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- Herausgeber: World War Classics
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
It has been commented that it can only be hoped that Bruce Bairnsfather comes to receive more of the recognition he so richly deserves.'Bullets and Billets' describes his service with the machine gun section of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment during the early part of the First World War (including a fascinating account of the famous Christmas Truce of 1914) up to his participation in the Battle of Ypres during which he was wounded and subsequently evacuated to Blighty. The language used is typical of the period and shows the light hearted approach to warfare that personified the British Tommy.On second reading however the early signs of 'shell shock' that were to result in Bairnsfather's return to Britain can be discerned - it speaks volumes for men such as BB who quietly and cheerily went about their duty whilst suffering inner torment. Running as a theme throughout this account (quite apart from the seemingly non stop rain !) is how BB used his artistic skill to capture some of the more humorous aspects of Tommy's war whenever time, the weather and the opposing German forces allowed. It was his undoubted merit as a cartoonist that was to ensure his fame.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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BULLETS & BILLETS
Bruce Bairnsfather
WORLD WAR CLASSICS
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This book is a work of personal nonfiction; some details may have been changed or misremembered.
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Copyright © 2018 www.deaddodopublishing.co.uk
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD
CHAPTER I: LANDING AT HAVRE—TORTONI’S—FOLLOW THE TRAM LINES—ORDERS FOR THE FRONT
CHAPTER II: TORTUOUS TRAVELLING—CLIPPERS AND TABLETS—DUMPED AT A SIDING—I JOIN MY BATTALION
CHAPTER III: THOSE PLUGSTREET TRENCHES—MUD AND RAIN—FLOODED OUT—A HOPELESS DAWN
CHAPTER IV: MORE MUD—RAIN AND BULLETS—A BIT OF CAKE—"WIND UP"—NIGHT ROUNDS
CHAPTER V: MY MAN FRIDAY—"CHUCK US THE BISCUITS"—RELIEVED—BILLETS
CHAPTER VI: THE TRANSPORT FARM—FLEECED BY THE FLEMISH—RIDING—NEARING CHRISTMAS
CHAPTER VII: A PROJECTED ATTACK—-DIGGING A SAP— AN ‘ELL OF A NIGHT—THE ATTACK— PUNCTURING PRUSSIANS
CHAPTER VIII: CHRISTMAS EVE——A LULL IN HATE—BRITON CUM BOCHE
CHAPTER IX: SOUVENIRS—A RIDE TO NIEPPE—TEA AT H.Q.—TRENCHES ONCE MORE
CHAPTER X: MY PARTIAL ESCAPE FROM THE MUD—THE DESERTED VILLAGE—MY “COTTAGE”
CHAPTER XI: STOCKTAKING—FORTIFYING—NEBULOUS FRAGMENTS
CHAPTER XII: A BRAIN WAVE—MAKING A “FUNK HOLE"—PLUGSTREET WOOD—SNIPING
CHAPTER XIII: ROBINSON CRUSOE—THAT TURBULENT TABLE
CHAPTER XIV: THE AMPHIBIANS—FED UP, BUT DETERMINED—THE GUN PARAPET
CHAPTER XV: ARRIVAL OF THE “JOHNSONS"—"WHERE DID THAT ONE GO?"—THE FIRST FRAGMENT DISPATCHED—THE EXODUS—WHERE?
CHAPTER XVI: NEW TRENCHES—THE NIGHT INSPECTION—LETTER FROM THE “BYSTANDER”
CHAPTER XVII: WULVERGHEM—THE DOUVE—CORDUROY BOARDS—BACK AT OUR FARM
CHAPTER XVIII: THE PAINTER AND DECORATOR—FRAGMENTS FORMING—NIGHT ON THE MUD PRAIRIE
CHAPTER XIX: VISIONS OF LEAVE—DICK TURPIN—LEAVE!
