Norman Ten Hundred

in memory of those Great Days when we marched the Long Trail together; shared the same sorrows, the same mirth;--and now the same memories, far away, indistinct; laughter merged with the tears. A. STANLEY BLICQ. Guernsey, 1920.

NORMAN TEN HUNDRED.

A BATTALION OF THE OLDEST AND SMALLEST DEMOCRACY IN THE WORLD.

Guernsey--named Sarnia by the Romans--one of the Channel Isles from out the sun swathed romance of whose shores rallied a fierce band of Norman warriors to the aid of their Duke, William of Normandy; afterwards the Conqueror, at Hastings, 1066. In reward for their valour William granted the Isles the independence they maintain to this day. From Guernsey something approaching 7,000 men have gone out into the Great Undertaking. The Norman Ten Hundred is the 1st Royal Guernsey Light Infantry offered by the States of Guernsey for active participation side by side with the Mother Country's troops in any of the fighting areas. The narrative is authentic.

CONTENTS

I SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917 II SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917 HENDECOURT III NOVEMBER, 1917 CAMBRAI REHEARSAL IV MOVING UP V NOVEMBER 20th, 1917 CAMBRAI OFFENSIVE THE ADVANCE VI MARCOING--MASNIERES VII HOLDING THE LINE MASNIERES VIII NOVEMBER 30th-DECEMBER 1st, 1917 GERMAN ONSLAUGHT IX DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 HOUVIN X DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 FLERS--LE PARCQ--VERCHOCQ XI DECEMBER-JANUARY, 1918 LEULENE--BRANDHOEK--YPRES XII PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR XIII PASSCHENDAELE SECTOR POPERINGHE--STEENVOORDE --BRANDHOEK XIV MARCH-APRIL, 1918 IN THE LINE XV APRIL 10-14, 1918 DOULIEU-ESTAIRES

NORMAN

TEN HUNDRED

By A. Stanley Blicq

I

SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER, 1917

Fed up! Every man of the Ten Hundred was fed up. Thirty-six hours cooped in cattle trucks, thirty or forty in a truck and inhaling an atmosphere that would have disgusted a pig--enough to feed anyone up.

The Belgian frontier was crossed at sunset and the fringe of war's devastation penetrated. Little interest or casual comment was aroused, although a reputable thirsty one remarked that he thought Jerry might have spared the village pub.

The long line of dirty trucks stopped with an abrupt jerk and noisy jarring of impact. Then it came! Grumbles ceased as if by common consent. There was something indefinable but pregnant, and in tense silence ears were strained intently. Was it only the rumble of a distant cart on hard cobbles or...? Faintly over the damp air came a long, insistent murmur. Hearts beat faster.... Guns!

Northward and then West the train panted up a slight grade, made a wide curve and then abruptly shut off steam. Long white tapering lights sprang up from nowhere, wavered and hesitated over the sky; caught in their glare a silvery bird and followed it across the night. Without warning an anti-aircraft gun launched with a deafening roar its whining shell heavenwards. Boom! In the sudden uproar Le Page fell off the train, jerking his tin of bully beef into Clarke's shaving water. The Jerry airman circled higher, dived again--and dropped his bomb, missing the train by hundreds of yards. He had spotted the smoke belching from the engine. Again he spiralled higher, slipped the converging net of searchlights and escaped ... ugh! The Ten Hundred breathed a sigh of relief.

Disembarkation from a train at a point a few miles in the rear of the Front Line always tends to put the wind up you. The mental survey of a thousand men en bloc conveys immediately to the mind what an obvious and unmistakable target a battalion forms. Eyes apprehensively search the sky for the danger that each one knows lurks somewhere up there in that black pall, the darker by contrast with the brilliant spearheads of light searching to and fro.

And of course in such windy moments the order to march off is delayed. Then when you ARE well on your way you wish you were not, for there is an unutterable weariness in those marches to bivouacs amid dead silence from end to end of the ranks; only ever present on the ear that unceasing booming of heavies or the nearer and unpleasant kr-ru-up of a not-far-distant German shell. Worn, sadly worn, beneath the staggering weight of packs on aching shoulders, where chafed skin smarts under the straps, head bent forward and downwards, one cared little for direction. Onward, always onward, feet burning with heavy going in clogging Belgian mud.... Sleep, one longs to lie down there and then to sleep, anyhow, anywhere!