Anyone found chewing gum had to run at the double to the top of a nearby hill, known as Mount Spearmint. And there was the usual rough ‘humour’ from instructors, such as the Black Watch bombing officer who showed them a Mills grenade, and warned: ‘If this hits ye, ye’ll have an awfu’ bother putting yourself together at the resurrection.’221 Some students proved the truth of his words all too quickly. When Robert Graves was an instructor at Harfleur he heard a sudden crash just after he passed a table laid out with various types of hand grenade.
A sergeant of the Royal Irish Rifles had been giving a little unofficial instruction before the proper instructor arrived. He picked up a No. 1 percussion grenade and said: ‘Now lads, you’ve got to be careful here! Remember that if you touch anything while you’re swinging this chap, it’ll go off.’ To illustrate the point, he rapped the grenade against the table edge. It killed him and the man next to him and wounded twelve others more or less severely.222
Graves noted that by late 1916 instructors at the bullrings were:
full of bullet-and-bayonet enthusiasm … Troops learned … that they must HATE the Germans and KILL as many of them as possible. In bayonet-practice, the men had to make horrible grimaces and utter blood-curdling yells as they charged. The instructors’ faces were set in a permanent ghastly grin. ‘Hurt him, now!’ ‘In the belly! Tear his guts out!’ they would scream, as the men charged the dummies. ‘Now that upper swing at his privates with the butt. Ruin his chances for life! No more little Fritzes! …’223
Alan Hanbury-Sparrow agreed that: ‘It was all the rage, this brainless bayonet-fighting.’224 But Lieutenant R. F. Calloway, a priest who had served as a chaplain before taking a combatant commission, found it all quite inspiring. After a lecture on ‘The Spirit of the Bayonet’ by Lieutenant Colonel Ronald Campbell, the army’s leading ideologue of bayonet fighting, he told his wife that it was ‘extraordinarily good, but to me the interest of the lecture lay not so much in the lecture itself as what the lecture stood for – the entire conversion of our whole attitude of mind as a nation … if the war is to be fought we must fight to kill’.225 (Calloway was killed on the Somme at the age of forty-four.) Lieutenant C. P. Blacker asked an officer responsible for training bayonet-fighting instructors how many of his qualified instructors had actually bayoneted anybody. ‘Very few,’ he admitted. ‘But we don’t insist on their telling the strict truth when asked that question.’226
The chief complaint about the bullrings was not the quality of their training. Indeed, although Clifford de Boltz wrote that … the ‘NCO instructors were real martinets’ he thought that ‘the training undoubtedly did us good although we did not think so at the time’.227 It was their stark dehumanisation at a time when men were steeling themselves to face what lay ahead. And it was their remorseless imposition of the same soulless programme upon eighteen-year-old recruits and forty-five-year-old combat veterans: after mid-1916 all but a fortunate few went up the line by way of the bullrings, whether it was their first trip to France or whether they were wounded being recycled through the training machine. Graham Seton-Hutchison, regular subaltern in 1914 and machine-gun battalion commander at the war’s end, was unquestionably a hard man. But he was convinced that the bullrings actually did more harm than good. He had no time for
chaotic marshalling to the whim of some witless NCO. Bullies too, yelling illiterate unanswerable personal abuse … A thousand meaty fellows, without the humours of the circus, shouted ‘We’re lion-tamers ‘ere!’ while volunteers, young men glowing with the first flush of patriotic pride, and older men already enjoying respectability, were harassed and pushed, marching, counter-marching, in fulfilment of some ill-tempered whim – by ‘staff blokes’ glued like limpets to what were known as ‘cushy jobs’.228
He believed that soldiers joining their units from the bullring needed to have their self-respect restored and to be treated like the comrades they were. Henry Williamson went through the bullrings, and put a thinly-fictionalised account of them in his novel Love and the Loveless. ‘There was something damnable about a Base system which treated old soldiers, some with two or three wound stripes, as though they were new …’, opined his hero Philip Maddison. ‘The brass-braided wound-stripers, half dead inside their heads, three quarters of their courage expended with the death of old comrades muttered to themselves. Loos – Somme – Langemarck – they’d had enough. Keep the bullshit for the rookies, who do they think we are?’229 Second Lieutenant Wilfred Owen froze the blank stare of the bullring for posterity, writing to his mother on 31 December 1917.
