Mons, Anzac and Kut

by Edward Melotte

  With a whisper, sheathed in flame,

  And the battlefield grew still

  From the Valley to the Hill

  Just beyond the ripple’s reach

  He was lying on the beach,

  Dreaming half of things at home,

  Mixing dreams with light and foam.

  Three days he had smelt the dead,

  Looked on black blood and on red,

  Gripped and lain, and cursed and hated,

  Feared, exulted, prayed, and waited.

  From the dawn till dusk was dim

  All the world had spied on him;

  And the wind that sighed so low

  Seemed the footstep of his foe.

  And at night the fireflies dancing

  Were the light of men advancing.

  Swift his hands. His brain was cool.

  “Hell,” he said, “poor Tom’s at school.”

  Then he rested on the beach

  Just beyond the ripples’ reach

  Home and sunset in his dream

  Till the shrapnel’s quicker gleam

  Found his heart, and found his head –

  Found him dreaming, left him dead.

  And they buried him at night

  With men fallen in the fight

  So he fought and went away

  With the glory of the day,

  And no hatred in his heart

  When the great ways met to part.

  On a beach without a name

  He died sleeping, robbed of fame,

  Just before the day grew dim.

  Tom, his brother, envied him.

  Eventually evacuated from Gallipoli after having fallen seriously ill, Herbert returned home to recover before being sent back to the Middle East to once again work with the Arab Bureau. With T.E. Lawrence and the Head of British Intelligence in Mesopotamia, Colonel W.H. Beach, he journeyed up the Tigris where they made an unsuccessful attempt to buy the release of the British Garrison surrounded by the Turks at Kut-al-Amara. Afterwards he served as an intelligence officer at Salonika and later in Italy, and in the last months of the war he was the head of the English Mission attached to the Italian Army in Albania, where he held the temporary rank of Lieutenant-Colonel.

  After the war Herbert returned to politics and the continued cause of the Albanians. For such an intelligent man he was to have a ridiculous end. His eyes began to deteriorate and convinced by someone that his sight would be repaired if he had his teeth pulled, he did so. He developed septicaemia and died at the age of 43 on 26 September 1923.

  To describe the man himself, I must turn to the words of his friend Desmond MacCarthy1. MacCarthy wrote the original introduction to Mons, Anzac and Kut and described him thus,

  He was well over medium height and slimly built. His normal carriage was stooping, his gait buoyant and careless, and he was apt to fling himself into chairs in any attitude of comfortable collapse and then to leap up again in the excitement of talk. All his movements were expressive. His dress was never intentionally unconventional, but unless he had taken special pains with his get-up, which he could seldom be induced to do, its general effect was decidedly unusual. He was untidy, his shirts bulged and his tie was apt to rise and obscure his collar. He would clap on his head any hat to hand regardless of the rest of his costume. He did not notice when his clothes were shabby, and strangers must often have been surprised to discover, as they must have done after a moment’s conversation, that such an unpretentious-looking person was so politically adroit and so completely at home in the world.

  His entry into a room was impetuous but never dramatic, and his greetings were exceptionally warm; his voice when he was pleased to see one became high and clear. He gave the impression of being completely unselfconscious, but at the same time exceptionally aware of other people. He was a flattering listener, and one of his distinctive gestures was that of bending towards the person to whom he was talking, or of drawing closer his chair in a manner which seemed to convey, Now, now we are going to understand each other. Then, he would listen with head slightly on one side, checking, now and then, an impulse to interrupt in precisely the way which stimulates most the volubility of others. Among friends he loved to promote laughter at his own expense. Many of his gestures were decidedly idiosyncratic. At meals while listening he would meditatively beat upon the palm of his hand with an unused knife. He would often seize a bottle from the table and apply it to his eye like a telescope to see now much more liquor there was still in it. And when an impulse to be confidentially emphatic possessed him, he would raise an arm and, stooping forward, bring it down slowly with the deliberate motion of one tolling a bell. This gesture of eagerly stooping forward was balanced by a movement equally characteristic, that of suddenly drawing himself backwards and erect. And at such moments an almost deprecating attitude of attention was instantly replaced by an impetuously alert dignity. He looked extremely well at such moments, valorous and self-assured.

