"I quite liked it..."

Musings on life, love and war

By Bernard William Charles Main

Corps????????????????????????????????????? Regiment Number????? ??????????? Rank???

Middlesex Regiment????????????? G/40001????????????????????? ??????????? Private

Leicestershire Regiment???????????????????????????????????????????????????????? Second Lieutenant

Indian Infantry??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? Second Lieutenant

Indian Army??????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????? Lieutenant

1914-1920?????? ???????????????????????????????????????????????

A message from the transcriber, Dani Simpson...

This is a book written by a man who, I think, would have been a great chap to have had a beer with. Oh the stories he'd have told. And it's a real privilege to share his story as I transcribe and write about my own family. That is, my husband's grandfather.

In 2022, a UK-based relative of Rosemary Simpson uncovered a very special treasure: the diary of Rosemary’s late father – Bernard William Charles Main, in which he documented his experiences in World War I and beyond.

She posted the diary to Rosemary – my mother-in-law, who lives in Huntly, New Zealand.

In the thick of the Covid pandemic and in the middle of a bleak New Zealand winter in 2022, Rosemary would sit down to read her father’s memoirs.

Fascinated by what she read, she shared with me how overwhelmed she was to have the book and to have been able to read her father’s words in his own handwriting.

I asked if Chris – Rosemary and her husband Graham’s eldest son, and my husband – and I could read the book. To which she said yes.

As I began to read, I realised that if I was to take the time to painstakingly decipher Bernard’s elegant, but very difficult-to-read, handwriting then it made sense for me to transcribe his writing as I read so others could enjoy his writing too.

I’ve also included a sample of Bernard’s writing, the diagrams from the book, and a couple of his typed, original poems that were included with the book.

You’ll see that his musings are not linear. They tend to jump around from date to date, place to place. But go with it. Read it once, let it settle, read it again. It is the essence and meaning that will no doubt stay with you, as it did with Chris and I.

You’ll see that Bernard describes in matter-of-fact, yet heartfelt detail of the brutality that he lived through on the front line in the Somme and at Passchendale, including bearing witness to the death of many of his friends. He balances it with tales a courageous young man going off to war and, as such, enjoying encounters with beautiful women, decadent meals of lobster, and much merriment with his friends before being shipped off to the trenches. He shares wild tales of his time in the Indian Army where he trekked through the jungle, trying to avoid attacks by wild animals and isolated tribes. In fact, he was in the military police... he was like Jack Reacher with just as much drama!

And I write that in the present tense because, Bernard's writing lives on and serves as a stark reminder of the atrocities of war. Wars that rage today around the world. In Israel and Gaza, where, in December 2023 – as I write this – thousands of innocent people are being brutally tortured and killed.

Bernard had an incredible talent for taking the reader on a journey, using suspense, humour, and pauses perfectly. At times he was insightful, thoughtful, introspective. I think you’ll find this an incredibly moving read. It brought me to tears on numerous occasions. Tears of laughter when he shared stories of his mischievous adventures. Tears of pure sadness when reading about the sheer terror he lived through not just in World War I but in World War II as well. I imagine Bernard wrote his memoir when he returned home to Lancashire. I don't imagine he'd have thought about who might be reading it 100 years later in Waihi Beach. In fact, he says quite early on that “The writing of this, being for my own use is not necessarily ‘a la’ professional journalistic style, but just plain facts and plainly written”.

Well Bernard, as a former journalist myself, I can tell you that it is plain facts, but it is not plainly written. And I’m glad I’ve had the privilege of bringing your stories to life again.

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Life

It’s all a chequer board of nights and days. Where Destiny, with men for pieces, plays.

Hither and tither moves and mates and slays,

And one by one back into the closet lays.

Omar Khyamm

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Introductory

Within this book some diverse thoughts you’ll find; Solemn or frivolous as can my current mind. Some of the lines may tend to prove me Sad, But then – One is not always glad!

Some memories of days long long ago Will seem incessant through my mind to flow;

Those care-free days, when all life was a-shine,

While now – tis only memories are mine.

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And yet, I think it hardly fair to say it’s only for the past I care;

For nor I find a deeper love in Life – That all embracing Love for Child and Wife.

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Foreword

There comes a time in most people’s lives when the future seems to hold nothing for them in the shape of excitement or novelty and such is the present state of my own mind.

Then is the time when one can only live again in the excitement of the past and my original idea of jotting down these memories was that of self amusement and the pleasure which I might desire from living once again my old and varied life.

Each poem written herein has lane (sic) deep place within my Heart and some find memory is thereby reawakened.

The writing of this, being for my own use is not necessarily ‘a la’ professonal journalistic style, but just plain facts and plainly written.

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Dreams

Oft do I travel in my Dreams

To places far away

And sometimes in my mind it seems

I’ll see them all someday

To tropic shores amid new flowers

From Mountain Crest to Plain below

Wandering through strange fairy bowers

Onward in my Dreams I go

Onward to the green clad hills

Crossing glistening yielding turf

Heartening to the murmuring hills

Deafened by the thundering Surf

Through the lands that have their being

In my visions of the night

Sights there is no chance of seeing

Sights that vanish with the light.

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When one happens to be the only white man in a district whose area is 8000sq miles and to whom the eventual sight of another of this colour (maybe only once in 6 or 8 months) maybe likened to the finding of water to a thirst tortured traveller in a desert, then one cannot help thinking deeply and lengthy our many subjects which would never enter the mind of another man whose whole attention and mind are fully occupied by the affairs of his fellow men.

One becomes aloof, this condition is apt to be mistaken at times for ‘staid aloofness’ where in reality it is a case of shyness.

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?“Sic transit gloria mundi”

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During September 1920, five young army officers found their way into the Indian Imperial Police Officers’ mess at Vellore.

They arrived at different times and were totally unknown to each other until they met there.

Each one had at least two years’ active war service to his credit, while their ages range from 22 to 24 years, and each bore one or more battle scars.

They were the first batch of ex Army Officers to be taken into the Indian Police Service and they had come direct from their various military units.

