from the previous September of the nerve-wrecking task that had been
their unfortunate lot during that Baptism of Fire. The grim devastation
of the flat, water-covered countryside enforced upon the spirits
something of its own desolation. Everywhere the gaunt, shell-shattered
trees, through which o' nights the incessant red glow eastward
penetrated just as it had four months before. Day and night the
perpetual roar of artillery, the heavy shock of falling bombs, the
familiar KR-UMP!
And the knowledge that the brief security of life had passed. Again,
already, none knew who might not glimpse the dawn; again the hell-hot
shrapnel and the writhing human flesh. To-morrow that arm may be a
shattered, jagged hanging "thing" ... how firm, fine, and white it
looks: smooth, strong....
You look curiously along the line of adjacent faces. Can ALL come
through--impossible. Who will go under first ... will it be YOU? Wonder
what it is like to die? Men had often fallen limply near by, a small
round hole in the forehead and a trickle of blood. They seemed calm
enough ... wonder where they went ... did they KNOW they were dead? Do
you feel the bullet whistling through your brain ... do you have one
last lightning thought cut short, "This is Death!"...?
Anyhow, what of it ... others have done it. If they could, you could!
Before going up into the icy-cold of water-logged semi-trenches the feet
were treated with special attention to counteract the action of
continual wet and frost upon the flesh. If the utmost care is not taken,
and the dreaded "trench feet" fastens its fierce grip upon the victim,
there lies before him many weeks of agony in hospital, haunted daily by
a chance of losing one or both feet. All this without the glad
consolation of a WOUND!
Washed in warm water, the feet are greased and powdered and new socks
placed carefully over before setting out on the trudge Linewards.
Trench equipment is issued, two days' rations served out, and a start is
made in the night. Stumpy lost his "grub" by misadventure, but found
somebody else's, withstood a fierce argument for ten minutes and finally
pacified his opponent by "finding" still another issue.
Hoarse orders sent men probing about for their rifles and assortment of
equipment.
The Ten Hundred filed out.
XII
PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR
Eyes gazing eastward at the rising and falling Verey Lights in Jerry's
lines, the Ten Hundred trudged wearily along a sodden plank "road"
winding into a stretch of muddy track strewn on all sides with the
gruesome conglomeration of war's jetsam.
The way had to be carefully chosen past shell-holes full of water, with
here and there a slowly twirling body, a white face shining hideously in
the damp night air. To the south a wavering mass of searchlights flitted
over the sky. Archie guns were raising a fierce distant clamour, the
white puffs from their bursting shrapnel showing like gigantic snowballs
in the glare, but no trace of the Fritz airmen was visible. A series of
violent concussions and the faint high-up throb of aero engines were the
only indications of his gambols.
Then silent filing along a poor system of filthy trenches ... the other
battalion was relieving. Posting of men, reliefs....
To stand there in the night, suffering acutely from the cold, unmoving,
staring fascinated across the little stretch of desolation between the
lines and to watch fanciful shadows until the mind falls prey to
apprehensive imagination construing the posts and wiring into great
fantastic grey-cloaked figures. Then at the turn of the head--WHAT is
that? In one frenzied movement the rifle is levelled across the parapet,
first pressure of the trigger taken and the shadowy bulk watched. Five
long minutes of intense scrutiny--it MOVED, or was it mere fancy? There
again--crack!! And the figure has not fallen ... so through the
darkness, until day reveals a shrivelled form tangled up on the wire
where it died days ago.
Parts of the area were simply connected shell-holes, outposts, the
occupants of which might for hours at a stretch be completely isolated
from the remainder of their battalion, and, receiving no visit from
anyone, have not the merest inkling of what was going on outside of what
lies before their own limited vision.
The failure of water supply reaching these outposts increased an already
severe existence. Someone would go "over the top," crawl to and fill
water-bottles up at the nearest shell-hole. A body or limb might be at
the bottom--who cares! The water is rank, putrid, evil-smelling; but the
fierce, mad craving for drink is not to be denied.
A shell found one of the small advanced posts, killed a few outright and
gashed a long tear into the abdomen of the one survivor. He languished
there alone with the dead for eight hours--they had been "lost." He was
found, removed, died before reaching a Casualty Clearing Station.
Inexorable law of Chance.
