Instructions came on 13th January 1915, requiring me to join two hundred recruits at Dundee West station. We were lined up, names were called out, we were numbered off in tens and with little ceremony, herded into compartments intended for only eight people. Many recruits were indignant, but no one listened. From a megaphone a snarling voice shouted, ‘You are now soldiers, a bunch of bloody soldiers, under orders. The best of ruddy luck to you!’ So this was the reality of Kitchener’s Army?
A whistle blew, the train moved off. At Perth, another batch of recruits joined the already crowded train. At Stirling, three carriages of recruits were hitched up to our train and a second engine was needed to drag the long train to Glasgow. As we disembarked it was dark, frosty and very cold. I was well clad and booted, many were not. We all shivered as we were marshalled on the platform.
We Dundee recruits were separated from the others. A very loud voiced sergeant bawled, ‘Gunners and drivers for the Royal Field Artillery assemble here! Right, left, right left
Move to it you lazy bastards.’ He continued to berate us with swear words, most of which were new to me.
After a freezing and long wait we were marched out of the Station to be urged into waiting tramcars by lots of cursing from an ugly sergeant, then driven to Maryhill Barracks.
I still shudder as I recall the fear that flooded my thoughts as I was unceremoniously marched through the big gates, across the massive square, herded up a flight of stairs and led to a very large barrack room. Each man was checked off against a list, given two blankets and allocated a low bed with hard straw mattress.
Operation over, we were regrouped for a meal. I had a small suitcase which I kept in my hand. Did I say meal? One scruff old lance corporal was the tea disher-outer, another ‘chest) old NCO stood beside a tall precarious pile of sliced bread ready smeared with margarine and on the left-hand side a head of sliced balony. He had a soggy fag hanging from the side of his mouth. Mechanically he took one slice of bread, slapped in sausage, crowned it with another slice of bread and proffered with an occasional spluttery cough or a sprinkling of ash.
This was all foreign to my clean upbringing; not surprisingly my stomach rejected the murky tea and eats. A grubby looking lad in uniform, seeing my disgust, willingly grabbed my ration and in seconds devoured the lot. Fortunately, I had buttered scones, fruit cake and biscuits in my small case, something my dear mother had thoughtfully put in before I left home.
When I got back to the barrack room there was great commotion, for thieves had been at work and coats, scarve suitcases and even army issue blankets were missing. I was fortunate for my blankets were hidden underneath my mattress. I still wore my coat and scarf and both suitcases were safe.
Squatting on my bed, trying to ignore all the cursing swearing and bawling going on around me, I enjoyed the good things my loving mother had put in my case for just such an emergency.
I can barely recall all that went on around me as I ate. Men were angry and swearing, drunks were falling over beds and singing, recruits were loudly complaining to unconcerned and amused NCOs, about stolen cases, purses, clothing and blankets. One man, in a tile hat and wearing a frock coat, said in a very cultured accent that he had mislaid his umbrella am travelling rug, but no one paid any attention. A little man who looked unwell said to one of the regulars, ‘The meal we just had has upset my stomach and my ulcer has flared up.’ He was just laughed at for they were sure he was ‘swinging the lead because he should not have passed the army medical.
Eventually a sergeant with some medical knowledge arrived and sent the little man to hospital under armed guard to prevent him deserting. (Several days later we heard that the poor man had died.)
Yes, I realized for the first time what being really scared and alone meant in that great room with all its clamour, and the glamour of being a soldier coldly faded. I was indeed homesick and, unusual for me who knew that real men do not cry, I wept quietly.
Sergeant-Major Fox eyed me up and came over, put his hand gently on my shoulder and quietly said to me, ‘Sonny, try to forget the damned fools around you. Kip down and sleep.’
With overcoat as my pillow and my scarf, bowler hat, boots and cases beside me and wrapped up in both blankets I slept soundly.
At an unearthly hour a bugle sounded and a coarse voice bellowed, ‘Fall in on Square Four!’ I was trying to hide my belongings as best I could under my mattress when a voice bawled in my ear, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I tried to turn towards my tormentor asking pointedly, ‘Who do you think you are. .
I got no further, for he caught me by the back collar of my jacket with one hand, preventing me from completely turning, screamed a score of angry oaths and roughly pushed me aside. There seemed to be a great silence among the men as I now spun to face the man with the dirty tongue and shouted back, ‘You brute! You fool! Who…?’
My words faded and then died on my suddenly parched lips because the offender was no other than Sergeant-Major Fox, the man with the limp who advised me earlier that morning to forget the damned fools around me. He ordered me out to the square with the others.
Towards the end of the ensuing half hour exercise session of running around the square I was called into the sergeant-major’s office. I was scared. I could not run away, so I summoned up my courage and marched in as smartly as I knew how and stood to attention to be told severely, ‘Caseby, you are a soldier now, you must learn to obey every order without question. Failure to do so will mean punishment.’
I looked Foxy straight in the eyes and replied, ‘Thank you, Sir. I now understand.’
I was a soldier, the youngest in the group and my mind was now made up to try my best. Quickly I proved to be one of the smartest at all drills on the square. I obeyed and it was well worth while. My initial irritations were over, I kept myself clean, fell into no temptations, used my money wisely on food and never even once on drink, smoking or gambling. In the latter three I was keeping my promises to my mother and my minister and so I was inwardly happy.
I did not know what lay before me: vaccination, inoculations and twenty soldiers housed in a dirty horse box, previously only thought fit for one stallion. Quick switch to the splendid new Redford Barracks in Edinburgh, where I had lots of friends and was not far from home. Real practice on eighteen-pounder guns, passing tests that added to my pay. Then came riding school tests, brand new uniform and an inspection by a high ranking officer. His remarks were mostly about horses, guns and materials. He mentioned as an afterthought that the men were first class. Questions were called for and one soldier asked, ‘Why horses first, sir?’
The inquisitive gunner was given the reply that shocked us all, ‘Horses cost on average £40, men are plentiful at 1/- each. Next question.’
It was the second time we had heard the cold logic of this argument that horses were more valuable than men. Even so, I still felt that the officer was half-joking. I was soon to learn better!
Another move was made to Aldershot for gunnery practice with live ammunition on Salisbury Plain and several long marches on iron rations as test periods for active service.
Dirty Horse Boxes Were Our Billets!
Long before daybreak, and often up to seven p.m., we drilled and carried out one hundred and one duties, Monday to Friday, Saturday to noon, Sunday Church Parade and every second week there was cook-house and camp cleaning.
We did not get out of camp or rather barracks for three weeks. Only when we had mastered saluting, alertness, spit and polish, kit inspection and the elastic words, ‘military manners’ did we get an outside pass.
I was fortunate — I had received an ‘A’ report from all instructors, which meant at the end of my first month my pay was increased 3½d per day. I received a train voucher, forty-eight hours leave and 10/- board money.
I made a bee-line to Queen Street Station in Glasgow. It was grand to slip off the train at Leuchars Junction and walk over the familiar fields to my home at Balmullo. As a youngster I did not like stew and I never ate rice pudding. I arrived home at lunchtime and mother, charmed to see me remarked, ‘It’s stewing beef and rice pudding for lunch!’ I put mother at ease— ‘I’ll eat it, I eat anything now, after being at Maryhill Barracks.’ Her food was delicious.
The leave soon came to an end and one hour before ten p.m. (deadline on my pass) l reported to the guardroom.
Sergeant-Major Fox was standing beside the orderly sergeant.
‘What did I tell you Sarge. The boy Caseby would be the first to report back.’ S/M Fox looked very pleased and for the first time he patted me on the back.
One morning, while having instructions on an eighteen-pounder gun, we were called to parade, as a colonel wished to inspect us. The foot and marching drill satisfied the colonel. He inspected us with the usual remarks, ‘His hair is too long, take his name,’ and, ‘Why did you not polish your boots? Take his name,’ and, ‘Button undone there, take his name,’ and, ‘What makes you grin? Take his name.
After the march past and salute, we were addressed by a major with an Irish twang.
‘This afternoon at two p.m. assembled troops will pack their kits and proceed to another depot. As you pass through our city streets, no breaking ranks, no idle talk, proceed as trained soldiers loyal to the King.’
It was a long, long route march. We landed at the Scotstown Stallion showground. Tired and hungry, we were lined up in the cold, frosty showground. We were to be vaccinated and inoculated. It was a grim episode indeed. We all shivered.
An RAMC orderly cleansed the upper left arm and an RAMC doctor scratched the arm in two places and blew on the vaccine.
Next came an RAMC sergeant. He injected us with T.Pb2, followed by another RAMC orderly who fixed on a bandage. The cold was intense. Operations finished we were dismissed to reassemble at the billets.
The ‘billets’ were stallion loose boxes. In each box, uncleaned from a previous horse show, twenty men were herded in a place fit for one stallion. We were like sardines in a tin. Later, while we were having our evening meal in a cold marquee, I got permission to send a telegram to my brother, a teacher in the Vale of Leven. Two hours later my brother John called, tipped a sergeant 10/- and got me a twenty-four hour pass.
Though under par from vaccination, injection, freezing cold and fatigued from the long march, I had a very pleasant twenty-four hours, extended by another twenty-four hours, on request by my brother, as I was sick.
On my return to the showground, I found two men had died and a dozen were taken to hospital. Some men had very bad arms, others came out in blisters. My weekend with my brother toned me up — I was well fed and rested and within four days I was assigned the duty to carry meals to medically unfit soldiers.
As I had a free hand at the ‘field kitchen’, I saw to my patients. They had the best of food I could scrounge. At the end of ten days all patients were fit and on parade.
We were told to pack our kits for a new destination. Another march, this time to a troop train that took us to Slateford Station, Edinburgh. To our very great surprise we arrived at the New Redford Barracks, the first of Kitchener’s Army to occupy the finely-furnished quarters.
Redford Barracks proved an ideal place to train in and was especially a comfortable place to live in. The food was very good, with an early ‘cuppa’ before roll call, porridge, bacon, rolls and tea or cocoa with a bun for supper.
As a gunner, much of my time was spent learning all about the eighteen-pounders, various kinds of ammunition and fuses, map reading, signalling by morse and flag. There were visual aid instruction on manoeuvres, gun positioning and aiming.
Gunners had to pass through the riding school. For days I could hardly sit. My bottom ached with riding bareback. I had many a tumble and knocked out both elbow joints, but in the end I could take my place with drivers on horseback. I put my heart into every duty and succeeded gaining my spurs, gun layer’s certificate and full marks for drill.
Being young, I had the advantage over older men — things came easily. I noted down everything and even after long route marches over the Pentland Hills to shooting ranges, I came back fresh and relaxed. With each pass-mark my pay was increased by 3d per day. At the end of five months my pay was 16/- per week — a lot of money in those days.
As I was reasonable at arithmetic and good at reading and writing, I acted on many occasions as clerk (unpaid), but it carried with it weekend free rail vouchers, which I used to take me home.
Brand new uniforms reached the barracks. I was asked to do all the book-keeping with the issue of kit. Naturally, I had the first choice — fitted out by the quartermaster himself What a happy moment, dressed as a trained soldier should be dressed and to use my mother’s words when she saw my uniform, ‘My, you are a lovely boy!’
Many extra items of kit were issued, something that warned us to be ready to move. Within four days of kit issue, eighty-one other qualified gunners and I were sent to Aldershot for live ammunition practice on Salisbury Plain.
All that had gone before was child’s play compared to the active service conditions, night and day, on the gunnery ranges. Without notice, we were called to limber up, gallop (six horses plus three drivers to a gun) to a position on the map, dig in, aim and fire at a target some two to three miles away. We filled hundreds of sand bags, unrolled miles (it seemed) of wire netting camouflage and stacked up hundreds of rounds of eighteen-pounder shells.
