A bombshell – or ‘shell’, as they called them – typically contained a high-explosive that threw out hot chunks of jagged metal, called shrapnel, on impact. Walking past numerous roughly marked soldiers’ graves, Ramage was in no doubt about the shells’ destructive powers.
The artillery used in the First World War was the most powerful the world had seen. But nobody had yet devised a method for men to advance against such firepower without being slaughtered. So each side spent most of their time hiding in trenches to stay alive.
A star shell flared up just ahead. These shells were designed not to destroy, but to illuminate. The field was turned a vivid green. Objects stood out as though under a bright electric light. Ramage and the others crouched down, motionless. When the flare died down, they slipped silently into their portion of the trench just as the company they were relieving slipped out.
‘Fix bayonets!’ someone shouted.
Just as they’d been trained to do, the men attached blades to the ends of their Lee Enfield rifles – ready to skewer a German should one jump into the trench unexpectedly. The German trench was only sixty metres away – about the width of a football pitch – in front of some woods.
Even closer to the Germans were men of the Royal Scots regiment. Their trenches were only thirty metres apart. The short stretch of ground in between – the length of a swimming pool – was referred to as No Man’s Land.
Ramage looked around at his new accommodation. The trench was not actually dug into the ground as trenches usually were. It was mostly above ground, and more like a rampart – two walls made of piled-up sandbags filled with heavy clayey soil, with a channel or ‘trench’ in between. Inside the trench was a long bench for sitting on, or standing to watch German movements.
‘We’ve been stuck in the same spot for months,’ said a war-weary Tommy to Ramage as he packed up to go. ‘I’ve never seen a German yet and never fired a shot.’
In fact, Ramage’s section of the trench didn’t shoot, for they would hit the Royal Scots if they did. Everyone else along the front seemed to fire bullets and bombs all night long. But neither side advanced an inch.
Night fell and rats scurried over resting bodies as the hours crawled by. Eventually the dawn began to break. The men took turns to keep watch using periscopes – long, tube-like devices containing mirrors and lenses that allowed the user to peep over the parapet while remaining hidden.
When Ramage looked out, he noted three rows of ‘knife-rests’ – barbed-wire defences designed to entangle an advancing enemy and make him easy prey for British machine guns. Ramage also saw that any building not already flattened was a ruin, and that the bark of all the trees had been shredded by bullets and shrapnel.
A few metres in front of the trench a dead soldier lay on his back. His bloated corpse had apparently lain there since December. Nobody dared retrieve him or they would simply have been added to the body count.
Behind the trench were graves marked by crosses. The clayey soil around them was strewn with disused sandbags, empty food tins and other rubbish.
‘Anyone got a wristwatch? Swap you anything you like,’ said one Tommy.
‘I see you’ve got a few packs of fags,’ replied another. ‘Give me the lot and my watch is yours.’
Apart from trading belongings or being on watch duty, pastimes included cooking, cleaning and searching for lice. An infestation of the tiny parasites was enough to drive a man mad scratching himself to pieces. Ramage thanked God he didn’t have any – yet.
Relief from this hellish existence was a cup of tea. That is, if a tepid brew made from scummy, vermin-infested bubbling green water scooped from shell holes could be called ‘tea’. Ramage, like many inexperienced Tommies, had drunk the clean water in his canteen too quickly. His rations were running out pretty quickly too.
Further relief came from letting off a few rounds of fire against the enemy. Ramage would poke his rifle through a ‘keyhole’ – a firing hole cut in an iron shield mounted on the sandbag parapet – and shoot at the Germans.
Days and nights passed. It began to rain and the clay turned to mud. Every remaining piece of unsoiled kit or uniform became dirty. All Ramage could do was to drag a waterproof sheet around his shoulders and wait for the rain to stop.
An empty ration tin filled with some kind of chemical liquid was hung up on a post along with a bag of cloth scraps. This was in case of a gas attack. If poisonous clouds were spotted blowing in their direction, the sentries would soak the cloths and give one to each man to put over his face.
