At dusk it began to rain. Several miles in the rear the disappointed cavalry turned their horses’ heads for home. If all had gone according to plan, they should have galloped through the gap many hours ago, past Gueudecourt and Lesboeufs, across the lower ground beyond and by now might have been ranged along the Transloy ridges from Sailly-Saillisel to Bapaume. No trenches there! No barbed wire, few emplacements, nothing to prevent swift-moving patrols from dashing through the night to raid Divisional and even Corps Headquarters to demoralize the enemy’s generals much as the tanks had demoralized his infantry that morning.
If all had gone according to plan the victorious tanks would now be sitting behind the new line, waiting for morning and daylight to swing to the north. Then, with the British Army cheering behind, they would have rolled up the German line as they might roll up a carpet laid over their path to Bapaume. But half the tanks were knocked out – and the advance had halted.
The night was kind to the Germans. Rain-clouds gathered low in the sky, glowing red above the guns and concealing the shrinking moon. The Germans were thankful for that. They needed the dark. The Transloy ridges were alive with troops, with guns, with wagons, with supplies, rushing forward to support the sleepless weakened regiments clinging to their beleaguered line. There was no sleep for the German generals nor for their Staff. In their Headquarters’ châteaux, which should even now be surrounded, lights burned until dawn and the German Staff who, according to plan, ought to have been quailing under the lances of the cavalry, attempted to make sense of the situation, tried to unravel the riddle of the new ‘secret weapon’ from incoherent front-line reports, pondered, conferred and planned counter-attacks for tomorrow. At all costs they must force the British to give up ground. At all costs they must capture a tank.
They had, as yet, no clear idea of their losses, except that they must be huge. And they were right. Their dead littered the battlefield and, trotting disconsolately through the drizzle to their billets, the British cavalrymen were overtaking long columns of bemused German prisoners plodding with their escorts to the cages.
Chapter 22
There was no shortage of prisoners after the fighting of 15 September. There had been a disturbing shortage after the First of July. Even where the troops had successfully advanced and where, consequently, large numbers of captives might have been expected, the cages that had been prepared received the merest trickle of Prisoners-of-War. They were full enough now but, even so, in the ten weeks since the start of the campaign, an idea had grown up on both sides of the line that the British infantry would give no quarter and would take no prisoners and that, furthermore, they were acting under direct orders.
This idea was assiduously fostered by the German Staff as a useful means of stiffening the resistance of their front-line infantry. The British Staff, equally anxious to foster the offensive spirit with tales of German atrocities, would have vehemently denied it. The British sense of justice and fair play was renowned throughout the world. It was the Germans who, as all the world was equally aware, brutally hounded innocent civilians, cut off children’s hands, bayoneted babies, shot – and even crucified – prisoners. It was the Germans (albeit the descendants of Schubert and Schiller and Göethe) who had first launched upon the unsuspecting Tommies the infamous evils of poison gas and liquid fire. Was it conceivable that the heirs of Nelson, of Wellington, of Clive could descend to such depths of brutality as to shoot enemies who desired to surrender? All the rules of ‘honest warfare’ forbade it.
But in the minds of many Tommies the conviction that they were directed to take no prisoners had taken a curious hold and it was rooted in an order which had been issued from GHQ on 28 June 1916 – on the eve of the Battle of the Somme.
All ranks must be on their guard against the various ruses at which the enemy has shown himself to be an adept, especially the use of British words of command such as ‘Retire’, etc.
The German machine-gun is carried on a sledge, and the Germans sometimes throw a blanket over the gun. This makes the sledge and gun resemble a stretcher.