We all had our positions and as I had my gunnery certificate I fired the gun. I was youthful and keen.
After one gunnery session we were taken to the point of shell impact near the targets. To be frank I was delighted with the near hits, but felt queer when I saw a dead rabbit. Little did I know that within weeks I would see many slain soldiers, including my friends, on the battlefields of Loos and never know whether it was enemy or our own shells that had killed or maimed them.
At the end of seven weeks of intensive training we were given ten-day passes. We felt we had earned a break. Various high ranking officers had visited all the Royal Field Artillery units and to our delight their findings were read out to us — ‘Horses, guns, men and material, first class, perfect for active service. Many of us grinned at the order of priorities: horses first.
One gunner enquired: ‘Is this our last leave before going abroad?’
After a silence, a colonel gave a clue: ‘If you are recalled during your leave, report immediately to your unit. Failure to do so will be serious.
So that was that. We were recalled two days early and by the day our passes expired we were actually en route by train for a channel port. We crossed the channel by night on the ship called City of Benares, bound for Le Havre on the French coast.
The crossing from Southampton to Le Havre was rough. The City of Benares was a cattle boat and it had the smell of cattle. Down below, where the horses were stabled, the stench was high.
We were part of the newly-formed 24th Division, one of the most complete to reach France. We numbered 23,000.
I had crossed the River Tay in the ferry boat and enjoyed the trip; also I had sailed in a fine ship down the River Clyde to Rothesay. It was pleasant, but the channel crossing was a nightmare.
Before embarking we were warned to keep quiet on the voyage. It was anything but quiet. Through a haze of being very seasick and wishing to die, I was just aware of a hubbub composed of hostile horses kicking, stamping and whinneying in terror, sick soldiers on deck being soaked by sea spray and cursing, naval ratings manning depth charges and guns, sailors assisted by fit soldiers on the look-out for U-boats and officers trying to shout instructions above the storm. The grunts and groans from seasick soldiers heard over submarine hydrophones must have been enough to frighten any U-boats away!
We knew our orders on landing and everything was carried out with military precision. Drivers took the horses to a given point, guns and limbers to an area near the horses, stores and equipment to a huge dockside store and boxes of ammunition to an Ammo depot. The whole operation was completed in less than three hours.
After the horses were groomed and fed and all items checked the welcome bugle call was sounded with the familiar tune, ‘Come to the cookhouse door boys.’ Again the field kitchen was in action serving us pie, roll and bacon and pints of tea. During the meal each man was handed one small bag of iron rations and a small kit of field dressings (bandages, sticking plaster, iodine and two safety pins).
It took us eight days by train and road to reach our battery positions at Reichbourgh. We were in another world, far removed from Salisbury Plain and an eternity from Balmullo, my home.
As we moved forward we came under fire from German 5.9 guns. The ground was pitted with thousands of shell holes, the air had the smell of powder and death and there were trenches, dugouts, barbed wire, blasted houses and trees. We were in the war.
We were hardly settled in our first position when we were ordered to move to a devastated sector called Tonbiers Leap (Annequin).
Infantry were moving up to the front. Engineers were busy on blasted roads, erecting wire entanglements. Wounded were carried on stretchers to advanced dressing stations and our unit was moving forward under heavy and light shell fire.
I had felt squeamish at Salisbury Plain on seeing a dead rabbit killed by shell fire. Now before us lay the dismembered or mangled bodies of men. All we could do was to look, feel terrified and go on. We soon learned to suppress our feelings even when comrades died horrifically.
We worked like Trojans to get the guns in position. An elderly seasoned artilleryman, who was wounded at Mons, would shout, ‘Duck for this whizz-bang shell,’ or, ‘To hell with that one, it’s too high.’
Our CO, Captain Bell, a Fifer, was a skilled soldier. Once the guns were operational, he moved to the frontline and directed the fire. We shelled the enemy for sixty hours, sometimes thunderous salvos (all guns firing at once), sometimes terrifying timed firing (ten seconds apart). It was indeed our baptism of fire.
The enemy fire was accurate, so accurate that we were compelled to lie in a trench for an hour. Then there was a lull and two of our spotter planes would fly overhead. Elsewhere balloons with wickerwork gondolas for the observers would be launched to spot enemy positions, only to be shot down and then we would see the airman parachute to the ground, if he was quick enough. Instructions from all of these recces were communicated to all units.
We heard the gallop of horses and to our surprise they were our own drivers with limbers to remove the guns to a new position. It was a surprise. So too was the welcome grub — a loaf between three and a tin of bully (corned beef) between two.
As we moved to the rear we enjoyed our meal. The dry bread tasted sweet, so also the corned beef. We halted near a sunken road, while Captain Bell and Sergeant-Major Lyon, galloped towards Hulluich Plain in the teeth of shell fire.
A shell burst below the Captain’s horse and both were killed instantly. They were only nine hundred yards from the front line.
The late Captain’s plan was to take his guns close to the front line to blast enemy machine guns and trench mortar emplacements. Lieutenant Piers-Clark assumed command and decided to follow the original plan. He moved our guns two hundred yards to the right front of Vermeils. The Battle of Loos was on and we were proud to support the infantry who were having a tough time.
Our new gun site was in the open. Our ammunition was limited and some of it was bad. I opened one box of four 18 lb shells to find only bricks. Other boxes of American shells did not suit our guns. We were pleased to have wagon loads of boxes with good shells. The first one I opened had a card tied to a shell, ‘If you’re single, drop a line; if you’re married, never mind,’ underneath a woman s name. Such things were common.
As our six-horse wagon team hurried to the rear a crump of shells straddled them. Animals were killed, but three drivers and a mounted NCO were unhurt. On 26th September, 1915, we witnessed a dreadful sight — hundreds of young infantrymen hurrying to the front line and being decimated by enemy machine-gun fire.
The men moved over Hulluich Plain in full view of the Germans. It was sickening to view. Force marched, weary, hungry and untried under fire, these ‘rookies’ seemed ignorant of the dangers facing them and they were needlessly sent to their slaughter.
Our guns were given enemy targets. We fired, switching from one area to another. We scored many direct hits and silenced many guns.
Seasoned Guardsmen manoeuvred forward and occupied forward shell holes to give support to Highland soldiers. Our sister batteries, in the far side of the plain near a cemetery, used open sights to blast Hun trenches. The tactics were bold, but short lived, for German mobile guns moved up and pounded them, creating heavy losses.
Signallers and linesmen were taxed to keep communications open. By luck, a signaller saw the flash of the enemy mobile guns, gave us bearings and in ten minutes of rapid gunfire, we had silenced the tormentors.
The Battle of Loos was a tragedy. Losses on both sides reached many thousands dead and many more wounded. We had a rough time during this long battle, our guns playing a big part.
German prisoners trooped past our guns. One remarked, on seeing a pile of shell cases, ‘You have done well. Are you the 24th Division?’ His English was perfect. He asked again, but no one spoke, then, ‘Your silence tells me you are the 24th Division.
During a lull in the battle we were relieved by another battery. Rain was falling incessantly and we lived in a sea of mud which drowned many wounded infantrymen before they could be reached in ‘No man’s land’.
We were tired, lousy, hungry and footsore. We reached a place six miles in the rear. First, horses were groomed, watered and fed, then we were seen to. A rum ration was handed out. I never touched the stuff, even when an officer demanded I take rum, I refused. I was reported to the Captain who demanded, ‘Why do you refuse a lawful command, Caseby?’
Politely, I said, ‘I promised my parents I would not drink. I hate all kinds of drink. I’m sorry, Sir.’
The Captain complimented me. As I walked away I heard him say to the officer, ‘I admire the lad’s courage.
Next day, while we were on parade in pouring rain, I was one of three gunners called from the rank. We could not think what we had done wrong. My name was called first, ‘70412, Caseby A., gunner. You are promoted Bombardier.’ I was the youngest with a ‘Tape’, also an extra 9d per day. When called out, I expected to be court martialled or drafted to front line trench mortars, but promotion it was indeed — a great surprise. Next day when my name appeared on the order board, I reported to the Quartermaster (stores), for my chevrons. Not only did I receive them but he called the tailor to sew them on. I was delighted and my promotion was popular. I was friendly with everyone in the battery, for I wrote letters for many who could not write and they knew I would not expect anyone to do something I could not do myself — with the exception of drinking rum!
We had come through a bloody battle, the weather was filthy, but we were not discouraged. We mourned the loss of friends, other recruits filled the blanks in our ranks. Orders came after three days to move. Loos was left behind, we were on the long trail to Ypres. This was to be the role of the 24th Division, where a mammoth attack was planned. We were fortunate to have fine leaders, men tried and proved in war.
The long trail over, we reached a placed called Ouderdoun. This was to be the wagon line for horses and stores. In the evening our guns moved forward to a place called Bedford House, about half a mile to the left front of Dickiebusch village. We learned that the mansion house was once the property of a Belgian count, who was in the pay of the Germans. He was shot as a spy.
German planes made sorties over our lines. One was brought down by a Lewis gunner.
I was in charge of one eighteen-pounder. I had a splendid crew. They were always at work. One day I accompanied an officer and signaller to a front line observation post. I had a good view of the German line, but when I heard a rifle shot I realized we were in no man’s land’, in front of our infantry.
From my hideout I saw the graves of British and German dead, marked by rifles stuck in the ground and for the first time I saw red poppies growing all around. The wire entanglements in no man’s land’ were intricate and deep. We sent word back for one gun to fire one shell set for shrapnel. It burst in front of us, at the right height to smash wire. In the four hours forward we heard a few rifle and machine-gun shots and the whizz of our own shells. The signaller said it was a picnic.
When we got back to our guns we found a new captain —Captain Topper Brown. We learned from some recruits that Brown was crazy on horses and harness. He even had men trim the rank vegetation around Bedford House, a crazy thing to do. Jerry planes came over and spotted the change which showed them that something important must be happening, for next morning at two a.m. we were blasted for twenty minutes, some hundred shells crumping around us. At the same time, the wagon line was bombed, horses killed and men wounded.
I made many trips with officers to forward observation posts and had many narrow escapes. Three times we were lifted off our feet by ‘dud’ German shells. Had any one exploded we would have been blown to bits. Each trip I spotted good shelter places, should the Huns open fire. On one occasion a salvo of six shells came whizzing over. I shouted to my companions to duck into a dugout nearby. They followed me. We were plastered only with dirt and choked by fumes. A close shave.
Colonel Coates visited our gun site at Bedford House. He was a stout man. He asked Captain Brown for two guides to take him up the line to an observation post. I was one, with orders to see to the Colonel’s safety. Going ahead I walked quickly. Twice I was told to ‘ease up.’ The Germans were lobbing trench mortars all over the second line of trenches and beyond. The Colonel was puffing.
Many duckboards were broken, footing was bad and in places there were great gaps in the trenches. The Colonel asked me how far we had to go. I told him about fifty yards beyond the trench that was being strafed by machine-gun fire. I told him there was a safe dugout a little to our right. That pleased him. I made for the dugout, spoke to a sentry who tapped a coded message on his buzzer. Within a minute an infantry captain appeared and escorted the Colonel to the downstairs mess. The other guide and I were taken to a slit trench, where we got bread and cheese — something we did not have at our gun pit. Within an hour Colonel Coates reappeared with the infantry captain and we were told the operation was complete, so we turned back.
As we reached the boundary of our guns we were given ten francs each and thanked for our services. I do not know if the colonel was taken by a secret route to the observation point, but we never asked and we were never told. My friend and I had a good meal and ten francs each, a very profitable day for us.
During our long spell at Bedford House, we took part in many raids, giving support to our infantrymen who raided the German trenches one night and took one officer, two NCOs and four privates prisoners.
It was mid November, snow was on the’ ground and everything was frozen. Our soldiers went forward with helmets and boots whitewashed and wearing long white smocks. We found our German prisoners had only just arrived and that the officer had plans to attack us.
