His mother writes:
"One was aware of the extreme danger to young Officers, of the risks innumerable, but none the less the War Office telegram came on Sunday, February 28th, with an awful suddenness. It contained those words which were becoming so sadly familiar to fathers and mothers and wives in every rank of life."
"And then came the never failing Royal message of sympathy."
"The King and Queen deply regret the loss you and the Army have sustained by the death of your son in the service of his country. Their Majesties truly sympathise."
* * *
Major Trefusis and Captain Young wrote to tell how he died.
1st Battalion Irish Guards
February 27th 1915
"DEAR MRS ALLEN
It is with my deepest sympathy that I have to write and tell you of your son's death. The circumstances under which he met his death were as follows:- He was looking with a periscope over the parapet of a new trench which had been dug the night before, in order to see if he could discover the whereabouts of German gun which had been bothering us, and generally what was in front of him.
A shell came and landed about fifty yards in front of him, and then another which pitched on the parapet and killed him intantaneously. Although he had been with us only a comparatively short time he was picking up his work very quickly, and was a valuable officer. He lies buried in a small cemetary at Cuinchy, where three other of his brother officers are next to him. I have had his grave photographed and I will send you a copy as soon as I get one.
I should like one more to express to you my deep sympathy in your loss, but I hope it may be some consolation to you to feel that he died a gallant soldiers death.
Yours sincerely
J. F. TREFUSIS, Major
Commanding 1st Batt. Irish Guards."
Irish Guards
4th Guards Brigade
2nd Division
Expeditionary Force
February 27th 1915
"DEAR MRS ALLEN
I am taking the liberty of sending you a line to tell you of your son's death. He was in my Company, came out with me, and we were billeted together in Bœuvry.
We were in the firing trenches, and during the night of the 25th had built a barricade across the La Basseé road. About 9 a.m. next morning, I imagine he went down the trench to the barricade to see how the fire positions looked by daylight, and apparently he was looking down the road with his periscope when a shell burst right over him. Death must have been instantaneous.
He has been buried at the little cemetery at Cuinchy where many of his comrades lie. His effects will be sent to you in due course. I think the Ajutant sees after them, as they are now in his hands. I need hardly say how grieved we all are. He was such a brave man, always cheery, and did his work very keenly and thoroughly. He took a very keen interest in his men, knew most of their personal histories, and they were devoted to him.
I hope you will not think it impertinent of me to add, what of course you know, that he was one of those really good men who are always ready to face their Maker.
I say this because I know by experience that mothers sometimes like an outside appreciation of what they know their sons to be.
We are all so sorry for you.
Yours very truly
G.E.S. Young
Captain."
Friday 27 February 2015
Wednesday 25 February 2015
February 25th: final letter from the trenches
"It is surprising how inaccurate shell fire can be. For every ten fired eight or nine miss the mark. In a field behind the village church there is not six yards that has not a ploughed up hole in it. And yet the church, as such, is not longer recognisable except for its tower. The trees also in the neighbourhood and the telegraph poles are half of them slashed up - not one of them fails to have some sign of damage or gash. Yes, they seem to have peppered every square yard of this place, and yet long as we have been in the trenches only a bare half-dozen men have been struck.
'It's an ill wind that blows no one good.' The men even rejoice at times to see the house where they draw wood and water from come down piecemeal. A well-placed shell makes the job of these hewers of wood and water so much the easier.
In the trenches we split the day up by meal times - and they come close to one another - and we sleep and sit about so much that we are getting fat and sleek. I have been made Mess President of No. 4, with orders to see that members don't get overfed. We had such a tiring succession of cocoa that it as quite a relief to find a new liquid in café au lait, made out of condensed milk.
So we pass the day, and evening comes on. We look at the rifles and lay them on the parapet, take precautions about a nasty bank along the road where the Germans might crawl up and throw bombs. In another trench one of our men was on sentry, when he felt a touch on the end of his rifle. He fired, there was a groan, and he crept over to find a dying German, who had lost his way, I expect, scouting.
We have our two hour shifts at night, and drowse the rest of the time. About five o'clock, with luck, our servant, if he has woken up, brings us some Oxo, and then you go round kicking the men to make them stand to arms. As day grows bayonets are inspected and those passed round which have been hit by bullets. There were three one night - one snapped off completely.
The next day is a repetition of what has gone before; there is the usual after-breakfast serenade, and after writing some letters, and a few short snoozes, we start counting the hours until we will be relieved. The men are always packed up and ready to move off a good hour before. Then we wait - of course the relieving regiment, the G.G.'s, are late - you are generally warned of their approach by the sound of muffled oaths and grousings. An Officer leads them, and wants to know why we have fires; then a man passes, 'Well, Mick, we would have had four days C.B. for a glow like that.'
I lead my relieving platoon into their position, blundering and squeezing past my heavily packed men - and how two men with packs on pass one another - well you must hear from them and what passes, and have some idea.
There is just the same delight in showing your next position with all its little special corners and whims to the next lot, as a schoolboy might show his bird collection to a visitor.
At last the G.G.'s settle down - we unfix bayonets and start filing out. The order goes down ahead of you and however slowly the first man walks, the last man is sure to run - it is fated never to be otherwise. After forty four yards of communication trenches we get into the road - skirt the Jack Johnson holes, if we don't fall into them, miss the broken down trees and poles - and so walk in single file for a while or so while the spent bullets are flying over and through you. One always seems to smack the wall of a cottage just as we pass it, and it makes me jump - if no one else.
It is strange, but we always have more casualties coming up to the trenches than we do while in them - from these spent bullets. It is rare if we get through without one man being killed, generally just by the little cemetery where two of our brave officers are buried who fell on Feburary 1st.
On reaching the main road again by a circuitous route about a mile behind the firing line, we form up in the dark as well as we can and then slog home. Then it is you notice you are swinging about and can't walk straight, and the men also seem all over the place in fives and sixes. You try talking to them, but it seems no good - so you just lump it and plod along, only to be roused up when a bright motor light appears ahead, or a battery of artillery want to pass you from the rear.
At last, as your legs get more unsteady, one, and then more lights appear, and you get into Bœuvry. The men shake together, and you are home sooner than you think. Rations and a tot of rum are served out, then we look after our food The stairs seem steep, and when we get into the electric light and see the supper, I realise for the fist time I am tired, and possibly so much that I have to leave my letters ot the next day. There is little talk at supper. Directly it is over, Capt. Young and I are off to our billets at the tailor's shop, to the bed on the floor in my sleeping bag.
I didn't wake till near nine o'clock, so it must have been close on twelve hours. I got up leisurely, went across to the mess, and from the window we could see the men making their morning wash at the village pump, surrounded by the ladies and children of the place. All the square is muddy cobbles, with much piled up, in certain places, a sure trap for the unwary at night, as it is knee deep - and I had fallen into one the night before; luckily there were no men about, otherwise there must have been stories of drunken officers flying about; and we are desperately strict on this - it is a court marshal for every case, and a sentence of nothing less than six months hard labour.
In to breakfast walks Harmsworth, looking as fresh as he ever did. His right arm is tucked in his coat, and he tells us he has had his arm poisoned, the reason being that two nights ago he threw a bomb - German - which exploded prematurely. A bit stung his arm up, but he thought nothing of it until he found his arm swollen. A doctor says a nail is lodged in somewhere, so he was soon packed off for a month.
He is a very jolly man - about twenty - always happy and keen. He boxed for Oxford last year, and, considering he has spent all his life in hotels and big houses, he is wonderfully simple and hard. I liked him more than anyone; he had such a go about him, and didn't care for no one."
'It's an ill wind that blows no one good.' The men even rejoice at times to see the house where they draw wood and water from come down piecemeal. A well-placed shell makes the job of these hewers of wood and water so much the easier.
In the trenches we split the day up by meal times - and they come close to one another - and we sleep and sit about so much that we are getting fat and sleek. I have been made Mess President of No. 4, with orders to see that members don't get overfed. We had such a tiring succession of cocoa that it as quite a relief to find a new liquid in café au lait, made out of condensed milk.
So we pass the day, and evening comes on. We look at the rifles and lay them on the parapet, take precautions about a nasty bank along the road where the Germans might crawl up and throw bombs. In another trench one of our men was on sentry, when he felt a touch on the end of his rifle. He fired, there was a groan, and he crept over to find a dying German, who had lost his way, I expect, scouting.
We have our two hour shifts at night, and drowse the rest of the time. About five o'clock, with luck, our servant, if he has woken up, brings us some Oxo, and then you go round kicking the men to make them stand to arms. As day grows bayonets are inspected and those passed round which have been hit by bullets. There were three one night - one snapped off completely.
The next day is a repetition of what has gone before; there is the usual after-breakfast serenade, and after writing some letters, and a few short snoozes, we start counting the hours until we will be relieved. The men are always packed up and ready to move off a good hour before. Then we wait - of course the relieving regiment, the G.G.'s, are late - you are generally warned of their approach by the sound of muffled oaths and grousings. An Officer leads them, and wants to know why we have fires; then a man passes, 'Well, Mick, we would have had four days C.B. for a glow like that.'
I lead my relieving platoon into their position, blundering and squeezing past my heavily packed men - and how two men with packs on pass one another - well you must hear from them and what passes, and have some idea.
There is just the same delight in showing your next position with all its little special corners and whims to the next lot, as a schoolboy might show his bird collection to a visitor.
At last the G.G.'s settle down - we unfix bayonets and start filing out. The order goes down ahead of you and however slowly the first man walks, the last man is sure to run - it is fated never to be otherwise. After forty four yards of communication trenches we get into the road - skirt the Jack Johnson holes, if we don't fall into them, miss the broken down trees and poles - and so walk in single file for a while or so while the spent bullets are flying over and through you. One always seems to smack the wall of a cottage just as we pass it, and it makes me jump - if no one else.
It is strange, but we always have more casualties coming up to the trenches than we do while in them - from these spent bullets. It is rare if we get through without one man being killed, generally just by the little cemetery where two of our brave officers are buried who fell on Feburary 1st.