But chiefly I thought of the very strange look on all faces in that camp; an incomprehensible look, which a man will never see in England, though wars should be in England; nor can it be seen in any battle. But only in Etaples. It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s.230
* * *
There were many small-scale outbreaks of collective indiscipline in the British army of the First World War. Many might best be called strikes, because they occurred in 1918–19 and represented the firmly-expressed desire of citizen soldiers, who had been perfectly prepared to ‘do their bit’, to go home now that the war was over. Some of these strikes were certainly serious: in late January 1919 a strike at Calais effectively paralysed part of the base organisation. However, there were only three major mutinies amongst British troops on the Western Front: an outbreak in 12/South Wales Borderers in January 1916; another in a trench-mortar battery of 38th Division in September 1917; and one at Etaples in the same month. In addition there was an outbreak of indiscipline at Blargies military prison, near Amiens, in 1916, and an Australian mutiny in October 1918 when worn-out men refused to go up the line. Given the scale of mutiny in other First World War armies this testifies to the remarkable malleability of the British soldier. And the Etaples mutiny, in particular, demonstrates that it was generally resentment at what was seen as unfair treatment, rather than class tension or anti-war spirit, that drove men to disobey.
The Etaples mutiny came as no surprise to many experienced officers: Charles Carrington called it ‘a reaction against acts of petty tyranny by tactless officers. It was always believed at the time that it began in the mixed camps where men of all units exchanged complaints and did not know the officer in charge.’231 Captain Cyril Mason of the 60th Rifles agreed that:
There is no doubt that the men had grievances. A base camp is utterly different from one’s own battalion, where officers and men are known to each other. In a base camp the men are constantly passing through, sometimes only staying a couple of nights … The permanent staff of officers is small. They are supposed to be helped by officers passing through, but officers passing through for one or two days cannot really be much help. In a base camp much of the routine work devolved onto the permanent base NCOs, some of whom abused their position taking bribes for privileges and leave passes into Le Havre. This, and the tension of waiting for orders, made base camp an unpleasant experience for men in transit.232
The mutiny began on 9 September 1917 when a military policeman arrested a New Zealand gunner. The gunner was soon released, but a crowd gathered and Private H. Reeve of the military police maladroitly fired his revolver, mortally wounding the well-respected Corporal W. B. Wood of 4/Gordon Highlanders, an innocent bystander, and also hitting a nearby Frenchwoman. There was a large-scale riot that evening, with Australians and Scots conspicuously involved in attacks on military policemen; there was a general exodus to visit the fleshpots of Etaples, with further outbreaks of rioting in the days that followed.
Lieutenant Ernest Parker observed that the rioters reserved their hatred for the Canaries: ‘they had no quarrel with fighting officers and during our leisure we went over to Paris Plage every day unmolested by the mutineers’.233 A battalion of the Honourable Artillery Company succeeded in getting things under control on Thursday 13 September, and although some men broke camp the foll
owing day, the worst was over. Private Percy Croney believed that ‘the government will be hushing the whole thing up, not wanting generals in France – who would sit on the courts martial – to find out how their men are tormented in the Bull Rings before coming up the line’.234 In the event, only four men were actually charged with mutiny (though there were many lesser charges), and one, Corporal Jesse Short of 24/Royal Northumberland Fusiliers, was shot for mutiny.235
The most recent work on capital courts martial concludes that the mutiny at Etaples left some officers at general headquarters ‘severely rattled’.236 It certainly emphasised what experienced officers already knew well: discipline ultimately relied on the consent of the governed. During the retreat from Mons, Alan Hanbury-Sparrow realised that ‘discipline cannot go farther than public opinion allows’. The collective opinion of most units generally supported discipline, although, as we shall see, there were aspects of it – most notably the hated Field Punishment No. 1 – which were bitterly resented. Above all the unit structure, so often imperilled, but so rarely shattered, by the impact of casualties, knitted men together. ‘We were banded together by a unity of experience that had shaken off every kind of illusion, and which was utterly unpretentious,’ thought Charles Carrington. ‘The battalion was my home and my job, the only career I knew.’237 The bullrings never wove these bonds of mateship, and remained, first to last, something purely mechanical in an army that relied on alchemy to turn its raw metal into gold.
