Arnold was a solidly built man, and weighed fifteen stones, making him extremely heavy to carry. Despite the seriousness of his injury, we could only make our way back slowly and we were forced to take several brief rests in the process. The journey was completed successfully (for I later heard Arnold was alive and well) and our small party began the trudge back. We were all physically strong but were exhausted, so that after the briefest of walks we halted on the road for a rest and a cigarette.
We hadn’t halted long, indeed we had only just lit up, when Mickey Lowe muttered to us, ‘Anyone who gets through this war will be a lucky blighter’. Lowe was several years older than myself and wore a good conduct stripe on his sleeve, but his patience and nerves had worn under the pressure of the last few weeks.
Almost as soon as he had spoken, Mickey grunted, half spun round and fell backwards. I caught him underneath his arms and slid him down to the ground, blood literally pumping out onto my riding breeches. He had been hit in the middle of the back by a stray bullet. And that was it. He never mentioned another word, the bullet seemed to knock him straight out and within three or four minutes he was gone. This was a terrific shock for me, for although I saw others killed in that war, although I saw many men dead, I, like everyone, just thanked the Lord it wasn’t me. But this was different. He was one of us, one from our Squadron, a nice likeable man.
We carried him back to the Château, where we borrowed a shovel and dug a hole in the lawn about eighteen inches deep. We emptied his pockets and took his two identification discs. Then we removed his jacket and laid him in the grave. It sounds strange but despite all the obscenity of war, it’s still difficult to shovel earth onto a dead man’s face, so we used his jacket to cover him up, before filling the grave back in. As was normal, we used a stick or bayonet to mark his place and tied one of the identification disks around a makeshift cross. Usually the other tag was handed to the Regimental padre, but as Gibb was himself wounded, we passed on Mickey’s last effects to one of our officers.2 That night an exhausted Regiment was relieved by a battalion of the East Surrey Regiment, and made its way back to Ypres.
Editor
On May 12th, the 2nd and 3rd Cavalry Brigades were amalgamated into what was briefly known as de Lisle’s Cavalry Force. That evening, the Cavalry Force’s first role was to be sent back into the line, taking over the line held by the 28th Division, which had by this time lost some 15,000 men in the three weeks since 2nd Ypres had officially begun. This time it was the Dragoons’ turn to remain in the close support trenches, while the 18th Hussars and 9th Lancers went into the front line, just south of Wieltje.
During the hours of darkness, improvements were made in the line, but most of this work came to nothing, as just before dawn it began to pour with rain; this was joined at 3.30am by a thunderous German bombardment which lasted until after midday. The combination of incessant rain and shells caused havoc in the front line, where trenches gave way and quickly became a quagmire of filth and water.
On May 14th the Cavalry Force was dissolved, rejoining the Cavalry Corps. The Dragoons returned to the forward line of trenches, replacing troops from the 27th Division, and exchanging time as Duty Regiment in the front line with the 18th Hussars and 9th Lancers. A lull in the fighting meant casualties were noticeably lower, although the living conditions remained dreadful.
Ben
There were times when we fired at nothing just to let the Germans know that we were still there, alive in our collapsed trenches, if not always well. It seems strange now, the thought of shooting someone, but at that time I was a trained soldier and that was my life: killing someone who was trying to kill me. It was a natural state of affairs and I never had any hesitation whatever in having a pot, whether at nothing in particular or when I was sniping.
Sniping wasn’t cost-free. The constant irritation our activities caused could bring swift retaliation from the other side, from a machine gun, mortar, even a battery. We were in the front line one afternoon, and I was having a pot across No Man’s Land at a point where a few moments earlier I thought I’d seen some movement. I had loosed off two or three shots when, from behind me, Corporal Muggeridge suddenly appeared and ordered me off what existed of the firestep, saying he was in charge and that I was to stop firing.
