Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (16 page)

Lt Andrew McCormick, 182nd Labour Coy

There was a very cheeky little mouse which used to scamper along just under the iron roof and rumble chalk down on to the head of Drake, who was my stablemate at that particular time. I dubbed that mouse ‘Robert the Bruce’ because he seemed to have such an antipathy to Mr Englishman. One day Drake was sitting near my bed and he said, ‘Gracious me, look at that.’ I looked up and there was the little mousie scampering along the ledge whilst a lump of tissue paper hung from its mouth. Drake said, ‘Is it building a nest or what’s it after?’ I said, ‘The explanation is quite simple. Hitherto the rats have kept to this side and the mice to that and now “King Robert” is waving a flag of truce to the rats to unite against the common enemy – Mr Englishman.’ One night I heard a continuous stampede of rats above my head. I rose on my elbow and turned my flashlight on to the usual spot where I could see them streaking past. There, to my greater alarm, I saw the little red eyes of a weasel. Drake saw them too and we both said, ‘That’s done it.’ Next day we gave orders to have the dugout lined with Boche timber.

In or out of the line, the army was never keen to allow men to have too much time on their hands as light work was an encouragement to mischief. As in civilian life, a lake, pond or river immediately attracted those who enjoyed fishing, and if the opportunity arose men would fashion rods and bait and try their luck. However, the British soldier had also become a seasoned scrounger and was therefore unwilling to leave anywhere empty-handed. A fishing rod might bring success, but if not there was an alternative.

Pte Frank Richards, 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers

Paddy and I had bought some cheap rods and lines and went for a day’s fishing, also taking a couple of Mills bombs in case we met with no success. After three hours’ fishing not one of us had caught a tadpole. An elderly Frenchman then commenced fishing by us and in no time he had caught half a dozen lovely fish. We stuck it another hour but with no results. We then gave it up and walked a couple of hundred yards down the canal, and after a careful look round pulled the pins out of our bombs and dropped them in. Ten seconds later we had more fish than what we could carry back. This was a favourite method of fishing with some of us although strictly prohibited: if a man was caught the least punishment he could expect was twenty-eight days Number Ones [daily humiliation of being tied to a wheel of a gun carriage].

As throwing grenades into any lake or river to stun fish was illegal, the assumption made by officers and Frenchmen alike was that if any stretch of water was bereft of life then ‘other ranks’ were to blame. Not so.

Capt. Charles McKerrow, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers

In the afternoon, Scott of 12th DLI (Durham Light Infantry) came in and suggested a fishing expedition in the evening. I was keen on it so he collected some pills from the store. At 6.30 we set off with shovels and gumboots. The boat was on the south side of the reservoir, well hidden in rushes. We baled her out and started with some vigorous shoving. We tried some casts in the middle with no success. We were rather noisy I’m afraid, and it was fairly light. We tried closer in shore on the north side. One cast gave us about 30 or 40 nice dace and roach, and another nearly as many. We practically filled a sandbag and then paddled home. We hid the boat as far as possible in the rushes. Scott came in and supped with me on fried trout etc. The fish were not all bad, though a trifle bony.

In his diary, Charles McKerrow had barely bothered to conceal that ‘pills’ meant grenades. He was more candid when recounting the same episode in a letter home to his family.

Capt. Charles McKerrow, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers

I had a great evening fishing last night. I brought in about a sandbag full of roach and dace, which were nearly as good as trout when fried by Mat [the cook] in ration butter. The method of fishing was, perhaps, not entirely sporting, being not unconnected with high explosives. It was really rather fun, however, and no one fishes in the place as it is exposed to view by day.

2/Lt Andrew Buxton, 3rd Rifle Brigade

I have been in about half an hour from a long walk round certain front-line trenches, which I had not seen before . . . We have a small, shallow pond just by our dugouts, with low rushes by the side, in which I saw a ripping pike of about 5lb muddling about. I had a shot with my revolver, and apparently stunned him for about a minute, as after that he began to move off again, but difficult to see whereabouts his head or tail was. I thought I got him with another shot, which was about right as it seemed, but he only went off with a big rush. I was very sorry not to get him, as it would have given the men great joy to have had him for breakfast.

A couple of days later he had another go.

2/Lt Andrew Buxton, 3rd Rifle Brigade

I told you I missed a pike in a pond, but yesterday I shot a fish, probably a 1lb roach, or something of the sort. Quite fun trying to recover it in the rushes; the mud was too deep for gumboots, so got a tub, in which one of the servants made a perilous journey through rushes, but, instead of retrieving it, stupidly drove it into the mud!

It was a well-known military mantra not to volunteer for anything in the army. No one would freely volunteer for a miserable job so it was normally misdescribed by the sergeant in order to get a taker. It was fortunate for Driver Pugh, then, that when the sergeant major sought a man who could trap moles, he really did mean a man who could trap moles.

Lt Philip Gosse, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers

I had already learned in the army that whenever at a loss the regimental sergeant major was the right man to appeal to for help. So I sent for him and explained that I wanted some moles, that I had some traps, and asked if he thought he could find a man in the ambulance who knew how to use them. Off went the regimental sergeant major, and half an hour later, while I was still sitting at the desk in the orderly room, I heard sounds of approaching steps and the regimental sergeant major marched in, followed by a depressed and rather scared looking Army Service Corps driver.

‘Driver Pugh, sir,’ bawled the RSM, ‘admits to being a mole-catcher in civil life.’

