19th March ’16
Sweet letters from you today, letters full of love and kindness and of hunger for the summer-time, so be it we could spend it together. My own, if it but could be so. What joyous times have been ours in other summers. Derby Dale always comes back to me when I think of you and summer.xviii The long valley, knee-deep in luscious grass with which the yellow-eyed dog-daisies struggled for mastery. The old Derwent gurgling along whilst I whipped it and you knitted, in toleration of my madness, or struggled to make the kettle boil. Why I should always come back to Derby Dale I do not know. It was little enough time we spent there. It must be the dog-daisies the swaying grass and the smell of the new-cut hay hangs in my fancy so.
Leave has started again. All hope it may continue to run on. If it does my next turn home should come about the end of June. ‘Flaming June’, is it not? We must go away from the towns then and spend some part of the holiday in the open.
20th March ’16
A day spent over the uplands explaining the Brigade defences to the new officers. Very enjoyable and healthy. I met Warr of the 106th, up there again, full of work. He is building new emplacements. Then some heavies dropped rather close to us and we had to fling ourselves flat to avoid trouble. Later we scraped up a few fragments as souvenirs and came away laughing.
This evening we had a concert for the Company in Whiz-Bang Hall. Most enjoyable it was, the strains of lively music and lilting choruses putting life into us all. It was quite a top-hole gathering. Picture a long, dim hall filled to overflowing with an excited mass of eager men. A stage at one end with a badly daubed representation of the local railway station for background, the footlights supplied by a dozen candles in sconces of their own grease and a piano and plain deal form thrust up in one corner as its only decoration.
From a little room at the side the turns came on and sang or played or recited according to their talents. All were good but had they not been their reception I am sure would not have been a whit the less hearty. We were out to enjoy ourselves everyone and come what might we intended we should. Such choruses were sung as did your heart good to listen to, such clapping and shouting for encores as would have flattered a premier prima-donna. It was top-hole all through. The best thing we have done for a long time.
Prince has gone on a course of instruction. Murray goes on one on the 26th, both for a month. This Army of ours is marvellous. An ordinary man might think that when after months of training an officer at last gets his command in the firing line that he had attained the ideal and that what further knowledge was necessary for him he would gain in the best school of all – that of actual experience. But then if you thought that you would not know the Army. The Army is marvellous, so utterly marvellous that no ordinary person can ever hope to understand it. That is why we never try. We just take things as they come and keep smiling. It is the only way!
21st March ’16
This war, I am sure, is one of the most peculiar the world has ever known if, indeed, it is not the most peculiar. In no other can it have been possible to soldier so long, to witness such evidence of the presence of an enemy and of his ability to injure without ever catching sight of beast, bird or man belonging to him. To look out over our parapet is but to see a stretch of apparently deserted countryside straggled across with what appear to be aimless mounds of earth. Only the crack of a rifle and the whistle of a bullet close to his head serves to show the lengthy observer that the vista is deserted in appearance only. Yet this utter absence of the sight of man certainly gives the game that touch of unreality of which I have previously written. Except through my glasses, I have never yet seen a Fritz – an experience in no way peculiar, since it has been experienced by many a thousand others of double my active service.
Judge of my surprise then this morning to see a real, live, grey-clad Fritz marching up the Rue Corbie between two gleeful, khaki-clad privates whose bayonets gleamed ready on their rifles. The man was a prisoner of the 62nd Regiment Saxons. He was young but big and well-made standing about six feet and being proportioned to match. He seemed cheerful, and certainly looked both well clad and fed.
Where he came from I do not know but I hope he is but the forerunner of many of his tribe.
The men were quite braced with the sight and would have run after him in a mob, like the crowd following a Saturday night drunk in any of our big cities, had they not been ordered about their business.
