Private Harold Harvey. Frontispiece
A SOLDIER'S SKETCHES UNDER FIRE
By HAROLD HARVEY
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & CO., LTD.
FORENOTE
A title such as "A Soldier's Sketches Under Fire" indicates at once the nature, scope and limitations of this unpretentious volume of annotated drawings to which it has been given.
Faked pictures of the war are plentiful. Sketches taken on the spot they depict, sometimes by a hand that had momentarily laid down a rifle to take them, and always by a draughtsman who drew in overt or covert peril of his life, gain in verisimilitude what they must lose in elaboration or embellishment; are the richer in their realism by reason of the absence of the imaginary and the meretricious.
All that Mr. Harold Harvey drew he saw; but he saw much that he could not draw. All sorts of exploits of which pictures that brilliantly misrepresent them are easily concoctable were for him impossible subjects for illustration. As he puts it himself, very modestly:
"There were many happenings—repulsions of sudden attacks, temporary retirements, charges, and things of that sort that would have made capital subjects, but of which my notebook holds no 'pictured presentment,' because I was taking part in them."
He also remarks:
"Sketched in circumstances that certainly had their own disadvantages as well as their special advantages, I present these drawings only for what they are."
Just because they are what they are they are of enduring interest and permanent value. They have the vividness of the actual, the convincing touch of the true.
Mr. Harvey was among the very first to obey the call of "King and Country," tarrying only, I believe, to finish his afterwards popular poster of "A Pair of Silk Stockings" for the Criterion production. To join the Colours as a private soldier, he left his colours as an artist, throwing up an established and hardly-won position in the world of his profession, into which—sent home shot and poisoned—he must now fight his way back. His ante-war experiences of sojourn and travel in India, South and East Africa, South America, Egypt and the Mediterranean should again stand him in good stead, for the more an artist has learned the more comprehensive his treasury of impressions and recollections; the more he has seen the more he can show. To Mr. Harvey's studies of Egyptian life, character and customs was undoubtedly attributable the success of his "Market Scene in Cairo," exhibited in the Royal Academy of 1909. Purchased by a French connoisseur, this picture brought its painter several special commissions.
I venture to express the opinion that the simple, direct and soldierly style in which Mr. Harold Harvey has written the notes that accompany his illustrations will be appreciated. His reticence as regards his own doings, the casual nature of his references—where they could not be avoided—to his personal share in great achievements, manifest a spirit of self-effacement that is characteristic of the men of the army in which he fought; men whose like the world has never known.
Robert Overton.
To
LADY ANGELA FORBES
Whose Work for Soldiers in France and at Home has been as untiring as it has been unostentatious.
CONTENTS
SKETCHES
[Private Harold Harvey] Frontispiece
[On the Quayhead at Marseilles]
[Forty Passengers in each Cattle Truck]
["Doomsday Book": a French Lesson in a Cattle Truck]
[Lady Angela Forbes's Soldiers' Home at Etaples]
[Typical Figures and Figure-Heads]
[Where Germans Raped and Murdered]
PART I.
ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT.
A SOLDIER'S SKETCHES UNDER FIRE.
INTRODUCTORY.
ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT.
CHAPTER I.
From Southampton to Malta.
On the outbreak of the war I joined the Royal Fusiliers, uninfluenced by the appeal of wall-posters or the blandishments of a recruiting sergeant. My former experience as a trooper in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry being accounted unto me for military righteousness, I sailed with my regiment from Southampton on September 3rd, 1914. We thought we were bound for France direct, and only discovered on the passage that we were to be landed, first, at Malta.
I think I know the reason why the short trip across Channel was avoided, but, as it behoves me to be very careful about what I say on certain points, I don't state it.
I show the fore part of the boat, the bows being visible in the distance. The doorways on the right are those of the horse boxes, specially erected on the deck. In fact, the whole liner, with the most creditable completeness and celerity, had been specially fitted up for the use of the troops, still retaining its crew of Lascars, who did the swabbing down and rough work required.
My sketch shows a crane bringing up bales of fodder for the horses from the hold, with two officers standing by to give orders.
Aboard the Transport.
We experienced some exciting incidents on the way out; for instance, in the Bay we ran into a fog, and the order was given for all to stand by. For the next two or three hours all were in doubt as to what might happen—of course there was fear of torpedoes.
We heard in the distance several shots fired, presumably by the battle-cruiser which was our escort. When the fog lifted, we could just see the smoke lifting on the horizon of some enemy craft, which had been chased off by our own warship. We again steamed ahead towards our destination and were soon sailing into smooth and calm waters, the temperature becoming quite genial and warm as we approached the Straits of Gibraltar. As we passed through the Straits the message was signalled that those two notorious vessels, the "Goeben" and the "Breslau," were roaming loose in the Mediterranean.
At Malta.
On arrival at Malta, I and others were put through our firing course, and the regiment took over the charge of prisoners and interned Germans, of whom, together, there were on the island—so soon after the beginning of hostilities—no fewer than 8,000. One of the first sketches I made was of our Bivouac.
Bivouac at Malta.
Malta and the Pirates.
