other night. This is the second time, and it is now some comfort to be
definitely sure that they will never give it me.
I would like to get something just for my father’s sake, but for
myself—I should almost hate it.
We are here to do a job, not to earn medals for the sake of being gushed
over by silly, simpering women who could never understand.
It is a hard creed and difficult to stand by at times—vanity is very
strong.
The following shows roughly some of the main points in the Merryway
fighting.
_Aug. 15._ Started to wire from the barricade towards the right in order
to join up with Day, who was working from the other end. Got to our
first post but could get no farther, as there was a strong German post
across our line. Day bumped into this from the other side, and was
driven off with two casualties. I was lying down listening when the Huns
fired into Day and was surprised to find I was not ten yards away from
them. They sent up a light, and I could see about ten of them as plainly
as daylight, all looking along their rifles. I dropped a bomb into them
and departed, but if we had known they were there we could have collared
the whole lot.
_Aug. 16._ Was relieved at Merryway and spent the night wiring in the
right sector—quite a rest cure.
_Aug. 17._ Wiring again in front of County Camp. Shelled off the job
three times and had two casualties, so decided to work the wood
instead—shelled again.
_Aug. 18._ Quiet night in the wood. Slowly and surely I am breaking up,
and now I am so far gone that it is too much trouble to go sick. I am
just carrying on like an automaton, mechanically putting up wire and
digging ditches while I wait, wait, wait for something to happen—relief,
death, wounds, anything, anything in earth or hell to put an end to
this, but preferably death. I am becoming hypnotised with the idea of
Nirvana—sweet, eternal nothingness. My body crawls with lice, my rags
are saturated with blood, and we all “stink like the essence of
putrefaction rotting for the third time.”
And there are ladies at home who still call us heroes and talk of the
Glory of War—Christ!
[Illustration: Collins’ Geographical Establishment, Glasgow.]
“If the lice were in their hair,
And the scabs were on their tongue,
And the rats were smiling there
Padding softly through the dung.
Would they still adjust their pince-nez
In the same old urbane way
In the gallery where the ladies go?”
Last night something went wrong in my head. A machine-gun was turned on
us, and instead of ducking I remember standing up and being quite
interested in watching the bullets kick sparks off the wire—Day pulled
me down into a hole and has been watching me ever since.
If ever again I hear any one say anything against a man for
incapacitating himself in any way to get out of this I will kill that
man. Not even Almighty God can understand the effort required to force
oneself back into the trenches at night—I would shoot myself if it were
not for the thought of my father—O God! why won’t you kill me?
“To these from birth is Belief forbidden.
From these till Death is Relief afar.”
And the pity of it all is this—that nobody will ever understand! It is
hell to be able to see these things, but in two years I know it will all
be forgotten. “It is over,” they will say, “we must forget it, it was so
terrible.” The world will go back into the old grooves, without honour,
without heroism, without ideals, and these dear, darling fellows of mine
will be “factory men” once more.
Even now Hardy’s sister is selling matches in Ancoats, and my sister
would refer to her as “that woman”—yet Hardy and I have saved each
other’s lives. And if I live they will say “Poor old beggar, he isn’t
much use now, he had rather a bad time in the war,” and they will pity
me—once a month when I am ill. Or, worst of all, if my vitality should
come back to a certain extent I will appear quite normal and they will
call me a slacker if I don’t take part in games—I, who once captained
one of the best Rugby teams in the north! Perhaps they will even be so
good as to make allowances for me!
And they will call me dull and morose and cynical—and even priggish when
I keep myself aloof from them.
And the ladies for whom I gave my strength and more will leave me for
the healthy, bouncing beggars who stayed at home—even as nationally the
Neutrals get the good things now. And there are thousands worse than
I—may we all die together in one final bloody holocaust and before the
Peace Bells usher in the realisation of our fears.
And then, on howling winter evenings, our spirits might ride the
cloud-wrack over these blood-soaked hills, shrieking and moaning with
the wind, to drown the music of their dancing, so that they huddle
together in terror, the empty-headed women and the weak-kneed, worn-out
men as we laugh at their petty, soulless lives.
Within a week I shall be dead or mad.
_Aug. 19._ Very hot to-day—feeling feverish and weak—what futile words!
