The mad rattle of strife in Belgium had throbbed on the ear-

E-text prepared by Steven Gibbs and the Project Gutenberg Online

Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net)

Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this

file which includes the original illustrations.

See 26713-h.htm or 26713-h.zip:

(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/6/7/1/26713/26713-h/26713-h.htm)

or

(https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/6/7/1/26713/26713-h.zip)

Transcriber's note:

A Table of Contents, not present in the original, was

added for the convenience of the reader.

NORMAN TEN HUNDRED

by

A. STANLEY BLICQ.

A Record of the ----

1st (Service) Bn.

Royal Guernsey Light Infantry

Guernsey:

Printed at The Guernsey Press Co., Ltd.,

Smith Street and Le Marchant Street.

1920.

This modest work is dedicated to:

Mrs. P. EREAUX,

in appreciation of her genial personality,

strong moral courage and unhesitating

adherence to duty as she conceived it.

And also to:

GEORGE W. CLARKE, Esq.,

in memory of those Great Days when

we marched the Long Trail together;

shared the same sorrows, the same

mirth;--and now the same memories, far away,

indistinct; laughter merged with the

tears.

A. STANLEY BLICQ.

Guernsey, 1920.

NORMAN TEN HUNDRED.

A BATTALION OF THE OLDEST AND SMALLEST

DEMOCRACY IN THE WORLD.

Guernsey--named Sarnia by the Romans--one of the Channel Isles from

out the sun swathed romance of whose shores rallied a fierce band

of Norman warriors to the aid of their Duke, William of Normandy;

afterwards the Conqueror, at Hastings, 1066. In reward for their

valour William granted the Isles the independence they maintain to

this day. From Guernsey something approaching 7,000 men have gone

out into the Great Undertaking. The Norman Ten Hundred is the 1st

Royal Guernsey Light Infantry offered by the States of Guernsey for

active participation side by side with the Mother Country's troops

in any of the fighting areas. The narrative is authentic.

CONTENTS

I SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917

II SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917 HENDECOURT

III NOVEMBER, 1917 CAMBRAI REHEARSAL

IV MOVING UP

V NOVEMBER 20th, 1917 CAMBRAI OFFENSIVE

THE ADVANCE

VI MARCOING--MASNIERES

VII HOLDING THE LINE

MASNIERES

VIII NOVEMBER 30th-DECEMBER 1st, 1917 GERMAN ONSLAUGHT

IX DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 HOUVIN

X DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 FLERS--LE PARCQ--VERCHOCQ

XI DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 LEULENE--BRANDHOEK--YPRES

XII PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR

XIII PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR

POPERINGHE--STEENVOORDE

--BRANDHOEK

XIV MARCH-APRIL, 1918 IN THE LINE

XV APRIL 10-14, 1918 DOULIEU-ESTAIRES

NORMAN

TEN HUNDRED

By A. Stanley Blicq

I

SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917

Fed up! Every man of the Ten Hundred was fed up. Thirty-six hours cooped

in cattle trucks, thirty or forty in a truck and inhaling an atmosphere

that would have disgusted a pig--enough to feed anyone up.

The Belgian frontier was crossed at sunset and the fringe of war's

devastation penetrated. Little interest or casual comment was aroused,

although a reputable thirsty one remarked that he thought Jerry might

have spared the village pub.

The long line of dirty trucks stopped with an abrupt jerk and noisy

jarring of impact. Then it came! Grumbles ceased as if by common

consent. There was something indefinable but pregnant, and in tense

silence ears were strained intently. Was it only the rumble of a distant

cart on hard cobbles or...? Faintly over the damp air came a long,

insistent murmur. Hearts beat faster.... Guns!

Northward and then West the train panted up a slight grade, made a wide

curve and then abruptly shut off steam. Long white tapering lights

sprang up from nowhere, wavered and hesitated over the sky; caught in

their glare a silvery bird and followed it across the night. Without

warning an anti-aircraft gun launched with a deafening roar its whining

shell heavenwards. Boom! In the sudden uproar Le Page fell off the

train, jerking his tin of bully beef into Clarke's shaving water. The

Jerry airman circled higher, dived again--and dropped his bomb, missing

the train by hundreds of yards. He had spotted the smoke belching from

the engine. Again he spiralled higher, slipped the converging net of

searchlights and escaped ... ugh! The Ten Hundred breathed a sigh of

relief.

Disembarkation from a train at a point a few miles in the rear of the

Front Line always tends to put the wind up you. The mental survey of a

thousand men en bloc conveys immediately to the mind what an obvious and

unmistakable target a battalion forms. Eyes apprehensively search the

sky for the danger that each one knows lurks somewhere up there in that

black pall, the darker by contrast with the brilliant spearheads of

light searching to and fro.

And of course in such windy moments the order to march off is delayed.

Then when you ARE well on your way you wish you were not, for there is

an unutterable weariness in those marches to bivouacs amid dead silence

from end to end of the ranks; only ever present on the ear that

unceasing booming of heavies or the nearer and unpleasant kr-ru-up of a

not-far-distant German shell. Worn, sadly worn, beneath the staggering

weight of packs on aching shoulders, where chafed skin smarts under the

straps, head bent forward and downwards, one cared little for direction.

Onward, always onward, feet burning with heavy going in clogging Belgian

mud.... Sleep, one longs to lie down there and then to sleep, anyhow,

anywhere!

