by Peter Hart
The weather report is favourable for tomorrow. With God’s help, I feel hopeful for tomorrow. The men are in splendid spirits: several have said that they have never before been so instructed and informed of the nature of the operation before them. The wire has never been so well cut, nor the artillery preparation so thorough. I have seen personally all the corps commanders and one and all are full of confidence.57
General Sir Douglas Haig, General Headquarters, BEF
For the ordinary rank and file, the strain of that last night was almost unbearable. Many officers, relatively cosseted by superior pay and private incomes from the worst monotony of general rations, sought to mark the occasion by pushing the boat out a little. After all, they might never have the chance again.
Taylor, one of the C Company subalterns, returned from leave with a case of wines, amongst which was a particularly good brown sherry, and a tumbler of this nectar was sent to the Colonel’s dugout with C Company’s compliments. Unfortunately for the Colonel, Thomson, our medical officer, arrived first, and, feeling perhaps that a little refreshment would relieve the stress of war, he gulped it down at one draught, remarking afterwards that it was, ‘Dammed funny whisky!’ This was poor old Thomson’s last crime, however, for he was killed a few days later.58
Lieutenant W. D. Allen, 7th Battalion, Royal Sussex Regiment, 36th Brigade, 12th Division
Often men sought solace in the safety of numbers and the warmth of comradeship. They amused themselves with feeble jokes and a general inconsequential banter that could trigger forced laughter, which somehow simultaneously belied and confirmed the desperate situation.
Some were writing letters—perhaps their last—home; others were conversing in subdued tones; some were making a brave attempt at ribaldry. The anxiety, though brave attempts were made to hide it, was clearly discernable on the faces of those seated in silent contemplation of tomorrow and the pathos of it all overwhelmed me and I found it hard to disguise my emotions.59
Signaller Dudley Menaud-Lissenburg, 97th Battery, 147th Brigade, Royal Field Artillery, 29th Division
Others sought a quiet spot for contemplation; a chance to muse on what had brought them to this pass and on how they might react in the moment of truth that lay before them.
One had time to reflect on the immediate prospect. I was not very dismayed by it, in spite of my not being a brave man. There was of course the unpleasant possibility of my not living to see sunset, but somehow I felt that I should not be killed. On the other hand the contingency of surviving the show without a mishap seemed too highly satisfactory to be probable. Once more there returned to me the old feeling of wonderment at the perversity of mankind in making all these elaborate preparations for the sole purpose of slaughtering one another and destroying the fair face of the earth. The whole situation struck me with a curious sense of unreality. I had read books, describing the emotions of the hero on the eve of battle. It was hard to realise that tonight I was the hero, tonight I was on the eve of battle. Nor was it a romantic fancy, but a fact as cold and hard as the ground on which I should sleep and dream of home. In fact my sleep consisted of a series of dreamless dozes, separated by my waking up, swearing and turning over on my other side, all in the most prosaic manner possible.60
Lieutenant William Colyer, 2nd Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers, 10th Brigade, 4th Division
Fear was the all-pervading emotion that invisibly bound the men together that night; yet each man was alone with his thoughts. Empirically they knew that almost everyone must be afraid but it was, nevertheless, utterly taboo to admit it openly to others.
Bravery and fear are inextricably bound up with each other. Unless a man can feel fear he can never be brave: bravery being nothing more than the successful control of fear. Fear is the protest made by the instinct of self-preservation; the most powerful instinct implanted in man, though more or less dormant in our coddled peacetime existence. Every man has intelligence. Every man has the instinct of self-preservation; therefore every man is capable of feeling fear. That fine sounding phrase, ‘Brown was a man who did not know what fear was’, if it were to be taken literally, would have the comparatively unflattering meaning that Brown was a congenital idiot. And if there were such a being there would be no great glory in any acts of ‘bravery’ he might accomplish. All men feel fear, but it is the degree with which they control the emotion which stamps them as brave or otherwise.61
Lieutenant William Colyer, 2nd Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers, 10th Brigade, 4th Division
Each had their own methods to try and keep fear at bay. One officer, Captain Wilfred Nevill of the 8th East Surreys, had brought back two footballs from his last leave, which he had given to the men of his company to kick ahead when they went over the top into No Man’s Land. He has been unfairly traduced as a sporting fool who expected a ‘cake-walk’, but his intention was almost certainly to encourage his men forward in circumstances that he recognised would test them to the limits.
