having the remotest idea of the unspeakable condition of the terrain or the utter futility of the operation.
With Jargon Trench a shambles and many badly wounded men requiring urgent attention, my position was desperate. Lack of food, drink and sleep for the best part of four days and loss of blood had taken their toll. I resisted the impulse to try to escape from that hell. The shooting was now mainly concentrated on the upper slope and the hazards of crossing this vast area within the Salient were considerably lessened but the body refused to obey the natural instinct of survival. I lay supine, content to await the next turn in the wheel of fate.
The return to reality and reason came suddenly. The advance was not proceeding too well for the gallant 2nd Londons and many of those who survived were falling back to the relative safety of the jumping off ground. The time had come to move and, retrieving tin hat, I crawled out on hands and knees and, carefully negotiating the craters, commenced the long haul back. The enemy were too busily employed nearer their home ground to bother with one lone figure on the way out, although for the first hundred yards rifle and machine gun bullets hit the mud with disturbing ‘plops’. Meanwhile, on the slopes behind, the massacre continued and the farewell and faintly disturbing message from my companions of the last few days was simply “the LRBs have been turned on the right”.
The white tapes, which had been laid out for the guidance of the incoming troops to the jumping off position for the attack, had disappeared except for a few shreds sticking out of the mud here and there. However, in daylight the general direction to safety was clear enough. Progress was slow but sure and occasional rests on the edge of waterlogged craters gave me the opportunity to survey the whole grim picture of the Salient for the last time. Sitting thus after a journey of perhaps half a mile without seeing a living soul I became aware that in the adjoining crater not three feet away lay the body of a German soldier – arms outstretched, glassy eyes wide open to the skies and legs partly submerged in the waterlogged shell hole where he was taking his final rest. There was no sign of mutilation of the flesh and the calm features showed none of the anguish of suffering. His release from the earthly hell must have been quick and I was glad. I kept him company for several minutes until gradually my hatred of the German hordes began to evaporate. Indeed, owing no doubt to physical weakness, I became soft and maudlin in my attitude toward that piece of rotting clay. A mental picture of the Hun in his home in the Fatherland, his family, maybe young children, came before me and I lost all sense of reality. Pulling myself together came the realisation that he was away from it all while I was still alive with a long way to go.
Glencorse Wood behind was still an inferno and “the LRBs had been turned on the right”. That right flank on the southern slopes by Inverness Copse was not far distant and presented a threat that could not be denied. I moved on.
I remember passing one First Aid Post, hurriedly erected since the commencement of the advance on 31st July. Nearby was a disabled tank. A number of walking wounded were hanging about but since no ambulance could travel over the shell-pocked ground there was little point in my joining the queue. The kind, garrulous Brompton had administered first aid days and nights previously and with the threat of gangrene time was my only enemy.
The vast expanse of open ground which lay ahead appeared deserted and the complete aloneness in the strange world around was uncanny. The emptiness of the landscape was not entirely surprising since the whole area was now overlooked by unfriendly eyes from the high ridge towards Passchendaele – watching every move by the British Army along the Menin Road and the remains of the tracks leading to the frontline positions. It was across this ground that on 31st July the British attacked and the Third Battle of Ypres commenced. On that very day the heavens opened and torrential rain continued incessantly through day and night until the deep craters filled to overflowing, transforming the whole low-lying area into one vast swamp through which we floundered twelve days later.
Where were the dead? Apart from an occasional khaki or field grey figure grotesquely spread-eagled in the mud there was no real evidence of the slaughter on both sides. Progress was slow for perhaps another quarter of a mile but at length the dead came into view. They lay in one long mound which, straight as an arrow, stretched away to the north as far as the eye could see. The spectacle of that mangled pile of humanity, gruesome as it was, by its very magnitude failed to stir the emotions as did the little German in the shell hole. The temporary resting-place of those thousands of khaki and field grey together was, I believe, the road to Westhock. One thing was certain, I had no recollection of negotiating that mountainous heap on the way in and with the realisation that I was off course I veered to the left.
Progress was very slow and the effort painful but at length the first evidence of sanity in those troubled fields singled me out for special attention. In the far distance a tiny moving object was approaching at great speed. I sat down and waited for the visitor. Bubbling over with the sheer joy of life, free from the hates and bitterness that beset his masters, the affectionate, if boisterous, greeting of that little brown mongrel put new spirit into the weary traveller. Having completed his mission he scampered off in the direction from whence he came and where he led I followed. He was already home and waiting for me at the support trenches where a long line of faces peered apprehensively over the parapet towards the smoke and flame to their front. Here were the QVRs awaiting the order to advance to the support of the LRBs. To their shout of “How’s it going up their chum?” one could only repeat the parting message of the LRBs that they had been turned on the right. Cold comfort with the prospect of a dim future for the lads of the QVR who by all appearances had already shared in the slaughter of that futile operation. The Germans knew very well the precise location of the British support lines and we ourselves had witnessed the intense bombardment of that region from our own position in Jargon Trench.
