The Regiment was now at full strength, officers and men and horses, and keen for a share in the fighting. The horses had suffered to some extent from the change of climate in the past six weeks, but only required a little rest and feeding-up. The men seemed fit and ready for anything.

But though all hoped for Cavalry work in the near future, and a chance at the Uhlans, this was not to come yet. The enemy’s horsemen were no longer to be found in the extreme front, and the fighting was being done by our guns and Infantry, which were deficient in numbers and very hard pressed. The British Cavalry, therefore, though kept as far as possible efficient for their own work in case a chance should occur, had to be utilised to some extent to help the out-numbered foot-soldiers in the trenches; and during the first few days of the new year the officers and men of the Thirteenth, while undergoing Cavalry inspection and training, were hard at work perfecting themselves in their new duties. They had not long to wait.

Before the middle of January they had been taken up to the firing line to be “shot over.” “On the 12th,” writes Lance-Corporal Bowie, “we were informed that we were to take our places in the trenches as infantry, having been armed with the new H. V. rifle and bayonet, and having had plenty of practice in bayonet-fighting, which was quite a new thing for the Cavalry, we were pretty confident of being able to do anything that was required of us dismounted. So leaving only sufficient men behind to attend to the horses, we started off the next morning in the highest spirits for BÉthune, our conveyances being the good old London motor-buses, complete with their own drivers and conductors. Arriving there at 5 P.M., we marched direct to the trenches, just in front of the village of Festubert, a distance of thirteen kilometres, relieving the 6th Inniskilling Dragoons. We remained in these trenches until 6 P.M. the following evening, when we were relieved by the Oxford and Bucks Light Infantry, many of our fellows having to be lifted out of the trenches owing to being cramped with standing in the mud and water for so long. On each man receiving a tot of rum, we at once marched back to BÉthune.... On arriving at the market square in BÉthune, many men fell from sheer exhaustion. Meeting the buses again, we had some hot coffee and returned directly back to our billets, which we were very thankful to reach about 2 A.M. on the 15th of January 1915. One of the most remarkable features of this, our first time in the trenches, was the fact that we did not sustain a single casualty, although we were subjected to a continual bombardment the whole time, the Huns’ shooting being fairly good(?), but their shells were very bad, many burying themselves in the mud and failing to explode at all.”

Such was the first introduction of the Thirteenth to actual fighting in the Great War. It was very different from what they had hoped—a dreary struggle of endurance against mud and cold, on foot, instead of the stirring hand-to-hand work in the saddle for which a cavalryman naturally longs; but the account shows the cheery spirit in which the men took to their uncongenial duty. Needless to say, the officers set them a good example. One of them, Lieutenant Watson Smyth (14th January 1915), writes: “We got up at Enquingatte, where we were billeted, at 6 A.M. on Wednesday, and at 8 had a three-mile march to another village, EstrÉe Blanche, where the whole Brigade was concentrated. At about 10.30 along came a fleet of motor omnibuses (London General Company), and halted along the line of troops. We were then told off, and twenty-five men and one officer went in each bus. The buses have the glass out of the windows and the space is boarded up, otherwise they are the same, except that the outside advertisements are painted over, and the whole bus is dark grey (please excuse my writing, but we are under shell-fire—75 mm. shrapnel—and I am expecting one through the roof any minute). To go on, we left in our buses at 11 A.M. Soon after starting, one skidded into the ditch and had to be jacked and dug out, but this got to be quite a common occurrence later in the trip. At about 1 P.M. we arrived at BÉthune, about seven miles from the trenches. We stayed there for an hour, and had our lunch while the men had their dinners. At about 2.30 we got going again, this time on our flat feet, and marched about four and a half miles to a village, Festubert, where we halted. Here we all got a drink of beer, followed by coffee and rum. At 4.45 P.M. we started again, and this time went right on up to just behind the trenches. Here I, with eight men who had volunteered for the job, went on to ----, about 400 yards in front of our machine-guns, which were on the left of our line.... When I got up to it we were challenged by the post of the Regiment that we were relieving, and then I went up to them. I asked if they were all right. In a very despondent voice he replied, ‘I’ve two men nearly dead with cold: they are both unconscious, and I don’t know how I’ll get them back.’ Just at that moment one more man went over flop. I thought this was a jolly start, as I was going to be there all night and these fellows had been there in the day. We had great trouble to get them out, as the trench was knee-deep in the most holding mud I had ever met. It beat Wadhurst clay by three stone and a distance. Another difficulty was the fact that the Germans, who were about 600 yards in front, or perhaps a bit more (people are talking all round me, and I keep writing what I hear), kept on sending up ‘Very’ lights and star-shells, which lit up the whole place far better than it was lit up in the daytime. Owing to the snipers, who were lying up all over the place, we had to drop flat as soon as we saw the light going up, and stay there for about a minute after it had gone. Then I got into the trench, which was bisected by a stream which was just over knee-deep. I put four men one side, and four with myself the near side. I had orders to keep on sniping all night so as to annoy the Germans, so I had one man of each four on sentry for an hour at a time, with orders to shoot about once every five minutes. Of course I could not sleep myself, but I lay down in the wet mud. The trench was over ankle-deep in mud and water, and only just long enough to hold us all. About midnight it got most damnably cold, and I issued the men milk chocolate, and gave them each a tot of rum from a flask I’d got. The snipers kept on shooting at us, but mostly went over, though a few bullets did hit the trench. One horrid fellow, whom we called Bert, was behind us somewhere, and made me very angry. At 3 A.M. we heard the devil of a battle going on a long way off, machine-firing guns going rapid, and a rattle of musketry. This went on for half an hour, and then one or more of our big guns somewhere behind us started firing occasional shots. It made a most colossal row, although it must have been at least half a mile away. At about 5 A.M. we saw the relief coming up, halted it and saw that it was all right, got out of the trench, ... then we went back to the road behind us and walked along it for about 500 yards till we came to the house that the squadron was billeted in. There we got some tea and more rum, and a bit of bully and biscuit, and the men thawed out. The squadron had been in the trenches all night, and had been relieved, as I was, just before dawn. I do not think I ever appreciated a house and a fire so much before as after that twelve hours of water and mud.... The dotted lines show where the snipers were firing. There was one called Fritz who used to fire across the road about every ten minutes. I am sending you one of his bullets. We sat in the house until 10 A.M., when the Germans began to shell the place. The first shell (shrapnel out of captured French guns) burst about 80 feet in front of a group of us, me included, and the bullets went all round us without touching anybody—it was really rather a lucky escape. After that we cleared off to the bomb-proof at the back of the house where I am now. Another shell burst as we were going into the shelter, and scattered all round, but again missed everybody....”