Captain Nevill, was commanding B Company, one of our two assaulting companies. A few days before the Battle of the Somme he had come to me with a suggestion that as he and his men were all equally ignorant of what their conduct would be when they got into action he thought it might be helpful as he had 400 yards to go and knew that it would be covered by machine-gun fire, it would be helpful if he could furnish each platoon with a football and allow them to kick it forward and follow it. That was the beginning of the idea and I sanctioned that on condition that he and his officers really kept command of the unit and didn’t allow it to develop into a rush after the ball, just if a man came across the football he could kick it forward but they mustn’t chase after it.62
Lieutenant Colonel Alfred Irwin, 8th Battalion, East Surrey Regiment, 55th Brigade, 18th Division
Nevill certainly had an eye on the risks he faced and his own threatened mortality, for he made distinct reference to his will in his final letter home. The possible imminence of death stalked them all. Yet, as did so many men that night, he swiftly consoled himself, ‘I seem to be pretty bulletproof.’63 Only time would tell.
Many took the opportunity to write home to try and explain their emotions to their parents. These letters express a blend of conflicting emotions as young men vainly sought to compress their short lifetime of experience and beliefs into a few lines: undoubtedly seeking sympathy, respect and approbation; trying indeed to leave a worthy epitaph to speak for them should the worst happen, and at the same time trying to soften the blow to their loved parents by reassuring them of their absolute acceptance of their possible mortal sacrifice.
My dearest mother and father,
I’m writing this letter the day before the most important moment of my life—a moment which I must admit I have never prayed for, like thousands of others have, but nevertheless a moment, which, now it has come, I would not back out for all the money in the world. The day has almost dawned when I shall really do my little bit in the cause of civilisation. Tomorrow morning I shall take my men—men whom I have got to love, and who, I think, have got to love me—over the top to do our bit in which the London Territorials have taken part as a whole unit. I’m sure you will be pleased to hear that I am going over with the ‘Westminsters’. The old regiment has been given the most ticklish task in the division; and I’m very proud of my section, because it is the only section in the whole of the machine gun company that is going over the top; and my two particular guns have been given the most advanced, and therefore most important, positions of all—an honour that is coveted by many. So you can see that I have cause to be proud, inasmuch as at the moment that counts I am the officer who is entrusted with the most difficult task. I took my Communion yesterday with dozens of others who are going over tomorrow; and never have I attended a more impressive service. I placed my soul and body in God’s keeping, and I am going into battle with His name on my lips, full of confidence and trusting implicitly in Him. I have a strong feeling that I shall come through this sa
fely; but nevertheless, should it be God’s holy will to call me away, I am quite prepared to go; and I could not wish for a finer death; and my dear Mother and Dad, will know that I died doing my duty to my God, my country, and my King. I ask that you should look upon it as an honour that you have given a son for the sake of King and Country. I wish I had time to write more but time presses. I fear I must close now, au revoir, dearest Mother and Dad. Fondest love to all those I love so dearly, especially yourselves, Your devoted and happy son,
Jack.64
Second Lieutenant Jack Engall, 1/16th Battalion (Queen’s Westminster Rifles), London Regiment, 169th Brigade, 56th Division
The next day he was dead: another 20-year-old corpse that would never grow old. The majority of the men were far too young to have already gathered a wife and children, but there is no doubt that those that did were under even greater pressure as they weighed the clear-cut path of duty with their responsibilities to their family.