We had served in important areas for four months. We were all very tired, many horses died in action, a number of men were wounded, gassed (including myself) and the guns required skilled attention.
We withdrew to a place well away from the front line, Talingheim, near to St Omer. Except for attending to horses, food chores and sentry duty, we where given three days rest. We were dirty and ‘lousy’ so we bathed, had clean clothing, footwear and good food. We indulged in all kinds of sport, had concert parties, boxing matches and horse racing. We had one day of spit and polish — guns, uniforms, horses and kit. We were inspected by General Sir Hubert Plumer, who later said in his report, ‘Congratulations to all ranks on general efficiency.’
Next day, 1st January, 1916, we took to the road again – to Ypres to relieve the 17th Division. It was a long forced march under wintry conditions — sleet, rain, frost at night, mud everywhere by day and very cold. A seasoned campaigner by this time, I hid sandbags, grain bags and rolls of tarred paper in various wagons and limbers. At night I had the black tarred paper underneath my ground sheet, my feet in sandbags and was up to the neck in grain bags and covered myself with blankets. We lay down each night with clothes on, hence soon becoming dirty and lousy! While others moaned and groaned I rested and slept soundly to make myself fit for another day of hell.
A muddy patch outside Poperinge was the rear wagon and supply depot for us. I was glad I was going up the line in charge of a gun. Late at night we made our way through Vlamertynghe, once a pretty village and now only a heap of rubble, as it had been shelled day and night for weeks, to Ypres. We came under heavy fire near what had been then the Asylum and was now a pile of smashed red bricks and many of our horses were wounded. By the roadside were hundreds of smashed lorries, guns, dead and dying men and animals.
After a long and trying journey we reached the ramparts of Menin Road, close to ‘Suicide Corner’. The gun positions made by the Artillery of the 17th Division were excellent — the best we had experienced. It was one a.m. on 7thJanuary, 1916 and one year after I enlisted, when hooters sounded denoting a chlorine gas attack. We had just secured our nosebag gas masks when the Germans opened up a terrific bombardment along the ramparts around the guns and in the shattered city of Ypres. A divisional order came for all guns to open up rapid fire on a score of chosen targets.
The whole front was an inferno, Verey lights illuminating the sky. The ground rocked under us and at last the slow-moving ground-level cloud of chlorine gas arrived. Just as the cloud reached us the wind changed, a stiff breeze followed, blowing the gas back on the German front!
A switch was ordered in our line of fire and we threw off our masks and let the enemy have a real blanket of fire power. Later we learned that our infantry raiding party had used the gas cloud for cover, attacked the German trenches and brought back many prisoners, most of whom were dazed by their own gas!
We had one man killed, a close friend promoted the same day as myself— Bombardier Ramsay. We were fairly safe in our strong gun-pits, but each night when ammunition and supplies came up, our losses in men and animals reached great proportions. From dawn to daylight each night the shelling, on both sides, was constant. One night, shelling on our sector eased and all the enemy fire-power was concentrated on our October position at Bedford House.
Our guns were taken from the Menin Ramparts to the Bedford House district. We fired as sappers filled sandbags from rubbish around, to give us some protection.
Infantry from Scottish regiments moved up the line and we gave them every support. By daybreak the Gordons had taken a hillock called ‘The Bluff and other troops had stormed and captured ‘International Trench’. Losses were heavy on both sides, many prisoners were captured and strategic points secured.
For one week I was a guide between advanced headquarters, gun sites and advanced observation posts. I was up and down all the danger spots a dozen times, past the dreaded ‘Cloth Hall’ at Ypres, without any loss of life. In all, I safely escorted twenty-two officers. For this I was mentioned in dispatches and recommended for promotion.
Up to July 1916,1 had nearly one year in action — Loos, Lens, Yser River, Ypres, Menin Road, Messines and La Basse, being among the battles, in which one third of our Royal Field Artillery personnel were killed, gassed or wounded, half of our eighteen-pounder guns put out of action and one quarter of our transport horses immobilised. Now as a regrouped, fully staffed unit of the 24th Division we moved our guns into position at Mountaban on the Somme.
Before we could consolidate we were met with a bombardment of phosgene gas shells, whizz-bang shells and 5.9 high explosives. We looked funny guys in our nosebag gas masks. One explosive shattered all our rations, except cheese and tins of marmalade. We had a large supply of shells and when the gas was over we really got into action.
I sat for four hours at the gun and fired over three hundred shells. The battle area was one of dreadful noise, our guns —hundreds of them —firing and enemy shells bursting. The day before the battle of Guillemont 100,000 shells burst around us and treble that number fell on the enemy side.
On the morning of the big day we advanced and by a miracle dug in our guns near Bernafay Wood and commenced continuous firing. At noon Captain Goodwin called me to check a fault in the next gun. A shell burst in the gun pit I had left, killing all my crew. Ten minutes later another gun was blown up and the crew, including the Captain, Lieutenant and four NCOs lost their lives.
With all guns out of action and a lull in the shelling we buried our dead, with the help of eight Royal Engineers, in Meanlte Cemetery. Two Engineers made a cross from trench boards. At ten a.m. we had fifty-four Officers, NCOs and Gunners — by two p.m. we had only twelve men.
Our sad duty completed, we hurried to the shambles of our gun pits where we found our Colonel Spillar, a very courageous man. He told us new guns and men were moving up to new positions. On reaching our new site it was sad to learn the rear wagon lines had been destroyed, with great loss in drivers, horses and stores.
After nearly twenty-four hours on chunks of cheese, topped with marmalade, we were given a thick slice of bread, four ounces of corned beef, a quart of water and two 1 oz hard biscuits. It was a delicious meal.
The reinforcements were new and it was their first time in action. Some were bewildered, especially our new captain. He had commanded about half a dozen batteries in as many battles. He tore off his tunic and cursed everything and everybody. He was obviously unfit to command and it was my unpleasant duty to run to a unit nearby and request the senior officer to come to our aid. He did and that evening a very ill, shell shocked and raving madman was taken, tied on a stretcher, to hospital.
The tide had turned in our favour. A first-class campaigner, Captain Birch, took over and within twelve hours we were in the thick of battle. Days dragged on, it was a case of ebb and flow and the smell of death always hung all around. Dixies of stew arrived cold and so-called plum duff had more sandbag jute through it than currants, while tea made with chlorinated water was revolting.
To my joy a food parcel arrived from home. Its meat cubes, chocolate, sweets, cake, shortbread and bottles of lime concentrates made me happy for hours. It was shared with others; I always found pleasure in sharing. My sister Netta had made it her job to collect items for these parcels which she regularly packed and sewed up in linen and posted to me and my two brothers in France. It must have been a hardship for those at home as food was scarce but the parcels and the regular correspondence did much to keep me physically and mentally well, despite the hell around me.
Mid-July found me in a Canadian War Hospital, at Dunes Camier. I was wounded during a German counter attack. They opened out with every calibre of gun. It was abortive and short-lived. It was fine to wake up after my operation, to be between clean sheets again and to be served good food by charming nurses and to feel safe — or were we safe? Bombs dropped not far away each night. My wounds took a long time to heal and I became restless. So when a wire arrived from Captain Birch requesting me to rejoin my old battery I agreed, against medical advice.
From this time on I had increasing and debilitating symptoms of shell shock together with terrible head pains, later in life brief personality disorders and later still sudden blackouts lasting from a few minutes to many hours, followed by ignorance of what had happened. In 1986 my Doctor Morrison from Cupar X-rayed my head and to my astonishment revealed that the Dunes Camier Canadian doctors had repaired my damaged skull by screwing on a metal plate.
The tension of Ypres (we called it ‘Wipers’), with its many raids, constant bombardment, sameness of hard and dry food rations and twenty-one days and nights, more or less, in the same clothes, took its toll on the health and nerves of all ranks and even animals. Eye strain, headaches, colic, asthma, fever and indigestion were other major recurring complaints, not to mention the hazards from shells, bombs and gas.
In mid-April 1916, we left the shambles of Ypres behind and took a winding journey to Romarin. On the way we had time to have baths, clean clothing and lots of nourishing food denied us since New Year’s day. New boots which were much lighter were issued.
As I was going on a refresher course for one week I found the new situation agreeable: gas warfare training, quick action movement of guns and material in an emergency, new gunnery tactics and mobile warfare. I liked the last course, for in former courses everything was based on the stupid method of static trench and raid tactics. It was a crash course indeed — I wrote everything up, for I had to lecture to NCOs, on my return to battery.
When I returned from the course I proceeded up to Plug Street section, our nickname for Ploegstreete, where our battery relieved the Canadian Artillery. The gun pits were excellent with huge tree trunks and concrete on sides and roof and well camouflaged. The rest quarters, slit trenches and ammunition dumps were well concealed, built like a model fortress. The position was very quiet during the day, but noisy at night.
One morning our Colonel H. Burrows came to say goodbye and he introduced to us Colonel Spiller, DSO. We took tQ our new Colonel right away. Like Burrows he was frank and fair, but he had an added quality, he had a sense of humour. He entered my gun pit with Captain Topper Brown. With my men we were polishing brass work on the gun. We all jumped to attention.
Colonel Spiller said to me, ‘Bombardier, why are you polishing brass work?’
I had only one reply, ‘On Captain Brown’s instructions, Sir.’
Back came the order, ‘Dull all your brasses, use paint if necessary. The enemy could spot your position from light glinting off the metal.’
That night Captain Topper Brown was replaced by Captain Stanley Goodwin.
Captain Goodwin, like Colonel Spiller, was a very fine officer. ‘Stanley’, as we nicknamed him, after the explorer, spoke to every man and asked us to come to him if we were anxious about anything.
‘Look upon me as a friend,’ he said. He took an interest in our food, our clothing, our health.
For the first time in a year I saw the Brigade Medical Officer up at the guns, at the captain’s insistence. He stayed one week, giving us injections against various troubles.
Word went around that our Division was to be regrouped and we were going to Italy. Regrouped, yes, to Italy, no. Each Brigade had four eighteen-pounder guns. Fortunately we retained our captain and all officers. Some NCOs and men were drafted to form other units.
On reorganization, we switched to an active part of the ‘Plug Street’ front, away from the safety of our Canadian model fortress. From our fortress we had observed hits on some seventy German targets, leaving to our successors very vital coded information, which proved of great value in the month of June 1916.
The area was abnormally quiet for a few days. A narrowgauge railway line was made by Royal Engineers to about 2,000 yards from the front line. Their little steam puffer brought up valuable loads of material each night. On the sixth night the Germans found out about it and strafed the railway for an hour, smashing engine, wagons and goods.
When all was silent and dark two gunners set out down the ridge to the smashed-up railway line to salvage food. It was a risky journey, for the enemy put down salvos of whiz-bangs every few minutes. After about an hour the daring lads returned with a greybeard of rum. There was rejoicing. Then the moment came for the first issue. I cannot print what happened next for it turned out to be a greybeard of lime juice!
Later another platoon was moving forward in the semidarkness when a lad stumbled over a box. The weary soldiers took it in turn to carry the heavy box, expected to be of corned beef, to the support trench where they were to rest for the night. When daylight dawned the box was opened and judge the disquiet when the contents revealed cartons of anti-lice dusting powder.
We were pinned down day and night by enemy barrages for two weeks and so we were forced to keep our clothes on, nor could we wash or shave properly. For food we had hard biscuits, mouldy cheese and Tommy Ticklers Marmalade, plus one quart of sickeningly chlorinated water each. We were all in the same boat. The men were grousing, grumbling and calling the enemy every name possible because there was a constant bombardment around the ridge. So the Keatings Lice Powder became a blessing in disguise as it removed one of the irritations — fleas!
