In the summer, the British Army took over part of the French-held line to the north of the River Somme. The area had been something of a backwater and would remain that way for another ten months. In 1915, there was clear but nevertheless patchy evidence of Franco-German fighting, but by and large it remained a beautiful part of France. To the naked eye it had more than a passing resemblance to the chalky countryside of the English South Downs, a fact the British Tommy appreciated. To many units of Kitchener’s new civilian army, it would be at the autumnal Somme that they would receive their first introduction to war.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
It is hard to believe that after months of hard training we are at last in France. The surrounding countryside might well be taken for a typical English scene. It is a rather flat, undulating landscape covered with a patchwork pattern of fields. Where the plough has been at work, the patches are dark in colour from the newly turned soil furrows, but many acres of yellow stubble remain unploughed from the late harvest.
The villages nestle down in the hollows where the tall elm trees and the hedgerows are still covered with dead leaves which gives them a beautiful russet tint when viewed from a distance. There are, however, a few points to remind us that we are not back on the open chalkland country of Salisbury Plain. The long avenues of trees by the roadsides, the sunken grass-grown lanes which wind through the fields, the wayside crucifix or shrine, and finally the distant rumble of the guns, all help to impress upon us that we are no longer on English soil.
Pte Horace Smith, 1/8th Worcestershire Rgt
There was a strange, though false, air of peacefulness about these trenches in the valley of the Ancre. Their deep sides were lined with wild flowers, and every morning at ‘stand-to’ the larks rose from ‘no-man’s-land’ and sang hymns of praise. Mingled with the long grass, which was as high as our barbed wire entanglements, were millions of vivid red poppies. But in that narrow valley which separated the opposing forces lay many bodies, both French and German, for there had been bitter fighting here earlier in the year, and had we but known it, this ground was to be the grave of many of our own men in the bloodbath of the Somme.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
One morning a tabby cat wandered in through the doorway of the old cowshed. She mewed plaintively. The poor creature was nothing but a walking bag of bones. How on earth she got any food in this deserted place it was difficult to imagine. When I endeavoured to stroke her she drew back, spitting savagely. However, a drop of milk in an old tin worked wonders and soon she became quite tame and confiding . . .
At night-time I discovered that the farmyard was by no means deserted. Standing there in the bright moonlight, the scene was a grim one with black ruins silhouetted against a starlit sky. In the centre of the yard the midden was alive with small, moving forms. Twin pairs of flittering eyes were watching in the shadows and high-pitched squeaky calls came from every corner.
Rats! They were everywhere! They gambolled over the midden, fought with each other on the cobblestones and went scavenging in parties through the gloom of the tumble-down buildings. It was not difficult to guess how the lean tabby cat had kept alive all these months. Here was food enough and to spare. But puss was not the only one to levy a toll on the overabundant rat population.
As I stood watching this strange spectacle, a dark shadow passed over the moonlit ruins. This was followed by a sudden and shrill scream of pain from the far side of the yard. Descending on silent wings, a great white barn owl had snatched up a victim. A wild scurry for cover and the yard was deserted. But not for long. In a very few minutes the hordes of rats were back once more at their nightly revels . . .
Capt. Charles McKerrow, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers
I am back with the mice in my dugout, but this time I am armed with two traps bought for a few centimes. They are most efficient and quite instantaneous. In six hours I have got seven, ranging from Pa and Ma who were large and fat, to the smallest baby who was quite otherwise. I shall continue like Nero till not a mouse remains . . . I go rat-hunting with my automatic pistol in the evenings, but with little success, as much practice has made the rats of the neighbourhood very wily. There are crowds of them but they won’t sit still. I have, however, fourteen mice and caught a lovely fawn one last night. I have cured the skin and shall send it home.
Not everyone was as intent on ridding a dugout of all vermin. Rats were rarely put up with, but mice, on the other hand, had at least a chance of turning a situation to their advantage. John Mackie’s delightful description of one small mouse is interesting. It is not only indicative of his deft powers of observation but also a good example of the time officers had to pass in inconsequential pursuits when little or nothing was going on outside.
Capt. John Mackie, 1/5th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders
We called him Adolphus because he looked such an old rake. He lived in a reserve trench where he spent his time in consuming other people’s rations. A pale-faced little fellow, dapper and urbane, he welcomed each successive set of visitors with an easy tolerance, making them free of his quarters all day, and only asserting himself by night. Then indeed he strolled jauntily out to look his guests over and sample their food. Adolphus was only a mouse, but he was much admired, as well for his high spirit and fine carriage as because he undoubtedly represented the original inhabitants of the land. Even the trench rats I tolerated, recognising that they had a better right to the place than I; so you will easily understand that Adolphus made me feel very ephemeral indeed. He possessed that air of indefinable superiority otherwise found only in head waiters, who albeit they accept your tip, yet do it condescendingly as receiving the just tribute of evanescence to perpetuity – ‘You cannot afford to dine here every night, but I, I am always here’ . . .
[Lt] Grey filled his pipe with a sigh of relief and complimented me on my cunning in teaching the subs [new officers] a new card game.
