Yesterday, a century back, another forward lurch of the offensive began and then stalled. Which may have helped bring about the long-awaited relief of the Master of Belhaven‘s battery. They have been firing more or less continuously for two weeks, at the cost of many casualties, including three complete breakdowns and shell-shock symptoms in Hamilton himself. But going back into rest meant, as so often, getting news.
To-day I had the sad news that poor Bath is dead. He died… of broncho-pneumonia, caused by the blood he had swallowed. It is a terrible grief to me, as he did everything for me, and had been with me night and day for two years…
We were bombed early this morning… an officer and some men of the A.S.C. were killed. It will cause some comment when the notification comes out in the papers; I have never seen the name of an A.S.C. officer in the list of killed before…
The Army Service Corps is the quintessential safe billet, the rear-echelon service troops upon whom all combat soldiers look on with a mixture of contempt, tribal jealousy, and envy. But this statement is probably not meant to be read with a sneer; the cocked eyebrow is not Hamilton’s style. I think he means what he says: he has never heard of an A.S.C. officer, safe but unheroic, being killed by direct enemy fire.
Is no one safe? Not really–certainly not service troops in the Salient, or the experienced nurses who have been permitted to remain there. It is not so much that German air power has suddenly increased as that the Ypres Salient is simply too good a target. It’s too small: “Reserve” still gets shelled, “Rest” is within easy reach of the bombers, and any advanced CCS that might hope to intervene to save the most severely wounded may take fire from three sides and above.
Kate Luard‘s diary is written in early-morning fragments, reflecting the long night that led into today, a century back.
1.30 a.m. It really doesn’t seem an particular use going to bed any night. He’s just been over, flying impertinently low… I lay low till the first bomb and then dashed out in the usual tin-hat and coat…
2 a.m. He came back, throwing his infernal bombs about… no one hit.
3.15 a.m. Back again, terrific uproar. Went to sleep about 4.30…
Edwin Vaughan draws ever closer. Back from leave and with his battalion preparing for the front, he goes to see the sights. There is the model of the enemy positions, now de rigueur, and then a more affecting vision of the battle to come.
After lunch Samuel came across and asked me if I would take a trip with him up towards the line. A large scale model of the front had been fashioned somewhere near Pop, and he wanted to find it so that he could take parties of officers to examine it. We went up on push-bikes, but foolishly did not ascertain where Divisional HQ was. We left our bikes in Pop at the APM’s office and wandered about the open fields near the ruins of Vlamertinghe until we arrived at Dirty Bucket Corner without having found the HQ or the model.
Returning to Pop, we had dinner at La Poupee where Ginger told us (in strict confidence) that there would be a big advance in less than a week. This, by the way, is the first rumour we have had. It was very dark when we claimed our bikes and started to pedal back to camp. As we left the town, a string of lorries swung round the corner and we dismounted to let them pass. One after another they throbbed slowly past, painted in iron grey, wreathed in dust, buses with sleeping troops on top, all silent, dust-covered rifles projecting and no flicker of light seen—I had a vision of the dead armies of Ypres stealing back to the battlefields to help us in our next push. Sammy too felt the eerie influence, for when the long column had passed, he mounted and we rode home without exchanging a word.