[6]David.So I indented on the Royal Engineers (who own vast storehouses called in the vernacular "Dumps") for rails and bricks and cement and sandbags, and I sent marauding parties out at night to collect anything that might be useful.The men with a good-will which was beyond all praise, seeing that this was their third position within the month, started the arduous task of dismantling the old pits and dug-outs and building them anew—guessing by this time that in all probability they would be moved on elsewhere before their labours were finished. For that is one very definite aspect of this war....Our mess is a cottage which we share with a French family. Monsieur works in a mine close by, the numerous children play in the yard or are sent on errands, Madame in her spare moments does our washing for us. In the evening they all assemble in the kitchen and try to teach French to our servants. It amazes me to watch the sangfroid with which they go about their daily occupations regardless of the never-ceasing sound of guns and shells, regardless of the fact that the German line, as the crow flies, is less than two miles away. At 8 p.m. to the moment, whilst we are at dinner, they troop through into their own room to bed, each with a charming "Bon soir, messieurs." And on each occasion they make me personally feel that we are rather brutal to be occupying two-thirds of their house and spending our days making the most appalling havoc of their country. ButI console myself by remembering that these people once had Uhlans in the neighbourhood and are therefore prepared to disregard minor nuisances such as ourselves.Seven to seven-thirty p.m. is generally rather a busy time. Official correspondence, usually marked "secret" and nearly always "urgent," is apt to arrive, and it is at this time that the intricate report on the day's shooting has to be made out and despatched to Group Headquarters. I am in the midst of this, working against time, with an orderly waiting in the kitchen, when the door is flung open and the Child enters with a cheery "Good evening, Master."The Child calls me Master sometimes because I am always threatening to send his parents a half-term report on his progress and general conduct, or to put him back into Eton collars! He has now just returned from forty-eight hours' duty at the O.P. and presents an appearance such that his own mother would hardly recognise him. He wears a cap of a particularly floppy kind which he refers to as "my gorblimy hat," an imperfectly cured goatskin coat of varied hues which smells abominably, fur gauntlets, brown breeches, and indiarubber thigh boots. Round his person are slung field glasses, a prismaticcompass, an empty haversack, and a gas helmet. Moreover, he is caked with mud from head to foot and flushed with his two-mile walk against the cold wind. For this is still March, and we have had frost and snow and thaw alternately this last week."Anything happen after I left?" I ask. I had been up at the O.P. in the morning, and we'd "done a little shoot" together."Nothing much. The Hun got a bit busy with rifle grenades about lunch time and started to put some small 'minnies'[7]into our second line. So I retaliated on three different targets, which stopped him p.d.q. Later on he put a few pip-squeaks round our O.P. and one four-two into the church. That's about all, 'cept that I had to dodge a blasted machine-gun when I was leaving at dusk—one of those 250-rounds-a-minute stunts, you know—and I had to nip across that open bit, in between his bursts of fire. The trenches are in Hell's own mess after this thaw—I went down to the front line with an infantry officer to look at a sniper's post he's located; we might get the 'hows'[8]on to it. Any letters for me?"[7]Minenwer,i.e.trench mortar bombs.[8]Howitzers.I push them across to him, but forbid him to remain in the room with that smelly coat on."Righto," he grins; "I'm off to have a bath and a shave before dinner.""But, my dear Child," I say, "you shaved last week! Surely——"He grins again and saunters gracefully out. The Child is always graceful even when wearing a goatskin coat and ungainly thigh boots. But he's tired—I can see it in his eyes. His last two days have been spent as follows: At seven p.m. the night before last he arrived, in the capacity of liaison officer, at the headquarters of the battalion that we are supporting. He dined there and slept, in his clothes of course and always at the menace of a telephone, in a draughty hovel next door. Before dawn the next morning he was groping his way along three-quarters of a mile of muddy communication trench to the O.P. Arrived there it is his business to make certain that the telephonists below in the dank cellar are "through" on every line. Then he ascends the ladder of the observation tower and stares through the loophole at the mists which swathe the trenches in front of him. And there, alternately with the subaltern of the other batterywhich uses this particular O.P., he must remain until it is again too dark to shoot.There are diversions, of course, which help to pass the long hours. One is "shooting the battery." The F.O.O., as the subaltern on duty at the O.P. is called, is allowed, within fairly wide limits, to shoot when and at what he likes provided always that he has a reasonable objective. The principles laid down for him are simple enough: whilst never wasting a round if he can help it, he must also never miss an opportunity. That is to say that he must keep ceaseless watch for signs of movement or of new work being carried out by the enemy, for the flashes of hostile batteries, for suspected O.P.'s, for machine-gun emplacements and snipers' posts—for almost everything in fact. And when he sees, he must shoot—at a rapid rate and for a few moments only. For it is useless to "plaster" the same spot for any length of time: the enemy will not be there—he must be caught unawares or not at all.Another diversion is noting down the action of the hostile artillery, of which a report has to be rendered every evening. This is easy enough when he happens to be shelling at a convenient distance from you: it is not so easy, however, to count the number of "pip-squeaks" thatburst within a few yards of the house in which you are, or of "minnies" that arrive in silence and explode with a terrific report apparently just at the foot of your tower, filling your observation room with acrid fumes.Visitors appear at all hours—generals, staff officers, infantry colonels, trench-mortar or sniping officers. Each wants to examine some portion of the line from the vantage point of the tower, and each expects to be told unhesitatingly everything he wants to know. But to return to the Child and his tour of duty. After dusk he goes back to infantry headquarters to feed and sleep. Then follows another long day in the tower, at the end of which he is relieved by the "next for duty" and returns to the battery with the privilege of breakfasting at any hour he likes on the following morning. The Child, I may here remark, has been known to eat poached eggs and marmalade at 12.30, and unblushingly sit down to sausages and mashed potatoes at 1.15.But those two days at the O.P. are a strain. No hot meals, long hours, disturbed nights, shells for ever passing overhead, "mutual exchanges of rifle grenades," snipers' bullets which have missed their mark in our front line trenches flattening themselves against the outer wall ofthe house—there are pleasanter ways of living than this. And two things are always possible: one that the enemy may decide that this ruined house that he has watched for so long reallyisan O.P., and therefore well worth razing to the ground with heavy shell; the other that an attack (either with or without gas) may suddenly be launched against our line. In the first case the cellarmaybe a safe place, in the second there will be what the Child calls "Hell's own job," requiring a quick brain, keen vision, and the battery roaring in answer to sharp, curt orders. But if the two occur at once, as is more than probable, why, then the cellar is out of the question, for at no matter what cost the guns—always ready, always hungry—must be effectively controlled, the long-suffering, hard-pressed infantry must be supported. But at present these are dull days. Neither side is trying to do more than annoy the other."9.44 a.m. Working party seen at ——, fired on, dispersed.""2.10 p.m. Fired 10 rounds at suspected O.P. at ——. One direct hit with H.E. Drew quick retaliation on ——."Thus is the daily report compiled. Is it worth all the trouble, the science, the skill, theorganisation? It is, for everything, every little detail, every little effort helps to bring nearer the day when our guns will be pulled out on to the roads again, to be used for their legitimate purpose—the "quick thing," the fight in the open, "the moving show."...Our colonel is "some man"—which phrase, being expanded, means an individual whose keen eye misses absolutely nothing from the too-sharp rowel of a driver's spur to the exact levelling of a concrete gun-platform; whose brain is for ever evolving schemes for the undoing of the wily Boche; whose energy enables him to walk and ride fifteen to twenty miles a day, deal with all his official correspondence and yet find time to talk about hunting at odd moments. Periodically he holds conferences of battery commanders at his Group Headquarters. After seeing that every one is provided for, he produces a large scale map with all the "zones" marked on it, sticks out his chin in a manner peculiar to him, and says—"The Hun is becoming uppish again and must be suppressed. Now, what I propose to do is this"—and he proceeds to detail something entirely original in the way of a bombardment. But he is seldom content to use his own batteriesby themselves: nearly always he manages to borrow a few "heavies" and some trench mortars of various sizes. With these at his disposal he feels that he can "put up a good show," as he says, and it must be acknowledged that he generally does.In addition to these definitely organised bombardments he is constantly ordering small "joy strafes" to be carried out. For instance, he will study the map and decide that two roads in a given area are in all probability used by the enemy at night. He will forbid any one to shoot on the northern one (say) and order two batteries to put salvoes on to the southern one every night until further orders, "just to impress the Hun," as he puts it, "with the idea that the southern road is a distinctly unhealthy spot. Then he'll have double traffic on the northern one. We'll wait till we know for certain that it's his relief night and then we'll fairly plaster that road."This thoughtful scheme was duly carried out about a week ago—with what results, of course, it is impossible to say: but from the way the hostile batteries woke up and retaliated, we gathered that something had been accomplished.And so the days and weeks pass by—quickly on the whole, so quickly that we are alreadybeginning to badger the adjutant with queries as to when we are likely to get leave. There are rumours, too, that the division is shortly going out "to rest." The infantry deserve it, for theirs is the hard part: daily I admire them more, every man of them from the humblest private who digs in the slushy trenches or stands on guard in a sap thirty yards or less from the enemy and quite possibly on top of a mine to their brigadier who conceals his V.C. and D.S.O. ribbons beneath a rubber suit and spends more of his time in the front line trenches than out of them.But for us gunners it is different. We live in comfort and in perfect safety (unless our actual position is spotted and "strafed," in which case we merely withdraw our men until the enemy's allowance of ammunition is expended). Except possibly for our hard-worked telephonists we need no rest. Moreover, it would be heartbreaking to leave the position that we have made so cosy, so inconspicuous, and, we all believe, so strong.We happen to be close to a main avenue of traffic. All sorts of people pass by—"brass hats" going up to inspect the line, R.E. wagons laden with every conceivable kind of trenchstore, mining officers caked in yellow clay returning after a strenuous tour of duty underground, a constant succession of small parties of infantry who are either "going in" or "coming out," ration carts, handcarts filled with things that look like iron plum-puddings but are really trench-mortar bombs and, occasionally, an ambulance. Infantry officers or men who happen to halt close by are generally invited to have a look at the gun-pits. More often than not some one of them recognises a friend or a relation in the battery: it must be remembered that we are a homogeneous division. If by chance we are firing when a party of infantry (unaccompanied by an officer) is passing, it invariably halts and watches the performances with huge interest and quite often with a shout or two of encouragement."Go it, boys, give 'em a bit more marmalade," I heard one ribald private yell out, when to his joy he heard the order, "Two rounds battery fire one second." When the guns had flashed and roared in their sequence, and the shells had gone rumbling away towards the distant lines, he picked up his burden, hitched his rifle