TEN MONTHS IN THE FIGHTING-LINE
[It is almost incredible that a man can endure a war like this for
the best part of a year without a break; yet there are many British
soldiers who have had that experience. At the outset these were
mostly the old Regular troops who for efficiency and discipline
were unrivalled in the world’s armies. The story of one of these
long-service Regulars--Private Frederick Woods, 1st Battalion Royal
Irish Fusiliers--who served at the front for ten months and was then
gassed and invalided home, is told here.]
I had ten months at the front with my regiment before I was invalided
home, and I think that during that long period I saw every form of
fighting except one, and I have just been reading about it. That
exception is the use by the Germans of liquid flame, which they sprayed
on French troops some time ago and are now sending on to the British.
It is a devilish and cowardly device, but quite in keeping with the
German method of warfare. The Germans don’t understand the meaning of
honourable fighting, and there is no cruelty and barbarity that they
have not practised during the year of war that has ended at the time we
are talking together.
It is natural enough that I should take my mind back to a year ago. How
clearly I recollect that morning when I had just finished breakfast
and opened my newspaper, and to my astonishment saw that war had been
declared and that all Reservists were to report at once, without
waiting for the official notice from the depot.
[Illustration:
_To face p. 94._
ROYAL IRISH FUSILIERS IN TRENCHES IN GALLIPOLI.]
I was a Reservist of the Royal Irish Fusiliers, and had done seven
years with the colours, so I at once went to my old home. I will
confess that I was a bit downhearted, because my brother, also a
Reservist, had come home, too, and he had the pain of saying good-bye
to his wife, as well as to our parents. But we made the best of things,
and it was the better for the two of us because we both belonged to the
same battalion.
How many of us who assembled at Euston Station for the journey to our
depot in County Armagh, Ireland, are left, I wonder? Not many, there
cannot be, for the Royal Irish Fusiliers have suffered terribly in the
war. The old soldiers assembled with brave hearts and were full of
fun, and left Euston singing “Tipperary” in fine form. I well remember
how much amused we were, when crossing in the boat, at a man who had
come from Lancashire. He was wearing wooden clogs, and had a bottle of
whisky with him; and he sang and danced and became particularly lively,
and we thoroughly enjoyed his performance. At the depot we found our
clothes and equipment waiting for us, and next day a big draft of
us set out for England, my brother and myself amongst them. It was
wonderful to see the draft and realise that here were fully trained
soldiers, completely equipped, ready to take the field, and yet only a
few hours ago many of the men were in civil life in various parts of
the United Kingdom.
I had the strange experience of dealing with German soldiers before
we left England, for a score of us were given ammunition and driven
to Folkestone Harbour Station to meet a train of German Reservists
who were trying to get away by a boat which was lying in the harbour,
ready to take them to the Fatherland by way of Flushing. But the German
Reservists didn’t get off, and they had a big surprise when they saw us
waiting for them. We searched them, of course, and found that several
of the men were carrying arms. We took them to Christ’s Hospital,
the beautiful building in Surrey, and I suppose that they are still
prisoners of war in England. These men were the usual type of Germans
who were so often seen in London--waiters, and barbers, and so on,
and I fancy that some of them were not sorry to be just too late to
join the German Army. I cannot help thinking how different were these
“reservists” to the long-service men who had rejoined the British
colours.
I am not going into any details of the earlier part of the war; but
I was not long before I saw a few more German prisoners on the other
side. We had marched two days without seeing the enemy, then our scouts
returned with three prisoners. The scouts told us that they had banged
into the Germans, who were retreating fast, and had captured these
three fellows. I was deeply interested in the prisoners, because they
were the first German soldiers I had seen. They struck me as being
somewhat miserable specimens, but that was perhaps because they seemed
very hungry. They looked better when we had given them some biscuit,
which of course we did at once.
Very soon after that I saw a farm which our artillery had hit, and
which was in ruins and full of dead Germans. They had not had much of a
chance against the British gunners, and I noticed that along the road
leading to the farm ammunition was lying in heaps. It was a gruesome
place to billet in; but in spite of the German dead we passed quite a
comfortable night at the farm. Next day we were on the move again, and
reached a river where a bridge had been blown up. This delayed us till
the following morning, as our transport could not cross. But we found
a way out of that trouble by taking the transport along a railway, and
a rough, hard job it was, too, for we needed four horses and men with
ropes to do the hauling, as the wheels kept getting stuck between the
sleepers. But in spite of all the difficulties we got the transport
across, and reached a town which the Germans had passed through; and we
did not want telling which way they had gone, as we could see champagne
bottles and wine bottles along the road for miles--drink which the
Germans had looted from the town.
