I have spoken to several prisoners who could speak English, and with no exception they all thought or were told that the British troops were no good at fighting—that it was only niggers we could face. They have got a different view by now: Sergt. Dickson, Coldstream Guards.
“Mister Bull!”
The Germans seem to have gone mad entirely, and are running about like bulls in a china-shop, playing havoc with everything that comes their way. Our business is to wait around until Mister Bull gets properly tired, and then we will lead him off by the nose in proper style: Lance-Corporal E. Twomey.
Not Suited to It
The Germans aren’t really cut out for this sort of work. They are proper bullies, who get on finely when everybody’s lying bleeding at their feet, but they can’t manage at all when they have to stand up to men who can give them more than they bargain for: Corporal J. Hammersley.
Christian
Not all Germans are cruel. On the Aisne I was lying for hours wounded. A German came along and bound up my wound under heavy fire. When he had made me ship-shape he was going to clear off, but a stray bullet caught him, and he fell dead close beside me: A Private of the Black Watch.
A Doubting Doctor
A big German surgeon came to me and said, “You don’t like to fight against us, do you?” I replied we did not care whom we fought so long as it was for the good of our country. “But you would rather not fight with us?” he said. “No fear,” I replied, and then he left me saying “Bravo”: A Captured Corporal.
X-Rayed
The Germans are bad fighters. They rely on their big guns to do their work. They won’t come out to fight you with their rifles.... I have seen three big battles, and got hit in the fourth one. Hard lines, isn’t it? I have the bullet in my foot yet, but I must wait for my turn, as there are a lot waiting to be X-rayed: Lance-Corporal G. Percy.
Took the “Bully”
We got caught in a wood, where I was wounded. When the fire stopped the Germans came to us and pinched everything we had. We drew five francs the day before, the only pay-day we had had out here, and the beggars stole the lot. They even sat down in front of us and tucked into the “bully” they had done us down for: Pte. Blissenden, Grenadier Guards.
“Roll on, London!”
One German prisoner says, “I don’t want to fight. Roll on, London.” I suppose he was a waiter in some of the London hotels. Some of them look pitiful sights. They are starved, and when they come here they are all well looked after. They say they are glad it is the British who have taken them. They know the French would not give them much. They have good reason too: An Aberdeen Reservist of the Royal Field Artillery.
Captured Uhlans
The Uhlan prisoners created some amusement as they were being marched along, for, as they are not used to marching, and were wearing great jack-boots, it nearly kills them, but they were pushed along by the infantry. While the Uhlans were thus being urged along the Frenchwomen tried to get at them and shouted to the soldiers to cut their throats. Fortunately for the prisoners, they were strongly guarded: A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery.
Grave-digging
We were told off to bury German dead, but we couldn’t get through, there were so many, and we sent into their lines under a flag of truce to ask if they would come out and help. They sent a lot of men out, and they were quite friendly. They were well supplied with cigars, which they most likely looted from some French houses, and they offered us some, which we were glad of: Pte. Brady, Irish Rifles.
A Barber in Lambeth
I went to a village by motor with an officer to dress some German wounded, about forty all told. I was doing two German brothers, and they spoke very good English. One said, “Where are your good people going to send us?” I replied that I thought they would be sent to England, and he said, “That’s good. I hope it will be somewhere near Lambeth Walk, for I have a barber’s shop there, and then my wife can come and see me”: Pte. Flaxman, Army Medical Corps.
Berlin “Nuts”
I am writing this on a lady’s glove-box. I picked it up here, but how it got here God only knows. These German officers are awful “nuts,” and carry as many beautifiers as an actress on tour. They use their gloves for another purpose. They put a bullet or stone in the finger of a loose glove and flick the ears of their men. We found a wounded German who had been a clerk in London. His ears were extra large and were both swollen and skinned by the flicks he had got from his officers: Pte. F. Burton, of the Bedfords.
“Collies?”
It’s my opinion that you couldn’t find greater collies between the seven seas of the world than these Germans, not if you were to walk about for a month of Sundays, with all their bragging and bantering and bullying of the plucky little Belgians, and any Christian might be ashamed to use our wounded the way these sausage-faced German pigs used them. The “parley-voos” treated us right decently from the first day that ever we set foot in their country: A Private of the Connaught Rangers.
The Track of the Huns
One of the worst features of the war has been to witness the plight of the refugees in the stricken countries. I have seen many a strong man in our ranks with tears in his eyes when we have passed poor women and children flying from their homes, their only food being that which our soldiers gave them. Every village through which the Germans had passed in their retirement was practically blown to pieces. It is also tragic to see thousands of acres of corn and vines rotting, with no one to gather them in: Sergt. Walker, King’s Liverpool Regiment.
Got the Guns
The Germans seem to think that you can catch Irish soldiers with fly-papers, for they just stepped up the other day and called on us to surrender as bold as you like, and bolder. We didn’t waste any words in telling them to go about their business, but we just grabbed hold of our bayonets and signed to them to come on if they wanted anything, but they didn’t seem in a hurry to meet us. After a bit they opened fire on us with a couple of Maxims, but we just fixed bayonets and went for the guns with a rush. They appear to be delicate boys indeed, and can’t stand very much rough usage with the bayonet. We got their guns: Pte. E. Ryan, Royal Munster Fusiliers.
“Made in Germany”
The first thing we saw was what looked like a big black screen rolling up and blotting out the countryside. It turned out that the screen was the German motor-cars. I must tell you that they never marched until they got near to the firing line. They filled the cars with men, as thick as they could stick. Then another batch would sit on the shoulders of the others, and a third lot on theirs. Straight, it struck me as so funny the first time I saw it. I was reminded of a troupe of acrobats on the halls: A Private of the Middlesex Regiment.
“Over the Shoulder”
They don’t like steel, those Germans. I threw three of them consecutively over my shoulder on the point of the bayonet, and the very next moment a shrapnel shell burst right on my rifle. How I escaped with what I’ve got I don’t know. All the shell did was to blow my rifle to smithereens and the tips of my trigger and next two fingers off. The doctor says it’s only the tips gone. That’s good, as I shall have enough to pull the trigger with again, and if that fails there’s the “over-the-shoulder touch,” which is more than enough for the Germans: A Scots Guardsman, at Mons.