On orders, we had to withhold our fire. The gun pits and dugouts were well constructed and so we withstood the long ordeal in them in some comfort. No one was hurt. The only pain was from indigestion, colic and headaches. Our turn to fire came and hundreds of guns opened up, soon silencing the enemy guns. Rations arrived and now we had dixies of cold stew, cold spuds, cold tea and one slice of bread each. It was very welcome and greatly enjoyed. Someone remembered the greybeard of limejuice. Mixed with water it was refreshing and disguised the chemical taste of the water — another small blessing!
It was towards the end of our time in this new sector that Captain Stanley Goodwin sent for me. As usual I wondered what I had done wrong.
‘Relax, Caseby,’ he said, ‘Some time ago I hear you were on a crash course about gas warfare. Tell me about it.’
I asked to be excused to go to my kitbag to collect my detailed notes.
When I handed them to him, he gasped, ‘When did you write all this up.
I told him, ‘During lulls in action, Sir.’
He was most impressed and the same evening, when the sector was quiet, he invited me to explain all details of the course from memory to two officers, the sergeant-major and himself.
We had just finished when we were called to action. We were unprotected in the open. Our whole front put up a devastating barrage of fire for half an hour. Infantry made a raid on the German trenches, capturing not only men, but valuable documents. This raid was the beginning of similar ones leading up to the Battle of the Somme.
Headquarters, seemingly, were not too pleased with the number and quality of prisoners. It looked as if all odds and ends of feeble Germans had occupied their trenches.
We were supplied with smoke shells and all guns were switched to another part of the line. Howitzer guns used high explosives, we used smoke shells. Again the bombardment was on a massive scale. The Germans sensed the smoke screen was to obscure our advancing infantry. Our troops moved rapidly on the quiet sector, cut wire entanglements and moved deep, capturing many first class Jerries who had just arrived for an attack.
There was confusion in the Hun ranks. Our infantry made a deep, wide sweep, driving the bewildered Germans into our sector. This was the glorious conclusion of the long number of raids by Canadians.
Our losses were few but again the prolonged standby without sleep and on poor rations began to tell on our gunners. There was praise on all sides, including the Germans, for the accuracy of the 24th Division gunners.
The Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig, issued this message — ‘Please convey to the 24th Division congratulations on the success of the operations and my appreciation of the gallantry and skill shown by the troops engaged.’
Our artillery was withdrawn from forward position for refit and rest. During our second day out we were told by Major Hobdav that we had to move within an hour. I was one of the NCOs detailed to go with an advance party.
We were bound for the ‘Hell of all Sectors’, Ypres.
We moved swiftly through Bethune, Merville, Barlheul, Eecke, Boescheppe and Poperinge. We regrouped near ‘muddy, bloody Vlamertynghe’, only to find out why it was so nicknamed. In darkness and drizzle we passed through Ypres, past the Ramparts, up the dreaded Menin Road. We tried to dig in our guns, but high explosives and phosgene gas shells made it impossible. We had many casualties. As day was breaking on 29th May, 1917, we reached the rubble of the once Blenpoorte Farm. To this day I just do not know how or why any of us survived.
We lay in sodden shell holes for an hour with crumps of shells plastering us with mud. Then came the ‘do or die’ order, ‘Range 1,525 yards, all guns, rapid fire on Hill 60!’
We knew the poundings we were receiving, but we were actually firing twenty shells to the Germans’ one. Our circumstances may have been bad, but the enemy’s must have been infinitely worse. For seven days and seven nights without stop this pounding continued. On 6th June an enormous German cavalcade of more guns, ammunition and equipment reached Ypres. The enemy threw all his big shells into the ruined city. Our losses were very heavy. We were stunned.
In the late afternoon I was at Ypres with important dispatches. I ran from corner to corner of broken walls. I dodged more than a hundred shells, fortunately. I delivered the message and returned to our guns with a reply. Talk about dodge and run. In all I covered seven miles. I was young, alert, athletic and wary.
I had only eaten a hard biscuit smeared with Tommy Tickler Jam when zero hour arrived. Yes, it was 7thJune when we blew up Hill 60 and Messignes Ridge. The whole earth shook. Every gun blazed. One gun caught fire, another was disabled. Our Engineers had tunnelled into the hillside, stuffed their workings with explosives and blown away most of the Huns’ entrenched positions.
Major Hobday and Sergeant Nicholls rushed us into the inferno and we rescued enemy wounded.
Luck was in our favour, the many stacks of shells around us did not blow up.
With Hill 60 and Messignes Ridge gone, we could see great fires in the rear of the German lines. Long columns of prisoners passed our way as the shelling ceased; the spoils of war also passed us, so too the wounded British and German soldiers. Thousands died. We had our losses in gunners too. One young lad, Gunner Cox, was killed at my side, others were injured. No hurt came my way.
We were very exhausted, dirty, hungry, lousy, short-staffed, but not dismayed. With difficulty we withdrew to a place called ‘The Bluff’, then, with the help of Engineers, we moved back to a cosy place called Aire. We had so many killed and wounded we could only muster one half of our unit. A huge dixie of stew and potatoes arrived but we were too tired to eat.
The Somme front looked different when I got back to the firing line. Many times I had shelled such places as Guillemont, Ginchy, Morval and Combles. Now I was walking through such places, taken from the Germans.
I was shocked to learn of the loss of life in my 24th Division, including Brigadier-General Philpots and Brigade-Major Crippen, two men I admired for their courage and bravery by coming to the front-line to gather first-hand intelligence and to inform and encourage us. To my mind they were first class soldiers who always tried to consider the soldier and his needs as a priority, rather than political or personality factors and this was rare in my short experience. I had always been selected as their guide to the dangerous observation posts. Their loss somehow brought home the pointlessness of what nations were doing to their young in the cause that we all called civilization.
Near the end of 1916 we were relieved from forward positions and rested four days in a safe rear area, then we made our way to Amiens. Outside this great railway centre General Capper addressed a large assembly of artillerymen. He said it was imperative that all batteries should have six guns, two guns to be mobile to move at a moment’s notice to hard-pressed key points. We all sighed as units were split up and familiar friends who had worked so well in teams were parted. I was very pleased with our new unit for we were to be under a reputedly good man, Major Hobday. The overall man was to be a Colonel Bourne, DSO.
Things moved too rapidly, especially for the artillery drivers who had stubborn mules supplied to make up for losses to their teams of six horses to each limber. Under the cover of darkness we moved by way of Doullens, Frevent and Aubigny to Acq, near Mont St Eloy. Things went smoothly, map reading was so easy as land marks were prominent. It almost seemed like a quiet exercise on Salisbury Plain. Without a hitch we dug in on Vimy Ridge.
Then the surprise — not shells, not lice, not hunger, but rats. The loathsome rodents were everywhere. We lit and stuffed cordite into one hole, clayed up a dozen or more holes to leave only two escape routes. The cordite fumes forced the rats out of the two holes and we killed scores. It made no difference and as the heavy winter snow came on, the rats moved into our dugouts and gun pits. They bred well as there was a plentiful food supply, dead or even badly wounded human and horse flesh! Infantrymen spoke about the screams from no man s land as the badly wounded were eaten and gnawed by swarms of rats and we saw the results on the corpses of erstwhile friend and foe.
The guns went into action for an infantry raid on the German lines. It was easy to spot where our shots landed as brown holes showed in the snow before being drifted or covered over. Unfortunately the Huns had the same advantage. Our raiders were clothed in white smocks and the prisoners that were taken told us that they were also plagued with rats and had found no cure.
Canadian soldiers moved up the line. We sensed that something was going to happen and within hours we were at our guns keeping up a sustained creeping barrage in front of the steadily advancing Canadians. As I sat at the gun the rats were running over my feet and the feet of other gunners and trying to chew at anything and everything.
For days and nights we had raids followed by counter infantry attacks by the enemy, but the Canadian repulsed every one. On one dead German staff officer the troops found valuable documents, including some which indicated impending pincer attacks by the enemy on Vimy Ridge.
Two guns were moved to a support trench ranged at eight hundred yards from the front line. I was put in charge of one and our orders were to use ammunition only in an emergency. To our delight we had no rats.
Christmas Day, 1916 was quiet along the whole of our sector. In our secure dugout we were served a surprise meal of cold roast pork, cold roast potatoes, cold goose, salad, cold plum pudding and cold drinks, plus a gift of chocolate. We learned later from prisoners that the Germans had lots of wine to wash down their normal rations of sausage and hard biscuits, for the Canadian raids had destroyed their Christmas meals.
Two days after Christmas we were withdrawn to a quiet spot called Ecquedecques for ten days’ rest. I had home leave and managed a delightful holiday at home, returning just in time for a move to a spot called Bully Grenay. It was the quietest position we ever had.
Guns were located in gardens which were well protected in every way. The civilians were in their homes and we were billeted with them in spare rooms. Shells were few and far between, being usually aimed at crossroads, sunken roads, railway lines and ammunition dumps. We used our unexpected spare time to make dummy runs with limbers and guns. Each time I was careful to leave markers for future aiming points and note these and other possible gun locations.
Most days I was up at Observation Posts in the front-line and so to me our troop build-up was plain. The Canadians were ready to go over the top for the Battle of Arras and Vimy Ridge.
Very quietly we moved from our sheltered gun pits taking huge supplies of shells with us. One hour after our arrival, hundreds of our guns opened fire simultaneously in support of the Canadian attack. Our new orders were ‘Switching fire, with creeping barrage.’ The enemy was surprised, an advance was made and many prisoners were taken.
Someone shouted my name. I jumped up, thinking it was the usual command, ‘To action stations,’ only to find two parcels and a number of letters were for me. I always had lots of letters and parcels. I wrote home to relatives regularly.
If a wagon or dispatch rider came up to the guns they carried my mail in ‘censored’ green envelopes or a service post card. Others slept and snored from exhaustion while I was awake with the letters acting like a tonic and the many titbits in the parcel giving me enjoyment.
In a typical parcel there were small oatmeal scones, cooked sausages, powdered milk, meat cubes, sardines and a roll filled with butter. I dined and had a mug of milk. It was so good. There was Keatings Powder too, so off came my clothes, a hurried wash down and Keatings in the seams of my shirt and trousers, also in the neck of my tunic to deal with the ever-present fleas. In each parcel I had handkerchiefs, socks, a few razor blades and cleaning things. This enabled me to keep my feet clean and dry, have regular and decent shaves, to polish my boots and buttons, blanco my lanyard and reduce flea biting. This refreshed me more than disturbed sleep because I felt clean.
We were supplied with forty mules and horses and drivers from the Depot, also two new guns and twenty gunners to bring us up to strength. We had three days of comparative ease, quite good cooked food, showers each evening and our worn-out clothing was renewed.
On the fourth day out of action, two ‘red tabs’ (staff officers) arrived with our adjutant. We sensed something was brewing.
It happened just half an hour after the ‘tabs’ met our officers. There was a scramble when ‘action’ was sounded. We did not imagine we were going into the hot-seat so soon, but we were. At dusk we moved into Zillebeke. The shelling was of the saturation type. We had seven men wounded going up the line, also many animals put out of action. All the wounded had just joined us. It was their fourth day in France.
Near a place called Jackson’s Dump we manhandled our guns into their sites. It was a ticklish job, but we managed. At daybreak the fun started. The whole area was subjected to systematic shelling. The creeping pattern of shells burst near us. We retaliated with all the guns in the Zillebeke zone. It was hell let loose. Many guns were destroyed and ammunition dumps blown up. Fires illumined the sector on the German line and our Jackson Dump section.
Our losses mounted. Colonel Street, Lieutenant Butters, Bombardier Crowhurst, Gunners Megan and Mahon were killed and I was among about a dozen wounded on 19th July, 1917. It was difficult getting away from the inferno. Royal Army Medical Corp soldiers moved quickly and silently among the dead, dying and wounded.
