1915: The Death of Innocence Page 61

  At their first stop David Pole scribbled an answer to a letter he had been surprised to receive on the day that they set off. It was from the worried wife of his commanding officer, Colonel Harry Warwick.

  Collingham

  Newark-on-Trent

  September 19th, 1915.

  Dear Captain Pole

  I have only met you once but my husband has so often talked to me about you. I want to ask you if you would try to let me know about Harry if he were not well, or if anything was wrong and he could not write to me himself. There is no one else I know well enough to write and ask this, and it would be such a comfort to me to feel there is someone who would let me know at once if possible. I wish I could be less anxious, but I do find it so difficult in these times. I don’t want Harry to think I am worrying so I shall not tell him I have written. I am hoping I may hear from him again soon, but of course he cannot give me any idea where he is and I can’t get used to not knowing yet. But I must just be patient and I do realise it does not help one bit to worry and I am one of the lucky mothers with three little children to take up most of my time, so that I can’t sit down long and think. I am sure you won’t mind doing what I have asked.

  Yours sincerely

  Margaret J. Warwick

  By 23 September, after three nights’ marching, the battalion had reached Allouagne, ten miles behind the front. They were ‘resting’ until further orders. C Company’s officers were squeezed into the house of a French soldier who had been at the front for fourteen months and was home on his first leave. It had expired that morning. He embraced his wife and children and shook hands with all the officers before he left, and now his red-eyed wife was doing her best to make them comfortable. After they had breakfasted on rations supplemented by the last of their sardines, and by pears from the garden, Pole went off to scour the local shops for delicacies to replenish the officers’ mess box. He returned with some tins of asparagus, mushrooms and peas. It was decided unanimously that they should ‘test’ them for lunch and Madame was requested, for a small consideration, to use them as a filling for a few twelve-egg omelettes.

  It took Captain Pole the rest of the morning to inspect C Company’s billets. The men were housed in three large barns and Harry Fellowes, who had been dead to the world for some hours, was having some difficulty in fitting his swollen feet into his army boots. The Tommies had stew for lunch and, since hunger is a good sauce, pronounced it ‘not half bad’. They too had pears for dessert, filched from the trees that were reasonably near the roadside, but there were plenty to spare.

  Chapter 33

  So far as possible the troops who were to be in the first wave of the assault had been relieved and rested for at least three days before the battle. The day before they moved up the line was filled with last-minute preparations. Padres were issued with Burial Registration Books; ‘green envelopes’ were distributed so that soldiers who wished could put their affairs in order, for such letters containing private and personal information could be sent uncensored by battalion officers, although they might be opened at the base. Extra rations and ammunition were drawn, rifles and feet were inspected, last-minute instructions issued to NCOs. There were sing-songs that night and gambling too, for some troops had been paid and the Crown and Anchor kings set up their boards to fleece them. Mostly they succeeded, but the Tommies didn’t mind much. The games had pleasantly passed the time and moreover even the soldiers of Kitchener’s Army had quickly cottoned on to the superstition that it was bad luck to go into battle with money in your pocket.

  The guns thundered on and the Tommies lying in flimsy bivouacs or on the floors of half-ruined buildings for their last full night’s sleep were lulled to rest, or kept awake, by the vibration of the guns pulsing gently through their heads. They were lucky if they slept at all for a spectacular thunderstorm gave way to heavy rain.

  Lt. A. F. P. Christison, MC, 6 Bn., Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders, 45 Brig., 15 Div.

  Next day men handed in packs and greatcoats and with the CO. and Adjutant I attended the final briefing for the Battle of Loos. Brigadier-General Wallerstein, a small old man with white hair, gave out the orders clearly enough. The four machine-gun sections were to be brigaded under the Brigade Machine-Gun Company and given the task of protecting the left flank of the division. The Northamptons would be on our left and we were to liaise with them as they advanced. Our Colonel asked whether, if we got our objective easily, we were

  to press on or to consolidate. The Brigadier was indefinite. He said, ‘If things go well, push on. Take it as you find it.’ This was to have grave repercussions. We were then told that the 21st Division would pass through us. Events proved otherwise.

  That night, Friday 24 September, we moved up in close support of the KOSB who were to go over first, and spent the night in a support trench without sleep.

  The battle was only hours away. The men of the special gas brigades moved into the front-line trenches to begin their final task of checking the gas cylinders and attaching the long pipes that would discharge the gas towards the enemy lines. They wore striped brassards of red, white and green to distinguish them as special troops with special authority – and also to prevent them from being rounded up as stragglers and ordered over the top.

  Behind them the infantry of six divisions were filing towards the long lines of assembly trenches in a less than orderly fashion, striking across country from the few main roads – roads so congested with men and traffic that everything slowed to a crawl. If anything, the narrow communication trenches that led to the assembly positions were worse. Some battalions arriving at last in their assembly trench had been as much as nine hours on the way and the air was blue with curses. Even the men who had had less difficulty reaching the line and had been in position for some time were not particularly happy.

  Rfn. W. Worrell.

