Teenage Tommy

by Richard van Emden

  Before the Retreat was over, the Germans had forced their way practically into Paris. In the end, we went east of the city, then farther south to the Marne, but in those first few days of September I clearly remember seeing a 9km signpost for the city. ‘Here’s one who’s not going into Paris,’ said the man next to me. I asked why, and he told me of the siege of Paris in 1870 and how the inhabitants were forced to eat rats to survive. It was around this time that we saw twenty to thirty French taxi cabs commandeered to race urgently-needed reinforcements to the front, although, as we passed, they were merely sitting in the road waiting to move off, each taxi containing three or four soldiers.

  Editor

  These were troops of the 7th Division of the French Third Army, rushed forward to the front near Gagny, in the taxis of the Marne. They then pushed onwards to Le Plessis where they came to a halt, around 4,000 men travelling thirty miles. They were put into the line at a critical stage of the Marne Battle, as the newly-formed French Sixth Army's flank attack on von Kluck’s First Army had faltered and was now fighting off intense counter-attacks. Ben had seen some of the men who on September 6th would finally end the retreat and help to begin the re-advance to the Chemin des Dames.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Behind Enemy Lines

  Editor

  In the first few days of September, Ben was attached to an intelligence officer, Lieutenant Archibald Harrison. This officer had joined C Squadron at the outbreak of war, and had already made a name for himself as Bridges’ translator, becoming well-respected for his obvious intelligence and daring. While the BEF continued its retreat south, Harrison would go off to collect information about the enemy, criss-crossing the countryside, in the hope of finding out anything that might be of use. It was while he undertook these escapades that Ben was ordered to accompany him.

  Ben

  Harrison was a larger than life figure. Out-going and entertaining, he was also a highly astute, flexible and gifted man who spoke about five different languages including French, German and, I believe, Russian too. He was an intriguing officer, and a man not immune from scandal, for the story ran that shortly before the war, he had been discharged for ‘Disorderly Conduct’ from the 4th Hussars for doing what was known as the Pursuing Practice with the officers’ mess door.1

  Possibly owing to the war emergency, Lieutenant Harrison was back in the army, and early in September I was detailed to accompany him as he went behind the German lines to collect intelligence about the strength and whereabouts of the enemy. It is now known that the Germans were making a last effort to break the BEF and French armies in order to win a quick war, but in the first few days of September, it appeared that the Teutonic wave would simply roll on and on.

  Each morning, as dawn broke, I would scramble a quick breakfast before saddling up and joining Harrison as he chose the direction we would take. Most of the time I rode behind him, but now and again when he wanted to talk, he’d call me up to ride alongside. He liked to chat, and after the second day asked me my Christian name. This was very unconventional and would have been considered highly improper had anyone known, but while I naturally remained ‘Clouting’ within the confines of the Regiment, I was ‘Ben’ while we were on our own.

  Once we had left the Regiment, Harrison got his bearings and we switched from the roads, moving from hedgerow to hedgerow, wood to wood, always keeping cover and trying not to appear out in the open, the roads being left to the Germans. We frequently stopped so that Harrison could use his field glasses to survey the land ahead, although much time was spent collecting information from the French people. German patrols were popping up everywhere and many civilians were understandably jumpy, having heard about the German ‘atrocities’, the gory details of which spread fast and furiously among scared country folk. Most appeared willing to offer advice, but were anxious not to be caught red-handed helping a couple of British scouts. Days later when Jerry began to retire, most were less reticent; then a flurry of questions often had them pointing in various directions, fanning their hands over the horizon. Sometimes they pointed furiously, which I took to mean our arrival had only narrowly followed the Germans’ departure.

  Harrison never shied away from using farmhouses to water the horses or procure a quick meal or sandwich, and it was on one of these detours that we had a very narrow squeak.