January 15, 1915.—“We are now back in billets, having done only twenty-four hours in the trenches. We stayed in our bombproof till about 3 P.M., although they had stopped shelling the village.... We found that two shells had gone through the room we had been sitting in and had burst in it. They had only knocked holes in the walls and scattered a lot of plaster and stuff about. We had our transport packed by 4.30 P.M. and fell in at 5 in the dark.... I had to wait so as to take the patrol of the relieving regiment down to where I had been.... On the way, up went a star-shell, and down I flopped in about six inches of water. As soon as the light had gone—phut!—and a bullet from Fritz hit the ground about 15 yards over. I lay a little flatter, with my back crawling with apprehension—phut!—and another went about 10 yards in front. I lay flatter still—phut!—and another hit the ground about 10 yards behind. I thought this was nice, as he must now be able to see me, and the next shot ought to get me, so I lay very flat and cursed all Germans. But he didn’t fire again, so after a bit I got up and splashed (I’ve never made such a noise before, at least so I thought) forward to the patrol. They also were so cold that they could hardly stand, so I had to stand on the bank and lug them out to the usual accompaniment of star-shell, Very lights, and snipers.... We got into our billets at 3 A.M., and I was in bed and asleep at 3.20. We were all in a most filthy mess outside, owing to the mud and water that we had been lying in, and inside our clothes owing to the cod-liver oil that we were anointed with from our feet up to our waists.... It is fine stuff to keep the cold out. I was wearing Cording boots with two pairs of socks, the inside pair vaselined, and the outside pair oiled, and puttees over the top of the boots. Although I had been several times in water over my knees, I never got my feet cold or wet.... The only casualty in the Brigade was one sowar of the ——, killed. He got scared at a Very light, and stood up in the open staring at it, so of course a sniper shot him and he died. I don’t expect we shall do any more trenches for a bit: this effort was only due to the Corps Commander, who wanted to have us shot over. I think it did every one a lot of good: it has certainly taught me that shrapnel is not half so awful as one thinks, and that one can lie out with only a coat on in a puddle all through a winter night, and be none the worse for it, and also that a whack of rum has an entirely beneficial effect.”

