The Seventh Manchesters by S. J. Wilson (inspirational novels .TXT) 📖
- Author: S. J. Wilson
- Performer: -
Book online «The Seventh Manchesters by S. J. Wilson (inspirational novels .TXT) 📖». Author S. J. Wilson
a hill north-west of the town and about six hundred yards from it, so
that we had a perfect view of the place, which resembled a picture out
of the Bible, and was not quite like anything seen in Egypt. It was
obvious we were in a new country—in fact we were knocking at the gates
of Palestine, but no one amongst us knew that an entry was to be made
into that country. The affair at Rafa, for instance, had only been a
raid, and the Turks had once more strengthened the place. British
territory had been cleared of the enemy and it was felt that a system of
frontier defence would be constructed, and small garrisons left to
maintain the boundary.
Eight months had passed since the battalion left the vicinity of
peaceful civilisation, so to meet it again, crude though it was amidst
the mud huts of El Arish, filled our men with extreme curiosity. The
town was placed out of bounds because of the fear of cholera, small pox,
etc., but there was much of interest to be seen. Groves of fig trees
surrounded the place on the edge of the Wadi, and it was a matter for
speculation as to where they obtained their sustenance for it was
apparently just bare desert. Vines and date palms were also grown, and I
presume these, with fishing, constitute the main source of life to the
inhabitants. The natives, incidentally, had a most pleasing appearance,
and their older men reminded one forcibly of the patriarchs. They had a
strikingly manly and independent carriage, quite different from the lack
of respectability of the lower class Egyptian. There is probably a good
deal of Arab blood in them, which may account for the fearless manner
with which they look the foreigner straight in the face.
We were not surprised when definite orders arrived to prepare ourselves
for a return to the canal. The transport started first for they were to
trek the distance, while the personnel were to have the pleasure of
riding on a train. The men accepted this statement rather warily for
such a thing had seldom been known during their experience with the
battalion. On January 30th all the animals in the Division assembled
near our camp preparatory to commencing the trek when the aircraft alarm
was sounded. This was immediately followed by eight bombs in quick
succession. One of these unfortunately dropped amidst our transport
column killing two favourite riders, “Bighead” and “Jester” and
destroying two or three mules. Fortunately only one man was injured, and
more luckily still, no bombs dropped in the camp, although they were
near enough to be unpleasant. The day’s excitement was later heightened
by a camel going “macknoon” in the middle of the camp. Attacking his
native keeper he broke loose and our men had to “run for it.” By an
ingenious manipulation of ropes round his legs, and a well-aimed blow
behind his ear from a tent mallet flung by one of the men, he was
subdued and brought to earth, but not before he had destroyed a “bivvy”
and some tents. Even this did not complete the incidents of the day, for
evening found us clinging with might and main to tent poles, tent
curtains, “bivvy” shelters, etc., while a furious sand storm did its
utmost to fling them down.
The next day something of a sensation was caused by a sudden order to
furnish one officer and two N.C.O’s. per company as advance party to
journey at once to Port Said, there to embark on February 2nd for an
unknown destination. Two days later the battalion entrained in “trucks
de luxe,” and after a nine hours’ extremely lumpy journey we reached
Kantara. There was a feeling that having helped to escort the railway to
its present destination we had really earned that ride. On the journey
down we met elements of the 53rd Division marching up to take our places
at El Arish, and we shouted greetings and expressions of goodwill to
them. At Kantara a draft from England with 2nd-Lt. G. Norbury in command
joined the battalion. A pleasing feature about this draft was that it
was largely composed of old members of the original 7th who had been
wounded or invalided from Gallipoli, such men as C.S.M. Lyth, Sergeant
McHugh, Q.M.S’s. Andrews and Houghton, being amongst its numbers.
The 42nd Division crossed the Suez Canal for the last time on February
5th, twelve months to the day after the 7th Manchesters had crossed over
to the east side at Shallufa for the first time. The first days march
ended at El Ferdan, very much to the relief of everyone. We had been,
all the way, on a good hard road—a new experience after the life on the
desert—and this brought into play muscles of the leg, not used on the
soft sand. Everyone suffered badly from aching shins and thighs and
very sore feet, so that next day, when the trek was completed to
Ismailia on hot, dusty roads many men fell out, and we were a weary crew
on arrival at Moascar Camp.
