The Boar's Head - 30th June 1916 - The South Downs Battalion

On 30th June 1916 the Southdowns Battalions took a major part in their first battle. It was a diversionary operation at the village of Richebourg L’Avoue in northern France. A set piece battle had been planned to straighten out the line of a German position known as Boar’s Head.

The first reports started to trickle back in early July 1916 together with the start of the Battle of the Somme which was further south. The casualties from the the Somme were enormous, in fact the 1st July 1916 was the worst day in the history of the British Army; 60,000 casualties either, dead, wounded or missing.

The Battle of 'Boar's Head' has today been largerly forgotten about, in fact many books about that time do not even mention it. The cost to the three South Downs Battalions and to the people of Sussex was terrible. The total causalities were 15 Officers and 364 other ranks killed or died of wounds and 21 Officers and 728 other ranks wounded. In total nearly 1,100. A conservative count of men killed coming from Eastbourne alone stands at 47, hardly a town in the county escaped without some casualties.

The Eastbourne Gazette on the 5th July 1916 carried the first reports as the wounded arrived .

Cheery Wounded

"Several of the men who arrived at Eastbourne on Sunday night have been serving in the Southdowns battalions of the Royal Sussex Regiment; and we hear that most of them were wounded in the fighting last Friday. They are all bright and cheerful. A gentleman who visited a hospital ward on Monday was spoken to by the men who said, “We are in disgrace today. We have been laughing ever since we have been in here.”
The ambulance brought 142 men – eighty cot cases and sixty-two sitting cases. "

A week later on 12th July 1916, the Eastbourne Gazette received more information from a wounded soldier.

Southdowns in Action

Terrific Artillery Fire on Both Sides

Eastbourne Man Wounded Twice

"In August 1914, Private Leonard P. Newham (eldest son of Mr. L.G Newham, a director of Bobby & Co, Ltd.) joined the band of the 11th (Southdown) Battalion of the Royal Sussex Regiment: and has been serving in France for several months. The strictness of military regulations precludes our giving the exact position of the troops engaged in the recent fighting. Private Newman, it appears, was wounded on July 1st and he seems to have written without delay a very cheery letter, from which it would seem that the Southdowns have emerged with credit from a severe ordeal.

“I am more than thankful that I escaped with this little lot. My wounds are only slight.
My word! It was a strafe! Our Brigade had a job to do and they did it, although the odds were against them. The artillery firing on both sides was simply terrific.
I was first wounded in the left forearm by a small piece of Shrapnel. While I was dressing a comrades wounds a shell burst somewhere near, and I stopped one piece with my right thigh.
Neither of my wounds was very serious. I dressed my leg and a sergeant did my arm, I fell in with Percy Clack (formerly of the cabinet department in Bobby & Co.’s) and walked with him till a piece of earth or something caught me and knocked nearly all the wind out of me.
I went up to the aid-post with two walking cases. The trench was smashed up in several places and was still being heavily shelled.
I proceeded to the advanced dressing station, and the enemy shelled that place, but no one was killed although on of the R.A.M.C. doctors received a wound in the head.
It was a marvellous thing that no more mischief was done, for dozens of men were lying practically helpless.
I met two or three of our fellows afterwards, and we all agreed it was the roughest time we had had.”

Private Newham is now in hospital at Colchester.

Mr. L.G. Newham second son (Sapper Hugh M. Newham) is serving in the Royal Engineers, and is in hospital at Maidenhead."

Private L.P Newham survived the war, Private Percy Clack the friend he mentions, (SD/156) died on 18th September 1918 aged 21 and is buried in STE. EMILIE VALLEY CEMETERY, VILLERS-FAUCON, France.

First World War - That Ration Fatigue

This excellent little article comes from the great book “Bullets & Billets" By Bruce Bairnsfather.

Here he describes the trenches in Belgium and at the undesirable job of being on a ‘Ration Party’.

THAT RATION FATIGUE

They seemed to me long, dark, dismal days, those days spent in the Douve trenches; longer, darker and more dismal than the Plugstreet ones. Night after night I crossed the dreary mud flat, passed the same old wretched farms, and went on with the same old trench routine. We all considered the trenches a pretty rotten outfit; but every one was fully prepared to accept far rottener things than that. There was never the least sign of flagging determination in any man there, and I am sure you could say the same of the whole front.

And, really, some jobs on some nights wanted a lot of beating for undesirability. Take the ration party's job, for instance. Think of the rottenest, wettest, windiest winter's night you can remember, and add to it this bleak, muddy, war-worn plain with its ruined farms and shell-torn lonely road. Then think of men, leaving the trenches at dusk, going back about a mile and a half, and bringing sundry large and heavy boxes up to the trenches, pausing now and again for a rest, and ignoring the intermittent crackling of rifle fire in the darkness, and the sharp "phit" of bullets hitting the mud all around. Think of that as your portion each night and every night. When you have finished this job, the rest you get consists of coiling yourself up in a damp dug-out. Night after night, week after week, month after month, this job is done by thousands.

As one sits in a brilliantly illuminated, comfortable, warm theatre, having just come from a cosy and luxurious restaurant, just think of some poor devil half-way along those corduroy boards struggling with a crate of biscuits; the ration "dump" behind, the trenches on in front. When he has finished he will step down into the muddy slush of a trench, and take his place with the rest, who, if need be, will go on doing that job for another ten years, without thinking of an alternative. The Germans made a vast mistake when they thought they had gauged the English temperament.

First World War - Trench Life

This is an excellent extract from the book “ Kitchener's Mob, The Adventures of an American in the British Army” By James Norman Hall, which can be found at Gutenberg.org

It gives a great description of trench life on the Western Front. I especially like the final paragraphs on rations, flies and rats.

“All of the dugouts for privates and N.C.O.s were of equal size and built on the same model, the reason being that the walls and floors, which were made of wood, and the roofs, which were of corrugated iron, were put together in sections at the headquarters of the Royal Engineers, who superintended all the work of trench construction. The material was brought up at night ready to be fitted into excavations. Furthermore, with thousands of men to house within a very limited area, space was a most important consideration. There was no room for indulging individual tastes in dugout architecture. The roofs were covered with from three to four feet of earth, which made them proof against shrapnel or shell splinters. In case of a heavy bombardment with high explosives, the men took shelter in deep and narrow "slip trenches." These were blind alleyways leading off from the traveling trench, with room for from ten to fifteen men in each. At this part of the line there were none of the very deep shell-proof shelters, from fifteen to twenty feet below the surface of the ground, of which I had read. Most of the men seemed to be glad of this. They preferred taking their chances in an open trench during heavy shell fire.

