Tin, mess
1
” ” cover
1
Shirt
1
Socks, pair
1
Soap
1
Towel
1
Housewife
1
Holdall
1
Razor
1
” case
1
Lather brush
1
Comb
1
Fork
1
Knife
1
Spoon
1
Toothbrush
1
Cardigan
1
Cap, fatigue comforter
1
Pay-book
1
Disc, identity
1
Sheet, waterproof
1
Grease, tin of
1
Field-service dressing
1
Respirator
1
Spine protector
1
Set of equipment
1
Laces, pair
1
Rounds ammunition
150
Rifle and bayonet
Rifle cover
1
Oil-bottle and pull-through
1
Entrenching tool
1
Well, anyhow, marching on cobbled roads is difficult, so when a staff-officer came by in a Rolls-Royce and cursed us for bad march-discipline, I felt like throwing something at him. Trench soldiers hate the staff and the staff know it. The principal disagreement seems to be about the extent to which trench conditions should modify discipline.
The La Bourse miners are old men and boys dressed in sloppy blue clothes with bulging pockets. Shell craters ring the pit-head. I am billeted with a fatherly old man called Monsieur Hojdés, who has three marriageable daughters; one of them, uninvited, lifted up her skirt to show me a shell-wound on the thigh that laid her up last winter.
May 22nd. A colossal bombardment by the French at Souchez, a few miles away – continuous roar of artillery, coloured flares, shells bursting all along the ridge by Notre Dame de Lorette. I couldn’t sleep. The noise went on all night. Instead of dying away it grew and grew, till the whole air rocked and shook; the sky was lit up with huge flashes. I lay in my feather-bed and sweated. This morning they tell me there was a big thunderstorm in the middle of the bombardment. But, as Walker says: ‘Where the gunder ended and the thunder began was hard to say.’ The men took hot baths at the mines and cleaned up generally. Their rifles are all in an advanced state of disrepair, and many of their clothes are in rags, but neither can be replaced, we are told, until they get much worse. The platoon is billeted in a barn full of straw. Old Burford, who is so old that he refuses to sleep with the other men of the platoon, has found a private doss in an out-building among some farm tools. In trenches he will sleep on the fire-step even in the rain, rather than in a warm dug-out with the other men. He says that he remembers the C.O. as a baby in long skirts. Young Bumford is the only man he’ll talk to. The platoon is always ragging Bumford for his childish simplicity. Bumford plays up to it, and begs them not to be too hard on ‘a lad from the hills’.
May 23rd. We did company drill in the morning. Afterwards, Jones-Bateman and I lay on the warm grass and watched aeroplanes flying above the trenches pursued by a trail of white shrapnel puffs. In the evening I took a working-party over to Vermelles les Noyelles, to work on a second line of defence – trench digging and putting up barbed-wire under an R.E. officer. But the ground was hard, and the men were tired out when they got back at two o’clock in the morning, after singing songs all the way home. They have one about Company Quartermaster-Sergeant Finnigan, which goes to the Salvation Army tune of’Whiter Than the Snow’:
Coolness under fire,
Coolness under fire,
Mentioned in dispatches
For pinching the Company rations,
Coolness under fire.
Now he’s on the peg,
Now he’s on the peg,
Mentioned in dispatches
For drinking the Company rum,
Now he’s on the peg.
The chorus is:
Whiter than the milky cokernuts,
Whiter than the milky cokernuts,
Wash me in the water
That you washed your dirty daughter in
And I shall be whiter than the
Milky cokernuts,
Nuts,
Nuts,
Oooooh nuts.
Finnigan doesn’t mind the libel at all.
Two young miners, in another company, disliked their sergeant, who had a down on them and gave them all the most dirty and dangerous jobs. When they were in billets he crimed them for things they hadn’t done; so they decided to kill him. Later, they reported at Battalion Orderly Room and asked to see the adjutant. This was irregular, because a private is forbidden to address an officer without an N.C.O. of his own company acting as go-between. The adjutant happened to see them and asked: ‘Well, what is it you want?’
Smartly slapping the small-of-the-butt of their sloped rifles, they said: ‘We’ve come to report, sir, that we’re very sorry, but we’ve shot our company sergeant-major.’
The adjutant said: ‘Good heavens, how did that happen?’
‘It was an accident, sir.’
‘What do you mean, you damn fools? Did you mistake him for a spy?’
‘No, sir, we mistook him for our platoon sergeant.’
So they were both court-martialled and shot by a firing-squad of their own company against the wall of a convent at Béthune. Their last words were the battalion rallying-cry: ‘Stick it, the Welch!’ (They say that a certain Captain Haggard first used it in the battle of Ypres when he was mortally wounded.) The French military governor was present at the execution, and made a little speech saying how gloriously British soldiers can die.
You’d be surprised at the amount of waste that goes on in the trenches. Ration biscuits are in general use as fuel for boiling up dixies, because kindling is scarce. Our machine-gun crew boil their hot water by firing off belt after belt of ammunition at no particular target, just generally spraying the German line. After several pounds’ worth of ammunition has been used, the water in the guns – which are water-cooled – begins to boil. They say they make German ration and carrying parties behind the line pay for their early-morning cup of tea. But the real charge will be on income-tax after the war.