On reaching the main road again by a circuitous route about a mile behind the firing line, we form up in the dark as well as we can and then slog home. Then it is you notice you are swinging about and can't walk straight, and the men also seem all over the place in fives and sixes. You try talking to them, but it seems no good - so you just lump it and plod along, only to be roused up when a bright motor light appears ahead, or a battery of artillery want to pass you from the rear.
At last, as your legs get more unsteady, one, and then more lights appear, and you get into Bœuvry. The men shake together, and you are home sooner than you think. Rations and a tot of rum are served out, then we look after our food The stairs seem steep, and when we get into the electric light and see the supper, I realise for the fist time I am tired, and possibly so much that I have to leave my letters ot the next day. There is little talk at supper. Directly it is over, Capt. Young and I are off to our billets at the tailor's shop, to the bed on the floor in my sleeping bag.
I didn't wake till near nine o'clock, so it must have been close on twelve hours. I got up leisurely, went across to the mess, and from the window we could see the men making their morning wash at the village pump, surrounded by the ladies and children of the place. All the square is muddy cobbles, with much piled up, in certain places, a sure trap for the unwary at night, as it is knee deep - and I had fallen into one the night before; luckily there were no men about, otherwise there must have been stories of drunken officers flying about; and we are desperately strict on this - it is a court marshal for every case, and a sentence of nothing less than six months hard labour.
In to breakfast walks Harmsworth, looking as fresh as he ever did. His right arm is tucked in his coat, and he tells us he has had his arm poisoned, the reason being that two nights ago he threw a bomb - German - which exploded prematurely. A bit stung his arm up, but he thought nothing of it until he found his arm swollen. A doctor says a nail is lodged in somewhere, so he was soon packed off for a month.
He is a very jolly man - about twenty - always happy and keen. He boxed for Oxford last year, and, considering he has spent all his life in hotels and big houses, he is wonderfully simple and hard. I liked him more than anyone; he had such a go about him, and didn't care for no one."
Tuesday 24 February 2015
February 24th: in billets, a letter to his mother
My Dear Mother
We are back again for rest, and I am finding the life easier and can get sleep in the trenches. It is lucky to be warm-blooded, as I rarely feel the cold, though there have been frosts. But one night where we entered the trenches and found them up to our knees in water, and we didn't look like getting them dry from 8 to 1 a.m., I nearly cried from pain in my feet. Then we got a fire, and took off, against orders, our boots and many pairs of socks and burnt them both - !!!! - in fact, in the morning I couldn't get m boots on, and these my best pair too, but I hope I have made them wearable now.
A mild flutter. The Prince of Wales has just arrived, and is looking around, probably for the men with latest honours. We are not staying here overlong now, though I can't say when. I have not had any food parcels yet; so far I have been feeding on other officers' goods. I have had tobacco and cigarettes from Reddie, a useful parcel of small things from D., and a great tin of ham from someone unknown.
That little book ' War Manual of Prayers' I find very useful.
Our doings are chronicled in 'Eye-Witness' report (Times) and in 'News of the World', Sunday, February 20th.
We are back again for rest, and I am finding the life easier and can get sleep in the trenches. It is lucky to be warm-blooded, as I rarely feel the cold, though there have been frosts. But one night where we entered the trenches and found them up to our knees in water, and we didn't look like getting them dry from 8 to 1 a.m., I nearly cried from pain in my feet. Then we got a fire, and took off, against orders, our boots and many pairs of socks and burnt them both - !!!! - in fact, in the morning I couldn't get m boots on, and these my best pair too, but I hope I have made them wearable now.
A mild flutter. The Prince of Wales has just arrived, and is looking around, probably for the men with latest honours. We are not staying here overlong now, though I can't say when. I have not had any food parcels yet; so far I have been feeding on other officers' goods. I have had tobacco and cigarettes from Reddie, a useful parcel of small things from D., and a great tin of ham from someone unknown.
That little book ' War Manual of Prayers' I find very useful.
Our doings are chronicled in 'Eye-Witness' report (Times) and in 'News of the World', Sunday, February 20th.
Sunday 22 February 2015
February 22nd: in the trenches at Cuinchy
To Mrs. Deason, Stratford:-
In the trenches (Cuinchy)
I think something must have happened at the mission, in that I haven't had the Magazine nor any tracts from you. At the same time, many silver pieces are burning in my pocket wanting to buy your tickets, though my feet are about as cold as they can be. But I don't want to grouse, for, except for Mission news, I get all I can digest. I would like the monthly Magazine so that I don't get out of touch with things.
Sundays are the same as other days in the trenches, and out, but the R.C.'s are well looked after, as we have a R.C. priest. It is a real good game this, and I am as happy in my dug-out as I ever was within the walls of Martin Street. We are all pleased with our latest doings, having 1 V.C., 2 D.C.M., 2 D.S.O., and two mentioned in despatches. The man who won the VC was a private at the beginning of the War.
Most of our scouting is done by men, who get all their good information by going about the country disguised as animals.
Remember me to ... and any others that treat me as a friend.
In the trenches (Cuinchy)
I think something must have happened at the mission, in that I haven't had the Magazine nor any tracts from you. At the same time, many silver pieces are burning in my pocket wanting to buy your tickets, though my feet are about as cold as they can be. But I don't want to grouse, for, except for Mission news, I get all I can digest. I would like the monthly Magazine so that I don't get out of touch with things.
Sundays are the same as other days in the trenches, and out, but the R.C.'s are well looked after, as we have a R.C. priest. It is a real good game this, and I am as happy in my dug-out as I ever was within the walls of Martin Street. We are all pleased with our latest doings, having 1 V.C., 2 D.C.M., 2 D.S.O., and two mentioned in despatches. The man who won the VC was a private at the beginning of the War.
Most of our scouting is done by men, who get all their good information by going about the country disguised as animals.
Remember me to ... and any others that treat me as a friend.
Saturday 21 February 2015
February 21st 1915: from the trenches
As day broke the men stood to arms, and had to remain standing much against their will. As it became lighter all the parapets and heights of the firing positions had to be adjusted as well as the field of fire: ranges also had to be attacked.
Then when it seemed more certain, the Germans weren't going to make an attack today, men were sent for wood and water from the desolate houses. Platoons were numbered off in sixes and No. __ was put on guard. Fires were soon started, and by peeping through a loophole you could make out the German trenches with their reels of smoke rising above them.
The men had bacon, onions, biscuit and tea, no milk. We officers went off to our dug-outs and had the same sort of meal.
After breakfast the men's rifles had to be cleaned and polished as if on parade - it is difficult to say how caked the rifles can get, and the ammunition the same. And yet it is so important to see that the rifles are ready for any emergency; you can understand what a few jammed rifles and burst chambers can do to endanger the lives of every man in your platoon. So it is that nearly every hour on the day either you or an N.C.O. are examining bolts and triggers.
And in the same way it is inconceivable how slack (or is it cowardly?) some men are not to look to and prepare their own firing position. Quite a few are happy to blaze away at the tops of trees, while remaining all the time well under cover. I see to it and enforce that every man can, f necessary, hit a German's feet five yards away from the parapet. This distance is none too short in these pitch dark nights - when it is inky, and no mistake.
After rifle inspection other men are told off to dig or make up the parapets or build up the firing trenches where there is not less than four feet of earth in front. Little else will stop a bullet.
After that I am practically free and can lie down in my dug-out, where fresh straw has been brought me by my orderly, before my burning brazier, or tke a stroll to see other bits of the line where my company is, or if I have cheek enough, my Battalion is - then you run the risk of running up against Captains and Majors of Companies and possibly the C.O. (heaven help me then!), who want to know what you are doing.
As you wander round, on either side you can see pathetic little wooden crosses where our brave men died in the recent fighting in this place, on the 29th: here, a Northants Subaltern, who I hear did splendidly; there, a K.R.R.C., a Black Watch, and many Coldstreams. And so I come to a trench still more in front where all the men are chirpy enought counting the Germans who lie scattered in the turnip field before them - they must have had a dusting. While I was totting them up a bullet went whizzing over my head - I ought to say through my hair - and I was called down by a rich brogue, 'Get down, sorr; that was meant for you' - and I never realised it. After that I was more careful to look through a periscope and through one glass only of my glasses.
With regards to those so-called dead bodies, it is interesting (and not too crude I hope for you) to know that in the day we teach our men to have fire practice at them. One Company had asserted strongly that these bodies or forms disappear in numbers, by night especially, and it appears that German snipers can take advantage of the cover afforded by the dead comrades to have pots at our loopholes. Ther are no more snipers of that sort in front of our lines.
The first morning was a beautiful spring morning, even larks were singing. We hadn't been long at work when an aeroplane came overhead from the direction of our lines, shut off steam, planed downwards, had a good look at the network of our trenches, and was then off to the German lines.
Then we heard a dull boom behind us - the sound is really like that of a big bang on a big drum, as the Cinema theatres will have it, though I always thought it foolish - and in about ten seconds a puff of smoke appears in the blue sky, well behind the Taube, of course. At least a dozen shots were fired - well wide of the mark every one of them - we can't expect too much of the accuracy of these guns, but we like them to go off, as besides frightening the aeroplanes, their shots give rise to speculation and always look well.
We know what to expect after this visit, and, sure as fate, the Germans began bombarding us to shake our breakfast down - our gunners shouted about the same time, and for a long time frightened me more than our own until I as taught to recognise the various sounds. With us there is a great bang follwoed by a long swish through the air, and up we all get to see what luck and how close it burst to the German trenches. Then perhaps 'Mother' will send one in: she blows off seven miles off, and puts out her half-ton shot. Her shell goes so slowly you can imagine you can see it swinging though the air, and then there is a tremendous bust as it throws about all around it.
With the Germans, on the other hand, the bang and short swish comes about the same time. Generally they make good play on the ground between the trenches, or shell our imaginary supports coming up the road. The one which you don't hear until it bursts on you will finish you for the time being.
