However, other enemies arrive with the snow and freezing mud. “Trench foot” and frost bite. The problem lies with working with wet and frozen feet for weeks on end, unable to change into dry boots or get warm. Whale oil is issued to us to rub into our feet to help prevent trench foot. Those that have the condition in an advanced stage say that it’s worse than having shrapnel flying around. Many men are admitted to dressing stations or further afield for hospital care to repair their frozen extremities.
Our soldiering duties turn away from offensive action and we are engaged more on road repairs, shoring up dugouts, unloading and stockpiling of ammunition. Repair and prepare is the new motto. Nearly all of December with my outfit, 14 Platoon, “D” Company is spent on sapping and trench work, most of it in the open, miserably cold, and very wet.
Leading into Christmas our big guns decide to show Fritz we are still in the game. We shell the living daylights out of their trenches, relentlessly for a couple of days and nights on end.
Thousands of Australians have been reported as having been killed along this line during the year and a couple of big battles nearby at Fromelles and Pozierers have cost our country dearly. With every shell that whistles over our heads, out bound, we can only hope that it levels up the score.
A few letters arrive, and I am told from home to be more careful what I write in future. The censor has been extremely zealous and destroyed some of my letters. One card arrived with three quarters of the lines scratched out with purple crayon. Another letter had paragraphs torn out and removed completely. Some letters have lines, or a few words scribbled out. Lesson learnt.
The highlight of Christmas is the name change of our digs from Bernafay Camp to “Perth Camp”. Clearly somebody from Western Australia played some part in that. The Tommies were here before us which explains the Bernafay name but as new occupants, we’ll call it whatever we want.
There were no other celebrations to be had, most of our men wouldn’t have been aware of the date anyway. The only effort and thought process is into keeping alive and warm, everyone is in the same boat, Christmas is a fantasy. This is not the time or place and there is only limited enthusiasm to celebrate a religious day with so much misery and death around.
The last time I thought about Christmas was in early October when I sent off a few Christmas cards that I had purchased in a village behind the lines. I see a few men in their dugouts making the effort to write home, maybe with some Christmas spirit in mind, but the light is poor and there are arguments galore, hardly a Christmas atmosphere. What I’ve seen here as a soldier has made it very hard for me to retain my faith in God and religion. My grandfather would turn in his grave if he heard me say this, but the truth is I lost interest some time back.
The ground has become frozen which enables me to take up a new sport, skating. I’m not very good at it and spend most of my time sliding along on my bum. We share a few jokes about the conditions, but reality is that there is not a man alive who can strike a shovel into six-inch-deep frozen mud. Just another hurdle to deal with.
New Year’s Day 1917 is another day in the Somme. Fritz lands a hit in the dead centre of Perth camp and kills three of our men.
Transcript of Letter – 27 October 1916:
27.10. 16 14 Platoon,
D Company, 1st Pioneer Battalion,
1st Division, A.I.F.
Dear Wal,
Here I am again, still alive and kicking. I have travelled a lot [redacted by censor] once again among the [redacted by censor] am a machine gunner [redacted by censor] have done with sapping, though I'm only in reserve at present, will be taken on their strength as soon as their[sic} is a vacancy. We have had a pretty rough time of it this last couple of weeks with the rain and the cold and having to camp out in it all. When we first arrived here we had to scrape about 6 inches of mud off to get [redacted by censor] state of the roads etc, in fact there are none at all in places, blown to atoms by the shells, all these have to be repaired before we can bring much forward and those that get here first have to put up with what we can get, What we are doing now I suppose [redacted by censor] have read about the [redacted by censor] the last joint I stopped at before coming on here was some fine orchards with trees loaded with apples, so you may guess I made the most of it. There is no talk of getting leave to England now. The nearest I've been is through [redacted by censor] some reckoned they could see the cliffs of Dover. Well, Wal no more for the present. Hoping you are well, as I am.
Your aff brother Ern
Letter dated 27th October 1916.
