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Souvenirs
Of course, I did not escape scot-free myself, I still carry the scar of a bullet wound in my left arm, the marks of half a dozen shell splinters in my right leg, a slight dose of phosgene gas at Passchendaele left me subject to severe gastric attacks and I am permanently deaf in my left ear owing to the concussion of incessant gunfire.
Curiously enough, it was the ear farthest away from the gun that felt the violence of the impact; almost as if one received a terrific blow on that side of the head every time the piece fired.
On first going into action we had been issued with rubber ear-plugs, but these were quickly lost or discarded. I turning out to support an infantry SOS call, one had other things than ear-plugs to think about.
Everything considered, however, I think that I was extremely lucky and I often used to recall with a wry smile the words of the old sweat with one arm who greeted me at the Blackburn Artillery barracks:
“ay, son thee tak’ a good look at that. Afore tha’s finished, tha’ll think aw’m dommed lucky.”
He could have been so right.
Of course, I did not escape scot-free myself, I still carry the scar of a bullet wound in my left arm, the marks of half a dozen shell splinters in my right leg, a slight dose of phosgene gas at Passchendaele left me subject to severe gastric attacks and I am permanently deaf in my left ear owing to the concussion of incessant gunfire.
Curiously enough, it was the ear farthest away from the gun that felt the violence of the impact; almost as if one received a terrific blow on that side of the head every time the piece fired.
On first going into action we had been issued with rubber ear-plugs, but these were quickly lost or discarded. I turning out to support an infantry SOS call, one had other things than ear-plugs to think about.
Everything considered, however, I think that I was extremely lucky and I often used to recall with a wry smile the words of the old sweat with one arm who greeted me at the Blackburn Artillery barracks:
“ay, son thee tak’ a good look at that. Afore tha’s finished, tha’ll think aw’m dommed lucky.”
He could have been so right.
Escapes
Actually, I consider that there were three different occasions when I ought to have been killed but just wasn’t through some inscrutable quirk of providence.
Once when my gun sustained a direct hit and the blast blew me clean out of the gun-pit; once when I was a sitting target for a line of advancing German shock troops and once when a 12" shell buried itself in the ground under my feet and failed to explode
Yes, I think I have been “dommed lucky” myself. I have had a shell splinter deflected by a bunch of keys in my pocket; I have had my box respirator carried away by another and the front of my tunic slashed open by yet a third; I have had the heel of my boot cut away with a fragment of shell case and my tin hat dented by a huge piece of falling debris and here I am to tell the tale nigh fifty years later.
“Dommed lucky.” I’ll say I was.
Actually, I consider that there were three different occasions when I ought to have been killed but just wasn’t through some inscrutable quirk of providence.
Once when my gun sustained a direct hit and the blast blew me clean out of the gun-pit; once when I was a sitting target for a line of advancing German shock troops and once when a 12" shell buried itself in the ground under my feet and failed to explode
Yes, I think I have been “dommed lucky” myself. I have had a shell splinter deflected by a bunch of keys in my pocket; I have had my box respirator carried away by another and the front of my tunic slashed open by yet a third; I have had the heel of my boot cut away with a fragment of shell case and my tin hat dented by a huge piece of falling debris and here I am to tell the tale nigh fifty years later.
“Dommed lucky.” I’ll say I was.
Incessant
Many of the 20,000 rounds I lobbed across No-Man’s land were expended while we were on the Nieuport front. What with the incessant shell-storms, when we blazed away as fast as we could load, fire, and eject the empty cartridge cases, and the nightly SOS rockets, blazing eerily, red over green over yellow, all along the tortured frontline, our lives seemed spent in one constant reverberation of ear splitting sound; no wonder I have had a permanent singing in my ears ever since.
To add to our tribulations, about this time we began to receive a lot of defective American ammunition, chiefly shrapnel.
In point of fact, shrapnel was very little use in the eternal mud of Flanders, or anywhere else for that matter.
Trench warfare required high explosive and plenty of it and spraying the enemy line with shrapnel bullets was about as effective as flinging a handful of peas
Actually, I believe it was Lord Kitchener who insisted on the artillery carrying 50 per cent shrapnel. He was still living in the days of the Boer War.
The only time such shells became effective was when the Bosche delivered a mass attack I close formation and that was only in the very early stages of the war.
Many of the 20,000 rounds I lobbed across No-Man’s land were expended while we were on the Nieuport front. What with the incessant shell-storms, when we blazed away as fast as we could load, fire, and eject the empty cartridge cases, and the nightly SOS rockets, blazing eerily, red over green over yellow, all along the tortured frontline, our lives seemed spent in one constant reverberation of ear splitting sound; no wonder I have had a permanent singing in my ears ever since.
To add to our tribulations, about this time we began to receive a lot of defective American ammunition, chiefly shrapnel.
In point of fact, shrapnel was very little use in the eternal mud of Flanders, or anywhere else for that matter.
Trench warfare required high explosive and plenty of it and spraying the enemy line with shrapnel bullets was about as effective as flinging a handful of peas
Actually, I believe it was Lord Kitchener who insisted on the artillery carrying 50 per cent shrapnel. He was still living in the days of the Boer War.
The only time such shells became effective was when the Bosche delivered a mass attack I close formation and that was only in the very early stages of the war.
Unpopular
But defective shrapnel ammunition could be the very devil. Each shell contained 190 lead pellets as big as marbles, detonated by a time fuse at the base, the idea being to set it so that it burst just over the heads of attacking troops.
But these infernal Yankee efforts, as often as not, burst as soon as they left the gun muzzles and sprayed the ground in front with a barrage of lead. And as at Nieuport there was another RFA battery immediately in front of us, we soon became exceedingly unpopular.
In fact, the battery commander insisted, with some feeling, that his men were in greater danger from us than from the enemy, a fact we could well appreciate.
And when one of his gunners, hit in the knee by a stray shrapnel bullet, insisted on the stretcher-bearers carrying him to our position, so that he could shake hands with the man who had given him such a comfortable ‘blighty’, it was obvious something would have to be done about it.
But defective shrapnel ammunition could be the very devil. Each shell contained 190 lead pellets as big as marbles, detonated by a time fuse at the base, the idea being to set it so that it burst just over the heads of attacking troops.
But these infernal Yankee efforts, as often as not, burst as soon as they left the gun muzzles and sprayed the ground in front with a barrage of lead. And as at Nieuport there was another RFA battery immediately in front of us, we soon became exceedingly unpopular.
In fact, the battery commander insisted, with some feeling, that his men were in greater danger from us than from the enemy, a fact we could well appreciate.
And when one of his gunners, hit in the knee by a stray shrapnel bullet, insisted on the stretcher-bearers carrying him to our position, so that he could shake hands with the man who had given him such a comfortable ‘blighty’, it was obvious something would have to be done about it.
Painful duty
We had just been issued with some patent night-lights which worked from a dry battery in the gun-pit and which had to be connected every night with a long length of wire.
This was continually being cut by splinters and it was my painful duty, as gunlayer, to crawl out and repair it, often when the battery was blazing away upon some SOS line.
I have spent more than one blasphemous half-hour groping in the dark after loose ends of wire, with one ear cocked for the curious whine of a premature, which would have meant for me a sudden and sticky end, for our aiming posts to which the lights were fixed were immediately in front of the gun muzzles.
We had just been issued with some patent night-lights which worked from a dry battery in the gun-pit and which had to be connected every night with a long length of wire.
This was continually being cut by splinters and it was my painful duty, as gunlayer, to crawl out and repair it, often when the battery was blazing away upon some SOS line.
I have spent more than one blasphemous half-hour groping in the dark after loose ends of wire, with one ear cocked for the curious whine of a premature, which would have meant for me a sudden and sticky end, for our aiming posts to which the lights were fixed were immediately in front of the gun muzzles.
Heroes who blazed a trail for the ‘Few’
It seems likely that the arrival of British troops particularly the 66th Division’s take over from the French and Belgian forces on this sector was regarded by the Bosche as the preliminary to an attack across the flooded Yser river.
No doubt his suspicions were intensified by certain mysterious manoeuvres on the part of the 4th East Lancashire, who were brigaded with the division.
For some obscure reason they were placed under the orders of the Royal Engineers, ostensibly to construct a pontoon bridge over the Yser Canal. They also spent one memorable night under heavy fire, crossing its inky waters in a number of curious coracles known as Berthon Boats.
These monstrosities, as soon as they had been loaded with equipment, invariably capsized, precipitating their cursing occupants into the icy depths.
It was all very frustrating and only made sense to the brass hats at GHQ, for the projected attack was never launched.
It seems likely that the arrival of British troops particularly the 66th Division’s take over from the French and Belgian forces on this sector was regarded by the Bosche as the preliminary to an attack across the flooded Yser river.
No doubt his suspicions were intensified by certain mysterious manoeuvres on the part of the 4th East Lancashire, who were brigaded with the division.
For some obscure reason they were placed under the orders of the Royal Engineers, ostensibly to construct a pontoon bridge over the Yser Canal. They also spent one memorable night under heavy fire, crossing its inky waters in a number of curious coracles known as Berthon Boats.
These monstrosities, as soon as they had been loaded with equipment, invariably capsized, precipitating their cursing occupants into the icy depths.
It was all very frustrating and only made sense to the brass hats at GHQ, for the projected attack was never launched.
Aerial dogfights
But in consequence there was sudden outbreak of activity behind the German lines, both on the ground and in the air, where both sides fought desperately to obtain the mastery.
Almost every morning, as we stood-to, we could see, outlined against the roseate flush of dawn, a dozen fighter planes engaged in a bitter dogfight.
How we admired the courage of our gallant airmen in their rickety little machines, some little larger than kites.
These feeble biplanes and tri-planes from both sides of the line – SPAD, Nieuport, Albatros, Sopwith and Fokker fighters represented the eyes of the opposing forces and it was essential to the other side that they should be destroyed.
Sometimes whole squadrons would become locked in combat: on one occasion the famous German ‘ace’ Richthofen swept across our front with his notorious ‘flying circus’, all painted a sinister red, inviting our own airmen to a ‘free-for-all’, of which they were quick to avail themselves.
The result was a sight for the gods; I have never seen such aerobatics either before or since.
Backward and forward loops, the ‘falling leaf’, the spin, the upward and downward dives; nothing came amiss; all seemed to be inspired with a sheer contempt for death, and all the while their frenzied activities were punctuated by the staccato rattle of machine-guns.
I have seen as many as four hurtling down in flames together; I have seen one plane deliberately ram another, so that the two fell to earth together with wings interlocked, and I have seen men, their clothes ignited by burning petrol, leap from the wrecked machines and crash to the ground like blazing torches.
But in consequence there was sudden outbreak of activity behind the German lines, both on the ground and in the air, where both sides fought desperately to obtain the mastery.
Almost every morning, as we stood-to, we could see, outlined against the roseate flush of dawn, a dozen fighter planes engaged in a bitter dogfight.
How we admired the courage of our gallant airmen in their rickety little machines, some little larger than kites.
These feeble biplanes and tri-planes from both sides of the line – SPAD, Nieuport, Albatros, Sopwith and Fokker fighters represented the eyes of the opposing forces and it was essential to the other side that they should be destroyed.
Sometimes whole squadrons would become locked in combat: on one occasion the famous German ‘ace’ Richthofen swept across our front with his notorious ‘flying circus’, all painted a sinister red, inviting our own airmen to a ‘free-for-all’, of which they were quick to avail themselves.
The result was a sight for the gods; I have never seen such aerobatics either before or since.