Realists and Romanticists lived side by side in the traveling trench. "My Little Gray Home in the West" was the modest legend over one apartment. The "Ritz Carlton" was next door to "The Rats' Retreat," with "Vermin Villa" next door but one. "The Suicide Club" was the suburban residence of some members of the bombing squad. I remarked that the bombers seemed to take rather a pessimistic view of their profession, whereupon Shorty told me that if there were any men slated for the Order of the Wooden Cross, the bombers were those unfortunate ones. In an assault they were first at the enemy's position. They had dangerous work to do even on the quietest of days. But theirs was a post of honor, and no one of them but was proud of his membership in the Suicide Club.

The officers' quarters were on a much more generous and elaborate scale than those of the men. This I gathered from Shorty's description of them, for I saw only the exteriors as we passed along the trench. Those for platoon and company commanders were built along the traveling trench. The colonel, major, and adjutant lived in a luxurious palace, about fifty yards down a communication trench. Near it was the officers' mess, a café de luxe with glass panels in the door, a cooking stove, a long wooden table, chairs,—everything, in fact, but hot and cold running water.


"You know," said Shorty, "the officers thinks they 'as to rough it, but they got it soft, I'm tellin' you! Wooden bunks to sleep in, batmen to bring 'em 'ot water fer shavin' in the mornin', all the fags they wants,—Blimy, I wonder wot they calls livin' 'igh?"

I agreed that in so far as living quarters are concerned, they were roughing it under very pleasant circumstances. However, they were not always so fortunate, as later experience proved. Here there had been little serious fighting for months and the trenches were at their best. Elsewhere the officers' dugouts were often but little better than those of the men.

The first-line trenches were connected with two lines of support or reserve trenches built in precisely the same fashion, and each heavily wired. The communication trenches which joined them were from seven to eight feet deep and wide enough to permit the convenient passage of incoming and outgoing troops, and the transport of the wounded back to the field dressing stations. From the last reserve line they wound on backward through the fields until troops might leave them well out of range of rifle fire. Under Shorty's guidance I saw the field dressing stations, the dugouts for the reserve ammunition supply and the stores of bombs and hand grenades, battalion and brigade trench headquarters. We wandered from one part of the line to another through trenches, all of which were kept amazingly neat and clean. The walls were stayed with fine-mesh wire to hold the earth in place. The floors were covered with board walks carefully laid over the drains, which ran along the center of the trench and emptied into deep wells, built in recesses in the walls. I felt very much encouraged when I saw the careful provisions for sanitation and drainage. On a fine June morning it seemed probable that living in ditches was not to be so unpleasant as I had imagined it. Shorty listened to my comments with a smile.

"Don't pat yerself on the back yet a w'ile, mate," he said. "They looks right enough now, but wite till you've seen 'em arter a 'eavy rain."

I had this opportunity many times during the summer and autumn. A more wretched existence than that of soldiering in wet weather could hardly be imagined. The walls of the trenches caved in in great masses. The drains filled to overflowing, and the trench walks were covered deep in mud. After a few hours of rain, dry and comfortable trenches became a quagmire, and we were kept busy for days afterward repairing the damage.

As a machine gunner I was particularly interested in the construction of the machine-gun emplacements. The covered battle positions were very solidly built. The roofs were supported with immense logs or steel girders covered over with many layers of sandbags. There were two carefully concealed loopholes looking out to a flank, but none for frontal fire, as this dangerous little weapon best enjoys catching troops in enfilade owing to the rapidity and the narrow cone of its fire. Its own front is protected by the guns on its right and left. At each emplacement there was a range chart giving the ranges to all parts of the enemy's trenches, and to every prominent object both in front of and behind them, within its field of fire. When not in use the gun was kept mounted and ready for action in the battle position.

"But remember this," said Shorty, "you never fires from your battle position except in case of attack. W'en you goes out at night to 'ave a little go at Fritzie, you always tykes yer gun sommers else. If you don't, you'll 'ave Minnie an' Busy Bertha an' all the rest o' the Krupp childern comin' over to see w'ere you live."

This was a wise precaution, as we were soon to learn from experience. Machine guns are objects of special interest to the artillery, and the locality from which they are fired becomes very unhealthy for some little time thereafter.

We stopped for a moment at "The Mud Larks' Hairdressing Parlor," a very important institution if one might judge by its patronage. It was housed in a recess in the wall of the traveling trench, and was open to the sky. There I saw the latest fashion in "oversea" hair cuts. The victims sat on a ration box while the barber mowed great swaths through tangled thatch with a pair of close-cutting clippers. But instead of making a complete job of it, a thick fringe of hair which resembled a misplaced scalping tuft was left for decorative purposes, just above the forehead. The effect was so grotesque that I had to invent an excuse for laughing. It was a lame one, I fear, for Shorty looked at me warningly. When we had gone on a little way he said:—
"Ain't it a proper beauty parlor? But you got to be careful about larfin'. Some o' the blokes thinks that 'edge-row is a regular ornament."

I had supposed that a daily shave was out of the question on the firing-line; but the British Tommy is nothing if not resourceful. Although water is scarce and fuel even more so, the self-respecting soldier easily surmounts difficulties, and the Gloucesters were all nice in matters pertaining to the toilet. Instead of draining their canteens of tea, they saved a few drops for shaving purposes.

"It's a bit sticky," said Shorty, "but it's 'ot, an' not 'arf bad w'en you gets used to it. Now, another thing you don't want to ferget is this: W'en yer movin' up fer yer week in the first line, always bring a bundle o' firewood with you. They ain't so much as a match-stick left in the trenches. Then you wants to be savin' of it. Don't go an' use it all the first d'y or you'll 'ave to do without yer tea the rest o' the week."

I remembered his emphasis upon this point afterward when I saw men risking their lives in order to procure firewood. Without his tea Tommy was a wretched being. I do not remember a day, no matter how serious the fighting, when he did not find both the time and the means for making it.

Shorty was a Ph.D. in every subject in the curriculum, including domestic science. In preparing breakfast he gave me a practical demonstration of the art of conserving a limited resource of fuel, bringing our two canteens to a boil with a very meager handful of sticks; and while doing so he delivered an oral thesis on the best methods of food preparation. For example, there was the item of corned beef—familiarly called "bully." It was the pièce de résistance at every meal with the possible exception of breakfast, when there was usually a strip of bacon. Now, one's appetite for "bully" becomes jaded in the course of a few weeks or months. To use the German expression one doesn't eat it gern. But it is not a question of liking it. One must eat it or go hungry. Therefore, said Shorty, save carefully all of your bacon grease, and instead of eating your "bully" cold out of the tin, mix it with bread crumbs and grated cheese and fry it in the grease. He prepared some in this way, and I thought it a most delectable dish. Another way of stimulating the palate was to boil the beef in a solution of bacon grease and water, and then, while eating it, "kid yerself that it's Irish stew." This second method of taking away the curse did not appeal to me very strongly, and Shorty admitted that he practiced such self-deception with very indifferent success; for after all "bully" was "bully" in whatever form you ate it.

