A soldiers Diary by Captain H. Raymond Smith.

[stiletto_33853]

Thirty seven hours in a cattle truck - Our First French Billets - Baptism of Fire - "Stand To".

It took us some time to settle ourselves in the cattle truck and when eventually we composed ourselves for a little sleep, we had to take it in turns to lie on one another's legs. Our packs, equipment, and rifles also occupied a lot of room, and altogether I have seldom, if ever, experienced a more uncomfortable journey. To add to the discomfort, the weather turned bitterly cold. At last daylight came, and we stopped at a wayside station. French children ran along the platform begging for souvenirs in the shape of brass buttons, cap badges, etc.

Off we went again, and on and on through beautiful scenery, forset, hill and dale. It was spring, and the fair land of France was at her lovliest. Personally, I felt far from lovely. I had not had a shave or wash for twenty four hours or more and felt as filthy as I must have looked, judging from the appearance of my comrades, but we were all in the same boat - or rather truck - and C'est la Guerre, as the French say.

At intervals we passed an ancient French soldier standing outside his sentry box, wearing the old blue looped greatcoat and red baggy trousers of a past decade. These were French Territorials - reservists too old for front line service, who were thus drafted to duty on lines of communication. It has been said that Lord Kitchener distrusted the usefulness of the British Territorial Force because he had always in his mind these ancient warriors, but this I find difficult to believe.

[stiletto_33853]

An amusing incident occurred when we stopped at another wayside station. We heard a lot of banging coming from one of the trucks at the rear of the train, which contained our horses and mules, and an Evesham voice shouted from this truck: "Sergeant ______, Lion's down." "Get him up, then," was the laconic reply of the Transport Sergeant who was travelling in our truck. "I can't; he's a horse, and he weighs over a ton; and there's a bloke in here as has got his boots off!" came the anxious reply.

I must say I rather sympathised with the two transport drivers. Lion was a magnificent chesnut draught horse and the pride of the Transport Section. From the thunderous noises we heard coming from his truck, he was evidently lying down and kicking the side of the truck violently in his efforts to regain his feet. Eventually he must have managed to stand upright again without kicking the side of the truck out or injuring either of the two drivers, for in due course the tumult and the shouting died and all was peaceful once more. Poor old Lion. I fear he left his valiant bones in France.

All through that lovely spring day we travelled, being at frequent intervals shunted into sidings to clear the line for ammunition and supply trains. Then darkness descended once again, and we settled down as best we could for our second night in the cattle truck. At length we stopped aat a wayside station and were told to detrain. It was still dark as it was 3.15 a.m., and very cold. We fell in and marched to out first French billets in a farmyard at a village called Terdghan, some four miles distant. Just before our arrival at the farm a woman came up and offered to sell us something to drink. It proved to be a white spirit (not gin) and had a wonderfully warming effect. The sun came out, things generally looked brighter, and soon we climbed up a ladder and lay down on deep straw in a loft over a barn and enjoyed a few hours sleep.

[stiletto_33853]

Headquarters Guard. 1/8th Battalion, The Worcestershire Regiment.

Photograph taken at Maldon, Essex, December 1914.

[stiletto_33853]

Back Row: Privates Perry, Wooldridge, Osborne, Brotherton.

Centre Row: Privates Bishop, Smith, ____, Street, ____, ____,

Front Row: Private ____, Corporal Gwilliam, Seageant Guise, Lance-Corporal Bacon, Private___.

[stiletto_33853]

When I awoke the sun was still shining brilliantly. A group of our men started a card game. B___ was an inveterate card player, though it was one of the few vices which never appealed to me in the least. I saw his eyes sparkle when he saw the cards and he soon crawled over the straw and joined the players. He was usually unlucky, I remeber, but bore his misfortunes with equanimity.

Two days later we moved forward about sixteen miles. This was a forced march, for the most part in heavy rain, and was a very trying experience. It was during a halt on the long, straight pave road that we first heard the distant rumble of guns. It was a low, ominous sound, something like distant thunder, but with a sharper note in it. It got louder as we marched forward, and when at length we stopped and turned into billets in another farmyard, it was quite loud - we were only about five miles from the firing line.

We remained at this farm for four days, and then moved forward again into fresh billets near Armentiers, the town from which the celebrated young lady emerged! On the following morning (Sunday) we had our first experience of being under shell fire. The enemy dropped several shells near our billet - a big barn. The noise they made coming towrds us reminded me of tearing calico, and they burst in a field on the other side of the road, throwing up the earth to a great height. My own reaction to this was a feeling of curiosity, certainly not fear - that was to come later.

