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ON ACTIVE SERVICE SERIES
AT YPRES WITH BEST-DUNKLEY
By THOMAS HOPE FLOYD
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXX
_Garden City Press, Letchworth, Herts._
TO
ALL RANKS OF THE
SECOND-FIFTH LANCASHIRE FUSILIERS
WHO FELL AT
YPRES
ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY, 1917
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
"... Henceforth
These are our saints.
These that we touched, and kissed,
And frowned upon;
These that were frail, yet died because the good
Was overthrown.
That they in one dread hour
Were terrible
Stains not their sainthood, nor is heaven less sure
That they knew hell.
How beautiful they are,
How bright their eyes.
Their hands have grasped the key
Of Paradise!
They hold it out to us,
Our men, our sons
... To us
The lonely ones."
--THOMAS MOULT.[1]
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Quoted with Mr. Moult's permission.
FOREWORD
No doubt it will be thought that some apology is necessary for thrusting
upon the public all this mass of matter, relating to many persons and
episodes with whom and with respect to which they may feel that they are
in no way concerned. I quite realize that my action may appear strange
and uncalled for to the superficial observer. But I do not hold that
view. I, personally, have always felt a desire to read this kind of
literature. The Press does not cease to pour forth volumes of memoirs by
leading and prominent persons--matter which is all wanted for a true
understanding of the history of our times. But this is not enough. We
require all the personal narratives we can get; and, in my opinion, the
more personal and intimate, the better. We want narratives by obscure
persons: we want to know and appreciate everybody's outlook upon public
events, whether that outlook be orthodox or unorthodox, conventional or
unconventional. Only thus can we see the recent war in all its aspects.
The motives which have prompted me to publish this book have been well
expressed by Dr. A. C. Benson in his essay on Authorship in _From a
College Window._ In that volume there occurs the following striking
passage:
"The wonderful thing to me is not that there is so much desire in the
world to express our little portion of the joy, the grief, the mystery
of it all, but that there is so little. I wish with all my heart that
there was more instinct for personal expression; Edward Fitzgerald said
that he wished that we had more lives of obscure persons; one wants to
know what other people are thinking and feeling about it all; what joys
they anticipate, what fears they sustain, how they regard the end and
cessation of life and perception which waits for us all. The worst of it
is that people are often so modest, they think that their own experience
is so dull, so unromantic, so uninteresting. It is an entire mistake. If
the dullest person in the world would only put down sincerely what he or
she thought about his or her life, about work and love, religion and
emotion, it would be a fascinating document. My only sorrow is that
amateurs of whom I have spoken above will not do this; they rather turn
to external and impersonal impressions, relate definite things, what
they see on their travels, for instance, describing just the things
which anyone can see. They tend to indulge in the melancholy labour of
translation, or employ customary, familiar forms, such as the novel or
the play. If only they would write diaries and publish them; compose
imaginary letters; let one inside the house of self, instead of keeping
one wandering in the park!"
These memoirs, then, consist mainly of extracts from my private diary
and my letters home during those memorable days, spent in the Salient
and its vicinity, between the Battle of Messines and the Third Battle of
Ypres. The letters cover a definite period in the history of a great
battalion and in the course of the war. As will speedily be noticed, the
whole period was one of looking forward, practising and awaiting a great
day which we all knew was not far off, but the actual date of which none
of us knew until it was almost upon us. All this time our interests
(and, perhaps, our fears!) were centred upon one man, the unpopular
Colonel who, few of us guessed in those days, was destined to win the
V.C. on "the day," going down in a blaze of glory which should ever
associate his name with that battle. With that "day," which was for many
of us the end of all earthly troubles and hopes and fears, or, at any
rate, an end for many months, the story reaches its natural termination.
In these pages I give to the public, for what they are worth, my own
personal impressions of the people and things I saw and with whom I
came into contact. I hope I have revealed the late Colonel Best-Dunkley
to the public just as he was--as he appeared to me and as he appeared to
others. I believe that in this I am doing right. "Paint me in my true
colours!" exclaimed Cromwell to Lely. That is all that any hero--and
Best-Dunkley was certainly a hero--can conscientiously ask. And I am
sure it was all Best-Dunkley himself would ever have asked. He was a
brilliant young man, endowed with a remarkable personality. It is right
that his memory should be preserved; and if his memory is to be
preserved it must be the memory of the Best-Dunkley we knew.
