TALES FROM THE TRENCHES.
The long struggle round Ypres was a series of combats in which everything depended on the courage and endurance of the rank and file and their regimental officers. Incidents abounded, and almost every man in the firing line had experiences worth relating. Before I give you some of these experiences, let me refer again to the extraordinary courage of the Germans in pressing on against our line to what, in many cases, must have been certain death. No doubt this was largely due to patriotism and to the iron discipline of the German army, but we have evidence that frequently the men were driven forward by the revolvers of their officers. "Eye-witness" gives us the following statement of a wounded German prisoner:—
"On the 28th October my section received orders to go forward to the attack, and the officers warned us that if we gave way fire would be opened upon us from behind. This threat was carried into effect when the losses which we suffered compelled us to retire. Indeed, it was by a German bullet that I was wounded. Having fallen on the ground, I remained between the lines without food or care for two days, at the end of which time I dragged myself to a ruined house. During the whole of this time the German shells, which were short, were falling about my shelter. . . . Officers told us if we fell into the hands of the French we should be sent to the Foreign Legion,[110] and certainly massacred by Moroccans."
In the diary of a German soldier we find a very severe condemnation of his officers for their bad leadership. "Before noon," runs the diary, "we were sent out in a regular storm of bullets by order of the major. These gentlemen, the officers, send their men forward in the most ridiculous way. They themselves remain far behind safely under cover. Our leadership is really scandalous. Enormous losses on our side, partly from the fire of our own people, for our leaders neither know where the enemy lies nor where our own troops are, so that we are often fired on by our own men. It is a marvel to me that we have got on as far as we have done. Our captain fell, also all our section leaders and a large number of our men.
"Moreover, no purpose was served by this advance, for we remained the rest of the day under cover, and could go neither forward nor back, nor even shoot. A trench which we had taken was not occupied by us, and the British naturally took it back at night. That was the sole result. Then when the enemy had again entrenched themselves, another attack was made, costing us many lives and fifty prisoners.
"It is simply ridiculous this leadership. If only I had known before! My opinion of German officers has changed. An adjutant shouted to us from a trench far to the rear to cut down a hedge which was in front of us. Bullets were whistling round from in front and from behind. The gentleman himself, of course, remained behind. The 4th Company has now no leaders but a couple of non-commissioned officers. When will my turn come? I hope to goodness I shall get home again!
"Still in the trenches. Shell and shrapnel burst without ceasing. In the evening a cup of rice and one-third of an apple per man. Let us hope peace will come soon. Such a war is really too awful. The English shoot like mad."
Now that I have shown you the Germans in an unfavourable light, let me tell you of an incident in which they appeared to advantage. Corporal J. Reardon of the 1st Grenadiers wrote home to his mother as follows: "The night our battalion got cut up the Germans shouted, 'Guards, fetch your wounded.' We did so, and they did not fire a shot. I think they were a crack regiment; anyhow they were jolly decent."
You have already heard something of the courage and devotion of our young artillery officers, who frequently went far in advance of the guns to direct the fire of their batteries. Here is another story[111] of similar heroism:—
"Early in the day our gunners had found it impossible to locate certain German guns which were fast rendering our trenches untenable. The country was so flat that there was no possible point of vantage from which the gunners could 'observe,' except the steeple of a church. But the Germans knew that as well as we did, so the church was being vigorously shelled, and already no less than twelve lyddite shells had been pitched into it.
"It was the duty of Lieutenant Davidson to 'observe,' so he calmly went to the church, climbed the already tottering tower, and, seated on the top, proceeded to telephone his information to the battery. In consequence, German battery after German battery was silenced; the infantry, which at one time was in danger of extermination, was saved; and the position, in spite of an attack in overwhelming force by the enemy, was successfully held. The church was reduced to a scrap-heap, but still Davidson sat tight on the remnants of his tower. For seven solid hours, expecting death every moment, he calmly scanned the country and telephoned his reports.
"At dark his task was done, and he came down to rejoin his battery. As he left the ruins a fall of timber in one of the burning houses lit up everything with a sudden glare. There was the crack of a rifle—the German trenches were only a few hundred yards away—and a bullet passed through the back of his neck and out through the mouth. But without hurrying his pace he walked to his battery, gave them his final information, and then said, 'I think I'd better go and find the field ambulance, for the beggars have drilled a hole in me that needs plugging.' And he walked half a mile to the nearest 'collecting point.'
"In the infantry of the 14th Brigade men can talk of nobody else but 'Davidson of the Gunners.' They themselves face death every hour of the day and night; they themselves do unrecorded deeds of heroism worthy of the 'V.C.'; but with one voice they declare, 'Davidson is the real thing. If he doesn't get the V.C.—well, nobody deserves it.'"
In telling you stories from the battlefield I always try to include one or more which show you the zeal, skill, and devotion of those whose duty it is not to take but to save life. Here is the story of a French doctor who tended the wounded during the bombardment of Ypres.
