BRITISH REGIMENT’S BAPTISM OF FIRE.

Woodville Examiner, Volume XXVIII, Issue 4627, 7 May 1915, Page 4 (Supplement)

BRITISH REGIMENT’S BAPTISM OF FIRE.

AN ASTONISHINGLY VIVID AND CORRECT PICTURE OF DISMOUNTED CAVALRY IN ACTION.

WRITTEN BY A CAPTAIN IN THE ROYAL IRISH DRAGOONS.

“ WHAT ROT IT IS,” HE GASPED : WAR IS ROT.” HE ANNOUNCED “I’M SCARED TO DEATH.”

The author of this article joined the British Army as a trooper in the Boer War, and was promoted to lieutenant on the field. At the close of the war, when he, resigned, he came to America, and became a newspaper man. He returned to England, joined the Royal Irish Dragoons as u lieutenant, and took part in all the battles of Belgium. In one ot these Belgian battles be was wounded, and promoted to a captaincy on the field. He wrote this story for “Collier's Weekly” during his convalescence in London.

A regiment of British cavalry moved discreetly out of the orchard of a Belgian farm, where they had billeted for the night, and formed up on the road. At first cock crow the “saddle up” had sounded by word of mouth and in whispers. Jn the inky darkness the weary troopers, with softly-spoken oaths, tumbled out of the straw-strewn yards and fell in. Swords were strapped tight, and the martial jingle of hit and spur was muffled by pieces of string so tied that all sound was dulled. The mist lay thick over the landscape as throe squadrons moved off toward the forest.

“No smoking,” growled an officer, as a young trooper lit a match. From mouth to month the order passed down the lines.

“iVe’re in for romething to-day,” murmured a grizzled reservist corporal. “ Its Sunday, too. Always get it on Sundays,” acquiesced another. Half a dozen youngsters, part of a draft newly joined, listened apprehensively. One of them cleared his throat, and huskily whispered an inquiry. The joung subaltern, who had brought up the draft from the base, reigned alongside of me.

“Whats doing to-day?” he asked, a little anxiously.

“We're relieving the Tenth on the other side of the wood. They scrapped all yesterday. Lost heavily.”

"By Jove! Then we’re in for it to day

"Probably!” We relapsed into silence.

Suddenly a hidden battery close upon our right beside the road blazed off its fierce “good-morning.” The action had opened. The horses tossed their heads. A few old “hairios” (as the seasoned old troop horses arc called) paid no attention to the dm.

“Good Lord!” ejaculated the subaltern, shocked out of self-control. “Our own gun,” remarked someone, and then laughed. Then the whole battery appeared to awaken. Bang! Bang! went the twelve-pounder-, sharp and staccato.

On the other side of the wood a sharp exchange of rifle fire broke out, increased in volume, and died away. A cock ciowed Instilv. A minute Inter the regular fire of a machine gun broke the morning stillness. A peasant driving two cows came leisurely clown the roal and hade us, “Bonjour, messieurs.” “Bong jour, and mind Black Maria don't get you,” said n trooper. “Giro us a drop of milk,” requested another. “A drop of milk would go all right now.”

“Yes, hut the milk's sour! That's right! The gunfire turns milk sour in their udders,” insisted a third.

At that moment away in the distance a big gun was tired. A faint hiss, growing in intensity.

“Here she comes! Good-morning. Maria !” and with a rush a great eightinch howitzer shell flew over our heads and buried itself with hideous clamour in the soft, ploughed earth 20 yards beyond the road. A black cloud and a mass ot earth, thrown up as though from a fountain jet, .and then a gentle rain of fragments fell softly upon the advancing squadron, while somewhere to our rear the vicious shriek of the heavy shell base gave notice that wo wore safe for - the present.

IN THE FOREST OF BLOOD. The young lieutenant by my side swallowed uncomfortably. Ho cleared his throat. “Black Maria, what?” lie asked. “Beastly noise!” “Yes, she’s a noisy trumpet, but harmless enough.” I did not want to have a seared junior around me all day.

