Part 2
“There are men in No Man’s Land to-night, In travail under a starless sky, Men who wonder if it be right That you should lie snug in your beds to-night While they suffer alone—and die!”
_June 9._ Spent a very quiet day settling down and getting used to the beauty of our surroundings. We are in a charming little valley between wooded hills with a pebbly trout stream to sing us to sleep at night. It is just like Cefn on the Elwy in North Wales—a week here will do us worlds of good.
_June 10._ Sunday. Was notified that a battalion of Middlesex is coming to share our billets with us, so I rode over to see the Area Commandant and had rather a stormy interview with him. Rode over again in the afternoon to try to get some tents out of him, and again I was successful, although between him and the Brigade I made myself generally unpopular. It has been some sort of fête day in the village to-day and the Sappers had a good time helping the inhabitants to decorate their little village square—it was very charming.
_June 11._ Gave a lecture on the Lewis gun this morning—what profanity in a charming place like this!
In the evening went fishing and met an old man casting with fly and wading. I ventured on conversation and imagine my surprise when he turned out to be an Englishman—he was very reticent and I should think has a past!
_June 12._ Asked the Maire about my Englishman. Apparently he is a real hermit, and although he has lived in the village for twenty-three years they know nothing about him—he is a fishing maniac, and they say he spends most of his time on the river. Pity I am not a novelist—what wasted possibilities for a real thriller!
_June 13._ Starting working on the construction of a new rifle range up in the hills so that the men can keep in trim. Pleasant evening fishing.
_June 14._ Busy day on the rifle range, but knocked off work early for company inspection by the C.R.E. I think he was fairly pleased with us, and he brought a message of congratulation to us from the Divisional Commander for our work at Ypres.
_June 15._ Worked all morning on the rifle range with a battalion of Pioneers. Progress was very slow, as we were working in solid chalk, and every piece has to be drilled off. In the afternoon went for a ride with two infantry friends over the hills towards the coast. A most perfect day, and so very easy to forget that we are engaged in war. Once we came up through dense pine forests on to the bare summit of the last ridge of hills before the coast, and to my great delight we could see the spires of Calais in the distance. Instantly I recalled Matthew Arnold’s lines and felt certain that he had been on that selfsame ridge when he wrote them.
“A thousand knights have reined their steeds To watch this line of sand hills run Along the never silent Strait To Calais glittering in the sun.”
——and fifty miles away the guns!
_June 16._ Sunday. Received orders to proceed to Corps Gas School for a course of training in Anti-Gas Warfare, etc. Went with ten other officers in a lorry from Brigade H.Q., and persuaded our driver (20 francs) to get lost in St. Omer. We had an excellent four-course lunch in approved civilian style, and on arrival at the school at 3 p.m. well——
“Since ’twas very clear, We drank only ginger beer; Faith, there must have been Some stingo in the ginger.”
_June 17._ Spent a quiet restful day, work starting at 9 a.m. and finishing at 4 p.m. Wrote letters in the evening and early to bed.
_June 18._ Had a very interesting day making gas attacks and committing sundry other barbarities—among them walking round a room smelling bottles and trying to identify the contents by their stinks—my nose feels as if the world were composed of one vast unmentionable stink! In the evening went for an hour’s march in gasmasks—what sublime, unutterable joy to get them off again!
_June 19._ Nothing doing at the School, so we made up a party and again tasted the somewhat bitter-sweets of semi-civilisation.
_June 20._ Boring day—fed up.
_June 21._ Manufacturing stinks all day—will be heartily glad to see the company again.
_June 22._ Examinations and end of the course—thank God! Felt rotten in the afternoon and went to bed—pray it isn’t Spanish ’flu, as there is a terrible lot about. Shortly after midnight a party came into our hut and took out Captain Sparks and threw him in the pond. Served him right; I never knew a more bombastic idiot.
_June 23._ Went back to the company in a motor lorry, arriving 3 p.m. Found the others playing Badminton over a wire net and in field boots! Still jolly feverish but cheered up to be with the company again.
_June 24._ There are rumours about to-day that we are going still farther away from the war in order to be trained as “storm troops”—apparently we are considered a good division and we are picked for the Grand Forlorn Hope of the Allies. Even the most pale-faced pacifist could hardly help feeling a thrill of pride when he learns that he is picked for such a venture. Myself I am delighted—until I think of the married men. It is at least certain that I am far too sentimental to be a Staff Officer—a man who unconsciously visualises the widows and the orphans could never do it, and to me it will always be something more than a game of chess. But perhaps that is only the natural attitude of the pawn!