CHAPTER XX: THAT LEAVE TRAIN—MY OLD PAL—LONDON AND HOME—THE CALL OF THE WILD
CHAPTER XXI: BACK FROM LEAVE—THAT “BLINKIN’ MOON” —JOHNSON ‘OLES—TOMMY AND “FRIGHTFULNESS"—EXPLORING EXPEDITION
CHAPTER XXII: A DAYLIGHT STALK—THE DISUSED TRENCH—"DID THEY SEE ME?"—A GOOD SNIPING POSITION
CHAPTER XXIII: OUR MOATED FARM—WULVERGHEM—THE CURÉ’S HOUSE—A SHATTERED CHURCH—MORE “HEAVIES"—A FARM ON FIRE
CHAPTER XXIV: THAT RATION FATIGUE——SKETCHES IN REQUEST—BAILLEUL—BATHS AND LUNATICS—HOW TO CONDUCT A WAR
CHAPTER XXV: GETTING STALE—LONGING FOR CHANGE—WE LEAVE THE DOUVE—ON THE MARCH—SPOTTED FEVER—TEN DAYS’ REST
CHAPTER XXVI: A PLEASANT CHANGE—SUZETTE, BERTHE AND MARTHE—"LA JEUNE FILLE FAROUCHE"—ANDRÉ
CHAPTER XXVII: GETTING FIT—CARICATURING THE CURÉ—"DIRTY WORK AHEAD"—A PROJECTED ATTACK—UNLOOKED-FOR ORDERS
CHAPTER XXVIII: WE MARCH FOR YPRES—HALT AT LOCRE—A BLEAK CAMP AND MEAGRE FARE—SIGNS OF BATTLE—FIRST VIEW OF YPRES
CHAPTER XXIX: GETTING NEARER——A LUGUBRIOUS PARTY—STILL NEARER—BLAZING YPRES—ORDERS FOR ATTACK
CHAPTER XXX: RAIN AND MUD—A TRYING MARCH—IN THE THICK OF IT—A WOUNDED OFFICER—HEAVY SHELLING—I GET MY “QUIETUS!”
CHAPTER XXXI: SLOWLY RECOVERING—FIELD HOSPITAL—AMBULANCE TRAIN—BACK IN ENGLAND
FOREWORD
DOWN SOUTH, IN THE VALLEY of the Somme, far from the spots recorded in this book, I began to write this story.
In billets it was. I strolled across the old farmyard and into the wood beyond. Sitting by a gurgling little stream, I began, with the aid of a notebook and a pencil, to record the joys and sorrows of my first six months in France.
I do not claim any unique quality for these experiences. Many thousands have had the same. I have merely, by request, made a record of my times out there, in the way that they appeared to me.
BRUCE BAIRNSFATHER.
CHAPTER I: LANDING AT HAVRE—TORTONI’S—FOLLOW THE TRAM LINES—ORDERS FOR THE FRONT
GLIDING UP THE SEINE, ON a transport crammed to the lid with troops, in the still, cold hours of a November morning, was my debut into the war. It was about 6 a.m. when our boat silently slipped along past the great wooden sheds, posts and complications of Havre Harbour. I had spent most of the twelve-hour trip down somewhere in the depths of the ship, dealing out rations to the hundred men that I had brought with me from Plymouth. This sounds a comparatively simple process, but not a bit of it. To begin with, the ship was filled with troops to bursting point, and the mere matter of proceeding from one deck to another was about as difficult as trying to get round to see a friend at the other side of the ground at a Crystal Palace Cup final.
I stood in a queue of Gordons, Seaforths, Worcesters, etc., slowly moving up one, until, finally arriving at the companion (nearly said staircase), I tobogganed down into the hold, and spent what was left of the night dealing out those rations. Having finished at last, I came to the surface again, and now, as the transport glided along through the dirty waters of the river, and as I gazed at the motley collection of Frenchmen on the various wharves, and saw a variety of soldiery, and a host of other warlike “props,” I felt acutely that now I was in the war at last—the real thing! For some time I had been rehearsing in England; but that was over now, and here I was—in the common or garden vernacular—"in the soup.”
At last we were alongside, and in due course I had collected that hundred men of mine, and found that the number was still a hundred, after which I landed with the rest, received instructions and a guide, then started off for the Base Camps.
These Camps were about three miles out of Havre, and thither the whole contents of the ship marched in one long column, accompanied on either side by a crowd of ragged little boys shouting for souvenirs and biscuits. I and my hundred men were near the rear of the procession, and in about an hour’s time arrived at the Base Camps.
I don’t know that it is possible to construct anything more atrociously hideous or uninteresting than a Base Camp. It consists, in military parlance, of nothing more than:—
Fields, grassless 1 Tents, bell 500
In fact, a huge space, once a field, now a bog, on which are perched rows and rows of squalid tents.
I stumbled along over the mud with my troupe, and having found the Adjutant, after a considerable search, thought that my task was over, and that I could slink off into some odd tent or other and get a sleep and a rest. Oh no!—the Adjutant had only expected fifty men, and here was I with a hundred.
Consternation! Two hours’ telephoning and intricate back-chat with the Adjutant eventually led to my being ordered to leave the expected fifty and take the others to another Base Camp hard by, and see if they would like to have them there.
