Private Beatsons War

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Contents

List of Illustrations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi Acknowledgements

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv

Editors’ Note . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xxi Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Prologue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43 The Diary of Private James Beatson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Part I: Arrival and Life in the Trenches Part II: The Second Battle of Ypres and its Aftermath Part III: The Conversation Part IV: Rumours and Rats Epilogue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 123 A Note on the Photographs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135 Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139 Bibliography Index

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151

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Prologue

At 5 o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, 23 February 1915 the men of the 9th Battalion, Royal Scots were roused from their slumber by a bugler playing reveille. Months of impatient waiting – during which the ‘always-never-going battalion’ had become the laughing stock of Edinburgh – were over. No more unsubstantiated rumours, endless kit inspections and false farewells to loved ones. Later that day, they would depart for the war.

That evening the ‘Dandy Ninth’ marched through the dark, snowy streets of Edinburgh to Princes Street station. As one of Private Beatson’s comrades in B Company later wrote: There was no band, no wild excitement, or hysterical farewell.

The key-note was a quiet note of pride, a steady facing of the Unknown, relief that we were actually off, which softened at the time the ‘sadness of farewell’ – all unemotional perhaps, but impressive.39 The battalion boarded trains in three detachments, B Company leaving the station at around 9 o’clock. The journey south was uneventful. Breakfast, consisting of a meat sandwich, Melton Mowbray pork pie and hot coffee, was taken at Crewe. Even as the men headed through the Midlands in the late winter sunshine, there were rumours that their destination was Winchester for a spell of divisional training. However, the train did not stop and steamed on to Southampton, bringing with it the sudden recognition that they were most certainly heading for France.

At around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, with the sun about to set, the 9th Royal Scots, some Coldstream Guards and elements of the Army

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44 Private Beatson’s War Service Corps embarked on HMT Inventor, a cargo ship requisitioned as a troop carrier. Still there was no fanfare, just sober concentration on the task ahead. ‘We watched the arrival of hospital ships, and realised that that was the way not a few of us would return.’40 The Inventor laid to down the river; it did not cross the Channel until the following day, at which point Private Beatson started writing his diary. *

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Part I: Arrival and Life in the Trenches

~ First Entry ~ James N. Beatson No. 2024 B Company, 9th Royal Scots In the event of my death, William Swan No. 2288 or Cecil Valentine No. 2355 or failing those, I can trust the good fellowship of any of my comrades to do me and those who love me the favour of sending this record to my father John Beatson, 22 Downfield Place, Edinburgh.

February 1915 The 9th Royal Scots landed at Le Havre and travelled by train to the fields of Flanders and their section of the Western Front, where the opposing Allied and German armies were ‘entrenched’. They joined the 81st Brigade of the British Army’s 27th Division.

~ Channel Crossing ~ English Channel Thursday, 25th February 1915 Left Edinburgh two nights ago, the less I say of how I felt the better.

I purpose [intend] keeping a rough record of the future days so that when I return (may God grant it), I may the more faithfully recount them to you.

We have been on the water since four o’clock yesterday

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46 Private Beatson’s War afternoon and are only some half mile off shore. The train journey was very comfortable but since coming on board the Kaiser has something to answer for. Lack of space and the cold make sleeping impossible, while the continual clattering of hobnailed boots on the iron plating was an impregnable barrier to those who got over the first.

Two Lascars [Indian sailors] wandered about late and early, selling vile tea at 2d a cup. In fact hawking is their main occupation; tea, oranges, biscuits at the highest prices obtainable. They are in general small and weak looking with a slight knowledge of English and hail from Calcutta. The boat was used before the outbreak of war as a cattle transport from Liverpool to Calcutta and the cattle have left a few keepsakes – worse luck!

Today the sun is bright but cold still. Dredgers, minesweepers (this line means that I got a blow from a block which some fool upset which about finished this diary and me) and small craft churn up and down.

Hospital ships are anchored here and there. Last night as we sailed past them a low cheer was raised on both sides, low because strict orders were given for silence. A seaplane has whirred overhead once or twice, searching like a hawk for some submarine rat.

~ First Day in France ~ Le Havre Friday, 26th February A brilliant morning on Havre pier, the sun warming the morning air and glittering the waters.

