A Marine at Gallipoli on the Western Front Read online

  I touched for a weird job on the Monday night; with three men I had to get out about twenty yards in front of our wire, get down in shell holes and act as covering party to the wiring party. Eighty yards away in the semi-darkness of the July night we could see the Germans working on their own wire, could hear them as they worked on their own trench with pick and shovel, and at times could see the shadowy forms of their fighting patrols as they made their cautious way up and down the front. I might mention that they kept well on their own side and very close to the wire. I was itching to fire but knew I dare not, with our own wiring party just behind me.

  The relief on 11 July passed off very quietly and we were back in the support line just after midnight. The next day was hot and dry and we had a chance to clean up a bit. I had a very pleasant shock during the day: I was warned off for a six weeks’ course at the XIII Corps School at Pernes. I was to go on the Saturday; meanwhile my only hope was that I shouldn’t run into anything hot up to then.

  Friday was pretty hot and Jerry sent over no less than 150 8-inch shells just on our left. For us he sent over a decent amount of 5.9s, but no one bothered to count them. We heard the next day that not one man had been hit with all those shells, and we expected at least a battalion to have been wiped out with those 8-inch shells.

  A whole stretch of ground on our left was in a constant state of upheaval. Saturday came and with it orders to get ready to relieve 1 RM again at the windmill. It appears that they wouldn’t trust the windmill position to anyone but our brigade. It was the tit-bit of the whole corps front.

  Orders for me to clear off to the transport lines at Rochincourt. Got down about three in the afternoon and was paid 50 francs, then served out with new clothes. A hot bath, and everything clean and new on. What a luxury. Yesterday seemed like a horrible nightmare. Just imagine, after all the filth and horrible conditions of the past few weeks, the incessant shelling, the constant fear of death or even worse, of lingering mutilation, to feel clean, almost safe and with a bundle of notes in my pocket and to know for the next six weeks I should be in pleasant company amidst lovely country. What more could a chap wish for? HOME!

  Chapter Thirty-One

  15 July 1917 – A Pleasant Interlude

  Away by 10.00am on the Sunday in a motor lorry to Pernes where I joined up for a general course for officers and NCOs of XIII Corps. We were in a fairly pleasant building and the NCOs were a very decent crowd, so that I looked forward with pleasure to the six weeks. We were told off in syndicates and banded together by divisions. Work started on the Monday and, although it was hard, it was interesting. It was a case of cramming into a few hours the study of years. We had most nights off and could do pretty much as we liked. The CO had put us on trust and I don’t think anybody abused it.

  Our syndicate (63rd Division NCOs) won the shooting competition easy and the same day, 7 August, we drew in the semi-final of the football competition. On 12 August the syndicate were runners up in two prize shooting competitions and we had about 100 francs to share.

  On the 13th we had another competition and I was leader of the 63rd NCOs. We had to start off from a trench, attack an enemy position, dummies in the trench representing the Bosch which we had to bayonet, then another similar trench, then to shoot at the retreating enemy represented by tiles in the ground about thirty yards away. My team was easily top with a score of 265 out of a 300 possible, but 5th Division won the competition owing to our syndicate of officers letting us down. The next morning was taken up with the final exam and I passed well up, both in theory and practical, which should mean the other stripe at least on my return.

  The six weeks had simply flown by and I could have stuck another six easily. At the same time I felt a desire to get back to my own battalion. Away from the pleasant little market town of Pernes by 10.00am on 15 August. Joined up with my battalion in the railway cutting next day and found to my satisfaction that I was made full sergeant, backdated to 28 April in place of Jock Saunders who was taken prisoner in the attack. Good old Jock, he did me a good turn, but then I earned him his Military Medal at Beaumont-Hamel.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  August 1917 – Odds and Ends at Gavrelle

  We were in the railway cutting three days until 18 August, working every night, digging a new reserve line, or else carrying up the line. Things were fairly quiet on our part of the front but over in the Lens district it was Hell. For two nights the whole sky was a blaze of light and we had word along that most of the town was on fire.