Malta, which has been called "the master key of the Mediterranean and the Levant," "the stepping-stone to Egypt and the Dardanelles," and "the connecting link between England and India," is one of our Empire's most valuable possessions, and its physical formation has made it for generations past of great maritime value. The island is, in itself, a rock, and all its earth and mould has been imported. In the days when there were no submarines or warships, it was the headquarters of pirates roaming at large in the Mediterranean. These pirate crews, after capturing their prey, used to bring their captures into one of the entrances of the island, now called the Grand Harbour. At the base of the harbour is the town of Valetta, which was catacombed in those early times, and tunnels were made through the island rock. When pirates had brought a ship under cover of the natural harbour to these tunnels, they took all the merchandise ashore and then broke up the vessel, so as to leave no trace of the incident. The crew were usually massacred to a man, and when chase was given, no trace whatever could be found of either the pirates or their captures, and later on their ill-gotten gains would be shipped off from the other end of the tunnel in another part of the island.
Looking through between the trees in my sketch of the Casement Gardens, under the Barracks of Floriana, which stand on an eminence overlooking the spot, a portion of the harbour is seen which commands the back moorings, and the water where the P. & O. liners lay up. Beyond the vessel drawn I indicate the island of Fort Manoel, which is an ancient fortress which possesses a very handsome gateway, which may have been built by the Romans. In fact, all over this island are remarkable relics, some of them probably as old as those of Stonehenge, but how or by whom the original materials were brought there or the original buildings constructed is now left by historians to conjecture.
Casement Gardens, Malta.
Other public gardens are those of Biracca and Floriana. Public establishments include the biggest Fever Hospital in the world, the Castille Prison, and the Governor's Palace.
Sergeants' Mess.
Sergeants’ Mess at Floriana, Malta.
The view of the site of the Sergeants' Mess at Floriana gives a good idea of the massive style of architecture and the palatial design of many of the buildings. The big construction of the walls will be noted, and the height of the chimney. All the houses have flat roofs, and on them people sleep at night because of the intense heat. From the roof of this house is obtained the best view of the island. Although Malta is composed entirely of rock, flowers grow profusely, and a variety of creeper, very similar to our own azalea, climbs up the front of the forts, requiring little or no root. A garden of this flower was attached to the Sergeants' Mess house.
Fortifications.
Ordnance Department, Malta.
The ancient fortifications proved impregnable for ages, and are now modernised for the use of up-to-date artillery equipment. I show the exterior of the Army Ordnance Department, Fort Tigne, and on the extreme left, on the other side of the harbour, a portion of Fort Manoel.
The Maltese.
The habits and manners of the Maltese have long been notorious for their rude characteristics, probably attributable to the people's Moorish origin, although the race has now blended with the smooth Italian. Throughout the Levant they have the bad name first deserved by their robberies and murders. British rule has effected great reforms, but it cannot change the leopard's spots.
The experience of our boys in some of the outlying parts of the island, and even in many streets and cafés, was that these primitive people had not altogether lost their primitive instincts in the course of becoming civilised. One of their customary tricks is to offer one of their bangles, or some other souvenir, to get you to spend money in the cafés and dancing saloons, and he would be a clever man who ever succeeded in obtaining one of the souvenirs promised him from day to day. The women of Malta certainly have strong claims to beauty, at any rate up to the age of sixteen, for they mature early. They have large and lustrous black eyes, and are of a swarthy and somewhat Spanish type. They still wear the traditional hood, a black scarf, called a "Faldetta," thrown over the head and shoulders, and disposed in such a style as to exhibit the countenance of the wearer in the most alluring form. Although picturesque in the distance, they are very slovenly in their hair and dress on closer acquaintance, and generally exhibit the traces of their Oriental origin. They are great experts in the making of Maltese lace, for which they have won a world-wide reputation, and their native filigree work is also very famous and very beautiful. Churches (where weddings are celebrated in the evening) are very numerous, and priests and friars are always to be seen in the streets. The boys of our regiment said that Malta was chiefly notable for "yells, smells, and bells."
We passed a very merry time here for nearly three weeks—such a time as many were destined never to know again—and then were shipped to Marseilles, en route for the trenches on the Western Front.
In the "Main Guard" of the Governor's Palace at Valetta we left behind us a fresco memorial of our short sojourn on the island. For many generations it has been the custom of regiments stationed in Malta to paint or draw regimental crests, portraits (and caricatures), etc., on the interior walls of this "Main Guard," and on its doors also. Walls and doors, both are very full of these more or less artistic mementoes, but space was found which I was asked to cover with a black and white series of cartoons of prominent members of our (the 2nd) Battalion R.F.
CHAPTER II.
FROM MALTA TO MARSEILLES.
From the bows of our boat as she lay in harbour at Marseilles, I "spotted" three typical figures. The one holding the rope is a French sailor, the one at the bottom of the picture is a French gendarme, and the third is a Ghurka, one of our fine sturdy hillmen from India, who had come out to France to stand by the Empire.
Marseilles was a most wonderful sight at the time I was there, and although I had made many previous visits in normal times, when I had greatly admired its grand proportions, none of them had given me any idea of what its appearance would be when it became the clearing station in the time of such a great war, and one of the chief bases of all food supplies. Troops of all descriptions were working like ants by day and by night, unloading boats to the huge stores of all descriptions of provender, and loading the trains with all kinds of artillery, ammunition, Red Cross wagons, motors, horses, and all the paraphernalia of modern warfare.
