In the Footsteps of Private Lynch Page 5

  Nulla knows the danger involved in doing the first patrol, but is 'prompted more by nervousness than anything else'. He likens it to the nervousness descending over a batting side in a game of cricket, before the wickets begin to fall. It is a simple comparison that highlights the limited experiences of a 19-year-old. As he leaves he is warned about wandering too far and getting lost, because two nights before a man disappeared on a similar patrol. Had the man wandered into the German lines and been captured? No one had heard a shot. Had he been silently garrotted or stabbed somewhere out there in the darkness, bleeding and dying alone, his body sinking into the seemingly bottomless mud of a shell-hole, lost forever? How would his mother ever find his grave in a place like this?

  Fortunately for Nulla, he doesn't allow this fear to be augmented by the story told by the 48th Battalion men that the Germans had a secret and silent killing weapon; a bow that fired steel arrows carrying an electric current. The tale went that it was this weapon that probably 'got the cove on Friday night'. Nulla seems, however, to have picked this for what it was – a joke for new men in the line. There would have been many new men who were not as educated or astute as Nulla, who would have believed this tale and worried unnecessarily about it.

  Nulla does have a truly frightening experience on his first lone patrol, however, and must wonder for a moment whether he is about to disappear, just like that other Australian the night before. He is confronted by two Germans, lying in wait in a shell-hole. As flares light the sky, they appear to fly straight for him. He bounds sideways out of their line of attack, and as the flare dies so the Germans disappear back into the jagged landscape. Then, another flare and there they are, not 3 metres away, staring at him – dead. As Nulla puts it, 'No six live Fritz have ever given me the awful turn those two dead ones did.' [p. 30]

  Lynch evokes the surreal nature of the battlefield at night, a time when imaginary danger can be even more terrifying than the real. Nulla needs his mates; sick from fear, he hurries to the trench. Over the course of Somme Mud, it becomes ever clearer to the reader just how crucial mateship was to the Australian war effort, and here Nulla says of the trench, 'It's not its protection so much as its companionship I seek ... At last I'm back with my mates.' [p. 30]

  Undaunted, Nulla is soon volunteering again, this time to replace a runner who had to be evacuated. Radio communication would not arrive on the battlefield until 1918. Until then, the most efficient way to communicate was by field telephone, but the telephone lines were easily damaged during bombardments. More often than not, a man had to run with a message between the forward areas and the headquarters at the rear, or between units spread along the line. The runner took messages between officers and NCOs, sent reports back to headquarters and delivered requests for supplies and ammunition. (In the absence of a working telephone line, artillery bombardments were ordered not by runners but by the firing of coded signal flares in the air.) Runners also acted as guides, leading incoming units through the maze of trenches and over the blasted ground to their forward positions, leading exhausted units out of the line to the rear, or leading men carrying supplies.

  On his first mission as a runner, Nulla is ordered to go down the trench and tell the men to prepare for rifle inspection in half an hour. He notes the casual attitude of his fellow men, some of whom have useless rifles caked with mud, others with their mechanisms frozen even though non-freezing oil has been issued. Some men would keep their rifles wrapped in protective material, and would therefore have 'yards of blanket to unwind before they can use [them]'. 'We're a pretty casual sort of army all right,' says Nulla, and continues:

  The battalion has never lost a position to the enemy and much of their worth lies in this casual-going attitude. They'll stand amidst a tornado of screaming, crashing death and pump bullets into an enemy attack ... with the same casual air that they'll chuck, or fail to chuck, an off-handed salute to the British staff officers on the Strand. [p. 32]

  The Australians' casual attitude may also partly explain the trench humour that Nulla finds hard to become accustomed to. Though every effort was made to bury the dead where they fell, bodies were often disinterred by shellfire and their remains scattered. Some killed in attacks lay where they were hit, especially if they fell between the lines, like some Australians who died at Fromelles who were not recovered until 1919. Nulla is aghast when he sees a dead man's hand – 'bleached white from exposure to the weather' – protruding from the side of the trench. No one knows whose hand it was. He speculates, 'Maybe a musician, a Fritz, as the trench had lately been captured... . Poor beggar!' [pp. 34–35] The hand has been used as an ashtray and a small cardboard sign reading 'Gib it bacca, boss' hangs from it by a piece of string. To young Nulla – and indeed, to us readers – it seems callous, but a corporal explains that humour is a survival technique for the seasoned soldiers. He advises Nulla that the best way to cope is to 'give up thinking too much' and to 'treat danger as a humorous episode'. Nulla seems to heed at least the latter advice, as he and his mates do come to see the lighter side of grim situations.