‘They’re good lads,’ he said, ‘none better, especially in the front line. But I get most infernally tired of their eternal prattle when we’re in reserve. I’m too old for it . . . Yes they’re fine young fellows, but one does feel the need of something more intellectual than their conversation.’
To us, as we smoked in silence, came Adolphus. The candles had been lit and we lay on the two wire frames which answered as beds, or if one chose to sit upright, as chairs. Between us was the rough table which was the only other article of furniture in the dugout. Adolphus, after collecting the crumbs under the table, took post on my toes, whence he regarded me with the appraising, condescending look of which I have spoken. I stirred uneasily and Adolphus vanished.
Grey, eager for intellectual pursuits, placed a piece of biscuit on the floor, and covered it with his tin hat. Then he propped up one side of the helmet with a match to which he had attached a piece of string. Five minutes later Adolphus was not greatly dismayed or apprehensive – ‘The young gen’lmen will have their little jokes.’
It was time we varied the performance so I put a drop of whisky (it wasn’t so dear then) into a ‘Gold Flake’ tin lid, and mixed in a few crumbs of biscuit. Next time Adolphus was released, he reappeared with a little friend (suspected feminine) and both were entrapped as usual. When the helmet was lifted they seemed reluctant to run away, and although – in deference to custom no doubt – they eventually retreated, it was only to emerge at once with all the lads of the village in their train.
The little roués gathered round the cigarette tin lid in a warm brown bunch, and their tails protruded all round till the whole thing looked like an enormous spider wriggling on the floor. Every now and again some slight noise sent them scuttling to their holes, but as the ‘binge’ proceeded, Adolphus got less able to scuttle. His pale face made him easily recognisable in the gay throng, but his jaunty manner had altogether vanished. Long after the rest of the band had been dispersed, Adolphus remained at the tin lid, sometimes insertin
g a tentative paw, sometimes sitting on his hind legs with a thoughtful expression. It took much more than a casual noise to disturb him now.
If you put out your hand towards him he made no movement at all until the last moment, when he would take an electric leap into the air. It seemed to us that he landed with a rather heavy flop and it is certain that he had not the least idea where he was when he came to earth again. His bosom companions had left him; even the first little friend, with true feminine caution, had forsaken him. There were no kindly tramlines to direct his steps, no helpful police to advise him, but perhaps, in some dark recess of the dugout, Mrs Adolphus was awaiting his return.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
There was a very cheeky little mouse which used to scamper along just under the iron roof and rumble chalk down on to the head of Drake, who was my stablemate at that particular time. I dubbed that mouse ‘Robert the Bruce’ because he seemed to have such an antipathy to Mr Englishman. One day Drake was sitting near my bed and he said, ‘Gracious me, look at that.’ I looked up and there was the little mousie scampering along the ledge whilst a lump of tissue paper hung from its mouth. Drake said, ‘Is it building a nest or what’s it after?’ I said, ‘The explanation is quite simple. Hitherto the rats have kept to this side and the mice to that and now “King Robert” is waving a flag of truce to the rats to unite against the common enemy – Mr Englishman.’ One night I heard a continuous stampede of rats above my head. I rose on my elbow and turned my flashlight on to the usual spot where I could see them streaking past. There, to my greater alarm, I saw the little red eyes of a weasel. Drake saw them too and we both said, ‘That’s done it.’ Next day we gave orders to have the dugout lined with Boche timber.
In or out of the line, the army was never keen to allow men to have too much time on their hands as light work was an encouragement to mischief. As in civilian life, a lake, pond or river immediately attracted those who enjoyed fishing, and if the opportunity arose men would fashion rods and bait and try their luck. However, the British soldier had also become a seasoned scrounger and was therefore unwilling to leave anywhere empty-handed. A fishing rod might bring success, but if not there was an alternative.
Pte Frank Richards, 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers
Paddy and I had bought some cheap rods and lines and went for a day’s fishing, also taking a couple of Mills bombs in case we met with no success. After three hours’ fishing not one of us had caught a tadpole. An elderly Frenchman then commenced fishing by us and in no time he had caught half a dozen lovely fish. We stuck it another hour but with no results. We then gave it up and walked a couple of hundred yards down the canal, and after a careful look round pulled the pins out of our bombs and dropped them in. Ten seconds later we had more fish than what we could carry back. This was a favourite method of fishing with some of us although strictly prohibited: if a man was caught the least punishment he could expect was twenty-eight days Number Ones [daily humiliation of being tied to a wheel of a gun carriage].
As throwing grenades into any lake or river to stun fish was illegal, the assumption made by officers and Frenchmen alike was that if any stretch of water was bereft of life then ‘other ranks’ were to blame. Not so.
Capt. Charles McKerrow, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers
In the afternoon, Scott of 12th DLI (Durham Light Infantry) came in and suggested a fishing expedition in the evening. I was keen on it so he collected some pills from the store. At 6.30 we set off with shovels and gumboots. The boat was on the south side of the reservoir, well hidden in rushes. We baled her out and started with some vigorous shoving. We tried some casts in the middle with no success. We were rather noisy I’m afraid, and it was fairly light. We tried closer in shore on the north side. One cast gave us about 30 or 40 nice dace and roach, and another nearly as many. We practically filled a sandbag and then paddled home. We hid the boat as far as possible in the rushes. Scott came in and supped with me on fried trout etc. The fish were not all bad, though a trifle bony.