Backward and forward loops, the ‘falling leaf’, the spin, the upward and downward dives; nothing came amiss; all seemed to be inspired with a sheer contempt for death, and all the while their frenzied activities were punctuated by the staccato rattle of machine-guns.
I have seen as many as four hurtling down in flames together; I have seen one plane deliberately ram another, so that the two fell to earth together with wings interlocked, and I have seen men, their clothes ignited by burning petrol, leap from the wrecked machines and crash to the ground like blazing torches.
Set the pattern
Make no mistake about it, those early Royal Flying Corps men were worthy of the high tradition that led to our victory in the Battle of Britain during the Second World War. In such bitter fighting as this they set the pattern for a succeeding generation.
A final snapshot of the Nieuport front: I quote from the Battery diary for 1st August 1917:
“Rain started last night & finished up in the thunderstorm this morning. The men woke up to find themselves sleeping in water, with their change of clothes, blankets, coats – everything soaking… Platforms under water & we had to keep up the firing day & night.”
Make no mistake about it, those early Royal Flying Corps men were worthy of the high tradition that led to our victory in the Battle of Britain during the Second World War. In such bitter fighting as this they set the pattern for a succeeding generation.
A final snapshot of the Nieuport front: I quote from the Battery diary for 1st August 1917:
“Rain started last night & finished up in the thunderstorm this morning. The men woke up to find themselves sleeping in water, with their change of clothes, blankets, coats – everything soaking… Platforms under water & we had to keep up the firing day & night.”
Appalling conditions
In fact, the entire position was flooded to a depth of about three feet and for the next few days we lived and had our being under appalling conditions.
We were being shelled incessantly all the time, with a large percentage of gas shells, and we kept up retaliatory fire night and day.
As the water was level with the gun axles, the piece, with its 42-inch recoil, sent a tidal wave completely over the detachment at every discharge, soaking us to the skin.
Consequently we went into action stripped to the waist and during the long spells of night firing were chilled to the very bone.
Owing to the presence of phosgene gas, which was not as volatile as mustard gas and lingered in the vicinity for hours, we did much of our firing wearing respirators. In fact, on more than one occasion I actually slept in mine.
When I say ‘slept’ I am perhaps being guilty of some exaggeration. As our dugouts were under water we managed with some ingenuity to construct temporary bunks. These consisted of sheets of corrugated iron raised on sandbags a few inches above the surrounding inundation.
We quickly found that corrugated iron has certain disadvantages in comparison with a feather-bed, particularly when a restless movement might precipitate one into three feet of icy cold water, and for this reason our slumbers were light.
In fact, the entire position was flooded to a depth of about three feet and for the next few days we lived and had our being under appalling conditions.
We were being shelled incessantly all the time, with a large percentage of gas shells, and we kept up retaliatory fire night and day.
As the water was level with the gun axles, the piece, with its 42-inch recoil, sent a tidal wave completely over the detachment at every discharge, soaking us to the skin.
Consequently we went into action stripped to the waist and during the long spells of night firing were chilled to the very bone.
Owing to the presence of phosgene gas, which was not as volatile as mustard gas and lingered in the vicinity for hours, we did much of our firing wearing respirators. In fact, on more than one occasion I actually slept in mine.
When I say ‘slept’ I am perhaps being guilty of some exaggeration. As our dugouts were under water we managed with some ingenuity to construct temporary bunks. These consisted of sheets of corrugated iron raised on sandbags a few inches above the surrounding inundation.
We quickly found that corrugated iron has certain disadvantages in comparison with a feather-bed, particularly when a restless movement might precipitate one into three feet of icy cold water, and for this reason our slumbers were light.
Unfriendly peasants
But all things unpleasant or otherwise must come to an end and towards the end of August the Battery pulled out for a period of rest and recuperation at the wagon line established beneath the whirling arms of a Flemish windmill outside St Idesbalde.
This quaint old structure interested me profoundly, but unfortunately its proprietor was not too friendly, even after I had informed him that my name was Miller (which I translated as ‘Mouliniere’ in my barbarous French), and he regarded my advances with sullen suspicion. As a result, I was unable to examine the creaking wooden mechanism.
This unfriendly attitude on the part of the natives was made evident on many occasions and sometimes gave rise to painful incidents.
When one halts at a farmstead after a long day’s trek behind the lines and finds that the winding gear of the well has been dismantled and that even a drink of water must be paid for, one can scarcely blame the troops for showing their resentment in no uncertain manner.
But to the French peasants we were just a necessary evil, neither more nor less.
But all things unpleasant or otherwise must come to an end and towards the end of August the Battery pulled out for a period of rest and recuperation at the wagon line established beneath the whirling arms of a Flemish windmill outside St Idesbalde.
This quaint old structure interested me profoundly, but unfortunately its proprietor was not too friendly, even after I had informed him that my name was Miller (which I translated as ‘Mouliniere’ in my barbarous French), and he regarded my advances with sullen suspicion. As a result, I was unable to examine the creaking wooden mechanism.
This unfriendly attitude on the part of the natives was made evident on many occasions and sometimes gave rise to painful incidents.
When one halts at a farmstead after a long day’s trek behind the lines and finds that the winding gear of the well has been dismantled and that even a drink of water must be paid for, one can scarcely blame the troops for showing their resentment in no uncertain manner.
But to the French peasants we were just a necessary evil, neither more nor less.
To Ypres and that ghastly salient
Friday, 6th October and once again we are on trek…this time towards Ypres and the Salient, where the Third Battle of Ypres has been raging under indescribable conditions since 1st July.
THE SALIENT, that insatiable Moloch, which between that date and the end of December was to devour no fewer than 448,614 British troops, killed and wounded, including ‘normal wastage’, whatever that may mean.
THE SALIENT, where the ghastly evidence of the casualties of three great battles were churned up time and time again by successive barrages.
THE SALIENT, where German divisions were sent to serve as a punitive measure, when they showed signs of restiveness under the stress of war.
Of course, we did not know this at the time: we had just had a pep talk from the Major (who was probably as much in ignorance as the rest of us), and were given to understand that it was going to be our privilege to take part in the last decisive action of the war, which would split the Bosche front from top to bottom and drive him in to the sea.
Everything had been laid on… field guns were massed almost wheel to wheel and there were enough heavies to reduce the German back areas into heaps of rubble… masses of tanks were lurking in hiding in every conceivable spot where they could take cover, waiting for the inevitable break-through… there were two cavalry divisions champing at the bit and just pining for the day when they could pour through the gap and fan out behind enemy lines, waging destruction with lance and sword upon the demoralised infantry. OF SUCH STUFF WERE GHQ PIPE DREAMS MADE.
Friday, 6th October and once again we are on trek…this time towards Ypres and the Salient, where the Third Battle of Ypres has been raging under indescribable conditions since 1st July.
THE SALIENT, that insatiable Moloch, which between that date and the end of December was to devour no fewer than 448,614 British troops, killed and wounded, including ‘normal wastage’, whatever that may mean.
THE SALIENT, where the ghastly evidence of the casualties of three great battles were churned up time and time again by successive barrages.
THE SALIENT, where German divisions were sent to serve as a punitive measure, when they showed signs of restiveness under the stress of war.
Of course, we did not know this at the time: we had just had a pep talk from the Major (who was probably as much in ignorance as the rest of us), and were given to understand that it was going to be our privilege to take part in the last decisive action of the war, which would split the Bosche front from top to bottom and drive him in to the sea.
Everything had been laid on… field guns were massed almost wheel to wheel and there were enough heavies to reduce the German back areas into heaps of rubble… masses of tanks were lurking in hiding in every conceivable spot where they could take cover, waiting for the inevitable break-through… there were two cavalry divisions champing at the bit and just pining for the day when they could pour through the gap and fan out behind enemy lines, waging destruction with lance and sword upon the demoralised infantry. OF SUCH STUFF WERE GHQ PIPE DREAMS MADE.
Soon to know
Even I, in my innocence, thought that these tanks and cavalry made a curious combination and I even wondered why these lumbering armoured monsters should have to wait so coyly behind the lines when they might have gone in front to break the resistance of the enemy.
But I found out the reasons later, when from one forlorn and shell swept battery position near Zonnebeke I counted the derelict remains of no fewer than fourteen Mk IV tanks that had been bogged down and suffered direct hits.
No wonder it was called the tank graveyard.
But already some inkling of what was really in store for us had begun to circulate. We had been relieved at Nieuport by the 42nd Division, our own first line, newly returned from Gallipoli and the Middle East, who had already had their baptism of fire in the Ypres Salient, on the Frezenberg Ridge.
They had some hair raising tales to tell of mud and slaughter and, although we were sufficiently seasoned to make allowances for rumour and exaggeration, there seemed little doubt that w were not going to march through the Menin Gate on a picnic
Even I, in my innocence, thought that these tanks and cavalry made a curious combination and I even wondered why these lumbering armoured monsters should have to wait so coyly behind the lines when they might have gone in front to break the resistance of the enemy.
But I found out the reasons later, when from one forlorn and shell swept battery position near Zonnebeke I counted the derelict remains of no fewer than fourteen Mk IV tanks that had been bogged down and suffered direct hits.
No wonder it was called the tank graveyard.
But already some inkling of what was really in store for us had begun to circulate. We had been relieved at Nieuport by the 42nd Division, our own first line, newly returned from Gallipoli and the Middle East, who had already had their baptism of fire in the Ypres Salient, on the Frezenberg Ridge.
They had some hair raising tales to tell of mud and slaughter and, although we were sufficiently seasoned to make allowances for rumour and exaggeration, there seemed little doubt that w were not going to march through the Menin Gate on a picnic
Like human moles
Another depressing factor was the weather which had broken in a flurry of heavy and icy rain, soaking us to the very skin, a state of affairs which was to continue for the rest of the Passchendaele campaign. Then it turned to snow and frost,
So we slogged grimly on under the lowering sky through a war-scarred landscape of ruined villages and semi-depopulated towns, whose inhabitants, such as remained, lurked in cellars and underground shelters like so many human moles, taking cover whenever another heavy howitzer shell came rumbling overhead with a noise very like that of an express train above the clouds.
Another depressing factor was the weather which had broken in a flurry of heavy and icy rain, soaking us to the very skin, a state of affairs which was to continue for the rest of the Passchendaele campaign. Then it turned to snow and frost,
So we slogged grimly on under the lowering sky through a war-scarred landscape of ruined villages and semi-depopulated towns, whose inhabitants, such as remained, lurked in cellars and underground shelters like so many human moles, taking cover whenever another heavy howitzer shell came rumbling overhead with a noise very like that of an express train above the clouds.
My comrades
Carried depressing memories from Nieuport for it was here that I lost one of my best pals. He was killed whilst taking some of our wounded down to the Dressing Station and I attended his funeral in the tiny military cemetery near Coxyde.
He was a quiet well-educated lad who hailed from Lancaster, and we had a love of literature in common.
I wrote a detailed account of the circumstances of his death to his parents and then, having a shrewd suspicion that it might be censored at the Battery Office, I sent a duplicate copy in a green envelope, these being a special Army issue that were only censored at the base.
As I suspected, only the last got through, but I had the satisfaction of learning later how much comfort it had been to poor Bill’s parents. He was an only son.
Then there was Gunner Bell, better known as Ding-dong. He was a walking wounded case and I went down to the Dressing Station with him myself.
It was in a cellar near Suicide Corner and I shook hands with him and wished him luck with his ‘blighty’. When we met a year later in Brighton he was in hospital with an artificial leg and I was acting as gunnery instructor in the Artillery Cadet School. He came from Somerset and a decent, good humoured fellow he was.