In addition to this staple, the daily rations consisted of bacon, bread, cheese, jam, army biscuits, tea, and sugar. Sometimes they received a tinned meat and vegetable ration, already cooked, and at welcome intervals fresh meat and potatoes were substituted for corned beef. Each man had a very generous allowance of food, a great deal more, I thought, than he could possibly eat. Shorty explained this by saying that allowance was made for the amount which would be consumed by the rats and the blue-bottle flies.

There were, in fact, millions of flies. They settled in great swarms along the walls of the trenches, which were filled to the brim with warm light as soon as the sun had climbed a little way up the sky. Empty tin-lined ammunition boxes were used as cupboards for food. But of what avail were cupboards to a jam-loving and jam-fed British army living in open ditches in the summer time? Flytraps made of empty jam tins were set along the top of the parapet. As soon as one was filled, another was set in its place. But it was an unequal war against an expeditionary force of countless numbers.

"They ain't nothin' you can do," said Shorty. "They steal the jam right off yer bread."

As for the rats, speaking in the light of later experience, I can say that an army corps of pied pipers would not have sufficed to entice away the hordes of them that infested the trenches, living like house pets on our rations. They were great lazy animals, almost as large as cats, and so gorged with food that they could hardly move. They ran over us in the dugouts at night, and filched cheese and crackers right through the heavy waterproofed covering of our haversacks. They squealed and fought among themselves at all hours. I think it possible that they were carrion eaters, but never, to my knowledge, did they attack living men. While they were unpleasant bedfellows, we became so accustomed to them that we were not greatly concerned about our very intimate associations.”

First World War - 100 Years Today - Joining Up By George Coppard

For the 100^th Anniversary of the start of the Great War, I am posting a small extract from the excellent book by George Coppard “With A Machine Gun To Canbrai.”

I think this interesting snippet captures how many young men felt in those days in early August 1914.

"Glossing over my childhood, I merely state that in 1914 I was just an ordinary boy of elementary education and slender prospects. Rumours of war broke out and I began to be interested in the Territorials trampling the streets in their big strong boots. Although I seldom saw a newspaper, I knew about the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand at Savajevo. News placards screamed out at every street corner and military bands blared out their martial music on the main streets of Croydon, This was too much for me to resist, and as if drawn by a magnet, I knew I had to enlist straight away.

I had no fixed idea of what branch of the Army I wanted to join and considered I would be lucky if I was accepted at all. Although weighing over ten stone I was very much a boy in heart and mind. Towards the end of August I presented myself to the recruiting sergeant at Mitcham Road Barracks, Croydon. There was a steady stream of men, mostly working types, queuing up to enlist.  The sergeant asked my age and when told replied, “Clear off son. Come back tomorrow and see if you’re nineteen, eh?”  So I turned up again the next day and gave my age as nineteen. I attested in a bunch of a dozen others and, holding up my right hand, swore to fight for King and Country. The sergeant winked as he gave me the King’s  shilling, plus one shilling and ninepence ration money for that day. I believe he also got a shilling for each man he recruited.

I see from my discharge papers that I enlisted on 27^th August 1914. As I was born on 28^th January 1898, it follows that I was 16 years and 7 months old. The Battle of Mons had just been fought, and what was left of the Old Contemptibles was engaged in the famous retreat. I knew nothing about this. Like a log flung like into a giant river, I had only just started to move. Later on I was pushed from behind, relentlessly, without any chance of escape."

George Coppard, who was awarded the Military Medal at Cambrai

First World War - The Troop Went Through by Edward Dyson

THE TROOP WENT THROUGH
I HEARD this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,
Bushies, miners and boys from town.
From 'mid the watchers the road along
One fell in line with the khaki men.
He took the stride, and he caught their song,
And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben,
Long Dave McCree,
And the Weavers three,
All whisked away by the "Come! Come! Come!"
The lusty surge of the vaunting drum.

I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.
He was the son that might have had;
The tall, bold boy who was never mine,
All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through,
His shoulders square, and his chin in line,
Was marching too with the gallant few.
Passed the muffled beat
Of their swanking feet,
The swell of drum, the exulting crow,
The wild-bird note of the piccolo.

They dipped away in the listless trees;
A mother wept on her beaded knees
For sons gone out to the long war's end;
But more than mother or man wept I
Who had no son in the world to send.
The hour lagged by, and drifting high
Came the fitful hum
Of the little drum,
And faint, but still with an ardent flow,
The pibroch, call of the piccolo.

First World War - Smokes For The Soldiers

I cannot imagine this happening today but back in 1914, the Boy Scouts took great pride in collecting cigarettes and tobacco for the troops.

This ‘politically incorrect’ article comes from the Eastbourne Gazette dated 28th October 1914.

SMOKES FOR THE ROYAL SUSSEX REGIMENT AT THE FRONT

The 4th Eastbourne Scout Troop of Boy Scouts under Scoutmaster Read, have continued their collection of cigarettes and tobacco for our men at the Front with great success. In response to their appeal in the main streets of the town, upwards of 9,000 cigarettes and nearly 200 ounces of tobacco have been contributed by the public. This parcel (which will, no doubt be very welcome to our brave soldiers fighting in Northern France) is being sent direct to the Royal Sussex Regiment which has already done such magnificent service.

The Eastbourne Scouts are very anxious to keep up the supply of the ever welcomed weed to the county regiment. Contributions of tobacco and cigarettes will be most thankfully received and forwarded through the Assistant County Commissioner from the headquarters, Town Hall, Eastbourne.

First World War - Foreign Waiters Called home

This was an interesting little article from the Eastbourne Gazette in September 1914.

Those ‘affecting scenes’ at the Railway Station were Austrian men going to fight for the enemy, soon Eastbourne men would be sent abroad to fight these same ‘waiters’.

"Foreign Waiters Called home"

In the height of the season about 500 foreign waiters are employed in various Eastbourne hotels, boarding houses, and apartment houses. The majority are Germans the minority consisting of, Austrians, Italians, Frenchmen, Dutchmen and Danes. Last week some of the Austrians were called home to serve in the Army, and they obeyed the call regardless loss and inconvenience involved. The Germans and Frenchmen liable for military service have left or will be called upon to leave.

There was some affecting scenes at Eastbourne Railway Station on Sunday morning when the train for Newhaven started. Some of the departing hotel employees were leaving behind wives or sweethearts who could not restrain their tears on parting from the men who were going forth to face so many unknown perils."

