B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (30 page)

Three a.m., 28th. Boom! Bang! Biff! Crash! A confused jangling; a succession of heavy explosions rent the air; shrapnel whined and flew in all directions. A holocaust of shell-fire. Shell after shell poured about the position; high explosives tore the earth up; gas shells polluted the atmosphere, and shrapnel hurtled from the sky above. Hours of it and with the first faint light of dawn, deploying from the village and the height behind, came the enemy. A huge grey mass. The British infantry held their fire. The enemy bombardment ceased and their infantry drew nearer. Artillery there was none; not so much as a solitary 18-pounder covered the British front. All had been withdrawn. The enemy came nearer; close up to the wire. Cutters were handled and made ready; then the Lewis guns belched forth and the riflemen opened rapid fire. Huge gaps in the enemy ranks and all confusion. They broke and fled; were re-formed, came again, were beaten back and again were driven forward, this time with sticks and at the point of the revolver. Seven attacks and not one gained an inch of ground.

9 a.m. A fresh bombardment and the enemy rested awhile. Picture a valley, low hills on either side, and along it a light railway. Down the track went a constant stream of battered humanity. Men minus an arm; those with huge dark stains on their uniform to show where they had been hit – Highlander and Sassenach. Here a man badly burned by a petrol bomb; there a poor devil with his leg gone at the knee, who dragged a weary way backward, using his rifle as a crutch. On the faces of all a look of hopeless horror as they fled from the terror behind them. One must see something like that to realize the insane folly of war.

Midday. There had been a slight lull in the shelling; then it suddenly increased. A veritable tornado. Shells fell unceasingly; they ripped the earth tip. Hundreds of tons were blown into the air at once. Shrapnel everywhere; the earth shook with seismic quaverings. Then, racing madly across the intervening space came the remnants of a brigade; the frontline had gone. There were two gaps in the wire. The colonel sprang for one, two H.Q. company sergeants for the other. Some coaxing, a turning about; spreading out to open order, they went back through that barrage of death. The shelling went on with unabated violence; men were swept to Eternity at every yard. But the line went on without wavering, without faltering, without a look behind. So steady, it might have been a drill movement on parade, Through that awful hail of steel and lead they passed and at 1 p.m. had regained the shambles of the Third Defence System. And the words of a famous Frenchman uttered at Balaclava might equally apply to the charge led by the old 75th Regiment of Foot.

No rest. Isolated attacks by the Hun and bombing parties; the spraying death of the machine guns on every hand. At 4 p.m, the enemy again lashed down his devastating barrage that blighted everything within its radius of action. That ended any hope of holding the advanced trenches and a withdrawal to the Green Line took place – the line the enemy would cross only when none remained alive to stay him. Another night and day; minor attacks and bombing-raids all the time and then relief…relief after sixty-two days in trenches without having been withdrawn. What relief to get one’s clothes off after wearing them continuously for a month! What comfort to cast boots aside after nineteen days’ wear! What savage delight to scratch and drag the damned lice from shirt seams and the more exposed portions of one’s anatomy?
Lousy
doesn’t properly express it.

Twelve days out. A promise of rest and a quiet sector. A long line of M.T. A hurried dash across country. Civilians streaming back – old men, old women, young women, and children. Some had carts loaded with their worldly goods; others pushed perambulators or small trucks loaded with their more treasured goods. Others – the greater number – carried what they had snatched in a handkerchief, and wandered wearily backwards. An attitude of helplessness and resignation that perhaps brightened a little when they saw the Tartan and the Soldats Eccosse.

The M.T. column halted behind a crest. Packs were piled. A Staff car flying up at 50 m.p.h., a hasty consultation, a rapid distribution of maps, a quick move to diamond formation, and the battalion moved forward. A 6-inch battery, drawn by motor lorries, pulled up and at once opened fire, without pits or masks.