  A romantic figure, even amongst his peers, it is reputed that Herbert was the inspiration for the character Sandy Arbuthnot, a hero in several of John Buchan’s novels including Greenmantle. The cameo character of the ‘Honourable Herbert’ in Louis de Bernières’ novel Birds Without Wings is also clearly based on him: The ‘Honourable Herbert’ appears as a British liaison officer with the ANZAC troops serving at Gallipoli. A talented linguist, he is able to communicate with both Turks and Allies and arranges the burial of the dead, achieving great popularity with both sides – a description that clearly mirrors Herbert’s own role.

  Aubrey Herbert’s character comes forth very clearly throughout the diaries: his love of daring, of adventure and of people; his generosity of spirit, of letting people off and of giving. But the value to him, in terms of his own happiness, of daring, adventure and generosity, depended greatly on finding others responsive to them. He lived in an age when his values were more common than they are today and when the approach to war (certainly at the beginning) was more chivalrous. Our journey to the Mesopotamia of 2003, whilst still inciting excitement did not, I believe, lead us there in the spirit ‘half-joy in life, half-readiness to die’ with which Herbert and his generation marched to war in 1914. While Mons, Anzac and Kut is a diary of its age, many of the observations and truths set out within it resonate as timelessly today as they did then, and on putting it down I for one was filled with admiration for its author, his experiences and his generation.

  Edward Melotte

  Jerusalem 2009

  Chapter One

  Mons

  1914

  On Wednesday, August 12th, 1914, my regiment2 left Wellington Barracks at seven in the morning. I fell into step in the ranks as they went out of the gateway, where I said good-bye to my brother, who left that day for Spain. It was very quiet in the streets, as the papers had said nothing about the movement of troops. On the march the wives and relations of men said goodbye to them at intervals, and some of our people came to see us off at the station, but we missed them.

  We entrained for Southampton – Tom3, Robin4, Valentine5 and I got into the same carriage. We left Southampton without much delay. I was afraid of a hitch, but got on to the ship without any trouble. On board everybody was very cheerful. Most people thought that the first big engagement would have begun and very likely have ended before we arrived. Some were disappointed and some cheered by this thought. The men sang without ceasing and nobody thought of a sea attack.

  The next day (the 13th) we arrived very early at Le Havre in a blazing sun. As we came in, the French soldiers tumbled out of their barracks and came to cheer us. Our men had never seen foreign uniforms before, and roared with laughter at their colours. Stephen Burton6 of the Coldstream Guards rebuked his men. He said, ‘These French troops are our Allies; they are going to fight with us against the Germans.’ Whereupon one man said, ‘Poor chaps, they deserve to be encouraged,’ and took off his cap and waved it, and shouted, ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ He was a bit behind the times. I belie
ve if the Germans beat us and invaded England they would still be laughed at in the villages as ridiculous foreigners.

  We were met by a Colonel of the French Reserves, a weak and ineffective man, two Boy Scouts, and a semi-idiotic interpreter. We shed this man as soon as we were given our own two excellent interpreters. We had no wood to cook the men’s dinners, and I was sent off with Jumbo and a hundred men to see what I could find. A French corporal came reluctantly with us. We marched a mile, when we found an English quartermaster at a depot, who let us requisition a heap of great faggots, which we carried back.

