Russell Radcliffe

The following was a letter send by Russell Radcliffe from the Front in July/August 1916 to his uncle Will.

Born in 1891, he was a member of the King's Liverpool Regiment (Liverpool Pals) and played the flute in the brigade band. He survived the war, was deaf in one ear but otherwise unhurt, and died not long after his 100th birthday in August 1991.

[I.O.M - Isle of Man]
[H.E. - High Explosive]

PREFACE
AUGUST 1st

I wrote the following three pages (see Chapter 1 below) prior to going "in", just to sort of keep a record of how I felt. I was lucky enough to pull through, - none of the thousands of machine gun bullets happened my way; and no heavy shell chanced to burst in my particular part of trench. To those happy circumstances I owe my having pulled through. As regards casualties amongst our friends, I am awfully sorry to have to say that poor old Dennis Coe is killed, hit in the head with an explosive bullet. He died instantly. The brigade band has gone; we have about 6 left. Dick Trapnell has survived the affair, but is the only Lewis-gunman left in No.1 Company, out of 12. Well, enough of casualties. We did well as a battalion and inflicted severe losses on the Boches, taking many prisoners, so feel more satisfied after having heard that from the GOC Division. He also told us that the Germans had eleven battalions up before our eight, and were picked troops; which I can quite believe; there were some fine looking chaps amongst them, and refined, gentlemanly looking blighters as well. But, as before, they wouldn't fight; but just machine-gun and snipe from a comparatively safe distance. I will try to give you some idea what an attack is like, continued after the three pages I wrote before "the Great Adventure".

CHAPTER 1       JULY 29 1916
Dear Uncle Will,
I wonder where I shall be this time tomorrow? Maybe "holding" a new bit of line, getting shelled to blazes; maybe well on my way to Blighty, and - well, there is another alternative; you know, a little wooden cross, "somewhere in France". I wonder these things because we go over the lid tomorrow, and make a further effort to exterminate Boches. My only anxiety is that we get relieved soon after getting there. It is bad enough going over, but a jolly sight worse to stick it for three or four days after, getting shelled to blazes. Fancy Napoleon, Marlborough and all those early blighters talking about war! They'd have gone start staring mad if they'd had a Boche 8" H.E. burst near 'em. Cannon balls!!! Every shell a dud, that's what it amounts to. "The Charge of the Light Brigade" was a picnic to an up to date stunt, with all the latest popular forms of frightfulness. Cannons in front of 'em, cannons right and left, and all round them is but little compared with a few batteries of 5.9s, lobbing H.E.s and shrapnel. It doesn't matter a damn where the guns are; right, left, in front or behind; as long as they can lob shells on us.
Those old "cannons" of yore had to score direct hits to do any damage!
Great Scotland Yard! WHAT a picnic war must have been in those days. There isn't even much excitement in an attack now; just get over the parapet, and stroll over; halting occasionally for our own barrage to lift, and clearing a trench or two with bombs.
Well, we go in tonight, in to the hottest part of the line, Verdun included. And the Boche line is strongly reinforced since the beginning of the offensive. I wonder how we will get on? The best of luck to us, eh? And I hope to be able to finish and get off this epistle on our being relieved.
Cheerio, Uncle. Love to all at home
Your affectionate Nephew,
Russell.

CHAPTER II       AUGUST 1st
We went up to the line cheerfully enough, singing and whistling out of the camp; chaps staying behind bidding cheery farewells and "good luck, old chap". It was a long way up, and we were treated to an unearthly strafing in a small valley, which our platoon was lucky enough to get through without loss, but others didn't fare so well.
Well, we got to our starting line, and just waited for the time to pass on until we were due over.
The last few minutes are very queer; - "five minutes to go". - four - three, and so on - then over.
A line just scrambles over the parapet, and proceeds, quite slowly, to the Boche first line.
A thick fog helped the Boches materially, in enabling them to retire their machine guns without our being able to see where they put them, (as we could have bombed them out.) We (our wave) hadn't gone many yards, before we met about 30 Germans, being escorted back by one of our chaps, a very little chap, too.
By Jove, the Allemands had fairly been through it, judging by what I saw in their trenches.
In the first Boche position, we had to wait for our barrage to lift. (we were preceded (?) by a very fine "curtain" from our excellent artillery).
One poor Hun just alongside me had a nasty wound in his arm, and was in an awful state of nerves. I put a bandage on him, and left him to come in with the next batch of prisoners.
We saw another Hun, wounded, at large; and he started to clear off when shouted him. The proper thing was to shoot the beggar, but when I got him in line with my sights, I'm damned if I could put one through him, without first giving him chance (he was wounded in both arms).
I raised the muzzle, and put one a couple of feet over his head, then he came back, and was escorted to our trench. The chap who took him had been buried by a shell, and lost his rifle, so he picked up the Allemand's "Ipe" (?) and bayonet for the purpose.

The Germans were very ready to give themselves up; as the following little event will show.
I am not absolutely sure as to the details but the point is that two of our chaps took 8 officers and 67 men prisoners. One of our boys, escorting two wounded Boche, lost his direction in the fog and wandered into a trench full of Germans, and one Lance-Corporal of ours. This L.C. was having a chat with one of the Huns about the life of German prisoners in England. Having been to Liverpool and worked there some years, he (a certain Hun) knew the I.O.M, and was rather struck with the idea of going there. But ''Didn't they have to work hard?' he asked - 'No, not very, picking fruit and that sort of thing, there is a fine camp outside Douglas'.
So off he (the English speaking Hun) went to tell his captain all about it.
The whole bally lot came over with our two men.
And they were about the best of Germany's troops!
They seemed to me quite superior sort of blighters, and some were fine looking.
I saw one Boche, a full fathom long, and well built, who was coming over for a holiday in the I.O.M through very heavy fire, pick up one of our wounded, and sprint across the open with him on his shoulders. It really looked fine to see him appear on the top of our old first-line parapet (that is, what was our first line before we went over), shout for a clear space, and scramble down.
So there ARE one or two decent chaps in the German army, but they don't seem keen on their bally 'fatherland': would rather live on bread and water in England than Hun rations in their trenches.
So, at any rate, one Boche smilingly told me. he was from Margate before la Guerre, and wished he had stayed there.
All this shows how little keenness there is amongst Germany's fighting units. A little bit of interior trouble, and the soldiers would join the civies in a demand for peace at any price.
Well we got (to carry on with what we went through) a HELL of a strafing during the day and night; some jolly heavy stuff. I was crouched down in the bottom of a trench listening to one, or perhaps a salvo, coming my way, wondering whether it was coming in the trench, going well over, or bursting near. And some were very near, I can tell you.
You can imagine it is a bit of a strain on ones nerves, sticking that sort of thing almost continuously for a day and night.
My shrapnel helmet has kept more than one piece of shell out of my head.
Ugh! How I detested the smell of the smoke from those shell. Even now, when anyone strikes a match, it sometimes reminds me of it.
However, we got relieve and got clear (Gee! We didn't half leg it out of that glorified home of Satan) and are now enjoying a decent rest. Heaven knows, we deserve it, eh? A French paper describes it as the hottest battle in history.
What a treat to turn in and sleep, without waking up every half hour or so, listening to the music of Fritz's artillery.
Well, it's over; that particular stunt of ours, and I'm jolly thankful to have pulled through without a scratch.
Again - cheerio mon cher Uncle. More love to mother and the girls,
your affectionate nephew, Russ.