Around this time, a couple of curious coincidences occurred, in which newspapers featured large. On the first occasion, I had been sent with a ration party to draw some rations for the Battalion, typically frozen beef, tins of bully beef, and hay for the horses. We had taken a GS wagon, and headed for an undamaged field well behind the lines where the ASC had set up a divisional dump. On arrival, we were told that our supply had not yet been made up and that we would have to wait. There were anything up to a hundred other men hanging around for rations, so we sat down on some bales of hay to chat. We were a mixed bunch. One was a popular, friendly man, an armourer, whose principal job was to mend jammed or broken guns. As we sat, he leaned across and offered me a drink from a flask he always carried with him. Without inquiring, I put my head back and drank, rocking forward as I choked and spluttered. ‘My God, it’s methylated spirits,’ I croaked, the meths burning my throat. He grinned, quite unconcerned. As an armourer, he received meths as part and parcel of his work to remove grease, or clean a gun up. How he could drink that stuff I could not begin to understand.
As we waited, I lazily began to watch a piece of newspaper fluttering one way and then the other across the field. I could not be bothered to go and pick it up, but it came closer and closer, until I was able to shoot a foot out to trap it. It was the outside cover of the continental issue of The Daily Mirror, printed primarily for the benefit of the soldiers, although we rarely came across it, and then usually a couple of weeks out of date. Still, there was nothing else to do, so I picked it up for a quick look.
My eyes scanned the page and settled on a picture at the bottom. ‘Well, I’ll be jiggered!’ I said excitedly, unable to believe my eyes. ‘That is my mother. And that’s my father!’ The rest craned their necks to see, equally astonished. The picture featured a group of labourers carrying hay in large white sheets, two of whom were clearly my parents. My mother had written to say that dad was slowly on the mend, and here was the physical proof, in a field on the Somme, during a war!
The picture had been printed to bolster the troops’ morale, proving that loved ones at home were doing their bit for the war effort. With all the horses and wagons commandeered for war work, it showed that people were working hard to gather in the harvest. Why the piece of paper blew to me, heaven only knows. I folded the sheet carefully and put it in a pocket for safe keeping.
The second incident brought back memories of two years before, when I had been picked, along with eleven other men, to shoot the Colonels, Elkington and Mainwaring. Their court martial had only cashiered them for attempting to surrender their commands, and both officers appeared to vanish without trace.
One, Elkington, had joined the French Foreign Legion and served with great distinction. As a result, the King decided to reinstate him to his former rank in his Regiment and award him the DSO. This story appeared in a newspaper, at the same time as an officer, just out from England, arrived at the Battalion. His name was Elkington (Acting Captain Christopher Garrett Elkington) and I wondered if he just might be a relative. At the first opportunity I asked him if he knew the Warwicks’ Colonel. Not only did he know him, but he said that he was his nephew. He only knew the bare bones of the story of St Quentin, and was not aware of his uncle’s reinstatement, nor how close he came to being shot.
Editor
De Wiart returned in September to re-take command of the Battalion. Out of curiosity he went to the spot where he had been shot, and discovered the walking stick he had been carrying at the time of his injury. But, as he himself said, ‘I felt I was becoming an individual target for the Hun’ and it was no surprise to anyone when six weeks later he was injured again by a shell fragment in his ankle. It was during his convalescence in England that he was presented with his VC by the King at Buckingham Palace on November 29th. Back out in France, de Wiart assumed temporary command of the 8th North Staffordshires, but soon left to take command of the 12th Infantry Brigade, in January 1917. Ben continued to serve de Wiart at Brigade Headquarters, where he remained for much of 1917.
Ben
That winter was the coldest of the whole war, with anything up to sixteen weeks of frost. Extra blankets were issued to all the men, coming up in bundles of ten on the wagons. Many of us wore leather or sheepskin jerkins to keep warm, while everyone was issued with a woollen hat which could be rolled up or down over the face.