No Chocolates
It is pitiful to see the innocent women and little children driven from their humble homes to trek to different parts of France, literally starving on the road. And when they return they will find that their only shelters have been burned to the ground. I see in the papers that English people have been giving chocolate and cigarettes to the German prisoners, and, I daresay, every comfort they require. Yet a few weeks ago the same men were robbing, looting, and causing grief and anxiety in this country! Instead of giving them cigarettes and chocolates, English people should distribute the money amongst the wives and families whose husbands and fathers will never return: Gunner E. Tyler, of Bristol.
Kill or Wound?
One of the German soldiers captured by the Lancashires observed, “You shoot to kill; we fire from the hip, and only want to wound.” On a German officer who was made prisoner a diary was found in which was entered the advice: “Do not face the British troops when entrenched; their fire is murderous. First sweep the trenches with artillery fire.” One of the German methods of finding the range with their big guns is to heap up the corpses of their fallen men, and thus, when the Allied troops advance, their distance from the batteries can accurately be gauged: A Private in the Coldstreams.
A Lucky Escape
The devils came into the village and said the poor people were hiding English soldiers. They then set the houses on fire, and I could see the flames coming my way. I managed to get out before the stack took fire, only to run into the arms of three of the Germans. They were as drunk as they could be, and I soon got out of their grips. If two of them are alive their mothers will not know them. But I was caught a little later by two more of them. I thought it was all over with me, when one of them was shot dead by one of our chaps who was hiding. I didn’t know he was there, and you may imagine my feelings when he came running to me. We got away, but we should have been riddled if they had been sober: A Trooper of the 11th Hussars.
False Bugle-calls
We found the Germans continually sounding our bugle-calls for the purpose of deceiving our men, and one of our worst fights took place at a place I can’t tell you the name of, because the Germans sounded the retreat for one of our advanced battalions, and then it was attacked in murderous fashion as it deployed across the open in the belief that it was being ordered to fall back. For a time that threw the whole line into confusion, but we soon got right again, and drove the Germans off in fine style with the bayonet. After that bugle-calls were dispensed with, but the Germans soon “tumbled” to that and took to picking off the dispatch-riders who were sent with orders. In that way it happened that bodies of men never got their orders to retreat or advance, and that’s why some of our regiments got cut up here and there: A Private of the 18th Royal Irish Regiment.
A Tell-tale Diary
I found this diary on a German officer we had captured:
July 20: At last the day! To have lived to see it! We are ready. Let him come who may. The world race is destined to be German.
August 11: And now for the English, used to fighting farmers. To-night William the Greater has given us beautiful advice. You think each day of your Emperor. Do not forget God. His Majesty should remember that in thinking of him we think of God, for is he not the Almighty’s instrument in this glorious fight for right?
August 20: The conceited English have ranged themselves up against us at absurd odds, our airmen say.
August 25: An English shell burst on a Red Cross wagon to-day. Full of English. Ha! ha! serve the swine right. Still, they fight well. I salute the officer who kept on swearing at Germany and her Emperor in his agony. And then to ask calmly for a bath. These English! We have hardly time to bury our own dead, so they are being weighted in the river: Pte. Crow, 2nd Seaforth Highlanders.
V. CAMPAIGNING IN GENERAL
It is a rough life, getting food the best way you can, and cooking it all ways. One morning we were cooking some rabbits and the Germans surprised us, so we had to leave quick: Corpl. Prickard, 11th Hussars.
Wanted a Hat!
I have lost another horse. A piece of shell caught it, and another took my hat off, so I have a big French sun-hat now for headgear until I can find one lying about somewhere: A Trooper of the 15th Hussars.
A Day in Bed
There is one thing I would appreciate as much as anything just at present, and that is a day’s sleep in bed. We have not undressed for a month, and a little straw under some cover is considered a luxury: A Private of M Section, B Signal Company.
Lost!
If we lay down on the road we fell asleep at once, but if Germans got wind of us they were on top of us before we could get to sleep. We just lived on pears and apples, and eventually fell in with a party of French cavalry, who shared their bread with us: A Sergeant in an Irish Regiment.
Looked After
I am in the best of health and am getting plenty of food. We get bacon for breakfast, corned-beef stew for dinner, cheese and jam for tea and supper, plenty of tea and sugar, and at four o’clock every morning a half-quartern of rum, so you see they look after us all right: Lance-Corpl. Feeley, 1st Dorsetshire Regiment.
“Have You a Light?”
We keep a fire or candle going all day and night specially for lighting “fags” and pipes. If on the move we keep a lantern on the go, so if you could send me a good substantial pipe-lighter (I don’t care how much it costs) it will be the best turn you have ever done to the army, and I shall be in great demand: Sergt. Horwell, Royal Artillery.
Don’t Know!
It’s fighting and marching every day. There was a majority of us that thought it would be over by this time, but I am afraid that it will last a lot longer than what one thought. We get no news here at all, and we don’t even know where we are stationed; they won’t tell us anything: Pte. E. Lawrence, Bedfordshire Regiment.
The Cannon’s Roar
Townsmen who are used to the noise and roar of streets can stand it better than the countrymen, and I think you will find that by far the fittest men are those of regiments mainly recruited in the big cities. A London lad near me says it’s no worse than the roar of motor-buses and other traffic in the City on a busy day: Sergeant-Major McDermott.
Hard Lines
We had been two days and nights in the rain and were soaking to the skin. My section was told off to hold a farm till we got the order to retire, but to burn it before we retired. I was in a hay-loft setting fire to it when the floor gave way and I was sent flying through to the ground below, and I could not get up. It was hard lines: Private R. McBride.
Roughing It!
I am laid on my stomach on a barn floor writing this with the light of a candle I am lucky enough to get hold of. As I write this I can hear our big guns firing; in fact, they fairly shake the place I am in. We are just going to turn into some nice dry straw, and have a well-earned sleep. Talk about roughing it: a man that gets through this can get through anything at all: Trooper Stephenson, 18th Hussars.
