“THE MOST CRITICAL DAY OF ALL”
[In the first four months of the war nineteen Victoria Crosses were
gazetted for valour in the field, and of these no fewer than five
were awarded for the sanguinary fighting at Le Cateau on August
26th, 1914. In his despatch dealing with the retreat from Mons Sir
John French described the 26th as “the most critical day of all.”
It was during this crisis of the battle that Corporal Frederick
William Holmes, of the 2nd Battalion The King’s Own (Yorkshire
Light Infantry), “carried a wounded man out of the trenches under
heavy fire and later assisted to drive a gun out of action by
taking the place of a driver who had been wounded.” Corporal Holmes
has not only won the Victoria Cross, but he has been also awarded
the Médaille Militaire of the Legion of Honour of France. His story
gives further proof of the wondrous courage and endurance of the
gallant British Army in Belgium and in France.]
For seven years I was with the colours in the old 51st, which is now the
Yorkshire Light Infantry, then I was drafted to the Reserve; but I was
called back only a fortnight later, when the war broke out.
The regimental depôt is at Pontefract, in South Yorkshire, which some
unkind people say is the last place that God started and never finished,
and in August, having become a soldier again, after marrying and
settling down to civil life in Dublin, I found myself in a region which
was almost like the South Yorkshire coalfields. There were the same
pit-heads and shale-heaps, so that you could almost think you were in
England again--but how different from England’s calmness and security!
It was around these pit-heads and shale-heaps that some of the fiercest
fighting of the earlier days of the war took place.
We had left Dublin and reached Havre at midnight; we had been to the
fortified town of Landrecies, where the Coldstreamers were to do such
glorious things, and had got to Maroilles, where Sir Douglas Haig and
the 1st Division became heavily engaged. We were at Maroilles, in
billets, from the 18th to the 21st. Billets meant almost anything, and
we lived and slept in all sorts of places as well as the trenches--but
being in the open in summer was no hardship. The fields had been
harvested and we often slept on the stacks of corn.
The people were really most kind; they gave us every mortal thing as we
marched, beer, wine, cigarettes and anything else there was.
At five o’clock on the Saturday afternoon we were billeted in a brewery,
where we stayed till Sunday noon, when, as we were having dinner, shells
were bursting and beginning things for us. We were ordered to take up a
position about two miles from Mons, and on that famous Sunday we went
into action near a railway embankment.
People by this time know all about Mons, so I will only say that after
that hard business we retired towards Le Cateau, after fighting all day
on the 24th and all the following night. After that we took up a
position on outpost and stayed on outpost all night, then, at about two
in the morning, we dropped into some trenches that we had previously
occupied.
I know what Mons was and I went through the battles of the Marne and the
Aisne; but nothing I had seen could be compared for fury and horror
with the stand of the 5th Division on the 26th. It was essentially a
fight by the 5th, because that was the only division employed at Le
Cateau. The division was composed of three brigades, the 12th, 13th and
14th. My battalion, the 2nd Yorkshire Light Infantry, was in the 13th,
the other battalions with us being the West Riding, the King’s Own
Scottish Borderers and the West Kent.
There were some coal-pit hills in front of us and the Germans advanced
over them in thousands. That was about eleven o’clock in the morning,
and the firing began in real earnest again.
The Germans by this time were full of furious hope and reckless courage,
because they believed that they had got us on the run and that it was
merely a question of hours before we were wiped out of their way. Their
blood was properly up, and so was ours, and I think we were a great deal
hotter than they were, though we were heavily outnumbered. We hadn’t the
same opinion of German soldiers that the Germans had, and as they rushed
on towards us we opened a fire from the trenches that simply destroyed
them.
Some brave deeds were done and some awful sights were seen on the top of
the coal-pits. A company of Germans were on one of the tops and an
officer and about a dozen men of the “Koylis” went round one side of the
pit and tried to get at them. Just as they reached the back of the pit
the German artillery opened fire on the lot, Germans and all--that was
one of their tricks. They would rather sacrifice some of their own men
themselves than let any of ours escape--and they lost many in settling
their account with the handful of Englishmen who had rushed behind the
pit at a whole company of Germans.
