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 pr
etty 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 s
ees 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.
Letters from the Front: From the First World War to the Present Day Page 7