That evening a comrade named S____ and I visited Armentiers. The town was a blaze of light, despite the fact that it was so near the firing line, and the sound of rifle and machine gun fire came distinctly to our ears.

[stiletto_33853]

The shopping centre was crowded with khaki-clad officers and men, and there were many civilians about. There were several big shell holes in the roads, and we were told that occasionally a shell burst in the street, sometimes killing or wounding people, but that ordinary life went on the same as ever. Indeed, the shopkeepers and proprietors of estaminets and restaurants must have been making a harvest out of the British soldiers.

While at this farm near Armetiers some of us helped the drivers excercise the mules, and in this way we had some enjoyable rides. A mule has a very smooth trot, not so high as a horse, and in consequence is less tiring to ride on roads.

On April 15, 1915, we had our first experience of the front line trenches. This was at Houplines, just to the south of Armentiers. It was the practice in those days for a battalion just out from England to go into the trenches for twenty four hours "instruction" with a battalion of the old professional army. Our hosts - I am speaking only of the 8th Worcester,s machine gunners - were the 2nd Battalion, The Royal Welch Fusiliers. No one ever forgets his first night in the trenches, and although nothing out of the ordinary happened during our twenty four hours in the front line, the fact that it was the front line and that just over the way was the unseen enemy made the experience exciting and memorable.

It was almost dark when we started from our farm billet, and quite dark by the time we left the long straight pave road and turned to the right across country. Owing to the darkness B___, who was marching next to me , fell over a dead cow. I do not know which was stronger, the stench which arose from the cow, or B____'s language!

[stiletto_33853]

We had, of course, been met by a guide who took us into a communication trench leading to the firing line. It must have been a very short one, for in next to no time we found ourselves in the front line. The first thing which struck me were the lights from hudreds of candles stuck into the wet mud of the "funk-holes" (tiny caves dug in the parapet in which men slept or rested while off duty). These lights were, of course, invisible to the enemy.

I was taken along the front line trench and into a round gun emplacement protected by sandbags. In this part of France, close to the Belgian frontier, the ground is so flat that trenches, as we knew them later on the Somme, were impossible, and protection from rifle and machine-gun fire was afforded by breastworks of sandbags, with a parados made in a similar way. The actual trench was only about two feet below ground level. The parapet was high enough to enable an average sized man to walk upright. At the foot of the parapet ran the firing step on which the sentries stood at night with loaded rifle and fixed bayonet in hand.

The night was very noisy. There was an almost continuous crackle of rifle fire from the enemy trenches, broken occasionally by the automatic "pap-pap-pap" of a machine gun. All around one could hear the German bullets smacking against our sandbags, and altogether I felt far from comfortable. In the machine-gun emplacement, which was at a salient in the trench, stood a private of the Fusiliers; I remeber his name was Morgan. He informed me that I had better go on sentry duty while he made some tea in the trench behind. Accordingly I stood up on the fire step and looked around. It was too dark to see the German trenches - which were about two hundred yards away - but one could see the flashes og their rifles, and when an occasional Verey light went up the whole of the grey sandbagged parapet of their front line trench was revealed for an instant. When the first Verey light went up I ducked down, but was told by Morgan not to do so as the movement attracted the enemy's attention. I must, he said, stand quite still and then I should not be noticed. He then went into the trench behind, leaving me alone in the machine-gun emplacement.

[stiletto_33853]

There I stood on the fire step gazing into the darkness. Several bullets zipped past my ears and I felt very far from safe, so I carefully stepped down on to the floor of the emplacement and sat down with my back to the parapet, wondering why I had ever been fool enough to enlist in the Infantry! I had not long been engaged in these gloomy meditations when I had to spring to attention for a Fusilier officer entered the emplacement and enquired for Morgan. He also told me to stand up and look over the parapet, so I resumed my former elevated though unsafe position, hoping for the best. I heard the officer chiding the unfortunate Morgan for leaving a man fresh to the trenches by himself. Morgan instantly reappeared with the tea, which he had made in a mess-tin. It was without milk and very strong, but it was hot and I felt better for my share of it.

When my tour of sentry duty was over I was relieved and able to lie with B_____ in a funk hole which was just big enough to accomodate us both.

[stiletto_33853]

The next thing I knew was that a man was shaking me violently by the arm and shouting "Stand To!" I had not the remotest idea what he meant, but as there was a perfect tornado of rifle fire going on I made sure that we were about to be attacked, so rolled out of my earthy bed and, seizing my rifle, ran to the parapet. As a matter of fact there was no attack. This was the "Stand -to wind-up" when both sides fired madly at each others parapets. The command "Stand To" is short for "Stand to your arms" and was given in the trenches each morning half an hour before dawn and continued until it got light, when the day sentries were posted.

