The Germans had just begun to shell the village and we were thankful to go, finding, by sheer chance, that the Regiment had just passed the village. The Germans finally stopped retreating to dig in on the Chemin des Dames some few miles to the north, and as a consequence Harrison and I parted company.
Shortly after the Regiment crossed the Aisne, I was involved in a curious incident, which caused consternation at the time and achieved some notoriety in later years. In brief, it concerned two Lieutenant-Colonels, Elkington and Mainwaring, who were respectively in charge of the 1st Warwickshires and 2nd Dublin Fusiliers. During the confusion of the Mons retreat, a few of the 4th Dragoon Guards, most notably Major Tom Bridges and Lieutenant Harrison, arrived in a town called St Quentin to find several hundred exhausted men from both battalions slumped in the town square.
Their two commanding officers were at first nowhere to be seen. At the end of their tethers from days of fighting with little sleep or food, these officers had surrendered their commands, and a note to that effect was on its way to the Germans, a few miles to the north. Trying to restore some hope and discipline, Bridges tried to get the men to move but to little effect, so he resorted to the unique action for which he is remembered. Seizing his trumpeter, he went to a toy shop in the square where he purchased a toy drum and whistle, and with as much strength as both could muster, they marched around the square playing for all they were worth. The troops responded to the spectacle, and some minutes later began to fall in, to be led out of the town under the noses of the German cavalry. The two colonels were subsequently court martialled.4
Where I was while these famous events unfolded, I do not now recall. However, my own path was to become briefly entangled with the fall-out from the events at St Quentin. Some time later, the Regiment was on the outskirts of a town when I was one of eleven troopers and a corporal called to fall in with our rifles by one of our sergeants. We were given no explanation, and although we asked the sergeant, we were none the wiser. Told to wait on a street comer until further orders, we hung around for a couple of hours before abruptly being stood down. Nothing was said. I was curious, and waited for the first opportunity to ask the sergeant what it was all about. He told me that we were to shoot two Lieutenant-Colonels had a court martial passed death sentences on them. Instead, the court martial adjudged both to have had a mental breakdown owing to severe stress, and cashiered them from the army.
Editor
The Courts Martial of Elkington and Mainwaring are recorded as taking place on September 11th and 12th 1914, or in other words at exactly the same time that Ben and Lieutenant Harrison were being hidden in the stable in Moulins. This contradiction currently remains unexplained.
Ben
In the days after my exploits at Moulins, I rejoined my Squadron. The weather continued to be dismal; everyone was soaked through and covered in mud. Severe fighting was in progress as the infantry engaged the Germans time and time again, and the enemy continued to dig in on the heights of the Chemin des Dames. The Regiment criss-crossed the battle front, while shells continually passed over our heads. On a number of occasions the full Regiment, or one or more squadrons, was called into dismounted action, when we would dismount and rim forward to dig in. We had no way of knowing that static warfare was about to overtake us on this front, nor that it would start a race to the sea. That race, when opposing armies tried to out-flank each other, succeeded only in creating the long lines of trenches. Our scoops in the ground, in which we lay, were, in a sense, the forerunners of the trenches. They were hastily dug by loosening the earth with small picks, which were then turned around to become shovels, the shovels being used to heap the earth in front, giving us a little more protection from bullets.
We were to fight a sharp action from scoops when, a couple of days later, two squadrons were sent into action to support some hard-pressed infantry. Our orders, as I recall, were to ride to a ridge and open fire on the Germans reportedly advancing in mass formation on the far side. As we rode forward, I saw on our left a battery of Royal Horse Artillery come into action at a gallop, absolutely to drill. We’d seen them fire before, but this was the first, and indeed the only, time that I saw the lead gunners drop from their horses, unhook the guns and limbers, while the lead riders swung the horses round to take them under cover. It was picturesque.
