A FUSILIER IN FRANCE
[The following story of a baptism of fire and subsequent experiences at
Loos and in France is told by Private Fred. Knott, who, soon after the
war broke out, left civil life at the call of duty and enlisted in the
Royal Fusiliers. Like so many present-day soldiers Private Knott kept
a record, under fire, of many of his experiences, until he was wounded
and invalided home. From this selection we become more intimately
acquainted with the life of our men not only in the trenches but also,
which is equally interesting, with their doings when they are resting
and able to share in the foreign life around them. We have had abundant
proof during the war of the considerable powers of observation and
description which so many of our fighting men possess.]
A year’s hard training had got us more or less used to marching; yet
when we got to Bethune we were nearly all done up, for we had been on
the road three days. We eagerly sought our billets, which in my own
case happened to be an attic in an empty house. Our “cookers” followed
us, so that next morning we had a good breakfast; then we raided the
pump at the back of the house, hurried through a wash and sallied into
the street, where we saw a sight that will not be forgotten.
There was an almost continuous procession of ambulances, full of
wounded men from the Loos front; and an endless stream of men of all
regiments were walking down the street to the dressing-station. The
British soldier has a happy knack of looking at the bright side of a
gloomy picture, and even now amusement was caused by the spectacle of
one or two Scotsmen wearing Prussian Guards’ helmets and walking along
quite unconcerned about their wounds, most of which were in the arm.
In the afternoon we left our billet for the trenches. At the first
halt a party of 200 German prisoners passed us. I have never seen
such a collection of dejected, worn-out individuals. One man, who was
apparently a non-commissioned officer, leaned on the arm of one of the
guards for support, and his face was the picture of despair and misery.
Knowing what this war means to France especially, and what the French
have had to endure from Germany for over forty years, it was very
interesting to notice the attitude of quite little French children
towards the captives. These boys and girls, standing on the pavement,
insulted and spat upon the Germans, who, however, took little notice of
them.
On the road we passed some of our own Tommies, coming from the
trenches, and rejoicing in their relief. They wanted to cheer us, and
shouted, “Hurry up, chaps; there’s plenty left for you to do up there.”
They were quite right, as we soon discovered.
From Bethune we marched to the town of Vermelles, where we had our
first glimpse of the havoc caused by the enemy’s artillery fire. The
whole place was a mass of ruins, very few houses remaining intact.
What had been a town had been smashed by German guns to a vast mass
of rubbish. It was a melancholy sight, yet it strengthened the
determination to do our best to overcome the tyrants who had brought
about such widespread misery and ruin. To make the sight all the more
impressive, we distinctly heard the booming of the guns as we marched
along.
Another sight which filled us with silent reverence was a graveyard
on one side of the road--graveyards, big and little, have sprung up
in all sorts of unexpected places on and near the battlefields. There
were many simple wooden crosses marking the graves of British soldiers
who had fallen earlier in the war. The sight of these resting-places
took the mind back to those terrible days when our men fought so
magnificently against almost hopeless odds, and solemn thoughts came,
almost unbidden, to many of us as we went on marching towards the
trenches to get our baptism of fire.
Outside the town another halt was made to let some cavalry pass. We had
to wait at least a quarter of an hour for this--and a fine sight it was
to watch the passing of these mounted men, for the nature of this war
has made it quite a rare thing to see considerable bodies of cavalry.
After leaving the main road and taking one or two cross-cuttings we
found ourselves in a wild, desolate field, covered with fairly large
shrubs and weeds. It was one of the most miserable and depressing
fields imaginable, and to crown its wretchedness rain was falling
heavily and steadily and the ground was sodden.
The ammunition mules were in the rear, and we were served out with
130 rounds each. This looked like real business, and when it was over
we extended in artillery formation, and cautiously advanced along the
field. Everything now was done as if we were actually in the presence
of the enemy, and there was a singular thrill and excitement amongst
us and a constant wonder of “What next?”
We had moved a considerable distance, when we reached a reserve trench.
We were ordered to enter it, for obviously it would have been fatal to
go any farther by daylight.
In this trench we were concealed until it was dark. We were in great
discomfort owing to the rain, and we were almost knee-deep in mud. We
were not sorry when, as evening fell, we got out of the trench and
again advanced in artillery formation; but only for a few yards.
The order was now given to lie down, for the enemy flares were going
up one after the other, and it seemed as if at any moment our presence
would be made known and a heavy fire directed on us.
The long marching and exposure to the bad weather had had their effect
upon us. We were sodden, and in addition to the weight of our clothing
and equipment and ammunition we had the weight of the rain and the
mud, so you can easily understand that as we lay flat on the ground we
dropped off into a heavy sleep.
I don’t know how long we slept--I don’t think it was long--but we were
galvanised into wakefulness in a second, for a shell had burst not more
than twenty yards in front of us with a terrific report, and a shower
of earth fell on us.
