To Fight Alongside Friends

by Gerry Harrison

  23rd November ’15

  It seems to me that one or two little remarks of the men, heard en passant, are worthy of record here and today seems propitious for writing them down, there being an absence of news more suitable for inclusion in this my notebook.

  One fed-up one, writing home, expresses his opinion of this fair land thus, ‘I can’t imagine why the Germans want this country. If it was mine, I’d give it to them and save all the fuss.’ Evidently a man of personality that, a man who judges from what he sees rather than from what he hears.

  Overheard near the cooker, ‘Well I hopes as how they’ll fight the next blinking war in England and give a swotty a “chanst” to do the decent by hisself.’

  The next was in answer to a young fellow who was grousing at the food, which is excellent and, for active service, plentiful. ‘Rotten grub! You don’t know you’re alive. I once lived on potatoes for a fortnight, and got worms.’ The relevance of the penalty may not be quite apparent but the retort had the wholesome effect of silencing the grouser, and of adding to the gaiety of the remainder of the assembly and must therefore be appreciated for its efficacy.

  We had our first dose of gas this afternoon – and are somewhat disappointed. It is not at all exciting. One merely pulls on a helmet, which smells abominably and which causes an otherwise decent battalion to at once assume the aspect of horrible ogres near which it would be criminal to bring any highly strung infant, and walks solemnly through a house filled with a yellowish atmosphere.xviii

  There is nothing in it and this fearsome ‘gas’, which has been held up as our bête noir these months past and which previously we have not been able to think of with that perfect equanimity so desirable in a soldier, assumes on close contact merely the proportions of a beastly nuisance. And that mainly because it necessitates one confining one’s manly headpiece within an unbecoming and smelly flannel bag.

  24th November ’15

  A calm day which terminated in an evening of excursions and alarms. At 5.30 p.m., when all had been dismissed, and we were busy discussing our evening meal, came orders that the battn would move in half an hour. A sudden overturning of tea tables, a stamping and a rushing, quick orders in the darkness and the sound of running feet, lanterns twinkling here and there and the sound of heavy wheels of the transport commenced to move. Then gradually dark lines of men began to form in the roadways, a quiet roll-call and a quiet proving, then silence – and we were ready. The watches stood at 6.10 p.m.

  Forty minutes to clear a battalion, lock, stock and barrel from their scattered quarters into a formed body capable of being handled and able to move to wherever it was wanted. It being a first attempt, we were pleased with it, even to the CO.

  In the end we were dismissed and went back to billets to discuss it all over a bottle of the wine of the country, in the emptying of which we were joined by D. S. Murray and Worthy who also stayed and shared our hash at mess.

  Afterwards we held a glee party, singing all the old songs of Morecambe, Grantham and Lark Hill.xix It made some of us feel quite homesick. One is a trifle inclined to sentimentality here. I suppose it is that we English are such home birds really and not at all the adventuresome roamers we are popularly put down to be.

  25th November ’15

  Well, they have come at last, the definite orders to move. And, strangely enough, they have brought no excitement with them. Interest is the chief note, interest in what the work will be really like, how we shall manage and how much we shall learn. This eagerness to learn is the predominant note among the officers who are one and all keen to get au fait with their job.

  The idea is a splendid one. The battalion splits up into four companies each of which is attached to a regular battalion for a week in the fire trenches. The main object being instruction [in trench warfare] – an object which suits us down to the ground and with which we are in the most hearty agreement.xx

  I wrote you a long letter tonight telling you all about it, but the post has suddenly ceased and you will not therefore hear from me till we are about half-way through our excursion. On the whole I am glad. You would, I know, only worry did you know I was under fire.

  Tonight I censored a letter from one of my sergeants.xxi He is distinctly a character. A Don of Balliol, a lecturer at the London Varsity, he enlisted as a Tommy. It is no doubt fine to think of but it is also ‘an economical waste’, as Earlesxxii used to say. Months ago I tried to get him to take a commission but he had views of his own and I doubt not but that he is happy where he is. He talks French fluently and is already great friends with the villagers. In his letter he told how sad the women are here. All their men are gone, they are within sound of the guns and all they can do is work on and wait. It is dreadfully sad for the women, this war and I think it is our realisation of this and of your quiet heroism that makes us love you as we do. At least I know I feel like that about you, my own.

  For us the work and the excitement. For you the waiting and suspense. I know well which must be the easier to bear.

  The guns are quiet tonight. It is the first time for days. There has been some little festival in the village and two weddings and the people have been indulging in a minor Morris Dance. They are simple and they are kind – when they know you, and I hope with all my heart the guns may never come nearer Raineville than they are now. Rather I trust in heaven that their war may go forward to the German border and over, that their thundering may reverberate through the streets of Rhineland towns and villages and cause the startled light of fear to leap up in the eyes of fatuous burghers that these may be repaid in kind for all the suffering their horrid country has brought to this ‘fair’ France and her fairer sister, our England.

