B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (13 page)

By the time we had reached the bottom of the dug-out the trench outside had been destroyed by the continuous shelling, causing the entrance to our dug-out to collapse, thus cutting off our means of escape to the trench outside.

After some few moments, which seemed like hours, our major decided that Lieutenant Hasper should make an attempt to be lifted up the airshaft. We now began at once to pull out the timbers that had been blown into the dug-out to put under the feet of our comrade, in assisting him to make his escape, pushing the pieces of wood under each other, the higher he got up the shaft. After some considerable time Lieutenant Hasper reached the top. The bombardment was now at its height, but, thank the good Lord! He managed to get away without getting hit, to bring back a rescue party of half a dozen officers and men.

The time which elapsed between Lieutenant Hasper’s escape and his return with the rescue party seemed endless. At last we heard shouts, and the next instant Lieutenant Hasper was being let down the airshaft. Unable to obtain a rope, our rescue party formed themselves into a human chain.

We now wondered who would be next to be got out. The major decided that he would make an attempt, but after many despairing efforts he was not able to get more than a few feet from the bottom: his figure was more robust than Lieutenant Hasper’s, and our task of lifting him was much more difficult.

While all this had been going on I had been praying very quietly, asking the Almighty to save me. I shall never forget those moments of anxiety.

The major then said, ‘Well, Bradbury, you have a go.’ This was the last I heard or saw of him.

I began to claw my way up towards daylight. The German guns were now belching forth with more intensity than ever, and the work of the rescue party was becoming more difficult every moment. All this time I was working my way inch by inch, grappling the clay walls of the airshaft, and digging my fingers in as far as I could. I was now becoming very exhausted, and only the encouragement which I received from those up above made me go on.

Every moment, I kept on repeating the words, ‘I cannot do it,’ only to hear Lieutenant Hasper’s voice calling, ‘For God’s sake, man, stick it!’

I now had worked myself half-way up, and the distance between myself and my rescuers still seemed a very long way. It was getting late in the evening and darkness was creeping upon us, the bursting of the enemy shells on top of the dug-out making a very vivid scene.

I could now see the outstretched fingers of another officer, Lieutenant Hibbins, who formed one of the rescue party and, try as I could, with all my strength, I was still unable to reach them. The exertion which I was putting into my efforts made the perspiration run down me, I felt that the veins in my hands were at bursting point.

At last I felt the tips of his fingers, and, after a couple of almost superhuman efforts on my part, he grabbed my wrists. The feeling that ran through me at this moment I cannot describe, realizing that I was now safe. At last I was landed safely at the top; each rescuer putting every ounce of energy behind his pull.

Shells were falling heavily as I lay in a semi-conscious and half-dazed condition on the ground.

Our corporal, Frierley, and some more men were now endeavouring to dig as hard as they could to widen the shaft to rescue Major Heard. After working many hours they had to give up, and the major and my other two comrades had to be abandoned in the collapsed dug-out.

Our infantry in the front-line trenches, which were only a few yards away, were depleted in number, the Boche attacking very heavily as I lay on the ground.

It was now eight o’clock in the evening and I made my way back along the shell-battered trenches, being assisted by Corporal Frierley, who was awarded the Military Medal in this action.

I was met by our captain, who afterwards took command of the battery. He congratulated me upon my escape. Eventually we arrived back at the gun-pits.

Lieutenant Hasper was awarded the Military Cross. I shall never forget him. This incident is only one of the many great deeds of heroism enacted during the Great War.

Gunner N. H. Bradbury enlisted in the Territorial service on May 6th, 1909, and was mobilized on August 4th, 1914, his unit then being the 3rd London Brigade, R.F.A., which stayed in England until October 4th, 1915, when it embarked for Prance, the first action being at Sailly-au-Bois, November 1915. January 27th, 1916, the Kaiser’s birthday anniversary, he was in the front line at Loos, going from there to the Somme, where he took part in the Somme offensive of July 1st, 1916. After leaving there the brigade was in the Battle of the Somme. Afterwards took part in the capture of Vimy Ridge, April 10th, 1917, when, after doing good work there, the brigade was designated the 282nd Brigade, R.F.A., being Army field artillery; Other engagements were: Third Battle of Ypres, July 31st, 1917; Pilkem Ridge; St. ]ulien, August 3rd, 1917; Poelcappelle, August 19th, 1917; Passchendaele Ridge, November 6th, 1917; V Army retreat, March 21st, 1918. On the date of the Armistice at Cambrai
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Both boots had been worn thin at the heel. They were also splashed heavily with mud. Slimy, grey, limestone mud. The puttees, too, were mudstained and the khaki pants, but it was the boots that fascinated me.