A runner came up to report German cavalry on the right. Through a village and ahead a strange sight met the eye. A riot of green of every tint. The spring grass of verdant hue; budding trees clustered here and there; red-roofed houses peeping amid the green. Orchards of apple, cherry, and almond blossoms were dotted about. A riot of colour – green; red, white, and pink. Toward the horizon the bright flashes of the big guns, the whole lit gloriously in the dying splendour of the sun. Yet more than that was seen. There were the remnants of the 51st Division, slaughtered for the
n
th time, fighting desperately in an endeavour to stay the onslaught of the enemy. Now scarce a brigade. But they fought on in isolated groups. Sections scattered over the countryside and fought till they died or were overwhelmed by vastly superior force. The Gordons moved rapidly forward, crossed the La Bassée Canal, and plunged on to conflict. Surged forward and came up; plunged madly on the field-grey that swept up to break and swamp the heroic Highlanders. A short, grim struggle; bayonets flashed in the dying rays of the sun.

The field-grey wave rolled sullenly back from whence it had come. And then came the darkness. A line was dug. In a near-by farmhouse were cows, calves, horses, chickens, rabbits, pigs, and the varied stock one finds about a farm. In a cellar were hundreds of bottles of red and white wine, port, and champagne, to say nothing of a dozen barrels of beer. The troops lived very well in the ensuing days when not engaged with the enemy, on consolidation, or wiring. Out for a day, then into the other sector doing labourer’s work. A sergeant took a party out one night to fire farmhouses in No Man’s Land. They were nests of machine guns and the party’s arms were tins of petrol. Under a rising moon petrol was lavishly poured away. Some under a table. Some on the cloth and a sofa, walls quickly splashed. A flight of stairs in a corner quickly doused when a door at the top opened and a stream of light shone down and there was the noise of much guttural speech. The sergeant had a sheet of newspaper folded lengthwise. A match, a touch, and instantly a flame shot upward. A rapid touch to table and sofa and the sergeant dashed through the door with his kilt apron alight at the rear. They set light to each of four houses; fell foul of a German patrol, and surprised them by fighting with their fists, which seemed so to alarm them that they broke and fled… The incendiary party returned without loss.

They stayed on the sector for a while. The enemy used much gas. At this time they were using a very pernicious gas, which caused one to weep and sneeze and which infected you with dysentery at the same time. Unpleasant!

A working party was required one night to dig a cable trench. It is impossible to do navvies’ work in a box respirator and the party mainly worked without. A deluge of gas shells. Eyes swollen and red; throats parched; flesh inflamed and almost raw where the mustard variety of gas had burned it – a serious disadvantage to a kilt. In the morning the gas lay across the valley, thick and nauseous as the miasma vapour of an African forest. Large green banks of chlorine gas threw back iridescent colours to the sun, while rising from it came a fetid, urinous stench that came near choking one.

In the garden at the billet lying about the grass were close on a hundred men, denuded of their clothing, who lay about and writhed in veriest agony. The worst gas cases. With the passing of a few hours huge blisters were raised by the mustard gas. One man had a blister that reached from his neck to the bottom of his spine and extended the whole width of his back. In their agony they were retching horribly; straining till they sank exhausted, and then suddenly vomiting a long, green, streamerlike substance. And they were nearly all blind.

Christ! This happened on the morning of May 25th, 1911, in the village of Chocques, after nearly two thousand years of Christianity.

Would you believe it?

Sergeant H. E. May joined the Cameron Highlanders in January 1917, and was sent to France in May 1917, and transferred to the Gordon Highlanders, with whom he served continuously until the close of the War, when the battalion marched to Germany. Held the substantive rank of Sergeant, and in 1918 acted as C.S.M. or C.Q.M.S. on occasion. Was awarded the Military Medal in October 1918 for operations in the early part of that month
.

Turmoil and confusion are everywhere. Troops, baggage, and all the litter of war, lumbers up every available space. R.T. Officers are here, there, and everywhere. They sort us out, guide, and lead us to our trains. We file in.

Where are we going? No one knows. Where’s the 8th? Where’s the 7th? Where’s the 6th? Where is any regiment?

We move. It is night, we travel all night, and are joining or rejoining, new troops or casualties returning to cur units.

Sergeant S. is with me. He already has the D.C.M. This is his third lot. He does not relish it, none of us do. This will probably finish him; he realizes it. We all do. That is, the men. But what of the others? Boys, boys, boys – always boys. They have no right here. They are brave enough now, but, in a few hours, shells, gas; machine gun, and rifle will play hell with them. Daylight comes. Nesle slips by, and Ham, and right on to railhead we go. There the track ends, and we detrain.