Fritz sent over gas shells night and day, hampering rationing parties,
and enforcing prolonged agony inside the hot respirators. Gas, heavier
than air, hangs low over the ground, follows inundations up and down,
and slinks across water: hanging for days over damp soil, and permeating
water with a sickly colour--an obvious danger to troops drinking this
liquid.
Where the country was flooded duck-boards were raised to a height
sufficient to stand above the water and presented at night (all
movements are generally done at nightfall) an alluring task of
maintaining balance on a narrow planking (couple of feat or so) adorned
with no handrails or supports and invisible five feet away. When Fritz
sends over gas and respirators have to be donned during the intricate
negotiation of this "pathway"----!
Clarke and Bennet, moving gingerly beneath two heavy ration issues,
paused abruptly to duck to a whining shell. The latter slipped, fell off
into the miniature ocean, clambered out.
"Oh, 'ell, bloomin' bread too--LOOK OUT!"
"That's the second dud."
"Yes, must be gas." Respirators on they were unable to peer a foot
either way, sat down uncomfortably on the boards and waited for the
attack to move away. But when they did stand up and gazed about them ...
WHICH WAY WAS WHICH?
The absence in places of any line or wiring (posts would not stand up in
the watery soil) permitted men o' nights to wander unawares towards the
Fritz trenches. A crack, a fall--for weeks the body would lie outside
the enemy lines until it rotted and fell apart. And someone was posted
"Missing."
Trench feet began to find its victims among the young Staffords--they
trekked away in agony, but withal glad to get out of it. With the
puzzling rapidity of trench casualties the daily roll increased without
anyone quite grasping how or when this or that man went. He would be
with you this morning, to-morrow you would miss him; inquire and learn
that he had stopped a Blighty.
Evans, an adherent of the occult, vowed that he had been visited by some
eternal being of the spirit world. Stumpy was profoundly interested.
"Wot'd 'e say?"
"Nothing much. Only that somethin' would portend for me to-morrow."
"Oh, did 'e want a drink?"
"Course not."
"If 'e 'ad asked you for your rum ration, would you," anxiously, "'ave
given it to 'im."
"Couldn't: 'adn't any left."
"Wot woz 'e like?"
"Tall, shadowy."
"An' you really believes it?"
"Yus. I 'ave proof--"
"I see. I, I s'pose 'e could give you anything you asked 'im for?"
"Within reason."
"Then," whispered ironically, "ask 'im next time to give me a soft
Blighty an' a drop of toddy, an', oh, some bloomin' fags."
"Can't be done, for something will 'appen to me to-morrow."
He was wrong; decided that the spook had altered for his own good
reasons the daily course of his life and eagerly awaited a visit that
never materialised. Stumpy was disgusted.
"All me eye. I know it wasn't a bloomin' spook when I 'eard 'e 'adn't
asked for a drink. Wot on earth would anyone visit these yere bloomin'
trenches for unless he smelt rum?"
"You don't understand."
"No, an' bloomin' well don't want to. A spook wot rejoins 'is ole
friends on earth an' don't even offer 'em a drink is unnatural--that's
wot I say."
The large, dry and roomy dug-out beloved by the armchair artist, very,
very rarely offers its cosy hospitality to the warrior dwelling in the
Front Line--even if there is anything bearing a faint resemblance to
such an elaboration it is immediately seized by Company Headquarters.
The inter-connecting series of holes occupied by the Normans and
flattered with the term "trenches" had cut here and there into the wet
soil a number of side excavations of smart proportions that served the
purpose of shelter from the elements and shells alike--a heavy barrage
from a pea-shooter would have blown in the muddy roofs of these
water-logged death traps.
To reach the rear lines movement could only be made ON THE TOP and fully
exposed to enemy snipers, who, suffering badly from forced inactivity
and ennui, delighted to exercise their shooting powers by a few minutes'
pleasant concentration upon your helpless figure.
Mud and water, upon which floated an interesting conglomeration of
filthy rubbish, flowed saucily around your ankles, sometimes your
knees, and when you fell off a high duckboard, your neck.
The humour of it--afterwards! The acute misery and suffering of those
long, long nights standing in water; cold, hungry and weary. Body aching
from the fierce winter's blast and the fingers gone stiff, immovable,
almost unfeeling ... with no hope for the future, but always the
ceaseless watch and wait until the great Peace of Death overtakes the
tired body and a troubled soul leaves its burden to be carried on by
those who follow after.