more comfortably across his shoulders, and went upon his way, remarking, with a pleasant admixture of oaths—"That'll give 'em something to think about for a while."This, on a minor scale, is an example of the great principle of infantry and artillery co-operation. I can picture that same private rejoining his platoon in the trenches and saying to his "batty"—[9][9]= pal or friend."Look you, Trevor, as I was coming up the road now just, I see a battery of our fellows givin' them —— Hell."And his friend would answer perhaps—"Well, 'tis fine to hear our shells come singing over. What about them fags, Tom? Did you get 'em?"Neither of these men would know whether the rounds had been well or badly placed, but each would be left with the impression that the artillery exists for the purpose of helping him and his fellows when in difficulties and of preparing the way when the time comes. A small point, perhaps, but nevertheless a vital one....It is fortunate that amid all the horror and the misery and the waste that this war entails it is still possible to see the humorous side of things sometimes. Here is an example. A major on his way up to the front line saw aman hunting about amongst some ruins for "souvenirs"—and this in a place which was in view of the Germans and only about 350 yards from their trenches. The major was justly annoyed: firstly, the man was evidently wasting his time; secondly, there was every prospect that hostile fire would be drawn to the spot. So he drew his revolver and put a round into the brickwork about six feet to one side of the man.The effect was wonderful. The souvenir hunter, convinced that he had escaped a sniper's bullet by a mere inch, made a wild dive into a handy shell-hole and lay low. Twenty minutes later he emerged, crawling on hands and knees through deep slime and eagerly watched by a working party who had seen the incident. He arrived, panting and prepared to give an account of his thrilling experience—only to be asked his name and unit and placed in arrest on a charge of loitering unnecessarily in a dangerous place thereby tending to draw fire.Another incident, not devoid of humour (though I cannot say that I thought so at the moment), occurred a week after we had arrived at our present position. W——, the captain of the "regular" battery which we had replaced, came over to inquire about a telescopic sight anda clinometer belonging to his unit which had somehow got mislaid during the muddle of "handing over.""They must be somewhere here," W—— suggested politely, "and wemusthave them because we are going back into action to-morrow."I assured him that to the best of my belief I had only my own, "but," I added confidently, "we'll go round and ask at each gun to make certain."The sergeant of No. 1 was quite positive. The corporal of No. 2 was apparently equally so, but I noticed the suspicion of a smile at the corners of his lips."Are you certain," I repeated, "that you've only got your own telescope and sight clinometer?"The corporal's answer was positively brutal in its honesty. He winked—an unmistakable wink—and said—"Well, sir, o' course I've got those what I pinched off t' batt'ry that was here before!"If the mud had then and there engulfed me I should have been grateful. As it was I could only weakly murmur, "Fetch them at once," and then glance round to see the expression onW——'s face. But he, good soul, was walking quietly away, though whether with the idea of relieving his own feelings or of allowing me to vent mine upon the corporal, I never dared to ask.On the following day the corporal, who by the way is our professional comedian from Lancashire, saw fit to apologise. He did so thus—"Sir," he said, as I was walking past his gun-pit. I turned and regarded him sternly, for I was still rather angry."I'm sorry about what happened yesterday," he observed contritely. "I didn't mean to make a fool of you!"The charm of the remark lies in the fact that, while disregarding the enormity of his offence in "pinching" essential gun-stores from another battery, he was genuinely upset at having mademelook ridiculous. Which being the case I could do nothing but accept his apology in the spirit in which it was offered.SPIT AND POLISH"Personally myself," said the Child, tilting back his chair until his head touched the wall behind him, and stretching out a lazy arm towards the cigarette-box—"personally myself, I've enjoyed this trip no end—haven't you?""I have," I answered; "so much so, Child, that the thought of going back to gun-pits and trenches and O.P.'s again fills me with gloom."It was our last night in a most comfortable billet near ——, where, on and off, we had spent rather more than a month of ease; on the morrow we were going into the line again. The trip to which the Child was referring, however, was an eight days' course at a place vaguely known as "the ——th Army Mobile Artillery Training School," from which our battery had but lately returned.The circumstances were these. When, five weeks ago, the division moved (for thenthtime!) to a different part of the line, it transpired that three batteries would be "out at rest," as there would be no room for them in action. It also so chanced that it was our colonel's turn to be left without a "group"[10]to command. This being so, he suggested to higher authorities that the three batteries "out" should be those of his own brigade, in order that he might have a chance "to tidy them up a bit," as he phrased it. Thus it was that we found ourselves, as I have said, in extremely comfortable billets—places, I mean, where they have sheets on the beds and china jugs and gas and drains—with every prospect of a pleasant loaf. But in this we were somewhat sanguine.[10]A certain number of batteries.The colonel's idea in having us "out" for a while was not so much to rest us as to give us a variation of work. Being essentially a thorough man, he started—or rather ordered me to start—at the very beginning. The gunners paraded daily for marching drill, physical exercises, and "elementary standing gun drill by numbers." N.C.O.'s and drivers were taken out and given hours of riding drill under the supervision of subalterns bursting with knowledge crammed up from the book the night before and under thepersonal direction of a brazen-voiced sergeant who, having passed through the "riding troop" at Woolwich in his youth, knew his business. The strangest sight of all was the class of signallers—men who had spent months in the fœtid atmosphere of cellars and dug-outs, or creeping along telephone wires in "unhealthy" spots—now waving flags at a word of command and going solemnly through the Morse alphabet letter by letter. Of the whole community, this was perhaps the most scandalised portion. But in a few days, when everybody (not excluding myself and the other officers) had discovered how much had been forgotten during our long spell in action, a great spirit of emulation began to be displayed. Subsections vied with one another to produce the smartest gun detachment, the sleekest horses, the best turned-out ride, the cleanest harness, guns, and wagons.The colonel, after the manner of his kind, came at the end of a week or so to inspect things. He is not the sort of man upon whom one can easily impose. A dozen of the shiniest saddles or bits in the battery placed so as to catch the light (and the eye) near the doorway of the harness room do not necessarily satisfy him: nor is he content with the mere general and symmetricaleffect of rows of superficially clean breast-collars, traces, and breechings. On the contrary, he is quite prepared to spend an hour or more over his inspection, examining every set of harness in minute detail, even down to the backs of the buckle tongues, the inside of the double-folded breast collars, and the oft-neglected underside of saddle flaps. It is the same thing with the guns and wagons. Burnished breech-rings and polished brasswork look very nice, and he approves of them, but he does not on that account omit to look closely at every oil-hole or to check the lists of "small stores" and "spare parts."For the next week or so we were kept very busy on "the many small points which required attention," to quote the colonel's phrase. Nevertheless, as a variation from the monotony of siege warfare, the time was regarded by most of us as a holiday. Many things combined to enhance our pleasure. The sun shone and the country became gorgeously green again; the horses began to get their summer coats and to lose their unkempt winter's appearance; there was a fair-sized town near at hand, and passes to visit it were freely granted to N.C.O.'s and men; at the back of the officers' billet was agarden with real flower-beds in it and a bit of lawn on which one could have tea. Occasionally we could hear the distant muttering of the guns, and at night we could see the "flares" darting up from the black horizon—just to remind us, I suppose, that the war was only in the next parish....But it was not to be supposed that a man of such energy as our colonel would be content just to ride round daily and watch three of his batteries doing rides and gun drill. It occurred to him at once that this was the time to practise the legitimate business—that is, open, moving warfare. Wherefore he made representations to various quite superior authorities. In three days, by dint of considerable personal exertion, he had secured the following concessions: two large tracts of ground suitable for driving drill and battery manœuvre, good billets, an area of some six square miles (part of the ——th Army Training area) for the purpose of tactical schemes, the appointment of himself as commandant of the "school," a Ford ambulance for his private use, three motor lorries for the supply of the units under training, and a magnificent château for his own headquarters. And all this he accomplished without causing any serious frictionbetween the various "offices" and departments concerned—no mean feat.Each course was to last eight days, and there were to be four batteries, taken from different divisions, undergoing it simultaneously. It fell to us to go with the second batch, and we spent a strenuous week of preparation: it was four months since we had done any work "in the open," and we knew, inwardly, that we were distinctly rusty. We packed up, and at full war strength, transport, spare horses and all, we marched out sixteen miles to the selected area. At the halfway halt we met the commander of a battery of our own brigade returning. He stopped to pass the time of day and volunteered the information that he was going on leave that night. "And, by Jove!" he added significantly, "I deserve a bit of rest.Réveilléat 4 a.m. every morning, out all day wet or fine, gun drill at every odd moment, schemes, tactical exercises, everybody at high pressure all the time. The colonel's fairly in his element, revels in it, and 'strafes' everybody indiscriminately. But it's done us all a world of good though. Cheeriho! wish you luck." And he rode on, leaving us rather flabbergasted.We discovered quite early (on the followingmorning about dawn, to be precise) that there had been no exaggeration. We began with elementary driving drill, and we did four and a half hours of it straight on end, except for occasional ten-minute halts to rest the astonished teams. It was wonderful how much we had forgotten and yet how much came back to us after the first hour or so."I want all your officers to drill the battery in turn," said the colonel. "I shall just ride round and correct mistakes."He did—with an energy, a power of observation, and a command of language which I have seldom seen or heard surpassed. But the ultimate result by midday, when all the officers and N.C.O.'s were hoarse, the teams sweating and the carriages caked in oily dust—the ultimate result was, as the Child politely says, "not too stinkin' awful." And it had been good to hear once again the rattle and bump of the guns and wagons over hard ground, the jingle of harness and the thud of many hoofs; good to see the teams swing round together as they wheeled into line or column at a spanking trot; good above all to remember thatthiswas our job and that the months spent in concrete gun-pits and double-bricked O.P.'s were but alengthy prelude to our resumption of it—some day.In the evening, when the day's work was over and "stables" finished, we left the tired horses picking over the remains of their hay and walked down thepavévillage street, Angelo and I, to look at the church. Angelo is my eldest but not, as it so happens, my senior subaltern. Before the war he was a budding architect, with a taste for painting: hence the nickname, coined by the Child in one of his more erudite moods.The church at L—— is very fine. Its square tower is thirteenth century, its interior is pure Gothic, and its vaulted roof a marvel. For its size the building is well-nigh perfect. We spent some time examining the nave and chancel—Angelo, his professional as well as his artistic enthusiasm aroused, explaining technicalities to me and making me envious of his knowledge. It was with regret that we turned away at last, for in spite of the tattered colours of some French regiment which hung on the north side of the chancel, we had forgotten the war in the quiet peacefulness of that exquisite interior. But we were quickly reminded. At the end of the church, kneeling on one of the rough chairs,was an old peasant woman: her head was bowed, and the beads dropped slowly through her twisted fingers. As we crept down the aisle she raised her eyes—not to look at us, for I think she was unconscious of our presence—but to gaze earnestly at the altar. Her lips moved in prayer, but no tear damped her yellow cheek. And, passing out into the sunlight again, I wondered for whom she was praying—husband, brother, sons?