  The Battalion moved up into the line and C Company were in position in the assembly trench on the night of 24 September at 10.30 p.m. – and the rain poured down. We were dressed in battle order, which means full equipment excepting the pack. The haversack with two days’ rations was fixed on the back in place of the pack. Every man had two extra bandoliers of .303 ammunition and a tool pushed down behind the haversack. I had a spade. Every time I stood up straight it pushed my cap off and if I leaned against the side of the trench the handle stuck into my behind. By midnight the rain was pelting down and we were soaked through. Our artillery were making such a din that you couldn’t hear the whistle of the Jerry shells when they came over. It wasn’t until the explosion that you knew he was still in the war. I could feel the rain seeping through my puttees and filling my boots. In the early hours of the morning there was a tremendous roar and the ground swayed under our feet. The mine that I had worked on had been exploded. The artillery bombardment seemed to increase until the noise became painful. Just before dawn the two sergeants, Spud Murphy and Sid Hubbard, came along the top of the trench with a jar and a mug. Take a good swig, youngster,’ said Sergeant Hubbard. I did that, then gasped, coughed and spluttered. Neat rum, I found out, should not be swallowed in mouthfuls!

  There was deep gloom in the trenches where the weary men of the 7th Cameron Highlanders waited miserably for the dawn, for Colonel Sandilands had deprived them of the tot of rum that might have cheered them up. ‘If my men are going to meet their maker,’ he said, ‘they will meet Him sober!’ And he had even ordered the sergeants to up-end the jars and pour the precious rum away. They tipped it over the back of the shallow trench and the men got never a sniff of it. Their indignation helped to keep them warm.

  For the umpteenth time platoon sergeants checked the equipment each man would take into battle. One particular item was unique to the 7th Camerons and scout Sergeant Tommy Lamb was rather pleased with it. Some of the signallers would be carrying flags or discs on long poles, coloured differently for each division, which they would hold aloft as their battalion advanced to pinpoint the positions of the troops. The flags
of the 15th Division were plain yellow, but Tommy Lamb was struck by the idea of cutting a square of Cameron tartan from an old kilt and, with the colonel’s permission, having it sewn to one corner of the identifying flag. Now the battalion would go into battle bearing the Cameron colours. Colonel Sandilands was delighted.

  General Sir Douglas Haig spent a sleepless night for he was painfully conscious that everything depended on the speed and direction of the wind. Forty gas officers positioned along the front, specially trained to estimate velocity and direction, sent back reports every hour and the wind was also measured in a dozen different places behind the front. Once or twice a night reports came in from Paris collating observations made at various points in France, and weather conditions in the British Isles, monitored at 1 p.m. and again twelve hours later, were wired directly to France. This was standard procedure, for wind and weather were vital to the operations of the Royal Flying Corps and it was the responsibility of the Meteorological Officer, Captain Gold, to see them plotted on a huge chart of western Europe and to produce weather forecasts accordingly. The forecasts were rough and ready, and in the changeable climate of western Europe they could not hope to be accurate for more than the next few hours – but it was the next few hours that mattered. Never had the chart on the wall of the Met. Office been scrutinised more often and more anxiously than in the hours before the battle. As the night wore on, the favourable conditions on which Haig had decided to gamble began to look more doubtful.

  The weather forecast at this hour, 9.45 p.m., indicates that a west or south west wind may be anticipated tomorrow, 25th September. All orders issued for the attack with gas will therefore hold good. The hour of Zero will be notified later during the night.

  At three o’clock in the morning, after he had plotted the latest reports from the British Isles, Captain Gold went to see General Haig. Near the front the wet westerly wind was still steadily blowing. Usually, Gold explained, the wind began to increase after sunrise but it was impossible, in this case, to rely on it. The wind following the south-westerly was weakening and showing a tendency to turn to the south. General Haig went straight to the point. What time then, in the opinion of Captain Gold, would be the most favourable for the attack? Gold hesitated, reluctant to commit himself. ‘As soon as possible,’ he said.

  ‘As soon as possible’ was dawn, and the order was given at once. At ten to six in the morning the gas was to be turned on and forty minutes later the infantry would follow it over the top. The guns roared on, flashing through the pitch-black night. As the first streak of dawn appeared in the sky behind the German lines the rain eased off. The wind began to drop.

  Like the supply of shells, the supply of gas had not come up to expectations. German gas-masks, like those of the British, were soaked in chemicals to filter the lethal fumes and experiments with masks taken from prisoners had shown that they remained effective for only half an hour. After that they had to be re-processed and re-dipped, so it was vital to the British plan that gas clouds should envelop the Germans for at least forty minutes. But such a quantity of gas was simply not available and the plan was modified. For the first twelve minutes six gas cylinders would be discharged, then at two-minute intervals four smoke candles would be lit, then another twelve-minute burst of gas, then six minutes of smoke and, in the last two minutes before the assault, the final and largest burst of smoke would smother the front and cover the infantry as they climbed out of the trenches. It was the best that could be done and this programme would at least ensure that the Germans would still be wearing their masks long after they had lost the power to protect them.

