BRITISH GUNNERS AS CAVE-DWELLERS
[Sir John French has repeatedly praised the splendid work of the
Royal Artillery during the war and glowing tributes to the courage
and resourcefulness of British gunners have been paid by the other
branches of the Army. Many a critical battle has been turned into a
success by the artillery, some of the batteries of which have
particularly distinguished themselves. Amongst them is the 134th,
of whose officers and men no fewer than five were mentioned in Sir
John French’s list, published on February 18th, of names of those
whom he recommended for gallant and distinguished conduct in the
field. This story of some of the work of our gunners is told by
Corporal Ernest Henry Bean, of the 134th Field Battery, who was
severely wounded and invalided home.]
You cannot exaggerate anything in this war. I am of a cheerful and
hopeful disposition, but I never thought I should live through the awful
business; yet here I am, cheerful still, though shot through both feet,
and forced to hop when I want to get from place to place.
I have had some strange adventures during the last few months, and one
of the oddest was in this good old Yarmouth. That was when the Germans
came and bombed us. But I will tell you about the air raid later. Here
are two eighteen-pounder shells, not from the front, but from
practice-firing, and it was such shells as these that made havoc amongst
the German troops, especially when we got to work on big bodies of
them.
The war came upon us so suddenly that even now it seems amazing that I
left peaceful England on a summer day and went straight into the very
thick of things. There was no waiting, for I sailed from Southampton on
the day after Mons was fought, and when we got into action it was at Le
Cateau. We had had a short spell in a rest camp, then we had some hard
marching. Throughout the whole of one night we kept at it, and soon
after breakfast next morning we were in the thick of one of the most
terrible artillery fights that has ever been known. For six mortal hours
we were under an incessant shell-fire. The experience itself was enough
to leave its mark for ever on your mind, but I shall always remember it
because of what happened to our horses. They were not used to this awful
business and they stampeded, galloping all over the place, and defying
every effort of the drivers to control them. The horses bolted with the
waggons and tore madly over the country, taking pretty nearly everything
that came in their way. The drivers were on the horses, but they were
powerless to control the frightened animals.
The battery itself was in action. I was with the teams--on an open road
with half-a-dozen of them, and no protection whatever, for the road ran
between open fields. We were a fine target for the Germans, and they saw
it and began to shell us hell for leather. The fire was deadly and there
is no wonder that the horses bolted.
What was to be done? What could be done except make a dash for shelter?
I did my level best to get out of the open and seek shelter. But shelter
seemed far away, there was nothing near at hand, but in the distance I
saw something that seemed hopeful, so I galloped towards it with my
teams. We went furiously along, and as I got nearer to the object I
could make out that it was a long brick wall which separated an orchard
from the road.
For about a mile, under a constant and furious fire, I dashed on; then I
got to the wall, and instantly I drew in as many of the bolting horses
as I could lay hands on. It all happened so swiftly that it is not easy
to tell how this was done; but I know that I was safely mounted on my
own horse when the stampede began, and that I dashed at the bolting
animals and grabbed as many as I could, and that I hurried them to the
shelter of the wall, and I fancy that they were just about as glad of
the protection as I was. The gallop was a mad affair, and very likely it
would never have ended as it did if all the shells the Germans fired had
burst; but some of them did not explode, though I did not know of this
till later, when I picked some of them up from the ground.
While I was in the thick of this exciting business Farrier-Sergeant
Scott was rushing about and securing other runaway teams, and he did so
well and his work was considered so brilliant and important that the
French gave him the decoration of the Legion of Honour.
For the best part of an hour I was under cover of the wall, doing the
best I could with the horses, and it was a funny old job to keep them
anything like quiet with such a heavy fire going on all the time; yet so
complete was the protection that practically no damage was done, the
worst that occurred being the shattering of a pair of wheels by a
bursting shell.
By the end of the hour both myself and the horses were pretty well
settling down; then things calmed down a bit. The Germans appeared to be
tired of pounding at us, and perhaps they thought that they had blown us
to pieces. At any rate we began to get out of it, and we had no sooner
started to do that than the firing instantly re-opened.
