A SOLDIER’S DIARY
_NEW NOVELS_
LOVE’S PILGRIM J. D. BERESFORD
NONE-GO-BY MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
PIPPIN ARCHIBALD MARSHALL
THE JORDANS SARAH GERTRUDE MILLIN
LIFE E. WINGFIELD-STRATFORD
ROWENA BARNES CONAL O’RIORDAN
[Illustration: Collins’ Geographical Establishment, Glasgow.]
A
SOLDIER’S DIARY
_by_
RALPH SCOTT
[Illustration]
LONDON: 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright 1923.
_Manufactured in Great Britain_
TO THE P.B.I.
PREFACE
BY
MAJOR-GENERAL SIR FREDERICK MAURICE
Lord Robert Cecil has said that he is amazed at the false picture of war
given by the history books, and that he trusts that the historians of
the future will give us a better picture of what war really is than have
historians of the past. I doubt if they will. They are concerned with
the statesmen who direct and the generals who control, rather than with
the soldier who fights, they have neither time nor space to concern
themselves with the things that mattered to the men in the ranks. We can
only get the things that matter, the misery, suffering, and endurance,
the filth, the horror, the desolation, which are a part and the greater
part even of the most triumphant progress in modern war, from the men
who have experienced them.
The reason for the publication of this diary is given by the author in
his entry for October 6. “The only way to stop war is to tell these
facts in the school history books and cut out the rot about the gallant
charges, the victorious returns, and the blushing damsels who scatter
roses under the conquering heroes’ feet. Every soldier knows that the
re-writing of the history books would stop war more effectively than the
most elaborately covenanted league which tired politico-legal minds can
conceive.” Again, in the last entry of all, written after the author has
been watching the Swedish Royal Troops changing guard at the Palace: “Is
there no one with the courage to tell them that war is not like this,
that there will come a day without music, and no admiring eyes, but when
‘the lice are in their hair and the scabs are on their tongue’? Surely
our years of sacrifice were vain if the most highly educated people in
Europe remain in ignorance of the real nature of war and are open
scoffers at the League of Nations.”
These are not the words of a conscientious objector, nor of a
neurasthenic, introspective man. They are written by a keen,
healthy-minded, sport-loving, young Englishman, who passed through the
war at the front, did his duty nobly, and behaved with great gallantry.
He describes in vivid, clear language, just what he saw, he does not
cover up the horrors with fine phrases, but just sets them down in their
place alongside the stories of devotion and sacrifice, which make up the
high lights in the picture.
It is remarkable that this story, which even to-day makes one shiver, is
not an account of the grim struggle for the defence of Ypres, of the
grimmer fight through the mud to Passchendaele, nor of the great retreat
when the Germans swarmed over our lines in March, 1918, but of the
period when the tide had turned definitely in our favour, and our armies
swept forward to final victory. It is an account of triumphant war as
seen in the front line. We are told that the public to-day is weary of
war books. It may well be weary of war books of a certain kind, but I
hope it is not weary of learning the truth about the war, and every word
in this book rings true. One of the surest ways to get another war is to
forget about the past war.
F. MAURICE.
_30th Nov., 1922._
“Hear now a song—a song of broken interludes,
A song of little cunning—of a singer nothing worth,
Through the naked words and mean,
May ye see the truth between,
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the earth!”
RUDYARD KIPLING.
A SOLDIER’S DIARY
_April 23, 1918._ Arrived at the R.E. Base Depot, Rouen, and was
delighted to find a pile of letters waiting for me. Damn fools that we
are, we are all fretting to get back into it again—the lines must be
very thin nowadays. In the evening had an excellent Mess Smoking
Concert, plenty of champagne, and a terrific “fug” in the ante-room.
Heaven knows when we will have another night like this as we are at the
last outpost of civilisation again.
_April 24._ Wasting time all day at the Demolitions School. God! what
fools we are. Up in the line men are dying like flies for lack of
reinforcements—here are thousands of troops and we cannot go because the
R.T.O.’s staff is too small to cope with the railway embarkation forms!
_April 25._ Several fellows posted to companies to-day, so that it looks
as if we shall soon be over the wall that Haig spoke about and with our
backs to it again.
_April 26._ More Demolitions—news still very bad—if they don’t let us go
to the Huns methinks they will come to us.
_April 27._ Demolitions again. We destroyed a steel rail and heard a
fragment of it go humming away over our heads just like a shell. About
ten minutes afterwards the Colonel came down with great wind-up and
chewed us all to pieces for being careless. Our piece of rail had
evidently gone right over the camp and landed somewhere near the
Revolver Range. Unfortunately, the Colonel had heard it humming over his
hut and it had nearly frightened him to death!
_April 28._ Church parade.
_April 29._ Learning how to make dug-outs as practised by an officer who
has never heard a gun go off—I wonder if the Huns do silly things like
this.
_April 30._ Wasting ammunition all day on the Lewis Gun Ranges.
_May 1._ Bayonet fighting—so that it looks as if we may eventually get
into it again. One man down from the line to-day says that he has seen
R.E. Field Coys. holding the front lines with P.B.I. in support. Oh! let
us be joyful!
