GERMAN TREACHERY AND HATRED
[“Die hard, my men, die hard!” shouted the heroic Colonel Inglis,
when, at Albuhera, in the Peninsular War, his regiment, the 57th
Foot, were furiously engaged with the enemy. And the regiment
obeyed, for when the bloody fight was ended twenty-two out of
twenty-five officers had been killed or wounded, 425 of 570 rank
and file had fallen and thirty bullets had riddled the King’s
Colour. The 57th is now the 1st Battalion Middlesex Regiment, but
the regiment is still best known by its gallant nickname of the
“Die-Hards.” It has suffered exceptional losses in this war, and
the story of some of its doings is told by Corporal W. Bratby, who
relates a tale which he has described as a brother’s revenge.]
The old “Die-Hards” went into action at Mons nearly a thousand strong;
but when, after Mons had been left behind, a roaring furnace, the roll
was called, not more than 270 of us were left. D Company came out a
shattered remnant--only thirty-six men, and no officers. When what was
left of us marched away, other regiments were shouting, “Three cheers
for the Die-Hards!” And three rousing cheers they gave; but I had no
heart for them, because I had left my younger brother Jack, a “Die-Hard”
like myself. They told me that he had been killed by a bursting shell
while doing his duty with the machine-gun section.
I did not say much. I asked the adjutant if any of the machine-gun
section had returned, and he answered sadly, “No, they’ve all gone.”
Jack and I were brothers and had been good old chums all our lives--I
had taught him a bit of boxing and he was most promising with the
gloves, and we had a widowed mother to keep; so I really felt as if
something had gone snap in my head and that all I cared for was to get
my revenge from the Germans. The last words I heard him say were, “Well,
Bill, I’m going right into the firing line,” and I remember laughing and
saying, “Yes, Jack, but you’re not the only one who’s going to do that.”
Jack laughed too and said, “All right, Bill, I’ll see you in the firing
line,” and with that he went and I saw no more of him.
I had been in the regiment five years and nine months when the war broke
out and Jack had served more than two years. I had become a corporal and
he was a lance-corporal.
The days in the beginning were swelteringly hot; but the “Die-Hards,”
being typical Cockneys, made the best of them. Our Brigade consisted of
ourselves (the 4th Middlesex), the 2nd Royal Scots, the 1st Gordon
Highlanders and the 2nd Royal Irish Rifles. We began operations with
trench digging, one particular trench, the machine-gun trench, being
allotted to B Company. I helped to superintend the construction of the
trenches, and I was proud of the work when I saw what was done from them
when the Germans showed themselves.
Our machine-gun caused enormous havoc amongst the German ranks, and I am
sure that my brother did his part in settling a lot of them, for he was
keen on his work and full of go. The Royal Irish at this stage were
doing splendidly--they were not more than 350 yards from the enemy,
separated from them by a railway--and they were lucky enough to fetch
one gun out of action again, but the enormously superior numbers of the
Germans told and the famous retreat began. The machine-gunners had
suffered very heavily and it was hard to learn anything definite about
the position in the trenches.
Officers and men were falling everywhere on both sides, and I saw a
reconnoitring patrol of Uhlans bowled over in trying to avoid some of
the 4th Royal Fusiliers. An officer and seven men of the Uhlans were
killed in that little affair without getting in a shot in return. It was
not much, but it was something cheering after what we had gone through
at Mons. We looked upon it as a bit of sport, and after that we went
into châteaux, cafés and other places, and discussed affairs in a proper
Tommy-like spirit. It is very strange, but if it had not been for the
language I could have thought at times that I was back in Kilburn or in
London, on strike duty again, as I was at the time of the railway
trouble three years ago.
We were fighting a rearguard action for three days right off the reel,
and doing that wonderful march to which “Kitchener’s test” or anything
like it was a mere nothing. Owing to the heat, we discarded overcoats,
kits and in some cases rifles and equipment. Our transport was blown to
pieces three days after Mons, which to the 8th Brigade is known as _the_
Wednesday.