Bivouacs are under the best of circumstances mere makeshifts. "Stoke

Camp"--CAMP! The irony of it--was on a par with the average. Here and

there a scattered tent, here and there a sheet or two of oilcloth, and

everywhere an abundance of water.

Still it was a haven of rest. Men filed tiredly by in Companies, sorted

themselves out, and cast down packs; boots were jerked off anyhow,

rifles stacked. Each man wrapped around him that old and trusty

friend--his overcoat, heads rested on the hard packs ... doze and

dream....

Three headquarters scouts are turned out for guard!

Two hours swinging up and down, then four hours sleep: and then ... the

mind of the overworn first sentry sickens. Again and again over the

muddy uneven strip, watching fascinated the weird, mad shadows cast in

gaunt trees from a perpetual red glow eastwards. From amid the bivouacs

a lad cries fitfully in his uneasy sleep; a hardy few can be seen by the

glow of cigarettes sitting beneath a solitary tarpaulin.

From the distance something high in the heavens hummed softly the while

here and there far-off searchlights twinkled, one after another picking

up the trail until the whole sky was ablaze with wavering shafts of

light. The murmuring grew to a roar, accompanied by a deafening din of

an Archie (anti-aircraft) barrage and the unceasing rattle of machine

guns.

The enemy 'plane became visible, its sinister cross plainly discernible,

and dived. The sentry heard something sizzle down and--a mighty flash

lit up the woods: the whole earth trembled violently beneath a fierce

concussion. The roar echoed and re-echoed, was followed by a continuous

shower of litter tearing or trickling down through the trees. Unnerving

cries rose from a score or more stampeding horses in the adjacent camp;

but the subtler human ear caught on the damp night breezes a sound that

froze the blood ... pitiful low sobs of men dying from the hot flying

shrapnel.

The Guernseys slept on as if nothing had happened. Therein lies the

strange psychological mystery of the human mind.... The bomb failed to

disturb; but a solitary shot from the sentry would have roused half the

Battalion and sent them seeking half-consciously for their rifles.

In the morning the news spread rapidly. In it they found occasion to

accentuate a grousing born of the damp, uncheering vista around them.

"Bombed in the train, bombed first night up 'ere," said Ginger, "grub

late, no water to wash in; no baccy, no matches--only a blasted ole

rifle wot's gone too rusty to clean."

Washing WAS a complex problem, involving choice between half-a-mile's

walk to a doubtful pool or a canteen full (about a pint and a half) of

water obtained from a muddy puddle in the roadway. The latter method

requiring a minimum of physical exertion was by far the more popular and

each tin of valued water underwent utilisation to its very extreme

limits, i.e., until reduced to something approaching a soup.

There are always days when the Ten Hundred arouse within themselves by

their own exertions a shy, deep pride of their Regiment. It is a

characteristic happy knack of the boys to give their very best during

parades before the G.O.C., and that was undoubtedly a strong factor in

building up the Battalion's fame at Bourne Park.

They visibly and agreeably impressed the G.O.C., 29th Division, at their

initial appearance before him. Whether the Guernsey's exceptional

steadiness solicits approval, or if the rapid rhythmical movements in

handling arms--quicker than is customary with other regiments--pleases

the Official Eye cannot be accurately gauged. It is a concrete

certainty, however, that the unit composes an efficient, compact body

comparing very favourably with its contemporaries.

Fritz carried on his genial bombing expeditions night and day over the

surrounding district, thereby giving birth to defensive measures in the

form of an excavation inside each tent two feet in depth. Outside a wall

of similar height was constructed around the tent or bivouac--few have

the luxury of a tent. A degree of protection from flying shrapnel is

thereby obtained, unless, of course, Fritz registers a direct hit.

Miniature dug-out were cut down into the wet soil by the more

enterprising, but proved ghastly failures, even in the dry hours ... if

anything out there could be termed "dry." I doubt it, excepting the

thirst of a few reputables. Twenty-four hours' rain gave the most

ambitious dug-out an opportunity to demonstrate its exceptional

capability of receiving and RETAINING water. The scene presented in the

morning was unique.

A steel helmet sailed majestically behind an empty tin of bully, in turn

twirling by a pair of sunken boots. Clinging desperately to a few wet

sandbags, four marooned muddy individuals glared ferociously at the

interested onlookers and developed fearful vocal powers of emphasis that

shocked the genial enquirers who came in dozens to discover if: "A

rain-drop or two had trickled in."

The peculiarity of being bombed is such that a sense of personal

security takes a long while to outlive the insistent curiosity that

compels one to stare fascinated at the death above. An up-stretched neck

and straddle-legged attitude predominated--so did neck-ache.

White, during a raid, threw a stone upon Tubby's hat, causing the latter

to drop his mess-tin of dinner in hasty fright ... but the sight of the

stew sliding gracefully down White's blankets delighted the onlookers

and made "honours easy."

The Ten Hundred, of course, attempted to bring a Jerry down. Sergeant

Russel nightly pointed the muzzle of his Lewis-gun in the air and pulled

the trigger, in the hope perhaps that Fritz might inadvertently sail

into the track of his bullets. Unfortunately firing at so perpendicular

an angle caused the lead to fall into the adjacent infantry lines and

they--they returned the compliment, although neither Battalion inflicted

any "Blighty's" on the other.