Carried depressing memories from Nieuport for it was here that I lost one of my best pals. He was killed whilst taking some of our wounded down to the Dressing Station and I attended his funeral in the tiny military cemetery near Coxyde.
He was a quiet well-educated lad who hailed from Lancaster, and we had a love of literature in common.
I wrote a detailed account of the circumstances of his death to his parents and then, having a shrewd suspicion that it might be censored at the Battery Office, I sent a duplicate copy in a green envelope, these being a special Army issue that were only censored at the base.
As I suspected, only the last got through, but I had the satisfaction of learning later how much comfort it had been to poor Bill’s parents. He was an only son.
Then there was Gunner Bell, better known as Ding-dong. He was a walking wounded case and I went down to the Dressing Station with him myself.
It was in a cellar near Suicide Corner and I shook hands with him and wished him luck with his ‘blighty’. When we met a year later in Brighton he was in hospital with an artificial leg and I was acting as gunnery instructor in the Artillery Cadet School. He came from Somerset and a decent, good humoured fellow he was.
‘For luck’
And there was Corporal Norman, killed by a shell splinter which went clean through a steel mirror he carried in his breast pocket. He was a reserved but kindly chap who had recently joined us from the trench-mortar batteries.
I carried that mirror about with me for luck all through the rest of the campaign, which goes to show how superstitious one can get, living under constant strain.
I could recall so many more, but what was the use? The astonishing thing was, not the stark un-heroic courage, the patient endurance, the calm resignation to whatever fate held in store, but the sense of fatality that seemed to lie beneath it all.
As though we, the youth of the early 20th century, were offering ourselves as a sort of sacrifice for the mistakes and follies of the civilisation which bore us, as though we were working out a penance for the sins of our fathers and that such a holocaust was the only way in which we could satisfy an outraged Creator.
I can think of no other explanation.
And there was Corporal Norman, killed by a shell splinter which went clean through a steel mirror he carried in his breast pocket. He was a reserved but kindly chap who had recently joined us from the trench-mortar batteries.
I carried that mirror about with me for luck all through the rest of the campaign, which goes to show how superstitious one can get, living under constant strain.
I could recall so many more, but what was the use? The astonishing thing was, not the stark un-heroic courage, the patient endurance, the calm resignation to whatever fate held in store, but the sense of fatality that seemed to lie beneath it all.
As though we, the youth of the early 20th century, were offering ourselves as a sort of sacrifice for the mistakes and follies of the civilisation which bore us, as though we were working out a penance for the sins of our fathers and that such a holocaust was the only way in which we could satisfy an outraged Creator.
I can think of no other explanation.
Haig’s ‘Duck march through Flanders’
Our first day’s trek in the back areas ended at 1 a.m., when we reached a farm near Ghyvelde.
Here, while the drivers made some attempt to groom and curry-comb their wet and steaming horses, picketed on lines where they were over their fetlocks in glutinous mud, we gunners sluiced down guns and ammunition wagons on a gun park equally insalubrious.
I, as gun-layer, cleaned and oiled the breach mechanism and checked the gun sights, before flinging myself down in my wet clothes on a bundle of straw in a leaky barn infested with rats and various insect abominations.
I was dog tired and only awoke once, when one of these long-tailed vermin scuttled across my face. But I was used to that.
Our first day’s trek in the back areas ended at 1 a.m., when we reached a farm near Ghyvelde.
Here, while the drivers made some attempt to groom and curry-comb their wet and steaming horses, picketed on lines where they were over their fetlocks in glutinous mud, we gunners sluiced down guns and ammunition wagons on a gun park equally insalubrious.
I, as gun-layer, cleaned and oiled the breach mechanism and checked the gun sights, before flinging myself down in my wet clothes on a bundle of straw in a leaky barn infested with rats and various insect abominations.
I was dog tired and only awoke once, when one of these long-tailed vermin scuttled across my face. But I was used to that.
Not impressed
At seven we were off again, still in the pouring rain, and during that day we passed through the 1st French Army area to Esquelbecq. This gave us an opportunity to see for ourselves the sort of discipline maintained by our allies, and I am bound to say that we were not greatly impressed.
Naturally, we were most interested in their field artillery, for the little French 75mm gun had acquired a great reputation.
But gunners and drivers struck us as anything but efficient; in fact, both they and their equipment were, to use an expressive Army phrase, just ‘scruffy’.
This was particularly noticeable when we passed a battery on the move with guns and limbers loaded with impedimenta until the entire turn out resembled a gypsy migration rather than a fighting unit.
Even the horse’s bits were red with rust and by comparison the burnished steelwork of our own harness gleamed like silver.
At seven we were off again, still in the pouring rain, and during that day we passed through the 1st French Army area to Esquelbecq. This gave us an opportunity to see for ourselves the sort of discipline maintained by our allies, and I am bound to say that we were not greatly impressed.
Naturally, we were most interested in their field artillery, for the little French 75mm gun had acquired a great reputation.
But gunners and drivers struck us as anything but efficient; in fact, both they and their equipment were, to use an expressive Army phrase, just ‘scruffy’.
This was particularly noticeable when we passed a battery on the move with guns and limbers loaded with impedimenta until the entire turn out resembled a gypsy migration rather than a fighting unit.
Even the horse’s bits were red with rust and by comparison the burnished steelwork of our own harness gleamed like silver.
From Noah’s Ark
But if their equipment was far from what it might have been, their animals resembled a cavalcade that had just emerged from Noah’s Ark.
There were horses of all shapes and sizes, together with mules and even donkeys, all harnessed together without any apparent regard as to size or breed.
One gun team consisted of one heavy draft and two light draft horses, two Andalusian mules and one nondescript animal which might have been a donkey or even a very large St Bernard dog.
Their coats were shaggy and caked with mud and they moved slowly and despondently, obviously unkempt and ill-fed.
They were followed by a battalion of Senegalese infantry, who slouched along with their greatcoats buttoned back from the knees of their baggy white trousers. They were gloomy and out of step and it did not need an expert to judge that their morale was pretty low.
We were not to know, of course, that, following the French General Nivelle’s abortive offensive in April, when his troops sustained heavy losses, several Colonial divisions and the French 120th Infantry Regiment had mutinied and that the men’s discipline was still dangerously relaxed.
But if their equipment was far from what it might have been, their animals resembled a cavalcade that had just emerged from Noah’s Ark.
There were horses of all shapes and sizes, together with mules and even donkeys, all harnessed together without any apparent regard as to size or breed.
One gun team consisted of one heavy draft and two light draft horses, two Andalusian mules and one nondescript animal which might have been a donkey or even a very large St Bernard dog.
Their coats were shaggy and caked with mud and they moved slowly and despondently, obviously unkempt and ill-fed.
They were followed by a battalion of Senegalese infantry, who slouched along with their greatcoats buttoned back from the knees of their baggy white trousers. They were gloomy and out of step and it did not need an expert to judge that their morale was pretty low.
We were not to know, of course, that, following the French General Nivelle’s abortive offensive in April, when his troops sustained heavy losses, several Colonial divisions and the French 120th Infantry Regiment had mutinied and that the men’s discipline was still dangerously relaxed.
Hopeless offensive
Indeed, Sir Douglas Haig, our own commander-in-chief, gave this as one reason for continuing the hopeless offensive in which British soldiers, their rifles clogged with mud which engulfed them up to their knees, were flung, again and again, against a defensive system skilfully organised in depth.
Realising the folly of attempting to dig trenches, the German high command constructed hundreds of concrete emplacements which we called ‘pill boxes’, with walls and roofs of tremendous thickness, at every strategic point.
These were manned by highly trained machine-gun teams, some of whom were actually induced, by the offer of higher pay and better rations, to allow themselves to be chained to their weapon, so that there could be no question of surrender.
I shall have something to say about the state of the ground in a later article. Suffice it to say at the moment that even our French allies, thankful as they were for the respite we gave them, were amazed that the slaughter should have been allowed to go on so long, and General Foch openly referred to the whole campaign as Haig’s ‘duck march’ though Flanders.
Indeed, Sir Douglas Haig, our own commander-in-chief, gave this as one reason for continuing the hopeless offensive in which British soldiers, their rifles clogged with mud which engulfed them up to their knees, were flung, again and again, against a defensive system skilfully organised in depth.
Realising the folly of attempting to dig trenches, the German high command constructed hundreds of concrete emplacements which we called ‘pill boxes’, with walls and roofs of tremendous thickness, at every strategic point.
These were manned by highly trained machine-gun teams, some of whom were actually induced, by the offer of higher pay and better rations, to allow themselves to be chained to their weapon, so that there could be no question of surrender.
I shall have something to say about the state of the ground in a later article. Suffice it to say at the moment that even our French allies, thankful as they were for the respite we gave them, were amazed that the slaughter should have been allowed to go on so long, and General Foch openly referred to the whole campaign as Haig’s ‘duck march’ though Flanders.
The spearhead
It was on ground like this that the 66th East Lancashire Division, of which we were part, was selected to be the spearhead of an attack designed to extend the line to the outskirts of Passchendaele.
Zero hour was 5.30 a.m. on 9th October and to give the men time to reach the jumping-off tapes and get a few hours’ rest before going over the top they were assembled at a rendezvous 2½ miles behind the line at 7.00 p.m. the night before.
At dusk the troops began their forward march through the ruins of Ypres. It was raining hard and they were already soaked to the skin, while, being equipped in full battle order, with water bottle and haversack, an extra fifty-cartridge bandolier over the right shoulder and a Mills bomb in each side pocket, they were carrying altogether over 60 lb. of clothing, weapons and equipment.
It was on ground like this that the 66th East Lancashire Division, of which we were part, was selected to be the spearhead of an attack designed to extend the line to the outskirts of Passchendaele.
Zero hour was 5.30 a.m. on 9th October and to give the men time to reach the jumping-off tapes and get a few hours’ rest before going over the top they were assembled at a rendezvous 2½ miles behind the line at 7.00 p.m. the night before.
At dusk the troops began their forward march through the ruins of Ypres. It was raining hard and they were already soaked to the skin, while, being equipped in full battle order, with water bottle and haversack, an extra fifty-cartridge bandolier over the right shoulder and a Mills bomb in each side pocket, they were carrying altogether over 60 lb. of clothing, weapons and equipment.
Maze of craters
Immediately after passing through the Menin Gate they ran into difficulties. The duck-board tracks which they were supposed to follow had been heavily plastered with enemy shells and were shattered to pieces every few yards, while such as remained were covered with slime and submerged in foul water.
Soon they found themselves wandering in pitch darkness through a maze of shell-craters brimming with water, this last often covered with old, sour mustard gas or even worse abominations.
Many men toppled into these and had to be hauled out by comrades extending rifle butts. So nauseating was the experience that men often vomited after being extricated.
Worse still, they ran into an area of liquid mud, where they sank to their waists, realising grimly the truth of Napoleon’s remark that besides water, air, earth and fire, god had created another element…mud.
By the time they reached the frontline, dawn was already beginning to break, the offensive had begun, whereupon without a pause they fixed bayonets and kept on towards the enemy…
Immediately after passing through the Menin Gate they ran into difficulties. The duck-board tracks which they were supposed to follow had been heavily plastered with enemy shells and were shattered to pieces every few yards, while such as remained were covered with slime and submerged in foul water.
Soon they found themselves wandering in pitch darkness through a maze of shell-craters brimming with water, this last often covered with old, sour mustard gas or even worse abominations.
Many men toppled into these and had to be hauled out by comrades extending rifle butts. So nauseating was the experience that men often vomited after being extricated.
Worse still, they ran into an area of liquid mud, where they sank to their waists, realising grimly the truth of Napoleon’s remark that besides water, air, earth and fire, god had created another element…mud.
