Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden (9 page)

Pte Frank Richards, 2nd Royal Welsh Fusiliers

There was a decent orchard in the farm at the back of our trench, and Stevens and I used to slip over in the night and fill his pack full of apples. We had to fill our bellies with
something
. There was one cow and one pig left in the farm. Buffalo Bill [nickname of A Company’s CO, Major Clifton Stockwell] had the pig killed and sent back to the company cooks with instructions to melt a lot of the fat down and cook the remainder; the pork came up the following night and we enjoyed it greatly although we had no bread to eat it with. The fat that was melted down we used for greasing our rifles with . . .

One morning the officers were about to have breakfast at the end of the trench leading to their bay, from where it was possible by stooping low in a ditch to get into the farm by daylight. One of the officers’ servants, whose duty it was to milk the cow so that the officers could have milk in their tea, reported that the cow had broken loose and that they would have to do without milk that morning. Buffalo Bill jumped to his feet, revolver out, and roared at the man: ‘My God, you’ll catch that cow and milk her or I’ll blow your ruddy brains out!’ The cow was grazing about twenty yards away where there was a dip in the ground. The man ran after her, the cow ran up the slope to the rear, the man following; if they kept on they would be in full view of the enemy. Buffalo Bill saw the danger the man would soon be in. He shouted: ‘Come back, you ruddy fool, and never mind the cow!’ The man evidently did not hear him, but kept on. One or two bullets hit up the dirt around him. The enemy had been sending over a few light shells that morning, and now they sent over one or two more. One burst quite close to the cow. The cow got killed and the man received a nice wound in the leg which took him back to Blighty. I expect when he got home he blessed Buffalo Bill, also the cow and the German who shot him: even at this time we used to reckon that anyone who got a clean wound through the leg or arm was an extremely fortunate man.

Cpl John Lucy, 2nd Royal Irish Rgt

The first great battle of Ypres was drawing to its climax. Such were the conditions in which I took my small part one afternoon, assisted by a comedian of a militiaman whom I had posted on observation duty. He was put on guard at the forward corner of a wood overlooking the ground between our reserve trench and the weakly held front line. His task was to give the alarm in case of a breakthrough, so that we might get ready to counter-attack without wasting time.

He deserted his post, and left his sector unobserved.

The adjutant came fuming at me, his section commander. I hurriedly turned out another man, gave him his orders, and showed him the small funk hole I had shown his predecessor, in which to take shelter if shelling became intense near the observation post . . .

I quartered the country behind, and as I was doing this a rifle bullet fired at close range spurted earth a few yards from me. Good Lord, I thought, is my sentry turned assassin, or have the Germans broken right through? I automatically hit the ground, rolled into a depression, and released the safety catch. A squealing pig topped a little crest to my front, and bounced about bewildered, flopping its ears. Another bullet smacked near it, and it bolted.

The mystery was solved, and I got up out of my hole, raging, and accosted a sporting lance bombardier of artillery at his evening pig hunt. He met me calmly, and, ignoring my senior rank, said familiarly, as many gunners will: ‘What cheer, chum. Any idea of where that bloody pig buggered off to?’

I let him have it: three years’ condensed experience of the choicest verbiage of two countries. He was quite unconcerned, regarding me as quite normal. So I changed my tactics, and reminded him in an icy voice that a general routine order recently published forbade indiscriminate sporting activities with firearms behind the lines, and I ordered him back to his battery. That appealed more to his English mind. He looked respectful and obeyed, but not before requesting me to keep my hair on.

With frayed nerves I pursued my quest of the missing sentry. God help him, when I got him. Darkness fell, and aided me in my search. He was sitting over a large coal fire, in the ruins of a bombarded cottage. The household supply of fuel had caught light, and the deserter was roasting a plucked fowl, spitted on a stick, over the red coals. Above his head, a second fowl roosted innocently in the branches of a small tree. A peaceful scene.

