Forgotten Voices of the Somme (22 page)

15th Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers

You've got to bear in mind that some people can't take it. I had a sergeant who was as brave as anybody could be, and he cracked one day. He couldn't go on, and he cried like a baby. He could have been court-martialled – so I quickly sent him down the line. Nothing more was said about it. He had his breaking point. Most people had. There were some incredible people who I think
liked
it
. People with no fear at all, and they're an absolute menace to everybody else. There was a chap who commanded a battalion in our brigade, who was the bravest of the brave. He was wounded nineteen times, and got himself killed in the end. He got a Victoria Cross first.

Private Fred Dixon

10th Battalion, Royal West Surrey Regiment

Bravery
is shown when a man is fearful but continues to carry out his obligations. But bravery, to my mind, should never be confused with rashness. I remember when a signaller wanted a nose cap so he went searching for one. Of course, he was seen by the German observation post, and a shell came over and killed him. That wasn't bravery. It was sheer foolhardiness.

Rifleman Robert Renwick

16th Battalion, King's Royal Rifle Corps

I remember in one attack, a big strong Welshman twice tried to turn back. I said to him, 'Taffy, for goodness sake, pull yourself together! You've got a sporting chance, going forward, but if you go down the line unwounded, you know what to expect!' He was all right after that, and it was never mentioned again.

Lieutenant Norman Collins

6th Battalion, Seaforth Highlanders

I was frightened. In my opinion, nobody could be in the trenches, could be under shellfire, without being frightened. I can't imagine it. Mind you, people didn't show it. If you were shaking a bit, or your teeth were chattering, you made every excuse. You pretended it was the cold, or something else. I remember one occasion when my teeth started to chatter, because we were under heavy bombardment, and I was in a hole in the side of a trench. The sergeant was trying to make a cup of tea in a billy can, heated on a tallow candle, and my teeth started chattering. I apologised to him. I said, 'It's so cold, isn't it?' I knew perfectly well, the reason my teeth were chattering was because I didn't like the shells dropping closer and closer. He said, 'Yes, it is cold, sir!' And eventually, I stopped. I pulled myself together. But I don't mind admitting that I was never the stuff that heroes are made of.

Private Fred Dixon

10th Battalion, Royal West Surrey Regiment

Fear
becomes cowardice when one withdraws oneself from one's moral obligations. It can be accounted for. I wouldn't like to assess cowardice in anybody, because it's affected by poor health, lack of sleep, physical wretchedness and one's emotional and mental equipment. I remember once, I had a bad toothache. I went to the medical officer and asked him if he could have me sent to the casualty clearing station to have it out. He wouldn't do it. That day, we were given some sweet beer. None of our chaps would drink this stuff but I used to have the whole bucket down the side of my bed at night-time and, when my tooth plagued me, I'd drink it down. I had no rest. When I went up the line, I was as jittery as a chicken.

Corporal Hawtin Mundy

1st Battalion, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry

Once you left England as a young man, once you'd stepped into the front-line trenches and had a bashing with shellfire, you weren't human again after that. You turned from a human being into a machine, and you didn't know what you were doing half the time, or you wouldn't have done it. I've seen chaps – many times – who did things that they should have got a Victoria Cross for, and I've seen the same chaps later on, worried, crying, depressed. Had they

been seen on either occasion they'd have either had a medal or a court martial.

Private Philip Cullen

4th Battalion, Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire Light Infantry

One night, my left-hand man got a dose of the funks. I had to threaten him, or he wouldn't have gone forward. He was a six-footer. I didn't report him, because I'd had it myself.

Corporal Jim Crow

110th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery

I wanted a man called Taylor to go across to Ovillers, to repair a wire. But he funked it. He wouldn't go. I cursed him to all eternity, and I picked the telephone up . . . and in the end, he went off to do it. I didn't report him. When he came back, he said, 'You know, Corporal, you gave me such a talking to, I would have walked into a shell after that.'

Second Lieutenant W. J. Brockman

15th Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers

You got into a state of mind in the end, when you rather hoped something would hit you.

Corporal H. Tansley

9th Battalion, York and Lancaster Regiment

There was a wood behind our position – Authuille Wood, nicknamed Blighty Wood. In this wood was a light railway, for carrying supplies. Alongside the railway was a hessian camouflage, and this was pitted with machine-gun holes, about a foot from the floor. And it was said that troops would go and stand there to get a Blighty one. It was well known that if you gave yourself a Blighty one previous to a big show, it was straight across the water to England, whereas at a quiet time, you went down to a base hospital and back up the line again.

Sergeant Frederick Goodman

1st London Field Ambulance, Royal Army Medical Corps

We did have
bad types
who wounded themselves. I say bad types, but let's face it – we're not all the same. People had nerves, some more than others, we're

not all built the same, and someone might have felt the only way he could get out of it was to use a little pop gun on his foot. We had to consider any foot injury very carefully. We'd examine it, cross-question him as to how it happened – we took a lot of convincing – and we'd often discover that it was self-inflicted. That meant a rough time for him. He'd have a lot to answer for. He could be shot as a deserter.

Private Albert Hurst

17th Battalion, Manchester Regiment

One of my friends shot himself through the hand while we were waiting to go over the top. He said, 'I'm not going over!' He asked where the clean sandbags were, put one over the rifle, and shot himself. I was astounded. He was a very brave man – the last man I'd ever expect to do that. We all saw him do it, but no one reported him, and he took himself off to the dressing station.