First World War - Patriotic Music and Pictures

This article appeared in the Eastbourne Gazette on 19th August 1914.

I wonder what the famous Belgian airs were that the audience stood and sang ‘heartily’ with?

Miss Buckman was indeed a very famous opera singer and would have been a treat for any audience.

“Patriotic Music and Pictures"

At Devonshire Park

Shown in the afternoon in conjunction with the vaudeville entertainment in the Pavilion and in the evening in the second part of the programme in the Floral Hall, the pictures of the French Fleet are arousing considerable interest this week. This film is a remarkably fine one and the evening is exhibited with full orchestral accompaniment.

Last Saturday evening there was a crowded audience in the Floral Hall when the great British Army and Navy film “For The King” was shown. During the evening the orchestra played the national airs of Belgium, Russia, France and England. The audience standing and singing heartily. The “Franco-British” march and the fantasias “Life on board the Dreadnought” were included in the programme. Miss Rosina Buckman (the New Zealand soprano) concluded a very successful week’s engagement, receiving double encores after each of her songs.”



Rosina Buckman (March 16, 1881-December 30, 1948) was a New Zealand soprano, and a professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music. She was born in Blenheim, and studied in England at the Birmingham School of Music. She then returned to New Zealand, toured Australia and debut in London with La boheme at Covent Garden. She continued performing into the 1920s, and recorded prolifically.

For more info on Miss Buckman:

http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Whi021Kota-t1-g1-t3.html

First World War - 25th April 1915 - Gallipoli Landing

First World War - Life in Dug-Out

This article was first published in ‘The Sphere’ in February 1916 and gives the readers at home an idea of what life was like in a front line dug-out and trench.

It all rather ‘nice’ and doesn’t convey any of the horror of the war to those at home, but it is still an interesting piece.

"'Life in Dug-Out and Trench' within the British Lines

All the Comforts of Home

In the course of a letter which accompanied the above sketch the writer says: "Here is our gun emplacement! This is the place in which we live, sleep, and operate against the enemy. I wonder if the picture explains itself? It was drawn under difficulties with ordinary lead pencil and the common paper of my writing pad. On the left are our sleeping apartments. Here we lie when asleep with our feet projecting, so that when the gunner, sitting in front of those ammunition boxes to the rear of the hut, requires to wake someone up he can just reach our feet and kick. The little round bag hanging outside the 'Tamboo,' as the sleeping apartment is called, is our tea bag, which comes in for much hard use, and is then put up out of the way. The sandbags are numerous, so that we are fairly well protected. You will have spotted the gun in the background. We call this part 'the Kinema,' and, of course, our belt of bullets represents a kinema film. The front of the 'Tamboo' faces the German trenches. The table is one I knocked together. I am going to put another up opposite shortly. The bottle (no, it is not what you might think) contains the solution for our respirators. We have regular duties, and someone has always to be in readiness. Just before we came here we were sitting in our garden at Mt. Neverest when a shell dropped about 15 yards in front and to the left. It threw up about 20 ft. of corduroy road quite 15 ft. in the air, knocking branches off trees and leaving a fair hole in the ground. Thank goodness it wasn't shrapnel or I fancy we should have got it. I forgot to tell you the sketches we've put up in the hut are to be increased in number from the three you can see. We intend shortly having a picture gallery!"
An officer at the front, who is familiar with the caves of the Mendip country, sends us the following interesting account of life in a dug-out in France. He writes: " During all these months of strenuous trench warfare I have often vividly remembered our cave-work miles away in old Mendip. Sometimes when wandering around at night I have dropped into one of the dug-outs to smoke a cigarette with the infantry officer in charge. It is then that I have obtained an impression of the interior, just a little earth passage or chamber where our party stopped for a meal or to smoke; at times, in fact, it almost seems as if we were back to the old cave life.

"The accompanying sketch will give you some idea of a typical trench dug-out; every trench is, of course, in telephonic communication with battalion headquarters a little behind, and with brigade headquarters right to the rear of the lines.

"The wires are frequently cut by shell fire during the day and have to be repaired at night. Here the telegraphist is seen handing to the officer a message which has just been received, perhaps to ask if all is well or to say that a relief or ration party is on its way up. The little recesses cut in the side of the trench hold his belongings and the lighted candle; the wires also can be seen, one going to the earth the other out at the roof. With the receiver strapped to his head he receives every message; there is usually a buzzer as well, which he has by his side.

Another officer is making a brew of cocoa in his mess tin over a little spirit stove. On many cold and rainy nights I have been invited to have a cup, and have found it very good.

" With a waterproof sheet on the ground and a blanket round him he can make himself very comfortable, and even get a good sleep, whilst off duty. He always has a Very pistol handy in case of emergency. This is a fat brass instrument used for shooting up flares which are intended to illuminate the ground between one's own trenches and the enemy's. (A Very pistol might be very well used in some of the larger chambers or high rifts of Mendip.)

“In the trenches one often sees newspapers only three or four days old, and even novels too; these help to pass the time until a relief comes along.

"The far side is revetted with sandbags, which make a strong and secure wall, easily repaired if knocked about by shell-fire. The roof is supported by boughs from a neighboring wood, and is usually made of boards, brushwood, and even old timber or doors from a ruined village — if there is one near by — all covered with from 6 in. to 1 ft. of earth. If a shell comes right into your dug-out nothing, of course, will stop it, but this protection is sufficient to stop shrapnel bullets or splinters of high-explosive shells.

"Dug-outs such as these are for men to rest in whilst off duty, i.e., when not posted as look-outs, or to take shelter in during heavy firing. Sometimes the colonel has rather a luxurious dug-out in the rear, quite large enough to stand up in, with a table, chairs, bunks, even a gramophone, perhaps.

"At this stage, when one is always near the enemy's lines, all the work of the Engineers, such as putting up barbed wire; digging trenches, or building dug-outs, has to be carried out during darkness, so that for some time past we have been like night birds — coming out at dusk and returning to rest in the early morning." "

First World War - Y.M.C.A.

It was originally published in ‘The War Budget’, dated February 10th, 1916. It describes in ‘lovely and free-flowing’ language the wonderful work of the Y.M.C.A.

"Our Warrior’s Camp Comforts in the Role of the Good Samaritan

In the classic story a certain man on the Jerusalem-Jericho road, as our war writers would phrase it, fell among thieves. This may not be literally true of the road from city office to country camp; but the incident is not without its parallel in the moral and physical trials that lie ambushed among the camping grounds of our growing Army.

Laying aside any claim he may have to fellowship with priest and Levite, the Y.M.C.A. worker makes it his business to travel Tommy's way and see that misfortune gets little chance to trip him up.

