Pte Andrew Bowie, 5th Queens’ Own Cameron Highlanders
We had fallen out by the side of the road and suddenly we heard the patter of horses’ feet and round the corner came a squadron of cavalry. There they were, sitting on their horses, looking proud. And you should have heard the remarks. ‘Oh, they’ve come on their gee-gees to help us finish the war’, and ‘Oh, they haven’t brought their hobby horses with them.’
Pte Christopher Haworth, 14th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders
Having crawled along for an hour we halt on the side of the road for a rest, which is not very satisfying, as we have to stand. On the side of the road are scores of carcasses of mutilated horses and mules. What a pitiable sight they make! I have always looked upon a horse as a noble animal, and to see them battered and mangled by shellfire sickens me.
‘I don’t think there’s a living creature under the sun which isn’t brought into the war,’ says one man.
‘It certainly looks like it,’ I reply.
Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps
We came to a litter of wreckage that had once been a village and then we crossed the main road and entered a little wood, or rather an assembly of scarred tree trunks leaning at all angles, which was crossed by a zigzag trench and all the refuse of battle lay scattered about.
An Australian soldier lay on a low mound. His head had dropped off and rolled backwards down the slope. The lower jaw had parted from the skull. His hands had been devoured by rats and two little heaps of clean bones were all that remained of them. The body was fully clothed and the legs encased in boots and puttees. One thighbone projected through a rent in the trousers and the rats had gnawed white grooves along it. A mouldy pocketbook lay by his side and several postcards and a soiled photograph of a woman and a child. An attempt had been made to bury some of the dead, and several lay beneath heaps of loose earth with their boots projecting. But the rats had reached them all, and black, circular tunnels led down into the fetid depths of the rotting bodies. The stench that filled the air was so intolerable that we hastened to get out of this dreadful place.
Capt. James Dunn, RAMC attd. 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers
The people were friendly and kind to us, but they seemed as yet too dazed to realise that the German occupation was actually a thing of the past. They were badly clad, looked sad and emaciated. What they craved was meat. They asked for the carcass of a horse that had been killed in our lines. It must have been a British horse, because all the German horses we came upon had been stripped of the best of their flesh. Seemingly every German on finding a dead horse took out his jackknife, cut himself a steak – preferably from the loin – and put it in his haversack for a future meal. The inhabitants stripped the bones; groups of old men, women and children could be seen round the carcasses.
Capt. Francis Hitchcock, 2nd Prince of Wales’ Leinster Rgt
At one point we came on a particularly revolting sight – half a dozen bare-footed women tearing off flesh from a mule, which had been killed some days previously in the advance. They had pulled the skin off the quarters, and with knives and forks were cutting off chunks, and putting them into handkerchiefs. They were ravenous with hunger.
Cpl Fred Hodges, 10th Lancashire Fusiliers
When I reached the back door of the farm, I found a small queue of men waiting, and saw an old Frenchman pumping up water from a well under an old stone sink; it was very primitive. Soon I moved into the stone-floored kitchen and, as I waited my turn, I studied his old wrinkled face, grey hair sprouting out from under a peaked cap. Outside, on the road, enemy shells were bursting, some quite near, but the old man was completely unconcerned as he pumped up water for the thirsty troops. His twinkling eyes and stolid peasant patience revealed an uncomplaining acceptance of the war on his farm; life must go on; British boys were thirsty, so he filled our water bottles.
Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards
Increasing numbers of German prisoners could be seen, trudging back to our makeshift prison cages. Many were ridiculously young and looked as if their world had fallen to pieces. They looked dishevelled, their equipment dilapidated, for their lines of supply were breaking down, and many had been left to scrounge their own food. At one farmhouse where I stopped right at the end of the war, I found the owners in tears: the Germans had passed through, the previous night, and had eaten their old guard dog, cooking it at the farm.
Pte Dick Trafford, 1/2nd Monmouthshire Rgt
We were capturing the enemy all the time. I wouldn’t say young boys, I’d say young men. They were glad that it was ending because from their point of view they would be right for meals, that’s what they tried to explain to us, they’d not seen a decent meal in a long time. The only thing they could do had been to kill their horses and use the meat for food.
Lt Col Rowland Fielding, 15th London Rgt (Civil Service Rifles)
On reaching the town, as I found no horse or wheeled traffic other than some belonging to our army, I sent my horses home and walked, so as to be in company with the inhabitants, every one of whom was on foot. No, not quite. I saw a hearse drawn by what could have been called a ‘skin’: indeed, it was less than a skin. It was a skeleton. That was the only horse or vehicle that I saw in Lille today, left behind by the Germans after their merciless occupation of the city.
The end was almost in sight. The drive north-east had taken the British back into lands they had vacated in the Mons retreat over four years earlier. And with the advancing units were their mascots, cosseted, loved and well fed, despite the onerous speed of advance that was beginning to outrun soldiers’ supply lines.
