Teenage Tommy

by Richard van Emden

The trenches the Regiment occupied at this time were little more than shallow ditches joined together, and looked nothing like trenches ought to have done. There were no neat traverses, by which we could stop enfilade fire down the line, or localise the serious effects of a shell explosion in the trench. There were no parapets or paradoses to speak of, nor fire steps on which men could stand to peer out into No Man’s Land. Instead, there was a quagmire of shallow holes in the ground, filled with oozing mud, for so shallow was the water table in the Ypres area that it was impossible to dig down more than a couple of feet without hitting water. Trenches, such as they were, had to be built partially above the land, but as often as not they were still waterlogged, with liquid mud coming up to our knees.

  On entering the line we spread ourselves out. I always tried to team up with Spider Stevens. He was around six feet two inches tall, and when together we always tried to build up what passed for a parapet with sandbags. This we did as a precaution, for taller men tended to fall prey to a sniper’s bullet more often than the smaller men, who did not have to crouch as far down. It was an incredible existence; it is impossible to describe just what it felt like to wear the same clothes day after day, all of us hopelessly lousy, without a bath in two months. At times we lived almost like animals. No one ever took any notice if a man was having a crap in the trench. Everyone was in the same situation; there was no privacy. In some trenches there might be a little recess for a latrine, or in quieter sectors we might even crawl over the parados to go in a shell hole behind the trench, but more often than not we simply went on a shovel and chucked it over the top.

  All the time we were in the line, our bodies festered underneath our clothes. We were never allowed to remove our boots until out of the line, when we found half the sock came with the foot, half stopped where it was, stinking and rotten. As a result, trench foot was a major problem. The constant cold and wet affected the blood’s circulation to the toes in particular, causing men’s feet to swell disgustingly, turning them blue, then black. Bad cases had to be evacuated out of the line, and in the worst cases doctors were forced to amputate. Many techniques were adopted to avoid getting bad feet. Behind the line, where foot care was easier, I deliberately took size eleven boots, instead of my usual nine. This way I could pack my boots with lengths of straw, to keep my feet warm, just as I had seen French peasants do with their clogs, or ‘sabots’ as they were known. If straw wasn’t available, newspaper would do just as well. When the weather was very bad, it was common to see a man with sandbags wrapped around his feet or tied around his puttees to protect his legs.

  In an attempt to protect our feet, Wellington boots, or Trench Waders, were issued to us. These came in just two sizes, nine and eleven, sufficient, the authorities obviously assumed, for all sizes of soldier. Attached to the top of these boots were two pieces of string which we held on to if we walked anywhere, for the suction power of the mud was so great that without them our feet would simply have left the boots.

  When it rained, we wore our groundsheets. Before the war these had been rectangular, six foot by three foot, ‘hearth rug’ affairs; now they had been re-designed to form a cape around the shoulders. These groundsheets still had a rubber coating, but whereas at one time we had lain them on the ground to keep out the condensation or early morning dew, they now protected us from the worst of the rain that pattered against them or fell in rivulets from our caps. Worn as a macintosh, the groundsheet was a treasured possession and kept spirits up in the never-ending struggle to hold off the worst of the weather.

  We lived in these extraordinary conditions for several days and nights, wet, cold and hungry, without even the comfort of a proper drink of tea. The food was never properly cooked and always filthy, while sometimes the hard biscuits we received as food supplements turned out to be the only food we got. These biscuits were so tough they required soaking in our tea before they softened enough to be eaten. Even then I pitied the poor devils with false teeth, for the two biscuits they received as a day’s ration often proved beyond their capacity to break down. Some other biscuits we occasionally received were easier to eat but looked identical to the dog food, Spiller’s Shapes, and became a standing joke with the troops.