I am told that I am to go in tomorrow as Second-in-Command, the colonel going on leave. You’ve no idea how appallingly august I feel in consequence. I can picture myself living like a bloated aristocrat, gourmandising on expensive delicacies in the HQ mess at Minden Post, all for the princely sum of 1 franc per diem, that being the limit set by our Spartan CO. In addition I can see myself strolling round the trenches, freshly washed and shaved, flirting a ‘whanger’ and pointing out obvious defects in their organisation, sanitation and general management to jaded Company Commanders who have hitherto been my friends. What a life!
22nd March ’16
Patrols – a word as to them. They are the fashion with us just now. Everyone patrols. To patrol properly you require a dark night and two, or at most three, companions. With these you crawl on your stomach over noisy jam tins, beneath snakelike and scratchy barbed wire, roll into shell holes or wriggle through grass. All the while your body seems bigger than an elephant’s and you labour under the obsession that every Fritz in the line has seen you. You hate it at the time but endure it if only for the power it gives you to swank to lesser men afterwards. Fritz is more sensible. He hardly patrols at all but contents himself with pooping off untold lights which illuminate the whole countryside and cause our crawling unfortunates to press themselves into mother earth and devoutly wish that they had been better boys. The chief reason for patrols is that the Staff likes them. Their value is more or less problematical. In actual advantage up to now I can reckon my company has gained on Fritz to the extent of 8½ yards. This minor success was achieved by an unimaginative corporal who took itxix off the body of a dead Frenchman, out in front of [Trench] 62. Another of the same patrol brought in the fellow’s shin bone saying it would make a splendid club. Bowly called him a low person and ordered him to cast the trophy away.
I am writing this in my dug-out of Minden Post – the Second-in-Command’s dug-out, which I have to myself. Some ‘bleed’. Bow-wow!
23rd March ’16
I was once round the line last night – getting in at 3 a.m. – and today I have been round it twice, the second time with Dukexx of the brigade. The result is I feel sore of feet and somewhat tired. Our line is a long one and very undulating.
It has been a quiet day, Fritz strafing the hill behind Minden Post and also F113xxi being the only items of real interest. No one was hurt on either occasion and as this evening I have dug up two good nose-caps I am personally quite satisfied.
This evening young Robertsonxxii of 104th came into mess. He is a nice young fellow and very keen on his guns. For his sake, I wish they shot better. He, however, can’t help that.
The Doc is in great form, as is Tawney. They make it a pleasure to be here.
24th March ’16
Two letters from you today, my sweetheart, the first containing photos of you and Babs in a leather case. It is a sweet treasure for me to carry with me and I am overjoyed to have it. I love it already.
This morning we woke up to find five inches of snow over everything and a thaw going strong. It made us all give way to bad language. It is so disappointing – and just when the trenches were getting decent. However, it cannot be helped and all we can do is set about clearing up again with a good spirit and assiduously as possible.
There is little to record except the gurgle of water as it runs down the hill through Carnay Avenue past my dug-out door, and the swearing of men who fall into the sea at the bottom as they stagger along through the inky blackness.
I have quite a little gag this afternoon. A new trench mortar
machine was being tried up in [Trench] 60. I came upon it unseen and found Shelmerdine and Oldham gazing anxiously over the top to see where the missiles dropped. Everyone was at a tension – trench mortars are impartial in their destructiveness. I took a handful of snow, rolled a ball and threw it at Oldham, at the same time yelling ‘Mortar’. It grazed the back of his neck and hit Shelmerdine’s head and you never saw two more scared officers in your life.
Shelmerdine fell off the step and Oldham leapt a foot in the air. Both swore most horribly. I was sorry afterwards. I know it would have put my heart in my mouth had I been the victim.
25th March ’16
The Doc, Mellor and myself employed ourselves all the morning filling sandbags and building with them a dug-out for the officers’ servants. It was quite topping working in the sunshine and productive of a fine healthy glow. We didn’t make a deal of progress with the dug-out but we ‘sweated considerably’ and so were quite happy.