Drink and outrage and destruction marked the path of the German troops,
wherever they had been, in those early unforgettable stages of the war,
just as they did afterwards; though I believe that now, when they know
that they are outcasts from civilisation, the Germans are disposed
to mend their ways, if only to get better treatment when the final
reckoning comes.
There comes into my mind as I talk the picture of a dreadful sight
I saw near Armentières. We had reached a place and entered it, not
knowing that the Germans were so near at hand, though we knew that we
had them on the drive and that they were going away from us as hard
as they could travel. Suddenly we came to a nunnery, where the nuns
showed us the dead body of a little French boy, a mere child about
five years old. A glance was enough to show that he had been bayoneted
in the stomach, and it was clear that the cowardly murder had been done
quite recently. One of our officers made inquiries of some nuns, and he
was told that a drunken German soldier had killed the child. Can you
wonder that when our eyes saw such dreadful evidence of German devilry
and German cowardice, the Royal Irish Fusiliers, at any rate, made up
their minds that whenever the chance arose the enemy should be severely
punished? Nothing has been done by British soldiers in this war that
has not been fair and square fighting, but I am glad to think that many
a German coward and murderer has paid the penalty of some foul crime at
the point of a British bayonet.
Even in the way of ordinary warfare many innocent women and children
have been killed, quite apart from the large numbers who have been
wantonly murdered by German brutes. In one village we passed through
one of our men found a woman’s head of hair, which had been cut
off, and the body itself was found by civilians. The woman had been
maltreated and murdered by the Germans, and on every hand there were
signs of the enemy’s ferocity and inhumanity. Buildings were in ruins
and homes were wrecked, doors having been battered down so that the
savage soldiery could wreak their maddened will on fellow-creatures and
their belongings.
On every hand there was evidence of outrage. I went to a farm in this
village to try and buy some milk and eggs. On entering a room which had
a big fireplace, I saw in the corner of the fireplace an old man who
seemed to be an idiot. A woman, whom I took to be his wife, and could
speak broken English, told me that the Uhlans had taken him away, with
his hands tied behind him.
“Why did they take him? What had he done?” I asked her.
She answered that the man had done nothing, but that the Germans had
accused him of firing a shot. He had not done anything of the sort,
for the shot had been fired by a French patrol; but in spite of his
declarations, protests and appeals, the Germans beat the poor old
fellow on the head with their lances and did their best to force him
into a confession that he had fired. But he would do nothing of the
sort, and at last they let him go--they would not have done that if
they had not known that he was perfectly innocent. He managed to get
back to his home, covered with blood and almost senseless, and the
first thing that was noticed about him was that he had lost his memory.
He very soon became the sorry spectacle I saw in the corner of the
fireplace, an innocent man who had had the life nearly beaten out
of him and had been maltreated into idiocy. It took me some time to
understand the real point of the Germans’ brutality--that they had let
the poor old fellow loose and told him to run, and had battered him on
the head and prodded him with their lances because he did not run fast
enough. These are the soldiers who boast that what they have done in
Belgium and elsewhere is nothing to what they would do in England if
they got here. And for once I believe their boast.
I recall the sad case of another old lady I saw. She was crying
bitterly, and when she was questioned explained that the Germans had
taken her son away--and he was never seen again. Like so many more of
the inhabitants, he had fallen a victim to German “frightfulness.”
If you turn from these sad cases--and I have mentioned only one or two
that come into my mind--and try to tell of what was done to ordinary
people because they happened to be in the war zone, words almost fail
you; but I recollect that at one time we had been relieved by French
Alpine troops and had entrained for St. Omer, where Lord Roberts died,
while the guns were solemnly booming in battle.