The cold was such that any wounds or cuts suffered by the horses had to be cleaned with petrol, as water froze on the hair. Injuries were usually leg sores, or wounds to the horse’s heel. These injuries were common when the rope which held the horses in the lines became entangled in the animals’ fetlocks. The friction of the rope created a gall which was very difficult to heal. Only petrol could be used because it dried quickly and kept the dirt and mud out, although later that winter the veterinary officer gave us petroleum jelly to use instead.
We tried as hard as possible to give the horses shelter, often behind the walls of partially-destroyed houses, but they suffered very badly. Mules, however, proved far more successful in dealing with the exceptional weather conditions. These hardy creatures proved their importance when I saw a GS wagon stuck fast in the winter mud, despite the best efforts of two shire horses to move it. In the end the shires were unhitched and a team of four mules took over and walked away with it, their tiny feet coping much better with the suction of the mud.
During that winter, we took over some French dugouts built into the side of a steep bank, perhaps thirty feet high. Into this bank the French Engineers had built any number of small but elaborate dugouts. Each dugout entrance was covered with a piece of old sacking to keep out the worst of the cold, behind which a flight of eight steps led down to underground chambers that spread out laterally, in effect like a large ‘T’. Each dugout could comfortably sleep six or more men and was heated at the apex of the ‘T’ by an oil drum which worked as a fireplace. This drum was attached to a smoke box which was coupled to a length of drainpipe fed up through the earth to the surface above. In the fireplace we burnt everything and anything we could get hold of, and on the whole kept warm. The only drawback to this comfortable existence were the tall chimneys. These proved a great temptation to pranksters who regularly stuffed rags down the funnels to smoke the men out.
Many of us were in poor health from the extremes of living outside, coupled with a poor diet. I was young and relatively fit, but suffered from various afflictions that came and went including large and painful abscesses on my arms, and one on the side of my face. I also endure several attacks of boils on my knees and at one time over twenty on my backside. These boils, like the abscesses, were intermittent, but when they were at their most virulent I simply could not ride, having to pass the time with a piece of lint pinned to my shirt tail. ‘Do you think you can get hold of some Epsom Salts?’ a transport man asked. ‘If you can take a good spoonful every other morning, it might help.’ Funnily enough, the canteens used to sell Epsom Salts in little penny packets and I found his advice worked very well.
Toothache was another common complaint which could drive a man half crazy with pain before he could see the MO for basic treatment. Once, in 1915, I had gone sick with toothache only to find that the MO had gone on leave to Paris, leaving just his medical orderly. The pain was terrible and I bullied the orderly into pulling the tooth out, despite his protestations. ‘Just get a tooth pull and once you start, it doesn’t matter what I do, you get it out,’ I said. He tried three different tooth pulls and in the end, to his surprise and delight, the tooth came out. I was left to sit on a bale of hay with my head between my legs, spitting out the blood until I felt better.
There was so little activity at Brigade Headquarters that winter that we were given physical training lessons every morning to liven us all up. With time to kill, several men such as our blacksmith would make objects for fun. He was very skilful and on one occasion made a pair of ice skates with two pieces of wood and two pieces of iron fencing, for the River Somme had f
rozen over, and in places the ice was thick enough to skate on. Several of us used to go down to the river for a walk, and it was there that we watched a Frenchman catch ducks, with snares made of horse hair. These snares caught the ducks which walked along the embankment, but far more roamed closer to the river, and could easily be picked off with a rifle. There were so many that at times it was possible to despatch two or even three in a row, if we got down low enough to the ground.
At first we shot ducks close to the river’s edge, picking them out of the water at arm’s length. However, it was clear that richer pickings would be had if we could get out on to the river itself. By this time the ice was too thin to walk on at the edges, so we improvised a canoe out of three barrels scrounged from a farm. Cutting them in two, we placed three halves in a line and, with two planks along the side to keep everything sturdy, nailed the boat together. A lance corporal sat in the front, and I sat in the back, then with two spades to paddle the craft out into the river, we collected the ducks we had shot, dropping them into the middle compartment.