_Aug. 20._ Division on our right attacked and captured objectives. Three
lines in the _Daily Mail_ to-morrow—three hundred corpses grinning at
the stars to-night—in three years oblivion—War!
_Aug. 21._ Working on Ferret Farm. On way up Fritz got six shells bang
into the middle of the parties in the sunken road—one sapper and several
P.B.I. hit and Day badly damaged in the face with a stone.
The limber horses behaved wonderfully, and one team didn’t move an inch
although a shell burst right under their tail board. Very lucky not to
have had lots more casualties. On the track we were shelled again and
had to pass through heavy gas in the region of the stream. Almost
immediately after starting work Bosche put down a heavy barrage and we
lay on our faces for three-quarters of an hour. Heavy shelling continued
all night with a lot of machine-gun fire and gas. Was busy with
casualties all night and feel like a corpse myself now.
_Aug. 22._ Beastly hot day and was tortured to death in the evening by
mosquitoes—during this warm weather one usually knocks about in the
day-time in one’s shirt which becomes saturated with sweat, and then
dries off again in the cool of the evening—the mosquitoes love the stink
and after dusk they feed on us in millions—there is no respite, you grow
tired of killing them and dawn finds you on the edge of insanity,
swollen like a long-dead mule. It is these things which constitute the
horror of war—death is nothing.
Wrote a cheerful letter home saying that I am very well and happy.
_Aug. 23._ Was riding up last night through a strafe with Day when a gas
shell exploded just in front of our bicycles—we jumped off at once but
before we could get our bags on we swallowed rather a large dose—didn’t
worry very much and carried on with the night’s work.
_Aug. 24._ In the morning bust up completely and spent the day in
bed—pulled myself together and managed to get up the line again at
night.
_Aug. 25._ Riding home this morning we encountered a sudden whizz-bang
strafe on the road, and Day took a small fragment clean through his
handle-bars—rained hard all night and practically stopped work.
_Aug. 26._ Still raining heavily, and we notice the first signs of the
return of the mud era—surely they _must_ relieve us now if there is a
man to spare in France or England—otherwise, I am afraid a week of heavy
rain would clear the road to Calais. For myself, I am too far gone to
pick the lice out of my shirt—I have ceased to be a man—even my simian
ancestors used to remove their parasites.
_Aug. 27._ Still raining hard, but news comes through that we are going
to be relieved—as I am the only officer that really knows the forward
work I am to stay and hand over—only three more nights!
_Aug. 28._ Very busy day handing over all rear work to relieving
company—the attached infantry parties returned to their units to-day.
_Aug. 29._ Company transport left at 10 a.m. for Rest Area—the Sappers
marched off at 1.30 p.m. To-night is to be my last night in the line, I
hope, for a fortnight at least.
_Aug. 30._ Oddly enough, my last night was one of the most eventful
spent in the sector. It was a misty night, and I was crawling about with
the relieving officer to show him Day’s front line Coy. H.Q., when we
were shelled fairly heavily—to avoid the disturbance I made a detour of
about 100 yards and got completely lost. Eventually we heard muffled
voices behind us, and to my surprise, when I crawled back to
investigate, I found a Hun machine-gun post with about six men in it.
We avoided this and eventually struck our own line about a quarter of a
mile out of our course—they handled us rather roughly in the trench as
they believed us to be Bosche, particularly as my friend knew nothing
about the line. After sitting for twenty minutes with two bayonets in my
ribs, Miller of the Fusiliers came up and fortunately he knew me. Just
managed to complete handing over before dawn and got back for breakfast
with our reliefs. Left billets on horseback with Dausay as groom at
11.45. Passed through reserve billets and had an afternoon halt to water
the horses in a charming meadow just beyond Cassel. We reached the
company about 6 p.m. at a small village outside St. Omer—a very pleasant
but a tiring ride.
Day and I are living in a large white château—steeped in romance from
its turrets to its, no doubt, well-stocked cellars. Outside my bedroom
window there is a balcony where I can sit in the evenings and watch the
sun set beyond St. Omer—if only I had my books I might recapture myself
in a fortnight here.
_Sept. 1._ Quiet day, with the usual inspections and cleaning parades.