  Lt. Α. Β. White, 186 Coy.,Royal Engineers.

  My men had previously had the programme explained to them. By 5.30 a.m. I had everything ready to start at zero and I went back a short distance to see whether the wind was favourable. Finding it blowing very lightly from the south south-west and varying considerably in direction, I decided not to carry on and warned the men to do nothing without further orders. At 5.40 a.m. a mine was blown up in front of my line. The charge appeared to have been weak as no debris was thrown up, only an immense cloud of smoke. From the direction in which the smoke drifted I was confirmed in my impression that it would not be safe to carry on.

  Lieutenant White was on the 2nd Division front near the la Bassée Canal, and almost in the same place where Tommy Robartes’ band had treated the Germans to the ‘concert’. The mine exploded on the German line just beyond the lip of the crater they called Etna, but the Germans were not there. They had retired to another line some fifty yards behind, and the mine exploded harmlessly beneath their empty trench. It did at least give a useful pointer to the direction of the wind.

  The light grew stronger. From his position on a high slag-heap General Gough’s French interpreter, Paul Maze, was able to pick out landmarks coming slowly out of the night. The slag-heaps, sharply conical or low and lumbering like hump-backed whales; the skeleton tracery of Tower Bridge rising out of Loos, the overhead wires above the pits, and suspended coal trolleys ‘silhouetted like spiders entangled in their webs’.

  Just before daybreak in front of the Lens Road Redoubt Alex Dunbar’s gun crew had pulled aside the false walls of the ruined cottage to reveal their gun and were firing point blank at the German wire entanglements to open a path for the infantry.

  Bdr. A. Dunbar.

  We ran the muzzle forward into the opening and started work. Through my telescope sight I had an excellent view of the target and I could pick out the section of wire I wanted to cut. It was easy! This was the first occasion I had used direct firing and I found it much more interesting than laying on an aiming post and never seeing the target.

  After firing about fifty rounds, I noticed that my eyes were beginning to water and before long I could hardly see at all. I put this down to the fumes of the cordite which came from the breech every time it was opened. The others didn’t seem to be affected so I thought that the extra strain of laying was responsible for my trouble. I changed places with my number 2, but after a few rounds he was crying his eyes out! Just then we became aware of a beautiful smell of lilac filling the room. This was the last thing we expected. Perhaps there was a field of lilac nearby and a changing wind had brought the smell to us. We were puzzled.

  We managed to continue firing by frequently swapping places. We hoped our infantry were keeping their heads well down when we were cutting their wire! With fuses correctly set and with such a flat trajectory there was not much risk of bullets going into our own trenches. At zero plus thirty minutes we ceased fire. We had fired about a hundred and fifty rounds and blown some useful gaps in the wire on both sides.

  In the countdown to zero hour, while the guns were doing their best to cut the enemy wire, gas clouds slid across the front like a curtain stabbed by red bursts of shrapnel. But the wind had slowed down. In places it dropped altogether and Lieutenant White on the 2nd Division’s front was not the only gas officer who was worried. It took him a long time to get through on the telephone to Brigade Headquarters and it was almost time for the gas to be released. Everything was in readiness. The men were standing by. The iron pipes, ten feet long, had been thrown over the parapet and joined up to the flexible tubes that linked them to the cylinders. At twelve minutes to six, with two minutes to go, White succeeded at last and spoke to the Brigadier-General and informed him that he could not carry on in these conditions. The General made no bones about the situation. Addressing his junior officer with extraordinary frankness he told him bluntly that he had already been in touch with 2nd Divisional Headquarters, that he was aware that all was not well and that he had passed on the information to higher authority. But he had received a direct order to carry on. Under these circumstances he had no alternative but to pass the order on to Lieutenant White. The General’s voice was flat and unemotional, but it was clear that the decision was not his. By the time White returned from the telephone in a support trench to the emplacement in the front line it was almos
t six o’clock. He ordered the gas to be turned on and the cylinders were opened.

  Lt. A. B. White.

  At first the gas drifted slowly towards the German lines (it was plainly visible owing to the rain) but at one or two bends of the trench the gas drifted into it. In these cases I had it turned off at once. At about 6.20 a.m. the wind changed and quantities of the gas came back over our own parapet, so I ordered all gas to be turned off and only smoke candles to be used.

  Punctually at 6.30 a.m. one company of the King’s advanced to the attack wearing smoke helmets. But there was a certain amount of confusion in the front trench owing to the presence of large quantities of gas. We experienced great difficulty in letting off the gas owing to faulty connections and broken copper pipes causing leaks. Nearly all my men suffered from the gas and four had to go to hospital. Three out of the five machine-guns on my front were put out of action by the gas.

  Very little could be seen of the German line owing to the fog of smoke and gas. Our infantry reached the enemy wire without a shot being fired, but they were mown down there by machine-gun fire or overcome by the gas. One or two made their way back and reported that there were seven to ten rows of wire uncut, and that nobody had reached the front German trench. A report also came in that the enemy were not holding their front line, but were firing from their second line.