Maj. Richard Foot, D Batt., 310th Brigade, RFA
Another casualty in the Mormal Forest was the loss of the battery pet, a fine fat billy goat. He had been on a wagon that got ditched and, in the subsequent confusion, slipped his halter and disappeared into the wood. He was quite a character, that goat, the pet of the wagon lines for more than a year, waxing plump on the plentiful supply of hay and oats for the horses. He had a mania for tobacco and would rear up and put his forefeet on a smoker’s shoulders, snatch a lighted cigarette from the astonished man’s lips and eat it with evident enjoyment. He could also be relied upon to butt an unpopular visitor, and his horns hurt with his full weight behind them! We never found him again, though search parties looked for him in the forest for several days. We could only imagine that he had been found, killed and eaten by the local French civilians, who were very short of meat.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
A little beyond Valenciennes, I was moved to honest laughter when I saw the goat mascot of some unit sitting on the top of a transport wagon with its horns sticking up through a lady’s tricky straw hat having on it a large red, white and blue bow. It was a perfect type of the unconscious humorist. But whoever rigged it up in that disguise did a good thing in helping to put so many folks into a mirthful frame of mind.
Capt. John Marshall, 468th Field Coy, RE
The road had been blown up in two places by the retreating Germans, and I had orders to take a party to repair it to enable vehicles to enter the town. The Monmouths’ transport was believed to be somewhere in the place and I spent an hour or two searching for it. Eventually I located it in some blown-down cottages. I should not have found it, were it not for the discovery of the Monmouths’ pet monkey sitting on a doorstep, unperturbed by the shelling, gravely examining his own features, from every sort of angle, in a cracked piece of looking glass. His owners were in the cellar.
Signaller Bert Chaney, 58th Bttn Machine Gun Corps
On a cold November day a battery of 18lbs galloped past going hell for leather. Suddenly they made a tremendous swerve left, through a gap in a hedge, almost overturning in the ditch, into a field of stubble, the drivers using their spurs for all they were worth, then making a complete semi-circle. They stopped with a terrific jerk as the riders hung on the reins, pulling back the mules’ heads and almost piling the g
uns on to their limbers, the gun muzzles now pointing in the direction they had been facing originally. In a few swift movements the mules were uncoupled and the gun trails dropped to the ground. At a range of less than a thousand yards they began firing like mad. The thrill of seeing and hearing those guns going into action was unforgettable, something I had not seen before. I realised how thrilling war must have been before someone thought up the idea of a stationary war, a war of attrition, which turned men into moles, living like vermin in holes in the ground.
Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps
A bend of the road, as it topped a gentle slope, revealed an expanse of smooth green fields dotted with groups of trees. It did our eyes good to see trees that were alive and unharmed. Their foliage was autumn-tinted – until now we had hardly realised that autumn was with us. A placid river flowed through the meadows. On the far shore was a town, beyond it a hill crowned by a fine château. As we walked on, the scattered houses drew closer and closer together until they formed continuous rows. A civilian passed by, pushing a wheelbarrow that clattered over the cobbles. Then there followed a woman with a bundle on her back.
There was something peculiar about the houses. They were not damaged in the same way as the others we had seen. They were all roofless and floorless, but the walls were unharmed except for occasional holes and scars. Then we suddenly realised that the Germans had stripped the entire street of all woodwork, of floorboards, of beams and rafters, of doors and window frames, leaving only the bare, empty shells of brick. We turned a corner and entered another street in which the houses had not been rifled. Several were occupied by civilians. Before us, in an open field, lay our camp. Scribbled in chalk on a piece of board nailed across a broken window were the words:
‘Der Friede wird stiindlich erwartet.’
Peace is expected every hour.
And then peace arrived. The Armistice left most men somewhat dumbfounded and at a loss what to do. Suddenly there was no objective, no longer a requirement to concentrate purely on the collective aim of victory. Soldiers’ thoughts turned to home, and for men who owned animals it turned in time to the thought of how they were going to take their beloved pets. Private Albert Lowy’s story was not exceptional, although the final outcome certainly was.
Pte Albert Lowy, Army Service Corps
There is a strict law that any animal must spend four months in quarantine, to ensure that it is not carrying rabies. I wrote to the proper authority for papers, but perhaps due to my being a mere private, I got no reply. I therefore determined to try to smuggle my darling dog back to England.
All the men – several hundred – due for a certain train were assembled at a station. A staff officer, who recognised my dog from having seen her at some hospital, asked me if he could lend me the money needed for quarantine. I told him that I had failed to get the necessary papers, and that I was going to try and take her all the way with me. He wished me good luck. I am sure though that he thought that there was no chance that I could succeed; nor could I see how it was to be done.
During the days in the cattle truck, I practised her sitting in my kitbag being humped on my shoulder, and bumped up and down, whispering ‘shsh’ and ‘keep quiet’ and ‘it’s all right’. When we arrived at Cherbourg camp to await embarkation in a day or so, I carried her in the kitbag, but it was so heavy that I ‘fell-out’ and followed the road slowly, my dog walking near me. We, men going to England, were warned against trying to take dogs with us, and the tents were watched by officers looking for dogs. She had to spend a lot of time in my bag, lying quite still, and no one suspected that an animal was there hidden.