—whether, still hoping, she prayed for the living, or, faithfully, for the souls of those lost to her. They are brave, the peasant women of France....Madame our hostess, besides being one of the fattest, was also one of the most agreeable ladies it has ever been our lot to be billeted upon. Before we had been in her house ten minutes she had given us (at an amazing speed) the following information:—Her only remaining son had been wounded and was now a prisoner in Germany.She had played hostess continuously since August, 1914, to every kind of soldier, including French motor-bus drivers, Indian chiefs (sic), and generals.English officers arriving after the battle of Loos slept in her hall for twenty-four hours,woke to have a bath and to eat an omelette, and then slept the clock round again.She remembered 1870, in which war her husband had fought.The Boches were barbarians, but they would never advance now, though at one time they had been within a few kilometres of her house.The lettuce and cabbages in her garden were at our disposal.She took an enormous interest in the Infant, who is even younger than the Child and is our latest acquisition."Regardez donc le petit, comme il est fatigué!" she exclaimed to me in the tones of an anxious mother—and then added in an excited whisper, "A-t-il vu les Boches, ce petit sous-lieutenant?"When I assured her not only that he had seen them, but had fired his guns at them, she was delighted and declared that he could not be more than sixteen. But here the Infant, considering that the conversation was becoming personal, intervened, and the old lady left us to our dinner.Towards the end of our week we packed up essentials and marched out to bivouac twonights and fight a two days' running battle—directed, of course, by our indefatigable colonel. After the dead flat ugliness where we had been in action all the winter and early spring it was a delight to find ourselves in this spacious undulating country, with its trees and church spires and red-tiled villages. We fought all day against an imaginary foe, made innumerable mistakes, all forcibly pointed out by the colonel (who rode both his horses to a standstill in endeavouring to direct operations and at the same time watch the procedure of four widely separated batteries); our imaginary infantry captured ridge after ridge, and we advanced from position to position "in close support," until finally, the rout of the foe being complete, we moved to our appointed bivouacs.In peace time it would have been regarded as a quite ordinary day, boring because of its resemblance to so many others. Now it was different. True, it was make-believe from start to finish, without even blank cartridge to give the vaguest hint of reality. But there was this: at the back of all our minds was the knowledge that this was a preparation—possibly our last preparation—not for something in the indefinite future (as in peace time), but for an occasion that assuredlyiscoming, perhaps in a few months,perhaps even in a few weeks. The colonel spoke truly when, at his first conference, he said—"During these schemes you must all of you force yourselves to imagine that there is a real enemy opposed to you. The Boche is no fool: he's got guns, and he knows how to use them. If you show up on crest lines with a whole battery staff at your heels, he'll have the place 'registered,' and he'll smash your show to bits before you ever get your guns into action at all.Thinkwhere he is likely to be,thinkwhat he's likely to be doing, don't expose yourselves unless you must, and above all,get a move on."It was a delightful bivouac. We were on the sheltered side of a little hill, looking south into a wooded valley. Nightingales sang to us as we lay smoking on our valises after a picnic dinner and stared dreamily at the stars above us."Jolly, isn't it?" said the Child; "but I s'pose we wouldn't be feeling quite so comfy if it was the real business.""Don't," said Angelo, quietly. "I was pretending to myself that we were just a merry camping party, here for pleasure only. I'd forgotten the war."But I had not. I was thinking of the last time I had bivouacked—amongst the cornsheaves of a harvest that was never gathered, side by side with friends who were soon to fall, on the night before the first day of Mons, nearly two years ago.The following day was more or less a repetition of the first, except that we made fewer mistakes and "dropped into action" with more style and finish. We were now becoming fully aware of the almost-forgotten fact that a field battery is designed to be a mobile unit, and we were just beginning to take shape as such when our time was over. A day's rest for the horses and then we returned to our comfortable rest billets. It had been a strenuous week, but I think every one had thoroughly enjoyed it....We have had two days in which to "clean up," and now to-morrow we are to relieve another battery and take our place in the line again. Our holiday is definitely over. It will take a little time to settle down to the old conditions: our week's practice of open warfare has spoilt us for this other kind. We who have climbed hills and looked over miles of rolling country will find an increased ugliness in our old flat surroundings. It will seem ludicrous to put our guns into pits again—the guns that we have seen bounding over rough ground behind thestraining teams. To be cooped up in a brick O.P. staring at a strip of desolation will be odious after our bivouacs under the stars and our dashes into action under a blazing sun. Worst of all, perhaps, is the thought that the battery will be split up again into "gun line" and "wagon line," with three miles or more separating its two halves, instead of its being, as it has been all these weeks, one complete cohesive unit. But what must be, must be; and it is absurd to grumble. Moreover—the end is not yet."Let's toss up for who takes first turn at the O.P. when the relief is completed," suggested the Child."Wait a minute," said I, remembering something suddenly. "Do you know what to-day is?""Friday," he volunteered, "and to-morrow ought to be a half-holiday, but it won't be, 'cos we're going into action."I passed the port round again. "It's only a fortnight since we celebrated the battery's first birthday," I said, "but to-day the Royal Regiment of Artillery is two hundred years old. Let's drink its health."And we did.A BATTLESomewhere about the middle of June, we knew definitely that we were "for it," as the soldier says; we knew that our division was one of those chosen for the great concentration which was to culminate in the "great push"—and we were proud of the distinction. A three days' march brought us to a certain training area, where we camped for a week and worked some seventeen hours a day—counting, that is, fromréveilléat 4 a.m. until the last bit of harness was hung up clean and ready for the morrow at 9 p.m.During this period two incidents of note occurred. One was that the Child suddenly developed pleurisy, and was removed to hospital—a serious loss at any time, but especially so at this particular moment. The other was that a squadron of hostile aircraft flew over our manœuvre ground and actually dropped a bomb within 150 yards of the tail of our column.Which, seeing that we were some twenty miles from the nearest part of the line and at the moment only playing at soldiers, was most disconcerting.From the time when we left this training until, about three weeks later, we were withdrawn to rest in a quiet part of the line, I kept a rough diary of our particular share in the greatest battle ever fought by the British Army. The following are some extracts from it, in no way embellished, but only enlarged so as to make them intelligible.June 27.—Nine-hour night march southwards, arriving in comfortable billets at 3.30 a.m. Aeroplanes (or at any rate, hostile ones) are the curse of this war: if it was not for fear of them we could move by daylight in a reasonable manner. The old saddler, dozing on a wagon, fell off and was run over: nothing broken, but he will be lost to us. A great pity, as he's a charming character and a first-class workman.June 28 and 29.—Rested, the continuation of the march having been postponed.June 30.—Orders to move on to-night. Was sent off with a small party on a road and riverreconnaissance: this presumably with a view to going forward "when the advance begins." By the time we got back to where the brigade was to billet, had ridden about forty miles. Job only half finished. Battery marched in at midnight.July 1.—Started at 5.30 a.m. with same party to finish reconnaissance. Reached a point about four miles behind the line, at 7.15 a.m.: a tremendous bombardment in progress. Left our horses, and walked on two miles to a river. Here learnt that the attack had been launched at 7.30 and was going well. Walked north up the river-bank, keeping well under the shelter of the steep ridge on the east side, and only emerging to examine each bridge as we came to it. Thousands upon thousands of shells of every size, from "Grannies" to 18 prs., passing over our heads unceasingly: expected the enemy to retaliate. But not a round came: probably the Boche was too busily engaged elsewhere. Met streams of wounded coming down; some with captured helmets, nearly all with grins.Finished the river reconnaissance about 10.30 and walked back by a roundabout (but less unpleasant!) way, and reached our horses about midday. Rode back to the battery andspent the afternoon writing out full report. Orders to move at 11.30 p.m. Long night march to new billets, arriving 4.15 a.m.July 2.—Rested. In the course of the day the Child returned, having in some amazing way persuaded the hospital authorities that pleurisy and a temperature of 104° are the best possible things to have on the eve of a great offensive. Swears he's all right now, and objects to being ordered it to take it easy—while he can. Heavy bombardment all day, but we are eight miles back here. Officialcommuniquésrecord further successes.July 3.—Moved at 9.30 p.m., and arrived (5.30 a.m.) soaking wet at the worst bivouac it has ever been our unhappy lot to occupy.July 4.—Saw about 150 German prisoners being brought back. In the afternoon, after a violent thunderstorm, went to look at the position which we are to take over. Found that it was immensely strong. Originally it was only 1200 yards from the enemy front line, but now, since the advance, is about 3000. Steady rain all the time. Got back to find the camp converted into a veritable bog, and men of all the batteries making shelters for themselves by cutting down trees and looting straw. Therewill be a row over this, but—well, it is too much to expect men to submit to suchunnecessarydiscomfort.July 5.—Took the Child and two telephonists and went up to new position. Bombardment proceeding incessantly. Was amazed at the amount of material already brought up, at the gangs already working on the shell-wrecked roads, and at the crowd of spectators who lined a convenient ridge to "watch the show."Went with the Child and the battery commander from whom we were taking over to get a look at the country and visit the O.P. Passed through Fricourt—not long captured. Never could a bombardment have done its work of destruction more thoroughly than here. Not figuratively, but literally; no one brick stood upon another, scarcely one brick was whole. Walked on up the sunken road that leads north from Fricourt past the Dingle and Shelter Wood. For days this road had been a death-trap. It was strewn with corpses, with stretchers on which lay wounded men awaiting removal, with broken bits of equipment, English and German—and it stank. We arrived at the headquarters of a battalion and asked if we could see the colonel."No," they told us, "you can't at present.He's just been buried in his dug-out by a shell, and it will be some time before we get him clear; he's all right, but a bit shaken."So we went on up a battered trench to the O.P. In it a subaltern and two signallers, all three caked in mud. At the moment the wire to the battery was intact. Two men had been killed and one wounded whilst mending it. From here we could see the famous Quadrangle Trench, which at that time was holding up the advance. Many batteries were shooting at it. Having got our bearings, so to speak, we did not linger in this most unhealthy spot, but returned to the battery position.On the way home we met our own colonel bearing the news that the brigade would probably go into action in quite a different area. This news confirmed at H.Q. at 5 p.m. Turned back and reconnoitred the new position, which was farther south, nearer Fricourt; rather cramped and quite unprepared for occupation. Cadged dinner from an old friend whom we met at D.H.Q. Met the battery on the road about 10 p.m. and led it to new position. Work of getting guns in, ammunition and stores dumped, and teams away completed by 3 a.m. Awaited dawn.July 6.