It will always be a mystery to the troops why so many civilians were allowed to come on these “Cook’s tours” to France at the nation’s expense, and if the visitors had only thought for a moment what effect their “patronage” had on the weary soldier, who generally had to give up a few hours of his well earned rest for an extra parade, there would not perhaps have been so many photographs in the Press of “Mr. —— wearing his steel helmet and box respirator while visiting the troops in France.” The troops would not have minded so much if only the distinguished civilian had included a visit to the front line in his “tour of the trenches”!
In addition to the physical strain due to the continuous exposure to atrocious weather, Companies in turn occupying the “Spinney” trenches towards the end of the period had their nerves sorely tried by the eccentricities of enfilade fire. Shells burst against the inside of the parapet, and there were some parts of the line in this very narrow salient which appeared to be exposed to fire from the rear as well as other directions!
There were as many as thirty casualties a day—a high average for a trench tour. At one place in front of a steep quarry—subsequently evacuated during bombardments—men were constantly employed in filling and placing sandbags on the parapet as fast as they were knocked down.
The communication trenches were impassable and consequently the wounded could not be taken down until night, when a perilous journey had to be made over the open country, the stretcher bearers picking their way between shell holes filled with water. There were no roads leading up to the line, the district seemed to be unusually difficult to explore, and parties of men were continually going astray.
The wastage in personnel due to the appalling weather and shelling had so mounted up, that when eventually relief came, the Battalion marched, or rather dragged itself out only about 300 strong.
The following extract from the diary of a bomber gives a characteristic description of the close of this extraordinarily uncomfortable period of the winter campaign of 1915-16.
“We were thankful, I can tell you, to make tracks at last for the reserve line, but it was raining hard and it damped our spirits to find our new trench waterlogged. We bombers had not been in our dug-out an hour before one earth wall collapsed and buried our equipment and belongings. We were too tired to grumble, but propping up the fallen corrugated iron roof to form a side, we slept soundly beneath the ruins. In the morning, in spite of the rain and liquid mud, we set to and made a dug-out with groundsheets and one or two pieces of corrugated. Our new abode was the envy of our comrades. It had even a covered in hall where we cleaned our boots before being permitted to enter. Then we won a brazier, collared some wet coke, charcoal and wood logs and kept up a good fire. I took off my boots every time I came in from a fatigue and dried my socks and puttees. We sat round the brazier at night, and by the light of the glowing and smoking logs—for candles we had none—told stories and sang songs and were some company. But our nerves were still strung, and when whizbangs came over our way we fell down on the floor in strategic positions. The mud was still awful, and everywhere the trench and ramshackle shanties were falling in.
“It happened, however, a fine frosty night on that 13th November, when we were relieved by the 1st Cameron Highlanders—as fine a regiment of Scotch troops as you could wish to see. The Highland accent was particularly soothing. We marched as far as Mazingarbe that night.
“Next morning was the day for Divisional Relief, and as the Battalion marched out of the village, other troops were marching in. It was a fine, dry, frosty morning, and official War Office cinema operators took pictures all along the route—we with our trench mud still on us, some wearing sleeping helmets in lieu of caps buried in fallen trenches, a be-draggled and motley band, hardly able to put one foot before another—and the incoming troops marching on the other side of the road spotlessly clean and fit.
“As we neared the railhead at Noeux les Mines the Battalion found its old self and tried to sing with as much vigour as trench throats would allow:
‘As we’re marching down the Broadway side,
Doors and windows open wi—de:
We know our manners,
We spend our tanners,
We are respected wherever we may go,
We are the London Bhoys!’”
“It was fine to be in the train again, and to see cows once more browsing at peace in the fields. We all fell in love with Lillers and soon forgot our troubles.”