_May 2._ Had the day off as I am Orderly Officer to-morrow. Went out
with Lucas and two nurses and crossed the Seine by an old-fashioned rope
ferry. Climbed the hills on the far bank and spent a glorious day in the
woods—scenery magnificent and everything so unlike war. In the evening
we boarded a river steamer and went downstream four or five miles to
Rouen. Had tea (so-called), took the nurses back to their camp, and back
to ours by train. Rouen is a strange mixture—Gothic beauty and twentieth
century filth!
_May 3._ Quiet day. Could hear distant gunfire in the evening—presumably
at Amiens.
_May 4._ Lucas and Richards went up the line to-day.
_May 5._ Church parade. Wrote a lot of letters and pretended to be
happy.
_May 6._ Borrowed a horse from the Cavalry Depot and went for a ride
with one of the nurses. Had a ripping lunch at a little café in Petit
Couronne—omelettes and fresh butter (to say nothing of the nurse) are
much nicer than bully and dry biscuit. In the evening played the Cavalry
at Rugger and whacked them 8–6 after an abnormally hard game. We did
enjoy ourselves.
_May 7._ Lazy day! Sometimes I wonder if there really is a war on—these
people here don’t know about it, and in England they must naturally know
less.
_May 8._ Very enjoyable ride in the Forêt de Rouvray with Major J. Had a
damn good nag.
_May 9._ Poor old Jock received news of his brother’s death in
Mespot—knocked him up badly.
_May 10._ Great joy. I am posted at last and to my old Coy.—good old war
again!
_May 11._ AT LAST!!! Left Rouen in a crowded troop train and made myself
thoroughly miserable by wondering if I should ever come back and what
everybody was doing at home, etc., etc. Silly ass!
_May 12._ Sunday. Passed through Boulogne and Wimereux early in the
morning and then through Calais and Cassel and on to Heidelbeck, where
we slept in the train. Hun planes came over in the night and tried to
bomb the train, but they didn’t get anywhere near us.
_May 13._ Set off at 9 a.m. to find the company, and after walking
eleven miles with my pack found them at one of the old camps in the
Ypres Salient—quite like home again. The camp is surrounded by guns, and
a battery of 9.2 howitzers just behind us make life unbearable. In the
evening the Divisional Concert Party gave us a very good show in spite
of the fact that the “theatre” was continually shaken by shell
explosions.
_May 14._ Went up the line with Mellor to take over his work on the
Green Support Line. Paid my respects to Ypres again—it doesn’t alter
much. Whilst I was writing a Bosche plane came over our camp and brought
down two of our Parseval balloons in flames. All the observers managed
to get into their parachutes and landed in the woods about 200 yards
away. Later on two more Bosche came over, but one was driven off and the
other forced to descend with a broken propeller.
_May 15._ Very heavy bombardment last night and early this morning—our
own batteries replied so we had very little sleep. The Hens laid five
eggs. Went up to Ypres again to make some gas-proof dug-outs.
_May 16._ Working in the line all day and saw several air fights but no
casualties on either side. At night went up again and had 200 P.B.I.
constructing a barricade on the main Ypres-Poperinghe road. Enemy
strafed the 9.2 howitzer on the Plank Road, and as we passed his shells
were falling about 20 yards away from us. We didn’t stay to observe his
shooting, which was a little too good to be comfortable! Arrived on the
job and found that half the working party had gone astray owing to
Brigade H.Q. giving wrong orders. Damned asses in their well-cut
breeches—if they had to flounder about in trenches all night they would
be more careful.
The Ypres Salient on an ordinary lively night is a sight to be
remembered. The rise and fall of the Verey Lights makes a circle of fire
all round us, and except just where the Poperinghe road connects us with
the rest of France we appear to be completely surrounded. It is more
than a marvel to me how they have failed to cut us off in that little
bottle-neck. On this particular night Fritz was raining shrapnel into
Dickebusch and our people were giving him a warm time in reply. The 4.5
howitzers were firing hammer-and-tongs, and as I watched the angry
shell-bursts on the ridge in front I began to feel quite sorry for the
Bosche infantry. However, his field guns sent some high explosive over
just to the left of my barricade, and my sympathy rapidly vanished.
Cycling back in the gray of the morning we saw a 9.2 howitzer being
tugged into position by a tractor and a cottage in Brandhoek just set on
fire by a direct hit. We didn’t linger!
_May 17._ Working on the barricade again. Much quieter night, but in the
direction of Kemmel there was a very violent bombardment lasting about
20 minutes. Probably a raid by the French. At midnight went into support
battalion dug-out for a whisky and whilst inside the Bosche got a direct
hit on top with a gas shell. On way home noted the cottage in Brandhoek
still smouldering after last night.
_May 18._ Finished the barricade except for wiring and the barrels of
earth for the fairway. Also completed No. 2 Post. Got strafed by a 5.9
on the way up, and had wind vertical—10 shells all to myself and very
close. Very quiet night except for a few rounds of shrapnel on the
barricades.
_May 19._ Sunday. Rode round with the Skipper, taking over all the
demolitions from him as he goes to the Gunners to-morrow as Liaison
Officer. I am now responsible for the explosive charges under all the
bridges behind Ypres, and in case of evacuation of the salient I’ve got
to be the last man to leave, blowing up everything before I go. It’s a
regular suicide club, as I know that fully half the charges won’t go off
unless I fire my revolver into them—disadvantages of belonging to a
corps with high ideals—“blow yourself up rather than fail to blow the
bridge.”