I must not allow myself to dwell on the personal—there is no room for it here. Also it is demoralising. But I do not want to die. Not that I mind for myself. If it be that I am to go, I am ready. But the thought that I may never see you or our darling baby again turns my bowels to water. I cannot think of it with even the semblance of equanimity. My one consolation is the happiness that has been ours. Also my conscience is clear that I have always tried to make life a joy to you. I know at least that if I go you will not want. That is something. But it is the thought that we may be cut off from one another which is so terrible and that our babe may grow up without my knowing her and without her knowing me. It is difficult to face. And I know your life without me would be a dull blank. Yet you must never let it become wholly so. For to you will be left the greatest charge in all the world; the upbringing of our baby. God bless that child, she is the hope of life to me. My darling au revoir. It may well be that you will only have to read these lines as ones of passing interest. On the other hand, they may well be my last message to you. If they are, know through all your life that I loved you and baby with all my heart and soul, that you two sweet things were just all the world to me. I pray God I may do my duty, for I know, whatever that may entail, you would not have it otherwise.65
Captain Charles May, 22nd Battalion, Manchester Regiment, 91st Brigade, 7th Division
Charles May, too, would be killed next day and is buried in Danzig Alley Cemetery at Mametz. The very few who had any poetic talent could express themselves far more concisely in verse. One such was Lieutenant Noel Hodgson, the bombing officer of the 9th Battalion, Devonshire Regiment.
Hodgson knew quite well that the chances were that he would be killed. It wasn’t, as was sometimes said, a case of premonition. The chances were all in favour of that, and he knew it. Two nights before the attack was due to start, he was billeted in a beautiful wood, Le Bois des Talles, about 3 miles behind the line. It was lovely summer weather, and even nightingales could be heard at times. In these surroundings Hodgson took up his pen and wrote. With the memory of the many wonderful sunsets he had witnessed from what is perhaps the finest view in all England—Durham Cathedral from the hill to the west where the school is situated at which he was educated.66
Chaplain Ernest Crosse, 8th and 9th Battalions, Devonshire Regiment, 20th Brigade, 7th Division
In these circumstances Hodgson’s poem has a tremendous sense of pathos ending as it does with a plain spoken plea for courage in the face of his imminent death and the loss that it would entail of all that had made his life worthwhile.
I that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of thy sunsets spill.
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice
’Ere the sun sheathes his noonday sword
Must say goodbye to all of this.
By all delights that I shall miss
Help me to die, O Lord.67
Lieutenant Noel Hodgson, 9th Battalion, Devonshire Regiment, 20th Brigade, 7th Division
Even today, to read this tragic little poem whilst sitting alone on the hill that overlooks the calm beauty of Durham Cathedral and Castle can generate uncomfortable emotions. But Hodgson did not seek the pity of others in his predicament. His inner qualms were confided only to paper and he remained his normal self towards his fellow officers, who shared his predicament.
Such thoughts as these must have been common to many before a battle. But there are times when a man’s thoughts are best left to himself, and though I lived with Hodgson at this time, he never mentioned these to me.68
Chaplain Ernest Crosse, 8th and 9th Battalions, Devonshire Regiment, 20th Brigade, 7th Division
From the other side of the barbed wire thousands of young Germans were undergoing physical and mental agonies without even having the dubious luxury of knowing when the blow would fall. Yet the thread of common humanity crossed No Man’s Land to embrace them too.
It is still going on—ninety-six hours of it now. What will be the upshot, heaven knows! It is night, ‘Thou fearsome night, what will thou bring us?’ asks every man. Shall I live till morning? Haven’t we had enough of this frightful horror? Five days and five nights now this Hell concert has lasted. Hell indeed seems to be let loose. One’s head is a madman’s; the tongue sticks to the roof of the mouth. Five days and five nights, a long time, to us an eternity. Almost nothing to eat and nothing to drink. No sleep, always wakened again. All contact with the outer world cut off. No sign of life from home, nor can we send any news to our loved ones. What anxiety they must feel about us. How long is this going to last? Still there is no use thinking about it. If I may not see my loved ones again, I greet them with a last farewell.69
Private Eversmann, 26th Reserve Division, German Army
And so thousands upon thousands of young men spent their last few hours, wracked by a mingled combination of hope and fear. Daring to hope that they might survive; yet facing up to the duties of sacrifice and the horrors that lay before them. Tomorrow was the 1 July 1916.
