The greatest hardships were suffered by men who were wounded in the front line. If a man had the misfortune to be hit early in the day he could seldom be got away until after dark; often in great pain, and always under the most miserable conditions, he would have to wait for many hours before he could receive proper attention. Even when dusk came his lot was a most unenviable one. The journey to the Canal Bank often took two or three hours, and there was a good chance that he might be hit again before he arrived at the Aid Post, for machine gun fire swept the ground intermittently all night.
One important result of the new conditions was a great increase in patrolling. Now that large portions of the line were entirely deserted and posts were isolated from one another, this was very necessary, for at night the enemy could enter the trenches unseen almost as easily as the British could leave them. Most of this patrolling was purely defensive, but occasionally useful reconnaissances were made, one of which will be described in detail later. There was little opportunity for the men to show an offensive spirit. A little bombing was indulged in, but soon the general policy became one of “live and let live.” Had the enemy attempted an infantry advance the defence must have placed its main reliance on the bayonet; in that waste of mud rifles could not be kept properly clean, and few would have fired more than two or three rounds rapid.
Each company held a section of the front line, with two platoons in front and two in support. Usually these platoons inter-relieved every forty-eight hours, but towards the end of the time reliefs were sometimes carried out every twenty-four hours. The Battalion spent four days in the line and four in brigade reserve; these latter periods were sometimes passed on the Canal Bank and sometimes in the farm houses further back. While in brigade reserve every available man was kept hard at work in the forward area either on the new drainage scheme, or trying to clear some of the mud and water from the communication trenches. Only twice during the wet weather did the 147th Infantry Brigade have a spell in divisional reserve, and even then there was not much comfort. The prevailing bad weather had its effect on the back area camps and they were soon deep in mud. Much work was done to improve them. Early in November a number of wattle and mud huts were put up in place of some of the tents; some wooden huts were also in course of erection. When the Battalion came back to the same camp at the end of the month they found things more comfortable, for the work had been continued and accommodation improved. But, at the best, it was a poor form of rest for men who had just spent sixteen days in the forward area, and were looking forward to another spell of the same kind.
Everything possible was done for the men’s comfort, but, at first, the available supplies of suitable stores were quite inadequate. Until the wet weather began, no one seems to have dreamed of the conditions which would prevail during the winter. At the beginning of November thigh-boots were almost non-existent, though, later, sufficient were available to equip every man. However, the communication trenches were so bad that frequently men lost their boots on the way up to the line. It was no uncommon thing for a man to stick so fast in the mud that he had to be dragged out by his companions, often leaving his boots behind. He would then have to complete his journey in his socks; sometimes he might find a spare pair of boots when he arrived in the front line. Dry socks were always available for men in support, but they could seldom be supplied to men in the front line. Foot grease was provided and periodical foot-rubbing ordered; but how could the men obey the order? Seldom could a man in the line find a dry spot to sit down on while he removed his boots. The result was soon apparent in the enormous number of trench feet which developed; during November, 1915, no less than 146 other ranks were sent to hospital for this cause alone. Sheep-skin coats were provided and proved a great boon. There was plenty of rum—more than during any subsequent winter. Every effort was made to provide hot food and drink, but the difficulties of getting it to the companies before it was cold were almost insuperable. Any attempt to light a fire was bound to draw the attention of the hostile artillery or trench mortars, and so only “Tommy’s Cookers” could be used.
Such were the conditions under which the Battalion held the line in the November and December of 1915. For utter misery they have only been equalled once—on the Passchendaele Ridge in December, 1917—and then for a much shorter period. A man had a ghastly prospect in front of him when his turn came to form part of a front line garrison for forty-eight hours. For all that time he would be thoroughly soaked and terribly cold; his boots would be full of water, he would stand in water and mud; physical pain, mental weariness and bodily fatigue would be his constant burden. The chances were that he would not complete his tour of duty—that before his time was up he would succumb to the enemy snipers, or be on his way to hospital, a physical wreck. One example is sufficient to show what appalling casualties were suffered during this period. About the beginning of December, an officer of the Battalion took up twenty-four other ranks for a forty-eight hour tour of duty in the front line. At the end of that time he brought out with him one signaller and three other ranks. Every other man had become a casualty.
But what of the spirit of the men of the Battalion during this time? How did they bear their hardships? Many writers have paid tribute to the gallantry of British troops in battle, but few have written of the heroism of those who held the line under such conditions as the 4th Battalion did in the autumn of 1915. The soldier in battle has excitement, and a good deal of exhilaration, to help him through; but the Yorkshiremen who faced the enemy near Boesinghe in 1915 had neither of these. Theirs was heroism of a far higher order—the heroism which, with no excitement to buoy them up, can make men coolly and quietly face horror and death in their worst forms. Such men as Kipling must have been thinking of when he wrote,
“If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them ‘Hold on’.”