  In the front line, it could be lethal to give away the faintest trace of smoke or, at night, even a flicker of light. Making even lukewarm cups of tea was therefore a real art. One technique was to use four candle stumps stuck together with jam. Over this a billy can of water was held, which warmed slowly. It was important to ensure the flame was clean to avoid any smoke, though now and again when we could get hold of them, we used naphtha pellets, a white waxy substance that we could burn as an alternative to a naked flame. It was possible to have a smoke, but as a sniper could fix on a naked flame from anything up to a mile and a half away, at night we had to be very careful. As a solution, many used a simple style of lighter with a long wick half an inch thick. The wick wasn’t lit by the flint but smouldered enough to light a cigarette or pipe, a small metal cap at the end of the lighter snuffing out any lingering burning. In the support lines there were fewer immediate dangers, for although still close to the German lines, we were far enough behind to risk brewing up warmer tea in a dixie. On these occasions a sandbag full of charcoal would be brought up, the dixie standing in amongst the smouldering charcoal which burnt slowly with a few wood chippings.

  Clean water for tea or anything else was one of the most precious commodities in or out of the line, the general lack of it ensuring that we remained both thirsty and grimy. It was not unusual to go a couple of weeks without a good wash or shave, with annoying results should the hook at the top of our greatcoats catch in the whiskers on our neck or chin. When water was obtained for shaving, it was held, preciously, in a small tin and passed round for all to use. Now and again small tins of Ideal Milk appeared at the front, the lids of which were turned back as improvised handles. Filled with water, the tin stood in the ashes of the cook’s fire or was held over candles in support lines to warm just sufficiently for us to shave. Having shared the tin round, we used the rest of the water in tiny amounts to wash with.

  Before the advent of metal screw pickets and concertina wire, wooden posts were hammered into the ground with barbed wire wrapped around and tacked to the post. Barbed wire was used in great amounts by both sides to protect the front line but, like everything else that was needed for the trenches, this wire had to be carried up the line. A coil weighed fifty or sixty pounds, and through its centre a stake was put, allowing a man to carry it on his back. Parties of men would be sent down the line to bring more supplies up, and almost always included one particular man, a farmer before the war, who was immensely strong. He was a one-man-mule, for although everyone joked about his slow steady pace, no matter how strenuous the work, he could be relied upon to keep going at the same speed all day long.

  At night, the wire and wooden posts were taken in front of the trenches and banged into place with heavy two-handed mallets, one trooper holding the post, the other knocking it into position. Even without the occasional stifled yowl of pain as a mallet gave a glancing blow to a hand, it was impossible to work without making some noise. A tap, tap, tap sound was inevitable, but as the Germans were often busy doing similar work a couple of hundred yards away, both sides adopted a policy of live and let live and there was rarely any shooting.

  It was a good sign when the Germans were clearly in front of their trenches, for it meant we could get on with our work and relax a little more. Similarly, when no tapping was to be heard across No Man’s Land, everyone became more agitated, terse voices whispering to those making excessive noise to ‘shut that bloody sound up!’ Every now and again the Germans sent up a flare to check what was going on. These flares gave off a terrific light and only gradually faded, with those on miniature parachutes lasting anything up to three minutes, which actually felt even longer. As a general rule we tried to fall to the ground before the flare burst, otherwise we stood stock still, turning our fa
ces away from the German lines. Illumination of any sort was bad news. There was a cartoon drawn by the artist Bruce Baimsfather printed at the time and it captured the feeling exactly. It featured a girl looking up at the moon, ‘And to think that it’s the same dear old moon that’s looking down on him!’ she dreams, and there’s her sweetheart putting up the barbed wire and saying, ‘This blinkin’ moon will be the death of us’.

  Only on one occasion did I fully venture out into No Man’s Land, when I was selected to crawl out to a listening post. Where the opposing lines were closest, there was an on-going risk of a massive explosion when a portion of the front line and everyone in it would be obliterated by the detonation of gun cotton laid in a chamber under the trench floor. It was my job to go out with one other man to listen for sounds of German mining or countermining. There was no blacking up, we just went with a cord to pull if we wished to signal back, the sergeant warning the rest of the Troop who was out there. Squirming over the parapet, we went under our wire crawling forward some fifty yards into No Man’s Land. It was a lousy job. The trenches were about two hundred yards apart there, and our job was simply to lie for two to three hours with just an ear to the ground listening for noises. It was tiring and frightening being out there and I was more than happy when a relief tapped my foot to say I could crawl back.