As the bombardment goes on and as you potter about all the trenches the men show you their souvenirs - generally chunks of scrap iron, or copper ribbed plate - a great prize is a shell time prize head, and one man picked up a litle copper image. Much shelling is likely to give you a headache, but apart from that you are none the worse for the morning's doing.
Then when it seemed more certain, the Germans weren't going to make an attack today, men were sent for wood and water from the desolate houses. Platoons were numbered off in sixes and No. __ was put on guard. Fires were soon started, and by peeping through a loophole you could make out the German trenches with their reels of smoke rising above them.
The men had bacon, onions, biscuit and tea, no milk. We officers went off to our dug-outs and had the same sort of meal.
After breakfast the men's rifles had to be cleaned and polished as if on parade - it is difficult to say how caked the rifles can get, and the ammunition the same. And yet it is so important to see that the rifles are ready for any emergency; you can understand what a few jammed rifles and burst chambers can do to endanger the lives of every man in your platoon. So it is that nearly every hour on the day either you or an N.C.O. are examining bolts and triggers.
And in the same way it is inconceivable how slack (or is it cowardly?) some men are not to look to and prepare their own firing position. Quite a few are happy to blaze away at the tops of trees, while remaining all the time well under cover. I see to it and enforce that every man can, f necessary, hit a German's feet five yards away from the parapet. This distance is none too short in these pitch dark nights - when it is inky, and no mistake.
After rifle inspection other men are told off to dig or make up the parapets or build up the firing trenches where there is not less than four feet of earth in front. Little else will stop a bullet.
After that I am practically free and can lie down in my dug-out, where fresh straw has been brought me by my orderly, before my burning brazier, or tke a stroll to see other bits of the line where my company is, or if I have cheek enough, my Battalion is - then you run the risk of running up against Captains and Majors of Companies and possibly the C.O. (heaven help me then!), who want to know what you are doing.
As you wander round, on either side you can see pathetic little wooden crosses where our brave men died in the recent fighting in this place, on the 29th: here, a Northants Subaltern, who I hear did splendidly; there, a K.R.R.C., a Black Watch, and many Coldstreams. And so I come to a trench still more in front where all the men are chirpy enought counting the Germans who lie scattered in the turnip field before them - they must have had a dusting. While I was totting them up a bullet went whizzing over my head - I ought to say through my hair - and I was called down by a rich brogue, 'Get down, sorr; that was meant for you' - and I never realised it. After that I was more careful to look through a periscope and through one glass only of my glasses.
With regards to those so-called dead bodies, it is interesting (and not too crude I hope for you) to know that in the day we teach our men to have fire practice at them. One Company had asserted strongly that these bodies or forms disappear in numbers, by night especially, and it appears that German snipers can take advantage of the cover afforded by the dead comrades to have pots at our loopholes. Ther are no more snipers of that sort in front of our lines.
The first morning was a beautiful spring morning, even larks were singing. We hadn't been long at work when an aeroplane came overhead from the direction of our lines, shut off steam, planed downwards, had a good look at the network of our trenches, and was then off to the German lines.
Then we heard a dull boom behind us - the sound is really like that of a big bang on a big drum, as the Cinema theatres will have it, though I always thought it foolish - and in about ten seconds a puff of smoke appears in the blue sky, well behind the Taube, of course. At least a dozen shots were fired - well wide of the mark every one of them - we can't expect too much of the accuracy of these guns, but we like them to go off, as besides frightening the aeroplanes, their shots give rise to speculation and always look well.
We know what to expect after this visit, and, sure as fate, the Germans began bombarding us to shake our breakfast down - our gunners shouted about the same time, and for a long time frightened me more than our own until I as taught to recognise the various sounds. With us there is a great bang follwoed by a long swish through the air, and up we all get to see what luck and how close it burst to the German trenches. Then perhaps 'Mother' will send one in: she blows off seven miles off, and puts out her half-ton shot. Her shell goes so slowly you can imagine you can see it swinging though the air, and then there is a tremendous bust as it throws about all around it.
With the Germans, on the other hand, the bang and short swish comes about the same time. Generally they make good play on the ground between the trenches, or shell our imaginary supports coming up the road. The one which you don't hear until it bursts on you will finish you for the time being.
As the bombardment goes on and as you potter about all the trenches the men show you their souvenirs - generally chunks of scrap iron, or copper ribbed plate - a great prize is a shell time prize head, and one man picked up a litle copper image. Much shelling is likely to give you a headache, but apart from that you are none the worse for the morning's doing.
Friday 20 February 2015
February 20th: in Billets at Bœuvry
In billets
My Dear Uncle William
I was very glad to get your letter in the trenches: my first forty-eight hours' spell. I enjoyed it thoroughly, though it was in a hot corner; three officers had been outed in the period before in the same place. We came through it well, and only had two men wounded; so we were very lucky. The Germans tried to shell us, but if they did they got it three times as hot - we have the upper hand in artillery now. 'Mother' (a 9.2") gives them awful 'gyp'. (This same gun is now to be seen at the Imperial War Museum)
If you look at the communiqué on the 8th you will see the work the I.G. did.
The mill mentioned on the 10th is fifty yards from my platoon. The Brigade, they say, is always put where there is most work to be done, and I am hardly surprised after seeing our men at work. They are quite splendid, and shepherd me about a if I were something precious.
I am very happy with them, and feel they will go anywhere with me. I have eighty men under me, most of them dying to have a cut at the Germans, 200 yards away across a perfectly flat field.
The periscopes are wanted badly, and steel loop-holes. The Germans have both.
We are sapping ahead by degrees, straightening out the line, and look as if we were thus going to dig ourselves to Berlin. The trenches are drying up well now; in fact, in warm weather it will be a joy to live in them.We all feel so well.
* * *
Dear Teddy Milad
Don't blame me if I haven't written before, nor write again,; it is all the fault of the Army. They haven't let us go for a week's rest, as they had once promised, when I had hoped to get off a lot of answers, and it is all even chances you may not hear from me again (an audible sob!). Such is the way of the world here. We are 'Up agin it,' and all our officers are either getting wounded or going sick. Why they should in this weather I can't think; and for a wonder the trenches have been dry under foot for two days. But directly it rains the mud becomes ankle-deep again.
I hope you have some idea where we are - by a large main road where all the recent fighting has been with French and English (or rather, Irish Guards) advances. General French's despatch was good enough, but we all agreed (Coldstreams included) that it was more out show than anyone else's. Since February we have cone better work, so look out for more words of praise. When we don't push ahead, the French do - just across the road - and at these times you can see whole lines of periscopes along the length of our trenches, watching their advance. First you hear a succession of roars well behind the lines, then a stream of shrieks overhead followed by the most almighty cracks and bangs, one and two, again and again. The sound is bad enough 00 yards away What it can be on the spot I shudder to think. In the midst of this there is the ceaseless rattle of rapid rifle-fire. This goes on for ten minutes r so, until the whole German trend seems to be burning with these explosions and clouds of grey-black smoke.
Then someone spots the little grey men with their turned-up grey coats and red trousers clambering out of their trench; first five - then seems a long wait. Is the attack going to fail after all? But thank heaven, about fifty at last start scurrying across the 200 yards. Three drop before they have hardly started, on their own parapets, and then half a dozen on the way, and the remainder reach the German parapet just as the bombardment ceases. Then, strange to say, the French lie down before leaping into the trench under the very nozzles of the German mausers, if there are any left; and thus it comes about that a dozen more were shot, at point-blank range. Why they tried these tactics no one can explain. Anyway the rest crawl in, the wounded after them, and the trench is captured, as far as we can see - and the communiqué reads 'the French captured about 277 yards of the ... road.' (See February 16th newspapers.)
Later in the day my old regiment relieved us , and their Captain went over to pow-wow with the occupants of this trench and was met by a 'Wo ist da?' He didn't wait to answer. This explains the German communiqué of the same day.
I am very happy with my platoon, and, in confidence, my platoon-sergeant tells me that the regiment is in a much better way than it was when it started out. The officers trust all different, which the men like, and we also hear from higher up that the authorities couldn't have believed the Special Reserves would be so efficient. We had four Regular officers with us when we went through these recent operations.
I want the Stratford news - the Magazine - socks, etc
If you don't get any news from me write to my Mother. I am writing officially to her.
Make the boys write: and if you think of changing the prayer card you will find good Bible passages and prayers from the 'War Manual of Prayers,' price 6d (Longman)
My love to you, B, and all at Stratford. I will try and get back for camp.
Yours ever
T.A.
My Dear Uncle William
I was very glad to get your letter in the trenches: my first forty-eight hours' spell. I enjoyed it thoroughly, though it was in a hot corner; three officers had been outed in the period before in the same place. We came through it well, and only had two men wounded; so we were very lucky. The Germans tried to shell us, but if they did they got it three times as hot - we have the upper hand in artillery now. 'Mother' (a 9.2") gives them awful 'gyp'. (This same gun is now to be seen at the Imperial War Museum)
If you look at the communiqué on the 8th you will see the work the I.G. did.
The mill mentioned on the 10th is fifty yards from my platoon. The Brigade, they say, is always put where there is most work to be done, and I am hardly surprised after seeing our men at work. They are quite splendid, and shepherd me about a if I were something precious.
I am very happy with them, and feel they will go anywhere with me. I have eighty men under me, most of them dying to have a cut at the Germans, 200 yards away across a perfectly flat field.
The periscopes are wanted badly, and steel loop-holes. The Germans have both.
We are sapping ahead by degrees, straightening out the line, and look as if we were thus going to dig ourselves to Berlin. The trenches are drying up well now; in fact, in warm weather it will be a joy to live in them.We all feel so well.
* * *
Dear Teddy Milad
Don't blame me if I haven't written before, nor write again,; it is all the fault of the Army. They haven't let us go for a week's rest, as they had once promised, when I had hoped to get off a lot of answers, and it is all even chances you may not hear from me again (an audible sob!). Such is the way of the world here. We are 'Up agin it,' and all our officers are either getting wounded or going sick. Why they should in this weather I can't think; and for a wonder the trenches have been dry under foot for two days. But directly it rains the mud becomes ankle-deep again.
