THE YOUNG MEN WHO WENT TO FRANCE had no conception of what trench life would be like. From early on in the war the Government heavily censored battlefield images that appeared in newspapers, war magazines and cinema reels, giving a sanitised impression of the Front. However, images of smiling, enthusiastic soldiers ready and waiting to advance from a dry and tidy trench rarely reflected reality, while the accompanying newspaper copy or film titles were usually a shrewd concoction of half-truths, lies and propaganda.
Leaving for the Front would be an occasion of general excitement, usually tempered by an anxiety and a realisation that “this was it”. Most left at short notice, perhaps with familiar faces to wave to, more often with just a “cheerio” to strangers wishing them “good luck”. Some men were given brief leave prior to going overseas; others were able to send notice of their impending embarkation to loved ones who made it to the railway station or coastal port to see them off. Owing to the presence of enemy submarines in the Channel, most soldiers went to war at dead of night, sailing across to one of the Belgian or French ports in any old boat commandeered by the Government to transport them. Bigger boats, including liners such as the Olympic, sister ship of the Titanic, were used for longer journeys to the Mediterranean, but whether they were liners or cattle steamers, a destroyer escort normally accompanied them.
All lights on the boats were dimmed or extinguished, and all port holes closed. The men were packed in by the hundreds, crammed together below or lying out on deck, under strict orders not to show any light, including the smoking of cigarettes. Many were too seasick to smoke even on the short journey to France, although those who were going further afield to the battlefronts in Africa, Turkey, and the Middle East, usually had a worse time as they sailed through the notoriously unpredictable Bay of Biscay.
The apprehension of arriving on the western Front gradually heightened with the sound of distant battle. The guns at the Front could be heard on the south coast of England and on occasion as far away as London. This far-off rumble grew as the Channel was crossed and the men began the slow, rambling journey towards the line.
For many, the front line was the focal point of the entire conflict, where a trench as little as fifty yards away contained the enemy. The term “The Front Line” had great emotional significance, as much as the town names it defended, such as Albert, Arras and Ypres, and the villages it stood before, such as Beaumont Hamel, Thiepval, and Passchendaele. These places had been so widely reported in the British press that they had become household names. One veteran recalled the magic of seeing the famous leaning statue of the Madonna hanging over Albert Basilica, as confirming that he was now at the Front. Yet such enthusiasm could be fatal. New men up the line were vulnerable to enemy fire. “So this is the front line I've heard so much about,” one new arrival told Cameron Highlander, Andrew Bowie. He had not been in the trench more than a few minutes before he took a peak at the German line and was instantly killed by a sniper: he was not the first nor the last to die that way.
A doctor once told Andrew Bowie that if he had not been gassed in the First World War, he would have lived to be 120. He almost confounded the medical expert, living until he was 104, physically fit and mentally very active. Surviving the German Army's best efforts to kill him during the bloody battles of 1916, 1917 and 1918, he maintained an independent life in Sydney, Australia, where he lived for the last 37 years of his life. He remained a Scotsman at heart, however, and remembered with pride his unit, the 1st Cameron Highlanders – the first Battalion, in the first Brigade, of the first Division, of the First Army of the British Expeditionary Force.
As soon as I was nineteen, I was sent to France with a draft of 200 men because the army was desperate for men at the Front. The troop train was to go through Edinburgh's waverley Station, so I sent a telegram to my parents telling them I would be passing through. Everybody from Edinburgh had done the same, and their people came to the station. My mother and father came, and my aunt and uncle and sister were there, all to say goodbye. The Red Caps – Military Police – were there and they said that no one could leave the platform; they were afraid of people deserting, I suppose. There were some rough fellows amongst our boys and they said, “we are coming onto the concourse, our friends are there.” Two Red Caps still said no, so one or two of the men turned out with bayonets, and said “We're coming out!” and the police stood aside. The old man in charge, Major Howard, appealed to us and said “If you go out, boys, will you come back,” because he was responsible for taking us to France. I was able to say goodbye to my relatives, but getting back on the train there were two big Highland boys, and they had nobody and tears were running out of their eyes. They had a foreboding that we were going to face death, I suppose, and these boys were really broken up seeing us saying goodbye, and nobody to see them off. Their families were all in the West Highlands somewhere.
