’With God’s help, I got out of it’

Dear Mother,
On the morning of the 19th plans were given out to the NCOs, who in turn had to get their sections and grenade parties up to the pitch. After dinner, a pot of old pig potatoes and a lump of pig, we went down to the trenches to our relative positions. Did not get there without some trouble for communication trenches were under heavy explosive fire. Our platoon sergeant, Wally White, was killed and a private got buried. Never learnt who he was, though I gave the order for the last man to clear him out.
Well, we hugged the trenches for a few hours while the curtain-raiser, the artillery duel, was on. When its chief job was done, viz wire-cutting, the hour was up. The first thin line of heroes get on the parapet and make off for opposing lines. The first lines fare the best – for the terrible machine-gun is deadly once he sees the game is properly on. It looked like putting up cardboard nine-pins in a hurricane – only it was human beings who were facing up to it. A good number were wounded before the charge, but a short distance into No Man’s Land and the grass was thick with them.
I was holding my rifle over my knee, in a sitting position against the parapet, when an ugly lump of shrapnel hit the rifle near where I was holding it. It cut through the woodwork and made a good dint in the barrel. Number one lucky one. But I had plenty more let-offs awaiting me. Advanced in short rushes taking advantage of any cover. No Man’s Land had a lagoon and ditches – waist deep in water. Waded through the ditches glad of the cooling off but the lagoon had to be got around. It was at the ends of the lagoon where planks crossed a ditch that the machine-guns got their haul. It was jump, jump, jump over some poor beggar the whole time, but it was pat yourself on the back at the other side.
The going on the other side was better and with the chaps well spread out, and taking plenty advantage of the grass, we were not suffering so heavily. Of course plenty were unlucky and came into full contact with one of Fritz’s iron foundries. I never knew I would be so anxious to get at Fritz as I was. I simply couldn’t put any time on the grass. Called to a few chaps beside me and cleared on a bit further, until in a very short while I was ahead of the first two lines. The order for the third wave was not to stop at the enemy’s first line, but to carry on to his supports. But here I got pulled up. I arrived at Fritz’s front door and was quizzing around to see if our fellows had knocked anywhere. A machine gun rat-ta-tat-tat tapping in the grass a few yards to my left and it was while trying to learn something about its crew that a sniper caught me. Got a nasty one on the head and, of course, for a minute I thought I was done for. Had the sensation a poor old rabbit gets when you hit him on the ears. Did not go round in a circle like poor old raw bunny but I can tell you it seemed to lift me bodily. However I had a heaven-sent vision of beef tea and chicken and thinking Fritz might not have too many chooks on hand, or not feeling disposed to give them out to the fighting ‘kangaroos’, I made towards our base and the ticklish part of the game had just started.
Could not crawl straight back over the heights and hollows. That would have made an avenue in the grass which would have invited a machine-gun to turn down. Any undue movement of the grass, and if you don’t know before, you soon find out what a real war was all about. I absolutely astonished myself on my scouting capacity. Zigzagged 20 or 30 yards back to the right. The first 30 yards two bullets went through my old iron helmet and I just recorded a hit on the right shoulder – now only a scratch mark.
Came on my chum, Cpl Frank Dixon, a short way back. He, with four or five others, was taking the wisest course under the circumstances, waiting for something to turn up. Don’t know how they fared. I kept the cover of my old gas helmet jammed up to my forehead to stop the bleeding. At this stage our own artillery, thinking they had not opened up the way enough, started again. A shell lobbed in the exact spot where I had been hit and once more I counted my blessings and decided for a still safer spot. There was a dry ditch three or four feet (about one metre) deep on a rise on the enemy side of the lagoon. Worked back to it and found it full but it was stacks on the mill in a position like that. It was ‘mind my arm – get off my legs’. The whole principle was to keep down and hug terra-firma. Here I stuck till after dark and it was a warm spot. Was in the direct line of fire between the well shelled tracks to the side of the lagoon and German guns working straight ahead and almost every angle.
It’s interesting, though none too pleasant, speculating whether you are going to get the full effects of a shell, a mild earthquake or merely a ton or two of dirt on top of you. Had my old helmet lying on my head. I could not sum up enough energy of the kind to put my field dressing on. Did not feel shellproof but did feel totally indifferent as to how much dirt lobbed on me. The old ditch shook many a time, suggesting there was a way through to Australia. Wouldn’t have taken it if it had opened up – I don’t think! After the program of shells and flare-rockets had continued for a couple of hours into the night, one of our company fellows, Bill Skinner from Trafalgar, and I decided to make a bolt for our trenches. There seemed little likelihood of the curtain ringing down for the night and no probability of refreshments. It’s a most unpleasant side of warfare, lying out in a battlefield – wounded, maybe perfectly helpless with no chance of aid being given you. It must be bitterly cruel to the man nearly out to it.
Well, Skinner and I crawled and hustled like old nick when no flare-shells were about, avoiding the worst shelled spots – lay in shell-holes and long grass when the flares were up. Had a machine-gun turned on us two or three times. Waded waist-deep in water for a few yards down one trench. Had a little difficulty getting through some of our own barbed wire but finally bawled out 59th and dropped down in a trench full of friends. They took us to their dressing station where we both had rough field dressings put on.
As the communication trenches were being blown to pieces they advised us to abide where we were for the night. That I did and slept the remainder of the night with my head in the old tin helmet. Better than I have slept since.
Next morning I followed a number of stretcher cases down to the main dressing station. From there had a motor ambulance trip to Sailly, to the 14th Brigade Field Hospital. Everyone was inoculated there – slept the night. We were put into different classes and in the morning sent off by train to different places, many like myself to Boulogne, where we arrived at night. Had an ambulance trip of a few miles over cobbled streets and finally camped in a small hospital near shipping accommodation.
The next day a fair percentage of us embarked on a beautifully fitted little hospital boat (HS Dieppe) for Blighty. Arrived at Dover in a short time, was put on a hospital train and was soon in the very good quarters I’m now in. Slept better the last two nights. Can give you but little account as to how my companions have fared. The greater number are undergoing repairs. Don’t know how many are underground. Have not heard how Will O’Sullivan or Alan Russell fared. Vic Stafford got to the dressing station on a stretcher the same time as I wobbled in. Cpl Stan Barr and Sgt Ball were in the same hospital train to Boulogne, as was Capt Hewitt and a few other officers. The last I heard about 16 Platoon, there were only two left unwounded.
I’m away from the censor now, so I can tell you a few little things about the front. There were many ugly sights at the first dressing station. But there were many who had hours of lying out before they would ever see a dressing.
Will never forget the few hours, which seemed as many days, lying low till dark and then crawling when night arrived, when no flares were up. Listened with interest and speculation as to where the next shell was going to lob. Here she comes and you hug old terra-firma. An almighty bang – the earth trembles. Keep your head well covered with the iron helmet and wait for the pieces. Smile with relief if it’s only a two pound clod of earth that gets you full in the back, then have a look at the smoke and count your blessings in yards. I think to myself: ‘Don’t be too inquisitive – machine-guns are more searching than shells’. We were in fighting order with haversacks on our backs, tin dixies placed as when in marching order. I was evidently spotted, though I was in a shallow gutter, and a machine-gun put bullet holes through the tin. I later carried on to a shell hole.
Often wonder what happened to many a chap I passed lying helpless in the grass. For my part I was strong and had my wits about me and it was only through acting on every inspiration that, with God’s help, I got out of it.
Sgt Clair Whiteside.