—As soon as it was light went up thehill on the right front of the battery to meet the colonel, choose an O.P. and "learn" the country. The scene of wreckage upon this hill now is past all belief, and is, I should imagine, a perfect example of the havoc wrought by a modern "intense" bombardment. The whole face of the earth is completely altered. On the German side of No Man's Land, not one square yard of the original surface of the ground remains unbroken. Line upon line of trenches and tunnels and saps have been so smashed that they are barely recognisable as such: there are mine craters seventy to a hundred yards across, and there are dug-outs (some of these still intact) which go down fifty feet and more into the chalk. On every side is débris—rails, timber, kit, blankets, broken rifles, bread, steel helmets, pumps, respirators, corpses. And nowhere can one get away from the sickening smell—the smell of putrescent human flesh....The morning mist cleared at last and we were able to see the landscape. From the O.P. we chose, the view, for our purposes, was ideal. Below us lay the ruins that once were Fricourt, to the right Fricourt Wood, farther off Mametz Wood and village, and on the skyline Contal-maison. Returned, very dishevelled, tobreakfast at 8 a.m. During the morning ran out a wire, got "through" to the battery, but did not dare to start shooting until further information as to the situation of the infantry was available. Eventually gathered that we only hold the southern edge of Mametz Wood, and that the Quadrangle Trench which lies to the left (west) of it is not yet in our possession. Spent the afternoon registering the guns, and then began shelling Mametz Wood. Was relieved by the Child at tea-time. Came down to the battery and washed. Looked forward to decent night's rest but was disappointed, viz.:—July 7.—Woken by Angelo at 1 a.m., who brought orders for a "strafe," which was to start at 2. Battery fired at a rapid rate from that hour till 2.30. Went back to bed. Woken by the Infant, who had relieved Angelo, at 6. Big bombardment to start at 7.20. Went to telephone dug-out at 7.15, unwashed and half-dressed, and remained there all day; meals brought in to me. The battery fired practically continuously for fourteen hours at rates varying from one to twenty-four rounds a minute. Targets various—mostly "barraging" Mametz Wood and ground immediately to the west of it. Worked the detachments as far as possible inreliefs, turning on spare signallers, cooks, and servants to carry ammunition as it arrived.The Child, who was at the O.P., sent down what information he could, but reported that it was hardly possible to see anything owing to the smoke. Passed on everything to Brigade H.Q. (communications working well), and received their instructions as to changes of target, rate of fire, etc. By dusk we were all very tired, and several of the men stone deaf. There were several heavy showers during the day, so that the position became a quagmire into which the guns sank almost to their axles and became increasingly difficult to serve. Empty cartridge cases piled several feet high round each platform: mud awful. No officialcommuniquéas to result of the day's operation. Got eight hours' sleep.July 8.—Shooting, off and on, all day—mostly registration of new points. In the intervals when not firing the detachments kept hard at work improving and strengthening the position. Hostile artillery much more active, but nothing really close to us. Fired 150 rounds during the night into Mametz Wood: northern portion not yet in our hands.July 9.—A good deal of barrage work all day, but as it was mostly at a slow rate the menmanaged to get some rest—goodness knows, they both need and deserve it.July 10.—Went out with the colonel to reconnoitre an advanced position. Got caught in a barrage, and had to crouch in a (fortunately) deep trench for half an hour. Sitting there began to wonder if this was the prelude to a counter-attack; just then, looking out to the left, that is towards the south-west corner of Mametz Wood, saw a lot of men running hard. Suddenly spotted the familiar grey uniform and spiked helmets of the enemy."God!" I cried, "it is a counter-attack. Those areHuns!" Expected every moment to have one peering in over the top of the trench: did not dare to run for it, owing to the barrage, which was still heavy. T——, who was with me, remained calm and put up his glasses."All right," he said; "they're prisoners. Look at the escort."And so they were, running for their lives through their own shrapnel—and the escort keeping well up with them!The storm being over (no "hate" lasts for ever) returned as quickly as we could, and reported that the position was possible but by no means tempting! A lot of night firing.July 11.—Set out with the Child, two sergeants, and my trusty "look-out man" to look for a more favourable spot. After a good deal of walking about found one, a fairly snug place (though pitted with shell-holes).Intended to reconnoitre for an O.P. in the front edge of Mametz Wood, but met a colonel just back from those parts who assured us that the enemy front line ran there. Reluctantly (!) we abandoned the enterprise and returned. At 6 p.m. the Child started off with a digging party to prepare the new position. Move of the battery ordered for 9.30, then postponed till 10.30. Road crowded with infantry and transport; progress slow. To be mounted and at the head of a column of twelve six-horse teams is a very different thing to being alone and ready to slip behind a wall or into a trench if occasion calls for it. Luck was on our side, however, and we got through before any shells came.Occupied the position quickly, emptied the ammunition wagons, and got the horses clear without casualties. The Child reported that a few four-twos had come pretty close while he and his party were digging and had stopped their work for a while: nevertheless, quite a lot already done. Time now 12.30. Turned on everyavailable man and continued digging till dawn. Men very beat, but not a word of grousing.July 12.—At dawn went up to find a new O.P.: took the Child and two signallers, the latter laying a wire as they went. Found excellent place with good general view in an old German redoubt. Trenches, however, crammed with sleeping infantry, over whom one had to step, and under whom the signallers had to pass their line! Thick mist till 8 a.m., when light became good enough to start on our task, which was to cut through the wire at a certain spot in the German main second line north of Mametz Wood. Observation difficult, as we were rather far back and the whole line was being heavily bombarded by our "heavies." About 10.30 what was apparently an excursion party of generals and staff officers arrived to see the fun, crowded us out of our bay in the trench and lined up, with their heads and red hat bands exposed. Lay down in a corner and tried to sleep, but got trodden on, so abandoned the idea. Shoon (another of my youthful subalterns) came up to relieve us at 2.30, so the Child and I returned to the battery and got about three hours' sleep. The detachments with amazing industry and endurance again hard at work digging. A good deal of hostile fire allround us, especially close to the nullah, but nothing within 200 yards of the guns.About 5.30 p.m. Shoon rang up from the O.P. to say that he and a signaller had been wounded. Angelo went up to take his place. Poor old Shoon, when he arrived down, was pretty shaken. Evidently the crowd of spectators previously remarked upon had attracted the attention of some cross Boche gunner. A five-nine dropped just beside the O.P. and knocked both signallers and Shoon, who was observing his wire-cutting at the moment, head over heels back into the trench below. While they were picking themselves up out of thedébrisa salvo landed on the parados immediately behind them. One signaller was untouched (and rescued his precious telephone), the other was badly cut about the head and leg and departed on a stretcher—a good man too. Shoon got a scratch on his forehead and some splinters into his left arm. Swore he was all right, but since he didn't look it was ordered to bed.Ammunition replenished in the evening in a tearing hurry. It is not pleasant to have teams standing about in a place like this. Heard that on the return journey to the wagon line last night a bombardier, four drivers, and five horses had been wounded—all slightly, thank Heaven!Shot all night at the wood (Bézantin-le-petit), and at the front line.July 13.—Continued wire-cutting and searching the wood all day. Scores of batteries doing the same thing, and noise infernal. The Child went off to find out if he could see the wire from the front edge of Mametz Wood (which now reallyisin our possession). Failing to see it from there, he wandered on up an old communication trench known as Middle Alley, which led direct from our own to the German front line. Eventually he found a place from which he could see through a gap in the hedge. The wire was cut all right—and, incidentally, he might have come face to face with a hostile bombing party at any moment! But what seemed to interest him much more was the behaviour of the orderly who had accompanied him. This N.C.O., who is the battery "look-out man," specially trained to observe anything and everything, raised himself from the ground a moment after they had both hurled themselves flat to await the arrival of a five-nine in Mametz Wood, peered over a fallen tree-trunk and said, "Thatone, sir, was just in front, but slightly to the left!"Spent the afternoon preparing detailed ordersand time-tables for to-morrow's "big show." Slept from 11 till 2.45 a.m.July 14.—The "intense" bombardment began at 3.20 a.m.; the infantry attack was launched five minutes later. Even to attempt to describe this bombardment is beyond me. All that can be said is that there was such ahellof noise that it was quite impossible to give any orders to the guns except by sending subalterns from the telephone dug-out to shout in the ear of each sergeant in turn. The battery (in company with perhaps a hundred others) barraged steadily, "lifting" fifty yards at a time from 3.25 till 7.15 a.m., by which time some 900 rounds had been expended and the paint on the guns was blistering from their heat. We gathered (chiefly from information supplied by the Child at the O.P., who got into touch with various staffs and signal officers) that the attack had been very successful. About 7.30 things slowed down a little and the men were able to get breakfast and some rest—half at a time, of course.At midday cavalry moved up past us and affairs began to look really promising. Slept from 3 to 5 p.m., then got orders to reconnoitre an advanced position in front of Acid Drop Copse. (It may here be noted that from ourfirst position this very copse was one of our most important targets at a range of nearly 4000 yards.) Chose a position, but could see that if and when we do occupy it, it is not going to be a health-resort. And, owing to the appalling state of the ground, it will take some driving to get there. Had a really good night's rest for once. Battery fired at intervals all night.July 15.—Attack continued. By 10.30 a.m. our guns had reached extreme range and we were forced to stop. (We started at 2700 in this position.) News very good: enemy much demoralised and surrendering freely. Practically no hostile shelling round us now—in fact, we are rather out of the battle for the moment. After lunch formed up the whole battery and thanked the men for the splendid way that they had worked. Shoon, whose arm has got worse, sent under protest to hospital. Desperately sorry to lose him.In the afternoon switched to the left, where we are apparently still held up, and fired occasional salvos on Martinpuich. Ditto all night.July 16.—Everybody much concerned over a certain Switch Trench, which appears to be giving much trouble. Fired spasmodically (by map) on this trench throughout the day. Inthe evening all guns removed to a travelling Ordnance Workshop for overhaul—they need it. Late at night received orders to dig the Acid Drop Copse position next day, and occupy it as soon as the guns are sent back.July 17.—Took all officers and practically every man up to new position at 7 a.m. and started to dig. Shells all round us while we worked, but still no damage. This is too good to last. In the afternoon went out with George (another B.C.[11]in the brigade), the Child, and a telephonist to look for an O.P. whence to see this infernal Switch Trench. After a while parted from George, whom we last saw walkingforwardfrom the villa, pausing occasionally to examine the country through his glasses. We learnt afterwards that he spent a really happy afternoon in No Man's Land carrying various wounded infantrymen into comparative safety! For which he has been duly recommended.
[6]David.
[6]David.
So I indented on the Royal Engineers (who own vast storehouses called in the vernacular "Dumps") for rails and bricks and cement and sandbags, and I sent marauding parties out at night to collect anything that might be useful.
