Sorely beset at Verdun, now the French
The Arras Front do leave, us to defend.
In arctic weather we from Amiens march,
Forward to Doullens, and there make our camp.
Six decades gone, one can still feel the bite,
Cartridge cases stick to frosted fingers.
Twenty degrees below zero these nights,
Filling belts of bullets for the trenches.
Recall Doullens Hill, two miles, ice covered.
Man drag-ropes on the wagons, all skidding,
No grip for horses hooves, sliding, slipping,
Poor brutes struggle gamely at man’s bidding!
Uphill, downhill, we tread the snowy way,
Till all Brigade transport is safe on top.
Here rest awhile, now is the time to stay,
On pillowed snow the troops exhausted drop.
A drink, a smoke, we travel on again.
Snow falling, drifting, blinds impedes the trail.
Clouds break, clearing as day begins to wane,
We struggle on, as strength begins to fail.
The moon arising illumines the scene,
A vast expanse of sparkling whiteness glints.
Only gaunt trees, no habitation seen,
Anon, black clouds the moon rays darkening.
Outlines of buildings, a village in sight,
Shelter and succour we hope for the night.
‘Stay!’ calls the sergeant, a farmstead in view,
‘These are our billets, sweet sleep is your due’.
Here in the snow while Officer bargains,
Haggles and wrangles, French dame in tangles!
Packs for our pillows, starts glisten o’erhead,
Icicle spangles hang from the farmstead.
Scant shelter in the barn that we now claim.
Gaps in the roof invite the twinkling stars.
One great coat grounded, three men closely share,
Two more for counterpane, all covered there.
Close bedded, slumber comes swiftly for all.
At daybreak hear aloft Chanticleers call,
Wash in the horse trough, first breaking the ice,
Feel great! Ready for breakfast in a trice!
Two days later, more friendly the weather,
Through Arras we march, stepping together.
Billets are found in the wide Rue Jeanne d’Arc,
So out with your razor, unshaved young spark!
Into the trenches, all up with the lark!
Here fine deep dug-outs, cleft clean in the chalk.
No slime, slush and stenches to sour our stay,
Recalling Ypres, rats, lice, stickfast clay!
Worst fear is ‘Mine’, as freely we chatter.
‘That tapping sound’, all nod, a grave matter.
Occasional ‘Mortar’ present from Fritz.
Sniper hits periscope, shatters to bits!
Mostly much boredom, except when relieved.
In Arras find freedom, this town reprieved.
The Germans sure plan to capture intact,
All heavy shells banned, none here, that’s a fact!
Now in July raged gruesome Somme battle.
Men on barbed wire die, helpless as cattle.
In these deep chalk trenches, stillness profound,
On our right flank this grim ominous sound!
Shell bursts, yes, caught it, shrapnel in each arm!
Nurse inoculates, no need for alarm.
Here am I, travelling down to Base,
A welcome respite, no trenches to face!
In hospital suit, at Rouen stranded,
‘Patience my son!’ the good doctor counselled.
Friends make it to ‘Blighty’, here I must bide,
And pray the Almighty still be my Guide!