rarely been more in want of it, for our two battalions had been in the
trenches for fourteen days, with pretty stiff fighting--and nervous,
jumpy fighting in the dark at that--all the time, and no chance of
being comfortable or quiet during the whole of this period. Each
battalion had had to find its own supports or reserves; but even the
latter had to be pretty close up to the firing line, for in such
cramped country one could not afford the risk of a sudden rush which
might have succeeded before the reserves could get up. Our line, it is
true, was not a particularly long one; but it was awkward, and the
troops were much cramped and confined by nearly all being obliged to
take cover in the wood, which gradually grew too small to hold them.
_Nov. 19th._
On the 19th General Wing arrived and told us that, after settling to
relieve us to-day, the French had been unable to find the men and
could not do it. This was a disappointment; but a later message
arrived to say that the Worcesters, coming from the 5th Brigade, would
arrive that afternoon and relieve both of our battalions, who by that
time were reduced to 540 Bedfords and 220 Cheshires altogether (the
Bedfords having started with 1100 and the Cheshires with 600 odd).
In the evening a battalion of Worcesters--from goodness knows
where--turned up and announced that they were to relieve us. We had
already, as above mentioned, heard that they were coming, and were
ready for them; but it was funny that they should arrive for only
twenty-four hours, for the French were going to occupy our trenches on
the morrow.
Anyhow, by midnight or so the Bedfords and Cheshires had cleared out,
thankful to leave the horrible rabbit-warren where they had been stuck
for nearly three wet, cold, and beastly weeks; and they retired to the
wood and dug-outs close behind our château, so as to be in reserve in
case of necessity.
_Nov. 20th._
But they were not wanted as such, and the following day was fairly
quiet as far as trench fighting was concerned.
But not so for the staff. We were sitting in the housekeeper's room
after breakfast working out our orders for the withdrawal that night,
when there was a terrific bang just outside the château--nearer than
ever before. We looked at each other, and would, I verily believe,
have settled down again to our work, so accustomed were we to shells
of all sorts, had not Naylor, who had joined us two days before as
temporary signal officer (_vice_ Cadell, gone sick with light typhoid
at Hille eighteen days before), jumped up and run outside in order to
see where it had gone. Being Divisional signal officer, he had not,
perhaps, had quite so much experience of shells as we had, and he
wanted to get into closer touch. The example was infectious, and we
also strolled out to see where the shell had fallen. Hardly had we got
outside into the passage, and halfway up the basement steps into the
fresh air, when there was a roar and an appalling crash which shook
the building. The concussion made me stagger, and blew my cap off. St
André's hat fizzed away into the bushes, and, surrounded by a cloud of
red dust and stones and chips of balustrades and hunks of wood and
branches, we held on to anything we could. No damage to ourselves; but
a glance down the passage showed us that the shell, or most of it, had
exploded in or just outside the kitchen, and blown that chamber, as
well as the housekeeper's room, which we had just left, into absolute
smithereens.
No time to look into further details; a hurried issue of orders, and
we legged it for all we were worth across the open and into our
funk-hole in the shrubbery 300 yards off, whilst the signal section
and servants and orderlies made a bolt for the stables in the opposite
direction.
But the Germans seem to have been satisfied with this little
exhibition of "hate," and bombarded us no more--except casually, with
shrapnel, as usual. We crept back to the château at intervals during
the morning, and removed various possessions and chairs and tables to
our dug-out, which was not a very luxurious abode, though dry and
fairly deep. Poor Conway, Weatherby's servant, whom he had left
behind, was the only casualty; his dead body was found, with both legs
broken and an arm off, blown down a cellar passage at the back. The
next most serious casualty was Moulton-Barrett's new pair of breeches,
arrived that morning from England, and driven full of holes like a
sugar-sifter. Our late room was a mass of wreckage--half the outer
wall and most of the inner one blown down, tables and chairs and
things overturned and broken, and the floor knee-deep in plaster and
rubbish. Of the kitchen there was still less; and nothing was to be
rescued from the debris except one tin plate and one tin mustard-pot.
