GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF FIGHTING

New Zealand Tablet, 14 November 1918, Page 11

GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF FIGHTING

“MUST NOT CALL US SLACKERS.”

Councillor J. A. Droney, of Ince and Appleby Bridge, has received the following interesting letter from Father Henry C. Day, Chaplain of the Forces in Salonika (says the Wigan- Eaamiive?- of September 15). Father Day, S.J., who is a son of the late Mr. Justice Day, was at one time a priest at St. John's Church, Wigan, and when at this Mission won the esteem and respect not only of his co-religionists but that of other Churches in the town. He subsequently proceeded to the Church of Holy Name, Manchester, where he gained great prominence in religious and social spheres : You ask me of Salonikathe flora, fauna, etc., Of course, we are not living in Salonika. Salonika is only a quaint and dirty city of Macedonia, very Turkish still, and fragrant with smells, but not with the scent of flowers. You meant, 1 know, to refer to the country as a whole, which is, indeed, full of wonderfully beautiful birds and flowers of every variety and of extraordinary richness of color. Unfortunately, I am not sufficiently informed to describe them. I will, therefore, pass on to other subjects. I ventured to emphasise the fact that we do not live in Salonika, because too many friends at home would appear to suppose that we do. Very few men of the British Salonika Force have seen anything of Salonika beyond glimpses caught from the harbor on arrival, or on the march through the streets (usually at night) on their way to the different fronts. The correlative idea that the Salonika Campaign is a sort of joy picnic is a calumny which requires to be contradicted. The British soldier of the Salonika Army faces the music of privations and dangers at least as much as his comrades in any of the other theatres of war. Persons who write and speak glibly to the contrary, and who are anxiously asking what the great British Army in Macedonia is doing to justify its existence, are strangely ignorant of their subject. They can have no notion of the nature of the country and climate, or of what our little British Army is up against. I could astonish you were I allowed to tell you of the average tale of a regiment in the trenches. A few misguided attempts on the part of the British Army to justify its existence, and it is quite conceivable it might have no further existence to justify. In the past I saw some fighting in Gallipoli ; yet 1 never witnessed there anything nearly so fierce or terrible as some of our recent "scrapping" in Macedonia. I venture to describe this in general terms, because already more explicit accounts have long since appeared in the public press, and in our own and the enemy's official communiques. At the first battle of D—r —n I was behind our trenches, having been forbidden by my Brigadier-General to go further forward. But 1 shall never forget the sights and sounds of that night and next morning. The roar and crash of the big guns and shells, and the ripping of the air by smaller projectiles, and the whirring of rifle and machine-gun bullets ; all contributed to the chaos and discord. Then there were the lights of the flashes of the guns, the lights of the bursting shells, the search-lights, and the lights of the colored rockets in the air. In the morning the valleys behind were a sea of smoke. But the most pathetic sights were afforded by the streams of wounded returning after the battle. The Second Fight. In the second fight I was more favorably situated. The Brigadier-General -who had previously laid the prohibition on me had gone to a higher command. I was therefore free to accept the invitation of one of the Colonels of the Brigade to accompany his battalion a part of their way into action. Accordingly, at dawn I went over the parapet with the Royal Berkshire Regiment to which I happened to be attached at the time, and to which by a curious coincidence my grandfather — John Daybelonged and fought