I hope you have some idea where we are - by a large main road where all the recent fighting has been with French and English (or rather, Irish Guards) advances. General French's despatch was good enough, but we all agreed (Coldstreams included) that it was more out show than anyone else's. Since February we have cone better work, so look out for more words of praise. When we don't push ahead, the French do - just across the road - and at these times you can see whole lines of periscopes along the length of our trenches, watching their advance. First you hear a succession of roars well behind the lines, then a stream of shrieks overhead followed by the most almighty cracks and bangs, one and two, again and again. The sound is bad enough 00 yards away What it can be on the spot I shudder to think. In the midst of this there is the ceaseless rattle of rapid rifle-fire. This goes on for ten minutes r so, until the whole German trend seems to be burning with these explosions and clouds of grey-black smoke.
Then someone spots the little grey men with their turned-up grey coats and red trousers clambering out of their trench; first five - then seems a long wait. Is the attack going to fail after all? But thank heaven, about fifty at last start scurrying across the 200 yards. Three drop before they have hardly started, on their own parapets, and then half a dozen on the way, and the remainder reach the German parapet just as the bombardment ceases. Then, strange to say, the French lie down before leaping into the trench under the very nozzles of the German mausers, if there are any left; and thus it comes about that a dozen more were shot, at point-blank range. Why they tried these tactics no one can explain. Anyway the rest crawl in, the wounded after them, and the trench is captured, as far as we can see - and the communiqué reads 'the French captured about 277 yards of the ... road.' (See February 16th newspapers.)
Later in the day my old regiment relieved us , and their Captain went over to pow-wow with the occupants of this trench and was met by a 'Wo ist da?' He didn't wait to answer. This explains the German communiqué of the same day.
I am very happy with my platoon, and, in confidence, my platoon-sergeant tells me that the regiment is in a much better way than it was when it started out. The officers trust all different, which the men like, and we also hear from higher up that the authorities couldn't have believed the Special Reserves would be so efficient. We had four Regular officers with us when we went through these recent operations.
I want the Stratford news - the Magazine - socks, etc
If you don't get any news from me write to my Mother. I am writing officially to her.
Make the boys write: and if you think of changing the prayer card you will find good Bible passages and prayers from the 'War Manual of Prayers,' price 6d (Longman)
My love to you, B, and all at Stratford. I will try and get back for camp.
Yours ever
T.A.
Monday 16 February 2015
February 16th 1915: trench life
Now to continue: I hope you noticed the 'Eye-Witness' reports re brickfields, and know it all applies to us. The officers who came out with me were rather fidgety when we had to parade preparatory to going out to the trenches. Happily enough we had not too much to carry, as our servant took our great-coats, but het men besides their packs and great-coats had their furries, fine waterproof capes, trench boots, and most of them sacks of coke, charcoal or wood.
We paraded in the evening - it is best not to say the time - by companies, and marched off to the trenches about four miles off, along a long, straight, flat avenue of poplars. On either side were occasional cottages and inns, were both Frenchmen and our Tommies were billeted - mostly gunners.
By the side of the road you could occasionally make out lines of trenches wired up, here and there large 'Jack Johnson' holes and a small house wrecked by shell fire. And then passing by us were stragglers on foot, on horse, or in motors, a little later before approaching a large village we charged our magazines. So at last we were getting to business and nearing our end, and one felt more and more strained. Suddenly there was a terrific bang and a long-drawn-out swish overhead dying in the distance. 'What's that?' I asked of my companion, and immovable sergeant. 'Oh! it's only one of our own shells going over our heads.' What a relief!
As we got further and further in the village we could see the desolate signs of the bombardment. It is difficult to conceive what wholesale damage shells can do. In that village, with the exception of Brigade Headquarters house and one or two others, not one had any pane of glass left. It was an exception to see any houses with roofs intact; most had their sides torn out. And the telegraph poles were either down or broken off, with the wires hanging in festoons. And all this in a village two miles from the firing line, of a size not much smaller than Towyn. All the place was in darkness, and any lights in the houses were carefully covered up; in various groups were small parties of men talking quietly together. They were the Reserve Battalion, ready in case of emergency.
Directly we had passed through the village we could hear the whistling of bullets through the trees. And away in front of us down the long avenue flares were sent up - Roman candles or something of that sort. Still, on we went. Every step nearer more bullets appeared to be whizzing around us. We got into single file, and men began to straggle. Awful fear we might lose touch, and I was last in a long string of 200 men. taking a short cut across a right angle to hustle up the men, I couldn't help bobbing when a bullet whizzed just under my chin - swear I could feel the draught it made - but it was no good stopping. The bullet that is going to find its billet in me I shan't even hear, so what use to worry?
Well, we kept in touch and came to a ruined farm, and stood in line along the wall, much longer than I liked, while bullets spat and pinged on the wall above our heads, and flares were going up. In the farm buildings were dusky figures of the Grenadiers whom we relieved. A dash across an open road and a stumble which nearly ended in my falling on my face, and I was in a communication trench, which was just wide enough to take a single man abreast and was here 4' 5" deep.
The line had lengthened out, so it was not at all easy to keep in touch, the end-all and be-all of all trench work. So the only thing to do was to blunder on with the help of your elbows, and getting along a trench is not so easy as you think. For one thing it is not straight for more than four yards (it is 'travested' to prevent enfilade and shell fire having much effect). Then there are all sorts of odd offturns to officers' dug-outs, other lines of trenches: at other places there are steps down and other unknown steps up where a piece of the parapet has been blown in, or some walls of a traverse have collapsed. We meandered down this to Hampton Court maze for about 200 yards and we were at last in our position, where we found more Grenadiers, past whom we had to squeeze. There we took up our position, spread out the men and arranged the hourly watches - one man in three does this while the others snooze as well as they can.
Before I had come up I had spoken to the last Officer, so knew roughly how my trenches went and where to put my support (one platoon) and my firing line (one platoon), and I did not have much difficulty in ascertaining my position, with my right over a large main road, which we had previously been on but had had to leave so as to make a détour. On our right flank were the Frenchmen, to whom I had been told to be friendly.
I think you should here get out my rough sketch map. I had my platoons along AB and CD. We had other troops at E and G to I. The french were across the road and had captured the mill the day we came up.
As soon as I had my men out I went along CD under the road and so into the French trenches. They wanted me to see the mill, so along there I went as there was not much firing. At about point X a tremendous burst of rapid firing commenced, and I was really scared out of my life. Here was I in a French trench, away from my post, and for all the row going on, a German attack was being made! I have a vivid recollection of that moment, of the Frenchmen wildly gesticulating, popping up to the parapet, down again to reload, up again, and firing all the time to the skies. There was an awful rattle and flashing, so I clutched my guide, told him this was not good enough, and hurried back in case this was a proper attack. On getting back I found all had quietened down; such outbursts are common with jumpy Frenchmen and our new soldiers. But I had had such a fright - I wasn't going to those French trenches for some time.
At night the Officers took it in turn to do duty, two hours each; in that time we had to blunder round all our trenches. I didn't care for it, my first time, when I didn't know my way about our trenches, and my hand was very close to my revolver until I was quite sure how our trenches went. In these mazes where we have fought one another so often, and each side has held the ground in turn, you can never be quite sure whether a trench won't lead you straight to the German lines, in more than one place in our present line we actually do have communicating trenches connecting ours and their lines.
Morning came: shivering we stood to arms, and with the light, fires on both sides were started, the smoke could be seen curling up. our breakfast was called up, and there in our Captains dug-out we had sausages (mark you), sardines, b. and b., jam and cocoa.
We paraded in the evening - it is best not to say the time - by companies, and marched off to the trenches about four miles off, along a long, straight, flat avenue of poplars. On either side were occasional cottages and inns, were both Frenchmen and our Tommies were billeted - mostly gunners.
By the side of the road you could occasionally make out lines of trenches wired up, here and there large 'Jack Johnson' holes and a small house wrecked by shell fire. And then passing by us were stragglers on foot, on horse, or in motors, a little later before approaching a large village we charged our magazines. So at last we were getting to business and nearing our end, and one felt more and more strained. Suddenly there was a terrific bang and a long-drawn-out swish overhead dying in the distance. 'What's that?' I asked of my companion, and immovable sergeant. 'Oh! it's only one of our own shells going over our heads.' What a relief!
As we got further and further in the village we could see the desolate signs of the bombardment. It is difficult to conceive what wholesale damage shells can do. In that village, with the exception of Brigade Headquarters house and one or two others, not one had any pane of glass left. It was an exception to see any houses with roofs intact; most had their sides torn out. And the telegraph poles were either down or broken off, with the wires hanging in festoons. And all this in a village two miles from the firing line, of a size not much smaller than Towyn. All the place was in darkness, and any lights in the houses were carefully covered up; in various groups were small parties of men talking quietly together. They were the Reserve Battalion, ready in case of emergency.
Directly we had passed through the village we could hear the whistling of bullets through the trees. And away in front of us down the long avenue flares were sent up - Roman candles or something of that sort. Still, on we went. Every step nearer more bullets appeared to be whizzing around us. We got into single file, and men began to straggle. Awful fear we might lose touch, and I was last in a long string of 200 men. taking a short cut across a right angle to hustle up the men, I couldn't help bobbing when a bullet whizzed just under my chin - swear I could feel the draught it made - but it was no good stopping. The bullet that is going to find its billet in me I shan't even hear, so what use to worry?
Well, we kept in touch and came to a ruined farm, and stood in line along the wall, much longer than I liked, while bullets spat and pinged on the wall above our heads, and flares were going up. In the farm buildings were dusky figures of the Grenadiers whom we relieved. A dash across an open road and a stumble which nearly ended in my falling on my face, and I was in a communication trench, which was just wide enough to take a single man abreast and was here 4' 5" deep.
