Angels at Mons Read online

  A shudder passes over me when I see these poor unfortunates, what will happen to them now I wonder? I have seen veterans of a previous war selling laces and Vesta’s, virtually begging in the streets of my home town. Is this to be theirs and maybe my fate? This side of warfare has been very much hidden from the general public and certainly not broadcast. As we unload down one gangway the walking wounded embark up another, the stretcher cases are loaded through side doors of the ferry boats.

  Very fit looking and immaculately attired Military Police patrol everywhere, strutting about in their startling livery terrifying the recruits.

  We witness a poor soldier presumably a deserter, being arrested while trying to sneak aboard a boat with the wounded. The MPs drag him away screaming in protest.

  One of the crewmen at the foot of the gangway shakes his head sympathetically and informs us that “He’s for the chop the poor sod, he would have been better facing the Boche than what he will face now they have caught him.”

  God! What have I done? I berate myself for my foolishness as the pangs of fear combined with hunger grip my stomach. There are so many men, ammunitions, guns being unloaded from the boats and trundled away on horse drawn carts and motor trucks. Hundreds of replacement horses shipped over from England and Ireland are being loaded onto trains for transportation to the front line. The same sailor that that told us the probable fate of the deserter says with a smile. “Do you see those horse’s lads? You could be eating some of them in a few days time.” I didn’t like his humour very much and hoped he was only joking.

  There appeared nobody in authority taking the trouble to inform us where we are going. We are organised into ranks and marched nervously towards the sound of gunfire. We tramp along crowded roads in the pouring rain for what seems hours until we reach a holding camp. There they feed us a sloppy mess tin of lukewarm soup a hunk of bread and a cup of strong tea. This is a pretty horrible meal even by army standards, but it is very welcome all the same after the haversack rations we have been living on.. After the hurried meal we are allocated NCO’s who appear to be working toward some plan or other we cannot fathom. Individually we are asked a few basic questions about our previous lives as the NCO passes along the ranks of men. Depending on the replies we give appeared to influence what column we are ordered to join.

  Because of my limited education, I couldn’t read or write at that time they induct me into a Labour Battalion. It soon becomes apparent most of the soldiers in my mob are the same as me, uneducated labourers from poor backgrounds. After the rudimentary selection process we then march to a corner of the huge assembly ground. The NCO orders us to stand easy and wait further instructions then he marches away leaving us to our own devises for a while.

  About ten minutes later a beribboned Sergeant with a hideously burnt face arrives and introduces himself as our saviour. After bringing us to attention then standing us easy again he explains what our duties are to be in the Great War.

  “Hope you fella’s have strong stomachs.” He laughs, “Cos you’re sure gonna need them. You can forget all the crap they taught you in the training camps. If you take any notice of them daft sods, who have never seen action, I guarantee you’ll be dead in a short time when we reach the front line.

  Do you hear that noise my lovely lads? Well that’s about thirty miles away. Can you imagine what it will sound like when you are in the thick of it when every shell and bullet is aimed directly at you by our friendly foe, ha ha?

  Now you are what we calls in this ear Kings Army, virgin soldiers. I suppose you think you’re tough eh? Kings of the playground at school I bet. Well my jolly Bucko’s, I’ve got news for you. Can you remember shitting your pants when you were kids?” He doesn’t wait for an answer but continues in his rapid fire voice. “Well my poor unfortunate little soldiers in a couple of day’s time, I am assuring you that you will be experiencing the same feeling when you first come under enemy fire. Ha, ha.

  Eh! And your own sides no help, dear me no.” He adds. “When them stupid shits in the Artillery drop the rolling barrage too short, there is nothing more annoying than being blown to bits by your own side. Believe me I know, I lost lots of my good mates that way.” A dreamy look passes over his face for a moment he stops talking and kind of peers into space. Embarrassed by his silence we shuffle our feet until he shakes his head and resumes his dialogue. “Stand still, stop your wriggling. The army issue fleas haven’t got to you yet. Ha ha. Now back to the things that you will experience when shell fire drops all around you. Where was I? Oh yes, there is no controlling your poor arse hole, you will definitely shit your pants, or I’m’ a Dutchman.

