BY LIEUT. THE HON. W. WATSON-ARMSTRONG.
In the evening of April 22, 1915, my regiment left camp, and entrained at about 11 P.M. We were very packed in the train, and this did not improve our tempers. We had not the slightest idea where we were going, and in the early hours of the morning of April 23 we found ourselves at Cassel, a small town in the department du Nord, where we detrained, and began a long, weary march. The country-side was very hilly, and we soon began to feel how near we were to the front, as we distinctly heard the booming of the guns, and all the cross-roads were guarded by French soldiers. At last, when very tired, we found ourselves marching into a plain, and shortly afterwards arrived at the little town of Winnezeele, a few miles from the Belgian frontier. It was about 9 A.M. when we arrived there, and we were told that we were going no further that day.
Troops were billeted in the neighbouring farms, and I was kept busy interpreting for everyone. I was at last able to see to the needs of my own platoon, and got my odd sixty men comfortably settled down in a nice farm. The lady of the place, whose husband was serving at Dunkirk, was rather surly at first, owing to her having shortly before received an enforced visit from some Canadians, who had proved rather rough. She and I ended in becoming very good friends, and still further cementing the Entente cordiale. We spent a delightful day of rest amid charming scenery, in the enjoyment of a really lovely day in early summer; it was hard to realise what we were doing there at all. We would forget, only to be brought back to earth by the rumbling of the guns, none too far away, and by the sight of a German aeroplane which was being fired at, the flash of the guns being quite visible. I have nothing but pleasant memories of Winnezeele and district. The farms were very picturesque, the village clean and prosperous, and prettily situated. Its atmosphere somehow reminded me of Bamburgh. The people were all cordial. One old man told me that early in the war, when the Germans attempted their great enveloping movement, an Uhlan patrol rode into the village. In tones of great excitement, he told me how some courageous citizen, whose name he declared must be kept a profound secret, went and informed the French infantry patrol, and how the ‘fantassins’ came and rounded up the enemy. Since then no German had appeared in Winnezeele. This little incursion must have been one of the high-water marks of the Teuton invasion. We officers messed at the chief Inn, and had quite a good time, trying to turn our French to good account by conversing with a certain ‘Marie Louise,’ who ministered to our wants. It was a little picture of France at war: France at her best. There were no young civilians to be seen, no ‘starred’ men. All had gone to the war. The fields were being worked by women, girls, young children, and old folk, and all worked with a will. Even the farmer was not exempt. The husband of Madame Dubois, upon whom I and my platoon were billeted, had gone, and his wife cheerfully carried on in his place, and ran the farm. The country-side, however, seemed to be managing very well, and we found plenty of good fare in the little place. I had an attic all to myself on the farm, and spent a splendid night on a bed stuffed with straw, a Belgian boy refugee kindly turning out to make room for me. The men, as usual, slept in the hay barn.
Having spent what was to be our last comfortable day for a long time to come, we started off again the next day (April 23) at about twelve noon, and soon crossed the frontier into Belgium. We met several refugees making their way to France, and a very motley crowd they appeared to be. They indeed could feel the realities of war! We passed through several villages, filled with war-stained British troops, and the civil population appeared pleased to see us. We also noticed that, once in Belgium, the male civil population was much larger than in France. In Belgium the conscription laws by no means include all males capable of bearing arms, whereas in France there are no exemptions whatsoever. The Flemish type became more prevalent as we proceeded, all the girls wearing the fringe which seems to be characteristic of Belgium. They certainly knew how to smile. After much marching and many halts, through the Flemish plain which had begun round Winnezeele, we reached the now famous Poperinghe, a fine old Flemish town with a beautiful church. In peace times the place could be compared with some of our rather sleepy cathedral cities, but now it was full of Yankee hustle. It was packed with French and Belgian soldiers, who all gave us a hearty welcome. We were in excellent spirits as we marched through the town, and poor Lieut. Bainbridge, the Brigade Signalling Officer, as he passed me on a motor bike, said, ‘Make as much noise as you can, as these people,’ referring to the civil population, ‘need cheering up.’ Certainly to them, with the Germans so close, the entry of more troops to keep back the swarms which had already wrought such havoc in most parts of their country must always have been a very welcome sight. On the march through the country-side, where there was not so much to interest us, we played the mouth-organ to cheer one another on, and I often took a turn myself, sometimes resting in favour of ‘Bob’ Young, who was soon to meet his end in the forthcoming battle.
After leaving the town the evidence of war was everywhere seen, ambulances and wagons becoming more and more numerous, and squads of Belgian soldiers, with staves only, continually passing us on their way to rest. As dusk was falling we found our way to a wood called Flamertinghe, the only building near us being a solitary inn. We at last got some food, and bivouacked for the night. At this place we were only five or six miles from the German line, and there were some reserve trenches close by which were to be manned by us if necessary. ‘Bramble’ Booth, who had been out previously with the London Rifle Brigade, said he recognised the locality, which had been the scene of desperate Anglo-German combats. During the night, when not asleep, we were entertained by a continuous rattle of musketry, which seemed to be extremely close at hand. It did not disturb me much, however, and I was soon fast asleep.
On awaking on April 24, we found that we had some neighbours, Zouaves and other French troops, and Belgians, who were soon all very friendly with our men.
We here heard some startling news, to the effect that the French lines outside Ypres had been pierced owing to the use of poison gases. The Zouaves said that hundreds of their comrades had been ‘gassed.’ The Canadians, however, had made a furious counter-attack, and had repaired some of the damage; their losses had been very heavy, and the situation was reckoned to be serious. We made the best of our time, and spent the morning writing letters and watching a large British howitzer at work, close to us. The gunners claimed to be making some good hits.
We made a hearty lunch, and I pleased the officers by getting wine for them at the inn. We expected to be there a week, when suddenly, about four o’clock in the afternoon, an order came for the Brigade to concentrate at a place about two miles east of Ypres. We soon found ourselves on the main road. We marched up on the right-hand side, and on the extreme left of the road there was a continued stream of ambulances coming down from the front. Up the centre of the road ammunition carts were galloping at full speed towards Ypres. It was evident that a very big battle was raging in front, and the air was full of rumours brought by stragglers and slightly wounded men, painfully making their way towards safety. These men looked utterly exhausted and seemed exceedingly pleased to see us; one of them said ‘You are badly wanted,’ though at the time we never realised how desperate the situation was. On the other hand, another straggler cheerfully informed us that we had only to take one more trench and then the whole of Belgium would be in our hands. This man was the cause of raising many false hopes, soon to be violently dispelled.
At last, as it was night, we approached the ruins of Ypres, and the roar of the guns was tremendous. We marched past the famous Cloth Hall (even then badly knocked about), and began to move at the double, so as to escape being shelled. It was too late, however, and we were brought to a halt in the grand square of Ypres, opposite the cathedral. Shells were bursting all round us, and the Brigadier seemed uncertain whether he should proceed. It seems that spies were sheltered in the place, and signalled our arrival to the Germans, who gave us a very uncomfortable ten minutes. The first casualties occurred in No. 1 Platoon, a shell bursting at the head of the battalion, and wounding several men. For a moment there was almost a panic; but by great efforts we kept the men in their places, and after that they behaved splendidly. I had a close shave for a start, a shell bursting close to my platoon, and wounding Private Henderson, who was next to me, in the foot.
The cathedral was on fire, and made a glorious, but sad, spectacle. At this time it was still more or less intact, as were the majority of the deserted houses.