Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (39 page)

With newer, ever more reliable tanks, the value of horses on the battlefield was slowly but surely being undermined. By 1918, the condition of the horses being sent from Britain was also being called into question.

Capt. Norman Dillon, 2nd Bttn, Tank Corps

We were supplied with horses, although I can’t think why. They were rarely, if ever, used, but provided me with an opportunity for riding. They were frightful brutes, some being broken down polo ponies, or racehorses, or those thrown for purchase by owners at home or in Ireland, happy to part with vicious or unmanageable animals. One of the best refused to jump even a narrow trench, and had a habit of rearing up when we met one of the motor vehicles, which fortunately did not happen very often.

The Australians were good horsemen and were rather proud of this and thought we knew nothing in this respect. We had one horse that nobody could ride because it was a confirmed bolter. But it looked a picture. It was not difficult to arrange an exchange for a less exciting mount, and off they went, pleased at scoring off the Pommies. The next we heard was that one of their experts got on its back, when it promptly bolted and went nearly into Amiens (seven miles) before it stopped.

To cement the partnership between the Australians and ourselves, a small attack at Hamel was staged with 60 tanks. The result was a great success . . . At last the realisation that the tank was a war winner had penetrated the horse-minded GHQ.

After the strains of fighting, the opportunity to recuperate was welcome. For young officers, on whose shoulders great responsibility for the lives of their men rested, time out to take stock and relax was essential.

Lt Henry Lawson, 10th Manchester Rgt

Often we lived in a wood when resting; a lovely little place full of spring and summer scents and sweetness. I was interested in butterflies and moths. Once I found on a stem of grass the most perfect specimen I had ever seen of
Hylophila bicolorana
, a gloriously vivid-green moth with white underwings, having just emerged from its chrysalis and dried its wings. At the time I was talking with our Company Commander, lying in the shade of the trees. I drew his attention to this miracle of nature’s beauty and speculated whether it could be a harbinger of peace. I derived comfort, a kind of companionship, from this cycle of natural life within range of the shellfire and the total destructiveness of war.

I have frequently sensed that all mystery finally lies in the order of creation, its development and regeneration. I was fortunate to have been brought up with a sufficient outline knowledge, though elementary, of living creatures to obtain solace and immense pleasure at so tiny a discovery. Such moments were priceless for the recruitment of spirit in preparation for the next round of fighting. The unexpected discovery of this perfect moth, which I have never forgotten, did indeed prove a precursor of the peace we all longed for, but alas only after the heavy losses, many amongst our own company, in the great offensive battles that were to lead to victory in a few months’ time.

Pte Wilfrid Edwards, 15th London Rgt (Civil Service Rifles)

In August the Battle of Amiens brought us back into the 1916 battlefield, a sort of desiccated Passchendaele in that summer heat, but with weeds and brambles spreading over the old shell-holes and trenches. Now we were doing what we went out to do, with no time for anything else. The only animals I saw in this wasteland that could be called wild were occasional roving dogs, which we thought might be strays from the German army. And the only beautiful thing I remember seeing was a spray of ripe blackberries gleaming in the early sunlight on the edge of what had been St Pierre Vaast Wood hard by the smoking heaps of empty cartridge cases as we flushed the German machine gunners out.

Pte Christopher Haworth, 14th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders

Passing a ruined house demolished by incessant shellfire, we see a tiny thing of beauty flourishing amidst this desolation. In the shell-torn garden, the grasses have formed a shroud, nature had triumphed over man’s vindictiveness, and standing valiantly like sentinels are several magnificent bright red poppies, graceful in their simplicity.

The Battle of Amiens threw the Germans back across the Somme battlefield and beyond. The German High Command realised at this point that the war could not be won and when the Germans’ last great defensive position was breached in September, open warfare resumed. For so long, the wonder of nature had been both in its beauty and its survival in a wasteland, but now that vision was inverted. It was scenes of death and destruction in an otherwise unspoilt land that impinged themselves upon the memory of those who were there.

Lt Henry Lawson, 10th Manchester Rgt

We came to a stretch of open and undamaged countryside – a marvellous contrast to life in the trenches – and entered and occupied a château, which had been an important headquarters of the Germans. The lawns were mown, the borders of flowers still in bloom, lovely in an early autumn evening. But the shock still lingers in my memory. I went out into the garden to post my men. There had been a fight by another regiment before our arrival, of which I had heard nothing; the picture of that fight lay glaring before my eyes when at each turn of the garden’s footpaths we came upon the bodies of the young men of that regiment shot down by rifle or machine gun, hardly marked, lying almost as children resting in sleep, in number perhaps a dozen. Why their regiment had not covered the bodies was never explained to me and we had to do what was necessary.

The poignant contrast on the one hand of the immaculate and peaceful garden and on the other of the sacrifice of such young lives brought tears to my eyes. That graphic and overwhelmingly pitiful picture has often been in my mind as I have walked around the paths and lawns of my own country garden. An episode quite unforgettable and stamped with limitless grief for the evil of the world. That fight must have been the most grisly hide and seek ever played. I once heard a cathedral sermon ending with the words, ‘never forget the garden’. The Bible is full of incidents associated with gardens and I speculated whether the preacher, whom I knew well, could possibly imagine what garden was indelibly printed in the mind of this old soldier among his congregation. So lovely, so beautiful, yet so besmirched and desecrated by a deed of war.