Once we got to France we spent about a week at Etaples, at the Bull Ring, a place where a lot of second-rate sergeant majors knocked steam out of you. You were there for fitness training, but it was over-fitness training really. Each morning we got up, had breakfast, and were given a couple of hard biscuits and a piece of cheese that was meant to last us the rest of the day. In the Bull Ring they would have you running round in circles and jumping over obstacles, and all the time these NCOs were roaring at you, swearing all the time. They tried to make you look ridiculous. we had to jump in and out of trenches, and if you didn't get out quick enough they would swear and make you do it again; if you weren't agile or athletic, you were a bit of a target for them. we weren't all built the same way. I played rugby and I was pretty good, but you could tell a lot of the men weren't up to it.
As you left the Bull Ring, if you were out of step or out of line, the instructors lined the road shouting at you, taking names. If you said anything to them, you were in trouble, even if you looked at them, you could be up for dumb insolence. It only took a week in the Bull Ring and you weren't particular where you went, I think that was the idea.
We were in the main street one day at Etaples, and a party of about twelve men marched past me with one man in the middle without any hat on. I can see his face now, he was aged about 25 and was staring straight in front. As they went by, I said to a soldier, “What are they doing there?” And he said, Oh, they are taking that fellow away to be shot.” Just like that. I went over the words in my head, “Taking him away to be shot”. It looked mighty like it too, the set-up, I mean, they were all round him, twelve of them. The sight was a terrible blow to a young soldier like myself, the first time out in France.
After nine months training, Robbie's battalion, the 7th Cameron Highlanders, landed in France on 7th July 1915. As part of the 15th Scottish Division, he was to go into action at Loos just ten weeks later.
In July 1915, we sailed for France. On board, a sergeant took me to the bow of the ship and above me was a bell and he said “If you see anything unknown, ring that bell”. The ship had set sail and I was looking down into the darkness and I could see a little light and I thought, “Oh, that must be somebody, I'll ring the bell”. There was pandemonium throughout the ship, everybody running about, not knowing what to do. I could hear them all round me until an officer said to me “What is it?” I said “There's a submarine down there.” I was stood down and afterwards I was told it was the pilot boat taking us out of the dock. So that's the kind of watchman I was! I was sick all the way across the Channel. Many of us were, just lying down on the deck, vomiting. I felt a bit better when we got into Boulogne. It was four in the morning and just getting light as we walked up the high street, right up the hill to a camp. The pipers of course give you a bit of enthusiasm, you came to when you heard the pipes, and the windows of the houses opened, nearly all women and children with their heads out welcoming us. In camp we were put six men to a Bell tent and I got busy chatting to the three or four kids who had followed us up, wanting this and wanting that. Their mothers would come up looking for them and would talk to me as I could speak some French, the other men wanting to know what I was talking about.
I felt a real man being in France and marching behind the pipe. I felt really well, no fear whatsoever. Nobody expected to sleep in a cowshed or eat outside, it was all a novelty, and there's nothing more pleasing than seeing something new. We'd start singing. No, there was no unhappiness at that time because we hadn't been in the front line or even the reserve trenches, and we could only hear a very faint noise of gun fire. It was only when we got nearer that we realised what we were up against.
Going up the line, ah then, we began to shake then, yes, began to shake for a bit. You heard the noise first before you saw anything, a prolonged thundery noise. The closer you get to the line, the more tired you get. You had been going through intact villages, now there started to be badly damaged ones. I remember one village and the inhabitants were still there leading a normal life. We stayed there for two days and got friendly with the people who owned the café or estaminet as they call them. There were girls working behind the bar and half a dozen old men with sticks sitting at a table having their drinks, and I remember saying to these people “Now you ought to get away from this place, you're going to get shelled, take our advice and get away”. Two months later we happened to come back through this village and it had been knocked flat. The estaminet was non-existent, but in the cellar there were two bodies, still there, they didn't take our advice.
