A night fatigue was humorously described by Beatty as follows:
“To the uninitiated who have only witnessed the carrying of a plank along the King’s highway, plank-carrying may appear, at first sight, a very humdrum occupation. But when two men endeavour to negotiate the twists and turns of a tortuous trench—some alliteration, what!—bearing on their shoulders a 12 ft. plank, the possibilities are endless.
“It was a beautiful summer night: the stars were starring in the heavens as is their wont: the poppies on the parapet were gaily popping and Ebo Smith and I were lying in the trench bottom wrapped in slumber, overcoats and waterproof sheets.
“Suddenly we were rudely awakened by the raucous voice of an N.C.O. exclaiming, ‘Five men wanted for fatigue.’ We told him ‘Yes,’ and went to sleep again. But it was no use. He kept on chanting in a dismal monotone:
“‘Five men from No. 2 are wanted for fatigue,’ and we had perforce to rise and follow him. After wandering for some distance, we reached a pile of planks which we had to carry, and this is where the fun started.
“The diabolical malice of things inanimate is well known. The propensity for bread-and-butter to fall face downwards on the best Brussels carpet, and the elusive gambols of the wily collar stud are everyday occurrences; but for absolutely fiendish cunning commend me to a 12 ft. plank.
“We had not gone more than one hundred yards along the trench before my rifle got between my legs and the piling-swivel caught in my puttee. I, naturally enough, leant the plank on the parapet and bent down to unfasten my leg. This was the opportunity for which the plank, having lulled us into a false sense of security by its apparent docility, was waiting. With diabolical malice it leapt from the parapet and smote me on the back of the head. As there were no stretcher-bearers in the neighbourhood I quickly recovered, and we proceeded on our pilgrimage.
“Ere long we arrived at an exceedingly sharp turn, the projecting piece being made of sandbags. We were just thinking of sitting down to discuss the matter when one of the men in the traverse came to our aid. Poor lad! He didn’t know that plank.
“‘We’ll shove it over the top,’” quoth he! and, seizing one end, leapt lightly to the top of the pile of sandbags ere we could warn him.
“His retribution was swift. The pile of sandbags collapsed, our good Samaritan was hurled through the air, the plank swung round and hit him on the head, while the avalanche of sandbags buried Ebo Smith. I dug Ebo out. We thanked our friend, hoped we hadn’t upset him, and left him seated and thinking deeply amidst the debris of this ruined traverse.
“Whether the plank had satiated its lust for blood or whether it was again a case of the triumph of mind over matter, I know not, but it gave us no more trouble, and we returned to our slumber glowing with self-satisfaction at the thought of work well done.”
These long spells of trench life gave splendid opportunities for letter writing, and P. J. Tickle, in one of his letters, tells how the Battalion thus early had experience of the guide who got lost—a bitter experience which became all too common later on.
“After three days at Le Philosophe we wended our weary way to the beginning of the small French communication trench, where we picked up a guide from the battalion we were relieving. Did I say ‘Guide.’ By all the gods man ever swore by, but he was no guide. Before reaching the support line there is only one turning—newly cut by the British and perhaps the narrowest I have ever cursed about. This guide managed to get us a mile down it before discovering his mistake. We didn’t half laugh. It’s an hour’s hard pushing to achieve such a distance through such a trench in full marching order. Not satisfied with having lost his way, he endeavoured to make up for lost time, and finished the course an easy first with the rest of us breathless and knocked, straggling at wide intervals....”
So the summer wore on, the war being so quiet that it was not uncommon for the Battalion to remain sixteen days in the front line without relief. One tour was very much like another, and the following by Irving is an excellent description of a typical relief and march to billets.
“24th July, 1915.
“Hurrah! Hurrah!! Hurray!!! I’m clean! clean! clean! Also lice free! Oh, it is simply great!
“After a second stay of 16 days we left the firing line on the night of the 22nd in the usual downpour. These affairs are rather impressive in a way. Let us try to give you an idea.
