CHAPTER V

WINTER IN THE LOOS SALIENT.

The last month of 1915 found the Civil Service Rifles in trenches in what was justifiably called a “hot corner.” After the holiday at Lillers, the Battalion went to occupy the well-known Hairpin trench, near Loos.

Some months previously the general run of the German front trench had been along the crest of a ridge, the English line being parallel and about 100 yards below. An attempt to capture the crest had only partially succeeded, and about fifty yards of the German trench was occupied by English troops. A trench was dug from each end of this strip to the English front line, thus forming the Hairpin. On each side of the captured piece of trench a stretch of about 50 yards was left unoccupied by either side, but obstructed by the usual block guarded by bombers.

To connect up their front line again the Germans dug a trench in front of the captured piece.

It will readily be understood that this was not a healthy spot, and the advantage of holding the captured 50 yards of German trench was a very doubtful one, as the occupants came in for a very liberal bombardment.

But _the_ tragedy of the Hairpin came on the night of the 20th December, when the Battalion was ordered to send all its bombers, together with some bayonet men from “B” Company, over the top on the right of the Hairpin to jump into the German trench and bomb along it, while a party from the 7th Battalion restored a barricade (in the German front line adjoining the afore-mentioned captured strip of 50 yards) which the Germans had rushed early that morning.

The attack was most gallantly led by the Battalion Bombing Officer, 2nd Lieutenant A. M. Thompson, an officer of the 14th Royal Fusiliers, attached to Civil Service Rifles, but from the outset there was not the slightest chance of success. However, 2nd Lieutenant Thompson and the N.C.O.’s and men with him went to their end unflinchingly, and though the enemy put down an impenetrable barrier of bombs, rifle grenades and machine-gun bullets, the tragic scheme went on until all officers and N.C.O.’s taking part had been put out of action.

There were many most valuable lives lost on that night unfortunately, as it turned out, to no purpose, for the Germans a few days later blew up the whole trench and a number of the 23rd London Regiment, who were holding it, went with it.

Although Second Lieutenant Thompson had only been with the Battalion a few months, he had speedily won the confidence and respect of all ranks, for at all times he set a fine example of courage and devotion to duty. He was buried the next evening in the right leg of the Hairpin.

Of Lance-Corporal L. H. Druett, who died a true hero’s death in that disastrous enterprise, it is difficult indeed to speak sufficiently highly. His sterling qualities as a soldier, a companion, and a real white man, won for him the respect and admiration of the most careless.

Associated for a long time with Lance-Corporal Druett was Private A. B. Evans, otherwise “Taff” Evans, known to the bombers as “The Bird” (having a trick of putting his head to one side like a magpie), another of the stalwarts who lost his life in the struggle at the Hairpin while going to the assistance of another bomber; and, among others, mention must be made of Lance-Corporal M. Roach, who was in charge of a large party of “B” Company bombers and bayonet men, and who was fatally wounded whilst working on one of the barricades, after doing splendid work that night, and of Private E. G. Crockett, who, although severely wounded in the stomach, walked unaided to the Dressing Station over 100 yards away, but it was impossible to save his life, and he died in hospital nearly a fortnight later. Both were great favourites in “B” Company, where they had been well known for their good sportsmanship and cheerfulness.

The bombers were naturally hit harder than other sections in this sad business, and another who could ill be spared was Private H. M. Nash, a modest and unassuming fellow, who had only recently become a bomber. It is said that he threw his bombs like a cricket ball some 45 yards, and, after his officers and N.C.O.’s had been hit, he performed many deeds of gallantry before he met his death.

Enough has been written to give an idea of the losses at the Hairpin. They were all men whose places it was felt could never be adequately filled, and consequently the Battalion was not in a particularly joyous mood for Christmas, which was spent in trenches and cellars near the Water Tower at Vermelles. The conditions did not lend themselves to a merry Christmas, for there was no chance at all of celebrating Christmas Day, and it was not until Boxing Day that the Christmas letters and parcels were received.

In consequence of an alarm, a sudden move had to be made on Christmas Eve to support positions at Vermelles, and the whole of that day and Christmas Day were spent in “standing to,” so there was little opportunity for merry-making. But on Christmas night the alarm died down and a move was made to huts at Noyelles, where some succeeded in dining not wisely but too well on parcels from home, puddings from the _Daily News_, and Army rum. The Battalion canteen managed at this time by Ibbett, had now got into its stride, and its stock included welcome barrels of stout, in addition to champagne, port, sherry, whisky and a few other “dainties.”