I didn’t go round the line again till tonight but I have now just finished the whole length and am at present sitting in lonely state in the mess quaffing hot tea from a Thermos – time midnight. It was quite a good tour, the men all working well. They are quite brave. I came upon poor Carr, the Battalion’s right half,xxiii lying on the floor of the trench with a bullet through his leg. He was cheerful and the other men calm. They had been out wiring and a sniper had hit Carr, but the others carried on. We have put up a lot of wire these last two nights, in spite of heavy sniping. It speaks well for the men. A got a man badly wounded last night and C a man hit lightly. A had a sentry killed this morning and now Carr is hit. Four in two days to Fritz’s snipers. We must stop him. He is getting too successful.
26th March ’16
We had a young Staff captain into lunch, a GSO3 [General Staff Officer Grade 3] and another has passed with a brigadier. I have been talking to Townsend about them. We cannot make it out – the system, if there is any system, by which these appointments are made. The chief essentials appear to be a Public School education and an ingratiating manner. Any such things as strength of character, military knowledge or leadership apparently do not enter into the contract at all. Influence I am afraid must play a large part also. It strikes us as a great pity, if not more serious than that. Any one who has been here any time and has met men could name dozens who would fill positions with more authority and command respect and men to a far greater degree than the majority of our Staff. I speak generally, of course. Our own Brigade is a pleasurable exception to the above, the Brigadier, Major and Staff Captain are all topping officers, radiating authority and knowing their job, but there are hundreds of others less fortunate than we are and since efficiency must apply to the whole before success can come, I think there is a lot to be done in the way of sorting out ’ere our Staff deserves its august position.
What we seem to lack is driving force along the right lines, i.e. to the end of strafing Fritz. At present internal economy seems the be all and end all of our Top Men’s endeavours. Internal economy, a determination to have as good a time as possible and a bent for scandal about higher men still sums up the ideals, any rate of our junior Staff, as near as I have yet been able to get it.
But to turn to happier topics. Faulkner – one of our new subs – has caused a battalion smile today. When he came off duty last night it was from a very damp tour in the trenches, not a bad tour but one with just sufficient water about to make things a little uncomfortable. Cowan was awake as he pulled off his gum boots thigh and Faulkner confided in him in all seriousness the following, ‘Do you know, sir, I’s afraid this wet won’t suit me.’
Chapter 8
‘Pushes and rumours of pushes fill the air’
27 March–13 April 1916
27th March ’16
One really does not want to record too much of one’s own personal experiences because a diary to be of any interest later must more or less hold news of greater moment. But I just can’t help putting in about that damn trench mortar this afternoon. It made too big an impression on me for it to go entirely unrecorded.
Also it was only by the mercy of God that both Bowly and I were not blown to blazes. We had just gone up the little trench of 62 Street to have a look at a dug-out Bowly had found. I happened to glance up and saw it coming. For a second we couldn’t see where it would drop but then I decided and started to run, Bowly following. My gum-boots of course slipped and I went down and ‘Bubbles’ fell with me. It landed with a thud on the parapet just where we had stood a second previously. We grovelled flat, there was a terrific explosion and the both of us were buried. ‘Are you hurt?’ said Bowly. ‘No,’ said I. ‘Neither am I.’ Then we both got up and scooted, with the earth falling from us as we went. But Bowly had forgotten his pipe and coolly returned for it a minute later. After that we walked on smoking, but for myself, badly shaken indeed. I trust however that the men didn’t see my grin was feigned only and that really I was in the deuce of a funk.
Bowly brassed it out quite successfully but I know it had given him a turn. He was quite shaky when we got back to the dug-out. It is my second squeak from a trench mortar. I hate them.
Last night I hear there was a big strafe on our left. We put 1500 shells into Fritz in the course of two hours. There was some row I believe and everyone here was up except the Doc and myself. We, like two unemotional pigs, slept through the lot.
28th March ’16
From 4.30 a.m. to 11 p.m. makes a long day and one rather tiring when it includes two tours round the line and the slog down to Bray later. But it is always worth it on relief day. One really looks forward to the spell in Bray after six days in. It has been a lovely spring day, quite warm in the sunshine, and Fritz has been quiet in spite of the fact that we have intermittently shelled him the whole time. But tonight it is black as pitch and cold as the deuce. The men, however, are all now safely in and quite warm and cosy with big dicksies of hot cocoa, jolly good stuff. Grady,i my corporal cook, asked me to taste it when I went round and I drank the whole mug, to his considerable pleasure.
