Chapter VIII: How It Feels Under Fire

_Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Let us do or die!_

ROBERT BURNS: “Scots Wha Hae.”

_And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn,--
Mans inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!_

BURNS: “Man was made to Mourn.”

I must admit we were all a bit shaky until we got properly stuck into it, and then you feel in your glory. You forget all fear, everybody full of excitement. You hardly think of your funeral: _Gunner J. Robinson, Royal Field Artillery_.

Inconceivable!

People in England can have no idea what it is like on a battlefield, thousands of dead and wounded lying about with nobody to help them. After my pal and I got hit we could hear the deadly shell on its way, but could not move, and had to lay for some time. My pal had his foot blown off: _Gunner J. Edgecombe, Royal Field Artillery_.

Gets Used to It

I shall never forget when the first shot was fired. We soon got used to it, and I was as anxious to get at them as anyone else. It is awful in action. I saw my two chums shot down beside me, and one of them said with his dying breath, “Kill ten of those German devils for me,” and I think I did: _Pte. E. Mead, 19th Hussars_.

Gay to Grave

You must not take too much notice of the reports of the soldiers in the trenches singing as if they had not a care in the world. I heard more talk of religion--and from men from whom you would least expect it--than any popular songs! Some of the sights are simply shocking--you could not talk about them: _Private Pope_.

Encouraged

It was my first baptism of fire, and I frankly confess that I thought my time had come. It was a nerve-racking experience. I said a prayer to myself. But the fear soon wore away, and I recognized that to save my own skin I must beat the enemy. We were also encouraged by the poor marksmanship of the Germans: _Pte. Gallagher, Royal Scots Fusiliers_.

Wondering!

We saw some terrible sights--women and children cut up--and I shall never forget until my dying day some of the awful things I saw. The firing was awful. I am not much of a praying chap, but I prayed when the shots were coming thick about us. It was maddening to see the fellows shot down right and left, and wondering when it would be my turn: _Pte. Sibley, 3rd Worcester Regiment_.

Jubilant

War! How terrible the word sounds, but our British spirit in us makes us view things from the bright side. I do not mean to imply that the troops do not think it a serious concern--far from it--but all seem quite confident. When under heavy fire there seems to exist a jubilant sort of spirit, each and all steady and ready to sacrifice themselves for the honour of England: _A Private of the Scottish Rifles_.

Mad!

You feel pretty shaky going into battle at first. When you are going along the road and see dead lying here and there and hear the groaning of the wounded you do feel rather queer, but once you see what you are getting at, all that feeling disappears and your one desire is to get at them. In fact, when the bullets begin to fly you turn mad for the time being: _Pte. Lightfoot, Cameron Highlanders_.

Know nor Care

You don’t realize that you are in danger until some of the men around you get knocked over by shells and bullets, but afterwards you have the feeling that you don’t care. You know you have to be there, and you don’t care a hang whether you get knocked over or not. In a way you are only too glad when you can get to close quarters with the Germans. As to the sensation caused by being struck by a bullet, it is just like being hit by a stone thrown at you: _A Sergeant of the Irish Rifles_.

An “Infernal Din”

Artillery fire is the deadliest thing out, and it takes a lot of nerve to stand it. The Germans keep up an infernal din from morning until far into the night; but they don’t do half as much damage as you would think, though it is annoying to have all that row going on when you’re trying to write home or make up the regimental accounts. The French seem to like the noise, and don’t seem at all happy unless it’s there. There’s no accounting for tastes: _Sergeant J. Baker_.

Splendid but Awful

The order was given, “Retire! Every man for himself!” It was a splendid but awful sight to see horses, men, and guns racing for life with shells bursting among them. The Germans rushed up, and I lay helpless. A German pointed his rifle at me for me to surrender. I refused, and was just on the point of being put out when a German officer saved me. He said, “Englishman brave fool.” He then dressed my wound, and he gave me brandy and wine and left me: _Gunner B. Wiseman, Royal Artillery_.

