CHAPTER III

A “BON WAR”

The inhabitants of the little mining village of Les Brebis displayed little or no surprise when they were called from their beds in the middle of the night to greet the Civil Service Rifles on their arrival from Sailly Labourse--another mining village where a peaceful week had been spent after Festubert.

The natives of Les Brebis were now quite accustomed to being awakened at all hours of the night to receive new lodgers, for their houses were the billets of the Battalion in reserve to the front line at Grenay and Maroc, near by.

The heat during the day of the 7th of June had been of the real midsummer variety, and it was little better at night, when the march from Sailly Labourse took place. It was not a long march, but the troops were very thankful when it ended, for they found their equipment very heavy on that hot June night.

Les Brebis had had a most extraordinary experience during the war. Here was a village only about two miles from the front line, practically untouched, and fully inhabited with civilians who still went about their daily round as in pre-war times. The mines were still being worked, and an excellent bathing place was found under the water tower of the electric light works.

The men were billeted for the first time in France in close billets, six men on an average sleeping on the small attic floors of the miners’ cottages. The miners and their families were very friendly disposed towards the Civil Service Rifles to judge from the scribe who says:

“Mesdames were very good to us and cooked the delicacies we purchased in the town with the utmost care. There was a barrel of beer in almost every billet, and veal cutlets, cut thin and ‘done to a turn,’ with pommes de terre frites, egg salad and stewed fruit made a favourite meal. Indeed, a French housewife, whose mari was having a hard time in the Vosges on a couple of sous a day expressed her conviction in a burst of confidence that ‘English soldat do no work and eat too much.’”

The early months of the summer of 1915 were passed very pleasantly in this mining district without any event of importance.

The front line was well furnished with various home comforts taken from the almost deserted village of Maroc, the enemy was some distance away, there was little shelling and there were very few casualties. Indeed it was, after Festubert, very much in the nature of a picnic. No Man’s Land was a field of waving corn, with scarlet poppies and blue cornflowers to complete the rural scene. New potatoes and other fresh vegetables, red currants and gooseberries could be picked in abundance from the gardens near the trenches, and there are men who claim to have slipped away from the line to a neighbouring estaminet “to have a quick one” between their turns of sentry duty in the line.

The chief enemy was the ferocious fly, which, according to one victim, “crawled under our clothes, down our backs, between our eyelids and into our mouths and ears. Over one dug-out a wit had inscribed Itch Den (Ich Dien) below the Prince of Wales’s feathers, testifying to the fact that we were now not only doing our bit but being well bitten in the process.”

More than one scribbler relieved the monotony of trench routine by recording this phase of the Great War in his diary:

“‘The chief fatigues,’ according to Loxdale, ‘were sand-bagging, water fetching and dug-out digging, and the game in connection with them all was to dodge them. This was generally effected by never being about when fatigues were going. Other methods which still worked occasionally were preoccupation with imaginary duties, profound slumber, or serious indisposition at the psychological moment.’”

A night fatigue was humorously described by Beatty as follows:

“To the uninitiated who have only witnessed the carrying of a plank along the King’s highway, plank-carrying may appear, at first sight, a very humdrum occupation. But when two men endeavour to negotiate the twists and turns of a tortuous trench--some alliteration, what!--bearing on their shoulders a 12 ft. plank, the possibilities are endless.

“It was a beautiful summer night: the stars were starring in the heavens as is their wont: the poppies on the parapet were gaily popping and Ebo Smith and I were lying in the trench bottom wrapped in slumber, overcoats and waterproof sheets.

“Suddenly we were rudely awakened by the raucous voice of an N.C.O. exclaiming, ‘Five men wanted for fatigue.’ We told him ‘Yes,’ and went to sleep again. But it was no use. He kept on chanting in a dismal monotone:

“‘Five men from No. 2 are wanted for fatigue,’ and we had perforce to rise and follow him. After wandering for some distance, we reached a pile of planks which we had to carry, and this is where the fun started.

“The diabolical malice of things inanimate is well known. The propensity for bread-and-butter to fall face downwards on the best Brussels carpet, and the elusive gambols of the wily collar stud are everyday occurrences; but for absolutely fiendish cunning commend me to a 12 ft. plank.

“We had not gone more than one hundred yards along the trench before my rifle got between my legs and the piling-swivel caught in my puttee. I, naturally enough, leant the plank on the parapet and bent down to unfasten my leg. This was the opportunity for which the plank, having lulled us into a false sense of security by its apparent docility, was waiting. With diabolical malice it leapt from the parapet and smote me on the back of the head. As there were no stretcher-bearers in the neighbourhood I quickly recovered, and we proceeded on our pilgrimage.

“Ere long we arrived at an exceedingly sharp turn, the projecting piece being made of sandbags. We were just thinking of sitting down to discuss the matter when one of the men in the traverse came to our aid. Poor lad! He didn’t know that plank.