"Whatever should we do without the Y.M." is a phrase that has been uttered by thousands of soldiers at home and abroad. The war has provided golden opportunities which the Association has made use of in remarkable fashion, and even its most severe, critics of bygone days now acknowledge with wholehearted enthusiasm the splendid work that is being done.

At the end of a hard day's work the open door of a Y.M.C.A. hut draws as if by magnetic power, and for many a man the building stands as a temporary home. Here he can obtain appetising refreshments at the lowest possible price; chocolates, cigarettes, soap, candles, polishes, button-sticks, and camp requisites galore. Writing-paper, envelopes, pen, ink and blotting-paper arc all provided free, and no less than 12 million pieces of stationery are thus given away every month.

Though the camp may be far from a town, Tommy still has his Free Library, for books are lent out and newspapers and magazines are at hand. In addition all kinds of games are provided, such as draughts, dominoes, quoits, chess, and, of course, billiards. A billiard "final" is fought out in deadly earnest, and the fortunate prize- winners retire with beaming faces.

Another evening it is, perhaps, a concert that draws an enthusiastic audience. Sometimes the men themselves provide the programme, and a wide-awake camp leader soon discovers the stars, whether pianist, elocutionist, clog-dancer, or ventriloquist, or local talent may rise to the occasion, and "The Follies" or "The Bonbons" appear in appropriate costumes.

In some of the larger and more important camps concerts are frequent and quite up to professional standard, and the theatrical profession has responded generously to calls on its time. Concert or no concert, a Y.M.C.A. piano is given little rest, and any budding Paderewski can give his comrades a great deal of pleasure.

Occasionally a travel lecture fills the evening hour; or the draught players arrange a tournament. In some camps this, pastime has been revived to a remarkable extent, some of the men playing a very brainy game.

In the village camps the great moment of the evening is that when the cry of "Post" goes up. A great rush and much shouting heralds the arrival of letters. The men crowd round eagerly, and eventually retire pleased or disappointed according to their luck.

From the early morning hour when the Hut floor is swept down, till late at night when the money accounts are balanced up, it is to the Leader an almost unceasing round of duties. Whatever may have been the occupation of the Leader in days gone by, here he has to turn his hand to everything, and for the time being he is Jack of all trades, from scullery maid to parson, errand boy to banker, bar assistant to general manager. Stores have to be ordered, concerts arranged for, the billiard table overhauled, or the pressing need of the moment may be the necessity for washing- up. No one could complain of lack of variety, but neither, can any Y.M.C.A. worker be accused of having a soft job, for the hours of sleep are his only rest hours.

The "Huts" themselves comprise all manner of buildings adapted for the purpose, and in this way a hotel or an old barn, a garage, or a Church Hall or Chapel Schoolroom may be turned to account. But the typical Y.M.C.A. Hut of modern erection is admirably planned for the purpose in view. Lighted by electricity, with staff rooms and kitchen complete, with post-office, bar-counter, stage, piano, and billiard tables, nothing is lacking which would prevent it ministering to Tommy's needs.

As a frankly religious organisation the Y.M.C.A. boldly assumes that man's three- sided nature is not to be sealed in water-tight compartments. . Religion is not thrust down the men's throats, but an endeavour is made to create an atmosphere favourable to the best type of manliness. "Lantern" services are held in many camps on Sunday evenings. The soldiers attend in large numbers and heartily join in well- known hymns.

The average Tommy has a good standard of conduct, and well deserves the efforts made to make his soldier life a little, more bearable. Quick of repartee, cheerful in spirit, and with a genuine appreciation of services rendered, the soldier in training to- day is a man worthy of the remarkable efforts being made on his behalf. When the war comes to an end the Y.M.C.A. will be able to claim that during the long dreary months of training and warfare they helped to keep the men fit and well and happy. No wonder the soldiers say, "Whatever should we do without the Y.M.?"

First World War - How Dogs Become Good Soldiers

This article was published during the war in the ‘War Illustrated.’ It is interesting how the publishers sold the public the idea of the usefulness of dogs helping the soldiers in the trenches.

HOW DOGS BECOME GOOD SOLDIERS

The training of intelligent animals like these is carried on in five different ways, for various uses.

1. As Ambulance Dogs. The animal seeks for wounded men lost on the battle-field; he searches in holes, ruins, and excavations, and hunts over wooded places or coverts, where the wounded man might lie unnoticed by his comrades or the stretcher-bearer. The dog is especially useful at this work in the night-time, when he can often by his scent discover fallen men who would otherwise be passed over, for at night-time ambulance-men often have to work in the dark, as lights would attract the enemy's fire. Having found a wounded man still alive, the dog brings his master (or the ambulance-man to whom he is attached) some article belonging to the sufferer. This object tells the master, "I have found someone - search!"
Usually the object brought is the fallen man’s képi (or nowadays his helmet), and the trainers teach the dog to find the man's headgear, but if this is missing some other object must be brought. It is a fatiguing operation for the animal, as he has to return with closed mouth. The ambulance-man who receives the article at once puts the animal on a leash, and is immediately led to his wounded comrade. The leash is about two yards long, so that the movements of the animal shall be hindered as little as possible.

If dogs were utilized in this service long during wartime, their value would be incalculable; and their use is all the greater when fighting takes place over an extended area. The situation of the wounded man overlooked or abandoned on the battle-field is a truly horrible one; he has to wait in the forlorn hope that he will be found, for the army has gone on, and the more victorious it is the farther it will push ahead. In the Franco-Prussian War of 1870-1 more than twelve thousand men were thus lost to the French alone, while in the Russo-Japanese War the Japanese lost over five thousand in this manner, showing that the methods then used for the exploration of the battle-fields were inadequate. In that war three dogs sent by a military dog society found twenty-three wounded men who had been abandoned after the battle of Cha-ho. In the Boer War the collie dogs taken out by the men, it is said, saved hundreds of wounded men who would never have been found by the ambulance-workers in the difficult country where fighting mostly took place.

2. As Trench Dogs or Sentinels. The sentry or trench dog is trained to stay in the trench itself or in a small "listening-post" made for him, either on the edge of the trench, outside it, or at a little distance away. There he remains on the qui vive, ready to signal the least suspicion of a noise or the presence of the enemy. In this work both his eyes and his scent help him. He is kept on the leash, and he gives the signal of danger by a slight growl, without barking, which would give the alarm. The greatest difficulty in the training of dogs for this work has been to rid them of the habit of barking, but this has been overcome with care and patience. The training of dogs for this class of work can be - and has been-carried to great lengths. A man crawling on patrol work takes a dog with him, also in a crouching position, on a leash. A little tug at the leash causes the dog to rise, to retire, or to change its direction, and a properly-trained animal will answer to the leash as satisfactorily as a horse does to the reins. Such a dog is of immense help at night, when he can be taken quite close to the enemy.