By the time they reached the frontline, dawn was already beginning to break, the offensive had begun, whereupon without a pause they fixed bayonets and kept on towards the enemy…
Kixum’s cunning became a joke in a nightmare of mud
If our infantry, assembling for the attack on Passchendaele, found themselves bogged down in the all-pervading mud, we of the Field Artillery were in no better plight.
In the late afternoon of 7th October we arrived in pouring rain at very muddy wagon lines at Vlamertinge, with flooded tents and bivouacs for quarters. We were so weary that some of the drivers were almost asleep in their saddles, but nevertheless horses had to be groomed, fed and watered and guns cleaned before we could turn in ourselves.
This mud was to be a long drawn-out nightmare during the ensuing three months, and it was pitiful to see how the condition of our animals deteriorated.
Sleek and glossy from their long period of comparative inaction at Nieuport, they quickly became thin and nervous, with staring eyes and drooping heads.
I have actually seen a double line of horses standing in mud more than a foot in depth, whilst their drivers worked with brush and curry-comb, sitting on their backs.
If our infantry, assembling for the attack on Passchendaele, found themselves bogged down in the all-pervading mud, we of the Field Artillery were in no better plight.
In the late afternoon of 7th October we arrived in pouring rain at very muddy wagon lines at Vlamertinge, with flooded tents and bivouacs for quarters. We were so weary that some of the drivers were almost asleep in their saddles, but nevertheless horses had to be groomed, fed and watered and guns cleaned before we could turn in ourselves.
This mud was to be a long drawn-out nightmare during the ensuing three months, and it was pitiful to see how the condition of our animals deteriorated.
Sleek and glossy from their long period of comparative inaction at Nieuport, they quickly became thin and nervous, with staring eyes and drooping heads.
I have actually seen a double line of horses standing in mud more than a foot in depth, whilst their drivers worked with brush and curry-comb, sitting on their backs.
Dangerous company
At Vlamertinge the horse lines followed the usual pattern. Two lengths of picketing-line were pegged down about a yard apart and to these a double row of horses were tethered, with heads facing inwards.
This enabled drivers and picquets to pass down the middle, adjust nose-bags at feeding time, and during the night fasten the straps and buckles of rugs and blankets, which had a trick of coming loose and slipping over the animal’s haunches.
Speaking of nose-bags brings to mind one horse in particular, which bore the sinister name of ‘Kixum’.
Horses are temperamental creatures, like sergeant-majors and at times have to be handled with care and understanding. They acquire all sorts of eccentricities and bad habits and this can make them very dangerous company, especially to strangers.
At Vlamertinge the horse lines followed the usual pattern. Two lengths of picketing-line were pegged down about a yard apart and to these a double row of horses were tethered, with heads facing inwards.
This enabled drivers and picquets to pass down the middle, adjust nose-bags at feeding time, and during the night fasten the straps and buckles of rugs and blankets, which had a trick of coming loose and slipping over the animal’s haunches.
Speaking of nose-bags brings to mind one horse in particular, which bore the sinister name of ‘Kixum’.
Horses are temperamental creatures, like sergeant-majors and at times have to be handled with care and understanding. They acquire all sorts of eccentricities and bad habits and this can make them very dangerous company, especially to strangers.
An alternative
‘Kixum’, alas, was no exception. Hardship and constant exposure had spoiled his temper and made him vicious, but he soon found out that lashing out at all and sundry within reach of his flying hooves merely brought retaliation in kind.
So he devised a cunning alternative. When the trumpet call announced feeding time and his nose-bag fixed, he would lie in wait with head down until an unsuspecting line orderly passed by.
Then he would suddenly raise his head and bring the wet and muddy nose-bag weighing about half a hundredweight, with a terrific clout across his victim’s ear. It was a wallop jack Dempsey might have envied and it never failed to be a knockout.
‘Kixum’, alas, was no exception. Hardship and constant exposure had spoiled his temper and made him vicious, but he soon found out that lashing out at all and sundry within reach of his flying hooves merely brought retaliation in kind.
So he devised a cunning alternative. When the trumpet call announced feeding time and his nose-bag fixed, he would lie in wait with head down until an unsuspecting line orderly passed by.
Then he would suddenly raise his head and bring the wet and muddy nose-bag weighing about half a hundredweight, with a terrific clout across his victim’s ear. It was a wallop jack Dempsey might have envied and it never failed to be a knockout.
Innocents lured
After we had tumbled to this little idiosyncrasy, we always kept a wary eye on master ‘Kixum’, but it soon became a standing joke to lure some innocent visitor, preferably from another battery, to take a walk down the lines to where this equine battering-ram was lying in wait.
Believe me, it left a lasting impression.
At the wagon lines near Zillebeke we had another horse, ‘Storm King’, who regularly went lame whenever he was detailed to go up the line with a pack saddle loaded with ammunition and rations. He fooled us for quite a while, until we found that he was not always lame on the same foot.
After we had tumbled to this little idiosyncrasy, we always kept a wary eye on master ‘Kixum’, but it soon became a standing joke to lure some innocent visitor, preferably from another battery, to take a walk down the lines to where this equine battering-ram was lying in wait.
Believe me, it left a lasting impression.
At the wagon lines near Zillebeke we had another horse, ‘Storm King’, who regularly went lame whenever he was detailed to go up the line with a pack saddle loaded with ammunition and rations. He fooled us for quite a while, until we found that he was not always lame on the same foot.
Pitiable sights
Horses are particularly nervous under shellfire and can become positively mad with terror. Even when under control, their trembling limbs, rolling eyes and twitching ears render them pitiable objects.
Unfortunately, at such times they are prone to stand fast and refuse to budge, which can mean disaster unless they can be speedily goaded into action again.
Then spur and whip must be used without mercy and for this reason there were few artillery horses whose flanks were not scarred and slashed with the cruel rowel after they had been on active service.
I once saw a driver sponging the blood from his horse’s side after one such incident, and there were teams in his eyes. Yet it was all part of the grim pattern of war, and would probably be repeated at the next emergency.
Horses are particularly nervous under shellfire and can become positively mad with terror. Even when under control, their trembling limbs, rolling eyes and twitching ears render them pitiable objects.
Unfortunately, at such times they are prone to stand fast and refuse to budge, which can mean disaster unless they can be speedily goaded into action again.
Then spur and whip must be used without mercy and for this reason there were few artillery horses whose flanks were not scarred and slashed with the cruel rowel after they had been on active service.
I once saw a driver sponging the blood from his horse’s side after one such incident, and there were teams in his eyes. Yet it was all part of the grim pattern of war, and would probably be repeated at the next emergency.
We move off
I could say a great deal more about the strange relationship that existed between a driver and his horses on the Western Front, but meanwhile German machine-guns are waiting for our infantry on the crest of Passchendaele Ridge. The war must go on.
Here is another extract from our battery diary, dated Monday, October 8th:
“Were to have moved into action at 2 a.m. but got orders at last minute to stand fast. Orders and counter orders all morning.
“Eventually CRA arrived at 4.30 p.m. said we should have been in action by mid day. Turned out at once & moved off, 5.45. Pouring with rain and everyone soaked. Roads in forward area impossible & advance party had to abandon first position (being the only Battery to get platforms down) and come back to the Frezenberg cross-roads.
“Roads packed with traffic, three lanes abreast & progress appallingly slow with constant jams. Had to establish forward wagon lines in a map square, for pack horses, in pitch dark.
“Found nothing but shell holes. We moved forward gradually all night, having jams about every hundred yards. We met our infantry having same difficulty in getting forward and hours late for going over the top.”
I could say a great deal more about the strange relationship that existed between a driver and his horses on the Western Front, but meanwhile German machine-guns are waiting for our infantry on the crest of Passchendaele Ridge. The war must go on.
Here is another extract from our battery diary, dated Monday, October 8th:
“Were to have moved into action at 2 a.m. but got orders at last minute to stand fast. Orders and counter orders all morning.
“Eventually CRA arrived at 4.30 p.m. said we should have been in action by mid day. Turned out at once & moved off, 5.45. Pouring with rain and everyone soaked. Roads in forward area impossible & advance party had to abandon first position (being the only Battery to get platforms down) and come back to the Frezenberg cross-roads.
“Roads packed with traffic, three lanes abreast & progress appallingly slow with constant jams. Had to establish forward wagon lines in a map square, for pack horses, in pitch dark.
“Found nothing but shell holes. We moved forward gradually all night, having jams about every hundred yards. We met our infantry having same difficulty in getting forward and hours late for going over the top.”
Back and forth
“At 5 a.m. we were only a few hundred yards from position when the barrage opened with a crash all around us. Orders came down that we were to go back, so with difficulty we reversed & had got about 2 miles down the road when counter orders came that we were to go back into action again. We got the first guns into action about 8….”
“At 5 a.m. we were only a few hundred yards from position when the barrage opened with a crash all around us. Orders came down that we were to go back, so with difficulty we reversed & had got about 2 miles down the road when counter orders came that we were to go back into action again. We got the first guns into action about 8….”
Tortured journey through a landscape of the dead
Our battery position was located on a map square somewhere on the Frezenburg Ridge in the very heart of the Salient and to reach it we had to pass through the ruined city of Ypres.
As we moved slowly through the shell-pitted and rubble- strewn streets the rain ceased for a blessed interval and we even caught a glimpse of the Moon, peering through a shattered window in the half-demolished tower of the beautiful Cloth Hall.
The town had been systematically bombarded for months and all its handsome, tree-lined streets, with their picturesque, medieval houses and magnificent public buildings, including the ancient cathedral of St. Martin, were wrecked beyond repair.
The latter was still recognisable, although all the valuable monuments and works of art within had been destroyed, and the Cloth Hall still dominated the silent market square like some shattered monolith of pre-historic times.
Only a few months later, during the German attacks in 1918, both were reduced to little more than mounds of rubble.
Our battery position was located on a map square somewhere on the Frezenburg Ridge in the very heart of the Salient and to reach it we had to pass through the ruined city of Ypres.
As we moved slowly through the shell-pitted and rubble- strewn streets the rain ceased for a blessed interval and we even caught a glimpse of the Moon, peering through a shattered window in the half-demolished tower of the beautiful Cloth Hall.
The town had been systematically bombarded for months and all its handsome, tree-lined streets, with their picturesque, medieval houses and magnificent public buildings, including the ancient cathedral of St. Martin, were wrecked beyond repair.
The latter was still recognisable, although all the valuable monuments and works of art within had been destroyed, and the Cloth Hall still dominated the silent market square like some shattered monolith of pre-historic times.
Only a few months later, during the German attacks in 1918, both were reduced to little more than mounds of rubble.
Ghost city
With its roofless houses, their windows as gaunt and empty as the eye-sockets of a skull, it seemed to us – awed and subdued by the prospects of what was facing us through the Menin Gate – as if we were traversing.
Yet in fact its silent puriteus were teeming with subterranean life, the whole place was honey-combed with underground dugouts and emplacements, linked together by tunnels and passages until it had become as populous as a monstrous rabbit warren.
Divisional, battalion and brigade headquarters were everywhere; casualty clearing stations, quartermaster’s stores and dumps of all kinds were indicated by crudely painted signs, while in the ramparts themselves all kinds of queer fish, such as ordnance artificers, veterinary and remount officers, padres of every denomination, Salvation Army officers and even YMCA orderlies, lurked cosily. But this we did not learn about until a day later.
With its roofless houses, their windows as gaunt and empty as the eye-sockets of a skull, it seemed to us – awed and subdued by the prospects of what was facing us through the Menin Gate – as if we were traversing.
