When Our Jack Went to War
Page 7
We left the trench not long after midnight in a drizzly fog. It was the first time Stampy and I had been on wiring duty and neither of us knew what we were in for. Before we left we smeared our faces with burnt cork and removed all forms of identification from our pockets. (That’s in case you get taken by the enemy.) We were both fully armed with rifles and grenades. Unfortunately for us, the fog was so thick that we only had a scant idea where we were headed. Even the flares didn’t help much.
Talk about scared, Tom. It took every ounce of determination, daring and brazen good luck to make it under that wire and out across no-man’s-land. And twice as much to make it back. We crawled on our bellies through the mud for more than three hours and I don’t think I’ll ever forget the stench in my nostrils or the icy fear that coursed through my body during that crawl.
Much love,
Jack
Dear Tom,
More bad news from the front.
I’ve heard that three more soldiers from the First Otagos didn’t make it back last night. That’s three more lads whose bodies will be left to rot in stinking Flanders sludge. I know it doesn’t bear thinking about but today I can’t think of anything else. Poor Charlie Walker. Do you remember me telling you about him? He was the one with the new baby. Anyway, poor Charlie was carted away on a stretcher in a pretty bad way. We don’t know yet if he was alive or dead.
Surely things can’t get any worse. My feelings change with each passing day. Last time I wrote I felt that luck was on my side — that someone upstairs was looking out for me. But today I don’t feel like that at all. The sad truth is, we all live in fear of being shot. We’re like animals being hunted. No more, no less.
You try not to let the situation get the better of you. And everyone gets through it as best they can. Sometimes I think it would be a blessed relief to suffer the worst and be done with it. But mostly I hang on for grim life, trying to make it through the next minute, or the next hour — or maybe if I’m lucky, the next day.
When I woke this morning I had such a heavy feeling in my stomach. Dread? Fear? Anger? Who knows? I lay there trying to work it out — how I felt about all that’s going on. But nothing made any sense and the only conclusion I came to was we’re all poor wretched souls who live each day a gunshot from oblivion. And that’s the sorry truth of it.
One thing’s for sure, Tom. I will be mighty pleased when this tour of duty is over.
Love from
Tom
The Western Front
Dear Tom,
I am writing this letter from a frontline trench. As I struggle to put my thoughts on paper I realise how grateful I am to the clever sod who invented the pencil. Who would think a simple piece of lead could help me give you, my brother, an idea about what’s going on here? It’s a miracle, Tom. You must agree.
Unlike this wretched farce of a war, which is the absolute opposite of a miracle. Ha! I guess mankind is responsible for good things as well as bad, eh.
Our enemy is not too far away today and the whiz-bangs have been going off steadily all night. You wouldn’t believe the racket they make. There’s a lull at the moment but who knows how long it’ll last.
Trench warfare is difficult to describe. There are waves of near calm, and then chaos as the fighting flares up and dies back down again.
You have to be ready for anything.
It’s a bit like being in the jungle with a tiger. You have no idea when your stalker is going to pounce and all you can do is hope you have the good luck to survive another night.
I suppose at the end of the day, it’s all about luck, and I reckon if your number’s up there’s nothing you can do about it. Just like those rabbits you and Uncle Ced hunt. They don’t have much choice either, eh.
Some of us make it and some of us don’t. It’s as simple and random as a game of cards. And these trenches are full of those who drew a bad hand.
Dear Tom,
It’s been quiet for a couple of days now. Some of the lads like to play cards when it’s quiet and others like to do bugger all. Some of us read or write letters. It’s amazing what people read out here. The Bible is popular but one chap had a book by Jane Austen. She’s an English writer and, so far as I can tell, her books are all about young ladies who swanned about in dresses a hundred years ago and fell in love with chaps who rode horses. There are plenty of horses over here, Tom. But we’re a tad short on ladies in dresses.
One of the lads was reading the book out loud. It wasn’t something I’d have cared for back home but I swear, when I closed my eyes, I almost forgot where I was for a while.
Chaps act differently in the trenches, Tom. They tell you things they wouldn’t dream of telling you if you were back home. And you find yourself telling them things as well.
The weird thing is, we’re all the same underneath. We might come from different places. We might be builders or work in the post office. We might be teachers or butchers or farm workers. But underneath it all, we’re just the same. Scared to death with a serious job to do.
And we’ve all got different responsibilities. Privates, officers, field ambulance workers, stretcher carriers.