In the evening Major and I rode over to take dinner with the
C.R.E.—information had just come through that our outposts are on the
top of Kemmel Hill. Apparently the Huns have retreated, but it makes me
damn wild to think that we should hold that blood-soaked line and wear
down his resistance for other people to follow him up—I would have sold
my soul to see the old Division go over Kemmel, and if any one had the
right it was we.
_Sept. 2._ Went into St. Omer with Day and had tea at the club—succeeded
in obtaining some butter at 15 francs per kilo—verily the French are a
hospitable people! Returned to the mess to find the rumour about Kemmel
is confirmed—apparently the Bosche are evacuating forward positions with
a view to consolidating their line for the winter. This is all very
cheerful and no doubt makes good reading in the clubs at home, but
unfortunately it necessitates our return to the line to-morrow—our rest
has therefore been a deal of extra trouble for nothing—two days out of
the line do one more harm than good. Transport and pontoons started on
their return journey to-night.
_Sept. 3._ Entrained at 8.15 a.m. and detrained at rail-head about 12
noon. Marched forward past our old billets and eventually took over very
comfortable billets from a company of American Engineers. The line seems
to have gone far forward, all the old gun positions are empty and the
sausages are well in front of us now.
After all, I think that the ability to park our transport in the open in
full view of Kemmel will do us more good than the “rest” could ever have
done. The shadow of that ghastly hill has been over us for so long that
our relief at having regained it is out of all proportion to its
practical value. The effect on the men has been little short of
miraculous, and already they are joking about the possibilities of
Christmas at home—or at the worst in Berlin! Once more we look forward
to the possibilities of a semi-victory, and the dog-like fatalism which
upheld us through the weary summer is gradually changing to something
like Hope and Confidence in the Future.
But we can never again go forward with the same fiery ardour and
implicit faith in the Justice of our Cause, which drove us onwards in
the early days. We have seen brave Germans die with faith as great as
ours, and, knowing their intelligence to be not less, we must at least
doubt the validity of our first conclusions. Now we are infinitely wiser
men, growing sadder as the cold light of reason destroys our early
phantoms of enthusiasm. Already “the bones about the way” are far too
numerous to justify the best of possible results and—there will be more
before the end.
But these reflections are morbid and unbecoming in a soldier—to-morrow I
must inspect rifles with enthusiasm.
_Sept. 4._ Day and I working all day on our dug-out and in making a
place where we can have a bath—I shudder when I try to recall my last
one.
_Sept. 5._ Up at 2 a.m. and working until 10 with the whole company
endeavouring to construct a road across a semi-dry lake. It is obviously
a staff project and would have been condemned by a first year
civil-engineering student—we cast our brick upon the waters in the vain
hope that it will return after many days.
Meanwhile the advance creeps forward across the swamps in front and
shows signs of being bogged as the resistance stiffens.
Yesterday our two line brigades had 500 casualties, and after gaining
the summit of Messines Ridge they had to fall back owing to lack of
support. Thus it seems that we shall play the German game once more by
following them into the worst of the mud for the winter—God help us if
we do, the 19–year olds would die like flies in a hard winter.
Had my bath and feel like a new man.
_Sept. 6._ Dumped a few more tons of brick into the lake—at least it is
a peaceful job and keeps the men out of mischief. Played Badminton and
wrote letters—the war seems to have fallen into abeyance.
_Sept. 7._ Heavy gas-shelling on the lake this morning robbed us of our
constitutional and forced an early return.
After dinner we turned out with torches and heavy sticks to hunt rats
round the dug-outs. There were no casualties among the rats, but Day
sprained an ankle.
_Sept. 8._ Still brick dumping, although no progress is apparent as yet.
During the morning I walked across the dyke to talk to the company
working in the morass on the far side and sincerely wished I hadn’t.
They had been finding bodies all morning, not more than a month dead and
just coming to the worst stages. Whilst I was there, they picked up two
kilted officers—glorious big men they must have been but looking so
childishly pathetic as they lay there. Unconsciously we all fell silent,
and I saw a D.C.M. Sergeant-Major with tears in his eyes. Hurriedly I
turned away and, walking back to the men, thanked God that people at
home can never even imagine the deaths their men are called upon to die.
