This account of the battle of loos is one of the most in depth and comes from the fearless war correspondent Philip Gibbs in his book - Now It Can Be Told.
I am dividing this excellent passage into four ‘chunks’ over the next few days as it takes a bit to digest it all at once – so to speak.
The first part relates to the preliminary preparations of the attack: -
In September of 1915 the Commander-in-Chief and his staff were busy with preparations for a battle, in conjunction with the French, which had ambitious objects. These have never been stated because they were not gained (and it was the habit of our High Command to conceal its objectives and minimize their importance if their hopes were unfulfilled), but beyond doubt the purpose of the battle was to gain possession of Lens and its coal-fields, and by striking through Hulluch and Haisnes to menace the German occupation of Lille. On the British front the key of the enemy's position was Hill 70, to the north of Lens, beyond the village of Loos, and the capture of that village and that hill was the first essential of success.
The assault on these positions was to be made by two New Army divisions of the 4th Corps: the 47th (London) Division, and the 15th (Scottish) Division. They were to be supported by the 11th Corps, consisting of the Guards and two new and untried divisions, the 21st and the 24th. The Cavalry Corps (less the 3d Cavalry Division under General Fanshawe) was in reserve far back at St.-Pol and Pernes; and the Indian Cavalry Corps under General Remington was at Doullens; "to be in readiness," wrote Sir John French, "to co-operate with the French cavalry in exploiting any success which might be attained by the French and British forces."... Oh, wonderful optimism! In that Black Country of France, scattered with mining villages in which every house was a machine-gun fort, with slag heaps and pit-heads which were formidable redoubts, with trenches and barbed wire and brick-stacks, and quarries, organized for defense in siege-warfare, cavalry might as well have ridden through hell with hope of "exploiting" success... "Plans for effective co-operation were fully arranged between the cavalry commanders of both armies," wrote our Commander-in-Chief in his dispatch. I can imagine those gallant old gentlemen devising their plans, with grave courtesy, over large maps, and A. D. C.'s clicking heels in attendance, and an air of immense wisdom and most cheerful assurance governing the proceedings in the salon of a French chateau. .. The 3d Cavalry Division, less one brigade, was assigned to the First Army as a reserve, and moved into the area of the 4th Corps on the 2lst and 22d of September.
The movements of troops and the preparations for big events revealed to every British soldier in France the "secret" of the coming battle. Casualty clearing-stations were ordered to make ready for big numbers of wounded. That was always one of the first signs of approaching massacre. Vast quantities of shells were being brought up to the rail-heads and stacked in the "dumps." They were the first-fruit of the speeding up of munitions-factories at home after the public outcry against shell shortage and the lack of high explosives. Well, at last the guns would not be starved. There was enough high-explosive force available to blast the German trenches off the map. So it seemed to our innocence—though years afterward we knew that no bombardment would destroy all earthworks such as Germans made, and that always machine-guns would slash our infantry advancing over the chaos of mangled ground.
Behind our lines in France, in scores of villages where our men were quartered, there was a sense of impending fate. Soldiers of the New Army knew that in a little while the lessons they had learned in the School of Courage would be put to a more frightful test than that of holding trenches in stationary warfare. Their boredom, the intolerable monotony of that routine life, would be broken by more sensational drama, and some of them were glad of that, and said: "Let's get on with it. Anything rather than that deadly stagnation." And others, who guessed they were chosen for the coming battle, and had a clear vision of what kind of things would happen (they knew something about the losses at Neuve Chapelle and Festubert), became more thoughtful than usual, deeply introspective, wondering how many days of life they had left to them.
Life was good out of the line in that September of '15. The land of France was full of beauty, with bronzed corn-stooks in the fields, and scarlet poppies in the grass, and a golden sunlight on old barns and on little white churches and in orchards heavy with fruit. It was good to go into the garden of a French chateau and pluck a rose and smell its sweetness, and think back to England, where other roses were blooming. England!... And in a few days—who could say?—perhaps eternal sleep somewhere near Lens.
Some officers of the Guards came into the garden of the little house where I lived at that time with other onlookers. It was an untidy garden, with a stretch of grass-plot too rough to be called a lawn, but with pleasant shade under the trees, and a potager with raspberries and currants on the bushes, and flower-beds where red and white roses dropped their petals.
Two officers of the Scots Guards, inseparable friends, came to gossip with us, and read the papers, and drink a little whisky in the evenings, and pick the raspberries. They were not professional soldiers. One of them had been a stock-broker, the other "something in the city." They disliked the army system with an undisguised hatred and contempt. They hated war with a ferocity which was only a little "camouflaged" by the irony and the brutality of their anecdotes of war's little comedies. They took a grim delight in the humor of corpses, lice, bayonet—work, and the sniping of fair-haired German boys. They laughed, almost excessively, at these attributes of warfare, and one of them used to remark, after some such anecdote, "And once I was a little gentleman!"
He was a gentleman still, with a love of nature in his heart—I saw him touch the petals of living roses with a caress in his finger-tips—and with a spiritual revolt against the beastliness of this new job of his, although he was a strong, hard fellow, without weakness of sentiment. His close comrade was of more delicate fiber, a gentle soul, not made for soldiering at all, but rather for domestic life, with children about him, and books. As the evenings passed in this French village, drawing him closer to Loos by the flight of time, I saw the trouble in his eyes which he tried to hide by smiling and by courteous conversation. He was being drawn closer to Loos and farther away from the wife who knew nothing of what that name meant to her and to him.
Other officers of the Guards came into the garden—Grenadiers. There were two young brothers of an old family who had always sent their sons to war. They looked absurdly young when they took off their tunics and played a game of cricket, with a club for a bat, and a tennis-ball. They were just schoolboys, but with the gravity of men who knew that life is short. I watched their young athletic figures, so clean-limbed, so full of grace, as they threw the ball, and had a vision of them lying mangled.
An Indian prince came into the garden. It was "Ranjitsinji," who had carried his bat to many a pavilion where English men and women had clapped their hands to him, on glorious days when there was sunlight on English lawns. He took the club and stood at the wicket and was bowled third ball by a man who had only played cricket after ye manner of Stratford-atte-Bow. But then he found himself, handled the club like a sword, watched the ball with a falcon's eye, played with it. He was on the staff of the Indian Cavalry Corps, which was "to co-operate in exploiting any success."
"To-morrow we move," said one of the Scots Guards officers. The colonel of the battalion came to dinner at our mess, sitting down to a white tablecloth for the last time in his life. They played a game of cards, and went away earlier than usual.
Two of them lingered after the colonel had gone. They drank more whisky.
"We must be going," they said, but did not go.
The delicate-looking man could not hide the trouble in his eyes.
"I shan't be killed this time," he said to a friend of mine. "I shall be badly wounded."
The hard man, who loved flowers, drank his fourth glass of whisky.
"It's going to be damned uncomfortable," he said. "I wish the filthy thing were over. Our generals will probably arrange some glorious little massacres. I know 'em!... Well, good night, all."
They went out into the darkness of the village lane. Battalions were already on the move, in the night. Their steady tramp of feet beat on the hard road. Their dark figures looked like an army of ghosts. Sparks were spluttering out of the funnels of army cookers. A British soldier in full field kit was kissing a woman in the shadow-world of an estaminet. I passed close to them, almost touching them before I was aware of their presence.
"Bonne chance!" said the woman. "Quand to reviens—"
"One more kiss, lassie," said the man.
"Mans comme to es gourmand, toi!"
He kissed her savagely, hungrily. Then he lurched off the sidewalk and formed up with other men in the darkness.
The Scots Guards moved next morning. I stood by the side of the colonel, who was in a gruff mood.
"It looks like rain," he said, sniffing the air. "It will probably rain like hell when the battle begins."
I think he was killed somewhere by Fosse 8. The two comrades in the Scots Guards were badly wounded. One of the young brothers was killed and the other maimed. I found their names in the casualty lists which filled columns of The Times for a long time after Loos.
The town of Bethune was the capital of our army in the Black Country of the French coal-fields. It was not much shelled in those days, though afterward—years afterward—it was badly damaged by long-range guns, so that its people fled, at last, after living so long on the edge of war.
Its people were friendly to our men, and did not raise their prices exorbitantly. There were good shops in the town—"as good as Paris," said soldiers who had never been to Paris, but found these plate-glass windows dazzling, after trench life, and loved to see the "mamzelles" behind the counters and walking out smartly, with little high-heeled shoes. There were tea-shops, crowded always with officers on their way to the line or just out of it, and they liked to speak French with the girls who served them. Those girls saw the hunger in those men's eyes, who watched every movement they made, who tried to touch their hands and their frocks in passing. They knew they were desired, as daughters of Eve, by boys who were starved of love. They took that as part of their business, distributing cakes and buns without favor, with laughter in their eyes, and a merry word or two. Now and then, when they had leisure, they retired to inner rooms, divided by curtains from the shop, and sat on the knees of young British officers, while others played ragtime or sentimental ballads on untuned pianos. There was champagne as well as tea to be had in these bun—shops, but the A. P. M. was down on disorder or riotous gaiety, and there were no orgies. "Pas d'orgies," said the young ladies severely when things were getting a little too lively. They had to think of their business.
Down side-streets here and there were houses where other women lived, not so severe in their point of view. Their business, indeed, did not permit of severity, and they catered for the hunger of men exiled year after year from their own home-life and from decent womanhood. They gave the base counterfeit of love in return for a few francs, and there were long lines of men—English, Irish, and Scottish soldiers—who waited their turn to get that vile imitation of life's romance from women who were bought and paid for. Our men paid a higher price than a few francs for the Circe's cup of pleasure, which changed them into swine for a while, until the spell passed, and would have blasted their souls if God were not understanding of human weakness and of war. They paid in their bodies, if not in their souls, those boys of ours who loved life and beauty and gentle things, and lived in filth and shell-fire, and were trained to kill, and knew that death was hunting for them and had all the odds of luck. Their children and their children's children will pay also for the sins of their fathers, by rickety limbs and water—on-the-brain, and madness, and tuberculosis, and other evils which are the wages of sin, which flourished most rankly behind the fields of war.
The inhabitants of Bethune—the shopkeepers, and brave little families of France, and bright-eyed girls, and frowzy women, and heroines, and harlots—came out into the streets before the battle of Loos, and watched the British army pouring through—battalions of Londoners and Scots, in full fighting-kit, with hot sweat on their faces, and grim eyes, and endless columns of field-guns and limbers, drawn by hard-mouthed mules cursed and thrashed by their drivers, and ambulances, empty now, and wagons, and motor-lorries, hour after hour, day after day.
"Bonne chance!" cried the women, waving hands and handkerchiefs.
"Les pauvres enfants!" said the old women, wiping their eyes on dirty aprons. "We know how it is. They will be shot to pieces. It is always like that, in this sacred war. Oh, those sacred pigs of Germans! Those dirty Boches! Those sacred bandits!"
"They are going to give the Boches a hard knock," said grizzled men, who remembered in their boyhood another war. "The English army is ready. How splendid they are, those boys! And ours are on the right of them. This time—!"
"Mother of God, hark at the guns!"
At night, as dark fell, the people of Bethune gathered in the great square by the Hotel de Ville, which afterward was smashed, and listened to the laboring of the guns over there by Vermelles and Noeux-les-Mines, and Grenay, and beyond Notre Dame de Lorette, where the French guns were at work. There were loud, earth—shaking rumblings, and now and then enormous concussions. In the night sky lights rose in long, spreading bars of ruddy luminance, in single flashes, in sudden torches of scarlet flame rising to the clouds and touching them with rosy feathers.
"'Cre nom de Dieu!" said French peasants, on the edge of all that, in villages like Gouy, Servins, Heuchin, Houdain, Grenay, Bruay, and Pernes. "The caldron is boiling up... There will be a fine pot-au-feu."
They wondered if their own sons would be in the broth. Some of them knew, and crossed themselves by wayside shrines for the sake of their sons' souls, or in their estaminets cursed the Germans with the same old curses for having brought all this woe into the world.
In those villages—Heuchin, Houdain, Lillers, and others—on the edge of the Black Country the Scottish troops of the 15th Division were in training for the arena, practising attacks on trenches and villages, getting a fine edge of efficiency on to bayonet-work and bombing, and having their morale heightened by addresses from brigadiers and divisional commanders on the glorious privilege which was about to be theirs of leading the assault, and on the joys as well as the duty of killing Germans.
In one battalion of Scots—the 10th Gordons, who were afterward the 8/10th—there were conferences of company commanders and whispered consultations of subalterns. They were "Kitchener" men, from Edinburgh and Aberdeen and other towns in the North. I came to know them all after this battle, and gave them fancy names in my despatches: the Georgian gentleman, as handsome as Beau Brummell, and a gallant soldier, who was several times wounded, but came back to command his old battalion, and then was wounded again nigh unto death, but came back again; and Honest John, slow of speech, with a twinkle in his eyes, careless of shell splinters flying around his bullet head, hard and tough and cunning in war; and little Ginger, with his whimsical face and freckles, and love of pretty girls and all children, until he was killed in Flanders; and the Permanent Temporary Lieutenant who fell on the Somme; and the Giant who had a splinter through his brain beyond Arras; and many other Highland gentlemen, and one English padre who went with them always to the trenches, until a shell took his head off at the crossroads.
It was the first big attack of the 15th Division. They were determined to go fast and go far. Their pride of race was stronger than the strain on their nerves. Many of them, I am certain, had no sense of fear, no apprehension of death or wounds. Excitement, the comradeship of courage, the rivalry of battalions, lifted them above anxiety before the battle began, though here and there men like Ginger, of more delicate fiber, of imagination as well as courage, must have stared in great moments at the grisly specter toward whom they would soon be walking.
In other villages were battalions of the 47th London Division. They, too, were to be in the first line of attack, on the right of the Scots. They, too, had to win honor for the New Army and old London. They were a different crowd from the Scots, not so hard, not so steel—nerved, with more sensibility to suffering, more imagination, more instinctive revolt against the butchery that was to come. But they, too, had been "doped" for morale, their nervous tension had been tightened up by speeches addressed to their spirit and tradition. It was to be London's day out. They were to fight for the glory of the old town... the old town where they had lived in little suburban houses with flower-gardens, where they had gone up by the early morning trains to city offices and government offices and warehouses and shops, in days before they ever guessed they would go a-soldiering, and crouch in shell-holes under high explosives, and thrust sharp steel into German bowels. But they would do their best. They would go through with it. They would keep their sense of humor and make cockney jokes at death. They would show the stuff of London pride.
"Domine, dirige nos!"
I knew many of those young Londoners. I had sat in tea-shops with them when they were playing dominoes, before the war, as though that were the most important game in life. I had met one of them at a fancy-dress ball in the Albert Hall, when he was Sir Walter Raleigh and I was Richard Sheridan. Then we were both onlookers of life—chroniclers of passing history. I remained the onlooker, even in war, but my friend went into the arena. He was a Royal Fusilier, and the old way of life became a dream to him when he walked toward Loos, and afterward sat in shell-craters in the Somme fields, and knew that death would find him, as it did, in Flanders. I had played chess with one man whom afterward I met as a gunner officer at Heninel, near Arras, on an afternoon when a shell had killed three of his men bathing in a tank, and other shells made a mess of blood and flesh in his wagon-lines. We both wore steel hats, and he was the first to recognize a face from the world of peace. After his greeting he swore frightful oaths, cursing the war and the Staff. His nerves were all jangled.
There was another officer in the 47th London Division whom I had known as a boy. He was only nineteen when he enlisted, not twenty when he had fought through several battles. He and hundreds like him had been playing at red Indians in Kensington Gardens a few years before an August in 1914... The 47th London Division, going forward to the battle of Loos, was made up of men whose souls had been shaped by all the influences of environment, habit, and tradition in which I had been born and bred. Their cradle had been rocked to the murmurous roar of London traffic. Their first adventures had been on London Commons. The lights along the Embankment, the excitement of the streets, the faces of London crowds, royal pageantry—marriages, crownings, burials—on the way to Westminster, the little dramas of London life, had been woven into the fiber of their thoughts, and it was the spirit of London which went with them wherever they walked in France or Flanders, more sensitive than country men to the things they saw.
Some of them had to fight against their nerves on the way to Loos. But their spirit was exalted by a nervous stimulus before that battle, so that they did freakish and fantastic things of courage.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday, September 09, 2009
The Lady of Loos.