We sailed last night on a sea as calm as a millpond, relying on our strong guards for a safe journey. All were ordered below and a night much better than the previous one was spent in sleep. We got a hurried breakfast, Bill and I, no tea, and I for one landed in France with a big hunger and some French and a few coppers to ease it. An old lady with a paralysed left hand, in charge of the ‘Ligue Nationale

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Arrival and Life in the Trenches 47 Antealcoolique’,41 sold buttered rolls at a penny a time. ‘Chocolat’, ‘petite beurre’, etc. were on sale but, strange enough, no wine (although its harmlessness is famous) was to be had.

A few Indians with donkey carts and Frenchmen were moving about the sheds, and as if to enforce the terms of discipline on the minds of new arrivals, squads of prisoners toiled and sweated under a bullying sergeant. I was told the principal offences are drunkenness and disobedience to officers. One carries the V.C., another is in for five years for shooting his own forefinger off.

March 1915 The 9th Royal Scots spent most of the month digging and fortifying trenches near the Belgian village of Dickebusch, within a mile of the front line. On 14 March the battalion endured its first taste of trench warfare and suffered its first casualties in holding the front-line trenches against an attack by the Germans near St Eloi. In all, two Royal Scots were killed and fifty wounded.

~ From France to Belgium ~ L’Abeele Monday, 1st March Arrived at Boeschepe last night over the French frontier into Belgium.

But to begin where I left off.

We left Havre Pier on Friday afternoon to march some four miles to a rest camp. No attempt was made to raise a marching song. We were all eyes for anything new.

The streets are lined with the kind of building that is met throughout France, flashy and toy like. You expect to see ‘Made in Germany’ stamped on the back. You can see them in ‘Pathe Frére Comédies’ in the New Picture House any night. ‘Appartements’ with little balconies outside, door-windows, ‘cafés’ with seats in front under

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48 Private Beatson’s War an awning and plants around. ‘Maisons’ set in rock gardens, haughty and ‘insouciant’ as a Boilian female* and the ‘counseilleurs’ have the same straining after realism as Zola or Balzac for they take no trouble to screen the urinals, or the fact that the ladies have as much right to animal comfort as the men.

The only thing that the Mademoiselles have to learn our girls is hairdressing. We have been early on the move often, but have never failed to find the girls clean-faced and elaborately coiffed. They know that nothing disturbs love like a slatternly appearance. They live to love or to inspire love and lust; there is no difference to most French women.

After climbing an abominable hill we reached camp, got settled in tents and I went to the Y.M.C.A. where I wrote you to the accompaniment of some amateur singing. The place was packed and stories from the Front were to be heard on all sides.

Reveille at 5.30 next morning, Saturday, after a pretty fair night’s sleep, and off at 7.15 to the ‘Foie de Marchandaise’. We had furries† served out here, were bundled into wagons, 26 in each, and after emergency rations and rations for the journey were served out we started off.

We came across in a cattle boat, were fed on cattle biscuits, wore cattle coats and now we’re driven in a cattle wagon. Some 25 hours of this, crushed and cramped, dozing on straw for a few minutes, coming back to consciousness frozen. We had a vile, undrinkable mixture when we halted in a siding for a few minutes, made of rum and coffee, unsweetened and cold. Still we recovered our spirits and landed in Cassel about 9 o’clock in the morning. We passed Rouen and Calais en route. The country as a whole, flat. The farmhouses surrounded by a grassy rampart surmounted by tall trees pruned to the trunk. A plan learned, I think, in warfare as every farm or hamlet is thus defensible.

The roads are lined with the same tall trees filing along two deep. The * Reference to the work of the French satirical poet Nicholas Boileau. † Overcoat made from goat or sheepskin.

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Arrival and Life in the Trenches 49 orchards are plentiful, trees dressed by the left. A very pretty countryside to spend a holiday in, on a bicycle.

We had a hurried meal at Cassel. Bob G, Dan McK and I had a glass of coffee and bread with butter in a café, very good, all at 2d a time, daintily served in a pretty room heated by a huge stove. There we fell in, coats on, on our back our pack, blanket, furry and mess tin.

You’d think they collected all the hills in France and planted them round Cassel. We trudged along, Colonel and an interpreter at the head on horses. We had a rest every three or four miles for a minute or two, then over the rough causeway and mud through Steenvorde, L’Abeele and Boeschepe to Poperinghe.

We were quartered in farm buildings round about as dusk was falling. It was dark when we got a share of hot water to make oxo. The star shells could be seen dropping over the trenches about four miles off, then to a blessed sleep in the straw till next morning. Only wakened once with cold which was soon remedied. We – Bill and I – had most of our clothes off. What ho.

~ Shrines and Wreaths ~ L’Abeele Tuesday, 2nd March Brilliant morning after a sound rest. Settling down to write after a refreshing wash up.