The men with a good-will which was beyond all praise, seeing that this was their third position within the month, started the arduous task of dismantling the old pits and dug-outs and building them anew—guessing by this time that in all probability they would be moved on elsewhere before their labours were finished. For that is one very definite aspect of this war....
Our mess is a cottage which we share with a French family. Monsieur works in a mine close by, the numerous children play in the yard or are sent on errands, Madame in her spare moments does our washing for us. In the evening they all assemble in the kitchen and try to teach French to our servants. It amazes me to watch the sangfroid with which they go about their daily occupations regardless of the never-ceasing sound of guns and shells, regardless of the fact that the German line, as the crow flies, is less than two miles away. At 8 p.m. to the moment, whilst we are at dinner, they troop through into their own room to bed, each with a charming "Bon soir, messieurs." And on each occasion they make me personally feel that we are rather brutal to be occupying two-thirds of their house and spending our days making the most appalling havoc of their country. ButI console myself by remembering that these people once had Uhlans in the neighbourhood and are therefore prepared to disregard minor nuisances such as ourselves.
Seven to seven-thirty p.m. is generally rather a busy time. Official correspondence, usually marked "secret" and nearly always "urgent," is apt to arrive, and it is at this time that the intricate report on the day's shooting has to be made out and despatched to Group Headquarters. I am in the midst of this, working against time, with an orderly waiting in the kitchen, when the door is flung open and the Child enters with a cheery "Good evening, Master."
The Child calls me Master sometimes because I am always threatening to send his parents a half-term report on his progress and general conduct, or to put him back into Eton collars! He has now just returned from forty-eight hours' duty at the O.P. and presents an appearance such that his own mother would hardly recognise him. He wears a cap of a particularly floppy kind which he refers to as "my gorblimy hat," an imperfectly cured goatskin coat of varied hues which smells abominably, fur gauntlets, brown breeches, and indiarubber thigh boots. Round his person are slung field glasses, a prismaticcompass, an empty haversack, and a gas helmet. Moreover, he is caked with mud from head to foot and flushed with his two-mile walk against the cold wind. For this is still March, and we have had frost and snow and thaw alternately this last week.
"Anything happen after I left?" I ask. I had been up at the O.P. in the morning, and we'd "done a little shoot" together.
"Nothing much. The Hun got a bit busy with rifle grenades about lunch time and started to put some small 'minnies'[7]into our second line. So I retaliated on three different targets, which stopped him p.d.q. Later on he put a few pip-squeaks round our O.P. and one four-two into the church. That's about all, 'cept that I had to dodge a blasted machine-gun when I was leaving at dusk—one of those 250-rounds-a-minute stunts, you know—and I had to nip across that open bit, in between his bursts of fire. The trenches are in Hell's own mess after this thaw—I went down to the front line with an infantry officer to look at a sniper's post he's located; we might get the 'hows'[8]on to it. Any letters for me?"
[7]Minenwer,i.e.trench mortar bombs.
[7]Minenwer,i.e.trench mortar bombs.
[8]Howitzers.
[8]Howitzers.
I push them across to him, but forbid him to remain in the room with that smelly coat on.
"Righto," he grins; "I'm off to have a bath and a shave before dinner."
"But, my dear Child," I say, "you shaved last week! Surely——"
He grins again and saunters gracefully out. The Child is always graceful even when wearing a goatskin coat and ungainly thigh boots. But he's tired—I can see it in his eyes. His last two days have been spent as follows: At seven p.m. the night before last he arrived, in the capacity of liaison officer, at the headquarters of the battalion that we are supporting. He dined there and slept, in his clothes of course and always at the menace of a telephone, in a draughty hovel next door. Before dawn the next morning he was groping his way along three-quarters of a mile of muddy communication trench to the O.P. Arrived there it is his business to make certain that the telephonists below in the dank cellar are "through" on every line. Then he ascends the ladder of the observation tower and stares through the loophole at the mists which swathe the trenches in front of him. And there, alternately with the subaltern of the other batterywhich uses this particular O.P., he must remain until it is again too dark to shoot.
There are diversions, of course, which help to pass the long hours. One is "shooting the battery." The F.O.O., as the subaltern on duty at the O.P. is called, is allowed, within fairly wide limits, to shoot when and at what he likes provided always that he has a reasonable objective. The principles laid down for him are simple enough: whilst never wasting a round if he can help it, he must also never miss an opportunity. That is to say that he must keep ceaseless watch for signs of movement or of new work being carried out by the enemy, for the flashes of hostile batteries, for suspected O.P.'s, for machine-gun emplacements and snipers' posts—for almost everything in fact. And when he sees, he must shoot—at a rapid rate and for a few moments only. For it is useless to "plaster" the same spot for any length of time: the enemy will not be there—he must be caught unawares or not at all.
Another diversion is noting down the action of the hostile artillery, of which a report has to be rendered every evening. This is easy enough when he happens to be shelling at a convenient distance from you: it is not so easy, however, to count the number of "pip-squeaks" thatburst within a few yards of the house in which you are, or of "minnies" that arrive in silence and explode with a terrific report apparently just at the foot of your tower, filling your observation room with acrid fumes.
Visitors appear at all hours—generals, staff officers, infantry colonels, trench-mortar or sniping officers. Each wants to examine some portion of the line from the vantage point of the tower, and each expects to be told unhesitatingly everything he wants to know. But to return to the Child and his tour of duty. After dusk he goes back to infantry headquarters to feed and sleep. Then follows another long day in the tower, at the end of which he is relieved by the "next for duty" and returns to the battery with the privilege of breakfasting at any hour he likes on the following morning. The Child, I may here remark, has been known to eat poached eggs and marmalade at 12.30, and unblushingly sit down to sausages and mashed potatoes at 1.15.
But those two days at the O.P. are a strain. No hot meals, long hours, disturbed nights, shells for ever passing overhead, "mutual exchanges of rifle grenades," snipers' bullets which have missed their mark in our front line trenches flattening themselves against the outer wall ofthe house—there are pleasanter ways of living than this. And two things are always possible: one that the enemy may decide that this ruined house that he has watched for so long reallyisan O.P., and therefore well worth razing to the ground with heavy shell; the other that an attack (either with or without gas) may suddenly be launched against our line. In the first case the cellarmaybe a safe place, in the second there will be what the Child calls "Hell's own job," requiring a quick brain, keen vision, and the battery roaring in answer to sharp, curt orders. But if the two occur at once, as is more than probable, why, then the cellar is out of the question, for at no matter what cost the guns—always ready, always hungry—must be effectively controlled, the long-suffering, hard-pressed infantry must be supported. But at present these are dull days. Neither side is trying to do more than annoy the other.
"9.44 a.m. Working party seen at ——, fired on, dispersed."
"2.10 p.m. Fired 10 rounds at suspected O.P. at ——. One direct hit with H.E. Drew quick retaliation on ——."
Thus is the daily report compiled. Is it worth all the trouble, the science, the skill, theorganisation? It is, for everything, every little detail, every little effort helps to bring nearer the day when our guns will be pulled out on to the roads again, to be used for their legitimate purpose—the "quick thing," the fight in the open, "the moving show."...
Our colonel is "some man"—which phrase, being expanded, means an individual whose keen eye misses absolutely nothing from the too-sharp rowel of a driver's spur to the exact levelling of a concrete gun-platform; whose brain is for ever evolving schemes for the undoing of the wily Boche; whose energy enables him to walk and ride fifteen to twenty miles a day, deal with all his official correspondence and yet find time to talk about hunting at odd moments. Periodically he holds conferences of battery commanders at his Group Headquarters. After seeing that every one is provided for, he produces a large scale map with all the "zones" marked on it, sticks out his chin in a manner peculiar to him, and says—
"The Hun is becoming uppish again and must be suppressed. Now, what I propose to do is this"—and he proceeds to detail something entirely original in the way of a bombardment. But he is seldom content to use his own batteriesby themselves: nearly always he manages to borrow a few "heavies" and some trench mortars of various sizes. With these at his disposal he feels that he can "put up a good show," as he says, and it must be acknowledged that he generally does.
In addition to these definitely organised bombardments he is constantly ordering small "joy strafes" to be carried out. For instance, he will study the map and decide that two roads in a given area are in all probability used by the enemy at night. He will forbid any one to shoot on the northern one (say) and order two batteries to put salvoes on to the southern one every night until further orders, "just to impress the Hun," as he puts it, "with the idea that the southern road is a distinctly unhealthy spot. Then he'll have double traffic on the northern one. We'll wait till we know for certain that it's his relief night and then we'll fairly plaster that road."
This thoughtful scheme was duly carried out about a week ago—with what results, of course, it is impossible to say: but from the way the hostile batteries woke up and retaliated, we gathered that something had been accomplished.
And so the days and weeks pass by—quickly on the whole, so quickly that we are alreadybeginning to badger the adjutant with queries as to when we are likely to get leave. There are rumours, too, that the division is shortly going out "to rest." The infantry deserve it, for theirs is the hard part: daily I admire them more, every man of them from the humblest private who digs in the slushy trenches or stands on guard in a sap thirty yards or less from the enemy and quite possibly on top of a mine to their brigadier who conceals his V.C. and D.S.O. ribbons beneath a rubber suit and spends more of his time in the front line trenches than out of them.
But for us gunners it is different. We live in comfort and in perfect safety (unless our actual position is spotted and "strafed," in which case we merely withdraw our men until the enemy's allowance of ammunition is expended). Except possibly for our hard-worked telephonists we need no rest. Moreover, it would be heartbreaking to leave the position that we have made so cosy, so inconspicuous, and, we all believe, so strong.
We happen to be close to a main avenue of traffic. All sorts of people pass by—"brass hats" going up to inspect the line, R.E. wagons laden with every conceivable kind of trenchstore, mining officers caked in yellow clay returning after a strenuous tour of duty underground, a constant succession of small parties of infantry who are either "going in" or "coming out," ration carts, handcarts filled with things that look like iron plum-puddings but are really trench-mortar bombs and, occasionally, an ambulance. Infantry officers or men who happen to halt close by are generally invited to have a look at the gun-pits. More often than not some one of them recognises a friend or a relation in the battery: it must be remembered that we are a homogeneous division. If by chance we are firing when a party of infantry (unaccompanied by an officer) is passing, it invariably halts and watches the performances with huge interest and quite often with a shout or two of encouragement.
"Go it, boys, give 'em a bit more marmalade," I heard one ribald private yell out, when to his joy he heard the order, "Two rounds battery fire one second." When the guns had flashed and roared in their sequence, and the shells had gone rumbling away towards the distant lines, he picked up his burden, hitched his rifle more comfortably across his shoulders, and went upon his way, remarking, with a pleasant admixture of oaths—
"That'll give 'em something to think about for a while."