That day was beautifully sunny, and there was very little rifle or machine-gun fire. We obtained an additional thrill when the enemy sent over about half a dozen shells quite near to us. They all burst behind the fire trench, but one of the Fusiliers was wounded. During the morning, as I was not on duty, I amused myself by walking round the front line trench. I looked through a loophole in the sandbags at the enemy trenches. They seemed very near and I fired three shots at their parapet, being interested to see the dirt fly from the top of their dandbag breastwork where my third bullet went.

We machine-gunners of the 8th Worcesters left the trenches as soon as it was dark again after an unforgettable twenty four hours. I became very familiar with the trenches later on; in fact it became part of my eveyday life during the remainder of the war, but first impressions are always the most vivid and the most enduring.

[stiletto_33853]

"Plugstreet" Wood - A Race with Daeth - Round the Camp Fire.

On April 17, 1915, we moved to Nieppe, a town with a very long main street, perfectly straight, which led to le Pont de Nieppe, the road to Armentiers, and the trenches. Here we billeted with the H.Q. Staff and "B" Company, on a large private estate near the bridge which spans the river Lyes. We machine gunners were quartered in a greenhouse. Never, before or since, have I slept in a greenhouse. It had the advantage of being warm - for the nights were still cold - and we collected some straw from another part of the grounds, which formed our bed. On the following morning, a Sunday, I was awakened by the heat of the newly-risen sun pouring down on our house of glass. Unable to sleep again I got up and assisted the cook to prepare the breakfast for the Section. Near the greenhouse was a large pond full of frogs, which made a great croaking each morning and evening. The grounds, however, were beautiful, and when off duty, I spent many a pleasant hour wandering in them.

On the afternoon of April 21st we moved up into Ploegsteert Wood, known to all the British Army as "Plugstreet." Here we took over a line of trenches immediately in front of the wood. Two of our machine gun teams with the two Maxim guns moved into the trenches with the rest of the battalion, while the two reserve teams, to one of which I belonged, remained in the wood as supports. Our sleeping quarters here consisted of a log cabin.

[stiletto_33853]

N.C.O.'s and Men of "D" Company, 8th Battalion, The Worcestershire Regiment, at the entrance to their billet at Bicknacre, Essex.

[stiletto_33853]

Left to Right.

Rear Row: 1, I.G. Bennett. 2, J. Thomas. 3, E. Cull. 4, Gaukroger. 5, J. Taylor, 6, J. Brazier.

Next Row: 1, B. Barton, 2, F. Hartland. 3, Tustin. 4, Halford. 5, P. Collins. 6, ______. 7, W.J. Fletcher. 8, B.Keyley. 9, G. Bayliss. 10, Hughes.

Third Row: 1, J.H. Grinnell. 2, J. Heritage. 3, R. Huxley. 4, P. Allcock. 5, W. Cleaver. 6, P.J. Bayliss. 7, W. Gillett. 8, B. Westmacott. 9, A. Jennings. 10, C. Hodgkins. 11, T. Dolphin.

Last Row: 1, Foster. 2, D. Westwood. 3, D. Gapp. 4, G. Harrel. 5, L. Haywood. 6, H. Mumford. 7, W. Keyley. 8, G. Dennick.

[marina]

Dind't like the sound of that two foot trench at all! And what trouble with horses, mules, and frogs! Odd the things the men remember sometimes!

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

Always amazes me what little things stick in peoples minds.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

That night I hardly slept at all owing to the cold, which was intense. We had no blankets and no straw. Several times I got up and walked out into the wood. Rifle fire was going on in a desultory way from the direction of the trenches, and every now and againa German bullet would zip through the wood and pierce the trunk of a tree with a resounding smack. What a handicap it is to be cursed with a too vivid imagination! In those first few months under fire I used to speculate as to how much one would feel if a bullet went through one's head. Such speculations, of course, were very foolish, and helped to make me even more nervous than I should otherise have been. Shelling, too, in those early days "put the wind up" me more, I think than it did a majority of my comrades.