May 24th. Tomorrow we return to the trenches. The men are pessimistic but cheerful. They all talk about getting a ‘cushy’ one to send them back to ‘Blitey’. Blitey is, it seems, Hindustani for ‘home’. My servant, Fry, who works in a paper-bag factory at Cardiff in civil life, has been telling me stories about cushy ones. Here are two of them.
‘A bloke in the Munsters once wanted a cushy, so he waves his hand above the parapet to catch Fritz’s attention. Nothing doing. He waves his arms about for a couple of minutes. Nothing doing, not a shot. He puts his elbows on the fire-step, hoists his body upside-down and waves his legs about till he gets blood to the head. Not a shot did old Fritz fire. “Oh,” says the Munster man, “I don’t believe there’s a damned square-head there. Where’s the German army to?” He has a peek over the top – crack! he gets it in the head. Finee.’
Another story: ‘Bloke in the Camerons wanted a cushy, bad. Fed up and far from home, he was. He puts his hand over the top and gets his trigger finger taken off, and two more beside. That done the trick. He comes laughing through our lines by the old boutillery. “See, lads,” he says, “I’m off to bonny Scotland. Is it na a beauty?” But on the way down the trench to the dressing-station, he forgets to stoop low where the old sniper’s working. He gets it through the head, too. Finee. We laugh, fit to die!’
To get a cushy one is
all that the old hands think of. Only twelve men have been with the battalion from the beginning, and all are transport men except one, Beaumont, a man in my platoon. The few old hands who went through the last show infect the new men with pessimism; they don’t believe in the war, they don’t believe in the staff. But at least they would follow their officers anywhere, because the officers happen to be a decent lot. They look forward to a battle because that gives them more chances of a cushy one in the legs or arms than trench warfare. In trench warfare the proportion of head wounds is much greater. Haking commands this division. He’s the author of our standard text-book, Company Training. The last shows have not been suitable ones for company commanders to profit by his directions. He came round this morning to an informal inspection of the battalion, and shook hands with the survivors. There were tears in his eyes. Sergeant Smith swore, half-aloud: ‘Bloody lot of use that is: busts up his bloody division, and then weeps over what’s bloody left.’ Well, it had nothing to do with me; I didn’t allow myself to feel either for the general or for the sergeant. It’s said here that Haking told General French that the division’s morale has gone completely. So far as I can see that is inaccurate; the division will fight all right, but with little enthusiasm. It’s said, too, that when the New Army comes out, we are to be withdrawn and used on lines of communication for some months at least. I don’t believe it. No one will mind smashing up over and over again the divisions that have got used to being smashed up. The general impression here is that the New Army divisions can’t be of much military use.
May 28th. In trenches among the Cuinchy brick-stacks. Not my idea of trenches. There has been a lot of fighting hereabouts. The trenches have made themselves rather than been made, and run in-consequently in and out of the big thirty-foot high stacks of bricks; it is most confusing. The parapet of a trench which we don’t occupy is built up with ammunition boxes and corpses. Everything here is wet and smelly. The Germans are very close: they have half the brick-stacks, we have the other half. Each side snipes down from the top of its brick-stacks into the other’s trenches. This is also a great place for German rifle-grenades and trench-mortars. We can’t reply properly; we have only a meagre supply of rifle-grenades and nothing to equal the German sausage mortar-bomb. This morning about breakfast time, just as I came out of my dug-out, a rifle-grenade landed within six feet of me. For some reason, instead of falling on its head and exploding, it landed with its stick in the wet clay and stood there looking at me. They are difficult to see coming; they are shot from a rifle, with its butt on the ground, tilted, and go up a long way before turning over and coming down head first I can’t understand why this particular rifle-grenade fell as it did; the chances were impossibly against it.
‘Sausages’ are easy to see and dodge, but they make a terrible noise when they drop. We have had about ten casualties in our company today from them. I find that my reactions to danger are extra-ordinarily quick; but everyone gets like that. We can sort out all the different explosions and disregard whichever don’t concern us – such as the artillery duel, machine-gun fire at the next company to us, desultory rifle-fire. But we pick out at once the faint plop! of the mortar that sends off a sausage, or the muffled rifle noise when a grenade is fired. The men are much afraid, yet always joking. The company sergeant-major stands behind Number Eleven brick-stack and shoots at sausages with a rifle as they come over; trying to explode them in the air. He says that it’s better than pigeon-shooting. He hasn’t hit one yet.