Two Companies had to go up the line on a hazardous task. The twist of

the coin gave the honour to A. and D. And yet how forcible a factor was

that coin in deciding the unfathomable wherefore of existence. It was

thrown in the air; fell, wavered on edge, flattened out. And

implicitly, blindly obeying the indict conveyed from its face this or

that man passed from active, living phenomenon in the evolution of the

cosmic process to mere insensible matter.

Life, then, is chance, luck; to which no guiding factors, laws, or

binding principles can be adduced.

Before marching off from the bemudded "parade" ground we were fed up.

Constant rain had rendered an always muddy surface into a slimy

quagmire, in which every step forward was a conscious effort. There was

little singing in either Companies (A. and D.), during the short march

to the train conveying the party to near a shell-infested area where the

said party would partake of its outdoor picnic. "Party"--the ironical

humour of it!

Each lad was tired, wet, and hungry. Tempers easily ruffled. "Wot the

'ell do yer think year bumpin' into?" shouted Biffer at an unfortunate

who had side-slipped into him.

"Bumpin' into?" the other grunted, "nothing much by the look of it."

They glared at one another like fighting cats ... the contretemps

fizzled out; both were too tired to argue.

Disembarkation during the night in a blinding storm of rain that had

materially increased to a torrential downpour materially helped to damp

spirits already none too high. Bumping wildly into this figure or that,

slipping full-length into inches of water and thereby saturating what

little dry clothing that had remained so, they peered vainly into the

all absorbing blanket of night for the tents, bivouacs or shelters that

were not there. We have all had our minds permeated with a strong fear

of Hell.... After that night many will thank their stars that this abode

of ill-omen is HOT and therefore apparently DRY.

Each man was told to do the best for himself with a ground sheet. To

derive shelter in such a storm with a few feet of oilcloth, no props, no

light, is a task to which sweeping back the Atlantic with a toothbrush

is simple in comparison.

But they were up against it ... grumbles ceased. Someone by an

extraordinary stroke of luck stumbled upon an R.E. dump from which

sundry articles essential to the construction of shelters could be

filched. Filched must be emphasised, for therein lay the ulterior reason

for transformation from "fed-upity" to a genial anticipation of

forthcoming trouble. The C.R.E. in the morning would raise Hell when he

discovered half his dump appropriated and scattered by the Guernseys

over a wide area. The O.C.'s of A and D Companies would be hauled over

the coals.... There was the nucleus of the farce. The men pinched and

the officers stood the racket. The very thought sent the whole ranks

chuckling and up soared the high spirit barometer. There was, too, in

these repeated silent visits to the dump a possibility of discovery that

appealed to that venturesome spirit so characteristically a trait of the

Ten Hundred. They chuckled gleefully at each nefarious trip, almost

wished some interfering N.C.O. would appear from an R.E. depot and

originate by his unpleasantries something of a rough house.

Shelters through which streams trickled were run up and the floors tiled

with a queer assortment of tins, empty cartridge cases and odd bits of

wood. Drenched to the very skin, shivering and sneezing with cold, they

gave no heed to the rain tattooing on their faces or to the enemy

shells. Within the rickety shelters damp figures, huddled together for

warmth, closed tired eyes and in utter weariness of limbs fell into a

fitful sleep.

Snatches of song, bursts of laughter, echoed here and there in the

night. Laughter! What on earth was there to laugh at? The wretched

improvised shelters on and into which rain crept, lashed earthwards by a

howling wind? The cold, chilly feet, clinging clothes and wet skin? Or

is there anything refreshingly humorous in the knowledge that Death

groped about in the night for his own ... found them? Is there a

mirth-provoking element in the ten to one chance that YOU may not see

the morrow?

All honour to you, Normans! From Valhalla, in his high seat with the

Anses, Rollo of old looked down on you with pride.

Langemarck, grim, windswept and desolate.

A few short weeks before it had by the flowing of British blood, by our

own Division, been wrenched from the German grasp. There is everywhere

about it an awesome sacredness. One hesitates to treat lightly over the

soil that belongs to those whose eyes were closed in the taking, and

whose warrior forms lie at rest beneath the pathetic white crosses

dotted over the gruesome waste. Those sad little emblems of Supreme

Sacrifice: "To the memory of a British Soldier." Simple but magnificent!

A farewell to some unknown--to some mother's son.

The first shell that scatters you in all direction, secretly feeling

yourself doubtfully all over, abruptly disperses any sentimentality that

may cling to the mind. The two Companies found it so when they marched

still further up the line and commenced work on two different sectors,

shelled--but comparatively lightly--for the first day or two.

The first line over-attacked in the mud, swept over Poelcapelle and

advanced on Passchendaele, pausing while the mobile artillery moved up

to support over roads that were daily filled in and rebuilt by fatigue

parties similar to the Guernseys. The German Headquarters concentrated

their guns upon the immediate British rear, with the intention of

hampering and impeding the movements of reinforcements and artillery.

The Guernseys got the cream of it. Ground was churned up for yards and

bodies buried weeks before were blown from their resting places,

grinning white and hideous at the sky. Work on the roads was one

perpetually interrupted operation, men ducking every few minutes to the

whine of a shell. Life was an unknown quantity--no man could gauge what

moments were still left him. Streams of wounded ran, hobbled or limped

painfully away from that sector of Hell. Artillery galloped steaming

horses through, sighing with relief upon attaining the other end.

There comes a time after his first baptism of fire, after his first view

of the shattered mutilated remnants of a shell-stricken body, that the

infantryman turns towards where invisible German guns from comparative

safety belch forth death, and shakes his impotent fist at this enemy. He

picks himself up, white and shaken, from where the concussion has thrown

him, and amid the cries of the dying, "Curse you," he sobs, "if ever the

chance comes----!"