We are going into the war again to-morrow. The rains are with us.
_Sept. 9._ Two sections moved into forward billets at Negro Farm—an
appalling place consisting of two stinking dug-outs under the ruins of
the former homestead—it beggars description but closely resembles that
famous Bairnsfather drawing, “We are staying at a farm.” It has poured
all day, and when we arrived about eleven this morning there wasn’t
shelter for a quarter of the men and none for the horses. I explored two
or three ruins in the neighbourhood, but they were all worse than our
own midden, so we had to make the best of it. Fortunately the
cheerfulness of the men seems to increase with their misfortunes and
they are now all under cover of some sort—even the horses are more or
less protected from the worst of the weather.
My home consists of three battered sheets of corrugated iron, a wagon
cover, and the back of a hen shed, reared miraculously against a bank of
earth which is the mainstay of the edifice. Light from a candle in a
port bottle, no H. and C. or modern conveniences of any sort. It is
cold, damp, miserable, and the headquarters of two sections, Royal
Engineers. Yet you wouldn’t offer it to a tramp at home and a pig would
scorn it—great are the blessings of civilisation!
I decided to keep one section in reserve, so took No. 3 up the line for
night work.
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP SHOWING ADVANCE FROM COURTRAI TO SCHELDT]
Arrived very late as all the tracks were knee-deep in slush and it was
dark, dark as the inside of an infidel.
We floundered around for several hours, but it was quite impossible to
do anything in the nature of serious work—the line was new to us, and
the difficulty of finding the posts was increased by persistent
machine-gun fire and the most devilish weather imaginable. The ground
was in an awful state, and it often took us twenty minutes to move a
hundred yards—the men swore sublimely and their humour was the only
dryness in the night.
On the return journey we struck some unpleasant shell-fire, and mud
wallowed with enthusiasm. Browning anticipated the Great War when he
wrote—
“Will sprawl—
Flat on his belly in the pit’s much mire,
With elbows wide, fists clenched to prop his chin,
And, while he kicks both feet in the cool slush,
And feels about his spine small eft-things course,
Run in and out each arm, and make him laugh.”
Twice we got lost in the woods and finally I had to give up all hope of
finding the lake track. We returned the long way, but even so the tracks
were knee-deep and I could feel the water trickling in over the tops of
my field boots. Sometimes it would be such a relief if only one could
cry!
The men had a drop of rum when we got back, and it was about 4 a.m. when
I crawled into my flea bag. A family of beetles played, “Come and sit on
my chair” across my toes, and an old brown rat wanted to keep me
company. I turned him out three times, but the poor devil was so
persistent and so pathetic that finally I let him stop. Immediately I
fell asleep he came and stroked my hair in gratitude and I,
misunderstanding his intentions, turned him out for good and all. But
have you ever tried to sleep in your soaking wet clothes, with your head
two feet under a sheet of corrugated iron on which it is raining hard? I
tried, but the rain and the beetles were against me. I got up, and the
morning and the evening were the first day.
_Sept. 10._ Still raining; and we spent another awful night in the
outpost line. Our own 18–pounders were shooting so short that some of
the shells were actually falling behind us and once we had to lie on the
Bosche side of the parapet to get cover from them. The weather is our
most dangerous foe now, and all wiring etc. is stopped until we can make
some sort of protection for the line troops. They are going down like
flies, there isn’t a dug-out worth the name in the whole sector, and the
water, already a foot deep in the best posts, is increasing hourly.
_Sept. 11._ Another terrible night—it is still raining and we have been
soaked through now for four days and nights. Most of the companies are
down to half strength and trench-foot is very prevalent—it is as much as
most of the men can do to carry two sheets of iron per night for their
own protection. Our own billets are flooded now and we are knee-deep in
mud everywhere—the horses feel it more than we do and I have had to send
them back.
We had to shift their position every three or four hours to prevent them
sinking, and it has been so bitterly cold—there is no protection from
this biting wind as it howls and shrieks across the swamps and mud
fields.
But one thinks of the line, for it is always the line, poor devils, who
get it worst—they could tell Dante many things.
