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Showing posts with label Willis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Willis. Show all posts
17th to 21st August 1917
For the next fourteen days I lost my identity. In due course I was able to turn my head and take stock of my surroundings. The man on my left was in a very bad way. His right arm had been blown off at the shoulder and for most of the time he was delirious. On my right was a little artillery man whose chest was no more than one pulpy mass of raw flesh caused by the searing liquid from a gas shell that has burst at his feet. He was a cheerful soul although his agony must have been acute. The only other patient within my view was a very young Canadian in the bed opposite who continually groaned and called loudly for the sister. Experience had taught us that dangerously wounded men lay quiet and still and by the same token the noisy ones are, to say the least, not on the danger list. It is pertinent to note that in K Ward with perhaps forty to fifty occupied beds almost complete silence reigned throughout the day and night except for occasional outbursts from the young Canadian.
Although I had to remain flat on my back I was reasonably comfortable, but the hours passed slowly and I had all the time in the world in which to review the happenings of the last few months. I recalled particularly that sun-drenched Sunday evening on the road to Ivergny when much to Bradley’s disgust I had opted for a blighty. The gods had been good to me – they had met me halfway with a gentle reminder by way of the solar plexus that it was not for mere mortals to strike a bargain. I remembered the impetigo that on the 16th August practically covered the whole of my face despite the efforts of the Regimental MO. My fingers explored the affected parts and I was surprised to find the skin completely free from those nauseating scabs. Clearly the art of blood letting as practised in the 18th century still had something to commend it!
Remembering Bradley, Forster, Willis, Killick (who loved to talk of his wife and two small girls) and a host of others I had left behind and wondering if I should ever see them again I felt helpless and alone.
Dressings began at a fantastically early hour and my purgatory usually lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The hole in the stomach was cleaned and after much probing with tweezers the sister proceeded to stuff it with masses of cottonwool, plugging into all corners with a gold probe. Next came the placing of four rubber “Canoll tubes” over the wound and these were tightly secured with many layers of rat-tailed bandage. The other end of the tubes broadened out into little funnels which were attached at the neck by adhesive tape. The next operation, repeated every few hours, was less painful but incommoding. One half pint of warm Lysol was poured into each funnel, reached its allotted target and overflowed in all directions. Occasionally the sister, a hefty Scottish Canadian woman, would change the bed by lifting me bodily with one arm, whipping out the sodden sheets and replacing them with dry ones – only to return shortly afterwards to pour in two more pints of Lysol.
For those who were fit to take everything on the menu the food was superb. Breakfast usually consisted of boiled eggs which often had pencilled on them get well messages with names and addresses of kind old ladies back in England. For elevenses one glass of Guinness together with jelly and blancmange. A second glass of Guinness preceded a chicken lunch. Most of the men were hand fed by the one ward sister who attended to all the dressings and it was not until evening that her duties were finished. Tremendous effort by a wonderful person. Occasionally an RAMC orderly would assist in the more menial tasks but his appearances on the ward were rare.
As darkness fell the night sister took over. Lights were extinguished except for two low powered bulbs at either end of the marquee. With a hurricane lamp more appropriate to the days of Florence Nightingale the sister walked down the quiet ward and briefly inspected each patient who should by then have been asleep. On the third night she stopped at my bed, held up the lamp and said “Why aren’t you asleep number 27?” I could think of no reason and she promised to find something to send me off. She returned with a large glass of rich ruby port, a most efficacious draught! The next night and the following night number 27 was again wide awake. The same question and the same comforting glass of port ensued. After several nights of this the sister wearied of making a special journey back to the dispensary and during the rest of my stay in K Ward she came on duty with the hurricane lamp in one hand and a glass of port in the other. I was invariably awake. We both understood the situation perfectly. There was no need for conversation.
Although I had to remain flat on my back I was reasonably comfortable, but the hours passed slowly and I had all the time in the world in which to review the happenings of the last few months. I recalled particularly that sun-drenched Sunday evening on the road to Ivergny when much to Bradley’s disgust I had opted for a blighty. The gods had been good to me – they had met me halfway with a gentle reminder by way of the solar plexus that it was not for mere mortals to strike a bargain. I remembered the impetigo that on the 16th August practically covered the whole of my face despite the efforts of the Regimental MO. My fingers explored the affected parts and I was surprised to find the skin completely free from those nauseating scabs. Clearly the art of blood letting as practised in the 18th century still had something to commend it!
Remembering Bradley, Forster, Willis, Killick (who loved to talk of his wife and two small girls) and a host of others I had left behind and wondering if I should ever see them again I felt helpless and alone.
