William Beach Thomas - With the British Army on the Somme

This edition published in 2014 by
Pen & Sword Military
An imprint of
Pen & Sword Books Ltd
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This book was first published as With the British On the Somme
by Methuen & Co. Ltd., London, 1917.

Copyright Coda Books Ltd.
Published under licence by Pen & Sword Books Ltd.

ISBN: 9781783463107
EPUB ISBN: 9781473850514
PRC ISBN: 9781473850583

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER I
BEFORE THE WAR

CHAPTER II
THE SOLDIER AND THE SER

CHAPTER III
STEPS TO THE SOMME: MOVEMENT

CHAPTER IV
STEPS TO THE SOMME: STAGNATION

CHAPTER V
STEPS TO THE SOMME: EXPECTANCY

CHAPTER I
THE COMING EVENT

CHAPTER II
JULY I: FROM THE HILL

CHAPTER III
JULY I: FROM THE FIELD

CHAPTER IV
JULY I: THE ISSUE OF THE DAY

CHAPTER V
ON THE BATTLE-FIELD

CHAPTER VI
AN EARLIER FIELD

CHAPTER VII
OVER THE PARAPET

CHAPTER VIII
THE NEW FIGHTING

CHAPTER IX
THE SIX WOODS

CHAPTER X
THE VILLAGE

CHAPTER XI
THE OPEN FIELD

CHAPTER XII
COMING OUT

CHAPTER XIII
TANKS AND OTHER ENGINES

CHAPTER XIV
THROUGH PRISONERS EYES

CHAPTER XV
THE FINAL FIELD

CHAPTER XVI
EPILOGUE

BEFORE THE WAR

I N THE SUMMER of 1912 an English socialist of some fame in the world of letters was returning home through France. On the train he made acquaintance with a highly educated German of a social type scarcely known in England. The man was a merchant, an imperial politician, a commercial traveller of the higher sort, and in some measure a spy - a spy of character and tendencies, a political psychologist who took back to Germany information of the trend of other peoples ways and habits. His constant pleasure was to discuss national traits and world politics. With the cold and cruel logic that mark one side of the Prussian character, he proceeded to sketch for the edification of his English companion the course of the impending war.

And he spoke by the book. His prognostics were verified to the letter in many details. He was wrong only as to issues. He told how the German army would pour across Belgium and swamp France. Nor did he omit to give practical details of the material preparations. Wooden platforms, so he said, had been manufactured in sections for the purpose of lengthening the little platforms at particular local stations in Belgium.

The tale would have been very distasteful to his companion, who was what we call a pacifist, if he had not regarded the whole discussion as a mere academic thesis; and in that temper he joined issue. What will Britain be doing all this while? He asked. At the challenge the German, who was on his way to accept the hospitality of an aristocratic house in England, unfolded his belief in the utter decadence of Britain, illustrating his theme with examples from the home of his host. Such young men, said the German, are of no use to their country; and the nation that encourages them to shoot and hunt and play games and to drive motors is too selfish and too lazy to fight.

Three years later, after the first harvest of war had been reaped, I went to seek the grave of one of these young Englishmen. He had sought a commission before the war was a week old and joined one of the best of all our fighting regiments. Before many weeks were over he was recognized even in that company as a soldier of exceptional parts. He had made himself expert in the machine-gun and in bombing. Throughout the most desperate and miserable period of the fighting in the mud of Flanders he was never anything but merry and keen. He was one of the few men that ever I knew who enjoyed the war and the exercise of his vitality in such a field. Whatever he may have felt, for he was kind and affectionate by nature and a great lover of children, he never showed to his companions a sign of fear or reluctance or softness. Whom the gods love die young. He was shot dead in the defence of a German trench that his company had captured against heavy odds. Where he fell, there he was buried, far from the many acres he would one day have owned. He was rich and strong and comely; and made the supreme sacrifice. The nation that is decadent in his fashion may gladly embrace the German accusation. It was no accident that he wrested this wretched trench from a stronger force of the apostles of the art of war. The formula, baldly stated again and again in German histories, We are the greatest people because we are the most warlike, went by the board once again during that fight for the muddy ditch in Flanders. The better man won.

One other anecdote. Three weeks before the war an English trades unionist and internationalist went to Hamburg for a conference convoked to discuss internationalism and the solidarity of labour. The Englishman had previously persuaded the Hamburg workmen to organize co-operative shops, and they began to prove successful beyond all German expectation. Presently the military authorities descended, visited the organizers, took a complete census of horses and carts, offering a small retaining fee. At the same time these officers made a record of every machine in the district and instructed the owners in the best and quickest method of converting the machinery to the manufacture of war material.

All this was known to the trades unionists of Germany.

Because of this knowledge, or in spite of it, no single deputy of the German socialist group present at the conference could be persuaded to vote for a motion in favour of international peace, though the discussion was purely abstract and academic. The pacifists themselves believed that the world could not compete with Krupp and the lesser Krupps in war as in peace, and had definitely, if not always consciously, accepted the policy of an aggressive war. They felt no doubt that a quick and thorough victory would follow and would ensue the paradise of world dominance. The prospect was too fair to reject. Even the best succumbed to the enticement of the dream. When August came the socialists in the Reichstag cheered the Chancellor to the echo.

All the world that loved peace could do nothing else but fight a people of such a mood and temper.

THE SOLDIER AND THE SER

E VERY ONE WHO, not being a soldier, writes about war, sees more of its pomp and circumstance than its dirt and stagnancy. If anyone were to write of it as it is at its worst - as it was in the mine holes at St. Eloi, where strong men fell exhausted within a hundred yards from their starting-point - as it was in Devils Wood, where bodies lay thick - as it was in the crowded trenches down the hill towards Le Sars, where more men were buried alive than shot dead, then man and woman would not endure to read the tale, if anyone could endure to write it or consent to publish it. Nothing is written, even in Zolas