Fresnoy - A Personal Memoir - Part 6

Billy Sunday, an officer, was at the junction of the communication and the road, which we were now to convert into the line, and called on Bill Squib to relieve us of our burden. He directed us away from the spot which surely would have been marked. (He was killed there himself the next day). We soon saw Purvis on his way overland in the growing dusk with a party of four and in the same minute heard the order, "Stand to!" "Heine coming over!" Well, Harry grabbed a rifle by the side of a dead comrade and we plastered ourselves against the wall. Squibb seeing us and knowing we were the newest recruits aligned himself beside us. Waving his hat in the air and with many fulsome oaths he defied the bastards to come over. Then, seeing me, green and white-faced, and with only a ladies revolver (which I had won in a poker game on the boat over), he laughed aloud, "Well for God's sake kid, what do you expect to hit with that peashooter?" I felt foolish no doubt, but bucked indeed to be beside so doughty a warrior, and when alarm passed, and Harry and I fell to constructing a funk hole, much of my trepidation had passed, too.

We weren't bothered much by shelling that night, comparatively speaking, but God how cold it got. Our clothing, which had been soaked from intermittent rains during the day was still damp, and with no overcoats and two feet down in a wet hole dug into the side of a wall, one just couldn't get warm. When Bill called later for a volunteer ration party we were glad to be on the move.

As we moved down the trench, illuminated by the occasional Heine flare, our first thought was overcoats. Every funk hole contained the body of some unfortunate, killed on the way up, or died trying to get out. We groped our way from wall to wall of the slimy way, and in one place I was just about to grasp a branch above the trench only to recognize in the light of a flare the outstretched hand of one of my comrades who had died the night before. A little further I spotted a great coat over a "stiff" in a hole in the trench. I gingerly grasped it, only to nearly collapse in my tracks when its owner very much alive shouted an imprecation. Well, we got back and Harry and I finally found a funk hole and crawled in. It was a roomy one and only our legs were in the trench. The heat of our bodies combined with the complete exhaustion following the events of the night and the day soon placed us in the land of complete oblivion.

How long we slept I have no idea, but it must have been four or five hours because it was dawn and men were stumbling over our feet, the ration party no less, loaded down and on the way back. Filled with a sense of guilt we eagerly offered our help to the nearest bearers. It was quickly accepted. On the way up Harry happened to notice his bag was labelled C.A.M.C. and on opening it an empty bottle of whiskey appeared. Making no mention of the fact until some time afterwards in our funk hole , the Sergeant Major appeared. "My God," said Bill. "I gave that bag to Babe Dale." Babe was his batman and he and Joe Bush (irresponsible souls) had polished off the liquor by the time the S.M. again located them.

Before we had arrived back at the break of dawn the whole Battalion had gone over the top without a barrage to the old front line to pick up survivors. They came back with few casualties, but apparently giving our position away to the enemy because all that day we certainly took it in the nose. The first spasm lasted all morning, most of the shells falling slightly long, but enough hit the opposite bank to put the fear of death in our minds. And again, during a lull in the shelling, when volunteers were wanted to go for water, it appeared infinitely better to be on the move (although the communication was shelled continuously) than to sit still and take it.

So we collected bottles and two cans apiece and away we went with the Sergeant Major's blessing. It was hot alright and when we came to the end of the trench and saw Heine lobbing shells at frequent intervals on the path to the next road, under direct observation from his balloons, we wilted a little. However, "Here goes!" and Harry led off at a jog trot towards the rear. The shells which had been landing ahead now shifted behind, then ahead again. We were spotted, but made the road in safety. Here an abandoned dressing station hit by a shell engaged our attention. The next road was several hundred yards away. Again we dodged a few, but arriving there made our way under cover to Willerval. A party was gathered around the well and it looked like a long wait. Harry got in line and in the sun I slept. Only a few minutes though, but what a relief. Harry had an idea, "Why wait for an hour while the old windlass worked a leaky pail up and down." There was plenty of wire around, so cutting the top of a can we lowered it by the wire, filled up our bottles and soon were on our way. We had only gone a short distance when a huge '59' landed near the well. Two were instantly killed, one falling down the well, and a dozen wounded. Our luck was with us for sure.

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