January 16.—“The patrol of the Regiment that relieved mine saw two dead Germans about 500 feet in front, and so of course all the men who were with me are claiming that they killed them, and the first blood of the Regiment is theirs.... The men I had with me were all hard nuts, and when not on sentry lay down in the water and went to sleep. They had their British warms (i.e., coats with a flannel lining that reaches to the knee) and mackintoshes, so that they were fairly warm and dry, except for their legs. Their feet got very cold, though the vaseline helped a lot.... It was quite an experience, and although I was most beastly uncomfortable all the time, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I must say that I never expected that the first time people fired shots in anger at me, and I was retaliating, that my only thought would be how to keep warm, and also not to go to sleep.... One rather amusing thing happened while we were in reserve in the village. Our Colonel got an idea that a sniper was concealed in one of the houses (there were no inhabitants left), and so ordered ‘X’ Squadron to make a house-to-house search. A party consisting of twenty men and one young officer started off with loaded rifles, fixed bayonets, fingers on the trigger—officers waving revolvers. Suddenly they saw a man on a haystack: immediately pandemonium ensued—rifles going rapid, men charging, revolvers going off, wild confusion. Suddenly the fire stopped, and a perfectly furious officer leaped off the haystack, rushed at the officer, and started, ‘You ... ’ for about five minutes. He then saw the squadron leader, rushed at him, and dragged him off to the Colonel. He then said he’d been on that haystack for five weeks, that all the Germans in Northern France had been shooting at him, as he was in an extraordinarily good place for observing fire, and then these ---- did their best—a d—d poor one at only 20 yards—to lay him out. As we had not been warned he was there, I think it was quite natural to plug him. He really was the angriest man I have ever seen.”

War has its humours, and it is well to be able to enjoy them.

For a month or so after that first experience there seem to have been no more nights in the front trenches for the Thirteenth, but some parties were told off for trench-digging, and there was much Cavalry-training of one kind or another, with occasional orders to “stand to” and be ready to move at very short notice. These orders of course gave rise at first to much excitement, and eager hopes of some real Cavalry-fighting, but they never came to anything. Perhaps the best way of showing what the Regiment was doing during the remainder of this year, 1915, is to quote some more extracts from letters and diaries.

Lieutenant Watson Smyth—February 6.—“When I got back I found my squadron ‘standing to,’ and ready to move at fifteen minutes’ notice. However, that has now been cancelled, and we are now living in the same old peaceable way. We had a sham fight this morning to practise dismounted action. I and my troop had to run along a dry stream-bed for about three-quarters of a mile. I was nearly dead at the end of it, but my troop were even more done, so on the whole I was rather pleased.... I do not think it is likely that we shall move for some time, as it is absolutely impossible for Cavalry to move once they get off the roads.... I have just finished my evening task of letter censoring. That is not a nice job as it takes a long time, and I don’t much care about reading other people’s letters, especially such extraordinarily dull ones as the average soldier writes.”

February 17.—“In the afternoon it began to snow, and it snowed as hard as it could all the evening and most of the night. We had been going to have a Divisional route-march the next day (Thursday), but that night the orders were cancelled. On Thursday we found it just possible to ride our horses, but only just as the roads were deep in snow, and it was balling badly.... We are rather badly off for water in these billets: I do not mean that there is not enough—the whole place is soaking—but none of it is very good. I rather think that that is one of the causes of our horses not looking as well as they might. Watering is almost as important as feeding, isn’t it?... Horses are my special care, but it’s rather disheartening having these beastly little country-breds to look after.”

It may be observed that the Indian country-bred is not accustomed to a Western winter and heavy snow. Nor were the men of the Indian Regiments in the Brigade, to whom such weather was as trying as the extreme heat of India is to English troops.

“I had one horse get his leg broken by a kick from his neighbour two nights ago. It was smashed clean in two about four inches above the knee. Must have been some kick, as the bone is pretty thick at that part. I had him shot where he stood, hitched on one of the draft horses, and pulled him about 200 feet into a field over the way, and the defaulters buried him in the afternoon. A six-foot grave for a horse takes a bit of digging, and fairly made ’em sweat. It nearly killed an old fat reservist, who was doing defaulter for getting drunk on the way up from the Base. However, if he has a few more to bury, he will be an easier man to mount.”

February 27.—“To-day we had the coldest day we have had in France. We paraded at 9 A.M. and did a Brigade scheme. I hated every minute of it, and so did our wretched horses. We were out from 9 till 1.45, and most of the time in a snowstorm on the side of a hill....

“My first servant, Farmer, is a tiger for work. I discovered the other day that he had been working at a big butcher’s in Jermyn Street before he joined the Army. As I also found some young pigs in one of the farms, I took him down to pick out a nice sucking-pig. He chose one, and I bought it for eight francs, and we are all going to eat it to-night: Farmer was great at cleaning, and scalding, and killing it. It was a most comic affair, as there were about thirteen little pigs, the lady of the farm, Farmer, and self in a covered sty about 12' × 8' × 6' high. We were all talking at once, a child was howling, the pigs were screaming, and we were all trying to catch a different piglet. At length, however, we succeeded in collaring the right one, and I’ve never heard any animal make such a colossal noise as this little beast did when he was carried off. I nearly died with laughing, as just as we were coming off the road we met the General riding down. He was frightfully tickled....”