I shuffled along until in the far distance, away to the right, I espied a party of twenty or thirty men trudging slowly back towards the British rear. As we converged I was intrigued to notice that every other man was carrying on his shoulder what appeared to be a long pole. They could hardly be walking wounded and my guess was that a party of pioneers was leisurely returning from some task in the field. As we drew closer I was spotted and immediately half a dozen broke away from their party and raced towards me. At last I was face to face with the enemy! Flinging their rolled up stretchers to the ground and quickly opening them up they arranged blankets and I was invited to take my pick. Competition for my patronage was keen and I was bewildered by the verbal onslaught and gesticulation of those half dozen unarmed and unwounded Germans. No doubt they were more concerned with their own safety than my immediate wellbeing since unescorted Germans in process of surrendering to the enemy were treading a dangerous ground. I was to be their insurance, their passport to safety. What additional benefits they may have thought would accrue from their synthetic display of humanity is a matter of conjecture. This was not the moment for fraternisation. We spoke no common language but a few well-chosen words in good British Army language sufficed. Quite unperturbed they bundled up their stretchers and hurried back to their companions. Incidentally, not one of my visitors wore the brassard of the Red Cross.
So far the way back had been comparatively peaceful, if slow and tortuous, but now there was the smoke of bursting shrapnel in the dull grey sky. Although hitherto there had been no path or track in the wilderness there now appeared the remains of the white tapes laid out for the advance to the infamous Menin Road. As I progressed I was overtaken, walking wounded began to appear from all directions. A crowd of several hundred weary, dishevelled and bloody remnants staggered along until the ambulances were reached at a spot beyond which no vehicle dare venture in daylight.
Just as I arrived, one crowded ambulance drove off at breakneck speed in the direction of Ypres. The second one, crammed with screaming Huns was ready to move off whilst many patient British ‘Tommies’ sat around awaiting their turn. Overhead the vicious whiplash crack of bursting shrapnel showered its deadly splinters from the air amongst the crowd of waiting men. Jerry had got the range to a ‘T’. I was not so patient as the rest. I took exception to the priority the wounded Germans were receiving. I took further exception to the brusque manner of the RAMC Corporal when in reply to my request he looked at my bandaged hand and said “You can walk”. When I explained that it was not my intention to do any more walking he softened. “All right chum, we are full inside, you can sit with the driver.” I sat with the driver. Speed was sacrificed to comfort as was essential having regard to the mounting casualties continuously filtering along through the Menin Road to Ypres.
At last the Ancient Cloth Hall came into view. We had reached Field Ambulance Station number 55 at Dickebusch. The journey was rough and long and with every bump and lurch of that primitive conveyance I felt my body was breaking into pieces. So far as I know Dickebusch was the first substantial Field Ambulance Station at which the casualties from the battle area could receive proper attention to their wounds. The fact that Dickebusch lay some miles from the battle area of Glencorse Wood was an indication of the complete domination of the Ypres Salient from the heights above and it follows the only justification for launching the Battle of Langemark. However I am no historian and my theories are derived from a purely personal interest. It was a hell of a long way back.
At Dickebusch the constant stream of bloody and exhausted wounded were directed to a large hut inside which were rows of long trestle tables and forms. Unlimited supplies of bully beef sandwiches, chocolate and cigarettes were laid out and orderlies repeatedly filled mugs with hot, sweet Army tea. I had not eaten or drunk for over three days and set to with a will. My thirst was insatiable. Feeling decidedly better and resting on the hard forms, my thoughts dwelt on the good fortune that had been my portion in that hell which lay behind. “Lay quite still and on no account eat or drink”. Brompton’s parting message, which I had quite forgotten, gave me a few moments anxiety but feeling none the worse for that overdue repast I was past caring anyway – though Brompton could have been right.
It was time to move this dirty, ragged individual with uniform in shreds, puttees trailing away behind, jacket in ribbons and jacket sleeves ripped from the wrists to the shoulders by the blast of the 5.9. Outside the canteen three or four queues of Tommies stood patiently in single file whilst in the distance could be seen a cluster of white buildings which proved to be Field Ambulance Station number 55. I attached myself to the nearest queue and prepared for a long wait. Nobody talked. All stood quietly, immersed in their own thoughts, waiting for some relief from the pain and exhaustion. I indulged in a little mental arithmetic. Assuming there were at least 200 men in that long line before me and, say, four doctors available for each queue, my potential would be decreased to 50. Allowing an average of 15 minutes for each patient for jabs, cleaning, surgery, bandaging and recording formalities, I might expect to enter the portals of that distant building in about 12 hours. Hopefully deciding that my working hypothesis must be faulty the mental exercise was abandoned. Meanwhile the queue continued to lengthen behind and the forward movement was negligible.
