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At eighteen in 1914 I was a healthy member of society but not very prepossessing. I had only reached five foot two and for a few weeks after that fateful bugle call watched regulars and territitorials depart for the front and believed what newspapers said of German soldiers bayoneting babies. I watched not envious of their heroics but envious of their chance of seeing life. Then posters were out asking for volunteers and I commenced a weekly trip to the recruiting office and strenuous exercises to put on inches. Early in 1915 I presented myself as usual on the Friday evening. The sergeant in charge, an old friend by now, cracked the usual joke about there being “no vacancies in the Guards just now, thank you”, but suddenly became thoughtful. “Just a minute”, he said, and took up the telephone. I waited expectantly A short cryptic talk over the line and - "You know the local Territorial Battalion, 4th Yorks?” I did not, but said “Yes”. “Well they’ve been practically wiped out at Ypres. For a limited period recruiting standards have been lowered and if you’re serious then you can keep your shoes on while I take your height”.
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Out of the blue came a sound. Still talking, my companion stiffened and the bolt fell. A cloud of smoke and dust mushroomed about a hundred yards away to the left. A shout from our guide - "Come on, he’s started”, and we were doubling after him. Again that awful rushing roar and the lance-corporal dropped on hands and knees. Instinctively realising the purpose I did likewise. I was to develop that instinct of judging proximity of the burst nicely later on but this time I forgot my full equipment and was nearly brained by my pack. Again the crash climax and someone screamed. The guide reassured himself it was only fright and we were off again this time with hearts pounding and tongues dry. We were not soldiers now, merely a bunch of frightened boys.
Suddenly, more flares, coloured ones among them, and we knew Jerry was signalling his guns. The result came with efficient accuracy -a crash that bumped my ear drums and put me instinctively flat at the bottom of the trench. Then I scrambled into a crouching position. More crashes, merging into one hideous din. Our own guns would be getting his support lines. Acrid smoke and dust filled the air and I felt the earth moving. Sandbags slithered down onto me or knocked breath out and I pressed to the trench wall trying to identify myself completely with the earth. My feet were becoming trapped and I shook them clear. It was dark no longer. Survival -that’s the thing. I saw, in the flashing brilliance a face in a hole that had been a dug-out and dived in -crawled further , then a terrific bump and some of the top fell on me. I was to be buried and yelled to be out. Others were crawling in. Screaming, pushing, kicking I was out again and a load of dirt came into my face.
Ripping roars overhead, above the crack of whiz-bangs told of vicious shrapnel but the mind refused even fear: smoke, flash, one’s aching eyes almost shut, in nostrils that acrid smell of powder and newly disintegrated bodies long dead. An instinctive dive for breathing time into a deep dugout in a clump of tree stumps: full of bodies - out again, and on. Jerry scattered and went to ground. Instinctively and against all tradition we didn’t wait for it. Caution went bust and we were off. A healthy instinct regarding my lack of weight and muscle stopped me about ten yards from the general melee and dropping on one knee (I hadn’t been best shot on Northallerton ranges for nothing) I picked off grey figures from khaki wherever I got a clear sight. Tommy, who was hardly bigger than me, however, sailed in. One Jerry came at me, but tripped, and I bashed his face with a rifle butt. Lt Hirsch dashed my way and finished him with his revolver. “Stay there Whitfield and carry on. Snipe any you see getting away, I want wounded prisoners”. I tumbled to this and made sure of at least four leg wounds. Had to finish some because they carried on shooting and bombing and bomb throwing as they lay.
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Nature compelled me to find privacy and I strolled away to a convenient shell hole. On the way back a trench too wide to jump saved my life. As I clambered out of the other side I heard the shell coming. Instinctively freezing, the crash came. My arm, reaching up to the trench top jerked and something happened to my shoulder, and then the arm went numb. Mark appeared, running with others. “Are you hurt, Whit?” he asked. “Good God”. I followed his glance and was amazed. My hand was black and swollen. Below the elbow the arm was bare and a little bit a red muscle had burst out. My thumb and two fingers had gone. My thigh and legs were drenched in blood. I thought -if that’s my hand and I can’t feel it what’s the matter with my shoulder? I tore at the tunic and Mark restrained me. “Come on”, he said. At a run he took me across to a dressing station. It was fortunate one was handy, and a cup of coffee was miraculously handed to me. A violent, unreasonable thirst appeared, and after a greedy drink I was directed to Bazentin dressing station, with the arm strapped up and a tourniquet fixed. I felt fine. No head wound and nothing in the tummy. After further poking about there I sat in the queue awaiting ambulances. I never saw the pals again.
I never met my grandfather on my mother's side. He returned from the front missing an arm. This injury probably saved his life and in turn, created mine. He died from lung cancer after a struggle of a life in the 1960s. It's his ring, given to him by his father, that I wear on the fourth finger of my right hand. Other than this gift, I am left with his diaries, which make me realise just how lucky I am. Aged 18 I went to university and had fun. In 1914, aged 18, he went into the unknown with pride. And I'd like to thank him for it.
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