At last we were to be marched to the harbour to embark. Again the bag became too heavy for me to carry so far, so I pretended to be a bit lame, and was allowed to follow slowly. My dog of course walked until we came near the harbour, when she was stowed away again. I looked so weary carrying such a heavy kitbag, that the officers, who had discovered several dogs hidden under men’s overcoats, didn’t suspect the real cause of my apparent distress was due to the burden I was struggling under.
I got on board, where the ships’ officers were also on the lookout for dogs. I talked quietly to her while looking for a place to lie down among the men who were packed like sardines on the lower decks. I used the kitbag as a pillow, not daring to let her be seen, and so the night passed.
Unbeknown to Private Lowy, the length of time an animal would have to spend in quarantine had been raised to six months and the cost of care set at £14, an amount far beyond the pocket of the vast majority of other ranks. In time, organisations such as the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA) and the Blue Cross Society heard of the soldiers’ plight and approached the government in order to take over the care and cost of these animals during their months under supervision. The soldiers deposited £2 with the charity to ensure that they collected their animals after the requisite time in quarantine had elapsed.
Before any dogs were allowed to come home they had to be taken to Boulogne to a veterinary hospital. Here they were checked for illness, being kept for five days before being sent onwards to England. Boulogne was the only crossing permitted.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
When the day came when I had to return to my civilian duties, I made up my mind to get the dog across with the assistance of the Blue Cross Society. I had to travel for the first time by Calais. I was referred to the AMLO [Assistant Military Landing Officer] for information as to getting the dog across. He, an irate old colonel, said, ‘It can’t be done.’ Then I said, ‘Why mislead people by allowing paragraphs to appear to the effect that the Blue Cross Society would put them in quarantine and deliver them when the dog was pronounced free of rabies?’ ‘You should have gone by Boulogne,’ he replied. ‘But I had no say in the matter, sir,’ I argued. He could give no answer but just fumed and stamped about the landing stage. Well, I shall not tell you all that my heart prompted me to do.
I had to turn away sick at heart when I saw Teddie being taken away on the shoulder of an NCO who had promised to look after her for me. Had I cried ‘choco’ I verily believe she’d have attempted to swim the Channel after me.
From that moment to the day – after repeated inquiries – when I heard that Teddie had gone up the line again with a brother officer must be the ‘veiled’ period as to my actions with regard to Teddie, the dearest and best of soldiers’ doggie chums. Should that officer ever hear of this plaintive story, oh surely he’ll send back to me the dog of my heart.
Pte Albert Lowy, Army Service Corps
In the morning we stood on the quayside for an hour, and although this was England, I still did not dare to let her out for some snooper to see her and possibly to be returned on the ship and then turned loose in Cherbourg. We did not get away until early evening. Well, I just had to take a chance and let her out after so long and patient an imprisonment all night. I walked her along the platform, trying to spot anyone looking for me and trouble. I bought some railway biscuits and found water in a fire bucket, and I kept her as much as possible hidden under my coat for most of that awful day. At one moment the same staff officer who had wished me luck touched me on the shoulder and said, ‘Well done, I am glad that you have succeeded in bringing her with you.’
When a train eventually came, every seat and inch of the corridor was packed and jammed with men anxious to get home. We got out at Wimbledon station; we were to march up to the Common, a good mile away. Outside the station there was a large cheering crowd, trams rang their bells and car horns blared. In a minute I had lost her, as I couldn’t lead her in the solid column of soldiers; she could have been trodden on. At least I was consoled that she was lost where she would be picked up and given a good home.
I had to stay in the column and march up to the demobilisation camp, which occupied dozens of army huts. After an hour and a half she found me – to our great joy. I tied her up in an empty hut, and made a bed for her with most
of my remaining army clothes, so that she should know that I was around. I had still to go through the long rigmarole of being charged for the clothes that I should have handed in and being handed ‘civvies’ that only fitted here and there, and signed the many discharge papers. Then I collected her and got her home in time for breakfast.
She and our fox terrier, Spot, produced a litter of half-pedigree pups; their father was not at all thoroughbred, but she didn’t mind anything after what she had been through in the war and had come back.
Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy
My poignant soul cry has been answered in a curious way. A colonel whom I had met in the army came to reside near where I live. When I paid my first call I received joyous greeting at the doorway from a little doggie, the living image of Teddie.
For most of the larger animals requisitioned for work, there was to be no joyous and well-deserved homecoming. Horses, mules and donkeys were assessed before being sold off to farmers, or, if in bad health, taken to be killed and turned into horsemeat. It was a sad end. Given the bond between horses and men, there were those who would have preferred their horse to have had a quick and painless death in action to seeing it simply rounded up and taken away. For over a year, Trooper Benjamin Clouting had looked after a horse belonging to a senior officer, and his friendship with that horse was as natural as it was extraordinary.
Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards
I often went to a particular café, and as an entertainment sometimes went down with de Wiart’s horse, Nancy. Once there, she would half follow me in, with just her head and front feet through the door, to the amusement of the customers. Nancy liked being made a fuss of, and it became a bit of a show. I would ask the owner for sugar, but withheld it until Nancy kissed me. ‘Brassez-moi’ I would say in French, and as I raised my face, she would lean over and nuzzle her face into mine.
Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden Page 29