We reached St. Omer and were resting on the square, when a German
aeroplane came over and dropped two bombs, killing a woman and a child,
but no soldiers. As soon as it was seen that this was happening, one
of our own aeroplanes was sent up after the German. Up he went, in
glorious style, and brought the baby-killer down; and when we saw it
we cheered for all we were worth. The German dropped between the two
firing-lines and was shot. We tried to make him a prisoner, but every
time we made a rush to get him the Germans fired on us, not caring in
the least about the fate of their own airman. The machine itself was
shelled by us and burnt.
When we reached the Aisne we found that a bridge by which we were to
cross was blown up; but our engineers soon repaired the bridge, which
had not been destroyed properly, so that it was strong enough to carry
us. Having crossed the river, three regiments went to the tops of the
hills and entrenched--the Warwicks, the Dublin Fusiliers, and the
Seaforths, our own regiment being left in reserve at the back of a
village.
The French troops were on our left, in front of Soissons, and we used
to see their artillery galloping across the plain with ammunition for
the guns. The French use mules and not horses for their batteries, and
once we saw some artillery galloping in fine style under German fire.
When the guns were passing near us four shells landed amongst the
limbers, but no one was hurt, and on seeing this we gave the Frenchmen
a tremendous cheer, for luck, and they replied with cheers and wild
waving of whips as they galloped away and nearer into the fire zone.
I remember that day well, because on the night of it we had to go and
bury thirty-five of our artillery horses that had been killed.
Next day was our turn for shell fire from the Germans. The shells
landed right into us, but we were lucky--only one man was killed though
several were wounded. We advanced up the hill, out of the way of the
fire; but as we moved the enemy gave us shrapnel, and the shelling
became so heavy that half-way up the hill we dug ourselves in.
While we were going up the hill, in short rushes, just like an ordinary
field day, and without any confusion, an artillery corporal, whose
name I do not know, showed splendid courage and uncommon strength
in carrying several of our men to a hospital which the Germans were
shelling. For his bravery he received the French Médaille Militaire.
Our transport had a very rough time, for out of fifty horses no fewer
than forty-two were killed or had to be shot. Twenty men were picked
out, myself amongst them, and sent back some distance for new horses,
and I am glad to say that we returned safely with the animals.
I was then put on guard over a bridge which was a special favourite
with spies. They were always trying to get through, but in most cases
they failed, and being caught and found out, there was no waste of time
in shooting them, after trial by court martial. After being relieved at
this place by French Alpine troops we entrained for St. Omer, the place
I have mentioned, and from St. Omer we were rushed in French motor
lorries for about sixteen miles, to a village where we rested for the
night. Next morning we were told that the Germans were on a hill six
miles away.
I shall never forget that day, because it rained in torrents, and it
was a sodden regiment that trudged through the mud and mire and swished
across drenched fields. It was not exhilarating, but we were soon
warmed up by the German fire. We were ordered to lie down, and down we
lay in a field of swedes, so we fairly flopped into beds of mud and
water, just about completing our discomfort.
The rain was pattering down like tiny bullets, but we also got a shower
of the real things, and you could hear the bullets “zip” into the
leaves of the swedes. It was intensely trying and very miserable to be
in such an exposed place, and we were glad when the order came to fix
bayonets, ready for a charge. We fixed bayonets, but had to wait some
time before the order to charge came; then we heard the word we wanted,
and up we rose and off we went. The firing became hotter than ever, and
several of our men were killed and wounded before the top of the hill
was reached.
There was not much commotion as we advanced, but somewhere a Seaforth
Highlander was playing bagpipes, and the skirl helped the boys along.
We expected some stiff work when we reached the top of the hill; but
when we got there we were astonished to find that the Germans had gone,
taking their wounded with them. We were after the enemy so quickly,
however, that they had to leave their wounded, who fell into our hands,
and of course got exactly the same treatment as if they had been
British soldiers. A hundred and three of the poor beggars had been left
in a convent for the nuns to look after, so you may be sure that they
had been well cared for before they became our prisoners.
The Germans at this stage were retiring rapidly, and we kept them
on the run. We soon came to a little village, where we found that
the Germans had put sandbags in the church tower and had planted a
machine-gun in the tower. A French flag which was flying on the tower
the day before had been dragged down by the Germans and torn to pieces.
