by C. M. Harald
They disembarked at Richborough and were quickly marched onto a small troopship that plied between England and the continent. It was a functional little ship and not the barge that had been expected, with one funnel puffing out dirty black coal smoke. Porters hurriedly loaded boxes of supplies aboard, everything from ammunition to cases of corned beef. Bulky supplies were mostly being loaded onto barges, but every bit of space was still in use on the troopship.
Marsh was leaning over the railing looking at the murky river water slowly flowing past. His thoughts were of the coming challenges, his mind slightly clouded by the alcohol consumed on the train.
'Want a smoke?' Wells offered a cigarette from a packet and Marsh gratefully lit up, inhaling deeply before blowing the smoke far over the side of the ship.
'It's bloody bleak here.' Wells said, 'Is this what we're fighting for then?'
'What you want the White Cliffs of Dover, a military band and a horde of fawning young ladies?' The sarcasm was clear in Marsh's response.
'Why yes. Wouldn't mind if the King himself came down as well.' Wells was getting in the spirit, the alcohol helping to lubricate their humour.
While they talked, the troopship slipped the moorings and travelled down the partially dredged river into the sea. All around were signs of rapid construction as the Royal Engineers expanded the port facilities. It was high tide and the sunlight sparked off the waves gently lapping the shore as the river met the sea. In a few hours they would disembark in a northern French port before taking a train on to the depot they had been assigned to as replacements.
'I wonder if we'll see Blighty again?' Marsh asked as they watched Broadstairs and Ramsgate slowly pass by.
'Of course.' Wells replied, 'If for no reason that I've got to spend all this money I've been making by ripping off the supplies.' He grinned and offered Marsh another cigarette, 'Besides, we're sticking together, so we'll watch out for each other.'
The troopship landed at Boulogne in northern France. With a great many other soldiers, Marsh and his compatriots filed off the narrow gangplank before embarking on another train journey, this one a mercifully short trip to Ètaples. Fortunately, their destination was the third station along the line.
As they disembarked the train they were met by a fierce looking sergeant who formed all the soldiers into ranks while a corporal walked up and down calling names and places they were to take themselves to. Two of their original training group were detailed off elsewhere, but Davies, Morgan, Simmonds, Marsh and Wells were all detailed to the same pickup point along with the majority of the other soldiers who had been on the train. They lined up in ranks and marched off to the Infantry Base Depot on the edge of the fishing town. The place looked overused and worn, although huts were common, there was still a widespread use of tents. They were directed to a tent on arrival, one that already had a couple of men in it.
'You can have those beds over at that end. This is my end.' The tired looking private said.
'Thanks.' said Wells, ‘Smoke?' He offered a cigarette from the open packet, attempting to break the ice.
'I do.' Said the soldier, taking one and lighting it before lying back on his bunk.
As they settled in and got their kit unpacked, they found out that the new tent-mate was a member of the regular army, having survived the chaos of the early part of the war in which the majority of the pre-war professional army had been destroyed at the battles of Mons, Le Ceteau, Aisne and First Ypres. His regiment was based in Madras, in India, and only returned to Europe after being drawn into the Dardanelles Campaign. As Wells plied him with cigarettes, Daniel Scott began to open up.
'We shipped out to Gallipoli. Total farce, couldn't have been worse organised. Trenches right on the cliffs overlooking the beaches.' Scott fidgeted with his cigarette as he recounted the conditions, 'Illness was rife as we couldn't keep things clean for fear we would be shot by a sniper. Eventually I came down with a bad case of dysentery and was evacuated to a hospital ship. While I was getting better the regiment was pulled out of Sulva Bay and we got taken back to Egypt to recover guarding the Canal.' He paused before adding in a parody of a recruiting poster, 'Join the British Army and see the bloody world.'
'What's it like under fire?' Taff Morgan asked the question that they were all thinking. This was the first time they had a veteran in front of them who did not outrank them.
'Bloody awful when the other lot get going.' Scott referred to the Turks, 'Whizz-bangs, machine guns and the rest. Can't hear yourself think and some lads just go to pieces.' He replied. Everyone was around his bunk now, taking in each word, 'You keep low in the trenches and just hope that if you're going to get hit, it's clean and quick. You don't want evacuating with a bloody awful wound, you probably won't survive and at Gallipoli, the evacuation beaches were usually under fire. Clean and quick is the way, you're either dead and don't have time to know it, or you've got a decent chance of a Blighty.' Scott referred to the type of wound that would see a soldier back to Britain, the million-to-one injury that would not cripple them for life, but would prevent them being returned to front line service.
'Are the Turks good soldiers?' Davies asked.
'They beat us you know?' Scott responded, looking intently at Davies, 'Mehmet is very sturdy. Badly equipped, but fought tooth and nail to kick us out. Even the ANZACs were impressed and they don't seem to respect anyone. I'll tell you what was worse though, it was the bloody flies. Great big bastards, buzzing around all the time. Would crawl all over your face when you sat still for more than a second. You knew where they'd come from and why they was there as well and there was sod all you could do about them.'
'So why you here then? Thought this place was only for us new lads.' Taff asked wondering why an experienced soldier had been separated from his regiment.
