Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (6 page)

One of our signallers stops to repair a puncture and is left behind. He returns on his bicycle waving the busby of a German hussar who was closely following us up. He has shot the enemy cavalryman, but what about the horse? He has shot the horse too, in his excitement. He is damned for his stupidity by the officers.

2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt

Horses have been slaughtered by the score. They looked like toy horses, nursery things of wood. Their faces were so unreal, their expressions so glassy. They lay in such odd postures, with their hoofs sticking so stiffly in the air. It seemed as if they were toys, and were lying just as children had upset them. Even their dimensions seemed absurd. Their bodies had swollen to tremendous sizes, destroying the symmetry of life, confirming the illusion of unreality.

The sight of these carcasses burning in the sun, with buzzing myriads of flies scintillating duskily over their unshod hides, excited a pity that was almost as deep as pity for slain human beings. After all, men came to the war with few illusions and a very complete knowledge of the price to be paid. They knew why they were there, what they were doing, and what they might expect. They could be buoyed up by victory, downcast by defeat. Above all, they had a Cause, something to fight for, and if Fate should so decree, something to die for. But these horses were different: they could neither know nor understand these things. Poor, dumb animals, a few weeks ago they had been drawing their carts, eating their oats, and grazing contentedly in their fields. And then suddenly they were seized by masters they did not know, raced away to places foreign to them, made to draw loads too great for them, tended irregularly, or not at all, and when their strength failed, and they could no longer do their work, a bullet through the brain ended their misery. Their lot was almost worse than the soldiers’!

It seemed an added indictment of war that these wretched animals should be flung into that vortex of slaughter. We pitied them intensely, the sight of them hurt and the smell of them nauseated us. Every memory is saturated with that odour. It was pungent, vigorous, demoralising. It filled the air, and one’s lungs shrank before it. Once, when a man drove his pick through the crisp, inflated side, a gas spurted out that was positively asphyxiating and intolerable.

Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards

We retreated south through village after village, mostly small grubby affairs, surrounded by coal mines and slag heaps, a feature of the region. It was hot, dry and dusty, and very quickly the horses began to look exhausted and dishevelled. Where we could, we rode along the road’s soft, unmetalled edges, for the oval stones were very hard on their legs, but our horses soon began to drop their heads and wouldn’t shake themselves like they normally did. Many were so tired they fell asleep standing up, their legs buckling, as they stumbled forward, taking the skin off their knees.

To ease the horses’ burden, excess kit was dumped. Shirts, spare socks and other laundry were all thrown away along with our greatcoats. It helped, but the horses really needed a good rest and this was an impossibility. The best we could do for them was to halt, dismount and lead on, a short-lived order to walk that usually lasted for no more than a mile or so. As a result, the horses’ shoe nails wore down at a terrific rate, each lasting little more than a week or ten days, before the chink, chink sound of a loose shoe meant falling back to find the farrier. It was sad to see our horses, so coveted and closeted at home, go unkempt. Saddles, once removed after every ride, now remained on for several days and nights with only the girths being slackened. The horses became very sore, their backs raw from over-riding, although they tended to suffer less than the French horses, which were simply ridden into the ground. The French cavalry never walked anywhere, and when they finally halted to give their horses a breather, it was not unknown for part of the horse’s back to come away with the saddle. One horse went mad, banging its head against a wall, before it was finally put out of its misery. It was appalling to see. For our part, we did the best we could, bandaging our horses’ grazed knees with rags or bits of puttee, but the majority could consider themselves lucky if they got a rub down with a bit of straw, or a pat on the back to bring back the circulation.

Lt Eric Anderson, 108th Batt., RFA

We only lost two horses through exhaustion. They had been turned loose to look after themselves. All our old peacetime horses were looking really fit, though a little thin. The horses given us on mobilisation had not, as a rule, done so well, as we had not had time to harden them properly before going over to France and they had been plunged straight into the middle of real hard work. They had hardly had 1lb of oats issued to them but had done well on unthrashed oat straw. This was given them at every possible opportunity so they did not do so badly.

Capt. Charles Norman, 9th (Queen’s Royal) Lancers

When horses fell sick or were wounded, the men had to ride or lead them with the transport. When men were killed or wounded, their horses had to be led with the troop or with the sick horses. A troop after action was therefore always hampered by an excess or a shortage of horses. Very seldom indeed was it in the desired condition of having one man to one horse. This greatly reduced its efficiency. At regular intervals, sometimes on the eve of an important action, 30 or 40 men were withdrawn from the squadron to go away and bring up a draft of horses. When these fresh horses arrived, generally after 48 hours, many of them were fat and soft, and quite unfit for hard work. It was always better to keep a hard horse, though wounded and sore, if he were going on well and fit for work, than to take a soft one in his place, though he had a whole skin. Unfit horses with soft backs and girths were useless, and seldom lasted two days of hard work.

Driver Charles Keller, RHA

A horse cannot rest properly when it has to wear its harness all the time, travelling most of the twenty-four hours each day. Even at Le Château [26 August] where we were for more than a day we didn’t risk removing the harness. On the march, we would find ourselves dropping off to sleep as we travelled along and it was the same with the horses. When that happened we would dismount and walk along beside the teams to keep awake. Most nights we would walk more than we would ride. Whenever we stopped to give the teams a rest and some food we would sit in front and lean against their front legs to take a nap, then if the horse started to move it would wake us up.