Yet at the moment I feel quite stunned. Bowly and the Sgt Majorii have both been arrested by the 21st at Minden Post for ‘drunkenness’. It is a terrible, hard blow to us all. But as yet we know nothing except the ugly fact.
What a curse drink is and what an awful thing it is, not to be able to trust. In that I refer to Bowly. He was in charge and his destiny was therefore in his own hands. The Sgt Major is only a soldier and a soldier will always drink if drink is given him. But he has never fallen before and I could curse the thoughtlessness that has broken him now. He and Garside have been my right and left hands from the very beginning. Yet I should not take the personal view. Not that I mean it personally. It is the trouble to the company that worries me but when I think of myself I mean the company. I always feel with it as Napoleon must have when he said, ‘L’état, c’est moi.’iii
Poor Knowles. I am sorry for him from the bottom of my heart. For Bowly, at the moment, I have only anger. Yet he will pay for it heavily, poor devil. How I wish to God Don Murray had not gone. You can trust Don, trust him with your life and with what is more, your men.
29th March ’16
Bowly has now come down. Oldham was sent for him and a Sgt Major for Knowles. The whole black business is now before the general and I expect it means a court-martial for Bowly and either one for Knowles or voluntary reversion to the ranks. It has cast a gloom over the lot of us, it being so likely to reflect on the good name of the battalion.
However, it is done now and there is nothing left but to grin and bear it. Bowly, of course, is quite bowled over by what he has done and now, in his sober senses, is pitifully down. What his poor mother will do I shudder to think. It is sad, so very sad.
30th March ’16
Mellor and I rode out to Happy Valley this morning for lunch with ‘Bottom’iv and Whitham of the 104 Battery.v They live in Happy Valley, an aptly named locality when the sun shines, as it did today, and the bro
ad dip laughs up at you where you stand on the bush clad eminence where the battery is hidden.
In front the next ridge makes the horizon so that you see nothing of Fritz and only the scarred and holed slope opposite, where lurk many dug-outs, brings one’s mind at all to the fact that war in all its ugliness is just beyond the hill.
Both Mellor and I fired a round, directing each one at the trench mortar position of Fritz’s. I pray we may have landed close. What joy it would be to blow that fellow up.
After lunch we hunted rats. Whitham has a patent way. You burn bromide in one hole and wait with a stick at another ready to smite any rodent who bolts from the fumes. None bolted today but Whitham said they must have died from the fumes. He is an optimist. Personally I think Brer Rat merely lay low and said nuffin’ as he is so wont to do when men in holiday mood set out to slay him.vi
31st March ’16
The Sgt Major was court-martialled today, a rotten business indeed. But all right in the end, as he deserves. His was a case of pure misfortune.
I feel that I should record our mess here. It is in a small five-roomed house in the Rue de Jean-Jacques. The entrance is at the back and the garden runs down to the Somme, the which we can see gleaming from the mess room door together with the trees on the further bank and the stretches of flat across to La Neuville les Bray. It is a pleasing scene with the party-coloured village – all reds, blues and whites – showing through the grey boles. The mess room is quite large. A door nailed flat on four legs makes an ample table and covered with white American cloth looks clean and sweet and attractive. Beneath the window is a smaller table littered with papers, a rum jar of beer, an occasional whiskey bottle and stray tins of tobacco. The mantelpiece is also strewn with the latter but is rendered considerably more attractive by two jars of wild primroses which adorn it. One or two pipes and a book or so are other features. In one corner stands a waste-paper basket and in another two fishing rods with a net. There are five chairs, reseated in sacking, but quite comfortable and sacking is also evident in the windows of the wall and of the door. In these cases it stops gaps in the panes which shell-shock has caused. It gives us rather a patch-work appearance.
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