  There are abundant wartime stories similar to the one about the fun being had with the unknown soldier's hand, and such things were common occurrences. Charles Bean mentions that troops were helped by looking upon hard times as a joke, and by dismissing and covering their inner feelings with wittiness and hilarity. There is much evidence of this tendency in their letters home, in poems and diaries and even in official dispatches and reports.

  Nulla's next job as a runner is to guide into the line men carrying supplies designed to help the battalion cope with the cold, muddy conditions: sheepskin gloves and whale oil. By mid-January 1917, the snow had turned the battlefield into deep, clinging mud. Trench walls collapsed and the trench bottom was deep in mud, which went up to men's knees. Men tried to get some sleep standing with their backs against the wet, muddy trench wall but they would simply slide into the mud as soon as they nodded off. Just as Lynch describes in Somme Mud, some men would spread a blanket, hoping that this would keep them out of the mud, but their weight would soon cause it to sink and they were left with a cold, muddy blanket to keep them warm.

  It was the depths of winter and the clinging mud was as cold as ice. This caused hypothermia, which itself sent many men to hospital; with the continual exposure of the men's feet to moisture, it also led to the dreaded 'trench foot'. This was a form of frostbite and was caused by bad circulation in the legs and feet due to the cold and damp. It was exacerbated by the men's tight boots and puttees. As with hypothermia, blood from the heart ceases to flow to these frozen extremities, the limbs freeze solid and frostbite begins to set in. Hands and ears could also become frostbitten, but this was far less common as they were clear of the mud and the men could cover them or rub them to keep the circulation going.

  It was impossible to keep their feet out of the icy mud, though, so their circulation was reduced and if they did not receive treatment, gangrene would develop. Their feet would go black and the tissue would die. Nulla describes how 'huge water blisters appear and when these burst, a painful raw sore is left ... men ... endure great agony, can't stand and must be sent out of the line to have their feet amputated' [p. 33]. The problem was endemic to the Western Front and Bean noted on a tour in the frontline during the 1916–17 winter that 'practically all the men in many Australian battalions were suffering from trench feet at least in its incipient stages'.2

  Attempts were made to prevent trench foot by encouraging the men to regularly massage whale oil into the skin of their feet and then put their boots back on, unlaced at the top. Instead of winding puttees tightly around their legs from the tops of their boots to below the knee, they were to wind sandbags loosely around their legs, to allow blood to circulate more freely. You can imagine how hard it would have been to put this advice into practice. Standing in a cramped trench, you would have to take one boot off while balancing on the other foot sunk deep in mud, then clean, dry and rub whale oil – which Nulla say
s has 'an awful smell like nothing we've smelt before' – into your foot. Then you would need to put on a clean, dry sock – not such an easy thing to find – and struggle to get your boot back on again, only to sink it straight back down into the mud. The officers who gave such instructions had little knowledge of conditions in a frontline trench and they compounded their ignorance by threatening military discipline on men who got trench foot. They ignorantly believed that it was a self-inflicted wound that should be punished harshly.

  In an effort to keep the AIF warm, men were also issued with a pair of Australian sheepskin gloves with the wool inside and a long cord that passed around the neck to join the gloves together and prevent them getting lost. Though it is not mentioned in Somme Mud, woollen sheepskin vests were also distributed to men on the Western Front.