Dressings began at a fantastically early hour and my purgatory usually lasted for about three-quarters of an hour. The hole in the stomach was cleaned and after much probing with tweezers the sister proceeded to stuff it with masses of cottonwool, plugging into all corners with a gold probe. Next came the placing of four rubber “Canoll tubes” over the wound and these were tightly secured with many layers of rat-tailed bandage. The other end of the tubes broadened out into little funnels which were attached at the neck by adhesive tape. The next operation, repeated every few hours, was less painful but incommoding. One half pint of warm Lysol was poured into each funnel, reached its allotted target and overflowed in all directions. Occasionally the sister, a hefty Scottish Canadian woman, would change the bed by lifting me bodily with one arm, whipping out the sodden sheets and replacing them with dry ones – only to return shortly afterwards to pour in two more pints of Lysol.
For those who were fit to take everything on the menu the food was superb. Breakfast usually consisted of boiled eggs which often had pencilled on them get well messages with names and addresses of kind old ladies back in England. For elevenses one glass of Guinness together with jelly and blancmange. A second glass of Guinness preceded a chicken lunch. Most of the men were hand fed by the one ward sister who attended to all the dressings and it was not until evening that her duties were finished. Tremendous effort by a wonderful person. Occasionally an RAMC orderly would assist in the more menial tasks but his appearances on the ward were rare.
As darkness fell the night sister took over. Lights were extinguished except for two low powered bulbs at either end of the marquee. With a hurricane lamp more appropriate to the days of Florence Nightingale the sister walked down the quiet ward and briefly inspected each patient who should by then have been asleep. On the third night she stopped at my bed, held up the lamp and said “Why aren’t you asleep number 27?” I could think of no reason and she promised to find something to send me off. She returned with a large glass of rich ruby port, a most efficacious draught! The next night and the following night number 27 was again wide awake. The same question and the same comforting glass of port ensued. After several nights of this the sister wearied of making a special journey back to the dispensary and during the rest of my stay in K Ward she came on duty with the hurricane lamp in one hand and a glass of port in the other. I was invariably awake. We both understood the situation perfectly. There was no need for conversation.
19th June 1917
The rains persisted but apart from the usual 9am strafe the Hun was content to send over the occasional salvo during the rest of the day. At dusk the company resumed its labours with pick and shovel in no mans land. The light in the western sky was still sufficient for the NCO to keep our labours going. I was busy, spade in hand, when a series of strange ‘plops’ sounded nearby. On turning to seek enlightenment from my companions not one was to be seen and I was alone in the wilderness until one after another they slowly rose from the ground. Thirty-four little ‘plops’ were, in fact, caused by a shower of rifle grenades with their steel rods sticking up like a fence surrounding me. Fortunately they failed to explode. I seemed we were not invisible from the German lines since a few minutes later several shells of 5.9 calibre exploded in the middle of the working party causing eight minor casualties. Willis, who was shovelling the products of my pick, received a splinter in the neck and Coombe a slight wound in the leg. Stretcher bearers appeared at the double and the casualties, most of whom were quite capable of walking back to the dressing station, were carted away at top speed. This was textbook warfare, neat and tidy, and reminiscent of those thrilling battles which, with the help of Mr Brittain’s magnificent redecorated lead soldiers, my brother and I used to play on the kitchen table in the days when Queen Victoria was on the throne.
We were not unduly worried by the casualties but the sequel several minutes later really had us bothered. Young C-----, normally a cheerful little cockney, had evidently brooded on the incident. Suddenly losing his self-control he jumped into the air shouting “Mother” and dashed off to the rear as fast as his little legs could carry him. Several men attempted to restrain him but he was too quick and disappeared in the gathering mist. The incident was probably nothing new to the NCO in charge of the party and his remark was simply, “Let him go, he’ll be back”. The truant was not in the trench when we returned from our labours. Desertion in the face of the enemy was a crime which we understood could attract the supreme penalty and our concern for the popular little cockney was great. In the afternoon of the following day he sheepishly returned to the fold. We youngsters were always conscious of the sympathy and understanding displayed by the pre-war Territorial NCOs and once again we were not disillusioned. “C-----, if you do that again I will kick your backside so hard you won’t dare sit down for weeks – get back to your post”. The incident was finished and thereafter young C----- kept his two feet on the ground and eventually received the honourable scars of battle.
Wet and stormy.
Digging on the front line trench.
Two shells over. Willis (2 yards away) and Coombe wounded.
Six casualties.
Also rifle grenades over.