  Sunday night we moved up to the line just by the windmill and had things fairly easy, except for a few rifle grenades and a few ‘flying pigs’. We had one man pretty badly wounded with a grenade. The following day we were witnesses of one of the queerest sights I ever saw during the whole war. Two of our planes were patrolling the front just above us when all at once three Bosch planes darted down on them. One of our planes went down straightaway out of control with the first burst of firing. The other continued to fight for about a minute when he dropped to within 200 feet of the ground, and we thought he was done, but he flattened out and turned his nose towards the German lines. The German planes followed him down, switchbacked all over him and then quietly escorted our chap into their own lines. I have often wondered if any more planes were ever captured in the same manner. I put the cause down to our man getting wounded and taking that way out to save his own skin.

  Things were very quiet in the line with not much activity from the Bosch and I passed my time potting at various objects on Jerry’s trench, tins he had thrown over the top, loop-holes and low spots in his parapet. I had my head over the top for every shot, but not one German was enterprising enough to take a pot shot at me.

  Our latest platoon officer was a Mr Downey, a mild, pleasant-mannered man and most obviously unsuited for this life. He had been the pianist at Queen’s Hall and on two or three later occasions we had evidence of his skill with the piano. The most interesting part of Downey though was his field-glasses, the finest pair I’ve ever looked through. He lent them to me practically all through the few days we were in the line and I had some good views of the Germans in the back areas. I also spotted several trench mortar positions just behind his support line and passed the information on to the Intelligence Officer with the necessary map references and had the satisfaction later of seeing them badly strafed by a couple of our guns.

  At dusk on 21 August we were badly shelled with 8-inch shells and things were very unpleasant for an hour. He managed to knock our beautiful trench to bits with two of the big foul brutes. It was a nightmare of a night, the weather turned and we had a wet drizzly night; the Bosch started a trench mortar strafe, most of the bombs filled with a new gas, and we were in gas helmets most of the night. Among the gas-filled ones were several 10-inch Minenwerfers that burst like the crack of doom and blew our new sandbags to blazes.

  To make matters more pleasant our people shelled Jerry’s front lines with gas shells and what little breeze there was drifted the whole lot back onto us. Some of the chaps got fed up and took their gas helmets off; the consequence was several needless casualties. Dawn came with a change in the breeze that drifted the gas that had hung over us like a pall over to Jerry. I hope he enjoyed it.

  The day following was fairly spasmodic, Jerry trying very hard to smash in the cellar of the windmill with 8-inch. He didn’t manage it, but at the same time things were very uncomfortable and we were continually shifting our position. With no deep dugouts in our company sector we had no alternative but to stick it in the trench. The night was a repetition of the previous night, one continual strafe from dusk to dawn; we had several men badly knocked about.

  The Howes on our right just by the cemetery got fed up with being shot at and a party of them went over and bombed the Bosch out of a portion of his front line, then came back, or rather some of them came back. We had just one man killed. Dawn brought a little relief and for two hours we had peace. Then our heavy Stokes started on Jerry a
nd for two hours we had the satisfaction of seeing Jerry’s trenches blown up in lumps, and had the added pleasure of a few pot-shots at some Bosch who were looking for a better hole.

  C Company had a little job on at night, just a matter of connecting up the three isolated posts in front of the windmill. They were getting on fine when a pick wielded by a hefty C Company man found a billet in a buried dump of German bombs and a score of men were killed and wounded. Our CO, Major Wainwright, happened to be somewhere near and received a slight scratch on his arm. He fairly ran down to the Field Ambulance and when he came back next morning his face was covered with smiles; his right arm was in a sling and on his left was a beautiful narrow gold stripe. I wouldn’t have bothered.

  Friday the 24th was fairly hectic; the shelling was spasmodic but still it never ceased for many minutes on the battalion sector. The news that the Howes were to relieve us at night helped us through the day. The relief was complete about 10.00pm but on the way out via the new Foxy trench I nearly got caught by a whizz-bang. The thing burst only a yard over the top and I was almost buried with earth and stones.