We looked upon the flag with sadness, for here again we had evidence
of German brutalities--in their retirement the soldiers had maltreated
the women, and they had battered down doors and smashed windows in
their savage determination to enter houses. They accused the villagers
of firing on them--though the villagers had nothing but a few old
useless firearms, which we saw. In spite of this they declared that a
man had fired on them, and they shot him. The body was taken away by a
priest. These things, I can assure you, roused us up properly, and we
put plenty of heart into our continued pursuit of the Germans; but they
were flying so fast that they were very hard to catch.
We came up with them in the big town of Armentières, and were so close
to them that as we entered the town our scouts came back and told us
that the enemy were just leaving it at the other end. As we entered
the town we were cheered enthusiastically by the French, who seemed to
look upon us as deliverers, and so loaded us up with gifts of chocolate
bread, matches and so on that we had to throw half the things away.
Going into Armentières on the very heels of the Germans was an exciting
and dangerous performance, and as we advanced along the streets we went
on each side, not knowing on which side shots would come from windows,
but ready for anything that happened, as the men on one side had their
rifles handy for any German that appeared on the other. This was a
better plan than being on the look-out for trouble from the windows
just above your head. Luckily not many shots were fired upon us at
this stage; but we soon came to a farm where one of the most desperate
little fights that I can call to mind took place.
We were wary in entering the farm, for we saw at once the sort of
thing we had to tackle. There were four Germans concealed in a cellar
the window of which was on a level with the ground, so they had full
control of the yard and the entrance-gate.
Some of our boys, with Captain Carbury, went in and tried to persuade
the Germans to surrender, but their answer to the coaxing was a volley
which killed the officer and wounded the men. The captain was terribly
mutilated, for he had been struck full on the body, not by an ordinary
honest bullet, but an explosive bullet, and the men had been badly
hurt. As they lay on the ground they cried for help, and all the time
the Germans were firing on them and succeeded in hitting them on the
legs and shoulders. Two of our men, brave fellows, volunteered to try
and save their wounded comrades, and they dashed into the yard, only to
be shot and killed as soon as they entered. One of these fine chaps was
Lance-Corporal Shield, but I do not know the name of the other.
It was useless to waste further life in the attempt to get the Germans
out of their strong little position, from which they could fire without
making themselves targets, so our officer sent for some engineers to
undermine the farm and blow it up. The Germans were warned what was
going to be done, and were called upon to surrender. This they refused
to do.
During that night the engineers were working like moles, and I didn’t
envy the feelings of the Germans who were trapped in the cellar, nor
was there any pity for them next morning when the engineers finished
their work.
There was a crash and a flame and a shaking of the ground--and when,
later, things having settled, we went to see what had happened we found
one badly damaged German hanging over an iron girder on to which he
had fallen after being blown up. We made a prisoner of him. His three
companions had been killed, and we saw that they had been blown to
pieces.
The Germans by this time had received big reinforcements, and they
entrenched themselves strongly. We entrenched as well, and a warm job
it was, as bullets used to whistle past us constantly.
We were in these trenches thirty-seven days before we were relieved,
and long, hard days and trying nights they were, putting an uncommonly
severe strain on everybody. It was almost certain death for a man to
show himself, yet men had to show themselves, because water had to be
fetched and rations had to be brought up to the trenches and taken in.
Whenever it was possible to do so advantage was taken of the darkness;
but we could not always wait for night, and during the daytime some
splendid acts of bravery were seen.
I will tell of one particular instance, because the man will be always
remembered with pride by the Royal Irish Fusiliers--his valour won for
him the Victoria Cross. This was Private Robert Morrow, an Irishman,
who literally did not know the meaning of fear. One day we badly
wanted some water, and this was to be had only from a farm which was
some distance away. To reach the farm it was necessary to leave the
trenches and cross open ground, exposed to the German fire, which was
very deadly because we were so near the enemy’s trenches. These were
only about 600 yards away, and not more than 300 yards away were some
snipers, in a farm in front of the trenches.
Morrow volunteered to fetch some water, and taking an empty two-gallon
stone rum-jar he started on his perilous journey. As soon as he was
seen after leaving the trench the Germans did their very best to pot
him; but they missed every time, and Morrow reached the farm, filled
his jar and began his trip back. And a hard business it was, for a jar
like that will hold about fifty pounds’ weight of water, then there is
the jar and the awkwardness of carrying it when the carrier has to duck
and dodge over every yard of the ground. But Morrow was a splendid hand
at the game, and he actually managed to reach the trench in safety and
was on the point of dropping into it with his precious water, and we
were just ready to give him a wild Irish cheer. But at this very moment
crash came a German bullet, and the rum-jar was smashed to pieces and
the water rained on the ground and was lost.