Then stepped forward Driver Pugh, who in reply to my questions said that before the war he had worked on a farm in Wales near a village with an unpronounceable name, and that his principal duty at this farm had been to catch moles. The very man I wanted. So it was arranged that Driver Pugh should be excused all duties that afternoon, and he was sent off with my traps. This piece of news, coupled with the sight of the traps, brought about an instant and miraculous change in the Welshman’s demeanour. For in place of a sad, browbeaten man, he instantly became alert, smiling, and self-confident.

How he did it I do not know, but next morning, chaperoned by the RSM, Driver Pugh entered the presence bearing in his hands two handsome Flemish moles.

Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt

We were to journey up to the trenches under cover of darkness on the following night. The orderly sergeant broke the news when he came to our billet with battalion orders. Nobody seemed to care. We were too leg-weary and footsore to take much notice.

‘Can anyone here milk a cow?’ It was the sergeant speaking, but no reply to this strange question was forthcoming. If he had asked for a volunteer to kill a pig the request could not have been more unexpected. The next moment, however, my elbow was nudged. ‘Go on, chum. Speak up. There’s a soft job for you!’

‘Can you milk a cow?’ said the sergeant, eyeing me suspiciously. I nodded my head. ‘Then in future you will be attached to Headquarters’ Company. Tomorrow you will parade at 3.30 a.m. to march with the advance party for the trenches.’ Without any further word of explanation, the sergeant turned and walked through the doorway, out into the darkness of the deserted village street . . .

There is little need to dwell upon the discomforts of the following morning. The early rise in the dark and the parade of Headquarters’ Company in the keen, frosty air. ‘Is the cowman there? – Right.’ Off we trudged along the road to the trenches . . .

Carnoy was Battalion Headquarters for the troops holding the line. On one side of the road was the colonel’s dugout. Opposite were the remains of a farmstead and nearby a communication trench labelled Montauban Alley. Here amid the tumbledown debris of bricks and mortar I was to find a home.

‘Is the cowman there?’ asked a sleepy voice. ‘Come on, chum. Follow me. I’ll show you what kind of a job you’ve been let in for!’ The speaker had evidently just emerged from beneath his blanket. I followed him between two buildings where once there had been a gateway. The gateway had belonged to the farmyard which had been square in shape, a large midden in the centre and outbuildings all round. The midden was still there. No cows, no horses, no pigs were to be seen. Not even a barn-door fowl. The buildings were in ruins and a death-like silence seemed to brood over the whole place.

‘Here we are,’ said my sleepy companion as we clattered over the cobblestones and halted in front of the only building with any semblance of a roof. Somewhere in the darkness beyond the open doorway there was a movement which produced a faint rustling noise. There was no mistaking that familiar sound. It was the swish of a cow’s tail.

There were two cows. One dry and the other giving a bare quart of milk, I was told. The milk was to be taken to the colonel’s dugout . . . Undoing the tethering ropes, we led the cows out of the farmyard and along the roadway to a piece of wasteland behind the colonel’s dugout. Here we fastened them to two long ropes which were pegged into the ground. ‘That’s all they get to eat,’ said my companion, and he pointed to the withered, brown grass which grew between the shell-holes. ‘If it doesn’t fatten it’ll fill,’ he remarked, and with that we left the poor beasts grazing peacefully.

Back once more in the farmyard, we made our way across to the far side of the ruins where a layer of ice glistened on the surface of a waterlogged shell-hole. Here lay the main source of our water supply for the cows. But one had to be careful, for the spot was overlooked from the enemy’s trenches. ‘Keep your head down. That bloomin’ sniper ain’t a bad shot.’ With these words I received final instructions for my newly acquired job as the colonel’s cowman . . .

Lt Philip Gosse, RAMC attd. 10th Northumberland Fusiliers

It was sometimes quite pathetic to see how much men liked following again their old peacetime callings. Once while I was acting as temporary medical officer to a battalion, an order arrived from Divisional Headquarters instructing the commanding officer to make inquiries whether there were in his battalion any men with first-hand knowledge of the care of carrier pigeons, because several experts were required to take charge of some mobile pigeon lofts which were being sent out. This news soon spread and caused much excitement. The battalion had been recruited in a Yorkshire town where pigeon fancying and pigeon racing were popular hobbies and sports. Here, it seemed, was a chance to get a ‘cushy’ job well away from the line, near some comfortable estaminet, with no officer, still more no RSM and no parades. Indeed, it seemed to hold out the realisation of the golden dreams of almost every infantry soldier. At noon the battalion paraded, the order was read out and any man who knew about the care of carrier pigeons and how to fly them was instructed at the word ‘Advance’ to take two steps forward. When the order rang out . . . ‘Advance’ . . . the whole battalion moved two paces forward and halted.

The adjutant had a difficult task before him, to select the two or three required, when confronted by some four hundred carrier-pigeon experts from which to choose.

Pte Thomas Williams, 19th King’s Liverpool Rgt

My job as the colonel’s cowman was a pleasant occupation compared to life in the front line. Once, when we attempted to increase the milk yield, the CO demanded that hay should be sent up the line. I got into the transport officer’s bad books for stealing his clover! Otherwise there were few happenings of note. A shell or two now and then and that damned sniper forever trying to knock the last remaining scrap of plaster off the farm buildings. That was about all.

For nearly two months the battalion journeyed backwards and forwards between Bray and the Carnoy sector. But at length there came rumours of a move. We were going to take over another lot of trenches on the right. This meant, of course, that our headquarters would no longer be at Carnoy. It also meant that our colonel would no longer have fresh milk for his breakfast.

We are told that all good things come to an end sooner or later. I myself could not grumble, for the cowman’s job had saved me many hours of tedious fire step duty in the front line. We were resting at Bray when news of the move came through and with it came orders for the colonel’s cowman to be returned to his old company.