New Year’s Eve was not even as cheerful as Christmas Eve, for the Battalion was now in the front line at the Hohenzollern Redoubt, and the artillery on both sides were busy playing the old year out--the infantry in the front line getting the full benefit of it.

But before the New Year was many hours old, the Battalion had a real stroke of good luck--a German mine blew up prematurely in front of them, thus saving them from what was easily the most unpopular frightfulness of the war!

The New Year was also marked by an act of gallantry which was afterwards recognised by the award of the Military Medal to the two men concerned--Corporal P. J. Tickle and Drummer H. Hogwood.

The Hohenzollern Redoubt was not a pleasant spot. There had been a good deal of fighting in the neighbourhood during the past three months, and khaki figures still lay stiff and grim in No Man’s Land where they had fallen. There were therefore no regrets when the Division was relieved by a Cavalry Division about the middle of January, 1916, and the 47th Division relieved the 18th French Division in the Loos sector.

The Civil Service Rifles brought to a close its long association with this neighbourhood by a short spell of trench warfare in the trenches on the eastern fringe of the village of Loos, and on the famous Double Crassier. The situation on the Double Crassier was unique in a way, for both English and German trenches ran across these two big slag heaps. The troops invariably returned from these trenches looking like so many coal miners, for there was coal dust floating about everywhere.

The district lived up to its peace-time reputation as a centre of mining activity, for the hated mine warfare was pursued freely about this time with the usual accompaniment of minenwerfers. Otherwise life hereabouts was more or less uneventful, except for a big display of war-time fireworks on the Kaiser’s birthday, January 27th. It was thought the great War Lord would celebrate his birthday by making a big attack, but on the front occupied by the 47th Division he was apparently satisfied with a heavy bombardment.

There have been numerous poets in the ranks of the Civil Service Rifles, and there are many creditable effusions which, perhaps through the modesty of the poet, will never see the light of print. Some, however, have been saved, including some verses on the exploits of Private Beatty, a bomber of “A” Company, an odd, scraggy little man, with a husky voice, known to his intimates as Potgut Woodbine. He is immortalised by Hanna in his

NEW SONG OF HIAWATHA.

“Came my youngling--Pip. Q. Emma, She the youngest of my offspring, She the peardrop of my eyelid-- Grinning, dribbling, gurgling came she.

Thus the buxom Pip. Q. Emma-- ‘Say, oh, Father Potgut Woodbine, Thou who could’st outrun the lithe louse; Thou who never more wilt form fours, What did’st thou when on the warpath Strode the Hare-Hun-Scare-Hun-Willies?’ Breathless paused she for an answer.

Childling, daughter of the prairies, Born where rushing waters thunder (Near the Elephant and Castle Hard against the Old Kent Gas Works)-- Listen how my kinsman Potgut Put to flight the wily Hun-bird; Popped it right up Hiawatha, Fritz von Rudolph Hiawatha And his spouse, Frau Minen Werfer.

Know you first how Hiawatha Wooed his buxom Minen Werfer-- Learned the names of all her spare parts, Learned her--barrel, charge and striker, Strength of charge and detonator-- Took to parts her complex innards, At her home, the Trench Mawt Ah Skool. Skool am Trenchgranatenkruppe Bureau Bomski vor Vlamingen Mawt Ah Markwun Star How Itza Teufel Bligh Mee Mawt Ah Oh Mi.

Took he Minnie to his bosom, On his deer-skin wore her totem, Wore he swankily Kross Mawt Ahs, Token of his life’s gymkhana. Not that Fritz’s life was one huge joke! Or as ripe as Methu-Selah’s-- Trained he three moons with his Minnie, Three moons--no leave--hell’s sweat--oh, hell! Three months with the Umpteenth Na Poos.

Up the line went Hiawatha In a truck designed for cattle Labelled ‘London via Calais,’ By a poor misguided Fun-Man, Poor, deluded fool Hun-Fun-Man, Reveller in Herr Wolffe’s Folk-lore-- Grimm, Hans Andersen and Æsop (Mighty joss-men in invention, Fertile in imagination). Westward on his way to Calais Blithely journeys Hiawatha, Counts the hours till on the Boulevard He shall dance with Minen Werfer; Counts the hours--and in the meantime Bully beef imbibes--and curses.

To a full stop came the puff-puff, Is this Calais, guard, or Paris? Houndsditch, Croydon, Piccadilly? New Cross Empire or the Abbey? Tersely came the answer--‘_Hulluch_.’