The most disconcerting part of being shelled is that every shell that is flung within about five hundred yards appears to be coming straight at you. The noise of a shell makes tearing through the air varies with the calibre of the projectile, but as a rule it can be compared with a tearing scream, getting raoidly louder and louder, until the shell burts with a terrific crash, flinging up dirt, stones, and pieces of metal in every direction. Sometimes these pieces of metal would sing past one's ears in a manner which had a most demoralising effect, at any rate so far as I was concerned, and I know it had a similar effect on some of my comrades, though little was said about it at the time. It was only by comparing notes afterwards that we were enabled to analyse each other's feeling whilst under fire. One thing I did notice, and that was that the more nervous and highly strung men seemed to suffer mental torture at first, but after a few weeks or months seemed to adjust themselves to living in continual danger, whereas the more phlegmatic - and they appeared to be in the vast majority - started campaigning apparently without fear, but begun to suffer from "nerves" later, when they had seen some of the more ghastly results of shell fire. These, of course, are only my own impressions, and only generalities at that, and my conclusions may be quite wrong.

[marina]

Interesting generalities he speaks of. I wonder how true in the main? I can see thzat a man who is afraid at first and making no bones about it, might be in fact prepping himself to face the fear. Whilst those who try to ignore it. might well find it creeping up on them later.

Interesting thought to mull over!

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

I cannot say I awoke, Because I had not been to sleep, but I jumped up and ran out of the shack when shells started to whizz over our heads, and bullets to zip all round, coming smack against the tree trunks in the wood. It was the daily "wind-up" at "stand-to", in the trenches, which were only a few hundred feet away on the eastern edge of the wood.

Lieut. B_____, our machine-gun officer, selected me to accompany him round the trenches, to visit the two machine gun teams who were stationed there. This was a ticklish job, as between the edge of the wood and the trenches was open ground in full view of the enemy's position. On arrival at the edge of the wood Lieut. B_____ made a careful reconnaissance and then, calling on me to follow him, he started to run in the direction of our trench, about a hundrd yards distant. I followed, with my heart beating so loud that I was almost afraid the unseen enemy would hear it! It was quite quiet as we emerged from the shelter of the wood, but we had not run many yards when crack, crack, crack, came shots from the Gerrman trenches.

[stiletto_33853]

I do not remember now what the record for the hundred yards flat race is, but feel sure I must have got very near it that morning. Lieut. B____ had a slight start, but I caught him up about half way across, and finally we both fell into our trench almost dead level. I should say it was a dead heat. I know I was hot enough as I picked myself up in the friendly shelter of the trench. "Hello, S____, you look hot," remarked a friend of mine in "B" Company, who was standing in the trench when we made our hurried entrance. "Yes, I replied, it's rather warm this morning.! It was true it was a beautiful spring morning, with the sun shining brilliantly, but I think I sweated as much from natural fear as from the heat.

I remember that it was in Plugstreet Wood that I first tasted the Maconachie ration. It consisted of meat, vegetables, and congealed gravy in a tin. You prized up the lid of the tin and cooked it over a camp fire, or it could be eaten cold. It was very palatable and popular with the troops, but it was rather too fat, and tended to upset one's stomach if indulged in too freely. The first time I tried it I was unaware of this, and suffered in consequence.

My diary for Friday, April 23rd, recounts that we sat around our campo fire on the sheltered side of the log cabin, and sang hymns and songs. The reason for the hymn singing was doubtless because one of our party had sung in a church choir at Worcester before the war and had a really nice tenor voice. It is also recorded in the diary that I recited "The Dream of Eugene Aram." Why I should have regaled my comrades with thois gruesome poem I cannot now say, but I remember on the following morning one of them confessed that he could not get to sleep for thinking about it!

[stiletto_33853]

Two days later I again accompanied Lieut. B____ round the trenches. We did our hundred yards flat race in equally good time, and without being hit. It did not seem nearly so bad the second time. We were relieved the same evening and marched back to Plugstreet village where we were billeted in a small house near the ruined church. A number of the houses in the village had been destroyed by enemy shell fire, and the village was bombarded for a short time almost every day. Despite this, business was carried on as usual. The two principal estaminets did a good trade, despite the fact that the Beligian beer sold there was not very palatable to English taste, and I recall there was a corner restaurant where they sold eggs and chips, and made excellent rice pudding.

So ended our first regular tour of duty in the trenches. Actually one was little or no safer in the village. The school was open and it was a pathetic sight to see the children running for the shelters when the shells started to scream overhead. One afternoon a little boy was brought wounded into our billet, where our Medical Officer also had his quarters. The little fellows shirt was soaking in blood - he had been hit by a shell splinter. What price glory?

[stiletto_33853]

Life in the Trenches - Jam Tin Bombs - Brave Civilians - Picking Gooseberries under Difficutlies - A Mine Exploded - Baths at Nieppe.