“First of all, there’s the packing up and the cleaning of the trench and dug-out for the new-comers. Then the long wait, each man in his firing position, for the relief. Then the crushing past the full laden crowds in the narrow trench.
“Then the long winding, never ending, communication trench with its slippery floor, treacherous holes and deep muttered oaths in the caressing whisper of the drizzle and the soft darkness. Till you emerge into the quiet deserted streets of the cemetery-like town, cross the main road, enter the twisted iron gates and pass up the dark avenue of trees—a long, black line of dirty, merry warriors. Now you’re within the shadow of the ruined church, fit place for poets to weep. There it is outlined against the flying clouds, its jagged grey tower, its dead clock always pointing at ten to two—and the huge gaping black wounds in its sides. As you pass, the edifice is lit up grotesquely and ghostlike by the pale light of a distant trench flare, and you catch a fleeting glimpse of the ruined interior where now the rude winds roar over the heaps of debris and round the tottering pillars and broken altar making sport of all these sacred things long held dear by so many—the whole an eloquent and terrifying protest against the God-defying Hun!
“Then you go out into the wind-swept plain, following the line of broken telegraph poles, dodging stray wires and shell holes—the long, dark, single file—trudging, silent and sodden. Till at last you reach the warm shadows of the village with its odd lights veiled, and at the far end our farm billet with its clean straw and a dry and dreamless slumber.
“That was the night before last.
“Yesterday was a good day’s work. I cleaned up everything I had, equipment and kit, and with wild glee flung myself into washing all my underclothes, socks and handkerchiefs, and drying them, for it was a washing day to gladden Mother’s heart. And to crown all, a starko behind the yellow stack—free, unfettered and with an unlimited supply of water. One of God’s most wonderful creations. How we worshipped it body and soul. Oh, the glory of it! To be clean again is great! Great!!!! We sang and danced and ran and jumped and shouted and flung our glad laughter to the blue skies, and were thankful withal. Oh, Earth and Sky, and Wind and Trees, and Green Grass and Strength of Man, Glory!”
“W. J. Irving.”
During the whole of this time the French were making a desperate struggle in the neighbourhood of Souchez and the Lorette Heights—and occasional glimpses of this area were to be had, though it was mostly enveloped in a thick cloud of smoke from the bursting shells. The efforts of the French, however, may have diverted the attention of the Boche, for he was certainly very kind to the neighbourhood of Grenay and Maroc during this pleasant summer weather. In fact, he seems to have been more severe on the villages of Le Philosophe and Mazingarbe (where the Battalion was sometimes billeted when in reserve) than he was on the front line. At Le Philosophe on one occasion a shell hit Battalion Headquarters, wounding a number of Headquarters Company, including all the regimental police.
The event of the summer was the granting of leave to England to a small party of the Battalion. The news was first received on the 4th of July at Mazingarbe, and the C.O. (Colonel Renny), the R.S.M. (Sergeant-Major A. Toomey) and Sergeant F. S. Thurston were the first in the Regiment to enjoy the most coveted privilege of the British soldier in France. Thereafter the allotment of leave to the Battalion was at the rate of two officers and four other ranks per week, though this rate was not kept up for very long.
Colonel Renny, it should be mentioned, did not return from leave, as he was detained in hospital in England. As Commanding Officer, he was very popular with all ranks, and for his age his energy was marvellous. The Battalion was very sorry to lose its “little Indian Colonel,” as he was called. The men felt they would miss him most in the front line, where it was a very familiar sight to see him wandering round, indifferent to danger or discomfort, but determined to see things for himself. Colonel Renny was succeeded by Major H. V. Warrender, who had hitherto commanded “B” Company. Major Warrender was gazetted Lieutenant-Colonel in August, and remained in command until the end of 1916. He thus holds the distinction of having commanded the Battalion in war for a longer period than any other commanding officer.