How It Happened

How I came to be wounded was like this. I had got my bayonet fixed in some fat German, and I could not get it out in time, and a German officer hit me over the head with the butt of his revolver. Of course I went down for the count, and when I came round I found I had stopped a stray shot with my left foot, so I had to lie among the German dead until it became dark. Then I crawled to the British lines three miles away, and into hospital: _Pte. P. Rourke, North Lancashires_.

Joe to Bill

You know, Bill, it looked hard to see my old chums mowed down like sheep.... After being under shot and shell for seven hours, Bill, I know what it is to be at death’s door. You can bet your hat God answered my prayer, for I asked and He accepted. They were killed on each side of me, and shells were bursting front and back, but none hit Joseph, so that was a Godsend. What do you say? I know what I think, Bill: _A Reservist of the Lancashire Fusiliers_.

The Stuffing Wrong

“Never say die till you’re dead” is the only motto for us in the firing line, for every hour of the blessed day you’re expecting to have your head blown off by a German shell, and you wonder how on earth you managed to escape every time it hits something else instead of you. Their shells make awful havoc when they do burst, but it is not so often as you would think. There seems to be something wrong with the stuffing of them: _Engineer Hughes, Royal Artillery_.

Guarded!

When you do drop asleep you awaken suddenly and think you are being fired at. Twice now while I have been in battle, the man on my right and on my left has been killed. The last one next to me to be killed was poor ----. He was asking me where the enemy was when he got shot in the arm. Then he got hit in the stomach, and afterwards, poor chap, in the chest. The man on my right got hit, and then it came my turn. It is strange that the same thing should occur twice running. God is guarding me all right: _Sergt. Greeley, South Lancashire Regiment_.

A Scamper

The whistle has just blown to get under cover as there is an aeroplane up. I have just spotted it. All the fellows are running for shelter so as not to be seen and give the position away. I am inside the car, a covered van body. The shells are beginning to drop very close, so we’ll have to make a shift for better cover: they are screaming and howling like some of those funny fireworks, but you cannot see them and don’t know where they are going to land any minute. Our guns are firing on the aeroplane, but I’m afraid he is too high for them to reach him: _Driver F. Clarkson, Artillery Transport Service_.

Causes Deafness

A bullet struck the kit of Corpl. Thompson, of the 3rd Worcesters, and lodged in his canteen. Thompson gave a grunt and thought he was done for, but when the bullet rattled inside the canteen he just laughed and blessed his luck. It’s a funny thing to go into battle for the first time. There we were in the trenches with rain falling heavily all the time, bullets whizzing all round us and shells--death-dealing things--dropping everywhere. The roar was deafening: in fact, I was deaf for a week afterwards, and I couldn’t tell what was shouted: _Private J. Sibley_.

Twenty to One

We had no cover, and simply walked into the German army, who were about twenty to one. We bayoneted and charged several times. They shouted for mercy. They can’t face steel. I think I was just mad, and the rest were, too, at seeing chums go under. You simply don’t think about yourself; all your thought is to get at them. I felt right proud to be a Britisher, especially a Cameron. If I do go under, it will be fighting with a rifle in my hand and like a Britisher; but, at the same time, a few Germans are already my victims: _A Private of the Cameron Highlanders_.

Under Difficulties

We got into a little hell yesterday and all last night--a proper warm corner. Shells bursting all over and round us and bullets whizzing about all over the place. I had to take one of our wagons right into the firing line. Our captain, who was riding ten yards in front, got blown off his horse. The battle is still raging now. Heaven only knows how it will end up. We cannot hear ourselves speak. My writing is very bad, but you must excuse it as the very ground is shaking. I have to take another wagon right into the firing line in ten minutes’ time: _A Corporal of the Royal Army Medical Corps_.

Not Troubling

The Germans are an awful lot of bad shots with the rifle, but they are good with the artillery, and that is where we have suffered most of our losses. There have been very few to speak of who have fallen through rifle fire. To tell you the truth, I do not seem sometimes as though I was on a battlefield at all. I go blundering along as if I was on the dear old sea front at Bridlington, and I find that is the best way, for, as sure as I am living, the less you think of it all the better. We do our best, and trust in God. You need not trouble much about me, for I am as happy here as I am at home. It is no use being otherwise, and it is like being on guard at home: _Pte. C. Gledhill, Coldstream Guards_.