Muggeridge and I had never got on. Although he belonged to my Troop, he’d lived in an adjoining barrack room before the war, and I had come under another Corporal, Cushy Harrison. For some reason I seemed to have rubbed up Muggeridge the wrong way, for he never flinched from trying to make my life harder. I had had as little to do with him as possible, but he too had come out with the original Regiment and was now also in A Squadron, so our paths inevitably crossed.
In France, Muggeridge had got a reputation for being windy. He was patently scared stiff of being killed, and my firing had made him fearful that we might receive retaliatory shelling from the German lines. His order to step down should have been the end of the matter, but he couldn’t resist adding, ‘Remember, Clouting, Carton de Wiart is no longer here to protect you now.’ This I took as an awful snub. On one occasion before the war, I had been referred to as ‘Carton de Wiart’s grandchild,’ and this had hurt my pride. Now, out in France, where we all lived under similar dangers, I lost my temper. Raising my rifle above my shoulder, I went to strike Muggeridge with the butt end. I had intended to jab him in the face, but a private behind me grabbed hold of my rifle’s stock and said, ‘Don’t do it, Ben’. It gave me time to think. I’d got witnesses to what he’d said so the matter was never reported, although if I had I struck him I would have been in terrible trouble.
Undoubtedly Muggeridge, like many men, was fed up to the teeth, but what he had said was different. Men swore and cursed as it was often the only way to give vent to their feelings, either that or get up on the firestep and give Jerry three or four rounds, in which case they might stop a bullet. You’d hear chaps saying they’d put a bullet through their foot, to give themselves a blighty one, but that was just talk. A self-inflicted wound was a very serious crime and while accidents did happen – my future brother-in-law was shot in the groin by someone cleaning his rifle – an SIW was a very risky course of action to take, as likely to end up in a Court Martial as a trip home.
There were many times when I was fed up, and there were times when I was very frightened too, especially when shells fell too close, but I was lucky. For much of the war I was an orderly and had breaks from the trenches to look after an officer’s horses, and it made a difference, as I realise now. There were those men who simply could not take the strain any longer and cracked up. It was awful to see a man with shell shock. It often happened when a shell had dropped nearby, and there had been an awful explosion, but not always. I remember one man simply breaking down and crying like a baby during a relatively quiet lull in the fighting. His name was Galtress, a regular soldier, and a good one, affectionately nicknamed Golly because of his thick mop of black hair. He’d come out with the Regiment and had been through the Mons retreat and all its hardships. Now, during 1915, he had been in and out of the line several times and there had been no signs of his increasing fatigue. We were in trenches near Bellewaarde Lake, when suddenly he just cracked up. He didn’t run away or anything like that, he just sat on the floor of the trench sobbing his heart out and trembling like a leaf. Occasionally, when he began to lose control, we would have to gently hold him down, while his Corporal tried to get him to pull himself together, but to little avail. Galtress had had enough. Later he was sent down the line and that was the last I ever saw of him.3
For most men, cigarettes were one of the best ways to calm taut nerves. Many chain-smoked Woodbines to keep them going, and they were the first thing a man turned to when injured or in fear. Whenever a man was short of a cigarette or in need of one to keep the spirits up, one could always be cadged from a friend. Padres who came into the front line were never short of smokes; one padre, Woodbine Willie, became famous for his tobacco handouts, while
within the Regiment, Lieutenant Gallaher had cigarettes sent out direct from the factory. I was one of the few who disliked fags, preferring a cherrywood pipe instead. Like everyone else, I found it a good antidote to frayed tempers, and continued to smoke throughout the rest of the war. We were issued with Capstan tobacco, but although it smelled lovely it was a bit too strong, and tended to bum my tongue. French tobacco, on the other hand, was finely chopped, very mild and burned freely. Most farmers grew their own tobacco, shredding it themselves, and because it burned so easily, always overloaded their pipes with the stuff. We could buy it almost anywhere behind the lines for just a few coppers, and I usually had some loose in my jacket pockets.