A 9.2 battery fired just as we rode past them, frightening Blacker’s
horse and giving him rather a bad fall. Heavy drum fire in the evening
in the direction of Locre—heard later that the French got 300 prisoners.
Durhams are doing a raid on our right to-morrow night.
_May 20._ Busy all day on demolitions—hot day and very quiet.
_May 21._ Vlamertinghe very heavily shelled with H.E. and shrapnel just
as I was going in. Bosche got another direct hit on the old church tower
and brought more masonry down into the road. Cycling along the Switch
Road behind a lorry when a shell dropped into the swamp about 15 yards
on my right. Tore some big holes in the lorry cover and splashed me with
mud. Lucky the ground was so soft or else I should have had a little
more than wind-up! At night had 260 P.B.I. working for me on the Green
Line. They are the best workers we’ve had yet, and only came out of the
line last night. One of their officers told us a very amusing yarn of a
patrol stunt which he did the other night—captured a Bosche, killed
four, and got away with everything except his tin hat. Recommended for
M.C. Heavy barrage, for Durham’s raid started at 12 midnight and lasted
for three-quarters of an hour. Bosche retaliation on our roads and
forward areas.
At five minutes to twelve the moon was shining on a peaceful but
desolate scene; the frogs were croaking in the shell-holes, and the only
signs of war were an occasional Verey light beyond Ypres and the lazy
droning of a night bomber overhead. At midnight there was a crash behind
us and instantly our guns let out together, surrounding us with a wall
of noise and leaping, white-hot flame. The S.O.S. began to rise from the
German lines and shortly afterwards the steady crashing of his shrapnel
barrage was added to the din. This went on steadily for three-quarters
of an hour, while we grovelled on our stomachs in the mud, and
punctually at 12.45 settled down to the usual desultory shelling. Had
only one casualty in my party, but he was a nasty sight—chewed to pieces
by a direct hit. On the way back Mellor and I cycled into some gas and
swallowed a bit before we got our bags on—coughing and sneezing all
night and had devilish headache.
Just outside Vlamertinghe we ran into a smashed ambulance and four
limber mules and two drivers literally splashed about the road—our
wheels were wet with warm blood. Later on we found a saddle-horse blown
in two but could not see any signs of the rider. One of the worst nights
I have had since March!
_May 22._ Quiet day testing my charges on the bridges. Very hot and
water unobtainable—tried thirst quenchers, which were worse than
nothing. White with dust, and eyes, nose, and mouth full of it.
_May 23._ Another quiet day testing charges. Derry twice shelled off his
job but had no casualties.
_May 24._ Heavy rain last night converted everywhere into a quagmire.
_May 25._ Beautiful hot day again. Completed work on demolitions and
finished all preliminary testing.
_May 26._ Busy day handing over demolitions—jolly glad to be rid of them
although it means front line work instead. Very heavy shell-fire all
night followed by Bosche attack, in which he captured Ridge Wood and
Scottish Wood. Had seven casualties, and had to ride all the way home in
gasmask. Hear that the Durhams have been very badly hit—two companies
almost entirely gone.
_May 27._ Am posted as Reserve Officer to our forward company in
addition to my own work. Working under the new major on Main Reserve
Defences. Bosche still shelling very persistently all morning,
especially round Brandhoek, where he fired a large petrol dump. Picked
up some shrapnel which fell within two or three yards of me. Putting in
a double machine-gun post in the top of a ruined windmill—splendid field
of fire and view right away to the foot of Kemmel Hill. God help Jerry
if these gunners stick it! Also constructed a very strong double post in
a farm on the Switch road.
_May 28._ Up at 5.30 and working hard all day in the Green Line. Twice
shelled out of the front line, and eventually had to withdraw all men to
work on support. I have told Brigade Headquarters three times that it is
madness to work here in daylight and that I cannot accept any
responsibility for casualties—the German observation balloons can see us
all the time, and we are shelled continuously. However, _they_ don’t get
shelled, so it is “Carry on, the work has to be done!” The mists are the
only things that save us—as soon as there is a clear day we shall be
wiped out.
_May 29._ Had a whole battalion of P.B.I. working for me on Green
Line—in this blasted exposed position again—it makes me feel like a High
Church curate walking naked down the Strand! Shelled out of front line
about 11 a.m., so left Captain of the infantry in charge of parties and
went personally to the General—got his authority to do exactly as I
liked and not to work in front of the village after the morning mists
have cleared. Some one will be wild at my going direct to the General,
but I have shown him up and saved at least 50 lives—but what are 50
lives to the Staff?
_May 30._ Tried the front line again, but Fritz knows we are there and
shelled us out with low-bursting shrapnel—nasty stuff! After the men had
withdrawn I went back to see all clear and was damn nearly hit by a
whizz-bang. It burst in a pile of bricks about six paces away. I heard
the explosion, and on looking up saw a column of bricks and debris just
starting on its downward journey again. It rattled all over my tin hat
but I was otherwise untouched. Later on some shrapnel whizzed into the
parapet at my feet and some more crashed through an old notice board by
my head. Hadn’t a single casualty all morning. My luck is still
miraculous and it seems to extend to the men. Bosche aeroplane came over
in the afternoon and brought down three of our balloons in flames.
_May 31._ Two companies of Fusiliers working for me on Green Line. Misty
morning, so I started in front and got on very well for several hours.