Hereabouts, at the pits, the machine-gun fire on both sides was
particularly deadly. Lieutenant Pepys, who was in charge of the
machine-gun of our section, was killed by shots from German
machine-guns, and when we went away we picked him up and carried him
with us on the machine-gun limber until we buried him outside a little
village in a colliery district.
He was a very nice gentleman and the first officer to go down. When he
fell Lieutenant N. B. Dennison, the brigade machine-gun officer, took
charge. He volunteered to take over the gun, and was either killed or
wounded. Then Lieutenant Unett, the well-known gentleman jockey, crawled
on his stomach to the first line of the trenches, with some men,
dragging a machine-gun behind them. They got this gun into the very
front of the line of the trenches, then opened fire on the Germans with
disastrous effect. Lieutenant Unett was wounded and lay in the open all
the time.
This gallant deed was done between twelve noon and one o’clock, and I
was one of the few men who saw it. I am glad to be able to pay my humble
tribute to it.
There was a battery of the Royal Field Artillery on our left rear, about
800 yards behind the front line of trenches. Our gunners had such
excellent range on the Germans that the German gunners were finding them
with high explosive shell. It was mostly those shells that were dropping
on them till they got the range and killed the gunners. There were only
about five who were not either killed or wounded. The officer was
wounded; but in spite of that he carried a wounded man round the bottom
of the hill, then went back and fetched another man and repeated the
journey until he had taken every one of the five away. After that he
returned, picked up a spade and smashed the sights of the gun and made
it useless. We heard some time afterwards that he had been killed.
This brave deed was witnessed by most of us who were in the front line
of trenches.
When the German guns were got into position in front of us and the
Germans tried their hardest to blow us out of our trenches, they
searched for our artillery and, failing to discover it, they grew more
determined than ever to rout us out of the place from which we were
doing deadly damage.
In spite of the heavy losses around us we held on, and all the more
stubbornly because we expected every moment that the French would come
up and reinforce us. The French were due about four o’clock, but owing
to some accident they did not arrive, and it seemed as if nothing could
save us.
There was a falling off in our artillery fire, and it was clear that one
of our batteries had been put out of action. And no wonder, for the
German guns were simply raining shells upon us. The Germans at that time
were sticking to the dense formations which had been their practice
since the war began--and they hurled themselves forward in clouds
towards the 37th Field Battery.
So furiously did they rush, so vast were their numbers, and so certain
were they that they had the guns as good as captured, that they actually
got within a hundred yards of the battery.
It was at this terrible crisis that Captain Douglas Reynolds and
volunteers rushed up with two teams and limbered up two guns, and in
spite of all the German batteries and rifles did one gun was saved. This
was a wonderful escape, in view of the nearness of the German infantry
and their numbers, and for their share in the desperate affair the
captain and two of the drivers--Drane and Luke--who had volunteered, got
the Victoria Cross.
In a way we had got used to retiring, and we were not at the end of it
even now, by a good deal, for on our left the Borderers were withdrawing
and on our right the Manchesters were being forced right back; fighting
magnificently and leaving the ground littered with their dead and
wounded.
The Yorkshire Light Infantry were left in the centre of the very front
line of the trenches, where we were heavily pressed. We made every
mortal effort to hold our ground, and C Company was ordered up from the
second line to reinforce us in the first.
Imagine what it meant for a company of infantry to get from one trench
to another at a time like that, to leave shelter, to rush across a space
of open ground that was literally riddled with shrapnel and rifle
bullets, and in the daytime, too, with the Germans in overwhelming force
at point-blank range.
But the order had been given, and C Company obeyed. The men sprang from
their trench, they rushed across a fire-swept zone--and the handful of
them who were not shot down made a final dash and simply tumbled into
our trench and strengthened us. They had just about lost their first
wind, but were soon hard at it again with the rifle and did murderous
work, if only to get something back on account of the comrades who had
fallen.
It was a help, a big help, to have C Company with us in the front
trench; but even with this reinforcement we could do nothing, and after
we had made a hot stand the order came to retire. That was about
half-past four in the afternoon.