It is the duty of all ranks to continue to use their weapons against the enemy’s fighting troops, unless and until it is beyond all doubt that those have not only ceased all resistance but that, whether through having voluntarily thrown down their weapons or otherwise, they have definitely and finally abandoned all hope or intention of resisting further. In the case of apparent surrender, it lies with the enemy to prove his intention beyond the possibility of misunderstanding, before the surrender can be accepted as genuine.1
It was signed by General Kiggell, Chief of the General Staff. It was sent out to every corps, every division, every brigade, every battalion of British troops on the Western Front and, through colonels and company commanders, to every platoon officer to read and pass on, for it was further instructed that the warning ‘should be communicated verbally to all ranks before taking part in an assault’. The order had never been rescinded and its message, though disguised, was unequivocal. Interpretations inevitably varied in the course of ‘verbal communication’ by several thousand platoon officers, but there was no doubt that to many soldiers of the infantry the message had come across loud and clear.
Prisoners were a nuisance. Fighting troops had to be spared from the battle to escort them back. Prisoners consumed supplies as well as manpower. ‘The more Fritz eats the less there will be for you’, was a potent argument. But, an even more powerful argument, as the infantry was rapidly working out for itself, was that brutality to prisoners, failure to give Fritz the benefit of the doubt in the case of apparent surrender, if practised on too wide a scale, might result in similar treatment being meted out by the Germans to British soldiers who were forced to surrender. Privately, individually, the Tommies made up their own minds and acted according to circumstance, to character and to conscience. After the advances of 15 September the Prisoner-of-War cages were well populated. They were guarded by Corps Troops of non-combatant units and, in contrast to the slog of trench digging and road building, looking after German prisoners was a sinecure.
Private W. G. Bell, No. 4640, 9th Btn., Army Cyclist Corps
The first thing you did if you got hold of a Jerry was to see what you could get off him – if he’d got a watch or anything like that. Most of our chaps had a load of Mark notes on them that weren’t worth the paper they were printed on. All I was after was cap badges. I tried to get some watches but that was no good. None of the scruffy ones that came into our Prisoner-of-War camp had any that were worth having.
There was a lot of talk about Zeppelin raids and the Jerries bombing London and killing a lot of civilians and, just at that time, we had a Jerry airman who’d been brought down. He was handed over to us and one of my mates interrogated him. He tried to find out whether he’d been over, dropping bombs. He said, ‘If he’s been over there, I’ll shoot him! He’ll never get away!’
He would have done too! Life meant nothing to you. Life was in jeopardy and when you’d got a load of Jerries like that on your hands, all stinking to high heaven, you hadn’t much sympathy for them with their Kamerad and all this cringing business. It brutalizes you, war does. You don’t find that you’ve got much sympathy. All you’re looking after is your own skin all the time. Head down.
Attitudes were hardening at home as well as in France. The casualty lists had burgeoned horribly since July, taking up more and more columns of the daily newspapers, casting a shadow across the summer and a blight over almost every family in the land. Now came the stories of other pathetic events – of homes wrecked by German bombs, of women, children, pet animals and caged birds wounded or killed by ‘Hun raiders’.
And then, on 3 September, a raiding Zeppelin was shot down by Lieutenant Leefe Robinson of the Royal Flying Corps. He was acclaimed as a hero and, rightly, in the opinion of Londoners, awarded the Victoria Cross. They had flocked to Potters Bar to gloat over the burnt-out wreck and a brisk market sprang up in souvenirs. Everyone wanted a bit
of the Zeppelin and everyone was prepared to pay. At the Polytechnic jumble sale, held on 17 September in aid of comforts for the ‘Poly Boys’ serving in the forces, the ‘Zepp Remnant Corner’ was the success of the afternoon. It was presided over by Miss Morel who had spared no effort in collecting, begging, borrowing and even advertising for bits of Zeppelin with which to astound the public who had braved a day of teeming rain to attend. It cost a penny to pass behind a screen to inspect the relics and, as an added bonus, to be regaled by Miss Morel with thrilling stories, graphically related, on the origin of each item. Miss Budgeon and Miss Ross, presiding over the refreshment stall, Mrs Gravelin on Old Clothes, Miss Whitewright in charge of Fancy Goods, Miss Ashby and Miss Bowen well ahead of the season with Christmas cards and calendars, Miss Mitchell and Mrs Bangert persuasively selling rubbish under the title of Penny Odds and Ends and even Miss Cooper, whose Lucky Fish Pond Dip attracted many clients, had lean takings compared to the receipts of the Zepp Remnant Stall. But no one minded. Stall holders and buyers alike had done their bit and raised no less than seventeen pounds. It was estimated with satisfaction that this sum would provide enough khaki wool to enable the knitting committee to provide socks for nearly three hundred ‘Poly Boys’.