The pain in the stomach and hand was excruciating and with every beat of the heart the finger pumped in unison. By now the outside of the bandage was jet black with dried blood except for an unpleasant sheen of phosphorescent green in places. The whole ensemble was the size of a toy balloon and as hard as iron. Considerable relief was obtained by resting the packet on the top of my shoulder and thus I was standing when a white spot emerged from the distant building. As it came nearer the white spot proved to be a young surgeon, obviously fresh from the operating table from the bloody state of his white gown. He was no doubt on the way to a rest and food. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and his step was weary. He plodded down the line with now and again a quick glance at those who stood and waited. He passed by me but after a few steps he was back. Pointing to the black bundle on my shoulder he said “How long have you had that?” I told him two and a half days. “Come with me” – and retracing his steps he walked all the way back to that far off building. I had jumped the queue by about 200 places!
Inside I sat at a rough wooden table and was inflicted with 75cc A.T. The hand was immersed in a large enamel trough filled with hot antiseptic and the process of unwinding the lengths of coagulated bandage and gauze commenced. For the first time I saw what Jerry had done to my finger, from the knuckle to the nail it was split exactly down the centre with splinters of white bone at right angles resembling the skeleton of a fish. With infinite care and patience the MO slowly unthreaded the interwoven gauze and bound it up. He commenced to write in the details on my Field Medical Card. I asked him about the other wound, pointing to my stomach. His profanity was excusable in the circumstances and yet with the same care and attention he cleaned and plugged and bandaged. With my Medical Card in a waterproof cover he wished me good luck and was out of the door in no time. I trust he kept his eyes averted during his second attempt to reach his own particular refuge.
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| Field Medical Card |
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The diary records that lorries conveyed the casualties from Dickebusch to No. 7 Canadian Casualty Clearing Station at Poperinghe passing hundreds of German prisoners on the road. After food, drink and a second inspection I slept in a tent. However, today, I have no recollection of that part of the journey.
I awoke from what I suspect was an induced sleep to find myself on the luggage rack of an ancient French railway carriage converted for use as an ambulance train. We were ambling along at a steady pace. Periodical stops were made at wayside British Army halts where our wounds were inspected, food and drink administered and, of course, the ever ready hypodermic was in action. For every inspection the Medical Card should have been noted accordingly but mine shows a complete blank except for the AT prod I received at Dickenbusch. I remember peeing out of a top window at one of these halts. Several elephant huts jutted on the line whilst in front beautifully tended gardens ablaze with the colourful flowers of late summer were enclosed with freshly painted white fencing heralding the first promise of approaching civilisation and comfort.
We detrained and ambulances completed the journey to No 1 Canadian General Hospital at Etaples on the coast. Around my neck still hung the Field Medical Card reporting a battle casualty resulting in “shell wounds to right hand and abdomen”. The ward sister arrived. “What happened to you number 27?” I reported the diagnosis on the card. She said “Don’t be silly, boy, that’s not your abdomen that’s your belly”. Lt A V Ledger RAMC of No. 55 Field Ambulance Station may have slipped up in his anatomy but he dealt with me handsomely.
The tattered remains of my uniform having been removed with scissors, my body washed down by an RAMC orderly, clothed in a night-gown of sorts and blanketed, I was carted away on a stretcher tightly clutching the little red bag containing my personal treasures. Entering an enormous marquee labelled K Ward, bed number 27 brought me to the end of my day.
British attack (2nd Londons).
Michael ... makes a dash out.
CCS (Casualty Clearing Station) Dickebusch.
Tea. Wounds dressed (Ypres).
CCS Poperinghe.
Etaples.
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| Original diary entry |
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Google Maps entry for Dickebusch (Dikkebus) here
Google Maps entry for Poperinge here
Google Maps entry for Etaples here
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
12th August 1917 (Sunday)
Heavy rain was still falling when reveille sounded at 9am and the morning was spent in dumping heavy packs, which by rights should have contained all possessions likely to be of interest to German Intelligence. My own breast pockets remained stuffed with diary and notebook. The front page of the latter bearing the regimental crest, proudly proclaiming that the owner was a ‘Sniper Observer’. What my fate would have been had I been taken prisoner was never put to the test but rumour had it that the Boche was not too kind to the Sniper fraternity.
