The immediate casus belli for the First World War was Germany’s aggressive support for Austria-Hungary, which wanted to punish Serbia for its alleged complicity in the assassination of the Emperor of Austria’s nephew, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914. However, the long-term causes predate that, and can be found in Germany’s lust for European hegemony. Fighting between Austria-Hungary and Serbia broke out on 29 July and Tsarist Russia’s mobilization in support of Serbia on 30 July led to an ultimatum from Germany on the 31st and a declaration of war on 1 August. Fighting in the West broke out on the 4th when Imperial Germany invaded Belgium in accordance with its General Staff’s Schlieffen Plan, under the terms of which France was to be invaded via its northern neighbour. On the same day, Great Britain declared war against Germany for violating Belgian neutrality, which she had guaranteed when Belgium was created in 1839, and also because she had a de facto alliance with France, known as the Entente Cordiale. After a general European peace lasting over four decades, the Great Powers were all at war within four days of Germany’s intentionally provocative ultimatum to Russia.
Between 7 and 17 August 1914, a British Expeditionary Force (BEF) was despatched to the Continent, but it could not arrive in time to prevent the opening stages of the Schlieffen Plan from being put into operation, as German forces marched through Belgium and occupied Brussels on 20 August. France’s subsequent attempt to invade Germany in ‘the battle of the Frontiers’ fizzled out by the 25th and over the following days the retreating BEF fought a delaying action at Le Cateau. Yet nothing could prevent the Germans crossing the River Marne to the east of Paris on 3 September. The original Schlieffen Plan, conceived in 1905, which called for a powerful right flanking movement through Belgium and northern France in order to capture Paris, now seemed on the verge of success. Crucially, however, subsequent German chiefs of staff had watered down the plan, weakening the right flank, and so between 15 September and 24 November the French and British armies managed to stabilize the situation in front of the French capital.
Due to the advances in firepower – with the advent of the machine gun and heavy artillery – the fairly evenly-matched size of the armies facing each other and logistical problems in moving the soldiers rapidly, the autumn and early winter of 1914 saw a relatively static line of trenches spread across north-west Europe from the North Sea through Belgium and France all the way to the Swiss border. These trenches were to form the front lines for the next three and a half years. On the Eastern Front, the German General Paul von Hindenburg defeated the Russian Army at the battle of Tannenberg in late August 1914, inflicting 125,000 casualties for the loss of 15,000, but there, too, the front later stabilized. On 28 October Turkey joined the Central Powers, bombarding Russia’s Black Sea ports; the sides were drawn.
On 19 January 1915 the first Zeppelin raids were unleashed against Britain, first against East Anglian ports, and then from 1 June against London, culminating in the largest raid of the war on 13 October which caused over 200 casualties. Another sinister new invention of war, poison gas, was also introduced by the Germans in Poland in January 1915. On 4 February 1915 Germany declared Britain to be under blockade from its U-boat submarine fleet, a stranglehold the Royal Navy struggled to break throughout the war.
On 10 March 1915, British and Indian forces managed to break through the German lines and capture the northern French village of Neuve Chapelle, but as was to happen all too often over the coming years, they were unable to exploit their temporary victory. Such was the military technology, especially with regard to machine guns and heavy artillery, that the defensive proved superior to offensive, time after time. With poison gas being used by the Germans on the Western Front against the British-held Ypres salient after 22 May, the war entered a truly hellish new phase, from which it did not fully emerge until the summer of 1918.
In an attempt to turn the flank of the Axis powers, and hopefully knock the Ottoman Empire out of the war, thus relieving pressure on Russia’s southern front and allow her to concentrate on Austria and Germany, the Allies attacked in the Dardanelles. British and French forces landed at Cape Helles and Australian and New Zealand (ANZAC) forces landed at Anzac Cove on the Turkish-held Gallipoli peninsula on 25 April 1915. Both the difficult terrain and stout Turkish resistance led by Mustafa Kemal (later Kemal Atatürk) denied the Allies the quick victory they needed, and instead led to a long and costly campaign, which only ended with evacuation in December 1915 and January 1916. (One of the letters in this volume refers to the ‘Morning Hate’; the nickname given to the three-quarters of an hour of shelling that the Turks always began at 7.45am.)
On 7 May 1915 a U-boat torpedoed the British liner Lusitania off the southern coast of Ireland, drowning 1,198 passengers, 114 of whom were American. Widely considered a war crime, it turned American public opinion decisively against Germany and is widely considered to be a factor in America’s entry into the war the following year.
On 25 September British forces used gas for the first time, at the battle of Loos, but, as so often on the Western Front, the small gains in territory were outweighed by the large loss of men. This was particularly seen in the battle of Verdun, which lasted from 21 February to 18 December 1916. There, the attritional tactics used between France and Germany led to the loss of 400,000 men on each side.
In late May 1916 the German High Seas Fleet left its harbours to contest maritime superiority with the Royal Navy’s Grand Fleet in the North Sea. Although Admiral Sir John Jellicoe lost more ships than the Germans at the battle of Jutland on 1 June, he avoided defeat, which was all that was needed to ensure that the Germans remained in their harbours for the rest of the war. The Royal Navy was thereafter able to impose a gruelling blockade on Germany, many of whose citizens succumbed to malnourishment and starvation.
Britain and France were to undergo an even greater slaughter than they had experienced at Verdun during the battle of the Somme, fought between 1 July and 18 November 1916. The BEF suffered no fewer than 60,000 casualties (including 20,000 killed) on the first day of the Somme Offensive alone, as troops attacked across shell-pitted landscapes of death and destruction known as no-man’s-land, against machine guns protected by barbed wire. The battle, which only succeeded in taking five miles of territory, resulted in 620,000 British and French and 450,000 German casualties.
An attempt to break the incredibly costly stalemate was made by Britain on 15 September 1916 with the introduction of the tank to the battlefield, which was a considerable advance in technology. However, the tank was not the breakthrough weapon that the Allies had hoped it might be. A genuine breakthrough was achieved on 6 April 1917, however, when, enraged by the sinking of American shipping and by the publication of the Zimmermann telegram,* the United States entered the war against Germany.
At the battle of Arras in April 1917, the British Third Army managed to advance a grand total of only four miles, yet on the Western Front this constituted a significant victory. That same month some of the French Army mutinied, destroying its ability to mount further offensives. Instead it was the BEF that mounted the Third Battle of Ypres (also known as Passchendaele) between 31 July and 6 November, another hugely costly operation in which only eight miles were taken. During the latter stages of the battle, thousands of miles to the east, the Bolshevik Revolution broke out in Russia, ensuring that after the new Communist regime took over and made peace with the Germans at Brest-Litovsk in December 1917, the whole weight of the German Army would fall upon the Allies on the Western Front.
Sure enough, between 21 March and late May 1918, the Germans launched their massive Spring Offensives, winning the Second Battle of the Somme and advancing 40 miles, allowing them to shell Paris itself. Yet it turned out to be Germany’s final ‘big push’ of the war, for on 18 July the Allies began their counter-offensive, which left the German Army reeling. Between 8 and 11 August the concentrated forces of the British Commonwealth, including Australian and Canadian divisions as well as 400 British tanks, broke the German lines in front of Amiens, advancing more than 12 miles and capturing 30,000 prisoners. General Ludendorff referred to 8 August as ‘the black day of the German Army’.
With 1.2 million fresh American troops plunging into the battle of the Meuse-Argonne in September, Lille falling to the British in October and the Allies cutting the German supply lines in early November, it was only a matter of time before Kaiser Wilhelm II abdicated and an armistice was announced. This finally came about at 11am on 11 November 1918.
In the first year of the war much of the fighting was conducted by the ‘Old Contemptibles’ of the British Regular Army. This included Second Lieutenant Neville Leslie Woodroffe, an Anglo-Boer War veteran who joined the Irish Guards in 1913 and was sent to France with the 1st Battalion in 1914. He survived the retreat from Mons and the battle of Landrecies, details of which are described in the letters below.
3 September 1914
My dear mother,
I got your letter and father’s the day before yesterday. They had obviously been round several places before they arrived where we were as I have had letters dated later than [them] which I received before…
Mons was an awful time and we had a terrible week of retirement as fast as we could go covering sometimes 30 miles per day, starting while it was dark and not stopping until it was again dark. Our men stuck it extremely well and we were complimented on our marching by the general. We had very little sleep as the time we ought to have slept was devoted to making trenches and barricades.
We have finished this continual trekking for a while and have up till now been in different engagements [and] we have lost considerably. In the first wood fight we had after Landrecies which I described to you in my last letter, but can with safety now mention the name, we lost nine officers. Landrecies was a terrible massacre! We lost few but the Germans many…
The day after Landrecies our brigade acted rearguard for the Division and our battalion was last of our brigade… We were however badly attacked and had to hold on till the main force had got away. We were all caught in the wood and bullets whizzed as close as anything to one through the trees. The Coldstreams and us were together but the wood was so thick that I fear many shot one’s own men…
I can’t explain to you every engagement as it is unbearable to describe our feelings and experiences which one has been through. Some are awful and when I return I shall have a great deal to tell you. We have been on the move incessantly and attacking and reforming and advancing for the whole time.
The 1st Brigade of Guards have lost heavily in regards officers, and besides that the very best of fellows many of whom ranked as one’s very best friends… Lockwood was shot yesterday whilst he was standing up telling some wounded Germans to convey in their language to another party of Germans that if they held the white flag up they were to throw down their arms. John Mannen, who you know by name, shot himself, when he saw that the alternative was to surrender to superior numbers of Germans… The other day a large force of Germans showed the white flag and our men went out to take them prisoner, when they immediately fired on us and killed several.
The Germans are very fond of wood fighting and detail snipers to get up trees where they are not seen and pick off the officers, others lie on the ground and if caught pretend they are dead…
Love to all,
Neville
October 18th
My dear Vera,
Many thanks for your parcel and letter I received about ten days ago. The former was much appreciated by Borgin who was duly given all which he was entitled to, though it needed great self-control on my part! I expect you have heard of some of my doings, experiences and adventures from letters to mother. Really this war is terrible, quite a picnic South Africa is considered compared to this. I am afraid it will not be over by Christmas, as once thought at the commencement of the campaign, though the actual German prisoner one meets, both officer, non-commissioned and private all seem really very much against the war and at the same time most heartily fed up with it. They say they get very little food and [fine] men five francs for a tin of bully and a franc for one cigarette! The day before yesterday we completed our five weeks of entrenchment along the line, the position which we held ever since the last fight we had in a wood which I described before and of which you have probably heard of. We have now, I am glad to say, left and have moved off to —— where I expect we will be engaged in a day or so. Our trenches were taken over by the French. When we handed them over a captain of ours took the French captain and showed him an advance post, which we had cut out at night in front of our trenches and not far from those of our German friends and told him to relieve us with some of his men, so he accordingly got some out from the trenches and our men came in, but before they had got back hardly, the French post was found in the trenches again, [whenever] our fellow told them that they had to remain out there ‘oh no we don’t’ they said! They obviously thought better of it…
Love from Neville
His final letter home was brief and simply sent on the back of a postcard. He was killed in action during the First Battle of Ypres, on 6 November 1914, just three days after writing this note.
Nov 3rd 1914
I am afraid I have not time to write a letter though I have heaps to tell you. The last two days have been ghastly. The Germans broke through the line. We have lost ten officers in the last two days and yesterday the battalion was less than 200 though I expect some stragglers will turn up. All the officers in my company were lost except myself. All in No 3 Coy and all bar one in No 4. We have had no rest at all. Everyone is very shaken. I do hope we are put in reserve to reform for a few days. I will give a full account later. The whole Brigade has suffered heavily. Thanks for letter…
Love to all,
Neville
Many of the soldiers serving on the front lines on the Western Front were incredibly young, and a number were ‘underage’ when they joined up. One such soldier, George Danzig, volunteered as a private aged just 16 and served in the 2nd Battalion, Leicestershire Regiment, which formed part of the Indian Expeditionary Force in France.
19 August 1915
Private G. Danzig 11599
2nd Batt, B Coy
Indian Expeditionary Force
France
Dear Mum,
Just a few lines in answer to your two welcome letters which I received alright. I am pleased to hear that you and Dad and Auntie and Kit and Em and Jim are alright. I hope this will find you in the same health as it leaves me at present. You know in the last letter I wrote we had just come out of the trenches and we were expecting to come right back for a well earned rest, well we have got it (in the trenches for another 14 days or more) – the bloke who says a soldier don’t earn his bob a day should come where I am writing this letter and then give his opinion. Well Mum Isuppose we mustn’t grumble, but a good grumble eases our mind. It is about 11 o’clock now and the skies look about black enough to give us enough rain to last us the whole time we are in. So I expect we shall soon be up to our necks in mud.
It is August now but it’s blooming cold of a night time so goodness knows how it will be round Christmas time. Well Mum I wouldn’t give a tuppence for sunny France as some people call it.
… I must close now as the fleas are irritating me so I must look at my shirt, I find millions of them every day, goodness knows where they all come from.
With love to you from your lousy,
George
PS. This is the only green envelope I have got so I might not be able to write you another letter till we come out.* I hope Dad has plenty of work still.
Am killing millions (fleas)
Danzig lost his battle against both the fleas and the Germans. Wounded firstly in May 1915 he recovered but was subsequently reported missing in action presumed killed just a month after this letter was sent.
Born 1890, Alfred Dougan Chater volunteered for service in the Artists Rifles, 28th Battalion, London Regiment, Territorial Army (TA) force, in 1909 and was soon promoted to Corporal. With the outbreak of war he was called up for active service and sent the following letter on the eve of his departure.
Oct 25th 1914
Knowley House
Abbot Langley
I must write you one more line dearest to say goodbye before we go, as God knows when I shall see you again. I am so awfully glad we are going – it is what we have been waiting for [for] so long and it has come so much sooner than we expected or hoped. I heard about it yesterday afternoon when I was going home; I called at our headquarters at Euston where I found the 2nd Battalion being got together and was told that the 1st Btn [Battalion] were to leave for France on Monday.
Although there is not much doubt that we are really going: we were served with our new rifles this afternoon and we believe that we shall be at Southampton tomorrow night.
As to where we shall exactly sail we don’t know but I daresay we may be at Southampton for 2 or 3 days and when we get over we may be at [Le] Havre for some time.
I wish I could have seen you today and I can’t bear the thought of going without saying goodbye to you but feel also it is better as it is…
So now dear it is goodbye and may we meet again if God wills. You know that if I am allowed to come back I shall feel exactly the same to you as I do now and shall be ready for you…
It is a funny game this war! We are all fairly shouting with joy at going and I daresay we shall soon be cursing the day and then when we get back we shall say we have had the time of our lives.
Goodbye darling may God bless and keep you.
Goodbye little girl.
