will be general along the Army front. The company received orders to
move forward to-day, but I had to go on to Brigade before they started
or before I knew exactly where they were going. I left Brigade shortly
after dusk and returned to find two companies of Pioneers who were
detailed to work under me to-morrow. I knew they were somewhere in the
morass near the Menin road, but I blundered about for two hours before I
found them. It required all my will power to keep me going, and when
finally I saw their tents I was in the last stages of exhaustion—several
times I must have been very near to them, but it was impossible to see
more than 20 yards, and I had passed away again, going round and round
in circles. I was so weak towards the end that I used to lie still in
the mud for several minutes every time I fell, aching in every muscle,
and wondering how many more times I could fall without dropping off to
sleep.
It was after 1 a.m. when I left the Pioneers and there was a four-mile
walk to where I thought the company would be. I wandered from battery to
battery asking for news of them, but no one could tell me where they
were. It was absolutely vital that I should find them before dawn, but
at last my legs failed completely and I collapsed in the middle of the
road. I crawled into a hole in the bank but, tired as I was, couldn’t
sleep because of the cold. I was tormented with fears as to what would
happen in the morning as I was the only officer who knew the gun tracks
and almost everything depended on the clearing of those.
_Oct. 14._ Dawn came at last, cold, clear, and very beautiful, and at
5.35 the barrage came to spoil it. I set off towards the batteries in
the hope of picking the men up there and found the Pioneers. I gave them
work to go on with and turned to try to find my own fellows. The din
from our own guns was terrific and the German retaliation seemed
unusually heavy. The hard, persistent rattle of machine-gun fire in
front seemed to indicate that we had stuck and a lot of wounded seemed
to be coming back—some shells exploded very near me and I dropped into a
ditch. I was cold, hungry, and tired, and at that moment would have sold
my soul to have been out of it all. Above me the sky was serenely blue
and peaceful, but eastwards it was shot with balls of multi-coloured
smoke, just as if an invisible artist were dabbing splotches of colour
on to a blue canvas.
Why, oh! why should I walk into that blazing inferno and die on a
morning like this? These thoughts were actually in my mind when I saw
Cooper coming down the road with the section—they thought I had been
killed. I shall always remember standing there in the road and chewing
ravenously at a hunk of bully which I held in my muddy fingers. It was
my first meal for seventeen hours, and I never enjoyed one better.
Then we went forward, and I began to get hold of myself again as the
work engaged my attention. I shall never forget one sight. A big
highlander with the lower part of his face blown off walking down the
railway with a prisoner in front of him—his right hand on the back of
the German’s neck and his left hand holding his face together with the
blood pouring through his fingers. Men coming back say the Huns stuck
hard at first, but we are going well forward now.
To-day’s programme was roughly as follows:—
The Army Corps is to form bridgeheads across the River Lys for a
defensive flank. One R.E. company takes all the Divisional pontoons and
stands by to bridge when the infantry get to the river. One section of
this to dash forward with Lewis guns and try to prevent destruction of
existing bridges.
The second company and two of our own sections are working on roads with
special instructions to search for and destroy land mines. One of our
remaining sections reporting on German dumps, and generally gathering
information, and the last section arranging temporary water supplies.
We went forward very well during the morning as there was practically no
shell-fire after the first two hours. The losses seem to have been
fairly heavy in forcing the first trenches, and there were a lot of
bodies lying crumpled up among the German wire. All that we saw were the
veriest youngsters, and they looked so out of place lying there dead in
the green fields on this beautiful autumn morning. Shortly after noon we
arrived at a large farm and found ourselves mixed up with the front line
infantry, who were held up. We lay behind a hedge and got a few shots
into a feeble German counter-attack, and after this the line went
forward again.
We remained at the farm and about two o’clock were heavily shelled by
German field guns. Several machine-gunners were hit and the Brigade
Commander, who had just arrived, had his leg blown off. For a few
minutes the place was in chaos, but two 18–pounders galloped up and
silenced the Hun battery with their first few shots. After these years
of trench warfare it is wonderful to see field guns galloping into
action and engaging the enemy over open sights.