At 2pm we moved off behind the “heavy” positions along the edge of Zillebeke Lake past the light railway. This well-defined track confined between marsh and lake was a well-favoured target of the German long range guns. As a precaution the Companies proceeded in single file, two yards between each man. Following behind were the Queen Victoria Rifles who, according to the grapevine, lost one whole platoon when the German guns suddenly plastered the rear area with high explosive. To the left of Hooge we waited and rested, watching the continuous stream of shells pounding the Menin Road, making rubble and dust of what used to be a town. Behind the distant ridge an enemy observation balloon rose high in the sky and from the dust and smoke ahead a battery of R.F.A. came straight towards us driving hell for leather. The pounding hoofs, swaying guns and limbers’ wheels bumping three feet off the rough shell pocked ground was exhilarating to the onlooker but dangerously close for comfort.
At dusk the Battalion moved on through Hooge, from whence the R.F.A. had come and guides led us into the front line position at the base of Glencorse Wood. All through that night the Battalion crouched and endured on the edge of the numerous deep shell holes brimful with the filthy slime of mud and flesh. Intense shelling went on continuously throughout the night and the torrential rain never ceased. The shattering noise of the ‘minenwerfers’ created havoc to the nervous system. In the trenches at Arras the light of the ‘minnies’ fuses approaching could be spotted and in daylight the “Flying Pigs” themselves could be seen tumbling over and over through the air. In the deep uncluttered trenches of the Hindenburg Line there was room to move and with luck it was possible to take evading action. At Ypres we could only hold on to our slippery perches and wait. The slightest movement and men ran the risk of slipping over the edge of the six-foot deep craters of mud. Weighed down with their heavy equipment they had little chance of ever emerging.
Rose at 9am.
Packs taken away.
Left 2pm through Zillebeke. Into front line.
Heavily strafed.
Letter from home with photo. Wrote letter home.
Google Maps entry for Zillebeke Lake here
Google Maps entry for Hooge here
At 2pm we moved off behind the “heavy” positions along the edge of Zillebeke Lake past the light railway. This well-defined track confined between marsh and lake was a well-favoured target of the German long range guns. As a precaution the Companies proceeded in single file, two yards between each man. Following behind were the Queen Victoria Rifles who, according to the grapevine, lost one whole platoon when the German guns suddenly plastered the rear area with high explosive. To the left of Hooge we waited and rested, watching the continuous stream of shells pounding the Menin Road, making rubble and dust of what used to be a town. Behind the distant ridge an enemy observation balloon rose high in the sky and from the dust and smoke ahead a battery of R.F.A. came straight towards us driving hell for leather. The pounding hoofs, swaying guns and limbers’ wheels bumping three feet off the rough shell pocked ground was exhilarating to the onlooker but dangerously close for comfort.
At dusk the Battalion moved on through Hooge, from whence the R.F.A. had come and guides led us into the front line position at the base of Glencorse Wood. All through that night the Battalion crouched and endured on the edge of the numerous deep shell holes brimful with the filthy slime of mud and flesh. Intense shelling went on continuously throughout the night and the torrential rain never ceased. The shattering noise of the ‘minenwerfers’ created havoc to the nervous system. In the trenches at Arras the light of the ‘minnies’ fuses approaching could be spotted and in daylight the “Flying Pigs” themselves could be seen tumbling over and over through the air. In the deep uncluttered trenches of the Hindenburg Line there was room to move and with luck it was possible to take evading action. At Ypres we could only hold on to our slippery perches and wait. The slightest movement and men ran the risk of slipping over the edge of the six-foot deep craters of mud. Weighed down with their heavy equipment they had little chance of ever emerging.
Rose at 9am.
Packs taken away.
Left 2pm through Zillebeke. Into front line.
Heavily strafed.
Letter from home with photo. Wrote letter home.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
"The next afternoon (August 12th), the Battalion moved forward by cross-country tracks to Yeomanry Post, on the west of Sanctuary Wood and about 1000 yards north-east of Zillebeke Lake. It arrived there about 5:00pm, and three hours later guides led the companies forward to relieve the 6th Battalion Royal Berkshire Regiment (53rd Infantry Brigade, 18th Division), in the left sector of the front line west of Glencorse Wood. The state of the ground and the incessant shelling had stopped all attempts to consolidate the position; there was no cover from shell-fire, and the British and German dead were still lying out in the open. The 'line' was roughly that reached on the first day of the battle and was quite indefinite. It consisted merely of convenient shell-holes, with here and there a disconnected length of trench, and in these the companies with their supports were distributed in two rough lines. A Company was on the right in touch with the Q.V.R., and B Company on the left in touch with the 7th Middlesex (167th Infantry Brigade), with C Company in support north of the Menin Road, and D Company in reserve in a trench north of Yeomanry Post."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Zillebeke Lake here
Google Maps entry for Hooge here
11th August 1917
Into the trenches - The Third Battle of Ypres
Left billets in Abeele at 12 noon.