The six-gun battery came into action in support, opening up shortly before we arrived on the brow of the ridge. As a horse holder, I ought to have stayed behind, but older troopers were quite happy to let the likes of me go instead. Leaving our horses at the bottom of a ridge, we ran up the slope, where we dropped into small scoops made by some recently-departed infantry. It was such a beautiful clear day as the Germans came on, packed together, hundreds of them, marching four deep and at a distance of some eleven hundred yards. They were coming down the far slope of a valley, marching through agricultural fields, as we opened up with our fifteen-rounds-a-minute fire. The vision was perfect. I could see Germans toppling over as the rest came relentlessly on, but, with our artillery pounding away, the Germans could only take so much. All of a sudden they turned and bolted back up the valley, and the ceasefire was ordered; the action hadn’t lasted much more than five minutes. We waited in those scoops until the evening, during which time a message was passed along from man to man. It came in an empty Bully Beef can and was tossed from scoop to scoop. It said, ‘Brave A and C Squadrons 4th Dragoon Guards. You are a credit to both infantry and cavalry.’ I am not sure who signed it, though I have a feeling it was General Lomax. When we were finally withdrawn, I went to draw fresh ammunition from the limber. It was then that I found I had just fourteen rounds left of the ninety I had gone into action with.
The Regiment pulled back across the Aisne and went into billets at Longueval, an undistinguished village some four miles south of Moulins and Paissy. The Regiment had briefly halted there the day before the attack on Bourg, and now returned to be billeted there for a couple of weeks while the fighting around the Chemin des Dames continued. Although well within the range of German heavy artillery, Longueval had been relatively undisturbed, offering us a chance to clean up and get some sleep, as almost to a man we were exhausted and filthy.
While we were not required for duty, the Regiment could properly settle in, in which case the horse lines were put down. Around every horse’s neck there was a picket rope with a toggle at one end, while at the other end the rope was doubled back to make a loop. This loop was passed through the toggle of the next horse and so on until all were linked together in one long line, the line being fixed by the two tent pegs which all horses carried and which were knocked into the ground. These tent pegs had a further loop through which the picket rope was rim. To stop the horses turning round at night, a further peg was placed behind the horse’s hind leg, held by means of a leg hobble.
The horses were so hungry, they were barely able to wait for their food, and impulsively strained forward in the horse lines at meal times, mouths open, hoping to get a mouthful of com. As soon as a nose bag was on, they bolted the food, throwing their heads up into the air to get as much com as possible into their mouths. The problem was that whole oats passed through the horses’ digestive systems and straight out again in the manure, doing no good at all. To slow down the rate at which they ate, pebbles were put in the nose bags with the com, although, strictly speaking, we were not supposed to do this. As the horses bit down hard, they received a salutary shock, ensuring that they chewed their food more gingerly thereafter. There was only one other reason why a horse might pass whole oats and that was if its teeth were not grinding properly. This happened if the molars had become a bit ragged, in which case it was up to us to file down the offending tooth or teeth. One man steadied the horse by using a twitch on its nose, or by pinching the nose between two fingers; either way the horse stood mute. The other man then opened the horse’s mouth and caught hold of its tongue with one hand, while the other hand ran across the teeth, filing down the problem tooth
until the horse could properly grind its food again.
One incident stands out in my memory at Longueval at this time. The Regiment had just come back to the village and I was detailed to help feed the Troop’s horses, so I went to pick up a couple of feed bags and walked over to the horse lines. The horses had become noticeably agitated, but one, over-excited at the prospect of food, shot forward and in one movement bit my stomach, dragging me slightly across him before letting go. I had just a shirt on and the pain was excruciating, and I grabbed the nearest thing to hand, an entrenching tool, and gave the horse an almighty thwack across the nose. I had hit the horse so hard that it fell down just as our veterinary officer, Lieutenant Welch, happened to be strolling by. The horse regained its feet straight away but the officer had witnessed my attack and put me under immediate arrest, without even inquiring as to the whys and wherefores. Within half an hour, I had been brought up before Bridges, and Welch gave his evidence. Bridges asked me if I had anything to say, but believing that actions would probably speak louder than words, I pulled up my shirt to reveal my stomach, still oozing a little blood from the wound. ‘The horse bit me, sir, so I hit it’, I said. He appeared unconcerned but stood up and had a look. ‘Get your stomach dressed straight away. Two days Number One Field Punishment for hitting it in the wrong place.’
