Chapter XIIBETWEEN THE ANCRE AND THE SOMMEIn previous chapters I have referred to the intense bombardment which preceded the attacks on Neuve Chapelle and Loos during 1915. Looking back they seem as nothing compared with what our artillery has been able, thanks to the munition workers at home, to treat the Huns to in August, 1916, a bombardment audible very far back from the scenes of action. At, say, nine o'clock one night the guns will suddenly start: one man turns to another and remarks, "There must be astrafeon to-night." The guns continue without cessation, till perhaps just as daylight is stealing across the sky they stop for a time abruptly. This may signify that at this very moment the infantry are over the top, or parapets, of the trenches at the particular point where the attack is being made. More names for the Roll of Honour, for "Somewhere in the universe, God's awful dawn is red."Newspaper correspondents at the front have recently, in a sense, come into their own: they have been granted more latitude in writing and allowed to see something of the show. It is good that this should be so, both from the point of view of the fighting-men themselves and also that of the people at home. Much has, therefore, appeared in the Press and elsewhere on the subject of the advance north and south of the Somme, and for this reason there remains little left unwritten, so far as the actual fighting and the scenes of its surroundings arc concerned.On many occasions, in the course of duty, I have had the opportunity of going over a good deal of the ground captured from the enemy in the great Allied push which started on July 1, 1916. It almost baffles description. Without actually seeing the results, it is difficult to realize the pulverizing effect of continued and heavy artillery bombardment.In this sector, such villages as Contalmaison, Fricourt, and Pozières, to mention only three, have literally ceased to exist; the fact that there have ever been villages in these particular spots is indicated only by their names on the map and heaps of debris and rubbish. They are not like such places as Ypres or Arras, where still here and there remain standing a few forlorn-looking bits of outer walls and the skeletons of destroyed houses. To give one instance, the curé of a village in the Somme district, after it had been taken from the Germans, sought leave from the British authorities to be conducted to it in order to see if it were possible for him to recover any of the possessions, or relics, of his church. The privilege was duly afforded him, and thither he was escorted. Unfortunately, however, he was quite unable to find either the church, his own house, or even his way about "the village"; but then, as the officer remarked who told me this story, all these things were scarcely to be wondered at, for Monsieur le Curé had only spent forty years of his life there! I give this story to indicate what is the state of the land over which this heavy artillery preparation has been necessary in order to dislodge the Hun and destroy his ramifications.The impression of the whole scene of the captured ground (July 1916)—or, at least, that part of it which I have seen—remaining in my mind is an undulating plateau extending as far as the eye can see. In more peaceful times it was perhaps arable land. Now it is arid and dead: nothing grows there, not a blade of grass; even the trees of such woods as the Bois de Mametz do not boast of a green leaf—they are splintered and torn down by shells. Those that still stand are withered and brown, the results of continual high explosive and gas shells. It reminds you of nothing so much as land which is suffering from the effects of very severe volcanic eruption, for it is everywhere pitted with craters and shell holes of all sizes and depths. On this plateau are quantities of transport wagons, limbers, and heavy draft horses, their bay coats shimmering in the sun; these are the wagon lines of the many artillery batteries that are operating in the sector. As you proceed along the road, which runs through it, you will note that it crosses more than one line of former trenches which have been wrested from the enemy at great cost.At the point of the road-crossing they have been filled in. Almost all along the road are well-constructed old German dug-outs, many of them spacious, dug a considerable depth into the bank on the side of the road and surrounded by layers of sand-bags. They must have taken considerable time and labour to construct, many of them being a series of cellars, connected by passages, at least fifteen or twenty feet deep. If you care to climb down into them, frequently you will come upon sights which are, to say the least, gruesome. There is a cold, clammy feeling in the air in some of these dugouts; they reek of death. Some have been luxuriously fitted up, walls plastered and papered; traces of electric wiring and lamp fittings and stolen French furniture and beds are still visible. I have before me a scrap of torn and blood-stained paper, part of a leaf from a Field Message Book. On it is written the following, which it is just possible to decipher. It was picked up in a dug-out in the old British line, north of the Somme, over which British troops have advanced:... high state of efficiency. An important section of these operations has been entrusted to this battalion, and the Commanding Officer feels sure that every one belonging to it will rise to the occasion and "do his bit" for the regiment and his country. A man, no matter what his position, who sits down or otherwise idles when he ought to be working, is failing both one and the other.No doubt the remains of an order issued by the C.O. of a battalion in a tight corner, with perhaps a difficult job ahead to accomplish and an important part to play in the "Big Push." There is no signature or clue which would enable the writer of this inspiring human document or the regiment referred to in it to be identified. Perhaps his men obeyed his order and with him have earned their discharge and joined the great majority. To see the captured ground and its network of trenches and dug-outs is to realize what a tremendous achievement it has been on the part of British troops to dig the Huns out like rats from their strongholds and drive them back, and what artillery preparation must have been necessary to break down their defences. In passing, there are also the other rats, and the shelter afforded by dug-outs is shared by men and rats alike. It is scarcely necessary to add that the latter are a veritable plague, not only in the trenches themselves, but behind them as well. There is a story—I cannot vouch for its truth, though it certainly has a Bairnsfather touch about it—of an officer commanding a battalion who received orders from his Brigade Headquarters to "render a return" to that office by such and such a date, stating the number of rats in the trenches occupied by the unit under his command. The nature of his alleged reply I have not, however, heard. It is better, no doubt, left to the imagination. The Army lives on "returns." Every unit in the field, no matter under what conditions it is living, has to "render returns" on at least a dozen different things each week. In that most priceless little book of wit, which contains so much that is in reality true,The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge, we find that "a return" is a document sent to a superior authority and comprises lists of persons or things in your charge. This document, quite contrary to what you might suppose from its title, never returns to you, unless the person to whom you have sent it thinks it requires attention. It is probably called "a return" for this very reason, as it is the most unlikely name for it, and so cultivates a taste for the eccentric in the Service. Returns are always being "called for" by somebody. You must be prepared to "render" these "returns" at all times at a moment's notice, e.g. "the average number of men who have had sore feet between January 1st and April 1st."But to return to the scenery between the Ancre and the Somme.Cunningly hidden away at different points, the guns will make their presence constantly known to you. Here a battery of ugly-looking howitzers is loosing off salvos into the Hun trenches, and a little further along, perhaps, a 6-inch gun by the roadside will every now and then belch forth a sheet of flame, as with deafening row it throws a projectile, weighing about 100 pounds, screeching through the air, which explodes perhaps five or ten miles behind the German lines. Guns of every size, from the 13-pounders of Royal Horse Artillery batteries to 12- and 15-inch Naval guns, can be seen and heard pounding away at the enemy when a bigstrafeis in progress. No one appears to pay any attention to these deafening distractions. Adaptability to circumstances and surroundings is a cardinal principle of war.It is amongst such scenes as these that the Army Service Corps motor-lorries roll up as usual with their loads of rations for the personnel and horses of the guns. A little way behind a battery, it will be noted, is a bivouac. It is the improvised mess of the Gunner officers, and here you may meet these priceless desperadoes discussing "direct hits" that have been recorded to their guns by the observation officer ahead, narrow escapes and recent adventures amongst "Grannies," "Crumps," "Whiz-bangs" and "Heavies," whilst they consume delicacies from Fortnum and Mason with the utmost sang-froid and complacency, merely remarking that they hope the Huns won'tstrafethem to-night! They are totally unconcerned with the dangers that are constantly lurking around; thus does familiarity breed contempt of even Death itself.Now and again one notices roadside groups of the graves of German soldiers, all of uniform size and design. They almost invariably consist of a wooden cross about 3 feet high, surmounted by a little oval-shaped roof or shelter, to protect them from the weather—to such lengths in thoroughness do the Huns go and so far do they see ahead! Painted a grass-green colour, they are strangely out of keeping with the present hue of the soil and of vegetable life, so conspicuous by its absence. On each is painted in white characters the name and regiment of the man whose memory it perpetuates. This follows some such inscription as "Hier ruht in Gott" or "Unserem gutem Kameraden dem," etc. Not far from them are groups of British graves. The inscriptions on two plain wooden crosses that I noticed have particularly lingered in my mind: "Here lies a British soldier. Name unknown. Devon Regiment. He died fighting." The second, the epitaph of a horse: "To the memory of my dumb pal, Queenie. Killed in action, July 6th, 1916," gives an insight to the character of the British soldier and his love for the animals that work with him.In the sky is an irregular line of watchful captive observation balloons for observing officers. In the language of the front they are known as "sausages," from their similarity in shape to that domestic commodity. Away in the distance is another line of stationary balloons of almost similar shape, for the Huns, also, are not unobservant. The barbed-wire cage, a temporary home for recently made prisoners, is always an object of interest; and everywhere one notices salvage parties clearing up and collecting together the quantities of waste metal, spent ammunition, accoutrements, etc., which litter the ground. Piled up at various points are stacks of empty shell cases, which by their size indicate the enormous quantity of ammunition that is being used by our guns in their work of pulverizing the German trenches and fortifications. Every one is busy—the newly won ground is being cleared, positions are being consolidated, roads are being made up, telegraph poles and wires erected, standard-gauge railway lines are being laid down. Whether at the Base or the trenches, war is carried on methodically and with the regular routine of a factory. It would appear to have become an institution. The whole war