A battery of R.F.A. within a few hundred yards of the road opened

salvoes lasting throughout every morning until the ears throbbed with

each successive roar and the earth trembled violently beneath the

6-in.'s concussion. Jerry airmen endeavouring to spot the gun-positions

swooped down unheard, pumping lead in heavy showers from machine-guns

upon the Guernseys and scattering them broadcast.

Pike stopped a "Blighty" with his foot, and Pleton, a shrapnel bullet

whistling clean through his chest, fell limply forward. Gas commenced,

coming over in shells ... in response to the alarm, respirators were

donned with an alacrity phenomenal in its hasty adjustment. De La Mare

discovered one of the eye-pieces missing. Holding his nose with one

hand, he spluttered: "Wa', wi' I do?" and instantly clapped his hand

over his mouth, jumping from one foot to another in apprehensive

uncertainty. From within every helmet choking bursts of laughter sounded

muffled on the air. The unfortunate lad held his breath until black in

the face, gasped in a frenzied intake of air, and gingerly felt himself.

Ultimately instructed to change into the P.H. helmet, he did so

nervously, succeeded, and sat down, inhaling deep breaths of relief.

"All Clear" was sounded, but from the moment he removed his mask and for

days afterwards he was the recipient of sly solicitations from a

chuckling platoon.

"I wonder why 'e was pullin' on 'is nose?" Le Page innocently inquired;

"ain't it long enough?"

"Dunno," Ginger replied; "p'raps 'e 'as chronic catarrh!"

Day followed day, bringing little change in the task. Casualties were

not exceptionally heavy, but the strenuous work and perpetual stress of

the nerves told on them. For there is no more nerve-shattering task than

to have to submit without active retaliation day after day to harassing

shell-fire. It is during this early initiating into a general

expectation of possible death that the young warrior has to conquer the

psychological instinct impressed with fear upon his imagination from

childhood that LIFE is his most valued asset, and must be safeguarded

before all things. And now his conception is revolutionised. He must

accept death as a daily possibility.

It is patent that dusk found them weary and worn, plodding and wading

silently "homewards," shovel on shoulder, across four or five kilos of

desolate mud; falling and tripping over stagnant bodies, masses of

tangled wire, bricks and jagged wood-work everywhere impeding progress.

And yet a consciousness of good work done reacted on their spirits. They

reflected contentedly of the meal awaiting, of their pipes, their sleep.

The inscrutable ways of Chance--Destiny, call it what you will--brought

about the greatest catastrophe that had so far obtained in the Guernsey

ranks. Major Davey moved his party over an area--at about 11 in the

morning of a warm, sunny Sunday--coming in for a spell of shelling

extraordinary in intensity. A labour unit retired because of the

exigencies of the precarious situation. Inflexible, the Normans carried

on, then--s-i-iz-z ... kr-rupp!

The leading platoon caught it in their very midst, a ghastly heap of

mangled flesh and shattered limbs were scattered to right and left. Two

unhappy lads were blown to unrecognisable fragments. No words can convey

the heart-rending cries of those whose bodies cringe and writhe from the

hell-hot agony of searing shrapnel. There is an unmistakable appeal for

pity that stirs the depth of feeling until a wild frenzy to right

matters sends Berserk passion to the brain. Oh, you German gunners in

your serene safety, if ever my chance comes...!

Thus the first of the Ten Hundred went over the Great Divide.

An order to retire was quietly obeyed. They marched back, some shaken,

some bleeding from minor wounds: bearing the stretcher cases and dead

with them. Some gazed eastwards, faces transfigured with impotent rage,

a few white faced boys stared hypnotised before them; but the remainder,

heads erect, looked grimly ahead ... they would not forget!

A day or so later the Normans came out. Cookie, black and grimy from

head to foot--the only condition in which he really felt at

home--prepared the removal of his cookers.

"I didn't 'alf 'ave the wind up," he confided me afterwards, "about that

there last dinner; becos, you see, a Jerry shell wot burst close chucked

a great chunk of mud into one of them cockers. Wot was I to do? Couldn't

throw away the grub ... didn't 'ave no more, so I just stirred it all

up. Anyhow," reflectively, "it made it thicker, and they sez it was

'tray bun.'"

And so they came away with out farewell glance across that tragic

countryside, lonely and desolate as if God-forsaken in its very

devastation. The eye took in the reflected light in a myriad pools, the

white crosses, sinister wire treking right away to where a few solitary

tree stumps stood up madly against the skyline. They thought with a pang

of those who slept the long last sleep in the clinging wet soil, whose

footsteps would no longer ring on the hard road in rythmic chorus with

the old Ten Hundred, whose voices would ne'er again swell the

Battalion's marching rallies....

Following a brief rest the 29th Division trained, from Poperinghe

southwards. The same weary cooping in cattle-trucks, same monotonous

crawl. And yet during a halt at Hazebrucke arose one of those moments

that live long in memory, when patriotism rises high in the breast. The

station was crowded with soldiers and civilians as the Guernseys' train

drew up in the cool, dusky evening light. Someone played a cornet: "The

long, long trail." From end to end of the train the Ten Hundred caught

it up and sang low in their soft southern accent. A hush fell on the

chattering onlookers, they turned and stared. The harmony enveloped

them, stirred them ... and we, ah, how the blood stirs even now. But the

memory saddens--for the voices of many are for ever still.