Up the trench went Hiawatha, With his jolly old Trench Mawt Ah, Grunting, sweating, cursing, went he, Vanished all his former blitheness.

On his side the British Tumai, Mustered in his front-line trenches, Mustered. Picked men of the Lun-duns. From the Base Camps, o’er the Prairies, Came the Warriors from The Village, Little Village by The River, Lun-Dun, homestead of the Cocquenays. Came the Blackfoot Cee Essah Hipes, Came the jolly old Westminsters. Came Loo Eeza’s own Shoshonies, Came the Choctan Stepney Long-Bows. Came the Amazon-like Scott Ish, Sinkers of the raiding ‘Emden,’ Maid-like clad, yet Mighty Warriors.

Never could one say of ‘Minnie’ As of Darling Clementine-- ‘Light she was and like a fairy’-- For her Bore was 4·9, Treble ply in all her braces (Which were not the same as Fritz’s) Manners none had Minen Werfer, Minen Werfer, Strafe-ing Mawt Ah. Spat she openly with gusto, Vomited great land-torpedoes-- Spat she rations of contumely At the grim-faced, grimy Tumai.

In the trench among the Tumais, Sore-strafed, half-drowned, tortured Tumais, Was thy kinsman Pot-Gut Woodbine, Bomber Pot-Gut Bee Tee Woodbine, Crouching red-faced o’er his brazier, Puffing, blowing at the embers, Heeding not the rage of Minnie. Reckless he of flying fragments Till a piece dropped in his dixie, Flopping, dropped right home to Dixie. Up rose Pot-Gut in his anger, In his hand he seized a Mills Bomb, In a loud voice bellowed ‘Pin Out’ (War-cry of the Cee Ess Bombers).

Strong of arm was Pot-Gut Woodbine, He could throw ten Mills Bombs upward, Throw them with such strength and swiftness, That the tenth had left his fingers Ere the first to earth had fallen.

In the neck, poor Minen Werfer Got she six of Pot-Gut’s Mills Bombs; In the neck, or rather barrel, Other four got Hiawatha, Got, nor thanked the Lord for sending. Woke he in the med’cine wig-wam, Life had ceased to be one Huge Joke, ‘Where is now my Minen Werfer,’ Cried he, and from out the darkness, Through the noise of many waters Came the answer, ‘Minnie? Fini! Fini! Na poo! Compris. Got me?’ Loud his voice raised Hiawatha In a howling lamentation-- ‘Farewell,’ said he, ‘Minen Werfer’ ‘Farewell, O my Strafeing Mawt Ah,’ Both my ears are buried with you, All my hair you’ve taken with you! Come not back again to labour, Come not back again to swelter Up the line with post and rations. Soon your footsteps I shall follow To the regions of the cursed. To the Hell reserved for Hun-men.’

This did I, O Pip. Q. Emma, In the Great War with the Hun-man, Thus fought I, your mighty kinsman, Bomber Bee Tee Pot-Gut Woodbine.

From my knee slid Pip. Q. Emma, What a liar! Pot-Gut Woodbine!”

It was agreed by all that this gem should not be lost to the world, and it was reproduced some months afterwards in the _Hazeley Wail_, a magazine published by the 1st Battalion wounded who had returned to the Reserve Battalion.

* * * * *

Hopes were now raised by rumours of another period in Corps Reserve and a return to Lillers, but the Division was not destined to leave without a little excitement, for in the early hours of the 15th of February, the last day at Loos was heralded by the blowing of a big mine by the Germans under the front line held by the 7th London Regiment on the immediate right of the Civil Service Rifles. A diary of a bomber describes it thus:--

“This morning I had just fallen asleep, after an arduous night fatigue, followed by a cold stand-to, when the earth walls of the dug-out shook with so violent a tremor that I thought we should have been buried alive. I rushed outside to find the enemy firing like mad! Rifle grenades, trench mortars, aerial torpedoes, and death-dealing whiz bangs were falling in all directions. Some 50 yards to our right a new volcano now reared its ugly sides to Heaven. The Teutons had got their own back. The mine was theirs. But before the earth had finished falling, our Private Sugars (attached 140th Brigade Machine Gun Company) from the front line trench, about 50 yards from the mine had turned his machine gun on to the position, and his continuous stream of lead stopped the German attempts to rush the crater. Indeed, a heap of slain told the losses of their bold but fruitless attacks. Alas! a party of the Seventh had met the fate we so dreaded ourselves! They had gone up with the mine! Truly our luck was in.