zone is linked up with a telephone system which compares favourably with that of London.Along the road one may encounter parties of prisoners being marched back from the line, and occasionally little groups of wounded being helped towards the ambulances. So much for the ground taken from the Huns in the Great Push of August 1916.To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs, known as "No Man's Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras, and between this point and the trenches is the little village of Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted cottages.Sights like the view from the top of Mont St. Eloi bring home to one the fact that modern methods of warfare are accompanied by few scenic effects or dramatic spectacles. War, like its results, is invariably ugly. Engineers and chemists have made it so by their ghastly appliances and materials, which have put the open fighting of former days on horseback out of the question. Cavalry charges, as portrayed by Lady Butler, are indeed a thing of the past. A few machine guns, suitably concealed, could hold up squadrons of advancing cavalry. The only human element left is the infantry charge, with fixed bayonets. To be killed by the explosion of a shell or asphyxiated by gas, miles behind the line, cannot be described as a heroic death—it is not even fair on the individual who so meets his end. He is not in a position to combat his invisible enemy; sometimes he has not even a sporting chance of escape from an attack which he is powerless to combat or avert. Is it, then, to be wondered at that men living under such conditions, namely, in places which are periodically or continuously strafed, become fatalists? They cease to worry, take everything that comes as a matter of course, never knowing when their turn may come.Not infrequently we have taken convoys by night to within a matter of a few hundred yards of the line. The absence of lamps and travelling along bad and often narrow roads make slow speed imperative and the utmost care in driving essential. The only light available is provided by the moon and the many star-shells over the trenches, which seem to light up the whole horizon, and remind one of so many shooting stars, or a pyrotechnic display at the Crystal Palace seen from a distance.Convoying along roads which are in view and under observation of the enemy, even by night, is as exciting as it is a fascinating game, for even if the convoy is, by the absence of headlights, to all intents and purposes made invisible, the enemy is able to assume from their geographical positions what roads are of strategical importance and being made use of for transport purposes to the trenches. He may at any time train a gun on those particular roads, on the off-chance of bagging a convoy, or at any rate of making the road in question so dangerous as to necessitate it being put out of bounds for transport, thus making the approaches to the line more difficult and fewer in number.Was it not Field-Marshal Sir John French who, some years ago, while speaking of "Night Operations," remarked that "the darker the night, the more inclement the weather, the better the exercise"? "Strong words of comfort these," saysThe Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge.Chapter XIIIFROM ARRAS TO ALBERTIn the preceding chapters I have endeavoured to narrate a selection from many and various episodes, disconnected, perhaps, due to the omission of details of long periods of enforced inactivity or hum-drum daily routine, during times spent miles behind the line, rationing the cavalry in such places as the neighbourhood between Abbeville and Le Tréport on the seacoast. In this area our second Christmas was spent, and the cavalry were billeted in winter quarters far from the scenes of action, waiting, always waiting, for their chance. Then we moved up again and settled down to our usual duties, seizing the opportunity of putting our house in order, and for the time being carrying out the work with the use of one echelon of motor-lorries only. The other echelon was refitted, thoroughly overhauled in the workshops, and all the lorries were given a coat of fresh paint, so that by the beginning of April they looked brand spanking new, in keeping with their springtime surroundings. During the spring and early summer nothing of importance occurred. The cavalry were continually being shifted from one billeting area to another, but always within the same neighbourhood, not so much for strategical reasons as for the purpose of making room for new Divisions of infantry from home and on their way up to the line. Cavalry, it will be readily understood, has, under existing circumstances, had to take quite a back seat on the Western front. As usual, the R.H.A. batteries attached to the Division were almost continually in action, and the cavalry regiments supplied a constant stream of "digging parties," not only for reserve trench digging, but chiefly for assisting in mining operations from the front line trenches, such operations not being carried out without casualties.The job of rationing the personnel so engaged and of moving them from their billets to the trenches and back, or from one part of the line to another, as occasion required, devolved, of course, on the motor lorries and entailed a fair amount of work, including a good number of all-night jobs on dangerous roads. During this time the Column was parked near Arras, on the main roads leading thither. Dusty is not the word for one of these on an August day, but it is straight, broad, and of good surface, wide enough in many parts for three lines of traffic.So time went on, and during July and August 1916 we surveyed "the big push" from a little village not far from Arras, marking in daily on the large-scale map which hung on the wall, with red pencil, the villages captured from day to day, and the advance of the British and French line on the Somme. The nearer one is to the front, the less one knows of the news. The men in the front line trenches know nothing, except what has happened in their immediate vicinity, and even then they are not able to form an opinion of its relative importance, in comparison with what has happened elsewhere, of which they know nothing. Further back there are two sources of information: one is "rumours," on which some people thrive. There are fresh rumours every day, and they invariably contradict one another. The other never-failing source of news is the Paris Continental edition of theDaily Mail, which reaches the uttermost parts of the front by teatime daily and is well worth the 15 centimes usually exacted for it, and universally looked forward to daily.All day long and often all through the night there was a hum of aeroplanes in the sky; fleets of them seemed to be always rising from the flying-ground, a neighbouring village, departing on bombing raids and reconnaissance flights. The Germans knew of this flying-ground, and occasionally one or two stray Taubes managed to reach Savy at a very great altitude and drop a few bombs, which usually landed in the cornfields—the invaders being invariably driven off by British machines and anti-aircraft guns. Doubtless they returned home to report the complete and utter destruction of the aerodrome! Nevertheless, the few and far between visits of the Hun planes caused a certain amount of interest and excitement during the course of an otherwise dull existence.Wondering always how soon or if ever our Division would be called on to play a part in the advance, we received quite a shock when one day, towards the end of August, the entire —— Indian Cavalry Division was sent back to ——, only however, for a matter of a week. Here the Division put in some manoeuvres and field-days, and immediately after things began to get a move on at last. A little town, near which the week was passed, nestles comfortably in a hollow at the foot of steep hills, and possesses a large and beautiful cathedral, of Gothic architecture, with a very decorative west portal. Its interior is bold, and, unlike that of many such churches, has not been spoilt by the addition of tawdry decoration and gilt paint. From the top of its square tower can be seen a magnificent panorama of the surrounding country. Incidentally, it contains a life-sized beautifully carved wooden crucifix, in which the detail is marvellous. It is said to be the most perfect example of its kind in the world. The story goes that an American offered to pave the church with gold if he were allowed to take it away. I do not know how true the story is, but, needless to say, his offer was not accepted.The initial move towards the line —— for the Column was to ——, the first railhead from which the troops were rationed on the line of march. Being quite near Doullens, the country was very familiar to us. From there we moved to the environs of Amiens, a new railway recently laid by Royal Engineers being made use of for the supply train, whilst —— was railhead. Around here the country is flat and covered with cornfields; by this time the harvest was just gathered in, and on these fields the whole Division, including, of course, the Supply Column, bivouacked for the night. What a wonderful sight was the arrival of the cavalry that evening, miles of mounted men marching from all directions to the huge camp. Every one was optimistic; the air was full of rumours. At last, after all the weary months of waiting, the hour was soon to strike. Cavalry was at length to have a "show." French, British, and Indian Cavalry Divisions were "going through." On the 14th we packed up and were on the move again and bivouacked for the night on the roadside just short of ——, which was our railhead the following day. A sudden move is no light matter! More fortunate than other branches of the Service in the matter of carrying capacity, A.S.C. motor-lorries, when loaded up to their utmost capacity with rations and forage, do not offer as much accommodation for the carrying of kits and mess gear, though, as might at first sight appear. With matters properly organized, and after a little practice, it is quite possible to arrive at the resting-place for the night, and within an hour of doing so the men's cookhouse is set up and dishing out hot tea and rations—bivouacs and tents are in course of erection, the officers' mess tent is pitched, and dinner is being served. All is accomplished in an incredibly short space of time, even in pouring rain.However, during these moves we were particularly lucky in this respect, for not only was there no rain, but we were favoured with a very bright full moon.During the night of the 14th and the following day, cavalry was to be seen on the line of march across the country—massed cavalry marching towards a point of concentration. Towards evening we got orders to pack up at once, and later that night we arrived at Albert, pitching our tent by the side of the main Amiens-Albert road. All night long our guns just ahead were bombarding, whilst enemy artillery was by no means inactive. We could see their shells bursting over Albert and the other side of it, like huge balls of fire in the sky. In front and on each side Verrey lights, which linger about thirty seconds in the air before falling, lit up the whole horizon. There was, in fact, a "properstrafe" on that night.The following day, the 16th, in company with some ten other Divisions, we refilled the lorries from the supply train, which, however, did not arrive till the early hours of the following morning. I was continually reminded of my first visit to Albert, over a year before, and which I have referred to in a previous chapter. Then it was deserted, except by a very few French civilians, who, in spite of periodic shelling, still remained. They were still there in September 1916, and mostly made a living by selling such provisions to the troops as they were able to obtain—and goodness knows how the supplies ever reached them. Scarcely any troops were to be seen there at the time of my first visit. Now, more than a year later, it was a hive of activity, and