Officers claim us, and the troops break up, going each to their corps reinforcements. Here we spend a day or two. There are parades, and instruction. We drill the boys; they hate it – so do we.

Then they give me a map, point out my direction, put me in charge of a party, and off we go. We belong to the 8th Londons.

Autreville is our headquarters, and I have to shepherd these lads safely to their destination, which, according to my map, is about seven miles away.

The going is heavy. Loaded like pack-mules, some of the lads soon crack up, so I rest them a bit, and take the opportunity to make adjustments to the equipment of one or two, in order that a better fit will make it easier for them. We go on; aircraft, flying high, are being shelled; it gives the boys their first experience of shell-fire. They do not mind, it is so far away. We watch the puffs and listen for the ‘Krupp! Krupp!’ A transport wagon overtakes us, it belongs to the 8th, our unit. I hail the driver. He says that we have three miles to go yet, and suggests relieving some of the boys of their equipment.

I agree. I know that it is wrong to do so, but I chance it. You have to chance everything in this war; and if you get caught, well, it does not matter much. He loads the equipment into his wagon, and goes on. The lads keep their rifles, and the going is easier for some. We reach Autreville.

Of course, we have our rations – at least, we did. A bag of tea, one of sugar, and milk in tins. No, they’re gone? Dumped somewhere, no one knows. I don’t mind very much. The quartermaster fumes and curses, but I know perfectly well that he will have to provide more. The boys, however, are appalled. They think that they will have to go short, Why does the Army stick to this idiotic system of loading men, already overloaded, with rations that can, and often have to be, provided at the next depot?

We lounge here for a day, and then I take my party up the line. As I have only three miles to go this time, they give me a guide. He leads. I am instructed to take the rear, and keep an eye on stragglers. He sends me no word back. We pass a guard ‘turned out’; we don’t salute, because I do not see them until we have almost passed them. Further on we pass a general with his aide, both on foot. We do not salute; we take no notice. He looks surprised, but passes on without a word. Wise old man! Some of our old Blighty dug-outs would have doubled us up and down for ten minutes.

At last we reach the battalion. Captain P., the adjutant, takes the list. ‘Any old friends here?’ he cries; then ‘Yes,’ and he reads aloud my name. I step forward. ‘I am new to you, sir. I belong to the other battalion. My cousin was here with you, but he is now home, wounded.’ We are divided up, and go to various companies. I go to ‘B’ Company. The first man I meet is Alf K., V.C. ‘Oh!’ he cries. ‘Here’s a bit of luck; we’ve got a sergeant.’ That means that he, and his N.C.O.s, will be a little less overworked. Our platoon commander is Lieutenant P., a Canadian, a real dare-devil, afraid of nothing. For the moment we are in caves at Barisis-au-Bois. Wonderful place, these caves, they afford a complete shelter for two battalions, one French and one English.

This is the extreme right of the British line; we join up here with the French. At night in the front-line trench we have a post which consists of one French and one English sentry. This post is in my care. I find it very difficult to keep the boys awake; as soon as I turn my back they are asleep.

My officer is away on leave; his place is taken by Lieutenant S., whom I do not like, and consider a bit of a fool. I see him in the dark just removing a rifle from beside a sleeping boy. He is handing it back to his runner, and has not seen me as he is half-turned away. I decide to give him a fright; so as he turns again, he finds the point of my bayonet an inch from his throat. He hears my fierce whisper of ‘Who are you?’ and replies hurriedly, ‘Rum!’ the password for the night. I tell him, that he is lucky, as I thought of thrusting first and enquiring afterwards. I tell him that I view the disarming of one of my sentries very seriously. For the sake of the boy we patch it up, and say nothing about it.

Things are very quiet, and Alf K. goes back home for a commission. I take over the platoon. We are continually changing officers, and the greater part of the time are without one, which is as well, for some of them are perfect fools. Barisis is a quaint old place. Our front-line trench winds in and out of the main street, through back gardens, out into the fields, and right up to Grottoir Hill, where it curves round the base. But this is the French line, and we do not enter it.