This amazing story of a French heroine ‘Emilienne Moreau’ who was named ‘The Lady of Loos ‘
This article comes from the excellent website ‘The Great War in a Different Light.’
To save a British soldier who was under enemy fire in the village, she went out of her home with explosives and succeeded, with the help of some British soldiers, in forcing the Germans to flee from their position in the neighboring house. Later on, she shot two German soldiers though a closed wooden door. Eventually, the village was under the sole control of the allies.
A Civilian Heroine
The story of "The Lady of Loos" is one of the most inspiring in the annals of the Great War. This French heroine's name is Emilienne Moreau, and she was only eighteen years of age when the battle of Loos was fought on that memorable Saturday in September, 1915, and the heroic British troops won a victory over the Germans, pushing back their lines and capturing many prisoners and guns.
Emilienne is a native of the village of Loos, and with the other villagers - chiefly old men and women and young children, for the able-bodied men were fighting in the armies of France - endured the perils of the fierce bombardment of the British guns, which compelled the Germans to crouch within cellars and dug-outs. The enemy had turned the village into a fortification. Earth-works on every side bristled with machine-guns. The cemetery had been converted into a fort; it was riddled with trenches, and tombs had, been cleared to make room for guns, so that each tomb became a machine-gun emplacement. Mazes of barbed wire crossed every roadway and bulged round every earthwork. The Germans were confident that the village was impregnable, and that they would hold it with ease against attack. But the British soldiers broke through every obstacle, fighting with great valour and determination until the village was completely captured. The Londoners approached from the south and assaulted the cemetery, and the Scots broke through on the west and the north.
Emilienne Moreau's home was situated in one of the little streets in the west side of the village. The villagers, huddled in cellars and in narrow rooms, heard the shells screaming overhead and bursting above and around the German redoubts and emplacements. All night long the clamour resounded far and near. Everyone was weary, yet none could sleep. Whispers went round that the attack would open at dawn, and all looked forward with confidence to victory.
When daylight came at length the roar of battle increased in fury. It was unsafe to venture out of doors, but brave men and women did so in quest of water and food for moaning and frightened children. Shrapnel bullets spattered on roofs and walls, time and again, and stray shells burst in narrow lanes, ploughing up the hard earth and wrecking buildings, which collapsed in clouds of dust. In the house next to Emilienne's a shell tore through the rose early in the forenoon and exploded in the backyard.
"The end is near," cried an old woman.
"Do not say that, mother," the daughter replied. "We are still safe."
"Our soldiers are at hand, my girl. That is what I mean when I say 'the end is near' - the end of the Boche rule here. Do you not hear the clamour of the machine-guns? The attack has commenced now.”
As she spoke, her husband ran into the house. "Ah! you are still alive," he exclaimed. He carried a pail of water and a loaf of bread.
"How goes the battle?" asked his wife.
"Our deliverers are at hand. I have seen them. They are not far off now."
"The soldiers of France?"
"No, not our soldiers, but those of our great ally; and they are kilted Scots, big brave men whom nothing will keep back. Hear them! hear them!" he cried, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm.
Confused shouts resounded above the din of battle.
"The Highlanders, the Highlanders are coming!" someone called from without.
"Did I not tell you they were at hand?" the old man said proudly. "I have seen them with mine own eyes."
The old woman peered from the window, and watched several Germans scampering past. "Ha! the Boches are running," she cried.
Then she caught a glimpse of a tall Highlander. "The end is near, as I have said," she murmured gladly.
Soon the street was the scene of fierce fighting. A German machine-gun swept it for a few seconds, and then stopped suddenly, for its team had been overpowered. Scots soldiers rushed past the doors, and German riflemen crouching on house roofs and behind windows tried in vain to hold them back. Many fell, but the survivors swept on, driving the Boches before them as an autumn gale drives fallen leaves through a forest. The villagers ran out of doors, risking their lives to help and succour the wounded. Bleeding High-landers were carried into the houses, where their wounds were bandaged, and they were laid on beds and couches. Kindly hands smoothed their aching brows and pressed cups of cool water to their burning lips.
Several wounded men lay in Emilienne Moreau's house. She helped to stanch their wounds, and showed great skill and sympathy in nursing them and attending to their needs. She seemed a born nurse, and her gentle words and sweet smile were like a tonic to the stricken soldiers.
All day long she nursed them, while the battle waged fiercely through the village. "Water, water!" was a constant cry. An old man who had been drawing water all forenoon lay dead beside the well. A German sniper, concealed on a roof, had slain him. Women who attended to the wounded, passing from house to house with no thought of their own safety, had been wounded or slain, and several children had perished. Yet the villagers continued their noble work. They were all inspired with the spirit which has made France great and strong. Time and again Emilienne drew water for her patients, and she had many narrow escapes.
There was much confused fighting. Positions were taken and lost and taken again during the day. In the afternoon the quarter in which Emilienne Moreau lived was partially regained by the enemy. But the Germans were ultimately isolated.
"They are coming back!" the shout went down the little street on one of the occasions when it seemed the Germans were regaining ground.
"Who? The Boches?" one villager asked another.
"Yes, they have rallied," called someone.
"No, no," another protested, "these are Boches who have been cut off and are trying to retreat."
A woman shrieked with horror. Through a shattered window in Emilienne's home she had seen a German soldier bayoneting a wounded Highlander in the street.
"They are killing the wounded," she cried.
As she spoke a German darted into the house. Emilienne caught a glimpse of his blood-stained bayonet, and a thrill of cold horror went through her. A kilted officer raised himself on his elbow and drew his revolver, but his hand shook as the German, uttering a curse, darted towards him. Quick as lightning, Emilienne seized the revolver and fired. The German fell in a heap on the floor. She hardly realized what she had done, and ere she could collect her thoughts the officer called out something. Another German had appeared at the door. He too was searching for wounded men. Without hesitation Emilienne sprang towards him, and raising the revolver again, pulled the trigger. The German fell across the doorway mortally wounded.
The air was thick with smoke. Emilienne glanced out at a window, but could not ascertain what was happening. A German soldier rushed past her, and then someone screamed near at hand; bullets whizzed through the air, and the groans of wounded men rose on all sides. But amidst that scene of horror and terror Emilienne remained fearless and composed. For her own safety she took no thought. Her sole concern was for the wounded men under her care.
After a long interval an old man ran across the street, shouting Emilienne's name, and she answered him.
"You are still alive," he exclaimed with relief
.
"Two Boches tried to attack the wounded, and I shot them down," Emilienne told him.
"Hush! hide that revolver lest they should return and see you," be advised her.
"But they have been driven away," the girl answered. "They cannot return."
"The fighting surges backward and forward," said the other. He pointed down the street.
"Some Boches still lie concealed among these houses. They are waiting for a chance to retreat, and are sure to come' this way."
Having thus warned the girl he ran back to his own house.
One of Emilienne's patients was calling for water, and she hastened to attend to him. Another plucked at a bandage round his head, repeating something over and over again which the girl could not understand. But she sprinkled water on his face, poured some drops into his mouth, and was comforted to find that he quietened down, having obtained some relief from his sufferings.
While thus engaged, she heard once again the sound of German voices in the street. Rising quickly, she went towards a shattered window and peered cautiously in the direction from which the voices seemed to come.
In the dim light she caught sight of four Germans coming out of a house where, as she learned afterwards, they 'had killed and robbed the wounded. They made signals to others she could not see. A cold shiver ran through her body. She glanced round the room at the helpless men who were under her care. The Highlander with the bandage round his head was shouting somebody's name, like a child calling for his mother. He was delirious and in pain.
The wounded officer seemed to be asleep. There was no one to give her aid if the enemy should come. Nearer and nearer came the sound of German voices. She glanced at the revolver, and then crept behind a chair. Kneeling down, she leaned her elbow on the seat and held her revolver towards the doorway. Stealthy footsteps sounded from outside. Someone was approaching her house. A prayer rose from her lips. Then she heard the welcome sound of rifle fire at the end of the street. Bullets whizzed past the window and smacked the stones like great hailstones. The prowling Boches had been observed and were being fired at. Then she heard hurried footsteps outside, and a German soldier flung the door open. She raised her revolver, and as a dim form entered the room she fired. The man fell and cried out with surprise and pain. A voice answered his and another entered.
Again Emilienne fired, and the second German fell over the body of the first, while a third turned back and ran into the street, shouting a warning to his fellows.
For a few seconds the rifle firing slackened. Emilienne was uncertain whether the Germans had been driven back, or had overcome those who had attacked them. She remained kneeling behind the chair.
The room was dim with smoke. It seemed to grow darker. Then a cry from one of her wounded patients made her look round. A German had appeared at the back window of the small room. He leapt up on the sill to force his way in. A sudden faintness seized her, but she struggled against it, and darting towards the window fired again, and the German soldier tumbled back in a heap.
A single cartridge remained in the revolver. The next shot would have to be the last!
Emilienne drew a deep breath and waited, listening intently. The soldiers had ceased to moan, the wounded officer had been awakened by the sound of the revolver, and was leaning on his elbow, whispering something she could not understand.
Then the shouts of British soldiers broke on her ears. Londoners and Highlanders charging side by side came running down the street, sweeping the last remnants of Germans before them. They were opposed for a brief space by a fitful fire. But at length, one after another, the skulking Boches raised cries of "Kamerad! Kamerad !"
The battle for possession of the village was over and won. Emilienne dropped the revolver, and running to a window, called for help. Three British soldiers heard her, and at once entered the house, leaping over the bodies of the dead Germans. One could speak French, and was told by Emilienne what had happened. She pointed to the prostrate bodies at the doorway: "They were coming to kill the wounded," she said.
It was almost dark, and she took down a lamp and lit it with trembling fingers.
A British officer entered, and was told in a few words what had happened. "This brave girl," said a sergeant, "fought here alone against the enemy to defend our wounded men.
The officer bowed. "Your country may well be proud of you," he said simply, and shook hands with her. A group of British soldiers had gathered in the street, and when the war-stained heroes learned what Mlle Moreau had done, they raised a cheer, hailing her as "The Lady of Loos". And as "The Lady of Loos" she will always be known.
The story of Emilienne's brave stand against the Germans sent a thrill through France when it was related in the newspapers, and she was compared by more than one writer to Joan of Arc herself. A few weeks later she was publicly decorated at Versailles by General de Sailly, who, when he had related in dignified terms what she had done, declared proudly: "You do honour to the women of France.”
"Vive Ia Emilienne Moreau! Vive Ia France!" shouted the assembled soldiers and spectators.
Pale and agitated the comely French girl, who was attired in deep mourning for near relatives fallen in battle, bowed to the General and to the crowd that cheered her. And everyone who gazed on the slim, small woman wondered at her courage and daring on that memorable day when she baffled and drove back the cowardly Boches, who had sought to rob and murder wounded and helpless soldiers. She was a heroine indeed, and France was proud of her.
This article comes from the excellent website ‘The Great War in a Different Light.’
On the 25th September 1915 the attack started, whilst Scottish soldiers of the Black Watch counter-attacked her village, Émilienne, who was only 17 years old, went to meet them and gave them the precise location of the German positions in a small, impregnable fort. Thanks to this information, the allies were able to go around the small fort, reducing the German effectiveness in this particular corner of the battlefield, with very few casualties. Further to this attack, Émilienne organised a first aid post in her house with the help of a Scottish doctor, to take care of the wounded, but the Germans tried to take back the village.
To save a British soldier who was under enemy fire in the village, she went out of her home with explosives and succeeded, with the help of some British soldiers, in forcing the Germans to flee from their position in the neighboring house. Later on, she shot two German soldiers though a closed wooden door. Eventually, the village was under the sole control of the allies.
A Civilian Heroine
The story of "The Lady of Loos" is one of the most inspiring in the annals of the Great War. This French heroine's name is Emilienne Moreau, and she was only eighteen years of age when the battle of Loos was fought on that memorable Saturday in September, 1915, and the heroic British troops won a victory over the Germans, pushing back their lines and capturing many prisoners and guns.
Emilienne is a native of the village of Loos, and with the other villagers - chiefly old men and women and young children, for the able-bodied men were fighting in the armies of France - endured the perils of the fierce bombardment of the British guns, which compelled the Germans to crouch within cellars and dug-outs. The enemy had turned the village into a fortification. Earth-works on every side bristled with machine-guns. The cemetery had been converted into a fort; it was riddled with trenches, and tombs had, been cleared to make room for guns, so that each tomb became a machine-gun emplacement. Mazes of barbed wire crossed every roadway and bulged round every earthwork. The Germans were confident that the village was impregnable, and that they would hold it with ease against attack. But the British soldiers broke through every obstacle, fighting with great valour and determination until the village was completely captured. The Londoners approached from the south and assaulted the cemetery, and the Scots broke through on the west and the north.
Emilienne Moreau's home was situated in one of the little streets in the west side of the village. The villagers, huddled in cellars and in narrow rooms, heard the shells screaming overhead and bursting above and around the German redoubts and emplacements. All night long the clamour resounded far and near. Everyone was weary, yet none could sleep. Whispers went round that the attack would open at dawn, and all looked forward with confidence to victory.
When daylight came at length the roar of battle increased in fury. It was unsafe to venture out of doors, but brave men and women did so in quest of water and food for moaning and frightened children. Shrapnel bullets spattered on roofs and walls, time and again, and stray shells burst in narrow lanes, ploughing up the hard earth and wrecking buildings, which collapsed in clouds of dust. In the house next to Emilienne's a shell tore through the rose early in the forenoon and exploded in the backyard.
"The end is near," cried an old woman.
"Do not say that, mother," the daughter replied. "We are still safe."
"Our soldiers are at hand, my girl. That is what I mean when I say 'the end is near' - the end of the Boche rule here. Do you not hear the clamour of the machine-guns? The attack has commenced now.”
As she spoke, her husband ran into the house. "Ah! you are still alive," he exclaimed. He carried a pail of water and a loaf of bread.
"How goes the battle?" asked his wife.
"Our deliverers are at hand. I have seen them. They are not far off now."
"The soldiers of France?"
"No, not our soldiers, but those of our great ally; and they are kilted Scots, big brave men whom nothing will keep back. Hear them! hear them!" he cried, his eyes flashing with enthusiasm.
Confused shouts resounded above the din of battle.
"The Highlanders, the Highlanders are coming!" someone called from without.
"Did I not tell you they were at hand?" the old man said proudly. "I have seen them with mine own eyes."
The old woman peered from the window, and watched several Germans scampering past. "Ha! the Boches are running," she cried.
Then she caught a glimpse of a tall Highlander. "The end is near, as I have said," she murmured gladly.
Soon the street was the scene of fierce fighting. A German machine-gun swept it for a few seconds, and then stopped suddenly, for its team had been overpowered. Scots soldiers rushed past the doors, and German riflemen crouching on house roofs and behind windows tried in vain to hold them back. Many fell, but the survivors swept on, driving the Boches before them as an autumn gale drives fallen leaves through a forest. The villagers ran out of doors, risking their lives to help and succour the wounded. Bleeding High-landers were carried into the houses, where their wounds were bandaged, and they were laid on beds and couches. Kindly hands smoothed their aching brows and pressed cups of cool water to their burning lips.
Several wounded men lay in Emilienne Moreau's house. She helped to stanch their wounds, and showed great skill and sympathy in nursing them and attending to their needs. She seemed a born nurse, and her gentle words and sweet smile were like a tonic to the stricken soldiers.
All day long she nursed them, while the battle waged fiercely through the village. "Water, water!" was a constant cry. An old man who had been drawing water all forenoon lay dead beside the well. A German sniper, concealed on a roof, had slain him. Women who attended to the wounded, passing from house to house with no thought of their own safety, had been wounded or slain, and several children had perished. Yet the villagers continued their noble work. They were all inspired with the spirit which has made France great and strong. Time and again Emilienne drew water for her patients, and she had many narrow escapes.
There was much confused fighting. Positions were taken and lost and taken again during the day. In the afternoon the quarter in which Emilienne Moreau lived was partially regained by the enemy. But the Germans were ultimately isolated.
"They are coming back!" the shout went down the little street on one of the occasions when it seemed the Germans were regaining ground.
"Who? The Boches?" one villager asked another.
"Yes, they have rallied," called someone.
"No, no," another protested, "these are Boches who have been cut off and are trying to retreat."
A woman shrieked with horror. Through a shattered window in Emilienne's home she had seen a German soldier bayoneting a wounded Highlander in the street.
"They are killing the wounded," she cried.
As she spoke a German darted into the house. Emilienne caught a glimpse of his blood-stained bayonet, and a thrill of cold horror went through her. A kilted officer raised himself on his elbow and drew his revolver, but his hand shook as the German, uttering a curse, darted towards him. Quick as lightning, Emilienne seized the revolver and fired. The German fell in a heap on the floor. She hardly realized what she had done, and ere she could collect her thoughts the officer called out something. Another German had appeared at the door. He too was searching for wounded men. Without hesitation Emilienne sprang towards him, and raising the revolver again, pulled the trigger. The German fell across the doorway mortally wounded.
The air was thick with smoke. Emilienne glanced out at a window, but could not ascertain what was happening. A German soldier rushed past her, and then someone screamed near at hand; bullets whizzed through the air, and the groans of wounded men rose on all sides. But amidst that scene of horror and terror Emilienne remained fearless and composed. For her own safety she took no thought. Her sole concern was for the wounded men under her care.
After a long interval an old man ran across the street, shouting Emilienne's name, and she answered him.
"You are still alive," he exclaimed with relief
.
"Two Boches tried to attack the wounded, and I shot them down," Emilienne told him.
"Hush! hide that revolver lest they should return and see you," be advised her.
"But they have been driven away," the girl answered. "They cannot return."
"The fighting surges backward and forward," said the other. He pointed down the street.
"Some Boches still lie concealed among these houses. They are waiting for a chance to retreat, and are sure to come' this way."
Having thus warned the girl he ran back to his own house.
One of Emilienne's patients was calling for water, and she hastened to attend to him. Another plucked at a bandage round his head, repeating something over and over again which the girl could not understand. But she sprinkled water on his face, poured some drops into his mouth, and was comforted to find that he quietened down, having obtained some relief from his sufferings.
While thus engaged, she heard once again the sound of German voices in the street. Rising quickly, she went towards a shattered window and peered cautiously in the direction from which the voices seemed to come.
In the dim light she caught sight of four Germans coming out of a house where, as she learned afterwards, they 'had killed and robbed the wounded. They made signals to others she could not see. A cold shiver ran through her body. She glanced round the room at the helpless men who were under her care. The Highlander with the bandage round his head was shouting somebody's name, like a child calling for his mother. He was delirious and in pain.
The wounded officer seemed to be asleep. There was no one to give her aid if the enemy should come. Nearer and nearer came the sound of German voices. She glanced at the revolver, and then crept behind a chair. Kneeling down, she leaned her elbow on the seat and held her revolver towards the doorway. Stealthy footsteps sounded from outside. Someone was approaching her house. A prayer rose from her lips. Then she heard the welcome sound of rifle fire at the end of the street. Bullets whizzed past the window and smacked the stones like great hailstones. The prowling Boches had been observed and were being fired at. Then she heard hurried footsteps outside, and a German soldier flung the door open. She raised her revolver, and as a dim form entered the room she fired. The man fell and cried out with surprise and pain. A voice answered his and another entered.
Again Emilienne fired, and the second German fell over the body of the first, while a third turned back and ran into the street, shouting a warning to his fellows.
For a few seconds the rifle firing slackened. Emilienne was uncertain whether the Germans had been driven back, or had overcome those who had attacked them. She remained kneeling behind the chair.
The room was dim with smoke. It seemed to grow darker. Then a cry from one of her wounded patients made her look round. A German had appeared at the back window of the small room. He leapt up on the sill to force his way in. A sudden faintness seized her, but she struggled against it, and darting towards the window fired again, and the German soldier tumbled back in a heap.
A single cartridge remained in the revolver. The next shot would have to be the last!
Emilienne drew a deep breath and waited, listening intently. The soldiers had ceased to moan, the wounded officer had been awakened by the sound of the revolver, and was leaning on his elbow, whispering something she could not understand.
Then the shouts of British soldiers broke on her ears. Londoners and Highlanders charging side by side came running down the street, sweeping the last remnants of Germans before them. They were opposed for a brief space by a fitful fire. But at length, one after another, the skulking Boches raised cries of "Kamerad! Kamerad !"
The battle for possession of the village was over and won. Emilienne dropped the revolver, and running to a window, called for help. Three British soldiers heard her, and at once entered the house, leaping over the bodies of the dead Germans. One could speak French, and was told by Emilienne what had happened. She pointed to the prostrate bodies at the doorway: "They were coming to kill the wounded," she said.
It was almost dark, and she took down a lamp and lit it with trembling fingers.
A British officer entered, and was told in a few words what had happened. "This brave girl," said a sergeant, "fought here alone against the enemy to defend our wounded men.
The officer bowed. "Your country may well be proud of you," he said simply, and shook hands with her. A group of British soldiers had gathered in the street, and when the war-stained heroes learned what Mlle Moreau had done, they raised a cheer, hailing her as "The Lady of Loos". And as "The Lady of Loos" she will always be known.
The story of Emilienne's brave stand against the Germans sent a thrill through France when it was related in the newspapers, and she was compared by more than one writer to Joan of Arc herself. A few weeks later she was publicly decorated at Versailles by General de Sailly, who, when he had related in dignified terms what she had done, declared proudly: "You do honour to the women of France.”
"Vive Ia Emilienne Moreau! Vive Ia France!" shouted the assembled soldiers and spectators.
Pale and agitated the comely French girl, who was attired in deep mourning for near relatives fallen in battle, bowed to the General and to the crowd that cheered her. And everyone who gazed on the slim, small woman wondered at her courage and daring on that memorable day when she baffled and drove back the cowardly Boches, who had sought to rob and murder wounded and helpless soldiers. She was a heroine indeed, and France was proud of her.
Monday, September 07, 2009
The Battle of Loos - The 2nd Royal Munster Fusiliers at Hulloch.
This excellent article was first published in ‘the Sphere’ on July 15, 1916 and comes from The Great War in a Different light.
It gives an account of the work of the 'The 2nd Royal Munster Fusiliers at Hulloch'.
September 25, 1915
Below the chateau of Vaudricourt there is a wood which closes it around with a sense of security belonging to fir woods, and the zone of pines is dense and fragrant.
On the night of September 23, 1915, the Royal Munster Fusiliers marched from the little village of Philosophe and bivouacked in the Vaudricourt domain. The battalion was on the march again, and that dim, cloudy night they trooped in under the shelter and lighted their camp fires.
The whole effect was mysterious and unreal as things seen in dreams; the columns of luminous smoke soared upwards, illuminating the low strong branches of the trees, and around the fires the men lay huddled in their great-coats, grouped within the circles of flickering light.
Just as the fires were dying down into blackness a little incident that memory dwells upon changed the Vaudricourt woods into an undying picture for those who saw it. One of the men stretched out his arm and placed a lighted candle on a branch just over his head, and as though this simple act appealed to the memories and imaginations of his comrades, in a moment the pine woods of Vaudricourt became transformed into a forest of Christmas trees. One after another the tiny flames appeared, and burned like a hundred little glittering shrines. God knows what memories of childhood and things that were far enough away from war it recalled to the hearts of these men.
Yet the memory of the clouded night, the whisper of the wind in the trees, and the woods of Vaudricourt, bright with the soldiers' candles, comes like a gleam across the vast darkness and lights again the faces of the war-worn battalion once more on its way to the fighting line.
On September 24 the Munsters took up their position close to La Routoire Farm. Beyond these trenches the Germans occupied a long, sweeping ridge of down land; a space of quiet scenery spread out to the horizon like a calm sea. On the German side were Auchy, Hulloch, and Loos, and on the British Cambrin, Vermelle, Philosophe, and Mazingarbe, and between them the desolate ground from which living things are fenced and barred out. The trenches divided the two main roads at right angles, and the Hulloch road played an important part in subsequent operations. Here and there over the grass piles of slag stood out like stubborn towers, black and desolate as some minor, haunting fragment of an evil dream. They masked the mines, and were treacherous, cruel defences on a poor, wasted land.
The weather was gloriously fine, and under the heavy bombardment of the British guns the whole sky line seemed to be in eruption. Huge masses of chalk-dust and smoke lifted hundreds of feet into the air, and rolled slowly away like a drowsy cloud trailing near the ground and reluctant to depart from this "best of all possible worlds."
In the grey light of the morning of September 25 the British guns opened a furious fire, joined by the rattle of rifle and machine guns. Without fuss or disorder the Munsters awaited the moment when they should face a pouring stream of bullets and charge into the teeth of the storm.
Led by Major Considine, the Munsters pushed up the winding trenches to the front line, exchanging a word or two as they went, and relying, as all men do in time of crisis, upon those unexplained resources that stand for all that is best in a soldier. When they reached the front line the leading company was blocked, for the trenches were full of men, with their faces coloured an ashen blue and the buttons and badges on their coats turned green. Some were dead and others unconscious, for they were the helpless victims of gas fumes.
When the Munsters charged over the parapet the Hulloch road was alive with troops racing towards the German trenches, but to the front all was quiet, and a number of khaki figures in blue gas helmets lay very still out over the grass towards the German lines, having so encountered that "last and greatest of all fine sights" in the cold dimness of half oblivion.
The fire from the enemy's guns increased as the Munsters advanced with a yell, and the wire ahead of them was apparently unbroken.
Leading "A" Company, Major Considine fell in the advance, and as he sank down Sergeant-major Jim Leahy rushed forward to carry him into safety. He, too, was hit through the heart by a German bullet, and when he fell the advancing Munsters cheered him as they raced ahead, carrying with them the memory of the two men who had fallen so gallantly, into their fierce charge. Both Major Considine and Sergeant Leahy are buried on the battlefield almost where they fell, 800 yards west of Vermelles.
Up the long-deserted, grass-grown Hulloch road six batteries came at a gallop, wheeling boldly across the open under heavy fire, the Munsters, in conjunction with the brigade, following at a run. Great volcanoes of black smoke shot up immediately as the bombers worked down the German trenches. Lieutenant Denis Conran with six of his company occupied a support trench crowded with German troops, and for forty-eight hours held this small salient of the advance, waging a steady war with unwavering determination and grit. The enemy were all around this small handful, and from where they fought they could see the village of Hulloch being knocked to pieces like a card-house, and again on the right the shell-torn havoc of the advance to Loos, the chalk pit, and Hill 70. The larger stride had been taken at last, and the men in their gas helmets with their five days' growth of beard looked strange and almost oriental as they advanced, receded, and again advanced as the deadly conflict rolled onwards.
Towards evening the weather turned bitterly cold and heavy rain began to fall. The smell of poison gas, shell fumes, and blood became almost overpowering. Among the torn bodies the flotsam of war lay unheeded in the mud. Innumerable blankets, rifles, caps, belts, and bloodstained dressings told that a memory was all that was left to many of those who had been alive and glad a few hours before, and everywhere there were dead, dying, and wounded men, and all the helpless misery of battle.
The troops charged again, and the remnants of the Munsters raised another cheer and rallied for the last rush, and then the strain ended as you may see men pulled suddenly over at a tug-of-war. Four columns of German soldiers filed out of the trenches, holding their hands above their heads.
The road from Loos to Hulloch was clear at a cost of 1,000,000 shells and 50,000 men. A right of way was established at a price that no one can ever tell, since broken lives and hearts are not entered into any known roll of honour, and this right of way was made good by the simple valour and indomitable constancy of the ordinary man.
For them there is no return, for those who waited for them no more reason to cross the days off the calendar; stillness has intervened — the stillness that marks the passing of the mortal to immortality. Tears are useless, broken hearts useless; life will not alter because of these things. The days go on, and we with them; those who have gone have "bought eternity with a little hour, and are not dead."
And the road is now clear from Loos to Hulloch.
It gives an account of the work of the 'The 2nd Royal Munster Fusiliers at Hulloch'.
September 25, 1915
Below the chateau of Vaudricourt there is a wood which closes it around with a sense of security belonging to fir woods, and the zone of pines is dense and fragrant.
On the night of September 23, 1915, the Royal Munster Fusiliers marched from the little village of Philosophe and bivouacked in the Vaudricourt domain. The battalion was on the march again, and that dim, cloudy night they trooped in under the shelter and lighted their camp fires.
The whole effect was mysterious and unreal as things seen in dreams; the columns of luminous smoke soared upwards, illuminating the low strong branches of the trees, and around the fires the men lay huddled in their great-coats, grouped within the circles of flickering light.
Just as the fires were dying down into blackness a little incident that memory dwells upon changed the Vaudricourt woods into an undying picture for those who saw it. One of the men stretched out his arm and placed a lighted candle on a branch just over his head, and as though this simple act appealed to the memories and imaginations of his comrades, in a moment the pine woods of Vaudricourt became transformed into a forest of Christmas trees. One after another the tiny flames appeared, and burned like a hundred little glittering shrines. God knows what memories of childhood and things that were far enough away from war it recalled to the hearts of these men.
Yet the memory of the clouded night, the whisper of the wind in the trees, and the woods of Vaudricourt, bright with the soldiers' candles, comes like a gleam across the vast darkness and lights again the faces of the war-worn battalion once more on its way to the fighting line.
On September 24 the Munsters took up their position close to La Routoire Farm. Beyond these trenches the Germans occupied a long, sweeping ridge of down land; a space of quiet scenery spread out to the horizon like a calm sea. On the German side were Auchy, Hulloch, and Loos, and on the British Cambrin, Vermelle, Philosophe, and Mazingarbe, and between them the desolate ground from which living things are fenced and barred out. The trenches divided the two main roads at right angles, and the Hulloch road played an important part in subsequent operations. Here and there over the grass piles of slag stood out like stubborn towers, black and desolate as some minor, haunting fragment of an evil dream. They masked the mines, and were treacherous, cruel defences on a poor, wasted land.
The weather was gloriously fine, and under the heavy bombardment of the British guns the whole sky line seemed to be in eruption. Huge masses of chalk-dust and smoke lifted hundreds of feet into the air, and rolled slowly away like a drowsy cloud trailing near the ground and reluctant to depart from this "best of all possible worlds."
In the grey light of the morning of September 25 the British guns opened a furious fire, joined by the rattle of rifle and machine guns. Without fuss or disorder the Munsters awaited the moment when they should face a pouring stream of bullets and charge into the teeth of the storm.
Led by Major Considine, the Munsters pushed up the winding trenches to the front line, exchanging a word or two as they went, and relying, as all men do in time of crisis, upon those unexplained resources that stand for all that is best in a soldier. When they reached the front line the leading company was blocked, for the trenches were full of men, with their faces coloured an ashen blue and the buttons and badges on their coats turned green. Some were dead and others unconscious, for they were the helpless victims of gas fumes.
When the Munsters charged over the parapet the Hulloch road was alive with troops racing towards the German trenches, but to the front all was quiet, and a number of khaki figures in blue gas helmets lay very still out over the grass towards the German lines, having so encountered that "last and greatest of all fine sights" in the cold dimness of half oblivion.
The fire from the enemy's guns increased as the Munsters advanced with a yell, and the wire ahead of them was apparently unbroken.
Leading "A" Company, Major Considine fell in the advance, and as he sank down Sergeant-major Jim Leahy rushed forward to carry him into safety. He, too, was hit through the heart by a German bullet, and when he fell the advancing Munsters cheered him as they raced ahead, carrying with them the memory of the two men who had fallen so gallantly, into their fierce charge. Both Major Considine and Sergeant Leahy are buried on the battlefield almost where they fell, 800 yards west of Vermelles.
Up the long-deserted, grass-grown Hulloch road six batteries came at a gallop, wheeling boldly across the open under heavy fire, the Munsters, in conjunction with the brigade, following at a run. Great volcanoes of black smoke shot up immediately as the bombers worked down the German trenches. Lieutenant Denis Conran with six of his company occupied a support trench crowded with German troops, and for forty-eight hours held this small salient of the advance, waging a steady war with unwavering determination and grit. The enemy were all around this small handful, and from where they fought they could see the village of Hulloch being knocked to pieces like a card-house, and again on the right the shell-torn havoc of the advance to Loos, the chalk pit, and Hill 70. The larger stride had been taken at last, and the men in their gas helmets with their five days' growth of beard looked strange and almost oriental as they advanced, receded, and again advanced as the deadly conflict rolled onwards.
Towards evening the weather turned bitterly cold and heavy rain began to fall. The smell of poison gas, shell fumes, and blood became almost overpowering. Among the torn bodies the flotsam of war lay unheeded in the mud. Innumerable blankets, rifles, caps, belts, and bloodstained dressings told that a memory was all that was left to many of those who had been alive and glad a few hours before, and everywhere there were dead, dying, and wounded men, and all the helpless misery of battle.
The troops charged again, and the remnants of the Munsters raised another cheer and rallied for the last rush, and then the strain ended as you may see men pulled suddenly over at a tug-of-war. Four columns of German soldiers filed out of the trenches, holding their hands above their heads.
The road from Loos to Hulloch was clear at a cost of 1,000,000 shells and 50,000 men. A right of way was established at a price that no one can ever tell, since broken lives and hearts are not entered into any known roll of honour, and this right of way was made good by the simple valour and indomitable constancy of the ordinary man.
For them there is no return, for those who waited for them no more reason to cross the days off the calendar; stillness has intervened — the stillness that marks the passing of the mortal to immortality. Tears are useless, broken hearts useless; life will not alter because of these things. The days go on, and we with them; those who have gone have "bought eternity with a little hour, and are not dead."
And the road is now clear from Loos to Hulloch.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Battle of Loos - R.F.A. Battery.
This account of the action at Loos comes from a slightly different angle.
C.A. Rose M.C., was a member of the Royal Field Artillery and his book “Three years in France with the Guns: Being Episodes in the life of a Field Battery” is a record of the work of a Royal Field Artillery Battery.
Our First Battle.
Our marching orders came within the next few days. Each unit was provided with portable bridges, which were carried under the wagon bodies, and this, and several other preparations, gave us a good indication that we were out for business. A couple of days trekking brought us to the village of Nedonchel, which proved to be another place of happy memory to our Senior Subaltern. Here we were given a rough idea of the part we were to play in the coming proceedings. Two army corps were to attack, on a six mile front, in the neighborhood of Loos and, if the assault was successful, the corps in reserve, which included our Division, was to go through and exploit the victory to its fullest advantage. We were to take no part in the initial attack.
Large masses of troops were being moved up behind the battle area, and, in order to screen our movements from hostile aircraft, the latter stages of the journey were to be made under cover of darkness, so the whole of the next day was spent in resting. At nightfall a diversion was caused by a Cavalry Division passing through the village on its way up, and a splendid sight it presented, as one famous regiment followed swiftly on another. It was now almost time for us to make a start, and the good lady of the house had remained out of bed to brew us hot coffee and see us off the premises. As we were about to depart she told us that her old mother, aged 88, who was in the next room, had expressed the desire to see us for a moment, and so we were conducted to the old lady's bedside. She was lying telling her beads, but sat up as we approached and beckoned to each officer in turn, who advanced, knelt, and received a blessing. The inhabitants knew well that a big battle was to be fought quite soon, as the little village had been the scene of great activity during the past few days and, although it was a considerable distance from the line, the preliminary bombardment could be distinctly heard. The low muffled rumble was incessant, and, to-night, seemed, if anything, more intense. Shortly after midnight we set off and disappeared into the darkness, followed by words of good cheer from the villagers and shouts of "Bon chance, messieurs, bon chance."
Passing through Bruay we arrived a few miles behind the battle front on the morning of the assault, which was delivered at an early hour, and soon the news came back that, so far, everything was going well; the village of Loos had already fallen into our hands. As the day wore on, however, and the expected orders to advance were not forthcoming, we suspected that all was not as it should be and our fears were confirmed soon afterwards by instructions being given to prepare to bivouac overnight on the ground close by. What actually happened was this:—The initial attack was successful in capturing and overrunning the enemy's front line trenches over the whole area, but, on advancing to the second trench system a great deal of wire was found to have been left unbroken or untouched by our artillery, and this held the infantry up at vital places. The attack, however, was pressed with great courage and determination, and in some places the flood of men swept on, but, unfortunately, in others, little or no progress was made. The line, consequently, soon presented a crooked, irregular shape, which made the situation difficult and obscure. The enemy, moreover, had anticipated the attack and had large reinforcements at hand which were at once thrown in, and after a ding-dong struggle throughout the day the advance came to an abrupt standstill. Two Divisions from the Reserve Corps were then sent in, and, on the following afternoon, the Guards attacked and helped to a large extent in straightening out a considerable portion of the line. It was not until nightfall of the third day that we entered the battle and took up a position immediately north of Vermelles Station in the back garden of a tow of damaged villas. On our way "in," a couple of cavalry regiments, which had been holding Loos for the last two days and which had just been relieved, passed us. There passed also the remnant of one of the Scottish Divisions which had fought so valiantly and paid so heavy a price. Footsore, weary, and caked with mud from top to toe, with every sign of what they had been through upon them, and heavily laden with "souvenirs" in addition to their full kit, the men could scarcely crawl along. However, just as one battalion came abreast of us, in such condition, the pipes tuned up and at once every head was erect and not a man was out of step as they swung past us; such is the moral force of the bagpipes. It was one of those moments in which a lump rises in the throat and a thrill runs down the spine.
In our new position we speedily learnt what we could do and what we could not do. For instance, the signallers were able to introduce electric light into our abode by tapping a live wire which ran outside, from one fosse to the next, for we were now in the Lens coal district with mines dotted about here and there. On the other hand, we soon learnt to refrain from sleeping or showing lights in the second storey of our billet which was evidently under direct observation by the enemy, who did not take long to acquaint us with the fact.
There was always a good deal of firing to be done each day, for, although the battle may be said to have finished after four or five days, there were several side-shows before the line was adjusted to our liking, and the enemy's fire was almost continuous. This bothered the F.O.O. parties considerably, and communication was difficult to maintain for more than a short time between the front line and Battery. The wire was frequently broken in numerous places, and this kept signallers and linesmen working at high pressure to repair the damage. The O.P.'s were moderately good, with the exception of one in "Gun Trench," where our men held a portion, then came a sand bagged wall occupied on the other side by our opponents which they were able to enter by a T-shaped communication trench, then another sand-bagged wall with our infantry beyond. Neither side could shell this trench for fear of injury to their own party, but this did not prevent a lively exchange of bombs, intermingled with various forms and sizes of "Minnies," which were hurled at frequent intervals. Sniping was also rampant, and periscopes, no matter how small, survived not longer than a few minutes. It was from this delightful spot that one of the subalterns arrived at the Battery one evening with his head swathed in bandages like a Sultan's turban. He had been trying conclusions with a "Minnie," and, as this was in the days before the introduction of the steel helmet, the latter had easily come out on top. When the wound was ascertained to be nothing like as serious as the size of the bandage seemed to indicate, he was removed to the wagon line amid jeers from his brother officers, and a few days' rest sufficed to bring him back to duty again.
Now, in one portion of the zone which we were covering, "No Man's Land" extended some 1500 yards in depth, and midway, lying in the valley, were what appeared to be two derelict enemy guns partially camouflaged This aroused the curiosity of the Staff, who called for volunteers to go out and make an investigation and report as to the condition of the sights, etc. Our B.C. gallantly offered his services, in spite of the fact that he was over six feet in height, and presented a most conspicuous figure, and would not be deterred. He set off crawling through the long grass on his perilous journey, and there was a huge grin on his face when he returned. After his report went in we ascertained that the two pieces were nothing more than cleverly constructed dummies formed from cart wheels, telegraph poles and trunks of trees, but it was not until he almost came up to them that he made the discovery.
The detachments meanwhile had settled down, making improvements to their billets and strengthening the gun pits, and were already proving themselves seasoned warriors. On one occasion a nasty accident happened, due to the explosion of a howitzer, caused, as was afterwards proved, by a faulty shell. The complete gun crew, with the exception of the No. 1 in charge, was wounded. Three of their number were temporarily buried by the earth thrown up by the explosion, and it was probably due to that fact that no one was killed. The pit naturally fell to bits and the debris was indescribable, but the Sergeant managed to disentangle himself, and, standing stiffly to attention, reported to the officer on duty, "No. 2 gun out of action, sir!" No time was lost in digging out the injured men, and it was only found necessary to evacuate three of the number to the nearest dressing station—the remainder flatly refusing to go. The layer, in particular, deserved great credit for his grit, for, in spite of having been buried, and having scarcely a hair left on his head and devoid of eyebrows, not to mention the shock to his nervous system, he was again serving his gun 24 hours later, on the arrival of the new piece. Some idea of the force of the explosion can be gathered from the fact that the barrel was found, in two pieces, some 150 yards away, having been blown over a railway embankment, while the breech block, which weighs about a cwt., was discovered, after a 12 hours' search, embedded in the ground six feet below the pit. At this period a considerable number of "prematures" were taking place, and, on one occasion, we ascribed this wounding of two gunners to this cause, but afterwards found out our mistake. An S.O.S. went up after dark, and, at the time of firing No. 3 gun, the layer and another gunner were both badly hit by what appeared to be a "premature" just outside the bore of the piece. Throughout this period we were firing nothing but high explosive shells. Great therefore was our surprise when, three weeks later, letters arrived from both men, who were in hospital, to say that in each case shrapnel bullets had been extracted from them! What had actually occurred was this: At the same time that the trigger was pulled and the shell discharged, a "pip squeak" must have burst in front of the mouth of the gun pit, driving the bullets through the entrance.
Day after day passed in much the same way, neither side attempting to make an attack on any large scale, but on the morning of the 8th October, it was observed that the hostile shelling was not normal, and had increased in extent along the whole recently captured area. Preparations were therefore rapidly made to meet any eventuality, and, as the day advanced and his bombardment gained in strength, it was apparent to everyone that the enemy contemplated an attack. At noon orders were received to be ready, at any time, to lay down a destructive barrage on a certain zone. The Staff had happily anticipated the point of attack accurately, and, by the time the enemy concentrated his final burst of lire on his objectives, every gun in the neighbourhood which could bear, was trained on the vital spot ready to open out. When at last the time arrived, the bombardment ceased abruptly, and the enemy's infantry advanced to the assault wave upon wave, for the most part in mass formation and with arms linked together. Emerging from a wood, they had a considerable distance to cover across open ground before approaching our trenches, so both our infantry and artillery fire was at first withheld. This gave encouragement to the enemy, and, as his bombardment had been pretty severe, he expected more or less of a "walk over," and did not reckon on what was to follow. When he had advanced to within 200 yards of our lines, suddenly rapid fire spurted out from our rifles and machine guns, and guns of every description spat H.E. and shrapnel, and his ranks were literally mown down. Then a curtain was put down behind—a solid wall of fire—which made it practically impossible for the troops to retire, and their plight was beyond all hope. While they were cogitating whether to come on or go back, they were slaughtered in heaps—raked by the deadly machine guns. Very few indeed survived to tell the tale, but one prisoner claimed to be most indignant with the whole proceedings, and expressed his opinion that we did not "play the game" by withholding our fire, and that they imagined they had only to walk into our trenches and take possession of them. This proved to be the last big hostile counter-attack attempted, and indeed both sides were content to remain in their own trenches. We made a smaller attack the next week, but it was also unsuccessful, and little or no ground was gained. The enemy artillery devoted themselves principally to counter battery work, and several British batteries, which were ill concealed, had a most unpleasant time. Free use was made of lachrymatory shell, our first taste of it. One clear, moonlight night the battery was firing at a slow rate, and apparently the enemy saw our flashes, for he speedily turned a 4.2 battery on to us, his shells landing just short of each gun pit. No casualties resulted, but a shell entered the window of one detachment's billet and exploded, completely wrecking the room and destroying the men's equipment. Soon afterwards instructions were issued to change positions, and this was effected without loss or mishap. The new position was more favourably placed, some little way in front of the Fosse at Annequin, and had been constructed by the French. We were now covering the Hohenzollern Redoubt of evil memory. Another O.P. was constructed on the railway embankment on the La Bassée-Vermelles line, which lent itself favourably to the construction of a shaft for protection, the soil, for the most part, being chalk, as indeed it was in all the surrounding neighbourhood. It was our misfortune at this position to say farewell to our Battery Commander, who left us to take up a Staff appointment with the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, and all ranks were sorry to lose a leader who had thus far shared all their joys and sorrows. At the same time we were fortunate in securing in his successor one who quickly and tactfully took up the reins of office, and the Battery continued to run on equally smooth lines.
It now became quite evident that operations would not resume the nature of a battle, and it was no surprise to receive intimation that the Division would shortly retire from the conflict. Nobody was sorry at the prospect of going out, although useful lessons had been learnt and considerable experience had undoubtedly been gained.
The weather was beginning to break, and towards the end of the first week in November we withdrew to the village of Sailly.
C.A. Rose M.C., was a member of the Royal Field Artillery and his book “Three years in France with the Guns: Being Episodes in the life of a Field Battery” is a record of the work of a Royal Field Artillery Battery.
Our First Battle.
Our marching orders came within the next few days. Each unit was provided with portable bridges, which were carried under the wagon bodies, and this, and several other preparations, gave us a good indication that we were out for business. A couple of days trekking brought us to the village of Nedonchel, which proved to be another place of happy memory to our Senior Subaltern. Here we were given a rough idea of the part we were to play in the coming proceedings. Two army corps were to attack, on a six mile front, in the neighborhood of Loos and, if the assault was successful, the corps in reserve, which included our Division, was to go through and exploit the victory to its fullest advantage. We were to take no part in the initial attack.
Large masses of troops were being moved up behind the battle area, and, in order to screen our movements from hostile aircraft, the latter stages of the journey were to be made under cover of darkness, so the whole of the next day was spent in resting. At nightfall a diversion was caused by a Cavalry Division passing through the village on its way up, and a splendid sight it presented, as one famous regiment followed swiftly on another. It was now almost time for us to make a start, and the good lady of the house had remained out of bed to brew us hot coffee and see us off the premises. As we were about to depart she told us that her old mother, aged 88, who was in the next room, had expressed the desire to see us for a moment, and so we were conducted to the old lady's bedside. She was lying telling her beads, but sat up as we approached and beckoned to each officer in turn, who advanced, knelt, and received a blessing. The inhabitants knew well that a big battle was to be fought quite soon, as the little village had been the scene of great activity during the past few days and, although it was a considerable distance from the line, the preliminary bombardment could be distinctly heard. The low muffled rumble was incessant, and, to-night, seemed, if anything, more intense. Shortly after midnight we set off and disappeared into the darkness, followed by words of good cheer from the villagers and shouts of "Bon chance, messieurs, bon chance."
Passing through Bruay we arrived a few miles behind the battle front on the morning of the assault, which was delivered at an early hour, and soon the news came back that, so far, everything was going well; the village of Loos had already fallen into our hands. As the day wore on, however, and the expected orders to advance were not forthcoming, we suspected that all was not as it should be and our fears were confirmed soon afterwards by instructions being given to prepare to bivouac overnight on the ground close by. What actually happened was this:—The initial attack was successful in capturing and overrunning the enemy's front line trenches over the whole area, but, on advancing to the second trench system a great deal of wire was found to have been left unbroken or untouched by our artillery, and this held the infantry up at vital places. The attack, however, was pressed with great courage and determination, and in some places the flood of men swept on, but, unfortunately, in others, little or no progress was made. The line, consequently, soon presented a crooked, irregular shape, which made the situation difficult and obscure. The enemy, moreover, had anticipated the attack and had large reinforcements at hand which were at once thrown in, and after a ding-dong struggle throughout the day the advance came to an abrupt standstill. Two Divisions from the Reserve Corps were then sent in, and, on the following afternoon, the Guards attacked and helped to a large extent in straightening out a considerable portion of the line. It was not until nightfall of the third day that we entered the battle and took up a position immediately north of Vermelles Station in the back garden of a tow of damaged villas. On our way "in," a couple of cavalry regiments, which had been holding Loos for the last two days and which had just been relieved, passed us. There passed also the remnant of one of the Scottish Divisions which had fought so valiantly and paid so heavy a price. Footsore, weary, and caked with mud from top to toe, with every sign of what they had been through upon them, and heavily laden with "souvenirs" in addition to their full kit, the men could scarcely crawl along. However, just as one battalion came abreast of us, in such condition, the pipes tuned up and at once every head was erect and not a man was out of step as they swung past us; such is the moral force of the bagpipes. It was one of those moments in which a lump rises in the throat and a thrill runs down the spine.
In our new position we speedily learnt what we could do and what we could not do. For instance, the signallers were able to introduce electric light into our abode by tapping a live wire which ran outside, from one fosse to the next, for we were now in the Lens coal district with mines dotted about here and there. On the other hand, we soon learnt to refrain from sleeping or showing lights in the second storey of our billet which was evidently under direct observation by the enemy, who did not take long to acquaint us with the fact.
There was always a good deal of firing to be done each day, for, although the battle may be said to have finished after four or five days, there were several side-shows before the line was adjusted to our liking, and the enemy's fire was almost continuous. This bothered the F.O.O. parties considerably, and communication was difficult to maintain for more than a short time between the front line and Battery. The wire was frequently broken in numerous places, and this kept signallers and linesmen working at high pressure to repair the damage. The O.P.'s were moderately good, with the exception of one in "Gun Trench," where our men held a portion, then came a sand bagged wall occupied on the other side by our opponents which they were able to enter by a T-shaped communication trench, then another sand-bagged wall with our infantry beyond. Neither side could shell this trench for fear of injury to their own party, but this did not prevent a lively exchange of bombs, intermingled with various forms and sizes of "Minnies," which were hurled at frequent intervals. Sniping was also rampant, and periscopes, no matter how small, survived not longer than a few minutes. It was from this delightful spot that one of the subalterns arrived at the Battery one evening with his head swathed in bandages like a Sultan's turban. He had been trying conclusions with a "Minnie," and, as this was in the days before the introduction of the steel helmet, the latter had easily come out on top. When the wound was ascertained to be nothing like as serious as the size of the bandage seemed to indicate, he was removed to the wagon line amid jeers from his brother officers, and a few days' rest sufficed to bring him back to duty again.
Now, in one portion of the zone which we were covering, "No Man's Land" extended some 1500 yards in depth, and midway, lying in the valley, were what appeared to be two derelict enemy guns partially camouflaged This aroused the curiosity of the Staff, who called for volunteers to go out and make an investigation and report as to the condition of the sights, etc. Our B.C. gallantly offered his services, in spite of the fact that he was over six feet in height, and presented a most conspicuous figure, and would not be deterred. He set off crawling through the long grass on his perilous journey, and there was a huge grin on his face when he returned. After his report went in we ascertained that the two pieces were nothing more than cleverly constructed dummies formed from cart wheels, telegraph poles and trunks of trees, but it was not until he almost came up to them that he made the discovery.
The detachments meanwhile had settled down, making improvements to their billets and strengthening the gun pits, and were already proving themselves seasoned warriors. On one occasion a nasty accident happened, due to the explosion of a howitzer, caused, as was afterwards proved, by a faulty shell. The complete gun crew, with the exception of the No. 1 in charge, was wounded. Three of their number were temporarily buried by the earth thrown up by the explosion, and it was probably due to that fact that no one was killed. The pit naturally fell to bits and the debris was indescribable, but the Sergeant managed to disentangle himself, and, standing stiffly to attention, reported to the officer on duty, "No. 2 gun out of action, sir!" No time was lost in digging out the injured men, and it was only found necessary to evacuate three of the number to the nearest dressing station—the remainder flatly refusing to go. The layer, in particular, deserved great credit for his grit, for, in spite of having been buried, and having scarcely a hair left on his head and devoid of eyebrows, not to mention the shock to his nervous system, he was again serving his gun 24 hours later, on the arrival of the new piece. Some idea of the force of the explosion can be gathered from the fact that the barrel was found, in two pieces, some 150 yards away, having been blown over a railway embankment, while the breech block, which weighs about a cwt., was discovered, after a 12 hours' search, embedded in the ground six feet below the pit. At this period a considerable number of "prematures" were taking place, and, on one occasion, we ascribed this wounding of two gunners to this cause, but afterwards found out our mistake. An S.O.S. went up after dark, and, at the time of firing No. 3 gun, the layer and another gunner were both badly hit by what appeared to be a "premature" just outside the bore of the piece. Throughout this period we were firing nothing but high explosive shells. Great therefore was our surprise when, three weeks later, letters arrived from both men, who were in hospital, to say that in each case shrapnel bullets had been extracted from them! What had actually occurred was this: At the same time that the trigger was pulled and the shell discharged, a "pip squeak" must have burst in front of the mouth of the gun pit, driving the bullets through the entrance.
Day after day passed in much the same way, neither side attempting to make an attack on any large scale, but on the morning of the 8th October, it was observed that the hostile shelling was not normal, and had increased in extent along the whole recently captured area. Preparations were therefore rapidly made to meet any eventuality, and, as the day advanced and his bombardment gained in strength, it was apparent to everyone that the enemy contemplated an attack. At noon orders were received to be ready, at any time, to lay down a destructive barrage on a certain zone. The Staff had happily anticipated the point of attack accurately, and, by the time the enemy concentrated his final burst of lire on his objectives, every gun in the neighbourhood which could bear, was trained on the vital spot ready to open out. When at last the time arrived, the bombardment ceased abruptly, and the enemy's infantry advanced to the assault wave upon wave, for the most part in mass formation and with arms linked together. Emerging from a wood, they had a considerable distance to cover across open ground before approaching our trenches, so both our infantry and artillery fire was at first withheld. This gave encouragement to the enemy, and, as his bombardment had been pretty severe, he expected more or less of a "walk over," and did not reckon on what was to follow. When he had advanced to within 200 yards of our lines, suddenly rapid fire spurted out from our rifles and machine guns, and guns of every description spat H.E. and shrapnel, and his ranks were literally mown down. Then a curtain was put down behind—a solid wall of fire—which made it practically impossible for the troops to retire, and their plight was beyond all hope. While they were cogitating whether to come on or go back, they were slaughtered in heaps—raked by the deadly machine guns. Very few indeed survived to tell the tale, but one prisoner claimed to be most indignant with the whole proceedings, and expressed his opinion that we did not "play the game" by withholding our fire, and that they imagined they had only to walk into our trenches and take possession of them. This proved to be the last big hostile counter-attack attempted, and indeed both sides were content to remain in their own trenches. We made a smaller attack the next week, but it was also unsuccessful, and little or no ground was gained. The enemy artillery devoted themselves principally to counter battery work, and several British batteries, which were ill concealed, had a most unpleasant time. Free use was made of lachrymatory shell, our first taste of it. One clear, moonlight night the battery was firing at a slow rate, and apparently the enemy saw our flashes, for he speedily turned a 4.2 battery on to us, his shells landing just short of each gun pit. No casualties resulted, but a shell entered the window of one detachment's billet and exploded, completely wrecking the room and destroying the men's equipment. Soon afterwards instructions were issued to change positions, and this was effected without loss or mishap. The new position was more favourably placed, some little way in front of the Fosse at Annequin, and had been constructed by the French. We were now covering the Hohenzollern Redoubt of evil memory. Another O.P. was constructed on the railway embankment on the La Bassée-Vermelles line, which lent itself favourably to the construction of a shaft for protection, the soil, for the most part, being chalk, as indeed it was in all the surrounding neighbourhood. It was our misfortune at this position to say farewell to our Battery Commander, who left us to take up a Staff appointment with the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, and all ranks were sorry to lose a leader who had thus far shared all their joys and sorrows. At the same time we were fortunate in securing in his successor one who quickly and tactfully took up the reins of office, and the Battery continued to run on equally smooth lines.
It now became quite evident that operations would not resume the nature of a battle, and it was no surprise to receive intimation that the Division would shortly retire from the conflict. Nobody was sorry at the prospect of going out, although useful lessons had been learnt and considerable experience had undoubtedly been gained.
The weather was beginning to break, and towards the end of the first week in November we withdrew to the village of Sailly.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
The Battle of Loos - The 9th Kings.
This account of the Battle of Loos comes from the book “The Story of the "9th King's" in France by Enos Herbert Glynne Roberts. “
The 9th Kings (Royal Liverpool) were a territorial Battalion and were heavily involved in the fighting.
The Battle of Loos.
For three weeks in September the Battalion practised the attack in Burbure, which it left on the 20th. Before leaving Burbure an amusing incident took place. The Battalion had paraded and was ready to move off. Suddenly two young women who were watching dashed into the ranks, embraced two of the men, kissed them with resounding smacks, and then disappeared in the gloom. The consternation of the two men caused great amusement to all. The "Ninth" moved up by stages, marching via Lapugnoy and Verquin, to its battle position in trenches by Le Rutoire Farm, which it reached on the 24th. The Battalion and the London Scottish formed a body called "Green's Force," to which was given as a first objective the German front line trenches in the vicinity of Lone Tree, as this objective was left uncovered by the diverging advance of the 1st Brigade on the right and the 2nd Brigade on the left.
In the grey light of the morning on the 25th September the British guns opened with a furious fire after many days of artillery preparation. The great battle had begun. For some time, and according to orders, the Battalion remained in its position. It was not to advance before 8-0 a.m. At this time the men left the assembly trench to move over the open to the front line. The enemy machine gunners had the range, and several were wounded almost on leaving the trench. The advance was made by sectional rushes, each section seeking what cover there was. Those who were wounded while actually advancing in many cases received slight wounds, but those that were hit while lying down were generally killed, as the bullets struck them in the head or traversed the vital organs for the length of the body. It required a courageous heart to advance seeing one's comrades thus desperately wounded or lying dead. The shell fire was not heavy, and few casualties were attributable to it. Lieutenant-Colonel Ramsay led the attack in person, and he was easily recognizable by the wand which he carried. One of the Battalion machine guns was pushed forward about 2-0 p.m. and under the covering fire it afforded the advance was continued. The advance had been slow and losses were severe, but at 3-30 p.m. the men had succeeded in establishing themselves in one line about a hundred yards from the German trenches. A few minutes afterwards the Germans surrendered, and between three and four hundred prisoners were taken. They chiefly belonged to the 59th and 157th Infantry Regiments. A harvest of souvenirs was reaped by the men, many of whom secured the then coveted Pickelhaube helmet. The prisoners were sent to the rear, and the Battalion continued the advance and ultimately [Pg 25] established a line on the Lens-Hulluch Road. It is to be observed that the Battalion was the only one that got its field kitchens up to the village of Loos on the first day of the battle. At 4-0 a.m. next morning the Battalion was withdrawn to the old British line. Later in the day it moved forward to the old German trench system as reserve in the continued operations, sustaining several gas and shell casualties. On the 28th September the Battalion moved back to Mazingarbe, as the men thought, for a rest. They were soon disappointed. At 7 p.m. on the same day orders were received to take up a position at the Slag Heap or Fosse at Loos, known as London Bridge. At 9-0 p.m. the Battalion left its billets in a deluge of rain and marched back to the line in splendid spirits in spite of the fatigue resulting from the recent fighting. It was relieved from the trenches on the 30th September, and after one night spent in the ruined houses of Loos went to Noeux-les-Mines for a few days to re-organise and re-equip.
On the 7th October the Battalion returned to the front line which was alongside the Lens-Hulluch Road to the north of Loos. The trench had evidently once been the ditch on the side of the road. It was very shallow, and it was decided to deepen it the next night as the men were too tired after their long march. This was a good resolution, but it was not carried out. The enemy commenced next morning about half-past ten with heavy shell fire. In the afternoon it became intense and an attack seemed imminent. There was no shelter in the shallow trench, as there had not been sufficient time to make any dugouts. The men could do nothing but wait. Minutes seemed hours. The shelling appeared endless. So terrific was the enemy fire that it was doubted by the artillery observers in rear whether any of the front line garrison was left alive. All who might be lucky enough to escape physical destruction would at any rate be morally broken. The Germans who had concentrated in the Bois Hugo attacked about 4-30 p.m. They were repulsed by rifle and machine gun fire, and it is gratifying to know that two of the Battalion machine guns caught the enemy in enfilade and executed great havoc. So exhausted were the men that the Battalion was relieved that night and taken to the neighbourhood of Le Rutoire Farm.
Acquitting themselves with a noble fortitude, the stretcher bearers—whose task was, perhaps, the worst of all—remained and toiled all night in evacuating the trenches of the wounded. To stretcher bearers fall the most trying duties in war, but in accounts of battles little mention is made of their efforts. While the fight is on they share all the dangers of the private soldier, and often they have to remain when the others are relieved to finish their duty. The terrible sights of open wounds, bodies that have been minced by shell splinters, torn off limbs, dying men uttering their last requests, are enough to unnerve the bravest men. The stretcher bearers nevertheless continue with their task, well knowing what fate may soon befall them.
For the second time in a fortnight the 9th King's had been called upon to play an important part, and worthily had the men acquitted themselves on each occasion.
The following letters were received by the Battalion and show the value of the good work done:—
To G.O.C., IV. Corps.
This was a fine performance and reflects the greatest credit on all ranks.
I particularly admire the splendid tenacity displayed by our infantry in holding on to their trenches during so many long hours of heavy shell fire, and the skill with which they so gloriously repulsed with bomb and rifle the enemy's most determined onslaught.
Our gunners, too, must be complimented on their timely and accurate shooting. And lastly the Commanders, from General Davies downward, deserve praise for the successful combination of the two arms, for the handling of their units, and for the well-judged advance of the supports to the aid of those in the fire trenches.
I am very glad to hear of the great deeds of the 9th Battalion Liverpool Regiment on the 8th October. They have proved themselves most worthy comrades of the 1st Liverpools who started with me from Aldershot and have consistently fought like heroes all through the campaign.
Please convey my very hearty congratulation to all concerned and to the 1st Division, in which I am proud to see the determined fighting spirit is as strong as ever, in spite of heavy losses.
D. HAIG,
General,
Commanding 1st Army.
10th October, 1915.
To 1st Division.
In forwarding Sir Douglas Haig's remarks, I desire to endorse every word he says, and to congratulate the Division on the well deserved [Pg 28] praise it has received from the Army Commander. I hope before long to see them personally and to speak to them on parade.
H.S. RAWLINSON,
Lieut.-General,
Commanding IV. Corps.
11th October, 1915.
1st Div. No. 604/2 (G).To 2nd Infantry Brigade.
The General Officer Commanding wishes to place on record his appreciation of the steady defence made by the 2nd Infantry Brigade against the German attack yesterday afternoon. He especially wishes to commend the soldierly qualities and discipline displayed by the 9th Liverpool Regiment and the 1st Gloucesters, which enabled them to endure the heavy shelling to which our front trenches were subjected, and there to meet and repulse with great loss the German infantry attack.
The result of yesterday's attack again proves how powerless the enemy's artillery is against good infantry, properly entrenched and the superiority of our own infantry over that of the enemy at close quarters.
The General Officer Commanding wishes to record his appreciation of the good work done by the artillery in support of the infantry.
H. LONGRIDGE,
Lieut.-Colonel,General Staff,
1st Division.
9th October, 1915.
The above remarks were communicated to the men, and they were all very proud of the achievement of their unit and that it had so highly distinguished itself in the defence of their country. For a few days the Battalion remained in support, sending forth working parties each night for the battle that was still continuing.
On the 13th October the 1st Division attacked the village of Hulluch. An intense barrage was directed against the enemy trenches in the early part of the afternoon, and after a discharge of cloud gas an attempt was made in vain to reach the enemy trenches. The 9th was held in close support, ready to exploit any success that was gained, but, unfortunately, the attack was a total failure. The Battalion came in for some very heavy retaliatory shell fire.
On the 14th October the Battalion was taken out of the line and marched to Noeux-les-Mines, where it entrained for Lillers. Here the men were accommodated in houses in the centre of the town in the vicinity of the Church and the Rue Fanien. The billets were good, the parades not severe, and several of the officers who were well quartered felt to some extent the comforts of a home. The training area was near Burbure, where the Battalion had trained for the battle. Many faces were missing that had been present at the jovial little gatherings that had taken place before the battle, and the survivors wondered at times who would be wanting at the next divisional rest.
The 9th Kings (Royal Liverpool) were a territorial Battalion and were heavily involved in the fighting.
The Battle of Loos.
For three weeks in September the Battalion practised the attack in Burbure, which it left on the 20th. Before leaving Burbure an amusing incident took place. The Battalion had paraded and was ready to move off. Suddenly two young women who were watching dashed into the ranks, embraced two of the men, kissed them with resounding smacks, and then disappeared in the gloom. The consternation of the two men caused great amusement to all. The "Ninth" moved up by stages, marching via Lapugnoy and Verquin, to its battle position in trenches by Le Rutoire Farm, which it reached on the 24th. The Battalion and the London Scottish formed a body called "Green's Force," to which was given as a first objective the German front line trenches in the vicinity of Lone Tree, as this objective was left uncovered by the diverging advance of the 1st Brigade on the right and the 2nd Brigade on the left.
In the grey light of the morning on the 25th September the British guns opened with a furious fire after many days of artillery preparation. The great battle had begun. For some time, and according to orders, the Battalion remained in its position. It was not to advance before 8-0 a.m. At this time the men left the assembly trench to move over the open to the front line. The enemy machine gunners had the range, and several were wounded almost on leaving the trench. The advance was made by sectional rushes, each section seeking what cover there was. Those who were wounded while actually advancing in many cases received slight wounds, but those that were hit while lying down were generally killed, as the bullets struck them in the head or traversed the vital organs for the length of the body. It required a courageous heart to advance seeing one's comrades thus desperately wounded or lying dead. The shell fire was not heavy, and few casualties were attributable to it. Lieutenant-Colonel Ramsay led the attack in person, and he was easily recognizable by the wand which he carried. One of the Battalion machine guns was pushed forward about 2-0 p.m. and under the covering fire it afforded the advance was continued. The advance had been slow and losses were severe, but at 3-30 p.m. the men had succeeded in establishing themselves in one line about a hundred yards from the German trenches. A few minutes afterwards the Germans surrendered, and between three and four hundred prisoners were taken. They chiefly belonged to the 59th and 157th Infantry Regiments. A harvest of souvenirs was reaped by the men, many of whom secured the then coveted Pickelhaube helmet. The prisoners were sent to the rear, and the Battalion continued the advance and ultimately [Pg 25] established a line on the Lens-Hulluch Road. It is to be observed that the Battalion was the only one that got its field kitchens up to the village of Loos on the first day of the battle. At 4-0 a.m. next morning the Battalion was withdrawn to the old British line. Later in the day it moved forward to the old German trench system as reserve in the continued operations, sustaining several gas and shell casualties. On the 28th September the Battalion moved back to Mazingarbe, as the men thought, for a rest. They were soon disappointed. At 7 p.m. on the same day orders were received to take up a position at the Slag Heap or Fosse at Loos, known as London Bridge. At 9-0 p.m. the Battalion left its billets in a deluge of rain and marched back to the line in splendid spirits in spite of the fatigue resulting from the recent fighting. It was relieved from the trenches on the 30th September, and after one night spent in the ruined houses of Loos went to Noeux-les-Mines for a few days to re-organise and re-equip.
On the 7th October the Battalion returned to the front line which was alongside the Lens-Hulluch Road to the north of Loos. The trench had evidently once been the ditch on the side of the road. It was very shallow, and it was decided to deepen it the next night as the men were too tired after their long march. This was a good resolution, but it was not carried out. The enemy commenced next morning about half-past ten with heavy shell fire. In the afternoon it became intense and an attack seemed imminent. There was no shelter in the shallow trench, as there had not been sufficient time to make any dugouts. The men could do nothing but wait. Minutes seemed hours. The shelling appeared endless. So terrific was the enemy fire that it was doubted by the artillery observers in rear whether any of the front line garrison was left alive. All who might be lucky enough to escape physical destruction would at any rate be morally broken. The Germans who had concentrated in the Bois Hugo attacked about 4-30 p.m. They were repulsed by rifle and machine gun fire, and it is gratifying to know that two of the Battalion machine guns caught the enemy in enfilade and executed great havoc. So exhausted were the men that the Battalion was relieved that night and taken to the neighbourhood of Le Rutoire Farm.
Acquitting themselves with a noble fortitude, the stretcher bearers—whose task was, perhaps, the worst of all—remained and toiled all night in evacuating the trenches of the wounded. To stretcher bearers fall the most trying duties in war, but in accounts of battles little mention is made of their efforts. While the fight is on they share all the dangers of the private soldier, and often they have to remain when the others are relieved to finish their duty. The terrible sights of open wounds, bodies that have been minced by shell splinters, torn off limbs, dying men uttering their last requests, are enough to unnerve the bravest men. The stretcher bearers nevertheless continue with their task, well knowing what fate may soon befall them.
For the second time in a fortnight the 9th King's had been called upon to play an important part, and worthily had the men acquitted themselves on each occasion.
The following letters were received by the Battalion and show the value of the good work done:—
To G.O.C., IV. Corps.
This was a fine performance and reflects the greatest credit on all ranks.
I particularly admire the splendid tenacity displayed by our infantry in holding on to their trenches during so many long hours of heavy shell fire, and the skill with which they so gloriously repulsed with bomb and rifle the enemy's most determined onslaught.
Our gunners, too, must be complimented on their timely and accurate shooting. And lastly the Commanders, from General Davies downward, deserve praise for the successful combination of the two arms, for the handling of their units, and for the well-judged advance of the supports to the aid of those in the fire trenches.
I am very glad to hear of the great deeds of the 9th Battalion Liverpool Regiment on the 8th October. They have proved themselves most worthy comrades of the 1st Liverpools who started with me from Aldershot and have consistently fought like heroes all through the campaign.
Please convey my very hearty congratulation to all concerned and to the 1st Division, in which I am proud to see the determined fighting spirit is as strong as ever, in spite of heavy losses.
D. HAIG,
General,
Commanding 1st Army.
10th October, 1915.
To 1st Division.
In forwarding Sir Douglas Haig's remarks, I desire to endorse every word he says, and to congratulate the Division on the well deserved [Pg 28] praise it has received from the Army Commander. I hope before long to see them personally and to speak to them on parade.
H.S. RAWLINSON,
Lieut.-General,
Commanding IV. Corps.
11th October, 1915.
1st Div. No. 604/2 (G).To 2nd Infantry Brigade.
The General Officer Commanding wishes to place on record his appreciation of the steady defence made by the 2nd Infantry Brigade against the German attack yesterday afternoon. He especially wishes to commend the soldierly qualities and discipline displayed by the 9th Liverpool Regiment and the 1st Gloucesters, which enabled them to endure the heavy shelling to which our front trenches were subjected, and there to meet and repulse with great loss the German infantry attack.
The result of yesterday's attack again proves how powerless the enemy's artillery is against good infantry, properly entrenched and the superiority of our own infantry over that of the enemy at close quarters.
The General Officer Commanding wishes to record his appreciation of the good work done by the artillery in support of the infantry.
H. LONGRIDGE,
Lieut.-Colonel,General Staff,
1st Division.
9th October, 1915.
The above remarks were communicated to the men, and they were all very proud of the achievement of their unit and that it had so highly distinguished itself in the defence of their country. For a few days the Battalion remained in support, sending forth working parties each night for the battle that was still continuing.
On the 13th October the 1st Division attacked the village of Hulluch. An intense barrage was directed against the enemy trenches in the early part of the afternoon, and after a discharge of cloud gas an attempt was made in vain to reach the enemy trenches. The 9th was held in close support, ready to exploit any success that was gained, but, unfortunately, the attack was a total failure. The Battalion came in for some very heavy retaliatory shell fire.
On the 14th October the Battalion was taken out of the line and marched to Noeux-les-Mines, where it entrained for Lillers. Here the men were accommodated in houses in the centre of the town in the vicinity of the Church and the Rue Fanien. The billets were good, the parades not severe, and several of the officers who were well quartered felt to some extent the comforts of a home. The training area was near Burbure, where the Battalion had trained for the battle. Many faces were missing that had been present at the jovial little gatherings that had taken place before the battle, and the survivors wondered at times who would be wanting at the next divisional rest.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Battle of Loos - from A Short History of the Great War.
This month on 25th September 1915, 94 years ago, the Battle of Loos was fought on the Western front. This two week battle cost the allies nearly 170,000 casualties (120,000 French & 50,000 British) which was almost the total causalities lost in the nine mouths at Gallipoli.
This short overview of the battle comes from ‘A Short History of the Great War, by A.F. Pollard’ and gives a good explanation of the battle in the language of the time.
“The battle was the principal British effort, and it only fell short of a real victory because the reserves were not on the spot to follow up the initial success which might almost seem to have surprised the higher command. The front extended from the La Bassée Canal to the outskirts of Lens, and as in Champagne the attack on 25 September was preceded by an intense bombardment which destroyed the first German trenches and wire-entanglements. Nearly everywhere the advance was at first successful. The Hohenzollern redoubt was captured, the Lens-La Bassée road was crossed, and even Haisnes and Hulluch reached. But the greatest success was farthest south, where the village of Loos was rushed by the 15th Division and then Hill 70. Even there the Highlanders would not stop, but went on impetuously as far as the Cité St. Auguste, well outflanking Lens and past the hindmost of the German lines. This was all by 9.30 a.m., within four hours of the first attack. But there were no reserves at hand to consolidate the victory and hold up the German counter-attacks. There were plenty miles away in the rear, retained by Sir John French because along the extended line of attack from Ypres to Lens it was not known where they would most be needed; and even when the need was clear, interrupted telephones and defective staff-work caused confusion and delay.
Eventually the 11th Corps fresh from England and to fighting was marched eight miles and put into the battle line without sufficient food or water. Gradually our troops were pushed back from Hill 70, across the Lens-La Bassée road, and out of the Hohenzollern redoubt. The line was restored to some extent by the Guards on the 27th, and Loos remained firmly in our hands; but a great opportunity had been lost, and the great stroke of the 15th Division had not been turned into a great advance. Lens had been almost in our grasp, and with it a lever to loosen the German hold on Lille.
The fault was partly due to the fact that D'Urbal's simultaneous offensive south of Lens had fallen short of the Vimy Ridge and left our right flank almost in the air in front of Grenay where the two lines joined. D'Urbal's army was, like our own, greatly superior in numbers to the Germans opposite, seventeen to nine Divisions, and the French artillery preparation for the attack on 25 September was equally elaborate. Unhappily the French offensive did not begin till one o'clock, three hours after the Highlanders had swarmed over Hill 70 and into Cité St. Auguste; and when it did begin, its left, where it joined the British right, was held up in front of Souchez till the following day, and the Germans used the interval to recover from the staggering blow they had received at Loos. On the 26th the French were more successful. Souchez, most of the Givenchy Wood, La Folie farm, and Thelus were captured, and on the 28th they made some progress up the Vimy slopes. The impression of success exceeded the reality, and a historian writing some months afterwards declared that by the 29th "the Vimy Heights had been won": it required a considerable Canadian victory a year and a half later to give much substance to this claim, and most of the ground secured in September 1915, including the Givenchy Wood, La Folie, and Thelus, was found to be in German hands when the line from Lens to Arras was taken over by British troops.
Attacks and counter-attacks, particularly round the Hohenzollern redoubt, during October led to little but slaughter, and the line in the West relapsed into winter stability and stagnation where they had been a year before with changes which only a large-scale map revealed.
There had been at least 120,000 French casualties and more than 50,000 British; each side claimed that the enemy's losses far exceeded its own, and there was probably little to choose. A fortnight's battle in the West cost the Allies as much as nine months in the Dardanelles, though in the former it was the French and in the latter the British who bore the brunt. The optimism of the civilians with regard to the Dardanelles was capped by the optimism of the soldiers on the Western front; and neither was in a position to throw stones at the strategy of the other. Mr. Churchill disappeared from the Admiralty in May and from the Cabinet in October, and Sir John French lost his command of the British forces in December. His ostensible cheerfulness had been useful in the early days of shock and stress; but the part had been somewhat overdone in public and underdone in private, and it was becoming clearer, though not yet sufficiently clear, that brilliant cavalry generalship was not the quality most required to control the gigantic machinery of a modern army. Nevertheless, the criticisms that were levelled against the ineptitude and mental inelasticity of the generals and the staff of the old army overshot the mark. No one ventured to bring such a charge against the staff-work of the French, and yet the French had been no more successful in Champagne than we had been in Artois.
The truth was that no generalship could have given the Entente victory over the Germans in 1915. The war was constantly and correctly described as a soldiers' war or a war of nations, but the meaning of the description was not fully realized. The Entente had to deal with a mighty people, splendidly organized and equipped for war, and against that colossal force mere generalship was like a sort of legerdemain pitted against an avalanche. The only power that could cope with the Germans was that of people similarly determined and equally trained and organized, and the only way in which they could be defeated was by exhaustion. Individual skill in modern politics and war tells mainly in matters of personal rivalry; it is our aristocratic quality which breaks its head in vain against the stolid mass of democratic forces. The single people in the long run beats the single man, and the community of nations overcomes the rebel State.”
This short overview of the battle comes from ‘A Short History of the Great War, by A.F. Pollard’ and gives a good explanation of the battle in the language of the time.
“The battle was the principal British effort, and it only fell short of a real victory because the reserves were not on the spot to follow up the initial success which might almost seem to have surprised the higher command. The front extended from the La Bassée Canal to the outskirts of Lens, and as in Champagne the attack on 25 September was preceded by an intense bombardment which destroyed the first German trenches and wire-entanglements. Nearly everywhere the advance was at first successful. The Hohenzollern redoubt was captured, the Lens-La Bassée road was crossed, and even Haisnes and Hulluch reached. But the greatest success was farthest south, where the village of Loos was rushed by the 15th Division and then Hill 70. Even there the Highlanders would not stop, but went on impetuously as far as the Cité St. Auguste, well outflanking Lens and past the hindmost of the German lines. This was all by 9.30 a.m., within four hours of the first attack. But there were no reserves at hand to consolidate the victory and hold up the German counter-attacks. There were plenty miles away in the rear, retained by Sir John French because along the extended line of attack from Ypres to Lens it was not known where they would most be needed; and even when the need was clear, interrupted telephones and defective staff-work caused confusion and delay.
Eventually the 11th Corps fresh from England and to fighting was marched eight miles and put into the battle line without sufficient food or water. Gradually our troops were pushed back from Hill 70, across the Lens-La Bassée road, and out of the Hohenzollern redoubt. The line was restored to some extent by the Guards on the 27th, and Loos remained firmly in our hands; but a great opportunity had been lost, and the great stroke of the 15th Division had not been turned into a great advance. Lens had been almost in our grasp, and with it a lever to loosen the German hold on Lille.
The fault was partly due to the fact that D'Urbal's simultaneous offensive south of Lens had fallen short of the Vimy Ridge and left our right flank almost in the air in front of Grenay where the two lines joined. D'Urbal's army was, like our own, greatly superior in numbers to the Germans opposite, seventeen to nine Divisions, and the French artillery preparation for the attack on 25 September was equally elaborate. Unhappily the French offensive did not begin till one o'clock, three hours after the Highlanders had swarmed over Hill 70 and into Cité St. Auguste; and when it did begin, its left, where it joined the British right, was held up in front of Souchez till the following day, and the Germans used the interval to recover from the staggering blow they had received at Loos. On the 26th the French were more successful. Souchez, most of the Givenchy Wood, La Folie farm, and Thelus were captured, and on the 28th they made some progress up the Vimy slopes. The impression of success exceeded the reality, and a historian writing some months afterwards declared that by the 29th "the Vimy Heights had been won": it required a considerable Canadian victory a year and a half later to give much substance to this claim, and most of the ground secured in September 1915, including the Givenchy Wood, La Folie, and Thelus, was found to be in German hands when the line from Lens to Arras was taken over by British troops.
Attacks and counter-attacks, particularly round the Hohenzollern redoubt, during October led to little but slaughter, and the line in the West relapsed into winter stability and stagnation where they had been a year before with changes which only a large-scale map revealed.
There had been at least 120,000 French casualties and more than 50,000 British; each side claimed that the enemy's losses far exceeded its own, and there was probably little to choose. A fortnight's battle in the West cost the Allies as much as nine months in the Dardanelles, though in the former it was the French and in the latter the British who bore the brunt. The optimism of the civilians with regard to the Dardanelles was capped by the optimism of the soldiers on the Western front; and neither was in a position to throw stones at the strategy of the other. Mr. Churchill disappeared from the Admiralty in May and from the Cabinet in October, and Sir John French lost his command of the British forces in December. His ostensible cheerfulness had been useful in the early days of shock and stress; but the part had been somewhat overdone in public and underdone in private, and it was becoming clearer, though not yet sufficiently clear, that brilliant cavalry generalship was not the quality most required to control the gigantic machinery of a modern army. Nevertheless, the criticisms that were levelled against the ineptitude and mental inelasticity of the generals and the staff of the old army overshot the mark. No one ventured to bring such a charge against the staff-work of the French, and yet the French had been no more successful in Champagne than we had been in Artois.
The truth was that no generalship could have given the Entente victory over the Germans in 1915. The war was constantly and correctly described as a soldiers' war or a war of nations, but the meaning of the description was not fully realized. The Entente had to deal with a mighty people, splendidly organized and equipped for war, and against that colossal force mere generalship was like a sort of legerdemain pitted against an avalanche. The only power that could cope with the Germans was that of people similarly determined and equally trained and organized, and the only way in which they could be defeated was by exhaustion. Individual skill in modern politics and war tells mainly in matters of personal rivalry; it is our aristocratic quality which breaks its head in vain against the stolid mass of democratic forces. The single people in the long run beats the single man, and the community of nations overcomes the rebel State.”
Friday, August 28, 2009
Wimborne Minster War Memorial, Dorset.
Wimborne Minster War Memorial is outside the Minster in the church grounds. The names of the soldiers who gave their lives, are comemorated within the Minster.
(click on the image to enlarge)
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice.
Continuing on my culinary delights in the Great War. This except from Everyday Foods in War Time by Mary Swartz Rose is much friendlier than the previous post.
Mary Swartz Rose even tries to blend humour with her article. She seems to be empathetic with the reader understanding the love of sugar. I love the little phrase:-
“When the sugar bowl is empty how many things lose zest! Tea, coffee, cocoa, breakfast cereals, fruit, might still be acceptable, but cake, pie, and ice cream are unthinkable without sweetness; the soda fountain, the bakery, and the candy shop bear further testimony to our love of sweets.”
“SUGAR AND SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE”
“Do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats!” So cried the miscreant son of Hati when his attempt to rescue his father’s live-stock from utter destruction resulted (at least according to Lamb) in adding one more delicacy to the table of civilized man. That the “burnt pig” commended itself instantly to the taste of other men is attested by the recklessness with which they ignited their own houses to secure the new sensation again.
Not all flavors make an immediate appeal. Many persons can mark the time when they learned to like olives, or tomatoes, or tea. The taste for some foods was acquired so early that there is no consciousness of any time when they were not enjoyed, and the impression prevails that the liking for such foods is instinctive. Sometimes that is the case, but quite as often not. Children have to be taught by patient repetition to like most of the common foods which make the staples of the diet, and likings thus acquired are as strong as those which seem more natural.
However taste be accounted for, we have to recognize the fact that food is chosen for flavor more than for ultimate benefit. It is one thing to say that oatmeal is more nutritious than bread and coffee; it is quite another to induce a man to give up the latter for the former! And yet the distinguishing characteristic of man is that he can subjugate his immediate impulses for his future benefit, or find a course that will harmonize the two—take coffee with his oatmeal for instance, or find some way to flavor it, perhaps with sugar.
Probably no one flavor is so universally enjoyed as sweetness. “Sweeter than the honey in the honey comb” is an ancient symbol of appreciation. When the sugar bowl is empty how many things lose zest! Tea, coffee, cocoa, breakfast cereals, fruit, might still be acceptable, but cake, pie, and ice cream are unthinkable without sweetness; the soda fountain, the bakery, and the candy shop bear further testimony to our love of sweets. Four million tons of sugar a year for the American people—eighty-five pounds apiece, nearly a quarter of a pound apiece daily—this is no inconsiderable amount of flavoring!
But is not sugar good food? Most assuredly. Three lumps of sugar would furnish the extra energy needed to walk a mile; a quarter of a pound represents about one-sixth of a man’s daily fuel requirement. But one baked potato would furnish the same energy as the three lumps of sugar; a quarter of a pound of cornstarch would supply the same fuel as the quarter pound of sugar. Nutritionally starch and sugar are interchangeable, the advantage as far as digestion is concerned being with the starch rather than the sugar. And yet we put sugar on starch! So much for instinct being a guide to scientific food combinations!
The problem of doing without sugar is primarily a problem of flavor—a problem of finding something else which is sweet. Hence we turn our cornstarch into glucose (make corn syrup, for example) outside the body instead of inside it, so that we can taste the sweetness as it goes down. The main trouble with this kind of sugar is that it is not sweet enough to satisfy us and we are apt to use too much, thus endangering our digestions by sheer concentration of what would be, in smaller quantities, most wholesome. Once more we see that nutrition is largely a question of how much; how much glucose or other sugar our stomachs can stand we find out by experience; few stomachs can stand when empty the quantity represented by a lollipop, and yet we frequently see children allowed to suck these between meals. The same amount of sugar diluted with water, as in a glass of lemonade, would do less harm; it might be combined with flour in a cookery with more impunity; better yet, it might be made a part of a whole meal, taking it in several dishes (sauce, dessert, etc.), or, if we must have it as candy, at the end of the meal. Used in this way, the advantages of sugar as a food may be had with relatively little disadvantage.
Honey, “the distilled sweetness of the flower,” commands a price commensurate with the exquisiteness of its production, but is not quite as easy of digestion as some other forms of sugar. Because of its intense sweetness it may be combined with advantage with less sweet syrups, such as corn syrup. The cook estimates that by measure it will take one and a half times as much corn syrup as cane sugar to get the customary effects in sweet dishes. By using one part of honey to three of corn syrup a sweeter product is obtained, which is free from several of the disadvantages of honey in cookery.
Maple syrup and sugar are not only prized for their sweetness, due to the presence of ordinary cane sugar, but for the delicate “maple” flavor so difficult to duplicate. Nutritionally a tablespoon of maple sugar is equivalent in fuel value to about four-fifths of a tablespoon of cane sugar, while equal volumes of cane molasses, corn syrup, and maple syrup are interchangeable as fuel, though not of equal sweetening power.
Molasses is a less one-sided food than cane sugar or corn syrup. The latter furnish nothing but fuel, and if used too freely not only disturb digestion but tend to crowd out foods which yield mineral salts. Molasses is quite rich in calcium, one tablespoonful yielding as much as five ounces of milk, and is for this reason a better sweet for growing children than ordinary sugar or corn syrup when the amount of milk which they can have is limited, or when fruits and vegetables are hard to get. Molasses ginger snaps make, therefore, an excellent sweet for children, much better than candy, but of course to be eaten only at meal time.
The aim of good home cooking should be to please the family with what they ought to eat. The chef in a big hotel may have to prove the superiority of his art over that of a rival chef, and vie with him in novelty and elaboration, but the home cooking may be ever so simple provided the result is a happy, well-nourished family. A chocolate layer cake that takes two hours out of a day is no more nourishing than the same materials served as poached eggs, bread and butter, and a cup of chocolate. It is worth while to train a family to enjoy the flavor of simply prepared foods, and to realize that the food is the thing which counts and not the way it is dressed up. On the other hand, if one has to use a few food materials over and over, as one must in many places when the money that can be spent for food is very little, it is by slight changes in their form and flavor that one keeps them from palling on the appetite. If one has to use beans every day, it is a good thing to know a dozen different ways of preparing beans. One may have the plain bean flavor, properly toned up by a suitable amount of salt; the added flavor of onions, of tomatoes, of fat pork, of molasses, or a combination of two or three. One may have plain oatmeal for breakfast (the flavor developed by thorough cooking, at least three or four hours in a double boiler or over night in a fireless cooker); oatmeal flavored with apples in a pudding for dinner; or oatmeal flavored with onions and tomatoes in a soup for supper; the same food but quite different impressions on the palate.
Herbs and spices have from time immemorial given flavor to man’s diet. “Leeks and garlic,” “anise and cumin,” “salt and pepper,” “curry and bean cheese,” are built into the very life of a people. The more variety of natural foods we have the less dependent we are upon such things. Our modern cooks, confronted in the present crisis with restrictions in the number of foods which they may use, may find in bay leaves, nutmeg, allspice, and all their kind, ways of making acceptable the cereals which make a diet economical, the peas and beans which replace at least a part of the meat, and dried fruits and vegetables which save transportation of fresh or canned goods.
Tea and coffee are both flavors and stimulants. They are used literally by thousands to give flavor to bread or rice. Dependence on a single flavor is apt to result in a desire to have it stronger and stronger, and hence less and less wholesome. This is a good reason for some variety of flavor; better tea one meal and coffee another than the same one all the time. Too freely used, and made too strong, tea and coffee may have a bad effect upon the nervous as well as the digestive system. They should never be given to children. It is better for adults to get their flavor from something without such effects. Because the combination of bread and coffee tastes good, one may be deceived into thinking himself well nourished on a diet consisting of little else. And yet this is a very inadequate diet for anybody, and disastrous to the normal development of children. One must be on guard, then, lest one’s desire for flavor be satisfied without the body’s real needs being met.
The wise cook saves her best flavors for the foods which would be least acceptable without them and does not add them to foods which are good enough by themselves. The latter course marks the insidious beginning of luxury. “Once give your family luxuries and you are lost as far as satisfying them economically is concerned,” remarked a clever housewife. “Even a rat will not taste bread when bacon is nigh,” observed a sage physiologist. The demand for flavor grows and grows with pampering, till nothing but humming-birds’ tongues and miniature geese floating in a sea of aspic jelly will satisfy the palate of him who eats solely for flavor—who never knows the sauce of hunger, or the deliciousness of a plain crust of bread.
We must be on guard, saying, like the little daughter of a classical professor, “If Scylla doesn’t get me Charybdis will.” Flavor we must have, but not too much, not too many kinds at once, and not applied indiscriminately to foods which need them and foods which do not. The wise cook uses her arts to secure the proper nourishment of the family and not for her fame as “a good cook.”
Mary Swartz Rose even tries to blend humour with her article. She seems to be empathetic with the reader understanding the love of sugar. I love the little phrase:-
“When the sugar bowl is empty how many things lose zest! Tea, coffee, cocoa, breakfast cereals, fruit, might still be acceptable, but cake, pie, and ice cream are unthinkable without sweetness; the soda fountain, the bakery, and the candy shop bear further testimony to our love of sweets.”
“SUGAR AND SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE”
“Do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats!” So cried the miscreant son of Hati when his attempt to rescue his father’s live-stock from utter destruction resulted (at least according to Lamb) in adding one more delicacy to the table of civilized man. That the “burnt pig” commended itself instantly to the taste of other men is attested by the recklessness with which they ignited their own houses to secure the new sensation again.
Not all flavors make an immediate appeal. Many persons can mark the time when they learned to like olives, or tomatoes, or tea. The taste for some foods was acquired so early that there is no consciousness of any time when they were not enjoyed, and the impression prevails that the liking for such foods is instinctive. Sometimes that is the case, but quite as often not. Children have to be taught by patient repetition to like most of the common foods which make the staples of the diet, and likings thus acquired are as strong as those which seem more natural.
However taste be accounted for, we have to recognize the fact that food is chosen for flavor more than for ultimate benefit. It is one thing to say that oatmeal is more nutritious than bread and coffee; it is quite another to induce a man to give up the latter for the former! And yet the distinguishing characteristic of man is that he can subjugate his immediate impulses for his future benefit, or find a course that will harmonize the two—take coffee with his oatmeal for instance, or find some way to flavor it, perhaps with sugar.
Probably no one flavor is so universally enjoyed as sweetness. “Sweeter than the honey in the honey comb” is an ancient symbol of appreciation. When the sugar bowl is empty how many things lose zest! Tea, coffee, cocoa, breakfast cereals, fruit, might still be acceptable, but cake, pie, and ice cream are unthinkable without sweetness; the soda fountain, the bakery, and the candy shop bear further testimony to our love of sweets. Four million tons of sugar a year for the American people—eighty-five pounds apiece, nearly a quarter of a pound apiece daily—this is no inconsiderable amount of flavoring!
But is not sugar good food? Most assuredly. Three lumps of sugar would furnish the extra energy needed to walk a mile; a quarter of a pound represents about one-sixth of a man’s daily fuel requirement. But one baked potato would furnish the same energy as the three lumps of sugar; a quarter of a pound of cornstarch would supply the same fuel as the quarter pound of sugar. Nutritionally starch and sugar are interchangeable, the advantage as far as digestion is concerned being with the starch rather than the sugar. And yet we put sugar on starch! So much for instinct being a guide to scientific food combinations!
The problem of doing without sugar is primarily a problem of flavor—a problem of finding something else which is sweet. Hence we turn our cornstarch into glucose (make corn syrup, for example) outside the body instead of inside it, so that we can taste the sweetness as it goes down. The main trouble with this kind of sugar is that it is not sweet enough to satisfy us and we are apt to use too much, thus endangering our digestions by sheer concentration of what would be, in smaller quantities, most wholesome. Once more we see that nutrition is largely a question of how much; how much glucose or other sugar our stomachs can stand we find out by experience; few stomachs can stand when empty the quantity represented by a lollipop, and yet we frequently see children allowed to suck these between meals. The same amount of sugar diluted with water, as in a glass of lemonade, would do less harm; it might be combined with flour in a cookery with more impunity; better yet, it might be made a part of a whole meal, taking it in several dishes (sauce, dessert, etc.), or, if we must have it as candy, at the end of the meal. Used in this way, the advantages of sugar as a food may be had with relatively little disadvantage.
Honey, “the distilled sweetness of the flower,” commands a price commensurate with the exquisiteness of its production, but is not quite as easy of digestion as some other forms of sugar. Because of its intense sweetness it may be combined with advantage with less sweet syrups, such as corn syrup. The cook estimates that by measure it will take one and a half times as much corn syrup as cane sugar to get the customary effects in sweet dishes. By using one part of honey to three of corn syrup a sweeter product is obtained, which is free from several of the disadvantages of honey in cookery.
Maple syrup and sugar are not only prized for their sweetness, due to the presence of ordinary cane sugar, but for the delicate “maple” flavor so difficult to duplicate. Nutritionally a tablespoon of maple sugar is equivalent in fuel value to about four-fifths of a tablespoon of cane sugar, while equal volumes of cane molasses, corn syrup, and maple syrup are interchangeable as fuel, though not of equal sweetening power.
Molasses is a less one-sided food than cane sugar or corn syrup. The latter furnish nothing but fuel, and if used too freely not only disturb digestion but tend to crowd out foods which yield mineral salts. Molasses is quite rich in calcium, one tablespoonful yielding as much as five ounces of milk, and is for this reason a better sweet for growing children than ordinary sugar or corn syrup when the amount of milk which they can have is limited, or when fruits and vegetables are hard to get. Molasses ginger snaps make, therefore, an excellent sweet for children, much better than candy, but of course to be eaten only at meal time.
The aim of good home cooking should be to please the family with what they ought to eat. The chef in a big hotel may have to prove the superiority of his art over that of a rival chef, and vie with him in novelty and elaboration, but the home cooking may be ever so simple provided the result is a happy, well-nourished family. A chocolate layer cake that takes two hours out of a day is no more nourishing than the same materials served as poached eggs, bread and butter, and a cup of chocolate. It is worth while to train a family to enjoy the flavor of simply prepared foods, and to realize that the food is the thing which counts and not the way it is dressed up. On the other hand, if one has to use a few food materials over and over, as one must in many places when the money that can be spent for food is very little, it is by slight changes in their form and flavor that one keeps them from palling on the appetite. If one has to use beans every day, it is a good thing to know a dozen different ways of preparing beans. One may have the plain bean flavor, properly toned up by a suitable amount of salt; the added flavor of onions, of tomatoes, of fat pork, of molasses, or a combination of two or three. One may have plain oatmeal for breakfast (the flavor developed by thorough cooking, at least three or four hours in a double boiler or over night in a fireless cooker); oatmeal flavored with apples in a pudding for dinner; or oatmeal flavored with onions and tomatoes in a soup for supper; the same food but quite different impressions on the palate.
Herbs and spices have from time immemorial given flavor to man’s diet. “Leeks and garlic,” “anise and cumin,” “salt and pepper,” “curry and bean cheese,” are built into the very life of a people. The more variety of natural foods we have the less dependent we are upon such things. Our modern cooks, confronted in the present crisis with restrictions in the number of foods which they may use, may find in bay leaves, nutmeg, allspice, and all their kind, ways of making acceptable the cereals which make a diet economical, the peas and beans which replace at least a part of the meat, and dried fruits and vegetables which save transportation of fresh or canned goods.