  26th November ’15

  It has been a day of preparation, of issuing the last few items to complete the company, of getting out the leather waistcoats and the skin coats and seeing all the final equipment is in order.xxiii

  And was ever an Army equipped like this one? My God. What we must cost the country. What taxation we must mean. How I hope we are worth it. It seems terrible, the cost. Yet, I suppose, it is really quite cheap if only it means a nail in Germany’s coffin. And anything which will help our men to stick the winter well means that. The Germans don’t like the snow, I believe.

  We have just said good-bye to Grimwood, D. S. Murray and Wood.xxiv The battalion splits up tomorrow and will not meet again for a week – and that is rather a long time these days. We have all promised to meet in our rest billets and compare experiences. We should know a great deal more than we do now by then and our meeting should be an instructive one.

  Townsend’s poor brother in the 18th was killed today.xxv He was bombing officer and was put out by a hand grenade, whilst instructing a class. It is damned hard luck, I knew him well, a keen, young chap, rather delicate but a promising officer. It has rather knocked the guts out of Towny and he looks very ill on it. Poor old boy, his ‘young brother’ was a great chap with him.xxvi

  However, Kismet. I wish he had had a chance though.

  27th November ’15

  It made us quite homesick this morning. The motor-bus was waiting at 9.30 to take us to ‘business’.xxvii It felt most strange bumping along through the frosty air with all around looking peaceful and comfortable and with nothing at all but joy in the morning and no sign of war at all. But it was cold. We lost all feeling on top of our bus and when at last we were compelled to get down had momentarily lost control of our legs.

  They had intended taking us to Varennes but we were stopped three miles short of it because of artillery in action down the road. I think, however, the government were only tired of carrying us for nothing because, though we marched for nine miles after that, we did not see a gun nor hear a shell till we arrived here, Mesnil, about 5.30 p.m.xxviii B and D Coys only came on to this fair though unpeaceful spot [where they were attached to the 1st Hampshire Regt], A and C, [attached to the 1st Royal Irish Fusiliers] with battalion HQ remaining at Englebelmer,x
xix some three miles behind. Our billet is a château on the skyline. It has been a glorious place but at present looks somewhat shop-soiled since its back has been blown out, its walls and gardens are loopholed and trenched and the flower beds are interspersed with large shell-craters filled with frozen water. The officers’ quarters were once a stable. They are much better than we anticipated and are warm where you miss the draught between the dug-out and the door.

  We are quite comfortable and happy and have only had two shrapnel in the garden up to now. But we have, of course, lain doggo as one does after being warned that sight of a man by day or glint of a light by night will bring 9 inch h.e.s [high explosive shells] hurtling in at the back door.

  We go into the fire trenches tomorrow and are keen to do so. It is remarkable how everyday and usual it all seems here. I must never breathe a word of it else will not be looked upon as heroes any more by the good people who stay at home and especially by you, my Maudie. Our only trouble are the rats. They swarm and are bold beyond description. They run over you, pinch candles, eat our iron rations and disturb one’s attempts at slumber. It is, you will say, but a minor trouble yet it is our greatest up to now.

  We are all jolly tired tonight though and I’ll bet when we do get down it will take more than rats to disturb us.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Mud caked to his eyebrows’

  28 November–19 December 1915

  28th November ’15

  I see that last evening I boasted that it would take more than rats to disturb us. I was badly mistaken. They beat us – easily. The trouble was that Buntingi had laid my bed across a favourite run of theirs and they did not intend being put off it by a mere intruder like myself.

  They ran over my legs, body, chest and feet, and I was adamant. But when they started on my face I must own that I slavishly surrendered, fell to cursing horribly and finally changed my lying place. Thereafter I fared better but Murray dropped in for it. They ate his iron ration and, evidently liking some, which incidentally proves that they are but lowly people, knawed [sic] through Prince’s pack and ate his also. I can tell you they are some rats, these.

  Well we are here at last, in the fire trenches and are learning our job under the hospitable care of the East Lancs.ii We are in the fire trenches and I can hardly express how strange it felt to stand on the fire slip for the first time, look out over the plain and see the Bosche trenches just ahead. And it has all struck one as so apparently safe. There is nothing to be seen bar sinuous lines of chalk mounds on the hill-sides. Nothing at all. One hears bangs, or the occasional popping of a Maxim, but one sees absolutely nothing and it is hard indeed to realise the danger, the more especially that our kind friends the East Lancs treat it all so jovially and in such casual fashion. I would not at first believe that the wily Germany lay tucked up just across there. It is only the fact that five men have been hit this afternoon has made me realise it at all.

  The last three were out on a reconnoitring patrol when suddenly some bullets pinged past our listening post, the men heard a shriek and in a minute or two the patrol came staggering back. Quite cheerful they were, but a sergeant with a bullet through his foot made their going bad. The Bosche keeps pretty wide awake, evidently.

  We are attached to B Coy [of the East Lancs] and the OC of it is a Lieutenant Salt.iii And well worthy of his [MC] he is. He is really quite a boy and his officers more so but he is older than many in soldiering. He is anyway a great deal older than myself. He has been at it since Mons,iv has been three times wounded and now wears the Military Cross. Yet he is most unassuming and diffident of imparting advice. I think he is a fine young fellow and a typical example of the British subaltern.