Field Punishment was a serious reprimand, and meant being tied to a gun or limber wheel, but on this occasion no one was interested in carrying it out to the letter of the law. A sergeant was detailed to take me to a limber, but as we arrived he pointed to the wheel hub and said, ‘That looks a little dirty, let’s get a horse’s nose bag on there so your trousers won’t get greasy.’ He wrapped some ropes loosely round my wrists, whispering as he did so, ‘Wait until I’m out of the way and then you can slip your hands out of the loop when no one is around’. Field Punishment normally lasted two hours a day, so I made myself comfortable, sitting on the hub. I hadn’t been there half an hour when the order came to saddle up, as the Regiment was moving out. Bridges may have known this while passing sentence; either way I never had to complete my punishment, nor was the sentence entered into my paybook as it should have been.
Editor
On September 3rd, Bridges was given command of the 4th Hussars, after the previous Commanding Officer, Lieutenant-Colonel Ian Hogg DSO, had died of wounds after a short fight with the Germans near Roye-St-Nicolas. Bridges was promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel, and joined his new Regiment on September 27th, with Ben as his horse orderly. However, Bridges’ time with the 4th Hussars was short-lived. On October 2nd, Bridges received orders to proceed at once to the Belgian GHQ, and in the morning duly motored on his way, leaving Ben behind. Ben stayed with the Hussars, as an orderly to Bridges’ successor, Temporary Lieutenant-Colonel Philip Howell, formerly second in command to Hogg.
Ben
Bridges was a regular soldier of the old type, a disciplinarian but without being silly about it. He was a fine specimen of a man, all of six feet and fourteen stone in weight.
When with Bridges I always rode to the rear, automatically dropping to a position about a horse’s length behind him, only riding forward when he called to give me instructions. When I had been with Harrison, he would call me up to ride alongside because he wanted to have a chat, something Bridges would never have done. Bridges had an aura about him, and it was a great disappointment when no sooner had we arrived at the Hussars than he left for the Belgian Army. Howell, the new Colonel of the Regiment, took over Bridges’ horses, and I was asked if I would continue to look after them. I was to stay with Howell and the 4th Hussars for the best part of the next six months.
Towards the end of the first week in October, the 4th Hussars left the stalemate of the Aisne for the new battle front opening up to the north, around Ypres, and the Messines Ridge. We arrived at Ypres by about the middle of the month after a hard march, passing through the soon-to-be-famous town before virtually any damage had been done.
This was a fairly inactive period as far as I was concerned. I did not see much of Howell, as he was kept busy ensuring the smooth running of the Regiment and often drove over to Bailleul to the Brigade’s HQ. Inevitably, when he was away, I spent much of my time with the transport, or at the canteen, where I palled up with a former groom in civvy life, Fred Meakin, an awfully nice man with whom I whiled away many hours in conversation. It was there that I met a friend from home, Alf Goldsmith. He came from Glynde and was a driver in D Battery, Royal Horse Artillery, one of two batteries attached to the 3rd Cavalry Brigade. By this time the weather was rotten, cold and raining most days, and he grumbled to me that the battery was having severe difficulties getting the guns around on roads and dirt tracks which disintegrated beneath the guns’ wheels. I saw him on several occasions, once by the side of the road when his battery had halted for a snack, and again when we overtook the gun teams on the way to some village or other. It was always nice to see a face from home, and we always looked out for each other, trading remarks as we passed or swapping a wave.
I would also hear snippets about how the Dragoons were getting on, although they were not always happy ones. It was around this time that I heard that my Troop Sergeant, Johnstone, had been killed in an attack on Neuve-Chapelle, when the Regiment had suffered a lot of casualties. I was saddened by the news, for he was a good soldier, but more than that, he was a darn nice man. He had made an impression on me, not least because he was almost unique among NCOs in that he never swore.