  Just before dawn we ‘stood to’, when every man was put on alert in case the Germans wished to launch a sudden attack. After we were ‘stood down’, we would eat whatever breakfast was available and begin the day. When all was quiet we might become quite bored, one or two of us peering out through loopholes into No Man’s Land or indulging in a little sniping. At one part of the line, I spotted a gap in a hedge past which a German could be seen to walk every now and again. We had a lake in front of us, then a ploughed field, so the hedge was anything up to a thousand yards away, making sniping, at best, rather hit and miss. Not being deterred, I and another man set up a sniping post. There wasn’t enough time for either of us to spot the German, then aim and fire, so we took it in turns to aim at the gap, firing instantly the other gave the command. It was impossible to tell if we hit anyone, but it was one way of whiling away some time.

  When it was quiet most officers stuck to their dugouts, word being passed down that such and such officer wanted to see so and so, just the duty officer making periodic patrols to see if everything was all right. There was an officer whom no one liked very much. One morning when everything was still, a single pistol shot came from the small dugout in which he had been sleeping. Immediately people began whispering to each other, ‘Thank God he’s shot himself,’ when, blissfully unaware of the talk up top, the officer emerged with a broad smile and the tail of a mutilated mouse held high between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I’ve got the little blighter,’ he said triumphantly, tossing the mouse over the top before disappearing back into the dugout.

  Shortly after this episode, the Germans launched the battle of 2nd Ypres, beginning with the first gas attack in warfare. The date was April 22nd 1915. The Germans had attacked north of Ypres, around Langemarck, and in no time at all had broken through, sweeping up and over Pilkem Ridge, to within a couple of miles of Ypres. We saw the French soldiers straggling back, coughing and wheezing. They gesticulated to us and said, ‘Gaz, Gaz, Gaz’, but we didn’t know what was going on.

  The fighting for Ypres intensified over the following days, but the Regiment was not directly involved. For a couple of days in early May we became engaged in digging a new line, as well as improving existing reserve trenches on the canal north of Ypres. Leaving our horses, we moved up towards the front, picking up some tools on the way. The Germans were shelling the area intermittently with shrapnel, but during the course of both nights we were largely left alone. All obstacles were moved to ensure the new trenches had a clear line of fire. We worked extremely hard, encouraged by the news that the quicker we finished the work, the sooner we could be on our way back to billets. We were not to be out of the action for long.

  Editor

  Owing to the weakened state of the 28th Division, the 1st Cavalry Division was sent into the line in support. Both the 1st and 2nd Cavalry Brigades were to man part of the GHQ line which ran from behind Zillebeke to near Wieltje. On May 9th, the 4th Dragoons marched up to the GHQ line at Potijze, arriving at 1pm, where they were instructed to continue to the front line trenches, to relieve infantry of the 85th Brigade.

  The exact position of the trenches was unknown and as the Dragoons were being subjected to desultory shelling, Sewell, Gallaher and de Wiart halted the Regiment on the Zonnebeke road, before going ahead to rendezvous with a Captain from the Brigade, who would lead them into the line.

  Then, as de Wiart recalled, ‘an ominous feeling began to creep over me that we were going too far, as I knew the Germans had not broken our line. Suddenly the silence was split by a cry of “Halt” in obvious German, and we were fired on at the same moment... the next second I found myself sprawling on the ground with a damaged hand. I caught hold of it but it seemed to be a gory mess.’

  De Wiart was able to stagger back along the road. ‘By this time,’ wrote de Wiart, ‘I was beginning to feel very weak, called out, and luckily my voice was recognised. Some men came out to pick me up, and took me to the dressing station.’

  Ben

  I was one of those who ran forward to carry de Wiart back out of the exposed position. A bullet had smashed through his wrist and hand, destroying his wrist watch, bits of which were mixed up among the remnants of flesh. I heard later that the doctors tried hard to save his hand, and at one time he still had a stump with two fingers, but in the end those too had to be taken off. Four of us carried him out along the Zonnebeke road. He had lost a lot of blood, though he didn’t appear to be in much pain. We took him back to a white château, Potijze Château, an impressive house that was being used as a dressing station. It was built in extensive grounds and surrounded by trees which were gradually being ripped apart by shell fragments. The house itself was pitted but intact, despite being less than a mile from the front lines. We carried him through a doorway and into a large candlelit room, full of wounded men. There was a terrible stench and we were glad to leave, but as we did so, de Wiart, weak as he was, turned to me, saying, ‘Goodbye, Clouting, I hope it isn’t long before you are home’.