It appears from Major Cox’s diary that “during the month of February a semi-station routine of Brigade route-marches, Brigade field-days, lectures on various subjects, and squadron schemes, was carried out.

“Quite a lot of snow fell during the month, and cold frosty weather was the rule.”

March opened with a very sad accident to the battery of Horse Artillery, V Battery, which formed part of the Brigade.

According to Major Cox’s diary, “A trench-mortar bomb exploded during instruction, mortally wounding Major Goldie commanding the battery, two subalterns, and twelve men. Forty-one N.C.O.’s and men were wounded. As bad luck would have it, the whole of the battery was assembled round the trench-mortar when the explosion took place.” All officers of the Thirteenth who could attend the funeral did so, and it was distressing to think of so many brave men killed and wounded, not by the enemy in fight, but by an accident of the kind.

This happened in Serny, a village adjoining Enquin.

Lieutenant Watson Smyth—March 7.—“To-day we had to find thirteen men a troop to go and dig trenches: they left at 6 A.M., and aren’t expected back till 8.30 P.M. This left us, allowing for servants, sick, &c., about six men a troop for duty. We spent our time tidying up and straightening out the billets, and have been at it all day.”

Lieutenant Chrystall—March 16.—“We have been on the move and bivouacking every night in a wood, so have had no time to write. We were in the advance to Neuve Chapelle, but were not used.... We always travel by night owing to hostile aircraft being about, and the consequence is sleep is impossible.”

Captain W. H. Eve—March 16.—“I got your letter in hospital at St Omer.... I was in a terrible funk they would send me off home, as I knew what that would mean—two or three weeks perhaps, and then to Aldershot to wait my turn to come out. So I got at the doctors at once, and they said I should be kept there and go straight back to duty as soon as possible. I was very relieved....

“Then rumours began to come through of this forward movement of ours between ArmentiÈres and La BassÉe, and the hospital had to get ready for one thousand extra cases, though holding five hundred usually. So we knew something was on, and could also hear the big guns at times. At last on Thursday the 11th they told me I could leave hospital next day. Of course this is much too soon really, and would not be done in peace time. But now it is different.

“I went off to get my movement orders and asked ‘Any news?’ They said, ‘Haig has sent for his Cavalry.’ We are Haig’s Cavalry—1st Army—and you can imagine the state I was in. Next day I left by train—8.24—having slipped out of hospital without even having my things disinfected.... All the Indian Cavalry Corps was crowded up there [Berguette?], mostly in billets, but our Brigade in bivouac in a wood—all in reserve. We had done nothing so far, and I was relieved. I was fearfully anxious lest I should be too late.... Well, now you will have seen by the papers we have done pretty well, but I fancy somehow we haven’t done all we thought we might. I don’t understand it, and we don’t know the truth; but they said if we had got as far as we hoped, the British Cavalry Corps, which had been brought up too, was to have gone round the north of Lille, and we the Indian Cavalry Corps round the south, and had a cut at the Germans behind. But, anyhow, apparently the thing didn’t quite come off, for on Sunday the 14th we got orders to march back here to billets. We were very sick indeed; it looked as though we had missed our chance by so little. But, of course, we really know nothing. We marched back Sunday night and are now about a couple of miles from the station where we detrained when we came back from Orleans, about twenty miles still behind the line.... How long we shall be here I haven’t the least idea. We have to be ready to move at two hours’ notice, but that may not mean anything. It is a dull and trying business this, but we must be patient. We have quite nice billets here.”