It was while we were out collecting the ducks that the Military Police turned up and called us in, arresting us as we landed. There had apparently been several casualties from bullets ricocheting off the ice and wounding soldiers. An order banning such actions had been posted, but no one had told us.
Firing had gone on all along the river, and these MPs’ orders were to clamp down heavily on this activity, posting patrols at various intervals along the banks. Our rifles were collected, as were a sample number of ducks as evidence, and we were marched to a provost marshal’s office, where our particulars were taken by a grumpy officer. Just before we were dismissed, the corporal I had been boating with asked earnestly, ‘Does that mean we have lost our ducks, sir?’ whereupon I laughed and we got a dressing down before we were allowed to leave. We had been bluntly told that we would hear more about the matter but nothing ever came of it, probably because we had donated several ducks to the officers’ mess before we were caught.
Editor
Brigade Headquarters remained on the Somme throughout the winter of 1916–17, moving in February close to the village of Suzanne, three or four miles behind the line. Wherever Headquarters was, it was never far behind the lines, perhaps in an old farmhouse, as opposed to a Battalion HQ which was often just a bivouac in the corner of a field, but there was not a great deal of difference apart from, as Ben said, ‘a little more brass and braid’.
Ben
When de Wiart was made Brigadier, the idea was that he would run the four battalions from Brigade Headquarters. This he found very difficult to do, as temperamentally he could never be far away from the action, and consequently he continued to be wounded. I believe he was requested to go back to Brigade HQ, but still remained much closer to the line, saying he could run it just as well from there.
Sometime in March, we moved to the town of Arras. This had once been a very attractive town, but it had been badly knocked about, although it still managed to maintain much of its character. Below the town, there was a labyrinth of inter-connected caves that ran for miles and miles, all the way up to the battle front at Vimy Ridge. These caves, widely used for storage by the inhabitants, were also ideal for billeting troops. During quiet periods, several of us used to go mooching around in these caves or walking above ground in the town’s once beautiful shopping squares. In the rubble of one shop, I picked up a white enamelled chamber pot, with an attractive blue rim. The pot was brand new and might come in useful, so I took it back to Brigade Headquarters. Every now and again, one of the canteens in Arras would get a few barrels of beer, always pretty weak stuff but better than nothing. Soldiers used to line up with containers of all kinds to collect the beer, and I would go down and get the chamber pot filled up, to a chorus of comments all around. The pot could carry about four litres, which we would carefully take back to Headquarters where it was shared out. It became something of a standing joke, although it was surprising the number of men who wouldn’t drink from it.
Despite the destruction of the town, there were any number of estaminets still open, which the soldiers visited for a bit of company and something to eat and drink. ‘Encore, Madame, café avec Cognac,’ was the stock phrase, although this was gradually shortened to either ‘Café avec,’ or ‘Encore avec’. ‘Café avec’ was not real coffee but either burnt barley or roast acorns, a large pot of which always stood in the embers of a peat fire. After a drink was ordered, Madame would pour a little coffee into a smaller pot, returning it to the embers to heat more thoroughly. She then gave us some home-made sugar, which, on the first occasion I was there, I thought was a barley sugar sweet and promptly ate it. Only afterwards did I discover that it was supposed to be held in the mouth to sweeten the coffee.
I often went to this particular café, and as an entertainment sometimes went down with de Wiart’s horse, Nancy. Once there, she would half follow me in, with just her head and front feet through the door, to the amusement of the customers. Nancy liked being made a fuss of, and it became a bit of a show. I would ask the owner for sugar, but withheld it until Nancy kissed me. ‘brassez moi’ I would say in French, and as I raised my face, she would lean over and nuzzle her face in mine.
She was a horse that I never had to call. I would just clap my hands and she would race across the field, giving a sort of chuckle as she arrived. It was possible to ride her down the road without anything on her at all, not even a headcollar, steering her with the pressure of my knees. At night, if we were in a barn, she would lie down and place her head on my legs and I’d put my arm round her neck.
