Thomas Hope Floyd - At Ypres with Best Dunkley

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ON ACTIVE SERVICE SERIES

AT YPRES WITH BEST-DUNKLEY

By THOMAS HOPE FLOYD

LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXX
_Garden City Press, Letchworth, Herts._

TO

ALL RANKS OF THE

SECOND-FIFTH LANCASHIRE FUSILIERS

WHO FELL AT

YPRES

ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY, 1917

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK

"... Henceforth
These are our saints.

These that we touched, and kissed,
And frowned upon;
These that were frail, yet died because the good
Was overthrown.

That they in one dread hour
Were terrible
Stains not their sainthood, nor is heaven less sure
That they knew hell.

How beautiful they are,
How bright their eyes.
Their hands have grasped the key
Of Paradise!

They hold it out to us,
Our men, our sons
... To us
The lonely ones."

--THOMAS MOULT.[1]

FOOTNOTE:

[1] Quoted with Mr. Moult's permission.

FOREWORD

No doubt it will be thought that some apology is necessary for thrusting
upon the public all this mass of matter, relating to many persons and
episodes with whom and with respect to which they may feel that they are
in no way concerned. I quite realize that my action may appear strange
and uncalled for to the superficial observer. But I do not hold that
view. I, personally, have always felt a desire to read this kind of
literature. The Press does not cease to pour forth volumes of memoirs by
leading and prominent persons--matter which is all wanted for a true
understanding of the history of our times. But this is not enough. We
require all the personal narratives we can get; and, in my opinion, the
more personal and intimate, the better. We want narratives by obscure
persons: we want to know and appreciate everybody's outlook upon public
events, whether that outlook be orthodox or unorthodox, conventional or
unconventional. Only thus can we see the recent war in all its aspects.

The motives which have prompted me to publish this book have been well
expressed by Dr. A. C. Benson in his essay on Authorship in _From a
College Window._ In that volume there occurs the following striking
passage:

"The wonderful thing to me is not that there is so much desire in the
world to express our little portion of the joy, the grief, the mystery
of it all, but that there is so little. I wish with all my heart that
there was more instinct for personal expression; Edward Fitzgerald said
that he wished that we had more lives of obscure persons; one wants to
know what other people are thinking and feeling about it all; what joys
they anticipate, what fears they sustain, how they regard the end and
cessation of life and perception which waits for us all. The worst of it
is that people are often so modest, they think that their own experience
is so dull, so unromantic, so uninteresting. It is an entire mistake. If
the dullest person in the world would only put down sincerely what he or
she thought about his or her life, about work and love, religion and
emotion, it would be a fascinating document. My only sorrow is that
amateurs of whom I have spoken above will not do this; they rather turn
to external and impersonal impressions, relate definite things, what
they see on their travels, for instance, describing just the things
which anyone can see. They tend to indulge in the melancholy labour of
translation, or employ customary, familiar forms, such as the novel or
the play. If only they would write diaries and publish them; compose
imaginary letters; let one inside the house of self, instead of keeping
one wandering in the park!"

These memoirs, then, consist mainly of extracts from my private diary
and my letters home during those memorable days, spent in the Salient
and its vicinity, between the Battle of Messines and the Third Battle of
Ypres. The letters cover a definite period in the history of a great
battalion and in the course of the war. As will speedily be noticed, the
whole period was one of looking forward, practising and awaiting a great
day which we all knew was not far off, but the actual date of which none
of us knew until it was almost upon us. All this time our interests
(and, perhaps, our fears!) were centred upon one man, the unpopular
Colonel who, few of us guessed in those days, was destined to win the
V.C. on "the day," going down in a blaze of glory which should ever
associate his name with that battle. With that "day," which was for many
of us the end of all earthly troubles and hopes and fears, or, at any
rate, an end for many months, the story reaches its natural termination.

In these pages I give to the public, for what they are worth, my own
personal impressions of the people and things I saw and with whom I
came into contact. I hope I have revealed the late Colonel Best-Dunkley
to the public just as he was--as he appeared to me and as he appeared to
others. I believe that in this I am doing right. "Paint me in my true
colours!" exclaimed Cromwell to Lely. That is all that any hero--and
Best-Dunkley was certainly a hero--can conscientiously ask. And I am
sure it was all Best-Dunkley himself would ever have asked. He was a
brilliant young man, endowed with a remarkable personality. It is right
that his memory should be preserved; and if his memory is to be
preserved it must be the memory of the Best-Dunkley we knew.