3. As Patrols or Scouts. The dog accompanies the human scout in his reconnaissance, and helps in finding advance posts or sentinels, and locating small groups of the enemy.

4. As Couriers or Messengers. The animal acts as a messenger, carrying written orders or information, and is used according to circumstances. He can carry messages between groups in the rear and fighting formations in the front - for example, between the artillery and the infantry, and vice versa; between two fighting forces, such as battalions, companies, or sections; between the headquarters and the various positions of the army; or between the main body and detached posts, such as patrols, scouts, etc. Taken along by a patrol or scouting party, he can be sent back to the main body with a message fixed to his collar. The note having been removed and read, a reply can be attached to his collar, and the dog sent back to the original body of men, even if they have changed their position, since he finds them again by his scent. A dog is not only much quicker in carrying these very special qualities, so that only a very few animals have been found capable of the work. It consists in sending him after a patrol en route with a message, or even in finding a lost patrol or scouting party and bringing it back to its base. It will readily be understood that an exceptional scent is required in a dog to do work of this sort.

In the two last-named classes of work dogs can pass swiftly backwards and forwards through brisk firing and run much less risk than a man.

IV - DOGS ARE HEROES UNDER FIRE

There are several societies in Paris which choose suitable dogs in order to make soldiers of them. The "Central Society for the Development of the Breeds of Dogs" gave three thousand dogs to the French army last August. After they have been tested, an operation which takes about three weeks, they are sent to special stations in the rear of the armies to be trained, and five or six days are all that are necessary for the training of animals for the simpler kinds of work. For more difficult tasks the training is naturally a longer business. When dogs are to be trained as communication agents the in- struction may take several weeks. They are taught to go from one master to another, first by a call, then by a whistle, then simply at a mere gesture. Distances are gradually increased, obstacles are placed in the way, the animal's goal becomes invisible, and so on. Much patience is required in this kind of work; and it is found that the best results are obtained by kindness and giving rewards for good work accomplished. The animals are taught to recognize only two masters, and to obey them alone. Outsiders are not allowed to pet or feed them. When they understand that they have to obey only one or two men, they have to learn to follow one or both of them when marching in a column of infantry, to recognize them when in a group, and so on. They are taught to endure the sound of gun-firing or explosions quite close to them. Above all, they are strictly trained never to pick up articles on their journey and to refuse delicacies offered them by strangers.

Specially-trained dogs only are chosen for this work, and they are mostly sheep-dogs or collies or animals whose business it was in civil life to be guardians or watchers, and always on the alert. These are all the easier to train for the special work - somewhat of the same order - which they are set to do in war.

When the question of transport through the mountain snow had become a matter of urgent importance, the French authorities conceived the idea of using dog-drawn sleighs for carrying supplies. Some hundred "huskies' - a cross between the Eskimo dog and the wolf -and other trained dogs from Alaska, North-Western Canada, and Labrador were brought over by Lieutenant René Haas, a Frenchman who had spent fourteen years in Alaska. Mr. Warner Allen, the representative of the British Press with the French armies, describing the work of these dogs, says the snow in the neighbourhood of the Schlucht Pass was deep enough until almost the end of April for the dogs to render yeoman service. "They were able," he says, "to draw heavy loads over almost inaccessible country, and to supplement to a valuable extent the wheeled transport. But their utility has not ceased with the disappearance of the snow. They are now being harnessed to trucks on small two-foot-gauge light railways, which run everywhere behind the Front, and they are capable of drawing the heaviest load up the steepest gradient. Eleven dogs, with a couple of men, can haul a ton up some of the most precipitous slopes in the mountains, and I was assured that two teams of seven dogs each could do the work of five horses in this difficult country, with a very great economy of men."

This correspondent adds that the best of these imported breeds of dogs is the Alaskan, as "his courage never fails, ani he will work until he drops, though he is perhaps the weakest of them. They are all shaggy dogs, with prick ears and bushy tails, their colour ranging from black to white, between greys and browns. Their chest development, so necessary for hauling, is remarkable. They are mainly fed on rice, horse-flesh, and waste military biscuits, and this fare appears to suit them admirably, as they are always in splendid condition, and disease is practically unknown. The experiment of transporting these do as to France has shown that they can be of real service in mountainous country, and represent a real economy."
Dogs that are specially adapted or have been trained for hunting or sporting purposes are of little use in war, as they have acquired habits incompatible with the work now demanded of them, Certain breeds, such as the Great Dane, and others of limited intelligence, are of no value at all. Some of these have the habit of rushing forward at the slightest alarm, which is of more danger than advantage to the soldiers to whom they might belong.

V - DOGS AS LOYAL COMRADES - FELLOW-WORKERS

The "dog soldier," like his master on special missions, has to see and hear without being seen or heard. It is amusing, but nevertheless true, that the dogs of smugglers and poachers, as well as those of coastguardsmen, have been found to be most useful animals in the army. A well-trained dog, acting with a sentinel or scouting party may be the means of preserving numbers of lives by saving them from unpleasant surprises,

The use of dogs in warfare was, of course, not invented in the present war, though their utility had been systematized and given more scientific scope than was ever the case before. In no previous campaign have men understood the full use that could be made of these highly-intelligent creatures.

It was the Belgians who first turned their attention to the subject of employing dogs more extensively. Everybody who has visited Belgium knows the use that is made of dogs for traction purposes all over the country. Nearly all the peasants who bring agricultural or dairy produce to market employ dogs to draw their small carts, sometimes harnessing whole teams to heavy loads. The dog is also greatly used in Belgium for sport, and from the sporting dog to the police dog is but a step. The dog in war - as sentinel, courier, scout, or ambulance worker - followed, and was the idea of Professor Reul, of the Veterinary School of Cureghem, and two journalists named Van der Snick and Sodenkampf. In 1885-6 the 11 first dogs trained to some of these purposes were shown at a dog show at Ostend, and shortly afterwards societies were started at Brussels, Liége, Lierre, Ghent and other places, not merely for the training of dogs, but to improve the breeds. Lieutenant van der Putte, of the Belgian army, started the Société du Chien Sanitaire for the express purpose of training dogs for ambulance work and soon afterwards similar societies were organized in Paris and Berlin.

It was quite natural that the Belgians should also think of using these draught-dogs for small machine-guns, thus providing an inexpensive but efficient light artillery. The Germans wished to imitate them, but it is related that when they tried to buy dogs from the Belgians, as they had no indigenous animals suited to the purpose, the Belgians refused to sell. In other ways, however the Germans were at the beginning of the war well provided with dogs for various purposes, including the ambulance service.