One of the legendary events in the first year of the war was the Christmas truce in 1914 when British and German servicemen brokered unofficial ceasefires. Chater recalled his reaction to the truce on his part of the front line in a letter to his mother back home in Britain.
Christmas Day
Dear Mother,
I am writing this in the trenches in my ‘dug out’ – with a wood fire going and plenty of straw it is rather cosy although it is freezing hard and real Christmas weather.
I think I have seen one of the most extraordinary sights today that anyone has ever seen. About 10 o’clock this morning I was peeping over the parapet when I saw a German waving his arms and presently two of them got out of their trenches and come towards ours – we were just going to fire on them when we saw they had no rifles so one of our men went out to meet them and in about two minutes the ground between the two lines of trenches was swarming with men and officers of both sides shaking hands and wishing each other a happy Christmas. This continued for about half an hour when most of the men were ordered back to the trenches.
For the rest of the day nobody has fired a shot and the men have been wandering about at will on the top of the parapet and carrying straw and fire wood about in the open. We have also had joint burial parties with a service for some dead – some German and some ours – who were lying out between the lines. Some of our officers were talking to groups of English and German soldiers.
This extraordinary truce has been quite important – there was no previous arrangement and of course it had been decided that there was not to [be] any cessation of hostilities. I went out myself and shook hands with several of their officers and men. From what I could gather most of them would be as glad to get home again as we should. We have had our pipes playing all day and everyone has been wandering about in the open unmolested but not of course as far as the enemy’s lines. The truce will probably go on until someone is foolish enough to let off his rifle – we nearly messed it up this afternoon by one of our fellows letting off his rifle skywards by mistake, but they did not seem to notice it so it did not matter.
I have been taking advantage of the truce to improve my ‘dug-out’ which I share with D.M. Bain, the Scotch rugger international, an excellent fellow… We leave the trenches tomorrow and I shall [not] be sorry as it is much too cold to be pleasant at night.
27th
I am writing this back in billets – the same business continued yesterday and we had another parley with the Germans in the middle. We exchanged cigarettes and autographs and some people took photos. I don’t know how long it will go on for – I believe it was supposed to stop yesterday but we can hear no firing going on along the front today except a little distant shelling. We are, at any rate, having another truce on New Year’s Day as the Germans want to see how the photos came out! Yesterday was lovely in the morning and I went for several quite long walks about the lines. It is difficult to realise what that means but of course in the ordinary way there is not a sign of life above ground and everyone who puts his head up gets shot at.
It is really very extraordinary that this sort of thing should happen in a war in which there is so much bitterness and ill feeling. The Germans in this part of the line are certainly sportsmen if they are nothing else. Of course I don’t suppose it has happened everywhere along the line although I think that indiscriminate firing was more or less stopped in most places on Christmas Day…
I must stop now – I was up all last night on a false alarm. I suppose they thought we had had too slack a time of it the last 2 days.
With heaps of love and wishes to you and everyone for a happy new year.
Your loving son,
ADC
Hedley S. Payne originally enlisted as a private on 6 November 1914 and was attached to the 4th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers, and was subsequently posted to 2/4th Battalion, Royal Fusiliers. He had a busy war serving in both the Mediterranean and European theatres. Between 23 December 1914 and 19 August 1915 he was on active service in Malta. He served as part of the Mediterranean Force (Gallipoli) between 20 August 1915 and 16 April 1916 and was subsequently attached to the London Regiment in May 1916. From 17 April 1916 until 12 January 1917 he served in France.
29 August 1916, France
My dear Mother,
I received your letter of the 17th several days ago but ‘tempus fugit’ even in the Army and so we have only had time to sleep and eat for the last week. I have not written any letters. I find myself now with half a dozen letters to answer in about five minutes, seated on the straw with twenty people shouting and jumping all over me and my only light a candle – a candle at sufficient distance away to be well nigh useless.
At the same time someone is offering one salmon and fruit for supper and on the other side being told to get up and make my bed…
Try to picture the above scene (and the way I had to stop and have supper) and you will begin to realise the feelings of poor Tommy on entering the correspondence department.
I suppose I am allowed to tell you that the battalion is out of the trenches for a short time for a rest… I heard the astounding news today that I had been made a battalion scout – fancy me hiding behind a blade of grass and sniping a Hun that isn’t there – what hopes.
Still, joking apart I quite like the idea.
Now I think I had better start answering your letter written amid the joys of summer by the sea. I am so glad to hear that you have been having a good time at Ryde with them all. I have just received your letter of the 25th as well and apparently the weather was fine too. It has been pouring with rain the last few days here so I am glad to be out of the trenches.
The village is very pretty and peaceful after those to which we had been used to and the scenery around reminds me very much of Devon. A stream like the Sid runs below our billet where we wash and swim.
I must close now and write later. Please give my love to all.
From your loving son,
Hedley
Payne was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal (DCM) following courageous actions in France as a scout and his official citation stated:
For conspicuous gallantry on several occasions when carrying messages under heavy machine gun and sniping fire. Twice on his own initiative he made dangerous reconnaissances, returning each time with valuable information and sketches.
(London Gazette No. 29824, 14 November 1916)
However, he was injured and was forced to spend a short time in hospital, sending the following letter to his mother after his release and return to the front line.
23 October 1916
Back with the Boys
France
My dear Mother,
I fear that I have been keeping you a long time for this letter but is has not been my fault entirely. After a few days down at the Base where there was always something to do I was sent along with a few others back to the battalion. As we were called out in the middle of the night I could not let you know very well.
Then the train journey took us two days. I found the battalion out on their well-earned rest but there are very few of the old boys left. The next day we had a nice little march of about twenty miles to the village where we are at present.
We are standing by to move again so no letters are being taken but as I received your letters and handkerchiefs last night I must write and send the letter off as soon as possible.
Thanks so much for the hankies. They arrived just in time as I have caught rather a nasty cold. I am so sorry to hear that Majorie is ill.* When will she be well enough to come home again? You must let me know because I might be getting [leave] soon and home would not be the same without Majorie to feed [and] greet me. I do also hope she will be better soon, is there anything that you can take her from me – fruit, flowers etc? I suppose Norman and Howard have returned to school by this time. They will have to plug away to make up for lost time.
Thank you so much for the messages. I thought they must have been stopped as I had not received any for so long.
It was like hearing Dad’s voice again to read it. He is getting more of a poet than ever. By the way when you address my letters now you will have to put KCo. [K Company] instead of ACo. [A Company].
I must close now but before I do so you will all be glad to hear that I have been awarded the DCM [Distinguished Conduct Medal].
With the best of love to all.
From your loving son,
Hedley
British servicemen were joined by their Commonwealth compatriots in the army as well as the fledging Royal Flying Corps (later designated the Royal Air Force – RAF). To those on the home front, the pilots exuded a sense of glamour, unlike the troops bogged down in the mud of the trenches, despite the obvious dangers they too faced. The pilots’ exploits frequently attracted both the attention of the media and the medal committees. Lieutenant William Leefe Robinson was flying with No. 39 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps when he shot down a Zeppelin on 3 September 1916. His success against this new enemy earned him the Victoria Cross (VC), the British Empire’s highest award for gallantry. He sent the following account to his parents, describing the momentous event.
October 22nd, 1916
My darling Mother and Father,
I do really feel ashamed for not writing to you darling old people before, but still, there it is – you know what I am.
Busy – !! Heavens, for the last 7 weeks I have done enough to last anyone a life time. It has been a wonderful time for me!
I won’t say much about ‘strafing’ the zepp L21 for two reasons; to begin with most of it is strictly secret and secondly I’m really so tired of the subject and telling people about it, that I feel as if I never want to mention it again – so I will only say a very few words about it.
When the colossal thing actually burst into flames of course it was a glorious sight – wonderful! It literally lit up as in the fire light – and [I] sat still half dazed staring at the wonderful sight before me, not realizing to the least degree the wonderful thing that had happened!
My feelings? Can I describe my feelings. I hardly know how I felt. As I watched the huge mass gradually turn on end, and – as it seemed to me – slowly sink, one glowing, blazing mass – I gradually realized what I had done and grew wild with excitement. When I had cooled down a bit, I did what I don’t think many people would think I would do, and that was I thanked God with all my heart. You know darling old mother and father I’m not what is popularly known as a religious person, but on an occasion such as that one must realize a little how one does trust in providence. I felt an overpowering feeling of thankfulness, so was it strange that I should pause and think for a moment after the first ‘blast’ of excitement, as it were, was over and thank from the bottom of my heart, that supreme power that rules and guides our destinies?
When I reached the ground once more, I was greeted with ‘was it you Robin’ etc. etc.: ‘yes, I’ve strafed the beggar’ this time I said, where upon the whole flight set up a yell and carried me out of my machine to the office – cheering like mad.
Talking of cheering, they say it was wonderful to hear all London cheering – people who have heard thousands of huge crowds cheering before say they have heard nothing like it. When Sowrey and Tempest brought down their zepps I had an opportunity of hearing something like it, although they say it wasn’t so grand as mine, which could be heard twenty and even thirty miles outside London.
It swelled and sank, first one quarter of London, then another. Thousands, one might say millions, of throats giving vent to thousands of feelings. I would give anything for you dear people to have heard it. A moment before dead silence (for the guns had ceased to fire at it) then this outburst – the relief, the thanks, the gratitude of millions of people. All the sirens, hooters and whistles of all joined in and literally filled the air – and the cause of it all – little me sitting in my little aeroplane above 13,000 feet of darkness!! – It’s wonderful!
… But the most glorious thing is that Sowrey, dear old boy, and Tempest, sweet soul, the two zepp strafers who have been awarded DSOs are both in my flight!! Some flight – five officers, of which there are two DSOs and a VC and three zepps to our credit – some record!!!
Well you darlings I’ll close now or else I’ll go on babbling on all night and I’m really tired. I’ll just tell you I’m not at present in Hornchurch, I’m somewhere in England on a secret mission but I’m going back to dear old Sutton’s farm again.
Well, do forgive me for not writing before.
Ever your loving son,
Billy
Many soldiers relied on both a strong sense of patriotism and their faith to see them through the darkest days of the war. One such was William John Lynas who enlisted on 5 September 1914 and served with the Royal Irish Rifles (North Belfast Volunteers). Lynas participated in the battle of the Somme in 1916 which he survived, but his involvement was not without its dangers as this letter describes.
15 July 1916
Dear Wife,
I received your very kind and welcome letters alright. I think altogether I am glad to know that you and all at home are well and in the best of health. I am pleased to say that I am in the pink and getting along first class.
Well Mina words cannot express how thankful I am to God for his guidance and goodness to me during the past nine months that I have been in France, especially Mina during our advance. Your prayers have been answered. I am sure you are wondering why I have not written [to] you before this. Well Mina we have been on the move most of the time since we came out of the trenches, we are away down country now to get made up to strength, it may be three or four weeks before we are back to the firing line.
I need hardly begin to tell you about the gallantry of our boys for I am sure you have read more in the papers than I am fit to tell you, there is one thing, Mina, they did not disgrace the name of Ulster or their Force – little did you think as you sat writing that letter on the first day of July that our boys had mounted the top and made a name for Ulster that will never die in the annals of history. No doubt Belfast today and the rest of Ulster are in mourning for the dear ones that gave their life. May the Lord comfort all of those who have lost a beloved husband or brother or son and lastly may the Lord watch over those dear orphans…
We had a miraculous escape, it was on the night of a big bombardment and a shell paid us a visit and buried us in our dug-out. As soon as I realised what had happened I dug out of the debris as best as I could and made for the door to feel if it was blocked as we were choking on the gas from the shell and suffocating us there after a few minutes.
I lit a candle to find Charlie just lying near by. We got him up and off he went to hospital. I was a little bit shaken at the time but I had a bit of work in front of me so I got stuck into it and forgot about my calamity. It was for work that night that I got recommended to my Colonel and Company Officer. For whatever little bit of good work I [did] I consider I only [did] my duty. The only thing I can say is that I hope I will be spared to do many a little thing for our boys in the trenches.
I was promoted to Lance Corporal just a few days before the big advance. I have been returned to the Company since we came out. I hope I will be able to hold it all together. I prefer being a plain Tommy…
Your loving Husband,
William
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
William Lynas’ luck held for a little longer. He survived a gas attack later in the war but his lungs were permanently damaged and he tragically succumbed to tuberculosis shortly after the Armistice and his return home.
Serving in the trenches in France presented a number of challenges for the British Tommy, from avoiding the sniper’s bullet to the lack of sleep, as recalled by Harold Anderton who served with the 13th Battalion, London Regiment, in France.
No. 3008. 2nd Section.
5th Platoon. 13th London Regt.
British Expeditionary Force
France
Feb 26/15
Dear Mother and All,
I must first apologise for the filthy state of this paper but it rained and soaked my overcoat and its contents – hence the dirt apparent thereon. There is, so the newspaper correspondents put it ‘nothing to report’ as far as my doings are concerned. The usual rigmarole takes place each week when you’re in the trenches, nothing very exciting happens. We’re behind our parapets of sand bags and mud, and the Germans behind theirs. A veritable sea of mud separates the two havens of refuge, so attack at present would be hazardous and difficult to either side. Shells buzz about overhead and make weird shrieking noise whilst snipers bullets whistle about with monotonous regularity. You’re middling safe if you keep down – if you don’t – well the people who say Germans are poor at rifle fire [might] perhaps like to try their luck; personally I prefer the cover of the aforesaid parapet. The nights in the trenches are usually rotten. Either you’re on sentry – one hour on and one hour off all night – or else on digging and patrol. If on the former you get cold and fed up – if on the latter you experience bodily weariness but a glorious warmth. Don’t know which I prefer. The days are quite all right if fine – you cook your bacon and porridge in your mess tin, prepare stew for dinner and make tea when you’re feeling down; its quite OK. The main difficulty in the trenches is to get sleep. About three hours per day and in the day time of course is all that is possible. Hence sentry go on the third night is the devil. The time in the billets is pretty good. You’ve got to scrape yourself free of mud and keep your rifle and ammunition clean – apart from this and [diverse] fatigue duties you’re free to go to the Soldier’s Club, a nice cosy retreat run by C. of E. or to the adjoining café and stuff.
I hope you’ve sent that money off, I’m almost stony. Also please send that chocolate fortnightly. It’s grand stuff and I’ve regained my youthful love of sweets of any sorts…
Well, so long, no more news.
With best love to all,
Your loving son,
Harold
A sense of humour was crucial to many as shown in this ironic letter anonymously drafted while on the front lines, which is intended to mock a typical Field Service postcard as provided by the army.