_June 25._ Orders came through last night that we are moving again to-day, but it is to be eastwards this time. Up all night in consequence, and had company on the road with all transport by 8.30 a.m. Marching all day, _via_ Watten to St. Omer, where we arrived at 6 p.m.—very weary. Had only three hours’ sleep and was roused by Orderly Corporal at 1 a.m.—
_June 26._ ——with instructions to meet Staff Captain fifteen miles away at 7 a.m. What a life! From Brigade went forward on bicycle and arranged billets for company, which arrived at 4 p.m. Very poor accommodation and officers had to sleep in tents.
_June 27._ Spent a quiet day resting and cleaning up after our travels. Learnt that we are going into the line again south of Ypres, in the neighbourhood of the Kemmel front.
_June 28._ Two officers went forward to the line to take over our work from the French. Spent the day inspecting all our gear and cleaning guns and ammunition. We are beginning to lose our ragamuffin appearance and look something like soldiers again to-day. It is wonderful the way the men can pull themselves together after the times they have had.
_June 29._ All details completed and we are ready—for what?
_June 30._ Sunday. At 2 p.m. we left our billets and should be in the line about 6 p.m. When we set out the company looked smarter than I have ever seen it, the men fit and well and marching like the Guards, the horses fat and frisky, and the wagons and the harnesses shining like a Dress Parade. The Major was away in front with Derry so that I was in command. I felt sad as I rode round the ranks for the last time and took my station at the head of the column. Then, turning in my saddle, I gave the words, and as the lead chains tightened and the pontoons lumbered slowly forward my sadness changed to pride—for the first time in my life I was leading 250 magnificent men towards a battle, and I prayed that I might never let them down.
Proceeded to Divisional H.Q. Area, where we installed our transport with the exception of the limbers. The sections then went forward to billets under the shadow of Kemmel, where we arrived about 7 p.m. Every one very tired as it has been a broiling day and we are white with dust. Our area does not seem to have been shelled very much, and the farms and cottages where the men are billeted are almost intact. We are, however, completely overlooked from Kemmel Hill and cannot move about in daylight. The tool-carts were brought up and camouflaged after dark, and when all was settled and the men had had a meal I went to investigate my billet. It is a small room 10 feet by 6 feet and, with the exception of a similar room adjoining it, is the only remaining part of what has once been a decent cottage. The walls were papered with newspapers printed in five different languages, and the general filth of the place was beyond description. Following my usual practice, I put Marjorie’s large photograph in my map case and hung it on the wall, after which the place looked a little more cheerful. However, the guns were very active, the lice were even more so, and not even the comfort of her photograph could induce me to fall asleep.
_July 1._ Got up about 11 a.m. and spent the day until 4 p.m. lying in the sun and listening to the Decca—and the guns! The last of the French officers left us to-day after marking on our map where two women are to be found on the Steenvorde road. Thank God we are not like that! About 4.30 p.m. all officers cycled forward to inspect work. Everything is utterly destroyed, and the once prosperous little town in front of us is now nothing but a pile of bricks. It requires large parties of men working all night to keep one road clear for the transport. When one considers that the town has been utterly wiped out in two months one can form some conception of the intensity of the German shell-fire. After struggling through the debris we left our cycles behind a hillock, entered a trench, and walked round to the front.
Away on the left we could distinguish the ruins of Ypres shining faintly in the evening sun, and smoking under a desultory bombardment. Closer to us was the brick pile and swamp once known as Dickebusch, and in front, a few hundred yards away, the bulk of Kemmel Hill towered above us. Two months ago I saw it covered with beautiful woods and peaceful rest camps; now it is a bare, brown pile of earth, and only a few shattered tree-stumps in the shell-holes remain to mock the memory of its verdant beauty. The whole of Kemmel Hill and the valley and the ravines in front are one solid mass of shell-holes. The earth has been turned and turned again by shell-fire, and the holes lie so close together that they are not distinguishable as such. The ground in many places is paved with shrapnel balls and jagged lumps of steel—in ten square yards you could pick up several hundredweight.
There was a magnificent view of all the Bosche forward lines, but of course he has a much better view of ours and also of our back areas. They say it is death to move a finger in front of the hill and all our work will have to be done at night.