It would have taken days to clear it, for a good deal of the room
above seemed to have fallen into it as well, and one could hardly get
in at the door, so full was the place of plaster, wreckage, and
stones, and hot-water pipes and bits of iron and twisted rails, and
dust and earth and broken laths and rafters. Luckily the concussion
put the fire out, or there might have been still more damage.
We spent our day somewhat uncomfortably in the dug-out, for there was
a hard frost and very little room to turn round in, and though we had
a brazier, its charcoal fumes in the confined space nearly poisoned
us. In the middle of the day three French officers turned up, and we
made mutual arrangements for the taking over by them of this portion
of the line, Milling (of the Bedfords) guiding one party and St André
the other.
Food was rather a difficulty, for the mess servants had disappeared,
and had last been seen hastening in the direction of Ypres--for which
we cursed them loud and long. We did our best with small hunks of
bully and odd bits of chocolate and a modicum of tea and biscuits in
our haversacks--for all the rest of our food had been buried by that
infernal shell,--but it was neither comfortable nor filling; and, in
truth, as the dark winter evening came on with only one or two
candle-stumps between us, we were not as happy as we should otherwise
have been.
Help was, however, at hand; for our servants, Inskip and Stairs, who
we thought had ignominiously run away, suddenly turned up with heaps
of food. They had gone all the way to our cook's waggon three miles
the other side of Ypres for comestibles, and whilst we were d--ing
their eyes for bolting, were trudging, heavily laden, along the road
back to us--good youths.
It was a lengthy business getting the relief through. The French
troops, due at 7.30 P.M., did not arrive till 9.15 P.M., and even then
it was difficult to pilot a lot of troops, fresh to the ground, in
pitch darkness, over shell-holes and wires and broken trees and
stumps, and through mud and undergrowth and dead horses, &c., &c.,
into the trenches destined for them. The details had to be very
carefully arranged indeed, and it was not till nearly 2 A.M. that we
had got the French into the trenches, the Worcesters into reserve, and
the Bedfords and Cheshires on their way back to Ypres.
Then, with a sigh of some thankfulness apiece, we stumbled back in the
darkness to the château, where we waited to collect the remains of the
Signal Section and staff, and then moved off, mounted this time, down
the Menin-Ypres road.
It was freezing very hard--as I think I remarked before--and the road
was frightfully slippery. Trotting was almost out of the question, but
I tried it on Squeaky for a few yards, on a dry broken bit. She pulled
back on to the slippery part, slid up, and sat down heavily, whilst I
fell gracefully off on to my shoulder. And she repeated the
performance the other side of the town. Ypres, in the bright
starlight, was still quite impressive, and the Cloth Hall was still
almost intact. But there were many shell-holes about, and some of the
houses were still smouldering. The town happened to be respited from
shells for the actual moment, but I believe that the very next day a
heavy bombardment began again, and the Cloth Hall was destroyed till
hardly the skeleton thereof was left.
_Nov. 21st._
We were due to billet in Locre, and there we arrived at about 7 A.M.
It was frightfully cold, but, after we had seen the two battalions
billeted, the military policeman who had been told to turn up and show
us to our billets was nowhere to be found, so we wandered on as far
as the Convent, staggering and slipping on the snowy ice and blowing
on our fingers as we went. The thermometer must have shown ten degrees
of frost or more, but I only know that I was very glad to reach our
little house at last (having passed it already once half a mile
before) and get in between the sheets of an ancient but respectably
clean bed, covered by all the mackintoshes, blankets, and rugs I could
get hold of.
The Cheshires were billeted on the Mont Rouge close by, and the
Bedfords near us, at the corner of the Westoutre road. They had all
struggled over the fourteen miles or so that divided them from their
trenches, but having arrived and their feet having swollen terribly
during the long march, any number of them could not get their boots on
again, and they went to hospital by twenties and thirties, hobbling
along the road with their feet tied up in rags or socks, for they were
deformed with rheumatism and swollen joints,[23] and would not fit any
boot. The Cheshires, as I expected, were much the worse of the two
battalions, for their trenches had been very wet, and most of the men
had sat with cold feet in water for many days; yet there was not a
single case of pulmonary complaint amongst them, and hardly even a
cough or a cold.
