Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (7 page)

Lt Eric Anderson, 108th Batt., RFA

It was now 11 p.m. and we heard we were to have two hours’ rest. We managed with much difficulty, and in the pitch dark, to clear the road and with still greater difficulty to get the horses fed. The men were simply foolish from fatigue and lack of sleep and just dropped off to sleep in the middle of whatever they were doing. Going round in inky darkness to feel whether horses have their feeds or not is no jest and then all the men had to be kicked up again to take the nosebags off. It may sound unnecessary but if horses aren’t looked after they just crock up, and you had much better have stayed in England.

QMS W.W. Finch, 1st Royal Scots Fusiliers

How the Army Service Corps managed to keep the moving masses of men supplied with rations day by day could only be appreciated by those who understood it. By hook or by crook they kept the regimental wagons filled and named places where biscuits and beef, and cheese and jam, could be dumped down in time for the retiring troops to gather up supplies as they passed.

There were farm horses in the battalion wagons, and owing to the incessant work they showed chafings and raw places innumerable, but no sooner was a sore place spotted than the driver was down from his seat with a tin of Vaseline and a pad of rifle flannelette until the trappings looked more like bandages than harness.

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

The horses were so hungry, they were barely able to wait for their food, and impulsively strained forward in the horse lines at meal times, mouths open, hoping to get a mouthful of corn. As soon as a nosebag was on, they bolted the food, throwing their heads up into the air to get as much corn as possible into their mouths. The problem was that whole oats passed through the horses’ digestive system and straight out again in the manure, doing no good at all. To slow down the rate at which they ate, pebbles were put in the nosebags with the corn, although, strictly speaking, we were not supposed to do this. As the horses bit down hard, they received a salutary shock, ensuring that they chewed their food more gingerly.

The regiment had just come back to a village and I was detailed to help feed the troop’s horses, so I went to pick up a couple of feed bags and walked over to the horse lines. The horses had become noticeably agitated, but one, overexcited at the prospect of food, shot forward and in one movement bit my stomach, dragging me slightly across him before letting go. I had just a shirt on and the pain was excruciating. When I pulled my shirt up my stomach oozed blood from a wound.

Cpl William Watson, RE, 5th Div.

Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage. We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp straw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we were all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered perilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that was covering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look round for some shelter, and George, our champion ‘scrounger’, discovered a chicken house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died a silent and, I hope, a painless death.

The order came round that the motorcyclists were to spend the night at the cottage – the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable – while the rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with a few fowls and investigated the cottage. It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with some food by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could not move her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt and onions. With the aid of our old post sergeant we plucked some of the chickens and put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee.

For understandable reasons of maintaining discipline in friendly countries, the army had introduced strict rules forbidding looting in France or Belgium. However, when it came to food many officers and men were uncertain where they stood when livestock roamed free on abandoned farms. Justifiable scrounging or stealing? It was a difficult call.

2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt

The men’s nerves were tried to breaking point, and a little detail, small and of no consequence in itself, opened the lock, as it were, to a perfect river of growing anger and discontent.

This was how it happened. The colonel had repeated the previous night the order about looting, and the men were under the impression that if any of them took so much as a green apple he would be liable to ‘death or some such less punishment as the Act shall provide’. They talk about it and grumble, and then suddenly, without any warning except a clucking and scratching, the mess sergeant is seen by the greater part of the battalion to issue triumphantly from a farm gate with two or three fat hens under his arms. Smiling broadly, totally ignorant of the enormity of his conduct, he deposits his load in the [officers’] mess cart drawn up to receive the loot! The men did not let the opportunity slip by without giving vent to a lot of criticism.

Pte Harold Harvey, 2nd Royal Fusiliers

The farm was deserted, its lawful owners having found the situation too hot for them. Cows roamed about at random, and so did pigs. But after we had dug ourselves in and made our position secure, the chickens were what interested us most. There were two hundred and fifty of these at the least. Catching them was good sport, but eating them was something finer. What a nice change from bully beef and biscuits. Cooking was not quite à la Carlton or Ritz, but more on prehistoric principles. So many fowls were caught, killed and plucked for cooking and eating that the wet mud was completely covered with feathers and resembled a feather bank. As for ourselves, the feathers sticking to the wet mud on our uniforms and equipment turned us into Zulus, or wild men of the woods. The enemy presumably did fairly well also, with a poultry farm in the distance. They appeared to have a portable kitchen.

Maj. Patrick Butler, 2nd Royal Irish Rgt

There was a dense belt of wood between us and the firing line, and over this the shells came screaming, bursting to the right and left, short and beyond. The enemy’s guns systematically searched up and down and across, and every now and then they would concentrate a crushing fire on some particular spot, generally where there were neither troops nor animals, punching craters in the fields, setting barns and ricks instantaneously alight, and sending up dense clouds of evil, acrid smoke.

Animals that had been left behind when the people of the farm departed so hurriedly were still grazing all over the place, until every now and then a shell would come and send them scampering off to some fresh spot. Pigs and chickens were enjoying a most unwonted degree of freedom, and not being confined within any limits were able to fend for themselves for food. The unfortunate watchdogs were the most to be pitied, for in a great number of cases they had been left to starve on the chain. Our men often tried to release them, but in many cases they had become so fierce that nobody dared approach them.