A Sing-song
Every night round the camp-fire we have our photos out—that is, if we have any—then we have a song. The favourites are “Never Mind” and “The Last Boat is Leaving for Home.” The French people gave us a great welcome when we came here, and they have kept it up in every town and village we have come through: A Private of the 2nd Royal Scots.
One Blessing
We are a rough lot out here, and washing and shaving are things of the past. The roof we sleep under is large—the sky—and the rain comes through very often. Our shirts we change when they wear out. You must not worry too much if there are very long lapses between the letters, as we can’t always write. It’s a game of dodging shells here. There is one blessing: we get plenty of food, and they are looking after us the best they can: Sergt. Prout, South Wales Borderers.
Not Worrying
I’m doing and going as I’m told, not worrying, but taking things as they come. I’ve slept in barns, wool stores, cinemas, casinos, dock sheds, and for a bit had the stars as a counterpane. The fighting has been very fierce and close; as one pal said, “Oh! ain’t it ’ot?” We have been outnumbered, sometimes 10,000 to 2000, but our boys stick to them, and have played havoc with their “mass formations.” The Maxims have cut them down like corn, and when we charge with fixed bayonets see ’em run like rats. They will get no quarter from our “mob”: Pte. Bromfield, Royal Engineers.
Scrap Iron
We were kept on the go for a week, day and night, with hardly a wink of sleep. What we did get was just lying down and dozing off, sometimes in the road, and sometimes in a ditch. We raided a convoy. Bacon, biscuits, sugar, and jam all came to us. The wagons were simply packed up. I think we had about 150 lb. of bacon between four of us. We marched all that night, and in the morning we collected a few sticks and started to make tea and fry a few rashers, when they opened fire on us, and 15 lb. of scrap iron interrupted our meal: Gunner J. Talboys, Royal Field Artillery.
Not Swept Away Yet
The other day we were off in pursuit of a body of infantry, and when we overtook them they simply flung themselves down on the ground and let us ride over them. Then, when we came back, they surrendered. Some of them were so dead beat that they could not run away, not even if they had wanted to, and that seems to be true of their men everywhere. Some of them have had their fill of fighting and marching by this time, and I do not blame them, for they got it hot in the fighting with us since the third week of August, when they came along to sweep us into the sea: A Trooper of the 3rd Hussars.
From the Hip
The Germans have a funny way in fighting. Their infantry when advancing fire from the hip and come on in masses, splendid targets for our guns. As soon as one lot gets mowed down the gaps are filled up with fresh men. They are in terrible numbers—about ten to one in some places. Nearly all the men’s wounds are shrapnel, and heal wonderfully. Men almost cripples a day or two ago are going on splendidly since being treated here. My worst wound is on the right arm, a piece of flesh torn away, but with good dressing it should heal up well: Bombardier A. E. Smith.
A Cupboard Skeleton
Two Royal Irish Fusiliers picked me up and took me to a farm, where there were other three wounded. That night we heard somebody prowling round the farm, and thinking they might be the enemy, the Irish Fusiliers hid in a large cupboard, where they would be able to make a good attack. We hadn’t long to wait, and a small party of German infantry came in—on a looting expedition, likely. The men in the cupboard accounted for three, and the others yelled and ran. The farmer and his wife got scared, and they disappeared: Pte. Cunningham, 8th Northumberland Fusiliers.
Food for Powder
The impression we got was that the Germans have so many men available at the point where they deliver an attack that, as soon as one body gets tired out or shows signs of losing its nerve under fire, it is recalled to the rear and replaced by fresh men, who are brought up in motors and all sorts of vehicles. The used-up men are then taken away, and very likely they come on again after a rest. That’s an altogether new way of fighting, but I fancy the Germans go on the principle that “enough’s as good as a feast” in what they get from our rifle fire: A Private of the Manchester Regiment.
Not Good Shots
You have read about their famous Uhlans. They are worth nothing. When we have come close to them they have always turned round. We are just wanting to get them to charge. They are very hard to tell from a distance because they are very much like ourselves. I am just getting settled down to it now. If the Germans were good shots I would not be writing to you now, but I must say their artillery fire is very hot. It is that which has found most of our fellows. The people here can’t do enough for us. They simply go mad when they see us: A Trooper of the 9th Lancers.
Adam without an Eden
I got made prisoner along with Sergeant-Major H—— of ours. We did not think we should ever see England again, as they made us strip every mortal stitch off our bodies so that we could not escape. At the time they were being hardly pressed by our troops. But in the middle of the night we made a cut for it. We got away, and after wandering about absolutely naked, not even a fig-leaf (a lifetime it seemed, but really about a couple of hours), we fell in amongst a French division of infantry, and they clothed and fed us in no time and put us on the right way: A Trooper of the Dragoon Guards.
The Enviable “Terriers”
I read in one of the papers that some of the “Terriers” in England have to put up with the inconvenience of sleeping three in one bed. I feel sorry for them. Some of us would be glad to get a bundle of straw sometimes. There is one thing, up to the present, we have been having plenty of grub and a tot of rum nearly every night, which no doubt you will guess we refuse. We get tobacco issued to us, but are very short of fag-papers. A couple of packets would come in very handy: Gunner Richards, Royal Artillery.
Pea-shooters
At one place we had a surprise attack. We were just getting ready for some food, when all of a sudden shells started bursting around us. I can tell you it was a case of being up and doing. Dixies and tea-cans were flung on one side, our tea spilt, fires put out, and the order given to stand to our guns and horses, everyone to prepare for action. Still, we were not to be caught napping. Our boys only close one eye when we get a chance of a sleep, so you can tell we were wide-awake by the fact that it was a case of do or die. Our gallant boys, the Guards, held them at bay until our death-dealing pea-shooters put them to flight: Driver Clark, Royal Artillery.