  ‘We can get a meal here, Ben,’ Harrison said after talking with one farmer. ‘Water the horses, then take them to the stables and off saddle them. Be sure to give their backs a good rub, feed them and as soon as you are done, come into the farmhouse.’ An elderly farm hand joined me in the stable, bringing with him some com for our horses’ nose bags, and I patted their backs to bring the blood pressure back up, a form of horse massage. In the farmhouse, I found Harrison, as usual, in animated discussion with the farmer, before we both tucked into an excellent omelette beefed up with bread and butter. We were just finishing, indeed the farmer’s wife had just put some coffee on the table, when one of the farm labourers, sent out to keep watch, bounded in to say that Uhlans were headed towards the farm.

  There was no time to get away, and as our horses were in the stables there was little point in hiding. So we waited, standing stock still behind the kitchen table, watching through the kitchen’s thick lace curtains, Harrison drawing his revolver. Presently a dozen lancers rode into the courtyard to use the water trough. As we watched intently, I thought how strange it was: we could see them, barely an arm’s length away, yet they were blissfully unaware of our presence. My mind turned to the two horses in the stables, then I looked at Harrison who appeared composed. I had brought my rifle indoors as normal, and steeled myself, for I knew that Harrison, being Harrison, would shoot if we were discovered. As it was, the Germans seemed content to remain on their horses, talking to one another as they milled around waiting their turn at the trough. They showed no interest in either coming into the house or taking a look round the stables, and after what felt like an inordinate amount of time, they pulled their horses round and rode off.

  ‘For Christ’s sake get those bloody saddles on!’ Harrison was very excited, and did not want to hang around. I ran to saddle and girth the two horses quicker than I ever had before, and off we rode smartly in the other direction. Seeing the enemy at such close quarters was genuinely exhilarating. I was still not seventeen years old and was too curious to be frightened.

  The area was positively crawling with German cavalry and the fun was far from finished, for we hadn’t left the farm ten minutes when we were spotted by another patrol. Turning in his saddle, Harrison saw them first, and spurring his horse on, led the way down a cart track. We were more or less in open countryside with little cover, and Harrison’s horse, somewhat stronger than mine, quickly got ahead while I struggled to keep in touch. After perhaps a mile, we came to a steep grassy bank, and after a moment’s hesitation, Harrison plunged over the side with a sharp ‘Come on!’ It was a display of sheer horsemanship, for the bank was all of forty feet high which meant we had to sit right back on the horses to keep them straight as they slid down almost on their behinds. The Germans, on reaching the bank, decided not to follow and resorted to firing at us, the report of their carbines cracking in our ears. I didn’t care to look back, but they were a fair way behind and we were by now a fast receding target. That evening, Harrison somehow found the Regiment and complained about the horse I had been riding, ensuring that I was issued with an altogether stronger mare the following morning.

  Editor

  September 6th proved to be the turning point of the Retreat. The Germans, finding themselves over-extended, were forced to fall back, first to the river Marne and then the Aisne. Over the following six days a total of five rivers, the Morin, Marne, Ourcq, Vesle and Aisne, were crossed by the British, the 4th Dragoons being engaged most notably at the Petit Morin where Lieutenant Jones led a valiant charge to seize one of the two bridges over the river, and again on the Aisne where the 4th Dragoons lost its first officer k
illed.

  Ben

  The Germans were now retreating to the Marne, and while they were in some disorder it was Harrison’s job to get in behind their lines to discover the strength and location of units and where they might attempt to dig in. The Germans were retreating in some haste, and were leaving all manner of bits and pieces as they went. It seemed promising that personal kit had been dumped in the fields, for it was reminiscent of the way we had been forced to cast away ours only two weeks before. More significant than the items of kit were some wagons loaded with abandoned military supplies, and not a small number of items plundered from French homes.

  By the 8th, Allied troops had re-crossed the Marne, pushing on towards the Aisne, into countryside that was in complete contrast to the low-lying, featureless land we had retreated from, near Mons. Steep hills surrounded shallow valleys while rivers wound their way through the countryside.