I was among sixty walking wounded. Some fell by the way, unable to reach the advance dressing station. I just made it, was given an injection and woke up some hours later in hospital.
The wounds did not break my spirit. I kept bright — perhaps too bright, for when badly wounded came in, I was asked to give up my bed and lie on a mattress on the floor. Next morning I was back in another bed, my condition was not too good according to the Medical Officer. Perhaps it was a chill, I did not ask. I was in bed a month and then shifted to a convalescent retreat, where conditions were good.
During my hospitalization I kept in touch with my unit. One day a letter came from Major Hobday saying, ‘When you are fit for discharge, you will be welcomed back to the battery with promotion.
I got back to my unit in early October, 1917 and two days later my promotion appeared on the notice board, ‘As from today, 70412 Bombardier Caseby, A., is promoted to Corporal.’ I had a fine welcome from my brother NCOs and gunners.
In the interval between my being wounded and returning to my unit of the 24th Division, the gunners had secured salient points, especially around Panama Canal and Zonnebeke. I was able to walk openly over the place at which I was wounded. Now calm prevailed, so different from the morning of 9th July. As I stood reverently and looked around I saw scores of crude crosses formed by rifles stuck in the ground marking graves and all over the place there were red poppies blooming in profusion.
I thanked God that I had been spared and I knew that I would go to Africa one day.
When I got back from my sentimental tour I saw that all the men were working feverishly loading up wagons. So this was it, the whisper I heard earlier from two military policemen was true, the 24th Division was moving south to St Quentin.
While in hospital I had read all about the advance, deep into the St Quentin section and the capture of many Germans and their material. The journey was too far by road so we entrained at a siding near Proven and moved to the town of Bapaume. Waiting for us were service personnel, twenty-four horses, one new gun and badly needed spare parts.
Resting there for three days we all got to know each other and had fine meals all properly seasoned and hot. All our kit was inspected and what was missing was made good. We had two days’ forced marching, until we camped at Baulincourt.
We relieved the 37th Division and at night we moved our guns towards positions called Cobra Copse, some three hundred yards to the rear of Le Verguier. The place looked ideal with good gun pits, dugouts, trenches and camouflage.
I heard one officer remark, ‘A comfortable place, too damned comfortable, too quiet!’
Two sentries were near the Cobra Copse and one told me, ‘This place is a picnic. I hope you keep your guns quiet.’
He had just finished when the action whistle sounded. Horses arrived, we limbered up two guns and galloped them to a mound only nine hundred yards from the front line.
I was appointed Corporal Battery Observer and was supplied with a periscope, field glasses and maps with nearly every inch of German lines marked on them. All that night, we pounded a dozen places with shrapnel, high explosives and at intervals, gas shells.
On my map I marked hits on dumps (one blew up), new earthworks, snipers’ nests, machine-gun posts, a light railway track and a convoy. The enemy kept silent, but their planes and observation balloons (which we called sausages) kept watch, as did our many planes and ‘sausages’.
There were dogfights above the clouds and many planes were downed. One shot-down German plane fell near our rear guns. The pilot was dead and his map had many of our gun sites carefully marked.
We heard on the ‘grapevine’ that General Byng was in the vicinity with staff officers and that their binoculars were frequently pointed towards Cambrai. Next forenoon I was in a support trench with two officers. Looking back I saw a frightening machine approaching and shouted the warning to them, ‘Something hellish is moving our way.
It was a tank, the first I had seen. Its nose rose high into the air and then plunged down to disappear down a trench, then up again. Momentarily I felt quite seasick.
Behind the tank an anchor was dragging away enemy wire entanglements. Our guns were ordered to open up with smoke shells, in advance of the tanks. Through the gaps ripped open by the tanks followed our infantrymen, at the double and with fixed bayonets.
Within minutes we were hampered at our work as hundreds of prisoners surrendered their weapons to our soldiers and then quickly trooped to our positions. My officers took the initiative and detailed some infantrymen to escort the Germans to our rear and out of the war zone.
This ‘Byng plan’ threw the enemy from a stand-by to a disarray force. The tank was a new weapon and a fearful weapon when its fore, aft and side guns were blazing. Our penetration was deep.
With my officers I walked over to the vacated German trenches. They were good dugouts and at various points were stocks of small armaments, cylinders of gas and forsaken machine-gun nests.
The tanks’ routes, the men at the guns in the tanks and the infantrymen with rifle and bayonet were perfectly co-ordinated under the Byng attack plan, but it seemed as if other high ranking officers were not convinced about the tanks’ advantages for they failed to give the orders to immediately pounce and consolidate in a similar way along our whole front. The victory was short lived. The enemy regrouped and launched several counter-attacks, causing us huge losses. Soon our guns came under attack, but the reserve infantry were too late in arriving to stem the Hun reprisal. In short, we were back to square one.
General Daly’s speech at Monche-le-gasche was a source of great argument, so much so that soldiers began to bet as to when the attack would take place and how far the Germans would get.
After the ‘Byng’ attacks enemy prisoners began to look shabby; their uniforms were of poor quality, so different from the smart ones of 1916. One German told us things were not going well and that all efforts at home were concentrated on weapons of war of every kind. He even told one officer that the new gas shells were silent and deadly.
For part of February, 1918, I was on an education course with a view to a commission. My rating, averaging over
was high in all five subjects and even higher in gunnery and all that goes with active service in an Artillery unit. My only poor mark was flag signalling. I was examined by two army medical officers and their tests confirmed I was partially colour blind.
So I was failed. The doctors would pass me for an infantry commission but I wanted to be in the artillery only and so I returned to my Battery with promotion to Acting Sergeant. I was most keen as a corporal for most work was on active service with the guns. I did not like the humdrum monotony of the infantryman’s ordered life of forming fours, marking time and constantly grooming horses for inspection, mostly in sheltered rear areas.
Major Hobday was pleased to have me back. He promised I would continue with observation work and guns. We switched guns to three positions in three weeks. It was a case of bombarding certain areas, moving and firing at other targets and then switching back to our previous positions and so keep the enemy guessing about our strength and position.
On 16th March, Major Hobday called all gunners together and unfolded his latest plan: two guns would remain forward at Cobra Copse under Lieutenant A.H. Hamilton Gordon, Sergeant Irle and ten gunners; four guns under Major Hobday would move to Vermand to the rear. This operation was easily performed. I was asked to take over night observation duties, with access to the Major in an emergency. On the 17th, 18th and 19th of March, we kept up intermittent fire on set targets.
The enemy did not reply. On 20th March two German soldiers crossed to our lines by mistake. I heard one prisoner say to his guard, ‘The big attack is tomorrow, get me to the back, quick!’ He wanted to be interned!
For once a German had told the truth — but Headquarters remained silent when supplied with the information. On the evening of 20th March, a fog came down and blanketed our position.
The Major called me to his dugout, his orders were, ‘All men must remain fully clothed, kitbags and haversacks packed, clearance made for rapid exit of guns. When the siren is sounded, men and guns with gas masks at the ready. Wish the men Good Luck from me.’
Every soldier, of all regiments on the St Quentin front, knew the attack was imminent and yet HQ for some reason remained silent. Coming back from my education course, I saw great dumps of eighteen-pounder ammunition, most with new fuses that exploded on impact, the deadly ‘106’ fuse and I saw gas shells by the thousands. Our batteries had no such shells. When I confided to the Major what I had seen, he hesitated and said, ‘Are you sure, Caseby?’
To get back to 20th March, all was quiet, but next morning at two thirty a.m. the mist came down heavy as I toured the guns and spoke to each sentry. At four fifty-five a.m. the Germans put down a very heavy concentration of shells, including gas. I blew my whistle at the first crump and rushed to the Major’s dugout. He met me at the entrance and he was fully dressed. Our guns went into action at once, each gunner wearing a gas mask. I took charge of one gun. The enemy fire was so intense and the gas so strong that we had to halt firing for ten minutes. An officer arrived too late with ‘106’ fuse shells.
It was about noon when Lieutenant A.H. Hamilton Gordon, clad only in an overcoat over his pyjamas and his crew from advance guns arrived. They destroyed both the Hun guns that were shelling us with gas ammunition. Their presence cheered us.
As we retreated later through Vraignes the Major found the dump I had told him existed and we quickly unloaded our present shells and filled up with ‘106’ fuse shells.
A signaller reported that all communications were cut and so we were isolated. Many of our wounded infantry passed our guns and enemy small arms fire whizzed around us: we were normally out of its range. The mist was clearing when a despatch rider arrived with the news, ‘The Germans are only six hundred yards away!’
We brought our horses, limbered up and galloped pell-mell to the rear, turning at Soyecourt, where we brought our guns into action, although high explosive shells crumpled all around us.
Our officers, who were superb by their example, set our pattern of dogged determination. We fired and plastered road blocks and gun sites until, early on 22nd March, it became clear we were being fired on from our flanks. There was only one remedy, to limber up and gallop out of danger. The morning was free of mist so we had to find cover and briefly set up a screen of shrapnel to halt the foe and then repeat the process several more times, the horses always being at hand. We passed the Vraignes ammo dump and took the opportunity of again recharging our limbers with ‘106’ fuse shells.
We then cantered through the fields as all roads were being shelled and were skirting a blazing aerodrome when we were rocked by a mighty blast as the ammo dump we had left minutes before was blown up, the work of our sappers. They played a fine rearguard action, destroying bridges, laying land mines, blowing up dumps and immobilising transports and guns.
Before nightfall we were retreating again until we had columns of infantry taking up positions near us, ready to engage the advancing Huns. We munched bully beef and biscuits given to us by the soldiers and they tasted sweet compared with our usual food. During the third day of our retirement we crossed the River Somme with infantrymen trotting over the bridge beside us.
About an hour later, as we were going into action, American servicemen blew up the bridge. Our riverbank position and the elevation on the landscape gave me a first real sight to date of the effect of our own shells bursting among German troops. It thrilled and yet saddened us at the same time. A whole salvo shattered about fifty Bosche on the far river bank. Through glasses I could see masses of troops and columns of transport moving towards the river. Our planes bombed the enemy and enemy planes bombed us. The carnage was unspeakable.
Major Hobday moved one gun to the crest of a mound and fired, open sights, into barges filled with men on the river. Hundreds were killed or drowned and still they crossed the river and bravely fought back, gaining ground. Rifle bullets soon began to spit around us, so we were soon on the move again galloping across open country. Our men were tired, thirsty and hungry and so were the horses. The excellent work of our Battery Transport must not be forgotten, for they kept us well-supplied with shells, despite the situation of moving with great rapidity and the constant dangers in their unsung tasks.
Word got around that French soldiers were rushing up to give support to our hard pressed men. I did not see the French. One thing we knew was that we were again under rifle fire, so it was the same old tactical order, ‘Fire and Retire.’
We all knew that a stand must be taken and that a counter attack was necessary. On 25th March two divisions were in readiness to engage the Germans, but two pincer movements made us all fall back, just in time for a score of Germans on motor cycles rushed towards us lobbing grenades at our troops.
This was a new menace to us and the beginning of the attack looked most frightening at first sight and then quite comic, in a gruesome way. The poor devils were brave but foolish in their attack, for the ground was too rutted for high speed movement and all soon toppled off or were shot from their cycles before they could inflict much injury. Two of the wounded were captured, pushed into a van, driven off at a great speed to the rear and well-questioned by HQ staff officers.
We made three moves that day before we could rest. Our luck was in, for next morning someone from transport column drew up beside our guns and they handed out dixies of hot tea, bread and cheese. The first hot tea for six days. Though chlorinated, it tasted sweet.
Damn the Hun, he would not allow us time for a ‘cuppa’, for the lorries were now their target and we had to defend them. We fired and tried to sip tea and chew cheese sandwiches, but it was the old story; the enemy were too near and we had to up tail and retreat. It happened three times that day.