The town is the third largest in France, and the chief Mediterranean seaport. Its history teems with exciting incidents of plague, fire, sacking, siege, and hand-to-hand fighting, so it is quite in keeping that it should take so important a part in the present conflict. It was here Monte Cristo was hurled from the Chateau d'If in the sack from which he cut his escape. Francis the First besieged it in vain, and it prospered under King Rene. In the French Revolution it figured so conspicuously as to give the title to the national hymn of the French.
The Story of "The Marseillaise."
Is it too late to tell again the story of the origin of "The Marseillaise"?
On the Quayhead at Marseilles.
Its author and composer (or it might be more correct to say composer and author, for in this case music preceded words), Rouget de Lisle—a young aristocrat and an artillery officer—had as a friend a citizen of Strasbourg, to whose house, in the early days of the Revolution, he came on a visit one evening. The tired guest was cordially welcomed by the citizen and his wife and daughter. To celebrate the occasion his friend sent the daughter into the cellar to bring up wine. Exhausted as he was, de Lisle drank freely, and, sitting up late with his host, did not trouble to go to bed. He had been amusing the family by playing some of his original compositions on the spinnet. When the host retired for the night he left de Lisle asleep with his head resting on the instrument. In the early hours of the morning the young officer awoke, and running through his head was a melody which, in his semi-drunken state the evening before, he had been attempting to extemporise. It seemed to haunt him, and, piecing it together as it came back to his memory, he played it over. Then, feeling inspired, he immediately set words to it. When the family came down he played and sang it to them, and his host was so moved by it that he became quite excited and called in the neighbours. The instrument was wheeled out into the garden, and in the open air young de Lisle sang the song that was to become the national air of his country to this local audience. The effect upon them was "terrific," and from that moment the song became the rage. It seemed to embody the whole spirit of the Revolutionists, and spread like wildfire throughout France. It was to this song that the unbridled spirits of Marseilles marched to Paris, hence its name, "The Marseillaise." Shortly after this, de Lisle received a letter from his mother, the Baroness, dated from her chateau, saying, "What is this dreadful song we hear?" Fearing that his own life might be in danger, he being an aristocrat and a suspect, he had before long to take flight across the mountains. As he went from valley to crag, and crag to valley, he time after time heard the populace singing his song, frequently having to hide behind rocks lest they discovered him. It sounded to him like a requiem, for he knew that many of his friends were being marched to the scaffold to his own impassioned strains.
Quayside, Marseilles.
CHAPTER III.
FROM MARSEILLES TO ARMENTIÈRES.
The incidents of the railway journey from Marseilles to Etaples, en route to Armentières, told in detail, would fill a book. It was made in ordinary cattle trucks, in which, packed forty to a truck, we spent four days and a half at one stretch. Yet was it a bright and merry trip, for our spirits were raised to the highest by the thought that we were going into action, and we were at all sorts of expedients to make ourselves comfortable. For instance, before we started the Stationmaster's Office was ransacked, and every available nail pulled out to make coat and hat pegs of in the cattle trucks. We had to sleep on the floor. Our corporal, who was an old soldier of many campaigns, of iron physique and a perfect Goliath, and the life and soul of our party, was so tired when he got aboard the train, after strenuous efforts, that he fell dead asleep on the floor, and there was so little available space, and his massive form took up so much of what there was, that no fewer than nine men, as they became tired and dropped down from the walls of the truck, fell on him and went to sleep on the top of him. However, that corporal slept the sleep of the just for four or five hours, and even then did not awaken until, the train halting and somebody mentioning wine, there was a scuffle, and another man stepped on his head, whereupon he flung him off and made a good first out of the train.
Forty Passengers in each Cattle Truck.
We were regaled at each station by the populace, who brought us cakes and wine, small flags, toys, tin trumpets, oranges, and other fruits, and we parted with nearly all our buttons as souvenirs.
Tub, Tea and a Halt.
At one stopping place a large leathern hose was depending from a water main for giving the engine water, and somebody turning this on, we all took shower baths under it, or plunged into the huge tub alongside, some being so keen on not missing their chance that they took their baths in their clothes, tunics and all. Try to imagine our feelings after being cooped up in the train for just on three days and nights and then getting a wash or prehistoric bath!
We had a two hours' wait here, and the "dixies" (about a dozen in all) were filled with water, and a huge fire was lighted, and soon a "long felt want" was satisfied in the form of tea. Though it was like Indian ink, it went down with a rare relish (I think my little lot was the best drink of tea I ever enjoyed); but unfortunately there was no second edition.
A Wash and a Wait.
After our "tub" we made a line for the station, the train being so long that only a portion of it was in it. We received a pleasant surprise in the form of a stall, where there were cakes, buns, bottles of red wine, fruit and many other luxuries.
After we had cleared out the whole lot, the French people living in the town came to the railings at the side of the station and bombarded us with all kinds of food and dainties. Just as we were all thoroughly stretching our legs and enjoying ourselves, the order was given to board train, so, with much cheering, singing and shouting, we resumed our seats—or rather our "standing room only."
