house the last of a row culminating at a four-cross-road. Phew--and he
dropped one on it and got five of us. Wilshire (Royal Fusiliers) came in
for a fearful gash, ten or twelve inches long and three wide, right
across the spine. Conscious, but paralysed, he looked round on us with a
piteous, hopeless appeal for succour in his eyes and made wild,
inarticulate sounds for water. One of the signals (R.E.) fell face
downward on the floor in a widening pool of his own blood, one part of
his face blown away. Poor laddies, full of youth, vim, life--cursed
artillery from your far-off safety! Aye, hands clench; if ever OUR
chance comes....
He played on Marcoing throughout the night, inflicted a few light
casualties on the Normans, deprived a few more house of rafters, and
ploughed an occasional portion of the road.
One wondered grimly on looking up at a thin slate roof what protection
it would form against a "heavy," and into how many unrecognisable
fragments your person would be dispersed should he land one direct on
you. Close your eyes and sleep; then if he does plump one in, you won't
worry much about it.
We seemed to have no 'planes of our own to interfere with Fritz's
evening gambols, nor were there any Archie guns in the sector to give
the Hun aviators something with which to amuse themselves.
Coloured cavarly had ridden in, out and around Marcoing throughout the
day, but apparently were not going through. The advance was ended and
there was every indication of establishing this new line for the quieter
period of winter.
The Normans, with the 80th Brigade, moved in the evening dusk out from
Marcoing to Masnieres--a town that constituted almost the apex of the
salient formed by the drive.
A strange march, although a mere couple of miles or so, in that
throughout the entire line of companies there could be sensed some
indefinable presentiment of a something to be feared. High above the
direct line of march could be discerned the black puffs of enemy timed
shrapnel bursting in the air. And you had to pass through it--it was
inconceivable that everyone could get through unharmed. Again, it might
not be you. The egotism of unconscious thought; the indisputable truth
of Darwin's "Will to Life."
At Rues Vertes the Battalion halted. The nerves were highly strung, men
gazed about with slight shudders as one is wont to do in the midst of
weird ghost stories when someone comes softly, unexpectedly down the
darkened stairs.
What was the unshakeable phenomenon? Was it the moaning of a lost wind
in the dark woods that reacted so upon that rudimentary, instinctive
Fear of the Unknown, the Night; inherited from the primitive man who
watched trembling throughout the wakeful hours when Fear was his sole
companion?
"I--I don't fancy this," Tich whispered hoarsely, "it puts a feelin' of
death on me." Fatal prophecy!
The Ten Hundred carried on, crossed a swampy field, and moving up nearer
the line, filed once again into the dismal occupation of trenches newly
dug, affording inadequate cover and protected by wire that would have to
be raised by their own efforts.
Winter was already getting a grip on the land, nights were cruelly cold
and days but little better. And this first night at Masnieres was
frequented with that sensation of ill-omen pervading the minds of many
who felt--as Tich had said--somehow that their days were drawing to a
close. They would lie unmoving for an hour obsessed by their thoughts;
the brain flying with its lightning rapidity from picture to picture
resurrected from a happy past. In words would some communicate their
apprehensions.
"I feel--rotten to-night. Something's got on my nerves...."
But the rum ration soon soared the depressed spirits. Man is prey to his
inherited instincts. Even Tich recovered his nerve.
"I only felt like that once before," he said, "that's when I was
spliced."
"Wot, frightened of something?"
"Yes, and," gloomily in abrupt relapse, "it came right, too." The
cherubic tones of Stumpy emanated from somewhere.
"Wot I say is, respect a man's principles. Any teetotalers about yere
wot wants to find a 'appy 'ome for their rum ration? Wot I say is,
respe--yes, yere I am, old son, pass the sinful liquor over."
Half an hour later he warbled a jumbled melody:
"In Ari--Arizona. It's there a girl in Ari--Ari...."
VII
HOLDING THE LINE
MASNIERES
The night was far more lively than any preceding. Fritz trench mortar
batteries sending over a series of particularly nastily ranged shells.