In the Field
/ /1917
My dear
dearest
darling
| I can’t write much to-day as I am very | overworked busy tired lazy. |
| and the | Corps G.O.C G.S.O.I A.A & Q.M.G HUN |
is exhibiting intense activity. |
| Things our way are going on | quite well much as usual pas mal. |
| We The HUNS |
put up a bit of a show | last night yesterday |
with | complete tolerable -out any |
success. |
| Our The Russian The Italian The Montenegrin The Monagasque The United States The Brazilian The Panama The Bolivian The French The Belgian The Serbian The Roumanian The Portugeese The Japanese The Cuban The Chinese |
offensive appears to be going well. |
| The German offensive is | obviously apparently we will hope |
a complete failure. |
| I really begin to think the war will end | this year next year some time never. |
| The | flies rations weather |
are is |
vile execrable much the same. |
| The | [blank] | is | cheery weary languid sore distrest [sic] at rest. |
| We are now living in a | Chateau ruined farm Hovel dug-out. |
| I am | hoping soon to come on about due for overdue for not yet in the running for |
leave, which is now | on off. |
| I am suffering from a | slight severe |
wound.* |
| .......................’s wife has just | sent him presented him with ..... |
What I should really like is......
| Many thanks for your | letter parcel good intentions. |
| How are the | poultry (including cows) potatoes child |
getting on? |
| I hope you are | well better bearing up not spending too much money getting on better with mother. |
Insert here protestations of affection – NOT TO EXCEED TEN WORDS ....................................................
Ever .......
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx (Delete or add as many be necessary.)
No war is more associated with poetry than the First World War, from Wilfred Owen’s Dulce et Decorum Est to John McCrae’s In Flanders Fields they have defined and coloured our perceptions of this war ever since. McCrae’s poem is assumed to be the inspiration for the first ever poppy collection held in 1919. Less well known is the suggestion that it also inspired his fellow poet Isaac Rosenberg. Born into poverty in the East End of London, Rosenberg volunteered in 1915 chiefly to provide his mother with the ‘separation allowance’ and wrote a number of poems throughout his service until his death in April 1918. McCrae’s poem was first published in Punch in 1915 and so may well have inspired Rosenberg’s In the Trenches which first appeared in the letter to his friend Sonia Cohen (also known as Sonia Rodker) in autumn 1916.
Dear Sonia,
I have been anxious to hear from you about Rodker [the modernist poet John Rodker]. I wrote to Trevelyan [pacifist and poet Robert Calverley Trevelyan] … and asked him for news but I fancy my letter got lost. Write me any news – anything. I seem to have [been] in France ages. I wish Rodker were with me, the informal lingo is a tragedy with me, and he’d help me out. If I was taciturn in England I am ten times so here; our struggle to express ourselves is a fearful joke. However our wants are simple, our cash is scarce and our own time… Here is a little poem a bit commonplace I’m afraid.
In the trenches
I snatched two poppies
From the parapets edge
Two bright red poppies
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear
I stuck one through,
One blood red poppy
I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed
and screwed out our jest
and tore the poppy
you had on your breast…
Dawn – a shell – O! Christ
I am choked … safe … dustblind, I
See trench floor poppies
Strewn. Smashed, you lie…
Spring 1915 brought a rapid return to hostilities with several major battles. This letter by Major Henry Granville Scott describes his involvement in the Ypres area while serving with the 1/4th Battalion, Alexandra, Princess of Wales’ Own (Yorkshire) Regiment.
6.30am
Tuesday morning
27th April 1915
To Mrs Scott,
I will now try and give you a more detailed and connected account of what has happened since we left the little village 10½ miles from Ypres where we billeted for 3 days after journeying night and day from England.
On Thursday night at 11pm I was roused. Orders had come for the Brigade to stand by ready to move at a moments notice. By 12pm the Battalion was ready to march.
Orders then came cancelling former orders and we went back to billets. At 8am Friday orders again came to be ready to move followed by an order to assemble as quick as possible at a point 2 miles away on the road to Ypres. We did so by about 10am and found the No. 1 Batt. [Battalion] already there. We are No. 2 in seniority of the Brigade. At 11 a long string of motor buses moved us to a point 3½ miles east of Yp. and from there we marched to hutments just outside. The men were all carrying tremendous loads, all they had and extra ammunition – 200 per man.
The roads are bad for the feet where they are most pavé, they are very uneven with large loose stones which turn over when you stand on them – very heavy on [the] ankles when you are carrying a heavy load. The addition of a heavy bundle of maps, double rations etc made officers’ lists heavier than ever. I know we all carry too much, but we do not know yet what to discard. Everything we have seems absolutely necessary.
Well the hutments were an agreeable surprise to us (we never know exactly where we are going until we get there, movements being made in a succession of bounds). We quickly started to make ourselves comfortable, a deafening cannonade was going on and we knew we were well within range of shell fire. We were to have no rest however, as orders came at 8.30pm to move.
My times after this are not to be relied upon as I am trusting to approximation. However they are real enough for a personal narrative. We moved at 2.45am (head of the column) and in the following order – 1, 3, 4, 2 (seniority of Batts in Brigade) in the direction of Yp canal and lay down in a field in readiness. We were moved back twice during the next few hours. At 6am I was sent back to hutments on a bicycle to arrange to bring hot tea for the men…
I was wishing I could shed some of my kit but couldn’t risk it. Just as we were lighting fires four shells came right amongst us, fortunately doing only slight damage – six men slightly wounded including Lt Tugwell. De Legh was there with his stretchers and he quickly got to work. Our four stretchers were sent off to hutments so I lugged Tugwell on to a cook’s cart … and De Legh dressed his wound (slight shell wound on lower leg)…
We reassembled in somewhat open order. The CO [commanding officer] came back with orders to move in the direction of the east of Ypres… We marched in a roundabout way to a point E of Yp., about 6 miles and squatted down again. We were intermingled with all sort of scattered troops, wounded men were continually passing, the deafening artillery fire never ceased for a moment… We received orders that the Bn. had to attack.
Well I thought this was pretty sharp for troops that had only been a few days in the country…
Each Coy [company] formed its own method of formation, but they were mostly in diamond formation in column of platoons. While the CO was making his disposition, I took a careful compass bearing of the line. Off we started.
We were quickly observed and immediately the leading Companies extended into lines and pressed on in short rushes. Nos 3 and 4 acting as supports began to close up and thicken the lines. I have seen our men practise the attack drill and do it very well, but I never saw them do it so well as this. As a drill it would have been fault-less. As an actual action under frightful conditions of modern warfare it was superb…
Men began to drop quicker and quicker. Still we pressed on, taking advantage of every little undulation and there were not many. A man dropped just in front of me. Nevin and I could not see his wound. He said it was in his stomach. We lay on each side of him and tore his clothes apart. We found the wound (a bullet in the back behind his kidneys) put his first field dressing on and left him…
The CO in his anxiety was exposing himself too much, at least I think so, and some of the men told me afterwards that it later worried them. We were getting near to the enemy’s position now and found other troops in front of us, who proved to be the Royal Irish. Suddenly the man lying next to me turned his head towards me and I saw his face from his eyes to his chin was literally blown away. He made a sort of moaning noise and looked at me in a questioning sort of way as if asking me what had happened to him. I rolled over to him, got his field dressing, turned him on his back and put the dressing on, but the pad would not nearly fill the hole. I injected 2 pellets of morphine into his arm and pressed on… I joined our second line about 30 yards ahead. Our front line was forming at 300 yards carefully and systematically…
The CO and I found the CO of the Royal Irish and he told us he had orders from the GOC [general officer commanding] to relieve at dusk as he could not hold the line we had advanced to. It seemed awfully hard to have to give up what we had apparently gained but we are simply pawns in the great game and know nothing more than is necessary and very often, we think, not even that…
That is all up to now. It is 10.45 and I have written this whilst my memory is fresh. I hope you will be able to decipher it. It is only a sketch, I could paint the picture but it would take me a week and I would not be able to see for tears.
Yours as ever
Some soldiers were not afraid of expressing their true feelings, from fear to despair, in letters home to loved ones. J.T. Keeping wrote the following letter on 20 May 1915 after surviving the Second Battle of Ypres in 1915. He served for the remainder of the war with the London Regiment, was subsequently promoted to Captain and won the Military Cross (MC).
Miss E. Keeping
44 Digby Road
Finsbury Park
London 20.5.1915
Dear Elsie,
I am very sorry not to have written before but I dare say by this time you have got some idea of where we have been in fact in your first letter you had it right although I cannot think how you got it. We had about a fortnight of Hell and are now back resting again some 150 strong out of a total of 1,600 in all and I can tell you the ones who have got back are lucky. You could never believe what it has been like and you can guess I did not feel much like writing. It was all so sudden, one day we were back resting and the next we were in the thick of it being shelled to pieces. But there is one thing about the regiment, the regulars retired and passed us along the [road] but we stuck it till dark and then of course were reinforced.
I am afraid I am a mere nervous wreck, in fact when we got back I sat down and had a jolly good cry. I am absolutely alone now, the only one of my section left.
There is some talk of leave so will write further tomorrow as soon as I get any news.
Cheer up and tell them all I will drop them a line in a day or so.
J
Death was an ever present feature of the battlefield, regardless of rank. The following letter of condolence was sent to the brother of Lieutenant Gerry M. Renny who was killed while serving with the Royal Field Artillery.
7th May 1917
C/92 RFA
BEF
My dear Renny,
I have just got your letter and will send you all the particulars I can about poor old Gerry. First now I can only scribble a note. I can well understand how hard you must find the blow and how it must hurt. I know it all the more for having been so fond of him myself and for the blank that his death leaves in the Battery. He was such a cheerful lad and quite irresistible as a pal. It is hard that he had to go, when so many rotters still live. I have always hated the Boche, but now I shall have a very deep personal [sense] to pay back and by God he shall get it every time I sit down to measure our [angle]! I am sending you his revolver and belt… His belt has the bullet hole in each side – the bullet that robbed you of a brother and me of a very dear pal…
With very deep sympathy to you and all the family.
Sincerely yours,
J.H. O’Kelly
For servicemen knowing what active duty on the front line would bring there was often little sympathy towards conscientious objectors, as shown by this letter from Norman Thomas, who served with the London Regiment.
Seaford
Sussex
Wednesday 25 April 1917
My Dear ‘Weenie’,
… I have some rather interesting news today – our battalion have moved to Aldershot. I do not know the exact place. We are supposed to be in some barracks. What luck isn’t it ‘Weenie’, [I] shall be able to see old ‘Reggie’ again, will seem like the old days.
I cannot get leave from here as I expect I shall be going away next week. So I may be able to get the week-end when I rejoin my new battalion. I am writing to Reggie today, hope he will be able to obtain leave, if he does succeed he will be extremely lucky.
There are a great number of ‘Conscientious Objectors’ near Seaford. They have been employed for the past 4 months constructing one of the roads leading the Newhaven, the road is just the same as it was before the operations of the ‘C.O.s’. They all were allowed leave at Easter and Xmas and get real good food. Don’t you think it’s rather unfair to us fellows? We often march past them and pass a good deal of comments etc; some-times there is a ‘rough-house’ ending in a few C.O.s being badly ‘mauled’ and a few of us chaps escorted back to the guard-room and then punished ‘C.B’ [confined to barracks] etc. This is an every-day occurrence. I can see some fun shortly if they continue to keep them here.
Well ‘Weenie’ dear, I hope you are not ‘bored’, this must seem very uninteresting?!!!
Have no more news. Give my kindest regards to the Girls.
Write soon – dear
Concluding,
With love and kisses
Yours,
Norman
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PS. Please excuse writing and mistakes as I am in a hurry to catch the post.
Love,
Norman
The following are a series of extracts from the letters sent by Second Lieutenant Robert Peyton Hamilton describing the trials and tribulations of constant service in the front-line trenches while serving with the 20th (County of London) Battalion (Blackheath and Woolwich), London Regiment.
24 May
I have just come out of the trenches. As luck would have it, our crowd were doing a spell of fire drops, of which they had done three when we reported at 9 o/c at night. We went straight in and stopped until 8 o/c last night. The trenches are a manual of clean, mechanical workmanship. These particular trenches were built by the guards, and one cannot too highly praise the splendid way they are built; much better than our previous ones, and they were built at leisure, and these under fire… The men are all very cheerful. I’ve had shells drop very near me, and have been near guns going off, but do not think the noise will do me much havoc, though of course I am yet but an infant in such things. For the moment our feelings are interested very; want letters from England very; and a game of cricket very; and that’s just all.
27 May
I have seen it, and am a little older, I can’t write a collected letter. I am supposed to be sleeping now; I have two hours on and two hours off. Our Battalion has been getting used to things, and when I arrived they were being pushed up a bit.
I started at 4am Tuesday for a reconnaissance, which went well and took till 8.30. Had breakfast, censored letters and had a sudden call to go with 100 men and take ammunition from the rear to a reserve depot in the back trenches held by another Brigade who were attacking that night. Did this, got back at 5.30; had no lunch. Had to parade with Battalion at 6 o/c and stand in reserve in case we were wanted for the attack. At 12 o/c midnight I was told to take my platoon up to the trenches and take ammunition to the firing line. In the communication trenches we [were] stuck, with dead and wounded and reliefs etc, and we couldn’t move either way, and all the time we were under constant shell fire. Men were dropping all round, and some were horrible sights. Oh, Govenor, it was awful to see those poor boys… My platoon was most fortunate and got off practically free. The Brigadier thanked me nicely for helping…
It was the worst show my battalion has been in, they tell me, so I had a pretty good introduction. I keep alive, and bucked my men up, which helped me considerably… At 5 o/c we took over the trenches which were the scene of shelling and attack. We had to clear up; it was awful. We went out in front when it was dark, and got some poor wounded devils in, and dragged the dead to the back and buried them. I mustn’t give you the figures of the casualties, but it is a high price to pay for an advance of any description, and it’s due simply to our not having enough shells to cope with their artillery.
I don’t know when we come out, and can’t get an envelope till we do. I am writing this in my message-book, and will put your address on in case.
June 5
I hope you won’t think from my letters that I’m wailing. Of course things shocked me, and I was very much checked into bully beef, no sleep, and the usual hardships of a picnic of this sort; but now I have got over that, and can cheerfully eat every course and every meal from the same plate… I really do feel that I’m lucky to be here, and that after all it’s something beside beastly slaughter. It’s sort of taking a part in the biggest game [that] ever happened, and the whole place has no room for any petty or artificial feelings. One is on rock-bottom all the time…
June 13
I’ve had two new men from home who came up on Friday and it was their first time in the trenches. I was talking to one, who was on look-out, about 12 o/c when a whizz-bang came over. We both ducked and I got up when the thing had finished, but the poor fellow didn’t; a bullet from the shell had gone through the peak of his cap into his temple, and he died in ten minutes. Later on – about an hour – his friend, the other new man, came up from further down the sap with his nose blown about, he’ll get better. Rotten luck, though; isn’t it?…
July 1
I will talk anon of my men and their ways and my overlords. This I do know. I had 50 of my platoon up working the other night. They did fairly well; but all the time they’re much too well educated and intelligent to dig with ease. My platoon are all products of Goldsmith’s School, nearly all half and fully fledged schoolmasters, not so badly brought up. They quote poetry, and can’t see that digging trenches is ‘fighting’. You know that cursed education that leaves them half stranded on decency’s shore. They do well when they forget and their true selves come out. If they think of their job or of their superior education, they’re very boring. My general attitude to them, except in the trenches, is one of great scorn, and I jump on them severely for not ‘washing behind their ears’… I’m trying to get them to realise they’re stupid babies – know nothing and must do what they’re told. In the trenches they do it, because they know there’s death knocking very near, and a prompt obedience might save ‘em. Out of the trenches they begin slacking, and turn up with dirty equipment, and other odd things and I just give them all the punishment they’ve got time to do. It ain’t popular but the CO told Hooper, my OC, that my platoon was decidedly smarter.