The Police Training School (PTS) was situated in the famous old fort of Vellore, noted for the mutiny and massacre of 1806.

Each officer is taken on two years probation, the first year of which is spent in theoretical training at the school (lectures etc) and the second year is spent in a District under practical training.

Half yearly exams are held in Madras in all the prescribed subjects which are Indian Evidence Act, Indian Penal Code and Criminal Procedure Code, Medical Jurisprudence, Police Orders and Languages.

Some of these exams should be successfully completed during the first year while at Vellore, but the languages can only be satisfactorily picked up by actual contact with the people in District Work and as each district has its own languages, such as Tamil in the Southern Districts, Telugu in the North, Kanase and Malayalum in the West, these cannot be learned by theory all at the same place.

So much for the routine while under training.

The officers’ mess which was to be the home of these five young men for at least a year was a comfortable, cheery and devil may care sort of den.

Peterson, Lancaster, Miller, Dillon and myself were the five heroes in question and we spent many happy hours of freedom from restraint in Vellore.

Little did any of us realise what lay in store for us in the next few years and still less did we dream that not one of us would be left in the service in another 8 years’ time.

The little of this chapter of my reminiscences is taken from a card which used to hang up in the mess at Vellore. As far as I remember it hung beneath the Bison head trophy in the Ante Room.

On looking back across the years to that card, I cannot help thinking how prophetic that expression was, especially in view of what happened to some of us.

I doubt if any of us ever gave it more than a glance, or ever made more than a joke of it to the effect that “Here passes glorious Monday” as I’ve drank “to the end of the day” on Monday evening.

In the long sun India stole the lives of two of the five, the season of a third, and the health of the remaining two. Hence – “Sic transit gloria mundi”.

Lancaster

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One of the best.

“Lanky” and I shared a bedroom in the mess at Vellore. His hair got him into more trouble than anything else. It was thick and red, which belied his nature, for he was by no means hectic and only once was he rash. It cost him his life this one rashness.

His character can best be summed up in the words of the Inspector General of Police when he unveiled Landy’s gravestone in Malapuram (sic – Malappuram) in 1922. “Lancaster – Brave to a fault”.

He fell shot in the stomach by an old muzzle loader filled with stones and bits of iron – ambushed while charging a crowd of fanatical Moplahs during the Mohplay Rebellion [note: Google comes up with Malabar rebellion of 1921] of 1922. The mob was about 500 strong, mad with blood lust and fresh from unspeakable horrors among women and children. Lanky’s few men were some hundreds of yards behind when he charged alone.

He was still on probation undergoing practical training in the Malabar District when the trouble started.

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Dillon

?Went mad in 1923.

His behaviour had always been eccentric to say the least of it, ever since he arrived at Vellore. Irish and a red hot Sinn Feiner, but none of us ever took his outbursts seriously.

At first we treated his idiosyncrasies as a joke, until one day while we were sitting in the mess Ante Room he suddenly gave bent to some very offensive and obscene remark which I understood to be directed at me.

I am mild tempered as a rule and believe in “anything for a quiet life”, but his uncalled for vituperation lifted me out of my chair to “invite him outside” to settle matters.

“Very well” he replied and went into his own room to divest himself of his tuni and Sam Browne [note: The Sam Browne belt is the leather belt with supporting strap over the right shoulder, worn by military and police] as I thought.

In the meantime I took off my own belt and tunic and handing them to Landy proceeded towards the Drive.

I had gone about 3 yards when Dillon dashed out brandishing a revolver and insisting on finishing the quarrel with guns.

Lanky however caught his revolver arm from behind and disarmed him, where upon Dillon hurled more invective at Lancaster, who immediately laid Dillon out.

That settled that incident and we all lived on good terms again until a second incident occurred some weeks later.

It would have been during June 1921 as far as I remember, when one night at about midnight Dillon jumped onto his cycle holding a horse while in his hand and made off down the drive. Lanky and I mildly wondered “what the hell is Dillon up to now” and went to sleep again.

The sequel took place next morning when the Deputy Inspector General called at the mess and asked for Dillon.

It appeared that he had cycled down to the Fort on leaving the Mess and after turning out the Guard, ordered the blowing of the “Alarm”.

All the Recruit Constables and Probationary Sub Inspectors and Inspectors whose living quarters were in the Fort at once fell in on the Parade Ground.

Dillon then proceeded to curse them all and chase the whole lot round the Fort with his whip!!

This resulted in his Suspension and appearance at Madras before the Governor, Lord Willingdon. He was reinstated, warned and reprimanded and transferred from Vellore to Bangalore where he was placed under the supervision of the Bangalore District Police Officer, who saw to the completion of his training.

This arrangement seemed satisfactory for a time until all sorts of rumours began to trickle into the mess concerning the latest stunts of Dillon.

At last, after a particularly mad escapade which I cannot mention, he was certified as insane and sent home I believe.

A rather amusing incident occurred in the beginning of January 1921, in which both Dillon and myself were concerned.

It is a practice for all the District Police Officers of the Madras Presidency to meet at Vellore during the early part of January each year and hold what is called a “Police Week”.

Sports, meetings, concerts, balls and musketry competitions etc take place during the week and all officers bring representative teams from each district.

The mess is of course the meeting place for all the officers.

It so happened that on the first Monday night of the “week” we had a large Mess Dinner, these being about 30 officers present, including the Inspector General.

The merry making, cards, impromptu dancing and general “debauch” did not break up until about midnight or one a.m.

Many “pegs” had quaffed during the evening and I’m sorry to say that I went to bed rather fumblingly, but I pride myself on finding my own bed that night. I remember saying a solemn good night to about 17 Inspectors General, altho’ the one and only had left early at about 10.30 or 11pm.

I had read the week’s programme of events and should have borne in mind that there was to be a rifle meeting between all the districts’ teams on the morrow at 7am for the Challenge Shield.

“All Officers will attend” stated the notice.

