B00D2VJZ4G EBOK (38 page)

The day developed hot, terribly hot, with the sun blazing down on that unsheltered trench-post, in which some of us tried to snatch some sleep in various curled-up positions. Finding rest in that heat impossible – it burnt our face and eyes, it seemed, while we slept – we dug forward: lay there digging out holes with entrenching tools – holes that would go in under the parapet sufficiently big enough to get one’s head into at least. Anything for shelter. Somewhere about midday we decided to eat what we had if only to alleviate our misery for half an hour. Two pals and myself opened up a tin of bully between us. One only wanted a little, he said. ‘Awful bloody stuff anyway to eat without bread or drink’ was his opinion. Bottles were empty and bread had been eaten for ‘breakfast.’ Iron ration biscuits were turned out, and so we managed a ‘meal,’ only to feel more parched than we had done before…

At last it came to my turn to keep a look-out. This meant standing up in one place, watching through the periscope, and readiness to sound the gas alarm if necessary. I didn’t spend all my hour looking Jerry’s way, however. I had a good view of the country behind me, and I looked round in all directions at intervals. ‘Where the hell could one get some water?’ was all that seemed to matter. What about that ditch I had nearly broke my leg in last night, when we were moving about. I could see the irregular ground. The nearest point was about 15 or 20 yards away. Wonder if it was quite dry. I remembered when I had half fallen one foot had squelched in wet mud. Apparently it was a decent stream in the wet season; it shouldn’t be quite dry yet. That ditch was all I could think of till the next one took over the look-out.

‘D’ye hear, Wally. I wonder if there’s any water left in that ditch over there.’ He stirred uneasily. ‘I shouldn’t think so after this heat. Besides it would be pretty blasted dirty, anyway. What good’s that?’ ‘Come and lie down,’ said Reggie, moving sideways a little. I persisted, however, ‘Well, we could boil it. You’ve got a ‘Tommy’ cooker, Reg.’ ‘And I hope you’ll remember Reg has got some sense too,’ that worthy exclaimed slowly. ‘That ditch is filthy, man. Don’t you know what some of them used it for at night.’ ‘Oh, Gord! there goes windy Reggie again,’ broke in Bert. Reggie’s voice always seemed to move Bert. ‘We’re at the bloody War now, not in your – fancy restaurants.’ But I cut him short. Wally appeared to be interested, anyway, and we appeared to be the only two who could seriously consider any hope of water from that ditch. But how to reach it? Could we get out there over the exposed ground? These pros and cons continued, and so did our parched throats. Enough is it to say, that thirst overcame fear or caution or even orders to ‘keep down all day.’ One of us took two mess-tins, and crawled out and worked towards that ditch on belly and face almost, got there, and started back, which was slower work. How long it took we never knew, but it seemed hours before we were in possession of one can nearly full, and the other about half-full of liquid thick with green scum, just exactly what one finds in any stagnant pool or ditch in the country.

We surveyed that capture, for which life had been risked, and perhaps we made little comment beyond one who said, ‘And now what the devil will we do with that?’ To me occurred the notion that if we strained it and then boiled it it might not be so bad. We could then make some tea. Several of us had tea and sugar ready for any chance of a ‘drum up.’ I was doubted and besides we hadn’t got ‘any damn thing to strain it with!’ I produced a khaki handkerchief that had washed a bit thin by now, and was not too dirty. I had probably rinsed it out about a week ago, though, of, course, it had doubtless wiped other things than my nose since then – principally my rifle! I cannot give the debate that took place between us over this except the general opinion: it couldn’t be any worse! Would it strain through that rag? It remains with me as an outstanding experience, because I was the one to think of this particular ‘outfit,’ that somehow we did with great care and expenditure of time strain off the thickest of that green scum growth! My handkerchief was used. Then the ‘Tommy’ cooker was fitted up in one of the holes we had scooped out earlier in the day, the ‘water’ was boiled and the tea brewed. That drink of tea was shared out between four of us and I remember we continually assured each other that ‘anyway the boiling would have killed the germs!’ It was drunk, by Reggie and Bert alike, in comparative silence. And we thought of homes that afternoon (I wrote to my wife on the pages of a little notebook), and the grumbles some of us had made in old days in those homes over little things at meal-times! I remarked that the ‘tea’ we drank could do us no more harm than a ‘packet from Jerry’ would probably.