Beyond the farm the roads were in perfect condition, so we returned to
the company and found them in tents on a hill about three miles behind.
I thought at one time the men would have to carry me back, I had never
felt so tired. Bad news awaited us—Cooper had been killed early in the
morning, about half an hour after the attack started—later in the day
the Sergeant-Major was wounded, and there were eleven casualties among
the men.
The passing of an old friend makes a big impression in a small mess, and
we were very silent at night as we sat and smoked after supper. The town
of Menin was burning fiercely and many other places farther to the east.
_Oct. 15._ Buried Cooper fairly decently in some old sacking at a
Belgian cemetery. No orders came through, and we had a day of welcome
rest.
_Oct. 16._ Company moved forward at 10.30 a.m. to battle areas and took
over billets from a company of our left Division.
There are no signs of war here, and almost every man in the company has
a bed to sleep in—splendid grazing for the horses and lots of vegetables
in the fields for ourselves. It is all like fairyland, and we walked out
solemnly this afternoon to look at a large green field without a single
shell-hole in it.
Reports state that we have taken Courtrai, and streams of refugees
coming back along the roads indicate that it may be true. Unfortunately,
they are all of the very lowest classes, and as they only speak Flemish
we were unable to get any information out of them.
It is a heartbreaking sight to see them trudging through the rain—old
men, women, and the tiniest of children.
Sometimes they wheel a barrow containing a few of their goods, but most
of them are without anything except the miserable rags they stand in.
_Oct. 17._ Had the company out all day doing road drainage. The tedium
of the work was relieved by a ghastly incident, showing how low these
poor refugees have sunk. A party of them were trudging listlessly along
the road when the leaders noticed a dead horse lying in the ditch. In a
few seconds the men and women had taken their knives and were fighting
like animals on the distended carcass, chattering and shrieking like a
crowd of hungry jackals. As they worked they threw the chunks of
bleeding meat into the road, where the children fought for them and
stowed them in the barrows. In a few minutes the horse was stripped to
his bones, the noise subsided, and the ghouls trudged on their way.
_Oct. 18._ Working on the road all day in heavy rain, but were called
out again at night to form a bridgehead across the river in front of us.
We are in possession of half the town on the near side of the river, but
the Germans have destroyed all the bridges and hold the eastern half of
the town.
The main road bridge in the centre of the town lay across the bed of the
river in a maze of twisted steel-work—we were required to make a foot
bridge across these ruins for the infantry to get across. Day climbed
across with three men and a Lewis gun on the ruins of the old bridge and
cleared a German machine-gun party out of the farther bank. After this
we started work and made fair progress considering the vile conditions.
With the river sucking and swirling below them and the cold rain numbing
their fingers, it was anything but an easy task for the men to keep
their foothold on the slippery, twisted girders. In addition we were
shelled persistently through the night, and seven men were down when the
first infantry went across about 4 a.m.
_Oct. 19._ An hour after our return to billets orders came through for
us to move forward again. The other companies got two pontoon bridges
across the river during the day and we billeted near at hand, to provide
maintenance parties. I was very tired and turned into bed early, looking
forward to a long night’s sleep.
Just as I was dozing off the orderly corporal came in with a message
from the bridge patrol asking me to go out as numerous things were going
wrong. There is no worse torture for a really tired man than to allow
him to get into a warm, comfortable bed for a few minutes and then turn
him out into a stormy night. And I had been living all day on the
strength of the night’s sleep that I was going to get!
Arrived at the bridges I had no time for regrets—the river was rising,
the traffic was absolutely continuous, and everything that could go
wrong was doing so.
However, we kept them going all night long with the exception of a
twenty-minute stopping of one bridge, and Day relieved me at 6 a.m. I
was relieved in more senses than one, for two or three times during the
night I felt things getting too much for me, things that I would have
enjoyed three years ago. Wild, angry thoughts went running through my
mind as we struggled with that creaking, groaning bridge, and nursed it
through the weary hours—and worst of all, the bitter thought that so
long as we succeeded none of the sleeping millions at home would ever
hear of the work we did. And thousands of men all over France were doing
just the same
“That the Sons of Mary may overcome it,
Pleasantly sleeping and unaware.”
