The Spirit of the Australian Soldier

 

This interesting extract comes from "Saving the Channel Ports" by Lieutenant WD Joynt VC 8th Battalion AIF and gives an insight of how the Australians thought of themselves and how others thought of them.

The Spirit of the Australian soldier

Many have remarked on the high morale of the Australians in battle at this time when they were worked so continuously and suffered such heavy casualties and fatigue. Particularly impressive was their willingness to return to the firing line after only very short periods of rest and carry out fresh attacks with enthusiasm. This was at a time when their only reinforcements consisted of the returning sick and wounded from the hospitals in England. Their cheerfulness and eagerness when ordered to attack again with such weak forces - units down to about a quarter of their normal strength - was a source of wonder as to what inspired them. One answer to this question was the Diggers pride. He knew he was definitely doing something to win the war. He had proved his ascendency over the Hun, whom he invariably defeated. He knew the enemy was frightened of him and would run before him. He was a volunteer, not a conscript, and had enlisted of his own free will to go to the help of the Mother Country, and now he was showing the Britisher that the blood he had inherited from his ancestors still ran true. He had a tradition of loyalty to the maxim that one Britisher was as good as two foreigners and so, while still able, he would carry on building up for Australia a reputation as a fighting man.

A Real War Began

 This extract comes from "Breaking the Road for the Rest" by Lieutenant WD Joynt VC 8th Battalion AIF and talks about his experience in the trenches around Ypres in late 1916.

I was officer of the watch one day when a German minenwurfer suddenly came over - the front was a particularly quiet one, not a shot being fired by either side when this happened. Immediately, thinking of the instruction by the previous occupants of the trench system, I made my way to the trench mortar battery attached to us and ordered the officer in charge to fire three trench mortars over at the enemy, which was done. This was followed by the enemy firing back three mortars at us. "Fire back nine more!" I ordered and over they went. When the Germans retaliated by firing about twenty minenwurfers at us. This made such a noise that our artillery in the rear opened fire thinking an attack was taking place. In turn, apparently thinking the same thing the Germans opened up and in a short time guns on both sides all along the line were strafing each other and a real war began, lasting for about an hour before it gradually died down. Much damage was done to the trenches but fortunately, strange as it may seem, we suffered no casualties so I had nothing on my conscience. But wasn't I told off by my company commander! Needless to say I didn't repeat the performance. I wasn't too popular with the trench mortar battery people after that either for, though they suffered no casualties their gun emplacement was blown to be bits and had to be rebuild.

An Australian at Messines Ridge

In his book “WITH OUR SOLDIERS IN FRANCE” - Sherwood Eddy paints some brief sketches of his impression of the work of the war.

Here reflecting on the battle of Messines Ridge in 1917 he recalls an account of a simple Australian boy in the front trench:


"Fritz had a machine gun to nearly every ten yards. I don't know what became of my friends Hugh and Bill. They were just beside me, but when I looked around both were gone. A shell landed just at the side of me, and I think Hugh and Bill were blown to pieces. I got my wound in the chest and the fragment came out through my back. I thought my last day had come. I dropped into a hole, and no sooner had I got in, than Mack got it through the face. He was able to go back, but I was simply helpless, as my legs refused to move. Anyhow, I pulled the shovel off my back and dug a little ridge in the side of the trench. No sooner had I done this than Fritz started to bombard. One shell fell in the hole in which I was, but exploded in the opposite direction. Then another came and landed just above my head, but it failed to go off. Had it gone off I never would have been here now. I had prayed hard to my God to deliver me from my enemies and when those things happened I felt my prayer was heard and that I was going to come through. I was there in that hole all day and the next night before anyone came near me. At last one of the 19th Battalion chaps came along and went for a stretcher for me."

The General Inspection

This excellent chapter comes from the book "The Amateur Army" by Patrick MacGill.

For the volunteer soldier who joined up to do his bit, general inspection was one of the least agreeable trials. Patrick MacGill paints an excellent and vivid picture of the monthly chore.


THE GENERAL INSPECTION

One of our greatest trials is the general inspection, which takes place every month, and once Lord Kitchener inspected the battalion, in company with the division quartered in our town. But that was before I joined. It involves much labour in the way of preparation. On one occasion, midnight the night before, a Friday, found us still busy with our work. My cot-mate was in difficulties with his rifle--the cloth of the pull-through stuck in the barrel, and he could not move
it, although he broke a bamboo cane and bent a poker in the attempt.

"It's a case for the armoury," he remarked gloomily. "What a nuisance that ramrods are done away with! We've been at it since eight o'clock, and getting along A1. Now that beastly pull-through!"

What an evening's work! On the day following the brigadier-general was to inspect us, and we had to appear on parade spick and span, with rifles spotless, and every article of our equipment in good order. Packs were washed and hung over the rim of the table by our billet fire, web-belts were cleaned, and every speck of mud and grease removed. Our packs, when dry, were loaded with overcoat, mess-tin, housewife, razor, towel, etc., and packed tightly and squarely,
showing no crease at side or bulge at corner. Ground-sheets were neatly rolled and fastened on top of pack, no overlapping was allowed; rifles were oiled and polished from muzzle to butt-plate, and swords rubbed with emery paper until not a single speck of rust remained.

Saturday morning found us trim and tidy on the parade ground. An outsider would hardly dream that we were the men who had ploughed through the muddy countryside and sunk to the knees in the furrowed fields daily since the wet week began. Where was the clay that had
caked brown on our khaki, the rust that spoilt the lustre of our swords, and the fringes that the wire fences tore on our tunics? All gone; soap and water, a brush, needle and thread, and a scrap of emery paper had worked the miracle. We stood easy awaiting the arrival of the general; platoons sized from flanks to centres (namely, the tallest men stood at the flanks, and the khaki lines dwindled in stature towards the small men in the middle), and company officers at front and rear. The officers saw that everything was correct, that no lace-ends showed from under the puttees, that no lace-eye lay idle, and that laces were not crossed over the boots. Each man had shaved and got his hair cut, his hat set straight on his head, and the regimental badge in proper position over the idle chin-strap. Pocket-flaps and tunics were buttoned, water-bottles and haversacks hung straight, the tops of the latter in line with the bayonet rings, and entrenching tool handles were scrubbed clean--my mate and I had spent much soap on ours the night before.

One of our officers gave us instructions as to how we had to behave during the inspection, more especially when we were under the direct gaze of the general.

"Not a movement," he told us. "Every eyelash must be still. If the general asks me your name and I make a mistake and say you are Smith instead of Brown, your real name, you're not to say a word. You are Brown for the time being. If he speaks to you, you're to answer: 'Sir,' and 'Sir' only to every question. If you're asked what was your age last birthday, 'Sir' is to be the only answer. Is that clear to every man?"

It was, indeed, clear, surprisingly clear; but we wondered at the command, which was new to us. To answer in this fashion appeared strange to us; we thought (the right to think is not denied to a soldier) it a funny method of satisfying a general's curiosity.

He came, a tall, well-set man, with stern eyebrows and a heavy moustache, curled upwards after the manner of an Emperor whom we heartily dislike, attended by a slim brigade major, who wore a rather large eyeglass, and made several entries in his notebook, as he followed on the heels of the superior inspecting the battalion.

We stood, every unit of us, sphinx-like, immovable, facing our front and resigned to our position. To an onlooker it might seem as if we were frozen there--our fingers glued on to our rifles and our feet firm to the earth at an angle of forty-five degrees. I stood near the rear, and could see the still platoons in front, not a hat moved, not a boot shifted. The general broke the spell when he was passing me.

"Another button. There were forty-seven the last time," he said, and the man with the eyeglass made an entry in the notebook. Through an oversight, I had helped to lower the prestige of the battalion: a pocket flap of my tunic was unbuttoned.

Kit inspection was a business apart; the general picked out several soldiers haphazard and ordered their packs to be opened for an examination of the contents--spoons, shirts, socks, and the various necessaries which dismounted men in full marching order must carry on their persons were inspected carefully. A full pack is judged best by its contents, and nearly all packs passed muster. One man was unlucky: his mate was chosen for kit inspection, but this hapless individual came out minus a toothbrush and comb, and the friend in need took his place in the freshly-formed ranks. Here, the helper found that his own kit was inefficient, he had forgotten to put in a pair of socks. That afternoon he had to do two hours' extra drill.