On our way back we came across an old French battery position which had apparently been defended to the end in the great struggle. The guns were right in the open and must have caught the full blast of the German fire, for the limbers were all shattered to pieces and many of them were turned over into the shell-holes. The gunners were killed to a man round their pieces, and could have no finer monument than their pile of empty shell-cases. Their bodies still lay there unburied, mixed up with the carcasses of the horses with which they had tried to get the guns away at the last moment—some were headless, limbless, and with their entrails strewn around them—most had had the clothing blown from their bodies, and some had been half eaten by the rats. A noble end and yet—how infinitely better if such true nobility could have served a better cause—or must we, in despair, admit our civilisation to be a sham and war the only reality which can show us at our best? If any man had the power to picture the fearful indescribability of that scene I vow there would be no war—but it is not to be—the world is so utterly detached from all this blood and carnage, it doesn’t worry them, and besides, they must have recreation, “the strain is so terrible, you know.” They can hardly stand it, poor things—and besides, the air raids—terrible! Meantime we die—without recreation. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
_July 2._ Before turning in last night I spent some time over my maps and have now got a pretty clear idea of the hopelessness of our position. There are no trenches, but we hold a broken line of outposts about five hundred yards in front of an old main road which we are defending. The key of our position is one solitary hill, a small symmetrical hump not more than 100 feet high and entirely overlooked by Mont Kemmel, which is ten times higher. And yet the whole line in Northern France, and perhaps the result of the war, depends on our holding this little hill. Between it and the coast the country is as flat as a pancake, and if we lose the hill we lose Calais and the Belgian ports—so much for the country, now for the men. We have a division which, with the exception of the few days’ recent rest, has had about six months of continuous hard fighting. Our front is twice as long as it should be, we are still below half strength, and most of our effectives are boys of 18–19 going into the line for the first time. On the other hand, the Huns hold very superior positions and they are flushed with victory. Such is our problem; the answer will be written in blood around the slopes of Kemmel. I forgot to say that there are no reserves between ourselves and Calais. Let us pray!
_July 3._ Went forward at 3 a.m. with the Major in the hope of laying out new trenches for to-night’s work. Unfortunately the mists cleared away very early and we were not able to do very much. Fritz was apparently very sleepy and we didn’t get sniped—nevertheless I was jolly glad to get into a trench again. I cycled back and spent the morning at the Dump and in looking for material. In the afternoon went forward again with my sergeant to show him the work, but was not able to do much as the snipers were very active. Went forward again in the evening—did another reconnaissance and got a party of about 30 men out on the job by 11 p.m. We were trying to put a belt of wire across the end of a valley which offers a covered advance to Huns. Progress was very slow owing to persistent enemy machine-gun fire and horrible condition of the valley bottom. Fritz had apparently brought a gun forward specially to shoot up the gully and we had to spend most of the night on our stomachs. In addition, the transport got lost and we were held up for lack of material.
_July 4._ Got back to billets about 5 a.m., having been on my feet twenty-six hours. Had a few hours’ sleep and went forward again with ten men, showing them the tracks, etc., so that they will be available as guides. Went forward again at 8 p.m. and after a terrific struggle got two pontoons of material behind the hill by 11 p.m. On way up an 8–in. shell landed between the wagons and knocked out two men whom we left with R.A.M.C. The horses were terrified, and in trying to hold them Baker was knocked down by one and badly kicked. I wanted him to go back, but he insisted in carrying on. There was heavy shell-fire all the way up and I was damn glad to get them all under cover. Work on the valley was again very slow, owing to heavy machine-gun fire and lack of carrying-parties. Jumping down into a shell-hole when the fire was rather hot I caught on some wire and ripped my leg, and also cut my left breeches leg right off. When the men had gone back I tried to do some more taping out before the mists cleared but could hardly drag myself along and nearly fell asleep in No Man’s Land.
_July 5._ Got back to billets to find that Derry had gone sick. More work for the rest of us, and we are nearly tired out now. In the evening Blacker crocked up and went sick too—pure undiluted funk on his part. Three officers left now to do the work of ten and the Major will go soon. He hasn’t been to bed for a week, and must have walked at least twenty-five miles every day. I had a talk with him and persuaded him to order the T.O. up from the horse-lines, so that will make four of us. I have got two Brigades to look after now.
Forward again about 7 p.m. and nearly completed wire across the valley in spite of usual machine-gun fire—two men hit in my party. Heavy shell-fire all night.
_July 6._ Coming home about 4 a.m. I met the Major alone, and although nearly finished I went back to help him to lay out a new line. Poor old Major is nearly done, but he will drop before he gives in. I hope we can last until some more officers come, but my eyes are jumping and my head sings like a tornado—how few people must know what it is like to be really exhausted in the body and yet to have a mind which drives you on.
“To make your heart and nerve and sinew Still serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them, ‘Hold on.’”
I hope we can.
_July 7._ Beginning to get used to feeling tired and think we can stick it now. We are all jumpy and are too far gone to talk or read the paper—the Decca hasn’t been touched for days. Had another cruel night, and was on the go for twelve hours. Finished wire across the valley and got well on with digging reserve trenches and wiring reserve line.
_July 8._ Had three hours’ sleep and went up again at night after a heavy afternoon’s work. Very heavy thunderstorms all night made it almost impossible to move about. Was so exhausted with falling into shell-holes that I started to crawl about on my hands and knees in the mud—once I almost cried with sheer weakness. On way home I fell off my bike and was so weak I had to leave it in a shell-hole. Once or twice I touched my revolver—there is always that. It is a terrible thought, and even now, half an hour afterwards, I can’t understand it—how much less can people at home!
