Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (32 page)

I meandered on through the village until I struck a trench leading up to the front line: this I followed for a while until quite suddenly I was confronted by a brilliancy which seemed to me one of the most perfect bits of colour I had ever seen. Amongst innumerable shell-holes there was a small patch of ground absolutely carpeted with buttercups, over which blazed bright red poppies intermixed with the bluest of cornflowers. Here was a really glorious corner, and how quickly came memories of home! No one, however hardened by the horrors of war, could pass that spot without a smile or a happy thought. Perhaps it is the contrast of the perfection of these corners with the sordidness of all around that makes them of such inestimable value.

2/Lt John Gamble, 14th Durham Light Infantry

There are moments, sometimes hours, when right at the seat of the greatest of wars, close behind the firing line, near where there have been many thousands of lives lost in the fiercest fighting of the war, one can close one’s eyes and imagine all is peace again. At times when all the infernal engines and machines at the command of the armies are subdued for a few minutes, one may realise that all the frightfulness man can invent will never kill nature. Listen, now, to the birds singing over in those trees, which are rustling gently in the mild western breeze, as they have done for hundreds of years; and that little stream which has so often run with blood since the war commenced, still makes its merry music, as it bubbles over the little stones towards the canal waiting to receive it.

Close your eyes with me here, and listen to nature gently protesting that she still does, and always will, hold sway; that war will not continue for ever, and soon she will reassert herself in the stricken land, and with the aid of time, gradually cover up and remove all the appalling signs of the forces which have endeavoured to upheave her.

Such well-written prose could capture a moment, it could hint at greater, more substantial thoughts, but for the officer who wrote it there was also the reality of a war to be won. The diary would be put away, the letter closed, and the daily work of leading a company or battery resumed. With men constantly on the move, there was a continuous circulation of animals between units. Horses and mules were frequently traded, particularly among the artillery and service corps, keen to eject a horse that caused problems but which might settle down with another team. Theft, however, was a major cause of loss. This frequently exercised the minds of officers keen to recover a favourite horse from among dozens of others serving with another unit, all of which could look pretty much the same.

Capt. Graham Reid, 1st Field Squadron, RE

I saw Captain Alexander Arnold, who had been Riding Instructor at Chatham, several times. He came over to tea and did a bit of horse swapping with the squadron. We had some Australian RFA lines near ours and had to keep a very strict lookout on our own horses and saddlery. One night when two bombs fell near the line, several of our horses got loose, including one of Alexander’s chargers which, when we had rounded everything up, was missing. Keeping watch next day at the watering point, Alexander saw his own horse being ridden by a lanky Australian gunner, who was one of the large watering party. Alexander went up to this man and politely told him that he had his (Alexander’s) horse which had got loose the night before. The Australian replied, ‘Not a bit of it: I’ve had this horse ever since I came over, and that’s three years ago: Sammy, I call him.’ On Alexander pointing out that Sammy had ‘RE98’ branded on his forefeet the Australian looked down and then quite naively remarked, ‘So he has: I forgot that, sir. You’d better take him.’ He was not in the very least embarrassed.

Maj. Neil Fraser-Tytler, D Batt., 149th Brigade, RFA

I took a different route from the battery in order to lunch with the North Irish Horse, and also to pick up a horse hidden there for certain reasons during the last two days. The battery had quite a successful march, picking up a horse and two mules and having only one horse reclaimed, also a nice looking young setter joined them on the road, which will be useful for partridge shooting further north. Owing to all batteries grazing their horses in large herds in the open clover fields, a good many had changed hands, so every outgoing battery is carefully examined by those who are anxious to reclaim their horses.

Lt Richard Talbot Kelly, 52nd Brigade, RFA

We noticed while grazing our horses that numbers of other horses from units other than our own were also being grazed, and one particular bunch of horses used to be sent out in the charge of very few drivers, who then promptly went to sleep and took no further interest in the proceedings. Now there were amongst these horses one or two beautiful beasts in the pink of condition and we felt it would be nice to acquire them, so one day we arranged a little stampede and in the muddle that ensued quickly whisked away all five of these coveted ‘gees’. We rushed them back to our own wagon lines and set the farrier and his staff on to trimming them up with the clipping machine and to restamping the numbers on their hoofs.

Looking back on it now, it seems a thoroughly immoral act, but by this time the British Army had become expert scroungers, and scrounging a horse or two we felt was just as legitimate as scrounging RE material for a dugout. Two days later two officers came round and asked if we had found any stray horses. We said we had both lost and found some horses two days previously in the stampede, but if they liked they could come and look round our lines and see if they could recognise any of the horses they had lost. They walked round, but either the horses we had collected were not theirs or they failed to recognise their own beasts and they went away empty-handed.

Driver Charles Keller, RHA

We moved a long way back and built some stables and thatched the walls and roof with straw. It was quite warm for the horses but it couldn’t have been very well built because the first high wind that sprung up blew it away. We were able to hang on to most of the horses but some did break loose. Those that got away we couldn’t do anything about before daylight and it took several days to round up all of them. Some of them were more than thirty miles away. Some were found hidden in farmers’ stables and they didn’t want to give them up. Others refused to allow us to check their barns and we had to get the local police. We had a few horses that were balky [perverse] and troublesome and, although we saw them, we didn’t bother to pick them up as they were more than a nuisance when we used them to take up ammunition. They would no doubt soon lose their balkiness when the farmer hooked them to a plough. The farmer would see that the balky one earned his oats. They weren’t as kind to their animals as were the British soldiers.

