The month of May, 1916, opened with a pleasant picnic in Bouvigny Woods, followed by a restful spell in the trenches on Lorette Spur. Here there was an excellent view one night of the explosion of six British mines in rapid succession on Vimy Ridge, accompanied by an unparalleled display of fireworks of all descriptions. As the men watched the display from a comfortable distance at the top of Notre Dame de Lorette, not one had the least suspicion that it was very soon to be the cause of the most severe blow that fortune had so far dealt to the Civil Service Rifles.
CHAPTER VII
VIMY RIDGE, 1916
On a gloriously sunny afternoon in May, a man was dozing outside his hut in the pretty little woods at the village of Camblain L’Abbé, where the Civil Service Rifles were billeted in Brigade Reserve. The Brigade had just taken over the Berthonval sector of trenches on Vimy Ridge, and the Civil Service Rifles were to spend a week in what appeared to be the most delightful village they had visited in Northern France.
It was one of those days when it feels good to be alive. The birds sang sweetly in the trees, and the delightful natural fragrance of spring was everywhere.
The afore-mentioned man, like many of his friends, had partaken of a comfortable dinner, washed down with what was known as Royal Shandy—a mixture of stout and sweet champagne, and as he settled down to a comfortable afternoon nap he reflected that, after all, war was not too bad. Some of the more energetic of his friends had gone for a walk to the neighbouring village of Aubigny, others were busy writing letters, but he preferred to have a lazy afternoon of pleasant reflection. There would be many more opportunities for excursions to Aubigny, as the Battalion had a whole week before it in these delightful surroundings. Perhaps in the evening he would visit the local cinema, as he had not been to see “the Pictures” for some time. However, that could wait too if he did not feel energetic. How he wished the Division could stay in this sector for the rest of the war! There had not been much front line work lately—a Battalion only seemed to get one week in four in the front line, and when there it was not too bad—a few mines to make a little excitement, but then these were very regular, as they always went up at sunrise and sunset in this district, so you knew when to expect them. Yes, he thought, as he dozed off to sleep, “It’s a bon war here.” He had just fallen asleep when he was roughly shaken and told that the Battalion was to “fall in” at once.
“I think they might have left us alone on a Sunday,” he groused as he quickly got his equipment together. “Who is it this time, I wonder? The Bishop of London or Horatio Bottomley? And why have we to march to Villers au Bois to see him? If he wants to preach to us why can’t he come here? However, perhaps it’s one of these infernal training gags. Major General wants to see how long it takes to move his reserves about on a summer Sunday evening. Wonder if we shall get back before the estaminets close?”
Similar thoughts were expressed by other members of the Battalion, for the only order was “Battalion will parade at once and march to Villers au Bois. Dress, full marching order.”
Although the order came round in the middle of tea, the Battalion was on the road in an astonishingly short space of time, and after a hot and dusty march a halt was called in a field near the battered old church of Villers au Bois. Here many of the men took the opportunity to strip to the waist and rub themselves down with towels. Speculation was still rife as to what it all meant, but the general opinion was that it was a training stunt, which was regarded as the very worst taste on the part of those in authority. Rumours of “dirty work afoot,” however, began to spread through the ranks, and soon the order came to occupy what was known as the Maistre Line—a line of trenches that had been planned as a third line of defence in this sector.
Once outside the village a wonderful sight met the eye. About two or three miles away, hanging over the area of the front line trenches on Vimy Ridge, was a dense cloud of bursting shells, and to make the scene more weird, not a sound could be heard, either of guns or of the explosion of the shells, although it was a beautiful still evening. The bombardment, although confined to an area of little more than a square mile, was by far the most intense yet witnessed by the Civil Service Rifles.
The Battalion was no sooner in position in the Maistre Line—a trench about two feet deep, than orders were received to move forward by Companies.