  There was no telling where the Germans were, except for the debris of war they left behind, the dead horses which littered the roadways and the occasional body, too. On more than one occasion, Harrison veered away down a track on instinct, only to find we had narrowly missed bumping into German cavalry. On other occasions, it was quite possible to be within shouting distance of British troops and then to meet two or three German stragglers making their way back. These soldiers were usually dead beat and, strange though it seems, there was no animosity between us. On the contrary, Harrison talked to each one and I shouldn’t wonder if he didn’t tell them to keep going and rejoin their regiments. It wouldn’t have been out of character! The land was full of surprises.

  On cresting one hill, we came across a Troop of Hussars about to charge a Troop of German Lancers in the valley below, some half a mile or more from our position. Around twenty five troopers had formed up on both sides. There was a momentary pause before the Hussars attacked, swords pointed forward between their horses’ ears, the Germans responding with lances outstretched. Both sides were in fairly close formation until, at about sixty yards distant, they suddenly broke and fanned out. There was no collision of horses, not one fell, indeed each side passed through the other without an apparent casualty. ‘That is a sight you’ll never see again/said Harrison, and with that we moved off without waiting to see the conclusion of this little war.

  One evening as it was getting dusk we came across a house on the very edge of the wood. The house had been taken over by several Germans who were busily settling in, lighting fires as they prepared dinner. We watched them for a minute or two, and then Harrison said, ‘Cover me, Ben, I’m going to find out who they are.’ German and British officers dressed similarly at the beginning of the war, down to the Sam Browne style belts, and, as it was now dark, khaki was indistinguishable from grey. He pulled his hat right down to imitate the German peak cap and rode forward, right up to a German sentry, stopped for a moment, turned round and calmly came back. ‘Come on, I think we can get out of this,’ he said with a big smile on his face. ‘What happened, sir?’ I asked, intrigued. ‘I had a go at him for neither challenging me properly nor standing to attention when he spoke to an officer’, Harrison said, laughing. ‘Then, once I’d ruffled his feathers a little, I asked him which regiment he belonged to and rough directions.’

  The weather had well and truly broken by this time, with sweeping showers soaking us to the skin, and rumbling thunder that crashed around the valleys to great effect. German resistance was stiffening. Until this time, Harrison had contented himself with relying on the daily British advance to overtake and, in effect, release us from behind German lines. Normally, we waited in a wood until it was safe to move, but it became apparent this strategy was beginning to fail. The first time we were forced to stay out overnight, we stayed at a large farmhouse, Le Château Vert near the small hamlet of Mont Notre Dame, a few miles south of the Aisne. On entering the house, we discovered that five French Dragoons were drifting through, and had decided to stop for the night. As usual, Harrison was quick to strike up a conversation, but as it was late I was excused to make a last check on the horses before turning in. Harrison slept the night in another part of the house, while I bedded down in the straw-filled loft which the owner had made available. Presently the other Dragoons climbed into the loft, and it crossed my mind that I should try and say something. But there was little we could communicate, so I quickly got my head down and slept like a log.

  When I woke it was still early, but the Frenchmen had gone, so I went downstairs and had a quick breakfast before feeding and saddling the horses. As we were about to leave, the farmer’s wife produced a wicker basket with two dozen eggs and offered them to us. ‘Can you carry those without breaking them?’ Harrison asked. ‘I can try, sir’, and I thanked the lady in my pidgin French. The entente cordiale was very much alive, or so I thought, until I discovered that my wallet was missing. It was possible that I had lost it in the hay, but I retained the sneaking suspicion that one of the French Dragoons had relieved me of it during the night.

  Editor

  Harrison and Ben re-found the Regiment as it passed through the town of Cerseuil to the west. The Germans by this time were digging in on the Aisne, but there was still enough confusion for Harrison and Ben to effect a crossing of the river unseen on September 11th, two days before the British launched their attacks to seize the bridges over the Aisne.