[Footnote 23: What would now be known as "trench feet."]
Here we stayed, at Locre, till the 25th, the men enjoying a most
well-earned rest, and filling up with hot baths, warm clothes, socks,
parcels from home, and comforts of all sorts. The Divisional
Headquarters were in the Convent, a clean huge building which did very
well for the purpose, and here we went almost daily, either on
business or on a meal intent. The Cheshires--only 230 of them
left--were of no practical value, alas, with their bad feet; so they
were sent in to 2nd Corps Headquarters (Sir H. S.-D.) at Bailleul,
nominally to "find" the Headquarters Guard, but in reality to
convalesce.
On the 25th we--that is, Headquarters and the Bedfords, for that was
all there was left of the 15th for the moment--moved to St Jan's
Cappel, a nice little village only a few miles behind Locre. We lived
in the Curé's (M. de Vos) house, clean and pleasant; and the Curé, who
liked the good things of this world, brought his stout person to
coffee every evening, and did not disdain to make the acquaintance of
an occasional tot of British rum or whisky, except on Fridays.
Two days afterwards we were inspected both by Sir Horace and, half an
hour later, by Sir John French, who were both pleased to say
complimentary things of the Brigade. It did us good. The Bedfords
again put me to confusion by calling out "'Ear! 'ear!" at telling
points of the speeches--curious folk,--the only battalion I ever heard
do so. 587 men and 8 officers on parade, not one of the latter of
whom, except the Quartermaster, had come out with the battalion.
Griffith was on leave, his place being taken by Major Mackenzie, V.C.,
who had just joined. All the other officers who had left Ireland with
me in August were either killed, wounded, or sick.
We were under orders to go into the trenches again shortly, taking
over from Maude,[24] now commanding the 14th Brigade; he also had the
Dorsets and Norfolks, scraped up from various places, attached to him.
His line was in front of Dranoutre.
[Footnote 24: The victor of Baghdad.]
On the 29th November we took over there, a most complicated
arrangement which only evolved itself clearly during the next week. I
had the East Surreys and Manchesters under me for a time, and then the
K.O.S.B.'s, all interchanging and intershuffling with my battalions,
the main reason being that I had not got the Cheshires, so had to
shift as best I could without them, picking up a battalion of the 13th
or 14th Brigade when one was available.
The line was not exactly nice. We had, it is true, got rid of the
worst bit, Hill 73, on to the 3rd Division, which was next door on the
left; but it extended all the same for an unpleasant length on our
right, which was south of the Wulverghem-Messines road, the right of
the Brigade on our right being on the Douve. At the longest--the
length that the Brigade had to defend varied according to
circumstances--the line was just over 2500 yards; at its shortest it
was about 2200. Considering that the normal frontage (defensive) of
the Brigade at full strength was 900 to 1300 yards, this was a bit
"thin" in more senses than one.
As we were here for three months, off and on--from the beginning of
December to the end of February,--it may be worth while trying to
describe it, if I can.
[Illustration: The Messines Front.]
Imagine a bit of rolling country--rather like parts of
Leicestershire,--fair-sized fields, separated mostly by straggling
fences interspersed with wire (largely barbed), and punctuated by tall
trees. Patches of wood in places, spinney size for the most part. Low
hills here and there--Kemmel, Scherpenberg, Ploegsteert Wood,--but all
outside our area. For villages, Dranoutre, Neuve Église, Wulverghem,
and Lindenhoek, of which the two last were already more than half shot
to pieces and almost deserted. Opposite our right was Messines--a mile
and a half in front of our line,--its big, square, old church tower
still standing; it may have had a spire on the top, but if so it had
disappeared before we came. Nearly opposite our extreme left, but out
of our jurisdiction and in the sphere of the Division on our left, was
Wytschaete (pronounce Wich Khâte), one and a half miles off. The
cavalry had held both Messines[25] and Wytschaete at the end of
October, but had been overwhelmingly attacked here and driven out of
them, so that the two villages formed a hostile bulge into our line.