CHAPTER FOUR
1 July 1916
DAWN BREAKS EARLY in July and the short night soon gave way to the first rays of sunlight. As the darkness dissipated what was revealed to the anxious watchers was not a completely devastated region. What faced them was in the main a still recognisable sylvan scene. It was obviously no longer entirely pristine, clearly scarred as it was by the white lines of trenches, in places well worked over and battered by the artillery, but nevertheless still replete with many grassy fields and woods overgrown in the absence of the scything hands of farmers. The morning was perfect with clear skies and the more religious might have pondered that truly only the work of man was vile. As the men awoke from their disturbed sleep they could not help but dwell on what lay before them. Their eyes did not see the calm wonders of nature but looked beyond such distractions to fix on the devastated strip of land that lay between them and the menacing lines of German trenches. Here their destiny would be decided in a few short hours.
5.45 a.m. It is a glorious morning and is now broad daylight. We go over in two hours’ time. It seems a long time to wait and I think, whatever happens, we shall all feel relieved once the line is launched. No Man’s Land is a tangled desert. Unless one could see it one cannot imagine what a terrible state of disorder it is in. Our gunnery has wrecked that and his front-line trenches all right. But we do not yet seem to have stopped his machine guns. These are pooping off all along our parapet as I write. I trust they will not claim too many of our lads before the day is over.1
Captain Charles May, 22nd Battalion, Manchester Regiment, 91st Brigade, 7th Division
In time-honoured fashion the men looked for their breakfasts to fill the empty void in their stomachs, something that the inevitable jitters emphasised to an uncomfortable degree. They would feel better with something inside them.
At approximately 6 a.m. on Saturday 1st we had a breakfast on a beautiful summer morning and then a dozen of us had a bit of singsong in on
e of the dugouts. I remember two of the songs very well, ‘When you wore a tulip’ and ‘I love the ladies’.2
Private Harry Baumber, 10th Battalion, Lincolnshire Regiment, 101st Brigade, 34th Division
Tea, the eternal panacea and balm of the British Army, was served out to the men as they sat on the firestep and prepared themselves for the grim ordeal that lay before them.
Ah good! Here comes the fellow with the tea. That will cheer us up. A bite of something to eat wouldn’t do any harm, either. The men are all fully awake and are variously engaged in cleaning their rifles, having breakfast, talking and smoking. I think they are pretty confident. They are stout-hearted fellows and I do not anticipate any difficulty in controlling them.3
Lieutenant William Colyer, 2nd Battalion, Royal Dublin Fusiliers, 10th Brigade, 4th Division
Gradually a firmer purpose took over as the men busied themselves with the routine tasks that they had to carry out before the ‘off’. The British wire had already been taken down during the night, ladders were set in place to allow the men to climb quickly out of the trenches, and bridges constructed by the Royal Engineers were fitted in position to allow troops coming forward to get over the front-line trench as they advanced. Some of the officers were keenly aware that their men would be looking to them for leadership. They would not have been human if they had not wondered whether they would prove worthy of that trust.
I must be alive to the task in front of me. First, there must be no mistake about my own behaviour—a steady going forward, whatever the opposition may be. I have confidence in my own courage; it did not fail me at Ypres and there is no reason why it should fail me now. My wits must be alert, for the lives of these forty-odd men, and perhaps many more, depend to a great extent on my leadership. I must be sure to appear calm and cheerful, whatever I may feel like.4
