With two companies of the rearguard of our expedition for France I left Egypt for the second time on the Khedival mail steamer Osmanieh, afterwards sunk by submarines. There was a second call at Malta, for a damaged screw sent us in for repairs, and we spent three days in port. In this delay, fate served us a good turn, for a boat, in company of which we should have been, was torpedoed. Without further incident we reached the great French naval fortress of Toulon—one of the most interesting places I have ever seen—early in March 1916, and afterwards steamed to Marseilles, where the Australians disembarked, and where we saw our first of the Bosche in some 8000 prisoners who were working about the docks. It was yet too early to see southern France in its spring vesture, but after Egypt and Gallipoli any land in which green things flourished seemed beautiful. Very soothing it was to eyes so long accustomed to the grey pinnacles of the peninsula and the red of shifting desert sands, so the new adventure seemed to open with fairer promise.
The valley of the Rhône, cultivated to its last root with formal squares of hard-pruned orchards, lined in poplars and with vines clinging to every accessible niche of its rockiest hills, is charming at all seasons. We had been lifted from the world’s nursery into the middle distance of medieval times amongst places such as Dijon and Tarascon, built up through centuries upon their own refuse, and with the medieval smell, which is decay accumulated and grown old, still lingering about them. Transfer from the crescent to the cross was pleasantly obvious in the little shrines which crown so many of the hill crests. The olive country was our only disappointment, for to the olive is given only the poorer soils of southern France and the grey-green of the groves by contrast of the verdancy of Rhône water meadows, still held some suggestion of that oriental sterility which we were but too willing to forget.
Travelling chiefly by day we had a fair glimpse of the pleasant fields of France, some acquaintance with the character of its historic towns like Lyons, the great silk centre, before we began to tread upon the heels of retreating winter again away north at Rouen by the Seine, after a hundred hours’ journey through a land that has been washed and combed into cultivated beauty by many generations. Little wonder that the Frenchman is an ardent patriot, for his is a land that would have stirred even our home sluggards to action and sacrifice. Seeing it with new and eager eyes, we could realise all the meaning of that epitaph roughly scratched above the grave of a dead French soldier on the Somme:
My body to the earth,
My soul to God,
My heart to France.
It needed no troop trains to tell us that France was at war, for on that journey, which will live so long in memory, one saw few able-bodied men out of uniform. The day’s work in France was being done chiefly by men bent with age, by women who, seen in the fields through the haze of early morning, recalled Millet’s picture, The Angelus and by children. At some of the railway junctions we noticed even women engine stokers and cleaners—Vivre la France! With twenty-four hours in Rouen one had a chance to see some of the sights of the town, amongst them the beautiful Cathedral of Notre Dame—one of the few great northern churches which have been spared from the ruin of malignant German hate. We entrained next day for Berguette; a seven mile march at the end brought us to our billets at Wittes, and thence a few days later to the trenches of Fleurbaix, just south of Armentières, and within three hundred yards of the enemy, with whom every Australian was more anxious for a direct deal than he had ever been with Germany’s hoodwinked tool, the Turk.
What a contrast to Gallipoli and the rainless Sinai desert were these waterlogged manways of the Western Front, with the tail end of a hard winter and occasional snow storms still biting into them. For eighteen months the tide of war had ebbed and flowed with little material gain either side. The proximity of the Hun had but hardened our hate of him, for that particular sector seemed to reek of his atrocities. We had fought the Turk as a formally declared enemy, without any particular animosity towards him; here it was altogether different. One must be blind to all the misery of martyred France, deaf to all authenticated tales of Hunnish depravity, here he could sit down with any degree of patience to wait for that which might happen.
It was early in April that we took over Fleurbaix from the 15th and 16th Royal Scots, and amongst other warnings given to us was, ‘Look out for their patrols. They bombed us last night, and bombed us the night before. They’re always bombing us in.’ Fritz was presuming a bit considered that he had established a prowling right over the battle belt, but in less than a week he had given up possession.
The lure of night scouting, the silent, tense sensation of feeling one’s way through the dark, groping for the unseen and unknown, began to get a grip of me again. It was sharpened up by resentment of the liberties which the Hun patrols were taking. Experimental patrols on three successive nights on no man’s land served to strengthen a natural love for that particular work. If you meet an enemy the chances are that you meet him single-handed, matching the acuteness of your senses, your night craft against his. It is generally a fair deal, a fair duel, and he who is worst equipped for it takes the consequences. My first patrol was a prudent half-way to the German wires, and feeling about in the night for an hour and a quarter—rather than an experimental scour that one with any definite aim, for one needs to be quite sure of his nerves and the strain is constant. On the second occasion I left the patrol half-way and worked up close to the Bosche entanglements, repeating it on the following night.
Apart from personal liking for the job there was some purpose behind it. I was in charge of a party of three officers and seventy of other ranks (composed mainly of specialists such as grenadiers, machine-gunners and snipers) sent in ahead of the battalion to learn the line, and the best way to learn was by personal investigation. When news of my night promenades reached the ears of the commanding officer, a warning lecture followed. Officers could not be spared for that work, though before very long the need for it was fully realised.
Amongst our near neighbours were the Canadians, and news of the very effective scouting done by some of their expert backwoodsmen reached the ears of our divisional staff, who were so much impressed that they set about making special patrol arrangements. A lecture by a Canadian Captain, who had charge of the scouts of his own battalion, was being arranged, and attended by representative officers of each battalion in the division, as well as by headquarters staff. The Canadian was an expert in the job. With an enthusiasm that was infectious he urged the absolute necessity of scouting being properly organised as a battalion matter, instead of being casually undertaken just as the need or the impulse came. His arguments were, indeed, so convincing that the staff decided immediately to set about organising special patrols on the same lines as the Canadians. It was my good fortune to be given the job.