Things had been bad before; they were almost hopeless now, for to retire
meant to show ourselves in the open and become targets for the German
infantry; but our sole chance of salvation was to hurry away--there was
no thought of surrender.
When the order was given there was only one thing to do--jump out of the
trenches and make a rush, and we did both; but as soon as we were seen a
storm of bullets struck down most of the men.
At such a time it is every man for himself, and it is hardly possible to
think of anything except your own skin. All I wanted to do was to obey
orders and get out of the trench and away from it.
I had rushed about half-a-dozen yards when I felt a curious tug at my
boot. I looked to see what was the matter and found that my foot had
been clutched by a poor chap who was wounded and was lying on the ground
unable to move.
“For God’s sake, save me!” he cried, and before I knew what was
happening I had got hold of him and slung him across my back. I can’t
pretend to tell you details of how it was all done, because I don’t
clearly remember. There was no time to think of much besides the bullets
and the fastest way of getting out of their reach. Rain was falling, not
heavily, but it was drizzling, and this made the ground greasy and
pretty hard going.
I had not gone far before the poor chap complained that my equipment
hurt him and begged me to get it out of his way. The only thing to be
done was to drop the equipment altogether, so I halted and somehow got
the pack and the rest of it off, and I let my rifle go, too, for the
weight of the lot, with the weight of a man, was more than I could
tackle.
I picked my man up again, and had struggled on for twenty or thirty
yards when I had to stop for a rest.
Just then I saw the major of the company, who said, “What’s the matter
with him?”
I could not speak, so I pointed to the man’s knees, which were shot with
shrapnel; then the major answered, “All right! Take him as far as you
can, and I hope you’ll get him safely out of it.”
I picked him up again and off I went, making straight over the hill at
the back of the position we had taken, so that he should be safe from
the German fire. The point I wanted to reach was about a mile away, and
it was a dreadful journey; but I managed to do it, and when I had got
there, after many rests, I started to carry my man to the nearest
village, which was some distance off.
I got to the village, but the German heavy shells were dropping so fast
that I could not stay there, and they told me to carry him into the next
village. I was pretty well worn out by this time, but I started again,
and at last with a thankful heart I reached the village and got the man
into a house where wounded men were being put.
How far did I carry him?
Well, it was calculated that the distance was three miles; but I never
felt the weight. Yes, he was quite conscious and kept on moaning and
saying, “Oh!” and telling me that if ever he got out of it he would
remember me; but I said that he mustn’t talk such nonsense--for I wanted
him to stop thanking me and to keep his spirits up.
I don’t know how long I was in getting him over the ground, for I had no
idea of time.
Having put my man in safety I left the house and began to go back to the
position, expecting to find some of the regiments to rejoin, but when I
reached the firing line there were no regiments left. They had been
forced to retire, and the ground was covered with the dead and wounded,
as it was impossible to bring all the wounded away.
There was a road at this particular point, and on reaching the top of it
I saw the Germans advancing, about 500 yards away. Between them and
myself there was a field-gun, with the horses hooked in, ready to move
off; but I saw that there was only a wounded trumpeter with it.
I rushed up to him and shouted, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m hurt,” he said. “The gun has to be got away; but there’s nobody
left to take it.”
I looked all around, and saw that there were no English gunners
left--there were only the Germans swarming up, 500 yards away and badly
wanting to get at the gun.
There was not a second to lose. “Come on,” I said, and with that I
hoisted the trumpeter into the saddle of the near wheel horse, and
clambering myself into the saddle of the lead horse we got the gun going
and made a dash up the hill.
There was only the one road, and this was so littered up and fenced
about with wire entanglements
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 62._
“I HOISTED THE TRUMPETER INTO THE SADDLE.”]
that we could not hope to escape by it. Our only chance was by dashing
at the hill, and this we did--and a terrible business it was, because we
were forced to gallop the gun over the dead bodies of our own
men--mostly artillerymen, they were. Many of the poor chaps had crawled
away from their battery and had died on the hillside or on the road.