Yet in fact its silent puriteus were teeming with subterranean life, the whole place was honey-combed with underground dugouts and emplacements, linked together by tunnels and passages until it had become as populous as a monstrous rabbit warren.
Divisional, battalion and brigade headquarters were everywhere; casualty clearing stations, quartermaster’s stores and dumps of all kinds were indicated by crudely painted signs, while in the ramparts themselves all kinds of queer fish, such as ordnance artificers, veterinary and remount officers, padres of every denomination, Salvation Army officers and even YMCA orderlies, lurked cosily. But this we did not learn about until a day later.
Ominous prelude
Meanwhile the tortured column wound its fitful way towards the firing line. At the Menin Gate a direct hit smashed the road surface just ahead of our battery and we had a long halt while a squad of pioneers, detailed for this purpose, cleared away the wreckage.
I had taken advantage of the halt to dismount and tighten my horse’s surcingle, when I stumbled over something lying by the roadside. A hasty flash of my torch revealed that it was the body of an infantryman of the East Lancashire Regiment.
He lay with his head pillowed comfortably upon one arm, an unearthly smile upon his bloodless, upturned face. A splinter had severed the main artery in his leg and he had bled to death in a matter of minutes, probably without feeling much pain. But the incident seemed an ominous prelude.
Meanwhile the tortured column wound its fitful way towards the firing line. At the Menin Gate a direct hit smashed the road surface just ahead of our battery and we had a long halt while a squad of pioneers, detailed for this purpose, cleared away the wreckage.
I had taken advantage of the halt to dismount and tighten my horse’s surcingle, when I stumbled over something lying by the roadside. A hasty flash of my torch revealed that it was the body of an infantryman of the East Lancashire Regiment.
He lay with his head pillowed comfortably upon one arm, an unearthly smile upon his bloodless, upturned face. A splinter had severed the main artery in his leg and he had bled to death in a matter of minutes, probably without feeling much pain. But the incident seemed an ominous prelude.
Shell-pocked mud
On leaving the Menin Gate, the Zonnebeke road forked to the left and soon entered into a desolate area of shell-pocked mud, each crater brimming with stagnant water and so close together that in places the ground was virtually impassable.
On terrain of this sort it became positively suicidal to attempt to go forward without some sort of support and the military mind therefore evolved the corduroy road and the duck-board track, the first for vehicles, the second for men.
The corduroy road consisted of a double width of logs laid side by side and literally floating on a sea of mud. If an Army Service lorry or G. S. wagon got too close to the edge, the whole tilted up in the middle and gracefully shuttered the vehicle and its complement into the Slough of Despond beyond and there it gradually sank deeper and deeper until it finally disappeared.
Yet every night throughout the whole offensive this single road, packed with guns and wagons of every description, shelled and bombed incessantly, had to serve as the sole link of communication with the firing line.
The infantry wisely extended their ranks in open order and followed the circuitous maze of the duckboard tracks.
These resembled a sort of cat ladder cut to lengths of six feet and were laid end to end, thus allowing marching men to proceed in single file. But we of the Field Artillery had perforce to stick to the road and take all that was coming to us, which was plenty.
On leaving the Menin Gate, the Zonnebeke road forked to the left and soon entered into a desolate area of shell-pocked mud, each crater brimming with stagnant water and so close together that in places the ground was virtually impassable.
On terrain of this sort it became positively suicidal to attempt to go forward without some sort of support and the military mind therefore evolved the corduroy road and the duck-board track, the first for vehicles, the second for men.
The corduroy road consisted of a double width of logs laid side by side and literally floating on a sea of mud. If an Army Service lorry or G. S. wagon got too close to the edge, the whole tilted up in the middle and gracefully shuttered the vehicle and its complement into the Slough of Despond beyond and there it gradually sank deeper and deeper until it finally disappeared.
Yet every night throughout the whole offensive this single road, packed with guns and wagons of every description, shelled and bombed incessantly, had to serve as the sole link of communication with the firing line.
The infantry wisely extended their ranks in open order and followed the circuitous maze of the duckboard tracks.
These resembled a sort of cat ladder cut to lengths of six feet and were laid end to end, thus allowing marching men to proceed in single file. But we of the Field Artillery had perforce to stick to the road and take all that was coming to us, which was plenty.
Sitting ducks
Every inch of that accursed road between Ypres and Zonnebeke had been carefully registered by the enemy artillery located beyond the ridge at Moorslede, and so far as they were concerned, we were just sitting ducks.
Then there were the bombers, flying low and heaving their massive weapons over the side of the cockpit like so many bricks. A pretty primitive method of attack, as compared with modern standards, but in a cockshy of this nature they could hardly miss; they got a coconut with every ball.
At one time the moon came out for a few moments and we saw around us a scene of utter horror, like something out of a nightmare, resembling a lunar landscape rather than a scene on this planet.
Just a vast sea of grey mud, erupting with shell-bursts, from which here and there a solitary splintered tree-stump emerged to wave us on like a beckoning ghost, or a derelict tank, standing on its nose, reminding us that we were now approaching the celebrated tank graveyard, which put paid to Churchill’s scheme of ending the war with a breakthrough of armoured monsters; it was a landscape of the dead.
Every inch of that accursed road between Ypres and Zonnebeke had been carefully registered by the enemy artillery located beyond the ridge at Moorslede, and so far as they were concerned, we were just sitting ducks.
Then there were the bombers, flying low and heaving their massive weapons over the side of the cockpit like so many bricks. A pretty primitive method of attack, as compared with modern standards, but in a cockshy of this nature they could hardly miss; they got a coconut with every ball.
At one time the moon came out for a few moments and we saw around us a scene of utter horror, like something out of a nightmare, resembling a lunar landscape rather than a scene on this planet.
Just a vast sea of grey mud, erupting with shell-bursts, from which here and there a solitary splintered tree-stump emerged to wave us on like a beckoning ghost, or a derelict tank, standing on its nose, reminding us that we were now approaching the celebrated tank graveyard, which put paid to Churchill’s scheme of ending the war with a breakthrough of armoured monsters; it was a landscape of the dead.
Barrage Begins
We had still not reached our allotted position when the barrage opened for the attack and we found ourselves in further trouble, for the terrific row drove our scared horses frantic.
The whole sector was massed with guns of every calibre, standing almost wheel to wheel, and in many cases with one battery firing over another.
They were all in the open, for the state of the ground made it impossible to construct gun-pits or dugouts and even do more than make a crude gun-platform with bricks from a nearby ruin.
However, in some fashion each detachment at last managed to man-handle its gun clear of the road and got into action.
It is true we were dead tired and soaked to the skin, we were plastered with mud to the very eyes and that breech-blocks were constantly jamming because of mud which adhered to the ammunition.
But at least we were throwing back to Jerry some of the stuff he had been pounding us with all through the night and we saw the exploding rim of fire on the horizon which marked the line of our barrage with grim satisfaction. We were giving the Hun a taste of his our ‘frightfulness’.
We had still not reached our allotted position when the barrage opened for the attack and we found ourselves in further trouble, for the terrific row drove our scared horses frantic.
The whole sector was massed with guns of every calibre, standing almost wheel to wheel, and in many cases with one battery firing over another.
They were all in the open, for the state of the ground made it impossible to construct gun-pits or dugouts and even do more than make a crude gun-platform with bricks from a nearby ruin.
However, in some fashion each detachment at last managed to man-handle its gun clear of the road and got into action.
It is true we were dead tired and soaked to the skin, we were plastered with mud to the very eyes and that breech-blocks were constantly jamming because of mud which adhered to the ammunition.
But at least we were throwing back to Jerry some of the stuff he had been pounding us with all through the night and we saw the exploding rim of fire on the horizon which marked the line of our barrage with grim satisfaction. We were giving the Hun a taste of his our ‘frightfulness’.
A level plain of desolation where no bird sang
Before I deal with the 66th Division’s attack on Passchendaele, which cost our infantry 3,119 casualties in a single morning (to say nothing of what the divisional artillery suffered) and which was to fill the columns of the Blackburn Times for many subsequent weeks with casualty lists, interspersed with photographs of the fallen, let me say a few words about our battery position.
It was on the flank of the Frenzenberg Ridge, a few hundred yards short of Zonnebeke village, near a salubrious spot where the waters of the Hannebeke and the Zonnebeke, their normal channels pulverised by incessant shellfire mingled their muddy waters to form a widespread swamp.
Before I deal with the 66th Division’s attack on Passchendaele, which cost our infantry 3,119 casualties in a single morning (to say nothing of what the divisional artillery suffered) and which was to fill the columns of the Blackburn Times for many subsequent weeks with casualty lists, interspersed with photographs of the fallen, let me say a few words about our battery position.
It was on the flank of the Frenzenberg Ridge, a few hundred yards short of Zonnebeke village, near a salubrious spot where the waters of the Hannebeke and the Zonnebeke, their normal channels pulverised by incessant shellfire mingled their muddy waters to form a widespread swamp.
Mound of rubble
When I say Zonnebeke village I ought perhaps to say the site of it, for to all intents and purposes it had disappeared from the map. One could pass through its market place without knowing it, were it not for a crudely painted signpost beside a huge mound of rubble which read “Zonnebeke Church”.
A little further along the ridge, in the direction of Moorslede, part of a crumpled gasometer lay on its side.
This was the only sign of human occupation and somehow always brought to my mind the story of the traveller who, after being lost for many hour on Salisbury plain, suddenly saw emerging from the mist a gallows on which a malefactor hung in chains and exclaimed: “Thank God, civilisation at last.”
I must have had a depraved sense of humour in those early days, although there were plenty of corpses strewn around that gasometer, believe me.
Our gun platforms, consisted of brick and rubble extracted from the foundations of the ruined village, were set at right angles to the road. They were about ten yards apart and formed a precarious support to the gun wheels, which from constant firing soon began to sink, thereby making accurate firing practically impossible.
When I say Zonnebeke village I ought perhaps to say the site of it, for to all intents and purposes it had disappeared from the map. One could pass through its market place without knowing it, were it not for a crudely painted signpost beside a huge mound of rubble which read “Zonnebeke Church”.
A little further along the ridge, in the direction of Moorslede, part of a crumpled gasometer lay on its side.
This was the only sign of human occupation and somehow always brought to my mind the story of the traveller who, after being lost for many hour on Salisbury plain, suddenly saw emerging from the mist a gallows on which a malefactor hung in chains and exclaimed: “Thank God, civilisation at last.”
I must have had a depraved sense of humour in those early days, although there were plenty of corpses strewn around that gasometer, believe me.
Our gun platforms, consisted of brick and rubble extracted from the foundations of the ruined village, were set at right angles to the road. They were about ten yards apart and formed a precarious support to the gun wheels, which from constant firing soon began to sink, thereby making accurate firing practically impossible.
Day and night
There was no attempt to construct any sort of shelter, and for protection against flying shell-splinters we huddled against the gun-shield and hoped for the best.
Here we worked and here we slept, when sleep was possible and day and night the Bosche plastered the area pitilessly with high explosives.
Fortunately the very nature of the terrain proved our salvation, for the glutinous depth of the mud around us allowed the high explosive shells to sink deep before they exploded, thereby smothering the burst and converting each detonation into a sort of volcano of mud and rubble, which erupted into the air comparatively harmlessly.
Occasionally one burst on impact, through striking part of a brick foundation and these were the ones we had to watch, for they sent a shower of red-hot shell-splinters screaming through the air, any one of which could disembowel a man as neatly as if he had committed hara-kiri.
There was no attempt to construct any sort of shelter, and for protection against flying shell-splinters we huddled against the gun-shield and hoped for the best.