Cpl Fred Hodges, 10th Lancashire Fusiliers

I used to wonder what the seigneur would say if he could see what had happened to his beautiful château, extensive grounds and gardens and the protecting high brick wall. On one of our working parties, when enemy shells were bursting with loud crashes in the street flanked by the high wall, our officer led us through the village by the back ways and gardens, and I had a good view in the moonlight of the smashed and broken château gardens, greenhouses, statues and summer houses as we hurried through the tree stumps.

Pte Frederick Voigt, Labour Corps

The big bronze bell lay outside the church in two pieces. The cemetery had been churned by shellfire. The tombstones were chipped and broken. One big block of granite had been overturned by a bursting shell and the inscription was so scarred as to be illegible. The stone Christ had been hit in many places. His left hand was gone, so that He hung aslant by the other. Both His legs had been blown off at the knees and His nose and mouth had been carried away by some flying shell fragment or shrapnel ball. All the graves had been thrown into confusion by the violence of innumerable explosions. Bits of bone femurs, ribs, lower jaws lay scattered about. The hip of a soldier who had been buried in his clothes projected from the soil with the brown mass of maggot chrysalids still clinging to it.

Cpl Fred Hodges, 10th Lancashire Fusiliers

We were marching at night towards the front to take part in the next attack, as usual marching on the right side of the road. We were passing a long column of transport wagons coming back from the front. We heard explosions ahead of us as a German plane dropped small anti-personnel bombs. As it came nearer, we realised that it was flying low above the track. We could see the column of men in front breaking up as officers and men ran off the track to the right. We all followed suit, flinging ourselves down about thirty or forty yards from the track.

When it was all over, we stood up, and for some reason that I cannot explain, some of us were laughing as we returned to the track, where we found both men and mules lying dead. We marched on, and soon we reached the forward area.

The moon was rising as we left the track and moved in open order across a very large field of stubble, and here in the bright moonlight, field mice scampered in scores; one could scarcely avoid treading on them. Obviously this area had been cultivated, unlike the Somme fields where no corn had been harvested during the war.

Lt John Nettleton, 2nd Rifle Brigade

I was pretty sure the Boche had withdrawn but, even so, I got the fright of my life when, as we were passing a cottage, we heard the clatter of breaking crockery. My runner unslung his rifle and I drew my revolver. In great trepidation we crept up the garden path as quietly as we could. Then we flung open the door and rushed in – to be confronted with a tiny kitten who was crawling about on the dresser from which he had knocked down a cup. The relief was so great that we both burst out laughing.

Lt Reginald Dixon, 251st Siege Batt., RGA

It is not possible to remember where I found my kitten. I know that we had been on the go in the final push that beat the Hun out of France in 1918, on the go for days and days and nights and nights, pulling our guns out, pulling them into some new position three or four hours later, laying out new lines of fire at first light – for we often moved in at night, and often enough to some farmyard or other that gave some cover to our gunners . . .

On this occasion we had got my own two guns into a farmyard about midnight. The farm was deserted by its owners, who had obviously fled as the tide of battle swept near. By the coming of the false dawn these guns were in position; as the men were giving the last heaves on the ropes, I spotted a tiny movement under the gun carriage, between the huge wheels. I stopped the men for a moment and bent down to investigate. There, terrified out of its tiny wits, was a wee kitten. How or why it had got into such a position no one could guess, but I hauled her out with ease. By the torches’ lights and that of the false dawn, everybody could see what I had in my hands. Somehow it cheered everybody up. The men laughed. ‘Blimey! It’s a bloody kitten!’

I stuffed the poor little thing into my trench-coat pocket, which was commodious enough, and got the chaps going again, until the gun was where we wanted it. Then I set off with my bombardier and some stakes and my compass and when the true dawn came I had my guns in position and my lines of fire laid out. I joined the others in the kitchen of the farm which was serving as a very temporary mess, and got a mug of hot tea and a swig of whisky from my flask. And not till then did I remember that I had a kitten in my pocket!

I pulled the little beggar out, unsquashed and with all its nerves apparently intact. My fellow officers stood around and admired the mite of tabby fur and whiskers, and made a fuss of her. My batman swiftly brought a saucer of milk, and there on the kitchen table by the light of hurricane lamps, surrounded by the rough kindliness of gunner officers in full war kit, that kitten, without the slightest sign of discomposure, weighed into that milk, and, having disposed of it, mewed for more.

‘Mr Dixon’s kitten’ became famous in 251 Battery, and my batman had the job now of seeing to her welfare. She went along with us and she thrived right up to the moment when I bade her goodbye and went off on the quest for my leave warrant.

Pte Albert Lowy, Army Service Corps

A friend who bred wire-haired terriers asked me if I would like one as a mascot. It was a bitch who, having one blind eye, could not be ‘shown’, but was healthy and exceptionally intelligent. Food for dogs was scarce, and this one could not be provided for much longer.

I got permission to keep the dog in camp and to take her with me when we went overseas. It was a little unfortunate that she took a dislike to the captain, growled when he tried to stroke her, though she was perfectly friendly towards everyone else. She was a very good-looking thoroughbred and was much petted. We had very little drill or other military exercises, so she was always near me, she learned my family whistle tune, and slept in my ambulance, which she could always recognise although all were new and exactly similar . . .

She of course sat next to me whenever I went out, and she became very adept at running off to find the waste-food bins, where she could eat her fill of the choicest bits, and return to
her
ambulance usually before I was ready to leave. If it happened that I was ready first, I only had to whistle, and she would run at once, she never kept me waiting more than a few minutes.