The Ypres Times.
65
After straffing one adjutant for not returning any tins, he promptly told me that
the battalion had not had any jam that week, but that his tins were all marmalade
ones!
Those were the days when each gun was only allowed a limited number of rounds
per day, and to ask for retaliation for an enemy strafewas to run the risk of using
the next day's ration of shells.
On one occasion it was reported that an enemy sniper in an old farm house was
causing many casualties, and headquarters decided to bombard him out of existence.
The usual warning was given to all troops in the front line sector all patrols and other
night stalking parties were instructed to be back in their own lines by 11.45 p.m. I had
arranged to do an extensive tour of the enemy wire that night, but was glad to be able to
return before midnight, to witness the thrilling spectacle of a night bombardment. As
the hour approached all the front line was in a state of excitement. Silence reigned.
Bosche Very lights dropped intermittently and silently, caring little for what was
in store for those who fired them. So midnight arrived and the same uncanny silence reigned;
varied perhaps by an occasional German shell or rifle bullet. At 12.3 a.m. the triumphant
bang of a British howitzer was heard, and a shell sped gaily in the direction of the sniper's
post. Everyone in the trench had difficulty in suppressing the cheer which rose in each
heart. The bombardment had begun. But again there was silence. At length, a second
shell sailed over after an interval of five minutes. Three minutes later the third shell
followed and the bombardmentwas over. In the morning the ruined farm still remained
as it was the sniper pursued his daily task for many days until other means were found
to dislodge him."
It was bed time when the skipper finished his tale, and I thought of the change that
had taken place since those days. The guns of the Somme, wheel to wheel, row behind
row, roared and coughed in the distance, and under a starry sky, streaked with never
ceasing gun flashes, I laid down to sleep, breathing a thankful prayer that I was not sent
to Ypres in 1915. Of my own experiences in the Salient in 1918 (with the Editor's
permission) the reader may hear more anon.
HAROLD GOODLEY, M.C.
KITCHENER'S MEN
We are your men,
Kitchener
Suddenly hurled
Like hounds from the leash,
Out springing each,
Straight at the foe
We go
Fiercely and glad.
Fighting mad
Thro' death and worse,
Thro' infinite pain,
Thro' rain
Or fire.
Thro' dire
Menace and dread,
Storming ahead,
Cheer, sob or curse
Heedless of all
But your call
That England be saved.
England saved, manhood saved, honour saved
Though your call be a muffled drum,
Though your magical voice be dumb.
We come.
Through the length of the land
Your hand
Sent out the Fiery Cross,
England has need
Take no heed
Profit or loss,
Ploughshare or pen
So you be men.
Only men, only men, only men!
At the magical call of your name
We came.
Kitchener
We are your men.
Kitchener
From formless rabble you made
Battalion, brigade
An army amazing the world,
Hail we the day!
Nought can stay
Nor withstand
Your hand.
Kitchener
Beatrix Brice.