This is a type of shell that can be heard coming from far in the air and
its flight, by an acute observer, can be gauged to within a dozen yards
or so of the point of impact with the earth. Situated right up in the
forward line this dangerous little weapon, at a range of one thousand or
less (according to distance between opposing lines) yards, is fired at
an almost perpendicular elevation and therefore descends again in
approximately a direct line into the trenches: this factor naturally
increases its probability of getting INTO the narrow excavation where a
long-range shell at a more acute angle would merely dig itself into the
parapet. And the havoc among human bodies confined within a small area
that this small shell creates is conceivable only by those who have been
of a party devastated by such a visitation. It must be borne in mind
that three men can be almost obliterated by an explosion while the
fourth may pick himself up dazedly, white and shaken, but unscathed.
Take it as a concrete fact that any man, however courageous, who comes
close enough into contact with a shell to be conscious of its hot breath
on his face and to be violently thrown by its concussion, will regain
his feet with shaken nerves to a degree necessitating half-hour or more
before restoration to normal. Some few never recover--hence the term
"shell shock."
There are tales of iron men who are unaffected by a dozen such
experiences--perhaps! The writer was blown clean through an open door in
Marcoing and had difficulty in keeping his hand steady afterwards to
light a pipe--but he does not consider himself particularly brave. Quite
the reverse. I could get round a corner with more rapidity than any man
in the Battalion if a shell came my way.
Masnieres, if external and internal appearances of buildings is a
criterion of financial status, must have been peopled by a moderately
wealthy class. In fairness to Fritz it must be granted that in three
years' occupation he had not purloined to any large extent from the
larger houses--with the exception perhaps of a few dozen clocks, a piano
or two, and a few similar articles.
Tho cause of this may, of course, be found in the knowledge that right
up and during the British attack all these towns--Marcoing, Noyelles and
Masnieres--unvisited by shell fire, were still occupied by their owners.
Coming up from where they had hidden trembling in their cellars during
our advance, they were immediately advised to go "down the line," and in
accordance treked away from their old homes with what few personal
belongings they could take with them. The road from Masnieres to
Marcoing was strewn with the pitiful remnants of lost bundles, which,
unable to carry further, sobbing women had cast down by the wayside.
They had crowded in tearful, grateful groups around a few of the
Guernsey and other battalions. Young and old. Old! Bent of shoulder,
white-haired old dames; from whose kindly care-lined faces grateful
tears were fast flowing, poured out volumes of thanks to the Normans in
their mother tongue. Upon old backs that had long since earned repose
were bundles, sad little bundles, tied up in red handkerchiefs.
Ambulances were used for the conveyance of the old and spent to safety
zones. Rough, big Britishers picked up the frail old frames in muscular
arms, carried them with infinite gentleness to the ambulance and
esconsed them securely there.
"'Ow's that, mother. A bit of all right, eh?" And the ready tears would
course again down the old withered cheeks; words would not come; she
could only grasp tightly on the firm young hand. How that lump WOULD
rise in the throat; how one fought to appear unconcerned.
Big, awkward phlegmatic Britishers; unhappy beneath all this
honouring--it makes a man feel such a bally goat.
Thus the people returned to France, while on the ground near by the
still figures smiled serenely at the sky. Perhaps they knew! Renouf, a
plucky, good-humoured Private, walked down just afterwards with the
blood dripping from his side.
The ensuing week, during which the Ten Hundred partook in wiring off the
sector, completion of the poorly-dug trench system, and kindred work,
was ardous not only in the physical sense, but from the constantly
increasing attention of Hun airmen, artillery, and machine guns.
Casualties increased, and of them Death claimed a singularly high
proportion, one unfortunate Lewis-gun team coming in for a welter that
shattered practically every man and ended two young lives in a fearful
state of dismemberment.
Wiring constitutes in itself an operation of fatal possibilities. It has
to be constructed at night, without sound; but posts have to be driven
into the earth; someone will inevitably slip, accompanied by a loud
clatter. Then--ping, ping, ping!!! A hundred rounds fly whining through
the night from a Fritz machine-gun.
The utter wretchedness of that wiring; the sickening knowledge that any
moment a trail of bullets may spring without warning at you--and if ONE
machine-gun shot gets you, another FIVE will be somewhere in your body
before you reach the turf. It appears an impossibility to carry on alive
in such an undertaking from night to night; but still you DO IT. It is
funny--afterwards.
Robin hated it, after falling and introducing twenty barbs to that
portion of him utilised usually in a chair; he had to reline a little
to one side for a couple of days. Then blood poisoning set in, he
reported "sick," and was sent down the line as a casualty.
"Of all bloomin' luck." Stumpy growled; "'ere's me wots fallen down two
shell 'oles and nearly twisted me bloomin' neck, been knocked over by a
shell wot capsized all my rum issue--an' not a sign of a Blighty one."
"It's a pity you didn't," Le Huray observed.
"Wot?"
"Twist yer bloomin' neck."
"Look 'ere, my lad, if I comes over there I'll twist yer tongue and tie
it up behind yer 'ead, an' it wont be a Blighty yer'll 'ave--no, it'll
be a blooming' corfin."
"Shut yer row, the two of you," Casey shouted, "yer like a couple wots
been married a year, chewin' each others 'ead orf. Come yere an' give me
a 'and, Stumpy." And he turned again to the task of clearing a layer of
mud from his rifle bolt with a grimy piece of rag an inch square.
There is a refreshing originality (sic) in the al fresco meals partaken
of in the fresh open air, in a comfortable trench--so comfortable that
legs are twelve inches too long, knees in the way of your chin, and
somebody's boots making doormats of your tiny bit of cheese. Water and
tea--when you get it--has a most uncommon flavour of petrol due to being
transported in petrol cans. Stumpy was of the opinion that the War
Office should be advised to utilise rum jars instead.
Fritz has a gentlemanly knack of dropping a shell near you and
depositing a mighty chunk of black filth in the very midst of your grub.
Resultant language unprintable.
Slight falls of snow began to take place, the wind increased and nights
in the trenches became one long vista of drawn-out agony. Hands and feet
froze; maintain circulation was an absolute physical impossibility: but
it had to be faced through the long, over long, hours of waiting, and
there was no alternative, no remedy. You suffered, Royal Guernseys, men
of a warm, sunny isle, who had not hitherto known the harsh winter of
miles inland spots. But you stuck it well, rifle grasped in a hand gone
stiff, face cut and blistered from the fierce wind; feet aching with
inconceivable agony.
Gas, sent over in shells, made an unpleasant addition to the already
numerous "attractions" of the picnic. There is in this form of gas two
factors that materially assist in bringing about casualties. Firstly,
this type of shell cannot usually be distinguished from a "dud" and
therefore alarm is rarely given until three or four of these shells have
landed, by which time, if the wind is in your direction, the gas is on
you. Secondly, men are careless: "Oh, the wind won't blow it this
way ... might only be a 'dud,' too."
Men regard and withstand all this hardship with varying moral. There are
a few who sadly collapse before the onslaught of adverse circumstances,
who give way without a fight to nervous prostration, and who are subject
at times to wild spasms of uncontrolable trembling, finally going down
the line with a form of shell-shock altogether distinct to shock from
violent concussion.
Some are stoic, hanging on doggedly; characteristic of the quiet man
from tiny Sark, who, failing to understand the why and wherefore of
their presence in this Hell and yet individually conscious of a sacred
duty to carry on, gave a constant example of philosophic acceptance of
life as it was that indicated no lack of courage. Of very similar
psychological tendency were the men from Alderney--a fine, physically,
body of lads, if short--and from the more remote portions of Guernsey.
The town men were adept growlers, found something funny in everything
and calmly palmed off all the arduous tasks upon the good-natured but
less sly countrymen. It should be recalled, however, that a large
percentage of these men were "old soldiers," had seen service at
Guillemont with the Royal Irish, and were therefore au courant with
every form of deep scheming.
The greater portion of the remnants of Guernsey's volunteer companies in
the Royal Irish had after their first casualty been drafted into the Ten
Hundred, a large proportion receiving--and rightly--promotion. They were
fine types, born fighters, born soldiers, and, some of them, born
schemers.
It would be futile to endeavour to convey that nowhere in the Ten
Hundred were found men in whom a white streak was obviously apparent.
White of face and faint of heart; the first to avoid any undertaking
where their skin was endangered: crouched far below the parapet, and who
at the least indication of enemy activity gazed frenziedly rearward at
the nearest line for a headlong retreat. One in perhaps every hundred.