I sat down on an upturned bucket near my squatting man.

‘Well,’ I opened, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’

‘What for?’ he countered, cheerfully, giving his chicken a twist.

‘Look here, my lad. Are you aware that you have committed an action that amounts to deserting your post in the face of the enemy?’ And seeing him looking only slightly bored, I added tersely: ‘And you’re looting!’

I looked as savage as I could.

‘Ah, come off it, Corporal. What’s an ould hen? And I never ran away from the bloody Germans. I saw nobody’s face. There wasn’t a man of ’em within miles of me. But they smashed up that wood, and that hole you gave me was worse than nottin’.’

‘Well, consider yourself under arrest for desertion, and come along.’

‘Here,’ he said indignantly, ‘what’s the bloody joke, anyway?’

He stood up. I caught him by the collar of his greatcoat with both hands, and backed him against the tree.

‘This is the bloody joke,’ I said, emphasising every few words by banging the back of his head against the tree trunk. ‘You are now a soldier on active service. You were given a responsible job on which the safety of the regiment depended. You left that job without being properly relieved, and without reason. Do you know I could have you shot?’

‘Ah, for God’s sake, Corporal, let’s go, and chuck it. Without reason indeed! What bloody man would stay there?’

‘Anyway, you’re for a court martial.’ I released him. He simply did not believe me.

‘I came out here to fight,’ he said, ‘and not to stand for a bloody cockshy.’ And attending to immediate affairs, he picked up his cap, slung his rifle, and carefully collecting his roast chicken, stumped after me.

I was really perturbed, and I lied boldly to cover him when we got back.

It was an education for soldiers from urban backgrounds to see how those who were raised in the countryside turned their hand to foraging and making do with whatever came to hand. Hunger opened up a completely new range of delicacies for many men who were aghast at what could pass as food.

L/Cpl Alfred Vivian, 4th Middlesex Regt

One of our number, foraging about, now captured a hedgehog, which he brought to the circle with him. Here, with a very businesslike air, he produced his knife and killed it. I was rather surprised at this brutal and wanton action, and I asked him why he had done it.

‘Ter eat o’ course,’ he replied, smacking his lips and evincing signs of anticipation of gastronomic pleasure.

The body of the little beast was enclosed in a ball of clay. A fire was kindled and the ball placed in it and covered over. The remainder sat around, watching these proceedings with great interest, not unmixed with repulsion at the thought of anybody eating such a thing.

Presently, the ball having cracked open through the effects of the heat, our gourmet removed it, and, breaking it in half, exposed to our view the steaming carcass of the hedgehog, devoid of all its bristles, which had been left imprisoned in the clay. The result was a tasty looking and pleasant smelling morsel.

He handed this product of his culinary prowess around, permitting each of us to take one small pinch by way of a taster, and, as he put it, to teach us to refrain from sneering at the knowledge possessed by our betters.

It proved extremely succulent and delicious, and we sat around him, enviously watching him with watering mouths, like a crowd of expectant hounds, as he consumed the remainder with aggravating noises of profound enjoyment and satisfaction.

With the onset of winter, the fighting died down. The supply of food was a little more regular than it had once been, but anything that could be bought or stolen locally to supplement the diet was always welcome. Pilfering was not reserved for other ranks, either; officers were also not averse to helping themselves. One, a Lieutenant Gallaher, was chased by pitchfork-wielding French peasants after being discovered illegally fishing. Gallaher and his batman had caught two salmon, both of which had been stuffed down their breeches. The fish continued to struggle as both men ran across fields to make good their escape.

Anonymous, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards

‘Nasty’ Carter thought it would be a good idea if the troop had some fish for dinner, so he and some of the lads set some dead lines in the local river. As the water was a bit low, they shut off the sluices and then got down to some serious fishing. About one o’clock in the morning the guards woke me up and told me that the horse lines were under water. We soon opened the gates again and for the next few days the whole troop was feeding off rainbow trout. It takes a war to do these things
and
get away with it.

