Without the Glamour
A Lieutenant of the Royal Irish Fusiliers That Stormed Ginchy Paints War’s Horrors in Vivid Language
It is well, once in a while, to take a square look at the grim, the ghastly, the repellent aspects of war, the reality stripped of the glamour, and realize that heroism is not always manifest in valiant deeds, but is often expressed in endurance, in patient suffering, in the play or poise of the inner forces in terrible circumstances.
The experiences at the storming of Ginchy through which Lieut. Arthur C. Young of the Seventh Battalion, Royal Irish Fusiliers, passed and which he embodied in a letter to a relative some days afterward, were not perhaps exceptional,—but his description of them is. It is very doubtful if a more literal, faithful yet graphically vivid picture of war in its actuality has come from the battle front. In simple direct language we get the horror, the awfulness of it—but we also get reflectively the quality of manhood that produces heroes.
Lieut. Young was, at the outbreak of the war, a resident of Kobe, Japan, and he promptly volunteered, returned to England and joined the Fusiliers. He had had his share of fighting, knew right well what it meant to go over the top, before the day at Ginchy which was the subject of his letter.
The storming of Ginchy described by Lieut. Young occurred Sept. 9, 1916. He says:
“It had been taken once or twice before, I believe (some say four times), but even out here it is so difficult to get authentic news about things which are happening quite close to us that you will have to make allowances for my possible inaccuracies. Each time, however, it was recaptured by the Germans, for to them it was a most important stronghold, particularly from their artillery’s point of view. A gunner officer told me why this was. You must remember that artillery fire is not very effective unless there is good observation, for atmospheric conditions affect shooting considerably. Now, the best sort of observation is that obtained from high ground in a forward position—it is better even than airplane or balloon observation, so I am told. Well, Ginchy was the last bit of high ground which the Germans held, and now that they have lost it, they are dependent on their less certain aerial observations, or, failing that, they must shoot by the map, which is no better than guesswork. Hence the vital importance to the Germans of Ginchy.
“On the night previous to the taking of Ginchy, my battalion had to take up a position on the further slope of the valley. We were some distance in rear at the time where the shells did not fall so plentifully. We had had nearly a week of it already, and a more horrible five days I have never passed in my life. We had been over the top from Falfemont Farm on the Tuesday, and had been thanked for our services in a special divisional order, but the price we had to pay for that feat was a big one, as the casualty list printed by this time only too well shows.
“I was sent out to find a habitable trench for my company. We moved in there at dusk. We faced half-right, as it were, looking up the slope toward Ginchy. It was like being near the foot of Parliament Hill, with the village on top. Our right flank was down near the bottom of the valley; our left extended up to the higher ground toward the ruins of Waterlot Farm. The trench was very shallow in places, where it had been knocked in by shell-fire. I had chosen it as the only one suitable in the neighborhood, but it was a horrible place. British dead were lying about everywhere. Our men had to give up digging in some places, because they came down to bodies which were buried there when the parapet blew in. The smell turned us sick. At last in desperation I went out to look for another trench, for I felt sure the Germans must have the range of the trench we were in, and that they would give us hell when dawn broke. To my joy I found that a very deep trench some distance back had just been vacated by another regiment, so we went in there.
“The night was bitterly cold. I have felt hunger and thirst and fatigue out here to a degree I have never experienced them before, but those torments I can endure far better than I thought I could. But the cold—my word! It is dreadful. I suppose life in the Far East does not harden one’s constitution against that torture. Many a night have I slept out in the open, in narrow, wet trenches, with the rain pouring down, and almost groaned with the agony of cold. If two can huddle together, you can get some warmth, but the trenches are frequently too narrow for that. I think I feel the cold more than any one.
“However, dawn broke at last. It was very misty. All night we had been trying to get into touch with the unit on our left, but without success. So the Captain sent me out with an orderly to see whether I could manage it. We two stumbled along, but the mist was so dense we could see nothing. We came to one trench after another, but not a living thing could we see—nothing but dead, British and German, some of them mangled beyond recognition. Bombs and rifles and equipment were lying all over the place, with here and there a great-coat, khaki or gray according to the nationality of their one-time owners, but of living beings we could see no sign whatsoever. There was a horrible stench in places which nearly turned our stomachs.