The battalion which Best-Dunkley commanded has, since his death,
achieved great things and acquired great fame under the still more
brilliant leadership of his successor, Colonel Brighten; but we must
never forget that it was Best-Dunkley who led it on the glorious day of
Ypres and that it was the tradition which he inspired which has been one
of the strongest elements of esprit de corps in the 2/5th Lancashire
Fusiliers. All who served under Best-Dunkley remember the fact with a
certain amount of pride, however unfavourably his personality may have
impressed itself upon them at the time--for "All times are good when
old!"

I am fully aware of the many imperfections of this book; but if it
succeeds at all in vividly recalling to those who were in the Ypres
Salient in 1917 the atmosphere of that time, and if it should encourage
others to risk a similar venture, I shall feel amply rewarded.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

FOREWORD vii

I OFF TO THE FRONT 1

II THE PRISON 26

III ENTER BEST-DUNKLEY 49

IV MILLAIN 57

V THE MARCH 63

VI THE GENERAL'S SPEECH 77

VII THE VALE OF ACQUIN 81

VIII BACK TO THE SALIENT 103

IX BILGE TRENCH 113

X THE RAMPARTS 128

XI MUSTARD OIL 136

XII THE CITY AND THE TRENCHES 146

XIII RELIEF 164

XIV WATOU 168

XV THE DAYS BEFORE 179

XVI THE BATTLE OF YPRES 187

APPENDICES

I MURRAY AND ALLENBY 227

II THE INFANTRY AT MINDEN 229

III GENERAL RAWLINSON AND OSTEND 230

IV EDWARD III AND THE ORDER OF THE GARTER 231

V GOLDFISH CHATEAU 233

AT YPRES WITH BEST-DUNKLEY

CHAPTER I

OFF TO THE FRONT

I had been to France before--in 1916, during the Battle of the
Somme--but not as an officer; in 1916 I was a private in the Royal
Fusiliers, and I had received orders to return to "Blighty" in order to
proceed to an officer cadet battalion at Gailes, in Ayrshire, before I
had been able to see what a front-line trench was like. So this, then,
was my first experience of war--my "baptism of fire." I had seen and
heard those magnificent bombardments up the line in 1916, and had gazed
with awestruck admiration upon the strange horizon far away from my
tents at Boulogne and Etaples, wondering what it must be like to be
amongst it all, and expecting to be amongst it all in the course of a
day or two; but, as I have already observed, I was recalled to England,
and was not destined to be amongst it until the following summer. But
now, at last, the experience, the great adventure to which I had been
looking forward so long, was to be mine. I was gazetted a
second-lieutenant in the 5th (Territorial) Lancashire Fusiliers on March
1, 1917; on March 26, I reported for duty with the 5th (Reserve)
Lancashire Fusiliers at South Camp, Ripon, where I spent some unpleasant
weeks amongst snow and mud; from Ripon the unit proceeded to
Scarborough, where I rejoined it after having spent a couple of weeks in
hospital, with tonsillitis, at the former place. Shortly after this, I
received orders to proceed overseas, and returned to my home in
Middleton Junction to spend my embarkation leave.

That leave was spent in the happy way in which all such leaves were
spent during the Great War, terminating with a visit to the Gaiety, in
Manchester, in conjunction with my father and mother, where we saw a
most enjoyable comedy entitled "The Two Miss Farndons."

I bid farewell to my parents on Victoria Station at 10.35 that
evening--Friday, May 25, 1917; and I then proceeded to the train which
was to carry me away to England's capital.

The following letter, written at Folkestone at 11.15 the following
morning, describes my journey up to that moment:

"I hope you and Father got home safely last night and are not worrying.
My train left Manchester at 11.20. I had to change at Stockport. In
neither case could I get a carriage to myself, but I managed to doze.
When dawn broke we were in Northampton. It was 6.30 when the train
arrived in Euston Station. I got a taxi across London to Victoria. There
was an enormous crowd of military there, bound for France. People were
seeing some of them off. I could not get any breakfast there. My train
left London at 7.50. The journey through Kent is really delightful, such
beautiful country. I am sorry to leave dear old England; hope I shall
soon be back again!

