BLIGHTY TO REST BILLETS
The next morning, the Captain sent for me and informed me: "Empey, as
a recruiting Sergeant you are a washout," and sent me to a training
depot.
After arriving at this place, I was hustled to the quartermaster
stores and received an awful shock. The Quartermaster Sergeant spread
a waterproof sheet on the ground, and commenced throwing a
miscellaneous assortment of straps, buckles, and other paraphernalia
into it. I thought he would never stop, but when the pile reached to
my knees he paused long enough to say, "Next, No. 5217, 'Arris, 'B'
Company." I gazed in bewilderment at the pile of junk in front of me,
and then my eyes wandered around looking for the wagon which was to
carry it to the barracks. I was rudely brought to earth by the
"Quarter" exclaiming, "'Ere, you, 'op it, tyke it aw'y; blind my eyes,
'e's looking for 'is batman to 'elp 'im carry it."
Struggling under the load, with frequent pauses for rest, I reached
our barracks (large car barns), and my platoon leader came to the
rescue. It was a marvel to me how quickly he assembled the equipment.
After he had completed the task, he showed me how to adjust it on my
person. Pretty soon I stood before him a proper Tommy Atkins in heavy
marching order, feeling like an overloaded camel.
On my feet were heavy-soled boots, studded with hobnails, the toes and
heels of which were reinforced by steel half-moons. My legs were
encased in woolen puttees, olive drab in color, with my trousers
overlapping them at the top. Then a woolen khaki tunic, under which
was a bluish-gray woolen shirt, minus a collar, beneath this shirt a
woolen belly-band about six inches wide, held in place by tie strings
of white tape. On my head was a heavy woolen trench cap, with huge ear
flaps buttoned over the top. Then the equipment: A canvas belt, with
ammunition pockets, and two wide canvas straps like suspenders, called
"D" straps, fastened to the belt in front, passing over each shoulder,
crossing in the middle of my back, and attached by buckles to the rear
of the belt. On the right side of the belt hung a water bottle,
covered with felt; on the left side was my bayonet and scabbard, and
entrenching tool handle, this handle strapped to the bayonet scabbard.
In the rear was my entrenching tool, carried in a canvas case. This
tool was a combination pick and spade. A canvas haversack was strapped
to the left side of the belt, while on my back was the pack, also of
canvas, held in place by two canvas straps over the shoulders;
suspended on the bottom of the pack was my mess tin or canteen in a
neat little canvas case. My waterproof sheet, looking like a jelly
roll, was strapped on top of the pack, with a wooden stick for
cleaning the breach of the rifle projecting from each end. On a
lanyard around my waist hung a huge jackknife with a can-opener
attachment. The pack contained my overcoat, an extra pair of socks,
change of underwear, hold-all (containing knife, fork, spoon, comb,
toothbrush, lather brush, shaving soap, and a razor made of tin, with
"Made in England" stamped on the blade; when trying to shave with this
it made you wish that you were at war with Patagonia, so that you
could have a "hollow ground" stamped "Made in Germany"); then your
housewife, button-cleaning outfit, consisting of a brass button stick,
two stiff brushes, and a box of "Soldiers' Friend" paste; then a shoe
brush and a box of dubbin, a writing pad, indelible pencil, envelopes,
and pay book, and personal belongings, such as a small mirror, a
decent razor, and a sheaf of unanswered letters, and fags. In your
haversack you carry your iron rations, meaning a tin of bully beef,
four biscuits, and a can containing tea, sugar, and Oxo cubes; a
couple of pipes and a package of shag, a tin of rifle oil, and a
pull-through. Tommy generally carries the oil with his rations; it
gives the cheese a sort of sardine taste.
Add to this a first-aid pouch and a long ungainly rifle patterned
after the Daniel Boone period, and you have an idea of a British
soldier in Blighty.
Before leaving for France, this rifle is taken from him and he is
issued with a Lee-Enfield short-trench rifle and a ration bag.
