Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (31 page)

This little anecdote had a sequel. Ten minutes later the soldier who told me about his large bat brought up to me another soldier, to whom he had never spoken before but who had overheard us talking. The newcomer, after explaining to me that he was ‘fond of animals’, produced a grubby little pocket diary and showed me this entry for 2 January 1917: ‘Saw today a large bat flying about the streets of Ypres. Probably disturbed by shellfire.’

Whatever Gosse taught the men, all soldiers learnt by merely watching others and attempting to replicate what they saw: whatever the methods, they all came under the broad umbrella of ‘ratting’. In ideal conditions, when there was plenty of food, one pair of rats could produce 880 offspring in a year, so the rat population was always ripe for a cull, and a good old rat hunt appealed to men whose pent-up aggression was often stifled by repetitive duties or inactivity. Ratting was almost a social occasion.

Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards

Ratting took place either around deserted farmhouses or among holes in a hedgerow. A whole afternoon could be taken up, packing cordite into the holes before the rats were smoked out in their dozens. Earlier in the war, ratting had been something of a laborious exercise, as cartridge cases were emptied from hundreds of bullets to get enough cordite to prove effective. By 1917, when more shells were available, it was possible to get hold of a shell case, or, better still, the cordite that was packed separately to fire the big guns.

Howitzer cordite gave off a nasty green gas and was packed into a hole from which a trail of cordite was drawn. Once the trail was lit, a clod of earth was quickly packed around the cordite in the hole, forcing the fumes down the tunnels and the rats out. There was a great deal of excitement as we laid into the rats with sticks and clubs, scattering them squealing in all directions, as we killed just as many as we possibly could.

Rifleman J.A. Johnston, 13th Rifle Brigade

There was a regular warren of rat holes at the back of the house, so we got some straw, a pile of bricks and our swords [bayonets], and in a body proceeded to wage war. Stuffing the straw down most of the holes, we set fire to it and stood guard over the ones that remained to wait for the rats to bolt. We did not have long to wait for first one rat came flying out of a hole, then another would make a dash, and we were soon kept busy. Not many escaped, and when the numbers tailed off and it seemed we had accounted for them all, one of our party noticed a big rat, old and cunning, who was about a foot down a hole filling it up with his body so that the smoke could not reach – and was watching us out of two beady eyes, waiting for us to go before he came out. We could not make the rat come out so, at last, one of the men traced the line of the run and, measuring the ground off until he was over the rat, drove his sword through it and succeeded in killing it. We accounted for 23 rats that afternoon.

2/Lt Edmund Fisher, 36th Div., Ammunition Column, RFA

I have just adopted an enormous French foxhound. I saw him by the side of a road ratting with some navvies. He is without exception the most accomplished ratter I have ever met. He wanders along in a nonchalant way till he finds one. He then marks by an intense gaze of a second or two; after this he strolls round to discover the bolt hole. Then to see him dig is an education, his eye ever in the bolt hole. When he gets near the rat, he just pats with his paw so as to deal promptly when he bolts. Though he is a great lumbering fellow he is about 6 times quicker than any terrier I have met and quite often catches them in the air. He caught 27 yesterday, today about 15. The ratting is much too easy in these shell-holes. Usually a stroke or two with a pick is enough to bolt them. They are generally about the size of rabbits, which makes it easier still. Today one escaped and ran along under the duckboards. These are boards arranged to act as paths in the mud, joined together. We had no idea where it had gone to but the old boy winded it and trundled along about 50 yards of duckboards, and caught it as it bolted to get under a hut. He is red under the eye like a bloodhound, and sleeps in my bed. I must try him on a hare later on when I get some time.

Capt. D.P. Hirsch VC (post.), 1/4th Yorkshire Rgt (Green Howards)

In the doctor’s dugout here there are some swallows nesting and the rats have,
for the second time
, eaten their young, and they are now starting again for the third in the same place, poor little devils! Talking of birds, I managed to shoot a sparrow in the trenches yesterday. It keeps your eye in! We are very bothered with mosquitoes and flies just now too. Some chaps have their faces swelled to most awful shapes.

The nonchalant way in which Captain Hirsch mentioned shooting a sparrow to keep his eye in would have appalled men like Thomas Williams and Charles Raven, but, with death so commonplace, why should anyone have worried too much about the cause of a small sparrow? Killing was the currency of the day. Nevertheless, while the killing of innocent animals was widespread, some men were embarrassed, others bitterly reflective over such senseless behaviour, especially when it was by their own hands.

Lt Henry Lawson, 10th Manchester Rgt

There was an unexpected incident when my platoon was performing an exercise under the inspection of a general. There had been a divisional platoon contest, which my platoon had either won or had obtained a place in the final before the competition was abandoned for lack of time.

That may have been the reason why we were put into the particular exercise that became our undoing. We were given live ammunition and we had to manoeuvre up a grassy hillside for about one thousand yards, targets being placed on the face of the hill. There was a small group of cattle grazing between the starting point and the targets, to which I paid no attention. All seemed to go reasonably well. On arrival at our destination the general began to make some observations and comments of approval until suddenly he stopped and said, ‘What is the matter with that cow?’ I looked round and sure enough there was a cow collapsing and falling to the ground. The general then exclaimed, ‘And there is another one!’ I could only hang my head in shame.

Others may have been in the exercise, but there could be no doubt that my platoon was responsible. We had to pay a heavy compensation to the farmer. I have no recollection whether we had the beef! Naturally I was ashamed at the cruelty to the animals. My own investigation did not reveal the culprits. Possibly after months in the trenches in a quiet sector the men had been unable to resist the opportunity afforded by a living target. I include the episode merely to demonstrate the great difference between town dwellers and countrymen, who would never have done such a thing.