Our spell in the line was up and we were to be relieved by an infantry battalion. The change-over had already begun and we were making our way down a narrow communication trench as we bypassed the incoming battalion. Communication trenches were narrow at the best of times, but with heavily-laden troops coming into the line, the trench became very congested. Struggling past, I became aware of a log jam ahead. One of our Troop cooks, a strapping man, was causing all sorts of confusion as he squeezed by each incoming soldier. There was grumbling, swearing, heaving, and pushing, when amongst all of this I heard a voice say, ‘The next time I meet that fat-gutted bugger I’ll lay down and let him walk over me!’ It was never going to be an easy proposition, but patently he considered lying down in the mud less painful than ever squeezing past our cook again.
Editor
After the attacks on May 13th, the ferocity of enemy shellfire decreased within the Salient. Only minor attacks were made by the Germans, and shellfire by both sides had become little more than desultory. This state of affairs continued until May 24th, by which time it was generally accepted that the ‘Second Battle of Ypres,’ was over.
The Official History records that the night of May 23rd/24th was quiet, the most distinct sound being that of German transport apparently heading south. ‘... it would be light about 2.30am and the troops on duty stood to arms, as usual, some fifteen minutes earlier. At 2.45am the enemy sent up four red lights, followed by two others, whereupon heavy fire was opened by guns, machine guns and rifles.’
The barrage of fire was followed by a dense cloud of chlorine gas, forty foot high. It was the largest gas attack of the war so far, covering four and a half miles, or most of the Vth Corps’ front, from Hooge in the south to Turco Farm in the north. So close were the opposing trenches that the hissing of gas as it was released from cylinders could be clearly heard. The History records: ‘The wind was light and the gas cloud in consequence moved very slowly, and from the air seemed almost stationary over the trenches.’
The Dragoons had been in the line around St Jean when they were relieved, arriving back at Ypres at 1am.
Ben
We had come out of the front line during the night of the 23rd of May, utterly worn out, unshaven and filthy. Others in our Brigade had taken over our stretch of line, while we wearily trudged back under the cover of darkness to Ypres. We collected our rations and ate them ravenously, before we got our heads down for some well-deserved sleep beneath the arches of an old brewery cellar, close to the town’s ramparts.
A little before 4am, urgent calls to ‘Stand to, stand to’ woke me to the sound of thunderous fire which had broken out all along the line. I was so tired I barely registered what was going on, but I somehow managed to haul myself to my feet, fumbling for my equipment.
It was light outside as we fell in under the ramparts, only to be dished out with extra equipment to carry up the line. I was detailed to draw the Troop rum in my waterbottle, and to carry 250 rounds of Vickers’ machine gun ammunition packed in a wooden box, the strap of which I hooked on to the butt of my rifle and suspended over my shoulder. Others slung extra ammunition bandoliers around their necks, or trekked off with bags of bombs and cans of water.
The Germans had launched another gas attack and we had to go straight back to the front to close any gap in the line. There was a distinct whiff of gas in the air and our eyes were already smarting, so the order came round to don our gas masks. These masks were about the size of the palm of a hand, made of cotton wool and gauze. They had a little elastic band to keep them on our heads, and had been handed out just a couple of weeks earlier as the military’s response to the first German gas attacks. To be activated, the masks had to be dampened and placed over the mouth and nostrils, and as water was forever in short supply, there was often no alternative but to urinate on them.
With everyone ready, we set off through the Lille Gate and up the Menin Road. It became evident that a great scrap was going on at the front, for the noise was indescribable. We were only lightly shelled on our way up, but we gritted our teeth nevertheless at the thought of what we were headed into. Several men, who had been caught by shrapnel bursts, lay dead along the road, while more men streamed past us, some wounded, others choking and exhausted by their exertions. The gas cloud, a yellowy fog, had been blown across the front by the prevailing winds. Like a thin mist, it had got everywhere and had obviously given the men at the front a real basin-full. Turning off at Hell Fire Comer, we crossed fields of mud, making our way towards the main support trenches, known as the GHQ line, but now under threat of becoming the front line. As we made our way forward, shrapnel began to rain on the support lines. Jerry gunners had spotted our arrival, just as news reached us that a battalion of the Durham Light Infantry had got into the line before us, taking our cover.