I remember witnessing an amusing encounter between two diminutive pullets which, quite oblivious of the battle that was taking place all around them, were engrossed in a fight on their own account, gazing into each other’s eyes in that intent way they have when fighting. Perhaps each blamed the other for the noise that was going on.

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

On many farms we found a mess, with abandoned animals roaming around, some in a bad state. On one farm, we came across sheds containing several dozen cows all blowing their heads off, desperate to be milked. In their anxiety to clear out, the owners had loaded up their carts and left the animals locked up and unmilked. We were told to go and unchain them and let them out into a field, otherwise they would starve. They were in obvious pain as they came into the yard, their swinging bags so full that milk was actually squirting out.

Maj. Patrick Butler, 2nd Royal Irish Rgt

A shell landed full in the middle of a small circle of piglets. It scattered them in all directions, but not one of them was hurt. I could hear their concerted squeal high above the roar of battle. But we did not like pigs. They roamed at large everywhere, very hungry, and there were stories of their gnawing dead bodies, and even attacking the wounded.

Ravenously hungry, Lance Corporal Vivian had already visited one farm in search of food. At the time, he and his comrades discovered nothing, or so Vivian had thought.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Rgt

I had noticed this sack being carried slung on his back during the march, and it had excited my curiosity, especially as I thought I could observe movement within it. I had also been slightly puzzled by mysterious smothered screams, coming from somewhere within my vicinity, which I vainly suspected originated from that sack, but I had lacked the energy to ask questions on the subject.

As he now, therefore, showed sign of revealing his secret unasked, I watched him intently as he gently manipulated the fastenings. The string removed, he pulled it gently open, and peered into its depth, making an encouraging sound with his mouth the while.

A great commotion in the interior of the bag answered his efforts, and, to my unbounded amazement, a small and perky head of a little white pig, a couple of weeks old, appeared. Smiling happily, the soldier tenderly drew it forth, and sitting it upright, dangled it upon his knee. As proud as a father with his firstborn, he fondled that little beast, calling it by most absurd terms of endearment that would have caused an elderly spinster’s pet poodle to turn bilious with envy.

This little pig, however, had other ideas, and appeared to be hunting for something which claimed its attention to the exclusion of all else. Not being able to discover the object of its frantic search, it set up a terrifying squealing that soon brought everybody alert with frightful curses. This almost caused a fight between the owner of the pig and the remainder, until the atom of potential pork, finding by a lucky chance its owner’s finger, sucked at that digit voraciously, and immediately became quiet. The man then laid himself down, with the piglet snuggled down on one of his arms, with the finger of his other hand deputising as a mother, to the animal’s huge contentment.

This presented a most laughable picture, the man of war lying there crooning and making mother noises to his adopted baby, while the latter rested with great confidence against him, his bright little eyes sparkling with childlike mischief. I asked him how and where he had obtained it, for I was curious, as he was one of the men that had accompanied me to the farm to get water and incidentally to search for food on the morning of the 24th. He told me that he had found it hidden in the manger of an empty horsebox on that morning, and took it at first with the intention of converting it into food. The fact that we had been able to obtain the means of staving off our hunger had bought a reprieve to the little mite, which now lay complacently ignorant of the vile and untimely fate which at one time threatened it.

I asked him if he had any intention of killing and eating it later on, in the event of a repetition of the failure of food supplies, and his furious reply: ‘Whatcher take me for, a blinkin’ cannibal?’ both flabbergasted and amused me.

Anonymous soldier, 1st Gloucestershire Rgt

A young pig had strayed, from goodness knows where, and found itself wandering between the front and support lines. Immediately every rifle in B Company was directed at this new and more than welcome type of target. Bully beef and biscuits had been the staple diet, and here was pork to be had for the hitting. Yet no one could hit it! The animal either bore a charmed life, or the much vaunted marksmanship of the Glosters existed only in name. Then the enemy gunners joined in the same game. Their shooting became more intense, and, very reluctantly, B Company crouched down. Their mouths turned dry with disappointment and renewed thoughts of iron rations.

The shelling ceased. Up bobbed one head; then another; and soon the whole company was peering eagerly across the flat space which separated them from the front line. Extraordinary thing! That pig, which had survived the shooting of the finest infantry in the British Army, had been scuppered by a spare shrapnel bullet, and an enemy one at that.

Hearts were now high. Quickly two volunteers went out and brought in the pig. It was small and emaciated, but nevertheless a pig; and, as such, was duly quartered, each platoon receiving a quarter.

That night the battalion was relieved, moving back to where No. 8 platoon found itself in a sunken road near a clump of trees. About two hundred yards further back could be seen some dilapidated farm buildings. The members of Sergeant Bray’s platoon were hungry and tired. Yet were they happy. Their portion of pig was fastened to a high branch of a tree, and, while the older soldiers discussed ways and means of cooking it on the morrow, the younger ones fell asleep.