Had “To Nip”
Two Germans had a pop at me one day when I was crossing a ploughed field, but they might as well have tried to shoot the moon. I have had some narrow escapes from shells—they were German shells, or I should not be writing this now. We laugh at them sometimes. The Germans don’t like steel—although we have not done much in that line. We play on a different line to that. We like to catch ’em napping, and we have done it, too, but, of course, they have had our fellows the same. It would make you laugh to see how we dodge the shells and nip under cover for all we are worth. We had to scatter one night just when I was making some tea. I was just going to put the tea and sugar into the boiling water when bang they came just overhead, and I had to nip: Corpl. Newman, Somerset Light Infantry.
“Fairly Well”
While I am writing this letter I am cooking the dinner, boiling a piece of bacon we managed to get and potatoes. I have been elected cook on our car. I expect you will say it is just like me to be among the grub. Anyway, we are getting plenty of it now. We get our day’s rations every morning—one rasher of bacon, one tin of bully beef, one pot of jam (between five), a piece of cheese, so much tea and sugar, and so much bread, when we can get it; if we have not bread we get biscuits. We get plenty of potatoes out of the fields, and sometimes make what we call bully-beef stew. It is very nice, and consists of bully beef, potatoes, carrots, and onions—all boiled together. Sometimes we get fresh meat, so you see we are living fairly well: Pte. Calvert, Army Service Corps.
Rained on
We struck our tents this afternoon and then the rain came down. It is eight o’clock now and the rain is still steadily driving down. I suppose you imagine that you can picture the discomfort, but I bet you can’t. As a help, however, I will give you a few details. We have had to erect the tent in the pouring rain, which means that the floor-boards are soaked, and each one has to find a little dry oasis for himself, and there aren’t many dry places left when nine fellows have to be crowded in. Now the tent-cloth is soaked through and little streams of water are trickling across the floor, while miniature cascades are dancing merrily down the walls: Lance-Corpl. J. W. James, Royal Fusiliers.
Quagmires and “Mug Racks”
A German device that is new to me is the making of quagmires in front of the trenches, usually by digging extra trenches a few hundred feet from the real ones, throwing in the loose clay, and then flooding them so that you get a ditch of liquid mud. One day a French infantry detachment was advancing finely against the German position until they stumbled into one of these bogs, and just as they were stuck fast they were treated to a hail of fire. Barbed-wire entanglements are ten times worse than what we found in South Africa. Usually they are hidden away in the long grass, and you don’t see them until they catch you in the legs and bring you down. However, we’re getting up to the dodge. Now we call the wires “mug racks,” because it’s only the “mugs” who get caught in them: A Private of a Scots Regiment.
Cave-dwellers
We are like brigands at large in a cave, but one thing spoils it—that is, these blooming shells. The guns are only from six to eighteen hundred yards off, but we cannot see them on account of their being like ours, so cleverly concealed, and our aeroplanes cannot find them, although if they go over it is ten to one they are heavily fired at, but with them being so high it is impossible to see anything. We, the machine gunners, are rather lucky, as we draw our rations from the cooker where they are at present in the village, and then take them to our house that we have, and where the corporal in charge of the limber stays. He acts as cook, and we have bully stews, marrows, walnuts, turnips, and different things, and plenty of potatoes: Pte. H. Tesseyman, Coldstream Guards.
Contour Maps
It is my opinion, although, of course, I have no authority for it, that the German artillery have been supplied with contour maps of the route to Paris, with the ranges marked from hill to hill. Directly they reached an incline and faced us on another they let fly right on top of us straight away. They certainly had not time to find the range by the ordinary methods. I was wounded by a bullet from a shrapnel. It is very poor stuff, and very ineffective. The bullet that hit me ought ordinarily to have gone right through my hand. I lay for about an hour and a half on some corn, with the shrapnel bursting over me all the time. The bullets were absolutely spent, and when they dropped on my clothes they only singed them; others I stopped with my hands as they fell: Quartermaster-Sergt. Hinton, 17th Batt. Royal Field Artillery.
A Disturbed Dinner
Two days ago, our troop, consisting of twenty-eight men, was billeted in a farmyard. We were trying our best to make up a bit of a dinner by collecting potatoes, carrots, etc., when a shell struck the roof of the building and set it on fire. Fortunately the only casualty was a wounded horse, although several of the men got shaken up a bit. The only thing that worried us was that we lost our dinners, because I can tell you we had to get out of it quickly—it was a bit too warm for Tommy Atkins. The country here is thick with woods, which makes it very dangerous for cavalrymen. We are fighting side by side with the French troops and we get on very well together. Lots of them speak good English: Pte. Martin, 16th Lancers.
Petrol Power
The war is a petrol war. Every thing is done by machinery, and victory is to the man who has the most petrol. One is much impressed by this. The aeroplanes have by now rendered ordinary scouts obsolete. They go ahead of us and find out everything about the Germans. One hears the hum of their engines daily. It was quite exciting at one place when three of our planes chased a very fast German one. One of our fellows put a bullet through his petrol tank, forced him to come down, and made him prisoner. We make war in a most extraordinary way nowadays. The other day —— and I met at headquarters and had a cup of tea together during an hour I had off. He said he felt mischievous and would love to have a go at some Uhlan patrols who were only about a dozen miles off. So he jumped into his car and drove off. A few hours later he returned to have a first-class dinner at an hotel near headquarters, having killed a Uhlan and nearly taken two more prisoners: A Dispatch-Rider.
“Crackers!”
I expect the Germans thought they had a snip. Their army is very poorly looked after. You can’t help feeling sorry for some of the poor beggars—they are almost starved to death, and give themselves up in scores. This war is nothing but an artillery duel, and the country for miles is very wooded, which makes it harder for us, because we cannot see them till we are almost on top of them, and then they have first plonk at us. The Kaiser’s crack regiment, the Prussian Guards, went crackers before we were out a fortnight. There was a pretty dust-up. We caught them coming across an open field. We let them come within 200 yards of us, and then we let go. We almost wiped them clean out. It was an awful sight when we finished. Those who weren’t killed ran for their lives. I expect they are in Berlin by now: Private R. Homewood.