"As we passed through Shorncliffe I noticed a house in ruins. Apparently
there had been an air raid. And there has indeed! There was a bad air
raid here at 6.30 last night. There is a good deal of damage done in
Folkestone: I have seen it while walking about the streets this morning.
There have been a good many casualties.

"The weather is glorious, delightful sunshine and hot. I am now having
breakfast in a cafe in Folkestone with another officer. We sail on the
_Princess Clementine_ at 2 this afternoon, and so will be in Boulogne
about 3.30."

I landed at Boulogne at 4 that afternoon and we went straight on to
Etaples the same evening. The following letter recounts my journey and
arrival at that great camp upon the sand-hills:

"May 27th, 1917.

"I have now, once more, safely arrived in this place, where there is
nothing but sand. I expect you will already have received my
communications from Folkestone. Is the news of the raid yet in the
papers? I was told that there were thirty German aeroplanes and one
zeppelin. Bombs were dropped on the soldiers' camp there, and a good
many soldiers were killed. Apparently the operation made a big row, for
it was heard across the water in the cathedral city in which we landed.

" ... We went on board at 1.30, but the boat did not start until 2.50.
It was, and still is, tremendously hot. It seems that submarines are not
harassing our transport route: for the number of ships, of various
kinds, crossing was considerable. It was a pleasant voyage; but as I saw
the white cliffs of Folkestone receding from my ken I could not help
recalling with what rapture I beheld them on my return from France last
October, and expressing a faint wish that I were again returning rather
than going out! But, still, one will soon get used to France again; and
we can always look forward to the next return. One thing is obvious--I
am here for the hottest weather; heat, if anything, will be the trouble,
not cold.

"The boat stood in the harbour for some time before we could land; but
we eventually did so at 4. After seeing about my kit I had tea at the
British Officers' Club, opposite the Gare Centrale. Then I got into the
train. It should have left at 5.45, but, like all French trains, was
very late in starting. It did start a little before 7. It was a train
filled entirely with officers. It ambled along in the usual leisurely
fashion. When we were about half-way we noticed that a good many were
standing outside on the step; some had their legs hanging out of the
window, others were actually on the roof! When we came to a tunnel the
latter dived in through the open windows. Others got out and spoke to
girls on the way, and then ran on and got back into the train. This is
how travelling is carried on 'Somewhere in France'!

"The scenery, beautiful as it seemed last autumn, is much more beautiful
now. It is at its best: the green grass with the dandelions and daisies,
the hawthorn and the trees in bloom, little villages clustering in
charming woods, the sheep and the cows, and little children cheering the
train, everything sparkling in the hot sunshine; such is France--and
such was the Kent I left behind me--at present. As one looks upon the
peaceful country-side in France to-day one can scarcely realize that war
is raging in all its ferocity and barbarity so near. It seems an
anomaly. The weather is more suggestive of cricket than of war.

"I got here about 8.30, and went to the mess of the 23rd Infantry Base
Depot. Here I found Bridgestock, Hamer, and Allin (officers who had been
at Scarborough with me, and had come out a few days earlier). They have
been here nearly a week. They are going to the 3/5th Lancashire
Fusiliers. I had some supper before going to bed in my tent. We are
three in a tent. Leigh and Macdonald are the names of my tent
companions.

"Fortunately it is Sunday to-day. So we did not get up until 7.45. I did
not feel like rising until then!

"We (the twenty Lancashire Fusilier officers who arrived here yesterday)
saw the Adjutant, Captain Reid, this morning, in the orderly room, and
had some information given to us. I spent most of the morning at the
field cashier's, waiting for an 'advance of pay book'! Then lunch. It is
now about 2.30 in the afternoon.

"As I expected, I find that I have too much kit: I am told that I shall
have to get rid of some when I get to my unit. I am at present writing
on my nice table, but no other officers have brought out tables or
chairs or anything of that kind! Well--we shall see...."

"May 28th, 1917.