That was the beginning of my baptism of fire, and it was the most
startling awakening I ever had. It was a stern warning, too, and we
quickly retired to another reserve trench a short distance away and
jumped pell-mell into it. There were some good goers that night, in
spite of heavy ground and heavier equipment; but we soon recovered our
composure when we were in the trench, and laughed and made the best of
it.
[Illustration:
_To face p. 208._
STREET-NAMES FOR TRENCHES.]
From this reserve trench we entered the main communication trench,
and here we had one of those mysterious and unnerving experiences
which have been so often known in this tremendous war. Progress at the
best was slow and difficult, but it was made far worse because of the
repeated issue of the order, “Retire!”
For some time we kept going “about turn,” up and down the trench,
though when word was passed down the line all our officers denied
having made use of the term, and they urged us forward.
This strange matter gave us something to talk about for a long time,
and the general feeling was that it was the work of a German spy,
though the mysterious agent was never discovered.
We were now getting really into the thick of things, and two companies
of the battalion made their way into the firing-line, while my own
company went into reserve; and there we had our first touch of gas,
though luckily without any serious loss of life. When the gas attack
had passed we tried to snatch some sleep, but this was impossible, as
we were quickly detailed for various duties, such as ration-carrying
and supplying the first line with ammunition. I found myself at the
latter task, and started out to find a regiment which was holding the
front line on the right.
And now I had one of those awful experiences which have so often fallen
to soldiers in this war--one of the things which, little in themselves,
mean so much to the individual, especially to one who has not got
accustomed to such warfare as this.
After making my way through countless trenches, some of which were
empty and absolutely reeked of gas, I found myself in a narrow
ditch--it could not be called a trench--which was literally filled with
dead bodies. Snipers’ bullets were whizzing all around me, and often
I had to take cover by lying alongside a dead comrade. Each side of
the ditch was strewn with bodies, the wounds on which were too ghastly
to be described. Thoroughly sickened at the sight, I had to press on,
treading on poor fellows’ bodies all the time. It was truly horrible,
but the ammunition had to be got there, and this was the only way to
get along.
At last I reached the regiment I wanted, and found that it was keeping
up rapid rifle fire. Leaving the ammunition with an officer, I started
on my homeward journey, which I thankfully accomplished, but with great
difficulty. I was very much impressed by the flares as I went along,
and I do not exaggerate at all when I say that they were distinctly
reminiscent of a firework display.
Reaching my own lines, I found that I was not wanted for any more
fatigues, so I thankfully crept into a dug-out at the rear and fell
fast asleep.
Early next morning we attacked the enemy, and I got my proper baptism
of fire. Two of our companies had gone into action and had lost rather
heavily, and my company was ordered to reinforce.
I was amongst the men who were chosen to reinforce, and leaving the
reserve trench we passed into the fire trench and so over the top, amid
a shower of bullets.
The Germans were hidden in a coal-mine near the famous “Tower Bridge,”
and it seemed hopeless to try and dislodge them; but the British had
determined to have a try, and so we advanced, dropping now and again
for cover. Here again the ground was strewn with bodies, and often it
was necessary to use one of them as a covering screen.
It became necessary for some of us, myself amongst them, to withdraw to
the original fire trench, and there we remained for two days. On the
second day a lull in the fighting occurred, though there was a sharp
watch on both sides and rounds were exchanged. A strange thing happened
at this stage of the fighting. One of our N.C.O.s, going through a
deserted fire-bay, found a man in khaki who was behaving in a very
mysterious way. The N.C.O. grew suspicious, and with the help of two
privates he marched the man before the colonel. The man said he was a
Welsh Fusilier, but one of our men who had previously served in the
Welsh Fusiliers soon showed that the statement was utterly false.
The man was searched, and then the amazing discovery was made that he
had no fewer than a dozen identification-discs of different regiments.
Further questionings showed beyond all doubt that he was a very bold
and cunning spy, and he was shot with very little ceremony.
Another day passed, and at night we were relieved. When we marched back
through Vermelles we were utterly exhausted, and I dare say we looked
pitiful objects, for we were thickly covered with clay and were minus
the best part of our equipment; but we were proud, all the same, and I
think the pride was justified, for it must be remembered that many of
the men who took part in the very heavy fighting at Loos were soldiers
who, like myself, had only just had their baptism of fire. They had at
any rate done their best to uphold the tradition of British courage
and endurance.
Trench life forms such an immense feature of the war that it will be
interesting, I dare say, to give a little detailed account of it, just
to show how closely resembling animal and savage conditions are those
which have to be endured, and which, as a rule, are borne cheerfully
and in a thorough make-the-best-of-it spirit.
We had been ordered to go to the trenches, this time on a new front.
