Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden

by Richard van Emden

  Unlike 1914, the advantage now lay with the Allies. The Germans were put to flight, not quite as relentlessly as the British Expeditionary Force four years before, but in a prolonged and exhausting retreat nevertheless.

  Sandwiched between the German March Offensive and the Allied advance to victory, often known now as ‘the last 100 days’, was a time of stability, a brief period when both sides held a collective breath and took stock of the situation. It was the summer and once again nature flourished and men appreciated the beauty of butterflies and the flight of beetles in an attractive countryside. Yet when the decisive move came and the Germans fell back, there was a different mood. The old battlefields of the Somme that the Germans had fought so hard to capture just months before were relinquished quickly. The ground near Arras and in front of Ypres was given up too, taking the Allies to land not seen since 1914. But the men of 1914 had long gone and the war was now fought predominantly by young lads of eighteen and nineteen, led by officers not much older. Open warfare to them was a curious spectacle. It ran counter to anything they had ever read in the newspapers and to a degree it ran counter to what they themselves had seen. Soldiers found themselves in fields and barns, in ditches and lanes full of vegetation, deer crashing through the undergrowth in the Forest of Nieppe. The dead were now to be seen lying in a verdant countryside, in country gardens and châteaux grounds where bees hummed and birds sang. It seemed unnatural to many soldiers and a violation: the dead belonged to a war-torn battlefield, not here.

  When the war was over, Allied forces moved to the Rhineland to begin an occupation that would continue for more than a decade. Elsewhere, soldiers, with the enforced help of German POWs, helped with battlefield clearance and wondered at their freedom to move over a terrain that had kept them underground or in trenches for so long. The sullen grey that covered the Ypres and Somme battlefields slowly turned to green, animals reappeared and the battlefield pilgrims began to arrive in their hundreds and then their thousands.

  Soldiers’ Memories

  It took a full year’s service in France before a spell of leave was granted to an other rank or NCO, while officers had a more generous leave allowance owing to their greater responsibilities. Such were the numbers on the Western Front that even 1 per cent of soldiers receiving leave would correspond to 20,000 men being processed and shipped to England and back again each week. The administrative process was convoluted but thorough and, if nothing else, men were supposed to be free from vermin before setting foot on the leave boat. Even those who were given permission to proceed away from the front line for leave in France were checked over, men such as Sergeant William Rigden who received a three-day pass on Christmas Eve 1917.

  Sgt William Rigden, 196th Siege Batt., RGA

  The 24th was a glorious day, cold but bright. I had been keeping away from the [gun] pit and the last week I tried hard to keep a thick wall between myself and any possible shell splinters. I received passes and went to the ADS [Advanced Dressing Station] to pass the doctor. We had to be certified free from disease and lice.

  He was a jolly stick and after sounding me said, ‘Any livestock, sergeant?’ – ‘No, sir’, I said. ‘Bet you a bob you have,’ he smiled and I bet he would have won, although I had new clothes and had had a jolly cold bath.

  On his return there was a new addition to the battery, a pig bought as food for some unspecified time in the future. Its home was a dugout where it was nearly drowned in a flood and slightly gassed before the battery was ordered to move. At this point a carpenter ‘knocked up’ a wooden pen and the pig, squealing its objections, was loaded on to a lorry for transfer to a muddy farm where the battery would be billeted.

  Sgt William Rigden, 196th Siege Batt., RGA

  The lorries could not get within half a mile of the farm so everything had to be carried over a field. The pig was a bit of a nuisance and we all took turns, sometimes pulling in front, sometimes pushing behind until at last we got him into an old stable.

  We were troubled somewhat by Boche planes dropping bombs in the evenings. Several fell in the fields near our farm but none did us any harm. The poor old pig had another narrow escape: the Boche dropped a bomb one evening which destroyed the building next to his stable. He was not hurt but managed to get out of a hole made in the wall. We chased him half over Belgium before we caught him again.

  Bringing him back across one field, we found our way barred by a dyke full of water. We could not find a way over in the dark and we didn’t want to go around if we could help it. We found a narrow plank that just reached over. I went over first and caught the end of a rope we had attached to his lordship. I hauled on this while others pushed the pig from behind. We almost got him over when he slipped over into the dyke. It cost no end of labour to get him out and when we finally got him to his stable, he squealed all night. In the morning the major said, ‘If you don’t soon kill that pig then I shall.’ We managed to get permission to keep him until he got a little fatter by bribing the officers with a promise of a big joint when we did kill him.