In his diary, Charles McKerrow had barely bothered to conceal that ‘pills’ meant grenades. He was more candid when recounting the same episode in a letter home to his family.
Capt. Charles McKerrow, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers
I had a great evening fishing last night. I brought in about a sandbag full of roach and dace, which were nearly as good as trout when fried by Mat [the cook] in ration butter. The method of fishing was, perhaps, not entirely sporting, being not unconnected with high explosives. It was really rather fun, however, and no one fishes in the place as it is exposed to view by day.
2/Lt Andrew Buxton, 3rd Rifle Brigade
I have been in about half an hour from a long walk round certain front-line trenches, which I had not seen before . . . We have a small, shallow pond just by our dugouts, with low rushes by the side, in which I saw a ripping pike of about 5lb muddling about. I had a shot with my revolver, and apparently stunned him for about a minute, as after that he began to move off again, but difficult to see whereabouts his head or tail was. I thought I got him with another shot, which was about right as it seemed, but he only went off with a big rush. I was very sorry not to get him, as it would have given the men great joy to have had him for breakfast.
A couple of days later he had another go.
2/Lt Andrew Buxton, 3rd Rifle Brigade
I told you I missed a pike in a pond, but yesterday I shot a fish, probably a 1lb roach, or something of the sort. Quite fun trying to recover it in the rushes; the mud was too deep for gumboots, so got a tub, in which one of the servants made a perilous journey through rushes, but, instead of retrieving it, stupidly drove it into the mud!
It was a well-known military mantra not to volunteer for anything in the army. No one would freely volunteer for a miserable job so it was normally misdescribed by the sergeant in order to get a taker. It was fortunate for Driver Pugh, then, that when the sergeant major sought a man who could trap moles, he really did mean a man who could trap moles.
Lt Philip Gosse, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers
I had already learned in the army that whenever at a loss the regimental sergeant major was the right man to appeal to for help. So I sent for him and explained that I wanted some moles, that I had some traps, and asked if he thought he could find a man in the ambulance who knew how to use them. Off went the regimental sergeant major, and half an hour later, while I was still sitting at the desk in the orderly room, I heard sounds of approaching steps and the regimental sergeant major marched in, followed by a depressed and rather scared looking Army Service Corps driver.
‘Driver Pugh, sir,’ bawled the RSM, ‘admits to being a mole-catcher in civil life.’
Then stepped forward Driver Pugh, who in reply to my questions said that before the war he had worked on a farm in Wales near a village with an unpronounceable name, and that his principal duty at this farm had been to catch moles. The very man I wanted. So it was arranged that Driver Pugh should be excused all duties that afternoon, and he was sent off with my traps. This piece of news, coupled with the sight of the traps, brought about an instant and miraculous change in the Welshman’s demeanour. For in place of a sad, browbeaten man, he instantly became alert, smiling, and self-confident.
How he did it I do not know, but next morning, chaperoned by the RSM, Driver Pugh entered the presence bearing in his hands two handsome Flemish moles.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
We were to journey up to the trenches under cover of darkness on the following night. The orderly sergeant broke the news when he came to our billet with battalion orders. Nobody seemed to care. We were too leg-weary and footsore to take much notice.
‘Can anyone here milk a cow?’ It was the sergeant speaking, but no reply to this strange question was forthcoming. If he had asked for a volunteer to kill a pig the request could not have been more unexpected. The next moment, however, my elbow was nudged. ‘Go on, c
hum. Speak up. There’s a soft job for you!’
‘Can you milk a cow?’ said the sergeant, eyeing me suspiciously. I nodded my head. ‘Then in future you will be attached to Headquarters’ Company. Tomorrow you will parade at 3.30 a.m. to march with the advance party for the trenches.’ Without any further word of explanation, the sergeant turned and walked through the doorway, out into the darkness of the deserted village street . . .
There is little need to dwell upon the discomforts of the following morning. The early rise in the dark and the parade of Headquarters’ Company in the keen, frosty air. ‘Is the cowman there? – Right.’ Off we trudged along the road to the trenches . . .
Carnoy was Battalion Headquarters for the troops holding the line. On one side of the road was the colonel’s dugout. Opposite were the remains of a farmstead and nearby a communication trench labelled Montauban Alley. Here amid the tumbledown debris of bricks and mortar I was to find a home.
‘Is the cowman there?’ asked a sleepy voice. ‘Come on, chum. Follow me. I’ll show you what kind of a job you’ve been let in for!’ The speaker had evidently just emerged from beneath his blanket. I followed him between two buildings where once there had been a gateway. The gateway had belonged to the farmyard which had been square in shape, a large midden in the centre and outbuildings all round. The midden was still there. No cows, no horses, no pigs were to be seen. Not even a barn-door fowl. The buildings were in ruins and a death-like silence seemed to brood over the whole place.
Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden Page 11