The battalion which Best-Dunkley commanded has, since his death,
achieved great things and acquired great fame under the still more
brilliant leadership of his successor, Colonel Brighten; but we must
never forget that it was Best-Dunkley who led it on the glorious day of
Ypres and that it was the tradition which he inspired which has been one
of the strongest elements of esprit de corps in the 2/5th Lancashire
Fusiliers. All who served under Best-Dunkley remember the fact with a
certain amount of pride, however unfavourably his personality may have
impressed itself upon them at the time--for "All times are good when
old!"
I am fully aware of the many imperfections of this book; but if it
succeeds at all in vividly recalling to those who were in the Ypres
Salient in 1917 the atmosphere of that time, and if it should encourage
others to risk a similar venture, I shall feel amply rewarded.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
FOREWORD vii
I OFF TO THE FRONT 1
II THE PRISON 26
III ENTER BEST-DUNKLEY 49
IV MILLAIN 57
V THE MARCH 63
VI THE GENERAL'S SPEECH 77
VII THE VALE OF ACQUIN 81
VIII BACK TO THE SALIENT 103
IX BILGE TRENCH 113
X THE RAMPARTS 128
XI MUSTARD OIL 136
XII THE CITY AND THE TRENCHES 146
XIII RELIEF 164
XIV WATOU 168
XV THE DAYS BEFORE 179
XVI THE BATTLE OF YPRES 187
APPENDICES
I MURRAY AND ALLENBY 227
II THE INFANTRY AT MINDEN 229
III GENERAL RAWLINSON AND OSTEND 230
IV EDWARD III AND THE ORDER OF THE GARTER 231
V GOLDFISH CHATEAU 233
AT YPRES WITH BEST-DUNKLEY
CHAPTER I
OFF TO THE FRONT
I had been to France before--in 1916, during the Battle of the
Somme--but not as an officer; in 1916 I was a private in the Royal
Fusiliers, and I had received orders to return to "Blighty" in order to
proceed to an officer cadet battalion at Gailes, in Ayrshire, before I
had been able to see what a front-line trench was like. So this, then,
was my first experience of war--my "baptism of fire." I had seen and
heard those magnificent bombardments up the line in 1916, and had gazed
with awestruck admiration upon the strange horizon far away from my
tents at Boulogne and Etaples, wondering what it must be like to be
amongst it all, and expecting to be amongst it all in the course of a
day or two; but, as I have already observed, I was recalled to England,
and was not destined to be amongst it until the following summer. But
now, at last, the experience, the great adventure to which I had been
looking forward so long, was to be mine. I was gazetted a
second-lieutenant in the 5th (Territorial) Lancashire Fusiliers on March
1, 1917; on March 26, I reported for duty with the 5th (Reserve)
Lancashire Fusiliers at South Camp, Ripon, where I spent some unpleasant
weeks amongst snow and mud; from Ripon the unit proceeded to
Scarborough, where I rejoined it after having spent a couple of weeks in
hospital, with tonsillitis, at the former place. Shortly after this, I
received orders to proceed overseas, and returned to my home in
Middleton Junction to spend my embarkation leave.
That leave was spent in the happy way in which all such leaves were
spent during the Great War, terminating with a visit to the Gaiety, in
Manchester, in conjunction with my father and mother, where we saw a
most enjoyable comedy entitled "The Two Miss Farndons."
I bid farewell to my parents on Victoria Station at 10.35 that
evening--Friday, May 25, 1917; and I then proceeded to the train which
was to carry me away to England's capital.
The following letter, written at Folkestone at 11.15 the following
morning, describes my journey up to that moment:
"I hope you and Father got home safely last night and are not worrying.
My train left Manchester at 11.20. I had to change at Stockport. In
neither case could I get a carriage to myself, but I managed to doze.