the town was literally packed with troops and motor-lorries, a constant stream of traffic passing through its streets and along the main roads leading into it—loaded supply and ammunition lorries and wagons going up, ambulances full of wounded and empty lorries coming back. Cavalry horse lines and troops bivouacked in almost every field on its outskirts. A far greater number of vehicles passed any given point in an hour than would travel along Piccadilly during the same time at the height of the season. Motor-ambulances, the most frequent users of the roads, passed to and fro constantly in streams—towards the line, very fast; on their way back, very slowly, laden with wounded, British soldiers and German wounded prisoners alike receiving the same care and attention, each man with a label or ticket pinned on to his coat, giving particulars of his wounds and recent medical history. The more severe, lying-down cases were in ambulance cars; the slightly wounded in motor-char-à-bancs or empty lorries, all the latter with a Blighty smile, as it is called, if they were fortunate enough to have got off with a slight wound which would send them home. It is really marvellous how the wounded are bandaged up at the first-aid posts and field dressing stations. I have stood at a first-aid post and watched the R.A.M.C. officers at work. The post is usually just behind the trenches and indicated by a Red Cross flag, visible from a good distance. The wounded make for this flag, and one sees them, some walking, others crawling, coming from all directions towards it. It is a pathetic sight; even sadder is it to see those who do not survive, but eventually succumb to their wounds, perhaps on their way to the field dressing station.Close to our camp a battery of big howitzers was loosing off in the direction of Thiepval at the rate of about two shells per minute. It was only one of many within a radius of a few miles, and all were equally active. Later in the day the Column was moved off the main road and parked in a narrow street. I have previously described the hanging statue that surmounts the church tower. It was still in the same position as it was a year previously, and to the minds of many the most striking and wonderful sight of the war.On the afternoon of the 16th I went out with the convoy and delivered the supplies, as usual, to the cavalry, who were still bivouacking in fields around Albert. Returning to Albert, we stopped for two or three minutes on the road to pick up a few men on the empty lorries. They were carrying their rifles and packs, and being bound for the same place as the convoy, naturally got a lift. As matters turned out, it was rather fortunate that the convoy did halt these few minutes; the slight delay probably saved us. We proceeded on our journey, and when about a kilometre short of Albert there was a terrific crash, and the town was momentarily hidden from view by a huge black cloud of smoke and dust. The Huns had put a "crump" right in the middle of the town. We pulled up, and as we did so, crash went another as it burst on an already demolished house by the roadside just ahead of us. The air was thick with smoke and dust. A good many troops that were on the road at the time dived headlong into the nearest dug-outs. Several more shells whistled over and exploded. Fortunately, there was a small turning at right angles to the road, almost exactly where we had stopped. Up it we were able to run the lorries one by one, and thus turn them round in the opposite direction. We then proceeded home by making a detour into Albert, leaving the road that was being shelled to its fate. Reaching our camp, we found that some twenty or more shells had dropped all around it, and more on other parts of the ruined town. Several landed within a few yards of the lorry lines, one beside the men's cookhouse. Fortunately, there were no casualties amongst our men or lorries. One unfortunately exploded in a bit of ground where vegetables were growing, and thus deprived us of cabbages: not one was to be seen the following morning. The shelling lasted from 7 to 8.30, and at that hour the episode ended. The Huns, by way of letting us know that they were still there, had a little evening "hate" regularly at this hour every day. We were indeed lucky to get the convoy turned round and safely away, for almost on the very spot where we had pulled up when the shelling started, some limbers were knocked out a few minutes after we had got away, three men and several horses being killed. After all, the Hun gunners could scarcely be blamed for sending over a few "five point nines"; doubtless they were quite friendly towards us personally, but the column of lorries was parked midway between a large ammunition dump and a battery of our own guns. No doubt it was these latter that they were searching for. During the whole of that night the British gunners returned the compliment, and all the batteries in the sector seemed to loose off continually. Sleep for us was almost out of the question, as the shells whistled over our bivouacs. "Whistle" is the word, I believe, usually employed in describing the sensation; as a matter of fact, the noise of a shell passing overhead is more comparable with the screech of an express train passing through a railway station.Sunday, 17th, was a gloriously fine and sunny day, and during the morning a Taube circled around very high, but was quickly chased away by our 'planes. It was very seldom that an enemy 'plane was able to remain for long over our lines or behind them. The number that our airmen brought down, and the hot reception which invariably awaited the invader, were the simple reasons. Fifteen hostile machines were destroyed on the 15th September, nine others being driven down in a damaged condition.During this period, smoke helmets and gas goggles were invariably carried, and anti-shrapnel helmets always worn. The Native Cavalry soldiers looked strange in this form of head-dress, after seeing them in the familiar turban. All wore them except the Sikhs, whose caste does not allow them to completely cover their heads and their long hair. This is never cut, and is tied in a kind of bun on the top of their heads, and would, of course, make the wearing of the helmet a matter of impossibility in any case.Our time for loading at railhead was usually about midnight, and at about this hour on the night of the 17th the weather changed, and the heavens began to pour forth rain and continued to do so throughout the night. We were not the only Division to be loading at the time, and the chaos of traffic in the pitch-black darkness and pouring rain can only be described as appalling. The amazing thing is that accidents and collisions between lorries are of such rare occurrence; their almost entire absence is due to the careful handling of the vehicles by the drivers. To back a heavy lorry up against a railway truck in the dark without damaging the tail-board or trying to knock the train over requires care and much practice. During the night a few shells came over; they fell in a field at the far side of the railhead yard, doing no damage. The change in the weather had evidently upset the Hun gunners. It had been very cloudy in the earlier part of the evening of the 17th, and they had even omitted the usual hour of "hate," except for a salvo of shrapnel shells, some half-dozen or so, which went over Albert and burst on a brow of a hill beyond. No doubt they were trying tostrafethe guns, which from that direction had been firing at them continuously all the previous day and night. Loading being finished, we got back to our camp and between the blankets at 4 a.m. Fortunately, we had by now been issued from Ordnance with a few bell tents, which we pitched alongside the entrance to a dug-out. A subterranean gallery, some forty or fifty yards long, ran underneath, and opening out of it were several spacious dug-outs—some of the best I have seen; as good as many German ones, which is saying a good deal. The whole earthwork was dug deep into the chalky soil, its perpendicular walls wire netted; it was roofed with stout tree-trunks, and laid across these were sandbags. It was conveniently situated for us to beat a hasty retreat into when the shells became too frequent and fell sufficiently close to make us wonder how much nearer the next might come. This dug-out was behind a row of shell-shattered and deserted small suburban houses, and extended under the back gardens of some of them, now all joined into one. These had evidently once been well stocked and cultivated gardens, as there were the remains of strawberry beds and patches of all the domestic vegetables. Our mess cook was not long in discovering and picking enough spinach for dinner one night, and a patch of thriving young turnips provided the vegetable courses for several days following. What, one wondered, would be the feelings of the unfortunate owner of one of these houses should he one day come back to find his garden connected by subterranean passages with those of his neighbours? Incidentally, there is little to be seen above the surface of the ground to indicate the existence of the large cellars and passages underneath.Throughout Monday, the 18th, the rain continued. We convoyed the rations in the afternoon to the cavalry, who were still bivouacked. Nothing could have looked more miserable than those miles of horse lines on the rain-sodden ground, now a quagmire of mud. A line of small flags had been stuck in the ground, and stretched away in the distance, indicating the route across country which the mounted men were to take when the time for them to go up to the line came. But that day no one was very optimistic; somehow, in the rain everything seems hopelessly impossible! At about 8 that evening the rain ceased for a time, the sky cleared, and our guns, which had been very quiet all day, started on their exploits once more, much to the annoyance of every one in their vicinity who was at the time anticipating a night of undisturbed and well-earned slumber. On the night of the 19th we turned in early; the supply train was not expected to arrive till 3 the following morning. Hardly had I blown out my candle, when once more the German shells started to come over. All through the night they shelled Albert intermittently, and we were glad of the homely dug-out. For every one they sent over they seemed to get about twenty back, including some from a 15-inch gun that had suddenly got busy. The supply train eventually arrived at 7 a.m. on the 20th. At the station there were a few big shell holes, but little damage. True, one had exploded on the permanent way; one short length of line had been torn up as a result and was pointing skywards, several sleepers being destroyed; but the damage was only such as could be repaired in a few hours, and did not hold up the traffic at all. The Germans were still shelling, and continued to do so throughout the morning in several directions, in their attempts, no doubt, to search out the guns that were bothering them so much. So things went on from day to day. On the afternoon of the 21st, half a dozen shells landed in the field adjoining our little camp. One, which fell on a house, killed several soldiers; the others did no material damage. Towards night they started tostrafeagain, and succeeded in hitting the ammunition dump near our lines which I referred to earlier in this chapter. The whole sky was lit up by the red glow from the fire, which was, of course, the result, and for some hours afterwards there was a succession of "ping-ping-pom-poms," as the fire spread and the ammunition became ignited. All night long, as usual, thestrafecontinued, the Huns, also as usual, getting back good measure for what they sent over, including some useful efforts on the part of a large howitzer battery which had recently joined in the fray. When fired at a distance of a mile or so away, one could literally feel the blast in one's face. The resulting din can be better imagined than described. On such occasions, even from the point of view