Perhaps an even greater trial than Divisional Inspection was that of waiting orders when we were the victims of camp rumours. But this was as nothing to the false alarms. There is some doggerel known to the men which runs:

"We're off to the front," said the colonel,
as he placed us in the train,
"And we went at dawn from the station,
and at night came back again."

For months we had drilled and drilled, all earnest in our labours and filled with enthusiasm for our new profession, and daily we await the order to leave for foreign parts. Where are we going to when we leave England? France, Egypt, or India? Rumour had it yesterday that we
would go to Egypt; to-day my mate, the blue-eyed Jersey youth, heard from a friend, who heard it from a colour-sergeant, that we are going out to India, where we will be kept as guardians of the King's Empire for a matter of four years. Ever since I joined the Army it has been the same: reports name a new destination for my battalion daily.

Collecting the wounded at night

This letter was published in the Eastbourne Gazette early in October 1914. Captain Arthur Habgood conveys the terrifying circumstances of evacuating the wounded.

During the war he gained the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in the service of the Royal Army Medical Corps (Special Reserve).


Collecting the wounded at night

R.A.M.C . At work under shell-fire.

Dr. Arthur Habgood (son of Dr. Henry Habgood Stafford House, Upperton, Eastbourne) Captain in the R.A.M.C., Special Reserve and attached to No. 9 Field Ambulance, 3rd Division, has been on service with the British Expeditionary Force since August 18.

Writing home recently from the field of battle, Captain Habgood says: -

“My dear Father – This is a great hurry, as a Red Cross car is waiting to take it into Paris.

We are at present in billets and are very busy day and night, evacuating wounded and sick - about 1,500 in three days – so you will see we are very busy. Am quite well, but have had a pretty rough time.

A big battle is starting, and we have had a little lull in the fighting. For the past four days we have had to collect the wounded at night, in a town across a river, and have had to cross on a temporary pontoon by night, under shell fire all the time.

Have had some narrow escapes – Shrapnel shrieking by at night is very unpleasant.

This town is in ruins and dead horses etc. lying all about the roads, makes it very disagreeable.

Many thanks to you all for the letters and parcels, which I was glad to get. What we are hard up for is cigarettes. Have had none for three weeks. A pipe would also be a blessing. I am at present smoking an old cast-off one belonging to my major. Papers and magazines would be interesting, also letters. The letters coming from home are not opened. We all long for England. The officers say that South Africa was a picnic to this war. Which is day and night without intermission.

I am much thinner, but a good dinner will soon alter that. We only had two posts since I left England. There is no harm in telling you now that we sailed to Rouen. No Typhoid yet!

Good-bye for the present.

Your affectionate son,

Arthur.”



(Lt.-Col. Arthur Henry Habgood is the son of Dr. Henry Habgood.2 He married Vera Chetwynd-Stapylton, daughter of Edward Chetwynd-Stapylton and Beatrice Mary Cowie, on 27 September 1924.
He was registered as a Licentiate, Royal College of Physicians, London (L.R.C.P.). He graduated with a Diploma of Public Health (D.P.H.). He was registered as a Member, Royal College of Surgeons (M.R.C.S.). He graduated with a Master of Arts (M.A.). He graduated with a Bachelor of Medicine (M.B.). He was decorated with the award of Companion, Distinguished Service Order (D.S.O.). He gained the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in the service of the Royal Army Medical Corps (Special Reserve). He graduated with a Bachelor of Surgery (B.Ch.). He lived in 1976 at Mellstock, Skippetts Lane, Basingstoke, Hampshire, England.)

Bombing School on a French Farm

This article comes from “My Year of the War”, by Frederick Palmer.

Here he describes a ‘Bombing School’ on a French farm, and the making of a ‘Jam Tin’ bomb.

A School In Bombing

It was at a bombing school on a French farm, where chosen soldiers brought back from the trenches were being trained in the use of the anarchists' weapon, which has now become as respectable as the rifle. The war has steadily developed specialism. M.B. degrees for Master Bombers are not beyond the range of possibilities.

Present was the chief instructor, a Scottish subaltern with blue eyes, a pleasant smile, and a Cock-o'-the-North spirit. He might have been twenty years old, though he did not look it. On his breast was the purple and white ribbon of the new order of the Military Cross, which you get for doing something in this war which would have won you a Victoria Cross in one of the other wars.
Also present was the assistant instructor, a sergeant of regulars—and very much of a regular—who had three ribbons which he had won in previous campaigns. He, too, had blue eyes, bland blue eyes. These two understood each other.

"If you don't drop it, why, it's all right!" said the sergeant. "Of course, if you do———"

I did not drop it.

"And when you throw it, sir, you must look out and not hit the man behind you and knock the bomb out of your hand. That has happened before to an absent-minded fellow who was about to toss one at the Boches, and it doesn't do to be absent-minded when you throw bombs."

"They say that you sometimes pick up the German bombs and chuck them back before they explode," I suggested.

"Yes, sir, I've read things like that in some of the accounts of the reporters who write from Somewhere in France. You don't happen to know where that is, sir? All I can say is that if you are going to do it you must be quick about it. I shouldn't advise delaying decision, sir, or perhaps when you reached down to pick it up, neither your hand nor the bomb would be there. They'd have gone off together, sir."

"Have you ever been hurt in your handling of bombs?" I asked.

Surprise in the bland blue eyes. "Oh, no, sir! Bombs are well behaved if you treat them right. It's all in being thoughtful and considerate of them!" Meanwhile, he was jerking at some kind of a patent fuse set in a shell of high explosive. "This is a poor kind, sir. It's been discarded, but I thought that you might like to see it. Never did like it. Always making trouble!"

More distance between the audience and the performer. "Now I've got it, sir—get down, sir!" The audience carried out instructions to the letter, as army regulations require. It got behind the protection of one of the practice-trench traverses. He threw the discard behind another wall of earth. There was a sharp report, a burst of smoke, and some fragments of earth were tossed into the air.

In a small affair of two hundred yards of trench a week before, it was estimated that the British and the Germans together threw about five thousand bombs in this fashion. It was enough to sadden any Minister of Munitions. However, the British kept the trench.

"Do the men like to become bombers?" I asked the subaltern.

"I should say so! It puts them up in front. It gives them a chance to throw something, and they don't get much cricket in France, you see. We had a pupil here last week who broke the throwing record for distance. He was as pleased as Punch with himself. A first-class bombing detachment has a lot of pride of corps."

To bomb soon became as common a verb with the army as to bayonet. "We bombed them out" meant a section of trench taken by throwing bombs. As you know, a trench is dug and built with sandbags in zigzag traverses. In following the course of a trench it is as if you followed the sides of the squares of a checker board up and down and across on the same tier of squares. The square itself is a bank of earth, with the cut on either side and in front of it. When a bombing-party bombs its way into possession of a section of German trench, there are Germans under cover of the traverses on either side. They are waiting around the corner to shoot the first British head that shows itself.

"It is important that you and not the Boches chuck the bombs over first," explained the subaltern. "Also, that you get them into the right traverse, or they may be as troublesome to you as to the enemy."

With bombs bursting in their faces, the Germans who are not put out of action are blinded and stunned. In that moment when they are off guard, the aggressors leap around the corner.

"And then?"

"Stick 'em, sir!" said the matter-of-fact sergeant. "Yes, the cold steel is best. And do it first! As Mr. MacPherson said, it's very important to do it first."

It has been found that something short is handy for this kind of work. In such cramped quarters—a ditch six feet deep and from two to three feet broad—the rifle is an awkward length to permit of prompt and skilful use of the bayonet.

"Yes, sir, you can mix it up better with something handy—to think that British soldiers would come to fighting like assassins!" said the sergeant. "You must be spry on such occasions. It's no time for wool- gathering."

Not a smile from him or the subaltern all the time. They were the kind you would like to have along in a tight corner, whether you had to fight with knives, fists, or seventeen-inch howitzers.
The sergeant took us into the storehouse where he kept his supply of bombs.

"What if a German shell should strike your storehouse?" I asked.

"Then, sir, I expect that most of the bombs would be exploded.Bombs are very peculiar in their habits. What do you think, sir?"

It was no trouble to show stock, as clerks at the stores say. He brought forth all the different kinds of bombs that British ingenuity had invented—but no, not all invented. These would mount into the thousands. Every British inventor who knows anything about explosives has tried his hand at a new kind of bomb. One means all the kinds which the British War Office has considered worth a practice test. The spectator was allowed to handle each one as much as he pleased.

There had been occasions, that boyish Scottish subaltern told me, when the men who were examining the products of British ingenuity—well, the subaltern had sandy hair, too, which heightened the effect of his blue eyes.

There were yellow and green and blue and black and striped bombs; egg-shaped, barrel-shaped, conical, and concave bombs; bombs that were exploded by pulling a string and by pressing a button—all these to be thrown by hand, without mentioning grenades and other larger varieties to be thrown by mechanical means, which would have made a Chinese warrior of Confucius' time or a Roman legionary feel at home.

"This was the first-born," the subaltern explained, "the first thing we could lay our hands on when the close quarters' trench warfare began."

It was as out of date as grandfather's smooth-bore, the tin-pot bomb that both sides used early in the winter. A wick was attached to the high explosive, wrapped in cloth and stuck in an ordinary army jam tin.

"Quite home-made, as you see, sir," remarked the sergeant. "Used to fix them up ourselves in the trenches in odd hours—saved burying the refuse jam tins according to medical corps directions—and you threw them at the Boches. Had to use a match to light it. Very old- fashioned, sir. I wonder if that old fuse has got damp. No, it's going all right"—and he threw the jam pot, which made a good explosion. Later, when he began hammering the end of another he looked up in mild surprise at the dignified back-stepping of the spectators.

"Is that fuse out?" someone asked.

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir," he replied. "It's safer. But here is the best; we're discarding the others,"
he went on, as he picked up a bomb.

It was a pleasure to throw this crowning achievement of experiments. It fitted your hand nicely; it threw easily; it did the business; it was fool-proof against a man in love or a war-poet.

"We saw as soon as this style came out," said the sergeant, "that it was bound to be popular.

Everybody asks for it—except the Boches, sir."

The Battalion Moves Out

This excellent chapter comes from the book "The Amateur Army" by Patrick MacGill.

After many weeks of waiting his Battalion was finally given orders to go to France, here he vividly describes the process and the excitement of the moment.

READY TO GO--THE BATTALION MOVES


Rumour had been busy for days; the whole division was about to move, so every one stated, except our officers, and official information was not forthcoming.

"You are going between midnight and five o'clock to-morrow morning," announced my landlord positively. He is a coal-merchant by trade.

"How do you know?" I inquired.

"Because I can't get any coal to-morrow--line's bunged up for the troops."

"No, he'll be going on Tuesday," said his wife, whose kindliness and splendid cooking I should miss greatly.

"Is that so?" I asked, feigning an interest which I did not feel. A sore toe eclipsed all other matters for the time being.

"The ration men have served out enough for two days, and it doesn't stand to reason that they're going to waste anything," the little lady continued with sarcastic emphasis on the last two words.

Parades went on as usual; the usual rations were doled out to billets and the usual grumbling went on in the ranks. We were weary of false alarms, waiting orders, and eternal parades. Some of us had been training for fully six months, others had joined the Army when war broke out, and we were still secure in England. "Why have we joined?" the men asked. "Is it to line the streets when the troops come home? We are a balmy regiment."

One evening, Thursday to be exact, the battalion orders were interesting. One item ran as follows: "All fees due to billets will be paid up to Friday night. If any other billet expenses are incurred by battalion the same will be paid on application to the War Office."

Friday evening found more explicit expression of our future movements in orders. The following items appeared: "Mess tin covers will be issued to-morrow. No white handkerchiefs are to be taken by the battalion overseas. All deficiencies in kit must be reported to-morrow morning. Bayonets will be sharpened. Any soldiers who have not yet received a copy of the New Testament can have same on application at the Town Hall 6 p.m. on Saturday.

"Where are we going?" we asked one another. Some answered saying that we were to help in the sack of Constantinople, others suggested Egypt, but all felt that we were going off to France at no very distant date. Was not this feeling plausible when we took into account a boot parade of the day before and how we were ordered to wear two pairs of socks when trying on the boots? Two pairs of socks suggested the trenches and cold, certainly not the sun-dried gutters of Constantinople, or the burning sands of Egypt.

Saturday saw an excited battalion mustered in front of the quartermaster's stores drawing out boots, mess-tin covers, blankets, ground-sheets, entrenching tools, identity discs, new belts,
water-bottles, pack-straps, trousers, tunics and the hundred and one other things required by the soldier on active service. In addition to the usual requisites, every unit received a cholera belt (they are more particular over this article of attire than over any other), two pairs of pants, a singlet and a cake of soap. The latter looked tallowy and nobody took it further than the billet; the pants were woollen, very warm and made in Canada. This reminds me of an amusing episode which took place last general inspection. While standing easy, before the brigadier-general made his appearance, the men compared razors and found that eighty per cent. of them had been made in Germany. But these were bought by the soldiers before war started. At least all affirmed that this was so.

Saturday was a long parade; some soldiers were drawing necessaries at midnight, and no ten-o'-clock-to-billets order was enforced that night. I drew my boots at eleven o'clock, and then the streets were crowded with our men, and merry and sad with sightseers and friends. Wives and sweethearts had come to take a last farewell of husbands and lovers, and were making the most of the last lingering moments in good wishes and tears.

Sunday.--No church parade; and all men stood under arms in the streets. The officers had taken off all the trumpery of war, the swords which they never learned to use, the sparkling hat-badges and the dainty wrist-watches. They now appeared in web equipment, similar to that worn by the men, and carried rifles. Dressed thus an officer will not make a special target for the sniper and is not conspicuous by his uniform.

Our captain made the announcement in a quiet voice, the announcement which had been waited for so long. "To-morrow we proceed overseas," he said. "On behalf of the colonel I've to thank you all for the way in which you have done your work up to the present, and I am certain
that when we get out yonder," he raised his arm and his gesture might indicate any point of the compass, "you'll all do your work with the spirit and determination which you have shown up till now."

This was the announcement. The men received it gleefully and a hubbub of conversation broke out in the ranks. "We're going at last"; "I thought when I joined that I'd be off next morning"; "What price a free journey to Berlin!"; "It'll be some great sport!" Such were the remarks that were bandied to and fro. But some were silent, feeling, no doubt, that the serious work ahead was not the subject for idle chatter.

A little leaflet entitled "Rules for the Preservation of Health on Field Service," was given to each man, and I am at liberty to give a few quotations.

"Remember that disease attacks you from outside; it is your duty to keep it outside."

"Don't drink unboiled water if you can get boiled water."

"Never start on a march with an empty stomach."

"Remember that a dirty foot is an unsound foot. See that feet are washed if no other part of the body is. Socks should be taken off at the end of the march, be flattened out and well shaken. Put on a clean pair if possible, if not, put the left sock on the right foot, and vice versa."

"Remember, on arrival in camp, _food before fatigues_."

"Always rig up some kind of shelter at night for the head, if for no other part of the body."

At twelve noon on Monday the whistles blew at the bottom of the street and we all turned out in full marching order with packs, haversacks, rifles and swords. I heard the transport wagons clattering on the pavement, the merry laughter of the drivers, the noise of men falling into place and above all the voice of the sergeant-major issuing orders.

Yet this, like other days, was a "wash-out." All day we waited for orders to move, twice we paraded in full marching kit, eager for the command to entrain; but it was not forthcoming. Another day had to be spent in billets under strict instructions not to move from our quarters. The orders were posted up as usual at all street corners, a plan which is adopted for the convenience of units billeted a great distance from headquarters, and the typewritten orders had an air of momentous finality:

The battalion moves to-morrow.

Parade will be at 4.30 a.m.

Entraining and detraining and embarking must be done in absolute silence.

I rose from bed at three and set about to prepare breakfast, while my cot-mate busied himself with our equipment, putting everything into shape, buckling belts and flaps, burnishing bayonets and oiling the bolts of the rifles. Twenty-four hours' rations were stored away in our haversacks all ready, the good landlady had been at work stewing and frying meat and cooking dainty scones up to twelve o'clock the night before.

When breakfast, a good hearty meal of tea, buttered toast, fried bacon and tomatoes, was over, we went out to our places. The morning was chilly, a cold wind splashed with hail swept along the streets and whirled round the corners, causing the tails of our great coats to beat sharply against our legs. It was still very dark, only a few street-lamps were lighted and these glimmered doubtfully as if ashamed of being noticed. Men in full marching order stamped out from every billet, took their way to the main street, where the transport wagons, wheels against kerbstones, horses in shafts, and drivers at reins, stood in mathematical order, and from there on to the parade ground where sergeants, with book in one hand and electric torch in the other, were preparing to call the roll.

Ammunition was served out, one hundred and twenty rounds to each man, and this was placed in the cartridge pouches, rifles were inspected and identity discs examined by torch-light. This finished, we were allowed to stand easy and use ground-sheets for a shelter from the biting hail. Our blankets were already gone. The transport wagons had disappeared and with them our field-bags. I suppose they will await us in ---- but I anticipate, and at present all we know is that our regiment is bound for some destination unknown where, when we arrive, we shall have to wear two pairs of socks at our work.

We stood by till eight o'clock. The day had cleared and the sun was shining brightly when we marched off to the station, through streets lined with people, thoughtful men who seemed to be very sad, women who wept and children who chattered and sang "Tipperary."

Three trains stood in the sidings by the station. Places were allotted to the men, eight occupied each compartment, non-commissioned officers occupied a special carriage, the officers travelled first-class.

Soon we were hurrying through England to a place unknown. Most of my comrades were merry and a little sentimental; they sang music-hall songs that told of home. There were seven with me in my compartment, the Jersey youth, whom I saw kissing a weeping sweetheart in the cold
hours of the early day; Mervin, my cot-mate, who always cleaned the rifles while I cooked breakfast in the morning; Bill, the Cockney youth who never is so happy as when getting the best of an argument in the coffee-shop of which I have already spoken, and the Oxford man. The other three were almost complete strangers to me, they have just been drafted into our regiment; one was very fat and reminded me of a Dickens character in _Pickwick Papers_; another who soon fell asleep, his head warm in a Balaclava helmet, was a tall, strapping youth with large muscular hands, which betoken manual labour, and the last was a slightly-built boy with a budding moustache which seemed to have been waxed at one end. We noticed this, and the fat soldier said that the wax had melted from the few lonely hairs on the other side of the lip.

Stations whirled by, Mervin leant out of the window to read their names, but was never successful. Cigarettes were smoked, the carriage was full of tobacco fumes and the floor littered with "fag-ends." Rifles were lying on the racks, four in each side, and caps, papers and equipment piled on top of them. The Jersey youth made a remark:

"Where are we going to?" he asked. "France I suppose, isn't it?"

"Maybe Egypt," someone answered.

"With two pairs of socks to one boot!" Mervin muttered in sarcastic tones; and almost immediately fell asleep. He had been a great traveller and knows many countries. His age is about forty, but he owns to twenty-seven, and in his youth he was educated for the church.
"But the job was not one for me," he says, "and I threw it up." He looks forward to the life of a soldier in the field.

Our train journey neared the end. Bill was at the window and said that we were in sight of our destination. All were up and fumbling with their equipment; and one, the University man, hoped that the night would be a good one for sailing to France.

If we are bound for France we shall be there to-morrow.

A Cake Shower

This interesting article from the British Nursing Journal on February 19th, 1916 advertising the unique idea of having a ‘cake shower’ for the nurses in France.

A CAKE SHOWER.

Cakes are terribly expensive in France just now, so we propose to have a “Cake Shower ” on Wednesday, February 23rd, when we shall be at 431, Oxford Street, to receive the gifts from 2 to 4 p.m., so that they may be sent, to head-quarters in Paris for the ‘ Sisters’ Teas ” now prepared in the office, and to which Sisters passing through Paris and the friends of the Corps are always welcome. Also if we get a good supply they will be sent to Sisters on duty further a field.

A ‘shower ’ is an American custom, and enables anyone generously disposed to ‘shower ” a given article, say, cake, soap, cigarettes, etc., upon the organisation requiring them.

THE BRITISH JOURNAL OF NURSING will give a prize of 5s. for the most delicious looking cake. We shall hope for a goodly supply.

Jam-tins on the wire.

I’ve never read of this before until I came across in R. Hugh Knyvett excellent book: "Over There with the Australians.”

There must have been plenty of used jam-tins and the noise of the tins on the wire would have been very unusal.

“There was another use made of empty jam-tins: they were tied to our barbed wire so that if any Turk tried to get through he would make a noise like the cowbells at milking-time. Talking about barbed wire, Johnny Turk played a huge joke on us on one occasion. As the staking down of wire was too risky, we prepared some "knife-rests" (hedges of wire shaped like a knife rest) and rolled them over our parapet, but opened our eyes in amazement to find in the morning that they had only stopped a few feet from the Turkish trenches. The Turks had sneaked out and tied ropes to them and hauled them over to protect themselves. Thereafter we took care to let Abdul do his own wiring.”

A Danger to Cyclists

The age old problem of roads catering for cyclists was evident at the being of the war. This letter published in the Eastbourne Gazette, is from a concerned cyclist highlighting the dangers of the edge of the road.


A DANGER TO CYCLISTS

Sir

May I through you columns direct the attentions of the Highway Committee to a very serious danger to cyclists, which I am sure they will gladly remove. The danger arises from leaving a ridge, sometimes nearly two inches in height, between the gutter and the roadway.

An example, of which there are plenty, may be found in the gutter facing the London City and Midland Bank, in Terminus Road. Owing to the congestion of traffic, especially motor cars, the easy-going cyclist is driven to take the extreme edge of the road and sometimes even the gutter.

The gutter is generally slippery enough in itself, but when there is a ridge, as is too often the case, the cyclist in attempting to regain the road is in serious danger of sideslip and of being thrown under the wheels of the quick moving car.

The edge of the gutter ought to be levelled off so as to allow the cyclist to regain the road without difficulty of danger. I notice that in some places an indifferent attempt at such bevelling has been made, but in many other places no bevelling at all has been done. In case a cyclist were injured though such carelessness who would be responsible?

Pathfinder
Motcombe Lane
Eastbourne

The Cootie

This article about the perils and torture of the common louse comes from the book ‘A Yankee in the Trenches’ by R. Derby Holmes

The Cootie was the name given to the too common, ‘body louse’. As Holmes put it ‘Everybody has 'em.’

“Back in billets the very first thing that comes off is the big clean-up. Uniforms are brushed up, and equipment put in order. Then comes the bath, the most thorough possible under the conditions. After that comes the "cootie carnival", better known as the "shirt hunt." The cootie is the soldier's worst enemy. He's worse than the Hun. You can't get rid of him wherever you are, in the trenches or in billets, and he sticks closer than a brother. The cootie is a good deal of an acrobat. His policy of attack is to hang on to the shirt and to nibble at the occupant. Pull off the shirt and he comes with it. Hence the shirt hunt. Tommy gets out in the open somewhere so as not to shed his little companions indoors—there's always enough there anyhow—and he peels.

Then he systematically runs down each seam—the cootie's favorite hiding place—catches the game, and ends his career by cracking him between the thumb nails.

For some obscure psychological reason, Tommy seems to like company on one of these hunts. Perhaps it is because misery loves company, or it may be that he likes to compare notes on the catch. Anyhow, it is a common thing to see from a dozen to twenty soldiers with their shirts off, hunting cooties.

"Hi sye, 'Arry," you'll hear some one sing out. "Look 'ere. Strike me bloomin' well pink but this one 'ere's got a black stripe along 'is back."

Or, "If this don't look like the one I showed ye 'fore we went into the blinkin' line. 'Ow'd 'e git loose?"

And then, as likely as not, a little farther away, behind the officers' quarters, you'll hear one say:
"I say, old chap, it's deucedly peculiar I should have so many of the beastly things after putting on the Harrisons mothaw sent in the lawst parcel."

The cootie isn't at all fastidious. He will bite the British aristocrat as soon as anybody else. He finds his way into all branches of the service, and I have even seen a dignified colonel wiggle his shoulders anxiously.

Some of the cootie stories have become classical, like this one which was told from the North Sea to the Swiss border. It might have happened at that.

A soldier was going over the top when one of his cootie friends bit him on the calf. The soldier reached down and captured the biter. Just as he stooped, a shell whizzed over where his head would have been if he had not gone after the cootie. Holding the captive between thumb and finger, he said:

"Old feller, I cawn't give yer the Victoria Cross—but I can put yer back."

And he did.

The worst thing about the cootie is that there is no remedy for him. The shirt hunt is the only effective way for the soldier to get rid of his bosom friends. The various dopes and patent preparations guaranteed as "good for cooties" are just that. They give 'em an appetite. “

Runaway Balloons

This interesting but sad article was published in ‘The Times’ on 22nd September 1917.

Runaway anti-aircraft balloons are not usually associated with the Great War, but they were an everyday presence in the London skyline during the later part of the war.

Two Airmen Killed

Four Balloons Break Loose Over London

The breaking away of a balloon from its moorings in the outskirts of London yesterday led to two deaths. The wind was strong and gusty, and the runaway balloon turned over and threw out the occupant of the observation car, a Royal Flying Corps officer. He was killed, the body being picked up shortly afterwards.

The cables of this balloon appear to have become entangled with those of other captive balloons, which were up at the time and tore three of them away. Apparently only one of these balloons carried an observer.

Loosely connected by their entangled cables, the four balloons travelled away in the breeze, and it was noticed that the observer had failed to get clear by using his parachute and was hanging amidst the wires. About 1 o’clock the four balloons passed over South Norwood and the observer fell from a height of 2,000 feet into a field on South Norwood Hill. He was killed instantly. The body was removed to the mortuary at Croydon. The runaway balloons now carried no other human freight and were shot down by anti-aircraft guns.

Barbed Wire - Working Party

This excellent account of the perilous work of a night time barbed wire working party comes from the book 'Between the Lines' by Boyd Cable.

“And after the trench was more or less repaired came the last and the most desperate business of all—the 'wiring' out there in the open under the eye of the soaring lights. In ones and twos during the intervals of darkness the men tumbled over the parapet, dragging stakes and coils of wire behind them. They managed to drive short stakes and run trip-wires between them without the enemy suspecting them. When a light flamed, every man dropped flat in the mud and lay still as the dead beside them till the light died. In the brief intervals of darkness they drove the stakes with muffled hammers, and ran the lengths of barbed wire between them. Heart in mouth they worked, one eye on the dimly seen hammer and stake-head, the other on the German trench, watching for the first upward trailing sparks of the flare. Plenty of men were hit of course, because, light or dark, the bullets were kept flying, but there was no pause in the work, not even to help the wounded in. If they were able to crawl they crawled, dropping flat and still while the lights burned, hitching themselves painfully towards the parapet under cover of the darkness. If they could not crawl they lay still, dragging themselves perhaps behind the cover of a dead body or lying quiet in the open till the time would come when helpers would seek them. Their turn came when the low wires were complete. The wounded were brought in cautiously to the trench then, and hoisted over the parapet; the working party was carefully detailed and each man's duty marked out before they crawled again into the open with long stakes and strands of barbed wire. The party lay there minute after minute, through periods of light and darkness, until the officer in charge thought a favourable chance had come and gave the arranged signal. Every man leaped to his feet, the stakes were planted, and quick blow after blow drove them home. Another light soared up and flared out, and every man dropped and held his breath, waiting for the crash of fire that would tell they were discovered. But the flare died out without a sign, and the working party hurriedly renewed their task. This time the darkness held for an unusual length of time, and the stakes were planted, the wires fastened, and cross-pieces of wood with interlacings of barbed wire all ready were rolled out and pegged down without another light showing. The word passed down and the men scrambled back into safety.”

Queen Mary and German Goods

This nice little story was inserted into the Eastbourne Gazette on 18th November 1914.

It captures the early mood of the nation just a few months after the war had begun.


THE QUEEN AND GERMAN GOODS

An interesting story of the Queen illustrating once more her common sense and breath of view, is told by the London correspondent of the “Sheffield Telegraph.”

Her Majesty was examining some goods from a West End shop the other day and asked the girl who was showing them whether she had any of a certain kind. The girl replied that she was afraid there was nothing English of the sort to be had as all the goods had been bought from Germany.

“That,” said Queen Mary, “is not the point. The goods are in English shops. They were bought before the war. People ought to support the shopkeepers, and take the stock off their hands. When they have been sold, we shall buy nothing but English goods.”

“The Evening News.”

Alleged Cruelty to Lobsters

This interesting article was published in The Times on 1st August 1914, just before the outbreak of war.

Alleged Cruelty to Lobsters

At Marylbone, yesterday, Eugene Baratgin, the proprietor of an Oyster bar at Praed Street, Paddington, was summoned for causing unnecessary suffering to two lobsters.

It was alleged that he had kept two live lobsters in the window with their claws tied together and then bent back towards the tail and secured the tail to the body.

The defence was that the lobsters were not bound as described and that even if they were bound in the way alleged, had they suffered any pain they would at one have shed their claws.

Mr. Biron dismissed the summons on the payment of £1 1s costs.

Description of a Tank Battle

'Description of a Tank Battle' By F. Mitchell

A Battle of Monsters

At the beginning of April, 1918, many of the tank units, which had been in practically continuous action since first March, were withdrawn and sent to the Tank Depot at Erin to refit. Here, after a brief spell of rest, they took over old tanks, overhauled and patched up for the occasion, and returned with them once more to the line, which had formed again as the German advance was checked.

"A" Company of the 1st Tank Battalion was hidden in the Bois l'Abbé, near Villers-Bretonneux. In this sector the Germans had advanced to within seven miles of Amiens, and threatened the capture of that city. If they succeeded, they would cut the Amiens-Paris railway, which was even then being used solely at night, and the solitary railroad left for the British Army would be through Abbéville, only ten miles from the coast.

To prevent this formidable disaster the French had placed their crack Moroccan division, the finest fighters in the French Army, at the danger spot.

In the Bois de Blangy, not far from the Bois l'Abbé, the Algerian and Moroccan troops had dug for themselves very deep and very narrow shelters. These were covered with branches of fir trees placed fiat on the ground, so that it was exceedingly difficult to discover their presence, either from the air or from the ground level.

The first tanks entering the wood in the dark ran straight into the undergrowth, and were considerably alarmed to hear weird yells and shrieks coming from the ground.

Terrified black faces popped up on all sides, and the wood suddenly swarmed with strange figures, wh6 had bolted out of their holes like startled rabbits.

Next day, when the machines had been covered with tarpaulins, camouflage nets, and branches, the Moroccans were still not too trustful, and would creep up and gingerly touch the tanks with their fingers - as if to make sure that they were real - and then slink away again.

In the same wood were also detachments of the renowned Foreign Legion, including a company of Russians; and Australian troops, in their picturesque slouch hats, added to the variety of the scene; whilst away in front, for almost a quarter of a mile, stretched an unbroken line of French 75's (the famous quick-firing field gun) mingled with batteries of British I 8-pounders.

On the 17th April the enemy shelled Bois l'Abbé with mustard gas, causing heavy casualties in the forward sections of tanks, whose crews returned with eyes swollen and weeping, and faces and bare knees heavily blistered.

As the German attack was daily expected, a new section of tanks, consisting of a male and two females, was sent to the Bois d'Aquenne, immediately behind Viller-Bretonneux. The wood was drenched with gas, and had been evacuated by the infantry. Dead horses, swollen to enormous size, and birds with bulging eyes and stiffened claws lay everywhere. In the tree-tops the half-stifled crows were hoarsely croaking. The gas hung about the bushes and undergrowth, and clung to the tarpaulins.

On the night of the 23rd of April, the shelling had made the spot almost unbearable. The crews had worn their masks during the greater part of the day, and their eyes were sore, their throats dry.

Then two enemy planes appeared, flying slowly over the tree tops, and dropped Verey lights that fell right in the glade where the tanks were hidden. As the lights slowly flared up we flattened ourselves rigidly against the tree-trunks, not a man daring to move; but it was in vain, for the bulky outlines of the tanks showed up in vivid relief.

We were discovered!

An hour later, when clouds hid the moon, three huge toad-like forms, grunting and snorting, crept out of the wood, to a spot some hundred yards in the rear.
Just before dawn on 24th April, a tremendous deluge of shells swept down upon the wood, and I was aroused in the dark by some one shaking me violently.

"Gas, sir ! Gas !"

I struggled up, half awake, inhaled a foul odour, and quickly slipped on my mask. My eyes were running, I could not see, my breath came with difficulty. I could hear the trees crashing to the ground near me. For a moment I was stricken with panic, and confused thoughts chased wildly through my mind; but, pulling myself together, I discovered to my great relief that I had omitted to attach my nose-clip!

My section commander and I and the orderly who had aroused us groped our way, hand in hand, to the open. It was pitch dark, save where, away on the edge of the wood, the rising sun showed blood red, and as we stumbled forward tree trunks, unseen in that infernal gloom, separated our joined hands, and bushes and brambles tripped us.

Suddenly a hoarse cry came from the orderly: "My mouthpiece is broken, sir !”

“Run like mad for the open!" shouted the section commander.

There was a gasp, and then we heard the man crashing away through the undergrowth like a hunted beast.

Soon I found my tank, covered with its tarpaulin. The small oblong doors were open, but the interior was empty. In the wrappings of the tarpaulins, however, I felt something warm and fleshy, and found that it was one of the crew lying full length on the ground, wearing his mask but dazed by gas. The rest of my crew I discovered in a reserve line of trenches on the edge of the wood, and the crews of the other two tanks, as we found later on, were sheltering inside their machines, with doors and flaps shut tight.

Behind the trenches a battery of artillery was blazing away, the gunners in their gas masks feverishly loading and unloading like creatures of a nightmare.
The major in charge of the battery informed us that he had had no news from his F.O.O. (Forward Observing Officer) for some time, the telephone wires having been blown us. If the Boche infantry came on, would our tanks immediately attack them, whilst his 18-pounders engaged them over open sights ? Our captain agreed to this desperate measure, and grimly we waited.

Meanwhile, as the shelling grew in intensity, a few wounded men and some stragglers came into sight. Their report was depressing: Villers-Bretonneux had been captured, and with it many of our own men. The Boche had almost broken through.

By this time two of my crew had developed nasty gas symptoms, spitting, coughing, and getting purple in the face. They were led away to the rear, one sprawling limply in a wheel-barrow found in the wood. A little later an infantry brigadier appeared on the scene with two orderlies. He also was unaware of the exact position ahead, and, accompanied by Captain I. C. Brown, M.C., and the runners, he went forward to investigate. In ten minutes one of the runners came back, limping badly, hit in the leg. In another ten minutes the second returned, his left arm torn by shrapnel. Twenty minutes after that, walking unhurt and serene through the barrage, came the brigadier and our captain.

The news was grave. We had suffered heavy losses and lost ground, and if our infantry were driven out of the switch-line between Cachy and Villers-Bretonneux, the Germans would obtain possession of the high ground dominating Amiens. They would then perhaps force us to evacuate that city and drive a wedge between the French and British armies.

A serious consultation was held, and the order came Proceed to the Cachy switch-line and hold it “At all costs."

We put on our masks once more and plunged, like divers, into the gas-laden wood. As we struggled to crank up, one of the three men collapsed. We put him against a tree, gave him some tablets of ammonia to sniff, and then, as he did not seem to be coming round, we left him, for time was pressing. Out of a crew of seven there remained only four men, with red-rimmed, bulging eyes, while my driver, the second reserve driver, had had only a fortnight's driving experience. Fortunately one gearsman was loaned to me from another tank.

The three tanks, one male, armed with two 6-pounder guns and machine guns, and two females, armed with machine guns only, crawled out of the wood and set off over the open ground towards Cachy, Captain Brown. coming in my tank.

Ahead loomed the German barrage, a menacing wall of fire in our path. There was no break in it anywhere. Should I go straight ahead and trust to luck ? It seemed impossible that we could pass through that deadly area unhit. I decided to attempt a zig-zag course, as somehow it seemed safer.

Luck was with us. At top speed we went safely through the danger zone, and soon reached the Cachy lines; but there was no sign of our infantry.

Suddenly, out of the ground ten yards away, an infantryman rose, waving his rifle furiously. We stopped. He ran forward and shouted through the flap: "Look out! Jerry tanks about !" Swiftly he disappeared into the trench again, and Captain Brown immediately got out and ran across the heavily shelled ground to warn the female tanks.

I informed the crew, and a great thrill ran through us all. Opening a loophole, I looked out. There, some three hundred yards away, a round, squat-looking monster was advancing; behind it came waves of infantry, and farther away to the left and right crawled two more of these armed tortoises.

So we had met our rivals at last I For the first time in history tank was encountering tank!

The 6-pounder gunners, crouching on the floor, their backs against the engine cover, loaded their guns expectantly.

We still kept on a zig-zag course, threading the gaps between the lines of hastily dug trenches, and coming near the small protecting belt of wire we turned left, and the right gunner, peering through his narrow slit, made a sighting shot. The shell burst some distance beyond the leading enemy tank. No reply came. A second shot boomed out, landing just to the right, but again there was no reply. More shots followed.

Suddenly a hurricane of hail pattered against our steel wall, filling the interior with myriads of sparks and flying splinters I Something rattled against the steel helmet of the driver sitting next to me, and my face was stung with minute fragments of steel. The crew flung themselves flat on the floor. The driver ducked his head and drove straight on.

Above the roar of our engine sounded the staccato rat-tat-tat-tat of machine guns, and another furious jet of bullets sprayed our steel side, the splinters clanging against the engine cover. The Jerry tank had treated us to a broadside of armour-piercing bullets!

Taking advantage of a dip in the ground, we got beyond range, and then turning we manoeuvred to get the left gunner on to the moving target. Owing to our gas casualties the gunner was working single- handed, and his right eye being swollen with gas, he aimed with the left.

Moreover, as the ground was heavily scarred with shell holes, we kept going up and down like a ship in a heavy sea, which made accurate shooting difficult. His first shot fell some fifteen yards in front, the next went beyond, and then I saw the shells bursting all round the tank. He fired shot after shot in rapid succession every time it came into view.

Nearing the village of Cachy, I noticed to my astonishment that the two females were slowly limping away to the rear. Almost immediately on their arrival they had both been hit by shells which tore great holes in their sides, leaving them defenceless against machine-gun bullets, and as their Lewis concentrated their fire on us at once we would be finished. We fired rapidly at the nearest tank, and to my intense joy and amazement I saw it slowly back away. Its companion also did not appear to relish a fight, for it turned and followed its mate, and in a few minutes they had both disappeared, leaving our tank the sole possessor of the field.

This situation, however gratifying, soon displayed numerous disadvantages. We were now the only thing above ground, and naturally the German artillery made savage efforts to wipe us off the map. Up and down we went, followed by a trail of bursting shells. I was afraid that at any minute a shell would penetrate the roof and set the petrol alight, making the tank a roaring furnace before we could escape.

Then I saw an aeroplane flying overhead not more than a hundred feet up. A great black cross was on each underwing, and as it crossed over us I could see clearly the figures of the pilot and observer. Something round and black dropped from it. For a fraction of a second I watched it, horrified the front of the tank suddenly bounded up -into the air, and the whole machine seemed to stand on end. Everything shook, rattled, jarred with an earthquaking shock. We fell back with a mighty crash, and then continued on our journey unhurt. Our steel walls had held nobly, but how much more would they endure?

A few minutes later, as we were turning, the driver failed to notice that we were on the edge of a steep shell hole, and down we went with a crash, so suddenly that one of the gunners was thrown forward on top of me. In order to right the tank the driver jerked open the throttle to its fullest extent. We snorted up the opposite lip of the crater at full speed, but when just about to clamber over the edge the engine stopped. Our nose was pointing heavenwards, a lovely stationary target for the Boche artillery.

A deadly silence ensued.

After the intolerable racket of the past few hours it seemed to us uncanny. Now we could hear the whining of shells, and the vicious crump as they exploded near at hand. Fear entered our hearts; we were inclined at such a steep angle that we found it impossible to crank up the engine again. Every second we expected to get a shell through the top. Almost lying on their sides, the crew strained and heaved at the starting handle, but to no effect.

Our nerves were on edge; there was but one thing left, to put the tank in reverse gear, release the rear brake, and run backwards down the shell hole under our own weight. Back we slid, and happily the engine began to splutter, then, carefully nursing the throttle, the driver changed gear and we climbed out unhurt.

What sweet music was the roar of the engine in our ears now! But the day was not yet over. As I peeped through my flap.

I noticed that the German infantry were forming up some distance away, preparing for an attack. Then my heart bounded with joy, for away on the right I saw seven small whippets, the newest and fastest type of tank, unleashed at last and racing into action. They came on at six to eight miles an hour, heading straight for the Germans, who scattered in all directions, fleeing terror-stricken from this whirlwind of death. The whippets plunged into the midst of them, ran over them, spitting fire into their retreating ranks.

Their work was soon over. Twenty-one men in seven small tanks overran some twelve hundred of the enemy and killed at least four hundred, nipping an attack in the bud. Three of the seven came back, their tracks dripping with blood; the other four were left burning out there in front, and their crews could not hope to be made prisoners after such slaughter. One broke down not far from Cachy, and I saw a man in overalls get out and, with a machine gun under his arm, run to another whippet, which stopped to pick him up.

We continued to cruise to and fro in front of the Gachy switch-line, and presently a fourth German tank appeared, about eight hundred yards away. The left gunner opened fire immediately, and a few minutes later the reply came swift and sharp, three shells hitting the ground alongside of us. Pursuing the same tactics as before, we increased our speed, and then turned, but the Jerry tank had disappeared; there was to be no second duel.

Later on, when turning again, we heard a tremendous crack, and the tank continued to go round in a circle. "What the blazes are you doing?" I roared at the driver in exasperation. He looked at me in bewilderment and made another effort, but still we turned round and round. Peeping out, I saw one caterpillar track doubled high in the air. We had been hit by the Boche artillery at last, two of the track plates being blown clean away!

I decided to quit. The engine stopped. Defiantly we blazed away our last few rounds at the slopes near Villers-Bretonneux, and then crept gingerly out of the tank, the wounded man riding on the back of a comrade.

We were making for the nearest trench when-rat-tat-tat-tat - the air became alive with bullets. We flopped to the ground, waiting breathlessly whilst the bullets threw up the dirt a few feet away. When the shooting ceased we got up again and ran forward By a miracle nothing touched us, and we reached the parapet of a trench. Our faces were black with grime and smoke, and our eyes bloodshot. The astonished infantrymen gazed at us open -mouthed, as if we were apparitions from a ghostly land. "Get your bayonets out of the way," we yelled, and tumbled down into the trench.

It was now almost one o'clock, and we had been in action since 8.30 a.m., but, so intense had been the fighting, so fierce the unexpected duel, that it scarcely seemed half an hour since we had quitted the gas- laden wood.

We stayed in the narrow trench for a couple of hours, and as the enemy made no further attack, and the officer in charge of the infantry no longer required my services, I decided to return to Company Headquarters.

By this time I had procured a stretcher for the wounded man, and climbing over the parapet we made for home. To our great amazement machine guns immediately opened on us from the wood on our right, practically in the rear of the trench we were leaving. We fell to earth automatically Breathless minutes passed. Then I gave the signal to go forward again, and in some mysterious manner we escaped untouched, even by the heavy shelling.

A hundred yards back we met a team of horses wildly dragging an i8-pounder across the open. The youthful officer on horseback addressed me excitedly.

“I say, old man, I've been sent forward to knock out a German tank. Is that the blighter over there ?" He pointed in the direction of my derelict.

“No," I replied, " you are a bit late ; the German tank is already knocked out.”

“What," he interrupted me, "Already knocked out? Good enough I" and without another word he turned, gave a sharp command, and rode swiftly back, the gun team galloping furiously after him.

I felt immensely relieved to think that he had not been sent up earlier in the day, or my tank might have been heavily shelled from the rear! As it was, we all reached Company Headquarters in safety, and handed over the wounded gunner to a field dressing-station.

For his part in the tank duel, my sergeant, a courageous and cool-headed Scot name McKenzie, was awarded a well-earned Military Medal. The official report contains the following interesting details

"Although his eyes were affected by the enemy gas, and his face badly cut by armour-piercing bullets, in spite of his suffering this non-commissioned officer continued to serve his quick-firing gun for four hours, while his own tank, No.4066 was engaged with large enemy tanks, one of which was eventually put out of action. Throughout, this N.C.O., by his conduct and coolness, set a splendid example to all the men in his crew."

A Military Cross was awarded to me.

Lauder and the ANZAC's.

During 1917 the star of the music hall stage Harry Lauder was touring France with his own style of show for the troops.

In his book “A Minstrel in France.” He describes his first encounters with Australian soldiers.

“But it was not long before the silence of the town was broken by another sound. It was marching men we heard, but they were scuffling with their feet as they came; they had not the rhythmic tread of most of the British troops we had encountered. Nor were these men, when they swung into sight, coming around a pile of ruins, just like any British troops we had seen. I recognized them as once as Australians— Kangaroos, as their mates in other divisions called them—by the way their campaign hats were looped up at one side. These were the first Australian troops I had seen since I had sailed from Sydney, in the early days of the war, nearly three years before. Three years! To think of it—and of what those years had seen!

"Here's a rare chance to give a concert!" I said, and held up my hand to the officer in command.

"Halt!" he cried, and then: "Stand at ease!" I was about to tell him why I had stopped them, and make myself known to them when I saw a grin rippling its way over all those bronzed faces—a grin of recognition. And I saw that the officer knew me, too, even before a loud voice cried out:

"Good old Harry Lauder!"

That was a good Scots voice—even though its owner wore the Australian uniform.

"Would the boys like to hear a concert?" I asked the officer.

"That they would! By all means!" he said. "Glad of the chance! And so'm I! I've heard you just once before—in Sydney, away back in the summer of 1914."

Then the big fellow who had called my name spoke up again.

"Sing us 'Calligan,'" he begged. "Sing us 'Calligan,' Harry! I heard you sing it twenty-three years agone, in Motherwell Toon Hall!"

"Calligan!" The request for that song took me back indeed, through all the years that I have been before the public. It must have been at least twenty-three years since he had heard me sing that song—all of twenty-three years. "Calligan" had been one of the very earliest of my successes on the stage. I had not thought of the song, much less sung it, for years and years. In fact, though I racked my brains, I could not remember the words. And so, much as I should have liked to do so, I could not sing it for him. But if he was disappointed, he took it in good part, and he seemed to like some of the newer songs I had to sing for them as well as he could ever have liked old "Calligan."

I sang for these Kangaroos a song I had not sung before in France, because it seemed to be an especially auspicious time to try it. I wrote it while I was in Australia, with a view, particularly, to pleasing Australian audiences, and so repaying them, in some measure, for the kindly way in which they treated me while I was there. I call it "Australia Is the Land for Me," and this is the way it goes:

There's a land I'd like to tell you all about
It's a land in the far South Sea.
It's a land where the sun shines nearly every day
It's the land for you and me.
It's the land for the man with the big strong arm
It's the land for big hearts, too.
It's a land we'll fight for, everything that's right for
Australia is the real true blue!

Refrain:

It's the land where the sun shines nearly every day
Where the skies are ever blue.
Where the folks are as happy as the day is long
And there's lots of work to do.
Where the soft winds blow and the gum trees grow
As far as the eye can see,
Where the magpie chaffs and the cuckoo-burra laughs
Australia is the land for me!

Those Kangaroos took to that song as a duck takes to water! They raised the chorus with me in a swelling roar as soon as they had heard it once, to learn it, and their voices roared through the ruins like vocal shrapnel. You could hear them whoop "Australia Is the Land for Me!" a mile away. And if anything could have brought down that tottering statue above us it would have been the way they sang. They put body and soul, as well as voice, into that final patriotic declaration of the song.

We had thought—I speak for Hogge and Adam and myself, and not for Godfrey, who did not have to think and guess, but know—we had thought, when we rolled into Albert, that it was a city of the dead, utterly deserted and forlorn. But now, as I went on singing, we found that that idea had been all wrong. For as the Australians whooped up their choruses other soldiers popped into sight. They came pouring from all directions.

I have seen few sights more amazing. They came from cracks and crevices, as it seemed; from under tumbled heaps of ruins, and dropping down from shells of houses where there were certainly no stairs. As I live, before I had finished my audience had been swollen to a great one of two thousand men! When they were all roaring out in a chorus you could scarce hear Johnson's wee piano at all—it sounded only like a feeble tinkle when there was a part for it alone.