Section torn out and crayon used by censors (Front)
Letter dated 27th October 1916.
Section torn out and crayon used by censors (Rear)
20th November 1916
Dear Wal,
Since I last wrote I have received a couple of letters from you dated 19th & 20th Sept, the latter came last night along with some more of the mail budget. In one letter it said that a returned man reckoned that all the Pioneer Batt did was to bury the dead and dig latrines - I carried the good news to my cobbers & there was a general roar - one chap said "not too much ----- undertaker about us". I suppose the party that carried this back got a knock on his first day in the trenches or perhaps before ever he went in & knows next to nothing about what any battalion does, he evidently did not know what the Pioneer Batt does.
To begin with we are in the danger zone longer than any infantry battalion, so we have to step in for the whole division. As a rule, one brigade of the division goes in for a certain number of days & then another one relives it, while the former goes into billets & dugouts a few miles back. In a charge we dig trenches across "no mans-land" to make things safer while the Inf hold the trenches gained.
I myself would sooner be in the front mob as those working behind get shelled most in the endeavour to cut off supplies of ammunition & reinforcements.
Then when there is no pushing ahead going on we are either building up trenches or making new ones or making & repairing roads - the infantry get their share of this also.
You must have had a busy time of it during that 3 days rain, I think France has had her share also, but lately we have been getting frosts & have had one fall of snow, but the rain came so it did not last. The frost has been nearly an inch thick, nearly good enough to skate but one thing it hardens the mud which can be measured in feet in places.
Well Wal, this is the limit so I'll close hoping you are well as I am.
Kind regards to all, your aff brother, Ern.
P.S I saw Barry Milkins the other day, he is a bit thin on it after his illness.
CHAPTER 11
LUCKILY IT WAS A DUD
January - February 1917
“Well I am still pegging away but we are out for a spell, so wiz bangs, 9.2's etc, etc are forgotten for a time while we carry on independently, perhaps with a French tab (which are few and far between in this village) or anything that's going. We get a bit of drill to keep us out of mischief I suppose but not very much - it's generally a route march to keep our feet warm - the weather is cold enough at present to freeze a brass monkey, in fact it's just beginning to snow again but it may not be much.
We are camped in barns which is a king to what we have been used to - a dugout is “tres bon” if it's dry but we've had enough rain lately to start the Ark floating again.”
IN THE FIRST week of January 1917 two Companies, four hundred and sixty men in total, are marched out to the railway siding and entrain to Franvillers for a decent rest. I’m thrilled to be moving back away from the front line for a while, it’s been a difficult three months. Fritz is a minute to minute threat and the winter conditions have been appalling.
As we are marching out of camp, Fritz sends over a farewell shell that kills another two men standing fifty yards away from me. I’m very happy to climb onto that train.
A week later the remainder of the 1st Pioneer Battalion had handed over the Perth Camp to the 4th Division and joined us in Franvil
lers.
The village is very small, about fifteen miles or so west from the front line and hasn’t had a flogging. It appears that most of the villagers are still here.
The locals are heavily involved with support of our troops; running the baths, cleaning, and repairing clothing, helping with the food supplies and doing what they can to make our stay a little more pleasant. The baths are set up in a barn and can only cater for ten or twelve men at a time. It’s a bit breezy with the main door being opened every two minutes. Certainly not a relaxing experience, just a quick scrub, clean clothes and get out.
A community hall is set up as a writing room and I managed to find a seat in there on a couple of occasions.
A small café in the main cobble stoned street does an excellent trade in “Soupe à l’oignon” (onion soup), steak, eggs and chips but it cannot accommodate a thousand soldiers. Be blowed if I’m going to queue up outside in this weather for an hour or two to get a seat. Most of us will eat from the Battalion’s dedicated cook house. We can grab a bowl of soup or cup of tea there at any time of the day.
The village ran out of rum and plonk after the first day. A bit of a blow really, I’d set my mind on a bottle or two of their red.