"Doomsday Book."
"Doomsday Book": A French Lesson in a Cattle Truck."
Our corporal (behold him with an open book of Family Bible dimensions) often busied himself with expounding his views on the French language, in which he was labouring to become proficient. His linguistic ambitions did not end at self-proficiency, for he was solicitous to instruct his fellows, and we had quite a number of French lessons from him, although it must be admitted that they suffered many interruptions in good old plain English from the Tommies, provoked by the jolting of the train. They nicknamed this huge French dictionary the "Doomsday Book," because it was their doom to have its contents thrown at them every day.
The Last Stage.
The weather set in very cold and snowy, and as the cracks in the bottom of the truck measured three inches in width, it can be guessed what a draught there was. But in spite of everything and the general discomfort of things, jam and biscuits were "lowered" in plenty. I amused the boys by making sketches on biscuits and throwing them out of the window at the various stations we passed through to the crowds of French civilians, soldiers, and Red Cross nurses. Perhaps some of my comrades will find some of these biscuit souvenirs at their homes—if they ever get there—for not a few were kept to the end of the journey and posted to friends in England.
We passed over several bridges which the Germans had destroyed, but which had been made temporarily good again by the French engineers. Over these our train had to travel gingerly. As we neared the fighting zone the booming of the guns could be heard, and a little further on things became more warlike. We noticed the devastated stations, villages, and large shell holes in the embankment of the line.
All this seemed to bring to the surface our fighting spirits, and we only wanted to be out and at the Huns.
On arrival at Etaples, after a rest of two hours or so in the station yard and street adjoining same, we marched in full pack and kit, including blankets and our waterproof sheets, to a fishing village, where we struck a camp and turned in for the night. We were under canvas for four days—the only four days under canvas during the whole time I was in France. The Colonel gave orders that all the men's heads were to be shaved, as we were proceeding to the trenches.
Lady Angela Forbes's Soldiers' Home at Etaples.
Lady Angela Forbes’s Soldiers’ Home at Etaples.
A never fading recollection of Etaples will be that of the kindness and hospitality we received at the hands of Lady Angela Forbes and the "very gallant gentlewomen" who assisted her in the management of her Soldiers' Home there. The warmest of welcomes and the best of cheer awaited every soldier who crossed its threshold. Nothing that thoughtfulness could suggest and liberality could provide was lacking. Tact and an understanding sympathy characterised the administration of every department. We left behind us blessings and thanks we could not express in words.
On the Road to the Trenches.
We had a three days' march (most of the way on cobble stones) from camp to Armentières, via Aire, Hazebruck and Bailleul, things getting hotter and hotter. In the course of the first day the enemy's aircraft dropped bombs on our route. We scattered in the hedges and ditches, lying flat and getting what cover we could. We had several men wounded by the splinters of the bombs, but fortunately nothing serious occurred, and all went well that day.
Road to the Trenches.
The third day we reached a village and were billeted in some barns. We had just "got down to it comfortable" when a shell took the roofs off, and a loud cheer went up as it was realised that the enemy had missed the mark. They put about twelve of these huge shells in the place, but they all went high. After three hours the order was given to creep out and get into some cottages further down the road. These cottages were inhabited, and the terrified people made us welcome indeed—had not we come to protect them from the Germans? We had a short rest here and then had to push on and make the most of the darkness.
As the firing grew heavier we made a circular route over fields, etc., to the trenches, for the rest of the way. The enemy made an attack on our second night in them—and their loss was pretty heavy.
PART II.
AT THE FRONT.
CHAPTER IV.
SOME SAMPLE EXCITEMENTS OF LIFE IN THE TRENCHES.
My Sketch Book.
I don't think I'm a bit sentimental in the matter of souvenirs, and anyway I can't need anything to remind me of the unforgettable, but all the same there's one souvenir of my experiences in the trenches and the firing line that I shall never part with—and that's the little notebook (measuring 5-1/2 ins. by 3-1/2 ins., bought in Armentières) which I carried with me through everything, and in which are the originals of the sketches here collected, taken "under fire," either literally or in the sense that they were taken within the zone of fire. In the nature of things I might have been finished myself by shot or shell before I could have finished any one of them. Sketched in circumstances that certainly had their own disadvantages as well as their special advantages, I present these drawings only for what they are. There were many happenings—repulsions of sudden attacks, temporary retirements, charges, and things of that sort—that would have made capital subjects, but of which my notebook holds no "pictured presentment," because I was taking part in them.
At Armentières.
We reached Armentières (relieving the Leinster Regiment and the 9th Lancers in the first line trenches, distant from the first line German trenches 30 yards) at a critical time.
The effort in progress was to straighten out our line so as to get it level with Ypres, and the whole position all around was a very perilous one. We were short of men—very short—and had practically no reserves. Almost every available man had to do the work and duty of three. For a month or so almost all the heavy work fell upon the line regiments, we doing the wiring, digging, and the usual work of the Royal Engineers, the number of these being relatively scanty indeed.