We entered the forest It was very dark. Down the woodland path came straggling figures. In ones and twos wounded men were being led to the rear. Desultory rifle fire became more general. Machine guns, right and left, spoke angrily; the British" with salvoa of twenty to forty rounds, the enemy in short spurts of five to ten. As wo advanced we saw trees gashed by shell fire, branches snapped off and finely powdered hark where the machine gun had wasted its fierce energy on the trunks. A dead horse on the right, and beside it a still, human fire, with blood pumping from a dozen ragged head and neck wounds, greeted our gaze. The green undergrowth was dappled with hlood. As we advanced further the forest became a shambles.

Then there was presented a wonderful picture. - The sun, red and angry, appeared through the trees as down the woodland path came a young officer, his head bandaged, but held erect, his left arm hanging loose, his uniform spattered with blood —while on his shoulder he carried his machine gun defiantly. He gave us a cheery "good-morning.” “Badly hit, old man?” ' “Xo! I’m all right!” and he passed on to the rear.

At a crossroad a man of the Tenth, with a cigarette between his lips, was fumbling at an ill-tied bandage round bis throat.

“It’s a long way to Tipperary!” he shouted at us. “What are you?” “Tenth—machine mm. Tho last of ’em,” he grunted. “Officer hit—crew killed! But the captain’s got the mm a way. It’s a long, long way to Tipperary!” he sang, as we passed out of earshot.

Just beyond the crossroad* j aionnt-

ordpply, .date^t& f l ; to view. The chptam in’ front mdvect liis arm up and down in signal to us. We broke into a trot.

“ Colonel’s compliments, and B Squadron will line edge of wood,” gasped the orderly, .tainted, wheeled his horse — and the next minute was hurled, a broken corpse, into the mud of the woodland path. We looked down upon the poor fragment as we galloped past. A howitzer shell had exploded literally upon the saddle arch, disembowelling both rider and horse. The subaltern turned very white. A man behind me coughed in violent nauseation. “ Lord, lumme! He’s got his,” commented a callous private. “His number’s up all right.” “Phut! ping—zip—1” through the woods came scattered spare shots. The next moment we were at the forest’s edge. “Halt! For action—dismount! One man to four horses.”

“Troop -leaders, fall ■'•our men in.” 'l'he orders fame in quick succession amid the din of a renewed attack. As the horses were led to the rear the dismounted men. following their troop officers. doubled off the road and into the undergrowth. Scrambling and cursing, we hurried to where the wood gave upon an open field of turnips varied by stretches of ploughed land. A ditch stretched to right and left along the fringe of the forest. “ Second and third troop will occupy the ditch. First troop this way,” came the captain’s voice from somewhere amid the trees.

We dropped into the damp gully, grateful for the scanty cover against an ever-increasing fusillade from the unseen foe on our right.

Crouching low, we inspected the scene before us. A farmhouse and sheds were on our immediate front, while right and left, 800 yards away, wore other groups of farm buildings.

Phut! Ping!” came two missiles

“Pretty near you, sir,” remarked my cheery sergeant beside me. “ Wish we had some tools.”

“They’re just coming,” I said, and as I spoke tho first troop came through the wood hearing entrenching tools borrowed from the Tenth. Now, the cavalryman despises a spade, and action on foot, with his mounts five miles to tho i-oar, gives him a sense of uneasiness and a loss of dignity. But we were mighty glad of those tools. “Dig yourselves in!” The order was superfluous. The young soldiers grabbed the spades and went to work with a will. Tho' older men with reluctant murmurs. Tho subaltern crept up to me again. “I say, what about us? Do we dig?” lie asked. “Rather,” said I, “as soon as the men have finished.” Ho squatted beside me.