Having joined up as war broke out, Dick could have expected an extended training period in England. Instead, his unit sailed in September 1914 for Egypt, from where he wrote home assuring his parents he was still able to “celebrate the occasion” of his 19th birthday.
We were on field exercises when one night, practically with no warning, we were entrained with all our equipment. We found ourselves next morning in a drizzling autumn rain at Southampton Docks and there looming above us was the Aragon, a Royal Mail Steam Packet liner which had been converted to a troop ship. Just before we were about to start something happened which I will never forget. The whole of the ship's company from the top deck right down, including ourselves, suddenly burst into song. “Homeland, homeland, when shall I see you again, land of my birth, dearest place on earth, I'm leaving you, oh it may be for years and it may be forever. Homeland, homeland.” Up to then the whole thing had been most enjoyable, but my heart stood still. I suddenly realised that this was warfare – I may not return, you know. It had been a field day up till then, I enjoyed everything, but now we were on our way.
Soon after we left port we were accompanied by two cruisers, one a Russian and the other Japanese. The Russian ship had five funnels and soon became known as the Packet of Woodbines. The boat was overcrowded and the whole company got sea sick, you can't imagine what the ship was like – the smell.
Our final destination was Alexandria where we entrained and took over the old cavalry barracks near Cairo, while the New Zealanders and Australians were camped out near the Pyramids – a finer body of men I never saw and they were annihilated at Gallipoli. Our training was all in the desert, a place which had a wonderful fascination for me, at dawn as the light changed, you can't imagine the silence. The air was broken by the cry of the local native temple, with that strange voice. It reminded me of the old poem The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam – “awake for morning in the bowl of night has flung the stone that puts stars to flight and lo the hunter of the east has caught the sultan's turret in a noose of light”.
Despite fooling everyone that he was old enough to serve, 13-year-old George was to find France nothing like the land of adventure he had expected. His enthusiasm soon waned when he came face to face with the conditions of life near the line.
We left in darkness on a boat from Sheerness to Ostend and then entrained for the Somme battlefield. The Germans were in the process of retiring to the Hindenburg Line and I was sent to live under canvas just near the town of Amiens. The fighting was miles away but I disliked what I saw. We were living in Bell tents, sleeping on ground sheets, and ankle-deep in mud. It seemed to rain every day, the ground was heavy and waterlogged and we were lousy and smelly. We did very little except further training, attacking mock trenches, bombing, that sort of thing. There was plenty of gunfire in the distance and I saw a lot of ambulances passing the camp bringing back the wounded. I'd never thought about being killed or wounded, but now, every so often the camp would be attacked by German aircraft dropping bombs. The bloody noise. The explosions shook the floor, and I was frightened, don't worry; and all I could think was that the noise was going to get worse. “What had I done to get myself in here?” I used to ask.
It wasn't the first time I'd burst into tears, but I hadn't let anyone see me other times. I wasn't the only one scared. Men used to mumble in the tent, frightened too, but if they heard me cry they didn't worry, in any case I tried to hide it, crying under the blanket. I mean you've got to try and be brave even if you're not. I was lying on my ground sheet crying in the tent when this man said “What are you crying for?” Then it all came out, that I was thirteen. He went and reported what I'd said and I was taken to see a major. I can see him now, wringing wet, with rain dripping from his helmet. He swore at me. “You bloody fool, it costs money to get you here and you bloody well cry.” He had no option but to have me arrested by the Military Police and to send me home, but I wasn't the only one going back. When I was taken under escort to the railway station, I found I was one of five underage boys from different regiments being sent back to England, and one of them, as I discovered, was even younger than myself. A little nuggety bloke he was, too! We joked that he could never have seen over the trenches, that they would have had to have lifted him up.
We were locked up together in a train under guard and sent first back to Etaples, then back to England, arriving at Harwich in time to witness a Zeppelin raid. From there we went our separate ways to our depots where I was discharged from the army and was given a new suit of clothing and some money owing. There was no punishment for my actions, in fact, being musical I was offered the chance of rejoining the regiment as a bandsman, which I jumped at. I was given a month's paid leave and then told to return in November on what was known as ‘boy service’. I was to play the bassoon and cello and, thankfully, no further part in the war!