The Pictures!

Every morning we go within 300 yards of the place where the shells are bursting. First you hear the shell whistling about a quarter of a mile away like a Gabriel horn, and the nearer it gets the louder, then it bursts like 120 tyres bursting together. At first it frightened the life out of me. I was digging some potatoes in a garden, and one burst about 200 yards away. I left the potatoes and hopped it--I did the fastest 100 yards on record. When you hear a shell coming it is best to lie flat--it’s quite amusing to see everybody drop to the ground. It reminds one of the pictures: _Pte. Noel Withers, Army Service Corps_.

Healing Nicely!

I got shrapnel in the face, and it entered just by my eye and came through my mouth, splitting my face open and fracturing my jaw. Lucky for me my sight is not gone. My face is stitched up and healing nicely, but I’m afraid I’m disfigured for life. The beggars were not content with that--they shot me through the left forearm and fractured the bone. I’ve got it in plaster of Paris. I am glad to say I am not in much pain now, and I am as strong as an ox. I had to leave everything on the battlefield, including my pipe and the pouch you gave me. Your photo, taken at Paddington, I had in a waterproof case with some more: _A Private of a Field Battery_.

Dazed, but There

All the officers stood round us the whole time, including one young lieutenant who had only just joined the battery from England, and was under fire for the first time. The captain was wounded, but he stood up and cried out, “Go on, lads! I’m not killed yet.” We went on. But another hail of shells came, and the captain fell. We all knew we were in for it; but we cracked jokes as we loaded and fired. One by one the fellows went down. Those left shook hands with one another, and just said, “So long, old man!” My chum at my gun bent down to look through the aperture of the gun shield. A shell came and caught him in the forehead. He tumbled up against me as he fell. Then they got the shells on our limbers. I can’t describe the sight as our own shells exploded on the spot. There were only ten of us now. We had never received the order to clear out, and we stuck it dazed: _A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery_.

“A Mad Crew”

When I read in books or stories of the coolness of men under fire I thought somebody was blathering. But after eight weeks of it, I can say that no book has ever done justice to the coolness of British soldiers under conditions that would try anybody. The night I was hit we were just leaving the trenches for an interview with some Germans who were trying some of their fancy tricks about our left. As we stood up there was a ghastly shower of bullets and shells bursting all round. Into it we had to go, and as we looked ahead one of our chaps said, “I think we’ll have to get our greatcoats, boys; it’s raining bullets tonight, and we’ll get wet to the skin if we’re not careful.” The men of “C” Company started laughing, and then they took to singing, “Put up your umbrella when it comes on wet.” The song was taken up all along as we went into the thick of it, and some of us were humming it as we dashed into the German trenches. The Germans must have thought us a mad crew: _A Private of the Irish Fusiliers_.

Saving a Battery

We were sent up to the firing line to try and save a battery. When we got there we found that they were nearly all killed or wounded. Our Irish lads opened fire on the Germans, and you should have seen them fall. It was like a game of skittles. But as soon as you knocked them down up came another thousand or so. We could not make out where they came from. So all of a sudden our officer gave us the order to charge. We fixed bayonets and went like fire through them. You should have seen them run! As the firing line was at full swing we had with us an officer of the Hussars. I think he was next to me, and he had his hand nearly blown off by one of the German shells. So I and two more fellows picked him up and took him to a place of safety, where he got his wound cared for. I heard afterwards that he had been sent home, poor fellow: _Pte. Levy, Royal Munster Fusiliers_.

Salt and Cigarettes

I am writing this under fire. Every now and again a little message from the Kaiser comes whizzing in this direction, but no damage is being done, and we don’t worry. Bang! Another message. One of the things I miss more than anything else is a drop of milk for tea. Would give 2s. for a tin of condensed milk. Of course, most of the cattle are moved miles away from any battlefield, and consequently no milk can be obtained. There is plenty of fruit and vegetables. But now and again we run short of certain things. For instance, to-day we have run short of salt, and consequently our dinner was not quite the success I anticipated. We made a stew--1½ lb. of corned beef, potatoes, beans, carrots, and pumpkin. This did for three men. I was the cook. To-night for tea we are having bread, bacon, jam, and cheese; but, sad to relate, I have no cigarettes: _Private W. Rouse_.