We had been in hopes of driving attacks into the base of the bulge and
thus forcing a retirement. But the Germans reinforced the bulge and
entrenched it heavily, and instead of our cutting off the bulge, it
became flatter and flatter, without giving way at the point, so that
we had to retire slightly, on either side, and not they.
[Footnote 25: Locally pronounced Mersé.]
Farms, nearly all of them roofless and half-ruined, were dotted about
over the country. Small ones for the most part they were, and of the
usual type--a liquid and stinking manure-heap surrounded on three
sides by a living-house and barns. Of the roads, those from Dranoutre
to Lindenhoek, Dranoutre to Neuve Église, and Neuve Église _viâ_
Wulverghem to Messines, were _pavé_--_i.e._, cobble-stones down the
centre and mud on both sides. Those joining Lindenhoek to Neuve Église
and Wulverghem were also mostly _pavé_. The remainder were mere field
tracks for the most part, rarely metalled, and in wet weather almost
impassable for mud.
O that mud! We have heard lots about Flanders mud, but the reality
transcends imagination, especially in winter. Greasy, slippery,
holding clay, over your toes in most places and over your ankles in
all the rest--where it is not over your knees,--it is the most
horrible "going" I know anywhere. Whether you are moving across plough
or grass fields, or along lanes, you are perpetually skating about and
slipping up on the firmer bits and held fast by the ankles in the
softer ones. There is no stone in the district, nothing but rich loamy
clay, _alias_ mud. However much you dig, you never come across stone,
nothing but sticky mud which clings to your shovel and refuses to be
parted from it--mud that has to be scraped off at almost every stroke,
mud that absorbs water like a sponge yet refuses to give it up again.
Every little puddle and rut, every hoof-depression full of rain,
remains like that for weeks; even when the weather is fine the water
does not seem to evaporate, but remains on the surface.
And when it rains, as it did all that winter (except when it snowed),
the state of the trenches is indescribable. Some were, frankly, so
full of water that they had to be abandoned, and a breastwork erected
behind. But a breastwork is slow work, especially if you are less than
100 yards from the enemy. For weeks, indeed, the garrison of one
particular trench had to lie out on the mud, or on what waterproofs
they could get, behind a shelter two to three feet high--always
growing a little, yet never to be made to a real six feet height for
reason of conspicuousness and consequent clusters of Black Marias.
Other trenches varied from five inches to five feet deep in mud; in
one a Dorset man was literally almost drowned and drawn forth with
great difficulty. Many cases occurred of semi-submersion, and as for
moving up the communication trenches during the winter, it was
generally an impossibility, for they were either knee-deep in water or
in mud, and simply refused to be drained. So men preferred the risk of
a stray bullet to the certainty of liquid mud to the knees and
consequent icy discomfort for twenty-four hours and more. And as for
the unfortunate ration-parties and men bringing up heavy trench
stores, their task was really one of frightful labour, for, for two
men to cross a large and slippery muddy series of fields carrying a
100 lb. box between them was no joke. First one would slide up and
skate off in one direction whilst the other did his best to hold on,
generally resulting in dropping his end of the box or finding himself
on the flat of his back. Then the parts would be reversed, but they
always slid up in opposite directions--the mud saw to that,--and they
would arrive in the trenches, after their stroll of a mile or less,
absolutely exhausted and dripping with sweat. It was difficult enough,
over much of the ground, to avoid slipping up even when burdened by
nothing more than a walking-stick; that I know from personal
experience. Yet for many weeks the men had to do this and suffer, for
fascines and bricks, besides sandbags, were only just beginning to
make their appearance in December; and floor-boards and gratings and
gravel and trench stores and wire-netting, and revetments and planks
and iron sheeting and trestles and hurdles of all sorts, did not
really materialize in anything like sufficient numbers till March.
The draining of the trenches was heartbreaking. After a heavy day or
two of rain the parapets would fall down in hunks into the foot of
water or so in the trenches, and would churn up into liquid mud, only
to be removed by large spoons, of which we had none, or buckets, of
which we had but very few. It was too thick to drain off down the
very, very gradual slopes which were the best we could do, and too
liquid to be shovelled away; so there it would remain, and our
strenuous efforts in rebuilding the parapets (for at this period we
had no revetting material) would only result, a night or two later, in
still further collapses.