Corporal Jim Crow

110th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery

I got to know half a dozen Irish soldiers. One day, I was told they'd all got Blighty ones through the fleshy parts of their legs. They'd all been out on patrol, and they'd gone down, one, by one, by one. It transpired that they'd been in the line, and they'd come out, got some beer and, for punishment, they'd been sent straight back into the line again. So they drew lots as to who would be shot first – and when they went out on patrol, they all shot each other. And they got away with it. And what the hell! It was only natural in a way. We kept quiet about it.

Private Victor Polhill

1/5th Battalion, London Regiment

Two of our chaps were on duty, and I was supposed to go on duty at six o'clock, but before then, one of these chaps came back with a hole in his boot and said that shrapnel had hit him between his toes. I'm quite sure that he did it himself. He had a German revolver and ammunition, and I'm quite convinced he did it. He must have felt it was time he cleared off. Anyway, I was told that I should take his place, and I did, and at six o'clock another man took
my
place. And as he was coming out of the dugout, a stray shell came over and killed him. I thought that was terrible. This chap had shot his own foot, and I should

have been replacing him, but instead it was someone else, a man who'd only been with us for a couple of weeks.

Corporal Jim Crow

110th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery

One thing that was done quite a lot was breaking a shell or a bullet open, and chewing the
cordite
. That would give you a high temperature. People used to get away with it, but if you took too much of it ...

Private Victor Polhill

1/5th Battalion, London Regiment

Some of the worst gas cases were cases where gas shells came over: they were in the road, and people picked them up and sniffed them.

Private Basil Farrer

3rd Battalion, Green Howards

When you had been on the Somme, you'd very soon had enough of the heroics. You would go into battle, and you would be going up, the battle would be some hundred yards in front, and the wounded would be coming back. Fellows would be coming back covered in blood, their arms in a sling, and you'd envy them.
You lucky buggers!
Real envy. It wasn't the fear of death. It was a nasty death you'd fear. If it came clean, it was clean out. If it was a Blighty – that was lovely!

Corporal H. Tansley

9th Battalion, York and Lancaster Regiment

An old sergeant with three chevrons on his sleeve – which meant that he'd served twelve years – said, 'I just hope I get a Blighty one as soon as I get on top of the parapet.' And he got his wish. He went over just in front of me, and he got one through the knee. He was down right away.

Private Albert Day

1/4th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment

This is a fact. We wanted to get wounded. That was your only hope in the first three or four weeks of the Somme. If you didn't get wounded – you'd get killed.

The joy of a Blighty wound.

Corporal George Ashurst

1st Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers

The sensation of being hit by a bullet all depended on where you were hit. I was hit through the left thigh – and I could be shot there, right now, in the same way, and it wouldn't hurt me much. It came right through the thigh. There was just a little white spot where it went in, and a spot where it came out. But my pal had the bones in his leg smashed to smithereens – and if that happened, I would be screaming out with pain.

Lieutenant James Pratt

1/4th Battalion, Gordon Highlanders

I was shot in the arm and I had rolled around on the ground to get away so my arm had got very dirty; particularly in that ground which was heavily cultivated and full of all sorts of bacilli. The first thing that happened was that I found that I'd got
gas gangrene
inside. The doctors made a lot of incisions and apparently that wasn't enough because they came to me and said, 'I'm afraid we've got to take your arm off.' I said, 'Well, you're the doctor.' He said, 'You're taking it very calmly!' I said, 'Well, what else can I do?' But when I came to, I still had my arm. They'd come to the conclusion that I'd lost so much blood that if they took off my arm, I'd probably die. So they started a new sort of technique of cutting right down into the arm which was the size of a normal leg and they filled it with tubes which they irrigated with disinfectant fluid every three to four hours. That apparently did the trick, except that I was in delirium for about a week. Completely off my head.

Corporal George Ashurst

1st Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers

One night, we went up, and we had to dig a cable trench, well in reserve. Four hundred yards from Jerry. We had to dig this trench before daylight. It was marked out for us by tape. I didn't do any digging: I was supervising the men, and they were doing fine. They came to some water, so they took their shoes and socks off, and put their shoes back on while they dug the remainder. One of them was a lance corporal – I was a corporal – and he said he wasn't digging in the water. I said, 'You blooming have to!' 'I'm not!' he said. He was always a bit jealous of me. He was a regular, while I was only a special reservist, but I had the higher rank. I said, 'Get in! Get it done! We have to be away at day-light!' 'I don't care a bugger!' he said, 'I'm not taking my shoes off! Who do you think you are?' He thumped me, and I thumped him. The lads were watching as we were scrapping, and then Jerry started firing his machine gun. Me and him never heard it, but the lads were shouting, 'Get under! Get under!' It was too late. He dropped into the trench, shouting, and I dropped in after him. The stretcher-bearers were called, because he'd got it in the leg. Then I realised
my
leg was going a bit dead, so I said to the fellow next to me, 'I think I've been hit, too! Feel this!' And he felt the blood, and said, 'You've got it too, corporal!' So they took the pair of us down to the dressing station, but while the doctor was attending to mine the gas alarm went, and we had half an hour with those damn masks on our faces. The doctor said to me, 'You're all right, corporal. It's missed the bone, and missed your main artery by an eighth of an inch.' 'Is it a Blighty, sir?' I asked. 'Yes,' he said, 'I think so. I'll give you a fiver for it!' I said, 'You can't have it for five bloody thousand, sir!' Then the doctor said, 'You've done far better than your pal over there. He's smashed his bones to smithereens.' I called over to him, and he shouted back, 'Oh, it's all right!' 'Aye,' I thought, 'but you're a leg short when we get back.'