Like many other organizations and institutions the ‘Poly’ looked after its own. Since Quintin Hogg had founded the Polytechnic Young Men’s Christian Institute, no one was absolutely certain how many boys had passed through its Lower School and gone on to higher education in either the Commercial or the Technical Secondary Department. But they did know that, by September 1916, no less than two thousand six hundred and forty-five Old Boys were serving with the forces. There were probably many more who had not thought of letting them know.
The Polytechnic took a particular interest in boys who had served in the Institute’s Cadet Corps and graduated to the Rangers – officially the 12th Londons, but referred to proprietorially as ‘The Poly Regiment’ – now fighting with the 56th Division in Lousy Wood. Many other ‘Poly Boys’ in the 47th London Division had helped to make the final thrust that captured High Wood. The September fighting had taken a high toll and, in October, the task of compiling the monthly ‘Poly Roll of Honour’ was unusually onerous. There were no less than four pages of photographs and obituaries, headed by a verse which was sincerely intended to be of comfort to the bereaved relatives of the boys who had died.
Remember what he was, with thankful heart,
The bright, the brave, the tender, and the true.
Remember where he is – from sin apart,
Present with God – yet not estranged from you.
But never doubt that love, and love alone,
Removed thy loved one from this trial scene,
Nor idly dream, since he to God has gone,
Of what, had he been left, he might have been.
But the currency of such high sentiments had tended somewhat to devalue since the start of the Big Push. There was a growing hint of disillusionment, of doubt, of questioning, not the Cause, but the Execution of the war. It was summed up by Ethel Bath in the letter she wrote in reply to condolences on her shattering news from France.
It is a small comfort to know he gave his life in a successful attack. His Captain wrote that the success was entirely due to the magnificent way the men went forward led by their officers. He also said that of the five officers from the 10th only one was left… I am very proud of my boy but at the same time it grieves me dreadfully to think those boys are given such a small chance to show their grit. You will understand what I mean when I tell you he was only out 16 days in all, and he was attached to the Middlesex Regt on Friday 6th, sent into the trenches the same afternoon and attacked on the Saturday at 2.30 in the afternoon, when he was killed. It all seems too quick to give them a chance.
She signed it ‘Ethel Bath’. She had hardly had time to get used to the unfamiliar surname. Reg died in Lousy Wood just three weeks to the hour since they were married and, in Lousy Wood itself, where the weary 56th Division was still in the line, letters much like Ethel’s were arriving by every mail that came up with the rations from the transport lines. There were several for Arthur Agius. One came from Florence Scarlett and Agius read it in a filthy dugout, not much further advanced than the one in which he had penned his own sad letter to her.
305, Thorold Road,
Ilford.
Dear Captain Agius,
I wish to take this opportunity of thanking you for your kind letter of sympathy, and for the few details you were able to give me concerning my dear husband’s death. The sad news was a terrible shock to me, and, up till now, I have felt too ill to write to you, although I have been eager to do so.
If it is not taking too great an advantage of your kindness, will you please let me know whether, at the time my dear one fell, there were any personal possessions on him that could be sent to me. I know there was nothing of real value, but I think you will understand that any little thing no matter what it is will become one of my most cherished possessions.
It was a great relief to know that dear Harold did not suffer any pain, although what would I not give to have had just one last message from him. We have been married such a short time (only five months) and I cannot realize that he has gone – never to see him again. The last time we were together he was so happy and well and eager to do his level best for his Country at all cost. This horrible war is dealing some cruel blows, and one is apt to grow hardened to the Casualty List until someone very dear is taken. There is scarcely a home, but what the occupants have some great trouble to bear, and sometimes I think, knowing this, helps us to bear our grief more bravely.