  Editor

  Soon after the incident, one young and very tired staff officer appeared and led the Dragoons into their positions. The Dragoons’ War Diary notes that the road was unprotected on each side to a total width of 175 yards, with everything being at sixes and sevens. The Dragoons took over the line at 2am, and were forced rapidly to rebuild and extend the trenches with German machine gunners at work just 200 yards away in their front line. At dawn B Squadron attempted to bring up rations, led by Lieutenant Gibb who was sniped and blinded in the process. Gibb was later taken to Potijze Château where both he and de Wiart were evacuated by the 85th Field Ambulance.

  For the next four days, the Dragoons remained either in or just behind the line, while farther south, across the Menin Road, the Germans focused their attention this time on the 27th Division, subjecting it to intense artillery bombardment and ferocious infantry attacks. In their efforts to force a breach in the British line, the bombardment on other sectors of the salient was only marginally reduced, with the 4th Division, in neighbouring trenches to those of the Dragoons, repelling several attacks, while the Dragoons suffered, on the 10th, a day of shelling and sniping which killed seven and wounded as many. The 4th Dragoons’ War Diary records on May 10th 1915, ‘A good deal of artillery and rifle fire during the night. 8am our trenches were again shelled for two and a half hours. From 1pm to 3pm there was a tremendous bombardment of the fire trenches to our right front. 2nd Cav Bde now under orders of the 27th Div.’

  Ben

  Any number of shells were landing near the trenches we occupied, causing casualties. To keep me busy I volunteered to be a stretcher bearer, a temporary job but one which
kept my mind off what was happening around me. By this time the trench system was well established, but even so the front line and communication trenches were not always linked, and a hair-raising sprint could be required to reach another part of the trench system. Sniping was at a premium, and each night I had my work cut out carrying those who had been wounded earlier in the day back to the dressing station at Potijze Château.

  Because of continual heavy shelling and the presence of snipers, all work took place at night. The wounded were kept in close proximity for fast evacuation during darkness, though in a landscape pitted by shells, two onerous trips a night were all that was possible for any one team of stretcher bearers. If at all possible, soldiers avoided carrying a stretcher in twos. Over a short distance two was all right; over a long way in the dark, over rough terrain, it was very difficult. Volunteers would scout round and try to build a team of four men of similar weight and size, for three big men and one small one, even if he was strong, made the stretcher uneven. A balanced team cut down the need for rests, enabling us to change positions and hands on a stretcher with as little upset as possible.

  The Reverend Gibb was wounded at more or less the same time as de Wiart. He had been shot through the temple, I would guess by a sniper, and four of us, including Mickey Lowe from my Troop, were given our first job of the night, carrying him out. He was a brave man, and always willing to share the dangers that we faced in the front line. We carried him out reasonably conscious, but though he survived the war he never regained his sight.

  On our return, we were given the task of carrying one of our Sergeants out of the line. Like Reverend Gibb, Sergeant Bob Arnold had been badly wounded by a sniper’s bullet. I hadn’t been with him when he was wounded, but by all accounts he had been careless for a split second and suffered the consequences. A German, darting between trenches, had been shot and bowled over like a rabbit. Someone had made a quip about it along the lines of ‘That got the so and so’, and with that Arnold burst out laughing, raising himself momentarily above the height of the trench, a bullet whisking through both cheeks. The bullet had miraculously missed his teeth but despite our best efforts to stem the flow, he had bled profusely all day, so that by nightfall he was in serious danger of bleeding to death. There seemed no way of treating in effect four wounds. We tried to stop the bleeding by bandaging the outside of his face only to find he nearly choked; the more blood he lost, the weaker he became, so that by nightfall he had slipped into unconsciousness.