Here we worked and here we slept, when sleep was possible and day and night the Bosche plastered the area pitilessly with high explosives.
Fortunately the very nature of the terrain proved our salvation, for the glutinous depth of the mud around us allowed the high explosive shells to sink deep before they exploded, thereby smothering the burst and converting each detonation into a sort of volcano of mud and rubble, which erupted into the air comparatively harmlessly.
Occasionally one burst on impact, through striking part of a brick foundation and these were the ones we had to watch, for they sent a shower of red-hot shell-splinters screaming through the air, any one of which could disembowel a man as neatly as if he had committed hara-kiri.
Ceaseless torrent
Nor was this our only tribulation. We were also being subjected to an incessant bombardment by the elements.
Rain! There was no end to it – a steady continuous downpour, occasionally subsiding into an icy drizzle but never ceasing altogether.
For days and weeks on end our clothing was never dry and, although officers wore high boots of rubber and we received a special issue of leather boots which laced up to the knee, the all-pervading rain penetrated to our very souls.
The landscape around us might have been something out of Dante’s Inferno, a flat, level plain of desolation with scarcely a discernable that we could recognise; a land of death and desolation, with not a living creature in sight, not a tree, not a single blade of grass.
The remains of Polygon Wood, some distance to our flank, consisted merely of a few dozen splintered stumps protruding from the morass, a wood from which all traces of natural life had long since vanished.
So far as I can remember, I never saw nor heard a bird during the whole time we were in the Salient, and the only mammals were rats, huge grey, obscene creatures that fattened upon human carrion.
Nor was this our only tribulation. We were also being subjected to an incessant bombardment by the elements.
Rain! There was no end to it – a steady continuous downpour, occasionally subsiding into an icy drizzle but never ceasing altogether.
For days and weeks on end our clothing was never dry and, although officers wore high boots of rubber and we received a special issue of leather boots which laced up to the knee, the all-pervading rain penetrated to our very souls.
The landscape around us might have been something out of Dante’s Inferno, a flat, level plain of desolation with scarcely a discernable that we could recognise; a land of death and desolation, with not a living creature in sight, not a tree, not a single blade of grass.
The remains of Polygon Wood, some distance to our flank, consisted merely of a few dozen splintered stumps protruding from the morass, a wood from which all traces of natural life had long since vanished.
So far as I can remember, I never saw nor heard a bird during the whole time we were in the Salient, and the only mammals were rats, huge grey, obscene creatures that fattened upon human carrion.
Polluted land
The very ground was polluted with the bodies of countless unburied dead and contaminated with burnt cordite and exploded gas shells; the very air reeked with the stench of death and decay, which the everlasting blanket of cloud did nothing to dissipate.
Even in broad daylight it was a hazardous business to wander away from the battery and loose oneself in the maze of shell-craters brimming with water that surrounded one on every side.
Even for a man in full possession of his strength, to slip into one of these slimy cesspools meant a nightmare struggle for survival before he emerged from its clinging depths, and for a wounded man the task was virtually impossible.
More than once I have seen the body of an infantryman clutching desperately at a bayoneted rifle, which he had driven into the crumbling side of a waterlogged shell-hole, in the vain hope of keeping his head above water until he could be rescued.
Perhaps the greatest danger of all was to be lost in such an area after nightfall, when the horror of darkness was added to the menace of the unknown and one could see as well as hear the glowing splinters of the bursting shells.
Small wonder that quite a number of German prisoners, captured after they had been hiding in such surroundings, sometimes for as long as three or four days, were little better than gibbering maniacs. The medical term for such a condition was shell shock: I wonder by what name it was known to the recording angel?
The very ground was polluted with the bodies of countless unburied dead and contaminated with burnt cordite and exploded gas shells; the very air reeked with the stench of death and decay, which the everlasting blanket of cloud did nothing to dissipate.
Even in broad daylight it was a hazardous business to wander away from the battery and loose oneself in the maze of shell-craters brimming with water that surrounded one on every side.
Even for a man in full possession of his strength, to slip into one of these slimy cesspools meant a nightmare struggle for survival before he emerged from its clinging depths, and for a wounded man the task was virtually impossible.
More than once I have seen the body of an infantryman clutching desperately at a bayoneted rifle, which he had driven into the crumbling side of a waterlogged shell-hole, in the vain hope of keeping his head above water until he could be rescued.
Perhaps the greatest danger of all was to be lost in such an area after nightfall, when the horror of darkness was added to the menace of the unknown and one could see as well as hear the glowing splinters of the bursting shells.
Small wonder that quite a number of German prisoners, captured after they had been hiding in such surroundings, sometimes for as long as three or four days, were little better than gibbering maniacs. The medical term for such a condition was shell shock: I wonder by what name it was known to the recording angel?
Where they fell
But I find myself getting morbid. However, before leaving the subject I will take the reader for a brief stroll through a line of wrecked German concrete emplacements a hundred yards or so in front of our battery position.
It is a German 5.9" field gun position that was overrun by a Highland Regiment a few weeks before and its defenders bayoneted….
Friend and foe still lie where they fell, locked in a grim death grapple, although now the gun pits are partially flooded and the whole place is infested with vermin….
Here a ‘Jock’ hangs head-downwards over a gun-shield, his bayonet in the chest of a German lieutenant, and a bullet wound in his head to show where the officer shot him as he died… there a mere boy is crouched in a corner, his hands before his face as if to shut out the sight of the approaching Nemesis.
The gunners had put up a desperate resistance, for they knew they could expect no mercy. What was the slogan? “The only good German is a dead one.”
There they lay, their stiffened limbs twisted into grotesque postures, in the gloomy depths of that concrete inferno. The faces of those whose blood had drained from their veins before they died have turned a ghastly greenish-white; the remainder are a hideous mottled purple and all are horribly distended.
But upon the shield of every captured gun is chalked the number of the battalion and company that wrested it from the hands of the enemy, to be subsequently recorded in the annals of the regiment. WHAT PRICE GLORY?
But I find myself getting morbid. However, before leaving the subject I will take the reader for a brief stroll through a line of wrecked German concrete emplacements a hundred yards or so in front of our battery position.
It is a German 5.9" field gun position that was overrun by a Highland Regiment a few weeks before and its defenders bayoneted….
Friend and foe still lie where they fell, locked in a grim death grapple, although now the gun pits are partially flooded and the whole place is infested with vermin….
Here a ‘Jock’ hangs head-downwards over a gun-shield, his bayonet in the chest of a German lieutenant, and a bullet wound in his head to show where the officer shot him as he died… there a mere boy is crouched in a corner, his hands before his face as if to shut out the sight of the approaching Nemesis.
The gunners had put up a desperate resistance, for they knew they could expect no mercy. What was the slogan? “The only good German is a dead one.”
There they lay, their stiffened limbs twisted into grotesque postures, in the gloomy depths of that concrete inferno. The faces of those whose blood had drained from their veins before they died have turned a ghastly greenish-white; the remainder are a hideous mottled purple and all are horribly distended.
But upon the shield of every captured gun is chalked the number of the battalion and company that wrested it from the hands of the enemy, to be subsequently recorded in the annals of the regiment. WHAT PRICE GLORY?
The attack moves forward under an ‘iron umbrella’
Meanwhile the battle of 9th October, in which our own infantry were directly concerned and which was designed to effect the final capture of Passchendaele, was well under way.
We at the guns were laying down a barrage upon pre-concerted lines of fire, which advanced a hundred yards every three minutes to enable the advancing troops to keep under the shelter of this ‘iron umbrella’.
At stated intervals we reverted to rapid gunfire, during which period we loaded and blazed away as fast as the empty cartridge cases could be ejected.
Breech mechanisms soon became clogged with mud, and had to be opened and closed with the aid of pick-handles, used as levers, and the pieces themselves soon became so hot that we were compelled to pour water from the nearest shell-hole down the muzzles to cool them and thus prevent the shells jamming in the rifling and exploding inside the barrel.
This sort of accident was not uncommon at such times and would account for the entire detachment as completely as a direct hit.
Meanwhile the battle of 9th October, in which our own infantry were directly concerned and which was designed to effect the final capture of Passchendaele, was well under way.
We at the guns were laying down a barrage upon pre-concerted lines of fire, which advanced a hundred yards every three minutes to enable the advancing troops to keep under the shelter of this ‘iron umbrella’.
At stated intervals we reverted to rapid gunfire, during which period we loaded and blazed away as fast as the empty cartridge cases could be ejected.
Breech mechanisms soon became clogged with mud, and had to be opened and closed with the aid of pick-handles, used as levers, and the pieces themselves soon became so hot that we were compelled to pour water from the nearest shell-hole down the muzzles to cool them and thus prevent the shells jamming in the rifling and exploding inside the barrel.
This sort of accident was not uncommon at such times and would account for the entire detachment as completely as a direct hit.
Nervous wrecks
Soon we began to have visual evidence that our attack was progressing, for wounded infantrymen and scared prisoners came limping past the battery on the quaking corduroy road, many of them plastered with mud beyond the semblance of humanity.
Some of the Germans had been lurking in shell-holes in No Man’s Land for days, not daring to show themselves for fear of being picked off by snipers, and they were just nervous wrecks.
As they passed our battery position they held up their hands and followed our every movement with scared eyes, in case we might decide to shoot them in the back.
A little further down the road half a dozen were squabbling round a discarded biscuit tin for a few broken fragments, like so many starving dogs.
Our own walking wounded were in almost as sorry a plight, their puttees and boots literally sucked off their feet by the mud, which even covered their faces. Many had nothing but sandbags tied round their feet.
Shell-shock cases appeared to be common and I saw one officer curled up on a stretcher in a ball, like a hedgehog, despite the unavailing efforts of the stretcher bearers to straighten him out.
The courage of the latter was beyond all praise. Because of the appalling nature of the ground they were forced to carry their stretchers shoulder high, one at each corner. Often prisoners were formed into stretcher-parties, usually in charge of a red-cross man.
I saw one of these parties blown down by the blast of an exploding shell and thought them all casualties. But when the flying fragments had ceased to fall, they just picked themselves out of the mud, replaced their burden and staggered on again, although I could see that at least one had been wounded.
With the coming of darkness we were still firing in a desultory fashion and, although we managed to find time for a meal of sorts (bully and biscuits); there was no possibility of sleep during the night.
The infantry, clinging for dear life to their few hard-won acres of shell pitted swamp below Passchendaele, were excessively nervous (small blame to them for that), and we were having constant SOS calls.
In the intervals, as the ground was being swept by retaliatory fire, all the detachments herded together in a captured German concrete emplacement, (pillboxes we called them), just adjoining the battery position. Although it was ankle deep in water and there was standing room only at least its massive walls of concrete two yards thick guaranteed us protection from flying splinters.
On the following morning this haven of refuge was converted into the battery office and for two nights my detachment and I spent the hours of darkness huddled for shelter under the gun-shield.
Later we found an abandoned tank which we utilised for a dormitory. Unfortunately during the night we had another SOS and the resultant mix-up, with everyone struggling to scramble through an exceedingly small man-hole, in pitch darkness, while all hell seemed to have been let loose around us, led to some harsh words and reprimands before we finally got into action.
Ultimately we scrounged fifty sandbags and two sheets of corrugated iron, with which we made a splinter-proof shelter of sorts, under which we crawled on our bellies.
But even this proved unsatisfactory, as the sandbags subsided into the mud while we slept, pinning us to the ground, and at the next alarm call we could only escape by pushing off the roof. After that experience we returned to our gun-shield.
