Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Emmy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries
[Illustration: _Route taken by Fifth Division_]
Adventures of a Despatch Rider
Adventures of
A Despatch Rider
BY
CAPTAIN W.H.L. WATSON
_WITH MAPS_
William Blackwood and Sons
Edinburgh and London
1915
_TO_
_THE PERFECT MOTHER,_
_MY OWN._
A LETTER
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION.
_To_ 2nd Lieut. R.B. WHYTE,
1st Black Watch,
B.E.F.
MY DEAR ROBERT,--
Do you remember how in the old days we used to talk about my first book?
Of course it was to be an Oxford novel full of clever little
character-sketches--witty but not unkind: of subtle and pleasurable
hints at our own adventures, for no one had enjoyed Balliol and the city
of Oxford so hugely: of catch-words that repeated would bring back the
thrills and the laughter--_Psych. Anal._ and _Steady, Steady!_ of names
crammed with delectable memories--the Paviers', Cloda's Lane, and the
notorious Square and famous Wynd: of acid phrases, beautifully put, that
would show up once and for all those dear abuses and shams that go to
make Oxford. It was to surpass all Oxford Novels and bring us all
eternal fame.
You remember, too, the room? It was stuffy and dingy and the pictures
were of doubtful taste, but there were things to drink and smoke. The
imperturbable Ikla would be sitting in his chair pulling at one of his
impossibly luxurious pipes. You would be snorting in another--and I
would be holding forth ... but I am starting an Oxford novelette already
and there is no need. For two slightly senior contemporaries of ours
have already achieved fame. The hydrangeas have blossomed. "The Home"
has been destroyed by a Balliol tongue. The flower-girl has died her
death. The Balliol novels have been written--and my first book is this.
We have not even had time to talk it over properly. I saw you on my
week's leave in December, but then I had not thought of making a book.
Finally, after three months in the trenches you came home in August. I
was in Ireland and you in Scotland, so we met at Warrington just after
midnight and proceeded to staggering adventures. Shall we ever forget
that six hours' talk, the mad ride and madder breakfast with old Peter
M'Ginn, the solitary hotel at Manchester and the rare dash to London?
But I didn't tell you much about my book.
It is made up principally of letters to my mother and to you. My mother
showed these letters to Mr Townsend Warner, my old tutor at Harrow, and
he, who was always my godfather in letters, passed them on until they
have appeared in the pages of 'Maga.' I have filled in the gaps these
letters leave with narrative, worked the whole into some sort of
connected account, and added maps and an index.
This book is not a history, a military treatise, an essay, or a scrap of
autobiography. It has no more accuracy or literary merit than letters
usually possess. So I hope you will not judge it too harshly. My only
object is to try and show as truthfully as I can the part played in this
monstrous war by a despatch rider during the months from August 1914 to
February 1915. If that object is gained I am content.
Because it is composed of letters, this book has many faults.
Firstly, I have written a great deal about myself. That is inevitable in
letters. My mother wanted to hear about me and not about those whom she
had never met. So do not think my adventures are unique. I assure you
that if any of the other despatch riders were to publish their letters
you would find mine by comparison mild indeed. If George now could be
persuaded ...!
Secondly, I have dwelt at length upon little personal matters. It may
not interest you to know when I had a pork-chop--though, as you now
realise, on active service a pork-chop is extremely important--but it
interested my mother. She liked to know whether I was having good and
sufficient food, and warm things on my chest and feet, because, after
all, there was a time when I wanted nothing else.
Thirdly, all letters are censored. This book contains nothing but the
truth, but not the whole truth. When I described things that were
actually happening round me, I had to be exceedingly careful--and when,
as in the first two or three chapters, my letters were written several
weeks after the events, something was sure to crop up in the meantime
that unconsciously but definitely altered the memory of experiences....
We have known together two of the people I have mentioned in this
book--Alec and Gibson. They have both advanced so far that we have lost
touch with them. I had thought that it would be a great joy to publish a
first book, but this book is ugly with sorrow. I shall never be able to
write "Alec and I" again--and he was the sweetest and kindest of my
friends, a friend of all the world. Never did he meet a man or woman
that did not love him. The Germans have killed Alec. Perhaps among the
multitudinous Germans killed there are one or two German Alecs. Yet I am
still meeting people who think that war is a fine bracing thing for the
nation, a sort of national week-end at Brighton.