Another account of the move is given by Lieutenant Watson Smyth: “At 12.30 A.M. on the morning of the 11th we were woke up and told that the squadron was parading at 3 A.M. We were, of course, sleeping in our clothes, as everything was packed, and we had had orders to be ready to move at one hour’s notice. On being woke up I went to sleep again till 2.15, when I got up, put my coat and boots on, and went out to hurry up my troop.... We started to trot about 4.30 A.M. and trotted steadily until 8.30, except for two very short halts of about three minutes each, when we had just time to look round our horses. On coming to we turned out of the town, and the head of the squadron turned out of the road into a large sand-pit: this was found to be just large enough for a squadron, so the rest of the regiment was bivouacked in the wood. (I forgot to say that the sand-pit was in a wood.) We had easily the best place, as it was quite out of the wind and, better still, entirely free from mud.... The horses were perfectly happy, and so were the men. The latter dug holes running into the side of the pit, put a hurdle over the entrance, and were quite warm inside. We had very nice weather, sunny and so warm, and had nothing to do except listen to the rumble of the guns at Neuve Chapelle.... We stayed in our sand-pit for three days, and then one day got orders to move at 2 P.M.; about 1 P.M., however, these orders were cancelled, so we thought we might get another night in peace. This was rather too much to expect, and we were not very surprised when we were told to parade at 7.45 P.M. We did so, and had a perfectly ghastly march back to where we are now. We walked for hours on our horses, and then dismounted, and led the brutes for three and a half miles. It’s no fun walking on one’s flat feet when in marching order—i.e., belt, revolver, spare ammunition, compass, haversack, field-glasses, knife, and water-bottle. We then lost ourselves for a bit, and every one lost their tempers, and cursed everybody junior to themselves, and their horses, and the roads, and the staff. Eventually we hit our village about 2 A.M....

Captain W. H. Eve—April 30.—“The weather is simply lovely now, has been these last few days, and to-day has been as hot as summer. It is very lucky, for we are (all the men and horses) in the open. We ourselves have got into a barn, where we make ourselves very comfortable with lots of straw. I have celebrated my birthday by having a bath. I always carry the indiarubber one in my saddle-bags, and wouldn’t be without it for anything. Well, I can’t tell you where we are exactly, but we have moved twice since I last wrote, owing to this scrap which is still going on near Ypres.... We are sitting tight again now, listening and waiting. The only thing we see is our own captive balloons, and occasionally a Taube (German aeroplane) coming over and being shelled by our guns. You know, of course, the scrap that is going on now, but the papers make it out a much more important thing than it really is. It is a very weak point round Ypres, because (first) it is a salient, and (secondly) our junction with the French is near here.... But all goes well, so much so that I fancy we shall move back in a day or two—where, I don’t know in the least. I expect that now we shall be continually up and down the line on this game—mobile reserve until our time really comes.

“In this fight our casualties have been very heavy—ours, I believe, about 18,000, but we have our line all right.... It’s hard this waiting, but we must be patient. There is nothing in the least to worry about, nor is it the important affair the papers make out.

“We are all tremendously cheery, jolly, and fit.... The horses are feeling the benefit of the better weather and are a joy to me now, looking better every day. Of course I seize every opportunity of grazing them in somebody else’s fields with the good spring grass coming up. I have never felt fitter in my life. There are crowds all round, but the worst of it is one can’t go more than a few hundred yards from one’s billet, as we always have to be ready to turn out at once.

“The old lady at our last billet insisted on embracing us when we left with all kinds of good wishes.”

The billets, of course, varied greatly, some being very good indeed—one where the officers of the Regiment or squadron were actually provided with beds and “linen sheets,”—others very dirty and bad. Lieutenant Chrystall writes on the 19th of May: “It is very wet and muddy, and we are at present in a coal-mining village, and everything as you may imagine filthy. Last night I slept next my skipper on the road with my head between two spokes of a cart-wheel, and Eve’s between the next. Cobbles are not very springy or soft!”

Captain W. H. Eve—May 27.—“You say you are watching for news of the Cavalry. Well, you have it now in the Casualties List. That is the British Cavalry. It is, I think, wicked, for they are men we can’t replace, but the fact is they can’t trust any but the very best up there at Ypres, and that’s why they sent for the Cavalry. They get their chance and are used, but we, poor devils! ... never get a chance.... Our turn will come some day.11 Up there we are holding on and shall do so, but it costs good men. We sit back here well within sound of the guns, and go on with more or less peace-training and try to be patient. Whenever there is a big show on, off we go up behind the line, and every time we think our time has really come; but every time we come back again in a few days—a sort of mobile reserve, that’s all. We are known out here as the ‘Iron Ration,’ only to be used in the last emergency! We went up like this during Neuve Chapelle into Belgium during the fighting round Ypres, and the other day near La BassÉe. We are back here again, now very comfortable in a pretty straggling village.... We are all very fit and flourishing, but rather fed up with our own share of the proceedings.”

Sometimes the Regiment, or part of it, got a change of work.

Lieutenant Watson Smyth—May 28.—“The day before yesterday the bathing season started and we had (the squadron and officers) gone into the baths at Aire.... We were all just nicely in the water, which wasn’t very cold, when a heated bicycle orderly dashed up and said, ‘“B” Squadron to return to billets at once.’ We couldn’t think what it was for.... Yesterday (after a twenty-mile night march) I went for my orders and discovered that I am ‘Corps Cavalry,’ and that my duties are to send patrols out in the Corps area to look out for spies, collect stragglers, control the traffic at various points, and, in general, be a sort of mounted police. It is, I believe, an excellent job, and quite good fun. Of course the roads are being shelled now and then, but the people I relieved had only one casualty, and he was gas-poisoned by a shell. In case of a push I have to find posts at cross-roads, &c., to direct ammunition and supplies to the various places that they want to go to. It is very nice being on one’s own, as I am now. The Squadron Headquarters are about six miles off, so I shan’t be worried by any one.”

