“Miracle” in an Outpost

In order to better appreciate the true significance of this story, some idea of the conditions under which the incident took place is essential.

It happened during the first week of March 1918, when the 15th Australian Infantry Brigade, of which the 59th Battalion was a member, occupied a sector of trenches on the Messines – Wychaete Ridge, opposite the village of Kemmel, in the famous Ypres area in Belgium.

The trench system comprised Outposts, Support Line, First Reserve and Second Reserve Trenches, and, of course, numerous Communication Trenches. The weather at the time was appallingly cold, and the whole of the terrain wet and slushy.

The tour of duty to which our story belongs was the first under a new arrangement whereby each unit occupied a sector for a period of 28 days without relief. The reason for this lay in the serious losses of manpower resulting from the more frequent change- over of units, when the enemy, with a full knowledge of the position and range of our communication trenches, inflicted heavy casualties. This was one of the inescapable hazards of the static warfare of that period.

Nevertheless, changing over within the unit was essential, and the normal time of occupancy of each trench position was four days and nights.

In due course the time arrived for my own platoon to occupy an outpost on the extreme right of the Battalion sector, a position which (my Company Commander reminded me) had been raided by the enemy a few days earlier, with serious losses on our side.

Unfortunately, we made a bad start, through having to move out to the post in torrential rain, making our journey over the duck- boards, laden with equipment, extremely difficult, especially in those spots where shell-fire had left deep craters into which, in the driving rain and the pitch-black darkness, several of the platoon, including myself, fell headlong.

Being extricated from these conical morasses was indeed a problem, leaving those of us who were the victims soaked to the skin with yellow slime.

Moreover, this rescue work proceeded under the usual ceiling of whirring shells and the intermittent bursts of machine-gun fire,

which “zipped” or “pinged” into the surrounding mud, and, so often, came too close to be comfortable.

The delay caused by these setbacks made our trip into the outpost a hazardous task in itself.

On arrival at the post the strain was on, and the soft whisper- ing of the men of the unit about to be relieved brought home to us how close we were to the enemy’s line. By day, any movement within the post took place in mud and slush knee-deep, at about which level we were able to keep it by the almost continuous use of a trench pump which, unfortunately, gave an exasperating squeak with disturbing frequency. There was keen competition for the opportunity to work this pump because of the warmth to the body thereby generated.

However, during the night, the mud froze hard around the feet, making the pump unnecessary.

When darkness fell the tension became acute, and the knowledge of the successful raid on this post by the enemy naturally helped to make the men “jumpy”. This led to numerous requests to “Come and see what you make of this.”

Admittedly, when peering over the parapet out into No Man’s Land, it was difficult not to imagine an advancing line of raiders about to rush the post.

But if these proved to be phantom raids, there was grim reality in the day and night bombardment of our post by artillery and trench mortar fire, the mortar bombs being of the type known to us as “pine- apples” – fearsome fruit indeed.

This bombardment was so severe that a fellow-officer, in charge of an adjoining outpost, early one morning came across to see what had happened.

He made no secret of the fact that he fully expected to find our post strewn with dead bodies. But, fortunately, we were all still alive.

This outline of conditions which the men of the platoon were called upon to endure should be sufficient to assess the eagerness with which the arrival of the incoming relief platoon was awaited when darkness fell at the close of the fourth day. Personal kits were packed early in readiness for a quick departure on the completion of the takeover.

As Platoon Commander, my own desire to shake hands with my successor was none the less human.

But it was not to be!

Instead of the relief platoon, there came a runner with an urgent message from our Company Commander. This was to the effect that, owing to certain happenings on the front, including a projected raid by a neighbouring unit, it was thought inadvisable to change over until the following night, and so we were required to stay on for another night and another day.

In the dim light of a candle in my trench shelter I broke the news to Corporal George Wardley, who was acting as Platoon Sergeant in the absence of Sergeant Harry Ball, the latter having control of a detached machine-gun post on our right.

The Corporal’s disappointment was apparent, but I noticed that his face suddenly assumed an expression of deep concern.

In reply to my enquiry as to “what was wrong?” he said, “Do you know, sir, there is not one cigarette left in the whole platoon?”

I realised the seriousness of this as affecting the morale of the men throughout the extended term of our occupation.

But there was nothing we could do about it. We just agreed that it was very bad luck.

We then crawled out of the shelter and moved along the trench in the direction of some movement, which proved to be the arrival of the ration party.

As I drew near, I thought I heard my own name in a whispered voice coming out of the solid wall of darkness. On my responding, the whispered voice continued: “Look, sir – I know I am doing the wrong thing – quite against the regulations and all that – but this little packet arrived at the wagon lines today, and it looked as if it might be something you would like to have in the line, so I took the risk and brought it.”

I thanked the Lance-Corporal of the Ration Party and went back to the trench shelter to examine the packet.

It was not long before I had the wrapping off, and, in the candlelight, found, to my amazement, the magic words “Winfred Cigarettes” on the lid of the box. They had been sent from Australia by an old friend of school days from whom I had not heard for several years.

The news swept through the post like a flash and the trusty Wardley undertook the task of distribution. This resulted in a ration of 22 cigarettes per man throughout the platoon.

The men, for their part, took steps to ensure that their precious “smokes” would last, smoking only half a cigarette at a time and using various types of improvised holders so that no butt remained.

During the following few days, as censor of the men’s letters to their folks at home, I was privileged to read their colourful descriptions of the miraculous arrival of the “Winfreds”.

The extent to which these had contributed to the happiness of the men in an atmosphere of abject misery, as revealed in their letters, was, in itself, a “miracle”.