The line had lengthened out, so it was not at all easy to keep in touch, the end-all and be-all of all trench work. So the only thing to do was to blunder on with the help of your elbows, and getting along a trench is not so easy as you think. For one thing it is not straight for more than four yards (it is 'travested' to prevent enfilade and shell fire having much effect). Then there are all sorts of odd offturns to officers' dug-outs, other lines of trenches: at other places there are steps down and other unknown steps up where a piece of the parapet has been blown in, or some walls of a traverse have collapsed. We meandered down this to Hampton Court maze for about 200 yards and we were at last in our position, where we found more Grenadiers, past whom we had to squeeze. There we took up our position, spread out the men and arranged the hourly watches - one man in three does this while the others snooze as well as they can.
Before I had come up I had spoken to the last Officer, so knew roughly how my trenches went and where to put my support (one platoon) and my firing line (one platoon), and I did not have much difficulty in ascertaining my position, with my right over a large main road, which we had previously been on but had had to leave so as to make a détour. On our right flank were the Frenchmen, to whom I had been told to be friendly.
I think you should here get out my rough sketch map. I had my platoons along AB and CD. We had other troops at E and G to I. The french were across the road and had captured the mill the day we came up.
As soon as I had my men out I went along CD under the road and so into the French trenches. They wanted me to see the mill, so along there I went as there was not much firing. At about point X a tremendous burst of rapid firing commenced, and I was really scared out of my life. Here was I in a French trench, away from my post, and for all the row going on, a German attack was being made! I have a vivid recollection of that moment, of the Frenchmen wildly gesticulating, popping up to the parapet, down again to reload, up again, and firing all the time to the skies. There was an awful rattle and flashing, so I clutched my guide, told him this was not good enough, and hurried back in case this was a proper attack. On getting back I found all had quietened down; such outbursts are common with jumpy Frenchmen and our new soldiers. But I had had such a fright - I wasn't going to those French trenches for some time.
At night the Officers took it in turn to do duty, two hours each; in that time we had to blunder round all our trenches. I didn't care for it, my first time, when I didn't know my way about our trenches, and my hand was very close to my revolver until I was quite sure how our trenches went. In these mazes where we have fought one another so often, and each side has held the ground in turn, you can never be quite sure whether a trench won't lead you straight to the German lines, in more than one place in our present line we actually do have communicating trenches connecting ours and their lines.
Morning came: shivering we stood to arms, and with the light, fires on both sides were started, the smoke could be seen curling up. our breakfast was called up, and there in our Captains dug-out we had sausages (mark you), sardines, b. and b., jam and cocoa.
Thursday 12 February 2015
February 12th 1915: via Rouen and Béthune to Bœuvry
We stayed two days in the base camp collecting and making up kits. Fur coats were issued out - a great joy to all the men, who strutted about in them and wrote to all their relations at home. Other men used my horse-clipper to such purpose that in many cases you could not tell where the neck and where the head started.
On the evening before moving off I was suddenly summoned to No. 1 Division Orderly Room, where I went to be told to help in taking up a draft of two hundred Gloucesters, who were without an officer. For information I wildly asked who as in charge, and was told a Subaltern in the Welsh. This of course, a Guardsman could never allow by the laws of the Brigade, because a Subaltern of the Line is never senior to a Guards Ensign. It was up to me to remind the Divisional Adjutant of this unwritten rule, which I did as kindly as I could. Being a linesman himself, of course he pretended such rules were not followed in war time: the idea, however, unnerved him a little, so he turned up the War Office list to make sure who was senior. As luck would have it, I was senior by two months, so that settled it finally, and I was put in charge. One score more for me.
And it was business: there was no list of the men, less discipline, about six inefficient N.C.O.'s. After a little hustling and worrying they began to get more of a move on, and before night I did have a rough list made out. IN the afternoon the men complained they had no money for over a week, and, as other regiments had had pay, I did my best by applying in a written note to the Orderly Room, as told me by the captain in two Divisions.Within fifteen minutes there was a hurried note brought tme to appear before the Adjutant, and there on the table was my roughly written note, which I never intended he should see: the fool of a clerk in his Orderly Room had referred the note on to him. He was churlish and cynical and sneering: I tried to apologise, but he didn't seem to care to expect much; after all, he had to have his own back.
In the afternoon Pease and I walked up the hill to overlook the harbour and across the mouth of the river to where the Pilters were. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright, and camps either up or in process of erection everywhere.
At the evening mess I sat next to an old Christowe boy who is in the South Staffords. I haven't seen him for close on ten years, but recognised him the moment he entered the room.
Next morning we paraded the Gloucester draft for inspection - more than twenty were away! But to save my face I had to answer 'All present sir' - had to do a little more blaspheming and fuming to show them what was expected men in the Guards. We had hardly been off parade for an hour when without any previous warning we were told to be ready to start of for entrainment in half an hour. Such a scurry there was, with everyone falling over one another, but somehow we tumbled out, feeling like pack asses loaded out to the mines.
Still my list of the draft was not complete - 206 signed for, whereas my Sergeant assured me it was only 203.
Then rolled a trying, stuffy walk to the station, three miles off, while it rained most of the time. There were two enormous trains to go off, each one as long as I have ever seen. They were joined up together, so you have some idea of the length. The men were packed in cattle trucks - quite happy - thirty two in each; we, six of us, in a first class. Rations were served out, packing cases of them, which were broken into by hurling them to the ground. Then out fell ugly beef tins, biscuits, butter and grocery rations. We had over some food which had been packed for us at Warley.
A terrifying bump and we were off, only to stop ignominiously in five minutes or so just opposite the cam we had come from owing to the engine failing at a slight rise. We slid down again, and then had at it - still no success - but at the third time we just scrambled up to the top and away we went. This was about three o'clock.
At nine we reached a large town (Rouen) and then on again into the night. The only light that was allowed was a filthy old oil lamp, which gave out, as it was rightly supposed to, after two hours. However, with the help of a candle we got in a few rubbers of auction bridge before we went to sleep. Had a good night's rest, and as dawn broke halted at Amiens, just south of where Nancy is. Before you could say 'Knife' the men were out lighting little fires by the side of the train and getting their tea. They are wonderful at adapting themselves, and I should say they would make a fire somehow in a filthy cow yard. Then some bright spark found a boulangerie, and away they all went - all against orders.
We got in a shave just as the train started. It always took about five minutes to get really under way and so it came about that at every station men got all over the place and went on buying bread and getting drinks long after the train had started, with the result that the Coldstream Guards lost forty eight men and the Gloucesters one: of course the Irish Guards none.
Sooner than we thought, about two o'clock, we got to our railhead. There I was met by a Gloucester Subaltern, to whom I was overjoyed to hand over the 205 men, and so I walked here with our own draft, about seven miles in all, still with that cursed pack on.
The country was not a bit flat, to my surprise. Many cars passed us, divisional staff, and ambulance motors. At Béthune we saw some of our own officers, and so we marched on two miles eastwards to this small village, Bœuvry, where our men are being billeted. The platoons are split up as far as possible together and put in large rooms. Straw is laid on the floor, and the men pack in where they can. They seem happy enough, and are as well looked after as possible. Food they have in plenty, and tobacco. Good parcels continue to pour out to them, and they do appreciate all the kindness that is thus shown to them.
The Officers' less is split into two, besides there being a Headquarters Mess; we are over the central estaminet in a large room, eight of us together. Twenty francs a week we pay, and rely chiefly on what friends send out from England. We have good simple food and as much as we like.
The I.G. seem very popular with all the inhabitants; their religion of course helps them. And I am not surprised, as we appear to be clothing as well as half feeding the small town. There is hardly a boy who has not got some sort of stocking ca, muffler and puttees. And there can be none who have not put their teeth into bully beef and biscuit. The streets are cobbled and abnormally muddy; there are few shops worth speaking of, though the whole countryside seems prosperous enough. It has a Compton (Wolverhampton) look about it.
After much haggling and persuasion, Capt. Young and I got one large room over a tailor's shop. I slept on the floor on a mattress in my sleeping bag, he on the bed. Our servants slept in the passage; the bath came in again very handy.
Now, something about the Battalion's deeds. Directly we arrived at the railhead, we heard that they had done something worth writing home about. The action started with the attack explained in the enclosed portion. In the two counter attacks, my company (4) did lose heavily - two officers killed, three wounded; in fact, all the lot of them. The men were then axtraordinarily well handled by Innes from another Company with the result as shown in the Times account. Innes has in consequence been recommended for some honour, and well he deserves it.
But the I.G. weren't satisfied with this success; they wanted to push on further. So the Divisional Artillery was put on to the German position for fifteen minutes, the two companies charged while the remainder kept up a rapid fire, with the result that we romped through the brickfields and captured more machine guns and men - scared out of their lives by the bombardment they had received - also five officers' swords and cigars by the hundred. We had very slight losses, though one officer, when well ahead of his men, was shot. The Germans were so scared they are said to have run for miles and allowed their men to entrench themselves in the captured position without much opposition.
So no wonder the men were pleased with themselves, and the papers spoke of the battle of the brickfields. One man, directly after the charge, was found reading his Bible, and it is possible, when censoring the mens' letters, to know something of the wonderful sincerity of these dear men. There cannot be many villages in Ireland where prayers are not being said for men in the I.G. One man, in writing, was quite convinced that 'Prayer turns bullets.'
No wonder such men have such a reputation for fighting and know how to fight.
To continue, that night we were relived in the trenches but the Grenadiers, who had repulsed a counter attack. A German Officer being killed actually on the parapet, he was drawn in, as his uniform was useful for our spy work. No wonder our men were cheered.
Just off.
On the evening before moving off I was suddenly summoned to No. 1 Division Orderly Room, where I went to be told to help in taking up a draft of two hundred Gloucesters, who were without an officer. For information I wildly asked who as in charge, and was told a Subaltern in the Welsh. This of course, a Guardsman could never allow by the laws of the Brigade, because a Subaltern of the Line is never senior to a Guards Ensign. It was up to me to remind the Divisional Adjutant of this unwritten rule, which I did as kindly as I could. Being a linesman himself, of course he pretended such rules were not followed in war time: the idea, however, unnerved him a little, so he turned up the War Office list to make sure who was senior. As luck would have it, I was senior by two months, so that settled it finally, and I was put in charge. One score more for me.
And it was business: there was no list of the men, less discipline, about six inefficient N.C.O.'s. After a little hustling and worrying they began to get more of a move on, and before night I did have a rough list made out. IN the afternoon the men complained they had no money for over a week, and, as other regiments had had pay, I did my best by applying in a written note to the Orderly Room, as told me by the captain in two Divisions.Within fifteen minutes there was a hurried note brought tme to appear before the Adjutant, and there on the table was my roughly written note, which I never intended he should see: the fool of a clerk in his Orderly Room had referred the note on to him. He was churlish and cynical and sneering: I tried to apologise, but he didn't seem to care to expect much; after all, he had to have his own back.
In the afternoon Pease and I walked up the hill to overlook the harbour and across the mouth of the river to where the Pilters were. It was a beautiful day, clear and bright, and camps either up or in process of erection everywhere.
At the evening mess I sat next to an old Christowe boy who is in the South Staffords. I haven't seen him for close on ten years, but recognised him the moment he entered the room.
Next morning we paraded the Gloucester draft for inspection - more than twenty were away! But to save my face I had to answer 'All present sir' - had to do a little more blaspheming and fuming to show them what was expected men in the Guards. We had hardly been off parade for an hour when without any previous warning we were told to be ready to start of for entrainment in half an hour. Such a scurry there was, with everyone falling over one another, but somehow we tumbled out, feeling like pack asses loaded out to the mines.
Still my list of the draft was not complete - 206 signed for, whereas my Sergeant assured me it was only 203.
Then rolled a trying, stuffy walk to the station, three miles off, while it rained most of the time. There were two enormous trains to go off, each one as long as I have ever seen. They were joined up together, so you have some idea of the length. The men were packed in cattle trucks - quite happy - thirty two in each; we, six of us, in a first class. Rations were served out, packing cases of them, which were broken into by hurling them to the ground. Then out fell ugly beef tins, biscuits, butter and grocery rations. We had over some food which had been packed for us at Warley.
A terrifying bump and we were off, only to stop ignominiously in five minutes or so just opposite the cam we had come from owing to the engine failing at a slight rise. We slid down again, and then had at it - still no success - but at the third time we just scrambled up to the top and away we went. This was about three o'clock.
At nine we reached a large town (Rouen) and then on again into the night. The only light that was allowed was a filthy old oil lamp, which gave out, as it was rightly supposed to, after two hours. However, with the help of a candle we got in a few rubbers of auction bridge before we went to sleep. Had a good night's rest, and as dawn broke halted at Amiens, just south of where Nancy is. Before you could say 'Knife' the men were out lighting little fires by the side of the train and getting their tea. They are wonderful at adapting themselves, and I should say they would make a fire somehow in a filthy cow yard. Then some bright spark found a boulangerie, and away they all went - all against orders.
We got in a shave just as the train started. It always took about five minutes to get really under way and so it came about that at every station men got all over the place and went on buying bread and getting drinks long after the train had started, with the result that the Coldstream Guards lost forty eight men and the Gloucesters one: of course the Irish Guards none.
Sooner than we thought, about two o'clock, we got to our railhead. There I was met by a Gloucester Subaltern, to whom I was overjoyed to hand over the 205 men, and so I walked here with our own draft, about seven miles in all, still with that cursed pack on.
The country was not a bit flat, to my surprise. Many cars passed us, divisional staff, and ambulance motors. At Béthune we saw some of our own officers, and so we marched on two miles eastwards to this small village, Bœuvry, where our men are being billeted. The platoons are split up as far as possible together and put in large rooms. Straw is laid on the floor, and the men pack in where they can. They seem happy enough, and are as well looked after as possible. Food they have in plenty, and tobacco. Good parcels continue to pour out to them, and they do appreciate all the kindness that is thus shown to them.
The Officers' less is split into two, besides there being a Headquarters Mess; we are over the central estaminet in a large room, eight of us together. Twenty francs a week we pay, and rely chiefly on what friends send out from England. We have good simple food and as much as we like.
The I.G. seem very popular with all the inhabitants; their religion of course helps them. And I am not surprised, as we appear to be clothing as well as half feeding the small town. There is hardly a boy who has not got some sort of stocking ca, muffler and puttees. And there can be none who have not put their teeth into bully beef and biscuit. The streets are cobbled and abnormally muddy; there are few shops worth speaking of, though the whole countryside seems prosperous enough. It has a Compton (Wolverhampton) look about it.
After much haggling and persuasion, Capt. Young and I got one large room over a tailor's shop. I slept on the floor on a mattress in my sleeping bag, he on the bed. Our servants slept in the passage; the bath came in again very handy.
Now, something about the Battalion's deeds. Directly we arrived at the railhead, we heard that they had done something worth writing home about. The action started with the attack explained in the enclosed portion. In the two counter attacks, my company (4) did lose heavily - two officers killed, three wounded; in fact, all the lot of them. The men were then axtraordinarily well handled by Innes from another Company with the result as shown in the Times account. Innes has in consequence been recommended for some honour, and well he deserves it.
But the I.G. weren't satisfied with this success; they wanted to push on further. So the Divisional Artillery was put on to the German position for fifteen minutes, the two companies charged while the remainder kept up a rapid fire, with the result that we romped through the brickfields and captured more machine guns and men - scared out of their lives by the bombardment they had received - also five officers' swords and cigars by the hundred. We had very slight losses, though one officer, when well ahead of his men, was shot. The Germans were so scared they are said to have run for miles and allowed their men to entrench themselves in the captured position without much opposition.
So no wonder the men were pleased with themselves, and the papers spoke of the battle of the brickfields. One man, directly after the charge, was found reading his Bible, and it is possible, when censoring the mens' letters, to know something of the wonderful sincerity of these dear men. There cannot be many villages in Ireland where prayers are not being said for men in the I.G. One man, in writing, was quite convinced that 'Prayer turns bullets.'
No wonder such men have such a reputation for fighting and know how to fight.
To continue, that night we were relived in the trenches but the Grenadiers, who had repulsed a counter attack. A German Officer being killed actually on the parapet, he was drawn in, as his uniform was useful for our spy work. No wonder our men were cheered.
Just off.
Tuesday 10 February 2015
February 10th: Field Office
My Dear Da
I am truly thankful to you for your parcel; it is full of the things I want, and will keep me going for a long time, for two weeks at least, so please don't let any of the family repeat it for a time.
I can't write longer; please wait for my circular letters. We are in the trenches longer than we thought.
Everyone is agreed we did much better work than the Coldstreamers on February 1st, and so we are rather disappointed with French's despatch; but it is good enough, and more is coming in the next. I am enjoying the life thoroughly.
Love to R. and to the two Davids.
TOM ALLEN
I send a birthday present to R (then aged 4). Tell him I'm glad that he's saying prayers for me.
I am truly thankful to you for your parcel; it is full of the things I want, and will keep me going for a long time, for two weeks at least, so please don't let any of the family repeat it for a time.
I can't write longer; please wait for my circular letters. We are in the trenches longer than we thought.
Everyone is agreed we did much better work than the Coldstreamers on February 1st, and so we are rather disappointed with French's despatch; but it is good enough, and more is coming in the next. I am enjoying the life thoroughly.
Love to R. and to the two Davids.
TOM ALLEN
I send a birthday present to R (then aged 4). Tell him I'm glad that he's saying prayers for me.
Sunday 8 February 2015
February 8th 1915: To a Sister (soon after arrival in base camp)
My Dear Maisie
There are many years when I have forgotten your birthday, February 8th, but perhaps never when I have had a better excuse.
Well, we are up here with our regiment, and are going up tonight into the trenches for forty eight hours, taking turn and turn about with the other regiments of the Brigade. In a week's time from now we will be back again. In a week's time from now we will be back again well behind for a week's rest and the other Brigade will take our place.
When we got here we round everyone in the best of spirits, and no wonder, for the regiment has done real good work, captured Maxim guns, prisoners and pushed on 400 yards; in fact, we have handed back to the Grenadiers a little more than they lost about a fortnight ago.
Most of last evening I was reading and censoring the men's letters. One and all say, 'The kicks have only just started.' One phrase sticks in my mind, 'When I come to your doorstep I will be surprising you with all the learning I have made by seeing so much of the world.'
The Brigadier is tired of complimenting us. In one small attack we lost heavily in No. 4 Company; two officers killed, two wounded, and one with nerves - i.e. all their officers. It is called the 'Unlucky company' and now I am in it. One other officer was killed in the day attack.
The place seems to be about the most important place in our lines; we are holding our position, as we are on a salient and expect to be counter-attacked heavily.
However, we have now wired ourselves in, and what we haven't wired we will have to wire and dig other portions of the line out tonight. In our old position we were never more than a hundred yards away from the Germans, and in one place - literally around a corner - five yards away, and yet the officers came out safely. Most of the fighting is in brickfields. I am writing a long, continued account to Mother, as time goes on, and it should get round to you in time.
I have to pay twenty francs for mess a week; we get the soldiers rations, and these are supplemented by what is sent out from home. Everything is common property. What we like best are ...
Good-bye old girl. I hope you have seen more of ...
I am, so far, thoroughly looking forward to tonight.
Your loving brother
TOM
There are many years when I have forgotten your birthday, February 8th, but perhaps never when I have had a better excuse.
Well, we are up here with our regiment, and are going up tonight into the trenches for forty eight hours, taking turn and turn about with the other regiments of the Brigade. In a week's time from now we will be back again. In a week's time from now we will be back again well behind for a week's rest and the other Brigade will take our place.
When we got here we round everyone in the best of spirits, and no wonder, for the regiment has done real good work, captured Maxim guns, prisoners and pushed on 400 yards; in fact, we have handed back to the Grenadiers a little more than they lost about a fortnight ago.
Most of last evening I was reading and censoring the men's letters. One and all say, 'The kicks have only just started.' One phrase sticks in my mind, 'When I come to your doorstep I will be surprising you with all the learning I have made by seeing so much of the world.'
The Brigadier is tired of complimenting us. In one small attack we lost heavily in No. 4 Company; two officers killed, two wounded, and one with nerves - i.e. all their officers. It is called the 'Unlucky company' and now I am in it. One other officer was killed in the day attack.
The place seems to be about the most important place in our lines; we are holding our position, as we are on a salient and expect to be counter-attacked heavily.
However, we have now wired ourselves in, and what we haven't wired we will have to wire and dig other portions of the line out tonight. In our old position we were never more than a hundred yards away from the Germans, and in one place - literally around a corner - five yards away, and yet the officers came out safely. Most of the fighting is in brickfields. I am writing a long, continued account to Mother, as time goes on, and it should get round to you in time.
I have to pay twenty francs for mess a week; we get the soldiers rations, and these are supplemented by what is sent out from home. Everything is common property. What we like best are ...
Good-bye old girl. I hope you have seen more of ...
I am, so far, thoroughly looking forward to tonight.
Your loving brother
TOM
Friday 6 February 2015
February 6th 1915: leaving Warley for Southampton and France
We - 100 men and four officers - were warned to be ready to start on February 1st. No orders came that day, and as an epidemic had broken out slightly in the Regiment, we all agreed that our send-off would be postponed for a fortnight at least. The surprise came when we were told on February 1st that we were going to start off on February 3rd. All Monday evening and most of Tuesday night we spent in getting arrears of letters written off. On Tuesday evening, most of my pack was put together. I prided myself it must be the smallest taken out up to date; as it proved after, if that was so, the others must have been mighty heavy.
I gave orders for my servant to wake me at 6 a.m., so that I could get up for early service with a few of the men. Of course, he came late. That knocked the idea of the service on the head for me. Up at seven and started finishing packing. This took much longer than I thought, and so it happened that I had only time for "Just a pair of pretty little sausages" - by the way, my usual breakfast, because I have always cut this meal fine - before I had to be on parade. It was rather a disgrace to be late for parade for the first time at Warley, yet so it was, and the C.O. didn't mind when he saw how much I had to get on. While the poor men were inspected about for times, called to 'tion, stood at ease ad nauseam, we had to bear up metaphorically and physically. After over thirty minutes' wait, we were still hanging about, quite jovial and joking, until I thought it was about time to ask some Ensigns to support me, which they did secretly behind my back, and so relieved my aching shoulders. (I was so glad to hear that at least one of my brother officers said he felt then more tired than at any other time in the day.) It seemed we were getting mightily close to moving off time, so round we went again shaking hands. Surely this must have been the second time, and the 'Bhoys' we left behind certainly looked much more sorry for themselves than we did. I remember how wretched I used to feel when previous drafts had gone off, and this was the eighth from Warley.
At last 'Form fours, right!' and we were off to the tune of 'Auld Lang Syne.' So far everything had been quite in order: the men had remained quiet under the eyes of the thousand onlookers. But on the first beat of the drum, volleys of cheers were raised, followed by those peculiar Irish calls, more like cat calls. The other men of the Battalion were rushing into the ranks shaking hands were they could. Everyone seemed to be saying 'Good-bye, Bill'; and the draft appeared to be carried along but the cheers, nearly off their feet. The whole scene was extraordinarily moving and nearly touching, when one heard from an extra excited man shouting amongst the din 'Good-bye, Sorr.' A gulp came up, not of sorrow, but of the sheer thrill of the emotion of it all. And so it came - a last look from the Adjutant and Quartermaster, both the best of fellows, and we were outside the barrack gates. Even then lines of recruits were on the road, cheering wildly. At length we got away from them all. But it seemed no time to settle down. The weirdest flags were being flown by the younger soldiers - a combination of the Irish and Union Jack. These I dared not notice, as such extra turns were all against order.
On the way to the station I had two of the jolliest and playful Sergeants, both been out before. One of them had been Army boxing champion, the other a bayonet fighter of some merit. I couldn't have hit on two jollier souls, and they were cracking the most comical jokes all the time. There was flag wagging and handkerchief wagging galore all the way to the station. One old lady, a publican's wife, deserves special mention. She stood on the steps of her home solemnly waving an awful old flag slowly in large circles.
It was a bit of a scrum at the station, as the express train was already in, and of course there weren't enough reserved carriages.
Who minds as long as we got to Liverpool Street? There I was put in charge of the transport, ammunition boxes, officers' luggage, etc., which we all took on the Inner Circle to Westminster. There the transport should have met us. You will have rightly guessed it didn't. Three taxis were chartered, and just as the last S.A.A. box was being put in the transport wagon came, half an hour late. There were the usual excuses and angry words, and he was sent on his way - not rejoicing.
A burly P.C. escorted us to the station, and the step he set, slow and ponderous, couldn't be ours, so he wasn't a guardsman.
There was a half-hour's wait at Waterloo, time for a glass of .... with Pease, as we were already feeling the effects of the weight of the pack. Our Sergeants found us, and insisted on us having drinks with them. (Not certain whether it was correct for the Brigade to be seen drinking with the N.C.O.'s but could we refuse?) And outside, who should we meet but the Brigade-Major - but the doors were not of glass.
The train did not take long to bring us to Southampton. We drew up alongside the boat.
I got an hour's leave from Capt. Young to go on shore, so 'phoned up the Willis Flemings and suggested that they should send someone to see me. Dick arrived: he is cramming at home for 'Smalls' and in March, whether he passes or not, he will go into the Hampshire R.H.A.
After buying a few knick-knacks for others, I returned and found all on board. And what a boat it was! - and old cattle boat, stalls up - luckily they were white washed. The only royal feeling it had was that we heard it had been used to bring the King of the Belgians' stables over from Ostend. With us were drafts of the Coldstream Guards, Leinster, Middlesex, A.S.C. and Dublin Fusiliers. There was no shadow of doubt our men knocked spots off any of them.
Within half an hour we were under steam and away. Our quarters would have done well for a third class passenger liner, and there was little room for ten officers and ship's staff (Hon. C. Agar Robartes, MP for St Austell, was in our party)
Young, being senior, was Captain in charge on deck. The I.G. got the use of the Captain's room, as he was on deck all night. Young on the bed, me on the sofa (with no right to it), and the two others, gentlemen that they were ... and Pease on the floor.
(I should have told you what Dick Fleming to ld me that on our course there were supposed to be six German submarines cruising about, so he had heard from a Naval officer.) At supper we did not dare try the ship's fish and brown stew, but preferred our own mess which had been packed for us, and washed it down with whisky and port, thoughtfully provided. We had not been going long when the engine broke down, and we perspired a bit when we thought of being at anchor with those lurkers about. However, after a time we picked up a friendly pair of t.b.d.'s and were soon under way again, much too slowly I thought.
Then we turned in, but no sleep came, nor would it, and the boat began to rock and pitch. I lay low - we all did - felt uncertain like; Young dozed. Then came a frightful bang. Young shot up. 'What's that?' We listened, thought of submarines - nothing doing. Turned over again, but couldn't sleep. Tried counting, thought of hymns, comic songs, methods of Naval attack, especially for submarines, life-saving etc., for eight hours, when I got tired of it and the sea having calmed, I popped up on deck. It was a brilliantly clear moonlit night, with just a gentle swell on the sea. And there on either side of us, perhaps 300 yards away, were our two black, belching, low lying t.b.d.'s. They looked magnificent, and I felt our ship must be safe as a house on a rock. Every few minutes they would turn in and out of the course, now sliding ahead, now behind, sometimes nearly crossing our bows, and they kept up by morse a running conversation with us or between themselves. Away, far away on the horizon, a lightship was blinking. So, feeling more composed inwardly and outwardly, I turned in again and snatched a couple of hours sleep.
When we awoke we were stopping. Just off the lighthouse in the Channel, the t.b.d.'s left soon and our guard was left in the hands of tiny French t.b.'s who gambolled round us while we lay at anchor. And so we stayed for four hours. They went quick enough in superintending the men's rations, and watching a most glorious purple and golden sunrise. As day broke I recognised the port at which I used to arrive on my visits to the Pilters.
There was any amount of shipping lying in the roads waiting for high tide. At last a tug came out, which took us to our breath. We passed on the way a sunken cargo boat which had been torpedoed two days before in the roads and hurriedly run into port. She missed her haven by inches.
At the disembarkation I was in charge of the guard to see no men got loose. Of course, as the luggage came on shore the Irishmen had to let one bale overboard, otherwise it would have been so dull. Four men immediately went after it, and I though they would never get it out, until one man got his teeth into the sacking. Again the comforts were brought up in triumph.
Ammunition (120 rounds) was served out, and away we went to our camp - a four and a half mile trudge with a hill at the end of it, and didn't we all feel the packs? Oh, not a bit!
We went through a sludgy, muddy street, which would have been a disgrace to an Irish lane, past many French guards and troops. The sentries amused us by standing at the present, smoking or with one leg curled over the other or talking to a pal next door - generally committing all three offences. Our men were delighted.
Then girls came along dancing by our side - only three-year-olds - all crying 'Bisque' (biscuit), which our men showered on them though we thought them short of rations. And so we wound our way to camp, pulled ourselves together at the end, and soon were allotted tents.
We are in a valley facing west, overlooking a river, and the whole terrain is a sea of dried mud. Mostly tin huts, and where no huts, tents with floorboards. Everything most uncannily orderly, telegraph poles, streets, notice boards, Y.M.C.A. tents, all on the side of a steepish hill - a very well chosen spot.
It did not take us long before we were in the Officers' mess having some excellent Bovril. Before long it got dark, so we changed for mess, which we had altogether with about twenty other officers of drafts in our Division. Opposite sat a South Stafford: beyond Pease sat a New College don, Johnson by name, who knew me more than I knew him (and O.B.M. man, friend of Arthur Winser's), he is in the Oxford and Bucks L.I.
A look at today's Times, and with difficulty did not disgrace myself: within half an hour, Pease and I were getting to bed. My servant had put everything carefully out. I made various notes of things wanted to be sent off, and so into my sleeping bag with just one rug above me and the door flaps wide open. I was asleep before the candle was out, and slept like a log on the hard floor (blessings on my air cushion) till six, without feeling at all cold. A cold bath in the open (blessings likewise) and a waddling dressing made me enjoy breakfast more than most mornings, and 'Everything in the garden was lovely.'
After breakfast, a cursory examination by a C.O. and a Medical Officer, who were highly pleased with our men, and who wouldn't be? You can't help being proud of them
The men were very slack about not shaving, but we are having no slacking at all in these details, in fact, we are to be stricter than usual, to keep the best discipline, and the men up to the mark. They like it, and are all the better for it.
I gave orders for my servant to wake me at 6 a.m., so that I could get up for early service with a few of the men. Of course, he came late. That knocked the idea of the service on the head for me. Up at seven and started finishing packing. This took much longer than I thought, and so it happened that I had only time for "Just a pair of pretty little sausages" - by the way, my usual breakfast, because I have always cut this meal fine - before I had to be on parade. It was rather a disgrace to be late for parade for the first time at Warley, yet so it was, and the C.O. didn't mind when he saw how much I had to get on. While the poor men were inspected about for times, called to 'tion, stood at ease ad nauseam, we had to bear up metaphorically and physically. After over thirty minutes' wait, we were still hanging about, quite jovial and joking, until I thought it was about time to ask some Ensigns to support me, which they did secretly behind my back, and so relieved my aching shoulders. (I was so glad to hear that at least one of my brother officers said he felt then more tired than at any other time in the day.) It seemed we were getting mightily close to moving off time, so round we went again shaking hands. Surely this must have been the second time, and the 'Bhoys' we left behind certainly looked much more sorry for themselves than we did. I remember how wretched I used to feel when previous drafts had gone off, and this was the eighth from Warley.
At last 'Form fours, right!' and we were off to the tune of 'Auld Lang Syne.' So far everything had been quite in order: the men had remained quiet under the eyes of the thousand onlookers. But on the first beat of the drum, volleys of cheers were raised, followed by those peculiar Irish calls, more like cat calls. The other men of the Battalion were rushing into the ranks shaking hands were they could. Everyone seemed to be saying 'Good-bye, Bill'; and the draft appeared to be carried along but the cheers, nearly off their feet. The whole scene was extraordinarily moving and nearly touching, when one heard from an extra excited man shouting amongst the din 'Good-bye, Sorr.' A gulp came up, not of sorrow, but of the sheer thrill of the emotion of it all. And so it came - a last look from the Adjutant and Quartermaster, both the best of fellows, and we were outside the barrack gates. Even then lines of recruits were on the road, cheering wildly. At length we got away from them all. But it seemed no time to settle down. The weirdest flags were being flown by the younger soldiers - a combination of the Irish and Union Jack. These I dared not notice, as such extra turns were all against order.
On the way to the station I had two of the jolliest and playful Sergeants, both been out before. One of them had been Army boxing champion, the other a bayonet fighter of some merit. I couldn't have hit on two jollier souls, and they were cracking the most comical jokes all the time. There was flag wagging and handkerchief wagging galore all the way to the station. One old lady, a publican's wife, deserves special mention. She stood on the steps of her home solemnly waving an awful old flag slowly in large circles.
It was a bit of a scrum at the station, as the express train was already in, and of course there weren't enough reserved carriages.
Who minds as long as we got to Liverpool Street? There I was put in charge of the transport, ammunition boxes, officers' luggage, etc., which we all took on the Inner Circle to Westminster. There the transport should have met us. You will have rightly guessed it didn't. Three taxis were chartered, and just as the last S.A.A. box was being put in the transport wagon came, half an hour late. There were the usual excuses and angry words, and he was sent on his way - not rejoicing.
A burly P.C. escorted us to the station, and the step he set, slow and ponderous, couldn't be ours, so he wasn't a guardsman.
There was a half-hour's wait at Waterloo, time for a glass of .... with Pease, as we were already feeling the effects of the weight of the pack. Our Sergeants found us, and insisted on us having drinks with them. (Not certain whether it was correct for the Brigade to be seen drinking with the N.C.O.'s but could we refuse?) And outside, who should we meet but the Brigade-Major - but the doors were not of glass.
The train did not take long to bring us to Southampton. We drew up alongside the boat.
I got an hour's leave from Capt. Young to go on shore, so 'phoned up the Willis Flemings and suggested that they should send someone to see me. Dick arrived: he is cramming at home for 'Smalls' and in March, whether he passes or not, he will go into the Hampshire R.H.A.
After buying a few knick-knacks for others, I returned and found all on board. And what a boat it was! - and old cattle boat, stalls up - luckily they were white washed. The only royal feeling it had was that we heard it had been used to bring the King of the Belgians' stables over from Ostend. With us were drafts of the Coldstream Guards, Leinster, Middlesex, A.S.C. and Dublin Fusiliers. There was no shadow of doubt our men knocked spots off any of them.
Within half an hour we were under steam and away. Our quarters would have done well for a third class passenger liner, and there was little room for ten officers and ship's staff (Hon. C. Agar Robartes, MP for St Austell, was in our party)
Young, being senior, was Captain in charge on deck. The I.G. got the use of the Captain's room, as he was on deck all night. Young on the bed, me on the sofa (with no right to it), and the two others, gentlemen that they were ... and Pease on the floor.
(I should have told you what Dick Fleming to ld me that on our course there were supposed to be six German submarines cruising about, so he had heard from a Naval officer.) At supper we did not dare try the ship's fish and brown stew, but preferred our own mess which had been packed for us, and washed it down with whisky and port, thoughtfully provided. We had not been going long when the engine broke down, and we perspired a bit when we thought of being at anchor with those lurkers about. However, after a time we picked up a friendly pair of t.b.d.'s and were soon under way again, much too slowly I thought.
Then we turned in, but no sleep came, nor would it, and the boat began to rock and pitch. I lay low - we all did - felt uncertain like; Young dozed. Then came a frightful bang. Young shot up. 'What's that?' We listened, thought of submarines - nothing doing. Turned over again, but couldn't sleep. Tried counting, thought of hymns, comic songs, methods of Naval attack, especially for submarines, life-saving etc., for eight hours, when I got tired of it and the sea having calmed, I popped up on deck. It was a brilliantly clear moonlit night, with just a gentle swell on the sea. And there on either side of us, perhaps 300 yards away, were our two black, belching, low lying t.b.d.'s. They looked magnificent, and I felt our ship must be safe as a house on a rock. Every few minutes they would turn in and out of the course, now sliding ahead, now behind, sometimes nearly crossing our bows, and they kept up by morse a running conversation with us or between themselves. Away, far away on the horizon, a lightship was blinking. So, feeling more composed inwardly and outwardly, I turned in again and snatched a couple of hours sleep.
When we awoke we were stopping. Just off the lighthouse in the Channel, the t.b.d.'s left soon and our guard was left in the hands of tiny French t.b.'s who gambolled round us while we lay at anchor. And so we stayed for four hours. They went quick enough in superintending the men's rations, and watching a most glorious purple and golden sunrise. As day broke I recognised the port at which I used to arrive on my visits to the Pilters.
There was any amount of shipping lying in the roads waiting for high tide. At last a tug came out, which took us to our breath. We passed on the way a sunken cargo boat which had been torpedoed two days before in the roads and hurriedly run into port. She missed her haven by inches.
At the disembarkation I was in charge of the guard to see no men got loose. Of course, as the luggage came on shore the Irishmen had to let one bale overboard, otherwise it would have been so dull. Four men immediately went after it, and I though they would never get it out, until one man got his teeth into the sacking. Again the comforts were brought up in triumph.
Ammunition (120 rounds) was served out, and away we went to our camp - a four and a half mile trudge with a hill at the end of it, and didn't we all feel the packs? Oh, not a bit!
We went through a sludgy, muddy street, which would have been a disgrace to an Irish lane, past many French guards and troops. The sentries amused us by standing at the present, smoking or with one leg curled over the other or talking to a pal next door - generally committing all three offences. Our men were delighted.
Then girls came along dancing by our side - only three-year-olds - all crying 'Bisque' (biscuit), which our men showered on them though we thought them short of rations. And so we wound our way to camp, pulled ourselves together at the end, and soon were allotted tents.
We are in a valley facing west, overlooking a river, and the whole terrain is a sea of dried mud. Mostly tin huts, and where no huts, tents with floorboards. Everything most uncannily orderly, telegraph poles, streets, notice boards, Y.M.C.A. tents, all on the side of a steepish hill - a very well chosen spot.
It did not take us long before we were in the Officers' mess having some excellent Bovril. Before long it got dark, so we changed for mess, which we had altogether with about twenty other officers of drafts in our Division. Opposite sat a South Stafford: beyond Pease sat a New College don, Johnson by name, who knew me more than I knew him (and O.B.M. man, friend of Arthur Winser's), he is in the Oxford and Bucks L.I.
A look at today's Times, and with difficulty did not disgrace myself: within half an hour, Pease and I were getting to bed. My servant had put everything carefully out. I made various notes of things wanted to be sent off, and so into my sleeping bag with just one rug above me and the door flaps wide open. I was asleep before the candle was out, and slept like a log on the hard floor (blessings on my air cushion) till six, without feeling at all cold. A cold bath in the open (blessings likewise) and a waddling dressing made me enjoy breakfast more than most mornings, and 'Everything in the garden was lovely.'
After breakfast, a cursory examination by a C.O. and a Medical Officer, who were highly pleased with our men, and who wouldn't be? You can't help being proud of them
The men were very slack about not shaving, but we are having no slacking at all in these details, in fact, we are to be stricter than usual, to keep the best discipline, and the men up to the mark. They like it, and are all the better for it.
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