II

SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917

HENDECOURT

The mad rattle of strife in Belgium had throbbed on the ear-drums

incessantly day and night, but on the frontage beyond Hendecourt and

Arras little more than an occasional "Verey" light from the Fritz line

played hesitatingly on the grotesque landscape. Even the guns were

silent: the crack of a rifle-shot or far-off splutters from machine-guns

were the only sounds to mingle with the harsh jumbled tread of the Royal

Guernseys marching over cobbles and bad roads to the encampment of iron

huts.

The going from Beaumetz, through shell-shattered villages, by roads

twisting up and down long hills, commenced to tell on the men long

before the first halt was due. Breathing became, in many cases, long and

heavy; some stumbled blindly forward with heads strained down, and

others impotently cursed at the Higher Command for not calling a halt.

Sweat trickled over dust-begrimed countenances, feet were aching, the

tongue clove parched to the mouth, the pack ... oh, the utter hell of

it. And yet on the morrow you forgot!

On territory recaptured (during March, 1917) from Fritz and within a few

hundred yards of his original reserve line, still intact and heavily

protected with barbed wire, was the conglomeration of huts that formed

for nearly three weeks the home of the Ten Hundred.

The Infantryman sees far more of the trenches than of Rest Camps, and

therefore what precious days of absence from the joys of water-logged

dug-outs comes his way are seized upon and lived to the very full. The

Normans had not experienced very much--but they had had quite enough.

Ginger Le Ray, basking his fair unshaven features in the sun and

lovingly watching Lomar pulling at a fat (and dubious) cigar, aired the

Battalion's sentiments with: "This is orlright. Anything except

Paschendaele or my ole woman."

A Battalion offers widely divergent contrasts in the psychology of men

composing its ranks, and it is with the intention of bringing the reader

into intimate and personal touch with all these types of men that this

chapter is penned. Nick names are as common as daisies in the Army and

by this medium a large number of characters will be portrayed and the

fate awaiting each one later recorded. To those who imagine that Death

has set laws for claiming this or that type there will be ample

argumentative data--but this is a factor upon which no scientific

grounds can be used as a base for theories. Life is chance!

There are good, indifferent, and bad soldiers among the Normans. The

first can be disposed of briefly: They are never adrift, never for

Company Orders, always spotless and first on parade; perpetually shining

and exhibiting glistening buttons before the Company-Sergeant-Major in

vague hope of promotion. A detestable type, fortunately in the minority.

Of "indifferent" in the above sense but inordinately proud of their

Battalion on parade and who gave of their best when demanded, 80 per

cent. of the Norman element was formed.

And the bad! Dare devils and schemers of the deepest dye, ever on the

qui vive to dodge fatigues, caring not a brass button for the C.O.

himself. Martel, Leman, White, Evans. Good fellows all. Afraid of

nothing except hard work, shining-up and guards. Nebo, whose ankle when

its owner was nabbed for a working party, would twist beneath him and

features twisted in pain would murmur: "Can't--can't carry on." The Duo

(Blicq and Clarke), imperturbable and calm, had strong aversion to

exertion in any form. The appearance of a N.C.O. requiring "Four men for

fatigue." sent the two flying headlong for the doorway with a great show

of towels and soap. Always in trouble, they always wriggled out. Stumpy,

also, too tired to slip away, too tired to be anything but a hindrance

when they did put him on a job, but never too weary to eat a dinner not

his own. But to them all, good, indifferent or bad, the Battalion's name

and record came FIRST. To no unit, however famed, would they acknowledge

superiority and every General who reviewed them was unable to repress

appreciation of the outcome of this latent esprit de corps.

They tackled every Regiment in the Brigade at football and defeated one

and all, fought their way by sheer tenacity into the Brigade Cup

Final--and lost with good spirit.

Parades were few and light, sport compulsory. Moral and health were

excellent although the genial company of the leech-like post of active

service--lice--began to irritate some few and to send creepy sensations

down the spine of those who were still unblessed. The Duo scrubbed each

other daily in--a biscuit tin of water.

There were baths of course! You marched down in twenties to where a

"room" was screened from the eyes of those who were not there to see by

a bordering of sacking--this served also to "keep out" a shrieking cold

wind that played up and down your bare body with icy persistence, and

finally with a spiteful gust whisked away your solitary towel to the

skies and caused you to ponder how Adam warmed himself in a snowstorm.

To pass from this elaborate dressing-room to the actual torture-chamber

necessitated a short walk OUTSIDE--ugh! Once inside the twenty Spartans

waited for the water to be turned on them from the long spray pipes.

Sometimes this water froze your marrow, but generally it scorched away

the hair that should have been shaved off that morning. However,

splashing and blindly soaping each other you would be half-way through

the operations when steam was shut off with the order "clear out"--to

make way for another twenty animals. Thus, eyes clenched tight to omit

soap-suds, into the open again, a slip in the mud, and, forgetting,

abrupt opening of the eyes--how wonderfully expressive and voluminous is

our English tongue. Although I have heard a no more efficient flow of

useful blasphemy than Duport's vitriolic patois.

Rations were certainly plentiful--with the exception of bread, of which

one man's issue would not choke a winkle.

Breakfast was usually bacon or cheese and chah (tea)--the beverage

slightly tainted with sugar; although there is on record one memorable

occasion of exceptional sweetness of the drink--attributed to the fact

that cookie was startled by the shout of "Raid on," and in went the

whole bag--minus the quarter placed inside for himse--er, emergency.