When dawn broke we were in Northampton. It was 6.30 when the train
arrived in Euston Station. I got a taxi across London to Victoria. There
was an enormous crowd of military there, bound for France. People were
seeing some of them off. I could not get any breakfast there. My train
left London at 7.50. The journey through Kent is really delightful, such
beautiful country. I am sorry to leave dear old England; hope I shall
soon be back again!
"As we passed through Shorncliffe I noticed a house in ruins. Apparently
there had been an air raid. And there has indeed! There was a bad air
raid here at 6.30 last night. There is a good deal of damage done in
Folkestone: I have seen it while walking about the streets this morning.
There have been a good many casualties.
"The weather is glorious, delightful sunshine and hot. I am now having
breakfast in a cafe in Folkestone with another officer. We sail on the
_Princess Clementine_ at 2 this afternoon, and so will be in Boulogne
about 3.30."
I landed at Boulogne at 4 that afternoon and we went straight on to
Etaples the same evening. The following letter recounts my journey and
arrival at that great camp upon the sand-hills:
"May 27th, 1917.
"I have now, once more, safely arrived in this place, where there is
nothing but sand. I expect you will already have received my
communications from Folkestone. Is the news of the raid yet in the
papers? I was told that there were thirty German aeroplanes and one
zeppelin. Bombs were dropped on the soldiers' camp there, and a good
many soldiers were killed. Apparently the operation made a big row, for
it was heard across the water in the cathedral city in which we landed.
" ... We went on board at 1.30, but the boat did not start until 2.50.
It was, and still is, tremendously hot. It seems that submarines are not
harassing our transport route: for the number of ships, of various
kinds, crossing was considerable. It was a pleasant voyage; but as I saw
the white cliffs of Folkestone receding from my ken I could not help
recalling with what rapture I beheld them on my return from France last
October, and expressing a faint wish that I were again returning rather
than going out! But, still, one will soon get used to France again; and
we can always look forward to the next return. One thing is obvious--I
am here for the hottest weather; heat, if anything, will be the trouble,
not cold.
"The boat stood in the harbour for some time before we could land; but
we eventually did so at 4. After seeing about my kit I had tea at the
British Officers' Club, opposite the Gare Centrale. Then I got into the
train. It should have left at 5.45, but, like all French trains, was
very late in starting. It did start a little before 7. It was a train
filled entirely with officers. It ambled along in the usual leisurely
fashion. When we were about half-way we noticed that a good many were
standing outside on the step; some had their legs hanging out of the
window, others were actually on the roof! When we came to a tunnel the
latter dived in through the open windows. Others got out and spoke to
girls on the way, and then ran on and got back into the train. This is
how travelling is carried on 'Somewhere in France'!
"The scenery, beautiful as it seemed last autumn, is much more beautiful
now. It is at its best: the green grass with the dandelions and daisies,
the hawthorn and the trees in bloom, little villages clustering in
charming woods, the sheep and the cows, and little children cheering the
train, everything sparkling in the hot sunshine; such is France--and
such was the Kent I left behind me--at present. As one looks upon the
peaceful country-side in France to-day one can scarcely realize that war
is raging in all its ferocity and barbarity so near. It seems an
anomaly. The weather is more suggestive of cricket than of war.
"I got here about 8.30, and went to the mess of the 23rd Infantry Base
Depot. Here I found Bridgestock, Hamer, and Allin (officers who had been
at Scarborough with me, and had come out a few days earlier). They have
been here nearly a week. They are going to the 3/5th Lancashire
Fusiliers. I had some supper before going to bed in my tent. We are
three in a tent. Leigh and Macdonald are the names of my tent
companions.
"Fortunately it is Sunday to-day. So we did not get up until 7.45. I did
not feel like rising until then!
"We (the twenty Lancashire Fusilier officers who arrived here yesterday)
saw the Adjutant, Captain Reid, this morning, in the orderly room, and
had some information given to us. I spent most of the morning at the
field cashier's, waiting for an 'advance of pay book'! Then lunch. It is
now about 2.30 in the afternoon.
"As I expected, I find that I have too much kit: I am told that I shall
have to get rid of some when I get to my unit. I am at present writing
on my nice table, but no other officers have brought out tables or
chairs or anything of that kind! Well--we shall see...."