We spend almost three weeks in Franvillers, “resting”. Our free time is sprinkled with route marches, church parades and cleaning of equipment. The best part is to put some warmth back into the body, it’s heaven on earth to put my bare feet close to a raging fire and feel the skin dry out. To pull back on warm, dry socks and boots is worth writing home about. A few cups of decent tea and I could almost forget the last three months… Well almost.
The mood amongst the men has mellowed considerably. The pressure of working along the front line was extremely stressful and when pulled back away from the threat you can clearly see men relax after a few days as if a weight has been slowly lifted off their backs. There are very few arguments as everyone makes the effort to catch up on the basics of life, which in Franvillers is about sleep, warmth, writing a few letters and with a bit of luck, receiving some.
I often walk up and down the village road to keep my legs warm and get some exercise. The village is only about three hundred yards long. The surrounding area is all flat farm land, it would look bonzer in spring.
A letter from home tells me of the Australian Government having held a National referendum last October seeking consensus to conscript men for overseas service. The attitude of the population towards the war has altered, many households have lost loved ones and thousands more have been injured. Not everyone believes we should be sending more men at this time. The referendum failed. A breakdown of the voting records showed that the Beech Forest electorate voted “No”.
One thing I’ve learnt about this soldiering business though is to never allow yourself to get too comfortable in one place. Before you know it, the order comes down the line to pack up, “We’re moving out”. Sure enough, on the 1st February, our Battalion gets the whistle up and it’s, “Bye-bye” to Franvillers and a twelve-mile motor lorry transport journey, east to Mametz Camp and back to war.
A few days were spent working on the construction of a supply railway, then “D” Company were moved further forward to the second line of defence and into work that I have become most accustomed too, trench repair, laying duckboards, digging deep dugouts, excavating new trenches and the building up of a couple of machine gun positions. All in the freezing, bitterly cold sleet, ice and snow.
Early one morning a German aeroplane made a raid on two of our ammunition dumps about a mile away from our trench. It was a very clear morning and I am sorry to say that he caught them well and the shells were exploding all day. Thousands of shells were stored there, what a waste, makes you want to swear.
Most of our ammunition dumps are in deep dugouts where they are relatively safe but with the sheer volume required along this front it’s not possible to store everything under ground. Fritz got lucky.
The following day, probably the same plane, flew low over Mametz Camp and dropped a couple of shells. The pilot must have four arms to fly the aeroplane, observe our position, reach over the side, unhook the bombs dangling from the side of the aeroplane, line them up and let them drop. No one was hurt that day. We got lucky.
I had been thinking that it might be about my turn to get some leave to Blighty (England) but as has happened on numerous occasions before, the thought is snuffed out quick smart. The word is passed around that “leave has been stopped and not likely to be reopened”.
Many men have had leave granted previously but, on most occasions, they are men who fought in Gallipoli or have been in the AIF for considerably longer than I have which is a fair call. They often return from England with magnificent stories of their exploits, new friends, places they visited and tabbies they have met.
The other way to get to England is on a Red Cross stretcher, being sent off to hospital. When a chap is injured, his first thought and usually the first thing he’ll ask the doctor or nurse is, “Is this a Blighty injury?” Meaning that he’ll be sent to England to recuperate and be out of harm’s way for a while. I prefer the “leave” option myself.
The enemy is extremely active along this sector and our infantry is very aggressive in reply. Numerous times the Pioneers are called upon to support an attack or “stand to”. On one occasion recently, we followed our infantry troops and went over the top and into no-man’s land. Our role was to “clean up” as we went. Checking on the dead and wounded, moving the wounded back, clearing away debris or obstructions, carrying light ammunition forward and guarding any prisoners that might have been captured.
