I have frequently sensed that all mystery finally lies in the order of creation, its development and regeneration. I was fortunate to have been brought up with a sufficient outline knowledge, though elementary, of living creatures to obtain solace and immense pleasure at so tiny a discovery. Such moments were priceless for the recruitment of spirit in preparation for the next round of fighting. The unexpected discovery of this perfect moth, which I have never forgotten, did indeed prove a precursor of the peace we all longed for, but alas only after the heavy losses, many amongst our own company, in the great offensive battles that were to lead to victory in a few months’ time.
Pte Wilfrid Edwards, 15th London Rgt (Civil Service Rifles)
In August the Battle of Amiens brought us back into the 1916 battlefield, a sort of desiccated Passchendaele in that summer heat, but with weeds and brambles spreading over the old shell-holes and trenches. Now we were doing what we went out to do, with no time for anything else. The only animals I saw in this wasteland that could be called wild were occasional roving dogs, which we thought might be strays from the German army. And the only beautiful thing I remember seeing was a spray of ripe blackberries gleaming in the early sunlight on the edge of what had been St Pierre Vaast Wood hard by the smoking heaps of empty cartridge cases as we flushed the German machine gunners out.
Pte Christopher Haworth, 14th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders
Passing a ruined house demolished by incessant shellfire, we see a tiny thing of beauty flourishing amidst this desolation. In the shell-torn garden, the grasses have formed a shroud, nature had triumphed over man’s vindictiveness, and standing valiantly like sentinels are several magnificent bright red poppies, graceful in their simplicity.
The Battle of Amiens threw the Germans back across the Somme battlefield and beyond. The German High Command realised at this point that the war could not be won and when the Germans’ last great defensive position was breached in September, open warfare resumed. For so long, the wonder of nature had been both in its beauty and its survival in a wasteland, but now that vision was inverted. It was scenes of death and destruction in an otherwise unspoilt land that impinged themselves upon the memory of those who were there.
Lt Henry Lawson, 10th Manchester Rgt
We came to a stretch of open and undamaged countryside – a marvellous contrast to life in the trenches – and entered and occupied a château, which had been an important headquarters of the Germans. The lawns were mown, the borders of flowers still in bloom, lovely in an early autumn evening. But the shock still lingers in my memory. I went out into the garden to post my men. There had been a fight by another regiment before our arrival, of which I had heard nothing; the picture of that fight lay glaring before my eyes when at each turn of the garden’s footpaths we came upon the bodies of the young men of that regiment shot down by rifle or machine gun, hardly marked, lying almost as children resting in sleep, in number perhaps a dozen. Why their regiment had not covered the bodies was never explained to me and we had to do what was necessary.
The poignant contrast on the one hand of the immaculate and peaceful garden and on the other of the sacrifice of such young lives brought tears to my eyes. That graphic and overwhelmingly pitiful picture has often been in my mind as I have walked around the paths and lawns of my own country garden. An episode quite unforgettable and stamped with limitless grief for the evil of the world. That fight must have been the most grisly hide and seek ever played. I once heard a cathedral sermon ending with the words, ‘never forget the garden’. The Bible is full of incidents associated with gardens and I speculated whether the preacher, whom I knew well, could possibly imagine what garden was indelibly printed in the mind of this old soldier among his congregation. So lovely, so beautiful, yet so besmirched and desecrated by a deed of war.
Cpl Fred Hodges, 10th Lancashire Fusiliers
I used to wonder what the seigneur would say if he could see what had happened to his beautiful château, extensive grounds and gardens and the protecting high brick wall. On one of our working parties, when enemy shells were bursting with loud crashes in the street flanked by the high wall, our officer led us through the village by the back ways and gardens, and I had a good view in the moonlight of the smashed and broken château gardens, greenhouses, statues and summer houses as we hurried through the tree stumps.
Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps
The big bronze bell lay outside the church in two pieces. The cemetery had been churned by shellfire. The tombstones were chipped and broken. One big block of granite had been overturned by a bursting shell and the inscription was so scarred as to be illegible. The stone Christ had been hit in many places. His left hand was gone, so that He hung aslant by the other. Both His legs had been blown off at the knees and His nose and mouth had been carried away by some flying shell fragment or shrapnel ball. All the graves had been thrown into confusion by the violence of innumerable explosions. Bits of bone femurs, ribs, lower jaws lay scattered about. The hip of a soldier who had been buried in his clothes projected from the soil with the brown mass of maggot chrysalids still clinging to it.
Cpl Fred Hodges, 10th Lancashire Fusiliers
We were marching at night towards the front to take part in the next attack, as usual marching on the right side of the road. We were passing a long column of transport wagons coming back from the front. We heard explosions ahead of us as a German plane dropped small anti-personnel bombs. As it came nearer, we realised that it was flying low above the track. We could see the column of men in front breaking up as officers and men ran off the track to the right. We all followed suit, flinging ourselves down about thirty or forty yards from the track.
When it was all over, we stood up, and for some reason that I cannot explain, some of us were laughing as we returned to the track, where we found both men and mules lying dead. We marched on, and soon we reached the forward area.
The moon was rising as we left the track and moved in open order across a very large field of stubble, and here in the bright moonlight, field mice scampered in scores; one could scarcely avoid treading on them. Obviously this area had been cultivated, unlike the Somme fields where no corn had been harvested during the war.
Lt John Nettleton, 2nd Rifle Brigade
I was pretty sure the Boche had withdrawn but, even so, I got the fright of my life when, as we were passing a cottage, we heard the clatter of breaking crockery. My runner unslung his rifle and I drew my revolver. In great trepidation we crept up the garden path as quietly as we could. Then we flung open the door and rushed in – to be confronted with a tiny kitten who was crawling about on the dresser from which he had knocked down a cup. The relief was so great that we both burst out laughing.
Lt Reginald Dixon, 251st Siege Batt., RGA
It is not possible to remember where I found my kitten. I know that we had been on the go in the final push that beat the Hun out of France in 1918, on the go for days and days and nights and nights, pulling our guns out, pulling them into some new position three or four hours later, laying out new lines of fire at first light – for we often moved in at night, and often enough to some farmyard or other that gave some cover to our gunners . . .
On this occasion we had got my own two guns into a farmyard about midnight. The farm was deserted by its owners, who had obviously fled as the tide of battle swept near. By the coming of the false dawn these guns were in position; as the men were giving the last heaves on the ropes, I spotted a tiny movement under the gun carriage, between the huge wheels. I stopped the men for a moment and bent down to investigate. There, terrified out of its tiny wits, was a wee kitten. How or why it had got into such a position no one could guess, but I hauled her out with ease. By the torches’ lights and that of the false dawn, everybody could see what I had in my hands. Somehow it cheered everybody up. The men laughed. ‘Blimey! It’s a bloody kitten!’
I stuffed the poor little thing into my trench-coat pocket, which was commodious enough, and go
t the chaps going again, until the gun was where we wanted it. Then I set off with my bombardier and some stakes and my compass and when the true dawn came I had my guns in position and my lines of fire laid out. I joined the others in the kitchen of the farm which was serving as a very temporary mess, and got a mug of hot tea and a swig of whisky from my flask. And not till then did I remember that I had a kitten in my pocket!
I pulled the little beggar out, unsquashed and with all its nerves apparently intact. My fellow officers stood around and admired the mite of tabby fur and whiskers, and made a fuss of her. My batman swiftly brought a saucer of milk, and there on the kitchen table by the light of hurricane lamps, surrounded by the rough kindliness of gunner officers in full war kit, that kitten, without the slightest sign of discomposure, weighed into that milk, and, having disposed of it, mewed for more.
‘Mr Dixon’s kitten’ became famous in 251 Battery, and my batman had the job now of seeing to her welfare. She went along with us and she thrived right up to the moment when I bade her goodbye and went off on the quest for my leave warrant.