  Murray and I have a dug-out to ourselves. A most pretentious place, lined with gathered silk and possessing an iron bed with a spring mattress. Corn in Egypt. A comfort-loving Frenchman built it for himself when they held the line. They say it leaks. I do not know, since now it is only freezing. But be that as it may, I am much obliged of my unknown pal, the Parisian decorator.

  29th November ’15

  This has been a wet day. Some wet! They were quite right about our dug-out. It does, leak, some leak! In fact a wash out, literally a wash out. It has defeated Murray and myself and we are here in the sandbagged mess-room very cold and very much smoked from the damp wood on our fire, endeavouring to get a wink of sleep before our several turns of duty. But to return to the rain. It has teemed, the trenches are ankle deep – some places calf deep – in mud and water and the communications trenches are rushing streams of brown water. The men are wet through but stick the job like Britons and I do hope for their sake that the weather may lift with the morning.v

  The Coy has taken over the line tonight on its own for the first time and we are all very bucked about it. The men have done Al and the East Lancs are pleased with them. I am glad indeed, because nothing tells a regiment’s efficiency so truly as the unsought opinion of other regiments. The guns have been strafing today no end but up till now we have dodged the show. It may be ours again tomorrow, though. One never knows.

  Tonight I messed with the CO [of the 1st Bn, East Lancs]vi down in Mesnil. He is a fine man and seems to have the happy knack of griping without strafe. He put on a regular beano for dinner, soup, fish, joint, sweets, coffee, dessert. I haven’t seen the like since our lunch in Amiens and I did it full justice. It is marvellous how the poor live!

  30th November ’15

  It has been fine today and the sun has even shone. The trenches have therefore dried up considerably and everyone is more comfortable. This morning I had some twenty rounds at the Bosches but whether with luck or not it is impossible to say. I did, however, find two definite ranges and was able to register these.

  At this evening’s ‘stand to’ the Germans started heaving more torpedoes at the Jocksvii on our right and one of my fellows, L/Cpl Rodman,viii had the good luck to spot the place where they light the beastly thing. I at once reported it and the heavies are going to give them a dousing tomorrow morning. If it is successful, it will be most welcome and I hope, if only for Rodman’s sake, that it is. This evening later there has been a regular exchange of knocks between the artillery. Ours won easily. It was some sight and I was delighted that I witnessed it.

  The Bosches brought down one of our aeroplanes within their lines today. Bust ’em. Never mind, it’ll be our turn again tomorrow.

  1st December ’15

  We are out of the trenches and back in our dear, draughty but dry billet in the château stables. It has been a good day full of interest but we are all tired and weary from lack of sleep and are therefore thankful to forsake the excitement of the firing line for the quiet and comparative safety of our present sanctum.

  About 11 a.m. the Bosches started on our left sector with ‘whiz-bangs’ and concentrated these in the vicinity of Coy headquarters. They must have dropped thirty round us before noon. At the same time, they sniped us like old boots but we gave them back as good as their own at the latter game and, when our guns commenced, they dealt it out thick and plenty to the Bosche in shrapnel, light and heavy ordnance. It was all right. The shooting of our gunners is markedly superior to theirs. We drop right on the spot every time but they invariably waste from six to a dozen rounds feeling for theirs. When the good time comes that we have unlimited shell supply, Bosche is in for a thin time indeed. Also our fellows put the wind up several of their snipers, popping bullets all about them till they felt the neighbourhood unhealthy and quitted.

  It is exciting work, sniping. In fact one must curb the tendency lest it should become a fascination. The Second-in-Command of the E. Lancsix and myself put in a couple of hours this morning at it and had quite a bit of fun worrying the Bosches in their trenches. One fellow was walking across the open 2,000 yards off, when I spotted him and let go. You never saw a chap move quicker in your life. He ran for a tree and jumped behind it and I let him have four more there. Whether I got him or not I don’t know but he did
n’t move for the next half-hour. I know because I waited so anxiously for him.

  Last night, or rather at 1.30 a.m. this morning, I got outside the barbed wire to look for a listening post which had lost itself. Naturally I didn’t find it. You seldom do, but I got lost myself instead. It was some tour and a bally Bosche Maxim which kept traversing our front added not a little to my perturbation. Three times I had to fling myself down in the wet grass, bury my nose in it and grovel whilst the damn thing went chattering over me. It is remarkable with what speed one learns to introduce celerity into ‘adopting the prone position’. The bally post came in at the end of the bottom of the lines and narrowly missed being shot for its pains.

  We have no casualties, are quite satisfied and very sleepy, so to bye-byes. Only one thing before we go. The post waited for us on arrival. With what joy we pounced on it. It bucked the most beat of us up into smiles of laughter. Letters from home. What a tremendous lot that sentence means to us. And as for me, your letters are like a breath of spring in that they bring joy and happiness to me. And your photo has come this time also. Thank God for it. I think it is splendid. You look your lovely self, and I feel so proud when I look at it that I can say you are mine. What with your picture and Baby’s, I am happy. No man was ever blest with sweeter womenfolk.