For most soldiers the base remained a staging post between Blighty and the unit. Even if they went forward from the base rebadged and in drafts to a new regiment, they generally adjusted to their new identities quite easily. There were sometimes teething troubles, especially in the case of officers who were ‘attached’ to their new units rather than formally commissioned into them. I. G. Andrew was commissioned into the Cameronians after surviving Loos as a lance corporal in the Cameron Highlanders. He blew his £50 uniform grant on khaki doublet and Douglas trews made by the best tailor in Glasgow, regarding it as ‘an extravagance I never lived to regret.’ However, after his turn in the bullring early in 1916 he found himself posted, with some other Scots officers, to a Staffordshire battalion which had lost heavily on the Somme. Its commanding officer told the newcomers to dress as Englishmen, but they held a meeting and refused, as was their right. The wise adjutant put it more mildly, as a request, and while ‘we objected to being ordered to divest ourselves of our emblems, we didn’t mind being asked’. Andrew was wounded going up the line not long afterwards and then posted back to the Cameronians, so doublet and trews earned their pay after all.238
Units out of the line but within earshot of its monotonous rumble generally lived in billets. The pattern of accommodation resembled that of the staff, with large farms holding a company or two, or whole battalions scattered across big villages or in small towns, or in rest camps behind busy sections of the front like Ypres or the Somme. Camps were sometimes comfortable. In November 1917 Frank Dunham’s battalion was: ‘marched to Aubrey Camp, situated on the roadside between Roclincourt and Arras … Our camp was compact and cosy, and for the first time were were in what were known as “Cupola huts” or “Nissen huts”. These had wooden floors and were quite wind- and weatherproof.’239 But before Nissen huts became general there were some less attractive buildings, as Lieutenant V. F. Eberle discovered:
We have fetched up in a so-called camp. To get in or out of it we have to walk through liquid mud which in places comes over the top of our boots. We occupy skeleton-framed greasy huts of wood with old canvas stretched over it. The floor consists of greasy mud. At 4am this morning steady streams of water descended on eight recumbent forms – came snorts and cussing as they rose and gazed at the descending rivulets. Then somebody laughed and the situation was saved. Everything has become wintry and wet now; sheets of rain and all around us a sea of mud.240
However, many infantrymen preferred the worst camp to the best trench. Bernard Livermore thought that:
Our rest camps in that beautiful wood at St Eloi [behind Vimy Ridge] seemed like paradise after hell. We slept for hours in long huts with tiers of chicken-wire beds. We spent the next day clearing up, washing ourselves and our filthy shirts, socks and pants. A good breeze dried them sufficiently to make them wearable again. Our puttees and trousers were caked with dry clay and required hard brushing (with our hairbrushes) to recondition them. Letters and parcels were distributed … These brief holidays at Mont St Eloi were most welcome after spells in the line, but passed all too quickly. If we were not practising some stunt for the future, we had plenty of fatigue work to keep us occupied. We were usually tired by the end of the day, but it was good to climb into the tiers of beds, with chicken-wire mattresses, and wonderful to be able to take off our heavy boots before we settled down to kip.241
Billets were arranged through the French liaison officers, attached to each unit, who worked with British billeting officers. John Reith gives a good idea of how the system worked early in the war:
The Battalion was billeted in the villages of Helfaut and Tilques. Transport in the former. We set our carts in two rows on a kind of village green, the horses were picketed, watered and fed, and I went along to the local mairie where Battalion HQ had been established. I was handed a slip of paper: ‘Commune d’Helfaut. Rue Camp. Maison de Mdlle Obert, Julia. Nombre d’officiers à loger, 2 Nombre d’hommes – Nombre de chevaux – 7. 11. 14. Le Maire, E. Meynin.’ And on the top ‘Lieut Reith, Lieut Workman.’ The house indicated was a small farm on the edge of the green.242
The system did not always work this smoothly, as Lieutenant Roe discovered.
