Life and Death - Sir Oliver Lodge

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simply to lose less men than we do. Accordingly, they leave very few men in their front trench, but what there are have a good supply of machine guns and are well supported by artillery. We precede our attacks by heavy shelling, and the few men get into well-built dug-outs until it is over, then they come out and get to work with their machine guns on the attacking infantry. The trench ultimately falls after rather heavy loss on our side (especially if the wire isn't properly cut) and the few defenders hold up their hands. Some are made prisoners—some are not. If the enemy want the trench very badly they try and retake it by means of a strong counter-attack, trusting that our men and arrangements are in sufficient confusion to prevent adequate support. That is why our attacks are so expensive and why we aren't constantly attacking. The alternative plan is, I think, simply to shell them heavily—in all their lines—and leave out the actual attack in most cases. …

      "I was so interested to hear that Alec had applied for me to come back. It is not at all impossible, because I have known two or three cases where officers have been recalled—one was chief chemist (or so he said) at Brunner Mond's. He was returning as I came out, and tried to make one's flesh creep by his tales of war. But I don't think it is likely to happen in my case. I only wish it would. I should love to come home again, although I don't feel as if I had done my bit yet—really. I haven't been in any big scrap, and I haven't killed my man even. …

      "I had a ripping time at the transport; I hope they enjoyed the peas—they deserved to. They were hospitality itself. They welcomed me, gave me three meals, lent me anything I wanted, made room for me to sleep in their large room (this necessitated the Quartermaster-Sergeant moving his bed into another room), gave me a warm bath, and generally made me feel quite at home. They have a ripping dug-out. Rooms half underground, 7 feet high, plenty of ventilation, boarded floor and walls, and a wooden roof supported on square wooden pillars and covered in earth well sodded on top. …

      "Talking about the Major (Major Cotton), he used to be our Adjutant at Crosby—he was Captain then. He came out as second in command and has now got the Battalion while our Colonel (Colonel Dudgeon) is away sick. The latter got his C.B. in the last honours list. He is an excellent man. Lieut. Burlton, too, got a Military Cross. He has now been wounded twice; he was the moving spirit of the hockey matches at Crosby in the old days, and, when he was recalled to the Front, his mantle fell upon me. …

      "All the officers here are from different regiments with a very few exceptions. It is most interesting. At meals, Way and I sit among the Cavalry, Dragoons and Lancers, etc. They are fine chaps—the real Army officers of which there are now all too few."

      "Machine-Gun School, G.H.Q., Wednesday, 7 July 1915, 5 p.m.

      "Here I am getting towards the end of my little holiday, only five more days to go. No word has reached me from my Battalion on the subject of leave, or of anything else for that matter. …

      "If this threatened push on Calais is real, or if the higher commands have got 'wind up' about it, they will very likely stop all leave, and then I shall just have to wait until it starts again. …

      "I am sure that the fact of our nation being 'down' and preparing for a winter campaign will materially assist in shortening the war and rendering that preparation unnecessary.

      "We have an awfully amusing chap here who is in the Grenadier Guards. He is always imitating Harry Tate. A great big hefty chap, in great big sloppy clothes (including what are known as 'Prince of Wales' breeches). He gets his mouth right over to the side of his face and says 'You stupid boy!' in Harry Tate's voice. He does this in the middle of our instructional squads when some wretched person does something wrong with the gun, and sends every one into fits of laughter. … [A lot more about a motor that wouldn't go.]

      "My M.G. course is going on very nicely. I have learnt a very great deal, have been intensely interested, and am very keen on the work. My function as a reserve machine-gunner should really be to train the reserve team and such parts of the main team as are not actually required in the trenches, in a safe spot behind the lines! It sounds 'cushy,' but those in authority over us are not sufficiently enlightened, I am afraid, to adopt such a plan. The object of course is to prevent your reserve men from being 'used up' as riflemen, as otherwise when you want them to take the place of the others they are casualties and all their training goes for nothing.

      The Cavalry officers here are a great joke. They find this life very tiring. They are quite keen to get back again and have been from the beginning. We, on the other hand, fairly enjoy it and are not at all anxious to go back to our regiments. That shows the difference between the lives we lead. Of course they have been in the trenches and have had some very bad times there, but they only go in in emergencies and at long intervals. …

      "Another difference between us is that they keep their buttons as bright as possible and themselves as spick and span as can be. The infantry officer gets his buttons as dull as possible, and if they are green so much the better, as it shows he has been through gas. He likes his clothes and especially his puttees to be rather torn, and his hat to be any old sloppy shape. If he gets a new hat he is almost ashamed to wear it—he is terrified of being mistaken for 'Kitcheners'!

      "Lord Kitchener and Mr. Asquith came here last evening. Here, to this convent. I don't know what for; but there was of course a good deal of stir here.

      "Way and I went into the town last night. We hired a fiacre for the return journey. It came on to rain, so it was just as well we had a hood. We both thoroughly enjoyed the journey. The fiacre was what would be dignified by the name of 'Victoria' in England. But in France, where it seems to be etiquette not to take any trouble over carriagework, fiacre is the only word you could apply, and it just fits it. It expresses not only its shabbiness but also hints at its broken-backed appearance.

      "We went into some stables and inquired about a fiacre, and a fat boy in a blue apron with a white handkerchief tied over one eye said we could have one. So I said, 'O� est le cocher?' and he pointed to his breast and said, 'C'est moi!'

      "The fare, he said, would be six francs and the pourboire. Thoughtful of him not to forget that. We agreed, and he eventually produced the usual French horse.

      "The fiacre was very comfortable and we were awfully tickled with the idea of us two in that absurd conveyance, especially when we passed staff officers, which was frequently. Altogether we were quite sorry when our drive was over."

       Table of Contents

      On 16 July 1915, Raymond came home on leave, and he had a great reception. On 20 July he went back.

      "Sunday, 25 July 1915, 7.30 p.m.

      "I have got quite a nice dug-out, with a chair and table in it. The table was away from the door and got no light, so I have spent about two hours to-day turning things round. I went to bed about three this morning (just after 'stand-to') and slept till nearly twelve. Then I had breakfast (bacon and eggs). As my former platoon Sergeant remarked: 'It is a great thing to have a few comforts, it makes you forget there is a war,'

      "So it does until a whizz-bang comes over.

      "I have just seen an aeroplane brought down (German luckily). I missed the first part, where one of ours went up to it and a flame shot across between them (machine gun, I expect). I ran out just in time to see the machine descending on fire. It came down quite steadily inside our lines (about a mile or more away), but the flames were quite clearly visible,"

      "Thursday, 29 July 1915, 7.35 p.m.

      "Here I am in the trenches again, quite like old times, and quite in the swing again after the unsettling effect of coming home! You know I can't help laughing at things out here. The curious aspect of things sometimes comes and hits me, and I sit down and laugh (not insanely or hysterically, bien entendu; but I just can't help chuckling). It is so absurd, the reasons and causes that have drawn me to this particular and unlikely field in Belgium,

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