A Near Shave
I was out with the Austin car convoying three motor-lorries with supplies for a cavalry brigade, when we were pounced upon by a bunch of German cavalry, who took us prisoners, and took everything I had except the clothes I was wearing. All our men, twenty in number, including an officer, were put back to a wall and kept there with an armed guard. I was made to turn the motor round. They put eight Germans in the car, and I had an officer with a revolver pointing at my head standing on the step. They then made me reconnoitre the villages for two hours, looking for the positions of the British troops, which they did not find, but they went mighty close at one time. Upon returning to the same spot we were put in the middle of a line of German cavalry, about 6000 strong, and taken up a steep hill to a plateau on top. As soon as it became daylight they were spotted by our cavalry and artillery, who made short work of them; but they kept us right in their fighting line to the very last, when they bolted and left us: Private H. L. Simmons, of Addlestone.
“Poor Old Bones!”
I look an awful picture. My clothing is torn to shreds. I have lost all my buttons, and it is dreadful cold at nights, but I cuddle up against the horses for warmth. Our horses are terrified, mad, but my two seem a bit at ease when I lie down beside them at night. If I leave them for a minute there is no pacifying them. You would die of laughing if you saw me now. I am writing this across the horse’s belly. He is too tired to rise, but he gives me such knowing looks at times. He is a proper chum. He is a grey, and you should see the mess I have made trying to discolour him. He has tar mixed with moss rubbed over him. Every kind of dust and dirt I could get has been rubbed on him. I have to laugh when I look at him, and the officer this morning nearly had a fit. Of course, there is a humorous side to everything. We would never live if there wasn’t. The noise is deafening. You can’t hear your mate speak unless he shouts in your ear. The bursting of the shells is appalling, but poor old “bones” lies here as if he was in the stable at home. He is dead beat, and so am I, but there is no actual rest here; it is only a lull: A Private of the Scots Greys.
VI. BATTLES IN BEING
I got a biscuit from Tibby Tennant, and was eating it when I got shot. M‘Phail was beside me, and dressed my wounds as well as he could: Pte. Clark, Highland Light Infantry.
Unexpected
I will tell you of a cute trick of our gunners. They got a lot of empty wagons and put them in a wood. The Germans, seeing them, thought they were our guns put out of action. They rushed out for them, and our artillery did not half scatter them, killing about four hundred: Pte. Brown, Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.
Turpinite
I saw some of the effects of turpinite, the wonderful French explosive, used in this war for the first time. I saw a trench full of dead Germans killed by it. They were standing right up in the trenches looking as though they were still alive: Pte. Thompson, 2nd Dragoon Guards.
Took Off the Roof!
I was standing within 50 yards of a house one day when a shell came and took the roof clean off; you could see the cups on the table quite plain; a clean sweep. I counted about thirty shells drop around us the same day in half an hour; we had only two horses and a man shot: Tpr. C. McCarthy, 4th Hussars.
Lancashire!
Fellows were being knocked out all round, and wounded were crying for help. Frequently one would say to his neighbour, “Bill, how’s ta gettin’ on?” but Bill, who had been as cheery as a cricket just before, was found to be picked off. Our ranks were so thinned that by the time we got within charging distance of the enemy’s trenches we had not sufficient men left for the charge: Pte. Harvey, North Lancashire Regiment.
Up Aloft!
All our troops blamed the German aeroplanes for the heavy loss which we sustained. It did not matter where we went to try and get an hour’s sleep, there would be an aeroplane over us. The Germans dropped a little disc—a sort of long tape—from their aeroplanes, about twenty yards in front of our trenches, and shortly after the Germans would start shelling us. I think it is mostly the aeroplanes which enable them to get our range so accurately as they do: A Private of the Manchester Regiment.
His Own Back
We were only 300 yards from a battery of German “death screechers,” which naturally opened fire into us, doing great damage. We soon silenced them, though. Worked round their flank and picked off the gunners. Please don’t think I am boasting, but I picked off eight. I had a splendid position. I was firing three hours before they hit me seriously. When I was hit I didn’t care; my rifle was smashed to atoms by a shell, but I was gloriously happy, having got my own back before being put out of action: A Private of the Sussex Regiment.
Sleep Through Anything
The Germans keep firing away by night as well as day, and that gives them a big pull over us, because the men in our lines find it hard to sleep with the continual shelling. Firing from your own lines doesn’t affect you in the same way, so that it doesn’t keep the Germans awake unless we bombard them. Men without sleep are not nearly so fit for fighting the next day. Not all of our chaps are kept awake. There are some who could sleep through anything: Gunner Dyson, Royal Artillery.
“Lucky, Considering”
My company was advancing on a wood from which the Germans were picking off our men. We were lying down firing, when from the wood was shouted, “Stop it, you are firing on your own men.” Someone said, “Cease fire,” and we did. Then a very hot fire came at us from the wood. My left-hand man was shot through the stomach, and then my right-hand man was shot through the head. It was a German who had shouted to us. Then a shell, a 96-pounder, burst over us, and a piece of it took away from me a large piece of my left side. I am lucky, considering: Pte. J. Sullivan, South Lancashires.
Nothing Wasted
We killed a tremendous number of them, and owing to their massed formation they were practically standing up dead in front of us. It just suited us to be plugging at them. They came on as if they thought they had nothing to do but take the lot of us, but they were surprised to find that they could not do so. The Germans shoot promiscuously, believing that their shots must hit someone. They had not the same chance of hitting us, and rarely attempted to pick out their man before they shot. I should think that in three days I fired between five hundred and six hundred rounds of ammunition, and we did not waste any; every shot was meant for someone: Private P. Case.
Those Uhlans
We were attacked by a brigade of German cavalry—Uhlans. We got out of the trenches and prepared to receive their attack. I caught the first horse with my bayonet, causing it to swerve so suddenly to the right that the Uhlan was pitched on his head, breaking his neck, I fancy, but not before I heard a sword whizz past my head. I did not feel at all comfortable. I also caught the second horse, but he got his hoof on my left foot, and I felt something on my chest throwing me on to the ground. What happened afterwards I don’t know, as I was unconscious for the next thirty-six hours: Sergt. Gibson, Sussex Regiment.