There was a village not far away and we made a dash for it; but we were
forced to clear out, for the enemy’s artillery set the little place on
fire and all the stacks and buildings were in flames. There was a good
deal of confusion and mixing up of all sorts of troops. I had lost touch
with my own lot and was ordered by a captain to join another column for
the night, and this I did. I joined the 2nd Brigade Ammunition Column
and next day I was with my own battery again, thankful to have got
safely through a very dangerous business.
Next day we picked up another position, and had no sooner done that than
information came that immense bodies of Germans were on the move in our
direction. The outlook was serious, because we were in the open and
there was nothing for it except a fight to the death. The Germans were
expected along a certain road and we made ready to fire at what is
practically point-blank range, using Fuses 0 and 2, so that at 500 and
1000 yards the masses of the enemy would have had the shells bursting
amongst them.
We had been through some tough times; but not in any situation which was
as unpromising as this. We knew that we could make a long stand, and mow
down the Germans as they swept along the open country; but we knew also
that in the end vastly superior forces must tell against us; but we
held our ground and the stern order went round, “Each take charge of
your own gun--and God help us!”
How long that awful strain lasted I cannot tell. It could not have been
long, but it seemed an eternity. While it lasted the strain was almost
unendurable; then it suddenly snapped, an immense relief came over us
and even the bravest and most careless amongst us breathed more freely
when we knew that the prospect of almost sure annihilation had passed,
for the German hosts, instead of coming by the expected road, had gone
another way.
With lighter hearts we limbered up, and day after day, night after
night, for eleven days, we kept hard at it, marching and fighting, and
whenever we got into action it was against very heavy odds. I was with
my own special chum, Sergeant Charlie Harrison, and often enough,
especially in the night-time, we would walk alongside our horses and
talk as we dragged ourselves along--talk about anything that came into
our minds, and all for the sake of keeping awake and not falling down
exhausted on the road; yet in spite of everything we could do we would
fall asleep. Sometimes we would continue walking while practically
asleep--we wanted to save our horses as much as we could--and more than
once, when I was riding, I went to sleep and fell out of the saddle.
There was one good thing, however, about the shock--it acted as a very
fine wakener-up. As for sleeping, when we got the chance of it, we could
do that anywhere--in ploughed fields, deep in mud and water, and on the
road itself.
All sorts of strange and unexpected things happened. While I was with
the Ammunition Column the Engineers were putting all their smartness and
skill into the building of a pontoon, and the Germans were specially
favouring them with “Coal Boxes.” This was my introduction to these big
brutes of shells, and it was not pleasant, especially as the column was
not more than twenty-five yards from the spot where they were exploding
with a terrific roar.
I was standing by my horse, feeling none too comfortable, when a big
shell burst and made awful havoc near me. A piece of it came and struck
me. I thought I was done for, then I looked around at myself, and found
that the two bottom buttons of my greatcoat had been torn away, but that
no further damage had been done. I was glad to have got off so easily,
and just as pleased to find that the horses had escaped.
At this time we were wanting food pretty badly, so that every ration
became precious. We were bivouacked when a file of infantrymen brought
in a German prisoner. Of course we gave him a share of pretty well
everything there was going, hot tea, bread, biscuits and bully beef, and
he did himself well. The prisoner was not exactly the sort to arouse
compassion, for he looked well fed and was dressed in a very smart
uniform. An officer came up, saw the captive, and said, “Do you think
this fellow looks as if he wanted anything?” Truth to tell, the fellow
didn’t, and as we did want things badly, he was sent somewhere else, and
we were not sorry to see him go.
After being kept so constantly on the rack, we had a welcome and
remarkable change--we became cave-dwellers. We spent five days and
nights in some of the famous caves at Soissons, and had a thoroughly
comfortable and happy time. We had a fine chance of resting and
enjoying ourselves, and we made the most of it.