Peyton Hamilton would see active service for just short of a full year. He died on 25 September 1915 as a result of wounds received in action.
For some servicemen life in the armed forces was simply abhorrent and they struggled to see the point of the war. One such soldier was Lance Corporal J.H. Leather who served with the Royal Fusiliers. In a series of letters he described his loathing of army life and his lack of enthusiasm for the conflict.
Monday
No 8, Barrackroom
B Company
20th S. Battn: Royal Fusilluiers
No 7 Lines: Clipstone Camp
Nottinghamshire
Dear People,
Thank you all so very much for the letters that I have had from you at Woodeste, and the one I got the other day. I should really have answered them a great deal better but, as a matter of fact, one always feels either too tired or too bored, or something, to write any letters at all. What usually happens with all the people I know is that they write to me, don’t get an answer; write to remind me and still don’t get an answer; write a postcard asking if I am dead or something, still don’t get an answer; then give me up with a final angry note. Four months after that I write and make the best excuse I can…
The Army is undeniably the most dismal experience I have had yet… I haven’t got the faintest enthusiasm about this war; and I feel pretty sure now that the question is not whether we shall win or lose, but whether we shall lose or just manage to save our bacon. The idea of breaking the Germans is so much nonsense, and you have only to be in this Army to see the mess and muddle of everything; the lack of training in the men and the thick-headedness of the officers – nine out of every ten of whom I wouldn’t touch with a yardstick in civilian life – to realise that this nonsense about beating the Germans is so much water on the brain. I compare everything I see around me with what I saw for the last eight years or so in Germany, every year, and I compare the foolish, ill-educated, stupid officers here with the German officers, many of them my own friends, one or two of them very dear friends indeed: and the only thing I think is that Germany is as strange and unknown a country to most English people as the Sudan…
Shall write again quite soon.
Yours,
JH
Lance Corporal Leather was subsequently killed fighting at High Wood during the battle for the Somme in 1916. Ironically, the letter of condolence sent to his father expressed the usual platitudes about commitment to the cause.
August 20th 1916
Dear Mr Leather,
In answer to your enquiry about Lance Corporal Leather, which I received today, I can only say that your son met his end in the Wood on July 20th almost in the forefront of the battle.
He was first wounded in the legs, and more than one of his comrades was killed in trying to bring him in, and a little while later he was killed outright by a shell. This is all that I have been able to gather, but everyone tells me that your son bore himself, as always, like a man and a soldier.
We were all of us exceedingly sorry to hear of his death, as we appreciated his good fighting qualities, whilst his thorough knowledge of German made him a more than ordinarily useful man to have in the company.
Please accept our sincerest sympathy with you in your great loss. It has not yet, so far as I know, been possible to recover his body, as the spot where he fell is still disputed territory, but he may have been given burial by another Division; but be that as it may, may it be of some comfort to you to know that your son met his end as a soldier should, in that great cause for which we are fighting.
Faithfully yours,
E. Mannering
Even Army chaplains were not immune from the depravations of the front lines. Reverend Canon Cyril Lomax served as a Church of England Army chaplain in France between July 1916 and April 1917, attached to the 8th Battalion, Durham Light Infantry. An accomplished amateur artist, many of his surviving letters are illustrated including this surviving extract entitled ‘The First Tanks’ sent on 7 September 1916.*
… Everybody hates shells – the man who is naturally fearless is almost a wash out in this war – but in spite of hating them so everybody goes on solidly doing whatever his job happens to be with a really fine dry humour and stoicism.
Everybody too hates mud, but we bathe in it, wade in it, sleep in it and clods of it adorn the most secret recesses of one’s clothes, books and papers.
To see the poor brutes of horses straining through ankle deep mud with food for the hungry guns goes to my heart. Even more than seeing the unfortunate men coming out of the front line. The poor beasts have such a pathetic droop, look so patient, and miserable, and respond so bravely to some tremendous effort to suck a timber out of mud…
But of course, one thing that has put the wind up the Boche more than anything else is our perpetual artillery fire. Ever so many have gone mad under the strain. So the horses must be overworked to keep the rain of shells up. It is a rain of shells.
I was humping stretchers all one night through mud nearly as bad. The stretcher-bearers had been at it for 36 hours and I was a bit tired with just one night, especially as I ran into a Boche barrage and had to take cover in a trench where I cried my eyes out for an hour in response to his tear shells.
The tanks were a great success. I did not see them in action but our men were full of them. They certainly put the wind up the Boche. His favourite strong places were as nothing, and they crossed trenches with ease. An RAMC [Royal Army Medical Corps] man said to an upstanding wounded German who knew the vernacular, ‘Well, we’ve got you properly beat this time.’ The reply was, ‘What can you expect when you come over in bl––dy taxis.’
I saw a quaint sight myself in which one of them figured. They had been heavily shelling the scrag end of a wood just behind a ridge where I was in a Collecting Post for the wounded.
Great gouts of flame, black smoke, stones and balks of timber had been flying thirty feet in the air at least. We all felt rather glad we were well out of it and that it was well behind our line. When it was all over, out from what had been the thickest of it, waddled a tank painted green and yellow, as it might be rubbing its eyes and saying ‘Dear me, I believe somebody woke me! I think I must find a quieter spot.’ Thus it proceeded to do waddling over trenches into shell holes, out of shell holes, until it came to rest…
In April 1915 the Gallipoli campaign was launched on the Dardanelles. A joint British-French operation, using a large quantity of ANZAC troops, an attempt was made to seize the Gallipoli peninsula from the Ottoman Empire and thus secure a sea route to Russia. It was one of the major Allied failings of the war and became renowned for the terrible fighting conditions experienced by the troops.
Lieutenant Patrick Duff served with the 460th Battery, 147th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery (29th Division) on Cape Helles, Gallipoli, and wrote a series of letters home describing the general conditions and the determination of his Turkish adversaries with a resolute cheerfulness.
May 18th
Dear Ma,
I got your letter of April 27 yesterday. I was so sorry to hear of Grannie’s death and am afraid you’ll miss her a lot. Hope you’re not tired with the long journeys – but I forget that when this reaches you it will be a month or so after the event.
I suppose you’ll be hearing news of this expedition in the papers by now: we don’t hear much either of what goes on here or anywhere else except in a small leaflet circulated daily from Headquarters and entitled ‘Peninsular Press’. This contains extracts from what Lord Crewe says in the House of Lords about ten days old; and even when fresh from the mint I have never felt much thrilled by the utterances of the noble peer.
Am having a slightly more peaceful time than when last I wrote: the ‘Morning Hate’, as we call the shooting the Turks do from 7.45am till 8.30, didn’t come near me this morning, and there has been no Lunchtime Hate at all… Life here is any amount nicer than when I was on Hounslow Heath last August with the HAC [Honourable Artillery Company]; mayn’t [sic] be quite so safe, but it’s more interesting…
Am going to send this off now, as I’ve been writing it for three days. Picture me walking about in the sun all day long, and the Turks missing me by rods, poles and perches.
Best love to all.
P.
May 27th
Dear Ma,
Many thanks for your letters. I suppose you’ll be getting mine by now tho’ [sic] you always say you haven’t heard in your letters. I am again with the Battery and living in the Eagle’s Nest, as we call it: incidentally, it’s not a bad name, as I saw a Sikh a bit further up the ravine feeding a young eagle about the size of Uff which he must have found here.* The Sikhs are good to see in the mornings combing their long black hair: in this setting it puts one in mind of the Spartans before Thermopylae. The Gurkhas are ripping too: I never saw such fine little men…
We had a water-spout here two days ago: in 20 minutes the ravine was a rushing stream, in the gullies the harness and even the men’s clothes were nearly washed away. My dug out, cut in the side of the cliff and heavily protected with a tarpaulin, kept out the rain wonderfully. It doesn’t matter how wet one gets here as the next day it is baking hot. We are now getting up at the loathly hour of 3.45am and exercising the horses in the semi-darkness so that Gallipoli Bill won’t see us.
By the way, parcels and papers etc reach us perfectly easily: in fact we send in an Indian with a little cart and two mules to fetch the mail when there is one. Had rather fun the other day: I had gone down to the beach and saw that the ship I came from Alexandria in was here. I managed to get on board and [get] a bottle of fizz and a bottle of whisky. Seemed so funny to have it out here. I had tea with some officers at their mess yesterday and had butter, which I hadn’t tasted for a month: one poured a spoonful of it onto the bread.
I want to see the papers awfully, because for one thing it makes writing so much easier when you know what you can say. Wish I could send my films home to be developed, as I’m so afraid of them getting spoiled or lost. When we came down this morning we found that the battery had been augmented by one foal – which is a very jolly little beast – I had lost one on the way from Alexandria…
We have had news in the ‘Peninsular Press’ that Italy has joined in and the Lusitania has been sunk. Wish one could have weekends here to learn all the news… Hope all goes well with you and that you’re all going strong; and that people don’t talk war all the time.
Best of love to all,
P.
June 6th
Dear Ma,
Got your last letter in the midst of a huge bombardment – I had been shouting orders to the guns from 8.30am till 4.30pm almost continuously and found your letter when I came away for a bit of food. That was June 3rd or 4th; expect there will be something in the papers about our advance on that day, as things had been very quiet just before and probably will be quiet again for a bit. It is an extraordinary sight to look out of our observation trench, which one mostly does with great caution through a periscope; one sees simply a maze of trenches, and it is awfully hard to tell which are ours and which are the Turks’. In one trench there were English and Turks throwing hand bombs at each other like mad. Seen a fair number of Turkish prisoners lately – they stick them for [the] time being in compounds closed in by barbed wire and guarded by sentries. Rather aquiline evil-looking men, but devilishly strong and hardy looking…
Have some long days now and again, getting up at 4am and going to bed about 1am occasionally: but sleeping practically out of doors makes what sleep one has go further, and after all, war is war. The time one feels it most is about 2pm when there is no shade of any kind; in the trenches the sun simply beats down on one, and one’s clothes get full of sand… The great comfort is having the sea so handy: by means of a communication trench we can go from the guns to the edge of a cliff and so down to the great and wide sea also without showing ourselves on the skyline…
We are indenting for respirators, but I don’t expect we shall have much asphyxiating gas, as the wind is generally from us to the Turks. The latter set fire to the heather the other day, as a matter of fact, thus hindering the infantry from advancing and burning our wounded; when the Turk sees a wounded man in front of his trench he calls to others and they solemnly shoot at him and throw bombs. Guy saw them doing it. They also blazed away like mad with guns at a trawler flying the Red Cross, which was engaged in taking our wounded from the beach; but happily just missed it.
Hope you’re managing to get on the river: one feels in a foreign climate here, and doesn’t realise that possibly you’re having fine weather at home as well. One feels at times a great yearning to get back; but most times one’s too busy to think of anything but work; as a matter of fact, it’s not quite as deadly as that. They days pass very quickly: I shall soon be sending along a fresh instalment of [the] diary…
Must now go and see horses fed. ‘God bless you till I come back’ as the men say in their letters – implying that on their return, He can stop: be sure that my fortune or your prayers have preserved me so far and should continue to do so with luck.
Best of love to all.
Your very affectionate,
P.
June 21st
We have been blazing off ammunition in great style since above was written: you’ll probably see in the papers that an advance was made today. The part of the peninsula which we and other batteries were shelling this morning was simply a mass of dust which spread down Gallipoli and out to sea. We have been ‘standing by’ all subsequent parts of the morning… By the way, I believe we can send cables quite cheaply from here, so don’t be alarmed if you get one, because it will only contain a request for two boot-laces by return of post and not a notice that I’m pushing up the daisies of the Thracian Chersonese*…
Had better finish up this letter now, or a bombardment will begin again and I shan’t have a chance to send it off for another day or so.
Best of love to everyone: I hope you are keeping in good spirits and defying the evil Germ-Ottomans’ attempts to create despondency.
Yours very affectionate,
P.
June 28th
Dear Ma,
… I write this in the midst of a terrific battle: it is now 5.30pm and since 7 this morning we have been hard at it. From what I hear on [the] telephone we are doing very well – I know we meant to make a real business of it today. I am pretty deaf and fearfully hot: everyone else is all right.
War is so full of chances: three signallers today who really took considerable risks in lying wires out in the open and along the fire trenches, return unscathed to our camp here where they promptly get hit drawing their rations and filling their water bottles at the water carts!
We went for the Turk in proper style today, with mine and maxim and rifle and gun and aeroplane and destroyer (at sea) and howitzer and heavy gun and balloon. Expect after today we shall have a quiet time for a bit.
… I write with my last stump of indelible pencil by one of the guns and with the ground strewn with empty cartridge-cases. The gunners are sitting about on the trails of the guns … and drinking tea… (More action) Am now standing by all loaded up in case of counter-attacks, so that if evil Turk shows his nose round the counter it may be blasted off him by one word.
8pm Have had more firing and am again standing by. I believe we have made a biggish advance; anyhow they sent up the right troops last night. It was the most impressive sight seeing them simply crowding up, all proper men, and with all the same expression on their faces. Hope they are all comfortable in the Turkish trenches.
I shall be dashing about most of tonight getting ammunition: am inclined to think that one earns one’s money occasionally. It will be rather a stirring night, as each side will be so nervous of the other that will be constantly shooting up flares which momentarily light up all the ground between the trenches and tho’ [sic] one is miles away, one feels most ‘conspicuous’…
Must go and eat. Best love to all. Will write a better letter soon.
Your very affectionate,
P.
July 2nd
Dear Ma,
… We did a big advance on June 28 and I have been walking about [the] last day or so looking to find where the new positions are. You know the things at exhibitions called ‘mazes’, where you walk into a room full of passages and try and find your way out? It is no exaggeration to say that the trenches are worse than that. They run in and out, never straight for more than 10 yards (so that if a shell comes in it won’t kill more than three or four) and there are duplicate firing trenches, supports, reserves, communication-trenches and so on; it is awfully difficult to find one’s way about, or to find where the enemy’s trenches actually begin. Generally the infantry put up a flag or biscuit-box to show how far they have got…
Had rather fun the other day: we were looking down a big ravine where we could see the Turks scuttling about at the further end, and we had machine guns popping off like mad at them. I did a bit of observing for one gun – a machine gun, you know, just presses a button like our dining-room bell and off go the bullets as long as you press.