The rival Base Camp expressed a willingness to have this other fifty, so at last I had finished, and having found an empty tent, lay down on the ground, with my greatcoat for a pillow and went to sleep.
I awoke at about three in the afternoon, got hold of a bucket of water and proceeded to have a wash. Having shaved, washed, brushed my hair, and had a look at the general effect in the polished back of my cigarette case (all my kit was still at the docks), I emerged from my canvas cave and started off to have a look round.
I soon discovered a small café down the road, and found it was a place used by several of the officers who, like myself, were temporarily dumped at the Camps. I went in and got something to eat. Quite a good little place upstairs there was, where one could get breakfast each morning: just coffee, eggs, and bread sort of thing. By great luck I met a pal of mine here; he had come over in a boat previous to mine, and after we had had a bit of a refresher and a smoke we decided to go off down to Havre and see the sights.
A tram passed along in front of this café, and this we boarded. It took about half an hour getting down to Havre from Bléville where the Camps were, but it was worth it.
Tortoni’s Café, a place that we looked upon as the last link with civilization: Tortoni’s, with its blaze of light, looking-glass and gold paint—its popping corks and hurrying waiters—made a deep and pleasant indent on one’s mind, for “to-morrow” meant “the Front” for most of those who sat there.
As we sat in the midst of that kaleidoscopic picture, formed of French, Belgian and English uniforms, intermingled with the varied and gaudy robes of the local nymphs; as we mused in the midst of dense clouds of tobacco smoke, we could not help reflecting that this might be the last time we should look on such scenes of revelry, and came to the conclusion that the only thing to do was to make the most of it while we had the chance. And, by Gad, we did....
A little after midnight I parted from my companion and started off to get back to that Base Camp of mine.
Standing in the main square of the town, I realized a few points which tended to take the edge off the success of the evening:
No. 1.—It was too late to get a tram.
No. 2.—All the taxis had disappeared.
No. 3.—It was pouring with rain.
No. 4.—I had three miles to go.
I started off to walk it—but had I known what that walk was going to be, I would have buttoned myself round a lamp-post and stayed where I was.
I made that fatal mistake of thinking that I knew the way.
Leaning at an angle of forty-five degrees against the driving rain, I staggered along the tram lines past the Casino, and feeling convinced that the tram lines must be correct, determined to follow them.
After about half an hour’s walk, mostly uphill, I became rather suspicious as to the road being quite right.
Seeing a sentry-box outside a palatial edifice on the right, I tacked across the road and looked for the sentry.
A lurid thing in gendarmes advanced upon me, and I let off one of my curtailed French sentences at him:
“Pour Bléville, Monsieur?”
I can’t give his answer in French, but being interpreted I think it meant that I was completely on the wrong road, and that he wasn’t certain as to how I could ever get back on it without returning to Havre and starting again.
He produced an envelope, made an unintelligible sketch on the back of it, and started me off again down the way I had come.
I realized what my mistake had been. There was evidently a branch tram line, which I had followed, and this I thought could only have branched off near the Casino, so back I went to the Casino and started again.
I was right about the branch line, and started merrily off again, taking as I thought the main line to Bléville.
After another half-hour of this, with eyes feverishly searching for recognizable landmarks, I again began to have doubts as to the veracity of the tram lines. However, pretending that I placed their honesty beyond all doubt, I plodded on; but round a corner, found the outlook so unfamiliar that I determined to ask again. Not a soul about. Presently I discovered a small house, standing back off the road and showing a thin slit of light above the shutters of a downstairs window. I tapped on the glass. A sound as of someone hurriedly trying to hide a pile of coverless umbrellas in a cupboard was followed by the opening of the window, and a bristling head was silhouetted against the light.
I squeezed out the same old sentence:
“Pour Bléville, Monsieur?”
A fearful cataract of unintelligible words burst from the head, but left me almost as much in the dark as ever, though with a faint glimmering that I was “warmer.” I felt that if I went back about a mile and turned to the left, all would be well.
I thanked the gollywog in the window, who, somehow or other, I think must have been a printer working late, and started off once more.
After another hour’s route march I came to some scattered houses, and finally to a village. I was indignantly staring at a house when suddenly, joy!—I realized that what I was looking at was an unfamiliar view of the café where I had breakfasted earlier in the day.
Another ten minutes and I reached the Camp. Time now 2.30 a.m. I thought I would just take a look in at the Orderly Room tent to see if there were any orders in for me. It was lucky I did. Inside I found an orderly asleep in a blanket, and woke him.