'Caught some splinters on the Somme in early July. I was lucky really, most of the lads didn't make it. Sheer bloody stupidity that attack.' The anger in his voice was clear to hear and surprised the new recruits who had been subjected to endless propaganda about the war effort prior to their conscription, 'As there wasn't much left of my unit, I got posted here once I recovered, and like you lot, I'll end up filling whatever gaps come up rather than returning to my unit.'
'Must be tough getting split up after being with your unit for so long.' Wells commiserated, handing over a small flask of drink that he had hidden in his breast pocket.
'Anyway, no-one left that I knew. There was hardly anyone from the original regiment.' Scott took a swig, 'Best off moving on.' He added as an afterthought.
The routine at Étaples was much the same as in their final weeks of training. Marsh found an interesting diversion during the hours of drill instruction, namely watching the aircraft being ferried across the Channel. These flew the short distance over water, first successfully attempted by Louis Blériot only seven years earlier. The planes landed at nearby grass strips, ready to be ferried to their new units. Alfie had been fascinated by aeroplanes, like many of his generation, ever since the first powered flight by the Wright brothers in 1903. The idea of being free, soaring like a bird, appealed to him. This was never more the case than on days when he stood in the muggy heat of the drill field. Surely it would be cooler that high up, with all the air rushing past the fast moving aircraft. Perhaps he should volunteer for the Royal Flying Corps, should the opportunity present itself, although they would be unlikely to give a soldier such as himself a flying post seeming preferring instead officer applications from the infantry.
Étaples was not just about drill and the repetition of lessons already learnt. To a degree it was a finishing school for the newly trained infantry. There was still spit and polish, but there was also a lot more military training about how to operate in the field. With the sprinkling of veteran soldiers returning to the fight, the recruits were able to learn, firsthand, many of the tactics and skills that would be necessary for survival on the modern battlefield.
'You did what?' Taff exclaimed du
ring a gas mask drill.
'You'd piss on a handkerchief, or any other rag you could get your hands on, put it across your mouth and then breathe through that. Chemicals in your piss would stop the worst of the gas.' Scott said while his bunk mates looked on in disgust. They had all been assigned to the same training platoon at Étaples, made up of the mostly recently arrived soldiers fresh from their basic training in England.
'Mind you, it doesn't work with some of the newer gases. They make contact with your skin, from what I've overheard from the officers. Basically you don't even need to breath them in for them to kill you. Don't think either side has used them yet, but that's the buzz now.' Scott explained to the mortified soldiers around him.
Taff pulled his bulky new mask over his head, the great big round lenses making him look like some creature out of a Jules Verne novel. He took quite a bit of time tying it off and tightening the material around his neck so that he had an airtight seal.
'I can't see anything this bloody thing.' His voice was barely audible and the two lenses were lopsided, preventing him from using both of his eyes at the same time.
'And we can barely hear you Taff.' Wells replied, 'Perhaps you should wear that bleedin' thing whenever you do sing.'
Morgan lurched comically across the grass trying to grab Wells, who jumped quickly out of the way. The Welshman could not find his quarry, hiding behind him, due to his greatly restricted vision.
'Lads, once you've got one of these things on your head,' Scott waved his empty canvas mask at arms' length, 'You need to work together as a team. Fritz will be following up immediately, trying to catch you putting the mask on, if you have one of course. He'll use your panic and fear, but you can bet he'll be wearing his mask properly. Then they hunt us down, one by one, working as small groups to take us out.' Everyone in earshot knew that Scott was sharing hard-won wisdom. This was the reason Scott had received his corporal stripes a few days after they arrived at Étaples.
'We pair up. You make sure your mate is wearing his mask properly, help solve any problems he had putting it on. Then you work together at all times, one on the right, one on the left. You can't look everywhere in these things, so you take the sector in front of you. Stick close together so that you can each hear each other. And if your mate cops it, or wasn't there to begin with, find someone else to support. Hell, make a small group if you need to.'
The training sergeant had left the small group to get on with the training by themselves, concentrating on squads that did not have an experienced soldier among their number. It was common knowledge that most of the training staff had no frontline experience anyway, much to the general resentment of the veterans who cycled through the camp. The desk-bound, rear-line soldiers more than made up for their lack of combat experience was a self-belief in their ability to drive the soldiers on to their goals. They were informed by the details in their training manuals, the latest of which had just been issued with updates from the lessons learnt so far in the war. These non-commissioned officers, wiling away the war in the comfort and safety of a French port had earned the nickname of 'Canaries'. Yet, clearly the sergeant in charge of the current drills knew an experienced veteran when he saw one, and unlike many of his Canary peers, felt no need to intervene.