There was also some shortage of shells and ammunition for guns and rifles, while of trench mortars a division had but few. We had to make our own bombs out of jam tins. These were charged and stuck down, a detonator being inserted, and we crawled out with them at night and heaved them into the German trenches. We had to time each heave with the most extreme accuracy, for the fraction of a moment too late meant the bursting of the bomb in our hands. The game we played with the Huns (keeping up a continuous fire all night, for instance) was one of pure bluff. They were massed in, we estimated, four army corps, and could have walked through us—if they had only known.
As my illustrations do not follow all the movements of my detachment, I will say here that from Armentières we were shifted to Houplines, about 4-1/2 to 5 miles north-east, where we made an advance of a hundred yards or so to straighten up. From Houplines we were moved south to La Bassée, and from La Bassée to Neuve Chapelle (where our 3rd Battalion was almost wiped out in the indecisive victory that proved much and won little), and then back to Armentières, whence we were sent north to St. Eloi, after making a short advance in the vicinity of Messines. From St. Eloi we were ordered to Hill 60, taking part in the now historic battle there. After Hill 60, Ypres, where shrapnel and poison gas put an end to my soldiering days—I am afraid for ever.
To come back to our first arrival at Armentières, our position was in touch with a small village not marked on the map, in the direction of Houplines. This village, which became almost wholly destroyed, had been knocked about by the enemy fire, but the tall chimney of a distillery had been spared, no doubt because the Germans wanted it themselves, intact. However much they wished, and often and hard as they tried, to take it—especially as from it could be conned not only our lines but the lay of the surrounding country—they never did take it, and it never fell, though it was hit in two places and cracked.
At 10.30 one morning I crawled over the parapet—that is, the sandbags—of our trench to sketch the picture of which this distillery shaft is the central feature. The trench also near the middle we had dug overnight for communication purposes. The enemy were to the left of the buildings shown, and our own men were occupying the position to the right of the chimney at a range of 250 yards.
Outskirts of a Village.
Our boys in the trenches could never understand a bright light which in daytime issued from the garden adjoining the farm-buildings on the British side. But one day a spy, who did work disguised as a farmhand, was discovered. He used a tin bowl as a reflector to send the enemy signals. The rascal was duly attended to.
Fetching Water.
My First Sniping Place.
Here is a little view of the outskirts of the same village, made a few days later, when I was told off with two others to go to the house on the right of the sketch to get water from the pump, exposed to the enemy's fire. While pencilling the sketch I saw the wide gap made in the tree's branches, as shown by a shell passing through it, which burst on the road some fifteen yards away from us. This was an indication the enemy had spotted figures moving in the direction of the house. However, having got the water, we all reached "home" safely, though we ran a further risk in rummaging in the orchard, where we found some beds of lettuces, of which welcome vegetables we brought back with us enough to supply the whole section.
The house on the left of the shelled tree was the position from which I and two others were ordered to snipe. We climbed the ricketty building and fired from the eaves and from the cover of the chimney. The building was in a state of almost total ruin, but we took our places on the shaken beams and considered we made a quite successful bag, for we could guarantee that at least five or six occupants of the enemy's trenches would give us no more trouble. This in the course of one morning. Finally the enemy saw us and we had to vacate our position, as both the building and the barricade across the road were being rapidly hit.
Capture of a German Trench.
Captured German Trench.
Without their coveted observation post the German gunners got the range of the town beyond the village so completely that one day they poured a continuous stream of shells over our heads from 4.30 in the morning till mid-day. It was, I remember, at day-break next morning that under cover of our own artillery, we made an advance and took the trench here depicted just as it was left by the turned-out. So hurried was their exit when faced by British bayonets that they left behind them in the trench quite a number of articles most useful to us—such as saws, sniper's rifles mounted on tripod stands, haversacks, and a quantity of other equipment, also a very fine selection of cigars, which came as quite a godsend to us. Personally, I clicked on a pair of German jack boots, which, as the weather was wet and the ground soft and muddy, as usual, came in very handy. I also came across a forage cap and a pocket knife, and picked up a photograph—that of a typical Fraulein, probably the sweetheart of Heinrich, Fritz or Karl.
A Night Relief.
Duty in the trenches and rest and sleep in our billets in their rear alternated with something like regularity, but it was a regularity always liable to interruptions, such as were necessitated by not infrequent exigencies.
For instance, we had just got back to the latter one night, at exactly 10.30, after seven consecutive days in the trenches of our most advanced position, and were thinking that now we should get a few hours' quiet repose—subject, of course, to the disturbance of shelling—when a sudden order was given to fall in. We turned out, were numbered, "right turned," and marched off, singing and whistling merrily. After proceeding in this fashion for half a mile, word was passed down to form Indian file, seven paces apart. We moved thus for about a quarter of a mile, and then word was again passed down—"no smoking, whistling, or talking." The night was pitch dark, foggy, and a drizzle was beating in our faces.