  After breakfast I was sent with Hickie7, the Quartermaster, to arrange for billeting the men. Hickie rode a bicycle and lent me his horse, which was the most awful brute I have ever mounted in any country. It walked ordinarily like a crab; when it was frightened it walked backwards, and it was generally frightened. It would go with the troops, but not alone, and neither whip nor reins played any part in guiding the beast. Hickie couldn’t ride it. Some French soldiers threw stones at it and hit me. Finally we got a crawling cab, then a motor, and went off about eleven kilometres to the Café des Fleurs, where the camp was to be. It was a piping hot day. We got a house for the Colonel and Desmond8 belonging to Monsieur Saville, who said he was a friend of Mr James Yoxall MP. He had a very jolly arbour, where we dined. In the afternoon the troops came marching up the steep hill in great heat. Hickie and I found a man rather drunk, with a very hospitable Frenchman. The Frenchman said: ‘We have clean sheets and a well-aired bed, coffee, wine or beer for him, if he desires them.’ There was no question about the man’s desiring them. Hickie almost wept, and said: ‘How can you keep an army together if they are going to be treated like this?’ The sun had been delightful in the morning at Le Havre, but was cruel on the troops, especially on the Reservists, coming up the long hill.

  The French had been very hospitable. They had given the men, where they had been able to do so free of observation, wine, coffee, and beer. The result was distressing. About twenty of the men collapsed at the top of the hill in a ditch, some of them unconscious, seeming almost dying, like fish out of water. The French behaved very well, especially the women, and stopped giving them spirits. I got hold of cars and carried the men off to their various camps. Jack Hamilton, Tom, and I slept all right in a tent on the ground. The next day I was sent down by the Colonel with the drum-major, to buy beer for the regiment at 1s. 1d a gallon, which seemed cheap. I met Stephen Burton while I was buying things. He told me we were off that night, that we were to start at 10, but that we should not be entrained till 04.30. I lunched with Churchill9, the Consul, a man called Long, who talked very good French and English, and also saw Walsh, the Vice-Consul, whom I liked. I did not think much of Churchill, but he tried to help me get a horse from the Colonel of the Commissariat who was there. Long sent me back in his motor. At the camp, the Colonel complained that the beer had not come, and that the Drum-Major and the men had been lost. I commandeered a private motor and went back at a tremendous rate into the town, all but killing the drum-major at a corner. We had a capital dinner. Monsieur Saville gave us excellent wine, and the Colonel told me to make him a speech. We then lay down before the march.

  The next camp captured a spy, but nobody paid any attention. About 10.30 we moved off. It was a warm night with faint moonlight. Coming into the town the effect was operatic. As we marched or were halted all the windows opened and the people put their heads out to try and talk to us. At about half-past eleven it began to rain, but the men whistled the Marseillaise and ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary.’ The people came out of the houses, trying to catch the hands of the men and walking along beside them. We were halted in front of the station, and waited endlessly in the rain. We then had an almost unspeakable march over cobbles, past interminable canals, over innumerable bridges, through what seemed to be the conglomeration of all the slums of all the world, to light that always promised us rest but never came. It poured without ceasing. At last we arrived at the station, and when we saw the train pandemonium followed. Everybody jumped into carriages and tried to keep other people out, so as to have more room. We were all soaked to the skin, and nobody bothered about anyone else. After that we got out and packed the men in. Tom, Charles Guthrie, Jack, Hickie, and I got into one carriage. Lieutenants who tried to follow were hurled out. It was very cold. Tom had a little brandy, which did us some good. At about 5 a.m. we moved off. The next day we arrived at Amiens.

  Saturday, the 15th, we arrived at Amiens to see a great stir and bustle. We had not had much to eat. We found several officers of the Coldstream Guards in their shirt-sleeves, who had got left trying to get food. I got masses later on at a wayside station, and a stream of people to carry it, and returned with rousing cheers from the men. At every station we were met by enormous crowds that cheered and would have kissed our hands if we had let them. They made speeches and piled wreaths of flowers upon the Colonel, who was at first very shy, but driven to make a speech, liked it, and became almost garrulous. At Arras we had the greatest ovation of all. An old man in the crowd gave me a postcard, which I directed to a relation at home and asked him to post. This he did, adding a long letter of his own, to say that I was well and in good spirits. This letter and my post-card got past the censor.

  Late that night we came to a place called Wassigny, where, after a lot of standing about, we went up to a farmhouse. Hickie and I lay down on the floor in a sort of an office at about half-past two, with orders to be off at five. The Colonel slept outside, half on and half off a bench. He never seemed to need sleep.