Many in the camp were still smarting from the incident at the end of August when a particularly stubborn Canary had turned off the hot water on some ANZACs who were in the showers. To fool around with Australians and New Zealanders was guaranteed to get you a torrent of verbal abuse, and these ANZACs had a fair number of Gallipoli veterans among their number, who recognised the Canaries for the scum they were. Before the British NCO knew what he had let himself in for, an Australian private had unleashed a flow of abuse. The private had been promptly arrested, yet he resisted being taken to the prison compound, with several of his mates stepping in to help free him. Four of the men had been court-martialled and sentenced to death, including the private, much to the general disgust of the enlisted soldiery in the camp, and for that matter many of the commissioned men in the nearby officer's camp. Three had their sentences commuted, being in the Australian forces, which forbid the death sentence for their troops. However, one of the privates, an Austrian in the New Zealand Expeditionary Force had been sentenced to death as the New Zealand Army allowed the death sentence. There had been great uproar among the assembled troops at this sentence for mutiny and they were awaiting the execution of his sentence with concern. Of course, the Canaries felt vindicated by this treatment of the troops and the confirmation of their own importance, even if it had little bearing on the skills they actually had.
'Right lads, lets suit up as quick as we can. Get yourself into pairs and be ready to defend yourselves once you're masked up.' Scott instructed.
Wells and Marsh paired off, as they usually did when given an opportunity to choose who they were going to work with. As Scott shouted, 'Gas, gas, gas, gas, gas!' they rushed their masks into position, quickly tying off the cords so that it became airtight around their necks. Once ready they faced the corporal, looking outwards at slight angles from each other so that they could have a good view around them.
'Wells!' Marsh gave a muffled shout, 'On your left.' He had seen Taff Morgan trying to sneak up on them. Taff had not put on his mask, instead trying to catch the rest of the squad blindsided. Wells turned to face the stalking Welshman, who gave up on the alert targets, instead rugby tackling to the ground a figure that looked like Ted Simmonds. Neither Simmonds, nor his partner Davies, had their masks on properly. As a result, the pair were not in a position to watch out for each other. The rest of the squad laughed at the lesson learnt while Simmonds, his mask thrown to the floor, chased Morgan around the group seeking revenge.
''Ere Josh, you may be rubbish at the spit and polish, but you're sure quick at spotting trouble.' Scott said, 'Maybe there's a real soldier in you somewhere.'
Marsh's chest swelled with pride at the complement from a combat veteran. Perhaps he could come true on his promise to avenge his brother and uphold his family name.
The training that Marsh found the most interesting training was the fake trenches. Several lines of trenches had been dug to simulate conditions in the frontlines. Barbed wire was strung everywhere, although the soldiers could see little as they moved up the zig-zagging communications line to the second line trench.
'Too much grass around here.' Scott complained.
'What's wrong with that Corporal?' Wells asked, eager to learn.
'The shell churn obliterates everything. I was in a woods one time, well it was a woods, because a few days later the shelling had turned it into a cratered mud-hole full of matchsticks.' Scott explained.
'If there's that much shelling, how do we survive?' Wells questioned, concerned about the image Scott had painted in his mind.
'You keep low. Don't stick your head out of the trench. You'll usually hear any shells that are coming close by the whistle.' He stopped and thought, 'It keeps getting louder. You hear that, you hug the ground and pray.'
'But why don't be build deep bunkers like the Germans? Surely those things would keep us safe from the shelling?' This time it was Simmonds.
'Well the Brass think that it you get too comfy; it'll sap your "offensive spirit".' He spat the quote at the end, clearly showing what he thought of the idea that safer and more comfortable positions would harm the army, an idea promoted by the General Staff who ran the conflict from the safety of chateaus in the rear of the line, 'There would be a lot less dead blokes on our side if the Brass had to live in these trenches.'
Today, as usual, the Canaries kept clear of Corporal Scott, aware that this was a combat veteran would not tolerate their academic knowledge of the war. As a result, Scott was able to pass on his hard-won lessons and his battle-tested opinions. None of the Canaries would have dared criticise the General Staff. None of the Canaries would dare challenge the battle-hardened corporal. Besides, the wiser Canaries could see that Scott was clearly working
with his squad, training them to function effectively on the front line.
'Right lads, this second line trench is as far as we're going forward today. Here you can see the fire step.' He indicated the raised boards to the side facing the imaginary enemy lines. 'Have a look lads. Just remember, in the real thing, you have a look and a Hun sniper will take your face off.'
The squad clambered up onto the fire step, unslinging their rifles and carefully looking over the top. Immediately Taff started to complain.
'I can't see.' He whined.
'Open your eyes.' Marsh retorted.
'I'm too bloody short you idiot.' Taff complained, jumping up and down on the fire step in the hope he could see over the top.
'We'll have to get you a box to stand on then.' Wells suggested, chuckling.
'At least I'll be able to hide behind Marsh's great hulking arse. He's such a good soldier, he's only good for being a bullet shield.' Taff leaned against Marsh as if seeking the physical protection of his body.
There was a yelp as Marsh kicked Taff in the ankle.
'Right.' Corporal Scott explained, 'The difference between this second line and the front line is that the front line is usually a complete mess from the shelling. Also Fritz is more likely to take a shot at you when you're in the front line. We'll only spend a short time in each line because the Brass will keep rotating us to keep us fresh. Could even be the only time we'll be in the front line will be when we're going over the top.'
There was an uneasy silence at this, the squad wanting to ask one question, but worried how it would be perceived.
'What's it like going over the top, Corp?' Wells eventually asked.