Why should I be alone there in the dark with that nerve-racking
responsibility, and why should we splash in that freezing water, heaving
anchors, tightening trestle chains, and baling the leaky pontoons?—and
all unknown!
These are bitter thoughts, but I am worn out—for months I have been
living on my will power, but my body and my nerves were exhausted a year
ago. I find it cynically amusing to wonder what the idealistic,
rugby-playing self of 1913 would think of this introspective,
nerve-shattered crock. He would have sniffed and turned away—as the
world will do when we return.
_Oct. 20._ Standing to all day under one hour’s notice to move as the
forward Division are attacking the ridge which overlooks the Scheldt. In
the evening we heard that the attack was held up and failed, and we are
to try our luck to-morrow. At 9.30 p.m. I rode forward with No. 2
Section with orders to join the Fusiliers before dawn. It was abnormally
dark, raining persistently, and I had the greatest difficulty in finding
our way—worst of all, I had to conquer an evergrowing feeling that I
didn’t care whether I found it or not—even that little responsibility
was too much for me. I wanted to be alone to cry. After two hours I fell
into a coma and then dismounted and walked to prevent myself giving way
altogether.
We found the Brigade at 3 a.m., and I put the men into a barn for two
hours’ rest. I gave orders to be called at five, and turned into an
arm-chair in the farm-house kitchen.
For the first time since I came to France my nerves gave way completely
and I was tormented with fears of the morrow. I had just been told that
we were to go forward with the Fusiliers against the banks of a canal
and help them across as well as we could—there would be machine-gun fire
and no cover. Those were the facts. We have done infinitely worse a
thousand times and thought nothing of it.
But I lay in that chair for two hours actually shivering with fear and
apprehension. My crazy mind wouldn’t rest, and I saw myself killed in a
dozen different ways as we rushed for the canal bank—at one time I had
the wildest impulse to run away and hide until the attack was over. I
knew that was impossible, and then I thought I would report sick and
pretend to faint. I was ready to do anything except face machine-gun
fire again—once we got so close that I could see a German’s face leering
behind his gun and the familiar death rattle was as loud as thunder in
my ears. I sat and watched my hand shaking on the edge of the chair and
had no more control over it than if it had belonged to some one else.
Somehow I pulled together when the orderly corporal came, paraded the
section, mechanically inspected the tools, and then marched off. In ten
minutes I was myself again and at 6.30 we reached the Fusiliers. At 7
the advance commenced in drizzling rain and we moved forward over the
sodden fields.
_Oct. 21._ It was very misty at first, and the whole affair reminded me
of a Laffan’s Plain manœuvre—the scattered groups of men worked steadily
forward over the open fields and occasionally a nervous civilian would
take a peep at us from a farm-house window—there was no sign of war
except, perhaps, an unnatural stillness which seemed to hang over the
countryside like a mist. It gave one an uncanny feeling, this blundering
forward in the mist across an unknown country—the only certainty, that
Death was in front and that we must walk on until He declared Himself.
By eleven we were within a thousand yards of the canal and could dimly
see the general line of the banks in front of us. Here, at least, we
knew that there would be resistance, but as yet there came no sound from
the rising ground in front. The ground between us and the canal was very
open, so we rested some minutes behind the last thick hedges and took
the opportunity of reorganising the units. Then we went forward again, a
long straggling line of crouching figures who cursed and panted as they
toiled over the swampy ground.
At last the storm broke, heavy machine-gun fire but at rather long
range. The line flopped down into the mud, and groups of men began to
work forward in short rushes to a ditch in front which seemed to offer
cover. We reached this with very few casualties, but the fire was too
hot for further progress. Sniping continued all day, and in places we
pushed two or three hundred yards nearer to the canal. No. 2 Section
took refuge in a farm-house and awaited developments.
After dusk I crawled forward with Jennings of the Fusiliers and got
through on to the canal towpath—there were a lot of Huns round the canal
and their outposts were fully 300 yards on our side of it. After some
difficulty we got within about 50 yards of the bridge and I noticed that
the Huns could still crawl across, although it was badly
damaged—allowing for further demolitions I didn’t think we should have
much trouble in getting a foot-bridge across the ruins—we were nearly
caught once, and lay between the water and the towpath while a party of
about ten Huns walked along the path not ten feet away. Got back safely
in the small hours and had a short rest in soaking clothes on the
farm-house floor.