  We were down in Wakefield Camp at Rouchincourt just after midnight and the next day we went into billets at Marouil and spent a fairly decent week down there with a few trips to Arras at night where we managed to get rid of a few francs. I developed trouble with my teeth and when the battalion went up the line on 2 September I had to stay behind in the Transport Lines. Next morning, I went down to Field Ambulance and had three teeth out and one drilled ready for stopping next week. I went up with the rations after dusk and found the boys in the Red Line, a lovely new support line. And it ought to be lovely. We dug it. Things were very quiet so far as we were concerned, but the work was frightful. We had dug and dug in this sector until we had made it such a stronghold as the Germans made Beaumont-Hamel.

  Wherever you looked you saw nothing but new trenches, belts of wire, new gunpits etc., but still the Heads aren’t satisfied; they must have us out every possible hour of the night digging more, putting out more belts of wire, burying cables six feet deep, and in fact doing anything so long as we weren’t idle.

  The days were passed snatching sleep at short intervals, in between sitting on top of the trench, hoping that a shrapnel ball would oblige us by hitting us in a soft spot and so put an end for the time-being to the awful monotony of life. Air fights were pretty common and our guns were continually shelling the Bosch planes above us and the contents of the shells kept coming down with an angry zip amongst us, but not one of the damned things would hit us. Just excepting one lad, a new reinforcement who had come out prepared with all the latest lifesaving apparatus, a beautiful steel body-shield, light as a feather, but strong enough to stop a Bosch bullet at close quarters. This lad was writing a letter in his funk hole when somebody shouted out there was a lovely air fight on above. He popped his head out of his hole, minus his steel helmet, and got a shrapnel ball straight on his brain box.

  Relieved by the Howes on the 6th and went down to the Black Line, where all the mud from the sector seemed to gather. We were covered in it from head to foot, slept in it, worked in it, ate in it and ate it too.

  The Ansons were in the front line and carried out a small raid at night, bringing in three or four prisoners. We didn’t hear the cost, but it’s easy to imagine what those four Germans cost the Ansons.

  The battalion moved up again, this time in the windmill position, on the 8th. I went down again to St Catherine’s to have my tooth filled and had a fairly dizzy time. The Bosch aeroplanes were over all day dropping bombs and one got home on a big shell dump, causing immense havoc and a terrible loss of life.

  I went up the line again with the rations and found my company in close support to the other three who were in the front line. Our job was carrying and wiring again and we were at it nearly every hour of the day and night. We carried and wired until both our hearts and hands were sore and bleeding. The Bosch was fairly quiet and our trenches were in splendid condition. We relieved C Company on the morning of the 13th and had word along that the smug-faced hypocrite, Horatio Bottomley, was making a tour of inspection of the line. We saw nothing of him but were very interested spectators of an incident that occurred and which no doubt John Bull1 made great profit from.

  Two of our planes were just making their way over our lines, about 2,000 feet up. Jerry opened up with his anti-aircraft guns and one of his first shells smashed right home on one of our poor chaps. His plane was smashed to bits and we watched the various parts as they came to earth. Some came down with a rush, the pilot more slowly, turning over and over; we could only hope that the shell had killed him; then came wings and tail fluttering down gently to earth. I’ve seen millions of shells fired at planes but that was the only plane I have seen hit by one. Everybody was shocked at the sight, it had all been so sudden and unexpected, but still war is like that. It’s always the unexpected that puts us out of gear.

  We expected some retaliation from our people but nothing happened, except that the sky was full of nothing but Bosch planes and our futile shrapnel. The day was brilliant sunshine but towards evening the rain came on, first a miserable drizzle then a steady downpour. From 9.00pm to midnight we were out in front wiring and, at various intervals, were treated to spasms of shrapnel, which caused a few casualties, two of the wounded being corporals of No. 2 Platoon. We had the impression that the Germans were only holding their front line with a few odd posts and patrols, relying as much as anything for defence on the machine-gun posts in their third line. There was very little firing from them but every now and then they would send up a few Very lights which showed us all up in alarming distinctness. We stood like statues until the blackness of the night covered us again.