Half hour train journey.
March through Dickebusch to bivvies.
Wet. Strafed. ("Shrapnel Corner")
Google Maps entry for Ouderdom here
Google Maps entry for Dickebusch (Dikkebus) here
Google Maps entry for Chateau Segard here
Google Maps entry for Ypres here
Half hour train journey.
March through Dickebusch to bivvies.
Wet. Strafed. ("Shrapnel Corner")
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
"On August 11th, the Queen's Westminsters moved by train from Abeele to Ouderdom (about seven miles south-west of Ypres), and then marched to Chateau Segard. Here they bivouacked for the night in a muddy field, with no better cover than could be obtained from their ground-sheets rigged up into rough shelters. In spite of the discomfort and continuous shelling throughout the night, the men were in good spirits and were kept interested by the guns of the 8 inch Howitzer batteries which were in action all around."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Ouderdom here
Google Maps entry for Dickebusch (Dikkebus) here
Google Maps entry for Chateau Segard here
Google Maps entry for Ypres here
6th August 1917
Sick.
Rifle inspection.
Left La Commune 2pm, marched to Watten.
Entrained 5pm, arrived Abeele (French) / Boeschepe (Belgian) at 8pm.
One hour's march (through Abeele aerodrome).
Pitched tents, bivvies, etc in fields at 11pm.
Google Maps entry for Watten here
Google Maps entry for Abele (France) here
Google Maps entry for Boeschepe here
Google Maps entry for Abeele Aerodrome here
Rifle inspection.
Left La Commune 2pm, marched to Watten.
Entrained 5pm, arrived Abeele (French) / Boeschepe (Belgian) at 8pm.
One hour's march (through Abeele aerodrome).
Pitched tents, bivvies, etc in fields at 11pm.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
Google Maps entry for Abele (France) here
Google Maps entry for Boeschepe here
Google Maps entry for Abeele Aerodrome here
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.
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
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]
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
8th July 1917 (Sunday)
H.M. King George V was due at Le Cauroy to attend a Divisional Church Parade which was cancelled owing to the wet weather. Presumably as ‘odds and bods’ we would not have participated in the show anyway. Instead, most of our day was spent reading and writing, apart from a Church Service in the hut at 6:30. Meanwhile the Brass Hats took dinner to the sound of music played by the Divisional band.
Oddly enough the easy life began to pall. Feeling the need for exercise Bradley and I tramped the roads in pouring rain to Estreé Wamin alongside the light railway which ran to Frevent.
No parade whatever!
Very wet. Indoors all day reading.
Service in hut at 6:30pm.
Divisional band.
Walk to Estrée Wamin.
Google Maps entry for Estrée Wamin here
Oddly enough the easy life began to pall. Feeling the need for exercise Bradley and I tramped the roads in pouring rain to Estreé Wamin alongside the light railway which ran to Frevent.
No parade whatever!
Very wet. Indoors all day reading.
Service in hut at 6:30pm.
Divisional band.
Walk to Estrée Wamin.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
3rd July 1917
At 2pm the trek was continued for a further 9 miles to the pleasant village of Sus-Saint-Léger. The day was again hot and the estaminets undoubtedly suffered from lack of custom. I was not feeling too good in the boiling heat and turned my head to seek moral support from Bradley on my left only to find he was in a worse condition. With chin resting on his chest, body drooped, legs faltering; he began to stagger like a drunk. Murmuring a few words, I know not what, he departed at a tangent. My last glimpse was the soles of his boots protruding from a hedge at the side of the road. Overcoming a strong inclination to join him I gathered my resources and struggled on, having first discounted the pleasant idea that lorries might be provided by a thoughtful RSM to gather in the fallen. By 6:30pm in the evening the main body reached the billets in Sus St Leger which were home for the next days. In the brokendown cowshed with pigsty adjoining we dropped to the floor, every man too exhausted to remove his 95lb pack. I spent the next few minutes marvelling at the fact that the mileage performed in the two days exactly coincided with the extreme limit of my powers of endurance. I said nothing on earth could make me take another step. I was quite wrong of course. Nemesis with the three stripes on his sleeves appeared with notebook in hand and within minutes I was “jumped to it” on cookhouse fatigue. Bradley rolled in later in the evening thoroughly dejected as a result of his performance.