Like an Electric Shock

I got five or six bullets in my right thigh. The actual wounding was not very painful--like an electric shock. I fired for over an hour afterwards, then crept to an old barn, where my wounds were dressed. There we had to stay two days under shell-fire. Then they started smashing the place up with shrapnel, knocking the roof on the top of us--without hurting us. We were dragged out. It was night before we could be taken in farm carts to the field hospital. On Sunday the “dirty pigs” shelled that, though the Red Cross flag was flying. It seems to be a favourite game of theirs. We are well away from the fighting line now, our only danger being bombs from airships, which we don’t fear. Our biggest risk now is over-feeding. We are quartered in the finest hotel in Versailles. Crowds of French people collect round the gates and send us presents of flowers, tobacco, and cigarettes, which are very welcome. The people here think the world of the English “Tommy,” and nothing is too good or too expensive to give him. All they ask in return is a button or a cap-badge “to keep as a souvenir of us”: _Pte. Graham, Coldstream Guards_.

Given up Worrying

One of the coolest things I have seen--and I have seen a few--was an Engineer sergeant and two assistants measuring a piece of the river bank with the tape, and having to lie down every few minutes to dodge shells or extra-strong volleys. The sergeant could not hear some of the figures, so yelled out, “Don’t let your voice be drowned by a ---- German gaspipe.” I assure you that we think no more of bullets and shells than of a cricket ball sent down by a fast bowler. In fact, I have felt more funk when ---- is in form at the wicket than I have at a shell. This may sound awful swank, but when you have lived among shells and bullets for a month it is a case of familiarity breeding contempt. I believe I am the funkiest, or at any rate the most careful, chap in the regiment, but I have long since given up worrying: _A Private of the Bedfordshire Regiment_.

Safe as Houses

The Germans watched until we halted, and then let fly at us with some shells. They killed about fifteen and wounded about twenty-five. One chap was blown to bits; another got one right through his cheek, and it was terrible to see us after they had bunked. They did not half let us have it. We all lay flat down on our faces waiting every moment for our turn to come. I can tell you I thought my last day had come then. Every time a shell comes it makes a whistle and then a bang, and not half a bang, too. I can tell you it was a relief to everybody, and they would sigh after a bang if not hit. They must have thought we had all gone or been killed or wounded because they stopped for a bit, and then we started to dig ourselves in. Of course we had to dig deep and well underground so as to be out of shell reach. We did not get any more that day, but the next morning they let us know it was time to get up with some of their heavy gun shells. We only got four wounded then, but I can tell you I thought I had got hit. One dropped about fifteen yards in front of my trench, and it lifted me up and dropped me with such a bang that I thought I was counted out. I felt all over me to see what I had got, but no, I am as safe as houses yet: _Sergt. T. L. Neal, King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry_.

Stunned!

What gets at you is not being able to come to close quarters and fight man to man. As a fact we see very little of the enemy, but blaze away at the given range and trust to Providence. For that matter, we see very little of our own fellows, and only know by the ambulance men passing through our lines what regiments are near us. For hours we stick on one spot and see nothing but smoke and something like a football crowd swaying half a mile off. We see all we want of the German flying machines. They are over our lines day and night, and are so common that we do not now take pot-shots at them. The chances of hitting them are about 100 to 1. We hate them, because we know they are signalling the position and range to their artillery, which is awful. The German rifle fire wouldn’t worry a covey of partridges, but their shells are hell. I was stunned by one a week ago. It was a queer feeling, and rather pleasant than otherwise. It fell about six yards in front of me, and I felt as if a rush of lime-kiln gas had hit me. I fell forward, and was carried to the rear, but came to in about half an hour, with no hurt whatever, except that I had a tingling in my nose and eyes, and a bad headache all day. Other chaps say the feeling is the same: _Pte. F. Burton, Bedfordshire Regiment_.