Since then the use of dogs in the German army has assumed considerable proportions. The animals used are mostly of the German sheep-dog variety, and a register of these, numbering several thousands, is kept for mobilization purposes by the German Sheep-Dog Club. Other breeds used by the enemy are terriers, red-haired griffons, Doberman pinchers, Airedale terries, and a sort of bull-terrier known as a "Boxer." Dogs, it appears, have been used by the German army chiefly on the Eastern Front, where the fighting was of a more open description than on the Western Front. The German papers published appeals from the authorities asking dog owners to offer their pets for war purposes, and many thousands were obtained as a result.

First World War - First Night In A Trench.

The book Bullets and Billets by Bruce Bairnsfather, gives a fantastic account of Bruce’s first night in a real trench in Belgium. This was a trench of 1914 and describes how uncomfortable and awful it must have been in those early days on the Western Front.


THOSE PLUGSTREET TRENCHES

“An extraordinary sensation—the first time of going into trenches. The first idea that struck me about them was their haphazard design. There was, no doubt, some very excellent reason for someone or other making those trenches as they were; but they really did strike me as curious when I first saw them.

A trench will, perhaps, run diagonally across a field, will then go along a hedge at right angles, suddenly give it up and start again fifty yards to the left, in such a position that it is bound to cross the kitchen-garden of a shattered chateau, go through the greenhouse and out into the road. On getting there it henceforth rivals the ditch at the side in the amount of water it can run off into a row of dug-outs in the next field. There is, apparently, no necessity for a trench to be in any way parallel to the line of your enemy; as long as he can't shoot you from immediately behind, that's all you ask.

It was a long and weary night, that first one of mine in the trenches. Everything was strange, and wet and horrid. First of all I had to go and fix up my machine guns at various points, and find places for the gunners to sleep in. This was no easy matter, as many of the dug-outs had fallen in and floated off down stream.

In this, and subsequent descriptions of the trenches, I may lay myself open to the charge of exaggeration. But it must be remembered that I am describing trench life in the early days of 1914, and I feel sure that those who had experience of them will acquit me of any such charge.

To give a recipe for getting a rough idea, in case you want to, I recommend the following procedure. Select a flat ten-acre ploughed field, so sited that all the surface water of the surrounding country drains into it. Now cut a zig-zag slot about four feet deep and three feet wide diagonally across, dam off as much water as you can so as to leave about a hundred yards of squelchy mud; delve out a hole at one side of the slot, then endeavour to live there for a month on bully beef and damp biscuits, whilst a friend has instructions to fire at you with his Winchester every time you put your head above the surface.

Well, here I was, anyway, and the next thing was to make the best of it. As I have before said, these were the days of the earliest trenches in this war: days when we had none of those desirable "props," such as corrugated iron, floorboards, and sand bags ad lib.

When you made a dug-out in those days you made it out of anything you could find, and generally had to make it yourself. That first night I was "in" I discovered, after a humid hour or so, that our battalion wouldn't fit into the spaces left by the last one, and as regards dug-outs, the truth of that mathematical axiom, "Two's into one, won't go," suddenly dawned on me with painful clearness. I was faced with making a dug-out, and it was raining, of course. (Note.—Whenever I don't state the climatic conditions, read "raining.") After sloshing about in several primitive trenches in the vicinity of the spot where we had fixed our best machine-gun position, my sergeant and I discovered a sort of covered passage in a ditch in front of a communication trench. It was a sort of emergency exit back from a row of ramshackle, water-logged hovels in the ditch to the communication trench. We decided to make use of this passage, and arranged things in such a way that by scooping out the clay walls we made two caves, one behind the other. The front one was about five yards from the machine gun, and you reached the back cave by going through the outer one. It now being about 11 p.m., and having been for the last five hours perpetually on the scramble, through trenches of all sorts, I drew myself into the inner cave to go to sleep.

This little place was about 4 feet long, 3 feet high, and 3 feet wide. I got out my knife, took a scoop out of the clay wall, and fishing out a candle-end from my pocket, stuck it in the niche, lit it and a cigarette. I now lay down and tried to size up the situation and life in general.

Here I was, in this horrible clay cavity, somewhere in Belgium, miles and miles from home. Cold, wet through and covered with mud. This was the first day; and, so far as I could see, the future contained nothing but repetitions of the same thing, or worse.

Nothing was to be heard except the occasional crack of the sniper's shot, the dripping of the rain, and the low murmur of voices from the outer cave.

In the narrow space beside me lay my equipment; revolver, and a sodden packet of cigarettes. Everything damp, cold and dark; candle-end guttering. I think suddenly of something like the Empire or the Alhambra, or anything else that's reminiscent of brightness and life, and then—swish, bang—back to the reality that the damp clay wall is only eighteen inches in front of me; that here I am—that the Boche is just on the other side of the field; and that there doesn't seem the slightest chance of leaving except in an ambulance.

My machine-gun section for the gun near by lay in the front cave, a couple of feet from me; their spasmodic talking gradually died away as, one by one, they dropped off to sleep. One more indignant, hopeless glare at the flickering candle-end, then I pinched the wick, curled up, and went to sleep.

A sudden cold sort of peppermint sensation assailed me; I awoke and sat up. My head cannoned off the clay ceiling, so I partially had to lie down again.

I attempted to strike a match, but found the whole box was damp and sodden. I heard a muttering of voices and a curse or two in the outer cavern, and presently the sergeant entered my sanctum on all fours:

"We're bein' flooded out, sir; there's water a foot deep in this place of ours."

That explains it. I feel all round the back of my greatcoat and find I have been sleeping in a pool of water.

I crawled out of my inner chamber, and the whole lot of us dived through the rapidly rising water into the ditch outside. I scrambled up on to the top of the bank, and tried to focus the situation.

From inquiries and personal observation I found that the cause of the tide rising was the fact that the Engineers had been draining the trench, in the course of which process they had apparently struck a spring of water.

We accepted the cause of the disaster philosophically, and immediately discussed what was the best thing to be done. Action of some sort was urgently necessary, as at present we were all sitting on the top of the mud bank of the ditch in the silent, steady rain, the whole party being occasionally illuminated by a German star shell—more like a family sitting for a flashlight photograph than anything else.

We decided to make a dam. Having found an empty ration box and half a bag of coke, we started on the job of trying to fence off the water from our cave. After about an hour's struggle with the elements we at last succeeded, with the aid of the ration box, the sack of coke and a few tins of bully, in reducing the water level inside to six inches.