Captain W. H. Eve—May 29.—“The British Cavalry are out [of the trenches] now, came out last night, and I think, though am not quite certain, that the 1st Division of this Corps has gone in. If this is so, we may perhaps get our turn next. No one would choose trench fighting, but there’s nothing else just at the present.

“Here we are just peace soldiering. ‘A’ squadron have their sports on this afternoon and we have ours next week. ‘B’ squadron has gone off to do Divisional Cavalry—chiefly orderly—duties to various Infantry Divisions. I envy them, as it is a change, and they are nearer the centre of things.”

Lieutenant Chrystall—June 15.—“On Sunday last (June 13) I had the honour of acting as Escort to the King of the Belgians when he reviewed the Indian Cavalry here. It was quite a decent show for war-time.”

Captain W. H. Eve—June 16.—“We have had rumours of a possible move, but otherwise are carrying on as usual. Lovely weather, and we are playing polo this evening, which is a great thing—having got some sticks and balls out. We have got a Horse-Show (Cavalry Corps) on Thursday 24th, which ought to be very good.”

Lieutenant Watson Smyth—July 13.—I may have got the date wrong, but the day is Sunday. As far as I can see, there is no likelihood of our doing anything for a bit. The Regiment is digging trenches about three miles in rear of the line; we go up for four days and then come back for eight. In that eight we do exercise every day except one, when there is a Brigade route-march.”

Captain W. H. Eve—July 11.—“There is very little news from here, as you will have gathered from the papers. Kitchener was out here and came and inspected us last Thursday. He told us (what none of us knew before) that his father was in the Regiment. We have been fairly busy, and now have about seventy per cent of the men away trench-digging for a week. Three of my officers and most of my men are gone—went up in motor-buses yesterday, and with the few men left I have my work cut out to exercise and look after the horses.”

Lieutenant Watson Smyth—July 13.—We are now up at ——,—at least seventy men and two officers per squadron are—digging the second-line trenches. We are about 2000 yards from the Huns, and they can see us nicely, thank you.... They shelled the second party yesterday and killed two men of ‘D’ Squadron,12 very bad luck, as they have shelled the trenches lots of times before and never yet hit anybody. I had fever all yesterday. I don’t know why I got it, but I’m all right now....

“We go up in two parties; one goes up at 7 A.M. and digs from 8.30 to 12.30; the other goes up at 11 and digs from 12.30 to 4.30. It is not very interesting work, but it is better to be up here than back with the Regiment. There is only one man to about eight horses, and the result is that every one is working all day getting the horses exercised, fed, and rubbed over.

“We are up here for a week, we came up last Saturday and go away next Saturday; as usual, we travel in motor-buses. On a fine day, after a little rain to lay the dust, this is rather a pleasant way of travelling....

“The Colonel (Symons) has just been ordered to the W.O. I suppose he is wanted for the Staff. If he is taken from the Regiment, I don’t know who will get command.”

The writer was wounded two days later. “It was rather a rotten way of getting hit, standing in a great deep trench, thinking I was quite safe, when suddenly we heard whe—bang, and I found my foot had gone numb. I said, ‘Anybody hit?’ and all the men said ‘No,’ so I told them I was.” Lieutenant Watson Smyth goes on to describe his various moves until he reached some days later the British Red Cross Hospital at Rouen. “I had quite a good night, and woke up just before arriving here at 6 A.M.... I showed the doctor a label tied to my pyjamas, giving details of what was wrong. He told the bearer which ward to take me to, and off I went.... At 9 A.M. I was carted off to the X-ray room, and my foot and back were each taken from two positions....

“In the operation they got about sixty pieces out of my foot, and a few work themselves out every dressing-day.”

Not a word of complaint.

August 2.—“The Regiment’s total casualties for the three weeks it was digging were four killed, two died of wounds, eight wounded. No other officers were hit, but one was buried one day, and badly shaken in consequence....

August 3 and 4.—“I had a visitor to-day, a Miss Holt, who is working at Lady Mabelle Egerton’s canteen at Rouen. She was very nice and cheery and did me a lot of good. They had one hour’s notice a few days ago that 3000 men and 40 officers would want breakfast at 3 A.M. There were only three of them on duty that night, but they managed it all right. That shows that the canteen is useful, and the workers work, I think....