Will you please also tell me, if possible, where my husband was struck. I feel I would like to know. After the war I hope to be able to visit his last resting-place and, in that case, I suppose I should have no difficulty in distinguishing it.1
Once again thanking you for your kindness in writing to me. With every good wish for your safe and speedy return to England.
Yours very sincerely,
Florence E. Scarlett.
Florence Scarlett and Ethel Bath had experienced, between them, just eight days of married life. The letter from Mrs Scarlett worried Agius. The same post had brought a letter from his fiancée, Dolly, full of excited plans for their own wedding and enclosing one of the invitations, hot from the printers. More than a hundred had already gone out to friends and relatives:
Madame Noel
announces the marriage of her younger daughter
Evelyn (‘Dolly‘)
to
Captain Arthur J. Agius
1/3rd London Regiment
Which will take place on his next leave from the Front
at St. Dominic’s Priory, Haverstock Hill.
(The exact date will be announced later.)
Agius wondered gloomily if he was being fair to Dolly. He also wondered what the ‘exact date’ would be. He was ‘sweating on leave’ but, until another officer came to take over command of the Battalion, there was no hope of getting it.
Leave had been stopped at the beginning of the Somme Offensive. Now it had started again. Filthy, lousy, encrusted with the mud and sometimes with the blood of the trenches, the men poured off the leave trains into seven days of delight. To the families who waited, the long casualty lists, the knowledge of those other families in the land who have some great trouble to bear made it all the more poignant and eagerly awaited. Joe Murray got leave on 18 September. His train arrived at Newcastle at the unearthly hour of twenty-past three in the morning. There were four frustrating hours to pass before the local train left for the mining village of Lintz Green and he put in the first of them by trying to get rid of at least the top layer of the dirt that encrusted his uniform and his body. With the limited facilities available in the station’s ‘Wash and Brush Up’, he made little impression on what seemed to be half the filth of France. At half-past four he set off across the high-level bridge to Gateshead and kno
cked at his Aunt Maggie’s door.
Able Bodied Seaman Joseph Murray, No. TZ.276, Hood Btn., The 63rd (Royal Naval) Division
I said, ‘I’m not even going to sit down. I’m as lousy as a cuckoo.’ Uncle Bill said, ‘Sit down, lad. Bugger the lice. Sit down!’ Right off, I got a cup of tea and Aunt Maggie got the frying pan on and I tucked into a good breakfast. First meal in England! My, it was good!
I wanted to send a telegram because I didn’t want to give my mother a shock just walking in. So Aunt Maggie and Uncle Bill walked me round to the Post Office as soon as it opened, which was ten minutes before the train went. It took half an hour on the train and then a two-mile walk which took about another half-hour to get home. I didn’t mind that, because I didn’t want to get home before my telegram. The quickest way was to walk along the track that the colliery trucks used to get down to the main line, and of course in France I’d been walking on railway tracks for months. So I’m walking up the colliery railway and I see somebody waving from the bridge. I thought, ‘It’s our Mum!’
Apparently the telegram came to our local Post Office and, of course, the Post Mistress knew everybody in the village. She said to the postman, ‘Dobson, I’ve got a telegram here for Mrs Murray.’ He said, ‘Oh no!’ She said, ‘No, no. It’s good news. Joe’s got leave.’ So the postman got on his bike and he delivered the telegram before he did his round.
Well! She put the kettle on the fire to boil and then she was off – a pair of slippers on, no shawl, no nothing – straight out of the front door and across the cricket field to meet me. When she got to this bridge, she daren’t go any further, in case I was coming by the road. So she waited there and I saw her up on the bridge. I waved and I ran down the embankment and she ran down the bridge and she just collapsed on the wet grass. I had to lean down to give her a hug and a kiss. She didn’t faint, but she couldn’t walk. All she could do was sit there greetin’, sitting on the wet grass. I had to carry her home across the fields, into the cottage and into the kitchen, full of steam from the boiling kettle.
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