I am too exhausted to feel tired.
_Oct. 22._ Apparently some of our people have got across the canal
farther to the north, and at 9 a.m. the attack was resumed on that side
with a view to forcing the Huns out of their position. Our orders were
to co-operate by means of a demonstration against the canal, but the
machine-gun fire was too heavy and we could do nothing except waste a
lot of ammunition. I only remember seeing a German once during the whole
day, and yet the slightest exposure on our part was answered by an
immediate burst of fire—they stuck it very well, because the fighting on
their right flank was very heavy and they would all have been taken if
we had got through. For several hours during the morning the rifle and
machine-gun fire on our left was very heavy, and the 18–pounders were
continuously in action. Towards noon a battery of 68–pounders came into
action and also some howitzers—several fires broke out in the houses,
but the shells had no effect on the concealed gunners in the canal
banks, and we waited in vain for the blue rocket that was to signal us
forward. About two o’clock an intelligence officer came round and we
learnt that the Germans stuck very hard this morning—we made practically
no progress as a result of the battle, and our losses have been heavy.
At 4.30 the attack on our left was resumed, and the Queens made a very
gallant advance which brought them down almost as far as our left flank
on the canal—unfortunately, there was no support, and before dusk the
weary men had to retreat to their original positions.
On our immediate right there was very little opposition, and the Durhams
are firmly established across the canal. Farther south, however, our
right Division repeated the performance of the Queens on a larger scale
and had to abandon a hardly-won bridgehead across the river after a day
of strenuous fighting.
At 8 p.m. I was informed by Brigade that owing to the retirement of the
Queens I was covering a half-mile gap, and “should take steps
accordingly.” I mounted a piquet with the Lewis gun a few hundred yards
forward of the farm, and sent out patrols every half-hour, but the night
passed off without incident. I took out two patrols myself but could
find neither our own people nor Huns.
We have had a bad day to-day—hard fighting, heavy losses, and no
progress—people at home seem to think that we are chasing a beaten army
which runs so fast that we cannot keep in touch with them. Would that it
were true; but we have been badly mauled to-day and there is precious
little offensive spirit in our nineteen-year-olds.
I saw a boy of the Middlesex coming back with a finger shot away—they
had run against a farm-house with three Huns and a machine-gun and had
lost four men in taking it. He said that the bloody “die-hards” had
lived up to their name again—four casualties!
And yet there was a day on Zandvoorde Ridge when twenty-three men, left
out of 800, lay behind the piled-up bodies of their dead and held the
line against the flower of the Pomeranian Guard—and they didn’t talk of
“die hards.”
_Oct. 23._ The Brigade was taken out of the line this morning and at
noon we had rejoined our transport. We were under orders to move almost
at once and dragged ourselves wearily on to the road, the men singing a
doleful dirge, “I’m sure we can’t stick it no longer.” For the sake of
example I hobbled too, but would have sold my soul to get on Rosie’s
back—to kill the temptation I loaded four men’s packs across her.
After dark we came across a battery of field guns standing to with their
trails half across the road—by skilful driving and occasionally taking a
wheel over the trails we got the limbers and the tool-carts past, but it
was too much for the last pontoon—her off hind-wheel hit a trail, the
wheel horses slipped on the pavé, and the whole contraption slithered
sideways into the ditch. I wanted to cry, but fortunately found the
necessary relief in telling the gunners what I thought of them. It took
us almost an hour to get the wagon clear, and it was midnight before the
men were into billets. There was a pile of straw for me in front of a
roaring fire in the farm-house kitchen. I collapsed on to this, too
exhausted even to loosen my boots or my tunic collar.
_Oct. 24._ Let there be no mistake—last night was the happiest night of
my life, and getting up at six o’clock this morning was the most
wonderful thing that I have ever done. I looked into a mirror and
realised with amusement why the old farmer was so terrified when I
staggered in last night. The scar under my left eye is still prominent,
my clothes were sodden and even my tousled hair was matted with mud;
with the exception of my tunic all my uniform is standard Tommy outfit,
and I wore a five-days’ growth of beard—surely a more unkempt looking
brigand never masqueraded as a British officer.
