Memoirs & Diaries - Delville Wood

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Delville Wood is a name, even now, full of sadness and the suppressed agony
of thousands who had to make its acquaintance. Probably nearly as many
men remained in it as came out of it whole, and no one fortunate to escape
from this hell can think of it without recalling hours of suffering and the
names of many good comrades now no more.
Towards the end of September 1916 there seemed to be a lull in the Battle of
the Somme. The glory of the first great achievements had somewhat faded
with the realization of their cost and the doubtful value of their gains. One
supposed that the High Command knew what they were doing, though even
that is doubtful now.
Most of us hoped that the lull meant a discontinuance of the battle, which
seemed a hopeless hammering at a resourceful enemy in one of his strongest
sectors. It was, however, not for us to argue why the strong rather than the
weak positions were always to be attacked.
Anyhow our battalion, which had previously been in the line in front of
Guillemont, moved into Delville Wood to take over the line on the eastern
edge of the wood. The journey, as usual, began soon enough to bring us into
the danger zone about dusk and was a nightmare. We were led by guides
who had hardly been able to leave the front line and were hopeless, while
landmarks had long ago been blown out of existence.
Every semblance of a trench seemed full of dead-sodden, squelchy, swollen
bodies. Fortunately the blackening faces were invisible except when Verey
lights lit up the indescribable scene. Not a tree stood whole in that wood.
The weary tramp in single file went on for about three hours. Men carried
heavy loads of equipment, bombs, rifle ammunition, Lewis guns, petrol tins
of water, gas helmets, and so on. How they cursed as they one after the other
collided with some obstacle or fell flat on a dead body. "Pass it along when
you're all up," "Mind the wire," "Mind the hole on the left" - interspersed with
humorous though trite remarks as to the first five years being the worst.
Eventually, after much searching, but without serious mishap, we found our
sector: Two companies of the battalion were in front and two in support
some distance back. Battalion Headquarters lay behind the wood. "C"

Company, in which I had charge of a platoon, was on the right flank in a

shallow, incomplete depression shown on the map as Edge Trench, its name
indicating its position skirting the wood.
By this time it was just after midnight and all was fairly quiet. As far as we
knew there was no particular cause for alarm. The officers and senior
N.C.O.'s had got the hang of things and knew roughly the position of the other
troops in the neighbourhood and of the enemy, who seemed quite a good
distance away immediately in front, though away to the right he was
considerably closer to the line.
I was at the time twenty-one years of age, my company commander twentytwo, but we had both had a good deal of experience - sufficient to realize that
in case of anything like a bombardment a position on the edge of a very well
known wood would be no fun. Hence we decided to push forward. Each
platoon would send a strong section some fifty to one hundred yards ahead
to dig itself in. If we were left in peace a night or two, our men, nearly all
miners, would join up the posts and make a continuous and less clearly
defined front line. So the detached posts went out.
The wished-for peace was not for us, unfortunately. At 2 a.m. the officers met
the company commander in the one and only dug-out to discuss "work done
and work proposed" for the daily return, and to look at some preliminary
orders for a rather big advance three days ahead.
After that I was temporarily off duty, but I had no sooner settled myself in the
dug-out for what I considered a well-earned "shut-eye" till stand-to before
dawn, when pandemonium broke out.
It was soon apparent that something very unpleasant was about to happen,
so we stood to arms, groused a good deal, and waited. The waiting was
always the hardest part of it all. The hours till 6 a.m. seemed terribly long,
but our casualties had not been more than fifteen all told. The worst of it was
that the wounded and even the runners, stout fellows though they were,
could not get away or reach Headquarters with our tale of woe.
Just about six o'clock the Germans came on. They never approached closer
than 150 yards from our trench and they made an excellent target for Lewis
guns and lost heavily. By 8.30 I heard that the company commander was out
of action, though not seriously wounded. Then came the even more serious
news that my fellow subaltern had been killed on the right, where the enemy
had forced an entrance.
The battalion on the right had also been forced to abandon their line. This
left me very much alone, with between but fifty and sixty men who could use

a rifle. Some of these were wounded, but any escape from the trench was out
of the question.
By 9 a.m. there was comparative peace, except in our minds when we
grasped the seriousness of the situation. It seemed that the left had also
broken and that our two depleted companies were in the blue. The left
company had fared better than we. On our right the Germans and we shared
a trench - only a narrow barrier separating us from them. Moreover, this
barrier was on the wrong side of Company Headquarters, which, with our
greatcoats, food, and orders, was lost to us.
The only thing to do was to strengthen the barrier as best we could and lie
low. There would probably be dirty work at that barrier later on.
Conditions in the wood were now worse than ever. Most of us felt sick and ill
even when unwounded. Food and water were very short and we had not the
faintest idea when any more would be obtainable.
By the end of the next day several, including myself, had dysentery, and that
in a ghastly battered trench with no prospect of medical attention. After all,
we stood and lay on putrefying bodies and the wonder was that the disease
did not finish off what the shells of the enemy had started.
The day was, in fact, uneventful; but as evening drew on we again prepared
for the fray. It was not to be supposed that the success of the enemy would
not be pushed home, and, as far as we could tell, only two weak companies
stood between them and the possession of Delville Wood.
Sure enough, the attack began at dusk and again it lasted for three
hours. This time it was no frontal attack across the open but a determined
push down the shared trench and behind in the shelter of the stumps of
trees.
It is difficult, and even a week later it was difficult, to recall those three hours.
It is only on Armistice Day that I can live them again; but I don't want tell
anyone about it. There was hand-to-hand fighting with knives, bombs, and
bayonets; cursing and brutality on both sides such as men can be responsible
for when it is a question of "your life or mine"; mud and filthy stench;
dysentery and unattended wounds; shortage of food and water and
ammunition.
The fighting ceased and a curiously fitful peace settled over the scene. In
some ways fighting was preferable - one's mind was distracted. Inactivity in
such surroundings was harder than risking one's life. For an hour or two
that night I lay on a board in a bay of the trench and slept.