Rain lashed stinging into the face, dripping in rivulets from off the
steel helmet and forcing its way into the neck ... the shrieking of an
unnerving wind ... the blast of mighty shell ... the gas ... death was
NOT the worst alternative.
Fritz played heavily on the back areas; we returned shell for shell, but
no infantry action took place on either side during the eight days of
Norman occupation. The enemy was concentrating his man-power for a Push
with the opening of finer days, and we did not have an excess of men to
waste after the heavy toll of the Cambrai stunt.
The Ten Hundred were relieved for a brief rest.
XIII
PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR
POPERINGHE--STEENVOORDE--BRANDHOEK
The Ten Hundred had revelled in the luxury of a hot bath. "Casey," who
had found and hurriedly slipped into his trouser pocket a full packet of
"fags" inadvertently left behind by some individual with an unbalanced
mind, portrayed his bare arm for general admiration of the four small
scars thereon.
"Waccinated," he said, "by good ole Kinnersley." (Dr.--Captain
Kinnersley, undoubtedly the one man who held the softest corner in the
hearts of all the old Normans, and whose friendly hand-shakes as from
man to man were never forgotten by the "boys" of the original 1st
Battalion).
"Wots the good?" Le Page demanded.
"Good--wot a question. Why, it stops fever, an' smallpox, an' almost
everythin'."
"Any good fer toothache?" The crowd chuckled noisily.
"Would it stop a clock?"
"Any good for a bloomin' non-stop thirst?"
"P'raps it might stop the war?"
"Ever tried it on yer ole woman's tongue, Casey?--but it wouldn't stop
that!"
They were interrupted by a command from the Company Officer to "get a
move on." Company Officer controls a Company. Main functions to dole out
pay (when he's not stopping it), C.B., and rum.
C.B. (Confined to Barracks) and similar punishments are usually granted
you by the genial administrator as an adequate reward for such crimes as
too little razor, too much beer, too weak a polish, or too strong a
language, late on fatigue or early OFF it....
Some men are always in trouble, but provided with a programme of glib
excuses and prepared at a moment's notice to call witnesses (false),
always escape punishment. Some do not care if punished or not and who
boast that they had full value for their "two days C.B." Heaume had a
cute dodge of replying to an officer's angry expostulation that he
(Heaume) had already been "up" twenty times with: "No, sir,--only
sixteen so far."
Seven or eight days at Brake Camp were followed by a week at English
Camp, from whence working parties daily moved up the Line by rail to the
vicinity of Merrythought Station. The Ten Hundred were put through the
mill as never before. "Out fer a rest," a Stafford summed up, "be 'anged
fer a yarn ... called the last place Brake ... breaking us in fer this."
Poperinghe made up for it. A week without one Jerry aeroplane dropping
an experimental bomb or two, without the unpleasant company of Jerry
shells and free from apprehensive hours of uncertainty following a gas
alarm from forward areas in an unfavourable wind.
To be able to purchase from the inhabitants almost every conceivable
necessity dear to the heart of the soldier, to mingle freely with
"civies," to walk on hard, firm roads, theatres, cinemas, and to mingle
nightly with other regiments compensated somewhat for what had passed.
They were shyly proud of their Cambrai record, said little of their
deeds before other men, but withal treasured up every meagre speech of
candid appreciation emanating spontaneously from those who had heard of,
but hitherto had not met the 1st Royal Guernsey. Stumpy, assisted by
his diminutive Middlesex pal, unofficially appointed himself an
authority on Normans and their place in European history.
"It was like this yere," he informed a crowd of Essex in the Church Army
Canteen one quiet evening, "we 'elped to make a 'ell of a mess of
England an' the chap wot we fought for made us, us----"
"Granted you democratic self-government."
"Eh, yes, wot you said."
"But you don't play games--football, cricket--in Guernsey."
"Why don't we?'
"You 'aven't any room ... you'd kick the ball over the side into the
sea." The Englishmen grinned.
"Wot do they wear--clothes or just a belt?"
"Don't s'pose they eat each other?"
"Wonder if any of 'em's black?"
"Wot do they live in--wigwams or caves?"
Stumpy, conscious of somehow saying the wrong thing and hurt by the
shower of friendly sarcasm, shrugged his shoulders.
