Water from Wells where Abraham Drank.

This excellent article comes from 'the War Illustrated', 6th July, 1918 and is entitled
'Watering the Regiment' in the Middle East.


Across the open desert a small column of mules is flinging a brisk trail of dust up to the brassy sky. They are in strings of three, and a native drabie is hanging on to the lead rope of . each string. Each mule has a squat tin tank hooked on either side of his pack Caddie. Two of these pakhals, as these rope-netted tanks are called, will fill the water-bottles of a platoon.

At intervals along the column a British soldier strides along, bare-armed and bare-kneed, his shirt open over his brown chest, one sun-blackened arm through the sling of his loaded rifle. A big curved cover of green-lined khaki hangs from the back of his pith helmet, and a broad quilted band of the same material drapes his spine from neck to waist in protection from the blazing sun that swings directly overhead. He carries no pack, but his entrenching tool and water-bottle hang from his equipment, and two hundred rounds of ammunition fill his pouches. He wears a stocked haversack, too, for one must always be ready for emergencies in the desert, and slung from his bayonet scabbard flaps a grey canvas bag, shaped something like the hot-water bag of civilisation.

Trudging along the hot earth with the mules and their escort arc a number of native camp followers, bearers and syces chattering in cheery monotones, and tarrying canvas buckets, water-bottles, chargals — the grey canvas bags. These are voluntary members of the party who wouldn't walk a yard in the ordinary course of life if they could help it.

Back to Camp

A mounted sergeant completes the party. His saddle has four chargals suspended from it, and a water-bottle is slung across his shoulders. From beneath his dust-laden brows his eyes stare keenly ahead as the column smokes along. There is nothing visible in the dead flat levels from horizon to horizon to tell you whence the column has come or whither it is heading.
Presently the sergeant's horse whinnies loudly, and the mule strings begin to crowd and jostle forward. In the distance the shimmering haze falls away and discloses a long line of tents, the divisional watering-place, and the river. When its bank is reached, it needs all the strength of drabie and Atkins to keep the mules out of the water at the place where the pakhals are unloaded. But the unloading is completed, and then the mules are led down-stream to drink. In the meantime, pakhals and chargals and water-bottles are filled ready for reloading. Half an hour later the regimental watering-party fades away again into the desert spaces where twelve miles away from the watering-place the regiment is dug into the left flank of the army that is pushing the Turk back into his own country.

This from my diary:
We have just pushed the Turk out of the------position. It is about 5 p.m., and the thermometer is somewhere near 120 in the shade. We have been on the move since 3 a.m., and are now bivouacked in a nullah near the river. Through unavoidable causes connected with the surprise nature of the operation, our water-bottles were only half full when we commenced, and our pakhals were practically empty. Upon the track of our advance field hospitals are being erected to deal with the big casualties of the march.

It has been a hot-weather day; the ground too hot to lay the bare hand upon ; a rifle barrel untouchable. The sky is a lid of burning brass, and the sun a low-hung blast furnace. All the day we have been the target for hundreds of "dust devils” pirouetting from one rim of the lid to the other, silting our eyes and ears and nostrils with finely-powdered earth that stings and scorches as though it had come from a red-hot crucible.

Scarcely a shot was fired by the Turk in his evacuation, but the rigours of the blazing, waterless march have more than decimated the hardest of units. More than half my regiment have been knocked out, and the survivors just managed to reach the objective. Water must be got immediately. A water-party has just come in, dead beat, to say there is a section of Turks on the opposite bank with a Maxim, and there's no chance of getting water before nightfall. They have just managed to fill two pakhals.

We divide one of these between a party of picked men and a few drabies, rinse the mouths of half a dozen mules, and set out for another try. The nullah runs down to the river edge. Up-stream of the nullah I spotted a belt of reeds on the river bank, and observed that they could be approached most of the way by a fold in the ground.

We unhooked all the pakhals in the nullah, as near as we could get to the water without being observed. Leaving most of the watering-party behind under a sergeant, the mules and the rest of us began another trek back along the nullah to where it crossed the fold of ground. Along this the party proceeded towards the reed bed. We had almost got into the reeds before the Turk spotted our water mules, and got his machine-gun aligned on the new target. He opened fire for about fifty rounds. The result being unsatisfactory, he ceased fire, and shifted the position of his gun. We could track his course by the movement of the reeds in the belt on the opposite bank where lie was concealed.

Reducing risk as far. as possible, we made great play with the mules and our reeds and ourselves, and successfully counterfeited the movements of a watering-party. We carried on for about a quarter of an hour, and at intervals replied to his fire with bursts of "rapid" from our rifles.

We had just lost a mule when a volley of musketry broke from the nullah where we had left the real watering-party. This was the signal that our simple strategem had succeeded, and that the pakhals had been filled under cover of our demonstration. The diversion caused by this new fire attack upon the concealed machine-gun enabled the "camouflage" party to withdraw without further casualties. The mules were taken back to the pakhals.