For four days, with the help of volunteer assistants, he cared for fifty-four German wounded, and the hospital had been frequently struck by shells, one of them intended to set it on fire. The supply of bread was failing, but the doctor and the nurses shared their portion with their patients. The doctor was urged to quit this dangerous post, but he said, "The mission of France is to elevate the Germans to our own level. So I shall remain here and continue to look after wounded Germans, showing them that a French doctor laughs at their shells, and only knows his duty." Unhappily this heroic man was killed by a shell on 13th or 14th November. The surviving wounded, in the sole charge of two nuns, were then removed to a safer place.
Soldiers' letters to their friends at home are full of accounts of the fierce fighting about Ypres. Corporal G. Stuart of the Camerons, one of the regiments which was nearly wiped out, thus describes how he was made a prisoner by the Prussian Guard, and how he escaped:—
"My regiment, or what was once a regiment, was holding a part of the trenches outside Ypres, and about half-past five in the morning the enemy's guns opened an awful fire on our trenches, and continued till about nine o'clock.
"To make matters worse, there was a very heavy mist on, and we could hardly see a yard in front. About this time the mist cleared up, and there, about 200 yards in front, were the Germans—the famous Prussian Guards—advancing on us, a solid mass of men.
How the Breton Marines held Dixmude. (See page [96].)
(From the picture by Paul Thiriat. By permission of The Sphere.)
"We immediately opened fire on them; but, rapid as it was, it was impossible to stop them. They managed to get right through on our right. Then the next thing I saw was that I was properly surrounded, with no earthly chance of escape, so I was made a prisoner. Well, what do you think the Huns did? There would be about a dozen of us, I think, made to advance in front of them, to get shot at by our own people, who had retired to take up another position. Any man who made the least sign of resenting was immediately shot, and not yet being tired of life, I went, thinking I might have a possible chance of escape.
"We advanced a few hundred yards, when they halted, and this time they made us put on their packs. Anyhow we had to advance again. This time we came under our own artillery fire, and I don't know yet how I was not blown to pieces. Really it makes my blood creep every time I think of it.
"Well, we had to lie down, and I just turned to speak to a chum, when I got one right through the neck. I rolled up in a heap, but came to myself a few minutes after, and managed to make my way to a farmhouse, where I found the Germans were dressing their wounded.
"I asked one of them to put my bandage on; but instead they made me go and look for 'Vater, vater.' I looked around for the 'vater,' but finding none, I went round to the other side of the house, and from here could see our guns just about 300 yards off. Now comes my chance. I had a good look round to see if everything was clear, so I dropped the jug I was to carry the 'vater' in, and 'hopped' it. Well, if the time was taken for that run, I bet a champion sprint winner would not have a look-in."
"I shall never forget the first night attack," writes Bombardier N. Tully of the R.F.A. "We had many guns in position—apparently more than the Kaiser's hordes bargained for. They came on out of their trenches shouting, 'Hoch! hoch! hoch!' but a few minutes afterwards they were screaming and cursing. Our shrapnel was mowing them down wholesale. . . . We gave them a bit of old England that night; the din of the guns and rifles was indescribable. We had a few spasmodic attacks the next few nights, but they gave me the impression that they were half-hearted and discouraged. I think it is the enemy who is fighting an uphill battle now. Our fellows are full of confidence in the final result.
"I am awfully glad I am British. It does one good to see how cheerful our boys are, no matter how bad the weather; but, like me, I am sure they will long for the slaughter to cease, and to return to the best bit of land under the sun."
"It is the shell fire," wrote a correspondent, "which has made the Battle of Ypres a test of endurance such as no army has experienced before. Officers and men say that it has been ten times worse than on the Aisne. It has been persistent, and it has been deadly. Day and night there has been a succession of 'Oompahs,' 'Oompees,' 'Bowlers,' and 'Pipsqueaks'—'Oompahs' being the big shells, 'Oompees' the smaller ones, 'Bowlers' the projectiles thrown by trench mortars,[112] and 'Pipsqueaks' shrapnel. Atkins has a name for them all. The soil around Ypres is not a holding soil, but shifty and difficult to trench—unlike that on the Aisne—and constantly the trenches were being blown in by shells."
A private in the Honourable Artillery Corps tells an amusing story. "The first time we manned the front trenches," he says, "we had just got in—it was, of course, pitch dark—and we were peering cautiously about to see where we were. There were a few weird noises and strange lights, and I moved towards our corporal to ask him something, when suddenly a wild, unearthly wail went up apparently at my very feet. My blood ran cold, and I grasped him by the hand. 'What was that?' I cried. 'You're standing on a cat, I think,' he replied. And, indeed, I was! What it was doing there I don't know, but it remained with us off and on all day.
"Later, when it was dark, there was a German attack on our left. We were ordered to man our trench, and then suddenly the order came along, 'Sights at zero,[113] and fire low.' We waited, quivering with excitement, when all at once I saw something feeling its way cautiously over the trench in front of me. I sprang up to bayonet whatever came. It was not only a cat, but the same old cat! Twice it had pulled my leg in twenty-four hours."