Fear, the instinct to guard life; the warning of danger; the
all-absorbing sense of primitive ancestors who have handed down an
almost uncontrollable Fear of the Unknown, indelibly imprinted upon the
brain and imbibed into the very blood from centuries of fearful watch
upon the Death that came out of the Darkness.
The fear of death overcome, there grasps the young warrior in a sudden
frenzy the revelation that in some critical moment he "might funk it."
There lies the crux of it. Afraid that he might BE AFRAID and bring upon
him from the lips of those whose opinions he values most the fatal slur
"Coward." For death is far better than that those men who have placed
upon you--and you upon them--the implicit reliance of MAN for MAN,
should find you wanting in the test and pass sentence upon you that a
lifetime regret could not one whit abate.
Two hundred, perhaps three hundred, yards from the Front Line a Fritz
blockhouse (a concrete, more or less shell-proof fortress, impervious to
rifle and machine gun fire, utilised on a large scale by the Germans and
garrisoned with machine guns) held an advantageous position bearing on
the lines of communication leading up from Masnieres, thereby playing
pretty havoc upon ration parties and all movement within focus of the
enemy machine-gunners.
It HAD to be taken, without artillery support. The Ten Hundred were
nearly let in for the job, but owing to alteration of date the
Lancashire Fusiliers had the onus upon them.
Surprise was the great deciding factor.
It failed! Creeping over through the night one half of the journey was
accomplished ... in one piercing whine of spiteful machine-gun fire
Fritz almost wiped out the first wave. For an hour the British tried
again and again with constantly refilling gaps, while upon them was
turned every German machine gun in the area. From half a mile away the
creeping line of advance could be gauged by the tone of firing. Higher,
higher, in one mad high-pitched shriek, ten thousand shots in one minute
from twenty or more enemy machine-guns sang and hummed in the inky pall.
The high key lowered; the mind pictured the khaki line retreating,
reforming--forward again. Then up again the shrill staccato; line
drawing nearer. Higher, faster, louder the Satanic scream of lead.
Higher, still higher! The head throbbed, beads glistened on the
brow--surely the climax was reached. And then it lowered--failed again.
A minor operation, of no importance to Official Report!
In a field near Brigade Headquarters an unfortunate cow had investigated
the explosive powers of a 9.2, with the result that it no longer had to
waste its days chewing the cud. We cut away steaks by bringing the
bayonet into service, but had no fat in which to fry the savoury
article. The more tender portions were eaten raw--we were hungry--and
the remainder fried with water and a tot of rum. A rum steak--it was
"rum," inflicted us with gumboils for a week.
Some of the cheese now being issued found its way up without a ration
party and upon approaching Brigade caused a false alarm of gas to be
sounded. It has been found effective in poisoning lice. This little
adherent is now in dozens upon every other fellow. Folk at home have a
peculiar tendency for sending out powders, for the entertainment of
these pests, upon which they wax fat: dying sometimes of constipation.
The mail had arrived on the Thursday night (November 28th) that the Ten
Hundred came out of the line for the last time. The Division will move,
out on the morrow after nearly two weeks' marching and fighting.
Casualties had increased: the Lanes, and Royal Fusiliers numbering but
little over 500 men. (They entered the action about 700 strong.)
The Normans had lost between forty and fifty, inclusive of several
Supreme Sacrifices. Muray had one eye blown out by shrapnel from a
trench mortar without losing consciousness.
A draft should have joined the Battalion, but halted for the night in
Rue Vertes, coming in for a bout of shelling that put the wind up the
entire party, with inflicting much bodily harm.
A strange non-appearance of British 'planes has caused comment, nor did
there appear to be any heavy guns remaining on the sector apart from
such artillery that forms a Brigade complement. Fritz, on the other
hand, maintained uncomfortable concentration upon the towns and roads
with a large number of guns brought up from somewhere (Lille--where an
Army Corps had been awaiting transfer to Italy). The number of gas
shells indicates that his supply in this direction is unlimited, for
this type comes over regularly day and night. He concentrated, too, upon
the canal lock in the probable vague hope of flooding the district. His
shells fell by the scores around, above, short of and beyond the
objective, everywhere except, by extraordinary bad luck, upon it.