“Dr Augier is exceedingly pleased at the appearance of my foot, ... but says that I must resign myself to not using it for three months.”

August 5.—“Another chap in my Regiment has just come into the hospital. I have never seen him, as he joined the Regiment after I was hit. He tells me that the Regiment have been shifted down south and have taken over, or are going to take over, some French trenches there for a bit. I do not understand it, but he’s quite sure of his facts. I should have thought that they had sufficient Infantry out here now to hold the line, but I expect that they are fairly quiet trenches, and they want to make the Indian Cavalry Corps work.”

August 5 and 6.—“The Regiment is now either in, or just going into the trenches for a fortnight.... It is a pity to have missed that....

“I have discovered that I am one of the show-cases here. They show visitors my X-ray photo, and then bring them along and show them me. I dislike that. All the doctors seem to think it a marvellous case.”

Captain W. H. Eve—August 22.—“I understand absolutely what you say about wanting a trophy. I hope too I’ll get something some day, but I won’t bring anything I haven’t got myself, and I have never seen a German yet. Isn’t it too dreadful, but it’s the truth.

“Richardson has got the Regiment, and I can tell you I am glad.”

Lieutenant Chrystall—September 7.—“I have been out on several night patrols, crawling through the grass towards the German trenches; and it is very jumpy work, as you never know when you may bump into one of their patrols.”

September 20.—“The powers that be thought that a certain old house in No Man’s Land ought to be occupied, and certain snipers caught who used to frequent the place and fire into our lines. Well, we occupied it one day and night and held it all day, when just after dark we were attacked in force. I at the time was holding a conference with the C.O. at his post, and all of a sudden the sentry on the outpost let off his rifle. This was the herald of a dozen bombs being hurled into our place, and the opening of a machine-gun and several rifles. There we were, ten of us, cooped up in an outhouse 12 × 12, firing like billy O through the window and door at the flashes of the Boche guns about fifteen yards away. This was kept up for about ten minutes. When we had just given up all for lost they ceased firing: we did likewise, and as we were in an awkward and tight corner we got out of it and held a bridge on a road. The Germans also retired, and as we afterwards found, left four dead, while we had only two wounded—a really miraculous escape, as bullets were crashing through the windows and splintering the panelling in the door, and bombs hitting the brick-work.”

Captain W. H. Eve—October 9.—“We are trying to be patient, knowing very little and hoping for the best. A few days after I got back from leave we were moved off, at the beginning of our offensive, the 22nd [September] to be exact, and were kept in constant readiness for nearly ten days. We were all cramped up in a tiny dirty little village, with all our poor horses in the open, a bad place, with a rotten water-supply, and we had wet cold weather too. Of course we were desperately excited, but we weren’t allowed to know much. Then on the 1st we moved on here where we are now, and where we are more comfortable than we have ever been before, in a large village, ourselves, the Third, and Brigade Headquarters, and very nicely situated, and good country. I was very lucky in the area allotted to my squadron, and have got the whole of my men and horses comfortably snug under cover, and it is a real pleasure to see my horses.... Of news we know no more than you do from the papers, and, as I say, have simply to try and be patient, and trust the powers that be, and hope for the very best....

“Meanwhile they seem desperately hard up for officers for some of the Infantry—more senior officers, that is—and have lately been sending all round the Cavalry for fellows to volunteer to take command of battalions and companies.... The other day the Colonel asked me if I would care to take promotion to Lieut.-Colonel to command a battalion of infantry, and they have been asking others also. I refused, but for a man who is ambitious irrespective of what brand of the service he gets his promotion in, you can see it is a tremendous chance.... But I doubt if they will get many men to volunteer for it.... It is extraordinary though, and to me seems such a very short-sighted policy, for when our time comes where will they find our officers?”

That was the problem which many Cavalry officers had to face, and it is not surprising that most of them, loving their own branch of the service, and still believing, or at least hoping, that the Cavalry would yet get their chance, should have shrunk from sacrificing their Cavalry training, even for such promotion. It was a clear proof of the great straits to which the losses of the war had brought the Infantry, on whom the brunt had fallen. The letter goes on:—

“News from Russia appears to me all good, and it does look as though the tide were turning at last, and the Germans had shot their bolt, and were up against it.... It’s such a huge thing this war, and there is such a tremendous lot one wants to know, and so very little one does know. But I feel as confident as ever, as I think we all do out here.”

They all did throughout, happily for England.

October 10.—“Nearly every house of a little better class one goes into here has a stuffed fox in it. I can’t understand why, and they are such an eyesore to me.”