While I remember, the roads are causewayed only in the centre, about a cart’s breadth, the margins being knee deep in mud in soft weather. Every half mile or so a shrine is met, sometimes only a thing like a dovecot hung in a tree, usually a wood hut with an altar inside on which stands a crucifix, a favourite saint or two, the Madonna and Child and the candles. Occasionally a wooden crucifix about life-size is met, carved very expertly.

Almost all the women when dressed on Sunday were draped in

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50 Private Beatson’s War black; a little cemetery at Boeschepe, crowded with wreaths, tells why.

We are allowed into the village in parties for a short time but all must carry a rifle and five rounds in case a sniper is met.

~ A Café ~ L’Abeele Wednesday, 3rd March Rising after a light sleep.

Jiny, Bill S., Bill J. and I had an hour or so in the village yesterday afternoon. We sat in a café, drank coffee and beer, parlez-voused with the women who were serving and became interested in the host’s little girl, a sober, sweet-faced maid of fourteen. I carried on a conversation partly in French aided with the little English she understood. She said Carrie was ‘jolie’ but didn’t think the photograph like me at all.

The Germans came to this village one night; two men were shot, provisions were demanded in the café at the point of the revolver. The little girl fled with the others, returning when the Huns had fled before the Allied soldiers.

~ Rehearsals and Rum ~ L’Abeele Friday, 5th March Wednesday and Thursday evenings from 6.30 onwards for a few hours were spent rehearsing the relieving of trenches, flopping down flat in the gluey mud every time a signal went signifying the bursting of a star shell. The real thing was seen on the horizon, the shells lighting up the night to a white glow and the guns booming dully.

Bryce and I were detailed to act as guides last night.42 It was a

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Arrival and Life in the Trenches 51 godsend to have a temporary elevation from being a human machine and use a little initiative. The notorious tot of rum is served each night but I used it only on Wednesday and then only watered down.

~ Under Fire ~ Dickebusch Monday, 15th March Left our billets near Poperinghe last Friday and marched through Boeschepe and Reninghelst to a little clump of trees near Dickebusch.

Among the trees are set some 60 little tents like Indian wigwams. In these we’ve since been settled with additional companies coming at intervals.

Every night since we came till last night we’ve been under fire while digging reserve trenches and only had two wounded. Last night B and D companies were booked for the fire trenches but the German artillery was playing hell, making it impossible to relieve C Company who were in along with the 1st Royal Scots.

Stood by for a while and, after more rations were sent to C Company, we lay down, ready at a moment’s notice to take the road.

Our artillery belched replies all night and musketry barking. We, the British, lost four trenches and recaptured three. This is the net result meantime of Hindenburg’s effort to reach Calais by the 15th March.

Their artillery was like themselves, any amount of bark but no great bite. They ripped an observation mound to bits and tore up some reserve trenches, but their infantry attack petered out. Our lads didn’t worry at the prospect of bloody butchery last night. We can rough it hard when it’s needed, but in the present circumstances a little more grub would leave us less hungry and these damned Belgians fleece us at every opportunity. I’m certain that Dickebusch is full of pro-Germans and that they give away information as the price of their safety. The friction would be eased if the authorities had the

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52 Private Beatson’s War horse-sense to open a regimental canteen. A temporary affair on wheels run by an honest contractor would pay both him and us.

Had a pleasant debate last night starting with Germany and ending with Trades Unionism versus Socialism. The debate ended with the candle.

~ Canadian Light Infantry ~ Dickebusch Monday evening, 15th March Getting ready to go into the trenches; the ‘Princess Pats’ are a game lot. Went into battle last night with cigs between their teeth. It’s at a time like this that a little bucks you up though.

~ Running the Gauntlet ~ Dickebusch Monday, 22nd March Events follow each other so quickly, and each wild experience is swallowed up by a later one still more exciting, that what happened only last week is as distant as last year.

Well, last Monday, so far as I can remember, all B Company paraded with water bottles filled and twenty-four hours’ haversack rations, with waterproof sheets and teddy bear coats tied on our backs and marched off. On the road a couple of shells burst about 50 yards away with a white flash and a deafening report. Then after being detailed off in squads we started to creep to the trenches through hedges, floundering through ditches and shell holes, flares lighting up the dark and showing us up to a hellish hail of bullets but, by the mercy of God, although the lead rang on the rifles and kicked the earth at our head, we ran the gauntlet to trench No. 8, 130 yards or so from the German lines held, I believe, by Bavarians.