Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (4 page)

It was here I first made the acquaintance of Herbert. He was the tallest horse in the unit, and he had a dislike amounting to violent hatred for trains, buses, steam-engines, and all huge things which moved mechanically and made strange noises in their insides. He absolutely refused to enter his truck, but there was no time for ceremony, so half a dozen hefty soldiers slipped a surcingle [band] round his hindquarters and gave him a lift. This decided him to make a plunge through the door of the truck, but being so tall his saddle caught in the roof, and he bounced back amongst us, more obstinate than ever. We then turned him round, removed his saddle, and backed him in without more ado.

The British Army went to France with 40,000 horses and mules. It was a major logistical operation leading or hoisting aboard hundreds of thoroughbred cavalry horses, as well as shires, and by no means all of them were willing travellers. Although veterinary officers did their best to stable animals properly on board, a number died of heart attacks en route and others went berserk in the fetid and cramped conditions. The smell of the horses was almost unbearable for the men who travelled with them.

2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt

There was plenty of excitement on deck while the horses of the regimental transport were being shipped into the hold. To induce ‘Light Draft’, ‘Heavy Draft’ horses and ‘Officers’ Chargers’ – in all some sixty animals – to trust themselves to be lowered into a dark and evil-smelling cavern, was no easy matter. Some shied from the gangway, neighing; others walked peaceably on to it, and, with a ‘thus far and no farther’ expression in every line of their bodies, took up a firm stand, and had to be pushed into the hold with the combined weight of many men. Several of the transport section narrowly escaped death and mutilation at the hands, or rather hooves, of the Officers’ Chargers.

Maj. Patrick Butler, 2nd Royal Irish Rgt

Arrived at the Docks, we had about three hours of frenzied work. We were told that Divisional Headquarters would go in the third ship, the
Armenian
, and accordingly we went on board and started to settle down. I began to try to collect the various component parts of the mess cooks, food baskets, etc, and to search in the bowels of the ship for my servant, groom and horses. Only accommodation, not food, was to be provided for us, and very elementary at that.

I went below to look for my belongings. The dim and stuffy vistas swarmed with men, and down both sides the horses were jammed in long, uneasy rows. This was the lowest deck of all. Just above it there were more men, and an assortment of loose boxes in which were tied the huge, heavy draught horses allotted to our transport. One of these poor animals was behaving like a mad thing, and threatened to smash his way out of his pen, secured by the head as he was, by sheer weight and violence. Every now and then he would rear aloft, and get a leg over the side of the box in a sort of paroxysm of fear and rage. Poor brute! There was a crowd of men round him, and at first I could not see what was taking place; but soon I heard the drip, drip of blood, and a trickle began to make its way through the planks on to the deck below, close to the companion at the foot of which I was standing. The sight was not pleasant. After an interminable delay the cooks, groom and servant all reported to me, and I located my three chargers. As I escaped up to the light and air I had to pass again near the monster draught horse. I could see his huge bulk filling the stall, but he seemed strangely quiet now. I noticed that the men still crowded round, but they were more intent and reassured, and with a sort of curiosity in their faces. There were horror and pity in their looks, not cruelty. The drip, drip was now a steady outpouring of blood. It flooded the deck. They were bleeding him to death, a man told me. He had already staggered once, and would fall now at any moment. As I gained the deck I fancied I heard the thud. The ‘merciful bullet’ was impracticable here, on account of the congested state of the decks. Poor beast, his troubles were over early.

Cpl William Watson, RE, 5th Div.

Towards evening we dropped anchor off Le Havre. On either side of the narrow entrance to the docks there were cheering crowds, and we cheered back, thrilled, occasionally breaking into the soldiers’ anthem, ‘It’s a long, long way to Tipperary’. We disembarked at a secluded wharf, and after waiting about for a couple of hours or so – we had not then learned to wait – we were marched off to a huge dim warehouse, where we were given gallons of the most delicious hot coffee, and bought scrumptious little cakes.

It was now quite dark, and, for what seemed whole nights, we sat wearily waiting while the horses were taken off the transport. We made one vain dash for our quarters, but found only another enormous warehouse, strangely lit, full of clattering wagons and restive horses. We watched with wonder a battery clank out into the night, and then returned sleepily to the wharf-side. Very late we found where we were to sleep, a gigantic series of wool warehouses. The warehouses were full of wool and the wool was full of fleas. I feared the fleas, and spread a waterproof sheet on the bare stones outside. I thought I should not get a wink of sleep on such a Jacobean resting-place, but, as a matter of fact, I slept like a top, and woke in the morning without even an ache. But those who had risked the wool . . . !

Driver Charles Keller, RHA

The horses had been packed below deck, side by side and so close that they couldn’t move. It was probably the only way that so many could be transported. They suffered terribly. Those that could staggered down the gangplank, but many had to be lifted off with slings. It was a relief to see them on the dock where they had a chance to move around. Lines were strung out on the dock for them to be tied while being watered and fed, and after that had been attended to we got something to eat ourselves. We spent the night behind the horses with our saddles for a pillow and during the next four years most of our nights were spent in this manner.

When the brigade was ready to move, the horses were loaded on to box cars: eight to a car, four at each end with their heads to the centre and the centre space was filled with hay, oats, harness and four drivers’ equipment and blankets. This left hardly any room for the drivers who had to sit in the door openings. We sat there the whole journey.

