A/Capt. Douglas Cuddeford, 12th Highland Light Infantry
An excited shout was raised that our cavalry were coming up! Sure enough, away behind us, moving quickly in extended order down the slope of Orange Hill, were line upon line of mounted men covering the whole extent of the hillside as far as we could see. It was a thrilling moment for us infantrymen, who had never dreamt that we should live to see a real cavalry charge, which was evidently what was intended. In their advance, the lines of horsemen passed over us rapidly, although from our holes in the ground it was rather a ‘worm’s eye’ view we got of the splendid spectacle of so many mounted men in action. It may have been a fine sight, but it was a wicked waste of men and horses, for the enemy immediately opened on them a hurricane of every kind of missile he had. If the cavalry advanced over us at the trot or canter, they came back at a gallop, including numbers of dismounted men and riderless horses, and – most fatal mistake of all – they bunched behind Monchy in a big mass, into which the Boche continued to put high-explosive shrapnel, whizzbangs and a hail of bullets, until the horsemen dispersed and finally melted away back over the hillside from where they came.
They left a number of dead and wounded men among us, but the horses seemed to have suffered most, and for a while we put bullets into poor brutes that were aimlessly limping about on three legs, or else careering about madly in their agony, like one I saw that had the whole of its muzzle blown away. With the dead and wounded horses lying about in the snow, the scene resembled an old-fashioned battle picture. Why it had been thought fit to send in cavalry at that juncture, against a strongly reinforced enemy who even then were holding up our infantry advance, we never knew. Cavalry may still have their uses in some kinds of warfare, but for a large force of mounted men to attempt an attack on the enemy positions that day was sheer madness.
Sgt Rupert Whiteman, 10th Royal Fusiliers (City of London Rgt)
Who were those mounted men riding up the slope to Monchy from the Arras side? They were only occasionally visible but there seemed to be a lot of them, several hundreds at least. Soon the glorious truth dawned on us, they were the cavalry!
The very word sent a thrill through one. We were about to witness one of the most thrilling episodes of the war, to watch them ride through the village, down the slope on the other side, across the valley and then in amongst the advancing Germans yonder in the dip with sword and lance. Another disappointment: we saw them enter the village but they were soon lost to sight amongst the houses. Expectantly we waited for them to reappear on the other side; waited five minutes, then ten, but no, not a sign of them.
Hideous thought! They must have halted in the village!! Of all places on the Western Front in which to halt cavalry, Monchy should have been the last. The village was developing into an inferno more and more every quarter of an hour, for the Germans were concentrating all their artillery there in the hope of being able to recapture it.
All their artillery, I said, but that was not strictly correct for we were getting a fair share along the sunken road. We soon began to see evidence of casualties amongst the cavalry. Those poor old horses, they commenced to come out of the village in all directions, riderless, reins flying in the wind, manes and tails stiff with terror, some limping and wounded, others galloping, down the slopes from the village to the north, the south, east and west.
Lt Col. Cecil Lyne, 119th Brigade, RFA
The difficulties of writing are great, however I’ll have a try. The actual fighting has eased off a bit just now, but we are still pushing forward and feeling our way to the next German defensive line, weather has hindered us beyond belief. The hardship of open-air life these days is trying, to say the least. I am wearing more garments than I have done the whole of the winter, the horses need a bit of extra care, especially those who have come from stables and warm standings. There are many hundreds of dead horses along the roadside, mostly due to the criminal folly of clipping them.
This morning I started with ammunition at 10 a.m. to go 3 miles. I have just returned at 6 p.m. A giant tractor with a 6-inch gun had stuck in the middle of a gangway. An Army Service wagon had tried to pass it, slipped off the track and became embedded up to the wheel tops; further on another lorry had got mixed up with a water cart while in various places pack animals mired to the neck were being dug out (in many cases a bullet was the only thing), ceaseless rain, cold winds – one has ceased to hope for anything better. As I said before, there are times when one’s sins rise up against us. One of these times is when by feats of endurance you have extricated a wagon in front of you from a morass, your own leading wagon steps off the track, and into a shell-hole from which all the King’s horses and all the King’s men are powerless to move it.