Stonewalling!
The fighting was hard at times, but only really terrible when you were groping about in the dark exposed to heavy rifle or artillery fire without the least suspicion of where it was coming from at the moment or likely to come from next. Later, when we had settled down to the work and could see what we were up against, it was child’s play, so to speak, and all you had to do was to lie in the trenches and pick the Germans off as you saw them coming on to the attack. And to pick them off is just like taking shots at a stone-finished wall. You can’t help hitting something, and every time you hit you are taking chips off the wall: A Private of the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment.
The Way of It
The shrapnel shells of the Germans were bursting over the trenches where we were lying, and I was struck in the foot with a piece of shell, which took the sole of my boot clean off. Five minutes later, when I was trying to help a fellow near me who had been hit in the shoulder, I was struck in the right thigh by a pellet from a shrapnel shell. I fired one more shot after that. I aimed for the driver of a German machine gun and hit him. This was my first experience of actual fighting, and I can tell you it is a funny sensation at first to see the shells bursting near and around you, to hear the bullets whistling by you, but you soon get used to it all. It tries your nerves a bit at first, but you soon get in the way of it: Private C. D. Moore.
Like an Exodus
We of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders took up a position facing a wood where the Germans were in strong force. As they emerged our boys met them with a raking rifle fire, which mowed them down. On they came again, and again with the same devastating result. Their bullets came whistling round us, but we were indifferent, the marksmanship being very poor. The German infantry carry their rifles under their arms, the butts resting on their hips, and they fire as they march. As the enemy poured out en masse into the open it was like the exodus from the Celtic and Rangers Scottish Cup final! Man, if they were only three to one we could go through them easily, but when it comes to ten to one, strategy as well as bravery has to be considered: An Argyll and Sutherland Highlander.
A Long, Long Day
I rolled a cigarette, thinking the engagement finished for the time, and was making my way up the ridge ahead of my company to see how far the Germans had retired. I had gone some considerable distance when thousands of Germans reappeared on the sky-line, and of course I had to dash back to my company. Every second I expected a bullet through my back, but I was lucky and was bowled over by one which fractured my right elbow, and I broke my forearm as I fell. The Germans advanced right over me, but after taking all my grub out of my haversack they left me to my fate. I lay there until dark and it was the longest day I remember. The bullets and shells flew over my head incessantly, some only falling a few yards away from where I lay. As soon as darkness fell and the firing ceased the stretcher-bearers came out and got me away. Once or twice I sat up to see what chance I had of getting away, but the dirty devils kept on sniping at me, and I had to lie down again. I could see, however, that the ground was covered with dead Germans: Pte. Priest, Coldstream Guards.
Every House a Fort
We were standing close to an orchard, and some of us were killing time and quenching thirst by picking apples from the overhanging trees, when the enemy opened fire with their guns and their rifles. We were quickly formed into positions allotted to us, and advanced to the attack supported by the Irish Rifles, who were moving slowly, as their job was to cover our rushes with rifle fire. Our own artillery opened out, adding to the frightful din, and making us think we had been transported to the infernal regions. Soon we reached the village and found the Germans occupying the houses in strong force. Every house was a little fort, and the infantry were firing from the windows furiously, picking us off as we came along. In some houses they had machine guns mounted at the windows with which to sweep our line of advance. On another house a big gun was placed in position, and some of our sharpshooters were told off to pick off the men working it. This they did in a short time, and it was silenced. Seeing that, the Germans attempted to send up a new gun’s crew, but they had to pass under fire when they came out on the roof, so that our men lay there picking them off as fast as they showed their heads. That went on for over an hour, but they didn’t get their gun manned, for every man who tried it was shot down. After that they gave it up: A Wounded Corporal.
A Gallant Sky Pilot
We had no trenches, all that was available being head “cover,” and in some parts there was very little of that. The noise was terrible, while all the time the shells were bursting around. Occasionally when they exploded near us the shrapnel even tore our clothes. The shells, however, which did the most damage were those which burst in the air. While the action was going on we could see quite a number of the German aeroplanes operating above us. Their object was to discover our position, and when they had accomplished this they dropped some kind of powder which burst into flames as it descended and showed their artillery at what places to direct their shell fire. There was a most exciting and peculiar incident in the course of the engagement. An aeroplane hovered above our lines and then darted towards the Germans. Our artillery fired at it, and when the enemy saw it their artillery also attempted to bring it down. The machine came back in our direction, still under a heavy fire, and you can imagine our surprise when it descended amongst us and a young Frenchman stepped out of it. He had been sent to discover the position of the Germans. The frame of the aeroplane was riddled with bullets, but in spite of that fact he made several visits in the course of the evening towards the German lines: Pte. R. Stobbie, Highland Light Infantry.
The Unexpected
We were in a field when the Germans dropped on us all of a sudden as though from the sky. The first hint we had of their presence was when a battery of guns on our right sang out, dropping shells into a mob of us who were waiting for our turn at the washtub—the river. We all ran to our posts in response to bugles, and by the time we all stood to arms the German cavalry came into view in great strength all along the left front. As soon as they came within range we poured a deadly volley into them, emptying saddles right and left, and they scattered in all directions. Meanwhile their artillery kept working up closer on the front and the right, and a dark cloud of infantry showed out against the sky-line on our front, advancing in formation rather loose for the Germans. We opened on them, and they made a fine target for our rifle fire, which was very well supported by our artillery. The fire from our guns was very effective, the range being found with ease, and we could see the shells dropping right into the enemy’s ranks. Here and there their lines began to waver and give way, and finally they disappeared: A Wounded Guardsman.
