Tommy's Ark: Soldiers and Their Animals in the Great War. Richard Van Emden by Richard van Emden
Authors: Richard van Emden
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in England.
QMS W.W. Finch, 1st Royal Scots Fusiliers
How the Army Service Corps managed to keep the moving masses of men supplied with rations day by day could only be appreciated by those who understood it. By hook or by crook they kept the regimental wagons filled and named places where biscuits and beef, and cheese and jam, could be dumped down in time for the retiring troops to gather up supplies as they passed.
There were farm horses in the battalion wagons, and owing to the incessant work they showed chafings and raw places innumerable, but no sooner was a sore place spotted than the driver was down from his seat with a tin of Vaseline and a pad of rifle flannelette until the trappings looked more like bandages than harness.
Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards
The horses were so hungry, they were barely able to wait for their food, and impulsively strained forward in the horse lines at meal times, mouths open, hoping to get a mouthful of corn. As soon as a nosebag was on, they bolted the food, throwing their heads up into the air to get as much corn as possible into their mouths. The problem was that whole oats passed through the horses’ digestive system and straight out again in the manure, doing no good at all. To slow down the rate at which they ate, pebbles were put in the nosebags with the corn, although, strictly speaking, we were not supposed to do this. As the horses bit down hard, they received a salutary shock, ensuring that they chewed their food more gingerly.
The regiment had just come back to a village and I was detailed to help feed the troop’s horses, so I went to pick up a couple of feed bags and walked over to the horse lines. The horses had become noticeably agitated, but one, overexcited at the prospect of food, shot forward and in one movement bit my stomach, dragging me slightly across him before letting go. I had just a shirt on and the pain was excruciating. When I pulled my shirt up my stomach oozed blood from a wound.
Cpl William Watson, RE, 5th Div.
Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage. We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp straw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we were all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered perilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that was covering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look round for some shelter, and George, our champion ‘scrounger’, discovered a chicken house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died a silent and, I hope, a painless death.
The order came round that the motorcyclists were to spend the night at the cottage – the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable – while the rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with a few fowls and investigated the cottage. It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with some food by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could not move her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt and onions. With the aid of our old post sergeant we plucked some of the chickens and put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee.
For understandable reasons of maintaining discipline in friendly countries, the army had introduced strict rules forbidding looting in France or Belgium. However, when it came to food many officers and men were uncertain where they stood when livestock roamed free on abandoned farms. Justifiable scrounging or stealing? It was a difficult call.
2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt
The men’s nerves were tried to breaking point, and a little detail, small and of no consequence in itself, opened the lock, as it were, to a perfect river of growing anger and discontent.
This was how it happened. The colonel had repeated the previous night the order about looting, and the men were under the impression that if any of them took so much as a green apple he would be
QMS W.W. Finch, 1st Royal Scots Fusiliers
How the Army Service Corps managed to keep the moving masses of men supplied with rations day by day could only be appreciated by those who understood it. By hook or by crook they kept the regimental wagons filled and named places where biscuits and beef, and cheese and jam, could be dumped down in time for the retiring troops to gather up supplies as they passed.
There were farm horses in the battalion wagons, and owing to the incessant work they showed chafings and raw places innumerable, but no sooner was a sore place spotted than the driver was down from his seat with a tin of Vaseline and a pad of rifle flannelette until the trappings looked more like bandages than harness.
Trp. Benjamin Clouting, 4th (Royal Irish) Dragoon Guards
The horses were so hungry, they were barely able to wait for their food, and impulsively strained forward in the horse lines at meal times, mouths open, hoping to get a mouthful of corn. As soon as a nosebag was on, they bolted the food, throwing their heads up into the air to get as much corn as possible into their mouths. The problem was that whole oats passed through the horses’ digestive system and straight out again in the manure, doing no good at all. To slow down the rate at which they ate, pebbles were put in the nosebags with the corn, although, strictly speaking, we were not supposed to do this. As the horses bit down hard, they received a salutary shock, ensuring that they chewed their food more gingerly.
The regiment had just come back to a village and I was detailed to help feed the troop’s horses, so I went to pick up a couple of feed bags and walked over to the horse lines. The horses had become noticeably agitated, but one, overexcited at the prospect of food, shot forward and in one movement bit my stomach, dragging me slightly across him before letting go. I had just a shirt on and the pain was excruciating. When I pulled my shirt up my stomach oozed blood from a wound.
Cpl William Watson, RE, 5th Div.
Finally, we halted at a tiny cottage. We tried to make ourselves comfortable in the wet by hiding under damp straw and putting on all available bits of clothing. But soon we were all soaked to the skin, and it was so dark that horses wandered perilously near. One hungry mare started eating the straw that was covering my chest. That was enough. Desperately we got up to look round for some shelter, and George, our champion ‘scrounger’, discovered a chicken house. It is true there were nineteen fowls in it. They died a silent and, I hope, a painless death.
The order came round that the motorcyclists were to spend the night at the cottage – the roads were utterly and hopelessly impassable – while the rest of the company was to go on. So we presented the company with a few fowls and investigated the cottage. It was a startling place. In one bedroom was a lunatic hag with some food by her side. We left her severely alone. Poor soul, we could not move her! In the kitchen we discovered coffee, sugar, salt and onions. With the aid of our old post sergeant we plucked some of the chickens and put on a great stew. I made a huge basin full of coffee.
For understandable reasons of maintaining discipline in friendly countries, the army had introduced strict rules forbidding looting in France or Belgium. However, when it came to food many officers and men were uncertain where they stood when livestock roamed free on abandoned farms. Justifiable scrounging or stealing? It was a difficult call.
2/Lt Arnold Gyde, 2nd South Staffordshire Rgt
The men’s nerves were tried to breaking point, and a little detail, small and of no consequence in itself, opened the lock, as it were, to a perfect river of growing anger and discontent.
This was how it happened. The colonel had repeated the previous night the order about looting, and the men were under the impression that if any of them took so much as a green apple he would be
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