But lost kit and shattered transport mattered little to most of us, and
certainly had slight significance for me, because the only thing I had
in mind was this determination to get revenge. I am not exaggerating in
the least, I am merely putting down on record the state of my feelings
and wishing to make you understand how remarkable a change had come
over me, an alteration such as is brought about, I take it, by war, and
war alone. Perhaps, too, the excessive stress and strain of those early
days of the war had something to do with my condition; but whatever the
cause, there it was. Danger itself meant nothing, and I, like the rest
of us, took the ordinary fighting and the incessant and truly horrible
shell fire as a matter of course, a part of the day’s work. I bided my
time, and it came.
We had crossed the Aisne, a dangerous unit still, in spite of our
losses, for we had received reinforcements from the base; but just
before crossing the river we sat down on the road, waiting for a
favourable opportunity to cross by a pontoon bridge which the Engineers
were building. That pontoon replaced a bridge which had been blown up.
On the word “Rise” we fell in, and in doing so a man had the misfortune
to shoot himself through the hand.
The colonel came up at once and ordered the injured man to go back to
the hospital in a village about a mile and a half up the road, in rear
of the bridge. I was told off to take him, and we went to a house that
had been turned into a hospital, the people in it being typically
French. There were some sad cases there, amongst them one of our own
fellows who had been severely wounded and a trooper of the 4th Hussars
who was the only survivor of a reconnoitring party. He had been shot
while going through the village that morning. Just at that time we had
had many losses of small bodies--in one case a sergeant and five men had
been blown to pieces.
After I had got the wounded man into the hospital I asked the
“monsieur” in charge of the house for some tea, which he very willingly
produced--it had no milk in it, of course, but by that time I had almost
forgotten that milk existed.
At this time the village was being shelled, but that did not affect the
enjoyment of my tea-drinking, and after that refreshing draught and a
chunk of “bully” and some biscuit crumbs which I found in the corner of
a none-too-clean haversack, I “packed down” for the night.
At about four o’clock next morning I awoke and went back to the bridge,
which my battalion had crossed on the previous day, the “Die-hards”
being the first to have the honour to cross. By this time we had got
past the sweltering stage of things and had become accustomed to soaking
weather, and on this particular morning I was thoroughly cold and wet
and generally “fed up” with things; but I still glowed with the longing
to get level with the Germans.
You must bear in mind that regiments had been broken up and scattered in
the most astonishing manner and had become mixed up with other
regiments, and I had lost my own and had to set to work to find it.
I got over the bridge and reached some artillery.
“Have you seen anything of the Middlesex?” I asked.
“Yes,” the gunners answered, “they’ve just gone into action on the brow
of the hill.”
I made my way towards the top of a neighbouring hill and found that my
battalion had taken up a position there, but I had to wander about
aimlessly, and I did so till I came across one or two men who were
separated from the battalion. They directed me to the actual position,
which was on the ridge of the hill, and to the ridge I went and found
that it was lined with remnants of the brigade.
I tried to find my own company, but could not do so, as it had been
surprised in the night; so I attached myself to another and lay down
with the corporal on the sodden ground.
Wet through, cold, hungry and physically miserable, but still tough in
spirit, we lay there, wishing that all sorts of impossible things would
happen.
The corporal showed me where he had hit a German scout. We watched the
poor devil rolling about--then we finished him off.
In addition to the wet there was a fog, and under cover of this the
Germans crept up and were on us almost before we knew of their presence.
The alarm was first given by a man near us who was suffering from ague
or some such ailment and had been moaning and groaning a good deal.
Suddenly he cried, “Here they are, corporal! Fire at ’em!”
My loaded rifle was lying just in front of me. I snatched it up, and as
I did so the Germans jumped out of the mist on to us, with loud shouts.
I brought the first German down and my chum dropped one; and we managed
to fetch the officer down. He was carrying a revolver and a stick, like
most German officers, so that you had no difficulty in distinguishing
them.