Driver Charles Keller, RHA

One of our gunners who must have been a fisherman in civil life made himself a small net on a wire loop and put it on a long pole to get eggs out of the hen house which the farmer’s wife always kept locked. He was almost caught by the farmer’s wife and had to run, leaving his net behind. She took the net as evidence to the Commanding Officer when reporting the incident; also claiming the loss of some of her chickens, which could probably be true, and demanding payment. We didn’t hear whether she was paid or not but she probably was.

That winter, both sides settled down to a prolonged period of peace and quiet. The countryside was dormant, very little appeared to be living except for the vermin that had been attracted to the trenches by waste food, and to the dead, both human and animal, that festooned parts of no-man’s-land. Attempts to bury the dead were made, but it was a thankless task. The only up side was that, while carcasses smelt, they smelt nothing like as badly as they would in hot weather. Vermin would come to plague men’s lives, but, when it came to being pestered, the louse crawling about the body was king of all species.

Pte Cyril Baker, 1/28th London Rgt (Artists Rifles)

Imagine a village absolutely in ruins and smelling badly from old tins, filth, farmyards and the numerous lightly buried men in gardens or what used to be gardens. Imagine snow on the ground and a full moon, deserted houses with holes in both front and back, with part of the roof only remaining and no sound except the constant whizzing of bullets, or the scurry of a deserted cat as you climb through a hole into the room, and you will get an idea of the sort of place I have been in and the weirdness of the walks I have had each night when visiting posts . . . I have found a little bunch of snowdrops in the ruins of what had been a garden, a most cheering sight amidst all this desolation. Our machine-gun officer told me that, in the ruined convent he was occupying, the wind was in the habit of tolling the bell in funereal fashion at night . . . How desolate everything is, with houses knocked to bits and roofs off, although sometimes the china still stands on the mantelpiece. The cats and dogs live on the benevolence of the soldiers, and possibly to some extent on the numerous rats which live on the refuse. Many of these deserted cats have become wild with hunger, and spit if you attempt friendship.

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

Where lice originally came from I never knew, some said from straw, but all I know is that for three or four days I had become frantic to get rid of them. I did not think I could tell anyone; I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I dumped my underpants in the hope that that would help, but of course it made no difference at all. Little did I know that everyone else was just as lousy. No one said anything at first, but then in talk the truth came out.

From that time onwards, we all suffered from interminable itching as these creatures roamed around our clothes, leaving blotchy red bite marks whenever they stopped to feast.

L/Cpl Arthur Cook, 1st Somerset Light Infantry

Had a lovely hot bath and change of clothing this morning. On arrival at the brewery where we were going to have our bath, we undressed in a room, taking off everything except our shirt and boots; our khaki coat, trousers and cap less the chinstrap were tied in a bundle and placed in the fumigator, and our vest, pants and socks were carted off (lice and all) for boiling.

We were glad to get inside the bathroom which was nice and warm. Our bath tub consisted of large beer vats and ten men were allotted to each vat, so on discarding shirts and boots we clambered up into the vats like a lot of excited kids. Every now and again we peeped over the side to see if our boots were OK for we had been told to keep our eye on them as they were likely to be pinched. By this time we were a very lousy crowd, the lack of washing facilities had bred lice by the thousand, and the surface of our bath water had a thick scum of these vermin. But we didn’t care, we helped scratch each others’ backs (which already looked as if a lot of cats had been scratching them) to ease the itching. We were of course given a piece of soap and towel, and after ten minutes we were ordered out and dried ourselves and were given a clean shirt. We were then issued with clean vest, pants and socks, then out came our clothes all steaming hot which we put on. My! What a sight we looked with all our creases and our hats all shapes. Anyway, we felt nice and clean for a while, but it would not be long before our warm bodies became alive again with nits in the seams, which had not been destroyed in the washing process, making themselves active.