The infantry had disembarked with far less theatre and had marched into camp and under canvas. From there, battalions left by train towards the border with Belgium where they detrained and were introduced to the stone pavé roads that were to prove so hard on men’s feet. Rest, at the end of the day, was most welcome though not always easy.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

Our journey eventually finished up in front of a rickety barn, adjoining a promising looking building. This barn was minus a door, and quite a good portion of its ceiling. On the wall outside was chalked ‘10 Hommes’.

‘Where does the 10 homes come in?’ inquired one of the men. ‘There ain’t enough of this to make one; all I can say is, the other ten families must be damned thankful we have turned them out.’

‘You take another look around, my friend, and you will discover that the eviction of the former inhabitants has still to be proceeded with,’ I pointed out.

Indeed a veritable riot was in progress in the darkness of the barn now we had entered, our appearance being greeted by a lively chorus of animal sounds, registering distinct anger and annoyance. A herd of little pigs gambolling about two old sows, some cows and dozens of farmyard fowl, and a various assortment of other animals, strenuously contested our right of admittance, and they were only got rid of after a hot and lengthy engagement.

Cpl William Watson, RE, 5th Div.

The people crowded into the streets and cheered us. The girls, with tears in their eyes, handed us flowers. Three of us went to the Mairie. The Maire, a courtly little fellow in top-hat and frock-coat, welcomed us in charming terms. Two fat old women rushed up to us and besought us to allow them to do something for us. We set one to make us tea, and the other to bring us hot water and soap. A small girl of about eight brought me her kitten and wanted to give it me. I explained to her that it would not be very comfortable tied with pink ribbons to my carrier. She gravely assented, sat on my knee, told me I was very dirty, and commanded me to kill heaps and heaps of Germans.

The French nation may have welcomed the British soldiers but their animals were of a different mindset altogether. After a visit to the local town in search of tobacco, Alfred Vivian and his comrades returned to discover they had been evicted.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

Taking advantage of our absence, the animals had carried out a raid which had successfully restored them to their original habitation. What chaos they had produced in the quarters that we had so industriously made spick-and-span! Pigs grunted their defiance at us, while chickens filled the air with their derisive and triumphant cacklings. An old sow stood looking a pathetic picture of absolute boredom, while she slowly disposed of the last mouthful of my bed. An aged and decrepit old roué of a donkey, possessed of only one blasé eye, which he fixed on us disdainfully, leaned carelessly, with an air of utmost abandon and indifference, against the billet wall, ruminating on the doubtful flavour of a lump of the material torn from a haversack.

A wild melee ensued, which resulted in the invaders being driven from the position, and we worked hard repairing the ravages our struggle had caused, and eventually arranged things more or less shipshape once again.

On the morning of 22 August, a squadron of cavalry sent forward to reconnoitre the ground ahead had come back with unmistakable and worrying news. Tens of thousands of enemy soldiers were converging on the lightly defended Belgian town of Mons. The last hours of peace were ebbing away.

As a precaution, Lance Corporal Vivian was sent with six men to a cottage a hundred yards ahead of his battalion. There, early the following morning, he finally saw the enemy.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

Coming carelessly along the road towards us was a Uhlan patrol consisting of seven or eight men, then a scanty eighty yards away. The surprising nature of the sight robbed us of our breath and wits, and left us standing in a row gasping and looking like a lot of codfish. The scene impressed me so strongly that it will always remain vividly engraved on my memory.

A short and vicious burst of rapid fire from us completely annihilated that little group with an ease that was staggering. In a second, the only living survivors were five poor chargers, that, rendered riderless and being unharmed, turned and galloped back with snorts of terror towards the direction from whence they had appeared, until they gained the sanctuary of a wood, and disappeared from our view.

Immediately the excitement abated, and we stood aghast, overcome with horror by the enormity of the thing we had done.

Lt Malcolm Hay, 1st Gordon Highlanders

Somewhere hidden in the memory of all who have taken part in the war there is the remembrance of a moment which marked the first realisation of the great change – the moment when material common things took on in real earnest their military significance, when, with the full comprehension of the mind, a wood became cover for the enemy, a house a possible machine-gun position, and every field a battlefield.

Such an awakening came to me when sitting on the roadside by the White Estaminet. The sound of a horse galloping and the sight of horse and rider, the sweat and mud and the tense face of the rider bending low by the horse’s neck, bending as if to avoid bullets. The single rider, perhaps bearing a dispatch, followed after a short space by a dozen cavalrymen, not galloping these, but trotting hard down the centre of the road, mud-stained, and also with tense faces.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

Church bells chimed sweetly in the towns and hamlets about us, and dimly, from the distance, we discerned faint strains of music being poured out at the service being held in the convent in our rear.

A lark hovering immediately above our hole in the roof [of the cottage] trilled out a glorious burst of song, and we craned our necks the better to view it. A strange and indefinable sense of unreality stole over me and, for some extraordinary reason, I became attacked by a strong desire to cry. I endeavoured to impart my sensations to my colleague, and I said to him: ‘There is something so extraordinary hanging in the air, that I feel that the thing I would most enjoy would be to visit a church. I don’t like this quietness and –’

‘Smack!’ the tile within two inches of our heads was shattered into a thousand fragments, and the two of us flopped simultaneously to the floor. I arose with an effort and continued in a quavering voice: ‘I was about to add that I harboured a feeling that something startling was bound to happen to break the spell!’ We did not need telling that the violent blow sustained by the tile above us was the result of a direct hit by a well-directed bullet.