We were not unduly worried by the casualties but the sequel several minutes later really had us bothered. Young C-----, normally a cheerful little cockney, had evidently brooded on the incident. Suddenly losing his self-control he jumped into the air shouting “Mother” and dashed off to the rear as fast as his little legs could carry him. Several men attempted to restrain him but he was too quick and disappeared in the gathering mist. The incident was probably nothing new to the NCO in charge of the party and his remark was simply, “Let him go, he’ll be back”. The truant was not in the trench when we returned from our labours. Desertion in the face of the enemy was a crime which we understood could attract the supreme penalty and our concern for the popular little cockney was great. In the afternoon of the following day he sheepishly returned to the fold. We youngsters were always conscious of the sympathy and understanding displayed by the pre-war Territorial NCOs and once again we were not disillusioned. “C-----, if you do that again I will kick your backside so hard you won’t dare sit down for weeks – get back to your post”. The incident was finished and thereafter young C----- kept his two feet on the ground and eventually received the honourable scars of battle.
Wet and stormy.
Digging on the front line trench.
Two shells over. Willis (2 yards away) and Coombe wounded.
Six casualties.
Also rifle grenades over.
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| Original diary entry |
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| Original journal notes |
11th June 1917
From the early hours and throughout the day ‘Boar’ and ‘Bison’ were subjected to heavy but intermittent shelling. The shattering noise and the black bursts from the ‘Jack Johnsons’ (1) left us quivering but, in our sector, the occasional near misses did no more than shower tin hats with fragments of hot metal and chalk which dropped from the skies. To add to our discomfort Jerry mixed tear gas shells with his blessings and this was immediately interpreted as evidence of an impending attack. Although none developed, the variation doubtless had its nuisance value, particularly where fresh troops were at the receiving end.
During the height of the bombardment Forster was a near casualty. In the initial scramble for bivvies Bradley and I had succeeded in acquiring adjoining foxholes and Willis took over the remaining empty one next to me. Forster had been slow in his endeavours to join us and was obliged to accept the only bivvy for which there were no takers. He settled in about 20 yards further along the trench. On the parades behind him was the latrine bucket. The presence of this article we regarded as an unnecessary refinement in trench life but orders had to be obeyed even at the cost of exposing oneself to the distant sniper. A heavy explosion in the direction of Forster’s side brought Bradley and I to our feet and dashing to his aid. We feared the worst. Forster was shaken but unhurt and we rejoiced that he was safe if no longer fragrant! His dilemma, however, made no appeal to one’s sense of humour. We were only too conscious of the spectre of death lurking just round the corner to appreciate the jolly atmosphere of the Western Front as portrayed by Bruce Bairnsfather cartoons (2) drawn for home consumption. Behind us in the open ground still lay the bodies of many who had died in the Easter massacre during the battle of Arras.
As night fell a burial party sallied forth under the direction of Captain Thurston, the Company OC. The operation was conducted speedily and with scant ceremony. Identification was the first essential; the Corporal removed one of the red and green identification discs which hung from the dead man’s neck. From the pockets of his uniform a paybook and a few personal belongings were quickly extracted and stowed away. Preliminaries over, the squad, working in pairs, dealt with the disposal of the remains.
I grabbed the ankles of the nearest corpse and my companions lifted it by the shoulders. We heaved together and our burden parted in the middle. That was an unfortunate beginning but we were concerned solely with the unsavoury nature of the task. I am ashamed to say that sentiment did not overrule the annoyance at choosing the wrong victim. Eventually with the help of spades we deposited the remains in the nearest shellhole and lightly covered them with the broken chalk which abounded. The final act, adding the only touch of dignity to the ceremony, was the planting at the head of the mound the victim’s rifle, sword and tin hat.
We looked around for the next body and got to work. In all the squad disposed of 25 to 30 bodies in this way. A squalid exercise but no doubt good training for those of us who had not acquired the callous outlook that was demanded.
For many days the sweet cloying scent of death clung to our bodies and saturated our clothing. A suggestion was made to the Captain that the unsavoury nature of our duties called for small issue of rum – it met with no response.
Heavies over.
Burial party at night.
Buried four British in shell holes.
Wind up attack.
Tear gas over.
(1) A 'Jack Johnson' was the British nickname used to describe the impact of a heavy, black German 15-cm artillery shell. Jack Johnson was the popular U.S. world heavyweight boxing champion who held the title from 1908-15.
(2) Wikipedia entry for Bruce Bairnsfather here.
During the height of the bombardment Forster was a near casualty. In the initial scramble for bivvies Bradley and I had succeeded in acquiring adjoining foxholes and Willis took over the remaining empty one next to me. Forster had been slow in his endeavours to join us and was obliged to accept the only bivvy for which there were no takers. He settled in about 20 yards further along the trench. On the parades behind him was the latrine bucket. The presence of this article we regarded as an unnecessary refinement in trench life but orders had to be obeyed even at the cost of exposing oneself to the distant sniper. A heavy explosion in the direction of Forster’s side brought Bradley and I to our feet and dashing to his aid. We feared the worst. Forster was shaken but unhurt and we rejoiced that he was safe if no longer fragrant! His dilemma, however, made no appeal to one’s sense of humour. We were only too conscious of the spectre of death lurking just round the corner to appreciate the jolly atmosphere of the Western Front as portrayed by Bruce Bairnsfather cartoons (2) drawn for home consumption. Behind us in the open ground still lay the bodies of many who had died in the Easter massacre during the battle of Arras.