Our three weeks’ stay here was occupied chiefly in preparing for our new
scene of activities, now definitely known to be France. Eastern kit was
handed in—helmets, shorts and drill tunics—and the battalion seemed to
have been exchanged for a new one dressed in khaki serge and caps. With
our helmets we lost our flashes, or at least the characteristic Fleur de
Lys, but they were replaced by a divisional flash to be worn on the
upper arm of the sleeve of the jacket. This was a diamond in shape, each
Brigade having its own colour, the Manchesters being orange yellow, with
the number of the battalion indicated on it by a red figure. Being close
to Lake Timsa, we frequently indulged in bathing parades under ideal
conditions, for after all Ismailia is really one of the beauty spots of
Egypt. Complimentary farewell parades were held, one on the occasion of
the visit of General Dobell, and the other a march past the C.-in-C, Sir
Archibald Murray, down the Quai Mehemet Ali in the town. Altogether the
7th enjoyed themselves during these days and made the most of the end of
their long sojourn in the East. We were seasoned troops and were well
conversant with the customs of the country. A few pangs of regret at
leaving these things behind can easily be understood, although an
important consideration, and one that weighed heavily with the men, was
the possibility of getting leave from France, a thing unknown in this
place. Hence it was with mixed feelings that the battalion boarded the
train at Ismailia on the evening of March 1st for a rapid journey to
Alexandria. No time was lost here for we detrained on the quay side and
embarked at once.
CHAPTER III.
For France.
Wearers of the Fleur de Lys gazed their last upon one of the countries
of their toils from the deck of the ship “Kalyan” as they steamed out of
Alexandria harbour on March 3rd, 1917. There were many present who had
accompanied the battalion on their venture from this same harbour nearly
two years before, to try their fortunes upon ill-starred Gallipoli, and
I have no doubt they wondered what these new experiences would bring
them. One thing is certain, however, and that is no one imagined we
should be compelled to continue our wanderings for full two more years
before the last journey home could be made. And yet, so it was. The
Fleur de Lys, for the first time since it had been adopted by the
Manchester Regiment, was borne to the soil of France, the country that
gave it birth, and whose kings wore it proudly for hundreds of years, by
Englishmen who had pledged themselves to fight in and for that fair
land. “Fair Land!” I hear someone scornfully mutter. However much we
were destined in the days to come, when wallowing to our waists amidst
the soil and water of France, to think very much the reverse, it would
be impossible to forget the glory of our Southern entrance to this sad
country.
The battalion made the trip across the Mediterranean in good company,
for the ship was shared by ourselves and the 8th Manchesters (the
Gallant Ardwicks) commanded by Lt.-Col. Morrough. We had an opportunity
of renewing our acquaintance with Malta, so vivid in its intense
colouring, whilst our escort of torpedo boats was changed. Perhaps the
following extract from an officer’s diary will suffice to epitomise
whatever incident there was in the journey:—
“… It was more or less boisterous all the way, and on occasion
decidedly so—a vastly different voyage from my journey out. The
much-vaunted German submarine ‘blockade’ was not conspicuous, for
we neither saw nor heard of a submarine. Undoubtedly, of course,
one is conscious of the menace, and a good deal of what might be
enjoyment of the sea is spoiled by this horror. One thinks not of
the sea as inspiration of sublime thoughts and all things the poets
tell us of, but as a receptacle for submarines … and for us if we
are hit. It was decidedly disconcerting to contemplate a dip during
the heavy weather. There would be little chance of being picked up
I should imagine. Still, we were able to appreciate the colours of
Malta, the grand snow-capped mountains of Corsica and the
neighbouring islands, while the entrance to Marseilles is a sight I
shall never forget. For colour and form I think it is perfect. In a
sense Plymouth resembles it, but as a cat the tiger. Here the rocks
run down in their limy whiteness sheer to the sea, with chateaux
and churches on impossible peaks, backed by tremendous stern
giants. Why will they not allow us on shore to get a closer
view?… Just above my head the men are concluding a concert with
the ‘King,’ the ‘Marseillaise’ (I wonder do they appreciate that
here it was first sung in its grandeur under Rouget de Lisle), and
then with what should be our national song, ‘Rule Britannia.’ Well
might they sing that with zest after the voyage we have concluded
to-day.”
After standing out in the harbour at Marseilles for 24 hours, we first
set foot in France on March 10th. No time was wasted at Marseilles, and
we were soon entrained for a long journey northward. In the first hours
before dark we were able to enjoy the magnificent scenery of the coast
region near Marseilles. At Orange we halted for a meal at midnight. Next
day was a glorious journey up the Rh�ne Valley, passing through Lyons,
Chalons-sur-Saone and Dijon. Wherever the train stopped crowds of
enthusiastic French people collected to greet us and the news of the
fall of Bagdad made us doubly important to them, for not only were we
British but they knew we had come from somewhere in the East.
The following morning we arrived at the environs of Paris, and after a
stay at Juvissy continued our journey past Versailles and on through
Amiens to our destination at Pont Remy, a few miles from Abbeville. It
was pitch dark and raining. Imagine the shock to troops straight from
Egypt, where they had left a beautiful dry climate, when they jumped out
of the carriages into four inches of squelching mud. Then we were told
we had to march six or seven miles through the cold rain to our
billeting area at Merelissart. However, we were amongst new surroundings
and new modes of doing things, and conditions were vastly different from
those we had just left, so the sooner we became accustomed to them the
better.
Despite the midnight hour everyone found subject for
Comments (0)