"May 28th, 1917.
"It is still boiling hot; thank goodness we have finished for to-day! I
must first, however, tell you how I spent the remainder of yesterday,
after writing home. I spent the afternoon in the town. I explored most
of it. Happening to pass the church, I saw a great crowd. It was full
inside; the west doors were open, and people were sitting in the doorway
and standing out in the street watching the service. So I too stopped
and watched. It was most interesting, but as the service was conducted
in French (apparently the Gallican Church differs from the Roman
Catholic Church in England in that the service is conducted in the
vernacular), I do not know what the service was. Although most of it was
in French, bits were in Latin. It was exceptionally spectacular. There
were about a hundred little boys in surplices and little girls in white
veils (as if dressed for confirmation), all carrying long, lighted
candles. Music and hymns were proceeding all the time. The little boys
and girls were standing still part of the time, and processing up and
down the chancel at other times. Eventually they all processed past the
senior priest, attired in full vestments; and he blew out their candles
as they passed. Towards the close of the service, a little girl,
carrying her candle, was brought out by the priest and stationed in
front of the altar with her face to the congregation; then she recited,
in French, something which sounded like a very long creed. She was only
about twelve or thirteen; but she did it without a stop, and in a
clear, pleasant voice. After that a bell rang, everybody bent their
heads, and the priest pronounced the Benediction. Then the congregation
came out, and behind came the boys and girls and the priest. The people
lined the road, and the procession walked on until it reached a kind of
yard leading to some institute. The people followed. They all halted
inside here. Then the priest prepared to make a little speech and
pronounce another Benediction; but he would not proceed until all the
little choir boys were perfectly quiet. He waited about five minutes.
Then he preached a brief sermon (of course in French) directed to the
children. I could not understand much of what he was talking about; but
I think he was very eloquent. I could deduce from words here and there
that he was reminding them that their fathers and brothers and uncles
were fighting at the front, and telling them that if they were not good
little boys and girls their fathers and brothers and uncles would fall
in battle! Then he pronounced his final Benediction, and we
scattered--5.20.
"I could see that everybody was discussing the service and the sermon. I
overheard a Frenchman in frock coat and top hat, who seemed to be a
churchwarden or something of the kind, expressing his appreciation of
the latter.
"Then I came back to camp and paraded for a box-respirator! We then went
through 'tear gas.' Then dinner. I sat at the Commandant's table. He was
talking about a great concentration up North--guns and supplies and men
swarming there recently....
"After dinner I went to bed. Thus ended Whitsun Day, 1917.
"I got up at 7.15 this morning. Breakfast. Then down to the 'bull ring'
in full marching order. Gas all day. Fortunately we were under nice
shady trees most of the time. We had sandwiches down there between 12
and 1, and got back at 4.30, feeling very hot after the march. Then
tea....
"Hamer, Bridgestock, and Allin have gone up the line this morning. I am
posted to the 2/5th Lancashire Fusiliers (the battalion Norman Kemp was
in!). I shall not be going up the line for a few days, but by the time
your reply to this reaches me I shall be there...."
My diary of that same day, May 28, records: "To Paris Plage in the
evening." And my letter written home the following day proceeds as
follows:
"After writing home yesterday I walked down town, and took a car to the
seaside place opposite. The country through which the car went was
pretty, and the seaside place quite passable; all right in peace-time I
should think. Unfortunately the last car back leaves at 8.15, so I came
by it....
"To-day, Royal Oak Day, we have spent on the 'bull ring' again....
"I have seen David Morgan (who was in the same billet with me when we
were privates together in the 29th Royal Fusiliers at Oxford, in
January, 1916) this evening. I managed to find the C.R.E. offices where
he works. He saw me, and came out to me. I went inside. He is very cosy
there, in a nice new hut. He was working at a drawing. His hours daily
are from 9 in the morning until 8 in the evening; but, as I had come, he
managed to get a pass to go down town with me this evening. We therefore
had a walk. He looks very well with his stripe, and he seems to be
having a good time. He desires to be remembered to you both. I left him
at about 8. Then I had dinner at the Officers' Club, but was not struck
by it....
