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Sad Farewells
Leave-taking was a sad business. Apart from an occasional week’s holiday, this was the first time I had left home with the prospects of a prolonged absence and an uncertain destination and my mother’s tears brought forcibly to my mind that I was not going on a holiday cruise.
But the die was cast and soon I was waving goodbye to my brother on the station platform and seeing the familiar skyline of Blackburn, with its stately parish church, its tree lined boulevard on which fountains still played and its forest of factory chimneys, fade into the distance.
At Southport we found the whole Brigade billeted in private houses and we, too, were quickly provided with suitable accommodation.
I found myself, along with three others, in a comfortable semi-detached house in Churchtown. It was tenanted by a childless couple, and the husband who might well have been a survival from the Victorian age, ruled over the ménage with an iron hand.
Our diet was carefully measured out according to official stipulations, and the army regimen strictly adhered to.
Breakfast, which we shared with the family, consisted of porridge and bacon and bread. The master of the house also partook of marmalade, but as it was not included in the Army menu, he kept the jar under lock and key, lest we might be tempted to indulge surreptitiously in his absence.
He was a man of violent temper and I remember one occasion when, finding some fault with the cooking of his dinner, he deliberately picked up his wife’s plate and flung the contents into the fire, then sat down and finished his own meal without turning a hair.
I can still see the stricken face of that poor, humiliated woman to this day.
I was an artilleryman, a gunner in fact and as yet I had never seen a gun. Southport did not remedy this hiatus, for the only offensive weapons we had were four wooden dummy muzzle-loaders, which we used for drill purposes.
We had, however, a number of horses, which were stabled in various livery stables in the vicinity. These were chiefly rejects from overseas, and proved to be both intractable and ill-conditioned. Sometimes it seemed as much as one’s life was worth to enter the same stall with one of these unpredictable bundles of nerves, with its rolling eyes, its cocked ears and vicious hoofs. But somehow we survived.
Leave-taking was a sad business. Apart from an occasional week’s holiday, this was the first time I had left home with the prospects of a prolonged absence and an uncertain destination and my mother’s tears brought forcibly to my mind that I was not going on a holiday cruise.
But the die was cast and soon I was waving goodbye to my brother on the station platform and seeing the familiar skyline of Blackburn, with its stately parish church, its tree lined boulevard on which fountains still played and its forest of factory chimneys, fade into the distance.
At Southport we found the whole Brigade billeted in private houses and we, too, were quickly provided with suitable accommodation.
I found myself, along with three others, in a comfortable semi-detached house in Churchtown. It was tenanted by a childless couple, and the husband who might well have been a survival from the Victorian age, ruled over the ménage with an iron hand.
Our diet was carefully measured out according to official stipulations, and the army regimen strictly adhered to.
Breakfast, which we shared with the family, consisted of porridge and bacon and bread. The master of the house also partook of marmalade, but as it was not included in the Army menu, he kept the jar under lock and key, lest we might be tempted to indulge surreptitiously in his absence.
He was a man of violent temper and I remember one occasion when, finding some fault with the cooking of his dinner, he deliberately picked up his wife’s plate and flung the contents into the fire, then sat down and finished his own meal without turning a hair.
I can still see the stricken face of that poor, humiliated woman to this day.
I was an artilleryman, a gunner in fact and as yet I had never seen a gun. Southport did not remedy this hiatus, for the only offensive weapons we had were four wooden dummy muzzle-loaders, which we used for drill purposes.
We had, however, a number of horses, which were stabled in various livery stables in the vicinity. These were chiefly rejects from overseas, and proved to be both intractable and ill-conditioned. Sometimes it seemed as much as one’s life was worth to enter the same stall with one of these unpredictable bundles of nerves, with its rolling eyes, its cocked ears and vicious hoofs. But somehow we survived.
Boer War relics
Then, one red-letter day a freight train rolled into the siding, bringing us a number of remounts and four real guns for each battery. True, the guns were relics of the Boer War, with neither shields nor dial sights; they were loaded with the aid of ramrods and fired with ‘T’ tubes and lanyards, and having no recoil mechanism they were apt to run amok and cripple half the detachment whenever they were fired.
But still, they were the genuine article and seen from a distance, as when we paraded for manoeuvres on the sands, they made a most imposing picture.
All my recollections of Southport are pleasant ones. The early morning route marches, from which we returned with voracious appetites; gun drill on the grassy parade ground under a warm summer sun; an occasional spell of guard duty outside the Battery Office, which was in another private house and where the sentry was an object of awed admiration to all the urchins in the neighbourhood, to say nothing of the dogs, and in the evening a stroll along the promenade, an odd pint in the local and a visit to the ‘flea pit’, this last a small cinema in the immediate vicinity, housed in a wooden shed with bare forms to sit on and a tinkling piano by way of an orchestra.
YES THOSE WERE HAPPY CAREFREE DAYS.
The Colonel cancels all Christmas leave
I suppose, like most of my comrades, I could have soldiered at Southport for the duration, but soon sinister rumours began to spread of another move to a camp somewhere out in the wilds, and for once the rumour proved to be true.
Early one morning the entire brigade entrained for Bettisfield Park Camp, and after a journey lasting all day, with infuriating delays whilst we were shunted into sidings to make way for other troop trains bound for more important destinations, we were ultimately unloaded at a tiny wayside station in the heart of the wilderness. We were then told in the gathering darkness to get ready for another route march.
The weather had broken during the day, and as we marched through the camp gates ankle-deep in viscid mud, the leading files struck up with the chorus: “when you’re a long, long way from home.” Its real implications were just beginning to dawn on us.
The camp was still in process of construction; all the huts were new and the moment one stepped off the macadam road leading to headquarters one was knee-deep in slush. For some obscure reason the site chosen was a sort of amphitheatre sloping down to a small lake, the huts being erected at various stages up the slope.
We were surrounded on all sides by an impenetrable jungle, an extensive pine forest where I at least spent many happy hours studying the habits of jays and red squirrels.
Leisure moments
As we were miles from the nearest village, there was little else I could do in my leisure moments, as the canteen and recreation-room had little attraction for me.
Of course, as an alternative I might curl up on my bed in the hut with a book, providing I could close my ears to the interminable games of ‘Housey-housey’ (which I am given to understand was the prototype of ‘Bingo’) or ‘Crown and Anchor’ which last was the cause of many a barrack room argument, often terminating in a free fight.
But, by and large, life at Bettisfield Park bored me to distraction. The same old bugle call announcing Reveille day after day, the hasty gulping down of a steaming decoction said to be tea but known as ‘gunfire’, the same old half-hour of physical ‘jerks’ on the parade-ground and then breakfast, followed by hut inspection and muster parade.
After a close scrutiny by an eagle-eyed sergeant major, who looked behind our buttons for traces of ‘soldier’s friend’ and searched for traces of unshaven beard on faces that had never felt a razor, we broke up into detachments under our respective instructors.
Two incidents from this period stand out in my mind. The first arose from the cancellation of Christmas leave by the Colonel as a disciplinary measure for some lack of smartness on parade, which resulted in a mass exodus of determined camp-breakers.
They swarmed out after darkness and stowed away aboard slow-moving goods trains which passed nearby. Some were absent without leave for over a fortnight and not a few returned under escort.
There was some talk of courts-martial, but ultimately wiser counsels prevailed and defaulters’ drill and confinement to barracks was the extent of the punishment meted out by our commanding officer, more in sorrow than in anger. Probably he realised he had given the men some justification for mutiny.
The second incident was provoked by a very youthful and callow second-lieutenant who had obviously just been posted, and who was airing his uniform for the first time. At regular intervals, he would emerge from the officers’ mess, stroll importantly past the guard room, acknowledge the guard’s salute with an airy wave of his cane and then retrace his steps. This went on until the corporal of the guard could stand it no longer.
As we were miles from the nearest village, there was little else I could do in my leisure moments, as the canteen and recreation-room had little attraction for me.
Of course, as an alternative I might curl up on my bed in the hut with a book, providing I could close my ears to the interminable games of ‘Housey-housey’ (which I am given to understand was the prototype of ‘Bingo’) or ‘Crown and Anchor’ which last was the cause of many a barrack room argument, often terminating in a free fight.
But, by and large, life at Bettisfield Park bored me to distraction. The same old bugle call announcing Reveille day after day, the hasty gulping down of a steaming decoction said to be tea but known as ‘gunfire’, the same old half-hour of physical ‘jerks’ on the parade-ground and then breakfast, followed by hut inspection and muster parade.
After a close scrutiny by an eagle-eyed sergeant major, who looked behind our buttons for traces of ‘soldier’s friend’ and searched for traces of unshaven beard on faces that had never felt a razor, we broke up into detachments under our respective instructors.
Two incidents from this period stand out in my mind. The first arose from the cancellation of Christmas leave by the Colonel as a disciplinary measure for some lack of smartness on parade, which resulted in a mass exodus of determined camp-breakers.
They swarmed out after darkness and stowed away aboard slow-moving goods trains which passed nearby. Some were absent without leave for over a fortnight and not a few returned under escort.
There was some talk of courts-martial, but ultimately wiser counsels prevailed and defaulters’ drill and confinement to barracks was the extent of the punishment meted out by our commanding officer, more in sorrow than in anger. Probably he realised he had given the men some justification for mutiny.
The second incident was provoked by a very youthful and callow second-lieutenant who had obviously just been posted, and who was airing his uniform for the first time. At regular intervals, he would emerge from the officers’ mess, stroll importantly past the guard room, acknowledge the guard’s salute with an airy wave of his cane and then retrace his steps. This went on until the corporal of the guard could stand it no longer.
1917
“Aw’ll learn yon mon a lesson he’ll not forget in a hurry,” he declared. “Who the ‘ell does he think he is, Kitchener?”