When the alarm was given I gave a quick look over a small hump in the
ground and then we were rushed; but I hated the idea of retiring, and
kept on shouting, “Crawl back! Crawl back!”
Machine-guns and rifles were rattling and men were shouting and
cursing. In the midst of it all I was sane enough to hang on to my fire
till I got a good chance--and I did not wait for nothing.
Up came two Germans with a stretcher. They advanced till they were not
more than twenty-five yards away, for I could see their faces quite
clearly; then I took aim, and down went one of the pair and “bang” off
the stretcher fell a maxim. The second German seemed to hesitate, but
before he could pull himself together he had gone down too. I began to
feel satisfied.
By this time the order to retire had been given and I kept on shouting,
“Keep down! Crawl back!” and the lads crawled and jumped with curious
laughs and curses.
In that excited retirement the man who was with me was shot in the
chest. I halted for a little while to see what had really happened to
him, and finding that he was killed I took his waterproof sheet and left
him. I hurried on until I was in a valley, well away from the ridge;
then an officer managed to get us together and lead us into a wood.
As we got into the wood I spotted a quarry. I said to the officer, “Is
it best to go down here, sir?”
“I’ll have a look--yes,” he answered.
We went into the quarry, where there were Royal Scots, Middlesex,
Gordons and Royal Irish.
The officer was afraid that we might be rushed, in which case we should
be cut up, so he put a man out on scout. We were not rushed, however,
and when the firing ceased we filed out and lined the ridge again, and
there we lay, expecting the Germans to come back, but for the time being
we saw no more of them.
By some means one of the Irishmen had got drunk and wanted to fight the
Germans “on his own.” He was shouting for them to come on and was
wandering about. Soon afterwards he was found lying on the top of the
hill, having been shot in the thigh. He was carried out of action and I
have never heard of him since.
After that affair of the hill-crest we had a lot of trench work, and
very harassing it was. For five days we stayed in trenches, so near to
the enemy that it was death to show your head.
Trench fighting is one of the most terrible features of the war, for not
only is there the constant peril of instant death, which, of course,
every soldier gets accustomed to, but there is also the extreme
discomfort and danger of illness arising from insanitary surroundings.
Often enough, too, when a new trench was being dug we would find that we
were working on ground that had been previously occupied, and the spades
brought up many a ghastly reminder of an earlier fight.
Sometimes in this wonderful warfare we were so very close to the Germans
that when we sang hymns--and many a hymn that a soldier has sung at his
mother’s knee has gone up from the trenches from many a brave lad who
has given his life for his country--the Germans would harmonise with
them. It was strange to hear these men singing like that and to bear in
mind that they were the soldiers who had done such monstrous things as
we saw during the retreat, when they thought that certain victory was
theirs. Time after time, with my own eyes, I saw evidence of the brutal
outrages of the German troops, especially on women and children, yet it
seems hard to convince some of the people at home that these things
have been done.
At one time in the trenches, for a whole week, we were so situated that
we dare not even speak for fear of revealing our position--we were
subjected to an enfilade fire and did not dare to speak or light a fire,
which meant that we had no hot food for a week, and we could not even
smoke, which was the biggest hardship of all for a lot of the lads. We
were thankful when we were relieved; but were sorry indeed to find how
dearly the newcomers paid for their experience. We had been cramped and
uncomfortable, but pretty safe, and the Germans had not been able to get
at us to do us any real mischief, but our reliefs walked about as
unconcernedly as if they were on furlough, with the result that on the
very first night they went into action they lost a hundred men.
The system of trenches grew into a sort of enormous gridiron, and if you
walked about--which you could only attempt to do at night--you were
almost certain to drop into a trench or a hole of some sort. This made
getting about a very exciting job, and it added enormously to the
intense strain of fighting in the trenches, a strain which was hardest
to bear in the night-time, when we were constantly expecting attacks and
when the Germans adopted all kinds of devices to get at us.