The excitements of the day were not yet over. With some apprehension Bradley and I reported at Company Office to which we had been peremptorily summoned. There was always the chance that some peccadillo contravening King’s Regulations had been spotted but after much heart searching we judged ourselves blameless. To our great relief we were instructed to proceed to Divisional Headquarters Le Cauroy some two kilometres away to undergo an observers course. This was indeed a gift from heaven. True, the Battalion was now ‘at rest’ and expected to remain so for several weeks, but as every soldier knew, ‘rest period’ was a misnomer. Moreover, the Colonel, having taken a very dim view of the Battalion’s poor showing on trek had ordered route marches with full pack on every evening for the next seven days. Instructions from Company Office were to travel light under our own steam immediately after first parade on the following day. One final inspection by the Sergeant and he pounced. Pointing to a small sore spot on my face he said “Impetigo”, unless you get that treated it will spread all over your face in no time. “Sick parade for you tomorrow morning my lad and we’ll see what the MO has to say.”
On trek again 2pm-6:30pm.
About 9 miles to Sus-Saint-Léger.
Billeted in old barn. Wire Beds.
Dozens drop out.
Fearful heat.
Google Maps entry for Sus-Saint-Léger here
Google Maps entry for Le Cauroy (Berlencourt-le-Cauroy) here
The excitements of the day were not yet over. With some apprehension Bradley and I reported at Company Office to which we had been peremptorily summoned. There was always the chance that some peccadillo contravening King’s Regulations had been spotted but after much heart searching we judged ourselves blameless. To our great relief we were instructed to proceed to Divisional Headquarters Le Cauroy some two kilometres away to undergo an observers course. This was indeed a gift from heaven. True, the Battalion was now ‘at rest’ and expected to remain so for several weeks, but as every soldier knew, ‘rest period’ was a misnomer. Moreover, the Colonel, having taken a very dim view of the Battalion’s poor showing on trek had ordered route marches with full pack on every evening for the next seven days. Instructions from Company Office were to travel light under our own steam immediately after first parade on the following day. One final inspection by the Sergeant and he pounced. Pointing to a small sore spot on my face he said “Impetigo”, unless you get that treated it will spread all over your face in no time. “Sick parade for you tomorrow morning my lad and we’ll see what the MO has to say.”
On trek again 2pm-6:30pm.
About 9 miles to Sus-Saint-Léger.
Billeted in old barn. Wire Beds.
Dozens drop out.
Fearful heat.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 | |
| Original journal notes |
"On July 2nd the Battalion marched, via Wailly, Beaumetz and Monchiet, to Gouy en Artois, and on the following day, via Barly and Sambrin, to Sus St. Leger. The weather was exceedingly hot and a good many ment fell out on the march. This could not be tolerated in a Battalion which had always prided itself on its march discipline; and the men who had fallen out, most of whom belonged to a large draft which had recently arrived, were sent for a series of route marches during the hours when the estaminets were open. This proved a most effective cure for bad marching, but it must not be thought that the estaminets had been in any way responsible for the men falling out."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Sus-Saint-Léger here
Google Maps entry for Le Cauroy (Berlencourt-le-Cauroy) here
2nd July 1917
At 3pm the Battalion was on the march bound for Gouy-en-Artois which we reached at 7pm. The trek of some 10 miles with full pack in fearful heat was too much for the faint of heart and many fell by the wayside. Most were genuine casualties but others, unaware that the NCOs were following in the rear as ‘moppers up’, were allowed no time in which to finish their beer in the occasional wayside estaminet. The rest of the Company was comfortably billeted in elephant huts by the time the stragglers arrived.
Left Achicourt for Gouy-en-Artois.
On trek 3pm - 7pm. About 10 miles.
Large number drop.
Google Maps entry for Gouy-en-Artois here
Left Achicourt for Gouy-en-Artois.
On trek 3pm - 7pm. About 10 miles.
Large number drop.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
9th June 1917
A day of waiting until 5pm. The battalion moved forward along a well-defined track to the left of the remains of the village, Neuville-Vitasse. Through a deep cutting above which an unexpected salvo from the British Heavies wrought havoc with our nervous systems, we reached a maze of deep trenches - the beginning of the massive defensive works of the Hindenburg Line.
Laden as we were with additional burdens consisting of panniers of ammunition for the Lewis guns, barbed wire, pickets and other miscellaneous war material the going was heavy and fatiguing. From the guides at the head of the column a constant stream of directions was passed back from man to man – “Mind the wire”, “Don’t lose touch in the rear”, etc. The journey seemed unending, inevitably large gaps appeared in the line of men struggling forward. This was a golden opportunity for the humourists of the company and by the time the garbled messages reached the rear portion of the column the orders were not only incomprehensible but quite unprintable.
The support line, located in front of Wancourt with a sunken road between, was eventually occupied by B Company. As we took over the previous occupants departed hurriedly with the usual soldier’s farewell.
The trenches were six feet deep in solid chalk with communication trenches, saps and bays branching in all directions, well constructed by the Germans. There were no dugouts but every few yards ‘bivvies’ or ‘foxholes’ had been excavated from the side of the trench at floor level below the parapet. Each bivvie would just allow one man to obtain a little cramped comfort, if not privacy and an ostrich-like sense of security from the attentions of the enemy.