It’s pretty hot here, and the glare off the whitish earth in the trenches is trying at times: but we go about without coats on generally. We are going to have khaki drill shortly, like the Gurkhas wear – little short bags like one wears for football…
I expect you can see from my letters that the war doesn’t worry me much, or what I run up against leave an impression on me that I can’t get rid of. One gets perfectly dispassionate – not, that is, being devoid of pity, but quite incapable of horror. These things are infinitely more ghastly in the reading than in the seeing. The great comfort is that we nearly always get back from the trenches at night, and where we are everything is quite sweet and clean. So you needn’t imagine me in a state of mental despair: but rather as very brown and getting much fatter, and thinking exclusively of what we shall get to eat…
Best love to all,
P.
The Highland Division also served alongside the ANZAC contingent in the Dardanelles. Eric Townsend served as a captain in 1/5th (City of Glasgow) Battalion, Highland Infantry Division (157th Brigade, 52nd Division). His letters home offer an interesting insight into the general movements up and down the line.
The Dardanelles
3rd July, 1915
Dearest Mother,
We are at last somewhere in the Dardanelles and living the luxurious life in the trenches, though I couldn’t quite exactly tell you where we are even if I wanted to. There are not many square miles on the peninsula where I could be, so you know fairly exactly where I am…
These trenches are old ones and not in the form of a continuous trench, but consist of individual dug outs in a double line a few yards apart. There is plenty of room to lie down in them, but they provide no shelter from the sun which beats into them. I have rigged up a waterproof shelter which affords a little shade, but it is very hot, tho’ [sic] we had some rain last night and this morning, and last night the lightning played continually and was very bright… Our company is in the front line of the Battalion trenches and the next line is about 400 yards to the rear. Exactly how many lines we have at present I don’t yet know… We have had no shells on our trenches yet, but we were told that the Turks had this exact range and until we got one or two and have a few casualties I don’t think we shall be able to keep the men properly down in their dug outs. There has been a fairly steady but very slight gun fire all day, and no rifle fire that we could hear. Our sole fare today is bully beef and dry bread and very little water. I expect water and supplies will come up during the night.
Sunday, 4th July (Not a day of rest). Still alive in the same trenches with the shrapnel buzzing overhead, but none on us yet…
Last evening the remainder of the Battalion straggled past our lines after nine days in the firing line on their way back for a rest. You will have heard how badly the Scottish Rifles were cut up – terribly sad…
Tuesday, 6th July. The scene changes again. The Battalion is in fairly advanced reserve trenches to which we came up last night. It was a long and weary job, and took from 8.30pm till about 1.30am today, at which point officers and men fell down together and slept. We are safer here than before for the trench is very deep and never gets shelled. The only dangerous thing in the front line is a charge. The heavy firing of [yesterday] morning I spoke of was a Turkish attack, repulsed with great loss. There is no rifle fire by day, but there are other sharp bursts at dawn and sunset when attacks are made and the Turks fire all night at random, just to show us they are still here. It lulls us to sleep! – At present we are very crowded – too short a trench. No casualties. Quite well.
Hope you are all the same.
Eric
4 Nov 1917
Dear Mother
The war has started again here, but we are entirely out of it in the meantime – in fact enjoying baths in the sea! More later.
Love to all,
Eric
Despite the cheerful optimism of this short note it was in fact his final letter home and he was killed in action shortly afterwards.
For most soldiers on the front line regular contact with the home front was crucial for maintaining morale. The British Forces Post Office (BFPO) could trace its history back to 1799 when the office of the Army Postmaster was initially established, but during the First World War its service expanded greatly with millions of letters exchanging hands.
Rifleman Bernard Britland sent a series of letters home to his mother during his time on the Ypres Salient in 1915 describing the general conditions in the rear echelons, his first sighting of a dogfight and even the occasional gas attack.
Ypres, Thursday June 17, 1915
Dear Mother,
I received your letter and parcel quite safe and in good condition. Thank you very much for the parcel it was a treat. Thank Aunt Pollie and our Bertha for the butter, milk and sweets. The bread and butter tasted a treat. The bread we get out here is nothing near so good as English bread and it is not so often that we can get butter. I would like a few teacakes if you could send them, either white or brown. I have never seen one since I left England.
We have done some moving about since we came over here and all marching too. From what I can hear we are a kind of flying column, ready to go where we are needed at a minute’s notice. We are seeing the country through it, so that is one consolation. At the present time we are in reserve trenches. The only thing we have to be afraid of here is when they start shelling us and that is not so often.
When we are marching through the country place, only a mile or two behind the firing line, you would never think there was a war on except now and then you come across a village which has been shelled and then you realise what it must have been like to the Belgians. It is mostly farming round here and we see the farmers going on with their work as unconcerned as if nothing was going on and yet all the time there will be the roar of the big guns and the rattle of rifle fire all around. It does seem a contrast to me…
I am getting as hard as nails and keeping in very good health. Many a time we have to sleep out in the open and up to now I feel no worse for it…
I think I will close now with best love to everybody at home and my best respects to all enquiring friends from your affectionate son,
Bernard.
Field Post Office
Saturday July 3, 1915
Dear Mother,
I received your very welcome letter and the [parcel] from G. Howard. I also received a letter from Pollie in the same post. They were delivered to me in the trenches and at the time of writing we are still in the trenches. We are still at the same place I told you about in my last letter, we are in the support trenches here and we have to carry rations up to the troops in the firing lines. We do this at night but in the daytime we are not allowed to leave the dug outs, for if we do the enemy are almost certain to start shelling us and we have a lively time for about an hour. The Germans have sent gas bombs over our trench several times but the only effect it had on us was to make our eyes smart. You would have laughed if you had seen us sitting in the dug out with tears streaming down our faces. As soon as we smell it we put our smoke helmets on, and if we get these on in time it does not affect our eyes. The smoke helmets we use seem to be very good ones. They are made like a bag and fit right over our heads and we fasten them inside our tunics. In the front is a transparent piece of tale or mica, so that we can see what we are doing. There has been a lot of shelling here this week but I am still one of the fortunate ones. I am still keeping in good health and hope you are all the same at home…
I think that is all just now so I will close with best love to everybody from your loving son,
Bernard.
Field Post Office
Monday July 26, 1915
Dear Mother,
We have left the rest camp and we are at present living in dug outs outside the town which I mentioned before. We are a few miles from the firing line but expect to go there any day now…
Yesterday we had an open-air service and after the service the chaplain held a communion service in a loft over a barn. We had to climb a ladder to get to the loft. It was a very interesting service and was a strange contrast to the communion service I attended at Easter at Mossley. The chaplain is trying to make arrangements for a confirmation service for those who have not been confirmed. I should think it should be a very interesting service.
We had a very interesting experience here last night just after tea. We were outside our dug outs when we saw a German aeroplane flying about. Our anti-aircraft guns started firing at it and then three or four of our own aeroplanes appeared. All at once we saw the German machine burst into flames, tipple over a few times and then dive straight down to the earth. Whether it was the guns or one of the aeroplanes which hit him I do not know, but whichever it was, both the men in it were killed and the machine wrecked. It fell from a terrible height. It is the first I have seen fetched down and I must have been terrible for the two men…
Give my kindest regards to all enquiring relatives and friends. I am your affectionate son,
Bernard.
Rifleman Britland’s letters are quite different in tone to Charles Tame who served with the transport section of the 1st Battalion, Honourable Artillery Company, also in Ypres. Tame did not hesitate to tell his sister about some of the bloody and brutal fighting he witnessed on the front line, including the execution of prisoners.
Transport Section
1t Battn HAC
British Expeditionary Force
My darling Hilly,
How can I thank you for your kindness to me on so many occasions, my wants you have so quickly supplied in such extremes as these. The medicine which has just arrived is appreciated more than words can say, and in fact you have done for me as much as mother could do. I shall always be very grateful to you and when I return I shall worship the ground upon which you walk…
Now this is my private letter home, I therefore intend to tell you everything concerning this Great War and myself. We have just been through a very rough fight at Ypres, capturing three German trenches under very heavy shell fire, we were in the charge with the Royal Scots, First Rifles and Worcesters. I am sorry to tell you two officers have been killed (Stone and Dathow), two officers wounded, including the colonel, the doctor, Capt Lancaster, Capt Osmond and Capt Boyle, 250 men killed, wounded and missing. I do not know who they are yet, but no doubt you will see the list in the daily papers before I shall. Please send it out here.
Thanks to you for your good prayers. I am unhurt, the chap next to me had the back of his head blown off, and the fellow next but one on my left was shot through the right lung. Seven of our transport horses were killed, three were blown to atoms. ‘Owen’ is quite well but did not like it I am sure, as he pushed me over on my back twice in his excitement.* We were under shell fire for eight hours, it was more like a dream to me, we must have been absolutely mad at the time. Some of the chaps looked quite insane after the charge was over, as we entered the German trench hundreds of Germans were found cut up by our artillery fire. A great number came over and offered themselves as prisoners, some went on their knees and asked for mercy, needless to say they were shot right off which was the best mercy we could give to them.
The Royal Scots took about 300 prisoners, their officers told them to share their rations with the prisoners and to consider the officers not with them, the Scots immediately shot the whole lot, and shouted ‘Death and Hell to everyone of ye s—’ and in five minutes the ground was ankle deep with German blood and this is the life we had for two days. All that I saw were men and horses all mixed up in death, it was as I have said just like a dream, I could not believe my own eyesight, and could not realize what I saw to be reality, only a dream, or, I might say a nightmare. War makes every man turn to his God, and asks Him for help. He is the only protection he has, it also helps him to understand death more clearly, his life out here is not worth a blade of grass, unless God says otherwise. It does seem indeed very strange to me to be in such a position as to see dead men and horses, and to smell them all day and night, everywhere, and at all times, it is really an awful life and unnatural one…
They are badly in want of officers out here, I do not want promotion, I want the war to finish and to go home. The weather now is getting very hot indeed, most of our chaps sit about in the fields naked, the poor horses feel it very much also. We are having a trouble with the water supply which is very short. I believe someone is trying to have it pumped inland from the coast, the man who succeeds should receive the VC. The water we are now drinking is absolutely thick and muddy, but yet it seems to do us no harm so it must be good. I drink as little as possible. I have found a new invention which suits me very well and quenches my thirst better than anything else, it is to chew a small quantity of long grass and then put the old pipe on.
Ypres is absolutely in ruins, churches, mansions, convents, monasteries and streets of homes are no more, all are in piles of bricks and the once beautiful town, the capital of the region, has been destroyed by German artillery fire. It is this place we are now helping to hold where the Kaiser is trying to break through the British lines so as to march on and capture Calais, of course this he will never do. The British are losing 2,000 a day on an average in deaths, wounded and missing, the Germans are losing three or four times that number…
Well now my darling old girl, I think I must draw to a close, after writing a good long letter which I know will interest you very much. I wish you and the children the best of health, and good luck, keep smiling as I am doing, and I hope we shall meet again shortly…
Your affectionate old brother,
Charley
Ypres witnessed some of the bitterest fighting of the entire war. Situated directly in the path of Germany’s planned sweep into France, the Allies managed to recapture the city after the First Battle of Ypres (19 October–22 November 1914). Between 22 April and 25 May 1915 a second battle was fought which saw poison gas used for the first time on the Western Front, and as a result mustard gas was originally called ‘Yperite’. A third and final battle, also known as the battle of Passchendaele, was fought between 31 July and 10 November 1917.
In total millions of British soldiers would fight over just a few miles of Belgian ground and Charles Tame was not alone in feeling bitter towards the enemy as well as those who had yet to volunteer for active service. Captain Edward Simeons served with the 8th (Service) Battalion, Bedfordshire Regiment (16th Brigade, 6th Division) in the front line north-west of Wieltje on the Ypres Salient. Captain Simeons died of wounds sustained on 17 February 1916 and is buried at Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, Belgium.
Belgium
Monday November 1, 1915
Dear Mr Clemmans,
Just a line to thank you for your kind thoughts, I was delighted to hear from you again.
We have been having a really thick time lately, as you will see by that I am going to tell you.
We took over these trenches last Thursday after having a few days rest. The rain has been coming down on and off since the day before. Everything is simply soaked through including ourselves and [we] simply long for tomorrow evening when we are relieved. Can you imagine being soaked through for 6 days…
The trenches we are in are falling in part, although we work hard day and night riveting and in parts the water is well over the ankles, although the pumps are kept hard at it.
We have been shelled very heavily by our friends the Huns and am sorry to say lost numbers. It is a sight one can hardly bear to see when a shell burnt amongst the men, killing some, wounding others and others losing their minds.
Yesterday I had a near shave, three shrapnel shells burning within 10 feet of me, but by falling flat on my face immediately got through without a scratch…
You can never imagine how simply awful and what the poor Tommy has to put up with until you have tried it – but with all of it we are a very cheery lot. All we want is to hear that the cads who have been trying to shirk it [are] made to come out and put their nose well into the thick of it which is simply unimaginable…
My very kindest regards to your wife, self and all inquirers.
Your affectionate,
Eddie
Service in the trenches inspired even the inexperienced poet to try to describe life on the front line. The following poem was sent home in August 1915 by Captain Charles K. McKerrow, a regimental medical officer of the 10th Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers.
By hedge and dyke the leaves
Flame to the clay
Fanned by the wing
Of Death. Yet Life achieves
From such decay
The buds of spring.
By air and sea and earth
To glorious death
Our loves we gave
Certain that Death is Birth
Love blossometh
Beyond the grave.
Flanders, October 1915
But most of McKerrow’s correspondence took the form of traditional letters, sent largely from the Armentières section of the Western Front between August 1915 and February 1916 and also from his service during the battle of the Somme. He was a prolific correspondent and the following are extracts from the dozens of letters which detail his service as a medical officer on the front line.
January 28th, 1916
We have had such a pleasant first night in the trenches. The 15th Royal Scots are attached to us for a few days and we all came happily into our front line thinking what a nice fellow the Hun was to keep Wilhelm’s birthday in so quiet and religious a manner. There had been very little shelling and rifle fire all day. We had dinner in our mess dug out and went to bed. At 10.30 I woke to the most appalling uproar I have ever heard. The Hun had turned all his guns – big and little – into our support and reserve trenches and, incidentally, our headquarters. The noise was simply indescribable. Shrieks and whistles of the arriving shells, and burst and crashes of the arrived ones, all blended together in one wild nightmare. I thought that most certainly we were going to have a proper smash up of everything – including ourselves. The shells poured on without a stop for half an hour. Our guns joined in the din, and then there was quiet. When we counted the bag, came the bathos. There had been two dug outs knocked in, the Adjutant’s dug out badly mauled, and yet there was not a man even scratched. They had all, including myself, taken to [the] earth in time to escape annihilation. Of course, a bombproof [shelter] will give way before a big shell, but it has to hit it direct, and, fortunately, this did not happen. We then went off to bed again and thought the Kaiser’s birthday had been sufficiently celebrated.