  We carried on work in the trench after the wiring had been finished, improving funk holes, revetting the trench, anything in fact to keep the men on the move. Everything was in a sticky state with the rain and mud and the men were fagged out. More than that, they were fed up and as soon as the order ‘stand down’ was passed along after dawn every man, except the few on watch, got down to it. I started shaving and was about halfway through when one of the men on watch in the next fire-bay dashed round the traverse and in a hoarse whisper said ‘the General’ was coming up the trench. I glanced wildly round the trench and there, on the fire-step in front of me, was a bunch of rifles, thick with mud and with the metal red with rust. I snatched up a waterproof sheet and threw it over them and had just got busy with the lather brush again when the general came in the fire-bay. I expected our brigadier, but it was no other than General Laurie, our Divisional Commander. ‘What’s happened to all the men, Sergeant?’ he said. ‘Just stood down, Sir,’ I replied. ‘Where are your officers?’ he asked me next, and I told him they had a dugout down the communication trench. All the time I was hoping he wouldn’t catch sight of an awful rifle I had missed. However, the next thing he did was go to the waterproof sheet and pull it away from the bunch of rifles. ‘Very pretty,’ he muttered, and I noticed the backs of his ears turn a nasty tinge of red. However, he went off up the trench and I saw him no more.

  I roused the men out to clean their rifles and sent one chap away for the company officer. Mr Hardisty came along and I told him what had happened and he could hardly believe his ears. ‘Get things straightened up, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘we shall have the Colonel round in a few minutes blowing us up.’ We had too, and he was like a bear with a sore head, but things were more shipshape and all the men were busy either on their rifles or washing and shaving. One result of the GOC’s early morning stroll was that the officers had to give up their comfy dugout in Foxy Trench and take up their abode in the firing line along with their men.

  The Bosch was nasty all day and succeeded in smashing in our line and new Foxy no less than nine times. We had no casualties but some men got a bit jumpy. Some never seemed to get used to a bit of a strafe, and it needed a lot of good cursing to keep them from bolting.

  Billy and
I went with Mr Downey on the Saturday, finding out a new way out; we were to be relieved by 31st Division in a day or two and had to go down via the railway cutting. This was a new route for us and we had to smell out the way first.

  Sunday morning 16 September came and with ‘stand to’ just before dawn came the first rum issue of the winter season. Just after ‘stand down’ I turned in for a little sleep, but was soon roused out. Billy came dashing up and told me that Corporal Bill Marsden of the Machine Gun Section was out beyond our wire and the Germans had just shot him. It appeared that the hog had drunk a canteen full of rum and had made up his mind to go over to the German trenches and have a scrap on his own. He went over, dropped in their front trench and prowled round a bit, but saw no Bosch. He came back but still wasn’t satisfied and went again. This time he went as far as the support line and obviously again had the whole trench to himself; and some of the men saw him walking back with his arms full of souvenirs. However, the Bosch was awake and got home on Bill Marsden with a machine gun; he dropped halfway through no man’s land with a bullet or two through him. Some of the men who were watching him got the wind up then and told Billy Hurrell who explained things to me. We dashed up just in time to see the end of things as far as Bill Marsden was concerned. We could see him crawling along towards our wire, then he managed to get up and make a rush. The Bosch was waiting, though, and Bill got another bullet through him, this time through the spine and he collapsed like a pricked bladder just on the wrong side of our wire.

  I sent for the officer of the watch, Mr Hardisty, then got the whole of the platoon up on the fire-step and gave them orders to keep up a steady fire on the German second and third trenches. Then Billy and I and the ever-ready Puggy Willett dashed over and got Marsden in. And we’d a hell of a job too. It was bad enough getting through our wire without his body, but it was a terrible struggle coming back. Perspiration was pouring off us and our clothes were almost ripped off. Our hands and legs were bleeding where the barbed wire had got home. Jerry kept popping away at us, but I think the fire from my men must have put him off his aim because none of us was hit. Marsden was just alive when we got to him, but by the time we passed him over the parapet he was dead and when we rolled over into the trench we were very little better. Curse the bloody rum! Those were the sentiments of the three of us until Hardisty gave us a swig from his flask to revive us a bit. Wonderful stuff!