And so over the square, pitted with shell holes, out of the town again, three kilometres to the north, and under the light railway running to Guillemont and Combles, we come to Aveluy, a neat little village just behind the line. It has had its share of attention by the enemy, but is still inhabited by a section of the villagers. Down a declivity, at the bottom of which flow the waters of the Ancre—a considerable stream, limpid and pellucid, but suspect and taboo, as its head waters are in the German lines. Over the culvert and up the other side, past a roadside shrine, close to which are the ration and ammunition dumps, and, meeting more rising ground, we come to the entrance of the communication trench, which it was well to use.
The first effect of these remarkable trenches was speechless amazement. These were trenches such as we had never experienced hitherto. In the north we had been accustomed to sand-bagged breastworks; but here the trenches were deep and wound serpent-wise, in a fashion that left the stranger utterly bewildered. It was a labyrinthine system, constructed according to the suggestion of the natural contours, and not following any stereotyped plan, as at the Quinque Rue. On first acquaintance with these amazing passages it was impossible to move about with any assurance whatever. Not until a lengthy residence therein had made us familiar with the names could we walk about with a perfect sense of direction. The communication trenches crossed each other, doubled back, affected the most bizarre forms.
Our new trenches, designated “F.1” sub-sector, spread fanwise over a saddle of rising ground, disappearing on the northern extremity into Authuille Wood, which was of considerable size. The names of the trenches under their former French occupants had followed the system of perpetuating the memory of French heroes who had died for their country or otherwise rendered signal service. This system, admirable as it seems, was now being replaced by our own more practical method, and we found ourselves struggling from Post Donnet to Palatine, Fishergate, or John o’Gaunt Street. The Battalion frontage was extensive, approximating a mile in length. From its highest point, opposite Ovillers, a magnificent enfilading view disclosed the wreckage of La Boisselle, separated by a wicked little gut of very narrow width, known as Sausage Valley, from the divisional trenches further on our right, which were entrusted to our Highland comrades.
It was in these trenches that the French army had lived, relieved only at irregular intervals. In the parados men had dug holes, where, two by two, they slept like dogs in kennels, a curtain of rough sacking fixed by a rusty bayonet, serving as a protection from wind and rain and sun. Inside one eats, sleeps, sings, and sometimes dies. The shelters of the officers are a little larger, and the first-aid posts have the choice of security. Each company has its telephone and telegraph instruments. A liaison is established between all posts of command. Here men are reading, others are writing home those few words which mothers, wives and sweethearts alone cherish for their preciousness. There a stretcher-bearer is binding up a wound. By raising the head a strip of blue sky can be seen. Yes, the sky can be blue at the front, the flowers can bloom, and the birds can sing. Here and there was a piece of chalk carving in which the French “Tommies” were vastly skilled, or a welcoming banneret, such as “Pitou shakes hands with the British Tommy.”
By their very scope and efficiency these trenches required constant vigilance and attention to keep them in repair, and the Battalion now began to furnish the usual nightly working parties for this purpose. Otherwise life in Bouzincourt continued its pleasant and uneventful routine. The weather was beautiful and the inhabitants kind and hospitable to the best of their limited means. One of the families stands out as a pleasing memory. M. and Madame —— were the owners of a roomy house standing back from the village street, the front laid out as a garden, full of old-fashioned and sweet-smelling flowers, geraniums, roses, hollyhocks and pinks. Monsieur was a cultivateur and looked after the outlying fields. The son was at the front, as was the husband of the eldest of two daughters, Germaine and Suzanne. The interior of this delightful household was as homely and attractive as the exterior promised, and the family kindness itself. The Battalion staff were allotted this peer of billets, and afterwards the transport officer and the writer had the felicity to succeed and so speak with authority and conviction.
On the 7th August, at 9 p.m., the Battalion marched over the ridge by companies to take over trenches from the 8th Liverpools, and so remained without a break for three weeks—eloquent testimony to their habitableness. From the first things were comparatively quiet, and we had to contend with only spasmodic shelling. On the 10th “C” and “D” Companies, on the left, were bombarded during the morning. The bombardment was intermittent, but “D” Company had an unpleasant time from 12 noon to 12.30 and had one casualty. On the 14th some little shelling occurred, and Private Burton, of “B” Company, was killed. A new duty, and one which caused some swelling of pride, was now imposed on us. For some time the new units of “Kitchener’s Army” had been pouring into France, and very workmanlike they looked. Each night a company from the 6th Royal Berks, and later from the 8th Norfolks, arrived in our trenches for instruction and were relieved the following night by another company. A diversion of an even more pleasurable kind was to take possession of the Battalion from now onwards. We had been three months at the front, and thus qualified for the privilege of “seven days’ leave.” Parties were organised weekly and despatched on their way to England, to the good-natured envy of those left behind, who volunteered sound advice, which may, or may not, have been acted upon by the fortunate ones.