"It is now 'lights out,' so I had better stop."
"May 30th.
" ... We spent the day on the 'bull ring' as usual. It has been fine. We
have not, I am thankful to say, had any rain at all since I landed in
France on Saturday last.
"This evening I have spent parading the streets of the town. I have
become heartily 'fed up' with the dirty antediluvian place. Morgan
actually, after nine solid months of residence here, says that he likes
it and the people. I could not have imagined that there were many of
the latter whose acquaintance would be particularly charming; but he
speaks upon the authority of long experience!"
I also wrote down the following note at that time while I was still in
Etaples:
"One noticeable thing to-day (May 30) has been the number of men and
transport which have been passing through on the trains all day and
going north, obviously coming from one part of the Front and going round
this way, to avoid the observation of the Germans, to another. We are
massing troops round the great city where great battles have been fought
before--concentrating for a great offensive. So there will very soon be
a third battle of Ypres, and I expect I shall be present on the occasion
myself. It should be very exciting. In the two former battles we were on
the defensive; this time we shall be on the offensive. And I must
say--pessimistic as I am on all Western offensives--this idea holds
forth a faint ray of hope of success. I have always held that there is
only one way in which the war can be won in the West--by a flanking
offensive in the North. This is not entirely the type of flanking
movement I would myself recommend, but it is an attempt at the idea--and
that is something. It may prove a semi-fiasco like the awful tragedies
of Neuve Chapelle, Loos, the Somme, and Arras; but it might possibly
turn out a success. Then it would be simply a case of _veni, vidi,
vici_!"
That memorandum is particularly interesting in view of the events which
followed, and the story which this narrative will tell. I always held
very strong-views on the conduct of the war. I was not one of those who
looked upon this great bid for world power on the part, of the German
Empire as purely a campaign on the Western Front, all other campaigns in
other corners of the globe being mere "side shows." I was always a firm
and consistent supporter of the "East End" school of strategy. I looked
upon the war as a _World War_ and, since the decisive Battle of the
Marne in September, 1914, when the German hopes of complete and crushing
victory in the West were shattered (which decision was still more
finally confirmed at First Ypres), as primarily a south-eastern war. I
held with that great statesman and strategist, Mr. Winston Churchill,
that Constantinople was "the great strategic nerve-centre of the world
war." I realized that a deadlock had been reached on the Western Front,
and that nothing was to be hoped from any frontal attack there; and I
also realized that Germany held Constantinople and the Dardanelles--the
gateway to the East. And the trend of German foreign policy and German
strategy convinced me that it was in the Near East that the menace to
our Empire lay. There was our most vulnerable part; while Germany held
that gateway, the glamour of the East, with its possibilities of
victories like those of Alexander, and an empire like that one which was
the great Napoleon's early dream, would always be a great temptation to
German strategists. I therefore always used to assert that "The side
which holds Constantinople when peace terms come to be discussed is the
side which has won the war," and I think the events of September, 1918,
have proved that my view and prophecy were correct. I firmly believe
that if unity of command under Marshal Foch and Sir Henry Wilson, with
the following decisive victories of D'Esperey at Cerna and Allenby at
Armageddon in September, 1918, bringing about the capitulation of
Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire, and the surrender of Constantinople to
the Allies, had not been attained last year the war would still be in
progress. And I therefore hold that it is impossible to estimate the
debt which the Allies owe to those statesmen who brought about that
unity of command.
But to return to my story. The next day was spent, as usual, on the
"bull ring." On June 1, I find that I recorded the following incident:
"We have been on the 'bull ring' again this morning. The weather is as
hot as ever. While we were down there a German aeroplane flew right
over from one end to the other--north to south. The anti-aircraft guns
were firing at it the whole time, but failed to hit it. It was flying at
a great height, and the shrapnel appeared to be bursting all round it.