About 9 a.m. a 5.9 ploughed into a breastwork that my corporal and I
were standing on, explaining things to some infantry. Three men were
wounded and the work wrecked, although by all the laws of reason we
should all be dead. Probably owed our safety to the fact that the earth
was newly placed and the shell penetrated a good distance before
exploding. After this our wire was hit three times and the men were
getting nervous, so I withdrew to support, where we spent a fairly quiet
day. Very bad news comes up from the south, and if the Bosche successes
continue we expect to be attacked here.
_June 1._ Uneventful day except that there are rumours that we are going
out of the line for a rest. Another huge piece of masonry was knocked
off Vlam. church tower last night and buried itself several feet in the
_pavé_. I should think it weighs over ten tons.
_June 2._ Sunday (I think!). Received orders to move out of the line and
proceed to Army Reserve Area for a rest. Great joy, and as we are much
below strength expect the rest to be a long one—the men need it badly,
and I suppose the Brigade Staff must get their hair cut! Company marched
wearily through dear old Poperinghe and spent a quiet night beyond. All
officers had feather beds although we messed in a granary. The whole
road from Pop. to Wormhoudt was lined with temporary shacks and caravans
where the refugees from Ypres are living. They were a noisy, dirty
crowd, and the music from the estaminets was simply appalling. However,
combined with French beer and women, it seemed to attract Tommy. Oh! ye
women of England, could you but see your heroes now—
“Singing songs of blasphemy,
At whist with naked whores!”
At home it is Sunday and you are enjoying the beauties of a June evening
after church. I daren’t think about it, my imagination is too keen.
_June 3._ Moved off early in the morning and had a long, tiring, and
dusty march, after which we entrained for our final destination. We
passed through very peaceful-looking country, and although not
interesting, it was like Paradise after the desolation of the Salient.
From rail-head we marched to our final billets and arrived there at 8.30
p.m. absolutely worn out. Like a damn fool I carried two of my fellows’
packs—but it makes them love me.
_June 4._ Spent a very quiet day washing, shaving, writing letters, and
generally trying to forget the war. In the afternoon I cycled alone to
Cassel Hill, but it was a misty day so that I could not enjoy the view.
Met a pretty little waitress at the estaminet on the top, where I drank
a bottle of filthy wine.
_June 5._ Did a little drill, etc., just to keep the men fit, and then
went for a short ride—it is good to be with our horses again.
_June 6._ Weather is very beautiful. Spent the day in meditating—how I
would love some books now. Gunfire is just audible at night.
_June 7._ Appointed Lewis Gun Officer to the company and spent the day
lazily, apart from giving two lectures.
_June 8._ We are going to move again, although, thank heaven, it is
still westwards. At 1.30 p.m. received orders to meet Staff Captain at
Brigade H.Q. at 2.15 p.m., and it is 12 miles away!!!!
What would they do with bloody fools like that in business at home? And
they make just the same kind of mistakes when lives are at stake. Set
off with 12 men as billeting party, and after a very tiring ride reached
the rendezvous at 6 p.m. to find the blasted captain not yet arrived. I
would love to write down the men’s remarks! When he turned up he told me
that our billets were a little farther on at the next village, but when
I got there I found nothing arranged. After three hours’ hard work (a
great strain on my French!) I had everything ready for the arrival of
the company. M. le Maire and the farmers were very obliging people and
extremely keen to help. If anything they were a little too hospitable,
and as I was in a dickens of a hurry it was rather trying to have to
stay and drink beer with 17 different farmers! About 10 p.m. Mellor
arrived with the main body of cyclists, and we went to the Maire’s to
eat a dry bully sandwich. The old man watched us very gravely, and when
we had absorbed the bully I poured a drink of greenish-looking water
from my bottle. He made an awful face and exclaimed, “Ah! Chateau de la
Pompe, pas bon!” He immediately rushed into his kitchen and brought us
each a huge glass of sparkling cider, and as we drank he roared with
laughter at the recollection of his joke on Chateau de la Pompe. After
this I went out to find the company, and met them on the far side of
Brigade H.Q. about 11.30. I shall never forget how they came back that
night. They were marching with our own Brigade, and long before I met
them I could hear the jingling of the transport, the rhythm of their
step, and occasionally catches of song floating down the valley—“Annie
Laurie!” They have left more than half their pals to “sleep” in Ypres
to-night, they are exhausted, limping, lousy, and white with dust, yet,
thank God! the spirit is still there. The ranks kept well together, and,
finished though they are, I believe they would try to struggle back
to-morrow if it were necessary. I am a sentimental ass even yet, but I
could have cried as I stood on the path and watched the P.B.I. go by.
Except where the fitful glare from a travelling kitchen threw them into
flickering relief it was impossible to see their faces, and yet I felt I
knew them—hard and scarred and ugly, brown as their rifle stocks, as a
real man’s face should be. And always I wonder if England understands,
if England will remember! How many of the ladies whom these darling
blackguards have saved would condescend to trail their dresses through
the hells these boys call home? I wonder and I doubt!
“There are men in No Man’s Land to-night,
In travail under a starless sky,
Men who wonder if it be right
That you should lie snug in your beds to-night
While they suffer alone—and die!”
_June 9._ Spent a very quiet day settling down and getting used to the
beauty of our surroundings. We are in a charming little valley between
wooded hills with a pebbly trout stream to sing us to sleep at night. It
is just like Cefn on the Elwy in North Wales—a week here will do us
worlds of good.