The Germans must have been just as frustrated. Their snipers’ bullets smashed the ends of the British periscopes and their shells whistled overhead. Every now and then one would land nearby, perhaps thirty metres off, tearing up the ground.
Neither side let up. But neither side made any real progress.
On his last night in the trench, Ramage was told he was going to become a grenadier – a bomb-thrower.
It felt good to have been chosen for the job. It was well known that trainee grenadiers were selected from men who were the best, bravest and steadiest in an emergency. He must have done well so far. A grenadier could do a lot of damage if he hit the target.
Plus, the training meant he would not have to return to his company’s trenches for a while.
‘It’s not as cushy as it sounds,’ said one Tommy, as Ramage passed him. ‘Two days ago there were three casualties among the bomb-throwers in this battalion. And that was just when they were practising.’
During his training, Ramage was shown the grave of the grenadier whose place he was taking. The poor chap had accidentally blown himself up. Determined not to let that happen to him, Ramage worked hard to learn the skills of a grenadier, which included using catapults and trench mortars, the small mobile cannons that made a ‘plop!’ sound when their stumpy, upturned barrels were fired.
After a couple more days of training, Ramage and his colleagues were ordered into battle. At 10pm, under a golden moon, they wheeled barrows of mortars, bombs and grenades to the nearby village of Kemmel. As quietly as they could, they wove their way around shell craters and through ruined streets until they reached a communication trench – a waterlogged, muddy channel that led to the trench in which they’d be based that night. Once they had finished hauling the weapons into position they got to work.
PLOP! The first mortar fired.
BOOM! It hit the German side.
Six more bombs were launched beautifully before the Germans replied with a grenade that exploded five metres away from Ramage, showering him in soil. Luckily for him it was on the other side of a protective wall called a traverse.
But those on the other side of the traverse were not so lucky. They had been resting, chatting or cooking when the German bomb exploded. When the smoke cleared, Ramage peeked over the traverse. Four men were wounded – two seriously in the stomach, arms, head and feet. There was a lot of blood.
‘Pass word for stretcher bearers!’ somebody called in the darkness.
‘Ramage, get your eyes off the wounded and return to your mortar!’ the bombing officer commanded.
It was hard to concentrate. One of the wounded, a veteran, died hours later. As Ramage trudged back through the mist at dawn, his first night’s bombing over, he couldn’t help reflecting on the wastefulness and stupidity of war.
News arrived that made it clear Ramage could be using his new skills again very soon. The battalion was being redeployed as a reserve for trenches expected to suffer high casualties. They had to be ready to move out at a moment’s notice.
In the meantime they received an unexpected ‘treat’ – a bath. Having recently discovered lice on his own body, Ramage eagerly climbed in – even if the tub had to be shared with another man, in water that had already been used by other filthy Tommies. It was thick with milky disinfectant and slime.
The bath was followed by a rub down with a towel, and a clean shirt. Ramage tried to ignore the dead lice stuck to it.
‘Oh I love Aberdeen and I love my Queen,’ he sang along with the other soldiers, trying to keep his spirits up. They were all glad of the wash and change of clothes, but dreading what was coming next.
A few miles away, Ypres was being bombarded. As night fell a bright yellow glow showed where German incendiary bombs were setting buildings on fire. The sky was red and clouds of smoke enveloped the city’s towers and spires, including those of Cloth Hall – a huge medieval market where merchants had bought and sold wool for centuries.
Ramage joined a huddle of soldiers sitting around a brazier – an upright metal box containing a coal fire. The firelight shone through holes in the brazier’s sides, giving the men’s faces a ruddy glow. Meanwhile, beyond the nearby woods and fields, the people of Ypres ran in terror from their burning homes.
Early the next morning a magnificent-looking general on horseback addressed them all. ‘Men, you are about to go to one of the most dangerous places in the war. A place where an entire brigade has been decimated. A place where the trenches have been smashed flat. A place where the enemy has unleashed gas …’
‘Perhaps he wants us to start digging our own graves right now,’ muttered one old soldier.