of getting away from the noise, there are worse places to spend a night in than in a dug-out 7 feet high, 8 feet broad, and 15 feet long, 12 feet below the level of the ground.Albert at this time was distinctly unhealthy. The shells exacted their daily toll. Occasionally the Huns varied their hate by sending over a few lachrymatory or tear shells, which, however, falling a fair distance away from us, only had the effect of making our eyes smart for a time. We at first attributed this to the lorry "exhausts" and the quality of the petrol.On September 25th one squadron of a Native lancer regiment was put into action. Cavalry patrols were sent on ahead, and returned to report that the village of Gueudecourt was still held by the enemy. The squadron galloped to the outskirts of the village; dismounting, they got their Hotchkiss machine guns into action and engaged the enemy for several hours. They had a few casualties amongst men and lost some horses, but achieved their objective. At Albert there was a sudden and unmistakable lull in the enemy's shelling. The reason was soon forthcoming. On the 27th we heard that not only Combles, but the fortress of Thiepval, which had for so long been bombarded by our artillery, had at length fallen to the Allied arms. Doubtless it was there that the guns which had been shelling Albert were situated; the shells had at any rate invariably come from that direction. Along the road from Thiepval to Albert that day were to be seen Hun prisoners being marched back not by tens but by hundreds. Many were wounded and looked pitiful as they came hobbling along, helping one another, guarded by mounted men—not that they needed guarding or were capable of escaping. Those that were not wounded seemed dazed and demoralized; here and there was one who had obviously been driven mad by the ordeal he had been through—the continual and ever-increasing hell fire which had been directed on Thiepval. One prisoner taken that day I heard, much to my surprise, had before the war been employed as chief telephone clerk in a big London hotel. At midnight on September 27th the Column left Albert and moved back to Corbie. Thence, in conjunction with the cavalry, we retraced our steps by gradual stages westward.Chapter XIVTO BAPAUME, PÉRONNE, AND BEYONDEvents sometimes occur quickly and unexpectedly in this war. Recent ones justify another chapter. The 1st day of November 1916 found us on our way to winter billets; and in the same "back area" as that occupied the previous year we spent the long, dreary winter months. They were chiefly characterized as being the coldest on record and by the most prolonged and severe spell of frost within recollection. The thaw was, if anything, more unpleasant. French roads, even the main ones, seem to lack a sufficient foundation of metal, and the results caused by the passage of heavy transport over them during a thaw are, to say the least, disastrous to both roads and transport. They consist in the giving way, and in places utter collapse, of the roads. The difficulty is theoretically overcome by a procedure known asbarrières fermées, which roughly means that when a thaw sets in all main roads are closed to heavy motor traffic until the thaw has been in progress for several days. After that,barrières ferméesbecomebarrières ouvertesonce more. Whether it was owing to the impossibility of carrying out this scheme for a sufficient length of time, or due to a failure in the perfect working of the system, it is difficult to say, but the results were unfortunate. Many roads became impassable, and mechanical transport lorries were constantly getting "bogged" everywhere. A period of rain did not improve matters, and when they were almost at their worst for the moving up of ammunition and guns, the astute Hun began this retreat to the more salubrious neighbourhood of the Hindenburg line. Immediately, almost, we were on the road towards Albert.The last week of March found us encamped just outside it. The cavalry had made a forced march, covering the best part of seventy miles inside two days. Not bad going, taking into consideration the heavy, muddy roads. Once again there was a wave of optimism and confidence in the air. The Huns were in retreat, unable to hold any longer the line they had fortified and stuck to for so many months; Bapaume had fallen; our troops were still advancing and meeting with little opposition from the enemy. Three very good reasons for optimism!The town of Albert was, we found, little changed in appearance since our departure six months before, but it was a very much more healthy spot, being out of range of artillery. Even its civilian population was returning in considerable numbers. One of the largest Expeditionary Force Canteens had been established, also quite a good Officers' Club.During the first few days of April enemy aeroplanes came over and dropped several bombs. The damage done, however, was negligible, except to a motor-lorry, in which three men who were sleeping were unfortunately killed. Later on, when the last week of April brought fine weather and clear blue skies, Taubes became our daily visitors, though the barrage of anti-aircraft batteries kept them too high to make bombing worth while. Heavy snow marked our arrival at the front, and it certainly seemed that spring operations had started in weather that was as unfavourable as it was reminiscent of mid-winter. To add insult to injury, on almost the coldest night of all the British Expeditionary Force advanced its clock an hour and "summer time" came in! Railhead was moved up as far as ——, as soon as railway communication was opened up. It had been a village of some hundred and thirty houses. Now, of course, it was completely ruined, but none the less a place of considerable importance. Surprisingly few "traps" were left behind there by the Germans. On two occasions only, mines exploded, each leaving fair-sized craters under the permanent way, but only causing such slight damage that traffic was not seriously interfered with.To reach Bapaume from Albert there is a long, straight road, which, from strategical importance, must almost equal that wonderful road from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun. The latter has come to be known as "La Voie sacrée" and General Pétain is said to have stated that the battle of Verdun was largely won by the prowess of the motor drivers along it, during those months when there passed over it a never-ending, continuous line of convoys, transporting munitions and rations to the defenders of France's most famous outpost.The Albert-Bapaume road presented many points of interest. A few kilometres along it is Pozières, the name of a village which formerly existed here. Now it is indicated only by a signboard announcing the fact.To the left are such places as Ovillers, Thiepval, Courcelette—names which recall bloody combats of a few months ago. Like Pozières, nothing now remains of them. A little further along one strikes Le Sars. There are indications here of what was once a village and a wood. Now the wood looks like a skeleton and the ground is littered with bricks and odd pieces of timber. On either side of the road the ground is literally studded with shell holes; not a solitary square yard of it has escaped: everywhere are broken-down dug-outs, old artillery emplacements, and irregular and much battered lines of trenches, running seemingly in all directions and difficult to follow. There is not a blade of grass or any sign of life. To leave the road is to meet with quantities of unexploded shells, broken and abandoned equipment, skulls, and corpses of both British and German soldiers. Salvage and burial parties are constantly at work and gradually clearing the ground, a task of some magnitude. Here and there are the little military cemeteries—row after row of long brown mounds of earth, each surmounted by a wooden cross; here and there a smashed-up aeroplane waiting to be salved.Nowhere is the ghastly aftermath of war more in evidence than around the Butte de Warlencourt, a few miles further along the road. The Butte appears an isolated hill, rising by gradual ascent to a height of about 100 feet. To capture it from the enemy must have been a matter of considerable difficulty. On its summit is a large wooden cross, dedicated to the memory of the gallant officers, N.C.O.'s, and men of the Durham Light Infantry who fell there in November 1916. At various points on the road, particularly, of course, at cross-roads, the Germans before their retreat set mines; these, later exploding, have caused enormous upheavals of earth and craters large enough, many of them, to bury half a dozen motor-lorries in. To let traffic pass them, it has been necessary to circumvent them with causeways built around their lips, until such time as they have been filled in again and the road is once more built up and able to follow its usual course. Eventually appears Bapaume, and the Albert road at this point strikes at right angles the road which, to the left, proceeds to Arras, and to the right into the centre of the town, into which converge roads from Cambrai, Douai, and Péronne.Bapaume itself presents a sight which is at once amazing and tragic. The first thing that strikes the observer is that it is not suffering so much from the effects of artillery bombardment as from the deliberate burning and blowing up of its houses, and chiefly by the fronts having been blown out. Where these have thus been destroyed, the roofs have collapsed into the houses. Almost every building has been demolished in this way; in many cases the grey slate roofs lie complete, warped but intact, over a mass of debris caused by the blowing down of the supporting walls. Most of the furniture from the houses was presumably removed some time ago to furnish German dug-outs; what has not been made use of in this way has been piled up inside the houses, and, after being tarred, set alight. The trees which formerly adorned the main roads have, to a great extent, been sawn off near their stumps, and the trunks lay, till removed by our troops, at right angles across the roads. I take the object of this tree-felling to be threefold. Firstly, to impede advancing troops; secondly, to leave no cover, and thus throw the roads open to aeroplane observation; and thirdly, for the sake of sheer destructiveness. The third is an undeniable reason, for even the little fruit and rose trees in cottage gardens had not been spared at the hands of the Hun.The wells everywhere had been poisoned with arsenic or fouled with manure. In Bapaume itself the cleanest well was found to contain eight German corpses. To appreciate the "wanton and cruel spirit," as Mr. Ian Malcolm so aptly describes the spirit in which the Germans are losing the war, I quote in full a letter from him which appeared inThe Timeson April 7th, 1917. Comment would be superfluous. I can only add that, judging from the devastation, the Hun soldiers must have carried out their orders with a thoroughness which is typical of German organization, except, of course, in such places from which their hurried evacuation did not give them time. The following is the letter:—
Chapter XII
BETWEEN THE ANCRE AND THE SOMME
In previous chapters I have referred to the intense bombardment which preceded the attacks on Neuve Chapelle and Loos during 1915. Looking back they seem as nothing compared with what our artillery has been able, thanks to the munition workers at home, to treat the Huns to in August, 1916, a bombardment audible very far back from the scenes of action. At, say, nine o'clock one night the guns will suddenly start: one man turns to another and remarks, "There must be astrafeon to-night." The guns continue without cessation, till perhaps just as daylight is stealing across the sky they stop for a time abruptly. This may signify that at this very moment the infantry are over the top, or parapets, of the trenches at the particular point where the attack is being made. More names for the Roll of Honour, for "Somewhere in the universe, God's awful dawn is red."