The Germans are what we call dirty fighters, and they will take
advantage of anything to try and score over you. They have no respect
for anything and made a particular point in many of the places they
overran of desecrating the churches. They never hesitated to turn a
place of worship into a scene for an orgy, and I remember going into one
church after the Germans had occupied it and being shocked at their
conduct. In this particular place they had been able to lay hands on a
good deal of champagne and they had drunk to excess, turning the church
into a drinking-place, so that when we reached it there was an
indescribable scene--filthy straw on the floor, empty champagne bottles
littered everywhere, and the whole building degraded and desecrated.
The Germans had got a French uniform and stuffed it with straw and
propped it up to resemble a man, and on the uniform they had stuck a
piece of paper with some writing on it in German. I do not know what the
writing was, but I took it to be some insult to the brave men who were
defending their country and preventing the Germans from getting anywhere
near Paris. I could tell you much more and many things of the Germans’
dirty fighting, and of things that were far worse than such an incident
as turning a church into a drinking-place; but perhaps enough has been
said on that point of late.
But that dirty fighting does not mean that the Germans do not fight
bravely--far from it; they are hard cases, especially when they are in
overwhelming numbers, which is the form of fighting that they like best
of all. They are great believers in weight and hurling masses of men at
a given point, and they are absolutely mad at times when their opponents
are the English.
I will tell you of a case which illustrates this particular hatred. One
night we were attacked by the Germans, though there was but little hope
of them doing anything serious, in view of the fact that we were in
trenches and that there were the barbed wire entanglements everywhere.
There had been no sign of an attack, but in the middle of the night a
furious assault was made upon us and a young German by some
extraordinary means managed to get through the entanglements. An officer
of the Buffs was near us, and in some way which I cannot explain the
German managed to reach him. With a fierce cry he sprang directly at the
officer, put an arm round his neck, and with the revolver which he held
in the other hand shot him.
It was the work of a moment; but it succeeded--so did our bayonet attack
on the German, for almost as soon as his shot had rung out in the night
a dozen bayonets had pierced him. He died very quickly, but not before
he had managed to show how intensely he hated all the English. He was a
fine young fellow, not more than seventeen or eighteen years old, and it
was impossible not to admire the courage and cleverness he had shown in
getting through the awful barbed wire entanglements and hurling himself
upon us in the trenches in the middle of the night. The point that
puzzles me even now, when I recall the incident, is how the young German
managed to make such a clean jump for the officer. I daresay there was
something more than luck in it.
At this time we were with the Buffs, who told us that they were being
badly troubled by snipers. I was in a trench with Lieutenant Cole, who
was afterwards killed, and he said to me, “Corporal, the snipers are
worrying our people, but it’s very difficult to locate them. Try and see
what you can make out of it.”
It was very difficult, but I set to work to try and make something out.
Before long, with the help of the glasses, I concluded that the sniping
came from a wood not far away, and I told the officer that I thought
they were in a tree there. The consequence was that a platoon loaded up,
went round, concentrated their fire on this particular spot and brought
down two German roosters from a tree. We were glad to be rid of the
pests, and they ought to have been satisfied, for they had had a very
good innings.
I have been telling about the determination I had to be revenged for my
brother’s death. That was my great object, and I kept it in mind before
anything else--and I think I carried it out. Apart from any motive, it
is the British soldier’s duty to do everything he can to settle the
enemy, especially the Germans, and I am glad that I did my bit in this
respect.
Now listen to what has really happened. After all that fighting and
suffering with the grand old “Die-Hards” I got my own turn, after many
wonderful escapes. A shell burst near me and the fragments peppered me
on the right hand here and about this side of the body, and bowled me
out for the time being. I was sent home, and here I am in London again,
getting well and expecting the call to come at any time to go back to
the front. When it comes I shall be ready to obey.
Look at this postcard. It is written, as you see, by a British soldier
who is a prisoner of war in Germany, and it tells the glad news that my
brother, who, I was told, was killed months ago by a bursting shell, is
not dead, but is alive and well, although he is a prisoner of war.