Soon we began to have visual evidence that our attack was progressing, for wounded infantrymen and scared prisoners came limping past the battery on the quaking corduroy road, many of them plastered with mud beyond the semblance of humanity.
Some of the Germans had been lurking in shell-holes in No Man’s Land for days, not daring to show themselves for fear of being picked off by snipers, and they were just nervous wrecks.
As they passed our battery position they held up their hands and followed our every movement with scared eyes, in case we might decide to shoot them in the back.
A little further down the road half a dozen were squabbling round a discarded biscuit tin for a few broken fragments, like so many starving dogs.
Our own walking wounded were in almost as sorry a plight, their puttees and boots literally sucked off their feet by the mud, which even covered their faces. Many had nothing but sandbags tied round their feet.
Shell-shock cases appeared to be common and I saw one officer curled up on a stretcher in a ball, like a hedgehog, despite the unavailing efforts of the stretcher bearers to straighten him out.
The courage of the latter was beyond all praise. Because of the appalling nature of the ground they were forced to carry their stretchers shoulder high, one at each corner. Often prisoners were formed into stretcher-parties, usually in charge of a red-cross man.
I saw one of these parties blown down by the blast of an exploding shell and thought them all casualties. But when the flying fragments had ceased to fall, they just picked themselves out of the mud, replaced their burden and staggered on again, although I could see that at least one had been wounded.
With the coming of darkness we were still firing in a desultory fashion and, although we managed to find time for a meal of sorts (bully and biscuits); there was no possibility of sleep during the night.
The infantry, clinging for dear life to their few hard-won acres of shell pitted swamp below Passchendaele, were excessively nervous (small blame to them for that), and we were having constant SOS calls.
In the intervals, as the ground was being swept by retaliatory fire, all the detachments herded together in a captured German concrete emplacement, (pillboxes we called them), just adjoining the battery position. Although it was ankle deep in water and there was standing room only at least its massive walls of concrete two yards thick guaranteed us protection from flying splinters.
On the following morning this haven of refuge was converted into the battery office and for two nights my detachment and I spent the hours of darkness huddled for shelter under the gun-shield.
Later we found an abandoned tank which we utilised for a dormitory. Unfortunately during the night we had another SOS and the resultant mix-up, with everyone struggling to scramble through an exceedingly small man-hole, in pitch darkness, while all hell seemed to have been let loose around us, led to some harsh words and reprimands before we finally got into action.
Ultimately we scrounged fifty sandbags and two sheets of corrugated iron, with which we made a splinter-proof shelter of sorts, under which we crawled on our bellies.
But even this proved unsatisfactory, as the sandbags subsided into the mud while we slept, pinning us to the ground, and at the next alarm call we could only escape by pushing off the roof. After that experience we returned to our gun-shield.
We hand over
Fortunately our casualties were slight and on 16th October we handed over to C/331 Battery. We left our guns where they were, as we should have needed tanks to haul them out of the quagmire into which they had finally sunk.
This was in spite of the fact that we had done our best to ‘consolidate’ the position, but then, as our Captain sapiently remarked: “How does one consolidate porridge?”
The guns belonging to C/331 were being taken for us to a forward position in the ruins of Zonnebeke and I took an instant dislike to the one allocated to my subsection.
It was obviously a veteran and its shield, on which some wag had painted a white elephant, had been damaged by shellfire and hung at a rakish angle over one wheel, giving it a most disreputable appearance.
The elevating gear was so badly worn that there was some two inches play in the cogs and one could almost see the droop in the piece due to heavy firing. To compensate for this, one had to add fifty or a hundred yards to the range, varying in accordance with the elevation, but I had so little confidence in this rule-of-thumb scale that I almost invariably added another fifty yards on my own account.
As I was handing over my own gun, preparatory to moving forward to Zonnebeke, there was an unpleasant incident. A shell burst some distance away and a splinter from it went clean through the head of the relieving corporal, to whom I was just explaining the lines of fire, sending his steel helmet flying into the air.
Some of his brains spattered on the face of the gun-layer who was sitting on the trail spade and it made him horribly sick, poor lad. As a result I had to remain with the new battery until they could send up another NCO from the wagons-line to relieve me.
Fortunately our casualties were slight and on 16th October we handed over to C/331 Battery. We left our guns where they were, as we should have needed tanks to haul them out of the quagmire into which they had finally sunk.
This was in spite of the fact that we had done our best to ‘consolidate’ the position, but then, as our Captain sapiently remarked: “How does one consolidate porridge?”
The guns belonging to C/331 were being taken for us to a forward position in the ruins of Zonnebeke and I took an instant dislike to the one allocated to my subsection.
It was obviously a veteran and its shield, on which some wag had painted a white elephant, had been damaged by shellfire and hung at a rakish angle over one wheel, giving it a most disreputable appearance.
The elevating gear was so badly worn that there was some two inches play in the cogs and one could almost see the droop in the piece due to heavy firing. To compensate for this, one had to add fifty or a hundred yards to the range, varying in accordance with the elevation, but I had so little confidence in this rule-of-thumb scale that I almost invariably added another fifty yards on my own account.
As I was handing over my own gun, preparatory to moving forward to Zonnebeke, there was an unpleasant incident. A shell burst some distance away and a splinter from it went clean through the head of the relieving corporal, to whom I was just explaining the lines of fire, sending his steel helmet flying into the air.
Some of his brains spattered on the face of the gun-layer who was sitting on the trail spade and it made him horribly sick, poor lad. As a result I had to remain with the new battery until they could send up another NCO from the wagons-line to relieve me.
The grim journey past Devil’s Crossing
It was almost daylight when at long last I was relieved from duty at C/331 Battery, and I decided to take a chance and walk forward to our new position in Zonnebeke.
At sunrise the congested traffic on the floating corduroy road vanished as if whisked away by a magic wand and I found myself alone.
It was an eerie feeling to be absolutely cut off from all one’s fellow creatures in the midst of the widespread desolation of the Salient, which stretched out on all sides like a muddy Sahara desert, totally devoid of life.
One imagined that the eye of every Bosche sniper and machine-gunner, from their concrete lurking places on the crest of the Moorsledge ridge, were following every movement or that some officious German FOO was about to turn a section salvo upon the impudent intruder. There was a hint of menace in the very air.
It was almost daylight when at long last I was relieved from duty at C/331 Battery, and I decided to take a chance and walk forward to our new position in Zonnebeke.
At sunrise the congested traffic on the floating corduroy road vanished as if whisked away by a magic wand and I found myself alone.
It was an eerie feeling to be absolutely cut off from all one’s fellow creatures in the midst of the widespread desolation of the Salient, which stretched out on all sides like a muddy Sahara desert, totally devoid of life.
One imagined that the eye of every Bosche sniper and machine-gunner, from their concrete lurking places on the crest of the Moorsledge ridge, were following every movement or that some officious German FOO was about to turn a section salvo upon the impudent intruder. There was a hint of menace in the very air.
30-second dash
To make matters worse, I found myself approaching the Devil’s Crossing. This salubrious spot, which dominated the approach to the village, was formerly an embankment under which one of the innumerable drainage ‘bekes’ was culverted.
Now it was pulverised beyond recognition, being shelled by a heavy battery of 9.2" guns at intervals of thirty seconds, night and day.
Here during the hours of darkness, when it was imperative to get supplies and ammunition forward to the front line, military police and salvage squad were on duty, allowing a single vehicle through after each detonation, with half a minute handicap to reach a safety zone.
Many, of course, failed, and the wreckage was cleared by the simple process of heaving the shattered wagon or limber over the edge of the road into the all-pervading mud, where it speedily sank out of sight and was gone for ever.
When I arrived the place was deserted, but the shells were still falling, and, not knowing the drill, I spent a hectic two minutes dodging one burst after another, which I felt convinced had been staged for my special benefit.
In the course of the next fourteen days I made several more crossings here, but never one where I felt such an overpowering impulse to turn tail and leave the filed of battle to all who liked that sort of thing.
It was after this episode that I found a splinter embedded in the heel of my boot and wryly reflected that, if I hadn’t been lying face-downwards in the mud at the time it would probably have lodged into some vital portion of my anatomy.
To make matters worse, I found myself approaching the Devil’s Crossing. This salubrious spot, which dominated the approach to the village, was formerly an embankment under which one of the innumerable drainage ‘bekes’ was culverted.
Now it was pulverised beyond recognition, being shelled by a heavy battery of 9.2" guns at intervals of thirty seconds, night and day.
Here during the hours of darkness, when it was imperative to get supplies and ammunition forward to the front line, military police and salvage squad were on duty, allowing a single vehicle through after each detonation, with half a minute handicap to reach a safety zone.
Many, of course, failed, and the wreckage was cleared by the simple process of heaving the shattered wagon or limber over the edge of the road into the all-pervading mud, where it speedily sank out of sight and was gone for ever.
When I arrived the place was deserted, but the shells were still falling, and, not knowing the drill, I spent a hectic two minutes dodging one burst after another, which I felt convinced had been staged for my special benefit.
In the course of the next fourteen days I made several more crossings here, but never one where I felt such an overpowering impulse to turn tail and leave the filed of battle to all who liked that sort of thing.
It was after this episode that I found a splinter embedded in the heel of my boot and wryly reflected that, if I hadn’t been lying face-downwards in the mud at the time it would probably have lodged into some vital portion of my anatomy.
Heavy casualties
I found the new battery position on the left of the road, just opposite the huge mound of debris that had been the church.
Although all of the houses had been completely levelled to the ground, there were plenty of cellars for use as dugouts and heaven knows we needed them, for throughout the whole of our brief stay we were shelled bitterly and incessantly with both high explosive and gas - mustard and phosgene.
Soon we were suffering heavy casualties and on 18th October the battery diary records:
“Had three guns knocked out last night & got them away in the morning. Bom. Martin killed & Bdrs. McConville, Starkie, Durham, Gnr. Winter & Williamson wounded. Our four best layers. Very heavy shelling all day & shell storms through the night with an hour of gas. We were very lucky to escape with only Thompson and McMorran wounded, White & Clegg, gas & Caborne & Cottingham slightly wounded.”
But we had no time to waste over ceremony and somehow we galloped hell for leather over the pitiful debris. I had left my haversack dangling from the rocking-bar sight and when we reached Ordnance I found it soaked in blood.
The official diary says three guns were knocked out: actually there were four, for we had collected an abandoned gun on route and got it into action for some hours until it stopped a direct hit.
How many of us lived through the next few days and remained reasonably sane I shall never know, for we were shelled without respite all round the clock and it became sheer suicide to show one’s nose above ground.
Obviously the Bosche was extremely sensitive about the occupation of Zonnebeke, and was intent on making our stay as lively as possible.
A splinter cut across the front of my tunic, through the leather jerkin I was wearing and every rag I had on, just grazing the skin. Another damaged my respirator and after the next deluge of gas shells I found I had lost my voice, owing to gas seeping behind the rubber face-piece.
I found the new battery position on the left of the road, just opposite the huge mound of debris that had been the church.
Although all of the houses had been completely levelled to the ground, there were plenty of cellars for use as dugouts and heaven knows we needed them, for throughout the whole of our brief stay we were shelled bitterly and incessantly with both high explosive and gas - mustard and phosgene.
Soon we were suffering heavy casualties and on 18th October the battery diary records:
“Had three guns knocked out last night & got them away in the morning. Bom. Martin killed & Bdrs. McConville, Starkie, Durham, Gnr. Winter & Williamson wounded. Our four best layers. Very heavy shelling all day & shell storms through the night with an hour of gas. We were very lucky to escape with only Thompson and McMorran wounded, White & Clegg, gas & Caborne & Cottingham slightly wounded.”