This Officer didn’t! I woke up after breakfast at about 9am to find an orderly standing by my bed patiently bleating “Sahib” “Sahib” [a polite title or form of address for a man in Indian] and holding something that looked like a buff coloured envelope in this hand.

I then thought he’d brought me a slice of toast in his fingers, but when ten minutes later I had succeeded in focussing on him and getting his body to stand still, I found it was a buff envelope.

That meant something important so I took it from him, glared at him, signed the delivery book and he saluted himself backwards out of the presence.

Everything rushed over me in a flood, the forgotten Rifle Meeting, the nights’ orgy and the fate in store for me.

I opened the awful official document and saw the following in what appeared to be letter of black crepe: -

Mr Main will explain in writing to the Inspector General of Police why he was absent from the Rifle Meeting this morning.

Explanation to be in the Inspector General’s Camp Office by 10 o’clock”

(Signed) I.S.S.G D.I.G

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“What a mess” I thought. “There can be no excuse” etc.

However, I decided to tell the truth and accept the verdict so this was my reply.

“To the Inspector General of Police”

Camp Vellore

Sir, Reference my absence from the Rifle Meeting this morning.

I have the honour to inform you that owing to the unaccustomed gaiety and liveliness of the Mess Dinner last night, my capacity for strong liquor was overtaxed and I went to bed in a state of inebriation

I was horrified to discover that I was not much better when I woke this morning and was in no fit condition to appear.

I apologise for this and will see that such a thing does not occur again.

I have the honour to be

Sir,

Your most obedient Servant

[signed Bernard C Main]

I dispatched this letter and the only thing I ever heard of the matter afterwards was in the Club that Evening when I was passing the Inspector General’s Bridge table.

He merely asked me “Are you feeling better Main?”! and smiled.

Now Dillon enters. Apparently he too had failed to add his illustrious patronage to the blistering Rifle Meeting and the Lance Orderly had conveyed a billet doux [sweet letter] to him too.

Instead of making a clear breach of it he replied: -

“To I.G etc

Sir, Ref my absence this morning I beg to state that I was not a bit interested in the Rifle Meeting, so did not turn up.

I have the humour to be etc.

ED.

Of course he had to appear before the I.G. and was slated pretty smartly.

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Miller

?Had been gassed during the war and this left him with weak lungs.

His practical training took place in Coorg, but in 1923 his lungs gave way to Tuberculosis and he was invalided out.

Whether he is still alive I know not.

He was not easy to get on with on the whole, being of a surly disposition and inclined to be dictatorial although the junior officer in the mess.

His illness was in all probability the cause of his aloofness.

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Peterson

?Left Vellore at the end of 1921 to undergo practical training in Madura District, and I did not meet him again until 1926 when we were together in Vizagapatam District at Vizianagaram.

We were both fully fledged Officers then and exams were things of the past.

“Peter” was in charge of the Punitive Police, while I was in charge of the District Police and both of us using the same headquarters and sharing the same bungalow.

Our branches of work were entirely separate and distinct and only on one occasion were the two of us called upon to work together.

Before relating the circumstances of our cooperation, a few words concerning the special punitive force, over which Peter held command are necessary.

During 1924-25, what was known as the “Rampa Rebellion” broke out in the Northern Circars.

It was a general rising of the Hill Tribes in the Agency Tracts and was aimed against the Native Ruler, the Rajah of Jeypore.

These Hill Tribes, known as Khonds and Uriyas are as a rule peaceful and primitive. They rely on the use of bows and arrows for hunting and are expert archers as they needs must be living in thick jungle covered hill country.

Their aim is deadly and a man thinks nothing of tracking and killing tigers on the run with one “shot” of his bow.

They have no use for money, but rely on barter of crops and tobacco leaf.

When stirred by agitators however, they become fanatical and will stop at nothing.

Without leaders they are as helpless as a storm tossed ship minus its rudder.

Agitators cause the Rampa Outbreak and until these leaders were captured or killed the tribes fought like trojans and it took over a year for the British Police and Military Forces to quell them.

Since that Outbreak the Punitive Force has been organised and based at Vizianagaram in order to deal with any further disturbances at once.

Although this Special Force are designated Police and are on the Police Strength, under a Police Officer, their administration is run on wholly military lines.

Their strength is about 315 Native Officers and men, composed of Mohammedans and Tamils.

The occasion on which I was detailed to act with Peterson was in 1926 when news was received by the District Magistrate that 6 agitators, who had been concerned with the serious outbreak of 1924, had once more commenced their propaganda activities among the tribes.

Two British Officers, namely Peterson and myself, were ordered to proceed to the Northern ?? or Agency Tracts with 50 picked men and four Native Officers and a native assistant surgeon in order to round up and bring back these 6 agitators.

The men and Indian Officers trained at Vizianagaram for the Rail head at Parbatipur while Peter and I drove in the Police lorry to the same place.

Arrangements were then made at this place for the road journey and two elephants namely Lakshmi and Lali were used to carry the heavy baggage to our journey’s end, wherever that might be.

From Parvitipur a road ran out for a distance of about 10 miles to a village called Ragigudda.

While the Indian Officers took the men to this place Peterson and I went on ahead in order to meet and confer with our Secret Agent who, we understood, would? be able to guide us to the likely “hide outs” of the agitators and who was conversant with all the jungle country into which we were about to proceed.

Ragigudda was quite a large village and a large Government Bungalow was situated on the outskirts of it.

This was for the use of Officers on tour in those parts, such as the Forest Officer P.W.D Officer VC.

On our arrival we found it was already occupied by a Railway Survey Officer who was surveying that part of the Country for the proposed extension of the existing line at Parbatipur to Jeypore.

Theodolites and a general assortment of other survey impediments filled the whole bungalow while the walls were “papered” with large scale maps and spicy female portraits from the Tatler and Bystander!

“Contours” seemed to be the order of the day!

However, this Railway Officer was a very decent fellow and made us comfortable for the night and fed and “watered” us.

Late that evening the elephants, men, and servants turned up so we bathed, supped, gave orders concerning the morrow’s plans and turned in fairly early.