_June 10._ Sunday. Was notified that a battalion of Middlesex is coming
to share our billets with us, so I rode over to see the Area Commandant
and had rather a stormy interview with him. Rode over again in the
afternoon to try to get some tents out of him, and again I was
successful, although between him and the Brigade I made myself generally
unpopular. It has been some sort of fête day in the village to-day and
the Sappers had a good time helping the inhabitants to decorate their
little village square—it was very charming.
_June 11._ Gave a lecture on the Lewis gun this morning—what profanity
in a charming place like this!
In the evening went fishing and met an old man casting with fly and
wading. I ventured on conversation and imagine my surprise when he
turned out to be an Englishman—he was very reticent and I should think
has a past!
_June 12._ Asked the Maire about my Englishman. Apparently he is a real
hermit, and although he has lived in the village for twenty-three years
they know nothing about him—he is a fishing maniac, and they say he
spends most of his time on the river. Pity I am not a novelist—what
wasted possibilities for a real thriller!
_June 13._ Starting working on the construction of a new rifle range up
in the hills so that the men can keep in trim. Pleasant evening fishing.
_June 14._ Busy day on the rifle range, but knocked off work early for
company inspection by the C.R.E. I think he was fairly pleased with us,
and he brought a message of congratulation to us from the Divisional
Commander for our work at Ypres.
_June 15._ Worked all morning on the rifle range with a battalion of
Pioneers. Progress was very slow, as we were working in solid chalk, and
every piece has to be drilled off. In the afternoon went for a ride with
two infantry friends over the hills towards the coast. A most perfect
day, and so very easy to forget that we are engaged in war. Once we came
up through dense pine forests on to the bare summit of the last ridge of
hills before the coast, and to my great delight we could see the spires
of Calais in the distance. Instantly I recalled Matthew Arnold’s lines
and felt certain that he had been on that selfsame ridge when he wrote
them.
“A thousand knights have reined their steeds
To watch this line of sand hills run
Along the never silent Strait
To Calais glittering in the sun.”
——and fifty miles away the guns!
_June 16._ Sunday. Received orders to proceed to Corps Gas School for a
course of training in Anti-Gas Warfare, etc. Went with ten other
officers in a lorry from Brigade H.Q., and persuaded our driver (20
francs) to get lost in St. Omer. We had an excellent four-course lunch
in approved civilian style, and on arrival at the school at 3 p.m.
well——
“Since ’twas very clear,
We drank only ginger beer;
Faith, there must have been
Some stingo in the ginger.”
_June 17._ Spent a quiet restful day, work starting at 9 a.m. and
finishing at 4 p.m. Wrote letters in the evening and early to bed.
_June 18._ Had a very interesting day making gas attacks and committing
sundry other barbarities—among them walking round a room smelling
bottles and trying to identify the contents by their stinks—my nose
feels as if the world were composed of one vast unmentionable stink! In
the evening went for an hour’s march in gasmasks—what sublime,
unutterable joy to get them off again!
_June 19._ Nothing doing at the School, so we made up a party and again
tasted the somewhat bitter-sweets of semi-civilisation.
_June 20._ Boring day—fed up.
_June 21._ Manufacturing stinks all day—will be heartily glad to see the
company again.
_June 22._ Examinations and end of the course—thank God! Felt rotten in
the afternoon and went to bed—pray it isn’t Spanish ’flu, as there is a
terrible lot about. Shortly after midnight a party came into our hut and
took out Captain Sparks and threw him in the pond. Served him right; I
never knew a more bombastic idiot.
_June 23._ Went back to the company in a motor lorry, arriving 3 p.m.
Found the others playing Badminton over a wire net and in field boots!
Still jolly feverish but cheered up to be with the company again.
_June 24._ There are rumours about to-day that we are going still
farther away from the war in order to be trained as “storm
troops”—apparently we are considered a good division and we are picked
for the Grand Forlorn Hope of the Allies. Even the most pale-faced
pacifist could hardly help feeling a thrill of pride when he learns that
he is picked for such a venture. Myself I am delighted—until I think of
the married men. It is at least certain that I am far too sentimental to
be a Staff Officer—a man who unconsciously visualises the widows and the
orphans could never do it, and to me it will always be something more
than a game of chess. But perhaps that is only the natural attitude of
the pawn!
_June 25._ Orders came through last night that we are moving again
to-day, but it is to be eastwards this time. Up all night in
consequence, and had company on the road with all transport by 8.30 a.m.
Marching all day, _via_ Watten to St. Omer, where we arrived at 6
p.m.—very weary. Had only three hours’ sleep and was roused by Orderly
Corporal at 1 a.m.—
_June 26._ ——with instructions to meet Staff Captain fifteen miles away
at 7 a.m. What a life! From Brigade went forward on bicycle and arranged
billets for company, which arrived at 4 p.m. Very poor accommodation and
officers had to sleep in tents.
_June 27._ Spent a quiet day resting and cleaning up after our travels.
Learnt that we are going into the line again south of Ypres, in the
neighbourhood of the Kemmel front.
_June 28._ Two officers went forward to the line to take over our work
from the French. Spent the day inspecting all our gear and cleaning guns
and ammunition. We are beginning to lose our ragamuffin appearance and
look something like soldiers again to-day. It is wonderful the way the
men can pull themselves together after the times they have had.