with " in the Napoleonic Wars over a hundred years ago. My decision to go forward rested on •.several reasons: There was the express desire of the O,C. A stronger motive, however, lay in my knowledge that the path of our advance was also the sole way whereby all the wounded who could would have to return. The worst oases could only be attended on the spot. From past experience I also felt that the voluntary presence of a non-combatant in the danger zone was a useful example and a source of some encouragement to the men. Nor was I . mistaken in this assumption, as I subsequently gathered from many testimonies. . So much for apology. On the journey through the trenches we soon became aware of some of the results of the enemy's counter bombardment, and in particular of the effects of his trench mortars. There, were large gaps in the parapets ; there, heaps of debris and wounded and partly buried men ; and near by, on either side, were great holes and craters in the ground. Looking back, one of the most pathetic experiences of all that night and early morning was being obliged to step over the dead and dying on the way to the fighting, and being compelled to resist the cries of the stricken begging to be lifted out of the way on to the parapets. A minute or_two would have sufficed to comply with. these requests', but a minute or two would be a sufficient delay to create an immediate breach of connection, and possibly bring about a subsequent loss of cohesion in the attack. Besides, the R.A.M.C. would follow on shortly and render loyal and devoted service to these poor fellows. On leaving the trenches our way lay down a steep and narrow gully into a wider ravine below. We stole or crept down this gully as silently and noiselessly as possible. Dead men lay scattered on every side, and wounded men were crawling up it. Some of the wounded men were practically helpless, and I promised to return and bring them assistance. Meanwhile II.E. shells were bursting in the air and on either side of the track, and scattering stones and splinters everywhere. The gully, as 1 mentioned, led to a wider ravine. This ravine, known as the Jumeaux Ravine, ran parallel between our position and that of" the enemy. It was at the foot of Petit Couronne, and had to be crossed by our troops before scaling that hill and reaching the objective of the enemy's trenches. This ravine was fairly searched by machine-gun, shell, and every sort of fire. It was practically without cover, being enfiladed from the enemy's main position on the western heights and dominated by the "P." range. Yet here, as elsewhere on that day, there was no wavering, and our men passed through the tornado of fire without the least hesitation or any flinching. It was at this point that a wounded man was reported to me to be lying helpless some 20 yards up the ravine. I went in search •and shouted, and the reply came surely enough. After placing him in some sort of security I rejoined the main body, accompanying them up a portion of the hill. Then I bade them farewell. They clambered up the remaining couple of hundred yards, and with a shout rushed the trenches. "Come on, Johnnie," cried Johnny Bulgar, and our Tommies went on, make no mistake. So also did the Johnny Bulgars, flying for their lives as fast as they could before them. To cut the story short, our boys did all they could—all that was asked of them. They stormed the trenches, took the hill, and laid down their lives for England. It was superb and heroic! An impregnable position was taken, and for the time being held ! Stick It! . The stream of wounded was now fast gathering, and my job was to attend to them. For the next eight or nine hours I had my hands full, helping men backwards and forwards to the trenches and handing them over to the stretcher bearers. On my backward journeys I made it a rule to stop with the first case needing help. But at about 10 o'clock I allowed myself to break this self-imposed rule to make a sort of general visit to the men who were left on the hill. By now their numbers were terribly reduced; and still the bombardment was going strong. It was a heart-

rending sight. Lying and sitting in every position were rows upon rows of killed and wounded. Amongst the wounded officersand few escaped—was the Colonel of my Battalion, Lt.-Col. A. P. Dene. His right arm was'- shattered, and he had a second minor wound. He was still caryying on. "Stick it, Berkshires, and show them what you are made of !" I asked him to leave, but he would not. Later he was obliged to go\ They gave him the D. 5.0., and he deserved it. Many other officers and men received decorations. Countless others deserved them. Every man that day was a hero. Of the artillery barrage through which our men passed, and in which they were obliged to linger, I heard it said by officers and men engaged in some of the big pushes in France, that it was even more terrible than anything they had previously had to face. I did not intend to linger on the hill, but was held up for an hour. When I returned later on in the day I was not surprised to find the hill being evacuated. Amongst the returning wounded I met an O.C. of one of the Battalions of my Brigade with whom I had previously lived on the most friendly terms. He had insisted on being put down from the stretcher on which he had been carried, and was endeavoring to walk by •himself. I assisted him up the ravine and back to the A.D.S. The enemy barrage was now very heavy, and directed to prevent the return of the troops to the •trenches. This last journey was probably the most hazardous I had to make, leading through clouds of smoke from shells only just exploded. When I left the Colonel at the A.D.S. I felt sure he would recover. Unfortunately, within 24 hours he died of his wounds. It is probable that his courageous resolve not to be carried, but to help himself to the utmost, cost him his life. Another good friend 1 lost that day was that very popular and gallant officer, Major W. B. Gillespie. (Major Gillespie would seem to have anticipated his end.) "Not a Beer-and-Skittle Life." I will mention a last incident. I had helped a poor fellow whose foot was crushed back to the trenches, and handed him over to the stretcher bearers. They carried him by a short cut over the top. Within • a few seconds came the crash of a shell, and a minute after I met my old friend crawling along the trench. He informed me that the shell had killed three of the bearers and wounded the fourth, and that he himself had received a fresh wound in the back. There was -nothing for it, so I took him on my back, lie was •groaning terribly, and exclaiming all the time, "Cruel! cruel!" When I set him down for a rest he was unconscious. The R.A.M.C. then took him in charge, but I fear he did not get far. Such is a general sketch of a 24 hours' experience of battle in the Balkans. Your imagination must fill in the details. I only remember it as a sort of dream ; and yet the actual experience was vivid and thrilling in the extreme. The only feature I have omitted was the initial gas attack—a loathsome method of war I ■prefer to pass over. And now you will let me off further description for a long time to come. I have just tried to say enough to show you that the beer-and-skittles theory of our life in Macedonia is a poor sort of joke, and very far from depicting realities. No; they must not call us slackers. You can suggest any other name Macedonian Marauders, Balkan Buccaneers —anything else will do, but not Salonika Slackers, if you please. All best and kindest wishes.