Authors: Jon E. Lewis
Still, we saw a real big push later on. How many trucks from those mazes of sidings at St. Pol and Hazebrouck are needed to move a battalion? How many trains to move a division? And how many divisions poured into that never-ending assault – a division a day, we heard – beyond the Menin Gate, a one-way road for thousands in the British Army?
Fancy going on leave from the Ypres Salient to England! It seemed unreal all the way; at Poperinghe rail-head, at Boulogne rest camp. Even when Grisnez at last faded into the sea and Folkestone rose nearer, one could hardly believe it – until the barrier at Victoria.
It
must
have been in a different world.
Lifted out of the mud of the Salient to derelict seaside villas; taking up a new lot of men to a section of front made up of town, canal, and dyke-edged polder, with a foot of water rippling around the earth-works; fetid fluid in the dykes around the ruined town; inky-black, icy river swishing under flimsy duckboard bridges: no wonder that trench-foot sent more men down the line than wounds. Add the ever-present shelling of the town that brought tottering brickwork crashing down on us; add the machine-gunning of the straight right-angled streets; add dysentery; add utter exhaustion from hurrying in sodden, heavy clothing around those slimy tenacious ‘boyaus,’ and realize that relief from the Nieuport sector, wherever it might mean we were going, seemed a blessed release from purgatory.
A ten-mile canal voyage and three days’ march on good roads through inhabited country might have been a glorious rest cure, but for feet rendered soft and agonizing by standing and sleeping in sopping boots and socks.
Down among the tunnels and brick-stacks of La Bassée, trench mortars on both sides rained down their 12 lb, 50 lb, 112 lb of high explosive: and such lumps of death as that can’t be thrown about without the casualty returns growing sadly. It was all in the day’s work, but none the less it meant the loss of pals, when one after another went west through a direct hit, or a premature burst, or an unlucky shell clean into the ammunition store.
So all the spring of 1918, ever feebler reinforcements came, slim boys and weary crippled men; and ever rumours grew of the great push coming.
It was a certain satisfaction to the wiring parties of those nights – every available man – that this sector was one of the few points invulnerable to the German rush of March 21st: so that Collishan, the little cook’s mate who had been a Manchester coster and showed a magic skill in coaxing barbed wire around those terrible screw-pickets, had accomplished something before the machine gun got him down south. Down south again – oh, the pitiful irony of it – on that same old battlefield where the Somme advance had started nearly two years before; and after all that measureless slaughter men were to fight again over that same blood-soaked ground.
And the weary, wearing hopelessness of it joined with the fearful intensity of the shelling to make this such a culmination as even previous experience had never made us dream of. Shelled continuously through the night; dashing out to tie up and replace the sentry hit by shrapnel; floundering with the dead weight of a wounded man along the collapsing makeshift trench, and then back again, lurking in a flimsy brick cellar that shook with every blast. And in the morning the rims of five great shell holes around the dome of our tiny shelter.
Blazing away with the dawn at massed attacks in full view. One gun blown up; dragging back the other to reserve positions, while every pair of men who could walk, or stagger, loaded up with boxes of ammunition, and tramped up the open road with that frightful barrage spouting up cascades of earth on right and left. What was in everybody’s mind? What was in the mind of old Private Jim Black, a road labourer by trade, when the man carrying with him got a splinter in the leg, and Black tied him up and then humped the 2-cwt. box on his own rheumaticky shoulder and trudged on?
So it went on for days, with ‘wounded’ and ‘killed’ appearing against name after name. It never crossed my mind to wonder whether I’d ever get hit – too busy to think of such a thing, and that is a literal fact.
That was why it was such a surprise. Up the long valley north of Gommecourt, where bits of line changed hands every few hours, I tramped choosing gun positions: passed a rough trench cutting across the track, and reconnoitred the shoulder of the hill. ‘Smack!’ ‘Smack! ‘at intervals went the sound of bullets at medium range. But one had grown to disregard them: till it struck me, ‘They’re sniping from across the valley: they’ve pushed us off that nearest ridge; and I’m in No Man’s Land.’