Would you believe it? They started off at 4 again in the morning, fortunately this time, not paying quite such direct attention to us. When we did get to sleep it was 5, and, as I had to get up at 6, I cannot say that I shall remember the Kaiser or his birthday with any enthusiasm or pleasure. When I walked across the field this morning towards the Medical Aid Post I found nice big holes, big enough to hide a decent-sized man, every few yards. I was pleased to see that the majority had been aimed too high to hit us, and not high enough for the reserve trenches. If they had all come down on us, it would have been very unpleasant indeed.
January 29th, 1916
The neighbourhood has been particularly unhealthy lately. As I told you we had two séances the night before last, one at 11pm and the next at 4am. We thought that this must about finish Fritz’s birthday present, but not a bit of it. He re-commenced at 9.30 yesterday morning and shelled us till 12. He then had an hour’s interval till 1, and started off once more. This shelling was not very heavy but at 3 the floods were let loose again.
I have never imagined such a noise and commotion could be attained by artificial means. The shrieks and bursts of the shells were absolutely continuous for an hour. I was in my Aid Post and it rocked and swayed like a ship in a storm. Fortunately it was not hit, but some shells were by no means far distant. Altogether, we had about 20 casualties, which was not much considering the heaviness of the bombardment. I don’t know whether we are going to have any more or not, but I should think that it is probable that a few souvenirs will arrive. Last night we were all ready for the Hun to attack, but everything was quiet – hardly a rifle shot. It is rather as if he were bombarding us out of sheer frightfulness. We go out of this the day after tomorrow, and shall have a week to regain our presumably upset nervous tone. I have not noticed much upset myself, but, if it were continued for a week or so, one would certainly begin to feel some ennui. There has been nothing like this on any part of the line for some time.
January 30th, 1916
It is Sunday, and very damp and misty with a slight morning frost. We are being allowed a rest for the present but the Bosch may arouse himself and speak at any moment.
He has given tongue pretty regularly since we came in. We had 18 casualties on Friday, 5 on Saturday, and 3 already today and it is only 3 o’clock. We had one officer badly wounded. He will probably lose his right arm. This morning we had one Company Sergeant Major killed and one wounded, but only slightly. In fact, none of us will be sorry to get safely out of this tomorrow night. Of course, our casualties are not heavy considering the number of shells, bombs and aerial torpedoes which have showered on us for three days. Certainly, shells are not efficient as man-slayers, but they are most unpleasant. It is a queer thing that, as soon as one gets some work to do amongst the wounded, one ceases even to notice the shelling. It is a blessing because otherwise the doctor’s life in the trenches would be undoubtedly trying. I am glad that I have a fairly healthy nervous system.
I daresay, though, that by June I shall be quite willing to take on some less exciting job. We are getting along with the winter, and it will soon be spring. What a relief to have dry ground again.
January 31st, 1916
I expect that everyone will be glad to have a rest. Some of our men have only had an hour or two’s sleep in three days. They have been most awfully good, and their endurance and pluck are beyond all praise. The 15th Royal Scots, who were in with us, were also very good, and stuck it out well. It must have been an eye-opener to them. I do not think that any of us imagined that the Hun had such a lot of fun in him still. I do not believe that even a big ‘Straf’ could produce heavier shelling, though it might, of course, last longer. We feel quite ‘blooded’ now. We are all more confident. I hear that we go back in about three weeks now. They say that it means very hard work for the men, so I expect I shall be kept hard at work preventing them from skrimshanking…
I am looking forward to a bath tomorrow, and I shall need it. The mud of four days will take some removing. I wish you could see me.
February 1st, 1916
I have been strafed [reprimanded] by the ADMS [Assistant Director Medical Services] today over a silly little red-tape thing – a return I sent to the wrong place. The regular RAMC are great believers in this power of ink. Well, I left him in bitter pain, and went down to see some of the chaps who had been wounded … on the Kaiser’s birthday and whom we had got out of the trenches under heavy shelling and safely into the ambulance. They were all doing famously, though their wounds had been most severe, and, when they smiled and shook my hand, I realised that it is in action and not in ink and paper that life and happiness lies. I never realised before what a magnificent lot of work there is for the young chaps out here, and how the old birds like the ADMS must sit in offices and bite their thumbs.
I forgave him at once for all his strafing. No wonder he has a strange perspective. I have quite decided that, if I am still going strong in June and our Colonel is away (perhaps, even if he is with us) I shall try and find some job a little bit back, away for a while. I shall have been 10 months in the trenches, and if the war is going on for some time longer, as seems possible, then I should like to keep a spurt for the finish. I know that my decision will please you. If you were not there nor George, I should stay where I am, not that I am doing any extra good work, but because there is no doubt that work with a regiment rather appeals to me. I suppose for the same reason that scorching a motor bike does. I expect that though a VC, MC or DSO would please you, yet you would prefer me than it.
However, Captain McKerrow stayed in the front line and saw service throughout the battle of the Somme (1 July to 18 November 1916).
July 10th, 1916
I am so penitent for I have only sent you a field post card during many days. We have been right in the midst of things and I am safe. I would add ‘so far’ but, as we are at present safely in the country, that would seem merely a Scotch superstition. As a matter of fact if I could come through my experiences of the last week unscathed, I think you may consider me pretty tough. The Division has done well and scuppered many Huns, but has been rather knocked about. We were about the most fortunate, losing only 2 officers and 180 men or thereabouts. This was due to our being by chance less opposed. The 11th had less luck. Their MO was wounded and several officers wounded and killed. Poor Tullock was killed. You may tell Mrs Carrick that his death was quite sudden and painless as the bullet went right through his heart. This may be some consolation to his people.
I had one stretcher-bearer killed and five wounded. I am glad to say that Kirtly and Coulson were untouched. They were both lucky as they worked unsparingly. We had about 1,000 men through our Dressing Post in 3 days. They came from all sorts of regiments: Welshmen, Englishmen and a few Scots. The fighting, so far, has been very Northumbrian. I believe we are doing fairly well. I had a Red Cross sergeant major (a prisoner) working with me for a day. He had been caught in the Aid Post. He came from Karlsruhe. Was that not a strange coincidence? He wept with joy when I spoke to him in German. There were about 15 wounded Huns in the Aid Post also. They were very thin and smelly. I got them away as soon as possible.
Coulson is a great stand by. As you may imagine, I had no sleep for 3 days or nights while the rush was on. Well, he made coffee and soup for me and chased me round till I took them. He made me change my socks, and rubbed my legs for me. He is really quite priceless. His language is sometimes hard to decipher, but what of that.
July 11th, 1916
I made my Aid Post a great success for the four days I held it, and I can say that we have saved many lives. I daresay others could have done as well if not better than I did, but no one could possibly have equalled my stretcher-bearers. As one hard-bitten chap said to me: ‘They are doing what Christ would do.’ It really is very fine to see these chaps passing through storms of shell to help their comrades. I am very proud of them and hope they will get some rewards, apart from the inward ones of their conscience. After all, there are no holocausts here as there were at Loos. The percentage of these wounded, only about one-third are serious at all. You are far more likely to have me home with a broken arm or a nice flesh wound than to have me not come back at all, while the vast probability is that I shall not even be scratched.
Poor Rix was killed by a chance shell the other day, some way behind the front line. I am very sorry as he was a good chap. He was killed out-right. Such accidents will occur, but, perhaps one such sacrifice will satisfy Moloch for a time.* Otherwise our RMOs are safe, though two are slightly wounded.
July 19th, 1916
We have now been under shell-fire (not, fortunately, continuous) for a fortnight and are becoming hardened. As a battalion we have had amazing luck. Two or three officers wounded, and, so far, none killed. We have not yet, however, had to make an unsuccessful attack, which is where the losses occur. The other Battalions in our Brigade have lost much more heavily. Twice we were to have stormed strong points, and both times the battalion ahead of us was cut up, and we had to dig in and wait. No doubt, our turn will come.
This will not affect me except that I shall lose some friends, and be very busy. Where I am, and where we are likely to be, the cover is not at all bad, and I do not neglect it. I have a strong feeling of Kismet, but nevertheless, do not go out trying to be hit. The weather is perfect, and all our aeroplanes are up, nosing round to see what they can discover. Between you and me, the Hun is having a rotten time. We fairly smother him with shells. In spite of that, he puts up a plucky fight though his methods are abominable. Of them I shall talk later. Never ask me to know or to write to or think of anyone who is a German, in the future. They are – one and all – the most vile, loathsome, crawling reptiles that kultur could produce. As a matter of fact, they are all brains and little soul. They talk much of the latter and of their various virtues. They have only one virtue and that is courage. After all, the stoat and the rat are about the bravest of animals.
I have an idea that we are going into rest very soon now. The oracles suggest it. How long a rest, no one knows. The last rest was 3 days, and we were shelled constantly. The Hun resistance is undoubtedly nothing to what it was, and in this one sees a happy omen. Many consider the War nearly won. Certainly, this offensive of ours, though slow, is very complete, and must be worrying the Hun quite a lot. Haig seems to have found the way to deal with him.
Poor wee Jake. I am very sorry for John. I shall write to him. Death is a very dreadful thing to those who are not flung into slaughter. It will take months for me to gain a truer perspective. When the dead lie all around you, and the man next to you, or oneself, may puff out, death becomes a very unimportant incident. It is not callousness, but just too much knowledge. Like other things, man has ignored death and treated it as something to talk of with pale cheek and bated breath. When one gets death on every side the re-action is sudden. Two chaps go out for water and one returns. Says a pal to him: ‘Well, where’s Bill?’ ‘A bl—— whizz-bang took his bl—— head off’ may not appear sympathetic, but it is the only way of looking at the thing and remaining sane. You may be certain, however, that the same man would carry Bill ten miles if there was any chance of fixing his head on again. They are great men, but rough outwardly. I expect that they have their reward.
July 20th, 1916
It is the third week of our offensive and I am still going strong… There are those who say that our next move will be into some quiet trenches up north, and that they will send new men to carry on here. I can scarcely believe it, but there may be some germ of truth in it. Anyway, I do not think that the offensive can go on for many more weeks, as at present. I know very little about what is happening except for a square mile of country. In the front is [a] slight rise, surmounted by a much ruined village in a much tattered wood. There have been four attacks made up this slope, all cut short by machine gun fire. The dead lie like sheaves in the harvest field. Day and night our shells rain down on the ruins, and the sign of their passage is like the beating of a heavy sea upon a sandy beach. At times, the roar is terrible and continuous, and then it fades away, but only for a few minutes. The shells are not all what we call ‘outers’, for the Hun has rushed up many batteries, and they are not idle. Every few minutes there is a threatening shriek and the rapidly following crash of an explosion. Pieces of iron and steel beat on the hillside, and everyone who can find a little head cover crouches for a moment till the storm is past. Those who are in the open whisper, ‘Kismet,’ and pass on their way outwardly indifferent.
Every now and then, down the hillside, comes a stretcher with its uncomplaining burden. However vicious the shelling, the wounded will never be neglected. A stretcher-bearer may fall, but another fills the gap. The practice, as opposed to the theory of Christianity, is here for men to wonder at. As the twilight darkens, our shells fly overhead ever more importunately. The bursts of exploding shrapnel merge into a streak of brilliant yellow flame above the enemies’ trenches. The crimson flare of the heavy shells as they scatter trees and houses and men in horrible confusion, lights up the hillside with baleful gleams.
More and more intense becomes the bombardment, then, suddenly, as though a curtain fell, silence reigns. Only for a moment. From the trenches before us two red rockets soar into the night and all is once more a riot of noise. This time the shrapnel curtain drapes our trenches, and, high and sharp above the din, stammer the staccato voices of the Hun’s machine guns. Rapid rifle fire breaks out along the line. For a few minutes the stray bullets fly like bees down the hill, and then all is again silence. From the trenches, bright magnesium lights soar into the air. Soon, down the road come wounded men limping in twos and threes; then come stretchers and more stretchers. Lucky indeed are those who fell near our line, or could crawl back in the dark. Many must lie out between the lines till death releases them.
We have attacked and been beaten back. Such is the daily happening in the great offensive. Often, however, we are not beaten back. Then the machine gun and rifle fire dies spasmodically. No magnesium lights go up to show that the Bosch line is still held. In the silence and the dark our men work remorselessly. We have advanced. Some German prisoners may come down the hillside under a guard with fixed bayonets, but more probably the bayonets will have done their work up there already.
In October 1916 Captain Charles McKerrow was transferred with his battalion to the Ypres Salient. Two months later he was wounded in action and died – just over a month before he was due for leave. This was his last letter.
December 19th, 1916
It freezes, but not with conviction. The shell holes are covered with the thinnest coating of ice and the ground is quite dry in places. Last night I went fishing. The results were not vast. We cast our ‘nets’ on the other side of the ship, but got no more than we deserved. It is an exciting sport under such circumstances. The question is whether we shall catch the fish or be straffed by Fritz. So far we have won. It was mighty cold on our private lake but hard rowing with shovels restored the circulation. I am going to try putting some tasty morsels in a spot known to myself, and then try a cast there. My leave will be any time between 25th and 27th Jan. At present the arrangement is ten days at home. The boat reaches Folkestone in the forenoon, and I should be in town for lunch. It is fun talking about it, but I shall go raving mad if it does not come off. It would be most distressing. You say this is our longest separation so far… It has only just struck me that I am coming home. I shall tick off each day carefully in my diary when it arrives. I dearly wish to see George.
His wife received the sad news of his death by official telegram.
London, Dec. 21st
Regret to inform you that Capt. C. K. M’Kerrow, R.A.M.C., attached 10th Northumberland Fusiliers, was dangerously wounded by shell in abdomen. Particulars will be sent when received. It is regretted permission to visit cannot be granted.
Secretary, War Office
London, Dec. 22nd
Deeply regret to inform you Capt. C. K. M’Kerrow died of wounds, December 20th. The Army Council express their sympathy.
Secretary, War Office
Some of those who were wounded in action on the front line had the opportunity to write a farewell letter to their loved ones, knowing it was their last letter, and therefore a chance to say goodbye properly.
One such was Sergeant Francis Herbert Gautier who had served with the 11th Battalion, Cheshire Regiment, and who wrote the following letter to his young daughter Marie while he lay dying in the Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD) Hospital in Earls Colne, Essex.
For my daughter Marie when she is able to understand.
F.H.G.