At one time it flew directly over our heads; but it did not drop any
bombs! A few minutes after it had passed, bits of shrapnel fell quite
near us--within four or five yards--proving how much overhead it had
been. It was quite exciting, but not quite so much so as it was during
those two minutes at Dover last September. Now the question which arises
is: What was its object? It did not drop any bombs. Its object,
therefore, must have been reconnaissance. I suppose that it came to find
out what number of troops we are moving round this way to the new
battlefield in the north. Even though we may move troops by so
roundabout a way, the enemy is able to find out by means of aircraft.
Aircraft makes manoeuvre in modern warfare intensely difficult."
That same evening orders came through for me to proceed up the line,
but, as the following letter will tell, they were afterwards cancelled,
owing to some mistake:
"June 2nd.
"I had a walk down town yesterday evening. Then I came back and called
at the C.R.E. office to say good-bye to David Morgan. He was in--writing
letters--and I stayed a few minutes; then he walked back with me part
of the way. He wished me the best of luck. We both expressed a hope that
the war would soon be over! 'What a life!' said Morgan.
"Leigh got up before 4 this morning, as his train up the line left soon
after that. I got up at 6, and had breakfast. My kit was taken down to
the New Siding Station where I had to report at 7.50. The place was, as
usual, crowded with troops waiting to go up the line. There was a train
full of Portuguese troops in the siding. I reported to the R.T.O. He
said 'Get in officer's coach marked C, and get out at Bethune.' Then he
suddenly discovered that my name was crossed out. 'I've got your name
crossed off here; I don't think you are to go. You had better stand by a
few minutes while I telephone and find out,' he remarked. He then
telephoned to Headquarters and, after about ten minutes, the reply came
through: 'Not to proceed.' There had been a mistake about the division
or something. Anyhow, I was ordered to return to camp. So I told my man
to take my kit back, and returned. The others went up the line. It is
funny, isn't it? I am amused. I take all these changes with equal
equanimity. I am quite agreeable whatever happens.... I know that
whatever happens all will turn out right. I shall arrive at the right
place at the right time. It is most interesting. I expect you will be
pleased at the delay!
"When I got back I saw the Adjutant and reported to him. He was with the
padre, an Irishman who was an officer in Carson's Ulster Volunteer
Force, at the time. He was amused, and the padre said 'Lucky man!' So I
have had a nice easy day, writing letters and strolling about....
"There are a whole crowd of Portuguese here now. A large number marched
up from the station, with band playing, this morning. I find that the
Portuguese troops pay more attention to saluting than do the French; I
have received more salutes from Portuguese than from French; but I hear
that the discipline of the Portuguese in the trenches is very bad
indeed.
"I notice that it is announced in the paper to-day that a violent
artillery bombardment is in progress between Ypres and the sea. There
you are--that is the preliminary bombardment which always precedes a
great battle in war of to-day."
"June 3rd.
"I am still here, and have heard nothing further about going up the
line. The weather is still hot and fine--summer at its best. Yesterday
evening I went down town as usual. When I got back I found some
Portuguese officers in the mess. Everybody was talking French; it was
amusing; but I soon disappeared to my tent. Macdonald left this tent
some days ago; Leigh went up the line; ---- took the latter's place: so
now there are just ---- and I in Tent 12. He returned slightly tight
about 11, and talked a lot of stuff, telling me many stories of his
lurid past! He seems to have been a gay undergraduate at Jesus College,
Oxford, seventeen years ago; he is now thirty-eight. His home is in
----. His two children live there. He has a daughter fifteen and a son
in the Cathedral choir. Yet he himself is a Quaker! And he is in the
Army! He was present at the Battle of the Marne. He is a most quaint
individual altogether.
"He and I were censoring-letters this morning. It was amusing, but soon
became boring as most of the men employed the same formula: 'Just a line
to let you know that I am in the pink, hoping this finds you in the best
of health as this leaves me at present, etc.'!
"I went down town this afternoon and had a bath (an expensive luxury
which cost me 2s.) and strawberries and cream (which cost 3s. 6d.) That
just gives you an idea of prices in this God-forsaken land named
France....
"I also looked inside St. Michael's Church during the afternoon service.
It appears to be a case of come in and go out when you please. There is
one redeeming feature about the French people: they take their religion
seriously, and the children are systematically taught. One can see that.