‘And yet,’ the general continued, ‘it is also a place where the spirit of the men has not been broken. You Gordons are a very distinguished regiment with a great history. You are Scots, and I am perfectly certain you will never retreat …!’
‘Same old bloody muck,’ muttered another war-weary veteran.
At lunchtime they set off towards their destination close to Hill 60 – a strategically advantageous bit of raised ground. They passed motor vehicles carrying anti-aircraft guns. Then a row of gigantic field guns. They marched through a village where children played in the warm sunshine as shells whooshed overhead with a sound like roaring crowds. It was an unsettling sight.
They passed within a mile of Ypres. Smoke from the fires hung in the air. Then they made their way along a railway track lined with shattered telegraph poles and broken wires. Dugouts were cut into the embankment below the track, forming shelters for the men and First Aid posts – known as ‘dressing stations’ – for the wounded. Stretcher-bearers hurried in and out.
The trench near Hill 60 was cold and wet. Ramage regretted his earlier decision to abandon his cardigan, jacket and spare socks to save weight. As he settled in with the other men, he tried to console himself with the thought that the Germans on the other side of No Man’s Land were being pounded to Hell by the British gunners. The shells flew in low over the British trench. Ramage and the others ducked instinctively. Shrapnel showered on impact, German sandbags went flying. This would not be a quick job.
A couple of days later while fetching water, Ramage came across abandoned enemy trenches and saw German soldiers for the first time. All three were dead. One had been shot through the forehead. Another had had the top of his head blown off by a shell. The third was lying on his face in a pool of blood.
Death had turned their hands to wax, their faces yellow and blueish. The corpses had been robbed, their valuable buttons cut off. Broken equipment, bent rifles, rusty ammunition and unexploded bombs lay all around.
That night Ramage slept badly – his mind replaying the day’s images as he wriggled about in his shirt, trying to keep warm.
The next day dawned sunny and warm, and Ramage’s company was ordered up to the firing line. The men were surprised by the order. Wasn’t this the firing line? The enemy was only a hundred metres away and there was plenty of firing going on. But their orders were clear. They had to get closer.
While waiting for the command to move, they brewed tea and made hot bully beef. A German sniper must have spotted the smoke from their tiny fire and let loose a shot. His bullet burst a sandbag in the parapet, sending a shower of dry clay down into their tea. But they still drank it. Not long afterwards the word came that they were to set off.
Eventually, after dark, they reached their new destination. The thunder of shells made Ramage’s ears ring. This trench was massive, dug into the ground with a high parapet of neatly piled sandbags to protect it. He climbed into a coffin-shaped dugout hoping for some rest but was soon called back out to join a bomb-throwing party in another section of the trench.
The Germans were now fewer than forty metres away. The danger was intense. One man was shot through the heart while trying to position a knife-rest in the dark; another looked over the parapet for the briefest of seconds and had his brains blown out.
This section of trench and the land around it was like a cross between a rubbish heap, a sewer and a graveyard. Discarded tins and rusty equipment lay in slimy soil, heaving with corpses, some of which were sprinkled with chloride of lime to stop them rotting and smelling.
The weather took a turn for the worse, and as the rain beat down Ramage watched men wrap themselves in waterproof sheets before stuffing their bodies into muddy, stinking dugouts. He was ejected from his own dugout by an officer who wanted it for himself, and had to dig another. At least the physical activity took his mind off the danger.
But any prospect of rest was soon shattered by new orders. Ramage was assigned to a listening post and given command of a group of sentries. Listening posts protruded from the front line like tentacles reaching toward the German trenches. They had to be close if the British soldiers were to be able to spy on the enemy.
Ramage was only a few metres away from the enemy now, close enough to hear the chatter of German voices. He and his sentries had to remain as silent as possible. One wrong move or sound and a man would quickly get a bullet or bayonet in his belly.
