13th June 1917

At 9am precisely the morning strafe commenced as usual.  Heavy shelling of the support lines continued at intervals throughout the day but the range was poor and apart from a few near misses so far 8th Platoon were lucky.

By afternoon news reached us of an air raid on London.

At night Bradley and I were again engaged on our conducted tour on behalf of the QVR who, as before, returned from their labours under their own steam.


Heavy shelling.
Guide party for the Queen Vics.
3rd London over the top.
Counter attacks fail.
99 prisoners and 2 officers.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

12th June 1917

Having slept in the bivvy from stand down until 10:30am I was awakened by delivery of post from home.  A trivial matter for the record perhaps but an outstanding event for those on active service.

The defences in the ‘Harp’ system were sadly in need of repair and reinforcement.  Willing parties from all Companies spent most of the night-time in no-mans land screwing in heavy pickets and unwinding recalcitrant rolls of barbed wire.  To help in this work the services of  the Q.V.R., located in the reserve trenches at the rear, were co-opted and it fell to the lot of Bradley and myself to act as their guides.

Our way lay to the left; leaving Boar Trench we negotiated the devious route via Lion Trench, Tiger Trench, Jungle Alley and Shikal Lane and arrived at the field dressing station which was to be our rendezvous with the Queen Vics.  From here the way led past the two derelict tanks, round the QVR Lewis Gun post, snugly tucked away in a small copse by a tributary of the River Scarfe.  There in no-mans land beyond the front line trench the Queen Vics were left to toil with their pickets and barbed wire.  Their guides returned leisurely to their own quarters only to find that during their comfortable stroll with the Queen Vics the rest of B Company had departed to the front line and were also engaged in navvying.

The trenches nearer to the region of the Scarfe had shown evidence of much wear and tear from the attentions of the enemy.  In places the damage to the parapet had obviously been repaired hurriedly and here and there a hand or a foot in various stages of putrification protruded grotesquely from the side of the trench.  In one spot the parapet had been blown away to the extent of about one square foot thus leaving the head of the casual passer-by completely exposed to the German snipers rifle, no doubt already clamped in position.  A couple of sandbags would have cancelled out the danger but the ways of the army are past understanding.  The solution to the problem was the erection of a painted board which read “Keep your head down”!

Towards the dawn shelling commenced and the rattle of small arms fire not far away suggested that the QVR were engaged with the Boche at close quarters.  A sudden commotion to the right brought us to our feet and a voice urged everyone to “make way there”.  Pressing closely to the wall of the trench two heavily built NCOs appeared pushing and pulling through the crowd of men one undersized pale faced German wearing the large, round-lensed spectacles which, to the Hun, appeared to be an accepted part of his general issue.  Fear and apprehension were commonplace enough on the battlefield; we were all subject to those emotions in times of stress but most men succeeded in disguising their weakness.  Stark terror, however, cannot be concealed and the white face, staring eyes and slavering mouth of the trembling Hun were distressing to see.  As he was rushed past the onlooking troops he piteously held out to every man in turn a large, turnip watch dangling from a silver chain.  What he hoped to gain by the offer of this precious gift nobody could guess.  I was glad to note there were no takers.  Clearly he regarded the British as barbarians prepared to submit their captives to every conceivable atrocity, an attitude of mind probably inspired by the German General Staff.  I personally found no joy in the capture of that little man.


Rose 10:30am.
Harrison's pomade from home.
Guide party at night for the Queen Vics.
Heavy shelling.
Patrol fights.
QWRs take a prisoner - Prussian Guard.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

"On the night of June 12th, an enemy party, consisting of a corporal and two men, who were patrolling from Cherisy to Vis en Artois, lost their way and blundered into the Battalion lines. A thick mist had prevented the sentries from seeing them, but a working party in the trench fired on them, and the corporal was captured by Sergeant Plummridge and Sergeant Oliver (D Company)."
Excerpt from "The War History of the 1st Battalion Queen's Westminster Rifles 1914-1918" [ISBN 1-84342-610-2]

11th June 1917 - Postcard

Postcard home to Mum and Dad ...

Same scene of Arras, France in 2016 on Google Streetview

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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]

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

7th June 1917

Bradley’s theory that snipers were excused all mundane fatigues did not work out in practice.  In addition to patrol work and the construction of observation posts, my spare moments were sacrificed in taking food to the Duty Guard.

With the best will in the world I am sure the Company cooks made the most of the miserable rations provided and it was not their fault if the meals were consistently inedible except to starving men.  My own particular bete noir was the bull beef stew with the addition of swedes and sweet chestnuts – a dish which appeared with unfailing regularity.  On this particular day the cooks produced their piece de resistance which, incidentally, was the cause of an interesting conflict with high military rank.