  Ha, ha, ha. I am telling you this, my lucky lads to save your embarrassment when it happens. You can be sure all your mates will have suffered the dreaded first time craps along with you.

  Now your main duties will be. Hey you,” He points at me. “What did you do to earn your crust in civvy- street lad?”

  I freeze, finding it hard to reply, I do not like being the centre of attention. “Come on boy, answer me or I’ll stick you on a fizzer.” I found out later this is the Army’s name for a charge. I answer in a hesitant stuttering voice.

  “I brushed the streets Sergeant.” He replies with relish.

  “Ha-ha! Good lad, you are just what the army needs at a time like this. You look like senior officer material to me lad with your experience. This outfit will be right up your street so to speak. Ha, ha, you know the mess all these nasty soldiers make with their big guns, bayonets, shrapnel, h’explosions?” I nod my head vigorously. “Yis Sergeant, I think so.”

  “You see lad h’explosions makes an h’awful mess of uman flesh, very messy indeed. Well my lads, you will have the good fortune to clean up after them. It’s not much different to civvy-street really, but instead of horse and dog shit it will be bits of bodies you’ll be collecting. Ha, ha. You have to laugh eh! Lads?” We hesitantly agreed. Suddenly, without any warning the tone of his voice changes, “or my poor heroes, you will finish up crying believe me.” He sniffs back a mock tear or is it? He continues. “Just think of it as a big street that needs cleaning, you may have to duck now and again though. There are a few other duties you will have to carry out I need to tell you about. I think we will leave that until there is a need. It will be a nice surprise for you when it happens eh? I like surprises do you lad?”

  He again addresses me for some reason. “Yis Sergeant.” I reply very apprehensively “Now let’s talk about H’officers and who really run this man’s Army.

  Now Lads those are your tents over here.” He points to a neat row of bell tents. “Further up the hill you will notice three other tents. Well my boyo’s, they are the senior NCO’s and Sergeant quarters. Now further up the hill you will see a magnificent Chateau. That there place is strictly H’officers territory, you do not go near it unless so ordered understand.” We agreed. “Yis Sergeant.” He continues. “Now H’officers are a strange breed of folk they like to be undisturbed as much as possible, they only like to look on the likes of you lot when there is some shitty job to do. Or they want you to die in their great game of war. Understand?” We unanimously agree. “Yis Sergeant.” “Now this here outfit you have the honour to be serving in is a very elite organisation. Though in theory H’officers are in charge, the fact is I runs it. Well to be honest a few of my mates helps out a bit. We have a very nice Colonel chap who pretends he is the King pin, and we NCO’s just goes along to keep the old chap ’appy ha, ha. You will meet him now and again especially, if you break the rules and are naughty little soldiers. Know what I mean boy?”

  Oh! Not me again, why has he picked me out to answer his questions?

  “Yis Sergeant.”

  ‘Now I know you have had a very busy day and must be tired little toddlers, so go to your tents and sort yourselves out. The mess line is over yonder, make sure you don’t miss the bugle calls or you will starve to death. I shall be in my quarters if anything urgent comes up.

&nbs
p; A nice Corporal will be visiting you soon to look after your little needs. He will allocate duties for this afternoon and tuck you up in your little beds for the night. Next morning parade yourselves outside the tent line at 0600 hours. That is in the morning for your information.” He adds. “We have funny ways of telling the time in this ear army but you will learn our ways as time goes by.” He adds a further an ominous sentence. “That is if you survive long enough. To your duties dismiss.”

  So this is my first day in a foreign country close to a war zone, not too bad so far as I’m concerned, except for the sight of the wounded and blinded men of course. We enter a tent; rough camp beds are set in a circle around the centre post with straw mattresses adorning them. On the ground are laid thick wooden slats with slimy mud oozing through. A fetid smell similar to a swamp engulfs the interior of the tent. Billy complains.

  “Jeeze this place stinks worse than the slaughter house where I used to work.” Harry one of the other lad’s laughs and remarks.