As night fell a burial party sallied forth under the direction of Captain Thurston, the Company OC. The operation was conducted speedily and with scant ceremony. Identification was the first essential; the Corporal removed one of the red and green identification discs which hung from the dead man’s neck. From the pockets of his uniform a paybook and a few personal belongings were quickly extracted and stowed away. Preliminaries over, the squad, working in pairs, dealt with the disposal of the remains.
I grabbed the ankles of the nearest corpse and my companions lifted it by the shoulders. We heaved together and our burden parted in the middle. That was an unfortunate beginning but we were concerned solely with the unsavoury nature of the task. I am ashamed to say that sentiment did not overrule the annoyance at choosing the wrong victim. Eventually with the help of spades we deposited the remains in the nearest shellhole and lightly covered them with the broken chalk which abounded. The final act, adding the only touch of dignity to the ceremony, was the planting at the head of the mound the victim’s rifle, sword and tin hat.
We looked around for the next body and got to work. In all the squad disposed of 25 to 30 bodies in this way. A squalid exercise but no doubt good training for those of us who had not acquired the callous outlook that was demanded.
For many days the sweet cloying scent of death clung to our bodies and saturated our clothing. A suggestion was made to the Captain that the unsavoury nature of our duties called for small issue of rum – it met with no response.
Heavies over.
Burial party at night.
Buried four British in shell holes.
Wind up attack.
Tear gas over.
 | |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
(1) A 'Jack Johnson' was the British nickname used to describe the impact of a heavy, black German 15-cm artillery shell. Jack Johnson was the popular U.S. world heavyweight boxing champion who held the title from 1908-15.
(2) Wikipedia entry for Bruce Bairnsfather here.
10th June 1917 (Sunday)
Fortunately that first night in the trenches was quiet, maybe the Boche was also engaged in relieving his front line troops and was not inviting trouble. I awoke to the glorious song of the skylark high above in the clear sky and experienced a strange feeling of elation. Under the hot sun with no responsibilities of a personal nature, good friends on either side, I was happy with a new-found freedom – tomorrow could wait!
Together we peered over the parapet towards the enemy trenches in the hazy distance – fascinated by the vast white expanse of the chalky landscape covered with millions of brilliant red poppies under the deep blue sky. “In Flanders fields where poppies grow”* – but this was Picardy; we saw no poppies in Flanders.
With Forster, Bradley and Willis the day was spent happily conversing and writing home. Letter writing was a problem. Conscious always of the censor’s blue pencil hovering in the background, it was impossible to relate anything but the most trivial activities of the daily routine and difficult to express one’s personal feelings. My own correspondence was stilted in the extreme and consisted of a stream of white lies which bore little resemblance to actuality in my earnest endeavours to allay the fears of those at home. I now know that I underestimated the perspicacity of my mother who often tramped the deserted Essex fields in the dead of night listening to the murmur of the guns across the water. The printed field service cards were a blessing. By the deletion of a few lines of print the troops were able to send out frequent, brief messages to those at home that all was well. Moreover the censors were relieved of much labour and, it must be admitted, so were the writers.
Rose 9:30am.
Bivvy.
Stand to at dusk.
Front line - digging trenches.
Stand down at 4am.
All night shelling.
Together we peered over the parapet towards the enemy trenches in the hazy distance – fascinated by the vast white expanse of the chalky landscape covered with millions of brilliant red poppies under the deep blue sky. “In Flanders fields where poppies grow”* – but this was Picardy; we saw no poppies in Flanders.
In Flanders Fields is a war poem, written in 1915 by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
With Forster, Bradley and Willis the day was spent happily conversing and writing home. Letter writing was a problem. Conscious always of the censor’s blue pencil hovering in the background, it was impossible to relate anything but the most trivial activities of the daily routine and difficult to express one’s personal feelings. My own correspondence was stilted in the extreme and consisted of a stream of white lies which bore little resemblance to actuality in my earnest endeavours to allay the fears of those at home. I now know that I underestimated the perspicacity of my mother who often tramped the deserted Essex fields in the dead of night listening to the murmur of the guns across the water. The printed field service cards were a blessing. By the deletion of a few lines of print the troops were able to send out frequent, brief messages to those at home that all was well. Moreover the censors were relieved of much labour and, it must be admitted, so were the writers.
Rose 9:30am.
Bivvy.
Stand to at dusk.
Front line - digging trenches.
Stand down at 4am.
All night shelling.
 |
| Original diary entry |
 |
| Original journal notes |
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