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Six Days On The Somme 1982

3rd October 1982 Dear Dad I’ve just returned from a battlefield tour called Six Days On The Somme with many a marvellous tale to tell. This is the Kilted Highlander at Beaumont Hamel Battlefield Memorial Park, which figures largely in my story. We started with two intellectually interesting days on the Battle of Cambrai, but the main memories of the trip were emotional ones.

The Going Over The Top Experiment

On the second night Major Tonie Holt gave us our briefing for the following day, the 'Going Over The Top' experiment, designed to give us just a little of the feelings which would go through a soldier’s mind before having to attack.

It was rather more crisp and military than previous briefings. First he surprised us by announcing he would say things only once, so we had better listen closely.

Our ‘attack’ would be at Beaumont Hamel. This was where the Newfoundland Regiment had lost 684 men (91% of those attacking) on the first day of the Somme in July 1916. The area has been preserved as a battlefield memorial park, with the 1916 British and German front lines clearly marked out. Neither the trenches nor the shell craters are as deep now, of course, but it is still one of the most evocative sites in the Western Front area.

Plan Of Action:

1. We would rise at 4 30 am.
2. There would be no breakfast.
3. Flasks of hot coffee would be available for the weak, but it was better to do without.
4. A rum ration would be issued at the site.
5. We should remember to take a mug for it.
6. Those who forgot would get none.
7. The coach would leave at 5 am.
8. It would still be dark when we arrived at the mustering area near the battleground, so we should stay close and not get lost going through the thick vegetation on the way to Y-Ravine.
9. We would be attacking at dawn. We would be attacking from the bottom of a big ravine, with up to twenty feet of steep bank to climb before we got to the top.
10. Sealed orders would be given out on the way
11. We were to remember that we would go over the top after – and only after - three blasts of his whistle.

And then Major Holt stood up and strode out of the room.

As we went off to the bar, we were a little bemused. We weren’t military men, but it seemed as if we had been sucked in. We began worrying about things we had already forgotten: what was it about the sealed orders? Had he told us when to open them? Maybe he would tell us again tomorrow; but we knew he wouldn’t.

Next morning, as we got out of the coach in the darkness, it was pleasantly cool but not cold. I remember excited voices, words of command, and flashes of torches. Then we were over the first of a number of barbed wire fences and standing in line for the rum ration. Tonie and his wife Valmai were handing out generous tots of full-strength dark rum from a big SRD jar.

We travelled along a wooded valley bottom for some time then were given a second tot of rum before the last fence. We were given an envelope of sealed orders and made our way to the assembly place, just behind Y-Ravine. Here we were told to face the front, and to pan out to cover the whole attack area. This meant that we were at least six feet apart from our nearest neighbours. There was to be no talking from now on.

We were left to stew in unbearable silence for what seemed like an eternity. We saw, as it was now past first light, that we would have to scramble up a steep grassy slope to get to the top of Y-Ravine. Those weak and unfit who didn’t think they could climb the slope could report to the Major who would find them a place at the other wing of the ‘Y’, where the slope was much gentler. No one would think any the less of them. None dared to confess such weakness in front of their comrades.

Our minds began to wander a little; the rum was making us light-headed. A small inner voice whispered that we were only tourists, but maybe death did wait over the other side of the crest. It didn’t seem to matter. What mattered was not letting everyone else down. But what about the sealed orders? Someone had the temerity to ask the Major – and got his head bitten off for his trouble. This cowed us all: we silently stood in our extended line eying each other and licking our lips nervously, anxiously waiting for the moment.

A silly message came around “H-Hour is in 5 minutes. Pass it on”. I did pass it on, but it sounded stupid. The person after me said, “I know”, and the message stopped there. (There were in fact four messages sent, but none got to the other end of the line. The one with “The Major said we move 300 metres west” became “The QM wants 300 vests”, while the “Open your orders at five to seven” became a hand signal of five fingers and degenerated along the line to a rude sign – which was answered by another rude sign - and the end of that message.)

I began to feel anxious about the dew on the grassy slope. It would be awful if I couldn’t get up the slope. Was it better to run at the slope or try to climb it steadily? And what about these sealed orders? Surely it must have been time to open them. I could see others struggling with their consciences, then tearing at the envelopes. I wanted to do it properly, not to let anyone down.

There were two shrill blasts of a whistle. Was that the sign? Surely he had said three blasts last night. Some people were already struggling up the slope. I feverishly tore at the sealed orders. Then three blasts were blown. I scrambled forward still trying to read the instructions at the same time. So conscious was I of not wanting to let my friends down that I fairly ran up the slope.

As I reached the top I came face to face with the Kilted Highlander memorial. Someone had to! It was somehow easy to bypass this – and the sign saying ‘Old German Front Line, 1916’. I stared across the battle-scarred memorial park. The early morning mist lay deep, white and thick in the craters, giving them added depth and mystery.

The shock was that the enemy was waiting for us. They stood in line, their faces to the front, their heads held high. You could make out the features on their faces. They showed no fear - It was an army of sheep that lay in wait, scenting us on the breeze and mystified by this invasion of their early-morning privacy.

Shortly afterwards, as I was walking along on my own in the British trench behind the memorial, I came to a section where the side of the trench had fallen in. A voice bellowed at me to “Keep your bloody head down”.

I ducked, and in that moment 1982 and 1916 coalesced. Fear took over. I just had to get out of the trench. I looked around for who might have shouted those words.

There was only one person nearby, a dour Scotsman from Montrose who was an expert in the 1914-18 Air War, here on the tour to discover the secret of von Richthoven’s last flight.

I rushed towards him. “You gave me a fright just now. When you told me to keep my head down, I felt I was back there in 1916 and had lost touch with 1982. I just had to get out of the trench.” He looked at me strangely, and I realised that he wasn’t the man for practical jokes. It hadn’t been him. There was no one else around. It must have been the combination of rum, fear, tension and emotion.

Back at the hotel the chefs had made a giant omelette, sliced into 32 pieces, one for each of us. It was quite simply delicious.

The Riqueval Bridge

The rest of this day had been left free for rest and recuperation, but after the omelette we were in a mood for more adventures. Gordon (a huge ex-Guardsman), his wife Marilyn and I hired a car and went off exploring. We found the Riqueval Bridge that the 46th (North Midland) Division famously stormed at the end of September 1918, producing one of the most famous photographs of the War, with the victorious Brigade Commander standing on the bridge and his men lined up all along the steep banks of the canal.

We wanted to recreate the picture, but found it very difficult to work out whether we were on the right side, as both banks are equally steep and the bridge looked the same from both sides. Eventually we found some telegraph wires that only appeared on one side, and some unique stains on the stones of the bridge.

We had a much worse time finding our way back to the Carlton Belfort Hotel in the dark. It had been a very long day and we were all tired. We managed to return to Amiens with little trouble, but it is a big town with many sign-less roundabouts. We explored most of those roundabouts - and most of the exits from them too.

The next day we walked all around Beaumont Hamel, including the restored church. Built into it is a piece of the original glass, borne away by a German soldier as a souvenir, and returned out of a sense of guilt many years later.

To Part Two: Harry Evans' Strong Voice | Home

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