Then there was Gibson, who proved for all time that nobody made a better
soldier than the young don--and those whose names do not come into this
book....
Robert, you and I know what to think of this Brighton theory. We are
only just down from Oxford, and perhaps things strike us a little more
passionately than they should.
You have seen the agony of war. You have seen those miserable people
that wander about behind the line like pariah dogs in the streets. You
know what is behind "Tommy's invincible gaiety." Let us pray together
for a time when the publishing of a book like this will be regarded with
fierce shame.
So long and good luck!
Ever yours,
WILLIAM.
PIRBRIGHT HUTS,
1/10/15.
* * * * *
The day after I had written this letter the news came to me that Robert
Whyte had been killed. The letter must stand--I have not the heart to
write another.
W.H.L.W.
PIRBRIGHT HUTS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. ENLISTING 1
II. THE JOURNEY TO THE FRONT 12
III. THE BATTLE OF MONS 26
IV. THE BATTLE OF LE CATEAU 40
V. THE GREAT RETREAT 51
VI. OVER THE MARNE TO THE AISNE 76
VII. THE BATTLE OF THE AISNE 105
VIII. THE MOVE TO THE NORTH 140
IX. ROUND LA BASSÉE 167
X. THE BEGINNING OF WINTER 197
XI. ST JANS CAPPEL 230
XII. BEHIND THE LINES 253
LIST OF MAPS.
PAGE
ROUTE TAKEN BY FIFTH DIVISION _At beginning_
ROUND MONS 25
THE MARNE (LAGNY TO CHÂTEAU-THIERRY) 87
THE AISNE (SOISSONS TO VAILLY) 104
ROUND LA BASSÉE 166
YPRES TO LA BASSÉE 197
LINE OF RETREAT AND ADVANCE _At end_
Adventures of A Despatch Rider.
CHAPTER I.
ENLISTING
At 6.45 P.M. on Saturday, July 25, 1914, Alec and I determined to take
part in the Austro-Servian War. I remember the exact minute, because we
were standing on the "down" platform of Earl's Court Station, waiting
for the 6.55 through train to South Harrow, and Alec had just remarked
that we had ten minutes to wait. We had travelled up to London,
intending to work in the British Museum for our "vivas" at Oxford, but
in the morning it had been so hot that we had strolled round Bloomsbury,
smoking our pipes. By lunch-time we had gained such an appetite that we
did not feel like work in the afternoon. We went to see Elsie Janis.
The evening papers were full of grave prognostications. War between
Servia and Austria seemed inevitable. Earl's Court Station inspired us
with the spirit of adventure. We determined to take part, and debated
whether we should go out as war correspondents or as orderlies in a
Servian hospital. At home we could talk of nothing else during dinner.
Ikla, that wisest of all Egyptians, mildly encouraged us, while the
family smiled.
On Sunday we learned that war had been declared. Ways and means were
discussed, but our great tennis tournament on Monday, and a dance in the
evening, left us with a mere background of warlike endeavour. It was
vaguely determined that when my "viva" was over we should go and see
people of authority in London....
On the last day of July a few of us met together in Gibson's rooms,
those neat, white rooms in Balliol that overlook St Giles. Naymier, the
Pole, was certain that Armageddon was coming. He proved it conclusively
in the Quad with the aid of large maps and a dissertation on potatoes.
He also showed us the probable course of the war. We lived in strained
excitement. Things were too big to grasp. It was just the other day
that 'The Blue Book,' most respectable of Oxford magazines, had
published an article showing that a war between Great Britain and
Germany was almost unthinkable. It had been written by an undergraduate
who had actually been at a German university. Had the multitudinous
Anglo-German societies at Oxford worked in vain? The world came crashing
round our ears. Naymier was urgent for an Oxford or a Balliol Legion--I
do not remember which--but we could not take him seriously. Two of us
decided that we were physical cowards, and would not under any
circumstances enlist. The flower of Oxford was too valuable to be used
as cannon-fodder.