This, on a minor scale, is an example of the great principle of infantry and artillery co-operation. I can picture that same private rejoining his platoon in the trenches and saying to his "batty"—[9]
[9]= pal or friend.
[9]= pal or friend.
"Look you, Trevor, as I was coming up the road now just, I see a battery of our fellows givin' them —— Hell."
And his friend would answer perhaps—
"Well, 'tis fine to hear our shells come singing over. What about them fags, Tom? Did you get 'em?"
Neither of these men would know whether the rounds had been well or badly placed, but each would be left with the impression that the artillery exists for the purpose of helping him and his fellows when in difficulties and of preparing the way when the time comes. A small point, perhaps, but nevertheless a vital one....
It is fortunate that amid all the horror and the misery and the waste that this war entails it is still possible to see the humorous side of things sometimes. Here is an example. A major on his way up to the front line saw aman hunting about amongst some ruins for "souvenirs"—and this in a place which was in view of the Germans and only about 350 yards from their trenches. The major was justly annoyed: firstly, the man was evidently wasting his time; secondly, there was every prospect that hostile fire would be drawn to the spot. So he drew his revolver and put a round into the brickwork about six feet to one side of the man.
The effect was wonderful. The souvenir hunter, convinced that he had escaped a sniper's bullet by a mere inch, made a wild dive into a handy shell-hole and lay low. Twenty minutes later he emerged, crawling on hands and knees through deep slime and eagerly watched by a working party who had seen the incident. He arrived, panting and prepared to give an account of his thrilling experience—only to be asked his name and unit and placed in arrest on a charge of loitering unnecessarily in a dangerous place thereby tending to draw fire.
Another incident, not devoid of humour (though I cannot say that I thought so at the moment), occurred a week after we had arrived at our present position. W——, the captain of the "regular" battery which we had replaced, came over to inquire about a telescopic sight anda clinometer belonging to his unit which had somehow got mislaid during the muddle of "handing over."
"They must be somewhere here," W—— suggested politely, "and wemusthave them because we are going back into action to-morrow."
I assured him that to the best of my belief I had only my own, "but," I added confidently, "we'll go round and ask at each gun to make certain."
The sergeant of No. 1 was quite positive. The corporal of No. 2 was apparently equally so, but I noticed the suspicion of a smile at the corners of his lips.
"Are you certain," I repeated, "that you've only got your own telescope and sight clinometer?"
The corporal's answer was positively brutal in its honesty. He winked—an unmistakable wink—and said—
"Well, sir, o' course I've got those what I pinched off t' batt'ry that was here before!"
If the mud had then and there engulfed me I should have been grateful. As it was I could only weakly murmur, "Fetch them at once," and then glance round to see the expression onW——'s face. But he, good soul, was walking quietly away, though whether with the idea of relieving his own feelings or of allowing me to vent mine upon the corporal, I never dared to ask.
On the following day the corporal, who by the way is our professional comedian from Lancashire, saw fit to apologise. He did so thus—
"Sir," he said, as I was walking past his gun-pit. I turned and regarded him sternly, for I was still rather angry.
"I'm sorry about what happened yesterday," he observed contritely. "I didn't mean to make a fool of you!"
The charm of the remark lies in the fact that, while disregarding the enormity of his offence in "pinching" essential gun-stores from another battery, he was genuinely upset at having mademelook ridiculous. Which being the case I could do nothing but accept his apology in the spirit in which it was offered.
"Personally myself," said the Child, tilting back his chair until his head touched the wall behind him, and stretching out a lazy arm towards the cigarette-box—"personally myself, I've enjoyed this trip no end—haven't you?"
"I have," I answered; "so much so, Child, that the thought of going back to gun-pits and trenches and O.P.'s again fills me with gloom."
It was our last night in a most comfortable billet near ——, where, on and off, we had spent rather more than a month of ease; on the morrow we were going into the line again. The trip to which the Child was referring, however, was an eight days' course at a place vaguely known as "the ——th Army Mobile Artillery Training School," from which our battery had but lately returned.
The circumstances were these. When, five weeks ago, the division moved (for thenthtime!) to a different part of the line, it transpired that three batteries would be "out at rest," as there would be no room for them in action. It also so chanced that it was our colonel's turn to be left without a "group"[10]to command. This being so, he suggested to higher authorities that the three batteries "out" should be those of his own brigade, in order that he might have a chance "to tidy them up a bit," as he phrased it. Thus it was that we found ourselves, as I have said, in extremely comfortable billets—places, I mean, where they have sheets on the beds and china jugs and gas and drains—with every prospect of a pleasant loaf. But in this we were somewhat sanguine.
[10]A certain number of batteries.
[10]A certain number of batteries.
The colonel's idea in having us "out" for a while was not so much to rest us as to give us a variation of work. Being essentially a thorough man, he started—or rather ordered me to start—at the very beginning. The gunners paraded daily for marching drill, physical exercises, and "elementary standing gun drill by numbers." N.C.O.'s and drivers were taken out and given hours of riding drill under the supervision of subalterns bursting with knowledge crammed up from the book the night before and under thepersonal direction of a brazen-voiced sergeant who, having passed through the "riding troop" at Woolwich in his youth, knew his business. The strangest sight of all was the class of signallers—men who had spent months in the fœtid atmosphere of cellars and dug-outs, or creeping along telephone wires in "unhealthy" spots—now waving flags at a word of command and going solemnly through the Morse alphabet letter by letter. Of the whole community, this was perhaps the most scandalised portion. But in a few days, when everybody (not excluding myself and the other officers) had discovered how much had been forgotten during our long spell in action, a great spirit of emulation began to be displayed. Subsections vied with one another to produce the smartest gun detachment, the sleekest horses, the best turned-out ride, the cleanest harness, guns, and wagons.
The colonel, after the manner of his kind, came at the end of a week or so to inspect things. He is not the sort of man upon whom one can easily impose. A dozen of the shiniest saddles or bits in the battery placed so as to catch the light (and the eye) near the doorway of the harness room do not necessarily satisfy him: nor is he content with the mere general and symmetricaleffect of rows of superficially clean breast-collars, traces, and breechings. On the contrary, he is quite prepared to spend an hour or more over his inspection, examining every set of harness in minute detail, even down to the backs of the buckle tongues, the inside of the double-folded breast collars, and the oft-neglected underside of saddle flaps. It is the same thing with the guns and wagons. Burnished breech-rings and polished brasswork look very nice, and he approves of them, but he does not on that account omit to look closely at every oil-hole or to check the lists of "small stores" and "spare parts."
For the next week or so we were kept very busy on "the many small points which required attention," to quote the colonel's phrase. Nevertheless, as a variation from the monotony of siege warfare, the time was regarded by most of us as a holiday. Many things combined to enhance our pleasure. The sun shone and the country became gorgeously green again; the horses began to get their summer coats and to lose their unkempt winter's appearance; there was a fair-sized town near at hand, and passes to visit it were freely granted to N.C.O.'s and men; at the back of the officers' billet was agarden with real flower-beds in it and a bit of lawn on which one could have tea. Occasionally we could hear the distant muttering of the guns, and at night we could see the "flares" darting up from the black horizon—just to remind us, I suppose, that the war was only in the next parish....
But it was not to be supposed that a man of such energy as our colonel would be content just to ride round daily and watch three of his batteries doing rides and gun drill. It occurred to him at once that this was the time to practise the legitimate business—that is, open, moving warfare. Wherefore he made representations to various quite superior authorities. In three days, by dint of considerable personal exertion, he had secured the following concessions: two large tracts of ground suitable for driving drill and battery manœuvre, good billets, an area of some six square miles (part of the ——th Army Training area) for the purpose of tactical schemes, the appointment of himself as commandant of the "school," a Ford ambulance for his private use, three motor lorries for the supply of the units under training, and a magnificent château for his own headquarters. And all this he accomplished without causing any serious frictionbetween the various "offices" and departments concerned—no mean feat.
Each course was to last eight days, and there were to be four batteries, taken from different divisions, undergoing it simultaneously. It fell to us to go with the second batch, and we spent a strenuous week of preparation: it was four months since we had done any work "in the open," and we knew, inwardly, that we were distinctly rusty. We packed up, and at full war strength, transport, spare horses and all, we marched out sixteen miles to the selected area. At the halfway halt we met the commander of a battery of our own brigade returning. He stopped to pass the time of day and volunteered the information that he was going on leave that night. "And, by Jove!" he added significantly, "I deserve a bit of rest.Réveilléat 4 a.m. every morning, out all day wet or fine, gun drill at every odd moment, schemes, tactical exercises, everybody at high pressure all the time. The colonel's fairly in his element, revels in it, and 'strafes' everybody indiscriminately. But it's done us all a world of good though. Cheeriho! wish you luck." And he rode on, leaving us rather flabbergasted.
We discovered quite early (on the followingmorning about dawn, to be precise) that there had been no exaggeration. We began with elementary driving drill, and we did four and a half hours of it straight on end, except for occasional ten-minute halts to rest the astonished teams. It was wonderful how much we had forgotten and yet how much came back to us after the first hour or so.
"I want all your officers to drill the battery in turn," said the colonel. "I shall just ride round and correct mistakes."
He did—with an energy, a power of observation, and a command of language which I have seldom seen or heard surpassed. But the ultimate result by midday, when all the officers and N.C.O.'s were hoarse, the teams sweating and the carriages caked in oily dust—the ultimate result was, as the Child politely says, "not too stinkin' awful." And it had been good to hear once again the rattle and bump of the guns and wagons over hard ground, the jingle of harness and the thud of many hoofs; good to see the teams swing round together as they wheeled into line or column at a spanking trot; good above all to remember thatthiswas our job and that the months spent in concrete gun-pits and double-bricked O.P.'s were but alengthy prelude to our resumption of it—some day.
In the evening, when the day's work was over and "stables" finished, we left the tired horses picking over the remains of their hay and walked down thepavévillage street, Angelo and I, to look at the church. Angelo is my eldest but not, as it so happens, my senior subaltern. Before the war he was a budding architect, with a taste for painting: hence the nickname, coined by the Child in one of his more erudite moods.
The church at L—— is very fine. Its square tower is thirteenth century, its interior is pure Gothic, and its vaulted roof a marvel. For its size the building is well-nigh perfect. We spent some time examining the nave and chancel—Angelo, his professional as well as his artistic enthusiasm aroused, explaining technicalities to me and making me envious of his knowledge. It was with regret that we turned away at last, for in spite of the tattered colours of some French regiment which hung on the north side of the chancel, we had forgotten the war in the quiet peacefulness of that exquisite interior. But we were quickly reminded. At the end of the church, kneeling on one of the rough chairs,was an old peasant woman: her head was bowed, and the beads dropped slowly through her twisted fingers. As we crept down the aisle she raised her eyes—not to look at us, for I think she was unconscious of our presence—but to gaze earnestly at the altar. Her lips moved in prayer, but no tear damped her yellow cheek. And, passing out into the sunlight again, I wondered for whom she was praying—husband, brother, sons?—whether, still hoping, she prayed for the living, or, faithfully, for the souls of those lost to her. They are brave, the peasant women of France....