“Anything in for me?” I asked. “Bairnsfather’s my name.”
“Yes, sir, there is,” came through the blanket, and getting up he went to the table at the other end of the tent. He sleepily handed me the wire: “Lieutenant Bairnsfather to proceed to join his battalion as machine-gun officer....”
“What time do I have to push off?” I inquired.
“By the eight o’clock from Havre to-morrow, sir.”
Time now 3 a.m. To-morrow—THE FRONT! And then I crept into my tent and tried to sleep.
CHAPTER II: TORTUOUS TRAVELLING—CLIPPERS AND TABLETS—DUMPED AT A SIDING—I JOIN MY BATTALION
NOT MUCH SLEEP THAT NIGHT, a sort of feverish coma instead: wild dreams in which I and the gendarme were attacking a German trench, the officer in charge of which we found to be the Base Camp Adjutant after all.
However, I got up early—packed my few belongings in my valise, which had mysteriously turned up from the docks, and went off on the tram down to Havre. That hundred men I had brought over had nothing to do with me now. I was entirely on my own, and was off to the Front to join my battalion. Down at Havre the officials at the station gave me a complicated yellow diagram, known as a travelling pass, and I got into a carriage in the train bound for Rouen.
I was not alone now; a whole forest of second lieutenants like myself were in the same train, and with them a solid, congealed mass of valises, packs, revolvers and haversacks. At last the train started, and after the usual hour spent in feeling that you have left all the most important things behind, I settled down on a mound of equipment and tried to do a bit of a sleep.
So what with sleeping, smoking and talking, we jolted along until we pulled up at Rouen. Here I had to leave the train, for some obscure reason, in order to go to the Palais de Justice to get another ticket. I padded off down over the bridge into Rouen, found the Palais, went in and was shown along to an office that dealt in tickets.
In this dark and dingy oak-panelled saloon, illuminated by electric light and the glittering reflections from gold braid, there lurked a general or two. I was here given another pass entitling me to be deposited at a certain siding in Flanders.
Back I went to the station, and in due course rattled off in the train again towards the North.
A fearfully long journey we had, up to the Front! The worst of it was that nobody knew—or, if they did, wouldn’t tell you—which way you were going, or how long it would take to get to your destination. For instance, we didn’t know we were going to Rouen till we got there; and we didn’t know we were going from Rouen to Boulogne until, after a night spent in the train, the whole outfit jolted and jangled into the Gare de Something, down by the wharf at that salubrious seaport.
We spent a complete day and part of an evening at Boulogne, as our train did not leave until midnight.
I and another chap who was going to the next railhead to mine at the Front, went off together into the town and had lunch at a café in the High Street. We then strolled around the shops, buying a few things we needed. Not very attractive things either, but I’ll mention them here to show how we thought and felt.
We first went to a “pharmacie” and got some boxes of morphia tablets, after which we went to an ironmonger’s (don’t know the French for it) and each bought a ponderous pair of barbed wire cutters. So what with wire clippers and morphia tablets, we were gay. About four o’clock we calmed down a bit, and went to the same restaurant where we had lunched.
Here we had tea with a couple of French girls, exceeding good to look upon, who had apparently escaped from Lille. We got on splendidly with them till a couple of French officers, one with the Legion of Honour, came along to the next table. That took all the shine out of us, so we determined to quit, and cleared off to the Hotel de Folkestone, where we had a bath to console us. Dinner followed, and then, feeling particularly hilarious, I made my will. Not the approved will of family lawyer style, but just a letter announcing, in bald and harsh terms that, in the event of my remaining permanently in Belgium, I wanted my total small worldly wealth to be disposed of in a certain way.
Felt better after this outburst, and, rejoining my pal, we went off into the town again and by easy stages reached the train.
At about one a.m. the train started, and we creaked and groaned our way out of Boulogne. We were now really off for the Front, and the situation, consequently, became more exciting. We were slowly getting nearer and nearer to the real thing. But what a train! It dribbled and rumbled along at about five miles an hour, and, I verily believe, stopped at every farmhouse within sight of the line. I could not help thinking that the engine driver was a German in disguise, who was trying to prevent our ever arriving at our destination. I tried to sleep, but each time the train pulled up, I woke with a start and thought that we’d got there. This went on for many hours, and as I knew we must be getting somewhere near, my dreams became worse and worse.
I somehow began to think that the engine driver was becoming cautious—(he was a Frenchman again)—thought that, perhaps, he had to get down occasionally and walk ahead a bit to see if it was safe to go on.