"Orl right," he said, "take the bloomin' advantage of the tiny
isle--any'ow we 'ad the guts to come out yere."
"That's right, kid," someone offered him a fag, "you were a democracy, a
free country, long before England was ENGLAND at all, before the British
Empire was dreamed of. You were the first elements of that Empire...."
"'Ere," said Stumpy, grinning with delight, "'ave a bloomin' drink."
"Your Battalion saved a whole Division at Cambrai--."
"Ave a bloomin' nother!"
Even during this "rest" in Pop., working parties were daily sent up on
missions varying in detail but never in hardship or risk. They groused
and growled, maintained that their physical condition was becoming worn
down by the excess of work, insisted angrily that a rest should be a
REST and not a camouflaged existence of heavy fatigues, pointed out that
if Jerry came over he would find them too utterly washed out to jab a
bayonet into an ounce of butter, much less a man, and finally demanded
in disgust "if they were the only available Battalion in the Army and
whether they had to clean up the whole bloomin' Front?"
Once within the hospitable walls of Talbot House (can any Tommy ever
look back upon that oasis in war's grim desert without pangs of pleasant
memories) and ensconced deep down in armchairs they forget working
parties and fatigues.
From there they penned their difficult missives home-bound, there they
read and re-read what few lines of intimate information could be eagerly
cleaned from those brief treasured letters from home over the waters to
them.
There was something almost tragic in the downcast look of those who
turned their day's mail aimlessly over with anxious hands and at last
shamefacedly requested some sunny-natured fellow to read out what was
writ thereon. The awful reaping of ignorance, the great void of their
apathetic existence!
What pregnant apprehension of drawing blank pervaded the mind as the eye
expectantly watched the fast dwindling mail in the hands of the N.C.O.
bawling out each name. The exhilarating thrill of glad delight with
which you realised YOUR name and number had been called almost at the
end of the file ... the sense of lonely desolation when there has been
nothing for two days ... back to that torn copy of a magazine that has
been read, re-read, and re-read again and again. But you can't settle
down. They have forgotten you. You don't mind the hell of existence out
here, but their letter was due yesterday and now----"Bah!" bitterly,
"let them bloomin' well forget."
The Ten Hundred moved into Steenvoorde and found themselves entangled in
the intricacies of rehearsals for, and then later actual parade of
Ceremonial Reviews. Here also they had the opportunity of indulging in
that salient portion of training that appealed to them as nothing
else--"firing." Undamaged by shell, cosy, they would have appreciated a
lengthy spell with little to do, but rumours of an avalanche of troops
that were manoeuvring behind the enemy lines became the predominant
topic of discussion and lead to preparations for further movements.
All material (by ceaseless working parties) had been withdrawn from
forward areas. Troops moving out to rest were maintained at points
within a few miles of the Line, and could be rushed up without
appreciable delay into any gap that Jerry might by pure weight of
numbers force in the British lines--nothing was left to chance.
It was pointed out that he would never attempt Flanders mud after the
British experience in the Passchendaele-Poelcapelle stunts of
September-October, 1917. This was countered by that pivot of sentimental
strategy--Ypres. He wanted it--therefore....
He would not GET IT, anyhow!
In the midst of all these conflicting rumours and views the Normans
marched to Godewaersvelde and entrained there for a return to Brandhoek.
At Red Rose Camp they prepared for another lengthy period in the Line,
about the second week in March moved up to another camp in a shelled
area.
Jerry's offensive was expected at any moment; everybody was nervy: and
each Battalion as it came out of the Line thanked its lucky stars that
they had escaped the first onslaught. To even the ignorant strategist it
was patent that either side could, by a preconceived attack, penetrate a
mile or so into any chosen sector of a few miles frontage: but such a
salient had little absolute value in a scheme of operations having the
turning or breaking of a portion of front as objectives. A break had to
be made of twenty or thirty miles and ten or twelve deep, at a stroke,
otherwise with the wonderful elasticity of modern warfare the smashed-in
line would reform, the gap be lost temporarily and by slight withdrawal
of flanks the entire front straighten out and become once more a
concrete whole.
Jerry knew it--and we knew he knew it.