My companion and I were in the process of conveying from the field kitchen to the dump guard a large and heavy iron container with the midday dinner.  The road was completely isolated except for one solitary figure approaching from the opposite direction.  Swinging a cane, he appeared to be deep in thought and as he drew level we identified him as the Colonel commanding the London Brigade.  We gave him the “eyes left” which he acknowledged with a pleasant smile, exclaiming “I say, that really looks delicious, what is it?”  I replied that our cooks called it “steak pie”.  The colonel was not to be put off however and insisted on having the full recipe in order, he said, “that the L.R.B. cooks should receive some instruction in the culinary arts of the Q.W.R's”.  He was most charming, thanked us profusely and departed on his way, albeit still with a thoughtful air.  The concoction, for what it was worth, was stewed bully beef covered with a crust made from powdered army biscuits and baked in the ovens – it was revolting.

The evening was more rewarding.  Chilton had arranged a shooting competition on the range for B Company snipers.  We took up our allotted positions, the rest of the section having been detailed to act as markers in the butts, whilst an NCO, by the side of each competitor, recorded the scores signalled after each shot.

To my intense surprise Forster had somehow managed to infiltrate the sniping squad by persuading the officer that he was a suitable entrant.  Just what underhand methods he adopted in order to be with his pals I never found out but I was delighted to see him at my side.  We shot off our rounds and I was content with the number of bulls and inners signalled by the marker, a total of 78 points.  Forster was still shooting, cards were collected and in due course Chilton presented me with a five franc note for the top score.

We all relaxed.  Forster came up with his congratulations which were sincere but with a woebegone face he added “I had three signalled right off target.”  I said “Nonsense, you can’t be all that bad, let’s go up to the butts and see what happened”.  It was indeed a poor effort, quite apart from the fact that three shots were missing.  Then came the awful thought.  Sure enough my own target showed three more hits than I had fired.  In his hurry to complete the shoot Forster had shot onto my target for his last three shots.  They were outers and clearly identifiable because my marker in the butts, having pasted over the full quota of hits from my rifle, had naturally given up his labours.  This put me in a quandary because, although morally I knew I had earned the five francs, conscience told me that authority would take a different view.  I pondered for a while and, when I declared my intention of speaking to Chilton, poor Forster pleaded desperately that I do no such thing.  His despair was understandable since shooting at the wrong target on the range was a crime of some magnitude.  With the noblest of gestures I stifled my conscience for Forster’s sake and pocketed the five francs.



All day fatigue. Meals to Dump Guard.
"Patrols" and "Observation posts".
Best shot in B Company snipers - 78 points.
5 francs from Mr Chilton.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

6th June 1917

6:50am parade.
Musketry, etc.
Range finding - visual training.
Range in evening. Poured, soaked through.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

5th June 1917 - Postcard

Postcard home to Dad ...

Same scene of Pas-en-Artois, France in 2008 on Google Streetview

5th June 1917

6:50am parade.
Bayonets and musketry.
Hottest day yet.
Half day off.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

4th June 1917

Sniping

1st Target – Enemy snipers
Continuous observation necessary for any movement.  Look for flash of rifle, gas from rifle, dust raised by firing, relief of enemy snipers – usually very early morning, use of dummy figure and periscope, direction of bullet holes in sand.

2nd Target – Enemy loopholes (usually numerous)
Fire to be withheld unless the presence of a sniper behind loophole is a certainty.  Armour piercing bullets.

3rd Target – Enemy exposed
End of communication trenches, cooking places, low parts on parapets.

Best time for targets -
Meal times (reliefs), misty weather (carelessness), after heavy rain or bombardment (parapets exposed).

Snipers in attack -
Smash enemy periscopes during bombardment and aim for enemy exposing himself.  Advance with attack and establish an OP in shell-hole about 100 yards in front of line (this in case of a creeping barrage only).  In an ordinary barrage snipers to go forward and take up their positions before the attack starts.

Duties are –
Cover bombers in attack.
Snipe enemy bombers (‘stick’ bombers easily expose themselves).
Prevent rear or flank attacks.
Pick off enemy snipers, officers on reconnaissance, runners.
Special targets should be watched and independent action taken.
No rapid fire should be used.

“Clarence” was a distinguished member of the battalion whose battle-scarred features were beloved by every Westminster.  At the date of our introduction he was obviously war-weary and with the passing of the long drawn out trench warfare of the earlier years his usefulness as a front line combatant was on the wane.  His iron frame was creaking at the joints and his wooden head bore the holes of many an encounter with the enemy.  True, the holes had been skilfully patched but it seemed doubtful whether he would again take up his post in the line.

The newcomers had no opportunity of making use of “Clarence’s” services but his modus operandi in action was explained to the sniping squad.  “Clarence” would lurk below the parapet until such time as our enemy snipers became troublesome.  By a mechanical contrivance the poor lad was then slowly raised until his head was exposed and Jerry gleefully notched up another victim.  He was casually lowered, a compass bearing taken through the hole in his head and duly marked on the trench map on which his new position was already located.  “Clarence” was then hurried several hundred feet along the trench, his martyrdom repeated and the second compass bearing duly recorded on the map.  At the point of intersection of the two bearings the map showed the exact position of the enemy sniper and the range could be measured.  The rest was in the hands of the British mortars.

Although we never made use of “Clarence” we did have the company of the Stoke’s Mortar boys ⁽¹⁾ in the trenches at Arras.  We hated their activities.  Having pooped off half a dozen rounds in quick time they would hastily depart.

Soaked to the skin, weary and dirty, I returned to the billet wondering why I had volunteered to be a sniper.  The rest of my billet companions, having been excused afternoon and evening parades, were already bedded down for the night; their raillery did nothing to improve my ill humour.  My dishevelled appearance could easily pass muster on the morrow but the rifle was a different matter.  Something has to be done quickly.  With considerable distaste I peered down the barrel of the “soldier’s best friend”.  Out from the butt came oil bottle, pull-through, wire gauze and a piece of flannel “4x2”.  Innumerable times I went through the barrel, all to no purpose.  It remained as dirty as when I had started and worse still, the first signs of rust were evident.  Then came the brilliant idea.  Carefully arranging a broken matchstick inside the gauze and flannel in order to provide more resistance I got to work again, but the improvisation resulted in disaster.  When halfway through the pull-through stuck and refused to budge another inch.  Immediately above my head were the rafters of the barn and, tying the pull-through to the crossbeam, I hung on to the rifle and grimly raised my feet – the pull-though cord broke halfway through the barrel.

It was now getting late and outside the billet all was quiet and deserted.  Scouting around in the semi-darkness, dodging the sentries, I at length came upon a small hut with the forbidding words “Armourer Sergeant” in large, white letters on the door.  With trepidation I knocked and entered.  A polite voice said “Good Evening”.  Speechless I handed over the offending weapon.  By manipulation of a long instrument made to fit the rifling of the barrel, Sergeant A G Fulton ⁽²⁾, Armourer Sergeant and King’s Prize man, screwed out the obstruction in a matter of minutes.  Slowly unravelling the gauze and the flannel the matchstick came into view.  Holding up the offending object he waggled his finger at me, that was the full extent of his admonition.  Escorting me to the door he said goodnight and a very chastened, but grateful, rifleman crept quietly back to his billet with a clean rifle and a brand new pull-through.

(1) Wikipedia entry for Stoke's Mortars here.
(2) More on the famous Fulton family here.



On the range.
Scores - 20 (group), 11 (application), 24 (10 rounds rapid fire), 6 (gas).
Map reading. Squared maps, etc.
Half day off.
Air raid on Duissans CCS. 14 killed.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

3rd June 1917 (Sunday)

The Church service on the parade ground was, I decided, sufficient religion for the day but Bradley had other ideas about my spiritual welfare.

As we strolled along lanes together on a perfect June evening, we came to a little green meadow surrounded by the ubiquitous poplars.  There we settled down comfortably by a running stream.  The setting was idyllic and away from the motley.  I felt at peace with the world - so much so that when Bradley told me that the little green field was the venue for a Wesleyan service that evening I readily stayed.

The small congregation of Wesleyan faith and others sat around on the grass.  We heard no sermon; the padre just chatted and encouraged us to talk.  In so doing we found ourselves in complete harmony with one who fully understood our problems and heartaches and one who would not spare himself on our behalf.  He closed the meeting by inviting every man to help himself from the vast pile of literature suitable to every taste which he presumably carried around with him.

