by Jon E. Lewis
Our objective, a ridge about a mile off, was reached without opposition. We dug in on the crest of a hill overlooking a deep valley. Along the bottom of the valley ran a canal.
Soon after dusk our patrols penetrated to the canal bank, where they were peppered by rifles and machine guns. Even to the brass-hats at Corps Headquarters in some distant chateau, it was obvious that the passage of the canal would be a difficult operation. A hurried decision was taken that before attempting any general advance we must ascertain the disposition of the enemy. For this purpose it was proposed to send a patrol consisting of an officer, a sniper, and a signaller to reconnoitre in daylight next day. Without much difficulty I secured the post as signaller. I was glad to find the officer was a cool youngster of about my own years. I had known him whilst he was in the ranks. He gave me a hearty welcome when I reported at the commanding officer’s dug-out for instructions. The careful instructions of the colonel suggested our task to be one of some importance and some danger. On leaving we received stiff tots of whisky. Here was confirmation of my suspicion. All doubt was expelled when the sergeant-major handed me a water-bottle with rum as part of the equipment of the expedition.
My duty as signaller was to lead a signal wire all the way travelled by the patrol, so that we would be in continuous communication with our unit. I was carrying three drums of wire, a telephone, a rifle, and infantry kit.
Climbing out of our front-line trench in the dark between four and five o’clock in the morning, we proceeded gently downhill to the towpath of the canal, where the previous patrols had been fired on. Nothing disturbed the stillness of the early morning as we walked warily forward. The first signal station was soon established in a gun-pit in a small hillock overlooking the canal. Our plan was to spend the day there scouring the further bank with the telescope to locate enemy positions. By wartime standards, we had comfortable quarters, and considered ourselves, entitled to celebrate our safe arrival by broaching the rum. I was physically weak after the exertions of the previous day or two. Perhaps the rum was particularly potent. Anyhow I awoke in broad daylight with a raging thirst, a confused head, and a Webley revolver staring me in the face. Stone, the subaltern, threatened with curses that he would shoot me if I didn’t keep awake, I sat up and tried to appear interested. He and I were good friends. I suggested breakfast and instantly my somnolence was forgiven. In my haversack I had a selection of eatables from a parcel just received from home. Out came a piece of cake, a black pudding, a tin of café-au-lait, and a ‘Tommy’ Cooker. It was the work of a minute to commandeer the water in the sniper’s bottle, and a brew of coffee was soon prepared. A short time later slices of black pudding were sizzling in the mess-tin lid. Small tots of rum completed the banquet. Once more we could resume interest in the War.
Through the telescope Smithy the sniper scanned the towpath of the canal while Stone gave me in an undertone some of the more scandalous episodes of a recent leave. He was interrupted by Smithy, who put a finger to his lips and motioned Stone towards the telescope.
There was little need of the telescope, for about 100 yards from us on our side of the canal was a small emplacement with two machine guns. A German sentry sat behind the guns keeping a lazy look-out. Two other Germans were a few yards from him, with tunics off and shirts open, washing on the canal bank. Evidently our presence was unsuspected. Beside the emplacement, a small plank bridge had been thrown across the canal.
Stone and I exchanged understanding glances. Slowly he led the way on all fours through the narrow sap leading from our gun-pit to the open. I divested myself of the telephone headpiece, which I handed to Smithy, who nodded comprehendingly. Grabbing my rifle I followed Stone, lying flat when clear of the sap. The ground outside was uneven and there were low shrubs affording some concealment but we crept forward on our stomachs till half the distance was traversed. ‘I say, Jimmy’ – it was a furtive whisper – ’what next?’ There was no answer for a moment whilst he examined his revolver. In dumb show he looked at my rifle to see if the safety catch was up. ‘Come a little closer,’ he whispered, ‘and we’ll try to capture them. Brigade wants prisoners for information. You cover the two on the bank while I rush the sentry.’ Cautiously we tried to carry this out and just when I had judged it was nearly time to put the plan to the test there was an excited shout from one of the bathers, who was pulling on his tunic and had looked in our direction. Both of them rushed towards the sentry. Quick as a flash Stone and I ran forward. But the Germans were quicker. Over the plank bridge they scuttled, throwing themselves flat on the ground on the other side. A bullet whistled past us as we jumped into the little emplacement containing their abandoned machine guns. I fired a round or two of my rifle into the opposite bank but there was no answering fire. They lay low and probably crawled away to safety. The ground on the other side was undulating and offered good cover. Stone had taken down their guns and turned them the other way round. For an hour we awaited events, but all was still and peaceful except for a breeze rippling the canal.