However we were allowed no time in which to take stock of our new home. Spades were distributed with orders to deepen the trench. Since the tallest head was already six or more inches below the parapet we assumed the operation to be purely psychological. After scraping away at the iron hard chalk for several hours the trench had not visibly deepened. One hour before dawn we ‘stood to’ after which we retired to put our respective ‘houses’ in order and get a little sleep. Off came my equipment but within seconds it was on again. Precisely what the NCO said is best not recorded.
Rose at 9am!
Mucked around up the line.
In the trenches.
Up all night.
Supports.
"On the following night [June 9th] the Battlion moved up to the front line, where it relieved the 6th Somerset Light Infantry (14th (Light) Division) in trenches astride the railway about 1000 yards north of Cherisy. The trenches in this area had been named after animals or birds. C Company held the Jackdaw trench, south of the railway, and D Company occupied Spoor and Ape tranches north of the railway. B Company was in support in Boar and Bison, about 400 yards in rear of the front line; and A Company was in reserve in Buck and Lion, another 400 yards further back. These trenches were for the most part old German defences. They had been hastily dug and were in bad order, and there was practically no wire in front of them. A great deal of work was done by the Battlion, during its tour of the sector, in widening and deepening the trenches and in putting up barbed-wire entanglements."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Wancourt here
Laden as we were with additional burdens consisting of panniers of ammunition for the Lewis guns, barbed wire, pickets and other miscellaneous war material the going was heavy and fatiguing. From the guides at the head of the column a constant stream of directions was passed back from man to man – “Mind the wire”, “Don’t lose touch in the rear”, etc. The journey seemed unending, inevitably large gaps appeared in the line of men struggling forward. This was a golden opportunity for the humourists of the company and by the time the garbled messages reached the rear portion of the column the orders were not only incomprehensible but quite unprintable.
The support line, located in front of Wancourt with a sunken road between, was eventually occupied by B Company. As we took over the previous occupants departed hurriedly with the usual soldier’s farewell.
The trenches were six feet deep in solid chalk with communication trenches, saps and bays branching in all directions, well constructed by the Germans. There were no dugouts but every few yards ‘bivvies’ or ‘foxholes’ had been excavated from the side of the trench at floor level below the parapet. Each bivvie would just allow one man to obtain a little cramped comfort, if not privacy and an ostrich-like sense of security from the attentions of the enemy.
However we were allowed no time in which to take stock of our new home. Spades were distributed with orders to deepen the trench. Since the tallest head was already six or more inches below the parapet we assumed the operation to be purely psychological. After scraping away at the iron hard chalk for several hours the trench had not visibly deepened. One hour before dawn we ‘stood to’ after which we retired to put our respective ‘houses’ in order and get a little sleep. Off came my equipment but within seconds it was on again. Precisely what the NCO said is best not recorded.
Rose at 9am!
Mucked around up the line.
In the trenches.
Up all night.
Supports.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
"On the following night [June 9th] the Battlion moved up to the front line, where it relieved the 6th Somerset Light Infantry (14th (Light) Division) in trenches astride the railway about 1000 yards north of Cherisy. The trenches in this area had been named after animals or birds. C Company held the Jackdaw trench, south of the railway, and D Company occupied Spoor and Ape tranches north of the railway. B Company was in support in Boar and Bison, about 400 yards in rear of the front line; and A Company was in reserve in Buck and Lion, another 400 yards further back. These trenches were for the most part old German defences. They had been hastily dug and were in bad order, and there was practically no wire in front of them. A great deal of work was done by the Battlion, during its tour of the sector, in widening and deepening the trenches and in putting up barbed-wire entanglements."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Wancourt here
8th June 1917
Into the trenches - The Battle of Arras
Reveille sounded at 3am, breakfast taken an hour later.
By 5am the sleepy-eyed battalion left Agnez-sur-Duisans via Duisans and the piles of rubble which used to be the village of Beaurains.
We took over the trenches up on Telegraph Hill at 9:30am. For the first time we were in range of the enemy guns.
So far the army life had been reasonably endurable, at times even enjoyable. Naturally, during the weeks of training a great deal of thought had been given to the question of individual behaviour in the face of danger. What, for instance, would our reaction be to the sight of human bodies torn to shreds by high explosives? Would we be able to thrust our bayonets into the solar plexus of the Hun as we had so often done to those straw stuffed dummies on the training grounds? This manoeuvre disturbed me greatly and I was determined always to keep one round up the spout. Would we vomit, faint, lay down and cower or, heaven forbid, just scream? We were afraid of being yellow or, worse still, showing it. Strangely enough, when the time came for initiation into the horror and carnage of war most of us were prone to none of these emotions. I have no doubt that the ‘rookies’ owed a tremendous debt to the few remaining pre-war veterans of the Battalion Territorials, who, by the process of attrition, were by 1917 either NCOs or held commissions. Their behaviour and coolness under fire and, moreover, their understanding of what we rookies were going through served as an example that just could not be denied.