  Just as men were not supposed to go on leave with any wildlife, pets or lice included, so they were not meant to return with any, either. After a fortnight’s leave in England, Major Hardwick was on his way back to his unit. He was not, however, travelling alone.

  Maj. A.G.P. Hardwick, 57th Field Ambulance, RAMC

  With much trepidation and misgivings, I left Newquay this morning by the 9.30 train – the aforesaid fears being on account of a pair of ferrets that I was taking back to France to fight the rats. I had arranged by wire for Alan [his brother] to meet me at Paddington if he got leave from the gunner school at Weedon. I could not get a carriage to myself at Truro, and so I had to put the ‘menagerie’ out in the corridor, as their smell was a bit stronger than their bite!

  Alan was at Paddington all right, resplendent in a white band around his cap and a new pair of spurs, and so he was eminently fitted for the post of 1st whip and I allowed him to carry the pets. We then took a taxi to the Regent’s Palace and found that a double room had been reserved for us – but, oh, no! No animals were allowed in the hotel. However, by going round to another door and walking in as if we were carrying ‘a present for a good boy’ we managed to smuggle the beasts up to the bedroom. I had a pocket full of bread saved from lunch and so we gave them a good feed of bread and tooth-water at once and strapped them down again.

  Alan was called at 5 a.m. as he had to catch a dashed early train at Euston and so he had his breakfast upstairs: I bagged all his milk and so the ferrets had a grand breakfast. They made a devil of a row during the night, scratching away at the box and squeaking so much that I quite expected to hear of a complaint from the next-door neighbour.

  Major Hardwick managed to conceal his ferrets all the way to France, where he found his Division near Cambrai.

  Maj. A.G.P. Hardwick, 57th Field Ambulance, RAMC

  We went to the ‘Aux Huitres’ and had a gorgeous dinner of oysters and lobster whilst waiting for the car. Arrived at Péronne; we decided to stay the night with the MAC [Motor Ambulance Convoy] people. They were delighted with the ferrets which they persuaded me to let loose in the mess – but they were not quite so pleased when the little beggars ‘forgot themselves’ in all four corners of the room!

  It was an inauspicious start. However, two days later the ferrets made amends.

  Maj. A.G.P. Hardwick, 57th Field Ambulance, RAMC

  Beautiful weather. Had the ferrets out for a trial run amongst the shell-holes. The old buck is dashed good and almost immediately got first blood. He killed a decent-sized rat in a blind hole and we had to dig them out. It was only a trial run, as they had had a huge breakfast, but it shows that they are all right.

  It was March 1918 when Major Hardwick returned to France. In stark contrast to just twelve months before, the weather was beautiful and unseasonably warm. The British Army was on tenterhooks for the German offensive, long anticipated, was expected at any time. There was an uneasy peace
before the inevitable storm. While preparations were being completed to withstand the enemy onslaught, normal routine was observed, and orders correcting any perceived slackness in the ranks were issued.

  Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps

  The sergeant major blew his whistle and shouted: ‘Listen to the Orders.’ He held a bundle of papers in his hand and read with the help of a torch:

  ‘Every man must shave once in twenty-four hours. Buttons’ (he pronounced it ‘boottons’, for he came from the North Country), ‘cap badges and numerals must be cleaned thoroughly once a day. Box respirators and steel helmets will always be carried. Except when it is raining, greatcoats or waterproofs will not be worn when men are working. Men are forbidden to smoke while at work. Pigs in camp are army property and will eventually be consumed by this Coomp’ny. It is therefore not only, er, reprehensible, but also against their own interest if men tease these pigs and pull them about by tails and ears or feed them with unsuitable food. Offenders will be severely dealt with.’

  Sgt William Rigden, 196th Siege Batt., RGA

  We killed the old pig and had pork for breakfast, pork for dinner, pork for tea, pork for supper, pork before retiring, all night and all day. I never dreamed there was so much meat on a pig, for there were ten of us at him, and, besides, the officers had a large joint. And this for a solid week.

  Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps

  Our lives had become unspeakably monotonous, but the coming of warm days banished much of our dreariness. The hazy blue sky was an object of real delight. I often contrived to slip away from my work and lean idly against a wall in the mild sunshine. At times I was so thrilled with the sense of physical wellbeing, and so penetrated by the sensuous enjoyment of warmth and colour, that I even forgot the war.

  At the bottom of the woodyard was a little stream, and on the far bank clusters of oxlips were in bloom. Here we would lie down during the midday interval and surrender to the charm of the spring weather. It seemed unnatural and almost uncanny that we should be happy, but there were moments when we felt something very much like happiness. Moreover, it was rumoured that leave was going to start. How glorious it would be to spend a sunny May or June in England!

  A/Capt. Kenneth Jones, 1/5th Welsh Rgt

  The sunsets have become very remarkable lately, and we have all turned out to view them. A few days ago I was watching a fine one, which suddenly struck me by its resemblance to something I had seen before. Looking carefully, I saw it all clearly. By some freak of nature there lay before us a perfect image of the Severn as viewed from Doverow or Frocester, and one of our officers from Gloucestershire saw it too. There was a long bluish purple stratus cloud, just like the hills of the Forest of Dean, and then some light-coloured twisting clouds, touched with silver, made a perfect river, whilst the land in front of us was level and low. What more could one want, save the reality?

  We have been having the most gorgeous summer weather for nearly a month now. In fact, it is almost like August. The larks are singing their hearts out up above, and nature is bursting with pride and delight down below. The willow catkins light up the small copses, and the bees are working as hard as we are. Long may it last! No doubt ‘big things’ are in the air, but unless the Hun is quick, he won’t get much chance. He is very quiet at present, although our guns are hammering away all day and every day with their eternal thunder. I often pity him! All the same, quiet on the Hun’s part is not nice, and so we are all on the qui vive. Something will have to go bang this year.

  Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps

  Once a fortnight we paraded for our pay outside one of the bigger sheds of the yard. As a rule, I was filled with impatience and irritation at having to wait in a long queue and move forward step by step, but now it had become pleasant to tarry in the sunshine. One day, when we were lined up between two large huts, a deep yellow brimstone butterfly came floating idly past. It gave me inexpressible delight, a delight tempered by sadness and a longing for better times. I drew my pay and saluted perfunctorily, being unable and unwilling to think of anything but the beauty of the sky, the sun and the wonderful insect.

  It was time to go back to work. But I cursed the work and decided to take the small risk and remain idle for an hour or two. I went to an outlying part of the yard and sat down on a patch of long grass and leant back against a shed. The air was hot and several bees flew by. Their buzzing reminded me of summer holidays spent in southern France before the war. I thought of vineyards and orchards, of skies intensely blue, of scorching sunshine, of the tumultuous chirping of cicadas and grasshoppers, and then of the tepid nights crowded with glittering stars and hush except for the piping of tree frogs.

  ‘Before the war, before the war,’ I repeated the words to myself. They conveyed a sense of immeasurable remoteness, of something gone and lost for ever. But I wouldn’t think about it. I would enjoy the present. But the calm waters of happiness had been ruffled and it was beyond my power to restore their tranquillity. I began to think of many things, of the war itself, of the possible offensive, and soon the fretful rebellious discontent, that obsessed all those of us who had not lost their souls, began to reassert itself . . .

  Some distance ahead was a farm of the usual Flemish type, a thatched roof, whitewashed walls and green shutters. Nearby was a little pond with willows growing round it. In the field beyond, a cow was grazing peacefully. The sky seemed a deeper blue through the willow branches. The tender green of the grass was wonderfully refreshing to the eyes. The cow had a beautiful coat of glossy brown that shone in the sunlight. I abandoned myself to the charm of the little idyll that was spread out before me and forgot the war once again.

  And then all at once a gigantic, plume-shaped, sepia-coloured mass rose towering out of the ground. There was a rending, deafening, double thunderclap that seemed to split my head. For a moment I was dazed and my ears sang. Then I looked up; the black mass was thinning and collapsing. The cow had disappeared.