Editor
The Dragoons had in fact been ordered to a railway cutting south of the Menin Road at 4.30am, where they halted. News was then received that the GHQ Line north of the Menin Road had been captured and that the Dragoons were to attack and help retake it. The CO went on ahead as the troops made their way across Hell Fire Comer and on towards the GHQ line. As they did so, the CO had just discovered that the part of the line supposedly in German hands was in fact crammed with over 400 men of the Divisional Reserve, the 15th and 19th Hussars, the 4th Green Howards and 5th Durham Light Infantry.
Ben
The order came to retire, but in effect it was every man for himself as we tore back towards the Menin Road. Troopers ran along the railway track or spread out into the fields either side, as whizzbangs, fired by the Germans’ 77mm field guns, dropped everywhere around us. The noise didn’t quite muffle the shrieks and shouts as men tumbled like nine-pins, and the ground shuddered with the explosions. I managed to re-cross the Menin Road, but as I did so a shell fell directly behind me, sending my body sailing through the air. In an instant I found myself flat on my face, the stuffing completely knocked out of me. I stood up instinctively, and yelled as a searing pain shot through my ankle. Taking a few steps back to grasp my rifle, I saw the ammunition box, the one I had been carrying, cleft by a large shrapnel shard. Half hopping, half scrambling, I made off towards the railway cutting just yards ahead, and dived into the first available hole cut into the bank, to be joined almost immediately by another wounded man with shrapnel in his leg.
We sat there catching our breath, exchanging glances. His wound was light, a shrapnel ball plainly sticking out of his right thigh, just like a marble. My attention was drawn to my right ankle for the first time, but while it was clear that I had stopped a lump of shrapnel, rendering the ankle useless, I was loath to investigate further. Inside everyone’s jackets there was a little pocket in which there was an absorbent pad and a khaki field dressing, so we could apply basic medical attention to wounds. However, it wasn’t always easy to confront injury when it was your own. Clearly a lump of metal had ripped through the back of my boot, but fear over-rode any wish to look further.
Overall, I had been more lucky than I hardly dared admit. The ammunition box, balanced, as it was, behind my shoulder, had undoubtedly saved my life. Now I noticed that the inside of my riding breeches had been badly ripped by shrapnel. Luckier still, my ankle was probably bad enough to ensure a fast ticket back to Blighty. To steady our nerves,
I took out the rum issue and drank some before passing it over to the other man. We were sitting in a small hollow in the left side of the cutting, over which had been put an old door, width-ways, on top of which dirt had been piled. Similar cubby holes lined the bank, with a couple of chaps in each, offering cover from the weather, but scant protection from shrapnel, and certainly not from a direct hit. For the time being, it was still the safest place to be while we sat things out. It was a beautiful day, and was clearly going to be a scorcher, as I was already sweating, and had begun to drink the rum in sips, to stave off thirst.
After two or three hours there was a relative pause in the firing, and as the heavy gas clouds too had thinned, the man opposite, who was not from my Regiment, made his move. ‘Well, I think I’ll get down to the field dressing station now. Good luck, mate,’ and with that he took off, limping badly. After a few minutes I tried to follow him, but although I hadn’t had a bad dose of gas, I was beginning to feel decidedly unwell, coughing and breathing heavily. There was no point in relying on stretcher bearers, but then again, my foot was useless. I needed a crutch or walking stick and the only thing to hand was my rifle. It would have to do.
Slithering out of the hole, I stood up, and there to my astonishment lay a worn-out farmhouse broom. It seemed incredible that in amongst all the wreckage there should be something so totally out of place, so utterly mundane as a broom. How it came to be there I’ll never know, but it had a reasonably long shaft and an intact brush that fitted snugly under my arm. I put it on each railway sleeper so I didn’t slip, and it let me get along fairly well, just hobbling and hobbling, as I carried my rifle in my left hand.
Teenage Tommy Page 15