Originally these caves were occupied by very primitive people; lately
they were used as a French hospital, and the French made all sorts of
interesting pictures and carvings on the outsides, by way of decoration,
then the British took them over as billets. By nature the caverns were
queer gloomy places, but a good deal had been done to make them
habitable, such as fitting in doors and windows. There had been a lot of
fighting near the caves, with the result that there were graves at the
very entrances of some of these uncommon billets; but this had no effect
on our spirits. We did not allow ourselves to be depressed. What is the
use of that in war-time? The British soldier has the happy knack of
making himself at home in all kinds of odd places, and so we did in our
billets in the rocks and hillside. We called one of our caves the “Cave
Theatre Royal,” and another the “Cave Cinema,” and many a cheerful
performance and fine sing-song we had. The only light we had came from
candles, but you can sing just as well by candle-light as you can by big
electric lamps, and I don’t suppose that ever since the caves were
occupied they rang with more cheerful sounds than were heard when the
British soldiers were joining in a chorus of the latest popular song
from home.
Another great advantage of the caverns was that they gave splendid cover
to our guns, and protection to ourselves, so that these five days and
nights gave us a real rest and complete change, and we were very sorry
when we left them and resumed the work of incessant fighting and
marching. We were constantly at the guns, and by way of showing what a
fearful business the artillery duels became at times, I may tell you
that from a single battery alone--that is, half-a-dozen guns--in one day
and night we fired more than 4000 rounds.
It was a vast change from the comfort and safety of the caverns, where
never a German shell reached us, to the open again, but we got our quiet
times and little recreations still, and one of these intervals we
devoted to football. We were at Messines, and so was a howitzer battery,
and as we happened to be rather slack, we got up a match. I am keen on
football, and things were going splendidly. I had scored two goals and
we were leading 3-1, when the game came to a very sudden stop, for some
German airmen had seen us running about and had swooped down towards us,
with the result that the howitzer chaps were rushed into action and we
followed without any loss of time. We took it quite as a matter of
course to let the football go, and pound away at the Germans, who had so
suddenly appeared. It was getting rather late, so we gave the enemy
about fifty rounds by way of saying good-night. We always made a point
of being civil in this direction; but our usual dose for good-night was
about fifteen rounds.
Talking of football recalls sad memories. On Boxing Day, 1913, when I
and an old chum were home on leave, I played in a football match, and at
the end of the game a photograph was taken of the team. On last Boxing
Day, if the roll of the team had been called, there would have been no
answer in several cases--for death and wounds have claimed some of the
eleven. Little did we think when we were being grouped for the picture
that it was the last muster for us as a team.
We had got through the tail end of summer and were well into autumn, and
soon the gloom of November was upon us, then came my change of luck and
I was knocked out. It was November 2, and almost as soon as it was
daylight we were in the thick of an uncommonly furious artillery duel,
one of the very worst I have seen. The Germans seemed to be making a
special effort that morning. They had got our position pretty
accurately, and they fired so quickly and had the range so well that we
were in a real hell of bursting shrapnel, indeed, the fragments were so
numerous that it is little short of a miracle that we were not wiped
out.
We had not been long in action when a shell burst on the limber-pole,
smashed it in halves, penetrated through the wheel, blew the spokes of
the wheel away and shot me some distance into the air. For a little
while I had no clear idea of what had happened, then I found that three
of us had been wounded. My right boot had been blown to shreds, and
there was a hole right through the left boot. So much I saw at once--a
mess of blood and earth and leather; but of the extent of my wounds I
knew very little, nor did I trouble much about them at the time. The
first thing I did was to get into the main pit by the side of the gun,
the captain and one or two chums helping me, and there, though the pain
of my wounds was terrible, I laughed and chatted as best I could, and I
saw how the battery kept at it against big odds.
Number 1, Sergeant Barker, who was in charge of the gun, had been struck
by a piece of shrapnel, which had fractured his leg; but though that was
quite enough to knock him out of time, he never flinched or faltered. He
held on to his gun, and went on fighting pretty much as if nothing had
happened. Number 2, Gunner Weedon, had been wounded through the thigh, a
bad injury about three inches long being caused; but he, too, held
gamely on.