At 5am the following day our camp was astir, equipment checked, rifles cleaned and inspected and after the hundred and one minor details had been settled the whole party moved off into the “wilds” at about 6 o’clock. We were now in virgin forest and the scenery was beautiful. Occasionally we would cross patches of open country and after the cool shade of the jungle it seemed like stepping into an oven.

We went through several villages from which the people would flock to worship the elephants and make offerings to them, since they are considered to be sacred animals by certain sects.

Gradually the forest became rougher and broken as we approached the hills and we passed through wonderful gorges amid the most luxuriant forest vegetation.

Towards evening we reached our first camping ground, at a place called Sikra-pai??

We were now on the edge of the disturbed area and from this place on we would have to move in “battle order”.

Our agent told us that one of the wanted men should be found in a village about 6 miles further on.

Our mission was supposed to be secret, but an armed party of 50 men with 2 elephants and 2 British Officers cannot possibly move like “Will o the Wisps” and we knew that there would be “little birds” whispering throughout the whole of that part of the country.

The camp was soon pitched and the men at once prepared their evening meal.

The elephants were also fed and watered and before turning in for the night Peter and I held a conference, the result of which was that we decided to move on at 2am when the surrounding villages would think that we had settled for the night.

The Indian Officers were warned of our intended move and ordered to have the men roused and ready for the march at 2am prompt.

We then ostentatiously prepared for the night's camp.

Loud orders were issued concerning our morning meal, packing and marching.

This was for the benefit of any eavesdroppers as we knew all our movements were in all probability being passed on to the interested parties.

At about 10pm the camp was still and except for the pacing of the sentries it might have been a dead spot.

We were on the move promptly at 2am, while the servants, mahouts and orderlies were left to break camp in the morning.

At about 4 o’clock after a slow and careful picking of our way, we came to the edge of the large clearing in which our first village-to-be-search was situated.

All the villages in these parts are enclosed in stockades of about 10 to 12 feet in height and there is only one gateway in the whole stockade.

This protection is necessary against the wild animals which abound in this part of the country.

At evening all cattle are driven into the village and the gate is then fastened for the night.

The stockades are formed of the long, thick, spiked poles lashed together and dug into the ground.

Their strength and rigidity are really surprising as they will not “give” even under considerable pressure.

The gate is formed of daub and wattle and is also very strong.

These stockades are invariably of a circular formation while the “streets” or lanes between the houses are straight. The huts being built in straight lines.

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While still about a quarter of a mile away from the village and still under cover of the forest, we split our party into sections as follows:

No 1 Section composed of 15 men and a native Corporal (Naik)

No 2 Section ditto

No 3 section composed of 10 men and an Indian Officer

No 4 section consisting of the remaining 10 men and Peter and self.

On the command “ready” Nos 1 and 2 sections made for the outside of the stockade in order to surround it. Nos 3 and 4 sections made for the gate. When within about 250 yards of the village every dog in the world seemed to wake up and start to bark. The following plan will illustrate our movements.

[Note: This is where this story ends unfortunately. It goes straight on to the story that begins on the next page. You’ll have to use your imagination as to how the story ends!]

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We soon spotted the very well known “trade mark” of a certain celebrated association known for its Christian activities among young people.

That put our worries at rest and we made for the place with mental pictures of a really good comfortable nights’ sleep in beds.

On enquiry at the booking desk of the Institution we were none too politely told that only outgoing soldiers were accommodated there.

Nor could they inform us where we poor uncanny soldiers could find any shelter.

We turned out of the station into the street and catching sight of a policeman standing in the road we asked him if he could show us where to go for a night’s digs, somewhere not too expensive.

He pointed out a large sombre looking plain fronted house a few yards away.

Here we found a bell chain by the door and giving a vigorous pull – waited. The clanging of the bell sounded hollowly through the house and then footsteps could be heard somewhere in the building.

We eased our packs in readiness to take them off but nothing further happened.

The footsteps suddenly stopped and no further sound was heard except two or three more janglings of the bell as we tried our luck again.

At the end of 5 minutes, we were still as far from a bed as ever and the time was getting on.

We tightened our equipment again and decided to look for a restaurant as we were hungry once more.

Goodness knows where we got to, but eventually we found a decent looking place with a few war time edibles in the window.

We went in, and as far as I remember we enjoyed some chips and an egg each.

A very decent looking girl served us and she appeared to be a sensible type of young woman, so we asked her if she could direct us to some good, clean, cheap place for the night.

She informed us that as the shop would be closing in a few minutes she would take us personally to what she thought would be the best place.

Our fair guide left us outside a Salvation Army Hostel.

We rang and after a few moments an elderly bearded face appeared at Judas Hole in the fortress, or jail like door.

“What do you want?” the dotted face asked.

We told him.

“Yes, we can take you in. It will be 6 pence? each.”

“Thank you” we replied.

“Have you got the money?”

We produced two sixpences, which proved to be the “open Sesame”.

The patriarch led us to a long dormitory containing about 20 or 30 beds, none occupied.

After making arrangements regarding getting up in the morning, he left us with a sepulchral good night. We never saw him again.

Beds! Real soft, clean, sweet smelling beds. Things we’d heard about but never seen for long weary months. We looked on them as sacred things, or at least with real reverence.

It seemed a pity to ruffle their beautifully smoothed and snow white pureness.

The “Blood and Fire” design on the counterpanes we carefully folded over. They favoured a bit too much of what we’d just left behind us.

As we regained our sense of decency which these beds revived, our attentions were taken up by the electric light switches, which we turned on and off for about 15 minutes like school boys with a new toy. Everything was delightful, even to the pulling of the lavatory chains, but we soon tired of this last recreation as we had to wait too long for the next successful pull.

One must do without these simple everyday things, to appreciate them.

To us, a new world had opened out for a time at least. No, not a new world, just the old one but with the added interest which only appreciation can conjure up.

Before turning in, we stripped naked in order to keep the beds free from any of our overseas ‘friends’ which might have accompanied us across the channel.