No Love Lost
It’s very little love indeed there is lost between us and the Germans, and when they get to grips with Irish soldiers they don’t get much chance of saving their skins. The things the Germans do in Belgium are ten times worse than anything you ever heard tell of in ’98, and there’s few Irishmen can stand what they’ve done without wanting to tear them to bits in good, honest fighting. We saw the Irish Guards give the Germans a fine basting at Compiègne, and we were proud of the way they behaved. When they came back to our lines after it was over they had a grand cheer from all of us, and the French troops, who were nearer to the fight and saw it better than us, weren’t behindhand in giving our boys a good pat on the back. It would have done your heart good to see the Frenchmen standing up in their trenches and shouting like mad as the Guards passed by. The poor chaps got shy and sick of all the fuss that was made over them. They didn’t like the idea that it was their first time on active service and that they were only babies at fighting, and there was many a row in the camp that night over men saying fine things about the Guards, and reminding them of the fact that they never had had any battle honours before that day: Private P. Heffernan.
“Up, Guards,” and at ’Em?
Shrapnel began to burst around us, and the Guards had to prepare to engage the cavalry now creeping closer. Suddenly the cavalry remounted their horses, and came crashing down on our chaps. “Now, Guards!” was all the officer in command said, but his men knew what he meant, and they braced themselves for the tussle. They lined up in the good old British square that has proved a terror to European armies before, and the front ranks waited with the bayonet, while the men inside kept blazing away at the advancing horsemen. They came closer and closer, and the earth seemed to shake and quiver beneath their rush. “Steady!” was all the commander of the Guards said, and he said it in a dull way, as though he were giving a piece of advice to some noisy youngsters who had been making a row. The men answered not a word, but they set their teeth. Then the crash came. Steel met steel, and sparks shot out as sword crossed bayonet. The game of the Germans was to ride down our ranks, but they didn’t know that that trick won’t work with British troops, and the Guardsmen kept their ground, in spite of the weight of men and horses. The Germans came to a dead stop, and just then they got a volley from the centre of the square. They broke and scattered, and then they got another volley: A British Guardsman.
Clearing Them Out
The Germans held a position on the hills in front of us, and their infantry had trenches just below them. Their shells started to drop on us. We rushed along. We were getting mowed down, but we had to shift them, as the officer said they were there long enough. How they missed me I do not know. We got to about 100 yards of their trenches, when the general passed the word up that the brigade would fix bayonets and charge, taking the time to “go” from the bugle. It was an anxious time waiting for the moment. I said to myself, and a lot more the same, “This is my last rush, but I will fight for my life to the last.” The bugle sounded at last, and we made a dash for it. The men were falling each side of me. I was doubled up. We made a bit of a cheer, but it was more like a groan. There was only about half of us got there. When I got to their trenches I made a sort of a dive at it with my bayonet leading, and it stuck in one of them, in the chest. We killed and wounded the lot, but we found that they had a trench running backward, and a lot escaped by that way. We stopped in the trenches a while to get our wind, and we shook each other by the hand, and I said, “I will never be hit after that,” and was confident of it. And I thanked God from my heart for being alive: Pte. Grace, Northumberland Fusiliers.
Steady, Boys, Steady!
Lyddite, shrapnel, common siege, and other sorts of shells were bursting all around us. The fumes from the terrible lyddite were sickening—we were spitting up yellow stuff three days afterwards. Some of the shrapnel bullets hit our chaps pretty badly, but some were harmless. One fell red-hot across my fingers, but its force was expended. Shortly afterwards a big lump of shell plunged into the earth a few inches from my face. Then every other shell that came seemed to strike the earth a few inches above my head, knocking lumps of earth and stones all over me. I gave up all hope of ever seeing England again, and so did everyone, so I said just a wee fervent prayer, and keeping low down I managed to scribble what I really thought would be the last line to my sister in my pocketbook. Then I remembered that I still possessed half a cigarette, so I managed to strike a match and finish that just as my look-out man saw the German infantry advancing on us about 800 yards away. I can tell you we gave them a warm reception. The German artillery were busy just then trying to drop shells into our artillery, and we gave the German infantry the very best of our attention. Our men simply mowed them down with rifles and machine guns. Still the Germans came on like great waves. My men acted admirably, taking steady aim every time until the fields in front of us were covered with lines and heaps of German dead and wounded: Sergt. J. Williams, Highland Light Infantry.
Scared Gun-Horses
What impressed me most was a battery of artillery under fire. It dashed up to a point that had been marked by a stake with a number on it by the officer who was responsible for allocating the positions. Just as it stopped the Germans, who seemed to have the position to a hair’s-breadth, sent shells shrieking around the battery. The horses got frantic and began prancing and kicking out in terror. The drivers held on like grim death, but the poor animals could not be pacified, and at last they dashed off in the direction of the German lines with the guns. The drivers stuck to their posts and did all they could to restrain the mad horses. Meanwhile a party of new men with horses were brought out and dashed off in pursuit. They caught up soon, and rode alongside to get hold of the runaways. It was no use, however, and now they came within range of more German guns, and the shells were bursting overhead, making the poor animals madder than ever. There was nothing for it but to shoot the mad animals, and this was done after some difficulty. Then it was necessary to take out the dead team and put the new one in, while German shells were dropping around. Half of the men were hit, but they meant to stick to their posts, and not all the Germans in the field could have driven them away. Just as they were getting the guns away a party of German infantry came on the scene, but by that time our battalion had moved out to cover the withdrawal of the guns, and we gave the Germans as much as they could stand: A Corporal, Northamptonshire Regiment.
A Cameron Man
We retired into a wood, and it was here that I got put out of action. I was struck with a piece of shell, and I fell, thinking it was all over with me. The shell had struck my pack, and I was not injured in the least, but the strange thing was that I could not find my pack. The straps on it had been broken. I then got up, and had not gone twenty yards when I got what seemed like a terrible blow on the left thigh with a big forehammer. Looking down, I saw that my kilt was all blood, and I realized I was knocked out. I tried to get up, but my old leg would not come. I saw my chance and seized it. An ammunition pony came flying past me, and I made one desperate jump at it. I did not look for the reins: I got hold of something, and I was pulled right across an open space between the woods. My God, it was something terrible coming over that open ground. The enemy had been waiting for our advance across it all day. This was where most of our fellows fell. The bullets were dropping like hail, shells were bursting all around us, and it was worse than hell, if anything could be. A few got across, but how many I cannot say, for when I got this length I dropped. I never saw the old pony afterwards: Pte. Brooks, Cameron Highlanders.