We were very tired and fatigued, but not dispirited by our rearguard actions. One consolation in retreating which we never had when advancing was that we were able to meet field kitchens at places where we could fill our mugs with tea, cocoa and soup, or draw hot water for a wash and also, in my case at least, for a shave. I still had a few of my last food-parcel meat cubes in my haversack and so I could enjoy meat extract drinks which I preferred as real tonics, especially as the weather became wet.
The Germans were swift to bring up their artillery of all calibres enabling them to keep up a continuous bombardment. Of course, we did the same. As soon as we reached new sites we opened fire. At one point I was asked to stay put with two officers and a signaller as the guns retired nearly one mile. I lay on the ground with a fallen tree trunk for shelter, looked, rubbed my eyes and looked again in disbelief, as I just could not believe my eyes. The Huns were swarming across the ground we had left the day before and their artillery, now set up in the open without protection, began blazing at us. Their commanders were obviously underestimating our true strength and resolve by thinking that we were beaten in this sector.
Scores of observers, like ourselves, sent back word, coordinates and ranges to our guns. Our eighteen-pounders, howitzers and larger guns, even further to our rear, commenced firing and I saw the enemy take a terrible hammering. Gun after gun ceased and great gaps appeared in the ranks of massed infantry, just like a line of placed dominoes toppling over. I saw German officers charging forward on horseback, with swords slicing the air and glinting in the light, being blown to bits. It all seemed so unreal.
We also had our bad times with many dead and wounded men, disabled guns and slaughtered horses. No praise is too great to express the admiration we had for the way our officers acted during this difficult period. They were cool, daring and yet cautious, when it came to go back and regroup.
There was one occasion when Major Hobday wanted to fire the gun and Colonel Spiller wanted to act as observer so that he could record the hits — or misses! Perhaps they had a bet on something for they were like two schoolboys enjoying a game. I fixed the range and opened and closed the breach block, so I was more than a spectator. When machine-gun bullets started to straddle our gun, they decided that it was time to move to pastures new. We were all but surrounded by the enemy.
Soon, heavy shells were bursting all around, a young officer made a quick decision and told our lead driver to gallop along the Beaucourt road which was cluttered with smashed transport and fleeing civilians. Luckily the officer’s hunch worked and our withdrawal became a mad, mad, stampede without panic. The guns and limbers rattled along the road as our superb drivers and their brave horses twisted and turned at high speed, so evading all obstacles without incident or loss. At a given signal we took to the fields.
In the distance we saw our Major and other officers. All their plans were made. We swung into action and used up nearly all our shells before making another getaway to a nearby ammunition dump. Now replenished with shells we started rapid fire, but the place became too hot for us as the enemy found our range.
For the third time that day our horsemen set the pace with amazing skill and tenacity, until someone shouted, ‘We’re coming to a river!’
It proved to be a river straddled by long-range German gun-fire.
The ground was sticky, the crossing required great efforts from everyone. We were damp with sweat, from drizzle and splattered with mud — yet we still found reserve strength to cheer our officers as we got to the other side of the river at Castel without losses.
The drizzle gave way to rain, but we kept up the pace. Dawn seemed to be breaking as we halted near a sunken road and set up our guns behind a slight rise, whilst the drivers and their horses rested in the sunken road. We expected to go into immediate action. Instead we were told to relax. I popped my last meat cube into my mouth, lay down on the wet ground and, like the others, slept very soundly.
A salvo of shells burst near us and we all jumped up, instantly awake and ready for action. A surprise awaited us in the form of a Mobile Kitchen. Soon we were enjoying hot tea.
I filled my water bottle with my first mugful and drank the second mugful as I chewed my iron rations. Someone said, ‘Any more for anymore?’
I was there like a shot and used the hot water to shave and then I sloshed the rest on my face, then I dried and changed my socks. I felt fresh.
A stubby bearded, grimy sergeant, looked my way and asked sarcastically, ‘What bloody barber’s shop have you been in?’
My reply was, ‘I believe in keeping my body and spirit clean. It pays big dividends!’
His looks said that he did not understand; he probably thought I was daft.
Later we half-heartedly fired only a few shells as did the Germans because heavy rain and mud soaked everything and everybody. We were near a clump of trees and buds were beginning to break into leaves. ‘Spring showers,’ quipped someone.
In the late afternoon an Irish lad who was full of fun, shouted, ‘Oi see a cow.
It was not a joke but a lone wandering calf and we killed it. In the dampness two hundred fingers gathered twigs and a fire was lit. The resulting roast beef was sooty and good. What a feast we had, nothing since has ever tasted better!
That night in heavy rain some flares illuminated a German forward gun detachment. It took us exactly seven minutes and less than forty shells to blast it into silence. On the last day of March 1918, two German attacks failed. The tide had turned.
As far as our unit was concerned, we thought that we had fought a good fight and retired systematically in an orderly fashion over a long, long way, replenished stocks, faced, fought and halted the Hun. We all knew relief would reach us from many quarters for Marshal Foch was in command. We hoped that his unified force would bring victory.
We had just finished a pleasant hot lunch when word came to withdraw a little way to the rear area. When all was secure I lay down on my ground sheet, and using sacks, blankets and an overcoat as cover, slept soundly for several hours. We had a breakfast of ham, fried bread, hard biscuits and tea.
An accumulation of mail reached us. I had many letters, cards and two parcels. I was glad to have more writing paper, envelopes, newspapers, meat cubes, dumpling and sweets as many things in my kit-bag and haversack had been soaked with the heavy rain.
My parents were very kind. They sacrificed much to send parcels to my brothers James, David and William who were all fighting in France and to myself. Our only and younger sister, Netta, helped by parcelling the goodies in the special way required by army regulations.
One of the newspapers sent to me from home revealed something interesting: the troops in the last German attack had come from the Russian front. They were regulars with many battle honours. This explained why they had proved to be an enemy of great tenacity and drive. So different from the flabby, uncared-for-looking Huns taken prisoner in 1917 during the General Byng tank warfare flop.
The German Generalship in our recent St Quentin retirement was of the highest order. However, they misjudged the men they were fighting in March-April, 1918. I firmly believed from my experience that had our attack on Cambrai in November 1917 been executed with lighting strokes, like the German one on the Somme, then we could have won the war and would have finished before Christmas 1917. British soldiers were intelligent and sensible men. We talked among ourselves about strategy and plans. We loathed the obvious political moves that sacrificed men and we equally loathed the old-fashioned Generals who remained in their safe headquarters.
Two things cheered our soldiers up: the heavy rain that slowed down the enemy and the French crack troops which took up positions some distance to our rear. Shells exploded around our battery, some very close, and three exploded near the emergency horse lines; the horses broke loose and cantered into a wood.
A wide shell killed Colonel R. Hamilton (heir to the Belhaven and Stanton Estates). Only ten minutes before his death I had held his fine horse and admired the gold buttons on his beautifully-made uniform as he conversed with an officer. Now there was little left but the buttons.
It was evident the Hun artillery knew where we were, for two other enemy batteries opened up on our ridge. We limbered up with only four horses, each to a gun and in less than half an hour we were lobbing high explosives into the batteries which had made us their target earlier in the day.
Before nightfall we took up a flanking position near a clump of trees. I did not see them, but an officer and two gunners at an observation post reported that our cavalry had driven the German soldiers out of scrubland. They proved reasonably proficient at this task but we could see that some of our Generals were incapable of conducting the war effectively if they thought cavalry could defeat machine-guns. A few more tanks were needed.
The next day, April Fools, opened quietly and it continued to rain. Nearby was a stream, so we were given the order ‘Spruce up’. All the men, except myself, had their first shave since 20th March.
I found a little poo1, the water was cold. I had a refreshing wash down. With my spare tooth brush I rubbed off all the nits from the seams of my shorts, tunic and pants and liberally dusted in Keatings powder. After a shave I dressed, put on new socks and dubbined my boots. The long ordeal seemed over, it was good to have tension relaxed. When we were next called to action stations we were all trim and keen and ready to do battle.
Our new target was enemy transport and our ammunition was used with splendid results. As one observer reported, ‘Jerry has lost his nerve, his communication lines are too long, transport is disorganized. The enemy is digging trenches!’ Now we knew the truth.
A field kitchen came up and we had quite a menu. ‘Bully stew’, potatoes and army spotted duff dumpling and a good supply of tea, biscuits and cheese. As usual I filled my water bottle with un-milked tea, it was so refreshing to sip during a lull in firing.
The 2nd April began clear and sunny. Odd shell bursts were too near for comfort, so a move was made for a prearranged area.
Judge our pleasant surprise when we found our neighbours were French gunners with ‘75’ guns which were faster than our eighteen-pounders. The French were keen and ready to attack. Shells and bombs from Jerry aeroplanes harried us, but we retaliated with vigour.
Our Major considered that our position was a risk to the French, so we took the guns to a rear flank copse. French infantry were all around and there was much face kissing and hugging as they welcomed us. They generously gave us cooked chicken, potatoes, bread and offered wine and cigarettes to all who wanted them. The French did not hesitate to requisition and kill a cow, or pig, or chicken that they needed for food. We were forbidden to ‘take’ or steal. We were allowed only to catch stray animals for killing and cooking.
Quite a lot happened from 3rd to 5th April. Our 24th Division Infantry had regrouped and the French had moved forward ready to attack. Our aircraft were active, confirming our information that the enemy had dug trenches and laced wire entanglements. A plane even spotted enemy heavy guns retreating. We kept up our shelling of important targets. We held good observation points and saw far into places we had retired from.
Late on the afternoon of 5th April I accompanied two officers to the hillock overlooking the enemy. I saw and noted scores of direct hits on transport, guns, dumps, earthworks and advanced mortar sites. The Germans were having a bad time indeed. It was late and dark as we left the hillock. My last view was of many fires blazing and our shells bursting everywhere.
Next day fresh British divisions arrived. The French attacked and dislodged the enemy from their earthworks. The counter offensive had started and we gunned the fleeing enemy.
From 7th April we bombarded only in emergency situations by taking orders from spotter aircraft until targets were out of our range. It was a memorable seventeen days. Hard slogging, hard fighting and men determined to see a job well done. British planes came into action, they bombed, dived and machine-gunned difficult enemy positions.
On 8th April we marched some ten miles before setting up the guns. The 10th April was a day of rest and good food for men and animals. We had a fairly long journey under quiet and pleasant conditions on 11th April and between the 12th and 16th we more or less rested at a place called Sorel. It was real recreation. We toured many villages and the beautiful city of Abbeville. The people were very kind. They looked upon us as the saviours of their city.
Eight of us were invited into a lovely home. The couple were elderly and had lost one son, killed in 1916. They had saved up food for such an occasion. We had a three course meal, lots of coffee — none of us drank wine — and we left with fruit, scones, butter and chocolate.
When Major Hobday heard about the kindness of the French husband and wife he had a box made up of corned beef, pork and beans, a chunk of cheese, a packet of tea and tin of skimmed milk. Along with another corporal I returned to Abbeville and delivered the gift. The old couple were in tears. Our poor rations were luxuries and a Godsend to them for, as the Major correctly guessed, they had used most of the food they possessed on our entertainment.
Abbeville, on the Somme, had some very beautiful buildings including churches, a townhouse, large stores and residential houses. As two of us wandered through and admired the construction we were stopped over and over again by elderly gentlemen trying to give us their precious cigars, cigarettes and wine. Corporal Coull and I were gunners and the people recognised our RFA numerals and bandoleers. Every local paper wrote about the role of the Royal Field Artillery in holding up the enemy in their offensive to reach Abbeville. We were treated like heroes! Though neither of us smoked nor drank we accepted the gifts for we had many companions who would welcome a smoke.