It was during the march from Agnez that two incidents left their mark.
At the side of the road in the debris around Beaurains was a gun limber and spread-eagled across the wheel a British soldier was shackled. The unexpectedness of this sideline to active service with the British Army came as a shock and we speculated on the nature of the crime which called for such barbaric treatment.
The second incident was more revolting. Face down over a pile of debris lay the body of what appeared to be a dead Highlander. His kilt had been pulled up over his back and into his buttocks had been plunged rifle and bayonet.
Telegraph Hill, high above the plain, overlooking the ruined villages of Tilloy-lès-Mofflaines and Neuville Vitasse, gave a splendid view of the vast network of trenches which formed part of the Hindenburg Line. As darkness fell the flashes from the British batteries tucked away at the foot of the hill immediately below held our attention. We were not yet in the real target area and consequently our duties were negligible. A few stray heavies landed on the Hill during the night which drew blood but mainly the damage was confined to the nearby British cemetery. The casualties were the packs which had been dumped in a pile pending the completion of our spell in the line.
Reveille 3am. Breakfast 4am. 5am march to Telegraph Hill.
9:30am trenches - funk hole (1) in traverse on no mans' land.
First sight of the line.
Several heavies over.
Google Maps entry for Beaurains here
Google Maps entry for Tilloy-lès-Mofflaines here
Google Maps entry for Neuville-Vitasse here
(1) Dictionary entry for "funk hole" here
By 5am the sleepy-eyed battalion left Agnez-sur-Duisans via Duisans and the piles of rubble which used to be the village of Beaurains.
We took over the trenches up on Telegraph Hill at 9:30am. For the first time we were in range of the enemy guns.
So far the army life had been reasonably endurable, at times even enjoyable. Naturally, during the weeks of training a great deal of thought had been given to the question of individual behaviour in the face of danger. What, for instance, would our reaction be to the sight of human bodies torn to shreds by high explosives? Would we be able to thrust our bayonets into the solar plexus of the Hun as we had so often done to those straw stuffed dummies on the training grounds? This manoeuvre disturbed me greatly and I was determined always to keep one round up the spout. Would we vomit, faint, lay down and cower or, heaven forbid, just scream? We were afraid of being yellow or, worse still, showing it. Strangely enough, when the time came for initiation into the horror and carnage of war most of us were prone to none of these emotions. I have no doubt that the ‘rookies’ owed a tremendous debt to the few remaining pre-war veterans of the Battalion Territorials, who, by the process of attrition, were by 1917 either NCOs or held commissions. Their behaviour and coolness under fire and, moreover, their understanding of what we rookies were going through served as an example that just could not be denied.
It was during the march from Agnez that two incidents left their mark.
At the side of the road in the debris around Beaurains was a gun limber and spread-eagled across the wheel a British soldier was shackled. The unexpectedness of this sideline to active service with the British Army came as a shock and we speculated on the nature of the crime which called for such barbaric treatment.
The second incident was more revolting. Face down over a pile of debris lay the body of what appeared to be a dead Highlander. His kilt had been pulled up over his back and into his buttocks had been plunged rifle and bayonet.
Telegraph Hill, high above the plain, overlooking the ruined villages of Tilloy-lès-Mofflaines and Neuville Vitasse, gave a splendid view of the vast network of trenches which formed part of the Hindenburg Line. As darkness fell the flashes from the British batteries tucked away at the foot of the hill immediately below held our attention. We were not yet in the real target area and consequently our duties were negligible. A few stray heavies landed on the Hill during the night which drew blood but mainly the damage was confined to the nearby British cemetery. The casualties were the packs which had been dumped in a pile pending the completion of our spell in the line.
Reveille 3am. Breakfast 4am. 5am march to Telegraph Hill.
9:30am trenches - funk hole (1) in traverse on no mans' land.
First sight of the line.
Several heavies over.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
"On June 8th, the Battalion paraded at 5:30am and marched via Dainville, Achicourt and Bauerains to Telegraph Hill, arriving there at 9:30am. The day was spent in the German tranches in the Harp system, which the Battalion had occupied on April 28th."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]
Google Maps entry for Beaurains here
Google Maps entry for Tilloy-lès-Mofflaines here
Google Maps entry for Neuville-Vitasse here
(1) Dictionary entry for "funk hole" here
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