That night Wally was killed outright. The following night, going out of the line, I was severely wounded, and never went back again.

C. Goddard-Chead volunteered August 1914. Actual service did not commence until fourteen months later, because he was three times rejected – unfit. Served over three and a half years with Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, at home, in Prance and Near East (Turkey). Twice wounded, slight shell-shock, once blown up in France. Returned to Blighty, May 1918 – wounded in thigh by bomb dropped by night bomber just behind lines
.

The war treated me kindly. I was wounded, gassed, and had shell-shock, but they were all relatively slight. I received decorations which thousands earned quite as genuinely without recognition. As a combatant private and a brigade chaplain, I was in almost every part of the line on the Western Front. I came through with a great pride in men and a bitter hatred of war.

Memories besiege my mind. I can only select. I remember vividly certain bonny lads of twelve or thirteen haunting our billets behind the line, touting for buyers of their sisters’ bodies at 50 centimes. I remember also a mother offering her daughter of sixteen in a whisper as she handed out eggs and chips.

During one spell in the line a bantam battalion was on our right. They were sturdy fighters. One day a party of Prussians raided them and a huge German ran off with a bantam under his arm.

Our platoon sergeant during one period was an old Regular. He could carry drink well from long practice. Once when we were out of the line someone made a bet of 20 francs that he could not get drunk on French beer. He tried hard all one night. They carried him to his billet at closing time. He was very ill, but as sober as a judge.

There was no romance in the War for private soldiers. There were great days when there were comfortable latrines available and when the bread ration was four to a loaf. Such days were infrequent. Life was unutterably boring. I was a company runner, but most men had an almost unchangeable routine. We knew nothing about the meaning of our masterly inactivity. We received shells but saw no Germans save on occasional raids. We felt that the War would outlast us all. Most men longed for a Blighty.

When I became a chaplain I saw more actual fighting. I think of Arras. I was with the first brigade that lived in the catacombs under the town. They were very deep below the ground and were lighted by electricity. They were huge, irregular caves out of which the stone of which the cathedral was built had been hewn. They were connected by passages with each other and with the sewers under Arras. They were very silent, for men went out to work or fight and came back to sleep. We rested there before the Easter Battle of Arras, 1917.

In front of Arras I saw my first German booby traps. They had withdrawn quietly from their line, destroying most of their dug-outs as they went. Our troops thrust out patrols to discover their new line. I visited a new company headquarters. In the corner of the dug-out there was a heap of dirt out of which a beautifully carved crucifix projected. I reached down to examine it. ‘Good God! Don’t touch it!’ the company commander yelled. The bottom of it was attached to a bomb. Battalion headquarters was in a huge German dug-out which had four entrances. Three had been destroyed and the fourth partially destroyed. In the main room there was a huge fire-place with a wide chimney. In the chimney the brigade bombing officer found a large bomb and in other parts of the dug-out eight other bombs. A fire would have exploded the lot. In my unit there was a superstition that it was dangerous to carry French cartridges. I was going round with the C.O. during the later stages of the Easter show when we passed a dead soldier of our battalion. The C.O. examined his pockets and, curiously enough, found a clip of French cartridges.

We spent eight months in and out, of shell-hole positions in front of Ypres. Often we came out less than half as strong as we went in. It was an animal and often beastly life. The wonder was that there was as much morality behind the lines after such an existence. In this area I had my first experience of sportsmanship among Germans. The Menin road between Hooge Tunnel and Clapham Junction (a captured pillbox) was a raised road. Any working party setting foot on it was strafed by machine-gunners, who had it under direct observation. As a result, troops journeyed under the shelter of the right bank of the road. In one show for a number of hours I made journeys with wounded men down the road itself. Machine guns never opened on us. Round the entrance to the tunnel, however, we lost over seventy stretcher bearers by shell-fire.

One of the men we carried out was Private C. of a Cornish regiment. He was only twenty. Later I saw him at the advanced dressing station. He had one leg blown off, the other badly injured, and other wounds in the body and face. The doctor said he could not live, but he did. I was with him as they dressed his wounds. Only seldom did he groan. Each time he looked up and said, ‘S-sorry, padre.’ He had a stutter. When they had almost finished he gave a twisted smile and said, ‘P-padre, the c-c-canary that k-kicked me had g-got hob nails in its b-boots.’ I saw him later in England. I wish I could see him again.