Our very pleasant break from battle came to an end. Again we were a fully-equipped fighting force, now with lots of modern gear, iron rations, clothing and lice repellent.
For three days we marched, on average fifteen miles each day, rested on the fourth and filled up limbers with fresh shells. The following day we seemed to recross familiar ground. We halted about five miles from St Pol. We knew we were clear of the Somme front and wondered if we were going to Arras or Lens.
On 1st May, 1918, we camped down for the night. I was on guard. A mist hung over the ground. I pulled some wet grass and as I was shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey,’ I washed a Sergeant’s face with May dew.
‘What’s the game?’ he bellowed.
Said I, ‘A sprinkle of May dew, keeps you lovely all the year through.’ He was anything but lovely, but he saw the joke and laughed his head off.
We heard gunfire in the distance and twice we took cover from German aircraft bombers. They were wide and wild strikes and caused no harm. We moved towards the front. Looking at a map, I said to our new young officer, ‘Sir. Our battery was here in September, 1915. That’s Corkscrew Post, over there is Fosse 16 and on the left is the famous Double Craseier.’
His reply was sharp, ‘Don’t be so damned sure of yourself, Caseby. You have never been here before.’ Then he added in a cynical and accusing tone in his posh accent, ‘You’ve picked these spots from a map just now.’ I had to ignore his insolence.
That evening we got the guns in a secure position with deep trenches fifty yards to the rear and within reach of quite a number of gas-proof dugouts because of my previous knowledge of the terrain.
The young officer’s behaviour must have been overheard and reported, for while the major was going his round of the four guns he politely asked me in his presence, ‘Are you familiar with this sector, Caseby?’
I replied, ‘Yes, Sir. I was at Loos in September, 1915 and on Hulluich Plain and other areas.
Turning to the young officer, Major Hobday quietly asked him, ‘Where were you in September 1915?’
The blushing young man could only reply, ‘Entering Eton, Sir.’ The major just smiled!
Our six guns were used to support raids and for sniping at enemy transport. One afternoon an observation officer said to me, ‘May I see your map?’ He peered at mine, then handed it back and said in a puzzled way, ‘Damned funny, same as mine, yet I see what looks like camouflage over two tree stumps in yonder Fosse.’ I gazed through my glasses. Sure enough the captain was right.
Messages were sent back to guns, eighteen rounds were fired and as one of the shells bursts near to the suspect spot there were fireworks, for red, green, white and orange Verey lights illumined the German area. A dump of Verey lights must have been hit. Small arms and grenades started bursting, followed by the detonation of mortar bombs. It was a lovely sight.
Word got back to Divisional Headquarters and hundreds of our guns opened up on the ‘illuminations’, causing many more and greater detonations. It was a cache of ammunition intended for an attack.
Instead of getting back for an evening meal I had to remain to observe shrapnel shells blasting wire, followed by a lightning infantry raid on the flanks of the ‘firework display’, using it as a diversion. The Jerries were taken by surprise for they were blasted in what they thought was the shelter of their dugouts and many were taken prisoner. They were all fresh troops. The close scrutiny by the observation officer nipped an enemy attack in the bud and treated thousands of friends and some foe alike to a very entertaining firework display.
The Germans also had long range guns and as many as a dozen shells would shatter the calm of a dozen villages occupied by civilians in one evening. Our wagon line at Sainten-Gotrelle, a pretty place, was bombed one evening. Dr Coleman, our Medical Officer, four drivers, many horses, including the major’s two chargers, were killed.
Our own gun sites were shelled one evening, so much so we had to move to a new position, unobserved by the enemy under the cover of the dark night. When we fired from our new sites flash flares were set off from our former place to deceive the enemy concerning our true gun positions. Within minutes German 5.9 shells fell on our former stronghold, damaging nothing. We successfully used this ruse for over a week before the foe discovered our tactics.
So many reserve gunners were now attached to our unit that they were used to dig reserve gun pits at Fosse 16, Dynamite Road, St Pierre, Lievin, Maroc and near Bully. To date in the war we had never known the luxury of being embarrassed by so much well-trained manpower.
We also had the luxury of unlimited supplies of ammunition at all spare gun sites, action stations and in anti-tank areas. We had a string of fine observation posts, new field glasses and periscopes.
We also had aerial photographs and some revealed a concentration of some strange objects eight miles behind the German lines. The Garrison Artillery long range guns pounded the objects which turned out to be new German tanks. Our new anti-tank guns took up position at Fosse 11 and Posen Alley and the gallant Canadian forces were moved up for offensive purposes.
Some Germans put up a strong rearguard fight, using up, destroying or booby trapping shells and damaging guns and foodstuff before retreating. Many were simply waiting to be captured, for they now knew that we did not treat prisoners badly as they had been indoctrinated to believe.
We moved forward so fast at times that we had many casualties whose skills could not be replaced quickly enough through normal channels. For example, Sergeant Twizell, the major’s shell director technician was wounded, so I was appointed to take his place. The director was a device for following the trajectory of an enemy shell and for calculating the gun map reference and range. Luckily I had found out about the workings of the device because of my curiosity and the sergeant’s skilled instruction.
One morning our guns were firing at 2,050 yards targets and then two hours later the range was altered to 6,000 yards. Some enemy shell trajectory had to be measured to locate our new targets and so I left my gun in the charge of a bombardier, mounted Dolly, my favourite pony, took a No. 4 director on my saddle and galloped with the Major and a Lieutenant Manley to investigate possible new positions near a railway line map location.
Here I witnessed a dreadful sight that has haunted me ever since. The Huns had herded the civilians of all ages from the little town into a railway embankment trench where we could not observe them. Our shells, aimed at a moving German supply train loaded with heavy equipment, fell among the civilians. There were many mangled bodies. The Medical Corps were soon seeing to the wounded.
The Jerry retreat from our sector was rapid, as was our battery’s pursuit. We were the first to cross the River Selle. Some 150 of our infantry came behind us, so we dug in to cover their plan of attack requirements. I saw the soldiers run across a cabbage field and we called for hundreds of our guns to put down a creeping barrage just ahead of their advances. The enemy were taken by complete surprise, proved by the fact that our small force, with their pincer movement, brought in five hundred prisoners, forty machine-guns and around a thousand rifles.
We moved forward seven miles next day and were in action five times. That evening a few shells fell near us. I timed their velocity on a stop watch and charted their origin on the map to a spot close to Venduille Cemetery, near the church. We gave them a few salvos and six rounds of gunfire.
Two days later, after our infantry had battled with and mastered the crack Prussian Guardsmen, our guns entered Venduille. I made for the church and on each side of it two 4.2 guns lay disabled. German shells were stored in the crypt and behind gravestones. There were many dead soldiers around the cemetery walls.
The French civilians told us that the Germans had brought up Prussian Guards, their finest troops, from other sectors to try and put heart into the demoralised soldiers, who refused to fight. Naval guns, on moving railway platforms, had also given support, but the real Hun soldier had had enough.
Early one morning, my ‘A’ gun and Sergeant Martin’s ‘C’ gun were ordered to go forward and dig in. The Germans saw us and opened fire. Fortunately their shelling and aiming was poor.
Lieutenant Tuffley chose one of the many church spires in Pressean as aiming point. One of our officers had a hunch that while forward he sniffed gas and told us to keep our new smallbox gas masks at the ready. His hunch was right, for mustard gas and phosgene shells were soon bursting around us. As I was also Gas Instructing NCO I guessed from the wind direction and my knowledge of the German gun positions that the gas shells must be coming from an area near a clump of trees about 3,800 yards away. We blasted the place with ‘106’ fuse and gas shells. Within minutes the German shells ceased.
Later the wind was in our favour. Transport wagons brought up smoke and gas shells. Our Infantry moved to our right, bypassing an occupied village and within two hours of the German gas attack we put down a smoke and shrapnel barrage less than 250 yards in front of our advancing foot soldiers and high explosive shells 1,750 yards ahead.
Up came our horses. We hooked up the guns and followed our infantry. We moved at a trot to by-pass Artes, an industrial town with a huge railway station. Royal Engineers and their transport loaded with pontoons raced ahead and bridged a stream for us. Soon we were held up by and mixed up amongst hundreds of disillusioned Jerrys. They just looked bewildered, or sat on the ground, no fight left in them, with our armed guards close by.
One German, speaking good English, told us the main highway was mined. We expected as much from past experience and our own tactics in retreat, therefore we usually did not rush along highway or roads until the Royal Engineers gave the all clear.
Our planes also played a big part in this offensive by spotting troop concentrations, artillery nests, transport units and shell dumps which we could bombard.
We took risks in this advance; sometimes we were ahead of the ‘foot sloggers’. To quote one officer, ‘It is an artilleryman s paradise.’
One afternoon we moved up six miles and dug in for the night. One enemy shell burst above us, killing our Lieutenant, two NCOs, wounding seven gunners and killing nineteen horses. My pony was safe.
Brigadier General Nairne, R.A., a master in gunnery, inspected us near to St Eloy. He was full of praise for the splendid work the Royal Field Artillery, 24th Division, had accomplished since August 1915 and he gave us a hint of what was before us. His words were, ‘Mons and Manbenge are our objectives and the 24th Division shall be in the advancing army. Such an honour is worthy of the record that the 24th Division now holds.’ He bid us Au revoir.
Towards the line we passed through Arras. A town, in times of peace, of rich architectural beauty, now just heaps of rubble. The massive Cathedral, once second only to Rheims, still looked serene, though wrecked.
We halted at Guemappe, once the scene of bitter fighting. Battered tanks, damaged guns, scores of smashed transports and thousands of shell holes, told the story of the gallant 29th.
In the first days of October 1918 we were back in the area we had pounded so heavily exactly thirteen months before. Cambrai was reached and we stayed the night near what was once French barracks. For miles and miles the road which had been made up by Sappers and Royal Engineers passed through thousands of acres of devastation. Every square foot was ploughed up by our shells. How Germans survived passed imagination.
The well known canal had an air of dignity, though all bridges were blown up. Royal Engineers had fixed pontoon bridges over which all transport except tanks could pass. Being interested in the French barracks a few of us made a tour of the squares, rooms and kitchens. For years, the German soldiers had lived in comfort, being tuned for battle.
On the white walls of the barracks I saw hundreds of coloured chalk, charcoal and oil paint pictures. The subjects were varied, columns of British soldiers surrendering to one German officer, German prisoners being lashed with whips in our interment camps, British families lying on filthy floors dying from hunger, allied generals and captains giving themselves up and we soldiers eating dog flesh.
It was all amazing and of course, a parcel of downright lies. There were pictures of Kaiser William, Crown Prince Willie and many other high ranking officers of the German army. I just cannot write the words some of our ‘Tommies’ had written across the pictures.
Through the window of one German officer’s mess, I saw watches, rings, helmets, coins, ornamented shell cases and a camera. They were all booby trapped. Notices were up which said, ‘Do not enter’, or, ‘Do not touch. Danger!’ A few places had ‘Safe’ signs.
As we were going out the main barrack entrance we heard a mighty bang. It was a delayed action bomb, under the barrack main square. No one was hurt. The hole was so deep and wide that a tank could be buried inside it. Such was German revenge.
In the second week of October 1918, the word came for action. We were glad to be in the line again, moving up. We met batches of prisoners and they looked quite happy to be in our hands. Our lads gave them cigarettes, matches and sweets. The officers looked very depressed and arrogant, refusing everything.
Canteens that were once well-behind our lines were now close to us, advancing too, so we had a lot of luxuries. I watched about a dozen prisoners eyeing the canteen. They just could not believe their eyes: pies, cakes, sweets, hair cream, razor blades, soap, writing paper, pencils. One of our officers took pies, sweets, soap and cigarettes from the counter, paid for them and gave them to a soldier to give to the prisoners.