  “Oh it’s not too bad. I was a pig herder before I joined up now those buggers really stink.” His mate Graham says jokingly. “You should know Harry eh? You slept with them a few times when your old lady locked you out when you got pissed.” The backchat between the lads eased the tension we had been under for the last few days.

  I cast my pack off and throw myself gratefully onto the thin straw filled mattress. Lighting my first cigarette since the ferry crossing, I draw the acrid smoke into my lungs. This is pure luxury.

  Billy, a lad I mated up with in training is first to break the silence. “I think we are in a right shit outfit here, I joined up to fight the Huns not clean up after the bastards.”

  I’m about to answer him when something bit me, I idly scratch the spot until I receive another couple of bites. The rest of the men begin scratching and smacking at fleas, the place is alive with them. I leap from the bed and begin frantically tearing off my clothes.

  Within minutes all the other lads follow suit. What a pantomime, uniforms and kit cast everywhere as we dance about smacking the blood sucking swine. In amongst this chaos a bugle sounded which we ignore in our frenzy to rid ourselves of the loathsome insects. I discover the mattresses are also alive with bed bugs, what a to-do. What had begun as an attempt to rid ourselves of the fleas, turns into a right shindig as six weeks of tension is released? Backpacks and kit are flung in all directions. Rifles cast aside for the first time since being issued. We are helpless with hysterical laughter at the antics of each other.

  All good things come to an end as the tent flap opens and a voice screams.

  “Stand by your beds you ‘orrible lot.”

  Indoctrinated by the six weeks of intensive training we leap to attention alongside our beds, most of us as bare as the day we were born.

  A Corporal stands on the threshold, sunrays pour around him like the aura surrounding an avenging Angel. A giant of a man with a ferocious moustached face scans the assembled troop. We tremble in our proverbial boots. Then unexpectedly his face, that ferocious face, splits into a wide grin.

  “Now my lads what would your Mums think if they came in at this moment? Stand still, you boy don’t conceal your weapon until ordered. Ha- ha.” He points at me as I try to hide my nakedness.

  ‘Well my boys I see you have met the welcoming committee. Now get some gear on and take yourselves off to the mess lines before all the tuckers gone.

  Do not forget your rifles or you will be in the shit. We are close to the war now, Fritz may come over the horizon at any moment and you will have to fight him off.”

  Billy ventures a question. “But Corporal, we have no ammunition, what if the Hun does come?”

  “H’ammunition boy? Did you say h’ammunition? You mean live h’ammunition?” Incredulity evident in his voice. Billy answers slightly startled. “Yes Corporal, I don’t mind fighting the swine.”

  The Corporal roars with laughter at his response. “You don’t think the British Army, with all its wisdom, will trust you lot with live h’ammo. No Sir. If Fritz comes at us, throw some of that plum duff you’ll get shortly from the cooks. They’ll soon retreat when they get a taste of that secret weapon. Live h’ammo indeed. Come on lads, you have to step lively when the cook house call goes. A thousand men in this here camp and they only cater for five hundred. They reckon they don’t have to cook for the other half because they will be dead before the meal is served Ha, ha.

  I’ll have the tent fumigated while you lot are away, take your mattresses with you and empty them on your way out by the horses. The British Army fleas they only likes ’uman blood, they won’t bother the ’orses you see. Fill them up on your way back with fresh straw.

  By the way I am your Corporal, you may call me Corp except if there is a H’officer about, then you will call me Corporal ok?”

  With that last remark he turns on his heel and departs, leaving us flabbergasted.

  Billy as usual is the first to speak. “Eh! These seem decent blokes for NCO’s, what do you think lads?”

  We all agree, compared to the shits we had in charge of us in the training camp, the two we have met so far are Angels.

  We hurriedly dress, unpack mess tins and cutlery, then slinging our rifles over our shoulders we follow the trail of men towards the smell of food.