The R.E. companies, both 17th and 59th, worked like heroes, and so
particularly did the Norfolks and Bedfords; but it was most
disheartening work. No sooner was one parapet fairly complete than
another fell in; and when this was mended the first one would collapse
again under the incessant downpour. And all this time wire
entanglements had to be put up in front under hostile fire, trenches
connected up and drained, support trenches dug, communication trenches
improved, loopholes made, defences thickened and strengthened, saps
pushed out, all under the fire of an enemy anything from 60 to 200
yards off, and always on rather higher ground than ourselves, worse
luck, so that he had the whip-hand.
Soon came the period of hand grenades, in which he had six to one the
best of us in numbers; and then in rifle grenades ditto ditto; and
then in trench mortars, flare-lights, searchlights, and
rockets--wherein we followed him feebly and at a great distance; for
where he sent up 100 (say) light balls at night, we could only afford
five or six; and other things in proportion. Later on came the
Minenwerfer, an expanded type of trench mortar, and its bomb, but up
to the end of February his efforts in this direction were not very
serious, though I allow that he did us more harm thereby than we him.
For our trench mortars were in an experimental stage, made locally by
the R.E., and constructed of thin gas-pipe iron and home-made jam-pot
bombs, whose behaviour was always erratic, and sometimes, I regret to
say, fatal to the mortarist. (Poor Rogers, R.E., a capital subaltern,
was killed thus, besides others, I fear.)
Our reliefs varied. Normally the Brigade was supposed to be, at first,
eight days in and four days out. Then this was rapidly changed to
twelve days in and six days out; then, as the 14th Brigade suggested
that it should hold Neuve Église, a quite short front, in perpetuity,
whilst the 13th and 15th Brigades relieved each other alternate eight
days along the long front, it was changed nominally to eight in and
eight out. But it was not always possible, and our last tour lasted
twenty days in and only three out.
The reliefs made one's head whirl. It was all right to start with, two
battalions in the trenches (_i.e._, fire-trenches, support-trenches,
and reserve-trenches), and two battalions in reserve at Dranoutre or
thereabouts--four days about, each battalion, in eight-day reliefs, or
three days about in twelve-day reliefs. This was simple. But when our
line was lengthened to a three-battalion length it became much more
difficult, especially when one battalion was much weaker than the
other three. And when, eventually, the brigade was presented with a
Territorial battalion of great strength but no experience, making five
battalions of varying strengths to occupy a three-battalion length,
whilst one could only put the Territorial one (at first) into a
comparatively safe place in the line which did not fit it, then the
problem of the wolf, the goat, and the cabbage faded into complete
insignificance.
It was very difficult to fit everything in so that each battalion had
its fair share of duty and of rest. Even with the best intentions
matters did not always pan out straight, for considerations of
strength, of comparative excellence, of dangerous and of safe
localities, of moral, of comfortable or uncomfortable trenches, of
spade-work and of a dozen other things, had to be fitted together like
a Chinese puzzle.
There was a particularly dangerous and uncomfortable length which was
given to the best battalion to hold. On its relief, who should hold
it? the next best, who was badly wanted somewhere else, or another one
weak in numbers and consequently unfit? And when the relief came
again, was the best battalion always to be doomed to the worst and
most dangerous trenches, merely because it _was_ the best? Hardly an
incitement to good work. And when the battalions did not fit their
length, were you to add or subtract a company from somebody else, or
would you put some in reserve out of their turn, thereby inflicting
unfair hardship on another battalion? And would you like to reinforce
one battalion, in case of attack, by another battalion? or would you
like to make it thin in front and deep behind, and support itself? If
the other thing was necessary, how could you do it when the two
battalions were accustomed to relieve their companies, internally, in
different ways, when perhaps the transport of one was deficient, or
one battalion preferred sandbags, whilst the other cherished hurdles,
as revetting material?--for I always found that giving the commanding
officer his head in such small internal matters produced the best
work. It was a matter for deep study and wet towels, and there let it
rest.