A short distance to our right were the remains of a stone bridge which had been mined. A good road led to it on each side. During the hour which had elapsed we had watched the road on the German side without seeing any signs of life. Stone was getting restless as we were out to spot Germans and as yet knew nothing about the troops across the way. He sent me back to bring our friend the sniper to our new post and to extend the telephone. This was easily done and Stone was soon reporting progress to the colonel at the other end of the wire.
I could see that my own daft mood had its counterpart in Stone’s. It was, therefore, no surprise to me when he invited me to ‘walk the plank’ and reconnoitre the other side. Judging our three Boches to be a forgotten outpost, we made boldly on foot for the road. I had still remaining one drum of telephone wire which was connected to our line in the emplacement. The telephone was slung on my shoulder. On we walked, looking to right and left, but seeing nothing, Half-way up the hill we were brought to a halt, as the drum of wire was exhausted. It was reassuring nevertheless to connect the telephone and find we were still in contact with our battalion. In the ditch ran a number of German field cables. I grabbed one, nipped it with pliers and bared the end with my knife. In a minute it was joined to the end of our own cable. This German wire, I thought, must lead somewhere. Taking it as guide I walked up the road, followed by Stone, who nodded understandingly. About 200 yards ahead, the ditch was bridged over and at this point the cable was led upwards to a pole. The pole stood on the lip of a large chalk quarry which sank from the roadway. We lay beside the pole peering into the deep hollow.
There was no movement in the quarry, which appeared to have been recently abandoned. German clothing and equipment littered the place as if hurriedly discarded. Facing us in the side of the quarry were five doorways, leading to what we thought was a big dug-out. Souvenirs running in our minds, we entered the quarry carefully, avoiding noise. We approached the nearest dug-out shaft and furtively peered in the entrance. I gasped. The shaft was deep and probably not quite completed, as there were no steps, only boards reaching from the ground level downwards, with one or two wooden treads. Leaning against the wall inside the doorway was a German sentry fully equipped. Half-way down another German was seated with his back to the door, crouched on one of the treads. The sentry gave a queer cry and made to seize his rifle which was propped against the wall opposite him. As he did so he lost his footing and stumbled headlong down the shaft on top of his comrade. Both slithered to the bottom. Instantly a chorus of voices from below was heard in protest.
The situation called for only one remedy – flight. The dug-out had five doors and might be swarming with men. We were without even one Mills bomb. In a twinkling we were speeding down the road, but before we had gone any distance rifle bullets were whistling around us. We jumped in the ditch and crawled laboriously back to the canal bank, where we rejoined our sniper and once more connected the telephone.
The moment the instr
ument was affixed a loud buzz indicated that someone was calling us. The colonel had come to a company station in the front line accompanied by the brigadier, who wished to speak to Mr. Stone. I retained the headpiece telephone whilst handing him the speaking set. The brigadier was a professional soldier of the most efficient type, and I wondered how heroics of this kind would appeal to him. He listened in silence whilst Stone reported the position in the quarry. Stone went so far as to ask for a platoon to be sent out with bombs to capture the dug-outs. ‘Stone,’ said the brigadier, ‘we’ve had quite enough damned silliness for one day. Lie low where you are and I’ll phone Corps to strafe the quarry whilst you make your way back here over the open.’ Stone acquiesced meekly.