I expect some of those little ‘friends’ were just dying to be commissimed with their wearers!

These fleas, lice, ticks or gnats certainly did help a great deal during the war as at times they took our minds off some of the more horrible subjects of thought.

We woke the following morning to find our boots clean and our clothes more or less folded.

A hot bath was ready for each of us and when dressed we were led by a young man to a canteen in the same building.

Here two busy charming ladies presided.

They gave us plenty of tea, bread and butter, bacon and marmalade, and when we went to the counter to pay for it all, wondering incidentally whether the bill would run into pounds or merely shillings, we were informed that our sixpence had covered everything.

We took leave after breakfast and Jock and I also parted. He to report to his depot and I to Mill Hill.

We never met again, but if perchance he should have survived the war and his eyes read this, I wish him all the best for Auld Lang Syne.

He was one of many shadows which have flitted across my life’s screen, filling the scene for a brief moment only to disappear as silently and surely as they came.

Most men have an abundance of acquaintances, but fortunate is the man who has an abundance of friends and keeps them.

I got lost somewhere in Hendon while en route to the depot and as the streets were deserted at midday for some unknown reason, I knocked at the front door of a neat looking villa in order to ask my way.

An elderly lady answered the door and on hearing my request for directions, asked me in.

I was invited to stay for lunch, which I did. She lived there with a sister, both spinsters aged about 50-60. Kindness itself, and I had apparently disturbed them in their task of knitting socks for the troops. They had then knitted 90 pairs between them and were still going strong.

Their kindness was a thing to be remembered and I do remember it and appreciate it.

One must remember that food was very limited in those days and in all probably they would later have to be on short rations to make up for their charitable kindness.

They were just two more of the thousands of unheard of heroines of the war.

No market music for them. No blaze of trumpets, no uniforms, only their noble hearts, helping in their modest but nevertheless important tasks. Giving a helping hand when opportunity offered.

When I reported to the Mill Hill, I handed in my pack and equipment except my Great Coat and Goat Skin Coat.

I was told that I might proceed to my home and await further orders.

These orders did not come for 6 weeks so during that time I lived once again in the bosom of my family. My sweetheart, with whom I had kept up a regular correspondence, and from whom I had received a parcel every week while OAS, came over to stay at our house for a fortnight. Her father in the old fashioned way brought her over and formally handed her over to my parents. I half expected him to ask for a receipt for her safe delivery (that word sounds rather ominous I think so I’d better write “her safe arrival”).

In due course I passed through the OCB passed my exams and was commissioned, asking for and obtaining my new rank in my own County Regt.

For a week or two I was with our Reserve Battn in Lancashire, being very thankful to receive my overseas orders to France again. Every officer and man in the depot looked forward to being sent out to France again on account of the rotten caddishness of the upstart Colonel, whose substantive rank was merely Lnt in one of the Guard Regts. He was just a plain, ordinary Swine without the last trace of any gentlemanly streak in his whole make up.

I went home for my final leave and when catching the train at Leicester for London and France I met another young fellow name B___t who was posted to the same Service Battn as myself so we travelled up together.

We were due to spend the night in town and catch the 8.30 train to Dover next morning.

Our first action on arrival in London was to get accommodation for the night, as near Victoria Station as possible.

We booked a double room at a hotel in Wilton Road, practically opposite the station and after dumping our sundry other impediments sallied forth to see the sights.

Barely a hundred yards from the hotel our eyes were arrested by the sight of some most beautiful and tempting lobsters in a restaurant window and for the next hour we were busy inside.

After this feed we sauntered along the street looking into all the shop windows. In one window were some small highly polished steel plates in the shape of a heart. These were intended for protection to that vital organ against bullets and other odds and ends which might affect the heart in France. I was seriously contemplating buying one and turned to B with some appropriate remark, only to find that I was addressing a complete stranger who happened to be looking into the window. A hasty apology and a look round for the missing B. I caught sight of him about 20 or 30 years further up the street deep in conversation with two ladies. He called me to him and said he would like to introduce me to two friends of his. Being green, I took him at his word and made the usual formal greetings, shaking their hands which they offered.

They seemed quite decent girls, somewhat vivacious, but by no means ‘loud’.

At their invitation we decided to spend the evening with them at their flat. So hailing a taxi we drove off and as far as I remember the directions given to the driver were somewhere in Holland Park area. We alighted near a Tube Station and then walked about 200 years to a house.

It was getting late by now and after sitting talking for some time and having a few drinks I found it was nearly midnight. B seemed quite at home and in no hurry to move. I was getting a bit worried about finding a taxi to take us back and made some remark to this effect.

Great was my surprise when B replied that as far as he was concerned the flat was good enough in which to spend the night and that he was soon going to turn in with B (one of the two young ‘ladies’). He added that A would like to turn in too, with me.

This was my first experience of this kind of thing and I really felt nervous.

Both girls had behaved quite well all through the evening but I expect if I had been less green I would have known straight off that his so called ‘friends’ here in reality ‘unfortunates’.

There is a beginning to everything however and as France lay only and all its awful possibilities lay only a matter of a few hours distant I decided that the old adage ‘Gather ye Rose Buds’ was very appropriate.

A few months previously I had blushed even before the doctor at the medical exams!

I shall never forget that first experience of stolen fruit or forbidden love.

My night was spoilt however by worrying about the train and whether we would catch it, as it was to leave at about 7.45am. Where Victoria Station lay, and how far off it was I hadn’t the slightest idea.

During the night we had time for conversation and I suppose the question I asked her as to how and why she had taken up this mode of life (she was 19 she told me) must be the usual question under such circumstances, and her reply too was probably the stereotyped kind.

She told me that she had been turned out of her home by an irate father, owing to having been ruined by her cousin who she thought was going to marry her.

Her behaviour all through was certainly very different from that of other women of her profession with whom I have come into contact.

At any rate she was too bashful to undress in a strong light and seemed shy altogether.

The following morning before going round the flat in search of B, I asked my partner, who was still in bed, how much I was supposed to pay her. She replied “as much as you can”. I gave her 2 pound and she seemed delighted.