In the confusion of the retreat, both horses and men became ravenously hungry. The Army Service Corps did what it could, dumping food by the side of the road to be picked up by whoever happened to pass that way. When it was possible to stop, the infantry automatically posted men to watch out for the enemy. It gave some men and horses a few hours’ rest at most.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

Early in the morning, just before dawn, a slight contretemps occurred which resulted in the loss of two perfectly innocent and gentle lives.

One of the sentinels, peering into the gloom, suddenly espied figures stealthily moving in his direction. Failing to elicit a response to his challenges, he opened fire, the sound of his outburst creating the wildest excitement and apprehension in the camp.

The discovery of the corpses of two cows testified to the watchfulness of our guard, and we relaxed our excited vigilance with expressions of relief.

When daylight enabled us to look round, I sought a view of these unfortunate victims of circumstance, and was forced to rub my eyes and pinch myself at the peculiar sight they presented. It appeared that the bullets of that sentry had possessed the uncanny and unusual power of flaying the beasts and removing the greater part of the flesh thus exposed. I rightly guessed, after reflection, that some of the starving men had felt too hungry to allow such a unique gift of food to go begging.

Daylight found me absolutely raging with hunger, and I eagerly watched for signs that would reveal to me the identity of the ‘butchers’, in the hope of being able to secure a titbit to allay the pangs of emptiness that assailed me, but all in vain, and I surmised that they must have devoured the meat raw and warm as they hacked it away from the carcasses.

A large farmhouse lay a short distance in front of us, and on the pretext of obtaining drinking water I sought permission to take a party to it, which was granted. To our great disappointment, it was found deserted, and the most minute search failed to reveal anything in the nature of food. This almost broke our hearts, and we returned miserably to our unit.

To the exhausted infantry, it might have looked a much better bet to have been a cavalryman or limber driver, sitting as they were on horses or wagons rather than toiling all day on foot. Yet infantrymen only had themselves to worry about; those with horses had an onerous responsibility to their animals, a fact not always appreciated by the infantry.

Lt Eric Anderson, 108th Batt., RFA

We had the greatest difficulty getting water. One battery was billeted at each farmhouse, the only places where water was to be had from wells and they [the infantry] were rather naturally afraid the water supply might run short. The sight of a couple of hundred thirsty horses used to produce all sorts of tales about staff orders having been given that no horses were to be watered there. As the staff never troubled to find
us
water, we generally disregarded such efforts till some irate one in authority could be found to drive us away. By this time, with any luck, we had watered quite a lot of horses, then we’d try elsewhere and finish up before getting pushed off again. No infantryman can understand why horses want to drink, apparently. It is the great grouse we had against them at the beginning.

Capt. Charles Norman, 9th (Queen’s Royal) Lancers

One and a half or two hours were required to get the horses finished for the night. Watering a squadron was a long business if only one pump was available and no troughs. Sometimes a squadron had to water half a mile from billets at a pond. Barns had to be emptied of cattle, carts and farm rubbish before horses could be got under cover.

In the morning, watering, feeding, packing saddles and saddling up occupied another hour and a half. This had to be completed before daylight. Thus from time actually spent in billets, three hours at least must be deducted to find the actual amount of rest obtained. Thus if a force reach billets at 10 p.m. and received orders to be ready for move at 5 a.m., the period of actual rest was only four hours. The amount of rest obtained was of course very much less than this.

Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards

Clean water was of great importance to a regiment on the move, and whenever possible, water bottles were kept topped up. On one occasion, the squadron turned into a stream, and the horses, tired and thirsty, went to drink, but we were told to ‘Ride on’, so on we went. The water was less than a foot deep, clear and inviting, and it seemed such a waste. Several troopers did try to get water into their enamelled bottles, removing the cork and slinging them over into the stream as they rode. But most bottles were already too light, and despite tipping and dipping them in the water, most failed to collect much before reaching the other side.

2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt

During a few minutes’ halt, a cow near the road stood gazing, with that apathetic interest peculiar to cows, at the thirsty men. It was not for nothing, as the French say, that one of the reservists had been a farm hand. He went up to the cow, unfastening his empty water bottle as he went, and calmly leant down and began to milk the neglected animal until his bottle was full. It was not in itself a funny proceeding, but there was something about the calmness of both the cow and the man, and something about the queerness of the occasion, that appealed to the sense of humour of the dourest old Puritan of them all. They laughed, they roared, they shouted, in a way that reminded the men of the last ‘soccer’ season. The noise must have mystified the pursuing Uhlans not a little.

The days in late August were hot and sultry with the odd thunderstorm to relieve the misery. Even so, the retreating cavalrymen were glad of the coolness evening brought. But with the onset of night, other unexpected problems were encountered.

Capt. Charles Norman, 9th (Queen’s Royal) Lancers

At night it was very difficult for the rear units of a brigade or regiment to keep closed up. When the order to trot was given from a walk, it reached the rear of the column so late that the rear troops had often to gallop in order to keep touch, and when a walk was ordered from a trot, the rear troops unavoidably crashed into those in front. The darker the night, the more difficult was the marching. On one very dark night I felt much gratitude to a light grey horse in the rear of the troop in front of me as it served as a beacon.