The line was situated on a canal bank, and we took up our position at
night, carefully picking our way, helped by the lights of the flares.
At the end of our journey we found a series of dug-outs at the side
of the water, and I and my chum quickly claimed one of them. This
dug-out just conveniently held two men, though space was very limited.
The prospect was not promising, but two heads were better than one,
especially on active service, and soon we had rigged up the “mac.”
sheet and the overcoats and made a cosy bed, and we made ourselves
comfortable. We were the better able to do this because the night was
mild and the firing confined to an occasional shell--a mere nothing as
a disturber of harmony. The next order was a cup of _café au lait_, and
I don’t think people at home realise what a joy it is to set to work on
such a little treat as this.
My chum carried a small, compact spirit-lamp, and with this and a
tin mug we soon had a glorious steaming drink ready. We dwelt on it
as much and as long as we could, then settled down to sleep, making
ourselves snug by covering the doorway of the dug-out with a piece of
old sacking. This was not an easy matter, for the enemy had become
aggressive, and a heavy bombardment started. It was bad enough to make
us open our doorway and look out, and we soon saw that the shells were
finding their mark in the canal in front of us, sending the water up in
great sprays. This we could easily make out by means of the brilliant
flares. Now and again a shell missed fire, and we just saw it as it
plumped into the water.
Higher up in the officers’ dug-out a gramophone was playing, and amid
the sound of bursting shells we heard snatches of songs that carried
our minds back to England and home. Later the shelling ceased, and once
more we tried to sleep. This time a new trouble arose, in the shape
of huge rats crawling over us. By means of candle-light we started
destroying them with a bayonet; but this was a difficult task, for
the rats often enough were swifter than the jabs at them. There were
plenty of squeals in the dug-out, and these and our own cries mingled
with the shrieks that came from rats outside, both in front and rear
of the trenches, which were fighting pitched battles. This uncanny
and unpleasant hunt in the dug-out ended in time, and we managed to
gain a little rest. I am reminded that in one lot of trenches which we
occupied in another part of the line a tree-trunk had fallen across the
fire-bay, and at night a continual procession of rats could be seen
crossing it, in spite of repeated slashes at them with bayonets.
Next day we had an opportunity of scanning the surrounding district.
Farther along we could see the damaged steeple of a church, once a
handsome building, now in ruins, for it had proved a good target for
the German guns. On the opposite side of the canal several fine trees
had been struck down, leaving blanks in a stately avenue. I gazed at
the canal itself and wondered how many brave fellows’ bodies had found
their last resting-place there, for it was the scene of a big advance
earlier in the year. But my reflections were cut short by military
duties, and I was detailed for various tasks, such as rifle-cleaning,
fetching rations, etc., while my companion made a fire to cook the
breakfast. We now settled down to a more or less regular routine, and
waited our turn to strike an offensive blow at the enemy at the first
opportunity.
It is usual after a spell in the trenches for a regiment to retire to
a village in rear of the firing-line for a rest, and I was always glad
of this change, because it afforded many a strange sight to me, an
average British soldier. We reached our village at about four o’clock
in the afternoon, and each platoon found itself billeted in a barn at
one of the farms which abounded in that particular locality. Here the
town-bred man had the chance to study foreign rural life, a little
hobby which helped him for the time to forget the trenches and their
inevitable discomforts and dangers.
After a time we easily adapted ourselves to the rough straw beds that
were provided for us, and we very soon found that we must not object if
we had a ferret or two in a cage quite close to the bed. As a matter of
fact we were soon on good terms with the fierce little creatures, which
have proved splendid friends to the soldiers in the trenches in hunting
and killing the swarming rats.
When we went out on voyages of discovery we found that the typical
village contained one or two _estaminets_--they are rarely called
cafés in the rural parts of France--and possibly one or two little
shops--_épiceries_--which sell a variety of things appealing to a
soldier’s simple tastes. At certain hours the British Tommy is allowed
in the _estaminets_, where such drinks as beer and red and white wines
and the customary _café au lait_ are obtainable cheaply. It is found
from experience that these places rarely have change for paper money,
which at times is rather awkward, especially when combined with a vague
knowledge of the language; and the usual reply is “No money”--truly
a poor consolation to a thirsty soldier. In time, however, we became
known to the keeper of the _estaminet_, and when money became
circulated the difficulty was remedied. A brief stay in a village was
enough to make the villagers friendly, and little kindnesses on both
sides became a common practice.
A characteristic of every place was the lack of facilities to obtain
extra meals, though at certain _estaminets_ a good repast of fried eggs
and chips, with an occasional dish of stewed rabbit, was procurable.
This is merely a glimpse of the peaceful and gladly welcomed break in
the life of the soldier who is on active service. It makes you all
the more fit for the trenches and that night sentry duty to which you
are so often roused in your dug-out by the corporal shouting, “Next
relief!”