In France he receives two gas helmets, a sheep-skin coat, rubber
mackintosh, steel helmet, two blankets, tear-shell goggles, a
balaclava helmet, gloves, and a tin of anti-frostbite grease which is
excellent for greasing the boots. Add to this the weight of his
rations, and can you blame Tommy for growling at a twenty kilo route
march?
Having served as Sergeant-Major in the United States Cavalry, I tried
to tell the English drill sergeants their business but it did not
work. They immediately put me as batman in their mess. Many a greasy
dish of stew was accidentally spilled over them.
I would sooner fight than be a waiter, so when the order came through
from headquarters calling for a draft of 250 reinforcements for
France, I volunteered.
Then we went before the M. O. (Medical Officer) for another physical
examination. This was very brief. He asked our names and numbers and
said, "Fit," and we went out to fight.
We were put into troop trains and sent to Southampton, where we
detrained, and had our trench rifles issued to us. Then in columns of
twos we went up the gangplank of a little steamer lying alongside the
dock.
At the head of the gangplank there was an old Sergeant who directed
that we line ourselves along both rails of the ship. Then he ordered
us to take life belts from the racks overhead and put them on. I have
crossed the ocean several times and knew I was not seasick, but when I
budded on that life belt, I had a sensation of sickness.
After we got out into the stream all I could think of was that there
were a million German submarines with a torpedo on each, across the
warhead of which was inscribed my name and address.
After five hours we came alongside a pier and disembarked. I had
attained another one of my ambitions. I was "somewhere in France." We
slept in the open that night on the side of a road. About six the next
morning we were ordered to entrain. I looked around for the passenger
coaches, but all I could see on the siding were cattle cars. We
climbed into these. On the side of each car was a sign reading "Hommes
40, Cheveux 8." When we got inside of the cars, we thought that
perhaps the sign painter had reversed the order of things. After
forty-eight hours in these trucks we detrained at Rouen. At this place
we went through an intensive training for ten days.
This training consisted of the rudiments of trench warfare. Trenches
had been dug, with barbed-wire entanglements, bombing saps, dug-outs,
observation posts, and machine-gun emplacements. We were given a
smattering of trench cooking, sanitation, bomb throwing,
reconnoitering, listening posts, constructing and repairing barbed
wire, "carrying in" parties, methods used in attack and defense,
wiring parties, mass formation, and the procedure for poison-gas
attacks.
On the tenth day we again met our friends "Hommes 40, Chevaux 8."
Thirty-six hours more of misery, and we arrived at the town of F--.
After unloading our rations and equipment, we lined up on the road in
columns of fours waiting for the order to march.
A dull rumbling could be heard. The sun was shining. I turned to the
man on my left and asked, '"What's the noise, Bill?" He did not know,
but his face was of a pea-green color. Jim on my right also did not
know, but suggested that I "awsk" the Sergeant.
Coming towards us was an old grizzled Sergeant, properly fed up with
the war, so I "awsked" him.
"Think it's going to rain, Sergeant?"
He looked at me in contempt, and grunted, "'Ow's it a'goin' ter rain
with the bloomin' sun a 'shinin'?" I looked guilty.
"Them's the guns up the line, me lad, and you'll get enough of 'em
before you gets back to Blighty."
My knees seemed to wilt, and I squeaked out a weak "Oh!"
Then we started our march up to the line in ten kilo treks. After the
first day's march we arrived at our rest billets. In France they call
them rest billets, because while in them, Tommy works seven days a
week and on the eighth day of the week he is given twenty-four hours
"on his own."
Our billet was a spacious affair, a large barn on the left side of the
road, which had one hundred entrances, ninety-nine for shells, rats,
wind, and rain, and the hundredth one for Tommy. I was tired out, and
using my shrapnel-proof helmet, (shrapnel proof until a piece of
shrapnel hits it), or tin hat, for a pillow, lay down in the straw,
and was soon fast asleep. I must have slept about two hours, when I
awoke with a prickling sensation all over me. As I thought, the straw
had worked through my uniform. I woke up the fellow lying on my left,
who had been up the line before, and asked him.
"Does the straw bother you, mate? It's worked through my uniform and I
can't sleep."