"It is still boiling hot; thank goodness we have finished for to-day! I
must first, however, tell you how I spent the remainder of yesterday,
after writing home. I spent the afternoon in the town. I explored most
of it. Happening to pass the church, I saw a great crowd. It was full
inside; the west doors were open, and people were sitting in the doorway
and standing out in the street watching the service. So I too stopped
and watched. It was most interesting, but as the service was conducted
in French (apparently the Gallican Church differs from the Roman
Catholic Church in England in that the service is conducted in the
vernacular), I do not know what the service was. Although most of it was
in French, bits were in Latin. It was exceptionally spectacular. There
were about a hundred little boys in surplices and little girls in white
veils (as if dressed for confirmation), all carrying long, lighted
candles. Music and hymns were proceeding all the time. The little boys
and girls were standing still part of the time, and processing up and
down the chancel at other times. Eventually they all processed past the
senior priest, attired in full vestments; and he blew out their candles
as they passed. Towards the close of the service, a little girl,
carrying her candle, was brought out by the priest and stationed in
front of the altar with her face to the congregation; then she recited,
in French, something which sounded like a very long creed. She was only
about twelve or thirteen; but she did it without a stop, and in a
clear, pleasant voice. After that a bell rang, everybody bent their
heads, and the priest pronounced the Benediction. Then the congregation
came out, and behind came the boys and girls and the priest. The people
lined the road, and the procession walked on until it reached a kind of
yard leading to some institute. The people followed. They all halted
inside here. Then the priest prepared to make a little speech and
pronounce another Benediction; but he would not proceed until all the
little choir boys were perfectly quiet. He waited about five minutes.
Then he preached a brief sermon (of course in French) directed to the
children. I could not understand much of what he was talking about; but
I think he was very eloquent. I could deduce from words here and there
that he was reminding them that their fathers and brothers and uncles
were fighting at the front, and telling them that if they were not good
little boys and girls their fathers and brothers and uncles would fall
in battle! Then he pronounced his final Benediction, and we
scattered--5.20.

"I could see that everybody was discussing the service and the sermon. I
overheard a Frenchman in frock coat and top hat, who seemed to be a
churchwarden or something of the kind, expressing his appreciation of
the latter.

"Then I came back to camp and paraded for a box-respirator! We then went
through 'tear gas.' Then dinner. I sat at the Commandant's table. He was
talking about a great concentration up North--guns and supplies and men
swarming there recently....

"After dinner I went to bed. Thus ended Whitsun Day, 1917.

"I got up at 7.15 this morning. Breakfast. Then down to the 'bull ring'
in full marching order. Gas all day. Fortunately we were under nice
shady trees most of the time. We had sandwiches down there between 12
and 1, and got back at 4.30, feeling very hot after the march. Then
tea....

"Hamer, Bridgestock, and Allin have gone up the line this morning. I am
posted to the 2/5th Lancashire Fusiliers (the battalion Norman Kemp was
in!). I shall not be going up the line for a few days, but by the time
your reply to this reaches me I shall be there...."

My diary of that same day, May 28, records: "To Paris Plage in the
evening." And my letter written home the following day proceeds as
follows:

"After writing home yesterday I walked down town, and took a car to the
seaside place opposite. The country through which the car went was
pretty, and the seaside place quite passable; all right in peace-time I
should think. Unfortunately the last car back leaves at 8.15, so I came
by it....

"To-day, Royal Oak Day, we have spent on the 'bull ring' again....

"I have seen David Morgan (who was in the same billet with me when we
were privates together in the 29th Royal Fusiliers at Oxford, in
January, 1916) this evening. I managed to find the C.R.E. offices where
he works. He saw me, and came out to me. I went inside. He is very cosy
there, in a nice new hut. He was working at a drawing. His hours daily
are from 9 in the morning until 8 in the evening; but, as I had come, he
managed to get a pass to go down town with me this evening. We therefore
had a walk. He looks very well with his stripe, and he seems to be
having a good time. He desires to be remembered to you both. I left him
at about 8. Then I had dinner at the Officers' Club, but was not struck
by it....

"It is now 'lights out,' so I had better stop."

"May 30th.

" ... We spent the day on the 'bull ring' as usual. It has been fine. We
have not, I am thankful to say, had any rain at all since I landed in
France on Saturday last.