I had been watching those two boots moving up and down throughout the whole of a bleak winter’s afternoon. There were hundreds of other boots – my own included – all moving up and down, but only the two directly in front really mattered. Left-right, left-right, on they went till the sun went down and the sticky surface of the road turned crisp with frost. The down-at-heel boots continued to plod onwards. Darkness came on apace and mercifully hid them from view.

Stars were shining in a clear sky when we halted, tired out and hungry, by the grey-stoned church of Bray-sur-Somme. At last we had arrived at our destination. The battalion had been marching for several days. We were about to experience our first taste of trench warfare in a ‘quiet spot,’ and Bray was to be our headquarters when out of the line.

We were to journey up to the trenches under cover of darkness on the following night. The orderly sergeant broke the news when he came to our billet with Battalion Orders. Nobody seemed to care. We were too weary and foot-sore to take much notice.

‘Can anyone here milk a cow?’ It was the sergeant speaking, but no reply to this strange question was forthcoming. If he had asked for a volunteer to kill a pig, the request could not have been more unexpected. The next moment, however, my elbow was nudged. ‘Go on, chum. Speak up. There’s a soft job for you!’

‘Can you milk a cow?’ said the sergeant, eyeing me suspiciously, I nodded my head. ‘Then in future you will be attached to Headquarters’ Company. To-morrow you will parade at 3.30 a.m. to march with the advance party for the trenches.’ Without any further word of explanation, the sergeant turned and walked through the doorway, out into the darkness of the deserted village street.

What in the name of goodness had I let myself in for now? Weary with foot-slogging, I had hoped for at least a day’s rest before going up the line, But, no. Long before dawn I was to be on the road once more. Cursing my luck, I turned in for a few hours’ sleep before turning out again.

There is little need to dwell upon the discomforts of the following morning. The early rise in the dark and the parade of Headquarters’ Company in the keen, frosty air. ‘Is the cowman there? Right.’ Off we trudged along the road to the trenches.

In the grey light of early dawn we found ourselves looking down on a few shell-shattered roof-taps – all that was left of Carnoy. Marching down hill, we halted amongst the ruins just as the rattle of a machine gun and desultory rifle-fire told us that it was ‘stand-to’ in the trenches.

Carnoy was Battalion Headquarters for the troops holding the line. On one side of the road was the colonel’s dug-out. Opposite were the remains of a farmstead and near by a communication trench labelled Montauban Alley. Here amid the tumble-down debris of bricks and mortar I was to find a home. I was also to find my new job waiting for me.

‘Is the cowman there?’ asked a sleepy voice. ‘Come on, chum. Follow me. I’ll show you what kind of a job you’ve been let in for!’ The speaker had evidently just emerged from beneath his blanket. I followed him between two buildings where once there had been a gateway.

The gateway had belonged to the farmyard which had been square in shape, a large midden in the centre and out-buildings all round. The midden was still there. No cows, no horses, no pigs were to be seen. Not even a barn-door fowl. The buildings were in ruins and a death-like silence seemed to brood over the whole place.

‘Here we are,’ said my sleepy companion as we clattered over the cobblestones and halted in front of the only building with any semblance of a roof. Somewhere in, the darkness beyond the open doorway there was a movement which produced a faint rustling noise. There was no mistaking that familiar sound. It was the swish of a cow’s tail.

There were two cows – one dry and the other giving a bare quart of milk, I was told. The milk was to be taken to the colonel’s dug-out. ‘What do the poor beggars live on?’ was my first question. ‘I’ll show you after breakfast,’ was the reply. I was content to wait, for up the steps of a near-by dug-out came the savoury smell of fried bacon.