  I walked into the yard full of rage and bitterness. All the men had left the sheds and were flocking into the road. Some were strolling along in leisurely fashion, some were walking with hurried steps, some were running, some were laughing and talking, some looked startled, some looked anxious, and some were very pale.

  We crossed the road and the railway. Then, traversing several fields, we came to a halt and waited. We waited for nearly an hour, but nothing happened and we gradually straggled back to the yard. Some of us walked to the spot where the shell had burst. There was a huge hole, edged by a ring of heaped-up earth, and loose mould and grassy sods lay scattered all round. Here and there lay big lumps of bleeding flesh. The cow had been blown to bits. The larger pieces had already been collected by the farmer, who had covered them with a tarpaulin sheet from which a hoof protruded.

  The next day more shells came over, and the next day also. The big holes with their earthen rims began to dot the fields in many places. No damage of ‘military importance’ had been done. Not even a soldier had been killed, but only an inoffensive cow.

  Fortunately for Frederick Voigt, he was serving near Ypres and was nowhere near that part of the line about to feel the brunt of the German assault. Information gathered from German prisoners pointed to the 21st being the fateful day and the front line east of the Somme battlefield being the target.

  Driver Dudley Gyngell, 58th Divisional Army Column, RFA

  20 March

  Awoke this morning to a glorious sunshine and blue sky with fleecy white clouds. Although bearing very many signs of the strife – this place [Corbie] seems pretty peaceful and rather holiday-like – I fancied however that I heard a distant rumbling, but I must have been mistaken.

  21 March

  I am sitting at my window looking out into the garden. It is a wonderful morning of bright sunshine and golden shadows. An old Frenchman is tending his flowers. He came to the window: ‘Bonjour, Monsieur – I have picked you some violets to send to your sweetheart’ and he handed me a fra
grant little bunch. Suddenly an ominous sound vibrated through the air – the German guns – the villagers gathered in the streets and listened with questioning faces. It is a sound they have not heard for months.

  There was a jingle of spurs in the tiled hall and Shirley hurried in. ‘Pack up at once and stand by to move.’ So something had happened.

  At 5.30 a.m. the Germans opened up a massive hurricane bombardment, and, with the advantage of a morning mist, their infantry advanced, bypassing strongpoints in a surge that would take them deep into British lines. The policy of rapid infiltration ensured that Allied forces were thrown into almost immediate confusion before an adequate defence could be made, negating some, though by no means all, of the preparations made to repel the attack. Beforehand, the Royal Engineers had supplied both pigeons and dogs to the front line to aid communication, but for different reasons they proved ineffectual.

  Signaller Bert Chaney, 1/7th London Rgt

  One by one our telephone lines were smashed. We endeavoured a number of times to repair them, going out into the barrage, creeping down communication trenches trying to find the ends of the wires, but in that mist and in that barrage it was a hopeless task, and we had to get back to our dugout thankful to be in one piece. Looking across in the direction of our visual communication system on the mound, we saw that it was impossible to see anything: the Aldis lamps were unable to penetrate the mist, even the telescope did not help.

  Dashing down into the dugout, I scribbled two similar coded messages on the special thin paper, screwed them up and pushed them into the little containers that clip on to the pigeon’s leg. I and one of the boys, each carrying a pigeon, crept up the steps and, pushing the gas blanket to one side, threw our birds into the air and away they flew. We watched them as they circled round a couple of times and then they swooped straight down and settled on top of our dugout. We retrieved them and tried once more, but those birds refused to fly. We knew so little about homing pigeons we could not understand why. Those birds had been trained to fly direct to their loft, in that mist they would not fly on a blind course and would not start until they could see their loft. So down into the dugout again and another message was written and put into the small pouch attached to the dog’s collar. Leading it to the entrance, I gave it a parting slap on the rump, at the same time shouting firmly, ‘Home, boy! Allez!’ I watched it for a minute or two as it trotted off, then dropped the gas blanket back. Even while we were still sighing with relief, a wet nose pushed the blanket aside and in crawled the dog, scared out of its wits. All our efforts could not budge him, we pushed and shoved him, pulled him by the collar to get him moving, but he just lay down, clamped his body firmly to the ground and pretended to be asleep. He was a lot smarter than we were.