We carried on over the hill, and when the Germans saw what we were doing
they rained shells and bullets on us. One or two of the horses were hit,
and a bullet knocked my cap off and took a piece of skin from my
head--just here. But that didn’t hurt me much, nor did another bullet
which went through my coat. We carried on, and got over the hill, just
driving straight ahead, for we couldn’t steer, not even to avoid the
dead.
I daresay the bullet that carried off my cap stunned me a bit, at any
rate I didn’t remember very much after that, for the time being; all I
know is that we galloped madly along, and dashed through two or three
villages. There was no one in the first village; but in the second I saw
an old lady sitting outside a house, with two buckets of water, from
which soldiers were drinking. She was rocking to and fro, with her head
between her hands, a pitiful sight. Shells were dropping all around and
the place was a wreck.
I carried on at full stretch for about ten miles, tearing along to get
to the rear of the column. I don’t remember that I ever looked back; but
I took it that the trumpeter was still in the saddle of the wheel horse.
At last I caught up with the column; then I looked round for the
trumpeter, but he was not there, and I did not know what had become of
him. That was the first I knew of the fact that I had been driving the
gun by myself.
Willy-nilly I had become a sort of artilleryman, and from that time
until the 28th I attached myself to the guns; but on that day I rejoined
what was left of my old regiment.
I had been in charge of twelve men, but when I inquired about them I
found that only three were left--nine had been either killed or wounded,
and the rest of the battalion had suffered in proportion. That gives
some idea of the desperate nature of the fighting and the way in which
the little British army suffered during the first three days after Mons.
The officer who had seen me carrying the man off did not see me go back,
but a sergeant who knew me noticed me passing through the village with
the gun and he was the first man of my battalion that I saw. This was
Sergeant Marchant, who, for his gallantry in helping another sergeant,
who was wounded, was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal. In that
fine affair he was helped by Company-Sergeant-Major Bolton, and both of
them were mentioned in despatches.
Of course I never thought of saying anything about what I had done; but
I was sent for and asked if it was true, and I said I had got the man
away and helped to take the gun off, and this was confirmed by the major
who had seen me carrying the man.
For the day’s work at Le Cateau two Victoria Crosses were given to my
regiment--one to Major C. A. L. Yate, “Cal,” he was called, because of
his initials, and one to myself.
Major Yate was a very fine officer. He joined us and took command of B
Company just before we went out to the war. On this day he was in the
trenches, on our left rear, not very far from where I was. When we went
into action he had 220 men, but they caught so much of the hot fire
which was meant for the battery behind that he lost all his men except
nineteen when he was surrounded and captured. The day before this
happened the major declared that if it came to a pinch and they were
surrounded he would not surrender--and he did not surrender now.
Reckless of the odds against him he headed his nineteen men in a charge
against the Germans--and when that charge was over only three of the
company could be formed up. All the rest of B Company were either killed
or wounded or taken prisoners, though very few prisoners were taken. The
major was one of them; but he was so badly wounded that he lived only a
very short time, and died as a prisoner of war. His is one of the cases
in which the Cross is given although the winner of it is dead. Major
Yate was an absolute gentleman and a great favourite with us all. He had
had a lot of experience in the Far East and at home, and I am sure that
if he had lived he would have become a general. He was always in front,
and his constant cry was “Follow me!”
From Le Cateau we got to the Valley of the Aisne and were in trenches
for ten days. At midnight on September 24th we advanced two miles beyond
the river, which we had crossed by pontoons because all the other
bridges had been blown up.
We reached a little village and stayed there in shelters underneath the
houses, where all the inhabitants slept. We stayed in one of these
cellars and went on outpost at four in the morning and came off at four
next morning, then went on again at four a.m.
We were only 250 yards from the Germans, who were in a small wood
outside the village, opposite the houses. They had snipers out and were
sniping at us all the time. We barricaded the windows of the houses and
knocked bricks out of the walls to make loopholes, and through these
loopholes we sniped the Germans, and they did their level best to pick
us off too. Every time your head was shown a dozen bullets came, and you
could not see where they came from. Two or three of our men were killed
by snipers; but there was no real chance of getting to grips, for there
was barbed wire everywhere, and nothing could be done till this was cut.