I tried to crawl out of the pit; but could not do so, and I passed the
time by trying to cheer my chums, just as they did their best to help me
to keep my own spirits up.
The sergeant found time occasionally to turn round and ask how I was
getting on.
“It’s all right, old Bean,” he shouted cheerily. “Keep quiet. We can
manage without you.” And he went on firing, while the officers continued
to give orders and encourage the men.
I was getting very thirsty and craved for a drink; but I saw no prospect
of getting either water or anything else at such a time.
The sergeant noticed my distress and gave me the sweetest drink I ever
tasted, and that was a draught from his own canteen. He managed to stop
firing for a few seconds while he did this--just long enough to sling
his canteen round, let me take a pull, and sling it back. I learned
afterwards that throughout the whole of that day, in that inferno of
firing and bursting shells, the sergeant stuck to his gun and kept it
at. For his courage and tenacity he has been awarded the Distinguished
Conduct Medal, and no man has ever more fully deserved it.
I was lying in the gun pit for about an hour, then a doctor came and my
wounds were dressed, but there was no chance of getting away for the
time being, so I had to wait till the firing ceased. At last a stretcher
was brought, and I was carried into a barn which was at the rear of our
battery. One of the bearers was
[Illustration:
[_To face p. 222._
“WE WERE IN A REAL HELL OF BURSTING SHRAPNEL” (p. 221).]
Sergeant E. Leet, the right-back in our battery team. He left the fight
to bear a hand with me, and as soon as I was safely in the barn he
returned to his post. He had no sooner done that than he too was struck
down by a wound in the ankle and had to be invalided home.
When I was carried away the major and the sergeant-major said good-bye,
and I rather think they expected that that was the last they would ever
see of me. I certainly felt bad, and I daresay I looked it; but I was
quite cheerful. I particularly felt it when I passed my chum, Charlie
Harrison, because for more than six years we had kept together without a
break. We shouted good-bye as we passed, and I did not know whether I
should ever see him again.
When I reached the barn I wanted to get back to the battery, to be at my
own gun again, to bear a hand once more in the fighting that was still
going on and seemed as if it would never stop; but when I tried to stand
up I collapsed, through pain and loss of blood. Soon after this I heard
that Charlie Harrison too had been wounded. He was struck on the neck
just after I was carried away from the gun pit and had shouted good-bye
to him; but he bandaged himself and refused to leave the battery.
What became of him? Why, he got home from the front a day or two ago,
and you’ve just seen him. There he is. And let me show you this
shattered foot, to let you see how it is that I’m forced to hop when I
want to get about.
And now to get back to the air raid on the East Coast, which to me and
other soldiers from the front who saw it, was an extraordinary
experience, though I fancy that we took it more or less as a matter of
course, because you so soon get used to that kind of thing.
I had scarcely settled down at home when one night there was a fearful
commotion, caused by dull explosions. I was a bit taken aback, for I
knew what the sounds meant, and thought that I had done with the Germans
and fighting for a spell at any rate.
As soon as the sound of the explosions was heard, people rushed into the
streets--the most dangerous thing they could do--to see what it all
meant, and there were cries that the Germans had come.
So they had. They had come in a gas-bag or two, and were dropping bombs
on the good old town, which was lighted as usual, though that was soon
altered.
I hopped into the street--hopping is the only thing I can do at
present--and there I found that there was intense excitement and that
women in particular were badly scared. But really the thing did not
upset me at all--it was mere child’s play compared with what I had been
through, so I made myself useful, and hopped away and bought some
brandy, which suited some of the scared people very well--so well that
there wasn’t a drop left for myself.
The raid was soon over, and so was the scare, and I hopped back to the
house. There have been several frantic alarms since then, and more than
once I have been shaken out of my sleep and told that the Germans have
come again; but all I have said has been that it will take something far
worse than a German gas-bag raid to make me turn out of bed in the
middle of the night.