_June 29._ All details completed and we are ready—for what?
_June 30._ Sunday. At 2 p.m. we left our billets and should be in the
line about 6 p.m. When we set out the company looked smarter than I have
ever seen it, the men fit and well and marching like the Guards, the
horses fat and frisky, and the wagons and the harnesses shining like a
Dress Parade. The Major was away in front with Derry so that I was in
command. I felt sad as I rode round the ranks for the last time and took
my station at the head of the column. Then, turning in my saddle, I gave
the words, and as the lead chains tightened and the pontoons lumbered
slowly forward my sadness changed to pride—for the first time in my life
I was leading 250 magnificent men towards a battle, and I prayed that I
might never let them down.
Proceeded to Divisional H.Q. Area, where we installed our transport with
the exception of the limbers. The sections then went forward to billets
under the shadow of Kemmel, where we arrived about 7 p.m. Every one very
tired as it has been a broiling day and we are white with dust. Our area
does not seem to have been shelled very much, and the farms and cottages
where the men are billeted are almost intact. We are, however,
completely overlooked from Kemmel Hill and cannot move about in
daylight. The tool-carts were brought up and camouflaged after dark, and
when all was settled and the men had had a meal I went to investigate my
billet. It is a small room 10 feet by 6 feet and, with the exception of
a similar room adjoining it, is the only remaining part of what has once
been a decent cottage. The walls were papered with newspapers printed in
five different languages, and the general filth of the place was beyond
description. Following my usual practice, I put Marjorie’s large
photograph in my map case and hung it on the wall, after which the place
looked a little more cheerful. However, the guns were very active, the
lice were even more so, and not even the comfort of her photograph could
induce me to fall asleep.
_July 1._ Got up about 11 a.m. and spent the day until 4 p.m. lying in
the sun and listening to the Decca—and the guns! The last of the French
officers left us to-day after marking on our map where two women are to
be found on the Steenvorde road. Thank God we are not like that! About
4.30 p.m. all officers cycled forward to inspect work. Everything is
utterly destroyed, and the once prosperous little town in front of us is
now nothing but a pile of bricks. It requires large parties of men
working all night to keep one road clear for the transport. When one
considers that the town has been utterly wiped out in two months one can
form some conception of the intensity of the German shell-fire. After
struggling through the debris we left our cycles behind a hillock,
entered a trench, and walked round to the front.
Away on the left we could distinguish the ruins of Ypres shining faintly
in the evening sun, and smoking under a desultory bombardment. Closer to
us was the brick pile and swamp once known as Dickebusch, and in front,
a few hundred yards away, the bulk of Kemmel Hill towered above us. Two
months ago I saw it covered with beautiful woods and peaceful rest
camps; now it is a bare, brown pile of earth, and only a few shattered
tree-stumps in the shell-holes remain to mock the memory of its verdant
beauty. The whole of Kemmel Hill and the valley and the ravines in front
are one solid mass of shell-holes. The earth has been turned and turned
again by shell-fire, and the holes lie so close together that they are
not distinguishable as such. The ground in many places is paved with
shrapnel balls and jagged lumps of steel—in ten square yards you could
pick up several hundredweight.
There was a magnificent view of all the Bosche forward lines, but of
course he has a much better view of ours and also of our back areas.
They say it is death to move a finger in front of the hill and all our
work will have to be done at night.
On our way back we came across an old French battery position which had
apparently been defended to the end in the great struggle. The guns were
right in the open and must have caught the full blast of the German
fire, for the limbers were all shattered to pieces and many of them were
turned over into the shell-holes. The gunners were killed to a man round
their pieces, and could have no finer monument than their pile of empty
shell-cases. Their bodies still lay there unburied, mixed up with the
carcasses of the horses with which they had tried to get the guns away
at the last moment—some were headless, limbless, and with their entrails
strewn around them—most had had the clothing blown from their bodies,
and some had been half eaten by the rats. A noble end and yet—how
infinitely better if such true nobility could have served a better
cause—or must we, in despair, admit our civilisation to be a sham and
war the only reality which can show us at our best? If any man had the
power to picture the fearful indescribability of that scene I vow there
would be no war—but it is not to be—the world is so utterly detached
from all this blood and carnage, it doesn’t worry them, and besides,
they must have recreation, “the strain is so terrible, you know.” They
can hardly stand it, poor things—and besides, the air raids—terrible!
Meantime we die—without recreation. “Father, forgive them, for they know
not what they do.”
_July 2._ Before turning in last night I spent some time over my maps
and have now got a pretty clear idea of the hopelessness of our
position. There are no trenches, but we hold a broken line of outposts
about five hundred yards in front of an old main road which we are
defending. The key of our position is one solitary hill, a small
symmetrical hump not more than 100 feet high and entirely overlooked by
Mont Kemmel, which is ten times higher. And yet the whole line in
Northern France, and perhaps the result of the war, depends on our
holding this little hill. Between it and the coast the country is as
flat as a pancake, and if we lose the hill we lose Calais and the
Belgian ports—so much for the country, now for the men. We have a
division which, with the exception of the few days’ recent rest, has had
about six months of continuous hard fighting. Our front is twice as long
as it should be, we are still below half strength, and most of our
effectives are boys of 18–19 going into the line for the first time. On
the other hand, the Huns hold very superior positions and they are
flushed with victory. Such is our problem; the answer will be written in
blood around the slopes of Kemmel. I forgot to say that there are no
reserves between ourselves and Calais. Let us pray!