Dinner, to-day, stew. To-morrow, stew, and the day after--stew! An awful

white concoction called rice went with it. Tea finds jam on the menu--on

your clothes too, because of a struggle with someone over disputed

possession of a pot that did not rightly belong to either. A 1 lb. jar

is shared among six--when it is not sixteen. Quantity and quality differ

frequently. The variety (Apple and Plum) NEVER. Supper, rice. Less

said....

Hendecourt proved a posh camp; memories of it and of the men who laughed

the heavy days away are pleasant. The Army, despite the grousings that

rise steadily to Tommy's lips, is a fine institution, and those who have

emerged safely from the Great Undertaking cannot but look back with

regretful pleasure upon those great days of the open, of bonne

camaraderie, of willing sacrifice.

Nightly the 29th Divisional troupe performed before an over-crowded

house of the most appreciative audience in the world. A cinema also

threw its ardent cowboy lovers and pig-tailed heroines upon a screen

whose far distant days may have been spotless and white. Tubby awaited

outside the "stage-door" for an hour to interview Tootsie (of the

Troupe) after the first night and found "she" wore Army boots, trousers,

and chewed plug.

Old theatre house of memory! There on Sunday row on row of mute khaki

forms bowed together in unspoken player or sang with quiet, earnest

harmony the hymn that tells home every time on the rough warriors'

heart: "Holy Father, in Thy keeping ... hear our anxious prayer," etc.

God, how they sang it! Some knew, perhaps, what awaited.

The short November days sent the mud-clogged lads into their huts with

the last pale glimmer of a weakly sun. Constructed of sloping corrugated

iron, in which no outlet for fire-smoke had been cut, these huts were

lined at the top with some substance of felt and through which the rain

trickled into puddles and miniature lakes on the ground floor. Clarke

had adjusted a tin like a sword of Damocles over his bed to catch the

drops--and it certainly conveyed, after falling twice when full upon

Stumpy, an apprehension akin to that wrought by the weapon. Over one of

these puddles near--TOO near--his bed Ginger was wont to sit with

melancholy mien, a rifle held out before him and from the muzzle a

string hanging over the water with a mess-tin attached.

"Wot's doin', Gin?"

"Fishin'."

"What for?"

"Me ticket!" (Discharge).

Braziers were rampant in every Company, swelling and overflowing

throughout the entire hutments in belching clouds of noxious smoke that

permeated an atmosphere impenetrable by human eyes with an odour of

smouldering wood, empty milk-tins and tobacco. Those nights!

Those nights of song and laughter, of anticipations, hope, and the

yearning for LIFE: of long-drawn-out confabs over the glowing embers of

a red-hot brazier, the crimson glow shining upon faces that showed so

little of aches, fears, longings, masked behind the curling smoke from

screening pipes. Silence fall oft-times upon the khaki figures clustered

round the genial warmth. Each man to his own dire thoughts ... home,

wife, or girl.

Tucked within blankets, heads propped on hands, pipes and cigarettes

going, they peered with unseeing eyes into the mad crackle of burning

timber. Softly would the melody of a song be hummed, caught up by chorus

and wafted out into the indigo mystery of the night. Quiet for a few

minutes, an occasional snore and then sure as fate a last parting shot

from the Duo.

No. 1: "No one knows."

No. 2: "No--and the impossibility--"

No. 1: "Yes. Yet they must. If not, how do they exist?"

Pause and a soft chuckle.

No. 2: "Of course they have. Yet the agony--."

Curiosity overcoming the remainder a series of questions popped up.

"What is impossible?", "Why must who?", "What agony?"

No. 1: "You see, no one knows?"

Exasperated chorus: "Knows what?"

No. 1: "Why, if flies have toothache."

And then oblivion claims into its own soundless peace the outstretched

forms of rough warriors and removes them from grim reality into the

passing realms of a fantastic dream--Arcadia.

Mail days are pleasant. Excited anticipation for your name as each

parcel or letter is read out, dull disappointment if your issue is

napoo.

Parcels. Oxo cubes, of course. Utilised because of adhesive qualities

for throwing at a target as darts. Cafe au lait, a useful preparation

for spreading on bread in lieu of posie (jam) that has mysteriously

evaporated. A pair of silk socks, purple with gold spots. Will come in

useful as a rifle rag. A long, wide woolly article resembling a cross

between a scarf and a blanket ... do as a pillow. A large cake, two

packets of chocolate and fifty fags. Hum, won't go far among ten. A pot

of jam--go fine on the cake or may tackle it with a spoon. And a brief

note hidden away at the bottom--"For my boy."

God, how it hurt. What surging memories of a mother's love, of a

mother's eternal tender care, swarmed up mistily before the eyes.

Secretly, half-ashamedly, are such missives carefully put away. The mind

vividly pictures the animated packing by willing hands in the humble

homestead--a lump forces its way into the throat. But WAR is WAR and in

it sentiment has no place.

III

CAMBRAI REHEARSALS

NOVEMBER, 1917

Uproar was rampant in one of D. Company's huts. Mingled laughter and

arguments formed the base of a volume of sound materially assisted in

high note effect by the banging of spoons on mess tins.