Behind us a man suddenly sneezed, und then swore. “O’Brien’s hit, sir,” said the sergeant. We le<l the man to the rear or the farndiouse. A spent bullet had struck him in the shin and passed clean through his leg. We took the missile from his puttee. Two stretcher-hearers appeared magically, and in half a minute O’Brien was comfortably hound up. Meanwhile other men from the firing line began to arrive. A medical officer came up to prepare a temporary dressing station. The farm, like most of them in this part of the country, had a field of tobacco. When the leaves are gathered they arc hung on poles and sheltered by a sort of mattress of .straw, which forms an arch over the hanging tobacco leaves.

“ WAR IS ROT.’* I detailed half a dozen men to fetch up some of these, and excellent beds they made for the wounded. A young infantry officer came striding into the wood behind the farmhouse, a bullet through the right hand and another through the forearms. The wounds were bleeding frightfully. With him on stretchers were two of his men. The doctor turned to the officer. “No, no!” he demurred. “I’m all right. Presently ! Those chaps are hadly hit,” and ho fumbled with a huge cigarette case. I assisted him

“Thanks, aw'fly—do yon mind giving my men some? Roberts, have a cigarette.” Then he sat down suddenly, limp and pale.

Along the road came other broken men. In half an hour I saw more hlood than in two years of South African campaigning. 1 returned to my ditch. The men were snug within their ingeniously contrived “dng-ont.” It’s wonderful how bullets and shells will convert a proud cavalryman into a rabbit. My subaltern, with sweat pouring down his face, r.as digging for clear life. He had made a hole to accommodate both of ns. I felt guilty, and offered to take the spado. I worked for ten minutes, and hated it.

“ That’s deep enough ” —hut the enemy’s guns, hitherto searching the woods, began to find ns. The youngster looked uncomfortable. A shrapnel bursting high rained its missiles on the barn.

“Feel my hands.” said tho suh. They wore cold, yet dropping with perspim lion. He grabbed his spado in a lull in the firing, and worked like a heaver. “What rot it is !” ho gasped. “War is rot,” ho announced, a few moments later. “I’m scared to death!” But ho worked on, ducking every once in a while when tho swish of an approaching shell in crescendo warned us of dan' gcV. How that scared youngster suffered, and yet, when an hour later, in a tornado of shell fire, he was ordered to take a squad of men to make loopholes in the barn, he went gaily, his eyes ablaze with enthusiasm, and his head high with importance. That’s just the way ! Sitting in ,a ditch inactive under fire is the limit. Given action of any kind, tho worst funk is likely to show prodigies ol_ valour. The fellow who professes no fear and contempt for a hot fire is probabably an ass or a swanker. The man who admits he is alarmed, but docs his job, has sand. He Is the real soldierman.

About Ibis time (it was noon), the commanding officer and his staff arrived to make headquarters at the farm. We heard that the village south-west of the wood had been captured by the enemy, a statement presently confirmed by the arrival of a struggling mass of our infantry. I. was ordered to find new fire positions in the barns and outhouses. An hour’s work satisfied me we had made a good job of it.

Then hell broke loose. The enemy’.? "spotters” had observed our activity round the house. A machine gun opened on us, but was soon silenced by our twelve-pounders. This was followed by heavy gunfire.

Apparently the had learned Chat our headquarters was stationed at the farmhouse, and they let loose a gust of case and shrapnel shell. The salvos came in groups of half a dozen shrapnel and four howitzer shells.

Imagine a gusty night of rain and hail where the items are lead and steel instead of harmless H.O. The storm waxes mid wanes —a lull occurs, to be followed by increased gusts of vicious rain and hail.

An order came. I was to take half a troop to line the road and find cover behind some large hanks of timber. The instructions were to report any retirement of our infantry or the approach of the enemy.

I had hardly placed the men when a

Itfsfvy Vshell'- dropped- upon . the: hitrd ;rdad. burst with terrible clamour. I hurried back. The corporal in charge lay limp and moaning softly. Wo carried him in. Half an hour later wo buried him.