Morrow was the sort of chap who can’t be beaten. Instantly he
volunteered to go back to the farm with water-bottles. What can you
do with such a man but let him have his way? We handed over the
water-bottles, quite a festoon of them, and having slung them round him
Morrow left the trench for the second time and began to make his way
towards the farm.
As soon as he left the shelter of the trench he drew the German fire
on him, and he was under it all the way to the farm, where he filled
the bottles, and all the way back. This time he reached the trench
safely and dropped into it, bringing the water with him and escaping
every German bullet that was meant to kill him. He was a plucky kid and
we were proud of him. And the regiment will be proud of him for all
time--I say will be, for like quite a number of the heroes who have won
the Cross Morrow has been killed.
Now that I am talking of him I recall the fact that only the day
before he was killed he went to a well for water, and had a remarkably
narrow escape from an odd sort of death--not a soldier’s end at all.
The Germans had blown the farm to pieces, but there was a lonely
chimney-stack standing. When Morrow went to the ruined farm a high
wind was blowing, and just as he was passing the chimney a strong gust
brought it down in a heap at his very feet. He escaped by just a few
inches from being killed and buried in the heap of masonry.
It was on April 12th that Morrow actually won his Cross. At that time
we were near Messines, and the trench warfare was being carried on with
great energy on both sides. Shell fire from the Germans was shattering
and wrecking some of our own trenches, so much so that British troops
were being buried alive in some places.
Several soldiers had been knocked out by shell fire and buried in
the fallen earth. You can easily imagine what it means--men are in
a trench, which is really a sort of vast open grave, and shell fire
shatters the earth which is around and simply buries the men. So it
happened on the 12th of April, and Morrow saw and knew it. Just as he
had acted when he went and filled the rum-jar and our water-bottles
with water, so he acted now--he gave no thought to himself. Out he
went, not once, but many times, into a bullet-swept zone, till he
reached the trenches which had been knocked out of shape by German
shells, and in the rubbish of which his comrades were lying buried
and helpless. He dug them out and pulled them out, and one by one he
brought the senseless fellows into safety. That was the deed for which
Morrow got the Victoria Cross; but in reality he had won the honour
time after time. He was killed at “Plug Street,” as we called the
place. A piece of shell struck him on the head and he died immediately.
The most extraordinary things happened to some of our fellows, and
there were escapes from death or capture so strange that you could
not credit them unless you saw them. I will mention one particular
incident that comes into my mind. I saw one of our motor ambulances
going along a road. There was nothing unusual in that, of course,
because we have many motor ambulances and there are many roads, but in
this case the road led straight into some German trenches. Before it
was possible to do anything or raise an alarm the driver had blundered
into the very midst of the enemy, and there he was, with his ambulance,
just about as much amazed to see the Germans as they were to set eyes
on him. They ought, of course, to have bagged both the driver and his
vehicle; but he sprang down, restarted his engine and began to run
away. The Germans pulled themselves together, and every man who could
bring a rifle to bear fired on the retreating ambulance; but luckily
the driver had a fair lot of protection, and though hundreds of bullets
struck the bonnet of the car not one of them touched him, and he got
safely away and went on his journey. It was a remarkable escape, and
all who saw it were glad that the plucky chap got so well out of the
trouble which had followed his mistake.
One night I was on sentry in the trenches when the sentry next to
me gave the alarm. He had no sooner done that than he saw something
crawling over the trenches. He did not waste a second--he lunged out
with his bayonet, and then found that he had driven it into a German’s
shoulder. The German was made a prisoner, then it was discovered that
he had lost his way in the dark and had got into our trench. When we
searched him we found that he had a revolver and a long knife; but he
was miserably clad, his feet being wrapped up in newspapers, as he had
no socks. He said he was glad to be captured.
Our chaps sometimes make the same mistake--a very easy one, as the
German trenches were so close to our own. Two of our men went, one dark
night, to get some hot tea in dixies. On their return they got into a
communication trench and lost their way; but at last, thinking they
were home again, they shouted down a trench, “Hi, Bill, take the tea!”