“‘We’ll shove it over the top,’” quoth he! and, seizing one end, leapt lightly to the top of the pile of sandbags ere we could warn him.

“His retribution was swift. The pile of sandbags collapsed, our good Samaritan was hurled through the air, the plank swung round and hit him on the head, while the avalanche of sandbags buried Ebo Smith. I dug Ebo out. We thanked our friend, hoped we hadn’t upset him, and left him seated and thinking deeply amidst the debris of this ruined traverse.

“Whether the plank had satiated its lust for blood or whether it was again a case of the triumph of mind over matter, I know not, but it gave us no more trouble, and we returned to our slumber glowing with self-satisfaction at the thought of work well done.”

These long spells of trench life gave splendid opportunities for letter writing, and P. J. Tickle, in one of his letters, tells how the Battalion thus early had experience of the guide who got lost--a bitter experience which became all too common later on.

“After three days at Le Philosophe we wended our weary way to the beginning of the small French communication trench, where we picked up a guide from the battalion we were relieving. Did I say ‘Guide.’ By all the gods man ever swore by, but he was _no_ guide. Before reaching the support line there is only one turning--newly cut by the British and perhaps the narrowest I have ever cursed about. This guide managed to get us a mile down it before discovering his mistake. We didn’t half laugh. It’s an hour’s hard pushing to achieve such a distance through such a trench in full marching order. Not satisfied with having lost his way, he endeavoured to make up for lost time, and finished the course an easy first with the rest of us breathless and knocked, straggling at wide intervals....”

So the summer wore on, the war being so quiet that it was not uncommon for the Battalion to remain sixteen days in the front line without relief. One tour was very much like another, and the following by Irving is an excellent description of a typical relief and march to billets.

“24th July, 1915.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurray!!! I’m clean! clean! clean! Also lice free! Oh, it is simply great!

“After a second stay of 16 days we left the firing line on the night of the 22nd in the usual downpour. These affairs are rather impressive in a way. Let us try to give you an idea.

“First of all, there’s the packing up and the cleaning of the trench and dug-out for the new-comers. Then the long wait, each man in his firing position, for the relief. Then the crushing past the full laden crowds in the narrow trench.

“Then the long winding, never ending, communication trench with its slippery floor, treacherous holes and deep muttered oaths in the caressing whisper of the drizzle and the soft darkness. Till you emerge into the quiet deserted streets of the cemetery-like town, cross the main road, enter the twisted iron gates and pass up the dark avenue of trees--a long, black line of dirty, merry warriors. Now you’re within the shadow of the ruined church, fit place for poets to weep. There it is outlined against the flying clouds, its jagged grey tower, its dead clock always pointing at ten to two--and the huge gaping black wounds in its sides. As you pass, the edifice is lit up grotesquely and ghostlike by the pale light of a distant trench flare, and you catch a fleeting glimpse of the ruined interior where now the rude winds roar over the heaps of debris and round the tottering pillars and broken altar making sport of all these sacred things long held dear by so many--the whole an eloquent and terrifying protest against the God-defying Hun!

“Then you go out into the wind-swept plain, following the line of broken telegraph poles, dodging stray wires and shell holes--the long, dark, single file--trudging, silent and sodden. Till at last you reach the warm shadows of the village with its odd lights veiled, and at the far end our farm billet with its clean straw and a dry and dreamless slumber.

“That was the night before last.

“Yesterday was a good day’s work. I cleaned up everything I had, equipment and kit, and with wild glee flung myself into washing all my underclothes, socks and handkerchiefs, and drying them, for it was a washing day to gladden Mother’s heart. And to crown all, a starko behind the yellow stack--free, unfettered and with an unlimited supply of water. One of God’s most wonderful creations. How we worshipped it body and soul. Oh, the glory of it! To be clean again is great! Great!!!! We sang and danced and ran and jumped and shouted and flung our glad laughter to the blue skies, and were thankful withal. Oh, Earth and Sky, and Wind and Trees, and Green Grass and Strength of Man, Glory!”

“W. J. IRVING.”

* * * * *

During the whole of this time the French were making a desperate struggle in the neighbourhood of Souchez and the Lorette Heights--and occasional glimpses of this area were to be had, though it was mostly enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke from the bursting shells. The efforts of the French, however, may have diverted the attention of the Boche, for he was certainly very kind to the neighbourhood of Grenay and Maroc during this pleasant summer weather. In fact, he seems to have been more severe on the villages of Le Philosophe and Mazingarbe (where the Battalion was sometimes billeted when in reserve) than he was on the front line. At Le Philosophe on one occasion a shell hit Battalion Headquarters, wounding a number of Headquarters Company, including all the regimental police.