French farmers were realistic about the purpose of an animal on a farm. There was no room for sentiment when the living was hard, made harder still by a war which stripped the countryside of most young agricultural workers. Most soldiers out on rest were, if so minded, happy to watch the work, although antagonisms between farmers and soldiers were as frequent as they were perennial.

Pte Hugh Quigley, 12th Royal Scots

There is a curious self-containedness in the life of a French peasant. Even the farm stock fraternise in a strange way. Yesterday the good wife (who waddles along as if cut through at the waist, bust and hips wobbling in different directions) brought in a cartful of dried bean-stuff. It seemed to be a delicacy, for first a brown cow slipped up and tore off a mouthful, then a calf, then an old grey mare and foal, until the cart was completely surrounded and the old wife lost to view. Quite a fine picture! Cows, horses, a loquacious sow, an infinity of white hens, ducks, and, bringing up the rear, a troop of half-grown turkeys.

Pte Arthur Alexander, 1/14th London Rgt (London Scottish)

Nearby was a small farm where we could buy fresh milk. Sometimes we would have to wait while the woman milked the cows before we could be served, so it was then quite warm and unquestionably fresh. Whilst waiting to be served, I was surprised to see how close the cattle were to the inmates of the farmhouse. One had only to open the living-room door, which room, by the way, had in it a great old four-poster bed, and you walked into the cow-stall and saw the cows bedded down. This was much too close to my way of thinking but they thought nothing of it and were evidently accustomed to eating and sleeping in close proximity to their cattle. I am afraid it would horrify most English folk.

Rifleman Aubrey Smith, 1/5th London Rgt (London Rifle Brigade)

I had a wordy argument today with a man who tried to hit my horse because he imagined he was being forced into the mud beside the road. I also had trouble with a fat old wench who swore at me. One of her fowls flew through the mud, spraying my face with slosh; as I was in a bad temper I gave vent to my wrath by chasing the offending chicken up the road. The owner happened to see the chase and ran after me, jabbering away nineteen to the dozen and shaking her fist, which led to retorts in equally strong language conveying, however, nothing to her unreceptive mind . . .

We were in a typical Flanders area where the billets were farms – miles from any shops or canteens and surrounded by an almost impassable flooded waste. This was the place where we joined the remainder of the transport, the section sharing a barn with about two dozen fowls. From the noise they kicked up it would appear that they were the original and lawful owners and their protests became so loud in the early morning that nearly everyone hurled mugs, boots and other missiles at the rowdy roosters. The civilian owners of the farm, as one might expect in these parts, were surly and resentful. As if we were out here for a beanfeast, deliberately choosing to live with their livestock and sleep on their smelly straw! As if we were occupying their filthy barn for the love of the thing! We were no happier than they – we, who were far from our homes and would shortly be enduring hell at Ypres. The least these mercenary old peasants could do was to be grateful to the British for keeping the Germans from their doors.

Ypres: other than a brief excursion into the town in October 1914, the Germans had been held back on the edge of a tight salient that contracted and expanded according to which side had been on the offensive. The town itself had slowly succumbed to enemy fire, the beautiful Cloth Hall was a smouldering wreck as was the cathedral, while the town’s ramparts were shell-pitted and sandbagged. Yet in the moat there was still life.

Capt. James Dunn, RAMC attd. 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers

Ypres is a ghost: the grubby little town will have to be rebuilt, every house, from its foundations. The ramparts are scarred, but stand. Only the moat is unchanged. On its calm surface there floated, so stilly as to make scarcely a ripple, two swans preening themselves languidly in the brilliant, oppressive sun of a fine day.

A month later the swans were still there, but their circumstances had worsened.

Cpl G.W. Durham, 3rd Div., Cyclist Coy

One wretched pair of swans, the last of a big flock, still has a nest in the moat. Someone tried to get the eggs one day, but suddenly realising that he was being shot at by our sentries, he wisely desisted, as they had made pets of the birds and would have shot him as calmly as a rat. Both the birds are crippled.

The cuckoo sings on the rampart, so do the blackbirds and thrushes. The birds take no notice of war at all and will sing over a battery while it is firing.

Capt. James Dunn, RAMC attd. 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers

The cob, a great beauty, appears to have been wounded; one of the digits of his left wing looks as if it had been broken and had set badly. These birds have become legendary. Their appearance at the Menin Gate foretells a peaceful day, their disappearance, no one knows whither, portends a bombardment.

Chaplain Thomas Tiplady, Army Chaplains’ Dept

For three years the storm centre of the British battle front has been at Ypres. Every day and night it had been the standing target of thousands of guns. Yet, amid all the havoc and thunder of the artillery, the graceful white form of a swan had been seen gliding over the water of the moat. It never lacked food, and was always welcome to a share of Tommy’s rations. [Then] a shell burst near the swan, and it was mortally wounded.

Somehow the swan seemed a mystical being, and invulnerable. It was a relic of the days of peace, and a sign of the survival of purity and grace amid the horrors and cruelties of war. It spoke of the sacred things that yet remain – the beautiful things of the soul upon which war can lay no defiling finger. Now it had gone from the water and Ypres seems more charred than ever, and the war more terrible.

On the last day of July 1917, the British offensive at Ypres began in earnest. The battle lasted over three months and the general morass in which it was fought came to symbolise in the public consciousness the misery of that conflict.