We arrived in the pouring rain after dark one evening. Our billeting officer pointed to a farm area and pointed out where we were to spend the night, only to be told that some other unit had got there first. Our claim having been jumped, there was no other sheltered accommodation available … All the remonstrations of our billeting officer and our natural indignation were of no avail, so we just marched into an orchard.243
The inexperienced Second Lieutenant Guy Chapman was sent ahead by rail to prepare a billeting plan for his battalion, 13/Royal Fusiliers.
At length … our train came to a considered halt … I was given a bicycle and told to follow the brigade billeting officer. We rode in silence down silent roads, colourless, wreathed in mist. At last at the entrance to a village he dismounted. ‘This is Nortlenlinghem. You’ve got the whole village. Put your men where you like and don’t wake the mairie.’ …
I walked to the crossroads and in the waking dawn looked up and down. Everywhere there was silence; not even a cock crowed. Faint misgivings as to whether I was or was not in the war zone beset me. It was better to be on the safe side. Unbuttoning my holster and loosening my revolver I strode into Nortlenlinghem and began to explore. A charming village with well-built houses and barns. Trees heavy with fruit bowed over walls … A lean cat came out, yawned and was friendly. A dog broke into passionate yelps. I chalked signs and numbers on doors. Still not a gun fired, not a rifle. Where was this fabled war? At last there was the sound of marching feet and the battalion came in sight. I reported to the adjutant.244
Private Anthony French remembered that his billeting officer was ‘a young and case-hardened lieutenant of exceptional thoroughness’, who would move ahead of the battalion with his party, chalking numbers on doors.
When the head of the column entered the village he would be standing there on the crown of the road, arm pointing significantly to billet number one. The first platoon would wheel mechanically towards it. Then the leaders of the next platoon would follow his steps with expressionless eyes and wait for his arm to be raised. And so till the last small group, the men who had fallen by the way but were still afoot, still in step, dragging one foot behind the other.245
Private Harry Ogle describes the process of moving into one of the big farms that dotted the landscape like ‘weights on a green picnic cloth’. His battalion w
as marching at ease, pipes and fags on, and rifles anyhow, until it approached its destination and formality descended.
The order has just been given to march to attention and the platoon wheels and marches in. As the farmyard within is occupied by the manure pit, a pump and a dog kennel, they halt in the passage. ‘Number Twelve Platoon, halt. Left turn. Your billet is the barn in front of you. The garden and the orchard behind it at the gable end of the house and behind it is out of bounds. The pump must NOT be used for drinking, but it has other uses. The water cart is at Company headquarters just across the road you marched in by and its water must NOT be used for washing. Company cooker and stores are in the same yard. I have instructed Sergeant Talbot to see that any serious cases of sore feet or toes must go for treatment to Sergeant Major Cooper who will be at Company Headquarters at Seven pip-emma [signalese for pm]. And WASH ’EM first! …’
The platoon streams in through a side door in the passage … As the men enter, one of the corporals stands by the door. ‘Hunt and Hurslton, orderly men. Rogers and Ogle, draw rations. Foss, Lines, Parsons and Wallsgrove, blankets.’ In the barn the men are dumping or hanging up their equipment. ‘Shears, save a place for me – here’s my stuff – I’m off for the char.’ ‘Right-oh, Eric’ Shearsby pulls out Hunt’s groundsheet, spreading it out with one end against the timber wall-sill. Then he places the equipment, pack and all, at its head and folds the groundsheet over it to keep it clean and allow movement on the floor. Private Teed unrolls his to full length, removes his puttees and loosens his boot-laces, then lies with his head on his pack, blissfully inhaling the smoke of a Woodbine. Just then Lance Corporal Plummer comes in saying, ‘There’s an old piece of tarpaulin over in Headquarters yard and it’ll just do to stretch over those little holes in the wall. Come with me, Artie, and I’ll show you before the guard’s mounted!’
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