On the 16th our heavy artillery bombarded La Boisselle on the right, and the enemy replied later on our trenches. On the 17th there was shelling of our line, and Lance-Corporal Woodward, of “B” Company, was killed by a sniper, while on the 19th, after a very quiet morning, we exploded a mine at La Boisselle and put in some big shells later. The enemy retaliated with trench mortars and shrapnel and later his machine guns fired on the communication trench and the road to Aveluy, altogether rather a disturbed night. Private Robinson, of “C” Company, had his face grazed by a bullet. On the 21st the Battalion was relieved by the 8th Liverpool Irish and moved back to the support trench. The weather remained perfect, but the nights were cold. The companies held inspection of clothing and equipment and work was carried on with deepening two new communication trenches. On the 23rd five new officers joined the Battalion and were posted, Lieut. B. A. Leslie to “B,” Second-Lieut. H. H. Hodkinson to “A,” Second-Lieut. C. G. Chapman to “B,” Second-Lieut. G. J. Purnell to “C,” and Second-Lieut. E. D. M. Meyler to “D” Company.
On the 28th August the Battalion was relieved by the Loyals and 5th Lancashire Fusiliers, and at midnight marched into billets at Martinsart. The weather had changed, and the move took place in very heavy rain, over muddy roads. This would have been bearable if decent billets had been available on arrival, but, with the exception of La Gorgue, these were the dirtiest and most dilapidated billets we had encountered. The surroundings of this depressing village were a sea of mud, where the unfortunate transport animals were picketed standing fetlock deep. The Battalion was in Divisional Reserve, and there were also located here details of the 1st Indian Cavalry Division Headquarters. On the 29th the Commanding Officer reported at Headquarters, 51st Division, at Senlis (a notable feature of which place were the natural underground caverns) and also at Headquarters, Indian Cavalry Division. Working parties were furnished on the 30th and 31st for work on the roads at Bouzincourt, and in the trenches. Bombing instruction was going on apace and three officers and one hundred other ranks attended the Bombing School at Aveluy. Officers from each Company also reconnoitred routes to Authuille, a small village north-east of Martinsart. Time was spent on much-needed repairs to billets, the weather continuing bad, more heavy rain falling at this time. A few small shells were put into the village but no harm was done, but on the 4th September ten more were dropped and Private Drinkall, “C” Company, was wounded.
September, 1915
On this evening billets were handed over to the 5th Lancashire Fusiliers, and the Battalion moved off to the trenches in relief of three Companies of the 8th Liverpools in the old line, relief being completed by 9.15 p.m. The night was very quiet. At 8 p.m. on the 5th “B” Company sent out a reconnoitring patrol in front of the barbed wire, who returned safely with some useful information. Soon after midnight on the 8th an enemy patrol was captured. This patrol of one Officer and three men came in at one of the listening posts on the left of the sector. They came down the front of our wire and were watched by our listening post, consisting of Lance-Corporal H. Martin and Private J. Carrick, “D” Company, who waited until they were quite close and then challenged. The enemy patrol at once surrendered. This capture was excellently managed. The following night about a dozen small calibre shells were sent over and the enemy appeared to be trying to locate our listening post where the capture had been made. On the 12th Lance-Corporal Martin proceeded to Army Headquarters, where he was presented with the Distinguished Conduct Medal and promoted Corporal for his recent fine work. We were now negotiating the maze of trenches with more confidence, and even the communication trenches held no terrors for us. In traversing this trench at night from the line one would encounter a weird apparition approaching from the opposite end, and more by way of greeting than challenge, would call out, “Who are you?” and the reply, “O’ll tell thi who I am lad, O’m a walking dump!” was quickly confirmed when a shadow bearing a corrugated iron sheet, a roll of wire and a duck board brushed past to its destination in the front line. This gratifying intelligence genially imparted and duly assimilated, both went their ways ruminating on the queerness of things.