We spent four days in Plugstreet village "resting" from the trenches. These so called "rests" usually lasted the same number of days as a tour of duty in the front line. At this time of year we usually did four days in the line and four days out, in "rest" billets. While in the village of Ploegsteert (or as we called it "Plugstreet") we had a good deal of time to ourselves, after we had cleaned our rifles and equipment, and as the weather was fine and sunny, the day's passed pleasantly enough. Each night we marched off to a hill at the rear of the wood, where we helped to dig a line of support trenches from 10 p.m. until 3 a.m. It was here that we often heard a nightingale singing in "Plugstreet" wood. I must admit this made me feel a bit homesick, as it reminded me of the nightingale which used to sing in the shrubbery of my house at Evesham.

On April 30th, 1915, we took over a new line of trenches on the south side of the wood. They were for the most part sandbag breastworks, such as I have previously described. Here our machine gun position was quite near to the enemy's trench, and their snipers were very deadly and accurate.

[stiletto_33853]

It was sheear suicide to show one's head over the parapet in the daytime. The weather was now beautifully fine and sunny, but we were far too close to the Boches for my liking. This had one advantage, however, in that the artillery usually left us alone for fear of hitting their own men.

On our second day in this sector I had to take part in a very uncomfortable fatigue consisting of filling sandbags behind a low parapet. A German sniper could evidently hear us, for he kept firing at us. It was, of course, comparitively safe if you kept your head down, but filling sandbags in a crouching position, with the knowledge that if you stood upright for a moment you would get a bullet through the head, is not the most pleasant of occupations. It was during this tour of trench duty that we had our first serious crop of casualties. One of our men was killed, and several, including "Joe" S____, of our machine gun section, were wounded. "Joe" was wounded in a rather unusual manner. He was sitting on the fire step on Sunday afternoon, when a bullet from the German trenches went right through his shoulder, having previously passed through the parapet - probably through a chink in the breastwork of sandbags. It was a queer life in this sector. At several points the British and German trenches were only fifty yards apart, and at one point only thirty yards seperated friend from foe. At these places during the night we could hear the Germans talking and the sound of their boots on the duckboards.

Occasionally a crude bomb or hand grenade would be thrown from one trench into the other, but I never remember these early hand grenades doing much damage.

[stiletto_33853]

One sunny afternoon I was walking along the front line trench when a jam tin grenade fell ay my feet. For an instant I stood looking at the rapidly burning fuse. Then, realising what it was, I jumped back behind a traverse in the trench. A moment later came a report, and venturing forth again I saw bits of tim embedded in the sandbags; had I waited another second or two I should have got my share! The Boches had an unpleasant habit of putting gramophone needles in their grenades. Later in the war these crude devices were superseded by more deadly grenades - on our side the Mills hand bomb and the rifle grenade.

When we next left the trenches - being relieved by another unit - we returned, not to Ploegsteert village, but to our old greenhouse at Nieppe, and a very pleasant was the sight of our straw bed after the mud "funk-holes" in the trenches.

On the following morning we were awakened by the noise of a terrific bombardment, and saw hundreds of refugees fleeing from Armentiers, which was being heavily shelled. They streamed across the bridge into Nieppe, and the good people of this town opened their doors to them and took them in. They were all women, children and old men. Some were pushing perambulators or hand carts on which were piled a few articles or furniture or bedding. These women, whose homes were probably being smashed to pieces at the moment, did not cry or bewail their fate.

[stiletto_33853]

In the trenches at "Plugstreet" only thirty yards from the Germans.

Left to Right.

Privates: Best (Malvern), Joe Heritage, Charles Alcock and Henry Pace (Evesham)

[marina]

Enjoyed the 100 yards sprint! Dind#t like the sound of the gramophone needles though!

He's an unconscious humorist though - imagine being among all that shelling and shooting and being able to scare his pals with the tale of Eugene Aram!

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

They bore their cruel misfortune with the fatalistic patience of the French and Flemish peasants. They are certainly a wonderful people. From the front line trenches I have often seen men and women working in the fields under enemy artillery fire. When a shell burst near to them they just glanced up, and then, with a shrug, went on with their work. In may instances they would not leave their houses even when these had been partially destroyed by shell fire, and often had to be ordered to leave by the authorities. How much of it was due to physical courage, or how much to lack of imagination I was never able to decide. The fact that the Frech peasant-farmer owns his land undoubtedly had a lot to do with the tenacity with which he held on to it in the face of the utmost danger.

In due course we returned to the trenches, and thios time the freedom from artillery fire which we had previously enjoyed came to an end, and the Germans bombarded us severely, causing several casualties. After four days we were relieved again, and this time returned to the village of Ploegsteert, to find that several more houses had been destroyed by shell-fire. This trench life continued for several weeks without any special incident, and every four days we retired to rest billets, either to our old greenhouse at Nieppe or to "Plugstreet" village