Newspaper correspondents at the front have recently, in a sense, come into their own: they have been granted more latitude in writing and allowed to see something of the show. It is good that this should be so, both from the point of view of the fighting-men themselves and also that of the people at home. Much has, therefore, appeared in the Press and elsewhere on the subject of the advance north and south of the Somme, and for this reason there remains little left unwritten, so far as the actual fighting and the scenes of its surroundings arc concerned.
On many occasions, in the course of duty, I have had the opportunity of going over a good deal of the ground captured from the enemy in the great Allied push which started on July 1, 1916. It almost baffles description. Without actually seeing the results, it is difficult to realize the pulverizing effect of continued and heavy artillery bombardment.
In this sector, such villages as Contalmaison, Fricourt, and Pozières, to mention only three, have literally ceased to exist; the fact that there have ever been villages in these particular spots is indicated only by their names on the map and heaps of debris and rubbish. They are not like such places as Ypres or Arras, where still here and there remain standing a few forlorn-looking bits of outer walls and the skeletons of destroyed houses. To give one instance, the curé of a village in the Somme district, after it had been taken from the Germans, sought leave from the British authorities to be conducted to it in order to see if it were possible for him to recover any of the possessions, or relics, of his church. The privilege was duly afforded him, and thither he was escorted. Unfortunately, however, he was quite unable to find either the church, his own house, or even his way about "the village"; but then, as the officer remarked who told me this story, all these things were scarcely to be wondered at, for Monsieur le Curé had only spent forty years of his life there! I give this story to indicate what is the state of the land over which this heavy artillery preparation has been necessary in order to dislodge the Hun and destroy his ramifications.
The impression of the whole scene of the captured ground (July 1916)—or, at least, that part of it which I have seen—remaining in my mind is an undulating plateau extending as far as the eye can see. In more peaceful times it was perhaps arable land. Now it is arid and dead: nothing grows there, not a blade of grass; even the trees of such woods as the Bois de Mametz do not boast of a green leaf—they are splintered and torn down by shells. Those that still stand are withered and brown, the results of continual high explosive and gas shells. It reminds you of nothing so much as land which is suffering from the effects of very severe volcanic eruption, for it is everywhere pitted with craters and shell holes of all sizes and depths. On this plateau are quantities of transport wagons, limbers, and heavy draft horses, their bay coats shimmering in the sun; these are the wagon lines of the many artillery batteries that are operating in the sector. As you proceed along the road, which runs through it, you will note that it crosses more than one line of former trenches which have been wrested from the enemy at great cost.
At the point of the road-crossing they have been filled in. Almost all along the road are well-constructed old German dug-outs, many of them spacious, dug a considerable depth into the bank on the side of the road and surrounded by layers of sand-bags. They must have taken considerable time and labour to construct, many of them being a series of cellars, connected by passages, at least fifteen or twenty feet deep. If you care to climb down into them, frequently you will come upon sights which are, to say the least, gruesome. There is a cold, clammy feeling in the air in some of these dugouts; they reek of death. Some have been luxuriously fitted up, walls plastered and papered; traces of electric wiring and lamp fittings and stolen French furniture and beds are still visible. I have before me a scrap of torn and blood-stained paper, part of a leaf from a Field Message Book. On it is written the following, which it is just possible to decipher. It was picked up in a dug-out in the old British line, north of the Somme, over which British troops have advanced:
... high state of efficiency. An important section of these operations has been entrusted to this battalion, and the Commanding Officer feels sure that every one belonging to it will rise to the occasion and "do his bit" for the regiment and his country. A man, no matter what his position, who sits down or otherwise idles when he ought to be working, is failing both one and the other.
No doubt the remains of an order issued by the C.O. of a battalion in a tight corner, with perhaps a difficult job ahead to accomplish and an important part to play in the "Big Push." There is no signature or clue which would enable the writer of this inspiring human document or the regiment referred to in it to be identified. Perhaps his men obeyed his order and with him have earned their discharge and joined the great majority. To see the captured ground and its network of trenches and dug-outs is to realize what a tremendous achievement it has been on the part of British troops to dig the Huns out like rats from their strongholds and drive them back, and what artillery preparation must have been necessary to break down their defences. In passing, there are also the other rats, and the shelter afforded by dug-outs is shared by men and rats alike. It is scarcely necessary to add that the latter are a veritable plague, not only in the trenches themselves, but behind them as well. There is a story—I cannot vouch for its truth, though it certainly has a Bairnsfather touch about it—of an officer commanding a battalion who received orders from his Brigade Headquarters to "render a return" to that office by such and such a date, stating the number of rats in the trenches occupied by the unit under his command. The nature of his alleged reply I have not, however, heard. It is better, no doubt, left to the imagination. The Army lives on "returns." Every unit in the field, no matter under what conditions it is living, has to "render returns" on at least a dozen different things each week. In that most priceless little book of wit, which contains so much that is in reality true,The Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge, we find that "a return" is a document sent to a superior authority and comprises lists of persons or things in your charge. This document, quite contrary to what you might suppose from its title, never returns to you, unless the person to whom you have sent it thinks it requires attention. It is probably called "a return" for this very reason, as it is the most unlikely name for it, and so cultivates a taste for the eccentric in the Service. Returns are always being "called for" by somebody. You must be prepared to "render" these "returns" at all times at a moment's notice, e.g. "the average number of men who have had sore feet between January 1st and April 1st."
But to return to the scenery between the Ancre and the Somme.
Cunningly hidden away at different points, the guns will make their presence constantly known to you. Here a battery of ugly-looking howitzers is loosing off salvos into the Hun trenches, and a little further along, perhaps, a 6-inch gun by the roadside will every now and then belch forth a sheet of flame, as with deafening row it throws a projectile, weighing about 100 pounds, screeching through the air, which explodes perhaps five or ten miles behind the German lines. Guns of every size, from the 13-pounders of Royal Horse Artillery batteries to 12- and 15-inch Naval guns, can be seen and heard pounding away at the enemy when a bigstrafeis in progress. No one appears to pay any attention to these deafening distractions. Adaptability to circumstances and surroundings is a cardinal principle of war.
It is amongst such scenes as these that the Army Service Corps motor-lorries roll up as usual with their loads of rations for the personnel and horses of the guns. A little way behind a battery, it will be noted, is a bivouac. It is the improvised mess of the Gunner officers, and here you may meet these priceless desperadoes discussing "direct hits" that have been recorded to their guns by the observation officer ahead, narrow escapes and recent adventures amongst "Grannies," "Crumps," "Whiz-bangs" and "Heavies," whilst they consume delicacies from Fortnum and Mason with the utmost sang-froid and complacency, merely remarking that they hope the Huns won'tstrafethem to-night! They are totally unconcerned with the dangers that are constantly lurking around; thus does familiarity breed contempt of even Death itself.
Now and again one notices roadside groups of the graves of German soldiers, all of uniform size and design. They almost invariably consist of a wooden cross about 3 feet high, surmounted by a little oval-shaped roof or shelter, to protect them from the weather—to such lengths in thoroughness do the Huns go and so far do they see ahead! Painted a grass-green colour, they are strangely out of keeping with the present hue of the soil and of vegetable life, so conspicuous by its absence. On each is painted in white characters the name and regiment of the man whose memory it perpetuates. This follows some such inscription as "Hier ruht in Gott" or "Unserem gutem Kameraden dem," etc. Not far from them are groups of British graves. The inscriptions on two plain wooden crosses that I noticed have particularly lingered in my mind: "Here lies a British soldier. Name unknown. Devon Regiment. He died fighting." The second, the epitaph of a horse: "To the memory of my dumb pal, Queenie. Killed in action, July 6th, 1916," gives an insight to the character of the British soldier and his love for the animals that work with him.
In the sky is an irregular line of watchful captive observation balloons for observing officers. In the language of the front they are known as "sausages," from their similarity in shape to that domestic commodity. Away in the distance is another line of stationary balloons of almost similar shape, for the Huns, also, are not unobservant. The barbed-wire cage, a temporary home for recently made prisoners, is always an object of interest; and everywhere one notices salvage parties clearing up and collecting together the quantities of waste metal, spent ammunition, accoutrements, etc., which litter the ground. Piled up at various points are stacks of empty shell cases, which by their size indicate the enormous quantity of ammunition that is being used by our guns in their work of pulverizing the German trenches and fortifications. Every one is busy—the newly won ground is being cleared, positions are being consolidated, roads are being made up, telegraph poles and wires erected, standard-gauge railway lines are being laid down. Whether at the Base or the trenches, war is carried on methodically and with the regular routine of a factory. It would appear to have become an institution. The whole war zone is linked up with a telephone system which compares favourably with that of London.
Along the road one may encounter parties of prisoners being marched back from the line, and occasionally little groups of wounded being helped towards the ambulances. So much for the ground taken from the Huns in the Great Push of August 1916.