One German said in broken English, ‘Pardon talk but thanks, be good, friend kind,’ and all soon devoured the pies.
The Major called officers and NCOs together.
His words were to the point: ‘Our infantry are advancing fast, we must be ready, with swift, lightning strikes, to give them every support.’ The day for moving in the dark was over. In daylight we trotted forward, turning into action and, according to plans, bombarding gun positions, transport and retreating enemy.
Sometime before the grey dawn of 7th November, 1918, Lieutenant A.H. Hamilton Gordon, woke me and asked, ‘Are you game to go forward to harass the fleeing Hun?’
I was game indeed, with few fears under the command of such a talented officer.
I picked Gunners Robin, Cowley and Purvey from the many others who willingly volunteered for this dangerous mission. We decided to carry two hundred shells, one hundred each of shrapnel and high explosives, and galloped at high speed, crossing a stone bridge over a stream at Wragnies-le-Petit.
Royal Engineers on motor cycles shouted to us as we approached the bridge but their shouting was not for our daring, which one engineer said was, ‘Damned foolishness!’ Later the Engineers found and defused a 100 lb landmine that was hidden under the bridgework. Their instincts were right and we were lucky. Our incautious actions were not based on glory-seeking, for our experience of the unwitting slaughter and inhumanity we had all been party to left us in no doubt that war was pure evil. Our keenness was rather rooted in our desire to take advantage of the German retreat to make the lightning strikes that had so often proved to be necessary, but not followed through because of stretched communications difficulties with HQ. We wanted the killing to stop and to be at home living decent lives.
Young Hamilton Gordon galloped forward of the bridge, selected a gun position and called us up. In minutes we were shooting with rapid fire and blasting machine-gun nests, transports and German troops running back along the roads. German rifles lay everywhere.
Our Lieutenant courageously galloped forward into the nearby village of St Waast to be completely surrounded by Joyous French civilians. They told him the enemy had just ‘Thrown down their weapons and run away’ when their observers said that the British 24th Division were on the outskirts. We rushed into the town with our guns, intending to set them up on the other side. The civilians had other ideas for they mobbed us, stopping our progress, threw flowers and leaves at us and even kissed us. We were only allowed to enjoy their adulation for a few minutes.
Hamilton Gordon had been busy finding a gun position in a park where we went into action, with him acting as Observer. The French people crowded around us cheering every time we fired. They would not stay away and were rather more of a hindrance than a help as they expressed their pent-up emotions of hatred for the Bosche. They were careless of the real danger our presence meant.
During all this shemozzle one of our spotter planes located us and dropped a message from HQ, telling us that German artillery lined up gun to gun, thus affording them little protection and backed by massed troops, were about to perform a ‘last ditch’ stand.
A Royal Engineer motorcyclist had joined us and was ordered to take a message back to our rear guns asking them to move forward and blast targets we designated some six miles ahead of our intended advance. We had to rely on the engineer as we were moving too fast and too far for signallers to set up morse code lines or read flags. Communications, as ever, were a problem in such fast forward movements which relied on our initiatives for success.
Being mindful of the villagers’ safety we left the town, set up about a mile outside and before our guns could open up the sky rained terror on the civilians as hundreds of enemy shells burst around St Waast. The civilians’ rejoicing turned to bedlam as the injured and scared rushed for shelter, spluttering from choking gas fumes. We put on our gasmasks, looked on helplessly as their houses were blasted and sadly started our counter bombardment. We had escaped unhurt. Later we learned that many of the four hundred householders were killed, gassed or injured.
A few hours later our infantry and fresh supplies came up and they were very surprised to see us. We hooked up our gun and galloped full speed for two miles to the crest of a hill. Then all our guns, hundreds of them, opened up rapid fire on the enemy concentration and soon the enemy firing ceased.
Before us we saw or heard many detonations as the Huns stacked their rifles and other supplies on top of their ammunition dumps and blew the lot up. Guns that were not damaged were disabled and transport burned. The German army’s last stand was futile. We had almost fired our last shots of the war.
That afternoon our Colonel, Major, the Infantry General and a Major Walsh from a neighbouring Brigade, galloped up to our lone gun to compliment us on our example of daring and dashing artillery initiative. The Lieutenant was told that he would be recommended for an MC and that some decoration was coming my way and also for my tireless Gunners, Cowley and Robin. I never knew such courage was possible as I had experienced in my battery.
We were re-united with our unit on 8th November. They had been mourning us, for they had been informed that our battery had been wiped out. The publication of our demise was now very obviously premature and our comrades voiced their delight at this and the promise of medals to be added to our Divisional tally.
We moved forward without resistance. Now the continuous sight before our eyes was one of devastation where the Germans had fought their last ditch stand. I stood and marvelled at the accuracy of our shells. Scores of guns had direct hits on them, probably killing all the crew and huge mounds marked the hurried burial ground of German dead.
A despatch rider stopped beside me. All he could say was, ‘That’s a hell of a mess!’ He confirmed what some German soldiers had told us: an Armistice was to be signed soon.
It was on 11th November, 1918, at about nine o’clock, that we officially heard hostilities would cease at eleven a.m. on that morning. A young officer, who was an Oxford Blue, ordered me to give him my pony Dolly to go across to a neighbouring battery. Reluctantly I agreed.
Somewhere one of our Batteries took a few pot-shots at distant Germans, who in return fired just one last shell, which killed my pony Dolly and the officer, needlessly risking the open ground. I loved Dolly, for we had been through hell together — and so nearly back.
Later in the evening of that Armistice Day I walked alone in my grief to a smashed fort, near Manbenge. In the distance I saw column upon column of weary, disenchanted, hungry footsore Germans, thousands of them, trudging homewards — a broken army, an army of broken, defeated men, forsaken by all their officers.
As I looked and prayed I felt the world’s groan of grief and joy for all who had perished or been maimed for life and those who had survived. It was impossible to harbour any animosity towards this sad remnant of a once proud, clever and powerful nation. The dejected grey columns faded with the light into the mangled countryside as so many of our comrades had done. God’s will for men could not include this shambles caused by man’s disregard for His eternal truths.
The forty official words that ended the bloodiest of wars were posted on Armistice Day evening and we read the cold orders:
Hostilities will cease, 11.00 hours today, 11th November. Troops will stand fast, on line reached at that hour, which will be reported to Corps HQ.
Defence precautions will be maintained.
There will be no intercourse of any description with Enemy.
It was a strange feeling to be free, free to walk about, to play football, to roam around Mons and Manbeuge.
Everywhere, the Royal Engineers were gathering up German rifles, emptying out bullet magazines and tossing the weapons, thousands and thousands of them, into great heaps. Yet other units were removing hundreds of guns of every calibre, shells and their fuses, mines, machine-guns, grenades and every form of transport into marked-out enclosures.
Germans in hiding, bewildered at the silence, came out of ruined houses (one came down the chimney of our quarters), woods and deep undergrowth. Half a dozen came out of a tank that was hidden in a ditch. It was fully loaded with fuel, ammunition and eight cannon.
At one spot on the Mons Road I stood in contemplation. It was the place where our regular troops faced the Germans in 1914. Where our infantry, heavily outnumbered and in a hopeless position, saw the ‘Angel of Mons’, the phantom force which they felt had appeared to support them. The regulars defeated the Uhlans and Guards, the cream of the German forces.
I met an English-speaking Mons cloth merchant who visited Fife on his annual sales trips before the war and discussed the apparition over his city that day. He said that all the townspeople had always kept loft-fulls of captive white doves for eggs and meat, just as countryfolk in Fife kept chickens. Before the war, he said, it was an ordinary sight to see large flocks of doves circling round the high church steeple when they were released for exercise and forage feeding.
His personal first-hand account for what happened next was of a natural and fear-driven reaction and not of the supernatural manifestations so many had claimed from their ignorance of the local habits. When the battle began the householders opened the cages to let the birds free, reasoning that most would return unharmed after the battle. The creatures cowered in their lofts because of the unfamiliar sounds and smells around them and until the sudden and simultaneous explosions from hundreds of guns signalled the start of the battle. All of the birds rose and followed their instinctive behaviour of circling higher and higher around the church spire in great confusion for a few minutes until they found their bearings and then flew off in every direction. The light flashing on their white feathers must have been construed by the soldiers as the ‘Angel’.
For me the war had finished where it started some four years and four months earlier. To me it was a sobering thought that millions were dead, sacrificed to defeat an arrogant nation.
At home, my father had a huge map of the war fronts. I had arranged with him to use a letter of the alphabet to denote a sector. When I wrote home I would begin each sentence with a first letter that traced my movements between sectors since my last letter, like so:
Dear Mum and Dad,
A fine parcel arrived today; before I forget; Calm reigns as we are resting; Do you know, the meat cubes kept me alive. Every letter fills me with cheer. And so on….
In this way my parents knew that I had been in sector A and moved through C, D and E and knew the truth of how the war was going rather than the War Office propaganda version.
I also kept a coded diary and at home, my father cut out newspaper articles dealing with action zones where I fought. Whilst in hospitals and on leave home, I marked up everything interesting and at the end of the war I drew up all my war experiences into a diary which I donated to the Imperial War Museum some sixty-five years later, when I felt that the facts in it could no longer hurt anyone. In a letter from London, Mr Roderick Suddaby, Head of the Museum’s Department of Documents kindly said,
Your contemporary record of your service in the Royal Field Artillery, written under the stress of war, would certainly be of value to the historians who use this museum.
After the Armistice our duties were light. Guns were polished, men were rested, horses exercised and food was plentiful.
The day came to go on a long journey. It took a fortnight of pleasant going to reach our destination. Our orders were made plain by our colonel who said, ‘The 24th Division Artillery, with infantry and other units is to garrison the town ofAntoing, near Tournai, in Belgium.’
I was supplied with a new horse and along with an officer, the Quartermaster Sergeant and an interpreter, we formed the advance guard, sent to select suitable billets for men and horses. Each midday all twenty-four battery advance guards met the Colonel’s Aide-de-camp at a given spot. He allocated a section to each battery and so the rest of the billeting was easy. Accommodation was always comfortable, with excellent cooking arrangements.
I noted some of the places we passed through, such as Valenciennes, a city with many ruins. We passed Aniches, once a large mining town where the Germans had destroyed pit machinery and flooded the coal mines. On to Leward which had been used as an internment camp for Russian prisoners. We skirted around Douai where many historic buildings were left in ruins. Through the centre of Marchiennes, its renowned great forests now only had tree stumps as the Germans had used all the trees for their war effort. Near to this fine city was the remnants of a Concentration Camp.
Then we journeyed on through Orchies, famous for the great stand made by the inhabitants against the Uhlan Cavalry in September, 1914. I recalled what I had been told by a soldier who had been there: the brave people assisted our troops and met the Hun hordes with picks, shovels, scythes, shot-guns, pokers and old swords. For this hundreds of civilians were later shot against Orchies church as a reprisal. Landas was a pretty village and the HQ of the German horse hospital during the war.
In a siding, on the Lille to St Amand railway line, curiosity made us look into some abandoned German railway wagons. One we looked at was filled with brass candlesticks, door knockers, nameplates, lamps, household ornaments and other metal objects. All had been stolen by the Germans from city homes to aid their war effort.
Tournai was a lovely unmarked city and to our dismay our destination, Antoing, was a dusty, dirty township, headquarters of the giant Portland Cement Works. Every day everything that did not move was covered by a greyish dust.
Apart from this annoyance we now led a quiet and interesting life. My turn came for leave after Christmas lunch, 1918. Three days later I was excited to be back at my home in Scotland.
Demob was official in January, 1919 and my life as a soldier was over at the end of March.
NOTE: Appendix 1, Part 6, ‘Jottings from the spiritual side of the army’, reveals how moral conflicts between compassion and killing were rationalised by soldiers.