Nothing Of Importance - free ebook by Bernard Adams

NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE

J B P Adams...

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NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE A RECORD OF EIGHT MONTHS AT THE FRONT WITH A WELSH BATTALION OCTOBER, 1915, TO JUNE, 1916 BY BERNARD ADAMS WITH A PORTRAIT AND THREE MAPS METHUEN & CO. LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. LONDON

First Published in 1917 TO T. R. G. WHO TAUGHT ME HOW TO THINK...

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IN MEMORIAM BERNARD ADAMS

John Bernard Pye Adams was born on November 15th, 1890, at Beckenham, Kent. From his first school at Clare House, Beckenham, he obtained an entrance scholarship to Malvern, where he gained many Classical and English prizes and became House Prefect. In December, 1908, he won an open Classical scholarship at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he went into residence in October, 1909. He was awarded in 1911 Sir William Browne’s gold medals (open to the University) for a Greek epigram and a Latin od

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PREFACE

“Then ,” said my friend, “what is this war like? I ask you if it is this, or that; and you shake your head. But you will not satisfy me with negatives. I want to know the truth; what is it like?” There was a long silence. “Express that silence; that is what we want to hear.” “The mask of glory,” I said, “has been stripped from the face of war.” “And we are fighting the better for that,” continued my friend. “You see that?” I exclaimed. “But of course you do. We know it, and you at home know it.

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NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE CHAPTER I FIRST IMPRESSIONS

“Good-bye!” “Good-bye. Don’t forget to send me that Hun helmet!” “All right! Good-bye!” The train had long ago recovered from the shock of its initial jerk; a long steady grinding noise came up from the carriage wheels, as though they had recovered breath and were getting into their stride for Folkestone, regardless of the growing clatter of the South-Eastern rhythm;—if, indeed, so noble a word may be used for the noise made by the wheels as they passed over the rail-joints of this distinguished

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CHAPTER II CUINCHY AND GIVENCHY

Throughout October and November our battalion was in the firing-line. This meant that we spent life in an everlasting alternation between the trenches and our billets behind, just far enough behind, that is, to be out of the range of the light artillery; always, though, liable to be called suddenly into the firing-line, and never out of the atmosphere of the trenches. Always before us was dangled a promised “rest,” and always it was being postponed. Rumours were spread, dissected, laughed at, an

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CHAPTER III WORKING-PARTIES

“Fall in the brick-party.” The six privates awoke from a state of inert dreaming, or lolling against the barn that flanked the gateway of battalion headquarters, to stand in two rows of three and await orders. At last the A.S.C. lorry had turned up, an hour late, and while it turned round I despatched one of the privates to our transport to get six sand-bags. By the time he returned the lorry had performed its about-wheel, and, all aboard, myself in front and the six behind, we are off for C——.

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CHAPTER IV REST

Rumours were rife again, and mostly right this time. “The C.O. knew the part we were going to: a chalk country ... rolling downs ... four or five weeks’ rest ... field training thirty miles from the firing-line.” Chalk downs! To a Kentish man the words were magic, after the dull sodden flats of Flanders. I longed for a map of France, but could not get hold of one. As we marched to Lillers I looked at the flat straight roads and the ditches, at the weary monotony, uninspired by hill or view, at t

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CHAPTER V ON THE MARCH

On this leave I most religiously visited relations and graciously received guests. For one thing, I felt it my duty to dispel all this ignorant pessimism that I found rolling about in large chunks, like the thunder in Alice in Wonderland . I exacted apologies, humble apologies from them. “How can we help it?” they pleaded. “We have no means of knowing anything except through the papers.” “No, I suppose you can’t help it,” I would reply, and forgive them from my throne of optimism. Eight days pas

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CHAPTER VI THE BOIS FRANÇAIS TRENCHES

This is a chapter of maps, diagrams, and technicalities. There are people, I know, who do not want maps, to whom maps convey practically nothing. These people can skip this chapter, and (from their point of view) they will lose nothing. The main interest of life lies in what is done and thought, and it does not much matter exactly where these acts and thoughts take place. Maps are like anatomy: to some people it is of absorbing interest to know where our bones, muscles, arteries and all the rest

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CHAPTER VII MORE FIRST IMPRESSIONS

It must not be imagined that I at once grasped all the essential details of our trench system, as I have tried to put them concisely in the preceding chapter. On the contrary, it was only very gradually that I accumulated my intimate knowledge of our maze of trenches, only by degrees that I learnt the lie of the land, and only by personal patrolling that I learnt the interior economy of the craters. At first the front line, with its loops and bombing-posts, and portions “patrolled only,” its san

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I

The snow was coming down in big white flakes, whirling and dancing against a grey sky. I shivered as I looked out from the top of the dug-out steps in Maple Redoubt. It was half-past seven, a good hour since the snipers had reported to me before going to their posts. It was quite dark then, for a sniper must always be up on his post a good hour before dawn to catch the enemy working a few minutes too late. It is so easy to miss those first faint glimmerings of twilight when you are just finishin

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II

“Swis-s-sh—báng. Swis-s-sh—báng.” “That settles it,” said I, as I scrambled hastily down into the trench, preceded by the sniper I had with me that day as orderly. I more or less pushed him along for ten yards—then halted; we faced each other both very much out of breath and “blowy.” The whole place was reeking with the smell of powder, and the air full of sand-bag fluff. “That settles it,” I repeated: “I always thought that was a rotten post; and I object to being whizz-banged. ‘A sniper’s job