“What’s on your mind, corporal?” I asked. I was doing my first two hour stretch at the time.
“Never thee mind, lad,” he said with a sinister wink, “Just give me th’ griffin when tha sees him comin’ again.”
Sure enough, a few minutes later the dapper little figure emerged from the front of the officers’ mess and headed majestically in my direction. I gave a discreet whistle.
“Guards, turn out,” roared the corporal, and as the abashed youngster drew level he gave the order: “Present Arms.” I have never seen a man so embarrassed in all my life as was that unfortunate second-lieutenant.
He blushed scarlet, stared wildly at the imposing line of staring eyes and rigid rifles, muttered something about a mistake in his rank and then fled.
“Slope arms; dismiss,” said the corporal, solemnly, and after that all was peace.
The first shock of army profanity
Winter, 1915, and once again the scene had changed. Now I was with our 2nd line brigade, stationed at Forest Row, Sussex, and housed in some ancient hutments designed for Mounted Infantry during the Boer War.
Just my luck! I had hoped to be placed on a draft to join the 42nd Division, now defending our far-flung empire in the land of the pharaohs, camped on the desert in the very shadow of the pyramids. How I had looked forward to an orgy of antiquarian exploitation among the magnificent temples of the Nile valley or the subterranean tombs in the Valley of the Kings.
Instead of which, here I was in a rickety, insalubrious shack that left one open to the elements with complete impartiality, a stranger in a strange land. One morning I woke to find my blanket covered with snow, with the wind whistling through a hundred crevices in the warped boards that formed an apology for roof and walls.
Once again I was made aware of an all-pervading sea of mud, which surrounded the camp on all sides, but this time it was not the good, old-fashioned Lancashire variety; it was an evil-smelling compound of the colour and consistency of mustard.
Language lessons
Here, for the first time, I heard Army profanity at its worst. (At Bettisfield they swore like mere amateurs); here even the mildest among gunners and drivers seemed unable to carry on a coherent conversation unless it was punctuated with oaths, and it was weeks before I came to realise that the foul-mouthed little blackguard who slept next to me and cheerfully helped himself to the contents of my weekly food parcel was really a decent warm-hearted little chap who would have gone out of his way to do me a good turn.
Little did I think that within a few months we should have been bosom pals, establishing a friendship among the Flanders shell-holes that has endured to this very day. If he reads this, I know he will forgive me for stating quite baldly my first impressions because he is now a reformed character: I am the one who swears.
The first shock of hearing Army profanity is very like plunging into a pool of cold water; for a moment it takes your breath away but soon you take it for granted and make the best of it. In fact, it is merely a mechanical device for giving emphasis to the prosaic periods of casual conversation. “Our armies swore terribly in Flanders,” cried Uncle Toby in Sterne’s ‘Tristram Shandy,’ and since the time of Marlborough their repertoire has increased quite considerably.
Yet in spite of this, in my hut there was one young corporal who knelt down by his bedside every night and said his prayers, an act of faith that was tacitly respected, even by the rowdiest among us.
Never tamed
Well, what are my memories of this inhospitable and insalubrious spot? I hear a whinnying of horses at night and a thumping of iron-shod hoofs against swinging, wooden boskins in the horse-lines…
It’s that blasted wild Canadian remount we christened ‘Red Tape,’ which broke loose a week ago and has been running at large in the forest ever since. Every night without fail the infernal brute comes cantering down the lines of tethered horses, lashing out right and left at all and sundry, man and beast, alike, until the stalls are full of frenzied animals and the lines full of cursing picquets. “Be with the guns, boys this is an artillery war.” If this is gunnery, heaven help the sailors.
‘Red Tape’, a coal-black gelding with blood-shot eyes and twitching ears, probably suffering from some acute form of toothache or other nervous disorder which drove him to distraction, was subsequently caught but never tamed.
In fact, we never even succeeded in shoeing him, and though on one occasion a saddle was lowered on his back and a head stall pulled over his head, the sum total of our efforts boiled down to a couple of cripples rough-riders and another spell of freedom for the outlaw. After that we gave him up.
Well, what are my memories of this inhospitable and insalubrious spot? I hear a whinnying of horses at night and a thumping of iron-shod hoofs against swinging, wooden boskins in the horse-lines…
It’s that blasted wild Canadian remount we christened ‘Red Tape,’ which broke loose a week ago and has been running at large in the forest ever since. Every night without fail the infernal brute comes cantering down the lines of tethered horses, lashing out right and left at all and sundry, man and beast, alike, until the stalls are full of frenzied animals and the lines full of cursing picquets. “Be with the guns, boys this is an artillery war.” If this is gunnery, heaven help the sailors.
‘Red Tape’, a coal-black gelding with blood-shot eyes and twitching ears, probably suffering from some acute form of toothache or other nervous disorder which drove him to distraction, was subsequently caught but never tamed.
In fact, we never even succeeded in shoeing him, and though on one occasion a saddle was lowered on his back and a head stall pulled over his head, the sum total of our efforts boiled down to a couple of cripples rough-riders and another spell of freedom for the outlaw. After that we gave him up.
Fighting drunk
Saturday night, and some of the boys are rolling in on late pass from East Grinstead. One, a great raw-boned gunner is fighting drunk. He seizes the huge carving knife with which the hut orderly sub-divides our daily bread ration and prowls round the line of trestle and board beds defying any mother’s son to meet him in mortal combat.
After ten minutes pandemonium his challenge is accepted by a stocky little driver who in stature might have reached to his shoulder.
The driver hops nimbly out of bed in his shirt, drives his fist solidly into the challengers stomach and doubles him up like a jack-knife. The gleaming weapon sails high in the air and is retrieved by an onlooker, the injured man is pushed, none too gently, into bed and once more peace is restored. Than goodness Saturday only comes once a week.
Saturday night, and some of the boys are rolling in on late pass from East Grinstead. One, a great raw-boned gunner is fighting drunk. He seizes the huge carving knife with which the hut orderly sub-divides our daily bread ration and prowls round the line of trestle and board beds defying any mother’s son to meet him in mortal combat.
After ten minutes pandemonium his challenge is accepted by a stocky little driver who in stature might have reached to his shoulder.
The driver hops nimbly out of bed in his shirt, drives his fist solidly into the challengers stomach and doubles him up like a jack-knife. The gleaming weapon sails high in the air and is retrieved by an onlooker, the injured man is pushed, none too gently, into bed and once more peace is restored. Than goodness Saturday only comes once a week.
Our first firing course ends in ignominy
If I found Forest Row somewhat demoralizing, let me hasten to add that all my memories of Colchester, the fine old garrison town in which the division completed its training, were happy ones.
I was here, I think, that the Battery really found its soul. One of the highlights of our stay was when we finally got rid of the ancient Boer War 15-pounders and were equipped with guns of which we could really be proud – brand new 18-pounders with fixed ammunition, spring buffers, traversing, and trail spade gear.
For accuracy, I don’t think there has ever been a field gun to touch it: at a range of 2,500 yards it was possible to drop every round of a salvo inside an area half the size of a bowling green.
In fact, I recall one occasion at La Basee when we put down a barrage inside a bracket of 12½ yards. We had to, to avoid dropping a few shorts into our own trenches.
The 18- pounder Q.F. (Mark IV) had only one fault, as we were to find out later; its recoil of 42 inches was far too long. This made it unstable on hard ground, and the piece under stress was apt to jam in the slides at full recoil, whereas the French 75mm recoiled a mere 12 inches and was as steady as a rock. But for accuracy, give me the 18- pounder every time.
If I found Forest Row somewhat demoralizing, let me hasten to add that all my memories of Colchester, the fine old garrison town in which the division completed its training, were happy ones.
I was here, I think, that the Battery really found its soul. One of the highlights of our stay was when we finally got rid of the ancient Boer War 15-pounders and were equipped with guns of which we could really be proud – brand new 18-pounders with fixed ammunition, spring buffers, traversing, and trail spade gear.
For accuracy, I don’t think there has ever been a field gun to touch it: at a range of 2,500 yards it was possible to drop every round of a salvo inside an area half the size of a bowling green.
In fact, I recall one occasion at La Basee when we put down a barrage inside a bracket of 12½ yards. We had to, to avoid dropping a few shorts into our own trenches.
The 18- pounder Q.F. (Mark IV) had only one fault, as we were to find out later; its recoil of 42 inches was far too long. This made it unstable on hard ground, and the piece under stress was apt to jam in the slides at full recoil, whereas the French 75mm recoiled a mere 12 inches and was as steady as a rock. But for accuracy, give me the 18- pounder every time.
“Owd Broncho”
It was at Larkhill on Salisbury Plain where we had our first taste of our gun’s little eccentricities. This was during our first firing course, in which, I grieve to say, we did not do too well.
Out on the range one day we had just had the order, “Halt, action front,” followed by “Right section ranging,” our own gun being number ‘2’ I was number 3 (gun-layer) on the detachment and was busy adjusting the periscope dial sight when number 2 (who operated the range drum) gave me a nudge.
“Hey,” he muttered, “Owd Broncho’s watchin’ us.”
Needless to say, General Brounker, G.O.C., R.A., and heaven knows what else besides, was the General Staff Officer who had to decide if we were fit for active service. He had dismounted from his charger and, surrounded by a galaxy of brass hats, was heading in our direction, an irascible man with a flowing white moustache and a brick-red complexion that spoke volumes concerning the parlous state of his liver.
To our horror he took up a position about ten yards behind the gun, binoculars at the ready, and surveyed us with his eagle eye. We would sooner have encountered the Kaiser.
However, orders were coming down the line and had to be carried out: “Aiming point, tree on right flank, all guns 25 degrees right, angle of sight, one degree elevation. Number 1 gun, 2,300 yards, number 2 gun, 2,300 yards, at 10 second interval, fire.”
