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 succ
essfully 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.
Letters from the Front: From the First World War to the Present Day Page 8