Pte Albert Lowy, Army Service Corps
A friend who bred wire-haired terriers asked me if I would like one as a mascot. It was a bitch who, having one blind eye, could not be ‘shown’, but was healthy and exceptionally intelligent. Food for dogs was scarce, and this one could not be provided for much longer.
I got permission to keep the dog in camp and to take her with me when we went overseas. It was a little unfortunate that she took a dislike to the captain, growled when he tried to stroke her, though she was perfectly friendly towards everyone else. She was a very good-looking thoroughbred and was much petted. We had very little drill or other military exercises, so she was always near me, she learned my family whistle tune, and slept in my ambulance, which she could always recognise although all were new and exactly similar . . .
She of course sat next to me whenever I went out, and she became very adept at running off to find the waste-food bins, where she could eat her fill of the choicest bits, and return to her ambulance usually before I was ready to leave. If it happened that I was ready first, I only had to whistle, and she would run at once, she never kept me waiting more than a few minutes.
She was well known at the British hospitals and was friendly with everybody. Comments were often made to me about having so handsome a dog, and men would stop me in the street and ask me how much I wanted for her. I told them that no amount of money could buy her; she was simply not for sale. Some of our drivers had picked up stray dogs; there were quite a number that had been ‘lost’ by their owners. Peace seems to have reigned among these mongrels and mine only rarely picked up fleas from them.
It is more than likely that my life was saved by the fact of my having her with me during all this time. There was a raging ‘flu’ that many army men caught: some died of it, possibly from the bad conditions in the overcrowded hospitals. I had to take many such cases, and, not unnaturally, I found myself with a very high temperature; I shook all over and my eyes ached and I saw everything blurred. Hospital was obviously the right place for me, I would only have had to ‘report sick’, but – and it was a desperate ‘but’ – what would have become of her? I thought of the horrible wet marquees where men were put, and the poor attention they were getting; and I knew that I should not find her when I came out. I decided not to go sick.
That day and the next I managed somehow to keep out of the way of people who might notice my shaking and obvious illness. I had to drive very slowly because I had so little strength in my arms, and the high fever made me anxious lest I should have an accident. I managed those two awful days and then gradually recovered. My dog was saved . . .
There was a period when I was taken off my ambulance to be a dispatch rider. One has to obey orders, however unpleasant they may be. I obtained an extra large knapsack and carried her on my back wherever I had to go. She would sit in it with her head poking out and often resting on my shoulder, enjoying the rush of air: my back-seat driver. This experience of sitting in a sack helped very materially when we left for home [at the end of the war].
Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps
Our new camp lay at the foot of a gloomy hill. A disused trench ran right across it. Rifles, bayonets, bandoliers, grenades, water bottles, packs, articles of clothing and bits of equipment lay scattered everywhere. Barbed wire rusted in coils or straggling lengths. Rusty tins and twisted, rusty sheets of shrapnel-riddled corrugated iron littered the sodden mud. Water, rust-stained or black and fetid, stagnated in pools and shell-holes. The sides of the trench were moist with iridescent slime. Dead soldiers lay everywhere with grey faces, grey hands and mouldering uniforms. Their pockets were turned inside out and mud-stained letters and postcards, and sometimes a mildewed pocketbook or a broken mirror, were dispersed round every rotting corpse. In front of my tent the white ribs of a horse projected from a heap of loose earth. Nearby, a boot with a human foot inside emerged from the black scummy water at the bottom of a shell-hole. An evil stench hovered in the air.
We buried all the dead that lay within the camp lines. Then darkness descended and we crept into our tents. We were lying on wet, oozy clay, thinly covered with wisps of soaked grass and decaying straw where had been a cornfield here a year ago. There were thirteen of us in one tent. We were wedged in tightly, shoulder to shoulder, our feet all in one bunch.