"An' now listen agin," said Tich, commanding and obtaining silence by

turning over his "Press", "some more exemptions. Just listen to this

'ere summary. Six months' renewable. Six months 'ere again. An''ere's a

poor blighter wots only got three months. Wot ARE the Tribunals doin' to

give 'im so short a time before 'e goes to the cruel wars?" He paused to

join in the ironical outburst that ensued and continued at the top of

his lungs: "There are twenty cases 'ere an' eighteen of 'em 'as some

more extensions. I ask you, boys, are they playin' fair to us at 'ome?"

"No! No! No!" in mighty chorus.

"But do we want them chaps out 'ere?"

"No!"

"They would disgrace the Bat.?"

"Yes!"

"Becos they ain't got any guts in 'em?"

"No!"

One of the two Guernsey scouts from Headquarters pushed open the door

and in the general pause said:

"Heard the latest?"

"Now, no funny games," Tich ejaculated.

"Not at all. We're going up the line again."

"Oh, 'ell," said Nabo, "wot for?"

"Stunt. Another Big Push."

"Oh, 'ell," repeated Nabo; "'ere, scout, goin' back to H.Q.?"

"Yes."

"Then tell 'em I'm indisposed--ain't 'ad a long enough rest yet. An',

'ere, lets 'ave a fag. Wot with that there news and my bad 'eart for

war...."

Nothing is left to chance in the offensive movements undertaken by that

unparalleled fighting mechanism disposed of in two words: British Army.

In following out the general scheme of perfecting every minor detail,

the Cambrai attack had more than its share of elaborate preparation.

Beyond the fact that a "Push" was to be inaugurated upon an entirely new

and experimental form of advance, nothing was disclosed even to the men.

The utter importance of maintaining absolute secrecy of this meagre

information was earnestly reiterated. The slightest inkling of the

impending intentions escaping to Fritz would have cast upon the troops

engaged a disaster perhaps unequalled in the annuals of even this

Armaggedon.

Following customary procedure the offensive was rehearsed mile for mile

even as in the actual undertaking; aeroplanes being allotted to

Divisions for scouting and observation.

The whole cycle of operations outlined by the G.H.Q. can be briefly

summarised as follows: The entire movement of troops, guns, and tanks by

NIGHT and to remain under cover from enemy 'planes during daylight. An

abrupt massing on a nine-mile front of the engaging force during the

night prior to launching of tanks and infantry. A furious bombardment

would be opened by artillery at daybreak. Three tanks per Battalion

moving forward would crush gaps in the enemy barbed wire through which

advancing lines of infantry would pour into the Fritz trenches. The

forward movement throughout the day to be carried on in relays of three

Divisions, the final Division attaining and digging in as its objective.

The Ten Hundred, forming the place of honour on the left flank of the

29th Division had to carry an objective situated, of all difficult

places, on the crest of a long rise in the ground--Nine Wood.

At Brigade Headquarters a huge map was built on the ground complete to

the most minute of details. From aero photographs the entire area,

confined to the activities of the 86th was plainly portrayed for

inspection and explanation to the Platoons. Fritz trenches, wire,

observation posts, lines of support and communication; the rise and fall

of the ground; villages; were all emphasised upon until Tommy became to

a certain degree familiar with the ground over which Fritz had to be

bundled back five miles in one day. Points where, possibly, a stubborn

resistance might be offered were indicated and the advisability of

AVOIDING open breaks in enemy wire constantly reiterated. (Obviously, if

openings are voluntarily left here and there in the second line of wire,

to one cogent factor only can such procedure be attributed, i.e., men

will for preference make in a body for a clear passage and machine guns

trained from the rear into these breaches would account for a hundred or

so casualties before the men realised a trap.)

To merely undertake an offensive "on paper" only would be fatuous.

Actual rehearsal over country as similar as possible to the original has

to be carried out; villages and towns having to be "imagined" on the

training area in the very position they filled on the actual territory.

Tanks were to be used on a scale calculated to put the wind up whatever

enemy units held that sector. Approximately three hundred of these

cumbersome but doughty caterpillars were to line up on a nine-mile

frontage. They would be "first over the top"--in itself a life-saving

factor that, had it been adopted earlier in the war, would have by a

large percentage reduced the British casualty roll.

The manner in which they would precede the infantry from zero (the hour

at which the advance is timed to begin) was practised over an old

stretch of trenches and wiring; infantry partaking in the manoeuvre.

Throughout the Norman camp a stir of suppressed excitement and slightly

apprehensive anticipation was apparent during the three days' training,

in conjunction with the remainder of the 86th Brigade, for the big

stunt. They rapidly grasped, after a hitch during the first day, what

was required of them, attaining on the completion of the rehearsals a

strong confidence in their powers to carry through their schedule.

They became conscious of an eagerness to try their mettle, to do

something "off their own bat." At the end of each day the Ten Hundred

swung in a long swaying column behind their band along the pave roads

homewards. Company after company sending up defiant echoes with the

marching rallies peculiar to the Normans, they splashed noisily through

the almost interconnected line of puddles. Upright, fine, free fellows:

the very cream of Guernsey's manhood.

At night they were well content, after a late dinner, to crouch around

the glowing brazier and talk, while Biffer surreptiously was wont to fry

the bacon he had commandeered. His arch enemy--N.C.O.'s--invariably

endeavoured to trap him.

"Ere, you, where'd you get that bacon?"

"Bacon?" Biffer looked up with baby-like innocence. "'Ad it sent--ain't

'alf got a scent, too."

"Oh, an' that piece yesterday was sent, too, I s'pose?"