B and I had supplied the drinks on the previous night as they kept none in the house, nor did they drink more than one peg each.

After a rush and a scramble, we collected our kits, paid the hotel, having supplied sleeping accommodation to our baggage and caught the train in good time.

Thus ended my first ‘affair’. For several days my mind was filled with the new and to some extent, alarming, experience.

“If I should die” I thought “I shall at least have had first hand knowledge of something concerning which I had heard a great deal and shall not die with the sense of having missed something”.

Weighing all things, my summing up led me to the conclusion that ---- I liked it.

Our immediate destination on arrival in France was just outside Calais, where B and I shared a bell tent for some days, while awaiting posting orders.

One Tuesday evening we received orders that we were to proceed to ??, somewhere in the Somme and that we were to leave by the 10 o’clock train on Thursday morning.

We decided that Wednesday was to be a great day as it would possibly be our last day of civilisation for months, or for Ever.

Leaving instructions to our orderlies to have everything including our bedding pack in readiness for immediate removal on our return, we started off for Calais at about 10am.

Should we need our beds that night we could very easily unpack them again.

After seeing what sights there were, we called at the “Crystal Palace”.

This was a Cinema, with a curtained off strip of corridor down one side of the hall itself.

Their curtained off position was a lounge at one end of which was a buffet.

Calling for a ‘Bok’ each, we sat down at one of the small tables and took stock of the other visitors.

There were only a few people there when we entered but after a short time, about 1 o’clock, the place began to get busy.

Practically everyone was in uniform and I should think we saw nearly every French Regiment represented there.

A fair sprinkling of British and Australian officers were present, but very few women.

We had been sitting there for probably two hours, sipping our drinks and regarding the passing show, when suddenly the most beautiful woman either of us had ever seen came into the lounge, attended by two French officers and a civilian.

Chattering and laughing, they seated themselves at the table next to ours a few feet away.

B looked at me and I looked at B. Two distinct sighs, two love smitten hearts beat in unison.

Our young emotions were profoundly stirred. In subdued voices we tried to form a plan by which we might get to know the lady. We knew she was not married as she wore no ring of any kind on her left hand.

For once, I had a real brain wave and leaning across to B I told him to start an argument with me in a low voice. Any subject would do as long as the quarter could not make out what we were saying.

B played his part well and I at last stood up in what I intended to be a determined manner, and quite audibly said to B in English “very well, I’ll settle the argument definitely”. As I had hoped the attention of the others was for a moment centered on us.

Moving away from my table, I made straight for theirs, and with a bow to the lady and another to the offices, I addressed Guardier uniforms in my best French.

“Excuse my unwarranted intrusion Sir,” I began. “But my friend and I would esteem it a great favour if you gentlemen would settle a small bet which we have between us. It concerns your uniforms. My brother officer declares that they denote Cavalry which I maintain that they are Artillery.”

It worked!

We were both invited to their table, introductions took place and drinks were ordered.

The lady very graciously refused any drink more potent than “Citron”.

We spent the remainder of the day together with the party as our dinner guests at the “Hotel D’Europe” across the street.

It was a convivial meal, during which France embraced England, and England embraced France several times. The lady was also included in these. She sat between B and me at the table and we spent a most enjoyable evening. I have a faint recollection that the French officers verbally presented B and me with the whole of their country’s Cavalry and Artillery, and we presented them with our Army, Air Force, Navy and WAACs, also verbally.

My recollections of the remainder of that night are somewhat vague. I know we went to the lady’s flat and that when I woke in the morning I found myself in a beautiful lace curtained bed, in a very dainty boudoir, and the lady herself was lying beside me in a state of negligee. She was asleep. I quickly got out of bed and had a look around. B I found asleep in another room, but of the French Officers and Civi, there was no trace. The flat was spotless and ‘dainty’ was the only way I could describe it.

Eventually I found the necessary apparatus for brewing some tea and a further hunt brought cakes, scrolls and butter to light.

These I took to my boudoir and the Venus and myself had a light breakfast in bed.

It was 5.30am so we amused ourselves until 6.30 when I dressed, called for B and took leave of the lady. There was no question of cash transactions here.

During our tête-à-tête in bed, I learned fuller details of our adventure. It appeared that the flat, its fair occupant, were being maintained by some RAMC Major at the front.

The French Officers were merely friends of hers of old standing and the Civilian was a detective whose business was to see that no undesirables visited the various places of entertainment frequented by B.Os.

They had left her flat in the night after a coffee party which we had had, but of which I had no recollection.

She was Italian, and I really loved her. I would have given anything then to have had her as my wife.

In spite of her amorous nature, she was good, kind and possessed a beautiful if playful nature. War seemed a long long way away that morning, and yet a few hours later B and I were in the train en route to the trenches and whatever lay there awaiting us.

When we reached the Rail Head, nobody had the first idea of where our battalion was and it was only after hours of enquiries and wanderings that we got on the track of it and eventually joined it.

For the next few weeks we were in and out of the line, nothing extraordinary. Things were fairly quiet then.

At last we were moved from the Somme area to the Ypres sector and one Sunday went into the line before Passchendaele Ridge, beyond St Julien and Wieltje.

The Passchaendale Push had started and we were to attack beyond Alto? Olto?,? ??? Castle. There was no trench system here, as the enemy was holding his positions by means of the “Pill Boxes”.

These “Pill Boxes” or concrete block houses reinforced with steel were erected in bunkers, each one giving covering for and support to the others.

They were really MG [machine gun] nests with only one entrance which was stationed at the back.

Our own positions were in short temporary trenches in Echelon?.

Two companies of our Battalion were to supply two Platoons each for the attack.

Mine was one of the two Platoons of our company, and 2 S? Was the other.

The attack was timed to start at dawn on the morning of September 26th 1917. The anniversary of one of my former “over the top” experiences.

This would be my first attack as an Officer and my mind on this occasion was not taken up so much by the risk and my own personal feelings, as by the terrible responsibility which rested on my shoulders.