We were now within range of the enemy's rifle fire and heard spent bullets as they pinged and spluttered into the mud. We crossed a railway line, and marched or crawled the best way we could along the ditch parallel with it—truth to tell, cursing and swearing. We passed an old signal station, now just a pile of bricks, with one side wall still erect and one glass window intact. We had come to know well that wall and that window and the strewn bricks around, for we had passed the spot so often in our little excursions from trench to billet and billet to trench. A little further along the whistle of the bullets grew louder and more continuous—their sound something like the sound of soft notes whistled by a boy. Machine guns—"motor bikes" in our nomenclature—rattled our left and right, our position being that of the far apex of a triangle, exposed to inflated fire all the way up.
Arriving within a few yards of the opening of the trench we were to occupy in relief of the North Staffords, the first section of whom were moving along the ditch, a star shell burst above as the searchlight was turned on, and every man stood stock still till all was dark again.
Between men of the incoming and outgoing battalions such casual greetings were exchanged as: "Wot's it like up here, matie?"; "'Ow are yer goin', son?"; "Yer want to keep your 'ead well down in this part—it's a bit 'ot"; "So long, sonnie." Sprawling, ducking and diving, we got in, and "safe" behind the sandbags. Just as my chum and I had entered the dug-out, and were preparing to make ourselves comfortable, as our turn for sentry-go would not be for two hours, the sergeant shoved his head in and shouted that we were wanted for a ration party.
Ration Parties.
A ration party consists of fourteen men—fewer sometimes, but fourteen if possible, as the proper full complement. The small carts in use are generally of rude and primitive construction. As everybody knows by now, rations comprise bully beef Spratt's biscuits—very large and rather hard—loaves of bread packed in sacks, bacon, jam, marmalade, Maconochies in tins, and, when possible, kegs of water. Let not the rum be forgotten. No soldier is more grateful for anything than for his tablespoonful of rum at half-past six in the evening and half-past four in the morning. His "tot" has saved many a man from a chill, and kept him going during long and dreary hours of wet and press. As to bread, by the bye, it is highly probable that one small loaf, about half the size of an ordinary loaf, will be divided between seven men. With the good things already enumerated, a plentiful supply of charcoal and coke is usually to be expected. The horse transports with these provisions never get nearer than, at the closest, say half-a-mile of the front trench itself, when the men in charge dump their loads down and get away back to their stores and billets as quickly as possible. There is a lot to risk, for as a rule the enemy have the road well set, and the shelling is often very severe.
It is the duty of a ration party to bring up the loads from where they have been left. On regaining the opening to the trench, they take the rations to the quartermaster-sergeant's hut or dug-out. The sergeants of each platoon come to this hut or dug-out, and to them the things are delivered in quantities proportionate with the number of men in the section each represents. The sergeants then send along two men to carry the whacks to the respective traverses in the trench. This goes on night after night. So on the occasion I am recalling we were very late—and the distance we had to go was as much as a mile and three-quarters.
This ration carrying, the final stage of ration transport, is an even more dangerous and risky job than the preceding stage, and, as usual, snipers got busy on us, hitting three men, though none was killed. The rattle of bullets from machine guns on the ricketty sides of the old cart added to the programme of the night's entertainment, and there were frequent intervals, not for refreshments, but for getting flat and waiting.
Gathering In our Firewood.
Chopping up firewood was regarded not so much as work as it was regarded as one of our recreations in the trenches—of which I shall have a little to say presently. But it often happened that there was no recreation, but only the excitement of danger in the night-time job of bringing in the firewood for day-time chopping. It would happen that a man had spotted in some shelled house or fallen farm-building a beam, plank, door, or something else wooden and burnable, that he couldn't carry without assistance, or that he couldn't stop to bring away at the time. It must be fetched, for fire we must have. It might be only a few score yards away measured by distance, but an hour measured by time—"thou art so near and yet so far" sort of thing. Fetchers might get hit at any moment, and had to creep and wriggle very cautiously over open ground all the way. By some strange twist of mental association, whenever I was a fetcher in these circumstances I found myself mentally quoting Longfellow's line in "Hiawatha"—"He is gathering in his firewood"!
The Woodcutter’s Hut.
Our champion at the game was a Private Hyatt—quite a youngster, but of fine physique and fearless daring. His dug-out was called "The Woodcutter's Hut." He made a regular hobby of wood-getting. He was an expert, a specialist. On certain occasions he even went out after wood in the daylight, slithering along on all fours towards his objective, and would be fired at until recalled by one of his own officers. On one occasion when he had crawled out and into a building to collect wood, as he crawled back through the doorway we saw little clouds of dust rising from the brick-work surrounding him, which showed that the enemy's snipers had spotted him, and we shouted to him from the trench to "keep down." He took refuge behind the wall of the doorway, and lay there three-quarters of an hour, and then returned, bringing with him the much prized plank of which he had gone in search, and which, when chopped up, supplied our section with sufficient firewood for a whole day and night. In the sketch it will be observed he is reading a letter. This he had received just after the above incident, and sat down on his valise quite unaware that I was sketching him. Later on I gave him a copy of the sketch, and he enclosed it in his affectionate reply to his folk at home.
"Stand To."
