by Graham Seal
By night we had pushed Fritz back about 10 miles, taking thousands of prisoners, two trains loaded with Huns returning from leave, an armoured train with 11in. guns on board, and enormous quantities of stores of every description. Next afternoon our division again attacked with the aid of tanks, but without a barrage. We went another three to four miles, taking a corps headquarters in our sector, but unfortunately my company got pretty badly mauled. We went rather further than we intended, and our tanks ran into a 5.9-in. battery, and got blown to pieces at point blank range. We were close behind, and they fired at us with open sights, while machine guns raked us from either flank (we were in a direct line between a village and a big chateau, both full of machine guns). We stuck it out, but it was a warm corner, and I was not sorry when darkness came and we were able to collect our wounded and get a better position.
Our boys are fine; to see them advance across open country without the least cover and all the time under heavy fire both from artillery of all calibre and hundreds of machine guns, without a single falter, was well worth seeing. They are without doubt the best storm troops in France.
After 10 days solid fighting we had a few days rest, and then again went into the line, this time reaching our objective— Peronne—after a rather heavy time. I reached the river opposite Peronne with out serious loss, but as Fritz had blown up all the bridges, was unable to cross and follow him up. The river and canal here are several hundred yards across, so we occupied some old French 1916 trenches and waited until another brigade crossed further up and took Mont St. Quentin. During these two days we were shelled continuously day and night—mostly by heavy stuff at long range. We had a pretty rotten time, for every shell contains gas of one sort or another. However, after the fall of Mont St. Quentin we evacuated this position under fire from the opposite bank, and, crossing the river further up, again attacked up the Canal du Nord on the morning of September 2.
We hopped off at 5.30 a.m., but Fritz was holding the position in some force, and we got it in the neck. After going a few hundred yards he put down a terrific barrage just in front of us, while his machine guns were as thick as flies in summer. We had just dived into the barrage when I got my issue. The shells were about as thick as hailstones and I got too near one, with the result that I got one piece through my face, entering the top lip, knocking out a couple of teeth, and coming out under the left ear. At the same time another chunk went through my knee, just missing the cap. Of course, I did not take much further interest in the scrap, but getting back to a trench just in the rear I was picked up by our stretcher bearers, and finally carried out about two miles by four Fritz prisoners.
In hospital I saw a photo of you and some of the light horse boys in The Observer. I am glad to know that you are still going strong and carrying on the good work. Give my kind regards to any of the old hands who are left at Mitcham.
From a different perspective in the chain of command, Private Andrew Clancey wrote to his sister about his Pozières experience. He was in a hospital in ‘Blighty’, the soldiers’ name for England.
I am very comfortable, and my wounds are getting on splendidly. I got shrapnel in both legs, just above the knees. The piece went right through the right leg, but there is still a small piece behind the left knee, which I expect they will take out in a few days. My flesh is very healthy, and the doctors and nurses are very pleased with the way the wounds are healing.
This is the home of Lord Lucas, and is a beautiful place. The doctor tells me there are some very fine stock here—prize pigs and cattle, worth over £1000. I am anxious to get out and see them. Lord Lucas is on active service in Egypt, and has given this place as a hospital while the war lasts. It is not a purely military hospital. The doctor living here is a civilian, but military doctors visit on certain days. The place is very clean, and the food fairly good. My next door neighbour is a Canadian; and ‘Shure,’ ‘He’s some kid,’ ‘Believe me’—his expressions keep me smiling. I guess he’s a hard snap.
We were at Pozieres and did not really know there was a war on till we got there. It was a dreadful place, and a sight I will never forget. Pozieres had been taken by our first division and some of the Tommies, and there were dead Germans and English lying everywhere. With such a serious business going on burying them was out of the question just then. I will try to give you a description of what we went through.
On July 28th at 7.30 p.m. a party of us were called to carry bombs, bags and water to the battalion who were charging that night. From the dump to the firing line—about a mile—was enfiladed by German artillery fire, and as the communication trench was shallow they could see us moving through, and peppered us properly. We had several of the party killed and a lot wounded. We had to make six trips in, and after the first trip it was left to me to take charge of our party. Thank goodness I had plenty of nerve, and got great credit from the men and officers for my work, and it was reported to the battalion officer next day when we returned. We had three officers with us but they stayed behind to look after the dump . . . we had to make our way in and out over dead bodies and pass other crowds going in and out. We were hung up in the trenches at midnight for hours, while a big bombardment and a charge were on, and I could see waves of our men charging over the ridge. We were in again three times early next morning, and the sight was dreadful. The trenches were almost level, and the dead were lying everywhere. We found one of the lads from my section and buried him in a shell hole. His name is Charlie Carter from Pomborneit, and he was my section bomber. It seems wonderful how any of us came out alive. They call it the night of horrors, and a good name, too.
The next night we went into the trenches, and the shell-fire was worse than it had been the night before. As the lads had advanced 300 yards and dug in on the previous night, we had to go over the open right to the new line. The shells were bursting everywhere, and you would think it was impossible for anybody to live. However, with the exception of about ten casualties, we got into the trenches all right and were fairly comfortable for the night. At daybreak we moved further along the trenches to where they were not so deep. Fritz kept putting in his shells, and kept us busy dressing and sending away the wounded. We were very fortunate and had but few deaths. Our sergeant was wounded going into the trenches, and I had to act as platoon sergeant. I had some miraculous escapes from death.