V.A.D. Hospital
Earls Colne
Essex
2 April 1916
To my darling daughter Marie,
Dearly loved daughter,
This, my letter to you, is written in grief. I had hoped to spend many happy years with you after the War was over and to see you grow up into a good and happy woman. I am writing because I want you in after years to know how dearly I loved you, I know that you are too young now to keep me in your memory. I know your dear Mother will grieve. Be a comfort to her, remember when you are old enough that she lost her dear son, your brother, and me, your father, within a short time. Your brother was a dear boy, honour his memory for he loved you [and] your brothers dearly and he died like a brave soldier in defence of his home and Country.
May God guide and keep you safe and that at last we may all meet together in his eternal rest.
I am your loving and affectionate father.
F.H. Gautier
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Gautier died just over two months later on 11 June 1916. His son, Albert, who is referenced in the letter, was also killed at Ypres, while Wilfred, another of Marie’s brothers, volunteered for the army while underage and died later in the war.
Like the Gautiers, many families had more than one member on active service. The following is a letter from Acting Sergeant David Fenton to his brother Second Lieutenant William Fenton.
Both brothers served in the 1/4th Battalion, Duke of Wellington’s (West Riding) Regiment, which was the local Territorial Force Battalion near their home in Cleckheaton, Yorkshire. William was commissioned in September 1914 but was injured and invalided home at the time of this letter. David was selected for service as a bomber probably due to his reputation as a good bowler in the local cricket team and was sadly killed behind the lines when a bomb with a faulty fuse exploded. William returned to front-line service for the duration of the war, winning the Military Cross and bar and was later promoted to Major.
The Grenade Company
1/4 West Riding Regiment
147th Infantry Brigade
B.E.F.
July 18th, 1915
Dear Willie,
Many thanks for the splendid parcels and the letter.
Your knee seems to be improving splendidly, and so long as it doesn’t improve so nicely as to bring you out here again before the war is over, I hope the improvement will be maintained.
Bill, you did your whack and were absolutely worshipped by your men. You know what warfare is. Yet it hasn’t been your lot to know the worst of war, dead comrades and dead men of the Regiment, if not friends more than mere acquaintances. I saw one newly promoted junior Captain, Captain Lee, a brawny virile man in life, carried out on a man’s shoulder, an inert lifeless mass dripping from head to toe with blood. Poor fellow! He got shot through the head – faulty sandbag.
I don’t ask you to skulk I know it would be useless. God forbid that I should be mean enough! Yet if you do come out again, don’t come out as an ailing man as perhaps you would be tempted to do so…
We are mudlarking into the first line tonight where we shall remain at least 5 days. You have the situation exactly. Looking South East half as far again is the place you mention. The trenches are somewhat different to those to which you have been accustomed.
The first line is similar only not quite as good as at —— and is of course always manned. 25 yards behind another line much lower than the first, unmanned. Then 25 yards further behind unmanned. 25 yards behind that [is] what I call the second line, manned. This we hold for 5 days and then we retire 300 yards to the canal into strong dugouts. The canal is continually shelled and the dugouts need to be strong. Since coming up here we have seen two bombardments, one on our left owing to a German attack and capture of one of our Brigade trenches which was successfully countered. Here I may mention that we Brigade bombers were called up for action but, on arriving at our post, the job had already been accomplished and we were dismissed without a chance, as the Brigadier puts it, of honour; as the men put it, of going under.
The second was whilst in our present position when we were the aggressors. It was a terrible bombardment and we were in the thick of it. They used poison shells at times. These flash much more than ordinaries on exploding and after a few seconds our eyes began to water and finally to gush. Then a rotten headache comes. Of course we wasted no time in putting on smoke helmets which are thoroughly efficient. Though this is reckoned the most dangerous line we have not yet lost a single man.
Old ‘Colours’ Parkin got his arm taken off by a shell last week when in the second line. 30 seconds before he was with me looking at some bombs. A shell whizzed over our heads and dropped about 30 yards behind. Colours said ‘I’ll bet that’s in our lines’ and he ran back to the Company. I, of course, went on preparing my bombs. A few seconds after another shell came. It can’t have missed my nut by much because I did an uncommonly sharp duck and it dropped 20 yards behind. Then I went back and saw old Parkin getting bandaged. His left arm was, except for the jugular, severed at the bicep. He never flinched and walked out of the trenches. As he passed I said: ‘Stick at it, old chap.’ He smiled faintly and said, ‘I’ll try David’. He is a hero and I have written to his wife telling her so.
There is nothing more to tell you and as I am on fatigue now I shall have to chuck it up.
Thanking you for the fine parcels.
Your affectionate brother,
David
Lieutenant Rowland H. Owen served as a platoon commander in the 2nd Battalion, Duke of Wellington’s (West Riding) Regiment from August 1914 until he was killed in April 1915. He exchanged a number of letters with his brother John who served in the Royal Navy for the duration of the war.
22/9/1914
Dear John,
Yes, I am sorry for you not getting an actual hand-to-hand brush with the Allemander, but you are helping to do the most important work of all. The strain must be awful for you – I am keeping you company through most of the nights.
Do you have any news? We have none, except very roughly a month afterwards. The naval attack must have been very wonderful, but I know nothing whatever about it.* M[other] and F[ather] seemed to know more than I did of whatever I had even done myself ! I was quite mystified by references in their letters to our show: ‘These two great battles’ etc.
I should give over wishing you were here – you have nothing to grouse about. One goes thro’ [sic] a fortnight of alternately sitting down under hellfire and hobbling away, without necessarily seeing a single enemy, and then one’s parents write and say ‘it was glorious!’ and refer to all sorts of names of battles. No part whatever of one’s conception of fighting gained during peace training has been realized; an encounter with some infantry would be a real treat, whenever an encounter is necessary…
24th
We are about 60 yards away from some of the enemy and 300 from the remainder. We have been here sometime now – we get about 4 hours artillery fire a day, and some of our own shells drop very short. That is the battle we are fighting. When their guns open we get in the bottom of the houses or in two shelter trenches we have made. Yesterday a shell came into the house where I was, and into another house of the outpost position and three into headqrs [sic]. Also there were about five shot holes in the ground within 50 yds of us. I slept in one of them – it was a terrific luxury. So we were well bombarded yesterday, nobody was hurt, not even the sentries in the lofts which were hit by the lyddite.
The chief offender is Long Maria – there are four of her; about ten miles away I suppose. She was brought to settle Paris with. They say some Marines have arrived with 13.5[mm] guns to deal with her. I don’t think they are in position yet.
In addition there are snipers on the edge of the wood and up trees. They make very merry when they see an officer: but, if I may say so without seeming rude, they are not good shots. One can continue what one is doing as a rule without paying much heed. It is rather funny taking field glasses and a rifle when I have been on the go. A lot of them came down yesterday to within 40 yards of us in the open gathering beans! The sentry was so excited that instead of doing them in, or kicking the arses, he sent a message that the enemy was advancing!
I am daily awaiting the news that the defeat of a certain German Army is assured and that the war will then end. However the news takes the Hell of a time to come. I hope you get a show, but at the same time that you won’t go under. I am very anxious that both of us should get home again. I am afraid that hope has ranked all the way thro’ [sic] in my mind second only to the success of the venture and prosperity of the Empire. It seems rather selfish, but damn it.
Well, good luck,
Your loving brother,
Rowland.
For many soldiers, service with the British Army meant their first trip outside the United Kingdom. For the vast majority this meant France and Flanders but British service personnel also served in Gallipoli, Egypt, Salonika, Mesopotamia and Palestine. Jack Beer, of the London Regiment, served in Palestine, and his hospitalisation following injury in battle brought a welcome reminder of home.
British Red Cross and Order of St. John
4th November 1917
My dear Father and Mother,
You will be surprised to know I am in hospital, wounded in the left upper arm during the scrap in front of Beersheba [in Palestine]. I am glad to say I am going on quite well. The same shell that caught me, killed the corporal of my Lewis Gun team and another gunner, also wounded another gunman and myself, and two other men of our platoon, so there were 6 of us altogether.
The shell burst right over us, and a piece of shrapnel went in my shoulder, through the equipment strap and came out of my upper arm, leaving an open wound, also a piece just scratched my upper right arm, but very slight. My pith helmet stopped 2 small pieces of shrapnel from going into my head and my second finger of my right hand, which I grazed two days previous, has gone septic.
Our company were waiting in a gully to go over, and old jacko found out we were there and shelled us like blazers. I was in the first batch to catch it, so I do not know how Chimney [his colleague] got on. We had done a long march over night, and as soon as we arrived, we had shoals of Rifle and Machine Gun bullets whizzing around. I have been four days getting here, being in different CC stations, and having walked, ridden on camels, motor ambulance and train. I was inoculated at one of the dressing stations, and it is wonderful how God has looked after me, as some of the poor chaps were awful sights. Now, it is the first time I have been in a bed between sheets for 16 months so you can guess how fine it feels, and not having heard an English woman speak for so long a time, it sounds very funny with their little voices. To get some decent food again is quite a treat, and I do look comical in my big baggy blue trousers and carpet slippers.
We have all kinds of chaps in out our ward, Welsh, Scotch and English.
I think it would be better if you send letters to the same address. I hope things are going on alright at Watford and you are not being worried by air raids.
Well I must close now with fondest love and kisses to all at home.
I remain,
Your affectionate son
xx Jack xx
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For many soldiers, the earlier patriotism and enthusiasm for the ‘great endeavour’ had given way to exhaustion, cynicism and a desperate desire for the war to simply end. D.L. ‘Laurie’ Rowlands expressed this in a letter to his future wife while serving as an NCO in France with the 15th Battalion, Durham Light Infantry.
5/2/18
France
Evening
Sweetheart Mine,
Now barring accidents, you will get to know all about it. I know you’ll have a big surprise when you get this letter – I hope it lands without mishap. If anybody in authority was to see it – !
Well girlie, perhaps I’d better let you know where I am first of all. At the time these words are being written I am in a cellar. All that remains of what had evidently been a fair sized house, and which is now serving as a kitchen for the Mess in the ruined village of Learmonts (near Peronne). When you read this however I shall in all probability be in the front line on the left of Epehy. We do a week in and then come a short distance back for a fortnight. I believe the BEF is under the process of re-organisation. Instead of four, there are now to be three Battalions to a Brigade. To ours has been amalgamated – what do you think? The Tenth, Billy Allen’s old lot – of all Bats…
The front is very quiet just now. It is the part Fritz broke through a few weeks ago you remember. We should have been in Italy now if it hadn’t been for that. You remember when I came back from that Course, this Battalion was at Bray then being fitted out for the climate of the land of ice cream. Then we were suddenly ordered to pack up one afternoon and were marched off in the evening, had a train ride, got to Tincurt in the morning and marched up to the line a few hours later. Oh, it was great! We were all dead beat when we relieved the Bengal Lancers on the railway. We had a lovely four days digging trenches etc. etc. We are still on the same front. In the part of the line allotted to us, Fritz is several hundred yards away and, bar a few machine gun bullets now and then, a tour in the line is very quiet indeed.
Of course you have guessed by now where I had my first experience of the line. Yes it was on the Ypres Salient. Our Division (the 21st) was on Divisional rest when our draft landed up to then. We didn’t go in till October the 2nd. Our Bat. [Battalion] was to have gone over the top and taken the final objective. Oh, it was a lovely ‘baptism of fire’ that night. We had to dig ourselves in, and early in the morning Fritz started straffing. Oh Lord, if ever a fellow was afraid, absolutely frightened to death, it was this child. Then one of my Section took shell shock when a big ’un dropped a couple of yards off the parapet and then the instinct of the leader, or one whose place it is to lead, came to the top and I became as cool and steady as a rock. I had twelve men when we went, I came out with three… Oh it was ghastly.
We did three tours of ‘Wipers’,* and the Division left the front when I was on the Course. But that October the fourth ‘Do’ [battle of Broodseinde] I shall never forget. Our Bat. lost so heavily during the third from shell fire whilst lying in reserve preparatory to going over the following morning that we could not attempt our job and consequently we remained in support till the attack was over.
Perhaps you would like to know something of the spirit of the men out here now. Well, the truth is (and as I said before I’d be shot if anyone of importance collared this missive) every man Jack is fed up almost past bearing, and not a single one has an ounce of what we call patriotism left in him. No one cares a rap whether Germany has Alsace, Belgium or France too for that matter. All that every man desires now is to get done with it and go home. Now that’s the honest truth, and any man who has been out within the last few months will tell you the same. In fact, and this is no exaggeration, the greatest hope of a great majority of the men is that rioting and revolt at home will force the government to pack in on any terms. Now you’ve got the real state of affairs ‘right from the horse’s mouth’ as it were.
I may add that I too have lost pretty nearly all the patriotism I had left, it’s just the thought of you all over there, you who love and trust me to do my share in the job that is necessary for your safety and freedom. It’s just that that keeps me going and enables me to ‘stick it’. As for religion, God forgive us all, it hasn’t a place in one out of a million of the thoughts that hourly occupy men’s minds. The Padres, and it’s anything but pleasant to say so, they absolutely fail to keep up a shred of their Church’s reputation. Nay, behind the line every man, and it’s almost without exception, relies solely on drink for his relaxation, amusement, pleasure – everything.
Aye girlie, it’s ghastly, but thank God for those dear ones at home who love true and trust absolutely in the strength, the courage and the fidelity of those who are far away midst danger and death. These are my mainstays, and thoughts of them always come to stay me and buck me up when I feel like chucking it all up and letting things slide. God bless you darling, and all those I love and who love me, for without their love and trust I would faint and fall. But don’t worry dear heart o’ mine, for I shall carry on to the end be it bitter or sweet, with my loved ones ever my first thought and care, my guide, inspiration and spur.
Au revoir my own sweetheart and God will keep you safe till the storm’s over, with all my heart’s deepest love.
Your own loving
Laurie
In spring 1918, the German forces on the Western Front launched a series of offensives widely known as the Spring Offensives, utilising troops suddenly available as a result of the peace on the Eastern Front. Fully aware that their only chance of victory was a major onslaught before the arrival of US troops in large numbers, the sheer force of the offensive resulted in many hasty Allied retreats. These proved to be a strategic failure when the Germans failed to follow up the gains they initially made. However, as recalled in a letter to his wife, Major Thomas Horatio Westmacott of the 1st Cavalry Division witnessed the chaos of the 5th Army’s retreat on 21 March 1918.
The Queens made a heroic stand at Le Verguier only falling back in perfect order when their flanks were left in the air owing to other units giving way. German officers told me long after that the losses inflicted on them by the Queens were enormous.
I told Rudge to move back to Vendelles if the shelling got very bad, and then I rode back to my third post at Vermand. When I reached the village I saw a lot of shells falling in it and a stream of wounded men coming up hill in some confusion. I left Golden Rod outside the village and went down to the bridge, where I learned that the enemy had got right on top of the 1st North Staffords in the fog and wiped them out. There was also an ugly story of two companies of the 3rd Rifle Brigade having put up their hands.