No-man’s land is putrid with rotting bodies. Dead soldiers from both sides litter the area, some have been there, frozen for months. If this shattered earth ever becomes farmland again, I dread to think what the ploughs will uncover. Arms and legs stick up from a surface pitted like some massive giant has angrily rammed his fingers into the earth again and again. There are isolated, shattered tree stumps, leaden coloured, sticking up in some mad defiance of the carnage. But all of this is not done by a mythical giant. It’s done by our own and Fritz’s relentless shell fire. The ground turned a hundred times, a thousand times. Wire, wood, debris and corpses are everywhere.
We get as far as the enemy front line and our boys are busy taking prisoners. This is the first time I have seen Fritz trenches in any detail and they certainly are a work of art. Some of the deep dugouts are thirty feet deep below ground level and timbered to perfection. It must really hurt them to be kicked out and pushed right back and have to live in shell holes again after the real homes (dugouts) they have been living in here.
Our boys throw down smoke bombs, believing that quite a few Fritz were cut off and are still hiding below. Sure enough, they come scrambling out with their hands above their head screaming “Mercy Kamerad”. It’s a pitiful sight and I wonder if they would show the same mercy if they had the drop on us.
I could have picked up plenty of souvenirs from their trenches. I particularly like their helmets which are very impressive with the brass eagles and all on them but it’s too difficult to carry anything out. Getting anything back to Australia would be another issue and it would probably get snookered in the process anyway.
Getting out so far from our front line and into Fritz held territory gives me a better understanding of the deep tunnel work we have been doing along this front line and the purpose for it. If they ever get this territory back the explosives that are stacked up in our tunnels below their feet will sort them out.
We don’t hang around long as daylight starts to filter through and the German artillery has started to sing again. They are clearly not happy about being pushed back a mile or so on a thousand-yard front. No time to assist the dead, we make our way back past the broken bodies and clamber over the parapet. After helping escort the prisoners out behind the lines we return to our own dugouts and pretend to sleep.
I’m curled up in my dugout with my knees u
p around my chest, I cannot get warm, the weather is frighteningly cold and has been for months. The snow has stopped, it’s been raining all day instead. Non-stop freezing rain and the wind is roaring through this trench. I am on down time and should be getting some sleep, but I know that if I was to fall asleep I would surely freeze and die.
My feet have been wet for a week, I’ve taken my boots and socks off just now, rung the excess water out of the socks and tucked them between my coat lining and my body. Hopefully by the time I need to get out of the dugout my body heat will have dried them out somewhat. Probably wishful thinking on my behalf as there is no body heat anyway.
I bandicooted a newspaper a few days back which I have carried around against my chest to keep the wind and cold out and now I’ve stuffed it into my soaking boots, they won’t dry but the newspaper will soak up a lot of the excess water.
Taking my boots and socks off has only made the situation worse. My feet are painfully cold. I hardly have enough clothing to cover them. By pulling my knees up to my chest at least all the extremities are in the same area and they share the pain.
My dugout is not recessed very far, I know this area of trench quite well and it has been knocked a few times so where I am is probably the 2nd or maybe the 3rd rebuild. The mud in the trench floor would be knee deep if it wasn’t mostly frozen, the wooden duckboards are under there somewhere, probably a Fritz or two as well. Because the ground has been turned so often the trench walls are soggy, unsupported, and wet. The difference between standing out in the trench in the pouring rain or laying here curled up eighteen inches inside the dugout is that the dugout is less wet.
The war is still going on outside and I can hear the odd shell of ours going out and every now and again the distinct whistle of a Fritz shell coming in. The benefit of the heavy rain is that it deadens the whistle of Fritz’s shells and you lose that sense of how far it is from you, until it hits. Tonight, the shells landing and the percussion that follows indicates that the line a hundred yards or so away is getting a bit of a tidy up. It’s pitch black, so setting the range sights of either infantry would be guess work at best. There is a sense that both sides have had enough of the weather and have lost interest again, for tonight anyway. Maybe they just send one over every now and again to remind everyone we are still having a blue. Most of “D” Company are within forty or fifty yards of where I am, if we keep our heads down we’ll be okay.
Walk a War in My Shoes Page 11