The most anxious time a soldier can know is the time, be it long or short, that follows the command to stand to. Many a time we had to stand to the whole night—the entire battalion, from evening twilight till the full dawn of day—as an attack was expected. Everyone was at his firing position, with bayonet fixed and his rifle loaded—and in tip-top working condition, the daily rifle inspection having taken place at dusk. Sometimes our artillery would presently open fire for the enemy's first line, perhaps for five or six minutes—it might be more, it might be less. Then a wait of six or seven minutes, when the enemy returned the fire, and we all got well down. It was as well to keep as hard up against the parapet as possible, and to keep out of all dug-outs, for into them the forward impetus of bursting shrapnel was likely to throw a lot of splinters. Again silence, comrades and pals passing a few remarks in anticipation of what everybody knew was coming. The officers with us were one with us, and at their words, "Well, come on, lads," there was never a laggard in getting "over the tops" (in our own phraseology). As soon as we put our hands on the sandbags to clamber over the top of the parapet a hailstorm of bullets pelted us. It is impossible—at all events for me—to describe a charge. Speaking for myself, always my brain seemed to snap. It was simply a rush in a mad line—or as much of a line as could be kept—towards the enemy's barbed wire entanglements, which our guns had blown to smithereens in preparation for the assault. We scrambled on to their parapet, each getting at the first man he could touch. When we had taken their position (we didn't always) we might have to wait some time till our artillery had shelled the second line, but there was a lot of work to be done at once. The parapet had to be reversed.
After an attack there was generally a roll call—from which there were many absentees.
More trying—more wearing and tearing to the nerves—than anything that in my experience ever followed it was the stand to itself. The moments, minutes, even hours, that followed that old familiar order, "stand to," were the worst I ever went through. As every eventide comes on I still feel just a little—just a very little—of what I felt then. Even now: and I fear me I always shall till death bids me stand to.
I see I have written so much with only one illustration, that perhaps it won't be amiss if I place here a few typical heads and a couple of typical full figures, the original sketches of which I pencilled in spare places in my notebook at odd times. If they be really typical they need no labelling.
Typical Figures and Figure-Heads.
CHAPTER V.
THE LIGHTER SIDE OF TRENCH LIFE.
That there was (and is) a lighter side, a social side, of trench life, as of the life generally of a soldier on active service, even in this war, merely incidental remarks of mine such as could not be omitted from any true and fair description of that life must furnish abundant evidence; but this lighter side was, in my experience, so very real and so pronounced that to illustrate a few set observations thereon I take a few sketches from my notebook out of the order in which I find them in it.
Sing-Songs.
Our concert parties were "immense," and there was no forced gaiety in our enjoyment of them. Some of the best sing-songs were in "Leicester Lounge," named after the luxurious resort (which it didn't resemble) hard by the Empire Theatre. The reflection occurs to me for the first time that only men with whom high spirits were rampant would or could have been so fond of inventing such nicknames as—in mood jovially ironic—we coined for all sorts of places, persons and things. "Leicester Lounge" was a dug-out adjacent to "Hammersmith Bridge," and the surroundings of "Hammersmith Bridge," there being nothing in connection with them to suggest—save by absence—either a garden or a city, were "the Garden City."
"Hammersmith Bridge."
It was the biggest, roomiest, and most palatial dug-out we had. The top was just a small roof-garden, carefully planted and laid out. It had statuary, too, in groups. The statues were fashioned in clay by amateur hands, and the artistic effects were original and novel, to say the least. It was also the safest place, this "Lounge," because it was sunk four feet below the level of the trench itself. It accommodated twelve easily. Impromptu concerts were frequent here; our far-famed mouth-organ band performed at such intervals as our own military duties and the enemy's cascades of shells permitted. It was here the names of neighbouring streams and nullahs were chosen from which we drew our daily beverage of "Adam's Ale" (untaxed, and rather thick), such as the portentous "Cæsar's Well." In another spacious dug-out we had our "Times Book Club." This "eligible tenement" had the special distinction of a stove and chimney (purloined from a ruined farm)—that is, it had a chimney till the enemy spotted and so riddled it that it collapsed. It had a glass window (fixed in clay), statuary (modelled in clay), decorations (log-cabin order), one chair (also purloined, back broken off), one table (very treacherous); and I mustn't forget the president's bell (tobacco tin shell, and a cartridge for a clapper). It was lit by many candles, and as the fee for membership was a book or magazine from home, it served a good purpose.
"Dirty Dick's".
"Dirty Dick’s."
After a time the sing-songs in a trench some little distance away from "Leicester Lounge" knocked spots off all the others anywhere, thanks to the acquisition of a piano for them—probably the only instrument of its kind which has ever been in the British trenches at the front. It came from "Dirty Dick's." The picture of "Dirty Dick's" gives a rough idea of the devastation of war. The portion of a building to the right was all that remained of what, but a few weeks before, had been a handsome and prosperous hotel, and the wall with window and door spaces left, shown to the left, had been the residence of a prominent citizen. All that was left of the hotel was a shaky wall, though the sign-board remained, having escaped the enemy's fire.