To turn for a moment to another part of the line. From the gaunt and shell-shattered tower, which stands a landmark for miles around, on the summit of Mont St. Eloi I have looked across "the Labyrinth," as it is called, and watched the shells from our batteries beneath explode in the German trenches, or amongst their wire between our trenches and theirs, known as "No Man's Land." It is an amazing and uncanny sight. Not a single sign of life, not a single human being, is to be seen; only the results of human and mechanical activity are visible. The guns below loose off with terrific noise, then in the distance there is a dull and heavy thud, as a huge solid-looking mass of black smoke suddenly rises up in a cloud from the ground and remains a few moments before gradually dispersing. To the right can be discerned the battered towers of Arras, and between this point and the trenches is the little village of Maroeuil, which nestles hidden away in a hollow and has been scarcely affected by enemy fire. There, crimson ramblers still blossom and roses flourish in the gardens, now almost choked with weeds, of its deserted cottages.
Sights like the view from the top of Mont St. Eloi bring home to one the fact that modern methods of warfare are accompanied by few scenic effects or dramatic spectacles. War, like its results, is invariably ugly. Engineers and chemists have made it so by their ghastly appliances and materials, which have put the open fighting of former days on horseback out of the question. Cavalry charges, as portrayed by Lady Butler, are indeed a thing of the past. A few machine guns, suitably concealed, could hold up squadrons of advancing cavalry. The only human element left is the infantry charge, with fixed bayonets. To be killed by the explosion of a shell or asphyxiated by gas, miles behind the line, cannot be described as a heroic death—it is not even fair on the individual who so meets his end. He is not in a position to combat his invisible enemy; sometimes he has not even a sporting chance of escape from an attack which he is powerless to combat or avert. Is it, then, to be wondered at that men living under such conditions, namely, in places which are periodically or continuously strafed, become fatalists? They cease to worry, take everything that comes as a matter of course, never knowing when their turn may come.
Not infrequently we have taken convoys by night to within a matter of a few hundred yards of the line. The absence of lamps and travelling along bad and often narrow roads make slow speed imperative and the utmost care in driving essential. The only light available is provided by the moon and the many star-shells over the trenches, which seem to light up the whole horizon, and remind one of so many shooting stars, or a pyrotechnic display at the Crystal Palace seen from a distance.
Convoying along roads which are in view and under observation of the enemy, even by night, is as exciting as it is a fascinating game, for even if the convoy is, by the absence of headlights, to all intents and purposes made invisible, the enemy is able to assume from their geographical positions what roads are of strategical importance and being made use of for transport purposes to the trenches. He may at any time train a gun on those particular roads, on the off-chance of bagging a convoy, or at any rate of making the road in question so dangerous as to necessitate it being put out of bounds for transport, thus making the approaches to the line more difficult and fewer in number.
Was it not Field-Marshal Sir John French who, some years ago, while speaking of "Night Operations," remarked that "the darker the night, the more inclement the weather, the better the exercise"? "Strong words of comfort these," saysThe Young Officer's Guide to Knowledge.
Chapter XIII
FROM ARRAS TO ALBERT
In the preceding chapters I have endeavoured to narrate a selection from many and various episodes, disconnected, perhaps, due to the omission of details of long periods of enforced inactivity or hum-drum daily routine, during times spent miles behind the line, rationing the cavalry in such places as the neighbourhood between Abbeville and Le Tréport on the seacoast. In this area our second Christmas was spent, and the cavalry were billeted in winter quarters far from the scenes of action, waiting, always waiting, for their chance. Then we moved up again and settled down to our usual duties, seizing the opportunity of putting our house in order, and for the time being carrying out the work with the use of one echelon of motor-lorries only. The other echelon was refitted, thoroughly overhauled in the workshops, and all the lorries were given a coat of fresh paint, so that by the beginning of April they looked brand spanking new, in keeping with their springtime surroundings. During the spring and early summer nothing of importance occurred. The cavalry were continually being shifted from one billeting area to another, but always within the same neighbourhood, not so much for strategical reasons as for the purpose of making room for new Divisions of infantry from home and on their way up to the line. Cavalry, it will be readily understood, has, under existing circumstances, had to take quite a back seat on the Western front. As usual, the R.H.A. batteries attached to the Division were almost continually in action, and the cavalry regiments supplied a constant stream of "digging parties," not only for reserve trench digging, but chiefly for assisting in mining operations from the front line trenches, such operations not being carried out without casualties.
The job of rationing the personnel so engaged and of moving them from their billets to the trenches and back, or from one part of the line to another, as occasion required, devolved, of course, on the motor lorries and entailed a fair amount of work, including a good number of all-night jobs on dangerous roads. During this time the Column was parked near Arras, on the main roads leading thither. Dusty is not the word for one of these on an August day, but it is straight, broad, and of good surface, wide enough in many parts for three lines of traffic.
So time went on, and during July and August 1916 we surveyed "the big push" from a little village not far from Arras, marking in daily on the large-scale map which hung on the wall, with red pencil, the villages captured from day to day, and the advance of the British and French line on the Somme. The nearer one is to the front, the less one knows of the news. The men in the front line trenches know nothing, except what has happened in their immediate vicinity, and even then they are not able to form an opinion of its relative importance, in comparison with what has happened elsewhere, of which they know nothing. Further back there are two sources of information: one is "rumours," on which some people thrive. There are fresh rumours every day, and they invariably contradict one another. The other never-failing source of news is the Paris Continental edition of theDaily Mail, which reaches the uttermost parts of the front by teatime daily and is well worth the 15 centimes usually exacted for it, and universally looked forward to daily.
All day long and often all through the night there was a hum of aeroplanes in the sky; fleets of them seemed to be always rising from the flying-ground, a neighbouring village, departing on bombing raids and reconnaissance flights. The Germans knew of this flying-ground, and occasionally one or two stray Taubes managed to reach Savy at a very great altitude and drop a few bombs, which usually landed in the cornfields—the invaders being invariably driven off by British machines and anti-aircraft guns. Doubtless they returned home to report the complete and utter destruction of the aerodrome! Nevertheless, the few and far between visits of the Hun planes caused a certain amount of interest and excitement during the course of an otherwise dull existence.
Wondering always how soon or if ever our Division would be called on to play a part in the advance, we received quite a shock when one day, towards the end of August, the entire —— Indian Cavalry Division was sent back to ——, only however, for a matter of a week. Here the Division put in some manoeuvres and field-days, and immediately after things began to get a move on at last. A little town, near which the week was passed, nestles comfortably in a hollow at the foot of steep hills, and possesses a large and beautiful cathedral, of Gothic architecture, with a very decorative west portal. Its interior is bold, and, unlike that of many such churches, has not been spoilt by the addition of tawdry decoration and gilt paint. From the top of its square tower can be seen a magnificent panorama of the surrounding country. Incidentally, it contains a life-sized beautifully carved wooden crucifix, in which the detail is marvellous. It is said to be the most perfect example of its kind in the world. The story goes that an American offered to pave the church with gold if he were allowed to take it away. I do not know how true the story is, but, needless to say, his offer was not accepted.
The initial move towards the line —— for the Column was to ——, the first railhead from which the troops were rationed on the line of march. Being quite near Doullens, the country was very familiar to us. From there we moved to the environs of Amiens, a new railway recently laid by Royal Engineers being made use of for the supply train, whilst —— was railhead. Around here the country is flat and covered with cornfields; by this time the harvest was just gathered in, and on these fields the whole Division, including, of course, the Supply Column, bivouacked for the night. What a wonderful sight was the arrival of the cavalry that evening, miles of mounted men marching from all directions to the huge camp. Every one was optimistic; the air was full of rumours. At last, after all the weary months of waiting, the hour was soon to strike. Cavalry was at length to have a "show." French, British, and Indian Cavalry Divisions were "going through." On the 14th we packed up and were on the move again and bivouacked for the night on the roadside just short of ——, which was our railhead the following day. A sudden move is no light matter! More fortunate than other branches of the Service in the matter of carrying capacity, A.S.C. motor-lorries, when loaded up to their utmost capacity with rations and forage, do not offer as much accommodation for the carrying of kits and mess gear, though, as might at first sight appear. With matters properly organized, and after a little practice, it is quite possible to arrive at the resting-place for the night, and within an hour of doing so the men's cookhouse is set up and dishing out hot tea and rations—bivouacs and tents are in course of erection, the officers' mess tent is pitched, and dinner is being served. All is accomplished in an incredibly short space of time, even in pouring rain.
However, during these moves we were particularly lucky in this respect, for not only was there no rain, but we were favoured with a very bright full moon.
During the night of the 14th and the following day, cavalry was to be seen on the line of march across the country—massed cavalry marching towards a point of concentration. Towards evening we got orders to pack up at once, and later that night we arrived at Albert, pitching our tent by the side of the main Amiens-Albert road. All night long our guns just ahead were bombarding, whilst enemy artillery was by no means inactive. We could see their shells bursting over Albert and the other side of it, like huge balls of fire in the sky. In front and on each side Verrey lights, which linger about thirty seconds in the air before falling, lit up the whole horizon. There was, in fact, a "properstrafe" on that night.