Night was the only time when the wire could be cut--and night work was
both eerie and nerve-racking.
We had “listeners” to listen for any movement by the enemy. A sentry in
peace times means a man who walks up and down, smartly dressed, but in
war time, at night, he is a listener, and in the daytime he is a
“watcher”--he can see in the daytime and hear at night. That is one of
the little things which show how greatly war changes the customs of
peace.
It was outside Béthune, when we were in reserve to the rest of the
brigade, that I was wounded. We had got well into October and we were
behind trenches, with French infantry on our right. At night we
advanced, on a level with the firing line, and in the darkness we dug
trenches. We were then next to the King’s Own Scottish Borderers. We
finished the trenches before the early hours of the morning and stuck in
them till five in the afternoon, when we heard some shouts, and on
looking over we saw that the Germans were making a charge.
We opened rapid fire and the Germans answered very smartly, having
dropped down. But they were not down long, for up they sprang and with
further shouts on they came and got within three hundred yards of us.
Then we were ordered to fix bayonets and be ready to charge at any
moment; but before we started charging we rushed into another line of
trenches in front of us, and there we mixed with the Borderers.
This fight in the night was a thrilling affair, the chief guide on each
side being the flashes of the rifles, and these were incessant. The
Germans were firing rapidly at anything they could see; but there was
little to see except the tiny forks of flame. They must have heard us,
however, and that, of course, would help them. One strange thing
happened when we reached the trench, and that was that we had to wake up
some of the men. In spite of the fighting they were sleeping--but war
turns everything upside down, and the British soldier reaches a point
when it takes a lot to disturb him.
Suddenly, at this crisis, I felt as if my leg had been struck by
something that vibrated, like a springboard, and I dropped down. I was
dizzy, but did not think I was hit, and I supposed that if I stayed down
for a few minutes I should be all right and able to go on. So I sat
down, but quickly found that I could not move, and on feeling my leg I
discovered that it was wet and warm, and I knew what that meant, so I
took off my equipment and put it down and began to crawl back to the
trench I had left when we charged.
I crawled across a mangel-wurzel field to a house of some sort, then I
must have become unconscious, for the next thing I knew was that I was
being carried along on a stretcher.
It was only yesterday that a friend in my battalion wrote to tell me
that we were crawling pretty close together through the mangel-wurzel
field. He was shot in the arm and stopped two of the Borderers’
stretcher-bearers just in time to have me put on a stretcher.
I had a natural walking-stick which I had cut from a vine, and of which
I was very fond. I had fastened it to my rifle and was so proud of it
that I said I would carry it through the war, if I could. My friend must
have known how I prized the vine-stick, for when he was sent home he
brought it with him, and it’s waiting for me when I leave hospital.
I also had a letter from my company officer a few days ago. He says he
missed me that night, but he could not make out what had happened. He
heard that a complete set of equipment had been found, and on learning
that I was wounded he assumed that it was mine, and that I had been
carried away and left it. He told me that on the very night I was
wounded they were relieved by the French infantry, and that he himself
was hit ten days afterwards. It was the day before I was wounded that I
heard that I was recommended for the French Military Medal, and that was
as big a surprise to me as the news that I had been given the Victoria
Cross.
That equipment of mine had a tragic history. During the first day of the
Aisne I was without equipment and set to work to get some. A bugler of
my battalion had been killed by shrapnel and I was told by my officer
to go and get his equipment. “Treat him gently, poor chap,” said the
officer, and you may be sure I did. I helped myself, and thinking that
the poor lad’s mother might like a memento I brought away his
“iron-rations” tin. This is riddled with bullet-holes, just as the
bugler was.
There is one thing more that I would like to say, and it is about my
birthday, which falls on September 7th. As I had left the colours and
gone into the Reserve I thought I could look forward to a fine
celebration of the anniversary. And there _was_ a fine celebration, too,
for on September 7th our retiring before the Germans ended and we
started to advance and drive them back.
Could any British soldier want a finer birthday celebration than that?