There are men up there who have not been under a shelter of any
description during a week of almost continuous rain—they have forgotten
what it is to feel dry, and their minds are dull and stupid with the
cold and misery of it all—they have slept fitfully, wakening under the
necessity of shifting their position to avoid the mud or when an
unusually fierce downpour has stung their faces—and during the whole of
this time no warm food or drink has passed their lips. Small wonder that
they die—with gratitude.
_Sept. 12._ It is two feet deep on our best main road, and we had a wild
fight last night to get the necessary material up for the shelters—an
unlucky shell killed two men, wounded three, and knocked out two mules.
In spite of this we did a good night’s work and erected fourteen
shelters. The men seem to realise how much depends on them, and I have
seldom seen them work so well.
_Sept. 13._ Heavy shelling on roads and tracks disorganised all parties
and interfered with work. I was hit in the middle of the back with a
large fragment which bruised me badly.
If I stumbled and fell once last night I fell twenty times—we use
three-quarters of our strength in fighting through the mud and the
remaining quarter in actual work. We were so tired last night that I
tried the short way back again through the woods. Once we stumbled on a
colony of rats, feeding on the sodden corpse of a Frenchman. I shuddered
involuntarily as they scattered away, screaming, and then turned to
watch us with beady, malevolent eyes. The last time I was home on leave
I remember my mother asked me why the trench rats were so big. I nearly
told her, but then it occurred to me that I might be “missing” myself
and the thought would have driven her mad—so I said it was because of
the food we used to throw over the top. God help the mothers who really
know these things.
Derry crocked up again yesterday and went to hospital.
_Sept. 14._ It is still raining and we are still mud-slinging—would that
I had the time to describe it all.
My back was very sore to-day and I could hardly raise my right arm on
account of the smack I received last night.
The morale of the men is very low again, but fortunately the weather
prevents the Huns from doing anything but shell us.
_Sept. 15._ Signs of the weather improving at last, but mud is very
plentiful and we experience great difficulty in getting about. Artillery
and machine-guns were very active on both sides last night, and, as we
had unusually large parties out, I had a very worrying time. At one time
there were 150 men bunched together on the road for nearly an hour on
account of Brigade giving wrong orders. It was a great relief when we
were able to move them and no damage had been done—but a mistake like
that frequently costs twenty lives and no one is shot for it.
About 2 a.m. I went out in front to reconnoitre a line for wire when I
came across three dead Bosche in a shell-hole. One was an enormously fat
man, and as I was turning him over to cut off his shoulder numbers he
grunted fiercely like a man awakening from a heavy sleep. For a moment I
was horrified and put my hand on my revolver and waited, for perhaps
half a minute, undecided what to do. Then I saw the truth. The noise
which had startled me was due to the gases of decomposition being forced
through his mouth when I turned him over—another of the glories of war!
_Sept. 16._ A really fine day at last and our spirits rise
accordingly—our hopes are drowning and we have to clutch at the
flimsiest of straws.
Last night was very quiet and a lot of good work was done. The men went
back about 4 a.m. and I turned into Battalion H.Q. for a pow-wow with
the Colonel. As I was walking home about half an hour afterwards the Hun
put down a very heavy gas-shell bombardment, particularly around the
track. I lay in a hole for half an hour with my mask on and was
frightened to death lest I should be splashed with some of the infernal
liquid. The shells were not more than 18–pounders, but some of them were
unpleasantly close. This morning Division reports that some 3000 shells
came over in the half-hour.
A new officer joined us to-day. He is about thirty, wears gold-rimmed
glasses, and has never seen the war before. He looks around with the
wonderment of a little child and will be an infernal nuisance to us.
Still, I suppose there are no real men left now.
_Sept. 17._ Spent the night by myself crawling around in front and
noting the places most in need of wire. I came across a German post with
four men in it and a light machine-gun. They were well forward, quite
isolated and obviously nervous. I told the nearest company, but they
wouldn’t do anything, and even looked frightened to think that there
were real live Germans so near them.
A sod splashed down in the trench outside, and I noticed the orderly at
the door, a lad about eighteen, jump and nearly drop his rifle. It all
makes one very sad if you look back upon the days when there would have
been a clamour to go and snaffle that post. And this is the Division
which captured and lost one village seven times on one bloody day, and
finally held it against all attacks with a fifth of its effectives on
their feet.