  We left the next morning, Sunday, the 16th, at five, for Vadencourt. I was wearing Cretan boots, and my feet already began to trouble me.

  At Vadencourt we met the Maire and his colleague, Monsieur Lesur. He took us first of all to the most beautiful place for a camp, a splendid field by a river for bathing, wooded with poplars, but no sooner had we got there than we were told the Coldstreamers had the right to it.

  In Vadencourt everybody helped us. The people threw open their houses, their barns and their orchards. They could not do enough; but it was a long business and we had not finished until 1 o’clock, by which time we were pretty tired. Then the troops turned up, and we had to get them into billets. After that we lunched with the Colonel. The French cottages were extraordinarily clean, never an insect, but plenty of mice rioting about at night. There were many signs of religion in all these cottages. Most of the rooms were filled with crucifixes and pictures of the Saints. The priests seemed to have a great deal of influence. Vadencourt was very religious, and the morning we went off they had a special service for the men, which was impressive. All the people seemed saintly, except the Maire, who was very much of this world. Shields10, our doctor, who was stroke of the Cambridge Eight and a heavy weight boxer of renown and who came from Sherborne, gave us a lecture and persuaded the reluctant to be inoculated for typhoid. It was the only unpleasant day we spent at Vadencourt.

  The men had fraternized with the people and, to the irritation of the Colonel, wore flowers in their hair and caps. There was no drunkenness – in fact the men complained that there was nothing strong enough to make a man drunk. Generally there was not much to do, though one day the men helped with the harvest. The people couldn’t have been kinder. It was, as one of the men said, a great ‘overtation.’ Every day there was a paper published in amazing English. In one paper we found a picture of Alex Thynne11, with contemptuous and angry references to a speech he had made against English tourists going to France; he wanted them to go instead to Bath, in his constituency, and so to please both him and his constituents.

  It was a quiet life. There was little soldiering, and that, as someone said, was more like manoeuvres in the millennium than anything else. Everywhere corn was offered for our horses and wine for ourselves, but there was a great fear underlying the quiet. We were constantly asked whether the Germans would ever get to Vadencourt, and always said we were quite sure they would not. We used to
mess at the inn close to my house. Of French troops we saw practically nothing, except our two interpreters, Charlot, who talked very good English, and Bernard, a butcher from Havre, a most excellent fellow, who was more English than the English, though he could only talk a few words of the language. There was also another interpreter, head master of a girls’ school in Paris. He said to me: ‘Vous trouverez toutes espèces d’infames parmi les interprets, même des MPs.’

  One day Hugo Gough said that it would be interesting, before going into battle, to have our fortunes told. I told him he could not get a fortune-teller at Vadencourt. ‘Not at all, there is one in the village; I saw it written over her shop, “Sage Femme”.’ I was very comfortable in my house, which was just out of bounds, but not enough to matter.

  Monsieur Louis Prevot came in one day, with a beautiful mare, brown to bay, Moonshine II, by Troubadour out of Middlemas. He said that she could jump two metres. Her disadvantages were that she jumped these two metres at the wrong time and in the wrong place, that she hated being saddled and kicked when she was groomed: while Monsieur Prevot was showing me how to prevent her kicking she kicked right through the barn door. I bought her for £40. I think Prevot thought that the French Authorities were going to take his stables and that I was his only chance. When she settled down to troops she became a beautiful mount.

  That day I went with Hickie through Etreux to Boué, foraging. I drove with a boy called Vanston behind a regular man-killer. It was far worse than anything that happened at Mons. Vanston talked all the time of the virtue of Irish women, of the great advantage of having medals and the delight old men found in looking at them, of the higher courage of the unmarried men and his keen anxiety to get into battle, and of the goodness of God. Hickie was upset because he thought that the man-killing horse was going to destroy the Maltese cart, which was, apparently, harder to replace than Vanston or me.

  The night before we left the Colonel gave us a lecture. As an additional preparation for the march we were also inoculated against typhoid which made some people light-headed.