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III

Private Ellis had hard blue eyes that looked at you, and looked, and went on looking; they always reminded me of the colour of the sea when a north wind is blowing and the blue is hard and bright. I have seen two other pairs of eyes like them. One belonged to Captain Jefferies, the big game shooter, who lectured on Sniping at the Third Army School. The other pair were the property of a sergeant I met this week for the first time. “Are you a marksman?” I asked him. “Yes, sir! Always a marksman, s

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CHAPTER IX ON PATROL

“Hullo , Bill!” from Will Todd, as he passed me going up 76 Street. “Hullo,” I answered, “where are you off to?” “Going on patrol,” was the reply. “Oh, by the way, you probably know something about this rotten sap opposite the Quarry. I’m going out to find out if it’s occupied at night or not.” “Opposite the Quarry?” said I. “Oh, yes, I know it. We get rather a good view of it from No. 1 Post.” “That post up on the right here? Yes, I was up there this afternoon, but you can’t see much from anywh

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[Copy] Daily Summary. C 1. (Left Company) 6 p.m. 18.3.16—3.30 p.m. 19.3.16

(a) Operations. 11.0 p.m. Enemy fired six rifle-grenades from F10/5. The approximate position of the battery was visible from the Fort , and Lewis gun fire was brought to bear on it, which immediately silenced it. 11.30 p.m. Enemy fired several trench-mortar shells and H.E. shells on junction of 78 Street and Rue Albert (F10/6), a few falling in our front line trench by the Matterhorn . No damage was done to our trenches. 12.45 p.m. Our T.M. Battery fired 12 footballs, and our Stokes gun 32 shel

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[Copy] Special Report—C 1 Section (Left Company)

The mine exploded by us opposite 80 A at 6.30 p.m. last night has exposed about 20 yards of German parapet. A working-party attempting to work there about 12.30 a.m. and again at 2 a.m. was dispersed at once by our rifle and Lewis-gun fire. The parapet has been built up sufficiently to prevent our seeing over it, sand-bags having been put up from inside the trench. Our snipers are closely watching this spot. J. B. P. Adams , Lieut. O.C. “B” Coy. 6.30 a.m. 20.3.16....

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CHAPTER XII OFFICERS’ SERVANTS

“Poor devils on sentry,” said Dixon. He shut the door quickly and came over to the fire. Outside was a thick blizzard, and it was biting cold. He sat down on the bed nearest the fire and got warm again. “Look here, Bill, can’t we possibly get any coal?” “We sent a fellow into Bray,” I answered, “but it’s very doubtful if he’ll get any. Anyway we’ll see.” Tea was finished. The great problem was fuel. There were no trees or houses anywhere near 71 North. We had burnt two solid planks during the da

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I

“The Colonel wants to speak to O.C. ‘B,’ sir.” It was midday. “It’s about that wire,” said Edwards. “But we couldn’t get any more out without stakes.” “Oh, I don’t expect it’s about the wire,” I said, as I hurried out of the Straw Palace. “The C.O. knows we can’t get the stakes.” No, it was nothing to do with the wire. “Just a minute, sir,” said the telephone orderly. “Hi! Headquarters. Is that you, George? O.C. ‘B’s’ here now. Just a minute, sir.” A pause, followed by: “Commanding Officer, sir,

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II

I was reading Blackwood’s in a dug-out in Maple Redoubt. It was just after four, and I was lying on my bed. Suddenly the candle flickered and went out. I had to get up to ring the bell, and when I did get up, the bell did not ring, so I went out and called Lewis. The bell, by the way, was an arrangement of string from our dug-out to the servants’ next door. “Bring me a candle,” I said, as Lewis appeared, evidently flushed and blear-eyed from sleep. “I don’t know where you keep them. I can’t find

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I. Morning

“Two hours’ pack drill, and pay for a new handle,” I said. “Right—Turn!” said the sergeant-major. “Right—Wheel—Quick—March! Get your equipment on and join your platoon at once.” This last sentence was spoken in a quick undertone, as the prisoner stepped out of the door into the road. I was filling up the column headed “Punishment awarded” on a buff-coloured Army Form, to which I appended my signature. The case just dealt with was a very dull and commonplace one, a man having “lost” his entrenchi

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CHAPTER XV “A CERTAIN MAN DREW A BOW AT A VENTURE”

It was ten o’clock as I came in from the wiring-party in front of Rue Albert, and at that moment our guns began. We were in Maple Redoubt. The moon had just set, and it was a still summer night in early June. “Come and have a look,” I called to Owen, who had just entered the dug-out. I could see him standing with his back to the candlelight reading a letter or something. He came out, and together we looked across the valley at the shoulder of down that was silhouetted by the continuous light of

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Monday

It was somewhere about ten o’clock Monday morning. The sister had just finished dressing my arm; the doctor had poked it about; now it lay cool and quiet along by my side. I had not slept that night again, except with morphia. I still felt extraordinarily tired, but was very comfortable. I watched the tall sister in blue with the white headdress that reminded me of a nun’s cap. She was so strong and quiet, and seemed to know that my hand always wanted support at the wrist when she lifted my arm.

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