  The queue for food stretches for what appears to be miles. Impatiently we wait as the line of men moves slowly towards the field kitchen boilers and serving tables located by a stand of trees. My stomach rolls with hunger as the tantalising smell from the boilers drifts our way, all the time while I queue I’m thinking, what if the Corporal is right? When I get to the table I am the five hundred and first and all the food will be gone I don’t mind admitting I am sweating until my turn comes to be served. On arrival I raise my mess tin to the server. A dollop of thick stew is shovelled into my tin. I move further along the line, a hunk of bread is dropped on top of the stew by a bored looking soldier. Still further along a hunk of cheese joins the mess, the next server asks, “Want some pud lad?” I nod expecting him to miraculously reveal a stack of plates. Why does the Army so often fool me? A heavy lump of suet pudding plops into the combination of stew, bread and cheese, quickly followed by a ladle of lumpy custard. There is no time to protest as the men following, eager for their share of food, push me aside. Another large boiler dispenses thick black tea into our enamel mugs.

  There are no tables or chairs provided, luckily the rain has stopped and the weather is improved. Billy, myself, and a couple of my mates wander over to a fallen tree. We still have our mattress covers with us and use them rolled up as padding on the ground. Disgusted at the way the food is served I nevertheless tuck in with relish. When I am finished, my bloated stomach is much relieved of the pangs of hunger I have been experiencing. I burp with contentment. “Not bad tucker eh Bill?” I address my pal Billy. He has his mouth full and answers with a kind of grunt.

  “Hope we got rid of them bugs and fleas.” I shudder and unconsciously scratch as I remember the horror of being invaded for the first time in my life with the loathsome creatures.

  An old soldier sits on a branch near us and overhears my complimentary remarks about the stew. “Like horse meat then do you lad, but you are not fond of the bed company?” He enquires

  I am in the process of wiping the last dregs of food from my mess tin with the lump of bread as I reply.

  “I hate fleas and things like that. Our bloody tent is full of em. The Corporal reckons he is having the tents fumigated while we are here.” I latch on to his remark about horsemeat. “Er, horse meat? No. I wouldn’t touch the stuff. Yuck!” He smiles. “Eh! Is it true these Frenchies eat frogs and snails?” I inquire, the veteran laughs. “For someone who don’t like Dobbin boiled up, you sure got stuck into that lot. Enjoy it while you can lad, this could be the best scoff you’ll get over here. When you go up to the line you’ll be glad of anything and everything edible, believe me.”

  “You mean this is horse stew?” I as
k him in awe staring at my now empty mess tin in disgust?

  “Listen lads I’ll give you a bit of advice for free, it’s all part of your education in the art of survival. Eat whenever you can, eat whatever you can, preferably hot. Don’t turn your nose up at ’out. Dogs, cats, rats, snails, frogs, horses, mules, eat the bloomin lot I can tell you. This lot you’ve just ate, were most probably hauling guns yesterday. When the poor horses get hit they don’t waste em, fresh meat for the lads you see. Don’t you know horses are worth more than human beings? The Army has to pay for horses. They have to feed ’em and look after ’em or they won’t work. You fella’s cost the army virtually nothing. They pay you pennies and feed you crap. Even mules refuse to work if they don’t want to, and they are supposed to be stupid by all reckoning. Hey! If you fella’s refuse to work, or won’t do as you’re told they will shoot you sure as Hell.

  I remember when we were up the front line in Mons at the start of this lot, the cooks couldn’t get any rations up to us, we were starving I can tell you. A team of horses is trying to recover a field gun stuck in the mud, old Fritz must have spotted them. Bang, one bloody great shell burst among em. Eh! You know what? We had well-cooked steaks showering down on us. Well most of it is, I must admit some of the meat had bits of khaki uniform attached to it, but a man’s got to eat what a man’s got to eat. Know what I mean?” We nod our heads knowingly. I wonder is this man bullshitting me, or what? Nevertheless my stomach turns slightly queasy as I grasp what he implied. He continues with his gruesome tale.

  “Best feed we had since the last Christmas dinner I had at home that is.” The Veteran soldier smacks his lips as he remembers his mid war banquet. “Reckon that feed saved our lives, well it certainly saved mine anyway, you see we had just drawn lots to see who we should eat, just my bloody luck I’d only drawn the short straw. My mates were already sorting out which bits of me they preferred when the bounty out of the sky arrived just in time I reckons the Angels sent it down, have you heard of them lads?” “Who?” We reply incredulously.