Tea and coffee are both flavors and stimulants. They are used literally by thousands to give flavor to bread or rice. Dependence on a single flavor is apt to result in a desire to have it stronger and stronger, and hence less and less wholesome. This is a good reason for some variety of flavor; better tea one meal and coffee another than the same one all the time. Too freely used, and made too strong, tea and coffee may have a bad effect upon the nervous as well as the digestive system. They should never be given to children. It is better for adults to get their flavor from something without such effects. Because the combination of bread and coffee tastes good, one may be deceived into thinking himself well nourished on a diet consisting of little else. And yet this is a very inadequate diet for anybody, and disastrous to the normal development of children. One must be on guard, then, lest one’s desire for flavor be satisfied without the body’s real needs being met.
The wise cook saves her best flavors for the foods which would be least acceptable without them and does not add them to foods which are good enough by themselves. The latter course marks the insidious beginning of luxury. “Once give your family luxuries and you are lost as far as satisfying them economically is concerned,” remarked a clever housewife. “Even a rat will not taste bread when bacon is nigh,” observed a sage physiologist. The demand for flavor grows and grows with pampering, till nothing but humming-birds’ tongues and miniature geese floating in a sea of aspic jelly will satisfy the palate of him who eats solely for flavor—who never knows the sauce of hunger, or the deliciousness of a plain crust of bread.
We must be on guard, saying, like the little daughter of a classical professor, “If Scylla doesn’t get me Charybdis will.” Flavor we must have, but not too much, not too many kinds at once, and not applied indiscriminately to foods which need them and foods which do not. The wise cook uses her arts to secure the proper nourishment of the family and not for her fame as “a good cook.”
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Save Sugar
This great little piece advising the home makers of America how to save sugar during the war comes from Foods That Will Win The War and How To Cook Them by C. Houston Goudiss Food Expert and Publisher of The Forecast Magazine and Alberta M. Goudiss Director of The School of Modern Cookery.
Every time I read I feel like a naughty schoolboy in front of the head mistress being told off for over indulging. I love the line ‘and it is hoped every housekeeper will study her own time-tested recipes with the view of utilizing as far as possible other forms of sweetening.’
Sit up straight, shoulders back and enjoy.
SAVE SUGAR
Reasons Why Our Government Asks Us to Save Sugar.
One ounce of sugar less per person, per day, is all our Government asks of us to meet the world sugar shortage. One ounce of sugar equals two scant level tablespoonfuls and represents a saving that every man, woman and child should be able to make. Giving up soft drinks and the frosting on our cakes, the use of sugarless desserts and confections, careful measuring and thorough stirring of that which we place in our cups of tea and coffee, and the use of syrup, molasses or honey on our pancakes and fritters will more than effect this saving.
It seems but a small sacrifice, if sacrifice it can be called, when one recognizes that cutting down sugar consumption will be most beneficial to national health. The United States is the largest consumer of sugar in the world. In 1916 Germany's consumption was 20 lbs. per person per year, Italy's 29 to 30 lbs. that of France 37, of England 40, while the United States averaged 85 lbs. This enormous consumption is due to the fact that we are a nation of candy-eaters. We spend annually $80,000,000 on confections. These are usually eaten between meals, causing digestive disturbances as well as unwarranted expense. Sweets are a food and should be eaten at the close of the meal, and if this custom is established during the war, not only will tons of sugar be available for our Allies, but the health of the nation improved.
The average daily consumption of sugar per person in this country is 5 ounces, and yet nutritional experts agree that not more than 3 ounces a day should be taken. The giving up of one ounce per day will, therefore, be of great value in reducing many prevalent American ailments. Flatulent dyspepsia, rheumatism, diabetes, and stomach acidity are only too frequently traced to an oversupply of sugar in our daily diet.
Most persons apparently think of sugar merely as a sweetening agent, forgetting entirely the fact that it is a most concentrated food. It belongs to what is called the carbohydrate group, upon which we largely depend for energy and heat. It is especially valuable to the person doing active physical work, the open-air worker, or the healthy, active, growing child, but should be used sparingly by other classes of people. Sugar is not only the most concentrated fuel food in the dietary, but it is one that is very readily utilized in the body, 98 per cent. of it being available for absorption, while within thirty minutes of the time it is taken into the system part of it is available for energy.
As a food it must be supplied, especially to the classes of people mentioned above, but as a confection it can well be curtailed. When it is difficult to obtain, housekeepers must avail themselves of changed recipes and different combinations to supply the necessary three ounces per day and to gain the much-desired sweet taste so necessary to many of our foods of neutral flavor with which sugar is usually combined.
Our grandmothers knew how to prepare many dishes without sugar. In their day lack of transportation facilities, of refining methods and various economic factors made molasses, sorghum, honey, etc., the only common methods of sweetening. But the housekeeper of to-day knows little of sweetening mediums except sugar, and sugar shortage is to her a crucial problem. There are many ways, however, of getting around sugar shortage and many methods of supplying the necessary food value and sweetening.
By the use of marmalades, jams and jellies canned during the season when the sugar supply was less limited, necessity for the use of sugar can be vastly reduced. By the addition to desserts and cereals of dried fruits, raisins, dates, prunes and figs, which contain large amounts of natural sugar, the sugar consumption can be greatly lessened. By utilizing leftover syrup from canned or preserved fruits for sweetening other fruits, and by the use of honey, molasses, maple sugar, maple syrup and corn syrup, large quantities of sugar may be saved. The substitution of sweetened condensed milk for dairy milk in tea, coffee and cocoa—in fact, in all our cooking processes where milk is required—will also immeasurably aid in sugar conservation. The substitutes mentioned are all available in large amounts. Honey is especially valuable for children, as it consists of the more simple sugars which are less irritating than cane sugar, and there is no danger of acid stomach from the amounts generally consumed.
As desserts are the chief factor in the use of quantities of sugar in our diet, the appended recipes will be of value, as they deal with varied forms of nutritious, attractive sugarless desserts. It is only by the one-ounce savings of each individual member of our great one hundred million population that the world sugar shortage may be met, and it is hoped every housekeeper will study her own time-tested recipes with the view of utilizing as far as possible other forms of sweetening. In most recipes the liquid should be slightly reduced in amount and about one-fifth more of the substitute should be used than the amount of sugar called for.
With a few tests along this line one will be surprised how readily the substitution may be made. If all sweetening agents become scarce, desserts can well be abandoned. Served at the end of a full meal, desserts are excess food except in the diet of children, where they should form a component part of the meal.
Every time I read I feel like a naughty schoolboy in front of the head mistress being told off for over indulging. I love the line ‘and it is hoped every housekeeper will study her own time-tested recipes with the view of utilizing as far as possible other forms of sweetening.’
Sit up straight, shoulders back and enjoy.
SAVE SUGAR
Reasons Why Our Government Asks Us to Save Sugar.
One ounce of sugar less per person, per day, is all our Government asks of us to meet the world sugar shortage. One ounce of sugar equals two scant level tablespoonfuls and represents a saving that every man, woman and child should be able to make. Giving up soft drinks and the frosting on our cakes, the use of sugarless desserts and confections, careful measuring and thorough stirring of that which we place in our cups of tea and coffee, and the use of syrup, molasses or honey on our pancakes and fritters will more than effect this saving.
It seems but a small sacrifice, if sacrifice it can be called, when one recognizes that cutting down sugar consumption will be most beneficial to national health. The United States is the largest consumer of sugar in the world. In 1916 Germany's consumption was 20 lbs. per person per year, Italy's 29 to 30 lbs. that of France 37, of England 40, while the United States averaged 85 lbs. This enormous consumption is due to the fact that we are a nation of candy-eaters. We spend annually $80,000,000 on confections. These are usually eaten between meals, causing digestive disturbances as well as unwarranted expense. Sweets are a food and should be eaten at the close of the meal, and if this custom is established during the war, not only will tons of sugar be available for our Allies, but the health of the nation improved.
The average daily consumption of sugar per person in this country is 5 ounces, and yet nutritional experts agree that not more than 3 ounces a day should be taken. The giving up of one ounce per day will, therefore, be of great value in reducing many prevalent American ailments. Flatulent dyspepsia, rheumatism, diabetes, and stomach acidity are only too frequently traced to an oversupply of sugar in our daily diet.
Most persons apparently think of sugar merely as a sweetening agent, forgetting entirely the fact that it is a most concentrated food. It belongs to what is called the carbohydrate group, upon which we largely depend for energy and heat. It is especially valuable to the person doing active physical work, the open-air worker, or the healthy, active, growing child, but should be used sparingly by other classes of people. Sugar is not only the most concentrated fuel food in the dietary, but it is one that is very readily utilized in the body, 98 per cent. of it being available for absorption, while within thirty minutes of the time it is taken into the system part of it is available for energy.
As a food it must be supplied, especially to the classes of people mentioned above, but as a confection it can well be curtailed. When it is difficult to obtain, housekeepers must avail themselves of changed recipes and different combinations to supply the necessary three ounces per day and to gain the much-desired sweet taste so necessary to many of our foods of neutral flavor with which sugar is usually combined.
Our grandmothers knew how to prepare many dishes without sugar. In their day lack of transportation facilities, of refining methods and various economic factors made molasses, sorghum, honey, etc., the only common methods of sweetening. But the housekeeper of to-day knows little of sweetening mediums except sugar, and sugar shortage is to her a crucial problem. There are many ways, however, of getting around sugar shortage and many methods of supplying the necessary food value and sweetening.
By the use of marmalades, jams and jellies canned during the season when the sugar supply was less limited, necessity for the use of sugar can be vastly reduced. By the addition to desserts and cereals of dried fruits, raisins, dates, prunes and figs, which contain large amounts of natural sugar, the sugar consumption can be greatly lessened. By utilizing leftover syrup from canned or preserved fruits for sweetening other fruits, and by the use of honey, molasses, maple sugar, maple syrup and corn syrup, large quantities of sugar may be saved. The substitution of sweetened condensed milk for dairy milk in tea, coffee and cocoa—in fact, in all our cooking processes where milk is required—will also immeasurably aid in sugar conservation. The substitutes mentioned are all available in large amounts. Honey is especially valuable for children, as it consists of the more simple sugars which are less irritating than cane sugar, and there is no danger of acid stomach from the amounts generally consumed.
As desserts are the chief factor in the use of quantities of sugar in our diet, the appended recipes will be of value, as they deal with varied forms of nutritious, attractive sugarless desserts. It is only by the one-ounce savings of each individual member of our great one hundred million population that the world sugar shortage may be met, and it is hoped every housekeeper will study her own time-tested recipes with the view of utilizing as far as possible other forms of sweetening. In most recipes the liquid should be slightly reduced in amount and about one-fifth more of the substitute should be used than the amount of sugar called for.
With a few tests along this line one will be surprised how readily the substitution may be made. If all sweetening agents become scarce, desserts can well be abandoned. Served at the end of a full meal, desserts are excess food except in the diet of children, where they should form a component part of the meal.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Harry Patch laid to rest.
Yesterday the last fighting ‘tommy’ was laid to rest. Harry Patch who fought at Passchendaele in 1917 was the last of a generation of men who lived and fought through the ‘war to end all wars.’
This is the news report from yahoo.
“Thousands of people paid their respects Thursday at the funeral of Harry Patch, the last soldier to fight in the trenches of Europe in World War I, who died at the age of 111.
Harry Patch was laid to rest after a service in Wells Cathedral, in Somerset, attended by 1,400 people who heard that he was an ordinary man who had inadvertently become a symbol of the horrors of war.
Thousands more followed the service on a giant screen outside the cathedral and lined the route as the hearse carrying his coffin passed through the city.
At the age of 19, Patch fought at the notorious Battle of Passchendaele in 1917, where an estimated half a million troops were killed, but waited until his 100th year before speaking about his wartime experiences.
Representatives from the governments of Belgium, France and Germany took part in the service in a sign of Patch's respect for soldiers on all sides of the war.
The Very Reverend John Clarke, Dean of Wells, told mourners: "Harry was an ordinary Somerset man, a plumber who tended his vegetable gardens, looked after his chickens but he became extraordinary, someone who was an icon for our nation and for western Europe."
Patch, who died on July 25, was also briefly Britain's oldest man following the death a week before his own of fellow World War I veteran Henry Allingham at the age of 113. At the time, Allingham was the oldest man in the world.
Their deaths leave just two surviving World War I veterans -- Franck Buckles, 108, of the United States and British-born Claude Choules, 108, who lives in Perth, Australia.
Unlike Patch, however, neither Buckles nor Babcock saw active combat in the 1914-1918 war, says the French website dersdesders.free.fr which tracks the last survivors of the conflict.
Britain's Veterans Minister Kevan Jones said at the service Patch's death "marks the passing of a generation, and of a man who dedicated his final years to spreading the message of peace and reconciliation."
In his final years, Patch spoke frequently about the conflict, calling it "organised murder" and saying: "It was not worth it, it was not worth one let alone all the millions."
His coffin was carried into the cathedral by British soldiers of 1st Battalion The Rifles, with two soldiers of each of the armed forces of Belgium, France and Germany acting as pall-bearers.
His great-nephew, David Tucker, who carried his medals and decorations into the cathedral, said Patch would have been proud of the service "as a culmination of the work he did towards reconciliation.
"
Marie-France Andre of the Belgian embassy read an extract from Patch's book "The Last Fighting Tommy" in which a dying German soldier's cry of "mother!" convinced him there was an afterlife.
"From that day I've always remembered that cry and that death is not the end," Patch had written.
Eckhard Wilhelm Lubkemeier, charge d'affaires of the German embassy, read a lesson from the Bible.”
This is the news report from yahoo.
“Thousands of people paid their respects Thursday at the funeral of Harry Patch, the last soldier to fight in the trenches of Europe in World War I, who died at the age of 111.
Harry Patch was laid to rest after a service in Wells Cathedral, in Somerset, attended by 1,400 people who heard that he was an ordinary man who had inadvertently become a symbol of the horrors of war.
Thousands more followed the service on a giant screen outside the cathedral and lined the route as the hearse carrying his coffin passed through the city.
At the age of 19, Patch fought at the notorious Battle of Passchendaele in 1917, where an estimated half a million troops were killed, but waited until his 100th year before speaking about his wartime experiences.
Representatives from the governments of Belgium, France and Germany took part in the service in a sign of Patch's respect for soldiers on all sides of the war.
The Very Reverend John Clarke, Dean of Wells, told mourners: "Harry was an ordinary Somerset man, a plumber who tended his vegetable gardens, looked after his chickens but he became extraordinary, someone who was an icon for our nation and for western Europe."
Patch, who died on July 25, was also briefly Britain's oldest man following the death a week before his own of fellow World War I veteran Henry Allingham at the age of 113. At the time, Allingham was the oldest man in the world.
Their deaths leave just two surviving World War I veterans -- Franck Buckles, 108, of the United States and British-born Claude Choules, 108, who lives in Perth, Australia.
Unlike Patch, however, neither Buckles nor Babcock saw active combat in the 1914-1918 war, says the French website dersdesders.free.fr which tracks the last survivors of the conflict.
Britain's Veterans Minister Kevan Jones said at the service Patch's death "marks the passing of a generation, and of a man who dedicated his final years to spreading the message of peace and reconciliation."
In his final years, Patch spoke frequently about the conflict, calling it "organised murder" and saying: "It was not worth it, it was not worth one let alone all the millions."
His coffin was carried into the cathedral by British soldiers of 1st Battalion The Rifles, with two soldiers of each of the armed forces of Belgium, France and Germany acting as pall-bearers.
His great-nephew, David Tucker, who carried his medals and decorations into the cathedral, said Patch would have been proud of the service "as a culmination of the work he did towards reconciliation.
"
Marie-France Andre of the Belgian embassy read an extract from Patch's book "The Last Fighting Tommy" in which a dying German soldier's cry of "mother!" convinced him there was an afterlife.
"From that day I've always remembered that cry and that death is not the end," Patch had written.
Eckhard Wilhelm Lubkemeier, charge d'affaires of the German embassy, read a lesson from the Bible.”
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