I looked at my great murderous maulers and wondered idly how they had
evolved from the sensitive, manicured fingers that used to pen theses on
“Colloidal Fuel” and “The Theory of Heat Distribution in Cylinder
Walls.” And I found the comparison good.
No orders came through for us during the day, but we heard that another
early morning attack on the canal had failed—all honour to those Hun
machine-gunners.
After a day of strenuous cleaning, the company paraded in the afternoon
and looked ready once more for anything that Hell could offer. I counted
the faces that I could remember from the beginning, but there were very
few left—and myself the only officer. It struck me, too, that the very
men left were the ones who had run the greatest risks—hard-bitten devils
like Stephens, who had been in the thick of every mess the company had
struck—perhaps it is true that where there is no fear there is no
danger.
_Oct. 25._ Spent another quiet day, but was rushed into the war again at
very short notice in the evening. Out all night with two sections
assisting forward company to put a trestle bridge across the canal lower
down. There was an enormous German timber dump close at hand, and
although most of the yard was burning fiercely we saved enough material
to make an excellent job of the bridge. The German engineers are very
thorough in their demolitions, and have made a perfect ruin of miles of
this canal—apparently their explosive charges are much more liberal than
we use ourselves.
Returned to the company in a drizzling dawn, but were cheered to note
droves of prisoners along the road and hear that we have gone forward
again.
_Oct. 26._ At 4.30 received orders to move company to billets in a farm
far behind us and near to Courtrai—obviously to undergo a fattening
process for further slaughter. After our arrival in the evening I had
another of my black fits for no reason whatever—they occur more
frequently now, and I must surely break up soon. The sober truth is that
I am about as much use here now as my grandmother would be. But even if
I am a wreck it is sweet to feel that I have wanted ten times more
smashing than any of the others—I have given the Fates a run for their
money and I believe I blew them once or twice.
_Oct. 27._ I have been in the saddle all day and feel like a king
to-night. Silence and peace over the whole quiet countryside, and, as I
rode home in the twilight, a touch of frost in the air to catch the
horse’s breath and make my blood tingle. Oh! it was good to be alive, to
feel the power of the horse beneath me, to feel the strength returning
to my own shattered body and, above all, to think of cheerful firesides
down there among the trees, where the wood smoke mingled with the
gathering mists. It was “that sweet mood,
When pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.”
I saw an English village with a quaint old Norman church, and there,
too, the mists were gathering in the meadows round about.
_Oct. 28._ Now we know why we are here—to train, practise, and rehearse
for the crossing of the Scheldt. All the Corps Engineers met in
conference in the town and spent the day designing and testing various
types of foot-bridge. The men had the pontoons out and the officers
spent the day in polishing up their drill. I saw where we crossed the
first time in the driving rain, with the machine-guns hammering in the
houses in front of us, and I saw the spot where I nursed the first
pontoon bridge through an interminable night. But how different now!
A company of Canadian Railway troops were making a permanent bridge on
the very spot where my crazy pontoons had all but foundered. A
broad-gauge loco was hauling ballast up to the very edge of the river,
and a steam pile-driver hissed and chattered over the trestles.
After all, our pontoons had played their part and it was comforting to
see how our feeble, vanguard efforts were followed up.
Returned to the farm, I was delighted to hear that the recommendations
for Military Medals had passed through—my own D.S.O. has dwindled into
another “mention in despatches.”
_Oct. 29._ More conferences and bridge-building. I have been asked to
reconnoitre the existing bridges over the river, and the Huns are half a
mile on this side of them! Spent several hours studying maps and
aeroplane photos and discussing ways and means.
_Oct. 30._ More conferences and training. Completed my plans and decided
to take Stephens out with me on the night of the 31st.
_Oct. 31._ At 2.30 p.m. I lay down quite peacefully, intending to sleep
until dusk, when I could set out on my venture. I was looking forward to
it, and felt perfectly confident.