The dug-out was deep and down below it was comfortably warm and dry. Sore feet and aching shoulders were forgotten as we gathered round the fire to enjoy a drink of piping hot tea.

Breakfast finished, we returned to our charges once more. Undoing the tethering ropes, we led the cows out of the farmyard and along the roadway to a piece of waste land behind the colonel’s dug-out. Here we fastened them to two long ropes which were pegged into the ground. That’s all they get to eat,’ said my companion, and he pointed to the withered, brown grass which grew between the shell holes. ‘If it doesn’t fatten it’ll fill,’ he remarked, and with that we left the poor beasts grazing peacefully.

Back once more in the farmyard we made our way across to the far side of the ruins, where a layer of ice glistened on the surface of a waterlogged shell hole. Here lay the main source of our water supply for the cows. But one had to be careful, for the spot was overlooked from the enemy’s trenches. ‘Keep your head down. That bloomin’ sniper ain’t a bad shot.’ With these words I received final instructions for my newly acquired job as the colonel’s cowman.

That night, while I lay snug and warm in the farmyard dug-out, my old platoon marched up Montauban Alley on their way to the front line. My thoughts went with them. I visualized the cold, clammy, trench mud, the lonely night-watch on the fire-step and all the discomforts of trench life. After all, that parade with Headquarters’ Company at 3.30 a.m. had been worth while!

One morning, as I sat milking, a tabby cat wandered in through the doorway of the old cowshed. She mewed plaintively. The poor creature was nothing but a walking bag of bones. How on earth she got any food in this deserted place it was difficult to imagine. When I endeavoured to stroke her, she drew back, spitting savagely. However, a drop of milk in an old tin worked wonders and soon she became quite tame and confiding.

Often a skylark sang sweetly when I went to tether the cows on their scanty pasture amongst the shell holes. Apparently the birds were unaffected by the firing! At times a kestrel hawk could be seen hovering over the desolate wastes that had once been fields. Then there was a thrush that called from the shattered branch of a roadside tree. Men might die, cities, towns, and villages might fall in ruin, but still the birds sang on!

At night-time I discovered that the farmyard was by no means deserted. Standing; there in the bright moonlight, the scene was a grim one, with black ruins silhouetted against a starlit sky. In the centre of the yard the midden was alive with small, moving forms. Twin pairs of glittering eyes were watching in the shadows and high-pitched squeaky calls came from every corner. Rats. They were everywhere! They gambolled over the midden, fought with each other on the cobblestones, and went scavenging in parties through the gloom of the tumbledown buildings.

As I stood watching this strange spectacle a dark shadow passed over the moonlit ruins. This was followed by a sudden and shrill, scream of pain from the far side of the yard. Descending on silent wings, a great white barn owl had snatched up a victim. A wild scurry for cover and the yard was deserted. But not for long. In a very few minutes the hordes of rats were back once more at their nightly revels.

Looking back on those far-off days in the early spring of 1916 it seems difficult to realize that we used to keep cows in the trenches. Few survivors of those who were plunged into the terrible fighting on the Somme would find it possible to believe that the colonel in charge of the Carnoy sector had fresh milk for his breakfast every morning!

But then in those days the Somme was looked upon more or less as a picnic. Apart from one or two references in the papers to the leaning virgin of Albert, or the statement that another mine had gone up at Fricourt, there was little publicity given to these parts. Trones Wood, Delville Wood, Mametz, Guillemont and a hundred other historic place names were, of course, unheard of before the big push.

My job as colonel’s cowman was a pleasant occupation compared to life in the front line. Once, when we attempted to increase the cows’ milk yield and the C.O. demanded that hay should be sent up the line, I got into the Transport Officer’s bad books for stealing his clover! Otherwise there were few happenings of note. A shell or two now and then and that damned sniper for ever trying to knock the last remaining scrap of plaster off the farm buildings. That was about all.

For nearly two months the battalion journeyed backwards and forwards between Bray and the Carnoy sector. But at length there came rumours of a move. We were going to take over another lot of trenches on the right. This meant, of course, that our headquarters would no longer be at Carnoy. It also meant that our colonel would no longer have fresh milk for his breakfast!