VIII
NOVEMBER 30th-DECEMBER 1st, 1917
GERMAN ONSLAUGHT
4.30 a.m., Friday, November 30th.--Quiet, comparative quiet everywhere.
Gas shells came over with an ever increasing frequency, but men slept on
without masks. A shell, heavy, unmistakably from a huge howitzer,
crashed with a mighty uproar into a small house and demolished it at a
stroke. Then another, and another, and still another ... phew, what was
he "searching" for? From the doorway of Brigade Headquarters I looked
into the night and listened to the whistle of shells passing overhead
from eastward into our lines. Our own artillery was silent. No sound
came from our near infantry lines, not the crack of a rifle, not the
splutter of a machine-gun.
Again the dull drone of the heavy stuff--the practised ear could gauge
its fall, and I retreated a few yards into the passage. The courtyard
outside caught it, and the entire chateau trembled violently at the
concussion. But why, why these big guns? Another landed in the yard,
followed by an unearthly tinkle of falling glass. Someone ran in from
the gateway with a headlong rush, gained the passage and paused.
"Phew," excitedly, "what the devil is Fritz up to? Heaviest shells on
this front."
"Yes. Might be coming over."
"Hardly."
"Why these heavies?"
"Dunno. He's shelling along the whole line--good God," in a shout, "look
at that chap there ... it, oh, my God, it's got him ... did you, did
you, see THAT?" A heavy had whined into the yard just as a runner
essayed a blind rush. Nothing was left. Nausea, a slight dizziness
enveloped us.
"What," he asked hoarsely, "what is this place?"
"86th Brigade."
"I want the Guernseys."
"In the Catacombs. The road up on the right." He walked out on to the
steps, stared intently into the night--in a flash we both sensed Death.
He ran down the flight:
"Good-night." He was a death casualty that night, and we HAD BOTH KNOWN
IT.
Presentiment of looming danger was pregnant, became accentuated with the
increase of heavy shelling falling from three angles: from directly
overhead, from the right rear flank and left rear.
It all culminated before dawn into a barrage on our lines, shells
raining in on every acre by the dozens. From the top of the chateau (it
was built on a hill) with the coming of day, wave upon wave of
grey-coated infantry could be discerned through the glasses. It was
impossible to estimate their number, line followed line in such rapid
sequence that the eye was bewildered.
They were up against the 29th. The Division wiped out, not partially but
completely, row after row. Rifles and machine-guns mingled in hasty
chorus, incessant, rapid, accurate. Fritz fell back.
The glasses swept over to the right: the heart gave one wild leap of
anxiety. The Division on the right had to face an advance it was unable
to stem, a first line had fallen and a bunch of khaki figures were being
hurried away into the German rear. Beneath pressure too heavy the line
gave, retired rapidly, and the 29th's flank was exposed at a mere
HALF-MILE'S distance.
A call was given for a Guernsey scout ... from the passage an inferno of
shells were visible bursting every few yards, instantaneously the mind
formed: "Impossible to go through alive." One wild frenzied run across
the vibrating yard, hearing everywhere the thunderous bursts, fumes
fouling the nostrils, breath coming and going in gasps; running like
Hades, bent almost double: any second the singing pieces of shrapnel
flying past will get you. Into the Brigade Headquarters with a wild
laugh! You're through, but you have got to get BACK.
In response to that message the Ten Hundred turned out.
They swung out into Masnieres' cobbled hill, rifles slung, and marched
with all the nonchalance in the world towards the bridge, cigarettes and
pipes going, laughing and joking--thus have I a hundred times watched
them go on parade.
That march, a classic; let it go down into history as an emblem of the
old Ten Hundred. Their last march together, their last foot chorus on
the long trails. Square of shoulder, upright, I see even now those
figures that have long since been still. Every yard a man crumpled up,
any yard it might be YOU. And they laughed and smoked, went forth to
call "Halt!" to those waves of grey, advancing some hundred yards away,
as if they had a hundred lives to give. Let coming generations marvel.
The Farewell March of the First Ten Hundred. Before the sun had reached
its noon many had crossed the Groat Divide and passed the portals of
Valhalla to swell the throng of their Viking forefathers.