Instantly bullets were flying around them, and realising that they were
not back home at all, but had reached an enemy trench, they dropped the
hot tea on the Germans, then ran for it and got safely off.
I had been a long time at the front before I was detailed to go back
with the transport and bring up the officers’ rations every night. We
used to gallop as hard as we could till we came to a bridge, which the
Germans could see and did their best to smash with shells. There was a
sharp turning which a priest had called the “Devil’s Corner,” saying it
was worse than hell because of the continual shelling. We were forced
to take this road, because it was the only way to reach the trenches.
At night the Germans threw a searchlight on the “Devil’s Corner,” and
as soon as ever they saw us appear they shelled us, sometimes as many
as four shells coming together; but we dashed on so furiously that
they could not get us, nor did they catch us when we ran the gauntlet
coming back, though they used to get an average of a wagon a night. In
addition to this deadly corner we had three burnt villages to tackle;
but we were always lucky, and our men did not come to grief.
We used to go right up to the trenches, only about twenty-five yards
from them, with the horses and wagons, and there was one specially
dangerous spot which had to be passed. This was where there was a gap
in a hedge, which the Germans knew of quite well and could see. They
knew that at night our troops went to the gap to get water, and so in
the daytime they trained machine-guns on the spot, and when darkness
came they blazed away in the hope of wiping some of our men out. I have
known these guns whirr for five minutes without a break, sending out a
fire so horrible that nothing could live under it. We lost several men
at this gap, and were forced to make an opening in the hedge somewhere
else.
We got into reserve trenches, and here it was that a “whistling
Willy,” which is our nickname for a small German shell, went clean
through a Seaforth and then killed one of our own men in the trenches.
The shell passed through the Highlander intact, and did not explode
until it reached the trenches, a circumstance which shows the amazing
performances of projectiles in this war. You never know what they will
do. At another time one of our chaps, named Steel, was having his hair
cut, when a shell exploded near him and a piece of it, six inches long,
like a needle, struck him through the heart and killed him on the spot.
The winter was a very rough time for us, as we could not keep the water
out of the trenches, and we often had to sleep standing up, during a
four days’ spell in the trenches. Often enough, at the end of one of
these hard spells, we were intensely disappointed because we could not
be relieved, owing to troops being moved elsewhere, and we were forced
to stick it for an extra four days; but we did not forget to make up
for it when we were out, although we had to march a few miles to our
billets to rest, and even then we were not free from shell fire.
By the time I had been at the front seven months I think I had seen
almost every phase of this tremendous war; but I had yet a lot to learn
of what the war means, and I began to learn afresh when we got to Ypres
and later on had a dose of poison-gas.
None of the sights I had seen were to be compared with what we
witnessed in the famous and beautiful old city, which the enemy had
reduced to ruins. They had used shells of every sort, and I saw many
evidences of the havoc and death that had been brought about on
innocent people.
There was one house, on the left-hand side of the Museum, the home of
a poor-class person, which was in ruins. I noticed this specially, as
many of us did, because from the ruins there peeped some tiny feet--one
of the most pitiful sights I ever saw. We made inquiry and found that
a gas-shell had come, shattered the house, and killed and buried in
the wreckage the father and mother and three children--a whole family
of five, and it was the little feet of the smallest child that we saw
amongst the debris. There was nothing for us to do but march on, and
become more grimly determined than ever to fight and smash the enemy
who had done these things. In cases like these we cannot stop to do
anything; but there is the comfort of knowing that our fatigue parties
will come up and give decent burial, and that the service will be
conducted by a priest of the same faith as the slaughtered victims.
It was on April 26th that the gassing by the Germans began, and we had
a repetition of the diabolical business on the 27th and 28th. We were
quite taken aback by this development in the warfare, and as we were
not prepared for it, not having even respirators, we suffered terribly.
The men who got a full dose of the poison died an awful death, turning
black in the face and foaming at the mouth, the buttons on our tunics
turning rank green; while those who were only half-gassed reeled about
like drunken men. I was lucky enough to be amongst the only partially
gassed, but what with that and my ten months at the front I was pretty
well worn out and was invalided home.
I have said that I have seen every form of fighting except one--the
liquid fire. I have certainly been under every sort of fire but that,
and I don’t think I am saying anything unsoldierly in admitting that
the fire I love best is the fire we left behind in dear old England.