Madame our hostess, besides being one of the fattest, was also one of the most agreeable ladies it has ever been our lot to be billeted upon. Before we had been in her house ten minutes she had given us (at an amazing speed) the following information:—
Her only remaining son had been wounded and was now a prisoner in Germany.
She had played hostess continuously since August, 1914, to every kind of soldier, including French motor-bus drivers, Indian chiefs (sic), and generals.
English officers arriving after the battle of Loos slept in her hall for twenty-four hours,woke to have a bath and to eat an omelette, and then slept the clock round again.
She remembered 1870, in which war her husband had fought.
The Boches were barbarians, but they would never advance now, though at one time they had been within a few kilometres of her house.
The lettuce and cabbages in her garden were at our disposal.
She took an enormous interest in the Infant, who is even younger than the Child and is our latest acquisition.
"Regardez donc le petit, comme il est fatigué!" she exclaimed to me in the tones of an anxious mother—and then added in an excited whisper, "A-t-il vu les Boches, ce petit sous-lieutenant?"
When I assured her not only that he had seen them, but had fired his guns at them, she was delighted and declared that he could not be more than sixteen. But here the Infant, considering that the conversation was becoming personal, intervened, and the old lady left us to our dinner.
Towards the end of our week we packed up essentials and marched out to bivouac twonights and fight a two days' running battle—directed, of course, by our indefatigable colonel. After the dead flat ugliness where we had been in action all the winter and early spring it was a delight to find ourselves in this spacious undulating country, with its trees and church spires and red-tiled villages. We fought all day against an imaginary foe, made innumerable mistakes, all forcibly pointed out by the colonel (who rode both his horses to a standstill in endeavouring to direct operations and at the same time watch the procedure of four widely separated batteries); our imaginary infantry captured ridge after ridge, and we advanced from position to position "in close support," until finally, the rout of the foe being complete, we moved to our appointed bivouacs.
In peace time it would have been regarded as a quite ordinary day, boring because of its resemblance to so many others. Now it was different. True, it was make-believe from start to finish, without even blank cartridge to give the vaguest hint of reality. But there was this: at the back of all our minds was the knowledge that this was a preparation—possibly our last preparation—not for something in the indefinite future (as in peace time), but for an occasion that assuredlyiscoming, perhaps in a few months,perhaps even in a few weeks. The colonel spoke truly when, at his first conference, he said—
"During these schemes you must all of you force yourselves to imagine that there is a real enemy opposed to you. The Boche is no fool: he's got guns, and he knows how to use them. If you show up on crest lines with a whole battery staff at your heels, he'll have the place 'registered,' and he'll smash your show to bits before you ever get your guns into action at all.Thinkwhere he is likely to be,thinkwhat he's likely to be doing, don't expose yourselves unless you must, and above all,get a move on."
It was a delightful bivouac. We were on the sheltered side of a little hill, looking south into a wooded valley. Nightingales sang to us as we lay smoking on our valises after a picnic dinner and stared dreamily at the stars above us.
"Jolly, isn't it?" said the Child; "but I s'pose we wouldn't be feeling quite so comfy if it was the real business."
"Don't," said Angelo, quietly. "I was pretending to myself that we were just a merry camping party, here for pleasure only. I'd forgotten the war."
But I had not. I was thinking of the last time I had bivouacked—amongst the cornsheaves of a harvest that was never gathered, side by side with friends who were soon to fall, on the night before the first day of Mons, nearly two years ago.
The following day was more or less a repetition of the first, except that we made fewer mistakes and "dropped into action" with more style and finish. We were now becoming fully aware of the almost-forgotten fact that a field battery is designed to be a mobile unit, and we were just beginning to take shape as such when our time was over. A day's rest for the horses and then we returned to our comfortable rest billets. It had been a strenuous week, but I think every one had thoroughly enjoyed it....
We have had two days in which to "clean up," and now to-morrow we are to relieve another battery and take our place in the line again. Our holiday is definitely over. It will take a little time to settle down to the old conditions: our week's practice of open warfare has spoilt us for this other kind. We who have climbed hills and looked over miles of rolling country will find an increased ugliness in our old flat surroundings. It will seem ludicrous to put our guns into pits again—the guns that we have seen bounding over rough ground behind thestraining teams. To be cooped up in a brick O.P. staring at a strip of desolation will be odious after our bivouacs under the stars and our dashes into action under a blazing sun. Worst of all, perhaps, is the thought that the battery will be split up again into "gun line" and "wagon line," with three miles or more separating its two halves, instead of its being, as it has been all these weeks, one complete cohesive unit. But what must be, must be; and it is absurd to grumble. Moreover—the end is not yet.
"Let's toss up for who takes first turn at the O.P. when the relief is completed," suggested the Child.
"Wait a minute," said I, remembering something suddenly. "Do you know what to-day is?"
"Friday," he volunteered, "and to-morrow ought to be a half-holiday, but it won't be, 'cos we're going into action."
I passed the port round again. "It's only a fortnight since we celebrated the battery's first birthday," I said, "but to-day the Royal Regiment of Artillery is two hundred years old. Let's drink its health."
And we did.
Somewhere about the middle of June, we knew definitely that we were "for it," as the soldier says; we knew that our division was one of those chosen for the great concentration which was to culminate in the "great push"—and we were proud of the distinction. A three days' march brought us to a certain training area, where we camped for a week and worked some seventeen hours a day—counting, that is, fromréveilléat 4 a.m. until the last bit of harness was hung up clean and ready for the morrow at 9 p.m.
During this period two incidents of note occurred. One was that the Child suddenly developed pleurisy, and was removed to hospital—a serious loss at any time, but especially so at this particular moment. The other was that a squadron of hostile aircraft flew over our manœuvre ground and actually dropped a bomb within 150 yards of the tail of our column.Which, seeing that we were some twenty miles from the nearest part of the line and at the moment only playing at soldiers, was most disconcerting.
From the time when we left this training until, about three weeks later, we were withdrawn to rest in a quiet part of the line, I kept a rough diary of our particular share in the greatest battle ever fought by the British Army. The following are some extracts from it, in no way embellished, but only enlarged so as to make them intelligible.
June 27.—Nine-hour night march southwards, arriving in comfortable billets at 3.30 a.m. Aeroplanes (or at any rate, hostile ones) are the curse of this war: if it was not for fear of them we could move by daylight in a reasonable manner. The old saddler, dozing on a wagon, fell off and was run over: nothing broken, but he will be lost to us. A great pity, as he's a charming character and a first-class workman.
June 28 and 29.—Rested, the continuation of the march having been postponed.
June 30.—Orders to move on to-night. Was sent off with a small party on a road and riverreconnaissance: this presumably with a view to going forward "when the advance begins." By the time we got back to where the brigade was to billet, had ridden about forty miles. Job only half finished. Battery marched in at midnight.
July 1.—Started at 5.30 a.m. with same party to finish reconnaissance. Reached a point about four miles behind the line, at 7.15 a.m.: a tremendous bombardment in progress. Left our horses, and walked on two miles to a river. Here learnt that the attack had been launched at 7.30 and was going well. Walked north up the river-bank, keeping well under the shelter of the steep ridge on the east side, and only emerging to examine each bridge as we came to it. Thousands upon thousands of shells of every size, from "Grannies" to 18 prs., passing over our heads unceasingly: expected the enemy to retaliate. But not a round came: probably the Boche was too busily engaged elsewhere. Met streams of wounded coming down; some with captured helmets, nearly all with grins.
Finished the river reconnaissance about 10.30 and walked back by a roundabout (but less unpleasant!) way, and reached our horses about midday. Rode back to the battery andspent the afternoon writing out full report. Orders to move at 11.30 p.m. Long night march to new billets, arriving 4.15 a.m.
July 2.—Rested. In the course of the day the Child returned, having in some amazing way persuaded the hospital authorities that pleurisy and a temperature of 104° are the best possible things to have on the eve of a great offensive. Swears he's all right now, and objects to being ordered it to take it easy—while he can. Heavy bombardment all day, but we are eight miles back here. Officialcommuniquésrecord further successes.
July 3.—Moved at 9.30 p.m., and arrived (5.30 a.m.) soaking wet at the worst bivouac it has ever been our unhappy lot to occupy.
July 4.—Saw about 150 German prisoners being brought back. In the afternoon, after a violent thunderstorm, went to look at the position which we are to take over. Found that it was immensely strong. Originally it was only 1200 yards from the enemy front line, but now, since the advance, is about 3000. Steady rain all the time. Got back to find the camp converted into a veritable bog, and men of all the batteries making shelters for themselves by cutting down trees and looting straw. Therewill be a row over this, but—well, it is too much to expect men to submit to suchunnecessarydiscomfort.
July 5.—Took the Child and two telephonists and went up to new position. Bombardment proceeding incessantly. Was amazed at the amount of material already brought up, at the gangs already working on the shell-wrecked roads, and at the crowd of spectators who lined a convenient ridge to "watch the show."
Went with the Child and the battery commander from whom we were taking over to get a look at the country and visit the O.P. Passed through Fricourt—not long captured. Never could a bombardment have done its work of destruction more thoroughly than here. Not figuratively, but literally; no one brick stood upon another, scarcely one brick was whole. Walked on up the sunken road that leads north from Fricourt past the Dingle and Shelter Wood. For days this road had been a death-trap. It was strewn with corpses, with stretchers on which lay wounded men awaiting removal, with broken bits of equipment, English and German—and it stank. We arrived at the headquarters of a battalion and asked if we could see the colonel.
"No," they told us, "you can't at present.He's just been buried in his dug-out by a shell, and it will be some time before we get him clear; he's all right, but a bit shaken."
So we went on up a battered trench to the O.P. In it a subaltern and two signallers, all three caked in mud. At the moment the wire to the battery was intact. Two men had been killed and one wounded whilst mending it. From here we could see the famous Quadrangle Trench, which at that time was holding up the advance. Many batteries were shooting at it. Having got our bearings, so to speak, we did not linger in this most unhealthy spot, but returned to the battery position.
On the way home we met our own colonel bearing the news that the brigade would probably go into action in quite a different area. This news confirmed at H.Q. at 5 p.m. Turned back and reconnoitred the new position, which was farther south, nearer Fricourt; rather cramped and quite unprepared for occupation. Cadged dinner from an old friend whom we met at D.H.Q. Met the battery on the road about 10 p.m. and led it to new position. Work of getting guns in, ammunition and stores dumped, and teams away completed by 3 a.m. Awaited dawn.