The stretcher carriers have the worst job, I reckon. Honestly! Those brave beggars put their lives on the line constantly, carting away the wounded. There was this bloke a couple of days ago. Things had gone quiet and we struck up a conversation. He confided that he was a conscientious objector from Timaru. A religious man who didn’t believe in war, with a wife and child waiting for him at home. (A little boy just turned three.) So I told him about you and Amy and Ma and he shook my hand and wished me luck before trudging off in the mud.
Since then, I can’t get the picture of him out of my mind and I haven’t stopped thinking about him.
Dear Tom,
A few more quiet days at the front and thank the lord for that. This morning I wrote a letter to my old boss, Mr Kidd. Sadly, his youngest son, Bert, has died from the wounds he got several months ago. Bert wasn’t much older than me and the apple of his father’s eye so I can only imagine the sorrow they’ll be going through.
I have to keep this letter short, Tom. Apart from the news about Bert I wanted to let you know that we are on the move again. I can’t say much more than that but will let you know what’s happening as soon as I’m able.
Take care, Tom.
Much love,
Jack
Belgium
7th June 1917 — Messines Ridge [a strategic ridge near the town of Messines (Mesen) in Belgium. New Zealand and Australian divisions lie to the south-east]
Bloody hell, Tom!
You’ll never believe what’s just happened. It’s the most incredible thing and if I didn’t see it with my own eyes I’d never have believed it.
We were in a trench watching the Messines Ridge. At 2:50am, there was an artillery barrage. The barrage had been constant for a while but it was nothing out of the ordinary. Then suddenly, everything changed. At around three o’clock, things heated up with an almighty explosion that blasted across the sky. The force of it was extraordinary. Joves, Tom. I’ve never seen the likes.
It felt like the end of the world and I truly thought we were all done for.
The earth shook violently and great flames of fire shot hundreds of feet in the air. An eruption of earth, rocks, flames and smoke spewed into the sky. It was like the bonfires of hell. One very massive explosion — I’d say about 300 feet high at least.
A split second later came a deafening roar. And the ground beneath us shook like the devil. The hillside cracked and thundered like Satan himself and it seemed like the world might be blown to smithereens. Smoke billowed out … then everything disappeared under a thick black haze. God Almighty!
It turns out a series of underground mines had been laid by the British, which must have taken some organising.
Soon after the explosion our orders came through. With gas masks on, we left the trenches en masse and made our way towards the chaos. Our who
le division advanced across no-man’s-land towards the hollow craters left by the explosions. We made our way from shell hole to shell hole, crouching down as low as we could. And my heart was fair pumping with adrenalin.
Our next orders were to move forward and take up position in the enemy trenches, clearing out all opposition as we went. But there was practically no need because the explosion had knocked the wind out of everyone’s sails.
And the German troops were well and truly annihilated.
I’m not sure how many were killed in total but, for once, Old Fritz offered no resistance at all. In fact, those who survived just staggered towards us with hands in the air. They were disoriented and unsteady on their feet and most of them seemed only too relieved to be taken prisoner.
Poor beggars.
North East Valley, Dunedin
Dear Jack,
Jeepers! The newspapers here are reporting a great victory. They said those Germans didn’t stand a chance. They said they didn’t know what hit them. Eighty thousand Allies were sent over the top. New Zealanders and tanks included. That’s what the paper said. Just imagine … Nineteen mines exploding in just fifteen minutes.
What an effort. What a day!
We’re going to win the war now, I reckon. Mr Gilbertson reckons so too. Even Mrs Stains says so. You’ll be home before we know it. Nothing surer. You’ll be home before we can say ‘Jack Robinson’.
Lots of love,
From Tom
Back in France — July
Dear Tom,
I’m not sure if we’re going to win this war or not. I wish I were as certain as the men who write the newspapers. Or you. Or Mr Gilbertson. Nothing seems very certain here at all.
But someone must be looking after me because I am now in France again. And I’m determined to make the most of it.
We had a big night out last Saturday. I won’t go into all the details but there were a lot of hijinks and some of the lads finished up a tad the worse for wear.
We are all living on our nerves these days, with some poor beggars teetering over the edge. Dust ups happen frequently and, after a few drinks, a soldier can get out of control.
On Saturday one of our lads got mouthy with some English bloke and he finished up with a crack on the jaw and a black eye for his trouble. It would have been okay but the situation escalated when Billy and the lads stepped in to help.
As you might imagine, our Colonel wasn’t impressed. And, after some miserable sod reported back to him, we all got a thorough dressing down. He told us, in no uncertain terms, that we were a disgrace to our units. Then, as punishment, he made us do a three-hour drill march wearing our gas masks. All I can say is, it’s hard to believe we had laid down our lives for our country not 24 hours before, eh.