We were placed in the trench shown in the foreground, and the Germans were also entrenched in the space seen in the distance between the ruins. When we first took up our position the hotel was intact except that the roof had been destroyed. The wall towards our trench was standing, and when it fell the bricks came tumbling over us, and the dust of the red masonry turned us into copper-coloured men. But prior to this three "Jocks" and three of our own regiment crawled out of the trench and into the house, and we spotted a piano on the ground floor. The temptation was too great; we decided to remove it. The operation took us two and a half hours' hard struggle. Eventually we got the instrument into our trench, somewhat battered about and minus one leg, but still answering to the keyboard. Unfortunately two of the party were wounded in doing this, but they didn't mind. Night after night we had sing-songs accompanied on the piano in proper style, and used to give forth with the full strength of our lungs—
"The Germans are coming—
Hurrah! Hurrah!"
The "harmony" of this stunt used to be wafted on the silent night air to the German trenches, and we soon saw how it upset Fritz and Karl. They got so annoyed that they trained their artillery in the direction of the sounds, and used to shell us all along the line in the hope of silencing our concerts. However, they could never quite locate the exact spot in which the instrument was temporarily placed.
"Entrenching" the Piano.
One night, while one of our concerts was at its height, the officers even joining in, the order came to advance. So we had to bid a hasty farewell to our much-prized "Johanna," which had given us so much pleasure.
"Seventy-Five Hotel."
"Seventy-Five Hotel."
Now I think of it, there was another ex-"pub" where we touched lucky in the matter of finding things—though they didn't include a piano. This was "Seventy-five Hotel." We called it that because the enemy fired seventy-five shells into it in seventy-five minutes on one memorable occasion, and then only killed one man. The building, which had been the scene of fierce fighting even before our battalion arrived on the scene of action, still bore the sign "Estaminet," and so we could safely conclude that it had been the village "pub," or wine lodge. There were a few bottles of wine still in the cellar, which the Germans must have overlooked when they were in possession, or had not time to take away. We found many articles, some useful, some otherwise; amongst them a large warming-pan, which caused amusement. The article we put to the best use was the dinner bell. This was turned to great account. In front of the estaminet was our "listening post," where we kept watch and guard at night. Well, by aid of the dinner bell we installed our own brand of telephone system. This was to connect the bell by string to the wrists of those out on the watch. Whenever they saw anyone approaching or any other indication of possible danger they gently pulled the string, the bell tinkled, it was heard by our companions in the trench, word was passed along, and everyone prepared for emergencies.
"Chicken Farm."
"Chicken Farm."
Here something really like a little bit of sport came in our way. When we arrived there the farm was deserted, its lawful owners having found the situation too hot for them. Cows roamed about at random, and so did pigs. But after we had dug ourselves in and made our position secure, the chickens were what interested us most. There were two hundred and fifty of these at the least, and they used to parade on the strip of ground shown in the picture and the bolder spirits peep over the edge of our trench. Catching them was good sport, but eating them was something finer. What a nice change from bully beef and biscuit! Cooking not quite a la Carlton or Ritz, but more on prehistoric principles. So many fowls were caught, killed and plucked for cooking and eating that the wet mud was completely covered with feathers, and resembled a feather bank. As for ourselves, the feathers, sticking to the wet mud on our uniforms and equipments, turned us into Zulus, wild men, or Chippeway Indians. The enemy presumably did fairly well also with a poultry farm in the distance. They appeared to have a portable kitchen. We often watched the funnel moving about their trench. One day a line was stretched from this funnel to a pole and German officers' uniforms were hung out on the line to dry over the stove. It made us a lovely target. Shooting at officers' uniforms was a pleasant diversion, and they had been well pierced with bullets before they were taken in.
A French Comedian.
Later on, and farther on—after our capture of a position I shall shortly have occasion to describe—we made the acquaintance of a French "born comedian," who was a tower of strength at our entertainments, and who in various other ways was a cause of constant amusement. He had been left behind by his regiment, and we found him hanging around the place. It had been his home, and it seemed that the magnet of life-long associations held him to it. He was very useful in taking us round to cottages which, to our surprise, we found to be still inhabited, and in giving us the tip where to find cheap, if very thin, beer and other refreshments. He was particularly proud of his German jack-boots—made for legs very much bigger than his own. When we had concerts he used to give us clever imitations of the late Harry Fragson in his "Margarita" and other varieties, to the accompaniment of the mouth-organ band. He used to say: "Ze Engleesh soldier—très bon—ze French soldier—bon—mais ze Allemand—no bon!" On one occasion he told us: "Après la guerre, ze Engleesh soldier beaucoup admirers—ladees! Ze French soldier admirers, too. Ze Allemand—non!"
A French Comrade-Comedian.
He got hold of peasants to wash our clothes for us and introduced us to a little mill-race, which we reached through a thicket which concealed us, and the spectacle of our men stripping and diving into the stream in cold weather amused him hugely. He jumped about in his big boots, exclaiming: "Vat your vife say if she see you in ze water? Vat she say if she see you ici? The English replied, in the best French at their command, "beaucoup lavé—très bon," at which our comical comrade-at-arms laughed more heartily than ever. When his regiment found out where he was a guard was sent up, and he was obliged to remain in charge of it, to his great regret, when we moved on. He wished us "bonne chance," assuring us that it was his one desire after the war to get to Angleterre, where he had never been; but now that he knew the English he must visit us to make our further acquaintance. So much for our comical French friend, ever so amusing and ever so polite.