It was now afternoon and Stone considered he deserved another drink. I handed him the rum bottle, and he drained it at a gulp. Shortly afterwards he was asleep.
Telephonic communication must have, been in good working order that day. In a very short time the message to the Corps had its effect. Shells of every calibre were whistling over our heads, bursting in and above the quarry. This was the moment arranged for our retreat. I phoned to the signaller, back in the front line, that I was disconnecting. Turning to Stone, I gave him a shake. He was like a log. I shouted and punched, but all to no avail. He would not move. I thought of threatening him with his own Webley. We were compelled to await his awakening. This came with the darkness, and we walked carefully over to our front line praying that the sentries would not mistake us for Germans. We were challenged, gave the reply, and were once more back in a forward trench, although not with our own battalion, which had been relieved at dusk.
I have told this incident in as simple a way as I can; I feel I owe that to my conscience, because there is a romantic version of it in the London Gazette which does not say one word about rum or revolvers.
Private Alexander Paterson enlisted at Glasgow on October 21st, 1915, at the age of eighteen. Trained at Glasgow, Ripon, and Richmond (Yorks). Went to France, July 1916, and remained with the Glasgow Highlanders in the 100th Infantry Brigade, 33rd Division, until within four weeks of Armistice. Fought on Somme from July 1916 till March 1917. At Arras, April to June 1917, in Ypres Salient, September 1917 till April 1918. Saw severe fighting during retreat in Flanders, April 12th to 17th, 1918. Took part in final offensive operations till wounded near Le Cateau on October 13th, 1918. Was also wounded (slightly) at Delville Wood, on August 22nd, 1916, and gassed (slightly) in October 1917. Received Military Medal in respect of episode dealt with in narrative.
NOYON
March 23rd, 1918
Dr. F. O. Taylor
The most unhappy hours which I can remember during my service in France and Belgium were spent in and near Noyon, on the third day and night of the great German attack on the V Army. I shall not describe the first two days of our retreat. They are very blurred in my mind now, but I still dream of what happened to two of our field ambulances, to one of which I was attached, which had been withdrawn from active work after these first two days and nights.
Blistered heels seem a small thing to grouse about, but they are enough to cause acute misery, and I had unfortunately contracted, as the Americans say, ‘a good case of them.’ Owing to the fact that at the beginning of our hasty retreat I had been wearing an old-fashioned pair of field-boots, ideal for riding, but the worst of walking footwear, my ankles above the heels were unbearably painful, and when our ambulance was directed to proceed to Noyon and await orders there, I got permission from my colonel to precede them in a motor ambulance which was going on with baggage. Arriving at Noyon, I soon heard that the German Army was advancing rapidly from La Fère, and that Noyon shortly would be evacuated. I managed to find the French barracks, where I was to await the arrival of my unit, and found myself in a large open space, which was guarded by a long castellated gateway, just inside of which there was a small macadamized drill-ground sloping up to a pretty grassy field with small trees at the side. For about 50 yards up from the gate and on the right were some small tarred-felt huts, and down near the gate a small lane turned sharply to the right, leading to some buildings.
It was a perfect afternoon, the sun was as warm as on a summer day, and, having had practically no sleep for more than two days and nights, I sat down to rest just inside the gate on a bank at the side of the lane. Though I began to read a book, I dropped sound asleep with my head between my knees, and the next thing I knew was our Padre waking me up with the words, ‘They’re in.’
If that unsympathetic soul had not disturbed my slumbers, I do not think that I should have ever awakened again, at least, not in this world! I must have been very sound asleep, for four motor-ambulances had parked in the lane right in front of me without disturbing me at all.