Best regards,
Jack
PS — I saw my reflection in a mirror the other day, Tom, and I hardly recognised the bloke looking back at me. I’m thin as a rake with a whiskery beard and a crop of boils around my chin. Still, I can promise I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard yet. Not by a long shot.
Dear Tom,
This army is certainly a hard place to fathom at times. The orders come straight from the top and those at the bottom have no choice but to do as we’re told. I don’t think the blokes in charge have much idea a lot of the time. It seems to be one rule for them and another rule for us.
Unfortunately, the more I know about those who give the orders the less respect I have.
Messines may be hailed a success but there have been some nasty cock ups with good men being sent into battle without proper thought of the risk.
Soldiers are dying in their thousands, for barely any ground at all.
Best regards,
Jack
Dear Jack,
I bet you don’t have as many pimples as I have. I’ve got pus balls on my chin bigger than nail heads. I try not to look in any mirrors and I suggest you do the same.
We were reading your letter on Friday night when Mrs J came over. She reckons you sound just like our Dad. She said this war is making you old before your time. She said you were just a kid when you left and now you sound like an old man, whiskery beard and all.
I can’t believe it’s over ten months since you left. Ma said in some ways it seems like forever and in other ways it’s hardly any time at all.
I played draughts with Amy again last night. She’s getting crafty now and nearly won two games in a row. Guess I can’t go so easy on her any more, eh.
We went to the pictures after that. Frank Morrison came too. We saw Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin. It gave us all a laugh.
Guess what? There’s a dance in the church hall this Saturday. YWCA. But Ma said I’m too young to go yet.
Maybe next year, eh.
Love from
Tom
Dear Tom,
Sorry about my last letter, mate. I really should hold back on the details. I forget who I’m writing to sometimes and I’m sorry if I start to ramble. The sights you see here make you soft in the head and writing things down helps.
I should be grateful I can still hold a pencil. Some poor sods come back from the frontline unable to write their own names. Hell, some of them can’t even remember their own names.
Shell shock is ghastly. One of our guys had it bad. He didn’t say a word for days. Just sat in the mess tent staring at nothing. It was like his mind had gone AWOL on him. I think losing your mind must be a darn sight worse even than losing your leg. And it’s no wonder some of the lads want to get the hell out of here. There’s many a poor sod who’s been shot for desertion.
Leonard Watson from our section found himself in a bit of strife the other day. We’d been under fire all week. Old Fritz was in a bad frame of mind and we were copping it big time. It must have been too much for poor Leonard because suddenly he just up and legged it.
Twelve hours later he was found wandering round no-man’s-land without a clue who he was or even what division he was with. Poor bloke couldn’t remember a thing. Luckily one of his mates recognised him and got him back behind the lines. Lord knows what would have happened otherwise.
The firing squad would have made mincemeat of him if they’d mistaken him for a deserter.
Best regards,
Jack
Hallelujah, Tom.
Today was a rare and joyous day. A fine thing to behold. Managed to forget about fighting for a whole night when we were treated to a performance by a New Zealand concert party. They call themselves ‘The Tuis’ and they travel around, performing for the troops. What a night we had, eh. Those lads fair lifted our spirits with a razzle-dazzle theatre performance. And after one stirring haka there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. Today I’m feeling more homesick than ever but even more determined to make it back home.
Best regards,
Your brother, Jack
PS — Please thank Ma for the shortbread and the socks. They went down a treat.
PPS — Also thank Mrs J for her Baxter’s remedy, which will definitely come in handy.
A poem by Arnold Wilson
(known to his friends as ‘Stampy’)
The Generals Calling the Shots
These trenches stink of filth and fear.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
Of sludge and vermin and death so near.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
Of demons and death.
Of a noose round your neck.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
Of death and decay,
we’re all in a bad way.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
Let’s run for the hills,
we should have made wills.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
That’s what they will say,
if the Hun get their way.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
Go stand your ground.
The artillery’s bound.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
To fall a bit short.
That’s when you’ll get caught.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
We should all be back home.
But to here we did roam.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
To lend them a hand.
Now wasn’t that grand.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
What would they care?
If we all disappear.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
That day might be near.
Bet they won’t shed a tear.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
There’s death and decay.
Can’t live through the day.
It’s the generals calling the shots.
The night’s even worse.
We’re all under a curse.
It’s the generals calling the shots!
They’ll do you no harm.
But my mate’s lost his arm!
It’s the generals calling the shots.
We’ll all burn in hell.
And we won’t live to tell.