Capt. Philip Gosse, Rat Officer, Second Army

The battery commander, a major, invited me into his dugout where he produced a bottle of whisky and two tin mugs. We talked of various things, trying to find some subject or interest in common. As I began to think about leaving, a little mouse came out of a hole in the wall and began to dart nimbly about the floor. The red-faced major swore, kicked a boot towards it, and the little mouse vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. The major cursed the mouse, declaring it was always running about like that, and wished he could get rid of it. I offered to rid him of it, if it really bothered him, and so the next day I brought one of my mousetraps, baited it with a piece of cheese, and set it near the hole in the wall. The whisky bottle was brought out again, and the major and I sat drinking and smoking, when all at once, the major whispered, ‘There it is!’ I looked and there was the little mouse. It was exciting to sit very still and watch it. More than once it seemed to be making straight for the trap, but each time, as it drew near, it turned in some other direction.

The excitement became intense. The major and I dared not move or whisper, and our pipes went out. Then once again the mouse approached the trap, and seemingly getting wind of the cheese, drew closer still and remained motionless, listening. Then suddenly it seized the bait in its two tiny paws and began to gnaw hungrily at the cheese. Click went the trap, which sprang high into the air as the spring was released, and fell clattering down on to the floor, with the little mouse beneath it.

I went and picked up the trap and showed the major the little soft body, quite warm, the cheese still between its minute, sharp teeth. I felt a curious feeling of pride that by my own ingenuity I had outwitted it. But this sensation did not last for long, and began to ebb away while I held the little limp thing in my hand. After all, I reasoned with myself, it’s only a mouse, and it annoyed the major. But all the same I wished I had not killed it. Bother the major, why on earth had I told him I had a mousetrap; why had I not told him to catch the mouse himself if he wanted to? But it would never do to let him see how I was feeling about it; he would despise me for a sentimental fool. I finished off my whisky and turned to say goodbye. The major was holding the little mouse in his hand, and surprised me by saying, ‘I wish now we hadn’t killed the little chap. I believe I had grown quite fond of him.’

Pte Thomas Hope, 1/5th King’s Liverpool Rgt

Gaily we swagger along until, getting tired of the monotonous zigzag of the communication trench, we climb out on top and enjoy the beauty of the countryside so far as the morning mist will allow.

A mole, taking his morning airing, darts off at our approach, and before we realise it we are after him. Backwards and forwards he dodges, escaping the swipes we make at him with our sticks, by a hair’s breadth. We are oblivious to everything else in the excitement of the chase after a poor, frightened mole. A lucky stroke and I knock him over. Picking up the kicking animal I give him another tap over the head. The convulsive movements gradually stop, and the little furry body lies inert in my hand.

‘Got you, my beauty,’ I exclaim breathlessly after my exertions.

‘Look at his little piggy nose. Funny sort of creature, a mole.’

Mac comes over and looks at the body. A trickle of blood comes from its mouth and drops on my upturned palm, leaving a little crimson spot in the centre of my hand.

‘Poor little blighter, such a soft silken coat’ – and Mac softly strokes the tiny creature from which I have knocked out all the life.

‘What’re you going to do with it, Jock?’ inquires Webby, ‘we can’t eat moles. There’s only one bite anyway.’

‘Oh, I think I’ll start saving them up,’ I reply. ‘A hundred or so and I could have a nice fur cardigan.’

It is the first mole I have ever seen, and I am rather taken with the idea of a fur jacket made of moleskins.

I tie the body by the tail to my stick and begin to wonder. After all, what can I do with it? Whatever prompted me to chase and kill it? I must be a bloodthirsty brute. If only I had thought before I made the fatal stroke. Poor little inoffensive mole, its life was as precious to it as mine is to me.

Signalman J.C. Aird, Benbow Batt., RND

Raining. German plane brought down. Usual artillery fire. Rat hunting at 1 a.m. Killed a fine hawk in mistake, noticing his form on the parapet. Have kept his wings in memoriam.

In 1915, natural description involved simple wonderment at mother earth in all her glory rather than any contrast to wholesale destruction. By 1917, such descriptions had subtly changed, drawing out the difference between nature where it survived and the general vista of desolation. Different too, perhaps, are the descriptions of wildlife, descriptions now tinged with a greater feeling of war-weariness and a longing for a resolution to the conflict.

An anonymous officer in the Household Bttn

In England there seems to be a general belief that nothing but every imaginable hardship and horror is connected with the letters BEF. People see only bully beef, dugouts, shell-holes, mud, and such like as the eternal routine of life. True enough, these conditions do prevail very often, but in between whiles, they are somewhat mitigated by most unexpected ‘corners’. The other day we took over from a well-known Scottish regiment whose reputation for making themselves comfortable was well known throughout the Division, and when I went to examine my future abode I found everything up to the standard which I had anticipated. Standing on an oak table in the middle of the dugout was a shell case filled with flowers, and these not ordinary blossoms, but Madonna lilies, mignonette and roses. This vase, if I may so term the receptacle, overshadowed all else and by its presence changed the whole atmosphere, the perfume reminding me of home, and what greater joy or luxury is there for any of us out here than such a memory?

After having duly appreciated this most unexpected corner, I inquired where the flowers had been gathered, and was told they had come from the utterly ruined village of Fampoux close by. At once I set out to explore and verify this information. Sure enough, between piles of bricks, shell-holes, dirt, and every sort of
débris
, suddenly a rose in full bloom would smile at me, and a lily would waft its delicious scent and seem to say how it had defied the destroyer and all his frightfulness. In each corner where I saw a blossoming flower or even a ripening fruit, I seemed to realise a scene belonging to this unhappy village in peaceful times.