The days passed like weeks. Our minds were hot and confused. It seemed
that England must come in. On the afternoon of the fourth of August I
travelled up to London. At a certain club in St James's there was little
hope. I walked down Pall Mall. In Trafalgar Square a vast, serious crowd
was anxiously waiting for news. In Whitehall Belgians were doing their
best to rouse the mob. Beflagged cars full of wildly gesticulating
Belgians were driving rapidly up and down. Belgians were haranguing
little groups of men. Everybody remained quiet but perturbed.
War was a certainty. I did not wish to be a spectator of the scenes
that would accompany its declaration, so I went home. All the night in
my dreams I saw the quiet, perturbed crowds.
War was declared. All those of us who were at Balliol together
telephoned to one another so that we might enlist together. Physical
coward or no physical coward--it obviously had to be done. Teddy and
Alec were going into the London Scottish. Early in the morning I started
for London to join them, but on the way up I read the paragraph in which
the War Office appealed for motor-cyclists. So I went straight to
Scotland Yard. There I was taken up to a large room full of benches
crammed with all sorts and conditions of men. The old fellow on my right
was a sign-writer. On my left was a racing motor-cyclist. We waited for
hours. Frightened-looking men were sworn in and one phenomenally grave
small boy. Later I should have said that a really fine stamp of man was
enlisting. Then they seemed to me a shabby crew.
At last we were sent downstairs, and told to strip and array ourselves
in moderately dirty blue dressing-gowns. Away from the formality of the
other room we sang little songs, and made the worst jokes in the
world--being continually interrupted by an irritable sergeant, whom we
called "dearie." One or two men were feverishly arguing whether certain
physical deficiencies would be passed. Nobody said a word of his reason
for enlisting except the sign-writer, whose wages had been low.
The racing motor-cyclist and I were passed one after another, and,
receiving warrants, we travelled down to Fulham. Our names, addresses,
and qualifications were written down. To my overwhelming joy I was
marked as "very suitable." I went to Great Portland Street, arranged to
buy a motor-cycle, and returned home. That evening I received a telegram
from Oxford advising me to go down to Chatham.
I started off soon after breakfast, and suffered three punctures. The
mending of them put despatch-riding in an unhealthy light. At Rochester
I picked up Wallace and Marshall of my college, and together we went to
the appointed place. There we found twenty or thirty enlisted or
unenlisted. I had come only to make inquiries, but I was carried away.
After a series of waits I was medically examined and passed. At 5.45
P.M. I kissed the Book, and in two minutes I became a corporal in the
Royal Engineers. During the ceremony my chief sensation was one of
thoroughgoing panic.
In the morning four of us, who were linguists, were packed off to the
War Office. We spent the journey in picturing all the ways we might be
killed, until, by the time we reached Victoria, there was not a single
one of us who would not have given anything to un-enlist. The War Office
rejected us on the plea that they had as many Intelligence Officers as
they wanted. So we returned glumly.
The next few days we were drilled, lectured, and given our kit. We began
to know each other, and make friends. Finally, several of us, who wanted
to go out together, managed by slight misstatements to be put into one
batch. We were chosen to join the 5th Division. The Major in command
told us--to our great relief--that the Fifth would not form part of the
first Expeditionary Force.
I remember Chatham as a place of heat, intolerable dirt, and a bad sore
throat. There we made our first acquaintance with the army, which we
undergraduates had derided as a crowd of slavish wastrels and
empty-headed slackers. We met with tact and courtesy from the mercenary.
A sergeant of the Sappers we discovered to be as fine a type of man as
any in the wide earth. And we marvelled, too, at the smoothness of
organisation, the lack of confusing hurry....
We were to start early on Monday morning. My mother and sister rushed
down to Chatham, and my sister has urgently requested me to mention in
"the book" that she carried, with much labour, a large and heavy pair of
ski-ing boots. Most of the others had enlisted like myself in a hurry.
They did not see "their people" until December.
All of us were made to write our names in the visitors' book, for, as
the waiter said--
"They ain't nobodies now, but in these 'ere times yer never knows what
they may be."
Then, when we had gone in an ear-breaking splutter of exhausts, he
turned to comfort my mother--
"Pore young fellers! Pore young fellers! I wonder if any of 'em will
return."