Last night a lot of German stuff was flying about, including shrapnel. I heard one shell whish-whishing towards me and dropped flat. It burst just over the trench where ‘Petticoat Lane’ runs into ‘Lowndes Square’. My ears sang as though there were gnats in them, and a bright scarlet light shone over everything. My shoulder got twisted in falling and I thought I had been hit, but I hadn’t been. The vibration made my chest sing, too, in a curious way, and I lost my sense of equilibrium. I was ashamed when the sergeant-major came along the trench and found me on all fours, still unable to stand up straight
A corpse is lying on the fire-step waiting to be taken down to the grave-yard tonight: a sanitary-man, killed last night in the open while burying lavatory stuff between our front and support lines. His arm was stretched out stiff when they carried him in and laid him on the fire-step; it stretched right across the trench. His comrades joke as they push it out of the way to get by. ‘Out of the light, you old bastard! Do you own this bloody trench?’ Or else they shake hands with him familiarly. ‘Put it there, Billy Boy.’ Of course, they’re miners, and accustomed to death. They have a very limited morality, but they keep to it. It’s moral, for instance, to rob anyone of anything, except a man in their own platoon. They treat every stranger as an enemy until he proves himself their friend, and then there’s nothing they won’t do for him. They are lecherous, the young ones at least, but without the false shame of the English lecher. I had a letter to censor the other day, written by a lance-corporal to his wife. He said that the French girls were nice to sleep with, so she mustn’t worry on his account, but that he far preferred sleeping with her and missed her a great deal.
June 6th. We have been billeted in Béthune, a fair-sized town about seven miles behind the front line. It has everything one wants: a swimming bath, all sorts of shops, especially a cake-shop, the best I’ve ever met, a hotel where you can get a really good dinner, and a theatre where we have brigade ‘gaffs’. I saw a notice this morning on a building by the Béthune-La Bassée canal – ‘Troops are forbidden to bomb fish. By order of the Town Major.’ Béthune is very little knocked about, except the part called Faubourg d’Arras, near the station. I am billeted with a family called Averlant Paul, in the Avenue de Bruay, people of the official class: refugees from Poimbert. There are two little boys and an elder sister, who goes to what corresponds with the under-fifth of the local high-school. She was worrying last night over her lessons and asked me to help her write out the theory of decimal division. She showed me her notes; they were full of abbreviations. I asked why she’d used abbreviations. She said: ‘The lady professor talked very fast because we were much hurried.’ ‘Why were you hurried?’ ‘Oh, because part of the school is used as a billet for your troops, and the Germans were shelling it, and we were always having to take shelter in the cellar, and when we came back each time there was less and less time left.’
June 9th. I am beginning to realize how lucky I was in my gentle introduction to the Cambrin trenches. We are now in a nasty salient, a little to the south of the brick-stacks, where casualties are always heavy. The company had seventeen casualties yesterday from bombs and grenades. The front trench averages thirty yards from the Germans. Today, at one part, which is only twenty yards away from an occupied German sap, I went along whistling ‘The Farmer’s Boy’, to keep up my spirits, when suddenly I saw a group bending over a man lying at the bottom of the trench. He was making a snoring noise mixed with animal groans. At my feet lay the cap he had worn, splashed with his brains. I had never seen human brains before; I somehow regarded them as a poetical figment. One can joke with a badly-wounded man and congratulate him on being out of it. One can disregard a dead man. But even a miner can’t make a joke that sounds like a joke over a man who takes three hours to die, after the top part of his head has been taken off by a bullet fired at twenty yards’ range.
Beaumont, of whom I told you in my last letter, also got killed – the last unwounded survivor of the original battalion, except for the transport men. He had his legs blown against his back. Everyone was swearing angrily, but an R.E. officer came up and told me that he had a tunnel driven under the German front line, and that if my chaps wanted to do a bit of bombing, now was the time. So he sent the mine up – it was not a big one, he said, but it made a tremendous noise and covered us with dirt – and we waited for a few seconds for the other Germans to rush up to help the wounded away, and then chucked all the bombs we had.
Beaumont had been telling how he had
won about five pounds’ worth of francs in the sweepstake after the Rue du Bois show: a sweepstake of the sort that leaves no bitterness behind it. Before a show, the platoon pools all its available cash and the survivors divide it up afterwards. Those who are killed can’t complain, the wounded would have given far more than that to escape as they have, and the unwounded regard the money as a consolation prize for still being here.
June 24th. We are billeted in the cellars of Vermelles, which was taken and re-taken eight times last October. Not a single house has remained undamaged in the town, which once must have had two or three thousand inhabitants. It is beautiful now in a fantastic way. We came up two nights ago; there was a moon shining behind the houses and the shells had broken up all the hard lines of roofs and quaintly perforated the grim walls of a brewery. Next morning we found the deserted gardens of the town very pleasant to walk about in; they are quite overgrown and flowers have seeded themselves about wildly. Red cabbages and rose and madonna lilies are the chief ornaments. One garden has currant bushes in it. I and the company sergeant-major started eating along the line from opposite ends without noticing each other. When we did, we both remembered our dignity, he as a company sergeant-major, and I as an officer. He saluted, I acknowledged the salute, we both walked away. A minute or two later, we both came back hoping that the coast was clear and again, after an exchange of salutes, had to leave the currants and pretend that we were merely admiring the flowers. I don’t quite know why I behaved like that. The C.M.S. is a regular, and therefore obliged to stop eating in the presence of an officer. So, I suppose, courtesy to his scruples made me stop too. Anyhow, along came a couple of privates and stripped the bushes clean.