In a sleepy voice, he answered, "That ain't straw, them's cooties."
From that time on my friends the "cooties" were constantly with me.
"Cooties," or body lice, are the bane of Tommy's existence.
The aristocracy of the trenches very seldom call them "cooties," they
speak of them as fleas.
To an American, flea means a small insect armed with a bayonet, who is
wont to jab it into you and then hop, skip, and jump to the next place
to be attacked. There is an advantage in having fleas on you instead
of "cooties" in that in one of his extended jumps said flea is liable
to land on the fellow next to you; he has the typical energy and push
of the American, while the "cootie" has the bull-dog tenacity of the
Englishman, he holds on and consolidates or digs in until his meal is
finished.
There is no way to get rid of them permanently. No matter how often
you bathe, and that is not very often, or how many times you change
your underwear, your friends, the "cooties" are always in evidence.
The billets are infested with them, especially so, if there is straw
on the floor.
I have taken a bath and put on brand-new underwear; in fact, a
complete change of uniform, and then turned in for the night. The next
morning my shirt would be full of them. It is a common sight to see
eight or ten soldiers sitting under a tree with their shirts over
their knees engaging in a "shirt hunt."
At night about half an hour before "lights out," you can see the
Tommies grouped around a candle, trying, in its dim light, to rid
their underwear of the vermin. A popular and very quick method is to
take your shirt and drawers, and run the seams back and forward in the
flame from the candle and burn them out. This practice is dangerous,
because you are liable to burn holes in the garments if you are not
careful.
Recruits generally sent to Blighty for a brand of insect powder
advertised as "Good for body lice." The advertisement is quite right;
the powder is good for "cooties," they simply thrive on it.
The older men of our battalion were wiser and made scratchers out of
wood. These were rubbed smooth with a bit of stone or sand to prevent
splinters. They were about eighteen inches long, and Tommy guarantees
that a scratcher of this length will reach any part of the body which
may be attacked. Some of the fellows were lazy and only made their
scratchers twelve inches, but many a night when on guard, looking over
the top from the fire step of the front-line trench, they would have
given a thousand "quid" for the other six inches.
Once while we were in rest billets an Irish Hussar regiment camped in
an open field opposite our billet. After they had picketed and fed
their horses, a general shirt hunt took place. The troopers ignored
the call "Dinner up," and kept on with their search for big game. They
had a curious method of procedure. They hung their shirts over a hedge
and beat them with their entrenching tool handles.
I asked one of them why they didn't pick them off by hand, and he
answered, "We haven't had a bath for nine weeks or a change of
clabber. If I tried to pick the 'cooties' off my shirt, I would be
here for duration of war." After taking a close look at his shirt, I
agreed with him, it was alive.
The greatest shock a recruit gets when he arrives at his battalion in
France is to see the men engaging in a "cootie" hunt. With an air of
contempt and disgust he avoids the company of the older men, until a
couple of days later, in a torment of itching, he also has to resort
to a shirt hunt, or spend many a sleepless night of misery. During
these hunts there are lots of pertinent remarks bandied back and forth
among the explorers, such as, "Say, Bill, I'll swap you two little
ones for a big one," or, "I've got a black one here that looks like
Kaiser Bill."
One sunny day in the front-line trench, I saw three officers sitting
outside of their dugout ("cooties" are no respecters of rank; I have
even noticed a suspicious uneasiness about a certain well-known
general), one of them was a major, two of them were exploring their
shirts, paying no attention to the occasional shells which passed
overhead. The major was writing a letter; every now and then he would
lay aside his writing-pad, search his shirt for a few minutes, get an
inspiration, and then resume writing. At last he finished his letter
and gave it to his "runner." I was curious to see whether he was
writing to an insect firm, so when the runner passed me I engaged him
in conversation and got a glimpse at the address on the envelope. It
was addressed to Miss Alice Somebody, in London. The "runner" informed
me that Miss Somebody was the major's sweetheart and that he wrote to
her every day. Just imagine it, writing a love letter during a
"cootie" hunt; but such is the creed of the trenches.