Anyhow, the enemy had broken through as far as Maissemy (one of my traffic control men was wounded here) and was pouring on Villecholles, a mile from the bridge. Col Green of the Middlesex with a few men was digging in south of the bridge. I stood in the middle of the bridge and held up the fugitives (mainly Gunners) with my revolver and lined the bank north of the bridge and made them dig in, but the moment I went back to the bridge they bolted…
At 4am, on the 23rd March, GSO1 sent for me and said that the position was most critical and that I must get all the wheels across St Christ bridge. The fact that I had spent over 6 months in this part of the country with the 4th Cavalry Division in 1917 was of great help to me in controlling traffic…
I now began to realise how utterly inadequate the 5th Army’s preparations had been to provide for a possible retreat. Not one tree was felled across the road; not a single crossroad was blown up. St Christ bridge itself was not destroyed though there was ample time to do it, and it was eventually by this bridge that the enemy crossed the Somme. Our huts, ammunition dumps, canteens and railways were all left for the enemy to take over as they stood. What trenches had been dug were 6 inch scratches (as if dog-tired men could be expected to deepen them!). The whole thing was a great contrast to the thoroughness of the German preparations for their retreat in the spring of 1917…
Hedley Payne who had written to his parents to inform them proudly of his DCM award in 1916 was wounded in action and taken prisoner in the fighting against the Germans during the 1918 Spring Offensives. A compatriot in his unit sent the following letter to Payne’s mother while he himself was recuperating in hospital. For many parents, wives and sweethearts, letters such as this were the only way they received any additional information about how their loved one had been killed or taken prisoner.
Brook Hospital
Shooters Hill
Woolwich
London
26 April 1918
Dear Mrs Payne,
I was more than pleased to have a letter from you and to learn that Hedley is still alive although it was very unfortunate that he has fallen into the hands of our enemy but I trust that he will soon get over his wound which I hope will not disable him in any way.
You must excuse me for not writing to you before this as I wanted to find out for certain what had really happened to Hedley, I met a Mr Irving in hospital but he did not know so as soon as I was able to write I dropped a line to the Battalion and am now waiting for an answer.
What Really Happened on the 24th of March was, Hedley went out with a few men to get in touch with the Battalion on our Right, looking in that direction some 5 to 10 minutes later I saw Hedley on the ground waving his left arm so I ran over to see what had happened and was sorry to learn that he had been hit by a ‘sniper’, the bullet leaving his body just behind the right arm and so it was impossible to get him away. I bandaged up the wound, my stay with him was very short as we moved forward so I knew that Hedley was pretty safe and hoped that some Stretcher Bearers would pick him up but before long I was hit in three places – arm, hand and leg and was unfortunate enough to lose the arm but I managed to get back – how is a miracle to me.
Hedley was loved by all officers and men in the Battalion and I am sure that one and all Regret to hear that he is a prisoner and wish him a speedy and safe return to his home.
His last words to me were ‘Please write and tell my Mother that I have done my Best’ and I hope you will excuse me for not doing so before as I wanted to find out for certain what had Really Happened to him.
If there is anything more I can do for you I am only too pleased to try my best.
I remain
Yours Sincerely,
Roland Brown
Another brother-in-arms also wrote to Payne’s mother to give further detail of what had happened in the action which saw him taken prisoner.
Torquay
S. Devon
29 April 1918
Dear Mrs Payne,
I was waiting to write as I hoped to get some definite news of your son. It is no use offering you false hopes, and I am very much afraid the he must have been among the missing on March 24th. I have already written to the battalion, but am doing so again, and if I can hear anything I will let you know at once. But I am afraid there is very little hope. I wrote to Pickering who was in the same company and was hit that day, and is now at the 2nd Western General Hospital, Manchester, but he could give me no news of him. I believe you would certainly have heard if he had been in hospital anywhere.
On March 23rd the Germans attacked our line very heavily, but never got past our unit. Your son’s platoon was there in the front line, and he was slightly wounded in the chest. He refused to go away, saying that he could quite well carry on. That night I saw him, and insisted on his going to the doctor and having the wound dressed, which he did. The last time I saw him was the next afternoon, about 5pm when the Germans had got through our right and we were forced to retire about 200 yards. He was then with his platoon and I gave him an order to take some men out to one flank. I was hit myself at that moment, and when I had to leave [he] was busy in a flank, and I never saw him again.
I can only say that he behaved very gallantly, as I knew he would, and showed exceptional courage and devotion in not leaving the line the day before. I commanded ‘A’ Company while we were in Italy, and so knew your son very well. He was an exceedingly good officer, and looked after his men very well, and a very faithful friend, and as I have already said he behaved in an exceptionally gallant manner on March 23rd and 24th.
May I offer my very deep sympathy in your anxiety and grief, and my earnest hopes that you may soon hear some definite news.
I will let you know as soon as I can hear anything.
Yours sincerely,
A. Chichester
Although Hedley Payne was subsequently released from his POW camp he died of his wounds in February 1919.
Many soldiers had to face up to the fears of their own mortality throughout the duration of the war. The following is a touching farewell letter written by Colour Sergeant Major James ‘Jim’ Milne (1/5th Seaforth Highlanders, 51st Division) immediately prior to the Second Battle of the Marne, July 1918.
BEF
Sat 20th July
My own Beloved Wife,
I do not know how to start this letter or note. The circumstances are different from any under which I ever wrote before. I am not to post it but will leave it in my pocket and if anything happens to me someone will perhaps post it. We are going over the top this forenoon and only God in Heaven know who will come out of it alive. I am going into it now Dearest sure that I am in His hands and that whatever happens I look to Him, in this world and the world to come. If I am called my regret is that I leave you and my Bairns but I leave you all to His great mercy and goodness, knowing that He will look over you all and watch you. I trust in Him to bring me through but should He decree otherwise then though we do not know His reasons we know that it must be best. I go to Him with your dear face the last vision on earth I shall see and your name upon my lips, You, the best of women. You will look after my Darling Bairns for me and tell them how their Daddy died.
Oh! How I love you all and as I sit here waiting I wonder what you are doing at home. I must not do that. It is hard enough sitting and waiting. We may move at any minute. When this reaches you for me there will be no more war, only eternal peace and waiting for you. You must be brave my darling for my sake for I leave you the Bairns. It is a legacy of struggle for you but God will look after you and we shall meet again when there will be no-more parting. I am to write no-more Sweetheart, I know you will read my old letters and keep them for my sake and that you will love me or my memory till we meet again.
Kiss the Bairns for me once more. I dare not think of them, my Darlings.
Good Bye, you best of women and best of wives my beloved Sweetheart.
May God in his mercy look over you and bless you all till that day we shall meet again in His own good time.
May He in that same mercy preserve me today.
Good Bye Meg.
Eternal love from Yours for Ever & Ever
Jim
Jim Milne survived the Second Battle of the Marne and the rest of the war.
Lieutenant P.R. Hampton served with No. 62 Squadron RAF flying a Bristol F2B. By the latter stages of the war aerial superiority had become increasingly important but fraught with dangers for the pilots. During an offensive patrol over Armentières in spring 1918 he was brought down by German anti-aircraft fire and taken prisoner. He sent the following letter to his mother back home in Canada from his hospital bed and was realistic about the fact that he was probably safer as a prisoner than patrolling the skies above the Western Front.
19 May 1918
My dearest Mother,
I am still in hospital in fact I expect to be here for a week or so yet. I am getting better but a little slower than I first expected. I have now recovered from the shock but the burns are not healed yet. My nose, which was knocked almost flat between my eyes and a little to one side, is now back in its normal position. It is very painful but that is the only pain I have. The doctor is fixing it well, probably it will be better looking than before. I had a very narrow escape with my right eye, I have a nasty cut between the eyeball and eyebrow but that is nearly alright. My burns are not serious, the big toe of the right and ankle of the left are slightly burnt and also my right thumb and arm, but nothing to worry about.
I think Lane, my observer, will be better before me. I am not in the same ward but I hear he is getting on well. It has now been ascertained that I was brought down by Archie fire, a thing I never expected or even contemplated. I don’t know how it set me on fire; of course the front petrol tank was burst but I don’t know what lighted the petrol. I believe my machine was burnt to nothing after I hit the ground, so I am lucky to have undone my belt.
I don’t yet know my address in Germany, I will have to wait till I get there… I have no idea where I will be sent to from here as there are a lot of camps in Germany. Being a prisoner, I don’t think I am entitled to a wound gratuity. I lose about £50 but will make sure of it. This happened at an unfortunate time as I was looking forward to some letters and the parcel you said you were sending me for my birthday. I am wondering have you moved yet, and if so, where. I will have to wait a long time until I hear. It is now summer, but I can hardly believe it. I don’t think you can send newspapers to a Prisoner of War but you can find out from the Red Cross. I am wondering how many days it was from the time you heard I was missing, until you heard that I was a prisoner. This must have been an anxious time for you. In case you don’t know, I was shot down on 3rd May. I suppose Harry knows by now. He used to write me every week. I hope that there is no limit as to the number of letters I can receive. I suppose I am lucky in one way to be a prisoner, because I am reasonably sure of seeing you all when the war is over, and I wasn’t before. Life as a prisoner will not be so bad once my letters and parcels start coming but that will take some time yet.
I must close now as I have no more news,
Etc.
P.S. I have some books to read so I am alright in that respect. A German officer very kindly gave me cigarettes, but I long for sweets. I have just been moved to the officers’ quarters and Lane and myself have a nice room. We are very comfortable here.
Ultimately, however, the German Spring Offensives failed, partly because they failed to take advantage of the gains they had made, and also as a result of a successful Allied counter-offensive. The war dragged on into the autumn but the end was clearly in sight. On 11 November an armistice with Germany came into effect. Many could scarcely believe it, including the 27-year-old commanding officer of the 2/5th Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers, Colonel George Stanley Brighten DSO, although it is clear that hard fighting continued in some areas right up until the ceasefire.
BEF
13 November 1918
My dearest Father and Mother,
Well, isn’t it wonderful? I can’t realise it yet. We have not yet had the complete terms of the Armistice, but more or less know some of them. It is of course more or less unconditional surrender, an absolute abject defeat. Of course they have had their internal troubles, but it is the military defeat which has forced and won the situation.
Have been living during some wonderful days. After I last wrote, we remained some days in [the] same village and then commenced advancing again on our special job which was a flying column specially formed of all arms to chase the Hun, and we got three days of it before the Armistice. It was really most interesting. Very hard marching as we were the only infantry, and in addition to marching in the day and keeping up with cavalry, had to find out-posts … as well. The men were simply splendid, and not one fell out. Needless to say we were in action the last moments of the war, we should be, and had a rather hot time of it afternoon and night of the 10th. Early 11th: we entered a fairly large town amidst an enormous reception, cheering the whole way, and passed through to the XXXXXXXXXXX further side, and then heard armistice. It was a wonderful moment; I was able to announce it to the people of the town.
Later same day we billeted in this nice quiet little village (near the same town) where we are now. The same night, Brigade, who have a beautiful place in the town, gave a dance to the local inhabitants to which I went, a great show, almost historic.
We are expecting to be part of the forces to go forward and occupy but do not know yet when we go; probably not the first. During the advance we used to get the most wonderful receptions in the towns, the moment the Germans had gone, and we arrived, flags everywhere. The Batt [Battalion] looked like an army of flags. Received officially by the Mayors etc. We had the funeral of some of our men who were killed the last day, and the people here gave a wonderful show, they made the coffins, and all turned out with a band, heaps of flowers. The Bergomaster read a very nice little eulogy, chiefly about what England had done.
As time goes on I hope censorship regulations will be relaxed and that we shall be allowed to name places. It is too early to imagine how things are going to settle down, and when and at what moment: one wants a few days to collect and re-arrange one’s thoughts and ideas.
I have seen armistice terms since writing the commencement of this. They are simply wonderful. What more complete victory could have been desired?!
xxxxxxxxxx
Stanley
Major Westmacott who less than a year earlier had been part of the Allied retreat during the German Spring Offensives, was with the victorious Allied armies as they crossed into Germany. He later recalled his thoughts on marching into the homeland of his former enemy in a letter to his wife on 13 December 1918.
I have seen a sight today which I shall never forget. There are three bridges over the Rhine at Cologne, known as the Mulhelm bridge, the Hohen-Zollern bridge, and the suspension bridge. Our infantry began to cross the Rhine at 9.15am, the 9th Div. by the Mulhelm bridge, the 29th Div. by the Hohen-Zollern bridge and the Canadians by the suspension bridge. Until 1.15pm they poured across in three dense columns. So as to do things really well, the German police were told to see that no wheeled German traffic was allowed on the streets, and they obeyed their orders to the letter. There were big crowds of Germans looking on in spite of the rain, but they seemed more curious than anything else. I saw one women in tears, poor soul, but bar that it might have been almost an English crowd. General Jacob, my Corps Commander, stood under the Union Jack by a big statue of the Kaiser, at the west end of the Hohen-Zollern bridge, and took the salute of the 29th Division, one of the finest fighting divisions in the British Army, being the division which earned undying glory in Gallipoli.
The men marched with fixed bayonets, wearing their steel helmets, and carrying their packs. I wish you could have seem them – each man making the most of himself, and full of pride and élan. Then came the guns, turned out as our gunners always turn themselves out. Mind you, the Division was fighting hard all through the last battle, and they have been marching steadily through Belgium and Germany for the last 30 days, but the horses were all fit and hard as nails, and the buckles of the harness were all burnished like silver. The mules were as fit as the horses, and went by wagging their old ears as if they crossed the Rhine every day of the week. A German looking on said that the Division must have just come fresh from England. It is difficult to remember what we were like last March and April, during the retreat of the 5th Army, and to find ourselves here as conquerors in one of the proudest cities of Germany.
* The Zimmermann telegram was a message from the German Foreign Minister Alfred Zimmermann to his ambassador in Mexico suggesting that if war should break out with the United States, Mexico should be encouraged to recapture the territory she had lost in 1848.
* This refers to the green envelope given to some soldiers as a privilege. The letters in these envelopes were sealed and exempt from the censors and the soldiers certified that the contents did not contain any military information.
* His sister Marjorie had spent some time in hospital due to illness.
* See the image insert for the sketch of the tanks in action at Cambrai, drawn by Reverend Lomax.
* Uff was the name of Patrick’s cat back at home.
* This is the ancient name for the Gallipoli peninsular.
* Owen was Charles’ horse.
* Moloch, the name of an ancient Semitic god, is often used to describe an entity, either a person or thing, demanding a very costly sacrifice.
* The naval battle referred to here is most likely to be the battle of Heligoland Bight (28 August 1914), the first naval battle of the war.
* Tommy slang for Ypres
* Or state disease. If the whole of this sentence is struck out the writer may be presumed to be well or deceased.