During the evening of the 25th S and myself with our Platoon Sergeants, assaulted at Coy? H2 which was located in an old and fairly large though somewhat dilapidated Pill Box.

This PB had been roughly used by the Artillery of both sides. By ours before and the ??? after its capture.

We had compared notes and completed our plans for the forthcoming attack and were about to rejoin our platoons when there occurred a fearful explosion and flash and then all was darkness as far as I was concerned.

When I came to about half an hour later I found myself in a trench and learned that I had been knocked out by a chunk of concrete from the roof of the Pill Box. The shell which had exploded outside had brought down solid lumps of the somewhat “past worn” roof and one piece had hit me on the head.

Fortunately my steel helmet saved me from any serious harm and beyond a severe headache and a lump on my nut I was soon ok.

The others had escaped with a shaking.

Dawn arrived and with it zero hour. Over we went and Smith fell dead as soon as his head appeared above the parapet. I then had to take over his platoon and as well as my own and was busy running backwards and forwards between the two, keeping an eye on the advance. Six Pill Boxes lay between the two Platoons and our objective and how on Earth any of us managed to get through at all is beyond my understanding.

The place was an uninterrupted hum of MG bullets and shells and grenades. Often I saw spurts of Earth fling up at my feet and strange to say I only felt a mild curiosity as to what they were. My mind was too occupied with keeping the formations and the line of attack to think of anything else. Without the responsibility, I’d have been scared stiff.

In due course, we won our objectives and the 6 Pill Boxes were left tenantless behind us.

Our Artillery had done a great deal of the work for us, the only really awkward and thoroughly dangerous work was finding and destroying the numerous MG nests.

Our barrage swept the ground before us as far as possible before we went over, but in spite of that creeping death a great number of the nests still managed to come into action.

Later, I found several holes in the slack of my uniform which had not been caused by moths or mice. Personally I was not touched but my head ached abominably.

Before the enemy could rally and counterattack, we set to, and joining shell holes soon had a trench or series of posts which we could deepen more or less at our leisure, but which gave us a fair amount of shelter almost at once.

We then settled down to what I thought would be a comparatively quiet time. It was now noon and all men were in position, L.G. posts established, ammunition brought up and replenished, bombs placed and the dozens other similar duties performed.

At about 6pm it started to rain _____. Shells. A few heavies dropped clean into the trenches on our right and we knew that Jerry was getting restive and about to counter attack.

All objectives had been reached and consolidated by this time, but as we were feeling fairly secure we were not too anxious alltho’ of course it was an anxious time altogether.

Then the tragedy occurred, or at least, what might have been a tragedy, or even a catastrophe.

The Front Line men of the Battn on our right gave way, owing to a few direct hits in their trenches. They were raw troops, this being their first action. In fact it was the first action of the whole division, but our own men acted like veterans. I was proud of my handful of ???. Back went the next Battn, streaming across the open to the rear like frightened sheep. Many were mown down by shrapnel and MG Barrages, but here my interest in them ended.

Their retreat left our right flank and the rest? But one Battalions left flank “in the air”. What few men I had I spread along their front and this action was taken too by the other battalion on the right so that the line was manned.

A woefully thin line it was too, and by this time the German Barrage was settling down to real work, cutting off our supports and reserves and practically isolating us. Fortunately the fleeing battalion had dropped their L Guns, ammunition, rifles and bombs, with their dignity and these were still on the front line.

Scratch teams were put to the ??? ??? and we waited for the attack.

I was giving instructions to the Platoon Sgt who stood beside me when suddenly he collapsed with half his head gone. I had not heard the shell that killed him! It had burst almost on the parapet and the smoke and cordite fumes were still thick when I looked around.

I seized a rifle and handfuls of ammunition and commenced rapid fire at the enemy who were now looming up in the distance in mass formation.

No rifle fire that we could direct onto them could ever stop that sea of men.

Our rifles were few and rapidly becoming fewer every moment.

Realising that we could not hold them I fired the very? Pistol SOS and up shot the coloured lights. Two green, two red, I believe. The time was now about 7pm. No answer came to the SOS and every second the enemy loomed larger and larger, irresistibly ???, on and on they came. Only 200 yards now separated us. Again I fired the SOS and for a few seconds still nothing happened. What an age these seconds seemed. I gave up all hopes of life and nothing but utter annihilation slated us on the face.

Huge pieces of the trench were going up in Earth formations every second and why or how I am here now, writing this I do not know escapes that for some reason my time was not yet.

Then came the counter blast. Shriek, whizz, howl, roar, our shells secured to come over our heads in thousands of millions. Pandemonium and hell itself seemed to be bursting its sides.

Our barrage had arrived good and strong. At the very moment when the enemy reached our barrage lines* the curtain of shells fell on them. What a sight.

A tight mass of men full of life and threatening our very existence one moment, mere pieces of broken legs, arms, head and bodies the next, pieces of humanity whirling aloft with the spewing Earth, as shells, shells, shells and more shells dealt out their filthy, rending terrifying, maddening but ______ saving punishment.

Yes, we were saved for the time being and the attack died before it was really born. But still the shells came round us, on us, over us and we lay cowering in the tiniest spaces we could fit. Hearts would miss beats as they were lifted into our throats by the violent concussions almost on top of us. How sick, and dazed and tired yet all I felt above all how very frightened.

At last, after what seemed to us to be weeks of hell, the fire slackened and finally died away, leaving us limp and trembling.

We were soon relieved and sent to tranches farther back, where we remained for about a fortnight, while others took on our hell.

These rear trenches were soon made fairly comfortable and safe, but contained no dug outs and for the two weeks we lived and slept on the bare floors. Each night and dawn the Germans gave us about an hour’s straffe with whizz bangs and other shells.

After a week in these lines, the rain came down in torrents and fell steady for some days. Our nicely built trenches become waterlogged, dreary and crumbling. Every spadeful of mud thrown out came slithering back again, generally accompanied by a large splodge of the trench side.

For a week we stood up to our thighs in mud and water and it was entirely due to the rum station that the men survived at all.