After peering into the night air for two hours Ramage saw two dark objects appearing out of the gloom. ‘Germans!’ he whispered to himself.
He slowly curled his finger round the trigger of his rifle, his eyes fixed. ‘They moved!’ he told himself. ‘They’re going to shoot at me!’ His palms were slick with sweat, his mouth dry. He got ready to open fire.
Suddenly, a star shell lit up the ground, revealing that the two objects were just sandbags. Ramage let out a sigh, his nerves in shreds.
At midnight Ramage received orders from the captain. ‘Send man up comm trench to search for two of mine. They got lost in skirmish with enemy.’
Ramage immediately found a volunteer, who quickly returned. He had rescued the missing men, and found a body too. When Ramage relayed this information to his captain, he was ordered to take his volunteer and go back himself to see if the body was one of their own.
Ramage found the body – a swollen, six-foot giant with its face crushed down in the mud. Crouching down, he looked to see if the man was wearing a kilt or not. A star shell burst above him and he saw it was a trousered officer, not a Gordon. Not one of their own. He reported back.
Soon he was ordered further up the trench on a new search – this time for a wounded Gordon. Leaving his rifle to make movement easier, he cautiously entered a German communication trench.
Suddenly there was a blaze of rifle fire ten or fifteen metres in front of him. Ramage froze. ‘Please don’t shoot me in the face!’ he prayed silently, screwing up his eyes.
When he opened them and found he was still standing, he quickly threw himself against the trench wall and crouched down before the next star shell lit him up like a sitting duck.
Just then, another star shell burst and Ramage saw a kilted soldier moving behind a small parapet next to the trench he was in. He crept up to within just three metres of the parapet, terrified of being shot by friend or foe.
‘Gordon!’ he whispered hoarsely to identify himself. ‘Any wounded?’
‘None!’ came the hushed reply.
Ramage turned to make his way back through the pitch black and came within seconds of being shot by his own sentries. But there was no time to rest. He was ordered to take a couple of stretcher bearers and go and retrieve the body of the trousered officer. When they reached it, they found that his head had been blown off and that the body was
too decayed to be removed. They had no choice but to leave the officer in his open grave.
The next day was warm. The stench of death hung in the air. Ramage got half a cup of water to wash in, but his aching limbs and soapy hands lost their grip and he dropped the cup onto the duckboards at the bottom of the trench. He was utterly exhausted.
In the early hours of the following morning, after a night’s heavy bombardment, the men were relieved from the front line and marched thirteen excruciating miles back to La Clytte. Ramage had never been more grateful for a fresh cup of tea, which he drank while he opened parcels he had received from Scotland containing oranges and mince pies. It was 6am before he collapsed in sleep.
He awoke feeling like an old, worn-out cart horse – aching all over. During the next few days the men drilled or rested. They smoked, read, played dominoes and sometimes argued. Hymns were sung to lift spirits. But the respite never lasted long. Without any warning, they would be ordered to march.
By evening the following day they were in Ypres. The fire-bombing Ramage had witnessed had done its job. Every building was either damaged or incinerated. The cathedral and Cloth Hall were in ruins. Curtains flapped from the shattered windows of bombed-out homes. Floorboards in the upper storey of an apartment hung in the air, the outer wall of the building now blasted away. Furniture teetered on the edge of the chasm.
Music wafted eerily across the rubble. A crackling gramophone player had been set up at the entrance to a bombed-out café where exhausted Tommies sat listening. When Ramage peeped through a shuttered ground-floor window, he could see a group of cheerful officers sitting round a table topped with lots of good food and a whisky bottle. All right for some.
With nearby shellfire occasionally shaking the ground, the men continued, crossing a canal bridge and trudging along a filthy railway cutting. They passed two dead Tommies with rain-flecked sheets where their heads used to be. Ramage couldn’t help becoming angry as he thought about the officers drinking and feasting in their cosy little den while these men lay abandoned and unburied.
World War I Page 2