The water was being consumed by the exhausted survivors and sick of the battalion before night fell.

Victory in the Water-Bottle

We are occupying one Turkish position while we prepare to eject the enemy from the line upon which he has retired. It is the middle of the hot weather — and the middle of the desert — and every man and beast is getting as much water as is required. I have a bath each evening. In the centre of our perimeter a big wide pit has been dug and lined with tarpaulin. Every morning and evening this is retired from three wells, which are shared by the brigade. In addition, when the wells fall dry, our water-party goes to the divisional storage tanks, and can draw enough daily from this source for the cooking and drinking needs of the whole regiment.

The divisional tanks are walls of sand-bags supporting tarpaulins, which rest on the ground. The water is carried up from the river about fourteen miles away. It comes by convoy, and is carried in ordinary A.T. carts, lined with-tarpaulin, and in pakhals stacked inside big motor-lorries.
That is how we safeguard our water requirements when we "sit down" for a while.

Here, in Mesopotamia, water is life. It is more. It is a thing for which the straightest man in the regiment would cheerfully break all the Commandments. When a soldier's body is watered he can march and fight and win. But when lie is without water the sap of life is from him. He is like the perished tree, the branch of which breaks in the hand. He is Nothing. His rifle is lumber. His big guns are Mockery. A well-filled water-bottle is a won battle. So water is the first article of war, and as we water the regiment do we sweep the Euphrates-Tigris plains and push the Turk towards Aleppo.

Sanitary Arrangements

Sanitary in the trenches is described here at Gallipoli by Joseph Lievesley Beeston in his book Five Months at Anzac - A Narrative of Personal Experiences of the Officerc ommanding the 4th Field Ambulance, Australian Imperial Force

SANITARY ARRANGEMENTS

In order to keep the health of the troops good it was necessary to be exceedingly careful in the matter of sanitation. Lieutenant-Colonel Millard was the Sanitary Officer for our Division, and Lieutenant-Colonel Stokes for the 1st Australian Division.

The garbage at first was collected in casks, placed in a barge and conveyed out into the bay; it was found, however, that a lot of it drifted back. It reminded one so much of Newcastle and Stockton. The same complaints were made by the men on the right as are put forth by Stockton residents regarding the Newcastle garbage. We, of course, occupied the position of the Newcastle Council, and were just as vehement in our denial of what was a most obvious fact. The situation was exactly the same—only that, instead of dead horses, there were dead mules. Three incinerators were started, enclosures built up with stone, and a fire lighted. This was effective, but gave rise to a very unpleasant smell along the beach. The only time I was shot was from an incinerator; a cartridge had been included in the rubbish and exploded just as I was passing. The bullet gave me a nasty knock on the shin.

It was a fairly common practice among men just arrived to put a cartridge in their fire just to hear the noise. Of course down on the beach it was not usual to hear a rifle fired at close range, and the sound would make everybody look up to "see where the —— that came from." The discovery of the culprit would bring out a chorus from the working parties: "Give him a popgun, give him a popgun!" "Popgun" was preceded by the usual Australian expletive.

The water found on the Peninsula was always subjected to careful examination, and, before the troops were allowed to use it notices were placed on each well stating whether the water was to be boiled or if only to be used for washing

A True Story of the Tanks

This comes from 'the War Illustrated', 28th October, 1916 'A True Story of the Tanks'
by Lance-Corporal Harry Rayner

Told by the Rank and File

I shall never forget the roar of laughter that went up from all the boys when we first saw the armoured-motors which have eventually come to be called "tanks." We were distinctly scornful of what they would do, and expected to see them crunched up in no time by the German artillery. The names that were attached to them in the first place would fill a book, and most of them have appeared in various papers. But there are one or two more that aren't quite common property yet. For instance, the Canadians call the machines "The Land Navy" ; while the north-country regiments refer to them as "The New Infantry." "The Caterpillars," and ,"Kelly's Eye" are others, the last coming from a game called "House," where number one is always called out in this way.

My Leave Stopped

I have been out in France for twenty-two months, and through the whole of the Somme offensive. This latter started just as it was about my turn to return to "Blighty" for a few days' leave, and I can tell you that when we first started the "big push" I strafed more than a bit at my bad luck in missing my run home. But I'm glad I didn't go then—I should have missed two glorious sights if I had: the "tanks" and the charge of the Guards.' These were worth stopping out here another year for.

I never saw the lads in the trenches so eager to go over the top as they were on that day when the "tanks" first appeared. We all wanted to see Fritz in a real fright, and I think we all got what we were wanting.