Our first question to the ration Party each night was “any news of a relief yet”. “No” was the inevitable reply. One or two rumours of a relief filled us with hope, only to be cast down worse than ever as they proved false.

The longed for relief arrived at last and we went right back again to rest bullets miles away from all the beastliness and desolation. How thankful we were to get baths and clean and dry clothes. Some of the men were entirely unable to get out of the trench when the relief came, and were stretcher cases. As we moved back I saw a very sad case. Two stretcher bearers and the wounded man on the stretcher lay stone dead and absolutely untouched. A shell of heavy calibre had exploded near them and killed them instantly by concussion.

One humourous incident happened to me while in these water logged trenches.

The evening straffe was on and a whizz bang exploded just over the back of the trench. There was a sickening thud in my eye and a stab of pain, my hand instinctively went up to it and sure enough I felt the wet sticky blood on my fingers and oozing down my cheeks.

“Hooray I’ve got a blighty” I thought.?

On moving my hand and looking at it I found that I had been plugged in the eye by a piece of wet mud. I was fed up! The squashed out water felt just like blood streaming down my cheek.

Whoever imagines there is anything noble or romantic about war is sadly mistaken. It is bestial and filthy, bringing men to the level of beasts. There is not one redeeming feature about the whole thing.

When one thinks of the thousands of bells and door knockers which would ring and bang in England, Germany, and every other country after an action like the one just mentioned and that each was the signal for mourning a young son or middle aged husband or father, the very idea must stink in the noses and minds of any ordinarily balanced human.

Let us all remember that the ones left at home always had this terrible nightmare before them. Sleeping and waking, dreading every cycle bell that rang in the streets.

Remember too those who faced this kind of music, willingly, voluntarily, and who now find it hard to provide a crust for their own children at times. Let “Ex Serviceman” be a little to be proud of, and one to respect for the sake of those days and remember that on some future occasions some of the still unbroken bricks from that old dismantled wall may even yet be heeded again.

Do not regard the “Hero” of those days as a “Damned Nuisance” of today.

As a soothing syrup after the Passchendaele ‘Show’ we were put into an alleged “quiet” part of the line. This was in front of L’Euro?

It may have been quiet at some distant date but when we got there it was far from it. We lived underground for weeks.

The trenches which we held saw through and I was given the job of residing in a shell hole with a few men as a kind of listening post.

This listening post of ours lay well in front of our front line, looked like a baby mine crater or perhaps a shell hole and a proper mine crater.

In any case there was an old German dug out about 30 feet deep in the scar side of it and for this we were thankful.

A German Sap saw out from their front line ending in a head about 25 yards from our listening post and we could hear all their movements quite distinctly. One night they evidently had a free fight among themselves for we heard the dull thump of boots and fists on flesh.

Our presence was unknown to them and as we were not courting publicity our movements had to be guarded and nocturnal.

Each night I placed three posts on the front lip of the crater and would bisect them. Every hour and each time when they were relieved.

To get them from the dug out it was necessary to place a plank across a smaller shell hole in the bottom of the crater.

One night towards the end of our allotted number of days on this particular duty, the Sergeant and I were taking a sand bag covered petrol tin of tea to the forward post.

I warned the Sergt not to venture onto the plank until I was off it as the other end.

How or why he disobeyed my warning I do not know but he was on it before I was off it with the natural result that crash! The plank cracked and then split like a mine going off. We both fell into the shell hole among a number of old bully beef tins and other old musical debris, amid the most information row one ever heard.

For five or ten minutes there was merry hell to play. Bombs, grenades, mortar shells, MG, rifles, verey lights, and the whole bag of tricks came into action. The men at the forward post, stuck to their jobs read to open rapid fire and the commander of the men had to stand to.

Things eventually quietened down but I was thankful that the Battn was shifting from that part of the line next day as I did not regard that spot as being likely to present a haven of rest in the near future. It was from this post that I sent a message through to the guns to have a sneak? at ??? Railway Station, or what was left of it.

While looking at the Station one day through my field glasses, I caught sight of a German sitting under the top part of the platform slope where it joined the horizontal platform.

He was reading a letter or folded newspaper when I spied him. I at once reported that there was a post established at the Station in a few minutes whizz, boom, whizz, boom, whizz boom, was heard three times and after a short half, 3 more shells landed slap into the station. Every one a dead hit. That Station, as a Station, was ruined. So was the Post! Bits flew in all directions.

I heard later that one of the subsequent listening posts in that crater was captured during a sudden raid by the enemy.

Our next resting quarters were behind the lines on the old Somme battlefields at a place named Barraste?. The town, or village, whichever it had been originally, was now non existent and were under canvas on a plain. Our only excitement here was caused by occasional egg laying aeroplanes for German manufacture, but nothing serious occurred.

We rested here for some weeks, doing intensive training as rumours of a big push were flying about at the time.

The canvassing of letters was at times a very amusing duty and while at rest here we had plenty to do in that line as the men had a great deal of time on their hands.

Some of the men were appalling liars and their letters spoke volumes for their powers of imagination.

One man wrote to his mother, to the effort that we were then living amid a veritable tornado of death and practically every time we drew a breath a shell fell near us, or words to that effect.

As a matter of fact, none of us had seen a shell for over a posting. I sent for the man and in due course he appeared before me.

“Is this your letter?” I asked, holding it up. “Yes sir”, he replied.

“Well you’ve omitted one item of important news,” I continued. He looked puzzled.

“You have forgotten to mention the man eating lions and tigers and poisonous snakes which continually chase us around the camp” I added.

He was only a young boy of about 17, being one of the recently called up men and his experience of active service had commenced about 6 weeks previously.

I, being a grizzled veteran of 20, then gave him a gentle talking to, pointing out that his mother’s worries were just about as much as she could manage without his vivid imagination adding to her burden.

It would be just as easy and do far more towards cheering her up if he wrote to tell her that they were now quite safe and well out of all danger, a situation which was likely to continue for some time.

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The following are two poems that were included with the diary...

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