We realised that the work was both delicate and dangerous, and there was a call for volunteers. Of high courage there was no lack. The other requirement was keen intelligence, coupled with persistency. When complete, it was a command of which any officer might be proud; impressive less for its strength than for its qualities, a close companionship based upon mutual understanding. It was clearly understood that, if any man betrayed the confidence of his comrades, he should be shot, that if I failed them there should be no compunction in carrying out a sentence mutually self-imposed. A majority of the scouts were bush men.
Our first undertaking was to get absolute control of no man’s land, representing at that point a breadth of about 350 yards between the rival fighting lines, to bar it to the Hun patrols, and, if possible, locate all their listening posts and machine-gun stations. On the very day that the scouts were organised the Brigadier had a job ready for us. The 24th Battalion reported that an unused trench, lying about a hundred yards in front of the enemy line, was believed to be occupied by them at night. We were to reconnoitre, bomb the Bosche out if they happened to be in possession, and fix up some sham protection to indicate that we intend to hold it. The hope was that on the following evening an enemy party would investigate, and with a machine gun trained on the position might spring a trap on them. We found the trench almost full of water, and with a canvas screen and sand bags fixed up, made it a fair imitation of a semi-circular redoubt. ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly, but the fly, more suspicious than curious, declined the invitation.5
On the following night we crept towards the German wires, but within eighty yards of them an observer whispered that an enemy patrol of about twelve men had passed behind us towards our own lines. Retiring to our wires we sent in for the additional men and chased the Germans back to their trenches.
Night patrols on both sides are forbidden to bomb except in the last emergency, and the reason for it will be obvious. Their work is mainly investigation, and as it is impossible in the darkness to discriminate between friends and foe, supporting fire from either trench is impossible. So it was no uncommon thing to find two rival patrols, investigating each other curiously and silently through the dark with only a few paces intervening. Ours was, however, a bombing party, and having cleared the ground and dug shelter-holes just deep enough for fire cover, I took a Sergeant and two men, creeping right under their wires, we had the fatigue party absolutely at our mercy. With bomb pins drawn and the lever held down by the finger only, we could hear the low murmur of their conversation, apparently a party of about eight. They were so sure of themselves that some whistled softly at their work. On the signal four Mills bombs dropped on them, so beautifully placed that the burst suggested the position of stars in the Southern Cross. The whistling turned to an agonised scream.
That is a characteristic of the Hun. When surprised or hurt he screams. Our men take it sometimes silently, or with an exclamation, but frequently with an oath. Once you have heard a German scream he has lost caste in men company. On the moment the bombs were tossed we dashed for our funk holes, and then what a commotion! The German flares lit up no man’s land, and their machine guns chattered across it but ‘Brer rabbit he jes’ lay low and dun say nuffin.’ Safe from the storm that swished just overhead, we laughed in sheer enjoyment.
One immediate result of our night work was that the German patrols, originally composed of six men, were strengthened to twelve—they were ‘getting the wind up.’ There were few shell holes in that sector of no man’s land. It was in the main a beautiful grassy stretch, and crawling through it at night one’s face brushed against the first red poppies of Spring. In addition to passing our compliments— per favour of Mr Mills—to the Huns, we had been able to locate and take bearings upon the battle positions of two of their machine guns, though headquarters were dubious about it until they had confirmed our report by aerial observation. Then the emplacements were smothered in a burst of shell fire. For that interesting night’s work our reward was the following note in the brigade orders:
Brigadier General Gellibrand has pleasure in placing
on the record the excellent work carried out by the
following patrol:—Lieut. W. A. Cull, Sergeant H.
Payne, Privates O. Johnson and A. Cumstie.
Alexander Cumstie, who had fine qualities as a scout, was killed on the following night. I had great pleasure in recommending Herbert Payne, a solid, ever-reliable soldier, both for a decoration and promotion but the honours came too late. At Pozières soon afterwards he was sent to take a German strong post on the Bapaume Road. Twice he led his men against it, only to be beaten back with loss. Before leaving the trench for a third attack, he quietly shook hands with his friends and gave concise directions as to the disposal of his effects. His presentiment was justified, for he had only cleared the parapet when a bullet passed through his head, killing him instantly. Oscar Johnson was a strange contradiction, even in a force where character was often unusual. In Egypt and Gallipoli he was always in trouble, for when he had looked a little while upon the wine that is red he could make more noise than a battalion. In France he was a particularly reliable man, and I picked him as a scout. And a fine scout he was, as game as they made. But leave was Johnson’s folly. He would roar up the whole camp on his return, and with peremptory orders from the commanding office that it should be stopped, I told Johnson that he was going back to his company. Without a word he saluted, walked away, and the next I heard was that Johnson had forfeited and was laying for me with a rifle. For that indiscretion he was tried by court-martial, and heavily sentenced. A few days later he asked me to see him—not to intercede for him, he was careful to explain, as he had been a fool and deserved what he got. He wished to apologise, and on my application that sentence should be suspended, Johnson returned to the scouts. He came back, and proved himself a splendid man. He was soon wearing stripes and the ribbon of the Military Medal.6
A Gallipoli incident was recalled soon afterwards in a narrow shave from a Bosche shell, the wind of which dashed my hat off in the mud while I was worrying my way out of a trench with a wounded man.
As a general consequence of our night work the brigade intelligence officer was good enough to say that ours was the only battalion which knew its battle front thoroughly or had gained information of definite value to the brigade.