It was decided to hold "Highland Sports" on Wednesday, August 30th, and a number of other units, both British and Indian, were asked to take part. A suitable piece of ground was chosen some five miles behind the firing line, and on the day a great concourse of people assembled. The Corps Commander honoured the Regiment and several Generals from other Brigades were also present, our own Brigadier being an interested spectator. The events were keenly contested and the honours were fairly evenly divided. We won the Highland Dancing with a very fine exhibition. Another Highland unit carried off the board jump with a record leap. The officers "Donkey Fight", a scrap "Five aside" between our officers and those of another Highland unit caused huge delight and amusement and before many moments blood was flowing freely. The mile race by the Indian Regiments drew a big crowd and a large number of entries and a great race was won by the Punjabis. The inter-company cross country run was a keen contest. 13 men were chosen from each company, with one officer in charge and an N. C. O. They had to run in full kit and packs also carrying rifles and a severe course of training was gone through. P. P. B. Miller Stirling commanded one company, the brothers Smythe (South Africans and both keen sportsmen) each commanded other companies. I forget who commanded the fourth company. The average time was under ten minutes over a two-mile course, and the remarkable thing showing the uniformity of training was that there was scarcely two minutes' difference in time between any company. But the event of the day was the 'tug-of-war' between the two Highland Regiments. It was the best tug-of-war that many of us had ever witnessed. The sides had been carefully picked and well trained. Officers and men cheered on their respective regiments, the crowd of onlookers swelled till the whole Brigade was looking on in feverish suspense, and so even were the sides that for nearly five minutes not an inch of ground was lost or gained. The cheering ceased and the silence became intense; one could see the veins standing out on the competitors' foreheads and perspiration pouring off their faces, each man pulling to the last ounce, then our coach shouted "come away" and as if by magic they gave a convulsive pull and gained a foot, the spell was broken, and the men of our Regiment looking on gave a wild cheer. In a second everyone was shouting for their side, but slowly, very slowly, inch by inch they were winning, they would lose a foot and then gain two, till after one of the sternest pulls in the history of the Regiment, our opponents crossed the line and we were victors. Both sides sank exhausted to the ground as their Regiments cheered them to the echo. Perhaps some daring Turkish flying man heard that brave cheer from his observation car far above and thought the mad English were practising some new game to worry his existence. That evening at a concert given by the Regiment the General made a speech and congratulated the two teams on the best tug-of war he had ever seen, congratulating them on their splendid staying powers and for the tenacity and determination they had displayed, which he remarked augured ill for the Turk in the coming months. History records how true was his prophesy. Our Brigadier was General Charles Norie whose gallantry in the field was well-known, as in some strange way gallantry ever is known, to every man who served under him. And well loved was Charles Norie. He had lost an arm fighting on the Indian frontier. There have been many depressing optimists since August 1914 who every Autumn swear the war will end next spring, and every spring know it cannot last beyond next autumn. An answer given by one of our Sergeants was consonant to the serene spirit and resolution that filled the regiment and bid defiance to the future. Glancing at the General waving his one arm in the air, he answered some faint-hearted hopeful, "I'm thinking the war will not be over till Norie claps his hands." It is in that spirit that the armies of England win their way through at whatever cost.
| THE P. M. C. | TIGRIS SALMON. |
THE PALM CREEKS.
That evening the Colonel gave a dinner party and the powers of the Mess President were taxed to the utmost limit. Nearly 40 sat down, the Mess staff rose to the occasion, and the cook turned out things we had never seen before. The next day the Commanding Officer remarked at dinner "Really, P.M.C., I don't at all know why when we have 2 or 3 Generals to dinner you can give us nice white table cloths but at other times it is only bare boards", "Well Sir," he hesitatingly replied, "they were two of Stewart's sheets." Sundays were usually fairly slack days. I sometimes thought that they could have been even slacker, it being so absolutely necessary to have one day's rest a week. Church Parade would be held in the early morning, and another service at 6 in the evening after the sun had set. These evening services were very impressive; we would form round in a half circle sitting on the grass, or what formed a substitute for grass, with the Padre in the middle. The Commanding Officer would sit at one end of the half circle either amongst his officers or at the other end amongst the men, and the Padre knowing well the limits of human endurance and the severe test that the great heat was putting us to, never preached too long a sermon. We all loved him, and as he had been with the Regiment for a dozen years he knew everyone and about everyone, and when he went sick after the great advance on Baghdad, all felt that they had temporarily lost a friend. We were miles away from any village and still further from any town, so there was no one to visit on Sundays and no social life; unlike our comrades in France we were unable to enjoy the hospitality of a friendly population or look forward to going home on leave. We were out here and we knew it meant for months or may be years. Leave in a restricted form was granted to India during the 1916 summer, but that is going from one hot country to another and, though appreciated, could not be compared to going home. We knew two or three days in advance, the day that we would go up to the trenches for our spell, and we usually went in at the commencement of the month, so had the advantage, or disadvantage as it sometimes proved, of having a full moon. The distance to march was about three miles before we reached the end of the communication trench and we never started till late in the afternoon. All that day we were busy preparing our trench kits and packing up the necessary kit which had to be as little as possible. We always marched up in kilts and marched out in kilts, but during our stay there our clothes were the irreducible minimum, shorts and shirts. I well remember my first spell in the trenches of the famous Sanniyat position. We usually held the centre of the line with an Indian Regiment on either side and one in reserve. We left camp soon after seven, the night was one of those wonderful clear still moonlight nights for which this country is justly famous. It was difficult to imagine before one came within sound of rifle fire that a grim struggle was being enacted a mile or so in front, everything was still quiet and peaceful, there were no villages to pass through on our way up, it was simply open flat country with a river on one side and a marsh on the other, a long dusty road leading from the Rest Camps to the rear of the trenches. A light was burning in Brigade Headquarters and a sentry on duty and we silently filed up the long communication trench which was deep in dust as rain had not fallen for months. We passed fatigue parties coming down for rations and the dust was most distressing. The relief of trenches is usually a long and tedious process—handing over stores, getting receipts, pointing out anything of exceptional interest and generally getting settled down for ten or fourteen days. The Regimental Headquarters were about 200 yards behind the front line and connected up by telephone and various companies and platoons took it in turn to do their round of duty in the front line. I think in the trenches you come to know men as you can get to know them in no other place, the reserve of civilization is often thrown off and you know a man for what he is, not for what he would have you think he is. I remember sitting one night on the fire step of the front line trench and having a long and interesting talk with a Sergeant about Nigeria. He was telling me all about his life out there before the war, and the part he took in the Cameroon Campaign. Back in a Rest Camp he would never have got so communicative, but when one knows that one's lives are dependant on each other a close comradeship often results between both officers and men. This gallant fellow some months later was killed as his company was advancing to attack a Turkish position after the capture of Baghdad. I always feel glad I had that talk with him.