“Set,” called out the range-finder. “Ready,” I snapped, and with my hand on the firing lever, awaited the order to fire. Out of the corner of my eye I could see our sergeant knelt behind the hand-spike, his right hand raised in the air and peering over his shoulder the sinister hawk-face of the General.
There was a terrific crash as number 1 gun fired and I could hear the sergeant counting every second at intervals that seemed like minutes. Then his arm dropped and he shouted “Fire.”
What happened after that I shall never know.
Somehow we had managed to set the trail spade, intended to dig into the ground with the shock of the discharge, upon the only protruding rock on Salisbury Plain. So that, instead of burying itself, it flew back a dozen yards, and swung round viciously through an angle of 180 degrees, bowling over the detachment, half the General’s staff and sundry innocent bystanders.
The great man, however, with more speed than one would have given him credit for, had hopped nimbly out of danger and from a safe distance was discharging a volley of epithets that made a battery sound tame in comparison.
Sometimes in my dreams I still see that furious face and invariably I wake up in a cold sweat.
It was at Larkhill on Salisbury Plain where we had our first taste of our gun’s little eccentricities. This was during our first firing course, in which, I grieve to say, we did not do too well.
Out on the range one day we had just had the order, “Halt, action front,” followed by “Right section ranging,” our own gun being number ‘2’ I was number 3 (gun-layer) on the detachment and was busy adjusting the periscope dial sight when number 2 (who operated the range drum) gave me a nudge.
“Hey,” he muttered, “Owd Broncho’s watchin’ us.”
Needless to say, General Brounker, G.O.C., R.A., and heaven knows what else besides, was the General Staff Officer who had to decide if we were fit for active service. He had dismounted from his charger and, surrounded by a galaxy of brass hats, was heading in our direction, an irascible man with a flowing white moustache and a brick-red complexion that spoke volumes concerning the parlous state of his liver.
To our horror he took up a position about ten yards behind the gun, binoculars at the ready, and surveyed us with his eagle eye. We would sooner have encountered the Kaiser.
However, orders were coming down the line and had to be carried out: “Aiming point, tree on right flank, all guns 25 degrees right, angle of sight, one degree elevation. Number 1 gun, 2,300 yards, number 2 gun, 2,300 yards, at 10 second interval, fire.”
“Set,” called out the range-finder. “Ready,” I snapped, and with my hand on the firing lever, awaited the order to fire. Out of the corner of my eye I could see our sergeant knelt behind the hand-spike, his right hand raised in the air and peering over his shoulder the sinister hawk-face of the General.
There was a terrific crash as number 1 gun fired and I could hear the sergeant counting every second at intervals that seemed like minutes. Then his arm dropped and he shouted “Fire.”
What happened after that I shall never know.
Somehow we had managed to set the trail spade, intended to dig into the ground with the shock of the discharge, upon the only protruding rock on Salisbury Plain. So that, instead of burying itself, it flew back a dozen yards, and swung round viciously through an angle of 180 degrees, bowling over the detachment, half the General’s staff and sundry innocent bystanders.
The great man, however, with more speed than one would have given him credit for, had hopped nimbly out of danger and from a safe distance was discharging a volley of epithets that made a battery sound tame in comparison.
Sometimes in my dreams I still see that furious face and invariably I wake up in a cold sweat.
Intensive course
But that was the end of our hopes for an early posting overseas. We returned to Colchester in ignominy and were subjected to an intensive course of training by a certain Lieutenant Carter, who was specially seconded to the battery for that purpose.
He was a martinet, with the eye of a basilisk and a staccato voice that crackled across the parade ground like a machine-gun, but he knew his job and soon we began to know ours.
Day after day we were subjected to the same routine, battery gun drill, followed by interminable gun-laying practice, until by the end of the year I found myself proudly wearing my first stripe, with a first-class gun-layer’s badge surmounting it. At last I could really call myself an artilleryman.
As an NCO I had had to pass through the riding school and to learn something about handling horses, but somehow I was never very happy at the tail-end of a charger: I think my memories of that maverick “Red Tape,” who could kick with all four feet at once and bite at the same time, had something to do with my diffidence.
But that was the end of our hopes for an early posting overseas. We returned to Colchester in ignominy and were subjected to an intensive course of training by a certain Lieutenant Carter, who was specially seconded to the battery for that purpose.
He was a martinet, with the eye of a basilisk and a staccato voice that crackled across the parade ground like a machine-gun, but he knew his job and soon we began to know ours.
Day after day we were subjected to the same routine, battery gun drill, followed by interminable gun-laying practice, until by the end of the year I found myself proudly wearing my first stripe, with a first-class gun-layer’s badge surmounting it. At last I could really call myself an artilleryman.
As an NCO I had had to pass through the riding school and to learn something about handling horses, but somehow I was never very happy at the tail-end of a charger: I think my memories of that maverick “Red Tape,” who could kick with all four feet at once and bite at the same time, had something to do with my diffidence.
Time to explore
Colchester had a military tradition that went back to Roman times. It was (believe it or not) reputed to have been founded by Old King Cole, that jolly old soul who was in fact a real, historical personage.
Here the Emperor Claudius established the first Roman colony in this country which later was attacked and burnt by the redoubtable Queen Boadicea. In the castle is housed probably the finest collection of Roman remains outside the British Museum, and the city walls are famous as the best preserved fortifications of that period in existence, particularly the West or Balkerne Gate.
Here I was able to peruse my antiquarian bent to full measure and I spent many a happy hour prowling among the ruins, or exploring the antique shops in search of relics of the past.
In one dark and dismal back alley I made the acquaintance of a cheerful but disreputable dealer who kept a junk shop for appearances’ sake, but made a living by selling souvenirs of the past which he obtained in various devious ways.
From him, among other treasures, I obtained a number of silver pennies of the time of King John that had formed part of the famous Colchester hoard. I never troubled to ask him how they came into his possession.
Colchester had a military tradition that went back to Roman times. It was (believe it or not) reputed to have been founded by Old King Cole, that jolly old soul who was in fact a real, historical personage.
Here the Emperor Claudius established the first Roman colony in this country which later was attacked and burnt by the redoubtable Queen Boadicea. In the castle is housed probably the finest collection of Roman remains outside the British Museum, and the city walls are famous as the best preserved fortifications of that period in existence, particularly the West or Balkerne Gate.
Here I was able to peruse my antiquarian bent to full measure and I spent many a happy hour prowling among the ruins, or exploring the antique shops in search of relics of the past.
In one dark and dismal back alley I made the acquaintance of a cheerful but disreputable dealer who kept a junk shop for appearances’ sake, but made a living by selling souvenirs of the past which he obtained in various devious ways.
From him, among other treasures, I obtained a number of silver pennies of the time of King John that had formed part of the famous Colchester hoard. I never troubled to ask him how they came into his possession.
We sail for France – and get our baptism of fire
While home on my embarkation leave I went up to my den in the attic one night and made a solemn holocaust of all my youthful scribblings, including thousands of lines of my epic “The Universe.”
Looking back on the incident after a lapse of almost fifty years, I realise there was something symbolic in the gesture. It was a case of “Goodbye to all that,” for even then some instinct told me the world I had known as a youth would never be the same again. Maybe an odd tear or two dropped upon the pile of charred ash in the grate but I went through with the ritual to the bitter end.
Also, in conformity with another grim wartime custom, I had my photograph taken. Not that it had any real significance, of course: we all meant to come back after our brief trip across the channel … but still, in the hall, behind the aspidistra … just in case. Here is a reproduction, if anyone is interested in what a young artilleryman looked like in 1917.
In an earlier series of articles under the title “In Flanders Fields” I have already given a series of extracts from the official diary of A/330 Battery, together with appropriate comments, so that in dealing with my personal recollections I propose to dwell as little as possible on formalities.
Instead I will try to recall some of the incidents that are still in my memory, after the lapse of time has placed them in their true perspective.
While home on my embarkation leave I went up to my den in the attic one night and made a solemn holocaust of all my youthful scribblings, including thousands of lines of my epic “The Universe.”
Looking back on the incident after a lapse of almost fifty years, I realise there was something symbolic in the gesture. It was a case of “Goodbye to all that,” for even then some instinct told me the world I had known as a youth would never be the same again. Maybe an odd tear or two dropped upon the pile of charred ash in the grate but I went through with the ritual to the bitter end.
Also, in conformity with another grim wartime custom, I had my photograph taken. Not that it had any real significance, of course: we all meant to come back after our brief trip across the channel … but still, in the hall, behind the aspidistra … just in case. Here is a reproduction, if anyone is interested in what a young artilleryman looked like in 1917.
In an earlier series of articles under the title “In Flanders Fields” I have already given a series of extracts from the official diary of A/330 Battery, together with appropriate comments, so that in dealing with my personal recollections I propose to dwell as little as possible on formalities.
Instead I will try to recall some of the incidents that are still in my memory, after the lapse of time has placed them in their true perspective.
In quarantine
The battery left Colchester on two trains on Friday, March 2nd 1917 and embarked for La Havre at Southampton in the early hours of the following morning. But alas ‘B’ Sub-section, to which I belonged, was detained at the last minute in quarantine.
One of our drivers had contracted something infectious and the authorities kept us kicking our heels in isolation for another fortnight just in case someone else had been bitten by the same bug.
We were loud in our lamentations, for it was by no means certain that we should rejoin our own unit once we had landed over there.
However, all’s well that ends well and on March 21st we caught up with the Battery at a tiny French village called Locon not far from Bethune.
It had been a long, wearisome journey in cattle trucks, appropriately stencilled “Chevaux 8 ou Hommes 40,” to drive home to our minds the relative value of a man and a horse, as seen through the eyes of the authorities.
The battery left Colchester on two trains on Friday, March 2nd 1917 and embarked for La Havre at Southampton in the early hours of the following morning. But alas ‘B’ Sub-section, to which I belonged, was detained at the last minute in quarantine.
One of our drivers had contracted something infectious and the authorities kept us kicking our heels in isolation for another fortnight just in case someone else had been bitten by the same bug.
We were loud in our lamentations, for it was by no means certain that we should rejoin our own unit once we had landed over there.
However, all’s well that ends well and on March 21st we caught up with the Battery at a tiny French village called Locon not far from Bethune.
It had been a long, wearisome journey in cattle trucks, appropriately stencilled “Chevaux 8 ou Hommes 40,” to drive home to our minds the relative value of a man and a horse, as seen through the eyes of the authorities.
Disheartening
It was at Locon that we first made our acquaintance with French beer. I can think of no sight more depressing than that of a healthy British ‘Tommy’ seated in an estaminet, gloomily absorbing pint after pint of that thin, sour beverage in the pious hope that he might attain to a reasonable state of intoxication before it made him sick.
But of course he never did. Even if he mixed his drinks with vin blanc or vin rouge, he only succeeded in making himself frightfully ill. And to add insult to injury, at an adjoining table a couple of the ‘natives’ would have attained to a state of heavenly intoxication after a couple of drinks.
It was all most disheartening.
We rejoined our unit only to learn that the battery was already in the line, having reinforced the 119th Battery instead of relieving them as originally planned. To use the words of the official diary “Apparently they think the Bosche may attack.”
It was at Locon that we first made our acquaintance with French beer. I can think of no sight more depressing than that of a healthy British ‘Tommy’ seated in an estaminet, gloomily absorbing pint after pint of that thin, sour beverage in the pious hope that he might attain to a reasonable state of intoxication before it made him sick.
But of course he never did. Even if he mixed his drinks with vin blanc or vin rouge, he only succeeded in making himself frightfully ill. And to add insult to injury, at an adjoining table a couple of the ‘natives’ would have attained to a state of heavenly intoxication after a couple of drinks.
It was all most disheartening.
We rejoined our unit only to learn that the battery was already in the line, having reinforced the 119th Battery instead of relieving them as originally planned. To use the words of the official diary “Apparently they think the Bosche may attack.”
Miraculous
For the same reason all the gunnery NCOs rode up to the guns on the following day in charge of the first-line wagons loaded with ammunition.
On our way up we had our first baptism of fire when a section salvo of 5.9s dropped in Beuvry as we passed through, demolishing several cottages.
Against orders we went through the village at a canter, narrowly escaping a disaster of our own making when one of the limbers flew open depositing several 18 pounder HE shells under the hoofs of the following wagon team. By some miracle, however, not a single one went off.
Speaking of cantering on horseback, I often wondered what bright genius at the War Office designed the field equipment of an artilleryman. The only horse he ever rode must have been a wooden one.
Everything we had to carry – haversack, water-bottle, hood respirator, bandolier with 50 rounds of ammunition and tin hat – were all slung alternately from our shoulders, so that the whole of our impedimenta dangled loosely all around us.
No wonder one harassed driver of ‘B’ sub-section, on the occasion of our first trek in Field Service Marching Order, remarked with appropriate profanity that he “felt like a ruddy Christmas tree.”
When trotting one jangled like a travelling tinker, whilst at regular intervals a lumpy water-bottle or a map-case or a respirator inserted itself between one’s seat and the saddle with painful persistence.
For the same reason all the gunnery NCOs rode up to the guns on the following day in charge of the first-line wagons loaded with ammunition.
On our way up we had our first baptism of fire when a section salvo of 5.9s dropped in Beuvry as we passed through, demolishing several cottages.
Against orders we went through the village at a canter, narrowly escaping a disaster of our own making when one of the limbers flew open depositing several 18 pounder HE shells under the hoofs of the following wagon team. By some miracle, however, not a single one went off.
Speaking of cantering on horseback, I often wondered what bright genius at the War Office designed the field equipment of an artilleryman. The only horse he ever rode must have been a wooden one.
Everything we had to carry – haversack, water-bottle, hood respirator, bandolier with 50 rounds of ammunition and tin hat – were all slung alternately from our shoulders, so that the whole of our impedimenta dangled loosely all around us.
No wonder one harassed driver of ‘B’ sub-section, on the occasion of our first trek in Field Service Marching Order, remarked with appropriate profanity that he “felt like a ruddy Christmas tree.”
When trotting one jangled like a travelling tinker, whilst at regular intervals a lumpy water-bottle or a map-case or a respirator inserted itself between one’s seat and the saddle with painful persistence.
Like Home
The countryside in the back areas of the La Basee sector was very like that of our own Lancashire. There were coal mines in the vicinity, at Annequin, and land subsidence had made ‘Flashes’ and marshy patches such as one finds in the neighbourhood of Wigan. Had it not been for the long straight roads, with their interminable avenues of poplars we might have been at home.
Although the entire district was subjected to promiscuous shelling, we were surprised to see with that fatalistic pertinacity the local landowners and small farmers clung to their tiny holdings. It was a common enough sight to see a couple of women in their heavy wooden sabots stolidly hoeing in one field while a few hundred yards away shells would be bursting like miniatures volcanoes.
It was uncanny, bizarre yet typical of the adaptability of human nature.
The countryside in the back areas of the La Basee sector was very like that of our own Lancashire. There were coal mines in the vicinity, at Annequin, and land subsidence had made ‘Flashes’ and marshy patches such as one finds in the neighbourhood of Wigan. Had it not been for the long straight roads, with their interminable avenues of poplars we might have been at home.
Although the entire district was subjected to promiscuous shelling, we were surprised to see with that fatalistic pertinacity the local landowners and small farmers clung to their tiny holdings. It was a common enough sight to see a couple of women in their heavy wooden sabots stolidly hoeing in one field while a few hundred yards away shells would be bursting like miniatures volcanoes.
It was uncanny, bizarre yet typical of the adaptability of human nature.
The sleepless Major leaves me stripeless
We found the battery snugly ensconced in a series of four gun-pits over shadowed by tall trees by the side of a narrow road.
On the left, our flank was protected by La Basee canal, while on the right and a little nearer the support trenches was ‘C’ Battery of our Brigade, not so well placed in the middle of a swamp.
In spite of much sporadic shelling, which included incendiary and gas, there were quite a lot of waterfowl breeding here-about including wild duck, coots and moorhens.
I recall seeing a fond mother coot followed by her family, consisting of half a dozen tiny, fluffy balls of black down, paddling serenely between splashes made by two bursts from a 5.9 inch section salvo from behind the German lines, and apparently not in the least perturbed.
We found the battery snugly ensconced in a series of four gun-pits over shadowed by tall trees by the side of a narrow road.
On the left, our flank was protected by La Basee canal, while on the right and a little nearer the support trenches was ‘C’ Battery of our Brigade, not so well placed in the middle of a swamp.
In spite of much sporadic shelling, which included incendiary and gas, there were quite a lot of waterfowl breeding here-about including wild duck, coots and moorhens.
I recall seeing a fond mother coot followed by her family, consisting of half a dozen tiny, fluffy balls of black down, paddling serenely between splashes made by two bursts from a 5.9 inch section salvo from behind the German lines, and apparently not in the least perturbed.
An abomination
The canal, on the other hand, was an abomination of desolation, its stagnant waters choked with rusted barbed wire or littered with all sorts of abandoned impedimenta, the aftermath of battle; amid which a wrecked barge mouldered on the slimy bottom or a smashed bridge reared its twisted girders against the gloomy skyline.
There were four guns on the main position and another two in an advanced section. The gun-pits were in effect sand-bagged emplacements roofed over with heavy logs, these last intended to explode a HE shell before it penetrated into the pit, where as many as 300 rounds of ammunition might have been stacked in racks on each side of the pits.
As the whole position was under constant observation not only from the interminable line of captive balloons stretched along the line of the front as far as the eye could see, each glinting in the sun like a sinister unwinking eye, but also from ‘spotter’ planes, which swooped so low that they almost grazed the tree tops. We were under strict orders to move about as little as possible in the hours of daylight.
In addition, camouflage nets were hung over the front of the pits when the guns were not in action and every day fresh grass was scattered over the scorched, withered herbage in front of the gun muzzles, to efface traces of blast.
The canal, on the other hand, was an abomination of desolation, its stagnant waters choked with rusted barbed wire or littered with all sorts of abandoned impedimenta, the aftermath of battle; amid which a wrecked barge mouldered on the slimy bottom or a smashed bridge reared its twisted girders against the gloomy skyline.
There were four guns on the main position and another two in an advanced section. The gun-pits were in effect sand-bagged emplacements roofed over with heavy logs, these last intended to explode a HE shell before it penetrated into the pit, where as many as 300 rounds of ammunition might have been stacked in racks on each side of the pits.
As the whole position was under constant observation not only from the interminable line of captive balloons stretched along the line of the front as far as the eye could see, each glinting in the sun like a sinister unwinking eye, but also from ‘spotter’ planes, which swooped so low that they almost grazed the tree tops. We were under strict orders to move about as little as possible in the hours of daylight.
In addition, camouflage nets were hung over the front of the pits when the guns were not in action and every day fresh grass was scattered over the scorched, withered herbage in front of the gun muzzles, to efface traces of blast.
Night life
But at night we were busy enough for the edict had gone forth from Battery Office that the whole position had to be improved; gun-pits reinforced with new sand bags and where they were out of alignment, brought into position.
Rumour had it that the Divisional CRA was coming to inspect us and that he liked to see all gun muzzles in perfect dressing, like soldiers on parade.
This entailed heavy fatigues with depleted detachments and some ‘grousing’ particularly among the old sweats, who thought they ought to be allowed to take things easy on such a quiet front.
Not that life was also peaceful. On Sunday, April 1st, the Battery diary tersely records:
“The Bosche a great deal more active. Knocked about Fenton’s Folly with Minnies & put 4.2’s including gas shells round Sapper’s House, knocking down part of the adjoining wall.”
This entailed retaliatory fire, which in turn set the enemy lines buzzing like a swarm of bees.
Machine-guns began their staccato rattle across the waste of No-Man’s Land and soon SOS flares were lighting up the night sky, red over green over yellow, like aerial traffic lights crying out for artillery support.
It was quite a regular thing to have three or four such alarms in a single night.
But at night we were busy enough for the edict had gone forth from Battery Office that the whole position had to be improved; gun-pits reinforced with new sand bags and where they were out of alignment, brought into position.
Rumour had it that the Divisional CRA was coming to inspect us and that he liked to see all gun muzzles in perfect dressing, like soldiers on parade.
This entailed heavy fatigues with depleted detachments and some ‘grousing’ particularly among the old sweats, who thought they ought to be allowed to take things easy on such a quiet front.
Not that life was also peaceful. On Sunday, April 1st, the Battery diary tersely records:
“The Bosche a great deal more active. Knocked about Fenton’s Folly with Minnies & put 4.2’s including gas shells round Sapper’s House, knocking down part of the adjoining wall.”
This entailed retaliatory fire, which in turn set the enemy lines buzzing like a swarm of bees.
Machine-guns began their staccato rattle across the waste of No-Man’s Land and soon SOS flares were lighting up the night sky, red over green over yellow, like aerial traffic lights crying out for artillery support.
It was quite a regular thing to have three or four such alarms in a single night.
Cryptic Messages
Nor was this our only bugbear. We had, if I remember right, five SOS lines, all carefully calibrated and divided into arcs of fire, all with line, range, angle of sight and fuses set according to whether the code word was “Canal Right, Canal Centre, Defend Givenchy, or defend Dragon” (Dragon incidentally being a mine crater which changed hands with monotonous regularity whenever we or the Bosche decided upon a raid) so that we could switch over to the danger spot almost on the instant.
Unfortunately, our Battery Office was in direct line about half a mile in rear of the position and the Major (according to a blasphemous theory held by ‘B’ sub-gun detachment) suffered from chronic insomnia he whiled away the midnight hours phoning through to the Battery such cryptic messages as, “No 1 gun test Canal Centre,” or “No 4 gun test Defend Givenchy.”
This meant that the gun in question had to fire a single round on that particular SOS Line, the detachment dashing out of their dugout into the adjoining gun-pit, often half-naked and in pouring rain, while the Major, seated in comfort over his supper, timed their reactions with his stop-watch.
Woe betides the NCO in charge of a team of laggards; a stern reprimand was his sure and certain portion on the morrow.
Nor was this our only bugbear. We had, if I remember right, five SOS lines, all carefully calibrated and divided into arcs of fire, all with line, range, angle of sight and fuses set according to whether the code word was “Canal Right, Canal Centre, Defend Givenchy, or defend Dragon” (Dragon incidentally being a mine crater which changed hands with monotonous regularity whenever we or the Bosche decided upon a raid) so that we could switch over to the danger spot almost on the instant.
Unfortunately, our Battery Office was in direct line about half a mile in rear of the position and the Major (according to a blasphemous theory held by ‘B’ sub-gun detachment) suffered from chronic insomnia he whiled away the midnight hours phoning through to the Battery such cryptic messages as, “No 1 gun test Canal Centre,” or “No 4 gun test Defend Givenchy.”
This meant that the gun in question had to fire a single round on that particular SOS Line, the detachment dashing out of their dugout into the adjoining gun-pit, often half-naked and in pouring rain, while the Major, seated in comfort over his supper, timed their reactions with his stop-watch.
Woe betides the NCO in charge of a team of laggards; a stern reprimand was his sure and certain portion on the morrow.
Rapid Fire
It was this amiable habit which landed me in my first spot of bother. In the early hours of the morning, after my detachment had crept into ‘kip’ after a particularly heavy fatigue, the telephonist passed along the order: “No 2 gun test Canal Left.” It was really more than flesh and blood could stand.
“All right, lads, stay put.” I said. “This is my show” and stumbling out into the darkness, I groped my way to the gun-pit, where the gun, with a shell already in the breech, was laid on ‘Defend Dragon.’
By the light of a pocket torch I spun round the range drum to extreme elevation and then sent a shell whizzing merrily somewhere into the German back areas, chuckling to myself as I thought of the Major and his stop-watch recording one of the fastest tests in the history of ballistics.
But alas, as I turned to leave, a second torch flashed in my face and there stood the Battery Officer, who ought to have been sleeping peacefully in his bunk, coming to supervise the whole proceedings.
I draw a veil over the harrowing sequel, except to recall that I lost my stripes one day and got them back the day after. Gun layer NCOs were scarce in those days.
It was this amiable habit which landed me in my first spot of bother. In the early hours of the morning, after my detachment had crept into ‘kip’ after a particularly heavy fatigue, the telephonist passed along the order: “No 2 gun test Canal Left.” It was really more than flesh and blood could stand.
“All right, lads, stay put.” I said. “This is my show” and stumbling out into the darkness, I groped my way to the gun-pit, where the gun, with a shell already in the breech, was laid on ‘Defend Dragon.’
By the light of a pocket torch I spun round the range drum to extreme elevation and then sent a shell whizzing merrily somewhere into the German back areas, chuckling to myself as I thought of the Major and his stop-watch recording one of the fastest tests in the history of ballistics.
But alas, as I turned to leave, a second torch flashed in my face and there stood the Battery Officer, who ought to have been sleeping peacefully in his bunk, coming to supervise the whole proceedings.
I draw a veil over the harrowing sequel, except to recall that I lost my stripes one day and got them back the day after. Gun layer NCOs were scarce in those days.
A most ungodly assignment in No-Man’s Land
Following the SOS incident related in my last article, I was for some time in disgrace, a fact which entailed unpleasant consequences. Among them was the fact that whenever a particularly unhealthy fatigue was in the offing, I invariably found myself in charge of the party.
One of these still sticks in my mind. Our FOO (forward Observation Officer to you) had selected a certain exceptionally deep shell-hole in No-Man’s land for an advanced post, in order to do some fancy shooting on a nest of Bosche snipers.
An excellent idea, you might think, until you realised that someone was going to have to dig an underground sap a matter of some thirty yards in advance of our frontline; that the approach was along a most unhealthy trench system, leading from Orchard Road via Death or Glory Trench to Spoil Bank, and that the somebody was going to be you among other unfortunates.
Furthermore, Spoil Bank was a deserted and badly battered trench on a slope overlooked by enemy spotters and was constantly being plastered by ‘minnies,’ (this was the endearing diminutive we had for the German Minenwerfer, a sort of super trench-mortar bomb about the size of a tombstone, which came wobbling menacingly through the air to detonate on impact like a miniature volcano). In addition, the slope was constantly swept by machine-gun fire.
Following the SOS incident related in my last article, I was for some time in disgrace, a fact which entailed unpleasant consequences. Among them was the fact that whenever a particularly unhealthy fatigue was in the offing, I invariably found myself in charge of the party.
One of these still sticks in my mind. Our FOO (forward Observation Officer to you) had selected a certain exceptionally deep shell-hole in No-Man’s land for an advanced post, in order to do some fancy shooting on a nest of Bosche snipers.
An excellent idea, you might think, until you realised that someone was going to have to dig an underground sap a matter of some thirty yards in advance of our frontline; that the approach was along a most unhealthy trench system, leading from Orchard Road via Death or Glory Trench to Spoil Bank, and that the somebody was going to be you among other unfortunates.
Furthermore, Spoil Bank was a deserted and badly battered trench on a slope overlooked by enemy spotters and was constantly being plastered by ‘minnies,’ (this was the endearing diminutive we had for the German Minenwerfer, a sort of super trench-mortar bomb about the size of a tombstone, which came wobbling menacingly through the air to detonate on impact like a miniature volcano). In addition, the slope was constantly swept by machine-gun fire.
Gloomy forebodings
Altogether, a most ungodly assignment and it was with gloomy forebodings that we contacted the RE Sapper who was to supervise our labours.
He was waiting for us in a support trench in Quinchy Cemetery, an eerie spot where fancy vaults had been converted into dugouts and where some sardonic infantryman had stuck a couple of human skulls on the parade post for luck. We took it as a grim commentary on our ultimate fate.
Passing along the shell-pitted bank of La Bassee canal, when a couple of men from the East Lancashire Regiment were ‘fishing’ with Mills bombs, the shock of the explosion being sufficient to stun every fish in the vicinity, we made our way along duck-boards until we reached the ruins of the brewery, which had part of its chimney still standing.
Here we entered the Givenchy trench system proper and some made our way to Orchard Road, where we had to stand until it became dark.
Altogether, a most ungodly assignment and it was with gloomy forebodings that we contacted the RE Sapper who was to supervise our labours.
He was waiting for us in a support trench in Quinchy Cemetery, an eerie spot where fancy vaults had been converted into dugouts and where some sardonic infantryman had stuck a couple of human skulls on the parade post for luck. We took it as a grim commentary on our ultimate fate.
Passing along the shell-pitted bank of La Bassee canal, when a couple of men from the East Lancashire Regiment were ‘fishing’ with Mills bombs, the shock of the explosion being sufficient to stun every fish in the vicinity, we made our way along duck-boards until we reached the ruins of the brewery, which had part of its chimney still standing.
Here we entered the Givenchy trench system proper and some made our way to Orchard Road, where we had to stand until it became dark.
Chilly atmosphere
We were not popular with the infantry, who always regarded artillerymen in the trenches as birds of evil omen.
Indeed, the very sight of a bandolier was greeted with a scowl, as an indication that Brigade HQ was making preparations for another ‘strafe’, which would inevitably mean heavy artillery retaliation, casualties, and subsequent fatigues to repair wrecked emplacements.
So that when we commandeered an infantry dugout in order to make a brew of tea over a few sticks of charcoal, there was something of a chilly atmosphere, until our involuntary hut learned that we were headed for Spoil Bank, after which they became quite cheerful.
Probably they assumed we were not likely to live long enough to cause them much trouble.
At nightfall we were on our way once more…
It is a thankless business stumbling along a strange trench in the dark, occasionally coming into collision with a sentry crouched on the fire-step, with the imminent risk of a playful prod from his bayonet, or hearing a hoarse voice from somewhere under one’s feet imploring us to “put out that **** flashlight.”
Overhead the velvety night sky is powdered with stars, eclipsed from time to time by the lazy incandescent arc of a Verey light, which enables one to see the tense faces of the remainder of the party, listening to the distant crunch of a bursting shell or the sibilant whisper of a machine-gun bullet passing overhead.
“Be with the guns boys, this is an artillery war.” What ruddy fool invented that slogan, I wonder. He ought to be here now, toting an entrenching tool and a couple of pit-props…
We were not popular with the infantry, who always regarded artillerymen in the trenches as birds of evil omen.
Indeed, the very sight of a bandolier was greeted with a scowl, as an indication that Brigade HQ was making preparations for another ‘strafe’, which would inevitably mean heavy artillery retaliation, casualties, and subsequent fatigues to repair wrecked emplacements.
So that when we commandeered an infantry dugout in order to make a brew of tea over a few sticks of charcoal, there was something of a chilly atmosphere, until our involuntary hut learned that we were headed for Spoil Bank, after which they became quite cheerful.
Probably they assumed we were not likely to live long enough to cause them much trouble.
At nightfall we were on our way once more…
It is a thankless business stumbling along a strange trench in the dark, occasionally coming into collision with a sentry crouched on the fire-step, with the imminent risk of a playful prod from his bayonet, or hearing a hoarse voice from somewhere under one’s feet imploring us to “put out that **** flashlight.”
Overhead the velvety night sky is powdered with stars, eclipsed from time to time by the lazy incandescent arc of a Verey light, which enables one to see the tense faces of the remainder of the party, listening to the distant crunch of a bursting shell or the sibilant whisper of a machine-gun bullet passing overhead.
“Be with the guns boys, this is an artillery war.” What ruddy fool invented that slogan, I wonder. He ought to be here now, toting an entrenching tool and a couple of pit-props…
Last scramble
Spoil Bank, and here we pause a moment to regain our breath and prepare for the last mad scramble for the subterranean safety of a half-finished sap.
We listened grimly as a spray of machine-gun bullets comes whining through the blackness and patters against the sand-bagged revetment. Then, as the burst ceases I lick my lips.
“Come on lads,” and away we go, bent two-double and feeling that every German spotter in the entire sector has his eyes on us. We tumble head-over-heels into the sap just as a 4.5" section salvo explodes overhead with a terrific ‘CRUMP’, showering us with fragments of broken brick and debris. WE HAD MADE IT.
The sap is a sort of miniature tunnel some 3feet wide by 4 feet high, its sides and roof shored up with props and short lengths of planking.
The leading man crawls forward to the working face and begins to scratch at the sandy soil with his entrenching tool. The soil is shovelled into an empty sandbag which, when full, is passed between his legs to the next man in line and so in relays to the entrance, where it is used to augment the parapet of the ruined trench.
Occasionally the man in front is relieved and the human chain shuffles forward a few feet, while the relieved toiler squeezes his way backwards to the tail of the procession.
At 4 a.m. a halt is called. We must get back to Orchard Road before daybreak, when the infantry stand-to. So there is a second hasty evacuation, this time accelerated by a staccato burst from a sniper’s post in the enemy frontline.
When we emerge, still unscathed, into the comparative safety of Orchard Road, I find a neat round hole drilled through my entrenching tool, just a souvenir from the Bosche.
The subsequent history of this forward observation post was one of disaster. While ranging on the German frontline, with a safety margin of barely fifty yards, the FOO almost succeeded in annihilating himself and his own battery. A little later an observer must have spotted the sunlight glinting on the lens of his periscope, for Jerry began to beat a devil’s tattoo about their ears with the trench mortar bombs, wrecking their observation post and sending them scurrying to safety, fortunately with no casualties.
Spoil Bank, and here we pause a moment to regain our breath and prepare for the last mad scramble for the subterranean safety of a half-finished sap.
We listened grimly as a spray of machine-gun bullets comes whining through the blackness and patters against the sand-bagged revetment. Then, as the burst ceases I lick my lips.
“Come on lads,” and away we go, bent two-double and feeling that every German spotter in the entire sector has his eyes on us. We tumble head-over-heels into the sap just as a 4.5" section salvo explodes overhead with a terrific ‘CRUMP’, showering us with fragments of broken brick and debris. WE HAD MADE IT.
The sap is a sort of miniature tunnel some 3feet wide by 4 feet high, its sides and roof shored up with props and short lengths of planking.
The leading man crawls forward to the working face and begins to scratch at the sandy soil with his entrenching tool. The soil is shovelled into an empty sandbag which, when full, is passed between his legs to the next man in line and so in relays to the entrance, where it is used to augment the parapet of the ruined trench.
Occasionally the man in front is relieved and the human chain shuffles forward a few feet, while the relieved toiler squeezes his way backwards to the tail of the procession.
At 4 a.m. a halt is called. We must get back to Orchard Road before daybreak, when the infantry stand-to. So there is a second hasty evacuation, this time accelerated by a staccato burst from a sniper’s post in the enemy frontline.
When we emerge, still unscathed, into the comparative safety of Orchard Road, I find a neat round hole drilled through my entrenching tool, just a souvenir from the Bosche.
The subsequent history of this forward observation post was one of disaster. While ranging on the German frontline, with a safety margin of barely fifty yards, the FOO almost succeeded in annihilating himself and his own battery. A little later an observer must have spotted the sunlight glinting on the lens of his periscope, for Jerry began to beat a devil’s tattoo about their ears with the trench mortar bombs, wrecking their observation post and sending them scurrying to safety, fortunately with no casualties.
Sporadic shelling – and we track down a ‘spy’
Early in the morning of 1st May the Bosche started shelling our advanced section and kept it up steadily until the afternoon, the detachments being ordered to withdraw to the canal bank. The enemy fire appeared to be directed by an enemy plane which passed repeatedly overhead.
Soon fires were blazing merrily in both gun-pits, number 5 having most of its ammunition exploded. The gun was badly damaged and presented a sorry sight, with the wheels badly charred and the handspike burnt off.
This episode proved to be the first of many. Obviously our sand-bagging and re-aligning activities had not gone unobserved.
For some time, however, Jerry contented himself with a few bracketing shots on both the main battery position and the section for registration purposes.
Then, on 20th June he again shelled the section, dropping an assortment of about 100 x 5.9" and 4.2"shells.
Our heavies retaliated and seemed to be successful in stopping them temporarily, but they always seemed to start again as soon as the gunners ventured back.
Finally the spotting plane was driven off by two of our scout planes – with fighters and after that all was peace, at least for the rest of the day.
Early in the morning of 1st May the Bosche started shelling our advanced section and kept it up steadily until the afternoon, the detachments being ordered to withdraw to the canal bank. The enemy fire appeared to be directed by an enemy plane which passed repeatedly overhead.
Soon fires were blazing merrily in both gun-pits, number 5 having most of its ammunition exploded. The gun was badly damaged and presented a sorry sight, with the wheels badly charred and the handspike burnt off.
This episode proved to be the first of many. Obviously our sand-bagging and re-aligning activities had not gone unobserved.
For some time, however, Jerry contented himself with a few bracketing shots on both the main battery position and the section for registration purposes.
Then, on 20th June he again shelled the section, dropping an assortment of about 100 x 5.9" and 4.2"shells.
Our heavies retaliated and seemed to be successful in stopping them temporarily, but they always seemed to start again as soon as the gunners ventured back.
Finally the spotting plane was driven off by two of our scout planes – with fighters and after that all was peace, at least for the rest of the day.
Bosche raid
On the following morning it was the battery’s turn, although the Bosche appeared to be firing without observation, for all he succeeded in doing was to demolish a couple of trees just behind the position.
Two days later both battery and section were shelled, observation being apparently from a balloon, but again there were no casualties and little damage.
All this artillery activity coincided with a certain liveliness in the trenches and on 25th June, after a tremendous barrage of ‘minnies’ in the Givenchy sector, the Bosche raided and occupied Red Dragon crater. There was sporadic shelling of the battery and Gunner Hanmer was wounded.
By way of finale, on 28th June the Bosche started shelling the battery in real earnest, thereby postponing a visit of inspection by the CRA, who, seeing that the battery was apparently going up in smoke, wisely decided that there were other positions healthier and less preoccupied in the area.
According to the battery diary, “the detachments cleared to the right, where they spent an enjoyable day, chiefly in slumber.”
Treetop eyrie
I have in my possession, however, a worn and tattered field service notebook which gives the lie to this assertion, at least so far as I was concerned.
As a matter of fact, having removed dial sight and rocking bar sight from my own gun and seen that No 2 had dismantled and removed the breech-block, I spent the rest of the day perched on the branch of a tree on the right flank, from which point of vantage I had a clear view of the position and could record the effect of every round.
Each burst was duly jotted down in my notebook and also passed on to a signaller located at the foot of the tree, who in turn phoned the information through to the battery office.
Altogether I recorded 122 rounds all bursting within a plus minus bracket of 200 yards, with eleven direct hits and only a very small percentage of ‘duds’.
Pretty shooting, when one considers that it was probably at a range of three or four miles!
I could have stayed in my eyrie longer but at that moment a shell splinter came whining through the air and embedded itself in the branch a few inches from where I was sitting and I decided to accept the hint. After all, I was not up there under orders and I had no wish for a posthumous decoration.
I have in my possession, however, a worn and tattered field service notebook which gives the lie to this assertion, at least so far as I was concerned.
As a matter of fact, having removed dial sight and rocking bar sight from my own gun and seen that No 2 had dismantled and removed the breech-block, I spent the rest of the day perched on the branch of a tree on the right flank, from which point of vantage I had a clear view of the position and could record the effect of every round.
Each burst was duly jotted down in my notebook and also passed on to a signaller located at the foot of the tree, who in turn phoned the information through to the battery office.
Altogether I recorded 122 rounds all bursting within a plus minus bracket of 200 yards, with eleven direct hits and only a very small percentage of ‘duds’.
Pretty shooting, when one considers that it was probably at a range of three or four miles!
I could have stayed in my eyrie longer but at that moment a shell splinter came whining through the air and embedded itself in the branch a few inches from where I was sitting and I decided to accept the hint. After all, I was not up there under orders and I had no wish for a posthumous decoration.
My ‘Rubaiyat’
Perhaps my sentiments were best expressed in a poem I wrote during the subsequent Passchendaele offensive, which I entitled: “Rubaiyat of Corporal Miller.” Here is a brief extract:
“At times I like to think it’s all a joke,
Not that its laughter makes you want to choke;
A week or two at most you keep a pal,
Then Bang… the poor devil’s gone in smoke.
You mustn’t worry when you see hi fall,
Most likely it’s his fault for being tall,
Just recollect you’ve got it coming, too
And that’ll be the biggest joke of all.
He’s gone the road so many men have trod,
He’s dead, and just another useless clod,
So square your back, and when it comes your turn
Take it and say: ‘Well, that’s the lot, thank God.”
And some day, when the muster roll is read
If you don’t answer, being likely dead;
They’ll send your old tin hat down to base
And maybe fill it with a thicker head.”
Blasphemous hours
We were due for a relief a few days later and the incoming battery staff were by no means pleased to see the pockmarks of so many shell holes round the position. In fact, I believe they shifted it soon after.
One of the trees behind the cookhouse had been cut in half by a 5.9" dud, and we spent some blasphemous hours after dark trying to pull the remains down with drag-ropes.
Here is a final snapshot, relating to a spy scare. These were endemic on this front and a farmer had only to plough with a white horse on day and a black one the next, to be suspected of conveying information to the enemy.
In our case the Major spotted a mysterious light shining (contrary to regulations) directly towards the German trenches from somewhere in the back area.
Clearly a signal to the enemy! One of our gunnery lieutenants fixed its position by means of a No 4 Director and with the coming of daylight tracked the culprit.
It was the Brigade Major at HQ, who had omitted to draw the orderly-room blind.
Brief leave, then back to the lice and horror
It was a relief to get out of the line and be back at rest for a few precious days and we made the most of it.
I took the opportunity to pay a hasty visit to the ancient town of Bethune, with its winding streets and curious Flemish-style houses, with their carved door-posts and ornate half-timbered upper storeys.
I also explored the lovely old church of St Vaast and glazed admiringly at the curious belfry in the market-square, with its square tower and wooden campanile, although both were looking somewhat dilapidated, as the town was within range of the enemy’s long-distance guns.
Here I had quite a shopping spree, purchasing innumerable souvenirs, crucifixes made of brass cartridge cases, lucky charms and the like, all of which fell into German hands at St Quentin within a twelve-month.
I also indulged in the inevitable orgy of eggs and chips, washed down with black coffee, with a chaser of Grenadine to wash away its vile taste, for it was composed of roasted acorns and sawdust.
Lousy
Then back to the battery, thumbing a lift on a passing Army Service Corps lorry and so to my snug little bivouac in the straw of an adjacent barn, infested with the lice of a thousand previous tenants.
Oh, those lice, it was simply impossible to get rid of them. According to an army legend, whenever we marched to a delousing station for a bath and a change of underclothing, the sagacious insects waited for us outside and rejoined the column when we emerged.
At one stage of the war we were issued with a nauseous compound which was reputed to be certain death to all creeping things, but it stank so ill that its use made one almost unable to live with oneself.
Actually, I think the lice rather liked it but I may be prejudiced.
Intense activity
At the beginning of July the battery started its cross-country trek through the back areas to the Nieuport sector, where a certain liveliness had been reported during the past few weeks.
Apparently we were relieving a Belgian Corps in anticipation of a Bosche attack, for there were rumours of Bosche concentrations across the Yser, which at this point formed a sort of liquid No-man’s land.
We arrived at the outskirts of Furnes in glorious summer weather and found everywhere signs of intense activity.
Guns of all calibres were discretely hidden under camouflage in all sorts of unlikely places; they poked their grim muzzles from the shelter of every copse of sand dune, and there were ammunition dumps everywhere.
That same evening the right section moved into action, taking over from a Belgian detachment.
We found their pieces were so small that we were unable to get our guns inside the pits and so had to erect a temporary sandbag emplacement to protect us from splinters.
An English-speaking corporal warned us that it was not wise to fire more than a few ranging shots. Otherwise, he said ingenuously, the Bosche would be sure to retaliate. HOW RIGHT HE WAS!
Here we first heard rumours of a new phase of counter-battery work known as the shell-storm, although which side was the first to perpetrate the enormity I never learned.
It seemed to be confined to the Nieuport sector, and constituted the Bosche’s evening ‘hate’.
This is how it worked, several times during each night every enemy gun on the front, whatever its calibre, would concentrate on a selected British battery and for a few hectic minutes would pour on the doomed position a veritable tornado of rapid fire.
Desolation
The effect had to be seen to be believed. In the twinkling of an eye the entire line of emplacements, with its guns, dugouts, ammunition dumps and personnel, would simply be blotted out of existence.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the storm of high explosives, mixed with shrapnel, gas and incendiary shells, would cease.
Ensuing daylight would reveal a pitiful chaos of dismantled guns and exploded ammunition, with here and there a few grim shreds of mortality.
In due course, our own batteries would select a similar target behind the German lines, no doubt with the same result. ‘A’ Battery took part in many of these episodes but was fortunate in escaping retaliation.
Others were not so lucky and I remember gazing horror-stricken at the remnants of one position out on the dunes that had simply been blasted out of the ground.
Something brewing
In the meantime our first position was coming in for a lot of enemy attention and we were beginning to have casualties.
There was evidently something brewing and the infantry on either side seemed very nervous. It was a common thing to see SOS rockets going up all at once, both British and German from right along the line, until there was quite a fireworks display.
On 17th July 1917 we stood by for two hours in expectation of a raid and then worked out a scheme of harassing fire to prevent the Hun massing for an attack.
We kept this up all night and apparently smashed up the raid, for a few days later we pulled out after nightfall in pitch darkness and through a barrage of splinters along the bank of the Yser Canal.
Choking fumes
We were heading for a new position on the extreme left flank among the sand dunes on the coast, and here we again found ourselves in trouble. The road by Maison Carre was being heavily shelled and we trotted past at half-minute intervals.
On our left flank, about a hundred yards away a huge ammunition dump had suffered a direct hit and was going up in smoke, the exploding shells whirring over our heads like monstrous fire-crackers. The air reeked with the fumes of burnt cordite and as we stumbled through the acrid fog we were almost choked.
To add to the confusion, a shell burst in front of the leading team, wounding two drivers and soon after another detonated under the muzzle of my own gun, damaging the recoil slides, but this we did not find out until later, when we were firing our first ranging shot and the piece jammed at full recoil, necessitating as long and hazardous journey to the Ordnance repair depot.
However, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. We reached our new position without further incident, ran our guns into the pits and collapsed thankfully for a few hours sleep before stand-to at daybreak.
We were heading for a new position on the extreme left flank among the sand dunes on the coast, and here we again found ourselves in trouble. The road by Maison Carre was being heavily shelled and we trotted past at half-minute intervals.
On our left flank, about a hundred yards away a huge ammunition dump had suffered a direct hit and was going up in smoke, the exploding shells whirring over our heads like monstrous fire-crackers. The air reeked with the fumes of burnt cordite and as we stumbled through the acrid fog we were almost choked.
To add to the confusion, a shell burst in front of the leading team, wounding two drivers and soon after another detonated under the muzzle of my own gun, damaging the recoil slides, but this we did not find out until later, when we were firing our first ranging shot and the piece jammed at full recoil, necessitating as long and hazardous journey to the Ordnance repair depot.
However, sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. We reached our new position without further incident, ran our guns into the pits and collapsed thankfully for a few hours sleep before stand-to at daybreak.
Death stalks on a lovely summer’s day
Our new battery position was on a deceptively peaceful little oasis of greenery skirting the coastal sand dunes a little north of Ooste Dunkerque.
Beyond a few small shell holes which pitted the sward I our immediate vicinity there was little sign of enemy activity, and in the glorious summer weather we began to look forward to another artillery idyll such as we had enjoyed at La Bassee.
We ought to have known better. A glance at the belt of sand between ourselves and the grey, foam-capped waters of the Channel might have given us sufficient warning, for it was stained and scorched by the incessant bursting of H.E., gas and incendiary shells. And one could not pick up a handful of its gritty particles without finding a shell splinter among the pebbles.
Still, it was pleasant to look seaward, where one could often make out a long, black line of a convoy escorted by as couple of fussy destroyers, for all the world like a flock of sheep being chivvied by a pair of sheep dogs.
Somehow they seemed an impalpable link with the white cliffs of Dover, just over the edge of the horizon.
Our new battery position was on a deceptively peaceful little oasis of greenery skirting the coastal sand dunes a little north of Ooste Dunkerque.
Beyond a few small shell holes which pitted the sward I our immediate vicinity there was little sign of enemy activity, and in the glorious summer weather we began to look forward to another artillery idyll such as we had enjoyed at La Bassee.
We ought to have known better. A glance at the belt of sand between ourselves and the grey, foam-capped waters of the Channel might have given us sufficient warning, for it was stained and scorched by the incessant bursting of H.E., gas and incendiary shells. And one could not pick up a handful of its gritty particles without finding a shell splinter among the pebbles.
Still, it was pleasant to look seaward, where one could often make out a long, black line of a convoy escorted by as couple of fussy destroyers, for all the world like a flock of sheep being chivvied by a pair of sheep dogs.
Somehow they seemed an impalpable link with the white cliffs of Dover, just over the edge of the horizon.
Night and Day
Our first intimation that all was not as it might be came when we were visited by the Colonel, who brought urgent orders that we were to reinforce and strengthen the position with utmost speed, working night and day.
From what we could make out, there was not proper trench system in front of us; only a few scattered redoubts and machine-gun posts on the edge of the River Yser.
In fact, we were so close to the line that we could hear an occasional spent bullet whimpering past our ears.
Then, to add to our tribulations, we were spotted by a raiding Fokker fighter and thereafter sprayed with 5.9" shells and whizzbangs at unexpected intervals both night and day.
Those whizzbangs were the very devil, for they swooped upon one without the slightest warning, like a cloud of demented hornets, deluging the entire area with a rain of red-hot splinters.
I remember an occasion when one burst between two gunners of ‘B’ sub section just as they were bringing a dixy of bully-beef stew from the cookhouse. As they had flung themselves upon their faces they were unhurt, but the dixy was riddled with holes and there was no stew for the detachment that day.
Our first intimation that all was not as it might be came when we were visited by the Colonel, who brought urgent orders that we were to reinforce and strengthen the position with utmost speed, working night and day.
From what we could make out, there was not proper trench system in front of us; only a few scattered redoubts and machine-gun posts on the edge of the River Yser.
In fact, we were so close to the line that we could hear an occasional spent bullet whimpering past our ears.
Then, to add to our tribulations, we were spotted by a raiding Fokker fighter and thereafter sprayed with 5.9" shells and whizzbangs at unexpected intervals both night and day.
Those whizzbangs were the very devil, for they swooped upon one without the slightest warning, like a cloud of demented hornets, deluging the entire area with a rain of red-hot splinters.
I remember an occasion when one burst between two gunners of ‘B’ sub section just as they were bringing a dixy of bully-beef stew from the cookhouse. As they had flung themselves upon their faces they were unhurt, but the dixy was riddled with holes and there was no stew for the detachment that day.
Underground cooks
The cookhouse was located on the battery’s left flank; in a tiny copse we soon designated Whizzbang Wood, for the enemy gunners seem to have a particular spite against it
Here the cooks lived a haunted troglodyte existence, burrowing ever deeper and deeper after each successive bombardment.
They could rarely be persuaded to emerge into the light of day (small blame to them for that) and by some sort of miracle managed to cook for the whole battery in a sort of burrow not much larger than a fox’s earth, some ten feet underground.
24th July proved to be one of our worst days. Until then our casualties had been relatively light and infrequent but on this lovely summer day, while the entire battery was at work strengthening gun-pit walls and roofs, the Bosche suddenly began to sweep the whole position with whizzbangs, which had a calibre of 3.2", about the same as our own 18 pounders.
One of these burst in the middle of a group of telephonists, who were erecting a control post.
“It mauled them all horribly & hardly one had less than half a dozen wounds. Holden & Bonnell killed & Berry died of wounds later. Isherwood (died), Bowler (died), Sgt. Gabbut, Mabbut badly wounded (died), Bdr. Tennant, Corr & Taylor less severely. Brown killed & Bdr. Morgan wounded on returning from taking wounded men to ADS. A most unlucky day & it has tried the Battery a good deal…”
The cookhouse was located on the battery’s left flank; in a tiny copse we soon designated Whizzbang Wood, for the enemy gunners seem to have a particular spite against it
Here the cooks lived a haunted troglodyte existence, burrowing ever deeper and deeper after each successive bombardment.
They could rarely be persuaded to emerge into the light of day (small blame to them for that) and by some sort of miracle managed to cook for the whole battery in a sort of burrow not much larger than a fox’s earth, some ten feet underground.
24th July proved to be one of our worst days. Until then our casualties had been relatively light and infrequent but on this lovely summer day, while the entire battery was at work strengthening gun-pit walls and roofs, the Bosche suddenly began to sweep the whole position with whizzbangs, which had a calibre of 3.2", about the same as our own 18 pounders.
One of these burst in the middle of a group of telephonists, who were erecting a control post.
“It mauled them all horribly & hardly one had less than half a dozen wounds. Holden & Bonnell killed & Berry died of wounds later. Isherwood (died), Bowler (died), Sgt. Gabbut, Mabbut badly wounded (died), Bdr. Tennant, Corr & Taylor less severely. Brown killed & Bdr. Morgan wounded on returning from taking wounded men to ADS. A most unlucky day & it has tried the Battery a good deal…”
Gun accompaniment
This stark and sombre incident brings yet another grim picture to my mind’s eye. This was the subsequent sad procession to the tiny military cemetery near Coxyde…
It is sunset and the gathering shadows are accentuated by a boding glare in the western sky, heralding a coming storm.
A silent group of khaki-clad figures in steel helmets, with box respirators at the alert position, stand with bowed heads before a row of blanket-swathed bodies by the side of a shallow trench, one half of which has already been filled.
On the farther side of the trench stands a Church of England padre, prayer book in hand, his words of valediction charged with emotion.
Sometimes the responses are drowned by the incessant thunder of the guns and an occasional heavy shell rumbles overhead, to burst with a thunderous roar somewhere in the back areas. Already the eastern horizon is being criss-crossed by the gleaming arcs of the Verey lights and the staccato challenge of opposing machine-guns reverberates across No-Man’s land.
“Forasmuch as it hath please Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the souls of our dear brethren here departed… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
This stark and sombre incident brings yet another grim picture to my mind’s eye. This was the subsequent sad procession to the tiny military cemetery near Coxyde…
It is sunset and the gathering shadows are accentuated by a boding glare in the western sky, heralding a coming storm.
A silent group of khaki-clad figures in steel helmets, with box respirators at the alert position, stand with bowed heads before a row of blanket-swathed bodies by the side of a shallow trench, one half of which has already been filled.
On the farther side of the trench stands a Church of England padre, prayer book in hand, his words of valediction charged with emotion.
Sometimes the responses are drowned by the incessant thunder of the guns and an occasional heavy shell rumbles overhead, to burst with a thunderous roar somewhere in the back areas. Already the eastern horizon is being criss-crossed by the gleaming arcs of the Verey lights and the staccato challenge of opposing machine-guns reverberates across No-Man’s land.
“Forasmuch as it hath please Almighty God of His great mercy to take unto Himself the souls of our dear brethren here departed… earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
A part of history
The last solemn words are uttered, the silent figures laid reverently side by side in the trench are sprinkled with a few handfuls of Flanders soil and all is over.
The comrades, with whom only a few hours before we had exchanged jests and good-humoured badinage, have been committed to their last resting place and have become part of history, part of the eternal tragedy of youth’s idealism sacrificed at the altar of racial and political hatred.
The tragedy goes on, for even as I write comes news of the assassination of President Kennedy, himself typifying the hopes and aspirations of the rising generation and now laid low by a fanatic’s bullet.
WILL THEY NEVER LEARN?
The last solemn words are uttered, the silent figures laid reverently side by side in the trench are sprinkled with a few handfuls of Flanders soil and all is over.
The comrades, with whom only a few hours before we had exchanged jests and good-humoured badinage, have been committed to their last resting place and have become part of history, part of the eternal tragedy of youth’s idealism sacrificed at the altar of racial and political hatred.
The tragedy goes on, for even as I write comes news of the assassination of President Kennedy, himself typifying the hopes and aspirations of the rising generation and now laid low by a fanatic’s bullet.
WILL THEY NEVER LEARN?
A greater danger to our friends than the enemy!
Altogether, during the period I acted as gun-layer on the Western Front, I fired some 20,000 shells into the enemy lines.
I am not so naïve as to imagine that all this weight of high explosive could have burst on the frontline trenches without killing or maiming quite a number of youngsters of my own age and the sombre thought often weighs on my conscience, even today.
Yet, during the whole period, I was only involved in one personal incident (concerning which I prefer not to speak), in which I knew I had actually inflicted bodily harm, perhaps killed, a human being, and he was old enough to be my father.
He emerged from a shell hole, probably with the intention of surrendering, but how was I to know that?
Altogether, during the period I acted as gun-layer on the Western Front, I fired some 20,000 shells into the enemy lines.
I am not so naïve as to imagine that all this weight of high explosive could have burst on the frontline trenches without killing or maiming quite a number of youngsters of my own age and the sombre thought often weighs on my conscience, even today.
Yet, during the whole period, I was only involved in one personal incident (concerning which I prefer not to speak), in which I knew I had actually inflicted bodily harm, perhaps killed, a human being, and he was old enough to be my father.
He emerged from a shell hole, probably with the intention of surrendering, but how was I to know that?