The priest is a depressing-looking old chap. The service in the Gallican
Church is much nicer than the service in Roman Catholic, or extreme High
Anglican churches in England. There were not nearly so many candles
to-day carried in procession as last Sunday. Nor was the congregation so
large.
"I read the _Middleton Guardian_ correspondence to ---- in the tent when
I got back. He was interested. We then argued until about 11. Macdonald,
in a tent close by, called out 'Floyd, shut up!' The latter is marked
'temporary base' for a month; that is why he has not yet gone up the
line. All the others who came out when I did have now gone up the line;
I am the only one left behind!"
"June 4th.
" ... At 3.50 this afternoon I was informed that the Adjutant wished to
see me; so I went to the orderly room. He informed me that I go up the
line to-morrow morning. I go to the 2/5th Lancashire Fusiliers, 55th
Division....
"Now I am going to bed in my tent for the last time in this peaceful
place, where the only reminder of the fact that war is raging is to be
traced in the encamped city on the sand dunes above the town and the
swarms of soldiers. The sunset is fine, the air is now a little cooler
after the heat of the day, and the sea and the river calm and
refreshing."
Thus ended my long wait at Etaples. The following morning (June 5) I
rose at 6. Having had breakfast, I reported at the New Siding Station at
6.50. I was ordered to get into the train which was drawn up there, and
get out at Hazebrouck, where I would receive further orders from the
R.T.O. there. The train moved off at 7.40. As we passed Camiers we
noticed an American camp there; an American waved the Stars and Stripes
as we passed. We passed through Boulogne at 9. At 1 we reached the city
of St. Omer, where the great Earl Roberts had died at Field-Marshal
French's G.H.Q. in 1914. All round here we noticed numerous German
prisoners working along the line; and we passed many dumps of various
kinds. At 2.30 we steamed into Hazebrouck. I noticed a long hospital
train standing in the station, full of wounded who were being taken to
the Base hospitals. Those who were in a condition to do so looked very
pleased with life.
I reported to the R.T.O. in the square at Hazebrouck, and he gave me
instructions to go by the next train to Poperinghe. It was a sultry day
and I was glad of a drink. I managed to get one on the station. I could
occasionally hear the rumble of the guns in the distance now, but very
faint.
The train left Hazebrouck at 3.30 p.m. The country looked as calm and
peaceful as anything. The only signs which suggested war were the German
prisoners at the side of the railway and the numerous dumps. But we drew
nearer to the Front. The train halted at Abeele, a village near the
frontier of France and Flanders. As we stopped here for a few minutes a
number of us managed to dash into an _estaminet_ opposite the station
and get a drink! From Abeele onwards the most noticeable objects were
the aeroplanes which were now very numerous above us, the presence of
which indicated our proximity to the war.
At 6.30 the train came to a standstill in a station which I was informed
was my destination, Poperinghe. "This is the railhead for the Ypres
Salient" I was told. So out I got with my kit. I was expected. There was
a mess cart awaiting me at the station; and in it I jogged along to the
Transport Lines which were in the vicinity of Brandhoek a mile or so
further on--on the left of the road from Poperinghe to Ypres.
The transport driver told me what it was like in that part, how it had
been very quiet when the 55th Division took over their positions in the
Salient from the 29th Division the previous autumn, but had grown more
lively every day; how they had received a nasty gas bombardment only a
few days ago, how the Boche had recently taken to shelling us furiously
and systematically every night, and how there were some very hot times
ahead--there was to be a raid by a battalion in our brigade that night.
It was fairly quiet when I arrived--it was a time of the day when things
generally were somewhat quiet, when the guns were resting before joining
in the nightly fray--so I did not immediately notice how near to the war
I had come. But I was soon to realize it.
When I reached the Transport Lines I made the acquaintance of two
officers of the 2/5th Lancashire Fusiliers of whom I was destined to see
much in the coming months, Philip Cave Humfrey and Joseph
Roake--especially Roake, as it was his good fortune to remain with the
Battalion until long after the cessation of hostilities and to be with
me in the 15th Lancashire Fusiliers in the Army of the Rhine. Humfrey,
by a curious coincidence, turned out--though I did not know it until
many months after--to be the brother-in-law of my school-friend William
Lindop!