Then I visited my other posts. Sitting in a loft, the subaltern was munching a hard biscuit, a lump of cheese and a tin of jam beside him. He looked up cheerily. “This is bettor than that blamed ditch,” he ’remarked; “more cover.”

As though to show the folly of his remark, a shell came through the far end of the barn, carrying a mass of masonry with it, and filling the place with acrid smoke.

“Saves us boring another gun hole,” laughed a trooper, and, going over to the ragged aperture, began making himself comfortable. Then he uttered a grunt. “Lord lumme, someone here! What a blasted mess!” With infinite care we dragged out what a moment before had been a care free, callous, cursing trooper. He was horribly smashed, and but for his identication disc we should scarcely have known who he was.

The subaltern stopped eating, his appetite gone. Surreptitiously he spat away a mouthful of half-chewed biscuit.

The afternoon grew worse. To one’s own terror was added the hideous fear that a shell would fall among the already wounded men, crowding the little space behind the farmhouse.

Tho doctor suggested that if I could let him have a couple of men to direct those wounded men who could walk he would send them back to the Chateau of St. Marguerite, where the ambulances Jay, three miles to the rear. The lying-down cases, of 'course, could not be moved till darkness, for in “ the civilised warfare” of to-day neither combatant allows the field ambulance to approach the firing line during daylight. The afternoon wore on. Several of us busied ourselves with making hot tea for the wounded men. I had a few cubes of condensed soup in my pockets, and the pleasantest duty of the day was the distribution of some two quartsof steaming nourishment to those injured men who could swallow it. Our poor doctor, who had been working at least 48 hours without cessation, refused to stop ministering to the wounded, although by now his work had been supplemented by tho arrival of two infantry surgeon".. One of the new medicos noticed that our surgeon was in no condition to be on his feet. A temperature of 103 degrees was the record of the thermometer. Examination presently revealed a bullet wound. Under cross-examination our little doctor admitted be had been bit three days before. The sun was already getting low when through the woods there came, grumbling and blaspheming, two companies of infantry. In skirmishing order they passed through our dressing station.

Whether the sight of the wounded gave them added ginger, or whether by order, they suddenly increased their paco and doubled to the wood edge, we could not determine. However, “Fix bayonets and charge !” sounded. Without bugle or hand, without n cheer, the Somersets advanced on the village. From the extreme right flank two machine guns spoke lustily, and under that cover the gallant lads raced for the crossroads.

We could hear the cry raised by the enemy in the first trench ns our infantry broke upon and over them.

TOMMY ON THE JOB

The British soldier works almost silently. The German shouts, sings, and blows a tin trumpet on beginning to advance. When a shell falls' in a British trench, killing and maiming, or when a machine gun finds its range, there is silence in the British line. The Germans squeal when badly hit. Half-an-honr later batches of German prisoners began to arrive. The village was ours!

In the west an angry sun coloured the landscape with its blood-red rays. After a final salvo of death-dealing shells in a final “good-night,” the batteries, one by one, ceased their din. Erom a meadow tortured and torn by shell fire there approached softly lowing cows, returning by habit to be milked at the now deserted farm. A trooper of bucolic training rounded them up and captured hot milk for the wounded men.

Suddenly the “fall-in" sounded. We wore to be relieved. The infantry, were to take over the whole line. The cavalry brigade were to return to billet. Through the dark woods in dogging mud wo marched back to our horses. Once clear of the woods our road was lighted by burning farmhouses'. From flaming barns we heard the piteous lowing of imprisoned cattle or the frantic barking of chained dogs. A group of peasantry implored an officer to let them through out lines to tend their stock. One of them held an ill-bandag-ed head with both hands. His brother had been killed by the last shell fired that day. At the convent on the hill we halted while sad-faced Sisters trooped out on to the road bearing beakers of coffee. The Mother Superior stood in the roadway as we marched away and blessed us with uplifted hands. A day later the convent was reduced to ashes. War is hell I