XIV
MARCH-APRIL, 1918
IN THE LINE
California Camp, the Normans' jumping off point for their IN and OUT
occupation of the trenches and working parties when not in the former,
was composed of a collection of tiny huts constructed on similar lines
to the Nissen. The attractions peculiar to this obnoxious assortment of
pygmy habitations were two: could not lie down straight in them,
absolutely impossible to stand up. Circular of roof, mode of entrance
was an enforced elegant attitude on hands and knees wherein a decided
advantage could be derived by going in lobster-wise--backwards, for
there was NOT an ample space in which to turn about.
Jerry artillery had fitful moods of strafing. Days of wild "searching"
with a disgusting series of violent heavies bursting in all directions,
blowing out candles with the concussion and in the darkness bringing
about language-provoking situations that culminated in clumsy searches
for matches ... light would reveal your watery rice careering smugly
about in a boot and half a dozen fags floating sadly in the remnant of
your mess tin of tea!
Bitter cold of night increased. Boots, however soft and pliable when
taken off, however well oiled, would be frozen hard and stiff in the
morning as if cut in steel. To force these essential protections on
called for painful, struggling efforts.... The only remedy was to sleep
with the boots next the body. Placing beneath a pillow was fatuously
inadequate.
They went into the line on a frontage beyond the actual Passchendaele
village and on the far side of the ridge looking down on Jerry trenches.
Watery mud again everywhere ... a further protection of sandbags around
the legs was not a success; trench feet became more and more prevalent
and the germs of trench fever placed Martel, Robin and a long roll on
the casualty list.
Eight days of it, followed by arduous fatigues and working parties in
the reserve lines. Trenches upon trenches in relays were with difficulty
cut into a spongy soil, having apparently one fixed intention, e.g., to
clog on to the spade in gummy lumps. Redoubts were constructed under
directions from R.E.'s and a series of strong points run up at brief
intervals.
When Jerry decided to come over he would have an ample reception. The
weather had developed a finer, milder tone, enabling the occupants of
enemy observation balloons to peer down on the mass of men engaged in
rapid construction of several reserve lines of defence. At times the fit
would take him to play on these exposed areas with his artillery,
raining on the troops a brief fierce barrage, blowing men, horses and
waggons to fragments in all directions, and playing mad havoc amongst
partially-completed earthworks ... but the work went on.
Another eight days in! Night raids, patrols--casualties. Jerry came over
once in the early morning--he went back!
A party of R.E.'s moving up from the south-ard brought with them tidings
of what had occurred near St. Quentin.
"Jerry started 'is little game. Came over in thousands," The speaker was
overwhelmed with eager inquiries.
"Anythin' doin'?", "Did we wash 'im out?", "Wot 'appened?"
"One at a time. Smashed in our line on a fifty mile front."
"WOT!" shouted in chorus.
"Yus. St. Quentin fallen. Fifth Army fair smashed up."
"Good Gawd!"
"Ten miles into our lines."
"Oh, 'ell!"
"Took thirty thousand prisoners--Gawd knows 'ow many guns."
"WOT!"
"Thousands of casualties."
"And 'ave we stopped 'im?"
"No--still fallin' back."
Pessimism, something akin to consternation, found a hold upon the mental
outlook of the troops in the sector. They had held an extraordinary
unshakeable faith in the might of the Army, in its absolute certainty of
holding impregnable what had been theirs from 1916, and upon which all
enemy attempts had realised no concrete success.
And now, at one mighty knock-out blow, the Army was in retreat on a
fifty mile front!
They glanced back upon Ypres. He would try for it ... take it? Day after
day the black budget of "falling back", "prisoners", "using up our
man-power," put the wind up them to such an extent that they began to
curse at their own impotency and helplessness; to fret angrily at a
forced comparative inactivity.
Why were they kept up there while "nothing was doing"? Why were they not
sent south to give a hand to the lads who were daily fighting a stubborn
retreat against avalanches of German reserves?
The Passchendaele sector remained unusually quiet; little strafing
occurred from either artillery, with the exception of a sunset
entertainment organised daily for the benefit of ration parties and
reliefs.
Aeroplanes, after prolonged reconnaissances far into Jerry's territory,
returned and the observers reported no movement or massing of enemy
troops, guns or transport were taking place on a scale beyond the
customary. No advance upon Ypres was at the moment anticipated unless he
still farther stretched out an already extended, far-flung battle zone.