That damp chilly morning I was very sleepy and rather frightened at the
new things I was going to do. I imagined war as a desperate continuous
series of battles, in which I should ride along the trenches
picturesquely haloed with bursting shell, varied by innumerable
encounters with Uhlans, or solitary forest rides and immense tiring
treks over deserted country to distant armies. I wasn't quite sure I
liked the idea of it all. But the sharp morning air, the interest in
training a new motor-cycle in the way it should go, the unexpected
popping-up and grotesque salutes of wee gnome-like Boy Scouts, soon
made me forget the war. A series of the kind of little breakdowns you
always have in a collection of new bikes delayed us considerably, and
only a race over greasy setts through the southern suburbs, over
Waterloo Bridge and across the Strand, brought us to Euston just as the
boat-train was timed to start. In the importance of our new uniforms we
stopped it, of course, and rode joyfully from one end of the platform to
the other, much to the agitation of the guard, while I posed
delightfully against a bookstall to be photographed by a patriotic
governess.
Very grimy we sat down to a marvellous breakfast, and passed the time
reading magazines and discussing the length of the war. We put it at
from three to six weeks. At Holyhead we carefully took our bikes aboard,
and settled down to a cold voyage. We were all a trifle apprehensive at
our lack of escort, for then, you will remember, it had not yet been
proved how innocuous the German fleet is in our own seas.[1]
Ireland was a disappointment. Everybody was dirty and unfriendly,
staring at us with hostile eyes. Add Dublin grease, which beats the
Belgian, and a crusty garage proprietor who only after persuasion
supplied us with petrol, and you may be sure we were glad to see the
last of it. The road to Carlow was bad and bumpy. But the sunset was
fine, and we liked the little low Irish cottages in the twilight. When
it was quite dark we stopped at a town with a hill in it. One of our men
had a brick thrown at him as he rode in, and when we came to the inn we
didn't get a gracious word, and decided it was more pleasant not to be a
soldier in Ireland. The daughter of the house was pretty and passably
clean, but it was very grimly that she had led me through an immense
gaudy drawing-room disconsolate in dust wrappings, to a little room
where we could wash. She gave us an exiguous meal at an extortionate
charge, and refused to put more than two of us up; so, on the advice of
two gallivanting lancers who had escaped from the Curragh for some
supper, we called in the aid of the police, and were billeted
magnificently on the village.
A moderate breakfast at an unearthly hour, a trouble with the starting
up of our bikes, and we were off again. It was about nine when we turned
into Carlow Barracks.
The company sighed with relief on seeing us. We completed the
establishment on mobilisation. Our two "artificers," Cecil and Grimers,
had already arrived. We were overjoyed to see them. We realised that
what they did not know about motor-cycles was not worth knowing, and we
had suspected at Chatham what we found afterwards to be true, that no
one could have chosen for us pleasanter comrades or more reliable
workers.
A fine breakfast was soon prepared for us and we begun looking round.
The position should have been a little difficult--a dozen or so 'Varsity
men, very fresh from their respective universities, thrown as corporals
at the head of a company of professional soldiers. We were determined
that, whatever vices we might have, we should not be accused of "swank."
The sergeants, after a trifle of preliminary stiffness, treated us with
fatherly kindness, and did all they could to make us comfortable and
teach us what we wanted to learn.
Carlow was a fascinating little town. The National Volunteers still
drilled just behind the barracks. It was not wise to refer to the
Borderers or to Ulster, but the war had made all the difference in the
world. We were to represent Carlow in the Great War. Right through the
winter Carlow never forgot us. They sent us comforts and cigarettes and
Christmas Puddings. When the 5th Signal Company returns, Carlow will go
mad.
My first "official" ride was to Dublin. It rained most of the way there
and all the way back, but a glow of patriotism kept me warm. In Dublin I
went into a little public-house for some beer and bread and cheese. The
landlord told me that though he wasn't exactly a lover of soldiers,
things had changed now. On my return I was given lunch in the Officers'
Mess, for nobody could consider their men more than the officers of our
company.
The next day we were inoculated. At the time we would much rather have
risked typhoid. We did not object to the discomfort, though two of us
nearly fainted on parade the following morning--it was streamingly
hot--but our farewell dinner was absolutely spoilt. Bottles of the best
Moselle Carlow could produce were left untouched. Songs broke down in
curses. It was tragic.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] This was written before the days of the "Submarine Blockade."