But we had no time to waste over ceremony and somehow we galloped hell for leather over the pitiful debris. I had left my haversack dangling from the rocking-bar sight and when we reached Ordnance I found it soaked in blood.
The official diary says three guns were knocked out: actually there were four, for we had collected an abandoned gun on route and got it into action for some hours until it stopped a direct hit.
How many of us lived through the next few days and remained reasonably sane I shall never know, for we were shelled without respite all round the clock and it became sheer suicide to show one’s nose above ground.
Obviously the Bosche was extremely sensitive about the occupation of Zonnebeke, and was intent on making our stay as lively as possible.
A splinter cut across the front of my tunic, through the leather jerkin I was wearing and every rag I had on, just grazing the skin. Another damaged my respirator and after the next deluge of gas shells I found I had lost my voice, owing to gas seeping behind the rubber face-piece.
Unlucky day
Friday 19th October was a particularly unlucky day; just on the edge of dark, when we were sitting down to a hurried meal, a wounded gunner from ‘C’ Battery reported that one of their dugouts had blown in and the men were trapped.
We turned out and succeeded in extracting all who were still alive, carrying them down to the RAMC first aid post, an advanced dressing station beyond Devil’s Crossing.
Then we returned weary and plastered with mud, only to learn that our own right section dugout had sustained a direct hit and all the detachments were buried.
That was a big job getting them out in the pitch darkness, particularly as some had legs smashed and had also sustained internal injuries. Gunner Thompson was killed and six others were wounded or shell-shocked.
All this meant another nightmare journey past Devil’s Crossing, with its interminable salvo every thirty seconds, but somehow we did it and managed to survive.
On the following night my own gun was put out of action and I went down the line with it to the Ordnance Depot for repairs to the buffer.
At Devil’s Crossing there was the usual jam. A smashed GS wagon and four dead horses lay sprawled across the road, while a dead man’s leg protruded from the wreckage.
Friday 19th October was a particularly unlucky day; just on the edge of dark, when we were sitting down to a hurried meal, a wounded gunner from ‘C’ Battery reported that one of their dugouts had blown in and the men were trapped.
We turned out and succeeded in extracting all who were still alive, carrying them down to the RAMC first aid post, an advanced dressing station beyond Devil’s Crossing.
Then we returned weary and plastered with mud, only to learn that our own right section dugout had sustained a direct hit and all the detachments were buried.
That was a big job getting them out in the pitch darkness, particularly as some had legs smashed and had also sustained internal injuries. Gunner Thompson was killed and six others were wounded or shell-shocked.
All this meant another nightmare journey past Devil’s Crossing, with its interminable salvo every thirty seconds, but somehow we did it and managed to survive.
On the following night my own gun was put out of action and I went down the line with it to the Ordnance Depot for repairs to the buffer.
At Devil’s Crossing there was the usual jam. A smashed GS wagon and four dead horses lay sprawled across the road, while a dead man’s leg protruded from the wreckage.
A brief rest, then over top with the infantry
Arriving at the Ordnance Repair Depot, which was located outside the ruins of the Convent near Ypres, I reported to the commanding officer, arranged to billet the drivers and gun team and then went to consult with the Corporal Artificer in charge of the repair. I found him more concerned about myself than my gun.
“What the hell’s going on up yonder?” he queried, staring at me in amazement, “You’re about all in, chum.”
As I had not more than two hours consecutive sleep for over a week, I was literally stumbling with fatigue, whilst my voice was little more than a croak, for I was still suffering from the effects of gas. Without more ado, he hurried me off to the corporal’s mess, ordered me a hot meal and then pushed me into his bunk in an adjoining Nissen hut.
Arriving at the Ordnance Repair Depot, which was located outside the ruins of the Convent near Ypres, I reported to the commanding officer, arranged to billet the drivers and gun team and then went to consult with the Corporal Artificer in charge of the repair. I found him more concerned about myself than my gun.
“What the hell’s going on up yonder?” he queried, staring at me in amazement, “You’re about all in, chum.”
As I had not more than two hours consecutive sleep for over a week, I was literally stumbling with fatigue, whilst my voice was little more than a croak, for I was still suffering from the effects of gas. Without more ado, he hurried me off to the corporal’s mess, ordered me a hot meal and then pushed me into his bunk in an adjoining Nissen hut.
The clock round
“You don’t move out of there until that gun’s ready,” he said, and I didn’t. In fact I slept the clock round and woke up a new man.
By this time my gun, still with its sinister white elephant on the shield, was fit for action and as good as it was ever likely to be. The corporal had welded a few patches on the buffer, which was pierced in several places with splinters, but he could do nothing about its general debility, beyond reporting it as unfit for accurate ranging, a fact of which I was already acutely aware.
“That bloody thing’s nothing but a menace, chum.” he said as we shook hands at parting. “If you’ll take my tip you’ll dump it in the nearest shell-hole on your way up”.
I found the battery working with skeleton crews, having suffered further casualties during my absence.
‘C’ Battery had another dugout knocked in with many casualties, and the Bosche was putting down barrages on us at regular intervals. On the night of 22nd October, a flurry of shells fell around the pack horses as they halted on the road to unload ammunition and rations, and Campbell was severely shell-shocked.
“You don’t move out of there until that gun’s ready,” he said, and I didn’t. In fact I slept the clock round and woke up a new man.
By this time my gun, still with its sinister white elephant on the shield, was fit for action and as good as it was ever likely to be. The corporal had welded a few patches on the buffer, which was pierced in several places with splinters, but he could do nothing about its general debility, beyond reporting it as unfit for accurate ranging, a fact of which I was already acutely aware.
“That bloody thing’s nothing but a menace, chum.” he said as we shook hands at parting. “If you’ll take my tip you’ll dump it in the nearest shell-hole on your way up”.
I found the battery working with skeleton crews, having suffered further casualties during my absence.
‘C’ Battery had another dugout knocked in with many casualties, and the Bosche was putting down barrages on us at regular intervals. On the night of 22nd October, a flurry of shells fell around the pack horses as they halted on the road to unload ammunition and rations, and Campbell was severely shell-shocked.
Too hot to hold
By this time the Major had come to the conclusion that this position was too hot to hold and decided to move the guns forward, clear of the village.
As there was no possibility of getting gun limbers or horses anywhere near, there was nothing for it but to wait for darkness and then man-handle the guns, one by one, across a quarter of a mile of shell churned morass, in which the craters, brimming with water, were sometimes actually touching one another.
After incredible labour, sometimes with as many as twenty sweating gunners heaving on the drag ropes, we succeeded in establishing another position, just as dawn broke amid intermittent squalls of rain.
My detachment presented a sorry spectacle, as one of our drag ropes had broken whilst we were taking the strain, in consequence of which we had all taken a mud bath.
By this time the Major had come to the conclusion that this position was too hot to hold and decided to move the guns forward, clear of the village.
As there was no possibility of getting gun limbers or horses anywhere near, there was nothing for it but to wait for darkness and then man-handle the guns, one by one, across a quarter of a mile of shell churned morass, in which the craters, brimming with water, were sometimes actually touching one another.
After incredible labour, sometimes with as many as twenty sweating gunners heaving on the drag ropes, we succeeded in establishing another position, just as dawn broke amid intermittent squalls of rain.
My detachment presented a sorry spectacle, as one of our drag ropes had broken whilst we were taking the strain, in consequence of which we had all taken a mud bath.
Little better
Unfortunately, our new position proved little better than the old as may be judged from a curious incident a little later. Turning out for a barrage at 4 a.m., I found my detachment, which should have been on the extreme flank of the battery, in the throes of an argument with the adjoining sub-section, both claiming the same gun.
A brief inspection, with the aid of a pocket torch, revealed that there was no white elephant on the gun-shield, so that it could not have been mine.
Apparently this lop-eared veteran had vanished into thin air, for on our left flank was a vacant shell-pitted waste resembling a lunar landscape more than a stretch of Flemish countryside.
We had no option but to wait until daybreak, when we found the missing gun standing on its muzzle in a deep shell-hole some six yards behind the position, where it had been thrown by a direct hit. Obviously, it was a complete write-off.
Poor old White Elephant, it may be that its iron soul had been moved to shame by the disparaging words of the Ordnance ‘tiffy’ and it had taken him literally at his word.
But somehow I was loath to part company; I had a soft spot in my heart for the black sheep of the battery. After all, it had grown old and decrepit fighting for King and Country and besides, there is or ought to be a sentimental link between an artilleryman and his gun.
Unfortunately, our new position proved little better than the old as may be judged from a curious incident a little later. Turning out for a barrage at 4 a.m., I found my detachment, which should have been on the extreme flank of the battery, in the throes of an argument with the adjoining sub-section, both claiming the same gun.
A brief inspection, with the aid of a pocket torch, revealed that there was no white elephant on the gun-shield, so that it could not have been mine.
Apparently this lop-eared veteran had vanished into thin air, for on our left flank was a vacant shell-pitted waste resembling a lunar landscape more than a stretch of Flemish countryside.
We had no option but to wait until daybreak, when we found the missing gun standing on its muzzle in a deep shell-hole some six yards behind the position, where it had been thrown by a direct hit. Obviously, it was a complete write-off.
Poor old White Elephant, it may be that its iron soul had been moved to shame by the disparaging words of the Ordnance ‘tiffy’ and it had taken him literally at his word.
But somehow I was loath to part company; I had a soft spot in my heart for the black sheep of the battery. After all, it had grown old and decrepit fighting for King and Country and besides, there is or ought to be a sentimental link between an artilleryman and his gun.
Attack scheduled
Being left ‘spare I was told to report to the officer’s mess the following day to take part in an attack by the Canadians, scheduled for the next morning. I was to act as understudy for the FOO, who was with the infantry on liaison duty with a couple of signallers, in the event of him becoming a casualty.
After carefully noting my orders and synchronising my watch, I returned to my dugout and was trying to snatch a few hours sleep when a shell burst on the officer’s mess. We turned out to find the Major had been wounded, fortunately not severely, and with some difficulty we got him down the line, although it was still broad daylight.
When we reported that night at the Canadian battalion Headquarters the infantry Major noted with some surprise that was not carrying a rifle, although (in accordance with King’s Regulations) I wore a bandolier with 50 rounds of ammunition. I explained that normally each sub-section of 25 men had only six rifles, and that these were usually kept strapped to the limbers.
“And what are you expected to do with these goddam cartridges?” he snapped, “Throw ‘em at the Bosche?”, and he flung his own revolver and lanyard across the dugout towards me. “Hang on to those till you come back.” He went on. “You may need ‘em.”
Being left ‘spare I was told to report to the officer’s mess the following day to take part in an attack by the Canadians, scheduled for the next morning. I was to act as understudy for the FOO, who was with the infantry on liaison duty with a couple of signallers, in the event of him becoming a casualty.
After carefully noting my orders and synchronising my watch, I returned to my dugout and was trying to snatch a few hours sleep when a shell burst on the officer’s mess. We turned out to find the Major had been wounded, fortunately not severely, and with some difficulty we got him down the line, although it was still broad daylight.
When we reported that night at the Canadian battalion Headquarters the infantry Major noted with some surprise that was not carrying a rifle, although (in accordance with King’s Regulations) I wore a bandolier with 50 rounds of ammunition. I explained that normally each sub-section of 25 men had only six rifles, and that these were usually kept strapped to the limbers.
“And what are you expected to do with these goddam cartridges?” he snapped, “Throw ‘em at the Bosche?”, and he flung his own revolver and lanyard across the dugout towards me. “Hang on to those till you come back.” He went on. “You may need ‘em.”