Char-a-Bang Blocks Road

I love this story from the Eastbourne Gazette 22^nd July 1916. You couldn't get away leaving a vehicle today for three hours, although some van drivers might try!

Char-a-Bang Driver Fined

Richard John Noakes, the driver of a motor char-a-bang was summoned for obstructing the roadway in Burlington Road on the 12^th inst., with a char-a-bang he had driven over from Hastings.

Mr. H. H. Coles appeared for the defendant and admitted the offence.

The police evidence was that the vehicle was standing in one position for three hours. The defendant, who had driven a party from Hastings told the constable that he failed to find a garage and thought there would be no harm leaving the vehicle where he did.

Mr. Coles urged in mitigation that it was to a large extent a by-road, in which there was little traffic.

A fine of 10s. was imposed.

The picture illustrates a Char-a-bang from : http://www.charlestownhistory.org.uk/

The Ration Fatigue.

This excellent little article comes from the great book “Bullets & Billets" By Bruce Bairnsfather.

Here he describes the trenches in Belgium and at the undesirable job of being on a ‘Ration Party’.

THAT RATION FATIGUE

They seemed to me long, dark, dismal days, those days spent in the Douve trenches; longer, darker and more dismal than the Plugstreet ones. Night after night I crossed the dreary mud flat, passed the same old wretched farms, and went on with the same old trench routine. We all considered the trenches a pretty rotten outfit; but every one was fully prepared to accept far rottener things than that. There was never the least sign of flagging determination in any man there, and I am sure you could say the same of the whole front.

And, really, some jobs on some nights wanted a lot of beating for undesirability. Take the ration party's job, for instance. Think of the rottenest, wettest, windiest winter's night you can remember, and add to it this bleak, muddy, war-worn plain with its ruined farms and shell-torn lonely road. Then think of men, leaving the trenches at dusk, going back about a mile and a half, and bringing sundry large and heavy boxes up to the trenches, pausing now and again for a rest, and ignoring the intermittent crackling of rifle fire in the darkness, and the sharp "phit" of bullets hitting the mud all around. Think of that as your portion each night and every night. When you have finished this job, the rest you get consists of coiling yourself up in a damp dug-out. Night after night, week after week, month after month, this job is done by thousands.

As one sits in a brilliantly illuminated, comfortable, warm theatre, having just come from a cosy and luxurious restaurant, just think of some poor devil half-way along those corduroy boards struggling with a crate of biscuits; the ration "dump" behind, the trenches on in front. When he has finished he will step down into the muddy slush of a trench, and take his place with the rest, who, if need be, will go on doing that job for another ten years, without thinking of an alternative. The Germans made a vast mistake when they thought they had gauged the English temperament.

Civil Life in Berlin.

This article appeared in the ‘The New York Times Current History: the European War, February, 1915, under the title ‘Civil Life in Berlin’.

It was first published in ‘The London Times’ on October. 17th, 1914.

A gentleman, the subject of a neutral country, who has just returned from a visit to Germany, has furnished The Times with the following statement as to his impressions. He says:

I did not hear any boasting over German successes. When I spoke to Germans of their victories they would reply: "Yes, we have had victories—but what of the dead?" This thought is present even in places where one might think that for the time being every effort would be made to prevent its intrusion. In Berlin, for example, where all the theatres are open and attracting crowded audiences, it is the burden of a song sung during one of the patriotic plays, of which several are now being performed.

I went to a theatre on the night of the fall of Antwerp. A play entitled "1914" was acted, in the course of which many topical allusions were made by the well-known comedian Thielscher. Even in these serious times the Berliner, who is famous for the form of humor known as Berliner Witze, cannot refrain from his jokes. One of these was the question: "Why does Germany understand war so well? Because it has been declared upon her eight times!"—the point of the jest lying in the fact that the German word Erklaren, "to declare," means also "to explain." Another pun of the same kind was made out of the word Niederlage, which means both "defeat" and "dêpot." "Germany," said one of the characters, "is surrounded by enemies on all sides." "Yes," was the reply, "she is the head establishment, while England, France, and Russia only have the Niederlage."

There were some serious scenes in this play, in the middle of one of which some one stepped quickly on to the stage and, interrupting the actors, exclaimed: "One moment, one moment, if you please! Antwerp has fallen!" Of course, there was tremendous enthusiasm at this announcement, but when it had subsided, one of the company came forward and sang:

Nicht zu laut!
Nicht zu laut!
Denkt g'rad' jetzt wo Ihr jubelt und lacht;

Nicht zu laut!
Nicht zu laut!
Fiel ein Krieger vielleicht in der Schlacht
Und er liegt beim zerschossenen Pferde
Und nimmt Abschied von Mutter und Braut—

Nicht zu laut!
Nicht zu laut!

(Not too loud! Not too loud! Think just now while you laugh and cheer; Not too loud! Not too loud! Perchance a warrior fallen in the battle lies beside his shot down steed, and bids farewell to mother and bride; Not too loud! Not too loud!)

I have mentioned this to give an idea of the kind of life which the Berliners are living just now. There are other popular theatres in which similar plays are now running with titles such as "Der Kaiser Rief" ("The Emperor Called") and "Fest d'Rauf" ("Hit Hard!") the latter being borrowed from the words of the famous telegram sent by the Crown Prince at the time of the Zabern incident. These theatres are crowded. At the principal theatres classical plays such as "Hamlet" and Lessing's "Minna von Barnhelm" were being played while I was in Berlin.

Berlin keeps open many places of amusement until the early hours of the morning, and the war has not made any difference in this respect. What is known as the "night life" of Berlin continues. For years past the fast element in Berlin has been one of its most notorious features. This accompaniment of the prosperity of the capital since the war of 1870 has struck with surprise many observers of German life accustomed to the idea of German simplicity and purity of morals, rendered classical by Tacitus and exemplified by many representatives of German national life in the earlier part of the nineteenth century, when Germany was rallying from the blows inflicted by Napoleon. All that need be said upon this head is that, as far as report can be accepted as evidence, vice is the only commodity which has become less expensive since the war began.

The spy fever seems somewhat to have abated. At present, however, the public are not allowed to walk on the footway beside the headquarters of the army or the General Telegraph Office, obviously with a view to protecting these buildings against damage from hostile persons. The Germans still think that many spies exist in their country. The presence of women acting as tramcar conductors struck me as strange. These are the wives of men summoned to the colors. Notices are affixed to the interior of the cars stating the reason for the presence of these women, and requesting the public to be considerate toward them, and to help them over any little difficulties they might encounter in the discharge of their duty. Traffic in Berlin is absolutely regular. There are as many taxicabs as before, but instead of benzine, which is wanted for the army, they now use other spirit. The streets are as brilliantly lighted as ever. Riding exercise is taken by gentlemen in the Thiergarten every morning as usual. Sport is reviving, and there are a good many football matches. Two recently played were those between Berlin and Vienna and Berlin and Leipsic, the latter for the Red Cross. The universities will open on the 25th inst., the regular date.

The population, as a whole, is serious and confident of victory; but the war is by no means the sole topic of conversation. England is the enemy most bitterly hated, the Germans maintaining that her only reason for entering on the war was to destroy German trade. England's desire to preserve the neutrality of Belgium is scouted. The common people in Germany say that having fought the Belgians and defeated them they will retain their country. This, however, is not the attitude of the more educated section of the population, who express the opinion that the difficulty of ruling Belgium would be greater than the advantage to be derived from it.

The fierce hatred of England in Germany is due in large measure to what the Germans call "the shopkeepers' warfare" of the English. They maintain that the English confiscation of German patents is a wholly unfair method of fighting, and it has caused the deepest resentment. When asked as to the future, they reply that they will do all in due time. After Belgium will come France, and then the turn of England will arrive. They are not discouraged by the failure to reach Paris, since the strategy adopted by the French would have rendered the possession of Paris of little value. It will still be taken.

With regard to England not much is said of an army of invasion, but German confidence is evidently reposed in her Zeppelins, of which a large number is being constructed with all possible speed. They are to be employed against England, whose part in the war is the least honorable of all. Belgium's attitude at the outset they can understand, France's desire for la revanche is natural, but England's only motive was jealousy of Germany's industrial development and the desire to cripple her trade and commercial prosperity. Therefore, Woe to England!