The Rev. Tiplady CF was a great man.*

* "In World War I, Rev. Tiplady was a chaplain with the Queen’s Westminster Rifles in the Somme and Arras campaigns in France. There he caught “trench fever,” which laid him up for some time; after recovery, he was stationed at Abbeville until the war’s end.
Following the war, he conducted a five month speaking tour in America. Upon return to England, he was appointed to the Buxton Road Church in Huddersfield, then became Superintendent of the Lambeth Mission in London in 1922, and was there 32 years.
In addition to writing over 250 hymns, Tiplady pioneered the use of films in evangelism, helping found the Religious Film Society of London. In 1931, he visited America as a delegate to the Ecumenical Conference of Methodism in Atlanta, Georgia ..."
http://www.hymntime.com/tch/bio/t/i/p/tiplady_t.htm

Church parade on battalion parade ground.
Wesleyan service in evening in the field by the stream.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

2nd June 1917

Squad physical, bayonets, bombing, etc.
Half day off.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

1st June 1917

Squad, etc.
Map reading and taking bearings by compass, etc.
Half day.
Range in evening. 8 inch group, 3 bulls, 2 inners.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

31st May 1917

Squad, physical, games, bayonets.
Tested box respirators by tear gas.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

30th May 1917

Physical, games, etc under Lt Chilton.
Pay - 15 francs.
Evening on range. 8 inch group, 2 bulls, 2 inners, 1 outer - 150 yards.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

29th May 1917

The silent enemy legions struck suddenly as we three lazed in the long grass minding our own business.  Bradley was deeply absorbed in a book but in the hot atmosphere Forster and I were content to sit and ruminate.  Jackets were removed and then shirts.  Forster said “I’ve got prickly heat”.  It was in fact something more tangible and he and I spent the next hour probing the hundreds of lice comfortably ensconced in the cells of the thick, grey woollen vests so thoughtfully provided by the army.  The camouflage was perfect and it was only those who had partaken of their fill that could be readily identified by the contents of their little semi-transparent bellies.

Bradley was disgusted and said so in no uncertain terms.  How could fellows of decent upbringing allow their bodies to become so filthy – cleanliness being next to Godliness, etc.  With mutual understanding Forster and I listened to his diatribe in silence and at length abandoned the exercise for the day.  Bradley stoutly refused to admit to harbouring lice, fleas, bugs or any other form of parasite but just to satisfy our curiosity he removed his clothing.  We returned from tea in about an hour to find poor Bradley still searching busily!

So far as the infantryman was concerned lice were his blood brothers.  True we had an occasional “bath” usually by means of primitive contraptions consisting of horizontal pipes irregularly spouting drips of boiling and ice cold water onto the heads of the naked bodies underneath.  We dried ourselves feeling moderately refreshed and more often than not re-clothed with the same lousy undergarments we had taken off.

The billets and dusty, straw “beds” which had been occupied by thousands of men who had passed that way before were the main breeding grounds but no man could pretend that he himself made no contribution to the grey battalions!

My mother, aware of the disgusting state of her son, sent out many preparations guaranteed to exterminate all kinds of vermin.  I remember “Harrison’s Pomade” which certainly helped but one would have needed a gallon jar to do the job properly and besides, it was very messy.  On one occasion I received from home a large cardboard box which contained, according to the accompanying letter, one home-made cake together with a large packet of insecticide.  I opened the box expectantly to find a mixture of cake, currants, and carbolic.  The most effective weapon against lice proved to be the lighted candle along the seams of the garments but even that method had its limitations.

Harrison's Pomade advert

The Bow Bells Concert Party* (see diary entry below)

Squad drill and lecture by Mr Hayes.
Bayonets, etc.
Bow Bells concert party - Harry Brandon.
New rifle (sniping).

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

* This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighbouring rights and is being made available under the Creative Commons, Public Domain Mark. The Wellcome Library.

28th May 1917

The allocation into sections of the men of the new draft in their respective platoons was now essential and B Company was paraded with all the officers present.

Snipers required special qualifications and were chosen first.  Volunteers were called for – “Any marksmen?” – there were none.  “First class shots?” – I looked at Bradley and raised my eyebrows.  He responded by whispering - “No fatigues!”.  Simultaneously we took one step forward and were thereupon nominated as Platoon Snipers.

Poor Forster was nowhere in the running when it came to shooting and gloomily foresaw the break-up of the trio.  I am glad it did not work out that way.


6:55am parades.
Detailed sniper with Bradley.
Map reading, contour lines, etc.
Air raids.
Half day off.
On the range in evening.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes

27th May 1917 (Whit Sunday)

Drumhead service on the football ground was a change from the exertions of the previous day although to me the regimentation of the Church service smacked of religion by numbers.  Standing at attention in the boiling sun I could not attune myself to the pious attitude the occasion demanded nor enter wholeheartedly in the many appeals to the Almighty to bless our cause and our arms.  The ceremony failed to provide the necessary uplift which the spirit demanded and I became depressed and ashamed of my heretical outlook.

In the weeks that followed I learnt to know the meaning of Christianity without frills from all those men with whom I spent every hour of every day.  I owe them much.


Church parade.
Divine service on football ground.
4:30am air raid.

Original diary entry

Original journal notes