The following day, the 16th, in company with some ten other Divisions, we refilled the lorries from the supply train, which, however, did not arrive till the early hours of the following morning. I was continually reminded of my first visit to Albert, over a year before, and which I have referred to in a previous chapter. Then it was deserted, except by a very few French civilians, who, in spite of periodic shelling, still remained. They were still there in September 1916, and mostly made a living by selling such provisions to the troops as they were able to obtain—and goodness knows how the supplies ever reached them. Scarcely any troops were to be seen there at the time of my first visit. Now, more than a year later, it was a hive of activity, and the town was literally packed with troops and motor-lorries, a constant stream of traffic passing through its streets and along the main roads leading into it—loaded supply and ammunition lorries and wagons going up, ambulances full of wounded and empty lorries coming back. Cavalry horse lines and troops bivouacked in almost every field on its outskirts. A far greater number of vehicles passed any given point in an hour than would travel along Piccadilly during the same time at the height of the season. Motor-ambulances, the most frequent users of the roads, passed to and fro constantly in streams—towards the line, very fast; on their way back, very slowly, laden with wounded, British soldiers and German wounded prisoners alike receiving the same care and attention, each man with a label or ticket pinned on to his coat, giving particulars of his wounds and recent medical history. The more severe, lying-down cases were in ambulance cars; the slightly wounded in motor-char-à-bancs or empty lorries, all the latter with a Blighty smile, as it is called, if they were fortunate enough to have got off with a slight wound which would send them home. It is really marvellous how the wounded are bandaged up at the first-aid posts and field dressing stations. I have stood at a first-aid post and watched the R.A.M.C. officers at work. The post is usually just behind the trenches and indicated by a Red Cross flag, visible from a good distance. The wounded make for this flag, and one sees them, some walking, others crawling, coming from all directions towards it. It is a pathetic sight; even sadder is it to see those who do not survive, but eventually succumb to their wounds, perhaps on their way to the field dressing station.
Close to our camp a battery of big howitzers was loosing off in the direction of Thiepval at the rate of about two shells per minute. It was only one of many within a radius of a few miles, and all were equally active. Later in the day the Column was moved off the main road and parked in a narrow street. I have previously described the hanging statue that surmounts the church tower. It was still in the same position as it was a year previously, and to the minds of many the most striking and wonderful sight of the war.
On the afternoon of the 16th I went out with the convoy and delivered the supplies, as usual, to the cavalry, who were still bivouacking in fields around Albert. Returning to Albert, we stopped for two or three minutes on the road to pick up a few men on the empty lorries. They were carrying their rifles and packs, and being bound for the same place as the convoy, naturally got a lift. As matters turned out, it was rather fortunate that the convoy did halt these few minutes; the slight delay probably saved us. We proceeded on our journey, and when about a kilometre short of Albert there was a terrific crash, and the town was momentarily hidden from view by a huge black cloud of smoke and dust. The Huns had put a "crump" right in the middle of the town. We pulled up, and as we did so, crash went another as it burst on an already demolished house by the roadside just ahead of us. The air was thick with smoke and dust. A good many troops that were on the road at the time dived headlong into the nearest dug-outs. Several more shells whistled over and exploded. Fortunately, there was a small turning at right angles to the road, almost exactly where we had stopped. Up it we were able to run the lorries one by one, and thus turn them round in the opposite direction. We then proceeded home by making a detour into Albert, leaving the road that was being shelled to its fate. Reaching our camp, we found that some twenty or more shells had dropped all around it, and more on other parts of the ruined town. Several landed within a few yards of the lorry lines, one beside the men's cookhouse. Fortunately, there were no casualties amongst our men or lorries. One unfortunately exploded in a bit of ground where vegetables were growing, and thus deprived us of cabbages: not one was to be seen the following morning. The shelling lasted from 7 to 8.30, and at that hour the episode ended. The Huns, by way of letting us know that they were still there, had a little evening "hate" regularly at this hour every day. We were indeed lucky to get the convoy turned round and safely away, for almost on the very spot where we had pulled up when the shelling started, some limbers were knocked out a few minutes after we had got away, three men and several horses being killed. After all, the Hun gunners could scarcely be blamed for sending over a few "five point nines"; doubtless they were quite friendly towards us personally, but the column of lorries was parked midway between a large ammunition dump and a battery of our own guns. No doubt it was these latter that they were searching for. During the whole of that night the British gunners returned the compliment, and all the batteries in the sector seemed to loose off continually. Sleep for us was almost out of the question, as the shells whistled over our bivouacs. "Whistle" is the word, I believe, usually employed in describing the sensation; as a matter of fact, the noise of a shell passing overhead is more comparable with the screech of an express train passing through a railway station.
Sunday, 17th, was a gloriously fine and sunny day, and during the morning a Taube circled around very high, but was quickly chased away by our 'planes. It was very seldom that an enemy 'plane was able to remain for long over our lines or behind them. The number that our airmen brought down, and the hot reception which invariably awaited the invader, were the simple reasons. Fifteen hostile machines were destroyed on the 15th September, nine others being driven down in a damaged condition.
During this period, smoke helmets and gas goggles were invariably carried, and anti-shrapnel helmets always worn. The Native Cavalry soldiers looked strange in this form of head-dress, after seeing them in the familiar turban. All wore them except the Sikhs, whose caste does not allow them to completely cover their heads and their long hair. This is never cut, and is tied in a kind of bun on the top of their heads, and would, of course, make the wearing of the helmet a matter of impossibility in any case.
Our time for loading at railhead was usually about midnight, and at about this hour on the night of the 17th the weather changed, and the heavens began to pour forth rain and continued to do so throughout the night. We were not the only Division to be loading at the time, and the chaos of traffic in the pitch-black darkness and pouring rain can only be described as appalling. The amazing thing is that accidents and collisions between lorries are of such rare occurrence; their almost entire absence is due to the careful handling of the vehicles by the drivers. To back a heavy lorry up against a railway truck in the dark without damaging the tail-board or trying to knock the train over requires care and much practice. During the night a few shells came over; they fell in a field at the far side of the railhead yard, doing no damage. The change in the weather had evidently upset the Hun gunners. It had been very cloudy in the earlier part of the evening of the 17th, and they had even omitted the usual hour of "hate," except for a salvo of shrapnel shells, some half-dozen or so, which went over Albert and burst on a brow of a hill beyond. No doubt they were trying tostrafethe guns, which from that direction had been firing at them continuously all the previous day and night. Loading being finished, we got back to our camp and between the blankets at 4 a.m. Fortunately, we had by now been issued from Ordnance with a few bell tents, which we pitched alongside the entrance to a dug-out. A subterranean gallery, some forty or fifty yards long, ran underneath, and opening out of it were several spacious dug-outs—some of the best I have seen; as good as many German ones, which is saying a good deal. The whole earthwork was dug deep into the chalky soil, its perpendicular walls wire netted; it was roofed with stout tree-trunks, and laid across these were sandbags. It was conveniently situated for us to beat a hasty retreat into when the shells became too frequent and fell sufficiently close to make us wonder how much nearer the next might come. This dug-out was behind a row of shell-shattered and deserted small suburban houses, and extended under the back gardens of some of them, now all joined into one. These had evidently once been well stocked and cultivated gardens, as there were the remains of strawberry beds and patches of all the domestic vegetables. Our mess cook was not long in discovering and picking enough spinach for dinner one night, and a patch of thriving young turnips provided the vegetable courses for several days following. What, one wondered, would be the feelings of the unfortunate owner of one of these houses should he one day come back to find his garden connected by subterranean passages with those of his neighbours? Incidentally, there is little to be seen above the surface of the ground to indicate the existence of the large cellars and passages underneath.
Throughout Monday, the 18th, the rain continued. We convoyed the rations in the afternoon to the cavalry, who were still bivouacked. Nothing could have looked more miserable than those miles of horse lines on the rain-sodden ground, now a quagmire of mud. A line of small flags had been stuck in the ground, and stretched away in the distance, indicating the route across country which the mounted men were to take when the time for them to go up to the line came. But that day no one was very optimistic; somehow, in the rain everything seems hopelessly impossible! At about 8 that evening the rain ceased for a time, the sky cleared, and our guns, which had been very quiet all day, started on their exploits once more, much to the annoyance of every one in their vicinity who was at the time anticipating a night of undisturbed and well-earned slumber. On the night of the 19th we turned in early; the supply train was not expected to arrive till 3 the following morning. Hardly had I blown out my candle, when once more the German shells started to come over. All through the night they shelled Albert intermittently, and we were glad of the homely dug-out. For every one they sent over they seemed to get about twenty back, including some from a 15-inch gun that had suddenly got busy. The supply train eventually arrived at 7 a.m. on the 20th. At the station there were a few big shell holes, but little damage. True, one had exploded on the permanent way; one short length of line had been torn up as a result and was pointing skywards, several sleepers being destroyed; but the damage was only such as could be repaired in a few hours, and did not hold up the traffic at all. The Germans were still shelling, and continued to do so throughout the morning in several directions, in their attempts, no doubt, to search out the guns that were bothering them so much. So things went on from day to day. On the afternoon of the 21st, half a dozen shells landed in the field adjoining our little camp. One, which fell on a house, killed several soldiers; the others did no material damage. Towards night they started tostrafeagain, and succeeded in hitting the ammunition dump near our lines which I referred to earlier in this chapter. The whole sky was lit up by the red glow from the fire, which was, of course, the result, and for some hours afterwards there was a succession of "ping-ping-pom-poms," as the fire spread and the ammunition became ignited. All night long, as usual, thestrafecontinued, the Huns, also as usual, getting back good measure for what they sent over, including some useful efforts on the part of a large howitzer battery which had recently joined in the fray. When fired at a distance of a mile or so away, one could literally feel the blast in one's face. The resulting din can be better imagined than described. On such occasions, even from the point of view of getting away from the noise, there are worse places to spend a night in than in a dug-out 7 feet high, 8 feet broad, and 15 feet long, 12 feet below the level of the ground.