  These sheepskin gloves and woollen vests were greatly appreciated by the men freezing in the frontline. At this stage of the war, the cold weather and mud were causing more casualties than the Germans. This, of course, required stretcher-bearers to carry them out, but carrying stretcher cases in deep mud was an exhausting and near impossible task in itself. Normally it took two men to carry a stretcher, but here you needed 10 or 12, who, after 50 metres, needed to be relieved. To get a soldier with trench foot to the rear, just 4 kilometres or so away, took 12 hours and many relay teams. There were cases of men with trench foot crawling back to aid posts to allow valuable stretchers to be used for wounded men more in need than themselves. However, casualty clearing stations were often exposed to the weather, so were wet and freezing and provided little shelter, comfort or any real relief for the wounded and sick.

  After four nights and days, only half of Nulla's company remains holding the line. Even his corporal has been carried out with trench foot, and so Nulla is taken off runner duties and put in charge of his old post. A young and inexperienced soldier – albeit one who has already displayed courage and dependability – now finds himself commanding his fellow men. Similar scenes to this were being played out across the front as Australian battalions became severely depleted through illness. Soon after being told to take charge, Nulla is put to the test.

  On 16 January 1917, while in the front line near Gueudecourt, the 45th Battalion was attacked by a German raiding party of approximately 50 men. The battalion diary states:

  At 3 a.m., a raiding party of about 50 or 60 raided our trench at [grid reference given]. This party was repulsed suffering four OR's ['other ranks', meaning gunners, privates, drivers or sappers] killed and a number wounded. Our casualties as a result of the raid nil.3

  Nulla makes mention of this raid in Somme Mud:

  Suddenly the stillness of the night is broken by a whispered 'stand to' passed down the trench ... Men scramble up and line the parapet, eyes peering into the darkness ahead. [p. 38]

  Later, we are told by Nulla:

  The prisoners say about fifty men attempted the raid and that very few escaped unwounded, but most of the wounded crawled back to their own trench. [p. 40]

  This is a typical case of an incident report being written up in the battalion history and then included in the narrative of Somme Mud, providing the historical accuracy that is evident throughout the book.

  FOUR

  Making Back

  from the Line

  In the First World War, killing was very efficient, very accurate and very destructive. Although there were failings in the Allies' operations, overall tactics had improved since the battles of the nineteenth century, as had weaponry, uniforms and equipment, systems for resupplying the front, medical services and communications.

  Many people imagine that soldiers during the First World War faced danger only when they were close to the frontline, but the reality was entirely different. First World War artillery had a range that extended well into reserve areas behind the front and into what might have been considered safe billets in the rear. Even a small artillery piece could fire 20 shells a minute at a range of 5 or 6 kilometres. The range of German and Allied artillery was such that generally anyone within 20 kilometres of the front was in danger, but the German 'Amiens gun', captured by the Australians in August 1918, was able to shell the city of Amiens from 25 kilometres away. Any place that personnel were likely to be found was targeted: crossroads and junctions, supply lines, towns, observation posts and high ground, known artillery positions, troop concentration areas including forming-up points and start lines, headquarters and cookhouses. With accurate range-finding and communication, artillery could follow and attack single vehicles and trenches in the support lines, or even hunt individual men.

  A notable, tragic case of this came later in the war, on 31 May 1918, when the Germans shelled the rest area in the small village of Allonville, just north of Amiens. The Germans had learnt from Australian prisoners that the village contained a Divisional Headquarters, a training area and a rest area. At 1 a.m., they fired on the village from 10 kilometres and, with the aid of an aircraft to pinpoint the exact range, succeeded in landing shells on two barns where members of the 14th Battalion were sleeping, killing a total of 18 men and wounding a further 68.

  As men left the frontline, they knew they were in danger, with the ever-present risk they might draw fire from German artillery and snipers, or from German aircraft. Exhaustion and cold, shell shock, minor wounds and fear went with the men, their faces hollow and bearded, their clothes often shredded, muddy and bloodstained. Staggering back to rest areas and billets, they at last had the chance to bath, repair and clean their weapons and sleep in warm beds. This was the cycle of war.