‘Oh! Right-oh!’ I yawned, and staggered to my feet. ‘I’ll walk up and see them.’ Then I strolled up the barrack yard, casually looking up at a British aeroplane, which was flying very low and coming towards us. I stopped about 50 yards from the gate to talk to a group of our men, noticed the colonel talking to two or three other officers in the centre of the macadamized space, and was admiring the pretty aeroplane – the first British plane we had seen for days – glittering in the sun, the red-white-and-blue rings clearly visible, when there came an indescribable explosion. It was the most terrific, though not the loudest, perhaps, that I have ever heard, followed immediately by dull thuds and the sickening sight of men falling, groaning, spouting blood – whole limbs severed, horses frantically breaking loose… But in the moment of frightful surprise I could only grasp the fact that two more explosions followed, luckily outside the gate, and believing that a Boche long-range gun had found us, I waited a few seconds flat on the ground for more – but no more came.
Beside me was one of the youngest men in the ambulances; the calf of one of his legs was torn right out, and the wound was spouting blood. I dragged him into the nearest hut and compressed his femoral artery, managing to stop the bleeding. The hut seemed full of frightfully wounded men; I could do nothing but hang on to my poor little private’s artery. What terrible faces they all had, pale as ashes! ‘Water,’ they groaned. ‘Oh, sir, can you do nothing for me?’ It was frightful. I saw two men die in front of my eyes, and no one came to help; my thumbs were nearly breaking, when to my horror, a badly wounded horse came galloping straight at the door of the hut, reared up, and appeared to want to come in! It would have trampled us badly. I was half-turned from the door, and was just able to keep it shut by holding my foot against it, my right leg braced against the weight of the poor horse, which was frantically beating the door with its fore-feet! All the time I hung on to that femoral artery! Just when I felt that I could keep my leg up no longer, the horse fell dead, and I was released from my uncomfortable position by the arrival of a sergeant, who first had to open the backs of two wagons to get enough dressings, as we were all ‘packed up,’ and then was able to give me some assistance with first aid to the wounded in our immediate vicinity.
All this must have taken place in a matter of a few minutes, for when I was able to get out of this ghastly hut (by the way, why did we all crowd into it?) things outside were still appallingly confused. I gathered from quick questioning that the aeroplane must have been one captured by the Germans, and that a bomb had been dropped, the hole which it had made being just inside the barrack gate. The terrible nature of the damage to everything in the neighbourhood of the explosion was due to the impact of flying fragments of road-metal. The vagaries of explosives were illustrated in this case by the fact that our colonel was standing within a few yards of the spot where the bomb went off, and though a French interpreter just beside him was stone dead, he was not touched or affected in any way by the concussion.
Piteous sight after sight met my eyes as I got more into the centre of the holocaust; more than fifty non-combatants were dead, dying, or wounded. One face haunts me to this day: a fine young American medical officer lay in the hut at the foot of the row, his expression the mo
st horrible and soul-searing I ever saw. He was half-sitting up, waiting for his turn for attention, both legs bending, not at the natural place at the knees, but half-way up the thighs, and he was praying for morphia to ease his agony. All the wounded seemed to suffer more than any I had seen before, owing probably to the awful bruising and smashing power of these lumps of road-metal. Just where I had been sleeping a few minutes before, the greatest damage was apparent. The two foremost ambulances were completely wrecked, two men had been hideously mangled on the front seat of one of them, and along the bank one could see the ground furrowed by the flying stones, many pieces of which were almost as big as one’s clenched fist.
I found the strain of helplessly watching so much suffering while waiting for dressings and drugs to be unpacked so insupportable that I asked the colonel if I could go down to a casualty clearing station for liquid morphia and perhaps some help. My memory here is somewhat blurred, but somehow I got hold of a car and managed to find the clearing station or stationary hospital – I cannot remember which it was – with great difficulty, as the place seemed deserted. I found a nursing sister – her face of sorrow is another painful memory. I blurted out to her, ‘We’ve had an awful catastrophe with a bomb – thirty or forty men crying for morphia. Can you give me some?’ Her sad face hardly changed its expression. Then she made me understand why. ‘Come this way,’ she said, and led me to the largest marquee. I stepped inside and recoiled, aghast… Row upon row upon row of silent forms on stretchers – nothing else.