That moment he got me: a terrific ‘Bung-g-g’ on the jaw, and down in the ditch by the track I spun, face and neck streaming blood. Field dressing was pulled out in a moment, but it was no place to stay: back to that trench I must creep, dragging flat along the ditch. Too slow, though; bleeding at that rate I’d never cover 200 yards: up on all fours and crawl. But then ‘Smack-k!’ came the vicious spit again: was I to crawl and be potted at? Up and run for it; and ‘Smack-k-k!’ came again as I tottered forward, half the field dressing in its waterproof cover still clenched in each hand. One hundred and fifty yards to go: ‘Smack-k-k!’ again before half-way, and a spurt of earth just behind.
How long – how long, to get into that trench? And how long does it take to reload and fire? I know that perfectly well, and I see time for one more shot before I can reach it. Slacken speed, to make a final effort, and ‘Smack-k-k!’ into the ditch a yard ahead. ‘Ah! Safe!’ and I tumble into that trench on top of a knot of mud-caked Fusiliers.
‘My Gawd! Field dressin’, sir?’ and the two bits are ripped open and clapped on, and the word goes along for stretcher bearers.
Memories after that? A kindly efficient American M.O. bandaging cases by the dozen. Then another figure emerged out of the mist: the dearest old silver-haired padre, who didn’t waste any silly words, but brought a luscious sponge and hot water, and tenderly bathed face and forehead clear of mud and blood. Then they took my boots off: that meant rest for a while, anyway. And when the ambulance pulled in to a chateau marked ‘C.C.S.,’ I heard the voice of an English nurse; and at the sound there came a most wonderful feeling that now everything would be perfectly all right: there was no need to worry any more.
Hospital in Rouen, where at length the M.O. took down the card from my bed, and at that mystic sign the next man – oldest inhabitant of the ward, he had seen dozens pass through while his leg refused to mend, but still he enjoyed their good luck – turned to me and whispered, ‘Blighty, Dickie.’
Captain A. A. Dickson, Inns of Court O.T.C., September to December 1915. Commissioned to Sherwood Foresters. Dublin Rebellion. France, January 1917: Somme, Ypres, Nieuport. Commanding trench mortar battery. Wounded, November 1917; again in April 1918, during German attack. Hospital until September 1918. Demobilized unfit, January 1919
.
In November 1915 I was one of those accepted by Colonel Lord Feversham to be enlisted in the Yeoman Rifles being formed at Helmsley Park.
In January 1916 the battalion was transferred to Aldershot, where we became fit for our great adventure. Runners were asked for, and I volunteered for the job.
After a terrific route march (from the effects of which some died) and an inspection by H.M. the King, our ammunition and identity discs were issued and we sailed for France on May 4th, 1916.
We received our final training in the Meteren area before taking over the line at Ploegsteert.
In our first day in the reserve line we received our baptism of fire: a platoon of ‘A’ Company was nearly wiped out during rifle inspection, and I helped to carry one of our first dead to the dressing station. That night we totalled up our casualties and divided the number into the strength of the battalion, so as to estimate our expectation of life; not in a spirit of despair, but that we might face the facts as we saw them on that miserable night.
We soon settled down to trench warfare as an existence to be made the best of and joked about whenever possible. One night the deathly quiet of our sector was disturbed by one of our 18-pounder batteries shelling at regular intervals; we wanted rest, and cursed the gunners. The enemy replied by shelling, not the battery, but our Battalion Headquarters. We were ordered to withdraw, but four of us were imprisoned by a shell blocking up our dug-out. Every other dug-out was wrecked. Ours was covered with earth and filled with fumes. In the morning we were disinterred for burial, but were found unharmed, a dud shell had half buried itself in a tree which supported our dug-out. Three of us played cards all night; the fourth prayed.
One day two of us were cycling along a duckboard track when we heard the approach of a shell. My companion dived into a trench. I foolishly cycled on quickly and was blown into a tree, but got off with scratches. My pal was not so lucky, the trench being full of water.
In August we were relieved to take our part in the Somme offensive. The incoming runners asked us if we’d been on the Somme, and on our replying that our only experience was at Ploegsteert they looked at us with scorn, saying, ‘And you think you’re soldiers. They kill more therein a day than up here in one year.’
