As last night turned to today, a century back, Edwin Vaughan and his men worked to exhume the bodies of the four men entombed in their dugout, including Sergeant Bennett, brother of the Corporal Bennett who had been killed the day before. It was a gruesome task, and slow, and under intermittent German trench mortar fire.
…it was early morning when we got them all out… we buried them in shell-holes and walled in the dugouts with earth and sandbags,…
As we left the cellar and climbed out on to the top I was forced to pause and moralize, gazing over the vaguely visible line of trench: to think of the mad fate which dragged simple, kind-hearted men into these nights of terror and destruction. Mostly my mind was occupied with the third Bennett who was by now waiting at our transport lines. I pictured him returning with messages from home fro his two brothers… From where I stood I could faintly see the roughness of the ground which marked where they were lying a hundred yards apart.
But life goes on. The battalion is relieved today–in both the military and the psychological senses–and by the time dawn broke, they “were safe.”
We were out of the mud and muck, away from the bombs and shells, the rain and darkness, the blood and smells. Out in the free air where we could walk erect and talk aloud. The wonderful freedom drove away our weariness and our hunger; with our heavy packs we ran and jumped over shell-holes, laughed and sang and drawing our revolvers potted at birds which shrugged their shoulders and flew off. When a GS waggon met us and the driver said that he had been sent to carry us back, we laughed merrily, telling him to go on and pick up our troops and we would be at Eclusier two hours before him.
Charles Carrington‘s memoirs are excellent–a prominent member of the second team of Great War all-stars–but very short on dates. This winter his 1/5th Warwickshires have been holding trenches near the southern end of the British line, on the River Somme itself, and Carrington provides undated descriptions of cold in the trenches and tense patrols over the ice of No Man’s Land. His battalion has lately been in reserve, but today, a century back, they are going up to attend to a new task: probing the recent German withdrawal. Carrington is notably level-headed, which makes him a good source to prove a point that comes up several times this week, namely the relative importance, to our writers, of grand strategic/political events on the one hand and local affairs on the other:
On 14th March, when we paraded to move up from Eclusier to the front line of Biaches, a communiqué from G.H.Q. was read out on parade. There had been a Revolution in Russia and the Liberals had seized power. The news was applauded, since we supposed that Russia would now have a constitution like our own with the consequence that their war effort would be better managed. World politics faded out of our consciousness as we applied ourselves to the questions whether, and how the Boches would retire. The only way to find out was to send an officer to look. If they shot him dead we should know they were still there.
We’ll pick that up tomorrow–the method of probing forward, that is, rather than the political news–but the signs are good: just a few miles to the north, the Guards Division had sent out just such an officer’s patrol, and it was reported that the German front line was abandoned. At dusk the 2nd Irish Guards were taking over the German trenches they had lately been facing…
Henry Williamson is a few miles to the north, working to supply his Machine Gun Company as they push forward in support of infantry units like Carrington’s.
I am pipped a bit in left arm otherwise OK, am not going to hospital, all right in a week. Sures we’ve had an awful time. We have pushed the Ger back some…
What happened to the wise boy of a few weeks ago, who warned his mother against believing that the withdrawal constituted a victory? For that matter, why is there no mention of this tiny wound in his diary?
Williamson’s only constant is a nervous toggling between various incompatible states of mind. This letter, for instance, goes on to exaggerate the German bombardment and then to chide his mother for her epistolary shortcomings: “All your letters are the same try & vary them old thing.”
But I will give young Henry credit for a positive change: his last letter featured some really terrible pseudo-Romantic verse. This one included a sheet of pleasantly peppy doggerel:
Mid the thunder of the cannon, as the dusk of evening falls,
And the star shells hang and glitter thro’ the broken shell-scarred walls.
In the corner by the brazier, on an empty biscuit case
Sits a lonely English soldier with the firelight on his face…
There are eight more verses describing the beloved face that the soldier imagines in the fire… which are made awkward by the romantic style of address and the fact that an accompanying sketch seems to indicate that they are directed at his mother…
It’s a little prim, I suppose, to follow Williamson with a more trustworthy local source… I didn’t really intend it that way! Luck of the daily draw, etc.. Nevertheless, Kate Luard–who would be tenderly amused by a vulnerable young officer like Williamson, but not so far as to stand for his self-serving disingenuousness–can at least confirm the mud:
Wednesday, March 14th. Pouring cats and dogs all night and most of the day; quagmires everywhere. I have got officer’s gumboots now from Ordnance, big enough for me to wear two pairs of men’s socks over my stockings, and therefore possible to wear all day without getting trench feet…
The other five sisters arrived to-day… They are good children and are only amused at the mud, and the ration butter, and lamps instead of fires, and no baths…
And finally, today, a meta-war note: we’re not quite at the thousandth day of the war, but, due to the handful of run-up posts in the spring and early summer of 2014 this is, according to the little tally on my “dashboard” screen, the 1,000th post on A Century Back… and I am free to imagine that somewhere some brave soul is up on a ladder putting the cross-stroke into their two-hundredth cluster of tally marks…
I really should have provided, at the very least, some sort of merit badge template to be downloaded, printed, and colored in by any readers who have read all thousand… apologies. But then again not preparing for what lurks in the future is an important principle, here. Nevertheless, whenever you began reading, thank you for doing so, and I do hope you’ll stay on for the duration…