When I left only 17 of our platoon remained out of 50. On the last night I was out in ‘no man’s land’ with a party preparing communication trenches to charge from, and as Fritz did not see us we had a good time. The last job I did was to bury an Australian officer, whom we found lying out in the front. After that I was about to have a sleep when a shell burst over me and cracked me in both legs. It was 3 a.m. on August 1st.
We did all that was asked of us
The battle known as 3rd Ypres began as an attempt by the British and their allies to conduct a decisive offensive against the Germans in Flanders (modern-day Belgium). The action began on 31 July 1917 and ended with the conclusion of the grim events at Passchendaele in early November. On 19 October 1917 Lance Corporal W. H. Murray wrote a letter about his experience of the fighting still going on to take the strategically vital ridge and village of Passchendaele. The sometimes upbeat tone of the letter cannot hide the horrors of the battle.
After leaving camp we sneaked up through Ypres in parties of about 50 men and camped in the mud on the frontier side of what was once the fine town of that name. It is now simply a heap of ruined buildings, and fine old churches and other structures famous for their beauty have been blown to pieces, and even tomb stones and graves have been shelled with the rest, while all along the roads are holes in which a man can stand without being seen. We lay in the rain in our mudhole camp all the first day without any shelter, but within a couple of hours the lads had unearthed galvanised iron, wood, etc., from some adjacent vacated trenches and had erected quite a little town, and were under shelter, even though they had to enter their dwellings on their hands and knee
s. Our tents arrived at evening and the office staff was then fixed up. We remained here for two full days just about two miles from Fritz, and as soon as he picked up our position he hurled shells at us and tried to bomb us and the big guns around us from his planes.
On the evening of the second day we prepared to move into the line where we were to make a push on Passchendaele Ridge and capture the village of the same name. We moved out in the dark in single file and moved along the famous Ypres-Menin road, which was filled with traffic of all descriptions. How vehicles of all sorts move up and down the road, which is simply a continuation of shell holes, is wonderful. Soon we left the main road to travel along a long boggy winding road (or track) over, through, and around shell holes. That trip must have taken us at least two hours. At both ends of the track Fritz showered high explosive shells on us, while in the middle he pumped gas shells into us.
Eventually we reached the jumping-off point and lay under a bank. Fritz knew where we were, under the bank of a sunken road, and pumped the shells into us. At 5.45 a.m. our guns opened up with a barrage. When I heard the rattle and roar and saw the flashes behind me I felt like crying. I knew that the boys were going forward in the semi-darkness. Scores of our guns were buried in the mud and useless, while it was impossible to get ammunition to others, and they could not fire a shot. The guns were too far back and could not be got up closer owing to the bad state of the ground. Scores of Fritz’s strong points contained machine-guns. These strong points are made of very strong concrete and are proof against anything but very powerful and big shells.
During the early hours of the morning we got into the village and up on to the desired ridge, but, as the troops operating on our right and left were unable to advance with us, we had to retire to within 300 yards of our starting point in the afternoon. All night long the strafing continued while we lay in shell holes in the slush, mud, and rain, though during the evening I wandered about, looking for our company headquarters, with whom I should have been, and how all the shells, machine-gun and snipers’ bullets missed me I do not know. One cut the leather over my big toe, but that was all. Two of our officers had been wounded close to me, and had gone to the rear to the dressing station so that I had to find the next in command and attach myself to him.
Mud! Don’t mention it. Time after time I went in up to my hips and was never in less than to the tops of my boots. This is the kind of ground on which we advanced. After digging a hole in this mud for protection it would fill with water in an hour and then fall in. Eventually I found a small dry place under a bank, and spent the rest of the night there in my soaked, and mud-caked clothes, and even dozed for a couple of hours. Very shortly after awakening, Fritz dropped a shell within 6ft. of my ‘possy,’ and up I went and came down with the mud and slush which buried me, but, though half dazed, I dragged myself out of the mire and shifted. Altogether I was blown out three times, and buried to my armpits once.
Next morning things quietened down considerably, and both Fritz and our chaps brought in their wounded and buried the dead. We brought in some Tommies who had been lying wounded in shellholes, left by their own chaps when Fritz pushed them back a few days before.
On the second morning we formed and consolidated our new line, and at about 10 a.m. Frank and I ran into one another while going over to a party which had arrived with food and ammunition for us. I can tell you it was a relief to both of us when we met. Two brothers being in the same crowd in a stunt like this is a great strain on both! In the evening we were relieved by fresh troops. Altogether I think our prisoners for the brigade numbered about 600. When our barrage opened and they knew that we were advancing the Huns simply threw away everything and ran to us with their hands up. They go straight to the rear without any escort, too. In fact, scores of them did fine work in carrying and assisting our wounded to the dressing stations. Some of them were wounded, and had their wounds attended to when an opportunity offered.