"This evening I have spent parading the streets of the town. I have
become heartily 'fed up' with the dirty antediluvian place. Morgan
actually, after nine solid months of residence here, says that he likes
it and the people. I could not have imagined that there were many of
the latter whose acquaintance would be particularly charming; but he
speaks upon the authority of long experience!"

I also wrote down the following note at that time while I was still in
Etaples:

"One noticeable thing to-day (May 30) has been the number of men and
transport which have been passing through on the trains all day and
going north, obviously coming from one part of the Front and going round
this way, to avoid the observation of the Germans, to another. We are
massing troops round the great city where great battles have been fought
before--concentrating for a great offensive. So there will very soon be
a third battle of Ypres, and I expect I shall be present on the occasion
myself. It should be very exciting. In the two former battles we were on
the defensive; this time we shall be on the offensive. And I must
say--pessimistic as I am on all Western offensives--this idea holds
forth a faint ray of hope of success. I have always held that there is
only one way in which the war can be won in the West--by a flanking
offensive in the North. This is not entirely the type of flanking
movement I would myself recommend, but it is an attempt at the idea--and
that is something. It may prove a semi-fiasco like the awful tragedies
of Neuve Chapelle, Loos, the Somme, and Arras; but it might possibly
turn out a success. Then it would be simply a case of _veni, vidi,
vici_!"

That memorandum is particularly interesting in view of the events which
followed, and the story which this narrative will tell. I always held
very strong-views on the conduct of the war. I was not one of those who
looked upon this great bid for world power on the part, of the German
Empire as purely a campaign on the Western Front, all other campaigns in
other corners of the globe being mere "side shows." I was always a firm
and consistent supporter of the "East End" school of strategy. I looked
upon the war as a _World War_ and, since the decisive Battle of the
Marne in September, 1914, when the German hopes of complete and crushing
victory in the West were shattered (which decision was still more
finally confirmed at First Ypres), as primarily a south-eastern war. I
held with that great statesman and strategist, Mr. Winston Churchill,
that Constantinople was "the great strategic nerve-centre of the world
war." I realized that a deadlock had been reached on the Western Front,
and that nothing was to be hoped from any frontal attack there; and I
also realized that Germany held Constantinople and the Dardanelles--the
gateway to the East. And the trend of German foreign policy and German
strategy convinced me that it was in the Near East that the menace to
our Empire lay. There was our most vulnerable part; while Germany held
that gateway, the glamour of the East, with its possibilities of
victories like those of Alexander, and an empire like that one which was
the great Napoleon's early dream, would always be a great temptation to
German strategists. I therefore always used to assert that "The side
which holds Constantinople when peace terms come to be discussed is the
side which has won the war," and I think the events of September, 1918,
have proved that my view and prophecy were correct. I firmly believe
that if unity of command under Marshal Foch and Sir Henry Wilson, with
the following decisive victories of D'Esperey at Cerna and Allenby at
Armageddon in September, 1918, bringing about the capitulation of
Bulgaria and the Ottoman Empire, and the surrender of Constantinople to
the Allies, had not been attained last year the war would still be in
progress. And I therefore hold that it is impossible to estimate the
debt which the Allies owe to those statesmen who brought about that
unity of command.

But to return to my story. The next day was spent, as usual, on the
"bull ring." On June 1, I find that I recorded the following incident:

"We have been on the 'bull ring' again this morning. The weather is as
hot as ever. While we were down there a German aeroplane flew right
over from one end to the other--north to south. The anti-aircraft guns
were firing at it the whole time, but failed to hit it. It was flying at
a great height, and the shrapnel appeared to be bursting all round it.
At one time it flew directly over our heads; but it did not drop any
bombs! A few minutes after it had passed, bits of shrapnel fell quite
near us--within four or five yards--proving how much overhead it had
been. It was quite exciting, but not quite so much so as it was during
those two minutes at Dover last September. Now the question which arises
is: What was its object? It did not drop any bombs. Its object,
therefore, must have been reconnaissance. I suppose that it came to find
out what number of troops we are moving round this way to the new
battlefield in the north. Even though we may move troops by so
roundabout a way, the enemy is able to find out by means of aircraft.
Aircraft makes manoeuvre in modern warfare intensely difficult."

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