Despite our numerous casualties we realized that Ploegsteert had been but an apprenticeship for sterner events. Notwithstanding shells and machine-gun bullets, Ploegsteert had, at the hour of dawn, been stirred by the songs of the birds, while the Somme was one black, evil-smelling waste.
On the morning of September 15th, 1916, our Division, accompanied by the Tanks, which were being used for the first time, attacked on the Somme. I was left behind at Brigade Headquarters. Shortly after the attack opened, I accompanied the Brigadier-General through Delville Wood to our battalion. He pointed out a German well within our lines who seemed badly wounded and helpless.
After reaching our colonel, the general gave me an urgent despatch for Brigade Headquarters, with instructions to go quickly, stop for no one, and return to the same spot, whatever I heard to the contrary. These instructions gave me a very exciting time, for, on re-entering Delville Wood a wounded Tommy shouted, ‘For God’s sake, drop!’ I dropped and found that the wounded German had shot this man and some others. The Tommy wanted me to hunt the Jerry, but, remembering instructions, I ran for it. On my return journey I found the German dead.
On nearing the trench where I had left the general, I was told to stop as the trench had been recaptured. But I was too keen to carry out my orders, and thought those fellows mistaken, so I jumped confidently into the trench amongst some Germans.
I was too surprised to do anything, but the Jerries more so, as all but one ran away. The remaining one raised his hands, saying, ‘Mercy! Kamerad!’ and came back with me. I handed over my prisoner and found the general, and heard that Lord Feversham had been killed. Our gallant colonel’s body was recovered a month later by a small party including myself.
On October 7th we again attacked on the Somme, and I was continually on duty as runner. Our front line was a very hastily dug, shallow trench, and the Commanding Officer gave me a message to the battalion on our right, saying, ‘There is no room to pass along the trench, so you must run along the top. You’ll probably be killed, but you must go.’ I returned safely and was greeted with ‘Hullo, Iley, still alive,’ and was sent with a similar message to the left. Again I was lucky, but had wind-up all the time.
We suffered heavily during the attack, one new draft of thirty men straight from England being almost wiped out within a day or two of leaving home.
When we were due to leave this sector I guided the incoming C.O. to our battalion. He asked me about the line and I told him it was quiet, but that we’d filled one cemetery and got well on with another, and various other true but unnecessary things. The adjutant told me later how amused he’d been at my efforts to put his wind up. The colonel had won the D.S.O. at Gallipoli and seen a lot of hard fighting.
One dark night two of us runners had to leave our usual track owing to shell fire, and were suddenly ordered to drop by an artillery sentry. Some guns fired immediately over our heads. In Seaham Hospital months later I heard a gunner relating how two infantrymen nearly had their heads blown off, and how he, as sentry, had not observed them until almost too late, owing to the intense darkness. I questioned him as to time and place, and surprised him by telling him that I was one of the men.
During the Messines advance on June 7th, 1917, when all the mines were exploded I pointed out to an officer that he and I were advancing too fast and were losing touch with the colonel, so we sat in a shell hole until Headquarters caught us up. A sergeant seeing us sitting there and apparently not noticing the officer, rushed at me with fixed sword, shouting, ‘Move on, you bloody coward.’ The officer’s revolver held him up and he passed on swearing.
When moving up for the Third Battle of Ypres on July 31st, 1917, I had to guide a party into the line, and had a fearful journey. The enemy evidently expected an attack, as he shelled all roads heavily with gas shells and shrapnel.
My party was the last to leave, and I took them by a route not taken by the other parties. The officer was alarmed, thinking I was lost, but we reached our position first. Wearing gas masks, we doubled most of the way, dropping into ditches here and there and always finding a shelter when most necessary. We galloped over the Ypres Canal, a heavy shell just missing our rear, but reached our destination without casualties. I felt handsomely rewarded when the officer and each man shook hands with me. Most of the parties going up had suffered heavily, many being gassed.
At 5 a.m. on September 20th, 1917, our Division attacked Tower Hamlets Ridge, Passchendaele.
I lay next to our commanding officer waiting for zero. Watch in hand, he counted the seconds – fifty, forty, and down to ten, five, four, three, two – and off we moved to meet a very stubborn resistance from the pillboxes which had not been touched by our barrage.