Never shall I forget that summer evening near Brandhoek. Roake,
effervescing as always with droll wit, and Humfrey, with his natural
cheerfulness and affability, made me at home in their little hut at
once. I can well recall the scene: a tiny little wooden hut at the edge
of a large field; the wall adorned by a trench map of the Ypres Salient,
on which our present position was marked in pencil, and a striking
group photo of the Imperial War Cabinet, taken out of an illustrated
journal, in which the well-known faces of Lloyd George and Lord Curzon
seemed to dominate the picture; a little table upon which Humfrey
drafted a signal message to the Adjutant of the 2/5th, announcing my
arrival and asking for instructions, the table upon which an excellent
little dinner was almost immediately served; outside the observation
balloons in a curved line, denoting the Salient, and aircraft sweeping
through the skies.
It was then that I first saw what was going to be to me a very common
sight during those memorable "Wipers days"--an air fight. I had not been
in the little wooden hut many minutes before Roake called me out to
watch a scrap between British and German aeroplanes over the Salient. We
got out our field-glasses and, in the cool of a summer's evening, when
any ordinary individual in "Blighty" would be relaxing from the labours
of the day in cricket or in tennis, we surveyed with interest the
contests between the chivalrous heroes of the air far above. It was then
that I first saw a "blazing trail across the evening sky of Flanders."
There were many such in the summer of 1917, though the brilliant young
airman of whose death that glowing eulogy had been written now lay
sleeping beneath a little wooden cross in the grave in which the
Germans, paying homage to true chivalry, had laid him at Annoeullin. Who
could watch those little specks rising and falling, and falling to rise
no more, up there in the bright blue sky without a thrill of admiration
for these "New Elizabethans" of England and Germany?
It was during tea that I realized that I was really at the war. The guns
began to boom and the hut shook with the continual vibration. And then
the band of the 2/5th Lancashire Fusiliers struck up some jolly tunes in
the field. War and music going hand in hand, it was difficult to know
whether one ought to feel jolly or sad. I think I may safely say that we
felt as jolly and gay as could be; I know that the romantic aspect was
the one which appealed to me most. This was the real thing, none of your
home-service games.
The bombardment became more intense as the evening progressed. After
dark the Transport moved off to carry rations up to the men in the line.
If it is not superfluous to do so, I would wish to pay here the warmest
possible tribute to those gallant Transport men who used to "carry
rations on the road from Pop to Ypres." It was no picnic. The Boche knew
quite well the time that vast and apparently never ending chain of
traffic would be wending its nightly way from Poperinghe to Ypres. He
shelled the great high road systematically every night. Every night
some of those gallant men would go never to return. It seemed marvellous
that so many could escape the destruction which was hurled at them; but
war is full of wonders.
My diary of that night reads as follows:
"As it began to get dark the bombardment became louder and louder and
the flashes more vivid. Shells were falling at Vlamertinghe, half way
between Poperinghe and Ypres, exploding with a great sound. They were
falling here yesterday!
"At about 10.30 p.m. we saw the Transport set off along the road, taking
rations and supplies up to Ypres.... Humfrey went with them. (I would
have gone up with him, but the Adjutant of the 2/5th had sent a message
by the signals saying that I could sleep at the Transport Lines and
report the following morning.) Red Cross motors were also coming back
from Ypres with wounded. Meanwhile the moon--a full moon--steadily rose
above the Front, amid the flashes between Ypres and Messines, the
bombardment sounding like thunder. It was a fine scene. If only there
had been an artist there to paint it! A farm on the Switch Road (a new
road for traffic built by the British Army) some way off got on fire. I
hear that the King's, in our Brigade, are going over the top on a raid
to-night. Our great offensive here has not yet opened, but it will come
off before very long....
"To bed 11.30, the guns booming like continuous thunder. I was awakened
in the night by shells whizzing past the hut where I was sleeping."
So I was, at last, introduced to that strangest of all music--the
screech of a shell: _Whoo-oo-oo-oo-oo-UMP!_