Capt. James Dunn, RAMC attd. 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers
The side road was packed with the coming and going of units, detachments and oddments of men – wounded and unwounded, guns and vehicles of all sorts. Adding to the density of the throng was the cavalry, all over the place: again brought upon the scene by hope disdaining experience . . .
There were dead and dying horses by the roadside. The severity of the winter, short rations and the exertions of concentration, had told on the transport animals. Division, housed in huts in a sandpit off the road, directed me to Blairville. All its transport was there, and the surface had been churned into a lake of mud . . . A robin, a yellowhammer and, I think, a woodlark made an odd little group on the roadside, sitting on a snow-sprinkled heap of sweepings. There was not a twig or a spar for them to perch on. With heads sunk in their shoulders, they looked in utter dejection on the busy road and the devastation around them. The Germans have razed everything that stood or grew on the strip of country from which they retired.
Pte Sydney Fuller, 8th Suffolk Rgt
Quiet with more snow. A robin perched on our dugout chimney and allowed us to touch him – he did not appear to be at all afraid of human beings. Perhaps he had shell shock, or it may have been that he was loath to leave the warmth of our chimney.
Perhaps it was just a case of familiarity; perhaps, in adversity when hunger is the main concern, even the birds found a way to dispense with their normal reserve. Either way, many birds appeared not to mind the close proximity of soldiers. Such a response was very gratifying to men who sought out any opportunity to repay such trust.
Pte Charles Raven, Manchester Rgt
The colonel announced that we had to return to the line. We had had two days in rest and the march up was not a happy one. Indeed, a more irritable battalion could hardly have been found – tramping back from the peace of the hinterland, past the wreck that once had been Arras, over the tail of that accursed ridge, and on, when darkness came, into a poisonous row of Boche dugouts, verminous within and shell-visited without . . . And then in the morning the miracle happened.
Headquarters was in an old signallers’ station, and its entrance was festooned with German wires and decorated with insulators. On one of these, a pair of swallows was building. Those birds were angels in disguise. It is a truism that one touch of nature makes the whole world kin: those blessed birds brought instant relief to the nerves and tempers of the mess. They were utterly fearless, flying in and out among the sandbags, making the nest ready for its treasures. Personally I was fascinated with observing the feathers that they brought for its lining – nearly all kestrel’s and grey partridge’s: my companions staked large sums on the date of the first egg’s arrival: we all regarded the pair with devoted affection.
Never was a nest so protected. Elaborate rules were composed and placarded for its welfare. The nest was on no account to be touched, or, except once daily, inspected. For inspection, a trench periscope or shaving mirror was to be used, and the result, since money would change hands over it, was to be officially verified. No one was to wear a tin hat near the nest, and strangers were to be warned by the gas guard of its position. When the battalion was relieved, the nest and the rules regarding it were to be handed over as trench
stores, with a special request that details of its progress should be fully chronicled and reported . . .
When the Boche celebrated Whit Sunday by an extra dose of ‘morning hate’, our chief anxiety was lest a stray fragment might ‘casualty’ the birds. No one could be downhearted when the early stand-to was terminated by the carolling of the cock, and we rushed back to see whether the hen had laid overnight. Blessed birds, they were an allegory of the part which nature can play for her eldest children when their birthright of toil presses heavily. And for me at least they revived ancient joys and heralded many hours of rest and stored refreshment.