Candles were lit and some of the men sat up and searched their clothes. I was conscious of a slight irritation, but was so tired and depressed that I resolved to ignore it and postpone my usual search to the following day. But as I lay still, trying hard to fall asleep, the irritation increased. At last it became so maddening that I started up in bitter rage. I lit my candle and pulled off my shirt.
‘Chatty are yer?’ said someone in an amused tone.
‘I’ve got a big one crawling about somewhere,’ I answered. None of us ever admitted that we had more than one or two, even when we knew we had a great many. It was also considered less disreputable to have one ‘big one’ than two small ones.
‘It’s the Gink’s fault ’e swarms with ’em. I was standin be’ind ’im in the ranks the other day an’ I saw three of ’em crorlin out of ’is collar up ’is neck. ’E never washes and never changes ’is clothes, so what can yer expect?’
The ‘Gink’ flared up at once:
‘Yer god-damn son of a bitch it’s youss guys that never washes. I bet yer me borram dollar I ’ant got a god-damn chat on me’ . . .
A long wrangle ensued. Wild threats and foul insults were flung about. But the quarrel, like nearly all our quarrels, did not go beyond violent words. I began to search and soon found a big swollen louse. I crushed it with my thumbnail so that the blood spurted out. I heard several faint cracks coming from the opposite side of the tent and knew that others were also hunting for vermin. I examined the seams of my shirt and found two or three more. Then, to my dismay, I discovered several eggs. They are so minute that some are sure to escape the most careful scrutiny. The presence of eggs is always a warning that many nights of irritation will have to pass by before the young grow sufficiently big to be discovered easily. I thought I had looked at every square inch of my shirt, but I looked at it a second time in order to make sure. I soon found a whitish elongated body clinging tightly to the cloth. Then I found another wedged into the seam. Meanwhile, my neighbour, who had been tossing about restlessly and scratching himself and sighing with desperate vexation, lit his candle and began to search busily. The sound of an occasional crack showed how successful he was.
The night was warm and sultry. A storm threatened and it was necessary to close the tent flap. I blew out my candle and wrapped myself in my blankets. I was unable to stretch my legs because others were in the way. I was hemmed and pressed in on all sides. I felt an impulse to kick out savagely, but was able to control myself.
The stifling heat became unbearable, and at the same time the cold, clammy moisture from the soft, sodden
mud underneath began to penetrate groundsheet and blankets. The irritation recommenced. A louse so big that I could feel it crawling along stopped and drew blood. I tried in vain to go to sleep. I heard my neighbour scratching himself steadily. Nor could he find a comfortable position to lie in and kept twisting and turning and moaning. The other men were snoring or fidgeting restlessly. At length a fitful slumber came upon me and a confusion of rotting bodies swarming with monstrous lice passed before my closed eyes. I was fully awake long before reveille, sleepy and unrefreshed, and when reveille came we received orders to move within two hours.
All the evidence was there: the number of enemy prisoners, the inexorable retreat of the German army, the predominance of Allied firepower, yet only a few dared imagine that the war could be close to the finish. In the last weeks, the cavalry had once again asserted itself in open country; a last hurrah in which dragoons, lancers and hussars could harass the enemy, cutting lines of communication. For a few in the infantry, the appearance of the cavalry was a little late in the day as, one by one, village after village was liberated from four years of occupation.
Pte Thomas Hope, 1/5th King’s Liverpool Rgt
Seems like the end of the war to me; it’s a proper breakthrough at last. And then, most glorious sight of all, the cavalry. How we cheer them as they trot past. This is the first time I have seen mounted cavalrymen so near the front and in full warpaint, tin hat, spare bandoliers of ammunition round their horses’ necks, swords and rifles, everything complete. The creak of leather and the jingle of harnesses sound, to my ears, almost like the bells of peace. They canter over a rise in the ground and are lost to view, and I have an uncomfortable feeling that I won’t be in at the death after all. If this advance continues, with cavalry streaming through, the war will be over within a fortnight. It’s a great feeling chasing the Boche, even at a distance.
Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden Page 28