Clive Ward - Trench 31

‘Blimey, he must have a death wish!’ cried Archie.

German soldiers turned their rifles on him and bullets whizzed around.

‘Stop! You’re showing off Robo, get yourself back in this trench!’ David called out.

The Corporal calmly picked up his helmet and crawled back towards the safety of the trench, but just as he climbed in he took a bullet in his neck. They laid him in the bottom of the trench and did their best for him while they waited for a medic. His last words were, ‘Damn the Hun… I got my hat back though didn’t I eh?’

‘You sure did,’ replied David, as he tried to stem the bleeding. The Corporal lay in David’s arms, his life blood pumping out of the wound. The Corporal gave a final sigh and was gone.

‘Has he gone?’ Archie asked.

‘Yes, what a bloody waste,’ David said as he laid the Corporal’s body down on the ground and covered his face with an empty sandbag.

They all stood there, speechless. For most of them it was the first time they had witnessed death this close and personal. Every man present was affected by it.

‘Time for a strong brew I think,’ said David.

At any time, a soldier’s life could be brought to an abrupt end by the enemy, even during quiet times snipers could pick off a Tommy before he knew what had hit him.

When the First World War broke out, the Germans trained thousands of riflemen to use telescopic-sighted rifles. The British nicknamed them ‘snipers.’ The word sniper came from the army in India in the late 18 thcentury, when the officers would head for the hills for a spot of recreational bird hunting. One of the hardest of targets to hit was a bird called the Tiny Snipe.

The Battalion rested for five days at Reninghelst Camp, then they headed back to Sanctuary Wood for a second time on the 21 stof September. Three new officers joined the Battalion to replace the officers killed the week before. This time a small scale operation was carried out on the 25 thas part of a main attack on Loos. During the operation the wood was heavily shelled and the Regimental aid-post had a narrow escape.

They took over the trenches at first light and for most of that morning it was relatively quiet, allowing the men time to do some admin and write home to their loved ones. Later that evening, after being constantly badgered by his best friend Bertram, David finally wrote home to his mother and father.

My dear Mother and Father,

Just a short letter to tell you I’m fine. I’m having a great time here in Belgium. The weather is fine, although a little rainy at times, love the local wine, the neighbours could do with being a little friendlier. Archie and Bertram get on my nerves on a daily basis, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I hope Charlotte and Archie junior are fine. I can’t wait to see the little chap and my little brother as well, hopefully this war will be over by the time he is old enough to join up. I would give a month’s wage right now for a pint of beer in the Bridge Inn.

Well, I must close. Hoping to be with you all very soon,

PS. No rest for the wicked they say and if that’s true, we must surely be a bad lot.

Later that night, after stand-to, the men stood around and talked amongst themselves.

‘So, did you write that letter David?’ Bertie asked.

‘Yes, so you can stop going on about it now, it’s done,’ David replied, as he sealed the envelope.

‘Isn’t it strange Bertie, last summer I was all ready to start my new job until this all started, and now I’m here in this shit hole,’ Archie said, sighing heavily.

‘It’s certainly a shit hole alright. More flooded trenches and shattered trees. At least there are no decaying corpses here,’ answered Bertie.

‘No, just well fed rats,’ remarked David.

‘Oh, we are a cheerful lot this morning. Cigarette anyone?’ Archie began offering cigarettes to his companions.

They all took one, including the Platoon Sergeant. You could tell he was old school, he was always around when the cigarettes were being handed out.

‘Never say no to a cigarette me,’ Sergeant Johnson said, taking one from the box.

Archie lit up his cigarette and then lit David’s with the same match. While the match was still burning Archie offered it to the Platoon Sergeant, who immediately blew it out.

The friends looked puzzled by their Sergeant’s action.

‘Never take the third light,’ Sergeant Johnson informed them.

‘Why?’ Archie asked, chuckling to himself.

‘Because young man, it is bad luck to light a third cigarette from the same match.’ The Sergeant went on to explain why. ‘It takes a German sniper about five seconds at night to see, aim and fire at a light source and a flaring match is clearly visible on a dark night like this from well over five hundred yards. Five seconds is about the time it takes for the third man to light up.’

‘You know what, you’re full of knowledge you are Sergeant. I bet you were a teacher before the war,’ said Bertram.

‘No, I was an undertaker,’ the Sergeant replied as he walked away.

‘Bloody hell, who’d have thought it, old Sergeant Johnson an undertaker.’ Bertie was surprised by the Sergeant’s answer.

‘I bet it’s frustrating for him, seeing all these corpses and he can’t cash in on them,’ said David, laughing.

‘You’re sick, you are David,’ said Bertie, shaking his head in disgust at his friend’s comment.

Archie stood listening to the conversation whilst smoking his cigarette. Glancing around the trench he became aware of a change in their surroundings.

‘Have you noticed something Bertie?’

‘What?’

‘The rats… they’ve all buggered off,’ Archie replied.

‘They’ve probably taken cover mate,’ said David.

‘Do they know something we don’t know?’ Bertram sounded a little nervous.

After the war, many veteran soldiers swore that the rats could sense impending enemy shellfire and would disappear out of sight.

Dear Diary,

Today has been a quiet day in the trenches, the quietest so far, with very little shelling. I hope it carries on, but I very much doubt it. Now I am laying in my dug-out underneath my flea-infested blanket, writing my diary entry by candle light.

I’ve noticed there are two types of rat here, the brown and the black. I despise both, but the brown rat I despise most. It seems to be quite partial to human remains and it’s always the eyes and liver they like most and some are as big as cats. I’m not afraid of these rats anymore; I’ve learnt to live with them. But what I do hate is when one scampers across my face in the dark. It’s a waste of time trying to get rid of them. I’ve tried bayoneting them, clubbing them and even shooting the little blighters. It’s futile. I’ve been told they can produce up to nine-hundred offspring in a year.

The following morning the Platoon were lectured by their Platoon Commander about an operation that was going to take place at quarter past seven that evening. The company had been tasked to clear a small wooded area to their front. It was a synchronised movement that formed part of the planned main attack at Loos. It had been reported by the previous night’s listening patrol that the wood was only lightly defended.

The men spent all day in their trench preparing for the operation that evening, while the artillery carried out their usual preparations. This was going to be their first big test. Needless to say, there was a lot tension and fear amongst the men that day. At around six o’clock the artillery fire doubled its volume.

By seven o’clock darkness had fallen. The shells continued to scream over their heads and drop into the front of the wood, their objective was three-hundred yards ahead of them. Trees flew in all directions, ripped clean out of the ground, virtually destroying the enemy’s line of defence.