Capt. James Dunn, RAMC attd. 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers
In the wasted area the swallows, missing their ancestral eaves and rafters, set to building in our lean-tos. A pair has nearly finished a nest in the small run-up tin hut that houses HQ. Two strands of wire belonging to our predecessors’ mess bell support the nest. To let the bell be taken away, we cut 18 inches out of the circuit, after fixing the wires to the frame of the hut securely with screws. These beautiful creatures, with such plain faces, are most interesting to watch at close quarters. They made themselves quite at home among us, went on building, and accepted help in adding daubs of clay.
Pte Hugh Quigley, 12th Royal Scots
There are some contrasts war produces which art would esteem hackneyed or inherently false. In a corner of the roof, a swallow had built its nest before we entered into possession. At that time there were no doors nor windows to prevent ingress and egress, so that it was quite natural for the mother to choose this site. It had the main charm of being sheltered from the weather. Now, as the result of our efforts, only a small square hole lay open. Yet, from early in the morning until dark the mother whizzed through to the corner, hovered at the entrance for a second, and then darted across to the nest. Quite a beautiful incident! Then the young ones left and sprawled along a narrow cornice, each to receive his share. All the while a great confusion of chirruping and cheeping. Her labour finished, the mother disappeared with a graceful swoop into the open. The delightful thing about it all was the trust placed by the birds in our kindliness, and we never disappointed them. The picture rung of home, had a tang of the domestic that rendered it sacred, as sacred as a porcelain Madonna in a wayside shrine.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
The pleasant glow of warm sunshine after months of winter gloom gave one a queer, restless feeling. There we were, burrowing like human moles in the mud while the ring doves were mating in the woods and the hawthorn buds would soon be showing green. The utter folly of this terrible killing game was never more strikingly apparent . . .
There was a sweet freshness in the air which one often associates with the first day of spring. Partridges were calling from the grime-covered grass in front of our wire and the notes of a thrush came floating across from a wood behind the German trenches.
Presently a faint rustling noise could be heard out in front. The dead thistle stems swayed to and fro and the long grasses quivered. Something was moving, but at first it was impossible to make out what it was. Soon, however, the rustling became louder. Flashes of white showed up every few seconds. It seemed as though a small dog was leaping about in the tangle of rank herbage. I remember thinking that it might be a fox terrier. On the Somme one had come over to us from the German trenches. What else could it be? At length the rustling noise ceased and I became aware of two sharp eyes looking out from the forest of grasses. The mystery creature was a stoat, an exceptionally large specimen in snow-white winter dress. He had evidently been attracted by the rats and was performing a good service in lessening their numbers.
While I stood watching the strange spectacle of a white stoat hunting trench rats, a magpie arrived on the scene. Perched on one of the barbed wire stakes, the bird commenced to scold while the stoat chattered back angrily. So engrossed was I in this little drama of the wild that for a short space of time I had almost forgotten about the war! However, the sharp crack of a rifle shot came to break the spell. The magpie flew off and the stoat vanished on his quest for more rats.
The shot had been fired from the enemy’s lines. Several more followed in quick succession. Overhead a flock of grey geese were winging their way northwards. They appeared to be well out of range, but the marksman was blazing away in the forlorn hope of bringing one down.
In one way, birds offered men in the trenches something that no other animal could: a link with home that was more precious than anything else to a soldier. While dogs, cats and stoats were land-locked, birds were free to leave the battle zone at any time; they were at the war but not of the war. This link with home was never more tangible than in spring when soldiers watched migrating birds, speculating as to their ultimate destination: Britain perhaps, and a moment’s rest on a garden gate or chimney pot in London, Leeds or Glasgow. Other men’s thoughts were perhaps less focused and a little more ethereal. Birds to them meant freedom and freedom also meant home.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
Following the geese came a couple of lapwings and then about half a dozen more. It was the call of spring. In a few hours’ time those same lapwings might be wheeling over English fields. I watched them go by in scattered pairs, small parties and larger flocks. All were journeying in the same direction. My thoughts went with them to the level fens of East Anglia and the North Country mosses that I knew so well.