  Ben

  Harrison was nothing if not courageous, for despite the dangers he decided to continue probing the German defences. To do so, he chose to cross the Aisne early one morning in torrential rain, pushing onwards to a village I later discovered was Moulins, some two to three miles north of the river. Like most of the villages in the area, Moulins consisted of a few sleepy houses strung out along half a dozen rough track roads, more a hamlet than a village. It was dusk when we arrived, and Harrison halted to discover whether any Germans were around. None were in sight, so we carried on down one of its narrow streets. We had just turned a corner when Harrison suddenly said ‘Get in there quick!’ To our right stood a barn with its doors wide open, and we rode in, scrambling off our horses to shut the doors. ‘Germans’, he said, ‘right at die end of the street.’ Harrison had reacted so quickly that I had not seen anyone, and we had apparently got under cover without being seen either. Working fast, we piled up straw in front of the door to give the barn the appearance to all but the most inquisitive that it was full, after which Harrison nipped out of a back door to make contact with the owner of the neighbouring estaminet. The village had been anything but empty when we had first arrived, for within half an hour we were able to watch, through the eaves of the bam, German soldiers sauntering up and down the road right under our noses, so close that we could clearly hear their chit-chat. There was no chance of getting away, so Harrison told me to improve our new billet, making sure the horses were as comfortable as possible.

  While I remained in the bam, Harrison nipped back to the estaminet. Everything would be all right, he told me, but in the meantime we were to give the estaminet owner our emergency rations to help supplement whatever we ate. Except when he came back to sleep, Harrison spent most of the time in the back of the house while I remained in the stables looking after the horses, although, fortunately, a horse rarely whinnies when there is another one with it. In the end it all became almost boring, as I kicked my heels around for hour after hour, or popped up into the loft to watch out for any Germans who might pass by.

  On the second day, the gunfire near the river increased considerably, and shells began to land in the near distance, which I took to be a promising sign, though I could see nothing. September 13th remained cold and showery but, as I was to find out later, the Dragoons had, on this dull, inauspicious day, taken part in an attack to capture a bridge that crossed the Aisne at the village of Bourg. This bridge had been hurriedly destroyed by the Germans. However, the Dragoons were able to cross by the use of an aqueduct, which I was to cross myself a few days later.

  Editor

  September 13th wa
s very wet, the rain on occasions coming down in torrents, and soaking everyone and everything. B Squadron under Captain Sewell had been given orders to occupy the village of Bourg on the other side of the Aisne. This village had been reported clear of the enemy, but on reaching the canal bridge the 4th Dragoons were suddenly fired upon.

  Ben

  In an attempt to stall the British advance, the Germans tried to blow up a canal that crossed the river. This they failed to do, and only managed to put a hole in the adjoining footpath that crossed the river as part of an iron aqueduct. The aqueduct still had water in it, and three planks of wood, each about two and a half feet wide, were laid across the hole. The footpath was not that wide, so we had to get off our horses and lead them across in single file.

  The Regiment had been supported by a battery of artillery in their attack, taking the bridge at 7.30am and a number of prisoners, after which the whole Brigade pushed on and seized the high ground a mile north of Bourg. The Germans had put up some resistance, with strategically-placed machine guns around the various bridges but B Squadron had carried all before them, although at the moment of victory our machine gun officer Captain Fitzgerald, was shot in the forehead and killed instantly.2

  In my barn I was quite ignorant of all this and other attacks unfolding for the various river crossings. Because I had to stay with the horses all the time, my food was brought to me either by the owner, or by Harrison. Finally on the third morning, I saw British troops coming up the street. Before we left, we were invited for a meal in the kitchen, where I noticed a picture standing on the mantelpiece of the lady outside her estaminet. Keen to have a souvenir, I motioned to her if I might have the picture as a keepsake and she nodded.3 We said goodbye and rejoined the war.