At 5 p.m., just before being relieved, Frank and two others and myself took a wounded man from No Man’s Land out on a stretcher, but could not leave him at any dressing station as there were no carrying parties to take him on, and leaving him would mean that he would remain there in the cold until next day. In the end we carried him 4½ miles, to a motor ambulance, and then crawled on to our old mud camp, which we reached at midnight. I was never so close to physical exhaustion before. I am certain that without exaggeration I was bogged to the hips 50 times at least, and crawling out of that alone knocks it out of a chap. We got hot stew and tea when we got to camp, and just lay down where we could and knew nothing. Fritz bombed and shelled us all the way out of the line, and all night and next day, but we only stirred out for meals and did not worry at all.
Next morning we moved away and picked up motor lorries three miles from Ypres, and were brought back and turned into our old billets. When I returned to mine I found Frank, and five others waiting for me. We were the only six left out of the 17 who left here like a happy family three weeks ago. Three of the others are dead, and the remaining eight wounded. The Frenchy’s wife bustled in to see us next morning before we were out of bed, but when she found that only six of us were left, she and a friend of hers went away in tears. Shortly after she returned with a jug of steaming coffee and rum, and gave us each a cupful in bed.
We are out of danger again now, but our stunt was hell while it lasted. Fritz knew we were going in and had picked troops and every thing prepared for our reception, which was a hot one. But not all his preparation could have stopped us. The nature of the ground hampered us; so the stunt was only partially successful. We did all that was asked of us.
The charge at Beersheba
The famous charge against the Turkish defences of Beersheba (now in southern Israel) during the Sinai and Palestine campaign was the culmination of a lengthy and complicated operation. Two attacks had already failed in late September 1917 and an attempt was made to outflank the enemy at dawn on 31 October. The battle was not going well by the afternoon, at which point the commander of the Desert Mounted Corps, Lieutenant General Harry Chauvel, ordered the 4th Light Horse Brigade to charge. Light horsemen fixed bayonets to their rifles and used them like lances in a wild ride towards the Turkish defences. The suddenness and speed of the charge allowed the Light Horse to sweep through the enemy defences before they could accurately aim their artillery, forcing their subsequent withdrawal into Palestine.
Eighteen-year-old Trooper Jack Margrie of the 11th Light Horse gave his account of the fall of Beersheba in a letter home. He was wounded in the foot—his ‘issue of lead’, as he put it. His letter had been censored by army authorities to conceal military details that might assist the enemy.
You will have read in my previous letters all about our big stunt up to the time I received my issue of lead; but you will be interested to hear fuller particulars of how Beersheba fell into our hands. After riding hard for three days on a wide flank movement— get out your map of Palestine—we eventually arrived in position five miles east of the town at dawn on 1st November. The Camel Corps constituted our extreme right flank and established communication with the Sheriff of Mecca and his guerilla army. On their left was the –th brigade, to which my regiment belongs; then came the –rd, –nd and –at brigades in succession, the –at being s.s.w. of the town. On the s.w. of our objective were the brigades who were linked up with the right flank of the Infantry, who occupied the whole line from this point to Gaza.
The attack began at dawn and lasted all day, the Turks putting up a stubborn resistance to our fire, both artillery and small guns replying shot for shot. At last, about sunset, General——— our Brigadier, got tired of such slow business. If ‘Jacko’ (the Turks) got a chance to bring up reinforcements and supplies under cover of darkness, he would never be shifted, so our General sent forward the order: ‘The brigades acting as cavalry will move forward and take the position at the gallop.’ Then wasn’t there a wild hullabaloo. Imagine about 2,000 men strung out abre
ast, standing up in their stirrups or crouching low in their saddles, in proportion to the amount of stomach they had for the game, and galloping madly down on the little Jackos, who threw away their rifles and gear as they ran—in utter astonishment at finding that the men they had always treated as mounted infantry were prepared to be cavalry if the need arose.
Good Lord, wasn’t there a scatter. One of our men had his horse shot under him, and just then espied a Turkish officer, who had been hiding in a deep dug-out, and finding the place too hot tried to get away on a superb white Arab stallion. After him went our ‘Billyjim’ and, succeeding in cutting him off, grabbed the reins and yelled out—‘Get off this animal, you.’ The fellow wanted to argue the point and received a rifle butt over his head for his pains. Into the saddle jumped ‘Billyjim’, happy in the possession of the best mount in the troop, if not the whole regiment.
Well, we hardly fired a shot, but just galloped and galloped until we got right into the town. Then the –st and –nd brigades took up the pursuit and we left to enjoy the fruits of our labours. We fed and watered our horses, put our posts on for the night, and then slept. Sleep had practically been an unknown quantity to us during the previous four days. Next day we went on foraging and got all sorts of tucker-grain and ‘tibbin’ (chaff) for our horses, Turkish bread, fowls, biscuits, Australian bully beef (which tastes like horse flesh or worse), and all sorts of eatables and souvenirs for ourselves. I feel that I cannot do justice to Beersheba on paper, but hope to re-tell the tale some day, soon, in the dear old home land.
Heroes of Anzac