"Yes, same animal. 'E's got pink eyes."

"Wot, the pig?"

"Course--think you get bacon off a canary? Want a bit?"

"Well (mollified), only fat left, I s'pose?"

"No--only rind. 'Ere you are."

IV

MOVING UP

Ten Hundred men stood faintly outlined in the purple pall of a starless

night. Stripped to the very essentials of a battle--"Fighting Order" but

carrying the valise on the shoulders and the haversack by the side.

Steel helmets, gas masks and one hundred and seventy rounds of

ammunition per man; no overcoats; no blankets; simply the rough, furry

wolf-skin jacket for protection o' nights. Hoarse orders broke

grotesquely on the damp air.

"Move to the right in fours ... right----!" By Companies the Normans

moved away; glancing for the last time upon the dark bulk of old

Hendecourt.

The Undertaking had begun.

They halted a few hours later in the semi-darkness of a siding where a

great conglomeration of every corps stood leaning on rifles, awaiting

instructions to board one of the grinding, jarring lines of trains that,

shunting to and fro, emitted ghostly columns of white smoke high into

the darkened heavens.

The Normans boarded their train, tumbling clumsily one into another over

the dirty, evil-smelling floors of the cattle-trucks. Striking of

matches and smoking were forbidden ... a babel of confusion and curses

ensued while they sorted themselves out. It was impossible to wreak

vengeance on the man who inadvertently placed his boot in your eye ...

to turn abruptly in his direction would bring some other lad's rifle in

your teeth. Sit tight and hold tight!

The Duo, with the scouts from other Battalions, attached Brigade

Headquarters, succeeded in forcing their way into a genuine railway

carriage--trust them! Almost immediately they were up to mischief.

Having scrounged a tin of pork and beans they wanted to cook it. And

cook it they did, despite orders re lights. A foot of rag was wrapped

around a candle stump, placed in a tin (this paraphernalia they carried

everywhere) and lit. For twenty minutes the "maconichie" boiled, and

they then blew out the smouldering grease-saturated rag. The carriage

was fitted with FASTENED windows and a icor of smouldering candle-rag

with no outlet! The occupants were literally gassed. Coughing,

spluttering, they almost choked.

"Phew," gasped Clarke, waving at the fumes, "it's aw-aw-awful." The

other partner of the Duo could stand it no longer. Grasping his rifle he

pushed it through the window. Crash! Then he laughed.

"Anybody want, want any beans?" he chuckled.

"Eat it, phew, yer bloomin' self."

"Ugh, not now after that--er--aroma." He threw the tin through the

broken pane and added piously, "hope it hits someone."

PERONNE! To march after detraining during the morning along its deserted

streets, to gaze on the devastation of its large buildings, sent the

mind wandering over the past. Peronne: this was the town from which

Fritz had retreated "according to plan"; this was the goal towards which

the British had gazed undismayed through the black months of slow

progress, infinite hardship, and fast-flowing blood. But to-day the

khaki tread rang firm on its roads. They who had gone before had made

easy the way, and you, who were carrying it on eastwards, ever eastward.

The knowledge stirred something within you and you were glad.

The Ten Hundred swung out of the "suburbs" up the long incline of Mount

St. Quentin, travelled a few hundred yards along the crest and came to

a halt near a line of tents. At no point in the sky was there any

indication of enemy airmen, nor from the line did much rattle of distant

guns disturb the quiet of the day. From the concussion of some far-off

muffled explosion the earth trembled slightly; but these visitations, at

lengthy intervals, caused little comment. From 12 to 4.30 p.m. sleep was

compulsory. No man or N.C.O. was permitted to be seen outside his tent

or hut until dusk fell, and with it the command to fall in for the long

march northward to Equancourt.

Along one perpetual straight road, lined on either side with endless

rows of weird, sighing trees whose tops converged in faint outline

against the sky at an ever distant point; along one continual rough

surface of hard, slippery cobble paving an almost tail-less column of

marching troops, rumbling artillery and jingling transport crawled on

through the darkness. It went hard with the Normans that night. Night

and the silence, the mystery. Only the ring of many feet and the neigh

of a startled horse. On, ever onward to the Unknown that awaits. Aye.

Tommy, worn, rugged, rough Tommy, straining forward beneath the burden

that was yours--how little others know how staunch and true beat that

sturdy heart throbbing under its hard exterior. Step by step; left,

right, left; rigid and mechanical, controlled by a mind that ceased to

act and fell prey to wild fancies. You could hear them: the cooling

whispers of a sea upon your Sarnia's shore ... dear little country!

God's own Isle! Mental anguish and physical pain. And yet you came

up--smiling.

Monday passed quietly at Equancourt, although one or two Fritzy shells

bursting some few miles away with the unmistakeable kru-ump of his

heavies set the brain working and conjured up memories.

B. Company, without the customary O.C. (Captain Hutchinson, one of the

most popular officers among the men) of Company-Sergeant-Major "Tug"

Wilson (another splendid fellow) were temporarily under the command of a

Buff officer (Chapman). A., C. and D. commands were unchanged.

13 Platoon, so fictitiously unlucky(?), was probably the most "pally"

combination in the Battalion; both N.C.O.'s and men were on excellent

terms--especially with Sergt. T. Allez, one of the finest and most

courageous men in the Ten Hundred. Lieut. F. Arnold was in

command--another good fellow. This Platoon emerged with a very small

percentage of casualties.