Despite the emotional farewell with his parents in England, Fred landed in France full of enthusiasm. Not discouraged by the sound of shellfire in the distance, he eagerly awaited the train that would take him to the front line, from which he well knew he might not return.
Let me tell you when I realised I was going to die. On the beach at Calais, they'd got us in a long queue and were handing out this and that, a ground sheet, jack knife, and eventually we came to a place where they gave us two hundred rounds of small arms ammunition. There was a boy standing just in front of me from Northampton, a lad called Ablethorpe, and he was a refined boy, wouldn't swear, probably a chapel boy. He said to me, “Now they've given us all this ammo, I shall kill as many of the buggers as I can before I'm killed.” I said “Yes, d'you know we must have been born for such a time as this. Our lives no longer belong to us, we're called. There's people older than us and people younger who are not here.”
We went and got into some cattle trucks, and after a time they started jolting along the coast to an enormous army base. With the excitement of having ammo all to ourselves, some of the boys started firing at passing barns. Other adventuresome kids climbed out and got on the roof and came back with black faces, we'd been through a tunnel and they were laughing. You'd have thought we were going on a picnic. In our truck was a man named Brandon, who wore the medal ribbon of the 1914 Mons Star on his tunic. He was watching our boyish tricks with some interest when, grinning, he said, “When Jerry sees your lovely pink faces he'll say “Mein Gott!” rat, tat, tat, new troops, rat, tat, tat, tat”.
Eventually we got into a siding and there was a Quarter-Master-Sergeant waiting for us. He looked after the stores. Our eyes went straight to his cap, we wanted to know what his cap badge was. He told us we wouldn't be needing one just yet, then he picked up a bundle of sacking and threw it out and said “Put one of these on your helmet.” They had been made to cover your helmet to stop it shining in the dark, in the same way that our bayonets had been dulled.
The battalion was three-quarters boys and one-quarter men. It had had to be re-formed and we waited for our new officers. Four came, one becoming my platoon officer. He was a public school boy, you can tell that in a moment, and he had authority written all over him and I was glad to get into his platoon. We were lined up and I saw a man coming along in a private's uniform, not an officer's, and when he got near I saw he'd got a pip on his shoulder. At last they'd realised that the Germans picked off the officers first because they were so distinctive, with their collars and braided rank. He got to me and said, “Now then, I want some more Lewis Gunners, what about you?” I told him I was training to become a signaller but Jim May, a friend of mine, spoke, saying that while he didn't have his Lewis Gunner's badge he knew how to fire one. “What you mean is you haven't killed anyone yet,” said the officer and we all laughed. “You'll have plenty of time, we'll give the buggers a bloody nose.”
Shortly afterwards we started to march to the Front and in the distance we could hear a mummummum and we said “Is that the Front?” “Yes.” “How far is it?” “Oh, further than you'd want to march today.” We stopped at a village called Toutencourt and made for a wood just outside, where we slept. During the night the Germans dropped anti-personnel bombs on the wood and there was a cry for stretcher bearers. We pushed on next day to a village called Forceville which had been badly damaged, where we were dismissed. Some of the lads started writing letters, but I went for a walk with a friend to the edge of the village where we found some artillery, but they were unfriendly and told us they didn't want sightseers round their guns. That evening we moved out. We didn't march as a battalion now but in platoons, so as to minimise the risk of casualties if we were attacked. It was dusk and in the distance we could see the flickering of shellfire and star shells going up. Suddenly, some guns close by fired and there was a terrific roar next to us and a big flash. We walked on until we saw a plane coming towards us, very low. We could see a black outline in the darkish sky and Corporal Hobson, a regular soldier, said “Don't worry, lads, it's one of ours,” and then the bombs dropped. We'd just passed an empty trench, so we turned round and scuttled back. Corporal Hobson was annoyed. “I thought I'd brought some men up the line, not a lot of bloody scared kids.” That settled us, we never showed fear again.