_July 3._ Went forward at 3 a.m. with the Major in the hope of laying
out new trenches for to-night’s work. Unfortunately the mists cleared
away very early and we were not able to do very much. Fritz was
apparently very sleepy and we didn’t get sniped—nevertheless I was jolly
glad to get into a trench again. I cycled back and spent the morning at
the Dump and in looking for material. In the afternoon went forward
again with my sergeant to show him the work, but was not able to do much
as the snipers were very active. Went forward again in the evening—did
another reconnaissance and got a party of about 30 men out on the job by
11 p.m. We were trying to put a belt of wire across the end of a valley
which offers a covered advance to Huns. Progress was very slow owing to
persistent enemy machine-gun fire and horrible condition of the valley
bottom. Fritz had apparently brought a gun forward specially to shoot up
the gully and we had to spend most of the night on our stomachs. In
addition, the transport got lost and we were held up for lack of
material.
_July 4._ Got back to billets about 5 a.m., having been on my feet
twenty-six hours. Had a few hours’ sleep and went forward again with ten
men, showing them the tracks, etc., so that they will be available as
guides. Went forward again at 8 p.m. and after a terrific struggle got
two pontoons of material behind the hill by 11 p.m. On way up an 8–in.
shell landed between the wagons and knocked out two men whom we left
with R.A.M.C. The horses were terrified, and in trying to hold them
Baker was knocked down by one and badly kicked. I wanted him to go back,
but he insisted in carrying on. There was heavy shell-fire all the way
up and I was damn glad to get them all under cover. Work on the valley
was again very slow, owing to heavy machine-gun fire and lack of
carrying-parties. Jumping down into a shell-hole when the fire was
rather hot I caught on some wire and ripped my leg, and also cut my left
breeches leg right off. When the men had gone back I tried to do some
more taping out before the mists cleared but could hardly drag myself
along and nearly fell asleep in No Man’s Land.
_July 5._ Got back to billets to find that Derry had gone sick. More
work for the rest of us, and we are nearly tired out now. In the evening
Blacker crocked up and went sick too—pure undiluted funk on his part.
Three officers left now to do the work of ten and the Major will go
soon. He hasn’t been to bed for a week, and must have walked at least
twenty-five miles every day. I had a talk with him and persuaded him to
order the T.O. up from the horse-lines, so that will make four of us. I
have got two Brigades to look after now.
Forward again about 7 p.m. and nearly completed wire across the valley
in spite of usual machine-gun fire—two men hit in my party. Heavy
shell-fire all night.
_July 6._ Coming home about 4 a.m. I met the Major alone, and although
nearly finished I went back to help him to lay out a new line. Poor old
Major is nearly done, but he will drop before he gives in. I hope we can
last until some more officers come, but my eyes are jumping and my head
sings like a tornado—how few people must know what it is like to be
really exhausted in the body and yet to have a mind which drives you on.
“To make your heart and nerve and sinew
Still serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them, ‘Hold on.’”
I hope we can.
_July 7._ Beginning to get used to feeling tired and think we can stick
it now. We are all jumpy and are too far gone to talk or read the
paper—the Decca hasn’t been touched for days. Had another cruel night,
and was on the go for twelve hours. Finished wire across the valley and
got well on with digging reserve trenches and wiring reserve line.
_July 8._ Had three hours’ sleep and went up again at night after a
heavy afternoon’s work. Very heavy thunderstorms all night made it
almost impossible to move about. Was so exhausted with falling into
shell-holes that I started to crawl about on my hands and knees in the
mud—once I almost cried with sheer weakness. On way home I fell off my
bike and was so weak I had to leave it in a shell-hole. Once or twice I
touched my revolver—there is always that. It is a terrible thought, and
even now, half an hour afterwards, I can’t understand it—how much less
can people at home!
_July 9._ Slept a bit, worked all afternoon, and up again at night.
Heavily shelled on way up but no casualties. Completed first wiring of
left Brigade front and most of their digging. Did an early morning
reconnaissance with Major and Brigade-Major, having been on the go
fifteen hours.
I think we can keep it up indefinitely now, but where our strength comes
from I don’t know—at least eighteen hours per day.
_July 10._ Usual sort of day. Had to walk all the way to line and back
as it was impossible to get a bike through the mud. Wretched night, with
pouring rain and howling wind—two poor devils killed.
_July 11._ Usual day—started clearing New Wood for digging to-morrow
night. Whole area heavily shelled. Could sleep for ever and would dearly
love to die.