“In half an hour all firing ceased as if by consent, and we settled down to prepare breakfast. Bulldog Harris, the C.S.M. of ‘C’ Company, had been issuing rum at the time of the explosion. With great presence of mind he had saved the precious liquid from the falling debris with his cap. So we got our ration. Many of the new draft needed such a pick-me-up, for we quite thought the strafe was a prelude to a German attack. The enemy was said to have massed his reserves on this front in readiness for an offensive.

“Thank God we are to be relieved to-night! To-morrow we should be on terra firma again, far away from the terrors of mines and counter-mines. There will be no need to watch the sky for those fatal rockets or to fall flat on the trench path to escape the full fury of the nasty tearing Minnie.

“To good old Lillers with its ancient market place and quaint mediæval images of the saints carved in niches over the principal shops--a town now flowing with Bass, Worthington and cheap champagne--snug Auberges, too, where you can dine in luxury for 1 franc, 75 cents. To Lillers!”

* * * * *

The troops were naturally in the best of spirits on the morning of the departure for Lillers. The transport had to go the whole way by road, and started in a perfect blizzard at about 5.0 a.m.

The rest of the Battalion went by rail as usual from Nœux-les-Mines, and, soon after arriving at Lillers, the welcome news arrived that the Division had said good-bye to the Loos sector, and on its return to the front line would try conclusions with the Boche in a new area.

There were many informal “celebrations” of the completion of the first year in France during a very pleasant fortnight spent in Lillers, where, in spite of intense cold and much snow, all ranks contrived to be merry and to forget the war, except for the various alarms, notably the two days’ stand-to in billets for Verdun.

A typical Company “celebration” held at the Restaurant Picot on the 27th of February has been recorded:--

“Covers were laid for 40. Our spirits were high and our appetites huge as we tucked into two helpings each of soup, sardines, tongue, chicken and peas, fruit, blanc mange and dessert. At 6.0 p.m. we could toast each other in French beer, cheap champagne and port.

“During some of the courses, Cooper, Lawman and others warbled sweetly at the piano, and by the time the dessert course was reached, the fun had become fast and furious. Old Picot himself, a fat and jovial Frenchman of 50, danced and frolicked with the youngest.

“There were no speeches made or toasts drunk to those whose faces we so sadly missed at the festive board, but was it altogether fancy that made us feel their presence?”

* * * * *

The occasions on which an infantry soldier in France was able to have a bath were so few and far between in these early days, that the event was usually recorded in the official Regimental War Diary. In the mining districts advantage was generally taken of the civilian baths at the mine heads, but sometimes the Divisional baths were installed in breweries, electric light works, or, in fact, anywhere near a water main. The baths naturally could not be near the billets of all units in the Division, so that a bath was often preceded and succeeded by a long march in full marching order at a most inconvenient time of day.

These objections were ultimately overcome in the Civil Service Rifles by Lieutenant-Colonel Segrave, who brought canvas baths from London, won a Soyer stove or two from Ordnance, and instituted the Civil Service Rifles baths, which were open daily whenever the Battalion was out of the line.

The ceremonies at the Divisional baths generally took place during a Battalion’s rest in Divisional or Corps Reserve, and a scribe of “B” Company was so impressed with the baths at Lillers as to write the following account in a letter home:--

“Platoons went in turns to the brewery for a bath. Imagine, if it is not too shocking, twelve of us at a time bathing in a mash-tub, and the unusual spectacle of 24 feet and I don’t know how many toes meeting in the middle. No wonder somebody described the atmosphere as ‘foetid.’ You kept on losing the soap and diving for it under other fellows’ legs.”

At Poperinghe, later on, the baths were run by a hustler who could now get a lucrative appointment on the District Railway. After three weeks of trench life, a man was allowed exactly thirty seconds under the hot spray and was then allowed to dry himself in a strong breeze while the minions of the Divisional Laundry Officer disinfected his clothing, which in some baths had to be strung up in a bundle on a hook to protect him from pickpockets.

* * * * *

The first year in France was rapidly drawing to a close, and though many gaps had been caused in the ranks by casualties and many by members of the Regiment being appointed to commissions in other Regiments, the Battalion as a whole had undergone little change. The work of the first year could be looked upon with satisfaction, and although “God’s Own” Civil Service Rifles had not taken part in any big assault, there had been many little items of “dirty work” done.

The short stay at Lillers passed all too quickly and soon the Battalion trekked out in the snow, the remainder of the time in Corps Reserve being spent in training at the villages en route to the new area.