  Getting back out of the line was as dangerous as coming in. It was always carried out at night, in the pitch black. When the 45th is finally relieved on the frontline near Gueudecourt and head back to the support line, Nulla and his mates Yacob and Dark are separated from the rest of their battalion – Nulla and Dark because they have been given jobs to do, but Yacob because he has been detained for nearly leading the relief into the enemy's line.

  They try to save time by making their way back to their battalion across open ground. Suddenly, however, the night is shattered by a series of shells, randomly fired onto likely targets, so they seek shelter in a sunken road. They make for a deep underground shelter, probably constructed by the Germans when this part of the line was in enemy hands. Fifty feet below ground, men could warm up, wounds could be treated and they could grab a little sleep.

  But for Nulla and company, there is no room at the inn. After seven nights standing up in a frontline trench, catching only a little sleep, they are exhausted and soon fall asleep on the top step at the entrance of the dugout, with no shelter from the freezing conditions. When they wake the following morning, 'cramped and shivering', they are covered in 15 centimetres of snow which fills every crease in their uniforms and completely covers their rifles and other equipment.

  Around them, the landscape has taken on a new and unfamiliar look as many Australians would not have seen snow before, except perhaps the Gallipoli veterans, who had suffered on the peninsula with the snowfalls in November 1915. Snow now covered the pitted, shell-smashed ground, the bodies of the dead, the duckboards and tracks – making the trip to the rear even more difficult. And it also made men and movement in the white landscape far more visible. Far out across no-man's-land, German eyes on higher ground would be scouring not only the frontline trenches, but also the rear area for any movement whatsoever and any tell-tale sign of men, equipment or stores.

  Normally, men only tried to make it back from the frontline under cover of night, but as the sun is only now beginning to rise and snow is falling again, reducing visibility, Nulla and his mates set out across the open ground, safe in the belief they cannot be seen by the ever-watchful Germans.

  First, they come upon some officers' gear that has been left unattended and collect a bundle of clean, dry blankets that have been rolled and tied with pack straps, 'the work of some neat batmen', or officers' servants. Nulla even swaps his muddy rifle for a
clean one.

  Weighed down with their bounty of fresh blankets hidden under a greatcoat, they set off, but the sun suddenly breaks through and they are caught in the open. They are now even more visible: clear black, moving specks in the vastness of the dazzling white landscape. At that very moment, probably half a kilometre away, a German minenwerfer crew receives their coordinates and races to fire their weapons. Seconds later, three whiz-bangs (shells) crash 20 metres behind the three men, frighteningly accurate for a first salvo.

  'Swing to the right,' calls Dark, a smart move, for the Germans would have quickly corrected their range, added the 20 metres plus a further 20, hoping to land their next shell on the running men. Sure enough, three more shells land exactly where they would have been had they not made their right turn. Running on, the men would have been very obvious to German forward observers, who would have signalled to their own men the Australians' position, allowing the quick re-registering of the German mortars and the change in the type of ammunition they were firing.

  Cr-up! and a big shrapnel bursts high up just to our right and we see the mud and snow kick up in fifty places where the deadly pellets drive into the ground. [p. 48]

  Shrapnel was greatly feared by men in the open. It had been invented in 1784 by a British Royal Artillery officer, Lieutenant Henry Shrapnel, who took the existing technologies of canister shot or grapeshot to a new level. Grapeshot comprised multiple iron balls that were fired by a cannon; in canister shot, smaller lead balls were encased in metal, which burst open when fired. Shrapnel's innovation was to place lead shot in a shell casing along with a crude timing device that allowed the shell to explode much further away, increasing the range from about 300 to 1,100 metres.

  Shrapnel was used extensively by the Duke of Wellington against Napoleon's troops in the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. The German armament manufacturer Krupp further developed it by incorporating TNT, but the use of shrapnel in the First World War was limited, because it was ineffective against men in trenches and with overhead cover. It was also ineffective against barbed wire, as seen in the Somme offensive in July 1916, when even after intensive use of shrapnel, the German wire was left intact. But for men in the open and unprotected, it was deadly.