The Cold Steel
We fixed bayonets and clambered out, and somehow got together some kind of formation and rushed towards the hedge. All we could see was a few strange uniforms a quarter of a mile away. Away we went, and one of our officers was bowled over straight away, whilst many on my right and left dropped out. We shouted out our slogan, and went at them as fast as we could. At last we arrived with a yell at the ditch where the German riflemen were concealed, and they fired at us point-blank, but not one of us went down. Then we went at them with the steel, and the Germans being six feet below us, they had no chance. When we had each “done” our man we had to jump over the ditch and on towards the German guns. We were running like hell, when all of a sudden machine guns poured into us from both sides, knocking dozens of us over in heaps. The officers gave the word to retire, and we came back at a run. When we came to the trench we had already jumped we found that we had not killed all the Germans in it, and as we passed over it again we were shot at, and my pal was nearly bayoneted. We got back, and did not do much good. We killed a few hundred Germans, it is true, but we lost one hundred and fifty men! The Germans will do anything to get away from the cold steel: A Cameron Highlander, at the Aisne.
“Is This Death?”
It was a thousand times worse than being in hell. For six days we were in the same trenches, almost at arm’s reach of the enemy. We could only steal out under cover of darkness for a drink of water. It rained all the time; but we had to make the best of it. Every day was the same as the day before—an advance at daybreak and at night; but every time we were beaten back by frightful odds. Each time we were forced back we left hundreds of our men behind, killed and wounded. Then it was the same old command, “Fall back on the trenches.” My comrades were constantly falling by my side. Day after day, and every minute during the day, German shells were falling around us like rain. We could hear them coming through the air, and we would lie low in the trenches and say, “That is another one that has missed us.” But the fatal one came without us hearing it. Thirteen of us were together, and only one lucky devil escaped. When the blow came I thought my head was taken off. I fell on my knees and put one arm up in the air, and said, “Good God, is this death?” I then put my hand on my face, and I felt the flesh, which was so badly torn. But I felt no pain. It seemed dead. I crept along the top of the trenches until I found the doctor who was with my regiment. He simply put a piece of cotton-wool over my face and laid me under a tree, as the firing was too heavy to get a proper dressing on. For five hours I lay bleeding under that tree, and the German shells were still falling about us like rain: Pte. Kneale, Liverpool Regiment.
Spoiled Their Appetite
“It’s a fine night for the Germans,” is what we say when it’s so dark that you could not see your finger before you, and it was just on such a night that I was nicked while serving my gun. Just about two in the morning there was a heavy rattle of rifle fire on the hill where our advance men were posted, and soon the whole camp was alive with noise and bustle as the men sprang to arms. We always sleep beside our guns so as to be ready for anything, and in five minutes we were at our posts waiting for information about the range. That came later, and then we began plugging away for all we were able. We caught sight of a mass of Germans swarming up a slope on the right to take cover in a wood there, and they didn’t know what we knew. We dropped a few shells into them just to liven things up a bit, and keep them from thinking too much about the Fatherland, but we had to be careful because some of our own chaps were posted in that wood. The Germans kept rushing along gaily, and there wasn’t the slightest sound from the wood, where our men were securely posted behind felled trees. Now the German searchlights began to play all around and the air was lit up with bursting shells, so we could see the Germans getting nearer and nearer to that wood. Suddenly the whole side of the wood was one big sheet of flame as our hidden men sent volley after volley ripping through the ranks of the advancing Germans. They were fairly staggered at the suddenness and fierceness of the fire, and before they had time to collect their wits a big body of our chaps were into them with the bayonet. Just when this little show was in full blast the Germans obliged with more limelight, and we saw it clearly. That spoiled the German appetite for breakfast in that part of the field, though from what we heard later there was no doubt that this was the point where they expected to break through, and they cleared off quickly: A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery.
“A Jigsaw Puzzle”
The Germans came on at a smart pace with the plan of seizing a hill on our right. At the same moment our cavalry came into view, and then the whole Guards Brigade advanced. It was really a race between the two parties who should reach the hill first; but the Germans won easily, owing to their being nearer by half a mile. As soon as their guns and infantry had taken up a position the cavalry came along in a huge mass with the intention of riding down the Irish Guards, who were nearest to them. When the shock came it seemed terrific to us in the distance, for the Irishmen didn’t recoil in the least, but flung themselves right across the path of the German horsemen. We could hear the crack of the rifles and see the German horses impaled on the bayonets of the front rank of the guardsmen, and then the whole force of infantry and cavalry were mixed up in one confused heap like so many pieces of a jigsaw puzzle: A Guardsman, from Compiègne.
“Erin Go Bragh!”
We are British soldiers, and proud of the name and proud to belong to the great British Empire, but in doing our duty for the glory and honour of the Empire we have always also in our minds to add, if we can, more lustre to the fair name of Erin. Our flag of green with the harp and shamrock and the words “Erin Go Bragh” is now faded and torn, but still loved and cherished. Talking about that dear old flag, I shall endeavour to describe how, at ——, when the fate of the day seemed to waver in the balance, when the ruthless enemy by sheer weight of numbers was pressing onward at every point of vantage, that faded flag turned a threatened defeat into decisive victory. On our left were the Munsters, on our right the Leinsters and Connaught Rangers. All were hard-pressed and were about to retire, when suddenly from the firing line one of our comrades rushed out flourishing the old green flag and shouting “Erin Go Bragh.” With the blood coursing fast through my veins, I watched with pride and admiration the marvellous effect produced these simple words. With a mighty cheer that seemed to rend the heavens, and that rose and swelled even above the din of battle, those hard-pressed sons of Erin charged down on the advancing enemy with fixed bayonets. The Germans were completely staggered by this unexpected turn of events when victory seemed just within their grasp, but they were given little time for hesitation, for, to slightly alter the words of a well-known Irish ballad: