A Marine at Gallipoli on the Western Front Read online

  Billy used to get on top of a traverse and heave a lump of chalk at him while he was skulking and the poor devil would fall off the step with fright. I took him out wiring for half an hour one night and had to fetch him back out of the trench three times. Every time the Bosch sent up a light, instead of standing still, or dropping flat, he would scamper off to the trench, usually making a horrible clatter. He stood far more chance of stopping something by doing that than he did in stopping by me. Just before we had finished the Bosch sent over a rifle grenade which burst between the firing line and supports, but it was enough for Hobson. I lost my assistant and he sort of ‘went to the latrine before he got there’. He stuck with us through the Beaumont Hamel job and the further struggles on the Ancre early in 1917 and then walked into a group of Germans at Gavrelle in April. That must have wanted a lot of pluck of a sort. He went straight from the tape with his hands up so that he knew where he was going.

  Chapter Twenty

  July 1916 – In Bully Grenay

  We were relieved by 1 RM at 2.00pm on the 25th and we made our way down to the village of Bully Grenay, which was just beyond the bottom of the Bully Alley CT. The village was really a double one, Bully where we were billeted, and Grenay, farther to the left, which contained a mine that was worked at night, and the railway station, very badly battered and to which no trains now came. Grenay was more thickly populated by the French, owing I suppose to the coalmine, and there were several fairly decent shops in the main street. There were very few people in Bully though, and the French there all ran estaminets to make a living out of the British Tommy. They didn’t always come off best though; we had some sharp lads in the Naval Division. It was a sight how much wine and bière these chaps could drink when they got it for nothing.

  Just try to imagine the following scene: a fair-sized estaminet in Bully, the big room set with small tables and chairs. In one corner a counter behind which is the proprietor’s stock of drink, bottles of vin rouge and vin blanc, Champagne, cans of bière, and the syrup grenadine and citron. All the tables and chairs are occupied with soldiers of various regiments. In one corner a group is playing at House or Lotto at a penny a card. Other groups are talking quietly together, perhaps discussing old battles and making plans of the trenches on the table top with a finger dipped in the bière. There at one table is a Mons hero belonging to the Army Ordnance Corps (AOC) who spent 1914 most likely at le Havre, and round him, listening spellbound with mouths wide open, is a group of soldiers, obviously out for the first time, and swallowing everything he tells them. Every few seconds his fist will thump on the table, which I suppose means another Bosch he has killed. And the listeners are paying every time. All of a sudden the scene of peace is shattered. Six Bosch shells burst with a crash amongst the fallen houses around; Madame immediately seizes the cash drawer and disappears down the cellar, quickly followed by the waiting Jeanette or whatever they call the pretty girl with short skirts and skimpy blouse. The new soldiers jump to their feet with scared expressions on their faces, but sink down in their chairs again when they see the others sitting still. The Mons hero has gone though, probably to his depot to draw a new pair of trousers. The quickest to move though are the ‘birds’ and the back of the counter is thronged with them, pushing bottles of bière, wine or anything else that is handy up their tunics. Then they disappear into the street before Madame comes back to find her loss. They always made sure of their money though. I never knew one to forget her till in her flight.

  We were down in Bully for nearly four days during which time we had a bath, clean underclothes, socks etc., and managed to get a few fatigues in, such as digging new reserve trenches, mending old ones, and carrying gas cylinders, weighing 90lb, up the line at night. A party went up one night at 10.00pm carrying the things and the engineer acting as guide lost himself. The men were lugging the things about until 4 o clock next morning in pouring rain. The sense of direction some of these men possessed was simply appalling. God knows what would happen in open warfare. Half the blighters would be in Jerry’s trenches.

  We spent our time in Bully very pleasantly on the whole, though, and had a fairly decent billet. That isn’t to say we had a featherbed and clean sheets, but we were in a fairly whole house with a wooden floor to sleep on, which was far preferable to the ground floor of a French house. They were all covered with tiles and it was like sleeping on blocks of ice.

  Moved up in reserve again on the 29th and found some very decent trenches. Most had been constructed by the French who certainly believed in safety and comfort up the line. The trench, which was wide and deep, was covered for a good part of its length with shrapnel-proof protection, well supported with strong poles. The worst of a covered trench though is that they got so lousy. An open trench was bad enough, but with a trench of that description it was impossible to keep the lice in check.

  Our divisional artillery had joined us and for a few days had been getting into position. They woke things up a bit in the sector and I don’t know what the London Irish would have thought had they come back. We could get a very good view of a considerable part of the front trenches and spent most of the four days we were there watching the various strafes by the trench mortar sections. Nothing of very great interest happened to us, though; after spending five monotonous days in the reserve trenches we went back to Bully.

  The first day down I had to see Jimmy Ross. I had been bitten badly by mosquitoes and one eye was completely closed. Hot formulations soon fetched the swelling down.

  August passed along pretty much the same as July. As our division still only consisted of two brigades, and it was a two-brigade front, our spells in the trenches were longer and more frequent than they should have been. Things were very quiet, however, and life up the line got very monotonous.

  The next time up in the front line, the Bosch exploded a small mine, between our front line and his, but we were prepared for it. Not knowing exactly which part of the front it would go up on, each of the two companies holding the front line had a crater jumping party always standing by.

  I was in charge of A Company’s rifle party and, as soon as the mine went up, had to dash to the far lip of the crater and take possession before the Bosch got there. Each man was told off for a special job, such as bomber, bayonet man, or digging party. It’s a queer sensation, to be sitting over a mine expecting it to explode at any minute. Our company was spared the agony, however, and D Company on our left dropped in for the job. Nothing very serious happened; the mine, which was only small, exploded in no man’s land and, after a bit of scrapping, (in which Lieutenant Wing of D Company distinguished himself) our party got possession of the crater and our front line was later on carried round it. It made things pretty lively all night and we lost a few men wounded. The trenches were in a poor state of repair by the time Jerry had finished strafing.

  A very interesting piece of news that came through from General Paris was that all English leave was cancelled, but anybody bringing in a German prisoner would get ten days’ special leave. That was after being out from England for about twenty months and being wounded twice. All sorts of special stunts were suggested and thought out, but only one came off.

  One dark night two officers and twelve men of the Ansons on our right went across to the German front line and captured a sentry. He was proving awkward so he was hit on the head with the butt of a rifle, then they dragged him back across no man’s land and through both lots of wire with a rope tied round him. Coming back both officers were shot, one very dangerously, and one man was killed. The poor devil of a German was dead when the rest of the party got back to our own line and leave was granted to none of them because old Paris wanted a live prisoner. However, they got identification of the regiment opposite, which was the 103rd Saxon.

  About the middle of the month, 190 Brigade made its appearance and we had various lots of them up the line with us for instruction. The Dublin Fusiliers were the first to come and they were proper Irish. One day in the fro
nt line about eight of them, a section in fact, were arguing the point about rations and had nearly got to blows. The row they made was simply awful and the Bosch must have thought we were massing for an attack. Anyhow, he sent over a Rum Jar that dropped amongst the lot and put an end to the argument. Five Dublins were killed and three got Blighties.

  General Paris was often round the trenches and would come strolling round at any time of the day, so that we had to have things spick and span, rifles clean, faces shaved and trenches swept and dusted. He came round one very quiet afternoon when the war appeared to be hundreds of miles away. Everybody was intent on his own job, which, with the majority of the men, consisted of sleeping; others were sketching, carving figures out of chalk or burning clusters of lice eggs out of the seams of their shirts. The general asked the sentry if he could see any movement and then passed on and went down Bully Alley. Bill Burn, our platoon sanitary man, followed him down after a few minutes as he had to fetch some chloride of lime from the FA at Bully. The French, while holding this sector, used to have an artillery observation post near the bottom of Bully Alley but a spy gave the position away since when the Bosch had strafed it every few days with 8-inch shells. He happened to strafe it then, just as General Paris got to it. One 8-inch shell dropped in the trench about ten yards from the general and when Bill Burn arrived there he found poor old Paris on his knees unable to move. He asked him to help him up and keep with him till he got to Bully. We could quite understand how it would shake the old man up: he must have been about seventy years old.1

  One day, early in September, we were holding the front line again and I was talking to Corporal Pilgrim of the bombers. All at once I heard the whizz of a rifle grenade and the next second the thing burst on the back of the trench, a piece of it hitting Pilgrim on the thumb, nearly smashing it off. I was untouched and put a field dressing on Pilgrim straightaway, then hurried him away to Jimmy Ross. He got home with it and the next time I saw him was in Aldershot. He had passed through the Cadet School and had got his commission a week or two before me.

  On 5 September we were sent down in reserve and the same night were on a fatigue: pushing wagons full of rations, bombs and ammunition on the light railway from Bully to the support trenches of 189 Brigade. It was all uphill going and the quartermaster of the Ansons who set us off warned us not to ride back on the wagons. One man had been killed only the other night through doing it. A chief petty officer (CPO) of the Ansons went up with us and when we had discharged our cargo he told us to jump on, which we did. All went well until we came to an extra steep bit with a sharp turn at the bottom. Downhill we went at about 50mph and the wagon jumped the rails at the turn, finishing its flight through the air ten yards away, upside down. We went in all directions. I turned about two somersaults and landed on one knee on the bank, putting my kneecap out of place. I could only get back by hopping and holding on to one of the men. The CPO had his leg broken and had to be carried down on a stretcher. All the others came off with a shaking. I didn’t report sick, but could only hobble about for days.

  I was warned off for a course on 7 September and the 8th saw my departure from the Bully sector. Having drawn a decent bit of pay, I joined the rest of the party from the division for the course. I was the only NCO in the company who hadn’t been away for a course of some description, so I think it was my turn.

  We went by motor lorry to Pernes where a divisional school of instruction had just been started. Pernes was a lovely little town surrounded by beautiful country. Our school was a canvas camp, nothing very elaborate, and the exam and lecture room was a big barn. Work was hard and hours long, but we had every night after tea on our own. These were spent in various ways, either a ramble round the country, a night in one of the cafes, or else at the pictures, the first cinema show I had seen since leaving Port Said. The course should have lasted a fortnight but after a week orders came through to break up the school and for all men to rejoin their battalions.

  Sudden orders from Army HQ had been received for the division to hand over the Bully sector to 37th Division on 16 September and to move back to villages lying between St Pol and Arras.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  September 1916 – Training for a Big Push

  When I found the battalion on 16 September it was in the village of Monchy Breton, billeted in barns, cowsheds and pigsties. My section was in a pigsty but with plenty of cleanish straw on the floor to sleep on. The battalion was once more greatly augmented by the square number men and NCOs and the division was up to full strength. It was wonderful how the same old faces reappeared as the battalion came away from action. I don’t suppose many of these chaps ever fired an angry shot all through the war.

  I soon had a chance to show off some of the knowledge I had gained at the school, as the battalion started drilling next day. Section and platoon drill, company drill and, in the afternoons the everlasting battalion attacks. Later on, we did attacks by brigades over rough lines of trenches that we dug and which were supposed to represent the trenches over which we should do our actual push.

  A good report must have come through from the divisional school because, on 26 September, I was made full corporal, which was very pleasing from more than one point of view.

  Time passed very pleasantly at Monchy Breton in spite of the drill and marches and the weather was fairly good. The battalion was in good health and fairly good spirits and I think everybody was looking forward to the next turn of action, when we could show the Army what sort of division we were.

  We now had the three brigades, divisional artillery, divisional train and transport, and the officers of each battalion from company commanders upwards had horses. Some of them looked proper cuts on them, too. I think there had been some talk of Naval Division cavalry, but the sight of some of our officers mounted must have knocked that idea out of the heads of the proposers. All the NCOs of our company had their photo taken before we left Monchy Breton. A rare lot we were too, but very few were left after six months.

  On 2 October we received orders to pack up and stand by to move but the order was cancelled until next day. When word came round to fall in next day we found about twenty of A Company adrift. A hunt round found some in their billets and others in estaminets, all helplessly drunk. Of course, Joe Woods was one and I think the worst was Jack Spencer, who was unconscious through the effects of some rum they had bought from a Frenchwoman. The company was nearly half an hour late on battalion parade and the CO was just about frantic. All the drunken ones were placed under arrest and had to march off the effects of the drink as best they could.

  We entrained at Tuigues in cattle trucks and after a long weary ride arrived at Acheaux. Once more we detrained to the pleasant sound of guns booming, shells bursting and the cheerful sight of shell holes and all the bustle of a busy sector.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  October 1916 – The Battle of the Ancre

  We arrived at a poor specimen of a village called Hedanville on 5 October after a ten-kilometre march along roads thick with mud and almost impassable owing to the continual streams of motor lorries passing both ways. On arrival, we were shoved in some filthy huts at the lower end of the village. We hadn’t been there two hours before fatigues started and a party was told off to carry ‘Toffee Apples’ up the line. I missed it for once and, after a stroll round the village, turned in for the night.

  Our 190 Brigade had gone straight up to take over the line from Serre to Beaumont Hamel, and rumours were strong that the division would attack either one or other of the villages. We had attacked both, along with Beaucourt and St Pierre Divion on 1 July with all the advantages of surprise, good weather and fresh troops and suffered a costly defeat.

  The Germans still occupied their original trenches which had been considerably strengthened. Apart from that, the weather had broken up and the ground was in a terrible state. To make matters more pleasant for us, we kept hearing tales of the various divisions that had been practically wiped out atte
mpting to take the ground. The unlucky 31st, the glorious 29th and the Newfoundland and South African contingents had all gone under there. I should imagine the Army had Headquarters think it a good plan for getting rid once and for all of the Naval Division. We’d always been a bugbear.

  The fatigues we were called upon to do certainly had plenty of variety about them. We laid tracks for railways, constructed new roads, repaired old ones, made and repaired trenches and acted as carrying parties for 190 Brigade up the line. ‘Toffee Apples’, Stokes shells, bombs, SAA, rations and scores of other things had to be formed into dumps up the line in readiness for the attack. And through it all we were always under heavy shellfire and the Bosch was drenching the ground with gas shells. Almost every time a fatigue party went out it suffered casualties. The continual work, lack of sleep, poor food and wretched weather conditions soon found work for Jimmy Ross and men were going sick every day.

  On 12 October we were moved to Englebelmer, a battered village much nearer the line, where at first we were billeted in the houses, such as they were. We had less distance to walk on fatigues up the line for which, of course, we were very thankful. Our band from Deal Battalion had been sent out to cheer up our spirits a bit, but it was little of the band we used to hear. Most of their music was played at Divisional HQ, miles and miles from our place of abode.