October 12.—“One of the Poona Horse told me he had had a great ride after a really good pig this morning, only couldn’t get him as he had only his sword. I had heard there are some in these woods, but hadn’t seen any myself so far.”

October 13.—“Here we are in our new quarters at Villers.... Coming up here from the river valley we passed the most lovely coverts—all the trees turning fast, and with the sun on them simply looking perfect.”

October 14.—“How I long for us to get a real move on. The thought of another winter sitting doing nothing like last is maddening. It can’t be. I feel we must push and push and push. And here are we drivelling about doing these silly field-days and ‘pretending’ always.”

October 15.—“A confidential memo. came round yesterday asking for recommendations among N.C.O.’s for the Croix de Guerre and the MÉdaille Militaire. The first is for gallantry, and the other more like our long-service and good-conduct. It is rather funny for us who have done practically nothing.”

October 17.—“Then there was a lecture from the Colonel [Richardson] about drinking in the Regiment, and very well indeed he spoke too.”

October 25.—“Exercise. Balaclava sing-song for the men.”

November 16.—“This morning there were about four inches of snow on the ground, and it was still falling hard up to about 11 o’clock. During the morning we sent a challenge to ‘A’ Squadron, saying diplomatic relations were broken off ... and a state of war would exist from 2 P.M. So at 2 we marched the squadron down, and I divided them into two parties, one doing a frontal attack, which drew ‘A’ from their village. When they were hard at it with snow-balls I brought the remainder, followed by the M.G., in on their flank, and we had a royal battle, and it was great fun. The men loved it.”

But it was far from being all snow-balling and play.

November 25.—“You can see what it is trying to make us do two jobs at the same time, Cavalry and Infantry. The men are simply worked off their legs and haven’t a minute all day.... We do all our Cavalry parades, all these Infantry ones, route-marches, afternoon parades, fatigues, evening classes, &c., &c., and they complain if the men don’t turn out smartly on parade. In spite of all this we are to organise games, and let the men train for cross-country runs and so on. Whenever can they possibly have the time? And ... I must help the country people in their farming in my spare time.”

December 19.—“We marched to our new area on Friday last and got a very bad village to start with, Marival; then yesterday we moved to a neighbouring one, where we now are, and got ourselves very comfortable indeed.... We have managed to hire a large room in a farmhouse here, which we are going to fit up as a reading and recreation room for the men.... This will make a good deal of difference to them. They have a very dull and wretched time, little else but work and dirt. We shall be able to give them a good spread at Christmas, have ordered puddings, bought a whole pig, and are getting fruit and vegetables, at sales, this week. They will have a good feed anyhow. Your cigarettes will be really welcome and appreciated, there is nothing they want or appreciate so much....

“What the future may hold we don’t know; but though there is little news from here, things are very satisfactory all along our front, and we are very much on top of our friends the Germans. I have it first hand from Oakes and Annett of my squadron, who are just back from a month spent in the trenches with different Infantry regiments....

“Haig’s appointment out here will, I think, make little or no difference. He is one of French’s men, and both are first-class.”

December 27.—“It has blown continuously for days with a great deal of rain.... I think we made the men pretty cheery and comfortable here. They had a great feed, and very much appreciated all the things that were sent to them. I issued all their presents on Christmas Eve, a parcel for each from the Regimental Comfort’s Committee, also from two old comrades, smokes from some newspapers, matches, match-cases and cards from ——, mittens from ——, and cigarettes from ——, so they didn’t do so badly altogether. And they have more stuff to be given out later, two more goes of puddings sent by various newspapers, &c., sweets, and so on. I am spreading them out, leaving a week.

“We ran off a Divisional Marathon race, six miles, here on Christmas morning, and the Regiment was second. We went down to eat our dinner with ‘A’ Squadron, Tom Marchant’s crowd, in the evening, and had a cheery time. ‘A’ Squadron and ourselves share the same village, and they have got the chateau as a mess. It is a large, fine old place, but not properly kept up, like most of them about here. The owner is in the Army, and only the old mother, the Dowager Marquise, is living there now. She came and dined with us....

“We are all very well and flourishing, and are managing to get a lot of football, &c., arranged for the men now—so their life won’t be so bad. This is rotten weather for the trenches. Wet is the worst for them, nearly always up to their knees, and often deeper in places. Cold weather they don’t feel nearly so much, owing to the depth of the trenches.”

So ended for the Thirteenth their first year of war service on the Western Front. It had been in some ways a year of disappointment. Though they had had some turns in the trenches, involving a few casualties, the Regiment had seen no active work as Cavalry. But if hope deferred had brought them some heart-sickness, there was hope still, and they entered upon another year under fairly cheerful conditions.