His Fire Baptism!

It was the first time I had been under fire, and for the first ten minutes I felt a bit nervous, and so, I think, all of us did; but it soon wore off, and seeing our comrades hit by shell seemed to stiffen us. We could see the Germans lying in their trenches more than 1000 yards away: we could see their helmets, which showed up like a lot of mushrooms. While we were still digging our trenches the enemy began to advance; and some of our cavalry to our rear came through us to attack the enemy. The Lancers, however, were met by a tremendous rifle and machine-gun fire, and mown down; and they retired through us, followed by the Germans, who came on yelling with fixed bayonets. The regiment who were next us on our right digging themselves in, got caught, I fancy, for I saw some of their men tumbling out of their half-finished trenches in their shirt-sleeves without their rifles. We were ordered out of our trenches to meet the advancing Germans, who, firing from the hip, and with fiendish yells, were evidently intending to rush us. They were coming on in dense blocks--blocks which were probably companies--in _échelon_, but when they saw us come out of our trenches with our bayonets fixed they didn’t like it, and most of them turned and ran. Some of them, however, came on, and I saw one man single me out and come for me with his bayonet. He made a lunge at my chest, and, as I guarded, his bayonet glanced aside and wounded me in the hip; but I managed to jab him in the left arm and get him on the ground, and when he was there I hammered him on the head with the butt-end of my rifle. I think I had become a bit dazed, for I did not see my battalion, only a few dead and wounded lying on the ground: _A Private of the Yorks Light Infantry_.

Smoke--and Fire!

We got down a slope in some way, and thought we were practically safe. In fact, I stopped behind the rest to light my pipe, when suddenly from a wood on our right a terrible rifle and machine-gun fire opened; I couldn’t for the moment realize what had happened, but when I saw our chaps dropping (whether shot or taking cover I couldn’t then tell), I thought it was time for yours truly to drop, which I promptly did. I was, however, all on my own, down among some young cabbage plants, and I couldn’t see a soul. Bullets hit up the earth in my face, and the cabbage leaves were perforated in no time. I started to bang away at the enemy for all I was worth, and continued till I had only five cartridges left. I resolved to save these, and expected every moment for the enemy to charge. I am utterly unable to describe my feelings, but you can take it from me I thought my last moment had arrived. It seemed impossible I could be missed by that stream of Maxim fire, but at last, thank goodness! a British battery noticed our predicament. They galloped into position and fired from behind us. The noise of their first shell seemed like a voice from heaven, and as they got range and poured in more shells, the German fire slackened. Then I caught sight of some of our chaps racing for a ditch to my left. I made up my mind to chance it. I sprang up, grabbed my things, and raced for my life. I reached that ditch on the point of exhaustion and fell into a foot of mud and water. What a relief! One of our chaps had been shot dead in the ditch. With three or four others I crawled about two hundred yards till we gained the roadside and temporary safety: _Sapper Clift, Royal Engineers_.

“Punched!”

I felt as if someone had punched me in the back. A regular Jack Johnson it was, and I went flat on the ground. There I lay for about twelve hours. Then an officer came by and wanted to know where I was hit. I told him, and he said the best thing I could do was to lay there for a bit. Then I found that there was a man on each side of me, quite dead, so I felt quite comfortable with them. Night fell and I must have dozed off, for when I woke up it was stone dark, and I could hear the wounded Germans crying out in agony. I felt like it myself, for I had been lying on my stomach all the time, and it never stopped raining. I happened to raise my head, and I saw a large fire about 500 yards away, and I thought if I could get beside it I should feel better. I tried to get up, but I could not. In the end I had to crawl over the dead body on my right, and I crawled on my stomach for 500 yards till I came to the fire. When I got there I must have fainted, for when I came round it was just getting light. Then I heard voices. I called as much as I could, and they heard me. I saw it was the Northampton outpost. I had nearly gone off again when they picked me up. When they moved me I knew the bullet had gone through my lung. They took me to the hospital and dressed my wound: _Pte. H. L. Hook, Royal Sussex Regiment_.