Albert at this time was distinctly unhealthy. The shells exacted their daily toll. Occasionally the Huns varied their hate by sending over a few lachrymatory or tear shells, which, however, falling a fair distance away from us, only had the effect of making our eyes smart for a time. We at first attributed this to the lorry "exhausts" and the quality of the petrol.
On September 25th one squadron of a Native lancer regiment was put into action. Cavalry patrols were sent on ahead, and returned to report that the village of Gueudecourt was still held by the enemy. The squadron galloped to the outskirts of the village; dismounting, they got their Hotchkiss machine guns into action and engaged the enemy for several hours. They had a few casualties amongst men and lost some horses, but achieved their objective. At Albert there was a sudden and unmistakable lull in the enemy's shelling. The reason was soon forthcoming. On the 27th we heard that not only Combles, but the fortress of Thiepval, which had for so long been bombarded by our artillery, had at length fallen to the Allied arms. Doubtless it was there that the guns which had been shelling Albert were situated; the shells had at any rate invariably come from that direction. Along the road from Thiepval to Albert that day were to be seen Hun prisoners being marched back not by tens but by hundreds. Many were wounded and looked pitiful as they came hobbling along, helping one another, guarded by mounted men—not that they needed guarding or were capable of escaping. Those that were not wounded seemed dazed and demoralized; here and there was one who had obviously been driven mad by the ordeal he had been through—the continual and ever-increasing hell fire which had been directed on Thiepval. One prisoner taken that day I heard, much to my surprise, had before the war been employed as chief telephone clerk in a big London hotel. At midnight on September 27th the Column left Albert and moved back to Corbie. Thence, in conjunction with the cavalry, we retraced our steps by gradual stages westward.
Chapter XIV
TO BAPAUME, PÉRONNE, AND BEYOND
Events sometimes occur quickly and unexpectedly in this war. Recent ones justify another chapter. The 1st day of November 1916 found us on our way to winter billets; and in the same "back area" as that occupied the previous year we spent the long, dreary winter months. They were chiefly characterized as being the coldest on record and by the most prolonged and severe spell of frost within recollection. The thaw was, if anything, more unpleasant. French roads, even the main ones, seem to lack a sufficient foundation of metal, and the results caused by the passage of heavy transport over them during a thaw are, to say the least, disastrous to both roads and transport. They consist in the giving way, and in places utter collapse, of the roads. The difficulty is theoretically overcome by a procedure known asbarrières fermées, which roughly means that when a thaw sets in all main roads are closed to heavy motor traffic until the thaw has been in progress for several days. After that,barrières ferméesbecomebarrières ouvertesonce more. Whether it was owing to the impossibility of carrying out this scheme for a sufficient length of time, or due to a failure in the perfect working of the system, it is difficult to say, but the results were unfortunate. Many roads became impassable, and mechanical transport lorries were constantly getting "bogged" everywhere. A period of rain did not improve matters, and when they were almost at their worst for the moving up of ammunition and guns, the astute Hun began this retreat to the more salubrious neighbourhood of the Hindenburg line. Immediately, almost, we were on the road towards Albert.
The last week of March found us encamped just outside it. The cavalry had made a forced march, covering the best part of seventy miles inside two days. Not bad going, taking into consideration the heavy, muddy roads. Once again there was a wave of optimism and confidence in the air. The Huns were in retreat, unable to hold any longer the line they had fortified and stuck to for so many months; Bapaume had fallen; our troops were still advancing and meeting with little opposition from the enemy. Three very good reasons for optimism!
The town of Albert was, we found, little changed in appearance since our departure six months before, but it was a very much more healthy spot, being out of range of artillery. Even its civilian population was returning in considerable numbers. One of the largest Expeditionary Force Canteens had been established, also quite a good Officers' Club.
During the first few days of April enemy aeroplanes came over and dropped several bombs. The damage done, however, was negligible, except to a motor-lorry, in which three men who were sleeping were unfortunately killed. Later on, when the last week of April brought fine weather and clear blue skies, Taubes became our daily visitors, though the barrage of anti-aircraft batteries kept them too high to make bombing worth while. Heavy snow marked our arrival at the front, and it certainly seemed that spring operations had started in weather that was as unfavourable as it was reminiscent of mid-winter. To add insult to injury, on almost the coldest night of all the British Expeditionary Force advanced its clock an hour and "summer time" came in! Railhead was moved up as far as ——, as soon as railway communication was opened up. It had been a village of some hundred and thirty houses. Now, of course, it was completely ruined, but none the less a place of considerable importance. Surprisingly few "traps" were left behind there by the Germans. On two occasions only, mines exploded, each leaving fair-sized craters under the permanent way, but only causing such slight damage that traffic was not seriously interfered with.
To reach Bapaume from Albert there is a long, straight road, which, from strategical importance, must almost equal that wonderful road from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun. The latter has come to be known as "La Voie sacrée" and General Pétain is said to have stated that the battle of Verdun was largely won by the prowess of the motor drivers along it, during those months when there passed over it a never-ending, continuous line of convoys, transporting munitions and rations to the defenders of France's most famous outpost.
The Albert-Bapaume road presented many points of interest. A few kilometres along it is Pozières, the name of a village which formerly existed here. Now it is indicated only by a signboard announcing the fact.
To the left are such places as Ovillers, Thiepval, Courcelette—names which recall bloody combats of a few months ago. Like Pozières, nothing now remains of them. A little further along one strikes Le Sars. There are indications here of what was once a village and a wood. Now the wood looks like a skeleton and the ground is littered with bricks and odd pieces of timber. On either side of the road the ground is literally studded with shell holes; not a solitary square yard of it has escaped: everywhere are broken-down dug-outs, old artillery emplacements, and irregular and much battered lines of trenches, running seemingly in all directions and difficult to follow. There is not a blade of grass or any sign of life. To leave the road is to meet with quantities of unexploded shells, broken and abandoned equipment, skulls, and corpses of both British and German soldiers. Salvage and burial parties are constantly at work and gradually clearing the ground, a task of some magnitude. Here and there are the little military cemeteries—row after row of long brown mounds of earth, each surmounted by a wooden cross; here and there a smashed-up aeroplane waiting to be salved.
Nowhere is the ghastly aftermath of war more in evidence than around the Butte de Warlencourt, a few miles further along the road. The Butte appears an isolated hill, rising by gradual ascent to a height of about 100 feet. To capture it from the enemy must have been a matter of considerable difficulty. On its summit is a large wooden cross, dedicated to the memory of the gallant officers, N.C.O.'s, and men of the Durham Light Infantry who fell there in November 1916. At various points on the road, particularly, of course, at cross-roads, the Germans before their retreat set mines; these, later exploding, have caused enormous upheavals of earth and craters large enough, many of them, to bury half a dozen motor-lorries in. To let traffic pass them, it has been necessary to circumvent them with causeways built around their lips, until such time as they have been filled in again and the road is once more built up and able to follow its usual course. Eventually appears Bapaume, and the Albert road at this point strikes at right angles the road which, to the left, proceeds to Arras, and to the right into the centre of the town, into which converge roads from Cambrai, Douai, and Péronne.
Bapaume itself presents a sight which is at once amazing and tragic. The first thing that strikes the observer is that it is not suffering so much from the effects of artillery bombardment as from the deliberate burning and blowing up of its houses, and chiefly by the fronts having been blown out. Where these have thus been destroyed, the roofs have collapsed into the houses. Almost every building has been demolished in this way; in many cases the grey slate roofs lie complete, warped but intact, over a mass of debris caused by the blowing down of the supporting walls. Most of the furniture from the houses was presumably removed some time ago to furnish German dug-outs; what has not been made use of in this way has been piled up inside the houses, and, after being tarred, set alight. The trees which formerly adorned the main roads have, to a great extent, been sawn off near their stumps, and the trunks lay, till removed by our troops, at right angles across the roads. I take the object of this tree-felling to be threefold. Firstly, to impede advancing troops; secondly, to leave no cover, and thus throw the roads open to aeroplane observation; and thirdly, for the sake of sheer destructiveness. The third is an undeniable reason, for even the little fruit and rose trees in cottage gardens had not been spared at the hands of the Hun.
The wells everywhere had been poisoned with arsenic or fouled with manure. In Bapaume itself the cleanest well was found to contain eight German corpses. To appreciate the "wanton and cruel spirit," as Mr. Ian Malcolm so aptly describes the spirit in which the Germans are losing the war, I quote in full a letter from him which appeared inThe Timeson April 7th, 1917. Comment would be superfluous. I can only add that, judging from the devastation, the Hun soldiers must have carried out their orders with a thoroughness which is typical of German organization, except, of course, in such places from which their hurried evacuation did not give them time. The following is the letter:—