Early in 1918 we took over from the French down south. It was a very quiet part of the line. Here the brigade was reorganized on a three-battalion basis. Each battalion was 800 strong. A Scottish unit came into my brigade and I lived with them. The officers and men were a great lot! After a time the second in command, Major F., took charge. What a man he was! He stood over 6 feet. The men worshipped him. He was in charge of the first daylight raid. On that occasion he arranged a sweepstake for the men on the number of prisoners that would be captured. Soon after joining our brigade, he had an attack of jaundice. It was a good Blighty, but he would not go down. Each night he had a ‘bivvy’ put up on the top of headquarters dug-out and there he slept. One day in the communication trenches he met a new youngster carrying a dixie and stopped him. ‘Well, my lad, are you a Boche-eater?’ The lad, quite puzzled, said ‘No’ sir.’ ‘What the devil are you then?’ ‘Please, sir, I’m mess orderly.’

We were to conduct a raid in front of Moy. ‘Mad Macduff,’ as the men lovingly called him, prepared the party. There were two belts of wire, according to information received. A Bangalore torpedo was to be inserted quietly under the first. The two men were to run back. It would blow a gap. They were to rush through and insert the second. torpedo which in turn would be exploded. Then, according to programme, the party would rush through, snatch a prisoner and return. The whole thing was rehearsed again and again behind the lines. On the night of the raid the party paraded, well camouflaged with grass-covered coats. There were to be two officers on the raid, one of whom was an Engineers officer. Actually, there were five who took some part in the raid. ‘Macduff’ went with them. The raid involved a journey of 1,000 yards along a bit of a valley to a place where the German line was a fair distance away. The night was quiet. The party went forward and lay down. ‘Macduff’ went ahead further to examine the wire. He found a gap in the rear belt. He returned. He stood upright and passed along the line telling the good news. He spoke in an ordinary conversational tone, which seemed strangely loud. A machine gun opened and the bullets seemed to be right at the party. Every head save ‘Macduff’s’ was buried. He never even ducked. Instead, in level tones he said, ‘Away and have a course, Boche. You can’t shoot for toffee. We’ll show you how to shoot.’ Shortly after, the signal was given, our barrage opened on the German line, the gap was made in the wire and through the men went. At the head of them was ‘Macduff.’ There was a German machine gun right opposite the gap, but the gunner was too stupefied to open fire. The major got him. He was first in the trench. He was the only casualty. It was soon over. The prisoner was a poor frightened youngster. As soon as the party knew ‘Macduff’ was injured they wanted to kill the prisoner. I stopped one of them with difficulty. We were soon journeying along the safer valley. The stretcher bearers rested a while. I offered to relieve one, but no one would give way. The wound was an abdominal wound and the end was obviously near. He smiled at me and said, ‘Did they get the Boche?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Good! Good!’ he whispered. He was carried into an improvised aid post in front of the line. He lived but a few minutes. He whispered once, ‘The Boche!’ and it was all over.

I shall never forget that night. I went round the posts. Men called out, ‘Padre, ‘Macduff’s’ no deid! He’s no deid!’ More than one wept. We buried him at Montescourt. The raiding party made a coffin out of biscuit-box wood and lined it with tin-foil. Contact with Major F. is one of my most poignant memories. ‘We knew each other but a brief time, but we were friends. He was kind, generous, and a true gentleman. I am proud to have known him.

The weeks passed – quiet, nerve-racking weeks. Again and again we manned battle positions. Again and again there were false alarms. Our transport lines were at Remigny. There were football matches on March 20th. In the mess that night there was once again certainty that
It
would happen at dawn. The company commander in my mess was losing his nerve. That night he was dreadful. Again and again he said he knew he would get killed next day. He drank neat whisky to steady himself. Presently we were alone. The others could not stand it any longer. ‘I can’t help it, padre, I’m a damned coward. I know I am, but I shall get killed to-morrow.’ He was not drunk, but his nerve was going. More than once during that evening he had said, ‘The men are fine, but I’m a white-livered cur.’ At last I persuaded him to go to bed. Next day early on he was hit in the leg. He carried on, rallying his men and retaking captured machine guns until he was killed.’