Here we were, now wetter than ever, cold as Polar bears, sitting in this hygroscopic catacomb at about 2 a.m. We longed for a fire; a fire was decided on. We had a fire bucket—it had started life as a biscuit tin—a few bits of damp wood, but no coke. "We had some coke, I'm sure! Why, of course—we built it into the dam!" Down came the dam, out came the coke, and in came the water. However, we preferred the water to the cold; so, finally, after many exasperating efforts, we got a fire going in the bucket. Five minutes' bliss followed by disaster. The fire bucket proceeded to emit such dense volumes of sulphurous smoke that in a few moments we couldn't see a lighted match.

We stuck it a short time longer, then one by one dived into the water and out into the air, shooting out of our mud hovel to the surface like snakes when you pour water down their holes.

Time now 3 a.m. No sleep; rain, water, plus smoke. A board meeting held immediately decides to give up sleep and dug-outs for that night. A motion to try and construct a chimney with an entrenching tool is defeated by five votes to one ... dawn is breaking—my first night in trenches comes to an end."

First World War - The Life Expectancy of a Junior Officer.

There has been a common legend that the life expectation of a junior Officer in a front line battalion was only 3 weeks. While it is true that battalions suffered severe losses, Martin Middlebrook in his book 'The Kaiser Battle' points out that the 3 week life expectation is an exaggeration.

He studied an Infantry bridage in the 17th Northern Division. The 10th West Yorks was the 1st Btn listed it served on the Western Front from Aug 1915 until the Armistice, taking part in all the major battles.

It was found that 174 officers joined the battalion as lieutenants or 2nd lieutenants. After the allowances for temporary absence had been made, it was found that the average subaltern spent not 3 weeks but 6-17 months of front line service with the battalion before becoming a casualty or leaving for some other reason. Only 1 in 5 of these subalterns was actually killed and almost half left the battalion unhurt.

Killed 37 (21.3%)
Wounded 48 (27.6%)
Prisoners 6 (3.4%)
Other Reasons 83 (47.7%)

The 'wounded' total does not include those slightly wounded who returned to the battalion. The 'other reasons' include transfer to other units usually trench-mortar, machine-gun, tank or flying units those officers returned to England for various reasons, and those still with the unit at the Armistice. The shortest stay was 2nd Lieutenant Banks who arrives at the battalion on 23 August 1918 and was killed 4 days later.

Although these figures debunk the '3 week theory' it should not be forgotten that the figure of 174 subalterns serving with the 10th West Yorks during a period of 38 months service on the Western Front shows that the battalion had to replace its original complement of junior offices 6 times.

In contrast no 56 squadron RFC which served on the Western Front April 1917 until the Armistice.A total of 109 pilots were included in the survey; a further small number, who were transferred to other squadrons almost as soon as they arrived or who returned home, presumably as unsuitable for front line duties. The average stay with the squadron worked out at 10 weeks. five days.

Killed 45 (41.3%)
Wounded 17 (15.6%)
Prisoners 31 (28.4%)
To home establishments 16 (14.7%)

It can be seen that comparing the 10th West Yorks to the 56 Squadron, being a pilot was far more hazardous that a front line junior officer.

A junior Officer could hope for a stay of 6-17 months, while you were lucky to last beyond 11 weeks as a pilot and if you were not killed, it was more that likely you would be captured.

First World War - Why We Joined Up.

The First World War started on 4th August 1914 and this year marks the centenary.

Over the coming months i will post a few articles that relate to the conflict from different perspectives. These are not academic works but just interesting observations on the Great War. To begin with we have an interesting passage from the book 'Twice in a Lifetime' by M.L.Walkinton. He was just 17 when he enlisted in September 1914 and was soon a rifleman in the Queens Westminster Rifles. Three months later in December he was in the trenches in France. Reflecting years later, this is what he has to say about the reason he joined up.

'Thirteen years have passed, and looking back it is not easy to see just why we were so desperately keen to slaughter a lot of decent Germans. I suppose that we were a normal lot of healthy young men afflicted with romantic minds and large reserves of pent-up energy. Our real need was to rescue beautiful maidens from terrible dragons; but the beautiful maidens were so capable and stand-offish, and all the dragons had been slain long ago, that when the Daily Mail told us that beautiful Belgium had been violated and France was in distress we all rushed to the rescue. But I think we did it for own sakes very largely. The uniforms, the bands, the open-air life and most of all, the feeling that one was a devil of a fellow attracted us irresistibly. We felt, of course , that England was in danger and we did honestly want to defend her, and we knew that it might cost us our lives, but there is no doubt that the wave of patriotic emotion which carried us into the army received much of its impetus from the publicity and glamour of it all.'

99 Years Ago Today - 4th August 1914

The 4th August 1914 was the outbreak of the First World War, 99 years ago to the day, This report of the start of the war comes from Walter Hines Page an American journalist, publisher, and diplomat. He was the United States ambassador to the United Kingdom during World War I.

“Then came the declaration of war, most dramatically. Tuesday night, five minutes after the ultimatum had expired, the Admiralty telegraphed to the fleet "Go." In a few minutes the answer came back "Off." Soldiers began to march through the city going to the railway stations. An indescribable crowd so blocked the streets about the Admiralty, the War Office, and the Foreign Office, that at one o'clock in the morning I had to drive in my car by other streets to get home.

The next day the German Embassy was turned over to me. I went to see the German Ambassador at three o'clock in the after-noon. He came down in his pyjamas, a crazy man. I feared he might literally go mad. He is of the anti-war party and he had done his best and utterly failed. This interview was one of the most pathetic experiences of my life. The poor man had not slept for several nights. Then came the crowds of frightened Germans, afraid that they would be arrested. They besieged the German Embassy and our Embassy. I put one of our naval officers in the German Embassy, put the United States seal on the door to protect it, and we began business there, too. Our naval officer has moved in—sleeps there. He has an assistant, a stenographer, a messenger: and I gave him the German automobile and chauffeur and two English servants that were left there.

All London has been awake for a week. Soldiers are marching day and night; immense throngs block the streets about the government offices. But they are all very orderly. Every day Germans are arrested on suspicion; and several of them have committed suicide. Yesterday one poor American woman yielded to the excitement and cut her throat. I find it hard to get about much. People stop me on the street, follow me to luncheon, grab me as I come out of any committee meeting— to know my opinion of this or that—how can they get home? Will such-and-such a boat fly the American flag? Why did I take the German Embassy? I have to fight my way about and rush to an automobile. I have had to buy me a second one to keep up the racket. Buy?—no— only bargain for it, for I have not any money. But everybody is considerate, and that makes no matter for the moment.

I shall never forget Sir Edward Grey's telling me of the ultimatum —while he wept; nor the poor German Ambassador who has lost in his high game—almost a demented man; nor the King as he declaimed at me for half an hour and threw up his hands and said, "My God, Mr. Page, what else could we do?" Nor the Austrian Ambassador's wringing his hands and weeping and crying out, "My dear Colleague, my dear Colleague."