_July 12._ Went up in the afternoon to take over two more jobs—making a
new roof for left Brigade H.Q.’s and tunnelling an underground First-Aid
Post for the Middlesex. Had tea with the Brigadier and then dinner with
the C.O. front line battalion. It is really very amusing the way in
which some of these old-time regulars endeavour to preserve their mess
formalities. The dug-out couldn’t have been more than 12 feet square,
and yet they managed to produce quite a respectable four-course dinner
for seven officers. It was handed on to the table by a perspiring
orderly, who crouched in the entrance to a tunnel which could not have
exceeded 3 ft. by 4 ft. How the food was cooked I could never imagine,
but the smells of cooking leaked out from behind the orderly, and
somewhere in the depths of the blackness behind him there was a voice
that swore, mightily and frequently. I judged that the Voice had
produced the meal and also that it had been a hot job. Most of the soup
got spilt before it left the end of the cavern, but the smell was
excellent and gave us quite an appetite for the tinned salmon which
followed. This had been brought up with ammunition and a bottle of
execrable French vinegar from Division that very afternoon. The next
course was excellent. Roast mutton, procured as the result of dark
dealings with the A.S.C., fresh peas from heavens knows where, and
lastly some sauce made from mint which they said had been growing last
night in No Man’s Land. The sweet was a treacle pudding. We drank thin
whiskies and sodas which were distinctly lukewarm in spite of all the
doctor’s efforts to keep the stuff cool. All things considered, a very
enjoyable meal and a great credit to the Voice.
Did a hard night’s work and got back, feeling as if I could sleep for
ever, about 5 a.m.
_July 13._ Was up again about 10 a.m. and inspected explosives before
lunch. Then up the line again to start another mining job—“B” Company,
H.Q. Front Line Battalion. Have now got two big mining jobs in hand and
the Colonel absolutely refuses to send me any timber. He says there is
plenty to be salved. True, O king! but to call it firewood would be
flattery. However, it doesn’t matter—if the whole damn shaft falls in
and kills twenty men there are plenty more in England. Life is much
cheaper than timber! Managed to get home for tea and dinner, but back
out again all night. While talking to one of the working-party officers
a piece of whizz-bang landed between us and another one smashed his
respirator. I am sure some one is going to be killed in the mines—the
earth runs like quicksand, and even with decent frames it would be a
dangerous job. Without, it is sheer suicide, and a shell anywhere near
us on the surface will cave the whole thing in. Fortunately, the men
don’t realise these things, lucky beggars.
_July 14._ Informed that the Division on our right are doing a raid
to-night, but working parties are to go out as usual! If I were
sentimental I should have to write a last letter home every night—then I
would certainly be killed.
Started work on a strong point in front of the hill, and shortly
afterwards our barrage started in conjunction with the raid. It was very
fierce, and the S.O.S. lights went up at once over the German lines. We
were watching the pretty colours when their protective barrage came
down, just like a sudden thunderstorm, and I realised to my horror that
we were working dead on their barrage line. Before I saw exactly what
had happened two men were knocked to pieces and the remainder were
running all over the place looking for cover. There were the ruins of a
farm on our left, and I was trying to get the men together into the
holes around this. We got about fifteen into this and several wounded,
and then they shortened range. A salvo came bang on top of us, there was
a great lurid flash and a roar by my feet and I thought I was done for.
I went clean off my feet and was blown several yards, but got up and
found I was untouched but nearly blind and awfully dizzy. I heard some
one calling, and found McDougall. He had been knocked over by the same
shell and was quite blind. We crawled into a hole together and waited to
get our breath. The shells were coming just round us in solid masses so
close that we could feel the earth heaving, and once or twice we were
half buried. I had lost my bearings completely, and McDougall was still
blind and apparently dazed, for he wouldn’t answer when I shouted in his
ear. Then I felt alone and I thought I would go mad—there were rats in
the same hole with us, screaming with terror, and all the time those
blasted shells, crash, crash, crash. I felt I must do something, so I
looked over into the next shell-hole and saw that it was part of an old
trench. I shoved McDougall over and together we flopped down into it and
felt much safer, as it was deeper than the one we had left. Then I
started to crawl along the trench, and to my great delight we found some
of the men.
For three-quarters of an hour we lay in that ditch with the earth
jumping and falling all round us—at times the whole trench seemed to
move three or four feet. A ration party out on the mule track hadn’t got
such good cover, and we could hear the poor devils moaning and screaming
as some of the others tried to drag them back to the aid post. Some of
the kids in our trench began to cry, and I felt like it myself. We were
all choking, and the valley was so full of smoke and dust that I
couldn’t even see the Verey lights which were less than 300 yards
away—only the great red splashes of fire where the shells burst.
It seemed to last for hours; the steady crashing of the bursts, the
whine of the flying pieces and all around the screaming of shattered men
who had once been strong. And then the smell which, if a man has known
it once, will haunt him to the end of time, the most sickly nauseating
stench in the world—the combined smell of moist earth, high explosive,
and warm human blood.
God, in Thy mercy, let me never again hear any one speak of the Glory of
War!
About 1.30 the noise stopped almost as suddenly as it had begun, but he
put down two more barrages, one at 2 a.m. and one at 2.30. Had an awful
headache when I got to bed.
_July 15._ McDougall gone down with shell-shock and blindness, but I
managed to turn out, although very sore and stiff—that shell must have
been mighty close, and every one is agreed we should be dead. Dinner
with the Colonel again and promised to repair his dug-out, which got
badly smashed up last night.
Desultory shelling all night but comparatively quiet—my head feels like
a concertina and if we had more officers I would certainly go to
hospital. However——
_July 16._ All my men were sent back to the Reserve line to-day for a
rest, but as we are so short of officers there is no rest for me. In
fact the work is rather more, and I had a very heavy time explaining
things to the new sergeants.
Machine-gun bullet hit a stump about a yard in front of me and drove a
lot of dirt and splinters into my face.
I am worn out.