Nancy had a remarkable temperament and, like most cavalry horses, stood up well to the noise of gunfire. While out riding on one occasion, I was about to pass a 4.5 inch howitzer, when I was stopped by a member of the gun team, as the gun was about to fire. The 4.5 inch howitzer was a big gun. On the road, it was pulled by six draught horses, and would be manoeuvred into position by a caterpillar tractor, before being carefully hidden, usually in a hedgerow, surrounded by camouflage netting. Enemy balloonists always tried hard to pin-point a heavy gun in action, but while they might see a gun fire, any wind moved the aftersmoke away quickly enough to disguise the exact location. The trick was to ensure that everyone near the gun stood stock still, as sudden movement after firing would keep the balloonists’ eyes on the spot. Only after a couple of minutes had passed would a whistle blow to give the all clear.
I was no farther than twenty yards away from the howitzer when I was stopped, at which point one of the gun crew said, ‘I think you had better get off your horse and hold her head’. ‘She won’t mind,’ I replied. This surprised him. ‘Put the lanyard in her mouth and she will fire it for you,’ I assured him. I gave Nancy a stroke and talked to her as they fired. There was a flash and a thunderous bang, but Nancy didn’t show the slightest bit of interest.
She was a most lovable mare, and when I was later sent down to an equitation school in 1917, I was genuinely sad to leave her. She was killed at the end of the war when a shell burst almost underneath her, but, though it seems hard, I was glad. So many of the Regiment’s horses were handed over to local farmers at the end of the war, and there was no knowing what might have happened tc her.
Before the Battle of Arras, I went with de Wiart to Paris Plage, a small town by the sea. We had gone for an officers’ conference, one of the many they used to have before a major attack. Amongst the other orderlies milling around, I spotted Ben Spooner, a trooper from C Squadron. He had been a troop officer’s servant before the war and, like myself, had come out with the Regiment in August 1914. I don’t remember what we talked about particularly, but we had several hours to kill before we rejoined our officers, so we decided to have a walk round the town. In Paris Plage there was a photographic shop, and we dived in there to have our pictures taken together, picking them up just before we were due to be back.
The Battle of Arras began on April 9th and lasted until mid-May. The Brigade had
been in intensive training for quite a while beforehand, as it was to be used early on in the assault. The weather was very cold and frosty, and after a preliminary bombardment the Brigade attacked, capturing most of their objectives, I believe. Early on in the battle, de Wiart suffered another, if minor, wound to his ear, and for the next few weeks was forced to ride around with a great pad bandaged on to the side of his head. This would have looked all right, had I not also suffered a minor head wound soon afterwards, which ensured that my head too was bandaged. We must have looked a funny pair riding around, officer and servant both swathed with khaki bandages, but otherwise in fine fettle.
I got my head wound while we were billeted in the village of St Nicolas, which was close to the front line and was almost totally destroyed. My accommodation was in a dug out, and I sat there listening to the sound of shells coming over. The shelling was fairly sporadic, but every now and again one dropped nearby. ‘Cor, that was a near one!’ I said, and stuck my head outside the dugout entrance to see where it had landed.
When I came round, I found myself at a field dressing station, propped up on a bale of hay with a veterinary sergeant busily cutting my hair off, with shears used to trim the hair from a horse’s heels and ears. He did this prior to an inspection by the MO, who told me that I had been blessed with a very thick skull. Apparently a shrapnel ball had ricocheted off my bare head just as I poked it out of the dugout but, apart from a very sore head, there was thankfully no other damage. ‘By God, you are a lucky man,’ the MO said, ‘if that had been me, I would have been dead.’ He told me that he had a thin skull and certainly wouldn’t have survived without a helmet on. My head was dressed and, as I was well enough to carry on, I went back to Brigade. On my return, de Wiart asked after my welfare. ‘It didn’t do me a lot of good, sir, but I’m not too bad,’ I replied, wondering afterwards whether I had not sounded a little sarcastic. I wore the bandage for at least a month, although I had a headache for six.
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