But an hour before dawn we were at it again, getting ready for the expected
onslaught at daybreak. Why this did not come I have never been able to
make out. There was no reason at all why the wood should not have been
recaptured completely, especially as, on looking through our supplies, we
could not muster more than 500 rounds of rifle ammunition and thirty
bombs.
By this time I was getting beyond effective command, but my senior sergeant
was still very much alive and as aggressive as ever. His suggestion was that
we should take a big risk as no attack appeared to be developing and have a
shot at regaining Company Headquarters. I am afraid that the object of the
projected operation was food rather than secret orders. Four others
volunteered to see what could be done, and before dawn was far advanced
we peeped carefully over the barrier half-expecting something unpleasant.
One German was asleep on a fire-step five or six yards from us, and there was
not a sign of activity. In these circumstances we agreed to risk it. I, being
armed with a revolver, was to act as a sort of advanced guard while the
others were to trail behind with bombs and bayonets to deal with any
opposition.
The essential factor for success was quietness - no bomb throwing or
shooting except as a last resource. Nothing but a bayonet was in fact
necessary, much to our amazement. Some half-dozen weary and comatose
Germans were quietly and expeditiously removed from the active list, and
Company Headquarters was gained in safety.
Yet there were no reprisals. Apparently no German officer or N.C.O. came
round, and to our joy we were able unmolested to move the best part of our
barrier to a point 50 yards beyond the Headquarters dug-out. We found all
the officers' kit, food, and orders intact, but neatly packed up as though for
removal.
The mystery of this non-interference is unexplained and I can only surmise
that a few tired troops had got left behind, although the main forces of the
enemy had for some reason or other been withdrawn. All that day not a shot
was fired, though our nerves had gone almost to pieces and we were sure we
should be amply repaid for our early morning escapade.
But no word came from the outside world, which seemed very remote, until
about four o'clock in the afternoon. At that hour a British aeroplane
appeared flying low and calling for signals. With great joy we sent up our
flares to indicate our position. I have always wanted to thank that
airman. He must have taped us out with great accuracy, because when an

hour later our own guns opened fire and put a box barrage round us, not a
single shell fell in our lines.
This bombardment meant that an attack was being launched in order to get
us out and at dusk the attack came. A whole brigade of infantry, well
supported by artillery, had been put in to restore the line, and they did it
splendidly despite the heavy shelling of the enemy, especially on the thick
areas through which they had advanced.
Gradually we were able to slip away. I had now pronounced dysentery and
was helped by two men. We were all so far gone and so tired that we never
hesitated to rest when and where we felt inclined, shelling or no shelling. I
called at Battalion Headquarters and reported as best I could what had
happened. The "powers-that-be" were most complimentary on the work of
the company and the adjutant's "Well done, 'C' Company!" made up for a
good deal.
After a wretched night in a dug-out in Montauban I went down sick, glad to
be out of things for a bit, but rather conscience-stricken at such an inglorious
departure; a wound would have been much more satisfying.
Some weeks later I received a chatty letter from the adjutant, who told me a
touching story. He asked if I remembered the posts we had sent out in front
the night we occupied Edge Trench. It came as rather a shock to find that I
had, indeed, in all that confusion and scrapping forgotten them. He went on
to say that two days after we had been relieved the new people had
discovered a section of my platoon still doing the job they had been sent out
to do.
The Corporal and his men had been out there for four days with no food
other than emergency rations, but they had remained interested spectators
of a good deal of the fighting, though in their exposed position they dared not
move much.
The relieving company commander told them about the relief, and said they
had better clear out.
To this the corporal replied that he had no intention of moving without a
personal or written order from one of his own officers. This order the
adjutant had supplied.
Captain S. J. Worsley. Gazetted, aged nineteen, North Staffordshire Regt.,
August 1914. Served with 1st Battalion North Staffordshire Regt., 1915, and
most of 1916, in France. Awarded Military Cross, 1916; Bar to Cross, 1916, for
incident contained in narrative. Served 4th Battalion North Staffordshire Regt.,

1917, and up to end of September 1918, in France. Awarded second Bar to M.C.
after great retreat, March 1918. Awarded D.S.O., and mentioned in despatches
in respect of advance round Hill 60 and the Bluff, September 1918, when was
wounded by bullet through both lungs.
First published in Everyman at War (1930), edited by C. B. Purdom.
Photographs courtesy of Photos of the Great War website.
Saturday, 22 August, 2009 Captain S. J. Worsley, D.S.O., M.C.