_July 9._ Slept a bit, worked all afternoon, and up again at night. Heavily shelled on way up but no casualties. Completed first wiring of left Brigade front and most of their digging. Did an early morning reconnaissance with Major and Brigade-Major, having been on the go fifteen hours.
I think we can keep it up indefinitely now, but where our strength comes from I don’t know—at least eighteen hours per day.
_July 10._ Usual sort of day. Had to walk all the way to line and back as it was impossible to get a bike through the mud. Wretched night, with pouring rain and howling wind—two poor devils killed.
_July 11._ Usual day—started clearing New Wood for digging to-morrow night. Whole area heavily shelled. Could sleep for ever and would dearly love to die.
_July 12._ Went up in the afternoon to take over two more jobs—making a new roof for left Brigade H.Q.’s and tunnelling an underground First-Aid Post for the Middlesex. Had tea with the Brigadier and then dinner with the C.O. front line battalion. It is really very amusing the way in which some of these old-time regulars endeavour to preserve their mess formalities. The dug-out couldn’t have been more than 12 feet square, and yet they managed to produce quite a respectable four-course dinner for seven officers. It was handed on to the table by a perspiring orderly, who crouched in the entrance to a tunnel which could not have exceeded 3 ft. by 4 ft. How the food was cooked I could never imagine, but the smells of cooking leaked out from behind the orderly, and somewhere in the depths of the blackness behind him there was a voice that swore, mightily and frequently. I judged that the Voice had produced the meal and also that it had been a hot job. Most of the soup got spilt before it left the end of the cavern, but the smell was excellent and gave us quite an appetite for the tinned salmon which followed. This had been brought up with ammunition and a bottle of execrable French vinegar from Division that very afternoon. The next course was excellent. Roast mutton, procured as the result of dark dealings with the A.S.C., fresh peas from heavens knows where, and lastly some sauce made from mint which they said had been growing last night in No Man’s Land. The sweet was a treacle pudding. We drank thin whiskies and sodas which were distinctly lukewarm in spite of all the doctor’s efforts to keep the stuff cool. All things considered, a very enjoyable meal and a great credit to the Voice.
Did a hard night’s work and got back, feeling as if I could sleep for ever, about 5 a.m.
_July 13._ Was up again about 10 a.m. and inspected explosives before lunch. Then up the line again to start another mining job—“B” Company, H.Q. Front Line Battalion. Have now got two big mining jobs in hand and the Colonel absolutely refuses to send me any timber. He says there is plenty to be salved. True, O king! but to call it firewood would be flattery. However, it doesn’t matter—if the whole damn shaft falls in and kills twenty men there are plenty more in England. Life is much cheaper than timber! Managed to get home for tea and dinner, but back out again all night. While talking to one of the working-party officers a piece of whizz-bang landed between us and another one smashed his respirator. I am sure some one is going to be killed in the mines—the earth runs like quicksand, and even with decent frames it would be a dangerous job. Without, it is sheer suicide, and a shell anywhere near us on the surface will cave the whole thing in. Fortunately, the men don’t realise these things, lucky beggars.
_July 14._ Informed that the Division on our right are doing a raid to-night, but working parties are to go out as usual! If I were sentimental I should have to write a last letter home every night—then I would certainly be killed.
Started work on a strong point in front of the hill, and shortly afterwards our barrage started in conjunction with the raid. It was very fierce, and the S.O.S. lights went up at once over the German lines. We were watching the pretty colours when their protective barrage came down, just like a sudden thunderstorm, and I realised to my horror that we were working dead on their barrage line. Before I saw exactly what had happened two men were knocked to pieces and the remainder were running all over the place looking for cover. There were the ruins of a farm on our left, and I was trying to get the men together into the holes around this. We got about fifteen into this and several wounded, and then they shortened range. A salvo came bang on top of us, there was a great lurid flash and a roar by my feet and I thought I was done for. I went clean off my feet and was blown several yards, but got up and found I was untouched but nearly blind and awfully dizzy. I heard some one calling, and found McDougall. He had been knocked over by the same shell and was quite blind. We crawled into a hole together and waited to get our breath. The shells were coming just round us in solid masses so close that we could feel the earth heaving, and once or twice we were half buried. I had lost my bearings completely, and McDougall was still blind and apparently dazed, for he wouldn’t answer when I shouted in his ear. Then I felt alone and I thought I would go mad—there were rats in the same hole with us, screaming with terror, and all the time those blasted shells, crash, crash, crash. I felt I must do something, so I looked over into the next shell-hole and saw that it was part of an old trench. I shoved McDougall over and together we flopped down into it and felt much safer, as it was deeper than the one we had left. Then I started to crawl along the trench, and to my great delight we found some of the men.