The Seventh Manchesters by S. J. Wilson (inspirational novels .TXT) 📖

growing impression was completed on our arrival. We pitched camp on

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