July 6.—As soon as it was light went up thehill on the right front of the battery to meet the colonel, choose an O.P. and "learn" the country. The scene of wreckage upon this hill now is past all belief, and is, I should imagine, a perfect example of the havoc wrought by a modern "intense" bombardment. The whole face of the earth is completely altered. On the German side of No Man's Land, not one square yard of the original surface of the ground remains unbroken. Line upon line of trenches and tunnels and saps have been so smashed that they are barely recognisable as such: there are mine craters seventy to a hundred yards across, and there are dug-outs (some of these still intact) which go down fifty feet and more into the chalk. On every side is débris—rails, timber, kit, blankets, broken rifles, bread, steel helmets, pumps, respirators, corpses. And nowhere can one get away from the sickening smell—the smell of putrescent human flesh....
The morning mist cleared at last and we were able to see the landscape. From the O.P. we chose, the view, for our purposes, was ideal. Below us lay the ruins that once were Fricourt, to the right Fricourt Wood, farther off Mametz Wood and village, and on the skyline Contal-maison. Returned, very dishevelled, tobreakfast at 8 a.m. During the morning ran out a wire, got "through" to the battery, but did not dare to start shooting until further information as to the situation of the infantry was available. Eventually gathered that we only hold the southern edge of Mametz Wood, and that the Quadrangle Trench which lies to the left (west) of it is not yet in our possession. Spent the afternoon registering the guns, and then began shelling Mametz Wood. Was relieved by the Child at tea-time. Came down to the battery and washed. Looked forward to decent night's rest but was disappointed, viz.:—
July 7.—Woken by Angelo at 1 a.m., who brought orders for a "strafe," which was to start at 2. Battery fired at a rapid rate from that hour till 2.30. Went back to bed. Woken by the Infant, who had relieved Angelo, at 6. Big bombardment to start at 7.20. Went to telephone dug-out at 7.15, unwashed and half-dressed, and remained there all day; meals brought in to me. The battery fired practically continuously for fourteen hours at rates varying from one to twenty-four rounds a minute. Targets various—mostly "barraging" Mametz Wood and ground immediately to the west of it. Worked the detachments as far as possible inreliefs, turning on spare signallers, cooks, and servants to carry ammunition as it arrived.
The Child, who was at the O.P., sent down what information he could, but reported that it was hardly possible to see anything owing to the smoke. Passed on everything to Brigade H.Q. (communications working well), and received their instructions as to changes of target, rate of fire, etc. By dusk we were all very tired, and several of the men stone deaf. There were several heavy showers during the day, so that the position became a quagmire into which the guns sank almost to their axles and became increasingly difficult to serve. Empty cartridge cases piled several feet high round each platform: mud awful. No officialcommuniquéas to result of the day's operation. Got eight hours' sleep.
July 8.—Shooting, off and on, all day—mostly registration of new points. In the intervals when not firing the detachments kept hard at work improving and strengthening the position. Hostile artillery much more active, but nothing really close to us. Fired 150 rounds during the night into Mametz Wood: northern portion not yet in our hands.
July 9.—A good deal of barrage work all day, but as it was mostly at a slow rate the menmanaged to get some rest—goodness knows, they both need and deserve it.
July 10.—Went out with the colonel to reconnoitre an advanced position. Got caught in a barrage, and had to crouch in a (fortunately) deep trench for half an hour. Sitting there began to wonder if this was the prelude to a counter-attack; just then, looking out to the left, that is towards the south-west corner of Mametz Wood, saw a lot of men running hard. Suddenly spotted the familiar grey uniform and spiked helmets of the enemy.
"God!" I cried, "it is a counter-attack. Those areHuns!" Expected every moment to have one peering in over the top of the trench: did not dare to run for it, owing to the barrage, which was still heavy. T——, who was with me, remained calm and put up his glasses.
"All right," he said; "they're prisoners. Look at the escort."
And so they were, running for their lives through their own shrapnel—and the escort keeping well up with them!
The storm being over (no "hate" lasts for ever) returned as quickly as we could, and reported that the position was possible but by no means tempting! A lot of night firing.
July 11.—Set out with the Child, two sergeants, and my trusty "look-out man" to look for a more favourable spot. After a good deal of walking about found one, a fairly snug place (though pitted with shell-holes).
Intended to reconnoitre for an O.P. in the front edge of Mametz Wood, but met a colonel just back from those parts who assured us that the enemy front line ran there. Reluctantly (!) we abandoned the enterprise and returned. At 6 p.m. the Child started off with a digging party to prepare the new position. Move of the battery ordered for 9.30, then postponed till 10.30. Road crowded with infantry and transport; progress slow. To be mounted and at the head of a column of twelve six-horse teams is a very different thing to being alone and ready to slip behind a wall or into a trench if occasion calls for it. Luck was on our side, however, and we got through before any shells came.
Occupied the position quickly, emptied the ammunition wagons, and got the horses clear without casualties. The Child reported that a few four-twos had come pretty close while he and his party were digging and had stopped their work for a while: nevertheless, quite a lot already done. Time now 12.30. Turned on everyavailable man and continued digging till dawn. Men very beat, but not a word of grousing.
July 12.—At dawn went up to find a new O.P.: took the Child and two signallers, the latter laying a wire as they went. Found excellent place with good general view in an old German redoubt. Trenches, however, crammed with sleeping infantry, over whom one had to step, and under whom the signallers had to pass their line! Thick mist till 8 a.m., when light became good enough to start on our task, which was to cut through the wire at a certain spot in the German main second line north of Mametz Wood. Observation difficult, as we were rather far back and the whole line was being heavily bombarded by our "heavies." About 10.30 what was apparently an excursion party of generals and staff officers arrived to see the fun, crowded us out of our bay in the trench and lined up, with their heads and red hat bands exposed. Lay down in a corner and tried to sleep, but got trodden on, so abandoned the idea. Shoon (another of my youthful subalterns) came up to relieve us at 2.30, so the Child and I returned to the battery and got about three hours' sleep. The detachments with amazing industry and endurance again hard at work digging. A good deal of hostile fire allround us, especially close to the nullah, but nothing within 200 yards of the guns.
About 5.30 p.m. Shoon rang up from the O.P. to say that he and a signaller had been wounded. Angelo went up to take his place. Poor old Shoon, when he arrived down, was pretty shaken. Evidently the crowd of spectators previously remarked upon had attracted the attention of some cross Boche gunner. A five-nine dropped just beside the O.P. and knocked both signallers and Shoon, who was observing his wire-cutting at the moment, head over heels back into the trench below. While they were picking themselves up out of thedébrisa salvo landed on the parados immediately behind them. One signaller was untouched (and rescued his precious telephone), the other was badly cut about the head and leg and departed on a stretcher—a good man too. Shoon got a scratch on his forehead and some splinters into his left arm. Swore he was all right, but since he didn't look it was ordered to bed.
Ammunition replenished in the evening in a tearing hurry. It is not pleasant to have teams standing about in a place like this. Heard that on the return journey to the wagon line last night a bombardier, four drivers, and five horses had been wounded—all slightly, thank Heaven!
Shot all night at the wood (Bézantin-le-petit), and at the front line.
July 13.—Continued wire-cutting and searching the wood all day. Scores of batteries doing the same thing, and noise infernal. The Child went off to find out if he could see the wire from the front edge of Mametz Wood (which now reallyisin our possession). Failing to see it from there, he wandered on up an old communication trench known as Middle Alley, which led direct from our own to the German front line. Eventually he found a place from which he could see through a gap in the hedge. The wire was cut all right—and, incidentally, he might have come face to face with a hostile bombing party at any moment! But what seemed to interest him much more was the behaviour of the orderly who had accompanied him. This N.C.O., who is the battery "look-out man," specially trained to observe anything and everything, raised himself from the ground a moment after they had both hurled themselves flat to await the arrival of a five-nine in Mametz Wood, peered over a fallen tree-trunk and said, "Thatone, sir, was just in front, but slightly to the left!"
Spent the afternoon preparing detailed ordersand time-tables for to-morrow's "big show." Slept from 11 till 2.45 a.m.
July 14.—The "intense" bombardment began at 3.20 a.m.; the infantry attack was launched five minutes later. Even to attempt to describe this bombardment is beyond me. All that can be said is that there was such ahellof noise that it was quite impossible to give any orders to the guns except by sending subalterns from the telephone dug-out to shout in the ear of each sergeant in turn. The battery (in company with perhaps a hundred others) barraged steadily, "lifting" fifty yards at a time from 3.25 till 7.15 a.m., by which time some 900 rounds had been expended and the paint on the guns was blistering from their heat. We gathered (chiefly from information supplied by the Child at the O.P., who got into touch with various staffs and signal officers) that the attack had been very successful. About 7.30 things slowed down a little and the men were able to get breakfast and some rest—half at a time, of course.
At midday cavalry moved up past us and affairs began to look really promising. Slept from 3 to 5 p.m., then got orders to reconnoitre an advanced position in front of Acid Drop Copse. (It may here be noted that from ourfirst position this very copse was one of our most important targets at a range of nearly 4000 yards.) Chose a position, but could see that if and when we do occupy it, it is not going to be a health-resort. And, owing to the appalling state of the ground, it will take some driving to get there. Had a really good night's rest for once. Battery fired at intervals all night.
July 15.—Attack continued. By 10.30 a.m. our guns had reached extreme range and we were forced to stop. (We started at 2700 in this position.) News very good: enemy much demoralised and surrendering freely. Practically no hostile shelling round us now—in fact, we are rather out of the battle for the moment. After lunch formed up the whole battery and thanked the men for the splendid way that they had worked. Shoon, whose arm has got worse, sent under protest to hospital. Desperately sorry to lose him.
In the afternoon switched to the left, where we are apparently still held up, and fired occasional salvos on Martinpuich. Ditto all night.
July 16.—Everybody much concerned over a certain Switch Trench, which appears to be giving much trouble. Fired spasmodically (by map) on this trench throughout the day. Inthe evening all guns removed to a travelling Ordnance Workshop for overhaul—they need it. Late at night received orders to dig the Acid Drop Copse position next day, and occupy it as soon as the guns are sent back.
July 17.—Took all officers and practically every man up to new position at 7 a.m. and started to dig. Shells all round us while we worked, but still no damage. This is too good to last. In the afternoon went out with George (another B.C.[11]in the brigade), the Child, and a telephonist to look for an O.P. whence to see this infernal Switch Trench. After a while parted from George, whom we last saw walkingforwardfrom the villa, pausing occasionally to examine the country through his glasses. We learnt afterwards that he spent a really happy afternoon in No Man's Land carrying various wounded infantrymen into comparative safety! For which he has been duly recommended.