I was still watching the lapwing flocks passing overhead when the relieving sentry appeared. It seemed scarcely possible that the two hours could have slipped by so quickly. Back once more in the dugout, I dozed off to sleep. My dreams were of English fields, horses at work ploughing and the spring cries of the peewits . . .
Lt Henry Lawson, 10th Manchester Rgt
My second choice was the next watch from dawn to breakfast. My reason? To be in solitude in the glow of the early morning sun when I could watch the wildlife in no-man’s-land. I saw and heard larks, partridges, pied and yellow wagtails, occasionally quail and once a pair of kestrels hopelessly confused by the anti-aircraft shells bursting around them. Those were hours of happiness as though the whole realm of nature was mine. Closing my eyes, I might entrance myself into the belief that I was still at home in Surrey fields on a golden May morning.
Pte Charles Raven, Manchester Rgt
Birds haunted my dreams. Sleep meant for me a visit to one of the bird-crowded islets that my mother had pictured in my nursery days. From the restless horror and hideousness of the war zone I could slip away to the imagined wonder of wave-washed rocks and the clamour of sea fowl and the eggs lying bare upon the ledges or bowered amid sea pink and campion: I knew them in those days as I know my home.
Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt
A sniper’s bullet hit the wire just in front of our post. The whine of the ricochet had scarcely died away before another sound was heard, a sound which one would least expect in such a situation. It was the song of a bird.
Starting at first with a subdued chattering, the voice soon became wonderfully sweet and loud. If I had any doubts as to the identity of the singer they were quickly dispelled when a breath-catching torrent of pure, liquid notes were poured forth. I could scarcely believe my own ears, but there was no mistaking that passionate burst of music. It was the nightingale’s inimitable crescendo.
Modern students of bird psychology tell us that the nightingale’s song is one of joy, not of melancholy sorrow as the poets would have us believe. This may be so, but few nature lovers, however practical in their studies, could fail to have been impressed with the sweet sadness of that lovely music rising and falling over the war debris of no-man’s-land. One could not have wished to hear a more fitting requiem for those who had made the Supreme Sacrifice on this gruesome, moonlit battlefield.
Standing alone with the stars glittering overhead, the beautiful verses of Keats and Matthew Arnold came to my mind. But my thoughts did not linger over the poet
s’ vision of pain and death. Like the skylark’s carol, Philomela’s voice filled me with a great joy and hope. Some day the war would end, and, if God willed, I might be left alive. I might be spared to hear once more the nightingale’s song, not amongst crumbling ruins and water-filled shell-holes, but far away from the thunder of the guns, in Hampshire woods and in Surrey lanes.
During the nights that followed I listened intently for the lovely contralto bird voice. Each night the song sounded sweeter and louder as the rifle or machine-gun fire grew in intensity. Just as a stone thrown into the reeds will start a sedge warbler singing, so the whine of the spent bullets on our wire seemed to incite the nightingale. The more active the snipers, the more vehement became the notes from the hidden bird.
With the obvious exception of rats and perhaps mice, no other wild creature is mentioned more in soldiers’ memoirs or diaries than birds. Not only their singing but merely their presence acted as a balm for men bereft of affection and contact with loved ones back home. And birds offered something spiritual too, not necessarily religious, more intangible, perhaps, but understood by many who were there.
The ability to soar above all the filth and blood on a battlefield was something any four-legged animal might have envied, stuck as so many of them were between opposing forces or tethered to a limber or gun. Aggressive, feral dogs and cats in no-man’s-land reminded soldiers only of their own unalterable predicament.
Pte Harry Patch, 7th Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry
You looked out into no-man’s-land between the firing points, and all you could see was a couple of stray dogs looking for something to eat to keep alive. I thought, ‘Oh well, I don’t know, there they are out there, two stray animals, and if they found a biscuit to eat they would start a fight over who should have a bite. Well, what are we doing that’s really different? We’re fighting for our lives, just the same.’
Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden Page 20