Fun in a Crater

One of the "tanks" came and stationed itself in front of my platoon, and we were told to advance astern of it, and to take advantage of all possible cover as we went. We could hardly advance for laughing at its antics. The ground was soft and slushy, and in one place the "tank" went walking down the side of an enormous crater made by three or four "Jack Johnsons" which exploded pretty well together. As it went down it was squirming all over the shop, and the wheels would slip round and round in the soft ground, throwing big chunks of it out astern on top of us lads. Then it tried to back pedal, and slithered still farther down, and at the bottom it side-slipped three yards, and nearly collared me. I had to jump quick or the wheels would have grabbed me and rubbed my nose in the mud.

But it was when it started to climb the other side that the fun started in real earnest. It was like the old tale of the snail who climbed up the side of a wall three feet and then slipped back two feet. That was exactly what was happening, and every time "Black Bertha" made a big dash and climbed partly up the crater side, only to slip back as soon as her stroke was exhausted, we nearly convulsed with laughter. We lay in that shell- hole holding our sides; we actually couldn't stand for laughing.

At last, with a supreme effort, "Bertha" reached the rim of the crater, and with a final cough dragged herself out on to comparatively level ground. Then the German machine- guns started taking aim at her, but the bullets only slithered harmlessly off her thick hide with little blue flames.


Getting Behind "Bertha"
Where "Bertha" was there the fire was hottest; she seemed to draw machine-gun bullets like a magnet. Most of the troops gave the "tanks" as wide a berth as possible, but my platoon satisfied themselves with getting behind Bertha as she trudged on, and thus we dodged all the bullets that came our way.

Every time we saw a German we would yell out, in unison, "Kelly's Eye!" and the "tank" would turn her machine-guns on and strafe him. "Bertha" accounted for a great many Germans that day. And at last we got into the village of Flers, and what we had laughed at before was child's play to what happened there. "Bertha" swung into her stride, and made down the main street, with us close under her lee out of the way, and her guns. walloping into the Germans at the rate of several hundred bullets per minute.

At last we cleared the street, and .got to the far end again, where fallen masonry blocked our way. The Germans sniped at us from the upper windows as we went on, and we thought we should have had to turn back and run the gauntlet again, on our way out of the town. But we hadn't reckoned on "Bertha."

We made for the German trenches next, and the shells started falling all round "Bertha." Evidently somebody was keeping a watch on her movements, for we found it unhealthy to stick too close to her. So we dropped back about two hundred yards, ready to take a hand in the fighting if we were wanted.

Futile Bavarian Charge

She got to the trench, where about four companies of Saxons and Bavarians were massed ready for a counterattack. They charged at her, but they couldn't stop her. She turned on all her guns and strafed them as they came. But they were evidently annoyed, for in spite of the carnage she was doing, they raced up to her, while all the time their machine-guns were firing over their heads. And the bullets glanced off and went among their own troops, while the others went down before "Bertha's" advance like ripe corn.

And then, suddenly, there came a big shell over the town, and dropped clean in front of "Bertha," hiding her from sight with smoke and dirt and stones. We thought the dear old lady had been done in, but when the rough stuff cleared away she was perched across the German trench, talking to them quite loudly and trying to get her own back for the insult they had put on her.
She wasn't moving, and the Germans thought she was a capture, and with loud yells of "Hoch!" they started to scramble all over her put-side. This was where we came in, for we lay in a friendly shell-hole, and did a good bit of sniping on our own.

And then the machine-guns inside "Bertha" stopped firing, and we thought the old lady was done for.

"Come on, lads!" I yelled. "We can't let them take her prisoner like that! Charge!"

We started out across that two hundred yards of ground, but before we had gone fifty "Bertha" started to move, and, though she was running all over the place and steering very wildly, she was certainly moving towards the other German lines.

Shaking Off the Hun

The Germans on her back went slipping and sprawling all over the show, and fell off as she went on. Then her guns spoke again, and they raced for cover like rabbits. We followed her up again, and when we reached the fifth German line we thought we should have had a scrap of our own, but the Germans had received enough. They surrendered to us, and we sent them over the top under charge of two wounded lads.

"Bertha" was still going ahead, and large batches of Germans with their hands in the air doing the "Kamerad" trick were coming down. Suddenly she stopped again, and a man got out of her. He approached a wounded British soldier on the ground, and we thought that, after all, the Germans had captured her. We thought that he was going to kill the wounded chap off.

Mistaken for Fritz

"Hi, there!" I yelled. "Come out of that! Put your hands up!"

I had him covered with my rifle, and walked up to him, making him keep his arms up all the time.

"What's up with you?" he asked. "Gone loopy, or what?”

He spoke broad Lancashire, and I stared hard at him. "Well, I'm damned!" I said. "I thought you were a Fritz, and that they had captured the old waggon there."

And there were a couple of lads in my platoon who even then wouldn't believe that he was one of our own Tommies, until at last he fished his pay-book out of his breast pocket and showed us his name, fully convincing us by comparing it with his identity disc.