The event of the summer was the granting of leave to England to a small party of the Battalion. The news was first received on the 4th of July at Mazingarbe, and the C.O. (Colonel Renny), the R.S.M. (Sergeant-Major A. Toomey) and Sergeant F. S. Thurston were the first in the Regiment to enjoy the most coveted privilege of the British soldier in France. Thereafter the allotment of leave to the Battalion was at the rate of two officers and four other ranks per week, though this rate was not kept up for very long.

Colonel Renny, it should be mentioned, did not return from leave, as he was detained in hospital in England. As Commanding Officer, he was very popular with all ranks, and for his age his energy was marvellous. The Battalion was very sorry to lose its “little Indian Colonel,” as he was called. The men felt they would miss him most in the front line, where it was a very familiar sight to see him wandering round, indifferent to danger or discomfort, but determined to see things for himself. Colonel Renny was succeeded by Major H. V. Warrender, who had hitherto commanded “B” Company. Major Warrender was gazetted Lieutenant-Colonel in August, and remained in command until the end of 1916. He thus holds the distinction of having commanded the Battalion in war for a longer period than any other commanding officer.

Trench life in the Grenay lines got very monotonous by July and the popular grouse in the Battalion hereabouts referred to the absence of the much-advertised Kitchener’s Army. A notice chalked on a billet door in Quality Street read:

“Lost, stolen or strayed, Kitchener’s Army. Last seen in England in early spring.”

and the ditty often sung about this time which ended

“If Kitchener’s Army don’t come out very soon ’Twill be all up with this ’ere blasted platoon.”

gives evidence of the general feeling of boredom which began to threaten the Battalion.

However, a portion at least of Kitchener’s Army appeared in due course in this area, and during the last two days spent in trenches to the right of the Double Crassier marked on the map as W-2, the Battalion shepherded a kilted regiment on its trial trip in the trenches. They were Scotch right enough (15th Division), both in speech and character, and one of them, after breakfast on the first day, asked in all seriousness what time the “char-rge” was. He considered there ought to be at least one every day. Another canny one, suspecting the “bona-fides” of his tutor, when asked what port he had embarked from, replied “Ah’ll no tell ’e.” Yet another youthful Jock when told to go on sentry immediately climbed out in front and began to march up and down at the slope.

Their commissariat went wrong and they got no food for twenty-four hours. Their hosts saw to it that they had enough to eat, and before dawn had picked sufficient mushrooms for the combined messes, and by dinner enough young new potatoes, carrots, red currants and gooseberries for a good meal.

After a few days in trenches at Le Philosophe, the 47th Division moved into Corps Reserve, the Civil Service Rifles occupying their old billets at La Beuvrière early in August.

The Battalion now lost a very old friend in Lieutenant and Quartermaster W. H. D. Clark, who was ordered to England to take up an appointment in the Ministry of Munitions. Lieutenant Clark had joined the Civil Service Rifles as a private in 1888, and had served continuously since that time, rising through the various ranks of N.C.O. to R.Q.M.S. until he was appointed Quartermaster in 1910. Mr. Clark had been at all times a most enthusiastic worker for the Regiment, and his energy knew no bounds. He took away with him the most cordial good wishes of all ranks. Another old friend in R.S.M. A. Toomey, a Scots Guardsman who for many years had been on the permanent staff of the Battalion, succeeded to the appointment of Quartermaster, and C.S.M. Jolliffe of “C” Company acted as R.S.M. Bernard Jolliffe was undoubtedly one of the most popular members of the Regiment, and it was distinctly unfortunate that ill-health compelled him to return to England a few months after taking up his new duties.

The time at La Beuvrière was spent in Sports (Brigade and Divisional), Football and Cricket, Inspections and Training.

The Battalion distinguished itself by easily defeating both the 6th London Field Ambulance and the Post Office Rifles at cricket and the 4th London Field Ambulance at football. As these teams had previously done well, it was considered a fine performance on the part of the Civil Service Rifles to beat them all. G. Wright, H. E. R. Warton and J. H. Hunt of “D” Company shone as batsmen, and Wright and Second Lieutenant Stevens were the most successful bowlers. Lance-Corporal C. Palser of “C” Company won the quarter mile at the Brigade Sports, and Corporal Williams of the Transport Section was second in the High Jump at the Divisional Sports, where Private W. H. Domoney, an “A” Company bomber, won the open competition for bomb throwing.

It was not all Sports and Pastimes at La Beuvrière, however, and soon the numerous parades and inspections began to pall even as trench life had done. The now historic Brigade Order ordaining that in future the brass tabs on the equipment and the metal parts of entrenching tool handles were to be polished caused one of the Regimental scribes to break into verse, and his effort was a popular item at Company and Regimental Concerts. It was described as the turn of the evening at a Regimental Concert held some months later, and attended by the offending Brigadier himself and the Commanding Officer.