During the first cold snap, we received our first rum issue. Early in the war, the quartermaster dished it out in a glass, which we were to drink straight down. The old soldiers showed no hesitation, tipping their heads straight back, so following suit I downed my share. My goodness, my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets! I’d never tasted rum before in my life, and this was neat navy rum; I thought my throat was on fire. Its effects were nevertheless miraculous, banishing the cold in seconds, as a sense of warmth extended all the way down to a soldier’s toes. During October and November we got an issue pretty well every night, and though it was supposed to be good for us, medicinal you might say, I never got used to it. Early on, there was no possibility of passing the rum on, it was either a question of taking it or missing out. Later, when the rum was watered down, it was served out into our mess tins and then it was possible to pass it to others, which I did frequently.
Unlike the cavalry, the infantry were fortunate in having a travelling field kitchen which could serve up food more or less as a battalion arrived back from the firing line. This was different in the cavalry where, by the very nature of mounted work, we might be ordered to travel considerable distances across country. Indeed each trooper was himself semi self-sufficient, for our mess tins could be used as small frying pans, and were held on the side of the horse in a canvas sling. These mess tins were more compact than the infantryman’s, being no more than an inch deep, round and with a folding handle. Only once a regiment had camped for the night was it possible for the cooks to set about lighting a fire, racing to get a dixie of tea going and the food cooking. Each Troop carried two dixies; the lids were used to fry food on, while the dixies themselves each held about three gallons of stew. The stew stood astride whatever fire the cook had managed to rig up, be it on top of some bricks, if they were available, or above a small slit trench cut in the ground. The food was known as Bully Stew, and was the same day after day, day after day; boiled vegetables mixed with the contents of several one pound tins of bully beef. Our cook, a small stocky man, did his best with the limited resources, but Bully Stew only ever varied in two respects: the first depended on which vegetables were available, the second was the size of the portion.
The amount of stew we got would be slightly more or less dependent on whether the Regiment had recently suffered many casualties or not. In theory, the Regiment was supplied according to the number of men at any one time. If news of losses arrived too late to affect the food coming up on the ASC limbers, then we ate more al
though not necessarily better. For when we lost our cooks through injury or illness, it would be up to the rest of us to muck in and take over and take a turn as cook.
It was little wonder that with Bully being the only option, chicken stealing from local farms became rife and, being a born scrounger, I proved quite a dab hand at it. Chickens were popular targets for hungry soldiers. Not only did they remain fairly quiet, making it easy to sneak up and screw a neck, but the rest moved up to fill the gap, covering up the misdemeanour. Chickens were skinned, never plucked, so that we could bury the evidence, with little fear of being caught. If we were lucky, the morning might bring a few amusing theatricals as an irate farmer protested to our officers about his missing livestock. But rarely would he get any sympathy. Our officers were not immune to poaching themselves at times, and impatiently they would wave the farmer and his problem away.
There was only one occasion when we were nearly caught. One night, three of us crept on to a farm and stole a small pig, before clubbing it to death with an axe handle. We stuffed the pig into a sack and tore off up the road to a nearby stream where we cut its throat, leaving no trace of our activities. Wishing to eat the pig on a later occasion, we hid it under a blanket and settled down for the night. First thing in the morning, the farmer turned up and began complaining bitterly to one of our officers, we presumed about his pig. Then, to our great surprise, the officer suddenly ordered an immediate inspection. We looked at each other, ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Quick thinking was required and the pig was grabbed, quickly wrapped in sacking, and shoved among the officer’s valises on the Maltese cart – as it turned out, the only place not searched.
Along with the cooking, there was the job of providing latrines. Each Troop had one man, a pioneer – usually a lance corporal – who was detailed as toilet attendant but known to all as the rear admiral. On the move, he led a pack horse on which, among other things, were two shovels and two picks. When the regiment or squadron halted for the night, it was his job to dig three little trenches each around a foot deep and eight inches wide in the comer of a field. There was no screen, or any sort of cover at all, the earth was simply piled to one side of the holes and each trooper kicked a bit of the earth back in on top of whatever he had left behind. Finally, before the Troop moved out, it was, in theory, the pioneer’s job to see that the holes were filled back in again.
Teenage Tommy Page 11